Текст книги "Black Arrow "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

TWENTY-ONE

TO THE DEATH

A

kitada did not want to wait for death.

Neither did the others. Tora broke into his thoughts impatiently. “Where in hell is Kaoru? He has nerve, telling us to sit here and wait for him. Who does he think he is? I don’t like it. We’re stuck here like rats in a box.” He stood up and walked to the door, opening it a crack.

Hitomaro went to join him. “It’s too quiet,” he said.

Tora asked, “What if it’s a trap, sir? To my mind the fellow’s just too well informed about this place for a mere woodsman.”

Akitada hated the inactivity, but he shook his head. “No, we must trust Kaoru. He’ll be back any moment.”

Hitomaro closed the door and paced. Tora grunted and sat down.

Akitada thought he could find the way to the gate from what he remembered of his earlier visits. They had been taken from the gate to an inner courtyard. From there, Akitada had gone into the main house. The trouble was, he was not sure where they were now. He closed his eyes and pictured Kaoru’s sketch of the secret entrance. He must somehow get back to the main house. The gallery from which he had seen the north pavilion had been on the west side, but they had gone there through another gallery that served as an armory.

Never mind. They were not headed to the north pavilion but to the gate. They had to open the gate to let Takesuke in before they did anything else. The problem was how to get there from here. He had spoken to the servants in a courtyard not unlike the one they were in. For that matter, where were the servants? Some must be in the kitchen, even with the fires out. Had they all been pressed into defending the manor?

“Tora,” he said, opening his eyes, “where did they take you during the banquet?”

“One of their barracks. They fed me. Seemed decent fellows.” Tora grimaced.

Akitada guessed that Tora did not like the thought of killing such hospitable men, or being killed by them. “But where were the barracks? In relation to the gate and the main house?”

“Between the house and the gate. Why?”

That accounted for one of the courtyards. “I’m wondering if we can find our way to the gate without Kaoru. Takesuke’s men are preparing to attack. We cannot wait much longer.”

“Then let’s go, sir.” Hitomaro was on his feet. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Akitada sighed and rose. “Yes. Something must have gone wrong. We have waited long enough. Take another look outside and tell me if you see any smoke anywhere in the compound.”

Hitomaro reported, “Nothing, sir. They must’ve caught both of them.”

Akitada looked around the shed. “Very well. Since the materials are at hand, we’ll make the fire here. Pile up all the baskets, brooms, and kindling against that wall over there. Then we’ll pour the lamp oil over it and light it.”

Tora grinned. “Good idea. The kitchen next door has a thatched roof. That should get their attention.”

Hitomaro nodded, and they fell to work. Akitada emptied baskets and tossed them on the pile. “We are going back the way we came,” he said as he worked. “That gallery should take us to the main house, and from there we’ll get to the gate.”

“They’ll be coming that way when they see the fire,” Hitomaro muttered.

“We’ll just have to be fast,” said Tora happily.

Akitada thought it likely that they would be seen even before the smoke attracted notice. He dragged one of the huge earthenware jars full of oil across the dirt floor. Hitomaro came to give him a hand. Together they lifted and emptied the dark, viscous liquid over the pile. Their enemies had thoughtfully supplied an assortment of flints, wicks, and spills to keep the manor’s oil lamps lit, and in a moment eager flames licked upward, joining others with a cheerful crackle, and cast a flickering red light on their faces. Smoke rose.

They looked at each other. Tora’s grin looked more like a demon’s snarl in the firelight. Akitada tried to shed the image of hell, and said, “Good. Let’s go.”

Just as they burst from the shed, Akitada in front, a woman cried out. The kitchen door stood open, and two maids goggled at them and at the inferno behind them. Ignoring the maids, they crossed the courtyard at a run and entered the enclosed gallery. Miraculously, it was still empty. Midway, Akitada checked his speed and opened one of the loophole shutters. The scene below had changed. The watchtower, almost on a level with the gallery, now bristled with archers and the men in the courtyard were on their feet, swords and halberds at the ready. Judging from the sounds of high-pitched whinnies and scuffling of hooves, there were horses, too. Akitada estimated thirty men below and twenty on the tower, and more were probably out of sight or waiting in other courtyards. Those he could see had their backs to him, their attention on what was going on outside the gate. And now he heard it, the sound of approaching battle drums.

