The Twilight War Read online

  Every barrier guard who read it instantly became friendly, cheerful and efficient. The very last samurai to let them through a checkpoint, a stoic, barrel-chested fellow who seemed to have genuine respect for the Shogun, actually bowed and wished them luck.

  Groundspider scanned ahead as they rounded a rocky bend. The snow-capped mountains looked much closer now. Just ahead, the road thinned even more, forking at a small shrine. He took one hand from the reins, signalling to Moonshadow. While seeing them off, Mantis had ordered that they check the few roadside shrines they would pass along the mission route for goshikimai, dyed rice grains that shinobi used to leave each other coded messages. It was a wise precautionary order. Regional Grey Light agents, now also targets, might have left fresh intelligence at a shrine about Fuma attacks or troop movements.

  Yesterday for instance, Groundspider reasoned, a local ally could have set goshikimai right here, after identifying disguised shinobi on their way to Edo. He groaned with dread. Or today, after seeing them on their way back.

  Wheeling his horse to a halt near the shrine, Groundspider swung a thick leg over the saddle. He stared warily at Moonshadow as the white mare caught up. Since leaving Edo, the kid had been unusually quiet, almost broody. Groundspider didn’t really blame him. Doggedly loyal to Snowhawk, Moonshadow was no doubt struggling with the signs that she was a double agent, not to mention the burden that awaited him once that was proven. Groundspider sighed. He knew an older agent in Kyoto who, under orders, had slain a dear friend who was shown to be an infiltrator. Necessary as it was, that deed had hollowed the man out, left him forever dark and bitter. Groundspider looked his young companion up and down. Moon was tough, but still just a kid. What would following an order like that do to him?

  He turned back and stared at the shrine itself, little more than an open-fronted cedar box with a slanting, tiled roof. Inside it, set well back from potential wind and rain, a long, deep shelf sat in shadow. There, locals left offerings to the region’s kami: gifts of rice, incense, sweets, sliced fruit or vegetables. Above the shelf, a single, plaited white rope stretched between the shrine’s inside walls. Faded, shrunken ties of paper hung from it, handwritten prayer requests to the gods.

  On either side of the shrine, a row of jizo, little stone monks representing the guardian of the dead, smiled back at Groundspider with unblinking eyes. Some wore eye-patches formed from moss. Jizo were everywhere. Beside rivers, on street corners in towns, deep in forests and even here, at the lonely edge of the high mountains. Between one row of jizo and the road, near a stunted, gnarled tree, was a small stone water trough.

  Moonshadow tethered their horses to the tree so the animals could water, graze, and rest their sweat-foamed legs. Groundspider stalked up and down, glancing in all directions, his tracker’s eyes searching for signs. It was crucial to determine whether or not the Fuma had already passed this remote shrine. If they had, their lead was now so substantial that pursuit into Fumayama itself was almost guaranteed. He looked about again, praying that he and Moonshadow hadn’t missed their enemies. Would even Fuma leaders drive their men that hard? Then he saw the grave. Yes, they would!

  A mound of freshly turned earth, large enough to hold a body, was hidden by one row of jizo. Its only marking was a little white stone laid flat on top of it. On the stone, crudely scratched kanji formed the words ‘wind demon’ which, of course, was pronounced fuma. The pair crouched beside the grave. Groundspider crumbled its dirt in his fist.

  ‘Dug today.’ He hung his head. ‘We have missed them!’ He stood up and cursed, punching the air with one hand. ‘How? Maybe they were met, back there a little, by their own people … with horses.’

  Moonshadow stared down at the burial mound. ‘Or just brutally pushed by their leaders to run most of the way. If so, this grave says their injured simply couldn’t take it.’

  ‘If that’s true, why only one grave?’ Groundspider checked behind the other jizo.

  ‘Snowhawk told me once that it was Fuma policy to always bury their captains and above, but lesser ranks who died out on the road were just stripped of equipment and left, or their bodies weighted down, thrown in a river or lake. Maybe this was the fellow with the cannon. He was badly hurt, but we never found his body.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Groundspider said. The kid was trying to be useful, but all Groundspider could think about was having missed the Fuma. He went to the shrine box for a closer look. Going by their recent luck, there’d be no messages. His eyes lit up. ‘Moon, see here!’

