Read Online Autumn Bridge by Takashi Matsuoka - Free Book Online Page A

said in rough Chinese. “Yes, Nürjhen.” And so saying, he pointed at his comrades, who gestured in similar fashion and said, “Nürjhen.”
    Masamuné’s lieutenant said, “Are they saying they are not Mongols, my lord?”
    “Apparently they are” — he struggled to duplicate the tongue-twisting syllables the barbarian had uttered — “Na-lu-chi-ya.”
    “What is Na-lu-chi-ya?”
    Directly above them, stars and constellations once again exploded in the sky. The samurai hugged the ground as tightly as they could. Masamuné spit dirt from his mouth.
    “They are enemies of the Mongols,” he said. “What more must you know?”
    This time, the starbursts were followed by deafening roars on the beach, the sound of invisible objects flying through the air, and, moments later, horrendous explosions in their midst.
    “Get up!” Gengyo yelled. “They’re coming again!”
    Many of the samurai who did get up did so not to man the earthworks but to turn and flee, a futile effort. The continuing rain of explosions shattered men into ragged, bloody remnants of flesh and bone no matter whether they stayed or fled.
    The second Mongol charge crested the defenses once again, and the enemy was among them on horseback, killing with sword and spear. Behind the horsemen came men on foot firing strange bows that launched short bolts. One of these bolts struck Masamuné in the chest and easily penetrated his armor.
    “Ah!” There was only a momentary flash of pain, then no feeling at all, just a weightless kind of dizziness. A Mongol horseman came at him with a spear to finish him off. Masamuné was too weak to raise his sword in defense. Then the Na-lu-chi-ya who had first spoken knocked aside the attacker’s spear and stabbed his short two-edged sword into the man’s armpit. Blood flared and the horseman fell.
    His Na-lu-chi-ya savior smiled at him and said, “No fear. Live! Live!”
    Masamuné lost consciousness.
    When he opened his eyes again, his lieutenant was dressing his wound.
    The Mongols were gone. Samurai went among the wounded rescuing their own men and killing fallen Mongols. The samurai had won, at least for the time being. He saw the Na-lu-chi-ya dead all around him. No, that one still breathed. He could see the chest move ever so slightly. One of Gengyo’s men went up to him and raised his sword to stab him.
    “Stop!” Masamuné said. “That is not a Mongol.”
    “He looks like a Mongol.”
    “Idiot! Are you questioning my word?”
    “No, Lord Masamuné, not at all.” The man bowed.
    “Attend to his wounds.”
    “Yes, lord, but he is very badly hurt. He will probably die anyway.”
    “If he dies, we will pray for the peaceful repose of his spirit. But see that he does not die.” The Na-lu-chi-ya had saved his life. Masamuné would return the favor if he could.
     

     
    Eroghut did not die, but all the others did. His brother and cousins and every last kinsman were gone. He smiled through fever and pain as the cart that carried him rocked back and forth. His mother had gained a reputation for sorcery and prophecy through a clever and fortunate combination of lucky guesses and tireless self-promotion, always off casting spells and going into trances when she should have been caring for her husband and children. Now he alone was the entirety of the Nürjhen Ordos. If it were to rise again, it would arise from him, Eroghut, son of Tanghut, of the Nürjhens of the Red Dragon River and the Blue Ice Mountains. But there was no Red Dragon River anymore, or Blue Ice Mountains. The Mongols had given them different names when they had conquered his tribe. And soon, there would be no more Nürjhens. He wished he could see his mother one last time, so he could laugh in her face.
    The cart carried Eroghut to another island, which he later learned was called Shikoku. The samurai he had fought beside, Masamuné, was lord of a domain called Akaoka, and there they presently arrived. Though Masamuné comported