The Betrayal of the Living

by Nick Lake

  He felt the weight and balance of the sword in his hand. It was good.

  Turning to deflect a classic strike from the man closest to him, he felt a thrill rush through him, like water through a pipe, when he saw how slowly everything was moving. He was aware of the very particles of the air as they struck his skin; he could watch dispassionately as the useless sword of his enemy pushed slowly through those particles, sluggish as a heavy ship through water. But he was not subject to the same laws. Still-warm human blood raced through his body, making it more than human. He was conscious of the thicknesses and thin patches of the air, its eddies, swirls and currents, as if it were an old and familiar cloak, many times repaired. He could move in the in-between, in the spaces – the vast, vast spaces – where there wasn’t any air.

  Stepping into the samurai’s reach, he brought his sword up in a diagonal backhand strike, the blade ripping through the other man’s chest, slashing his throat. Blood sprayed up to hover in the air, suspended in the thickness of the medium. The man laid himself down on the ground gently, as if it were a bed to sleep on.

  As Taro flitted past him, he upturned his mouth, and blood pattered on his tongue like rain. He checked over both shoulders – saw Hiro grappling with a monk before throwing him over his hip. Saw Shusaku holding off a group of two samurai and a monk, fighting like a demon with a sword in his hand, even with Hana on his back. Taro quickly counted – seven men left to kill.

  ‘Get to the sea,’ shouted Shusaku. ‘Leave them.’

  As the ninja said it, he struck aside the sword of the man directly in front of him, then ran past him, heading downhill to the beach. Hiro, too, began to run. Taro saw a monk cut towards his friend from behind, raising a staff. Hiro would never even feel it – his head would be split open and that would be it.

  Rapidly calculating the distances, Taro flipped his sword so that the blade end was in his hand. It bit into his palm and fingers, but he ignored the pain. He threw the sword. It spun end over end through the air, past Hiro’s head, and buried itself in the monk’s chest, with such force that the monk was thrown backwards to land hard on the ground.

  Taro turned, to see two men blocking his way. There was fear in their eyes, but there were swords in their hands, held steadily. True samurai. Taro no longer had a sword. His eyes flicked from side to side, then he feinted to the right, before turning left. Both men followed his feint – one with a shoulder strike, one with a direct thrust that would have run through his stomach if he had gone that way. He launched himself into the air, mouth open, sharp teeth extended, almost lying down on the softness of the atmosphere, horizontal to the ground.

  The only part of him to connect with the left-most samurai was his mouth; his teeth sank into the flesh of the neck, tearing through it like razor-sharp blades. The artery, severed, spewed blood. Taro could not help swallowing some of it, as he landed hard on his side, rolled, and was on his feet again running – though he spat out the skin and muscle.

  He glanced back. The samurai, a bite taken out of his throat, toppled and fell. The other turned to follow him, but would never be fast enough. As Taro watched, Hiro skirted round him, running hard.

  They reached the dunes, the sounds of their pursuers, their shouts and footfalls, behind them. In the moonlight, on the sand, Taro was reminded of the night he’d met Shusaku, when they escaped from Shirahama by making for the beach, stealing a boat. It was as if that night had come round again, but this time a dark version, as the dead moon is a counterpoint to the full. This time, it was Taro who was the killer; Taro who was the intruder and the monster.

  He almost wished that he had the Buddha ball, so that he could call down lightning, to incinerate himself. No. No – he didn’t want the ball. He could open Hana’s throat without it, suck down the blood of the person he loved most in the world. Imagine what he could do if he had the ball, too.

  Shusaku came up behind him, breathing heavily – he had not had any blood, Taro remembered, and he was carrying Hana, too.

  ‘I can take her,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Shusaku, and that hurt more than anything.

  Hiro went past them, then put his hands on his knees, gasping. He straightened up, pointed to the nearest boat. It was a small one, powered by oars only. It would have to do. Shusaku went over to Hiro. ‘Keep moving,’ he said. ‘You help me to support her in the water.’

