by Leah Cutter
However, like his father Lord Taiga, Iwao didn’t trust Masato a bit. Whatever Iwao gave him, in the end, would never be enough.
Masato was greedy, and not a ghost. Only the entire mountain would satisfy him.
Iwao was impressed with the wording in the formal challenge of war, at Masato’s bravado, along with his subtle implication that their armies were equal.
Though Masato’s army may have outnumbered Iwao’s, Masato primarily hired saburai, servants. They weren’t men of honor, like Iwao’s men. Masato’s men would be fighting above their station. This meant that when they died, their deaths held more honor, since they’d been killed by men so far above them.
Iwao would have to assure his men that fighting for the mountain regained whatever honor they might lose fighting men beneath their own position.
The estate was still at that time of the night. Most of the court was asleep and the servants hadn’t yet risen to start preparations for the new day. This was the hour when Iwao liked to stroll the grounds, not to check up on things as some assumed but because it gave him a quiet time to think.
His father, Lord Taiga, had also desired stillness for contemplation, but he preferred to do his thinking while as motionless as the mountain. Iwao saw himself more like a stream, babbling quietly to himself as he meandered.
However, he would never leave his dear Kayoku alone in his rooms.
Restlessness still drove him, first from his writing desk, then to his cabinet where he kept Seiji.
He’d shown Kayoku the sword earlier. Both he and Seiji had been pleased with her praises, though he knew it was ridiculous for him to ascribe such emotion to a mere sword.
Without ceremony, Iwao drew Seiji from his sheath and practiced sweeping blows and cuts, both defending and attacking. He often did these types of drills when he was alone.
Seiju was a taichi, formed in the new style with a long, curved blade, elegant and lightweight. Iwao was more familiar with chokuto swords, which were short and straight. He practiced as often as he did so that he could rely on his hand, for it to know what to do, without conscious forethought. Swords were only used at the end of battle, when a man had exhausted his supply of arrows or spears.
The steel seemed to vibrate in Iwao’s hand, as alive as he was, swathed with unseen night currents and desires. He’d believed his father when he’d told him that it was a magic sword. Iwao had felt its power the first time he’d drawn the blade, after he’d dedicated himself to the protection of Mount Shirayama.
Seiji had sighed with Iwao’s words, grown light and warm to the touch. He desired the same things Iwao did, life for the mountain and her people.
Now, Seiji whistled through the air, singing as sweetly as Kayoku had earlier. Iwao could almost hear the words the sword sang, describing the beauty of the mountain, praising its moss–covered rocks and fresh bubbling streams.
For a moment, Iwao had the image of carrying the sword out of his rooms, maybe stepping onto the veranda, to bathe the sword’s banked heat in moonlight and cool air.
But that was ridiculous. Iwao bit down hard on the impulse, as he always did.
No one knew the poetry that lived in Iwao’s soul. No one could know. He would rather be silent and thought a fool than to disappoint his family and be called flighty.
A good leader of men was practical, and that was what Iwao had trained himself to be.
Lord Taiga had always seemed satisfied with Iwao’s dedication, the way he’d focused himself. However, a few days before Lord Taiga’s death, he’d called Iwao to his rooms, demanding to hear some of the poetry he knew Iwao still wrote.
Iwao had demurred initially, but eventually he’d given in to the dying man’s wishes.
It was then that Lord Taiga admitted that the poetry he knew still lived in Iwao’s soul was why he’d chosen Iwao for his heir. Only someone who could hear the mountain’s song could be her true guardian.
Iwao had re–sworn his oath that day, pleasing both his father and Seiji.
Who still sang in his hand, directing his arm in even more extreme moves.
Iwao stopped himself, drawing up, standing tall and straight, like a sword. Then he bowed low, placing the sword before him, paying it proper respect, before he sheathed the sword.
Why was he sweating lightly? He hadn’t been practicing that hard, had he? He thought back, then frowned when he realized how he’d let himself get carried away dancing with the sword.
