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Chapter 6: Malice and Mercy

5th Day of Tearful Sky, 1554

“Did something happen?”

“It's Jubei. He was injured. Kanbe and Misamichi didn't make it back either. Shu's been trying to get some answers out of Jubei, but he's gone real quiet for some reason.”

“I damn well told ya that inousa would be trouble. My grandma always told me, 'boy, everyone that's lived a long life never went toe to toe with a hare,' and she was always right about everything!”

“Well, doesn't she sound wise? She also tell you that you'd never amount to anything but a cowardly fuck-wit who can't count beyond his fingers?”

The group of bandits bickered, but then all stared at their leader's tent, illuminated from within by lanterns as the last traces of daylight faded.

Soon there no banter or planning, just the gentle patter of drizzle, the spit and pop of the central campfire, the slow tempo of droplets landing in a metal pot. Nothing but misery from the sky and the slow build of it on the land.

“Hey.”

Everyone flinched. Hands went to swords, some grabbed wood-cutting axes, spears and a couple of bows.

The bandits looked around, but saw nothing, nor heard anything but the increasing patter of rainfall.

“Who's there?”

“Jubei's a traitor, you know,” said a voice in the dark. It was strange, both feminine and masculine in an awkward cadence. “He's part of the Dragon Ministry.”

Something landed with a thud and rolled into the camp.

A head. One of those lost in the earlier skirmish.

The bandits gasped, but they formed together and rushed out toward where the head had emerged, but slowed as they squinted into the dark.

“You don't need to believe me,” said the voice, suddenly on the opposite side of the camp and in a hushed, but now clear and feminine tone. “If you do or don't, you'll die anyway.”

The bandit leader, Shu, left the tent; a gangly, battle-scarred and bald man brandishing a naginata. He brought the polearm up and ready.

“The fuck's out there? Show yourself, you coward!”

A cackle sounded from a third location. “I'm right here for the taking, you sandal-licking, bottom-shafting wastrels!”

“Groups of three,” yelled Shu, “all of you fan out! Find out what's going on!”

“Hoi,” said a fourth voice from the gloom. “Jubei! Fancy a second round? I'm game if you are.”

The group began to follow their orders, though a few glanced at the leader's tent as Jubei stepped out.

His jaw was still misshapen and bloody from his earlier fight, but he looked furious yet confused.

The leader gritted his teeth. “The hell have you got us involved in, Jubei?”

“He's bluffing,” Jubei grumbled as his face contorted in pain as he spoke. “Just kill them, then the village.”

“This is your mess, Jubei, so get your ass out there and deal with it!”

The leader and Jubei gathered with the others, and then split off into groups of four.

From the dark, a pale figure emerged. An inousa, brandishing a dark, ominous sword dripped from the rain, but seemed like coalesced night.

A panicked and unseen speaker croaked and said, “Hana, waity-wait! What about the plan?”

“You,” Hana snarled and pointed her sword at Jubei. “I have no quarrel with any of the rest of you mongrels. Give me Jubei and I'll only need to take one head this night.”

The leader sneered. “You think I'm gonna listen to some uppity inousan whore? Kill her!”

Arrows were loosed, but Hana leapt to the side with a tremendous hop. She then landed on one foot and spun to spend her sideways momentum as her clawed feet scraped for grip in the wet grass, leaned forward and sprinted into a desperate charge.

“Gut her,” the leader bellowed. “Fucking gut her!”

One bandit rushed at her with his spear outstretched, poised to receive her first. Hana bounced high. The bandit raised his polearm, but Hana's nodachi knocked the spear-tip aside mid-ascent then cut a deep gouge in his head at the apex. Both landed, only one continued to move.

Without stopping, Hana bounded straight at a second man and ran him through with her weapon. She used his body to arrest her movement. The impaled man stammered in pain as Hana used him as a shield and planned her next move.

Ten men, she counted. With a violent tug, she pulled her blade through the bandit's torso. His guts splattered on the ground, and she kept the side-swing. She whirled the blade over her head, then around her in a wide sweep, then back into a low stance. Her sword dripped red for a time, then began to run clear as the rain intensified, but the men grew still and afraid.

The light was consumed by the deluge and just the white and brown blur of her ears stood out, and yet her eyes burned with a blistering hatred were crystal clear.

Shu realised he had to take control of this situation as his men refused to move in.

“Fine, you want Jubei? He's yours.”

Jubei went to scowl, but his jaw forced it into a constipated grimace. “Don't do this, boss. She's going to kill us all.”

“I will only if you remain,” Hana growled. “Kyoba village is under my protection. And Jubei is mine because he's harmed someone dear to me.”

One of the other bandits glanced between Hana, Jubei and their leader. “We really gonna turn in one of our own, boss?”

Hana huffed. “Are you honourless dogs, a band of rapists and thugs, really affecting a sense of honour? For a man who is a member of the Dragon's Ministry? Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for a man of whom has already slaughtered one of your fellows for discovering this secret?”

