by Steve Bein
Hideyoshi was quiet for a long time. “Sir,” General Mio said at last, “you must see the logic of the boy’s argument.”
But Daigoro wasn’t so sure. Shichio’s hypnotic song still held sway over him. If the regent were to pass judgment now, it could go either way, and Daigoro was certain that once Hideyoshi made a pronouncement, it would stand as fast as Mount Fuji itself. Shichio had overfed his ego; there was no longer any room for backing down.
Would it be so bad? Suppose the abbot were to die, Daigoro thought. Suppose he died on a Toyotomi sword, or even an Okuma sword at Hideyoshi’s command. One man would go willingly to his death and the Okumas would escape the regent’s wrath. Better still, they would escape the wrath of the regent’s right-hand man, who was not only touched by madness but clearly held greater sway than the more reasonable General Mio. Was that such a bad alternative? Be quiet, a voice in his mind told him. Let the regent pass judgment however he likes.
Katsushima’s voice spoke in Daigoro’s mind too. Patience. Say nothing. You are already poised on the razor’s edge; do not compromise your balance.
And there was a third voice too: his father’s. There is the easy path and the hard path. You know which one to choose.
“My lord regent,” Daigoro said, “there is another way to resolve this dilemma.”
Hideyoshi blinked at him as if he’d just snapped out of a dream. “Oh?”
Daigoro swallowed. He felt his heart plunge down a cold, dark well. He willed his hand to remain steady as he withdrew his wakizashi from his waistband and laid it ceremoniously on the floor in front of him. Then he moved to take off his overrobe and bare his chest.
A samurai always had one final method of protest: seppuku. By all accounts there were few deaths more painful than ritual disembowelment, but no one could question the sincerity of a man who was willing to plunge a knife into his own belly. By sacrificing his own life—something he was certain Shichio would never do—Daigoro could prove his cause was right. Seppuku was a time-honored tradition, one that even Hideyoshi could understand.
Daigoro found his arms had frozen. He could only commit seppuku by first removing his robe, and now his very muscles would not let him do it.
“Yes,” said Shichio. “There is another solution, isn’t there?”
Of course, Daigoro thought. How could he expect Shichio to make this easier? How could he even expect the man to appreciate the gravity of the situation? He was no samurai. He would relish every moment of Daigoro’s suicide. And now Daigoro’s own body threatened to taint the solemnity of seppuku. This was not a moment to lose his resolve.
Daigoro closed his eyes and willed life back into his petrified arms. If suicide was his only recourse, he would face it without fear.
13
“Trial by combat,” said Shichio.
Daigoro opened his eyes in surprise. Shichio was supposed to relish watching him die. He wasn’t supposed to prevent Daigoro from falling on his sword.
“The boy is right,” said Shichio. “Men’s words are proved by steel. If argument cannot settle this, let it be settled by swords.”
“You’re joking,” said General Mio. “You? Fight?”
“Of course not,” said Shichio. “I have no more interest in fighting this child than he has in fighting me. But surely he has a champion. And surely one of our brave samurai will step up to champion our cause.”
“Your cause,” said Mio.
Daigoro’s whole body began to quiver. He’d come so close to death. In his mind he’d already willed his death, and now it would not come—or at least not by seppuku. If this trial-by-combat nonsense played itself through, he might still be killed, but in that case the abbot’s death would come next. Shichio had anticipated Daigoro’s suicide and the effect it would have on Hideyoshi’s mind. He’d anticipated it and nipped it in the bud. Once again Daigoro had been outfoxed by a peacock.
And yet Shichio had a point. The duel was first invented to settle questions of honor. The tradition of proving one’s word with the sword was as old as the sword itself. If Daigoro refused to duel, it would be tantamount to admitting disloyalty. If refusing to kill the abbot was truly the right course, Daigoro had no choice but to defend it with steel.
