bastard, he thought. Damn you for making me do this. “But perhaps he might be willing to face me in a second duel?”
Sora’s white eyebrows pushed up toward his topknot. “Why, Okuma-dono, what sort of a barbarian do you take him for? He has his honor to think of. It wouldn’t do to challenge a man he’s just beaten.”
“Of course not,” said Daigoro, grinding his teeth. “I mean to say that, if he would be so gracious, I would be honored if he would accept my invitation to fight me steel to steel.”
A triumphant light gleamed in Lord Sora’s beady black eyes. “Samanosuke,” he called, not even bothering to look back, “ready your katana. ”
Daigoro limped back to the veranda where Tomo and Glorious Victory stood waiting. Tomo regarded him with a smile that conveyed more worry than gladness. His hair was disheveled and he was wringing something in his hands, something too small and slender for Daigoro to see.
“Tomo, I’ll need you to do something more for these fingers. There’s no way I can hold—”
“It’s all well in hand, sir.” Now Tomo’s smile was boyish again, widening as he presented Daigoro with a closed fist. He opened his hand with a flourish, revealing a short, curved length of copper.
“Tomo, is that your hairpin?”
“No longer, sir. It’s your splint. May I see your hand?”
The metal matched the length of Daigoro’s middle finger precisely. How Tomo had managed that was beyond Daigoro’s ken. It hurt like hellfire when Tomo unwrapped the bandage he’d laid before, and when he bent misshapen fingers to match the curve of the copper, it was everything Daigoro could do not to wail like a little child. But the metal was a lot stronger than broken bone—maybe even strong enough to hold the weight of an odachi , Daigoro thought. If I don’t pass out first.
A few quick wraps with the cotton bandage and Daigoro’s broken fingers vanished, replaced by a fat, swollen, pain-ridden tongue, curled in just the shape needed to grip a sword. “By the Buddha, that stings,” said Daigoro. He wiped the last unbidden tears from his eyes and willed his clenching jaws to relax. “You’re a miracle worker, Tomo.”
“If you’re lucky, he’ll kill you, sir. And if not, I’m going to have to reset those fingers after the duel.”
Daigoro pushed himself to his feet, babying his right hand. He needed Tomo’s help to draw Glorious Victory, whose blade was nearly twice the length of his arm. He saw Samanosuke’s eyes widen as the two of them came to the center of the courtyard.
“Take your stance,” Katsushima said, and Daigoro’s right thigh quivered as he centered his sword. He found himself overgripping with his left hand, the better to take weight out of the right. The pain coming from those two fingers was blinding. Daigoro raised Glorious Victory to a high guard, the blade pointing straight at the sun, leaving his vitals wide open in an effort to take more weight off his maimed right hand.
Samanosuke hovered like a bee, well out of range. His katana was scarcely half the length of Daigoro’s odachi , and he was too crafty a fighter to simply wade in looking to score a quick kill. Had he ever faced a horseman’s sword before? Did he know Daigoro’s high guard sacrificed most of his reach? Daigoro couldn’t be sure.
Samanosuke ventured in closer. Daigoro held his stance. Another step and Samanosuke was close enough to strike. Their eyes met. Samanosuke lunged.
Daigoro had been so focused on Samanosuke’s blade that he never saw his mother rush onto the battlefield.
She looked like a madwoman, her hair billowing smokelike in every direction, and she grabbed Samanosuke from behind. “No no no no no,” she shrieked, her hands digging into Samanosuke’s elbows like iron hooks. Samanosuke had to struggle just to keep his footing.
Daigoro was paralyzed. He couldn’t lower his blade lest Samanosuke think he was attacking him. Nor could he simply toss his father’s
Sora’s white eyebrows pushed up toward his topknot. “Why, Okuma-dono, what sort of a barbarian do you take him for? He has his honor to think of. It wouldn’t do to challenge a man he’s just beaten.”
“Of course not,” said Daigoro, grinding his teeth. “I mean to say that, if he would be so gracious, I would be honored if he would accept my invitation to fight me steel to steel.”
A triumphant light gleamed in Lord Sora’s beady black eyes. “Samanosuke,” he called, not even bothering to look back, “ready your katana. ”
Daigoro limped back to the veranda where Tomo and Glorious Victory stood waiting. Tomo regarded him with a smile that conveyed more worry than gladness. His hair was disheveled and he was wringing something in his hands, something too small and slender for Daigoro to see.
“Tomo, I’ll need you to do something more for these fingers. There’s no way I can hold—”
“It’s all well in hand, sir.” Now Tomo’s smile was boyish again, widening as he presented Daigoro with a closed fist. He opened his hand with a flourish, revealing a short, curved length of copper.
“Tomo, is that your hairpin?”
“No longer, sir. It’s your splint. May I see your hand?”
The metal matched the length of Daigoro’s middle finger precisely. How Tomo had managed that was beyond Daigoro’s ken. It hurt like hellfire when Tomo unwrapped the bandage he’d laid before, and when he bent misshapen fingers to match the curve of the copper, it was everything Daigoro could do not to wail like a little child. But the metal was a lot stronger than broken bone—maybe even strong enough to hold the weight of an odachi , Daigoro thought. If I don’t pass out first.
A few quick wraps with the cotton bandage and Daigoro’s broken fingers vanished, replaced by a fat, swollen, pain-ridden tongue, curled in just the shape needed to grip a sword. “By the Buddha, that stings,” said Daigoro. He wiped the last unbidden tears from his eyes and willed his clenching jaws to relax. “You’re a miracle worker, Tomo.”
“If you’re lucky, he’ll kill you, sir. And if not, I’m going to have to reset those fingers after the duel.”
Daigoro pushed himself to his feet, babying his right hand. He needed Tomo’s help to draw Glorious Victory, whose blade was nearly twice the length of his arm. He saw Samanosuke’s eyes widen as the two of them came to the center of the courtyard.
“Take your stance,” Katsushima said, and Daigoro’s right thigh quivered as he centered his sword. He found himself overgripping with his left hand, the better to take weight out of the right. The pain coming from those two fingers was blinding. Daigoro raised Glorious Victory to a high guard, the blade pointing straight at the sun, leaving his vitals wide open in an effort to take more weight off his maimed right hand.
Samanosuke hovered like a bee, well out of range. His katana was scarcely half the length of Daigoro’s odachi , and he was too crafty a fighter to simply wade in looking to score a quick kill. Had he ever faced a horseman’s sword before? Did he know Daigoro’s high guard sacrificed most of his reach? Daigoro couldn’t be sure.
Samanosuke ventured in closer. Daigoro held his stance. Another step and Samanosuke was close enough to strike. Their eyes met. Samanosuke lunged.
Daigoro had been so focused on Samanosuke’s blade that he never saw his mother rush onto the battlefield.
She looked like a madwoman, her hair billowing smokelike in every direction, and she grabbed Samanosuke from behind. “No no no no no,” she shrieked, her hands digging into Samanosuke’s elbows like iron hooks. Samanosuke had to struggle just to keep his footing.
Daigoro was paralyzed. He couldn’t lower his blade lest Samanosuke think he was attacking him. Nor could he simply toss his father’s
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