“Or pain,” they said.
* * *
A darkness so complete Kaori couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, nor the sweat fogging the glass over her eyes. The breather was strapped painfully tight around her head, but chi stench still drenched her tongue, seeping into every pore. Her head swam, echoes tumbling up and down the pipeline serving only to disorient her more. She could hear the other Kagé behind her—Maro and the rest. Two dozen in all, wading in the shallow, blood-red flow.
The pipeline was twenty feet in diameter, two inches thick, oxide clad. After the Phoenix captain had dropped them off beside the rusted serpent, they’d taken half a day to cut through the outer shell, finally slipping inside. After Yama refinery was destroyed, the Guild had drained as much chi from the northern pipeline as possible, but an ankle-deep river of dregs remained. The fumes were so thick Kaori could almost clutch handfuls from the air. But wading through the pipeline’s innards was better than walking the deadlands outside. She swore she could hear voices out there. Claws scrabbling against the pipe.
Whispers.
The Kagé couldn’t risk any illumination for fear of igniting the vapor. And so they walked in blackness, up to their shins. Sound was amplified, twisted until it was almost impossible to think. But on they pressed, knowing there was no wrong turn to make—only one destination the pipe could lead.
First House.
Kaori had no idea how long they trudged in that perfect darkness, footsteps like a funeral march. Forcing their way through heavy, one-way valves, into the vast chambers of silent pumping stations, the machinery standing motionless now the pipeline was empty.
The group would stop only when she could no longer breathe, when the fatigue threatened to bring her to her knees. No hunger in her, save to crawl from this pipe and into the Guild’s blackened heart. No desire, save to rip First House burning from the mountainside. The explosives on her back were leftovers from the Kigen raid—the raid that had ended in failure, Kin’s subterfuge and her father’s surrender into Guild hands.
Gods, why didn’t you trust me?
She came to a stop in the dark, cradled like a babe in mother’s womb. Maro bumped into her, reached out to steady himself, his voice a tenfold whisper muffled by his breather.
“Kaori, are you well?”
She shook her head in the dark, eyes narrowed against the chi burn.
None of it matters anyway.
“Look to yourself, brother,” she replied. “I am fine.”
None of it matters at all.
And on she walked.
* * *
Dawn was a sulfur smear on the eastern horizon, echoing with the screams of freezing mountain winds. Storm clouds jostled overhead, laced with blinding cracks, each peal of the Thunder God’s drums shivering the stone beneath him.
Akihito stood on the balcony, staring at western skies, praying for winged silhouettes to crest the walls of Five Flowers Palace and fill the air with Raijin Song. If he listened, he fancied he could hear it in the distance—faint, but growing stronger with each passing moment.
DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM.
DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM.
Night was slowly fleeing, the warmth of his bed with it. The chill bit bone-deep, stoking the pain of the old wound in his leg. He pulled up his goggles against the black drizzle, wondering what the day would bring. Trying not to think of the night before, to banish the freezing chill with memories of the warmth between Hana’s thighs. Lover’s thoughts were liable to get a man killed on the battlefield. And he was only a man. No samurai. No stormdancer. Just a hunter turned … what? Warrior? Babysitter? Fool?
The sound of wings in the dark. Mighty pinions beating the freezing air, raising gooseflesh on his arms. He looked up into the graying sky and saw a majestic arashitora, sleek and snow-white and beautiful. And on her back, a girl, more beautiful still.
Kaiah was clad in dark iron—a thick breastplate running throat to ribs. Reinforced leather guarded her hindquarters and neck. Over her skull sat an iron helm, black glass covering her eyes, pierced at the crown with a long tassel of hair. The blacksmith had even taken time to emboss prayers to the Thunder God into the armor.
Hana was wearing her banded breastplate, messy blond bob held in check by the goggles over her eye. She wore a tsurugi sword on her back, though Akihito had no idea if she knew how to wield it. But as the pair landed in the courtyard, the wounded gaijin bivouacked beneath the eaves stared in wonder, jaws to the floor. She drew the blade and Kaiah reared up, lightning crackling across her feathers. The thunder tiger split the air with a deafening roar.
