Lord Oda's Revenge by Nick Lake Page A

bidding.
    She took a deep breath.
    â€˜Little girl’s looking for Kenji Kira, she says,’ the first one said.
    The fattest of the men stood up. He stepped towards her. ‘What for?’
    â€˜I can’t say,’ she replied. ‘Not to you. I need to speak to Kenji Kira himself.’ This was wasting her time. Where was Kira? She’d been sure he’d be here, and now it seemed like he had vanished into the thin, cold air.
    The fat man backhanded her; light exploded in her eyes as her neck snapped round. She raised a hand to her cheek, felt blood trickle on her fingers. The man was wearing heavy rings; one of them had broken her skin. ‘She’s a spy, I reckon,’ he said. ‘We should kill her.’
    â€˜But first,’ said another – he had a missing eye, she noticed with disinterest – ‘we may as well have some fun with her.’
    The samurai who had dragged her in tore her cloak from her, and even with the fire going in the back of the hut she felt her skin rise up instantly in goose bumps, felt the cold prying at her with its icy fingers.
    Then the thick fingers of the samurai were pulling at her too, fumbling at her clothes. She let him – she was looking over his shoulder, fixing the positions of each man, the places in the room and on the earth in which each would die.
    Suddenly, the samurai backed away. He was staring down atYukiko’s waist, at the sword pommel there.
    â€˜That’s. . .’
    Yukiko glanced down at the petals carved into the hilt. ‘Lord Oda’s mon. Yes.’ She drew the katana. It was perfect – no, more than perfect. It was in its imperfections that it showed its beauty, its craftsmanship. The silver wave that ran down its length was not completely even, yet it shone in the light of the fire like a river of moonlight, the colours of the different steels used in its manufacture clear to see. The edge was so sharp it sang even as she drew it, cutting the very fabric of the air.
    â€˜I’ve seen that sword before,’ said the samurai with the missing eye. ‘It belongs to Lord Oda. It was made by Masamune.’
    Yukiko nodded. ‘Yes. A sword of violence. One of the few remaining.’ It was said that Masamune swords were built to kill, where others might be made to protect. They liked the taste of blood, it was said. Yukiko appreciated that. She liked the idea that her sword was no cold and remorseless instrument, devoid of intent. She liked the idea that her sword wanted revenge as much as she did.
    Inside her, in the darkness of her mind, she pictured her sister, lying dead after Kenji Kira killed her.
    â€˜How. . . did you. . .’
    â€˜How did I get it? Lord Oda gave it to me. After he asked me to find Kenji Kira, and deliver him a message.’
    The samurai closest to her, the one who had taken her cloak, backed away. ‘We meant no harm, little girl,’ he said. ‘We apologize. Kenji Kira is. . . not well disposed. But we will take you to him.’
    â€˜Where is he?’ she asked.
    The samurai pointed to the ceiling. ‘Up the mountain, justhalf a
ri
or so. He won’t come inside any more. We’re not sure, actually, what—’
    Yukiko wasn’t listening any more. Her sword leaped, and the man was open from throat to belly. He fell to the ground, spraying blood that pattered on her skin, warming it.
    â€˜He said sorry!’ said the fat man.
    â€˜I know,’ she said. ‘But this is a Masamune sword. I didn’t have to draw it, but now I have, it must taste blood. You should know that.’
    She danced forward. The fat samurai, to give him his due, managed to get his sword into his hand, but she smacked it aside with her blade and took him on the point. The sword – so sharp it seemed it could cut through the world itself – came out of him like he was made of butter, then snaked round behind her almost of its own accord and removed