by Nick Lake
“Hey! Stop!” shouted the guard, abandoning his post to chase after Hiro as he disappeared into the alley. Taro sat in what he hoped was an awkward-looking position on the ground, rubbing his head.
As soon as the guard entered the alleyway, there was a dull thud. Moments later Hiro emerged, wearing his helmet, armor, and sword. Swaggering a little, he walked over to where the guard had stood, and assumed a bored but arrogant stance, imitating perfectly the way the guard had cast his contemptuous gaze up and down the length of the moat.
“Quickly,” he said. “I hid the body as best as I could, but someone is bound to find it. And anyway, I only knocked him out. That drug of Shusaku’s doesn’t last for long.”
The moat was broad, and slit windows in the castle walls permitted those inside to watch over it carefully. Taro and Yukiko ducked down among the reeds on the bank. Taro took something from his bag—his blowpipe. Lowering himself into the cold, sucking mud, he squirmed forward on his belly until he flopped into the water of the moat. A moment later Yukiko lowered herself into the water beside him, slippery and as graceful as an otter.
They kept their heads underwater, breathing through the thin tubes of their blowpipes.
Ninja liked things that accomplished more than one purpose. It saved weight.
Tendrils of waterweed snagged on Taro’s ankles and pulled at his arms. They were slimy and cold, and Taro imagined that the water was full of nameless dread creatures. He swam quickly, scared by the dark, cold water. Soon his right hand struck the opposite bank and he hauled himself up out of the water. He moved quickly against the castle wall, keeping himself flat against the stone to avoid the view of any guards posted at windows. Yukiko pulled herself out of the water and joined him, her breathing rapid. They were two shadows on a castle wall, about to break into the stronghold of Lord Oda.
Taro had never felt so vulnerable, so simple to break.
He turned to face the wall, then took special gloves from his bag. These had been customized by the ninjas of the mountain with sharp spikes that had been sewn into the ends of the fingers, allowing him to grip the wall more securely. He handed a pair to Yukiko, then began to pull on his own. But his cold hands were curled like fern sprouts, and he had to breathe on his fingers before they were pliable enough to insert into the gloves. Then he reached up and grabbed hold of a jutting brick.
The wall next to the drawbridge was not high, the height of two men standing one atop the other, perhaps. Within the space of half an incense stick, Taro and Yukiko were sitting on top, looking down on the courtyard below. Taro could smell horses, and the flagstones below were strewn with hay and manure.
He turned back to look out over the town. Hiro gave a little wave from below, where he still stood before the moat, keeping their return route safe. If anyone looked out from one of those arrow-slit windows, they would see the guard with his feathered helmet, bearing his sword and wearing his armor with the Oda mon upon it. As far as they would know, this section of the wall was unbreached.
But of course the deception would not last for long, and so the return journey would have to be made quickly.
And before that, Taro and Yukiko had to get to the top of the tower, kill Lord Oda, and then get out again alive.
Taro let his eyes linger on the mostly sleeping town, on its thatched roofs and storks’ nests, and then allowed himself one more look at his friend in his borrowed armor.
After all, it might be the last time he’d see him.
CHAPTER 65
They dropped to the courtyard floor.
Taro was moving toward the tower door, Yukiko behind him, when a shape detached itself from the wall and moved forward. Taro reached for his sword, still in its bag, but his fingers were cold and slow. The figure resolved into a cloaked man wearing a black mask and black clothes that covered every inch of his skin. Over his face was a veil of gray silk.
Namae.
Early morning light suffused the stable courtyard, but the ninja was well protected by his dark clothes. He would have to go inside soon, but for now he could move freely.
They had misjudged the time.
Taro scrabbled at the drawstring of the bag. His heart had been replaced by a small bird that fluttered inside his chest, trying to escape the confines of his ribs. He heard Yukiko gasp behind him.
The ninja—Taro could just make out his eyes through the veil, and they seemed as black as his mask—flicked his wrist, and Taro felt a sharp pain, like a pinprick, in his chest. He looked down to see a small dart protruding from his body.