Iwao shook his head, breathing in the calm of the night.
This would never do. He had more discipline than that. He just had to use it.
Still, working with Seiji had loosened Iwao up. He seated himself again behind his writing desk, drawing out his fine brush, shaving ink from his finely–made stick and mixing it in the ink stone. He crafted his letter of response to Masato, rejecting his offer of “compromise” and choosing war instead.
Iwao used the most polite and formal phrases he knew, re–reading the words often, holding his poetic nature in strict check. Because of the seriousness of the matter, he wrote the final version out with his own hand instead of assigning it to a scribe.
Masato would pick the field and time for their engagement, as was custom.
Iwao found himself looking forward to their battle. A keenness for blood always slipped into his thoughts after working with Seiji, something else he had to watch out for.
Using a black ribbon, Iwao sealed the letter with a complicated twist. Then he wrote out instructions for his main servant to find a dying spring leaf, preferably one partially decayed, as a symbol of their conversation. Masato and his foreign religion were a poison, killing the spirit of everything they touched. Iwao would stop the spread of this disease here and now.
Hissed words slithered across the room on slight breezes. Iwao shivered. Was that Seiji, whispering in his sheath, agreeing with Iwao?
It couldn’t be. Iwao shivered again, dismissing the feeling as just another overly–romantic notion, the kind he’d trained himself out of now that he was a man.
After putting away his writing implements and making sure his room was tidy, Iwao stuck his head out the door and woke one of the servants in the hallway.
“Tea,” Iwao ordered. “And be silent bringing it in.”
Then Iwao went back to his sleeping room, drew on a fresh robe, and sat in the tranquil darkness, watching his beautiful Kayoku sleep, composing poems he would never speak aloud but that he prayed she would feel in his hands when he touched her, see in his eyes, and witness in his acts and duty.
Ξ
The afternoon of the day before the battle, Iwao rode his horse Kage up the high slope of the mountain. The sun shone down brightly both between the trees, dappling the path, then growing blindingly bright when they raced out of the trees and across meadows. He flushed rabbits, geese, even a newly shorn buck. Kage didn’t notice, he just thundered on, like a colt on a summer’s day, taking joy in the running, stretching his legs as far as they would go.
Seiji whispered the entire time, urging Iwao to ride faster, take more daring jumps. Soon, Iwao was far ahead of his outriders and servants. When he was certain no one could see him, he practiced drawing Seiji from the back of Kage, while they rode.
Normally, a man didn’t fight from horseback. Battles were fought up close and hand–to–hand. Fighting from horseback was extremely difficult with a chokuto sword. The straight blade made it almost impossible to unsheathe quickly, particularly when riding hard and fast.
Seiji was curved and easy to draw, going from earth to sky in one movement, followed by a downward slash.
Iwao could easily imagine an opponent, also on horseback. He practiced striking this enemy’s body, side, arm—even leg—from his own position on the back of Kage.
The idea was…radical. It was the kind of thing Iwao had always had to guard against, those leaps of fantasy. He’d trained himself to be practical. Horses were too expensive, too precious, to be risked in this strange new way of fightin
g. Men were much easier to find and replace. They took less training, less specialized food, less care.
However. Iwao needed an advantage for this first battle with Masato. The generals didn’t trust Iwao, but they had at least been honest about their army’s capabilities.
Masato outnumbered them. Two bows for every one of theirs.
Plus, as much as Iwao’s practical side denied it, there was something strange about Masato’s army. He’d seen himself the men who fought on after receiving fatal blows, who needed to be killed two or three times, whose discarded bodies were bloated and covered with painted designs of evil characters.
Seiji sang in Iwao’s hand as he charged. He sliced through the air as happily as he could slice through flesh, whistling in the clear afternoon sun.
It would take time, probably most of the night, for Iwao to convince his generals to take this risk. To have a single battalion that didn’t merely ride horses to the battle, but rode their horses into battle. He knew they had enough taichi style swords to arm these men.
