Year of the Demon

“Let me show you the one I’d planned to be the first cut,” Shichio said. He walked away from the table, and from the bleeding, cursing, struggling giant. He took up Mio’s enormous katana, drew it, and tossed the scabbard aside. Mio strained against the ropes, furious. Shichio could not help but laugh. Only a born samurai could be bound to a table, naked and bleeding, and still be angry that someone had disrespected his scabbard.

“Release me! I’m Mio Yasumasa, damn you! I demand that you release me this instant!”

“Oh, you’re not in a position to demand anything, are you? No. No, you’re not.”

Shichio laid the base of the blade gingerly on the roll of flesh just above Mio’s left knee. He drew the blade slowly across, penetrating deeper just a hairsbreadth at a time, so that only when the very tip of the sword passed through did he sever the last ribbon of skin. The roll of flesh flopped to the floor like a butchered fish. Mio roared louder than ever.

“You see?” said Shichio. “That’s what I was looking for.”

The blood streamed toward Mio’s groin, for Shichio’s table sloped downward at a slight angle and Mio’s head was lowermost. “You don’t think much of me as a fighter, do you, Mio? No, I think not. But unlike you, I appreciate martial art as art. Precision. Patience. Exactitude. Hallmarks of my brand of swordsmanship, though not so much of yours, I think.”

Through gritted teeth Mio said, “Cut my bonds and we’ll see who’s the better swordsman.”

This time Shichio laid the blade on Mio’s shoulder, drawing it across the skin slowly and deliberately. Mio growled like a rabid animal. “You would expect more blood from a cut this large, neh? It’s the ropes; they slow the bleeding considerably.”

Shichio lifted the blade and whipped it past Mio’s face. Warm red droplets flew from the steel, spattering the fat man’s cheeks and eyes like rain. “Ah,” Shichio said. “Figured out to stop talking, have you? That’s all right. This was always meant to be a one-sided conversation anyway, wasn’t it? Yes, it was. Yes, it was.”

This time he laid the katana’s razor edge against two rolls of flesh, these on the top of Mio’s left foot. “I suppose you’re wondering now whether you should have sided with the Okuma boy, neh? Maybe you’re also wondering whether Hideyoshi will allow me to kill the boy once you’re no longer at court.”

Mio twitched and cursed and struggled. “Oh, now look what you’ve done,” Shichio said. I nicked the rope, you fat oaf; you’ve gone and spoiled my cut.”

A mighty kick from the fat man freed his left leg, but only from the shin down. Shichio shuddered at the sight of it. “Idiot! You’ll only bleed faster now. It’s a good thing I didn’t tie you with your head upward, neh? You’d lose consciousness in no time. And where would be the justice in that?”

Mio bellowed so loud that it shook the walls. Shichio lost patience with him and stuffed a silken scarf in Mio’s mouth. “You’ve already spoiled my chance to kill the boy,” he said. “You and Hashiba both. And I can’t punish Hashiba, can I? No. But you? You deserve it. All samurai deserve it.” And with that he sliced off a nipple.

The fat man writhed and raged, but he only succeeded in chafing himself on the ropes. “Isn’t it ironic?” Shichio said. “From the very beginning, my mask awakened thoughts of swords in me—but only thoughts. I always found bloodshed repugnant, but then the boy marred my beautiful mask. Now I find it’s not enough merely to think of blades; I must put them to use. Your bleeding still sickens me. Yes, it does. I despise it, and yet the mask awakens this need in me. Do you see the irony? It’s because of the boy that I’m going to kill you, and you were the boy’s last remaining defender.”

At last Mio managed to spit out the silk. “You forget your precious ‘Hashiba,’” he said. “Let him take his cock out of your mouth long enough to think straight and he’ll remember that treaty you signed. Then you’ll be the next one strapped to this table.”

“I am growing tired of that tongue of yours,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I tired of it a long time ago. I had all but convinced Hashiba to push the Okumas into the sea, and you talked him out of it, didn’t you? Yes, you did. Well, how much longer did you think I was going to put up with that?”

“If you kill me, he’ll kill you next.”

“I think not. Oh, but I’ve forgotten to tell you, haven’t I? I’ve made you an enemy of the throne.”

“What?”

