Sasurai

[Flames of Hyperion]

Sasurai (n): The act of wandering aimlessly, or a person doing so.

***

The events of this tale take place some six months before the one the elves call ‘Ingwe Helyanwe’ set sail for Raiaera and the events of the Great Corpse War. During this period of his life, he styled himself ‘Sasurai-no-Ijin, Nanashi’ (literally translating to ‘nameless wandering foreigner’), ‘Sasurai-no-Nanashi’ (‘nameless wanderer’) if he did not wish his heritage to be known, or simply ‘Nanashi’ (‘nameless’).

[Flames of Hyperion]

Outskirts of Komana, Hozumi Province, Nippon
Month of New Growth

***

The lone traveller flitted between cherry trees in full blossom, legs pumping as he tackled the slope one long stride at a time. He ran like a foreigner, the ground literally flying beneath his feet, his lungs heaving for air as he skipped across the low grass. The mantle about his shoulders billowed in the wind, and one hand held down his conical hat of woven straw to keep it from simply flying away. Loose thin robes clung to his spare frame, travel-worn but clean; sprinkled with pink petals that clung to his passage like lovelorn lingerers, they helped him to blend into his scenery like a swift-running ghost.

At length he reached the top of the hill. There he stopped, gasping for breath as he took in the scenery appreciatively. A lone wooden building lay in a not-so-distant valley, served by an overgrown track that his experienced eyes could only barely pick out because he knew where to look, surrounded by even more cherry trees in pink and white bloom. The beautiful seasonal flurries subjugated the remainder of the landscape into a drab muddle: earthy fields waiting for the rice planting, low-lying hills such as the one upon which he stood, and the ever-present mountains in the distance bristling with the new green growth of spring. Songbirds queried his intentions from somewhere above his head, and a small smile touched his lips in response.

He turned back towards the way from which he had come, finding the time to calm his lungs before his pursuers caught up with him. They had followed him dutifully, almost tenaciously, from the nearby castle town, despite the fact that their stiffer clothing and the swords worn at their waist limited them to a unique shuffling gait that had quickly left them in his wake. He supposed he owed it to them to at least find out who they were, and why they chased after him, of all people.

Calmly he studied them from above battered spectacles as they belligerently shouldered past slack-jawed travellers and peasants on the trek to their fields. The largest of the men led the way, barrelling towards his target with scant regard for his surroundings, bellowing a furious challenge at the top of his voice. Face ravaged by the pock-mark scars of some childhood disease, his hand already gripped the hilt of his longer sword. The two others followed meekly in their superior’s wake, concentrating on keeping pace; one stumbled tall and thin, pale with his exertions, whilst the other limped slightly on his right foot. They all wore the immaculate topknots that signified their station as high-ranking officials under the local lord, emphasised by the elaborate insignia borne proudly upon their quality cotton robes.

He wondered for a brief moment what kind of trouble he found himself in this time. Then he pushed the stray thought to one side and focused on the inevitably looming confrontation.

***

“Scoundrel!” the large man spat from between heavy heaves for air, his words slurred by a regional accent and just a hint of alcohol. “You will answer for your crimes against Lord Hosokawa!”

The samurai’s hand remained primed on the hilt of his long katana, his feet set apart just so in a stance ready to strike. This was no bored official, but a warrior itching for blood. The wanderer knew that he had to choose his words with great care.

“I am Nanashi, a mere nameless wanderer. I have no recollection of the crimes of which you speak.”

The contrast between the two could not have been more pronounced. The samurai was heavy-set, muscular and bandy-legged from too many hours in the saddle; the wanderer was gaunt from hard living and long days on the road. The samurai was of middle age, his complexion ruddy from sake and sun; the wanderer was only just entering manhood, and as pale as one of the dying blossoms that floated about his head, the product of too many hours at study. The samurai spoke with brash purpose and blatant challenge; the wanderer's voice was mild, almost gentle, calm and reassuring.

“Silence!” the former bellowed angrily, clearly in no mood for banter. His followers settled uneasily into fighting stances, edging around to flank the wanderer on either side. “Crimes against the Lord’s retainers are equivalent to crimes against the Lord himself! You will pay with your head for this discourtesy!”

He inched closer, his straw sandals scraping on the stony path. His beady black eyes focused hard, and his hand remained attached to the hilt of his sword.

The wanderer’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly in turn.

“I would know your name, then, before I am brought to justice.”

The uneven shuffle of the man on his right. The breathless, hesitant steps of the man on his left. The whisper of metal on wood as they drew steel, slim crescent blades flashing in the morning sun. But the wanderer kept most of his attention on the leader to his fore, and the katana that remained as yet sheathed beneath a layer of malevolent black lacquer. He recognised the stance, the specific set of the feet and poise of the torso.

“I have no name to give to a measly wanderer!”

Another cautious step forward. The fact that neither of his underlings seemed willing to close the distance provided the last piece in the puzzle.

The wanderer sighed, reluctantly pulling his own weapon from within the folds of his robes. He revealed it to be a short guard-less wakizashi barely half as long as the samurai’s katana, its sheath plain unadorned wood. Little more than a dagger, it paled in comparison with his opponent’s blade; a child’s plaything, a mere toy.

One final step forward. He could almost smell the alcohol on the samurai’s breath. He could certainly see the grin of triumph on the man’s face, certain of imminent victory.

The sword leapt from its scabbard like quicksilver, slashing in a crescent arc towards the wanderer’s face. An arm’s length of tempered steel that could slice through a body as easily as wind through a field of grass, aimed perfectly at the young man’s neck. Years of accumulated practice and martial training birthed a masterstroke of a blow, enacted by the beautifully patterned wave of an exquisitely crafted blade. Perfection given form.

The samurai’s robe split open at the waist, exposing a dirty loincloth to the warm spring breeze.

He gaped in surprise at the unexpected, confusion writ clearly upon his features. His eyes darted about in panic: the tip of his sword as it quivered at the end of his stroke, the remains of his belt as they fluttered to the ground, the glimmer of metal that shone from the wanderer’s partly drawn blade, the calm on the man's face as he settled to the his toes after a short backwards leap. They finally settled upon the faces of his companions, both equally shocked.

Spurred by the boiling anger in his stare, they struck. But the wanderer stepped to the right before the breathless man could move, ramming the hilt of his shortsword into the man’s throat. The man staggered backwards, completely winded and unable to draw air, his weapon clattering to the ground from nerveless fingers. The other swordsman attacked from behind, but he stepped too clumsily and his stroke slid aside unbalanced. The wanderer easily stepped out of its way, then lashed a kick towards the soldier’s exposed knee. Whether an old war wound or a childhood injury, the young man would never know. The swordsman crumpled like a sack of rice, moaning gently as he clutched at his leg.

The wanderer stepped back again as their leader slashed violently at his shadow, screaming his defiance. But his loose robes hampered his movements, sending the stroke wide, and then he stumbled over the legs of his prone comrade and fell to his knees. Anger and frustration clouded his vision like a fog, compounded by the effect of too much alcohol. Then realisation struck, and the red mist dissipated from his eyes.

“You,” he growled, suddenly calm again. “I remember you now. You’re the son of that foreigner. The one that taught briefly at the Tohokan school under the previous Lord.”

The wanderer didn’t reply, although inwardly he could not contain his shock. It had been… how many years since he had visited the area? It staggered his mind to think that the bellicose samurai recognised him. But the needs of the present took precedence over such wonders, and he raised his dagger – fully sheathed once more – across his body in a defensive stance. The soft whimpering of the injured men echoed on the hilltop, their hands grasping listlessly at fallen hilts.

“Your eyes betray you, filthy half-blood cur. Always too curious, too intelligent for your own good. Son of a foreign barbarian who never should have set foot on the sacred soil of our lands, and the treacherous whore who would bed him and bear his seed. I, Katagiri Kamanosuke, will see justice done and your dishonourable head roll if it is the last thing I do!”

The samurai lunged again, heedless of the state of his clothes or the plight of his subordinates. His sword arced gracefully through the petal-strewn air, faultlessly seeking to carve the wanderer in twain from shoulder to hipbone.

Then it ricocheted from an unseen force, the impact carrying it from its bearer’s hands and sending it spinning through the air until it buried blade-first in ground fully ten paces away. The samurai staggered backwards two steps, hands still shaking as his eyes focused once again on the barest sliver of metal between the wanderer’s scabbard and hilt.

His hand immediately sought the secondary weapon at his waist, the dagger of similar proportions as the wanderer’s that all samurai wore as back-up. To his surprise, however, it wasn’t there… it had fallen to the ground earlier along with his belt.

“How dare you…”

Before he could finish his sentence, however, something sharp and silvery slashed across his upper torso. His robes, loosened by the loss of his belt, now joined the rest of his garments upon the damp earth… cleanly torn through by precise cuts. The wanderer hadn’t even moved.

The hesitant soldier managed a strangled gargle through his crushed throat before taking off the way he had come, sword still drawn. His limping companion let loose a terrified scream before following as best he could, using his katana as a makeshift crutch.

At this, Kamanosuke Katagiri’s will finally broke. Slowly backing away, his eyes blazing with pure hatred, he spat, “You beast… you barbaric monster. I… I…!”

Then he too turned and ran. Back towards the castle town in the distance, back through the blossom-lined avenue and the earthy paddies to either side.

The wanderer sighed gently as he replaced the dagger into his robes. Then, knees shaking with adrenaline, he slowly sank to the ground at the base of the nearest cherry tree.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Beast! Monster!

Outsider! We don’t like your kind here!

Foreign barbarian!

The new Lord Gamo has decreed that his predecessor’s policies of attempting to learn from and coexist with the foreign barbarians are misguided and misinformed. You are hereby ordered to leave this town of Uji forthwith.

Devil’s spawn!

You ain’t one of us, boy.

Get lost, heathen scum.

Heavens above, have you heard that lad speak? He sounds just like one of us, he does. Sends chills up my spine, it does. Almost as if those barbaric savages are learning to be proper people. Like a trained monkey, maybe… a filthy, disgusting, trained monkey.

“Well, something happened here.”

The voice sliced through his reverie, returning him to reality with a jerk of his elbow and a nod of his head. Again the sound of sandals upon stones rang in his ears, this time accompanied by the tread of iron horseshoes. Measured and languid, neither cadence served to threaten him.

“You’re late.” The wanderer squinted through his spectacles at the mid-morning sun. “By about half an hour.”

“Lord Moriwaki’s third concubine needed attention. A lady’s requests always take precedence.” The newcomer took a long look at the sword still embedded blade-downwards in the ground, ten paces distant. “That’s a good sword. Looks familiar, in fact. Is that Katagiri Kamanosuke’s?”

The wanderer shrugged.

“He was proud of that sword, you know. Family heirloom, been passed down from father to son for generations. A masterpiece made by one of the five swordsmiths of old. If I remember correctly.” The newcomer paused, rubbing his five o’clock shadow with the back of his hand. “Would these be his garments then?”

Again, the wanderer simply shrugged.

“Interesting. Now my next question is thus. Would this have anything to do with the three samurai I passed a few minutes ago, running back towards Komana Castle with their tails between their legs?”

“I didn’t start the fight,” the wanderer replied at length. “He was bothering a young woman in town, so I stepped in and asked him to stop. I guess he took offence, since he chased me all the way out here in an attempt to take my head.”

“Oh?” The clank of wooden scabbard on tree trunk accompanied the single word as the newcomer settled into a squat alongside the wanderer. “I’d rather you didn’t cause bad blood with the daimyo’s retainers. At least for no reason, you know. I, Sanada Akiyoshi, have enough trouble as is. Was she pretty?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the wanderer replied diffidently, a small smile playing about his lips. “I don’t spend my mornings attending to the needs of lordly concubines. I hope it’s not going to cause too much trouble…”

“One should never compare a heavenly lotus with an earthly rose. For both are beautiful beyond compare.” Akiyoshi nodded sagely. “And I would not worry. It would bring great shame upon Katagiri to mention this to his lord. And it would be unseemly indeed for Lord Hosokawa to act upon it. Especially if the opponent in question was the newly arrived guest of the eldest son of his superior.”

The warrior grinned, his rounded features wreathed in mirth so contagious that his companion found it difficult not to smile back. Deep red robes stood out starkly against the pink blossoms and the earthly tones of his surroundings; the shabby blue of the wanderer’s garb seemed positively ashen in comparison. A handsome man, built stocky and solid, he too wore his hair in the elaborate topknot that signified high status. Accompanying the overlarge greatsword on his back with only the shorter of the usual pair of swords at his waist, he deviated from the norm in a nonchalant manner that no doubt upset many of the traditionalists at court.

“I hear you style yourself Nanashi now?” he asked. His companion seemed lost in thought once more, bespectacled gaze lingering dreamily upon the building in the distance. Once upon a time, his father had held class there, showcasing the wonders of the foreign realms to wide-eyed youngsters such as Akiyoshi. Now it lay abandoned and ruined, burnt to the ground by some misfortune long past.

“I am nameless, after all,” the wanderer murmured in reply, self-effacing and modest. Akiyoshi grunted.

“So what have you been doing these past ten years?”

“… six,” Nanashi corrected.

“The Choson War doesn’t count. Between the fighting and the running, we barely had the chance to talk.”

