560 - (FREE TO READ) Vunak of Antares #15: Blade song of Scorpio
Hernando De Soto faces Miyamoto Musashi in a duel of swords
Copyright 2025 LaFond & Randolph
A Casting Darts Publishing Original
Written by James LaFond & Jeth Randolph
Martial arts maestro Paul Vunak leads “The Dirty Dozen you always wanted” against an opposing team lead by non other than Bruce Lee!
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Click to read Chapter one: “Like Water”
Click to read Chapter two: “Stardust Express”
Click to read Chapter three, part one: “The Galactic Fix is In”
Click to read Chapter three, part two: “Charon’s Song”
Click to read Chapter three, part three: “Best and the Blessed”
Click to read Chapter four: “The Dawning Of A New Sun”
Click to read Chapter five, Part one: “Upon the Scales of Right”
Click to read Chapter 5 (Part 2): “Where’s Charlie?”
Click to read Chapter 6: “自由”
Click to read Chapter 7: “Knives Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 8: “Flags Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 9: “Champions Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 10: “Bloody Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 11: “Fists Of Scorpio”
Click to read Chapter 12: “Naked Fray”
Click to read Chapter 13: “Shields Of the Voidspan”
Click to read Chapter 14: “Labyrinth of Mud and Death”
Blade Song of Scorpio: Vunak of Antares #15
Hernando De Soto faces Miyamoto Musashi in a duel of swords
Thursday , May 21st, 1542 – South bank of the Arkancas river, La Florida
The series of small huts sat nestled in a clearing some miles south-west of the small rock formation that acted as a marker on that side of the river which flowed nearby.(0)
Inside the small hut, De Soto lay on what the men that remained in his party had assumed was his death bed. For days his condition seemed only to worsen and the game of “who shall lead now” had begun among the more ambitious of his men.
But late into the evening, he had felt an improvement, his strength had started to return and now, in the darkness that was broken only by a solitary candle that burned atop a wooden stool resting a few feet from the bed, he could feel that the fever had broken.
‘Again I must disappoint those couple of dogs that think themselves about to take my place! Perhaps it is true what the Indians say, that I am truly “The Son of the Sun”? An immortal sent to rule them! Ha!’
His mind turned again at the sight of the cross that sat with his journal and seemed to move in the flickering candle light and he became sombre, recognising the clear message he had been sent:
‘This is confirmation that God blesses my endeavours, this land will yet be ours in the name of Spain and for the glory of His Majesty!’
He went to sit up and call to his men but fell silent as he perceived something in the darkness.
The low, warm light of the candle seemed to brighten and then bend inwards somehow into the centre of the room at the foot of his bed, from where seemed to be a swirling hole, blacker than the darkness of the night itself.
The vortex that formed, then began to glow a succession of colours as it grew and filled the air in front and above him.
‘My Lord God, is that You? Am I to be called after all?’
He went to start payer but found speech impossible, as too was movement as he felt a terrible pressure creep over his body like an electric buzzing that paralysed as it quickly engulfed him.
He remembered one of the men who spoke of the superstition of the demon hag that visited and tormented men in their dreams...was this perhaps “Her”?
There was a cold feeling that swept the room as though the season had changed to the depths of winter, as from the centre of the twisting light, a towering figure formed.
It was huge, had many arms and a massive tail that swayed above the paralysed man, the end of which was cruelly barbed.
‘Like a scorpion! It is the Devil himself! My Lord God who art in Heaven, protect me in this, the hour of my death, I beg of thee!’
His thoughts were swept aside by the voice that filled his mind, a voice that spoke only commands in thoughts that could be understood but not heard as words.
But it was not his God that spoke.
It told him rather of Gods, and that he was summoned by their most terrible decree.
The communication ceased and De Soto was afflicted by a terrible heat now as he felt himself being drawn into the vortex with the Devil.
He was abandoned by God! His soul would now feel the fires of eternity!
Still unable to move or even speak, he managed at great effort only a flat moan that escaped his mouth as he felt his disintegration. The room was now filled with deafening noise as the vortex contracted slowly back to the blackness.
The door flew open and Francisco, Diego and the other men of the watch entered the room just in time to see what seemed to be a distorted likeness of their Captain General in the clutches of what looked to be some kind of huge beast disappear into nothingness.
From the treeline nearby, two Pacaha Indian boys who were bow hunting for small game, silently crouched and watched the commotion. They looked at each other as they saw the men run to the glowing hut where the Son of the Sun dwelt, and then turned back as the shouting and crashing noises intensified.
They slowly cleared the branches and carefully crept nearer to better observe.
Rough hands seized them suddenly by the hair and they cried out as they were dragged from the bushes by the Spanish guard that had spotted them.
