The Betrayal of the Living

by Nick Lake

  And now Taro had burned his bones in life, trapping him forever in this rotten death-body, down here in the world of shadows.

  Taro couldn’t imagine how angry Kira must be now, with his means of escape from hell turned to ash by the dragon.

  A shout.

  He had a horrible feeling he was about to find out.

  Taro whipped his head round to see Horse-head running towards him. He cursed himself. He’d stayed in one spot too long, staring at Kenji Kira and thinking. He was moving even as Kira stood liquidly from his throne, his face a torn mask of fury, pointing at him, sending Ox-face his way.

  But Horse-head and Ox-face were demons, and they were big and unwieldy. He? He was a ninja.

  He let Horse-head get close, as he crossed from the bridge to the cold ground of death. Taro ducked, and the forked staff went over his head as he rolled. Then he was on his feet again, having gone through Horse-head’s legs, and was running, farther into death. He heard both demons pounding after him, shaking the ground. They were twice as tall as men, twice as heavy. It made them fearsome fighters, but it made them slow. Their footfalls diminished behind him.

  A voice drifted after him. Kenji Kira. ‘This is my kingdom, peasant! The deeper you go, the more I have you!’

  Taro thought that was probably true. And that was why he reached into his cloak and took out the ball, thanking the gods that it had come with him into death. He knew that it would give him control over Little Kawabata, over Hana, would let him speak to his blood inside them, but would the opposite be true? Could he use it to call out, with Shusaku’s blood that was inside him, to Shusaku? He didn’t know, but he knew he had to try.

  As he ran, through the endless mist and greyness of death, he kept his mind on Shusaku, picturing the ninja’s blood running through his own veins, willing it to speak out, to find its progenitor. A part of him was Shusaku, forever. He just hoped that part could find the whole it had come from.

  A tug, to his left – though it might as well have been his right; distance and space had no meaning here. He followed it and entered into a country of horrors. Looming out of the mist, there was a great pot on a fire, limbs sticking out. Demons were everywhere, stabbing, branding, chopping. Taro made the mistake of glancing to his right and saw a man being torn apart by four demonic horses. From then on he kept his eyes forward, dodging past the few demons who looked up from their tasks and tried to catch him.

  One got hold of his cloak – he let it fall off him, just kept on running.

  Another tug; he turned as he ran, powering off the ground, could feel some force inside him growing, something like excitement, or love.

  Then, suddenly, there was Shusaku. He was tied to a tree, which seemed to have been put here for that purpose; there were no other trees that Taro could see. Two demons were flaying off his skin with whips. Shusaku’s head was bent, his eyes closed. He looked as if he had given up – something Taro had never before seen.

  Taro judged the distances, chose the demon with the dagger in its belt. He jumped even as he was running, closed the last tan in the air. He landed on the demon’s back, unhooked the dagger from his belt, and climbed up, monkeylike. The demon was twisting towards him as he drew the blade across the thick-muscled neck. The demon seemed half bull, with horns growing on his head.

  A gurgling noise; he jumped down to the ground, hearing the demon topple like a tree as he ducked to avoid the whip that swished over his head. Snapping his hand up, he caught the end of the whip, yanking hard. The demon was unbalanced only for a moment, but a moment was enough. As it stumbled, he lanced forward through space like a spear, the knife in two hands. It plunged into the demon’s stomach, burying deep. He didn’t stop there, though – he sawed it upward, gripping it with both hands, grunting with the effort. The demon screamed, high like a calling hawk.

  Then it stopped screaming, and he didn’t bother to watch it fall. Its black blood was hot on his skin.

  Taro went to the tree and touched Shusaku’s face. The ninja mumbled, half opening his eyes. He didn’t seem to recognize Taro, or to want to free himself. Taro didn’t give him the choice. He began cutting through the ropes that bound his mentor to the tree – he cut the upper ropes first, so that Shusaku slumped onto him, head lolling over his shoulder, like a drunk being helped home. Taro said a prayer over and over in his head, a mantra, asking for Shusaku to wake up.

  ‘Please,’ he said aloud. ‘Please, Shusaku, you have to come back to me, you have to. You have to kill Kenji Kira, you’re the only one who can.’ Shusaku had told him – he’d said that Enma could be defeated. Now he had to prove it.

