Chapter Text
October 7, 1579
Iga Province, Japan
The Nagano Pass was a narrow, winding road flanked by steep, heavily forested mountain ridges on both sides. In the warm autumn weather, the sound of gravel crunching underfoot echoed through the wooded slopes as 8,000 soldiers trudged their way uphill.
Behind them, seated comfortably on his horse and flanked by dozens of guards carrying naginata glaives, was the leader of this expedition, Oda Nobukatsu. The second son of the powerful warlord Oda Nobunaga, Nobukatsu was 21 years old, an inexperienced general but a skilled warrior. His gaunt features made him look older, but the glint of youth in his eyes betrayed his young age. With his father being central Japan’s most powerful warlord, Nobukatsu was always looking for opportunities to prove himself the most capable amongst his father’s three sons. And this invasion of the rebel province of Iga could be his claim to fame.
Iga province had for several years been a thorn in the side of the rising Oda clan, stubbornly refusing to yield to Oda Nobunaga as he expanded his territory and influence across Japan. For hundreds of years, Iga was self-governed. It did not have its own daimyo, or warlord, who paid reverence to the central court and Emperor in Kyoto. Instead, it was ruled by dozens of small clan chiefs, all of whom specialised in a unique style of bushido – the Iga-ryu, or the Way of the Iga Shinobi.
Ever since the Oda clan secured control of the neighbouring Ise province two years ago, Nobukatsu had been eager to take Iga, which lies just to Ise’s west. Claiming this rogue province would pave the way for his father to march straight to Kyoto and capture the capital. However, Iga is surrounded by mountains on all sides with few good roads; its inaccessibility a natural defence against attacks.
Nobukatsu’s previous weaker attempts to conquer Iga had failed, but he believed this coordinated invasion would be a success. His advisors identified the Nagano Pass as an ideal route into Iga, as the steep slopes meant the area was uninhabited. A large army of several thousand men could march into the province undetected. Nobukatsu was confident that with his large army, he could take Iga in just a day. He believed so much in his guaranteed success that he did not inform his father, Oda Nobunaga, of what he planned to do.
Father will be pleasantly surprised when I return victorious, Nobukatsu thought, The inhabitants of Iga may be shinobi and skilled in the art of the shadow… but with 8,000 men at my command, these so-called warriors are but sitting ducks. Maybe once I’ve conquered Iga, father will finally change his mind and choose me as his rightful heir, Nobukatsu thought.
The young warrior smiled as he imagined the easy victory ahead, casually using the back of his hand to brush away beads of sweat that ran down his face as late morning turned into noon. His black horse whinnied and tossed its head, reluctant to take on the increasingly steep incline of the gravel road with a burden on its back.
In the forest, amongst the trees and unknown to Nobukatsu and his army, his quarry waited.
She studied the enemy as line upon line of Oda clan soldiers marched down the road, the men oblivious to the fact that an entire shinobi army was lying in wait amid the forested slopes on both sides of the mountain pass, less than a hundred metres away.
Dressed in a short kosode robe that was dyed a bluish slate grey and hemmed just above the knees, matched with a pair of form-fitting work trousers of the same colour, Asami Sato looked more like a farmer than a warrior.
The common people believed that shinobi only dressed in all-black coveralls complete with face masks - these were simply folktales. In practice, real shinobi preferred to wear clothes that would help them blend into their surroundings. The slate grey farmer’s wear was a perfect example, its neutral dull colour and inconspicuous design letting one disappear easily into the shadows of a pine forest, or into the crowd in a bustling marketplace.
Her clothes may look like they belonged in the rice fields, but Asami was prepared for battle. A light leather vest, worn beneath her kosode top, provided protection from attacks. The wide sleeves hid a pair of sturdy leather vambraces designed to protect her arms, each one also serving as a secure place to hide half a dozen kunai throwing knives. Her long hair was neatly tied in a low ponytail with a strip of cloth dyed a deep red, the only item she allowed as an expression of her personal style. On her left hip, attached to her cotton obi belt, was a wakizashi, or short sword, that she designed, forged, and sharpened herself.
