Chương 37: Book 1: Chapter 12 - Things Unseen [Part 2]

The siege began with considerably less drama than Shimon expected. There was no immediate assault upon the walls and no mounted charge beneath banners. Instead, men dug, carried baskets of earth, assembled timber shields, cleared approaches, repaired paths, and moved arrows or water toward the forward positions. Archers on both sides exchanged shots whenever someone exposed himself long enough to make the attempt worthwhile.

The first man Shimon saw die at Kawamori-jō was a Hōjō archer who leaned too far over a palisade. Three Satomi arrows rose toward him. One struck his shoulder, another vanished somewhere behind the wall, and the third entered beneath his jaw. The defender folded backward out of sight, and no one nearby celebrated. Several minutes later, a Satomi soldier carrying a bundle of stakes gave a startled grunt and sat down as though his legs had suddenly failed him. An arrow had entered through one side of his neck.

His companions dragged him behind an earth bank, but he died while his hands remained wrapped around the stakes. Shimon found the casualness worse than the yōma hunt. Against monsters, every moment had narrowed toward an obvious horror. Here men cooked, joked, repaired armor, and occasionally killed strangers several hundred paces away because those strangers wore another banner. The yōma unit remained in reserve where Nagai had ordered them.

For most of the first day, they occupied a position behind the main fighting while soldiers around them developed several names for the small group. Nagai's hunters. The ghost men. The demon killers. Shimon sat beneath a temporary awning with Tarō, Heita, the young Fujita, and the broad spearman while arrows occasionally passed high overhead with an insect-like hiss. Despite the circumstances, the gathering felt strangely companionable.

Fujita no longer looked as though every conversation with a senior warrior might result in punishment, and the younger castle retainer had begun answering Seki's insults with growing confidence. When the older spearman complained that the rice had not been cooked long enough, Fujita observed that men with fewer teeth required softer food. Tarō laughed hard, and even the perpetually anxious Heita smiled. Something had changed between them during the hunt.

They had trained together before, but now they possessed shared memories no one else understood. They knew the exact grunt Seki made when a yōma nearly tore his spear from his hands, the inventive language Tarō used when frightened, and the peculiar transformation by which Matsunaga could vomit before combat and become alarmingly reliable once the fighting began. They also knew Shimon occasionally spoke to things that were not visibly present, though he preferred that particular knowledge receive less discussion.

Still, watching the others argue over the rice reminded him of Team Hachiman. The thought arrived without warning. Hana would have been analyzing the enemy strategy by now, Jun complaining about something that had gone wrong, and the rest of them preparing for another match. The quarter-final had taken place weeks ago in Shimon's reckoning. Perhaps they had found a replacement and won. Perhaps they lost because their best player disappeared hours before the match. Perhaps everyone thought he was dead.

Shimon looked down at his hands. Calluses crossed his palms now, one shallow scar marked a knuckle, and another ran near his wrist where a yōma had found an opening in his armor. He still wanted to go home, and that had not changed. The Entity claimed it could send him there. He imagined his apartment, Mochi demanding food, the lights of convenience stores, crowded trains, his bed, his computer, and the wonderful triviality of having too many messages waiting for an answer.

Then he imagined standing in his kitchen after everything he had done here. What was someone supposed to do the morning after cutting off a man's head? Buy coffee, read messages, join practice? Could he sit in a gaming chair and kill digital people for money after learning precisely how killing a real person felt? He hoped so, because the alternative frightened him in a quieter way. The possibility that killing people, as well as monsters, would become normal.

A shadow fell across the awning as Kagawa stood above them all. The one-eyed deputy had left Kurobane nearby under a handler's supervision and carried himself with the particularly unpleasant confidence his temporary authority had encouraged.

"Fujita," he started. The younger warrior rose immediately.

"That spearhead is dirty." Fujita examined it.

"It was cleaned this morning, Kagawa-sama." The scarred samurai took the yari, inspected the steel, and threw it onto the ground.

"Clean it again." The younger man's jaw tightened, but he bowed.

"Yes, Kagawa-sama." Kagawa looked across at the others.

"Armor inspection before sunset. Any man whose equipment fails loses his next stipend." Seki glanced toward Tarō. The older Kume gave the smallest shake of his head. Not now. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The mounted warrior moved away. Fujita retrieved the yari and inspected the perfectly serviceable point again. Seki rested his arms across his knees.

"A title is like sake. Some men can drink deeply. Others become fools after the first cup," he declared in a deep voice. The pale Heita glanced anxiously after the deputy commander.

"Perhaps do not say that loudly." Shimon could not help but feel a sliver of worry enter him.

The second morning brought the siege animals forward. Calling them siege engines was perhaps generous, because most were combinations of timber, rope, woven screens, animal strength, and human optimism. Large herbivores had been fitted with heavy padded harnesses and wooden protection over their heads and shoulders.

