was all the attention he could spare for his closest friend, for he had enemies encroaching on three sides.
“Oda-sama,” he called, “this is not your fight. I killed your son; don’t make me kill you too.”
A cold, cruel light filled Oda’s eyes. “You forget: I asked you to kill me.”
He was right: Daigoro had forgotten. Now Daigoro reassessed that look in Oda’s eye. It wasn’t cruelty: it was total detachment. Oda no longer cared whether he lived or died. It was a fearless, deadly state of mind.
“You could marry again,” Daigoro said. “Have more sons. Continue your family name. Don’t be the last of the Odas.”
Oda lowered his blade. It was still a fighting stance—upward cuts were best for slipping underneath armor—but it was not especially aggressive. For a moment, Daigoro thought he meant to stay clear of the fray. But then, in a soft, calm voice, Oda said, “I will press the attack. You two, cut for the hamstrings. And beware his reach.”
Daigoro took a deep, centering breath. His fingers tightened on Glorious Victory’s grip. Time slowed to a crawl. His enemies settled deeper into their stances, coiling to spring. Daigoro feinted and all three leaped back. That was good. They were afraid of him.
But that would only work once. Even now they crept closer, one slow footstep at a time. Daigoro understood how a wounded deer must feel when the wolves circled in.
Then he remembered Katsushima’s watchdog, Kane, and the moral that came with that story: Arrogance in the face of impossible odds. That’s the way to win a fight.
To hell with it, he thought.
He threw himself at the closest samurai. Inazuma steel cleaved helmet, bone, and brain. Behind him, Oda shouted a kiai. Daigoro spun, his odachi reaching long and low. Glorious Victory sheared off Oda’s katana at the hilt.
Oda pressed on, heedless of death. Daigoro sidestepped, let him pass, cut for the spine. The second samurai spoiled his cut. Steel flashed at Daigoro’s face. He parried and counterstruck. Glorious Victory cut deep but did not kill.
Now Oda was on him again, wakizashi in hand. Daigoro chopped at Oda’s hand. He missed, but he cut the wakizashi in two. Weaponless, Oda was no threat. Daigoro rounded on Shichio’s last remaining samurai and pressed a furious assault.
Sword-song echoed in the valley. Daigoro stumbled on wet rock. The samurai moved in for the kill. Daigoro’s knee buckled completely. He fell, but Glorious Victory did not. Daigoro held it fast, like a spear set to meet a cavalry charge. The Inazuma blade caught the samurai under his breastplate and punched out below the shoulder blade.
Then Oda kicked Daigoro in the back of the head. The world went dark.
46
Daigoro woke to crushing pain. His hands were tingling, almost numb. Something bit down on his wrists with the malice of a dragon.
His eyes fluttered open. A devil stood before him, and Daigoro wondered if he was in hell. Blinking hard, he cleared the spots from his vision. It was not a devil after all, but rather a devil mask. Solid iron, pitted with rust and age, too small to conceal Shichio’s triumphant smile.
“Ah, at last he wakes,” Shichio said. “But let’s wait for Oda-san before we get started, shall we? He’s earned his place at the table. Yes, he has.”
Daigoro had to blink again to drive the spots away. Gradually he took in his surroundings. He was in the teahouse, bound hand and foot to something vertical. Craning his head, he could just make out what it was: a support beam. The waterfall thundered endlessly behind him. The wall was open, the fusuma pushed apart to either side, but no sunlight came in. Crickets and frogs sang to each other in the night. A cold breeze made Daigoro realize he was naked to the waist.
He looked down to find his body wrapped in coils of hempen rope. The same rope crushed his wrists, which were stretched so high above his head that Daigoro’s shoulders felt they might twist out of their sockets. He could not move his wrists at all, and his ankles were held just as fast, but the rest of his body was free to twist and squirm. The rope coiled randomly up and down his arms and torso, crossing itself many times over. There were many knots, all of them tied artfully, and the coils were pulled so tight that Daigoro’s flesh bulged up between them. But why? They wrapped only around his body; they did not hold him