by Jay Kristoff
Katya caught her breath, mismatched eyes turning deathly cold as she stared at Yukiko’s tattoo. Without a sound, she turned and stalked from the room. The boy, Ilyitch, lowered his gaze to the floor, cheeks flushing at her nakedness. Piotr looked to his leader, but his eyes kept drifting back to Yukiko’s body.
Danyk lowered the katana until it touched Yukiko’s skin. She ceased her struggles, breath hissing through spit-slick teeth, eyes narrowed in defiance. Bringing the razored edge to rest against her throat, he ran it down her naked shoulder, over the beautiful clan tattoo curling around her right arm. The Nine-Tailed Fox she’d not had the heart to ask Daichi to burn away. All she had left of the family she’d lost. The person she’d been. Danyk spoke to Piotr and the man stood, limped from the room. With an apologetic glance, the blond boy followed.
The big gaijin spoke then, ice-blue glare fixed on her ink. Words mangled by his thick accent, cold and hard; an accusation so full of hatred that it fairly dripped upon the floor.
“Keetsoonay,” he growled. “Sahmoorayee.”
Yukiko found herself terrified, acutely aware of her naked skin, burning under the gaijin’s stare. They were the only two in the room now, her wrists and feet still bound, a thousand miles from home, no Buruu, no Kin, no one to help her at all …
She narrowed her stare, feeling the Kenning build up inside her, pain crackling across her skull. Remembering Yoritomo collapsing in the Market Square, blood spilling from his eyes. But would she be strong enough without her father helping her? Could she hurt this man before he—
Danyk scowled, muttered something indecipherable, sheathed her katana at his waist. And stalking to the door, he slammed it shut behind him, leaving her utterly alone.
Breathing deep, heart pounding, mouth dry as dust.
Alone …
Yukiko closed her eyes, face upturned to the ceiling.
Thank the gods …
23
DELUGE
The forest-sweet scent of peppermint and cedar, warmth filling him, skin tingling. A wisp-faint breeze slipping through the hole in the floorboards, the cedar bough twisting through the ceiling, as much a part of the furniture as the fire pit. The low rumble of autumn storms outside wooden shutters, fire curling over blackened logs, smoke upon tongue’s tip. Kin breathed deep, savored the taste, understanding why Daichi was spending so much time indoors lately.
It is quiet here. Inside and out.
He pressed his forehead to the matting, waited for the old man to speak.
“Kin-san.” Daichi’s voice was dry as the bottom of an alcoholic’s bottle. “Welcome.”
Kin lifted his head, sat on his heels. “Do you know you’re one of the only people in this village who calls me that?”
“Surely no surprise dwells in that house for either of us.”
“No surprise. Disappointment perhaps.”
A sip of tea.
“Kin-san, you do not honestly believe children’s toys and a few semi-functional shuriken-throwers will win their favor?”
“Semi-functional?” Kin tried to keep the hurt feelings from his voice. “The line is fully operational, Daichi-sama. Pressure issues are all resolved, stress testing is complete. I’ve arranged for a demonstration tomorrow. In front of the entire village.”
“Even if these trinkets work, will it make people forget who you were? What you were?”
“Everyone here was someone else once. Why not me?”
“Why not indeed.”
Kin sighed, chewed his lip. The old man took another slow sip of tea, eyes never leaving the boy’s.
“Do you play?” Daichi asked.
“Play?”
Daichi nodded to the chessboard on the table. It was a marvelous set, obsidian and jade, each figure carved in intricate detail. The dark pieces were Yomi horrors; hungry dead and bone dragons and oni, led by Enma-ō and Lady Izanami upon thrones of skulls. The light pieces were the likenesses of heavenly celestials; Raijin and his drums, Susano-ō and his Grasscutter Sword, Amaterasu the Sun Goddess and Tsukiyomi the Moon Father. The Emperor, of course, was Lord Izanagi, the Maker God. The board was stained oak and pine, tiles inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The seal of a Phoenix artisan was embossed in one corner.
“It’s beautiful,” Kin said.
“One of the few pieces of my old life I carried with me.” Daichi’s voice was somber. “That, my swords, my daughter, and my regrets.”
“You were Iron Samurai once.”
