Original Link (now dead) - http://zone.msn.com/asheronscall/ASHEjojii.asp
The Hand of Jojii
Toward morning, the rainstorm that had whipped the night faded to a smattering of moody clouds on the horizon. Winds remained high, howling their rage at the barren hills. Land fell away in soft swellings toward the south, where thick forests darkened the horizon.
As the sun's light set the first ghostly shadows leaping across the land, the man wondered if he would catch up his quarry today, or whether he himself would be hunted down. He guessed the former, but he knew that the footsteps of fortune were slippery. It was as if the previous night's storm had forewarned a change in his luck; the heavy rains would certainly hide his enemy's trail. Collecting his smooth-worn meditation beads, the man set his gaze northward. Soon you shall be delivered from this aimless running, my friend; by nightfall I shall deliver you into the Little Hand of Eternity. The skies may hide your trail, but I know where you are bound.
In a moment, he was gone, the sheltered outcrop as desolate as it had been when he found it the night before. As his long stride devoured the low foothills, his mind harkened unbidden back to another sunny day, long ago . . .
"It is Jojii," the Master explained around a clove of garlic. "The prophet who taught our people the guiding principles by which we live even today." The darkstone statue he indicated stood knee-deep in a pool of lilies, clad in the plain gray robe of the monks, one tiny hand raised sunward. His grubby, cherubic face seemed about to burst into laughter. Around them the monastery buzzed with the sound of life: clanging, thudding, shouting, hurrying, the business of surviving was consummated by the two dozen brothers who were young Wujin's family. Their plight -- never easy among the banderlings and Tumeroks of the hills -- gave no shrift to indifference. Folk here must work hard to remain in the realm of living.
"What is he pointing at?" asked the young boy, large eyes unwavering on the kindly face in the lilies.
"He is not pointing at all, but reaching," the monk said. "Reaching for the justice that is the due of every Sho, all over this land."
Little Wujin was thoughtful for a moment. "His hand is so empty. Does he ever get it?" he finally asked. The monk smiled and placed a callused hand on the boy's dark locks. "You are a thoughtful one, for such a young child."
He knelt down and peered into the boy's steady gray eyes. "Between you and me, Wujin, justice is not easily grasped. The justice of events flows like a contest between two men -- sometimes attacking, sometimes parrying . . . we are not always in the vanguard of victory. We are caught in the turning of the combat, like all things. Just as victory does not, so to does justice not come to all men. But do not despair too much; the Sho people have long known that although the sword of justice is sharp, it will not slay the innocent."
"Were my parents innocent?"
The monk thought back to when they had rescued the youngster from those abominable Olthoi; the frightened and bloodied child had been the lone survivor of a group of ill-starred settlers. It was he himself who had lifted the babe out of the crushed wagon. He remembered the slick bodies of the homesteaders, torn asunder and split as if in preparation for a feast. It was not an easy memory. "Yes, Wujin," he said quietly. "Your parents were innocent. When you grow into a man, you will understand these things."
The boy gazed steadfastly up at the outstretched hand of Jojii, the Prophet.
When the sun reached it's zenith Wujin, the man, descended into a great valley. Snowy peaks thrust into screeching winds, lush grasses fell away in gentle waves, broken here and there by thick stands of tall bushes. Few men knew that the valley was a gateway. His prey was not stupid; no doubt he lay in wait at perilous Jinin Pass, hoping to fall on the hunter from the heights.
Behind his helm, the man's eyes narrowed. The harsh wind would have been sensuous at another time, but now it carried an acridity with which he was familiar. Someone -- for his quarry would not be foolish enough to give himself away thus -- was in the valley, taking a midday meal around a furiously wind-swept fire. Curious, the man loped soundlessly into the valley, taking care to remain downwind of the little blaze.
