Only hatred left behind.
“There she is!” Hiro tore his chainkatana from its scabbard. “Can we pursue?”
“My Lord, we can’t move!” the helmsman spat. “The Kitsune have us entangled!”
Hiro looked down on the Honorable Death’s deck, the brutal melee between Fox and Tiger samurai. Chainsword kissed chainsword in bright bursts of growling sparks, gore slicked over polished wood as men fought and screamed and died in puddles of themselves. But the Death was wedged firmly between two other sky-ships—a Kitsune ironclad and some Ryu merchantman. Boarding tethers were tangled in her rigging, grapples embedded in her hull.
Hiro turned to his personal guard—six Elite standing nearby. “Get down there and cut us loose. Yoritomo’s assassin flies free while we flail amongst Isamu’s rabble. We should be wetting our blades in her, not these Kitsune dogs!”
“Hai!”
The samurai drew their swords, charging into the storm of blades. Hiro turned back to the Eastern skies, watching the tiny shape flying farther and farther away.
She hadn’t even looked at him.
“Soon you will,” he whispered. “And I will be the last—”
Soft footsteps across the deck, the ignition of chainblade motors behind him, a cry of pain. Hiro turned with a gasp, bringing up his chainkatana and parrying the blow aimed at his head, feeling a chainwakizashi slice deep into his left arm. Blood sprayed, hot and thick, and he spun away from the railing as the wakizashi scythed toward him again, shearing clean through the wood. Skipping back, he raised his katana into guard position, left arm hanging useless and bleeding by his side, staring at the girl who had almost decapitated him.
Small and light and sharp as knives. Black hair chainsawed into a jagged bob. Plump, beestung lips twisted in a snarl as she tore the chainwakizashi from the railing, revved the motor. The last he’d seen of her, she was wrapped in a beautiful scarlet robe, flitting through the Shōgun’s palace. Now she wore black, a breastplate of dark iron. But still he recognized her instantly. Recognized the swords in her hands—once wielded by his cousin, dear Ichizo, found dead in her room after the insurgents burned his city to cinders.
“Michi,” he hissed.
“My Lord Daimyo.”
He glanced up at the inflatable she’d dropped from, down at the helmsman she’d cut near in half. He couldn’t feel his left hand; blood dripping from numb fingers to spatter at his feet.
“An impressive entrance.”
“Your exit will put it to shame.”
The girl charged across the deck, sliding down onto her knees and aiming her shrieking blades at his legs. Hiro leaped into the air, flipping over her head and landing in a crouch behind, aiming a blow at her exposed back. Michi blocked blind, spun up to her feet and launched a flurry at Hiro’s face, neck, chest. His prosthetic was a blur, moving faster than any flesh, twisting at the joints in ways a real arm never could as he parried each strike. Bright sparks burst in time with each kiss, each impact marked with sub-harmonic notes of tumbling frequency, as if they played a tune on each other’s swords.
The girl finished her barrage, stepped back and parried the two rapid ripostes, ducking beneath a vicious swipe that would have taken her head off. Her form was perfect, her blades a blur. But the iron arm was as much a part of him now as his flesh had ever been; a constant weight on his shoulder, a chill across his chest in the dead of night. And her every lunge, strike, stab—all of them were met by his blade on hers, chainsaw teeth snarling like starving wolves, sparks on their tongues.
He struck again, aiming a whistling blow at her throat, roaring as he swung. She caught his attack against both blades, blazing fragments of metal spitting and sparking in the air, the soles of her boots squeaking on the wood as she skidded back three feet across the deck.
Michi was panting, her expression incredulous as she adopted a backfoot stance, blades growling in guard position. He could read her thoughts, as plainly as if she’d spoken them aloud.
Little Michi, the Kagé sword-saint. Any other man she’d faced would have been dead by now. Her blitz attack had failed. Every second he lived was another second he could simply call for help from the dozens of Elite fighting on the deck below.
But no. Where was the honor in that?
Hiro laughed instead, flexed his clockwork arm back and forth.
“Say what you will about the Guild, Michi-chan.” He revved his chainkatana. “They seem to have this flesh problem solved.”
“Can your masters craft you another head?”
FeintLunge.
ParrySparks.
“They are not my masters,” he found himself growling.