Kaguta - Or, Ankūro - The Warrior, The Thief and The Killer

29

Kō

The past, once hidden,
Reveals much yet says little,
Until past is now.
- Bushubō.

Kō stared at Dojūru until even he thought to look away. He had certainly fallen from the lofty position of Sansui. No other of that warrior caste would ever look away before another. She had met a few Sansui in her life and they gave no quarter in anything. Each action performed for the sole purpose of victory, no matter how small or insignificant. Dojūru had the skills, but no longer had the fortitude.

The guard they had questioned lay on his stomach, hands and feet bound together, mouth muffled by a strip of cloth from his own uniform. He should have died. Would have died had Dojūru not stayed her hand. The monk had become weak and principled and Kō had no care for principles. Not in this matter. Every soldier left alive was a danger. An addition to forces far greater in number than they could face as it was. One less enemy was one less enemy, but Dojūru wished to show mercy. To show pity upon someone who would have none for them.

The storm had paused long enough for them both to scramble up the stark wall of the fortress and had closed in once more. Kō had despatched two guards before Dojūru had even removed the makeshift climbing claws and he had stared at the bodies, blood pouring like miniature rivers from their wounds, mingling with the rain to become a soft, pink colour, reminiscent of cherry blossom. She had known then that Dojūru did not have the necessary resolve to do what their task required of them.

Within the fortress, the multitude of soldiers huddled within their tight barracks and bunk houses, hiding from a storm the likes of which none had seen for a hundred years. It rattled wooden structures, threatening to tear them from moorings. Shingles shook and became ripped from roofs, flying in unpredictable patterns to smash against cobbled walkways, walls or simply disappear into the black and swirling skies, to land who-knew-where.

They took advantage of the empty courtyard, the walkway that encircled the inner walls and the exposed areas, supporting themselves against flimsy structures, bending almost double to force themselves onward. Kō had an idea where to go, though this fortress had a very different shape and plan to it than any other Kō had seen. It reminded her more of the Gochin castles upon the mainland, that she had seen drawings of in Akāi's extensive library.

Fortresses in Kaguta were usually intended only to consolidate forces before marching out to meet enemies upon wide fields. Those of the mainlanders were to cower within, raining arrows down upon enemies, battles of attrition, wearing opponents down until they could not maintain their attacks or defences. Typical of Gochin. They had no discipline. No honour. As these people had no honour, skulking behind walls, decrying open warfare, regardless of which side they fought for.

Now, Kō needed to enter the keep of this fortress, sneak to the lowest depths and find her brother. The unconscious guard before them had told them where to go and the tip of her Kinishima blade, drawing a bead of blood from the guard's throat, had ensured he spoke the truth. She would have killed him, then, but for Dojūru's pity. Before, she would have killed the guard anyway. It occurred to her that Dojūru did not suffer a lack of fortitude alone.

A door, to the rear of the keep, led to kitchens, but opening the door had allowed the brutal winds to enter the kitchens along with them. While Dojūru struggled to close the door, Kō found herself face-to-face with several terrified people. She had drawn her sword, advancing upon them, before she even realised that they were not soldiers, only cooks and servants. Innocents, as the girl in Gunoē's castle was innocent.

Like the girl, however, these people posed a danger. If only one were to shout, to try to run, it could bring any number of enemies to face Kō. Though, she supposed, should she begin killing them, they would shout and scream anyway. She hesitated and, in that moment of hesitation, Dojūru moved past her, the door now closed. He laid down his staff, held a finger to his lips and kneeled, holding his hand in a two-fingered prayer.