The Way of the Warrior - Chris Bradford [2]
Tenno attempted to stand and defend himself, but his legs gave way. They had become numb and useless. In a panic, he tried to scream – to call for help – but his throat had swollen shut. It burned like fire and his cries became suffocating stabs for breath.
The ninja shifted in and out of focus before vanishing in a swirl of black smoke.
The boy’s vision folded in on itself and he realized the ninja’s shuriken had been dipped in poison, paralysing him limb by limb. His body quickly succumbed to its lethal powers and he lay there at the mercy of his assassin.
Blinded, Tenno listened for the ninja’s approach, but could only hear the chirp-chirp of the cricket. He recalled his father once telling him that ninja used the insect’s calls to mask the noise of their own movements. That was how his assassin had slipped by the guards undetected!
Briefly his eyesight returned and under the pale light of a waning moon, a shrouded face floated towards him. The ninja drew so close that Tenno could smell the assassin’s hot breath on his face, sour and stale like cheap saké. Through the slit in the hood of its shinobi shozoko, the boy could see a single emerald-green eye blazing with hatred.
‘This is a message for your father,’ hissed the ninja.
Tenno felt the deadly cold tip of the tantō on the flesh above his heart.
A single sharp thrust and his whole body flared white-hot with pain…
Then nothing…
Masamoto Tenno had passed into the Great Void.
1
FIREBALL
Pacific Ocean, August 1611
The boy snapped awake.
‘All hands on deck!’ bellowed the Bosun. ‘That means you too, Jack!’
The Bosun’s weather-beaten face loomed out of the darkness at the boy, who hastily dropped from his swaying hammock to the wooden floor of the ship’s middle deck.
Jack Fletcher, only twelve, was nonetheless tall for his age, slim and muscular from two years at sea. Hidden behind the straggly mess of straw-blond hair he had inherited from his mother, his eyes were an azure blue and glinted with a determination and fire far beyond his years.
Men, weary from the long voyage on board the Alexandria, slumped from their bunks and pushed past Jack, heading urgently for the upper deck. Jack threw the Bosun a hopeful smile of apology.
‘Get going, boy!’ snarled the Bosun.
Suddenly there was an almighty crash, followed by a shrieking of the timbers and Jack was thrown to the floor. The small oil lantern suspended from the central beam of the dinghy hold swung wildly, its flame spluttering.
Jack landed heavily among a pile of empty casks, sending them spinning across the bucking floorboards. He struggled to find his footing as several other grime-ridden, half-starved crewmen stumbled past in the flickering darkness. A hand grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him to his feet.
It was Ginsel.
The short stocky Dutchman grinned at Jack, revealing a set of broken jagged teeth that made him look like a great white shark. Despite his severe appearance, the sailor had always treated Jack with kindness.
‘Another storm’s hitting us hard, Jack. It sounds as if Hell itself has opened up its gates!’ growled Ginsel. ‘Best get yourself up on the foredeck before the Bosun has your hide.’
Jack hastily followed Ginsel and the rest of the crew as they scrambled up the companionway and emerged into the heart of the storm.
Menacing black clouds thundered across the heavens and the complaints of the sailors were immediately drowned out by the relentless wind ripping through the ship’s rigging. The smell of sea salt was sharp in Jack’s nostrils and ice-cold rain slashed at his face, stinging him like a thousand tiny needles. But before he could take it all in, the ship was rolled by a mountainous wave.
The deck flooded and foamed with seawater and Jack was instantly drenched to the skin. The water cascaded away through the scuppers, and as he gasped for air, another tumultuous wave roared across the deck. This one, stronger than the first, swept Jack off his feet and he barely managed to grab hold of