The Wrath of Silver Wolf

by Simon Higgins

  'Liar,' Moon had said instantly.

  'Yeah? Watch this! Think of something. I'll tell you what it is.'

  'Go ahead.' Moonshadow had rolled his eyes sceptically. 'What am I thinking?'

  'Stop. Anything but that,' Groundspider had wagged a finger with mock gravity. 'That's the one thought I can't read.' So it had gone on. And on. 'Nor that one,' he had said at the next try, then, 'or that one.'

  His large face had stayed so serious. Eventually, she had collapsed into laughter.

  Moonshadow's voice broke her reverie.

  'Brother Eagle, could you please lock the cat in the maps room until we have left? It keeps following me on missions, and I fear it will inevitably come to harm.' He glanced fondly at the animal. 'After all, cats are everywhere,' Moon said, a little wistfully, 'should I need to sight-join with one.'

  'So many animals here now,' Groundspider mumbled, 'let's import a panda next.'

  A wicked glow lit Moonshadow's face.

  'Per haps while I'm gone, Brother Badger could look after . . .'

  Groundspider suppressed a chuckle.

  'Not Badger,' Brother Eagle said firmly. 'Your cat's already at war with Badger's flea-ridden Saru. If they had to share a room –' a tiny shudder registered in Eagle's shoulders. He looked over at the cat. 'No, that conjures up a vision of unspeakable horror.' Eagle turned back to Moonshadow. 'And say, when are you going to name this creature? I'm weary of saying the cat.'

  Moon bowed humbly. 'I'll . . . come up with something suitable.'

  'What about a shinobi-sounding name for her?' Groundspider enthused. 'How about Stink Bomb?' Eagle silenced him with a sidelong glance. He hung his head again.

  Abruptly every face turned to the closed sliding door. Snowhawk also heard it; two sets of feet, approaching down the corridor. One very soft, the other loud.

  The paper screen door glided open. Heron and Badger entered, bowing to the circle. Eagle and Mantis nodded back. The three younger agents bowed low.

  Brother Badger rubbed one eye, cocking his bald, randomly scratched head to one side. Snowhawk saw a neatly folded piece of paper in his hand.

  Badger held it up and shook it hard. 'I hope this one gets filed in its proper place when everyone's finished arguing over it,' he grumbled.

  Snowhawk avoided his gaze. Being woken early didn't agree with Badger.

  Heron flashed one of her patient, coaxing looks and patted the archivist's shoulder. 'I'll see to that, I've already promised. But you speak up now, tell the others what you just told me. What niggled at you, made you get up?' She gestured invitingly.

  Everyone watched Badger, the circle of faces now curious. Becoming the centre of attention while half-asleep seemed to provoke him even more. 'Ah!' he snapped. 'I can't be certain so what's the point? I'm going back to bed. You tell them, Heron!'

  'My opinion,' Heron said softly, lowering her eyes, 'carries less authority than yours. Please, in this matter, we need your wisdom above all else . . .' She bowed meekly.

  'Oh?' Badger blinked, stretching his neck. 'Is that so?' He glanced around, then raised his chin with renewed self-importance. 'Very well then.'

  Snowhawk hid her amusement. Heron was a skilled manipulator; those wiles of womancraft were useful for gaining trust and cooperation at home as well as in the field.

  'I'm uneasy about this urgent message,' Badger admitted. 'Its code is current, the wording familiar, but something about it doesn't feel right. I can't say what, however.'

  'Could it be real yet incomplete?' Mantis speculated. 'Was something removed?'

  Eagle rubbed his short, greying beard. 'Such things have been done. Or perhaps, though a genuine despatch, its text has been minutely altered in some way.'

  'I told you, I don't know.' Badger yawned. 'But if you wish, I'll go on examining it. I warn you though, I might be wrong. There! Are we done? Can I go now?'

  'Please stay,' Heron said warmly. 'We may need more of your vast knowledge.'

  Badger stretched, working his shoulders loose. 'Oh, all right, if you put it like that.'

  'Here's the problem,' said Eagle, frowning. 'We must act quickly. Even if your fears are later confirmed, we cannot delay sending our juniors. The White Nun is this order's oldest and greatest advisor, trainer and . . . secret asset. No risks can be taken with her life.'

