(via i-aint-bovvered)

(Source: justalilstar)

Ryoushi-Oni: the Demon Hunter

                                                By Mark Allyn Adams

 

 My name is Hirohiko McCaleb, and I am cursed.  Not just figuratively, but in every sense of the word.  My mother believed my curse began when I dishonored my grandparents by not accepting their family name after my father died, but I know my curse is older that that.

Much older.  



The village elders would have me believe it began when my gaijin father ‘stole’ a young woman from her village and took her to wife by means of some dark magic.  I don’t believe it.  My mother was not seduced by anything more nefarious than that mysterious power that can cause any young man and woman to open their hearts to each other.



Origin aside, my curse is all too real, and just gazing upon my six foot frame show its legacy.  The right side of my head, from ear to jaw, is an angry burn scar, the memory of which still brings me nightmares.  My left eye is cloudy and sightless, the result of a fight with a ten year old girl, and not something I prefer to delve into.  The last two fingers on my left hand, including the knuckles and a portion of the hand itself, were removed by my own blade.  Not my proudest moment, to be sure.  Beneath my shirt, six puckered scars from several different sized bullets, are scatters across my chest and back.  Clearly, I am no stranger to pain.

  

Worst of all, however, is my right leg.  While the leg is still intact, somehow, seeing as it was crushed by a Jinteki-Oni of the Big Bones clan, it requires an elaborate clockwork brace in order to bear my weight.  So much for my days of stealth.  Of that encounter with the Big Bones, I will only say that no one was more surprised than me of his hostile turn, but that is for another time.  Like I said, cursed.

  

My father was killed when I was ten years old, nearly two long decades ago now.  Despite being the only gaijin in the village of Shinpo, which lies about a day to the northeast of Chinan, he was well respected and even liked by some.  He never spoke of his life before arriving in Shinpo, and speculation of his past has been an enduring pastime for the villagers.  My mother is perhaps the only person he ever confided in, but she has kept his secrets.



Suffice to say that he arrived in the village unlooked for and unwanted, but a blessing in disguise.  Shinpo was in the grip of a troupe of gangsters, and times were desperate.  The gang was usually drunk and gambling, eating the villagers surplus of food, and demanding tribute.  When he arrived, the young daughter of the village magistrate, Haranu Takahashi, caught my father’s eye and he agreed to help the troubled magistrate. 

His bravery in facing down and driving off the gang is still a favorite story in Shinpo, often told to travelers who stop for then night at the small village inn.

      

Not being Rosuto-Shiman, he could not hold an official office, but the village elders did allow him to take the title of ‘Deputy’, paying him a small amount to help keep the peace.  For a number to years he did so quite successfully, despite ‘stealing’ the magistrate’s youngest daughter, another tale fondly told to any who will listen.  I have since learned that he was known, and quite well, as far away as Shangti.  Despite his popularity, however, it became clear that he had enemies as well.  He was found one autumn morning in the center square of the village, five shirken buried in his back.  I have spent nearly twenty years of my life seeking justice, but I am no closer to learning his assailants names today than I was that autumn morning.

    

The quest to find those murders, however, has brought me to my present profession; one of the fabled Ryoushi-Oni; The Demon-hunters.  Now, the name is something of a glorified title, as the large majority of Ryoushi have never even seen a demon, let alone hunt one.  And me?  I have the dubious distinction of seeing what one can do, tracking it down, and sending it back from where it came.  Suffice to say that once was more than enough, though few actually believe that it happened.  

       

For the most part, the Ryoushi are sent by the Daimyos of the various Hans, to track, capture, and dispense justice upon the harder class of miscreant.  The Ryoushi-oni are an old order, dating back to the golden age of Rostuo-Shima, and are one of the few groups able to act with impunity in any of the regional provinces.  The ranks are filled mostly of Samurai, with a few Ronin, and one half-gaijin living under a very potent personal curse.



***

  

I stir, finding that I have been lost in thought while sitting back on my heels and observing the small camp.  Embers still softly glow in the small fire ring hastily constructed earlier in the evening, but only one of the three men remain at its edge.  From my perch on the low hill overlooking the camp, I can clearly see that his chin has fallen to his chest and his eyes are closed.  His two companions lie at the fringe of the ring of firelight, having drifted off to sleep nearly an hour before.

