Ashes Fade Away

*(3/?)

By Sakata Ri Houjun

Warning:  A little violence and bloodshed, but nothing

too graphic

*******************

Hotohori took a moment to stare in amazement at Nuriko.

When the rouges advanced on her, he'd been

momentarily afraid that this would have been too much

for the maid to handle, despite her boasts earlier. 

In fact, everyone froze once Nuriko swung her

fragile-seeming hands without showing the slightest

fear.

Only two people seemed not the least bit surprised,

although with Chichiri that could be debatable.

Half a heartbeat after Nuriko fought back, it began. 

As one, the crowd of men surged forward and the four

surrounding Princess Miaka defended themselves. 

Nuriko threw punch after punch, showing her aptitude

for fighting as well as her superhuman strength.

Tamahome had brought a pair of bracers from his

saddlebags, a weapon he was skilled in but didn't

cause him to go against his scruples about taking

lives.  In a fluid motion, he was armed and ready for

battle, deflecting attacks and returning with strikes

of his own.

Eventually, he wrested control of a heavy and blunt

mace form one opponent and used it with barely

restrained skill.  Hotohori knew that all men trained

formally in Isan were able to use any weapon with

deadly skill.  Tamahome refrained from using such

talent but he was still impressive.

Chichiri, on the other hand, gave off the impression

of being the eye of the storm that swirled about him. 

The rabble was afraid of attacking him and so he stood

impassively as if he were apart from the fighting. 

Then a large knot of men advanced and, in an instant,

he became the storm itself.  Simple movements of his

once hidden hands called forth bolts of pure crimson

energy that snaked through the mob, deliberately

missing but only by a narrow margin.

Hotohori moved with the grace of a cat, sword flashing

in the late afternoon sun as he swung with the

swordsmanship that had been ingrained into him since

his youth.  The masterwork blade first met the

resistance of the scant pieces of armor the first of

his attackers wore.  Then it sliced with ease through

flesh, staining the ground at his feet  with blood.

As the first of his assailants fell, Hotohori smiled,

certain that his father would be proud to know that

his son did not back down.  This was what he had been

taught, why he had been so eager to learn.  He glanced

down at the corpse at his feet, noticing the face was

contorted in a frozen grimace of pain.

Hotohori blinked, memorizing the features of this

nameless enemy and realized that this was no simple

duel or a sparring match with his instructors.  This

was a real battle and he had just killed someone.  His

eyes darted to his blade, the blood still fresh.

This wasn't why he trained.  A stab of regret flared

through his soul and he faced his attackers with a new

mindset.  He would not shed any more needless blood,

but he would not lose either.  Nuriko, Tamahome,

and Chichiri had the right idea to begin with and he

had a long way to go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dammit, Genrou.  We could still lose this," Kouji

muttered under his breath.  When the red head did not

respond, he glanced over.  Genrou was watching the

fight, his attention solely focused on the hooded

mage.

Kouji scowled and nudged his friend.  "Snap out of it,

asshole!"

"The mage...," he murmured, almost in awe.

"Yeah, what about him?"

"If we take out the mage, they'll lose half their

strength."  Genrou gripped his daggers tightly.

"Great idea and might work too if we could get fucking

close enough to the guy!"  Kouji threw his free hand

up in an exasperated gesture towards the mage as

another round of bolts were let loose.  Genrou who

hadn't taken his eyes off the blue-robed magic user

suddenly grasped Kouji by his leather vest and spun

him to the side as a flash of energy swept past,

hitting the place where Kouji had just been.

Wide, green eyes stared at Genrou.  "How...?"

"His hands," he explained, still watching.  "Their

movements indicate the direction of the magic."  He

grinned then, idly twirling the dagger in his right

hand before holstering the weapon.  "He's mine."

Before Kouji could protest, Genrou took off straight

into the heart of the fight.

*******************

Chichiri was getting annoyed.  He had hoped that

eventually the attackers would realize the futility of

this fight and simply give up.  But despite the

barrage of magic, they continued to advance.  Maybe he

was being too lenient on them.  I. perhaps, he struck

one down, they might get the hint to quit while they

were ahead.

Then a flash of flame-colored hair caught his eye and

he turned his attention as the one called Genrou moved

in his direction with astonishing speed.  This man

seemed to be one of their leaders and Chichiri decided

to use him as his example.

The first blast of magic he aimed at the young man was

dodged and Chichiri narrowed his gaze.  He threw

another, but again Genrou simply sidestepped as he

began to close the distance between them.  The other

attackers had moved out of the way to allow the

redhead a clear path to the mage.

Chichiri wondered how Genrou was able to dodge his

attacks.  His speed was extraordinary and certainly a

factor, but it seemed more like he could predict where

he was aiming.  In desperation, he summoned one last

bolt, but Genrou leapt over the crimson energy and

tackled Chichiri to the ground.

His free hand pinned the mage's shoulder as they hit

the forest floor.  Genrou closed his eyes for a

moment, in relief that he was still alive after that

crazy stunt.  He could feel the warm breath of his

captive against his face as he opened his eyes once

more to see the shock on the old man's face.

Chichiri's hood had slipped away, revealing his face. 

Genrou's eyes widened as he mirrored the shock on the

mage's face.  He had expected a wizened old man, at

least that's what his experiences with sorcerers in the

past yielded.  But this man who was a breath away from

him was only a few older than he.

