The Way of the Warrior - Chris Bradford [14]
A blackened face loomed into sight.
It grinned maniacally, revealing a set of shark-like teeth.
‘A plague on ’em! They ain’t beaten us yet,’ whispered a wild-eyed Ginsel. ‘I’ve set fire to the magazine. BOOM!’
Ginsel’s arms exploded outwards in a gesture of destruction. He laughed briefly, then grunted, a look of surprise registering on his face. He collapsed to the deck, a large knife attached to a chain sticking out of his back.
Jack looked up to see a sinister figure emerge from the shadows. A single green eye glared at him and then at the rutter stuffed inside his shirt. The shadow jerked on the chain, whipping the knife back into his grasp. Jack spun on his heels and fled up the companionway, praying he could reach the ship’s rail in time…
Jack was flung as high as the yardarm by the massive explosion before dropping with the rest of the wreckage into the ocean…
Then… then… a blank…
Flaring pain.
Darkness.
Blinding light.
A man’s scarred face.
Strange unfamiliar voices…
Jack was suddenly aware he could hear those same voices now, talking outside the room. For a moment Jack didn’t breathe.
Were they wako? Why then was he alive?
Jack spotted his shirt and breeches, neatly folded in the corner of the room, though there was no sign of the rutter. He staggered to his feet and hastily pulled on his clothes. Crossing the room he searched for the door, but was met with an unbroken grid of panels.
He was at a loss. There was not even a door handle.
Then Jack remembered one of his fevered dreams – the girl had entered the room through a sliding door. Jack grabbed hold of the wooden slats to pull but, still unsure on his feet, he reeled slightly and his hand shot straight through the wafer-thin paper wall. The conversation on the other side of the shoji door abruptly ceased.
The panel slid sharply open and Jack stumbled back, embarrassed by his clumsiness.
A middle-aged woman with a round face and a stocky young man with dark almond-shaped eyes glared at him. The man’s expression was fierce. Two swords – one daggerlike, the other long and slightly curved – were thrust into his blood-red waistband. He stepped forward, his hand firmly gripping the hilt of the larger blade.
‘Naniwoshiteru, gaijin?’ challenged the man.
‘Sorry. I… I don’t understand,’ said Jack, retreating in fear.
The woman spoke firmly to the man, but his hand didn’t leave his sword.
Jack was afraid he was about to use it on him. Terrified, he scanned the room for a means of escape. But the man barred his way, partly withdrawing his sword. Jack’s eyes fell upon the gleaming blade, its razor-sharp edge primed to cut off his head.
Then he remembered Piper’s words. ‘If you ever meet a samurai, lads, bow low. Bow very, very low!’
Although Jack had never seen, let alone met one, the fearsome man looked like he should be a samurai. He wore a T-shaped robe in crisp white silk over wide black leggings spotted with golden dots. He had shaved the crown of his head, pulling the back and sides of his remaining black hair into a tight knot on the top. His face was severe and impenetrable – a warrior’s face. The man had the look of someone who could kill Jack as easily as stepping on an ant.
Jack’s body was battered and bruised, and every muscle ached, but he forced himself through the pain to bow. As he did so, the man stepped back in amazement.
The samurai then began to laugh, an amused chuckle that grew into a deep roar.
8
OFURO
Jack must have cried himself to sleep after they had put him back to bed, for when he rolled over, the round-faced woman was kneeling by his side.
Like the samurai the day before, she wore a silk robe, but hers was a deep blue decorated with images of white and pink flowers. She smiled sweetly and offered him some water. Jack took the small bowl and gulped the liquid down. It was cool and fresh.
‘Thank you. May I beg you for a little more?’
She frowned.
‘Can I have some more water?’ said Jack, pointing to the small bowl