Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction ❯ The Four Swords ❯ Chapter Six ( Chapter 6 )

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yeesh. So few readers, and no reviews… you make me sad. -cries- See? I am sad. -sniff sniff-

 

For anybody who reads and likes and doesn't want me to stop, you should be glad I a) have chapters written in advance and b) enjoy writing this story for the sake of writing this story.

 

Mild shounen-ai in later chapters.

 

Chapter 6

 

The half moon peeped over the mountain, alone in the cloudless sky. Bright stars—white, golden, blue, red—hung suspended in the dark sky. Sagara glanced out of his tent and sought out the lights of Hanayama. The moon was plenty bright enough to guide him there.

 

“I'm leaving, Sano. Remember what I told you,” he warned the boy.

 

“Hai, Sagara-san!” Sano said, smiling broadly. Sagara half-smiled back at him and left the tent.

 

He set off at a brisk pace towards the village. The chill night air swept past him, whipping his clothes around him. He shivered slightly but pressed forward. He had to see this army that his own, admittedly pathetic one faced.

 

His brow furrowed as he thought. His men were ill-equipped and ill-trained for combat. That was not why they had rallied behind him or the Meiji government. They'd come because they'd been promised equality. They'd come because their families had been promised something better. They had not come to die.

 

And yet here they were, still with him, still loyal to him and their shared ideals. Sagara shook his head. If only all men held their ideals so tightly! he thought sadly. Then the Sekihou would not be in this position. They would only be carrying out their job—to spread the news of equality to the people, and to tell them of the new policies of the Meiji that would make that equality reality.

 

He stopped thinking and brought himself back to the present when he saw the dim firelight. Cautiously, he pulled his sleeveless coat closer around him and hid the patterned inside. Everything else was dark, so he blended in fairly well. He got his bearings and began surveying what he could.

 

The army was larger than he had expected. He hadn't thought so many men would rally around a man like Nobori, but apparently he was mistaken. This Nobori must promise great things, for so many men who, until now, had no loyalties, to come to him.

 

A sudden rustling in the bush caught Sagara by surprise, his hand slipping to one of the swords at his left hip. His eyes narrowed as someone clumsily came at him. Who would be stupid enough… to make so much noise? His eyes widened in sudden realization.

 

“Sano?!” he hissed. The movement stopped. “Sano, I know you're there,” Sagara whispered sternly. “You'd best come out. I know you're there. No use in you getting hurt now.” He shook his head ruefully. His intent to spy a little was ruined, but still… that boy was a handful, indeed.

 

Sano trudged over, head hung sadly. “I thought I told you to stay back at camp,” Sagara admonished, sternly yet gently, kneeling before him.

 

“I didn't want you to be out by yourself, Captain,” Sano mumbled.

 

“Well… Didn't I tell you I'd never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you? It would have been infinitely worse if you had gotten hurt, Sano.” Sagara stood as Sano's eyes widened. “Let's get back,” Sagara suggested, placing his hand on Sano's back and steering him toward the Sekihou camp.

 

“How touching,” a thin voice sneered from the shadows.

 

Faster than Sano had thought possible, Sagara had spun around and drawn one of his swords. His face was ashy pale as his dark eyes searched the shadows. He stood before the young boy, arms spread protectively.

 

“Leave him out of this,” Sagara whispered, dangerously quiet.

 

“Captain!” Sano cried. “Lemme go!” he yelled, kicking wildly.

 

Sagara turned, eyes wild. A tall, muscular man held Sano off the ground by his arms. “Let him go!” Sagara ground out through gritted teeth. “This doesn't concern him! He's just a boy!”

 

“And you're both enemies,” the first man pointed out. “And we're supposed to take intruders down to camp.” A snap of his fingers produced more men out of the shadows.

 

Two, three… six men. I can take six men if I fight with two katana. Sagara reached for the other katana, drawing it as he spun. The force of his twist whipped the katana in his right hand around, making a neat, thin cut across one man's chest. Without a word, he lunged forward, both katana in a ready position.

