from the dagger in his neck. If anything, the assassin seemed to have greater resolve.
Katsushima retreated a step. The sword sagged in his grip. Daigoro sympathized; what use was swordsmanship against an enemy who could not bleed? The astounded look on their faces could only bolster the assassin’s morale.
Daigoro moved away from his friend. If Katsushima could not rally and charge, at least he could stay put while Daigoro outflanked the enemy.
The shinobi-priest lunged, but not for Katsushima. With snakelike flicks of the knife, he drove Daigoro all the way to the wall. Daigoro took a cut to the wrist, another to the thigh. Then the assassin was gone, rolling across the floor. He came up in a low slash, aiming for Katsushima’s hamstring.
Instead he got a wakizashi in the arm. Katsushima cut deep but somehow the wound was bloodless. The assassin responded, raking his knife across Katsushima’s belly. Katsushima responded in kind. Both cuts were superficial. Katsushima staggered back, pressing a hand to his stomach as if to keep his guts from spilling out. Still the priest would not bleed.
Daigoro attacked but his target proved too elusive. Katsushima slashed weakly but the assassin danced away. Daigoro anticipated the dodge and rammed his wakizashi home. The sword entered the assassin’s kidney and punched out through his navel.
He should have been dead. Instead he stabbed Daigoro in the leg. Daigoro crashed to the floor.
Now Katsushima was on him. He deflected a slash to the eyes by hacking at the assassin’s knife hand. Fingers went flying. So did the knife, but the assassin snatched it right out of the air with his other hand—too late. Katsushima ran him through. His wakizashi punctured both lungs and stayed there.
Still the assassin would not fall. He would not even show pain. And now Katsushima was unarmed.
Daigoro drew his own tanto—his last weapon—and rammed it all the way through the assassin’s calf. It bought Katsushima a precious instant, just enough to dodge the savage chop meant for his throat. Still on all fours, Daigoro groped for the assassin’s foot, his pant leg, anything to keep him from advancing on Katsushima. He missed.
The assassin had four blades stuck in his body and a fifth in his hand. Katsushima would die on that dagger and Daigoro would be next. The only other weapon in the room was Glorious Victory Unsought, resting on the floor in her sheath. She was so heavy, and Daigoro was so weak, but she was his last hope.
Channeling all his desperation into his right hand, he drew the massive blade and swung it for all he was worth. In a blow worthy of his father, it sliced through the shoji wall, then through both of the assassin’s knees.
The assassin might not bleed, but neither could he stand. When he fell, the wall fell with him. The butchered shoji toppled out of its frame, crashing down on the shinobi-priest. Daigoro scrambled to him, found Streaming Dawn, and pulled it out of the assassin’s neck.
This knife could only be Streaming Dawn. Nothing else had the power to keep a man alive through all that punishment. The assassin should have been dead six times over. As soon as the Inazuma blade left his body, the blood flowed from him like a groundswell. He would be dead in moments.
But not yet. His hand punched up through the rice-paper window of the shoji. Still clutching Katsushima’s bloody tanto, he drove it into Daigoro’s back.
It was his last act, but it was enough. Daigoro fell beside him.
Daigoro saw the room go dark. Only two pinpoints of light remained, directly ahead of him. He could no longer feel his wounds. The worst was that he had no fear of dying. He had already accepted it.
Such a terrible fate, to come so far only to fail. Daigoro held Streaming Dawn in his hand. He had only to ride home. Even if he would not live long enough to kill Shichio, at least he could have delivered the blade to Lord Sora. He could have saved his family.
Streaming Dawn. In his hand. He had seen its power. The knife could save him.
He tightened his grip on its haft, turned its tip toward his body . . . and found he could go no further. He’d lost too much blood. The fear of death had left him, but so had his strength. Even a knife was too heavy for him now.
Such a pitiful fate. He wished he could see Katsushima, to know how badly