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 cloud, 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 send 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?”
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 cloud, 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 send 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?”
Similar Books
