Kaguta - Or, Ankūro - The Warrior, The Thief and The Killer

1

The wind is fleeting,
A leaf, rises, falls, settles.
It does not know wind.
- Bushubō.

Caught by the will of the air, the crow circles above the ground. It sees for miles around, missing little with eyes tuned to the smallest of movements. It sees brothers and sisters joining the circle. Wings outstretched, it lowers and lowers then catches another draft, climbing once more, but its eyes never waver from the feast below.

It calls, cawing and screeching, celebrating the meal to come, calling to all to come, come and join the sumptuous repast that awaits them below. So much food. Enough for every crow in the land. It feels the hot air flittering against its feathers and it turns its black beak down, down to the ground, where black specks lay upon brown, dusty soil.

Others have already landed, their great beaks tearing into decaying flesh, gorging upon meat festering in the burning sunlight. The crow turns and turns, angling its pinions, falling lower and lower. It avoids its brothers and sisters as they flap their black wings in excitement. Ever lower, until the crow lands upon a strange, straight branch. The long, fluttering leaf of the branch flaps in the dry breeze.

The crow has not seen rain for some time, but that makes the flesh all the more juicy. It sees the flesh. So much to feast upon, piled high, one upon the other, like a mountain of food, waiting for the crow and its brothers and sisters to peck and tear and swallow until, belly full, the crow can fly away and rest.

Landing upon the flesh, it picks at the juicy thing. The thing that looks at it, but cannot see, filled with delicious liquid and meat that the crow will savour as it feeds. This flesh is its flesh and it will brook no others partaking of it. But, wait. Not all the flesh lays dead. One moves. One that comes towards the mountain of flesh, seeking to take it for its own.

The crow calls, hacking noises threaten the walking flesh, but it shows no fear. This thing, this one day food, bold and impertinent, continues to near. The crow fears the walking flesh, for they have long bites. Strange birds made of wood and metal that pierce crow flesh, sending it falling from the blessed skies to become flesh themselves.

A flap of the wings and the crow rises from the flesh mountain, carrying the juicy orb on its beak, a trail of stringy flesh dangling. The crow takes to the air. The walking flesh can have this flesh mountain. There is plenty more flesh to feed upon. All around. The greatest feast ever.

-+-

Kō

Itioru Hashudō had seen more than his fair share of war. He could remember the last one, decades ago, where the Yāttō had cowed the entire island of Kaguta. Itioru had served in that war, as a young man, as he served in this one. No longer young, but still able to fight for his Lord, Unji. He would fight to his dying breath for the Yāttō, as would any other soldier. That was their duty. Their honour. Their burden.

With his hand upon his well-used sword, he continued his inspection of the dead. Only a thousand heads taken, this day, but the rebel Haūdo would all suffer the same fate. To defy the Yāttō was to mark yourself for death. So it should ever be. The Yāttō had the ear of the boy Emperor. The Yāttō's word was law.

These fools would think themselves able to usurp the Yāttō from his throne. Seat their own masters in his place. Such a thing could never come to pass. The Yāttō was the mightiest of warriors. He had always prevailed. He would always prevail, should the Divines choose it so and they had, so far.

Passing among the grounded spears, a thousand of them pointing to the sky, bearing the heads of each of the enemy dead, their bodies piled high in the centre of the spears, Itioru nodded his head, satisfied with the day's slaughter. Nearing the mound of headless bodies, he spied movement.