The ninja women were sorted out according to age and appearance, and mass-raped. The shogun's warriors lined up eagerly for these intangible spoils, twenty or thirty to a woman, and even more for the top choices. The action proceeded on an assemblyline basis in full public view, with a large audience to applaud especially dramatic thrusts.
The women, as resolute in adversity as their men, did not scream or cry or even fight. They tolerated it without visible show of emotion, accepting nothing, contributing nothing. But no chances were taken; all were bound and gagged for the occasion, their legs staked apart.
Suddenly a samurai began screaming. His private parts were burning! Awful blisters rose on the tender skin. In moments he sank to the ground, unconscious, his skin peeling off, while the lines continued to move.
Then others screamed, falling with similar symptoms. Ten, twenty, fifty—and every one had had connection with one of the ninja victims in the prior twenty minutes.
By the time they realized the source of their mysterious illness, almost a thousand men were doomed. The ninja women, knowing that they would be raped and killed, had secreted a slow-starting poison within their genitals, a suppository that dissolved into fluid at a controlled rate. Every early rapist died in terrible agony, and the later ones, who hastily washed off their members when the danger was realized, suffered castrating burns.
Now the women were stabbed, beheaded, or throttled where they lay bound. In moments all were dead. But, ironically, this quick emotional slaughter only spared them the slower agony of their own poison. They, too, had escaped vengeance, after killing as heroically and effectively as had their men.
That left the children, who had fought right alongside their parents, throwing sharp-pointed caltrops under the feet of the samurai, firing little crossbows, and darting at the legs of warriors, to disable them with spears and knives. A child could do a lot of damage, partly because he was not seen as a threat until too late.
The surviving children were tortured, and they, at least, lacked the discipline to stifle their screams. But they also lacked endurance, and far too soon they died. It was most unsatisfactory.
Nobunaga had Fu Antos' body hung at the entrance to the royal tent, untouched. He had not yet decided the appropriate disposition of it, since all the other captives had been disposed of and Fu's only living relative was the traitress Mitsuko. How to make a man suffer—after he was dead?
For now the shogun had to settle for dishonor and symbolism: perhaps the spirit of the ninja leader would writhe in appropriate distress. Nobunaga took Mitsuko inside that tent and put her through a series of contortions almost as demanding as those of the battle. The flap of the tent was left open so that the corpse could witness what its trusted concubine was doing with such delight. Later, she would be discarded, her purpose served.
At last, sated, the shogun fell asleep. Mitsuko lay awake, still connected to his body; and now a nameless fear overcame her and made her want to scream, but she dared not. For the hanging corpse was in sight, and the guards were stationed well clear, and she had some inkling of what Fu Antos was capable of. She had supposed the body would be utterly destroyed and buried far from her sight. This was too close; she thought she heard something or saw something. Was it just the wind stirring the dead man, or was his ghost already coming back to haunt her?
In the chill of the night the seeming corpse of Fu Antos quivered. The gaping, bloody wound in his belly closed up. His heartbeat resumed, and body heat developed.
For the ninja master was not dead. Through his secret studies he had learned the art of temporary suspended animation. He could control his internal functions, stop bleeding from an open wound by act of will, and slow his heartbeat to the point of undetectability. Thus he had feigned death after making his self-inflicted wound, in which his blade had carefully avoided vital organs. He had permitted just enough blood to flow to make it realistic. Now he was free, in the presence of the shogun, inside the ring of samurai guards, after hours of listening.
A contortion, and Fu Antos was free of his bindings. He flexed his muscles, restoring his flesh to serviceability. Then, like a reanimated corpse, he stalked into the tent.
Mitsuko's widely staring eyes met his. With a hypnotic gesture he silenced her and froze her in place, so that she could not even wake Nobunaga. Still clasped in her lover's arms, she watched, terrified.
