by Nick Lake
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ said Taro. He thrust the ball into his cloak and edged forward, sword extended.
‘Ah,’ said Lord Oda. ‘I suppose you think this is honourable. Well, so be it.’ He was standing there, and then he was in front of Taro – that was how quick it was. He brought his katana down, brutally fast, and followed it up with a downward strike of the wakizashi, almost slicing Taro’s leg off at the knee.
Taro dodged and blocked, barely, grunting with effort. Lord Oda grinned, his lips drawing back so that Taro could see his pink gums, the sharp points of his canines. There was something appalling about the daimyo, a claimant to the position of shogun, smiling at him with the teeth of a vampire.
And I did that, thought Taro. I made him like that.
Just then Taro wished that Shusaku could be with him. But of course, it was Taro’s fault that they were here, in the light, and Shusaku was hiding in the monastery – it was Taro’s blood that had made Lord Oda like this, just as he had done for Little Kawabata, too. He had given Lord Oda this gift, this ability to transcend the limitations of his spirit nature.
At the same time, he fought. He caught a glancing blow on his helmet that would have opened his forehead if he hadn’t been wearing it, and for a moment Lord Oda’s blade lodged against one of the horns. He lunged forward, pushing the daimyo off balance, and slashed at his side, his blade ringing against armour. But Lord Oda recovered his equilibrium in a flash, danced back onto his heel, and then thrust with one blade, pushing Taro’s sword out of the way with the other.
The point of Lord Oda’s sword drove into Taro’s shoulder, a flare of pain that stunned Taro into a moment of inaction. Lord Oda ripped the point out again and brought the blade glimmering down at Taro’s neck – he only just got his sword up in time, blocked it with a scream as blood ran from his wound.
Taro gasped for breath. He was dimly aware of something large pushing past him, and then Hiro was throwing himself at Oda, his sword swinging.
‘Die!’ Hiro was shouting, over and over.
Lord Oda met the big boy’s first, wild gambit and counter-struck viciously, raining down blows.
No, thought Taro. No, no.
He sprang forward, ignoring Lord Oda, and struck decisively at Hiro with his ring, aiming for the pressure point on his neck. Hiro crumpled to the ground and Taro vaulted over his body, pushing Lord Oda back, whipping his blade so fast back and forth that for the first time the daimyo struggled to meet his thrusts.
‘Ruthless,’ said Lord Oda. ‘I like that.’
Taro stared at him blankly, still trying to find a way to strike his heart, or take off his head.
‘Didn’t want your friend to have the glory of killing me. You know, if you weren’t standing in my way to immortality, I could use someone like you.’
Taro almost smiled at the depth of the daimyo’s inability to understand. He hadn’t minded Hiro stepping in – he just didn’t want his friend to die, and so had knocked him out for a moment. Even now he was pushing forward, forcing Lord Oda ever farther from Hiro.
But Lord Oda was too strong. Taro misread one of his parries, got a wakizashi slash to the thigh as his reward. He nearly fell, but managed to stay on his feet. His shoulder and his leg were on fire. The worst thing was that he could smell his own blood, and his stomach snarled at the scent of it – even now, the monstrous side of him was threatening to take over. He saw it in Lord Oda’s eyes too – saw the pupils cloud with red as the other vampire’s nostrils flared, saw the bloodlust in those noble features.
He tried to get a grip on himself, to remind himself of his need for revenge, but part of him could see the dead samurais from Shirahama, and he could still feel the emptiness inside that had followed their deaths. Perhaps he shouldn’t kill Oda. Perhaps it would be better to kneel down here, to lower his sword and wait for the final blow. . .
He was surprised when his sword arm snapped up of its own accord, blocking Lord Oda’s strike, the clash so powerful that pain resonated down his arm, indistinguishable from sound.
‘Will. You. Just. Die?’ asked Oda, his voice a harsh whisper.
‘No,’ said Taro.
He pulled off his helmet, widening his view, and let his sword take over. Just then he saw Hayao, behind Lord Oda. Could it be him? Or was it a ghost? Whatever it was, it was shouting at him, shouting something over and over. Taro frowned, watching the lips, his hearing ruined by the guns.
