People in the waiting crowd screamed.
Yamabuki choked.
Another arrow hit Blue Rice, this time in the chest. He looked upward, grabbed the arrow shaft, staggered, then fell back.
“Right in the heart,” smirked one of the guards.
“Perfect shot, Misaki-san,” another said with admiration.
For a moment, Yamabuki wanted to run over to Blue Rice. She wanted to say something. Do something. But nothing could be said. Nothing could be done.
Her mouth twisted, she looked at the man in charge, her palms open, questioning.
He pursed his lips, shrugged slightly, and whispered, “He shouldn’t have run.”
Fifteen:
Who Will Say the Sutras?
Yamabuki led Mochizuki up a road that sloped gradually and gently inland.
At the first bend that was out of the sight of the beach, she paused by a dry fallen log that rested on sandy soil near trees where cherry buds bloomed. Tethering Mochizuki, she sat on the log and only then realized that she was shaking—not in fear, but in anger.
Why am I upset?
It was a local matter. She did not know Blue Rice. She had not met him until this morning. They had not exchanged all that many words. She didn’t even know his name or where he was from. Why would she feel this way? But then she knew. It was the look on his face. His dismay. The shock. He had done nothing more than lose his stomach. Hadn’t the guards seen that countless times?
Who would now bury him? Who would take a lock of his hair back to his home village? Who would say the sutras to rest his young soul after having died on a strange and foreign beach?
She gathered some small stones, stacking a simple mound behind the shelter of the log. She stood up to cut several cherry sprigs with her tantō-style dagger. She walked over to Mochizuki, reached into her saddle pouch, where she found three incense sticks and her bamboo canteen. She placed the flowers around the stone mound and spread the sand to hold the incense sticks, which she then lit, placing them around the tiny cenotaph. She pushed three copper coins into the sand. Commoners placed coins in various orifices of the corpse—mouth, ears, eyes, anus—to help the dead journey into whatever lay beyond life. Today the sand would have to suffice. Finally, she unstoppered her flask to carefully pour a good helping of her saké around the marker’s perimeter.
“Forgive me, Blue Rice, for I am no priest. I hope this Omiki will do and that the Gods will be pleased.” Softly she chanted Shintō remembrances to honor the dead.
She bowed low, turned, packed up, then took Mochizuki’s reins and returned to the main road.
Three hours of daylight remained.
Sixteen:
It’s a Long Road, Lady Taka
Nakagawa had advised her that since the southern coasts of the Main Isle at this point consisted of rocky bluffs, the road through the mountains was the fastest and easiest way to Heian-kyō.
She rode along the level road until she came to Akamagaseki, a small settlement of about fifty buildings located just at the point where the main north-south road steepened.
There she found sweet water to replenish her canteen and bought a handful of warm rice from a street vendor, but she did not have time for more than that. Within a day, two at most, she would face the passes that, this early in the spring, might still hold snow.
As she left Akamagaseki, the road sloped up sharply. She looked back over her shoulder from the higher vantage. The morning sun rose over fishing villages and farms on the fertile coastal plain below. In the far distance, she could barely make out the kobune, mid-channel, making its way back to Kita.
Back at the beach, the six fabric merchants and their fabric-laden cart were only just starting to make their way toward the town.
Now she walked, leading Mochizuki along the highway, up into the hills. The fragrance of cherry trees in full flower replaced the scent of the sea. The chirping of crickets, a sign of good luck, filled the forests. The far-away bell of Akamagaseki temple began to sound out the hour. A woodcock joined in. Then the cry of a black kite.
She paused to count the number of bells. “Nine strikes. Hear that? The sun is directly overhead. The Hour of the Horse, Mochizuki. Your hour.”
The day, which up until then had been growing progressively warmer, now grew cool as a squall blew in from what had been a cloudless sky. A steady rain began to fall.
