SNAFU: Hunters

He dropped from the branch, jaw clenched against the scream that threatened to burst forth as he plummeted toward the oni.

It was just as terrible as he'd imagined.

The thing's flesh was like cold seaweed, slick and slimy with mucus. Izō could feel the Akechi warriors within, struggles growing weaker as they slowly suffocated. His blade hissed like a sword fresh from the forge as it bit into the oni's flesh. The creature bucked and shuddered, bludgeoning Izō with its heavy arms. Bright flares streaked across his vision as the oni caught him a ringing blow across the head, but he hung on, bringing the blade down again and again. Pale, stinking blood spurted across his hands and face, and Izō clamped his mouth tight against the flood of bile. Even so, the oni would have thrown him had not the ashigaru recovered enough to drive their spears into the thing's arms, bracing against the shafts to pin the flailing appendages to the ground. They wouldn't hold longer than a few moments, but a few moments was all Izō needed.

He drove the Yamato blade deep, using his weight to drag it down the thing's back. Black veins spread from the wound, the rot of an injury left untreated for days. The thing gave a shriek like a kettle on the boil and Izō saw one of the ashigaru go tumbling as it wrenched an appendage free.

The tentacle coiled around Izō’s leg. He scrabbled at the oni's back, but the flesh was too slick. He slipped along, expecting to be slammed against tree or rock, but came to a sudden jarring stop as something caught his arm. Izō glanced down to see a pair of hands reaching from inside the long gash he'd opened in the oni's flesh. As the creature tugged, Izō saw arms, shoulders, then a thin, scowling face emerge from the wound.

The samurai had lost his helmet and his hair was slick with viscera, but his expression was resolute as he clung to Izō's arm.

"Get my men out," he said through clenched teeth.

Izō gouged at the oni's side, barely able to keep hold of the sword, let alone aim his strikes. A gout of black blood heralded the emergence of several spearmen. They slumped to the ground, gagging and coughing, slick as newborn foals.

Izō felt his shoulder pop with a sharp twinge as the samurai and the oni continued their bizarre tug-of-war. He slashed at the thing, sawing with all the finesse of a peasant butchering a tough joint of meat.

"I can't hold you." The samurai's voice seemed to come from far away. "Give me the blade."

Izō's gaze crawled down to the sword, then back to the man's straining face. Doggedly, he shook his head then brought the Yamato blade down, driving deep into the creature's body.

The oni shrieked and Izō was ripped from the samurai's grip. There was a moment of heady weightlessness before he crashed to the ground, rolling twice before fetching up against a tree with a teeth-rattling thud. Pain blossomed bonfire-hot along Izō's back, but he paid it no mind, focused as he was on drawing in gasp after shuddering gasp of the sweet forest air.

He could hear the oni howling, each furious bellow growing weaker and weaker as it thrashed around the clearing. After what seemed like an eternity, the creature fell silent, its cry disappearing into familiar coughs and groans of battered men. Wincing, Izō sat up and flexed his shoulder, surprised not to feel the sharp stab of broken bone. It seemed he'd earned some nasty cuts and bruises in the tussle with the oni, but nothing that would cripple him. He'd recover.

If the Akechi soldiers didn't kill him first.

Izō looked up as a shadow fell over him, meeting the samurai's gaze. The man looked as bad as Izō felt; the man’s armor black with blood and a large bruise purpling his left eye. A few ashigaru milled behind him, leaning on their spears as they limped about, battered but still very much alive.

The samurai raised an arm, the Yamato blade glittering in his fist.

"Steel shines ever bright." Izō smiled as it caught the light. "In battle, only men are tarnished."

They were as good last words as any, he supposed. In a way, it would be fitting for Izō to die by a blade that had killed so many monsters.

"Thank you for saving our lives. You should've let me finish the thing, though." The samurai knelt, drew his own sword, and held it out to Izō. "Here, it will serve you better than this dull, broken knife."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer my blade." Izō ran his tongue over his teeth. "I've a fondness for broken things."

"As you wish." The samurai shrugged, holding out the Yamato blade. "One old sword is the same as any other, and broken ones are easy enough to find nowadays."

Izō took the blade, still wary despite the samurai's gratitude.

"I am Akechi Mitsuhide, and I've come a long way to find you." He offered Izō his hand. "We must speak, but first I thank you for saving my life and the lives of my men."