A sword thrust.
Parried.
A horizontal slash.
Evaded.
An overhead death blow.
Parried then evaded, followed by a counter attack.
The Masked Demon stepped back. His enemy was quick and nimble, but he didn’t have the reach needed to get past Muji’s guard.
As it was, the smaller man was clearly beginning to tire. To stay out of his reach, he had to maintain his vigilance, which required quickness on his feet, while Muji simply turned to face him, his long katana keeping the other man at bay.
But there had been several times he had nearly landed a blow on the huge samurai. His armor would protect him from death, but it wasn’t impervious to a finely honed blade such as the one this gaijin devil from the west was wielding.
With a parry, Muji snarled from behind his mask. What made him angry was that this foreigner was wearing a kimono in the Mikuma style.
Who does this imposter think he is?
It didn’t matter. Muji would cut him down as he had cut down twenty men before him this very night.
Was he a spy? Part of that other army sent to attack the palace?
The large samurai wondered if that was how their enemy had known the perfect time to attack, on the very night that the Emperor was to be assassinated. The night his lord Sakuraichi was to ascend the throne.
A moment of weakness. The perfect time to strike.
He lunged at his smaller opponent, but the man side stepped him. He pursued, slashed, but his weapon was parried to the side.
Muji made certain not to use long sweeping slashes or lunges, otherwise the other man would move past his guard and kill him on the spot.
He narrowed his eyes, watching the foreigner breath. “You’re good, stranger. You have much skill. But I will kill you this night.”
The other man did not lower his guard. “What are you waiting for?”
“You’re very arrogant.”
“It’s not that,” the man said. “If you prefer to talk, let’s talk. Perhaps we can come to an agreement, otherwise let’s fight.”
The Masked Demon was not so demonic as his reputation. Certainly he had killed scores of his enemies, many times quite brutally, but he did not find the killing an enjoyable experience. The dance of the sword was his life. But the killing… the blood.
He was no sadist.
The man is tired, he told himself. He is probably stalling…
“The tricks of an adolescent,” he said, lunging with his blade.
The man side-stepped the attack, glanced behind him. He must have realized Muji’s samurai forming a loose ring around their fight, and that he was nearing the armed warriors.
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He pushed forward, going on the assault.
Muji back stepped. The man’s attack was faster now, more aggressive. His blade came in multiple times, then he side stepped before attacking again.
He was losing ground. He couldn’t believe it. He jumped, parried another blow, then hit something.
Unable to retreat, he swung his blade ferociously, realized what he was pressing up against, and rolled his body over the short flat-topped hedge. His boots landed in a bed of delicate flowers on the other side, crushing them lifeless.
His enemy stopped short of the hedge, apparently unwilling to pursue Muji across them. For a man surrounded by his enemies, he certainly put a lot of trust in Muji not to simply order him killed out of frustration.
That is, if he does not know winning this duel will save his life.
It was a great dishonor to fight a man in a fair dual and then have one’s men kill him after winning, even between enemies in warfare. It would be dishonorable not to tell him. “Come at me,” he said. “You must know that if you defeat me here, my men will not kill you.”
The shorter man, tall for the average, though still shorter than Muji, said, “Is this true?” He lowered his guard.
“Yes,” he replied emphatically. “Why would it not be? Do you dishonor me by thinking I do this for sport?!”
“No,” he said, breathing. “I’ve always wondered,” he continued, catching his breath, “how you people… fight in these things.” He gestured to the large open sleeves of his kimono.
For a man with a dour reputation for killing, Muji surprised himself as he laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach.
The other man chuckled as well. Had they not had to kill one another, he thought that maybe this man might be an interesting one to know. Unfortunately Mikuma didn’t need more foreigners. It was time to end this.
“My lord Muji-sama!” a voice called. There was urgency there.
Muji back stepped, then turned to the man. He was clearly bearing an oral message. He leaned in to speak. “My lord,” the Samurai said, breathing from his run, then more quietly he said, “Daimyō Sakuraichi has ordered that you and your men abandon the palace and regroup with him.”
He couldn’t help but snort, the anger taking him instantly as he grabbed the other man by the upper arm, his whole body nearly lifting off the ground.
The samurai’s eyes bulged. “My lord! It’s the order of the daimyō!”
He had no ill will toward the message bearer, and certainly not toward Sakuraichi. But the idea of abandoning the palace so easily angered him beyond explanation.
No! There was an explanation for his anger. Muji hated that they had been surprised so thoroughly and that his lord daimyō’s plans had been halted. But that this enemy thought he could usurp them under their noses.
And now they were abandoning the palace with barely a fight? It enraged him.
Snarling he glanced toward his enemy, then back to the message bearer. “Why does he order this?”
The samurai swallowed. He was a short little man, though Muji did not doubt his swordsmanship or devotion to the daimyō in the least. “He said that the palace was not defendable and that we must regroup to begin making new plans for attack. He wants you there.”
He narrowed his eyes again, glanced toward the gaijin and thought, What am I to do about him? He glanced at the foreigner standing there behind the hedge.
“All I want is the boy and the girl,” the man said with a shrug.
“What boy?” Muji asked. “What girl?”
“And her parents,” he added.
Annoyed, he asked, “Who do you speak of?!”
“No one of consequence, I assure you. A boy of Omosaku and a dancer in the troupe at the palace. Her brother, sister and her mother and father. They have no association with whatever it is you’re trying to do here.”
Muji thought for a moment.
“My lord! Look!” one of his samurai called.
Muji’s eyes found the voice. The warrior there, and the men around him were all following his finger-point with their eyes.
There was a flaming fireball in the sky.
It hit the palace wall as three more behind it hit the palace grounds at varying distances, one of them landing in their approximate area.
There had been a pause for a time. Muji had thought they were through with their attack, but this second wave of ryu no me exploded, sending a concussive force stronger than a taiko drum across the open space. Heat and flame scattered, spreading aggressive flame everywhere over the wet grass, which did not deter its travel.
Muji watched, almost unconcerned for his own safety. Dishonorable cretins!
This was the second time they had attacked the palace. The first time had created a breach and yet no warriors had entered. The enemy had also hurtled ryu no me across the city in various locations, creating a glowing orange conflagration.
He targets us well—creates distractions…
They didn’t have time for this, so he offered the man an ultimatum as he stabbed his katana forward. “Surrender now, and if what you say is true, on my honor I will let you and those you speak of go, so long as my lord daimyō does not have other plans for them. Decide!”