A Time Traveller's Guide To Feudal Japan

"Aritada... you holding up?"

Yoritomo asked through ragged breath, as he and the burly horseman attacking him allowed each other a brief respite, trying to look for any gaps in the other’s defence.

Redirecting a downwards swing with a heave of exertion, his buddy gave voice to the affirmative.

"Aye... Barely. Ishiyama and Jikouji aren’t doing so good though... Someone needs to help them out."

He struck out with his spear finding the flesh of the horse’s upper thigh. The beast snorted in protest, rearing up. His experienced rider managed to stay in the saddle, but his mount was by no means fine. It was lucky to still be standing, never mind with such a weight pressing down upon it’s back.

Yoritomo found similar success. Using the briefest moment when his aggressor’s eyes drifted away from their duel, he thrust out at lightning speed, not giving him any time to react. The sharpened stake at the end of his polearm burrowed its way through the muscle of the mercenaries’ shoulder.

The force of the strike proved to be substantial. As well as tearing open the man’s shoulder, he was able to knock him from his saddle, sending him crashing to the floor. Before he had any time to recover, the young man’s bloodied yari punctured his chest, sending him to hell with the rest of his comrades.

He quickly whirled around to help his buddy, overwhelming the injured horse with a jab to its side. It was not a terribly damaging strike, but that, coupled with it’s an earlier injury, was far more than the horse wished to handle. It collapsed sidewards, willing to do anything to dull the pain.

Having already anticipated that his horse – at some point in the near future – would fall, the rider had already freed himself from the stirrups, and gracefully rolled to his feet, wielding a katana in each hand and grinning with a mouth full of black teeth.

"Ya whunt to die boyeh?"

He asked, in a thick accent, his words barely recognisable.

Even if he were to ask them in Spanish, the intent would still be understood, and their reply would be the same.

"Get f.u.c.k.i.e.d saddle muncher."

Aritada responded, wiping the sweat from his brow as he closed in with aggression, intent on finishing the fight quickly now that he had Yoritomo to help him.

The sharpness of his spear point was guided away with ease by the two katana, but the other spear point – sent out at much the same time – was a different story, as it tore off a chunk from the side of his belly.

The man grunted, losing his grip on one of the swords so that he might mourn his injury with an attempt at stemming the relentless flow of gushing blood.

In that moment of weakness, his life was claimed as two spears pierced his torso, lifting his feet off the floor.

They freed their weapons and glanced around the battlefield, thoroughly exhausted from the time spent doing battle.

"You’ve improved again, Yoritomo."

Aritada commented idly, as though they were not in a battlefield at all, but inside a dojo. It was an odd sensation. They had been fighting for so long that though he was trembling with fear, his adrenaline no longer permeated throughout his bloodstream, and his thoughts drifted toward the mundane.

"As have you, bro."

There were numerous scraps going on, but from a casual glance, they could not see anyone that needed help.

Morohira had been shouting for a good while, his energy never seeming to dip. He was a fierce fighter, and many of the foes had fallen at his feet. He did not have much technique - aside from his spear thrust – but what he lacked in technicalities, he made up for in spirit, and pure animal aggression.

Many men that battle had fallen at his feet. He sprinted here and there, fighting with whatever he could get his hands on. His spear had long since been discarded after it was rendered a splintered mess, and now he fought with an axe in each hand, both from separate men that he had slain.

He fought with such barbarism, and was covered in so much blood, that at times the enemy had trouble telling him apart from their own.

A lithe mercenary pointed his spear toward him from the back of his horse, picking him as his next opponent. Both were decorated in blood, and it was sure to be a gruesome clash.

The horse galloped, and Morohira followed, sprinting in toward its side. He swung his axes as though to strike, and upon instinct, the slender rider shielded his horses flank with the metallic shaft of his spear.

But it was the greatest of miscalculations. His predictions were based on logic. But there was none that could constrain Morohira. The swinging of his axes had merely been a side effect of the swinging of his arms. And that still was a mere offshoot of a more bold intent.

He sprung upwards, using his powerful legs, and catching the rider full force, sending him crashing from his mount. It was over in an instant, with an axe buried in the startled man’s skull, freeing him from all the ailments of mortality.

He gruffly wiped the blood from his face with the back of his palm, looking around the battlefield for the next man.

Overwhelmed by the powerful concoction of lifesaving hormones that were swimming around in his, he let out a bellowing roar.

"AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!"

Smashing the fists that wielded the axes together.

