The Betrayal of the Living

by Nick Lake

  A pause.

  ‘Why do you want the sword?’

  Taro’s mind raced. He couldn’t say he wanted it to kill a dragon, not if he wanted to live. Though he thought his chances of surviving this encounter were slim at best. He said the next thing that came into his mind. ‘I want to claim the throne.’

  A sensation of warm air on his face as the dragon brought its head closer to him.

  ‘So. At last one of the Heike has come to claim Kusanagi. You are Heike, are you not? I smell it in your blood.’

  Taro stared. The ground in front of him had been bubbling; now it had cooled to a glassy texture, an awesome testimony to the fire’s heat. The dragon was fixing him with an unreadable expression. ‘I’m...’ Taro stopped. It was said that some of the Heike had escaped the general slaughter, the drowning of their entire clan. Might they not have settled in Shirahama, where their family died? It was possible, he supposed, that he might be descended from them. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, in the end.

  ‘I do,’ said the dragon. ‘Be grateful you are not Genji. Those of the Genji clan are cursed by the dragons and by Amaterasu. They drowned the youngest of her line.’ The dragon’s tail curled, almost tenderly, around the skeleton of the boy.

  Taro’s confusion was deepening by the moment. ‘What happens now?’ he asked. ‘Will you kill me?’ The idea didn’t scare him. Instead it filled him with frustration, thinking of all the things he still hadn’t done. For some reason, one of the images that came to his mind was that of the boy shogun, who shouldn’t be sitting on that throne. It should be me, he thought. I wouldn’t starve the people with rice taxes and feed their young men to the monster of war.

  ‘Not for the moment. Though I presume you wish to use it to kill my cousin of the earth.’

  Taro opened and closed his mouth.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I have no love for my cousin. The truth is that the dragon in question is mad. Long ago a magician imprisoned him up there on Mount Fuji, which was better for everyone. Now someone has set him free. Someone dangerous, I think.’

  ‘You’re saying... someone deliberately woke the dragon?’ Taro had assumed that it had begun to plague the region above Edo on a whim, or because of some grudge against the shogun.

  ‘Oh, very definitely. It would not be accidental. That dragon is a killer, pure and simple, mad with rage against humanity. The bonds that were on it were more powerful than you can imagine.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now the only thing that can kill it is Kusanagi, as you know, or you would not be here.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Taro. ‘Will you give me the sword, or not?’

  ‘I guard Kusanagi on behalf of Amaterasu, the kindly one,’ said the dragon. ‘You would not be here if you were not pure of heart; the Princess would not have brought you. I would give it to you, if I could, if it was mine to do so. But even the pure of heart are corrupted by power, and there is an old curse on this sword. To claim it, there is a sacrifice that has to be made.’

  ‘A curse?’

  ‘Yes. Anyone who claims the sword pays with the thing they love. You have heard of Susanoo, who took it from the tail of the dragon he slew?’

  Taro nodded.

  ‘And his wife, the kami girl he married afterwards? I see you have. But did you also know that she died, some time afterwards, while bearing Susanoo his first and only son? The son died too.’

  ‘No,’ said Taro. ‘No, I didn’t know.’ It was something that was never told in the tale of Susanoo.

  ‘And the Heike, of course. Susanoo broke the curse by giving the sword to his sister Amaterasu, and she in turn gifted it to the emperors of her line. But the Heike seized all power in the capital, made the boy emperor nothing but a figurehead. They sought to own the sword. It destroyed them, in the end. So you see, even if you are Heike, which is better than being Genji, it does not give you the power to hold the sword without paying.’

  Taro looked at the sword. ‘So in order to claim it, I must make a sacrifice.’

  ‘Yes. You can have Kusanagi. But in return, you must give up the thing you hold most dear.’

  Taro thought for a moment. ‘And what is that?’

  He had the impression it was approval that he was feeling from the dragon. ‘A good question. It is I who choose. I can look into your mind.’ Taro felt a prickly, cold sensation inside his head and understood that the dragon had reached in there, with invisible tendrils. The coldness wrapped itself around a single idea in Taro’s mind, a single name. The dragon spoke again. ‘And I will remain in your mind forever, once you take the sword. I am well placed to know what you love the most.’

