The Lotus War - Kinslayer Part 38

I know, I feel the dragons.

NOT DRAGONS. THE OTHER ARAs.h.i.tORA. HE IS HERE WITH ME.

Is he hurt?

YES. AND HE IS HUNGRY.

Buruu had curled up in the shelter of an obsidian splinter, curved against his back, shielding him from the wind. His belly had long ago ceased grumbling, his hunger reduced to a gnawing, hollow ache, clutching fistfuls of his insides. His thoughts still swam with the female's scent, driving him near to madness, the stone around him gouged with frustrated desire. But even though he could smell her lingering in the storm above, the impulse had weakened over the last day: her mating time must be very close to its end.

Yet still, her musk made his blood sing when the wind blew the right way, breath coming quicker, shuddering need filling his mind. He fought it down, clung to the knowledge that he'd failed Yukiko, endangered her by giving himself over to it. He'd lost too much to the beast inside him, in darker days beyond the desire for recollection.

He'd almost lost her too.

The minutes ticked by like hours; rain and thunder and snarling ocean the only sounds, until a long, low growl shook him from his melancholy. Lifting his head from beneath his wing, blinking in the downpour. He caught the scent of old blood, a breath-brief s.n.a.t.c.h of ozone amongst snarling winds. He heard talons ring upon razored stone, shale crumbling beneath t.i.tanic weight. And then, piercing the dark, a long roar of challenge.

LICKED YOUR WOUNDS ENOUGH, I SEE.

Buruu rose from his shelter, padded out into the open. The island they'd crashed on was perhaps three hundred feet across, crooked sheets of black gla.s.s slanting up toward the north. The copper lightning catcher rose on the southernmost tip, seven or eight feet from the ocean's surface. The northern sh.o.r.e stood perhaps forty feet above sea level, a bluff dropping into the teeth of the sea. It was from here the male approached.

Buruu answered the roar, all thunder and spittle, the stones beneath him quavering. He saw a shadow slink across the tumbledown stone on the bluff, saw the play of faint lightning across his wings. He didn't recognize the scent, doubted any of his former pack would have flown this far south anyway.

A NOMAD, THEN.

He roared again, asking who it was that challenged.

The nomad shrieked its name.

The aras.h.i.tora prowled closer, and a flash of lightning overhead gave Buruu a good look at his foe. Smaller. Younger. Barely past his blooding by the looks, the stripes on his haunches indistinct, claws still smoke-gray. The feathers at his neck were matted with gore, and he favored his right side. Buruu could see the nomad's wings were intact, but long gashes trailed from his shoulder into the muscle across his spine. The nomad had avoided flight with the wound still fresh, but territoriality and the female's failing scent had forced him to challenge as soon as he felt strong enough to win.

Buruu remembered what it was like to be a slave to that instinct, the monster within. He'd thought himself beyond it, that his bond with Yukiko had laid that demon to rest and washed the taste of his own from his tongue. But how easily he'd fallen back inside. How quickly he'd taken up the mantle of who he used to be.

He deserved what they'd done to him. What they'd taken from him.

Buruu roared warning that he would give no quarter. That this was not a ritual fight for mate or pride of place in a pack. That there was no Khan's law here. That this would end in death.

Yours, came the reply.

Yours.

Yukiko had taken the lead, energized by the knowledge that Buruu was close. The agony in her muscles, sweat burning the raw blisters on her hands, all of it faded beneath an electrifying rush of adrenaline. She pushed herself across three more cables, barely stopping to rest between them. Ilyitch was lagging behind, and she would stop occasionally to look back and scream over the storm, begging him to hurry in words she knew he couldn't comprehend.

Nothing mattered. Not the pain. Not the sorrow. Not thoughts of her father, or of Hiro or Kin or the Guild. She was an engine, a machine, cranking along iron cables one desperate foot at a time. Wind in her face, pushing her back, howling she was too small, too weak. Her flesh trembled and her fingers bled, weak and human and threatening to break at every hard-won foot.

But something inside wouldn't let her stop; a fire burning within her chest that made her grit her teeth, suck down one more desperate lungful, force her arms to move one more foot when everything inside her screamed to stop, to rest, to buckle. And she saw it for what it was, saw that within it lay a strength far deeper than the watered promise found in hatred or fear or even anger. Saw in it a light that left no substance to the shadows she'd filled herself with after her father died. Saw it as the strength behind the wall she'd built in her mind, the bulwark to keep the Kenning's fury at bay. And she saw it was all that mattered.

Love.

Inch by inch. Foot by foot. The flailing, grasping hands of the wind, the rain pounding like a nail-thrower upon her skin. Lightning struck a tower to the west, cascaded down the cables back the way they'd come. Too far away to remember now. Too much effort to think what lay behind. Worse backward than forward. Standing still meant lying down.

