The Call of the Thunder Dragon (64 page)

Falstaff fell forward for a
moment. Then with difficulty took a few minutes to right himself
only to have Haga-Jin beat him again with the sheathed sword.

“Ow! That hurts! Don’t you know
how to use that thing!” Falstaff bit back his words, losing his
temper wasn’t going to help.

Falstaff looked around while
Haga-Jin paced. The pilot was sat on the table near to the fire.
The trooper was behind him by the door. He remembered Zam, how she
had said she knew he would always be coming for her. A tear crept
out from the corner of his eye. As soon as he realised it was
there, it become worse. He fidgeted, hoping the tear would
evaporate. Pulling at the cords around his wrists he found he
couldn’t move. His temper started to boil as the tear ran stinging,
filling his eye with blood from the bruise above.

The colonel stopped in front of
him. “Well, did you kill Goemon or not? Tell me!”

Falstaff didn’t see any use in
denying it. Goemon had warned him and here he was trapped.

“Yes, I killed him. Right before
your blasted assassin came and I killed him as well!” He lied, he
didn’t know how much they knew. It was going to be painful when
they informed and corrected him.

“No!” The Colonel looked
horrified, almost convinced. “No! You are lying! Ono Itchi escaped
from the police, we heard on the radio!”

“Oh... No?” Falstaff muttered
“Ono Itchi? Was that his name! God, what fuss he made about
that!”

“Quiet! You do not understand
Japanese ways!”

“Hai, Colonel-Sama!” Falstaff
rapped out in smart Japanese.

Haga-Jin beat him down again.
Falstaff slowly flexed his battered muscles; not sure if his joints
would pop apart if he tried to move. Blood was dripping from a cut
over his left eye. The dropletts splattered on the floor. As he
watched the blood splatter, he glimpsed a glint of steel through
Goemon’s scabbard on the floor.

Inwardly he chuckled to himself,
‘Well, well, Gibbons did I ever tell you what a bad welder you
were?’ Falstaff weighed up the chances, the weld on the metal
scabbard must have split in the crash or when it was dropped,
thrown on the floor. ‘Gibbons I’ll buy you a drink if I could only
tell you this story!’

“You are right, I don’t know
Japanese ways!” Falstaff said in English. “Or if you prefer I’ll
speak Chinese?”

“My English is good enough, don’t
worry Falstaff! I understand!” His tone condescending.

“My hands!” Falstaff said, “Untie
them!”

“Why would I want to do
that?”

“The kai-gunto, the sword, why
did you show it to me?”

“Because the Soul of Samurai is
his weapon!”

“Then use yours to fight me!”
Falstaff said. “Or at least, untie me so I can stand up.” He
flexed, there was no way he could slip his wrists around his feet,
impossible in boots no matter how easy Buchan’s Hannay found it. He
tried to think of another useful book. What would Spud Thomson do?
Drink, he laughed. He thought of other books he’d read; Kipling,
then he remembered Kim and pictured the old mad goat header who’d
taught him to speak Chinese, now he had a trick or two!

Falstaff sat up straight.

“Kneel!” Haga-Jin called out.

“Fight me! I know nothing of the
Japanese way! Show me!” Falstaff taunted the colonel.

“This may be amusing.” The
colonel smiled. “Have him stand! Tatakinaousu!”

Falstaff frowned; he did not know
the term, but he guessed it had nothing to do with the soul of the
samurai.

Standing with his hands now bound
equally tightly in front of him, he waited. Goemon’s sword now lay
out of reach on the table.

“You are not samurai! You are not
even a real officer! Therefore, I will teach you the way of
punishment! Tatakinaousu! Beat them up until you fix them! Now pull
him up!”

Falstaff saw now why his wrists
had been rebound. A rope was thrown over a beam in the roof. As
soon as he saw what they were about, he dug his heels in and pulled
back. He turned his back and set the rope against his shoulder, but
was beaten around the back of the knees until he fell. Then he was
dragged up by the wrists until he was just only just able to touch
the ground with his toes.

“Is that it? Is that how the high
and great Japanese trade in honour?” Falstaff shouted, gritting his
teeth against the pain in his shoulder joints.

