head was foggy and his body was slow to respond. He snatched up Glorious Victory Unsought, then realized her great length was only a liability in such close quarters. That was too bad; now more than ever, Daigoro needed her power. He drew his wakizashi and crept around to flank the priest.
Suddenly Katsushima was airborne. Daigoro had to fall flat or be impaled. He dropped to his back. His friend sailed over him trailing blood, and stove in a wall when he landed. An instant later his katana flew after him, straight as an arrow. Daigoro managed to knock it spinning. It careened through a shoji window and disappeared.
Daigoro scrambled to all fours, keeping his wakizashi between him and his opponent. The priest’s white robes were striped with blood, none of it his own. Daigoro meant to change that.
The priest stood back and allowed him to stand. It was an act of the highest contempt; he feared Daigoro so little that he was willing to give him the advantage of fighting on his own two feet. A tiger would not have been so gracious, but Daigoro was not facing a tiger; he was facing a veritable god of war.
The priest hadn’t even troubled to arm himself. Daigoro was an even match for any two men, Katsushima for any four, yet this one treated them like paper dolls. “You were right not to drink the tea,” he said. “You were right about the other question too: I had not thought to see you here so soon. I salute you. Not many victims force me to rush.”
He bent low to pick up the teapot. It was a moment of vulnerability, but Daigoro was too intimidated to make good on it. “I hurried in playing my hand because your reputation preceded you.” The priest—no, the assassin gave him a regretful wince. “I’m sorry to say the stories vastly outstrip your actual prowess. You’re not your father’s equal. The story is true, by the way. He stabbed me right through the heart. His only mistake lay in not withdrawing the blade. But you? You’ve made nothing but mistakes from the moment we met.”
They circled each other, Daigoro with a sword, his foe with no more than a steaming teapot. Somehow it was Daigoro who was too scared to speak. “No, you’re not worthy of a warrior’s death. I think I’ll resort to the weapon I originally intended to kill you with: the tea. Are you ready?”
Daigoro tightened his sweating fingers around his wakizashi. Behind the shinobi-priest, Katsushima rose silently to his feet. His face was a dripping red mask. He blinked hard, as if he was seeing stars and trying to clear them. But his blades were steady enough.
There was only one way to prevent the assassin from noticing him. It was suicidal, but Daigoro pressed the attack.
A white sleeve whipped toward his eyes. He sliced it off. His blade found cloth, not flesh. The priest-assassin stepped in. His free hand clamped down on Daigoro’s wrist. He twisted it around, driving the wakizashi toward Daigoro’s own body. Gracefully, almost lackadaisically, he poured scalding hot tea over Daigoro’s face.
It burned like dragon breath. Daigoro shut his mouth tight against it, but still he feared the poison would leak in. The more he strained to keep his face out of the downpour, the less he could concentrate on his sword. Already he felt the blade brushing the inside of his thigh. The artery there was huge. He would bleed to death in a matter of heartbeats.
Katsushima pounced. The assassin sidestepped. With a backward swipe he shattered the teapot on Katsushima’s cheek. Katsushima grunted and lashed out. He missed with his short sword, but he drove his tanto deep into the assassin’s lung.
The assassin collapsed around the blade, but instead of dying on the spot he rolled backward, somersaulting to his feet on the far end of the room. Katsushima’s knife protruded from his rib cage dripping blood. Daigoro and Katsushima stood shoulder to shoulder and advanced, swords at the ready. The assassin drew a blade of his own, a chisel-pointed tanto. Then he drove it right into the side of his neck.
Daigoro waited for the man to fall. Surely he meant to take his own life before his enemy could question him. But no. He pushed the tanto all the way through his throat. Then, with agonizing slowness, he slid Katsushima’s knife out of his chest. Impossibly, there was no blood—not from Katsushima’s knife, nor even