But how much blood had been shed needlessly in the name of honor? Daigoro had witnessed his share of duels, including the one that claimed his brother’s life. He’d seen men bloodied and maimed and killed, all in the name of a concept that he had always taken for granted, a concept that he’d never examined in any real depth until Hideyoshi called it into question.
And the duels Daigoro had seen were the best of their kind. How many duels ended in a mutual slaying? Half? More? Often as not, two experts would cut each other down. Two neophytes would do the same, out of sheer inexperience rather than skill. Survival itself was often a grim prospect; the samurai caste was full of men who had defended their honor at the cost of a limb. Daigoro had no taste for it.
Even so, a single word of protest would mark him as a traitor and a coward. There was only one path left to him.
• • •
“I will not risk one of my men over so trivial a cause,” the Okuma whelp said. “I will face your champion myself.”
“Trivial?”
Shichio surprised himself with the sharpness of his tone. Did the boy have no shame? There was nothing trivial about this at all. Shichio would have loved nothing more than to watch the boy eviscerate himself, but if that happened, then Hashiba would relent on the monk. From there, Mio’s curiosity would only grow, and perhaps the giant oaf would send men to ask questions. If Mio were ever to learn the truth, Hashiba would be the next to learn of it, and that would be the end of everything. No, this was far from trivial.
Even for the boy this was no trifling matter. The regent’s own fleet had stormed his lands and filled his home with troops. At any moment Hashiba could have him executed for sheer insolence. Perhaps Shichio should already have done so himself. His thoughts flitted momentarily to his demon mask, and to stabbing this boy through the neck. In his most imperious tone he said, “What part of the regent’s business is trivial to you?”
“The correct way to handle this matter is clear,” said the boy. “I have already placed a permanent garrison at the monastery at my expense. I have already suggested that killing the abbot would unsettle the region and bring bad karma upon the regent. The correct path is clear. All other paths are trivial.”
“Sir, I must agree,” said Mio, his voice deep and booming. He shifted his hulking, armored body to face Hashiba, making a point of ignoring Shichio completely. “Lord Okuma has your best interests at heart. I believe your best course is to forgive an old man for whatever sins he may once have committed. Please, Hideyoshi-dono, let this go.”
Shichio couldn’t decide which one he hated more, Mio Yasumasa or the Okuma brat. He was sure of one thing only: he could not allow Hashiba to dismiss the question of the abbot. Shameful acts of the past were like ghosts, growing ever hungrier as time went on. And Hashiba was not known for his forgiveness. Better to deal with a little peasant uprising in Izu than to risk waking the ghosts, and then see how Hashiba would respond to them.
“Give me a garrison here,” Shichio said. “Let me show these rubes what good it will do them if they protest the killing of a single backwater monk. Let me show them your power. Let this boy feel the swift stroke of Hideyoshi’s justice.”
“Justice will weigh in where it sees fit,” said Hashiba. “Lord Okuma, we will elect a champion for you to fight. General Mio, assemble the troops.”
Mio bowed as low as his enormous belly would let him. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I won’t. If the young Lord Okuma will not risk one of his own men for this, then neither will I. I will face him.”
Shichio glanced at the boy and wondered if that was a trace of fear in his eyes. Moments earlier Okuma had seemed wholly oblivious to death, speaking his mind as if Hashiba were no loftier than a common maidservant. But Mio was
four times the boy’s size. He was the veteran of countless battles, and he’d never lost in single combat. The boy might just as well have challenged a tsunami to a sumo bout.
For a fleeting instant Shichio wondered whether Mio was trying to double-cross him. The fat man had agreed with Okuma all along; perhaps he meant to throw the fight. But then Shichio thought better of it. Guile and craft were not in Mio’s character. He barged through life like a boulder rolling downhill.
Then an even brighter thought alighted in Shichio’s mind: what if the fat man does betray me? He’s samurai, after all; it’s hardly beyond him to kill himself to prove a point. If Mio means to die on the boy’s sword, at least I’m free of him.