"What you don't understand, Rok, my extremely large but abundantly uneducated companion, is that the Sho have a very unique perspective on honor. They build webs within webs of obligations and duties, never mind that some of these patently undermine each other. Witness the visitor we had last night; if I didn't know better I'd say he was running like a one-legged drudge chased by a mountain rat. Yet he explained that honor left him no choice, that he was being chased by a blade of shadow, whatever that means. What sort of honor makes a man run scared? The same could never occur in the desert; there you always have a choice." The speaker, a small, thin man whose face appeared to consist of a particularly harsh stretch of Gharu'ndim waste, whose nose reared as a jagged crag therein, waved his luminous wand for emphasis. "A child of the dunes could never conceive of being stuck in a situation because of an obligation. Yet the Sho will hasten to his honorable outcome, oblivious to reality and practicality. It is absurd, their notion of principle."
Two northerners, Alluvians by their fair countenances, glanced at each other beyond the small cooking flare, sharing a grin. One of them, a bear who had been somehow stuffed into dully gleaming black platemail, stroked his beard. Merry eyes twinkled in a gruff face. "It must be extremely difficult knowing that an entire race has completely misunderstood the concept of honor. How do you restrain yourself from rushing out to teach the Southlands all about it?"
The mage crossed his legs, clad in leggings the color of a bright dawn. "Why, I keep myself busy with you two, of course, scouring Dereth for the considerable evil that seems to have infested every last corner of the place. But it isn't easy not tutoring every Sho that comes along until he learns the error of his ways."
The third man, whose reedy legs stretched gracefully before him, lifted a gaunt face from the work he was doing on his Yumi bow. Deep blue eyes shone with mirth. "It is fortunate that we are with you, Maulan, to be better cultured for it." A bass chuckle escaped the bear.
Wujin had heard enough of this foolish prattle; these men had no idea how close to swift death they were, sitting at this end of the valley. He must warn them. Rising silently, he approached.
The bear in black plate noticed him first. "You are Sho," he blurted. His companions looked at him.
"I've been told that." He halted before the fire, as all three rose. Only now did Wujin get a sense for how huge the Alluvian warrior really was; slightly hunched he stood nearly a head taller than even the suddenly towering archer. The Gharu'ndim mage gawked at him as if he was an Amploth Lugian asking politely for tea. He supposed he wasn't exactly a scroll of serenity himself; his dulled plate must capture the shadows, his helm the dust of many days travel. This trio before him looked as if it had stepped from the stage of a band of traveling players, so gleaming were their coats and armor. He wondered how they had survived out here, among the beasts; surely they didn't actually use those weapons?
"You were saying, Gruun?" growled the warrior, getting a raised eyebrow in return.
Wujin set his teeth. "You must run south," he said. The wind shrieked through the little blaze between them, sending ash and embers flying. "The pass behind you is infested with undead horrors."
The mage turned his sharp gaze that way, taking in the narrow gorge that wound its way between fang-like crags. Clouds scudded inky now, presaging a further storm that eventide. "We are not going that way, sir," he said, his voice a smooth drawing of silk across silk. "But I think undead in these heights are unlikely, in any case. If there were, it would be nothing a bit of arcana couldn't handle." His eyes narrowed as he studied the Sho before him.
Wujin was not intimidated. "The Hand of Jojii may point the way, but feet must still follow. I cannot but warn you."
The mage, Gruun, smiled thinly. "There was a man who came this way in the night," he explained slowly. "He spoke similarly, and then vanished into that gorge. As you are about to do, I suspect."
How had he guessed? Wujin did not know, but obviously the dune dweller was shrewd. All three men stared at him with unconcealed curiosity. He hardened himself. "It would be unwise to follow me. There is a . . . task I must complete."
"By all means," said the mage. "Do what honor demands, Sho. We shall await the outcome."
The mage's reply puzzled Wujin, but puzzlement would soon melt away in sweat. As long as they did not interfere with the task that Jojii had set him, he would have no quarrel with them. The reedy archer smiled laconically.
Bracing himself against the wind he jogged upward toward the pass. Jinin, it was known in his time, by the community of monks that had once guarded this valley. Few remembered the tiny monastery that lay huddled between the crags higher up; few would guess its purpose, now that it lay in ruin, so many years later. Ground cover sprouted where it dared oppose the heights, sparse, serrated foliage clinging to life on crooked stubs.
