I. Parker - Island of Exiles

Then Akitada’s heart started beating wildly with a sudden hope. There was something very familiar about the set of those shoulders, the tilt of the head. “Dear heaven,” he muttered. “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 stumbling 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.”

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, blackened, 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 remember 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.”

“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 alongside 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, 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

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 probably 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.