Blood Ninja (5 page)

The ninja stilled his arm, but just then another dark figure appeared out of the night and launched itself at Hiro, short-sword whirling. Hiro ducked below the sword’s trajectory and brought his fist up hard, smashing it into the man’s solar plexus. The ninja slumped, and Hiro, not hesitating even a fraction, stooped to pick up the sword and then stabbed it downward, cleaving the attacker’s neck.

He straightened up, holding the torch and the sword, turning his head searchingly.

“Over here!” said Taro, as loud as he dared.

Hiro moved toward him, picking his way across the rocky ground. Then Taro saw a black shape rising in front of his friend.

Ninja!

The ninja threw something—like a black stone—and before
Hiro could move to avoid it, there was an explosion in front of his face, and as Hiro was distracted by the flash, the ninja brought up his
wakizashi
and knocked the stolen sword from Hiro’s grip. The torch Hiro had been holding in his other hand fell to the ground and guttered there, vacillating in the wind. In the flickering light the ninja stuck out a hand and jabbed a finger into Hiro’s neck—Hiro’s legs crumpled and he collapsed to his knees.

Taro started forward, reaching behind his head for an arrow even as he kept his eyes fixed on the black figure as it drew its sword and raised it, ready for the killing stroke—

Taro armed the bow and let the arrow fly in one smooth movement, and the black figure paused, seeming to stare down at Hiro. Then he tumbled forward. Taro grabbed Hiro’s arm and helped him to his feet. Beside him lay the ninja, an arrowhead protruding from his mouth, like an obscene tongue, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

Hiro picked up his sword and torch. “Good shot,” he wheezed. Then he saw the ninja who was helping Taro, and his eyes went wide and he raised his sword. Taro held up his hands.

“No! This one’s on our side,” he said. “He’s a good ninja.”

Hiro raised his eyebrows in suspicion but lowered the sword.

“Gods,” said Taro. “You’re wounded.”

Hiro moved his hand to his face. He grimaced, and Taro knew that his old friend was in agony. For Hiro to succumb to the pain enough to acknowledge it in any way was a bad sign. The boy’s left cheek was split open, blood spilling from it thickly.

“It will heal,” said Hiro.

Taro nodded. They would worry about the cut later. “Are they gone?” he asked, turning to the ninja. The man shook his head.

Into the circle of light cast by the torch, a black figure stepped, his weapon raised. “You are turned traitor, I see,” he said to Taro’s rescuer. “But now you must give yourself up. And the boy, too. You are outnumbered.”

Then something happened that Taro could never afterward remember clearly.

A pale movement flashed in front of him, light gleaming on something long and thin.

Then a sword hilt was sticking out of his stomach, like a grotesque growth. Taro stared down at it. Blood was soaking through his cloak, and dripping down his trousers to pool in the crevices of his toes.

“What—,” he began.

And then the pain hit.

He doubled over, gasping, unable to breathe, feeling the burning metal that had pierced his organs and—he knew without checking—burst out through his back. At that moment his knees gave way, and it struck him with a horror that crawled on his skin that his spine might have been severed.

But I can’t just die
, he thought.
I was going to be a samurai …

His vision blurring so that it seemed the scene was darkened by rain, he just made out the good ninja as he swiftly slit the throat of the man who had stabbed Taro. For a moment he was a tearing, spinning thing, a whirlwind, and then there was a calm point in the storm.

Ahead, Hiro pushed back the ninjas, who had fallen away, retreating from the good ninja’s onslaught.

Then a hand clasped his shoulder. The ninja. “Taro,” he said—but had Taro given him his name? He couldn’t remember. “You’re dying. There is only one chance to save you. But it will mean living your life in secret, in the darkness, hiding with me. You may never see your mother again. Do you agree? Answer, quickly. If you do not agree, both you and your mother die.”

Taro stared, unable to respond.

“You will die now if I do not do this, and so will your mother. I said, do you agree?”

To never again see his mother? To never again witness her smile, which was like the rising of the sun to him?

And yet if he did not agree, he would die, and she would be killed too.

The fear for her mixed with the pain in his belly, striking him through with agony.

“I—I agree,” Taro stammered.

The ninja drew back his lips, revealing a pair of long, sharp canine teeth. Then he bent his head and bit deep into Taro’s neck. Hiro yelled, “What are you doing!” and turned from the attackers, but the ninja pushed him back easily with his free hand and sprang back, releasing Taro.

Taro swayed. His blood hammered in his chest. He felt light-headed, his thoughts were swirling—bright lights burst in his vision. He heard the ninja speak urgently to Hiro. “If you wish for your friend to live, keep back and do nothing.” Then the man’s face swam into view, close up. “Taro,” he said. “I know you’re feeling strange, but I need you to bite my neck.”

Taro felt a need to obey. Still swaying, he opened his mouth and leaned forward. The other man guided his teeth toward his exposed neck, white in the moonlight. Taro bit down, and warm blood filled his mouth, while a warm light filled his mind and his body, making his muscles sing, making every feature of the scene spring into vivid detail. The pain in his belly left, replaced by a feeling of warm energy.

He stood. As if in a dream, he slid the sword from his own flesh and watched as the wound closed over.

He saw Hiro, looking on in astonishment. He saw the ninja step back, smiling sadly.

Taro turned, exquisitely aware of every muscle and tendon in his neck, and faced the darkness. A dozen black-clad figures melted out of the night and stood before him, a semicircle following the line of the circle cast by Hiro’s torch. Absently, he reached out with his left hand and pushed Hiro behind him, where his friend would be safe. He was aware on some level that he shouldn’t be strong enough to push Hiro anywhere, let alone with his left hand. But the strength felt good and right.