  Moonshadow appeared at his side and together they studied the long lines of dyed rice grains tracking right across the shelf. To an untrained eye, a lavish, expressive offering to the gods. To a shinobi … goshikimai! The grains looked almost new, and all the colours needed to form a detailed coded message were there. Purple, red, black, blue, yellow. Laid out in numerous, varied combinations.

  ‘You’re a lot faster at this than me,’ Moonshadow said. ‘What does it say?’

  Hunching over the shrine box, Groundspider carefully studied the message. It was a Grey Light Order field code all right, slightly outdated, but still valid. He frowned. What if the Fuma, notoriously good code-crackers, had broken this one? Groundspider sensed Moonshadow waiting anxiously and chided himself. Why, without evidence, invent problems? They had enough real ones already! He decoded each line slowly, the colourful, intricate combinations of grains giving up their secret words and sentences.

  ‘It’s from a local freelancer who serves the Order … he’s been commanded by the Shogun himself, via carrier pigeon, to guide us from here on, should we need to penetrate Fumayama. It ends by saying please wait.’

  ‘Please wait?’ Moonshadow wrinkled his nose. ‘We could be waiting all day. We’ve a rescue to perform! Where is this agent? Maybe the Fuma found him and killed him.’

  ‘Not yet,’ a cheerful voice called from behind them. ‘But they’d certainly like to!’

  Along with Moonshadow, Groundspider whirled around. A wiry man, perhaps in his twenties, stood there in the drab hemp clothes of a farmer, a large sack over his shoulder. His long hair was tied back in the style of a rural peasant. Groundspider narrowed his eyes. This fellow had just snuck up silently on two shinobi. Some farmer! He was ninja and he was good. No visible weapons. But whose side was he on?

  ‘Rikichi,’ the young man grinned, pointing at his own nose. ‘I left you the message!’ His face was smooth, no scars, and he had an open, avid manner and charming smile. ‘I’m the right man to guide you. You’re looking at the only Grey Light ally ever to infiltrate Fumayama and live to tell the tale. I know the way to their base’s back door and about half the tunnels inside the mountain.’ He suddenly looked very earnest. ‘And I can help, whatever your objective.’

  ‘It’s a rescue,’ Moonshadow said, stubborn eyes flicking at Groundspider.

  Groundspider glared at him. Always so trusting, so gullible! He wasn’t convinced yet that Rikichi was truly their man. ‘What’s in the sack?’ He asked suspiciously.

  Rikichi dropped to one knee and opened it. They flanked him, looking in.

  ‘Mongol bows.’ The freelancer held one up. ‘I have three of them, and look, three quivers of arrows with extra heavy heads.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘These bows are of a compound design: animal bone and horn, fused together. They fire further and hit much harder than regular shinobi bows. A gift from a grateful warlord from the south! If we’re really going to enter Fumayama, we’ll need these. Try one, feel the pull …’

  Groundspider examined the compact bow Rikichi handed him. Its design was ingenious. The odd shape of its curve made it relatively easy to draw, yet it felt as if it stored enough latent power to punch through armour. Incredible!

  ‘Badger would love these,’ Moonshadow enthused. ‘He’d try to improve them.’

  The bows were certainly inspiring, but Groundspider still doubted the bearer of the timely gifts. Was he another infiltrator? Rikichi appeared to read his mind.

&n
bsp; ‘If I were you, I too would be wary.’ The young man beamed. ‘So let me prove I’m really family!’ He sighed. ‘My parents fell to contagion. My uncle raised me. He turned out to be shinobi, of clan Iga. That’s where I grew up, where I was trained. My uncle’s gone now, he died well and crossed the River Sai with a katana in his hand, I believe! Anyway, a certain ex-samurai lived among the Iga when I was a boy: my uncle’s best friend.’ He laughed warmly. ‘So tell me, does the man you call Eagle still wear that long, single plait of hair? He used to tease me, flicking me with it, when he babysat me.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Groundspider said. He was half-convinced, but what happened next swept him all the way over the line.

  Rikichi glanced at Moonshadow, quickly reading his face. ‘Eagle … is well, isn’t he?’ Rikichi flinched. ‘What’s happened? No, no, tell me the Fuma didn’t –’

  ‘He’s alive,’ Moonshadow blurted. ‘Barely!’

