Guardian, Saviors of Kamigawa

CHAPTER 4

Home again for the first time in weeks, Toshi stood in the Numai district of Takenuma Swamp. No matter what the old ones said, he would never believe the fen had ever been anything but a greasy, bubbling cauldron of muck and rotten bamboo. If you wanted to build a house or a business in the swamp, you had to do it on twenty-foot stilts, high above the surface of the bog. Everything rested on sturdy bamboo legs: every building, every walkway, every structure that might conceivably be used by nontoxic, non-amphibious life forms.

Toshi hated the swamp. If the quicksand-like filth didn’t drag you down and the swamp insects didn’t infect you with bleeding fever, there were larger, crueler dangers waiting for the unwary who braved the bog. Numai’s entire human population, for one. Here, the only things more malevolent than the cursed ground were the people who thrived on it. For as long as Toshi could remember his district had been the crossroads where the criminal-minded and the bloodthirsty met and mingled. Those with shady work could sit down with those who didn’t mind doing it for cash.

There was precious little foot traffic now, which Toshi suspected was due to more than the swamp’s bad reputation. There was a heaviness in the air, the kind of damp, oppressive stillness that usually precedes a major storm. It was similar to the dread he had felt hovering over Kamitaki Falls, but the swamp’s mood was even darker, wetter, and more oppressive. After two decades of the Kami War, Toshi was all too familiar with the signs of a spirit crossing into the physical world, but that sensation was usually limited to a small area. Now, the pressure and sense of impending attack was everywhere.

He hadn’t actually seen any spirits yet, but he had seen their wake. Mangled and partially consumed corpses left hanging in trees, temples smashed and painted over in blood, and charred, smoking ruins where great manors once stood.

Toshi heard a distant scream that echoed across the surface of the swamp. He waited for a moment to listen for the sequel, but no further sound came. He resumed walking. Just as well, he thought. He had no time for new adventures. He had already mortgaged too much of his future to powerful beings and made enemies of still more, so there was simply no chance for anyone else to make demands on him. The screamer would have to save himself.

Ahead, the end of the walkway materialized through the haze. From there he had a short climb and a long wade through the swamp until he reached his goal.

Toshi smiled thinly as he strode on. His patrons and foes were all lined up to greet him. He would face them as soon as he mustered his allies.

Toshi’s smile faded. He decided not to think too far ahead with this plan for the time being. He couldn’t worry about what happened after he recruited his partners until he had actually recruited them. Just because they considered themselves oath-bound to avenge his death didn’t mean they were willing to prevent it beforehand.

He emerged onto solid ground less than an hour later. The small hill rose up out of the fen, and as he climbed it Toshi stamped mud and leeches from his feet. He was now on the outskirts of Numai district, along the western edge of Takenuma. Apart from the odd fugitive or hermit, the only humans who lived this far out were the Numai jushi, a close-knit clan of mahotsukai, or dark wizards. The mahotsukai delved more deeply into the black arts than was safe or sane, but they were powerful casters and exerted significant influence over the swamp’s criminal society.

He had never met any of the mahotsukai elders but he had heard the rumors: they drank the blood of their apprentices, they took them as wives and forced them to bear monstrous children, and they were not living men at all but vampiric spirits who corrupted human souls with black magic then consumed them like some exquisite delicacy.

None of this truly mattered to Toshi. Residents of the swamp liked to exaggerate their power and their dark reputations as much as they liked to spread pointless gossip. Whatever those twisted old men did to their charges, they also taught them powerful magic. Kiku, one of the most dangerous people he had ever met, was a mahotsukai from the Numai jushi. All Toshi had to do was find her and convince her that helping him was in her own best interest.

He broke through the hedgerow of thorn bushes and stinging nettles to a clearing at the top of the rise. The ground was dry here, almost sandy, and the hilltop was dotted with clumps of gray-green grass that swayed hypnotically in the fetid air. In the center of this field of swamp grass stood a large, one-room building made of mud bricks and straw. It was round with a circular chimney in the center of the mud-thatch roof. No smoke rose from the hardened clay pipe, and no sound came from the building’s interior.

Toshi’s gut shifted and he knew something was wrong. The mahotsukai were not gregarious folk, but they always sent someone to meet visitors. If no one had come out to greet him by now, that meant either no one was here to do so … or no one was alive to do so.

He went closer, and a clearer view of the building confirmed his fears. The front door was hanging off one hinge, the thick clay of the doorway cracked and crumbling. There was a rough hole punched through the ceiling on the south end. A pale and lifeless hand dangled from one of the front windows, a thin stream of blood dripping slowly from its index finger.