  Mantis looked from Moonshadow to Snowhawk and back. 'Expect the unexpected. And serious opposition. Whoever dares to go after the White Nun must also expect to face her bodyguards before taking her. So there will be no half-measures.'

  'Does she even have bodyguards?' Groundspider put in. 'If not, I could –'

  Heron's glance shut him up properly. She sat down opposite Snowhawk. 'I once heard, years ago, that apart from her many Old Country powers, a giant bear protects her. The ancient shrine in which she lives is here, on this mountain.' She leaned forward, slender fingers brushing the map.

  Eagle's face tightened. 'Forget the bear. The forest below that mountain has quite a reputation. I think that in itself would keep most people away.'

  Moonshadow tensed. 'Why? Is it haunted? What happened there?'

  'Shh! Bad luck to speak of it,' Badger snapped. 'I may be a scholar, but even I heed the old taboos. As everyone civilised should!' He yawned again and sat down.

  'Forget about luck,' Mantis sighed. 'Discussing the place could bring bad karma.'

  'Let us not speak of it,' Eagle said sombrely, 'simply out of respect for the dead.'

  Snowhawk said nothing, but flashed Moon her reliable tell-you-later look. He replied with a hint of a nod.

  'A final question, before they leave.' Mantis cleared his throat. 'Few even know of the White Nun's existence, less of her service to the GLO. Those who do, the other shadow clans, also know the extent of her unearthly powers. Surely none of them would presume to move against her?'

  'Mighty or not, she's no warrior,' Heron said. 'A healer and teacher, not a fighter. She has reminded me of that during our lessons together. No, despite her great powers, the White Nun has no taste for blood. And I think our enemies know that too.'

  'Please excuse me,' Snowhawk said, bowing. 'Why is she called the White Nun?'

  Heads turned her way, a circle of knowing looks – except for Moonshadow. He had met the sage once, as a young boy, but had no memory of her. Eagle broke into his secretive smile.

  'You'll soon find out for yourself,' Badger muttered. 'Just . . . be patient!'

  'Has Heron not raised the real issue?' Eagle addressed them all grimly. 'Who is the enemy? Who would dare try to kill or capture such a saint?'

  'Who indeed,' Mantis sniffed, 'could be this reckless?'

  Everyone fell silent. Snowhawk knew why.

  Nobody wanted to say his name. Mentioning a traitor was also bad luck.

  FOUR

  Heart of ice

  Silver Wolf heard the birdsong stop, the trees behind the roadside inn grow silent.

  Good, he nodded, they were here, and on time. Silver Wolf drew in the cool air. The overnight rain had eased, the sun had now risen on a fresh, dripping green land and once this final meeting was over, he could go home. Sitting alone at one end of the inn's largest room, he drummed his fingers on the tatami mat beside his generous cushion.

  As always these days, his sword lay within easy reach. His hand brushed it and he sighed, impatient to get back on the road. There was much to do on his return to Momoyama Castle in his fiefdom's capital, Fushimi. As long as the weapon-makers did their part, he could look forward to a busy few days. He eyed his lacquered scabbard.

  They wouldn't fail him. He'd made it clear: if anyone did, he'd execute them.

  Silver Wolf stared down at his family's crest on the sleeve of his opulent silk jacket. One day soon, it would adorn public buildings everywhere.

  He traced the long scar on his left cheek. It reminded him to keep his resolve. His face has been slashed by an enemy's spear-tip during the cavalry charge he had led in the Battle of Sekigahara. A daring char
ge into a narrow, misty valley that had turned the tide and handed the Shogun his throne.

  A throne the Shogun had proved he no longer deserved.

  The warlord scowled. Three things were required to free a nation. Noble blood. Sharp steel. And a heart of ice that knew no flinching.

  Silver Wolf filled his chest proudly. He had all of that; he was the man for the job. The one who would rescue his country from the Shogun's folly.

  'Peace,' he said scathingly. 'Making art, going to the theatre.' His hands balled into fists. 'That life will burn away in the purging to come and, in time, none will remember it.'

  He heard the horses outside shift and whinny. Horses often reacted to shinobi, sensing their hidden power more acutely than humans did. Silver Wolf dragged his sword closer. His visitors had better be the right shinobi.

