WINTER LUCK

WINTER LUCK, by Evan Dicken, with audio by Karen Bovenmyer, music by Kevin MacLeod, and art by Miguel Santos

 

“Fall back!” Icy wind snatched the words from Ochiai Haruyoshi’s lips, the driving snow like a funeral shroud draped across his eyes. A flash of red armor was his only warning as the Takeda samurai charged from the swirling maelstrom, spear aimed at Haru’s throat. With a curse, he ducked under the thrust, reaching up to grab the haft of the weapon and drag the man forward. While the warrior struggled to regain his balance, Haru stabbed his wakizashi into the hollow between the man’s neck and shoulder. Twisting the blade to lodge on bone, he drove his hip into the samurai’s mid-section, then, using the short sword as a handle, tossed him down the hillside.

Haru scrubbed a gauntleted hand across his eyes, but the storm revealed nothing, his surviving guards invisible in the blinding flurry. Snow was common on the mountains bordering southern Echigo, but rarely this late in the season, and never this much. The diviners at Jojoji temple had predicted an early spring–one more reason not to trust the priests.

It seemed impossible the invaders could’ve marched in this weather, let alone laid an ambush. Haru had dismissed rumors that Lord Takeda, stymied by the Uesugi Clan’s dedicated resistance, had taken to consorting with sorcerers and strange yōkai spirits.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Haru cast about for his katana, but the longsword was lost in the snow. The wind picked up, its shriek rising to an almost painful pitch. Icy sleet buffeted Haru like ocean waves, and it was all he could do to remain standing, let alone find his comrades. Hand tight on the hilt of his wakizashi, he squinted into the storm.

Haru had always suspected he would die in winter, just not this winter.

As if in response to his anger, the snow eddied, the swirl of ice and sleet like the delicate brushwork of a Zen landscape. A shadow appeared against the widening gyre, seemingly untouched by the storm.

Tall and long-limbed, she was clad in the loose robes of a court noble, her dark hair unbound. The woman moved toward him, seeming to glide over the drifted snow, and Haru caught a glimpse of a pale face, her eyes little more than dark smudges, her hungry smile conjuring a strange warmth in his cheeks.

 

 

She held out a hand, palm down, and beckoned him closer.

It seemed a natural thing to go to her, easy as walking downhill. Her hand brushed his, fingers curling around his wrist. Comforting warmth filled Haru, followed by the almost overwhelming the desire to lay down amidst the soft drifts.

A shout from behind caused Haru to hesitate. The woman’s eyes became cold and hard, warmth replaced by a chill that seemed to blister Haru’s face. He snatched back his hand, and with a snarl, she broke apart like a fall of windswept snow.

Haru turned, blinking away bright afterimages, to see what had dispelled his vision of the woman.

A pair of ashigaru stumbled from the snow. Clad in Takeda red, their faces flushed by cold, they carried blades bright with blood. It took only a moment for them to recognize Haru’s fine armor, the lord’s crest on his helm. They raised their swords, shrieking like mountain oni as they charged.

Honed over decades of training, Haru’s reflexes were quicker than his thoughts. Instead of retreating before the onslaught, he stepped into the lead ashigaru’s swing, blocking not his sword, but the arm that swung it. The man’s shouts turned panicked as Haru’s wakizashi turned his wrist into a red ruin. Teeth gritted, Haru head-butted the ashigaru, then drove his short sword into man’s side. Blood soaked Haru’s sleeve, hot as boiling tea on his cold-numbed fingers. The ashigaru fell away with a despairing groan.

Steel glinted in the corner of Haru’s vision and he spun to avoid a slash that would have taken his arm. The strike scraped across his shoulder armor, sending sparks of pain shooting down his side. The ashigaru shoved Haru backwards, blade arcing down. He could barely keep his feet, let alone block the cut.

A blue-armored form crashed into the ashigaru’s side, knocking him to the ground. With a grunt of effort, the Uesugi Clan samurai brought his iron-studded club down, and Haru felt warm blood stipple his cheeks.

The samurai caught Haru’s arm, steadying him. His savior’s face was scarred and weathered as a teahouse table. A graying moustache accented the man’s hawkish nose, an eyepatch of blue silk concealing the hollow circle where the Takeda had burned out one of his eyes.

“Murakami!” Haru grinned through lips that felt cracked and wooden. Murakami was Haru’s best scout, not to mention a friend, and it would’ve been devastating to lose him to Takeda trickery. He leaned close to the one-eyed scout, shouting to be heard over the storm. “How many?”

“We lost some warriors in the initial ambush, lord. As for the Takeda–” Murakami grinned, revealing teeth speckled with red. “Far fewer than came up the mountain.”

“How did they surprise us?”

“Luck, lord.” Murakami narrowed his remaining eye. “Or sorcery.”

“Do you think the Takeda are trying to push into Echigo?”

“With Lord Uesugi’s army wintering beyond the pass? They’d be fools to try,” Murakami replied. “Most likely this lot just got lost in the storm, same as we will if we don’t pull back.”

“We make for Katsurayama.” Haru nodded in agreement, feeling an upswell of relief as the remainder of his guard staggered out of the snow. He had marched from the castle with sixty samurai. It spoke highly of their skill and courage that, even surprised, even outnumbered, they had driven back the Takeda with few losses.

The feeling quickly soured. Haru’s warriors had not failed him, but he had steered them into an ambush. Yaeko had been right to call him a fool for leading the search for the missing patrol, but it had seemed such a simple task with the Takeda forces far away and the priests predicting an early spring. In normal conditions, Haru’s warriors would be barely an hour’s march from Katsurayama castle, but between the raging storm and threat of more Takeda patrols Haru feared his luck would continue to fail him.

“Lord, you’re injured,” Murakami said.

Haru shook his head. “The blood is not mine.”

“But, your hand.”

Haru glanced down, grunting with surprise as he noticed the dark lines across his wrist. He had seen frostbite before, men losing fingers and toes to the cold, but never like this. Although there was no pain, the skin was blackened and blistered as if he had pressed a hot brand to his flesh–the imprint that of four thin fingers and a thumb.

“It’s nothing.” Haru tugged his sleeve down.

Murakami looked about to argue, but a glare from Haru silenced the old scout.

Arm-in-arm against the buffeting winds, they struggled uphill through the growing drifts. With every step, Haru expected a renewed onslaught from the Takeda force, but the unnatural storm seemed to have blinded their attackers as well.

Perhaps Haru’s luck hadn’t completely abandoned him. Katsurayama was a mountain castle–had the ground been flat, he doubted they would have ever been able to find the way back.