“In which case, it’s been almost twelve.”

“… twelve, then.” He found it hard to believe that so much time had passed. The nameless boy hadn’t changed… always far too serious, far too guarded. He even took the time to consider what should have been a simple reply for long moments more than necessary.

“Studying… roaming… nothing much, I suppose. I’d like to think that I’ve made a difference someplace somewhere, but the fact that I can’t even say that with confidence speaks volumes, I think…” His spectacles had slipped down his nose, but still he kept his eyes focused on the dilapidated building in the distance, as if searching the fallen wood and scorched embers for an answer he could not find elsewhere. It was not forthcoming. “You?”

“Learning to follow my good father in the stewardship of our lands,” Akiyoshi said with an exaggerated yawn. “Would you believe just how much paperwork is needed to maintain the holdings of a tiny village and a single manor? Much less the entirety of the province?”

“I can’t guess.” Again Nanashi smiled that curious small smile. “How are your brothers?”

Akiyoshi seemed pleased that the wanderer had remembered. “Both well. Hide took the tonsure upon returning from the Academy. He’s in the mountains at Horyuji Temple. At least until he gets bored of it.”

“And Taka? Is he…”

“He’s still at the Academy.” The two men shared a nostalgic smile at days long past. “Having as much fun as we did until… well…”

“Until it all went wrong.”

“Yeah.”

Mere mention of the subject stalled the conversation. Neither man wanted to be the one to broach it further, so the silence grew until it engulfed the pair of them like a voracious maw. Twelve years later, and they both still felt uncomfortable about the events that had driven them apart. Nanashi blamed himself for being unable to prevent the atrocity in the first place, for not being strong enough to hold the class together afterwards, for failing to bring them all back together again in the years that had passed, and for proving unsuccessful during that time in divining the underlying truths. Akiyoshi had moved on, but only by growing a thick scab over the wound; if he picked at it, it still bled.

Rooted against the base of the cherry tree, they allowed time to drift past like the scent of breakfast broth from the nearby town. Passers-by paid them no attention as they went by their daily chores, although they stayed well clear of the sword still standing in the middle of the road like a monument of ill repute. The warrior studied each of them in turn as they walked past, letting his eye linger on a particularly attractive peasant girl or scrutinising the wares of a merchant peddler. The wanderer lost himself in thought again, his features composed and inscrutable, his desolate gaze never drifting from the ruin in the valley below.

The wind gave a sigh at their melancholy, blowing petals into their faces until the warrior choked and the scholar was blinded. Both smiled at the sight of the other, and for the time being they succeeded in driving away their sorrow.

“Well, welcome to Hozumi province. My home.”

Akiyoshi reached for the reins of his horse, soothing its nervous whickering with an outstretched hand. Horses indigenous to Nippon grew smaller and hardier than those brought to the barbarian outpost at Sado by foreign knights. Not as fast or as powerful as destriers and chargers, nonetheless they could better manage the island’s famously mountainous rocky terrain. They also generally possessed a calmer temperament than the warhorses of the west, but for some reason any horse that Akiyoshi favoured suddenly developed a fiercely stubborn streak. No doubt they sensed the fire-breathing beast that dwelt inside of him, and justly feared to be tamed. For the Sanada clan claimed descent from the ancient dragons themselves, their blood passed down through innumerable generations of warriors, and rumours whispered that they were blessed with the ability to change form to that of their ancestors in times of dire need.

“You’ve already met some of the locals, and as their liege I apologise for their behaviour. I promise you that as long as I’m around, it won’t happen again.” His tone may have been flippant, but the apology was sincere. From what he had learnt of his friend’s life after leaving the Academy, the man had been through altogether far too many such incidents.

Nanashi laughed for the first time in weeks, a surprisingly pleasant sound even to his own ears. Unlike Akiyoshi he did not hold confidence in the notion that his new position would protect him; he’d grown too used to being an outcast and a pariah for that. But he felt grateful for the gesture, and for the friendship of the heir to the province, even one as unorthodox as to ride about the countryside unescorted to greet him.

Expulsion from the Academy after the Night of Nefarious Flame had greatly affected the young man’s life. Blamed for the daemonic incursion that had devastated the institute grounds and claimed so many lives, he had devoted his entire being to seeking amends. At first he had visited the great sages of his homeland, and then the learned elves that visited from across the seas, absorbing what he could of their knowledge. When that turned out to be insufficient, he delved into self-study at the numerous libraries and academies throughout the nation and beyond; on one of these adventures, he had been caught up in the events of the Choson War, reacquainting with Akiyoshi for the briefest of times. And when such endeavours could satisfy him no longer, he turned to introspection, holing up in his own private world to focus on further researching and developing his knowledge.

Given the opportunity, Nanashi might have spent his entire life in such a manner, alone and forever grasping at something just out of reach. But Akiyoshi had not forgotten him, and the young lordling’s messengers sought him out one day in his isolated hovel to offer him a chance. A chance to accept a temporary teaching position in Ueda, and to make use of its considerable resources in preparing to head overseas.

For Akiyoshi had somehow realised what it had taken over a decade for Nanashi to learn… that to uncover the truth beneath all that had happened on the Night of Nefarious Flame, it would be necessary for him to head to Raiaera, mystical homeland of the elves from across the seas.

He could not help but tremble slightly at the daunting undertaking, for not since the days of the earliest ill-fated explorers had any Nipponese travelled that far west and lived to tell the tale. True, plenty came in the opposite direction – traders and preachers, knights seeking exotic challenge and wise men searching for new frontiers – but by the Shogun’s decree no pure-blooded Nipponese set sail from their homeland, under threat of permanent exile. Only a scant few dared to defy banishment in pursuit of the wider world, and even fewer could safely evade it on a trifling caveat. For perhaps the first time in his life, Nanashi’s mixed heritage worked in his favour.

He actually even found himself looking forward to it.

With a smile that boded well for the future, he retied the strap of his hat beneath his whiskered chin. Standing up to join his friend, he still looked every inch the battered travel-weary wanderer, but a slight spring in his step that hadn’t been there in years attested to his rare high spirits. Even his voice, when he finally ventured a question of his own accord, seemed brighter than usual.

“Where’s your castle?”

“Ueda? Over that way, about five leagues.” Akiyoshi pointed with his free hand, gently nuzzling the horse in the correct direction.

“A long ride.”

“Tell me about it, I’ve been up since before dawn.” The warrior grimaced; the wanderer bowed his head, suitably honoured. “We’d do well to get back by sunset. It’s a long walk. Which means, of course that we’ve plenty of time to talk. Oh, and you’ve got stories to tell. Begin by telling me, how was your journey here?”

Nanashi smiled, once again that small sheepish smile.

“Funny that you should mention it, actually…”

[Flames of Hyperion]

Three weeks earlier…
Kosaka manor, Nagakura, Wachi Province, Nippon
Month of Silk

***

The province of Wachi nestled deep within the mountainous central belt of the main isle of Nippon. An isolated and relatively quiet corner of the country, summer smothered it in broadleaf foliage whilst winter buried it beneath knee-deep drifts of snow. Unlike the neighbouring province of Hozumi, whose lords took keen interest in the running of the nation, Wachi preferred to ignore political manoeuvring and warmongering in favour of eking out a humble existence amongst the myriad dangers of the untamed wilderness. Inured to bad weather and misfortune, close-knit and yet intensely independent, its people adhered to principles practical and hardy. The ruling families of the province adopted a similar approach, ignoring the luxuries of the Imperial Court in favour of personally guiding and protecting their people, shunning the summons of the Shogun unless absolutely necessary.

The Kosaka counted themselves chief amongst those ruling families, an ancient line who could proudly trace their lineage to the First Emperor through forty generations. In return for their position as the administrator of three villages and the small town of Nagakura, the clan drew a stipend of a thousand koku from the provincial lord. This provided for a decently sized home and a handful of personal retainers, as well as thirty armed men who guarded the estate and patrolled the surrounding lands. Masanobu Kosaka, the current head of the family, maintained a reputation as an effective, if somewhat conservative, elder.

As the effective seat of rule for the immediate vicinity, the walled Kosaka manor on the outskirts of Nagakura often played host to a variety of visitors ranging from passing nobility to travelling peddlers. On a particularly cold evening in the Month of Silk, guests quite literally packed the compound from wall to wall, beams to floorboards. The main hall, some sixty tatami mats in size, opened up to the roofed balcony walkway and the crisply moonlit garden beyond, allowing gay revelry to escape like frosty breath into the star-speckled river overhead.

The guests faced each other on thin cushions set upon the hard reed mats, a cursory concession to luxury in a setting unaccustomed to it. They shared in a frugal dinner consisting mainly of multiple courses of river fish and rice, served on legged trays of lacquered hardwood and accompanied by porcelain pitchers of warm rice liquor. At the head of the room squatted Masanobu Kosaka himself, grimly resplendent in dour demeanour. The diminutive figure of his youngest daughter, face hidden beneath an oversized white headdress, sat alongside him.

Twenty hard-faced men lined one side of the room, their features weathered by long hours outdoors and ravaged by cold and disease. It did not take a mind-reader to note the tension that hung heavily over their heads. Five of their number dressed in matching robes of pale washed indigo, proudly bearing the hawk feather crest that marked their position as Lord Kosaka’s retainers, bodyguards, and staff. The remaining fifteen all wore mismatched tatters of travelwear that had obviously seen far better days, displaying with prideful disdain the sword scars of conflicts long past. Out of respect for the laws of hospitality they sheathed their weapons, respectfully placing them on the floor to their right so they could not be drawn easily. But as obvious as the lantern moon in the cloudless night sky, they intended to cut first and ask questions later should their counterparts attempt anything out of the ordinary. They styled themselves mercenaries but in truth were little more than lordless brigands, bound under the tenuous leadership of a grizzled veteran named Gozo, whose proud display of bristling facial hair stuck out joyfully in every possible direction.

Opposite the men, partaking far more jovially of the food and drink on offer, sat a motley assembly of monsters from all corners of the Wachi wilds. Here a faceless woman poured sake into the cup of a warrior whose head hovered a fingerspan above his severed neck. There a water imp reached out with snake-like tongue to nab the pickled cucumbers from his neighbour’s tray. A giant centipedal insect fed itself voraciously from four plates at once, whilst a long-nosed tengu serenely contemplated the shimmering surface of the garden pond. Twenty of their number participated in the feast, one for every human present, but at least a hundred more teemed outside the heavy iron gates. No matter how small or weak at first glance, each and every one of them counted themselves at least the equal of the trembling Kosaka footmen who watched nervously from their guardhouses.

I sit now before the Chieftains of the Night Parade. The embodiment of all the terror and superstition that the ayakashi evoke in the ordinary people. And yet, for all their appearance, they behave little different from your average drunk soldier.

The contemplative thoughts resounded incongruously amidst the charged atmosphere. The young man that sat at the end of the room, furthest from the lord and his daughter, appeared equally out of place. Not as ragged as that of the mercenaries beside him, his garb nonetheless required more attention than he could spare it, though his face was youthful and as yet unscarred. Dark intelligent eyes peered at his surroundings from over a pair of heavy spectacles that kept slipping down his nose, nearly obscured by equally dark hair that had obviously not been cared for in months. He had arrived in town late that evening, alone and unannounced, and had only been offered a seat at the banquet at the whimsical behest of Masanobu’s wife, who had spied him sheltering beneath an abandoned shed on the outskirts. Even now he attracted hostile glares from both the heavily muscled men he sat alongside as well as those of the Night Parade that remained sober enough to be wary.

He didn’t blame them. Few travelled the roads alone in Wachi, especially in the grip of late winter when the power of the supernatural waxed strong. A stranger who wore as outlandish attire as his spectacles only attracted further attention, little of it friendly; the fact that he only identified himself as a nameless wanderer – Sasurai-no-Nanashi – cemented their suspicions. No doubt the serving ladies now occupied themselves by feverishly speculating over his identity, spreading fanciful rumours of daemonspawn or an undercover Imperial agent.

Nanashi wondered to himself just how far from the truth some of those rumours would be. A small smile played about his thin lips, causing the goblinoid akki across from him to stare in suspicion.

The subtle commotion spread ripples tangible and wide through the tensely strung atmosphere. Suddenly the young man felt the severe stare of the Lord Kosaka himself on his face, warning him sternly to keep calm and not ignite a potential cause for unruly behaviour. Chastened by his momentary loss of self-control, he shifted slightly in his seat and bowed his head in apology, just so. Mollified the gaze passed away, and all was well once more.

He took the opportunity to glance at the young girl at the lord’s side, the centre of the ceremony and the cause for this particularly quaint gathering of man and monster. She must have been around ten years of age, her child-like frame dwarfed not only by the fine robes she wore but also by the occasion itself. Her skin glistened almost translucently pale, her fluttering movements small and dignified; whether through shock, or whether simply her nature, he could not tell. Certainly not all girls her age would be able to sit so calmly through their betrothal ceremony to the absent High Chieftain of the Night Parade. He could almost admire the stoic peace in her eyes, the acceptance of her fate that gave her the strength to bear it so well.

Almost.

