Kamikaze, page 4
part #1 of Dungeon Samurai Series
“Very good. I want to see a show of hands: how many of you have prior training in martial arts?”
Everybody raised their hands.
“Marvelous,” Marshall said. “However, the dungeon is unlike anything you have ever known. Your training may not cleanly transfer over. Our first order of business is to see what you can do. Tonight, we shall show to your barracks, where you may bed down for the night. Tomorrow, at dawn, you shall demonstrate your skills to myself and my officers, after which we shall see how we may best deploy you in battle.”
Marshall marched off the field, his new recruits trailing behind. Yamada slipped through the crowd, making his way towards the imposing Westerner.
“Ano… sumimasen,” Yamada said. Excuse me.
“Yes?” Marshall asked.
“I have a skill called ‘Kamikaze’. The elders seemed displeased. Why is that?”
“It is a double-edged sword. It grants great power, but it takes away your sense of self-preservation, and if you let it, your self-control. Used unwisely, it harms friend and foe alike.”
“I see. Is there anyone I can learn from? Someone who can show me how to use it properly?”
Marshall sighed.
“Every man who has held the skill of Kamikaze or its equivalent died a terrible but glorious death.”
5
Recruitment
Sited outside the village, the barracks was just as heavily fortified, if not more so. A deep trench encircled the compound, filled with sharp stakes. A watchtower stood at every corner, and two towers guarded the gates.
Past the gates, Yamada saw many long, low huts arranged in a horseshoe around an empty square. Brightly colored banners fluttered among the huts, dividing the buildings into different groups.
Marshall brought the men to a collection of tables at the edge of the square. There, hard men in rough uniforms handed the new recruits a bundle of clothing and a towel.
With the kit handed out, the soldiers efficiently divided the civilians into multiple groups. Not by nationality, but by martial background.
There were four distinct blocks. One for Japanese martial arts, another for Historical European Martial Arts, a third for Chinese styles, and the last for other arts. The first three groups were dominated by native practitioners, while the last was a mixture of people from all over the world. Yamada estimated there were four hundred recruits in all, a hundred to a group.
As soon as the recruits were gathered, a trio of Japanese men carrying oil lamps approached the koryu group.
“We’ll show you to your lodgings,” the tallest man said. “Come with us.”
The soldiers led the recruits to a collection of dark and empty huts at the far end of the camp.
“My name is Tetsuo, and I’ll be in charge of you lot,” the tallest soldier said. "Tomorrow, we will conduct a demonstration to see what you’re capable of. We wish to see your skills with spear, sword, empty hand, and any other weapons skill you may have.
“Lights out is when the lamps burn down. Reveille is at dawn. You’ll hear the guards sound the gong when it’s time to wake up. After reveille, we will have breakfast, followed by the demonstration.
“The bath house is at the rear of the camp, and the latrine is inside it. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes,” Sensei said. “May we practice to prepare for tomorrow’s demonstration?”
“Go ahead. Just clean up when you’re done.”
“May we borrow practice weapons?”
Tetsuo pondered the question for a moment.
“Sure. Let me know what you need, and I’ll draw them for you.”
Sensei rattled off a list of weapons. The three men repeated the list back to him, handed out lamps to the recruits, then departed.
“Choose your beds and lay down your clothing. We shall have extra training tonight,” Sensei said, and turned to the other recruits. “If you wish to join us, you are welcome. We will be practicing in the square.”
Yamada followed Sensei into a hut and secured a bed at the far end. The bed was roughly made, a large wooden board raised off the floor by four simple posts. For a mattress there was a large sack filled with something rough and soft and earthy, the pillow was a smaller version of the same, and for warmth there was a heavy cotton blanket.
“What kind of bed is this?” Sato said.
“It feels like straw,” Hiroshi said, placing his clothes on the bed next to Yamada’s.
“Straw? This place is primitive.”
“Pity Magic Circle-kun didn’t transport water beds from Earth too,” another man retorted.
Most of the men burst into laughter. Sato fumed. Sensei seemed bemused.
