Scott McGough: Outlaw:Champions of Kamigawa

"Stand aside, Marrow-Gnawer. I will attempt to renegotiate with this young entrepreneur."

The ratfolk leader locked eyes with Toshi, his expression woeful. "Oh, good. Now we die. You, me, we, all die. Thanks, stupid Toshi."

Toshi turned to the voice at the back of the alley. Two hooded, robed figures stepped into the quickly fading sunlight. They were tall and narrow-shouldered, with large, oddly shaped heads. Something about that cold, hollow voice and the nezumi's reaction put a lump of suspicious dread in Toshi's stomach.

"You must be the brains behind this endeavor," he called airily. "Allow me to offer my-"

"Your head?" The figure on the left reached up and pulled back his hood with his thin, white fingers. His pale face was small and angular, with a series of tattoos across the eyebrow ridges. His long, floppy ears were twisted around his head like a turban, and also tattooed. The markings on his head and ears moved and shifted like a line of tiny dancers.

"Because if you're offering your head, I think we can come to an arrangement very quickly. One less ochimusha lowlife will hardly be a blow to the community. Eitoku?"

Toshi swallowed hard. This shinobi was a soratami. No wonder Marrow-Gnawer was so anxious: working with them was as uncertain and as dangerous as balancing on the end of a poisoned blade.

The second hooded figure drew a long katana from beneath his robe and tossed back his own hood. This moonfolk was a bushi, a warrior. He was silent but visibly furious, and he clearly knew how to use his sword.

As the soratami bushi stepped forward, Toshi said, "Some other time." Then, he quickly dropped and punched the tip of his jitte down through Marrow-Gnawer's foot. He yanked it free immediately and then kicked the screaming nezumi into the center of the ratfolk gang, between himself and the soratami. The rats went wild in fury and panic, and the alley exploded into a mass of hissing, thrashing bodies.

With Marrow-Gnawer's blood still dripping from the tip of his weapon, Toshi scrawled a kanji symbol on the pavement stones.

"Smoke," he read silently, focusing both will and magic through the symbol, giving them form and substance.

There was a bright flash of light and a geyser of foul-smelling black ash. Toshi grabbed another ratfolk by the tail and slung him into the confusion. Then he turned and sprinted back toward the marsh.

Even as he ran, Toshi cursed his luck. What were moonfolk doing with nezumi in the first place? It was like the Daimyo's elite guard recruiting blind, legless madmen for the infantry. Times must be tough for them to come slumming among the ruins.

He'd heard some tall tales about the moonfolk in action, but no one he knew ever claimed to have seen anything first hand. The soratami were notoriously good at going unseen and undetected-so good that they were more like rumors than real people. Even if you did well for them, you were likely to wind up dead, just to sever any links between them and their crimes.

Toshi ducked around another corner, complicating his trail as much as possible while continuing to put distance between himself and the moonfolk. He sincerely hoped they weren't as good at seeking as they were at hiding.

A gleaming steel spike suddenly sprouted from the pave stone in front of him. Toshi stopped short, his eyes darting up. He caught a glimpse of a dark, two-toed sandal and a pale white foot before a forearm clamped around his throat and hauled him off the ground.

Make a note, he thought. They are good at seeking.

Unable to breathe, his vision rimmed in red, Toshi fumbled with his jitte. The iron arm tightened across his windpipe and his captor shook him, trying to dislodge the weapon. Toshi slit the gray cloth over his thigh as he tried to hold onto the jitte. The sharp tip scored angry red lines across his flesh.

With one final shake, the jitte fell. Toshi felt his sword belt being torn away, and then the cold embrace of the stone wall as his face slammed into it. The pressure around his throat vanished, but that same grip now held his head immobile against the wall.

A practiced hand searched his body for any hidden weapons, and then a hollow voice whispered, "He is now unarmed."

The soratami shinobi spoke from overhead. "Thank you, Eitoku. Turn him to me."

Toshi was roughly spun around as Eitoku manhandled him into the center of the alley. The moonfolk warrior grabbed both Toshi's elbows and forced them to touch behind the ochimusha's back.

"Easy there, whitey," Toshi growled. Wincing, he struggled until Eitoku slammed him into the wall again, all the while maintaining the pressure on Toshi's arms. The soratami bushi dragged him into the center of the alley once more and held him upright.

The moonfolk shinobi floated down from above, both feet now shrouded in small silver clouds. His face was calm, almost amused. His eyes were wide and cold. "Marrow-Gnawer and his brothers have withdrawn, but we shall visit them soon. In the interim, I will ask you one question, lowlife, and ask it only once."

"Could you make it a history question? I'm good at those."

Eitoku squeezed Toshi's elbows together and the ochimusha winced again.

The shinobi floated closer. "What are you doing here?"

Toshi struggled for a moment. "Sorry, was that the question? I wasn't ready."

Eitoku sent him on another trip to the wall. Toshi left some of his blood on the jagged stones.

"He knows nothing," Eitoku said. "Kill him and be done with it."

Toshi spat blood, careful to miss the floating moonfolk. No sense in being overly rude. "I know you don't want to mess with me. It's not healthy."

The shinobi drifted back and rose slightly above Toshi. "Oh? And who protects you, ochimusha lowlife? What kami answers your prayers?"

Toshi smiled through a mouthful of blood. "I take care of myself."

"Then you'd best get started. Eitoku," the floating moonfolk began to rise, rotating so his back was to Toshi, "you may kill him now."

To Toshi's surprise, Eitoku turned him loose before administering the death blow. True, the moonfolk warrior had every reason to be confident. Toshi was unarmed, his arms weren't working well, and the left side of his face was swollen and bleeding. But in the fen society where Toshi and the nezumi lived, confidence killed many accomplished warriors.

Toshi didn't even try to defend himself. His shoulders were too sore and his arms too drained of blood to do him any good. He simply stood facing the soratami bushi, taking solace from the fact that even if the moonfolk had stabbed from behind, the end result would be the same.

Eitoku's sword was a gleaming whisper in the dark. It punched through Toshi's chest but did not come out of his back, even though Eitoku jammed the blade in all the way up to the hilt.

The kanji Toshi had carved into his own thigh flashed. The cold gray light was reflected in his eyes and on his chest, where Eitoku's sword was lodged. The ochimusha smiled.

"That looks like it hurts." He glanced down at the blade in his torso, then back up at Eitoku. "Does it?"

The soratami's mouth hung open and his eyes went glassy. His jaw bobbed, but no sound came out. A line of brackish purple formed in the center of his chest, and Eitoku clutched at it with one hand as his pulled the sword free with the other. Warrior and blade alike then dropped loudly to the ground.

Almost instantly, a silver spike sprouted from Toshi's forehead. Above him, the floating moonfolk gasped. Then he, too, came crashing down, landing in an undignified heap of robes and twisted limbs. A small, perfect hole adorned his forehead.

Toshi quickly retrieved his weapons. Both soratami were struggling to move, clawing and grasping at his ankles, but he carefully avoided them. Calmly, casually, he tied his sword belt, repositioned his katana and wakizashi, and sheathed his jitte. From sheer force of habit, he nudged both moonfolk over with his foot and scanned their bodies for valuables.