Lord Oda's Revenge

by Nick Lake

  Where are the guns? thought Taro. He had seen an overwhelming force of fusiliers, when the army was below him in the valley. Now he saw a glimmering mass in the darkness that could have been the body of the army, and these few dozen death-wishers who were running up towards the monks – one less now, for his arrow found its target and sank into a samurai’s groin, felling him.

  Another arrow from below hissed past him, disappearing into the darkness of the hall. He withdrew his head, picked up another arrow, and readied it. Then he rotated round the pillar, aimed—

  —and stopped his hand. The monks below, the ranks and ranks of monks with their shining swords, were moving even as they uttered their loud battle cry, surging down the hill towards Oda’s army, the few remaining samurai of the suicidal foreguard swept up by the mass of men as a landslide consumes village huts, vanishing. Taro had nothing to aim at now except the monks, and they were on his own side, and he loosed his hold on the bowstring, let the arrow fall to the ground. An awful feeling dug claws into his chest – he had been wondering why Oda didn’t send more men forward, and he sensed he was about to find out.

  Then the front ranks of Oda’s army, the ones that had held still as their foolhardy, brave companions assaulted the monastery, were kneeling – Taro could see them now in the light of the torches the monks carried, and he cried out, ‘Stop, stop!’ to the monks below, but they were too far away now and too many, and they didn’t stop. Taro stared, no longer bothering to conceal himself behind his pillar, his breath stopped in his throat – he wouldn’t realize it until his vision blackened some moments later, and air rushed into his lungs, hungry to occupy his body.

  There was a crashing, rolling, incomprehensibly loud boom, like the sound of a thousand thunderclouds, and for a moment the full extent of Oda’s army was illuminated, an enormity of armed men, lit by pinpricks of fire in the night.

  Oh, gods, thought Taro, as the first swathe of monks was torn apart by the wave of bullets, their screams filling the night air. There are too many. It will be a massacre.

  He threw down his bow, and he ran.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE NEAREST MONKS fell, screaming, and Kenji Kira smiled. Even as they bled onto the grass, the second rank of his arquebusiers stepped forward, handing their already loaded guns to the first rank, taking in return the spent ones. Freshly armed, the first rank aimed again, fired. More monks went down – the mountainside was beginning to look like a grave, piled high with corpses.

  Meanwhile, the second rank passed the spent guns back to the third, who passed forward the third and final preloaded gun. As the second man waited to hand this to the first, the third began to load the original weapon. In this way, as Lord Oda had seen, the guns could be made to fire indefinitely – as long as the bullets did not run out.

  Kenji Kira felt that tightening in his groin again. It was beautiful, this. The monks, with their training, and their sharp swords and their secrets, were breaking themselves apart on his guns, like futile waves against a rocky beach.

  Fire. Pass back. Reload. Fire.

  Kenji moved forward, to get a better view. Already, thousands of the monks lay dead, each of their corpses a rebuff to the hatamoto who led the arquebusiers, and who had dared to contradict Kenji’s direct orders, saying that he believed it would rain tonight.

  Rain! As if Kenji Kira could be stopped by something so ephemeral, something so. . . mundane. An army of kami might stop him, or demons. Not rain. It would prevent the guns from firing, yes, but there were other ways to kill monks than with guns. He had ordered the hatamoto to kill himself, and then he had himself taken on the command of the guns. He looked up at the sky. A few dark clouds, but it was already almost over. If Susanoo, the kami of thunder, wished to stop this massacre, he was too late.

  The monks were almost destroyed. Some had made it as far as the ranks of arquebusiers, but there were traditional samurai in his army too, and these were able to move forward, between the rows of gunners, and engage any survivors hand to hand. Some of them might run, of course – try to escape over the other side of the mountain. But Kenji had a surprise for them.

  Soon this battle would be over, and he could make his way to the temple. The boy would be there, with his mother.

