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nothing to the capricious fates.
    Remembering this maxim, he relaxed. Everything was going according to the meticulously-worked-out plan. Progress was good; his strategy was working.
    “The maps, my Lord,” Narmos said, his arms loaded with half a dozen great rolls of parchment tied with leather strips.
    Isuzeni gave them a cursory glance. He knew them in detail, he had them tattooed in his mind, he had studied them thousands of times. He could recognize them without needing to unroll them: a whitish one for the North, a yellowish one for the South, two greenish ones for the West and another two bluish ones for the East. He had spent countless hours studying those maps, planning the moves of the great game which had now led them to that moment and place in time. He selected the second of the maps of the East and opened it before his eyes. He stared at the Thousand Lakes represented on it, with the craggy forests and wooded hills which surrounded them.
    “When will the scouts I sent out return?”
    “It would take normal men several days to come back, but since they’re White Tigers… they’ll be here by nightfall.”
    “Right, that’s good to know. I need to be sure the path I’ve traced out is perfectly viable. In any case, I’ll send a thousand men to secure the route. Foolish is the man who doesn’t foresee the next move and make sure of it. Let them be men of the third army. I trust General Yasomori.”
    “At your command, my Lord.”
    The rhythmic sound of drums thundering in the distance made the High Priest and his acolyte turn and look east. Isuzeni’s heart took delight in the advance of the Empress’s troops. Yuzumi was arriving at the head of three of her seven armies, and like an unstoppable swarm, thousands of black ants completely covered the green hills and made their way down towards the river. The black tide covered all, tinged with red from the standards and banners. Spellbound, Isuzeni contemplated the power of his Mistress, secretly coveting that power for himself —a wish which could never be revealed, one the mere thought of which put him at risk of losing his head. It was his impression that the black tide was devouring everything in its path, and as Isuzeni knew well, that was indeed the case.
    A little before nightfall they reached Isuzeni’s war camp. In the midst of the great black tide, he identified his Empress. She was borne on the shoulders of the fifty strongest men of Toyomi, in a magnificent golden palanquin. This was so big that it had room for a dozen slave-girls who attended to each and every one of the Empress’s needs. A regiment of a thousand Moyuki surrounded their mistress, advancing in close formation. They wore their dress-armor, black as night, polished like ceremonial steel. Fearful masks covered their faces, and fixed on their backs they carried banners which rose six feet high and fluttered in the wind, red as the death they presaged.
    The three armies camped east of the river. With the unequaled efficiency of an experienced, perfectly trained army, the war camps were set up with martial order and in no time: the Fifth army to the northeast, the Sixth to the southeast and the Seventh closing off the rear. Hundreds of small fires were lit a moment before the coming of twilight. Isuzeni walked across to Yuzumi’s tent, made of canvas as black as her soul, embroidered in red like the blood of those who got in her way. When he arrived he gazed back at the high part of the city, which was still burning. In the light of the flames he could make out the Moyuki finishing off the last survivors. He walked in to see his Empress.
    He found her standing in the middle of the tent, surrounded by a dozen fearsome bodyguards. The light of the oil lamps bathed her in a golden gleam, underlying her unequaled beauty, a beauty as lethal as death itself. She wore her sensual, close-fitting body armor, it was like a second skin, one of curved steel. But what most impressed the