A Moment of Regret

 

by Shawn Carman & Rich Wulf

 

 

The Shadowlands, weeks ago…

 

The bakemono moved through the City of the Lost in frenzied, chaotic waves. Once, before the bakemono were remade, many of the Lost would have treated them cruelly. It was not unusual to mock or kick one as it passed, taking joy in the torment of such wretched and pathetic creatures. But the goblins had changed. Now the wise simply let them be. A single bakemono was a fierce, savage creature and it was rare to ever draw the wrath of only one. When angered they swarmed in a frenzy of chaos and destruction, but when left to their own devices they simply scurried through the shadows of the city, cleaning the streets of all life that did not please Fu Leng’s eye.

            The goblins periodically scoured the city, looking for anything out of place. They devoured filth and debris as they had been commanded during Daigotsu’s rule. Iuchiban cared little for the city’s condition so long as its defenses remained intact, but neither did he care how the goblins occupied their time. And so the goblins continued their duties.

            One particular pack now paused in their patrols through the streets, falling into a shrieking frenzy as several battled among themselves for a scrap of refuse. The leader turned with a hiss, felling the two goblins that had started the fight with a single backhand. The others shrieked and cowered away from it. Skub was both wiser and stronger than most bakemono, and the others had swiftly learned to either follow its lead or quickly clear its path. Skub stood very still for a moment, sniffing the air delicately. The others around merely sat back on their haunches and watched with dim, curious eyes.

            Skub continued to scent the air, cocking his head to the side and narrowing its eyes. The creature had the scent of an enemy, an old enemy that it had not smelled for a long time. Its jagged features twisted in confusion. This enemy was dead, it knew that, but death was rarely a permanent thing in the City of the Lost. Could the human have come back? Could it still be in the city?

            Snarling with rage, Skub dropped low to the ground and ran on all fours, hunting the source of the smell. It would be found. It would be destroyed. Skub would leave enough that it could be recognized then bring the rest to its master for a reward. The bakemono ran through the older parts of the city, buildings that had been destroyed years ago but not yet restored. Pieces of the stone men that had accompanied the Four Winds on their invasion long ago still lay littered in the road. Skub scowled as it kicked a broken head aside and remembered. Skub had fought well that day, but there had been little reward. A goblin could not feast upon stone.

            Here. The scent was strong. Skub tore through the ruins recklessly, tiny mind filled with visions of blood and hunger. The scent was so strong it could taste the flesh. Finally, the last bit of rotten lumber came away to reveal its prey.

            It was nothing. Merely a scrap of clothing, long forgotten in the charred city’s remains. Skub howled with the fury of hunger denied. The other goblins cowered back, fearful of its wrath. Even as it glared at them, the primitive creature’s mind spun. Why would such a tiny thing still have so strong a scent? It must be special. And if it was special, then perhaps master would still offer a reward.

            Still growling, Skub pulled the cloth from the dirt and filth. Holding it in its mouth, it turned and ran toward Omoni’s forge, snapping awkwardly at anything in his path.

 

 

            Omoni took care to soften his footsteps as he entered the Temple of the Ninth Kami. The Bloodspeaker had been more wrathful of late, and even the slightest disturbance or inconvenience could arouse a deadly ire. In truth, Omoni would have preferred to be elsewhere, but his duty demanded that he speak to the master he served about his discovery, even if that master was a wretched usurper like Iuchiban.

            The irony of his situation was not lost upon Omoni. That he, the most pitiable of all creatures, should regard the all-powerful Iuchiban as wretched, was so far beyond comedy that it was completely absurd. And yet when he looked upon the Bloodspeaker, he felt anger, fear, and hatred. One day, the Bloodspeaker would fall and the goblins would feast upon his corpse. Omoni hoped that he might live to see that day, but he had no delusions that he would. Omoni stepped into the vast open chamber of the temple, peering about warily.

            “You seem uncomfortable in this place, Omoni,” said a familiar voice.

            The goblin-man turned to see Yajinden, Iuchiban’s lieutenant, step forward from a shadowed alcove. The Bloodspeaker had clearly been at work in his forge, for his white hair was streaked with soot and he still held his blacksmith’s hammer in one hand. Yajinden was strange, not quite like the other Bloodspeakers. He, too, seemed to be a prisoner here. He, like Omoni, was a man more interested in creation than plans of conquest. Omoni almost considered the man a friend.

            “All of the symbols of Fu Leng have been carted away, yet Iuchiban has still not replaced them,” Omoni whispered. “It seems so empty.”