The night meandered on, moon rising higher into the pitch-black sky and drowning its fellow celestial bodies in untempered brilliance. Nanashi ate only sparingly and drunk none, carefully observing as the ayakashi grew ever more uninhibited and the men ever more sullen. Once, twice, the tension threatened to explode into an all-out brawl, for example when the water imp’s love of pickled cucumber got the better of him and his tongue knocked over the drink of the head mercenary. Somehow, Lord Kosaka’s stern gaze kept all involved in check.

By the time the last of the food had been finished and the trays cleared away, the moon had almost reached its zenith. Pools of soft white light cast uneven shadows amongst the pebble-strewn courtyard, and the carefully pruned trees loomed like stalking ogres in the faint wind. The seeping chill that accompanied winter’s gradual retreat didn’t seem to affect those of the Night Parade who had passed out drunk in the midst of the carefully arranged hedges, but it forced the young man to draw his thin robe closer about him to ward off the shivers. His mind pondered on a way to safely excuse himself for the night, when the sudden summons cut through his reverie.

“Young’un, come here.”

Obediently Nanashi did as bid, rising solemnly to his feet and slowly making the long journey to the front of the hall. His bare feet rasped on the straw mats as he walked; hackles on the back of his neck rose as they fielded the angry glares from the mercenaries he passed. To be invited to speak directly to the lord was a great honour, one that none save their leader had been afforded. By the time he arrived before Lord Kosaka and folded himself into a seated position with great deliberation, the hostility directed at his shoulders made him start to regret his acceptance.

“My lord, I humbly thank you for the hospitality that you have shown a poor traveller such as myself this evening,” he spoke formally, bowing low, ignoring the derisive snorts that echoed on the edge of his hearing.

Who knew why Lady Kosaka had invited him in to such a feast and left him dangling so far out of his depth? Was it merely the fleeting whim of a bored noblewoman? Motherly instinct stirred by the sight of a young man seeking shelter from the insidious cold? Or was there something more… a flicker of hope, perhaps seen in hints of outlandish garb and fortuitous timing, that he could save her daughter from her cruel fate?

Truth told, his road needn’t have led him through Wachi. The alternative coastal route saw more travellers throughout the year, and in particular minimised the risk of a sudden snowstorm that could add weeks to his journey. Akiyoshi’s missives had made it clear that he did not expect any rush, which meant that the inherent risk outweighed any time he could shave by taking the shorter route through the mountains. But Nanashi did not like to keep people waiting, especially if they went out of their way to be generous to him… and more than anything else, he had finally seen in Akiyoshi’s invitation a key to unlock gates that had hitherto been closed to him, gates that would hopefully lead him back to Kayu and the truth.He found it harder not to rush.

He didn’t know how to explain all this to his host, though. Heavens knew how he could even explain his name. Hence he held his silence and waited for the older man to speak, dreading what would be asked of him.

“I will not ask who you are, young’un, or why you’re here at this kami-forsaken time.” The nameless wanderer relaxed imperceptibly. “I would, however, ask that you accept a cup of sake on this occasion. As a blessing, of course.”

Lord Kosaka looked every bit as uncompromising as he sounded, features craggy and hairs greying from the strain of keeping his people safe through long years of natural disaster and man-wrought strife. A wry smile played around his lips, not so different from the one he had warned the young man about earlier during the meal. Sympathy, perhaps? Or mistrust?

Nanashi contemplated the offer, for a moment too long. Murmurs of disapproval once again echoed at the edge of his hearing.

“I thank you for your offer,” he said at length, choosing his words carefully. “It would be my honour to accept.”

His youth and inexperience proved to be his downfall. Impulsively, instinctively, he reached out for the narrow-necked server that contained the warmed rice wine, intending to pour for his host. He caught himself a moment too late, and not before the murmurs of disapproval had turned to gasps of dismay.

Never reach towards a superior unless you have his explicit approval first!

Even though the families of Wachi did not adhere to strict court manners, the respect that a younger man had to accord his elder remained absolute. Even if Lord Kosaka forgave him, face demanded that the clan head judge harshly. Had he committed such a breach of etiquette in the Imperial Courts in Kyo, he would have been chastened and banished. In the worst case, even slitting his stomach in disgrace would not have been sufficient. The young man froze as stiff as a board, cursing his momentary lapse in discipline, dreading how the venerable lord would respond to his indiscretion. A thousand scenarios played out in his mind, but they all depended on what Lord Kosaka did next.

His daughter salvaged the situation.

“Please allow me,” she interceded, her voice like soft snow as she spoke for the first time that evening. Deftly she folded the young man’s hand back to his side, the touch of her palm silken and compassionate. She reached low to take up the server, keeping her gaze demurely downcast. Oversized robes rustled pleasantly as dainty fingers poured just the correct amount of alcohol into a pair of saucer-like cups. The young man finally managed a glance at her face as she did so. Beneath the heavy makeup and the decorative panoply, he did not miss the tell-tale hints of bloodshot red in the corners of her eyes. He forced himself to revise his earlier estimate; this close, he saw that she was no older than eight.

He bowed to her formally to express his sincere gratitude, even as part of his mind reeled uncomprehending. To be fair it was not unheard of for girls that young to be betrothed and sent to live with their future husbands, especially in the rural provinces where suitable opportunities were few and far between, but still…

She bowed back, the barest hint of a playful smile interrupting the dark line of his thoughts. But her eyes remained lifeless and distant, an expression more suited to a widow than a bride-to-be.

“I thank you once again for the honour,” he intoned, sipping lightly of the brew. He had tasted of more luxuriant flavours during his travels – one never warmed truly good sake, since it hampered the aroma – but the strong smooth liquor did wonders in chasing the chill from his bones. Lord Kosaka did the same from his own cup, then swiftly downed the remainder in a single mouthful.

“Not quite a true oni yet, I see.” The older man leaned close to keep the words private between the three of them, his jibe a gruff whisper. Nanashi’s spine stiffened in surprise; the girl stifled a small giggle, her eyes sparking briefly to some semblance of life. Only then did he saw how pretty she was, in a childish manner.

Then the moment dissolved like a snowflake on the palm of his hand. Lord Kosaka sighed, whether in sympathy or in regret the young man had no way to tell. A wave of a gnarled hand dismissed him back to his seat, the movement accompanied by the faintest whiffs of earth and liquor. He backed away without a second thought, mostly glad to be able to slink back into the shadows of obscurity once more. The disparaging glares followed him back to the foot of the room, but he shrugged them away like inconsequential flies, falling back on years of experience dealing with subtle hatred.

Try as he might, however, he could not forget the young girl’s lifeless eyes as she bowed to him. The vision seared into his memory like a brand upon flesh, throbbing painfully and refusing to fade.

Only then did he realise that he had made up his mind a long time prior.

And when he returned to his seat and found the young girl staring thoughtfully at him from across the vast hall, he found the courage within himself to give her the ghost of a smile in return.

Stay strong.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Little more than a dirt track gleaming brightly beneath the full gaze of the pockmarked moon, the frosty band wound its way past patches of bare rice paddy. Cultivated land retreated before shadowy groves of bamboo and bare broadleaf, until only isolated shafts of light managed to pierce the thickly interwoven branches. The road whimsically trailed a swiftly flowing stream towards its mountain source, flirting playfully with the opposite embankment but never crossing the rushing water. Earthly scents of damp rock and cold trees mingled in the air, but the surrounding countryside seemed content to simply hold its breath and wait for the storm to pass by.

The reason for this was a simple one. The members of the Night Parade earned no renown for subtlety at the best of times, and on this occasion, returning victorious from a banquet at the house of their oldest enemy, they had more reason than ever to celebrate triumphantly. The resulting raucous racket resounded loudly enough to drive away the spiritual kami themselves, much less the denizens of the physical world who wished not to risk contact with the procession even when sober. A multihued carpet of lesser ayakashi gallivanted about the road in drunken glee, an ever-shifting cloud of cackling bodies and dancing hands. Surrounded at their centre strode four plodding oni, shouldering a decorated palanquin with curtains drawn tightly shut against the cacophony. In their immediate vicinity walked the Chieftains of the Parade, all familiar faces from the feast, all blindingly inebriated and merry.

The wind barely stirred as the Parade gradually made its way from the heavily forested hills the humans called home towards the taller, more forbidding mountains that formed their own domain. Even the vegetation felt untamed and wild, ranging as free as the supernatural beings it sheltered. The temperature had plummeted, frosty circles beginning to form on the hard ground. Aside from the alcoholic breath of every ayakashi present, the air shimmered crisp and clean if piercingly fierce on the lungs. The dirt track became a faint strip of bare earth amidst scraggly grass as it travelled further and further from human civilisation: dipping precariously into a shallow valley, crossing the brook at long last by means of a rickety wooden bridge, and then disappearing into the misty heights beyond as if swallowed whole by some monstrous beast.

And then a single figure stepped from the roadside bushes, just as the leading elements of the Night Parade began to cross the bridge.

I would rather accomplish this without bloodshed, if possible…

Calmly, fearlessly, the young man began to move through the milling crowd, parting them through sheer force of will like a blade through water. Their wits slowed by drink and revelry, it took even their leaders some time to work out exactly just transpired in the ranks. Time that the young man used well, slipping through the hundred bodies, closer and closer to the litter.

He had almost reached it when the haft of a crude but hefty spear barred his path.

“I remember you,” a voice growled gutturally from approximately waist-height. The akki who had sat across from him during the banquet glared daggers through the darkness from beady yellow eyes. “You’re that late-comer. State your business, human, or be gone.”

The young man smiled harmlessly, raising his arms to show that they held nothing.

“I am a nameless, wandering foreigner,” he said, as a half-dozen spears belatedly levelled their points at his back. “I was merely passing through the area, and couldn’t help but notice your procession.”

His response elicited sniggers, some condescending, some genuinely amused, all still drunk. None of the ayakashi took him seriously, and it was not difficult to see why. His robes still hung tattered beneath a warm travelling cloak, the woven straw hat sat awkwardly on his childish face, and his spectacles had once again slipped down his nose so that he peered at them innocently from over their rims. A curiosity, perhaps, a nuisance at best, but where did the danger lie in a deluded young fool? He didn’t even wear the two swords of a warrior!

Something hard rapped him on the knees, and he fell to the ground, making a big show of surprised pain as the impact knocked his hat askance. The laughter grew as the Night Parade enjoyed the spectacle.

“Don’t take us for fools, manling,” a new voice, deep and raspy, said.

Blearily Nanashi looked up, staring into the long-nosed red face of the tengu. In its left hand the monster-spirit held a long staff of dark ebony, topped with six brass rings that jangled noisily with every step. In its right it carried a feathered fan that shimmered with power in the young man’s arcanely attuned eyes. For all intents and purposes, it looked and dressed like a drunken priest, with the exception of its long nose and the dark raven-like wings folded to its back. Perhaps the most dangerous of the ayakashi, for not only had it the most intelligence, but Nanashi had not seen it imbibe a single drop of sake all evening. It smiled evilly, baring a row of sharp canine teeth, then continued to speak.

“Tell us the truth. Why are you here?”

Rubbing his sore legs, Nanashi plonked himself down in the middle of the road and sighed comically. An ancient Nipponese saying stated that the best way to lie was to tell the truth. So he did exactly that.

“I am here to see the daughter of Lord Kosaka. She was kind to me this evening, and I wished to see her off one last time.”

Once again laughter greeted his words, but this time an element of doubt crept into the raised voices. One or two of the lesser ayakashi exchanged surprised glances, and the spear-points levelled at his cross-legged form wavered uncertainly. Nanashi focused his determined stare on the tengu thoughtfully stroking his magnificent white beard. Small black eyes, hard and powerful beneath bushy eyebrows raised to the heavens, met him in turn from beneath pronounced brows.

“Very well,” the monster replied at length. “We ayakashi understand duty and gratitude as well as you humans do. But you will not go before her freely. Bind him.”

Rough hands reached for him before he could protest, wrenching his arms behind his back and tying them together with scratchy hemp cord. He made sure to complain loudly at the treatment, unceremonious but not violent. The laughter started up once more, infectious good spirits ensuring that they continued to see their prisoner as a novelty rather than a threat.

With equal brusqueness his handlers bundled him along the frosty road, subjecting him to cheery jeers and whistled taunts from all sides. Many of the ayakashi barely reached his waist, but did not hesitate to take advantage of the fact that he stood completely at their mercy. Actor’s mask firmly in place, Nanashi gave as good as he got, playing along with the charade as his mind raced for further options. As his eyes snapped back and forth in response to the heckling, they scanned for potential risk and routes of escape. When his head wrenched back as a particularly cruel master took his reins, he tasted the direction of the wind and the amount of moisture in the air.

Funnily enough, events happened to be unfolding almost better than he dared think they might. Lady Fortune truly did seem to favour the bold.

He only hoped that she would continue to find him worthy.

The tide continued to part before him, until at last he found himself before the litter, a wooden basket suspended on a pair of carrying poles and curtained off to the outside world by silken curtains bearing the white hawk feather of the Kosaka. There was a rough-hewn beauty to its aesthetic that he found subtly pleasing, though not as ornate as those favoured by the nobles in Kyo or Naniwa. At a wordless command the oni bearers set it down upon the frozen road, with a surprisingly gentle touch given their brutish ogre strength.

“Are we there already?” the small girl asked from within, lost behind the dark blue veil. No matter how she tried, she could not prevent a frightened tremolo from entering her voice. “Is anybody there?”