Even so, he could not resist a glance back. Flurries whirled like flocks of sparrows, twisting and churning as if guided by some divine hand. Amidst the icy murmurations, Haru thought he spied a flash of dark hair, of robes that seemed almost to fade into the snow and ice. It might have been the chill seeping into his thoughts, but he swore the wind carried a faint echo of laughter, bitter as a late frost. A single word seemed to rise above the howl of the wind.

Soon.

Shaking his head, Haru turned back up the mountain. Best not to wonder. Winter was an unnatural time when only fools and dark spirits went abroad. At this thought, unease made a fist in Haru’s stomach.

The Takeda were certainly not fools.

 

#

 

Smoke rose from Katsurayama. Broken bodies ringed the castle, limbs splayed, faces slack, their armor studded with arrows and riddled with musket balls. The storm had not reached this far up the mountain, but the day remained frigid and overcast. Shouts competed with the beat of Takeda war drums and the harsh crackle of musket fire as the invaders charged once more, scrambling up the ladders like a swarm of crimson ants.

The sight gave Haru pause until he saw the Uesugi banners over the gatehouse, the blue-armored forms on the walls firing down. Attackers fell back, wounded and dying, churning the frozen earth in their attempts to crawl away. The bloodstained mud reminded Haru of the intricate dye patterns of shibori cloth.

“How is this possible?” Murakami stepped to his side. “We barely made it back, and they manage to bring a whole army through?”

That Takeda patrol wasn’t lost.” Swallowing his surprise, Haru counted flags, searching for the commander’s banner. “Somehow, they marched through the storm–hundreds, thousands of them.”

Haru suppressed a shiver, remembering the woman, the thing in the snow. More bad luck. With a shake of his head he set his shoulders–children bemoaned their fate, warriors changed it. “We’ll worry about how they got here later. For now, we must aid the castle.”

A Takeda soldier clambered atop the castle wall only to be speared by a defender. The unfortunate samurai tumbled out of sight with a shriek, still hacking at his opponents. Even after all the Takeda had done, all they had stolen, Haru could not ignore that their bravery. Had he been born in Kai rather than Echigo, Haru might have been among them.

“These are the bastards who took my home.” Murakami stepped forward.

Haru laid a hand on his arm, surprised by the anger in the one-eyed scout’s voice. They had fought together for so long, he sometimes forgot Murakami had come to the Uesugi as a refugee fleeing the destruction of his clan.

The scout leaned forward as if bracing for a sprint. “I say we follow Lord Uesugi’s example and drive for the head of the snake. Perhaps this time we’ll get lucky.”

Luck. Haru’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. At last, winter had come to claim him. Frowning, he studied the Takeda formations. “There are too many. We’d never reach the command tent.”

“Then what, lord?” Anger whetted Murakami’s voice to razor sharpness. “Do we watch our comrades die?”

Haru felt as if there was a rope around his chest, drawing tighter with each breath. There was little his small band of warriors could do to change the course of such a battle. The wisest course of action would be to withdraw and try to reach Lord Uesugi with news of the assault.

The thought filled Haru with shame–to flee while his comrades were cut down. Better to die a fool than live as a coward. Besides, the storm would have closed the passes. Why else would the Takeda forces press so hard? If they didn’t take Katsurayama before the snow cleared, Lord Uesugi would scour them from the mountain.

Desperately, Haru scanned the enemy lines. Takeda war drums pounded in his ears, foreign cadences sending cracks through his half-developed plans.

“Someone should silence those damned drummer–” Haru bit off the last word. He nudged Murakami. “Lend me your katana. I lost mine in the snow.”

With a shrug, the scout drew his blade and offered it hilt-first.

Taking it, Haru nodded to his guards. “Follow me.”

They crept along the ragged tree line. Although the ground was barren, the pines were thick enough to conceal them from the Takeda. The drummers had set up in the hollow of small hill, shielded from arrows by a stand of scruffy cedar. There were few guards, all of whom were watching the assault.

Haru thrust his chin at the drummers. “Kill the guards, seize the drums.”

They stalked forward, little more than specters in the smoky afternoon light. Haru’s samurai were a few paces from the drums when one of the guards turned. His mouth formed a surprised circle as Murakami’s iron-studded club came crashing down.

Haru charged a nearby guard. Fumbling to raise his spear, the man tried to retreat. Haru followed, slashing him across the throat. The guard fell back in a spray of bright crimson, and Haru turned, blade at the ready. But the work was already finished, drummers and their minders strewn across the bloody snow. With a nod, Haru noted none of his men lay among them.

Panting, Murakami jogged up to him. “Lord?”

“Do you remember the Uesugi cadences?” Haru knelt to retrieve the sticks from the hands of a dead drummer.

“Of course, but I’m no musician.”

“Just keep the rhythm.” Haru handed the sticks to Murakami, then gestured at the other drums. “I need six men on these. The rest will assault the Takeda rear.”

“They’ll be overwhelmed.”

“Only if the Takeda fight. They have battled us for years, long enough to know our cadences. We shall use that knowledge against them.” Haru stepped up to one of the massive war drums. “We play a charge, an Uesugi charge, as if reinforcements have arrived.”

“But Lord Uesugi is beyond the pass.”

Haru gave the drum an experimental tap, grinning at the deep boom. “The Takeda don’t know that.”

He began the cadence. Murakami quickly followed, and one-by-one the others took up the beat. Confusion spread through the Takeda formations, men jostling and craning their heads as if to sight the source of the unfamiliar rhythms.

At Haru’s nod, his surviving men charged from the wood, shouting as if the whole of Lord Uesugi’s vanguard was behind them. The rearmost Takeda soldiers turned to fight, and were cut down as the attackers’ momentum carried them deep into the rear of the formation.

Despite the cold, sweat beaded on Haru’s forehead as he watched the Takeda signal flags. The plan was madness, defeat balanced on a knife’s edge. If the enemy general shifted warriors to the rear or ignored the attack, the ruse would be discovered in an instant.

He noticed a flicker of movement in the distant command tent, white flags replaced with black. A man sprinted to the top of a nearby rise, banner waving madly.

Other signalers took up the call, and the Takeda retreated.

Haru could not but admire his enemy’s discipline. In the time it took for him to run through the cadence twice more, they had begun to pull back, dragging their wounded with them. A few minutes more and they had disappeared into the trees to regroup in a more defensible position.

With a shout, Haru cast the sticks aside. There were smiles and back-slapping among the men as they made their way to the castle, but Haru’s joy was tempered by the knowledge this was only a temporary reprieve.

Stopping just outside arrow range, he called to the guards. It would be Haru’s winter luck to have fought his way back only to be feathered by some overzealous archer.