For an hour he ran toward heaven amid the toughened scrub of the pass. Wind howled its warnings from on high, clouds like dark blades fled swift in an increasingly violent sky, but this was the land that had nurtured him while he became a man. Although he had long ago spurned the idea of a home, this pass and its haunts would forever be etched on his heart.
"This, Wujin Shadowblade, is where I shall slay you," echoed a thin voice from the canyon walls. "The Hand of Jojii will crush you to dust, assassin."
Wujin sensed, more than heard, the sighing of air that announced the attack, from behind and above. The hand would crush him -- that indicated a bludgeoning assault, possibly with a hammer. Rolling, he steeled himself against the onslaught; he was too late to avoid it entirely.
Pain, as the massive mace struck his shoulder. Plate ground against flesh, protesting, but at least he had turned to get a good look at his enemy. Not that they were strangers.
Tao Lan was the last of the bounty hunters who had rallied to slay him after the mysterious demise of Kun-chueh Jo Tan, ruler of Shoushi. Yes, Wujin had slain the man, but no, he had not assassinated him. The Kun-chueh had been found lacking in certain spheres of his rule, and Wujin had merely applied the Hand of Jojii to him. Justice came for high and low-born alike.
But pyreals were a powerful incentive, and soon even Wujin had to admit that life among the Sho had become too hazardous. He fled; mercenaries pursued. Many moons later he had slain them all, but one.
Tao Lan was the largest Sho Wujin had ever encountered, big even by Alluvian standards. A plate helm hid his features, but Wujin knew them to be stark, centered about green-blazing eyes. The man's white coat, crafted from the hide of a slain mattekar, was lighter than Wujin's own plate, thus he could afford to move faster. It cost him less energy.
The combat flowed like a tide ebbing and flooding. Sounds were few; grunts, groans, sharp cries as blood splashed wide. Wujin fought with naught but the gauntlets on his hands. The mercenary had not allowed him a moment's respite to draw blade, or bow. As they struggled, rocks above them glowed a dark crimson with the setting sun.
They had settled into a rhythm of sorts, neither gaining the upper hand for more than instants. This man was the best fighter Wujin had ever encountered; he was certainly capable of delivering him to Jojii's waiting grip. But he had always known that he himself was no innocent.
Walls resonated with the sound of an elbow snapping. The mace dropped free. A groan escaped Tao Lan's lips as he sunk to the ground.
"Draw your assassin's knife, Shadowblade," the fallen man cried. "Slay me as you slew Kun-chueh Jo Tan."
"You will die, mercenary, but honorably, as he did," Wujin growled low. Sweat stung his eyes as he flung steel gauntlets away. "You are one-armed, therefore Jojii will receive you by one arm." He approached, cautiously, working his fingers. It was hard to gauge how long their battle had lasted, and within himself he knew that he had nearly spent his energy -- breath came in quick, shallow rasps -- but within a moment it would be over. Within a moment he would be alone with a corpse, and Jojii's Hand would caress another spirit whom justice had found. His legs moved sluggishly, lead-filled.
A soft chuckle, and Wujin's eyes narrowed. Tao Lan's good hand was tightly clenched about something, and the man was dragging himself away from him, toward a flat rock. "Come for me now, Shadowblade, finish it," the man cried strangely. Was there amusement in his voice? Wujin lunged.
"You are a fool," he heard, before the mercenary's hand inexplicably dropped --
Smoke, acrid, foul, filled his senses. Where Tao Lan had been -- there was nothing there but rock. Throat burned, eyes stung, and as the thick haze cleared, Wujin understood that he was no longer alone with his enemy. The ghosts of his fallen foes reached skeletal arms for him, skulls agape in terrible grins. Several swung rust-encrusted scimitars.
That this was his death, he understood from the first. It was only a question of whether the undead horrors would allow him to keep fighting, or if they would simply swarm over him, crushing him with their unnatural evil. Strength leeched away too quickly, frustratingly. He knew the vigor of heart, but also the weakness of limbs. And for this battle he would need limbs as swift and hale as if he had had a night's rest.
