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
