She stayed awake and watched the fire burn.
Humid days followed chilled nights, rain dripping from the howling skies, heat trapped beneath the ceiling of green. Sweat ran off her body, soaking through sodden clothing, turning cotton to damp, stinking weight. The slope was ragged and steep beneath them. Buruu struggled worse than she did in some places, shale and mud sliding away beneath his weight. He would slip and stumble, flapping his near-useless wings to regain balance, and curse the children of men, calling down the wrath of his father on those who had mutilated him.
Yukiko would hang her head and say nothing.
It was near midday when they reached the crest. The granite crags looked as if they’d been beheaded by Hachiman himself; cleft flat by the War God’s blade. Yukiko climbed a thick copse of ancient cherry trees to get a better view. Her goggles had been lost somewhere during the crash and, even hidden behind the clouds, the sun’s glare made her wince as she poked her head through the canopy. Behind them, she could see the black scar across the mountain where the Thunder Child had met its end, and she wondered for a brief moment if it would be worth trying to salvage anything from the wreckage. The thought of having to trek back past the Dark Mother’s temple quickly put her musings to rest.
The plateau stretched for miles ahead, clad in rich summer green, spotted with crimson wild azaleas and muted slashes of dandelion gold. The storm clouds threw a shadow over everything. The forest grew thick again further south, and it seemed a long, harsh trek back toward civilization. She hoped the lifeboat and her friends had cleared the mountains intact.
Touching her brow, her lips, she whispered to the skies above. “Susano-ō, deliver them safely. Lord Izanagi, Great Maker, hold them close.”
They shared the last of the smoked rabbit, Yukiko having only a mouthful of meat and a stray mushroom, washed down with wonderfully clear water from a small stream. She suggested they should follow the flow, perhaps stumble across a river where they could fish. Buruu’s stomach growled at the mention of the word, and he purred assent.
It was near dark when they found the snare. Buruu caught blood-scent on the air and fell still as stone. She touched her fox tattoo for luck and crept forward in the deepening twilight, rain masking her footfalls on the leaves. There was a fresh hock of raw flesh dangling above a concealed net: an unwary carnivore pulling at the meat would set off the snare and find itself dangling high above the ground. She disarmed the device by cutting the counterweight free and brought the meat back to Buruu. The arashitora crunched it down in three mouthfuls, barely pausing to breathe between each bite.
Maybe the oni set the traps?
SNARES ARE THE WORK OF MEN.
I didn’t think anyone dwelt in the Iishi Mountains. Not even the Kitsune clan.
WRONG, OBVIOUSLY.
They might have more traps about. Watch your step.
The arashitora eyed the contraption with contempt as they moved past. The net was made of old vines, twisted and knotted tight; he could shred it as easily as a child tearing a piece of damp rice-paper.
He snorted in derision.
THEY SHOULD WATCH THEIRS.
They slept in the trees that night, thirty feet above ground, splayed among an intertwining cradle of maple branches. Buruu had proved an adept climber, much to Yukiko’s surprise, and the trunk was scarred with deep gouges from his ascent. The wind moved like a wave across storm-tossed water, long blades of liriope and forest grass swaying with its song. The rain was a constant murmur, a heartbeat, and she curled up inside the nook of Buruu’s wing and dreamed of the safety of the womb, amniotic and warm.
A metallic, insectoid rasping startled her from her sleep sometime after midnight. She sat upright. Buruu closed his wing around her, eyes shining in the gloom.
QUIET. MONKEY-CHILD APPROACHES.
She squinted through a fan of downy feathers and into the dark. She could hear unsteady, heavy footsteps, the sound of metal against metal. A rectangular slab of red light was moving toward them, a sawing rasp carrying above the music of the storm. Yukiko’s eyes widened as she made out a humanoid, mantis shape.
An Artificer.
WHAT?
Amaterasu protect us. It’s a Guildsman. What is it doing here?
WHAT IS GUILDSMAN?
They administrate the Lotus Guild. They grow the blood lotus flower all over Kigen. Collect it for the Shōgun, pro cess it into chi to fuel their machinery. And they burn people like me.
DESPOILER PRIEST.
She could feel the anger swell in Buruu’s heart; a cold, black hatred.
It must be from the Thunder Child. It must have missed the lifeboat. Gods help us . . .