The gates were flame-scarred and splintered where the Takeda had tried to batter their way in. And yet, Haru noted with no small amount of pride that they moved easily on their hinges with no sign of splitting. Although small, Katsurayama was well-built. The castle would not fall while there were warriors to defend it.

“Oh, it’s only you.” Yaeko stood silhouetted in the open gate, the long haft of her naginata held crosswise as if to bar their path. “After all that noise, I was expecting Lord Uesugi.”

“Alas.” Haru shook his head, smiling at his wife. She wore Haru’s old armor, the breastplate scarred from hard use, her hair pulled into a tight topknot. Soot stained Yaeko’s face and hands, and although blood soaked her left sleeve, Haru noted with relief that she didn’t move like someone with an injury.

“That was you, with the drums?” She chuckled as Haru nodded. “Quite a gamble.”

He returned a playful grin. “I took a chance.”

“Well, come inside before the Takeda finish us off.” She stepped aside with a wry tilt of her head.

Haru moved through the gate, ignoring the mutters from his men. He was unsurprised Yaeko had taken up arms in defense of Katsurayama. She had grown up in these mountains, the last daughter of a minor clan all but extinguished by the Takeda. Long years of war had left her with little time for pleasantries.

There were other women among the defenders, but Haru made no issue of it. Samurai women received martial training just as their men did, and the garrison would need every warrior if it was to weather the Takeda assault.

He dipped a ladle from a nearby barrel, the water cold as snowmelt on his tongue. The chill brought back memories of the woman in the storm, and he felt his stomach clench.

“We lost many in the defense,” Yaeko called.

Haru glanced to the wall. “Where is Captain Ueda?”

“Among the dead,” Yaeko replied. “I took charge.”

“You?” Murakami tensed, his tone verging on outrage.

“There was no one else.” Yaeko thrust her chin at Haru. “This fool took all the decent samurai with him.”

Haru raised a hand to forestall the scout’s response. “Thank you, wife. You have performed admirably.”

“Husband.” Yaeko bowed low, but when she straightened he noticed a faint smile on her lips.

“Other than the losses, how are we situated?” he asked.

“Well stocked,” Murakami replied. “Rice, arrows, weapons, powder and shot.”

“Good.” Haru took another dipper from the barrel.

“But that’s the last of our water,” Yaeko added.

A glance at Murakami’s scowl confirmed Haru’s fears. “Is Abbot Gesshō hoarding again?”

The scout gave pained nod.

With a curse, Haru turned away. Jojoji temple held the mountain’s only spring, accessible via a hidden path from the castle. Abbot Gesshō was a self-important fool, pompous and petty. Haru would have driven the priests from the mountain long ago if not for Lord Uesugi’s admonition not to disturb the temple. Rooting out the priests would anger the powerful Jōdoshū sect, which controlled many temples throughout the province.

“We must move before the Takeda seize the temple.” Haru gestured to the nearest warriors. “I’ll take all the carts and thirty men down the path to bring back as much water as we can.”

“We’ll come with you.” Yaeko nodded to the other women. “More hands, more water.”

Murakami bristled “You should be seeing to–”

“Excellent idea.” Haru nodded at the old scout. “You’ll command the garrison while I’m gone.”

Murakami opened his mouth as if to disagree.

“Unless you wish to accompany me.” Haru gave the barest hint of a grin. “And leave Yaeko in charge.”

The one-eyed scout bowed, then turned away, already shouting for the defenders to prepare for a siege.

 

#

 

“I’ve always hated winter.” Scowling, Haru cleared snow from the trail ahead of the carts trundling down the secret path. “And it hates me, too.”

“It’s easy to hate what you don’t understand.” Yaeko’s laugh was high and clear, nothing like the woman in the storm’s. “You’re a lowlander, Haru, city-born. I bet you hardly saw snow before you came to Katsurayama.”

“I’ve seen snow.”

“This much?” Yaeko used the haft of her naginata to knock ice from the path.

Haru made a sour face, and Yaeko laughed again. Her humor was one of the things he loved about her. Although their marriage had been political, Haru had to admit they made a good match–once he’d gotten over her rustic impudence.

Haru paused, chewing his lip. “Have you seen this much snow?”

“Of course.”

“So late in the season?”

“It is strange.” She bobbed her head. “But I remember my father speaking of storms like this from my grandfather’s time.”

“Quite convenient for the Takeda, don’t you think?” Haru asked.

“The gods do as they will.” Yaeko’s reply carried a hint of bitterness. “We mortals are seldom consulted.”

Haru frowned. “I don’t think the gods had anything to do with this.”

Yaeko turned to look at him. Eyes slitted, her cheeks red from exertion, she leaned on her naginata. “Well. Out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“City people.” She waved a hand in front of her face like a fan. “Always blundering around like bees, never coming right at what they mean.”

Haru looked away. “I don’t know what I saw.”

Yaeko nodded at the other trailbreakers to take the lead, stepping aside so a cart could pass. Although she said nothing, her gaze seemed to press down on Haru.

“A woman.” He sucked air through his teeth. “In the snow.”

He’d thought Yaeko would laugh, but when he glanced over her face was solemn, almost troubled.

“Pale skin, dark hair?” She asked. “Wearing court robes?”

Haru’s surprise must have been answer enough, because Yaeko leaned close.

“Yukionba. A mountain demon.” Yaeko’s gaze flicked to the cliffs above. “She lures men to their doom. Trapping them in ice falls, she steals their warmth, their souls. They become her slaves, bitter like her, and cruel as a spring frost.”

Haru swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. “Why have you never spoken of this before?”

“No need.” Yaeko shrugged. “Yukionba keeps to the high peaks. Only lone travelers needs fear her.”

“And yet, she is somehow at the heart of this.” Haru thrust his chin at the falling snow. “Could the storms have lured her down like a crow feeding on slaughter?”

“Perhaps,” Yaeko replied with a sympathetic wince. “Abbot Gesshō would know more. He and his priests often deal with unnatural things.”

Haru sighed. Of course he would have to bow and scrape for more information, beholden once again to that puffed-up abbot. He scowled up at the sky, the sun little more than a pale disk behind iron-dark clouds.

Like the storm, Haru’s bad fortune showed no signs of breaking.

 

#

 

“Are you comfortable?” Abbot Gesshō fluttered his fingers at the temple servants. “Stoke the braziers, and bring food for our guests.”

“You are too kind, but we come in haste.” Haru fought the urge to wipe the sweat beading on his brow. The abbot’s chamber was almost unbearably hot, bronze braziers crackling and smoking behind heavy winter screens.

“Nonsense, Haru.” The abbot used familiar forms of address, as if they were old friends. “I won’t hear of anyone being sent away hungry.”

