Until the arrival of Hattori Mariko.
A sharp pang seared through Tsuneoki’s side. The injury inflicted by the ghostly fox had just started to mend, and its memory was still sharp, the creature’s claws raking over his insides, even as he slept.
He could not shake the sense of disquiet that had lingered in him ever since the Black Clan attempted to take Akechi fortress. The dark magic he’d felt there reminded him so much of that fateful night eight years ago, when he and ōkami met with a sorcerer clothed in tattered garments, beneath the light of a sickle moon.
That same sense of disquiet had descended over him then, as it did now.
He shook it off with a turn of his shoulders. Tsuneoki moved forward. The bamboo stalks bent at his will, his body rolling across their smooth surfaces. When he listened closely, a hushed melody seemed to sigh from their hollow centers, spilling secrets to the birds above. Soon he found himself winding down a narrow path, hidden deep in the woods.
He paused again to take stock of his surroundings.
Following the attack that had taken place in Jukai forest the week prior, the Black Clan abandoned their former encampment; it was no longer an option for obvious reasons. The battle against the imperial forces cost them many good fighters, each with families and lives and dreams of their own. Upon learning of these losses, several of the fallen warriors’ relatives elected to take their places and bear weapons against those in the imperial city. Word had spread across the nearby provinces. Friends and family members rode through the night, intent on joining the ranks of the Black Clan. They’d answered the call to action—the call to justice—being painted on stone walls and aging fences, hearkening to the not-so-distant past. Nodding to a symbol that combined the crest of the Asano clan with that of the Takeda.
The events in the forest had been an awakening for them all.
With the capture of the only living son of Takeda Shingen, the nobles loyal to the Minamoto clan attacked the last vestiges of the old ways. It was true that both Takeda Shingen and Asano Naganori mounted an uprising and were executed for treason as a result, but before that, they were heroes. Warriors of legend, upholding a sense of honor that had defined their ranks for centuries.
Over the last few days—despite all the odds—Tsuneoki had witnessed his numbers swell. Families who were no longer content to watch the fruits of their labor fill the coffers of their overlords had sent their sons to the Black Clan. Their brothers. Their fathers. Their nephews.
In less than a fortnight, they’d become too many for any one village to conceal.
Two days ago, Tsuneoki and his men took refuge in an unexplored domain, set against the mist-covered mountains. This maze of bamboo was known as the Ghost’s Gambit, famed for the unfortunate wanderers who had lost their way and were now believed to haunt its twisted paths. Tsuneoki’s men decided not to fight against this sea of bamboo, but to work with it. In doing so, they devised a unique kind of refuge.
Tsuneoki listened to the chiming of the wind as it flowed through the hollow bamboo stalks. A soft melody coiled around him, its ghostly fingers a whispered caress. It was the kind of song one heard if one knew how to listen. Soon he found the spot he’d been looking for. Not a clearing, but a narrow stream blanketed by a haze of fog. At first glance, nothing around him stirred, save for the rustling wind and the burbling water. Everywhere he looked, all he saw were long branches creaking in a liquid sway.
Then figures materialized from behind the stalks.
The Black Clan had built their homes in these trees. They used the bamboo as a means to conceal themselves. By collecting and weaving the sturdiest fronds through the treetops, they created platforms upon which structures had begun to take shape, floating in the canopy above. A wandering traveler would see nothing along the forest floor, save for the swirling mist.
Ren shifted from behind a curtain of stalks, a typically sullen look pulled across his features. One moment he was not there, the next he was in full view, the bamboo undulating in his wake. A boy no older than fourteen trailed at his heels—Yorishige, the nephew of Yoshi, who had traveled far to avenge the death of his eldest uncle.
After sliding down a sturdy rope, Haruki, the Black Clan’s metalsmith, crouched near the stream to wash the sweat from his shining face. “Is it true, then?”
Tsuneoki nodded. “My riders tell me the domains of the Yoshida clan and the Sugiura clan and the Yokokawa clan have fallen the same way as the Akechi. Not a single soldier is anywhere to be found; they’ve all fled or disappeared. It appears their minds have been swallowed by a dark magic.”
“All of the clans you named are fiercely loyal to the emperor,” Haruki mused further.
Yorishige nodded as he cracked his knuckles. “For at least three generations, they’ve reaped the rewards of serving the Minamoto family.”
Ren cleared his throat, tugging on the sling still wrapped around his injured arm. “It would be too fitting to think they are finally getting their just rewards. Someone—or thing—is out to control them. What do you think the wielder of this evil magic means to accomplish by doing so?”
“Perhaps it intends to cut the supply lines and dismantle support for the new emperor,” Tsuneoki said with a wry grin.
Ren spat in the misted earth by his feet. “A fine idea. It’s a shame we had it first.”
“The facts would indicate otherwise,” Haruki said with a peaceful smile.
Yorishige laughed softly, and the sound reminded Tsuneoki so much of Yoshi that it cut through his chest.
Ren glared at the boy and the good-natured metalsmith. “These cursed demons are stealing our ideas, and you two have the nerve to be droll about it?” he grumbled as he stooped near the creek bed, sneering through a grimace of pain. “It must be Raiden’s witch mother.”
Tsuneoki frowned. “Perhaps.” Uncertainty lingered in his voice as he recalled the figure of the samurai that night within the walls of the Akechi fortress. The Hattori crest had been emblazoned on his armor. But—as he had for several days—Tsuneoki continued to hold that information close. At least until he learned more about it.
Any fool could wear a crest if it served his purpose.
“What could the witch want or hope to achieve by attacking these domains?” Haruki asked, ignoring Ren’s mockery. Though he appeared serene—as though his mind floated among the clouds—Haruki’s attention remained firmly rooted to the earth. As always, the metalsmith possessed an uncanny ability to notice anything and everything. Not just the things any man could see, but the things concealed from sight and buried deep. “Her own family holds the seat of power right now,” the metalsmith continued. “Why would she lay siege to those who are loyal to the Minamoto clan?”
“It’s not her family.” Yorishige cracked his knuckles once more.
His left eye twitching, Ren glanced sidelong at the boy. “Just her son.” His features gathered with distaste. “That witch probably wants what any mother in her situation would want—her son to be emperor, rather than the little ingrate currently sitting on the Chrysanthemum Throne.”
Haruki sighed. “She’s mad if she thinks the people of Wa will depose their rightful ruler and put a bastard in his stead.”
“Stranger things have happened.” Tsuneoki watched the flowing stream as it tripped around a nearby bend.