Takesuke had arrived, and they must move, but attempting to open the gate would be certain suicide. When would the enemy notice the fire? And would they care enough about a fire in a kitchen yard to abandon their watch on the gate? But fires spread. They could not ignore this. At least some of the men in the courtyard would rush to put it out.

One of the archers on the watchtower finally turned his head and saw it. “Fire!” he screamed, and again, “Fire!” his arm pointing. Akitada stepped back from the shutter. The men in the courtyard turned, cried out, and after a moment’s consternation, an officer shouted orders, and they began to run in all directions. Tora came to look and laughed out loud.

Akitada slammed the shutter. “Come on.”

They ran to the end of the corridor and into an open gallery crossing a walled interior garden. Sleet had driven in to gather against the walls and whiten the few shrubs and rocks. A gate led from the garden. Akitada found the stairs, and they ran down. Just as they reached the small gate, it burst open and a warrior came rushing through. He saw them, cried, “Tell his Lordship there’s a big fire in the kitchens. Lieutenant Imazu has gone to put it out.” He turned, then paused and swung back, puzzled. “Who are you?”

Hitomaro’s blade flashed. There was a sickening sound, and the man’s head rolled into the shrubbery, his blood spurting over Hitomaro and Akitada as the body sagged at the knees and fell across their path. Hitomaro stepped over it to the gate. Akitada gulped and wiped at the warm wetness on his face.

“Go on, sir,” urged Tora behind him, and Akitada gripped his sword, stepped over the fallen man, and followed Hitomaro through the gate and down more steps. He saw that they were in the barracks courtyard now and no longer alone. Soldiers ran this way and that, shouting to each other. Nobody paid attention to three armed men coming from the direction of the main house.

They moved quickly and purposefully and passed unhindered through the inner gate, down more steps and into the gate courtyard.

Here there were fewer soldiers than before, though the watchtower was still fully manned with archers who sent volley after volley of arrows down at Takesuke’s men outside. The arrows found their targets. Screams came from outside, and triumphant shouts from above. Akitada thought of the narrow space outside and how any attempt on the closed gate meant almost certain death.

He hurried, trying to remember what Kaoru had said about the gate—something about its being counterbalanced so that one man could open it. There was another bloodcurdling scream, and he broke into a run. Tora and Hitomaro followed. Someone shouted at them, but all three made it under the gateway, and there, in the shadows, Akitada saw the ropes and pulleys. Huge stones hung suspended by ropes that ran over wheels. The gate itself was massive, iron-studded, and barred with an enormous horizontal timber. He could faintly hear the sound of battle-axes against the many layers of wood—Takesuke’s brave men dying in a shower of arrows from above—and felt defeated by the massiveness of the structure. Where was Kaoru? Tora was already pushing at the bar, and Hitomaro ran to give him a hand. The bar did not budge. Akitada turned to look up at the ropes and stones, trying to trace their path, hoping to understand the crude but effective mechanism. Three of Uesugi’s men rushed in, shouting questions. Akitada grunted something in answer, but it was no good. They had realized the truth and attacked. One of them, a big, bearded man, ran at Akitada with the wicked steel blade of the halberd aimed at his belly. Akitada moved aside, felt the blade slice through his trousers, took his sword in both hands and swung down, severing the halberd’s wooden handle—a foolish move, because his attacker simply dropped it and drew a short sword instead. For a moment they grappled. The other was bigger and stronger and forced Akitada back against the wall. Another soldier appeared behind him, grinning too soon, because suddenly Kaoru was there beside Akitada and slashed at the man’s legs. As he fell screaming, Akitada managed to break free and shove his sword into the man’s chest with such force that it disappeared nearly to the hilt. An almost comical expression of surprise passed over the bearded face, then he sagged, skewered, a dead weight on the sword. Akitada had to put his foot on the dead man’s body to pull out his weapon. He turned away, dazed by the violence.

