Judas (The Iscariot Warrior Series Book 1)

by Roy Bright

  At the time of their meeting, Judas was no beginner with a sword, but the lessons learned from the Prince, his Master, would see the guard become one of the fiercest and deadliest warriors in Japan.

  Without warning, he stopped; something was wrong. He felt uneasy.

  Although it was the most tranquil of days and the sun shone down in a warming flow that made the very air smell of summer, there was a darkness creeping; moving over the field and its occupants like a thin veil drawn over a body ready to begin its journey to the other side. It was a feeling he had experienced before.

  He returned his hand to the hilt of his sword and placed his right hand across the chest of the Emperor. He looked across towards Princess Hitari, now very much aware that he was too far away to protect both boy and woman and this bothered him a great deal.

  The Guard Commander turned, once again noticing his halt. The Captain’s posture worried him and he let out a small sharp hiss, raising his open left hand into the air then closing it into a fist.

  Six guards rushed to the Princess and her entourage of three maidens, enveloping them in a cage of armor and steel, their left hands grasping the handles of their swords, thumbs cocked under the hilt guards ready to spring the blade upwards at the first sign of trouble.

  Judas was poised in the exact same way save for his right hand across the Emperor.

  The Commander edged towards him. He knew his Captain all too well to misread any sign he was giving off. If there was trouble, this man would sense it. He was always right… always. He now stood at his Captain’s side, not looking at him but instead, scanning the fields for signs of movement, his left hand also in a position of ready around the handle of his sword.

  “What is it, Gaijin? What do you sense?” the gruff old man asked.

  No one in the Palace Court had ever heard Judas referred to by his real name. He had taken the adopted name given to him of Gaijin (its literal translation being ‘outsider’), almost the very moment he arrived in Court following saving Prince Akihiko and his family.

  The old man’s gaze never ceased scanning the fields for the slightest hint of danger, awaiting a response to the question posed. Commander Waturu’s eyes may have seen many dawns and settings of suns but they had also seen an almost equal share of battles. This tall man, of long grey beard and hair to match held at the top of his head in a bun, was not a man with which to trifle, and any enemy would do so at his own peril. He was dressed almost identical to Judas, the only difference being the choice of color for his hitatare was light grey with a black silk belt. Unlike Judas however, Waturu also carried a small sword, better known as a Wakizashi, through his belt as a secondary weapon. His right hand now thumbed along the smaller blade’s handle.

  “Something…” Judas’ voice was soft and quiet. “Something is here.”

  Once again a breeze gusted up around them although this time a little stronger than before, the hissing of the tall grass the only sound between the two men and the boy.

  Judas sprang into life, flicking his sword out of his sheath, drawing it to full stretch whilst spinning around in a complete circle right to left as a lone Ninja leapt up out of the tall grass, seeming.

  The Captain’s blade arced around with such force and quick reflexes that his enemy stood no chance as his head detached from his body. The corpse fell to the ground with a thud, its head landing almost on top of it.

  He flicked and spun the blade through the air once again holding it out straight in front of him, moving around the Emperor in a circular motion as the grass exploded around them and six more Ninja erupted from the silver sea and crashed into a stance.

  Everybody froze. This was a standoff. The wind twisted and bent through the throng of warriors, all stood motionless, eyes darting back and forth searching for the first sign that someone would break the spell.

  The tall silver grass swayed between them, swishing as the breeze conducted it in a beautiful show of nature. Again, magnolia tree petals joined in the dance. A dance macabre, as death waited to split the silence.

  It was broken only in vision alone, as one of the six Ninja raced at the group of guards protecting the princess and thrust his sword into the throat of the one closest to Hitari’s front before the man had time to react. He twisted the sword to the left and pulled it back with great force, dragging the guard forward to create a gap through which to strike at the princess.

  Judas had understood the attacker’s intention and spun his body removing Waturu’s Wakizashi from his belt. He hurled it at the Ninja.

  The blade pierced the throat of the assassin, entering from the right and burying its way deep into the esophagus causing him to grasp at it. Gurgling and retching, he fell to the ground. In the five seconds that it had taken the attacker to strike and then be killed, the rest of the assassins had charged.

  Judas grabbed the Emperor under his right arm and sped towards the group shielding the princess. He shouted out Hitari’s name, causing the princess to turn to her left, just in time to see the Captain hurl the boy into the air, over the heads of the foremost guards and into the arms of his sister. At the same time, the guards braced themselves for attack and parried the first strikes from the Ninja, swiftly closing ranks to seal the gap created by the first’s violent attack.

  One of the Ninja probed to find a weakness, attempting to thrust his sword through a gap between the heads of the two guards that Judas had just thrown the boy over.

  But Judas was quick to react. He brought his katana down on that of the Ninja’s with such force that it caused the attacker’s blade to fall short of the guards, burying it deep into the ground. He then spun a full turn to his right, bringing his sword around with him, decapitating him with one fierce blow. The move not yet complete, he spun the sword from back to front in his left hand, forcing it down with vicious fury, slicing a third attacker’s arms clean in two midway up his wrists, the sword he was holding dropping to the ground, hands still gripped around it.