  They went into the sea. The only difference between this night and the first was that there was no need to swim, they were in such shallow water. The men were just behind them – as Hiro and Shusaku waded out with Hana, Taro turned to face the quickest one. He knew the water would slow the man even more, and he was right – the strike, when it came, was something to be indulged, in a kinder world. Taro did not indulge it. He caught the man’s arm, snapping it, and heard the sword splash into the water.

  The last times he had truly fought had been with vampires and dead people. He had not understood, not really, what being a kyuuketsuki meant, what the blood that coursed through him allowed him to do. He was so much more powerful than these people that it was sickening.

  But there was no time to think about that. He turned and ran, or as close as he could manage, in the thigh-deep sea. Shusaku and Hiro were already lifting Hana’s limp body into the boat when he caught up with them. Taro cut the anchor rope with his teeth, then vaulted over the side, picking up the oars. He needed something to distract him.

  As Taro rowed, Shusaku tore strips off his cloak, using them to bandage Hana’s neck tightly.

  ‘Will she live?’ asked Taro.

  ‘I think so,’ said Shusaku, and Taro supposed that would have to be good enough.

  He concentrated on the rhythm of the oars, focused on it entirely. The shouts of the samurai and monks faded, and the sea grew wider, until it filled the world. The black arms of the bay receded, like a person reaching out for an embrace, always denied.

  It was when he touched his hand to his cheek, thinking it had perhaps begun to rain, that he realized he was weeping.

  CHAPTER 27

  ‘WHY DIDN’T YOU tell me?’ said Taro, as he rowed.

  Shusaku, who seemed wearier than Taro had ever known him, had explained that he thought perhaps the pleasures of the flesh (that had been Shusaku’s phrase) might have precipitated Taro’s loss of control, causing him to bite Hana. She, for her part, had regained consciousness and was huddled against the side of the boat. So far she hadn’t said anything, and hadn’t looked at Taro either. Taro didn’t care. He was just relieved that she was alive.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Shusaku. ‘I’ve never... I mean to say, the married vampires I know have all been married to vampires. I have known ninjas to prey on humans of the opposite sex. I have not known them to... well, you know.’

  ‘But what about you?’ said Taro. ‘Are you saying you’ve never... with a woman? A human woman? You told me once there was a ninja you loved.’

  Shusaku tensed. ‘There was,’ he said. ‘But she was a vampire. And she died soon after she turned me. Since then, there has been no one.’

  Taro had stopped crying, but the world still seemed black, and unlikely to grow less so when the sun rose. Shusaku couldn’t help him. No one could. ‘I can never be with Hana. I am a danger to her. It would be better if I were dead.’

  ‘No,’ said Hana softly. Taro was startled to hear her speak. ‘It was not Taro’s fault. I was touched by something he said yesterday. I seduced him.’ She closed her eyes, exhausted by the effort of speaking.

  Taro, who could still taste her blood on his tongue, shook his head, disconsolate. ‘It was my fault,’ he said to her. ‘It was my fault for being a vampire. When I have killed the dragon, I will give you the land and title. I will find my own path. I will atone.’

  ‘There are things we must all atone for,’ said Shusaku. ‘There is no need to do it alone.’

  ‘There is,’ said Taro. ‘If Hana does not want to be... like me... then there is no other solution but
for me to leave.’

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘I...’ She looked pained. He understood – she was the daughter of a daimyo, and he was offering her the chance to be a creature of the night, an evil spirit, filled with bloodlust. It was no offer at all, and no chance.

  ‘There is my answer,’ said Taro. ‘So. When we land, you are all free to go anywhere you like. I will go to Shirahama. I will find Kusanagi. I will kill this dragon. Then I will be alone.’

  ‘Not completely alone,’ said Hiro. He gave Taro a weak smile. Taro felt, despite everything, a lightening in his heart. He could rely on Hiro. His best friend would always be with him, would always take his side. It was a comfort.

  Hana cleared her throat. ‘I’ll come to Shirahama, and to Mount Fuji if you find the sword. I don’t want to find out, afterwards, that the cursed dragon killed you. After that, I’ll decide.’

