in this world, he wanted Shichio dead. Glory be damned, he thought, but by the gods and buddhas, this is the one victory I cannot go without.
Drained, burnt, and bleeding, he stood no chance. His own sword would fight against him. But what choice did he have? The way of bushido was to dash in headlong. And maybe there was a way to get Shichio to defeat himself. The peacock was no swordsman. He also had no patience, nor any control over his temper. If Daigoro could provoke him, the peacock might grow reckless. The footing was treacherous here, slick and uneven; it would be easy to slip and fall. Daigoro might not have to defeat Shichio; he would only have to lift his heavy sword above his foe, then let the blade do what it wanted to do.
He dove back down, found his sword, and found Oda’s kosode too. He would sustain the camouflage for as long as he could. With what little strength he had left, he dragged his heavy cargo into shore. When the water was shallow enough, he pulled the kosode over his head, struggled to his feet, and limped out of the pool. Glorious Victory Unsought rested on his right shoulder, a bright orange tiger stripe in the firelight. Just before he reached the shore, he let the cloak drop.
“You!” the peacock screeched. “Impossible! You should be dead!”
“Lord Oda found his courage. He died a samurai’s death.”
Shichio backed away, terrified. Daigoro could only imagine what the peacock saw in him: skin burned as red as a demon’s, but with a face streaked white like a ghost’s. His hair hung long and limp, like a drowned man’s. He even moved like a dead man, his steps slow and stilted, yet he bled like the living. What Shichio saw emerging from that pool was a condemned soul walking out of hell.
“You should be dead,” was all Shichio could say. “You should be dead.”
“You will be dead. Soon.”
“No!” Shichio’s katana whistled as it flashed from its sheath. “Look at you! You can barely stand.”
He squared himself in a proper kenjutsu stance. That was the moment that Daigoro knew he’d lost. Shichio had been training. He couldn’t have learned much, but a stable stance was the only advantage he needed. The treacherous footing wouldn’t turn against him after all; it would turn against the half-dead boy with the crippled leg.
“Father, what should I do?” He breathed the words, too low for Shichio to hear. And his father answered: in his position there was only one thing a samurai could do. He had an enemy before him and a sword in his hand.
Daigoro lowered Glorious Victory Unsought to a ready position. His left hand caught the pommel just in the nick of time; the sword was so heavy, and Daigoro’s arms so tired, that he nearly dropped his weapon. Shichio settled deeper into his stance. He would wait for Daigoro to press the attack—or else for Daigoro to simply pass out from exhaustion. Daigoro could not afford the luxury of patience. Yet another advantage in Shichio’s favor.
The Inazuma blade reached for him and Shichio retreated. The two fighters moved inland. Daigoro tried to circle, to drive Shichio toward the fire, but Shichio seemed to feel it coming in advance. He chopped at Daigoro’s hands. Daigoro parried, and Shichio used that instant of reprieve to correct his course.
“It’s the mask,” Shichio said. “It sees your sword. No matter what you do, I will feel it first. You’re fighting two of us, not one.”
Three, Daigoro thought, if you count my father’s sword. Four against one, counting the terrain, or five, counting Daigoro’s own exhaustion. He feinted high and cut low, and nearly lost his hands. Shichio’s blade passed just short of them.
“Call out to your friend,” Shichio said merrily. “The one up on the cliff. Ask for advice. Or bid your final farewell.”
He’d almost forgotten Katsushima was looking on. No doubt Katsushima himself would prefer to be forgotten, because now that he was on Daigoro’s mind, he was a distraction. How awful it would be to watch helplessly as a good friend got killed—and cut down by an honorless coward, no less.
Daigoro lashed out, aiming for Shichio’s sword. Shichio hopped back, just out of reach. Now they fought on the narrow trail leading back up the valley. The trees pressed close on either side. Glorious Victory’s reach would soon be a disadvantage.