 

He made a double cut across the front with both swords, cutting down the slower man in the process. Someone came at him from the right; the katana in the right hand met the staff with a dull thud. Forcing the staff upwards with his right hand, Sagara stabbed with the katana in the left hand. No time to think, though—another came at him from the left, this one a swordsman. Their blades met with a harsh ringing; Sagara, with two blades, had somewhat of an advantage.

 

He forced the other man back, then lunged forward with this right hand. He anticipated the block, then made a wide, sweeping cut with the katana in his left hand. Only three left. He spun to face the next opponent, but was stopped short.

 

“Take another swing with your katana, and the boy dies.”

 

Sagara froze on the spot, his eyes locked with the man who held Sano. Sano, for once, was silent, sensing the gravity of the situation. He had never seen his Captain fight like that, with such rage and anger and force. He had never seen the dull fires burning deep in his eyes.

 

Slowly, Sagara stood from his lunging stance and lowered his swords, sheathing them with a quick motion. “Very well. Let him go now.”

 

“What makes you think we'd do a stupid thing like that?” one man asked, clearly amused. Suddenly, Sagara felt the searing pain in the back of his head, and felt the world going dark…

 

“Captain!” Sano cried, as Sagara fell limply forward.

 

“Pick him up. Let's take them down to the camp.”

 

--------------

 

After the evening meal Aoshi had retreated back to his room. The night was too young and the moon too bright for him to be truly comfortable going out. After two hours of quiet meditation and writing, he stood stiffly from the floor.

 

He picked up his black wrap, and slung it around his shoulders and neck. Then he gently pushed the shoji out of the way, and padded down the hallway. Certain no one had seen him, he silently left the inn and began walking through the village.

 

Hanayama looked deserted. Even this late at night—Aoshi judged it couldn't be later than midnight—there was usually someone awake, some tiny pinprick of light to indicate life. But here there was nothing. Even in a small village, Aoshi found this unusual, and frowned. These people really had been scared away by this Nobori and his men.

 

Right now, that didn't concern Aoshi overly much. Instead, he wandered through the shadows of the streets, trying to work out where the assassin might strike next. The village was too quiet, Aoshi decided quickly. The assassin would either strike out at other men of the camp, or at Lord Nobori himself in the manor.

 

But why? That was what Aoshi could not get through his head. Why was this assassin striking here? And why at those two particular men who had been killed? What had they done? Surely this assassin was not aiming to destroy Nobori's army. If so, he would have at least tried to kill a leader of the army or Nobori himself.

 

I'll take my chances at the army camp, he thought to himself, strolling along down a street. He was in no particular hurry now that he'd made a decision.

 

The unmistakable feeling that he wasn't alone overtook him as he started down a short side street. He paused in the shadow of a building, trying to find the source of his uneasiness. Someone's here. His eyes darted upward without him moving his head; the light cast on his face might give him away. He saw nothing, and frowned.

 

He continued forward cautiously, until his feet hit something wet and slippery. Kneeling down in the darkness, he touched the ground and brought his fingers back up to his nose. The smell of blood was all too familiar. This blood… belonged to someone who had been taken away. The small puddle indicated they had lain there for some time, but the lack of a body or spread of the blood told Aoshi whoever the blood belonged to was not here anymore. And whoever had taken the body away had been very careful; there was not a spatter of blood to indicate where they might have gone.

 

Aoshi wrinkled his nose… there was another smell. This was blood also, but it was a different kind of blood. It was the smell of the blood of a man who died in battle, the terrible, foul, acrid smell of death. He sniffed the air, trying to trace the smell. Eyes narrowed, he turned down a small alley and nearly fell over the dead body.

 

So. The assassin did strike again. I wonder why this man…? He knelt to inspect the body. Only one wound—a huge cut to the throat. The assassin had thrown the knife, from some distance, allowing it to be buried in the man's throat. Aoshi smiled a dangerous half-smile. He liked this assassin. He was clean and silent—just what the Oniwabanshu needed.