Haru clenched his jaw at Gesshō’s insolence, but a warning glance from Yaeko stilled his tongue.

“Ah, tea.” The abbot gave a simpering smile as servants in thick, quilted robes brought an iron kettle and tray of cups. “My own personal blend–the ingredients carried from Kyoto at great expense.”

Haru sweated as Gesshō carefully filled each cup, nattering on about the merits of various leaves and boiling temperatures. Beyond the heavy screens, a servant swept snow from the veranda for perhaps the dozenth time.

“We require access to the spring.” Haru said once the tea and sweet bean cakes had been delivered, complemented, and consumed.

“Again?” Gesshō frowned. “Were not your warriors here just last week?”

“The situation has changed,” Haru replied.

“Ah, yes, the Takeda.” Gesshō nodded as if he had just dispensed some valuable gem of wisdom.

Haru steeled himself, then bowed. “We require leave to fill our barrels.”

“Alas.” Gesshō gave an exaggerated frown. “The spring has frozen solid.”

“Then we shall need access to your water stores.”

The abbot waved a dismissive hand. “My sect has no quarrel with the Takeda, we cannot be seen to support one side over the other.”

“I am afraid I must insist,” Haru said.

“So we are to be robbed?” Gesshō’s shocked expression was spoiled by the slight uptick at the corners of his mouth. “Have the noble Uesugi reduced to preying on poor, humble priests?”

Haru swallowed his anger. The abbot was baiting him, but why?  He glanced around, the temple had not yet removed its winter screens or packed its braziers, the priests and servants wore thick robes, and the stores seemed to be in order. All seemed well-prepared to weather the sudden storm.

“There is another matter of which we wish to speak,” Yaeko said.

Gesshō sat back on his heels, sipping at his tea.

“The storm,” she continued. “It appears to be unnatural.”

“Does it?” the abbot asked.

“My husband saw something. During the initial snowfall–a woman, dressed in courtier’s robes, with dark hair and frost-pale skin. I believe her to be Yukionba.”

“The weather is unseasonable, but hardly the work of demons.” Gesshō covered his grin with a raised hand. “Yaeko, you would be the last person I’d expect to come here spouting peasant superstitions.”

“She is real.” Haru drew back his sleeve to expose his wrist. The frostbite had spread, shadowy fingermarks blurring together into a thick band of blackened flesh.

“The demon has marked you!” Yaeko grabbed his arm. “Why did you not tell me?”

Haru pulled away. “I am less concerned about mountain spirits than Takeda blades.”

“Very troubling indeed.” Gesshō nodded. “But this storm is unusual, not unnatural.”

Haru glared at the abbot. “Tell us what you know of Yukionba.”

The abbot set down his tea cup with exaggerated care. “She has haunted these mountains since the time of Emperor Tenmu. Some say she was a sorceress who sought to ensnare the crown prince with dark magics. When the Emperor discovered her plot, he banished her, but not before his priests laid a terrible curse. As she had sought to twist affection, so would she never feel its touch again. Already cruel, she became even more jealous and grasping, her hunger for warmth slowly transforming her into a demon of bitter snow and ice.”

Gesshō flinched as the entrance screen slid open. It was a small tic, little more than a tightening of the abbot’s shoulder’s, a narrowing of his eyes. Had Haru not been watching him closely, he would have missed it entirely.

“Ah, the food.” Although Gesshō clapped his hands, Haru noticed the nervous quaver in the abbot’s voice.

“He’s stalling.” Haru whispered to Yaeko as the trays of rice and pickled vegetables were carried in.

Her gaze flicked to open screen. “But why?”

Haru chewed his lip. Although the temple had guards, they were too few to overpower the warriors he had brought. Outside, the servant began to sweep the veranda once more.

Like sunlight bursting from behind passing clouds, the answer came.

“They seek to trap us.” Drawing his dagger, Haru lunged at the abbot.

“What are you–?” Gesshō’s protestations died in a choked hiss as Haru pressed the blade to his throat.

Yaeko snatched up her naginata as the abbot’s two guards lurched to their feet, swords bared. Even surprised, she moved quickly, hammering the butt of her naginata into the knee of the first guard. As he collapsed, cursing, she spun the blade to point at the face of the other.

“Order them to withdraw.” Haru drew Gesshō close, a bead of blood welling where the sharp edge of the dagger bit into the abbot’s throat.

Gesshō waved at the guards, who withdrew a few steps.

“Tell our people to abandon the wagons and get to the path.” Haru said to Yaeko. “The Takeda are coming.”

“How do you know that?” She replied, gaze still on the guards.

“Look around–the screens, the braziers, the thick robes. Their priests predicted an early spring, and yet the temple is still prepared for winter.” Haru gave Gesshō a savage shake. “This bastard knew the storm was coming. He and his priests lied to us to give the Takeda time to steal a march.”

After a furious glare at the abbot, Yaeko sprinted off.

Drawn by the commotion several more temple guards joined the two on the veranda. Seeing a few bore bows, Haru shifted to put the abbot in the line of fire.

“Raise your weapons and he dies.” Haru edged back along the veranda, footfalls muffled by the snow. The guards followed at a safe distance, breath fogging in air gone suddenly icy.

“Did you send a messenger the moment we arrived?” Haru hissed into the abbot’s ear.

“There was no need to tell the Takeda.” Gesshō grunted as Haru tightened his grip. “She already knows where you are.”

From the temple courtyard came the muffled thud of running feet. There was a shout, the sharp clash of blades, a despairing cry cut short.

Haru resisted the urge to glance back, focusing on keeping the temple guards in sight. “What do you mean?”

“Yukionba,” the abbot’s whisper came threaded with dread. “She comes.”

As if to echo Gesshō’s words, the wind kicked up, sharp as broken glass upon Haru’s exposed skin. The frostbite on his arm throbbed with a bitter chill and he could barely move his fingers.

Like frost creeping across a pond, her laughter filled his thoughts.

“Follow me and he dies.” Haru snarled at the guards, dragging the abbot into the courtyard.

“We’re pulling back.” Yaeko jogged up, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the driving snow. “How long until the Takeda arrive?”

“Any moment.” Haru grit his teeth against the shrieking call of the storm. “And Yukionba leads them.”

Yaeko glanced at the swirling clouds overhead, then back to the abbot. ” Gesshō, what have you done?”

“He has betrayed us.” Haru’s anger came cold and dark.

“To be fair, I was never loyal to you.” Gesshō’s shrug was constrained by the knife at his throat. “So it was impossible for me to betray–”

Yaeko punched him in the face.

Gesshō gasped, blood trickling from his split lip. “You would strike a holy abbot?”