  In a perfect finish to the move, fluid in execution, he spun a final time, again from right to left, arcing his sword over and down towards the fourth enemy. This time however, his target was equal to the attack and met the sword with his own, inches from his face as the two became locked together, almost nose-to-nose, steel against steel, forming a quivering cross.

  As Judas was decapitating the second Ninja, Waturu had sprung into action. What he lacked in speed compared to that of his Captain, he made up for in sheer brute force and like a charging rhino, had launched himself at the two Ninja attacking from the right side of the procession.

  The first tried to block him in an attempt to return a counterattack but this proved fruitless.

  The powerful man punted him with such force that he was sent hurling sideways five feet, lifting him clean off the floor in the process.

  The second Ninja attacked as Waturu drew his sword.

  The Commander turned, moving his right shoulder back, pushing his left shoulder forward and the thrusting sword caught him on the left cheek, slicing deep into the skin; it was not his first wound of this nature. He brought his own sword up with his left hand and with a loud clink, lifted the Ninja’s up and away.

  The Ninja slid to his left. He seemed to shimmer, moving as though his form were blurred.

  This one’s fast thinks Waturu, so I had best be smart.

  The Ninja fleeted at the Commander.

  A blurry streak whizzed past him and his left arm spurted crimson liquid, arcing outwards and down.

  Waturu whipped around to face his attacker who was now on the opposite side.

  He rushed again.

  This time the old man’s right leg suffered the same as his arm and he went down onto one knee.

  The assassin turned and streaked in for a final, decisive blow. He exhaled as the Commander’s katana plunged deep into his chest.

  The Ninja had succumbed to the prowess of an experienced man feigning mortal injury.

  As the Ninja advanced for a
final time, Waturu had rotated to his right on his grounded knee and lifted his sword straight into the air, into the path of the Ninja who was moving too fast for his own good, piercing the assassins heart, ending him.

  Waturu rose to his feet, the man still attached to his blade. He leaned into his wide-eyed face and whispered, “You are not ready to defeat me, so I release you from having to try again.” He lifted his right foot into his midsection and pushed him away, removing him from his sword. Flicking his katana in the direction of the dead man, removing excess blood from his blade, Waturu lifted his head and moved his attention from that of the man at his feet to the direction of the princess and Emperor.

  They stared back. They were fine.

  Judas peered into the eyes of the attacker with whom he found himself locked swords. This one was different, quicker; deadlier. Everything about these eyes reeked of death and this bothered him.

  He was not worried for himself. No! Any part of his body cut off or wounded would return to normal a few minutes later, nor was he worried about receiving damage from this attacker; he was worried for the safety of the princess, the Emperor and all the other members of the group. This Ninja was beyond them all.

  He continued to stare into the eyes, their foulness nauseating and sickening him to the pit of his stomach.

  They flashed from brown to yellow, their intensity growing as the voice attached to them emanated a cackle of pure evil.

  This was not the first time he had seen eyes such as these. Such eyes had laughed at him, tormented him, tried to recruit him and had promised that he would rule in hell, not serve in heaven. He had seen these eyes before.

  A silence befell them that seemed to span an eternity when in reality, it had been nothing more than a mere second. Time had slowed to an almost standstill around the pair. The body of an assassin, whose heart had been pierced by a warrior older, more cunning and much smarter than himself, was falling to the ground in slow motion. The guards surrounding the royal pair were moving their heads from side to side searching for other enemies, their transition from left to right slow and poetic.

  The demon hissed.

  “Ahhh, the Iscariot warrior, the protector of women and children.”

  It cackled.

  “Still a servant to the whimsical nature of others, destined to be a downtrodden dog for all eternity.”

  The demonic laugh intensified and rose in pitch.

  “I am not a dog,” Judas affirmed. “And you’d be wise to watch your tongue demon, or I shall be forced to remove it for you.”

  The demon now roared with laughter.

  “And how will you do that, Iscariot if you cannot see?”

  Its yellow eyes exploded like a solar flare, blinding and causing him to move his left arm up to shield his eyes. His instincts kicked in and he swiped out his sword in the hope that he would slit the vile creature’s throat. As his eyes began to repair and his blurred vision returned, he was ever conscious of the need to get back into the fight as fast as possible. He expected to hear the sound of battle from behind him, the sound of the demon tearing the others to pieces. Instead, he felt the sharp familiar pain of his body taking damage as his right hand fell to the ground. He let out a sharp cry. His arm may repair in seconds but this form of trauma hurt a great deal, every time.

  The demon chuckled.

  Out of sheer preservation, he lifted his sword and thrust it in the direction of the laughter. The blade met flesh and drove into bone.

  The demon screamed, all the while still laughing.

  He forced the blade deeper into his foe’s chest and leaned into him, “You’ve lost, demon. I’m going to remove this blade then take off your head and you can return to whatever circle of hell spewed you forth.”

  “Lost, have I?” it replied, pleased with itself. “Lost? My dear Iscariot, my mission here was not to try to defeat you, nor any of the important ones for that matter. My orders were to show these pathetic creatures who you really were. You have become far too comfortable from your endeavors with this wretched family. That is against the rules and you know it. Even those of light rely on those of darkness to put an… end to such things.” He whispered the final four words to him, whispered them with glee and menace.