Iwao spent the rest of his ride planning what they would need to do. How the battalion would attack. What brief training he could give the men.
It was a trick. A one–time gamble.
They’d never be able to do it a second time—the enemy would be prepared for it.
If they lost, they would be in much worse condition than they would have been just losing the battle. They would have lost all those horses as well.
Seiji whispered the entire ride back to camp that it would be worth it. The battle would be won.
Ξ
Fleet clouds, fleeting sun,
Daylight gone, here, gone again—
Life dried up like dew
The day of the battle dawned dark, chilled, and gray. Iwao had only slept for two hours, but it had been enough. He ate a little rice cooked with chicken and green onions while sitting outside of his tent, the generals and servants standing well away, giving him a little peace. The soup was more of a winter dish, but he relished the warmth that morning.
Iwao dressed in formal battle robes—brown silk with the Kitayama family crest embroidered in gold on the back, a stylized ideogram of Mount Shirayama. Before he put on his armor, he left his plain tent to walk among his men, as Lord Taiga always had.
Grass still covered the paths between the plain brown canvas tents. The men had divided themselves up by clan or battalion, depending on how many of their brothers or uncles served with them. They set their tents up in clusters and circles, with wide rivers of grass between them.
Grim faces greeted Iwao as he walked from camp to camp. The men knew the odds facing them.
Iwao didn’t speak with any of the men. He knew that his tongue would betray him if he tried. His fanciful nature, and the current stress, might cause poetry to erupt, and he couldn’t afford to be seen as anything other than rock solid this morning.
Instead, Iwao just nodded at them as he passed. He also partook in some of the small ceremonies going on that morning, so stood with his head bowed as a priest blessed the men’s weapons and horses. He uttered his own silent prayers of protection when a group of men handed him a box of carved wooden beads that would be tied to their mounts. He took part in another group’s sacrifice, throwing a straw effigy on their sacrificial fire.
More than one soldier spent his time sharpening his sword and spear points, counting and recounting arrows, testing bows and tightening strings.
The battalion with the taichi swords were already practicing, the men lined up and drilling, fighting up and down a small rise.
Iwao watched for a while, before giving them an approving nod and moving on, back to his own tent.
The priests of the Mori temple dripped water on Iwao’s head, chilling and refreshing, as part of their blessing. They chanted poems of victory and blew smoke from sacred fires over his armor.
Iwao wore Oyoroi–style armor, with thick, flexible shoulder protectors tied to his arms. Like the rest of his armor, they were covered in iron scales, laced together with beautiful red and gold ties. His helmet flaps were similarly covered, though the crowned peak was one solid piece of iron.
The priests carefully tied each part of Iwao’s armor to him, chanting and blessing the ties.
Iwao contained his growing impatience through the ceremony, making sure to thank the priests for all their hard work before he was finally able to mount Kage and be away.
Iwao rode out of the camp and to the field of battle, then up a small rise that had been prepared, on the western side. His generals fanned out around him, and the army spread beneath him.
His heart swelled at the sight of his army, with the war banners waving bravely as the sun burned through the clouds. Though most of the men had their own colors and armor, the overall effect was dark and heavy, a solid committed group of warriors. Brilliant green ribbons—the color of the mountain in spring—were tied to armor, weapons, horses, uniting them with one goal. Horses snorted in the cool morning air, steaming as they took the field.
Masato and his men joined the field. His army was like a dark cloud, cold and shadowy.
The two leaders rode forward toward the center of the field, each with their generals and servants.
Iwao let his generals examine the enemy’s troops. He focused on the leader. Iwao had seen Masato before, but this morning was the first time he’d been in close proximity.
