The Way Of The Dragon

For Sarah, my wife

Japan, June 1613

Silent as a shadow, the assassin flitted from roof to roof.

Hidden by the darkness of night, the ninja crossed the moat, scaled the inner bailey wall and infiltrated deep into the castle grounds. His objective, the main tower, was a formidable keep of eight floors that sat at the heart of the supposedly impregnable castle.

Evading the samurai guards on the outer walls had been a simple matter. Lethargic due to the hot, airless night, they were more concerned about their own discomfort than the safety of their
daimyo
lord within the tower. Besides, their very belief that the castle was impenetrable meant the guards were lax in their duty – who would even attempt to break into such a fortress?

For the assassin, the hardest part would be getting inside the keep. The
daimyo
‘s personal bodyguard wouldn’t be so negligent and the ninja had come as close as he could by traversing the roofs of the outer buildings. He now had to cross open ground to the solid stone base of the tower.

The ninja dropped from the roof and skirted the edge of a courtyard, using the plum and
sakura
cherry trees for cover. Passing silently through a tea garden with an oval pond, he made his way to the central well house. The assassin ducked inside as he heard a samurai patrol approach.

When the way was clear, the ninja darted across to the keep and like a black-skinned gecko effortlessly scaled the steep slope of its immense base. Swiftly reaching the fourth floor, he slipped in through an open window.

Once inside, the assassin knew exactly where he was going. Padding down the darkened corridor, he passed several
shoji
doors then bore right, making for a wooden staircase. He was about to ascend when a guard suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.

Like smoke, the ninja sank back into the shadows, his all-black
shinobi shozoku
clothing rendering him virtually invisible. Quietly, he drew a
tantō
knife in readiness to slit the man’s throat.

Oblivious to his proximity to death, the guard came down the stairs and walked straight past. The assassin allowed the man to live, having no wish to draw attention to his presence within the keep. As soon as the guard rounded the corner, the ninja resheathed his blade and climbed the stairs to the upper corridor.

Through the thin paper
shoji
before him, he could see the halos of two candles glowing in the gloom. Sliding open the door a notch, he put a single eye to the crack. A man knelt before an altar deep in prayer. There were no samurai present.

The assassin crept inside.

When he was within striking distance, the ninja reached into a pouch on his belt and removed a rectangular object wrapped in black oilskin. He placed it on the floor beside the worshipping man and gave a brief bow.

‘About time,’ growled the man.

Without turning round, the man picked up the package and unwrapped it to reveal a worn leatherbound book.

‘The
rutter
!’ he breathed, caressing its cover, then opening its pages to examine the sea charts, ocean reports and meticulous logging of tides, compass bearings and star constellations. ‘Now we possess what is rightfully ours. To think, the fortune of the world is in my hands. The secrets of the oceans laid bare for our nation to command the trade routes. It’s our divine right to rule the seas.’

The man placed the logbook on the altar. ‘And what of the boy?’ he asked, his back to the ninja still. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? My instructions were explicit.’

‘As you know, the samurai Masamoto has been training the boy in the Way of the Warrior,’ explained the ninja. ‘The boy is now highly skilled and has proven somewhat… resilient.’

‘Resilient? Are you telling me a mere boy has defeated the great Dokugan Ryu?’

Dragon Eye’s single emerald-green eye flared in annoyance at the man’s mockery. He contemplated snapping the man’s neck there and then, but he had yet to receive payment for retrieving the
rutter
. Such pleasures would have to wait.

‘I employed you because you were the best. The most ruthless,’ continued the man. ‘Am I mistaken in my judgement, Dragon Eye? Why haven’t you killed him?’

‘Because you may still need him.’

The man turned round, his face cast in shadow.

‘What could I possibly want with Jack Fletcher?’

‘The
rutter
is encrypted. Only the boy knows the code.’

‘How do
you
know that?’ demanded the man, a note of alarm registering in his voice. ‘Have you been trying to break the cipher yourself?’

‘Of course,’ revealed the ninja. ‘After the mistake of acquiring the Portuguese dictionary, I thought it wise to check the contents before delivery.’

‘Did you have any success?’ asked the man.

‘Not entirely. The unfamiliar combination of Portuguese and English made the task somewhat more complex than anticipated.’

‘No matter. It’s of little consequence,’ said the man, evidently pleased that the knowledge remained secret from the ninja. ‘There’s a Franciscan monk in the dungeons, a mathematician and fluent in both the languages. The mere promise of freedom should secure his decoding services.’

‘And what about the
gaijin
boy?’ asked Dragon Eye.

‘Once the code’s broken, complete your mission,’ ordered the man, turning to kneel before the altar once more. ‘Kill him.’

Jack’s blood pounded in his ears. His heart raced. His lungs burnt for oxygen. But he couldn’t stop now.

He tore headlong through the bamboo forest, ducking and weaving between the maze of thick stems that stretched like bony fingers into a vast canopy of olive-green leaves.

