the staff’s end, leaving a sharpened point.
Moon brayed a laugh and blew him a kiss. “So be it, then—you die by your own device.”
But when Moon lunged, Gonji snicked out his ko-dachi with an eye-blurring movement, catching and turning the now deadly staff in a twisting X-block with both swords. He drove its point into the snow, and his one-handed swipe with the Sagami forced Moon to release his grip or lose his head. The samurai bore down on the now unarmed, backstepping thief with crossed blades.
“Too late,” Moon gasped. “You’ve lost anyway—look.”
Horsemen ringed them in, descending from the hills. They bore no recognizable colors or uniform. Even in the dark it was clear that this was some mercenary bunch. They must have been forty in number, but they were still quite distant and spaced too far apart to close the trap.
What sort of cavalry technique is that? Gonji found himself wondering.
“I’ll let you ride with me,” the samurai declared, “but if you offer me one—”
“You still don’t understand, do you, fool?” Moon said, laughing, backing away in the direction of the house. “I know the way out of here. You don’t. You can’t escape them. They’re the warlock’s men. You think they’ll stop for that cross you hang on your horse? The warlock doesn’t fear any symbols of the Church. Maybe they’ll let you join them—if you throw yourself on their mercies.”
Gonji untethered Tora and mounted. When he scanned the approaching band again, he had to resist an urge to rub his eyes. Had he momentarily fallen asleep? Had he been bewitched?
They were almost upon him now. No more than a hundred yards distant!
What foul sorcery—?… What horses could move so swiftly?
Their hooves seemed to touch earth, yet their advance was uncannily fast. They grew in the vision like a spreading stain upon water.
The samurai walked Tora toward the bonfire, uncertain how he would meet this final assault, dashing away the lifetime of memories that vied for audience, the juggled factors of the meaningless equation of his life. Then he abandoned all thought, which dragged the bushi down in battle, with its weight.
He decided to stand his ground before the blaze. He drew his longbow and a fletched shaft, preparing for a shot at the advancing riders. He could hear those who approached from behind—there, a second shaft would find ready nesting.
“Hold there!” the leader commanded him, trotting near, his approaching motion now normal, as though he had left sorcerous ground for that of the earth Gonji trod.
The band was composed chiefly of mercenaries, that was sure: Theirs was a motley array of weapons and garb, much as he’d seen in numerous free companies he’d ridden with and against. But three men were clad of a piece. The one who came near, as well as the pair who flanked him, wore a thin-shelled back armor of an obsolete design. There was a strange, soft shimmer to the armor. Its surface looked murky, as if encased in flat black mist. He had seen its like before… where ?
The leader rode up to within ten paces, unconcerned with Gonji’s bow. He removed his burgonet. A youthful, serene face gazed into the samurai’s.
“You can put up your bow,” he said in a cultured voice. “I’m afraid you’d find it ineffectual.”
Gonji said nothing but complied, for he had by now recalled what armor this must be, and if its lore were true, the black knight’s claim would be borne out. The knight smiled and bowed curtly in gratitude.
“I represent the Archmage Domingo Malaga y Colicos,” he said, pausing before going on. “You probably know him as Domingo Negro. A terrible name, if you represent the rapacious Church.” He indicated the cross that depended from Tora’s neck.
“I represent no church,” Gonji replied evenly. “And I feel no terror.”
“Indeed?” the knight said, plainly impressed. “No terror of so many arrayed against you? Of the Moonspinner, who descends at
Moon brayed a laugh and blew him a kiss. “So be it, then—you die by your own device.”
But when Moon lunged, Gonji snicked out his ko-dachi with an eye-blurring movement, catching and turning the now deadly staff in a twisting X-block with both swords. He drove its point into the snow, and his one-handed swipe with the Sagami forced Moon to release his grip or lose his head. The samurai bore down on the now unarmed, backstepping thief with crossed blades.
“Too late,” Moon gasped. “You’ve lost anyway—look.”
Horsemen ringed them in, descending from the hills. They bore no recognizable colors or uniform. Even in the dark it was clear that this was some mercenary bunch. They must have been forty in number, but they were still quite distant and spaced too far apart to close the trap.
What sort of cavalry technique is that? Gonji found himself wondering.
“I’ll let you ride with me,” the samurai declared, “but if you offer me one—”
“You still don’t understand, do you, fool?” Moon said, laughing, backing away in the direction of the house. “I know the way out of here. You don’t. You can’t escape them. They’re the warlock’s men. You think they’ll stop for that cross you hang on your horse? The warlock doesn’t fear any symbols of the Church. Maybe they’ll let you join them—if you throw yourself on their mercies.”
Gonji untethered Tora and mounted. When he scanned the approaching band again, he had to resist an urge to rub his eyes. Had he momentarily fallen asleep? Had he been bewitched?
They were almost upon him now. No more than a hundred yards distant!
What foul sorcery—?… What horses could move so swiftly?
Their hooves seemed to touch earth, yet their advance was uncannily fast. They grew in the vision like a spreading stain upon water.
The samurai walked Tora toward the bonfire, uncertain how he would meet this final assault, dashing away the lifetime of memories that vied for audience, the juggled factors of the meaningless equation of his life. Then he abandoned all thought, which dragged the bushi down in battle, with its weight.
He decided to stand his ground before the blaze. He drew his longbow and a fletched shaft, preparing for a shot at the advancing riders. He could hear those who approached from behind—there, a second shaft would find ready nesting.
“Hold there!” the leader commanded him, trotting near, his approaching motion now normal, as though he had left sorcerous ground for that of the earth Gonji trod.
The band was composed chiefly of mercenaries, that was sure: Theirs was a motley array of weapons and garb, much as he’d seen in numerous free companies he’d ridden with and against. But three men were clad of a piece. The one who came near, as well as the pair who flanked him, wore a thin-shelled back armor of an obsolete design. There was a strange, soft shimmer to the armor. Its surface looked murky, as if encased in flat black mist. He had seen its like before… where ?
The leader rode up to within ten paces, unconcerned with Gonji’s bow. He removed his burgonet. A youthful, serene face gazed into the samurai’s.
“You can put up your bow,” he said in a cultured voice. “I’m afraid you’d find it ineffectual.”
Gonji said nothing but complied, for he had by now recalled what armor this must be, and if its lore were true, the black knight’s claim would be borne out. The knight smiled and bowed curtly in gratitude.
“I represent the Archmage Domingo Malaga y Colicos,” he said, pausing before going on. “You probably know him as Domingo Negro. A terrible name, if you represent the rapacious Church.” He indicated the cross that depended from Tora’s neck.
“I represent no church,” Gonji replied evenly. “And I feel no terror.”
“Indeed?” the knight said, plainly impressed. “No terror of so many arrayed against you? Of the Moonspinner, who descends at
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