HONORLESS: A WAKIAGARU STORY
CHAPTER ONE—RŌNIN
The camp was quiet. Of course it was. After their defeat, would it be anything else? Save for the distant screaming and a general tamped down aura of camp noises, all was demure.
Daimyo Tsuji’s forces had been routed into full retreat. The war being fought was not important—just another scuffle between local daimyos jostling to expand their territories. And so soon after the great battles for control the Mikuma Imperial throne.
War never ended in these lands.
Within the camp were three samurai. They sat in the dirt, quiet, their eyes alert. They had been among the first to run. They had run before their daimyo gave the order for a full retreat.
Retreat to Mikumans was a thing that brought dishonor to a man. But running—and before being told to do so by one’s lord was even worse.
The penalty was death.
And so these three samurai sat in the dirt, chained, but lightly guarded. Their shame hidden to the rest of the camp by quickly constructed walls. No one thought they would escape.
But escape was their plan.
Hiro Yousha, watched as old man Ujiro Kagawaru leaned across his hip in the straw-strewn dirt, listening to the scratching sounds. His tunic, a pallid yellow, was covered with dust and straw—the same for his long iron-grey hair.
Hiro glanced over to the third samurai in the group of prisoners, and the youngest among the three friends. Haru Tantaiama’s face was glistening with sweat, his skin dirtied and besmirched from the day’s battle. The topknot that he usually kept was a mess, and strands of his black hair hung across the sides of his face.
His eyes were wild and he swallowed visibly—the fear on his face evident.
And the shame.
Leaning over, he touched the younger man’s arm and nodded. But Haru did not react very much to the comfort Hiro tried to give him.
The younger man’s eyes darted back to Ujiro and Hiro leaned back against his elbow in the dirt, the smell of the earth entering his nostrils. It was not an unpleasant smell.
He waited.
Scrichscrich, scratch.
There was an urgency to that little noise, but when it would have otherwise been annoying at any other time, that little scritchscrich, scratch, was the sound of a cool summer breeze, the sound of a freshly honed blade, the sound of freedom.
Except Hiro knew they were already dead. There was no fear inside him. In fact, he had smiled, nodded and accepted his fate. He had had a good life—for the most part. What else was there to do but shrug it off and accept one’s lot?
But…
Ujiro was still scratching at that nail as Hiro and Haru watched, waited and listened. Footsteps sounded outside of the hastily erected walls—panels of decorative paper from the daimyo’s planned celebration—as well as lanterns and taiko drums had been placed throughout the courtyard. The town’s people—chōnin—had set it all up.
And now it was all ruined.
Because of their defeat.
Ujiro hastened back to his sitting position, his chains rattling. The footsteps came to a stop and an interminable pause ensued. Had the guard heard them? Hiro wondered.
Even Ujiro glanced about wildly. The old man was always the most well collected of the three men. Surely because he was the bravest.
But then Hiro smiled.
No, he was simply too tired to put the energy forth. In his middle years, he often had far less energy than Hiro, who was only thirty-three years old, and Haru had only just turned nineteen.
So young.
If they would escape now, it would be for the younger man’s sake. Though he probably would not appreciate this sentiment of Hiro’s.
Ujio’s eyes scanned the walls, connected with Hiro and with Haru. Then the footsteps began again, the guard walking off along his patrol route.
Hiro smiled to the other two men, but they did not smile back.
The older samurai leaned back over his hip, his chains clinking softly as he moved gingerly, clearly trying not to make too much noise. He could just barely reach the wall panel where a thin nail, designed to keep the washi paper over the wood, had been sticking out.
He pulled on it, scratched at the wood.
The old man’s nails were best suited for this task as well, as he often kept them just slightly long. Though pulling at the wood like that must have been terrible.
Ha!
Hiro was a samurai, ready to die at the stroke of his enemy’s swords and he was afraid of the shivers due to pulling off his finger nail like that?
Pathetic.
And why had they run?
