by Jay Kristoff
Masaru would laugh and tell his son to work harder at his numbers. But when he had time, he would take the twins out into the bamboo to hunt the small game that grew more scarce every season, or to fish the stream that flowed like crystal down from the Iishi crags. He would love them for a day or two, then disappear for months on end.
They loved him back. It’s easy to lose yourself in the idea of a person and be blinded to their reality. It’s a simple thing, to love a stranger.
But now, for the first time in as long as they could remember, he was home for more than a handful of days. At night he would sometimes tell the story of the Renshi swamps, the hunt Shōgun Kaneda promised would be his last. Satoru asked why the village minstrels sang tales of Kaneda the nagaraja slayer, and barely mentioned the brave apprentice Masaru, who saved his Lord’s life. Their father said that it did not matter what the minstrels sang, that pride was the province of men who did not understand what was truly important.
Playing and fishing and breathing, a blessed handful of months beneath the scorching summer sun. Sometimes the twins would dance together in the dappled shade between the bamboo stalks, and he would simply sit and stare, motionless, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes. He was home. He was happy.
And then the letter arrived.
After fourteen months of agony, Shōgun Kaneda had succumbed to the nagaraja’s toxin and gone to his heavenly reward, succeeded by his thirteen-year-old son, Yoritomo. The new Shōgun commanded Masaru to move his family to Kigen and take up Sensei Rikkimaru’s old role: Hunt Master of the Shōgunate court.
Their mother refused to go. Naomi loathed the thought of leaving Kitsune land for Kigen’s polluted labyrinth and choking fumes.
“Besides,” she argued, “what is there left to hunt? The last of the Black Yōkai is dead. What need does the Shōgun have of hunters now, aside from indulging foolish pride?”
Masaru had been torn between love and duty; his wife and his honor. And so they fought, shouting matches that went on for hours, driving their children into the comforting veil of long emerald leaves and swaying stalks and cool dark earth. There they would play hunters, or chase the few remaining butterflies flapping on feeble, near-translucent wings. Even this close to the mountains, the lotus was beginning to leave its stain; the fields were encroaching further north every year, choking exhaust rolling among the morning mist. Every so often they would catch the scent of smoke on the air, and Satoru would decide they were hunting Kagé today, crashing off through the undergrowth. Yukiko would follow, whooping like a wild thing.
They ran through forest that day, Satoru swinging his stick of bamboo like a double-handed daikatana, hacking at imaginary foes. She raced along with him, flitting among the swaying green, eyes alight.
“Let’s play nagaraja,” Satoru said.
“Not today.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m always the Naga Queen.” She made a face. “I always get killed.”
“Well, that’s how it happened.” He was busy hacking at a thick tangle of akebi vines. “You slay Sensei Rikkimaru, though. You give Uncle Akihito his scars.”
“Why don’t you be the Naga Queen, then?”
“Because I’m a boy,” he laughed, stabbing at the vines again. “Boys can’t be queens. And you do the voice better than me.”
Yukiko smiled and crouched low, pawing at the air.
“My children will avenge meeeeeee,” she hissed.
Satoru’s laughter was bright. Short-lived.
The snake was green as grass, fast as lightning. It uncoiled from the akebi vines and struck like quicksilver, fangs buried to the gums in Satoru’s hand. The boy cried out, stumbling away as the terrified serpent struck again, punching twin holes in his forearm. The bamboo sword dropped to the moist earth. The viper slithered away from the noise and motion, its scales gleaming like polished glass. Yukiko watched her brother fall, eyes wide, mouth open.
“Satoru!”
She ran to his side and he blinked up at her in confusion and shock, jaw slack.
“Jade adder,” he mumbled.
Yukiko took off her obi, tying the fabric above the wounds as tight as her little hands could. She heard her father’s voice in her head, careful, methodical:
“You must cut the wound, draw the poison out with your mouth and spit. And you must be swift. Swift as the snake that bit you, or you will find yourself standing before the Judge of the Nine Hells, fearsome Enma-ō.”
“But I don’t have a knife,” she wailed, cradling her brother’s head.
