Annja shortly found herself standing over his dying form, the blade of her sword slick with the man’s blood.
Annja looked around. Where did the Dragon go?
The notion occurred to her just as the Dragon came running out of the shadows, sword in hand, and almost managed to cut her head off at the shoulders. Only the fact that Annja stumbled over something on the floor kept her from losing her head.
They moved around the interior of the shrine, trading blow after blow. Eventually the battle began to wear on Annja. Where Shizu was fresh, Annja was not. She’d fought to save Roux’s life, and the events in the pond and the effort to deliver CPR afterward had sapped her strength. Her timing was off; her attacks were a split second too slow and getting slower all the while.
Sensing this, the Dragon pressed her attack, driving Annja back. Step after step, blow after blow, Annja could do nothing but retreat. Her sword was heavier than her opponent’s, bulkier, and if this went on for much longer her ability to fight back would be severely hampered by fatigue. At that point, it would be all but over. The Dragon would be able to deliver the coup de grâce whenever she felt like it.
As Annja’s strength ebbed, her doubts began to creep in.
She couldn’t do it, a voice in the back of her head whispered. Who did she think she was, anyway? Joan had been a hero, a true warrior. But her? She was nothing more than a glorified trench digger looking for broken bits of pottery and other garbage. She didn’t deserve to carry Joan’s sword.
Her mind flashed to the first fight between them, the one at Roux’s estate. The Dragon had bested her then and was sure to do so now. What did she have that the Dragon did not?
The answer was at the heart of all she did.
Annja did have faith in her own destiny, in her right to bear the sword.
And that faith was enough to silence the voice of doubt in her head.
The Dragon chose that moment to smile at her, just as she had during their first encounter, as if to say, See? You can’t face me and expect to win.
That little grin, that slight quirk of the mouth, was enough to turn the tide of the battle.
Annja felt a newfound strength pour through her limbs as adrenaline flooded her system, and she used it to her advantage, her blade like a dervish whirling in the dim light.
This time it was the Dragon who was forced back. This time it was the Dragon who came out of the exchange bleeding as the tip of Annja’s sword slashed her skin when she failed to move fast enough.
This time it looked as if it would be the Dragon who lost the battle, and apparently the Dragon thought so, too. She maneuvered her way around the building until she stood in front of the stairs leading back down to ground level.
After delivering a powerful blow, she turned and ran down the stairs.
Annja gave chase.
30
By the time Annja managed to get outside, the Dragon had disappeared into the trees. Annja caught the barest glimpse of her just before she was lost from sight and without hesitation Annja raced to catch up.
There was no path, no easy route, and Annja was forced to push her way through. Branches tore at her, brambles cut her flesh, and when she came out on the other side she was certain she was bleeding from a dozen new wounds. She could imagine she looked quite the sight, covered with cuts and blood and gore-stained clothing.
Annja emerged on a grassy hill above a walkway and once she reached it she realized that it was the continuation of the left-hand path she’d encountered earlier. Since the path was well lit and would provide both her and the Dragon the fastest and most direct escape route, Annja chose to follow it.
Eventually she emerged from the trees and found herself standing near what could only be the Cherry Esplanade.
It was a wide-open area on which seventy-six individual cherry trees had been planted in four identical rows, leaving a wide carpet of green grass in the center. Large spotlights had been set up all around the edges of the esplanade, illuminating it even though the park was closed.
The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, their bright pink and purple petals transforming the space into a riot of color. They rustled, like the whisper of a thousand voices, in the cool evening breeze.
In their midst, death awaited her.
The Dragon stood in the center of the grass. In her hand she held the Muramasa blade—the Ten Thousand Cold Nights—that Garin claimed was the dark counterpart to Annja’s own sword. Maybe it was her imagination, but to Annja the steel seemed to gleam with eagerness for the blood that was about to be spilled. The sword and the Dragon expected her to fall.
Annja had no intention of letting that happen.
With a thought her sword materialized in her hand and she stalked forward onto the field, coming to a halt several yards away from her enemy. She could see Shizu almost vibrating with fury. Good, she thought, maybe she’ll make a mistake.
Annja kept her own anger bottled up and locked away behind a wall in her mind. The woman in front of her had almost killed Roux, and had probably taken care of Henshaw, too. She had more than likely broken into her home, chased her through the streets and had endangered her life. But Annja knew she couldn’t think about that now. There was no place in a sword fight for anger—just attack and counterattack, thrust and parry, until only one was left standing on the battlefield.
The Dragon looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Surrender the sword and I shall let you live,” she said.
Annja shook her head but did not say anything in return. She knew the Dragon’s words were meant as a distraction and when she sensed her opponent shift her weight from her rear foot to her front, Annja knew what they were supposed to conceal.
Without another word the Dragon launched herself at Annja, in a spinning whirlwind of an attack, her sword coming around and down toward Annja’s unprotected flesh.
But Annja was no longer standing there, she had moved several feet to the right. She’d seen the shift in weight, had known what it signified, and had reacted by twisting to her right, away from the deadly blade.
The Dragon was on her in an instant, trying to overwhelm her with the sheer ferocity of her attack, using the same tactics she had utilized that night in Paris when they had first crossed blades. Slash and parry, cut and jab. Back and forth they went, neither of them gaining any significant advantage, their blades ringing in the night air.
They broke apart, gaining a momentary respite.
Annja tried circling to her left, watching Shizu closely, searching for some opening in her guard that she might exploit, when the opportunity presented itself.
The Dragon was doing the same, however, and apparently saw one before Annja.
Shizu exploded in movement, her weapon swinging toward Annja’s midsection in a vicious strike, and the assassin was faster than Annja had expected her to be.
Annja dropped the point of her sword and met Shizu’s blade with the edge of her own, channeling the energy of her attacker’s strike away from her and toward the ground instead. She twisted and brought her own weapon around in an arc that was aimed at the Dragon’s midsection.
But Shizu was gone before the blow landed, dancing out of range on nimble feet.
Back and forth they went, blow after blow, twisting and turning, moving across the grass while cherry blossoms drifted through the air around them, each of them striving to gain the upper hand and deliver the winning blow.