Blood Ninja

by Nick Lake

  Again, Shusaku didn’t respond.

  “What about the girls?” asked Hiro. “Shouldn’t we have taken them with us?”

  “The abbess didn’t want them to know we were leaving. We must comply with her wishes.”

  Hiro sighed, and Taro thought he was missing Yukiko. The pair had bonded closely over their shared love of fighting. Taro himself was not happy to be leaving Heiko behind. There had been something admirable about her quiet strength and her intelligence—something that had reminded him, in fact, of his mother.

  His mother. He had to focus on her. It was useless to think of what the abbess had said, to worry all the time about what his life might cost other people. If he could only save his mother, find her again, then perhaps he might repay some of his debt. He held her in his mind as he maintained a steady pace over the mossy rocks.

  They were crossing a stream, skirting around a village whose light they could make out through the trees, when Hiro stepped on a corpse.

  He squealed.

  Shusaku moved like liquid night and clamped a hand over the wrestler’s mouth.

  In the darkness ahead was a group of men, moving slowly into the forest. They carried a sack.

  Shusaku spread three fingers, then pointed at the trees—follow. He put a finger to his lips—quietly.

  Taro moved off to the left as Hiro went right, and Shusaku jagged through the undergrowth between them. As they drew closer, Taro could see the figures more clearly.

  Ronin.

  They were dressed in samurai armor but bore no mon on their backs, their allegiance having gone with their honor, when they’d been defeated and refused seppuku, or when their lord had banished them. They looked vicious. One of them had some kind of dead animal impaled on the stag horns of his helmet.

  Just then there was a crack as a dry twig was snapped by someone’s foot. Taro turned and saw Hiro dropping onto his stomach. He hid behind some thick foliage as the ronin turned and scrutinized the forest.

  Don’t turn back, don’t turn back.

  They shrugged, and continued on their way.

  Taro exhaled, and rose once more to a crouch, creeping through the trees.

  Ahead, Shusaku suddenly ducked down behind a bush, stopping. Hiro moved forward as close as he dared. The ninja was watching a clearing, where the three ronin had gathered. In the darkness they were silhouettes, but starlight glimmered on the metal of their armor and weapons. Hiro moved slowly around the clearing, careful of the ground on which he stepped, so that he was almost as close as Shusaku, only on the other side of the circle. Taro circled in the other direction, until the three of them had the ronin surrounded.

  As he watched, the man who was carrying the sack threw it down to the ground with a dull thud. Whatever was in that sack, it was heavy.

  One of the ronin gathered firewood and began to make a fire. Now, for the first time, the men began talking. The words weren’t completely clear from where Taro was crouching, but it seemed that they were arguing about how to share something out. One of the three—the one with the dead animal on his horns—grabbed something from one of the others and ran to the other side of the clearing, gloating like a child who has stolen a friend’s toy. The third man, still lighting his fire, grunted irritably and beckoned both men back. “There’s enough for all of us,” he said, his high voice carrying farther than the others’. “Our man must have had a good day’s trade at the castle,” he added.

  “Yes,” said another. “And he has another good day to live before he passes that jewel he swallowed.”

  The other men laughed, and Taro thought, Which man?

  And that was when the fire finally blazed into life and Taro saw that it wasn’t a sack at all lying on the ground at the men’s feet. It was a body.

  It stirred, and groaned.

  Lady Oda no Hana stepped out into the garden of the inn in which she was staying for the night. It was almost full dark, and the moon hung like a lantern over the bamboo fence, glowing blue-white. The garden was laid out very prettily to resemble the Kanto in miniature. A stream, flowing by the fence, served for the sea, while mounds of earth and rock echoed the mountains that surrounded the small property where Hana was staying.

  It had rained all day but now was clear. Dew dripped from the chrysanthemums and orchids in the garden. On the ornamental hedges were tatters of spiderwebs, like gossamer fabric torn from a courtier’s dress. Where the threads of web were broken, raindrops hung from them like strings of white pearls.

