Taste

Flood

The first guard rushed down the hill, and Mitsuhide shot him dead without hesitation. A snap, powder ignition–BANG!–and the man flinched and staggered, rolling the rest of the way.

Without a second thought, he reloaded, careful to keep the gunpowder dry, and grasped the Chatelaine's hand tight.

"Run," he urged her again.

But it was too late. The shot reverberated off the cliff, and the game was up. Together, they fled into the woods, rushing between brush and trees, encroaching footsteps loud behind them. Mitsuhide knew the woods, but not half as well as their pursuers did. They were gaining on them.

At last they came to a clearing backing up alongside a waterfall. They lurched to a halt, staring down the other side. It was deep and rocky–no promise of anything except a certain death loomed below them.

"Hell," he muttered, and leveled his gun again.

Bang! The first man from the woods crumpled, the dark stain blooming over his robes. No time to reload. Mitsuhide dropped his rifle and drew his sword, stepping between her and the oncoming enemy. "Stay behind me. Don't look."

In brutal waves they came, one after the other. He had to assume at least fifteen men pursued them, circling like snarling, hungry wolves. They would not touch her. No, they would not touch her ever again. He sharpened his will into resolve more certain than Death itself, for Death was all that awaited them in the clearing.

One, two, one, two. He whirled, his blade clashing and sparking against theirs, confronting each as rapidly as he could manage. Blood rushed through his ears as loud as the waterfall behind them.

"Mitsuhide!" She screamed.

The first blow hurt, but not as badly as others he'd taken. Knocking the offending monk off balance, he brought down his blade into the man's chest. But there were still more, and he realized with a jolt that his left arm was bleeding profusely.

Another joined the downed man. And another. And another. And he, himself, racked up wounds uncountable as the odds twisted against them. By the time the first party fell, he could feel pain setting in on his off-hand, a deep wound in his chest bleeding freely.

"Mitsuhide!" The princess rushed to him, throwing her arms around him.

"Let's go," he managed, grabbing her hand. It slipped out of his bloody grasp before he reentwined their fingers, dragging her back into the woods with him.

"Let me see that." Kennyo commanded.

"No," Kenshin snapped back. "I want to see her first."

The monk's eyes narrowed. "That is not how this arrangement will work."

"And if you've killed her already, this is hardly an arrangement," he scoffed, "just one step closer to death. Let me see her."

"First," Kennyo held out his hand. "Oda Nobunaga's head."

A long, long silence fell between the delegations. At last, Kenshin flung the head toward Kennyo, and it rolled to a halt by his feet, muddy and unrecognizable. The man knelt and brushed a sleeve across its face.

It was the monk long ago captured by Mitsuhide.

Before Kennyo could give the command, Shingen lifted his fist in the air. From out of the woods on either side, arrows rained like Heaven's Tears down on the rebels. They screamed and dropped, others rushing for cover, two throwing themselves over Kennyo to preserve him.

Kenshin drew his blade and charged.

"Not without me!" From the woods, Masamune charged forward, grinning with mad glee, blades raised. From the opposite side, Nobunaga emerged imperiously on a black horse, his own men joining the fray. Desperately, the monks tried to close the gate, but the forces combined overwhelmed the doors and smashed them to the mud.