Moonshadow Page 3

  The would-be Shogun had pledged that once the land was united under his rule, Silver Wolf would lead an invasion of the Korean Peninsula. As the Shogun's favourite captain, he would expand the empire, carving his clan's name into the great stones of foreign castles, where he'd forever be remembered as a conqueror. What a lie! Instead, he'd been given a small chest of gold. With it had come an announcement that had turned his veins to fire. That infernal edict.

  For soon after tasting victory, the new Shogun had embraced what he called a fresh vision. A dream of a new, peaceful Japan, a realm of art and flourishing culture . . . like a garden of flowers, the edict had read. A land of supposed balance that would neither invade its neighbours nor let newcomers, like those strange barbarians from the far end of the world, gain influence. Silver Wolf and his boldest allies had been ordered to forget the past. Outrageous! Forget their pride? Forget what this very armour stood for?

  Their new leader's change of heart had cut them more deeply than any foe's blade. They had put him in power and once there, he had insulted their warrior blood.

  The Emperor, of course, would never intervene to set things right. Though held to be a living god, he was in fact a tiger without teeth, a figurehead only, who would never challenge anyone with an army at their back.

  No, it was up to Silver Wolf. His eyes refocused on his armour. A work of art! Not for much longer. Not if all went well.

  He started pacing again. He didn't feel like a traitor, like a turncoat plotting rebellion. No. He was a rescuer! It was their so-called greatest military leader who had betrayed every nobleman, every samurai in the country. What deserving Shogun wanted an end to the birthright of battle?

  Serenity. Peace! Such things were not for warriors! Silver Wolf gritted his teeth in contempt. The Shogun's very title meant 'chief general who subdues barbarians'. Yet it was barbarians who would help Silver Wolf subdue this foolish Shogun. It was his duty to remove the traitor. To replace him. To restore the pride.

  He pictured his new foreign allies. Their round faces, eerie blue eyes, strange clothes. So few of his countrymen had encountered these men of the far West, who called themselves Europeans. He smiled grimly. So few would want to, seeing as they didn't bathe daily as all Japanese did. Worse still, they ate their meals, not with chopsticks like the civilised, but with a knife – a weapon – and their bare hands.

  Those barbarian traders, who cared only about money and opportunity, had already played their greedy part. But before he could make use of what they had sold him to topple the Shogun, an obstacle had to be overcome. The Shogun was no mere fellow warlord, to be easily crushed with a surprise border attack or well-timed treachery. His secret service men were no amateurs either; they were possibly the best warrior-wizards alive.

  Silver Wolf's rugged face tightened, stretching the long scar on his left cheek. The Grey Light Order. For generations, the secret defenders of each Shogun's life and office. Only a handful of lords had even heard of them. It was whispered that their name itself was a warning that they belonged to no normal world, phantoms existing between darkness and daylight. Shadows of the twilight and the grey of early dawn, their skills and ways were veiled in myth and superstition. But their agents were real enough, and they would certainly come after his new weapon, even before it was built. He nodded with relief. At least they were not the only spies in the land, and most others, the warriors of the shadow clans, would serve anyone who could afford their hefty fees.

  His gaze moved to his sword rack. Once his swordsmith turned those plans into a reality, no amount of armour would save the Shogun or his men. After all, slow loading, single-shot firearms were everywhere these days. They were dangerous enough. But no one had even heard of a gun that could fire multiple lead balls, one after the other, and with improved accuracy.

  He imagined the Shogun's armoured cavalry and lines of spearmen charging his own ranks boldly, expecting his gunners to fall back and reload, as theirs had to, after each volley. Their mouths would fall open beneath their leather war masks when his men simply went on firing, round after round, his new, unique firepower mowing down man and horse like a sickle passing through weeds.

  If his project could only reach completion, he, Lord of Momoyama Castle, would be invincible. Silver Wolf tapped his cheek with one finger. He was ready to intercept their agents, destroy them, and all without getting his own hands dirty. Art and culture! He shook his head.

  'We're a race of warriors. The destiny of warriors is war.' Silver Wolf grumbled. 'The rule of the strong, not artists and thinkers!'