  A groan from behind – he turned and saw, to his horror, that the demon he had eviscerated was up on his knees, the flapping wound in its stomach knitting slowly shut. Taro turned back to the bonds, cut another.

  He was on the last one, sweat pouring down his face, when he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Too late,’ said Kenji Kira.

  He turned, Shusaku still draped over his shoulder. Then he felt a lightening of the load – Shusaku pulled away from him, coughing, agonized. Taro saw that the skin was fusing back to his body, and regrowing, in the places where it had gone. This was the punishment in this corner of hell, he realized. It wasn’t that your skin was flayed, it was that your skin was flayed again and again.

  Shusaku touched his arm. ‘Taro,’ he said. His eyes moved over Taro’s face. ‘You look older. Sadder.’

  ‘I— you can see?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Shusaku. ‘In death, we are remade. But what have you done? Why are you here?’ His brow was furrowed.

  ‘I came to find you. To remind you of what you said. About the Tibetan story. The Death-of-Enma.’

  Shusaku laughed a hollow laugh. ‘It can’t be done. Certainly not by me. You’ve done nothing in coming here but doom yourself.’ His voice was harsh, twisted by the pain he had experienced.

  Taro drew in a sharp breath, wounded. Shusaku closed his eyes, wincing, then put his arm round him.

  ‘Sorry. I am grateful to you for coming. And I am sorry for making you leave me, back there in the passageway.’

  ‘I forgive you,’ said Taro.

  Kenji Kira rubbed his hands. ‘Very touching, all this,’ he said. ‘But I agree with your mentor, Taro. All you have done for Shusaku is to make him watch as I tear you to pieces.’

  The dagger was still in Taro’s hand. He gripped it firmly. ‘You can try,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, you are always so spirited!’ said Kira. ‘I do so admire that. It reminds me of Mara.’

  Shusaku gave a sort of animal growl. ‘Don’t speak that name,’ he said.

  ‘She fought too, you know,’ said Kira casually, as if it were an aside; Taro knew it wasn’t. ‘She was still struggling when I cut off her head.’ Taro could see the dull grey light of hell shining through Kira’s open cheek, in his dead eyes.

  Next to Taro, Shusaku fell back against the tree. ‘You...’ he said.

  ‘Always. Didn’t you know, deep down?’

  Taro looked from one to the other. Kenji Kira had killed Shusaku’s one love. Shusaku was clinging to the tree behind him for purchase; he looked as if he were afraid of falling off the realm of hell itself, into nothingness. Perhaps he was.

  ‘Why?’ said Shusaku eventually.

  ‘Why?’ Kenji Kira echoed mockingly. ‘A simple reason. I was to kill Lord Tokugawa, on Lord Oda’s orders. She surprised me. She got in the way.’

  ‘She got in the way, so you killed her?’

  Kira shrugged. ‘Can you think of a better reason?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have told me that,’ said Shusaku.

  And then Taro was thrown violently to the ground, as Shusaku roared, spreading his hands, a predatory animal gone mad, before digging his fingernails into his own chest.

  ‘Shusaku, what—’ began Taro, but it was too late. His old friend and mentor was already tearing off a great sheet of his own skin. Blood misted in the air, spatter
ing Taro’s face, hot as lava.

  CHAPTER 40

  Near the Monto stronghold, Mikawa province

  Twelve years earlier

  THE DAY SHUSAKU’S true love died was also the day he was turned into a vampire. But even that morning when he woke, he had no reason to think either of those things would happen.

  It began three days before, when Lord Tokugawa was struck down.

  Shusaku and the rest of the Tokugawa army were in Mikawa province, fighting rebel monks. These troublesome men pledged loyalty to the Monto clan, and so were resisting Lord Tokugawa’s attempts to unite the western part of the country. Lord Tokugawa had decided that they would be exterminated – and when Lord Tokugawa decided something, it usually came to pass.

  That morning, before dawn, the Tokugawa samurai rode on the Monto positions. They were riding uphill, which was a disadvantage, but Lord Tokugawa had a thousand samurai at his disposal, including Shusaku – Lord Endo, in those times – who rode by his side. Also taking part in the attack were a hundred or so of Lord Oda’s samurai, for the two daimyo had formed an alliance in the interest of suppressing the most violent resistance on their borders.