The middle samurai—the one in age at least—had not felt fear. He simply wanted to continue living. No order by the daimyo had come for them to hold their position and die among their enemy’s blades.
So why hold the position?
It was illogical.
And that was the problem.
Honor and logic do not often agree with one another.
Kurso, he thought, the curse one he did not often utter into the air, for it was not a curse in anger, but rather surprise at his own stupid thoughts.
Scritchscritch, scratch. Scirtchscritch, scratch. Scritchscrich, scratch.
Suddenly Ujiro’s hand jerked back. Both Hiro and Haru flinched with anticipation as the older samurai scurried back to them. No words were spoken among the three men as Hiro put his wrists forward.
These men were no ordinary soldiers—not a one of them. They were veteran samurai, each of the men of martial arts, of secret knowledge, both in the arcane skills, but also in that of weapons and athletics.
As it pained him to admit, their daimyo Akio Tsuji was a fool to believe they would sit silently, waiting for their demise for the slim chance that he would allow them to keep their honor intact by committing the ritualistic seppuku suicide of a Mukuman samurai.
A part of Hiro wanted to laugh, and he wondered if he was a villain. Were all three of them villains?
His attention was brought back to Ujiro with his little tool.
The little nail was not ideal for picking locks, but Ujiro went to work, the small makeshift tool scratching and clinking softly inside the keyhole.
Hiro’s manacles clicked and fell to the ground with a soft thump. He rubbed his strained wrists as Ujiro went to work on Haru’s manacles next.
Only in his thirties, Hiro still pushed his knuckles against his lower back as he stretched, moved gingerly across the ground to make as little noise as possible and toward the barricades to see if he could get a look outside at their surroundings.
Meanwhile, Haru’s heart was thumping in his chest. With every traitorous beat, he felt that much worse for what they were doing. They were cowards, honorless rōnin.
And yet…
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And yet he wanted to live more than he wanted to keep his honor. His face twitched and his eyes watered, but he rubbed them with the back of his hand once his wrists were free.
Then the old man held up the nail between them, saying nothing about his pitiful state. Haru was glad of that.
“It is clear,” Hiro said from the other side of the space, keeping his voice to a mere whisper, a leaf on the wind, so as not to be heard by any nearby guards. He still maintained his vigilance regardless.
They would come back.
But they were probably bored, and worse, deep in thought and worried for their daimyo’s recent defeat. Surely they just wanted to go back to their homes—to their wives and children. It was a tumultuous time after the Three Battles Crisis. The emperor had been slain, along with his son. Only Noriko Kurosawa had escaped across the sea, thanks to a bewildered smattering of events involving foreign dignitaries and mercenaries. The Three Battles Crisis, known by that title to the gaijin, it was commonly referred to by a single word in the Mikuman tongue.
Wakiagaru.
Once the young samurai was free, Ujiro nodded and held his wrists up for Haru to unlock him in turn, but it took a long time and without results from the younger man, Ujiro shook his wrists impatiently. The younger samurai blinked, his gaze sharpening.
Feeling a sense of impatience, Hiro got down to his knees and nudged the younger man aside, taking the nail and jamming it into the old man’s manacles. He turned, moving the slightly-bent point of the nail against the one tumbler inside.
Prison manacles were not meant to keep lock boxes safe. They were simple in design, sturdy and meant to last for decades. So picking them, even with a simple nail from a washi paper wall divider was very easy. The old man’s manacles clicked and fell to the ground, and like him, Ujiro rubbed his wrists, though for far longer.
He was old after all.
All three of the samurai stood, glancing about warily. There was nothing to see from behind the dividers. Off in the distance, men wounded in battle, still screamed and moaned in pain.
There were soldiers, cooking and muttering between the isles where their tents were set up. In the distance a blacksmith pounded his trade—even this late in the evening.
A horse whinnied and a soldier called out to another for something, but Hiro did not pay these sounds very much mind. They were the general sounds of an encamped army. But for those poor moaning men, the camp must not have access to any magickers to heal them—or at the very least, to sooth their pains.
The poor fools.
