by Nick Lake
‘They... are playing... in the woods,’ she said.
‘Then we shall wait here for their return,’ said Kira. ‘It will be such a pleasure to meet them.’
‘No... please...’ She cursed herself. Pathetic. If Lord Tokugawa could see her now, she who had fought by his side in battles far bloodier than this one, he would be repulsed.
She noticed that Kira was trying to grin – the effect was ghastly, as if the spirit of an animal, a fox maybe, had got into his body and was trying out human expressions. She noticed that he did not look well. He was too thin, too white. And she had observed the way he grimaced on seeing the fish stew on the table. He had disguised his distaste by smashing the bowl onto the floor as if to frighten her, but she thought that was only half the reason.
Much of seeing the future was just reading people from their expressions, movements and words – no more magical than reading words on a page – and the prophetess was good at that. The best she had ever known, and she knew that without arrogance.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You look very pale.’
He blinked, then nodded to the man holding the sword to the woman’s neck. ‘Tell me where they went. Or I give him the order.’
She ignored him. ‘There’s more fish, if you want it,’ she said. ‘I’m sure the spirits won’t begrudge you it.’
Kira gagged, turning from white to a pale green.
Interesting.
Time passed. She stretched out her mind – though much of being a prophetess was being able to read people, some of it was just magic, which required less skill. She closed her eyes and imagined herself into his mind.
She saw him on a battlefield, trapped by a fallen horse. He sucked dew from the ground, and moisture from the cold swords of the dead. As time passed, the bodies around him started to fill with living things, to crawl with them. Rats emerged from the stomach of the horse, chittering. Worms crawled from men’s eyes and nostrils, quivering in the air. And there were flies, too. Endless flies, feasting on flesh.
She felt his horror. She felt his terror. She felt the need in him not to die like that, not to be consumed by the ravages of decomposition, of the low creatures that infest the dead.
Crack. Kira’s hand struck the side of her face, snapping her head round. Her cheek stung. Kira leaned back from the table. ‘Now, old woman. You had better tell us where the boy has gone.’
‘I’ve seen the future,’ she said. ‘If you know anything about me, you know that I can do that. I’ve seen the future, and that means I know that I will never answer your questions, no matter what you do to me.’
‘Perhaps not. But you’ll have to endure the pain of the questioning, nevertheless.’
She smiled. ‘Questioning is always painful. That’s what people don’t understand about fortune-telling. But, as much agony as I feel, I will tell you nothing.’ She paused. ‘No. Wait. I will tell you two things that you don’t know.’
‘Go on,’ said Kira, his voice neutral.
‘The boy is going to get the Buddha ball, and he’s going to use it to kill Lord Oda.’
Kira sneered. ‘The Buddha ball is a silly story.’
Perhaps – perhaps not. She didn’t know if the Buddha ball was real or not, and she didn’t particularly care. What she did know was that Taro would never be shogun, as she had told him he would.
She knew this because Lord Tokugawa had come to her and asked her to do one last thing for him, for the love she had once borne him. She still did love him, in fact, but she didn’t tell him that as he stood in her garden, still slim and strong, after all those years. Then he had explained what he wanted. A boy named Taro would be coming to her – he had been seen, with his guardian Shusaku, nearby. It was important that she tell this boy the old legend, about the ama and the Buddha ball, but Lord Tokugawa wished her to add a new ending to the story.
He wished her to include a prophecy, spoken by the ama before she ascended to the Pure Land, saying that the descendant of an ama would be shogun one day – and he wished her to tell the boy that the prophecy applied to him.
‘Why?’ she had asked. ‘Why do you want me to lie to the boy?’ She could see that this boy Taro was Lord Tokugawa’s son – it was clear from the daimyo’s eyes, even without going into his mind. And she did not mind lying to his son. She should have been the one to give Lord Tokugawa sons, anyway. But she was curious, nevertheless.
‘I need him to recover the Buddha ball,’ he had said, that old glint in his eyes that she had always liked. ‘Only the son of an ama can claim it. That part of the story, at least, is true. I think so, anyway.’