Blades invaded plate and flesh, slashed and hacked at exposed arms. In moments he sank to the hard dirt, light-headed with the idea that Jojii was reaching for him. Why couldn't he bring himself to accept it? Skeletal warriors stepped closer, scimitars raised to kill --
Even before vigor -- health! -- mysteriously rushed back into his body, he identified the unmistakable sounds of blunt arrows slamming home. Skulls whirled, shrieking. More arrows thudded.
Stumbling afoot, Wujin realized that wounds were healed, stamina restored to limbs. What good magic was this? No matter; kicking, punching, he launched himself anew at the ghostly warriors. In their confusion they didn't know which way to turn.
Into this melee the sun herself screeched her fury, laying waste among the undead with a massive will; Wujin was no less impressed when he grasped that it was merely a flaming blade, hacking about with commensurate skill. Wielding the immense, vengeful weapon was the Alluvian bear he had met in the valley. In two or three heartbeats -- enough only for the skeletons to shift the focus of their attack -- he had cleared a space around Wujin.
"Go," the big man panted, "Go and complete your task, Sho." The sword swung again, smashing a screaming warrior into bony shards. Wujin became conscious of arrows finding their marks so quickly that there had to be half a dozen archers somewhere out there, further down the pass. Some of them narrowly missed him. There, he saw, down by that shadowy wall huddled two dark shapes. One of them was the archer, he felt sure. Such skill!
"Go now," shouted the bear. "We'll keep them occupied here. Go!"
Wujin stumbled out of the battle. Could the Hand be receding? It felt as mist, fading, unreal, like a cold winter morning under thick cloud. He lived yet. As did Tao Lan. Grimly he sprang over the rocks, further up into the narrowing gorge.
He found him quickly, following the trail of blood. There he was, sprawled by that boulder. Shadows reached farther with the dropping sun, were especially dark in here. Thus it was that Wujin missed the slight movement until too late; shouting, he flung himself wide.
His opponent had anticipated it. Pain flooded over him in numbing potency as the crossbow bolt smashed through plate, into the soft belly beneath. Moaning, blinded with agony, Wujin steeled himself to continue his forward rush; Tao Lan must find justice; Jojii's fist waited for him.
But the mercenary had not the strength left to draw another bolt into position. Groaning, he could just raise himself to sit up against a slab of darkening slate. His helm rolled free. Wujin approached, a pale shadow against the deepening darkness.
"Kun-chueh Jo Tan was my father, murderer," Tao Lan whispered hoarsely, frothily. Black locks lay plastered about a bloody forehead, above eyes gone colorless. "He was an innocent man."
Wujin knelt before his enemy; if he hadn't, he might have reeled. Farther below, the pass had grown quiet.
"Kill me, as you killed him, dishonorable cur," gasped the mercenary.
"Your father died an honorable death," Wujin replied. "As you will." He readied himself.
"Why?" Tao Lan rasped softly. "Why all the killing?"
Wujin drew up short, leaned down cautiously. "Justice must prevail, Tao Lan; the Little Hand of Eternity takes us all eventually. Some must feel its grasp sooner than others, by their own design. I merely wield the Hand."
The mercenary coughed crimson froth. "But . . . the innocents --"
Wujin heard laughter, the creaking of wagon wheels through a shrouded past, and felt a stab of memory for parents he barely knew. The setting sun capped the gorge in brilliant hues. "There are no innocents," he said, steeling his heart against the task at hand.
When it was done, he backed away, pain swelling in his abdomen. Three dark shapes gathered about him.
"Will you teach him about honor now, Gruun?" He recognized the bear's voice as he sunk, again, to his knees. The Alluvians and the Desert Mage would rescue him from death, he thought, death well deserved. He thought grimly that perhaps they weren't traveling players after all. Wujin slid lightly to the dirt.
"Not now, Rok," the thin voice urged. "Arcus Deus, secure this gorge for us; I have to do some serious healing." Light steps receded.
"Honor appears to be a creature of many faces," the mage's silky voice intoned. "Loosen his plate, Rok, I need to get at his belly."
Above them, night winds gained in fervor, driving black scud across the sky. The air felt moist with the rainstorm that would soon whip the pass.
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