Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [445]
“About fifty.”
“How many houses in the village?”
“Seventy.”
Musashi calculated that there was probably a total of seven or eight hundred people. Even allowing for old people and children, the brigands would still be outnumbered by as much as ten to one.
He smiled grimly at the thought that these peaceful villagers had believed they had no recourse but to throw up their hands in despair. He knew that if something was not done, the atrocity would be repeated. Tonight he wanted to accomplish two things: show the villagers how to protect themselves and see that the brigands were banished forever.
“Sir,” cried a man who had just come from the village. “They’re on their way here.”
Though the villagers were armed now, the news made them uneasy. They showed signs of breaking and running.
To restore confidence, Musashi said loudly, “There’s nothing to be alarmed about. I was expecting this. I want you to hide on both sides of the road, but first listen to my instructions.” He talked rapidly but calmly, briefly repeating points for emphasis. “When they get here, I’ll let them attack me. Then I’ll pretend to run away. They’ll follow me. You—all of you— stay where you are. I won’t need any help.
“After a time, they’ll come back. When they do, attack. Make lots of noise; take them by surprise. Strike at their sides, legs, chests—any area that’s unguarded. When you’ve taken care of the first bunch, hide again and wait for the next one. Keep doing this until they’re all dead.”
He barely had time to finish and the peasants to disperse before the marauders appeared. From their dress and lack of coordination, Musashi guessed that theirs was a primitive fighting force, of a sort that might have been common long ago, when men hunted and fished for sustenance. The name Tokugawa meant nothing to them, no more than did Toyotomi. The mountains were their tribal home; the villagers existed to provide them with food and supplies.
“Stop!” ordered the man at the head of the pack. There were about twenty of them, some with crude swords, some with lances, one with a battle-ax, another with a rusty spear. Silhouetted against the glow of the fire, their bodies looked like demonic, jet-black shadows.
“Is he the one?”
“Yeah, that’s him, all right.”
Some sixty feet ahead of them, Musashi stood his ground, blocking the road. Disconcerted, they began to doubt their own strength, and for a short time none of them moved.
But only for a moment. Then Musashi’s blazing eyes started to pull them inexorably toward him.
“You the son of a bitch trying to get in our way?”
“Right!” roared Musashi, raising his sword and tearing into them. There was a loud reverberation, followed by a whirlwind fray in which it was impossible to make out individual movements. It was like a spinning swarm of winged ants.
The rice fields on one side of the road and the embankment lined with trees and bushes on the other were ideal for Musashi, since they provided a measure of cover, but after the first skirmish, he executed a strategic withdrawal.
“See that?”
“The bastard’s running away!”
“After him!”
They pursued him to a far corner of the nearest field, where he turned and faced them. With nothing behind him, his position seemed worse, but he kept his opponents at bay by moving swiftly to right and left. Then the moment one of them made a false move, Musashi struck.
His dark form seemed to flit from place to place, a geyser of blood rising before him each time he paused. The bandits who were not killed were soon too dazed to fight, while Musashi grew sharper with every strike. It was a different sort of battle from the one at Ichijōji. He did not have the feeling of standing on the border between life and death, but he had reached a plane of selflessness, body and sword performing without the need of conscious thought. His attackers fled in complete disarray.
A whisper went along the line of villagers. “They’re coming.” Then a group of them jumped out of hiding and fell upon the first two or three bandits, killing them almost effortlessly.