  This inn, on the great road called the Tokaido, lay between Edo and Kyoto, near the turn-off to Fushimi. He had just completed a huge circuit, travelling under full escort in an armoured palanquin to the Hakone Barrier, the north-eastern edge of his domain, and back again. Officially, the journey was a routine inspection of his lands, including the remote fringes, a duty every lord had to fulfil from time to time.

  In reality, the trip was to a series of secret meetings. This morning's was the last.

  He listened for voices outside. His entire retinue had fallen silent: spearmen, archers and his elite, proven cavalry unit. Fine warriors all, they had guarded him on his long journey.

  Today, in another fine formation around his litter, they would march him home. Along the way, every soul the procession passed would kneel, bowing in humble salute.

  A sound made his eyes flick to the door. Manpower was no guarantee of safety. The ten best shinobi in Japan could engage a hundred average samurai, maybe even defeat them. But if all had gone well, one such shadow warrior was now just outside that door, about to confirm temporary fealty to him, the master of Peach Mountain Castle.

  The wooden sliding door was decorated with a landscape of mountains rising from mist. As he studied it, the door slid open. Out in the corridor stood the stooped, lined innkeeper, looking as frightened as he had the night before. Two of Silver Wolf's twitchy samurai bodyguards hovered either side of him, watching his every move.

  'Great lord,' the little man dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the cherry planks in the corridor. They shone, smooth from years of daily buffing with damp rags. The innkeeper nervously looked up. 'I trust your breakfast was satisfactory?'

  'Nnng.' Silver Wolf gestured vaguely for him to rise. 'Adequate. The rice porridge could have been warmer. The sliced and pickled vegetables, fine. Good variety.'

  'I treasure my lord's kind words. Our poor establishment is so far beneath you.'

  'Yes,' Silver Wolf yawned, 'but you did your best. Now, are they here?'

  The innkeeper cringed as he answered. 'Yes, great lord. And as you instructed, from dawn onwards, I confined my family and staff to the kitchens.' He winced fearfully. 'Other than your men, only I have seen your visitors. As you ordered, all other guests were made to leave last night, for my lord's privacy.'

  Silver Wolf fixed him with a cool stare. 'Then send them in, and remember: if you ever speak of this, or record it in any way, I will not fail to return for your head.'

  With terrified glances at the swords flanking him, the innkeeper bowed and fled.

  The warlord's new personal bodyguards entered the room first, taking up positions either side of the door. Their hands never left the grips of their swords.

  His chief samurai was middle-aged, scarred through the lips, with darting, shrewd eyes. He had fought beside Silver Wolf at Sekigahara. His loyalty, horsemanship and speed with a blade were all beyond question.

  The junior guard serving with him was his son, a strapping, bull-shouldered young fellow – smart, eager to please and full of potential. Silver Wolf had appointed the pair for two reasons. Talent ran in their family and he was confident they'd both die to protect him without hesitation. His face darkened as he remembered the injuries his last two personal guards had suffered – in a skirmish with a young Grey Light Order spy.

  A big-boned man in town robes appeared in the corridor, bowing low to Silver Wolf before entering the room. He carefully laid his long hardwood staff on the matting just inside the door, eyes steadily moving between the ever-watchful bodyguards.

  'My master.' He gave the warlord a second bow. 'I trust we're on time.'

  'Of course you are,' Silver Wolf chuckled. 'Why would you be late, Katsu? You have no desire to annoy me and die for it, do you?' He slapped his thigh, enjoying Katsu's startled expression. 'Relax, my loyal hound, I jest! Again you have pleased me!'

  Katsu's face lit up. He dared a half-grin, relief swamping his eyes. 'My lord.'

  A useful fellow, this Katsu, Silver Wolf thought to himself. Versatile. Once a sumo wrestler and now officially a private investigator, the diplomatic Katsu had proven himself a reliable all-purpose hireling. He dug up information, delivered sensitive messages, even secretly escorted people others feared.

  Such as shadow assassins of the ancient House of Fuma.

  'Great Lord Silver Wolf.' Katsu gestured formally to the door. 'It is my honour to introduce Chikuma-San. The Chikuma of Fuma.' A tiny hint of fear crossed his face.

  The youngest bodyguard stifled a grin. Silver Wolf knew what amused the lad. Chikuma of Fuma, it sounded so harmless. A bit cute, in fact, almost funny. But the man behind the name, himself not much older than the guard reacting to it, was no joke.