Masato was darker than Iwao remembered, tanned like a peasant, almost swarthy, while the surface of his skin was unnaturally smooth. His smile was all–knowing and indulgent, like a father’s when dealing with a petulant child. Strange symbols covered his well–made Oyoroi–style armor—Iwao learned later they were Buddhist blessings. A sleepy expression filled his eyes, as if he saw everything through a veil. He was a solid man; his body had known fine foods as well as heavy exercise.
Seiji remained strangely silent as they drew closer.
After the formal greeting, Masato read out his lineage, tracing his father, grandfathers, and great–grandfathers. He went first, as he was the challenger. His background wasn’t illustrious, though he had been abroad to Shina, which was where he’d first dedicated himself to this Buddha.
Iwao found his back stiffening as Masato continued to try to puff himself up. He hadn’t trusted this new religion, and now he liked it even less, particularly after studying its avatar.
Masato was a lazy man. He only did the smallest sliver of his duty, not what he must, not fully embracing what duty entailed.
How could merely speaking the name of the Amida Buddha bring a man to Heaven? The kami needed works, great and small, to consider a life well lived.
Iwao read his family’s history quickly, deliberately using an eager voice, stumbling over words like a new student.
He knew his reputation would precede him. And his enemy appeared to take the bait as Masato’s smile grew more indulgent.
Exactly what Iwao wanted. He needed for Masato to misjudge him, to think him young, unschooled.
For Iwao’s plan to work, Masato had to completely underestimate him.
After they agreed to the terms of battle, as previously negotiated, Iwao wheeled Kage around and raced back to the line of men behind him, supposedly yet another sign of his inexperience. Because his back was to Masato, Iwao allowed himself a smile at his generals’ playacting, the way they shook their heads and grimaced.
More fuel for the fire.
Iwao drew away with his men, as was protocol. It put both armies into better arrow range. Close up was only for later.
However, the section of men that Iwao led didn’t withdraw as far as the others. Hopefully, Masato would take it for yet another mistake of youthful impatience.
The priests began blowing their whistles and banging their drums, a prelude to the first attack, to put fear into the enemy while swelling the hearts of Iwao’s men.
Weird wailing came from Masato’s side, inhuman and otherworldly.
Iwao’s men stood tal
l, brave in the face of the unknown. Their horses shifted nervously as the scent of ashes and dark, long–buried places rolled over them.
With the first barrage of arrows, Iwao led his charge. He relied on his generals to direct their division, to rearm the men with arrows and follow the traditional forms, as well as to provide his group with cover, to allow them to get close enough.
Iwao led his troop to the right, sprinting with their horses. To the uninitiated, it looked as though they were leaving the battlefield.
Until, as one, they turned on Iwao’s signal and rushed toward the left flank of Masato’s army.
The generals leading Masato’s men didn’t notice Iwao and his troop until it was too late. No one had ever led such a charge before, not at the start of a battle, rushing toward the enemy unheedingly, like beaters flushing quarry.
While some of Iwao’s troop used bows, the rest had spears or swords drawn. They swept through Masato’s men like a wild wave crashing over the shore, brushing away any resistance.
Seiji sang in Iwao’s hand, urging him on, thirsting for the blood of the enemy, seeking out bodies to feed on from all sides. Like a child with a mere stalk of wild grass, Iwao swung his sword effortlessly, from one side to the other, endlessly wielding death.
Iwao learned after the battle that the opposing line had broken immediately. They hadn’t even given a token resistance. Masato’s men had stopped firing, turned, and run.
Iwao and his troop chased Masato’s men across the plain and through the valley, easily picking them off with spears and arrows as they fled.
It was the first time Iwao’s men had had such a victory—the skirmishes they’d fought before with Lord Taiga had never given them such a clear win. They went a little mad with it, not halting the slaughter even when the generals ordered them to stay their hand.
Seiji, too, longed for more even after Iwao had pulled back, gathering his men to him and charging forth again.
That evening, the generals insisted on celebrating their great victory, even though it had been a one–time trick that they’d never be able to do again. Masato’s generals would now be looking for such a trick, watching in all directions for such a wild attack.