“I am, Subaru-sama,” Nanashi replied, using the girl’s given name he had pestered out of the doorman before leaving the Kosaka manse. “Do you remember me?”

“The ronin who was at the feast this evening.” A note of delight and wonder entered her delicate voice. “The one who nearly upset father.”

In other circumstances he would have only spoken to her in a manner formal and guarded. This time, however, he forced himself to laugh, a hearty sound that echoed loudly across the windswept moonscape. He did not stop until he heard her politely joining in, ignoring the suspicious glare that the tengu delivered to the small of his back and the hands uncomfortably bound there.

“Yes, that would be me. For which I thank you once again. Although I must point out that I am sasurai, not ronin.” He bowed his head, not an easy feat given his current state. “In gratitude, I wish to offer you a boon, should you choose to accept it.”

“What may that be, master sasurai?” She spoke courteously enough, but he could already feel her quiet refusal building up behind the curtains of the palanquin. The tengu’s glare grew ever more intense, almost powerful enough now to burn a hole through his torso.

A sudden gale howled down from the mountain pass, enveloping the procession in its howling embrace and nearly bowling over the smallest of the ayakashi. In the confusion that accompanied its passage, only the young girl heard the words whispered lightly in her ear.

“Would you like to come with me?”

She hesitated, looking left and right to ascertain the speaker. The voice unmistakably belonged to the sasurai, but surely he still sat outside the litter, fighting against the unexpected wind?

“Fear not the wind, Subaru-sama, and fear me not either. I only wish to offer you the choice that was denied to you by your own kindness. If you truly desire to be wed to the High Chieftain of the Night Parade, then stay as you are and I wish you long life and happiness. If, however, your heart lies elsewhere…”

Subaru Kosaka was only eight years old. No matter how well she learned her lessons from her tutors, and heeded her mother’s reminder that her duty lay to her family, and tried to understand her father’s tearful pride when he laid eyes on her bridal robes, the fact remained that at heart she only pretended to be more than a frightened and lonely little girl. For the sake of her clan and her people she fought the temptation, but she could not win.

… all you have to do is open the curtain.

The sasurai sat there, calm and serene, untouched by the sustained gale that wrought chaos and havoc amongst the ayakashi ranks. He met her fearful gaze with a reassuring smile, and she first thought of how funny he looked when his mud-stained glasses hung halfway down his face.

She very nearly missed the shimmer that cut his hands free of their bindings.

As suddenly as it had begun, the wind died down to nothing, leaving only dust-blind eyes and cowering ayakashi in its wake. Amidst the disordered remnants of the Night Parade, the tengu recovered his composure the quickest. By that time, Nanashi already led the young princess by the hand in a headlong run towards the foothills and the shelter of the forest there.

“Get up! Get up, you fools, they’re getting away!”

One after another the Chieftains took up the cry, but their underlings still staggered about half-drunk and sluggish. One or two had even fallen asleep where the wind had blown them over. At length, and after roundly cursing them for their uselessness, the tengu took to the skies in a shower of raven-black feathers, determined not to lose their valuable prize and return to the High Chieftain in failure.

The two humans had made it agonisingly close to the tree line when they heard the voice from above, accompanied by the noisy jangle of the brass-ringed staff.

“Abominable manling! Give us back the bride, or Lord Kosaka will forever be known as a traitor, and the Night Parade will have vengeance upon mankind!”

Nanashi turned at bay, sheltering his charge from the tengu’s long red nose. She peeked out from behind his back as he laughed once again.

“Lord Kosaka knows nothing of this!” he declared loudly, relieved that he had judged correctly. Unless he took great pains not to give cause for the ayakashi to declare war against the humans of Wachi, his actions could have disastrous consequences. By far he had anticipated this to be the most difficult part of the operation, and the fact that the tengu played his part – no matter how unwillingly – made it much easier.

“I am Sasurai-no-Ijin, Nanashi! By the graces of the kami I have today claimed the daughter of Lord Kosaka to spirit her away to freedom, and no man of the Wachi province nor ayakashi of the Night Parade will stop me! Be gone, tengu, and tell both Lord and High Chieftain not to interfere!”

The gusting gale returned at his mental command, sweeping along the valley floor to blow the monster-spirit from the sky. But the tengu resisted gamely with a swing of his feathered fan, and in much the same way that Nanashi had sat in the calm of the storm before Subaru’s palanquin, the winds flowed around him like a protective cocoon. For the tengu was an ayakashi of the skies, and he too could command the storm.

Nanashi, however, had one more ace up his sleeve.

“Be gone, I said!” he cried, summoning a miniature sun into blossoming life between them. So bright as to be almost painful to look at, it sent every shadow within a league scurrying for cover, starkly illuminating blades of grass and bare branches beneath its fiery gaze. The tengu squawked in distress and dove for the cover of the riverside rocks, unable to withstand the relentless light. In the distance the rest of the Night Parade once again cowered against the frozen earth. For the ayakashi were primarily creatures of the night, unused and ill-suited to walking the lands by day. Nanashi might have forgotten that the tengu could nullify his wind magic, but he had not overlooked the ayakashi’s greatest and most ancient enemy.

He had not wished to resort to the spell, and later would regret being backed into enough of a corner to use it. For the moment, however, it bought them the precious time that they needed to get away.

“Come, let us leave,” he turned to the young girl with a smile.

Lost in wonder at her saviour’s strange abilities, elated at the sudden realisation that she indeed ran free, she followed him into the forest. Naked branches reached for her mournfully as she passed, as if they sided with the ayakashi in wanting her to stay. The ground chafed barren and hard, but the young man guided her safely past the treacherous roots and sharp rocks that sought to attack her feet. The layers of fine silken kimono she wore made it exceedingly difficult to run, as did the tight obi around her slender waist, but gradually they loosened enough to be bearable. She found it easier to deal with the high wooden sandals on her dainty feet, pausing for just long enough to kick them off and gather them up in her arms. Brown dirt splattered the beautiful white of her outer coat and stained her toed socks, but she cared not any longer. Her breaths came in ragged gasps that caused her face to flush a pretty pink, and wisps of her silky black hair had escaped the confines of their tight chignon, but she exulted in the discomfort as she allowed herself to be led further and further into the wilderness.

She was free!

[Flames of Hyperion]

Through the night they evaded the ayakashi pursuit, hiding from angry inhuman calls and the relentless footsteps dogging their own. The lingering effects of their alcohol-fuelled orgies numbed the Night Parade, and despite constant promises and threats from the desperate Chieftains, the ill discipline and selfishness inherent to their nature overwhelmed their sense of duty. From time to time Nanashi threw them off with well-timed gusts of wind or a fireball at the far end of the valley. By dawn, the horde had retreated to their mountain home, nursing exhaustion, headache, and sore feet.

Only then did Subaru finally gave in to exhaustion and ask for a rest. The sasurai admitted to being somewhat in awe of her seemingly limitless reserves of energy, as if all the pent-up frustration and repression of her childhood had exploded all at once. In the two hours since she had been rescued, they had climbed far above the valley floor, such that they now sat in a prime position to view the sleepy sun finally rising over the mountains to the east.

“I never knew that a sunrise could be so beautiful,” the young girl marvelled out loud. Perched upon a rocky vantage, her feet dangled freely in the crisp morning air, swinging idly back and forth. The night had torn her fine silken socks to tatters and caked them in dust, but at heart she remained a child of the countryside and her hardened soles did not bleed. She knew that she must have looked a fright, and dreaded to think what her mother would have said about ruining her finest kimonos and mussing up her perfectly arranged hair. The thought sobered her, and her legs stopped swinging as she accepted a leaf-wrapped riceball and a bamboo flask of water from her new protector.

He did not reply immediately, wordlessly scanning the lay of the land projected before them. After a moment she joined him, awed at how she could pick out so much more detail from here than upon any of her father’s maps. To the west, still wreathed in shadow, she could just make out one or two cleared fields at the edge of the forest; if she squinted hard enough, she even imagined that she could see the town of Nagakura and her father’s manor. To the east lay uncharted mountaintops, bleak and severe. Suddenly she felt overwhelmed by how small and insignificant she seemed in comparison to the big wide world. Even Nanashi’s broad back paled in comparison to the magnificence of the clouds floating in the heavenly sky, streaked with orange upon dark blue as the new day chased away the night.

Subaru had not wanted for much in her previous life: waking up to the administrations of her father’s retainers, studying philosophy and traditional craft in the morning, playing barefoot in the rough earth in the afternoon, eating when hungry and sleeping when tired. What would she do now? Her mother’s pickle flavoured the riceball, and the familiar taste brought home to her what she missed most.

He sensed her apprehension and turned to her.

“My road leads me to Ueda,” he said, eyebrow raised in question. She nodded, recognising the famous castle town. “A friend of mine has offered me a position there, and I’m sure he’ll treat you kindly as a lady of the court. If you’d like to go that way.”

Her heart soared. A lady of the court? As the daughter of a country lord, she knew that the offer came from well beyond her wildest dreams. She would be surrounded by girls of her age, dressing up each day in the most beautiful kimonos, catching the eye of handsome samurai as they practiced the arts of war…

“Or I could take you back to your family. The ayakashi will likely be too embarrassed to ask for you again, and your father will welcome you back with open arms. Of course, I would have to run away as fast as I could, but I daresay I can do that.”

The option appealed to her, even more than being a lady of the court. Her mother’s face surfaced in her mind’s eye, crying tears of joy at her return even as she scolded her for ruining her clothes. Her father stood in the background, trying and failing to contain gruff emotion. The ayakashi would never come back, and she would be free to study and play again, and perhaps choose a nice husband when she grew older, and…

“Or I could just as easily hand you back to the ayakashi…”

She jumped in shock, but he laughed, merely teasing.

“It’s up to you, Subaru-sama. It is your choice to make, not mine, not anybody’s.”

She saw the kindness in his eyes then, and the sadness that he hid behind his oversized spectacles. For the first time, she realised just how much he had done for her. Almost overwhelmed by gratitude, she stammered for words.

“I… I don’t think I’ve thanked you yet. But won’t you be punished? Won’t the ayakashi just hunt you down and take me back?”

Nanashi hid behind a reassuring smile.

“I am ijin, foreigner,” he told her with a wink. “I can get away with things like this.”

She did not seem convinced, but subsided obediently into thought. The wanderer took the time to once more check his surroundings. He thought it unlikely that the ayakashi would risk giving chase in daylight, but not impossible. Furthermore, the mountains in which they now hid belonged to the Night Parade as their territory, their home, their backyard. Once they sobered up and realised the extent to which they had been humiliated…

He knew he could only stall them for so long with fake suns and gusts of wind.

Subaru, for her part, could not make up her mind. Having spent her entire life in a sheltered cocoon, with few tangible decisions to make beyond which hairpiece to wear, the enormity of the choice he offered frightened her immensely. She dreamed of being a court lady. She wanted to go home. She despised the very thought of staying with the ayakashi.

And yet, her mother’s words refused to leave her thoughts. Her duty lay to her family, she’d said, and her family needed her to marry the High Chieftain of the Night Parade.

Her father’s gruff tears filled her mind. He was sorry for what he had to do, he’d said, but it was for the good of the people.

Her own tears began to brim at the edges of her eyes.

“I…”

She saw Nanashi looking at her again; saw the kindness and the sadness once more. Belatedly she realised that he felt those emotions for her, not himself.

“I know,” he said softly. “The doorman told me everything when I left. The fact that your parents only came to this decision after they had no other option. The fact that your betrothal is meant to end generations of feuding between the Kosaka and the Night Parade. The fact…”

He stopped when she started to cry at last, tears brimming like liquid crystal from the corners of her eyes. No longer did she have to pretend to be strong. She was only eight, after all.

“My duty…” she sobbed, words flowing in spurts from the choking dam in her throat. “My duty… is to my family… my duty… to wed the oni… to save the people… to stop the fighting…”

“I know.” He reached out to place his hand over hers, wrapping the fragile bones in warmth. “I know.”

In one short conversation with the doorman at the Kosaka manor, he had learnt much of the history of Wachi province. The conflict between the ayakashi and the humans had been ongoing for hundreds of years. The former blamed the latter for invading their lands and carving out civilisation in the wilderness; the latter blamed the former for stealing the fruits of their labour and causing havoc amongst their daily lives. At times the bickering escalated to actual conflict, with tales of kamikakushi in which young children were spirited away to the ayakashi hideouts to serve as slaves or even food, and of bands of peasants and warriors venturing in force into the mountains to retrieve them. Subaru’s betrothal and marriage to the Head Chieftain of the Night Parade meant to seal a tentative peace between the warring factions, allowing the two halves of Nipponese society to coexist like night and day.

Sacrifice the one to appease the many. He could understand that men in power sometimes had to make such decisions. It didn’t mean that they, or he, had to like it.

Especially if the sacrifice in question happened to be an eight-year-old girl given little choice in the matter.

The sun had fully risen above the valley, a bright red ball hovering on top of the white-topped mountain peaks, by the time she sniffed away the last of her tears. Clouds spread in servile supplication at its feet, paving its path across the sky with their very bodies. An early hawk shrieked loudly from overhead, circling on thermals as it hunted for breakfast. He dried her face gently with the forearm of his robe, wiping away the streaked makeup until the colour of her skin returned.

