“Wait!” Kaoru, bloodied but determined, joined them. They went through the door and into the small garden where the headless corpse still lay across the path.

“What took you so long?” Akitada demanded, stopping just inside and glaring at Kaoru. “We waited in that shed until we were sure you had been captured.”

Kaoru grimaced. “I couldn’t find Koreburo right away. They caught him setting his fire. He was still alive when I found him and ... I could not leave him right away. Sorry, sir.”

Akitada was sobered. “Poor old man. Very well, let’s go get Makio and stop this killing.”

There was no more need for caution now. The archers at their loopholes were too intent on the foe outside to turn around. The four of them ran past and into the main house, their boots thumping up stairways and across the glossy boards. They slammed through doorways and flung back sliding doors. The armory had served its purpose. Weapons chests stood open and empty, some of their contents gone or scattered about. Helmets, parts of armor, long swords, discarded halberds, and an upended quiver of short arrows lay abandoned like the toys of giant children.

In the reception area, four senior Uesugi officers, older men with lined faces and grizzled beards, guarded the doors to the ceremonial hall. They drew their swords. Hitomaro instantly flung himself at them, and Kaoru and Tora joined him. There were four of the enemy, seasoned fighters and rested, but Akitada could not wait. His bloody sword in hand, he moved past them and flung open the great double doors to the hall.

“Takata has fallen. In the name of the emperor, surrender!”

Time seemed to pause as startled faces turned toward him. Uesugi sat, straddling a campaign stool on the dais. He wore white silk robes under black lacquered armor and his black horned helmet was on his head. Seated on the floor in a semicircle before him were seven or eight armed men, their helmets held respectfully against their bodies. Akitada almost laughed out loud: the general at a council of war after the battle was already lost.

But then, of one accord, the warriors were up, dropping their helmets, drawing their swords and charging. There was no time left to prepare. Like the four outside, these were older men, but they were desperate and duty-bound to die for their lord. Akitada knew he could not fight them all and survive, and suddenly the icy clutch of fear twisted inside him again. He slashed out wildly at the first man and, with more luck than skill, severed his sword hand, but two more were on him. He lunged, parried a hard stroke, took a step forward and lunged again, slashing at one man’s thighs, then brought up his blade to sweep the other man’s sword aside. The Uesugi warrior screamed and fell, and suddenly he was no longer alone. Tora was beside him, shouting, “Kill the bastards!” as he cut off a man’s head in a spray of blood. Akitada’s blade scraped across a breastplate, driving another fighter back. He followed, aiming for the unprotected neck of his helmetless adversary. The other twisted away, and the blade missed, slicing deeply into his arm instead. Akitada’s sword became entangled in the cords of the other man’s armor. He kneed him in the groin and jerked it free. And then he saw his way clear and made for the dais, dodging one blade, and slashing at another, his eyes on Uesugi.

The Lord of Takata had jumped up, sword in hand, his round face as white as his robe. The small eyes bulged and his mouth was open. He saw Akitada coming for him, but he stood, sword dangling, frozen and speechless.

So it was going to be easy after all, thought Akitada, surprised—almost disappointed. He simply stepped up on the dais and placed the tip of his sword against Uesugi’s throat. “Stop the fighting!” he shouted over the noise of clashing swords and the cries of the wounded. He told Uesugi, “It’s over. Tell your men to surrender!”

It became quiet in the hall.

Uesugi swallowed, then nodded his head violently, causing the tip of Akitada’s sword to nick his throat. A few red drops fell on the white silk of his robe. He looked down, whimpered, then sat, muttering, “Blood. She said blood on snow. Blood on the snow!” Raising his hands to Akitada, he cried, “I surrender, I surrender! Don’t kill me! I will serve the emperor. I have many men, much influence. A treaty. We can make a treaty. I guarantee protection against the northern barbarians in exchange for my life.” Behind Akitada someone cursed loudly—one of Uesugi’s men.

Akitada put up his sword and turned away in disgust. Two of the Takata warriors, both wounded, had lowered their swords at Uesugi’s cry of surrender. Tora was leaning against a pillar. He bled from several wounds. Akitada looked for the others. Kaoru, also bloody, pulled his sword from the belly of a fallen Uesugi fighter and released a red tide. His victim died with a shout and convulsion, and Kaoru gave Akitada a nod.

Hitomaro, miraculously unscathed, stood in a pool of blood above a fallen warrior, sword gripped in both hands, on his face the fierce snarl of one of the guardian spirits at temple gates. He was looking around for more butchery, but the last two Uesugi officers dropped their swords with grim faces and knelt. It was over.

“Who is second in command here?” Akitada snapped.

One warrior looked around at the bodies, then rose.

“You heard your master. Go outside and order your men to lay down their arms. This stronghold has fallen and Lord Uesugi is my prisoner.” As an afterthought, he added, “In the name of his most august Majesty.”

At that moment, Akitada savored the intoxicating taste of victory. His hands and knees trembled with the emotion. But he reminded himself that the credit for their success must be shared and turned to Kaoru. “You may take charge of Takata manor.”

Then, with hideous irony, fortune turned.

Akitada had shifted his attention from Kaoru to Tora, to ask about his wounds. As their eyes met, Akitada saw Tora’s widen in sudden horror. What happened next would always remain a blur in his memory. He heard a hoarse, almost inhuman roar, and saw Hitomaro rush at Uesugi with a drawn sword.

Instinctively Akitada stepped in front of his prisoner and into Hitomaro’s path. The force of their collision cost them both their balance. Akitada was flung aside and half fell. He saw his burly lieutenant falter and change the grip on his sword, saw Uesugi up and moving forward with his sword, saw Hitomaro stagger back, then swing his blade in a wide arc.

It was all over in a breath, but compressed into that moment were sounds as well as sights, the stamping of feet, the clatter of the toppled campaign stool, the rustle of Uesugi’s silks and hiss of Hitomaro’s sword, human grunts, and then the heavy thud of bodies falling onto the wooden dais. And silence.

He was sickened. A single mistake, a wrong move, and triumph had turned to despair.

Uesugi and Hitomaro lay sprawled across the dais in a parody of embracing lovers. The Lord of Takata was dead. His head, partially severed, rested oddly next to his right shoulder in a quickly widening pool of gore; the piggish eyes had rolled upward, showing their whites, and his teeth were bared in a final snarl. The horned helmet lay near Akitada’s feet, which were speckled with blood. And Uesugi’s snowy silk robe now bore the crimson blossoms of his violent death.