  

Spitting out the long blade of grass I’ve worked into little more than pulp, I rise from my crouch, frowning slightly as the brass clockwork brace gives a small whir.  “Blasted thing,” I mutter, for about the thousandth time since being encased in the damned contraption.  Pursing my lips, I give a low whistle and look to the small tree where my horse stands patiently waiting.  Ichi, my large mixed mongrel dog and oldest friend, pops his head up from where he has been laying near the horse, and silently pads up the hill to greet me.

  

“Time to go, lad,” I whisper, scratching him behind his ear, “fetch my hat.”  Ichi chuffs once, then hustles back to the horse to comply.  Of my father’s possessions, I always have three with me; his black, wide brimmed hat, his well worn leather jacket, and his bulky old pistol.  Of the three, I love the hat, need the jacket, and loathe the gun.  Truly loathe it.  More than once the cumbersome thing has fallen to pieces in my hand, and always at inopportune moments.  Bloody curse.

  

I reach up to the black hilt of the katana, which rises above my right shoulder were it is harnessed, and loosen the blade in its sheath.  I’m hoping to get through this without having to resort to it, but I can never be too careful.  Ichi, ever silent for such a large dog, reappears at my side, and raises my hat to me.  I try and accept the hat, but the golden dog drops it at my feet and gives me a low chuff, chiding me for my laziness.  Damn dog is worse than a wife.

  

“Ready?” I ask him, scooping up the hat.  His eyes shine up at me and I can see his body tense, alert and ready as a wound clockwork spring.  Surveying the camp one more time, I decide to head straight in.  The three men in the camp are an unusual lot, comprising of a sandy-haired gaijin named Anderson, a Juunishi-p’o with a odd looking rooster crest instead of hair, and a broad chested Keshou.  I have tracked down more men than I can count, but never such a strange crew.  I’ve never even had a hostile encounter with a Keshou before, and I’m more than a little bothered that the normally docile machinist has fallen in with such company.

  

I walk straight into the camp, making no effort to mask my coming and stand in the light of the dying fire.  The man asleep on the far side of the small firepit is Anderson, who makes no indication that he notices my presence.  To my right, the remaining two men of the trio lay in slumber, the Juunishi-p’o making an odd rasping gurgle in his sleep.  It’s time to announce myself.

 

 “Anderson,” I say, my voice low, but firm.  The man’s head jerks up with a snort of surprise, and his eyes wide.  I smile down at him.

  

Anderson curses under his breath.  “Hirohiko.  I was hoping we’d lost you at the rail.”  



“It was a good try, but I…” the hairs on the nape of my neck suddenly prick, and I drop to a crouch.  A gunshot cracks to my right and I feel the slug whiz through the air in the space my head has just vacated.  Pivoting on my heel, I pull my pistol and aim it at the two figures to my right.  The Juunishi-p’o has wild eyes, clearly having just been jerked from a deep sleep, but the Keshou is sitting up, wrestling with long barreled contraption that must be some kind of rifle.

  

“Enough,” I warn the Keshou, leveling my father’s ugly gun at him, “throw the weapon aside.”  He looks up at me, his eyes full of unwarranted hatred, and manages to get the breach open.  I thumb back the hammer of the pistol.  “I will not say it again.  Throw the weapon away now!”  The look in his eyes turns to one of desperation, and I know in my heart he is lost.  He fumbles with a cartridge and slides it into the open breach.  With deep regret, I pull the trigger.

  

Perhaps if I was more adept with firearms, I could have risked a shot at the rifle in an attempt to incapacitate it, but I have never liked guns.  My bullet strikes the doomed man high in the chest, and he grunts with the impact.  His eyes look back at me with accusation as the rifle slips from his fingers and he falls over backwards.  Without hesitation, I thumb the hammer again, the big cylinder of the pistol rotating the next of its nine shells into position.  With a quick glance at the Juunishi-p’o, who appears to be in some shock, I train the pistol on Anderson, who remains seated next to the fire.

  

“It does not have to be this way, Anderson.” 
 
  

Anderson slowly pulls out a large blade from his belt and tosses it away.  “It’s my only weapon,” he says, nervously glancing at my pistol.  “I lost my pistol a few days back.”  He looks at the motionless Keshou and nods, “He’s the only one who still has a firearm.”

  

I nod and motion with the pistol.  “Stand up.”  Shifting the pistol to the Juunishi-p’o, I indicate that he should comply as well.  Both men get to their feet, the Juunishi-p’o moving cautiously to the fireside.