Finally he got the bag open and pulled out the wakizashi, swinging it forward. But the sword seemed heavier than ever before; he could barely lift it. It clattered to the stone flagstones as he fell to his knees. A fire was in his veins. The dart. It was poisoned.
He twisted his head.
Yukiko.
He was only in time to see her fall, clutching at her neck.
The ninja stepped forward, drawing his own short-sword. His eyes narrowed as he looked down at Taro. “They send mere children? I don’t know whether to be pleased or insulted.” He raised his sword.
Taro didn’t have the strength to move. He closed his eyes. I’m sorry, Father, he thought. I have failed you.
He didn’t know which of his fathers he was referring to.
CHAPTER 66
There was a low hum as the sword arced down toward Taro’s neck. He felt its breath as it stirred the air it cut through.
Then there was a hiss that did not sound like a sword.
Taro looked up. The wakizashi had stopped a finger’s width from his head. The ninja wielding it was looking down at his arm with wide eyes. A shuriken, its many-pointed blades gleaming, stuck out from the flesh.
Namae cursed, reaching for the shuriken with the fingers of his sword hand.
Who threw that? thought Taro.
Namae was looking around, trying to answer the same question. Taro tried to get to his feet, taking advantage of the distraction, but his legs would not obey him. By the looks of her, Yukiko was having the same problem. She glared at him as if it were his fault they had been surprised, his fault that they would die. Tears were in her eyes.
“Step away from the boy,” said an oh-so-familiar voice.
Namae and Taro turned at the same time to see another ninja drop to the ground from the wall behind them. His face too was covered, but Taro recognized those eyes immediately.
Shusaku.
The master reached over his shoulder and drew his katana, the one bearing the Tokugawa mon. Namae took a step back from Taro, obviously judging the boy to be a lesser threat than the man. He shifted his sword from hand to hand.
“I know only one ninja who fights with a samurai’s sword,” he said, his voice surprisingly light and refined. “Lord Endo.”
“Namae,” said Shusaku, beginning to move in a large circle.
Namae made a sudden, fluid movement, and Taro just glimpsed a shuriken as it flew toward Shusaku. But the ninja master flicked his sword and the shuriken was deflected with a bell-like ding, embedding itself in the stable wall. Shusaku spun, lowering his free hand to his waist, and when he came out of the turn to face Namae again, his arm extended abruptly, sending a little round ball flying toward the other ninja.
Namae twisted out of the way as the miniature bomb exploded harmlessly in the air. The two continued to circle, moving ever closer together.
Taro could feel strength returning to his muscles. Namae’s poison must have been temporary, a trick to disable someone for a moment—since a moment is more than long enough to slit a throat. He pulled at his bag once again and removed the blowpipe. On wavering legs he stood.
He armed the blowpipe, raised it to his lips, and aimed at Namae.
He blew.
The ninja didn’t even turn toward the dart—he simply whipped his sword out, backhand, and shattered it in the air. Then he turned the motion of the sword into forward momentum, and closed in, sword whirling, on
Shusaku. The two ninja’s swords met in a clash of metal on metal. They danced across the stable yard floor, their swords blurring. Taro was astonished by how quickly they both moved. He raised the blowpipe again, but it was impossible to aim with any accuracy. He could just as easily hit Shusaku.
“Taro! Get into the tower!” shouted Shusaku. “I’ll hold him off.”
He parried a blow from the other ninja, keeping his blade against his opponent’s, and rammed his shoulder forward, trying to unbalance Namae. But the notorious ninja snapped his sword downward, dragging Shusaku’s blade from his hands. He raked the sword upward again, tracing a line up Shusaku’s torso that turned the black silk almost immediately red with blood, as if by some dark magic.
Shusaku stumbled back. Taro cried out, “No!”
Namae turned from the injured master and ran toward Taro, his sword spinning in his hand.
But Taro had the sword in his blood—Shusaku himself had said it.
His blade skipped up into the air and forward, as if it had itself acquired the means of locomotion and Taro was merely an appendage to it.
Namae feinted, but Taro saw it clearly and ignored it, bringing his sword up to block the true strike. The blades rang together.
