Japan, AD 1579
This was no ordinary job.
Lightning split the sky above Azuchi Castle, thunder rolled and the rain became a downpour of hellish proportions. The castle was the primary fortress of the warlord Nobunaga, Daimyo of the Owari Province and ruler of the Oda clan. For a Japanese castle it was revolutionary in design: a massive structure, with walls up to six metres thick in places, constructed from giant granite blocks. It had a seven-storey central donjon tower, while irregularly formed inner citadels provided defenders with ample strategic positions against intruders.
The castle’s location was also novel. Unlike other castles – usually at the base of mountains surrounded by dense vegetation – Azuchi Castle was situated on the flattened top of a mountain, affording the Oda clan a wide view of any approaching enemy. Of course, it was staffed by Nobunaga’s greatest warriors, his most trusted samurai and loyal foot soldiers. It was widely considered impregnable. Only a fool would mount an attack upon it.
This was no ordinary job.
Kuro flitted from shadow to shadow, dancing from beam to beam as he clung to the ceiling of the middle citadel. Then he was on the wall once more, a black-garbed killer creeping like a tarantula, while the guards far below were oblivious. He found the chink in the armour that he was looking for: a narrow gap, left in the wall for ventilation, intended to be too small for a man to crawl through. A normal-sized man at least. Kuro was on his belly, dislocating a shoulder to fit through the fissure, slithering like an adder through the narrowest of gaps towards the inner citadel.
Given added cover by the greatest storm for many a year, he left a trail of bodies in his wake, stretching back to the tiny provisions dock where the river ran past the base of the mountain. On the stairs, the walls, the watchtowers, the courtyard, the outer citadel and onward into the castle; death had been dealt every step of the way. The bodies were hidden, stowed in bushes and barrels, cupboards and crawl spaces. Nobody would discover them until Kuro was long gone and his job complete. The ninja was death: unstoppable, unforgiving, silent and emotionless.
Oda Nobunaga had made many enemies among the nearby clans, and the other feudal warlords were unified in their hatred of their neighbour. His success and stranglehold on the region had driven his enemies into collusion, and rival clans had pooled resources to hire the greatest ninja Japan had ever known. Indeed, the most powerful man in all Japan was one of his employers.
This would be Kuro’s final job. After this, a new life awaited. His katana would be put on the shelf. The fee would not only set him up for life, but also smooth the path of a hundred generations of his bloodline. One last job – his biggest ever – that he’d been planning for six months. And now it was almost complete.
He emerged from the ventilation passage into the central citadel of the castle from above, sliding through the bamboo rafters that supported the ceiling. He reached for the blowpipe inside his jerkin, fingers finding the clip of darts upon his belt. The vaulted chamber was more than eighteen metres high, filling five floors of the donjon tower.
Far below, Nobunaga stood beside his war table, upon which a map was spread. Three of his most able generals stood to attention at his back, awaiting their master’s call. Key military points were marked out upon the enormous scroll: all Nobunaga’s strategies played out in miniature before he put them into action on the battlefield.
The warlord straightened, pleased with his evening’s plotting. He turned to his generals, only to find them slumped on the floor in a jumbled heap. Nobunaga’s jaw yawned open and disbelief was writ upon his face. The warlord cried out, raising the alarm as a figure coalesced from the shadows before him, peeling away from the darkness that shrouded the walls. Kuro sprang forward, brandishing his katana before him in a downward slash.
‘Emperor Ōgimachi sends his regards!’
The sword never struck Nobunaga. The warlord spun backwards, narrowly evading the blade as it sent sparks off the flagged floor. His samurai guard burst into the room, rushing the ninja and parrying his blows. They forced him back, away from his target and out of the central citadel, a horrified Nobunaga following the melee from a safe distance.
Kuro’s mission had failed. All he could do was retreat. Passing a window, he leapt, shattering the glass, and found himself on one of the castle’s many terracotta rooftops. The samurai guard followed, roared on by their master. Kuro danced, dodging katanas and arrows, the rain lashing his face as he neared the edge of the roof. Beyond, nothing: just the night, the storm and the darkness. Kuro jumped out into the void.
‘Kill him!’ screamed Nobunaga, but it was too late.
