The short breaths of anticipation.
The second group of men moved toward the wall on the opposite side of the compound. They pressed their backs against the stacked stone as their leader—the lone demon of their ranks—studied the grooves above: the notches worn into the surface, the space between the mortarless stones. Then the masked demon made a call like a starling, his signal rising crisp and clear into the night. It was something he’d learned from his father, Asano Naganori. This ability to sound a call above detection.
From the ring of tall shadows at the edge of the forest beyond, an expert bowman took aim, his black leather kosode and shining eyes framing his motions. The first arrow sailed through the darkness, whistling as it neared its mark. Its steel tip embedded between the stacked stones an arm’s reach above their heads.
Asano Tsuneoki took hold of the arrow. Checked his weight. Then levered upward in a graceful stroke. Before his other hand even made it to the next hold, a second arrow sailed through the night, just above the first. The arrows continued flying toward the wall as he swung his way toward the battlements above, each of his movements unhurried and precise, aided by the strength of the demon that thrashed through his veins. The same demon that—when left unchecked under the light of the moon—rose to the surface in the form of an otherworldly creature: half wolf, half bear.
Once he reached the top, Tsuneoki breathed deep and waited, staving off the desire to crow in triumph. Their task had only just begun. Though the Black Clan had already cast two of the emperor’s loyal subjects from their lands in only four days, this particular stronghold would provide a bastion for his men. A place for them to regroup and strategize in safety, for however long it might last.
Moreover, Tsuneoki wanted this fortress. After all, Akechi Takamori had been the first daimyō to turn his back on Tsuneoki’s father a decade ago. The first to set fire to the Asano stronghold and watch with glee as it burned.
Now—after ten long years—Asano Tsuneoki would take back a measure of what his family had lost. Beneath him, a spark of flint striking stone flashed through the darkness. An arrowhead dipped in pitch caught flame, multiplying into many tongues of fire, forming an even row below.
In unison, the men of the Black Clan nocked their fiery arrows, then loosed them all at once. The flaming arrows reached skyward—suspended for an eerie instant—before looping over the wall and striking the thatched roofs on the other side.
In the moment it took to blink, the straw caught flame. Hoarse voices and sleep-laden shouts began emanating from within the Akechi courtyard. An eerie wail unfurled into the darkness, like that of an animal caught in an iron trap, watching its life slowly bleed from its limb. Most of the men ringing the perimeter waited. Two more figures clad in black began scaling the wall, using the same embedded arrows to brace their weight.
As the fire grew fast and bright, the wailing within intensified, its sound caterwauling into a midnight-blue sky. Unnerved, the second group of men hovering in the reeds near the rear gate stilled, the hairs on the backs of their necks standing on end.
Atop the battlements, Tsuneoki signaled to those below as he watched Akechi servants with jars and pails begin shambling toward the gate. Soon enough, the iron bars were lifted by the unsuspecting people within, and the entrance creaked open. Men and women began lurching toward the water. Triumphant in the success of their plan, the members of the Black Clan waiting nearby took to their feet, anticipation unfolding between them.
Before more than a single step could be taken, they halted in their tracks, their triumph muddied by a sense of alarm.
The caterwauling rose in pitch until it became a screeching buzz. A drone. It took flight in their ears, causing several of the men to clamp their hands to the sides of their heads. Wordlessly, the people who’d stumbled past the gates began filling their pots and pitchers. A figure on horseback galloped past them, cracking a whip in its wake.
Concerned by the mounting strangeness, Tsuneoki removed a loop of sturdy rope from its place at his left hip. After securing it to the battlements, he slid toward the ground of the Akechi courtyard, the rope smoking between his sandaled feet. The instant he relinquished hold of the cord, he tore his katana from its scabbard and began searching for signs of soldiers. Finding none, Tsuneoki grabbed the shoulder of a young woman tripping toward the blaze with a cracked pitcher in hand. She whirled in place, the blacks of her eyes twitching. Her mouth hung open as though in a silent scream.
Tsuneoki gasped. Nearly stumbled back. The girl’s head blurred as it shook. Moved in all directions like a broken doll, unhinged at its neck. She began vibrating into solid motion. Her face appeared contorted in horrific pain, yet she said nothing. Did nothing, save attempt to shake his grip from off her shoulder.
The beat of Tsuneoki’s heart rose in his ears. Began chiming in a low hum. A shudder rolled through his chest, that same peculiar trembling taking root in him as well. Again he searched for soldiers, for samurai, for anyone who might be able to offer an explanation for the sickness plaguing this domain.
These people were not whole. Something had clamped down on their minds and taken hold of their thoughts, its grasp unrelenting and merciless. Tsuneoki whistled for his men, this time his cry like that of a water bird, his fear sharpening the sound.
Flee. He signaled his men. Flee this place, at once.
As soon as he relinquished his hold on the young woman’s arm, the buzzing in his ears began dying down. But still the trembling of his body did not cease. In a flash, Tsuneoki turned his gaze to the moon, deep breaths rocking through his chest in an attempt to dispel the shuddering. With utmost control, he asked the night sky to do his bidding. It descended upon him in a rush. A cool shock of moonlight glowed through his veins. He began turning, shifting, an ice-cold fire rippling beneath his skin, his fingertips burning into tendrils of dark smoke, the demon taking shape.
A howl passed his lips, growing more feral with each passing moment. A further warning to all those who followed his orders. Get away, while you still can. He threw his head back—leaning into the cry—and then moved forward, his black bear’s claws landing soundlessly in the soft earth.
As soon as Tsuneoki opened the eyes of the beast he’d channeled for nearly a decade, the twitching figures around him began moving his way. He heard his men shouting beyond the wall, heard them call for Ren, who appeared to be defying his orders, as always. His animalian sight—now unencumbered by darkness—took in the lurching forms around him as they began closing in on him. Backlit by a white moon, Tsuneoki finally caught sight of what he’d sought earlier. A figure on horseback paused in the middle of the winding dirt lane to his right, watching the scene unfold as though it were part of a play.
The rider’s features were masked by a horned helmet, but Tsuneoki recognized the unmistakable outline of a samurai. As the warrior cantered his way, the insignia of the Hattori clan—two arrows facing opposite directions—became clear.
Beside the lone samurai’s feet strolled a ghostly fox, with yellow eyes much like Tsuneoki’s own. Beastly and unnerving. Otherworldly. A creature of magic. A creature that had sold some part of itself to gain this ability, just as Tsuneoki had. Just as ōkami had, on a dark night many years ago, revenge feeding their choices like dried brush to a flame.
The fox loped closer, the grin on its impish face widening. Without warning, its thoughts invaded Tsuneoki’s mind, shot across the distance with clear intent, its voice rasping and indistinct.
Run, nightbeast. While you still can.