Chapter 11

Never knelt within a bamboo grove set off the path, the deep-green tunic he’d been given spread between two trees. Cool, evening air prickled his bare skin as he lifted his blade and made two incisions in the cloth for his wings.

He stopped before replacing the garment. The five-pointed leaf of the Amouni symbol glowed beneath the skin on his chest again. How long since it had last done so? It flared twice then disappeared, leaving him no closer to understanding it. Was it supposed to be a warning? He frowned as he pulled his tunic over his head then replaced his pack and set off once more.

It had taken the rest of the day to lose whoever Shika had sent to tail him, as best he could tell, and now he was finally rejoining more well-travelled roads. He’d already been stopped twice by warrior monks, but the pass – coupled with the Isansho’s talon-seal ‒ was enough to let him continue unhampered.

Sometime tomorrow he’d reach a section of the Najin Forest where recent skirmishes with the rebels had taken place. Finding them would be its own problem, but that was just one part of the price of his bluff. Lady Shika’s demands were another – her words had burned with a need, a hatred it seemed she’d been unable to control; she wanted Wanatek destroyed. I suspect a coup. Find the truth of the matter and deliver to me every detail. Every detail – for I mean to crush them now, finally. Every man and woman, every shuddering final breath will be mine to relish.

If he could manage that, she’d tell him what else she knew about the girl who had to be his sister.

There was always a chance he was wrong. Her supposed Marlosi features didn’t automatically make her his sister. The girl could have been anyone. A figment of Shika’s fertile – and morbid – imagination even.

But it didn’t feel that way.

“Pacela be kind,” he muttered as he moved deeper into the forest, his footfalls swallowed by the loam. Travelling east, the setting sun pushed him on, long shadows leading eventually to a moss-covered bridge. Never slowed as he approached; the wooden structure was wide enough for two abreast only and the further it extended, the sharper the earth below fell away.

It was deserted, the trees empty and the sloping ground appearing to conceal no surprises... he took his first few steps, one hand on the rope rail. At first, the bridge spanned a small drop, but as he walked its length, the ground fell further and further away. Streams appeared below, whispering as he walked. Ahead, the bridge maintained an even level, but the support beams disappeared and instead, it was now affixed to the stronger, bigger bamboo trees.

The rushing of streams grew louder as he neared the centre.

At its opposite end, some distance away yet, the ground sloped up once more, rather steeply. It seemed the entire bridge had been made to not only bypass the fractured streams but to save travellers a sharp climb. Very considerate.

Below, orange glimmered in the water; the light almost playful.

A figure stood in the middle of the bridge when Never looked back up.

He stopped.

The man stood, arms folded against his dark tunic, a tyrant strapped across his back, the grip big enough for two hands. He offered no words when Never resumed his trek across the bridge. The stranger wore no hood, revealing silvery hair and beard and a dispassionate expression that did not change when Never stopped once again, now no more than ten feet away.

“Do I have to guess a secret word before you let me pass?”

“Turn back, Never from Marlosi.” His voice was deep, familiar. The man from the inn... Muka? The fellow hadn’t made any threatening move yet, aside from his stance and decidedly unwelcoming tone.

“I have come too far.”

“But you will go no further if you pursue such folly. Wanatek will not see you, especially now that you have been released from the snake-pit.”

“I owe her nothing.”

Muka stepped back, drawing the sisan. “Leave this place.”

Never drew his daggers. He was overmatched when it came to steel alone... but there was a chance that this man and his master could help. Killing Muka now, with crimson-fire or by draining the man of his blood, would hardly help his cause. “I do not wish to harm you.”

Now Muka smiled faintly. “I cannot say the same.”

He swung his blade. It whistled in the air. Never sprang back, flinging a knife at the man’s leg. Muka deflected it with his sword then frowned at Never. “Do me the courtesy of fighting to kill.”

Never drew another knife, he was down to six, and charged. Muka leapt to meet him, swinging his blade in a mighty overhand blow. The sword flashed with the setting sun. Never twisted and the blade grazed his forearm on its way down. Muka reversed the weapon before it hit the bridge, jabbing backwards but Never was already dropping into a crouch, jerking his head to the side.

Muka spun, slashing downward.

Never crossed his blades. He caught the tyrant with a grunt and shoved back, using his legs to drive himself up, and Muka away. The man stumbled as their weapons came free then Never was feinting a throw with his left dagger. Instead, he flicked the knife with his right hand but again, Muka deflected it before attacking once more.

On the narrow bridge, Never was forced to give ground. He fell back, coming up against the rail.

Muka lunged.

Never leapt over the rope, gripping bamboo and swinging out over the open air, whipping around to thump onto the bridge behind the swordsman. The stunt had put him on the wrong side of the span but it gave him enough time to spring up into the branches of another, sturdier tree.

There, he let his wings burst free before kicking off, ascending quickly. Below, Muka stared up in shock, the blade hanging loosely in his hands.

“Try not to take this personally,” Never shouted as he broke free of the canopy in a shower of leaves.

Below, Muka charged along the bridge but it was clear he couldn’t keep up forever. Never beat his wings harder, gaining enough height that he could study wide swathes of forest below at a glance.

Just how far had Muka travelled to intercept? He would have wanted to head off any chance of Never stumbling across any rebel camp but also likely not have travelled so far that he couldn’t return before full dark.

Even now the light was failing, leaving less and less for Never to focus on in the trees below. And even if he found any such camp, it was clear he’d have a hard time convincing them to help. Perhaps a grand gesture was in order, more so even than the little shock he gave Muka.

Below, a hint of light caught his eye. No smoke, the wood burned clean, but it was a camp fire of some sort, deep in a depression within the forest. No doubt well-concealed from anyone on foot but Wanatek had no way to know he’d be contending with eyes in the sky.

Never angled toward the camp, drawing one of his remaining knives as he did.

He sliced a thin cut along the back of each hand, letting the blood run and extend into twin globes of burning crimson. Then he swooped low over the camp and lashed out with a narrow stream of fire.

It tore through the canopy and into the trunk of a bamboo tree, which toppled to the earth. Shouts of alarm rose from tents in the large clearing and the very trees themselves. Never hesitated, hovering as he found another target – which was hopefully empty, and sliced again.

This tree fell across the camp fire but a figure in black darted from cover to remove it before smoke could rise.

Never swooped low and thundered to the earth. He hit hard, dust rising, jolts running up his legs but he ignored the pain, instead shouting for Wanatek.

Men and women rose from where they’d fallen back, their eyes wide. He flared the crimson-fire, pointing a burning hand at the nearest fellow, an archer whose arrow had fallen to the dirt. “Bring me Wanatek. Now.” He kept his voice low.

The man ran for the edge of the clearing.

Other rebels stood motionless, though many – too many – still held their weapons. Some bore tyrants or twin blades, others carried bows. None appeared so different from their counterparts in Najin, if he overlooked an additional wear to their tunics and robes. A few had remained in the trees and were watching him from their vantage points. None had drawn a bead on him, but it wouldn’t take long – shock would wear off.

He could replace it with fear if he engulfed one of them in flame... but that would create as many problems as it solved.

“I am Wanatek,” a voice announced.

A slender man with a fox-like face approached from the trees, his expression one of concern. He hid his surprise better than his fellows when he saw Never, taking in the wings and the fire, only a slight widening of his eyes. His tunic was cinched with a silver belt, which bore only a dagger. The rebel leader stood some distance away. “Is Muka alive?”

“Yes.”

 

Wanatek knelt. “Thank you for granting him your mercy, Son of the Phoenix.”