  In the courtyard below his keep, the shouts and clicks of samurai practising swordplay abruptly stopped. The voice of his chief guard broke the pause, ushering someone towards the tower. They were here. It was time to gauge if, so far, his money had been well spent.

  Silver Wolf strode to a small padded platform near his swords and suit of armour. He sank to his knees on it and rocked back on his heels, tidying his lush robes, straightening his pointy cap.

  The double doors slid open. The chief guard, a stocky samurai with a wrinkled, scarred forehead, stood between them. He bowed low to his seated master then gestured over his shoulder. 'Your . . . guests, Lord.'

  Silver Wolf motioned for the arrivals to be sent in. The chief guard stepped back, waving five men into the keep's audience chamber.

  The warlord looked the group over with a slow nod. Two of them he knew well: burly samurai, each wearing two swords, hand-picked from his own household guard troop. One of these locals was very tall, the other short but exceptionally muscular.

  The other three visitors were quite something else again.

  'Since you new faces don't know each other,' Silver Wolf said slowly, 'let us begin with introductions from all three of you.'

  Silver Wolf pointed to the scruffiest of the new men.

  The youngest of the trio, he was a wily-looking fellow with a thick, messy beard and drooping moustache. His long, untied hair was tangled and he wore a bright, patterned jacket of the kind popular among town gamblers. His neck and forearms were covered in detailed red and green tattoos of carps and dragons.

  'I am Jiro, Lord,' the man said, bowing quickly. His beady eyes darted from side to side. 'Throwing knife specialist and slayer. No job too small, no target too unusual.'

  The pair of household samurai glanced at each other. It was clear from their expressions that they weren't happy working with a gangster. The warlord smiled. He understood their feelings and truly, Jiro was the worst kind of scum, but he was useful scum. His obsession with money meant he would act without question and, if anything went wrong, he could quickly be blamed for the whole plot and sacrificed to the Shogun's head-chopper. It wouldn't be right to waste a loyal samurai in such a way.

  'My men don't seem to like you,' Silver Wolf grinned. 'It's nothing personal. It's just that they are proud samurai, and you, after all, are a lowly criminal. They don't realise yet what a useful fellow you can be . . . if what I've heard is true.' He gestured at the white wood plank leaning against the windowsill. 'Show me. A straight line. Top to bottom.'

  Without hesitation, Jiro the gangster fished in his jacket. He took a step forward and his right arm flashed three times in a whip-cracking motion. Fast swishes cut the air as black blurs flew from his outstretched fingers and three sharp thwacks made everyone's eyes dart to the plank.

  Silver Wolf smiled. Three black shuriken, star-shaped throwing knives, stuck from the white wood. They formed a perfect vertical line. Jiro grinned, wagging his head from side to side proudly. As he turned to the men beside him, he raised one eyebrow.

  'Impressive,' nodded his nearest companion. Older than Jiro, this newcomer was balding, wiry, and clean-shaven. He had hard eyes and wore a plain black robe. 'But are you as good with a target that fires back?' the fellow asked, giving a little sneer. He turned to the warlord, gripping the sword on his hip as he bowed elegantly.

  'Great Lord Silver Wolf,' he announced, 'I am Akira, a profess
ional of two schools. I gather information. I silence enemies.'

  Again the two household samurai exchanged glances, but this time their faces spoke of recognition and respect.

  'An ageing professional,' Jiro mumbled.

  'What's that you say?' Akira gave the gangster a menacing snake-like smile then glanced at their employer. 'I'd be happy to demonstrate that second skill, right now, if my Lord wishes, on this gambling peacock . . .'

  'Your swordplay comes highly recommended by my allies,' Silver Wolf held up a hand, 'so, in your case, no demonstration is necessary. But I will require a show of patience, and proof of your ability to work in a team. From all of you!'

  Akira bowed sharply. 'Of course, Lord.' His eyes flicked sideways to the only hireling in the room who had not yet introduced himself. 'But I don't know all who grace my Lord's new team.'

  The tall, well-built stranger he spoke of turned and slowly looked Akira over before bowing to Silver Wolf. All eyes locked on the fellow. He was the only man present who was openly wearing the dark night garb of a spy or assassin.

