Year of the Demon

on him yet, he might be able to draw and cut and save Tomo’s life. Maybe.

It was bad enough to draw a weapon in another man’s home. That by itself violated every convention of civility and honor, and Daigoro was well within his rights to kill this boor. But worse yet, the man had threatened one of his own. Daigoro could not let that stand.

Then again, neither could Hideyoshi’s commander. Tomo’s captor had disobeyed a direct order. Under no circumstances would he leave the courtyard alive. His commander would strike him down, and all Daigoro had to do was watch him kill Tomo.

Or he could strike. Save Tomo and take his chances on what happened next.

That was assuming his draw was fast enough. It assumed he’d judged rightly in reading the commander’s intentions. If any of his estimations were even slightly off—of his speed, of his reach, of the commander’s mind— then by trying to save Tomo he would only draw Toyotomi blood, guaranteeing a fight.

All this flashed through Daigoro’s mind in the space of a single breath. His pulse pounded hard and fast. Apart from that the courtyard was deathly quiet.

Daigoro’s mind raced with a thousand calculations. Had he misjudged Glorious Victory’s reach? How long would it take to clear her from her scabbard? It should have been so simple. Daigoro felt a flash of anger at himself: all he had to do to prevent a bloodbath was sacrifice a servant. For other lords this would have been easy. Others would never have befriended a lowborn peasant like Tomo.

But now that he thought about it, he realized he’d have to exact vengeance for Tomo one way or the other. If he let this commander report back that his men had killed an Okuma without reprisal, Shichio would know he could abuse the Okumas however he liked. Daigoro had no choice but to defend his own. And yet if he drew Toyotomi blood, that would invite retaliation from Shichio too.

The best solution was to order Hideyoshi’s commander to kill Tomo’s assailant. But that should have been obvious to the commander already. In fact, the man should already have bloodied his blade. Daigoro could hardly issue orders to an officer from the regent’s own house.

He was trapped, plain and simple. There was no reaction that would not invite further aggression. And yet the right reaction might still save Tomo’s life.

Hideyoshi’s commander shifted his fingers on the grip of his katana. Was he preparing to draw? If so, Tomo was dead. Daigoro needed more time to think.

“Whom do you serve?” he asked the mousy man with the sword to Tomo’s throat.

“Shut up!”

“You’re Shichio’s lackey, neh?”

“I said shut up!” The man started shaking.

“Stand down,” the commander said, saying each word as if it were its own sentence.

Eyes flicked between Daigoro, the commander, and Tomo’s captor. Sand shifted underfoot. Armor plates clacked like bamboo. Daigoro’s heart hammered at his ribs like the hooves of a galloping racehorse.

Tomo’s captor took a deep breath and released it. He stopped shaking. Daigoro knew that look. He’d felt it himself. It was the look of a man who had given himself up for dead—a man who no longer had anything left to lose.

Daigoro pulled hard and fast, clearing Glorious Victory from her scabbard. Tomo recoiled as the blade at his throat drew back to strike. Hideyoshi’s commander drew his blade.

Glorious Victory fell. She took a sword with her, a fist still closed around it. Daigoro still had but one hand on her grip. She was too heavy; he stumbled forward.

The commander whirled, chopping at Daigoro’s extended arm. His stroke went wide; a kick from Katsushima caught him in the kidney and sent him rolling. Fifty Toyotomi swords flashed from their scabbards. Three of them hacked at Daigoro.

Glorious Victory was long enough to parry them all. His left hand finally found Glorious Victory’s grip. He turned the blades aside and cut low. Three men fell in a torrent of blood.

Daigoro couldn’t say how he found his way to the heart of the Toyotomi formation. His mind was reeling; he’d never fought like this before. Single combat was nothing at all like a swirling melee. It was as if his mind had no relation to his arms. He cut, blocked, deflected, counterstruck, all on raw instinct. By the time he figured out what was happening, he and Katsushima were standing back to back in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by Toyotomi samurai.

The enemy formed an impenetrable hedgerow of red armor, gold plating, and shimmering steel. Surrounding them was another circle, this one russet and black and silver: over a hundred samurai adorned with the Okuma bear paw.

Somehow amid the chaos there came a lull, a standoff, and Daigoro found he could hear and see with amazing clarity. Every sword and spearhead shone as distinctly as stars on a moonless night. Katsushima was breathing heavily; his broad shoulders pressed against Daigoro’s back, hot and heaving and stinking the coppery reek of blood. A wry laugh made Katsushima’s body quake. He said, “What did I tell you about patience?”

Daigoro twisted his fists tighter on Glorious Victory’s cloth-bound grip. The circle of enemies drew tighter.

“It’s been an honor,” said Katsushima.

“Likewise,” said Daigoro, suddenly thinking of Akiko and the baby in her belly. Today of all days, it seemed a terrible shame to leave her.

Again the circle tightened. Daigoro readied himself to strike. Then a voice broke the eerie silence, bellowing “Stand down!” There came a clicking, clanking commotion through the ranks of samurai, and then the Toyotomi commander muscled his way to the center of the circle.

“Hold,” he yelled, sensing his men’s uneasiness. “Lord Okuma! What is the meaning of this?”

“Your man started it,” Daigoro said. As soon as the words left his mouth they sounded childish. It took him a moment to regain his breath before he could speak again, and only because his words failed him did he notice that he was panting hard enough to make his lungs burn.

“Not your man,” he said finally. “General Shichio’s. He was planted in your ranks. I’m sure of it. Shichio wants a fight with me, whatever the cost.”

“And you certainly obliged him, didn’t you?” said the commander. “You tell me how I’m to leave your head on your shoulders.”

Daigoro tried to slow his breath before he answered. “If I die, you die. And your men too. We outnumber you two to one.”

“We’ve been outnumbered a lot worse than that.”

“You’ve been used, Commander. You were sent here on false pretenses.”

“That’s as may be. Orders are orders.”

“Your orders are no more than a screen of fog. They only cloud what hides behind them, and indeed I believe that to be their purpose. What honor is there in dying on orders like these? Spare your men. Let them die a more glorious death, in a battle worthy of their birthright.”

The commander closed his eyes. He returned his katana to his hip, ready to sheathe it—or, if he was a crafty fighter, ready to attack the moment Daigoro let down his guard. His lips moved almost imperceptibly; Daigoro wondered if it might have been a prayer. If so, Glorious Victory’s work was not yet done.

The commander looked at him again, his eyes utterly emotionless. His gaze did not waver; his sword hand did not shake. He had no fear of dying where he stood. “If you grant me leave to go, I can come back in force,” he said. “I can push this whole mountain into the sea.”

“Yes, you can,” said Daigoro. “And I can send riders and ships to the regent, telling him of how your men barged into my home to pick a fight. Do not forget: my family holds a treaty with the regent. When your reinforcements arrive, it might be your head they come for.”

The commander’s right forefinger was tapping his sword’s tsuba. It was a tell, a nervous tic, and Daigoro desperately wished he knew what it meant.

“Bushido demands forbearance,” he said quickly. “Commander, you must see that by now. It was one of your men who instigated the fight. All I did was finish it. How can you start the fighting anew and still retain your honor?”

The two of them met each other’s gaze. A long, tense, electric silence passed between them. Then the