Her hands tightened on the haft of her naginata. “I’ll do more than that if you don’t answer our questions.

Haru glanced to the temple entrance, the shadows of guards still visible through the gathering snow. They hadn’t rushed him yet, but it was only a matter of time before outrage overcame sense.

“What did they promise you?” Haru asked Gesshō.

“My mountain.”

Yaeko sputtered. “Your mountain?”

“Who do you think ruled these passes before your beloved Lord Uesugi decided to plant a castle on Katsurayama?” Gesshō grinned through a mouthful of blood.

Yaeko took a step forward, fist raised.

Haru raised a hand to stop his wife. As much as he wished to see the abbot beaten, there was no time.

“What of Yukionba?” he asked.

“She is allied with the Takeda, but more than that I do not know,” Gesshō replied. “The dealings of demons and dark sorcerers are no concern to me.”

“How do we destroy her?” Yaeko asked.

“She is as the icy wind, jealous and cruel–hard ice under storm-driven snow.” Gesshō shook his head. “You cannot catch her, and even if you could, she would snatch the life from you as easily as I might crush a beetle.”

“But if we were to lure her to us.” Haru tried to keep the panic from his voice. He could feel Yukionba drawing nearer. Her coming set icy fingers of longing dancing up his spine.

“Fire. Thrice-blessed arrows. The pinfeathers of a tengu.” The abbot shrugged. “How am I to know?”

“It is your duty to know!” Haru gave the abbot a rough shake. “Now tell me before I hand you over to Yaeko.”

“Steel!” Gesshō gasped, blood trickling from his split lip. “No more than a day from the forge.”

Come to me.

Yukionba’s voice filled Haru’s thoughts. Above, the snow coalesced into a dark shape, hair like frozen vines, her gaze a sliver of ice driven into Haru’s breast. He sagged, shaking his head against the urge to turn and run into the demon’s embrace.

Yaeko stepped up to support him. “What is wrong?”

“Burn the temple.” He hissed the words through lips gone thick and wooden. “It will stop the Takeda from pursuing us, and Yukionba is a creature of ice, perhaps she fears fire.”

“Sacrilege!” The abbot gave a strangled yelp, bucking and kicking.

“This place is holy no more.” Haru threw the abbot to the ground, clinging to Yaeko like a drowning man. “If it ever was.”

“Burn this nest of vipers down!” Yaeko shouted to the remaining Uesugi warriors as she and Haru limped toward the path entrance.

The Uesugi warriors spread through the courtyard, shoving aside howling priests to tear down screens and knock lamps from their moorings. A few of the temple guard tried to stop the assault. Blades flashed in the spreading smoke, but the ancient wood soon caught fire, and there was little the priests could do to halt the spread of the flames.

The blaze was like a warm hand lain across Haru’s forehead. He could feel the chill leave him, his frozen thoughts thawing. The shadow in the storm grew fainter as the flames spread, snow and ice little proof against growing inferno.

“And the abbot?” Yaeko asked.

“Leave him for the Takeda.”

They had just rounded the first bend in the path when the first of the temple’s great pillars gave way, toppling in a spray of sparks. A glance back showed clouds of smoke, the fire bright against the angry gray sky. Haru could see Takeda warriors amidst the thickening haze, beating at the flames. Even if they quelled the blaze, it would take time to clear the path of wreckage.

For the moment, the burning temple served as a message–to Gesshō, to the Takeda, to Yukionba–that the Uesugi Clan still held Katsurayama.

Haru only hoped he had the strength to weather their reply.

 

#

 

“Lord, the missing patrol has returned!” Murakami brushed aside the sakura branches that concealed the entrance to the hidden path. A week ago the trees that edged the courtyard had seemed fit to bloom, but now the buds remained closed, a harsh reminder of a spring that seemed just out of reach.

Haru shook his head. “We have been betrayed.”

“Gesshō was always a snake.” Murakami scowled. “And the temple?”

“Ashes,” Yaeko replied.

“Good.” The one-eyed scout hammered a fist into his palm. “Thus to traitors.”

Murakami lead them into the rear courtyard. The small column broke up, some heading for their beds, others lingering as if unsure what to do. Night had fallen, the light of the moon barely more than a pale smudge amidst the clouds, the courtyard dark but for lanterns held by guards on the wall walk and a single lamp burning outside the keep. Haru could see the dim light of braziers filtered through the thick winter screens that covered the garrison windows.

“Don’t worry, lord.” Murakami nodded at the wall. “The approaches are all covered, with double guards on the gate.”

“What about the missing patrol?” Haru asked.

“Came in just after nightfall–frostbitten and near blue from the chill, but they made it back.” The old scout slapped his chest. “It’ll take more than a little storm to stop the Uesugi.”

An icy sense of foreboding tickled between Haru’s shoulder blades. “You said they were frozen?”

“Brave lads stumbled through a blizzard. I was surprised they could still walk.” Murakami nodded. “I put them in the gatehouse barracks–it was always the warmest.”

Haru felt his stomach drop. He looked at Yaeko, her wide, worried eyes confirming his fears.

“Raise the alarm.” Haru shouted, drawing his blade. “The rest of you, follow me.”

It was a testament to Murakami’s training that the one-eyed scout raised no questions, shouting for the guards even as he shouldered his heavy club.

The castle’s single gate lay beyond the central keep, behind a series of fortified storehouses built to serve as a second line of defense against any attackers who made it over the wall.

Haru hurried down the twisting path between the buildings. Courtyard tiles glittered wetly in the lamplight, dark sprays of blood smeared across the walls like the wings of a carrion crow.

Murakami tossed his lamp into a nearby brazier, the oil-soaked wood catching quickly. In the spreading light he saw the door to the barracks had been smashed open, a prone body draped across the entrance. There were more corpses inside, some in their beds, others splayed across the floor.

A choking gasp dragged Haru’s attention to the gatehouse. Someone tumbled from the wall walk to land with a bone-jarring thud on the packed earth below. The gate itself was dark as a broken oath–no guards, no lanterns.

There was a scrape from the shadows of the gatehouse, wood on metal. Haru could just make out four men struggling to remove the crossbar and supports. He had no doubt the Takeda were waiting on the other side.

“Buddha’s mercy!” Murakami shouted. “They’ve taken the gate.”

“Then we take it back.” Haru rushed forward.

One of the saboteurs turned to meet him, raising an arm as Haru brought his blade down in a brutal, two-handed chop.

Slushy blood sprayed across Haru’s cheeks, the cold so fierce it seemed to burn like hot embers. Rather than cut cleanly through, the sword shattered the samurai’s arm just below the elbow, flesh falling away to leave a jagged stump of bone.

