Blood Ninja (22 page)

Ii-aido:
the discipline of the single strike, a test of pure speed over agility or technique
.

Yes, Lady Oda no Hana was a girl who loved gardens, and the many types of wind. But she was also a samurai
.

The blade was through the
ronin
’s chest and out again so quick that an observer might have missed it. Even the
ronin
missed it. He looked down, saw no visible wound, smiled
.

Then the blood began to well from the tiny wound, and he stumbled
.

The man holding Hana tightened his grip, twisting her wrist until the blade fell. “Little viper,” he spat, as his companion sank first to his knees and then to the ground, which from now on would hold him within it, and no longer bear his walking, living weight. He breathed a rattling death sigh, and Hana thought—

Gods. I’ve killed a man.

The big
ronin
held his sword to her throat and pressed gently. Hana felt blood spill from the wound. Then he grabbed the jade necklace around Hana’s neck and brusquely broke it off
.

Instantly Hana understood that she was going to die. It had been obvious before, of course—yet something in her had made her hope, had made her fight. But the way the thin filament of the necklace broke in that big, grubby hand, the way the jade pearls fell to the ground … It was a little thing—unimportant, really—but it spoke of worse; it seemed significant. A man who could break such a beautiful thing, reducing it to its parts … such a man as that was a man who could break anything
.

Taro gasped when the
ronin
broke the lady’s necklace, and the man whirled around, sword at the ready.

“That was a bird, idiot,” said the
ronin
who held the pretty young girl.

“Didn’t sound like one,” said the other.

“And I suppose you’re an expert on birds, are you? I thought you were only expert at cards, drinking, and fighting. Cards and drinking, anyway.”

The
ronin
who had been startled by Taro’s gasp swore and turned back to the girl. But he seemed nervous still, and Taro saw him glance at the corpse of his companion, the one the seemingly harmless girl had killed, her hand moving so fast it had been a blur.

Taro had never seen anything like it, and the thought that such a girl—beautiful, fierce, unflinching—should be prey to such brutes as
these was intolerable. She had jet-black hair—like crows’ feathers—and her eyes were as softly curved as folded wings. Her eyelashes were long. As he watched her, Taro’s stomach did a little flip.

He turned to look at Shusaku, who still crouched motionless behind his bush. Wasn’t the ninja going to
do
anything? He felt another wave of revulsion. Once more he was impotent to prevent something terrible. Once more he was hamstrung, immobile, as the powerful picked on a weaker adversary. Who was Shusaku to criticize the honor of the samurai, when he possessed no honor himself?

But then Shusaku raised a hand. He held his palm up—
wait
. He formed a fan with his three fingers, jabbed it forward—
then we move
. He pointed at the
ronin
, then drew the flat of his hand across his throat—
and kill them
.

Lady Hana had been brought up in a samurai household—one of the oldest and most famous—where she had learned to face her death with cool reserve, including, if required, the ritual of seppuku
.

She was certainly not prepared to let her demise be dictated by these brutes. If she was to die, it would be on her own terms
.

She knew it would take only one movement: a jerk forward, a simultaneous grip on the big man’s arms, and his sword would bury itself in her neck. She would die quickly
.

She moved back a fraction, ready to bring her head forward with force and—

Shusaku leaped out from behind his bush. “Let go of that woman,” he said, his voice full of a calm and deadly menace. Hiro roared, crashing through the undergrowth, and Taro launched himself forward, taking his bow from his shoulder …

Hana had only barely held her neck back from the tip of the sword. She watched as a peasant stepped into the clearing. His face was dark with some kind of growth—the ravages, Hana presumed, of a terrible illness
.

Then a large boy came thundering into the clearing from the other side. Another boy, more slender, entered from the other side
.

The
ronin
turned, their bodies tense. They had been taken by surprise—though Hana noticed that the man in front of her kept his sword still held to her throat
.

The first boy was huge, with the build and bearing of a wrestler. The other was smaller, his features delicate, almost noble. Hana wondered if he was the son of a lord, or some such. In his hand he held a bow
.

The peasant held up a hand. “I must ask you to release the lady,” he said to the
ronin.

The big man holding Hana laughed, his voice deep. “Be on your way, peasant. If you’re lucky, we won’t chase you down and kill you when we’ve finished with the girl.”

“Please leave me,” said Hana to the peasants. “I am samurai. I will face my death bravely.” She did not want this peasant or his boys to die on her behalf. Yet she was unconscious of the implication in her words: that only a samurai could die bravely, that valorous deaths were denied to the peasants of this world
.

Yet the peasant took a step forward, to Hana’s surprise. “I said, release the lady.” There was something strange about the man’s voice. It seemed altogether too calm, too measured for a man of his station—and situation
.

The big man snarled now. “And I said
be gone.”
He moved his sword away from Hana’s throat and brandished it at the peasant
.

“Ah, now that was a mistake,” said the man in rags. “My only fear was that you might slit her throat by accident.”

“What the—” said the big
ronin.
Then a silver star blossomed in his eye. He fell backward, letting go of Hana. Blood gushed from his eye, even as an arrow tore through his throat. The boy had gone for his bow, somehow, and yet Hana had not seen it, though she had been watching him and his father carefully
.