  Silver Wolf studied his most expensive hireling. A straight sword hung from the man's back and his face was covered by an unusual hood. It was fashioned from one long strip of indigo blue cloth, wound many times around his head, and secured with two small knots, one just above each temple. Though the knots looked like small, bristling ears, nothing about the stranger struck anyone as funny. His unblinking black eyes, smooth movements and lurking aura of physical power made him an unnerving figure.

  'This, gentlemen,' Silver Wolf said with pride, 'is The Deathless.'

  'I thought The Deathless was a myth,' Akira frowned. 'A story to frighten children.' He gave the hooded agent a quick, polite bow. 'No offence.'

  'A folk-tale, that's right,' Jiro blurted, 'nobody could live up to that reputation! I've heard it said The Deathless is immune to sword cuts! Impossible!'

  A deep, confident voice came from inside the cloth hood. 'Not just sword cuts, Little Man.' The fixed stare of The Deathless swept over Jiro before the killer bowed low to Silver Wolf. 'My Lord, may I still these foolish tongues with a demonstration?'

  'Why not?' Silver Wolf gave a low chuckle, trying to disguise the fact that even he was unsettled by this man. 'But don't kill anyone . . . this operation is expensive enough already!'

  'My Lord.' The Deathless strode, head held high, to the centre of the audience chamber. He smoothly unsheathed his sword then pointed its tip at Jiro.

  'Gangster!' He grunted. 'Come, kill me! Show our Lord how you will take down his foes!' He cocked his hooded head to one side. 'You have actually killed someone before, haven't you?'

  With an angry snort, Jiro quickly drew three more shuriken from his jacket. He hurled the first at The Deathless's head. The tall assassin bent his knees and bobbed under its flight path. The whirling black star streaked into the wood panelling directly behind him, embedding itself with a loud thwack.

  'Concentrate, dice-roller!' The Deathless sniggered, 'you just wasted your best chance!'

  Jiro cursed and threw the next shuriken at his target's chest, but The Deathless raised his blade at the last possible second and blocked it. A spark flew from the sword. The black throwing knife buzzed skywards to wedge in a ceiling beam.

  The two household samurai were openmouthed with awe. The shorter one nudged his partner.

  'They say that under that hood,' he whispered, 'he has the head of an otter, but with huge fangs.'

  Akira glanced up at the shuriken in the beam and nodded slowly to himself.

  'I'll show you!' Jiro growled. He flung the third shuriken, this time at his enemy's stomach, then drew a small dagger from his jacket and rushed The Deathless.

  Silver Wolf blinked as the gambler charged. His third shuriken had simply vanished. What magic was this?

  The tall assassin let his sword droop as Jiro whistled past, slashing hard into his chest.

  Silver Wolf leaned forward, breath held.

  The Deathless made no move. Jiro slowed, regained his balance and spun around, raising the dagger and pointing back at The Deathless with it. 'How did you like that then, huh? Does it hurt?'

  A low, superior chuckle came from beneath the knotted hood. Silver Wolf studied The Deathless carefully from head to foot, then he too began to laugh.

  Jiro's eyes widened as The Deathless held up the third shuriken. He had snatched it from the air itself with his free hand. The tall assassin sheathed his sword on his back, tossed the shuriken at Jiro's feet, then with both hands, stretched the cloth of his jacket tightly over his torso.

  'What?' Jiro's head snapped forward. His lips twisted in amazement.

  A distinct cut now marred The Deathless's jacket. But beneath it and the slashed white undershirt, his skin could be clearly seen.

  There was no blood. There was no cut.

  Jiro inspected his dagger. It was dry. He shook his head, stumbling over his words. 'How? How did – I know I cut you! For sure! I felt it! Nobody can –'

  'It is rumoured,' Akira put in solemnly, 'that The Deathless was trained by the shadow master, Koga Danjo himself!'

  'Koga Danjo is said to be three hundred years old,' the short samurai whispered.

  'Take note,' Silver Wolf warned the group, 'our invulnerable friend here charges by the kill, not by the day, so I will be holding him in reserve until something worthy of his talent crops up.' He nodded to Akira and Jiro. 'Meanwhile, you pair, supported by my best two swordsmen here, should be able to deal with any lesser visitors.'

