by Nick Lake
Please, no dragons.
No swords.
He ignored Hana when she asked him what he was doing, if his head was hurting.
He didn’t know what he had been thinking. If Hana was happy to live in poverty with him, then he was happy too, it was all he wanted. Perhaps they could return to Shirahama. He knew how to fish, had learned it from his father. And his mother had been a respected ama diver. He would be welcomed there.
Yes. A peaceful life, by the sea. Hiro would come too, he knew it. Hiro would love to be back there – he could challenge passing ronin to wrestling matches again. The two of them could—
‘Taro?’ He looked up and saw Hana frowning at him, concerned. ‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we leave it there for today.’
‘Yes, Sensei,’ said Taro, with a slight smile.
Hana rolled her eyes and put away the scrolls. She straightened up. ‘What would you say to some sword practice?’ she asked.
Taro grinned. ‘I’d say let’s go.’
‘Taro, Taro, Taro.’ She sighed. ‘You do realize that you will have to be able to read, if you’re to make something of yourself? People won’t always be trying to kill you, you know. And you’re perfectly safe here on the mountain.’
‘You would think so,’ said Taro. ‘But people keep abducting me and making me read things.’
Hana stuck her tongue out at him. But she went to get her wooden sword, anyway.
CHAPTER 2
TARO WOKE.
He lay still on his side, in the room that he shared with Hiro. It was late at night; he’d sparred for a long time with Hana, then had eaten a simple meal with the monks before bed, and the muscles of his chest ached.
It was unlike him to wake suddenly in the night. He was a deep sleeper. Something must have woken him. He glanced around the room, without moving his head; instinct told him that if someone had come in, it would be better if he should appear still to be sleeping. Everything seemed as it should: Hiro’s chest rising and falling, the corners of the room pooling with darkness, as if a great tide of black liquid had swept through the place, and was beginning to drain away.
A sound?
He focused on his hearing, which he knew was extraordinarily acute. From far away, a ri or more, he heard an owl cry. Closer by, a fox barked. He closed his eyes.
There.
In the corridor outside the room, something had creaked – so lightly as to be imperceptible to the human ear.
But Taro was not human.
The creak came again, a fraction louder this time. Someone was approaching – someone who wanted to be quiet. Taro reached under his futon and felt the smooth, round shape of the ball, which he had hidden there. As soon as he had ascertained that it was still there, he pulled his hand away, but it was too late. With that one touch, the voice of Lord Oda was in his mind, like a snake curled up in there.
You’ll die soon, boy, and then you’ll be like me, you’ll be nothing and—
Taro winced. To begin with, the ball had seemed a blessing – a remarkable object that gave him power over the weather, over the blood in any vampire he had turned. But in the months following Lord Oda’s death, he had become more and more aware of the darker side to its power: its ability to wake the voices of those he had killed.
Which, because his was the loudest and most recent voice, meant Lord Oda. Taro didn’t know if it was his imagination or not, and he didn’t care; he just avoided touching the ball as much as he could.
The sound of Lord Oda’s voice still in his mind, like a bitter taste still on the tongue, he slid from his futon, barefoot. He walked silently to Hiro’s side and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. When Hiro opened his eyes, Taro covered the other boy’s mouth, darted his eyes to the door.
Hiro nodded and got up, very quietly. The futons were laid right on the floor, so there was nothing to hide beneath, but Hiro went and stood to one side of the sliding door. Quickly Taro stuffed whatever clothes and belongings he could find under Hiro’s bedcover, arranging them so that they roughly resembled a sleeping body. Then he went to stand opposite Hiro, next to the door.
Shhhhhhhhh.
Someone opened the sliding door, ever so slowly. Then from the darkness outside the room came a darker shape, black-clad, padding into the room. The ninja paused before moving towards Hiro’s futon, a dagger in his hand.
Curses, thought Taro. A weapon would have been useful.
He was wearing his shobi ring, though. Ninjas liked concealed weapons – no doubt the one creeping into the room as these thoughts flashed through Taro’s mind had many of them – and this was one of the best. So good, in fact, that most of the time Taro forgot he was wearing it. To all outward appearances it was just a wooden ring – and actually it was just a wooden ring. But with it, someone who knew where the pressure points were located on the human body could do a lot of damage.