“So.” He made a face at the mess he’d made of his clothing. A wan smile involuntarily broke through her sorrow.

“My duty… is to wed the…”

“Your duty is to become happy,” he interjected softly. “You are a princess of the Kosaka, Subaru-sama. If you don’t become happy, who of your people will?”

Her smile quavered at the fanciful notion, charmed by his gentlemanly manners. No samurai would have ever given voice to such a thought. Truly, he was ijin.

“But I cannot… I cannot just abandon them.”

He nodded understandingly, and for a third time she found herself struck by the kindness and sadness present in his face in equal measure. His approval gave her confidence, and she spoke her next words with greater conviction.

“I must solve this problem myself.”

“What will you do?”

“I…”

She bit her lips, struggling to find the correct phrase. In order to go back to her family with her head held high… in order to fulfil her obligations to her people… in order to put an end to centuries of needless conflict and satisfy both sides…

“I will go to the High Chieftain myself, and ask for my betrothal to be cancelled.”

“Is this your decision?”

“It is,” she replied, firmly.

“In which case, I would be honoured if you would allow me to assist you in your endeavours.”

Nanashi nodded again, smiling appreciatively. Had he been guiding her towards this decision from the very beginning? Had the kind sadness on her behalf been the realisation that she could not truly escape from the land? Had she grown up a little in his eyes, perhaps, enough to begin walking her own path now rather than the one laid out for her?

Suddenly the sky seemed so much lighter, so much brighter. The wind blew fresh, not cold, and the cries of the hawk overhead encouraged rather than admonished. Her decision made, she felt much as she had done the previous night when he had first freed her: exulted, elated, relieved. He gave her an exaggeratedly low bow, and she laughed at him, certain that he teased. She was only half wrong.

“We should travel as far as we can during the day, then,” he said, only to be interrupted by an unintentionally big yawn from the young girl. She blushed, embarrassed, but he showed little surprise at the undignified gesture; they had spent the entire night running about the countryside, after all. “Perhaps I can be of service?”

He turned and squatted upon the bare ground, offering her his back. A lady born into the samurai caste would have balked at the mere thought of accepting his insolent proposal… but he had saved her after all… and she could not deny how tired she…

Before she quite realised it, she had grabbed hold of his shoulders, wrapping her slender arms around his neck. Carefully he folded his own arms beneath her, cradling her legs from below and supporting her weight on his back. Hard metal pressed against the padded belt of her kimono from inside his cloak, but she did not find his broad shoulders uncomfortable. She inhaled deeply as he rose to his feet, the earthy scent of the road not unlike that of her father.

In the time he needed to take one step forward, she fell fast asleep.

[Flames of Hyperion]

She awoke again when the skies dimmed nearly to darkness, the sun setting amidst the bare branches behind her. Cramped and cold from long hours tucked unmoving upon Nanashi’s back, she quickly made it known that she wished to be let down. He obliged without question.

“Don’t head off too far,” he called after her as she disappeared behind the nearest trunk, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. They had travelled deep within the mountains whilst she slept, and the faint footpath threading its way through the thick forest belonged solely to the creatures of the night. He had not seen a single living soul all day, bar Subaru and the lone hawk which seemed to claim the skies in the vicinity for its own.

He unwrapped the last of his riceballs when she returned, offering her the water in his second flask. Greedily she gulped down both food and drink, and amusedly he watched her satisfying relish.

“I’m hungry,” she told him plaintively when she caught his eyes. He laughed.

Nanashi himself drank only sparingly and didn’t partake of the food. His joints cracked noisily when he stood, and thoroughly relaxed in his presence now, Subaru commented that he sounded just like an old man. He pretended to be shocked and hurt by the jibe, riposting with the observation that her mussed hair suited a beehive better than a young girl. She punched him lightly, and he fell away in exaggeration, landing ridiculously on his behind. This time, they both laughed.

The night soon grew cold, even colder than the last. Tendrils of chill seeped from the frozen ground, grasping at their feet, reaching up into their robes, infiltrating their lungs. The empty forest and barren rock offered no protection from the moon’s cold gaze; not a single cloud remained in the sky to offer its scant insulation. This time they had neither sake nor a roaring bonfire to warm their bodies. Nanashi knew that their only option lay in staying on the move, keeping limber through walking.

Subaru replaced her wooden sandals upon her feet, and they echoed noisily upon the dirt path, a two-tone heartbeat that marked their passage eastwards and upwards. The wanderer had decided that a bold approach would be more productive than a stealthy one, and made no attempt to disguise the sound. Soon he became aware of faint figures tracking them through the dense branches, of a shadow in the sky above that did not belong to any cloud. But they did not make any move to attack, and so he paid them no heed beyond wary vigilance.

The young girl felt talkative, and chattered away with little regard for her companion’s worries as they walked. Realising that such conversation probably kept her mind from fear and apprehension, he did his best to encourage her, working hard to fill the gaps with questions that she would only be happy to answer. He learnt of her love for sweet dumplings, and how her father had once purchased a fine silvery powder called sugar from a travelling merchant, which had melted upon her tongue and filled her mouth with ecstasy. He learnt of her friendship with Tomo the blacksmith’s daughter, and how some of the retainers disapproved of it so they had to meet in private behind their backs. He learnt of how Mamezou the innkeeper had taken in a baby swallow last summer, and how he had nursed it back to health and let it fly away to join its companions.

“… and in the autumn, the ditches swarm with fireflies. They’re so pretty, it’s like… it’s like…”

“Do you like fireflies, then?”

“Of course!” she replied wholeheartedly. “Who doesn’t?”

So he lit their way along the path with faint flickering wisps of fire floating just above head height, and she gazed in wonder again at his supernatural abilities.

“Can I ever learn to do that?”

“Maybe,” he told her, although he knew that the gift of magic only rarely appeared to native Nipponese. Even the most learned of the elves could not tell him why. “I studied to do it in the Academy at Naniwa. If you go there, someday, perhaps…”

“Is that close to the sea?”

“Close enough. You’d have to walk a little, but there’s a busy harbour nearby.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the sea…” Subaru’s dark eyes grew distant and wistful. “I’ve only heard about it from travellers, and seen some pictures in Master Hiroshige’s ukiyoe. Have… have you seen the sea?”

“Yes, indeed,” he admitted. Her face lit up like a decorated lantern.

“Tell me, is it really an endless pool of water as far as the eye can see?”

“It is. On a clear day, you can even see the curve of the horizon. Out in the distance it’s like a shimmering mirror of deep blue, while closer to hand you can see the white tops of the waves as they crest and fall like small mountains. The waves then crash against the land, again and again, retreating only to advance, advancing only to retreat once more.”

Subaru nodded eagerly, hungry for more.

“The smell… it smells like salt, and fish, and salty fish.” She wrinkled her nose, and laughed. “The sound I best remember is that of the seagulls. They’re like noisy cats in the sky, always fighting, screaming and mewling incessantly from dawn to dusk.”

“I wish… I could see the sea.”

“You will, one day.”

“Promise?”

“Even if I have to take you there myself.”

She laughed again, reassured by the sincerity in his voice.

They approached the mountain proper now, where the trees grew sparse and lonely, and the boulders numbered like soldiers in an army, stoic and fierce. The dirt path wound past a sharp bend in the rock face before them, shimmering frostily and crackling beneath their feet. Innumerable eyes watched their progress from hidden nooks and crannies, weighing heavily upon Nanashi’s every step. He gestured for silence and for Subaru to follow. Without questioning she obeyed, falling in close behind him, edging along the path around the bend.

Suddenly they stood before a fort, a mountain castle of stone and dirt and wood, built by human hands in ages past and then abandoned to the mercy of the elements. The land itself shaped the majority of the defences: the carved rock that formed three sides of the castle walls and the artificial earthen embankment that completed them, the diverted mountain stream that created a shallow moat, and the network of ditches that acted as both obstacle for invaders and as path for the heavy boulders poised on the ramparts. Neither towers nor keep reared mightily above the fortifications, but a sturdy wooden gatehouse stood watch over the mountain track that provided the only safe approach. Small covered ports in the walls and gaps in the planks of the gatehouse floor could be used to deploy bows or firearms to slaughter any attackers, but thankfully they seemed unmanned.

The lair of the Night Parade, both Nanashi and Subaru realised at once. From here the ayakashi staged into the cultivated lowlands, and to here they had intended to bring her the previous night. Within, doubtless, the High Chieftain waited.

In other circumstances, Nanashi would have preferred to scout the entrance to the fort alone before coming back for his charge. But the hidden gazes still watching their every move denied him that option.

“Stay close, and stay behind me,” he whispered. Subaru managed to nod acknowledgement, her voice lost in the chilly grip of fear. He gave her a smile that he hoped reassured, and reached out to offer his hand. Her nervousness showed in the manner that she grabbed hold of it without thinking twice.

The rotten planks of the drawbridge over the moat creaked noisily, but just about held their weight. Crystal clear water tinkled beneath them as they slowly made their way across, the only other sound in an otherwise ominously silent night. They passed through an invitingly open pair of dilapidated wooden gates just as an ill-timed cloud blacked out the moon. Nanashi noted uneasily that the hinges had been shattered into pieces by some mighty force.

He called a halt in the lee of the gatehouse, waiting for the moon to reappear while his eyes scanned the courtyard from behind the safety of his spectacles. A handful of buildings stood alongside the rock walls, apparently empty and abandoned, constructed cheaply from wattle and daub with wooden shingle roofs. The debris from a mighty battle in years long past littered the grounds: broken spears, rusted armour, banner poles from which the cloth had long since rotted away, and a surprising number of swords buried blade-downwards in the hard-packed dirt. The very bones of the dead had been picked clean from the fallen metal, in his eyes transforming the scene into scarily beautiful rather than wholly dreadful. It even lacked the underlying stench of death that usually accompanied such ancient battlefields.

Subaru, however, made a small noise of fear, like a kitten’s whimper.

“Close your eyes if you wish,” he told her kindly. “Hold tight, and I’ll guide you through.”

She did as he suggested, one hand gripping his own, the other clinging tightly to the waist of his robes. The moon reappeared in the starry night sky, bathing the courtyard in pure white light. He took one step forwards, then suddenly stopped.

Something was wrong.

Something…

The spears lay broken, the armour rusted. But the swords… the swords glimmered perfect and whole, as elegant as if they had just been birthed from the forge the previous day.

And was that blood that dripped from the hilt…?

“Back!” he ordered, pressing Subaru against the earthen wall and interposing his own body as a shield.

The heavens erupted with an ear-splitting squawk, as the shadow from earlier confirmed itself to be the tengu. And on that command, a hundred red pinpricks burst into life from the shadows as the gazes that had haunted him on their journey up the mountain made themselves known. The sudden flare of bright braziers in the far corner of the courtyard revealed a line of armed men, bound and gagged and forced to their knees by cackling ayakashi captors.

Concealment magic, he realised belatedly, of a very powerful variety. He should have realised that he could not be the only spellweaver…

Before he could finish the thought, a round object flew through the air to land at his feet.

“Don’t look!”

Instinctively he covered Subaru’s face with his arm. The face of Gozo, the mercenary leader, stared blankly up at him from unseeing eyes. His features twisted into a feral snarl, his proud bristly beard frozen in anger at being separated from its neck. The single severing stroke still glistened, slick and wet.

“Nanashi-san?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What’s happening?”

Deliberately, slowly, he reached low to grab a nearby iron hat, almost crumbling with age. With great reverence he covered the dead ronin’s head, whispering a silent prayer to the dead. Only then did he reply to Subaru’s question.

“The High Chieftain of the Night Parade is here.”

“Indeed he is,” a childlike voice replied, languid and arrogant. A lithe youth stepped forth from the flickering braziers, dressed in a thin cotton kimono of teal green. His features seemed sculpted from marble, beautifully handsome and silkily smooth. The same teal colouring as his robes dominated his hair, but his skin shone a lustrous porcelain white, and his eyes glinted bright red and angry in the moonlit night. For all purposes he might have been a ghost, or a spectre, save for the naked katana at his side that glinted very, very real. “You may look upon me, Subaru-sama. I will not hurt you.”

Slowly she obeyed, having until then followed Nanashi’s injunction to keep her eyes shut. Her involuntary gasp harboured both admiration and fear.

“Step away from her, sasurai,” he ordered, and Nanashi instinctively noted the usage of the correct term. He smiled grimly, knowing that though they would not hurt Subaru, his own life hung delicately in the balance. He moved to do as told.

“No!” Subaru cried, instinctively sensing danger. “This man is with me. Let him free, I will…”

“Subaru-sama.” Nanashi interrupted her gently, winking lightly. “Leave this to me. Just stay here, and you’ll be safe.”

Her arms fell to her side, limp and frightened. They flicked from her guardian to her betrothed, and there they froze. She saw, for the first time in her life, by what sort of look one learns that a man is capable of killing.

Nanashi stepped away from her, his feet light upon the frozen ground. Warily he and the ayakashi circled each other, the nameless wanderer against the High Chieftain of the Night Parade. A hundred pairs of gleaming eyes bore witness to their confrontation, the courtyard an arena littered with the relics of battles long past. Overhead the tengu squawked unintelligibly once more, a warning perhaps, or an admonition.

