Four

The Forest At Night

Masato

The forest at night was loud around Masato and Junichi, crouched behind a sanzashi thorn bush. Crickets called shrilly, frogs boasted in deep tones, and a constant wind clanked bamboo together in the grove to their right. A small clearing opened in front of them, covered in thick grass. Moonlight faltered, then failed, as clouds gathered across the sky. The rich smell of damp earth rose to greet them, full of promise.

Masato practiced his breathing, letting his senses expand to take in all of the night. He ignored how his knees cried out from being bent for so long, how his back hurt from sitting so still, how the echo of pain still laced his arms, despite how the skin had healed.

He would prove to Junichi that he was worthy. While at the same time, Junichi would prove his skill as a swordsmith.

The sword in Masato’s hand—Fuko—hummed to itself, content. When Masato had bound himself to this length of steel, it had bound itself to him as well. No one else could wield the sword—it wouldn’t allow it. It would work for one master alone.

Junichi had warned Masato that might be dangerous, that someone could take the sword away from him and use it against him.

Masato was willing to take the risk. The only one he knew with such power was Junichi himself. And while they might not always see eye–to–eye, Masato didn’t think his old master would betray his former apprentice that way.

At least not yet.

Fuko vibrated in Masato’s hand, the trembling moving up his arm.

His prey was near.

The creature that entered the clearing looked like a regular fox. The night darkened her coat, making it easier for her to slip in and out of shadows. She stepped cautiously, nosing in the dirt, looking for her own easy prey of field mice or rats. Her ears twitched and she stopped, looking up for a moment.

Masato held his breath, but the moment passed, and the kitsune continued her aimless search.

Stupid creature.

Soundlessly, Masato rose from where he’d been kneeling. Adrenaline coursed through his body, distancing all the minor aches that had been so distracting earlier.

Masato broke through the bush, charging into the clearing. The fox darted away but didn’t leave the clearing, perhaps confused by the thorns that sprang up on the far side. It hissed like a goose at Masato, its hackles raised. It stayed low to the ground as it circled the clearing.

Fuko trembled in Masato’s hand. Here was his prey. Masato matched the fox, circling the clearing, his sword raised high.

He’d asked Junichi for the ability to force a kitsune out of its fox form and into its human shape. However, Junichi had assured him he wouldn’t need such an ability. The kitsune loved the sound of their own voices too much to stay in their animal form.

A young woman blossomed before Masato, tall and thin as spring bamboo. She wore a simple robe, off–white with no decoration. “What do you carry?” she asked warily as they kept circling.

She was beautiful, Masato decided, in that way that only her kind were.

A beauty that was a distraction. False. Keeping a man in the world, instead of reaching for the highest spiritual heights.

“Fuko,” Masato said, introducing the blade. “He longs for the blood of your kind.”

“It is evil,” the woman insisted. She stopped. “You’re evil.”

The wave of magic that flowed across the clearing impressed Masato with its strength. The young woman was much older than she looked, and much stronger.

Fortunately, Fuko cut through her illusions. Masato felt them blow past him, like thick wads of cotton dissolving in a storm.

Masato laughed at her confusion, then neatly stepped in to attack. At first, the woman merely avoided his swings while scratching at him, throwing more ineffectual magic at him.

Of course, she didn’t run. She had the arrogance of all her kind, thinking herself invincible.

And she did scratch Masato once, long claws down the length of his arm as she whirled away.

But he caught her soon after that, one hard stroke into her side, then a second, plunging the sword deep into her belly. The blood spurted like water from a fountain, merrily coating Masato’s hands and face.

Smoke rose from Fuko as it burned the blood away, sucking the power into itself, then funneling that into Masato.

“Who are you?” the woman asked as she swayed, then fell onto her knees, her hands over her belly as if she could stop the flow of blood.

“The death of all your kind,” Masato promised.

Ξ

Masato rode into his camp the next morning, feeling victorious despite his exhaustion. He didn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night, his body still felt drained from the blood he’d “donated” to Junichi, and despite his best efforts, the stupid fox fairy from the night before had still managed to scratch him, giving him a nasty infected wound down his sword arm.

