Chapter 8 – No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
The road surged beneath them, the landscape rushing past like a mighty river, the roar of the wind in his ears nearly drowning the thunder of hooves. Yoshi clung to Kentaro's back with terrified determination, grateful for the serendipitous turn of events that had placed him behind the saddle instead of in it. Never a confident rider, he had been desperately screwing up his courage for the long, hurried ride back in the dark on a strange horse.
Kentaro, bless his connected, conniving, persuasive little soul, had turned up, not only in short order, but with experienced and eager companions. These men knew how to ride, and their horses knew how to run, gathering up the miles like breathing in smoke, barely skimming the surface of the road, tails and manes streaming straight out behind them and nostrils flared and snorting and gulping air.
He'd just left his superior's rooms after half an hour's heavy explaining about his need for leave. Sweat lightly beaded his forehead and upper lip—the request, its suddenness and timing, had bordered on insubordination, and he didn't need that. Again.
He padded along the deserted engawa, past doorways half-open against the sultry night, out of which rose the sounds of a sleeping army: snores, grunts, the shuffling of bedclothes, farts. This environment suited him, never knowing what the dawn would bring, the challenge of survival in the narrow culture of constant war, seeking the next battle, the next opportunity to prove oneself, to take a bit of ground against the opposition.
With a short leap, he cleared the short flight of steps down to ground level, landing lightly, the gravel barely crunching beneath his feet.
A low, quiet voice from the shadows: "Hey."
"Chiko! Don't do that—I nearly jumped out of my skin!"
"Sorry." Neither of them mistook this grunted word for an apology. Kentaro's old Ishin comrade-in-arms lounged against the post next to the stairs, arms crossed and head down. He jerked himself out of his slouch and crossed the distance between them. "What's going on?"
"Let me catch my breath. Damn, that really scared me."
"Yeah, yeah." The man laid a heavy hand on Kentaro's shoulder and shook it convincingly. "Come on, what are you up to now?"
"Shhh! Not here." Kentaro turned and jerked his head for Chiko to follow. "Come with me—I'll tell you on the way."
By the time they crossed the open yard and reached the small passage-door in the compound's massive entry gate, Chiko had taken over the conversation.
"You can't do this alone." Cutting short Kentaro's protest that he wasn't really alone, Chiko continued. "Are you forgetting who this is? You know the stories. I don't know this Yoshi of yours, but I know you and, unless your friend is a swordsman to rival the Battousai, you haven't a prayer against this bastard. In fact, even if your friend is the Battousai, you haven't a prayer! Wasn't he fired or something?"
They stood in deep shadow, the heavy wood of the tiny, three-sided shelter that housed the passage-door muffling their urgent whispers. Behind them, under the sliver of a moon, a breeze shuffled dry leaves over the courtyard's gravel surface. Through the floor of the guardhouse above filtered the noises of the night watch's surreptitious gambling and guttural laughter over earthy jokes.
Kentaro felt the decision click over inside him. He knew perfectly well what threats lay ahead this night and day, and he'd been torn between allowing others to put themselves in harm's way and turning up to face the most dangerous man in Japan with only a tsuba-maker and an old geezer as comrades in arms.
But now…
"Okay. Thanks!" Now that the decision was made, he was all impatience and adrenalin. "When can we leave? It's a long ride back and…"
"It's not so long when you know the way and how to ride it." Chiko grinned, and the dark pleasure in that grin made a shiver run down even Kentaro's adventure-hardened spine. "Give me a few minutes—I know just the boys for this little jaunt…"
These men also knew their prey. No bumbling, wooly-headed fools, they knew exactly who and what had been loosed upon the world by the mangled assassination attempt. The little posse rode in grim single-mindedness, too experienced a team to need many words, too wise in the ways of battle to release tension in idle chatter.
Yoshi had no idea where they were. These were roads he'd never seen—even the meanderings required by his trade had missed these tortuous, hilly trails—but, clearly, both men and horses were well-acquainted with them. He could tell by the stars, however, that they were following a very nearly crow-flight path to the village.
