Takenoshita Yabu braced himself against the bow of the fishing boat and looked out over the cold, grey sea. Light snow was falling, but the sea was fairly calm, and the boat's motion was easy as it rose and fell in the long swells.
The visibility was enough to see the steep forested slopes rising into the low clouds on their left. It would be another day or two before they reached Ariki, unless the snow thickened and the fishermen had to put in to shore.
Yabu scratched his chin and looked back over the ship. Shinbei and the heiman (Kenji? Yabu still wasn't quite sure) were lying on rough pallets uncomfortably. Shinbei had been lucky- the spear cut could have been much worse, and the bonze had set the broken leg well. He could well have ended up crippled. As it was he would probably have a limp to remind him of this adventure.
Kenji was worse, although he might make a full recovery. He lay back, swaddled in blankets. His ribs were tightly bound, but breathing was still very painful for him. The demon masked foreigner had broken his ribs like kindling in a series of powerful blows, using only his bare hands. Kenji had been peeing blood for a while, a sign of internal injuries, but it looked like he'd live. It could have been much worse. If one of his broken ribs had pierced a lung his chances would have been less than even.
Jiro-san had stopped smiling, finally. For nearly a week after the fight he had nearly been bouncing off the walls. He wanted adventure, and he had found it. Of course, the first five minutes after Yabu and Junzo had brought him back to consciousness had been anything but heroic as he tried to control his pain and avoid spewing his lunch. Groin hits were like that--Yabu had taken a few in his time, and he sympathized. His sympathy had worn thin in the week thereafter though-- as soon as Jiro realized that they'd all lived, and that the enemy had all been slain, he forgot his pain in the glory of their victory. And had been reliving the glory all week.
Jiro probably didn't understand what a close thing it had been. Yabu had seen it in Junzo-san's eyes as they stood over the body of the last man down, though. The ambush could so easily have gone the other way. Yabu cast his mind back to the exhilaration and the exhaustion as they had stood, panting, looking at each other in the blood-spattered temple. They both had been covered in blood, mostly of their enemies. So many times Yabu had felt that unique feeling -- the realization of victory, the refusal of death. It was a rush of emotion that only warriors could understand.
In his youth Yabu had often felt fear. Victory, and survival, was a release from fear, and he sympathized with Jiro's enthusiasm. The young wanted to live, and conquered their fear with the belief that they were immortal. Now Yabu was just tired. He fought to win, but he had long since covered his fear with anger, and victory left him exhausted and drained.
Yabu shook his head at himself ruefully. Old as he was, he left every combat with mixed emotions. His life had been long, and full of battles. All he really wanted now was an honorable death. The ambush could have been that death, for all of them.
Yabu couldn't remember fighting a more dangerous opponent than the demon-masked leader of the group of foreign warriors. Kenji, the heiman, had lasted longer than he'd expected, but a blinding series of blows had shattered his defences and his ribs. Jiro-san had tried to be a hero, facing the leader and ignoring his men, and had gone down to a pair of brutal strikes from the two behind him. They had backed Yabu to the wall, fighting desperately, when the leader had made his only error. He had backed away, panting heavily, exhausted by his own attacks on the three samurai in succession.
Yabu had seized the moment, leaping through his enemies and slashing at his chief foe's belly. With a herculean effort his enemy had managed to interpose an arm, but it was deeply cut by the block. Then, as the two henchmen fell on Yabu, the enemy chief had leaped straight up, a height that Yabu still found unbelievable, into the rafters of the temple.
To be pinned to a huge beam by Yabu's spear.
In another moment the samurai would all have been defeated. In a fury, seeing his foe escape, and knowing that this was his only chance, Yabu had flung his yari up into the rafters after his foe. He had truly touched the void -- the weapon, target, and throw were one. And his spear had slid through his enemy's blocking hands and pinned him like a rag doll to the smoke-darkened beam.
The rest of the fight was brief, although the enemy fighters did not give up. Yabu had dodged and blocked like an eel, pulling out his katana. Junzo-san had dispatched the third of his opponents and come over, killing one of Yabu's enemies. The last man quickly fell to Yabu's thrust.
Silence had fallen. Overhead the feet of the leader still swung gently, his oni mask half-fallen off his head.
Yabu glanced once more over the small fishing boat, then again at the grey line where the sea met the clouds. They had been nearly two weeks recovering, and getting the scared villagers to return. The samurai family had been very grateful for their assistance. Perhaps, upon their return, Lord Arai would also be grateful. For the first time in a long time, Yabu let himself have some hope. He had fought well, against a dangerous opponent, in service to the lord. Perhaps, just perhaps, Lord Arai might take him into his service as a retainer. To have a real lord again, now at the twilight of his life--that was all Yabu really wanted. Completion. An honorable ending.
Yabu shook his head. It was unlikely, he thought. Nobody important had witnessed the battle, and Lord Arai must have many concerns. A small skirmish with unknown opponents, far to the north of his domain; he would be pleased, but it was not remarkable. I should not let my hopes get high, he thought. Too many times in the past he had been disappointed. After the duel with Katusagiri, for example. He had been dismissed without comment, turned out, after fighting that duel at the direct request of Lord Yamubi. Politics, he thought, and spat into the quiet sea.
Still, it was hard to prevent the swelling of hope. Things were going well, and the grey day made him cheerful. Yabu liked poor weather. A poem came to him, unbidden.
Grey clouds touch a grey sea
Snow on the cold wind
I am content.