slashing at oneman’s thighs, then brought up his blade to sweep the other man’s sword aside.The Uesugi warrior screamed and fell, and suddenly he was no longer alone. Torawas beside him, shouting, “Kill the bastards!” as he cut off a man’s head in aspray of blood. Akitada’s blade scraped across a breastplate, driving anotherfighter back. He followed, aiming for the unprotected neck of his helmetlessadversary. The other twisted away, and the blade missed, slicing deeply intohis arm instead. Akitada’s sword became entangled in the cords of the other man’sarmor. He kneed him in the groin and jerked it free. And then he saw his wayclear and made for the dais, dodging one blade, and slashing at another, hiseyes on Uesugi.
The Lord of Takata had jumpedup, sword in hand, his round face as white as his robe. The small eyes bulgedand his mouth was open. He saw Akitada coming for him, but he stood, sworddangling, frozen and speechless.
So it was going to be easyafter all, thought Akitada, surprised-almost disappointed. He simply stepped upon the dais and placed the tip of his sword against Uesugi’s throat. “Stop thefighting!” he shouted over the noise of clashing swords and the cries of thewounded. He told Uesugi, “It’s over. Tell your men to surrender!”
It became quiet in the hall.
Uesugi swallowed, then noddedhis head violently, causing the tip of Akitada’s sword to nick his throat. Afew red drops fell on the white silk of his robe. He looked down, whimpered,then sat, muttering, “Blood. She said blood on snow. Blood on the snow!”Raising his hands to Akitada, he cried, “I surrender, I surrender! Don’t killme! I will serve the emperor. I have many men, much influence. A treaty. We canmake a treaty. I guarantee protection against the northern barbarians inexchange for my life.” Behind Akitada someone cursed loudly-one of Uesugi’smen.
Akitada put up his sword andturned away in disgust. Two of the Takata warriors, both wounded, had loweredtheir swords at Uesugi’s cry of surrender. Tora was leaning against a pillar.He bled from several wounds. Akitada looked for the others. Kaoru, also bloody,pulled his sword from the belly of a fallen Uesugi fighter and released a redtide. His victim died with a shout and convulsion, and Kaoru gave Akitada anod.
Hitomaro, miraculouslyunscathed, stood in a pool of blood above a fallen warrior, sword gripped inboth hands, on his face the fierce snarl of one of the guardian spirits attemple gates. He was looking around for more butchery, but the last two Uesugiofficers dropped their swords with grim faces and knelt. It was over.
“Who is second in command here?”Akitada snapped.
One warrior looked around atthe bodies, then rose.
“You heard your master. Gooutside and order your men to lay down their arms. This stronghold has fallenand Lord Uesugi is my prisoner.” As an afterthought, he added, “In the name ofhis most august Majesty.”
At that moment, Akitada savoredthe intoxicating taste of victory. His hands and knees trembled with theemotion. But he reminded himself that the credit for their success must beshared and turned to Kaoru. “You may take charge of Takata manor.”
Then, with hideous irony,fortune turned.
Akitada had shifted hisattention from Kaoru to Tora, to ask about his wounds. As their eyes met,Akitada saw Tora’s widen in sudden horror. What happened next would alwaysremain a blur in his memory. He heard a hoarse, almost inhuman roar, and sawHitomaro rush at Uesugi with a drawn sword.
Instinctively Akitada steppedin front of his prisoner and into Hitomaro’s path. The force of their collisioncost them both their balance. Akitada was flung aside and half fell. He saw hisburly lieutenant falter and change the grip on his sword, saw Uesugi up andmoving forward with his sword, saw Hitomaro stagger back, then swing his bladein a wide arc.
It was all over in a breath,but compressed into that moment were sounds as well as sights, the stamping offeet, the clatter of the toppled campaign stool, the rustle of Uesugi’s silksand hiss of Hitomaro’s sword, human grunts, and then the heavy thud of bodiesfalling onto the wooden dais. And silence.
He was sickened. A singlemistake, a wrong move, and triumph had turned to despair.
