CHAPTER TWENTY

KUMO

Akitada slowly laid the flute on the floor between them.

Hot fury at the betrayal churned in his belly and pounded his temples. With an effort he kept his hands from shaking; with another effort he controlled his voice. “Where is Toshito?” There was a moment’s silence, then she said vaguely, “He’ll be back soon.”

Imagining what this might mean, Akitada clenched his hands. Then he gestured to the flute. “I cannot accept your generous gift after all.” When her eyes met his, puzzled, he added harshly, “And I am not beaten yet.” Rising abruptly, he inclined his head, saw with satisfaction that he had shocked her, and left the hut.

Outside, the early sun made golden patterns on the ground, and birds were singing, but the valley below still lay hidden in white mist. Masako was stirring the morning gruel in the kettle.

Akitada looked at her suspiciously. He had met with more female duplicity lately than in his entire previous life. It seemed likely now that she had told Ribata of his mission, and that Ribata had alerted Kumo.

Haseo was up. He stood at a spot overlooking the valley and shaded his eyes against the sun. High in the translucent sky circled the first kite. The world was dew-fresh and very beautiful.

Akitada had too recently emerged from continuous night not to feel an almost dizzying fear of losing his fragile freedom again.

“Haseo,” he called out. “We must leave.” Haseo did not turn. Instead he motioned to Akitada, who repeated, more urgently, “We must leave immediately. I think we have been betrayed.”

“Ah.” Haseo nodded without surprise and pointed to the foot of the mountain on the far side of the valley. Where the sunlight had melted away a narrow patch of fog, gray rocks and towering cedars floated like a small island in the sea of white which filled the rest of the valley.

And there, among the firs and pines, something sparkled and moved. As insignificant as ants at that distance, a small contingent of horsemen wove in and out between the trees and, one by one, disappeared into the misty sea. The scene was surreal, and they would have missed it, if the sun had not caught the shining helmet of the leader and then drawn the eyes to the rider who followed, a colored standard attached to the back of his armor.

There had been fewer than ten horsemen, but more might follow.

Akitada felt certain that the man in the gilded helmet was Kumo himself, eager to make an end of their cat-and-mouse game. He turned to look back at the hut, its drapery of morning glories an intense blue in the sun. Ribata had come out on the veranda, a small and frail figure in her grayish white nun’s habit.

Masako was looking from Ribata to them, a frown on her pretty face. No doubt Toshito was among the horsemen in the valley below, showing Kumo the way to the hermitage, certain that the women would keep their prey distracted.


Ribata called out, “What is the matter, my lord? Is something wrong?”

Ignoring her, Akitada turned back to Haseo and said in a low voice, “They will have to leave their horses below and climb up on foot. It gives us a little time. Kumo counts on surprising us, on finding two invalids taking shelter. We must go down the other side of this mountain. Masako said the road to Mano passes there. It’s not far.”

Haseo nodded. It was like him not to argue or ask questions.

Instead he said with a regretful grin, “A pity! They’re a mere handful apiece. What I wouldn’t give if we had a couple of swords!”

As they ran past the hermitage toward the forest, Ribata stepped in their way. “Stop! Where are you going?” she cried, her eyes anxious. “What is happening?” Akitada pushed her aside without answering.

The forest was still dark and gloomy, but the ground was soft with pine needles and dry leaf mold and they ran quickly, talking in short bursts.

“How are you today?” Akitada asked.

“Much better. I suppose that nun was healing me for whoever’s coming after us?”

“Yes. Kumo. A relative. I saw a golden helmet. Only Kumo’s rich enough for one of those.” Haseo was moving well, but Akitada suddenly felt guilty. He said, “It’s my fault. I brought you into this. Kumo’s after me.”

Haseo snorted. “You’re wrong. Anyone in the mine might’ve found out. He’s been stealing gold for years.”

“What?” Akitada almost stumbled over a tree root. “What do you mean?”

Haseo looked back over his shoulder, missed a step, and slid down the slope. He got back up and continued. “Don’t you know? You were chipping away at those rocks for two days.”

Of course, Akitada thought. How could he have missed it?

All those badger holes and baskets of rock with little or no silver in them! They had been after those tiny bits of yellow metal.