            “And they will not be replaced,” Yajinden replied. “The emptiness is the greatest testament to our master’s arrogance. There is no work of art, no reproduction, that he feels would do him justice. So these halls remain empty and only his greatness echoes through them to remind us who we serve.” Yajinden laughed bitterly under his breath.

            “You should not say such things, Yajinden,” Omoni said, looking worriedly at the doors at the far end of the chamber, behind which Iuchiban himself surely awaited.

            “He is occupied with his plans,” Yajinden replied with a negligent wave. “At any rate he knows better than to punish me for every such outburst, or he would have little time to do anything else. Why have you come here, Omoni?”

            “I bring something for our master,” Omoni said.

            “Oh?” Yajinden asked. “Let me see.”

            Omoni opened his mouth to refuse, to insist that only Iuchiban should view what Skub had discovered, but hesitated. Omoni withdrew the cloth from his satchel. “It appears to be a remnant from the Four Winds’ attack on this City, some six years hence. I recognized it as Toturi Tsudao’s. It seems to bear powerful magic.”

            Yajinden’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting,” he said, “but you were careless to bring this to Iuchiban’s attention.”

            Omoni looked confused.

            “This is merely a scrap of cloth, stained with the blood of a hero better forgotten,” he replied. “Whatever power it bears is surely insignificant compared to our master and his plans. To draw his attention to it would be a waste of time. Don’t you agree?”

            Omoni frowned. “It seems to bear the magic of the sun, Yajinden-san,” he replied. “Are you sure this would not be of interest?”

            Yajinden extended one hand, fingertips brushing the cloth as a smile spread across his broad features. “Confident,” he said. “He would either view it as worthless and discard it or see it as a threat and destroy it. Yet you can see, as I do, the power that is woven within these threads. We are both artists, Omoni. We cannot allow such a thing to be destroyed. Can we?”

            Omoni looked at the obi, then back at Yajinden. “No,” he said, reveling in the small rebellion from his master. “We cannot.”

            “Then let us find a use for this, my friend,” Yajinden replied.

 

 

The Northern Wall Mountains

 

The vast expanse of the desert known only as the Burning Sands stretched on as far as the eye could see. There were occasional swirls of activity as the harsh, searing desert winds kicked up enormous clouds of sand, twisting and swirling it in tiny storms that lived only for a few moments and then disappeared. Beyond that, there were only shimmering heat visions to break the monotony. Lizards slithered from rock to rock, seeking to warm their blood and then cool it in the shade, only to repeat the process. In mid-scurry, however, several of the little beasts stopped and stared into the searing wasteland, sensing something amiss.

            From the distorted heat waves and the sea of swirling sand, a lone figure emerged from the dunes. The traveler was protected from the sun and elements by a heavy cloak that covered every feature. The sand swirled about, but never seemed to touch him. The lizards were transfixed for the briefest of moments, confused by this unusual intrusion into their routine, then scattered as their fear of predators took over.

            The traveler reached the desert’s edge and stepped from sand to hot, jagged stone at the foothills of the Northern Wall. The man shook himself lightly, casting off the few flecks of sand that had defeated the spiritual barriers that protected him from the elements, then gazed around and the unforgiving mountains that marked Rokugan’s northern border.

            “Home,” he said, in a hoarse voice.

            The man drew back his hood. Long locks of hair fell from within it to cascade down his shoulders, bone white with streaks of black at the temples. On his belt hung a white porcelain mask marked with the rising sun and a wakizashi bearing both the Phoenix mon and the Chrysanthemum, the mark of the Emperor and his chosen servants.

            Isawa Sezaru had returned to the Empire.

            There was little time for introspection. His journey across the Burning Sands had been brief but extremely enlightening. There was no doubt in his mind now that Iuchiban was a Khadi, a heartless sorcerer created through arcane gaijin rituals that left the soul cold and unfeeling but with the potential for almost limitless power. The Bloodspeaker had combined gaijin magic with the sorcery of Jigoku in an unprecedented manner, creating an abomination the likes of which the world had never known.

            What chilled Sezaru the most was the discovery that Iuchiban had used the heartless magics to escape the Taint’s control, and used maho to protect his soul from whatever gaijin mystical forces would seek to corrupt him. Iuchiban’s evil was thus neither a result of gaijin sorcery nor the Shadowlands. For all his power, his madness and depravity were purely his own, not the product of any magical influence. The idea that Iuchiban, like Sezaru himself, had once been brother to the Emperor but driven mad by jealousy and lust for power sickened him. In his darkest moments, Isawa Sezaru sometimes wondered what had happened if he now sat upon his brother’s throne, but he could never become the monster Iuchiban had become. The Bloodspeaker was obsessed with conquering the Empire and destroying all that which would not bow to his control. He would not stop, for he believed he could not be stopped. Any defeat was a temporary setback, for Iuchiban would always survive.