Uesugi and Hitomaro laysprawled across the dais in a parody of embracing lovers. The Lord of Takatawas dead. His head, partially severed, rested oddly next to his right shoulderin a quickly widening pool of gore; the piggish eyes had rolled upward, showingtheir whites, and his teeth were bared in a final snarl. The horned helmet laynear Akitada’s feet, which were speckled with blood. And Uesugi’s snowy silkrobe now bore the crimson blossoms of his violent death.
Hitomaro, who had fallen partlyacross Uesugi’s body, slowly rolled onto his back. His left hand was at hischest, clutching the blade of Uesugi’s sword which protruded from his ribs. Hegrimaced with pain. The fingers of his right hand relaxed around the grip ofhis own bloodstained blade.
Tora came and bent over hisfriend. When he straightened up, he had a strange, hurt look on his face. “Sir?”
The blood bubbling up betweenthe sword and Hitomaro’s hand was bright red and foamy. There was no survivingsuch a wound to the lungs. Akitada fell to his knees beside him.
“My friend,” he pleaded,putting his hand on the one that still gripped the deadly blade. “Pleaseforgive me.”
Hitomaro looked up at him andshook his head. “Nothing to forgive … I wanted death,” he mouthed,half- choking. Then, making a great effort, he added, “Sorry about. . .” and coughed once, blood trickling from the corner of his- mouth into his beard. “Too much . ..” He raised himself up a little, coughed again, then vomited a crimson flood and fell back.
Akitada got up. He looked aboutthe room blindly. “How did this happen? Why did Hitomaro attack Uesugi? Therewas no need. Uesugi had surrendered. It was all so easy. Why?”
Tora said, “Uesugi drew his sword, sir. While you had your back to him. The slimy coward was going to cut you down. Hitomaro stopped him.”
A grim-faced Kaoru walked up and stood staring down at the two corpses. “A warrior’s death for Hitomaro,” he said. “No man could die better than this.”
Without a word, Akitada turned and strode from the hall. Out in the gallery, he stepped over the dead warriors and threw wide a shutter to gulp in the frigid air. Sleet had gathered like grains of rice on the sill. Below, the land lay dark and forbidding under the heavy clouds. Faintly, the sound of temple bells came on the wind from the distant city.
The icy air settled his stomach a little. His face tingled with cold and when he touched it, he found it wet with tears. Ashamed, he rubbed the moisture away. From the courtyard below rose the victorious shouts of Takesuke’s men. He leaned forward and looked down. The Sugawara family crest blazed on the banners. This day he had taken an impregnable fortification for the emperor but lost a loyal friend.
Looking down at his hands he saw that they were stained with blood-Hitomaro’s along with that of too many other men he had killed. How was he to live with his friend’s blood on his hands? Hitomaro had saved his life, and he had stupidly stepped in his way and caused his death as surely as if he had held Uesugi’s sword himself. He clenched his fists until his nails bit deeply into his palms.
Something soft and white drifted in. A snowflake. For him this snow country would always be tinged with blood. He sighed deeply and glanced toward the north pavilion overhanging the ramparts, site of the death of the previous Lord of Takata and the murder of his faithful servant Hideo. It reminded him that he had one more errand to perform.
Hunching his shoulders against the icy air, he walked quickly down corridors. A maid peered from an open doorway, paled at the sight of his blood-smeared face and hands, and ran. When he reached the open gallery, he found that the wind had died down, but the snow still fell softly and silently. There was very little smoke now, and he realized that they must have extinguished the fire.
The door to the north pavilion was unlocked, and inside everything looked the same. He had worried that Uesugiwould order a thorough cleaning, but either respect or superstition had caused him to leave the room untouched.
He went to the window above thet hick mat where the old lord had died. The crooked blind of speckled bamboo wasas he remembered it, and beside the mat was the chest which held the dead man’s bedding and his writing set, the single clue to what had happened that night.
Stepping on the mat, he untied the bamboo shade, half afraid that his guess had been wrong. But it unrolled with a rush and clatter, releasing a sheet of paper which fluttered to hisfeet. The thick mulberry paper was covered with spidery script and bore a crimson seal.
