Lord Oda's Revenge

by Nick Lake

  ‘The blade is resting by your heart,’ said a voice from behind Kenji Kira, and it was a voice Taro knew. ‘When I twist, you die.’

  Kira’s eyes opened wide, as the face that belonged to that musical voice peered over his shoulder and smiled at Taro.

  Yukiko.

  Taro stared at her, speechless – the girl who had been his and Hiro’s friend, and who had betrayed them to Lord Oda. He felt the ground become less solid beneath him, as unreality seeped into the edges of things. What was she doing here, on this mountain? How did this young girl come to be smiling here, among so much carnage, with her sword through Lord Oda’s most trusted agent?

  ‘Why?’ said Kenji Kira, his voice full of pain and confusion. ‘You. . . said. . . you wanted the boy too.’

  ‘I do. But I want you first.’

  ‘You’ll. . . die. . . for this,’ said Kira.

  ‘No. I have the full support of the samurai,’ said Yukiko. And indeed, as she said it, a man bearing Lord Oda’s mon came into the courtyard and leaned against the wooden wall, nodding to her. ‘They follow my wishes, for my wishes are Lord Oda’s.’

  ‘I. . . serve. . . Lord Oda.’

  ‘Yes. You have been loyal. But loyalty is nothing. You know that better than anyone.’

  Kenji Kira opened and closed his mouth, like a carp, and with as little effect.

  ‘Do you know what your life cost?’ said Yukiko.

  ‘No,’ said Kira.

  ‘You are looking at the price, right in front of you. I told Lord Oda I would give him Taro, and the other ninjas in Lord Tokugawa’s employ, if he gave me your life. He agreed.’

  Taro was looking into Kenji Kira’s eyes, and the horror and disappointment he saw in them made him feel something he never thought he would feel. He felt sorry for the man. ‘Yukiko,’ he said. ‘Wait.’ He struggled to his feet, but the samurai behind her drew his sword, with a faint swish. He moved to face Taro, his stance saying that if Taro tried to help Kira, he would have to deal with the samurai first. Not that Taro would try any such thing – he knew that for Yukiko to kill the man was a matter of a movement of the wrist, something he would be powerless to stop.

  ‘No,’ said the girl. ‘He dies now.’ The shining steel tip that protruded from Kira’s chest moved a little as she spoke, and he screamed. ‘But listen carefully, Kenji Kira. I want you to approach the River of Three Crossings knowing the person who killed you, and why.’

  ‘Tell. . . me.’

  ‘You killed my sister, Kenji Kira. Her name was Heiko. You beheaded her on a dusty road, next to a cart. And you killed the woman I called mother. She was a prophetess.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Kenji Kira, a measure of resignation in his voice.

  ‘So. When the demons ask who killed you, say that it was a girl named Yukiko. They will have heard my name from other dead lips, I think.’

  ‘Yukiko,’ said Taro. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Yukiko. She moved the blade again, just a fraction, and Kira blanched. ‘But there’s just one more thing, Kenji Kira. Your body. I ought to tell you what I plan to do with it.’

  The man’s eyes twisted from side to side, frantic, and Taro frowned. What was this? Kenji Kira looked more scared now than he had when he saw the blade sticking out of his flesh.

  ‘Know this,’ said Yukiko. ‘Your corpse will be taken from here by the samurai and thrown into the river by Lord Oda’s castle, where the eta rinse the piss from their hides. You will be eaten by fish and snails. Worms will feed on your flesh and then grow wings, and they will fly away with you in all directions, such that none will ever find you.’

  Kenji Kira opened his mouth wide and uttered a scream that chilled Taro’s blood, a long wail like that of a baby, a wordless death poem.

  ‘Enough,’ said Yukiko, and twisted the blade hard. The scream was cut off instantly. Then she withdrew the sword in a smooth, wet motion, and blood burst forth from Kenji Kira, as he pitched forward to crumple on the ground, dead.

  CHAPTER 24

  SHUSAKU WAS NEARLY at the coast again – had nearly reached the safety of Lord Tokugawa’s pirate ship – when he heard the blackness around him open up in a chorus of thunder, a sound like the sky tearing apart. He had heard that sound before. It was the sound of guns.