            Sezaru would not allow the blasphemy to continue. He and his new ally, Katamari the Doomseeker, would purge the Heartless from the Empire, no matter the cost. And when that was done, Sezaru had promised to aid Katamari in purging the Burning Sands of the few khadi who remained.

            A noise came from the rocks nearby. Sezaru’s eyes narrowed, his musings forgotten in an instant as the spirits swirled around him at his command.

            “The voices of the kami are not quite so clear outside the Empire,” Sezaru said, “and my magic has been difficult to summon. Now I am restored to my full power, and in my joy at hearing the voices of the wind and flame returned to me I might rashly unleash my power on those who would spy upon me. Do you wish me to regret your death?”

            There was a long moment of silence. “If I step out, you will burn me to ash in a heartbeat, and I will have traveled all this way for nothing. You might not believe my words, but I mean you no harm, mighty Wolf.”

            “None need fear me, save the enemies of the Empire.”

            There was another pause, then the voice returned, full of misery. “Then I am doomed, for I am no friend to Rokugan.”

            Sezaru frowned at the obvious dismay in the strange voice. “Then come forth if you seek an audience, and I will grant you what mercy if you prove worthy, and when our discourse is complete I might allow you to flee into the Sands.”

            “Then I accept whatever fate awaits me,” the voice answered. Moments later, a small, twisted form emerged from the rocks, clad in rags and tattered remnants of armor. The creature moved with a strange, animalistic grace despite the uneven shape of its limbs, and it scurried down the mountainside as quickly as the lizards that had disappeared only moments earlier. Sezaru’s hands were sheathed in flame in an instant at the sight of the creature, for the Wolf knew a denizen of the Shadowlands when he saw one. Yet he felt a strange pity as well. Something about this creature radiated pain and misery. He found he could not bring himself to increase its suffering.

            “Greetings to you, Isawa Sezaru-sama,” the thing said with an awkward bow.

            Sezaru scowled at the beast. “What manner of creature are you?” he demanded, one flaming hand held out in an accusatory pointing gesture.

            “I am a shadow of he who calls himself the Sculptor of Flesh,” the creature replied. “Omoni, servant of Daigotsu, created me in his image so that I might speak with you. I bear some bit of his soul and memory, as well as his pain.”

            “What is a wretched beast such as you doing here?” Sezaru demanded. “How did you find me? For what purpose?”

            “Your battle with Mohai and Jama Suru is well known to those I serve,” the beast answered. “You never reappeared in the Empire, and many thought you dead. Omoni knew otherwise. The one who defeated the Dark Lord at the height of his power would not fall so easily. He sent me here to seek you out. If you were not to be found, my creator said, then I should remain, for he believed you would return.”

            Daigotsu’s henchman sent you to spy upon me?” Sezaru asked in a dangerous tone.

            Omoni is Iuchiban’s servant now,” the creature said, “though he sincerely wishes it were otherwise.”

            Sezaru waved the discussion away. “I care little for your insane creator’s loyalties. Why are you here?”

            “My creator sends a gift,” the creature said, carefully opening a small bag that it kept strapped to its back. “It was found not long ago. My creator believed that Iuchiban would not appreciate its significance.” Here the creature smiled a jagged, toothy grin. “But he thought you might.”

            “What a ridiculous ploy,” Sezaru snarled. “If Omoni believes that I would accept any gift from the City of the Lost then he is a fool as well as a madman. I do not know what your creator’s true plan is, creature, but...” His words trailed off as the beast gingerly withdrew a strip of yellow silk from its bag. Though stained with blood and grime, it shone with a strange ethereal brilliance. The best held it reverently and offered it to Sezaru with another clumsy bow. Sezaru recognized it instantly. Even the invisible spirits that surrounded him seemed to catch their breath.

            The flames encircling the shugenja’s hands dissipated, although the Wolf did not seem to notice. He took the cloth in shaking hands and held it before him for a moment. “Tsudao,” he whispered.

            “My master says it is powerful, power that would be squandered by Iuchiban, or perhaps destroyed. Your sister was a feared enemy of the Shadowlands, as you are now. We would return her obi to you as a gesture of our respect, Wolf.”

            Sezaru regarded the little thing coldly. “Your creator plays games. You would use my sister’s memory to incite me to wage war against Iuchiban, but hopes I might show him mercy when it is done.”