At the sight of the two youths, who were now brought forth shivering with fear and placed at the centre of the assembled men, the anger amongst the Spaniards began to spiral. Were these the savages that had conjured the Devil? Was it some sort of trick? What had they done with the Captain General’s body, only ashes remained?
The noise was broken by Francisco.
“They were not in the room, I swear on my Honour it was the Devil himself that took De Soto!”
There was more shouting. Again Fransisco called for silence but this time with a cold logic, that told of their predicament and also that the search for “Who should lead now ?” was over;
He pointed at the two boys who were dressed only in skins, the younger of which was crying and had urinated himself from fear as his year or so older brother, now a teenager, stood defiantly meeting their eyes with anger.
“As soon as they tell their village, that the Captain General is gone, they will all know that we are not Gods and that will be the end of us all. No more gold, no more offerings, no more daughters!! Do you not see? We must hide all of this or die!”
The group became silent and the men’s eyes fell on the young boys.
By agreement, the men placed the two young bodies, both with their heads smashed, at the bottom of some rocks at the foot of a steep drop. If found, the tribe would consider that they had pursued game and fallen in the darkness (it was a new moon that night). Better still the beasts of the forest would disperse them until the Spanish were far away.
The remains of the Captain General were considered touched by the Devil and having been gathered up, along with his cross and what belongings had no apparent value to the other men, sunk with weighted rocks in the nearby river as the men recited prayers for protection from evil and for God to continue to bless their cause.
Wednesday, June 13, 1645 - Higo Province, Kyushu island, Japan.
It would be dawn soon and the old man known as Kensai (0.5), sat on the small wooden seat in Fudo-za (1). He had taken to the cave these past months, now that his writing was finished and he sensed that the end of life was near. He sat just as he had done all these nights, with his sword upon a cloth in front of him, ready in himself for his time.
The wind blew and a leaf entered the mouth of the cave where he sat.
‘Falling leaves? It is early for them.’
Then his mind quieted as he sensed a change in the room and a chill that swept through the cave in the half light of dawn.
‘A final test?’
Now his mind emptied and his breathing became a measured inhalation, a pause and then a slow exhale as the cold crept through his legs and up his torso.
He ignored the slowing response of his body as though it were starting to refuse all movement and readied himself for the draw of the sword, his grip tightened and the Tsuba broke slightly from the scabbard in preparation, but then became immobile, frozen, as the swirling light before him swelled, filling the cave and a presence took form at it’s centre. The barbed tail loomed above him as the figure’s many arms outstretched.
Only the shallowest of breathing was possible and standing outside himself, he tried to ignore the commands that filled his consciousness and very being.
‘I am ready Oni!’
There was only the draw and the cut, nothing else.
The will fired but no movement came! Just a terrible heat and a feeling of being ripped from the world.
The light before his eyes began to stretch strangely and the last image his earthly eyes saw was his sword falling away as his arm turned to ashes.
The Arena of Antares. NOW…
The crowd roared the final moments of the countdown and the screens filled with burning red letters: “FIGHT!”
Musashi stood, impassive to the din and the laughter of Charon. Behind him, the sands had risen to form a Shinto shrine with a large hollow, Suzu bell by the entrance, it’s rope hung blood red in the light of the suns.
In his right hand, he felt the sure grip of his katana with the shorter wakazashi in his left. His arms parted to form a funnel with the twin blades that awaited the Spaniard who stood, some thirty paces away in front of a small grotto to the Virgin Mary, the eyes of her statue turned heavenward towards the scorpion lords far above.
The rapier in De Soto’s right hand, it’s blade a good 40 inches, whipped back and forth as he grinned, a dagger in his left hand.
"¿Así que tus hermanos salvajes te tienen por santo? ¡Prepárate a morir como perro hereje!"
This was broadcast around the arena by Charon, who relished an imitation of the Spaniard’s accent:
“So, your savage brothers consider you a saint? Prepare to die like a dog heretic!"
Cheering followed and applause from the masses, a sentiment not shared by Vunak, turning to Teach and Burton, concerned, he scanned their faces:
“Musashi’s gonna wait for him to cross the gap, he could be playing into his hands here…”
Burton agreed but reassured; “He has the advantage with weapon range and has a speed advantage here too, perhaps...oh here we go!”
He was cut short by the scream and charge of the Spaniard, frustrated by the unkept looking Japanese’s seeming inaction.
De Soto hurled himself across the divide between him and his foe, Musashi raised the points of both blades, retaining the funnel to receive the attack.
The Sevillian dagger flowed and parried as it encountered the layered steel of the katana, while the rapier sought the centre of the chest.
Musashi parried the narrow Spanish blade with the wakazashi, managing to disrupt it’s path across and away from his centreline but failed to clear himself from the sheer speed of the rapier’s tip as it found his right arm, piercing high at the bicep.
