The Shogun's Daughter

by Robert Ames Bennet

Vainly the brave hatamotos parried and slashed back at their foes with strokes no less powerful and often more skilful. For the most part, their blows served only to slice the false covering from the helmets of the ronins or nick the steel and brass under the masking cloaks. But every stroke of the ronin blades that reached its mark meant a ghastly wound.

Yet the hatamotos were not the only ones that fell in the bloody shambles. Twice I saw ronins go down under blows that split clean through their steel helmets; others were bitten deep by blades that slashed through the firmest chain mail; while more lost a foot or a hand from the lightning strokes of the Shogun’s swordsmen. But gloriously as the hatamotos fought, the ronins were no less brave and little less skilful, and the armor gave them an advantage impossible to overcome.

Never had I dreamt of such terrific fighting. In as many seconds a dozen of the guard were lying mutilated under the iron-shod sandals of the ronins. Every hatamoto near the norimon of the Princess and all but three or four of those in the rear were slain. One of the bearers of the rearmost norimon caught up a sword and struck out manfully. Back flashed a blow that split him to the middle. His fellow-bearers, who so far had stood as though paralyzed by fright, fled past us shrieking.

But not one of the proud hatamotos sought to escape. Shouting fierce imprecations, the last of the rearguard parried and struck, each as long as he could stand,—without giving back an inch before the merciless attack of their murderers. The six members of the vanguard still left, burst through the ring of ronins that was closing about them, and fought their way back towards the norimon of the Princess, whose bearers were being forced by threatening blades to swing about to the narrow side street.

“Now!” shouted Yoritomo, as the ronins again closed around the vanguard. He freed me and leaped away up the street, flourishing his sword and yelling, “Owari! Owari!”

I rushed after him, blood-mad with the sight of the fighting and slaughter, and utterly lost to all sense of danger in my fury at the ferocious treachery of the assassins.

“Avast!” I roared in English, “avast, you devils!”

For answer, the head of the last rear-guardsman came rolling towards us along the wet pavement. Close after it a pair of ronins sprang to meet and slash down the audacious priests. Out lunged Yoritomo’s sword, and the foremost murderer fell headlong, stabbed through the throat. The second slashed at my head. But the stroke glanced harmlessly down my parrying blade, and before the fellow could recover guard, I drove my point into one of his glaring eyes.

As my man fell across Yoritomo’s, three others came running at us with the ferocity of tigers. We sprang to meet them half-way. One, fortunately, was slightly outdistanced by his fellows. The swords of the two leaders clashed against ours in fierce, eager strokes. A blow, barely warded, struck off my hat and exposed fully to the gaze of my opponent my distended blue eyes. A look of horror flashed across his vengeful face. Doubtless he thought me a demon. For the barest fraction of a second he faltered—it was enough for me. Before his gaping mouth could snap shut, he fell to my lunge.

I wheeled to meet the third man, who, as Yoritomo parried with the second for an opening, had sprung around for a treacherous side slash. My outstretched blade met but failed to check entirely the blow, which fell across the back of Yoritomo’s right shoulder. Meeting my gaze, the ronin faltered as had his mate, and the result was as fatal to him. How seriously Yoritomo had been wounded I could not tell. I doubt if he was aware he had been struck. His lunge followed after mine, flash upon flash.