‘Then ask him to. Wouldn’t that be easier?’
He sighed. ‘Of course not. He must feel he has a destiny. That way he is sure to do what I need. People will do all sorts of things, if they believe it is fate’s will.’
‘But why do you want the ball so much, even assuming it exists?’
He looked at her with an expression mingling mild surprise and disappointment.
She thought for a moment. ‘Of course. You want to be shogun yourself.’
This time he actually laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Being shogun is nothing. I want to be emperor.’
She might have laughed too – there had been no emperor in Japan for a hundred years – but something about his eyes told her not to. When Lord Tokugawa wanted a thing, he tended to get it – herself included – and, as was always said of him, he planned in years, not days. If he said he wanted to be emperor, the chances were he had worked out exactly how to do it.
‘Give me one good reason I should do this,’ she had said.
‘Because you loved me, once upon a time, and because I loved you, too,’ he said simply. ‘You are the bravest woman I know.’ After that it was only a distance of a few steps, a few tender words, to her bed.
And that was enough.
Now, back in her modest house, where she had brought up the ninja girls for Shusaku, who also loved Lord Tokugawa, she concentrated on the man in front of her, wanting him to suffer before he had the pleasure of killing her.
‘You may think what you like about the Buddha ball,’ she said. ‘But Oda believes in it. Why do you think he wants the boy so badly? Merely because he’s Tokugawa’s son? Tokugawa can sire as many sons as there are leaves in a tree; he has only to find women of child-bearing age, and there are enough of those in his province.’
Kira flinched, and she saw she had guessed correctly. Taro really was Tokugawa’s son. What had the wily lord done – impregnated an ama so that he could make sure his own flesh and blood claimed the Buddha ball? She marvelled at a man who would create a life and let it grow for fifteen years, just to achieve his ambitions.
‘I really think you should take some fish,’ she said to Kira, who was holding on to the table now. ‘You do look very weak.’
‘I don’t eat fish!’ he screamed.
‘No, of course,’ she murmured. She smiled in genuine amusement. If she couldn’t smile now, when she was about to die, then when could she?
‘What?’ he demanded, petulant. ‘Something amuses you?’
‘I said I would tell you two things.’
Kira thought for a moment. ‘You did. You said the boy would get the Buddha ball, and that he would kill Lord Oda.’
‘That’s one thing. I will tell you another, if you wish to hear it.’
Kira nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘It is this,’ she said. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘When you die, your body will languish for many moons, consumed slowly by the creatures of the night. Worms will eat your eyes. The eggs of flies will hatch among your sinews.’ She paused, feeling her smile grow wider. ‘You cannot escape it.’
He looked at her through bloodshot eyes. ‘You can see the future, yes?’
She nodded.
‘Then you must have seen what I am about to do.’ He looked at the samurai behind her and made a cutting gesture with his fingers. The man swung back his swor
d.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I have.’
She had seen her own death, yes, she had.
But she had also seen his – she hadn’t been lying about that. And in the moment before the sword struck her neck, she saw everything else, too, saw how it would all go, how it was good and all of it was good.
She was glad. She was a prophetess, and she didn’t want to die with a lie in her mouth. She wanted to die knowing what would happen, and knowing it was good.
Lord Tokugawa would be emperor, she knew that now. He would get everything he ever wanted, and it would never be enough, and he would die miserable and alone, never having the love of a wife or children, reviled even by his own son.
She was glad about that, too.
If she couldn’t have him – if she couldn’t make him happy, bear him his son, then she didn’t want him to be happy.
She loved him, but she was selfish, too. She had lied for him, given his son a false destiny, but he couldn’t make her think kindly of him, couldn’t get into her mind the way she could get into his, no matter what she owed him.
She saw it all and she smiled.
Then the blade met her skin.
CHAPTER 51
Help me.
