Moonshadow (3 page)

THREE
New faces on Peach
Mountain

Silver Wolf paced up and down his empty audience chamber. His hands clasped behind his back, the warlord hung his head as he muttered, scheming aloud.

His new team would be here any moment. A good variety of experts. But would they be able to work together? It was a blend of odd personalities. Would some end up fighting each other before they even met his enemies? The operation was turning out expensive, too. One rather
special
hireling looked set to cost him more than all the others put together . . .

Silver Wolf stopped and turned at the chamber's set of double sliding doors.

Light streamed in from the wide window at the opposite end of the long room, along with the sharp clicks of
bokken
, wooden practice swords, from the castle's inner courtyard below.

Near the window, Silver Wolf's battle armour hung on a T-shaped wooden stand. A low horizontal rack beside the armour held his two favourite swords.

Three paces left of the armour, a thick plank of white wood stood propped between the reed-mat floor and the windowsill.

He stared at his armour's leather war mask, its frightening face drawn in a permanent snarl. One section of his chest armour was sculpted to resemble exposed ribs, using dyed leather stretched over copper inlays. Detailed, strong and flexible, these days his armour was just a work of art for visitors to admire. Silver Wolf snorted bitterly.

In the final months of the long civil war, when the strongest lords had vied for mastery of Japan, he had proved a credit to his noble ancestors, showing himself fearless in battle. Leading his men under the Tokugawa banner, Silver Wolf had helped crush the aspiring Shogun's enemies, handing him power over all the land. And what had been his reward? It had hardly matched the promise he had received, the one that had induced him to fight so daringly.

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 professional 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.'