Where had those magickers been sent to? And why? Hiro worried for the men. But there was nothing he could do. Now that the new shōgun
sat on the Mikuman throne, the conflict had stabilized.
For the most part.
But there were so many little conflicts now, it was hard to keep track which were part of Wakiagaru and which were simply about the daimyo asserting their control. Now was a time of war and opportunity.
Someone tapped Hiro on the arm. When he blinked and turned, he found Ujiro—of a similar name to their new emperor?—there. His old but sharp eyes wandered in the direction of the physician’s tent, but then to the front entrance to their makeshift holding area.
This place was special. They were not kept with the general prisoners—and prisoners had been taken, even in retreat. No, they were special prisoners, meant to be executed and their shame, open and yet hidden all at once in the middle of the camp.
The poor fools continued crying out in anguish of their wounds.
And now it was time for these fools to make their escape, as Ujiro motioned with his head, his long hair waving behind him across his back, toward the entrance. He led the way. Ujiro put his face up to the crack in the dividers, his grubby hand spread out against the pristine white washi paper with floral designs. His finger nail had come up in his furious scratching, and now blood dripped down the paper.
Hiro leaned in, realizing how dark it was outside of their enclosed area. Thankfully, the lanterns had not been lit, so the area, for the most part would conceal their escape.
Though there were many cook fires and a few lanterns in key areas, particularly at the gates leading into the village. It was still risky. They had no mind to go there, surely?
Hiro moved up closer behind the old man, close enough that he felt Hiro’s breath on the back of his neck. At least it wasn’t wine breath, but still, it was no clean breeze of sakuras on the wind.
An image of Ujiro’s wife flashed within his mind, but he quickly swatted it away.
“What do you see?” Hiro asked quietly. Oddly, his heart was beating fast now. Was he afraid? He supped a certain part of him was, but it was mostly anticipation as a thrill travelled up his spine.
This was their chance to escape.
After not receiving an answer, he squeezed the old man’s shoulder, and felt Ujiro’s muscles slacken slightly. “Hai,” he said, with a nod. The old samurai said no more, he only moved his hand off the washi paper and pointed to a darkened portico and a walking space with red colonnades leading into the shrine.
Further up the hills the village was alive with light, but not with mirth or cheer of victory. It was quiet, the lanterns in the streets mostly put out, though the darkened formes of the chōnin—or village people as the gaijin called them—moved about. It was a somber time after their decisive defeat—and there hadn’t even been any trolls on the field, as Mikumans often hired to do work for them in battles. It was lazy, and dishonorable to hire mercenaries.
But the lines between honor and practicality were often blurred with the Mikuman’s senses, never mind the Bushido codes. Perhaps that was why Princess Noriko had escaped across the seas and Sakuraichi Ujio now saw atop the throne?
All of this conflict was for fools.
Just like the three fools standing behind the washi paper like they belonged to the Akaima Dancing Fans, getting ready to break for their escape. Hiro smiled like a buffoon and clenched his hands.
They felt wrong without the hilt of his katana in them. Of Aiya. For that was what his magick broadsword was called. It was a personal name—not a famed one—by the kami, Hiro was no famed samurai. Just a now-honorless-lout about to make his escape.
And he and his friends would probably fail anyway.
Where was Kageya, the fourth samurai of their little group?
They had lost sight of him in the battle. When they had run. When they had forfeited their lives.
The guard’s footsteps approached and Ujiro moved to the side of the divider, along with Hiro and Haru. Each of the samurai swallowed as the soldier came near, then moved—the sounds of his feet bespeaking that of a man turning around.
So he had his back to the exit?
They could still move the dividers in the back or the side of their enclosure. But that might be noisy, and there were little strings leading to stakes in the ground to keep them upright. No—that would not work.
They looked at one another as the guard sniffed and scratched the back of his neck, muttering something none of them could understand.
They waited.
Haru swallowed.
Ujiro breathed in deeply, his eyes seemingly unfocused upon the ground as he held still. For an old man, he was more practiced at some things than Hiro, and certainly more experienced than the young Haru.
