Storming The Castle

My partner Chris and I stood at the edge of the moonlight, looking out at Osaka Castle from the dense bamboo brush. Once a former tourist trap, the reconstructed fortress was recently bought by one Takeda Hideyoshi, some eccentric tech mogul who thought it would be neat to live in a landmark. The would-be shogun lusted after Japanese history—apparently, he had halls upon halls filled to the brim with armor pieces, paintings, perhaps even a sacred treasure. Necklaces are nifty, but Chris and I had our eyes set on something with a little more kick—the weapons.

Nothing modern, I assure you. We’re archaeologists—er—former archaeologists. Drs. Chris Carter and Josh Leakey would never be interested in something so… pedestrian. Start a war? Don’t make me laugh! We just wanted to steal a sword.

Chris lowered the binoculars. “The mote’s about twenty feet wide, and the four bridges are all covered.”

I groaned. “Shit… by how many?”

“Four at least—maybe more. I think they’re packing.”

“In Japan?”

Chris shrugged. “We have ours.”

“We bought ours! From Yakuza!”

“I think they are Yakuza…”

I laughed. “Shit… Of course. So four on each bridge?”

“And six at each gate.”

“Yeesh… that leaves how many inside?”

“About forty-three.”

“Specific.”

“Yeah, well…”

I looked out down the hill at the road crossing our way, then at the mote, and then at the bridge right in front of us. At the sides, a ledge extended from the guard rails. I smiled.

“Hey Chris,”

“Yeah?”

“You ever do monkey bars?”

He blinked and glared at me. “No.”

I nodded. “Oh yeah.”

“They’ll see that!”

“So distract ‘em while I hook it!”

He scowled at me, then took his backpack off and unzipped it. “I oughta shoot you.”

“You can’t; I’m your meal ticket.”

Chris removed a long string of stagger-spaced firecrackers and set them against a bamboo stalk. “Someday that’ll have to change.” He took a zippo from his pocket and flicked it open. “Ten seconds to get in position, thirty to get across.”

I nodded. “You ready?”

He shook his head. “We can still back out you know…”

“And where’s the fun in that?”

“None, but there’s safety.”

“Nonsense! Now or never! Once more into the breach!”

Chris sighed and struck the lighter. “I want separate funerals.”

Flame kissed wick, and sparks showered the brush. Chris and I picked up and charged downhill, diving into cover behind bushes at the edge of the mote. Five seconds left. Four… three… two… one…

Serveral concussive cracks rang out in the silent din of the breathing city. The guards all shot to attention, looked around for the noise, and then drew pistols and ran toward the hill.

“Good thing they scare easy.” I said.

“If they didn’t, what then?” Chris asked.

“Gunfight.”

“Seriously!?!”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. C’mon—twenty five.”

I pulled two MacGyvered grappling hooks from my bag and gave one to Chris. We whirled them around for one, two, three seconds, and then tossed them, luckily hitting our mark on the guardrail. We then jumped, swung under the bridge—just barely brushing the edge of the water with our rears—and when our momentum stopped, we climbed up. Ten seconds.

The yelling from the guards stopped in what could only be called a disappointed moan. A little disturbing that they wanted the action. Not much time left. At the top, we switched from rope to bridge, and then reached up to disengage our hooks and toss them in the drink. I got mine, but Chris got himself tangled and he was making it worse—thrashing around like a trapped chicken. The sound of guard chatter grew closer…

I reached over and settled Chris down, then undid his hook from the bridge. He then hung off the side right as the guards returned to their posts. They hardly noticed a thing. Close… too close…

Chris and I shimmied across the mote under the shadow of the bridge, careful not to make a sound. Wasn’t too hard—about thirty seconds in all to get across. The guards above continued blabbing on and on—something about eating a frog? Who knows—my Japanese was always terrible. We made it to the castle’s cobblestone foundation and dropped onto the slanted wall. The guards were completely clueless as we scaled past their defenses.

The top of the wall afforded us a view of the rest of the castle--mostly gardens surrounding a second mote—this one dry—and another wall around the main keep—a vast and beautiful tower some six stories tall connected to several other buildings in the center ring by long taut strings of paper lamps. That was our goal—the sword had to be in there.

Chris shook his head. “Another mote…”

I shrugged. “We knew that from maps.”

“Don’t think we’ll be able to use the same trick this time.”

“So? What’s your point?”

“Lotta effort for just a sword.”

“Just a sword? Dude, it’s a Masamune! THE Masamune! Blade of the Shoguns, and all that!”

“And we don’t even know it’s in there.”

“Yes we do! See--” I reached for my rear pocket.

Chris rolled his eyes. “Not the book…”

I pulled out a little black leather bound book, worn with age and stained with ink and water. “The tip says ‘Osaka’ pretty clearly.”

“And this is why we couldn’t get backup…”

“Come on, even you have to admit the other stuff in here is pretty incredible. Maps to the Ark of the Covenant, the location of the Florentine Diamond, clues to the First Emperor’s TOMB!”

“Sure—pretty incredible—IF it’s real.”

I slipped the book back in my pocket. “So let’s go prove it.”

