Sen had never wanted power, but he’d always craved respect. He hadn’tthought he would be leading armies into battle, but now? Nowtimecame, rushed toward him.
Now the winds had changed.
Sen led his riders through the marshlands to the west of the Sengen hills near the border to Yamano. The Musha’in had troops in Yamano and the Hermitage to the north; they’d received reports of a Keishi group moving to the southeast side of Awa Bay, heading west toward the rivers near the capital.
It’s Nioh, Tokuon had said.They’re trying to cut him off…
Racing through the ridge-roads between paddies and barley fields, Sen felt a twinge of remorse.My teacher should be here, he thought.He could have helped us.But thinking of Jobo meant thinking of Rui, and that was not something he could afford to do. Not now. The night loomed around him, huge and dangerous, and he wished he had the guidance of his teacher once again.He knew what this was like.
He knew the war would come.
Soon they approached another hamlet at the northern end of the valley plains. The mountains rose like jagged fists from the earth, and the fields on either side lay low and fallow. They’d been flooded. Perhaps a last-ditch defense by local villagers, to keep the Keishi out. They were here, somewhere. The mountain-wolves. Akiyo’s night-killers.We ride, he thought,we ride into the downland and the woods, we’ll chase them to the hills.
Oda lay ahead, a small village where the Gensei once held power. Where the Jibashiri scouts were waiting, where Myorin and her sister Tsuna would give their reports. Where the muster would begin.
They will welcome us, Tokuon had told him.Those lords of the Kanden plains. Those farmers. They have no love for Keishi. They remember your father with pride. They will help.
What will the Keishi think about that? he’d asked.
Now he knew the answer:
The town before him was ablaze.
When they finally returned to the township they found that the barns and the town’s small temple had been set to the torch. “What are they doing,” he muttered, “burning the fields…”
It made no sense for the Keishi to harm this village; comprehension only dawned when Saito told him Oda was an estate owned by Ohori’s clan. The Keishi had done this to send a message. Sen cursed. “Start helping with the fires. Where’s Tokuon?”
“He’s at the temple,” Saito said. “They’re organizing a chain to carry water from the river. We should help him.”
“Ame’in!” Sen’s guard, a lean man named Hori Yataro, barreled over on his horse. He was one of two men sent by his stewardbrother to protect him – the other was Ise Tadanobu, a quiet warrior whose father was once said to be the best swordsman in Kitano. “Look!” To the right, in the opposite direction from the burning temple, a group of peasants had gathered by the paddies. “Why do they ignore the fires?”
A feeling of danger pricked at the back of Sen’s neck.
“Let’s find out.”
No one would talk with them. When he approached, asking for the local council, the townspeople merely looked away, staring at the ground, the deepness of the night. Many withdrew. No one spoke. It took Saito ten minutes to learn that the chancellor had ordered the town to be given to Akiyo Musha’in, but the villagers rebelled, and a riot ensued.
Now no one would look them in the eye.
“What’s wrong with these people?” Sen could feel himself growing anxious in the face of their fear. This town, the whole place felt wrong: all he wanted was to give these people independence. Freedom, life, clean air away from the heavy crush of the Keishi.
Instead, they treated him and his blood-guard like an invading force. Like it was his fault this had come. Their fields flooded, slowly turning into muddy ice. Their homes burned. Their roads abandoned.
He called: “Who leads the village here?”
There was no answer.
What’s wrong with you?he wanted to shout. He wanted to make somebody answer. “Hey! I’m talking to you!” He grabbed one of the farmers: “What’s happened?”
The terrified peasant cried out, in the high accent of the central valleys, “They tole us not to, lord… they tole us…”
“Who?”
The man pointed one shaking hand toward the edge of the paddy, where a group of people could be seen on the fieldridge. All was darkness beyond, the rise of the western mountains but a shadow; the whistling of wind threatened ice and rain.
“Who are they?”
The man just shook his head. The crowd murmured; no one met Sen’s glance. Finally, he pushed his way through the farmfolk, parting them like grass as they slunk back with fearful, wary eyes. Hori Yataro and Ise Tadanobu formed up alongside him, pledged to protect him by order of their lord, Nihira.
