by Jay Kristoff
7
THUNDER CHILD
Yukiko and Satoru had always been close, even for twins. Each seemed to know what the other was thinking without ever saying a word. They loved to sit together on nights when their father was home, listening to his tales as the wind whispered through the bamboo and the cedar logs crackled and the fire filled their little house with comforting, ruddy warmth.
With a soft, sad voice, he would tell the legends of the henge and yōkai spirit beasts; the great sea dragons and thunder tigers now long gone from the world. He would speak of the gods and the creation of Shima; when great Lord Izanagi had stirred the endless oceans with the tip of his spear, and his bride Izanami had died giving birth to the islands beneath them, forever lost to her husband in Yomi; the blackest hell in the underworld. He spoke of heroes, of the Stormdancers who rode on the backs of arashitora in the days when myths walked the land with earthly feet. He spoke of the great hunts, of how he and Aunt Kasumi and Uncle Akihito and the great Hunt Master Rikkimaru had been tasked by the Shōgun to rid Shima of the last of the Black Yōkai, the demons and monsters of the old world. And Yukiko and Satoru would sit at his feet and marvel, and wonder if any children in all the world had a father as brave as theirs.
Their mother would sometimes sing to them in a voice as bright as the sun, and their father would look up from sharpening his blades or crafting his snares and stare, as if she were some magical thing he’d caught in his nets that might turn and escape at any moment. And then he would smile at her, and say that the Heavens should have been named Naomi.
Their mother would smile at his flattery, and kiss his lips even as she chided him for his blasphemy. She was old-blooded Kitsune, a true daughter of foxes. Hair of raven black, skin of smooth alabaster, the kami spirits of the Iishi Mountains flowing in her veins.
The same spirits that flowed in the blood of her children.
Yukiko had discovered it first, playing with their old scent-hound Buruu by the stream when they were six years old. She had stared into the dog’s eyes and felt the world falling away beneath her feet. And suddenly she was inside him, could hear the feelings and colors in his head, sense the overload of scent: wild azaleas and sakura-cherries, the moist earth, her own fresh sweat on her skin. She felt his simple joy at being with her, knowing he was hers and she was his, rollicking with her brother on the bank, tail wagging.
My pack. My boy. My girl. Love.
He barked at her, tongue lolling from his mouth.
Happy.
She closed her eyes and pushed her thoughts into his mind: that she was happy too, that she would love him always. He padded up to her and stared into her eyes, then slobbered around her face with his big pink tongue. She laughed and rolled onto her back, Buruu nuzzling her with his cold, wet nose as she giggled, throwing her arms around his neck. She sat on the grass beside Satoru and showed him how, holding his hand and reaching out with their minds to touch the hound’s, and Buruu barked and ran in circles, his tail a blur for his joy as his thoughts sang in their minds.
Happy.
The twins laughed and ran their hands along his flanks.
Love you. Love you both.
Their father had been fearful, angry that the gods had touched his children with the strange gift. He was afraid of what others would do if they knew. His children were fox-touched—yōkai-kin—and even here in Kitsune lands, suspicion and fear of the unknown had risen in the wake of the Guildsmen and their campaign against “impurity.”
The taint of the spirit world must be purged from Shima, or so spoke the Guild Purifiers. Lord Izanagi had cleansed himself of the underworld’s stain, and from the waters he bathed in were birthed three children: Amaterasu, Goddess of the Sun, Tsukiyomi, God of the Moon and Susano-ō, God of Storms. So too would the islands of Shima transcend if its people were to purify the taint that infected their collective bloodstream. The elemental kami spirits, the yōkai beasts, these were things of the Otherworld. Not the province of men. An infection to be carved out. A withered limb to be amputated and cauterized by blessed flame.
“You must keep it secret,” Masaru urged his children. “It is a gift, hai, but it is not one to be squandered, nor extinguished on some fanatic’s pyre. Tell nobody. Not even the wind himself.”
Their mother was less afraid, encouraging them to learn, to walk in the forest and listen to the minds of the birds and beasts. The twins would take Buruu with them, stalking silently, feeling ahead with the Kenning for the faint flutters of life, the rapid, shallow thoughts of the small warmbloods fleeing at their approach, their numbers dwindling every day.
