Chapter 5
A Merciless Mission
AN 1219 (AZ 1456) - Early Spring
Maximilion, Notos
Rowland's woman was dead. She was some sort of Mononoke, but whatever spiritual powers a Mononoke possesses, they are flesh and blood and can be killed. Apparently it was was the work of the little green Mononoke. She was dead too, cut down by Rowland's own hand for slaying his favorite.
The death of one Mononoke or another meant little to Akasame, but the occasion presented him with his latest task. Rowland's woman had followers of great skill who could not be trusted without her to lead them. One final task and Akasame would fulfill the terms of his covenant with Rowland. The western portion of the land would be his and from there, he could conquer the rest. All in due time.
The Mononoke woman's second was summoned to him in the forecourt. He did not look like much, but Akasame was keen to note how he carried himself. He gave the appearance of laxity while actually being keenly alert of his surroundings. This was no man to be taken lightly.
"Hello, Lord Akasame," the man said, bowing with an unnecessary flourish. "How may I serve you?"
And now to bait the trap.
"I would have you play for my men," he said.
"Where is Mistress Simona?" the man asked.
"You need not worry about her," Akasame told him. "She has business with the bar—with Rowland. We would see the music and dances of your people. Rowland recommended you."
Though looking somewhat wary, the man said, "I suppose there would not be any harm to it."
"Let us go to the garden," Akasame said. "In my country, we like to observe the trees and flowers while we appreciate music, poetry and song."
"Very well."
The man guided Akasame and his followers to the gardens, where they formed a circle. He returned not long thereafter with his companions, carrying the various implements of their trade. Akasame knew many lords who would not permit any weapons in their castle save those wielded by the men entrusted with guarding the grounds and his life. Fortunately, Rowland was not such a lord, so there was no suspicion about Akasame with his sword at his side or all his men with their spears and bows. It would be all too easy.
"What would you have us play?" the man asked.
"Something tragic," Akasame replied, "as a contrast to the beauty of the gardens. A tale of blood and betrayal."
"As you wish," the man replied. He turned to his companions to make some hand signals that only they understood, then turned back to Akasame and said, "Let us share the tale of Count Dinostratos Eupator, the man who would be kingmaker in Notos." He took up a stringed instrument and strummed a few notes. The other players slowly joined in as he began to narrate. "In the days before the Darkness swept over this land, before the horrors of the East were known to mortal men, Eustachos Philomator reigned in Notos..."
The chorus of signers began to chant and dancers portraying the principal characters came forward. Akasame was not listening to the words, though, nor did he let himself be entranced by the dancers. No, he was waiting and watching for the moment they were so engaged in their own performance that their guard was down. That was when he would strike.
He let them continue for some time. The man who led them kept his eyes on Akasame all the while, but as the performance went on, his attention began to shift elsewhere. That was it. The moment he had been waiting for.
Giving no warning, Akasame sprang forward, drawing his sword to cut down the man on his first stroke. Though Akasame thought his guard was down, the man nevertheless dodged his stroke and immediately threw three small daggers at him, two of them sticking between the scales of his armor. He did not miss with the second stroke, though, cutting into the man's side all the way to his spine. The warlord's men sprang up, leveling their spears and taking aim with their bows, but the entertainers proved to not be entirely defenseless. It was a brief yet bloody affair and Akasame's own did not emerge from it unscathed.
When the last one was given a killing thrust with a spear, Akasame assessed the damage. At least fifty of them slain, but at the cost of some forty-odd dead and at least as many wounded of his own—the mercenaries suffering the worst of it as usual. Rowland was right to fear them slipping out of his control.
"Seems like a waste of good women if you ask me, milord," a spearman said.
"If you are going to take a Suzaku woman, make it one who is less likely to kill you," Akasame told him.
"Yes, milord," the spearman replied, bobbing his head apologetically.
Akasame found himself staring at one of the dead dancing girls and muttered to himself, "Yes, a waste..."
He stooped down by the body, took his sword and carved off a slice of meat from the girl's thigh. He had kept himself from the taste of human flesh and blood for too long. What better time to indulge himself?
He bit into the meat and savored the iron taste of the blood as it dribbled down his beard. Yes, the flesh of women was sweeter after all.
Momentarily removing himself from his reverie, he eyed his men around him. The mercenaries, barbarians though they were, looked on in horror and disgust, but his own men, they were something else. He could see the look in their eyes—many of them, at least. They had the same hunger, the same thirst.
He beckoned them over.
"They were given over to our hands," he said. "The flesh of the weak is the food of the strong."
"The flesh of the weak is the food of the strong," some of them murmured as they uncertainly approached the bodies strewn about.
It soon became a chant, a mantra, repeated over and over as they feasted on the dead.
"The flesh of the weak is the food of the strong, the flesh of the weak is the food of the strong..."
Yes, the one truth of the world and it was delicious.