  He turned, confused. He was sure he was heading east, towards the sea – he had retraced his steps carefully – yet the gunfire did not come from behind him. He was certain it was coming from the north, from the direction of Mount Hiei.

  There is a battle, he thought. And it is not the Ikko-ikki who are being attacked.

  He stood for a moment, listening to the guns. There were more than he had ever heard before; an impossible number, the guns firing non-stop. He didn’t understand how it was possible. Lord Tokugawa had mentioned nothing about an assault on Mount Hiei, though he knew that, like the Ikko-ikki, the monks of the holy mountain were hated by the daimyo for their power and their influence.

  It must be Lord Oda, he thought. Certainly Shusaku had encountered fewer samurai guards on his way than he had expected. He’s attacking Mount Hiei. But why?

  Something about this troubled him. For many years he had relied on his instincts to keep him alive – and his instincts told him there was something strange about this battle he could hear. What could possibly make anyone suddenly attack the Tendai monks? They were fierce warriors, and there were ten thousand of them. A commander would have to be very sure of victory, or the prize would have to be worth the expenditure of many lives.

  He paused. The prize. It couldn’t be –

  No. He had been on the verge of drawing a ludicrous conclusion – something he had avoided for as long as he had followed his instincts, because unjustified conclusions were just as likely to get you killed. He had been thinking – stupid, he knew – that Taro might be there. That a boy who would be shogun was a prize worth having, even if it meant going through the Tendai monks to get to him.

  But no, it was preposterous. Taro was at the ninja mountain, and he was safe.

  He told himself that, again and again, like a mantra.

  As the guns continued to fire, he shrugged and continued on his way. Lord Tokugawa had instructed him to return immediately to the ship – he wished to sail on to Shirahama, he said. That was where Shusaku had first met Taro, so long ago it seemed now. It was also where Lord Tokugawa believed the Buddha ball to be – and he had made it clear that retrieving the ball was his next and most important goal. It isn’t real, Shusaku had wanted to say. It can’t be.

  But he had a horrible feeling it was.

  CHAPTER 25

  TARO STOOD, SPEECHLESS, looking into the smiling face of Yukiko. Pain throbbed in his stomach and his ankle, and blood dripped from his dagger wound to the ground.

  Yukiko wiped Kenji Kira’s blood from the blade of her sword on the sleeve of her kimono. She put one foot on the dead man’s throat, then spat on his corpse.

  ‘When I met him, I thought that I would kill him straightaway,’ she said. ‘But then I reminded myself that pleasures can be increased by patience.’ She moved lightly towards Taro. ‘What better than to use him to get to you? Then I could kill him, and destroy you.’

  Taro gripped his sword, holding his ground. ‘You’d really kill me?’

  ‘I didn’t say I was going to kill you,’ said Yukiko. ‘I said I was going to destroy you.’

  ‘Your sister was my friend. I didn’t mean for her to die.’

  ‘No. But you let it happen. And you conspired with Oda’s daughter. You are a traitor through and through!’

  ‘No!’ said Taro, shocked. ‘It’s you who’s the traitor.’

  Yukiko laughed, a delicate sound like a small prayer bell. ‘I am a traitor, yes. But I know it at least. That makes me less dangerous than you.’

  Taro trembled. Deep down he had always feared that although he might not wish it, his actions, even his mere existence, seemed to lead to the deaths of others. Ever since Sh
usaku had rescued him, that night that seemed so long ago, he had done nothing but sow seeds of murder around him, and the deaths that had grown from those seeds had threatened to overwhelm him, cutting off his light. The fortune-teller who had raised Yukiko and her sister Heiko, then Heiko herself, then Shusaku. . .

  ‘See?’ said Yukiko. ‘You know I’m right. You’re a poison, Taro.’ She came at him then, and as she brought her sword round in an arc, she whipped a smaller wakizashi from her kimono with her other hand, and then she was attacking furiously, with both blades – no longer a girl but an infernal device, whirling sharp and fast.