 

Right now, he was also concerned about the other body he knew had been here once. Aoshi glanced up and down the street, but there was no sign of life. No sign of where the person—or their rescuer—might have gone. He wondered if the assassin had saved the injured person, or if that person was why the assassin was in Hanayama. After all, he'd saved those Ishin Shishi, hadn't he?

 

Aoshi's shoulders tensed suddenly as he felt the presence return. Slowly, he stood and turned, rotating slowly so as to take in his surroundings.

 

There. On the roof. Aoshi's eyes narrowed to focus. The assassin.

 

The assassin did not notice Aoshi, crouched down near the ground initially. Instead, he darted over the roofs in a western direction—away from the army camp, and towards Nobori's manor. So. That's who you're after. After only a moment's hesitation, Aoshi took off silently on the ground after the assassin. He wanted to see this man in action.

 

They darted through the dark streets of Hanayama, two silent shadows in the night. They avoided moonlit patches of ground, fearful of its shimmering luminescence.

 

At last, Aoshi skidded to a stop. Nobori's manor towered before him. His eyes narrowed as he sought the dark figure of the assassin on the rooftops. He was crouched in the darkness, face turned toward the manor. Without warning—and certainly not a running start—he leapt across the wide street and landed on top of the wall surrounded Nobori's manor. Aoshi's eyes widened. This assassin was good. He had skills Aoshi didn't even think Hannya had mastered.

 

The assassin ran along the wall to get closer to the actual house, completely avoiding the guards at the front. Good, Aoshi thought. Attract as little attention as possible.

 

Suddenly, a cry came out from below, behind the wall. “Look! Up there! Intruder!”

 

Aoshi watched in amazement as the assassin darted to a spot on the wall close to the house and leapt onto the roof. Though he tried to hide there, in the shadows, the moon's light illuminated nearly every inch. The familiar—and yet, long unheard—twang of arrows rang in the air. Aoshi looked around, confused. Bowmen? Here? He saw them, posted in small guardrooms built onto the roof. Not a good position for him to be in.

 

The more frightening sound, however, came when gunshots rang out from below. That was what Aoshi had both feared—and expected. The assassin was trapped, unable to find a way into the house without being picked off by either bowmen or gunmen. Right now, he was cowering in what was probably the one safe spot left. If I know this assassin at all, he can probably take care of the bowmen on his own. I'll just need to take care of the gunmen. Aoshi gritted his teeth. I can't lose this assassin!

 

With a yell he charged the now unguarded gate, roughly kicking it open. As the guards and gunmen turned to look, he hissed, “Deal with me, first.”

 

To the assassin on the roof, he merely gave a look and a nod. The assassin seemed to take the hint, and silently left his hiding place to fight bowmen. Aoshi turned his attention back to the men before him.

 

With a small, sinister smile, Aoshi reached for the sheath at his side. The blade left it cleanly and with a satisfying hiss as he drew his kodachi. “Now, the battle begins.”

 

-----------------

 

The moonlight fell through the windows and paper screens to illuminate Okita's young face. He was restless, and could not sleep. He did not fear for himself; he was, after all, only a traveler. He was also Shinsengumi, and could defend himself if necessary. He feared, instead, for the village. Something was terribly wrong in this village. He suspected it was brought on by Nobori's taking over, and of his installing his army.

 

Silently he lay in the moonlight, waiting for something—anything—to happen. He got his wish sooner than he had expected.

 

He heard the running in the street below and leaned over to the window, peering out into the darkness. His ears strained to make out the words being said in the street…

 

“Over at that inn, by the end of town.”

 

“Damn idiot, which end of town?”

 

“That one!”

 

An exasperated sigh, followed by, “Just lead me there!”

 

“I am!!!”

 

Okita's ears perked up when he heard “inn.” Otherwise, the whole thing would have been funny. His eyes narrowed uncertainly… where were his men staying? At inns… but which ones? He wished they'd taken Saitou's earlier advice and left signs for each other—especially for Okita, their captian.