The shogun lay snoring. For a moment Fu Antos gazed upon him. Then he took up the shogun's own katana sword and lifted it high. One cut would sever them both, making four parts of two. But he hesitated. This lacked artistry. All that he had built had been destroyed by this man, and the last of the ninjas' children still groaned feebly on the stakes, slow to die, though they no longer could be saved. Could one swift cut repay it all?
He set aside the large blade. From the remnant of his garment he brought out a small vial of liquid. He let a few drops fall into the open mouth of the shogun. It was a special ninja brew that would immobilize the man physically while not interfering with his sensations or mental processes. He would be conscious, but unable to react in any physical way.
Then Fu took a small fine dagger and began his work, while the horrified Mitsuko watched. He heated the blade in a brazier there in the tent, keeping the interior warm against the chill of the night. His cold eyes rested on the two figures, still embraced among the cushions, as his hand fanned the coals. Too bad he had not paid more attention to his concubine; she had talents he had not properly appreciated, both mental and physical. As a ninja he should have been the first to anticipate her potential for treachery, not the last. And as a man, he should have put her through her sexual paces long ago, instead of allowing the shogun to show him up. Hard lessons!
The fire came up high, and the steel glowed red. It would automatically cauterize all wounds, most painfully, so that the subject would not become infected and die prematurely. Then he took that searing blade and cut the tendons of the shogun's heels and wrists, laming him forever. He removed the eyelids so that the man's eyes could never again close; he would soon be blind. He slit the nose, punctured the eardrums, and amputated the tongue. He carefully separated the two figures, slit the anus of the shogun, and severed his virile member. Though the man's lust would remain intact, he would have no way to satisfy it, and the very act of elimination would be a daily torture.
Lame, blind, deaf, dumb, half-sexed, and half-assed, Nobunaga would live out his life in whatever fashion he could. Fu Antos' vengeance was almost complete.
"Tell them who did it," Fu said to Mitsuko. She only nodded. He garbed himself in a soldier's dress and walked out of the tent and out of the camp, unchallenged.
Mitsuko, knowing she would be blamed—for that was Fu's vengeance on her—drew forth a vial from her own hiding place. Moments after the drops touched her tongue, she was dead.
When General Akechi Mitsuhide discovered them in the morning, he mercifully slew his commander and fabricated a story to conceal the awful truth. The shogun's body was buried in a closed coffin. Much of the blame, Mitsuhide had to take upon himself, for he had been responsible for his commander's safety. Thus it was recorded by history.
The domains of the Black Castle were given up to horrendous pillage. The castle itself was torn apart, the huge blocks scattered and broken up, until only a pile of rubble remained atop the mountain. The fields, houses, and persons of all Fu Antos' peasant supporters were burned. The children were enslaved, and the prettiest girls taken for distant harems, after being thoroughly checked to be sure they had no poison. It was a better fate than that visited upon the older and homelier females. Everything in the vicinity was systematically laid waste. A foul pall of smoke lay over all.
Fu Antos did not bother to swear further vengeance. It was futile, as he had already dealt with the principals of the betrayal, and there was no way he could save his people. But the odor of those awful fires stank in his nostrils for many years, and he developed an abiding hate of such destruction.
r /> Fu Antos made his lonely way to the far wilds of Hokkaido island, in northern Japan. There he recruited more ninjas and built a second Black Castle, all in secret. The job took centuries, for he dared not attract the attention of the Empire of the South. Laboriously they hewed and hauled the great stones, and diligently they trained.
The job was too much to be compassed by the life of one normal man. But Fu Antos also explored the occult mysteries of the deepest ninja secrets. Accounts differ; some claim that he lived for four hundred years, sustained by his immense power of ki, that phenomenal and mysterious inner force. Others believe that he transferred that awesome intelligence and will to the body of a child, his son. So he continued in a chain of incarnations, developing his extraordinary powers to a level unknown in prior human history. Certainly he was a most remarkable man, though few outsiders knew of him or his talents.