Haru as he recognized the man as one of the missing scouts. Surprise became sorrow as he saw the man’s frostbitten flesh, the pale film of bloody frost across his eyes.

Seemingly unconcerned by the loss of his limb, the scout hurled himself at Haru with a wordless howl. Haru pivoted to avoid the man’s lunge, sweeping his sword around to deliver a vicious cut to the scout’s unarmored neck.

It was like chopping frozen wood. The man stumbled, but did not fall, head lolling limply as he thrust the sharp stump of bone at Haru’s throat. Instinctively, Haru dropped his chin, and the bone traced a line of icy fire along his jaw.

Unable to bring his longer blade to bear at such close quarters, Haru hammered an elbow into the man’s face. Flesh cracked like new ice as whatever bits of frozen sinew that secured the cursed samurai’s head finally gave way and he collapsed like an unstringed puppet.

Another of the attackers lunged at Haru, only to topple back, pinioned by a thrust from Yaeko’s naginata.

Murakami stepped past Haru to crush the snarling man’s skull with a blow from his iron-shod club. Shouting, the rest of the Uesugi guards cut down the remaining saboteurs, but Haru was already making his way up the uneven wooden steps to the top of the gatehouse.

The Takeda didn’t have to breach the castle gate if they could take the walls.

A frost-rimed face leered from the shadows. Haru cut at it, only to have his blade slapped aside. He stepped to the side to avoid a slash, then returned one of his own. Again, the shadowy attacker deflected the blow.

More Uesugi samurai followed Haru up the stairs, lanterns illuminating the half dozen demon-possessed scouts. Beyond the wall, the castle approach seethed with Takeda soldiers, their armor like spilled blood in the dim moonlight. Amidst the soot-blackened blades, Haru caught glimpses of scaling ladders, their tops fitted with iron hooks to make removal harder.

Haru recognized his attacker as Saito, the patrol commander. Unreasoning hate twisted the former Uesugi samurai’s features, his skin spotted with hoarfrost, his hair brittle as old ice.

They traded blows, Haru’s breath misting in the icy cold that seemed to radiate from Saito. His scouts had always been better archers than swordsman, but Yukionba’s foul enchantments seemed to imbue Saito with speed and strength beyond what his mortal frame had possessed. Although his strikes were delivered with little finesse, every parry set painful tremors ringing up Haru’s arms.

“Honor, loyalty–all lies.” Saito’s voice came rough as the rasp of a dying crow. “Lord Uesugi cares nothing for you, for us. We are gō pieces, to be used and discarded.”

Haru did not rise to the bait, instead using the opportunity to hook Saito’s front leg with the back of his heel and throw the scout off balance. He slammed the possessed samurai against the wall, driving his blade up and into Saito’s chest.

“She will come for you.” The scout’s blackened lips curled into a cruel smile as his gaze flicked to the corrupted flesh of Haru’s arm. “You will be hers. All will be hers.”

“I’m sorry.” Haru bore down, sawing his blade through icy flesh and frozen bones. Blood, cold as meltwater, soaked through his armor and clothes. At last, Saito went limp, face relaxing into the calm of true death.

“Archers, to the walls!” Haru let the scout’s body drop, waving his sword at the approaching Takeda. “The rest of you, clear these bodies away.”

The first shafts slashed down amidst the Takeda formations, their impacts marked by grunts of pain. Haru stepped aside to let more Uesugi warriors clamber up, and soon the wall swarmed with blue.

A pair of guards stooped to heave Saito’s body over the wall, but Haru stopped them.

“Put him with the other honored dead.” When the guards hesitated, Haru nodded at the corpse. “Saito died in defense of the clan, what happened after cannot be held against him.”

Although their attempt to open the gates had failed, the Takeda fought desperately to take the walls. But the castle approach was narrow, and their numbers availed them little against the massed fire of the Uesugi bows and muskets.

At last, the drums sounded the retreat, and the Takeda fled, bloodied and slope-shouldered, unable even to retrieve their dead. Men lay splayed across the icy hill, some entangled with their ladders, others still crawling toward their retreating comrades.

But Haru’s attention was fixed upon the swirling snow. Patterns formed amidst the sheeting white, delicate as gossamer, intricate as a spider’s web. The frostbite had spread to his hand and up his arm almost to the shoulder, but it hardly hurt anymore.

If anything, the limb felt stronger.

Haru glared at the storm. Yukionba had made traitors of his men, stolen their very souls. She would answer for that and more, far more.

 

#

 

“It’s ugly.” Murakami winced as he handed over the sword. “But it will cut.”

Haru turned the blade. Only a bit longer than his forearm, it was more knife than sword. Little more than sharpened bar of steel rough from the forge, there were deep hammer marks visible along its length. Still, Haru could see no cracks along the blade, and no pockets or delaminations along the spine. Testing the edge with his thumb, he found the blade wickedly sharp.

“Ugly, but serviceable.” He grinned at Murakami. “Just like you.”

The one-eyed scout gave a short bark of laughter. “I hope you may yet get some use from me, lord.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Haru made for the gatehouse, Murakami close behind.

Yaeko waited for them in the dubious shade of a sakura tree, its branches still empty of blossoms. She was overseeing the transport of rice deeper into the castle so all would not be lost if an errant Takeda fire arrow set the storehouse alight.

“I know it is foolish, but I must do something.” She said with a shake of her head.

“At least we’ll die full.” Murakami dipped his hand into a passing bushel, letting the rice run through his fingers. “Gesshō must have told Nobuharu that we’re dependent on the temple well. Even if we hold, those Takeda bastards can just wait us out.”

Haru chewed his chapped lips, considering the rice. He would have gladly traded ten bushels for a single barrel of water. It might have been wishful thinking, but in the dim morning light the rice even looked like water.

“Wait.” Haru held up a hand to stop the bearers. The beginnings of a grin on his face, he turned toward the gatehouse. “Bring a dozen bushels to the wall.”

Yaeko and Murakami trailed behind as Haru hurried up the steps to the broad-beamed wall walk. He squinted down at the Takeda fortifications. They had thrown up earthworks across every bit of passable terrain on lower mountain, sealing off Katsurayama without needing to surround it. Haru’s warriors had melted all the snow they could gather without coming under Takeda fire, but it was far too little for the surviving defenders.

Haru nodded as the bushels were carried up the wall. “Pour one over the side.”

He saw Murakami and Yaeko exchange a dubious glance, and laughed. “The Takeda know we can get no more water, but even Gesshō didn’t know how much we have.”

The bushel was tipped over the side, pouring a torrent of rice down onto the icy ground.

“Buddha be praised.” Yaeko shook her head at the sight. “It does look like water, doesn’t it?”