A deep silence, only punctuated by a thousand tiny hammers of rainfall on the sodden grass and budding branches.

“So be it,” Hana said, and approached.

“Wait!”

All eyes fell on the leader, and he pointed his naginata at Jubei.

“I already fucking told you all we're not getting involved. We've lost too many already, and this isn't worth it. Take your dirt-farm village, inousa. We're leaving.”

Jubei stared daggers at the leader as the other bandits pulled back. Some hesitated, even glanced at Hana with their blades clenched in solidarity, but a mob is a mob; it follows the clearest course, and that was back to the light of the campfire.

Jubei drew his blade and released a long sigh.

A rumble of thunder. A sudden flash as every man turned their backs on Jubei, then a louder crash.

Jubei was a silhouette against the distant bandit camp, and Hana was only visibly by the white fur against the spreading brown and her drab clothing. In the murk, she was an ominous spectre, yet he began to circle around her.

Hana narrowed her eyes and also began to make slow, steady steps to the side as she brought her sword up and over her head. A fundamental offensive stance and poised for a single-strike to the head.

Jubei moved his sword up and across his brow. A direct counter.

Hana then brought her sword up beside her temple, pointed forward, arms crossed. A defensive posture, but coiled for a snapping cut.

The performance of a slow dance of stances continued and neither let their attention waver, even through every crash of lightning and blast of thunder. Both demonstrated their flawless understanding of each other's storied pasts as warriors. Each knew the wrong position would end in sudden death.

Hana's ears flicked about. She couldn't rely on outfighting this man. She had experienced more than enough to think this through.

Jubei had brought a poison that could resist Sota's memory magic. He knew his foe, and it stood to reason he knew her as well. She rolled her shoulders and took a few practice swings with her sword, but with a clumsy, brutish flow. Big, elaborate and heavy chops. Extravagant and obvious.

Jubei's brow twitched and he became less assured in his technique. He dashed in.

She didn't even respond, she just kept chopping the air, as if engaged in a futile war with the rain.

Her foe measured his paces in time with her cuts, then moved. Then she let the nodachi fly from her grip, straight at him.

Jubei gasped and brought his sword close, and pushed the thrown blade aside. He kept calm as the weapon ricocheted aside, and then went to continue his charge.

But she was upon him.

Hana was disarmed. He would receive the expected unarmed blow, then cut her down.

But her punch struck him square in the jaw. The jaw broken by Sota just hours ago.

Pain. Overwhelming. Staggering. White crossed his vision against the dark. His brain was ablaze as the fractured bone splintered. Pieces of mandible sliced the skin and flesh. He yelped, retreated, slashed the air. Panic as moments turned to seconds. His senses failed him. He saw a figure next to him, and he went to cut against it.

Only to hit a tree. Jubei tried to recover, but froze, as if held. Or pinned.

No...

Impaled.

Three feet of blade emerged from his chest.

He gasped as a numbness flooded his body. A relief, almost, from the inferno pain in his jaw.

He forced himself to speak. “I won't... tell you-”

“Where the antidote is?” Hana snapped, then whispered, “I don't expect, nor want, you to.”

She plucked the sword out sideways. The immortal steel sliced through bone as easy as air, and Jubei collapsed as his guts spilled out.

A darker figure emerged, clutching a bottle. A yatagha girl and a successful raid on the camp while Hana grandstanded with the bandits. She glanced at Hana, ill at ease.

“It's done... come come, I found the cure we need to help Sota.”

Hana ignored Chihiro and bared her teeth at Jubei.

“You think this is our first dealing with Ministry vermin like you? Besides, that's the problem with your kind.”

Hana thrust her sword through his neck and into his brain. She watched his body twitch, then grow still, but she pulled the blade out through the side of his skull just to make sure.

“Your absolute belief of control is your weakness,” Hana muttered. “One stray man has you so afraid of the truth that you'll keep throwing yourself on my sword in pursuit, and I shall gladly end each and every one of you! I'll even slay your monstrous 'deity' if I get a chance.”

“Come, come,” Chihiro repeated and tugged on Hana's sleeve.

“Go and cure Sota,” Hana said, pulled her arm free and trudged onward.

“B-but...”

“Go home, Chihiro!” Hana said and shook her head. “This is my path. This is all that I am...”

She began to jog, then moved into a spring as she saw the bandit campfire as it fought desperately against the rain.

Hana mumbled to herself;

“Dancing in fire,

Blades clash and the blood quickens,

Expend our fury.”

Her blade felt light in her hands. A natural extension of herself as she raised the sword and prepared to cut down the first bandit from behind.

Strike first, for being the prey was no way to win. And strike with dramatic effect and capitalise on the chaos. Sudden violence, as if from nowhere.

To be of void.

