Shike, p.57
Shike, page 57
The humming-bulb arrows, screaming like falcons, began to fall on the Takashi camp just after sunrise. They killed no one. Crouching, a bit nervous, Atsue looked across Kurikara pass to the hill bedecked with white banners. A row of about a hundred archers was standing there, bows aimed high so their whistling arrows would carry across the valley.
"How civilized of them to wake us up," said Isoroku, laughing. "They might have started with arrows that gave us no warning. This is a gesture worthy of the Takashi."
"Not really like the Muratomo, is it?" Atsue said uneasily. The enemy was controlling the situation, he thought. Eirst, by displaying their banners on the opposite hill, they had determined the place where the Takashi would stop for the night. Now they had chosen the time and manner of opening the battle. Where were those mysterious barbarian troops everyone talked about? The archers across the valley looked like ordinary samurai.
The Takashi were lining up, pulling their man-high bows, releasing their own whistling arrows. After a few moments they drew first blood. A Muratomo archer fell, to much cheering from Tonamiyama hill. Atsue and Isoroku joined the crowd gathered a short distance behind the bowmen. No one wanted to be too close to the archers-even a humming-bulb arrowhead could kill a man if it hit him in a vulnerable spot-but to stand very far away could look like cowardice.
Two Takashi archers were hit. There was a rumble of anger. Some one suggested switching over to willow-leaf arrows. Someone else said it was too soon for that. Two more men took the place of the fallen, who were only wounded and were dragged out of the line to be cared for by their friends. Atsue saw Notaro and several other officers standing a small distance away, watching. Notaro called out praise when another Muratomo archer fell.
I wonder what plans he has for the battle, Atsue thought. It was odd that they couldn't see any more of the Muratomo than those few archers. Maybe there weren't as many of them as the Takashi had thought. He squinted at the line of white banners. Clever of them to start a fight with arrows when the sun was in the east, blinding the Takashi.
Just when the incessant screaming of the humming-bulb arrows was becoming more tiresome than intimidating, the Muratomo switched to willow-leaf and armour-piercing arrows. The Takashi archers did the same, and more samurai joined in the contest.
Some of the bolder warriors mounted horses and charged partway down the eastern slope of Tonamiyama. Immediately the Muratomo made a dash down their hill to match them. Atsue glanced to the top of the Muratomo hill. Would they attack now? The white banners remained in place. Only about two hundred Muratomo archers faced twice that number of Takashi. Soon the two groups of archers had halved the distance between them, and men on both sides were falling in threes and sixes, instead of ones and twos. Now some of the Takashi fell back, and some Muratomo did likewise.
The archery battle continued most of the morning. Once in a while a Muratomo samurai would get off a particularly long, accurate shot and kill or wound a Takashi in the watching crowd. Most of the injuries were confined to the archers themselves.
Both Atsue and Isoroku were devotees of the sword and not particularly proud of their skill with bow and arrow. While many other samurai joined or dropped out of the archery combat as the spirit moved them, the two young men stayed out of it entirely.
Just when the sun was directly overhead, the Muratomo stopped firing. They began to withdraw up their hill. Three horsemen rode down towards the Takashi lines. One of them held aloft a white banner. They stopped in an open meadow at the bottom of the pass. Takashi samurai, some on foot, some on horseback, began to drift down the slope towards the Muratomo riders.
"I am Saito Kiji of Nakatsu," the samurai carrying the white banner shouted. "I have fought both in China and in the land of the Mongols, and I have won many victories." Kiji went on to describe the martial careers of his father, grandfather and great-grandfather. He claimed descent from the Brave of Yamato, legendary son of an ancient Emperor, subduer of malignant kami and of barbarians. He called upon the Takashi to send a warrior of suitable pedigree out to meet him.
"Let's get closer," Atsue called to Isoroku. "I want to see this."
A Takashi officer rode down the hillside and exchanged words with the Muratomo challenger. The two men rode a short distance apart, then charged each other with drawn swords. Atsue and Isoroku were part of the crowd cheering for the Takashi fighter. Atsue felt himself trembling with excitement.