  Leading these Oda samurai was a young general of whom Lord Oda spoke highly – a certain Kenji Kira. He had the left cavalry detachment, Shusaku had the right.

  Shusaku pressed his heels into his horse’s flank, breathing in the mingled smells of pine sap, morning dew, and broken ground. Beside him, Lord Tokugawa drew his sword. On his face he wore a tusked warrior’s mask. Everywhere was the rhythmic boom of hooves. Shusaku felt the thrill of the imminent battle, as he fixed his eyes on the earthen barrier the Monto had erected ahead.

  Then the hillside was lit, instantly and shockingly, by flashes of bright light, followed by a rolling thunder of explosions.

  Guns, thought Shusaku dumbly. No one said the Monto had guns. The weapons had only just been introduced by the Portuguese, and only the richest could procure them – certainly the Monto could not hope to arm themselves in this fashion, unless... Unless they were willing to sell themselves to the Portuguese, or someone else. The question was who? No true samurai would approve the use of guns. They were weapons for those without honour, those willing to kill a man from afar. For a samurai, even a bow was a coward’s weapon. If you had to kill a man, Shusaku thought, it was better to do it face-to-face. That way you gave him the dignity of seeing who ended his life.

  It seemed, then, that the Monto must have some outside help, and from someone for whom honour was no consideration.

  Lord Oda no Nobunaga, was Shusaku’s first thought. He pushed it down, though. Lord Oda was his lord Tokugawa’s ally. It was unthinkable – literally, he had to stop himself thinking it, or he would be disloyal to his daimyo.

  Shusaku ducked down, clinging on to his horse. Beside him, he saw Lord Tokugawa thrown backwards from his horse, turning over in the air to land face down in the dirt. Shusaku pulled his horse to a stop and jumped down. He ran to where Lord Tokugawa lay, and knelt in the dirt by his lord.

  Suddenly Mara was beside him. He couldn’t understand what she was doing here, in the heat of battle. She was Lord Tokugawa’s serving maid, his most trusted assistant. Her place was in the camp – and by Shusaku’s side, whenever circumstances allowed, because Shusaku loved her more than he had thought it was possible for a man of war to love a woman. She wore a simple gown with a large, deep hood. For a moment, he thought that was odd; then he forgot about it.

  She pushed him aside, not bothering with rank or protocol. ‘Give us space!’ she screamed. Men and horses were staggering all around them, though for now the Monto had stopped firing. Bleeding bodies lay everywhere. There was a dent in Lord Tokugawa’s armour, where the bullet had hit, but it didn’t look to Shusaku like it had penetrated the steel.

  Please, Amida Buddha, let him live, he thought. Lord Tokugawa had taken Shusaku on as a samurai, even after his father disgraced himself by turning his cloak in the previous war. Lord Tokugawa had given him a choice other than ritual suicide, and for that, Shusaku would follow him anywhere. Even up this gods-forsaken mountain. Lord Tokugawa couldn’t die. Shusaku wouldn’t let it happen.

  ‘I think there’s internal bleeding,’ said Mara, examining the daimyo. She touched his eyes, and they fluttered open. Immediately she was shouting for help. ‘Pick him up!’ she called. ‘Shusaku! Anyone! We have to get him back to camp.’

  To Shusaku’s left, one of Lord Tokugawa’s hatamoto pushed through the crowd and put a hand on Mara’s arm, tried to drag her away.

  ‘No women on the—’ he began.

  He didn’t finish, though, because she snapped her elbow up gracefully, breaking his nose and dropping him on his back in the mud. Shusaku stared. She had never seemed so beautiful to him, her slender curves accentuated by the scene of battle, not overwhelmed by it. The strange thing was that the movement had been so loose, so casual... it was almost as if she knew how to fight. But that was ridiculous. Women didn’t fight.

  Mara bent down and picked up Lord Tokugawa herself, by the ankles. Shusaku could see that the other men were too shocked to do anything; he leaned down and grabbed the daimyo’s shoulders, lifting him with her. Between them they carried him down the mountainside, through the mud and blood, through the melee of confused and injured men. The smell of blood was in Shusaku’s nostrils.