But he’d still beaten her, killed one of those who always boasted of being so hard to kill. Junichi had taken the bones to use for some spell that he’d tried explaining to Masato, but Masato had been too tired to listen to.

Fuko was his, and had worked wonderfully, both in the hunt as well as the kill. With this sword, Masato would surely win over the island of Nifon, and bring the Buddha here, get rid of the kami and kitsune. His vision of the Buddha stepping on this mountain was still clear.

The guards standing at the entrance to the camp barely glanced at Masato. He could have been anyone. And no one stopped him from riding his horse directly into the center of the group of tents.

Discipline had gotten far too lax. Did they think he’d never return? Or was it because his men had decided they’d won, and there was no reason to be on the lookout for spies?

What were they thinking?

The tents were in good repair, though. There wasn’t a stench of sewage, at least not close by. But no one was drilling, sharpening their weapons, or repairing their armor. Instead, the faint smell of wine still lingered, and the camp had the air of being hung over.

Had he been gone that long? Of course, Masato hadn’t announced that he was returning, so no one had prepared for his return, either.

A servant came scurrying up, ready to take his reins. Masato threw them at the boy, then slid from the horse with a sigh.

It seemed that no matter how much he paid his men, no matter what promises of reward or retribution, they required constant supervision.

Just beyond the ring of tents belonging to his generals stood Masato’s own tent. It, at least, still had guards standing outside who looked sober and well rested. The tent itself—easily twice the size of any of the others—still appeared to be in good shape.

Then Masato’s lead general stumbled out of Masato’s tent, hastily tying his robes. From the disarray of his hair, Masato didn’t have to come any closer to know the man reeked of alcohol and sex.

Masato shook his head as he walked forward. On the one hand, it was his fault. He’d been gone for far too long. His generals had forgotten everything. All that Masato was capable of.

On the other hand, really. The general should have known better.

If Junichi were there, he would be chortling, excited about the lives Masato was about take. Masato couldn’t help but still feel tired. And curse the delay. It would be a few more days while he set order to his camp before he’d get back to Iwao’s estate.

Ξ

Masato rode angrily to the front of the line.

The scouts had been telling the truth. The long gate to the estate was closed to them. Trees had been cut down near the fence, making the estate more defendable. Well–armed guards stood in front of the iron and wood structure.

Iwao’s generals had been busy.

A man Masato didn’t know stood in front of the gate. He had an arrogant chin. His eyes bored into Masato. He stood without moving, as if he were a statue.

Fuko quivered once at Masato’s side, then lay still.

This man wasn’t a fox fairy. But his enemy was near.

The general who had already tried to remove the man from in front of the gate still lay to the side, bleeding. Along with the three other men. All of them would die soon, either from their wounds or Masato’s hand.

He could, of course, just send archers to deal with the arrogant fool. But Masato had to show strength right now, show his men that he was still worthy.

“How dare you lock the gate to your rightful lord and master!” Masato thundered at the man.

“We do not recognize your claim,” the man said, his voice echoing strangely, as if there were more than one of him speaking. “You are not the lord here. You have forfeited the estate through your inattention. It is mine, now.”

Masato sat back on his horse, affronted. How dare this cur claim ownership of the estate?

“I am the rightful heir to Iwao,” the man claimed. “You shall retreat.”

How was that possible? Iwao didn’t have an heir, had died childless.

Maybe he’d sired this cur in some dalliance. Masato sighed and shook his head, sliding down from his horse, taking Fuko out.

Again, the blade trembled in his hand. Where were the accursed fox fairies? It didn’t matter. He’d come for them soon enough.

For the first time, the man smiled. “You, I won’t kill. Not yet.”

But the man didn’t bother drawing his sword as Masato drew closer. “I won’t make any such promises,” Masato told him.