  Taro raised his sword and darted towards her, working to hold off the girl’s attacks. He had never seen anyone fight with two swords before, had been completely unprepared for it. Yukiko was grinning. ‘I had this idea from Miyamoto Musashi,’ she said, not even out of breath. She danced away from him for a moment, holding his eyes with hers. ‘A sword saint defeated long ago by Lord Oda. But he wrote a book, and in that book he said something very interesting.’

  ‘What was that?’ said Taro, concentrating on centring his breathing, gathering his qi. His movements were still slowed by the wound in his stomach, though it was healing already. He could feel the muscle knitting back together, hot needles clicking in his flesh.

  ‘He said that a man could spend his life mastering the blade, but he’d never be as good as the man who spent one day mastering two blades.’

  She pounced, striking high with the wakizashi. Taro didn’t know if it was a feint or not, but it didn’t matter. The whole system of feints and strikes was obliterated by the simple, horrific addition of a second sword. What possible difference did it make whether she intended the strike or not, when she had another blade, which could come at him from anywhere?

  His wrist snapped up, without conscious thought on his part, blocking the short-sword. He saw a gleam from the corner of her eye, and his hand came round, but it was too slow – pain seared into the back of his leg, causing the world in front of him to brighten for a moment, and then he went down heavily on one knee.

  He tried to stand but hammered down again on the knee, and could only raise his sword to try to fend off the strikes that came faster than ever, and then, suddenly, his hand was twisted painfully, and the sword dropped from it to the grass.

  Wearily he opened his robe, exposing his chest. He touched the skin above his heart. ‘Make it quick,’ he said.

  ‘All right then,’ said Yukiko, and she tossed her short-sword into the same hand that held the katana, and advanced towards him, her index and pinky fingers out in the mudra for banishing evil. She’s going to kill me with her bare hands, thought Taro. She bent down, smiled at him, and then struck his neck, hard, with the extended fingertips. Agony exploded at the front of his mind, a constellation bursting into being before his eyes, and he thought, This is it, now I die. He knew she had aimed for a pressure point of some kind, imagined that the blood to his head would cease in an instant to flow.

  He waited. The stars faded, and the tree and the grass came slowly back into focus. Yukiko still stood in front of him, smiling. She slid her wakizashi into her kimono. Taro didn’t understand. He wasn’t dead. What was she doing? He held his hand out to push himself up from the ground, only his hand wouldn’t move.

  His legs wouldn’t move. Yukiko stepped to the side, and he tried to turn his head to follow her. He couldn’t move it.

  She’s paralysed me.

  Yukiko disappeared from view, and Taro strained against the numbness in his nerves, trying to see where she had gone. What seemed an eternity passed, as the blossoms gently fell from the plum tree above.

  Finally Yukiko stepped daintily into his field of vision. She made a beckoning motion to her side, where Taro couldn’t see.

  Two samurai approached, and between them, supported or dragged by them, was Taro’s mother.

  Yukiko laughed that delicate laugh. ‘Do you remember,’ she said, ‘what you said after my sister died? How you were paralysed, and could do nothing to help?’

  Taro couldn’t speak, couldn’t nod.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Yukiko. ‘I never believed you, of course. But I thought this would be fitting.’

  She weighed her sword in her hand, letting it slash the air. Then she gave a signal to the samurai and they stepped away, leaving Taro’s mother lying below the gnarled bough of the tree. Tears were running down her cheeks, but when she turned to Taro, what he saw in her face was not fear so much as urgency.

  ‘Taro, my love,’ she said quickly. ‘If you live. . . That thing we were talking about before. It’s not—’

  Yukiko sighed, stepped forward, and plunged her sword into Taro’s mother’s heart. She let go of the hilt, and the blade hung there a moment, so perfectly still, before the body holding it horizontal fell backward, and the blade stood shining then from the chest, as if marking the spot where the worst thing of all had happened.

  Taro wanted to scream, to cry, to run to her side, but could do nothing.

  Yukiko turned to him with a businesslike air. ‘Best to just get it over with, I thought. I can’t stand all that emotional goodbye stuff.’