The rulers of Japan changed, and so did its governments. The shoguns gave way to their emperors, and the unbroken line of this royal family continued, always on the alert for news of the hated ninjas. Population increased enormously, and technology blossomed beyond all prior imagination. But Fu Antos was determined to save this last wilderness from the ravages of the larger society. From time to time he emerged from his sanctuary to meddle in the affairs of ordinary men, always with his own basic objective in mind: preserve the original sanctity of nature, explore the inner nature of man.
On occasion he deigned to train worthy students—extraordinary men in themselves, who returned to the world but kept his secret scrupulously. One such was little Hiroshi, later the leading aikido practitioner of his time and a globally respected sensei, or teacher and philosopher.
Yet by the time of the twentieth century, Fu Antos' power was waning. There were fewer recruits, and the devices of civilization were phenomenal. Mighty demon birds called airplanes roared across the sky, and metal monsters called trains and trucks roved the earth. Fu Antos himself was aging, trapped in a decrepit body. His few remaining ninjas, afraid of his continuing ambitions, refused to enact the transfer of his sentience to his prepared childbody—that son he had begotten in his only amorous liaison of the century was the sole purpose of that liaison, the woman soon forgotten—and they prevented assistance from outside. They could not touch him personally, because of his powerful ki, and they were loyal in their fashion. They simply did not understand his needs, and waited patiently for his eventual death. He was in dire straits.
Into this situation came a foreigner—Jason Striker, an American martial-arts instructor. Yet Fu Antos had made use of even less likely tools in the past.
Chapter 1:
Hiroshi
The little man entered the post office and looked about. He was in his sixties, Oriental, with a small wispy white beard and scraggly white locks blowing about his head. He wore a hakama, a Japanese pleated black cotton skirt that reached down to his ankles, and a kind of white blouse, along with wooden sandals that were elevated on cleats. This was a common garb in his own country, and seemed out of place in America only because of his advanced age.
He carried an envelope in his hand. He looked about, then spied the window for stamps. He smiled, and went to stand at the rear of the line.
In a moment a woman joined the line behind him. She glanced over his shoulder, for she was taller than he. He stood barely over five feet tall, and massed a hundred pounds. "Say, mister," she said. Her voice had the city twang, able to penetrate the constant noise pollution.
He turned to face her. "Hiroshi, Japan. A pleasure to meet you." He made a little bow.
Disgruntled by this unexpected courtesy, she pointed to his envelope. "You can't mail that. You forgot the zip code."
Hiroshi's brow furrowed. "Zip code? This is a letter from Mr. Diago, who is staying in Japan, to his cousin Mr. Drummond in America. I can carry it only this far, as I have other business. I believe the address is correct."
"I guess they don't have the zip code where you come from," she said. "It's a number you put on the end of the address. Nobody pays any attention to it, and it slows down the mail, but the PO gets pretty sticky if you don't put it on. You better look it up. There's a zip-code guide over there." She pointed to a table across the room. "Go ahead. I'll save your place."
Hiroshi bowed again. "Thank you most kindly, lovely lady."
He walked to the table, leaving her flustered with pleasure, for she was stout and fortyish.
A large man of about fifty joined the line. He was overweight but still muscular under his overalls, with a hard hat and lunch pail, a tough blue-collar worker. He smoked a vile-smelling cigar, in plain violation of the NO SMOKING sign. "Come on, move it along," he muttered impatiently at no one in particular. "I don't have all day."
Hiroshi returned. "The omission has been corrected," he said, showing the envelope to the woman as he took his place in line. "No, please stand ahead. I have time."
She nodded, and he stepped behind her.
"Hey, what is this?" the big man demanded. "Line forms to the rear!" He puffed angrily on his cigar.
The woman turned. "It's all right. He—"
"Don't tell me it's all right!" the man exclaimed. "No goddamn Jap cuts in front of me!"
Hiroshi bowed to him. "I shall move back."
"You yellow bastards think you won the war!" the man bellowed, so that the whole post office could hear. "You think you can shove in anywhere! Well, I have news for you!" He blew a cloud of smoke down into Hiroshi's face.