Someone like Taro.
He motioned for Hiro to stay still, then he flowed forward, so fast that a human observer would only have seen him disappear and then reappear behind the ninja. All in one smooth motion, he brought the shobi ring down on the man’s neck, striking the sleep point, and the ninja sank with a rustle to the ground, like a flag when the wind drops.
Taro took a deep breath. His heart thudded in his chest. Still alive. He’d had the advantage of surprise, but the ninja was a vampire – all ninjas were – and Taro knew that it would be foolish to underestimate a vampire; he knew more than anyone the powers they possessed. He looked down at the unconscious intruder. Who could—
Maybe Taro heard the faintest susurration of silk clothes, maybe he felt the gentlest motion of air on his neck. Whatever it was, Taro started to turn, and that was the only thing that made the blade slide between his arm and his chest, cutting deep into the flesh and missing his heart by a finger-span.
Hesitation would have been fatal, so Taro didn’t hesitate – he continued his turn, sudden and hard, twisting the sword in the ninja’s hand even as it bit further into his side. He felt one of his ribs snap, felt the bitter-cold touch of steel on his muscle and sinew. Heard blood dripping – tap tap tap – on the wooden floor. More importantly, he heard the green-branch crack of the ninja’s wrist, heard the man grunt in pain.
All of this had happened in the time it takes to send an impulse from brain to feet – Hiro would still be standing by the door, Taro knew.
By now Taro was facing his opponent, and he went for the sword that was still held limply in the ninja’s hand. He couldn’t see the man’s face – the ninja wore a black cloth wrapped around it, as Taro had once. At the same time as Taro tried to catch hold of the sword, Hiro came up behind the ninja, snaked his forearm round his neck, and got him in a chokehold.
The ninja dropped the sword.
Yes, thought Taro, as he—
Quick as a sprung trap, the ninja struck back with the elbow of his injured arm, hitting Hiro in the chin, and Hiro was big but he was thrown back like a straw man, with a loud crack, sliding backwards on the smooth wooden floor before coming up against the wall, head lolling on his chest. At the same time, the ninja raised his knee and drove a kick straight forward. The foot sank into Taro’s stomach; he doubled up, falling back onto the futon.
So fast.
So strong.
My gods. I’m going to die in this room.
Taro was so used to fighting humans he had started to think of himself as invincible; this attack by another vampire had shown him in the space of a few heartbeats that he could still be killed.
Easily.
He’d been on the verge of death so many times, part of him was surprised that he hadn’t got used to it; but most of him was just screaming wordlessly inside him, saying it wanted another day, even another hour, just that.
He watched, the wind knocked out of him, as the ninja leaped at him. Was Hiro alive? Taro didn’t know, and the thought that he might be dead was almost as bad as the thought that Taro might be about to die him
self.
The man hadn’t bothered to pick up his sword – he just let a dagger drop into his good hand from his sleeve as he flew through the air, holding it point down, spearing Taro’s heart as he landed on him with all his body weight behind the blade.
No.
At the last possible instant, Taro got his hands up and gripped the ninja’s wrist, stopping the blade. Oh, gods. The man was like a being made of metal, powered by storms or the sea. Holding him back was like holding back the tide. The point of the dagger slid, slowly but surely, down towards Taro’s heart. And then, to Taro’s horror, the man brought up his other hand, the one whose wrist was broken, and placed it on the hilt of the dagger.
And, with both hands, he pushed even harder.
Taro couldn’t even imagine the pain the ninja must be in, could see white bone sticking out from the wrist, in the gap between the man’s black sleeve and his gloved hand. But still he brought the blade mercilessly, powerfully down, no sound escaping from his hidden lips.
There was only one, horrifying option, and the part of Taro’s mind that was nothing but a chaotic, inarticulate cry for just one more moment of life made it without him even knowing it. Shusaku had always said, If you can’t overcome your enemy’s strength, use it.
Suddenly switching the orientation of his force, Taro pushed the blade to the right and let go.