  The stark realization of the demon’s plan now revealed itself. His vision almost restored, he turned to see the mass of people staring at him, terrified. The hand that used to adorn the end of his wrist now nothing more than dust on the ground; in its place bubbled and molded a new one, its formation almost complete. He was aware that those he had sworn to protect and people he regarded as friends now recoiled in horror. He knew all too well what this meant. This portion of his life was over. That had been the true nature of the demon’s ploy. He screamed in anger, then pulled the sword out of its chest and lifted it high above his head. He took a step back and swung the sword down and across, severing the demon’s head clean at the neck.

  It laughed the entire time.

  Commander Waturu snarled. “What are you? Are you a demon?”

  “No.” He replied, his tone somber, his back to the Commander, “I am just a man, a man who had made a terrible mistake. But now I must leave those whom I love, as once again, that mistake returns to haunt me.” He turned to the questioning faces.

  The guards returned to a defensive stance, ready to repel an attack.

  It was an attack that would never come.

  Judas looked into Hitari’s eyes. She longed back at him, her eyes flooded with tears.

  “Captain?” The Emperor said, the young boy’s confusion evident.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he replied, “but to my great dishonor I must abandon your father’s wishes and go away. No one will understand. I have been given my warning and I must obey it.”

  “But, who will protect me now?” sobbed the boy.

  Waturu moved to the boy’s side and placed a hand on his left shoulder.

  Judas smiled and nodded at him.

  No one spoke. Another standoff. A peaceful standoff. A silent standoff to say goodbye.

  Judas returned his sword to its sheath, then turned around and picked up the demon’s, placing it into his obi.

  Commander Waturu pointed to him, “You must not take another man’s sword from the field of battle, it must be returned to his family; it is honor.”

  He moved his head a little to speak over his right shoulder. “This was no man, you wouldn’t ever want to meet his family and this creature possessed no honor. The sword belongs to me now.”

  The Commander’s eyes widened as the body at Judas’ feet began to wither and fade into dust.

  Judas stared at it for a moment, then walked away.

  Princess Hitari broke through the guards and shouted out to him, “Gaijiiiiiiiin!”

  It would be the last time she ever saw the man she loved.

  He did not look round and he did not call back.

  He kept on walking.

  Five

  Charlotte hunkers down low. She is trying to curtail her breathing, mindful of the menacing force stalking the hallways, searching the rooms one by one, hunting her. She has taken refuge in Father Mallory’s huge office, hiding underneath a small drawer of his large oak desk, behind the left of two large wood panels.

  The desk sits just in front of a window at the opposite end to the doorway from which she scuttled in; its surface sparse, save for a telephone and a neat stack of documents, awaiting the Father’s necessary officialdom.

  She is afraid. In fact, she is terrified. The unspeakable act which she has just bore witness to, has her feeling lost. She draws her knees up to her chest and wraps both her arms around them, whilst at the same time burying her head into the ridge between them in an attempt to stifle the whimpering that threatens to overrun the slender control of calm she is holding onto. Her eyes well up as her thoughts turn to the Sister Marie.

  The woman was more than a guardian to the girl, she had felt like her very own mother. Charlotte didn’t
care if she wasn’t. Sister Marie had loved her as though she was and had always been there for her, much more than the one who had abandoned her. What was to become of her now?

  Hope seeps from the child at an alarming rate.

  She pushes her face deeper into her knees, eyes shut tight. She wants to drift away and forget about this moment, this place, this horror. Her eyes open wide as she hears the sound of patting claws on the corridor floor. This is close, too close. It is just outside the door. She cannot breathe. A large knot grows in her chest, preventing her from carrying out a function that is second nature. She wants to cry, but the struggle to breathe coupled with her body’s instinctive reaction to shed tears has her respiratory system locked in a stalemate.

  She panics.

  Something has to give.

  She draws in a sharp breath.

  Aware of the noise, she throws her hands up to her mouth, cupping it in an attempt to suppress the sound.

  The patting outside the room stops and her heart almost does the same.

  A form looms up at the doorway, silhouetted in the frosted window that bears Father Mallory’s name. It turns its head left and right. Searching, attempting to pinpoint the faint sound that had drawn its attention. A dry chuckle filters through the doorframe.

  She closes her eyes, once again wishing the world to disappear around her, to be gone from this nightmare. A voice follows the chuckle. A maniacal voice that puts her in mind of one she once heard in a movie about a flying car on its journey into a magical far-off land. Of a man who had wanted to catch children by enticing them out of their hideaways with promises of treats and candy.

  “Where are you, child? Come out now and I promise not to kill you.”

  It laughs once again. A wicked laugh, clear in meaning the opposite of the promise it has just declared.

  There is a long silence.

  She continues to hold her hands to her mouth. She hasn’t breathed for almost thirty seconds.

  Her lungs burn and pulse as their reaction to draw in oxygen is overpowering, overwhelming. To succumb now would without doubt mean the end of her. She draws her eyes shut even tighter.