hand with considerable prowess. Many now lay their torches down by the side of the road to draw their other sword before engaging the Japanese. There was no doubt that the Siamese soldiers were a force to be reckoned with. There was another moment of quiet as the attackers paused not five yards away from the defenders, waiting for the order to attack. They could hear each other breathing. Then the order came, with a deafening clash of blades the two forces slammed against each other in the soft red sand of the road.
The Japanese held their line, cutting down wave after wave of charging Siamese. The Siamese were powerful warriors indeed, but the men of Nihonmachi were more highly skilled, having undergone rigorous samurai training before seeking their fortunes in this far off land. It was widely considered that the Japanese were the most feared of all fighting men in Asia; certainly they were the most fearless. These men, facing an overwhelming force, had one thing in their favor the Siamese did not-they were fighting for the survival of their loved ones. The longer they held out, the longer their women and children had to flee what would surely be carnage to come. Still, they were not invincible and inexorably some samurai fell to lie beside the slain of their former allies in the blood-drenched dust.
“Look! Some of them have gone around through the rice fields, they’re crossing the road into the south part of town!” one of the men cried out.
“Fall back, follow the plan! Those that can get free quickly run and head those bastards off!” Ishida commanded.
Yoriaki was engaged with a man who he was acquainted with from his time in the royal guard. He had been trying to only wound the fellow and put him out of the fight alive, but his opponent didn’t seem to recognize him and fought savagely. “Sorry, friend,” Yoriaki told him in Siamese, then with a lightning fast swing of his katana he beheaded the man. Freed up from the melee, he instantly ran to the south end of town, joining some twenty or so others. They cut the town at an angle so they could get between the Siamese and the beach. Yoriaki saw flames shooting up; the Siamese were pausing to torch the houses. Good, that would slow them down and let him and the other men form a line. Yoriaki saw his own home beginning to burn as he ran by, the man who held the torch turning to go light the next. He lost his head without even seeing Yoriaki coming.
Suddenly five more enemies appeared in the path from the road, a row of houses blazing behind them. Their work done, they were now headed toward the water to make what mischief they could amongst the fleeing townsfolk. Yoriki ploughed into them, gutting the first three before they had time to react. He was in full fighting fury now, his weapon and body working as one, his mind focused only on the killing. Of the remaining two, the senior and more skilled forced an engagement, skillfully bringing his sword into close quarters with Yoriaki’s, the blades ringing in a furious dance of death. Yoriaki saw the second opponent was going to try to get behind him. Wielding his longsword one-handed temporarily, Yoriaki’s free hand snaked out to grab that one by his wrist, snapping the bones with a well-practiced twist. The man’s animal-like cry caused his companion to pause for a split second, leaving his belly exposed. Yoriaki’s sword flashed as it passed deeply into the soft flesh with a single upward slice then continued in an arc to enter the disabled attacker’s neck behind the ear. Both men went down in twitching heaps on the cobblestones. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath after the intense encounter, Yoriaki heard shrieks coming from behind him, the cries of women.
Yoriaki ran faster than he ever had in his life, the breath pumping in and out of him with the force of a blacksmith’s bellows. He arrived to the beach to find three men of Nihonmachi facing three times their number near the shore, behind them several families were wading waist-deep into the water, women and children crying in fear. One of the women (Not Momo!) hadn’t made it, she lay folded up on the beach in her blood-soaked kimono like a crumpled origiami sculpture discarded by a careless child.
So far Yoriaki had fought nearly without emotion and simply out of necessity; although terrible to be sure the night’s tragedy was not something their opponents had any choice about, they were following their orders. He had killed without hate, having fought at the side of these Siamese in the past and regretted being pitted against them because of one evil man’s greed. But now that he saw they didn’t intend just to burn Nihonmachi down and cast its people out but were bent on slaughtering the innocents as well, Yoriaki felt a rage build in him. With an inarticulate scream he dove at the Siamese soldiers, his blade a wet, red whirlwind gleaming in the glow of their burning homes. One, two, three Siamese fell before him in a row, the fourth had time to block his blow before the next slew him. Yoriaki’s onslaught gave the Japanese the advantage again, the savageness of his attack inspiring them to redouble their own. Shortly Yoriaki and his three comrades stood over the corpses of their enemies.