  ‘He’ll live,’ said Mara. ‘He’ll live.’

  Two days later, though, and Lord Tokugawa had still not recovered, and fever had set in. He rambled incoherently.

  It was mysterious, because the bullet had not broken his skin. Still, a nasty bruise was spreading on his chest, the colour of sunset. After one day, they had sent for a Taoist magician, the highest form of healer. The man was still there, trying to figure out what was keeping Lord Tokugawa’s soul from fully inhabiting his body. Mara stood on the other side of the tent, quiet and subdued. Shusaku tried not to meet her eyes. The others didn’t know of their relationship, and he wanted it to stay that way.

  Shusaku watched as the magician chanted over the daimyo, who lay on his back in the large tent. The Taoist had determined that Lord Tokugawa was possessed by a shiryo, a dead spirit. This kind of possession could lead to death, if not treated correctly. As such he was chanting the sutras and spells designed to cast out the evil invader.

  The problem was that it didn’t appear to be working. Shusaku stayed for the space of two more incense sticks, before preparing to leave, his hand on the silk of the tent. Then he stopped when the magician addressed him – it was reasonable, he supposed. He was the highest-ranking man in the room.

  ‘If it was a shiryo possession, the spirit should have gone,’ the magician said. ‘But see how he still sweats.’

  Shusaku came back into the tent and leaned over the body of his friend and lord. ‘You suspect a living soul?’ he said. A person could be possessed by the spirit of a living person as easily as that of a dead one, though it was less common.

  The magician shrugged. ‘An ikiryo possession by another living person is certainly possible,’ he said. ‘Of course, these things are usually romantic. When a man is possessed by a living soul... it’s often that of a woman who loves him.’

  Suddenly Kenji Kira was at Shusaku’s side. The man was the highest ranking of the Oda samurai here in the camp. Shusaku was wary of him – he was tall and thin, with limbs like a spider’s, and had a predator’s reputation. There were rumours about prostitutes, which Shusaku hoped were not true.

  ‘There’s only one woman here,’ Kira said. He gestured to Mara.

  Shusaku saw her eyes – framed by those long eyelashes – snap wide open. She stared at Kira, startled.

  ‘You think the serving girl might be doing this?’ the magician said.

  ‘I think nothing,’ said Kira. ‘It was you who said a woman is usually involved.’

  Shusaku narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what Kenji Kira was up to, but he knew it was nothing good – and he knew there was nothing
romantic between Mara and Lord Tokugawa, because he was the one sharing her bed. Not that he could say that before all the other samurai. A man of his rank and stature carrying on with a serving girl – it was not done.

  ‘Mara is just a serving girl,’ he said neutrally.

  Kenji Kira, of course, smoothly denied that he had meant to imply anything else. His hands steepled, he spoke about curses and evil spirits and spiders – Shusaku was only half listening, concentrating with most of his mind on not blushing or looking too much at Mara.

  Kira was still speaking when Mara cut him off, stepping forward. It was out of character – and dangerous – for her to assert herself like this, so Shusaku raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I’m not poisoning him or possessing him,’ Mara said. ‘I’m just a serving girl. I’ve been with him for months.’

  Kenji Kira shrugged. ‘It was only an observation,’ he said. He let himself out of the tent.

  The magician spread his hands. ‘I’ll try the exorcism for a living spirit,’ he said. He began to take majinai charms and insert them into Lord Tokugawa’s mouth.

  Later Mara let herself into Shusaku’s tent. She did it so quietly, he didn’t hear her until she touched him – and he sat up, terrified. When he got over his shock, he kissed her – she tasted of strawberries, and sunshine. Whenever he looked into her eyes, he felt that he might fall into their depths and never come back to the surface again. He had not had any time alone with her since Lord Tokugawa was injured. In whispers, they spoke about the injury, about Lord Tokugawa’s chances for survival, about Kenji Kira.

  Shusaku was suspicious of Kira, but Mara seemed to think the man had some particular grudge against her – which Shusaku found hard to imagine. ‘He’s a hatamoto and you’re a serving girl,’ he said, with a flinch of embarrassment when he saw that his description had hurt her. He forged on, nevertheless. ‘What would he have to gain by hurting you?’