  ‘Eagle? The invincible Eagle?’ Rikichi looked angry, devastated. ‘Please, tell –’

  ‘Enough.’ Groundspider held up a hand. ‘Let’s sit down, break out the rations and water, and we’ll tell you everything.’

  Ten minutes later, Rikichi knew it all: the story of the raid, the fears held – both ways – about Snowhawk, and the details of Eagle’s condition. That part made him curse.

  ‘There’s no time to waste,’ he said decisively. ‘Do you have ashiko?’ They nodded. ‘Good, so do I. We’ll need them too.’ He stood and pointed at one of the more intimidating mountains. ‘That’s Fumayama. All its entrances are above the permanent snowline. I’m glad you knew about the back door, as even the Fuma call it. That’s definitely where we should enter. Trying to slip in the front door would be suicide – it’s too well guarded. To reach even the back door, we’ll really need the bows. Only way to handle the security forces who watch the rear exit.’

  ‘Security forces? Not Fuma ninja?’ Moonshadow asked, squinting at the towering peak.

  Rikichi shook his head. ‘The back door lies above a frozen lake, on a small plateau, tucked away from the other entrances to the old mine. It’s guarded by the village at the edge of that lake. A village of peasant hunters, traders in skins and hare meat.’

  ‘Snowhawk never mentioned any such back door guards,’ Moonshadow said.

  Rikichi shrugged. ‘Maybe she never had cause to sneak out across their lake.’

  Groundspider couldn’t help himself. This was the first good news in a while! Could Stage One of this mission actually turn out to be easy after all? ‘Well, that’s a relief!’ He stretched. ‘A bunch of peasant hunters, stupid enough to live where the snows never melt. Hah! Moon here and I are used to formidable enemies.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Rikichi said. He began to unfasten his farmer’s jacket. Groundspider saw that he was wearing a purple-blue Grey Light Order night suit under it.

  As Rikichi loosened his clothing, he caught Moonshadow’s eye. ‘Moon, huh? So you must be the Moonshadow! I’ve heard of you.’ He smiled engagingly. ‘But after what I heard, I always pictured you as much bigger!’

  Moonshadow blushed. Groundspider shook his head. Bigger? He’d never get bigger! Unless the kid learned to eat properly, he’d die this skinny, that much was certain.

  ‘There,’ Rikichi said, turning his back to them. Groundspider stared. Rikichi had hiked up his jacket, then stretched open a small slash in the night suit to display an ugly scar. It was close to his spine. Groundspider knew instantly what had made it.

  ‘Fire arrow.’ In a near whisper, Moonshadow had said the words for him.

  ‘A parting gift,’ Rikichi said, ‘from a bunch of stupid hunters.’ He watched his companions trade alarmed glances. ‘Peasants they may be, but they’ve long enjoyed a working relationship with the Fuma. As part of that deal, the Fuma trained and equipped every adult in their village. These people are lethal archers, every one of them.’

  ‘And this –’ Moonshadow looked to the peaks in troubled wonder – ‘is their world.’ He swallowed. ‘It’s not going to be easy, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Rikichi said pleasantly. ‘But who cares? Hard or not, we’re going to find your questionable agent and get that poison manual and save Eagle! Come on.’ He quickly retied his clothing, ‘I know a wood cutter I can pay to shelter and feed your horses. Let’s do this!’

  Moonshadow grinned at him, openly impressed and uplifted by his zeal.

  Groundspider also nodded and smiled. An experienced local guide like Rikichi would make all the difference. The fellow was encouraging, tenacious, instantly likable. His credentials appeared sound, and his hearty enthusiasm for their cause seemed utterly real.

  So why this feeling that he was also simply too good to be true?

  Snowhawk opened her eyes. She was bruised and sore, her limbs stiff. She lay crumpled against the wall of a large chamber carved into rock. The floor, wall and uneven ceiling above her were all mud-brown. There were no sounds, only a musty, powdered stone odour that made her nostrils flare. She knew that smell.

  Snowhawk stared at the adjacent rock, taking in its colour and strata lines. Her vision was steadily clearing, but anything more than ten paces away remained hazy. This particular chamber was unfamiliar, but she knew instantly where she was.

  Fumayama. They had her! How did she get here? Had she been hit with a drugged blowpipe dart? When did she leave the monastery? And Edo itself?

