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ced figure step over the

bodies of his fallen samurai. With a sudden flash of awareness he

realised whose face lay behind the mask.

The Consul-General's long-dog whore! The gutter-bitch whose hairy body

he had secretly observed with a mixture of loathing and fascination.

The non-person he had so cruelly mocked had defied his power, wreaked

havoc on his family and brought him to the edge of ruin!

It was beyond belief, but the proof lay all around him. A curse on

her! A curse on all women!

Drawing his sword, he tossed the scabbard aside and looked around for

support. About a dozen members of his own family had clawed their way

out of the wreckage; others were still struggling to free themselves.

He called upon those who could to come to his aid. With his sword held

out in front of him, both hands gripping the hilt, he limped towards

Clearwater. No one followed. So be it.

He would show them the kind of courage it took to become the most

powerful domain-lord in Ne-Issan.

Clearwater waited silently as he approached, her arms still

outstretched, fingertips together, pointing at Yama-Shita's face. The

domain-lord stopped a blade's length away and assumed the splay-footed

stance that preceded the killing stroke. His eyes met hers, saw them

glow like ice crystals pierced by the sun. The ground trembled under

his feet. His leg muscles quivered. His brain urged him to strike

before it was too late, but his arms did not respond and he could no

longer deflect his gaze from her eyes.

Clearwater slowly interlocked finger and thumb and clenched her hands

together. Those watching with hated breath saw Yama-Shita reverse his

grip on the sword hilt then slowly raise his arms to bring the angled

tip of the blade in line with his belly. And they saw the white-faced

witch - for that was what she must be - flex her arms, then thrust her

clenched hands towards the domain-lord.

Yama-Shita knew the power that flooded through his arms and drove the

point of his sword through his body was not his own, but it was

impossible to resist. Nor could he resist the silent command to

withdraw the sword and plunge it in again. And again! The first two

thrusts had numbed his brain and frozen his tongue, but now the

accumulated pain swiftly took hold and he screamed with agony as the

sword made its third passage through his body.

The weaker members of his family who had lacked the courage to follow

him watched in horrified disbelief as he thrust the sword through his

body for a fourth time. And again he screamed. But did not fall. A

fifth thrust reduced him to a gibbering wretch, swaying unsteadily on

blood-soaked feet, alternately shrieking and sobbing as he begged for

mercy. But the white witch was unmoved.

Only when he had pierced his body for the eighth time did Clearwater

let Yama-Shita sink to his knees in a pool of his own blood. And she

did not move until he toppled forward, still clutching the hilt of his

buried sword, and came to rest with his lifeless face kissing the grass

at her feet.

Clearwater stretched her arms upwards in triumph and the earth

responded with a dying peal of earth-thunder.

Those before her who were still on their feet backed away, then turned

and ran for their lives.

Steve, who had managed to catch the reins of one of several runaway

horses, rode up behind her. When their eyes met, he saw in her gaze a

look that sent a chill down his spine. If the eyes, as Mr Snow had

said, were the window of the soul, then there was a stranger lurking in

the room beyond.

'So perish all enemies of the Plainfolk..." Her hushed voice was

drained of all emotion.

Steve helped her up on to the horse. Her body seemed incredibly light

and fragile, like a dry corn husk. She clasped her arms round his

waist. 'Hold tight,' he said.

He held on to her wrists as he turned the horse and galloped towards

the waiting planes.

Three were now lined up with their noses into wind.