“Get back, sir. Get outside!” Kaoru shouted to him and jumped for the largest of the suspended stones.

“Where have you been?” demanded Akitada.

Kaoru missed and jumped again. “Not now,” he gasped. This time he grasped the stone and brought it down with him. The wheels spun, ropes creaked—

“Sir!” shouted Tora.

Akitada swung around and looked into another halberd coming at his chest. Uesugi’s people had finally grasped what was happening, and the fight was on. Akitada brought up his sword instinctively and deflected the halberd. Equally instinctively– for nowhere had his past training involved fighting with swords against these vicious long-handled weapons carried by most foot soldiers—he drove forward and was mildly astonished how easily his blade slid into the other man’s belly.

“Sir—watch out!”

Tora again, and Akitada jerked back, bringing the sword with him followed by a gush of blood and his victim’s scream. The gate enclosure had filled with men. There was no time to think, just to fend off the attack and kill. His lessons forgotten, Akitada slashed and swung, two-handed, at wild-eyed shouting men, making a path to the outside, dimly aware of Tora’s curses and Hitomaro’s broad shoulders and flashing blade. They beat them back, one by one, into the courtyard.

Others came running, but a loud clanking and grinding signaled the opening of the gate, and then came the triumphant din of shouting men as Takesuke’s soldiers streamed into Takata manor. They carried the Sugawara insignia of the white plum blossom on their red banners, and Akitada felt a moment’s dizzy pride—until the slaughter began.

The passage was narrow, and as the men emerged in groups of three or four at a time, a hail of arrows from above greeted them. The archers felled every second man. Akitada saw one of the arrows pass through a banner and into the man’s unprotected skull. As he watched the soldier topple forward, another arrow glanced off his own helmet, making his ears ring, and Hitomaro pulled him into the shadow of the wall.

“Stay here, sir. Tora and I are going up.”

Akitada gulped some air and glanced up. Stairs led to the tower platform above him. From there, the Uesugi’s archers were taking out Takesuke’s men as easily as the courtiers back in the capital used to shoot the deer driven into an enclosure by beaters. He cried, “Come on!” and made for the stairs.

“Wait, sir.” Tora caught his sleeve.

Akitada wanted to tear away angrily, but then he remembered his place and stepped aside. A retainer’s duty was to protect his master. Shame attached to him if he failed to do so. Hitomaro was already running up the steps, Tora at his heels, when Akitada followed.

The first steps were of stone but where the tower began, they changed to wood and the space narrowed so that only one man could climb. Akitada could see the gray sky ahead. Then a face appeared against it. Tora flung himself against the wall, and Hitomaro ducked. An arrow hissed past Akitada’s ear, hit the wooden wall behind him with a sharpthwack. The shaft hummed as it vibrated from the impact.

Tora jumped forward. With a roar, he seized the archer’s leg and pulled him down through the opening. As the man fell, Hitomaro ran his sword through him, pulled it out, and pushed the body down toward Akitada.

Akitada ducked aside, then ran up the rest of the steps. The top of the watchtower was becoming a scene of carnage. In the dreary light of the winter day, Tora and Hitomaro slashed right and left at the archers who dropped their bows but had only short swords against their long ones.

He took a deep breath, gagged on the smell of fresh blood in his nostrils, and flung himself into the fray of clashing blades and grunting, screaming men. He lunged and slashed, lunged again, parried, felt his sword bite, and dove under a raised weapon. He partially decapitated one man who was about to stab Tora in the back, then turned and slashed at another who was coming at him. With his longer blade, he caught him across the belly, laying open pale intestines quickly covered with blood. The man dropped his sword and clutched at himself, his eyes wide with pleading. But Akitada was already moving past him, pursuing another man, his mouth opened in terror as he backed away. Before Akitada could kill him, the man screamed and flung himself over the railing to his death below.

It became quiet on the watchtower. Outside the clouds moved slowly in the wind and gusts of sleet blew in. A few of the archers had escaped down the stairs, another had jumped, the rest lay dead or wounded. The wooden boards were slick with blood. Only the three of them were left standing. Tora wiped blood from his face and bellowed a cheer. Then he grinned at Akitada. “We got them, sir.”

