Eternal Samurai Read online

  .

  ICINI Publishing Co.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, historical events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales or events is purely coincidental.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit scenes, violence and adult language that may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for sale to adults only as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase,

  All rights reserved under International Copyright Convention. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing. Inquiries should be addressed to:

  Icini Publishing Co.

  P. O. Box 39746

  Phoenix, AZ 85069

  Sale of this book without its cover is not authorized. If you purchased this book without its cover, be aware it was reported to the publisher as “damaged” or “destroyed.”

  Cover illustration: Ben Gill

  Cover design: Donna Conley

  Copyright © 2012 by B. D. Heywood

  ISBN-13: 978-0988300002

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9883000-1-9

  .

  DEDICATION

  For Hundi

  Always run free.

  To all who have suffered hatred, abuse and intolerance because you are true to yourself.

  You are brave beyond words.

  Your spirit will shine for all to see.

  .

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  About the Author:

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Ben Gill whose artistic vision and talent brought Tatsu Cobb to vibrant life.

  Jacob Shaver, my editor, who cut the dross from the metal to reveal the gold of the words shining beneath.

  Kelly Wiggins who offered her patient and objective input that helped guide the story to its final, breathtaking version.

  .

  One

  The Temple of Mii-dera, Nipon, 1180

  It was a day of treachery. Of blood and gore and death. Of men shouting in triumph or screaming in agony.

  It was the day the humanity was ripped from Saito Arisada’s soul.

  This was not Arisada’s first battle but it would be his last. He was Sōhei, one of Nipon’s elite Buddhist warrior monks. Today, he was destined to die beneath an enemy’s blade. He accepted that inescapable finality. In fact, he embraced it.

  But he was incapable of accepting that the man Arisada loved more than life itself had betrayed him. Arisada’s young, beautiful soulmate had chosen greed and ambition over honor and loyalty.

  Hatred consumed Arisada’s heart. Oh no, not for the soldiers that had come to slaughter them all. His heart burned with hate for his lover, Koji Nowaki.

  At dawn, the massive wooden gates of Mii-dera burst inward under the assault of twenty-five-thousand screaming warriors. As the enemy swept into the temple grounds, Arisada received word of Nowaki’s treachery. Using subterfuge, the youth had guided the rescuing army up the wrong mountain path. Help could never arrive in time.

  Oh, my koibito, my beloved, why? Why had Nowaki, one of Mii-dera’s youngest yet most feared warriors, chosen such a dishonorable path? Yet, Arisada knew the reason—knew the name of the man who had seduced Nowaki over to the side of the enemy.

  Unmanned by a mélange of anguish and fury, Arisada dropped to his knees with a strangled cry. Though blameless, Arisada chose to atone for being the traitor’s bedmate by committing seppuku, ritual suicide. He tore off his leather chest plate and pressed the razor-sharp edge of his tanto against his naked skin. Arisada took a single, final breath and steeled himself to drive the short knife into his belly.

  The howls of the enemy, “Shi wa Mii-dera,” promising death to all, shattered Arisada’s single-minded purpose. His hand faltered, the knife skittering over his hipbone. Better to give his life defending his temple than waste it on his own blade. He sheathed the tanto, scrambled to his feet and tied on his armor. He pulled his razor-sharp nodachi from its sheath with a hiss. Brandishing the sword in one hand and his spear-like naginata in the other, he pelted to the front line.

  Arisada would fight to save Mii-dera—fight with all his strength and skill, but not his heart. His heart was already dead. Fueled only by his anguish, he fought like a mad man. Fought and prayed. Begged all the Gods for the chance to find and kill his beautiful, green-eyed lover.

  Surrounded by the death screams of the slaughtered, the triumphant howls of the enemy, Arisada wielded his weapons with maniacal force. He knew the thousand Mii-dera Sōhei had no chance against the massive army sent by the emperor of Nipon. Months ago, against all counsel, Mii-dera’s ambitious abbot had forged an alliance with Prince Mochihito, an imposter to the throne. What did the bastard Prince care that the oaths of Mii-dera’s warrior monks would bind them to a hopeless cause? The lust for power had ruled that day. Within weeks of the foolish agreement, the reigning emperor retaliated, dispatching his massive army to Mii-dera with orders to take the heads of every Sōhei within its walls.

  The hours blurred one into the other. Arisada’s senses reeled from the din of battle, the clashing of weapons, the berserk howls of warriors, the shrieks of the maimed. Sweat and perhaps tears flowed into his eyes, clouding his vision. Fatigue weighted his limbs. A fire burned through muscle and sinew. Dust choked his lungs. He slipped and skidded on the treacherous footing beneath his heavy sandals. The world narrowed until all that existed was the face and body of the man before him.

  Around him, fighters caught in battle frenzy trod on the severed limbs or entrails of the fallen. Men shrieked in agony or bloodrage, slipped and slithered on the gore-covered ground. The air turned fetid with the stench of blood and spilled entrails. The ground turned to mud from blood and piss. The filth coating them all made friend and foe indistinguishable. Yet, even with all their skill with spear and bow and sword, the Sōhei of Mii-dera had no chance. By dusk, only a handful of Mii-dera’s warrior monks remained alive.