* * *

18th of High-Scatter, 1552

The captain's quarters were rife with finery, and with it, plenty of places to hide. Curtains, cabinets and more from places near and far, and every silken drape, artistic folding screen or even the silver and gold Eastern pen sets had to be worth dozens of kinroku. Even in their new and fancy clothes Sota and Hana looked wildly out of place, but they lay in wait all the same.

All they needed was to remain unnoticed until Varisidra was far enough from the door, then they would pounce. Once they had her at sword-point, they would get whatever information they needed, force their way to the rowboat and be away with their captive. Simple, if limited, and it wasn't as if they had many other options.

Hana froze and Sota gritted his teeth as muffled voices approached, then the door opened.

“... Lorr vachare,” said a voice. Varisidra's voice. “Munalisrra pas rolos. Gearal jor salantasra-vosh bit-” She cut herself off.

After a moment's hesitation a second woman said, “Gearal jor salantasra-vosh qor? Qor sil?”

Sota recognised the second one, and it made him grind his teeth harder. The big daughter, Rosarris.

Hana squinted between the gap in a folding screen as the two Cera'an looked at one another, then split up and continued to talk in their own language. She clutched her sword and prepared to strike. Both were clad in the same suits as the others, but Varisidra now wore a heavy shawl around her shoulders in a deep, lustrous red. Rosarris once again seemed ambivalent to the cold and kept her arms and shoulders bare. They weren't prepared for an attack, so she began to stand, but motion caught her attention.

Sota waved his hand in a panic. Something had changed, and not just the presence of Rosarris. The tone of the conversation had switched, but he had no way to explain as his gestures became wild and elaborate.

Hana just frowned in confusion, then her ears pricked up. Footfalls. Rapid. Approaching.

Rosarris threw aside the screen blocking Sota, and he made a silent scream as she lunged at him. He threw himself backwards to avoid her grip.

Hana drew her nodachi and stepped out, and rushed for Varisidra.

The Cera'an matriarch backed away until she pressed against the wall. She presented a panicked target in every way except the most important part. Her eyes remained focused. Filled with cunning.

Hana may have not been as crafty as Sota, but she realised her mistake too late as Varisidra's hand seemed to sink into the wall. A concealed button.

The floor gave way beneath the pair, and they fell and tumbled down a sheet of woven ropes.

* * *

Above, Sota dived for the opening, but it slammed shut as rapidly as it had opened.

“Damn it!” He felt for the button on the wall, but was grabbed by the scruff of the neck.

Rosarris dragged him toward the door as he struggled to get free, but she was incredibly strong. Sota was then thrown out onto the deck and Rosarris yelled something in her native tongue. Sota climbed to his feet as a circle of Cera'an troops formed, weapons drawn but kept their distance.

A feral rumble joined Rosarris' furious voice as she said, “think you can come on our ship and do as you want, taffir!?”

Sota readied his jutte and, despite the panic in his heart, shrugged.

“Yes?”

Rosarris drew her longsword and brandished it wide and high.

“Your technique is terrible,” Sota said as he rolled his still aching shoulders. “No wonder your arms are covered in scars.”

“Keep talkin', skin-and-bones,” Rosarris said awkwardly with a sneer. “I'm gonna enjoy this. Just you and me.”

“So, what, a contest?” Sota said, his mind spinning for a plan, “I win, I get to leave?”

Rosarris' brow flinched. “Sure. You have my word, taffir.”

“That's something at least. Alright, fine.”

The other Cera'an began forming goading and cheering in their language, and trilling and rolling 'rrrs' filled the air as wagers of yon began to exchange hands.

Sota pulled out an ofuda and began to bring it to his forehead.

“Hold,” said another male voice that cut above the rabble.

Quarzanris pushed past the ring of spectators. “I want a go first before you tear him to pieces.”

Rosarris began to protest in their language, but Quarzanris raised a hand.

“Remember your manners, sister.”

With a frustrated snarl, Rosarris responded, “I found him, I get first pick at the meat!”

“And I sprung you from Ministry care. You owe me.”

The snarl grew into a roar as Rosarris sheathed her sword with a loud clack. “Fine! Gives me a chance to get my tetsubo anyway. You've got until I get back!”

Sota slumped. “Don't I get a say in any of this? If you guys need a moment, I'll gladly step-”

Quarzanris raised a hand. “I offer a challenge, sir. Defeat me and I'll not only do you and your friend walk free, provided she survives her confrontation with my mother, but I'll provide you with Lord Kou's location. And transport there as well.”

Sota scratched his chin. He either indulged in this contest and hoped the big tiger man was an honourable sort or fought the circle of Cera'an guards and Quarzanris and died in a blaze of glory. Or hurled himself off the boat in an attempt to escape, into the icy ocean.

Even if he wished he could find and help Hana as quickly as possible, there was no other option.

“A duel then. First blood? First to submit? What's the contest.”