The boy’s sword. Shichio’s eyes had been drawn to it from the moment he stepped out of the palanquin. Apart from his demon mask, it was the finest piece of craftsmanship he’d ever seen. It was rumored to be an Inazuma blade—not an easy rumor to believe of some backwater bumpkin’s sword, but one look dismissed all doubts. This was truly a thing of beauty.
And the mask showed a stronger affinity for this sword than any other. He’d had no choice but to leave the mask in the palanquin, because for the first time he could hardly bear to touch it—or rather, touching it inspired a craving so powerful that Shichio actually feared he might lose control of his body. So long as he held the mask, he needed that sword. The thought of such a masterpiece being used in battle was anathema to him. What if it were nicked? What if it were stained with blood?
On the other hand, what if it gutted the fat man?
Shichio restrained a grin. Yes, he thought; if Okuma wins, Mio will be out of my life forever. All I’ll have to do is find another way to kill the monk. And if the duel goes the other way, I’m free of the Okuma brat and the monk is mine. No matter who loses this fight, victory belongs to me—as will that Inazuma sword, as soon as I can figure out how.
He watched on happily as the brat made one last plea for Hashiba to do the right thing. Then came the fat man’s pretensions of grandeur, which were enough to make Shichio giddy; since the boy was unarmored, Mio summoned attendants to remove his armor as well. For a lummox his size it was a three-man job. When they’d finished, Mio and Okuma took their positions in the courtyard, their shadows short and dark under the high noon sun. Mio drew his massive blade, and a tall, gray-haired, shabby-looking man presented Okuma with his sword.
Once again Shichio was struck by the beauty of it. The weapon was nearly as long as the boy was tall, and much too large for him to wield. Were it any other blade, it would have gleamed in the sun, but the Inazuma steel seemed to glow with its own glorious light. Shichio had never been so thankful not to have his mask. With it, he might well have run onto the battlefield to take the sword for his own.
Okuma’s steps had become short, shuffling movements under the weight of the sword, and for the first time Shichio noticed the brat must have injured his leg somehow. He limped off the right foot, and though Shichio was no master, he knew enough to understand that the right leg was all-important in swordsmanship. It was the root leg, the primary source of balance, power, and movement. And Okuma’s was lame.
So Mio will win this one, he thought. I’ll have to rid myself of him some other way. But at least I’ll have the pleasure of watching this Okuma brat die, and once he’s dead I’ll claim that big, beautiful sword of his.
Shichio settled himself next to Hashiba on the veranda overlooking the courtyard. He couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
14
Sweat ran down into Daigoro’s eyes and he could not afford to wipe it away. Glorious Victory Unsought was far too heavy for him to remove a hand from her grip. His right hand was weak enough already; it was all he could do just to steady the tip of his blade.
It was hot, damnably hot, and though Daigoro’s throat was dry he was sure it wasn’t from the heat. Mio was a giant. His sword was nearly as long as Daigoro’s and his arms were considerably longer. Daigoro’s first tactic had always been to rely on Glorious Victory’s greater reach, but that would not save him today.
They circled each other and the sun beat down on them like a hammer. More than a hundred people looked on. Daigoro had never dueled in front of so many before. They made him nervous. His sweating, aching hands tightened their grip on his weapon.
He knew he did not want to fight this man, and he knew of Glorious Victory’s power to see him through whenever he wanted not to fight, but this time he was not so sure. This was a duel he could have avoided. He could have overruled Shichio’s twisting words with one stroke of the sword. If he’d had the courage to plunge his wakizashi into his belly, he could have ended all the arguments. And yet here he was, squaring off against a living mountain.
Their blades met. Mio thrust at his throat. Daigoro shoved the thrust aside and chopped down at the wrists. Mio batted Glorious Victory aside, his parry so powerful that it almost sent Daigoro spinning.
Daigoro pulled Glorious Victory back to center and managed to fend off Mio’s next attack. He stumbled but caught himself before he fell.
