I. Parker - Island of Exiles

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 remembered their training, they could easily overcome them by working together. It is impossible to parry two swords simultaneously 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 earsplitting 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. Fortunately, 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.

“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.”

“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 Buddhahood 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 downward. 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 knowledge 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 opponent. And as he became aware of this, he also recognized the 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 surrender, 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.

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.