Quarzanris removed his thick greatcoat. The now familiar black, glossy Cera'an uniform underneath hugged his physique. He was every bit as thickly muscled as Rosarris, only with the masculine frame for emphasis. It clashed with the almost dainty way he folded his jacket and handed it to a subordinate.

“First to stay down for five seconds, and no weapons,” he said and stretched. “You're Ministry trained, yes? I've always wanted to test their techniques. They say your people flow like water, and are just as intangible.”

Sota sighed. “This is a lot of prattling and farting about for dealing with an intruder, big man. You getting cold feet? I'll accept your surrender.”

Quarzanris smirked. “I was merely girding my expectations. I favour grappling as well. Anyway, we have a few minutes before Rose returns, and it would be a shame to have this end prematurely. I wish you luck, perra.”

Sota glanced at the jutte in his hand, took a long breath, and replaced it in his haori.

“Fine. Let's get this over with.”

The two men squared up, left arms outstretched and pawing at the air.

As their fingertips got within touching distance, both opponents lunged.

* * *

Hana tumbled from the rope canopy and down to a wooden floor. She scrambled for her sword and hopped to her feet, swinging her blade on reflex.

Her foe was already on her feet and fleeing. The room appeared to be a training hall and armoury, with a central arena, but the rest of the room was a forest of wooden support beams.

Varisidra chicaned between the posts for protection. The area was filled with a variety of exotic weapons against the walls, but Hana realised what the Cera'an was running for; an elegant and curved sword, housed inside a jewelled scabbard.

Hana darted ahead to intercept, and was able to make a desperate thrust, but Varisidra ducked, hugged a support post and spun around it, and used that momentum to counterattack. She leapt at Hana, and a flash of metal joined the fiery green of her eyes.

Hana grunted as she twisted from the sudden lunge. Her new kimono was split as the keen knife scratched her shoulder, and Varisidra rolled back onto her feet and smirked as they faced each other.

“For someone clamouring for information,” Varisidra said, “you're rather quick to try and take my life, no? Or did you anticipate I wouldn't fall so easily?” The dagger in her hand danced between her fingers, over her knuckles and ended in a reverse grip as she darted from one support post to another.

Hana maintained her focus. “I'll make this easy: where is Lord Kou? I shall have my answers, and whether you're still breathing when I receive them is up to you.”

“I suffer threats poorly,” Varisidra said with a smile, but her pupils grew wide; a hunter, just like her daughter. “Especially from those who have put their hands on my children.”

For a moment, Hana wondered whether to plead her case. To discuss about Varisidra sending a boy to capture herself and Sota by drugging them, but family ties break logic in all the worst ways. Hana had lived that nonrational path for half her years.

She instead advanced. Errant thoughts were a distraction she couldn't afford, and the sooner she succeeded in defeating the Cera'an, the sooner she could help Sota. The information was now secondary. They would find some clue aboard this ship, even if they had to kill every last person on board.

Varisidra continued bouncing between pillars as the knife continued to dance in her hand with a nervous energy. She had to be playing for time, perhaps for reinforcements.

Hana needed to change the game. She cut through one beam with a single slash, then sent a hunk of it away with the backswing as if practising with a rolled tatami mat. The wood clattered across the hall but Hana maintained her grim stare.

Varisidra scoffed. “Really? Vandalism? I suppose I should expect such uncouthness from you inousan savages.”

“Just a message,” Hana replied. “That you cannot hide behind 'things,' so let's get this over with!”

She rushed in, and Varisidra responded to meet the charge. Their heads low and eyes blazing. Hana dug her feet into the ground, halted in place and sliced to take her opponent's head.

Varisidra dived into a desperate dodge. Her knife glinted in her hand. A low counter.

Hana hopped and tumbled with a defensive flourish of her weapon, a wide sweep to deter any attack. Nothing connected, so she spun and re-set her stance to face her foe.

Instead, Varisidra was already most of the way to the mounted sword.

With a snarl at being made a fool, Hana rushed to pursue. Her powerful legs fuelled by desperation let her intercept, and she aimed a slash at her foe's head.

Varisidra slipped to the side in the blink of an eye, dancing farther as Hana made several more slashes to force her away, and then raised her guard, now protecting the prize, Varisidra's scimitar behind her. An advantage robbed. Hana still had control.

“Surrender,” she growled.

Varisidra stood and glanced over her shoulder, her sharp teeth appearing in a wide grin as took a few practice swings with an immortal steel scimitar.

Hana gasped. “How...” She glanced behind her. The scabbard was empty.

“Silly girl,” Varisidra said with a chuckle. “The inousa are fast, but I'm famous for being quicker than the eye.”

She used her knife to cut the connecting string of her winter shawl, and it fell away. Like Rosarris, she only wore the uniform the other Cera'an wore, the smooth, form-fitting and glossy singlet beneath. Wiry, toned tiger-striped arms and a slim frame, she had a similar build to Hana. If their brief skirmish hadn't already proven it, Varisidra was no mere devious ambassador or merchant.