There was a flurry of movement on the Takeda earthworks. Haru couldn’t know for sure their commanders were watching, but he was sure he’d caught the soldiers’ attention.

“Good.” He nodded. “Tip the others.”

Rice tumbled over the wall in a glittering flood.

Murakami’s laugh was long and loud. “That’ll give the bastards something to chew on.”

Distant drums echoed up the mountain, soldiers boiling from the Takeda fortifications like a kicked anthill.

“They don’t waste any time, do they?” Yaeko gave a mirthless chuckle.

“Rouse the garrison.” Haru said to Murakami, then turned to Yaeko. “Children and the elderly to the keep.”

She shook her head. “Better to send them to the cliffs. If Katsurayama falls, we will not allow the Takeda any prisoners.”

Haru met her gaze for a moment, his chest tight with the weight of the decision. The young and old were the families of samurai, some former warriors themselves. It would be cruel to deny them the honor of taking their own lives.

He gave a quick nod. “Do it.”

Yaeko and Murakami hurried down the stairs, but Haru’s attention was on the sky. The clouds swirled with dark, angry gray. Yukionba’s coming was like a dagger pressed to his throat. He gripped the rough-forged blade tightly, drawing comfort from its stolid, unlovely weight.

He curled bruise-black fingers into a fist, a cold anger growing within him. It mattered not that Yukionba was coming for him.

Haru was coming for her, too.

 

#

 

Uesugi warriors spread across Katsurayama’s battlements, bows and muskets at the ready. A few took high, arcing shots as the Takeda samurai struggled up the steep incline. Although the arrows fell far short, Haru did not bid his warriors cease fire–the castle did not lack for munitions.

He noticed women among the Uesugi samurai on the walls. Some wore their husbands’ armor, others dressed in piecemeal kit taken from the Takeda dead, but the hard set of their jaws was the same as the men who stood beside them.

A bitter wind gusted across the battlements, snatching at cloaks and spoiling aims. Snow began to fall once more. It dusted Haru’s cheeks and hands. With concern, he noticed the flakes that fell upon his blackened skin did not melt.

An unwelcome shiver rose from within Haru. It came not from the cold, but rather as if a ripple of energy passed through him. He could feel the terrible, chilling strength in his corrupted arm, an unnatural vigor that flowed through his body, seductive as the promise of victory against impossible odds.

Soon.

Haru did not hear the word so much as feel it, echoing deep within his chest like the crack of river ice.

Takeda ladders slammed against the walls even as their heavy ram thundered at the gates. The defenders fired into the packed ranks, not bothering to aim. They dropped rocks upon the samurai manning the ram. Some rattled from the makeshift screens the Takeda had thrown up, others pulped flesh and crushed bone, bodies tumbling back down the mountain in a twitching, shrieking torrent.

The first Takeda samurai crested the wall–a big man, thick-necked and broad shouldered, clad head-to-toe in armor. He bulled a defender from the battlement, heavy blade lashing out to cleave through the shaft of a naginata and into the chest of woman wielding it.

Buoyed by the icy strength that flowed through him, Haru charged. The sweep of the Takeda samurai’s blade was almost laughably slow. Haru ducked under it with contemptuous ease, straightening to drive his blade into the hollow of the man’s throat. With a twist, he pulled the blade free in a spray of blood. Before the samurai could fall away, Haru had already turned to the next attacker.

The man had just climbed over the lip of the wall. Before he could bring his blade to bear Haru caught him by the arm. He felt the samurai’s bones snap beneath his fingers as he lifted the man and hurled him bodily from the wall. There were other Takeda warriors climbing, but they seemed to weigh no more than twists of grass as Haru caught the ladder and tipped it back.

With a shout of triumph, he turned back to his warriors, only to see they had drawn back, their faces pale, their gazes fixed upon the veins of cold, corrupted flesh that were even now creeping up Haru’s neck.

Soon.

Her voice came again, stronger this time. How long until Haru was hers body and soul? How long until he turned against his comrades?

He fled the battlements and down to the courtyard, overcome by the sudden need to distance himself from his warriors. Defenders pushed passed him, but Haru paid them no mind.

Her presence throbbed in the back of his thoughts as he stumbled toward the gatehouse. Flurries of stinging snow whipped across his face, but to Haru it was as a gentle breeze.

“Come.” She called to him, voice threading the shrieking wind. Slowly, the swirling murmurations of snow and ice took on substance. Yukionba slipped from the gatehouse shadows like a bodhisattva descending to earth, dark hair framing a face bright as fresh-driven snow.

As before, she raised her hand.

And, as before, Haru went to her.

He tried to raise his blade, to draw its unkind edge across the pale length of her throat, but his arms hung limp and wooden at his side. Hers, now.

False warmth filled him as she caressed his cheek, and Haru felt himself smile even as the small corner of his thoughts that remained his screamed to back away, to drive his blade into her frozen heart. His mortal concerns began to fall away–the Takeda, the war, friends, family, drifting like windblown leaves.

Instead, his traitor hands released the sword. Distantly, he heard it clatter to the ground.

“We shall accomplish great things.” Her voice was like a noose about Haru’s throat, drawing ever tighter. “You and I, together.”

Haru kicked the supports from the gate, the crossbar light as straw in his frostbitten hands “Lord!” Murakami’s shout came like a distant echo. “What are you doing?”

A heavy weight crashed into Haru’s side, knocking him from the gate in a tangled, sprawling heap.

Falling, he saw Yaeko sprint across the frozen ground. With a grunt of effort, she hurled her naginata at Haru’s mistress. The curved blade shattered like glass as it struck Yukionba’s back, pelting Haru with bits of icy metal. Yukionba gave a high, keening shriek, jerking roughly to one side as the impact of the throw knocked her from the air.

Although the hard earth hammered the breath from Haru’s lungs, he was up in a moment, unhindered by his cracked ribs, the need to breath little more than an afterthought.

Amidst the swirling confusion, Murakami staggered to his feet, gasping like a landed fish as he threw himself between Haru and the gate. The old scout barely got his hands up in time to block Haru’s punch, and still the blow sent him stumbling back.

Murakami shouted something at Haru, but the words barely rose above the roar of icy wind raging through Haru’s thoughts. He laughed as he beat down Murakami’s feeble defenses, raining kicks and punches down until the old scout fell still.

By the gods, Haru loved winter.

He felt rather than saw Yukionba lunge for Yaeko, the slash of her icy hand deadlier than any blade. There was a flash of irritation as Yaeko dove away, then surprise as she came up with Haru’s blade.