  Taro shrank back, hating the idea that the dragon was inside his head, listening to his thoughts, as well as speaking. ‘Hana?’ he said softly. It was the thought that the dragon had coiled itself around inside his mind, the core of his being.

  The dragon rested its head on its scaled body, closed its eyes. ‘Yes.’

  Taro shook his head. ‘No. I won’t let anyone else die. No. I refuse. You can keep the sword.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the dragon languidly. ‘She wouldn’t die.’

  ‘She... wouldn’t?’

  ‘No. She would live. She would be happy even, at least a little. And you would continue to love her. But from the moment you claimed the sword, she would never love you in return.’

  Taro swallowed, his throat dry. He tried to remember why he wanted the sword in the first place. To kill the dragon at Edo and claim the reward. To be a daimyo and be able to marry Hana. If he accepted the sea dragon’s bargain, that would never happen; Hana would never love him. But was that the only reason? He searched his soul, knowing the answer already: it wasn’t.

  No. The other reason lay in the sight of the shogun firing arrows into running dogs; it lay in the starvation of peasants giving over more than half their rice to the country’s ruler. It even lay in the sight of a drowned village; the understanding that all actions have consequences. He had known it, deep down, but had not admitted it to himself until this moment: he did want the throne. He would be better, he thought, than the shogun.

  He would be just; he would be fair.

  He would accept his destiny.

  Then, too, there was the fact that Hana was lost to him anyway. He had bitten her; he would surely do so again, if they lay together. He could never marry her, even if he didn’t bargain away her heart. So what would be different?

  He fixed the dragon’s blue eyes with his and stepped forward, in the direction of the sword on the stone.

  ‘I accept,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 35

  IT WAS RAINING lightly when Taro broke the surface.

  The sword, his destiny, was in his hand.

  The sun was lower in the sky, approaching the tops of the mountains to the west, and the whole bay was bathed in mist. Only the glowing contours of the land were visible, in the pale greyness. He trod water, the sword held above the surface of the sea, looking for the boat. He saw, at last, that it had drifted a little way off, and he swam awkwardly towards it. It was hard, with the sword in the air – his shoulder muscles burned.

  When he pulled himself up on the wooden side of the boat, he saw that Hana was huddled in the bottom of the boat, weeping. She looked so miserable, so vulnerable, that all he wanted was to take her in his arms, but he reminded himself that she was lost to him. She looked up, as he dropped the sword into the boat, and screamed.

  ‘Taro!’ She threw herself forward, seized his arms, and pulled him into the boat, all the time saying his name, over and over. Now that he was out of the sea he could smell the land on her, the scent of pine and earth. Her big eyes were wet with tears. ‘Oh, gods, I thought you were dead,’ she said. ‘You were gone so long, and then when the boat kept drifting I just stopped caring. I couldn’t live without you.’

  ‘You couldn’t...’ He glanced at the sword, not understanding. Had the dragon lied?

  ‘No,’ said Hana. ‘I love
you, Taro. I’m sorry I’ve been so cold with you.’

  Taro felt a warmth expanding in his chest, like the rising sun. ‘I love you, too,’ he said. He was amazed – it seemed the curse was broken. He remembered again the meeting with the prophetess, the foster mother of Heiko and Yukiko. She had told him he would be shogun, that he had a destiny. For the first time he allowed himself to believe, really believe, that it might be true. If the prophecy was enough to break a curse so old, it must be powerful indeed.

  Gently brushing one of Hana’s tears from her cheek with his thumb, he stroked the curve of her jaw. Her hair was in disarray; he took a stray strand and tucked it behind her perfect ear. At the back of his mind was a worry – what would happen if they tried to go further? But he pushed that worry down. Then he leaned towards her and kissed her, and the world disappeared for an unmeasurable period of time.