Hayao’s whole posture and his expression screamed urgency; his mouth screamed something Taro couldn’t understand – it seemed to be two syllables, repeated. He glanced away, to parry another strike from Lord Oda. He glanced back, and something about the movement of Hayao’s lips touched something inside him, and suddenly he saw the word –
Peiwoh.
He thought of the story he had read for the last time on the parapet. He had thrown it away, as if it was useless. But now the whole story rushed back into his mind, and carried along on the rushing river of his memory was a thought, and the thought was that just then, his sword had blocked a strike of its own accord.
He tried to not feel his sword arm, to pretend it wasn’t there. To his surprise, the speed of his strikes increased – he knocked the daimyo’s sword aside and opened a small nick on his cheek. Oda bellowed furiously and rushed at him with both swords flashing.
In Taro’s mind, Peiwoh’s words echoed. I have let the harp choose its own songs, and I did not know as I played whether I was the harp, or the harp was me.
And just like that, Taro saw. It was better than when he had seen the hair clip on the ghost haunting Hayao, because that had been something that just happened, something he had no power over. It had been sight. This, though, was insight – it was understanding.
Of course.
It was so utterly simple. The abbot had said, There is no sword. But that wasn’t quite it, was it? It was more a case of realizing that the sword did not belong in his hand, or anyone’s – that it was there by a conjunction of chances, that its swordness continued nevertheless, unchanged by the hand that held it. And its swordness was at once everything and nothing, because it was only a piece of the universe, and all the universe was one.
Say not, there is no sword.
Say instead – the sword and me, we are the same. We are one. And that is the same as being nothing.
There is no sword. There is no me. There is nothing.
He looked down at the sword and allowed it to flash forward, then move back to his side. It was easy, because his arm did not exist, and nor did the sword. His sword wasn’t even a blur, it was as if it hadn’t moved at all. Lord Oda didn’t even see the strike – his sword made no move to block it, and it pierced the gap in his armour at his armpit, cut through his muscle and tendon, ruined his right arm again. The sword dropped from it, and Taro could swear that even over the thunder of battle he heard it hit the ground.
Lord Oda was staring at him with something like horror. Taro danced back, danced forward. It was as if he was moving through something less viscous than air, or as if Lord Oda had to fight in thick mud that just looked like clear air, while he was free to move. He saw Lord Oda’s blade rise, impossibly slowly, and he could almost laugh; he had all the time in the world to step around it, to push it uselessly away, to slash again at the man’s armour.
This was it, he was going to win.
He was focusing on his sword hand, or rather not focusing on it, which amounted to the same – and so for the first instant he didn’t register as Lord Oda backed away from him, reached for the samurai closest to him. Then he saw the daimyo embrace the man, put his mouth to his neck, and tear out his throat. Blood fountained from the wound; Taro reeled, shocked. Lord Oda drank deep, then cast aside the corpse.
He faced Taro again, and his eyes now were black pinpricks. His sword struck out, quick as a snake, moving now in the same plane, the same medium, as Taro’s.
‘I’m a sword saint,’ said Lord Oda. ‘Did you forget that?’
He came forward like a whirlwind, single sword matching Taro’s, every blow, every strike, every thrust. The people around them had disappeared into a blurry fog – Taro thought maybe he and Lord Oda were moving so quickly the ordinary world had faded into nothingness.
He cursed. He had understood the secret of the sword, and it didn’t matter – he was fighting the one enemy, apart from the abbot, who knew it too, or knew a shortcut to it. Vaguely he wondered if killing his own samurai had given Lord Oda some extra measure of strength, had been for him the equivalent of Taro’s moment of enlightenment – vaguely he wondered if it depended on the nourishment of the samurai’s blood and so would pass and dim, allowing Taro to take control.
It didn’t matter. Lord Oda was pressing him back again, and unless his strength failed in moments, it would be too late.
Taro yanked his sword arm up to block a strike, and he was in the wrong place entirely. The other man’s blade leaped at him, he barely even saw it moving, and then his chest was open, gouting blood. He went down on one knee, felt something tear inside his leg.
