to Daigoro’s knees, hobbling him as he struggled to reach Glorious Victory. He wasted a precious moment cutting the last of the kimono asunder, then looked up to see the teahouse erupt with armored samurai.
Scrambling on his hands and knees, he reached his father’s sword. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of Nezumi drawing a blade—too late. Oda Tomonosuke lunged for him, slow but with peerless form. Nezumi fell, clutching the red gash where his eyes used to be.
Shichio’s samurai advanced in unison—warned, perhaps, that they stood no chance against Daigoro if they faced him one-on-one. Daigoro drew Glorious Victory and struggled to his feet. This would not be like the Green Cliff. There he’d taken his enemies by surprise. These ones were waiting for him.
But not for the smoking iron ball that fell in their midst. A trail of thin blue smoke arced behind it, all the way back up to Katsushima. The explosion was deafening. Men flew in every direction. Daigoro caught a faceful of shards, both metal and bone.
He could not let it slow him. Half blind with blood, he lashed out and took a man’s leg at the knee. Something chopped him right under the arm, ringing off his Sora yoroi. He chopped back. Someone screamed and died.
His sudden onslaught bought him a moment’s reprieve, just long enough to wipe the blood from his eyes. There was no sign of Shichio. Four samurai lay dead; Daigoro only remembered felling two of them. Two others still stood, spreading out to flank him. Nezumi rolled on the ground, howling and clutching his face. Daigoro glanced over his shoulder and saw exactly what he did not want to see: Oda Tomonosuke, a broken and vengeful man, a man with nothing to live for, yet one who had made his name as an expert swordsman.
Daigoro was alone, surrounded on three sides. He could not see Shichio anywhere.
* * *
Everything had gone to hell. Shichio had no idea what happened on that rock shelf, but all of his archers were dead. Dead before loosing a single arrow. The air tasted of mud and burnt gunpowder. Half of his samurai were dead, maybe more. He didn’t dare look. Nezumi screamed piteously. His cries echoed off the cliff, even louder than the waterfall.
Shichio cursed himself for a craven. He hadn’t even managed to draw his sword. He cowered behind the teahouse, the water just ankle-deep, but since he was crouching he was in to his balls. Cold and dripping, safe but humiliated.
Only his mask could restore his courage. As he tied it in place, the huge Inazuma blade sang out to him. It was visible even through the wooden walls of the teahouse, glowing like the sun through closed eyelids. The mask saw the other swords too, and one thing more: a little globe sailing through the air.
Shichio looked up and saw the thing. It smoked and sparked as it flew. Totally without thought, acting solely by reflex, he swung at the flying orb. He couldn’t even say how his sword came to be in his hand. Guided by the mask, the flat of his blade hit the globe and sent it right back where it came from.
Halfway there, it vanished. Smoke and fury took its place. The noise was enough to buckle Shichio’s knees. A thousand fragments pierced the surface of the pool. A thousand more hit the cliff, the teahouse, the mask. Some flew upward too. Shichio heard a grunt from above, and for the first time he noticed the shabby ronin.
The explosion sent some of its deadly claws into the ronin’s face, and since he’d shielded his eyes, the claws tore up his hands too. Now he bled freely. Either the wounds did not pain him or he was too much the samurai to cry out, but Shichio could hear him curse.
Good, he thought. The son of a bitch would have a front row seat to the Bear Cub’s demise.
* * *
Daigoro heard a metallic clang from the pool. An instant later a Mongol grenade exploded in midair.
It took everyone by surprise. It was also just the distraction Daigoro needed to cut his way free of his fate. But by the time he realized that, the others did too, and they were all right back where they started—with one crucial difference: Katsushima was out of the fight.
Daigoro didn’t need to see him to know his friend was hurt. Hearing Katsushima’s curses, he knew they came through gritted teeth. That