 

 “I not be trouble,” he says, his speech a kind of clipped clucking sound.  “Troka do what say.  No kill Troka.”  He, too, pulls out his weapons, consisting of half a dozen small knives, and drops them at his feet.  Instinct tells me that there is no fight in them, and I lower the pistol.

  

“Right.  It’s nine days back to Shangti.”  I look around at the small camp.  “Round up your things.  We might as well get started.”

  

It takes us three days to reach the rail line, but it is completely without incident.  I have bound their hands before them, but the cords are loose.  It is more for show than for restraint, just a reminder that I am in charge and will not abide any foolishness.  We ride single file for the most part, with me in front, and the three of them following, the last horse carrying the tied down body of the Keshou.  Ichi ranges at will, disappearing into the distance ahead, only to reappear some time later from behind.  Ah, to be a dog.

  

It is nearing mid-morning when Ichi appears at my side and chuffs at me, his warning sound.  I grow alert and focus on the road ahead.  Two men on horseback crest the rise before us, riding hard.  Long before I can make out any features, it is clear that they are Samurai.  I bring us to a halt and wait for their arrival, casually leaning back on the horse, my left leg hooked over the pommel of the saddle.  It’s a trick my father taught me, allowing one to look casual, yet be read to spring into action from horseback.

  

The two Samurai, their elaborately enameled armor blazing in the sunlight, reign to a halt before me.  The man on the left, his blue armor quite plain for a Samurai, is not known to me, but the man on the right I know only too well.  His red armor is pristine, so intricately patterned that it belongs more on display than worn into battle.  The great bronze sun on the crest of his helmet has been burnished until it shines like the actual sun itself.  He is Takeo Ishikawa, commander of the Ryoushi-Oni.

  

“Hiro!” he exclaims in more of a command than a greeting.  “You were told to report back more than a week ago.”

  

“Yes lord Ishikawa,” I begin, about to explain the difficulties that these three gave me, but he cuts me off.

  

“You are needed.  Jiro will escort the captives to Shangti.”

  

I was needed?  That could not be good.  I am never needed, not being Samurai, or even Ronin.  “Yes, lord.  I am at your disposal.”

  

He wheels his horse and rides off, his command to follow unspoken, but quite clear.  I glance and Jiro, who shrugs at me, his face impassive, and I shift my leg back to the stirrup and give my mare a tongue click, which she understands without hesitation.  I spur her into a canter and follow and after Ishikawa.  

  

We ride in silence until the others were gone from sight.  I say nothing, waiting for Ishikawa to explain.  He clears his throat.

  

“A village on the edge of the Zetsu Mori has been burned to the ground.  Three Ryoushi-Oni were dispatched to investigate a week ago, but have not reported back.  Survivors of the village report that an Oni appeared from the forest and began a rampage.”

  

I blanch.  Oni?  A true demon?  Granted the Akki-Kou Zetsu Mori is known in some circles as the ‘Demon Forest’, but to my knowledge no Oni had been seen there in generations.  “Rural villagers are prone to superstition, my lord,” I say tentatively.

  

“True,” he agrees, “but this is not the superstitious ramblings of the uniformed.  This is real.  Suffice to say that some of the reports come from very credible sources.  The is no doubt.”

  

Taking a deep breath, I steady myself.  The fact that the Commander of the Ryoushi-Oni believes that an actual demon is loose in the countryside speaks volumes towards credibility.  Unconsciously, I touch my burned and scarred ear.  Ishikawa notices.

  

“Yes.  That is why you have been summoned.  You alone have seen a true Oni.”

  

I blanch again.  He believes that story?  I would never have guessed that the great Takeo Ishikawa believes that a lowly gaijin could face and defeat one of the great enemies of the Rosuto-Shiman people.  I decide to keep my thoughts to myself and ride on in silence, letting my commander continue the conversation as he wishes.  It proves to be a silent ride to edge of the forest.



We see the thin column of smoke long before reaching the small valley where the village once nestled.  It was gone, having burned to the ground some days before.  The stench of the place is nearly overwhelming, and the sight I behold sickens me.  The fire-ravaged bodies of the villagers have been left where they fell, scavengers and the elements having continued to work on them.  Without comment, we decide that the best course of action is to circumvent the village to the forest side, avoiding the need to cross through it.