Toshi drew his jitte in one hand and his long sword in the other. As he ran to the mahotsukai dwelling, he turned over the possibilities in his mind. Kami attack? Clan warfare? Had the daimyo’s troops begun cracking down on black magicians while their lord and master was away?

He stepped up to the ruined front door and peered inside. A foul, stale odor hung in the air. Two small fires burned inside the building, one in the fireplace at the center of the room and one on a pile of debris nearer the door.

Toshi stopped when he saw the scene inside, and then he grimaced. Unlike the post-massacre scene at Minamo, the floor of the mahotsukai hut was nearly covered with broken and twisted bodies.

A young man was lying facedown just inside the doorway. From the huge slick of blood beneath him, Toshi guessed his throat had been cut. More students littered the rest of the residence, young and old alike, their torsos displaying neat, precise holes surrounded by crimson blooms. The pale hand that extended out through the window belonged to a girl, but she was too small and too slight to be Kiku.

Toshi sheathed his long sword but held onto his jitte. Whatever had happened here was long over, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t still danger. He quietly moved across the crowded floor and opened the large ornamental door at the far end of the room.

It was much worse inside. The bodies were crammed together and piled two-deep between Toshi and the altar at the center of the room. Toshi recognized sword wounds and dagger thrusts on every body he saw, the terrible evidence of a sharp blade and a skilled hand at work. Whoever did this did so with weapons of steel, not tooth and claw. Armed warriors had attacked the mahotsukai in their home and slaughtered them to a man.

Near the altar, Toshi stopped. This was more than a simple massacre-it was a message. Some of the older students had been killed and then hung from the walls. Toshi peered closer at the mangled body of a bearded man with one long, dangling earring and a tattoo that covered most of his face. His eyes were still wide-open in shock.

Correction, Toshi thought. Some had been hung from the walls and then killed. That ruled out the daimyo’s troops. He had seen Konda’s soldiers on punitive missions first-hand, and they would never have displayed such cruelty or taken the time to stage the corpses-they would have simply lined the mahotsukai up and decapitated them with swords, one by one and with great ceremony. Toshi grimaced and went on to the door that led deeper into the building.

The next room was the smallest, so it was fortunate that it held the fewest corpses. Toshi did not enter the room at first, but stood outside, gazing down at the half-dozen humanoid bodies scattered around the chamber.

These were different from the other victims. These bodies were all tall, thin, and elegantly dressed. Most wore black silk with their heads and faces concealed beneath scarves. The others wore cobalt-blue chain mail and carried katanas. What flesh Toshi could see was pale, gleaming white, like the reflection of moonlight on bleached bone. These new corpses were those of soratami, and their presence proved the battle was not one-sided.

Toshi was impressed. He allowed himself a moment of pure, cruel joy at the soratami’s expense. Most of Toshi’s current problems could be laid squarely at the feet of the soratami and their patron kami. Since Konda had vanished, the soratami had been openly working to take control of the entire swamp region. They killed those they couldn’t intimidate or bribe, and he had to assume the mahotsukai were targeted because they would not knuckle under. It hadn’t saved them and it wouldn’t bring them back, but Toshi was glad the Numai jushi made the moonfolk pay for this night’s work.

Toshi blinked. The soratami warriors were exceptional and their shinobi were as silent and invisible as leaves falling on a moonless night. They were far too proud to leave proof that mere ground-dwellers had defeated some of their tribe. Why then, had they left these bodies behind?

He looked again, noting that the soratami corpses were all equidistant from a central spot at the far side of the room. He puzzled for a moment, then nodded to himself. They had attempted to gang up on someone and been brutally killed and hurled backwards by their intended victim. Did this small victory take place away from the main body of invaders, so that they didn’t realize their loss? Or, more incredibly, did the last surviving mahotsukai defeat or scare off all of the attacking soratami so that none were left to carry off their dead?

Toshi hoped that was the case. He also hoped whoever it was could still shake hands-he wanted to congratulate him.

A woman sighed from the other side of the wall at the far end of the room. Toshi crept forward, peering past the altar, until he saw a loose seam in the wall itself. If the secret door hadn’t been slightly sprung open, he would never have found it. Now, he nudged it open with his toe and crouched as he carefully picked his way through.

The secret door fell shut behind him, but the inner chamber was lit by a pair of black candles atop another, smaller altar. In the soft sphere of yellow light, Toshi saw the back of a woman’s head rustling rhythmically back and forth. He tightened his grip on his jitte, but relaxed when the woman started singing softly. Her voice was soft, sweet, and clear.

“Kiku,” Toshi called. He couldn’t see clearly in the dim light, but he recognized the voice and the silky head of purple-black hair. “It’s Toshi. I’ve come to help.”

“Toshi.” Kiku’s voice was dreamy and somehow sad. “No work for you here, oath-brother. Nothing for the hyozan to avenge. I’m the only one they didn’t kill.”