The two boys watched such an aggressive fighter, turning white. Could that still be called human?

"Think he could take on the big f.u.c.ker?"

Aritada asked, referring to Ochi.

"Dunno... But I don’t want to try asking."

Morohira was doing a fine job thinning the enemies number’s as well, so to bring him away from the carnage of a the multipersoned fight might be to their disadvantage in the long run anyway.

Still leaning heavily on his spear – though his breath was gradually returning – Aritada’s gaze was captured by an object by his feet, and after a flash of inspirations, his fingers were soon working on the fist-sized rock, loosening it.

He tossed it up and down in his hand, smiling.

"Now this... This is something we can do."

After the years spent practising throwing stones at Tadakata, his aim was rather good, and with the size of the mammoth’s bulbous head, there was not a single chance of him missing.

TCK

It resounded off the bare head with a distinctive hollow sound, as though he had hit a chunk of wood instead. The giant visibly flinched, but could not spare them the time to turn around, as his attention was entirely occupied by the two in front of him.

"Hoho... I like where you’re going with this, Aritada."

Yoritomo found a rock of his own, and launched it toward the giant. His aim was a little off, and he only succeeded in hitting the top of his shoulder, but still it was enough to distract him.

Ishiyama, though greatly exhausted and with an almost unfathomable amount injuries, still kept his calm and analysed the intervals in which the giant’s attention wavered.

He did not know who was providing such a distraction, but whoever it was, he was grateful.

After a time – at least to the two throwing stones – the effectiveness appeared to wear off.

"Damn it... Come on, we’re moving in."

Aritada moved forth, spear in hand, completely disregarding all his instincts that cried out, warning him of how dangerous that man was.

After a brief paused, Yoritomo followed, discarding the rock that he had been about to throw.

The giant’s back was toward them, and there wasn’t the slightest hint that he could defend. But something made them hold back from striking. Even without him looking toward them, it felt like a mistake to imagine him as defenceless.

Looking down at his shaking hands clasped upon his spear, and his arms that refused to move, Aritada shook his head roughly, attempting to dispel his irrational fear.

He thrust out quickly, his strike containing his pure intent to kill, aiming toward the centre of the mammoth’s torso.

SHINK

But his strike never made it to it’s intended target. There was a sudden blur in his vision, and then he felt a force upon his pole, redirecting his spear toward the side.

He frowned, striking again, motioning for his friend to do so as well.

SHINK

The first strike was once more deflected, whilst the second was dodged by the tiniest of margins.

Ishiyama caught sight of their baffled faces, fully understanding the emotion that they were feeling. Such speed shouldn’t exist. Nor should such power. It was not wrong to say they were dealing with a monster.

But that was not to say having the two extra boys did not work to their advantage. It allowed Ishiyama and Jikouji the briefest of respites so that they might launch a move aggressive, and therefore more effective attack.

Only, they were rapidly nearing complete exhaustion, whilst that giant had yet to even sweat. With every second they spent fighting, the pain continued to grow worse as the effects of the adrenaline wore off. The more the fight dragged on, the more of a disadvantage they were at.

As Ochi’s naginata sn.a.k.e.d behind his back - dealing with the swift spear thrust that was targeting his torso – Ishiyama went in with speed, getting in closer than he ever had before. He prevented the giant from swinging his point back around, and allowed Jikouji to deal out a series of strikes.

He went for the single unguarded piece of the mammoth’s body: his free arm. It was of such size, and composed of so much dense muscle that it likely weighed the same as an average man’s body.

The old man riddled it with cuts, struggling to strike a tendon and render it useless. He almost succeeded in slicing through the bicep, but the arm was moved at the last second, and he had to settle for a lump of forearm.

Still, it was not a negligible wound. It would surely render that arm difficult to use for a time.

Or not. That line of thought was instantly proved wrong as that great tree trunk assumed the speed of a serpent, and coiled it’s thick fingers around Ishiyama’s neck, imprisoning him.

The grip was tight, and though the leader of Nakatane’s guards struggled, he could not loosen it. He was lifted off his feet, high into the air. The pressure upon his neck increased, cutting off his oxygen supply.

Though his lungs had all but gone to the grave, his fight had not yet died. He stabbed again and again on the giants arm, wielding his wakizashi with a brutal urgency.

The other men were kept at bay using his now freed naginata, and no matter how many wounds Ishiyama inflicted, the terrifying grip never seemed to loosen, and he began to walk a one-way path to hell.