“Did you know that man?” the High Chieftain asked at length, his voice far more innocent than his appearance. He moved trickily, unpredictably, almost slithering from sight with every step. Nanashi had to focus every fibre of his being to keep track of the naked blade in the ayakashi’s hand.

“I did.” Nanashi saw no point in lying, although his hands slipped inside his cloak to come to rest within. “His name, I believe was Gozo. He sat at last night’s feast as a guest of Lord Kosaka. Those over there are his men.”

The High Chieftain looked at him strangely.

“This is true,” he said slowly. “Then perhaps you also know that these men assaulted this castle in the early hours of this afternoon while mine slept. Apparently they were looking for Lady Subaru.”

Nanashi’s mind raced. Lord Kosaka must have sent the mercenaries there before he had word of his daughter’s escape, in a fit of guilt over what he had done. He sensed that a lot more than his life depended on his next words.

“I did not know of this. Apparently they didn’t find her.”

“No,” the High Chieftain replied, amused. “They did not know who they were dealing with, and they were captured. That one did nothing but spit and curse when I questioned him politely, and then had the temerity to challenge me to individual combat in the name of the first kami. I had no choice but to strike him down. I wonder why he hated me so.”

“Gozo-san lost his brother and mother to an ayakashi raid!” a human voice cried from the far corner of the courtyard, one of the ronin. “Of course he would hate you!”

A muffled grunt followed his words as the ayakashi cuffed their captive back into silence. The High Chieftain sighed, somewhat regretfully. “I should not have asked.”

“Do you regret his death?”

“I regret all death,” the pale youth whispered, a smile playing about his lips. “Although at least he lived and died by his principles, which I suppose makes his better than most. This brings me to my next question. Why should I not kill you?”

“No!”

Subaru’s desperate shout echoed throughout the night. But neither party could spare the attention to heed her cry.

“Because you don’t want to?” Nanashi guessed.

“Not good enough.”

The High Chieftain lunged.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The wanderer reacted instinctively, drawing a dagger from the folds of his cloak and bringing it across his body just in time to parry the expected blow. Metal met metal, and in response he twisted his shorter blade just so. The High Chieftain’s katana spun whistling from his hands through the moonlit air.

In a blink of an eye the ayakashi had slipped behind him, his movements sinuous and completely unreadable. In his hands glinted another sword, drawn from where it had been seeded amongst the frozen ground.

Crimson eyes flashed as the stroke fell for the kill, slicing open the wanderer’s cloak at his hip.

And then it too met metal. Nanashi’s other hand emerged, gripping a second dagger. The shorter length of steel shimmered once more, and this time the katana’s blade snapped close to the guard, dangerously sharp metal skittering along the ground like a deadly spinning top.

“Not bad,” the High Chieftain breathed, his hair flowing like a silver waterfall in his wake. In an instant he retreated from Nanashi’s reach, lightly stepping back onto the balls of his feet as he wrenched a third sword from the ground. “I can see that Tengu was not lying when he spoke of your resourcefulness.”

Nanashi might have been pleased by the compliment, if he did not already fight for his life. His lungs exhaled steamily into the frosty air, eyes focused on the ayakashi’s sword arm. If he could just see the pattern in his opponent’s movements, then…

A faint whisper on the wind. Only his arcanely attuned senses gave him forewarning of the stroke, and even then he only just managed to parry in time. It had come from above, the High Chieftain seeming to leap into the air and strike downwards in the space of a single heartbeat.

And then the ayakashi emerged from below, wielding a sword in each hand now. Again, only barely did Nanashi able jump over the scything sliver of metal that sought to take off his legs at the foot. He landed lightly and instantly kicked away, both daggers held defensively, as the first sword swung and missed at his chest. The follow-up stroke ricocheted from a deftly held dagger, and a feathery touch on the tip of his little finger drew blood. But when the wanderer tried to wrong-foot his opponent and slip in close, the teal green robes slithered nimble and lithe from his reach.

The song of metal on metal rang a disturbingly merry tune as the blows forced the human back one step at a time. With no means of predicting where the next blow would land, and with the High Chieftain using both longer swords to great effect in negating what advantage he might have had in close, Nanashi could do little else but give ground. The ayakashi moved as no man ever did, slippery and smooth, capricious and fickle. It felt like fighting thin air, or running water, or a ray of moonlight. He slipped in and out, up and down, an ethereal, incorporeal snake.

A snake, or rather…

A tatsu.

He could see it now, the correct path beckoning in front of him. He just had to take it.

Nanashi took a deep breath as the High Chieftain readied himself for another pass. Smiling serenely, he slowly and deliberately sheathed his daggers, noting the momentary bafflement on his opponent’s pale features. Keeping his movements measured, he sank to his knees, seating himself formally upon the frozen ground. The chill seeped through his robes and up his legs, but he ignored it in favour of concentrating his gaze upon his opponent’s surprised eyes.

He was not Gozo, who had hated the ayakashi until the very end.

He was Nanashi, who simply wanted to help.

“Lord High Chieftain of the Night Parade,” he intoned formally, summoning all of his reserves of courage to lend his voice the requisite strength. The fact that he now sat defenceless before a pair of wickedly sharp naked blades did not help his cause, but somehow he pushed the words through his tightly constricted throat. “I humbly apologise for assaulting your parade and spiriting away your betrothed. I sit before you now of my own accord, having returned willingly what I stole. Although I am unwilling to slice off a fingertip for my insolence, I hereby offer this drop of blood in its place. By the purity of this red, I ask for your forgiveness.”

As he spoke he squeezed the cut on his little finger, so that a single fat drop of blood fell to the thirsty ground. It lingered there for a moment before sinking into the dirt, its metallic stink tingling sorely in the back of his nose. When finished he sat alone amongst the bewildered silence, hoping with bated breath that he had read his opponent well and guessed his intentions correctly. If he hadn’t, he thought to himself, at least it would be over quickly.

For a moment the silence hung heavy. The atmosphere seemed so tangibly tense that he felt like reaching out and throttling it, as ridiculous as that would look to the assembled audience.

Then the High Chieftain laughed, in mirth rather than in fury, and at last Nanashi could relax. From the corner of his eye he saw Subaru’s slight frame shudder in violent relief, losing all strength at the knees as her legs folded beneath her and she slumped to the floor.

“No one dares to assault the Night Parade,” the High Chieftain said, not bothering to hide his amusement. His swords fell to the ground with a metallic clatter, hands reaching for the heavens in disbelief. “And yet, you’ve done it twice and lived to tell the tale. Whatever possessed you to attempt that kind of suicide?”

“Stupidity, master tatsu,” Nanashi replied with a self-effacing smile.

In a flash the High Chieftain stood next to him, peering into his face. This time, Nanashi’s eyes watched carefully; certainty rippled across his features as he caught brief sight of the slender serpentine form, wolf-like face and long horns behind its ears, silvery scales and teal-green belly. It disappeared almost before he could see it, reverting to its human form, but the draconic ayakashi simply grinned.

“How did you guess?”

“Luck, my lord.”

“Tell me, why didn’t you make better use of your magic? You do weave spells, right?”

“If you wanted me dead, my lord, you could have easily killed me when we entered the fort. But you didn’t. So I assumed that you were testing me instead. In which case, why disturb the sanctity of a duel by swords with excessive spellweaving?”

His response once again elicited honest laughter from the tatsu. Nanashi found it somewhat hard to believe that until moments ago, he had been fighting for his life against this ayakashi, undoubtedly a skilled swordsman on top of an arcane practitioner.

With a crash the tengu plummeted to the ground behind the High Chieftain, landing on one knee in supplication, wings folded neatly against his back. His ruddy features seethed in irritated resignation, and the tip of his nose drooped slightly in what might have been disappointment.

“You are speaking to Lord Tokusa, High Chieftain of the Night Parade. You will address him as such, manling.” The name referred to the horsetail rush used as polish in traditional Nipponese craft, and Nanashi did not find it difficult to see the resemblance in colour to the teal-green of the High Chieftain’s robes.

“Now, Tengu,” the tatsu placated, back to its languid self. “He’s proved himself worthy, and there’s no need for bad blood between us.”

The winged ayakashi subsided, still grumbling. Nanashi bowed, in gratitude to the tatsu, in conciliation to the tengu.

“Now, there’s just one thing we must deal with…”

Lord Tokusa motioned to the gatehouse, and to the young girl who sat weakly upon the ground there.

“Can you walk to us, Subaru-sama, or would you prefer that we join you over there?”

Dazed, she somehow managed to find her feet. A hundred pairs of beady eyes followed her closely as she staggered across through the relic-strewn courtyard to where Nanashi and the tengu knelt before the High Chieftain. Harsh moonlight danced across the tattered and muddied remains of her wedding kimono, highlighting wispy strands of dark hair from where they had escaped their coiffure. For all her wild appearance, however, she still looked every bit as beautiful as an eight-year-old girl should.

“Now what are we to do with you, Lady Subaru,” the tatsu wondered aloud, a teasing smile playing about his teal-tinged lips. She had to stop herself from gazing at him in a mixture of wonder and admiration, and in that moment Nanashi saw that the problem had neatly solved itself. He had been prepared to intervene if necessary, but found himself pleasantly pleased that it would not be necessary. “Speak your mind, for I believe the whole point of this sasurai’s charade was to give you that chance.”

Nanashi still had the grace to go red, especially when Subaru’s grateful glance joined Lord Tokusa’s needling one. The young girl took a deep breath before speaking, her voice quavering at first but quickly firming up when it became apparent they would hear her out.

“I miss my family, Lord Tokusa, and it is my wish to return to them. But if it is anything I have learnt from Nanashi-san, it is that I still have much to learn about the rest of the world, and what I can do in it. So, if it is okay… would it be okay to spend some time with you, every month, so that I can learn about you and your people?”

The tatsu smiled, pleased with her words simple but heartfelt.

“Lady Subaru, I do not know how your father, Lord Kosaka, will react to your choice. But rest assured, that if it is in my power to help you, I will do so. Perhaps together, you and I, we can put an end to the needless fighting that has existed between our peoples for generations.”

The tengu and others of the assembled Night Parade seemed to seethe beneath the words, but the High Chieftain held firm. At length their murmuring subsided, quelled by the tatsu’s force of will.

“In which case, Lord Tokusa, I have a request of you. Will you let those men free?” The young girl indicated the line of mercenary warriors surrounded by their ayakashi captors. “If you do so, and forgive my father for his madness, I promise to convince him that all is not lost.”

“Done, my fair child.” The smile became a grin, lazy and sly. “About our betrothal, then…”

Subaru blushed prettily, flustered as only a child could be.

“… may I decide on that at a later time?”

Tokusa laughed once again, a melodic rippling sound more powerful than his slender frame suggested.

“Of course.”

***

Nanashi spent the night slumped against the gatehouse wall in comatose slumber, exhausted after nearly two days of constant walking and fighting without sleep. But the next morning dawned bright and early. By the time the first rays of the new dawn crept over the horizon and sent jaggedly stark shadows scurrying westwards, by the time the first chill winds of the new day swept down from the peaks above and the circling hawk once again cried good morning, he stood beyond the castle moat, looking back over his shoulder in farewell.

“I thank you for your efforts, Nanashi.”

Lord Tokusa hovered a metre above the rocky ground, resplendent in his serpentine form. The ancient texts said that only the full moon on a clear night rivalled a tatsu’s beauty, and not for the first time the wanderer agreed with them. The Head Chieftain’s mouth did not move in time with his voice, for draconic vocal cords were ill-suited to human speech, but a large emerald jewel at his throat pulsed with every word he spoke. He smelt of running water and fresh fields of verdant green, refreshingly sweet in the crisp mountain air.

“I assure you that I will protect that child. You have given us an opening for peace, and I promise that it will not go wasted.”

“I’m not even sure I did much. After all, little changed in the eventual outcome…”

“You know as well as I do, Nanashi, the difference is that she made her own choice this time. And though it may be a more difficult and perilous road than she sees it to be now, let me tell you this. In my experience, although some roads may be more difficult than others, a choice made of one’s own accord is never wrong. Hard, perhaps, ill-conceived, maybe. But never wrong. Assuming that the heart is in the right place to begin with, of course.”

“Thank you, Lord Tokusa.”

“Just Tokusa will do, Nanashi. There will come a day when we meet again, and perhaps that time I can be of more assistance than my words today. Until then, however, I bid thee farewell.”

“Farewell, Tokusa. May fortune favour your endeavours. One last request, though, if I may…”

The wanderer reached into the leather pouch at his waist, retrieving from it a neatly folded piece of crisp paper. Black ink stained its faded white, written in the young man’s neat hand. The tatsu took it in his jaws, careful not to wet the delicate calligraphy.

“For the child?”

“For Lady Subaru, yes.”

The young girl had spent the previous night in a building of her own, guarded by the High Chieftain’s watchful eye. This morning she would start back towards her family, escorted by the fourteen surviving ronin carrying Gozo’s remains to be buried with due ceremony, and a handpicked cadre of ayakashi who would watch over them from the shadows. She had made her decision, but her journey had only just begun.

“I will give it to her.”

“Thank you.”