Toshi stood rooted in place. He was not about to approach Kiku until he was sure of her mind. She might be wounded, or dying, or …

Kiku stood, rising into the flickering candlelight. Her head was tilted forward so that her exotic hair hung down past her chin, hiding her features. She steadied herself on the altar with one hand as she carelessly clutched the neck of a ceramic jug in the other.

“Join me in a drink, oath-brother?” She did not lift her face, but did wave the jug. “The masters were saving this for a special occasion. I think this qualifies. The mahotsukai have survived another night.”

Toshi swallowed. “Sure, Kiku.” He stepped forward with one hand extended for the jug and the other ready with his jitte. Kiku was mercurial on her best days, and she was devastating with her short-handled throwing hatchet. If she were intoxicated, she might remember she hated Toshi for binding her to the hyozan.

But Kiku simply stood, singing softly with her head tilted down while Toshi carefully approached. She was not dressed in her traditional outfit of lavish purple silk and leather armor, but in a sheer white linen shift that left her arms and shoulders bare. The fabric was so delicate it was nearly transparent in the soft light, and though Kiku was a beautiful woman, Toshi kept his attention firmly focused on her hands, where the threat would come from.

Toshi reached out and took hold of the jug. Kiku held on for a moment, resisting him, and then released it. From its heft Toshi guessed Kiku had consumed half of its contents. From its smell Toshi guessed that if you lit a match after taking a sip, your breath would catch fire.

He raised the jug to his lips, keeping his eyes on Kiku. After he was through wincing, Toshi handed the bottle back, but pulled it away when Kiku reached for it.

“Mahotsukai,” he said. “What happened here?”

Kiku let her free hand fall to the altar so that she was leaning on both arms. “Soratami,” she said. “Sent word. We were a threat, unsanctioned magic. We were to vacate, or else.” She lifted her face and smiled wickedly at Toshi. “The elders chose ‘or else.’”

Toshi almost coughed as he met Kiku’s eyes, but his face remained calm. The flesh on Kiku’s forehead, cheeks, and nose was covered in a dark, shifting stain that crawled across her face like oil on the surface of steaming hot tea. Rounded blobs and thin, spiky tendrils oozed and fluttered across her features, forming currents and eddies that alternately encircled and engulfed the topography of her fine-boned face.

It was horrifying to see such a strong person so fractured, to behold such beauty marred by magic. Worse was the undeniable sense of familiarity Toshi got from Kiku’s new appearance. He was not a mahotsukai, so he did not practice their craft, but as an acolyte of Night’s Reach he recognized shadow magic when he saw it.

Still jarred by Kiku’s wild eyes and transformed face, Toshi said evenly, “Listen, Kiku. Tell me what happened.”

Kiku motioned for the jug and Toshi handed it over. She tossed back a long draught and shuddered. Then, blinking her eyes rapidly, she focused on Toshi, and the dreamy, singsong quality to her voice disappeared.

“The masters did this.” She made as if caressing her own face, but her palm never made contact. “Just as the soratami arrived.” Kiku shook her head clear and went on. “You were right about them, oath-brother. The soratami. They are not to be taken lightly. Most of us were dead before the masters finished the ritual.”

“What ritual? What did it do?”

Kiku steadied herself on the altar and then stood up straight. She swayed for a moment. Then she straightened her shift and brushed it clean in two long strokes. She focused on Toshi again, and her eyes glittered like hard, sharp gems behind narrowed lids.

“You use kanji magic,” she said. “Characters, symbols as your weapon. The masters,” she waved aimlessly behind Toshi, where the old men lay dead, “didn’t use symbols. They used me.” She set her jaw, suddenly serious and sober. “I was the tool of my masters’ vengeance. I am their weapon. When they saw they would die, they turned to me. Cursed me, made me more dangerous.”

Toshi took the bottle and sipped. “Did it work?”

“Killed the raiders all at once, in a single heartbeat.” The mahotsukai’s cruel mouth twisted into a sharp smile, then sagged. “But not fast enough. Couldn’t control the power when I needed it. Self-preservation only. You should understand that.” She croaked a hag’s laugh and her eyelids fluttered. Kiku almost swooned, but Toshi caught her shoulder and she clutched the altar before she toppled.

“They’ll be back,” she continued. “And I’ll be ready. All I have to do is sit here and keep killing them. The more they send, the more I’ll get, and the more efficient the masters’ tool shall become.”

“How, Kiku?” Toshi came around the altar and stood beside the mahotsukai. He took her by the shoulders and guided her toward the altar. “How did you kill the soratami?”