And then she saw it through the spray and hissing downpour. A hulking fang of obsidian shale, rising like an upraised fist out of the ocean ahead. She reached out with the Kenning, flinching away from the serpents beneath her feet, sensing three bright sources of heat to the north. The dimly remembered shape of the aras.h.i.tora who had struck them, rippling with challenge. The blade-smooth lines of the female overhead, tinged with curiosity, drawn to the conflict despite herself. And the shape of her friend. Her brother. Her one constant in a world that had shifted and spun so violently over the last few months, she'd lost any and all sense of direction. She'd lost herself-in anger, in liquor and guilt. She had lost her way completely.

Forward, she realized.

The way is forward.

Buruu, I'm here.

The pair touched the way black powder touches naked flame.

A charge across broken stone, sparks curling on their wings and the gla.s.s at their feet. The nomad pounced into the air, talons spread like a fan of knives, roaring challenge. Buruu rose to meet him, sheared feathers and narrowed eyes, colliding with the force of a hurricane. The nomad seized a talonful of harness and kicked out with his hind legs as Buruu raked at his throat, blood purchased on both sides, crashing earthward amidst broken shards of obsidian.

Raijin pounded his drums as they rolled apart, Buruu lashing out with his claws and sending the nomad springing back with a growl. Fresh blood at his throat, repainting old gore, eyes alight with fury. Buruu's own neck and gut were torn, water-thinned scarlet dripping from his fur.

He was bigger. Stronger. But weak from starvation. Still exhausted from his flight. And the nomad was faster. Younger. Hungrier.

Buruu, I'm here.

He glanced over his shoulder, saw Yukiko working her way along the cables, perhaps fifty feet away. He glimpsed someone behind her, fell backward as the nomad sprang to attack, aiming a flurry of talons at his face. Buruu thrashed his wings, the broken mechanism along his spine groaning in protest, canvas feathers torn loose, gaining a few precious feet. Landing on a broken outcropping, retreating as the nomad lashed out again, sparks flying. Clapping his wings together, giving birth to a thunderous peal of Raijin Song; a sonic boom blasting the younger aras.h.i.tora back across the stone. He clapped his wings again, raindrops shearing sideways in the shock wave, spraying into the nomad's face.

The attacker circled away, roared in defiance.

Buruu retreated, put the lightning tower to his back, getting between Yukiko and two tons of furious thunder tiger.

She was drawing closer. Thirty feet now.

STAY AWAY.

Are you mad?

HE WILL KILL YOU.

The nomad took to the sky, b.l.o.o.d.y wings launching him high into the air, swooping down into a razored dive. Buruu stepped aside, ground shattering on impact, lunging at the nomad's wing and tearing away a mouthful of feathers. They fell into a snarling tangle again, talons locked as they reared up on their hind legs, flashing feathers and snapping beaks, low rumbling snarls of fury.

He felt Yukiko at his back. Stubborn as a mountain runs deep. Pain of her aching muscles in his head. Blisters on their hands. Desperate need.

Twenty feet away.

STAY BACK.

I can help you!

Buruu thrust the smaller aras.h.i.tora away with a thundering roar, sending him twisting over onto his back. Pressing the advantage, he tore the nomad's ribs, trying to seize a mouthful of throat as the young one rolled away. Wings thrashing, snarling as he scrambled to his feet, bright red droplets flying between the raindrops and painting snow-white fur the color of slaughter. It was the nomad's turn to use the Raijin Song now, blasting Buruu back as the thunder from his wings threw puddles high into the shivering air. The downpour bent like a bowstring, droplets as fat as lotusflies splitting into blinding steam-thin spray.

The thunder tigers circled each other, both blooded and wary. The nomad crouched low, gathered for a spring. He looked beyond the crest of Buruu's wings, caught sight of Yukiko on the cables, the gaijin struggling behind her. Eyes flashing. Pupils dilating. A guttural snarl of outrage.

Interlopers. Monkey-children. Meat.

He spread his wings, springing skyward, eyes on the girl.

NO.

Buruu leaped into the air, beating broken wings with all his fury, rivets and ball joints shrieking. He collided with the younger buck and held him close, bore them both down into the stone. The nomad landed on his back, breath spraying from his lungs, snarling, screeching, all flashing claws and thrashing wings. The thunder tigers rolled across the shale in a tumble of twisted metal and orphaned feathers.

Buruu felt Yukiko crank across the last few feet of cable, hook her legs around the tower and pull herself in. She turned to help the gaijin, elbow crooked around the copper spiral, fingers outstretched. They grasped hands and she pulled him closer, one leg hooked in the spire as they struggled to uncouple him from the contraption connected to the cables above.

The nomad's roar was an earsplitting bellow of rage. But beneath that, Buruu heard Raijin suck in a breath, felt faint electricity tingling down his spine.

YUKIKO, GET OFF THE TOWER.

I'm trying, the harness is- YUKIKO, GET OFF NOW!.