Akitada grinned back, feeling an enormous surge of exultation. He had fought and survived. One of the wounded wept noisily. Akitada slipped in a puddle of blood oozing from a dead man. This was war and it was more exciting than anything he had ever done before. He wanted more of it. Leaning over the side of the tower, he looked down into the courtyard. Frightened horses ran among the scattered bodies. Here and there, a wounded man was dragging himself to safety. Takesuke’s soldiers were everywhere, their red banners with the Sugawara crest fluttering where Uesugi’s black and white ones had been before. From the barracks courtyard he could hear more sounds of fierce fighting—screaming men and clashing metal. To the east, the dense cloud of smoke over the kitchen area had doubled in size and flames licked through the blackness.

Time to look for Uesugi. Why had he not joined his men? The main house lay as yet untouched.

Hitomaro was already running down the stairs. Tora checked the wounded and tossed their weapons over the balustrade.

“Have you seen Kaoru?” Akitada asked.

“Who cares about him,” Tora growled. “I couldn’t believe my ears when he started giving the orders.”

Akitada, still filled with joy, chuckled and wiped his bloody blade on the jacket of one of the dead. “It’s in his blood, Tora.”

Tora paused to stare. “What?”

Akitada made for the stairs. “Never mind. Come, there’s more work to be done. You don’t want Takesuke to have all the glory, do you?”

They ran down the stairs and across the entrance courtyard, dodging horses and Takesuke’s men. Tora snatched one of the Sugawara banners from a fallen man and carried it. No point in getting killed by their own. Up the next set of stairs and into the barracks enclosure. They caught up with Hitomaro, and together again they skirted the vicious fighting. More Uesugi archers were shooting arrows from the loopholes of the gallery they had been in earlier, and below foot soldiers slashed and lunged at each other with halberds. Neither Uesugi nor his senior retainers were in sight.

They made for the small door that led to the main house.

“Wait!” Kaoru, bloodied but determined, joined them. They went through the door and into the small garden where the headless corpse still lay across the path.

“What took you so long?” Akitada demanded, stopping just inside and glaring at Kaoru. “We waited in that shed until we were sure you had been captured.”

Kaoru grimaced. “I couldn’t find Koreburo right away. They caught him setting his fire. He was still alive when I found him and ... I could not leave him right away. Sorry, sir.”

Akitada was sobered. “Poor old man. Very well, let’s go get Makio and stop this killing.”

There was no more need for caution now. The archers at their loopholes were too intent on the foe outside to turn around. The four of them ran past and into the main house, their boots thumping up stairways and across the glossy boards. They slammed through doorways and flung back sliding doors. The armory had served its purpose. Weapons chests stood open and empty, some of their contents gone or scattered about. Helmets, parts of armor, long swords, discarded halberds, and an upended quiver of short arrows lay abandoned like the toys of giant children.

In the reception area, four senior Uesugi officers, older men with lined faces and grizzled beards, guarded the doors to the ceremonial hall. They drew their swords. Hitomaro instantly flung himself at them, and Kaoru and Tora joined him. There were four of the enemy, seasoned fighters and rested, but Akitada could not wait. His bloody sword in hand, he moved past them and flung open the great double doors to the hall.

“Takata has fallen. In the name of the emperor, surrender!”

Time seemed to pause as startled faces turned toward him. Uesugi sat, straddling a campaign stool on the dais. He wore white silk robes under black lacquered armor and his black horned helmet was on his head. Seated on the floor in a semicircle before him were seven or eight armed men, their helmets held respectfully against their bodies. Akitada almost laughed out loud: the general at a council of war after the battle was already lost.

