by M. H. Bonham
The Tengu laughed, making Akira feel angry. “Silly boy!” The Tengu ruffled his feathers. “Your enemies will not accept your apology so kindly. Never, ever apologize for striking your better.”
“I thought I hurt you.” Akira felt his face flush, and he wondered if this were some elaborate game.
“A mortal cannot harm a wind kami.” The Tengu turned to preen its feathers.
“Why not?”
“Because we are immortal,” the Tengu said.
“I wish I were a Tengu,” Akira said.
The Tengu cocked its head. “Do you, now?”
Akira nodded. “Then I wouldn’t have to worry about dying. Rokuro wouldn’t beat me so hard when I failed in my lessons because I wouldn’t fail.” He paused. “Rokuro doesn’t actually beat me, but I get terrible bruises when he slips inside my guard. He doesn’t lay off either; I have to fight back or get very sore.”
The Tengu was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps he is preparing you for battle. After all, you will receive more than bruises if you allow anyone to slip inside your guard.”
Akira pondered this. He could see the point the Tengu had, but he was not convinced there wasn’t another way, certainly one that didn’t hurt so much. “I don’t see any use in it. I just think Rokuro wishes to make things difficult. If I were Tengu, I would show him how powerful I was and I wouldn’t have to worry about learning such things.”
“What about your family?”
Akira laughed. “They don’t care. My father, the daimyo, is more interested in politics and intrigue. I hardly think he would know I was even gone.”
“What about your mother, Ikumi?” The Tengu’s eyes glowed brightly, but Akira barely noticed.
“I don’t know. She’d probably miss me for a while, but she doesn’t seem to be interested in me and my training.” Akira paused. “I don’t know what she’s interested in, but I don’t think it’s me.”
“So what would you do if you were Tengu?”
“I’d live forever, wouldn’t I? And I could fly and control the winds like you do.” He paused. “What else can you do?”
“We can shapeshift.” The Tengu changed from his normal form into that of a crow and back again. “And we can call storms down on anything.”
Akira grinned. “Yes, I would like that. To be able to fly, change shape at will, and be free—without anyone bothering me about my sword lessons because I would already be good.” He leaned against the bo, his lessons quite forgotten, and looked at the Tengu. “Call the winds.”
“Not now,” the Tengu said. “You must work on your bo if you want to keep Rokuro from bruising you badly.”
“But I want to see you call a storm.”
The Tengu shook its head. “Very well, but only if you beat me three times with your staff.” At that, he leaped at Akira, swinging the bo.
Akira sprang backward and barely blocked the bo as it came swinging toward him. He blocked and countered, smacking the Tengu on the wrist. The Tengu hissed and brought the other end of the staff at Akira. Akira was too close, though, and the Tengu’s bo smacked him hard on the butt. Another strike to the legs, but Akira was quick and jumped up, letting the staff sweep below him with a whoosh. Akira tried an overhead strike, but the Tengu twisted into a lunge and slammed the staff, end first, into Akira’s chest.
Akira fell backward, gasping, and landed in the dirt. His eyes filled with tears, and he found he could not breathe. He looked up at the Tengu, but it suddenly disappeared. Instead, a man was walking toward him, sword drawn.
Chapter Thirteen
Kasumi slept fitfully that afternoon. Normally she would change into her cat form and curl into a ball to sleep, but here on a busy ship, she was more likely to be discovered. The sailors were superstitious enough to do something rash like attack her or even throw her overboard. And while as a tiger she was a powerful swimmer, she doubted that she could swim to an island before she became tired and drowned. While many men on board might be interested in her, her status as a samurai and her twin swords were enough to keep them away and wary. Anyone who dared touch a samurai would be put to instant death. She could kill a man at her whim for a perceived slight, and no one would argue.
Except perhaps her conscience.
She regularly slept in her clothing with her swords nearby just in case. As she stood up from her mat, she lit an oil lamp and unlatched the door. The gentle sway of the ship and creak of the timbers told her that they were on relatively calm seas. As she opened the door, she saw a small tray with rice, pickled fish, and lukewarm tea sitting in front of her door. Her stomach rumbled as she realized she had missed dinner.