Satoru was staring at the sky, holding her hand, a thin sheen of sweat rising over his body. He began trembling, first his fingertips, then his lips, breath coming in shallow gasps.
“Tell me what to do!” she pleaded. “Tell me what to do, Satoru!”
His tongue was swollen, lips turning blue. She made to stand and run for help, but he held onto her hand, refusing to let go. And in that moment she felt the world drop away beneath her, fell down into the warm darkness of his thoughts; the first and only time she had touched another human mind. Awash with poison, metallic tang in the back of her throat, muscles palsied. But she could hear him, feel his voice, like the wind up the valley in the warmth of spring.
Don’t go.
But I have to get help.
Please don’t leave.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, spattering across his upturned face. He couldn’t feel his feet, his fingers were a distant blur. She was inside him and staring down at him at the same time, a glittering myriad of pathways in his mind, slowly choking closed with the onset of the venom. He was terrified, but he reached out and found some solace in her warmth, her touch, squeezing her hand as best he could.
I don’t want to die, sister.
She screamed for help, screamed until her throat seized closed, grabbing him by his collar and dragging him through the brush. But he was so heavy, and she was so little. The rush of his thoughts was overcome with lethargy, spilling over into her mind and turning her hands and feet to lead. She dragged him and screamed, snot spilling from her nose, cheeks wet with tears, unable at the end to even find words. Inarticulate, shapeless sounds; a howling, threadbare wail until her throat could take no more.
And nobody came.
I’m sorry, brother.
He died in her arms.
I’m so sorry.
And for the first time in her life, she was truly alone.
* * *
She opened her eyes.
The night wind kissed the sweat on her skin. The air was rank with the smell of burned blood and shit, two oni crumpled like broken statues and bleeding out black onto the snow-white azaleas.
The beast glowered down at her, pupils dilated, a thin, brilliant band of amber glittering like a ring of fireflies around bottomless pits. Its flanks heaved, breath snorting from its nostrils, talons and fur painted with steaming demon blood. Splashed with thick gore and gobbets of flesh, its beak looked sharp enough to cut through bone as if it were butter. It growled, deep and grating, echoing the clash of dark clouds slung high overhead.
AWAKE. GOOD.
It turned to leave, long tail swishing across the leaves. The ground crunched beneath its feet, wings curled back on its sides, sleek and pale. The scales on its forelegs were the color of iron, each talon as long as her tantō, sharp as any blade of folded steel. Lightning dappled its fur, the shadows in the leaves creating shifting patterns among the stripes across its back.
Wait. Wait!
The beast paused, aiming a narrowed stare over its shoulder.
Why did you help me?
DEBT OWED. NOW REPAID.
The image of small hands struggling with the cage door flitted across their minds. The beast turned and stalked into the darkness, moving with an unsteady, feline grace.
GOODBYE.
Please don’t leave me.
Yukiko struggled to her feet, wincing at the bruises, the gashes up her back and across her ri
bs. Her hair was a ragged tangle over her eyes. She fumbled in the gloom, finally grasping the bloody tantō and slipping it into the scabbard at her back.
It had been a gift from her father on her ninth birthday.
OWE YOU NOTHING, MONKEY-CHILD. GO BACK TO YOUR SCAB.
Scab?
ANTS’ NEST. WOOD AND STONE. SPEWING POISON INTO MY SKY.
We call them cities.
SCABS. BOILS ON THE LAND. YOU ARE SEPTIC.
If you leave me here alone, I’ll die.
DO NOT CARE. DEBT REPAID. MILLIONS OF YOU. ONE LESS IS NOTHING. A GOOD START.
We thought your kind extinct. Where do you come from?
RAIJIN.
The beast looked up at the sky, wings twitching across its back. She could feel the anger, the distrust clouding its mind. Instinctual aggression, the aftermath of the battle with the oni still singing in its veins. But behind that, she sensed a tiny sliver of something more primal, blooming in its gut and crawling across the inside of its ribs.
You’re hungry.
The beast glared.