But then, of one accord, the warriors were up, dropping their helmets, drawing their swords and charging. There was no time left to prepare. Like the four outside, these were older men, but they were desperate and duty-bound to die for their lord. Akitada knew he could not fight them all and survive, and suddenly the icy clutch of fear twisted inside him again. He slashed out wildly at the first man and, with more luck than skill, severed his sword hand, but two more were on him. He lunged, parried a hard stroke, took a step forward and lunged again, slashing at one man’s thighs, then brought up his blade to sweep the other man’s sword aside. The Uesugi warrior screamed and fell, and suddenly he was no longer alone. Tora was beside him, shouting, “Kill the bastards!” as he cut off a man’s head in a spray of blood. Akitada’s blade scraped across a breastplate, driving another fighter back. He followed, aiming for the unprotected neck of his helmetless adversary. The other twisted away, and the blade missed, slicing deeply into his arm instead. Akitada’s sword became entangled in the cords of the other man’s armor. He kneed him in the groin and jerked it free. And then he saw his way clear and made for the dais, dodging one blade, and slashing at another, his eyes on Uesugi.

The Lord of Takata had jumped up, sword in hand, his round face as white as his robe. The small eyes bulged and his mouth was open. He saw Akitada coming for him, but he stood, sword dangling, frozen and speechless.

So it was going to be easy after all, thought Akitada, surprised—almost disappointed. He simply stepped up on the dais and placed the tip of his sword against Uesugi’s throat. “Stop the fighting!” he shouted over the noise of clashing swords and the cries of the wounded. He told Uesugi, “It’s over. Tell your men to surrender!”

It became quiet in the hall.

Uesugi swallowed, then nodded his head violently, causing the tip of Akitada’s sword to nick his throat. A few red drops fell on the white silk of his robe. He looked down, whimpered, then sat, muttering, “Blood. She said blood on snow. Blood on the snow!” Raising his hands to Akitada, he cried, “I surrender, I surrender! Don’t kill me! I will serve the emperor. I have many men, much influence. A treaty. We can make a treaty. I guarantee protection against the northern barbarians in exchange for my life.” Behind Akitada someone cursed loudly—one of Uesugi’s men.

Akitada put up his sword and turned away in disgust. Two of the Takata warriors, both wounded, had lowered their swords at Uesugi’s cry of surrender. Tora was leaning against a pillar. He bled from several wounds. Akitada looked for the others. Kaoru, also bloody, pulled his sword from the belly of a fallen Uesugi fighter and released a red tide. His victim died with a shout and convulsion, and Kaoru gave Akitada a nod.

Hitomaro, miraculously unscathed, stood in a pool of blood above a fallen warrior, sword gripped in both hands, on his face the fierce snarl of one of the guardian spirits at temple gates. He was looking around for more butchery, but the last two Uesugi officers dropped their swords with grim faces and knelt. It was over.

“Who is second in command here?” Akitada snapped.

One warrior looked around at the bodies, then rose.

“You heard your master. Go outside and order your men to lay down their arms. This stronghold has fallen and Lord Uesugi is my prisoner.” As an afterthought, he added, “In the name of his most august Majesty.”

At that moment, Akitada savored the intoxicating taste of victory. His hands and knees trembled with the emotion. But he reminded himself that the credit for their success must be shared and turned to Kaoru. “You may take charge of Takata manor.”

Then, with hideous irony, fortune turned.

Akitada had shifted his attention from Kaoru to Tora, to ask about his wounds. As their eyes met, Akitada saw Tora’s widen in sudden horror. What happened next would always remain a blur in his memory. He heard a hoarse, almost inhuman roar, and saw Hitomaro rush at Uesugi with a drawn sword.

Instinctively Akitada stepped in front of his prisoner and into Hitomaro’s path. The force of their collision cost them both their balance. Akitada was flung aside and half fell. He saw his burly lieutenant falter and change the grip on his sword, saw Uesugi up and moving forward with his sword, saw Hitomaro stagger back, then swing his blade in a wide arc.

It was all over in a breath, but compressed into that moment were sounds as well as sights, the stamping of feet, the clatter of the toppled campaign stool, the rustle of Uesugi’s silks and hiss of Hitomaro’s sword, human grunts, and then the heavy thud of bodies falling onto the wooden dais. And silence.

He was sickened. A single mistake, a wrong move, and triumph had turned to despair.

