were already cold. The Great Bear recognized his cousin Amoro.
Amoro was nearly Kisada's equal in a battle—in fact, in any given battle, he might kill twice as many Shadowlands assailants as Kisada. The difference was that when the bloodlust gripped him Amoro also became a danger to his own troops. It was impossible for him to lead others in battle.
Once Amoro struck his first blow, his eyes clouded over, and he was swept up in the fury of killing until there was no one left to kill. If the foes retreated before Amoro's fury was spent, as they had today, his comrades had to withdraw while he sliced his tetsubo again and again into the bodies of the fallen—friend and foe alike. His friends called him a berserker. Others in his regiment called him a lunatic.
Kisada pitied his cousin. It was a shame that one of the most powerful and talented samurai under the Great Bear's banner could not be promoted any higher through the ranks. There was only so much honor a daimyo could heap on an officer who killed half as many of his own men as the enemy.
Of course, he also envied Amoro.
In his youth Kisada had been a wild man. He led assault after assault into the Shadowlands, often against standing orders. His face was a crisscross of scars earned through his various exploits. Many a poem and several Crab drinking songs celebrated the brilliance of the young Kisada's military career. He missed those days of carefree danger and excitement. Amoro certainly was more uncontrollable than Kisada ever was. In fact he might well be insane, but at least he would never have to make that soul-searching choice between the call of battle and the good of the clan.
At fifty, Kisada was ten years past the age when most samurai were urged to leave active service, and ten years short of when they were forced to. As daimyo, of course, he could go on as long as he pleased, but he could never again have the free rein to charge off into battle whenever and wherever he liked. He was the symbol of his clan. Everything the Great Bear did reflected directly on all the samurai under his control.
Hida Kisada was a man of few words, even for a Crab. The other clans said that if you could get a Crab samurai to say three meaningful sentences, you'd hear every word in his vocabulary— well, every word that could be repeated in polite company. The Great Bear was an intelligent, well-spoken man, but he preferred to exercise that skill only when absolutely necessary. "Life is so much simpler," he would say, "when all anyone expects you to do is grunt and nod your head. You would be amazed at how many people act as though you cannot hear simply because you do not speak."
The Great Bear knelt beside the fallen samurai-ko. "I only hope I die as good a death as yours," he whispered.
Three more goblins landed heavily on his back.
"Curse me for a fool!" Kisada barked.
While he was lost in reverie, the goblins, who had only moments before been running away as quickly as their spindly legs would carry them, were now climbing back over the Wall. They attacked the Crab samurai with a fury born of desperation—or fear. The sniveling creatures kept looking over their shoulders as if fleeing something even more frightening than death by Rokugani steel.
The Wall shook.
At first Kisada thought it was an earthquake. They were fairly common in this part of the empire. But earthquakes rarely came in single sharp jolts.
The Wall shook again. Something was climbing. Something very big.
The next violent shake came when a monstrous hand reached up to grasp the lip of the parapet. It was vaguely human-shaped but was made entirely of fleshy, ropelike tendrils wound tightly over a skeleton. It was the color of mud mixed with blood. As the hand strained to pull the rest of the creature up the Wall the cords pulled taut, making high-pitched stretching and snapping noises.
A second hand grasped the top of the Wall. In a deceptively quick motion, the creature pulled itself up onto
Stephanie James, Jayne Ann Krentz