The Colonel raised his sheathed
sword and started swinging at Falstaff’s back. Falstaff tried to
imagine he could take it, the blows of the smooth scabbard were
glancing, sliding off his wet back as the colonel swung away,
madness in his eyes. Next the trooper stepped forward and started
kicking his shins, knocking him off his feet. Falstaff had to
stretch to keep his balance. Then a blow from the Colonel smashed
down even harder.

“Did you think I’d dirty my blade
on you?” Haga-Jin’s lips curled into a sardonic smear.

Falstaff looked at Haga-Jin’s
outstretched fist holding the sheathed sword in front of him.
Despite the blood blurring his vision, Falstaff could see that the
sword was tied with cord. Traditionally a Samurai would do this so
show his non-lethal intent. Falstaff might have laughed out loud
but for the swelling of his lip. How predictable, how proper, just
like the Japanese. Haga-Jin had handed him a gift, wrapped with a
ribbon!

Haga-Jin started ranting again.
“Tomorrow we will take you to Shanghai and you will answer all the
questions we will put to you Mr. Falstaff!”

Falstaff blew out his breath in a
sigh of relief, at least, they didn't intend to kill me today he
reasoned? Time to fill his diary. A good day or two to get to
Shanghai, anything could happen? There was a chance someone might
intervene.

“Stop smiling!” Haga-Jin roared,
spittle flying from his mouth. “Baka! You are being punished, don’t
be happy!”

Falstaff grinned, truly he’d
never heard a more poetic phrase as an introduction to the
Japanese.

The trooper standing in front of
him swung a punch. There was slack enough in the rope, with his
feet on the ground for him to react. Ducking to the side Falstaff
let the punch slip over his head, his hair already slick with
blood.

He yowled in pain, forgetting the
wound given to him by the rifle butt.

“You are not a soldier. You would
not understand the way of Bushido! If you were a man of honour, a
soldier you would be in England, defending your land!” Haga-Jin
squealed.

“I prefer the company here,”
Falstaff mumbled, his jest prompted a jab in the side of his ribs.
He winced in pain, his ribs flaring up again. His wrists stung as
the rope tugged and chafed.

“You are afraid to fight Germany!
You could not defeat them alone in the last war! Is this why you
are afraid?” Haga-Jin poked Falstaff in the back with the scabbard,
so hard he was swung off his feet.

Falstaff gritted his teeth, the
pain in his shoulders was becoming unbearable, he was desperate
pull himself free, let his hands down or flex in any direction
except up. He felt his full weight pulling down on his shoulder
joints. His muscles burned in agony.

“If you care to surrender now, I
might make time to pass to on your best wishes to the Kaiser!”
Falstaff jested.

“Your mockery shows that you are
a coward! You don’t have the ability to fight. Why else would you
remain a mercenary while your kin are facing death at home?”

Haga-Jin walked around Falstaff
to look him in the face. “You are jealous of Japan’s power! You
want to strip us of our power by letting our people starve! Why
should we not conquer other lands as the British have in the past?
That is why you are here isn’t it Falstaff? To attack our forces in
China?”

“You’ve got it all wrong. I fly
in China because I get kicks out of shooting down Japanese planes!
So far I’ve done a pretty good job haven’t I?”

With a shout of rage, Haga-Jin
resumed beating him. They yanked on the rope holding him, so he was
lifted off the ground. Falstaff started spinning around, they took
turns hitting him, spinning him faster and faster. It was getting
harder to focus, but Falstaff tried to keep the table laid with
weapons in mind. Abruptly Falstaff flexed his arms, tensing his
shoulders, to lift himself up higher off the ground. He spun more
widely.

The rope twanged and his arms
burned with pain, he thought his shoulders would be ripped from
their sockets. Swaying wildly his feet off the ground, he screamed
in pain and he pulled himself higher with all his might swinging
up, he somersaulted curling into a ball with his knees up. He
blacked out with the effort and fell.

The rope jerked and broke.
Falstaff landed flat on his rump, he rolled over groaning in
pain.

The colonel and trooper resumed
blows as soon as Falstaff lurched to his feet. He staggered towards
the table. Staggering, the room spun he careered forward
erratically. Lunging forward to grab the table before it swirled
past him again. Falstaff paused for breath, but the Japanese pilot
Keiko joined in punching at his face.

“I fly for Japan! I fly for the
Emperor!” He marked his words with punches. “If I found you in the
sky I would shoot you down in flames!”