She walked along the Main Isle road for some time, protected from the worst of the weather by the leafing tree branches that arched over the road, until she came to a clearing where someone had erected a very small Shintō shrine. It was typical of so many such shrines along the highway. What was not typical was the Buddhist monk standing before it, his back to her, seemingly praying to the Old Gods.
Either seeing or sensing her approach, he turned around. He had a bottle of saké in his hand. He looked at her and took a generous swig.
“Iebō?” she said in puzzlement.
Though he grinned, his expression had lost all boyish charm. His eyes narrowed like a snake’s. His white flowing robes were tied back in the way warriors secured their sleeves before a duel.
“How is it that you are here?” she asked politely.
“I paused here to pray.”
“A Buddhist praying at a Shintō shrine?”
“Does it matter?” Iebō seemed dismissive.
“Where is Akibō?”
“Behind you.”
She turned her head. No more than ten paces away, Akibō stood in the middle of the road, his sleeves also tied back in dueling style.
Yamabuki revealed no emotion.
Mochizuki snorted, agitated, as Akibō slowly moved toward Yamabuki.
“What are you after?”
“After? Nothing.” Iebō smiled.
“Nothing?”
“It’s a long road, Lady Taka,” Akibō said at last.
“Lady Taka? How is it that you call me by that title?” Yamabuki’s sword hand slowly slid to Tiger Claw’s hilt.
Seventeen:
To Win, You Have to Kill Us Both
Iebō sniffed. “You say too much Aki.”
“Aki, is it? Not Aki-bō?” she sneered. “Your monk’s vows could not survive even the crossing of The Barrier.” She glared. “But then again, you were never monks to begin with, were you? And you, your name isn’t Iebō either, is it?”
His mouth grew ugly. “Does that surprise you?”
“Who do you work for?”
“Let’s say we hold gold higher than Gods.” Iebō lips twisted petulantly. “Someone wants the two dispatches you carry.”
“Two dispatches?” Yamabuki’s tone remained flat.
“Don’t toy with us!” Aki sneered.
With that, Iebō, or whatever he called himself, tugged on his walking staff.
In one motion, he pulled the top off, revealing what was actually a ninja-style long sword that had been sheathed within the staff.
“You two fools think you can win,” she said in a low voice, not about to show fear. “Give this up. Run for your lives while you still can. There may be two of you, but I warn you, I am well trained and I’m wearing full yoroi armor.”
“Maybe so,” Iebō’ said, his mouth drawn into a line, “but it will take no more than a nick to end you.”
Then she noticed a honey-like substance that glistened at the tip of Iebō’s blade.
He answered her unvoiced question. “The walking sticks are hollow, but not empty. They hold something special.” He thumped the butt of the walking staff against the ground.
“Once your skin is broken, even if only slightly, you’ll be paralyzed. Your death will be almost immediate, so you might even wish to thank us. It’ll be over for you quickly.”
With that Aki drew his blade, which was no different from Iebō’s, gleaming with the thick
contagion on its tip.
She again vividly pictured the final moments of her father’s bodyguard, Giichi. Did Iebō and Aki use the same poison? Possibly. Abundant here at the strait. A local delicacy.
Yamabuki’s mouth drew into a thin line. “How do I know that it’s poison at all?”
“Why don’t we find out on your horse?” Iebō sneered as he stepped toward Mochizuki.
She tore Tiger Claw from its scabbard and stepped in to guard the colt; but this, alas, put her between the assailants. Confidently, they circled like wild dogs closing in for the kill.
Her mouth went dry. She knew that it would take more than a glancing blow for anyone to get the better of her armor, but the armor was not immune to every type of attack. Yoroi was meant to blunt killing blows, or strikes that maimed—those delivered to the head, torso, arms, and wrists—not incidental scratches.
And by how the two assassins handled themselves, she suspected they knew where armor was vulnerable, where they might deliver the poison most easily.
The two false monks looked at each other, exchanged a signal, and pounced as one.
