Eternal Samurai (36 page)

At the entrance to the iron mine, Sadomori squeezed through the narrow opening of the adit into the main chamber. He squatted and studied each branch. The minute but odd displacement of fallen rubble at the entrance to one tunnel spoke volumes to the seasoned warrior. This tunnel hid the lair of the
oni
.

Ignoring the bone-deep chill permeating the air, he avoided the many pools created by constant drip of water from the ceiling and down the scarred walls. They inched down the incline deeper into the bowels of the mountain. Soon he and the boy were ankle-deep in freezing water.

Twice Sadomori turned to cuff the youth for lagging behind. Terrified yet determined to fulfill his duty, the boy accepted his punishment with no noise. Sadomori gave him a small, grudging approval.

Frequently, he halted, held his breath and let the darkness speak to him. Heard nothing save the groans and creaks of the mountain, the pervasive drip of condensation down the walls.

Their feet slipped as the incline of the slime-wet ground increased. The tunnel narrowed, forcing even the boy to crouch. Sadomori discarded his helmet. He cursed the bandits who had stolen his
naginata
. However, in the confines of the mine, the long spear would have been a hindrance. Hours passed as they navigated turn after turn, going ever deeper into labyrinth of the mine.

At every deep fissure and juncture, Sadomori paused and scrutinized the shadows before moving on. It was now night by his estimate. He grunted with a deep satisfaction. By his reckoning, the monster should be awake. In his pride, Sadomori planned to fight the demon not slay it while it slept.

The torch flame flickered wildly as a sharp gust of air blew past them. Sadomori smelled the hint of an odor not natural to man or beast. Then he heard the merest exhalation of a breath. It was the only warning he had.

The boy shrieked once before death took him. His body fell with a splash into the stream, extinguishing the torch with a hiss, and enfolding Sadomori and his attacker in complete darkness.

Sadomori, trained to fight blindfolded, spun toward the enemy, locating the
oni
by the wet sound of its breathing. With lightning moves, Sadomori slashed his blade back and forth. Snarls of anger and pain followed every strike.

He felt his blade tip of graze some part of the creature’s torso. Sadomori lunged, putting all his strength into driving the sword home. As he shifted his weight to his front leg, his sandaled foot slipped, only a little, but enough. His deathdealing thrust skidded along the monster’s ribcage. Before Sadomori recovered his balance, talonned fingers locked around his throat.

Sadomori tucked his chin to gain a little air, but already the pressure around his trachea was excruciating. His lungs heaved for even the smallest gasp of air. His vision danced and began to turn black.

Iie
! No! He would not let surrender his life to a demon. With blind desperation, he pounded the rounded, metal end of his
saya
against the creature’s temple—three, four, five brutal blows. The monster grunted with each clout yet his deadly stranglehold did not loosen.

“I shall take you for my own, warrior,” the
oni
growled in the impeccable dialect of the Imperial Court. He tore Sadomori’s sword from his hand.

Stark horror possessed Sadomori at hearing the cultured language of the nobility. He dropped his sword. Agony, as teeth sharper than any known weapon, punctured his neck. The scalding heat of his own blood gushed down his chest. He scrabbled to pull his tanto from his
obi
. With mindless desperation, he drove the razor-sharp edge into the demon’s thick neck. The monster growled but those teeth never relinquished their bite.

In rank desperation, Sadomori twisted the blade, sawing it back and forth, praying to pierce the monster’s brain. Unconsciousness threatened. A comforting black void that promised peace. Only his fierce will drove his blade.

The creature thrashed but that jaw refused to loosen. Blood—samurai and monster—sprayed the air, streamed down their thrashing bodies.

Suddenly, the monster’s neck separated from the shoulders. Jets of arterial blood drenched Sadomori’s face. The body dropped to the floor with a loud splash. But those fangs remained buried in Sadomori’s neck, the head resting on his shoulder like that of some hideous lover. He clawed at the rigid jaw, trying to pry it open. No use, every tug threatened to tear out his jugular.

Exhausted, Sadomori sank to the ground, ready to embrace the Void. He prayed the word of his triumph would reach home and enhance the honor of his family name. His last thought was for his Emperor.

