by I. J. Parker
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.
Akitada glanced at the great doors. Surely they had locked them. And if not, they were waiting outside. He wondered what time it was. If they could attract attention, perhaps . . . but no, it was late and the warehouse was on the waterside which was deserted at night.
He sniffed, smelling smoke. Someone cooking? Perhaps there were ordinary townspeople nearby after all.
Tora appeared at his side. “Masaji’s going to die,” he said softly.
Akitada took in the blood on Tora’s clothes. “Are you wounded?”
“No. But you are.” Tora looked at Akitada’s back. “Take off that robe and let me see.”
“What? No. I can’t be. It’s someone else’s blood. I was in the thick of it at some point.” But as Tora’s fingers probed, he did feel a sharp pain on his upper back. And he did feel unusually tired.
Tora said, “It’s been bleeding quite a lot. I can’t tell if it’s just a cut, or if it went deep. You’d best lie down.” He sniffed. “Where’s that smoke coming from?”
Between them and the doors, tendrils of smoke curled up through the floorboards.
“Amida,” breathed Tora, “they’re trying to smoke us out.”
“No. They intend to burn us alive and claim the fire was accidental.” Akitada struggled to his feet, but Tora and the warehouse started spinning, and he slumped back down.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Even Monkeys Fall From Trees
Akitada was tired. Perhaps if he closed his eyes for just a moment . . .
Tora pulled him up and told him to walk—in a tone of such urgency that he obeyed. Then he was sitting again. Someone shoved fabric under his robe. After that he was alone.
Resting.
This time he had misjudged matters fatally.
And others would die for it.
Something was burning.
He opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. Wisps of smoke floated between him and the distant light. Behind him, someone was hammering and splitting wood. At his feet, lay Masaji, curled up like a small child. His eyes were wide open, and he smiled.
“We’ll be reborn,” he whispered.
Akitada said dully, “I hope so,” and went to look for Tora and Saburo in the dim back reaches of the stored goods.
He found them using halberds and swords to hack at the back wall. The wood was old and tough, the boards thick. The air was slightly better here, but even so, both coughed and glistened with sweat. He had lost his sword, but he picked up an iron bar and joined them.
Tora looked at him from red-rimmed eyes. “Sit down, sir. You’ll open that wound again.”
Akitada shook his head. “I have to do something.” He shoved the point of the bar between two boards and pried. Nothing. He tried again, this time using both hands. A board popped loose with a satisfying crack. The smoke
was growing thicker. Akitada suppressed a cough.
The silence suddenly seemed ominous. Where were Watamaro and his people? “Do you think they can hear us?” he asked hoarsely.
“I hope not.” Tora shoved a halberd under the board Akitada had loosened and between them they forced two more boards out. Fresh air blew in, but the opening was still too narrow. Behind them, the fire crackled. Something fell with a crash, then a thick cloud of smoke engulfed them, and when they turned, the whole front of the warehouse was a fiery hell.
They worked feverishly. Saburo found a coil of rope. He tied it to the nearest beam, tested the knot, and then fed it through the opening.
Akitada put his head out and looked down. It was dark and smoky; he could not see the ground. He doubted he could hold on to the rope and make his way down. His back was already sticky again with fresh blood, and he could barely lift the iron bar. From what he recalled, it was too far to jump without risking two broken legs. The Naniwa warehouses had been built high above the ground to withstand tsunami.
Tora went back into the smoke and fire that roared behind them. Akitada felt the searing heat and croaked Tora’s name in a panic.
“Coming.” Tora appeared, dragging Masaji and coughing. He dropped Masaji next to the hole and peered out. “You go first, sir.” He tossed some weapons out.
Akitada hesitated. A voice outside bellowed, “Hey! They’re getting out.”
Tora cursed. He pushed Akitada toward the opening. “Now, sir. Go!”
Akitada seized the rope and stepped into emptiness.
For a moment he hung suspended. He tried to catch the rope with his feet and go down hand over hand, but his grip slipped immediately and he began to slide. The hemp burned and tore his palms, but he managed to end up on his feet, jarred by the impact. His hands were on fire.
It was dark and smoky under the warehouse. Watamaro’s man stood only a few feet away, staring. When he lunged, Akitada barely managed to snatch up a sword.
The sword grip slipped in his raw and burning palm, but he was lucky. The other man tripped over something and fell. Akitada put a foot on his back, and stabbed downward. Agonizing pain shot up his wrist. It was too dark to see if he had struck a vital organ, but he heard a choking cry and felt a weak movement under his foot. Withdrawing the sword, he stabbed down again and again.
Then Tora was beside him. “He’s done for, sir,” he gasped. “Get ready for the others.” Above them the fire cracked and roared, and sparks showered the darkness.
Akitada looked up. The night sky was red, and the rope whipped about in circles. Smoke billowed from the opening, and then Saburo slid down and joined them. He pointed past Akitada. Dark shadows moved under the warehouse in the lurid smoke rent by flames and showers of burning debris.
Akitada still held the sword, but his hand was nearly useless. Trying to get a grip hurt as if his palm had been scorched by the flames. “It’s no use, Tora,” he called out. “We must get away. There are too many. We cannot fight them all.”
Tora shook his head. “Not without Masaji, sir. You go.”
Saburo came to stand beside them with his halberd.
Put to shame, Akitada made up his mind to fight. Above them the fire raged. Debris had accumulated under the warehouse and around it. In front of them, their attackers came out of the smoke, their weapons swinging. How many? It did not matter. They would stand and fight until they could fight no more.