Kiku allowed Toshi to turn her around and help her up onto the altar. She sat with her feet swinging freely for a moment and then crossed one leg over the other, the very picture of an elegant lady at a prominent social function. She even tossed her head.

“Solid shadows,” she said. “Something else you understand. You may have direct contact with your myojin, but she’s not the only one who commands the darkness.” Her eyes lost focus as her thoughts turned inward. “Just as ochimusha and ogres aren’t the only ones who knows how to craft revenge magic. Here, I’ll show you-”

Toshi quickly grabbed Kiku’s chin and turned her face to his. “Please don’t,” he said.

The oily shadow on Kiku’s face had begun to churn. Tiny crested ridges of liquid darkness had started to form around her features, like waves made choppy by driving winds.

Kiku held Toshi’s gaze for a moment, then looked away and exhaled. The motion on her face slowed, but it did not stop.

“Kiku,” he said. “We are both bound by the oath. I have work for us to do.” After all she had been through tonight, he didn’t think he could hold Kiku to any promises she had made before, but he had to get her out of this abattoir. As long as there were corpses and mahotsukai liquor to sustain her melancholy, she would probably just sit here going madder and madder until the next group of soratami sneaked in and killed her.

“Can’t go,” she said firmly. “I am an instrument of vengeance. My entire clan is gone. I am the only bearer of the mahotsukai’s wisdom. The last of the Numai jushi. If I do not avenge them-”

“We can avenge them together,” Toshi said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

Kiku blinked, her eyes suddenly clouded once more. “You can help me?”

“I can. The soratami and their kami have been on my list for months now. I was just talking with Hidetsugu about finishing things with them once and for all. But I’d go out of my way to hurt them for the sheer fun of it. If getting them helps you, well, that’s just a bonus.”

Kiku’s eyes opened wider. She turned to Toshi and said, “You can do it, too, can’t you? You’re crafty.” She held up her hand, showing Toshi the triangular hyozan symbol on her palm. “You tricked me into joining your gang. If you can trick the moonfolk and get me close enough, I can release the full power of the masters’ ritual and wipe them all out.” She smiled dreamily. “Again.”

Toshi nodded. This was going to be easier than he thought. “And do right by the memory of your clan. Your masters-”

“My masters can starve in the cold gray hell,” Kiku flared, and for a second she was very much like her old self. “This.” She circled her own face with her hands. “I need to be free of this. I can’t think with this. I’m not me with this.” She sagged, sad and defeated. “Take this from me, Toshi. I don’t want it. Please, oath-brother. Help me.”

Kiku’s eyes closed and she lurched forward. Toshi caught her in his arms, her face pressed against his neck.

“I’ll help you, Kiku. We’ll help each other.”

Kiku did not withdraw from Toshi’s chest. “Thank you, oath-brother.”

“We … uh, Kiku? What are you doing?”

The mahotsukai’s lips were leaving delicate trails along Toshi’s throat. Was she kissing him? He felt the hard, straight edges of her teeth as she seized his flesh between them, and squawked as she bit down.

Kiku lifted her head, fixing the ochimusha with a fierce glare. “Shut up, stupid Toshi.” She grabbed the back of his head with both hands and pressed his face into her, mashing their lips together. She leaned back as she kissed him, pulling him partially up onto the altar beside her.

“Ah, Kiku, I-”

She pulled back, her eyes wild. “As you said, oath-brother, we can help each other.” She pushed Toshi back and slid off the altar. In the blink of an eye she tossed the thin shift over her head and let it flutter forgotten to the floor. Kiku wore a silver chain around her waist and a golden one around her left ankle. There was a brilliant purple flower tattooed on her right hip.

She kept her eyes on Toshi and extended a delicate hand, beckoning him. “Now,” she said. “Come here.”

Toshi stared goggle-eyed. Kiku was in shock. She must be in shock, or drunk, or overwhelmed by grief and the power of her masters’ spell. At the very least she was doing this to bind Toshi to her cause, using him to achieve her own goals.

Kiku stood, watching him, waiting for him. “Well?”

Toshi took her hand, drew her to him, and kissed her. They stood embracing for an endless moment before Toshi remembered something and pushed her away.

“Two things, mahotsukai.”

Kiku stepped back, demurely crossing her arms. “I’m not used to accepting conditions at this stage.”

“Two simple things, easily addressed. One, we agree to talk more in the morning.”

“Of course. And the second?”

Toshi grimaced. “Stop calling me ‘oath-brother.’ It’s making me queasy.”

Kiku laughed lightly, a short crystalline sound that carried beauty and sharp edges alike. Once more, Toshi was given a glimpse of Kiku the way he knew her, confident, beautiful, strong, and more than a little bit frightening.

“Done,” she said. She opened her arms once more, and Toshi leaned forward, bearing her back up onto the altar.