A Sword's Poem

by Leah Cutter

  I shrugged. “It’s your clothes,” I told him.

  I honestly didn’t know what would happen. I suspected the worst, though. That instead of a warm soft spot in the center of the field, with the grass beaten down in a perfect oval, exactly the right size for a fox to curl up in, I would end up with a burned, scorched patch of earth.

  I reached out my hand and waved my palm over the grass. I spoke the words of the making. It didn’t take much, just an easy push of power.

  The earth under my hand erupted, spewing dirt over both of us. We both fell back as bones asserted themselves, gathering above the earth where they’d been buried. Not just human bones, but rat bones, rabbit bones, cat and dog bones, bones of horses and mules and everything that had ever been buried around us probably for li.

  I pushed Norihiko behind me, in case a chaotic skeleton of all the various bones came alive and attacked us.

  But the bones settled onto the ground, lining the oval I’d created.

  When they finished stirring, I had to give a bitter laugh. Instead of a nice, comfortable bed of grass, there was a perfectly formed bed of bones for me to lie in.

  “Do you see now?” I asked Norihiko when I’d finished laughing. “Everything I touch turns to death. Even you.”

  “What do you mean?” Norihiko asked, taken aback.

  “If you’d changed into a kitsune as you were supposed to,” I explained, “you would have had an immortal’s life. There’s very little that can kill our—my—kind.”

  “You are more vulnerable than you think,” Norihiko warned.

  “The parts of me that are vulnerable are the parts you can no longer touch,” I promised him. Though I would always love him, I was no longer willing to admit it. To allow any man to touch me.

  “I could reach them,” Norihiko boasted. He drew his sword.

  I gasped. Maybe I had been living among the humans for too long, but his action seemed incredibly rude. A man did not just draw his sword in the presence of a lady. There were too many associations with that other part of a man’s body that sometimes resembled a tiny sword.

  “You still can’t reach me,” I told him.

  Without warning, Norihiko attacked.

  He was good. Better than any I’d ever seen, though I’d really only witnessed the one battle. Had it been only a week before?

  But he was only human. His sword had no magic either. I danced away, moving quicker than a thought.

  Norihiko pulled up, his face a curious mixture of astonishment and grudging admiration.

  He’d honestly believed that I wouldn’t be able to evade him.

  Again, Norihiko leaped forward. Again, I avoided his blade.

  At first, it was a close thing. But his patterns were easy to read. He no longer had the wildness of our kind. He was predictable, as only a human truly can be.

  After a quarter of an hour, I tired of our dance and advanced on him without warning. I scratched his fine jacket, tearing at the threads, first across his bicep, then along his belly.

  “You wouldn’t last long if I used a real sword,” I taunted Norihiko.

  Instead of diving for me again, Norihiko pulled himself up straight. “I am one of the best swordsmen in Nifon,” he said bluntly. “As Seiji, I learned everything there was about sword fighting.”

  I nodded, not surprised. What an advantage he’d have over anyone he fought!

  Anyone who wasn’t magical, that was.

  “But I cannot fight you,” he said softly.

  My heart leaped in my chest. For the first time, Norihiko looked at me with something akin to kindness in his eyes.

  “You’re too wild,” he said.

  His disgust and hatred for me came flooding back.

  “It isn’t that I’m too wild,” I told him. “It’s that you’re too straightforward. Being a sword changed you.”

  “Really?” Norihiko asked, his tone laced with amusement.

  Pain stabbed my heart to hear that. If only he were my Norihiko! That teasing tone was far too familiar to me.

  Maybe it was better that most of the time he talked with me, his voice was filled with disgust and rage.

  “Sometimes guile, going around your target, not straight toward it, will win the day,” I told him.

  Norihiko snorted in disbelief.

  I glided forward, dipping around him before appearing in front of him again, then lightly touched his chest.

  Norihiko started and stepped back. “You are wrong,” Norihiko said. “And if you were human you’d understand.”

