Avenger

A hand hand shook him into darkness, "We've got to go." he heard and he struggled to his feet. he didn't know where he was going but his dreams followed him in the dark. Darkness covered her bed but he didn't need the sound of her sleeping breath to know where she was, he betrayal reeked from the putrefaction of her spirit. She lied to him and used him, trained him from a child to hate and sent him to the edge of death to satify her lust for revenge. He would do her revenge, he would destroy the family that killed her father and then he would come back for her.

He was an austere man, not given to pleasure, his one satisfaction in life was his craft. Kenji Nishimura was a sword maker, a crafter of some of the finest in the universe. He didn't make them for the wealth it brought him, it was his art, the expression of his spirit. The war had taken too much time from his real work and now that he'd grown old his regret had grown, too. He had but one wish, to live long enough to finish his final sword. He'd worked long over it but each blow to the steel beat strength into him. He sat over it, polishing it, bringing the beauty of it's inner spirit to the surface. He worked on it through the night so it would be finished with the rising sun, a good, strong omen to herald its birth. He had but the final sharpening left when he heard a shout from his son's room. He set the unfinished blade down and picked up his sword, when he got to the room he was horrified to see his only son dead. He searched the house for the killer only to find all his family dead, all but a younger son away from home. He sat alone in his study for weeks, desolate, he only waited word from his general that the killer had been found before joining his family. One day he gave up the search and prepared himself to die, he had one last thing to do. He picked up the sword yet to be born and felt the knife plunge into his back.

He slipped through the darkness to her side, pressing the point of a knife to her throat Raan Tora hissed, "Wake, deceiver. Wake and be released." Her sleepy eyes filled with terror when she first saw him then relief came when she realized who it was. She was about to reprimand him for frightening her when the briefly forgotten blade drew a drop of blood. "Not a sound, woman." he whispered, "You will only speak one word before you die. What is my father's name?" Understanding came to her eyes, she knew he had found the truth. She breathed a long slow breath in preparation, whispered "Paintr." and died.

The monk looked up from his studies, annoyed at the intrusion. "What is it?" he asked in a tone to say it better be important. "News of your family." He was about to dismiss the neophyte but something in her tone made him decide to listen, "Quickly." She told him of the death of his family at the hand of an assassin, it seemed hardly worth his notice until its full implication set in, as heir to the family name he would have to quit the monastery and take up the family business. It angered him, the monastery was his sanctuary, his place of fulfillment and someone had ripped it away. He knew nothing of swords or sword making and had no desire to learn. His studies had been for deeper meaning, secrets of the universe, now he would be trapped in the mundane world of weaponry. He knew it was his duty but something more personal had been added for his coming quest for revenge, Takashi Nishimura would take pleasure in sending his jailer to the next life.

He knew nothing about swordmaking, as a younger son he wasn't expected to learn. It was knowledge passed on from father to heir and Takashi wasn't the heir. He was clumsy at first but steel was in his blood and swords were part of who he was. Many was the time he watched his father work his craft, or teach his brother a lesson in his art, now that he needed them the lessons had become his. His first completed sword was good but it wasn't a Nishimura sword. He'd done everything he saw his father do, everything explained to his brother but he was missing something, a vital element that would make a living sword, a work of art. Whenever he was at a loss for answers he went to the monastery, his fellow monks were wise and practical, able to see into the heart of a matter. When they saw the sword there were understanding nods but none spoke, the monks didn't speak easily, not until certainty prompted them. They followed him back to the Nishimura house to watch him make a sword, they were there for over a year. Their watchful eyes made him slow, thoughtful and careful, he looked at what he was doing as one of them. The finished sword wasn't good but none of the monks had to tell him what was missing, it was him. What he hadn't understood was that his father had put himself into each sword, that is why they lived, breathed beauty and deadly art.

Takashi knew before he could make a sword he would have to finish the search he'd begun in the monastery. To begin he set up a room with a mat, a piece of raw steel, his father's finest sword and a bonsai tree. He would meditate on those things until he found the enlightment he'd been seeking when he was pulled away. He'd lost himself in that tearing, the monastery had been his security from a child. He'd been sent there as soon as he would old enough to be accepted and beyond the memories of his brother's lessons the monastery was all he knew. He was still a young monk, though, and had so much to learn, it could be years before he made his first good sword. He had set the course of his new life, he would search for the assassin that tore him away from his old life and would continue his search for enlightment to begin his new one.

Excerpt from Shadow Stalkers by S.E.Estes