The ninja was still exerting all his power and weight downward: the dagger hammered through Taro’s chest, pinning him to the futon. Pain leaped at Taro, mouth open, and swallowed him whole. Blood flooded his lungs, gathered at the back of his throat.
He ignored it, throwing his arms round the ninja’s neck, like an embrace, drawing him inexorably closer. The man struggled, but Taro held on to his own wrists, formed an unbreakable cordon of bone and muscle, hugged tighter. The ninja might be strong, but to break free he had to use his back, his stomach, whereas Taro was using his much stronger arm muscles in a bear hug from which there was no escape.
Just as the man’s face was about to touch his, Taro brought his head up, violently, and sank his teeth all the way through the black fabric of the ninja’s clothes and into his neck. He held on, and he drank.
Blood filled Taro’s mouth, sweet as nectar, hot as life. The ninja writhed and wriggled like a cat in a sack; Taro only tightened his hold and bit deeper. His teeth loved the feel of the flesh against them, his throat loved the blood that gushed down it, and he drank and drank, feeling life force drain from the ninja and into him; the rule of all existence.
So that one may live, others must die.
As the blood flowed into Taro, he felt his strength returning, felt the awful beast of pain that had swallowed him start to spit him slowly out. He wanted the dagger out of his body, could feel it in there, an alien presence in his chest, cold and inimical, but he couldn’t let go, not yet.
Even when the ninja went slack, Taro didn’t stop. He had already fallen for that trick. He had to be sure. It was only when the blood stopped coming, and he found himself sucking noisily at nothing, that he let his head drop. The ninja fell, and Taro used his new strength to inflect the momentum of gravity, twisting the man’s body so that it rolled onto the futon, and from there to the floor.
Taro got up, gingerly, having to lever his body to remove the point of the dagger from the wooden slats below him. The pain retreated a little, still growling. He wasn’t sure whether to take the dagger out or not. He had an idea that the blood loss might be worse if he did, that he should get someone – one of the monks, perhaps – ready to stanch it with bandages and pressure before he removed it. Right now it didn’t matter. The whole of the dead ninja’s supply of blood was in his body, racing through it like lightning, like pure power.
Taro walked across the room to where Hiro lay, his steps somewhat unsteady, despite the astonishing energy he had taken on, not just the blood of a person, but the blood of a vampire – all of it. The hilt of the dagger protruded from his chest, as if it were a handle, intended to steer him.
‘Are you alive?’ he asked his old friend.
Hiro looked up groggily, eyes glazed. ‘Yes.’
Taro sighed in relief. ‘Thank the gods.’
‘Um...’ said Hiro, hesitating as he took in Taro’s appearance. ‘Are you?’
CHAPTER 3
IT WAS A WEEK before Taro was fully recovered. The abbot had down-played his injury to the other monks – he knew that Taro was a vampire, but the fewer other people who knew, the better.
All that week, Taro lay on his bed in terror. Guards had been posted outside the door, five of the legendary swordsmen of the Tendai sect. But still he feared another attack. Worse than fear was boredom: the guards couldn’t keep Hana out, and she visited him often, first to berate him, then to bring him endless reading material. He had never wanted so much to heal.
Meanwhile, the abbot and Hiro also spent much time in Taro’s room. They discussed the attack endlessly – who might be behind it, what they might want. The answer to the second question seemed obvious: to kill Taro. But who would want to do that? There was Lord Oda, of course, but he was dead himself, with the exception perhaps of the voice awoken in Taro when he touched the ball.
Once, Taro took it out, to see if he might learn something. But all he heard was, Cursed boy, you cursed boy, you will die and you will be nothing, you will die just like me, and he wrapped the ball in cloth and hid it away.
What was obvious was that Taro couldn’t stay at the monastery any longer – even if he had wanted to, it was not right to subject the monks to danger. The abbot never came out and said it, but Taro could see the thoughts behind the man’s eyes, like fish in a murky pond: they said that anyone who could afford to hire a ninja was a powerful enemy, and the monks of the Tendai monastery had enough of those already.