“They are trying to kill our families now,” one of the men said, one Nakagata, who was still technically employed by the Siamese king but had taken a few days off to get over a cold. “That bastard Prasat Thong, I’d like to cut his head off myself.”
“You may get your chance,” another answered. “We will have our revenge for this.”
Yoriaki, pausing to catch his breath, watched a boat come near the shore manned by several of the holy fathers from the Portuguese side of the river. They helped the wading women and children clamber in, then began to paddle away, looking for more in need of rescue. One of the fathers recognized Yoriaki and silently gave him a blessing with a pale, trembling hand. Suddenly Yoriaki felt a spear of ice go through him. “Momo!” he cried as he turned south to look farther down the beach. The big tree stood some twenty yards away. His boat was there but he couldn’t see anyone in it. Nearby, a body lay obscured by the tall grass. “My wife!” Yoriaki broke into a sprint, behind him he could hear the others following.
Half out of his mind with fear he arrived under the tree to find that that the body was that of a Siamese soldier, not his beloved wife. He scanned the boat to see if she was lying within but it was empty. Before he could call out her name another band of Siamese appeared, chasing a young girl of fourteen, the daughter of Yoriaki’s neighbors, a paper screen maker and his Laoatian wife. The girl sobbed in terror; her sticklike arms dripped blood from small cuts where they had toyed with her, torturing the mouse a bit before landing the final blow of the claw. As one Yoriaki and his comrades moved inland. As the girl ran through their ranks, Yoriaki ordered her to get in his boat and cast off, but he wasn’t sure she even heard him such was her terror.
Now the four of them faced an even greater number, a full twenty Siamese. Even so, the enemy slowed down and came to a stop some yards away from the samurai. Yoriaki, in the grip of a terrible wrath, was surprised to find himself speaking.
“What has happened to this fair and lawful kingdom?” Yoriaki challenged them in their own language. “What has happened to the brave and noble warriors of the Siamese who fought at our sides like men? How can it be that they have turned so quickly into a pack of rabid curs, cowards attacking their neighbors in the night at the order of a pretender king? How have you come to such a low pass?”
“Shut up, you scum. You’re no warrior, just the man who sells lunches along the docks,” their chief officer snarled back, but Yoriaki knew his words had stung. “How can you dare judge the will of great King Prasat Thong? He is wise, our benefactor and protector!”
This made Yoriaki laugh. “I can guess how this has happened. He must have paid you well to turn on your truest allies. Your honor was bought with coin from the child killer, what price did it take to make you his dogs? I may not be a warrior any more but I have money. I make a good living, perhaps I can buy you myself. How much? Name your price, you sons of bitches!” Yoriaki’s comrades began to laugh. One of them pulled a bag of silver coin from his belt and threw it so that it spilled out across the enemies’ feet. Yoriaki did the same, joining in the laughter. “There it is, just lick it up off the ground, dogs, the same way you lick Prasat Thong’s feet for favors.”
That last jibe was more than enough to push them over the edge. The enraged soldiers came running forward haphazardly, forgetting their discipline. This made it easy for Yoriaki and his three allies; they cut down the first eight of them nearly effortlessly, making a pile of severed limbs and heads between them and the remaining force. The officer bellowed at his remaining men to get back into a formation. They men listened then, awed by the sight of their slaughtered comrades, but still brave and offended enough not to retreat. Yoriaki’s heart sank to see another ten men arrive behind them; having no more houses left to burn they had come to the riverside to join in what they thought would be the massacre of fleeing civilians. Yoriaki felt a grim pride that they had prevented the worst of that. He gripped his katana tightly and prepared for the next round of battle. The Siamese grinned smugly now at their superior numbers and began a slow, methodical advance. Yoriaki stole a glance at the men with him. Silently they agreed; they would make their stand here. The four of them formed a square, ready for the Siamese to surround them. As one they backed toward the river’s edge, knowing the water would impede anyone who came at them from behind.
The enemy saw what they planned and pressed forward, but the Japanese were ready for them. The four samurai stood their ground at the water’s edge, their superior swordsmanship holding back the Siamese onslaught.