The ninja let loose a flurry of strikes, but Taro was ready for them all and his sword flicked and slashed, restless for blood. Namae was breathing hard. He redoubled his effort, pressing forward, looking for a gap in Taro’s defense. But Taro was younger, and quicker. He pretended to falter, stumbling on his back foot, then cut under Namae’s attack and opened up a wound on the man’s shin.
“Gah!” said Namae. But the blood was already stopping, the man’s vampire healing working quickly.
Taro was a mako now, though, and the blade his teeth. He scented blood, and he wanted more. He lunged forward, sword whirling.
And Namae was somehow not where he was meant to be but was beside him, slashing his blade across Taro’s chest.
Taro looked down, shocked, as his robe and then his skin fell open like a scroll, his scraped ribs the writing underneath.
He fell, and Namae raised his sword once more to end him. Then there was a grunt, and the ninja turned back to Shusaku. Taro saw that a shuriken was sticking out of Namae’s back. “Leave the boy alone,” said Shusaku. “Your fight is with me.”
“My fight is with anyone who tries to enter that tower,” said Namae, looking back and forth, from master to pupil. It was clear that he didn’t know which to eliminate first. If he concentrated on Shusaku, the boy might be able to gain entry to the tower, and Namae had been hired to kill anyone who tried. But if he killed the boy, he’d be vulnerable to attack from Shusaku.
A boatload of pirates was one thing. Lord Shusaku Endo was another.
Taro could feel his flesh knitting, his skin beginning to heal over. He was stumbling to his feet when he saw what Shusaku was doing. He screamed.
“NO!”
But the ninja master ignored him. “Go,” he said as he removed his mask. Immediately his face was invisible to Taro. A smell of burning filled the air.
Taro felt hot tears running down his cheeks. No, master, he thought, don’t do this, don’t do this for me.
In his heart Shusaku’s name rang with the heavy tone of a funeral bell, echoing against the name that already resonated there, the name of his father. Taro did not think he could bear to see another man die in his defense. He staggered toward Shusaku to stop him, but the distance was too great, and his ribs still ached.
Namae looked at Shusaku as he undressed. “What the—,” he managed.
“The Heart Sutra,” said Shusaku.
“Oh … you fool,” said Namae. “Have you not heard tell of Hoichi?”
In Taro’s mind echoed the warning of a dead girl.
Yukiko sprang at Namae, drawing her sword in the same motion. “Shusaku, don’t!” she shouted. But Namae was ready and his sword clashed with hers.
“Stop,” he said. “I won’t harm a girl.”
Yukiko ignored him, her wakizashi darting. “Then a girl will harm you.”
Namae sighed. “Very well.”
The ninja knocked Yukiko’s sword aside and planted a hand in the center of her chest as he made a long powerful stride forward with his right leg. His palm collided with her torso with a loud slap.
And she was thrown back against the wall, her head hitting the stone, and then slumping onto her chest.
She lay motionless.
Taro turned to her, and in that moment Shusaku stepped out of his hakama and was naked. Taro saw it in the corner of his eye and screamed.
For a moment Shusaku’s eyes were visible, and then they went out like lanterns as the older man closed his eyelids, drawing down blinds of ink, and disappeared from Taro’s view. His sword clattered to the ground. Namae cast about, holding his sword out before him like a talisman against the darkness. “Show yourself, Endo!” he shouted. “Have you no honor at all?”
“No,” said Shusaku. “Honor is for samurai.”
Taro moved toward the voice, but a force he couldn’t see planted itself in his chest and pushed him back.
“Go, Taro,” whispered the ninja. “Please. It’s too late for me anyway.” His voice sounded weak.
And Taro smelled burning.
“I can’t just—”
“Yes, Oda must pay. Or Heiko will have died for nothing. Namae is too strong for you.”
Namae saw Taro talking to the air. He turned, letting fly with a shuriken that Taro sidestepped. “Show yourself, demon!” he snarled.
“No,” said Shusaku, and he was already gone from that spot when the next shuriken flew. Namae turned this way and that, slashing at nothing with his sword.