The ninja vanished before their eyes in a flash of blue light, leaving Japan’s most powerful warlord reconsidering his allegiances, thanking his deity and questioning the impregnability of his greatest fortress.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Trick fought back the rising panic, breathing hard within his sackcloth hood. He had no idea where he was being taken, as the man in black had blindfolded and bound him once they’d escaped the bedlam of the Broken Shield. Their pace had been hurried, with the stranger shoving him frequently, urging Trick onward whenever he slowed. They had descended steps and the sound of dripping water echoed around the cold corridors they traversed.
Through his blindfold, Trick could tell that daylight had been replaced by torchlight, glimpsing flickering flames through the thick hessian shroud. Occasionally Trick heard voices, muttered greetings, as his captor passed acquaintances. None seemed concerned that he dragged a boy along as his captive. Trick eventually detected the ground underfoot change from slippery rock and stone to floorboard and carpet.
‘Well then, Kuro! Take the bag off. Let’s see what you caught!’
Trick felt the hood’s cord slacken, then it was whipped off, leaving him momentarily blinded. His hands remained bound behind his back as he slowly blinked, taking in the surroundings. They were in a cavernous, man-made chamber, the ceiling supported by ornate stone columns. Some of the walls were honeycombed with openings, within which the ruined remains of coffins could be seen. A series of waterways criss-crossed the floor, an old forgotten sewer system winding its way through the abandoned tomb. A body floated slowly by face down, a dark trail clouding the water in its wake. Torches burned in sconces and the flickering light playing over the catacombs conjured a Haunted House vibe.
Trick felt as though he was in a Halloween funfair, and the ghoulish mob surrounding him only heightened that effect. They did not wear uniforms, unlike the Skull Army. Instead they were clad in light leather, with studded breastplates, tattered cloaks and dark fatigues. They were a ragtag bunch, and Trick saw them for what they were: burglars, footpads and pickpockets. Kalaban’s warnings rang in his ears and Trick realized with dread that this was the Thieves’ Guild, which meant that their master, Gorgo, wasn’t far away.
The crowd parted as three men strode closer. Two nasty-looking ruffians flanked an ox of a man clad in shining steel. One had a bloated, swollen face, while the other was a rat-faced fellow. The bodyguards hissed, shoving the others aside and kicking them clear as their master followed.
Their leader’s suit of plate armour caught Trick’s eye – it was hard to miss when all the others were dressed in leather. Round his waist he wore a weapon belt loaded with a dozen deadly knives. He held one in a big paw, flicking blood from the blade; he was responsible for the corpse in the water, Trick figured. His black-clothed captor stepped away from him, blending into the shadows of the stone pillars. The armoured man whistled.
‘Eyes off Kuro and back on me, worm. You and your friends caused a stir in the Broken Shield, I hear.’
‘We caused nothing, sir,’ said Trick, remembering to sound respectful. He had to charm this Gorgo, if such a thing were possible.
‘Quit your lying right now. I’m Gorgo, the guildmaster, see? There’s nothing goes on in the docks that I don’t know about, and that includes you and your poxy pals rocking up earlier today.’
&n
bsp; ‘Master of what guild, my lord?’
The big man laughed, the belt of daggers rattling upon his metal hips.
‘The Guild of Thieves, of course! Boarhammer might control what happens above, but below ground, in the sewers, tunnels and warrens that riddle Sea Forge, I’m the boss. There ain’t a crawl space I don’t know about beneath this city. Pipes, worm! The latrines and drains of the poor and the rich – they’re our means of getting everywhere. The Bog Baron, some have called me, but it cost ’em their tongues. If it’s good enough for the rats, it’s good enough for us. Me and my vermin have every square inch of Sea Forge mapped, above the cliffs and below, from the dunnies in the docks to the bath in Boarhammer’s bedchamber. So, when I tell you to speak, you speak, right?’
Trick nodded as the guildmaster continued.
‘You’ve got a hundred heartbeats to spill your story. If I don’t like what I hear, Shiv and Clubb here will get to play with you …’ His two henchmen chuckled, the bigger of the two licking his bulging lips.
Trick cleared his throat as the corpse continued to drift by. He’d never been one for stirring speeches. He looked around the room at the thieves. None of them appeared especially happy, their dour faces reflecting their grim lives. Trick’s mind went back to the gates he’d seen, blocking the cliff road that led up to the city above. The germ of an idea was forming.