This was emphasised further as she dropped smoothly into a stance. Scimitar high, pointed ahead and by her brow. Her dagger was held low and concealed against her forearm in a reverse grip, as if she'd done so a thousand times before.

Hana slowed her breathing and said, “a duel then. So be it.”

* * *

Sota was suffering a paradox.

He was a smaller, weaker combatant, facing a behemoth of a cat-man. This meant he needed to out-think his opponent as much as out-pace him, yet thinking in a fight is dangerous, caused second-guessing when the moment was right.

Of course, any degree of deep thought fell by the wayside as he fought against someone likely three times his weight. It had to be second nature thoughts. Guided muscle-memory.

A fist as big as his head brushed the hair on his temple.

Sota really needed to stop thinking and just fight. Or flow. Especially flow.

Quarzanris was faster than a man his size should be, but Sota lived and breathed avoidance, drilled into him by his own training and that of the memory of Wels within him. Dancing and momentum in unison.

He sneaked in and landed a punch to the cat-man's gut, but it was like punching a padded wall. A wall that billowed out as Quarzanris sucked in a breath. He was planning to drop an elbow onto Sota's back.

Sota tumbled sideways and onto his feet and watched as Quarzanris retracted the whiffed hammer blow, then growled.

“I thought the Ministry indomitable fighters. You're anything but. Slippery, but hardly untouchable.”

“Perfect force, precisely applied,” Sota replied and took measure of his opponent. “Such is the way of The Dragon.”

The cat-man was a grappler, but rooted in a clean, no-nonsense peasant striking martial art. It was from Waraki province, adjacent to the southern Nabanba region but close to both the inousan Jinu and Hojiki provinces in the north-west.

Waraki had two claims to fame: absolute brutality in fights and an army made of ronin and renegades. So many of these mercenaries would turn on the peasantry for a few loose yon that Waraki began harbouring small groups of martial arts based on fighting against swordsmen with nothing but their fists and basic tools to defend themselves.

It helped gird Sota's expectations, but there was something else about the Cera'an’s style that Sota had yet to work out. An advantage he might be able to use.

Sota continued, “there's a reason you don't hear about the Ministry losing a fight; if they suspect they'll fail, they won't bother.”

Quarzanris rolled his meaty shoulders. “So, you imply that you expect victory?”

Sota scoffed. “Dragon's piss, big man, you forced this fight! Besides. I ain't Ministry. Not anymore.”

“Turncoat or exile?”

“They weren't who I thought they were,” Sota said and gritted his teeth. “Now shut up and fight.”

With a slow nod, Quarzanris sighed and moved back in to continue the brawl.

Sota saw a fierce knee coming first, but Quarzanris' arms went in to hook. He clutched the knee, received it with a grunt and pulled with all his bodyweight.

He may as well have tried to lift a horse. The white fur and pink pads of the Cera'an’s hands drew near, so Sota let himself fall back and down to the floor to avoid being grabbed.

But then the large foot of his foe, still raised from the knee, loomed high, then stomped.

Sota threw his hands against the leg. He couldn't push it aside, but the smooth wooden deck let him slip by as the foot landed so hard the wood cracked.

Sota wrapped his arms around the back of Quarzanris' knee and tugged again. Quarzanris gasped and stumbled, then dropped forward. Sota wheezed as the weight of the cat-man landed atop him but his mass fell onward, which let Sota crawl away in a scramble.

But his ankle was snagged. Quarzanris found his footing and pulled Sota into an ungainly, one-footed hop. Arms began to encircle Sota's calf, so he leapt back and threw out a foot with all his weight. He slammed Quarzanris in the nose with the kick and fell to the floor as the cat-man growled and clutched his face.

Sota resumed his escape, stood, then wiped his brow.

That's what it was. There was his advantage.

Quarzanris was skilled, strong and had tremendous grasp of his techniques, but that was it. Techniques are the building block of a fighter. They're not simply meant to be used, but refined and made a natural flow.

One does not pour molten iron into a cast and call it a sword. They have to be hammered, honed, adjusted, sharpened on the fly. A fighter was his fights.

Sota tilted his head. “Hoi. How old are you, big man?”

“Uh, Seventeen,” Quarzanris replied as he sniffed and wiped a trickle of blood from his nostrils. “Why?”

“Oh?” Sota smirked. He shimmied in place, letting himself loosen up. “That explains a lot.”

Quarzanris gave him a glare. “What are-”

Sota screamed and charged in. Quarzanris clenched up and threw up his guard, but Sota dipped aside and jogged around, waving and shrugging to the crowd as they complained and jeered.

The cat-man scowled and called out, “what are yo-”

With another shrill war-cry, Sota dashed at Quarzanris. Again, the bigger fighter put up his guard and stepped away.

Sota took yet one more goading lap around the arena.

“You're so naïve,” he chuckled.