“They will find the first evidence of your treason in the morning. You’ve been corresponding with Tokugawa Ieyasu, I’m afraid, conspiring to unseat the lord regent. I don’t know all the details. It’s Jun who wrote the letters on your behalf—at my command, of course, but I allowed him a free hand when it came to their actual content. It wouldn’t do for me to accidentally implicate myself, would it? Not when I’m so close to ridding myself of you and the Bear Cub.”

“You son of a whore! I’m no traitor!” Mio pulled so hard against the ropes that Shichio could hear the fibers stetching. “You’re deranged! I’ll see you burned at the stake for this.”

“Now what did I tell you about that tongue?” Shichio tied another bond, this one across Mio’s lower jaw, pulling Mio’s chin back so he could not bite down. Then Shichio tossed Mio’s huge katana aside, drew his knife, and stuck it in Mio’s mouth.

“You see? Look what good struggling does you. I didn’t mean to cut your lip, did I? I didn’t mean to cut the roof of your mouth. But you won’t take your punishment, will you? No, you won’t.”

The tongue was warm and sticky in his fingers, utterly repulsive. Shichio flicked it on the floor. “Now, how am I going to destroy the Okumas if I can’t attack them? Hm? Answer me that. And how long do I have until Hashiba starts getting serious about the monk? Thus far I’ve been able to distract him, but if he ever presses for the truth in earnest, I am not long for this world. And we can’t have that, can we? No. No, we can’t.”

Shichio ran his hand over his iron brow. “The monk vexes me,” he said. “His very existence makes me want to scream.” Then he laid his knife against the largest roll on Mio’s belly and drew it across with exquisite languor.

“How?” Shichio said, ignoring Mio’s gurgling, wordless moans. “The Okumas are the key to reaching the monk, but how can I put an end to the Okumas? No doubt the boy is already plotting to kill me. And can I kill him? No. Hashiba even denied me the use of his assassins. Can you believe it? He favors the boy over me. He said the little Bear Cub has big bear balls. Those were his exact words. How could he say such a thing?”

He looked back at Mio, who spat up a mouthful of blood. “You agree with me, don’t you? I can hardly let the boy live. No doubt the monk told him my secret. And what of his family? The monk is under their protection. How can I allow them to live? You’d do the same, wouldn’t you? If you were in my position, you’d kill them all. Yes, you would.”

He pushed the knife through one of the fat rolls on Mio’s thigh and left it there. The hilt quivered every time the fat man twitched. “I’m going to finish this with my own sword, I think. It seems the more appropriate choice.” He stood over Mio and drew his blade. “It will be no challenge when I decide to take your head, you know. I’ll just chop it off, won’t I? Yes, I will. But how do I decapitate a clan whose head has simply decided to leave it?”

His sword dropped idly toward Mio’s neck. It was more than sharp enough to kill even with only its own weight behind it, but Shichio’s intent was only to nick Mio’s remaining ear. But that wretched Okuma boy had unsettled him even more than he’d thought, for he missed the ear completely. Instead he cut the rope binding Mio’s neck to the table.

The fat man took a deep gulping breath. He made a strangled, gurgling noise, then a horrid red geyser erupted out of his mouth, followed by a desperate gasp. His sputtering sent flecks of blood everywhere. Shichio didn’t dare think of what a mess it made of his kimono.

“Do you see?” he said. “You samurai are no different from the rest of us. You claim to be fearless of death, but when you’re choking on your own blood, you cough it up just like anyone else, neh? Yes. Yes, you do. Samurai, peasants, nobles, outcasts; we’re all the same. Even the Bear Cub will die the same as anyone else, and to hell with all his vaunted nobility.”

Shichio paced around the table, willfully ignoring the blood on the floor. It reeked. Somehow Mio’s blood overwhelmed even the fetid stink of the slaughterhouse, which was just next door. “How to decapitate a clan that has no head? It’s almost a koan, isn’t it? Beheading the headless.”

He looked at his sword. “Who commands the Okumas now? The cub’s deranged mother, I suppose. The poor creature. She lost her husband and her eldest in the space of a year, didn’t she? Yes, she did, and now her youngest son has forsaken her too.”

Like a bolt of lightning, a plan suddenly flashed before Shichio’s eyes. He only caught a glimpse, but the