‘My name is Trick Hope, sir. I’m not from Sea Forge – you can probably tell – and I’m certainly not here to cause any trouble with you. My beef’s with Boarhammer up there,’ he said, pointing upward.
‘I’ve seen what he and his master have done to the Wildlands. You’ve heard of the village of Warriors Landing?’ There were some grunts of recognition from the assembled thieves. ‘Well, it’s no more. Burned to the ground. Many butchered and those who remained have been enslaved. The Skull Army brought them here. They’re destined for the arena. Entertainment for Boarhammer and his cronies.’
He saw some of them glancing at one another.
‘Can you stand by and let that happen?’ he continued. ‘I know that it’s just some village on the coast, but who’s next? It won’t be long until he starts trawling the docks for more “entertainment”, believe you me.’
‘There’s already been folk disappearing,’ said someone at the rear of the cavernous room. Gorgo glared over his shoulder and growled as Trick carried on.
‘I saw those gates too, on the cliff road. That’s your only way out of here, yeah? I can’t imagine Boarhammer allows any of you guys to climb out of the mire. He wants to keep you where you are, where you know your place. You’re at the bottom of the heap down here, just like everyone in the docks. It’s the same everywhere – sewage rolls downhill, doesn’t it? They’re pooping on you, Boarhammer and his wealthy friends, from on high in Sea Forge city. He needs stopping. The Skull Army need stopping. Am I right? Who’s with me?’
There was a chorus of muttering, even the nodding of heads, until Gorgo yelled angrily.
‘Shut it, you lot! The worm’s had his hundred heartbeats. We’ve heard what he has to say.’
Trick stared at Gorgo hopefully. The guildmaster stepped closer, his armour grating as he loomed over the boy.
‘You come here, filling my lads’ heads with stupid notions. Take on Boarhammer and the Skull Army? In this city? They own Sea Forge, worm. Ain’t nothing happens in this city without Boarhammer’s blessing. That was a good inn, the Broken Shield. Did a lot of business there, I did. Always a balancing act, keeping all those firecrackers, psychopaths and nutjobs in check under the one roof, but we managed, somehow. And you know what’s happened since you and your pals caused your kerfuffle?’
Trick didn’t answer. Gorgo continued.
‘The Skull Army turned it over. Bagged what warriors they could – those they didn’t kill or scare off – and dragged them away to fight in the arena. Then they put a torch to the place. It’s rubble now. You’ve damaged my business, worm. Big time. And you have the gall to ask me to help you? You get my lads riled up looking for a fight, you’re as good as putting the knife in ’em yourself. My lads know their place: by my side, down here, below ground.’
‘But all those people the Skull Army has enslaved – you can help set them free! You have men, weapons. You know the city better than anyone, I reckon.’ Trick looked at Gorgo imploringly. ‘Please, show some kindness, Lord Gorgo. Some charity.’
The big man spat on the floor. ‘Charity begins at home, worm.’ He turned his back on Trick. ‘Shiv! Clubb!’ The two thugs who shadowed the guildmaster suddenly stepped forward, their faces lit up with ugly grins. ‘Take him to Blood Beach and feed him to the carrion crabs. I don’t want his body turning up.’ He then addressed his gang. ‘And, you lot, let this be a lesson. Any thoughts of uprising, of revolt, of taking the fight to Boarhammer up top, you’ll face the same fate.’
Trick was about to beg for mercy, but the henchmen had him in their grasp. Within moments he was being dragged backwards into the darkness towards Blood Beach and the carrion crabs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ Trick said, as the two men bound his torso to a post beneath the jetty. The sand around his feet was littered with bones, many of which were recognizably human. ‘You could always just let me go. Trust me, you’ll never see me again.’
The rat-faced henchman, Shiv, grinned. ‘We won’t see you again this way either. Cheers all the same, but this is much more fun.’
His friend, Clubb, yanked the rope tight, causing Trick to wince. Not for the first time, Trick wished he was back home with his dad. Everything had gone to hell since they’d arrived in Sea Forge. First the fight in the tavern, then getting separated from Toki, Mungo, Kazumi and Zuma. Had they all been bagged by the Skull Army and shipped off to the arena? Were they to fight to the death for the amusement of Boarhammer? And now here he was, tied to a rotten pillar under a pier in the night, about to be fed to carrion crabs, whatever they were. He was without friends or hope. All was lost.