That's curious. I wonder if there are secret backroads like this to everywhere…
The sky had dulled to the starless flat black of pre-dawn, and he wondered how much longer... His mind set up a little chant, in rhythm with the thudding hooves beneath him: be in time, be in time, please please be in time.
In the night breeze, the rustling of the big tree's leafy late-summer canopy blotted out most other noise. Only the dog's apprehensive whimpers could be heard, carrying clearly across the back yard from the house next door.
Gozaemon woke with a start. He woke as from out of a spell, a spell cast that first day in his meadow's cave, that first time he'd looked into those hot, slitted eyes and felt their owner's spirit reach out and command him. He sat up and sucked air like a man surfacing from the depths, like a man escaping a watery grave.
What have I been doing?
All at once, it was clear to him. While he'd slept, his clever mind, his good soul, and his strong heart had finally put it all together, had figured it out and jerked him out of his slumber: the malaise that had plagued him all summer, the dulled pricking of his inner warning bells, the feeling of impending trouble.
And, just as suddenly, hitting him like a body blow, he realized that he—he, Gozaemon, the independent thinker, the one too smart to be manipulated by fools!—was in the process of assisting the evil thing in the cave, had been nurturing and nursing and abetting a demon.
It had to be stopped. Was it too late? Could he do it alone?
Was there time?
Makoto stood outside the cottage, breathing a little hard—still out of shape, dammit!—and considering his options.
Because he'd never actually traveled from the cave to the village, had had to rely on his sensing abilities alone which, while devilishly sharp, were no substitute for knowing the path, it had taken him much longer than he'd allowed to find the old man's place—now he was pressed for time. The steel-grey sky above him warned him of the approaching dawn, and he'd wanted to be provisioned and well away from the settlement before light.
Before the alarm can be raised.
He knew he could, even weaponless and in his weakened state, take on any attackers, perhaps best even a small group, but it would be a waste of his time. He didn't need sensing abilities to know what was on its way, to be fully aware of the threat surely even now hurrying to intercept him.
And they'll be well-armed.
The thought of what that meant, the memories of what it had meant before, caused his scars to twinge and his head to hurt.
No. Best to make this quick and quiet.
Certain now, he crossed the yard to the door at the back of the house and cautiously pushed it open. He stepped inside, leaving it ajar, and surveyed the room. In the far corner to his right, the dully-glowing stove heated the room too much for his likes, but its light illuminated quite nicely the rest of the space. He could make out the futon on the floor in front of the stove—how does he stand this heat?—and the pack on the table to his left.
He slid silently across the smooth, worn floor to the table and began to examine the contents of the pack. It was obvious from his first touch that the shape was wrong—no blade?—and he felt his anger spike. That's the only thing I asked him for that really matters…
He turned on his heel and, in two long, thudding strides, reached the futon, not caring now if he woke the old geezer, caring only that he'd been crossed, driven only by the desire, the need to arm himself. He stood over the old man, trembling with anger, his frustration rising in a growl at the back of his throat. The soft, raspy breathing mocked him, and he aimed a vicious kick at the middle of the motionless lump.
"Wake up!" he demanded, hands clenched at his sides. "Where is that blade?"
But the lump didn't move, didn't so much as twitch.
"I said 'get up'!" He aimed a second, much harder kick, at the old man's head.
There was not even a break in the breathing rhythm.
What…?
In the growing light, he bent over and grabbed the lump by the shoulders—I'll shake it out of his bones, if I have to! But he lifted only limp, unresisting futon. No sleeping body. No ancient bones creaking in his powerful grip. Stupefied, feeling ridiculous and furious and slightly insane, he stood stock-still, frozen in place for a moment, the bedding trailing from his outstretched arms like a load of sad laundry.
"Don't move."
Behind him, from the direction of the voice he both recognized and didn't recognize, unexpectedly steady and steely and sure, came a click he mostly certainly did recognize. Spinning around, he swept his fiery gaze over the tiny interior, until it finally came to rest on the shadow huddled behind the door he'd left ajar—a shadow dark and fuzzy except for the tell-tale glinting along the barrel of a large handgun.