He turned from Murakami’s bloodied body, ready to defend his mistress. The sword was dangerous to her, Haru knew it, and so Yukionba did as well.

Yaeko crouched on the ground, legs gathered beneath her, sword held low, her gaze flicking between Haru and his mistress. Her face seemed strange to him, frayed and thin like the weave of an old cloak. Their eyes met for a moment, and some soft, weak part of him made Haru hesitate.

Roaring, Murakami rose like a bloody revenant. Enfolding Haru in a crushing embrace he pinned Haru’s arms to his side. Haru butted the old scout in the face, then tried to flip the man over his hip, but Murakami might have been carved from stone for all Haru could do to move him.

Yaeko lunged, blade dull as coal in the pale light, but Yukionba flitted away quick as a sparrow in the swirling smoke. Haru laughed–no mortal was a match for his mistress. Then Yaeko shifted, turning suddenly toward him.

A flash of sharp pain caused him to gasp, and he glanced down to see the blade protruding from his stomach.

“I’m sorry.” Yaeko’s breath was hot on his cheek, her gaze determined.

Agony ripped through Haru, his skin seeming to boil at the blade’s touch. He tore free of Murakami only to stumble and fall writhing to the ground.

Dimly, he saw Yukionba sweep the old scout aside to snatch up Yaeko. He could feel the mountain demon’s rage, but only distantly, little more than a candle ranged against the white hot conflagration burning through Haru’s veins.

He glanced down at his hand, and saw the color return to his flesh, Yukionba’s corruption bleeding away like so much spilled ink. As Haru’s thoughts became his own once more, so did a rising tide of horror sweep away the last of the demon’s hold on him.

Teeth gritted, he pulled the blade from his stomach, pressing a hand to the wound to slow the flow of blood. Haru had turned against his friends, his comrades, but there was yet time to make his betrayal right.

Yukionba had Yaeko by the throat. Although she twisted and kicked, Yaeko could no more harm the demon than she could a glacier. Yukionba’s pale features twisted into a cruel smile, eyes cold and bright as she slowly crushed the life from Haru’s wife.

With a groan, Haru pushed to his knees, jaw tight against the urge to scream. He left a bright smear of blood on the ground as he stood, shambling slowly towards the mountain demon. Each step seemed to require a singular act of will, as if Haru were wading through hip-deep snow.

Surely Yaeko must have seen him approach, but her gaze did not waver even as Yukionba’s grip tightened, lest she give the demon some flash of warning.

Haru knew he didn’t have the strength for a slash, so he braced the blade against his chest, throwing himself toward Yukionba.

It was an ugly stab, without form or finesse. The blade struck just beneath the curve of Yukionba’s shoulder, sinking into the demon’s snow-white flesh with a hiss like metal fresh from the forge.

Yukionba’s shriek set Haru’s ears ringing. She tossed Yaeko aside to deliver a backhand that set Haru tumbling. Pain devoured him, blinding lights streaking across his vision.

Still, Haru’s scream was nothing compared to the unearthly howl of the mountain demon. Yukionba spun, desperately pawing at the blade lodged in her back. No sooner had she laid a hand upon it than the soot-blackened steel burned her flesh. Bright sparks slipped from the wound, a dull red-orange glow illuminating the demon from within.

Haru realized he could see her bones, backlit against the thin skein of dissolving flesh and muscle. Her skin peeled away, dark as ash, even as her hair caught fire.

Dimly, Haru realized Yukionba was not the only thing burning. The Takeda had taken the walls, Katsurayama’s keep was aflame, red-armored warriors dodging through the smoke. Still, it did not matter. The burning castle would be visible for miles. Lord Uesugi would learn of the assault. Without the aid of the mountain demon, the passes would clear long before the Takeda could consolidate their gains.

When he looked back, Yukionba was little more than a shadow, wind-carried ash rising like a flock of startled crows. Sunlight filtered through the smoke, the winter wind faltering, then dying. It might have been the burning castle, but Haru was sure the air was growing warmer by the moment.

“Lord.” Murakami’s face was a mass of blood and bruises, one arm clutched to his chest. Slowly, painfully, he helped Haru sit up.

“Yaeko?” He asked.

“Here.” She crawled from the smoke. Burns from Yukionba’s fingers blistered her throat, and her eyes were red and bloodshot, but she still returned Haru’s lopsided grin. With a grunt of pain, she sat beside Haru and Murakami.

“Stabbing me instead of Yukionba,” Haru said. “That was quite a gamble.”

She returned his grin. “I took a chance.”

“How did you know the blade would free him from the demon’s spell?” Murakami asked.

Yaeko’s looked away, her discomfort answer enough.

The sounds of fighting had all but ceased. Red-armored warriors charged through the smoky gloom, shouting amidst the flames, but they paid Haru and the others little notice. All around them, Katsurayama burned.

“In a way, it’s beautiful.” Yaeko’s hand found Haru’s.

“Even more beautiful now I know the Takeda won’t have it.” Murakami added with a pained grunt of laughter. “I only pray Gesshō burns as well.”

“Save your prayers.” Haru’s throat was so dry, it was a chore to swallow. “His kind never do.”

Despite the spreading flames, Haru felt a coldness creep through him. Not the bitter ice of Yukionba, but a chill that was almost comforting in its finality. Through the smoke, he spied a sakura blossom tree, branches silhouetted by the burning castle.

“Look.” He gave Yaeko’s hand a squeeze, nodding at the tree. “They’re blooming.”

Tears glittering in her eyes, she squeezed back. “Spring has come.”

Smiling, Haru fell back into the circle of her arms, the last beats of his heart clear as Uesugi war drums.

Finally, his luck was about to change.

 

________________________________________

Evan Dicken studies old Japanese maps and crunches data for all manner of fascinating medical experiments at the Ohio State University. By night, he does neither of these things. His fiction has most recently appeared in Strange Horizons, Apex, and Podcastle, and he has stories forthcoming from publishers such as Analog and The Black Library. Please feel free to visit him at: www.evandicken.com

Karen Bovenmyer earned an MFA in Creative Writing: Popular Fiction from the University of Southern Maine. She teaches and mentors students at Iowa State University and Western Technical College. She serves as the Assistant Editor of the Pseuodopod Horror Podcast Magazine. She is the 2016 recipient of the Horror Writers Association Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Scholarship. Her poems, short stories and novellas appear in more than 40 publications and her first novel, SWIFT FOR THE SUN, debuted from Dreamspinner Press in 2017.

Miguel Santos is a freelance illustrator and maker of Comics living in Portugal.  His artwork has appeared in numerous issues of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, as well as in the Heroic Fantasy Quarterly Best-of Volume 2.  More of his work can be seen at his online portfolio and his instagram.