He saw his enemies approach him, and he was glad.

He saw
shuriken
s fly, and he ducked and weaved, avoiding them, plucking them out of the air even as they headed for Hiro.

He saw his own hands as they flew between bow and quiver,
knocking ninja after ninja to the ground, every shot perfect, whether he aimed at eye or chest or hand raised to throw.

He saw the ninja beside him, his blood master now, draw a long and perfect samurai sword from a concealed scabbard that ran down his spine, under the black cloak. Taro saw the wavelike pattern of sand-cooled steel down the sword’s blade and knew that it was a masterpiece. And he saw the symbol etched into its base by the handle.

It was a circle containing three hollyhock leaves—exactly like the one on Taro’s bow.

A faraway part of Taro’s mind was aware that he had been bitten by a
kyuuketsuki
. He realized too that the other ninjas were also
kyuuketsuki
. One of them, when Taro shot an arrow through its shoulder, bared its sharp canine teeth in a growl that was more animal than human.

It was impossible: a ghost story come to life. But as impossible as it was, it was also
happening
.

Kyuuketsuki
could be killed, Taro knew that. They bled like ordinary men. But they were many times faster and stronger. Their weakness—the price they paid—was that they could walk abroad only at night.

Taro glanced up at the moonlit sky.

Morning was a long way off.

He turned to the left, narrowly avoiding a sword strike that would have taken off his jaw.

“Stay by me,” said the good ninja, as his sword traced silver loops and butterfly wings in the night air. “You’re stronger than
them, at least while my blood flows in your veins, but they are more experienced.”

The wickedly barbed wheel of a
shuriken
whined through the air past Taro’s head, nicking his ear. He fired an arrow that went wide, just as the good ninja’s blade struck in front of him, as quick and lethal as a snake, gutting a man who had been about to stab him with a dagger. Taro felt that the world and the air surrounding him had grown sharp edges, and waited only for him to fall on them.

And yet still Taro moved with strength and grace. He could
feel
the other man’s blood in him, singing in his veins, doubling his power—for there were two of them animating this body, lifting and twisting its muscles and bone, as two men carry a weight more easily than one.

But then another
shuriken
flew and he didn’t move quick enough: It stuck in his left bicep, going deep enough to jar against the bone. Taro gasped. Next to him, the good ninja whirled round. “We need to go,” he said, while his left hand snapped out and hit one of the assailants in the neck, dropping him instantly to his knees. The good ninja’s sword arced in his right hand, describing a flashing silver oval that ended deep in another man’s shoulder, cutting his arm and half his chest clean off. “Let’s head for the beach. There should be boats, yes?”

Taro nocked another arrow; let it loose. There was a scream. “Yes,” he replied, too short of breath to add anything else. The ninjas were pressing in now. They had suffered heavy losses, but there were just too many of them, and they were stronger than ordinary men. They kept trying to circle around Taro and the good ninja, which forced them farther and farther back against the paper walls of the house, to protect Hiro.

The good ninja turned to Hiro. “Ready to run?”

Taro’s big friend clutched his bleeding cheek—with the other he had formed a fist, ready to defend himself to the last.

He nodded.

There was no signal, no warning. The ninja simply turned and
ran, stumbling in his speed as he headed down the steep hill toward the sea. Taro grabbed Hiro’s arm and ran too. He felt something small and sharp penetrate his back, but as with the
shuriken
still lodged in his arm, the pain felt distant—not gone, he sensed, but saving itself for later. He grimaced and kept running.

Taro ran as fast as he ever had. Hiro, who had never been fast on land, struggled to keep up with him. Twice he stumbled to his knees, and Taro, who had never been strong, lifted him easily to his feet with one hand.

Whatever the ninja
kyuuketsuki
had done to him when he’d bit him, it had made him powerful.

Finally they crashed through a bush and went sliding down a dune onto the beach. The moon shone down on the blue-black sea, which gleamed, glassy and still. “This way,” Taro shouted, pointing to the right, where the boats were moored just offshore. He saw the ninja jag to the right to follow his pointing finger. The three of them ran full tilt toward a small fishing boat that had been tied up and was bobbing maybe a quarter of a
ri
from the shore. Further along the beach were two or three similar boats.

Taro turned, still running, and saw a dark group of pursuers close behind them. The ninjas were gaining quickly, and occasionally stopped to loose an arrow that would strike the sand near their feet. Twice Taro ducked as arrows sliced over his head.

The good ninja turned, pausing to allow the first of the pursuers to catch up. Then he spun round, ducking simultaneously, bringing his sword round in a low circle that severed the man’s legs at the ankles. The man fell, screaming, his feet sitting on the sand like shoes.

The man coming up behind stopped, for a split moment, to draw his sword, and Taro had time to fire an arrow that took him in the throat.

The good ninja stooped, slashing the tie rope that kept the first boat from floating away. Still running, he cut the second one too. That left only one boat tethered to land.

Taro whirled around to loose another arrow at the dark figures
chasing them along the beach. He heard an angry
hiss
as the point found its target.

“To the boat,” said the ninja. Without waiting for a response, he cut to the left and dived into the waves. Taro slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder—he’d have to restring it again after this—and followed him. He heard the splash from behind as Hiro leaped into the sea.

In minutes they had reached the boat, and they pulled themselves, dripping, cold, and panting into its slick, wet carapace. Just in time. An arrow thudded into its wooden side just as they slid into the bottom.

Taro looked back at the beach. From this distance he had to strain his eyes, because there was a thin cloud covering the moon like a silk death shroud, but he could see the ninjas gathering at the shore. Some of them were still firing arrows into the water. The moon was behind them, and they clearly couldn’t see that their quarry had already reached the boat.