Stormdancer (10 page)

A short wooden practice sword clattered onto the deck between her feet, the blunt blade nicked and dented in a dozen places, hilt wrapped in worn, crisscrossed cord. She stared down at the bokken, then glanced over her shoulder at the person who’d thrown it. Kasumi stood behind her, another short bokken in her hands, long hair tied back in a thick braid.

“Spar?” The woman’s voice was slightly muffled behind her kerchief. “No.” Yukiko turned her eyes back to the horizon. “Thank you.” “It’s been days since you practiced.”
“Four days off in seven years.” Yukiko tried to keep the scowl from her

voice. “I think I’ll live.”
“I’ll go easy on you, if you’re feeling air-sick.”
Yukiko felt her hackles rise at the smile in Kasumi’s voice. She glanced over

“No, you’re right.” Kasumi flipped the bokken from one hand to the other. “I should probably just leave you up here to sulk like a six-year-old.”
Yukiko turned to face her. “I’m not sulking.”
“Of course you’re not.” Kasumi knelt and picked up the bokken she’d thrown, pointed at the floor between Yukiko’s feet. “Mind you don’t trip over your bottom lip when you decide to get off your backside.”
Yukiko snatched the practice sword from the older woman’s hand.
“Fine. Have it your way.”
The foredeck was large enough for a decent scrap without getting in any of the sky folk’s way. Yukiko felt a few curious eyes on her as she stood and tied her hair back in a braid, knotting it at the end. Kasumi took up position on the starboard side, flourishing the bokken sword in her hand, a sweeping spiral over her head and around her hip that turned the dented wood into a whistling blur. Yukiko walked to the port side, flipped the practice sword end over end. She took up her stance, stared at the older woman.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Kasumi said.
Yukiko dashed across the deck, swung the bokken right at Kasumi’s throat. The older woman fell back, deflecting the blow with ease. Yukiko pressed, aimed three quick stabs at face, chest, gut, spinning down into a sweeping arc toward Kasumi’s knees. The sharp crack of wood upon wood rang out across the ship, the thump of bare feet on the decking, the short, shapeless cries that punctuated each swing of Yukiko’s sword.
She locked up Kasumi’s blade, forced the older woman back against the starboard railing. Hundreds of feet of empty air yawned between them and the swaying lotus fronds below.
“Don’t lecture me,” Yukiko spat. “You’re not my godsdamned mother.”
“So you keep reminding me.”
Kasumi hooked her leg behind Yukiko’s and pushed her away. The girl tumbled backward and up into a crouch, parrying the blow falling toward her head. Kasumi kicked her hard in the chest and sent her rolling further across the deck, breath spilling from her lips in a spray of spittle. Yukiko barely flipped up onto her feet in time to ward off the next rain of blows: two diagonal slashes at her chest and a flurry of stabs at her face. She retreated back across the foredeck, trying to regain balance.
“Don’t defend him,” Yukiko hissed. “You know what he’s like. Sucking down that godsdamned weed every day of his life. Drinking himself blind. Maybe you should be on his back instead of riding mine every chance you get.”
“I do it because I care about you.” Kasumi parried a clumsy blow, cracked Yukiko across her left shin. “And I see what you do to him.”
Yukiko lashed out with her foot, leaped up and over the chi barrels to gain some breathing room, levelling the bokken at Kasumi’s head. She was panting, strands of black hair plastered to the film of sweat on her skin.
“My father gets everything he deserves.”
“He loves you, Yukiko.”
“He loves his drink.” She clawed the hair from the corners of her mouth. “He loves that godsdamned pipe. More than he loves me. And more than he loves you.”
Kasumi stopped short, chest heaving. The sword wavered in her hand.
“Believe it, Kasumi.” Yukiko pulled down her goggles so the older woman could see her eyes. “Believe it if you believe nothing else.”
She tossed the bokken down onto the deck. It rolled across the polished boards, came to rest at Kasumi’s feet, marking the end of the sparring session. Yukiko wiped the sweat from her brow on the sleeve of her uwagi, heart pounding, mouth dry as dust.
Kasumi’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Maybe you don’t know everything, Yukiko.”
“Maybe not.”
She shouldered past the older woman as she walked away.
“But I know enough.”

The rain started at the end of the sixth day, vast black curtains swaying across their path and hissing on the deck. The wood became slippery, and the stink of burned chi layered over melting varnish saw Yukiko’s nausea return with a vengeance. Huddled in an oilskin among the barrels, she prayed the journey would end, sucking down gulps of fresh air and dreading the monsoon ahead.