Sadomori did not know how long he lay in the brackish water as his consciousness faded in and out. There were times his body raged with a fever, other times he shivered so violently he thrashed against the walls. He should have died; perhaps the utter cold in the tunnels sustained him.

When he finally awoke, his throat was swollen, his mouth dry, tongue pressing thick between his parched lips. No thought existed except to slake his thirst. He scooped up a handful of the filthy tunnel water. He retched at its foul taste but forced himself to sip only a small amount. His body cried for more. Yet he knew, to drink too much would bring death from belly cramps.

Sometime during his delirium, the putrid head had dropped from his neck. The wound from the monster’s bite had festered, the stench of his pus one of many among the rank odors including his own shit. Exhausted, he sank once again insensible to the wet floor of the tunnel.

The second time consciousness returned, Sadomori knew he must quit the tunnel or die. The compulsion to bolt from the claustrophobic tomb of the mine nearly took his reason. With incredible strength, he controlled his panic. He would not leave until he found his sword.

Sadomori gagged on the putrid stench of the decomposing flesh. He groped beneath the corpse and retrieved his
nodachi
. He located the monster’s head, wrapped it in remnant of his coat and fastened it to his waist.

Time lost meaning as Sadomori inched his way up the incline. He gave no thought to the decomposed remains of the boy as he passed. All that existed was the act of dragging one knee forward then the other, repeating the move, all other thought subsumed by the metronome of that simple act.

Sometimes he heard voices crying out for him. Other times it was the whisper of a soft spring wind blowing through the sakura tress or the delight in his children’s laughter. When at last the tunnel widened, he was too weak to stand. Babbling with delirium, he inched over the last pile of rubble and collapsed in the main chamber.

Many hours later, Sadomori awoke and stretched his limbs. He felt as refreshed as if from a long, restful sleep in the most luxurious bed. New vigor pulsed through his body. He explored the hideous wound in his neck but could not even find a scar. Was the
oni
merely a terrible nightmare? No, the evidence of the creature’s existence was tied up in his cloak amidst the stink of decomposing flesh.

He exited the mine and stood, stretching his arms and breathing in the rich mountain air in great, intoxicating gulps. The sliver of a new moon showed through the clouds. He had been under the mountain for three weeks.

Despite his weakness, Sadomori found an icy pool. He dove in and scrubbed himself and his soiled clothing. This was no vanity; an enemy could detect a warrior who smelled. Then he staggered toward the village. The steady beat of a human heart sounded as loud as a taiko drum. In fact, the sounds and scents of the forest were overwhelming in their intensity.

The smell of fresh blood assailed Sadomori’s nostrils with such force he staggered. The delicious scent made him reel with hunger. His mouth flooded with saliva. He lurched from the last of the underbrush surrounding a field. In three swift strides, the samurai reached the man rising from his squat. Sadomori intended to demand succor from the peasant. Before the words left his lips, he embraced the peasant as if they were lovers and buried his mouth against the warm skin of his neck.

“My Lord, we feared you were dead,” the man stammered.

Sharp pain filled Sadomori’s mouth as long fangs ripped from his upper and lower gums. With a low growl, he struck, sinking his teeth into the villager’s throat. The man had no time to cry out.

The thick, succulent taste filled him with ecstasy. Never had he experienced such sublime joy as that of his first taste of hot human blood. His cock hardened, pounded with painful need. He had to fuck his prey. He tugged at his clothing, ready to free his cock.

Too late, the life force fled the peasant’s body, and Sadomori held only a cooling corpse. Lust fled the vampire. With a snarl, he dropped the body. He ran his tongue over his lips and razor-sharp fangs, lapping up the last drop of blood. He had never tasted anything so sublime.

Then the horror flooded him, as he understood the truth of his actions. He had not slain an
oni.
There was no
oni
. He’d killed something far more evil, a
kyūketsuki,
a monster that fed off the blood of men. And in that act, he’d lost his own life and humanity. The samurai Ukita Sadomori no longer existed. What was left was a monster cursed never again to walk in the light of the day. He raised his head to the indifferent stars and screamed his rage and loss.