That was why he had pulverized the rocks, and why they had washed the gravel on that sluice. That was why there had been so many guards. Kumo was not mining silver for the emperor, but gold for himself. “Jisei!” Akitada cried. “I forgot to ask you about Jisei.”

Haseo stopped. “The little fellow in the stockade? What about him?”

“Someone killed him the night they took me to see the governor. Did you see anything?”

Haseo cursed softly. “Yes. I was sleeping, but he must’ve cried out. Those two pirates were having some argument with him. By the time I guessed what was happening and got to my feet, he was on the ground and the guards came. They took the two bastards away and put the little fellow on a litter. I thought he was only hurt.”

“They called it a fight between prisoners, but I think he was murdered. He knew about the gold and was blackmailing someone. That’s why he was so sure he was going home.” Haseo turned away. “Too late now! We’ve got to save our own tails. Come on!”

Yes, this time Kumo would make certain by killing them. A helpless rage filled Akitada as he plunged down the slope after Haseo. He would make Kumo pay for what he had done to him and to Jisei, make him fight for his gold, but not here. Not in this murky forest where you could find no firm foothold and where he would lie forgotten among the roots of giant cedars while spiders built their webs between his bones.

Halfway down the mountain, they found a barely noticeable track. Perhaps charcoal burners had come this way and had marked the easiest and most direct path down to the valley. They

were glad, for the rapid descent over the roughest parts had taken its toll. Going down a hill is faster than climbing it, but not necessarily less tiring for two men weakened by illness and blood loss and hampered by leg injuries. Only the knowledge that, in spite of their bravado, they had little chance against heavily armed men speeded their descent, and they emerged from the dim forest into almost blinding sunlight a scant hour later.

The view extended southward, across thinly forested lower slopes down to a sun-bright sea where Sawata Bay merged into the infinite expanse of ocean and sky. The highway beyond the foothills skirted the edge of the bay like a pearl-gray ribbon joining two pieces of fabric, one glistening silver, the other deep green. They could see the brown roofs of a town some distance away, and beyond that, farther along the vast bow of the shore, another, larger town-Mano. Fishing boats worked the shimmering bay and a large sailing ship lay at anchor nearby. Above stretched an immense pale blue sky streaked with streamers of thin clouds and dotted with black crows and white seagulls, circling and rising, swooping and plunging into the waves.

“The road’s empty,” said Haseo. “Maybe we’ll make it.” They trotted down the slope, skirting stunted pines and sending nesting birds aflutter, but Akitada knew that they could not keep up the pace much longer. Both of them limped and gasped for breath, and now, in the warm sun, sweat poured down their faces and bodies. It had been cooler in the forest, but the hard exercise had heated their blood. They chased a lone hare through the dry gorse down the hill, its white tail bobbing up and down before them, mocking their slow pursuit.

When they crested one low hill, they found another. They glanced over their shoulders and slapped at stinging gnats, and eventually they reached the road and started walking.

Apparently there was not much travel between the northern mountains and Mano, for they saw only one farmer, driving an ox with a load of firewood, and three women on their way to tend their fields. They attracted curious glances, but their greetings were returned and the peasants hurried on to their chores.

Then three horsemen came from the south.

Haseo stopped.“What now? Soldiers? Maybe we’d better hide.”

“Yes.” They crouched down behind some low shrubs on the embankment. Akitada narrowed his eyes. Only one of the horsemen was armed. The other two seemed to be peasants, unused to riding, because they sagged in their saddles. And the horses, all three of them, were mere nags. They could not be Kumo’s men. He touched Haseo’s shoulder. “Get ready. We need those horses. We won’t have a chance on foot.” Haseo began to laugh. “Wonderful! Look, the guy in front even has a sword. What luck!”

Only Haseo would consider this a fortunate circumstance.

Akitada was less sanguine. He had not formed any cogent idea how two half-naked scarecrows would convince a fully armed soldier to give up his weapons and horses to them. At least the soldier’s companions looked negligible. One seemed sick; his body not only slumped but swayed in the saddle. Someone had tied him to the horse to keep him from tumbling off. The other man was frail and no longer young. He clutched his horse’s mane and slipped at every bounce. Neither had any weapons that Akitada could see.