Aki rushed her, feinting, his poison-tipped blade lashing out. Yamabuki blocked, knocking the ninja sword aside. No sooner had she parried Aki than Iebō drove his blade toward her. His sword tip, like a ridged viper with dripping venom, almost cut her leg. Yamabuki blocked him in time, only to have Aki move in from the other side to deliver yet another thrust.
The sword’s grim tip flashed in front of her eyes, narrowly missing her face.
“You can’t win!” Aki shouted.
“Ha!” Yamabuki spat.
“To win, you have to kill us both. All we need do is cut you, and only once,” Aki sneered.
“Bad odds,” Iebō laughed.
Aki and Iebō attacked simultaneously. She turned her sword, defending, blocking, and reversing against each of them. The two assassins repeated this ploy over and over.
As sweat trickled down Yamabuki’s reddening face, Iebō called out, “I can see the girl’s getting tired. Weak. Exhausted.”
“We’re getting more rest than she is,” Aki snorted. “And she’s getting hot inside that armor.” He suddenly made a thrust. She deflected and lashed out with a spirited strike that grazed his shoulder.
He laughed, seemingly unaffected. “Too bad you don’t have the venom on your blade, or it might have done some good.”
“I have venom,” she shouted, “in my heart.” She sprang forward, armor and all, driving her sword toward Aki’s heart. He was agile and leapt back.
Yet he was more exhausted than he let on, and she managed to pierce him just below his collarbone. All at once the white robe at his shoulder blossomed bright red.
Staggering backward, he tried to make it appear that he was hardly hurt, but almost immediately he collapsed into a squatting position.
“That won’t kill me,” he snarled, but then coughed and started to bleed from the corner of his mouth.
“Maybe,” she gasped. “Maybe I’ll just wait for you to bleed out.”
Iebō snarled and moved toward Yamabuki.
She backed up.
Aki barked, “What are you waiting for?”
With force enough to pierce her armor, Iebō thrust his blade.
Yamabuki leapt backward. Iebō missed. Yamabuki delivered a counter, which he eluded.
Aki, now crawling on the ground, moaned, “She getting tired! She’s spent! Do it!”
Yamabuki backed toward a stand of trees at the clearing’s edge.
Aki gasped as his robe grew evermore sopped in blood.
Iebō pursued nimbly. Laughing wickedly. Taunting. He raised his blade to remind her of the dark liquid on its tip.
Without warning, something cut her left cheek. Blood spurted.
But Iebō was still more than a sword length away. Aki still remained slumped by the roadside.
Who? How?
Aki gave a weak laugh. “I got you!” He coughed up more gore.
Her eyes darted down. Her blood was on a jagged rock that lay at her feet. Obviously, despite his wound, Aki had managed to throw the rock and hit her. But had he dipped it in poison?
She waited. The short moment seemed to take forever.
Iebō must have wondered as well, for he stood still, waiting for Yamabuki to collapse.
She breathed. Just pain. No poison.
Just a rock.
She glanced back at Aki. Having crawled as far as he could, he lay face down in the dirt, not moving. A red trail wet the soil.
Iebō muttered, “Now you die.”
Eighteen:
I’ve Never lost a Duel
“Only two of us now, ninja,” she said through gritted teeth. “Let’s see how good you are with your blade.”
Iebō moved toward her. “Just a scratch. It’s all I need to deliver. Then you’re dead.”
“Like Aki?” she sneered.
Iebō flicked his blade, sending poison in her direction. She dodged just in time as a splotch of venom flew right by her face, very close to the open cut on her cheek.
“Keep doing that and there won’t be enough of your little concoction left to kill an ant.”
They were both exhausted. Blades extended, they again began moving in a circle, each waiting for the other to make a mistake.
Iebō snarled, “I’ve never lost a duel.”
“I suppose Aki hadn’t either,” she hissed, “and he was more skilled with the blade than you. That I can easily see.”