Together. Their pack. Her brothers by her side, swimming in each other’s minds among the brilliant green, wishing it would be that way forever, that it would never, ever end.
But of course, it did.
* * *
The Thunder Child plowed north through fields of burgundy clouds, buffeted by the gentle hands of the summer breeze. Its propellers hummed, gears and pistons singing a metallic dirge as it vomited streams of poison into the Shima skies. The stink of burning chi was ever present; no matter where Yukiko sought refuge topside, it followed her like a reeking shadow. Below deck, the stench made her want to puke.
Standing at the bow seemed to offer the most relief, so she crouched against the wooden railing, kerchief tied around her face, goggles over her eyes, as unobtrusive as possible. Captain Yamagata stood beside her, one boot on the prow, breather strapped on tight, mirrored lenses reflecting the horizon.
Kasumi and Akihito were seated close by, triple checking the gear: vast hemp lines looped beneath the barrels of gas-driven net-throwers, vials of blacksleep loaded into the hollow centers of hypodermic bolts. The big man was sharpening the curved edges of four elegant nagamaki—two-handed swords with hafts as long as their blades. The weapons were crafted from folded steel, dark patterns rippling on the metal like the grain in polished wood, the long hilts wrapped in cord of deep scarlet. Each blade bore the mark of the master Phoenix artisan, Fushicho Hatori, reputedly the finest swordsmith of the late Shōgun’s court.
“Only the Shōgun and his samurai are permitted to carry blades longer than a knife.” Yamagata lifted his goggles long enough to raise an eyebrow at Akihito. “Does the thought of death by slow dismemberment hold some appeal for you, Hunter?”
“They were a gift.” Akihito didn’t look up. “From Shōgun Kaneda himself.”
“Presented to the Black Fox and his fellows after the grand hunt, Yamagata-san,” Kasumi said. “The day we and the Shōgun stalked the last nagaraja of Shima through the Renshi swamps, and laid her to rest.”
“The Mother to All Vipers.” Yamagata stroked his goatee. “Last of the Black Yōkai. What was she like?”
“Twenty feet long. Woman from her waist up, serpent from her waist down. A mane of living snakes, skin like pale jade, eyes in which a hundred men had drowned. She was beautiful.” Kasumi shook her head. “Beautiful and terrible.”
Akihito nodded and recited,
“Serpents in her hair,
A dark grace, midnight’s beauty.
I weep at her fall.”
“You’ll have to forgive him, Yamagata-san,” Kasumi smiled. “Our Akihito fancies himself a poet.”
“It’s in the blood.” The big man patted the phoenix tattoo on his right arm.
“Maybe you were adopted?”
Akihito made a face, threw his whetstone at Kasumi’s head. She snatched it from the air, tossed it back with a laugh.
“I have heard the tale sung in taverns from here to Danro,” Yamagata said. “How Shōgun Kaneda and the Black Fox slew the only great evil of the Yomi underworld yet loose in the world. But I did not know you were there also.” The captain covered his fist and bowed. “Respect, Hunters.”
Akihito smiled at the memory, touched the scars on his chest. Yamagata seemed satisfied, and Kasumi began filling another hypo with blacksleep. The dark, viscous liquid was a potent toxin. A few drops would se
nd the average man dreaming for several hours. Much more than a mouthful, he might sleep forever. The poison was derived from the black roots of the lotus plant, and each vial was adorned with a red paper amulet marked with Guild kanji.
“Are you all right up there?” Yamagata peered at Yukiko, crouched by the bow. “You’re missing the view.”
“I’ve seen it.” Yukiko lifted her kerchief, scratched at her nose. “Chi pipelines, deadlands and blood lotus as far as the eye can see.”
“Ah, lotus.” Yamagata looked out over the swaying fields below. “Who would have thought that iron could grow on trees, eh? Lord Izanagi be praised.”
Akihito glanced up at the captain. “Business is good, then.”
“What do you think?” Yamagata grinned behind his breather. “A third of the country is hooked on bud smoke, and the rest drink lotus leaf tea. That plant is a blessing from the Maker God to anyone with eyes to see.” Yamagata started counting off on his fingers. “Anesthetics from its sap, toxins from its roots, rope and canvas from its rind. And from its seeds? The lifeblood of the whole damn country, my friend.”
