Текст книги "Island of Exiles "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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bobbing up and down before them, mocking their slow pursuit.

When they crested one low hill, they found another. They

glanced over their shoulders and slapped at stinging gnats, and

eventually they reached the road and started walking.

Apparently there was not much travel between the northern

mountains and Mano, for they saw only one farmer, driving an

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351

ox with a load of firewood, and three women on their way to

tend their fields. They attracted curious glances, but their greet-

ings were returned and the peasants hurried on to their chores.

Then three horsemen came from the south.

Haseo stopped.“What now? Soldiers? Maybe we’d better hide.”

“Yes.” They crouched down behind some low shrubs on the

embankment. Akitada narrowed his eyes. Only one of the

horsemen was armed. The other two seemed to be peasants,

unused to riding, because they sagged in their saddles. And the

horses, all three of them, were mere nags. They could not be

Kumo’s men. He touched Haseo’s shoulder. “Get ready. We need

those horses. We won’t have a chance on foot.”

Haseo began to laugh. “Wonderful! Look, the guy in front

even has a sword. What luck!”

Only Haseo would consider this a fortunate circumstance.

Akitada was less sanguine. He had not formed any cogent idea

how two half-naked scarecrows would convince a fully armed

soldier to give up his weapons and horses to them. At least the

soldier’s companions looked negligible. One seemed sick; his

body not only slumped but swayed in the saddle. Someone had

tied him to the horse to keep him from tumbling off. The other

man was frail and no longer young. He clutched his horse’s

mane and slipped at every bounce. Neither had any weapons

that Akitada could see.

No, the only dangerous man was the one in the lead. Tall, a

good horseman, and young, judging by his straight back and

easy movements with the stride of his horse, he wore his

helmet pulled forward against the sun, a breastplate, and a long

sword. He was still too far away for them to guess his military

rank, but possibly he also carried a second, shorter sword in

his belt.

Then Akitada’s heart started beating wildly with a sud-

den hope. There was something very familiar about the set of

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those shoulders, the tilt of the head. “Dear heaven,” he mut-

tered. “Tora?”

Haseo turned to look at him. “What?”

Akitada gave a laugh. “Come on,” he cried, rising from

behind the shrub, “I know that soldier.” He started into a stum-

bling run down the embankment, hardly thinking of his

knee now.

The horseman saw them and reined in his horse. After a

moment, he urged it forward again, but now his hand was on

the hilt of his sword.

Akitada stopped and waited, grinning foolishly, chuckling

from time to time, until Haseo shook his elbow. “Are you all

right? Are you sure you know those people?”

“Only one of them, and yes, I’m sure.”

The three horsemen approached at a slow pace. The two in

back seemed to take little interest in them, but the young soldier

stared, frowned, and stared again.

He came to a halt before them. “What do you want?” he

asked, not unkindly. “I’ve no money to give you, but we can

share a bit of food.”

“Thank you, Tora,” said Akitada. “That is very kind of you.

We missed our morning rice.”

“Amida! Oh, dear heaven! Can that be you, sir? Is it really,

really you?” Tora bounded out of the saddle and ran up to

Akitada, seized him around the waist, lifted him, and crushed

him to his chest. He laughed, while tears ran down his face.

When he finally put the weakly chuckling Akitada back down,

he said, “Sorry, sir. I was on my way to Kumo’s mine to look for

you, and here you are. They said you were dead, and I’d started

believing it.” He wiped his face with his sleeve.

“Never mind. An easy mistake. There was a time when I

thought I was. This is my friend Haseo. We’re both on the run

from Kumo’s men.”

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353

It was said casually, as if they had just met on the street, old

friends exchanging broad smiles and trivial news, but Tora

was sobered instantly. “You look terrible,” he said. “I’ll kill the bastards.” This seemed to remind him of his companions. He

turned, his face grim, and pulling his short sword, went to the

man on the second horse. Akitada saw the bloodied, black-

ened, swollen face, the eyes so puffy that it was a wonder the

man could see, and he heard the man’s high scream of fear,

before he realized that he was looking at Wada and that

Tora meant to kill him right here in the middle of the road

to Mano.

“Wait!”

Tora turned, and Akitada saw the deadly determination in

his eyes. “He dies,” Tora said, his voice flat. “He would’ve died

yesterday, but I kept him around to show us the way.”

“Not here and not now,” Akitada said. “I don’t want to re-

member our meeting this way.”