 

Soundlessly Okita stood and touched the hilt of his katana for luck, then slid the shoji aside and padded down the hallway. As soon as he was outside, he broke into a light, easy run, trying to follow roughly the direction he thought the men had gone. He stopped when he saw the brightly lit inn with the two men standing at its door, and slipped around the corner of the building to listen.

 

“You, girl, tell me—are there any travelers staying here?”

 

“Why, yes, sir, but there are always travelers.” Okita was surprised at the lack of fear in the girl's voice. It was an interesting—and ever so slightly discomforting—change.

 

“Tell me, my dear, did any of `em just arrive today?” Okita could practically hear the girl purring in pleasure. He did not care what the man was doing to her—he just wanted to know if she would betray his men, and if they knew they would be betrayed. Who else could these men be looking for?

 

“Well, there were several. Why do you ask after them? Shall I wake them for you?”

 

“Word has it that Nakamura found a couple spies out on the outskirts of camp. We think there might be more of `em, and we're supposed to find `em and take `em back to camp. It would be… delightful if you would wake them for us.”

 

“I don't think they're the men you're looking for… you know, they just arrived today, and they sold the inn some medicine.”

 

“Spies travel under all kinds of disguises.”

 

The girl giggled softly, and Okita clenched his teeth. He rarely swore, but right now… Damn this girl!

 

“Of course they do. That's why I took the liberty of drugging them with their own medicine.” Gasps from the two men, and the girl laughed. She was clearly quite pleased with herself. Okita was disappointed in his men, but not entirely surprised. When traveling under the guise of doctors and street-sellers… what could one do, but act normally? “Are you going to reward me?” the girl asked, simpering.

 

“Of course, of course my koneko. Now, where are they?”

 

“Oh, you're going to love me even more. I already had them picked up.”

 

Loud laughter followed, that made Okita's stomach turn. If his men were already gone… “You're quite a woman! All right, I'll make my report to camp and be back for you.” The shoji closed, and footsteps hurried off down the street towards the army camp.

 

Okita sighed and silently followed them. He had no choice now. He could warn the other men, but if these two (and he didn't even know which two) had already been captured, Okita was fairly certain the others had not fared much better. Besides, he had a duty to these two men. It was partially his fault that they had been captured, after all.

 

He paused just beyond the line of tents that signaled the beginning of the army camp, and looked back towards Hanayama. He could feel the darkness in the air—it saturated it, and was heavy with it. He shuddered slightly, and continued forward.

 

Who were these spies, anyway? he thought to himself. They were the reason his men had been captured in the first place… I hope Hijikata is not angry. These spies ruined the Shinsengumi plan.

 

The camp felt largely deserted on the outskirts, but as Okita neared the center he heard the dim roar of voices and the sharp crackle of a fire. His brow furrowed as he came to the final row of tents, the row closest to the center. He paused alongside one, making sure to stay well in the shadows and well away from the men walking by. He peered around the edge, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on without being seen.

 

“Let me go!” he heard, and his eyes widened. That was no man's voice—that voice was so young… just a boy…

 

Without thinking or realizing it, Okita's grip on his katana tightened. He strained his eyes to see where the young, helpless voice was coming from. The boy's pleas were followed by coarse laughter.

 

“No!” the boy shouted. There was anger in the voice… Okita could detect the bitterness and helpless fury in the young cries, and his grip on his katana tightened.

 

A groan escaped from someone, and Okita swore mentally. He couldn't see anything… there were too many men standing before him, too many men who could catch him. Frustrated, Okita clenched his teeth and resolved to stay put and listen.

 

“You're awake!” the boy cried happily.

 

“Sano?” a young, male voice asked groggily. “Sano?” he asked again, the urgency in his voice evident. “Leave him out of this,” he pleaded weakly, to anyone who might listen or care.

 

Like Okita, who lay hidden in the shadows, waiting for his chance to step into the firelight. I will not let anything happen to the boy, he promised the other man mentally. He'd come here to protect and save his men. As much as he still desired to do so, the desire to protect this young life called even stronger.