  

Ishikawa dismounts at the forest edge and turns to survey the village.  After a long moment, he looks up at me.  “I will start here and look for our missing Ryoushi.  You will find trace of the Oni and track it down.”

  

Startled, I respond without thinking, “Alone?”

 

 “You are the great Demon-Hunter, yes?” he growls.  His tone brooks no argument.

  

“Yes, lord.  It shall be as you say.”  I click at my mare and lead her to the edge of the forest, where I dismount and leave her to graze at will.  She has been with me for years, and I have confidence that she will come when called without hesitation.  Surprisingly, it takes me less than a minute to discover a monstrous print in the loamy soil of the forest floor.  It is Oni, without question.

  

“Ichi,” I command, the dog bounding to my side.  I tap the print.  “Find it.”  The big dog sniffs vigorously at the four toed print, then suddenly backs away, whining.  I frown.  “Come on, lad.  I’ll be with you.  Find it!”  Ichi looks at me reluctantly, then inches back to the print, sniffing again.  Looking up at me, his ears pricked, he chuffs once and lopes off into the forest.  I check my katana and my pistol, then reach up and pull my hat snuggly onto my head before following the big yellow dog into the forest.

  

The Oni does not prove to be much of a challenge to track, as it has left a trail of broken bodies and body parts in his wake.  Ichi, clearly bothered by the trail, sticks close to my side an refuses to scout forward.  The dog’s unusual nervousness increases my own, and I pull my pistol and keep it at the ready.  Glancing at the bulky weapon, I chide myself and slide it back into its holster.

  

“Not wise, manling,” rumbles a voice from the shadows.  I look up, again pulling the pistol, and scan the trees ahead.  Ichi beings a low growl from deep in this throat that rivals the rumbling tone of the voice from the trees.  A hulking figure steps from the heavy shadows of the trees into the filtered sunlight.  It is man-shaped but huge, half again as tall as me, and twice as broad.  It wears armor much like that worn by a Samurai, save for it’s unshod feet and clawlike hands.   A single great horn rises from its forehead, the ebony sheen contrasting sharply with the blood red of its skin.

 

 “Oni,” comes my voice, so dry and raspy I almost don’t recognize it.

 

 “Yes,” it replies, “that is what you pathetic things call us.  Oni.”

 

 Shaking off the initial shock, I take charge of myself.  I raise the pistol and aim at the demon’s chest.  “You should have stayed out of Rostuo-Shima.”  I thumb back the hammer, the cylinder rotating to the next shell.  The pistol gives a snap, and the cylinder rolls right on out of the pistol and falls to the forest floor.  The Oni laughs, a fairly disturbing sound, and takes a step towards me.

 

 “Nice trick,” it rumbles.  “What else can you do?”

 

 Hissing a few choice words under my breath, I drop the pistol and reach for the katana.  The blade slides free easily, and I rotate my wrist as I bring it forward, arcing it in a circle as I do so.  I prefer a two handed style with the katana, which I have had to perfect a second time since losing my fingers.  Seeing the blade, the Oni hesitates.  It reaches up, and I notice the hilt of a weapon rising above its shoulder.  It brings forth a huge no-dachi, the tip of the blade wickedly barbed.

 

 “Kandisha Mori Nagala,” it roars, and the no-dachi begins to burn.  The sight of it brings forth an unwanted memory, and my scarred ear begins to throb with phantom pain.  Ichi whines and begins to back up as the Oni resumes its approach.

 

 “Ichi,” I say, my voice strong, “get Ishikawa.”  I don’t bother to look, knowing the ever faithful dog will obey without hesitation.  I raise the katana high and await the Oni.

  

“Good,” it grating voice says.  “You don’t run away.”

 

 I remain silent, watching the Oni intently.  It can banter at me all it wants, but I will not be lured into letting my guard down with talk.  I watch it move towards me, studying the way it carries itself and holds its sword.  The great blade is clearly very heavy, yet the Oni carries it one handed with ease.  It must be immensely strong.      

  

With a roar, it leaps at me, bringing the flaming blade down in an overhand arc.  I dodge to my left, the gears in the brace whirring loudly, and strike at the blade with my katana.  The two blades ring against each other, and despite my considerable leverage and strength, I am barely able to turn the flaming sword aside.  The Oni, unable to stop its powerful down stroke, cleaves into the forest floor.