The other man turned, sword singing through the air, but he was too slow. The sword came down into empty space that had been occupied a heart’s beat before by the peasant. That heartbeat turned out to be the man’s last: As he pitched forward, unbalanced by the missed sword
stroke, the peasant made a low, sweeping kick that knocked the
ronin
onto his back. Then the peasant somersaulted to his feet and brought his fist down onto the man’s neck with a very final-sounding crunch
.

The peasant walked over and offered Hana his hand. “Perhaps we could escort you to your guest house, my lady,” he said. “It would appear there are bandits about.”

“You deserve a reward,” said the lady. “My father is … a very powerful man, and he would make you rich for saving me.” She swallowed, looking nervous. “However, I was not supposed to be out tonight. If he knew, he would …”

“We quite understand,” said Shusaku. He bowed. “We will leave you here.” They had escorted her to the edge of the village, wanting to make sure there were no
ronin
about, and now they stood between the darkness of the forest and the
obon
lamp glow of the nearest cottage.

“Please,” said the lady. “Take my ring. It’s not much, but—”

Shusaku held up his hands. “My fingers are too large. And we don’t need money.”

The lady turned to Taro, and he felt his heart hammer in his chest as her perfect face broke into a smile. She looked at his bow. “Your skill with that thing saved my life.”

Taro felt his face flush hotly. “It was nothing.”

“Nonsense. I have practiced with the bow. It takes a steady eye
to accomplish those kinds of shots.” She held out a hand. “And it’s a beautiful one. May I see it?”

Taro handed her the bow, and she lifted it with assurance, pulling back on the string with surprising strength. She let it go with a singing
twang
. “Not the kind of craftsmanship I would expect to see carried by … people like you.”

Taro looked down, uncomfortable at being a peasant in the presence of a princess, and a beautiful one at that. “It is my most prized possession,” he said. “My father made it.”

She looked at Shusaku.

“No,” said Taro. “He’s not my father.”

“Ah. Your own father is …”

“Gone.”

“Ah.” Sympathy lit her features. “But you love your father.” She said it as a statement, not a question.

Taro nodded.

“Then you are lucky indeed.” She handed him the bow. “I wonder why he made the grip so thick,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

“I’m sorry?”

She touched the grip, and since he was holding it, her hand brushed his own, sending a tingling warmth down his arm. “This part. It’s not normally so thick. See?” She traced the wood, and Taro could see where the width of the grip gave way to the gentler curve of the bow itself—the grip standing proud of the single piece of wood that had been shaved into the shape of the bow. He had never noticed before. It was almost as if …

Shusaku cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but we really should be going.”

Taro caught his eye and then looked away from the girl, blushing again, because he could see amusement in the ninja’s expression—a wordless commentary on his obvious infatuation with the lady.

“Well,” she said. “I shall let you go. Thank you again for saving me.” She turned to go, but then hesitated, looking at Taro. “Your … protector would not accept my gift. But perhaps
you will?” She proffered the ring. “Consider it a gift. And a token of my regard.”

Taro glanced at Shusaku, who shook his head. “Thank you,” said Taro, “but you’re too generous.”

“Please?” she said, and her beautiful forehead creased in a frown. “My father will never notice. But I would not forgive myself if I did not do this one small thing.” She pressed the ring into Taro’s hand, and he looked at Shusaku again, who shrugged.

Taro bowed. “You do me honor.”

“No. You did me honor by coming to my rescue.”

With a little wave she hurried into the village. Taro looked down at the ring in his hand, a twisted band of gold and silver. It looked more valuable than anything he had seen before. He slipped it onto his little finger.

It fit perfectly.

“Well,” said Shusaku. “What a day. You’re to be shogun, it seems, and you’ve already claimed the heart of a lady.”

Taro punched him on the arm. “Very funny.”

But the heat on his face didn’t come just from Shusaku’s joke. It came from hoping that the ninja was right.

Shusaku cocked his head, gesturing for Taro and Hiro to follow him. “We should cover our traces,” he said. “See to that merchant.”

“You want to kill him?” said Taro, shocked.

Shusaku tutted. “I don’t kill
everyone
I meet,” he said in a hurt tone.

They returned to the clearing. The merchant who had swallowed the jewel was breathing regularly, though he still didn’t wake. Shusaku and Hiro carried him to the edge of the village, and laid him down where the peasants would find him as soon as they went to their fields.

Then they returned to the woods and dug shallow graves in the undergrowth. They buried the corpses of the
ronin
, but not before Shusaku and Taro had drunk of their blood.

No one said the Amida Butsu prayer over the dead men. They
assumed that these
ronin
would be sent straight to the realm of hungry ghosts, and the idea didn’t bother any of them.

It was as Taro was patting down the earth with a branch that the sound of a twig cracking made him whirl around to face the darkness of the forest, and then a familiar figure stepped out into the clearing, followed by another that was equally known to Taro—shorter, more muscular, less elegant.

“Didn’t take you long to get into trouble, did it?” said Yukiko.

Lady Hana returned to her inn alone, where she told her retinue what had befallen her, only omitting to mention her rescuers—at their request. “You must have been very brave to defeat those men,” said her chief guard. “You should be proud. Only a true samurai could be so brave.”

Hana smiled. Once, she had believed it—that honor and bravery were the sole preserve of samurai, just as lines and nets were the preserve of fishermen
.