 

Suddenly, the men seemed to melt away from the boy and the young man, leaving just enough room for Okita to peer through legs and arms to see what was happening. His eyes narrowed, and his teeth clenched again. The boy was crouched in a fighting position on the ground, kneeling before a bound and beaten young man. Okita guessed the boy couldn't be much more than ten, and the man not much older than Okita himself.

 

So. This was the evil he'd felt, then…

 

The men parted at a point to permit another, taller, muscular man to pass through. Whispers ran through the circle of soldiers, and dread grew in the pit of Okita's stomach.

 

“So. This is what Nakamura brings me. Not even worth my time,” he snorted.

 

“Let… him… go,” the young man gasped weakly. The fighter only ignored his plea and kicked him hard in the ribs. Okita winced as the man cried out and groaned, half expecting him to cough blood. The boy turned to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Untie him,” the fighter ordered. Two men pulled themselves away from the group to unbind the young man. They completed their task, and melted back into the horde. The young man agonizingly drew himself up to his knees, hands braced against the ground to support himself. Okita could see how pained his movements were, and didn't doubt that he'd been thoroughly beaten as he lay captive.

 

“If nothing else, you'll die in a fight. We don't like to just… kill. Seems so useless. And hey, if you give me a good fight, the runt might live.”

 

Okita could see the young man's fists clench, and he struggled to stand. As he turned his head in an attempt to face his attacker, Okita caught sight of his face. It was young, handsome, and in his eyes fires burned. The dark brown depths were lit by the blaze, and Okita knew that his spirit burned for the boy.

 

“No.” The declaration came from the boy, who moved to stand before the young man, between him and the fighter.

 

“Sano—“ the man cried softly, nearly collapsing back to the ground.

 

“I'll fight instead. It's not fair. You kicked him, punched him while he was unconscious. You expect him to fight with his fists when you know he's a swordsman. That's cheating.”

 

Rough laughter erupted from the men, and Okita felt his blood boil. This boy…

 

“All right, runt. I'll take you on.” To the young man, lying prone on the ground and close to tears, he spat, “I'll come back for you after I crush your little friend here.”

 

“Sano…”

 

“It's okay, captain. It's my fault we're here. I won't let you die without a fight.”

 

“In that case, at least let it be a fair fight,” Okita said, moving into the light cast by the fire so that all could see him.

 

-------------------

 

Mieko was thankful to the swordsman who had come to her aid; it seemed he had saved her from the gunmen at least. Now all she had to deal with were the bowmen, and they were too easy. As long as she kept moving quickly (which she was very good at), she could pick them off with her skills and knives easily.

 

When all the bowmen were gone she peeped over the edge to see how the swordsman fared. She noticed his great height and agility, though he was not nearly as agile as she was. She was particularly interested that he didn't fight with a usual katana—he fought instead with what looked like a wakizashi. And he was good, to top it off.

 

Smiling to herself, she hoped she would someday meet this swordsman. For now, she would content herself with completing what she had come to do.

 

She slipped into one of the bowmen's hiding places and kicked the trapdoor open, dropping into the hallway below. Her muscles tensed momentarily, anticipating an attack. If the manor had been alerted to her—and the swordsman's—presence, then surely there would be guards waiting at all feasible entrances.

 

Nothing happened, and Mieko relaxed considerably. She always did her job better when she was relaxed.

 

With hardly any hesitation she took off down the hallway to her left. If she was wrong, so be it. She felt confident that she could simply backtrack and try the other half of the hallway. As she trotted along, she became acutely aware of the silence she faced. Rather than make her uncomfortable, she embraced it. It made life so much easier when she knew no one could catch her.

 

I was right, she thought, quite pleased with herself, as she stopped before the main bedroom of the manor. She readjusted her hair, knives, and face cloth before pushing the shoji open.

 

She crouched down just inside the shoji, startled by the bright moonlight. It hadn't seemed nearly this bright at the inn… Frowning, she stood slowly and crept along the wall towards the interior rooms. Nobori was a warlord, not foolish enough to sleep in the room immediately beside the door leading to the hallway.

