Black Arrow (49 page)

The Lord of Takata had jumped up, sword in hand, his round face as white as his robe. The small eyes bulged and his mouth was open. He saw Akitada coming for him, but he stood, sword dangling, frozen and speechless.

So it was going to be easy after all, thought Akitada, surprised—almost disappointed. He simply stepped up on the dais and placed the tip of his sword against Uesugi’s throat. “Stop the fighting!” he shouted over the noise of clashing swords and the cries of the wounded. He told Uesugi, “It’s over. Tell your men to surrender!”

It became quiet in the hall.

Uesugi swallowed, then nodded his head violently, causing the tip of Akitada’s sword to nick his throat. A few red drops fell on the white silk of his robe. He looked down, whimpered, then sat, muttering, “Blood. She said blood on snow. Blood on the snow!” Raising his hands to Akitada, he cried, “I surrender, I surrender! Don’t kill me! I will serve the emperor. I have many men, much influence. A treaty. We can make a treaty. I guarantee protection against the northern barbarians in exchange for my life.” Behind Akitada someone cursed loudly—one of Uesugi’s men.

Akitada put up his sword and turned away in disgust. Two of the Takata warriors, both wounded, had lowered their swords at Uesugi’s cry of surrender. Tora was leaning against a pillar. He bled from several wounds. Akitada looked for the others. Kaoru, also bloody, pulled his sword from the belly of a fallen Uesugi fighter and released a red tide. His victim died with a shout and convulsion, and Kaoru gave Akitada a nod.

Hitomaro, miraculously unscathed, stood in a pool of blood above a fallen warrior, sword gripped in both hands, on his face the fierce snarl of one of the guardian spirits at temple gates. He was looking around for more butchery, but the last two Uesugi officers dropped their swords with grim faces and knelt. It was over.

“Who is second in command here?” Akitada snapped.

One warrior looked around at the bodies, then rose.

“You heard your master. Go outside and order your men to lay down their arms. This stronghold has fallen and Lord Uesugi is my prisoner.” As an afterthought, he added, “In the name of his most august Majesty.”

At that moment, Akitada savored the intoxicating taste of victory. His hands and knees trembled with the emotion. But he reminded himself that the credit for their success must be shared and turned to Kaoru. “You may take charge of Takata manor.”

Then, with hideous irony, fortune turned.

Akitada had shifted his attention from Kaoru to Tora, to ask about his wounds. As their eyes met, Akitada saw Tora’s widen in sudden horror. What happened next would always remain a blur in his memory. He heard a hoarse, almost inhuman roar, and saw Hitomaro rush at Uesugi with a drawn sword.

Instinctively Akitada stepped in front of his prisoner and into Hitomaro’s path. The force of their collision cost them both their balance. Akitada was flung aside and half fell. He saw his burly lieutenant falter and change the grip on his sword, saw Uesugi up and moving forward with his sword, saw Hitomaro stagger back, then swing his blade in a wide arc.

It was all over in a breath, but compressed into that moment were sounds as well as sights, the stamping of feet, the clatter of the toppled campaign stool, the rustle of Uesugi’s silks and hiss of Hitomaro’s sword, human grunts, and then the heavy thud of bodies falling onto the wooden dais. And silence.

He was sickened. A single mistake, a wrong move, and triumph had turned to despair.

Uesugi and Hitomaro lay sprawled across the dais in a parody of embracing lovers. The Lord of Takata was dead. His head, partially severed, rested oddly next to his right shoulder in a quickly widening pool of gore; the piggish eyes had rolled upward, showing their whites, and his teeth were bared in a final snarl. The horned helmet lay near Akitada’s feet, which were speckled with blood. And Uesugi’s snowy silk robe now bore the crimson blossoms of his violent death.

Hitomaro, who had fallen partly across Uesugi’s body, slowly rolled onto his back. His left hand was at his chest, clutching the blade of Uesugi’s sword which protruded from his ribs. He grimaced with pain. The fingers of his right hand relaxed around the grip of his own bloodstained blade.

Tora came and bent over his friend. When he straightened up, he had a strange, hurt look on his face. “Sir?”

The blood bubbling up between the sword and Hitomaro’s hand was bright red and foamy. There was no surviving such a wound to the lungs. Akitada fell to his knees beside him.

“My friend,” he pleaded, putting his hand on the one that still gripped the deadly blade. “Please forgive me.”

Hitomaro looked up at him and shook his head. “Nothing to forgive ... I wanted death,” he mouthed, half-choking. Then, making a great effort, he added, “Sorry about. . .” and coughed once, blood trickling from the corner of his- mouth into his beard. “Too much . ..” He raised himself up a little, coughed again, then vomited a crimson flood and fell back.

Akitada got up. He looked about the room blindly. “How did this happen? Why did Hitomaro attack Uesugi? There was no need. Uesugi had surrendered. It was all so easy. Why?”

Tora said, “Uesugi drew his sword, sir. While you had your back to him. The slimy coward was going to cut you down. Hitomaro stopped him.”

A grim-faced Kaoru walked up and stood staring down at the two corpses. “A warrior’s death for Hitomaro,” he said. “No man could die better than this.”