“To my everlasting shame,” Daichi sighed. “Though we may shed our skins, the stains of our pasts dwell as deep as our bones.”
Kin stared at the board, saying nothing.
“So,” Daichi said. “Do you play?”
“I play. Although I’m not very good.”
“Much can be learned by defeat.” Daichi knelt by the board, tea in hand, gestured to the other side. “Sometimes there is no finer sensei under heaven than a boot to the throat.”
Kin stood and took his place opposite the old man. He noticed Daichi had opted to play the dark side, which surprised him more than a little. Jade moved first, and Kin made a standard foray with his pawn. Daichi followed immediately, calloused fingers on black glass. He moved without hesitation or flourish, stone-steady; the hand of a sword-saint. No trace of age or frailty in his motion, even if the same could not be said of his flesh.
They played without speaking, soundless save for the crackling spit of cedar logs, the hymn of fading autumn. Whenever Kin glanced up, Daichi was watching the board, intent solely on the game. Kin considered each step, shifting into gradual attack. Daichi would clear his throat and sip his tea, then move with seemingly little thought, but Kin soon realized the old man was a masterful player. His first attack was repelled, the second ended with a crushing loss, and Daichi’s riposte finished with Lord Izanagi threatened on three facings.
Kin laid the Maker God on his side.
“You do not commit.” Daichi poured himself more tea from a charred pot by the fire. “You defend and attack, at odds even with yourself.”
Kin shrugged. “My style, I suppose.”
The old man picked up Kin’s empress, sitting untouched on the rear line. “You hold on to her like she will save you.”
“She’s the strongest piece on the board.”
“She is worthless unless you use her, Kin-san.”
“Losing her means losing the game.”
“Folly. One piece matters, and one only.” He tapped his Emperor upon the head. “All else is fodder.”
“You can’t win the game with only an Emperor.”
“He and a single pawn are enough, if you strip your opponent of all he possesses. It is worth losing almost everything if you leave the enemy with nothing at all.”
“Victory at any cost?”
“The stakes demand conviction. There is no prize for second in this game.”
“You just said defeat could be a great teacher.”
“I did.” Daichi winced as he cleared his throat. “But there comes a time when the cost of losing is too high. When all must be risked for victory.”
The old man was seized by a coughing fit, a long wracking spasm, stifled with another mouthful of tea. He regained his breath, hawked a mouthful of spit to sizzle in the fire. When he wiped his hand across his lips, Kin’s heart lurched about his insides, cold dread stilling his belly.
A black stain glistened on Daichi’s knuckles.
“Oh, no…” Kin said.
Daichi stared at the smear for a long moment, steady hands, measured breath.
“And there comes a time when there is no time left at all,” he murmured.
“… You have blacklung.”
“A fitting end,” Daichi shrugged. “There are few more deserving.”
“How long have you known?”
“Not long.” The old man sniffed. “Long enough.”
“I’m so sorry, Daichi…”
“Do not be.” He rubbed the burn scars on his arms. �
�It is a fate well earned.”
“Does Kaori know?”
“She does not.” The old man glared. “And she will not learn it from you either.”
“You don’t think she’s going to find out eventually?”
“In time.” A shrug. “All things become clear as Iishi rain in time.”
Kin ran his palm through the short hair on his scalp, across the back of his neck. He felt sick, stomach in oily knots, thinking about the fate awaiting Daichi down the road. Not a warrior’s end. Not a hero’s. He pictured the blacklung beggars in Kigen’s gutters; wretches coughing their insides out, trembling hands filled with dark, bloody mouthfuls.
He knew the things Daichi had done, the murder that stained his hands—the Daiyakawa peasants, Yukiko’s own pregnant mother. But nobody deserved to die like that.
Daichi took another sip of tea.
“You did not come here to play chess.”
Kin blinked. “No, I didn’t. I want you to release Ayane from her cage.”
“The lotusgirl has done nothing to inspire our faith. Freeing her would be unwise.”
“If you’re worried about her, why not release into my care? I guarantee—”
“There are few amongst us who hold faith in you either, Kin-san.”
“But do you?”
The old man wiped blackened knuckles on his hakama. “A little more each day.”