He patted the Thunder Child’s rail.
“Fuel for sky-ships, ō-yoroi, motor-rickshaw, chainkatana and memory machines.” He laughed. “Anything the Guild Artificers can dream up. Without chi, we’d still be a mob of farmer clans feuding in the mud. Instead, we’re an Empire. Exploring the seas and conquering the skies. The most powerful nation in the history of the world.”
“Everything comes with a price,” Kasumi muttered. “You’ll see.”
Yamagata stared silently as she continued filling the hypos.
“She’s beautiful now, Captain-san. But in a few years this ship of yours is going to melt under the black rain. And though you’re probably safe with that breather, the chi fumes will see most of your crew in the gutters with the other blacklung beggars.” She sighed. “Even walking among the clouds, you must notice the weather growing hotter by the year? Or that the sun is bright enough to burn you blind if you look at it with your naked eye? Did you know the skies used to be blue once, Yamagata-san? Brilliant blue, like a gaijin’s eyes. And now?” Kasumi shook her head. “Red as your lotus. Red as blood.”
Yamagata looked at her sideways. “Not that it’s my business, but some might call that dangerous talk, Hunter.”
“Perhaps. But no more dangerous than ignoring what lotus is doing to this land.”
Yukiko peered over the Thunder Child’s railing, down through the filthy skies to the lotus farms stretched out below. The fields were an endless interlocking series of rectangular paddies, shrouded by choking scarlet pollen. A vast orange serpent stretched away into the distance; a hulking pipeline of corroded metal connecting the Kigen city refineries to a central collection hub in the midlands known as “First House.” Though the refineries in each capital city kept a measure of the chi they processed on hand, the vast majority of it was flushed via rusted arteries to the seat of Guild power in Shima; a tithe to the masters of the fuel and technology that pumped the iron Shōgunate’s heart.
Alongside the pipeline ran lengths of rusting metal and sleepers of bleached wood; tracks for Shima’s combustion-driven railway. The snub-nosed hulk of a goods train was thundering away beneath them, retching a black, smoking trail from its snout as it wound its way back toward Kigen city. Before the advent of the sky-ships, rail had been the highway on which Shima’s most vital commerce sped. Foodstuffs, trade goods and common folk still rolled back and forth along the corroded lines every day, but for cargo as important as blood lotus or gaijin slaves, the sky was now the only way to travel.
The chi pipeline and railway lines were weeping scabs, crusted across the sweeping vista of lotus fields. But in some places, the landscape of swaying red and green was also pockmarked by dark stains; broad tracts of smoking, ashen soil, utterly devoid of life. Yukiko had been nine years old when she’d first seen the blackened scars from the air, the great swathes of land they covered. She had asked her mother where they came from.
Her mother had explained that lotus roots gave off a toxic discharge that rendered the soil around it barren in just a few short years. Like cancer in a blacklung victim, the blood lotus flower crept across Shima’s plains and valleys, dead earth in its wake, choking everything before it. Wildlife fled to the forests, only to have their sanctuaries cleared by the buzzing blades of the shreddermen, sent forth from the Guild’s assembly lines in their screaming, smoking saw-machines. The plant grew on Shima’s face like red mold across a rotting fruit.
“The deadlands were a problem in the past.” Yamagata conceded the point with a shrug. “But the Guild gives the farmers inochi by the barrelful. The fertilizer is more than enough to stave off the soil death. The paddymen just need to use the bloody stuff.”
“Gives?” Akihito scoffed. “You means sells them inochi, don’t you? How in the hells can they use it if they can’t afford to buy it?”
“I didn’t expect you to be an idealist, Hunter,” the captain smiled. “Don’t you kill things for a living?”
“Have you been into the countryside lately, Yamagata-san? What the hells is left to kill? The only animals thriving are corpse-eaters: lotusflies and rats. Ask the average farmer’s son if he knows what a deer looks like, if he’s ever seen a bamboo bear that wasn’t painted on a drinking house wall. There are only three tigers left on this entire island, all sickly curs, prowling the Shōgun’s gardens and refusing to breed. And this is an animal with a godsdamned zaibatsu named after it. I can’t remember the last time I saw a real fox. And as for dragons or phoenix?” The big man’s laughter was short and bitter. “My father was a hunter, Yamagata-san. And his father before him. But my sons?” Akihito spat onto his whetstone. “They’ll be factory workers.”