Flowing, blue hair, the color of the sky, was pulled

away into a low ponytail, a shock of bangs against the

right side of his face barely covered his wide,

mahogany eye.  The other eye was sealed shut by a

vicious scar that slashed up through one dark eyebrow

and trailed across the bridge of is nose and down his

cheekbone.  His skin was pale, almost translucent, as

if he never ventured outside the shadows.

He was...beautiful...

Then Genrou felt the mage moving underneath him,

attempting to free himself.  Snapping to his senses,

he placed his left dagger across the mage's Adam's apple

and locked eyes with his captive.

"Don't move...Please?"  Genrou didn't want to hurt

him.

Chichiri read the apology in the rouge's eyes and set

his jaw firmly as he ceased his movements.  Both men

broke eye contact then as a fearsome cry carried form

the fight that was still going on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kouji watched as Genrou took the mage down and

realized that even though the remaining three had

amazing skill, they'd soon be overwhelmed.  But the

prissy bastard wearing the royal crest of the king was

his.  He gave a yell that was meant as a challenge as

well as a warning for his men to back away as he

charged the brunette.

Hotohori looked up as the scarred rouge advanced.  He

recognized the challenge and knew that he had little

choice but to accept.  In a swift movement, he swung

his sword around to parry Kouji's blow.  The sound of

the blades clashing caused the fighting around them to

cease as all eyes were drawn to the two combatants.

Genrou had removed his dagger from Chichiri's throat

and sat up to lean back on his heels to watch.  The

mage also sat up although he couldn't move much since

Genrou continued to straddle his legs, effectively

pinning him in place.  Nuriko helped Miaka from the

horse and both widened their eyes in fear while

Tamahome moved closer to the two in a protective

manner.  All present knew that this swordfight would

determine the outcome of this battle.

Hotohori dodged a parry to his heart and spun in a

counterattack aimed at Kouji's sword arm.  His blow was

blocked and both men gazed at one another, eyes locked

in a silent appraisal of the other's skill.  Kouji

feinted left and then sung his blade right.  Hotohori

predicted the move and parried the strike.

For several minutes, they exchanged blows in a swift

and deadly dance, their skills clearly were evenly

matched.  Hotohori swung low with both hands and then

switched all weight to his left, bringing the sword up

sharply.  The flat of the blade smacked against the

back of Kouji's hand as he attempted to compensate for

this change by the ambidextrous swordsman.  His own

sword went flying to the side and he stood there for a

moment, his hand throbbing.

As Hotohori brought his blade up to point at the

rouge's throat in a defeating gesture, Kouji grinned

rakishly.  He tumbled to the side, taking the risk, in

the direction where his sword laid.  He came up in a

crouch, sword in hand once again and panting slightly.

 Hotohori was also visibly tired, but this wasn't

going to solve anything.

Kouji may not have had much, but he valued his pride. 

If this guy was going to play, then he'd play by his

own rules.

His left hand, which was hidden behind his thigh, slid

down to his boot and the small dagger hidden there. 

Withdrawing it slowly, secretively, he readied the

tiny blade.  From his crouch, he sprung, propelling

himself towards Hotohori.  He extended his sword in an

obvious attack while hiding the dagger against his

side.

Hotohori took the bait.  He sidestepped the blatant

attack and left his middle wide open.  The dagger

slashed across a weak spot in Hotohori's armor,

rending the cloth protecting his abdomen before

finding soft flesh.  Hotohori's face reflected the

pain and shock of the nameless man from before as he

fell to his knees.

Everyone stared in shock, unable to absorb what had

just happened.  Finally, Nuriko cried out the fallen

prince's name before running to his side.  Kouji

dropped his weapons at the sound as he watched Nuriko

attempt to cease the flow of blood with bare hands.

Then, Miaka screamed, high and shrill as the full

impact hit her.  A man next to her flinched and then

turned on her with a snarl.

"Shut up!"

He raised a hand to strike her tearful face but his

movement was stilled by the blue-haired knight who

shook his head.  Once Tamahome let go, he reached over

and pulled Miaka into his arms.  She gratefully buried

her face in his chest and cried.

Kouji watched this exchange with surprise before

returning his attention once more to the man bleeding

on the ground.  Nuriko was sobbing and shaking when he

placed a hand on one slender shoulder.

"What did you call him?" he asked when Nuriko faced

him.

"Hotohori, the crown prince of Isan," came the

emotional reply as one blood soaked hand reached up to

brush the tears away, smearing trail of crimson across

pale cheeks.

Kouji sucked in his breath, resisting the urge to

curse in anger.  Every commoner who suffered injustice

at the hands of King Akunin looked to the future with

hope because of the crown prince who was said to hold

the promise of a tomorrow free of tyranny.

And he had just mortally wounded him.

His gaze shifted from Nuriko's tear and blood-streaked

face to the young prince, whose breathing had become

labored.  He was still alive and if he was strong,

then he might survive.

"I need some men to help me.  Now!" he yelled over his

shoulder.  Nuriko gazed at this scarred man who then

returned with a reassuring smile.  "He'll be fine. 

Our camp ain't far from here."

Nuriko met his green eyes and nodded, fully trusting

Kouji, Genrou, and their men.

***********************

Coming up:  Home of the exiled.