She pulled the tray inside and set it on her mat. She ate the rice and fish with her fingers, not bothering to use the chopsticks, and gulped down the cooling cup of tea. The food seemed to make her feel better, even though her thoughts were dark.
The wind kami had told her that a shadow followed her. Normally she would discount the words of the wind as being fickle and unreliable, but something within her stopped her from dismissing it entirely. The wind kami seldom lied about what they sensed. But they were not capable of discerning deceit from truth. Many mages had used the winds to carry messages when they wanted to deceive a foe.
Maybe because it mentioned an oni, she thought. After all, sensing an oni on her after she had seen a summoning was to be expected. Yet she could smell nothing of demon around herself or her clothing. How was it that the wind kami could smell oni on her when she could not? Had it tainted her in some way?
She shivered and pulled the rough woolen blankets of her futon around her. She wanted to believe that there was nothing more than speculation in the wind kami’s words, but she knew that was not the case. Something was wrong; what, she did not know.
The ship’s bell pealed from the deck, interrupting her thoughts. She shrugged off the blankets, tugged on the overcoat, and tied her swords around her thin waist. She opened the door and saw the men climbing the ladders to go on deck. She followed reluctantly.
A sharp wind greeted her as she climbed on deck, but the seas were relatively calm. Still, she smelled fear in the men’s sweat as they fully unfurled the junk’s sails to catch the night breeze. The first of the two moons crested the horizon, shining its silver light down on the junk and the ocean. She snuffed the air and caught the bitter tang of brine. And there was something else she smelled, but what, she couldn’t say.
Looking around, she noted that all the lanterns had been extinguished and many of the men were carrying sharp knives, sticks, cudgels, or other simple weapons. Their dark eyes gleamed with fear in the night.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as she approached the captain.
The captain was an old seafarer with almost entirely gray hair and skin tanned dark and weathered from years of sailing beneath a relentless sun. He turned to her with a frown. “Pirates, Neko-sama.” He pointed to a dark shape, barely visible along the south.
Kasumi frowned as her eyes scanned the waves. Even with her cat vision, she had a hard time making out the junk on the horizon. She wondered how the sailors were able to see it. “Are you certain, Captain?” she asked. “It could be a merchant.”
The captain nodded. “We are not far from Shinobi-jima. The ninja sometimes raid these waters to obtain supplies. Most stay away from here for that reason.”
“Pirates?” Jiro spoke. “You dared to risk our lives by taking the ship in pirate-infested seas?”
Kasumi stared at her half brother. She hadn’t noticed him in all the excitement.
“My lord samurai, we would have to sail weeks out of our way to get around all the dangers.” The captain’s eyes narrowed on Jiro with unspoken contempt.
“Enough, Jiro,” Kasumi said. “There wasn’t any choice.”
Jiro grunted and swaggered away, leaving Kasumi feeling relieved. She cursed her stubborn half brother under her breath and strode to the railing to get a better look at the pirate ship.
“You should
go below decks, Neko-sama,” the captain said as he stood beside her.
“No.” Kasumi stared at the silhouette of the pirate junk in the distance. “I am samurai. I can fight as well as any of your men.”
The captain glanced down at her swords, nodded mutely, and moved on. Kasumi stared at the junk in the distance, knowing there was something else out there. Her eyes followed the ship on the waves and its shadow in the bright moonlight. The shadow danced over the waves beneath the hull, but to her eyes, it seemed separate. The dark shadow moved with the ship yet seemed to tear away and come straight for them. She saw the shape coalesce into something she could not readily name.
The ship drew nearer. Kasumi heard the captain shout to his men to turn the junk away from their pursuer. Kasumi glanced up at the sails and saw that the fickle West Wind had deserted them, leaving the sails and the battens limp.
