by Arthur Stone
Camai broke short in the middle of the sentence, which had never happened to him before. Then again, he wasn’t so much speaking words as hammering nails into a coffin. Bang, bang, bang.
Still, why pause now?
Treya looked every bit as surprised as me, but then her eyes darted toward the light double-doors. I followed her gaze automatically, wondering if the door leaves might have grown claws or fangs.
But no, they seemed just as peaceful as before. Still, neither mother’s nor Camai’s expressions softened. They were clearly seeing something I wasn’t.
And that something was clearly bad.
Her eyes glued to the doors, mother spoke blankly.
“We have unexpected guests, Camai. I need to change. And I’m going to need help as we’re pressed for time.”
“Yes, Mistress. Unexpected indeed. Hold on, I shall help you.”
What?! This yahoo was going to help mother dress herself? Unthinkable! Couldn’t she summon one of her maids?
And what possible guests could there be at this hour...
Chapter 3
Uninvited Guests
Degrees of Enlightenment: Empty
Attributes: none
Skills: none
States: none
Already quite unusual, the evening was getting more interesting by the minute.
It turned out that by “changing” mother didn’t mean slipping into one of her less threadbare dresses. For that she would have indeed needed a maidservant, as buttoning up those inflexible corsets independently required nothing short of rubber joints.
Nay, it wasn’t a dress she wanted. For the first time in my memory, Treya was donning armor. Not even when a band of raiders had attacked the windmill a mere couple of hundred paces from the homestead did she resort to such serious measures.
The armor looked quite striking, too (Lacking the requisite knowledge, I’m reticent to offer a more technical term). All I can say is that it was fashioned from some material that resembled super-thick leather. And if it was indeed leather, the hide hadn’t been taken from a cow or a goat, but from a creature so unconventional in form that even the most bleeding-heart animal rights activists back on Earth would likely hold their objections to murdering the sucker.
The armor’s relief was a marvel to behold, each component distinct in flawless arrangement. It looked more like a superhero costume than a Medieval suit of armor. As for the helm, it looked strangely similar to a motorcycle helmet, despite this world being far behind the invention of motor transport.
Camai’s helm was similar, though bulkier and not nearly as intricate in design. Yet, it looked more capable of actually offering protection as opposed to just looking pretty. He didn’t need to equip it, either—the man never parted with it to begin with, same as his sword.
Mother’s oddities didn’t end there. Snatching a key off the string hanging around her neck, she used it to open a long and narrow cabinet, then produced something that could almost rival the throne for the title of the fanciest thing in the homestead. But unlike the throne, this was an object I was seeing for the first time.
Was it a spear? If not, what else would one call it?
A word surfaced from the recesses of my consciousness—a long-forgotten relic from my past life. “Naginata,” a pole weapon from feudal Japan. It came closest to describing this armament, with its longish staff tipped with a curved, saber-like blade. I knew too little of Medieval weaponry to make a closer analysis of the differences between this and its Earthly counterpart. One thing was nevertheless clear—the weapon’s purpose was to cut, slice and stab.
So I might as well call it “naginata.”
Mother approached the desk and shoved into a plain cloth bag all the things she had produced earlier when speaking with Camai: the abunai, the nephrite-encrusted coffer, and the silk pouch.
Her next move came as a surprise. She helped me up, then hung the bag over my shoulder.
“Camai, bring the armchair out on the terrace for my son. We must welcome our guests as befitting proper hosts.”
What kind of guests could these be that my presence was called for in welcoming them? I barely ever poked my nose outside in the light of day, let alone after twilight. In fact, this would be the first such occurrence in memory.
And then there was the Japanese spear in my mother’s hands. No, this wouldn’t be your typical guest reception.
Decent people weren’t typically greeted by hosts armed to the teeth.
* * *
I was never particularly loquacious back on Earth, and now, when uttering so much as a short sentence drained me as much as sprinting up six flights of stairs, even less so. Moreover, I had an image to uphold—a cripple deficient in mental acumen as much as physical fitness. So the less I spoke, the fewer chances I had of undermining that image in the eyes of others.
Besides, what exactly would I say? My flummoxed state was on full display anyhow. No words were needed, so I kept silent all the while.
I didn’t sit, but rather fell into the armchair the ever-unperturbed Camai had placed upon the plank floor of the terrace, the weakness in my cotton legs further aided by my mind’s recognition of the long objects glimmering in the night’s darkness.
There was Auntie Hiemo. She was easily recognizable by her figure—almost nonexistent for some tastes, exquisite for others. And there was Teiko, a timid fourteen-year-old girl and an orphan, taken in by Bousha, our tenderhearted cook. Speaking of Bousha, there she lay, next to her own daughter, Tamiko. And many, many others.