Hana looked up at the balcony, head tilted, lips twisted.
“Coming?”
Limping slowly down the stairs, across the courtyard beneath wondering eyes. Hana took his hand and pulled him up onto Kaiah’s back with a grunt. As he slipped behind her, she pushed back against him, gave him a wicked grin.
“You slept late.”
“I’d like to think I earned it,” he smiled, slipping his arms around her waist.
“Don’t be getting a big head on me now.”
“I’m surprised you’re up so early.”
“I couldn’t sleep for your snoring.”
“I do not snore.”
Hana turned away with a smile, mumbling just loud enough for him to hear.
“Thought it was another earthquake…”
A surge of muscle beneath him, a moment of insistent gravity, pushing him down as Kaiah leaped skyward. He could feel the power in her, the brutal majesty, his stomach left far behind as they rose higher, over the walls and through the lightening sky. He clutched Hana’s waist, gripping Kaiah’s ribs with his thighs, trying to keep some semblance of control over the grin on his face. He’d flown on sky-ships before, but it had been nothing like this.
Yama city was spread out below them, the distant horizon growing steadily brighter. As they climbed, he felt something cold and wet on his cheek, a black spot fluttering in his vision.
Akihito frowned behind his goggles. And all around them, they began falling, tumbling and spinning like forgotten jewels from the glowering sky overhead. Frozen and tiny and perfect.
Snowflakes.
He caught one in his open palm, looking down with narrowed eyes. It was fragile, beautiful, possessed of a symmetry and complexity that would make the greatest artisan weep. And if it were white, it might have struck him as a gift from the heavens themselves.
But it was black. Just like the rain. Just like the ruin they’d made of this country. And just at the edge of hearing, he caught it again, beating and rising like a trembling pulse.
DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM.
DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM.
He looked south and his stomach curled up against his ribs. Just an impression in the muddy light of the almost-dawn. But he could see great clouds of sky-ships, swarming around a shape so vast and horrifying he had to force himself to stare.
“There they are,” he breathed.
Hana reached back, gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Breathe easy,” she said. “We’re about to have a goddess on our side.”
37
ACCORDING TO PLAN
Michi knelt beside a low table in her room, calligraphy brush in hand, her dog Tomo snoozing amidst crumpled blankets in her otherwise empty bed.
Her brush strokes were swift, tiny ink droplets spattering on the page. She’d been up most of the night writing, fingers stained and back aching. But she’d reached the dawn of today’s battle in her history of the Lotus War, taking a moment to describe the aroma of the breakfast fires and exhaust, the clash of boots and swords as bushimen marched out onto Yama’s walls.
The Iron Samurai had once more donned their armor, the last drops of the Kitsune chi stores fueling their final stand. Michi had refilled her chainblades the previous evening, trying not to think about the man she’d stolen them from. What might have been.
Ichizo.
A knock at her door. Tom
o opened one eye, but failed to stir further.
“Don’t get up or anything,” Michi muttered.
She straightened with a wince, padding to the door and sliding it open. The Blackbird stood beyond, clad in a thick breastplate, a studded tetsubo in his hands. Iron covered his forearms and shins and knuckles—he’d even riveted some metal plating to his ridiculous hat.
“Well, aren’t you a sight, Captain-san,” Michi smiled.
The Ryu captain flashed her a rogue’s grin. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“We’re ready to depart?”
“Well…” Blackbird glanced behind her. “We could always stay in. Warmer in bed.”
“Not one for the subtle art of seduction, are you?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve been working on that one most of the night.”
She gave him a little pat on the shoulder. “Needs more time in the oven.”
Blackbird chuckled as she scooped up her chainblades and strapped them to her back.
“Working on the book?” Blackbird eyed the paper and quills on the table.
“I know, I know. Bottles of ink don’t win battles…”
“Just seems a shame to have spent what could be your last night alive on it.”
She leaned down and kissed Tomo’s nose, pointed to her scroll still drying on the table. “I’ll be back to write the ending tonight, little one. Guard it for me while I’m gone.”