Asami was the heir to the Sato clan of shinobi, one of many clans that shared a joint custodial rule over Iga Province, and amongst the most respected for their mastery of the Iga-ryu. Most people thought that the Way of the Iga Shinobi was just a type of martial art, one that involved shuriken throwing stars and dart-like kunai knives. In truth, mastering the Iga-ryu meant more than just learning how to fight. It involved learning how to make explosives, concoct poisons, as well as mastering stealth and disguise, so that the practitioner can be an effective fighter, spy, and assassin all at the same time.
At just 20 years old, Asami may be her father’s daughter and only child, but in the Iga shinobi culture, things worked differently. Her people saw her as a leader and the future heir because of her skills. Despite her young age, Asami was already one of the best shinobi in Iga.
Now, as the Oda clan marches into her province, bent on conquering it, Asami is prepared to defend her home and her people’s way of life at any cost.
Just behind her, in the shadows of a large pine tree, was her father, Hiroshi Sato. The leader of the Sato clan looked calmly at the marching Oda clan soldiers downslope, his favourite crossbow in his hand. “Asami,” Hiroshi said quietly, “Ikunin? How many are there?”
“Our spies were spot on. About 8,000 men, maybe slightly more,” Asami replied, her voice barely a whisper. “Mostly ashigaru peasant foot soldiers, carrying either yari spears or arquebuses. Fewer than 100 samurai officers among them, all on horseback.”
Hiroshi nodded. They were greatly outnumbered. The Iga forces, comprising shinobi from the dozens of clans that called the province home, amounted to fewer than 1,500. But Hiroshi never meant for this battle to be a numbers game. To win, the Iga army needed to rely on its knowledge of the land.
Behind him, their people were ready to strike. Dozens of men and women, all shinobi from the Sato clan, readied their weapons and waited for the signal to strike. In their hands were bows and arrows, handheld bombs, and swords, plus a weapon unique to the Sato clan – the Sato Repeater Crossbow.
Asami smiled, her quiet confidence further reassuring the men and women under her command that they would win this battle.
When he first heard the sound, Oda Nobukatsu thought it was a bird. The clear, high-pitched whistle travelled through the air above where his troops were marching. By the time he saw the whistling arrow, it had already burst into a mass of sparkling flames. A flare. It was a signal. And then the chaos started.
The sky darkened as countless arrows flew skywards up from pine forests upslope on both sides of the road, forming perfect arcs in the air before diving down towards the Oda army. The Oda soldiers flew into an immediate panic, with the ashigaru footmen scattering in all directions, trying to take cover. The sound of panicked footsteps crunching over uneven ground was soon replaced by desperate cries as many soldiers were struck.
“Formations! Get into your formations!” Oda Nobukatsu heard one of his generals shout, followed by more sounds of running, more arrows, and more screams.
Driven by the instinct to survive and hunger to win the war, Nobukatsu tugged at the reins of his horse, relieved that the animal survived the last few volleys of arrows unscathed. At the foot of his steed, two of his personal guards were dead, their naginata still in their hands.
Nobukatsu guided his horse to a quick trot and headed left, signalling for the ashigaru soldiers under his command to follow him, “Upslope, they are in the forest!”
Even though they were not samurai, the Oda clan’s ashigaru foot soldiers were still a formidable force, and were the most well-trained and equipped in all of Japan. Quickly, the surviving foot soldiers moved into position: spearmen at the front, followed by three rows of arquebusiers. This was the classic Oda formation. The spearmen protected the arquebusiers from any oncoming cavalry and sword attacks, while the three rows of arquebusiers would fire in successive rotating volleys, allowing ample time for those in the other two rows to reload their firearms.
The slopes were steep, and Nobukatsu was making slow progress towards where their enemy was hidden, and even now, less than fifty metres before the treeline, Nobukatsu could not see anyone in the forest. The arquebusiers fired rotating volleys as they marched towards the pine trees, but they were shooting upslope and seemingly at no one. Then, before Oda Nobukatsu could make up his mind whether to head back down or press on, his world burst into flames.
