neither his head nor his body protected, exhausted, favoring an

injured leg, and fighting with an ordinary sword borrowed

from Tora. He put these thoughts aside quickly in the knowl-

edge that, nevertheless, he would not, could not lose this fight.

He knew nothing of Kumo’s swordsmanship, though his men

had been trained if inexperienced, but that did not matter.

Kumo would die, here, and by his hand.

But Kumo said a strange thing, and Akitada’s confidence

fled “Come on and fight,” Kumo said. “You enjoy killing. I

watched you and I can see it in your eyes now.”

Akitada lowered his sword and stepped back; he wanted to

deny the charge but knew that there was truth in it and that the

truth was profoundly disturbing. He tried in vain to put it from

his mind.

Kumo used this moment of weakness to attack. Akitada

parried instinctively. Then their blades met again and again,

sharply, steel against steel, each parry a painful tremor in

Akitada’s arm, and Akitada realized that Kumo’s way of fighting

was done by rote, that he had memorized moves and practiced

them, but that, like his men, he had never fought a real oppo-

nent. And as he became aware of this, he also recognized the

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fear in Kumo’s eyes. Kumo was stronger and quicker than he

was, but his clumsy handling of his sword made his end certain

and quick.

Akitada lunged for Kumo’s wrist, pierced his sword guard,

and twisted sharply. Kumo cried out, releasing his grip, and

Akitada flung Kumo’s sword in a wide arc through the air. It

struck point down in the dirt, the golden hilt vibrating in

the sun.

Their eyes met. This was the moment for Kumo to surren-

der, and Akitada was so certain he would that he lowered his

sword. But the man surprised him by snatching a short sword

from his sash. When he attacked, Akitada’s long sword came up.

Kumo met its point below his right arm where neither shoulder

guard nor body armor protected him. It was one of the few

places an experienced fighter aimed for when confronted by a

fully armed enemy, but there had been no design in Akitada’s

action. He felt the impact along the blade of his sword, the brief

halt as the point met bone, then heard the bone part, and the

blade plunged deeply into Kumo’s body.

When Akitada stepped back, bringing the sword with him,

Kumo stood swaying, a look of surprise on his face. Then

the short sword fell from his hand, he opened his mouth as if

to speak, but blood poured forth and ran down his beautiful

armor. His knees buckled and he sank slowly to the ground.

Akitada looked from his dead enemy to the bodies of men

and horses and at the dying Haseo tended by Tora. The scene

blurred, and he sat down, bending his head in exhaustion

and relief.

It was not yet midday.

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- O N E

FUGU F I S H

When Akitada opened his eyes, he looked again at the slain

Kumo. The golden helmet had fallen off, and his face looked

younger in death. The eyes were closed and the lips had relaxed as

if he had merely fallen asleep. Akitada got up to make certain he

was dead and disturbed the first fly on the bloody armor. Akitada

felt neither triumph nor regret, only immeasurable exhaustion.

Staying on his feet took all the strength he could muster. He

stumbled over to where Tora sat with Haseo. Tora had fash-

ioned some sort of pad for Haseo’s belly wound. When Akitada

gave him a questioning look, he shook his head. Belly wounds

were fatal. Always. They were also agonizingly painful. Haseo’s

eyes were closed, his lips compressed.

Akitada sat down on his other side. “How are you, my

friend?” He took the big man’s callused hand in his.

Haseo’s eyes flicked open. He managed a smile. Akitada would

always remember Haseo smiling. “A great fight,” Haseo mur-

mured. He paused and added, almost inaudibly, “Wonderful!”

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Akitada felt helpless. “Yes,” he said, glancing around with

rising sickness at the scattered bodies and noticing for the first

time that some of the peasants were timidly peering around

corners and from windows. Life would go on.

But not for Haseo.

Tora said to Haseo, “I saw you fighting two of the bastards at

the same time. People say it can’t be done, but you did it. I

meant to ask you to teach me.”

Haseo smiled. “Thanks. You’ll learn. You’re not bad

yourself.”

Akitada had been too hard-pressed to see him fight, but

he remembered how Haseo had wished for a sword on the

mountain and later longed for Tora’s weapon, and he wondered

about his background. “I never asked your name,” he said.

There was a long pause, and he repeated his question. “What is

your family name, Haseo?”

Haseo unclenched his bloody hand long enough to make a

dismissive gesture. “Gone. Taken away. Sentence.”

So they had not only sentenced him to exile, but stripped his

family of their ancestral name. “What was it?” Akitada persisted.

At first it seemed that Haseo would not answer. But then he

whispered, “Utsunomiya.”

“Utsunomiya. I’ll find your family and try to clear your

name. Your sons will want to know of your courage.”

Haseo opened his eyes then and looked at him. “It is too

much to ask,” he whispered.

Akitada shook his head. “Not among friends.” He was about

to ask more questions but there were shouts in the distance.

Someone was coming. Tora jumped up and ran to the road,

while Akitada struggled to his feet and seized his sword. What

now? More of Kumo’s soldiers? He had no strength left.

But Tora, shading his eyes, was looking toward the south.

He waved to Akitada to come. The distance suddenly seemed

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

367

very great; Akitada shuffled like an old man, with small uncer-

tain steps.

“It’s the governor, I think,” said Tora when Akitada reached

him. Akitada shaded his own eyes. Yes, he could make out the

banner flying in front of the cortege. “I thought he’d lost his

power,” Tora remarked in a tone of surprise. “Wonder how he

got anyone to come with him.”

They were on foot, probably some forty men, foot soldiers

with halberds and bearers carrying the governor’s sedan

chair. And now that they approached a town, they began to

chant the traditional warning, “Make way for His Excellency,

the governor! Make way!” Slowly the local people gathered

by the roadside and knelt as the banner and sedan chair

passed them.

The soldiers’ shouts became more urgent when neither Tora

nor Akitada would step aside. Then they caught sight of the

bodies of men and horses and lowered their lances.

Akitada raised his hand. “Halt! We have business with His

Excellency.”

The column faltered and stopped. The woven curtain of the

sedan chair parted and Mutobe stuck out his head.

“What’s going on?” he shouted. “What do these people want?”

“Governor?” Akitada started toward the sedan chair, but a

small forest of sharp halberds immediately barred his way.

“Who are you?” asked Mutobe.

“Sugawara.”

Mutobe’s jaw dropped. “Good heavens!” Then he cried, “Put

me down! Put me down, you fools.” The sedan chair was low-

ered and opened. Mutobe climbed out and came to Akitada

with outstretched hands. The halberds parted and the soldiers

stepped back. Mutobe’s steps faltered. “Is that really you, Sug-

awara?” he asked uncertainly. “All that blood. Are you hurt?”