  Then Prince Mochihito fled, abandoning his men. Now, all was truly lost.

  A triumphant roar swelled over the battlefield. Arisada peered through the choking dust to see Hayato, commander of the yabusame, the Emperor’s deadly mounted archers, gallop through the shattered gates. Hayato, powerful, ruthless—and Nowaki’s seducer.

  Red hate drove all reason from Arisada. Screaming “Hayato,” he charged toward the maroon banner fluttering above the commander’s back. Blood streamed down Arisada’s sword and covered his arms as he cut a swath through the commander’s vanguard. Mere feet from Hayato, Arisada raised his naginata, prepared to hurl it toward that handsome, arrogant face.

  A panic-driven horse slammed into Arisada, knocking him into the muck. A hoof glanced o
ff his head. Stunned, he struggled to his feet. A sword bit into his thigh. He ignored the pain as without thought he slashed sideways at the shadow of an unseen foe. Heard with grim satisfaction the death gurgle of his attacker. But Hayato had vanished into the chaos of the battlefield.

  An unexpected lull in the fighting allowed Arisada to call for his brethren. In a voice torn by raw desperation, he commanded those few to follow him. Exhausted, they staggered up the winding stone stairs into the walled Pure Land Garden at the rear of the monastery. This oasis would be a fitting site for their final act. They boarded up the gate, praying the makeshift reinforcement would hold. If caught alive, every Sōhei knew the Emperor would extract a terrible and dishonorable revenge on them all.

  Outside the stone walls, wild cheers punctured the air accompanied by the sudden and distinct roar of flames. Huge gouts of smoke billowed thick and black into the sky.

  “They have fired the temple,” Takanawa Ito moaned. His broken left arm hung useless. The young monk dropped to his knees. “Saito-sensei, grant me permission to take my own life.”

  Arisada regarded the twenty-nine Sōhei—their armor and clothing torn, covered in filth and blood and gore, their faces gaunt with fatigue. Some, unable to stand, were supported only by their wounded fellows. But as one, they looked at him through proud, undefeated eyes.

  His gaze, at once terrible and calm, allowed a small flash of pride at their unflinching bravery. The last of the Mii-dera Sōhei. The last of Arisada’s command.

  “Life, death, they are the same, neh? As samurai, you accepted you were dead the moment this battle began. Now, it is for honor you must complete that journey. I give you all leave to take your lives by seppuku.” Arisada saluted them with his blood-drenched sword.

  “I will be the kaishakunin for each of you. None will suffer a moment’s more agony than your karma requires.” He would take responsibility for dakikubi, the immediate decapitation of each warrior at the precise moment of disembowelment. Arisada would ensure each man died with honor.

  Arisada ripped off his cowl, and bound it around the bone-deep gash that ran from knee to hip. Not that blood loss was his concern for soon he would be dead. But he needed to retain his strength just long enough to help his brothers into the next life.

  “Saito-senpai, who will be your kaishakunin?” Takanawa’s shocked voice reflected the horror of them all. With no one left to decapitate him after he disembowel himself, Arisada would die in terrible agony. An ending neither swift nor honorable.

  “My death will be long, as it must. Only this way can I atone for the shame of bedding the traitor and remove all dishonor from the house of Saito,” he replied.

  Twenty-nine died beneath his blade. Takanawa was the first. The last was the youngest, a boy of thirteen. Without hesitation, the youth plunged his tanto into his exposed abdomen. His face twisted into a terrible rictus of agony. Still, he made no sound as he stretched his neck to accept the compassion delivered by Arisada’s hand. On that final blow, Arisada’s sword shattered in two.

  Their deaths took less than an hour yet to Arisada it seemed mere moments, the time it takes for a butterfly’s wings to flap once. He made no effort to staunch the tears flowing down his face. At last, he stood panting and shuddering, drenched in the life force of his brothers. Their torsos lay like broken dolls, some bowed over their knees, some sprawled in contorted poses. Heads had toppled, rolled or bounced, often a far distance from the body. Arisada had neither the strength nor the time to place the severed parts near each other.

  ON the other side of the wall, the magnificent buildings of Mii-dera, the Temple of Three Wells, burned. Pillars of roiling black smoke obscured the star-lit sky and the silhouette of Mount Hiei. The leaping flames threw an unholy light up to the indifferent sky. Timbers fell with great cracks and sent spark-filled plumes into the air. The acrid reek of burning buildings and cooking flesh suffocated him.

  A capricious wind cleared the choking smoke for a moment. With dulled, shock-filled eyes, Arisada stared at the now-defiled ikinewa, the pond garden. He was unable to recall the peace of its tranquil landscaping. Black grime from smoke and soot coated the foliage. The sick buzz of flies already gathering on the dead filled his ears. The stench of shit merged with the choking miasma of burning wood. The thick, red rivulets ran into the pond clouding the water with crimson, defiling the emerald lily pads and white lotus blossoms. Golden fish thrashed on the surface in confusion, mouths and gills gasping for life.