A tall man with a long sword was the first to reach them. “Give up,” he shouted, breathing hard, “and you’ll live.” He looked nervous and held his sword as if he were unused to it.
Akitada charged. The man jumped back quickly, looking over his shoulder. The others came and metal rang as Tora and Saburo moved nearby, swinging, grunting, slashing. Akitada went for the tall man again and sent him running. He turned to meet two others—more experienced fighters—who forced him back. One of them fought with a staff, the other had a long sword. Akitada lunged at the swordsman, twisting away just before the staff hit him. But he stumbled over something, barely caught his balance, and knew his strength was ebbing. He could not parry or deflect another attack.
Tora appeared beside him, ducking past the man with the staff, to gore the swordsman in the side. Akitada slashed at the arm of the second man. The staff fell, and the man ran, clutching his arm. He disappeared into a cloud of smoke and fire as the front of the warehouse collapsed. Suddenly they were alone.
Saburo threw down his halberd and loped over. “How are you, sir?”
Akitada felt little beyond relief that he could let go of the sword. He said, “All right,” and looked at his palms.
Saburo checked his back. “The bleeding stopped, I think.”
A scream. “No, Masaji!”
They jumped. Tora stood looking up at the hole in the side of the warehouse. In the opening stood Masaji, smoke and flames outlining his swaying figure.
Tora ran for the rope, slipped, fell, and scrambled up again, while Masaji swayed above, a smile flashing wide in his sooty face. “I’m coming, Bishamon,” he croaked and tumbled forward. His body struck Tora a glancing blow and landed with a sickening thud on the ground.
Akitada and Saburo ran to them. Tora struggled up, rubbing his shoulder. Masaji lay still.
“Damn you, Masaji!” Tora groaned. “Why couldn’t you wait? I was coming.” He knelt, taking Masaji’s hand and touching the still smiling face.
Saburo checked the pirate. “He’s dead, Tora,” He lifted Masaji’s blood-soaked tunic and revealed a big wound in his belly. “He was dying before he fell.”
Tora hung his head. “I owe him my life.”
Guilt washed over Akitada. This, too, was his fault. None of the past horrors would have happened if it had not been for his foolish mistake of trusting Watamaro.
“I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I’m sorry I caused all of this. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Tora only shook his head.
Saburo produced his horrible grin. “Never mind, sir. Even monkeys fall out of trees.” Then he raised his head. “I hear horses.”
It was too late to run. Torches appeared. Metal and leather clanked. Hooves clattered across the hard ground, and the prefect’s military guard surrounded them.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Reckoning
The prefect’s soldiers raised their bows and placed their arrows in unison. Then they pulled back. Twenty-six arrows pointed at three tired and wounded men.
“Well-trained,” Tora muttered.
Akitada straightened up slowly. He felt incredibly weary. There was little point in this, but he must make the effort. He took a step toward their commander and said, “You’re a little late, but I thank you for coming at all. I’m Sugawara Akitada, special investigator from the capital. These are my people. We will need horses and transport for the dead man. Take us to the prefecture.”
The commander shoved his helmet back a little and stared at him. He next looked at Tora, then Saburo with a grimace of disgust, and finally at the body of Masaji. He said coldly, “You’re under arrest for fighting and setting fires. Setting fires is a capital offense.” He turned to his men. “Tie them up.”
“Wait,” cried Akitada. “You’re making a mistake. You should be arresting Watamaro. He attacked us and set the fire.”
The officer gave him a contemptuous look. “Don’t be stupid. Why would he burn down his own warehouse? Besides he’s a respected man in this province.”
Four of his constables had dismounted and now approached with the thin chains used to tie up dangerous criminals. Tora got up and stepped in their way. “I’d rather die than have you put those on my master,” he growled.
The soldier closest to him swung the thin chain viciously. It struck the side of Tora’s face and wrapped around his head. Tora choked down a cry and clawed at the chain. Blood trickled down his face.
“You’ll pay for this,” Akitada snapped, but it did no good. The chain came off Tora’s he
ad, leaving him bleeding and dazed, and all three had their hands tied. The soldiers attached the chains to three of the horses.
Akitada had seen this sort of thing before and knew what was coming. They would be taken to jail, and if they could not keep up with the horses, they would be dragged along the streets. “Look, Officer,” he said, trying to sound reasonable, would you at least notify the prefect before you do this? He won’t thank you when the central government in the capital punishes him for mistreating an imperial emissary.”
The man laughed. “It’s the middle of the night. And you don’t look like an imperial emissary to me.”
They were covered with blood and soot. Akitada’s silk robe was filthy and torn. He had lost his hat, and his topknot had come loose. No doubt he looked like a hoodlum, though he was not quite as ragged as his companions. He felt his sash for some sort of identification but found nothing. Even his silver was gone.
“At least put us on horses and tie us there. We’re tired and wounded.”
“Serves you right,” snapped the officer and raised his hand. “Let’s go.”
A nightmarish journey took them up the long thoroughfare Akitada had walked many times. They were forced to trot alongside the horses. Akitada stumbled once, and only caught himself by grasping the horse’s tail. His hands hurt badly, and he barely escaped a kick. When they reached the prefecture, the gates slammed shut behind them and the horses stopped. Akitada collapsed on the gravel and tried to steady his breathing. He heard the officer call out, “They claim to be imperial emissaries, sir. Thought you might get a good laugh out of that. No question about it, they’re dangerous criminals. The warehouse burned to the ground, and we counted at least ten bodies.”
Akitada raised his head. Munata was coming down the steps. Perhaps the warehouse fire had roused him early. Behind him, dawn was just breaking. A new day.
Perhaps their last.