  'Does my Lord expect more than one intruder, then?' Akira folded his arms.

  Silver Wolf nodded grimly, patting the floor at his side. 'Momoyama Castle . . . Peach Mountain Castle.' He sighed, his stare gliding to the ceiling. 'It is a strong fortress, yes, but built to withstand a different kind of attack to the one now coming. Have no doubt, our land is full of spies and counterspies these days. And there will be other hopeful takers out there, keen to snatch my new prize.'

  'Other warlords may vie for the plans?' Akira rubbed his smooth chin.

  'Yes. Though sitting atop this keep, secure in my archive room, ringed with loyal steel, the agents of other ambitious men will try for them.' He waved his hand along the line of mercenaries. 'But with my guards and you gentlemen ready to intercept them, what should we fear?'

  'Exactly,' Jiro stuck out his chest. 'We won't fail.'

  'Good.' Silver Wolf smiled, then caught the eye of The Deathless. 'If you do . . .'

  The Deathless slowly looked Jiro up and down, then turned back to his master and bowed. The gangster forced a nervous grin.

  'Dismissed!' Silver Wolf grunted.

  Unseen servants pulled the sliding doors open. As one, the hirelings bowed and turned to go. The two household samurai darted forward and collected the shurikens, using their short swords to prise them from the ceiling beam and wooden wall panelling.

  The warlord of Momoyama waited until his audience chamber had been cleared, then hung his head and whispered, 'Who can stop us?'

  FOUR

  Warnings on the

  Great Road

  Moonshadow grinned as he trudged along the road. The fine spring weather itself was enough to make anyone smile, but a heady feeling of freedom doubled his joy. There was so much to see, smell and hear, all of it totally new. Over the course of his life, he had left the Grey Light Order's base, the monastery in Edo, many times. At first, he had just run shopping errands, designed to help him practise basic good manners and to teach him to handle money responsibly.

  Then he'd been made to play games like 'errands in disguise', delivering or collecting coded messages, and later, there had been simple spying missions. Along the way he had seen different kinds of people. But never a variety like this, for never had he travelled so far west along this highway, the Tokaido. Around him now were folk from town and country alike, walking, running or limping. Men, women and children of all classes. Just as new and even more interesting, there were g
irls. Everywhere.

  Not long out of Edo, he suddenly found a distant set of large eyes meeting his idle gaze. They belonged to a peasant girl of about his age. She was walking alone with a pack on her back and a staff in one hand. She was beautiful, willowy. Without warning she smiled at him. He felt his cheeks flush. Moonshadow stopped walking and made himself study a tall tree beside the road. A strange, uncomfortable feeling gripped him. No girl so lovely had ever looked directly at him before, let alone smiled that way. He stared at the tree, hoping that by now, she had moved on.

  After a while he turned warily and scanned the road ahead. The girl was far away, moving at quite a pace into the distance, obviously trying to catch up with a small group of farmers about to disappear over the rise.

  She reached them, and his discomfort eased. Then they were all gone.

  Moon chided himself to stop wasting time and to get moving. He glanced back in the direction of Edo, and a pang of emptiness went through him. He abruptly realised that he missed the daily sight of Eagle, Heron, the grumpy Badger, Groundspider, and even Mantis, despite his hard training and endless platitudes. Yes, the Grey Light Order was the closest thing he had to a family. And exciting and new as everything was, out here in the world, part of him already longed for . . . home. The world is a lonely place, he thought, for those who are alone.

  Moon recalled the time that he and Heron had talked of loneliness.

  Though Groundspider had instructed him in the use of smoke bombs, it was Heron who had schooled the young Nanashi in how to make them. She'd also taught him how to fight with the short naginata, a pole weapon with a single curved blade, and had coached him in the use of disguises, poisons and sleeping drugs.

  He remembered an autumn day of warm sun and golden leaves underfoot. Heron had been tutoring him in the monastery's garden, testing his recognition of herbs and flowers whose essences could be extracted to create potions. His repeated failure to identify one common flower ingredient had gradually turned her silken eyes hard and made her deliberate, graceful walk stiffen. Finally she had hissed with irritation. Gesturing for them both to sit on a stone bench, Heron had stared closely into his face.