  A memory fragment came to her. She recalled being jostled around inside a dark, sealed palanquin, her hands and feet shackled, the floor on a steep angle, everything shaking. The smell of sweat. Feelings of nausea. Outside, the stamps and gasps of a small crowd, hurrying around her palanquin’s bearers.

  Snowhawk shook her head. It started aching. She could recall an attack on the monastery, fighting beside Moonshadow, then that palanquin, and nothing in between or since. What had they done to her?

  Abruptly she sensed powerful shinobi energy, very close by. She was not alone! Blinking, willing the last of the haze to lift, Snowhawk looked around. Figures slowly came into focus. Two guards stood either side of a wooden door, young male shinobi in indigo-dyed farming jackets and loose work pants. They avoided her gaze. Each wore a back-mounted sword but no hood. She studied their faces. She didn’t know them. Their energy was weak; it wasn’t them she had felt.

  Then Snowhawk saw the third Fuma in the chamber and knew at once that she was the source of the strong emission. A lone kunoichi, standing hunched, examining a scroll on a small desk at the far end of the chamber. Hard-faced, mature and familiar. As Snowhawk obeyed an impulse to rub the last sleepiness from her eyes, she discovered that she was no longer shackled. She squinted hard at the kunoichi. Yes, she knew her.

  The woman had been one of Snowhawk’s trainers. Responsible for developing the most junior trainees, she was, in a way, the Fuma equivalent of Heron. But unlike Heron, she had always been cold, business-like and demanding. No doubt she had a name, but Snowhawk had only ever known her as sensei – teacher. Teaching was considered a sacred profession throughout the empire, the title sensei used with affection and respect. Not in Clan Fuma. Here it was spoken with fear, yet another blunt reminder of the absolute submission each trainer demanded from their trainees.

  Snowhawk studied the table. A single long scroll hung from its edge. Near it was a small box. Nothing else! She looked around quickly. Not a recognisable torture implement in the chamber! Did the Fuma have worse horrors in store for her?

  Her stomach knotted. Was Moonshadow alive? Was he coming to rescue her? Part of her knew, with defiant certainty, that he would, as she would for him.

  Then a frightening fact stabbed at her mind: the actual decision to rescue or forsake her wouldn’t rest with him. What if the Order’s leadership chose to abandon her?

  The kunoichi turned, saw that she was awake, and calmly approached. Sinking down to rest on one knee, the woman, clad in a plain black kimono, ogled Snowhawk.

  ‘Remember me? You once called me teacher
,’ the Fuma ninja said coolly. ‘And it was I who extracted you from among your new playmates. Ah, you wonder how you were snared, and why you don’t recall that right now? A sleeper code, a few important phrases that triggered a deep, involuntary trance.’

  ‘You lie,’ Snowhawk said disdainfully. ‘Why would anything you say affect me?’

  Sensei shrugged. ‘Because those key words were instilled subconsciously in you during early childhood. We do this to all our orphans. Makes retrieval easy if they run away. Which can happen! Some find the training too tough, yearn to seek out their surviving family members or, like you … simply defect.’

  ‘Why am I alive then, when the penalty for that is death?’

  ‘Because unlike most of our other runaways, you have real potential. Our great leader, Fuma Kotaro himself, thinks it’s worth trying to recover you.’

  ‘Why?’ Snowhawk snorted with contempt. ‘Surely you haven’t killed off every other girl who can hypnotise?’ Seeing a crafty look in her captor’s eyes, she bristled suspiciously. ‘What is it then? Why me? What’s so special about me?’

  ‘Calm yourself!’ Sensei held up a finger. ‘I’m happy to tell you why, since your cooperation is required. You should listen carefully to our offer. It’s to your benefit.’

  ‘More lies.’ Snowhawk looked Sensei up and down. ‘Well? What’s the offer?’

  ‘If you will submit, we offer you forgiveness for your treachery, a place back among the Fuma, and secret training that will make you the most dangerous kunoichi of your generation. Do you know of what I speak?’ Snowhawk shook her head. Sensei continued enthusiastically. ‘You have a very rare skill that you’re probably unaware of. It only ever occurs naturally, among a tiny per cent of those with an aptitude for kunoichi hypnosis – your strongest known talent. Our records show that usually, just one ninja in each generation exhibits this skill: the power to paralyse enemies with a mere glance!’