Daigoro had never faced so powerful a fighter. Yet Mio had more than size in his favor: he was far more experienced. In any other match his age might have counted against him, but the advantages of youth were strength and speed, and because of his leg Daigoro had neither. His brother Ichiro might have made short work of this giant. Katsushima too; he constantly surprised Daigoro with his quickness. But Daigoro had always relied on pacing a fight slowly, taking the measure of his opponent, allowing his adversary to grow frustrated and impatient.
Mio showed no signs of impatience. He advanced, not out of frustration but from sheer dominance. Daigoro moved in, exactly the opposite of what the smaller fighter should do, hoping to catch the big man off his guard. Mio gave him a shove, sword against sword, and Daigoro felt his feet leave the ground.
Horses didn’t kick that hard. Daigoro couldn’t say how far he flew before landing. He crunched into the gravel, rolled to his feet, and Mio was already on top of him. He showed Daigoro exactly how long his reach was, cutting Daigoro’s sleeve while a thrust from Glorious Victory fell well short of Mio’s throat. Only sheer luck had spared Daigoro’s arm.
Mio pressed the attack. Daigoro dived, rolled, came up behind him. Mio continued his charge, taking himself out of Daigoro’s reach. Daigoro had no counterattack, but at least he had a moment’s respite.
The fingers ached in Daigoro’s right hand. His lips and mouth were as dry as hot sand. His heart pounded in his ears like a taiko drum, so loud and so fast that he could hear nothing else. The cold, serene, paralyzing fear of seppuku was long gone. Now it was a burning panic that gripped him, a need to escape this titan and his titanic sword. Swordsmen the size of Mio usually fought demons or tengu; they were the warriors of myth, not reality. Daigoro had no desire to be killed by a walking nightmare.
General Mio turned on him and advanced again. Daigoro saw just one hope of victory. Mio was fat enough that he could not see his feet. Men that big usually had poor balance. If Daigoro could make him fall, Mio could not capitalize on his superior strength and speed.
Glorious Victory Unsought was made for mounted combat. It was long enough to cut down foot soldiers from the saddle, long enough to unseat a cavalryman, long enough for the horse-cutting technique Daigoro tried next. Against the legs of a charging warhorse, only the strongest steel was of any use. Mio would be no different.
Mio charged. Daigoro stepped aside, dropped low, and cut for the ankles.
Mio’s sword sank to parry, just as Daigoro thought it would.
Parried or not, Glorious Victory was heavy enough to trip him, just as it was heavy enough to fell a horse. But Mio jumped over instead.
He should have fallen. But Mio had the balance of a dancer—no, of a rikishi, a sumo wrestler, for sumo required not balance but balance with unthinkable power. Mio landed on one foot, whirled on Daigoro, stomped down hard. Daigoro shrank away. Mio chopped down with terrifying forc
e, a blow that could behead an ox.
Desperately, hopelessly, knowing the fight was over, Daigoro raised his weapon to parry.
Glorious Victory Unsought cut Mio’s sword neatly in two.
Against anyone else the fight would have been over. Daigoro was in striking range and Mio’s katana was useless. But Mio had fought under Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi. He’d faced a thousand men in battle before Daigoro was old enough to hold a sword. He threw the butchered sword haft at Daigoro and drew his wakizashi.
The haft cut Daigoro across the cheek. The wakizashi came next, stabbing at his gut. Daigoro parried, took the sword through fabric instead of flesh. The blade entangled itself in his clothing.
Mio’s chest slammed into his face. Daigoro reeled backward. Mio continued his charge, trying to yank his sword free. Daigoro set his feet, pointed Glorious Victory straight at the sky, and put his shoulder into it.
Mio slammed right into the sword.
He toppled backward, dragging Daigoro with him. Daigoro would have landed on him face-first, but at the last instant he stepped up with his flimsy right foot, planting it on Mio’s stomach.
A line of blood ran straight up the center of Mio’s torso. Yellow fat bubbled forth from his belly, blood mixing with it in scribbling red lines. Mio must have turned his head aside at the last instant, for his left ear was missing but otherwise his face and neck were unharmed.