  Eventually he broke away, feeling the chill in the sea air. They should get back to land. He still had the throne to claim, and after that, who knew? There were other vampires, like the woman who owned the strange brothel, where ordinary people paid to have their blood sucked. Maybe he could find someone to help him; maybe there was a way of controlling his urges when... when in bed with the woman he loved. Shusaku had been unable to help. But Shusaku had loved only one woman, and that was before he was a vampire. It was not surprising that he should not know the answer.

  Feeling reinvigorated and hopeful, Taro picked up the oars and began to row towards shore. That was when he saw, looming out of the mist and gaining on them quickly, a black ship.

  He rowed desperately, feverishly, but the ship was on them, and there was no escaping it.

  He could see its flag now, a shapeless thing of black and red.

  Then, with a strangled cry, he recognized it. With it came the loss of all hope, the end of his stupid idea that Shusaku might have found a way to be the Death-of-Enma, to kill Kenji Kira finally and for the last time.

  It was Shusaku’s skin.

  CHAPTER 36

  ‘KEEP ROWING,’ said Taro. ‘It’s me they want.’

  He handed the oars to Hana, squeezing past her in the boat. Kusanagi he left in the bottom. He didn’t want Kenji Kira getting his hands on that, too; he already suspected that the mist in the air came from the Buddha ball. Kira would have taken it from Shusaku, of course he would.

  This is bad, thought Taro. He put his short-sword in its sheath on his hip. Hana tried to stop him as he went, clutching at his cloak.

  He shrugged it off and dived into the water, even colder this time. He swam quickly, in a crawl, heading for the fast-moving ship. With the ship moving towards him as he swam, they met quickly, but Taro was low in the water – it seemed they hadn’t seen him dive, because no arrows came sizzling down at him. The mist worked both ways.

  Skirting the ship’s prow, he let its broad side slice through the water beside him, looking for a handhold. Barnacles scraped his skin, slime oozed under his fingers. The wooden hull was going by too quickly; he wouldn’t find a way up. But then he saw a mooring rope, hanging down just out of reach. His nails had grown long since they had left the monastery. Gritting his teeth, he dug his fingers into the side of the ship and hauled his weight up; instantly several of his nails broke and he choked off a scream, but managed to cling on. He brought all his qi into a ball in his stomach, as Shusaku had taught him, then threw himself upward, stretching out his right hand.

  The rope slipped through his fingers, just out of—

  His hand clamped down on it, and he struck the hull, dangling. He got his other hand on the rope and pulled himself up, arm over arm. There was no time to waste. As soon as he reached the top he vaulted over, drawing his short-sword in the same movement. He could see that Kenji Kira’s men were used to attacking, not being attacked. They stood around in disorganized groups, looking towards the front of the ship. He impaled one through the heart before any of them even turned, the body striking the deck as its nearest companion rounded on Taro, shouting a warning.

  The warning was cut off – literally. The head rolled along the deck, and off it into the sea.

  Another of them came at Taro with a club. Swords were expensive; looking around, Taro could see more sticks, chains, clubs and spears. He sidestepped a down-sweep from the club, noting with a kind of distant horror the mouldering flesh of the man wielding it, the pungent stink that rose from him. This was one of the dead ones. He blocked another strike and was shocked by the impact that echoed through him – he was used to blocking swords, not heavy bludgeoning weapons. At the same time someone struck his knee from behind – he went down hard, and the club, at least he thought it was a club, hit him in the head. Night sky exploded in his skull.

  Blindly, he swept his sword at ankle level, felt it bite through flesh and bone. A body joined him on the deck, wide-open eyes staring at him in agony, thrashing. A live one, then. Taro jumped to his feet, just as the club struck him in the left arm, numbing it. He let it dangle uselessly at his side, stumbled a little for effect. The dead man wielding the club swung it at Taro’s head – Taro ducked, suddenly moving at full speed, never taking his eyes off the man, and struck. Taro’s first blow bit deep into the man’s shoulder and neck, and the man staggered, but kept coming. His club was rising up again when Taro struck from the other side, as if felling a tree, and the man’s head lolled back, attached now only by skin.