  CHAPTER 26

  ABSENTMINDEDLY, YUKIKO WIPED Taro’s mother’s blood from her sword so that it mingled with Kira’s on her sleeve, and Taro thought that was perhaps the greatest insult of all; he would have killed her without hesitation at that moment, woman or not. His mother’s body lay still on the ground, blossoms drifting down through the air towards it. He could not speak aloud, but he spoke a mantra in his head.

  Please kill me please kill me please kill me. . .

  But her sword remained in its sheath. She stopped in front of him, still smiling.

  ‘I’m not going to kill you,’ she said.

  Taro stared at her.

  ‘And I’m not taking you with me either.’ She bent down till her lips almost touched his ear. ‘Don’t tell the samurai this, but I was meant to bring you to Lord Oda.’ She stroked his hair. ‘Well. Lord Oda can find you himself. I’ve had my revenge.’

  She turned to face someone out of Taro’s vision – one of the samurai, presumably – and then pointed to Kenji Kira’s corpse. Taro could just see the man’s feet, and the pool of blood in which he lay.

  ‘Pick that up,’ said Yukiko. ‘We’ll find an eta grave somewhere and throw it in.’

  But just then there was a clattering of feet on a wooden floor, and someone burst through the door of the main hall.

  ‘Lady Yukiko!’ he shouted. ‘The monks are rallying! They must have kept men in reserve, hiding in the buildings. We’re overrun!’

  Yukiko cursed. ‘Back to the camp,’ she ordered. ‘Leave Kira here. He’s dead – that’s the main thing.’

  And then she left.

  For what seemed a long time, there was just the space in front of him, the corpses, and the rain. His field of vision was limited to the gnarled trunk of the tree – he came to know its every whorl and knot – his mother’s dead body, Kenji Kira’s motionless feet, and the grass before him.

  It was a kind of meditation, but it was the meditation of a demon, not a follower of Buddha – a punishment from the deepest bowels of Enma’s hell. He couldn’t raise a single finger, or even move his eyes – all he could do was look on his mother’s dead body, and see the flowers fall. His tears would not come, but his thoughts raced through his mind, as if in mockery of his body’s immobility. He remembered everything: his mother’s head breaking the surface of the water, her arm upraised as in triumph, holding a bag of abalone torn from the reef. Her face in firelight, as she prepared rice with fish for himself and her father. The love and terror in her eyes, when he had been wounded by a shark, and his father carried him back to the village, expecting only that he would be able to lay his son’s corpse at his wife’s feet.

  From what seemed a long way away, he could hear the sounds of battle. Screams, music of steel on steel. But it was fading, all the time, and Taro
could tell that the fight was all but over.

  He thought, She has taken away what I love, the way she thinks I did to her. Then another thought came to him, and soon it was repeating itself over and over, till he thought he would go mad. What if she knows where Hana is? What if she takes her, too? If that was true, then his only hope was Hiro. But what chance would Hiro have against Yukiko, now that she fought with two swords?

  But there was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could do but lie there, with the damp grass pressing into his cheek, and the smell of blood in his nostrils. I should have stayed at the mountain, he thought. He’d known it must be a trap, deep down – had realized as soon as the pigeon arrived that it couldn’t possibly have taken so long, that he was a fool if he thought he was just going to find his mother, and start his old life again. And now what had he done? He had brought death to his mother’s sanctuary. He was a curse. Because of him, his father and his mother were dead – Heiko, too.

  He cried, but no tears came – he was crying without moving, his whole being and soul were crying, and then the heavens joined him, because rain was falling on him, pricking at his skin.

  Gradually, impossibly slowly, the light grew brighter, and the stars above the ume tree faded from sight, to be replaced by a reddening that was not fire, only the sun rising. A half-moon still hung in the lightening sky, as if a reminder to the world that even in the light, things of darkness could hold their sway, and death could come at any time. All he wanted to do was sleep, to disappear into blackness, and not to know anything any more. But he couldn’t even close his eyes.

  He could hear people running and shouting on the other side of the accommodation hall. He heard no clashes of steel, though, no gunfire, and he supposed that the fighting was over. He couldn’t tell who had won. He didn’t even care any more. He supposed that when someone made their way to the courtyard, he would find out.