  And cowering with him, hoping the boy could protect her, Hana.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE BULLET STRUCK Taro in the left shoulder, knocking him on his backside, among the men who had already fallen. He touched his back – it had gone right through, which was a mercy, because he would not have to dig it out of his flesh. For just a moment he wished he had run away, instead of going to find Hana and Hiro, instead of thinking that he might do something to help.

  Screams. The prayers of the dying. The smell of sulphur in the air, as if the mountain had erupted. His sword – he’d dropped his sword. It didn’t matter. There were swords everywhere here, and their owners no longer needed them.

  He clutched Hana’s calf, pulled her down with him into the melee of limbs and weapons, the detritus of the dead. He squeezed her hand.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ she said, and he had to read her lips, because the guns were still firing. How could there be so many, and how could they be always firing? The abbot had assured them that guns took a while to load, and so were impractical for large assaults.

  And yet the monks were being annihilated.

  Taro pressed his fingers to the wound in his shoulder, wincing at the pain. It would heal, of course, but not as quickly as he would like.

  From down the slope, wisps of smoke rose into the air as the guns continued to fire. Monks poured down the mountain, trying to break through, but so many had already fallen that the ground had become a mat of bodies, and the grass was visible only in small patches here and there.

  He pulled Hana nearer to him, putting his lips close to her ear so she could hear what he was saying over the ceaseless, booming roar of the guns. ‘Where’s Hiro?’

  ‘Oh. . . I don’t know,’ she said, shaken. She began to get up, as if to look for him.

  ‘No,’ Taro said. ‘Don’t stand.’ He twisted round, looking back up the slope, scanning the bodies for his friend. Then he saw a large shape, crawling towards him.

  ‘Gods,’ said Hiro, pulling himself over the body of a monk who had been shot through the eye. ‘Have they the demons on their side?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Taro, relief that Hiro was alive coursing through him like fire. ‘But I feel like I’m in the hell realm.’ He reached out to embrace his friend – just as a bullet whined over his arm, sounding like an angry wasp. He dropped lower and crawled forward, holding Hana’s hand, until the three of them were huddled together among the bodies. A monk to their side turned to look at them, his eyes glassy. He groaned, then closed his eyes again.

  ‘We have to go back,’ shouted Hiro. ‘This is hopeless.’

  Taro nodded. ‘All together,’ he said. ‘Hana – keep hold of my hand. Hiro – follow close behind.’ He began to pull himself up the slope, slithering over the bloody remains of the monastery’s defenders, trying to keep his skin from being slashed by the dropped swords. But his left arm moved only sluggishly, and pain was shooting through his chest. He stopped, gasping.

  ‘He’s hurt,’ said Hana to Hiro.

  Hiro looked at the blood spreading on Taro’s shirt. Concern flooded his face. ‘Oh no. . . Is it bad?’ He shuffled forward, touching Taro’s arm.

  Taro grunted. He was weighing something in his mind – a dilemma he had experienced before. But it didn’t take long for him to reach his decision. If he lost his strength now, Hana might die, and so might Hiro. He had to get back to the buildings, see if it was possible to hold out behind the walls, force the shooters to come closer.

  Feeling a familiar twinge of nausea, he turned his face from his friends, then lowered it to the man below him – he could see from the open eyes that the monk was dead.

  But the blood would be fresh.

  The neck was exposed, an
d he closed his lips over the flesh, then bit down. The heart wasn’t pumping. He had to suck to draw the blood out, but it was hot and thick in his mouth, the taste of everything good he had ever eaten. He drank deep, feeling the dead man’s power suffusing his muscles. The pain in his shoulder ebbed, as if carried away on a tide of blood.

  When he pulled away, the corpse’s neck and face were white, drained by his feeding. Such was the vigour pulsing through him, the joyful strength, that he didn’t even feel disgust. He gripped Hana’s hand, turning to check that she was still there. She met his eyes, then looked down – he didn’t know if it was to spare his embarrassment, or because she was revolted by him.

  It doesn’t matter, as long as she lives.