Only when Masato attacked did the man move. He drew his sword in one swift movement, so fast Masato couldn’t tell he’d moved, just that one moment, Masato’s blade was raised, and the next, it had been forced to the ground.

Fuko leaped up, drawing Masato forward, as if this man were a kitsune.

Masato held back, not giving the sword its head. He was the one in charge here.

The man didn’t seem to notice as he pushed Masato back, step by step, away from the gate. Masato couldn’t attack again. He was forced to defend himself.

“Is that the best you can do?” Masato taunted. He had to find some sort of advantage here. Perhaps he could make the man angry.

Instead, though, the man laughed. “You are no more important than a buzzing insect. And just as annoying.” He pressed his advantage, making Masato back up another three steps.

Masato risked a glance behind him. In just a few more steps, he’d be backed up to the edge of the woods.

Fuko quivered again in his hands. Masato didn’t want to give the sword its head, but he needed to do something.

He released his strict will and let the sword lead the dance.

For the first time, the man stepped back.

Now Masato laughed. He could see it. The man fought on straight lines, always directly forward.

Fuko was more wily. The sword needed to be, in order to defeat their common enemy.

Step by step, Masato forced the man back.

He was good. Probably the best swordsman Masato had ever seen.

But Fuko was better. The man certainly caught on, and was able to defend after a bit.

A lesser swordsman would have been killed. Masato certainly would have been killed if he’d wielded any other sword.

They finally reached the center of the opening, both panting from their exertion. Neither of them could gain headway. They could neither kill each other or walk away.

After a flurry of fast strikes that couldn’t get through the man’s defenses, Masato pulled back. He didn’t want to declare it a draw. But he didn’t see how to defeat the man.

“Will you yield to your rightful lord?” Masato demanded as he stepped back.

“Never,” the man said. He kept his sword down at his side as he stepped forward. “I didn’t allow you to wield me when I was a sword. Now, as a man, I won’t serve you either.”

Masato took a step back, blinking with surprise. “Seiji?” he asked, incredulous.

No wonder Fuko had twitched so hard in the man’s presence! He’d once been a fox fairy, and the soul of the sword Seiji.

The man nodded. “I am Norihiko, the sword made flesh. Now go.”

“I will not be commanded by one such as you,” Masato sneered. “I go, but of my own will. Just know that we will return, with an army ten times any that you could muster.”

Masato turned and walked to his horse, mounting in one swift motion, then racing away.

Damn him. Damn that stupid sword. Damn Junichi for using a fox fairy soul.

Masato was going to get back at all of them. And burn the estate to the ground. It would be an appropriate start for his temple, given the vision of the Buddha on fire.

Ξ

Masato sat at his writing desk composing his formal declaration of war. He felt ridiculous. He’d already done this once, when he’d declared war against Iwao.

This time, though, Masato would leave nothing to chance. He spelled out the terms more completely, including demanding the lives of all the generals, the army, as well as the priests and priestesses of the Mori temple. Everyone.

He didn’t care if he was going to leave the mountain without people. The mountain would survive. He’d bring in his own people, his own monks and farmers.

In his mind, he could already see the estate burning, the elegant wooden buildings collapsing with flames shooting out of the steep rooftops. The women there would be turned over to his generals, to use or discard as they pleased.

Then, once the estate was settled, Masato would go hunting. He’d find every single fox fairy in the entire land of Nifon and hand out the death such creatures so richly deserved.

Fuko shivered by his side. The sword slumbered after working so hard this morning, and dreamed of blood.

Masato then sent a second letter to Junichi. He kept the tone moderately firm, but accusatory, informing him of Seiji’s transformation to a human, admitting how difficult it had been to kill him, and demanding his former master’s assistance in creating a great army.

The men would complain about fighting beside the creatures that Junichi raised. They would fear, and rightly so, about becoming such creatures themselves if they fell in battle.

Masato planned on pointing out that that fear should just motivate them to do better.

After he sent off both letters, Masato rested. It had been trying, these last few days.

But he would do more training, later. He had to be prepared. He had to win.

The estate had to burn.