Tomo licked her face with his bright pink tongue, closed his eyes. Michi squeezed the wicks of her candles, snuffing them out, one by one by one. Smoke uncoiled from melted wax, weaving fingers of pale-gray in the frozen air, the scent of warm honey making her sigh.
And without a backward glance, she turned and walked away.
* * *
Hiro stood on the bow of the Honorable Death, watching black tumble from the clouds. Eyes fixed on the city lights, river like black glass in the almost-dawn. The fleet filling the skies about him, the clattering tread of the shreddermen below, the barrage of the Earthcrusher’s footsteps—all of it stirring the butterflies in his belly, the adrenaline gnawing his veins.
“Daimyo Hiro, forgiveness.”
Hiro turned to find one of his samurai behind him, head bowed.
“We have received a transmission, marked for your eyes only.”
The samurai handed over a square of rice-paper, embossed with an authentication seal. Hiro looked at him briefly, face daubed with fresh ashes, armor painted the color of death. They stood all around him—the glorious Kazumitsu Elite. Men who had failed their Shōgun, now consigned to death. This was the day their shame would be expunged. To destroy Yoritomo’s assassin, crush the insurrection, and then to step before the great judge Enma-ō and know they had fought bravely, for as righteous a cause as any left in this nation.
“You look tired, Koji-san,” Hiro said to the samurai. “Did you sleep?”
“I confess I did not, Daimyo.”
“Nor I,” Hiro smiled. “Time enough for sleep when we are dead.”
“I long for it,” Koji’s whisper rolled in freezing wind. “Every breath since Yoritomo’s murder has been drawn in disgrace. But today my family may hold their heads high again.”
“Did they not hold them high before?”
“My wife … She said it didn’t matter. That she’d rather live with me disgraced than lose me for honor’s sake. But she is a woman. She does not understand the Way of Bushido.”
“And your sons? What did they say when you told them you were headed to your death?”
“… I did not tell them. They are too young to understand.”
“One day they will, Koji-san. They will look back on this day, and they will know their father was a hero. They will grow to be honorable and brave, just like him.”
Koji covered his fist and bowed. “My thanks, Daimyo.”
The Iron Samurai clomped away, his ō-yoroi spitting chi into the greasy air. Hiro remembered his father’s words in the throne room, an insistent echo inside his head.
“Lord Izanagi give you the strength to die well.”
He looked at the note in his hand, recognized his father’s seal. No doubt a final message from the ruined war hero, some last words to ensure his son didn’t falter. He snapped the authentication seal, unfolded the message within. The wind moaned around him, tiny black snowflakes falling on his lashes, the deck beneath his feet. His gaze was fixed on the calligraphy, painstakingly rendered—handwriting he recognized instantly.
My beloved son,
It is duty that drags you north, far from those who love you. It is duty that would see you end, before you have truly lived, so that our honor may be restored. And it is my duty as a wife to honor my husband and wish you the courage to die well.
But I cannot.
There is no sense to this. No honor in any of it. We have built a world where we murder children to feed our soil. War upon those different for the sake of greed. We hold the ease the machine brings above the wellbeing of the land around us. We should be ashamed.
A man needs no courage to die. He need only close his eyes. It takes courage to fight on, when all hope seems gone. To struggle through, when the hurt and shame seem too much.
It is your father’s dream to see our shame expunged. But if I must mourn you, I would have it be for something more than avenging the Shōgun who oversaw our fall from grace. For the dream of a father who has never created anything worthwhile, except that which he would now destroy. For it is only when we are asleep that we dream, Hiro. It is only when we close our eyes that such dreams make sense. That we believe them real.
Open your eyes, my son.
Wake up.
Hiro clenched his fist, metal knuckles gleaming, his prosthetic arm spitting out a small plume of chi. He looked again to the horizon, the lights of Yama, slowly rousing from slumber. The faces beside him, painted with the ashes of their own funeral offerings.
Too late.
He looked down at his arm again. The arm they’d gifted him after she tore his flesh away. Left him with nothing. No one.
Far too late, Mother.