Lord Oda smashed him in the face with the pommel of his sword. He felt something break, sharply. He spat and teeth flew from his mouth – he ran his tongue along his gums and felt the spaces where the teeth had been, gaping and pulsing holes.
Just as he perceived a booted foot, it struck him in the chest, drove him backwards. He felt his ribs splinter, cut their way into him, his own body turned into treacherous knives in his flesh. The only way he knew they hadn’t pierced his heart was because he could still feel the pain, or rather he was dressed in the pain, it was like an outfit encapsulating his whole being. His jaw throbbed, his chest seemed full of broken glass.
He heard someone screaming, and he thought maybe it was Hiro. He supposed his friend must have woken up. He saw Hayao’s face floating somewhere in front of him, was still not sure if the man was real or a ghost. His hand shaking, his vision blurred by tears, he raised his sword. With a shuddering impact, it was knocked from his hand – he just saw it spinning and landing in the mud.
Don’t. . . give. . . up, he thought. He conjured a vision of his mother, to strengthen him. Of Hana, waiting for him. He let himself fall to the ground, began to crawl towards the sword. Every movement cost him dear in pain – every movement ground broken bone into flesh, severed nerves. He felt as though he were already in hell.
His vision, now, had shrunk even further. Instead of the window of the helmet, he looked out at a circle of pale light, an image of mud, darkness encroaching all around, the sole object in all the world his sword, shining in the wet mess ahead of him. He could not tell if it was near or far – he thought maybe one of his eyes had been ruined by the pommel blow, and it could have been just in reach or many ri away and he wouldn’t know the difference.
Still, he crawled towards it – he was a low thing, a slug or a snail, crawling over broken glass.
He reached out, and his fingers brushed something. He saw them, in the tiny circle of his vision – strange, foreign white fingers, touching the pommel of his sword. If he could just grip it, try to stand. . . only his fingers didn’t seem to belong to him any more, they didn’t want to grip.
Then the boot came down – crunch – and Lord Oda’s foot was on his hand. He felt the delicate bones in it break, felt his hand turn to a mushy bag full of shards.
Lord Oda kicked him in the chest again. More ribs broke and he was on his back now, the clouds above, rain falling in his eyes and blurring his vision even further. He felt rough hands on him, searching him, saw the ball in Lord Oda’s hands.
‘Ahh.’ Lord Oda sighed – the sound of bliss.
Taro blinked, trying to clear the water from his vision. Hiro had stopped screaming, and certainly he was nowhere to be seen. Taro didn’t know if that meant he was dead, or if he was just being restrained by the Ikko-ikki. The gunfire, too, seemed to have stopped. Perhaps they’d won, and the Ikko-ikki were simply allowing Taro his final battle with Lord Oda, before they slaughtered the remaining samurai. Or perhaps the opposite had happened.
Lord Oda loomed above him, a giant in the limited frame of Taro’s vision. He had the ball in one hand, his sword in the other. He addressed the ball.
‘Make him die. Kill him.’
Nothing happened.
Lord Oda frowned down at the little globe in his hand. ‘Why doesn’t it work?’ he asked softly, and Taro wasn’t sure if he was speaking to him or to the ball.
‘I told you,’ he said, in the voice of an old man – all shaky and sibilant where his breath ran over his missing teeth.
Lord Oda roared, and cast the ball down in the mud. He brought his sword up high. ‘In that case, I’ll just cut off your head,’ he said. He brought the blade whistling down.
At the same time, Taro’s hand – the one that wasn’t shattered – was scrabbling through the mud, almost entirely of its own accord, clutching for something. He wasn’t surprised when his fingers closed on a smooth shape and he had the ball in his hand again. Well, it seemed he’d die holding it.
He closed his eyes. His last thought was, Please stop the blade. Please don’t let it hit my neck. . .
Silence. Then, distant, a scream of rage.
Odd.
He was dead, clearly. Except that death smelled strangely of mud and blood, also a bitter scent, richly organic and decaying – perhaps the smell of a man whose guts had been opened.