The men aboard the pirate ship were armed with swords and knives that glinted in the moonlight; she could see it with her cat eyes better than anyone on the junk. They were weapons crudely forged from iron or scraps of metal sharpened to blades, not the elegant weapons of the samurai.
At that moment, Kasumi felt a tug of wind against her face. Hello, Neko, the wind whispered in her ears.
Kasumi let out a sigh of relief. Wind kami! I thought you had left us.
Only for a while. I missed you.
Despite the tension, Kasumi stifled a laugh. You could help me, you know.
What? How shall I help?
We need you to fill the sails and get us away from that other ship.
The wind disappeared for a moment. Kasumi held her breath. She knew the wind kami would do what it wanted to.
That ship is bad, the wind kami replied after several long moments. It has a shadow. With that, the wind filled the sails, and the junk turned from the pirate ship.
Kasumi felt, rather than saw, the shadow. In the near blackness of the open sea, the shadow was darkness upon darkness. She felt the shadow as a cold finger shivering up her spine. It caused her skin to prickle and the guard hairs around her neck to rise. Even though she was in her human form, she felt the wild fear of an animal. She wanted to run from the shadow thing and leap away. She wanted to flee until the thing stopped pursuing her.
But it would not stop in its pursuit, she knew. It would follow her until she was caught or destroyed. That was the nature of the shadow—the demon—a creature that would destroy her and her people if she let it.
She steeled herself and forced herself to stare down at the waterline. The demon lapped at the boat, its dark tendrils caressing the hull much the same way a lover might caress his beloved. Kasumi shivered, unsure what she should do. Demons were her people’s forte, but she was still untried. How could she turn it away?
She drew her katana, certain that her threat would go unheeded, but she didn’t know what else to do. Demon! She used her powers of mindspeak, hoping it would hear her. Begone lest you are ready to meet a powerful Neko in battle. I see you and I am ready to destroy you. Her mindspoken voice sounded far braver than she felt, but her mother had always said demons were cowards. Perhaps she could bluff her way out of this fight.
The black tendrils hesitated. Kasumi forced herself to breathe after realizing that she was holding her breath. The oni moved upward in the water, coalescing as it did so. Kasumi backed up and raised her katana in a defensive position. For a moment the demon’s blue head formed from the waves to look at her. Kasumi held her ground and met its gaze steadily. Then it shuddered and sank back down into the dark water, formless. The dark mass shot away from the ship.
“Kasumi!” Jiro’s voice came to her ears.
Kasumi lowered her weapon and turned to see her half brother coming up to her.
“Where were you? You missed the pirate ship.”
“Really?” she said, trying to steady her voice. She smiled weakly. “What happened?”
“The ship turned away from us at the last minute.” He paused and eyed her. “You all right? You look sick.”
Kasumi’s legs began to shake, and sweat broke out along her brow. She sheathed her katana and shook her head. “I need to rest.” She took two steps before collapsing.
Chapter Fourteen
Akira stared at the man as he approached. The man’s hair hung loose in a wild mess, with pine needles and leaves clinging to it. He wore a mismatched assortment of armor as though scavenged from the battlefield, and he carried the katana and wakizashi—the swords that denoted the samurai’s station. But his face and eyes held Akira’s attention. His dirty face was scarred deeply from left eyebrow to right cheekbone across the bridge of the nose as though he had barely escaped a katana swipe. His dark and menacing eyes gazed at Akira with a feral hunger.
This was a ronin, a lordless samurai who chose dishonor before death. Akira had heard stories about ronin, how mercilessly they treated those they came upon. It was difficult for Akira to believe that such murderers and thieves could’ve been noble samurai like himself or his father.
“You have money?” The ronin drew his katana and pointed it at Akira’s throat. Akira gulped. He had not thought to bring his own samurai swords with him, even though it was his right to wear them. He had always felt safe in his father’s land…. until now.
All he had was the bo in his hands. Against a well-made katana, it might be little use, but glancing at the sword, he could tell it was of lesser quality. The blade had nicks in the edge, and he could see no pattern of proper fold marks. He bit his lip and held the staff between him and the ronin.