No, the only dangerous man was the one in the lead. Tall, a good horseman, and young, judging by his straight back and easy movements with the stride of his horse, he wore his helmet pulled forward against the sun, a breastplate, and a long sword. He was still too far away for them to guess his military rank, but possibly he also carried a second, shorter sword in his belt.

Then Akitada’s heart started beating wildly with a sudden hope. There was something very familiar about the set of those shoulders, the tilt of the head. “Dear heaven,” he muttered. “Tora?”

Haseo turned to look at him. “What?” Akitada gave a laugh. “Come on,” he cried, rising from behind the shrub, “I know that soldier.” He started into a stumbling run down the embankment, hardly thinking of his knee now.

The horseman saw them and reined in his horse. After a moment, he urged it forward again, but now his hand was on the hilt of his sword.

Akitada stopped and waited, grinning foolishly, chuckling from time to time, until Haseo shook his elbow. “Are you all right? Are you sure you know those people?”

“Only one of them, and yes, I’m sure.” The three horsemen approached at a slow pace. The two in back seemed to take little interest in them, but the young soldier stared, frowned, and stared again.

He came to a halt before them. “What do you want?” he asked, not unkindly. “I’ve no money to give you, but we can share a bit of food.”

“Thank you, Tora,” said Akitada. “That is very kind of you.

We missed our morning rice.”

“Amida! Oh, dear heaven! Can that be you, sir? Is it really, really you?” Tora bounded out of the saddle and ran up to Akitada, seized him around the waist, lifted him, and crushed him to his chest. He laughed, while tears ran down his face.

When he finally put the weakly chuckling Akitada back down, he said, “Sorry, sir. I was on my way to Kumo’s mine to look for you, and here you are. They said you were dead, and I’d started believing it.” He wiped his face with his sleeve.

“Never mind. An easy mistake. There was a time when I thought I was. This is my friend Haseo. We’re both on the run from Kumo’s men.”


It was said casually, as if they had just met on the street, old friends exchanging broad smiles and trivial news, but Tora was sobered instantly. “You look terrible,” he said. “I’ll kill the bastards.” This seemed to remind him of his companions. He turned, his face grim, and pulling his short sword, went to the man on the second horse. Akitada saw the bloodied, blackened, swollen face, the eyes so puffy that it was a wonder the man could see, and he heard the man’s high scream of fear, before he realized that he was looking at Wada and that Tora meant to kill him right here in the middle of the road to Mano.

“Wait!”

Tora turned, and Akitada saw the deadly determination in his eyes. “He dies,” Tora said, his voice flat. “He would’ve died yesterday, but I kept him around to show us the way.”

“Not here and not now,” Akitada said. “I don’t want to remember our meeting this way.”

Tora reluctantly put back his sword. He came to Akitada and took him into another bear hug.

“Thank you, my friend,” Akitada said when they finally released each other. “And who is your other companion?” Tora grinned. “That’s Turtle. A bit of a coward, but his heart’s good. He’s my servant.”

Akitada raised his brows. “I see you’ve risen in the world.

Congratulations on the new armor. You do look like a man in need of a servant.”

Tora had the grace to blush and looked at Haseo, who had sat down beside the road to adjust the bandage on his leg. “Your friend’s hurt?”

Haseo made Tora a slight bow. “It’s just a cut which likes to bleed. We’re anxious to get to Mano before Kumo catches up with us, and I’ve already caused too many delays with my infernal leg.”


“Never mind, Haseo,” said Akitada. “We can ride now. I see no reason to transport the despicable Wada. Let him run alongside. And Tora’s servant can walk, too.” Turtle slid from his horse and rubbed his behind. “Glad to,” he said cheerfully. “He’s not a very comfortable horse.” Tora unpacked his saddlebag and passed his spare trousers and robe to Akitada. To Haseo he gave the wide-sleeved jacket he wore over his armor. Then he frowned at their callused, scarred feet. “How did you walk like that?” he asked Akitada, taking off his boots.

Akitada said, “Thank you, but your boots won’t fit. And my feet have become accustomed to worse than road gravel.”

