Jimmu was struggling to grasp what it was that had caused his world to change so completely, but when he tried to put together the words to ask Nichiren, all he could manage was, “Why?”

“Lord Choju Ankan is why, boy,” Nichiren told him. “He is a greedy, cruel demon of a man, who cares for nobody but himself. Your father offended him a long time ago, and Lord Ankan never forgot. He accused your father of plotting to murder the Emperor, and produced false papers to prove it. The Emperor has proclaimed your father a traitor.”

Nichiren trembled with rage. Flecks of foam formed in the corners of his mouth.

“Lord Ankan caused the death of your parents, and took away your home,” he continued. “Whenever you’re cold, or tired, or hungry, remember that it’s Lord Ankan’s fault. You must learn to hate him. One day you will avenge your father by killing Lord Ankan. I will teach you how. Until then, your father’s unquiet spirit will be forced to wander the earth. Only you can bring him rest. You understand?”

Jimmu’s head was whirling. “No,” he said. “I don’t understand.”

Nichiren grunted.

“Your understanding isn’t necessary,” he said. “For the moment, all you have to do is obey.”

Nichiren turned and marched into the night.

Jimmu stumbled after him.

1

OWARI PROVINCE

SUMMER 1572

For the past six weeks, the bandits had done well for themselves. There were ten of them, not much of a gang compared to some, but their leader, Toshiro, was as sly as a monkey. Like most of his men, Toshiro had been a foot soldier, until he fought on the losing side in a battle. The defeat took away his living quarters and his livelihood. Battles still went on, but Toshiro and the others took no part in them. With the Emperor virtually powerless, Japan was in the hands of the great warlords, and they were locked in a deadly struggle for supremacy.

Toshiro had picked the gang’s latest hideout in a forest that lay close to a main road. Kyoto, the city where the Emperor lived, was only two days’ journey to the west, and the road was busy. The forest provided plenty of cover for the bandits. They could charge out from, and melt back into, the trees.

Toshiro had been cautious, not stealing too much, not killing too many, but he knew that the gang would soon have to move on. They had become a nuisance, and their reputation might have spread as far as Kyoto. Though the Emperor was weak, his Imperial Guard remained formidable, and for days Toshiro had been anticipating an unwelcome visit from them. He had held on in the hope of a prize rich enough to see the gang through the winter.

That morning, just before sunrise, the prize turned up in the form of an oxcart loaded with casks of rice wine. The driver was in a hurry, and risked an early start on his own instead of traveling in convoy with other merchants. As his luck ran out, the gang’s luck was in. They ambushed the driver, trussed him up, and drove him and his cart to a clearing a little way into the forest, to wait for nightfall. It would be safer to take the cart to their camp under cover of darkness. They had not yet decided what to do with the driver, whether to hold him for ransom or slit his throat.