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composed himself and set to finding wood, his mouth watering.
    But his prayer of thanks to the kami of good fortune was premature.
    Hurrying to secure what seemed good kindling, he hastily prepared a campsite in a hollow at the base of the cuesta. Defying caution, he built a blazing fire and warmed himself briefly, savoring the tantalizing feast to come.
    Moving out into the moonlight to relieve Tora of his burden and settle him for the night, Gonji realized his mistake too late. He saw the danger light in Tora’s eyes, the fear in the horse’s tossing head, before he heard the sifting wind of the horror’s descent on his camp.
    He froze an instant when he saw it. The pirouetting of its great wings caused him to believe himself under wyvern attack again. But this creature was smaller, more birdlike than the acid-spewing flying dragon. It dovetailed downward in an impossible air ballet, scarcely moving its wings, until it hovered a foot above the carcass of the boar.
    Calling out to Gonji in a mewling, yammering singsong voice filled with sentient taunting, it grasped the great bulk of the boar—well over a yard in length—and flapped laboriously upward. Its taloned feet and clawed humanoid hands clutched while its powerful wings beat against gravity. Slowly it rose, making steady progress toward its roost atop the cliff overlooking the crackling fire.
    “Iye,” Gonji breathed, eyes filled with the vision of the departing carcass, the prize so dearly won.
    “Noooooo!”
    Gonji drew the Sagami as he ran through the crunching snow, yielding it impotently in his right hand. By the time he stood beneath the lofting creature, his katana in pointless low middle guard, it was already cresting the cliff. He watched it disappear over the edge with an anguish that a lifetime’s discipline could not keep from his face.
    Above, the bird-thing peered over the brink, its supple beak emitting a mocking warble. Its piercing, intelligent eyes gleamed with self-satisfaction and cunning. It made a swift motion in the moonlight.
    The boar’s genitals dropped in the trampled snow beside Gonji.
    * * * *
    The campfire tinged the area with sultry hues. Before its glare knelt the samurai, all thought dispersed by his deep meditation. His shadow loomed large against the base of the steep cuesta at his back. Before him lay the sheathed Sagami, storied sword of uncounted legends.
    His methodical ritual ablutions completed, he dressed, retied his topknot just so, and lashed his daisho— the matched set of long and short swords—to his back with the harness he’d used since Vedun. He placed his tanto in his boot, then carefully sifted through his remaining black powder, obtaining what seemed enough dry charge to load both pistols. These he loaded and spannered, fixing them at last inside his obi. Then he rose and grimly eyed the roost above, where his tormentor whooped and nattered.
    It peered down at him, scuffed the ground with a hind claw. A piece of the boar’s entrails dropped straight at Gonji. The samurai batted it aside with a swift circular block.
    He tied around his forehead the hachi-maki— the headband of resolution. All the while, barbed thoughts dropped into his mind. Leaden ingots of karma, dragging down one’s soul, Gonji- san…
    He was a fool, a rabbit, a bumbling failure. His ancestors turned their faces in shame. Old Todo would order him to commit seppuku at once, if he found him incapable of protecting even his own victuals. His hated half-brother Tatsuya— hai, even dead Tatsuya must laugh from the world unknown: See the blonde tigress’ cub—even the birds mock his skill!
    The merest trace of a smile perked Gonji’s lips. He banished thought, clearing his mind for the encounter to come. Calmer now in his determination, where once the anticipation of single combat had filled him with the eager fury of an inferno.
    The wonder of life’s vicissitudes.
    On his left hand he wore a spiked gauntlet—the nekode— asan