Year of the Demon

earlier, Katsushima had been kneeling in the judge’s position, yet despite the gray in his topknot and bushy sideburns, he moved as swiftly as any bird of prey. Even on the best of days, it took Daigoro the space of several breaths to rise from kneeling.

Today was not the best of days. Pain burned like a torch in his right hand, and of course his right leg was no help. Even at birth it was skinnier than either of his arms, and now with only one good hand and one good leg, it was just another weight he had to move to get himself back to standing.

The sand of the courtyard was warm under his palm. The wind made the trees whisper on all sides of the Okuma compound, and a dust devil whirled in one corner of the compound’s weathered wooden walls. Daigoro could smell the salt of the ocean on the breeze, and the promise of spring rain, though the only clouds were far toward the horizon. On the opposite side of the courtyard sat Lord Sora, resplendent in his yellow kimono and bright orange haori. His long white beard swayed in the breeze as he regarded the combatants, and suddenly Daigoro felt ashamed of his sand-dusted hakama.

At length Daigoro managed to get to his feet, and with his wooden sword trembling in the two usable fingers of his right hand, he bowed to Sora Samanosuke. The champion of the Sora clan returned the bow and both fighters retired to their sides of the courtyard, Daigoro limping and Sora all but floating. He’d been the underdog, and now his chest swelled with pride.

“What have I told you about patience?” Katsushima said as Daigoro lowered himself to a kneeling position. “You mustn’t press a fighter who wants to be pressed. You’re letting him draw you off your guard.”

Daigoro opened his mouth to respond, then bit down hard as ice-cold spikes of pain lanced through his right hand. He looked down to see Tomo, his baby-faced retainer, peeling his fingers away from his bokken’s grip. Tomo looked up, his ever-present smile bending into a wince. “I’m so sorry, Okuma-dono. Setting the bones is best done quickly.”

Daigoro wondered how a simple potter’s boy could know that. But he could also imagine the pain Tomo would have inflicted by taking his time in straightening the fingers. Better to do it as Tomo had done: swiftly, in one go. Daigoro fought down a wave of nausea and tried to center his concentration somewhere else— anywhere else, anywhere other than his hand.

“I cannot understand you,” Katsushima said, his tone sharper than it should have been. He might have been thirty years’ Daigoro’s senior, but Daigoro was the lord of the house. Then again, Katsushima had sworn no oaths to House Okuma. He’d taken no payment for services rendered. It was true that he’d been acting as Daigoro’s swordmaster, and he’d taken on the role of mentor in a more general sense, but strictly speaking he was more of a houseguest. The man was ronin, plain and simple.

“This is your seventh straight loss with the bokken,” Katsushima said, “and the seventeenth in your last twenty duels. Yet with steel you’re untouchable. Why?”

Because I don’t want to kill anyone, Daigoro thought. Because so long as I don’t wish to kill anyone, Glorious Victory Unsought will never let me lose. And because once you’re in the habit of dueling with steel, playing with bokken is about as serious as monkeys chasing each other through the treetops. This is a game, and one I only play because I have to.

Then that ice-cold pain hammered deep down into the bones of his hand. He looked down and saw Tomo had tied the top two fingers together. They were purple and swollen, but Tomo’s sure hands and a long cotton ribbon would see them bound as painlessly as possible. Some game, Daigoro thought.

“Your focus is as leaky as an old grass roof,” said Katsushima. “Listen to me. Why can you not show the same patience with wood as you do with steel? You never overextend yourself with Glorious Victory. You could have had this Sora boy and you gave the match away.”

“No,” Daigoro said, and he was about to explain why Katsushima was wrong, but then he remembered: Katsushima didn’t believe in enchanted blades. Tales of magic were for farmers’ wives, he said, and now was not the time to rekindle that debate. Daigoro had to prepare himself for a very different conversation.