Heavy, rapid footsteps. Sota expected a counter, and faced the approach as he hopped away.

Expected, but watching the vast cat-man sprinting at him still made Sota's heart almost stop. Quarzanris lashed out with wild fists, a kick, a multitude of attempts to grab or snag even Sota's clothes.

Sota kept darting back, to the side, then dipped into a grasp to evade his opponent's hands, only to drop and slip away as Quarzanris tried to wrap his arms around him. Sota drove an elbow against the Cera'an’s side. It was still like hitting the side of a cow as he rebounded off the solid mass of fur and muscle, but Quarzanris responded with a low snarl and a redoubled effort to land a blow. Less technique, more fury.

The dodges gave way to active blocks. Forearms deflected knuckles. A redirected elbow caught by a desperate shove.

Quarzanris snared Sota's haori. An undisciplined overextension. Sota gripped the thick forearm, threw up his legs and wrapped his ankles around Quarzanris' neck and twisted with his whole body.

They both tumbled over. The back of Sota's head bashed against the deck, but Quarzanris' face slammed harder into the same. Sota scrambled to lock his body around Quarzanris' arm, but the fur was sleek. Then he felt the Cera'an's limb begin to bend against itself.

So Quarzanris sank his knife-like teeth into his calf.

Sota yelped then bit Quarzanris' thumb in response. Every errant twitch was another snag of skin and muscle as both men gave muffled cries of pain. A mutual, unspoken truce formed as they both released one another with a clutching of thumbs and rubbed ankles.

The crowd had a good laugh at the spectacle.

“Fersha taffir!” Quarzanris growled through bloodied teeth. “That hurt!”

“Dragon-fucking dick it did!” Sota said and walked off the bite, then spat out a mix of white and orange fur. “You bit me first, you shit!”

“You two done?”

Quarzanris and Sota both looked to the side at the voice.

Rosarris pushed through the gaggle, a Samsaran war club draped over her shoulder. It was as long as she was tall, wood and leather gripped with hexagonal steel segments covered the upper half, with a spiral of pointed metal studs.

With a heavy sigh, the cat-man stepped back. “I suppose I did agree to only fight until your return, Rose.”

“Good. Leave this to me, Quartz.”

Sota winced as his hard-fought advantage was now gone, but had a new idea.

“What, you're so much of a coward that you had to let your brother soften me up before you finish me off? Bunch of honourless dogs, the lot of you!”

Rosarris' face wrinkled into a deep snarl. “The taff you call me you crekk?”

“You heard me,” Sota said and puffed out his chest. “I demand a handicap.”

Her expression dulled to confusion. “A what?”

Quartz raised his hand. “Per hunrada elcrazh, Rose.”

The cat-woman scoffed and shook her head, then she stared daggers into Sota.

“Fine,” she said. “I'm no coward. I'll give ya the first hit.”

Sota pursed his lips. “Really?”

Rose slapped her chest with a loud thud.

“On my honour. What're the rules?”

“I recommend sticking with fists,” Quartz said as he folded his arms. “She's a less disciplined brawler than I.”

Both contestants glanced at him, and Rose screwed up her face again. “Whose side you on?”

“Just trying to make it sporting,” Quartz replied with a soft smile.

Sota pulled out his jutte. “Enough fisticuffs.”

Quartz chuckled and got near Sota as he walked toward the edge of the ring, and whispered, “oh no, don't do that. You use that on her, you'll only make her mad.”

“I'll take my chances,” Sota said and took a few swings with the steel cudgel.

Rose brandished hers in the same way. The huge club making loud wooshes in the air.

“Mine's bigger, taffir,” she goaded.

Sota chuckled. “It ain't how big it is, it's how you use it.”

Quarzanris finished leaving the ring, and Sota squared up against Rose.

She was a little shorter and a slighter than her brother, but her muscles more defined and the scars made her more intimidating.

Worst of all was her eyes. Quartz's pale blue were piercing and deep, but the fiery turquoise Rose and her mother had were entrancing yet otherworldly. They seemed to glow, while the deep, abyssal black pupils felt inescapable.

Rose cricked her neck, turned her tetsubo upside down in her hands and hammered the tip against the decking, as if standing to attention and still, yet her tail wagged.

“Get your slack-wristed first blow over with. And you better make it good, because I won't need more than one to put you down_._”

Sota had wasted enough time indulging these siblings and had learned all he wished about them.

“Oh, I'll make it count, alright.”

Sota walked up to Rose. She didn't move but her muscles clenched in preparation, and she took a long breath, ready to respond once the first strike was made.

So he robbed her of that air. Sota stabbed the narrow tip of his jutte into her solar plexus as hard as he could.

Rose squawked as her lungs failed her. To her credit, she only fell to one knee as she struggled to breathe.

Sota helped her down with a hard crack of steel across the brow, and she hit the deck in a heap.

