Blood Ninja (31 page)

Taro laughed. “One of these days you’ll best her, my friend.”

“One of these years, maybe,” said Yukiko, walking past. Hiro gave her a push, and soon they were fighting again.

But Hiro had not been the wrestling champion of Shirahama for nothing. The next day, Hiro came swaggering up to Taro, Yukiko rolling her eyes behind him. “I beat Yukiko at sword fighting
and
wrestling just now,” he said. “She is like a child before my superior skill.”

Yukiko jabbed him with her elbow. “One victory, and he thinks he’s Yamato Takeru.” This was a famous prince who had defeated many enemies, and who had fought in later life with the legendary sword Ame-no-Murakumo-no-Tsurugi—the Gathering Clouds of Heaven—which Susanoo, the
kami
of storms, had taken from the belly of the sea serpent.

“Two victories!” said Hiro.

“Two in one day only counts as one. Think of the number of days on which I have beaten you.”

Hiro sighed good-naturedly.

Taro was glad for Hiro that he had found a new friend, while a small, jealous part of him wished that he could keep the big wrestler to himself. But so much had changed for Hiro. It was good that he had found a measure of happiness in his new life.

All in all, life at the crater
was
good, though something always seemed unreal about it to Taro—like the death of his father and the unknown fate of his mother existed in some other world, some other realm of samsara, far from this hidden place.

It was a sort of magical realm in which they lived, learning to fight and to move in harmony, no longer bound by the twin worlds of day and night, but living in a constant semidarkness, illuminated by torches. Taro felt that he would like to remain there forever, though the thought of his mother was always at the back of his mind, and once he had dreamed a terrible dream that his father, the one who had brought him up, still lived—that his death was a colossal mistake—and he had come to Taro with open arms, saying “I am here. Don’t cry anymore.”

Then Taro had woken, and his father was still dead, and he had cried till he thought the moisture would be wrung from his body, and he would be wrinkled and dry, like a piece of fruit left too long in the sun.

He would have liked to stay in that dream forever, by the sea, with his father fishing its depths and his mother always by the fire in the evening. But he had been rudely awakened.

And unfortunately, it was about to happen again.

There was a rough hand on his shoulder. Shusaku leaned over him.

“
Taijutsu
. Get up.”

Taro followed, bleary eyed, as Shusaku woke the others and began clearing a space in the middle of the weapons hall.

First, Shusaku explained that no ninja ever fought
entirely
unarmed. This, in fact, was one of their great secrets.

Each of them was given a wooden ring to wear on their right hands. The ring—called a
shobo
—was rough and unevenly textured, designed to stand out from the hand. It could be used to strike pressure points on an opponent’s body, immobilizing or even killing him.

Shusaku stood, his shadow shivering under the candlelight. “First I’m going to show you some grips and throws. These are moves that send an assailant’s body—or part of it—in an unexpected direction. Now … I’ll need two volunteers.” His gaze traveled around the room, until it came to light on Little Kawabata.
“Come on,” he said. “Let us see if you’re as good as your father. He was a talented fighter before he got so fat.”

Little Kawabata, scowling, came forward.

Shusaku once again scoured the room. Then he called Taro forward. Heiko gave Taro a little smile as he passed her. “Make sure you beat him,” she said.

Little Kawabata turned and gave her a nasty smile. “The only one doing any beating will be me.”

The two boys stood in the middle of the cave and stared at each other. Taro saw malice and amusement in the other boy’s piggy eyes. He knew that Little Kawabata had hated him almost on first sight—for making the arrow shot that had secured his entry to the school, for being a vampire already, for showing up his father by so easily passing the test he’d set him.

Shusaku stepped up to Little Kawabata. “Strike out with your arm flat, as if to hit me with a direct punch, then keep your arm outstretched.” The chubby boy did so, and Taro saw that the layer of fat was deceptive. Little Kawabata was fast. And strong.

