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.
CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE
When Akitada opened his eyes, he looked again at the slain Kumo. The golden helmet had fallen off, and his face looked younger in death. The eyes were closed and the lips had relaxed as if he had merely fallen asleep. Akitada got up to make certain he was dead and disturbed the first fly on the bloody armor. Akitada felt neither triumph nor regret, only immeasurable exhaustion.
Staying on his feet took all the strength he could muster. He stumbled over to where Tora sat with Haseo. Tora had fashioned some sort of pad for Haseo’s belly wound. When Akitada gave him a questioning look, he shook his head. Belly wounds were fatal. Always. They were also agonizingly painful. Haseo’s eyes were closed, his lips compressed.
Akitada sat down on his other side. “How are you, my friend?” He took the big man’s callused hand in his.
Haseo’s eyes flicked open. He managed a smile. Akitada would always remember Haseo smiling. “A great fight,” Haseo murmured. He paused and added, almost inaudibly, “Wonderful!”
Akitada felt helpless. “Yes,” he said, glancing around with rising sickness at the scattered bodies and noticing for the first time that some of the peasants were timidly peering around corners and from windows. Life would go on.
But not for Haseo.
Tora said to Haseo, “I saw you fighting two of the bastards at the same time. People say it can’t be done, but you did it. I meant to ask you to teach me.”
Haseo smiled. “Thanks. You’ll learn. You’re not bad yourself.”
Akitada had been too hard-pressed to see him fight, but he remembered how Haseo had wished for a sword on the mountain and later longed for Tora’s weapon, and he wondered about his background. “I never asked your name,” he said.
There was a long pause, and he repeated his question. “What is your family name, Haseo?”
Haseo unclenched his bloody hand long enough to make a dismissive gesture. “Gone. Taken away. Sentence.” So they had not only sentenced him to exile, but stripped his family of their ancestral name. “What was it?” Akitada persisted.
At first it seemed that Haseo would not answer. But then he whispered, “Utsunomiya.”
“Utsunomiya. I’ll find your family and try to clear your name. Your sons will want to know of your courage.” Haseo opened his eyes then and looked at him. “It is too much to ask,” he whispered.
Akitada shook his head. “Not among friends.” He was about to ask more questions but there were shouts in the distance.
Someone was coming. Tora jumped up and ran to the road, while Akitada struggled to his feet and seized his sword. What now? More of Kumo’s soldiers? He had no strength left.
But Tora, shading his eyes, was looking toward the south.
He waved to Akitada to come. The distance suddenly seemed very great; Akitada shuffled like an old man, with small uncertain steps.
“It’s the governor, I think,” said Tora when Akitada reached him. Akitada shaded his own eyes. Yes, he could make out the banner flying in front of the cortege. “I thought he’d lost his power,” Tora remarked in a tone of surprise. “Wonder how he got anyone to come with him.”
They were on foot, probably some forty men, foot soldiers with halberds and bearers carrying the governor’s sedan chair. And now that they approached a town, they began to chant the traditional warning, “Make way for His Excellency, the governor! Make way!” Slowly the local people gathered by the roadside and knelt as the banner and sedan chair passed them.
The soldiers’ shouts became more urgent when neither Tora nor Akitada would step aside. Then they caught