An arc of impossible blue crackled across the clouds above, reached down with a single, crooked finger. Yukiko had time to scream a warning and push the boy away before she jumped backward, hair streaming in a long, sodden ribbon. The world stilled in the split second before impact, frozen and silent and perfect. The bolt struck copper with a metallic whump and the hiss of superheated vapor. She threw her arms up over her face to blot out the light, brighter than the sun. Crashing onto black stone, head cracking against broken gla.s.s.

The aftershock sucked the air from Buruu's chest, scorching his fur, crackling across his own wings and his foe's as they broke apart in a spray of rain and blood.

The world after the strike seemed muted, as if the storm sat within an old, rusty soundbox on the other side of a darkened room. Yukiko blinked at the black stains upon her eyes, rolling about on her back, head still ringing with one constant, high-pitched note. Buruu backed off, stood between her and the nomad, wings spread, feet planted like the roots of mountains.

ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?.

I think so ...

LUCKY.

Kitsune looks after his own.

THE BOY?.

Yukiko sat up, squinted into the blurred gloom.

"Ilyitch?"

"Yukiko!"

A faint cry, almost inaudible over the crashing waves, the roaring storm. And with dread rising in her gut, Yukiko realized the gaijin had been knocked away by the lightning strike, plummeting over the precipice and into the raging ocean below.

"Ilyitch!"

Yukiko scrambled to her feet, ran to the tower. The rain was hissing where it touched the copper, sizzling like oil on a skillet. She stepped back, too frightened to touch it. Screaming the gaijin's name again, she saw him thrashing for a brief moment between towering breakers, reaching toward her. The ocean rushed into his rainskin, and the flying fox he was still buckled to dragged him down, fingers clawing at the surface as if it were solid enough to hold on to.

But it wasn't.

32.

TREMORS.

They'd stepped out into chilled autumn air, tall and proud as lords.

Jurou in charcoal silk, a splash of Tora red at his obi, neck adorned with new jade. Yoshi in black, balloon hakama about his legs and a thigh-length uwagi of tailored silk, hair bound in tight braids, streaming down his back like snakes. The pair had sauntered down the boulevard, Yoshi tipping the split brim of his hat to anyone who looked their way.

A fine day to be alive.

Upside seemed busier than usual, people running to and fro, more bushimen than Jurou could ever remember seeing. Palace Way was awash with grimy flesh, motor-rickshaws running on fumes. They'd caught a foot 'shaw to Docktown, Yoshi tipping the finger-thin driver handsomely, stepping into the tattoo parlor's confines. And there they lay, shirtless in the mild chill, as an ancient little Fushicho man and his pock-faced son drew forth bamboo needles and bottles of Danroan ink and set about inflicting an enormous amount of pain in the name of vanity.

Yoshi had commissioned a new piece; a beautiful portrait of Lord Izanagi stirring the formless ocean of creation with his spear tip, running from the mouthwatering curve of his right pectoral muscle down to his hip. Jurou was having some flourish added to his clan irezumi; great and beautiful Tiger prowling around his bicep, looking as if he were about to leap off the boy's flesh and tear the world to rags.

Jurou's pipe dangled from his lips, and he ran a gentle tongue upon the tip, sucking down lungfuls of beautiful blue-black. He knew he shouldn't be on the lotus, knew the price paid for his little high was waist-deep blood. But the itching need had been hitting him hard the last few days, and it wasn't as if he couldn't stop if he wanted. He listened to the buzz in the streets outside, the lotusflies in the rafters, swelling velvet and soporific between his ears. Sensation faded beneath the familiar lotus kiss, tongue too thick for his mouth, staring at the boy he loved, flinching and flexing as the old man's needles danced upon his skin.

"You should get Lady Izanami done on the other side," he said, pointing to Yoshi's chest.

The old man looked up sharply, gave the warding sign against evil.

"Smoke is going to your brain, Princess." Yoshi winced as the old man's needles began dancing again. "Never let the dragon steer the ship."

"Why not?" Jurou exhaled a plume of sweetness in Yoshi's direction.

"Why the h.e.l.ls would I have the Endsinger inked on my skin?"

"Life and death. Light and dark." A hand waving, vaguely. "You know, symmetry."

"Crazier than a Docktown wh.o.r.e, you."

"Lady Izanami wasn't always a death G.o.ddess." The pock-faced artiste seemed to be digging his needles extra hard, but Jurou couldn't bring himself to care. "She was the Earth Mother once. Gave birth to this entire island and seven more besides. It's not her fault Lord Izanagi couldn't get her back from Yomi. It's not her fault he left her there in the dark."

"Why don't you get her inked on you, then?"

"Maybe I will."

"And maybe I'll find myself a boy who doesn't paint himself for life while smoke-drunk."

"Mmm." Jurou smiled, heavy lids over dark, knowing eyes. "Somehow I doubt that."

Yoshi looked him up and down, smiled in return, crooked and beautiful.

"Me too."