He lifted a small microphone to his lips, speakers across the fleet crackling to life.
“Soldiers of the Tora clan! Today we bring an end to Yoritomo’s assassin, her accomplices, those who have betrayed their oaths to Lord and land! Do you stand ready?”
A roar from above, below, all around. Blades torn from scabbards. Hilts pounded on the decks. Shreddermen revving their engines and lifting chainsaw arms to the sky.
“Know no fear! Show no mercy! And tonight, should you stand before the Judge of all the Hells, stand proud and tall! For you have died in glorious battle for the honor of the Tora zaibatsu, and in the name of our Shōgun Yoritomo-no-miya!”
“Yoritomo!” A thousand voices took up the cry. “Yoritomo!”
“Death to the Kitsune! Death to the Stormdancer!”
“Death!” they roared. “Death!”
“Banzaiiiii!”
* * *
Kin stood on the Earthcrusher’s bridge, listening to Hiro’s voice crackle over Yama’s barren fields. The sun had almost crested the horizon, bleak light piercing the storm. Black snow crusted the Earthcrusher’s viewports, hundreds of tiny lights moving below as shreddermen took up position. The sky-fleet spread out in wedge formation, the Daimyo’s flagship front and center: Hiro seemed intent on leading his troops into the thick of battle.
The bridge was strangely calm, Shatei watching their instrumentation like spiders watching prey. Bo sat at his communications hub, speakers propped on his helm. Kin stood beside the pilot’s harness, Kensai looming behind, that horrid, childish face staring out to the city beyond. Commander Rei was conducting a final systems check.
“Commander.” Bo turned from his comms console. “Scouts report the gaijin army is stationed two miles east. They are fully mustered, and preparing to launch ’thopters.”
“Clever dogs,” Rei mused. “Waiting for us to hit the
Kitsune, then swoop on the wounded victors.”
“The gaijin have nothing capable of harming Earthcrusher,” Kensai rasped. “This vessel was built to end the gaijin war, Commander. A ragtag invasion presents no obstacle. Proceed.”
“Hai,” Rei nodded. “Shatei Bo, I want one vessel with eyes on the gaijin at all times.”
“Hai,” Bo bowed.
Kensai limped up next to Rei, his breathing labored. He flicked a switch and spoke into the PA system, his voice bellowing across Yama’s towering walls.
“People of Yama, warriors of the Fox clan, I am Shateigashira Kensai of Chapterhouse Kigen, loyal servant of Tojo, First Bloom of the Lotus Guild. Hear me now.
“You are not our enemies. But you have been deceived by this so-called Stormdancer and her thirst for revenge. We seek only justice for the assassination of our Shōgun, Yoritomo-no-miya and his beloved sister Lady Aisha. We have no quarrel with you.
“Daimyo Isamu, I beseech you—cast out the rebels from your city. Turn the Stormdancer over to our authority, and join us in expelling the gaijin from our home. Today can be the dawning of a new age for the Imperium. United, there is nothing we cannot accomplish.
“Open your gates to signify your acquiescence. You have five minutes to comply. If in such time, we have not received word of your assent to Guild authority, with heavy hearts, and heavier hands, we will wipe your clan from the face of Shima.”
Kensai turned off the address system, clasped his hands behind his back. Kin could feel sweat creeping down his face despite the chill, the behemoth’s engines thrumming in his ears.
“Do you think they will concede?” Rei asked.
Kensai shrugged. “We will know in five minutes.”
Rei tensed in his harness. “Perhaps sooner.”
Kin engaged his telescopics, squinting in the dim light and falling snow. He could make out Yama’s walls—towering gray stone, studded with shuriken-cannon and razor wire. All along the battlements, he could see soldiers’ silhouettes. Floating above the city, he saw the sky-fleet—sleek ships painted Kitsune black, nine-tailed foxes adorning their inflatables. Their decks lined with cloudwalkers, bushimen and samurai, all cut like shadow puppets against the lightening sky. Every one of them—every man on the walls, the decks, every single one—struck the same pose, swelling Kin’s heart in his chest.