“Saito,” he called, approaching his line. “You will be my first spear.” Then, when he came close, his voice caught, and he whispered: “When we meet them, I need you to shoot the opening arrows for me.”
“Lord?”
“I’m not a good shot on horseback,” Sen said, burning with embarrassment. “I don’t want them to see.”
Saito’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “I understand.” He placed a hand on Sen’s shoulder. “I will be with you.” Then, with a roar to the troops:
“Are you ready?Are you ready?” They shouted back at him. “What are you?” he bellowed. “What are you!”
They screamed their names and allegiances to the sky, to the gods, to their enemy. Sen rose to speak. “Now…”
Someone shouted. “Lord! Lord!”
Whistling arrows screamed overhead.
“Hoshiakari!”
It was Ohori Tsuruhime, mask off, face grim as she charged back up the hill.What is she doing?
“Look!”
She pointed west, where Tokuon’s riders were attempting to cross the field, ignoring the Musha’in’s army on his right. Treacherous paddies and barley plants on all sides, small plots and low hedges that were dangerous to horse and rider both. Still Tokuon charged, trying to get to the temple as fast as he could.
Sen saw why. At the end of the road, where the river met the land and the fields stopped at the edge of a gate, the temple nestled at a bend in the riverbanks. And beyond it…
Smoke rose from the Temple of the Far Earth, crossing the River Onji and the fog of morning sky.
The wide expanse of the field and the slope gave truth to the fear in Ohori’s voice. Clear eyes could see all the way across the flatland before the fields, and there, the fighting had already begun. Keishi troops had entered the outvillage by the temple, cutting through the footpaths and through the barley stalks and fallow fields.
“They’re surrounded.” Ohori coughed, breathless. “Keishi in the temple grounds… The Poet doesn’t have a chance.”
“We need to move now, ame’in.” Saito was at his side, speaking softly. “Now.”
Sen gave a trembling nod. Saito roared out to the troops again. They screamed death in the frozen air. He rallied them better than Sen ever could; he was the leader they needed, he knew how to command them.
Now.They were waiting. Saito was looking at him.
Sen raised his hand, said, simply, “Go.”
The foot-soldiers lanced forward, breaking left and right and opening the field for his horsemen, arrows nocked. They rode standing on their stirrups, guiding with their legs, both hands free to work the bows.
They flew, zigzagging, in a dance like willow leaves, horses flowing out across the fields. Saito nocked a signal arrow, loosed at full tilt. Whistling in air, announcing death, it screamed, a hawk’s cry, telling Tokuon their group had begun.Now.Sen’s warriors charged, racing to be the first to reach their enemy.
Now. Saito: shouting by his side, his face a mask of death.
Now. Rising in his stirrups, Sen drew an arrow, nocked it to his bow.
CHAPTERFORTY-TWO
Yaeko
Yaeko loosed another signal arrow. It whistled off and vanished; the predawn air was dark. She waited. They all waited. Somewhere on the far side of the blanketed field, the Musha’in, Akiyo, was setting her trap. They had only to coordinate and the traitors would be caught. Now, the sun still lingered at the edges of a far horizon; the incessant gloom cast shadows across the banks. She glanced up, at the sky; it was as if day was afraid to rise to meet them. The far side of the river lay before them as it had all night, still as death, silent, and shrouded in the mist.
A reply. Akiyo’s signal arrow screaming its return.
Good, she thought.It’s started.
It was after dawn. Behind her, birds were flitting about. Mist still clung onto the valley, blanketing the river and soaking her to the bone. Her armor gripped and stuck in places. The ties were dripping. Soon, it began to snow. A thin sheen, layered on the stone-hard mud and trampled grass outside the temple.