Tora reluctantly put back his sword. He came to Akitada and

took him into another bear hug.

“Thank you, my friend,” Akitada said when they finally

released each other. “And who is your other companion?”

Tora grinned. “That’s Turtle. A bit of a coward, but his

heart’s good. He’s my servant.”

Akitada raised his brows. “I see you’ve risen in the world.

Congratulations on the new armor. You do look like a man in

need of a servant.”

Tora had the grace to blush and looked at Haseo, who had

sat down beside the road to adjust the bandage on his leg. “Your

friend’s hurt?”

Haseo made Tora a slight bow. “It’s just a cut which likes

to bleed. We’re anxious to get to Mano before Kumo catches

up with us, and I’ve already caused too many delays with my

infernal leg.”

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“Never mind, Haseo,” said Akitada. “We can ride now. I

see no reason to transport the despicable Wada. Let him run

alongside. And Tora’s servant can walk, too.”

Turtle slid from his horse and rubbed his behind. “Glad to,”

he said cheerfully. “He’s not a very comfortable horse.”

Tora unpacked his saddlebag and passed his spare trousers

and robe to Akitada. To Haseo he gave the wide-sleeved jacket

he wore over his armor. Then he frowned at their callused,

scarred feet. “How did you walk like that?” he asked Akitada,

taking off his boots.

Akitada said, “Thank you, but your boots won’t fit. And my

feet have become accustomed to worse than road gravel.”

“Uh-oh!” Haseo grabbed his arm. He was looking up the

road toward the north. Where the road disappeared around

the foot of the mountain, a dust cloud had appeared. It moved

rapidly their way.

“Kumo,” cried Akitada, and swung himself on Turtle’s

horse. “Come on. We’ll try to outrun them.”

Tora cut loose a whimpering Wada, who tumbled heavily

onto the road, where Tora kicked him out of the way, and called

to Haseo, “Here, get on!” before running to his own horse.

Turtle stood, staring at them with frightened eyes. “What’s

happening?” he cried. “Who’s coming? Please, take me with you,

master!”

Tora was in the saddle. “Sorry, Turtle. No time. Hide in some

bush. If I can, I’ll come back for you.”

“Tora, your sword,” cried Akitada, bringing his horse along-

side Tora’s. After the merest moment of hesitation, Tora passed

over his long sword and offered his helmet, but this Akitada

refused. Then they cantered off after Haseo.

The nags were not up to a chase. Having spent all their

miserable lives in post stables, fed on small rations of rotting

rice straw or trotting back and forth between the two coasts,

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

355

carrying fat merchants or visitors on leisurely trips, they had

never galloped. Now, beaten and kicked into a burst of speed,

they lathered up, started wheezing and heaving, and eventually

slowed to an agonized trot. Behind, the dust cloud came on

rapidly, already revealing horses, men, and the flying banner.

Haseo shouted to Akitada, “We’ll have to make a stand. Are

you any good with that sword?”

“Adequate,” Akitada shouted back. He had kept up his

practice with Tora, and he was not about to give up the sword.

“Sorry.”

Haseo nodded. He eyed Tora’s short sword, but evidently

decided against asking an officer in robust health to render up

his only weapon to an invalid.

Looking about for a suitable place to face their pursuers,

Akitada knew their chances of winning were slim. They were

badly outnumbered and lacked weapons. Tora, with his short

sword, would have to dismount, because a horseman had the

reach on him with a long sword. His only chance was to fight on

foot, slashing at the horses’ bellies or legs, and then killing the riders when they were tossed.

They approached the small town, a collection of fishermen’s

huts strung along the bay, with farmhouses, a couple of manors,

and a small temple set back on higher ground. The road skirted

the bay with its hard shingle beach. On the other side were

muddy rice paddies like irregular patches of dingy hemp cloth

sewn on a ragged green gown.

“Stop at those first houses,” Akitada called to the others.

“The road narrows there, and we’ll use the house walls to cover

our backs.”

“Like cornered rats,” Haseo shouted back, but he grinned.

Kumo was nearly on top of them. They had been seen a long

way back, and their pursuers had whipped their horses into a

gallop. Now they came, banner flapping, and raucous shouts of

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victory mingling with the pounding of hooves. Akitada, Haseo,

and Tora spurred their own nags into a last short burst of speed.

The first farm consisted of several independent buildings.

