Free Sword of Honour by David Kirk

man matching Miyamoto’s description upon the road the day before, passing in the opposite direction to him.
Looked as though he was heading to the nearby town, the woodsman thought, and that upon a fine steed like Akiyama’s he’d be there within the morning. Akiyama thanked him with a few
coins from the school and spurred his horse onwards.
    He was hopeful of finding another witness or two within in the town, and yet immediately he knew that he had come across something far more substantial. He found panic, he found clamour, women
fretting and men mustering, gathering what lower tools might suffice as weapons: hammers and sickles and shovels and clubs. Akiyama was reminded of the aftermath of earthquakes – everybody
wanting to help or to assure themselves that all was well, and yet nobody knowing quite what to do.
    ‘What has occurred here?’ he demanded of the first person he drew close to, a young man consoling what must have been his equally young wife with one hand and a charred poker
clutched in the other.
    ‘A masterless,’ said the man. ‘He attacked the steward and—’
    ‘Tall?’ barked Akiyama, and then he tried to contain the rush, clutched his reins tighter. ‘The masterless – was he tall? Full head of hair? Scars on his face?’
    ‘Yes! Odd-looking devil.’
    ‘Where is he? Which way did he flee?’
    ‘They’ve got him trapped in the mill down by the river, last I heard.’
    Akiyama’s horse was attuned to his mood. It reared beneath him eagerly as he asked for direction, and as soon as it was given the pair of them were off.
    He saw the wheel of the mill first, a great wooden thing set into the broad, fast-flowing river. It was attached to a plain and utilitarian structure that overhung the waters on a raised
platform. The roof was thatched, the wood grey and square, and the wheel turned slowly, the paddles of it painted green with algae.
    The doorway was cast open, what lay within dark.
    There were two samurai standing watch over it at a cautious distance, huddling behind a wagon of straw that was half empty and hitched to nothing. A gaggle of perhaps ten of the boldest
lowerborn also stood nearby, keeping a fearful vigil. There was a nervousness in the air, in their poise and manner, as though they had cornered a tiger in its lair.
    Akiyama headed straight for the samurai, and the two men saw him coming. Perhaps right then any unknown would be regarded as a potential threat, but rather than prepare to fight him the pair of
them seem rattled. They watched him guardedly as he dismounted, and neither one of them bowed more than a sliver, lest they let their panicky eyes wander from him for more than a moment.
    They made their tense introductions, and then Akiyama jerked his chin at the mill. ‘Musashi Miyamoto? Is he in there?’
    What must have been the senior of the two turned to the other, and Akiyama realized this man was clutching a wrist with the other hand, pain upon his face. ‘Was that what he called
himself?’
    ‘I believe so,’ said the wounded man.
    ‘Good,’ said Akiyama.
    ‘You know this vagrant?’ asked the senior samurai.
    ‘I have come for his head in the name of the school of Yoshioka.’
    The two samurai heard Yoshioka and looked at him anew. Stared at the colour of tea more than at the colour of his skin, as they had been previously. Akiyama let them. He stood examining the
mill.
    ‘How many are in there with him?’ he asked.
    ‘Himself alone.’
    This seemed odd. ‘Why is it then that the two of you tarry out here?’
    Neither one of them could either answer or bear to meet his eyes. Akiyama swallowed his irritation.
    ‘We sent a man on horseback to the garrison eastwards,’ said the senior man obstinately. ‘We’ll have thirty samurai here before sunfall.’
    ‘A full cadre of swordbearers in addition to those levied here already,’ said Akiyama blackly. ‘A proportionate response indeed. That is, of course, provided the wretch
doesn’t