Uesugi and Hitomaro lay sprawled across the dais in a parody of embracing lovers. The Lord of Takata was dead. His head, partially severed, rested oddly next to his right shoulder in a quickly widening pool of gore; the piggish eyes had rolled upward, showing their whites, and his teeth were bared in a final snarl. The horned helmet lay near Akitada’s feet, which were speckled with blood. And Uesugi’s snowy silk robe now bore the crimson blossoms of his violent death.

Hitomaro, who had fallen partly across Uesugi’s body, slowly rolled onto his back. His left hand was at his chest, clutching the blade of Uesugi’s sword which protruded from his ribs. He grimaced with pain. The fingers of his right hand relaxed around the grip of his own bloodstained blade.

Tora came and bent over his friend. When he straightened up, he had a strange, hurt look on his face. “Sir?”

The blood bubbling up between the sword and Hitomaro’s hand was bright red and foamy. There was no surviving such a wound to the lungs. Akitada fell to his knees beside him.

“My friend,” he pleaded, putting his hand on the one that still gripped the deadly blade. “Please forgive me.”

Hitomaro looked up at him and shook his head. “Nothing to forgive ... I wanted death,” he mouthed, half-choking. Then, making a great effort, he added, “Sorry about. . .” and coughed once, blood trickling from the corner of his– mouth into his beard. “Too much . ..” He raised himself up a little, coughed again, then vomited a crimson flood and fell back.

Akitada got up. He looked about the room blindly. “How did this happen? Why did Hitomaro attack Uesugi? There was no need. Uesugi had surrendered. It was all so easy. Why?”

Tora said, “Uesugi drew his sword, sir. While you had your back to him. The slimy coward was going to cut you down. Hitomaro stopped him.”

A grim-faced Kaoru walked up and stood staring down at the two corpses. “A warrior’s death for Hitomaro,” he said. “No man could die better than this.”

Without a word, Akitada turned and strode from the hall. Out in the gallery, he stepped over the dead warriors and threw wide a shutter to gulp in the frigid air. Sleet had gathered like grains of rice on the sill. Below, the land lay dark and forbidding under the heavy clouds. Faintly, the sound of temple bells came on the wind from the distant city.

The icy air settled his stomach a little. His face tingled with cold and when he t6uched it, he found it wet with tears. Ashamed, he rubbed the moisture away. From the courtyard below rose the victorious shouts of Takesuke’s men. He leaned forward and looked down. The Sugawara family crest blazed on the banners. This day he had taken an impregnable fortification for the emperor but lost a loyal friend.

Looking down at his hands he saw that they were stained with blood—Hitomaro’s along with that of too many other men he had killed. How was he to live with his friend’s blood on his hands? Hitomaro had saved his life, and he had stupidly stepped in his way and caused his death as surely as if he had held Uesugi’s sword himself. He clenched his fists until his nails bit deeply into his palms.

Something soft and white drifted in. A snowflake. For him this snow country would always be tinged with blood. He sighed deeply and glanced toward the north pavilion overhanging the ramparts, site of the death of the previous Lord of Takata and the murder of his faithful servant Hideo. It reminded him that he had one more errand to perform.

Hunching his shoulders against the icy air, he walked quickly down corridors. A maid peered from an open doorway, paled at the sight of his blood-smeared face and hands, and ran. When he reached the open gallery, he found that the wind had died down, but the snow still fell softly and silently. There was very little smoke now, and he realized that they must have extinguished the fire.

The door to the north pavilion was unlocked, and inside everything looked the same. He had worried that Uesugi would order a thorough cleaning, but either respect or superstition had caused him to leave the room untouched.

He went to the window above the thick mat where the old lord had died. The crooked blind of speckled bamboo was as he remembered it, and beside the mat was the chest which held the dead man’s bedding and his writing set, the single clue to what had happened that night.

Stepping on the mat, he untied the bamboo shade, half afraid that his guess had been wrong. But it unrolled with a rush and clatter, releasing a sheet of paper which fluttered to his feet. The thick mulberry paper was covered with spidery script and bore a crimson seal.

Picking it up, Akitada noted both signature and seal, glanced at the content, then rolled up the document and put it in his sleeve.

* * * *