Iebō attacked. Sword flashing, he screamed, “Die!”
She parried. This time she countered vigorously. One. Two. Three strikes. She moved in on him all at once.
Iebō barely managed to defend, quickly backing up.
There was movement behind Iebō. Had Aki rallied? Yamabuki caught colors. Indigo and dark orange.
There was a guttural shout. A field sword sliced down, seemingly from nowhere, cutting Iebō from his right collar bone on down through the left side of his rib cage. Blood sprayed everywhere. His upper torso, head and all, simply sloughed away to the ground, landing with a thud.
Long Sword!
Before the rest of Iebō’s body had fully fallen to the ground, Long Sword stomped off toward Aki and drove the nodachi through Aki’s back, through the heart. If he was not dead before, he was surely dead now.
“Cowards!” Long Sword thundered.
Yamabuki fought to catch her breath. She reached into her sash-sleeve to remove a piece of paper with which to dab the blood from her face. She then wiped her blade, careful not to touch any poison that it might have picked up while clashing with Aki’s and Iebō’s ninja swords.
In the meantime, Long Sword pulled papers from his jacket sleeve to wipe the blood from his blade.
When they finished, Long Sword and Yamabuki let go of the papers and the slight breeze carried the bloody tissues into the trees. The two mutually sheathed their weapons.
“Why?” asked Yamabuki, still catching her breath.
“I knew they were ninja. Cowards disguised as holy men, using fugu venom!”
“You knew?” she repeated.
“You’re so naïve.”
“Naïve!” Yamabuki’s eyes flashed.
“Humph,” he snorted. “I told you on the boat to keep your eyes open, but you didn’t keep your eyes open at all. It was obvious. I saw it back on the beach at Kita. They were dressed as Tendai sect, but they did not behave like Buddhist monks. I watched them eating oysters. They cut and shucked them with their own knives. That’s outright killing from the Tendai way of looking at things.”
He grunted. “But you’re no Buddhist, are you? Shintō, if even that, ne? You’re a warrior. Killing some oysters means nothing to you, does it? Doesn’t to me, either. Nor to them.”
Long
Sword shrugged, dismissively throwing his hand in the direction of the two corpses.
“And the way they spoke.”
He continued in a speech that mocked theirs, deliberately aping a failed attempt at the upper class manner, adding feminine softeners, effetely rolling his eyes skyward:
“‘We know many temples along the imperial highway at which to stay; friendly to monk and warrior alike.’ Ha!”
He laughed. “That a monk would dare approach a warrior and dare speak with such familiarity! Oh, girl, you have so much yet to learn.”
He looked her up and down.
“At first I thought you might even be working with them and that I was the target. I suspected that when you stopped for ‘Gankyū’ before the crossing, back up on Foot Trail.”
“Stopped for Eyeball?” Yamabuki looked askance. “Who is Eyeball?”
Nineteen:
A Decision You Won’t Live to Regret
“I just said: Gankyū. He’ll do anything for any official, for a price. He’s no crabber. Never trust someone who doesn’t drink saké. They’re hiding something about themselves for which they are ashamed. When I saw the two of you together, I figured either you were working with him, or you were easily taken in. Obviously it was the latter.”
He paused to contemplate her again. “No. He won’t work for any clan, but he’ll work for traitors within one.” He raised his eyebrow. “Taka traitors.”
A look of ire crossed Yamabuki’s face.
Long Sword rubbed his chin. “I overheard them say something about some dispatches you’re carrying.”
Yamabuki did not react.
“Don’t try and fool me. I heard those two say that’s what they wanted.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Ah!” he growled. “I don’t care about your foolish scrolls. You can wipe the kuso off your ass with each and every one of them as far as I am concerned, but did it ever occur to you that you were sent out alone and yet somehow someone knew that you carried dispatches? Why not just send a detachment if these scrolls are all so important? I’ll wager you don’t even know what’s on them, or did you dare read them?”
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