Excerpt of Destiny's Road by Auburnimp and Michael Barnette
Sakura Blades
Coming October 6th to Mojocastle Press LLC


Masami is a young man with a terrible secret. One that could cost him his life, so he has spent his life in isolation on a mountain with his Master. But nothing is forever, and a life changing event sends him down the mountain into a new life he is unprepared for: the life of a rootless wandering ronin.

Naito Kiyoshi is on the run. Forced to kill an heir of the Kii clan, close allies of the new Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu. Kiyoshi is a hunted man with the sentence of death on his head.

How will a fateful meeting on the road change their lives? And can they survive the wrath of the Shogun and his men?

Authors' Forward Sakura. The cherry tree. It has long held a place in the minds and hearts of the Japanese people. Ephemeral. Fleeting. The sakura is symbolic of change, of the uncertain nature of life, the passing of seasons.

For the swordsmen, warriors of Tokugawa Era Japan, it was also symbolic of the fleeting life a warrior lived. Death could come at any moment. The beating of a heart as fragile as a sakura blossom.

A swordsman's fate was often an early death.

The flower has but a few short days to live then it falls, petals coloring the ground

But when a swordsman falls, it is blood that colors the ground.

Brief in life, beauty lingers on in the mind long after the petals have fallen.

Such is the way of the warrior. Brief and beautiful.

Chapter 1
Masterless Men
His master was dead.

Masami stared at the wizened face, the sunken eyes that remained closed as if the old man slept. But this was the final sleep, the sleep of death and his Master would never wake up.

He'd never seen anyone who'd died before. Never looked at someone he loved who would never speak to him again or tell him stories about wars and the ways of the sword. Never wrap his skinny arms around him and give him a quick hug when he'd done well at his studies.

He'd never hear his Master sigh wistfully over his lost youth or rue the old age that kept him from teaching Masami all the ways of the samurai. Ways he hinted at but never explained saying it was better he never know of such things.

And now he never would.

"Master." Tears spilled from his eyes painting his cheeks with the glistening trails of grief.

He looked at the bony hands that had led him through every move of the sword, showing him how to hold it, how to strike, how to make the steel sing the Dragon's Song as it swept in to kill an opponent.

He sat for most of the day beside the old man, hands clasped, head bowed praying he'd wake up, that he was mistaken, that his Master wasn't really dead but just very tired.

His prayers went unanswered. His Master was gone.

Heartbroken Masami stripped out of his clothes--outgrown and getting thread bare but all he had--and went to locate a place to lay his master to rest.

He chose the shady area beneath a beautiful old maple his Master had enjoyed watching. Season after season, the two of them often sitting under it in the summer, many of his katas learned under its leafy boughs.

Masami gazed upward through the branches which were beginning to get their first new leaves, felt the warm sunlight on his skin, on his face.

The wind whispered through the leaves as if the tree spoke to him.

It felt like the right place for his Master to lie in rest so he started to dig.

The work was hard, digging through rocky ground and roots. It took him two days to get it deep enough and another two days to carry enough stones from the icy creek to make a proper marker.

And the whole time he cried, cried until his eyes had no tears and his chest hurt as if the weight of every stone covering his Master's grave lay on top of his heart.

He didn't eat. He made rice, but couldn't make it go down. He just couldn't so he set it aside and spent the next few days praying beside the old man's grave.

"Master what should I do now? You spoke of your death, but never spoke of what I should do when it happened." He bowed his head until it touched the cool stones, closed his eyes. "Help me Master, I don't know what to do."

Birds sang in the trees, the wind blew through the leaves, but he received no answer, no guidance from beyond the grave.

"This is the only life I know, Master. You never told me what to do when you died. You never told me," he whispered to the dead man. "What am I to do now?"

The next few days passed in a fog of misery, Masami ate little, slept little, forced himself to practice with his sword relentlessly because it was something he could do, a way to show his Master he wouldn't forget what he'd been taught.

Ultimately it was hunger that drove him away from his home. From the side of his Master's grave.

He searched the house, desperate for the funds to pay for his food, money his Master always had when it was time to go down the mountain for their supplies.

But all he located were a few pitiful near valueless coins that would pay for a couple of meals and nothing more.

Desolate, his insides feeling hollow as an empty jar he went to his Master's grave, knelt beside it, and said a prayer for the old man's soul.

A cold weight settled on him. A certainty that once he left his boyhood home he would never see it again. An impulse hit him, the strong urge to leave something behind, a bit of himself.

Masami pulled his tanto, took hold of his ponytail and slashed it off.

He lay the severed hair on the man's grave. "Goodbye, Master."

Done with his farewell he headed down the mountain.