Gozaemon stepped out, away from the door, one hand holding the gun steady, the other at his side, gripping the saya of a wakizashi. "I've been so blind, such a fool…" he began.
"Then turn from that and give me what I need!" Makoto's voice sliced through the air like a blade. He could tell the old man was not confident with a gun, and if he could just get a little closer… Locking Gozaemon with a demanding gaze and without really taking a step, he edged his feet along the floor. His arm twitched in anticipation, and he restrained, preparing for the final lunge across the distance separating them.
"No! Stop! I don't…" Gozaemon's voice cracked with tension, fear, a touch of panic as Makoto sprang at him, deadly accurate as he snatched at the gun. The gun went off, the explosion stunning both their hearing in the enclosed space, before they fell together, a single mass of tumbling, writhing limbs and desperately grappling hands, the wakizashi skittering across the floor to come to rest under the stove.
Yoshi had been uncertain of the route they had taken, but when the topped the ridge, he recognized it—Gozaemon's meadow. Good god, we're here! His heart leapt within him to think they might actually make it…
Makoto stood straddling the inert form on the floor, gasping for breath, his joints and skin screaming at him. The struggle had been more difficult than he would have imagined, and he'd finally wrenched the gun away and pistol-whipped the stubborn old man.
There, you old trouble-maker, that'll teach you a lesson!
With grim satisfaction, he stilled his breathing, took careful aim at the grey head, and pulled the trigger.
Uncertainty of route, recognition of the meadow, hope for their timely arrival—all this faded into insignificance when that shot rang out, echoing around them from the mountains behind them. Yoshi's fists clutched convulsively on Kentaro's ribs, and Kentaro grunted in response, but the only reactions from the rest of the group were a sudden tensing of shoulders, heads lifted in the direction of the sound, and the response of the horses as heels dug simultaneously into sweaty flanks.
They had reached the edge of the meadow—we'll pass the cave on our way there, Yoshi grimaced at his certain knowledge that the cave was empty—they were too late for that option. They flew across it, hooves tearing up chunks of dewy grass and flowers still closed for the night, a leafy wake settling gently behind them, and thundered down the path that was so narrow they had to ride single-file.
Yoshi could hardly breathe. He prayed to every spirit, every god, every demon he had ever heard about, a wordless prayer, only a cry from the heart. Who had been holding that gun when it went off?
He craned his neck around Kentaro's broad shoulder to make out the village ahead of them. In the rosy dawn, the buildings glowed pink and peach and yellow, and he could see people milling in the streets near Gozaemon's house, wakened by the shot and the thunder of their approaching posse. Jiggled as he was by the horse's gait, he couldn't really tell much about the little cottage. Then the path turned a little and his heart sank within him: the back door was standing open…
Nothing. No explosion, no flash of light, no puff of smoke. He was stunned at first, but then he started to chuckle at the irony of it. The chuckle grew into a belly-laugh, then an uncontrollable guffaw, stinging, salty tears streaming down his cheeks, soaking the bandages there. He laughed at the absurdity of the situation, at the old man's foolishness, at his own weakness—laughed so hard he almost fell into one of the table-side chairs, sprawling across it, legs splayed out and one arm holding him in place across its back.
Finally, he gained control of himself and sat up, wobbling a bit and wiping his still-weeping eyes with the back of a hand.
Well, the old fool really was a fool! Only one bullet—he probably didn't even check it…
Suddenly, his head snapped up. While he'd been amusing himself, he'd let down his guard. Now, alarms were clanging insistently in his head, his every sense was howling at him to pay attention! He felt them close—too close!—and saw his plans for a clean escape disappear in the smoke of "too late". If he were lucky, he'd get away, but only just, and with the secret of his whereabouts blown.
The cabin was light enough now to see clearly, so he began a frantic search for the one thing that mattered: that blade!
They surged into the little backyard, clearing fences and trampling gardens and knocking aside tools with careless abandon and disinterest. Before the horses were really stopped, to a man they leapt down and hit the ground running, guns and katana alike drawn and readied in expert, eager hands. Not quite to a man—Yoshi had to climb down carefully, and he had no gun or katana, only a tanto that Gozaemon had given him, a memento left behind by that redhead from last year.