Yamagata emerged from his cabin wearing a thick oilskin to protect him from the black rain. Masaru stood on the port side, leaning out into the abyss and staring at the clouds fuming on the horizon. The Child plowed through the toxic air, heading toward the tempest, the first foothills of the Iishi sailing away below them. Through the downpour, they could see the glow of Yama city flickering like a ghostlight in an ocean of growing gloom.

Akihito and Kasumi gathered at the railing beside Masaru, all clad in thick ponchos of protective rubber, the big man keeping one massive paw wrapped around the bars of the cage for balance. Yukiko drifted down from her nest at the prow to listen to their hushed voices.

“Where else do you think we’re going to find a thunder tiger?” Masaru scowled.
“The sky folk are uneasy,” Kasumi kept her voice low. “Being so near to the Iishi is bad enough. They say that sailing this close to the entrance of Yomi will tempt the Judges of the Hells, not to mention angering the Dark Mother. They whisper Yamagata is insane to lead them into the clutches of the Thunder God. They blame us, Masaru- sama. They say we’re mad.”
“They’re right.” Akihito shook his head. “Risking the whole damn ship and everyone aboard chasing a beast that doesn’t even exist. We don’t even know where to start looking.” He turned to his friend. “We should go to Yama, Masaru. Abandon this fool’s quest and the insane bastard who commands—”
Masaru spun, quick as a viper, wrapping his fist in the collar of the big man’s uwagi.
“We are the Shōgun’s men,” he hissed, teeth bared. “Sworn to his service, our lives pledged to his house. Would you dishonor that vow and yourself for fear of a little lightning?”
Akihito slapped Masaru’s hand away. “I might not rate a mention in the tavern songs, but I stood beside you when you slew the last nagaraja, brother. You think I’m afraid?” He puffed out his chest, long scars cutting across his flesh. “I know in truth what kind of man Shōgun Kaneda was. I know what kind of son he raised. This is a madman’s errand. We risk all for nothing! This ship. These men. Your daughter . . .”
“And what do you think we risk if we run?”
Masaru’s face was inches from Akihito’s, eyes flashing.
“Masaru- sama, Akihito, peace.” Kasumi shouldered between them, one hand on each man. “You are brothers in blood. Your anger dishonors you both.”
The men stared at each other, eyes as narrow as knife-edges, wind shrieking across the gap between them. Akihito was the first to relent, turning with a growl and stalking away. Masaru watched him go, fists unclenching, drawing his hand across the back of his mouth.
“Whether we find this thing or not means nothing.” His voice was flat, cold. “We are servants. Our Lord commands and we obey. That’s all there is.”
“As you say,” Kasumi nodded, avoiding his stare.
She turned and began inspecting gear she’d checked a dozen times already. Masaru lifted his hand, fingers hovering a breath away from her skin. Looking up, he finally noticed his daughter’s presence.
Bloodshot eyes stared across the gulf between now and the days when she was a little girl, small enough to ride on his shoulders through forests of tall bamboo. She and her brother, little fingers wrapped in their father’s fists, laughing bright and clear as they danced in the dappled light.
Too long ago—the memory faded and blurred like an old lithograph, colors muted over time until all that was left was an impression; a half-image on yellowed, curling paper.
He turned and walked away without a word.

Dirty gray snow lay in a blanket on the ground, crunching beneath their hessian- wrapped feet and crouching in thick drifts across bare branches. Yukiko and Satoru darted through the bamboo, Buruu barking with joy, sending the few winter larks that remained in the valley spiraling up into the falling snowflakes.

Their father had been home for a few days, gifting them both with small compasses before he disappeared again. Tiny wheels whirled soundlessly beneath the glass, tracking the path of the hidden sun overhead. They would run into the wilds, straying further each day, finding their way back unerringly before dusk. Then they would sit by the fire, Buruu lying across their feet, listening to their mother sing and dreaming of their father’s return.

Happy.
Buruu would wag his tail at them, fire reflected in his eyes, tongue lolling. Love you both.
They were on the northern ridge that day, high above the bamboo valley, looking down on the frozen stream, the tiny waterfall of icicles spilling over snow- capped rock. Black, naked trees stood tall on a blanket of bleached gray, sleeping in the chill and dreaming of the beauty that would arrive with spring. The children called out their names and heard the mountain kami call them back, fading away into the distance like the last notes of their mother’s songs.

The wolf was hungry, lean, ribs showing through its coat, legs like sticks. A rogue descending from the mountains with a growling belly and a jagged mind alight with their scent. Buruu caught the smell of it on the breeze, hackles rising, ears flat against his head as he growled. Satoru reached out and touched its mind, feeling only bloodlust, terrible and complete, pounding with a rhythm like a pulse. The wolf circled to the left and the children began to back away, urging Buruu to be calm. Satoru leaned down to grasp a small club of wet wood.

