Free Sword of Honour by David Kirk Page A

find an escape before then. I am to assume there is only the one avenue of entry into the building?’
    The wounded samurai spoke: ‘There’s a trapdoor down onto the river, hidden beneath the mill itself, and he’d have to swim, but if he searched thoroughly . . .’
    ‘Or simply had enough time,’ said Akiyama.
    The two samurai looked sheepishly to the distance.
    ‘It’s dark in there, he’ll not . . .’ the senior muttered.
    Akiyama ignored him, turned to examine the mill again, made a closer tactical assessment of it. It was a large building, but it had to be braced to take the strain of the wheel and the mill.
Therefore there were many beams, which meant space would likely be confined in there. Violence would be close, and that was not something he relished, for he was a swordsman and he needed clear
arcs of attack from every angle to practise his art.
    He scratched at his chin, pondered. He was reminded of Saito, twelve years prior, the second man he had been tasked to hunt for the crime of drunkenly shouting public profanities at an icon of
the Buddha whilst clad in the colour of tea. Desperate, the shamed adept had taken refuge in an old dilapidated estate, and for much the same reasons Akiyama had been reticent to enter.
    Akiyama had found a direct solution then, and it presented itself here also.
    ‘This time of year . . . I assume there is straw or hay set to dry in there?’ he asked the senior samurai.
    The man nodded. ‘Bales of it.’
    ‘Then have you considered smoking him out?’
    The senior looked at Akiyama as though he had just demanded his wife for the night. ‘Absolutely forbidden,’ he said. ‘That’s the winter feed for my most noble
Lord’s cavalry.’
    Akiyama grunted his displeasure. He stood there for some time, considered other options. The wheel continued to turn, the river continued to flow. There was no sign of any motion from within.
Every moment that they delayed was another moment Miyamoto might find his freedom, if he had not done so already.
    The thought of this gnawed at him until he could wait no longer. The two samurai and the lowerborn watched as he strode forward. Akiyama placed himself twenty paces from the door, and there he
spread his legs, set his hands upon his hips. The door was wide enough for one man only to pass through at a time, and even at this proximity still the gloom inside was such that it was impossible
to say who, if anyone, lurked there.
    ‘Musashi Miyamoto,’ he called inside, waited.
    There was no response.
    ‘I am Nagayoshi Akiyama, of the bloodline Tachibana, of the school of Yoshioka. I have come to claim your head.’
    Akiyama thought perhaps that he heard the sound of wood creaking, saw a shadow move upon a shadow. ‘Yoshioka?’ came a voice.
    ‘Of the ward of Imadegawa, foremost school and pride of Kyoto.’
    ‘I’ve no feud with you,’ said Miyamoto. ‘I’ve never even encountered one of your men before.’
    ‘You offered insult at Sekigahara.’
    ‘I did no such thing.’
    ‘Regardless, your head has been demanded.’
    ‘Indeed.’
    There might have been, just about audible, a snort of laughter. Akiyama watched the door for ten heartbeats before he spoke again.
    ‘I call you out to duel,’ he said, imploring with an imperious gesture of his hand. ‘Come, face me honourably beneath the sun.’
    Now there was no doubt about the laughter: ‘So you and your men out there can swarm me?’
    ‘I stand alone.’
    ‘I’ll not run out there to be cut down by however many await.’
    ‘There’s fifteen of us!’ called the senior samurai.
    ‘So there are fewer than ten,’ said Miyamoto to Akiyama, amused. ‘Even so, even so . . . I am not in love with death. I think I shall remain here. But, if you’re so eager
for my head, why don’t you come in here? All of you, why not? One after the other.’
    The threat hung in the air, and it was a valid one. Akiyama decided to try his luck.
    ‘Suppose I rain down fire upon