  Hana breathed deeply of the cool night air, and the scent of flowers. She liked this time of night, when her ladies-in-waiting and guards had gone to sleep, leaving her alone to dream and to think. Her father even now was dining with a lord in his castle nearby, and had intimated to Hana that this man could one day be her husband.

  The jokes and innuendos Hana had heard from the servants, however, gave her to understand that the lord in question was very fat, and that due to his old age and physical condition he would die of overexertion were he to rise from his place at the dining table, which he very rarely did. He was sixty-five, they said.

  Lady Hana was sixteen.

  Hana breathed the night air, the scent of blossoms. She was glad, despite all this husband unpleasantness, that she was far from the Oda castle for once, and its walls and its calligraphy tutors and its silences. Her father did not normally take her on these sorts of visits, but he seemed … nervous lately—or, no, not nervous, exactly—for what did a sword saint have to be nervous of?—but restless, and wary.

  He had insisted that Hana accompany him everywhere for the last few days.

  So now she was here, in the garden, while he exacted whatever cruel payment he must require from the poor lord he had chosen for his daughter’s husband.

  Hana could almost feel sorry for the man, if the mere thought of him didn’t fill her with disgust.

  On this particular night Lady Hana wore a delicate jade necklace that drew attention to her perfect collarbones, as light and sweeping as a bird’s, and deepened the dark pools of her eyes. Her porcelain skin shone in the moonlight, seeming more precious even than the gold she wore in her ears, and no observer would have argued with the common rumor that held her to be the most beautiful woman in all of Japan.

  All in all, Hana was precisely the kind of woman preyed upon by the unscrupulous ronin that lurked at that time on deserted country roads, the human flotsam left by the great wreck that was her father Oda’s rout of Yoshimoto’s army.

  A light wind stirred in the garden, carrying with it a scent of jasmine. Hana considered herself a student of winds. For her it was the most endlessly fascinating of subjects.

  There was the autumn wind at dawn, when she would lie in bed with the paneled doors wide open, the wind blowing in from outside, fragrant and stinging. There was the cold wind of winter, heavy with snow. The moist, gentle winds of spring evenings. And equally moving, the cool, rainy winds of late summer, which afforded Hana the delicious sight of fastidious people covering their stiff robes of unlined silk with padded summer coats. Hana herself would go out and dance in the rain, the strictures of her father’s study schedule allowing.

  And of course there was the wind that breathed under the wings of Kame, her hawk, speeding her toward her prey as surely as the sun draws plants to it.

  But there was one kind of wind that was greater than all the others, and that was the wind that blew a promise—a promise of adventure and freedom. This was the wind that blew that night in the garden.

  So Hana walked toward the back of the garden, which was meant to be next to the port of Gojo, going by the map embodied in the rock garden and stream and bonsai trees. Hana felt like a giant as she strode across it. Samurai guarded the gate that was set into the wall here, but Hana knew about more than just wind and flowers.

  She flowed forward at the wall and leaped, as agile as a cat. Her fingers caught the top, and she levered herself sideways, the momentum of the jump carrying her legs up and on
to the wall. She crouched there for a moment, looking at the men standing by the gate, their katana drawn, ready to challenge any would-be assassins.

  Fools.

  She moved along the wall and dropped down into the alley, her feet in their cloth tabi completely silent as they hit the ground. Then she became a shadow against the wall and slunk out of the little village.

  She turned onto one of the delightful country lanes that abounded in these parts, crossing a bridge over an irrigation stream. The moon hung now over the mountains to the south, illuminating stepped rice paddies. A few small buildings lay around the house that had been requisitioned for Hana and her party. Red lanterns hung over doorways shed a pink glow onto the ground.

  Just outside the village was a copse of cedars, and it was toward these that Hana turned. She wished to hear the wind through the leaves, the crunch of leaves beneath her feet.

  She had laid only one—ever so delicate—foot inside the woods when she was grabbed by rough hands and turned to look into a big, red face, topped off by a pair of long, wicked horns. She screamed. The face, she soon realized, was attached to a large armor-clad body, and the horns were merely part of a decorative helmet.