STAY OUT OF MY MIND, INSECT.
You can’t fly, can’t swoop on prey.
The arashitora growled, pawing the earth with its hind legs. Its anger flared bright and hot at the reminder of its mutilation, the faces of her father and Akihito flashing in its mind’s eye, dipped in the color of murder.
I can help you. I am a hunter.
DO NOT NEED YOUR HELP.
You can’t hunt here. Game will hear you coming. You’re too slow on your feet to catch them. You’ll starve.
SWIFT ENOUGH TO CATCH YOU, MONKEY-CHILD.
Its eyes glittered in the dark like the long-lost stars.
We can help each other. I’ll hunt for us. You protect me. Together we can get out of this. Up to higher ground.
DO NOT NEED YOU.
But I need you. I’ll pay for your protection with tribute. Flesh. Hot and bloody.
The beast purred, the vibration thrumming in her chest, mulling the word “tribute” over in its mind. It was unsure of the exact meaning, but liked the sound, the mien of subservience Yukiko had adopted. She kept her eyes downturned, shoulders slumped, hands before her like a penitent at temple. She could feel its stare, the knowledge that it could smear her across the forest with a casual wave of its talons banishing the realization that she was right; that it would starve to death without her help.
She would be a pet, it decided. She could atone for the insults of her pack with servitude. And if not, she could serve at the last by lining its belly.
VERY WELL. COME.
It stalked into the undergrowth, long tail whipping from left to right. Yukiko fell into step alongside, stumbling over roots and scrub in the dark. Off in the black she heard an owl call, the soft patter of the rain on broad leaves. Small sparks of life fled before them, unsure who these interlopers were, but certain they had little wish to know more. The arashitora’s head was level with her own, and it eyed her with disdain as she blundered about, tripping and cursing in the gloom.
HUNTER OF BEASTS WITH NO EARS, PERHAPS.
I’m sorry. It’s so dark. I can’t see.
WRETCHED MONKEY-THING. WEAK. BLIND.
May I use yours?
MY WHAT?
Your eyes. I can see through your eyes.
A long pause, heavy with the sound of its breathing, the girl stumbling in the dark, the whisper of small, fleeing feet. Its stomach growled.
YES.
Yukiko slipped inside its mind, felt its muscles flexing, the damp warmth of its fur. The ground was uneven beneath them, and she realized how difficult it was for the beast to walk with forelegs simply not designed for land travel. But it held itself proudly, unwilling to stumble, a stubbornness that immediately put her in mind of her father. Arrogant. Arrogant and proud.
We need to find somewhere to rest. Away from that temple. Then I can craft some snares. What do you eat?
WE FISH. FROM THE MOUNTAIN STREAMS. NOTHING ELSE IN THIS PLACE. LAND CHOKED WITH YOUR WEED.
There are others like you? More arashitora? We thought you had died out.
NOT YOUR BUSINESS, INSECT.
Yukiko fell silent, walking as if in sleep, eyes half-closed as she stared through the arashitora’s. She put a hand out to steady herself, laying her palm flat on the thunder tiger’s side. Broad quills flowed down its flanks and belly, growing thinner and finer until it was almost impossible to tell where they ended and the lustrous tiger fur began. She marveled at its softness beneath her fingertips, thick and wonderfully warm despite the rain, sticky with oni blood. The beast smelled strange, a heady mix of pungent feline musk, gore and ozone. Its mind was alien: the sharp, predatory instincts of a bird intertwined with the sensual, vibrant impulses of a cat.
Its curiosity finally got the better of it.
HOW CAN YOU HEAR MY MIND?
A gift from my mother’s people. I am a fox child.
KITSUNE.
She felt a vague approval radiating from a distant corner of its psyche.
WE REMEMBER KITSUNE.
My name is Yukiko. Do you have a name?
A long pause, filled with the voice of the storm.
… NO.
Then what should I call you?
MATTERS NOT TO ME.
She ran her fingers along its flanks, touched the tips of its feathers. She remembered the wolf coming down from the mountain with a belly full of hunger, so many winters ago. She remembered the friend who rose to defend her, to save her life without having ever been asked. The sense of safety she felt when he was nearby. Her protector. Her brother.
