Lord Oda's Revenge (19 page)

But the blood would be fresh.

The neck was exposed, and he closed his lips over the flesh, then bit down. The heart wasn't pumping. He had to suck to draw the blood out, but it was hot and thick in his mouth, the taste of everything good he had ever eaten. He drank deep, feeling the dead man's power suffusing his muscles. The pain in his shoulder ebbed, as if carried away on a tide of blood.

When he pulled away, the corpse's neck and face were white, drained by his feeding. Such was the vigour pulsing through him, the joyful strength, that he didn't even feel disgust. He gripped Hana's hand, turning to check that she was still there. She met his eyes, then looked down – he didn't know if it was to spare his embarrassment, or because she was revolted by him.

It doesn't matter, as long as she lives.

Taro began once more to crawl up the hill, feeling his way slowly along the pile of bodies and the occasional patch of wet
grass. Twice, a sword cut him, slicing into his flesh as he hauled himself over the blade. He ignored the pain, concentrating on moving, and on the little movements of the hand he held behind him, which told him that Hana was still alive, still crawling. There was a long, rolling
boom
from somewhere behind him, and he thought at first that it must be an enormous gun, but he realized it was thunder when a drop of water landed on his ear, and then heavy rain began to fall. Soon Taro was soaked, and he didn't know where his shirt was cold with rain, and where it was cold with his blood. He frowned. Something had changed. Yes, that was it. He could no longer hear the guns.

The rain
. . ., he thought.
It's stopping them firing.
It was as if some god, some
kami
, had intervened in the battle.

He dared to look up, and found that they had hardly moved on the slope. He cursed, crawling onward. It took so long, and the field of corpses was so endless, that he began to wonder if they
were
in hell.
But if I am in hell
, he thought,
then why has Enma not greeted me?
Looking down the hill, he saw that the awful line of samurai gunmen were lowering their rifles, hesitating. There was an impression of disorder among the ranks. Taro smiled.
Their fuses are going out, and they have no other weapons
. Part of him wanted to pick up a sword, any sword, and run down the hill, over the bodies. Part of him wanted to crash into the line, cutting and slashing, killing as many of the gunmen as he could, making them pay for the cruel, detached deaths they had dealt. But he turned away from them to look up at the main monastery building, and he crawled.

When he slid off the final body and lay on the dew-covered grass near the accommodation hall, it took him a moment to realize it. He was still crawling, muttering to himself, when he saw that what was going by beneath his eyes was only grass –
just
grass. He looked up, then back. Hana crouched behind him, her hair hanging lank and damp over her face. She was panting. Hiro lay flat on his back beside her, and Taro thought he saw tears on the boy's cheeks.

‘Come on,' he said unnecessarily. He pushed himself to his feet, then leaned back to help Hana up. ‘Hiro, get some swords.'

On his knees, keeping his profile low, Hiro scavenged among the dead. He passed a sword behind him to Hana, then scurried over with another two in his hands. He threw one to Taro, handle first, and Taro hissed with pain when he caught it.

Hana put her palm over his wound, frowning. ‘Are you all right?' she asked.

‘Yes. It is healing already.' The human blood was still fresh in him, and it made his flesh quicker than usual to close over.

She let out a long breath, then threw her arms around him. ‘I thought you would die,' she said.

‘It takes a lot to kill him,' said Hiro, smiling weakly.

Taro nodded. ‘I think they'll try, anyway.' Already he could see samurai with swords pushing past the useless gunners, racing up the hill to confront the monks hand to hand.

Just then Hayao appeared from round the corner. He had a
katana
in his hand, and Taro took a step backward. The man was an Oda samurai – Taro didn't know if he had returned to his old allegiance, now that he was cured of his haunting.

‘Wait,' said Hayao. ‘I won't harm you. I—I owe my life to you. I'll fight with you.'

Taro turned to the samurai forcing their way up the hill. ‘Those are Lord Oda's men,' he said. ‘You would be a traitor, in their eyes, if you chose to defend the monastery.'

Hayao shrugged, but Taro could see this was no casual decision – there was a sick light of shame in the man's eyes. Taro
could see what it cost him to betray his lord. Taro knew to his detriment how closely the samurai held their notions of honour. ‘Nevertheless,' said Hayao.

‘You've made the right choice,' said Hana, smiling at him with admiration.

Now for the first time Hayao hesitated. ‘Do you not. . . I mean, do you side with the monks? Hana
ko
?' He stressed the final syllable of her fake name, his meaning clear. She was Lord Oda's daughter, and yet she was siding with the monks.

‘I am no longer what I was,' said Hana. There didn't seem to be anyone within earshot, but it was well to be careful.

Hayao nodded slowly. ‘Very well,' he said. Together the four of them backed towards the temple buildings. A samurai came charging at them, but Hiro tripped him and Hana opened his belly as he went down, and they kept close together as they moved.

‘We need to get out of here,' said Taro. ‘Maybe if we go over the summit, and back the way we climbed. . .' He turned to look up the stone path. Then he frowned. Above the mountaintop, a red glow lit the sky. But it was long past sunset, and many incense sticks would burn down before dawn came.

‘What's that?' he said. But the glow was flickering, pulsing, and he thought he knew.

‘Fire,' said Hiro, his voice empty. ‘It's fire.' Taro didn't know how the fire could be burning so hotly, even in the rain, but he knew that his friend was right. He had seen forest fires before, when he lived by the sea in Shirahama.

‘Oh, gods,' said Hana. Taro stepped over to comfort her, to reassure her that he would never allow her to be harmed. But then he saw the expression on her face and realized she was not worried for herself. ‘The scrolls,' she said. ‘The Hokke-do is on
that side of the mountain.' Without saying anything more, she began hurrying up the steps to the peak. Taro limped after her, one hand over the hole in his shoulder. He could feel the flesh there knitting itself closed, but it still ached when he moved.