“Uh-oh!” Haseo grabbed his arm. He was looking up the road toward the north. Where the road disappeared around the foot of the mountain, a dust cloud had appeared. It moved rapidly their way.

“Kumo,” cried Akitada, and swung himself on Turtle’s horse. “Come on. We’ll try to outrun them.” Tora cut loose a whimpering Wada, who tumbled heavily onto the road, where Tora kicked him out of the way, and called to Haseo, “Here, get on!” before running to his own horse.

Turtle stood, staring at them with frightened eyes. “What’s happening?” he cried. “Who’s coming? Please, take me with you, master!”

Tora was in the saddle. “Sorry, Turtle. No time. Hide in some bush. If I can, I’ll come back for you.”

“Tora, your sword,” cried Akitada, bringing his horse alongside Tora’s. After the merest moment of hesitation, Tora passed over his long sword and offered his helmet, but this Akitada refused. Then they cantered off after Haseo.

The nags were not up to a chase. Having spent all their miserable lives in post stables, fed on small rations of rotting rice straw or trotting back and forth between the two coasts, carrying fat merchants or visitors on leisurely trips, they had never galloped. Now, beaten and kicked into a burst of speed, they lathered up, started wheezing and heaving, and eventually slowed to an agonized trot. Behind, the dust cloud came on rapidly, already revealing horses, men, and the flying banner.

Haseo shouted to Akitada, “We’ll have to make a stand. Are you any good with that sword?”

“Adequate,” Akitada shouted back. He had kept up his practice with Tora, and he was not about to give up the sword.

“Sorry.”

Haseo nodded. He eyed Tora’s short sword, but evidently decided against asking an officer in robust health to render up his only weapon to an invalid.

Looking about for a suitable place to face their pursuers, Akitada knew their chances of winning were slim. They were badly outnumbered and lacked weapons. Tora, with his short sword, would have to dismount, because a horseman had the reach on him with a long sword. His only chance was to fight on foot, slashing at the horses’ bellies or legs, and then killing the riders when they were tossed.

They approached the small town, a collection of fishermen’s huts strung along the bay, with farmhouses, a couple of manors, and a small temple set back on higher ground. The road skirted the bay with its hard shingle beach. On the other side were muddy rice paddies like irregular patches of dingy hemp cloth sewn on a ragged green gown.

“Stop at those first houses,” Akitada called to the others.

“The road narrows there, and we’ll use the house walls to cover our backs.”

“Like cornered rats,” Haseo shouted back, but he grinned.

Kumo was nearly on top of them. They had been seen a long way back, and their pursuers had whipped their horses into a gallop. Now they came, banner flapping, and raucous shouts of

victory mingling with the pounding of hooves. Akitada, Haseo, and Tora spurred their own nags into a last short burst of speed.

The first farm consisted of several independent buildings.

The main house with its steep thatched roof fronted the road, but barns, kitchens, and other low buildings clustered around and behind it. Narrow passages and small fenced gardens linked the buildings. There was no one in sight. The men were probably in the fields, and the women had gone into hiding when trouble arrived.

Haseo tumbled down before his horse had stopped. Half running, half limping, he went to a side yard where the farmer’s wife had pushed several tall bamboo poles in the ground to support her drying laundry. He pulled up one of the sturdier poles, letting the rest of the rig topple into the dirt, and weighed it in his hand. With a grunt of satisfaction, he joined the others.

Tora had also dismounted, his short sword drawn. Only Akitada remained in the saddle, blocking the road, Tora’s long sword in his hand as their pursuers halted in a cloud of yellow dust.

Kumo’s helmet was brilliant in the sun, his armor, trimmed with green silk, also shone with gold, and a golden war fan flashed in his raised hand. The banner bore the insignia of the high constable. Kumo’s men were all armed, their armor polished, their bows over their shoulders, and their swords drawn.

Bright red silk tassels swung from the horses’ bridles. Their faces were avid with excitement, with the hunger for blood. Only Kumo looked utterly detached, his lips thin and his forehead furrowed in a frown of distaste.

Akitada waited to see what Kumo would do. He no longer felt the pain in his knee, or weariness, or even fear. He wanted to meet this man sword to sword. He wanted to kill him more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.