  Taro, his heart breaking, nodded.

  They fell silent. There seemed very little to be said. Taro continued to row – Hiro offered to take over, but Taro needed it, the repetitive motion, the penance of it. He dissolved into the task so much, its mantra, that it took him a while to realize that the others were speaking, in anxious voices.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Hiro and Hana tell me there’s a ship behind us,’ said Shusaku. Taro looked up – he would have seen it if he had not been concentrating so much on the rowing; he was facing in the right direction, after all. Following them, at a fair distance but closing, was a black-sailed ship, heavy in the water. Taro could see no movement on deck, which seemed like a sinister omen. He remembered the fisherman, and the abbot, talking about pirates.

  ‘It’s following us,’ said Hiro, a little redundantly. The sea was vast, and infinite in its crossings; that the ship behind them was pursuing exactly the same course as they were was more than cause for concern.

  ‘Pirates, you think?’ said Hana.

  Shusaku nodded.

  ‘What would they want with a rowing boat?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the ninja. ‘But it can’t be anything good.’ He got up and stepped over to where Taro sat. ‘You take one oar,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the other.’

  It was a silent chase, but no less tense for it. The black ship drew ever nearer, looming – the process so gradual that it seemed the ship was expanding in size, rather than moving. The land, which Taro occasionally turned to glance at, also rose and spread. It was impossible to tell which would happen first; whether they would reach the land or the pursuing ship would reach them.

  They were heading towards a bay, though, and as its encircling outcroppings drew level, Taro allowed himself to think that they might win, that they might pull through. He glanced at Hiro, who was anxiously watching the ship.

  That was when there was a crash, and the little boat slammed to a halt. For a moment, the world was turned upside down – Taro was aware only of a jarring pain in his back, the blackness of the sky, filled with the white light of stars, the shrieking of shattered wood. His head smashed, hard, into the gunwale, then he was catapulted forward; he ended up on his face, his vision filled with knots and grains of wood.

  He crawled to his knees, saw Shusaku do the same. Hana was lying in the bottom of the boat, her eyes closed. He touched her; blood pulsed under her skin, but she did not wake. He cursed, casting around for Hiro. He couldn’t see him. Could his friend have been thrown into the water?

  Finally he turned, to see that the prow of the little boat had gone. It simply wasn’t there. In its place was a heavy metal chain, festooned with slivers and shards of wood. It stretched from one end of the bay to the other, a trap they had run into.

  He sensed movement out of the corner of his eye, turned, and gasped.

  He was suddenly and very acutely aware of two things, both very bad indeed.

  The black ship was nearly on them.

  And the boat was sinking.

  CHAPTER 28

  A MOMENT LATER, there was another shocking crash, the impact jarring Taro bone deep. He was knocked from his feet once more, and as he picked himself up he took in something incomprehensible – jutting from the splintered devastation of their boat some kind of sharpened ram. Taro bent down to check Hana. The ram had missed her, thank the gods.

  There was no time to be glad of it for long, though, because already men were firing down from the ship. An arrow lodged itself in Taro’s hip; he let out a cry, and snapped it off at the shaft. He would get the point out later. Shusaku leaped in front of Hana, as did Taro. From somewhere was coming a stench of decay.

  Just then a hand appeared over the broken side of the boat, and Taro drew his sword. But when a head followed it, he saw that it was only Hiro. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks. He reached out his hand to give it to his friend, to help him onto the boat – not that it would do much good, for the water was threatening to overwhelm them at any moment; the wooden planks seemed to be holding together more out of stubborn habit than anything else.

  His hand shrank back, though, when an arrow buried itself in the wood of the gunwale, right between Hiro’s fingers. Both friends froze.

  ‘My accomplice here is a very good shot.’ It was a voice Taro knew well, only altered, and strange. ‘The next will take your mortal friend in the neck.’

  Taro turned slowly. For the moment no arrows came from the black ship. Shusaku stood beside him, silent. He, too, must have recognized the voice.