“Then wouldn’t you feel better knowing I was watching her full time?”
“Why, would you?”
They looked at each other across the ruins of Kin’s forces. Brick-heavy silence, firelight flickering in double crescents across Daichi’s eyes.
Kin heard soft footsteps on the landing, creaking floorboards. A quiet knock, the door peeling open to admit muted daylight, still painfully bright after so long in the gloom. Kaori stepped into the room with whisper-light feet, fringe swept back under the goggles perched upon her head. Her scar gleamed angry red on teak-stain skin.
“Father, Ryusaki sends word. They are near Jukai prov—”
She stopped short as her eyes adjusted, spied Kin kneeling by the chessboard.
“Jukai province?” Kin blinked. “You mean the Stain? Is that where Ryusaki was headed? The Guild staging grounds are…”
Kaori glared. Mute. Hand on her wakizashi hilt.
“… I will take my leave, then.” Kin stood, covered his fist and bowed.
“I enjoyed our game, Kin-san.” Daichi nodded to the board. “Though when next we play, I will expect more commitment in your attack. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.”
Kin gave Kaori a short bow, but the woman didn’t even blink. Her eyes followed him as he left; a bird of prey watching a field mouse in the shadows of long, yellow grass.
Stepping out into the light, he looked around the village; the men dragging venison to the slaughterhouse, women repairing thatched roofs, children gathered at sensei’s feet, chalk tablets in hand. The trees around him seemed afire; foliage swaying like flame tongues, curling along dry, brittle branches. Leaves tumbled between the trees as if stars from empty red skies.
So much at stake here. So much to lose.
Kin wondered if Daichi really would risk it all for final victory.
Memories of his Awakening came unbidden to his mind. Hundreds of glowing red eyes, staring up at him with more affection in a single featureless face than lay in all of the Kagé combined. The memory turned his gut slick with dread.
When the time comes, will you?
* * *
An iron bell in the night. A cry ringing amidst the trees. A word.
Kin opened his eyes, cocked his head, straining to hear.
“Oni!”
A faint cry, almost lost beneath nightsong and the rumble of Iishi storms.
“Oni!”
Rolling from his bed, Kin scrambled to his feet and stumbled from his door, dashing in the direction of the cries. He could see bobbing lanterns in the distance, hear a rising gaggle of voices. Rope bridges swayed beneath him, bare feet pounding unfinished wood, dead leaves falling in a snarling wind. He came upon a group gathered outside Daichi’s dwelling—Kaori, Maro, Isao, Takeshi, Atsushi, two dozen others, men and women, warriors all. Daichi stood in the center of the ring, clad in a banded iron breastplate, a great ōdachi sword in his hands at least as tall as Kin was. The old man’s voice was hoarse, tired, but fire burned in his eyes.
“Scouts report an oni war band from Black Temple moving toward the village.” Daichi’s stare roamed from one warrior to the next. “At least two dozen.”
Uneasy murmurs. An exchange of wary glances.
So many …
“Take heart,” he said. “We have faced such numbers before.”
“With the Stormdancer at our side.” Atsushi echoed Kin’s own thoughts. “But where is she now? How can we face such a force without her?”
“We have another equalizer,” Daichi said. “Kin’s shuriken-throwers will thin the demon’s ranks enough for us to deal with the remainder. We will make our stand along the ’thrower line.”
Isao shook his head, raising voice in protest.
“Daichi-sama, we cannot be certain the Guildsman’s contraptions will not fall to pieces in battle. And we have no maneuverability if we chain ourselves to his perimeter.”
“I agree with Isao-san, Father.” Kaori nodded. “I suggest we ambush. Wait until the oni are moving among the pit traps, then strike from the trees.”
“We did that last time, didn’t we?”
All eyes turned on Kin as he spoke. Distrust. Hostility. Anger. The boy ignored the stares, met Kaori’s eyes.
“We won’t get them the same way a second time,” he said. “The survivors of the last attack will have told their brethren we struck from the treetops.”
“We?” Isao spat. “I don’t recall seeing you there, Guildsman…”
“Because I was locked in your prison,” Kin replied. “After you threatened to cut my throat. Don’t you remember?”
A hateful stare. Clenched jaw. Isao turned back to Daichi.