Our entire serving staff, dead. And, by the look of things, the poor souls had met their death while in their beds. For most, it was bloodless, with only a few having soiled their nightshirts with trickles of blood from either their nose or mouth.
This realm in which I dragged out my miserable existence brimmed with oddities. There were stories of dead people moving on their own—while exhibiting cannibalistic tendencies. This, however, didn’t appear to be such a case. Someone had dragged all these dead to the terrace and arranged them in a neat row. The mysterious decorators had even tried to sort them by height: children on the left, and on the night, the night guard Dumonuro, having tragically failed in his duties.
Death was never pleasant. But when it took someone close to you, it was frightening to boot.
Now imagine witnessing death take not one but eleven people without a sound. The sheer terror would surely knock a person of sound mind and body off their feet.
Let alone someone like me.
Camai and mother seemed to be hearing something, but that had to do with their special abilities. Those might not even be sounds, but rather emanations of death itself, capable of being picked up by people like them.
Nothing about this place surprised me anymore...
The killers stood in a separate row, and, unlike our servants, were quite alive. Despite the generous absurdity of the scene, I still couldn’t process the thought that these twelve figures, shrouded in black from head to toe, had died while upright yet somehow remained standing. The narrow eye-slits in their masks were barely visible in the dark. I thought I could see their inhuman eyes flash sporadically with a ruby light, though that could easily be just my horrified imagination.
I needed neither trial nor jury to surmise that they were, in fact, the killers. Not only were there simply no other candidates present in the yard, there wasn’t a troop for miles that could rival these guys in killing efficiency.
These weren’t brigands that would turn up in our lands from time to time. A proper warrior would deem it beneath himself to eke out a living with petty crimes in destitute lands. Only the worst kind of riffraff would resort to such iniquities—the kind that couldn’t twist the head off a baby chic without rousing the whole neighborhood.
Our people, in contrast, had been sleeping peacefully. Or, at the very least, had been in a peaceful enough state at the moment of death that not a sound was made.
Which meant that these
black figures were dangerous. And the fact that Camai didn’t attack them straight away only cemented that assessment. Fighting off a crowd would be easier here, on the terrace. If I were him, I wouldn’t have even left the house, which offered the best protection under the circumstances.
As I was reflecting on these thoughts, Camai began to act. Only he acted with the kind of foolishness I would expect of night guard Dumonuro driven to imbecilic bliss after imbibing too much at a rye moonshine tasting party. And mother was ready to match his folly. The two descended from the terrace, calm and surefooted, and started toward the row of killers. But rather than immediately surround and pounce on the reckless couple as they approached, the figures in black dispersed with the swiftness and plasticity of professional dance instructors.
In the span of three seconds the faceless figures lined up in two rows, forming a wide corridor. On the one end stood Camai and Treya, still at last; on the other end stood hell knows what. Another black figure, its head uncovered by the local combat variety of motorcycle helmet. That didn’t make the figure any lighter, however, as the man’s wavy, luxurious hair was raven-black, matched by an equally black, neatly trimmed beard.
My body must have been compensating for my useless legs with eagle-like eyesight to be able to make out such details on a moonless night.
Blackbeard spoke in a plummy, slightly condescending voice. “Greetings, Mistress Treya of the Crow Clan. And Camai, the Crow Clan’s last warrior of the first circle.”
I couldn’t be sure whether I’d recognize the man if I saw him unshaved, but if ever I heard that voice again, I’d know it was him in an instant. He spoke like a professional actor out of a romcom. Definitely a noble, no doubt about it. The upper crust of the local feudal realm adhered to their own codes of conduct, the highest among them being the call to maintain a bombastic manner in all situations. Especially in conversation. Even a friendly chat with a loved one was almost certain to include phrases pulled right out of a B movie villain’s final speech. The kind in which the villain stands in front of a bound and helpless hero, then proceeds to gloat and call him a loser instead of slitting his throat—all the while the hero listens intently while cutting through his bonds with a nail file he had judiciously stashed away beforehand or otherwise procured in an adequately heroic fashion.
And this particular stranger was bombastic enough for three. No commoner spoke this way, even when trying to mimic gentry.
Resting on her bladed pole nonchalantly, mother replied in an icy tone.
“And greetings to you, Master Pence, exile of House Folle who has sided with the Faceless Shadows. I’m surprised that you’ve deigned to pay us a personal visit.”
Even an ignorant observer would pick up the fact that Treya knew this... guest. Whereas I nearly gasped at the implications of not only what she said, but how she said it.
