Striking Blind
 
by Loren Dean

The battle was a swirling hell.

Men shouted war-cries as they charged into each other. Men screamed and died as steel met flesh. The black of the Scorpion mingled with the white of the Hare, and coupled with the driving rain the mixing gave the battlefield the aspect of a painter's mixing board, though black and white should generate grey, not red. Everywhere there was red.

Leaping through the fray, Togashi Takehai fought for his life. He had conceded that armor was wise, and so was wearing a set of the white and red supplied to him by the Hare clan, but had left the helmet behind. The Tiger's face tattooed around his own displayed his status as ise zumi as well as he had expected, and his presence inspired hesitation in the Scorpions around him, and dedication in the Hares alongside him.

Still, his ability to cause fear aside, he was fighting at the limits of his ability, and inwardly began to dread the final outcome. Takiro, the Scorpion general, had only now, after two days of fighting, committed his troops in a full assault, and the valiant Hares were beginning to wear down. While they would not admit it, Takehai knew that even he and his companions, suave Jinjiro, stolid Naoki, and quiet Marako would soon be feeling the effects of two days of fighting.

From the wall, a ball of fire flew to explode within a knot of Scorpion archers. Ishi, the mysteriously simple ronin shugenja, was doing his part. Takehai reflected momentarily on his lack of special skills. He could swing a katana, and keep up with the Hare footspeed, but beyond that he knew he was some distance out of his element. He ached for the quiet peace of a tea house. This fighting was not for him. He had chosen a life of contemplation, and while he was martially capable, he was no soldier.

As he spun wildly through the fighting, he collided with another man, and the pair fell into the mud. Takehai was up first, wiping mud from his face, and turned to face the other.

The other man was unarmored, and his kimono, hitched up for ease of motion, was covered in mud and gore. The satchel at his side identified him as a shugenja, just as the cloth tied around his face identified him as a Scorpion. The shugenja locked eyes with Takehai, straightened, and sheathed his blade.

Takehai unconsciously followed suit, his mind racing. This was the beginning of a duel, and he had no idea what to do next. His mind raced, desperately trying to dredge up the lessons he had learned at the feet of his father so many years ago. He knew he should be watching for some sign from his opponent, but which signs were the ones to watch for was a set of facts he could not immediately recall.

The shugenja's eyes seemed to grow wider and wider as Takehai watched. The battle continued to rage around them, but a space had cleared for the pair, locked in their stare.

At last, the shugenja twitched, and Takehai had wound himself so tight that even that tiny movement from his opponent was all it took. His katana sang free, and he swept it before him in two great arcs, screaming like a madman. He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) And scanned his surroundings quickly. The shugenja was nowhere to be seen.

Takehai took a step forward, and again tripped into the mud. Scrambling to his feet again, he looked down and saw the body of the shugenja, carved into several quivering pieces. In his uncontrolled swinging, he had apparently made contact after all.

Wiping the mud from his forehead, grateful that the grime hid the fear-sweat that had beaded there, Takehai clenched his fists momentarily to regain his focus, and then lifted his katana and disappeared back into the sea of violence around him.