At the main square, Sasaki put the class through their paces. They began with empty hand two-man sets, a catalog of throws, locks and submissions. Sensei walked among the students, correcting their forms and handing down advice as he passed.
As they trained, the other newcomers set up shop in the square. Japanese from other koryu rehearsing their signature moves, Westerners wrestling with each other, Chinese martial art practitioners flowing through complicated sets.
Tetsuo and his comrades arrived, pushing wheelbarrows filled with practice weapons. Staves and swords and knives, carved from wood. Sensei handed them out, then proceeded to run through weapon techniques.
This wasn’t training, Yamada realized. This was selection. Sensei was running through the catalog of basic techniques and drills, paying close attention to everyone’s form. He was looking for students who could perfectly execute the techniques and principles of the ryuha. He didn’t want to disgrace the school in front of outsiders.
Yamada redoubled his efforts. He wasn’t going to disgrace himself in front of Sensei.
Hours later, training concluded. The students returned their borrowed weapons and retired for the night.
The bath house was one of the largest structures in the camp. Signs in multiple languages hung above the doors, pointing to different rooms.
He made a beeline for the latrine. Here he discovered a pair of benches, with holes cut into the wood at strategic intervals. Next to each hole was a pail filled with leaves and dry wooden sticks. The sticks were chugi, pieces of wood used in place of toilet paper. Yamada didn’t dare to investigate the holes; the stench they emitted was fearsome enough, even with bags of scented herbs hanging nearby.
After doing his business, cleaning up was… delicate. At least he didn’t scratch himself too badly.
In the changing room, he shoved his clothes into a cubbyhole and wrapped his towel around his sweaty torso.
There were two bathrooms here: one for cold baths, the other for hot baths. Both were packed. In the former he discovered a pool filled with water, a series of buckets tied to a rail, and racks with unpleasant-smelling soap. Drains and channels lined the walls. He guessed this was where the bathing took place.
Steeling himself, he tested the water. It was… slightly lower than room temperature. He filled a bucket and poured it over his head. He shivered, but it wasn’t too bad. He washed himself down and toweled himself dry.
The lamps were running low. Soon it would be time for lights out. He skipped the hot bath and changed into his new clothes. A tunic, a pair of pants, and a strip of cloth that he tied around his waist and groin like a fundoshi. Taking his old clothes, he headed to the laundry room. More buckets, a pool of water, but in place of soap there were pails filled with gray ash. The last was detergent, or what passed for it.
He soaked his sweaty clothes in a tub of water, threw in a handful of ash, and scrubbed them down. When he was satisfied they was clean, he folded his gi and towel over his arm and returned to his barracks.
There were laundry lines just behind the hut, some heavy with clothes. He picked a bare spot and discovered he had no clothes pegs. Sighing he flopped his towel and clothes over a line and hoped he wouldn’t lose them in the night.
Yamada found a well of drinking water and slaked his thirst. He hadn’t seen any toothbrushes; he gurgled, sloshed clean water through his mouth and spat. He’d have to ask the soldiers tomorrow.
Inside the hut, Yamada found Hiroshi kneeling by his bed, his head lowered, his hands clasped together. As Yamada walked past, Hiroshi crossed himself and stood.
“Done bathing?” Yamada asked.
“Un. I think we’re in a recreation of a Roman legionary camp,” Hiroshi said.
“Really? How so?”
“The camp’s defenses are based on the Romans. So is the bath house. But there are some modifications. There’s the parade square and the huts, for example, and they use soap here instead of bath oils. I think we’re among people with a sound knowledge of history from that period.”
“I hope it extends to military tactics.”
“Yeah, getting killed in a parallel world would suck.”
As the lamp burned low, Yamada lay on the mattress. It shifted and yielded and rustled under his weight. He breathed in the scent of grain and pulled the blanket over himself.
He closed his eyes.
The last of the light faded to darkness.
But no matter how he hard he tried, sleep didn’t come.
Kamikaze.