  He prepared for death amid the thunderous cheers of victory reverberating through the air. The emperor’s troops were pillaging the vast temple.

  Summoning the last dregs of his strength, Arisada disrobed, and placed his armor and battle-torn clothing, drenched in gore from the enemy as well as of his fellow monks, in a careful pile. The shattered halves of his sword rested beside his naginata. He folded his legs beneath him and bound them with his obi. Naked except for the fundoshi girding his loins, he bowed, pressing his forehead to the ground. Flames cast an ethereal luminescence over his sweat-drenched body.

  “Namu Amida Butsu.” Arisada venerated the Buddha Amida for his mercy then called aloud the name of each dead Sōhei surrounding him. Their deaths had freed them from all dishonor. But if found alive, Arisada would not be killed as an honorable combatant. Instead, his head would be paraded in disgrace around the city on top of a pike, the centuries-old Saito name forever erased from all records.

  He wept not for his impending death, but for the burning of his beloved Mii-dera and the annihilation of his fellow monks. And he wept for his one and only love, Koji Nowaki.

  “May I be granted another life, and the chance to revenge myself upon you, my betrayer, my beloved, my koibito,” he prayed in a voice abraded by smoke and grief. He drove his tanto into his belly, pulling left hip to right, then upward between the lower ribs. Arisada’s face contorted at the excruciating pain, yet he made no cry.

  Curled against his blood-drenched thighs, he welcomed the darkness eroding his senses. Smoke filled his nostrils, making him cough. The violent movement sent fire lancing through his body and forced gouts of blood and ropes of intestine out through the wound. He stemmed the urgency of his bowels to void. Prayed for the sweet release of death before he lost control of his bodily functions and shamed himself.

  Still, death came slowly, taking its sweet time, savoring every moment of the young monk’s anguish. Arisada was unable to slow the spasmodic jerking of his chest. He panted like a trapped rabbit yet not enough air reached his lungs. His limbs, covered with a clammy sweat, turned cold, as his organs shut down with shock.

  Arisada’s nails cut into his palms as he fought the urge to pull the short-bladed knife from his bowels. But the agony radiating from his eviscerated belly paled compared to the anguish in his heart. The image of the face of his lover—his beautiful jade eyes, the sweet bow of his lips—eluded him. Koji Nowaki had deserted him even in memory.

  Darkness washed over Arisada but he did not know if it was from true nightfall or his own closeness to death. He heard the splintering of the garden door followed by an odd grunt of triumph. At last, his suffering would end. He waited, strangely curious about how death would feel. Curious also about the warrior who would take his head. Then it no longer mattered as peace embraced him. Soon he would cross over into the Void to begin a new life. To begin his revenge.

  An apparition loomed between him and the nightmare of the burning monastery. The warrior, dressed in the brown uniform of the enemy, carried no weapons. The man knelt beside him. He pulled Arisada upright onto his haunches.

  Crimson eyes appraised Arisada’s contorted face. “You are truly beautiful.” The samurai’s breath reeked of copper and rotting meat. “You may desire death but it is not for you. Instead, you will serve me.” Then he jerked the tanto free.

  The movement fired fresh agony through Arisada’s body. He writhed, his torso twisting, bound legs jerking. His fingers scrabbled for the short blade, desperate t
o drive it back into his belly. His eyes bulged in their sockets.

  Fingers, sharp as the talons of any hawk, thrust into Arisada’s gaping wound and twisted a rope of intestines. “Swear by your honor as Sōhei to serve me,” the apparition demanded in an odd, sibilant voice.

  Agony fired through Arisada, banishing the sought-after oblivion. “Zettai ni.” Never, he bleated.

  “No one refuses me,” the samurai hissed, digging deeper into Arisada’s tortured entrails. “I am Ukita Sadomori. I am kyūketsuki, a God of Blood. You will give me your pledge.”

  Never would Arisada denounce his oath to Mii-dera. He believed he heard his own refusal in his bleated moan. But the warrior took the sound for consent.

  “You will bear the mark of my crest, the mons of my family for all to see.” The voice was devoid of all human expression.

  Arisada’s eyes locked onto the tip of his own blood-drenched tanto as it plunged toward his face. A burst of fire lanced across his left cheek. He ground his teeth so hard against crying out that he heard one crack. A tongue, warm-wet and repugnant, lapped over his lacerated flesh.

  With a curiously gentle movement, hands turned Arisada’s head to one side. A sharp, driving pain lanced into his throat followed by the press of lips against the wound. He felt his blood drawn from his body by long, greedy gulps.

  Sadomori feasted until the Sōhei’s pulse stuttered almost to a halt. He bit through his own lip and fastened the wound to the monk’s blanched mouth in a deep, bloody kiss.

  A bitter essence trickled down Arisada’s throat. He choked then swallowed. His body burned with a strange and terrible incandescence. Then he fell insensate against the warrior.

  “Now, we shall be together for all eternity.” Triumph flashed in his crimson eyes. With no effort, he lifted Arisada and cradled him in his arms as if holding his child. Ignoring the mayhem around him, the monster trod on the living and dead as he bore his conquest away from Mii-dera. For the monk was now his offspring, his first, his Primary.