Shusaku put his two hands out, placing one under Little Kawabata’s wrist, palm up, and one above it, palm down. He rolled his hands in opposite directions, and Little Kawabata’s legs gave away as he screamed a high-pitched scream. Shusaku helped him up, then showed him how to place his hands in order to do the same thing. The teacher put his own arm out, and Little Kawabata demonstrated the move, forcing the older man to the ground. Shusaku nodded. “Well done.”

Taro walked over to them, anxious to learn the trick himself, but Shusaku waved him back. “Patience,” he said. “You will learn it soon enough. For the moment I want you to keep trying to strike Little Kawabata. Let us see how well he can do it when it really matters.”

Shusaku positioned Taro right in front of Little Kawabata. “All right. Start punching.”

Taro let out a right-hand strike to the head, which was too fast for the clan leader’s son. Little Kawabata yelped and clutched his
ear. But Taro’s next shot, a left to the solar plexus, was caught in a viselike grip, and suddenly Taro’s upper body was twisting despite itself and he fell to the ground. He got up again and lashed out instantly, his vampire’s speed allowing the uppercut to find Little Kawabata’s chin. Little Kawabata staggered backward, and Taro moved in to press the advantage, but the other boy wasn’t only fast, he was a quick learner, and Taro’s next few strikes were all easily caught, depositing him onto the floor. The pain was not as bad as it might have been if he were human, but bad enough—with the humiliation—to sting.

Taro struck out viciously, again and again, and each time he was parried or caught, and his muscles sang out with the strain of the torsion. Involuntarily, he began to sob. Why wasn’t Shusaku putting a stop to it?

He fixed his eyes on Little Kawabata’s, gathering his strength. His blood thundered in his ears, and his arms throbbed. Surely with the speed and agility that came with his vampire nature, he should be able to defeat this fat, spoiled child? He grimaced, spat out a mouthful of blood. The last fall had been a hard one.

Collecting all his chi, Taro let fly with a feint to the left, followed by a devastating blow to the right, which would have connected with Little Kawabata’s neck and probably knocked him out, if not killed him by snapping his spine—but the leader’s son twisted out of the way and caught Taro’s arm as it passed him, putting all his body weight into twisting it.

Taro crashed to the ground, his arm flapping as he tried to push himself upright again.

Little Kawabata laughed. “You’re not fishing now, boy. I’m harder to catch than the sprats in your little bay.”

Taro grunted.

“Get up,” said Little Kawabata. “Your feigned injury insults me.”

Taro turned his head. His arm was hanging at an unpleasant angle from his shoulder. Dislocated. He got up painfully, shaking his head. Surely Shusaku had to stop it now? He was hopeless.
He was already a vampire, and he couldn’t even beat this stupid, pudgy brute.

He staggered to his feet, then stumbled forward. He pawed at Little Kawabata, looking for purchase, staining the fat boy’s robes with blood.

Little Kawabata sneered. “Peasant, your manners are a disgrace. No doubt you tricked my father, too—put the idea in his head of testing you with the bow somehow. You will pay for your insolence.”

Taro caught his breath. Yet, as much as he hated the boy, he couldn’t help feeling jealous.
At least you have a father
, he felt like saying. All he said, though, was “Ugh.”

“Stop,” said Shusaku. Taro gave a little whimper of relief.

Thank the gods
.

He looked up through a film of sweat and blood, not all of it his own, and saw Shusaku staring grimly at him. Then the sensei threw a heavy
bokken
to Little Kawabata. At the same time, he held out his other hand to Taro. “Hand me your
shobo
.
You
will fight now with no weapons.”

“What?” said Taro. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Be quiet. Hand me the ring.”