  This didn’t stop her screaming.

  The man slapped her face, hard, and now she did stop screaming, if only to look around her with wide-eyed alarm. There were three men there in the woods, all dressed in samurai uniform and bearing swords. The one who had grabbed her was holding a sword to her throat. Yet no samurai would attack a woman—unless it were a female samurai, and the offense very great. There was only one possibility: ronin.

  Hana trembled. She had heard terrible things about the ronin. They would do anything for money. Worse, they would do anything for sheer bloodlust. One of them grinned at her. On one of the horns of his helmet was impaled a pine marten, which Hana was horrified to see twitching, as if it had only just been put there. Most of the man’s teeth were missing.

  Then Hana looked down, and that was when she saw the corpse of a fat man lying on the ground. The dead man’s clothes were of high quality, his soft hands the kind that had rarely seen any real labor. If Hana had had to guess, she would have said he was a merchant.

  His entrails spilled, glistening and wet like a newborn baby, on the moss.

  “Well,” said the first man, who was still clutching Hana’s arms. “It looks like you lost your way. Perhaps we could help you find it again?”

  “P-please let me go,” said Hana, feigning weakness. “I am a lady at court. Lord Oda will pay a handsome ransom for my freedom.” She thought it best not to mention that he was her father—easier to kill her, if they knew that, than to let her live, and have to risk Oda’s wrath.

  Missing-teeth Man grinned. “That would be very pleasing. However, the ransom of which you speak might be many days in coming. And yet your jewelry is here before us, as we speak! It seems so convenient that it would be remiss of us not to take advantage of it right now. They do say that a samurai should not hesitate, but act decisively in all things.” He bowed, parodying a noble’s manners.

  It was then that Hana let the thin blade concealed at all times in her sleeve drop into her hand, and moved her hand forward as fast as hawk flight.

  Ii-aido: the discipline of the single strike, a test of pure speed over agility or technique.

  Yes, Lady Oda no Hana was a girl who loved gardens, and the many types of wind. But she was also a samurai.

  The blade was through the ronin’s chest and out again so quick that an observer might have missed it. Even the ronin missed it. He looked down, saw no visible wound, smiled.

  Then the blood began to well from the tiny wound, and he stumbled.

  The man holding Hana tightened his grip, twisting her wrist until the blade fell. “Little viper,” he spat, as his companion sank first to his knees and then to the ground, which from now on would hold him within it, and no longer bear his walking, living weight. He breathed a rattling death sigh, and Hana thought—

  Gods. I’ve killed a man.

  The big ronin held his sword to her throat and pressed gently. Hana felt blood spill from the wound. Then he grabbed the jade necklace around Hana’s neck and brusquely broke it off.

  Instantly Hana understood that she was going to die. It had been obvious before, of course—yet something in her had made her hope, had made her fight. But the way the thin filament of the necklace broke in that big, grubby hand, the way the jade pearls fell to the ground … It was a little thing—unimportant, really—but it spoke of worse; it seemed significant. A man who could break such a beautiful thing, reducing it to its parts … such a man as that was a man who could break anything.

  Taro gasped when the ronin broke the lady’s necklace, and the man whirled around, sword at the ready.

  “That was a bird, idiot,” said the ronin who held the pretty young girl.

  “Didn’t sound like one,” said the other.

  “And I suppose you’re an expert on birds, are you? I thought you were only expert at cards, drinking, and fighting. Cards and drinking, anyway.”

  The ronin who had been startled by Taro’s gasp swore and turned back to the girl. But he seemed nervous still, and Taro saw him glance at the corpse of his companion, the one the seemingly harmless girl had killed, her hand moving so fast it had been a blur.

  Taro had never seen anything like it, and the thought that such a girl—beautiful, fierce, unflinching—should be prey to such brutes as these was intolerable. She had jet-black hair—like crows’ feathers—and her eyes were as softly curved as folded wings. Her eyelashes were long. As he watched her, Taro’s stomach did a little flip.

