Nine

From Atop A Hill

Masato

From atop a small hill, Masato surveyed the armies beneath him. His own men spread out like a great storm cloud, filling the valley and beyond. Norihiko’s army looked puny in comparison, a few lines of men that would get wiped away before noon.

The air hung heavy over the field, rain promised for the afternoon. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon. Junichi still worked at Masato’s camp, raising more spirits to join his already invincible men. The smell of decaying leaves and limestone graveyards swept over Masato, bringing the promise of victory.

Masato’s generals had proposed a similar arrangement of squads and men as the last time they’d fought Iwao’s generals. As it had worked the last time, Masato had agreed. Despite Norihiko’s influence, he knew the old generals would fall into familiar patterns.

As people always did.

Masato was looking forward to this war finally being over. It would take some effort, but burning down the estate was going to be so satisfying. And Junichi would be pleased, and handsomely rewarded, with all the lives Masato and his men would take.

It was going to be a great day.

The rallying cry from Norihiko’s army startled Masato out of his thoughts. It wasn’t time for the battle to begin yet, was it?

Just like the other young cur, Iwao, Norihiko was going to start early. Damn him! Masato had assured his generals that Norihiko wouldn’t do such a thing, that he would obey the strictures of the war proclamation.

He’d been a sword, after all, and sworn to order.

Masato’s men farther up the line scrambled to get ready. The ones at the front already were, Masato noted with pride. If any survived, he’d have to be sure to reward them. Or the generals in charge of that unit.

Then the sound of fighting rose up from behind Masato. What fresh hell was this?

Masato turned to see that a small division of Norihiko’s men had already started their attack, from behind.

They were sure to get slaughtered. Masato didn’t need to worry about them.

However, a second unit attacked from the side, riding in on horses. It didn’t make any sense for that group to be attacking, until Masato realized that Norihiko was attacking his archers.

Another attack started, with a loud cry. Then another.

How many units had Norihiko divided his army into? Didn’t he realize that without full support, each would be wiped out and all his men would die?

Masato whirled around as yet another group attacked. They were closer, now, than Masato was comfortable with.

One of Masato’s newly promoted generals broke ranks, screaming as he charged.

An arrow knocked him off his horse. Masato recognized it as coming from his own archers.

All around Masato the battle raged. Men screamed and died. Norihiko’s army was making headway up the hill. He watched a foot soldier bearing a long pike effectively gut one of Masato’s own enhanced warriors, killing him with a single thrust into his center.

Junichi had crafted at least half of Masato’s men into unstoppable killing machines. They could lose a limb and still fight on, until the loss of blood finally stopped them.

But Norihiko’s men had found something to stop them. Masato’s enhanced men were being killed before him.

This had to end. Or Masato would have no one left for his next battle.

Masato cried for his horse to be brought to him. It was time to end this farce. Time for Fuko to taste the blood of a former fox fairy and drain it all.

Time for Masato to challenge Norihiko directly.

Ξ

As much as Masato wanted to charge directly into battle and find Norihiko, he’d learned some patience. He sent scouts ahead, racing through the battle lines, avoiding all those who would kill them, then coming back to him with reports.

It was sloppy. Not the best communication. Masato waited impatiently on the sidelines, listening to men and horses die, grinding his teeth. His generals seemed confused, uncertain what to do. Go after the advancing archers? However, that would leave them open to the horsemen. The lancers had at least pulled back, but wave upon wave of infantry had filled in. (And where had Norihiko gotten so many men?)

How Norihiko was attacking didn’t make any sense. There was no pattern in it. It was almost as if he’d divided his army and set each unit to attack on its own. But that would have been suicide. Masato would never give his generals that much autonomy.

Finally, a scout returned, mud–covered and spattered in blood, but with a maniacal gleam in his eye. His commander brought him before Masato, obviously hoping to glean some of the credit himself.

“Sir, this man claims to have found Norihiko for you,” the officer said.

Masato glanced at the officer, then dismissed him. The officer hadn’t been out fighting, but had stayed behind, merely directing.

Masato would deal with him later.

“What did you find?” he asked, speaking directly to the scout.

“I found him. On the field,” the scout claimed. He wiped the dirt and gore from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Up there, on that hilltop.”