The words echoed in Taro’s head as he unsheathed Kusanagi, parried, pushed the closest samurai’s sword off to the right and then sprang forward, running him through. Then he stumbled, unbalanced – he had tried to splay out his left arm, to steady himself, and had discovered again that it wasn’t there.
Hiro, off to the side, caught the wrist of another samurai, pulled him past as he snapped the thin bones of the forearm, relieving the man of his sword in a smooth motion. Hiro stepped back, sword raised.
Taro could see Lord Tokugawa, sitting on the throne, smiling. Taro wanted nothing more than to reach the daimyo and wipe that smile off his face with a blow of his sword. But there were too many samurai – pressing in on him, swords flashing. Worse, he had a blind spot on one side, where his missing eye had been, and this was making it difficult to perceive how far away the opponents were. The samurai were cautious, though, harrying rather than going in boldly for a killing strike – and this was the only reason Taro was still alive. Worried about damaging Kusanagi, perhaps?
Taro was not so proud as to think that they might fear him.
Sword moving nimbly to counter the various strikes, he moved backwards, coordinating with Hiro through glances. They ended up back to back, each protecting the other’s blind side. Their swords stood firm in their hands. For the moment, the soldiers didn’t move, just surrounded them. Only two samurai were down – the one whose wrist Hiro had broken, who was cradling his arm, whimpering, and the one Taro had killed. As Taro watched, one of the other samurai sighed, and then brought his sword tip down on the fallen man’s chest, stabbing it through, ending his murmurs of pain.
‘It’s been a privilege to have you as a friend,’ said Taro.
‘I know,’ said Hiro.
Taro laughed – a short, hollow sound.
‘Get on with it,’ said Lord Tokugawa, from the other end of the room. And with that, the samurai were on them for real, fighting in earnest now. Taro cursed. Where were those vampires? Just as he thought it, there was a clamour from the direction of the door they had come through earlier. The vampires burst in, catching the samurai off guard.
If it has the Tokugawa mon on it, thought Taro at the vampires, kill it.
After that, everything was chaos.
Some of the samurai broke off to head for the throne, to protect Lord Tokugawa.
Other samurai continued to harass Taro and Hiro. That was a mistake. Taking advantage of the general confusion, Taro flicked the sword from the hand of the man in front of him, then opened his chest. A thrill shot through him, something like the feeling of his first kiss with Hana.
It was Kusanagi. The sword was sweet as honey in his hand – its weight and balance and perfection like the touch of a loved one, like the smell of home.
As the samurai fell, Taro ducked to the side, severing the foot of his nearest companion. The sword was an extension of his hand, a feeling of clarity, sunshine on an autumn day. With it, he could not be defeated. The man toppled sideways. Taro jumped over him, bringing his sword up and down even as he flew through the air, and almost cut the next samurai in half diagonally, the sword entering at the shoulder and lodging in the hip. The man’s legs gave way and his weight dropped, twisting the sword and catching it further. Taro’s wrists sang out. Annoyed, he tugged hard on—
A blade bit into his left side. He hadn’t seen it coming, his missing left eye cutting off a swathe of his vision. With a yell, he finally got Kusanagi free from the dead man, who dropped to the ground. Taro reached out to snatch the sword from his hand, so he would have two, before remembering that he had lost his left hand to the dragon.
Spinning, he got his blade up before the killing blow severed his head. The samurai who had wounded his side was big, with a blotched face and a broken, swollen nose. He looked unwieldy – but Taro could see from the way his sword moved that he was not clumsy or slow. In fact, Taro struggled to hold off his blows, all the while glancing behind him to try to join up with Hiro again.
Hiro was holding his own against two samurai, his sword a blur. Most of the others were engaged with the vampires – the men and women were falling on them hungrily, viciously, and several samurai were on the ground, twitching as the vampires fed. But the samurai were trained killers, and they were armed. To Taro’s horror, he saw that the vampires were being pressed back, and some were already dead, their heads separated from their bodies.
Clash.