Taro pulled the wooden ring off his finger and handed it to the man who had rescued him, the man who had escorted him halfway across the country, the man he had
trusted
. He was incredulous. Was Shusaku trying to get him killed? To make a martyr of him in front of the class and so prove some kind of point? Or was he hoping to exhaust Little Kawabata’s supply of hatred, by making Taro his punching bag for the afternoon? If so, Taro thought the teacher was badly mistaken. No amount of one-sided combat could satisfy Kawabata’s bloodlust. He would not be content until Taro was dead.

And if he died, he would never find his mother again.

Someone had stepped up from the ring of students—Hiro. “What are you doing to him?” he asked. “He has no weapon. This is unfair.”

Shusaku whirled on Hiro. “Sit. Down. Now.” His voice was deadly cold. “A ninja always has a weapon.” He turned to Taro. “Remember that. You always have a weapon.” Then he put a restraining hand on Hiro’s chest and snapped his fingers in Little Kawabata’s direction. “You are free to attack as you wish,” he said to the grinning boy. Little Kawabata advanced on Taro, brandishing the stick and grinning.

Blows rained down on Taro, and he covered his head with his hands. He thought he felt bones splintering in his fingers. He barely even cared. His world had shrunk to this cave—its hard rock floor, its dusty crevices, its leering carvings.

He crawled toward where he thought Shusaku was, his broken hands scraping clawlike at the rock. He could dimly hear Hiro, Yukiko, and Heiko shouting at the master, calling on him to stop the rout. Taro couldn’t make them out. His eyes were half-closed by bruises, his cheeks and nose swollen from numerous blows. Blood trickled into his right eye.

What had Shusaku meant by that?
You always have a weapon
. Was he supposed to meditate, make a mudra of protection with his shaking hands? Tentatively, he formed the mudra for banishing evil—hand outstretched, palm out. He was on his knees with his hand stuck out toward Little Kawabata; the boy simply smashed it down with his stick, sending a jarring pain right down Taro’s arm and pinning it to the ground.

Little Kawabata turned, his stick still trapping Taro’s hand, readying a spinning kick that would catch Taro in the jaw. A drip from the rock ceiling landed on Taro’s forehead, cold and slick, like an intimation of mortality.

Taro thought about that little drop.

You always have a weapon
.

Moving so quickly he felt his arm reach out before he was conscious of the desire to move it, Taro scrabbled at the floor and came up with a handful of dust, in which nestled a couple of sharp stones. He could feel them pricking at his hand. He could also feel the bones knitting already, a warm spreading sensation as the fingers healed. He grinned, tasting blood that dripped into his mouth. In an instant his warmth, his compassion, his pity, all fell from him like vain ornaments.

He was not himself; in the space his body normally occupied was a specter that thought only of blood and violence.

He moved.

Little Kawabata’s head turned toward Taro before the rest of his body as he unleashed a textbook spinning kick, lining up the target before bringing his foot round. His eyes just had time to widen in surprise as Taro surged upward and toward him, knocking the fat boy’s stick aside and throwing a handful of glittering wicked rock dust into his eyes.

Little Kawabata screamed and fell blindly backward. He had kept only one leg to the ground as he’d turned into his kick, and now he toppled like a tree, hitting his back hard against the stone floor. Immediately Taro was on him, grinning like a lunatic through a mask of blood and tears. The vampire held the
bokken
in his right hand, and as Little Kawabata watched, powerless, Taro swung it in a hard, low arc. Little Kawabata felt his head snap to the side, then darkness descended like a sheet of heavy rain.

Just before he sank into dark water, Little Kawabata had one thought, which echoed like a mantra.

I’ll kill him
.

Taro stood shakily. He dropped the stick, then knelt by Little
Kawabata. He felt the boy’s pulse. Weak, but present. He staggered over to Shusaku. The ninja smiled at him and put a hand under his arm to support him.

“When I say that you always have a weapon, I really mean it,” he said. “You always have your mind with you, your greatest weapon. And it’s amazing what your mind can find to fight with, even in an empty room. Or a cave. Very rarely are you ever
completely
unarmed, even if you lose your
shobo
.”