Kumo shouted across, “Give yourselves up, in the name of the emperor.”

In the name of the emperor? Akitada laughed.

Scowling, Kumo brought his horse a little closer. “I am the high constable. You’re escaped convicts and under arrest.” Akitada shouted back, “You know who I am, Kumo. Sugawara Akitada, imperial envoy. You’re under arrest for treason.

Tell your men to lay down their swords.” Kumo’s people burst into laughter in their turn, but Kumo raised his golden fan, and they fell quiet. “You’re outnumbered,” he shouted. “If you don’t give up, you’ll be cut down like dogs.”

“Try it, you bastards!” shouted Haseo, stepping forward and swinging his bamboo pole. Akitada hoped he was as skilled at stick-fighting as Tora.

“If you want a fight, Kumo,” he shouted back, “let it be between the two of us.”

Kumo was heavily armed and sat on one of his magnificent horses, while Akitada wore nothing but Tora’s trousers and robe and rode a worn-out nag which stood wide-legged, its head hanging in exhaustion. Akitada was also becoming conscious of the weight of Tora’s sword. He was much weaker than he had thought.

But his anger kept him there. This man had done his best to kill him slowly and horribly and had failed. Now Akitada wanted a quick and clean kill of his own. He could taste the sweetness of such a victory, knew he could not lose, and gloried in the moment.

But Kumo gave him a look of contempt, then turned his horse and rode up the embankment. There he stopped and waited for his bannerman. It dawned on Akitada that he had refused single combat and would conduct this like a battle, as a general from a safe distance.

A battle? Stunned by this ridiculous turn of events, the fury at the insult still gripping his belly like a burning vise, Akitada bellowed after him, “Stand and fight, you coward!”

Kumo ignored him. The great man would not fight a mere convict. He raised his fan and pointed it at Akitada, and his men burst into raucous cries, spurred their horses, and came at him, swords flashing in the sun, the horses’ flying hooves splattering gravel.

Later Akitada could not remember how he had met their charge, what had given him the strength to grip his horse between his legs and force it to the side of the road so the attackers had to pass on his right. The animal was stolid enough, but with a sudden onrush of so many riders, it kept backing and sinking onto its hindquarters, its eyes rolling in its head with fear. Because the road was narrow, they came single file. Soldier after soldier passed, each one slashing down or across with his sword, in an almost comical imitation of a parade-ground drill, except that he was the bale of rice straw they practiced on. He parried, hacked, slashed, and swung the heavy sword, felt each jarring contact with steel, the impact traveling up his arm like fire; but he feared making body cuts more, because the blade could get caught in the other man’s armor and there would be no time to free it. Below him, on either side, Haseo and Tora slashed and swung their weapons, but he was hardly aware of them because the enemy came so fast.

And then they were past.

Two riderless horses galloped off, and two groaning men rolled on the ground, their blood soaking into the hot earth. A wounded horse screamed dreadfully, its legs flailing in the air as it rolled on the body of its rider. Tora grinned up at him, his sword dripping blood.

“That’s three of the bastards,” he called.

Akitada nodded. Kumo had foolishly given them the advantage by sending his men singly at them. True, the road was narrow, but if he had ordered his men to use their bows and arrows, or to dismount and attack on foot, their numbers would have made short work of three weak adversaries. He glanced up the road where the remaining five soldiers gathered for a return sweep, and then at Kumo, who was watching impassively from his embankment.

Haseo’s bamboo pole lay broken, but he helped himself to the sword of the dead man under the wounded horse, then stepped forward and quickly cut the suffering beast’s throat. Its blood drenched him, but he returned to the others, swinging the sword triumphantly, his face exultant.

Up on his embankment, Kumo raised his fan, and here they came again, hooves thundering on the roadway, frenzied shouts ringing, long, curved blades slashing and hissing through the air. Akitada attempted to turn his horse, but this time the abused nag had had enough. With a frenzied whinny, it reared, unseating Akitada, and took off down the empty roadway ahead of the attackers, legs flying.

Akitada fell onto the road, but managed to roll out of the way of the pounding hooves. Slashing swords missed him by inches. When they were past, he tried to get up, staggered, then saw one horseman turning back, bent low over his horse’s neck, his sword ready. Akitada was still swaying when a strong hand grasped the back of his robe and pulled him out of the way.