  I stepped back, stung. “You assume I don’t know what you’re going through, or what you are.” I nearly spat in disgust. “You know nothing about me. What I’ve gone through to get you back. The sacrifices I’ve made.”

  “You?” Norihiko asked, the derision in his voice clear.

  “How do you think my powers got corrupted in the first place? I gave them to Masato so that I could take Seiji from him.” I pressed forward. “I was human for a miserably long time. Then I let Masato touch me, have me, so that I could steal them back.” I shook my head and pulled myself straight. “I’ve sacrificed everything for you. There is nothing more for me to give.”

  Norihiko nodded, thoughtful. “If what you say is true, then you have done many things to free me from the steel of my sword form. And I do thank you for that.”

  We both were quiet for a moment in the still of the afternoon, the sun beating down upon us.

  If there was any justice in the world, at that moment, he would have remembered who I was. Would have taken me into his arms. I would have taken him as a human, accepted him, lived with him through his short human days.

  Died a little with him each day as well.

  But though he wasn’t my Norihiko, he was still the stubborn Norihiko I’d always known. “I will still ask one more thing of you,” he said quietly. “To purify your powers and come back to heal Kayoku. She doesn’t have long.”

  Though I had bragged that he could no longer touch my heart, I had been lying to myself.

  His request pierced me, through and through.

  Iwao had loved Kayoku. It seemed that Norihiko did as well.

  “I will try,” I told him. “I owe Kayoku more than I can possibly say. But I can’t guarantee that I’ll return in time. My powers…”

  “I know,” Norihiko said. “Try.”

  He strode away, mounted his horse, then rode back to the estate.

  If I could have, I would have created a nest, a safe place to stay, and curled up there to weep yet another river of tears.

  But I couldn’t. I would get my powers cleaned up. I would heal Kayoku if I could.

  Then I would leave and never return.

  The quiet clomping of hooves brought me out of myself. “Mistress?” Yukiko asked.

  I shook my head at her. “Go to the inn. Spend the night there. I will come to you in the morning,” I promised her.

  Then I changed into fox form, something I hadn’t done for what felt like years. It was an easy shape to fall into.

  Too easy.

  Yukiko gasped.

  I wondered what my fox form now looked like. I still had merely four paws, a red coat, and a tail.

  But claws stuck out of each foot. My fur was the color of newly born flame.

  And when I licked my tongue over my teeth, I discovered fangs I’d never had before.

  I wasn’t merely a fox. No, I more closely resembled a true beast, something from nightmares.

  It didn’t matter, though. This was now my true form. And I had hunting to do.

  Time to find my sisters.

  Four

  The Forest At Night

  Masato

  The forest at night was loud around Masato and Junichi, crouched behind a sanzashi thorn bush. Crickets called shrilly, frogs boasted in deep tones, and a constant wind clanked bamboo together in the grove to their right. A small clearing opened in front of them, covered in thick grass. Moonlight faltered, then failed,
as clouds gathered across the sky. The rich smell of damp earth rose to greet them, full of promise.

  Masato practiced his breathing, letting his senses expand to take in all of the night. He ignored how his knees cried out from being bent for so long, how his back hurt from sitting so still, how the echo of pain still laced his arms, despite how the skin had healed.

  He would prove to Junichi that he was worthy. While at the same time, Junichi would prove his skill as a swordsmith.

  The sword in Masato’s hand—Fuko—hummed to itself, content. When Masato had bound himself to this length of steel, it had bound itself to him as well. No one else could wield the sword—it wouldn’t allow it. It would work for one master alone.

  Junichi had warned Masato that might be dangerous, that someone could take the sword away from him and use it against him.

  Masato was willing to take the risk. The only one he knew with such power was Junichi himself. And while they might not always see eye–to–eye, Masato didn’t think his old master would betray his former apprentice that way.

  At least not yet.