“No, great samurai,” Akira said. He scrambled for any lie that seemed plausible. “I—I am but a poor peasant…”
“Liar!” the ronin spat. “Your clothes give you away, merchant. Where is your purse?”
Merchant? Akira frowned. He hadn’t thought about his clothing, but they would certainly be better than most farmers’. Yet there were a few farmers in Tsuitori that did make a fair amount of money on their crops. Akira didn’t want to argue the finer points of economics with a katana in his face, though. Instead, it would be better that the ronin think he was a merchant and not learn he was the daimyo’s son. That would get him ransomed.
“I don’t ha—have any,” Akira said. “I went for a walk. I didn’t bring money.”
“Bah!” the ronin shouted and raised the blade for an overhead strike. Akira lunged with the bo. The bo hit the renegade samurai in the chest, and as the ronin brought the blade down, Akira was moving to his right and smacking him in the back with the bo’s other end. The man screamed and dropped his sword. Akira smacked the bo against the man’s knees, causing them to buckle. The ronin fell but picked up his sword as he fell, and Akira found himself face-to-face with an angry warrior.
He could hear Rokuro’s admonitions in his head: This isn’t a game, Akira. Someone is going to die once the sword is drawn. Akira didn’t even have a sword, which made the ronin that much more dangerous.
You could run, the Tengu whispered in his ear.
Akira started but didn’t look. The Tengu had abandoned him to his fate.
Not true, the Tengu replied, obviously affronted. I need to see what you’ve learned.
Akira didn’t bother with a response. The ronin eyed him warily, trying to judge Akira’s prowess with the bo. Akira matched him move for move, knowing full well that if he didn’t concentrate, he’d likely be spitted on the ronin’s katana.
“Boy, put down the stick, and give me your money. I won’t hurt you,” the ronin said. His eyes shifted warily from Akira’s bo to his face.
Keep your face guarded, Rokuro’s voice echoed in his mind. The warrior who does not broadcast what he is feeling and what he is about to do will be the winner.
The ronin stepped forward, and Akira took a quick swipe with the bo before coming back to his guard position. Again the ronin feinted. This time Akira waited and watched as he withdrew. He nodded inwardly. The ronin would try for an opening created by the feint. If Akira didn�
��t react, he might simply attack. But where was the point of commitment?
The ronin stepped within Akira’s striking distance. Akira ignored the feint. While the sword was sharp, Akira had distance with the six-foot staff if he chose to use it. The ronin pressed forward; Akira judged him to be within his own strike zone and brought the bo crashing down on the man’s wrist. Again, the ronin dropped the sword.
This time Akira attacked. The man could be deadly with the wakizashi, but Akira couldn’t allow him to pick up the katana. The ronin drew the short sword, but Akira pressed him backward with a flurry of strikes. The ronin tried to circle back to grab the katana, but Akira was fast and whirled the staff with such ferocity that he smacked the man sideways with a blow to the side of the head. The ronin tottered for a moment before collapsing.
Akira waited a few seconds before walking over and prodding the man, finding him unconscious. Akira frowned. He could leave the man there, but once he was conscious, the man might attack someone else. But if he brought anyone here, Rokuro would know of his hiding place, and he might not learn anything from the Tengu after that.
Akira looked at the unconscious ronin. He could kill the man—his right as a samurai—but somehow it didn’t seem right. This man was desperate; by his looks, he probably had been without a lord for some time. It didn’t seem right that a man should die for being lordless. He looked around for the Tengu but saw no sign of the crow.
He could tie the man up if he could find something to tie him up with. Akira didn’t have any rope, and the only thing the ronin had was his obi. Akira stepped forward and loosened the man’s belt. He was a heavy man, and Akira struggled to pull the belt off. He stared at the swords. They weren’t good quality but could kill nonetheless. He tied the man’s hands behind his back and tried to drag the man to a tree. That proved unsuccessful, so he let it be and took the man’s swords.
He started down the mountain, and the crow appeared at his side.
You should’ve killed him, the crow told him.