Masato nodded. Of course. That was close to where he’d killed Iwao. It would be the place where Norihiko would go.

So he, too, could be sacrificed.

“Thank you,” Masato said. “Go. Clean up. Get ready to celebrate our victory.”

The scout bowed deeply and raced off, obviously relieved that his duty was over. Masato nearly called him back in order to test the man, see how much will he had remaining.

But today wasn’t that day, at least not for him.

It was time for Masato to put his own mettle to the test.

Ξ

An elite squad of men fought in front of Masato, clearing a trail through the melee to the hill where Norihiko stood. It all felt very familiar, particularly the way the opposition melted away once they realized where he was going.

Was there some kind of magic at work? Clearing the way?

Maybe Junichi had been informed of Masato’s task, and had decided to help. That must have been it.

Norihiko waited at the top of the hill. He wore very plain armor, Oyoroi style. Brown ribbons plaited the shoulder armor to his arms. Iron scales made up the front and side skirts, also laced together with brown ribbon. The leather piece that covered his chest was also brown, with the symbol of Mount Shirayama stenciled on it.

Masato slid easily off his horse, Fuko already in hand, eager to take the lead.

They were finally going to deal with this upstart and bring peace and order to the mountain. His first Buddhist temple might be built on this very spot.

“Come for another lesson, cur?” Masato taunted Norihiko.

The man still didn’t move. Many yards behind him and down the hill a ways both their armies fought. Steel thumped soundly against armor, men screamed and cursed. The ghost winds from Junichi howled around them.

Yet, as Masato took another step toward Norihiko, it felt as though the swirling battle around them faded, the noise dying down.

Masato sent quick thanks to Junichi for providing him with some quiet, so he’d be able to concentrate more.

“You know what your problem is?” Norihiko said, turning his head to one side, no longer even watching Masato. “It isn’t that you’re lazy and undisciplined. It’s that you know you’re right, and refuse to change.”

“I am right,” Masato said, stung. “Buddhism will sweep over Nifon.”

Norihiko nodded, finally turning to look at Masato. “True. It might. But not in the way you believe. There’s always a merging. Both ying and yang. Push and pull. Straight and sideways.”

Masato shook his head. “You’re wrong. The pure Amida Buddha will save you all.”

Norihiko pointed at Fuko with his chin. “Not all of us,” he said softly.

Masato raised Fuko high. “Those who are deserving, will die.” Once he finished this battle, it would be off to the greater war, destroying all the kitsune.

“And who decides who is worthy?” Norihiko challenged.

“We do,” Masato replied. How dare this upstart question him? Without another word Masato rushed forward, attacking.

He was right. He would win.

Ξ

Masato gave Fuko his head almost immediately. While he wanted to fight Norihiko, punish him, maybe force him to his knees to beg for mercy before Masato killed him, he also didn’t want to take the time.

They needed to win this battle. Kill Norihiko, then start the slaughter of all his men, all those who called the mountain home. Purify the region. Bring in his own priests.

Plant the Buddha’s feet firmly on the mountaintop. Let the burning begin.

Norihiko seemed more prepared this time for Fuko’s wildness. He sidestepped Masato’s wild swings, attacked using steps that defied patterns. Then he’d change, flow straight forward again, then change again.

Masato wanted to scream as his sword arm grew tired. Fuko was taking everything Masato could give, eager to win, to start the devastation against his sworn enemy.

But Norihiko refused to accept the demise Masato had promised him. Again and again he slipped out of Masato’s grasp, answering with his own punishing blows.

Masato couldn’t fight to a tie this time. It had to be to the death.

It wasn’t until the very last moment that he realized it was to be his own.

The killing blow came from above, when Masato had been ready to block a lower thrust. Norihiko had reversed blow from low to high without warning, cutting deep into Masato’s neck and shoulder.

Masato stumbled back, shocked. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!” he complained.

Norihiko showed no mercy. He stepped forward and thrust his sword directly into Masato’s center, in a chink in his armor that he hadn’t realized was there.

“I think the kami would disagree,” Norihiko told Masato as he stepped back.

Junichi was going to have a field day between Masato’s life force and all the soldiers dead on the battleground.

The arc of Norihiko’s sword was perfect as it swung around. At least Masato had died at the hands of a worthy swordsman.

Then his head toppled from his body, and the world was no more.