Another group, a less-experienced group, would have crowded into the little house, cramping each other's movements and presenting a nicely disordered target for the awaiting assassin. But this group knew their business: with only a gesture from Chiko, two ran on quiet feet to the front of the house; another covered the single wide window on the side of the house; the remaining three framed the doorway, Yoshi on one side and Kentaro on the other, Chiko poised in the entry. Tense silence descended on the scene, while all ears strained for edifying sounds, all senses stretched out for any advantage to be gained.
Then, with a small, sharp nod of his head, Chiko stepped inside, quickly slamming the door fully open against the wall. Yoshi and Kentaro waited a beat and followed, briskly separating once inside, taking up defensive stances on either side of him.
The scene was disturbing: shelves emptied and knocked over, their contents scattered on the floor around them, chairs upended, the table canted crazily with one leg broken nearly off, the futon torn and bloodied, its stuffing strewn from one wall to the other.
Where is Gozaemon? Yoshi knew they had first to think of the demon they sought, but his stomach fluttered wildly with worry over his friend.
They advanced into the room, small step by small step, the oppressive silence making their ears ring. Just as they passed the large cabinet in which Gozaemon kept his potions and powders, Yoshi flinched and swerved to his right. Later, much later, re-bandaging his healing shoulder, he would send grateful prayers to whichever spirit had warned him of the impending attack, turning the deadly thrust into a glancing swipe.
Now, however, the blow sent him sprawling forward and almost knocked the tanto out of his hands. Instinctively, he continued his forward momentum, transforming it into a twisting roll that left him standing solidly, facing his attacker. He settled into stance, his empty left hand behind and supporting his right hand with the tanto, the blade angled across his body, shielding it.
Makoto sneered at him, the tip of the wakizashi—When did he get that? Yoshi thought in shocked recognition—just inches from that of the tanto. The others were too far to intervene, they could only watch and wait and ready their response. With the two men at the front of the house, effectively at Yoshi's back, and the third at the window, to his left, there was no one behind Makoto, no one in a position to tip the standoff in their favor.
"Do you think you can win against me with that pitiful thing?" The cold venom in Makoto's voice froze Yoshi's blood in his veins and weakened his knees, and he knew his life hung in the balance of the next few moments.
He swallowed hard and, steeling himself, replied, "There are many of us. And you are still weak." He saw a flicker of agreement in the hard, cruel eyes, and he began to hope…
"My body may be healing, but you err to believe me weak. I have survived, and will continue to survive. And only the strong survive; the weak die."
And with these words, Makoto lunged. Time seemed to slow for Yoshi, and he saw his death hanging on the shining silver tip headed straight for his throat. But not for nothing had he survived all those desperate, terrifying, nightmarish battles. It may have been only a small blade he held in his hand, but it was a blade, and he had dispatched his share of enemies in order to live—this was another one and, even though this one reeked of evil determination, he would give as good as he got.
He sank lower into his stance, not only ducking below the oncoming blade, but gathering the muscles in his legs for an upward strike—his specialty. His face grimaced into its battle mask, and he threw it all out: voice, heart, strength, and blade, aiming his few inches of knife at his opponent's heart, prepared to feel the wakizashi's edge bite deep into his back, perhaps feeling the last sensation he would ever feel.
Then it happened, the thing that broke the lock, the thing that saved them on this day of tenuous salvation, of uncertain outcomes.
The neighbor's damned dog, drawn by the commotion and the smell of strangers and horses and blood, had crept, tail between his legs, across the back yard, crept hunkered and slow and trembling to the open door of his second home. Peering inside, he could make out the stances of threat, could smell fear and anger and danger, and something deep within him, something buried far below the layers of tameness, beneath the life of table scraps and human affection and warm futon corners, something lurking and living still in his inner wolf, analyzed who was Friend and who was Foe, and responded as his kind have always responded when The Pack is threatened. His hackles rose, his lips drew back, his fearful cowering transformed into a battle crouch.
