“Father!” she cried, stumbling to her knees at the old man’s side. Daichi lay on his back, hand clutched to chest, drawing bloody breath through bubbling lips. The other Kagé gathered around him, painted in black gore, faces pale and horrified.
Kin caught several dark stares as he approached, muttered curses, glances toward the failed ’throwers. He heard the word “accursed” and “Guildsman,” felt angry eyes on him in the dark, and a cool dread seeped into his belly. He tried to push through the mob to Daichi’s side, found his way barred by Maro’s heavy hand, the Kagé captain looking at him with bitter rage.
“Stay the hells away from him,” he hissed.
“I can help h—”
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough, you godless little bastard?” Maro hissed.
“Maro, forget the Guildsman!” Kaori yelled, tears in her eyes. “Help me with my father!”
The captain turned from Kin with a snarl, knelt beside Daichi. Four Kagé lifted the old man onto their shoulders and he cried out, clutching his ribs, mouth painted in a bloody O. Kaori bid them run swift, carrying their fallen leader back to Old Mari’s infirmary. With a hateful glance at Kin, she selected a few warriors to remain behind and ensure every demon had breathed their last. The remainder were set to task gathering up their wounded brethren.
Thunder roaring overhead. Wind clawing through the trees. Rain hissing like a serpent’s nest. Limping and bleeding and dazed, the Kagé headed back to the shelter of the village. Kin stood amidst it all, lost and adrift, knocked aside by one warrior, yet another spitting at his feet. His agonized gaze was fixed on the silent ’throwers, the ruptured seals, wondering again how it was possible. For one to fail, perhaps. Two an outside chance. But for all to malfunction at once? How could it be?
He staggered through the rain toward his emplacement, sickness roiling in his belly.
“Guildsman.”
Isao’s voice brought him up short. Grabbed him by the throat and bid him turn to stare.
Three of them stood there in the rain. Isao. Atsushi. Takeshi. Arms folded, fists clenched, anger and contempt unveiled on their faces. Takeshi took a step toward him, but Isao put out a restraining hand, muttered something too low for Kin to hear. With a snarl, the big boy turned to the fallen oni, Atsushi by his side. Walking from body to body, they chopped at the pit demon’s throats, sluices of black blood arcing in the rain, ensuring every one of them was dead.
Isao remained. Eyes narrowed. Sword sheathed at his back. And lifting one slow hand, he pointed at Kin, then made a sawing motion at his throat.
Dread lined Kin’s guts with a sickly chill. The other Kagé had already moved off, his knowledge that he was alone out here burning with sudden clarity in his mind. And so he slunk into the scrub, into the shadows, finally bolting for the Kagé prison. It was the only place he could think to go. He knew now the boys would stop at nothing. If they were willing to do this, they were willing to do anything.
He recalled Isao’s appeal for Daichi not to fight at the ’thrower line. The boy had been pleading. Almost desperate. And now, Kin finally understood why. The image lingering in his mind’s eye as he ran—Isao sawing away at his throat, the telltale black stain in the flickering storm light.
Grease stains on his hands.
24
MERCIES
Ichizo watched the Daimyo of the Tora Clan raise his sword, blood-red sunlight gleaming on the blade, level with his opponent’s throat. Hiro’s foe drew breath through clenched teeth, weapon hanging from his grip as if it were an armful of bricks. Hiro glared at the samurai facing him across polished boards, amidst the lifeless stares of hollow men, muscles gleaming, iron arm spitting a thin plume of exhaust into the stifling air.
Then he lunged.
Ichizo could barely track his cousin’s movement, Hiro’s prosthetic a blur, his blade smashing aside his foe’s guard, the Daimyo spinning on the spot and bringing his katana in a sweeping arc across the man’s ribs. The wooden blade cracked against the samurai’s breastplate, denting the metal, a spattered, damp exhalation leaving his lips as the man fell to his knees, clutching his side, face twisted in pain. Hiro stood above him, sword raised above his head for the would-be deathblow.
The samurai raised his hand in surrender.
“Yield, great Lord,” he rasped. “I yield.”
Ichizo’s applause mingled with that of the servants, Hiro’s four other sparring partners, bent and bruised and hovering at the training dojo’s edge. Their Daimyo had been beating on the men for the best part of an hour, Ichizo hovering outside, listening to the sharp cries, the grunts of pain, until he had finally lost patience, entering to seek words with his clanlord.
Hiro helped his opponent to his feet, and noticing Ichizo amidst the retinue, raised an eyebrow in question. The Daimyo was fighting unarmored, all muscle and sweat, flesh gleaming in the fading light. Long black hair was drawn back in a tail, a sodden river trailing down his chest, clinging to his skin. A short puncture scar marred the taut pectoral muscle above his heart, just a few inches shy of a killing blow. The flesh at his right shoulder was inked with a mangled tiger tattoo, an iron collar affixed around his bicep, hiding the union between his flesh and the prosthetic the Guild had gifted him. Ichizo was unnerved by the sight—the union of meat and machine far too akin to a Lotusman for his tastes.
Shōgun Yoritomo had always kept his distance from the chi-mongers—always kept the delineation between throne and Guild clear. But it seemed Hiro had thrown in with them without so much as a backward glance. He knew the power the Lotusmen offered his cousin, knew how much rode upon this union between Hiro and Lady Aisha, what would become of the nation if the clans fell to civil war. And yet, unease at this overt alliance with the Guild grew in him daily—more than the threat of Kagé insurgents hiding in the shadows, the Stormdancer fermenting discontent from the north. And he wondered what price the Daimyo would truly pay for his throne.
And yet Hiro was his cousin. His blood. His Lord. To think such things—
“You wish to speak with me, Ichizo-san?”
Hiro dropped his bokken to the floor, the wooden sword striking the boards with a sharp clatter. A servant scuttled from the periphery with a cup of almost clear water, hovering by his Lord’s side.
“It is no matter, great Lord.” Ichizo bowed. “I should not have interrupted your training. It can wait.”
“Well, you have interrupted now. We might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
The Daimyo motioned to the row of wooden katana, the training dummies clad in practice armor. A small smile on his lips.
“I fear I would prove little contest for you, great Lord,” Ichizo said.
Hiro grinned. “Since when did that stop you in the past?”
“Oh ho.” Ichizo grinned in return. “I recall besting you once or twice, at least.”