Scott McGough - Guardian, Saviors of Kamigawa

The next room was the smallest, so it was fortunate that it held the fewest corpses. Toshi did not enter the room at first, but stood outside, gazing down at the half-dozen humanoid bodies scattered around the chamber.

These were different from the other victims. These bodies were all tall, thin, and elegantly dressed. Most wore black silk with their heads and faces concealed beneath scarves. The others wore cobalt-blue chain mail and carried katanas. What flesh Toshi could see was pale, gleaming white, like the reflection of moonlight on bleached bone. These new corpses were those of soratami, and their presence proved the battle was not one-sided.

Toshi was impressed. He allowed himself a moment of pure, cruel joy at the soratami’s expense. Most of Toshi’s current problems could be laid squarely at the feet of the soratami and their patron kami. Since Konda had vanished, the soratami had been openly working to take control of the entire swamp region. They killed those they couldn’t intimidate or bribe, and he had to assume the mahotsukai were targeted because they would not knuckle under. It hadn’t saved them and it wouldn’t bring them back, but Toshi was glad the Numai jushi made the moonfolk pay for this night’s work.

Toshi blinked. The soratami warriors were exceptional and their shinobi were as silent and invisible as leaves falling on a moonless night. They were far too proud to leave proof that mere ground-dwellers had defeated some of their tribe. Why then, had they left these bodies behind?

He looked again, noting that the soratami corpses were all equidistant from a central spot at the far side of the room. He puzzled for a moment, then nodded to himself. They had attempted to gang up on someone and been brutally killed and hurled backwards by their intended victim. Did this small victory take place away from the main body of invaders, so that they didn’t realize their loss? Or, more incredibly, did the last surviving mahotsukai defeat or scare off all of the attacking soratami so that none were left to carry off their dead?

Toshi hoped that was the case. He also hoped whoever it was could still shake hands-he wanted to congratulate him.

A woman sighed from the other side of the wall at the far end of the room. Toshi crept forward, peering past the altar, until he saw a loose seam in the wall itself. If the secret door hadn’t been slightly sprung open, he would never have found it. Now, he nudged it open with his toe and crouched as he carefully picked his way through.

The secret door fell shut behind him, but the inner chamber was lit by a pair of black candles atop another, smaller altar. In the soft sphere of yellow light, Toshi saw the back of a woman’s head rustling rhythmically back and forth. He tightened his grip on his jitte, but relaxed when the woman started singing softly. Her voice was soft, sweet, and clear.

“Kiku,” Toshi called. He couldn’t see clearly in the dim light, but he recognized the voice and the silky head of purple-black hair. “It’s Toshi. I’ve come to help.”

“Toshi.” Kiku’s voice was dreamy and somehow sad. “No work for you here, oath-brother. Nothing for the hyozan to avenge. I’m the only one they didn’t kill.”

Toshi stood rooted in place. He was not about to approach Kiku until he was sure of her mind. She might be wounded, or dying, or …

Kiku stood, rising into the flickering candlelight. Her head was tilted forward so that her exotic hair hung down past her chin, hiding her features. She steadied herself on the altar with one hand as she carelessly clutched the neck of a ceramic jug in the other.

“Join me in a drink, oath-brother?” She did not lift her face, but did wave the jug. “The masters were saving this for a special occasion. I think this qualifies. The mahotsukai have survived another night.”

Toshi swallowed. “Sure, Kiku.” He stepped forward with one hand extended for the jug and the other ready with his jitte. Kiku was mercurial on her best days, and she was devastating with her short-handled throwing hatchet. If she were intoxicated, she might remember she hated Toshi for binding her to the hyozan.

But Kiku simply stood, singing softly with her head tilted down while Toshi carefully approached. She was not dressed in her traditional outfit of lavish purple silk and leather armor, but in a sheer white linen shift that left her arms and shoulders bare. The fabric was so delicate it was nearly transparent in the soft light, and though Kiku was a beautiful woman, Toshi kept his attention firmly focused on her hands, where the threat would come from.

Toshi reached out and took hold of the jug. Kiku held on for a moment, resisting him, and then released it. From its heft Toshi guessed Kiku had consumed half of its contents. From its smell Toshi guessed that if you lit a match after taking a sip, your breath would catch fire.

He raised the jug to his lips, keeping his eyes on Kiku. After he was through wincing, Toshi handed the bottle back, but pulled it away when Kiku reached for it.

“Mahotsukai,” he said. “What happened here?”

Kiku let her free hand fall to the altar so that she was leaning on both arms. “Soratami,” she said. “Sent word. We were a threat, unsanctioned magic. We were to vacate, or else.” She lifted her face and smiled wickedly at Toshi. “The elders chose ‘or else.’”

Toshi almost coughed as he met Kiku’s eyes, but his face remained calm. The flesh on Kiku’s forehead, cheeks, and nose was covered in a dark, shifting stain that crawled across her face like oil on the surface of steaming hot tea. Rounded blobs and thin, spiky tendrils oozed and fluttered across her features, forming currents and eddies that alternately encircled and engulfed the topography of her fine-boned face.

It was horrifying to see such a strong person so fractured, to behold such beauty marred by magic. Worse was the undeniable sense of familiarity Toshi got from Kiku’s new appearance. He was not a mahotsukai, so he did not practice their craft, but as an acolyte of Night’s Reach he recognized shadow magic when he saw it.

Still jarred by Kiku’s wild eyes and transformed face, Toshi said evenly, “Listen, Kiku. Tell me what happened.”

Kiku motioned for the jug and Toshi handed it over. She tossed back a long draught and shuddered. Then, blinking her eyes rapidly, she focused on Toshi, and the dreamy, singsong quality to her voice disappeared.

“The masters did this.” She made as if caressing her own face, but her palm never made contact. “Just as the soratami arrived.” Kiku shook her head clear and went on. “You were right about them, oath-brother. The soratami. They are not to be taken lightly. Most of us were dead before the masters finished the ritual.”

“What ritual? What did it do?”

Kiku steadied herself on the altar and then stood up straight. She swayed for a moment. Then she straightened her shift and brushed it clean in two long strokes. She focused on Toshi again, and her eyes glittered like hard, sharp gems behind narrowed lids.

“You use kanji magic,” she said. “Characters, symbols as your weapon. The masters,” she waved aimlessly behind Toshi, where the old men lay dead, “didn’t use symbols. They used me.” She set her jaw, suddenly serious and sober. “I was the tool of my masters’ vengeance. I am their weapon. When they saw they would die, they turned to me. Cursed me, made me more dangerous.”

Toshi took the bottle and sipped. “Did it work?”

“Killed the raiders all at once, in a single heartbeat.” The mahotsukai’s cruel mouth twisted into a sharp smile, then sagged. “But not fast enough. Couldn’t control the power when I needed it. Self-preservation only. You should understand that.” She croaked a hag’s laugh and her eyelids fluttered. Kiku almost swooned, but Toshi caught her shoulder and she clutched the altar before she toppled.