  Taro began once more to crawl up the hill, feeling his way slowly along the pile of bodies and the occasional patch of wet grass. Twice, a sword cut him, slicing into his flesh as he hauled himself over the blade. He ignored the pain, concentrating on moving, and on the little movements of the hand he held behind him, which told him that Hana was still alive, still crawling. There was a long, rolling boom from somewhere behind him, and he thought at first that it must be an enormous gun, but he realized it was thunder when a drop of water landed on his ear, and then heavy rain began to fall. Soon Taro was soaked, and he didn’t know where his shirt was cold with rain, and where it was cold with his blood. He frowned. Something had changed. Yes, that was it. He could no longer hear the guns.

  The rain. . ., he thought. It’s stopping them firing. It was as if some god, some kami, had intervened in the battle.

  He dared to look up, and found that they had hardly moved on the slope. He cursed, crawling onward. It took so long, and the field of corpses was so endless, that he began to wonder if they were in hell. But if I am in hell, he thought, then why has Enma not greeted me? Looking down the hill, he saw that the awful line of samurai gunmen were lowering their rifles, hesitating. There was an impression of disorder among the ranks. Taro smiled. Their fuses are going out, and they have no other weapons. Part of him wanted to pick up a sword, any sword, and run down the hill, over the bodies. Part of him wanted to crash into the line, cutting and slashing, killing as many of the gunmen as he could, making them pay for the cruel, detached deaths they had dealt. But he turned away from them to look up at the main monastery building, and he crawled.

  When he slid off the final body and lay on the dew-covered grass near the accommodation hall, it took him a moment to realize it. He was still crawling, muttering to himself, when he saw that what was going by beneath his eyes was only grass – just grass. He looked up, then back. Hana crouched behind him, her hair hanging lank and damp over her face. She was panting. Hiro lay flat on his back beside her, and Taro thought he saw tears on the boy’s cheeks.

  ‘Come on,’ he said unnecessarily. He pushed himself to his feet, then leaned back to help Hana up. ‘Hiro, get some swords.’

  On his knees, keeping his profile low, Hiro scavenged among the dead. He passed a sword behind him to Hana, then scurried over with another two in his hands. He threw one to Taro, handle first, and Taro hissed with pain when he caught it.

  Hana put her palm over his wound, frowning. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. It is healing already.’ The human blood was still fresh in him, and it made his flesh quicker than usual to close over.

  She let out a long breath, then threw her arms around him. ‘I thought you would die,’ she said.

  ‘It takes a lot to kill him,’ said Hiro, smiling weakly.

  Taro nodded. ‘I think they’ll try, anyway.’ Already he could see samurai with swords pushing past the useless gunners, racing up the hill to confront the monks hand to hand.

  Just then Hayao appeared from round the corner. He had a katana in his hand, and Taro took a step backward. The man was an Oda samurai – Taro didn’t know if he had returned to his old allegiance, now that he was cured of his haunting.

  ‘Wait,’ said Hayao. ‘I won’t harm you. I—I owe my life to you. I’ll fight with you.’

  Taro turned to the samurai forcing their way up the hill. ‘Those are Lord Oda’s men,’ he said. ‘You would be a traitor, in their eyes, if you chose to defend the monastery.’

  Hayao shrugged, but Taro could see this was no casual decision – there was a sick light of shame in the man’s eyes. Taro could see what it cost him to betray his lord. Taro knew to his detriment how closely the samurai held their notions of honour. ‘Nevertheless,’ said Hayao.

  ‘You’ve made the right choice,’ said Hana, smiling at him with admiration.

  Now for the first time Hayao hesitated. ‘Do you not. . . I mean, do you side with the monks? Hanako?’ He stressed the final syllable of her fake name, his meaning clear. She was Lord Oda’s daughter, and yet she was siding with the monks.

  ‘I am no longer what I was,’ said Hana. There didn’t seem to be anyone within earshot, but it was well to be careful.