Under the cover of archers and broad wicker mantlets, they dragged bundles of brush toward the outer ditch, where laborers cut the ropes and spilled the fascines into the depression before retreating under arrow fire. Another team used two armored Ankylosauridae dinosaurs to pull ropes secured to sections of the palisade. The first attempt snapped the cable, while the second tore several posts sideways. The defenders answered with stones, arrows, and pots that burst into flame.

One animal screamed when burning liquid struck the hide behind its shoulder, and its handler cut the harness before panic could drag half the work crew beneath its feet. Shimon watched from the reserve line.

"They are going to hate us after this." Tarō glanced over.

"Who?"

"The Raijū," he replied, his chip helping with the translation. The Thunderbeasts. The rough warrior studied him for a moment, before shaking his head. By midday, the outer defenses had been damaged badly enough for infantry to approach, although the main gate remained stubbornly intact. That was when the triceratops appeared. Even among the army's dinosaurs, the ceratopsian drew attention.

Its shoulders stood perhaps twice the size of a man, while layered hide, padded rope, and lacquered protection covered its neck and flanks without interfering with the horns. It was a living engine of war. The gate had already endured axes, ropes, and repeated blows from a conventional ram. The triceratops was not being asked to perform a miracle against untouched fortifications; it was being brought forward to finish the work. Handlers led it back along the prepared approach.

The Hōjō archers understood what was happening and began firing. Broad wooden screens rose around the animal, while Satomi bowmen answered from their own protected positions. Someone near Shimon whistled. Kagawa smiled.

"Now that is how a gate should be opened."

"From very far away," Heita murmured beside him. The first charge struck hard enough that Shimon felt the impact through the earth. Timber cracked, dust burst from the frame, and the triceratops recoiled violently, shaking its head hard enough that one handler narrowly escaped being caught by a horn. The gate, against all the odds, survived. Men turned the animal and prepared another run. The second impact broke one of the damaged doors inward at its lower hinge.

The frame twisted, and part of the barricade beyond collapsed beneath falling timber. A roar moved through the Satomi lines, not victory yet, but the unmistakable recognition of opportunity. Men began assembling for the assault. But that was when the argument started. A group of armored infantry passed the yōma hunters on their way toward the forward line. Their leader wore another Satomi retainer's device upon his sashimono and already carried dried blood across one sleeve.

His gaze passed over Kagawa before settling upon the hunters waiting behind the main force.

"Nagai's freaks are still resting?" The one-eyed deputy turned, a tick in his face. Tarō closed his eyes briefly, muttering something. The other samurai grinned.

"Must be difficult work, watching men fight."

"We have orders," Kagawa returned stiffly.

"Of course. Demons," the other leader jibed. Several soldiers laughed at this. Their leader looked toward the enormous sword carried by Shimon.

"Does the tall one actually use that, or is it there so the yōma know which man to eat first?" Shimon decided silence was the most useful contribution available. The boisterous Seki, however, did not.

"He uses it well enough that you should keep walking unless you wish to test the matter," the broad warrior replied with deliberate calm. The soldier's smile disappeared, but Kagawa, their deputy leader, stepped forward before the exchange could develop further. The other samurai looked back toward him.

"We will be through that gate while Nagai's pets are still polishing their charms." His men laughed. The remaining eye in Kagawa's face narrowed dangerously.

"You think us afraid to fight men?"

"I think Nagai-sama keeps you behind the line."

"We will enter with the assault," the mounted warrior declared, nostrils flaring. Tarō stared at him.

"Our orders are to remain in reserve."

"I command this unit in Nagai-sama's absence," the one-eyed man growled.

"You command it to hunt yōma," the older spearman reminded him. Kagawa moved close enough that the challenge became personal.

"Are you frightened, Kume?" Tarō's expression hardened, and Ayanokouji knew exactly how badly this was going. Seki spoke from behind them with surprising, uncharacteristic restraint.

"Let them boast. It matters not.." The one-eyed deputy ignored him.

"We enter with the second wave." Heita went noticeably pale. Fujita looked toward the distant command banners, where Nagai was somewhere among hundreds of officers, messengers, guards, and mounted retainers preparing an assault upon a fortified position. Shimon would have much preferred not being part of the unit that would charge into the breach.

"Nagai-sama will stop us," the young Fujita managed. Kagawa laughed dismissively.

"Nagai-sama is commanding an army. He does not have time to hold the hands of ten men." Unfortunately, that was probably true. Heita walked several paces away, bent beside an earth bank, and vomited. The soldiers who had mocked them laughed again. The scar-chinned warrior wiped his mouth with one sleeve, returned to the others, and carefully inspected the edge of his naginata, stopping much of the laughter. Shimon looked toward Tarō.

"This is stupid."

"Yes, it is," the surviving Kume replied simply, with the air of someone who has been much aggrieved by something.

"We are still doing it?" Shimon asked, nervousness edging his voice. The rough-spoken spearman lowered his yari and gave him a resigned look.

"We are samurai. It is our duty to do and die."

"That is not an answer." He shrugged.

"In this case, it is." A horn sounded from the forward line, and the assault began.