He opened his eyes. Quivering, just above his head, was the blade of Lord Oda’s sword. Lord Oda himself stood straining, his face red with effort, a bottomless fury in his eyes. It was as if he were trying to move the sword, and it wasn’t letting him.
Taro frowned, then dropped himself into the ball, leaving his agonized body on the mud, sighed with relief as he left the pain behind.
He was outside himself, now, he was just weather and atmosphere; and he turned his entire focus on Lord Oda, trying to understand what was happening. He looked down on the scene from above, and saw that the Ikko-ikki had won; the arquebusiers were standing in silent triumph over the bodies of the dead samurai. Only those in his immediate vicinity still lived – and as soon as his fight with Lord Oda was over, they would die too. Even as he watched, he saw that Lord Tokugawa’s army was taking to the field now, coming up on the straggling remnants of Lord Oda’s troops from behind, catching them in a pincer that would crush them utterly. He understood that Lord Tokugawa and the Ikko-ikki intended to make sure that every single one of Lord Oda’s samurai was dead.
There would be no prisoners.
He’s going to die, whatever happens, thought Taro. His army is destroyed. His only chance was the ball, and he doesn’t know how to use it. Now it’s only a question of whether I kill him, or they do.
He contemplated, for a moment, whether it mattered to him how Lord Oda died – certainly he was no longer motivated by revenge, no longer thought in any way that by killing Lord Oda he could cause his foster-father or his mother to rise from the dead.
But then he saw Hiro – his friend was standing, held back by three of the Ikko-ikki, as if he had been trying to reach Taro, to save him. There were tears on his cheeks and his eyes were red, but his mouth was open in an expression of wonder, and indeed everyone seemed frozen, staring intently at the sword that trembled, unmoving, above Taro’s head.
The temptation was there, of course, to leave himself forever. To melt into the rain and the clouds, and let his husk of a body die. But there were those tears on Hiro’s face, and there was Hana, leaning over the parapet of the monastery, trying to see what was happening – distance was nothing to him now, and he was beside her as soon as he thought it, was the rain in her hair and on her neck. He could see the love in her eyes.
He was the love in her eyes; it was for him and from him – he could see that now.
And he would not leave her.
Purposeful now, he turned his gaze – and his gaze encompassed everything, so it wasn’t so much a case of turning as of adjustin
g what he was looking at, the level of granularity, and he was looking down on Lord Oda, into Lord Oda. He was interested in how he, Taro, had managed to stop the sword only by wishing for it to stop. Before, at the Tendai monastery, when he had tried to control anyone else he had found it impossible.
There was a flicker inside Lord Oda, like a candle flame in darkness, or a lick of fire inside a brazier. He narrowed his gaze. Then the flicker came again and it was beating, he realized, with his own heart.
Whoosh-boom, whoosh-boom, whoosh-boom.
Oh, gods, he thought.
He extended his spirit to the flicker and felt it pulse back, leaning, as if to rejoin him.
It’s me. The flicker is me.
He understood then. He had turned Lord Oda into a vampire; it was his blood that had changed the daimyo and given him his power – so there was a part of Lord Oda that was forever Taro.
In that moment, it was as if a shoji window had been torn down, and light came pouring in. Taro saw other flickers inside Lord Oda, candle flames, other spirits – for that was what they were – and these ones did not beat in rhythm with Taro’s heart. They were victims, people killed and drunk by Lord Oda, and there were many of them, their blood coursing through Lord Oda’s body along with his own, imprisoned, unhappy.
He’d known he could see ghosts, of course – he’d saved Hayao that way, he’d been haunted by his own mother. But he’d never thought to look inside a person for them, to delve into their being. Lord Oda carried the men he’d killed in his own blood – Taro had just seen him do it, take the whole life force of a person, kill him and drink his fill. It must have given him great strength, but it had made him a vessel, too, for the spirits of others.
It was a weakness.
Taro didn’t know why, but he shifted his focus again and took himself under the monastery, and into the cells. He had an idea that when he was in the ball, ordinary time stopped, and so he had no concern for his neck. He peered down at Shusaku, the ninja sitting anxiously on a cushion, awaiting news of the battle.