A series of explosions struck at the very heart of Nobukatsu’s unit, as several volleys of bombs were hurled from the trees, rolling downslope. The bombs were small and could easily fit in one’s palm, but they were even more deadly than the arrows, splashing fire and hot oil onto everything in their path. Still on his horse and behind the last arquebusier, Nobukatsu was stunned as he lost count of how many men were set aflame. Behind, another unit led by one of his generals halted 20 metres from him, too scared to approach any further.
Oda Nobukatsu may not be the best tactician, but he was certainly no coward. If they were to be defeated by a clan of shinobi, then so be it. He drew his katana from its scabbard and gave the command to attack, “Charge!”
At his words, both soldiers and samurai rushed forward towards the trees. Nobukatsu, on his horse, was soon accompanied by half of his samurai retainers, all on horseback; the others were locked in a separate, bigger battle on the opposite slope.
His horse rode bravely into the treeline, and for the first time, Oda Nobukatsu saw the face of his attackers. Men and women, dressed in navy, slate and grey, armed with swords, bombs, longbows, and…
A flurry of short arrows whistled past Nobukatsu, missing him by mere inches. In the shadows, just 15 metres away, a grey-haired man was shooting at him with a crossbow, at a speed he could not believe. It was as if he did not have to reload the weapon.
Nobukatsu quickly dismounted, realising that he was no good riding a horse in a thick forest. More arrows flew past him, one striking the iron scales of his armour as it flew past him and embedded itself in a nearby tree. The old man’s eyes kept a steady gaze on him, Nobukatsu could see no fear.
A panicked thought flashed through Nobukatsu’s mind, It’s almost like he’s trying to miss hitting me on purpose. Just what kind of skills do these Iga shinobi possess? Around him, the forest was filled with the voices of confused men, and the desperate cries of those who fell.
It was all or nothing. Nobukatsu decided to make a suicide charge at the old man, figuring that he must be one of the enemy leaders. Just as Nobukatsu raised his sword, something flying towards his face from the right distracted him. He ducked just as the kunai throwing knife flew past his head, and did a half-turn to his right, raising his katana to parry a sword strike that came straight at him. Before Nobukatsu could even focus on this new enemy, his attacker had already sidestepped to his right and behind him. In one sweeping motion, Nobukatsu felt his attacker grab his neck with a sweeping force, using the momentum to throw him off-balance and to the ground.
A glint of metal flashed before his eyes, the unmistakable sheen of a sword as its blade came swiftly down towards his throat.
This is it, this is the end, Nobukatsu thought, forcing himself to look up and into the eyes of his killer as he waited for the blade to do its grisly work. With the wakizashi just a couple of inches from his neck, Nobukatsu jaw fell as his would-be killer stared down at him.
A woman.
Despite the fact that the woman was about to end his life, Oda Nobukatsu could not help but admire her beauty. Luscious locks of black hair, tied in a loose ponytail, framed a beautiful face with soft, delicate features. Her full lips were set nicely above a gently sloping jawline that met at a perfect chin. A slightly angular nose added a hint of a proud, aristocratic look. But what was most gorgeous about this woman was her emerald eyes, ones that now looked determined to kill Nobukatsu.
“Asami, stop.”
The wakizashi blade froze in mid-air.
“He’s Oda Nobunaga’s son. Let him go.” It was the old man who was speaking.
The woman named Asami never spoke. She simply picked up Nobukatsu’s sword and, just as suddenly, disappeared into the shadows of the forest.
When Oda Nobukatsu looked up, the old man was gone as well. A few of his retainers stumbled over to where he was, with pure panic in their eyes. Most of them were injured, and some quite badly.
Still determined to fight to the end, Nobukatsu forced his men to press on. They spent one more hour in this state of hopelessness before Nobukatsu’s men were able to physically drag him off the battlefield in a hasty and utterly humiliating retreat.