“They can still hunt yōkai.” Yamagata waved at the choking red sky. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To capture a spirit-beast?”
Akihito snorted. “The last official sighting of a sea dragon was a century ago. The last arashitora died during Shōgun Tatsuya’s reign. The great yōkai beasts are legends now; bedtime stories to tell your children between coughing fits.” Akihito aimed a polarized stare at Kasumi. “And we’re supposed to be out here catching one.”
Yukiko stabbed her tantō into the deck and sighed. Everything Akihito said was true. Her father was right; the Shōgun should just release them from his service and be done with it. A few starving wolves were hardly worth the expense of their upkeep. There was no need for a Master of Hunters any more.
“Ah, well, you know what they say.” Yamagata shrugged—the feigned helplessness of a man who profits from the status quo. He adjusted the breather on his face, stuffed his hands into his obi and wandered off in the direction of his cabin. “The lotus must bloom.”
As if on cue, Yukiko heard the heavy tread of iron-shod feet. She looked up and saw the Child’s Guildsman emerging from below decks to peer at the balloon above.
Gods knew how many more dwelled in the chapterhouses, but Yukiko had seen three different kinds of Guildsmen in her life: three variations of the same metallic, insectoid theme. The first were the garden-variety Lotusmen who stalked Kigen streets and swarmed about its sky-docks like flies on dung. The second were the terrible Purifiers, reciting thousand-year-old scripture and lighting the pyres under children’s feet at the Burning Stones. And lastly, there were the Artificers. If the Lotusmen were the Guild’s troops, and the Purifiers their priests, the Artificers were its mechanics; a sect of engineers and technicians responsible for the creation of every machine and marvel the Guild had yet gifted to Shima’s populace.
The Thunder Child’s Guildsman was one of these Artificers. Its brass suit was the product of a back-alley coupling between a regular atmos-suit and a chi-powered toolbox. Arcane apparatus were bolted across every surface: drills, torque wrenches, cutting torches and circular saws, its backpack replete with a small loading crane and acetylene tanks. Unlike the faceted eyes of the Purifiers or regular L
otusmen, the Artificers instead had a single rectangular slab of glowing red light in the middle of their empty faces. A series of switches and dials were arrayed on its chest, alongside the click-clack of the ever-turning mechabacus. As Yukiko watched, the Guildsman began pushing beads back and forth along the device’s rungs, a series of complex, intricate movements, like a musician’s fingers dancing across taut strings. Although most people assumed mechabacii were some form of counting machine, the truth was nobody but the Guildsmen knew what the hells they were actually for.
She glanced down at the knife waiting in the wood in front of her. Akihito nudged Kasumi, and the pair fell still, watching the Guildsman in its clanking brass suit approach across the varnished deck. It stepped up beside Yukiko and stared out over the railing, the geometry of the fields below refracted on its single, glowing eye. There was a small hiss as a discharge of oily smoke issued from its pack.
The hunters cast wary glances at each other.
The Guildsman turned and looked down at the vial of blacksleep in Kasumi’s hand.
“Class six toxin.” Its voice was a swarm of flies. “Purpose?”
“You know why we’re here,” Yukiko muttered.
“Permit.” It extended one gauntleted hand to punctuate the demand.
“Of course, Guildsman,” said Kasumi, doing her best to glare at the girl from behind her goggles. She reached into a pack and produced several scrolls, each set with the Shōgun’s seal. The Artificer took them with care, scanning the kanji before returning the paperwork with a nod. The bellows on its pack pumped up and down to the sawing of hollow, mechanical breath.
“Thank you, citizen,” it buzzed.
“You work on this ship?” Yukiko tilted her head at the Guildsman.
It turned to regard the girl with its strange, glittering eye. Yukiko wondered what it looked like beneath the metal shell, whether it missed the touch of the sun on its skin. If it heard the screams of burning children when it closed its eyes at night. The stare was blank and featureless, like looking into a mirror and finding no one staring back at you.