  He turned to look at Shusaku, who still crouched motionless behind his bush. Wasn’t the ninja going to do anything? He felt another wave of revulsion. Once more he was impotent to prevent something terrible. Once more he was hamstrung, immobile, as the powerful picked on a weaker adversary. Who was Shusaku to criticize the honor of the samurai, when he possessed no honor himself?

  But then Shusaku raised a hand. He held his palm up—wait. He formed a fan with his three fingers, jabbed it forward—then we move. He pointed at the ronin, then drew the flat of his hand across his throat—and kill them.

  Lady Hana had been brought up in a samurai household—one of the oldest and most famous—where she had learned to face her death with cool reserve, including, if required, the ritual of seppuku.

  She was certainly not prepared to let her demise be dictated by these brutes. If she was to die, it would be on her own terms.

  She knew it would take only one movement: a jerk forward, a simultaneous grip on the big man’s arms, and his sword would bury itself in her neck. She would die quickly.

  She moved back a fraction, ready to bring her head forward with force and—

  Shusaku leaped out from behind his bush. “Let go of that woman,” he said, his voice full of a calm and deadly menace. Hiro roared, crashing through the undergrowth, and Taro launched himself forward, taking his bow from his shoulder …

  Hana had only barely held her neck back from the tip of the sword. She watched as a peasant stepped into the clearing. His face was dark with some kind of growth—the ravages, Hana presumed, of a terrible illness.

  Then a large boy came thundering into the clearing from the other side. Another boy, more slender, entered from the other side.

  The ronin turned, their bodies tense. They had been taken by surprise—though Hana noticed that the man in front of her kept his sword still held to her throat.

  The first boy was huge, with the build and bearing of a wrestler. The other was smaller, his features delicate, almost noble. Hana wondered if he was the son of a lord, or some such. In his hand he held a bow.

  The peasant held up a hand. “I must ask you to release the lady,” he said to the ronin.

  The big man holding Hana laughed, his voice deep. “Be on your way, peasant. If you’re lucky, we won’t chase you down and kill you when we’ve finished wi
th the girl.”

  “Please leave me,” said Hana to the peasants. “I am samurai. I will face my death bravely.” She did not want this peasant or his boys to die on her behalf. Yet she was unconscious of the implication in her words: that only a samurai could die bravely, that valorous deaths were denied to the peasants of this world.

  Yet the peasant took a step forward, to Hana’s surprise. “I said, release the lady.” There was something strange about the man’s voice. It seemed altogether too calm, too measured for a man of his station—and situation.

  The big man snarled now. “And I said be gone.” He moved his sword away from Hana’s throat and brandished it at the peasant.

  “Ah, now that was a mistake,” said the man in rags. “My only fear was that you might slit her throat by accident.”

  “What the—” said the big ronin. Then a silver star blossomed in his eye. He fell backward, letting go of Hana. Blood gushed from his eye, even as an arrow tore through his throat. The boy had gone for his bow, somehow, and yet Hana had not seen it, though she had been watching him and his father carefully.

  The other man turned, sword singing through the air, but he was too slow. The sword came down into empty space that had been occupied a heart’s beat before by the peasant. That heartbeat turned out to be the man’s last: As he pitched forward, unbalanced by the missed sword stroke, the peasant made a low, sweeping kick that knocked the ronin onto his back. Then the peasant somersaulted to his feet and brought his fist down onto the man’s neck with a very final-sounding crunch.

  The peasant walked over and offered Hana his hand. “Perhaps we could escort you to your guest house, my lady,” he said. “It would appear there are bandits about.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “You deserve a reward,” said the lady. “My father is … a very powerful man, and he would make you rich for saving me.” She swallowed, looking nervous. “However, I was not supposed to be out tonight. If he knew, he would …”

  “We quite understand,” said Shusaku. He bowed. “We will leave you here.” They had escorted her to the edge of the village, wanting to make sure there were no ronin about, and now they stood between the darkness of the forest and the obon lamp glow of the nearest cottage.