The main house with its steep thatched roof fronted the road,

but barns, kitchens, and other low buildings clustered around

and behind it. Narrow passages and small fenced gardens linked

the buildings. There was no one in sight. The men were proba-

bly in the fields, and the women had gone into hiding when

trouble arrived.

Haseo tumbled down before his horse had stopped. Half

running, half limping, he went to a side yard where the farmer’s

wife had pushed several tall bamboo poles in the ground to

support her drying laundry. He pulled up one of the sturdier

poles, letting the rest of the rig topple into the dirt, and

weighed it in his hand. With a grunt of satisfaction, he joined

the others.

Tora had also dismounted, his short sword drawn. Only

Akitada remained in the saddle, blocking the road, Tora’s

long sword in his hand as their pursuers halted in a cloud of

yellow dust.

Kumo’s helmet was brilliant in the sun, his armor, trimmed

with green silk, also shone with gold, and a golden war fan

flashed in his raised hand. The banner bore the insignia of the

high constable. Kumo’s men were all armed, their armor pol-

ished, their bows over their shoulders, and their swords drawn.

Bright red silk tassels swung from the horses’ bridles. Their faces were avid with excitement, with the hunger for blood. Only

Kumo looked utterly detached, his lips thin and his forehead

furrowed in a frown of distaste.

Akitada waited to see what Kumo would do. He no longer

felt the pain in his knee, or weariness, or even fear. He wanted to meet this man sword to sword. He wanted to kill him more than

he had ever wanted anything in his life.

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357

Kumo shouted across, “Give yourselves up, in the name of

the emperor.”

In the name of the emperor? Akitada laughed.

Scowling, Kumo brought his horse a little closer. “I am the

high constable. You’re escaped convicts and under arrest.”

Akitada shouted back, “You know who I am, Kumo. Sug-

awara Akitada, imperial envoy. You’re under arrest for treason.

Tell your men to lay down their swords.”

Kumo’s people burst into laughter in their turn, but Kumo

raised his golden fan, and they fell quiet. “You’re outnumbered,”

he shouted. “If you don’t give up, you’ll be cut down like dogs.”

“Try it, you bastards!” shouted Haseo, stepping forward and

swinging his bamboo pole. Akitada hoped he was as skilled at

stick-fighting as Tora.

“If you want a fight, Kumo,” he shouted back, “let it be

between the two of us.”

Kumo was heavily armed and sat on one of his magnificent

horses, while Akitada wore nothing but Tora’s trousers and robe

and rode a worn-out nag which stood wide-legged, its head hang-

ing in exhaustion. Akitada was also becoming conscious of the

weight of Tora’s sword. He was much weaker than he had thought.

But his anger kept him there. This man had done his best to kill

him slowly and horribly and had failed. Now Akitada wanted a

quick and clean kill of his own. He could taste the sweetness of

such a victory, knew he could not lose, and gloried in the moment.

But Kumo gave him a look of contempt, then turned his

horse and rode up the embankment. There he 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!”

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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 at-

tackers 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 advan-

tage by sending his men singly at them. True, the road was nar-

row, but if he had ordered his men to use their bows and arrows,

or to dismount and attack on foot, their numbers would have

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359

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

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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 build-

ings 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 sol-

diers. 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 for-

ward, 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 re-

membered their training, they could easily overcome them by

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361

working together. It is impossible to parry two swords simulta-

neously 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 earsplit-

ting 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. For-

tunately, 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.

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“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 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.”

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363

“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 Bud-

dhahood 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 down-

ward. 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 knowl-

edge 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 oppo-

nent. And as he became aware of this, he also recognized the

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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 surren-

der, 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.

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y– O N E

FUGU F I S H

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 fash-

ioned 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 mur-

mured. He paused and added, almost inaudibly, “Wonderful!”

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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

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very great; Akitada shuffled like an old man, with small uncer-

tain 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 sight of the

bodies of men and horses and lowered their lances.

Akitada raised his hand. “Halt! We have business with His

Excellency.”

The column faltered and stopped. The woven curtain of the

sedan chair parted and Mutobe stuck out his head.

“What’s going on?” he shouted. “What do these people want?”

“Governor?” Akitada started toward the sedan chair, but a

small forest of sharp halberds immediately barred his way.

“Who are you?” asked Mutobe.

“Sugawara.”

Mutobe’s jaw dropped. “Good heavens!” Then he cried, “Put

me down! Put me down, you fools.” The sedan chair was low-

ered and opened. Mutobe climbed out and came to Akitada

with outstretched hands. The halberds parted and the soldiers