He sighed. “If you ask me, you should’ve just pocketed the 20-grande.”

I shook my head. “Too late. Bought an adventure. Now how do we get over there?”

Chris squinted. “I’m still working on--” He stopped, blinked, then groaned. “Dammit.”

“What?”

“I think I’ve got an idea,” he pointed at a string of lights. “You ever been to a circus?”

I followed his finger. Going across the mote, following the outline of a bridge, was a string of lanterns. I grinned. “Oh NOW we’re talking!”

We ran along the wall for as long as we could, and then we jumped down and stuck to shadows and the cover of plants. Hardly a single guard patrolled the outer ring. This was good—they were too confident. That would be their weakness.

We scaled the building strung to the inner wall and clung to the shingled roof. Another set of eight guards stood along the bridge. Each of them brandished large unfriendly rifles and remained fixed in position. Perhaps I was wrong about their weakness…

Chris and I scooted to the lantern-string and tested it. Sure enough, it was tight enough we could maybe walk on it—maybe. I stood up and stepped on the makeshift tightrope. Nothing snapped, nothing gave. I released a quiet sigh and went to put my other foot on the rope. Before I could, Chris grabbed me, looked at me, and shook his head. I smiled, shrugged, and stepped further onto the rope.

It was lucky I had good balance. A thirty foot drop into a dry mote—I’d be paste. But inch by inch, step by step, I made it across, swaying ever so uncomfortably in the middle. The best part about guards; they never look up. Just feet away from the other side, I jumped over. I released a tense breath, then turned and waved at Chris.

He shook his head. I groaned and waved him over even more fervently. Chris finally gave up and crawled out onto the rope on his hands and knees. It didn’t work nearly as well. Every little shake scared him and slowed him down, to the point where he had to inch to the finish line, but right before he could find solid ground, a strong gust blew across the bridge. Chris teetered, caught himself for a moment, then fell onto the bridge with a loud CLUNK. The guards turned, their eyes widened, and they charged at Chris.

Thinking fast, I drew my 9mm and fired at their feet, splintering the board. They stopped dead, trying to find the source. I fired another into the guardrail. That tipped them off. All of them unloaded into the wall, never realizing I’d jumped off until I came around and tore Chris off the ground so we could run. They ran after us, spraying everything they could see in lead. Bullets whizzed past as we zigzagged between buildings until we found the keep’s main gate—thankfully vacant. We dashed inside, shut the door, and then jumped into a cloak room and hid.

Minutes passed. The guards’ shouting grew louder. And then, all of a sudden, it stopped. We waited, unconvinced we were out of the woods that easy. A minute passed, then two, three, ten. Nothing.

Chris looked over. “Are we good?”

I nodded. “I hope so.”

We stepped out, and just like it seemed: nothing. The keep was empty. No guards, no security system, not even cameras. Only Edo period décor and a large set of steps that went up. Chris and I shrugged, and then went up.

Room by room we searched, finding little more than spare bedrooms, offices and closets. It started to seem like Chris was right—until we got to the sixth floor. At the top of the stairs, we found a treasure trove of samurai armor, taxidermy trophies, historical weapons galore, paintings—you name it—though the crown jewel was way in the back: a large stand meant for a very large sword—but it was empty.

I clenched a fist. “Shit…”

Chris tensed. “It was here…”

“Yeah—was.” I raised my 9mm. “Where is it now?”

“Right behind you, Mr. Leaky.”

Chris and I turned around. Right in the treasure room’s doorway stood a gangly, elderly man, holding a massive curved sword in its scabbard—the Masamune.

I raised my pistol. “Hideyoshi…”

“Mr. Takeda to you, Mr. Leaky.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever gramps. Just hand over the sword, and we all go home.”

Takeda smiled. “And why would I do that?”

Chris cocked his head. “I’m sorry, is there something confusing about a Glock?” he drew his own pistol. “The sword! Now!”

Takeda sighed, and pulled the blade from its scabbard, flooding the room with a flash of dark red light and blasting us back with a mighty gust of wind. Chris and I looked up and saw the six foot long sword glowed—GLOWED—like neon drenched in blood. The shadows seemed to dance around both the blade and Takeda himself. Every fiber of my being told me to run, but my body stayed frozen. I couldn’t believe…something like that…

My 9mm was only an inch away from my fingers, but I couldn’t bring myself to reach.

The old man stepped toward us, brandishing that wicked grin of a sword, his own eyes reflecting its sanguine light. “You want this blade? Very well; TAKE IT!”

He raised the blade and brought it down, the shadows themselves speeding its path. My arm unfroze. I grabbed my pistol and fired. A sharp CLANG rang out as my bullet split the sword in two. The old man screamed, and he and the sword clattered to the ground, and the red glow vanished.

Chris and I stood up. He looked at the shattered metal. “You ruined our payday.”

I shivered. “Who cares? I’m over it.”

He nodded. “Yeah… me too.”

We sat back and watched the chaos as soon as we were out of the castle. Police, an ambulance, feds—a real mess. They’ll never know exactly what happened—what we saw. I couldn’t help but think of the black book, and the artifacts it showed. Were they all like that? Were they all…

God… what did we get ourselves into?