Rolling his eyes with impatience, Hiro tugged on the old man’s sleeve. He looked up, glanced over at the washi dividers and nodded slowly as his entire demeanor changed from careful patient to one of action.
Very slowly, the older samurai moved toward the right side divider. He nodded to Haru to do the same for the left. Their movements were slow, careful, designed to make no sound. Clenching his fists, it would be Hiro to grab the guard and yank him into their enclosure. He would need to grab the man by the mouth to make sure he did not scream.
Were they about to kill the man?
Iie.
No, they would not. They would incapacitate him. But then that would mean he would wake up in little time, to sound the alarm. They were a skilled little bunch. They could outwit their pursuers.
Common soldiers.
The only reason they had been caught and caged was because, like idiots, they had come back to the new staging area—to the area of their shame and defeat. And that was when they had been singled out and arrested.
Baka so da ne…
Haru glanced toward the old man, who in turned nodded to the younger samurai, then he turned to Hiro and with a final nod, both of them pulled back their dividers.
The guard flinched slightly, but Hiro was far too fast. He lunged forward, wrapped his arm around the guard’s face and put his hand over the man’s mouth. He felt teeth as he made to scream, whether in alarm or sudden fright, Hiro did not know. In any event, he yanked the thin mad back and slammed him into the dirt, his hand still across his mouth and teeth. He struggled for a moment, but then Ujiro pummeled him in the stomach and his knees shot up. When the guard’s feet came back down, Hiro raised his hand off the man’s mouth and brought his fist into his forehead.
The man’s head bounced on the ground, but he was wearing a helmet. Still the force of his strike stunned him enough that Hiro sent another fist into his face. This time his eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he stopped moving.
A silent moment passed as each of them glanced about, listening for any indication of other guards.
Finally, with an impatient gesture of his hands, Ujiro motioned for the helmet. Hiro unbuckled the clasp and took it off of the unconscious guard’s head, handed it to the older man. He put it on quickly, reaching down for the yari pike that had fallen to the ground and stood.
Hiro realized Haru staring at the unconscious guard. At what they had done. He touched the man on the forearm and Haru looked up. Surprisingly, he returned Hiro’s nod. Good. They needed him to be prepared to do what was necessary to escape.
Though they would try not to kill anyone.
By their actions just now, there was an implied agreement of honor among all of them there—that they would not be killing the guards. Otherwise, the logical thing to do would be to finish the unconscious man with the pike blade.
Which they did not do.
Hiro nodded. “Mm.” Then he surveyed the older samurai. He did not quite fit the look in his yellow tunic, but with the pike and the helmet, he would pass for a guard from a distance.
This was good.
And now it was time to leave. Hiro stepped close to the washi paper and glanced about. There was movement to their right. Soldiers and tents. But they were busy with their own tasks—probably mostly muttering and complaining among themselves, though it sounded like some drunk fool was singing a somber and depressing tune as he thrummed his shamisen.
That was how it was after a defeat.
If they walked out slowly, like they belonged, in the dark night, none would be the wiser of two samurai and a guard without his armor walking through the camp.
And so the three samurai moved out from behind the washi paper with Hiro at the front, Ujiro at his side, and Haru trailing behind.
“Doko desuka Kageya?” Haru hissed quietly as he glanced about.
“Silence,” Ujiro commanded. “It does not matter where he is right now.”
“But why did he not come to see us?”
“I said be quiet,” Ujiro commanded again as he glanced back over his shoulder with a hiss. “Later.”
Though he said nothing, Hiro wondered as well where the fourth man of their tight-knit group was—and why, as Haru had asked, had he not come to see them in their confinement?
They walked briskly toward the gates to the village, Ujiro having stepped faster ahead of Hiro to lead the way.
There were guards up ahead, their straw hats and pikes easily visible at the gate where lit lanterns from the planned festivities were alight, the red paper within aglow like blood—the blood of their defeat.
This was not a good idea.