Beyond the trees and pagodas that fringed the top of the titanic wall, I saw outlined against the blackening sky the lofty white peak of the “Lord of Heaven” tower, in the O Shira, or innermost castle. Then the full force of the storm struck us and wrapped us about in blinding, swirling torrents of rain. Yoritomo pressed up close to me, and bent over to make himself heard above the howls of the wind and the drumming splatter of the deluge.
“Be ready!” he warned. “Watch this street that runs in on the left where the vanguard is passing—There is one just beyond, on the right. At the moat gate is stationed a powerful guard. If the ronins fail to attack here—”
“Look!” I cried, grasping at my swordhilt.
Out of the narrow street on the left were streaming a number of cloaked figures, silent and downbent as though intent only upon making their way through the storm. As they filed out into the broad roadway alongside the norimon of the Princess, a gust of wind tore open the cloak of one in the rear and exposed to our gaze the bright links of chain armor within.
“The ronins!” hissed Yoritomo. “Wait! Make ready.”
I let go my half-drawn sword, and hastened to follow his example by tucking my robe skirts in the back of my girdle and tying up my long sleeves. In the midst I saw one of the hatamotos turn upon the nearest ronin with a repellent gesture. Instantly the assassin drew his sword and struck a fearful two-handed blow. The head of the luckless hatamoto leaped from his shoulders and fell after the blood-gushing corpse into the mud and water.
At the treacherous blow all the hatamotos who had seen it yelled with fury and amazement, and flashed out their swords to strike down the murderer. But their blades clashed without effect upon his hidden helmet and armor, and in an instant the other ronins were beside their chief, slashing back at the armorless hatamotos. Half a dozen guardsmen fell beneath the razor-edged blades, slain outright or hideously maimed, all in the brief moment before those in the van of the cortege could turn about and rush to their aid.
I found myself with drawn sword, struggling frantically to free myself from the grip of my friend. Though I was the stronger, he held me fast by some subtle trick of wrestlers’ art that, without injuring, rendered me as helpless as a child.
“Not yet!” he muttered, “not yet, brother!”
Unable to free myself, I was forced to stand and glare impotently through the whirling rain at the terrible massacre. At the beginning of the fight the hatamotos had numbered a fourth more than the assailants. Now they were already less than equal in number. With merciless swiftness, the ronins struck out in terrific blows that split heads to the chin and hewed off arms and legs and ripped open bodies with hideous slashes.