  Fuko vibrated in Masato’s hand, the trembling moving up his arm.

  His prey was near.

  The creature that entered the clearing looked like a regular fox. The night darkened her coat, making it easier for her to slip in and out of shadows. She stepped cautiously, nosing in the dirt, looking for her own easy prey of field mice or rats. Her ears twitched and she stopped, looking up for a moment.

  Masato held his breath, but the moment passed, and the kitsune continued her aimless search.

  Stupid creature.

  Soundlessly, Masato rose from where he’d been kneeling. Adrenaline coursed through his body, distancing all the minor aches that had been so distracting earlier.

  Masato broke through the bush, charging into the clearing. The fox darted away but didn’t leave the clearing, perhaps confused by the thorns that sprang up on the far side. It hissed like a goose at Masato, its hackles raised. It stayed low to the ground as it circled the clearing.

  Fuko trembled in Masato’s hand. Here was his prey. Masato matched the fox, circling the clearing, his sword raised high.

  He’d asked Junichi for the ability to force a kitsune out of its fox form and into its human shape. However, Junichi had assured him he wouldn’t need such an ability. The kitsune loved the sound of their own voices too much to stay in their animal form.

  A young woman blossomed before Masato, tall and thin as spring bamboo. She wore a simple robe, off–white with no decoration. “What do you carry?” she asked warily as they kept circling.

  She was beautiful, Masato decided, in that way that only her kind were.

  A beauty that was a distraction. False. Keeping a man in the world, instead of reaching for the highest spiritual heights.

  “Fuko,” Masato said, introducing the blade. “He longs for the blood of your kind.”

  “It is evil,” the woman insisted. She stopped. “You’re evil.”

  The wave of magic that flowed across the clearing impressed Masato with its strength. The young woman was much older than she looked, and much stronger.

  Fortunately, Fuko cut through her illusions. Masato felt them blow past him, like thick wads of cotton dissolving in a storm.

  Masato laughed at her confusion, then neatly stepped in to attack. At first, the woman merely avoided his swings while scratching at him, throwing more ineffectual magic at him.

  Of course, she didn’t run. She had the arrogance of all her kind, thinking herself invincible.

  And she did scratch Masato once, long claws down the length of his arm as she whirled away.

  But he caught her soon after that, one hard stroke into her side, then a second, plunging the sword deep into her belly. The blood spurted like water from a fountain, merrily coating Masato’s hands and face.

  Smoke rose from Fuko as it burned the blood away, sucking the power into itself, then funneling that into Masato.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked as she swayed, then fell onto her knees, her hands over her belly as if she could stop the flow of blood.

  “The death of all your kind,” Masato promised.

  Ξ

  Masato rode into his camp the next morning, feeling victorious despite his exhaustion. He didn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night, his body still felt drained from the blood he’d “donated” to Junichi, and despite his best efforts, the stupid fox fairy from the night before had still managed to scratch him, giving him a nasty infected wound down his sword arm.

  But he’d still beaten her, killed one of those who always boasted of being so hard to kill. Junichi had taken the bones to use for some spell that he’d tried explaining to Masato, but Masato had been too tired to listen to.

  Fuko was his, and had worked wonderfully, both in the hunt as well as the kill. With this sword, Masato would surely win over the island of Nifon, and bring the Buddha here, get rid of the kami and kitsune. His vision of the Buddha stepping on this mountain was still clear.

  The guards standing at the entrance to the camp barely glanced at Masato. He could have been anyone. And no one stopped him from riding his horse directly into the center of the group of tents.

  Discipline had gotten far too lax. Did they think he’d never return? Or was it because his men had decided they’d won, and there was no reason to be on the lookout for spies?

  What were they thinking?

  The tents were in good repair, though. There wasn’t a stench of sewage, at least not close by. But no one was drilling, sharpening their weapons, or repairing their armor. Instead, the faint smell of wine still lingered, and the camp had the air of being hung over.