Haseo.

Muttering his thanks, Akitada rubbed dust from his eyes and shook his head to clear it. Somehow he still gripped his sword. The horseman reined in, turned, and charged again, scattering loose stones and screaming hoarsely. Tora was now beside Akitada, crouched low, his short sword ready. Akitada caught only a glimpse of Haseo’s face; he was grinning, his eyes bright with the joy of battle. Then the rider was upon them and they jumped clear, slashing at his horse’s legs. They heard the animal scream, saw the man fall, and then the other horsemen came, and they slashed and swung some more, and thrust at horses, at the legs of men, ducking and parrying the swords of their attackers. This time, they wounded two horses and killed one man, but Haseo was bleeding from a cut to his shoulder, and Tora’s sword was broken.

“Back,” gasped Akitada. “We’ve got to get back to the buildings where they can’t ride us down. We’ll force them to meet us on foot.” A strange exhilaration had seized him. He wanted to taste victory and savor its sweetness.

He and Haseo ran to the narrow passageway between the farm and an outbuilding. Up on the ridge, Kumo was shouting orders again. His bannerman now joined the remaining soldiers. Only five left? No time to count.

Tora, swordless, was slowly backing away from a horseman who had been thrown by his wounded horse and attacked on foot. Tora crouched, dodged, and jumped out of the way of the furious sweeps of the other man’s sword. Akitada rushed forward, swung down hard, and severed the man’s sword hand at the wrist. The wounded man was still staring stupidly at the stump when Tora snatched up the fallen sword and ran it through the man’s throat. The body arched back, the man’s eyes already glassy in death. When Tora jerked free the blade, the wound vomited forth a stream of blood like a second mouth.

The man fell forward, convulsed, and lay still.

On the road the four other soldiers had dismounted and were coming toward them, slowly now, swords in hand, in a half crouch. Kumo had finally realized his mistake.

But still the high constable kept his distance, alone and aloof on his magnificent horse, waiting and watching.

They faced the oncoming enemy side by side, the wall of the farmhouse to their right, and the fence of the drying yard to the left. There was not enough room for the attackers to get past and come at them from the back, but if Kumo’s men remembered their training, they could easily overcome them by working together. It is impossible to parry two swords simultaneously if one slices from above and the other thrusts from below at the belly.

Akitada warily watched as two men came for him. When they decided to move, one raised himself on his toes with an earsplitting shriek and rushed Akitada, his sword held above his head with both hands. He clearly hoped that Akitada would back away and he could bring his sword down to split Akitada’s head. Fortunately, this dramatic attack caused the second man to hesitate, and Akitada, instead of backing away, crouched and lunged, his sword held in front with its blade pointing upward. His attacker impaled himself with such force that the sword penetrated to the hilt, and Akitada had to put his foot against the body to pull it free in time to meet the belated attack of the second man.

Whether this one had learned from his mate’s mistake or was afraid for his life, he circled back and forth without making a move. Akitada could hear the clanging of steel against steel, the thumps and grunts, as Haseo and Tora dealt with their opponents, but he did not take his eyes off this man, for a lapse in attention could cost him his life.

In the end it was the other man who glanced away to see how his companions were faring, and Akitada quickly slipped under his guard and killed him.

He stood, rubbing his sore right arm, looking around him in a daze, and saw that they had survived and their attackers had not. Four bodies lay in the farmhouse passageway, some still, some twitching, one vomiting blood. Tora looked unhurt, and at first glance Haseo also, but then Akitada saw the hand pressed against the abdomen, the fixed smile, the defiant wide-legged stance, and knew something was terribly wrong.

“Haseo?”

“The bastard got me from below, I’m afraid,” said Haseo through stiff lips.

“How bad is it?”

“Bad. I’m afraid to take my hand away, but it went in pretty far. I think I’d better sit down.”

They helped Haseo, leaned him against the fence. Akitada looked at Haseo’s hand, pressed hard against his waist, and saw the blood seeping through the fingers. His heart contracted in pity.

“Sir!” Tora pulled his arm and pointed.