He then beckoned the crowd with his arms swept wide. “We done? I swear, if my companion's hurt, the rest of you will suffer the same!”

A dead silence fell across the deck as the crowd lost its energy.

“One,” Quartz suddenly announced.

Sota glanced at him. “Huh?”

“Two.”

“What are you doing?”

“Three,” Quartz continued. “You win if she stays on the deck for a five count, no?”

A low, ferocious growl sounded behind Sota.

“Four. And I think that's it.”

Sota slowly turned, and Rose was on her hands and knees. She suddenly dropped, her forehead slamming against the deck.

For a hopeful moment, Sota prayed that she had fully collapsed.

But she lifted herself and slammed her head against the deck a second time. And again. Sticky blood oozed from between her face and the now cracked wood. Her voice a bass rumble and saliva joined the crimson splatter.

And she looked up.

Sota's throat seized, but he managed to gasp, “oh, fuck.”

Her eyes. Fiery was inadequate.

An inferno. Her face bathed in crimson. Her finger claws gouged long lines in the varnished decking as she shoved herself off the ground as she stood, clutching her tetsubo. Her arms, legs and chest thickened and bulged.

She then loosed a demonic roar that Sota felt in his very soul, and his blood turned to ice.

And in that frozen moment, Rose charged.

* * *

A storm of slashes. The flash of sparks. Breathy gasps, pained grunts and desperate effort.

Hana cut in long swings for spacing while Varisidra was a wall of tiny cuts. Both wielded immortal steel, and Hana's reliance on her nodachi and its otherworldly sharpness was lost. Power fought speed. Ferocity against cunning. Precision duelled experience.

Varisidra's scimitar clashed and caught Hana's sword in a momentary bind, only for a deft flick of the matriarch's wrist to twirl her dagger over the edged stalemate and into a wicked plunge. Hana kicked out, pushed them apart. She planted her feet and thrust with her sword, and Varisidra pushed the fierce stab aside with both blades.

The attack was fierce enough that the older woman was warded. She let the stumble carry her away to catch her breath. As Hana tried to keep the pressure, Varisidra's feinting twirls, sudden stops with firm-footed poses met with a menacing grin with sharp, predatory teeth as her tail writhed and snaked behind her, put Hana on the back foot with a sudden feint, then slipped away.

“For all your hilariously archaic Samsaran honour,” Varisidra goaded, “I'm glad to see the tales of you inousans isn't an exaggeration. You fight well.”

Hana didn't reply, and kept her eyes dead set on the wily cat-woman.

“I am curious though... according to my eldest son, you seem to be of the dead clan Akikawa, yes?”

Her ears perked up, but Hana could only offer a tiny nod.

Varisidra rolled her neck and she licked her lips like a cat having feasted on vermin. Compared to her earlier poise and grace, this was a truer form of the Cera'an: the veneer of noble civility was falling to a bloodthirsty vagabond.

“And of course, this comes with the usual sob-story. Dead parents, legacies put to the torch and so forth. Is this really just about retaining honour through revenge? Perhaps I simply cannot fathom such banal avenues of self-destructive pathos, but I'm sensing something else. Why do you really seek Lord Kou?”

“I owe you no explanation.” Hana's hands clenched around her nodachi and she narrowed her eyes. “Give me my answers and I shall leave. Refuse and I will not be held responsible for-”

Varisidra loosed a deep, exaggerated sigh and an even more dramatic shrug. “Yes, yes, we've been over this, rabbit. I'm unsure whether to celebrate your single-minded stubbornness or vilify it. There's a saying amongst my people: the hard spear burrows deep but breaks upon the thickest hide.”

“My people have a saying too,” Hana snapped back. “Those who talk rather than fight die first.”

Hana advanced. A more measured dose of aggression to keep an eye on the swift and deceptive Varisidra, who prepared herself in the high scimitar, low dagger stance as before.

There had to be a weakness there. A way to catch her off guard while the dagger wasn't ready to receive a blow. Hana made a short cut toward from the high right to keep Varisidra's scimitar busy, let her nodachi clip a parry, but made a snap backswing.

Varisidra dodged low and paced back rather than risk a block, so Hana pushed in. She unleashed small slashes and thrusts to overwhelm the Cera'an's defences. These were better suited to a smaller sword, but Hana pushed herself harder. Her muscles burned as the unrelenting barrage kept her foe at bay. A lifetime of living by the sword would answer this political meddler.

Hana's pride wouldn't allow her to lose to an inferior foe, yet the dagger danced and glittered in the low lantern light of the hall.

Even at the expense of her position and footing, Varisidra seemed steadfast with her one-handed defence.

Yet Hana knew Varisidra's stamina had to wane eventually. Similar builds aside, the Cera'an was older by some margin. Long moments spent in talks and the finery of Varisidra's ship lifestyle and talking against Hana's constant life by the sword.