Above all else, this wasn’t how you talked to a noble. Though it couldn’t be construed as an outright insult, neither would it be deemed good manners. Besides, this man or his followers were responsible for killing our subjects. And if the flames breaking out from the direction of the windmill were any indication, our losses wouldn’t end there.
The upshot was that mother’s disparaging reply was addressed to an enemy. And this enemy was devilishly powerful, as evidenced by the begrudging manner with which she had forced out the word “master.”
“Master” was no joke. Camai wasn’t a master. He wouldn’t even make apprentice, to use Earthly terminology. He was a damn fine fighter for the impoverished northern region, but a big fat nobody in the south.
All this meant that mother and Camai were facing a figure of very considerable power. I shuddered to imagine the degree of enlightenment this monster had attained. It couldn’t be less than thirty-five, and that was a scary thought. Assuming he wasn’t omega—which was a safe assumption—Camai wouldn’t stand a chance against him, let alone my mother.
Though she never publicly disclosed her degree, I was clever and perceptive enough to be certain that it wasn’t higher than twenty-five. As befitting most nobles, she was probably full alpha for at least the first degrees, back when life was good, and no lower than beta for the higher ones, completed somehow or other while battling life’s adversities. She may well be a match for Camai, but against a true master? Not likely.
And said master wasn’t even alone, but accompanied by a crowd of clearly hostile individuals. I couldn’t begin to guess their degrees, but my sixth sense suggested that a serious fella like him wouldn’t let just anybody into his entourage.
So what did all of that mean?
For starters, that this wasn’t a pickle Treya was likely to get out of. Though I wasn’t privy to the backstory of what was happening, it seemed utterly obvious that the one I’d been forced to call ‘mother’ was going to be imminently attacked. And if I were a betting man, I’d go all-in on her opponents, as they were clearly the favorites in this fight.
So, on the upside, my dream was about to come true.
The bitch was going down at last.
On the downside, I was likely to go down right after her. Alas, that was just the way the local aristocrats operated. Once you commenced with a massacre, it was considered bad form to take pauses. The Crow Clan had already been an exception once, and a repeat violation of this rule was unlikely.
The one time was bad enough.
Was I scared? I wasn’t entirely sure. I had already died once, and I couldn’t say that the new life that followed had been a source of great joy. A part of me saw my impending death as liberation.
It’s settled, then. I’m not scared. In fact, I’m all for it.
But only under one condition.
I had to die after Treya. I would not be denied the pleasure of watching her bite the dust.
Not a moment sooner, you hear me?!
Meanwhile, the scene continued unfolding before me, the participants lacking the common courtesy to wait until my mind processed everything and drew the above conclusions.
“You mean too much to me to entrust our business to a third party,” Pence replied to mother’s ill-mannered greeting. “These are but night’s shadows, faceless and nameless. No, the final entry in the Crow Clan’s chronicles must be entered by my hand, and none other.”
“So that’s what the Emperor’s word is worth,” Treya spat out with scorn.
Pence shook his head.
“The Emperor has nothing to do with this, I’m afraid. Though I suspect he may be relieved to hear what happened here, it was not a desire he had expressed. The Crow aren’t much loved by too many factions. And for good reason.”
“Lady Treya had gone into exile, having given her word that she will never again become a mother,” Camai interjected. “Her death would be without purpose and without honor.”
That caught even me by surprise. When nobles spoke, those of Camai’s station were expected to hang on every word while keeping their own mouth shut. Voicing his objection was a gross violation of conduct, akin to a cleaning lady snatching the mic from the British Prime Minister during a meeting of the UN General Assembly.
Pence gave another shake of the head.
“Camai... I remember you well, old friend. You had shown promise. Yet, you’ve buried your own prospects, and that’s a shame. You’re not the first victim of this woman’s snares, but you will be the last.” He paused, then looked askance towards mother. “You see, going into exile meant that no one would see or hear her ever again. Writing letters wasn’t part of the deal. And considering the contents of said letters and their addressees, the whole notion of exile turns into a farce. She had already been shown mercy once. A great mercy. There shall not be a second time. Stand aside, Camai. You know full well that you cannot stop me. I do not require your death. I have come for Lady Treya and her degenerate spawn.”
He shouldn’t have said that last part. My mother was, on the whole, a patient woman. There was just one thing that could shatter her self-control in an in
stant.
Calling me a degenerate.
The hefty naginata spun in her fine delicate hand as if it weighed nothing at all.
At the same time, a flash of bright light escaped from mother’s other hand—so blinding that I had to shut my eyes.
What was it her servants had whispered about her? Their stories suggested that Treya’s magic could make her enemies’ eyes boil in their eyelids. I had always regarded such stories as shameless exaggeration at best, and pure balderdash at worst.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so dismissive.
Chapter 4
The Crow Clan’s Chi