  Only last year he had served a certain minor lord, Lord Akechi, in Edo. The Shogun had planted infiltrators in a Tsukiji trading house that Akechi dealt with. Gradually, they all vanished.

  Not long afterwards, Lord Akechi had paid a visit to Silver Wolf's castle. A secret alliance had been forged between them, and while celebrating it with fine quality sake, Akechi had summed up Chikuma's work: 'He's a one-man slaughterhouse who generally leaves no mark on his victims.'

  Silver Wolf had been instantly fascinated. Now he felt his breakfast of green tea, lukewarm porridge and interesting vegetables gurgling in his stomach. Yes, he was already getting excited about putting this young man to the big task.

  Chikuma entered, bowing in the doorway with a slow, unruffled elegance. He straightened up and stepped softly into the room. He eyed Silver Wolf, almost too boldly, then his face broke into a charming, meek smile. Chikuma bowed again, this time lower.

  'Great lord,' he said quietly. His deep voice was as soft as his step.

  The warlord looked him up and down, openly intrigued. What kind of warrior was this? A true samurai, on meeting anyone, noted their weaponry first, a survival habit drummed in through out child hood. This Chikuma wore only a small dagger. One-man slaughterhouse? Had Akechi been drunker than he looked when saying that?

  Chikuma of Fuma wore his hair long in one of those untied, girlish styles growing fashionable in the cities. He was a handsome youth, with an intelligent face, high cheekbones and a smooth, strong jawline. Silver Wolf noticed Chikuma's eyes: he wore dark make-up to emphasise them. Like his brightly coloured kimono, make-up on men was all the rage these days in Osaka. Silver Wolf had already banned his samurai from wearing it.

  Outlandish fashions were another sad byproduct of this ridiculous age of peace. When given too many choices, people became fools. Ironic, Silver Wolf decided. Here stood a man, himself drenched in the silly trends of this age, who would help Japan return to its warrior heritage. Make-up! When Silver Wolf finally reigned, only geishas and courtesans would wear it. The warlord paused. What about actors? He sighed. Keep things simple. Those strutting peacocks irritated him . . . so they could all die too, when he took power.

  And take power he would, but he would take it the right way, hard and costly as that was. The traditional way – it was always best!

  First, however, this interesting fellow and his kind would help clear Silver Wolf's path of its greatest hidden
obstacle.

  Silver Wolf motioned for his special guest to sit. Chikuma fastidiously stretched his kimono under his legs with quick little twitches as he sank to the reed mat. Straightening his back, he tossed his hair and gave an excited nasal snigger.

  'I stand ready to head north at my lord's order.' Chikuma flashed an eccentric, remote smile. Silver Wolf studied his manner. Despite the fashionable hair and clothing, peculiar and other-worldly were the words that came to mind. He'd seen quite a few of these people of the shadows before and trusted none of them. So far, this pretty youngster was the most disconcerting hired killer he had met. Why? He just didn't look right. But there was more to it than that. The warlord smiled. A simple test might be enlightening.

  'A mutual friend,' Silver Wolf gently baited him, 'says you are quite deadly.'

  A lick of wild excitement tainted Chikuma's eyes. Then he appeared to swiftly take control of himself. Interesting. Silver Wolf frowned. The man was a mix of outlandishness and tight discipline. So how did he kill? Perhaps he was the kind that put you to sleep with a gaze, then cut your throat. It was said that shinobi women in particular excelled at that dark art, and this young fellow certainly had a feminine style.

  'Would my lord enjoy a simple demonstration?' Chikuma asked amiably. 'As you know, we shinobi are quite accustomed to showing an employer what we can do.'

  Seasoned instincts told Silver Wolf to be careful. 'Perhaps just before we go our ways.' The warlord grinned, creasing his scar. 'Using the little innkeeper, maybe?'

  A tiny hint of that crazed anticipation lit Chikuma's eyes again. He nodded.

  It was a necessary evil, hiring these weird agents, Silver Wolf reminded himself. But as long as the Shogun had his own wolf pack of warrior-wizards in the form of the Grey Light Order, he too needed killers with special powers. Harmless-looking or not.

  A demonstration of dark shinobi arts that he had once watched in his castle came back to him in vivid detail. Silver Wolf glanced at the corridor. Forget the mousy innkeeper. A more practical – and entertaining – idea was forming.