‘Seems a shame to leave him to the crabs, mind,’ muttered Shiv. ‘Would’ve been nice to cut him up a bit first.’
Clubb grunted in agreement as he shambled out from behind the post now that the boy was tied firmly in place. Shiv whipped a ragged length of cloth out of his pocket.
‘Any last words?’
‘Help!’ screamed Trick, regretting it instantly as the thug punched him in the guts. He doubled up, hanging from his bonds, as the rat-faced thief tied the cloth round Trick’s mouth, gagging him.
‘That was a dumb last word, worm,’ said the man, crouching down to pick up a pair of femurs from the sand. He struck them together, and the bones made a ringing sound like a glockenspiel. ‘Dinner time, you horrible crustaceans!’
Trick lifted his chin and looked towards the sea. He saw shapes rising out of the brackish water beneath the pier, dark, barnacle-encrusted domes scuttling closer through the waves. There were three of them, each the size of an upturned wheelbarrow, their enormous pincers emerging from the foaming waves. By the moonlight he could see their twitching mandibles snapping together hungrily as they advanced up the beach towards their meal.
Shiv and Clubb were backing away, laughing, giddy with morbid excitement. Trick squealed, struggled, tried to shake loose the rope, but it was impossible. All the while the burbling chatter of the carrion crabs grew ever louder. They were less than three metres away now, all around the wooden posts as they closed on him.
‘So long, worm,’ said Shiv, turning to climb the stone wall of the docks. He took one step before something hit him from above. A shadowy figure landed on his shoulders and kicked him back down the beach. The rat-faced man flew, bouncing off the post beside Trick and hitting the sand, stunned. Clubb swung his fists at the assailant, but he was too slow as the other man darted beneath the flurry of blows. Trick looked back at the carrion crabs; the three of them were almost upon him now. He kicked out, striking Shiv on the head and makin
g him holler in pain. One of the giant crabs turned towards the fallen thug, leaving two approaching the boy.
Clubb and his enemy were now locked in a vicious, spinning struggle. Clubb had managed to grab hold of the other man and refused to let go. He had him in his grasp now, squeezing hard and trying to crush the life from him. Trick saw the man well enough now: it was Kuro, the rogue who had seized him outside the Broken Shield. He was supposed to be with these men, wasn’t he? And yet now he was fighting against them? Trick might have spent longer considering Kuro’s change of allegiance if it hadn’t been for the pressing business of the giant carnivorous crabs that were about to cut him to pieces.
Shiv screamed as the monster crab jumped on him, its pincers snapping as they went to work. He raised his hands, trying to shield his face from the beast, but his fingers were soon tumbling, chopped into tiny, bloody morsels. Trick turned back to the other two crabs. He kicked again, his boot connecting with one of the monsters as it attempted to slice into him. Another frantic kick sent the other briefly retreating, before it changed its angle of attack. One was coming from the left and one from the right; there was no way he could keep them both back.
Clubb held Kuro tightly as he attempted to crush him against the wall. Kuro’s legs came up; he planted them firmly against the filthy stones and sprang backwards, launching the pair back down the beach. They landed in a heap, the wind knocked from Clubb as he relinquished his hold. Kuro wasted no time in rolling off the brute and dashing towards Trick. He jumped off the shell of the crab that was chopping up Shiv and landed behind the one nearest Trick. Seizing its shell, he strained, grunting, as he hurled it back to where Clubb lay. In a fluid motion, the ninja warrior withdrew his sword. The flashing blade severed both pincers of the third crab as it tried to grab Trick. The crab’s mandibles yawned wide as it staggered clear, squirting inky blood across the grisly beach.
Then Kuro was behind Trick, sawing through the rope that bound him to the post. Trick collapsed forward, but Kuro caught him before he hit the sand and threw him over his shoulder, dancing between the wooden pier pillars as he made for the dock wall. They passed Clubb, wrestling in vain with a carrion crab as it turned his face into a hideous mask. Kuro accelerated, almost running up the stones, unhindered by the burden on his back. He landed with a thud on the docks, letting Trick slide off his shoulder, as they heard the dying cries of the two henchmen left behind on Blood Beach.
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