Kumo was finally coming down from his embankment. At the farmhouse, he dismounted, tying up his horse, and walked toward them. Akitada rose and seized his sword.

Kumo stopped about ten feet away. Close up, he still looked magnificent, tall and slender, with his golden helmet and his gold-trimmed armor laced in green silk. But the handsome face was pale and covered with perspiration.

“So,” he said, his right hand clasping his sword, its hilt also gold but its blade gleaming blue steel, “you have left me no choice.”

“You have that backward, Kumo. You chose this way. It’s too late now to complain because you have chosen death.” Kumo laughed bitterly. “You fool! I could have killed you many times myself. I could have had you killed by my men. But I did not. Now you force me to commit the ultimate sin, the sin which will cost me eternity.”

What nonsense was this? In any case, the slow death Kumo had condemned him to in his mine would have been much worse than any quick strike of the sword. Then Akitada caught a glimmer of sense in what Kumo had said. He gestured at the farmyard and the road, both covered with the corpses of men and horses, the stench of their blood filling the hot midday air and attracting the first buzz of flies. “This is your handiwork, Kumo. You are the bringer of death, as guilty as if you had shed their blood yourself.”


“No!” Kumo flushed with anger. “I never touched them.

My hands are clean. I never killed man or beast.” He stared at Akitada, at Tora and Haseo behind him, then back at Akitada.

“Now you force me to kill you and your companions. The great undertaking must not be jeopardized. I am sacrificing my Buddhahood for my emperor.” He made a deep bow toward the sea; then the hand with the sword came forward.

Akitada stood, his sword loose in his hand, its point downward. He thought of the difference between them: Kumo rested and fully armed, both his body and head protected by that extraordinary suit of armor, with a superb blade on his sword-

he, in Tora’s blue robe and pants, both now blood-spattered, neither his head nor his body protected, exhausted, favoring an injured leg, and fighting with an ordinary sword borrowed from Tora. He put these thoughts aside quickly in the knowledge that, nevertheless, he would not, could not lose this fight.

He knew nothing of Kumo’s swordsmanship, though his men had been trained if inexperienced, but that did not matter.

Kumo would die, here, and by his hand.

But Kumo said a strange thing, and Akitada’s confidence fled “Come on and fight,” Kumo said. “You enjoy killing. I watched you and I can see it in your eyes now.” Akitada lowered his sword and stepped back; he wanted to deny the charge but knew that there was truth in it and that the truth was profoundly disturbing. He tried in vain to put it from his mind.

Kumo used this moment of weakness to attack. Akitada parried instinctively. Then their blades met again and again, sharply, steel against steel, each parry a painful tremor in Akitada’s arm, and Akitada realized that Kumo’s way of fighting was done by rote, that he had memorized moves and practiced them, but that, like his men, he had never fought a real opponent. And as he became aware of this, he also recognized the fear in Kumo’s eyes. Kumo was stronger and quicker than he was, but his clumsy handling of his sword made his end certain and quick.

Akitada lunged for Kumo’s wrist, pierced his sword guard, and twisted sharply. Kumo cried out, releasing his grip, and Akitada flung Kumo’s sword in a wide arc through the air. It struck point down in the dirt, the golden hilt vibrating in the sun.

Their eyes met. This was the moment for Kumo to surrender, and Akitada was so certain he would that he lowered his sword. But the man surprised him by snatching a short sword from his sash. When he attacked, Akitada’s long sword came up.

Kumo met its point below his right arm where neither shoulder guard nor body armor protected him. It was one of the few places an experienced fighter aimed for when confronted by a fully armed enemy, but there had been no design in Akitada’s action. He felt the impact along the blade of his sword, the brief halt as the point met bone, then heard the bone part, and the blade plunged deeply into Kumo’s body.

When Akitada stepped back, bringing the sword with him, Kumo stood swaying, a look of surprise on his face. Then the short sword fell from his hand, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but blood poured forth and ran down his beautiful armor. His knees buckled and he sank slowly to the ground.

Akitada looked from his dead enemy to the bodies of men and horses and at the dying Haseo tended by Tora. The scene blurred, and he sat down, bending his head in exhaustion and relief.

It was not yet midday.

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