Kinslayer (The Lotus War #2)

“Faster…”

Lightning struck the skies, splashing all with grisly white. Thunder shook his bones, gut to water, pupils dilated. And as they finally closed within range of the line, Maro gave his signal, and as one, each scout dropped behind stones or fallen trunks, out of sight and out of harm.

“That’s it,” Kin hissed.

Daichi rose up from his fern, held his ōdachi aloft.

“Fire!”

Kin squeezed the firing stud, felt his ’thrower lurch, and chug!chug!chug!chug!chug! came the song all the way down the line, brilliant and bright and bellowing, filling the air with death. His ’thrower shook like an infant in a tantrum, squealing and shuddering as Kin cranked the feeder belts, short bursts of pressurized gas bursting from its flanks with every shuriken it spat. Spinning, razored death flew from each ’thrower barrel, glittering in the rain as lightning struck again, and as elation surged in his gut, Kin saw the oni begin to fall, one by one, clutching throats and chests and guts, black blood spraying between the raindrops, blood-red eyes wide with shock and surprise as the air about them turned to carnage.

The reverb shook Kin to his core, metal beneath him groaning, shuddering, bucking as his creations tore through the oni lines like a hot blade through fresh snow. A dozen demons fell in the first few seconds, riddled with fresh holes, elation filling him to bursting. He glanced to Daichi, a tiny moment amidst the butchery, a lunatic grin on his face. The old man was looking back at him, gifting him a small nod that for a brief and beautiful moment wrapped Kin up tight, filled him with a sensation he’d almost forgotten.

Pride.

chug!chug!chug!chug!chug!

Chest-swelling, heart-warming pride.

chug!chug!chug!chug!chug!

And then the ’throwers began to fail.

Number three blew first, the seals on the firing chambers bursting like overfilled balloons, gas shrieking in the dark. Kin’s ’thrower went next, a bright burst of light and a rush of vapor, the bucking metal beast he rode falling still, sagging like a puppet with broken strings. All down the line, almost simultaneously, the machines coughed and went silent, shivering in their rivets like men dying of blacklung. Murderous percussion replaced with feeble thunder and whispering rain, so dim after the deafening chorus Kin could barely hear them at all.

Dread stole his breath, gripped his heart tight and squeezed. He lurched from his seat, eyes roaming the ruptured seals, fingers pressed to the damage as if with will alone he could mend it. But no time. No time at all …

“Oh, no…” he breathed.

A roar, black and harrowing, reverberating through the trees. Looking up, Kin saw a tall shape unfold itself from the cover of an ancient maple, its head adorned with the skull of some colossal eagle, armor of bone arrayed on its chest. Taller than its brethren, skin so dark it was almost ebony, all muscle and sinew and fangs. And raising a war club studded with rusted iron rivets, twice as long as Kin was tall, it pointed at the ’thrower line, lips drawing back from broken fangs.

Bellowing hatred.

Daichi tossed his head, wiped the rain from his eyes. His stare was fixed on the demons as the other Kagé emerged from cover, gathered around their leader. Their blades gleamed as the lightning flickered, the scouts dashing across the clearing and rejoining the line. The oni formed up around their dread captain, only half a dozen now, bloodied and grim. But still more than a match for a handful of men and women half their size, armed with tiny, sharpened toothpicks.

Rusted grins gleamed in the light of bloody eyes.

Daichi spared Kin a solemn glance. Cold and empty. And the pride that had swelled his chest a moment before fled on broken wings, shoulders slumping as cold fear seeped in to take its place. Hands shaking. Lips parting as if to speak, and finding no words at all.

Daichi turned to his warriors. Each one in turn. Steel in his gaze. And raising his blade, he pointed to the demon pack.

“Banzai!” he cried.

“Banzaiiii!” came the reply, two dozen Kagé roaring in answer. Thunder crashed, the warriors dashing across the clearing with blades held high. Kin dragged himself from the ’thrower, stumbled down to the soaking earth, watching the foes plunge toward each other through the swirling rain. Tiny figures and giant hellspawn, moving amidst the lightning strobe. His chest thumping, mouth bitter, panic and guilt and rage filling him to blinding, looking up and down the line of useless ’throwers as the Thunder God laughed in the sky above.

Jay Kristoff's books