Falstaff pushed Keiko away,
holding his hands out in front of him, the rope trailing on the
floor.

There was a pause in the
onslaught. Spitting, Falstaff felt nothing but contempt and anger
at his captors.

“If? You’d never even see me
coming!” Falstaff goaded.

Kicks and punches were raining
down constantly, grating against his shins or painfully battering
the side of his face. ‘Damn, why don’t I watch my mouth?’ Falstaff
echoed to himself.

Desperately he groped along the
table, as it shook under the violence of the attacks on him. His
hands found the sheathed sword at last. He gripped it tight even as
punch smashed forcibly into his eye.

The colonel and the trooper fell
back laughing, snorting in amusement as Falstaff brandished the
Goemon’s katana still secure in its scabbard. Firmly he grasped it
with his bound hands.

Keiko reached forward and grabbed
the end of the scabbard as Falstaff kicked out vigorously.

The scabbard was secured to the
hilt with a knot of cord, through the guard
⁶⁸
same as the colonel’s weapon had
been. Falstaff jerked back sharply as Keiko punched him again.
Falstaff gripped the handle of the sword with his remaining
strength. Keiko tugged the sheath and punched again as Falstaff
pulled back with all his strength.

Falstaff staggered back a step.
Wide-eyed, Keiko jerked backwards as the scabbard split, the broken
piece coming free in his hands.

The point of Goemon’s sword
flashed, winking in the sunlight. Falstaff lunged without
hesitation.

“Three!” Falstaff shouted blood
spurting from his lip. He saved the self-congratulations for later
and gripped the sword harder to stop it falling from his hands.

Keiko folded up on the point of
the katana as the sword went straight through his shoulder.

“Chikusho!
⁶⁹
Stop him!” The
colonel pointed, backing away, tugging at his own sword still
secured with cord.

Falstaff lifted the naked blade,
gripping the hilt with one hand, the other braced against it, still
secured by his wrists. It was immaterial that half the blade was
covered, Falstaff had the point exposed. Falstaff cut down,
flicking with the point.

The colonel howled in pain as
Falstaff neatly sliced through the colonel’s thumb with the gentle
flick of the point. The still tugged helplessly at his sword, and
cord securing it. As Falstaff’s point came up, he lunged in with
his full weight behind the thrust. The blade sank deep into
Haga-Jin’s chest.

“Kutabare! Drop dead!” Falstaff
snapped hoarsely. He stood back, releasing the sword, Haga-Jin fell
to the floor.

“Number four!” Falstaff muttered
with satisfaction.

Whirling around, he tried to
catch sight of the last Japanese through a curtain of blood. The
cut over his eye gushing as his head pounded in agony. He
staggered, his feet like lead, hearing a rifle bolt click back, he
turned fearing the worst.

Haga-Jin lay on the floor, his
vision narrowing, fading to a cloud of black. He could just see
Falstaff circling towards the last survivor of his company.
Haga-Jin saw the terror on lone man’s face. Haga-Jin thought what
shame, such lack of dignity. A soldier of the Emperor should be
punished for showing such a face to his enemies? Haga-Jin filled
with rage, he wanted to punish the man wipe away the stain then he
realised he was dying, in his last moments, he comprehended where
he was and what shame he had brought on himself for all his
failures.

“Anata wa toroi desu
ne?
⁷⁰
” he gasped and
died.

The last soldier pointed his
rifle, the bayonet ready and fixed. Falstaff didn’t want to gamble
on it being loaded or not, knocked the rifle aside and dived for
the table, knocking it over as he leapt.

Dazed, Falstaff’s fingers fumbled
at the collection of fallen guns, plates and cutlery now dumped on
the floor with him. Thunderously, the table rocked, splitters
exploding from the bottom of the table. As the soldier unloaded his
rifle into the wood.

Lying in the shadow of the table,
the blood in his eyes Falstaff could barely see. His numbed fingers
felt the familiar touch of hard, narrow cord. He clutched,
searching for a weapon then his brain clicked. Finding the cord
again he twisted his finger around it and pulled. The familiar butt
of the Webley revolver settled into his hand.

The brief barrage had stopped,
the Japanese soldier stood poised ready to charge with the
bayonet.

“Number five?” Falstaff whispered
then with a deep breath, jumped up with a roar.