Hana bared her teeth as her frustration grew, but pressed on until she sensed a drop in Varisidra's speed. She threw out a harder chop as fast as her arms would allow.

Varisidra had no choice but to make a clumsy block and, at last, she reeled and spun from the strike. Hana turned the nodachi and made a slash up and into Varisidra's back.

But the Cera'an let herself fall forward. She tumbled and cartwheeled as Hana's sword sliced a thin strip of Varisidra's clothes from her shoulder blade and clipped a few errant hairs as she seemed to fall. There was the clack of the dagger in Varisidra's hand as it struck the wooden floor, but she landed on her feet, now behind Hana's blade but still facing away.

And a scimitar rose into Hana's view over Varisidra's shoulder. A grim lance of a move that was almost faster than Hana could see.

Quicker than the eye.

A dodge so precise in avoiding the cut that it baffled Hana in how lucky it seemed, yet the grin on Varisidra's face was telling: it was a calculated, impossible evasion and a killing counter.

Hana's stoic fury twisted in panic. She turned as the scimitar cut her brow as it almost plunged into her eye. Hana made a panicked leap and her powerful legs flung her backward. She clashed against a pillar and staggered, desperately lashing out with her sword for any further pursuit.

Varisidra remained where she was. She pirouetted, ducked low and plucked her dagger from the floor, but she growled.

“Oh, sweet Lady Luck,” Varisidra whispered, out of breath as she glanced at the thin trickle of Hana's blood on her scimitar. “All that effort for naught.”

Both breathed hard from the exchange, but Hana drank deep into her fury, forced her limbs to move and charged. Varisidra was just as quick to bring up her guard, but it was a facade. Each now deflection less steadfast, every dodge narrower, and her forced counters grew desperate.

Hana screamed and hacked at Varisidra's waning form. A clash of immortal steel and a white-hot sparkle of shards from both blades from a messy block cut a deep gouge into Varisidra's scimitar.

Varisidra staggered and glowered at her damaged sword. Hana pursued. Another clash like that would snap the blade, and victory would follow.

Too late she realised even this stumble was forced. Varisidra's footing was certain as she twirled, then threw her scimitar back at Hana. She had to stop and knock aside the blade as Varisidra ran for a door.

The Cera'an barged her way through into a darkened room and Hana reached it before the door shut.

A maze of walls and dim lights greeted her. She looked behind her as the door suddenly shut fast and a loud rattle of a mechanism triggered. Metal beams bolted from spaced around the frame and sealed the door.

“Come then, little rabbit,” Varisidra's voice called from labyrinth, to Hana's left. “They say the inousa do not feel fear.”

The already dim lights grew darker. Odd metal coils glowed in cages here and there, and pin-pricks of light from above, but little else.

Varisidra laughed softly, now from the right. Hana gritted her teeth and kept her sword at the ready.

Footsteps behind her!

No... to the right?

Her ears twitched and danced as she pressed her back against the wall. This was Varisidra's domain in full. The darkness, narrow passages and a shallow ceiling. Everything the inousa struggled to face.

She pushed herself onward into the maze.

And swallowed down the rising dread.

* * *

5th Day of Tearful Sky, 1554

Fear.

It could break anyone.

The sudden violence, with blood throbbing through the ears. The way one's vision narrowed and sharp yet darkened on all else as only the threat remains. Or the slow and gradual menace that sent images of imagined scenarios that would freeze a person in place. It took many forms.

Only those who had grown used to such sudden and frantic quickening of the senses or could still the mind knew how to harness it.

Lightning of the nerves turned to thunder of the heart and the blinding finality from the flash of steel. Harnessed, or paralysed, it came for them all.

Fear.

The bandits screamed both to muster a resistance as much as feeling the panic as Hana lopped free a head and it fell into the campfire. Burning logs scattered and hissed, landing in a puddle as the deluge of rain turned soil to mud. The body fell soon after with a wet slap and the land already began to take the corpse. A rhythmic, gushing blood joined the water and the softening earth, as if the world was hungry for more.

The flames grew weak as the separation of the wood let the water seep in and both drenched and doused the flame. Darkness only sent the bandits into a deeper state of panic.

The land would take these men. These threats. Those that would harbour the man who hurt the one who Hana held dear.

Filth would beget filth. Nothing would be left to find of these people. Nobody would remember them.

Hana wished the same for herself. Just the legacy of helping Sota escape his past would have been enough, but still they pursued him.

It was all a failure. Let it all fall to ruin.

Ruin and fear.

The bandit leader bellowed a war cry as he rushed at Hana. She leapt to the side and sliced skyward. His naginata split in two, and his arms severed and the squirt of blood from the stumps.

Hana slipped her blade against the leader's neck and flicked it across to silence the scream.

Another man attacked, barely visible in the scant flicker of light from the lanterns still protected from the storm inside the tents. The last one who remained as the others scattered to the darkness.

She didn't need to see. Her hatred was illuminating enough.

* * *