Chapter Thirteen—Blades Crossing

One Year Ago

He must be their leader!

“COME AT ME, FOOLS!”

Of course, they had no idea what he was saying, other than that he was furious.

Their leader swooped in with several arcing swings that would have cleaved Shiro in two, but he parried, flung his fist out and caught his attacker on the jaw. He spun, kicked his legs to put distance between himself and Shiro.

Shiro ran in the opposite direction to put distance between him and the third man, spun, sword held defensively outward as the second man screaming, came in with a single-grip overhanded strike.

Shiro sidestepped the bandit and slice him cleanly across the back, turning to address their leader, who rushed him.

Their blades clashed several times, but then the lead man made a fatal mistake, swinging in a wide arc with too much force behind the attack. Had he struck Shiro, the blow would have chopped him asunder.

Instead, it slowed him long enough for Shiro to evade the strike and then bring his razor sharp katana down over his attacker’s arms with a good slash. The bandit cried out and his curved sword went into the sand, along with an ample spray of blood that looked almost black in the darkness.

Two dead attackers, one mortally wounded if he didn’t receive magical aid immediately. Shiro stood over him. The man grunted, holding his arms close to his chest. The samurai ended him with a final strike across the bandit’s neck, spilling a pool of his life blood into the dirt and sand.

Shiro froze at the end of his strike.

Breathing heavily, he took stock of his surroundings. No one was near, only the gentle breeze and the distant creatures howling in the night amidst some crickets.

After calming somewhat, Shiro stalked back to the cloth he had used to wrap his katana to clean himself and his sword off, then made to continue on his journey to Oravar, it’s lights in the darkness now a clear yellow haze rising just above the hilly night horizon and limning more of those strange trees with large fronds in the darkness.

But something stopped Shiro.

Desperately, he needed money. There were three swords in the sand. Looting was dishonorable, but he had extreme need, so he took up the men’s swords, foregoing the looting of their actual bodies, leaving their belt knives intact in their sheathes.

The curved swords lay in a pile in the sand. Shiro was parched, and so he went to where he had dropped his water skin and drank deeply, emptying the leather sack.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his fist, picked up the collected blades and stalked down the road. When there was no longer an incline, he considered leaving the road completely and traveling alongside it, but he was so close to the city now, he didn’t bother.

There were far more travellers near and within the city. Most were humans from the region, judging by their apparel that evidentially protected them from the sun. He also saw two demi-humans, a fushi man and a red-skinned oni with filed horns.

There was a vibrant if somewhat subdued night life here. Cook stalls were everywhere and the city’s denizens walked about doing tasks or eating.

There were beggars, sitting on bright carpets. Near one sandstone structure with a lot of light and people standing about, something of a ruckus was going on. Shiro suspected a tavern of some sort.

The desert night was cold. It had surprised him. For warmth, he walked up to the cook stalls where fires were crackling, meat and strange green plants were put on sticks and cooked together. The heat of the fires warmed him, the smell of the meat making his stomach grumble.

The food seller looked at him strangely and muttered something of a question. Shiro shook his head, but tried to linger for a time.

The oni must have been a prisoner, as he was manacled and whipped by a shouting human in white robes, that strange wrapping on his head, but his face uncovered. He too had a sword at his belt.

In fact, most of the people walking about, at least the men, were armed, either with long knives or those curved swords that seemed to be in style here.

She sky was hard to see, as awnings hung out from the structures, some of which had three or four levels.

One brightly lit structure looked like an inn to Shiro, but when he went in, found that he was surrounded by scantily-clad woman who looked at him, touched him by putting their arms about him.

Did they think he was a curiosity?

They put out their hands in want of something. Shiro’s eyes were large. He had never seen so many women so… their breasts were barely covered!

When they became more insistent, he left, and a woman with a smoking ornament in her hand yelled at him.

That must have been a whorehouse.

He nudged the swords hanging on his back, held there by a strip of fabric he had taken from the dead men. Judging the weapons, they seemed somewhat clumsy since they took more force to wield. But Shiro withheld judgment, knowing he knew nothing about the culture in these lands or the methods of fighting.

Looking about, he must have seemed like a startled animal has he moved about, glancing, watching and inspecting various things about this town.

It seemed a warm and inviting place. Perhaps beguiling in ways… If only he spoke their words. His inability frustrated him.

Spotting what were clearly guards, with matching vests and spears, Shiro avoided that area. If they wanted information from he, he wouldn’t be able to give it. What he needed was to be as unassuming as possible, and holding four swords probably didn’t help matters.

I need to find a shop or a blacksmith that is willing to buy these weapons.