The stocky samurai’s sword rang against Kusanagi. He pressed forward, his own blade rasping down its length, unstoppable, coming to rest deep in Taro’s knuckles, for Kusanagi had no pommel guard. Taro cried out. The katana scraped against the bone of his fingers. He could smell blood in the air; the room gave a little wobble.
He felt pressure against his back and flicked his one good eye to see that Hiro was with him again, still standing. Most of the vampires were not. The samurai were winning, inexorable, their swords and their years of kata drills more than a match for the newly turned vampires’ strength and speed.
Remembering the door of the brothel, how he had shattered it with his leg, Taro raised his knee and kicked out. The samurai fell back, winded, his sword leaving the flesh of Taro’s hand with a spurt of blood. Taro had a thought. He whipped his sword round, missing the samurai’s head by a good margin. But that had been his intention. Following the arc of his strike, drops of his blood fanned out into the air. The samurai staggered backwards, eyes closed, as the blood blinded him.
Taro didn’t want to move too far from Hiro – he took just one step forward and effected a shallow slash that opened a horizontal wound in the big samurai’s belly. The man fell, groaning.
On either side, samurai pressed in. Taro’s head turned from side to side, like a crow’s. He could take the left one first, since that was his weak side – then turn and—
‘Taro.’
It was Hiro’s voice. Taro turned to look at his friend. His hands were empty, his sword on the ground. Two samurai held katanas pointing right at his throat. In his eyes was a wordless apology.
‘It’s all right,’ said Taro. He noticed that the samurai in front of him had stood down, their swords still up but not trying to strike him. He lowered Kusanagi. All around him were dead or dying vampires. Grief flooded him, like bile.
They would have died anyway, he told himself. They would have died anyway.
Footsteps creaked on the nightingale floor. The samurai in front of Taro parted, and there was Lord Tokugawa, still stained with the shogun’s blood. He held his own sword in his hand – a masterpiece, Taro noticed, with the hollyhock mon engraved on its shaft. A cool blue wave of steel shone down its length.
‘Give me Kusanagi,’ said the daimyo.
‘You’ll have to take it from my
dead hand.’
Lord Tokugawa nodded. ‘All right.’ He waved the samurai aside. ‘Kill the other one,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any more complications.’ Taro felt Hiro backing away quickly behind him.
What happened next was a blur of movement – like a bat flitting in front of Taro’s face, in semi-darkness – and then a ringing in his arms, as Lord Tokugawa’s blade smashed against his own. Taro’s sword had only just gone up in time. He staggered backwards.
He’s a kensei, he thought. Lord Tokugawa is a sword saint, and no one ever knew. It wasn’t surprising. There was a lot people didn’t know about Lord Tokugawa.
Clash.
Taro parried the next two strokes, then felt a stinging, hot pain in his face – he had stopped a strike, only for Lord Tokugawa to flick his wrist up, bringing his sword raking across Taro’s cheek. If he hadn’t already lost his eye, he would have lost it then. Blood ran hotly down his face to his neck.
Lord Tokugawa grinned, sword balancing casually in his hand. He moved round Taro, keeping his distance now, showing Taro that he was in control of the fight. ‘Lord Oda liked to advertise his skill,’ he said. ‘People loved to challenge him, once it was known that he was a sword saint. And he loved being challenged. He loved the theatre of it.’
He drove forward suddenly, again the impression that of a pigeon surprised in a tree you’re passing, a bat there in front of you and then gone. Taro just got a clumsy parry in the way, then stumbled, his ankle twisting. He scrabbled away, on his back, as Lord Tokugawa walked calmly towards him. He just got up to his feet and brought up his blade as the daimyo’s whistled towards his neck. The blow resounded down his arms, right to his shoulders. Taro felt tired. So very tired.
‘But this is the thing about the theatre,’ said Lord Tokugawa, his breath not even straining. ‘It’s the people behind the scenes who control everything. I am a better swordsman than Lord Oda. I say this not to brag. All those I have defeated were killed, and disposed of quietly. I didn’t want anyone to know how good I was. That is the difference between me and Lord Oda.’