  He wasn’t sure if that would be the end for an already dead man, but he thought it was probably good enough, so he turned his attention to the other—

  An arrow embedded itself in his chest, just below the heart. Then a sword or something sharp slashed his back; he staggered, reeling. The world began to fade and fray at the edges. They were all round him now, leering, gnashing their teeth. He thrust his sword through the belly of one, but it only grinned harder, and he concluded from this that it was one of the dead. The putrefaction was unequal; some of them appeared almost like living people, and some of them obviously were. He could smell blood, could hear it beating. Unlike Shusaku, he could not see people with his vampire senses, but he was aware of them, of their heat and life.

  Wait.

  One of those he had hurt was a living man, wasn’t he? He glanced at the ground, saw the severed feet. Repressing his revulsion, he snapped the arrow at his chest, then threw himself at the ground, just as a spear that would have pierced his heart passed over him. The deck was slick with blood. He put his mouth to it, licking it. Already his back and chest were burning, fiercely hot as they healed.

  He rolled, clutching his sword tight, and came up with a diagonal slash, cutting through the thigh of one of the men and the torso of his neighbour. They both fell back, and he went for the opening, following them, parrying and swinging. One of them went down; he aimed a final thrust at the heart. Another man jumped over the one on the ground, a nailed stick of some kind in his hand. He swung it at Taro’s head, and Taro only just moved aside in time – a nail tore through his ear, and he felt it throb with pain. He whipped his sword back and then forward, heard a strangled scream from behind him as the blade came round again, biting into the throat of the one who had hit him. He had been stupid, climbing onto the ship, he realized. He hadn’t even seen Kenji Kira yet; he was just focusing on each man in turn, his world reduced to a series of images and sounds; rage-filled faces, weapons arcing through the air; clashes and screams.

  Someone grabbed his arms from behind. He twisted, got a glimpse of a black-clad figure and—

  Too late.

  A sharp, hard point pressed into his neck. A shobi ring, he realized. It was a ninja weapon, meant to strike a pressure point and cut off blood flow to the heart.

  It worked.

  Some time later he blinked up from the deck, where he was lying on his back. He flexed his hand automatically – no sword. He was looking up into the skull-face of Kenji Kira, who was standing next to a man in black. A ninja. His face was wrapped in black cloth, and Taro could see that it wasn’t just
for anonymity. Greenish, rotting flesh showed through the gaps in the folds.

  Kira clapped his hands, and Hana was dragged into Taro’s field of view. She looked furious. Kira turned to the ninja, who handed him a knife. He touched it to Hana’s throat.

  ‘I was going to marry her,’ he said conversationally. ‘But since she won’t tell me where the sword is, I thought I could use her to make you tell me. We searched your little peasant boat, to no avail.’

  Taro frowned at Hana. He’d left the sword in the boat, with her. What had happened to it? Why hadn’t Kira found it when he seized her? She shook her head, very slightly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Taro. ‘I didn’t find anything when I dived.’

  Kenji Kira made a slow gesture of pity. ‘Tell me. Or she dies.’

  ‘What do you want it for? You have the ball. Just kill me.’

  ‘Oh, the ball,’ said Kira. He reached into his cloak, took it out. ‘It’s an amusing trinket. But the sword? Kusanagi? It could give me the throne. The current shogun’s line is protected by his possession of the three sacred objects. Only if a person were to prove that one of those was a fake – the most important one too – could they hope to break the succession.’ He tossed the ball from hand to hand, then put it away again.

  Taro stared at him, appalled at the idea of Kenji Kira ruling Japan. He saw Hana shake her head again. He ignored her. ‘All right. I recovered the sword. But I honestly don’t know where it is now,’ he said. ‘I had it and then—’

  He was interrupted by Hana, who let out a piercing scream. He turned to look at her. She was gazing intently at Kenji Kira, naked anger in her eyes. To Taro, she had never looked so beautiful. She spat towards him. ‘You. You are nothing,’ she said. ‘A travesty. But I?’ She emphasized the next three words, so that they came out as separate sentences.

  ‘I. Am. Samurai. Come find me in death, if you must.’

  She grabbed the arm of the man holding the knife to her neck, and lunged suddenly, viciously forward, a war cry on her lips. Blood spurted.