Steve Bein - Year of the Demon

Daigoro still didn’t understand why the clan leaders had agreed to name him Izu-no-kami, Lord Protector of Izu. At sixteen Daigoro was not only the youngest of the five lords protector; he could have been a grandson to any one of them. Okuma Tetsuro had left such a lofty reputation for his son to live up to, and Daigoro was not yet accustomed to shaving his pate.

“My lords,” Daigoro said, “it has been my honor to be defeated by such an agile warrior. Now, if you would like to join me for dinner—”

“Not so fast,” said Lord Sora. He stood and approached the fighters, his yellow kimono flowing behind him and the broad orange shoulders of his haori all but glowing in the sun. Sora Izu-no-kami Nobushige was another lord protector of Izu, and had held that station since even Daigoro’s father was a little boy. Despite his many years his white topknot had not thinned at all, and his red face still seemed as though he’d just left the forge that made him famous. Upon arrival at the Okuma compound, Lord Sora and his grandson had presented Daigoro with two of their clan’s famed yoroi , breastplates so well crafted that they were said to be able to deflect even the musket balls of the southern barbarians. Daigoro could not help thinking that the gift was made too late; had the Soras provided their unique armor a year earlier, they could have been meeting with Daigoro’s father today.

Years of hefting and hammering had made Lord Sora’s body strong, but the decades afterward had slowed him considerably. “My grandson is unsatisfied,” he said, almost shouting because he’d made so little progress across the courtyard. Daigoro noted the old man’s shuffling steps with sympathy; he wasn’t much faster himself. But he also noted that between Lord Sora’s shouting and his perpetually red face, it was impossible to read the man’s emotions.

“He believes the famed Bear Cub of Izu has not fought at his most bearlike,” said Lord Sora, still booming. “He believes our young lord has gone easy on him so that our parley will go smoothly. I am sure the young lord will explain to him why this is a misperception.”

At least that wasn’t hard to read. Daigoro was certain the doubts hadn’t come from Samanosuke at all. They came from the old man.

And the solution to all of this could have been so easy. Daigoro had but to hike up the hem of his hakama and show the Soras the wrist-thin leg concealed within. But to reveal his own weakness would have brought shame on both his clan and his father’s memory. Only a handful knew the son of Okuma Tetsuro was a cripple.

So instead he said, “My lords, my prowess has indeed been spoken of highly—more highly than it should have been. I assure you, I fought my best.”

“Then how is it that my grandson bested you so easily? Your reputation precedes you, Okuma-dono. Everyone knows you are undefeated in duels with live steel. If my grandson were so inclined, he might come to the conclusion that you have insulted our house. That you were toying with him. Even that you let him win in order to secure a better price on Sora yoroi .”

And one might also conclude, Daigoro thought, that you deliberately read the worst into every situation, the better to drive up the price of your precious armor. Or that you believe two broken fingers is too small a price to pay for nothing more than the honor of dining with you. Or that your grandson’s life is no price at all, that it will be good enough for your house if one of your lineage dies on Inazuma steel.

But Daigoro could say none of it. He could only try to keep from shaking his head, to hold his breath rather than let out a scoff. Lord Sora was close now, standing shoulder to broad shoulder with Katsushima. Daigoro hoped he’d contained himself well enough, because the old man was close enough to see the slightest hint of disrespect.

“I don’t suppose,” Daigoro said, his tone less gracious than it should have been, “that your grandson would like to come here and voice his concerns himself.”

Sora’s red cheeks wrinkled in the wake of a thin, spreading smile. “I fear he may have lost his composure.”

“He certainly wouldn’t want to do that,” said Katsushima, giving Daigoro a piercing stare.

“No, indeed,” said Daigoro. “No, he would not.” Stubborn old bastard, he thought. Damn you for making me do this. “But perhaps he might be willing to face me in a second duel?”

Sora’s white eyebrows pushed up toward his topknot. “Why, Okuma-dono, what sort of a barbarian do you take him for? He has his honor to think of. It wouldn’t do to challenge a man he’s just beaten.”

“Of course not,” said Daigoro, grinding his teeth. “I mean to say that, if he would be so gracious, I would be honored if he would accept my invitation to fight me steel to steel.”

A triumphant light gleamed in Lord Sora’s beady black eyes. “Samanosuke,” he called, not even bothering to look back, “ready your katana. ”

Daigoro limped back to the veranda where Tomo and Glorious Victory stood waiting. Tomo regarded him with a smile that conveyed more worry than gladness. His hair was disheveled and he was wringing something in his hands, something too small and slender for Daigoro to see.

“Tomo, I’ll need you to do something more for these fingers. There’s no way I can hold—”

“It’s all well in hand, sir.” Now Tomo’s smile was boyish again, widening as he presented Daigoro with a closed fist. He opened his hand with a flourish, revealing a short, curved length of copper.

“Tomo, is that your hairpin?”

“No longer, sir. It’s your splint. May I see your hand?”

The metal matched the length of Daigoro’s middle finger precisely. How Tomo had managed that was beyond Daigoro’s ken. It hurt like hellfire when Tomo unwrapped the bandage he’d laid before, and when he bent misshapen fingers to match the curve of the copper, it was everything Daigoro could do not to wail like a little child. But the metal was a lot stronger than broken bone—maybe even strong enough to hold the weight of an odachi , Daigoro thought. If I don’t pass out first.

A few quick wraps with the cotton bandage and Daigoro’s broken fingers vanished, replaced by a fat, swollen, pain-ridden tongue, curled in just the shape needed to grip a sword. “By the Buddha, that stings,” said Daigoro. He wiped the last unbidden tears from his eyes and willed his clenching jaws to relax. “You’re a miracle worker, Tomo.”

“If you’re lucky, he’ll kill you, sir. And if not, I’m going to have to reset those fingers after the duel.”

Daigoro pushed himself to his feet, babying his right hand. He needed Tomo’s help to draw Glorious Victory, whose blade was nearly twice the length of his arm. He saw Samanosuke’s eyes widen as the two of them came to the center of the courtyard.

“Take your stance,” Katsushima said, and Daigoro’s right thigh quivered as he centered his sword. He found himself overgripping with his left hand, the better to take weight out of the right. The pain coming from those two fingers was blinding. Daigoro raised Glorious Victory to a high guard, the blade pointing straight at the sun, leaving his vitals wide open in an effort to take more weight off his maimed right hand.

Samanosuke hovered like a bee, well out of range. His katana was scarcely half the length of Daigoro’s odachi , and he was too crafty a fighter to simply wade in looking to score a quick kill. Had he ever faced a horseman’s sword before? Did he know Daigoro’s high guard sacrificed most of his reach? Daigoro couldn’t be sure.

Samanosuke ventured in closer. Daigoro held his stance. Another step and Samanosuke was close enough to strike. Their eyes met. Samanosuke lunged.