‘T HAT’S NOT A path,’ said Hiro. ‘That’s a cliff.’
They were standing in a clearing at the far end of Lord Oda’s encampment, looking up the almost sheer slope of the mountain on which sat the Hongan-ji monastery. Behind them another steep slope, heavily wooded, led down to the army’s tents and the fluttering pennants. Trees had anchored themselves in thin soil, their roots a twisting labyrinth underfoot, and it had been a struggle for Taro and the others to climb through this near-vertical forest and reach the bowl-shaped clearing in which they now found themselves.
The cliff above them was curved, extending its arms around them on either side, so that it was as if they stood in a natural theatre, or in the dubious embrace of the mountain.
‘It can’t be any steeper than the seaward side,’ said Shusaku. ‘I climbed that easily – and I’m blind.’
Hiro sighed. ‘Yes, and you’re a lot harder to kill than me. You really think this is going to work?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Shusaku. ‘But it’s better than just waiting to die, isn’t it?’
Hiro shrugged as if he wasn’t convinced. Actually, Taro was worried too. He had a surer sense of poise, and a firmer grip, since he’d been made a vampire, but that didn’t mean he was infallible. Where he came from, there was an expression: even Kappas can drown. Hadn’t he seen for himself how the sea demons were powerless against some greater forces? He thought that went for climbing vampires, too. And even though a fall probably wouldn’t kill him, it would definitely hurt.
He turned to look back where they had come from. Down there, smoke rose in wreaths from the tents, and it was just possible to see the horses and gunners arrayed on the lower slopes of Mount Hiei. It was an awesome sight. The biggest army Taro had ever seen, and it was all assembled to kill him. They had been lucky to get past it once – to try to return would be suicide.
And yet, on the other side of the grassy theatre in which they waited, the rock face loomed over them, almost mocking their intention to climb up to the Hongan-ji.
In the end it was Hana who stepped up to the cliff first, brushing her hands together to dry them. Hiro had no choice, then, but to follow.
Shusaku pushed his bag over his shoulder, putting the weight of the golden, false ball on his back. Taro followed suit, though his bag was smaller and lighter, for it carried the real ball. Taro had asked Shusaku why he was bothering to carry the big lump of useless gold, and Shusaku had shrugged. ‘It might come in handy,’ he’d said simply.
Now Shusaku chose a section of cliff next to Hana and reached up to seize a thick root. Taro was climbing behind them when there was a loud bang from the trees at his back, and he whirled round, startled. Shusaku dropped to the ground and spun, crouching. But there was nothing there that Taro could see – just the hint of a shadow, flitting between the trees, and a thin trail of smoke that lingered in the night air.
Shusaku’s hand went to his sword, and Taro followed suit. Hana pulled back her own blade, which she had slung over her shoulder as she approached the cliff.
Nothing happened.
Taro looked around for shelter, but the clearing was bare – and anyway, no further shot followed.
‘It could be a watchman’s signal,’ said Shusaku, sounding nervous. That was what scared Taro most of all. He’d never seen Shusaku unsure of himself before. ‘We should get moving,’ continued Shusaku. He turned again to the cliff, holding his sword in his teeth.
‘Stop,’ said a voice that Taro knew all too well. He turned to see Yukiko standing by a cedar tree. She threw a spent gun to the ground and pointed her sword at Taro. ‘You were careless,’ she said. She was smiling, and Taro felt a rush of anger that literally stopped the breath in his lungs. She’d killed his mother, and now she was standing there smiling at him.
But wait.
He peered at her. Though she was smiling, her skin was sallow and creased, as if she was already developing wrinkles. There were dark patches of skin under her eyes. She looks sick, he thought. But then she smiled even wider and he didn’t see her illness any more, he saw only the person who had taken a sword to his mother.
Taro was moving before he was really aware of it, as if his sword were dragging him forward across the grass. Yukiko raised her blade and read his first slash, blocking him easily. But she had only one sword this time and was not in full armour, as if she had readied herself quickly. Taro guessed that she’d been sleeping when she heard them, or sensed them, or whatever it was she’d done to find them.
She was fast, but something seemed to be weakening Yukiko, and he was faster. Their blades flashed in the moonlight as he danced around her, looking for the opening that would see his blade dart in and cut her down. She panted for breath, her lips no longer ruby red but drained, pinched and white, as if she herself were the passive and helpless victim of a kyuuketsuki. She spat in his face, and at that moment all his peace left him, and he was no longer content that his mother had melted into oneness.
He just wanted Yukiko dead.
He was dimly aware of Hana saying something behind him, expressing some kind of concern, but he was not in that world any more, he was in the circle of steel. He noted that Yukiko, too, was twisting the katas to her own devices, using moves he’d never seen before. At one point she ducked under one of his strikes, then slashed open his forearm. He barely glanced at the wound before landing her a cut right across the scalp.
Then came the moment he’d been waiting for.
Taro feinted to the left and for some reason, though she had seen through all his previous deceits, Yukiko went to block his sword. Twisting his blade in mid-movement, he brought it down towards her side.
Then something hot and hard struck him in the right shoulder, knocking him back and causing his blade to drop to the ground from his suddenly numb fingers. He stumbled, pressing his hand to the wound and taking it away wet with blood. Before him, a samurai emerged from the woods, holding a gun.
Behind the samurai, walking casually, came the unmistakable figure – lopsided, its right arm withered; a beautiful katana in its stronger left arm – of Lord Oda Nobunaga.