 

Mieko nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the pounding footsteps in the hall. Quickly, she darted into the next room and cowered in a corner, praying that she would not be seen.

 

“Nobori-dono!” a male voice cried from the other side of the shoji. Mieko looked towards the interior rooms, waiting for a response from the lord.

 

“Nani? Who's there?” the expected reply came. Mieko let out a small sigh of relief. The voice was not coming from the room she was in. It was too far away—and just barely muffled by another shoji.

 

“Nobori-dono! There's been some commotion down at the camp… Apparently, Nakamura-san caught two spies just outside the camp this evening. They'll be finishing them off tonight. They've already combed the village, looking for anymore. As much information as possible will be extracted from them.”

 

“Good, good,” Nobori muttered as he stumbled through the rooms to let his guest in.

 

“Ah, there's something else you should know, Nobori-dono,” the young man who'd been let in said nervously, wringing his hands.

 

“And what's that?” the lord asked, in an obnoxiously haughty way.

 

“The manor's under attack,” the man answered meekly. Nobori made no response; only his eyes conveyed any emotion. “There was a swordsman…” the man stammered weakly. “Took out all the gunmen and all the gate guards. I don't know… about the bowmen…”

 

Mieko tsked her tongue to herself. This was so poorly organized. They didn't seem to even know that she was there. And what had happened to the swordsman?

 

“All of the servants, slaves, and women have fled,” the man continued.

 

“No one was killed?”

 

“No. The swordsman just let them pass him, right under his nose.” That was curious to Mieko too. Why let them all go? She was beginning to respect this swordsman more and more.

 

“Where is he now?” Nobori demanded.

 

“Out in the courtyard. None of us dare do anything… He's too good!”

 

“How many men are left?”

 

“About twenty, all of us guarding the main door.” Mieko sighed to herself. Guarding the main door, and he didn't even know that there was an assassin on the roof…

 

“Good,” Nobori murmured, a plan apparently already forming. “Send a man out through the secret exit to get to the camp. Order a small force of the best fighters. I want this swordsman dealt with, and soon.”

 

“Hai, Nobori-dono. Is there anything else?”

 

“No. Just make sure no one else gets in. Have you checked the roof entrances?” Mieko flinched unconsciously. Uh-oh…

 

“Roof entrances?”

 

Nobori was silent, shock and confusion written all over his face. Mieko almost felt sorry for the poor boy, who was standing, trembling before the lord.

 

“Yes… the roof entrances. The trapdoors in the rooms the archers are usually in.”

 

“Archers?” the boy was practically shivering, quailing before Nobori's growing anger. “I don't think anyone's checked those…”

 

“Then get them checked,” Nobori said calmly. Too calmly, Mieko thought to herself. It frightened her, that cold, calculating calm that had come over his face. She knew that kind of calm all too well…

 

“Y… yes, Lord Nobori. Immediately.” The boy turned to scurry out the door, but Nobori stopped him.

 

“Come here,” he ordered in that cold, dead voice. Mieko shivered in her corner. In anticipation, she loosened the knives against her wrists and untangled her legs, trying to get full circulation. No point in fighting unprepared.

 

The boy tentatively moved back towards the lord; Mieko could sense his fear. Now that she had a relatively clear view, she saw that he was young—probably not much older than she was. Before he had taken more than five steps, Nobori had shot forward and landed a punch across the boy's face. Mieko stifled a gasp with her left hand, clenching her teeth and shutting her eyes.

 

She could not watch as Nobori beat the young man. Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides, her teeth bit down on her lower lip until they drew blood, her eyes were shut so tight she began to see white spots on the back of her eyelids. All the while, she could hear the boy whimpering, pleading, crying out for mercy.

 

Finally, the noise stopped, and there was only the young man's heavy breathing.

 

“Now go back to the others,” Nobori said calmly. “And tell them to check the roof entrances—as they should have done the first time.”

 

Mieko heard the boy stagger to his feet, then shuffle quickly out of the room. There was no sound from Nobori. She slowly opened her eyes, one at a time, and blinked to clear and readjust them. She saw Nobori, standing in the middle of the first room, his fist covered in blood.

