Free Heart of the Ronin by Travis Heermann

sank deep between the shoulder blades of one of the bandit swordsmen. The bandit lurched forward onto his face, clutching at the out-of-reach shaft. The remaining six bandits shuffled their position to put the samurai between them and Ken’ishi’s position. The samurai followed, staying between the bandits and the carriage.
    Ken’ishi nocked another arrow, drew, and fired. A spearman fell to the ground, convulsing around the feathered shaft protruding from his belly just above the groin. As one, the remaining bandits decided that they were finished playing with the three samurai. They rushed forward and impaled two of the samurai on their spears. The one remaining samurai shouted a brave cry and slashed open the ribcage of one of the spearmen with a precise diagonal cut.
    Two of the bandits charged Ken’ishi’s position, the one with the sickles and the one with the strange sword-pole. He saw them coming for him in a strange slow motion, as if he watched them from the bottomless well of emptiness between instants. With what seemed to Ken’ishi no particular hurry, he readied another arrow and fired, sending the polearm wielder face down in the dust with an arrow through his heart. Then the sickle wielder reached him. The bandit cursed at him and slashed with his wickedly curved blades. Ken’ishi dashed his bow into the man’s face and leaped aside. The well of emptiness was gone like a dried-up pool, leaving him scrambling for his life. He dodged around the tree, and the sickle man hacked through the space he had just occupied, one of his weapons lodging in the bark of the tree.
    Ken’ishi thrust himself closer before the man could jerk it free and smashed his left elbow into the bandit’s teeth. As the bandit reeled backward in pain, Ken’ishi drew his sword and slashed with a single motion. The man gulped, and his eyes bulged as he staggered backward, his hands clawing at the neat slit in his belly that bared his entrails to the sun goddess.
    Ken’ishi spun to see how the last samurai fared. The last two bandits lay on the ground, their limbs jerking to the music of death. The samurai sank to his knees with the blood-smeared point of a spear protruding from his back just below the ribcage. His sword sagged to the earth, and his chin sank to his chest.
    Ken’ishi ran toward the dying warrior and knelt before him. The samurai’s half-lidded eyes opened, and his chin rose just enough to gaze up into Ken’ishi’s face. “You are not one of them.”  
    “No. Never!” Ken’ishi said.
    “Then, I beg of you, save the lady. My strength . . . is gone. I fear I . . . cannot. . . .” The warrior’s eyes closed. His torso sagged against the shaft of the spear and remained propped in its kneeling position as his final breath escaped.
    Deep laughter rumbled like an avalanche out of the bushes beside the road, but no scream followed this time. Ken’ishi crept toward the bushes, but a soft sound from the overturned carriage turned him back around. He grasped the top of the carriage and set it upright. A young woman tumbled through the curtain and sprawled on the ground at his feet.
    Her beauty struck him like a bolt from the thunder god. Even the ripening bump on her forehead could not mar the porcelain perfection of her features. A soft moan escaped her lips, and she stirred, like a fallen leaf caressed by the wind. Her eyelids fluttered.
    “Are you a fox?” he said in amazement.
    Her eyes opened wide and glimmering. Her voice was breathless and weak. “A fox?”
    A deep voice boomed behind him. “What the hell is going on here! Where are all my men?”
    Ken’ishi spun, and a gasp escaped him. He stepped backward at the sight of what stood before him and almost stumbled over the young woman’s body.
    “Who the hell are you?” the creature roared.
    It stood head, shoulders, and breast above him, its upper body looming above the roadside thicket. With skin the color of congealed blood, its rippling muscles