TARO MOVED THROUGH the hall like a ghost. He could hear the clash of metal on metal, the screams of men.
There was a samurai ahead of Taro, grappling with a monk. Taro waited till the monk’s body was clear, then stabbed the samurai through the gap in his armour, a clean cut through the chest. The man fell forward, blood bubbling from his mouth.
The monk began to thank him, but Taro kept moving, flitting from shadow to shadow. In the courtyard, two monks ran roaring at a samurai with a gun. The samurai fired, his fuse spared from the rain by the leaves and blossom of the plum tree. He hit one of the monks, but the other kept going, his sword arcing up in a classic ii-aido move. The samurai’s gun hand – and the arm and shoulder attached to it – cleaved off and thudded to the ground.
The monk turned to Taro, his sword still up, ready to attack.
‘I’m with you!’ said Taro. ‘I’m looking for my mother.’
The monk nodded. ‘The guests are in there.’ He pointed to the room where Taro had last seen his mother.
Taro grunted a thanks, then banged on the door. ‘Mother!’ he called. ‘Let me in!’
The door creaked open, and his mother ran out to embrace him. ‘You’re alive,’ she said. Then she saw the blood on his shirt, the hole where the bullet had penetrated, and her mouth formed into an O of shock. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘Yes. No.’ He touched the already forming scar on his shoulder. ‘I’ll explain later.’ There was the sound of footsteps behind him, and he whirled, ready to face one of the samurai.
And then Kenji Kira appeared in the doorway of the hall.
Lord Oda’s retainer was smiling. In his hand was a sword, which dripped blood – tap tap tap tap – on the wooden floor. He had lost even more weight since Taro had last seen him, so that he appeared almost as a gaki, a vengeful ghost come to feed on Taro’s strength. Against the shadow of the doorway, his skin was almost translucently white, and his eyes bulged out of a horrific visage, a death mask of hollow cheeks and taut, fleshless lips.
‘You must be Taro,’ he said.
Taro said nothing. He knew that Kenji Kira had never laid eyes on him before, but Taro had seen him. He’d watched from his hiding place, on two separate occasions, as Kira had murdered defenceless people. First, he had seen him kill an old peasant man, just for harvesting some honey in Lord Oda’s forest. And then he had been present when the revolting man murdered Heiko, the brave older sister of Yukiko. Heiko had sacrificed herself for Taro’s sake, distracting Kenji Kira and allowing the others to escape. It was, in part, Heiko’s death that had warped Yukiko’s mind and led her to turn against Taro.
Taro relaxed into the stance of combat, his sword steady in his hands. This time it was different. This time it would be him facing Kira one-on-one. And he was far from defenceless.
His mother held his arm tightly. ‘Who is that?’ she whispered.
Taro cracked his neck. ‘Kenji Kira,’ he said, not bothering to lower his voice. ‘He killed my friend. I swore I’d kill him if I ever met him again.’
Kira rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you did. And now I’m going to take you to Lord Oda, where you’ll be tortured and most likely die. There’s no need to be theatrical about it.’ A couple of samurai appeared at his side but he waved them back irritably. ‘The boy is mine,’ he said.
‘Lord Oda is dead,’ said Taro.
Kira looked genuinely confused. ‘I saw him this morning,’ he said. ‘He is very much alive.’
Taro frowned. ‘But. . .’
‘You thought you killed him?’ said Kira. He laughed hollowly. ‘He was injured, the night you stole Hana away. But he did not die. You are a boy – how could you hope to kill a sword saint such as he?’
Taro felt faint. He concentrated on the ground beneath his feet. Well, perhaps Lord Oda was not dead – it did seem strange that no rumours had reached them of his demise. But Taro had defeated him once. He could do it again. He shrugged.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, more bravely than he felt. ‘I will fight you, and I will fight him if he comes for me. I’m not afraid of you. I intend to kill you. So if you want me, you may have to kill me.’
‘I’m prepared,’ said Kenji Kira, ‘for that eventuality.’
Taro turned to his mother, put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Get behind me,’ he said.
When he turned to face Kenji Kira again, the man was frowning. ‘Your mother is here,’ he said. ‘But where is Hana?’
Taro stared. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Hana. Lord Oda’s daughter. Where is she? I’m. . . concerned about her.’
‘She’s far from here,’ said Taro, hoping that it was true. The last he had seen of her, she had been running towards the Hokke-do as it burned, driven by a mad desire to save the scrolls.
Rage crossed Kenji Kira’s face, like a taifun over seawater, and then was gone just as quickly as it had arisen. He slashed his sword through the air experimentally, then nodded to Taro. ‘Come, then,’ he said, pointing to Taro’s katana. ‘Let’s see what you can do with that thing. Either I kill you or I return you to Lord Oda alive. Both outcomes would please me.’