They'd made so many plans, the old man and he. His Master had promised him new clothes. New sandals to replace the ones he'd outgrown in the middle of winter. Such fine plans. His Master even hinted at a special surprise but what it might have been he would never know.

It took him from dawn to dusk to get down the mountain, to reach the village which looked just the way it always did. A cluster of houses, most of them small one or two rooms with roofs of thatch and rough wooden walls just like the house he'd grown up in except their roof was wood. A single dirt street meandered between the houses, the farmers were already out in the fields putting the tender shoots of the rice plants into the muddy water filling them.

"Masami-san is here!" a child cried and ran toward the headman's home.

The man came out, a broad smile on his face. "Why look, it's the young Masami come to buy rice," the headman greeted him, bowing.

The smile fell away when he lifted his face and looked directly at the man.

"What is it, Masami? What's the matter?"

"He died." Blunt and to the point, it was one of his failings. I won't cry. I won't. It's inappropriate to cry, I'm not a child.

But it was hard not to give into the grief.

"Oh how terrible! Please, come in, you must be cold and tired. My wife will get you some tea."

He followed the man inside. People. These were people who knew him, had seen him twice a year for twelve years. Surely they would help, would know what he should do.

He spoke to the headman over hot tea and a bowl of rice, and the man listened, seemed to sympathize.

"I wish there was more I could do, I really do, Masami. But we're farmers down here, grubbing in the dirt. We don't have the need for anyone to protect us, and besides you'd never make it as a farmer." He motioned to the boy's hands, "You're a swordsman, you've never planted a thing in your life."

"I could... learn."

The man patted his shoulder gently, "I won't hear of it. Old Goro labored too hard to make a swordsman of you. Go out into the world. Forget about this dusty backwater village and see things, live a better life. You're young, you're good with that sword of yours. I'm sure someone would be willing to take such a fine young man as you into his service."

And that was that.

He was given a place to sleep for the night. A meal and tea in the morning and a small package of food and sent on his way.

He couldn't stay.

He had nowhere to go.

Alone and away from everything and everyone he'd ever known he set out to see a world he didn't know, and find a place in it he had no idea how to acquire.

He walked out into the morning, the air still carrying the crisp chill of winter, his breath streaming in the cold. Shivering he looked back along the road up toward the fog shrouded mountain where he'd spent the last twelve years of his life.

There was nothing back there for him. Nothing but a slow death from starvation and the grave of an old man who'd trained him for everything but what he faced now. The old man had failed him in the end.

He started out along the road between the barren rice fields heading south with nothing but the clothes on his back and a burden of sorrow and loneliness in his heart.

The journey wasn't easy, and he had no idea where he was going.

He found other small villages, but there was never any place for him. Never any need for a young man who knew the use of a sword but nothing about crops.

Few people showed him kindness, the young man just another rootless and masterless man in a land full of them.

Here and there he found people who took pity on him. Old women who'd lost husbands and sons during the wars, elderly people he did his best to help, carrying water or wood, helping with tasks beyond their abilities.

But they never asked him to stay and all too soon he found himself back on the road, rootless and wandering with no goal in mind and no hope in sight.

He endured, ate when there was food, went hungry when there wasn't. His none too good clothing became more and more worn from sleeping outside in the mud and rain.

And there were fights. Men intent on stealing the little he had, on taking his swords which were the only thing of value he owned.

He never killed anyone, but he left them nursing wounds and damaged pride.

And he learned. Learned not to trust. Learned not to show any sign of weakness, never to admit to hunger or thirst.

And he learned that anger used properly was a good tool to hide the fear lurking in the core of his soul. Because he was afraid of being alone, of being on his own with no one to tell him what to do or show him the road to take.

For three months he existed, going from day to day and coming no closer to his goal of finding somewhere he could stay.

The forest around him was cool, and he tipped his battered straw hat--he'd found it lying beside the road a few days ago-- and looked down the road. There was no sign of anyone ahead of him or behind him, which could mean he was far from a town.

And he was hungry. But he was always hungry.

He sat down on a rock and closed his eyes, resting, too tired to keep walking. Dirt clung to him, and he could smell himself. Both things left him feeling disgusted and angry.

He didn't have any money. All he had were his swords. And they wouldn't clothe him or feed him. Not for the first time he considered selling them just so he could have clothing, food and shelter.

But he just couldn't bring himself to part with them. They were all he had, and when they were gone he would have nothing.

Masami got to his feet, looked back the way he'd come, turned to head in the direction he'd been going, his eyes scanning the forest for any sign of berries, ears alert for the sound of running water.

The hunger and thirst were becoming an annoyance. The dust layering his skin, clothing and hair had passed the stage of annoyance and gone right into pure irritant. He hated being dirty even more than he disliked the cramping of a belly too often suffering the pangs of hunger.