  ‘Good,’ said Kenji Kira. He was standing in the prow of the ship, his face covered with a black cloth, as if he were a ninja. Taro could see other men, standing beside him, training bows on him and Shusaku.

  ‘You’re— you’re dead,’ said Taro. ‘I saw your body.’

  Kira shrugged, as if death were a small thing. ‘I came back,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you do the same?’

  ‘I didn’t die.’

  ‘True. But you did go into death. And you brought me out with you.’ He grinned, and Taro saw dried blood on the cloth around his ghastly mouth. ‘Almost as soon as I had left the mountain, I came across Yukiko. I ate her heart when it was still beating. I can leave death, as long as I have the living to feed on. You know what that feels like, of course.’ He leaned forward. ‘Which one of you shall I eat first?’

  Taro swallowed. Was that the truth, that he had led Kenji Kira out of death? Could it be? He thought of the dead they had fought on their way to the inland sea. Perhaps the gates to the other world had been left open; perhaps he had made a terrible mistake.

  Kira stepped forward. He reached up and began to unwind the cloths wrapped around his face. When, finally, they fell away, Taro gaped in horror. Kira had no skin any more; no flesh, either. He was a skeleton, standing in clothes. His tooth-filled jaw opened, and he laughed. Then he beckoned for his men to step forward too. Taro saw that some of them were dead also, their flesh in several cases hanging from the bone. This was the source of the stink, Taro realized.

  Behind him, Taro heard a scream. He turned to see Hana cowering against the side of the boat, her hand over her mouth. She must have woken up. Hiro was still clinging on, his body in the water.

  ‘The dead again?’ said Hana, in a low, frightened voice.

  ‘Again?’ asked Kenji Kira.

  ‘We were attacked,’ said Taro. ‘On the way here to the inland sea. By corpses that walked the earth.’

  Kira cocked his head to one side. ‘Interesting,’ he said.

  ‘They were not yours?’ asked Shusaku, surprised.

  ‘No. But let us say that the borders of death are no longer as secure as they were.’

  ‘Enma will not stand for this,’ said Shusaku.

  ‘Enma is dead. I am Enma,’ said Kenji Kira. ‘Now, Taro. Hand over the Buddha ball before you die.’

  Taro stared at the hideous figure before him. His mind was reeling; it seemed that whatever he did and wherever he went, Kenji Kira would always be looking for him, always tormenting him. And now Kira claimed he was death itsel
f. It was too much.

  ‘I don’t have it,’ he said. ‘I threw it away.’

  ‘You... threw it away?’ The voice was rasping, full of smoke and ash. It was also incredulous.

  ‘Yes. It did nothing but harm.’

  Kenji Kira drew a sword. ‘You lie,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Hana. ‘No, Kenji, it’s true. He made it rain, because people were thirsty. But then other people drowned. He thinks the ball is cursed. I believe him.’

  ‘You didn’t see him dispose of it?’

  ‘No... but—’

  ‘Then he lies.’ Kira gestured to the men beside him. ‘Kill them, and recover the ball.’

  In a fraction of an instant, time shifted from one form to another, like ice melting to water, and they were all in the fight-time, the kill-time. Shusaku picked up Hana and jumped from the ship. Taro dived forward, to knock Hiro into the water, covering him. He felt an arrow drive into his back. An instant later he was in the water, wrapped in the appalling cold of it, clinging to Hiro, who was swimming already. They dived, arrows sizzling through the water around them, plunging like seabirds.

  Taro reached behind his back to snap off the arrow lodged there. It was hampering him as he swam. Now he had two arrow heads buried in his flesh, both throbbing with a dull ache. Underwater it was dark, shadowy – a world of twilight. He headed towards what he thought was the shore, Hiro beside him. Soon he became aware of Shusaku, struggling in the water ahead of them. Taro surfaced, sucking down air. The ninja had Hana under one arm, swimming sideways, pulling her through the water clumsily. The only mercy was that none of the men on Kira’s ship had followed; couldn’t swim, most likely. And Kira would never have learned, being samurai and so having people to do such things for him.