With that the sasurai turned and started to walk, down the mountain and along the path to whatever destination lay before him. Tokusa respectfully watched the man leave, crimson eyes steady and teal mane ruffling as the mountain winds themselves bade him farewell. Only when Nanashi had disappeared beyond the bend in the road did he glance at the paper he had been handed, and the words written there. He read them, and a smile touched his wolfish features.

One day, I promise, I will take you to the sea.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The South Sea Road between Komana and Ueda, Hozumi Province, Nippon
Month of New Growth

***

When the wanderer finally finished speaking, Akiyoshi let out a long, low whistle. One hand held the reins of his horse as they walked; the other reached to his chin to appreciatively rub the bristle there.

“You really did that?”

“Yeah.”

Fresh earthy paddies and flurries of cherry blossoms gave way to forested hills, through which the path of swept dirt wound like a coiling snake. The noontime sun filtered through a canopy of new green: tall thin bamboo, broad-leafed oak and beech, cedar and cypress. Songbirds chirped noisily from branches overhead, whilst the chattering banter of other travellers on the road swept over them like whispers on the wind. Other travellers accorded the two men respectful space, Akiyoshi being of obvious samurai status, and thus they journeyed peacefully and unmolested.

“And you were worrying? About making a difference somewhere?”

“Well…”

“Can I just ask? That particular incident. Do you consider it representative of your travels?”

“Um…”

Akiyoshi planted his forehead in his palm and sighed exaggeratedly.

“Trust me. The people of those lands are going to tell of your exploits. As a fairy tale, perhaps. Your name, in the same breath as the Peach Warrior and the Boy who Drew Cats.”

The wanderer scratched his face tentatively, wondering if he should be proud of the comparison. Seeing that, Akiyoshi sighed again. Some people could just not be satisfied. He tried a different tack.

“That Subaru girl. I bet she thinks of you as some sort of folklore hero. In fact, I’m sure of it. Was she pretty?”

“Aki, she was eight. Even you wouldn’t…”

“I can wait, if she’s pretty enough. Besides, that’s one hell of a tale. You’d be able to win all the ladies no matter where you tell it.”

“Uh…”

Akiyoshi looked at his friend, pursing his lips in thought. His steed whickered uneasily as it plodded along behind him.

“Let me guess. You’re not interested in women that way?”

“What?” Nanashi looked shocked at the thought. “No! I mean…”

“Not that I mean to judge you or anything,” the warrior hastily added. Shudo existed as an accepted and honourable practice in both monastic and samurai circles, even taking hold in the mercantile middle class. Akiyoshi himself did not engage in it, but he had plenty of close friends and retainers who did.

“I’m… not…” The wanderer looked quite flustered, stammering desperately for words as the colour reached the very roots of his hairs. “That is to say… I’m interested in women the usual way, it’s… just…”

“Okay, okay. I believe you.” The vehement denial had attracted attention, and a few faces peered in their direction seeking the source of the commotion. Nanashi’s face froze in horror. But Akiyoshi had not finished with him just yet.

“You’re a man-maid.”

“Wha…” If not quite possible for a human face to turn the colour of a beetroot, Nanashi gave it a good try. The Nipponese called the vegetable kaensai or flameroot, and certainly the heat given off by the young man’s features made the name an apt one.

“You avoid pillow-talk like the plague. Every time it comes up you flush in embarrassment. Then you change the subject. You haven’t eyed a single girl all morning. If you’re not sly, then there’re only so many possibilities. You can’t fool me, you know.”

Nanashi wilted under the older man’s stare. His face drained of all excess colour, until it returned to its normal pale complexion. The taut lines of embarrassment relaxed until his features composed in dumbfounded resignation. Even his spectacles drooped down his nose. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he neither did he see the point in beating around the bush any longer.

“Fine, yes. Yes I am.”

“Oh. What’s this sudden change in attitude?”

“It’s not something that matters, is it? Not something that changes by me hiding anything, so…”

“I can introduce you to a girl. If you’d like?”

The wanderer smiled at that, shaking his head slowly. “There’s no need for that.”

“Not interested?”

“Just…”

Akiyoshi’s eyes sparkled. “You have somebody? Somebody that you met during your travels?”

“Leave off, already.”

“There is, isn’t there.”

“I said…”

He stopped, certain now that the other man intended to keep him talking in an effort to infer as much as possible from his reactions. Unfortunately, Akiyoshi had the scent, and like a hound on the hunt refused to let go once he had a bite. Furthermore, his nose in matters of colour happened to be exceptionally good.

“C’mon, you can tell me.”

“Two hours after we’ve met for the first time in years, and you’re prying into my love life already?”

“You’re going to work under me for a while. I’m going to have to get to know you. I remember that you’re not the type to speak of these things of your own accord. Hence I must go on the attack.”

“Applying Master Sun's treatises to interpersonal relationships, Akiyoshi?”

“I thought that was you, actually. You were always the scholarly one, I just learned what I could use.” The warrior grinned, half-nostalgic, half-teasing. “Be extremely subtle, to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent’s fate.”

“I don’t…”

“Remember, invincibility lies in the defence. But the possibility of victory is in the attack. Or do you not wish to win?”

“I…” The silence hung awkwardly between them, too awkwardly. Even Akiyoshi realised then that something lay amiss. The trees to either side of the road swayed in a gentle breeze, whispering the answer to his searching mind.

“Don’t tell me…”

Nanashi met his friend’s eyes, and in that moment the latter understood. A singularly difficult look crossed his face – pity, sympathy, understanding, and distaste all rolled into one.

“You still hold a flame for her.”

The words left his mouth as a statement, not a question. The wanderer looked away, unhappy.

“You don’t know, then.”

Nanashi’s gaze snapped back, surprised at a reaction that differed from what he had expected. This time it was Akiyoshi who looked away.

“Well, there’s no point in hiding it. She disappeared about three years ago. Just after graduating from the Academy. Nobody’s seen her since.”

The wanderer felt the blow physically, as if the very air had been knocked from his lungs by the fist of an ogre three times his size. It took all of his willpower to stop himself from staggering. His voice fled from his throat, chased away by a chokingly large lump wedged in his oesophagus, and the pit of his stomach drowned in liquid fear and despair. His mind went as blank as a wiped slate, as empty as an abandoned warehouse, as lifeless as a graveyard in the depths of night.

“It was pretty big news amongst our circles at the time. Kayu being as powerful as she was. But I guess it never filtered down to you. One day she was in her dorm at the Academy, preparing to return home. The next she was gone, all of her belongings left behind. The Maesters spent a lot of resources looking into it. But they never found anything, not even a body. About a year ago, they gave up. She’s now officially missing, presumed dead.”

“… but… they haven’t found…”

A dark frown crossed Akiyoshi’s craggily handsome features. “Don’t pin your heart on false hope. She’s gone. There’s nothing you can do…”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?” The agonising pain appeared as vivid desperation upon the wanderer’s youthful features. His eyes shook wildly, unfocused, frantic.

“The finest investigators in the country found nothing. What makes you think that you can do any better? Give it up. Move on, before you…”

Two frighteningly powerful hands grabbed hold of his collar and lifted him from the ground. For a heartbeat, as travellers scattered away in either direction, even the dragon-blooded samurai lordling felt fear. Then his eyes narrowed, his mind reasserting its authority over his emotions.

“Put. Me. Down.”

“Tell. Me,” Nanashi replied, surprisingly calm despite the tautness of his fingers near Akiyoshi’s neck. The wanderer had conquered his dread, and his darkly intelligent eyes reflected naught but deadly focus. Although he had been shaken to his very core, he had not acted out of irrationality or panic, merely the depths of feelings suppressed and nurtured by years of isolation. The warrior saw this, and forced himself to relax.

“All right. All right.” Akiyoshi raised his hands in defeat. It would not do for him to lose control of his emotions here, in public, where the collateral damage would be devastating. “There was one word that they couldn’t decipher. One word they found in the end, after thoroughly and repeatedly scrying the room. They couldn’t make heads or tails out of it. Nobody could.”

“What was it?” Akiyoshi felt himself being slowly lowered to the ground, the wanderer’s expression degenerating into apology. It suddenly struck him just how silent the rest of the world had become, from the cowering travellers on the road to the watchful trees and motionless sky.

“It was Natosatael,” he said.

Suddenly the hands at his neck let go. He collapsed in a heap upon the dusty road, his horse rearing in terrified alarm. Angry, he looked to the wanderer, challenging the man for the unnecessary violence.

“What was that all…”

Only then did he finally see.

Nanashi’s world, one that had survived even the news of Kayu’s disappearance, had just shattered into myriad glittering shards.

Natosatael…

[Flames of Hyperion]

Twelve years ago…
Grounds of the Toho Institute of Academic Learning, Naniwa, Kansei Province, Nippon
Month of No Water

***

Human bodies resisted surprisingly little. In less time than it took him to blink, the daemon tore her in two. Dark crimson blood fountained, spilled, trickled, pooled. Her anguished frightened scream, and its abrupt end, lingered horribly in his ears.

And now Kayu lay helpless and in its path. The next victim.

He ran. He ran as never before. He felt as though his legs would fall off, and his lungs would burst from his body.

He screamed. He screamed so hard his throat tore. And then he kept on screaming, heedless of the taste of blood in his mouth.

The fear that froze her limbs lent fire to his. He got there just in time.

With the last of his strength he interposed his body between her and the daemon’s descending hands. They closed around him, and he could struggle no more.

With the last of his voice he screamed at her to run, somehow breaking through to her numbed mind.
The grip tightened and crushed the air from his lungs.

With the last of his power he forced her to her feet, gave her a gentle nudge towards safety. His mind snapped, and the leylines no longer responded to his call.

With the last of his vision he saw her go at last, face paralysed in horror as she stumbled away.

And the darkness came to claim him.

***

So that’s it, then, boy. Save the girl and then die?

Be gentle, Hou. He is only a child.

He’s not only a child. He’s my host. This, boy, is how it’s done…

Flames blossomed in the confined space, swirling, dancing, blazing. Strangely they were almost cool to the touch, and far from shrivelling and charring, the wounds upon his person seemed to close beneath their saintly glow. His eyes opened, and he found himself cocooned by the soft white light. Claustrophobia took over.

The flames erupted. Bursts of bright fire flared through gaps in the daemon’s fingers, peeling away at leathery skin until the hiss of evaporating blood filled his ears. A horrifying stench, like the burning of raw sewage mixed with seared flesh, overwhelmed his nostrils. The beast roared, agony reverberating across the deserted Academy grounds, splintering wood and stone and sending embers scurrying for cover. The death grip tightened around the young boy’s body, instinctively seeking to crush the source of its pain. He wanted nothing more than to be free.

A second burst of power, and he was free. The daemon’s hand disintegrated around him, muscle and tendon and bone simply vanishing in a wave of heat and light until only the cauterised stump of a wrist remained. As he fell heavily to the ground, he could see the flesh throbbing and bubbling as it tried to regenerate. But the flames had cleansed the wound so thoroughly that the daemon lacked the capability to do even that. It howled in anguish, stunned by the unexpected resistance.

He impacted upon the muddy ground, violently jarring breath into his crushed lungs. Raindrops sizzled as they drove upon his immolated form, wisps of steam hissing into the cloudy night. The daemon regarded him with all sixteen eyes, gingerly nursing its injured arm as if it carried deadly poison.

“You…” the hellish voice spoke, half staggered, half pleased. “So you’re the boy.”

Murky green pupils glinted with power, and a dozen soul-stealing glares pierced his body and froze it in place. But the cloak of white flame about his body danced with a mind of its own. In the shape of a fiery bird it reared high, shrieking mightily as its blazing wings battered at the daemon. The beast roared a third time, in anguish and pain, as the sanctifying flame took hold upon its blasphemous form. Once again the netherworldly stink permeated the air.

Long seconds passed, each a valuable contribution to the time he needed to buy to let Kayu get away. The pain the daemon endured steadily drove it crazy, until the roar of agony dissolved into madly ludicrous laughter. All sixteen eyes wept as one… in fact its entire body seemed to be weeping, thick glistening oil that clung like foam to its leathery skin. And the firebird struggled now, as the lathering lubricant drove its flames away from the daemon’s body. Shrieking fiercely once more it beat its wings hard, fighting on gamely against the inexorable tide.

The daemon stopped laughing, only to bend down and swallow the phoenix whole, like a Cathayan fire-eater gulping down his torch. What remained of the spirit’s flames flickered and died upon the nameless boy’s skin, acidic dribble scorching the flagstones at his feet.

The young host had not even the time to register his loss. The daemon’s remaining left hand swept like a diving falcon to capture his slight form once more. Blood-drenched ground trembled in fear as the beast settled back on thickset haunches to view its prize.

“Hmm,” it mused thoughtfully. “A shame that I am not allowed to kill you, for you seem a most tasty morsel. So rare is it that I come across a soul so rich and flavoursome. Although to be fair, today’s meals have been a cut above the usual fare…”

The daemon contemplated him for a moment longer, before reaching out with one of its right hands. Almost delicately it extended the shortest of its digits, topped with a claw of matte ebony that ended in a wickedly curved point. With the same precise care, it carved a bloody rune into the young boy’s face, then tore a deep gash in his left arm from shoulder to elbow. Blood pulsed and spilled over its closed fist, splattering onto the wet ground so far below. The boy’s voice caught in his throat, too scared to even scream, but the pain rose in tidal waves of nauseating agony that drowned his mind whole.