For a moment he hesitated, thought about a faster way to end the miserable life he was facing. But he didn't have the nerve to try. If he made a botch of it he'd die a slow agonizing death and that would be far worse than the fate he confronted now.

He hadn't gone far down the road when he heard the welcome sound of running water. Glad for the chance to be clean if nothing else he headed for the sound and discovered a clearing and a small creek that glistened in the sun.

It looked so cool and inviting that he didn't hesitate, he stripped out of his clothes, and waded in leaving his swords on the bank.

He washed, shivering at the cold, dunked himself and got his hair clean. Teeth chattering, he got out, grateful for the feel of clean skin. He washed his fundoshi, put it on wet and started working on his clothes, scrubbing at the worst of the grime.

He'd never get them completely clean, they were too stained, but at least he wouldn't stink.

* * *

Another never-ending stretch of road faced Naito Kiyoshi. The never-ending road of the ronin, the disenfranchised, the outcast. Sighing heavily he trudged along it as memories of a better life taunted him.

He had grown up the second son of one of the shogun's retainers and should have been assured a place in the world. He'd had that place until a year ago, had trained well in all the arts of bushido, had risen to sempai in his dojo with all the perks that came with that position.

Then he had attracted another young man, one who had not been prepared to take no for an answer and had used his position as one of the daimyo's sons to first tempt Kiyoshi and when that had failed to make his life as difficult as possible.

He had been stripped of his honor, his position of sempai and had been taunted by his erstwhile admirer and his uncouth friends.

One day it had gone too far and the man had drawn his katana, intending to cut Kiyoshi's face so that nobody else would ever find him attractive. He had thought merely to defend himself, but the fight had become deadly serious and he'd ended by killing his opponent.

Unable to stay after that, he fled Edo and had taken on the life he now lived; the life of a ronin, a masterless samurai.

At first the things he'd needed to do in order to survive had seemed alien and terrible but as time went on he'd learned to swallow his pride and endure. Seppuku was not an option as far as he was concerned as he had no master to disobey or dishonor. There was a freedom of sorts in that.

He flicked his heavy braid off his shoulder until it was lying down his back and kept walking down the endless road to nowhere.

He'd long ago realized that one town was very much like another with corrupt officials, using their petty amount of power to live like lords, merchants prepared to take the last of anyone's money, whorehouses and the poor.

When desperate enough he'd worked in some of those whorehouses, either as a whore or as a guard to some famous in her own town courtesan.

There had to be more to his life, perhaps a minor daimyo in need of a retainer or something along those lines. He could do what many ronin had done and become a bandit but there was nothing appealing in that thought.

He kept going until the sound of running water reminded him he was thirsty. Following the sound to its source he was surprised to see an almost naked boy washing his clothes in a creek.

The boy was easy on the eye, apart from the hacked hair and Kiyoshi smiled to himself. Some company might be good for a change. He cleared his throat to let the boy know he was no longer alone.

Dark eyes turned his way, and Kiyoshi got his first clear look at the boy's face. Finely shaped eyebrows above wide dark eyes. The mouth parted in shock, as the boy rose to his feet, the wet kimono in his hands all but forgotten. A blush turned his face a vivid shade of crimson, and the boy turned around and trying to pull on the sopping wet kimono, an action that gave Kiyoshi a view of a nice masculine behind.

Sunlight sparkled on droplets of water caught in his hair, and beading his skin like dew.

"I... Forgive me I didn't know anyone was around and.. I..." the boy stammered.

"You needed to get some of the dust and dirt of the road off your skin. There is no need to apologize." He smiled in what he hoped was a friendly and non-aggressive fashion.

Even wet and startled the boy was as beautiful and delicate as a young deer. Then his gaze fell on the katana and wakizashi lying on the grass. Make that as a young panther.

"May I join you?"

"I..." the boy was trying to get the wet kimono on, but the cloth was soaked and it resisted his efforts. He got his arms in, and it didn't take a skilled observer to see that the garment was too small, and showed signs of hard use. "I should be going."

He turned, the kimono held closed around him, the dark points of his nipples showing through the wet greyish silk. Once it might have been a creamy shade printed with a scattering leaves in a darker brown, but time and abuse had ruined the original color and all but obscured the pattern of the print.

Snatching up his saturated hakama the boy slipped his feet into a pair of geta so worn they were almost flat on the bottom then swooped down to gather his obi and swords into his arms.

Kiyoshi was somewhat amused by the boy's obvious discomfort. "No need to rush off because of me." He noticed there was no pack amongst the boy's belongings, no water skin and no food. Easing his own pack off his shoulders he set it on the ground and smiled again at the boy.