It moved in a blur, savage, sleek, hunger propelling it at Yukiko’s throat. She held out her hand and screamed, pushing it away with the Kenning as Buruu launched himself like an arrow. The wolf and the dog fell on each other, all teeth and claws and awful screaming sounds. Buruu fought bravely, but his bones were old and the wolf was fierce, driven by desperate hunger to spend its last strength in this final, bloody gambit. She felt Buruu’s pain as the wolf ’s jaws closed around his throat, tearing away crimson mouthfuls, spattering on the bed of gray snow in long bright ribbons.

She screamed in anger, in hatred, pushing her mind into the wolf ’s, feeling for its life, the source of its spark. She felt Satoru in there beside her, his rage fiercer than her own, and together they pressed down on the heat, snuffing it out like a candle, smothering it with their rage. Blood spilled from their noses as the pressure flooded their brains, warm and salty on their lips. They wrapped their hands together and strangled until nothing remained, darkness fading away into a whimper as the wolf folded down inside itself and ended upon the frost.

They sat beside poor old Buruu, lay on his wet, heaving flanks as the ashen snow turned red around him. Tears rolled down their cheeks as they felt him slipping. Not afraid, but sad. Sad to leave them, to let them wander in the world alone. They were his pack, they were his everything, and he licked their hands and wheezed, wishing he did not have to go.

Love you. Love you both.
As the darkness took him, they held him close, safe and warm, and whispered that they loved him too. That they would love him always. That they would remember.
He was too heavy for them to carry. And so they stood, hand in hand, watching the snow bury him. One flake at a time, falling from the poisoned skies and covering him like a shroud. Their friend. Their brother. Lying in a pool of dark red, brown fur spattered and torn, black and empty inside his mind.
When there was only gray again, they turned and walked away.

The edges of the storm had come on them days ago, like thieves in the smothered light of dusk. Fingers of lightning stretched down into the sunset silhouettes of the nearby mountains. The wind buffeted the Child as if it truly were an infant, tossed about in the grip of a cruel, thoughtless giant. Days and nights were spent in fruitless search, the mood of the cloudwalkers growing ever darker as they sailed further and further into the Iishi ranges. The mountains loomed all around them, towering spires of dark stone and pale snow, the echoes of the thunder rolling down their flanks and rumbling among the black valleys at their feet.