  

Leaping high, clearing the Oni’s blade, I swing at the demon’s neck.  My blade strikes true and I land on the opposite side of the no-dachi, using the momentum of the swing to spin around and strike at the Oni’s leg.  The second swing connects with the Oni as well, and I dance back, bringing the katana up high, ready for anything.   My stomach sinks as I see that my blade did not even break the Oni’s skin.  It is completely unharmed.  Angry, yes, but unharmed.

 

 Damn it.

  

Stepping back from the Oni as it pulls the no-dachi from the ground, I know that I will need help to defeat this monstrosity.  I suppose I knew it all along, but I was really hoping to defeat the Oni without aide.  My heart begins to race as I take my left hand from the hilt of the katana and use it to push back the sleeve my jacket, revealing a ring of intricate blue knots tattooed on my right forearm.  Below the ring of knots is a blue six-pointed star with a red circle in its center.

  

To call it a tattoo is not exactly accurate, as I have never had ink and needle touched to my skin.  My father had the same symbols on his own arm, and the day he died they faded away, behind only a faint image on the skin.  The morning of his funeral, I awoke to find them on my own arm.  I scrubbed my skin raw in an attempt to remove them, but there was no use.  They have remained a part of me ever since.

  

My father never spoke of symbols, despite the persistence of my child curiosity.  He simply called them his ‘luck’ and would say no more.  Little did I know at the time how much truth was in that simple word.  They do indeed bring me luck, often unlooked for and with startling results.  However, there is a price to pay.  Karma will always find the balance, and pushing my luck in my favor will have an equally devastating results.  My father called it his luck, I call it my curse.

  

For the most part, I find I am lucky most often in small and unlooked for ways, and karma tends to bend the adverse effects around me, effecting others instead of myself.  However, I have learned that I can force my luck in certain situations, and that the consequences of that action are often life threatening.  With trepidation, I place my finger on the red circle and press.

  

The Oni snarls, waving the no-dachi from side to side.  “Run away, manling,” it snarls.  “Run away.  I enjoy a chase.”

  

I circle to my right, where the trees are less dense, and again raise the katana high.  It charges again, bringing the flaming sword in a sideways stroke aimed at removing my head.  I duck under the swing and leap high, behind its swing.  I again aim for the Oni’s head, but it copies my own move and ducks under my stroke.  My katana misses its head, but hits the great ebony horn.  The impact sends a shock up the blade that I feel clear into my elbows, and I cannot maintain a grip on the sword.   The katana slips away, falling to the ground as I land behind the Oni.

  

I roll away from the demon, trying to gain some distance from it, and come up in a crouch, quickly scanning for the katana.  It is just out of reach to my left, and I quickly move towards it, my back tingling in anticipation of the Oni’s blade.  It doesn’t come, however, and I retrieve my sword and spin to face the beast.     

  

The Oni hasn’t moved, its back still to me.  I sense a trap, some kind of devious trick, and take a step away from it.  It moves, but away from me, bending over to pick something off the ground.  It straightens and turns towards me, a glistening ebony horn in its hand.  Glancing at its head, I see that the great horn has been sheared off about an inch from its base.

  

The Oni glares at me, scowling.  It reaches up with the horn and places it back on the stump.  Letting go, the horn slides off and tumbles back to the forest floor.  The Oni stares stupidly at the horn, then coughs.  Its mouth works as if he is trying to shout, but only a watery gurgle issues forth.  Its great, black eyes roll up and it drops the no-dachi, scrabbling at its neck with both hands.  A thin line appears across its neck, exactly where my initial strike had been.  Blood, thick and viscous, begins to flow from the wound. 

   

I glance at the leg, and see that it, too, has begun to bleed.  The Oni takes a step back, clearly in great distress, and the leg buckles.  It collapses to the ground with a tremendous crash, and begins to thrash about in desperation.  I cross to it, its wild eyes darting everywhere but seeing nothing, and raise the katana high.  Placing all my strength into a single downward stroke, I silence the Oni’s movements.  

  

Ichi begins barking from somewhere far off, and I know he is coming with Ishikawa.  Good dog.  Wiping the katana clean, I return it to its sheath, the hunt for the pieces of my father’s pistol.  Retrieving them, I find a small log a short way off and sit to repair the gun while I wait for Ishikawa’s arrival.  I reflect that karma has certainly saved my skin once again, but I have to wonder what price it will exact this time.

  

Bloody curse.

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