So instead he said, “It hardly matters now.” He had taken the first point but lost the last two. In a few moments Katsushima would call out both fighters and announce Sora the winner. But on the positive side, Daigoro thought—still trying to keep his mind off his ruined right hand—at least the Soras won’t ask me to duel with steel. Glorious Victory is too heavy for me even at my best. Today I’m not sure I could even keep her tip off the ground.

Katsushima shook his head, gave the tiniest of snorts, and returned to the center of the courtyard. “Fighters, bow!”

Daigoro stood, bokken in his left hand and cold, piercing pain in his right, and bowed. “Fighters, approach!” said Katsushima, and the two duelists marched in lockstep with each other to meet Katsushima in the middle.

“Winner, Sora Samanosuke.”

And that’s that, thought Daigoro, bowing deeply to his opponent. Now we can get down to what’s important. He’d never had much taste for dueling. For years he’d wondered whether he might have felt differently if he’d been born tall and strong like his father or brother, but at the moment he wondered only about how quickly he might have been able to get down to business if everyone else weren’t so taken with duels.

Glorious Victory Unsought was half the trouble. It was his father’s sword, a genuine Inazuma blade, but even without it his father would still have been famous as a warrior, a diplomat, and a tactician. It was probably his fame that had gotten him killed. It was his sword that got Daigoro’s elder brother Ichiro killed—well, that and Ichiro’s ego, Daigoro supposed, but certainly these damnable duels were no help. Challengers came from far and wide to face House Okuma’s famed Inazuma blade. Now only Daigoro remained to face them. Ichiro’s death condemned Daigoro to a lifelong sentence of working day and night to uphold their father’s reputation.

Daigoro still didn’t understand why the clan leaders had agreed to name him Izu-no-kami, Lord Protector of Izu. At sixteen Daigoro was not only the youngest of the five lords protector; he could have been a grandson to any one of them. Okuma Tetsuro had left such a lofty reputation for his son to live up to, and Daigoro was not yet accustomed to shaving his pate.

“My lords,” Daigoro said, “it has been my honor to be defeated by such an agile warrior. Now, if you would like to join me for dinner—”

“Not so fast,” said Lord Sora. He stood and approached the fighters, his yellow kimono flowing behind him and the broad orange shoulders of his haori all but glowing in the sun. Sora Izu-no-kami Nobushige was another lord protector of Izu, and had held that station since even Daigoro’s father was a little boy. Despite his many years his white topknot had not thinned at all, and his red face still seemed as though he’d just left the forge that made him famous. Upon arrival at the Okuma compound, Lord Sora and his grandson had presented Daigoro with two of their clan’s famed yoroi, breastplates so well crafted that they were said to be able to deflect even the musket balls of the southern barbarians. Daigoro could not help thinking that the gift was made too late; had the Soras provided their unique armor a year earlier, they could have been meeting with Daigoro’s father today.

Years of hefting and hammering had made Lord Sora’s body strong, but the decades afterward had slowed him considerably. “My grandson is unsatisfied,” he said, almost shouting because he’d made so little progress across the courtyard. Daigoro noted the old man’s shuffling steps with sympathy; he wasn’t much faster himself. But he also noted that between Lord Sora’s shouting and his perpetually red face, it was impossible to read the man’s emotions.

“He believes the famed Bear Cub of Izu has not fought at his most bearlike,” said Lord Sora, still booming. “He believes our young lord has gone easy on him so that our parley will go smoothly. I am sure the young lord will explain to him why this is a misperception.”

At least that wasn’t hard to read. Daigoro was certain the doubts hadn’t come from Samanosuke at all. They came from the old man.

And the solution to all of this could have been so easy. Daigoro had but to hike up the hem of his hakama and show the Soras the wrist-thin leg concealed within. But to reveal his own weakness would have brought shame on both his clan and his father’s memory. Only a handful knew the son of Okuma Tetsuro was a cripple.

So instead he said, “My lords, my prowess has indeed been spoken of highly—more highly than it should have been. I assure you, I fought my best.”

“Then how is it that my grandson bested you so easily? Your reputation precedes you, Okuma-dono.