It was difficult to strike a killing blow from horseback. The two samurai circled around each other, swords mostly missing or glancing off their armour. Then Kiji, the Muratomo samurai, stood up in the saddle on his short stirrups. With two hands he brought his sword down on the Takashi warrior's right shoulder. Stunned, the man fell from his horse with a crash.
He scrambled to his feet just as Kiji rode down upon him. Kiji brought his horse to a sudden stop, grabbed the Takashi's chin from behind, and pulled him against his saddle. With one quick downward swipe of his sword the Muratomo warrior cut the Takashi's head off.
The head was still strapped into its helmet. Holding it high by one of the helmet's decorative horns, Kiji rode in a circle around the meadow. Isoroku, Atsue and the other Takashi samurai groaned, while the Muratomo opposite them cheered.
Another Takashi rode out to challenge Kiji. More Takashi rode down the hillside shouting their own lineage to anyone on the Muratomo side who might be a worthy opponent. The scene in the valley was becoming quite confused, with more and more samurai riding about bellowing their ancestors' names and looking for someone to fight with. All the Muratomo wore something white, an armband, a streamer on the helmet, a robe. Each Takashi wore something red.
Excitement, fear and eagerness swept through Atsue. He had been too late at Uji bridge and in the rear ranks most of the time at Ishibashiyama. Now was the time for the youngest son of Kiyosi to ride forth and bring back his first Muratomo head. What terror the Muratomo would feel when he announced his father's name.
"Let's get our horses," he called to Isoroku, scrambling up the hill. He looked back over his shoulder. Samurai were fighting all over the meadow.
Back in the camp, he was about to mount his warhorse, a grey with black spots, when he heard his name called. His Uncle Notaro, in full armour but bareheaded, was hurrying towards him.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"To issue a challenge, Uncle." Notaro's manner gave Atsue a sinking feeling.
"Your grandfather made me swear to bring you through this campaign safely. I forbid you to go into battle now."
Atsue was so frustrated he felt on the verge of tears. "It will tarnish our family name if I hang back while these brave men fight." Notaro shook his head. "Only the most experienced and skilled samurai get into these single-combat duels at the beginning of a battle. They're old veterans, who know all the tricks. Especially these men of Yukio's, with all the devilish foreign ways they've picked up. Of course you may fight, Atsue-san. Eventually. Wait till the battle becomes more general. If I let you go now you wouldn't have a chance."
Atsue walked back to Isoroku, his head hanging. "Battles aren't the way I thought they would be at all."
Chapter Ten
Atsue forgot his disappointment as he watched master swordsmen on both sides display their skills in duel after duel. It was no pleasure to see men killed outright or lose their heads after being badly wounded. He didn't care to notice the way blood spattered everywhere, gradually staining red the grass of the meadow. Still, he had seen enough blood in the past month to take it calmly. He could ignore the ugly parts of fighting and focus on the mastery of horsemanship and weapons.
It seemed as though more Takashi heads than Muratomo were falling. These Muratomo, Atsue recalled, had been fighting constantly in China for the last eight years. Perhaps one of the Muratomo samurai fighting now in the meadow before him was his father's killer. Whoever had actually fired the arrow, it was Muratomo no Yukio whom Atsue blamed for his father's death. One day, he had promised himself, he would ride out before a Muratomo army and call Yukio out for combat. He would take Yukio's head and bring it to his grandfather, and Sogamori would bless him for it.
The Muratomo seemed to be withdrawing, disengaging themselves from battle. Those who survived their single fights accepted no further challenges, but cantered over to the sidelines. Atsue wondered, what now? Are they about to attack us? He looked up at the white banners on the hilltop. No movement, and still no Muratomo to be seen.
A Muratomo samurai called out, "If there are a hundred of you who are brave enough, a hundred of us will fight you in a general melee."
Now I must join in, Atsue thought. He started up Tonamiyama again, followed by Isoroku. He hoped Notaro would not stop him this time.
Notaro was nowhere to be seen. Atsue put on his helmet and mounted his horse. Isoroku, on a piebald horse, was beside him. Atsue flicked his reins and the two young samurai rode down the hill together.
A Takashi officer who knew Atsue bowed him to a place in the line. The Muratomo were lined up on the other side of the meadow, too far away for their faces to be clearly visible.