A man chosen and doomed by the kami to live his life as a cherry blossom.
Every man who has held the skill of Kamikaze or its equivalent died a terrible but glorious death.
6
Kata
Gongs rang in the distance.
“Reveille! Reveille! Reveille!”
Yamada dragged himself out of bed. Sensei was already up and awake, waiting by the door. Everyone followed Sensei to the parade square in silence.
Tetsuo and his colleagues were waiting. After a quick head count, they headed to the mess hall, easily the largest building in camp. Breakfast was a bowl of gruel. It was probably oatmeal, but the goop was so bland and tasteless Yamada couldn’t tell.
And, wonder of wonders, Sato kept his opinions to himself.
After breakfast, the soldiers led the newcomers on a tour of the camp, both to learn the layout and to digest the light meal. The tour ended in the parade square, where they were given time to draw wooden weapons from the armories and practice a little more.
Then it was time.
Marshall and his officers stepped out of their command hut, signaling the beginning of the demonstration. The newcomers set their weapons aside and gathered around Marshall.
“All of you are warriors,” he said, his voice carrying across the square. “You carry with you the martial traditions of the most powerful civilizations to grace the surface of the Earth. You have inherited the knowledge of countless soldiers who have fought, bled, killed and died to master the art of war. Such knowledge shall serve you greatly in the days ahead.
“Your knowledge and your skills will spell the difference between life and death in the dungeon. Soon, everyone on this island shall place their safety in your hands. Show us what you’re capable of. Show us how you honor the ones who came before you, and how you shall destroy the enemies of humanity.”
The officers split up, taking each bloc of recruits with them. A quintet of Japanese men led the koryu practitioners to a corner of the square.
“I am Captain Nagisa, commander of the company of samurai,” the senior officer said. “I heard that you worked hard last night and this morning to prepare for this presentation. We look forward to learning from you. Who would like to go first?”
Sensei stood. “Please allow our school the honor of opening this event.”
Yamada’s heart thudded in his chest. This fast?
“Very well,” Nagisa said. “You may begin when ready.”
Sensei stood and walked to the middle of the demonstration area. His students followed in his footsteps. Standing in front of the officers, Sensei bowed.
“I am Sasaki Makoto, and these are my students. I teach Kukishin-ryu, a ryuha that traces its lineage to the Nanboku-cho jidai. Ours is a complete system, covering taijutsu, weapons, yoroi kumiuchi—combat in armor—and heiho. It is our pleasure and our honor to present some of our techniques to you.”
Sensei clapped. The demonstrators rushed to their places, while everyone formed two lines and sat in seiza. The senior students took up their weapons and flowed through two-man kata, illustrating the foundational techniques of the ryuha. Yamada barely tracked what they did; his heart pounded deeply in his chest and temples. His sweaty palms tightened around the bokken at his belt, and the entirety of his being collapsed into a single point:
Do not screw up.
Too quickly it was his turn.
Rising, he took three steps forward. Across him, Hiroshi stood also and approached. They bowed. Drew their bokken.
And began.
Yamada swung. Hiroshi deflected the cut, dropped low, and cut at Yamada’s side. Stepping back, they reset their guards. Yamada stepped and slashed. Hiroshi parried with a rising stroke, then arced the sword around to cut at Yamada’s exposed neck.
Adjusting their positions, they flowed through more complex kata. Yamada attacked, Hiroshi defended, Yamada pressed the attack, Hiroshi countered. Always the kata ended with Yamada falling to Hiroshi’s sword.
At last, their set ended. They bowed to the officers and returned to their positions.
Sensei handled the taijutsu sessions himself. He began with escape techniques, effortlessly defeating grab attempts from one, two, three, even four students at once.
Then came offensive skills. Pairing with Sato, he wrenched the man through painful throws, captured him in agonizing locks, and forced him into strangles and chokes.