“There. That should keep you out of my sight for now. Run, little boy, I have my next course to seek. That girl that you let away… yes, she shall do. She did look quite tasty too.”

The boy didn’t know which happened first, the hefty impact and slick splatter around his neck as the daemon dropped him to the mud, or the bloody mist that descended over his eyes and took control of his mind. Even the agony of his wounds paled in comparison to the overwhelming anger and fear erupting again from the depths of his soul. A miniature sun wider than he was tall erupted into existence over his head. Moments later, it slammed into the back of the daemon’s slickly wet head. Evaporated rain created a veil of vapour that obscured it momentarily from view.

When it dissipated, the young boy once again found all sixteen eyes trained on him.

“Ahh, I see,” the daemon nodded with both bulbous chins. “You’re the hero type. The kind who doesn’t care what happens to himself, but gets all worked up as soon as I threaten somebody else, somebody close. Well run, little boy. I’ll give you a chance to warn her. Go on, she’s that way…”

It extended a thickly muscled arm, continuing to speak as it pointed out the correct direction.

“You see, now you’ve given me some valuable information. I now know your weakness, boy. I know something you’d die for. And if you know what makes a man tick, see, you know how to make him tock instead.”

Blood flowed freely from the boy’s injured arm, as it finally registered that the magic – a powerful spell of which even the Maesters would have been proud – had dealt absolutely no damage whatsoever. The beast gave him a languid smile from the broad maw of its mouth, almost paternal in bearing.

The bloody mist disappeared almost as quickly as it had descended. Panic took over. He had to get to Kayu, he had to protect her, he had to…

He began to run in the direction that the daemon pointed, the direction that he had last seen her stumbling.

“That’s it, boy. It does not displease me to see you mortals fighting for your lives.”

The ground shuddered behind him, fountains of mud reaching out to die on his back with the daemon’s every step. The beast took his merry time in following the staggering young boy, toying with his prey like a lion with a near-dead mouse. Soon the loss of blood began to tell, and the boy’s steps faltered and slowed. It took all of his precious willpower to stem the tide of pain and stop himself from falling to his knees, fighting the dark tendrils that grasped at his legs and threatened to drag him into their muddy maw. Only one thought dwelt in his dimming mind. He had to protect Kayu.

“Now boy, keep going. Or I’ll leave you behind…”

The daemon’s lumbering footfalls sounded closer now, deafening him with their intensity. The mud splattered the sides of his face with the regularity of a heartbeat, once on the left, twice on the right. He almost didn’t notice the new voice joining the fray.

“What in…”

Maester Kokubu, who taught alchemy. Maester Kokubu, who had been so strict with his detentions but so kind out of class. Maester Kokubu, who took in the situation at a glance and aimed an iron fan inscribed with incarnate symbols at the daemon’s mighty form. Maester Kokubu, who started to chant…

“Ten ni habataku…”

The daemon swiped lazily with one mighty clawed palm.

Maester Kokubu’s upper body disappeared in a shower of body parts and a fine mist of blood and gore. His legs took a moment to realise what had happened, then toppled sadly into the muck.

“Never did approve of the long incantations your onmyojutsu seems to require. Keep moving, boy, or I might just reach her before you…”

Vaguely the nameless boy grew aware of the tears streaking down his cheeks, so much hotter than the raindrops that battered his bloodied form. He forced his feet to continue walking, one weary step after another. The pain in his arm gradually dulled and faded further away, as if the limb did not belong to him any more.

“The next right, boy,” the daemon called in a rumbling bellow from overhead, the terrible sound hammering upon his eardrums like thunder in close proximity. The boy’s mind questioned the intent, but his body saw little choice but to obey.

He walked straight into hell.

“Oh, I remember this courtyard…”

The Mage’s Square stank of wet blood and gore. Broken bones and clumps of flesh carpeted the sand like a slaughterhouse’s leavings, some with skin still attached. Here he could make out half a face, there a scalp with long black hair still wafting in forlorn greeting. Torn robes fluttered in the gentle breeze, damp with far more than the mercilessly pelting rain. Even an abattoir had witnessed less chaos, less carnage. The sight of the one-sided massacre brought him finally to his knees, all his remaining strength fleeing his body along with the shuddering heaves of vomit.

“… it was a good starter.”

He made the mistake of looking too closely at his hands. Between slow pulses of blood driving through his faltering vision, he saw that he had placed them into the remains of somebody’s ribcage. The dainty bones barely wrapped around his splayed fingers.

Kenta had been headed to the Mage’s Square, the nameless boy recalled. All the younger classes were drilled to assemble there in case of emergency.

He nearly blacked out, then and there, with the anguish and the pain.

“Boy, I’d hurry up if I were you.” Again the thunderous mocking from overhead. The daemon’s tread splattered him in his downturned face this time, coating him in grisly wet gore. His stomach heaved dryly, trying to escape the gruesome nightmare through his throat. It failed, but only just.

“Do you see the ruins of that tower over there? There are mortals hiding there, you know.” Sixteen heartless eyes regarded him from amidst features that could belong to no human, on top of a neck that angled impossibly free. “Who knows, the girl you’re trying so hard to save might be amongst them. But maybe not. Can you save them all?”

The question echoed cruelly through his hollow mind. The answer responded as clear as day. He couldn’t…

Eat shit.

He could try. He could think of worse ways to…

And what happens if Kayu dies because of that?

There had to be a way…

A shadow loomed over him, two fingers of a meaty hand reaching towards him like twin harbingers of doom. He felt them grasp dainty hold of his leg, felt them twist it in the wrong direction as easily as a torturer would snap a finger. But the pain did not reach his mind, so distant did his body lie. The world began to slip from his grasp, bloody rainwater through his fingers, air from his lungs. The daemon sighed, and the pinpricks that remained of his vision shuddered in time.

“Very well. You did not do poorly for a mortal child. Though I had hoped for more…” Its bestial form began to turn away. “Now where is that meal…”

He had no more time to think. Only time to act.

The air flooded back into his lungs. He screamed.

Ten… twenty… a hundred balls of flame burst into life around him. Like shooting stars they trailed through the night sky, hammering the daemon’s face before it could turn away. Fire and flame danced upon the leathery skin, and something hot exploded overhead, dumping bucketfuls of stinking liquid all around him. Something acrid and acidic joined the hotpot of nauseous stenches, threatening to rot his lungs with a single whiff.

The daemon laughed.

“Oh, I like the way you think, boy. But see, now I know for sure that your own magic can barely harm me… and what damage it does, I can regenerate.”

The effort he had expended in the assault hadn’t even dented the beast’s confidence; its words echoed lazy and arrogant about the courtyard butchery. Its face emerged from the smoke and steam, rainwater hissing from ruined eyes as they pulsed with necrotic energies. A sane mind would have reeled in disgust at the sight of the organs knitting themselves back together again. But the boy’s soul had long since passed beyond the brink.

Somebody had stabbed a blunted, rusted sword into the ground not too far away. With leg broken and shoulder torn open, it lay too far away for him to run, too far away for him to walk. So he crawled instead, injured arm trailing behind him limply through the gore, his eyes and his nose closed to everything but the poorly maintained weapon. By the time he reached it the daemon’s eyes had finished regenerating, and they peered at him with great interest.

He grasped the hilt of the weapon in his good hand; by supreme force of will, he used it to leverage himself to his feet. The daemon’s remaining left arm rested just within reach, slippery with the oily goo that had repulsed the spirit’s flames.

The boy swung, putting all of his remaining strength in that one blow. The sword slipped through the fire-resistant sweat, hammered against the leathery skin underneath, pierced perhaps the length of a finger. The wound didn’t even bleed.

“Stop…” he croaked as he laboured to raise the weapon for another futile strike. “Stop…”

“Don’t presume to lecture me, boy,” the daemon frowned, reaching down with the same two fingers that had broken his leg and this time snapping the sword midstrike. Broken shards of metal splintered against the mess upon his face, and the point of the blade spun to the ground at his feet. The boy looked at it dumbly for a heartbeat, before reaching down with his injured arm and forcing his fingers to close.

The edge shone dully with age and ill-repair, but it dug into his digits nonetheless. Still the boy didn’t give up, using what meagre twitches of fresh pain reached his dulled mind to spur him onwards. He took a single step, dragging his bad leg behind him, almost falling onto the daemon’s prone hand.

“Stop…” he whispered again, this time hacking with both hands – one wielding the hilt of the broken sword, the other its point – at the oil-covered skin. The daemon looked at him with something akin to wonder.

“Boy, if you don’t stop now, you’ll waste the life that was gifted you. Do you really want to die again so soon?” Almost idly it watched as the human continued his pathetic attempts to injure him, its meals forgotten for the time being. “You do realise that you should have died that last time? Do you realise what magics were wrought to keep you alive? Do you even think you’re human any more?”

The words washed over him ineffectually, not even close to piercing his bloody-minded stupor. The daemon doubted that the boy had the strength even to understand what he said, much less dwell on it. Every moment he spent distracting it gave his friend time to escape. And that was all that mattered. The beast almost suffocated in the purity of the emotion, the transparency of the intent.

“And now you’re thinking that if you can get me angry enough to eat you, you might be able to kill me from inside. I’m sorry, boy, but that won’t work.” A dribble of saliva hissed as it impacted the ground, eating through flesh, bone, and stone alike. When the rain finally stopped smoking upon the crater, the scar it left measured a full body length in width.

“And yet, why is it? I feel to be banished by you would be an almost acceptable end…?”

The broken blade finally pierced the daemon’s leathery hide. A single droplet of thick green ichor trickled down to the ground to join the flood of crimson, both fresh and not, pooled there.

Sighing, the beast reached out for a third time with the surprisingly delicate touch of its forefinger and thumb. Just a pinch in the right place, and the boy would fall asleep for long enough to see out the night. Just a pinch…

A fresh breeze ruffled the young boy’s dirty hair. The cruelly clawed paw stopped mid-flight.

The boy’s body erupted once more in white flame. The heat swirled and whirled, concentrated in the palm of his hand, channelled along the metal of the broken blade. From there it flowed into the daemon’s bloodstream, vaporising as it went.

The beast had a single, eternal moment of comprehension before it exploded.

“Brilliant.”

The low night sky shuddered, and the bloodstained earth quaked. A powerful arcane vortex exploded into life, howled violently and chaotically, then detonated in a vicious cacophony of screeching eldritch noise and multihued lights. When it finally subsided and the dust cleared, the massive daemon stood no more.

But in its place stood a smaller one, lithe where its predecessor had been bulky, sinewy where it had been muscular. Its form loomed from the dust, proportionally more humanoid than before, with two eyes instead of sixteen and a mouth that didn’t take up half its face. A long tail whiplashed dextrously from the base of its back, and two rows of horns ranging in size from nub to full-fledged monstrosity lined the top of its bald head. Skin leathery and tough, features curled in a cruel grin, the young boy nonetheless recognised it as the same daemon as before.

“Well, that was fun,” it laughed, dusting imaginary fluff from its shoulder. Motes of ashen flesh danced about its form as it emerged from the gory ruins of its previous body, stepping callously through the previous inhabitants of the courtyard turned charnel house. “Took you long enough, didn’t it? Oh don’t look so surprised, so devoid of hope. That’s only the body I use when I want to terrorise populaces. This one is much nicer, don’t you think? So much easier to move around in.

“Oh, and I’m sorry to say that all the valuable information you collected at such risk to yourself is worthless now that you’ve destroyed it. Although to be fair, I wouldn’t have kept it longer than tonight anyways. Do you realise how much I have to feed to maintain that size? Completely unsustainable.” The daemon gave a dismissive flick of its fingers, still smiling broadly. Beady serpentine eyes bore into the defeated form of the young boy as finally he slumped to the ground amidst the carnage, powerless to stand again.

“In the meantime, boy, I now know all about you. Don’t forget that.”

His head slumped, his vision wavered. Adrenaline and focus faded into the void, and in their place rushed recurring waves of agony from both arm and leg, and the slippery sensation of losing control over his faculties that suggested he meant to fall asleep soon. Sleep seemed so inviting at last.

“But you did succeed in letting that girl get away,” the daemon sighed, regretfully. “Oh well, there will always be other chances…”

Despite it all, a small victorious smile touched the young boy’s lips. He had won.

Or had he? The stench of blood and gore suffused his nostrils, the silence of the dead overwhelming his ears. Pools of dark crimson drenched the peaceful, refined centre of learning he had known, painting his shattered world in the remains of those who had once inhabited it. Dark flame still licked at the fallen towers and shattered halls, as clouds roiled and grumbled in revulsion overhead. The pouring rain beat down upon his helpless form as though the very heavens themselves chastised him for surviving, attempting to sweep him away with all the rest that needed cleansing.

“If we meet a next time, I suppose it will be in Raiaera, homeland of the elves.”

The last of his will sighed from his strength-less jaw. He wanted nothing more than for the misery to end.

“Oh, and before you forget. My name is Natosatael of Haidia.”

Why wouldn’t the beast just let him die in peace?

“Actually, on further thought, you only need to remember the last part of that.”

A delicate snap of his fingers, and the nameless boy’s mind went blank.

A second, and the daemon disappeared from his fading vision.

Fading…

… fading…