            “You misjudge my creator,” the beast replied, “but why should he expect mercy? His life, like mine, is only pain. His reasons are deeper.”

            “And they are?”

            The beast bowed low this time, kneeling and lowering its forehead to the ground. “Though I had not yet been created at the time of her death, I bear my creator’s memories. It is said that a samurai’s worth can be judged through the value of his enemies. Your sister’s life, and her death, brought the Dark Lord great honor. She was an enemy who will not be forgotten, nor shown disrespect.”

            Sezaru took a step back, almost involuntarily. The wretched creature’s tone held no malice, sarcasm, nor even any fear. Its apology, as unthinkable as it was to consider, seemed sincere. It meant little in the grand scheme of things, of course, but Sezaru was taken aback all the same. “What manner of creature are you?” he repeated.

            The thing stood. “I am nothing, as I told you before. I have no name, no kin, nothing. I am the most wretched spawn of a vast Empire built upon cruelty and degradation. The Taint has made us what we are. There is only one thing we have remaining that makes us more than animals.” It paused for a moment. “Honor.”

            Sezaru felt a swell of pity for the thing before him, but had no words. “I accept your gift,” he said quietly. He would of course be cautious to determine if any foul magics had been placed upon it, but for now he found he could not refuse.

            The creature looked him in the eyes for the first time. “Then I must ask one small favor of you, Wolf,” it said. “I, like my creator, was made for a single purpose. Unlike my creator, my purpose has now been fulfilled. Your magic is among the most powerful of any mortal’s. I wish you to help me become other than the beast I am.”

            The Wolf shook his head. “I cannot.”

            The thing nodded. “I think that you can,” it said in an even quieter tone, just above a whisper.

            Sezaru nodded, realizing the true implication of the creature’s words. His hands blazed into flame once again.

            “Thank you,” it whispered, just before the end.

 

 

            When the act was finished, Sezaru scattered the creature’s ashes and offered a quick prayer. He folded his sister’s obi tightly and placed it within the folds of his robe. He was preparing to leave when a dark, malicious laughter rang out through the hills.

            Sezaru’s guard was up at once, glancing here and there for the source of the sound. With so many rocks, there were hundreds of places a man could hide, and he could not check them all at once, not without bringing the mountains down with the power of his magic. Cursing inwardly, he summoned the kami to him and prepared himself for whatever might come next.

            “Do you the little monster’s story touch you?” a mocking voice echoed through the hills. “Did you see in his twisted visage some reflection of your own madness, Wolf?”

            “I know your voice, crone,” Sezaru said, his temper rising.

            “Indeed you do,” the voice replied. “We met once, years ago, in the City of the Lost. I chose not to face you and yours that day, for I knew one of you would fall. And in doing so, those of you that remain would increase my power tenfold when we met again.”

            “Show yourself,” Sezaru said, “and we shall see.”

            The laughter came again then was replaced by a whisper that somehow managed to reverberate throughout the foothills. “It is your sister’s death that haunts you the most, isn’t it?” it demanded. “For all your power, you could not save her. You could not die in her place. Only she could have done what must be done… or could she? Could you have died and allowed her to live? If you had truly drawn upon your full might as you did against the Bloodspeakers?”

            “Her destiny was not mine to decide,” Sezaru answered, tight-lipped.

            “And what of yours?” the whisper persisted. “What of your brother, and what he has awakened within you? Would you not have preferred to remain as you were, healed and whole? Or do you relish becoming a monster once again?”

            “All I know of monsters is how to destroy them, Kanashimi,” Sezaru said, his voice rising. “You should not have come here.”

            The Onisu of Regret emerged from the rocks, its form swollen with power. “The Onisu have remained apart from this war in the Shadowlands, for Hakai believes we have nothing to gain until a winner presents himself,” it said, “but Omoni’s heart is well known to me. I could not miss this opportunity when I realized what he intended. I knew the feast you would offer me.”

            “You should not have come,” Sezaru repeated. He drew his mask from his belt and placed it over his face, shivering as he did so. “There is no regret within me.”

            Kanashimi laughed, but then seemed to recoil for a moment, almost shrinking in stature. “What are you doing?” it demanded.

            “Regret is the sin of a samurai, for that which is done which should not be,” Sezaru said coldly. “One day I will regret, when my task is complete, but until then there is nothing within me but death.”

            Kanashimi shook itself, trying to remain in control in face of the sheer power that was radiating from Isawa Sezaru.

            “Let me show you,” the Wolf said.