There was a long silence. Atsue heard a bush warbler call in the pines. Then, from the far side of the meadow came a high-pitched scream.
"Muratomo-o!"
A samurai holding a white banner in his left hand and waving his sword in his right charged at them. Immediately behind him the whole line of Muratomo samurai pounded forward.
"Takashi!" cried the officer who had taken command on their side. Atsue drew Kogarasu from its gold-mounted scabbard and whipped Plum Tree into a gallop. He glanced to his right. Isoroku was beside him.
Atsue's heart leaped into his mouth. A dark-faced warrior with a thick moustache was charging at him. Without thinking, he held up Kogarasu to fend off the other man's blow and rode safely by him. Now he was facing the other end of the meadow, which was empty except for a few spectators on foot.
He turned his horse and saw a warrior wearing a white robe, his back to Atsue, duelling on horseback with a Takashi samurai. Should he attack the man from behind, or should he warn him before striking? He decided that it was a samurai's responsibility to guard himself against attack from the rear. He spurred the grey, aiming the point of Kogarasu at the back of the samurai's neck, underneath his helmet brim. The sword struck something hard and slid off. Atsue had thought there would be no armour there. The Muratomo whirled in the saddle, striking at Atsue with his sword. Atsue jerked back on the reins so hard that the horse stood on his hind legs.
"Back off, he's mine," the Takashi samurai roared. Embarrassed, frightened and confused, Atsue rode a little distance away from the fighting and tried to survey the field. A samurai with a white silk cloth tied around his helmet rode at him. Atsue brought his sword up to a defensive position and stood his ground.
"I am Tezuka Shiro of the province of Toyama," the samurai shouted. "Who are you, sir? Declare your name and titles."
"I am Takashi no Atsue, son of Takashi no Kiyosi, grandson of Takashi no Sogamori," Atsue answered proudly.
"A noble opponent," said Shiro. "I won't disgrace your arms, either. Come on, then."
Whispering a prayer to his father's spirit, Atsue rode forward and aimed a blow at Shiro's head. Shiro parried the slash and reached out with his free hand to pull Atsue to him. Elailing wildly, Atsue felt himself dragged from the back of his horse and pinned against the front of the Muratomo samurai's saddle. A steel and leather gauntlet smashed against his face. He felt his head being twisted around. He knew the sword blow was coming.
Then Shiro uttered a sound half-way between a grunt and a moan. He made the noise again and relaxed his grip on Atsue. Atsue fell from Shiro's horse, looking around wildly, and saw the grey standing near by. He ran for his horse and jumped into the saddle. Only then did he look back to see what had happened to Shiro.
Isoroku had just finished cutting Shiro's head off. He pulled it free from its helmet, held it up with a grin, then tied it to his saddle and remounted.
Sick with terror, Atsue rode over to him. "I owe you my life."
Isoroku shrugged. "While he was busy with you I came up on his left side, pulled up his armour skirt and stabbed him twice. You and I make a good pair. Let's get ourselves another. This time I'll grapple with him while you slip up on him and stab him."
I nearly died back there, but I didn't, and the man who was going to kill me is dead now, Atsue thought. The only way to get through this is to refuse to think. Just fight. Atsue gritted his teeth and clapped Isoroku on the shoulder. "Let's go, then."
One of Atsue's retainers rode up. "Lord Takashi no Atsue, you are ordered to leave the field at once. Lord Takashi no Notaro requires your presence in our camp."
"No."
"Please, my lord," said the retainer, seeing the black anger on Atsue's face. "I'm only delivering the message."
"You'd better go," said Isoroku. "Your uncle is commander of the army, after all."
Notaro's fat face was almost as red as his general's robe. "I told you to stay out of it."
"Excuse me, honoured Uncle, but you told me to stay out of the single combats. This was a general melee."
Notaro's eyes narrowed angrily. "I saw what happened down there. If I have to report to my father that a Muratomo warrior took your head because I happened to be looking the other way at the wrong time, he might very well disinherit me. Now get out of my sight and don't go near the fighting unless there's an all-out battle. If you get yourself killed then, it won't be my fault." He turned, unused to armour and clumsy, and stumped away.