The next movements happened to the eyes of the lusting crowds above as a single fluid movement. The actions of the two men seemed to melt into one sudden flash of tangled steel and flesh.
There was only the cry of the Spaniard and the ringing song of steel that accompanied it.
Musashi threw a swinging backhand strike with the wakazashi to try and take De Soto’s head from his shoulders as the latter back-slipped while retracting the rapier from the Japanese's bicep.
De Soto seemed to hardly notice the shorter sword’s entry into his left jaw and up and across his cheekbone that opened a crimson canyon in his flesh as he returned inwards now towards his adversary with the tip of the dagger.
His hand pronated and drove deeply inwards towards the face.
For a brief instant Musashi saw the colours of the rainbow and the world became confused and distant as the dagger entered his right eye and passed into his brain, embedding it’s tip savagely in the inside wall at the back of his skull.
De Soto released the blade and the saint of the sword sank to his knees and then fell to the writing sands.
There was a stunned silence and the cameras that whined above moved in on high pitched rotors to show the last shudders of the swordsman’s left foot, and then repositioned instantly for a close up of his face and head, the weapon that was deeply impaled through his eye, lifted slightly with each thump of his faltering heartbeats until it at last became still and the arena erupted with adulation for the Spaniard’s performance.
De Soto turned, the wound on his face open like a second mouth through which the top teeth could be seen clearly as it poured blood.
Vunak slowly came to from his awe struck disbelief at the speed of De Soto’s despatch of the legendary swordsman. He was wide eyed, his mouth open speechless, and he had both arms outstretched his right hand grabbing Burton’s shirt and the left, Teach’s hair.
Neither man seemed to notice, Teach managing only to blurt out “Fuckin ‘ell!” as he stared at the slow motion replay on the giant screen across from them.
At the Red Gate, there were considerably darker emotions being felt by the few remaining members of Lee’s team.
Lee’s posture slumped and his muscular back bowed as he watched the same replay that repeated to the delight of Charon and the crowds.
Without looking at the silent Figg, he turned immediately and made his way to the camp slaves who were waiting some metres away.
‘Disaster!’
The word slipped through his iron will before it was dismissed and he tried to move his thinking to thoughts of preparation.
‘My God! Look at the state of them!’
Before him, the few meagre slaves, looked especially pathetic as he tried to appraise them for fighting potential. He switched gear:
“Men! You are about to earn a place in history as the warriors that defeated the… ah… remains of Blue Team! You shall share glory as members of my Dragon Force!!”
The human chattel before him looked at one another in confusion and a palpable emotion of fear began to move over the group. One dirt smeared male managed to gird himself and speak;
“B...but Sire, we are not able to...”
“Nonsense!” Exclaimed Lee, his finger pointing at the man, before softening and applying a charming smile as he moved to put his hand on the slave’s shoulder.
“Assemble the wooden training swords and those chairs over there and arm these men, for tonight we celebwate our victory and eternal glory!!”
The group stood silent, while behind the man in front of them, who with hands on hips, was mustering acting skills worthy of a Robert Clouse (2) Panavision close up to try and portray optimism and confidence, the bell of the Shinto shrine tolled gently for Miyamoto Musashi, Japan’s greatest proponent of the sword.
Continued next week!
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NOTES
0 – This area would become known as Alexander, Arkansas, USA and continue to be associated with murder (as some places seem to be), such as the deaths of Don Henry and Kevin Ives in “The boys on the tracks” case.
https://idfiles.com
The rock formation would become infamous over 400 years later due to a cover up scandal emanating from the settlement that sprung up there that was named after it: Little Rock, Arkansas.
0.5 - Miyamoto Musashi is often referred to as the "saint of the sword" or "Kensei" in Japanese, a title that reflects his unparalleled skill and mastery in swordsmanship. This title is an honorary moniker bestowed upon warriors with legendary swordsmanship skills, and Musashi's undefeated record in over 60 duels solidified his status as a Kensei.
1 - Fudo-za (不動座), a seated posture in Japanese martial arts and Zen practice inspired by Fudo Myo-o, the immovable wisdom king. It typically involves sitting cross-legged or in a stable, grounded position, symbolizing unyielding resolve and mental clarity.
2 – Robert Clouse (March 6, 1928 – February 2, 1997) was the director of “Enter The Dragon”. He was an American film director, screenwriter, and producer best known for directing the iconic martial arts film Enter the Dragon (1973), starring Bruce Lee. Here’s a quick overview:
Career Highlights: Clouse specialized in action and martial arts films. Enter the Dragon, his most famous work, was a groundbreaking Hollywood-Hong Kong co-production that popularized martial arts cinema globally and cemented Bruce Lee’s legacy. He also directed other notable films like Black Belt Jones (1974), The Game of Death (1978, completing Bruce Lee’s unfinished project), and The Big Brawl (1980) with Jackie Chan.
