I. Parker: Death on an Autumn River

Masaji grinned. “We fought with boat poles.”

Tora passed his sword to Akitada. “You really ought to carry yours more, sir.”

Akitada nodded. “I’m sorry I got you into this. I counted ten men who brought us here. There could be another ten already in the warehouse.”

Tora nodded at the door. “We could break it down and rush them.”

“Much the best way,” agreed Saburo. “I think I saw weapons among the goods stored outside.”

They looked at Akitada. He nodded.

Saburo produced a pair of metal wires from his sleeve. He inserted these into the locking mechanism, then looked over his shoulder at the others. “Ready?” When they joined him, he pushed and twisted. The lock clicked. Tora flung himself against the door. It sprang open, and they fell upon two startled guards outside.

It had been a long time since Akitada had killed a man, and even then it had felt unnatural. He raised Tora’s sword, the guard froze, and Tora growled, “Kill him!”Akitada locked eyes with the man.

The other guard, who tried to escape from Tora and Masaji with their bamboo staves, shouted, “They’re escaping.”

They heard steps and the clatter of arms outside.

Akitada’s guard lashed out with his own sword. Akitada parried and shoved his blade into the man’s belly. When he withdrew it, the man collapsed with a scream and rolled on the floor in agony. Bile rose to Akitada’s mouth, but there was no time to be sick or to think about what he had done.

The large double doors to the outside flew open, and Watamaro’s men poured in. The other way, stacks and mountains of stored goods rose nearly to the rafters. Saburo was already climbing the nearest pile like a cat, shouting, “This way.” They scrambled after him over crates, bundles, sacks, stacks of lumber, boxes, and sake barrels, up high to the dim reaches under the roof. Loosely stacked goods shifted under their feet. Akitada sent an avalanche of rice bags rolling toward their pursuers, barely catching himself with a jump to a stack of lumber.

The warehouse filled with armed men looking up at them. Watamaro came and shouted, “Come down. You’re trapped. You’ll never fight your way out of this.”

They ignored him. Saburo had found a hoard of weapons, enough to outfit a small army, it seemed. He cut the ropes that tied them into bundles-the man seemed to have all sorts of tools on him-and tossed long swords to Akitada and Tora. Masaji exchanged his piece of bamboo for a halberd.

Some of Watamaro’s men below started climbing. Let them come, Akitada thought and realized that he was no longer sickened by having killed. He had found his fighting spirit after all.

At that moment, the first arrow hit the beam above his head and stuck there, humming softly.

“Take cover,” yelled Akitada, diving behind a box. Something gave under his feet, and he felt himself falling, sliding down with chests, bundles, and assorted sharp objects that seemed to have come alive. Ten, fifteen feet below him crashes and cries of pain. He scrambled wildly, reaching out with his free hand, when a fist grabbed the back of his robe and held on.

Tora.

“Thanks,” he gasped, found a foothold, and climbed away. The “thwack-thwack” of arrows resumed. There was another cry. Watamaro’s archers were not very good marksmen, but there were many of them and the distance short. Akitada and Tora found temporary safety behind a beam and surveyed the field.

Watamaro’s people had brought in more torches. The floor of the warehouse was well lit. Fortunately, the light did not reach the upper parts of the warehouse. Akitada counted some twenty men below, all armed in some way, but none wearing armor. Watamaro had not alerted the police, but he might have sent for the prefect. They would be lost, if troops arrived before they got away.

“What now?” asked Tora. “It’s a stand-off.”

“Not for long.” Akitada heard the bitterness in his voice. “They are between us and the doors. We’ll have to come down and charge through.”

Tora grunted.

Below, the men gathered around Watamaro for a conference. Akitada looked for Saburo and Masaji. Masaji huddled on a pile of lumber some twenty feet away. He saw no sign of Saburo and worried for a moment, then remembered the man’s talents and looked up into the rafters. Yes, there he crouched, peering down at them and raising a hand.

Tora moved impatiently. “What good is waiting? You don’t expect help from anyone, do you?”

“No.” For a moment, Akitada saw the dilemma with supernatural clarity. The four of them against twenty, fighting in unfamiliar surroundings. He was badly out of shape after years of government work sitting behind desks or in assemblies. Tora and his companion had spent a night and a day of rowing a small boat in a large sea, and Saburo might be clever and good at throwing odd items through the air, but he could not hold his own in hand-to-hand combat. This was most likely where they would lose their lives. For a brief moment, the pain of never seeing Tamako and his little daughter again twisted his heart.

“All right. Let’s go!” he shouted, gesturing their intention to the other two. He grasped the sword firmly and took the shortest route down, jumping, slipping, sliding- hearing Tora following behind. His feet touched solid ground. Though he knew he was facing death, he felt good.

Watamaro’s men fell back until Watamaro shouted orders. Then they came. Two, three men at a time. Even if Watamaro had wanted to deal with an imperial official more gently, the matter was now out of his hands. This battle was to the death. In the press of knives and swords coming at him, Akitada was oblivious to anything but the need to fight his way past them.

The long sword gave him reach over the weapons of the sailors and warehouse clerks, and he made bloody work of it. An arrow whizzed past his ear and struck someone behind him. He ignored the scream, slashed, cut, parried, twisted aside to avoid the slashing and cutting blades of the enemy. A bowman loomed, the arrow pointed at his belly, the string pulled back, the man’s teeth already gleaming with the joy of hitting his target. He lunged, seized the bow with his left hand, pulling the man forward onto his sword. Something struck him from behind. He staggered into the bowman, pushed him away, freeing his sword as the man fell, and then he was past and saw the way clear to the great doors.

Watamaro, sword in hand, stepped in front of the doors. He looked past Akitada, and shouted an order. Akitada swung around, sword raised. Six or seven of the enemy came running. He crouched, but they rushed past him, the last one staggering as he ran. They were pursued by Tora, teeth bared and clothes soaked in blood. Tora stopped.

The warehouse doors slammed behind the enemy.

In the sudden silence, Tora kicked a body to see if the man was dead. Masaji sat slumped on a rice sack. He was badly wounded. And Saburo? Yes, there he was, grimacing as he pulled an arrow from his forearm.

The floor of the warehouse was covered with dead and wounded men and slippery with blood. Akitada’s sword dripped. In only a few moments, this carnage had happened. Suddenly he felt very tired.

“Saburo?” he asked. “How bad is it? And you, Masaji?”

“It’s nothing.” Saburo ripped a strip of fabric from his jacket and, using one hand and his teeth, made a bandage for his arm.

Masaji said nothing.

Tora killed one of the wounded. The man twitched and lay still. This was not like Tora, this slaughter of the wounded. The good feeling left Akitada. He felt dizzy and nauseated. Wiping his sword with the edge of his robe, he went to sit on a box.

“We need to get out,” Tora said.

This was obvious. Akitada did not bother to reply. Tora went to check on Masaji.