Atsue spent the rest of the afternoon on the hillside watching the fighting in the valley, sunk in shame and not speaking to anyone. If only Uncle Notaro had allowed him to remain on the field, he might have redeemed himself by killing a Muratomo samurai or else have died and thereby ended his pain.
The battle in the valley remained curiously unchanged. Though the Muratomo lost fewer men than the Takashi, they sent no new warriors down from their camp to replace those who fell. By nightfall a hundred Takashi were fighting with less than fifty Muratomo. If the
Muratomo were trying to prove what formidable fighters they were, Atsue thought, they were succeeding.
It grew too dark to fight. Calling compliments to one another, the samurai withdrew up their respective hills. Servants crept out to recover the bodies of the fallen. One of those corpses could have been mine, Atsue thought. Now that it was dark he let the tears run down his cheeks. A servant came and asked him if he would have something to eat. Atsue ignored the man until he went away.
He had his flute at his belt, but he had no desire to play. He tried invoking the Buddha, but he doubted that the gentle Buddha would be interested in consoling a young man who was crushed because he had taken no enemy heads. He sat cross-legged with his hands dangling over his knees. He tried to tell himself that tomorrow he would do better. He realized that he had forgotten to take off his armour. Perhaps he would leave it on all night to punish himself for his total inadequacy in combat.
A moon the shape of a thumbnail crept above the hill where the Muratomo were camped. Atsue tried to see their white banners, but he couldn't. The forest around him was silent. Somewhere in the distance an ox bellowed.
Then there were shouts. They were coming from above and behind him. Hoofbeats crashed through the forest. Atsue sprang to his feet. There were torches flickering in the trees on the west side of the hill.
There were cries of, "The Muratomo! Get your horses! Get your weapons!" Atsue ran up the hill to his campfire. He couldn't count the torches he saw blazing in the forest. Yukio might have as many as a hundred thousand horsemen, he remembered. They had let themselves be lulled by the gentlemanly battle the Muratomo had drawn them into. All the while the enemy was planning this.
"Run, run!" a servant cried, scurrying past Atsue. There were men on horseback, apparently Takashi, trotting around him now. He was going to be trampled if he didn't get to his own horse.
He saw Isoroku's face in the light of the campfire. A frightened servant was holding both their horses.
"Another chance to fight," said Isoroku, as they threw themselves into their saddles.
"Where's your armour?" shouted Atsue.
"I took it off at sunset. No time to put it back on. I've got my sword." He waved it. "Come on, everybody's going down the hill."
An officer galloped by, his face scarlet in the torchlight. "Into the pass. Try to outrun them. We'll make a stand in the open country beyond the pass. Keep together." He raced past them.
They dashed down the hill together, Atsue glancing from time to time at Isoroku to see if he was keeping up. The torchlit enemy arm seemed to be right behind them, thundering down the slope. Again he heard oxen bellowing.
He and Isoroku were in the pass now. The hills on either side of them blotted out the moon. Behind them, the pursuers had overtaken the rear of the Takashi army. They heard screams, the crash of armoured men falling, the neighing of horses. The enemy torches blazed, lighting up the trees, the struggling samurai, the tossing horns of
Cattle.
"It's not samurai," Isoroku called. "It's a cattle stampede." Now some of the Takashi were slowing down. Atsue could plainly see, at the base of Tonamiyama hill, the humped backs, the rolling eyes, the gleaming horns of the oxen.
"Let them through," voices called. "Just get out of the way and let them through."
"They tied torches to their horns to madden them," said Isoroku. "A dishonourable trick," Atsue replied.
Atsue and Isoroku pulled their horses to one side as a huge grey ox, groaning angrily, charged past. Sparks from the torches tied to each of its horns stung its humped back. Atsue patted the grey's neck as the frightened horse danced and threatened to rear.
There was some laughter, shaky with relief, as the samurai realized that their attackers were only a herd of cattle. The oxen continued to crowd the warriors, though, pushing them deeper into the Kurikara pass. The hundreds of torches still sizzling on the horns of the huge animals lit up the Takashi army so well that Atsue could recognize the faces of comrades half-way across the valley.