On the seventh day, then, Taro was glad when he opened his eyes and the morning light didn’t hurt them, when he took a deep breath and his lungs expanded without pain. He sat up experimentally. Felt the smooth strength in his limbs. Swung his legs off the bed and stood on the hard wooden floor.
Hiro slept beside him, drool running in the crease at the side of his chin. Taro smiled. ‘Guards! Come quick!’ he shouted.
Hiro’s head snapped up. He jumped to his feet, bleary-eyed, mouth open. ‘Wha-wha-whass...’ He looked at Taro, standing there. ‘Curse you,’ he mumbled.
‘You have drool on your chin,’ said Taro.
‘I know. I was saving it for later.’
Taro smiled, and Hiro smiled back. Taro had been feeling guilty, before the attack, about Hiro following him through life. Now he was just glad his friend was with him. Just then there was a knock on the door.
‘Yes?’ said Taro.
Two guards came in, their hands on the pommels of their swords, darting their eyes around the room. Taro flushed guiltily. ‘Ah... false alarm,’ he said. ‘I thought something terrible had happened to Hiro, but it turned out to be just his snoring.’
Hiro glared at him, as the guards backed out of the room.
Shortly afterwards there was another knock on the door, and the abbot entered without waiting for an invitation, robes sweeping as he walked. He didn’t bat an eyelid when he saw Taro standing there. Hana followed him, and she winked at Taro as she entered the room, unable to keep the happiness from her face at seeing him up and about.
‘Good, you’re healed,’ the abbot said matter-of-factly. He patted a scroll that he was carrying. ‘There’s a message.’
‘For me?’
‘Not as such, no.’ The abbot came and stood by Taro, his face set in its usual kindly expression.
‘But... ?’
‘Well, I don’t quite know how to take it, actually.’ The old man was looking at the scroll as if its existence somehow confused him, as if it might have appeared suddenly in his hand, out of thin air, when he was outside Taro’s room.
‘Yet you brought it to me.’ Taro spoke slowly, noting the distance in the abbot’s eyes, almost as if
the man had been sleeping, and was only slowly waking up.
‘The message is from the boy in Edo,’ the abbot said. The boy in Edo was the shogun – a child a few years younger than Taro, theoretically protected by lords like Lord Tokugawa and Lord Oda. But Lord Oda was dead now, and Lord Tokugawa had taken Oda’s considerable lands and numerous allies, making him in practice the ruler of Japan.
And, if rumours were to be believed – and Taro had learned enough to know that they should be – Lord Tokugawa was plotting to one day overthrow the boy he apparently served, and become shogun himself.
For now, though, the boy shogun still ruled, at least in theory.
‘What does the message say?’ asked Taro.
‘It is a call for champions,’ said the abbot. ‘Edo is beset by a dragon, and the shogun is promising the title of daimyo, and a territory of twenty thousand koku, to anyone who can kill it. I had heard murmurs of it from passing ronin, but this official message appears to confirm that—’
‘A dragon?’ said Hiro.
The abbot sat down on the bed with a sigh. ‘Apparently. There’s a rumour that it’s burning villages near Edo, getting closer and closer to the capital.’
Taro’s thoughts echoed in his head, mocking.
Please, no dragons.
Every child in Japan grew up hearing about dragons. Where Taro had grown up, the risk had come mostly from the sea dragon, which was known to create great storms when it wished to punish people for forgetting its power, sending enormous waves called tsunami to crash onto the coast, sweeping away houses. But Taro knew that dragons also lived under the earth, sleeping mostly. Only sometimes they got angry and came to life, breathing fire that rained down from mountains and destroyed everything in its path.
Yes – Taro knew about dragons. But it was in the same way that he had known about kyuuketsuki, before he became one himself. In a distant, safe way. He had never contemplated the idea of seeing a dragon, much less fighting one.
Still, Taro felt his pulse quickening. Twenty thousand koku! The number indicated the amount of rice the territory could produce, and by direct extension, its worth. One koku was the measure of rice required to feed a single samurai for a year. Twenty thousand was an unimaginable sum. It was in taxes on rice production that a daimyo made his fortune – it would be no great exaggeration to say that Lord Tokugawa’s war against Lord Oda, and the wars of both against the warrior monks, had been funded by rice.