The techniques were flawed. They had to be. Many of these techniques were used by and on armored samurai of ages past. With slight modifications, joint locks could become joint breaks. Throws aimed to slam the victim’s head, limbs or spine against the floor, or else stun him long enough for a finishing blow. In lieu of submissions, a samurai stabbed his enemy in an opening in his armor.
Sensei dialed back, just enough to prevent injuries. But, judging by the grimaces on Sato’s face, only a little.
“Thank you for your magnificent demonstration,” Nagisa said. “Kindly show us your randori.”
Randori was the school’s weakness. Or at least, Yamada’s weakness. Sensei forbade junior students from participating in randori, and even among the advanced students the focus was still on kata and drills.
Sensei simply bowed to his students.
“Form a line and come at me however you wish,” Sensei said.
The students hustled to obey. Peeking around the men in front of him, Yamada observed the matches.
It was utterly one-sided. The students approached Sensei with sword, staff or empty hands, attacking at random. Sensei met them all with aplomb, intercepting their attacks, throwing them down, and delivering a finishing blow. He was less a man, more a force of nature, a walking embodiment of war. He picked up a bokken on a whim and fought a man with a bo; two bouts later he discarded the bokken, disarmed a bo-wielding student and used the staff on another swordsman, then he dropped the bo and wrestled an unarmed student to the ground.
At last it was Yamada’s turn. He approached Sensei with his empty hands. With a loud kiai, he jabbed at Sensei’s face. Sensei smashed his hardened ulna into Yamada’s inner forearm. Grimacing, Yamada fired a cross. Sensei smashed the other arm too. Yamada raised his knee, as through about to kick, then launched a jab and—
The world upended.
The ground fell away. The sky rushed to meet him. Suddenly his back slammed into the hardened earth. His breath fled with an oof. Yamada tried to roll, but powerful hands locked his arm in place.
Sensei knelt over him and chopped at his throat. At the last moment, he halted, gently touching the vulnerable flesh with the hardened ridge of his hand.
“Not bad,” Sensei whispered. “But less hesitation next time.”
Sensei pulled Yamada up to his feet. Yamada quickly scooted aside, making way for the next man.
When it was over, the officers applauded politely. Yamada supposed they hadn’t messed up—at least, not too badly.
Teachers from other schools followed suit. A group of Japanese Owari Kan-ryu practitioners demonstrated their signature spear techniques. A band of Westerners exhibited sword kata from Yagyu Shingan-ryu. Grapplers wrestled and rolled, showing takedowns and submissions and escapes from classical jujitsu schools. A team of fierce men in black gi, representing Jigen-ryu, slashed mercilessly away at each other with wooden swords, howling like monkeys. A pair of men even demonstrated two-sword techniques from Niten Ichi-ryu, the school founded by the legendary Miyamoto Musashi.
When the last of the demonstrations were over, the officers conferred with Marshall. Sensei simply sat and waited, and Yamada mimicked him.
Long minutes later, the officers gathered the newcomers around Marshall.
“All of you have put up a magnificent performance,” Marshall said. “Your skill and valor are a testimony to your instructors and your forefathers. Truly, you are experts in your respective domains. However, I regret to inform you that your skills do not necessarily apply to the dungeon.”
Yamada’s heart sank. What was the point of the show then?
“It is not your fault,” Marshall added hastily. “The dungeon is unlike any battlefield in human history. It is a dark, claustrophobic death zone filled with monsters and traps. No martial arts in existence is perfectly adapted to combat in such an environment.
“I see some of you favor charging into the attack; an excellent tactic elsewhere, but in the dungeon, it guarantees that you will trigger a trap. Some of you prefer to evade the enemy, but in the tunnels, there is no room to maneuver. While all you excel in single combat, he who ventures alone into the dungeon dies alone.
“We fight not as lone warriors, but as soldiers in disciplined formations. Through unity we gain strength, through strength we gain victory.
“In the coming days we will teach you battle-proven tactics and the effective use of weapons. We will work with you to adapt what you know to the dungeon. We will learn what you can teach us. Together, we will overcome the armies of Hell, conquer the dungeon, and defeat the demon who brought us here.”