Her friend.
Then I will call you Buruu.
16
SKIN
Oni are the demon spawn of the Yomi underworld. Servants of the dark beyond darkness, children of the great black mother, Lady Izanami, born and beholden to the shadow.
Perhaps that’s why Yukiko and the arashitora didn’t see them coming.
Wind scrabbled through the trees, tearing blossoms and leaves from the branches and whipping them into blinding flurries, thunder and rain drumming in their ears until the entire world seemed one endless drone. The pair stumbled on through the deep of night, looking for a cave, a hollowed tree, anything to shield them from the elements. The demons fell on them as they entered a copse of oak, downwind and silent as vapor. Like spiders dropping from the trees, all long limbs and wicked teeth, studded tetsubos and ten-span swords clutched in clawed hands. In the split second before the war club landed on the thunder tiger’s skull, Yukiko glanced up and screamed a warning. The arashitora moved quick as lightning, knocking her sideways and into a tangle of battered pink hydrangeas.
The war club smashed the ground like an anvil, the ten-span sword whistling over the thunder tiger’s head. And then there was only motion, a kind of brutal poetry, lashing out with beak and talon and spraying the leaves with hissing, black blood. The first demon fell with its throat torn out, the arashitora spitting chunks of dark flesh onto the leaves. He hurled himself skyward, furiously thrashing his wings, landing atop the second’s shoulders and raking the creature’s gut with the hooked sabers on his hind legs. Coils of thick black intestine unfurled with a stench of funeral pyres, and Yukiko clapped her hands over her mouth to hold back the vomit.
A third demon dropped from the shadows above them and landed behind the thunder tiger, raising its iron club high above its head. Yukiko moved without thinking, pushing a warning into the beast’s mind and darting forth from the hydrangeas. She hacked at the demon’s Achilles tendon with her tantō. She felt a moment’s resistance, as if cleaving through old, salted rope. But the blade was of the finest crafting, folded one hundred and one times by the venerable Phoenix swordsage, Fushicho Otomo, and blue flesh soon gave way in a mist of hissing ichor.
The oni screeched, clutching its ankle and tumbling to the ground. The arashitora was on it in a second, cutting like a whirlwind, a jagged scythe of blades and feathers th
at left little more than a blue-black smear in its wake.
When he was done, the thunder tiger shook himself as a dog might, spraying black gore in all directions. His flanks heaved, great gusts of breath hissing from his open beak and scattering the dead leaves. Steam rose off his fur in warm drifts, eyes glittering with the joy of the kill. He stared at her, gaze flickering to the tiny blade in her hand.
SMALL KNIFE.
Yukiko pushed her sweat-slick hair out of her eyes, nodding at the demon’s severed ankle. Her arm was painted to the elbow in rancid black.
Big enough.
She felt a grudging respect rising in him despite his efforts to push it away. Though he didn’t acknowledge it, she could sense his gratitude, the knowledge that the oni would probably have staved in his skull had she failed to call out in time.
BRAVE.
He wiped his claws on the dead leaves, and with a swish of his tail, turned to leave. Pausing, he looked over his shoulder, eyes fixed on her.
COME.
He moved off into the darkness.
Trying to stifle her smile, Yukiko followed.
* * *
The night stretched on, dark and soaking, and dawn seemed a thousand miles away. A chill settled over the forest, altitude and the howling storm slowly leaching the heat from the earth and her own tired bones. Yukiko’s clothes were drenched, wind cutting through her like a nagamaki’s blade through snow-white feathers, and she wrapped her arms around herself and shuffled along in the dark, almost too exhausted to keep her eyes open. The rain was a constant, a deluge pressing her toward the sodden ground, her mood sinking into the mud along with her feet. She tried to keep the misery at bay, thinking of the bamboo valley, the warm stretches of green grass and crystal-clear water, shimmering with heat. But thoughts of the valley brought her back to her father, the bitter words they had shared before the Thunder Child fell from the skies.