‘Where’s he gone?’ came a shout from behind.

Jack didn’t stop running, despite his protesting muscles. He would not give up the pursuit.

Ever since Jack’s fateful arrival in Japan, when his boat, the
Alexandria
, had been shipwrecked then attacked by
ninja
, the assassin Dragon Eye had been the bane of his life. The ninja had murdered his father then followed Jack across Japan, hunting him down until finally stealing his father’s
rutter
.

Jack was now intent on finding the ninja and getting the logbook back.

‘We’ve lost him!’ declared a second voice in disbelief.

Jack slowed his pace and frantically looked around. His friends were right. The man they were chasing had vanished into the thicket.

Yamato and Akiko caught up with Jack. Akiko was forced to sit down and rest. She still wasn’t fully recovered from her recent poisoning and the chase had taken its toll on her. The usual white glow of her complexion had dulled and dark shadows ringed her half-moon eyes.

Jack felt a pang of guilt. Even though Akiko didn’t blame him, he was the reason for her condition. In an attempt to protect the
rutter
, Jack had hidden it in the castle of
daimyo
Takatomi, the lord of Kyoto Province. It had seemed the safest place. He now knew different. Dragon Eye had broken in, Akiko had almost died trying to defend Jack, and
daimyo
Takatomi’s life had been put in danger.

‘How could he have got away?’ demanded Yamato, leaning upon his
bō
staff and catching his breath. ‘He was crippled!’

‘He must have tricked us,’ said Jack, turning on the spot, his eyes scouring the forest for any sign of disturbance. ‘Or else he’s doubled back.’

Jack knew his friend was as determined in his pursuit as he was. Four years ago, Dragon Eye had assassinated Yamato’s older brother, Tenno.

‘I can’t believe he stole Akiko’s pearl!’ exclaimed Yamato, kicking out in fury at a nearby bamboo. He yowled in pain as his foot collided with its rock-hard stem.

Akiko sighed and rolled her eyes at her cousin’s characteristic hotheadedness. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, tying her hair back, several long black strands having come loose during the pursuit, ‘there are plenty more where that came from.’

‘That’s not the point. He took the pearl, but didn’t give us any information in return.’

Jack agreed with Yamato. This had been the whole purpose of their mission into the foothills of the Iga mountains. Shamefully dismissed from
samurai
school for jeopardizing
daimyo
Takatomi’s safety, they’d been sent to Akiko’s mother in Toba until a final decision was made as to their fate. On the way, though, their samurai guide, Kumasan, had dislocated his shoulder in a fall from his horse. They’d been forced to stop over in Kameyama while he recovered. It was during this time they’d learnt from a passing merchant that a crippled man called Orochi had been bragging about knowing the infamous Dragon Eye. The village of Kabuto, where Orochi supposedly lived, was not that far, so the three of them had set off to find him.

Jack hoped that by finding Orochi they might discover where Dragon Eye’s lair was. They could then inform Yamato’s father, Masamoto Takeshi, of the murdering ninja’s location, and maybe retrieve his father’s
rutter
too. This, he prayed, would redeem him and his friends in the eyes of the legendary swordsman and they would be allowed back to the
Niten Ichi Ryū
to continue their training as samurai.

Kabuto turned out to be little more than a scattering of farmhouses built on a crossroads, with a decrepit roadside inn that served the few travellers who made their way from the main Tokaido Road to the castle town of Ueno.

It was in the bar that they found Orochi.

As Jack and the others entered, the bar went quiet. Jack’s appearance often caused quite a stir, especially outside Kyoto where foreigners were rarely seen. His thick straw-blond hair and sky-blue eyes fascinated the black-haired, dark-eyed Japanese. The problem was, despite being only fourteen years old, Jack’s height and strength now exceeded many of the smaller Japanese men and they tended to react with suspicion or fear, especially since Jack dressed and acted like a samurai warrior.

Jack glanced around. The bar appeared to be more gambling den than rest stop. Low tables, sticky with spilt
saké
, were the subject of several dice and card games. A mix of merchants, wandering samurai and farmers eyed the newcomers warily. When Akiko entered, there was a low murmur of manly approval and Jack noticed that, aside from a small nervous serving girl in one corner, there were no women.

The three of them made their way over to the counter, the eyes of every customer following them.

‘Excuse me?’ asked Yamato of the proprietor, a compact barrel of a man with meat slabs for hands. ‘Do you know where we can find Orochi-san?’

The man grunted and gave a single nod of his head towards the far corner of the bar. In a darkened recess lit by a single candle sat a hunched man, a wooden crutch propped up behind him.

‘May we talk with you a moment?’ asked Yamato as they approached.

‘Depends on who’s buying,’ wheezed the man, looking them up and down and clearly wondering what a spiky-haired boy of samurai status was doing with a pretty girl and a foreigner in such a disreputable bar.