  Hayao nodded slowly. ‘Very well,’ he said. Together the four of them backed towards the temple buildings. A samurai came charging at them, but Hiro tripped him and Hana opened his belly as he went down, and they kept close together as they moved.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ said Taro. ‘Maybe if we go over the summit, and back the way we climbed. . .’ He turned to look up the stone path. Then he frowned. Above the mountaintop, a red glow lit the sky. But it was long past sunset, and many incense sticks would burn down before dawn came.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said. But the glow was flickering, pulsing, and he thought he knew.

  ‘Fire,’ said Hiro, his voice empty. ‘It’s fire.’ Taro didn’t know how the fire could be burning so hotly, even in the rain, but he knew that his friend was right. He had seen forest fires before, when he lived by the sea in Shirahama.

  ‘Oh, gods,’ said Hana. Taro stepped over to comfort her, to reassure her that he would never allow her to be harmed. But then he saw the expression on her face and realized she was not worried for herself. ‘The scrolls,’ she said. ‘The Hokke-do is on that side of the mountain.’ Without saying anything more, she began hurrying up the steps to the peak. Taro limped after her, one hand over the hole in his shoulder. He could feel the flesh there knitting itself closed, but it still ached when he moved.

  ‘Hana!’ he called after her. ‘They’re only scrolls!’

  Hayao drew level with Taro, passed him, then caught Hana by the arm. ‘My lad – I mean, Hanako. We should go back, look for shelter.’

  She shook him off, her hair streaming in the wind, her face flushed with effort and emotion. Rainwater streamed down her face. ‘No,’ she said. She turned to Taro. ‘They are not only anything. They are beyond value.’ And then she was moving again, taking the steps two at a time. Hayao pressed after her, Taro and Hiro following.

  Soon they came to the top of the mountain, and Taro could only stare, speechless, at the violation that had been done to the beautiful view. Below them, fire was sweeping slowly upward, like a vast long beast eating the cedar trees, undeterred by the rain. Great billows of steam rose from where the flame met the falling water. As he watched, one of the trees exploded with a dull pop, creating a bright, evanescent glow. The fire was growing at a steady rate, and soon it would begin consuming the ume trees below the Hokke-do.

  Heading down the hill towards it, already a small, dark figure against the steps, was Hana.

  ‘Hurry,’ said Taro, but when he set off towards the steps, Hiro grabbed his sleeve, pulling him back. ‘What?’ said Taro.

  ‘Oh, gods,’ said Hayao. He pointed, back the way they had come. Taro looked. Nearest to them, the training hall stood inviolate. But below it was an appalling sight.

  Samurai with swords in their hands were entering the clearing outside the accommodation hall, in clusters of two and three. Taro turned back to Hana’s disappearing form, then back again to the samurai. They were moving forward, trying to get to the buildings, and no organized defence stood against them.
r />   My mother is in there, thought Taro. He stared at the advancing samurai in horror.

  The monks had been scattered by the volleys of bullets, thrown into disarray – those of them that remained, anyway. These dazed survivors were engaging the samurai, but there were not enough of them to staunch the increasing flow of attackers.

  Hana. . . or my mother.

  Taro flicked his gaze from one side of the mountain to the other. He met Hiro’s eyes briefly, and for once his friend offered no commentary. He only held up his sword. ‘Whichever way you go,’ he said, ‘I’ll follow.’

  Taro smiled at him. He knew it – knew that Hiro would go to hell and back with him, if he needed – but it wasn’t what he needed.

  ‘What is it?’ said Hayao, oblivious. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My mother is in that hall,’ said Taro. He pointed to where the samurai were threatening to overwhelm the temple building.

  Hayao put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You go – I will go after Hana, try to keep her from killing herself.’

  Taro hesitated. If Hayao saved Hana’s life, she’d be grateful; he might lose her to the samurai. . . and yet his mother. . .

  He steeled himself, silencing the petty voices inside him. Hayao was a good man, and a trained samurai – and he wasn’t injured, whereas Taro was still moving slowly from the ball that had gone through his shoulder. And besides, if they were taken by Oda’s men, perhaps Hayao could convince them he was with them.