Casca 19: The Samurai by Barry Sadler Read Free Book Online Page B

the same powers. He shook the thought away from him as a dog threw water from its pelt. No! That could not happen. It would be impossible for the elements to be brought together again in the same manner.
    It was dark by the time they had reached the spot where earlier in the day Muramasa had made up his mind to go down into the lowlands. He didn't have to try and explain to Casca the reason for his change of mind. Both men felt more secure, if not as warm, with the choice of paths. Muramasa led the way through groves of elm and pine, often dismounting to rest his horse as well as his own buttocks. He took them on narrow tree shrouded paths that grew darker by the moment as the sun goddess, Ameratsu, sank into the burning sea.
    When at last total darkness forced them to call a halt to their travel, it was with relief that both men gathered soft ferns with which to make their beds for the night around a small sheltered campfire.
    Casca was tired and knew that Muramasa had to be emotionally drained, though he made no complaint nor showed any overt sign of it. But Casca knew by the small lines at the corners of his eyes and the way the mouth and shoulders set that the man was exhausted. Shaking his head in confusion, he knew only one thing for certain, that life around Muramasa was always very exciting. In the short time he had known him, they had killed seven men. He had the uneasy feeling that that was just the introduction to whatever play Muramasa had in mind.
    Muramasa was indeed tired, but he could make no complaint, nor show any sign of weakness. That was not permitted. Leaning on his elbow, he glanced at the barbarian Casca. What did he think of the events of the past weeks? The scarred man was not unlike himself in many ways. He never complained and was certainly a fierce fighter, though his style was a bit crude and in need of refinement. All he had been able to find out was that he had come from far away and was not a member of the tribe of pale red creatures who lived north in the farthermost part of Honshu and Hokkaido, the people called the Ainu.
    What could he tell this gaijin that might make him understand of the terrible hunger within his soul to be samurai. To wear the dai-sho in his own right, to have sons after him who would be samurai. How could this large gray eyed animal know that in these sacred islands of the gods only the samurai were human? Yet he knew that was not right. He felt, he hungered, and he had pride, but he was not samurai. And now he had this other kami – or was it ikiryo? – an evil spirit, riding him. Well Drinker, what had he done to deserve such a karma? To be burdened with a large ugly barbarian and a cursed sword. Aiie! It was too much for him. He would find a shrine and speak to the wise men there. Until then all was in the hands of the gods, all homage to Amida Bhudda.
    At dawn they fed from the rations the vassals of Sakai had carried with them, sticky rice with pieces of dried, smoked fish and strands of gray yellow seaweed for flavoring.
    Muramasa smacked his lips over the meal. Casca wanted to kill something and get a piece of meat down his gut. He had never understood how a people, those of Chin included, could be so warlike on a vegetable diet. He needed some red meat or at least some fowl of one kind or another. After what he thought was a meager breakfast, with little if any flavor, they saddled back up and headed out on the mountain trail. The day was crisp with the high morning mist that rested on the tops of the mountains, then slid down into the valleys and lowlands before being burned off by the new sun.
    The trail narrowed even more as they passed over one mountain range, then another. At clearings along the way, Muramasa would halt and point off into the distance at a village or castle, telling Casca who controlled it. Then he would tell him who was daimyo of the lands they were crossing, which Muramasa explained meant great landowner. So far none of the names had