 

There were only a few moments… She swallowed hard, forcing herself to calm down. She took several soft, deep breaths to calm herself. At last, something other than fear took over her. The fear drained away from her blood, leaving anger and fury in its wake. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, the amber pupils sparking in the darkness. She drew her knees towards her and stood, fists tight and ready. She stalked to the doorway, and stood in it, facing Nobori's back.

 

“You,” she hissed.

 

He turned, almost nonchalantly, and gazed at her with penetrating black eyes. “So. Someone did get in through the roof, did they?”

 

Mieko did not rise to the bait and answer. Instead, she assumed a fighting stance and faced Nobori squarely in the eyes.

 

“After beating that defenseless boy, and the young woman who died in my arms tonight, and the countless others you've hurt by bringing your army here—surely you can face me.”

 

Nobori grinned slyly, and also assumed a fighter's stance. “Very well.”

 

As they began circling each other slowly, he asked her, “I assume you're the one who had the swordsman attack?”

 

“Actually, no. He came on his own. I intended to—and did—come alone—and just for you.”

 

“Heh. Well. It seems you two have done a good job dismantling my defense.”

 

“It looks like you've done a good job at destroying this village,” she snapped back, eyes never leaving his chest. The muscles there gave her the best indication of where he would move.

 

Nobori did not respond with words, but with his fists. He lunged for her, punching in rapid succession. Mieko's eyes widened—he was quite skilled—but she never lost a beat. She leapt nimbly out of the way and then kicked upward to block the next punch. They stood there, frozen in that position, for what seemed like minutes. At last, with a yell, Nobori jumped backwards and drew his sword.

 

Where the hell did that come from? Mieko thought, almost frantically, as she dodged the swinging blade. She'd fought bad swordsmen, certainly, but she had no doubt that Nobori was not one of them.

 

The more she dodged, the more aggressive he became. He knew he had her trapped. If she could not fight in the range of her arms and legs, then he controlled the fight. She was no swordsman, and he knew it. She felt the heavy weight of the sword down her back acutely now, but could not draw it. He gave her no time.

 

But the more aggressive Nobori became and the more defensive she was forced to be, the more frustrated she became. She hated being caught in a trap, or an endless cycle that she could not break. At last, her temper snapped, and she lunged forward with a sharp cry. Ignoring the pain as Nobori's sword cut across her left forearm, she kicked hard and latched her fingers around his neck.

 

He looked surprised, then shocked, as she began pressing in on the esophagus. His left hand came up to meet hers, and he struggled to detach her. But her eyes burned with a fire that he had never seen before, a fire that not even death could extinguish. His sword came down in an attempt to cut her away, but she caught his wrist with her left hand and twisted hard. The sword dropped heavily to the ground, and she went back to crushing the air out of his throat.

 

His hands grappled with hers, straining to peel her fingers away. Stubbornly, she stayed locked on. Finally, as her arms grew tired and she realized she could not kill him this way, she reached down for the knife stashed against her breastbone and stabbed him, leaping away to avoid the blood.

 

She turned away, not wanting to watch his final death throes. It always seemed odd that she, killer by trade and nature, should hate death so much, but she did. Perhaps it was because she ultimately feared death so much…

 

Mieko strode into the last room and pushed aside the window screen. The cool, crisp night air washed over her, trying to comfort her. Even the moon had dimmed its light for her, hiding behind a bank of clouds. As she perched herself on the edge, readying herself to jump down, she heard a voice from below her.

 

“Finish your job?”

 

She gazed back impassively at the swordsman, lounging against the wall beneath her.

 

“Apparently there's something going on down at the camp. Spies, I hear. Any reason why you would need to be there?”

 

She didn't respond. The sound and pitch of her voice could easily identify her as female, something she'd been extra careful to hide. Instead, she leapt down, landing at his feet. Without looking at him, she stood, brushed off her hands, and set off for the army camp.

 

Mieko heard him snicker softly, then his footsteps gently following her.