Taro closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the few drops of rain that made it past the overhang of the roof and through the branches of the plum tree. He concentrated on the feel of the grass through his thin tabi slippers. In his hand, the sword was light, the sword was nothing. He let himself become one with it, and then he moved.
Kenji Kira met Taro’s first strike with a textbook deflection, using a smooth, classic kata form. He spun, meeting Taro’s next strike with a low parry. Then he pressed forward, his sword flashing in the semi-darkness. Taro allowed himself to fall back, watching not the moves that Kira made, but the rhythm of his whole body, his attitude, his style. He tried a lesser-known attack – a low feint, followed by a tricky reversal into a neck-strike. Kira responded with the perfect kata for the occasion.
But that was the thing, Taro was realizing. The man only had the kata – taught movements and deflections; not the innate instinct for the weapon that had marked Taro out from the start. He held for a moment longer, even letting one of Kira’s lunges slash a wide cut in his thigh, which made his mother gasp. He ignored it, and her, keeping his balance while he used a high attack to make Kira back off.
‘You’re weak,’ said Kira. ‘Your dead ninja friend didn’t teach you well enough.’
Taro bit his lip, forcing himself not to respond. He was concentrating most of all on not killing the man too quickly.
‘I was surprised you came,’ said Kira, dancing to the side as Taro made an obvious play to cut open his stomach, pretending to be less skilled than he truly was. ‘When we sent that pigeon, we didn’t think you would take the bait. Your mother must mean a lot to you.’
‘Yes,’ said Taro. ‘She does.’
‘Still,’ said Kira, ‘you must be either very brave, or very stupid. To walk into a trap like that.’
‘Well,’ said Taro through gritted teeth, his sword hand yearning to be freed, ‘I didn’t know for sure it was a trap.’
‘Ah. Stupid, then.’ Kira feinted left and then threw his sword forward, trying to run Taro through, but Taro had seen the intended move and was no longer in that spot when the blade transfixed the air. He aimed a low cut at Kira’s legs, and was rewarded with a red gash on the man’s thigh, to match his own.
‘Gah!’ said Kira, angry now. He redoubled his efforts, making a series of fast, aggressive strikes, pushing Taro back. Taro looked into the man’s eyes and saw only vanity, selfishness, and pride. He was almost disappointed – the man who had murdered his friend was nothing but a bully. He decided he had played long enough with this mouse. He got his blade inside Kira’s and turned it aside with a flick of the wrist. Then, in a movement fast as the flash of sunlight on a darting fish’s scales, he raked his sword along Kira’s, to the hilt, and pushed hard to the side.
Kira’s sword fell to the ground, and he looked at Taro, his breath ragged. He was if anything even paler now, a man made of snow. Taro saw blossoms falling, impossibly slowly, and one of the flowers settled on Kira’s forehead. He felt the benediction of the moment, and he raised his sword for the kill.
Pain exploded in Taro’s stomach, and he looked down to see a dagger hilt protruding from it. Kira’s arm was outstretched – he must have thrown the knife, though Taro hadn’t seen him move. He stumbled, as Kira – quick as a cat – leaned down and picked up his sword. Taro just got his own blade up in time, as Kira brought his sword round in a viciously fast strike, aimed at Taro’s neck. As the swords clashed together, Taro felt a tearing agony in his stomach – he was aware of the dagger falling from it, his blood rushing after it, as if to catch it. The pain was astonishing, staggering. It was a shadow that spread from the wound, enveloping him, and he was a scared child cowering inside that darkness.
He could hear his mother screaming and he blinked, realizing that Kenji Kira was no longer in front of him. Instinctively he raised his sword, two-handed, so that it was behind his head – and he felt the impact when the blow Kira had meant to decapitate him was absorbed by the blade and his jangling wrists.
He somehow turned the older man round, moving just quickly enough with his sword to defend against any lethal strikes. Then Kira ducked, spinning round as he kicked, and Taro felt his ankle give way. He crashed heavily to the ground. With an effort, he got his sword up just in time to block the next blow – but his strength was slipping away from him, and the older man’s sword carried enough momentum to bite into his shoulder.
Aghast, Taro looked up at the skeletal face of Kenji Kira, contemplating the hideous idea that this might be the last thing he saw.
He was preparing to die when there was a flurry of movement from the doorway, and a flicker as of someone moving very quickly towards Kira from behind, almost flying, and then there was a handspan of steel jutting out from the older man’s chest.
Taro and Kira both stared at it, then raised their eyes to each other, their puzzled expressions mirrored for a slow instant. Blood welled in the older man’s chest. He raised one hand to touch the sword that had impaled him, as if to check that it was real. He opened his mouth and let out a low groan. It was a sound like emptiness.
‘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.