He growled. Not the cowardly growl of the cur protecting a juicy bone, nor the nasty buzz of the spoiled lap-dog ungratefully fending off a friendly pat on the head, but the growl of the alpha male on point, no threat, no mere menace, but the attack begun. He growled and he sprang and he connected.
Canine teeth sank deep into the bandages covering The Intruder's right wrist, knocking the arm off course and tipping the wakizashi upwards. It missed Yoshi entirely, but the tanto now sliced along the length of Makoto's inner arm, cutting through the bandages and leaving a long clean cut that began to bleed freely.
The smell and taste of fresh blood further enraged the dog, and he clamped down and held on, held on through the yell of surprise and rage, held on through the blows rained on his head from the man's other fist, held on while the man staggered and spun and stumbled toward the door, the dog dragged along the floor, back feet scrabbling for purchase, held on until his grip was broken when The Intruder slammed him against the door frame on the way out of the house.
Stunned, the dog fell to the floor, blood welling from a cut above his ear, but with a triumphant glint in his eye: The Intruder had been driven out, The Pack—his pack—protected. Struggling up into a sit, head wobbling only a little, he looked around at his dumbstruck audience, the men so taken aback that they hadn't even budged.
And grinned, grinned a great, wide doggy grin.
Outside, before even the man at the window could react, Makoto had reached the nearest horse and swung up into its saddle, wrenching its head up out of the grass it had been grazing on. A horse! This may work out even better than I'd hoped… His right forearm throbbed painfully, and his right shoulder was going to give him hell for a few days where he'd knocked it hard against the door ridding himself of that creature, but he wasn't about to let that stop him. One last glance behind him, and he jumped the horse into a dead gallop out of the yard, jabbing his heels deep into its flanks and heading off in the direction of the woods on the other side of the village.
They aren't the only ones who know these roads…
Back in the house, Chiko was hot for pursuit, but Yoshi and Kentaro reminded him that they were now short not just one horse—we rode double, remember?—but two, now that Makoto had stolen Chiko's own.
"And yours is the fastest, buddy. We'll never catch him now."
"You mean we're just going to let him get away?" Chiko was fairly shaking with frustration—that had been his favorite horse, after all—and it took both of them to restrain him from trying to run after the fleeing outlaw on foot.
"No..." Kentaro spoke to him like one would a child having a tantrum, firmly but calmly, reasonably. "We know what road he's taken. He was Ishin, too, right?" Chiko nodded impatiently. The others had come around from the outside, and had sheathed their swords, disappointed to have missed all the action, and Kentaro was afraid their unhappiness might be the final straw on Chiko's mood, so he was eager to get this settled.
"Let's go back to headquarters and notify…"
"Not Katsura! He'll have our heads!" Chiko's face drained nearly white at the thought.
"No, no—will you listen! We'll notify the police." Chiko started to protest, but Kentaro cut him off. "Look, the police may not be as good as our own ninjas, but they're everywhere, and they're determined. It may take them some time, but they're probably our best bet for tracking him down now."
Yoshi spoke up, "And the last thing we want is those morons who did this to him in on it!"
"Oh… all right!" Reluctantly, Chiko had to admit to the logic, as much as it rankled him. He growled at Kentaro, poking his friend's chest with a stiff, angry finger, "But the next time you come to me with the promise of a great adventure, it had better pay off!"
Now that his friends were arguing over heroic exploits and credit for capture, Yoshi could no longer keep his thoughts off his friend. Where is he? Nothing in the house looked remotely like a body, yet there were no signs that he had had a chance to escape before they got there. In fact, Yoshi was certain that he hadn't. He had a very bad feeling about it all. Then he heard a sound that shocked him into giddy relief.
Weak with exhaustion and hoarse from exertion, but blessedly grouchy and growl-y, from under what had seemed at first just another wad of disarrayed clothing, came Gozaemon's demand, "Where the hell have you been?"
– Owari –
A/N: I do have an epilogue planned, just in case you are interested… Thanks for reading this far, and, especially, for the reviews, which keep me going and feed my dragon.