"For God's sake!" the woman cried. "All he did was—"
"I killed dozens of you stinking buggers in the war!" the man shouted. He jabbed the lighted end of his cigar at Hiroshi's face. "We should of A-bombed every last one of you to hell!" He stepped forward as Hiroshi stepped back, advancing behind his cigar. Now the whole post office was watching. People stood around awkwardly, not wanting to get involved, but not liking to see the bully go unchecked. Hiroshi was as visibly harmless as a man could be, with his small stature, white hair, and dress-like hakama. The employee in the stamp window was leaning out.
"I regret if I have given offense," Hiroshi said mildly. "I am not familiar with all your ways."
"Get your ass out of here before I throw it out!" the man yelled. He shoved Hiroshi with one stout arm. There he made a bad mistake. Hiroshi caught that arm with one small hand. His other hand reached up to put a nerve pinch on the man's trapezius muscle in the shoulder. Even through the heavy material of the coverall, it was obviously a painful grip.
The man screamed and fell to his knees. His cigar dropped to the floor.
Calmly Hiroshi picked up the cigar, maintaining the nerve pinch. He shoved it into the man's open mouth. "Eat—it is for your soul!"
The man tried to spit the tobacco out, but Hiroshi increased his pressure. Sweat appeared on the man's face. He chewed the cigar and swallowed it.
Hiroshi let him go. The man stumbled out. "Police!" he bawled "Police! I've been attacked!" Cigar ashes fell from his lips. Hiroshi calmly returned to his place in the line, waiting to buy his stamp.
"Listen, I'm sorry," the woman said. "The city is full of boors like him. Every last one of them needs a good lesson in manners! Are you all right?"
"Excellent, thank you," Hiroshi said. "I regret causing you alarm."
"Alarm! I just wish you'd do the same to every ill mannered lout you meet!" she said. "Very soon there'd be less mugging, fewer rapes..."
"That's for sure!" the stamp clerk said from his window. "This whole country's in a crisis of contempt. The law means nothing, and common courtesy means less. We need to return to the old-fashioned values."
There was a general murmur of agreement throughout the post office. Hiroshi nodded thoughtfully. Perhaps he had been too conservative, not realizing that ill-manners were not irrevocably ingrained in the American personality. He would have to modify his reactions.
The phone rang as I was stepping out the door. I back-tracked and scooped it up, irritated because I was alre
ady late for my trip to the dojo, or judo and karate practice hall. "Yes?"
"Striker?" a voice demanded. "Jason Striker?"
"Yes! What do you want?"
"You know a Jap named Hiroshi?"
"Hiroshi!" I exclaimed, remembering my little friend. "Yes, I know a Japanese sensei, an aikido instructor—"
"Well, get over here fast! He's disturbing the peace!"
"Now, hold on!" I protested. "Hiroshi is a highly respected martial artist, perhaps the top man in his field, and a man of peace and courtesy. He would never—"
"Just get down to the station, pronto!" he snapped. "Foreign national or not, one more episode and we'll throw the book at him."
"But I have a class to teach!" I said. Too late; he had hung up.
The light turned green. Hiroshi moved sideways a few steps, because a recent shower had left a large puddle just below the curb where a drain was partly clogged with litter. The water poured noisily down the storm drains on both sides of the street farther along. He circled the area and returned to the pedestrian zone, as the others were doing. "Goddamned litterbugs!" one man muttered, leaning over to fish out a large plastic wrapper so that the water could flow more freely.
A big truck rounded the corner, its tires spraying out dirty water. The other people scattered, forced to splash through the puddle to get out of the way, soaking their shoes and cuffs. The driver evidently had no intention of stopping; he was arrogantly preempting the right-of-way, confident that no one who valued his life would argue against such a juggernaut.
Hiroshi stood where he was, directly in the path of the truck. The brakes squealed; the truck shuddered to a halt bare inches from Hiroshi, who had not moved at all.
The driver leaned out of his cab. He was a burly Italian-American with greasy black hair, weighing 225 pounds. "Goddamn chink! Don't you know enough to get out of the way?"