The sound of wings in the dark. Mighty pinions beating the freezing air, raising gooseflesh on his arms. He looked up into the graying sky and saw a majestic arashitora, sleek and snow-white and beautiful. And on her back, a girl, more beautiful still.
Kaiah was clad in dark iron—a thick breastplate running throat to ribs. Reinforced leather guarded her hindquarters and neck. Over her skull sat an iron helm, black glass covering her eyes, pierced at the crown with a long tassel of hair. The blacksmith had even taken time to emboss prayers to the Thunder God into the armor.
Hana was wearing her banded breastplate, messy blond bob held in check by the goggles over her eye. She wore a tsurugi sword on her back, though Akihito had no idea if she knew how to wield it. But as the pair landed in the courtyard, the wounded gaijin bivouacked beneath the eaves stared in wonder, jaws to the floor. She drew the blade and Kaiah reared up, lightning crackling across her feathers. The thunder tiger split the air with a deafening roar.
Hana looked up at the balcony, head tilted, lips twisted.
“Coming?”
Limping slowly down the stairs, across the courtyard beneath wondering eyes. Hana took his hand and pulled him up onto Kaiah’s back with a grunt. As he slipped behind her, she pushed back against him, gave him a wicked grin.
“You slept late.”
“I’d like to think I earned it,” he smiled, slipping his arms around her waist.
“Don’t be getting a big head on me now.”
“I’m surprised you’re up so early.”
“I couldn’t sleep for your snoring.”
“I do not snore.”
Hana turned away with a smile, mumbling just loud enough for him to hear.
“Thought it was another earthquake…”
A surge of muscle beneath him, a moment of insistent gravity, pushing him down as Kaiah leaped skyward. He could feel the power in her, the brutal majesty, his stomach left far behind as they rose higher, over the walls and through the lightening sky. He clutched Hana’s waist, gripping Kaiah’s ribs with his thighs, trying to keep some semblance of control over the grin on his face. He’d flown on sky-ships before, but it had been nothing like this.
Yama city was spread out below them, the distant horizon growing steadily brighter. As they climbed, he felt something cold and wet on his cheek, a black spot fluttering in his vision.
Akihito frowned behind his goggles. And all around them, they began falling, tumbling and spinning like forgotten jewels from the glowering sky overhead. Frozen and tiny and perfect.
Snowflakes.
He caught one in his open palm, looking down with narrowed eyes. It was fragile, beautiful, possessed of a symmetry and complexity that would make the greatest artisan weep. And if it were white, it might have struck him as a gift from the heavens themselves.
But it was black. Just like the rain. Just like the ruin they’d made of this country. And just at the edge of hearing, he caught it again, beating and rising like a trembling pulse.
DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM.
DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM.
He looked south and his stomach curled up against his ribs. Just an impression in the muddy light of the almost-dawn. But he could see great clouds of sky-ships, swarming around a shape so vast and horrifying he had to force himself to stare.
“There they are,” he breathed.
Hana reached back, gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Breathe easy,” she said. “We’re about to have a goddess on our side.”
37
ACCORDING TO PLAN
Michi knelt beside a low table in her room, calligraphy brush in hand, her dog Tomo snoozing amidst crumpled blankets in her otherwise empty bed.
Her brush strokes were swift, tiny ink droplets spattering on the page. She’d been up most of the night writing, fingers stained and back aching. But she’d reached the dawn of today’s battle in her history of the Lotus War, taking a moment to describe the aroma of the breakfast fires and exhaust, the clash of boots and swords as bushimen marched out onto Yama’s walls.
The Iron Samurai had once more donned their armor, the last drops of the Kitsune chi stores fueling their final stand. Michi had refilled her chainblades the previous evening, trying not to think about the man she’d stolen them from. What might have been.
Ichizo.
A knock at her door. Tomo opened one eye, but failed to stir further.
“Don’t get up or anything,” Michi muttered.
She straightened with a wince, padding to the door and sliding it open. The Blackbird stood beyond, clad in a thick breastplate, a studded tetsubo in his hands. Iron covered his forearms and shins and knuckles—he’d even riveted some metal plating to his ridiculous hat.
“Well, aren’t you a sight, Captain-san,” Michi smiled.
The Ryu captain flashed her a rogue’s grin. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“We’re ready to depart?”
“Well…” Blackbird glanced behind her. “We could always stay in. Warmer in bed.”
“Not one for the subtle art of seduction, are you?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve been working on that one most of the night.”
She gave him a little pat on the shoulder. “Needs more time in the oven.”