‘Hana!' he called after her. ‘They're only scrolls!'

Hayao drew level with Taro, passed him, then caught Hana by the arm. ‘My lad – I mean, Hanako. We should go back, look for shelter.'

She shook him off, her hair streaming in the wind, her face flushed with effort and emotion. Rainwater streamed down her face. ‘No,' she said. She turned to Taro. ‘They are not
only
anything. They are beyond value.' And then she was moving again, taking the steps two at a time. Hayao pressed after her, Taro and Hiro following.

Soon they came to the top of the mountain, and Taro could only stare, speechless, at the violation that had been done to the beautiful view. Below them, fire was sweeping slowly upward, like a vast long beast eating the cedar trees, undeterred by the rain. Great billows of steam rose from where the flame met the falling water. As he watched, one of the trees exploded with a dull
pop
, creating a bright, evanescent glow. The fire was growing at a steady rate, and soon it would begin consuming the
ume
trees below the Hokke-do.

Heading down the hill towards it, already a small, dark figure against the steps, was Hana.

‘Hurry,' said Taro, but when he set off towards the steps, Hiro grabbed his sleeve, pulling him back. ‘What?' said Taro.

‘Oh, gods,' said Hayao. He pointed, back the way they had come. Taro looked. Nearest to them, the training hall stood inviolate. But below it was an appalling sight.

Samurai with swords in their hands were entering the clearing
outside the accommodation hall, in clusters of two and three. Taro turned back to Hana's disappearing form, then back again to the samurai. They were moving forward, trying to get to the buildings, and no organized defence stood against them.

My mother is in there
, thought Taro. He stared at the advancing samurai in horror.

The monks had been scattered by the volleys of bullets, thrown into disarray – those of them that remained, anyway. These dazed survivors were engaging the samurai, but there were not enough of them to staunch the increasing flow of attackers.

Hana. . . or my mother.

Taro flicked his gaze from one side of the mountain to the other. He met Hiro's eyes briefly, and for once his friend offered no commentary. He only held up his sword. ‘Whichever way you go,' he said, ‘I'll follow.'

Taro smiled at him. He knew it – knew that Hiro would go to hell and back with him, if he needed – but it wasn't what he needed.

‘What is it?' said Hayao, oblivious. ‘What's wrong?'

‘My mother is in that hall,' said Taro. He pointed to where the samurai were threatening to overwhelm the temple building.

Hayao put a hand on his arm. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘You go – I will go after Hana, try to keep her from killing herself.'

Taro hesitated. If Hayao saved Hana's life, she'd be grateful; he might lose her to the samurai. . . and yet his mother. . .

He steeled himself, silencing the petty voices inside him. Hayao was a good man, and a trained samurai – and he wasn't injured, whereas Taro was still moving slowly from the ball that had gone through his shoulder. And besides, if they were taken by Oda's men, perhaps Hayao could convince them he was with
them.

‘Thank you, Hayao,' he said hurriedly. ‘Yes, please, go. I will see you again when this is all over. Hiro – go with him. Protect her. I'll be with you as soon as I can.'

‘I'll come with you,' said Hiro. ‘I don't—'

‘No,' said Taro. ‘Go after Hana. Please.'

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Forgive me, Hana.

Then he threw himself down the slope towards where his mother was.

 

K
ENJI
K
IRA WATCHED
the roiling mass of the arquebusiers, the chaos of their panicked movements as they dropped their weapons. Rain hammered on his helmet and breastplate, like percussion.

Now this
, he thought,
this is war
.

The monks who had survived the volleys of fire were surging through the disarmed arquebusiers, who scurried, bewildered, with their useless sticks. The monks cut them down where they stood, their
katana
finding in this moment the perfection of their purpose, drinking down blood.

A man with a gun ran past Kenji – or nearly, anyway, for there was a protective cordon of armed and armoured samurai around Kenji, keeping him at arm's length from the mess of the fighting. Kenji had kept his elite guard back, behind the guns, ready for the hand-to-hand engagement. It was going to come a little quicker than he had planned, of course. But he was looking forward to it. His sword was thirsty.

As he ran past, the arquebusier shouted something about Susanoo, the
kami
of storms, and how he was punishing them for their arrogance. Kenji sighed. These men would fight to the death, commit seppuku over the tiniest offence if you asked them to, but
allow for a single moment the seed of superstition to plant itself among them, and soon a great tree of fear would surge upward, its expanding branches sending the men scattering.

Now the gunmen were running around in a panic, aimless, their very movements chaotic – as if they were things that had only entered human bodies, possessing them, and had little idea of how the joints were meant to articulate. They were no match for the ruthless, organized monks, who cut them down mercilessly.

‘Should we help them?' said one of the samurai.

‘No,' said Kenji. ‘Leave them to die.' He felt angry with the gunmen for failing him. A small voice at the back of his mind told him that it was he who had ordered the attack when clouds had been gathering, but he ignored it, as he found it was best to do with such troublesome voices. He dismounted from his horse, gesturing for his men to do the same. The mounts would be hopeless on this treacherous mess of dead bodies.

He looked up the slope. There were not many monks left, anyway. All the rain was doing was bringing forward the final part of Oda's battle plan, when the best of the samurai would storm the mountaintop with swords in hand, raze the buildings, and exterminate the last of the Tendai monks. Already he could see the smoke from the other side of the rise, where a picked detachment of his men had set fire to the Hokke-do. Lord Oda had specially ordered that part of the temple burned to the ground – the scrolls were the heart of the Tendai Order, he said, and without them the monks would wither and die.