"I was just about to stop for some lunch. There's enough for two."

The boy's gaze turned wary, eyes narrowing. He might or might not know how to use the swords he had, but it was easy to tell he had a strong distrust of strangers.

Or maybe it was just older men with swords.

"Why would you offer me food? What do you want?" he asked, still clutching the dripping clothing and his swords close.

Kiyoshi knelt by his pack and started to pull out wrapped rice balls. Perhaps a deer was more apt after all.

"Merely some company." The boy was a mass of contradictions with his ragged clothes and the costly and beautiful weapons. Weapons he probably couldn't use worth a damn, or maybe he'd stolen them and was intending to sell them in the next town.

Whatever the answers, he intrigued Kiyoshi enough that the young ronin hoped he would stay for a while.

He held out a rice ball.

The boy stared at it, licked his lips and took a step toward Kiyoshi, his eyes on the food with the same intensity a starving wolf would regard a hare.

Instead of coming closer he backed up, gaze gone hard. "Who are you?" he demanded.

Kiyoshi shrugged. "Just a wanderer like yourself but for what it's worth my name is Naito Kiyoshi."

"Naito?" the way the boy said the name sounded more like a curse. "You're from the clan that fought in the wars on the side of the Shogun?" the boy asked, voice taking on a bitter edge, his face setting in harsh lines that showed anger.

"I was," Kiyoshi said. He was about to add that it didn't do him much good now when the boy sprang into action.

"Son of a bitch!" the boy snarled, the clothes falling from his arms, both swords coming free of their saya as he raced toward Kiyoshi. "I'll kill you!"

Kiyoshi rose quickly to his feet and drew his katana though he left the shorter wakizashi sheathed for the time being. He thought to easily parry and disarm the boy but his eyes widened as he realized his opponent could actually use his swords.

He didn't recognize the style but whatever it was it was effective and he had some difficulty in preventing the boy from carrying out his threat.

"Damn," he muttered and started to fight in earnest

The katana swept for his legs as the shorter wakizashi made for his face, the blades moving so fast the katana sang through the air with a deep hum like a hive of bees.

Kiyoshi's eyes narrowed as the fight became more serious and he drew his wakizashi so he'd be better able to block both of the boy's swords.

He had no particular reason to kill the boy so he fought defensively for a while, merely blocking moves and looking for the right opening from which to disarm the boy.

He had the advantage of not being in a rage.

After a few moments the boy's expression turned calmer and his attacks became more calculated. He was fast, and graceful, spinning out of the range of Kiyoshi's attacks with the skill of a master among swordsman despite his youth.

Sweat ran down the boy's face, and dampened his hair. He circled Kiyoshi who could hear the boy's rough breathing, a sure sign he was tiring from the fury of the blows they'd exchanged.

"You're good, Naito, but I'm going to kill you," he said.

Kiyoshi saw his opening and with a deft flick his right wrist sent the boy's wakizashi spinning through the air to land on the grass several feet away. When the boy's eyes flickered to his weapon he side-kicked him onto his behind and held his katana to the boy's throat.

"You'd be better if you contained your anger."

For a split second the boy's eyes registered shock, then he closed them and tipped his head back. "So kill me and get this over with, Naito." The words were calm, but bitterness underlay them.

He was getting tired of this, tired of the boy's attitude. "Why in the name of all the gods would I want to kill you? I don't even know who you are."

The boy's eyes opened, confusion filling them. "But... I... thought that's why you were here... that you'd come to kill me. My Master said that..." But whatever he intended to say was withheld from Kiyoshi.

"You really don't want to kill me?"

Kiyoshi sighed and withdrew his katana, returning it to his saya. "No I really don't want to kill you. I had no idea you were even here until I chanced upon you."

There was something about his name that had sparked the boy's anger and fear, something about the Shogun. Well for all the help the bastard had been to him he could rot.

He was quiet for a moment as he sheathed his wakizashi. "I don't know what your fight is with my family or the Shogun, but I can assure you I have no interest in it. I'm a disgraced younger son with no interest in the Shogun or his enemies."

He could only hope that his candor got through to the frightened boy.

The boy stood, "I'm called Masami. It was foolish of me to attack you. I see that now. Forgive my mistake, please, Naito Kiyoshi." He bowed his head and waited for Kiyoshi to answer.

Kiyoshi snorted a smile on his lips. "As long as you haven't trampled all over our lunch I'm prepared to forgive you."

"I thank you for permitting me to continue my miserable life, which is worth next to nothing, but it is one of the few things that is mine." The boy bowed again then went to retrieve the wakizashi from the grass.

Available at Mojocastle Press LLC October.6th.