A voice came from behind Taro—Shusaku’s.
“You told me there was no honor in this. In fighting invisibly. You said it was unfair. Do you believe it still?”
Namae spun and advanced on Taro, who began to step backward.
Shusaku had made his decision. There was nothing Taro could do without stealing the meaning from Heiko’s sacrifice. He turned and glanced at the door to the tower, at Yukiko, who lay unconscious on the ground. He backed away from Namae, until there was a hazy movement off to the left, as if it were the air itself moving, and the ninja cried out, stumbling from some invisible blow.
Taro’s eyes welled with tears. Had he ever thought that Shusaku had no honor? It seemed impossible now. He was watching the man sacrifice himself for another. Truly he was a samurai lord still. Namae whirled around, throwing shuriken in a fanning pattern.
One of them found its target and stopped, bloody, in midair, as if it were the accusatory evidence in a Noh play involving murder and ghosts.
Above it, two eyes appeared, open wide in surprise.
Namae moved faster than Taro had ever believed possible, faster than Shusaku at his best. His sword raked across Shusaku’s eyes, cutting them out, then darted forward, as quick as a cat, and buried itself in his stomach. Namae let go of the sword hilt with a flourish of contempt.
“NOOOOOOOOO!” screamed Taro for his mentor, his friend, and his savior.
For a moment the invisible body remained rooted to the spot, as if fixed to the air by the blade, then Shusaku collapsed to the ground, like a puppet. Blood gushed from his eye sockets, tracing his face out of nothingness as it flowed down his cheeks. A stain spread on his stomach, around the blade of Namae’s short-sword.
Namae stepped forward, toward the mask of blood.
He did not see—and nor did Taro—the hand, unstained by blood, that crept on the floor, searching for the handle of a sword.
Nor did Namae see the blade as it whipped up and round, meeting his throat as he stepped forward, half-cutting his head from his shoulders, leaving his face to hang by a thread of gristle over his shoulder.
Namae hit the ground, a question that would never be spoken dying on his lips.
“I’m sorry,” said Shusaku, his voice fading. “You deserved a better
death. But I am protecting the son of my lord.”
As the sun burned him, his body began to appear out of nothingness, a shadow that grows darker as the light brightens.
Shusaku fell to his knees then, his entire body smoking. Taro ran to him, crying out a nonsense stream of “No, no, no, no …”
But though he stopped the ninja’s body from falling, he was too late to stop the life that fled from the man’s body.
Shusaku’s blind eye sockets seemed to look up and into Taro’s very mind as Taro put his hand on the slippery, bloody hilt of the sword and tried to pull it out. Even as he did it he knew it was hopeless—the sword wouldn’t kill the ninja, but the sunlight would.
“Leave it,” said the ninja. “It’s too late for me. Find Musashi, the sword saint. Tell him I sent you. He will give you the skill you need.”
He paused. “Shogun,” he breathed, his eyes on Taro.
And he died.
CHAPTER 67
Flashes of light and darkness played on Yukiko’s vision, as if she had stared at the midday sun. Her skull was agony; her body wouldn’t work.
She saw Namae, his head cleaved nearly from his body, and she was glad.
Then she saw Shusaku. The man she had thought of as an uncle lay on the ground, eyes a mess of gore, stomach bleeding. Taro knelt beside him, his hands gripping the sword that had run him through. As Yukiko watched, Taro let go of the sword and stumbled to his feet.
Yukiko’s eyes went wide. Had Taro killed Shusaku? And if so, why?
A horrible thought crossed her mind. He knows that his destiny is more important. To be shogun was all that mattered to the boy. She thought of her sister. Apparently Taro had forgotten her already, just as he had forgotten his master, who even now burned on the flagstones as the sun scorched his flesh, the acrid smell of his immolation stinging Yukiko’s nostrils.
Everywhere Taro went, he took death with him. To the abbess, to Heiko, and now to Shusaku, too. For all she knew, Hiro was also dead. Taro was like a poison on the world—like a plague, as if his very existence infected those around him with the taint of death.