“This is madness,” the boy said. “We cannot trust the Guildsman’s machines.”
“With all due respect, I agree, Daichi-sama.” Atsushi stood at Isao’s back, something close to fear in his stare. Takeshi stood beside him, all nerves and wide eyes, fingernails chewed to the quick.
“Your concern is noted, gentlemen,” the old man said.
“Father—”
Daichi placed a gentle hand on his daughter’s arm, eyes still on Kin.
“You truly believe your ’throwers will hold, Kin-san? These are not stones and trees we fire at. These are demons fresh from the pits of Yomi. Twelve feet tall. Claws that rend steel. The strength of the Endsinger herself flows in their veins.”
Kin tore his gaze from Isao’s, looked at the old man. Teeth gritted, balled fists, fear in his gut. But the tests had run perfectly, no pressure loss, no chamber failure. He knew it. He would stake his life on it.
“They will hold,” he replied.
Daichi glanced at his captains. Maro was silent, arms folded across his armored chest, but his eyes spoke no. Kaori met her father’s gaze, shook her head. Thunder rocked the skies above, lightning clawing at the clouds, every passing second bringing the demons closer.
Daichi looked at Kin again. Drew one rasping breath.
Closer.
“We will have a small force ambush the demons, and draw them on to the ’thrower line.”
“Daichi-sama—” Isao began.
A cold glare choked the boy’s protest. The old man nodded as Isao fell silent, turned to his captain. “Maro-san, take half a dozen Shadows and bring the oni to us. The rest of you, come with me.”
Maro glanced at Kaori, grim-faced, but still covered his fist and bowed.
“Hai.”
Kin saw dark looks exchanged between Isao, Takeshi and Atsushi. Something else passing between the trio. Desperation? Fear? Takeshi opened his m
outh to speak, but Isao shook his head, motioning for silence. A cold dread seeped into Kin’s belly. Thunder shook the treetops, shaking his insides.
“Daichi-sama,” he said. “With your permission, I will come with you. I can operate one of the ’throwers. Free up another blade for those demons who make it through to the line.” He stared at Isao as he spoke, the younger boy’s face pale as bleached bones. “And I’ll be there in case anything goes wrong…”
The old man nodded, stifled a dry cough with the back of one hand.
“I would have it no other way, Kin-san.”
He looked amongst his warriors, lightning gleaming across steel-gray irises.
“Come. Let us send these abominations back into the hells.”
* * *
Steady rain falling on the leaves above his head, a thousand drumbeats per minute, shushing all in the world beneath. Sweating still, despite the storm, the boy crouched in the ’throwers’ operator’s seat, damp palms pressed to targeting controls. He blinked the burn from his eyes, squinting into the dark, blind, deaf and mute.
Kin grit his teeth, tightened his grip on the feeder crank. All around him, Kagé warriors were gathered, hidden in scrub and dead leaf drifts, all eyes on the approach. Daichi was crouched in a thick copse of mountain fern beside Kin’s emplacement, so utterly still the boy couldn’t tell him from the leaves around him. The storm was growing worse, thunder jolting him in his seat every time Raijin struck his drums. And there, amidst the fear and tempest and rising doubt, it was all Kin could do to stop himself falling back to the familiar mantras—the words he knew by rote, explaining all about life he had ever needed to know.
Skin is strong.
Flesh is weak.
He felt naked. Tiny. The metal beneath his hands the only comfort, the only certainty. These machines of death he’d assembled, dragged from scorched wreckage and filled with new life—these he knew. But demons? Children of the Endsinger? He’d been raised to scoff at such superstitions. Tales of gods and goddesses were crutches for the skinless. Those who had never breathed warm blue-black in the Chamber of Smoke. Never been shown their Truth.
Call me First Bloom.
A distant cry, a rumbling, croaking roar. Faint sounds through the storm, not unlike music. Bright steel, ringing crisp beneath the cloud’s percussion, running feet amidst the hissing deluge. The signal floated down the line—a series of short nightbird whistles. And eyes narrowed, peering into the gloom, Kin saw tiny figures swathed in dark, dappled cloth, dashing back toward the ’throwers fast as swift feet might carry them. And behind them …