  Had he been gone that long? Of course, Masato hadn’t announced that he was returning, so no one had prepared for his return, either.

  A servant came scurrying up, ready to take his reins. Masato threw them at the boy, then slid from the horse with a sigh.

  It seemed that no matter how much he paid his men, no matter what promises of reward or retribution, they required constant supervision.

  Just beyond the ring of tents belonging to his generals stood Masato’s own tent. It, at least, still had guards standing outside who looked sober and well rested. The tent itself—easily twice the size of any of the others—still appeared to be in good shape.

  Then Masato’s lead general stumbled out of Masato’s tent, hastily tying his robes. From the disarray of his hair, Masato didn’t have to come any closer to know the man reeked of alcohol and sex.

  Masato shook his head as he walked forward. On the one hand, it was his fault. He’d been gone for far too long. His generals had forgotten everything. All that Masato was capable of.

  On the other hand, really. The general should have known better.

  If Junichi were there, he would be chortling, excited about the lives Masato was about take. Masato couldn’t help but still feel tired. And curse the delay. It would be a few more days while he set order to his camp before he’d get back to Iwao’s estate.

  Ξ

  Masato rode angrily to the front of the line.

  The scouts had been telling the truth. The long gate to the estate was closed to them. Trees had been cut down near the fence, making the estate more defendable. Well–armed guards stood in front of the iron and wood structure.

  Iwao’s generals had been busy.

  A man Masato didn’t know stood in front of the gate. He had an arrogant chin. His eyes bored into Masato. He stood without moving, as if he were a statue.

  Fuko quivered once at Masato’s side, then lay still.

  This man wasn’t a fox fairy. But his enemy was near.

  The general who had already tried to remove the man from in front of the gate still lay to the side, bleeding. Along with the three other men. All of them would die soon, either from their wounds or Masato’s hand.

  He could, of course, just send archers to deal with the arrogant fool. But Masato had to show
strength right now, show his men that he was still worthy.

  “How dare you lock the gate to your rightful lord and master!” Masato thundered at the man.

  “We do not recognize your claim,” the man said, his voice echoing strangely, as if there were more than one of him speaking. “You are not the lord here. You have forfeited the estate through your inattention. It is mine, now.”

  Masato sat back on his horse, affronted. How dare this cur claim ownership of the estate?

  “I am the rightful heir to Iwao,” the man claimed. “You shall retreat.”

  How was that possible? Iwao didn’t have an heir, had died childless.

  Maybe he’d sired this cur in some dalliance. Masato sighed and shook his head, sliding down from his horse, taking Fuko out.

  Again, the blade trembled in his hand. Where were the accursed fox fairies? It didn’t matter. He’d come for them soon enough.

  For the first time, the man smiled. “You, I won’t kill. Not yet.”

  But the man didn’t bother drawing his sword as Masato drew closer. “I won’t make any such promises,” Masato told him.

  Only when Masato attacked did the man move. He drew his sword in one swift movement, so fast Masato couldn’t tell he’d moved, just that one moment, Masato’s blade was raised, and the next, it had been forced to the ground.

  Fuko leaped up, drawing Masato forward, as if this man were a kitsune.

  Masato held back, not giving the sword its head. He was the one in charge here.

  The man didn’t seem to notice as he pushed Masato back, step by step, away from the gate. Masato couldn’t attack again. He was forced to defend himself.

  “Is that the best you can do?” Masato taunted. He had to find some sort of advantage here. Perhaps he could make the man angry.

  Instead, though, the man laughed. “You are no more important than a buzzing insect. And just as annoying.” He pressed his advantage, making Masato back up another three steps.

  Masato risked a glance behind him. In just a few more steps, he’d be backed up to the edge of the woods.

  Fuko quivered again in his hands. Masato didn’t want to give the sword its head, but he needed to do something.

  He released his strict will and let the sword lead the dance.