Dusk had long since fallen, and the Hour of the Dog drew near. Asami sat upon the open porch of her family home, gazing out at the modest garden beyond.
She wore a long kosode in her favourite shade of deep red,, layered over a white juban underrobe. The Sato family crest (kamon) was displayed prominently on the chest, one on each side near the shoulder.
Designed by her father, Hiroshi Sato, the crest blended tradition and innovation. At its heart was the tsuru no maru – a crane with wings outstretched inside a circle, a motif borrowed from the Mori clan, with whom the Satos shared distant ties as descendants of Prince Genji. But Hiroshi had altered it, placing a gear at the centre of the crane, a symbol of the family’s pursuit of technology. It was a bold, modern flourish – and something unheard of in Japan at the time.
Even now, two days after the Iga shinobi forces had crushed the Oda army, the adrenaline was still buzzing in Asami’s veins.
The Iga forces’ decision to use guerrilla tactics against the Oda soldiers had been a huge success. Oda Nobukatsu’s forces suffered immense losses, while the Iga shinobi only saw minimal losses on their side. After the Oda army fled, the Iga inhabitants were even able to round up several dozen valuable horses, as well as hundreds of arquebuses, swords and bows to add to their armoury. Beyond the slated panels of the fence that separated the Sato estate from the rest of the small village beyond, Asami could hear excited voices as the villagers brought in what sounded like another load of arquebuses.
“Can’t sleep?”
Asami turned around to see her father as he approached, dressed in a dark brown kosode.
Hiroshi Sato joined his daughter as he sat cross-legged, or agura, on the polished floorboards of the porch. In the garden before them, a peach tree swayed gently in the breeze while a pair of colourful koi swam lazily in the pond.
“Reliving our victory,” Asami said, pride clear in her voice. “The Oda will think twice before challenging Iga again.”
“The Oda army will strike again, Asami. It’s just a matter of when,” Hiroshi replied. The tone of his voice made Asami feel uneasy, a stark contrast to her confidence just moments before. All her life, Asami had never heard her father speak like this. There was a hint of fear in his voice.
“Oda Nobunaga is not called the Demon Daimyo by other warlords for no reason,” Hiroshi continued. “He is an intelligent, cruel man bent on consolidating power. And he will not stop until all of Japan bows to him.”
“Father, but with Oda Nobukatsu taking such a massive loss in the battle, surely…” Asami started, but was interrupted by Hiroshi.
“The fact that his son suffered such a humiliating defeat at the hands of Iga Province will only anger Oda Nobunaga even more. The Demon Daimyo will be back for revenge.”
“Even if we let his son live? I could have killed Nobukatsu that day.”
“Yes, Asami,” Hiroshi looked tired. “By letting Oda Nobukatsu live, we’ve ensured that Oda Nobunaga won’t be coming back to Iga Province with his own army tomorrow. But how much more time do we have until the next attack, I do not know. Which is why I’ve made arrangements for you to…”
“Arrangements?” This time, it was Asami who interrupted her father’s words, “Father, I will not leave Iga. Our people need me! You need me!”
“Asami, listen. The people I have contacted, I trust them very much. They will…”
“Is it a betrothal then?” Asami asked indignantly, “You know what the soothsayers have said about me: I’m born in the year of the Horse, I will bring bad luck to any man who marries me.”
“Asami, that’s not what I…”
“Say no more, Father,” Asami sighed. Her marriage was a topic that her father had been bringing up too often of late, and it was quickly becoming a topic of contention between them.
“I made up my mind long ago. My place is here, in Iga, with you. When the day comes, I’ll take over as the Sato clan leader. You know I can well do that job without a man by my side. And if I need an heir to the Sato family name… well, adoption is not all that uncommon, isn’t it?”
Hiroshi looked at his daughter with weary eyes. Asami can be very headstrong and stubborn when she wants to be, and it was no use fighting with her now. “Very well, Asami. We’ll leave the conversation at that.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Hiroshi Sato never spoke of the matter again.