Instinct kept him alive as he made his way home. Instinct drove him to find sanctuary well before the day’s first light. Weeks of hiding, of hunting, of learning the ways of the night, honed a new set of killing skills for the cursed samurai.

His body hummed with its new supernatural strength. At first, the intensity of every sense was painful. He saw colors never before experienced. No sound within a hundred fieldsquares escaped him. There were times he recoiled at the fetor hanging over all human habitation. However, he could scent blood, or hear a heartbeat from vast distances. His appetite was insatiable, and he often fed three or four times in a single night, not caring if it were man or woman. But he could not feed from a child. That first taste sent him reeling with revulsion.

His need for blood was matched only by his sexual hunger. Every time Sadomori fed, he fucked his prey. His climax lasted longer and was more intense than any he had ever known.

He believed he was more than
oni.
He was
chi no kami
—a god of blood.

Even as his strength grew, so did his ambition and his cunning. Before his transformation, Sadomori desired only to become worthy enough to achieve the rank of
Hyoe no Suke
, captain of the Imperial Guard. Now, with his inhuman powers, Sadomori wanted nothing less than the throne.

As the early spring rain fell, Sadomori arrived at the outskirts of the new capital Heian-kyo. He slipped past the guards and passed unseen through the city. His estate was but an hour north. When he crossed into his own
shoen,
a modest-sized farm of a few hundred acres, an unexpected peace settled in him. He noted with satisfaction that the fields were in order and spring planting was under way. His trusted overseer and his wife would have kept his property in perfect order no matter how long he was absent.

Body thrumming with power, Sadomori planned his triumphant return. First, he would bathe. His most beautiful serving girl would dry and scent his body, then help him dress in his best clothing. He would present his success to his entire household but not show the demons’ rotting head.

The next night, he would answer the summons of the Emperor Kurosaki no Gitako. Sadomori planned his tale to be eloquent yet thrilling, a story designed to validate his bravery. He pictured the Emperor commanding his generals to acknowledge Ukita Sadomori as the most-honored of his warriors. As a sign of his imperial favor, Kurosaki would grant Sadomori permission to climb the pedestal and sit on the right of the golden
takamikura.

However, the moment Sadomori reach the side of the throne, he would pull out his rotting trophy and hold it aloft. He imagined every man rendered immobile with horror. Before anyone could react, Sadomori’s fangs—the fangs of a God of Blood—would tear open the Emperor’s neck and drain the royal blood. Then, he would slay every warrior present. Death would come with such swiftness that none would have time to react.

There would be no honor in the killing but Sadomori’s ambition left no room for honor. None would be left to challenge Ukita Sadomori’s right to the title of Emperor.

As he climbed the final hill to his home, Sadomori eagerly sought the first glimpse of his ancestral banners. He halted puzzled by the alien flags fluttering in the night wind. Why were the standards of Lord Oshahito flying above the main gate of his home? Confused, he looked around. The Ukita mons was nowhere to be seen.

Sadomori crept around to the back wall, opened a hidden gate and slipped into the garden. So silent was his approach, he did not disturb the croaking of the young frogs. All appeared in order, the delicate sakura trees on the verge of blooming, his prized cypress trimmed to perfection, the
ume,
plum, trees green with new leaf. He listened to the trickle of the streams connecting each pond, the distinctive “tock” of the
shishiodoshi’s
bamboo tubes filling then emptying with water.

But the scent of his home was wrong—alien and rank. The foul odors of dozens of unknown males assailed him. One stank with the unwashed odor of a meat glutton. Sadomori knew of only one man who refused to bathe—the Emperor’s first cousin, Oshahito no Kano.

He crouched lower among the bulrushes. He could not sense his wife, his children or his concubines. Brays, laughter and drunken revelry replaced the normal, orderly sounds of his household.

A
shiaijo
slid aside and a drowsy man, scarcely more than a youth, stumbled out. He made his way to the bamboo privy reserved for the lower castes. He fussed with his clothing and pulled out his penis. With a long sigh, he let out a hot stream of piss. The acrid tang of his urine filled the air.

Before the soldier tucked his prick away, Sadomori grabbed his neck in one hand and threw him to the ground. He stood astride the stunned guard.