How many days are we going to spend up here, hunting ghosts? Rigging lashed against the balloon above Yukiko’s head with the sound of bullwhips. After half a day of the deafening barrage, she had been forced to abandon her haven among the chi barrels and seek shelter inside. Black rain sluiced on the deck, rushing over the rails into the nothingness beyond, reeking of lotus toxin. Cloudwalkers shrugged on protective oilskins and perched trembling in their lookout posts, peering ahead into the darkness. Lightning arced down in blinding, brilliant strokes, hurled from the hands of the Thunder God.
Below decks in the tropical heat, the sky folk burned offerings to Susano-ō, praying for mercy day after day. Though the Storm God was considered a benevolent force, his firstborn son, Raijin, God of Thunder and Lightning, was renowned for his cruelty, his delight in the terror of men. Prayer and offerings seldom held interest for him, nor did the lives of those who sailed in his skies. It was chaos he loved above all, above the mewling of monkey-children in their fragile little boats, the wooden coins they burned in his father’s name. And so the cloudwalkers knelt, prayer beads rubbed between calloused fingers, begging Susano-ō to stay his son’s hand. Begging for their lives.
And still, Yamagata urged them onward.
Yukiko could see the tips of the Iishi Mountains beneath them, peering out through the porthole as the lightning turned night to day. She wondered whether the helmsman could even see in the dark, whether he would drive them into the black crags and end all of them in a bright blossom of super-heated hydrogen. Fear uncoiled inside her gut, and she thought of the boy in her dreams, the boy with the sea-green eyes. She did not want to die.
For three days the motors whined with the strain, Yamagata tacking back and forth across the face of the wind. The stench of burning chi was overpowering. The hunters’ meals boiled inside their bellies and threatened to pay the air a second visit after every sitting. Masaru and Yamagata spent long hours in his cabin, poring over charts and plotting their course through the treacherous currents of wind howling between the saw-toothed peaks. They had the sense to keep the door closed when their arguments grew fiercest, but the volume was still enough to travel through the walls. The cloudwalkers muttered among themselves, wondering if this would be the last hunt of the great Black Fox. Whether Shōgun Yoritomo’s command was leading all of them to their doom.
Yukiko lay as she had done for the past three nights: curled up tight, trying to hold in her dinner as her hammock swayed back and forth. Her father hung above her, swathed in a lotus stupor, empty pipe still clutched in one stained hand. She envied him for a moment, envied the peace he could find in that awful little weed. The voices of memory and loss smothered beneath a veil of sticky, blue-black smoke; the howl of the tempest around him nothing but a distant breeze.
Her stomach churned again, dinner surging against her ribs. Admitting defeat, she lurched up and stumbled for the door as the floor undulated beneath her.
Snatching up an oilskin, she burst out onto the deck, almost falling as the wood pitched away from her feet. She staggered to the railing and vomited, a rancid stream of yellow and brown splashing out into the blackness. The rain pelted down, plastering her hair to her skin. Tangles clung about her face in thick black fingers, as if they wished to cover her eyes. She gasped for breath, shrugging on the poncho and blinking around the deck.
She saw him on the prow, a white silhouette against the black, hands outstretched. Clawing her way along the railing, not daring to look down, she swore she could hear him laughing over the sound of the roaring wind. He moved with the pitch and roll of the ship, head thrown back, howling like a sea dragon.
“Kin- san?” she yelled over the din.
He turned, surprised, and his face lit up in a wide grin. His clothing clung to him like a second skin, and she could see how thin he was, how frail. And yet he stood like a rock, legs planted among the tightly lashed chi barrels, turning back and screaming at the storm. He wasn’t wearing an oilskin.
“What the hells are you doing out here?” Yukiko yelled.
“Being alive!” he shouted over the rolling thunder. “Alive and breathing!”
“You’re a madman!”
“And yet, you stand here with me!”
“What about the rain? It will burn you!”
She staggered as the deck rolled, a white-knuckle grip on the rails. One slip and she would sail off into the darkness, scream unheard over the thunder’s roar.
“Come here!” he called. “Stand up here with me!”
“Not for all the iron in Shima!”
He beckoned with one hand, the other gripping the rope lashing the barrels together. It was as if the ship was an untamed stallion and he sat astride it, fingers wrapped in its mane. She pushed her fear away, grabbed his hand and hooked her legs among the barrels.
“Can you taste it?” he cried.
“Taste what?”
“The rain!” He opened his mouth to the sky. “No lotus!”
Yukiko realized that he was right; the water streaming down her face was clean and pure, translucent as glass. She remembered the mountain streams of her youth, she and Satoru lying beside them with Buruu in the long summer grass, drinking deeply from the liquid crystal. She licked her lips, eyes gleaming with joy, then opened her mouth and let the rain wash down her throat.
“Now close your eyes!” he yelled, rain whipping his face. “Close your eyes and breathe!”
He threw out his hands again, face upturned to the storm. She watched him for a moment, his expression like a child’s, unburdened by any sense of fear or loss. He was so strange. So unlike anyone she had ever met before.
But then she tasted the rain on her lips, felt the wind in her hair, heard the roar of the storm around them. And so she closed her eyes, threw her head back and inhaled. She could see the lightning flashing against the bloodwarm blackness behind her eyelids, feel the wind buffeting the ship beneath them. The rain was a balm, washing away the fear. She breathed, cool air filling her lungs, warm blood pumping below her skin. Kin screamed beside her, a whooping holler as the deck rolled like a storm-tossed ocean beneath them.
“We are alive, Yukiko-chan! We are free!”
She laughed, calling out shapeless words into the storm. It was as if she were a little girl again, running with her brother through the rippling bamboo, strong and bright, wet earth beneath her feet. She could feel the lives she swam among, the hundred tiny sparks rising like cinders from a bonfire, catching her up and filling her with warmth. No fear. No pain. No loss. Before any and all of it had come in from the dark, when the simple act of being was enough.
She stretched out her senses into the tempest, mind uncoiling between the raindrops, engulfed by the beauty and ferocity around her.
A flicker of warmth.
Wait . . .
A heartbeat.
. . . What is that?
“Arashitora!” came the cry, followed by the sharp whine of a siren. “Arashitora!”
Yukiko opened her eyes, blinking in the blackness. She saw the helmsman leaning over the starboard side, pointing, yelling at the top of his lungs. The navigator was cranking a siren handle up on the pilot’s deck, its shrill, grinding cry piercing the din. She looked to where the helmsman was pointing but could see nothing, a vast expanse of seething blackness beyond the Child’s deck lamps. Lightning flashed, a flare of white-hot magnesium across the clouds, the sun rising for a split second to cast off the blanket of night.
And then she saw it. A momentary flash, the green flare left behind on your eyelid after you stare too long at the sun. The impression of vast, white wings, feathers as long as her arm, broad as her thigh. Black stripes, rippling muscle, a proud, sleek head tipped with a razor-sharp beak. Eyes like midnight, black and bottomless.
“Izanagi’s breath,” she whispered, squinting into the black. “There it is.”
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the beast before her wondering eyes.
The impossible.
The unthinkable.
A thunder tiger.