Without a word, Akitada turned and strode from the hall. Out in the gallery, he stepped over the dead warriors and threw wide a shutter to gulp in the frigid air. Sleet had gathered like grains of rice on the sill. Below, the land lay dark and forbidding under the heavy clouds. Faintly, the sound of temple bells came on the wind from the distant city.

The icy air settled his stomach a little. His face tingled with cold and when he t6uched it, he found it wet with tears. Ashamed, he rubbed the moisture away. From the courtyard below rose the victorious shouts of Takesuke’s men. He leaned forward and looked down. The Sugawara family crest blazed on the banners. This day he had taken an impregnable fortification for the emperor but lost a loyal friend.

Looking down at his hands he saw that they were stained with blood—Hitomaro’s along with that of too many other men he had killed. How was he to live with his friend’s blood on his hands? Hitomaro had saved his life, and he had stupidly stepped in his way and caused his death as surely as if he had held Uesugi’s sword himself. He clenched his fists until his nails bit deeply into his palms.

Something soft and white drifted in. A snowflake. For him this snow country would always be tinged with blood. He sighed deeply and glanced toward the north pavilion overhanging the ramparts, site of the death of the previous Lord of Takata and the murder of his faithful servant Hideo. It reminded him that he had one more errand to perform.

Hunching his shoulders against the icy air, he walked quickly down corridors. A maid peered from an open doorway, paled at the sight of his blood-smeared face and hands, and ran. When he reached the open gallery, he found that the wind had died down, but the snow still fell softly and silently. There was very little smoke now, and he realized that they must have extinguished the fire.

The door to the north pavilion was unlocked, and inside everything looked the same. He had worried that Uesugi would order a thorough cleaning, but either respect or superstition had caused him to leave the room untouched.

He went to the window above the thick mat where the old lord had died. The crooked blind of speckled bamboo was as he remembered it, and beside the mat was the chest which held the dead man’s bedding and his writing set, the single clue to what had happened that night.

Stepping on the mat, he untied the bamboo shade, half afraid that his guess had been wrong. But it unrolled with a rush and clatter, releasing a sheet of paper which fluttered to his feet. The thick mulberry paper was covered with spidery script and bore a crimson seal.

Picking it up, Akitada noted both signature and seal, glanced at the content, then rolled up the document and put it in his sleeve.

* * * *

CHRYSANTHEMUM

AND GRASSES

hen they returned to the tribunal late that night, Akitada was exhausted in mind and body from the business of settling affairs at Takata—he had left Kaoru and Takesuke in control— and emotionally drained. The long ride back with Hitomaro’s corpse slung over the horse beside him had given him unwanted time to brood on his actions. Takesuke had congratulated him on his courage, and Akitada had wanted to wipe the look of admiration from his face. At least Tora, who had lost a lot of blood, would heal. Akitada felt profoundly guilty that, of the four of them, he had come out of the fight unscathed.

Genba wept like a child when he carried the body of his friend to a temporary bier in the tribunal hall. There he and Tora would keep watch over Hito’s corpse.

Akitada entered his private quarters only briefly. Seimei tried to fuss over him, but the small amount of bleeding from his old shoulder wound and assorted bruises where his body armor had deflected sword blows amounted to nothing. When Akitada saw the joyous relief on Tamako’s face, it seemed so inappropriate to him that he was sickened and turned from her without a word to seek the solitude of his office. He wanted nothing so much as sleep, oblivion, a few hours of escape from himself—from a man he never knew, from the blood lust that had lain hidden inside him all his life, from the death of a friend.

But it was not to be. By the flickering light of the oil lamp, he saw a strange figure sitting at his desk. A very old man was hunched over the lacquered box of the shell game, turning it slowly in gnarled hands, absorbed in the pattern of the decoration. He raised his eyes unhurriedly to Akitada and nodded a greeting. The
yamabushi
had returned.

He looked at Akitada for a long moment. Then he gently set down the game and indicated the other cushion. “Please be seated, Governor,” he said courteously in a deep, restful voice. “You look very tired.”

Dazed, Akitada obeyed. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and shivered, but it was not from cold, for it was almost cozy in the light of the single oil lamp casting a warm glow on the desk between the two men.

The old priest pushed the brazier a little closer to Akitada. Steam and a curious fragrance rose from the small iron tea kettle on it. The master reached for a cup, poured, and stirred. “Drink this,” he ordered, sharp black eyes watching from a face as wrinkled and dark brown as a nut.

Akitada tasted, then slowly emptied the cup.

“An infusion of dried berries, herbs, and certain tree barks,” the master said, answering an unspoken question. “You will feel refreshed in a moment and later you will sleep.”

“Thank you. It has a pleasant taste.” The visitor’s solicitude was comforting. Akitada became aware of a welcome warmth. He frowned with the effort to remember. “You’re right. I have had a long and difficult day.” Even the soreness in his shoulder seemed to ease. His eyes strayed to the desk where the
yamabushi’s
conch shell had joined the black-feathered arrow and the shell game.

“Tell me what happened at Takata,” the priest encouraged.

“We took the manor. Makio is dead ... and so is Hitomaro.” And no medicine or spell would make that right again.