Flame in the Mist Page 10

  She hated all these men. Every last one of them. With more fervency than she’d ever imagined possible. Even the recent edicts of her parents had not elicited this kind of furor. Of course her arranged marriage had provoked a reaction. Certainly bitterness. Even rage. A rash of emotions Mariko had struggled to contend with for several weeks.

  But hatred?

  Never.

  Today her thoughts were consumed by murderous retribution. Mariko had dreamed of setting fire to the Black Clan’s camp no less than ten times in the past hour.

  She’d plotted. Allowed a plan to weave through her mind like a tapestry across a loom. Mariko had fantasized about laying kindling through the brush with great care, under cover of night. She’d imagined rigging her own set of traps. Naturally ones far more ingenious than any the Black Clan could ever concoct. In her mind, she’d carefully trailed a thin string soaked in pitch to a previously devised shelter. Then she’d calmly set the string to flame. Pausing only to watch the Black Clan burn, like the hell-fiends they were.

  The vision materialized, a welcome respite from her reality.

  Just as a small rock descended from the sky, pelting her on the head.

  The pain blossomed across her skull like a dribble of steaming water. Her dream of revenge took shape once again, growing ever more vivid in detail. Now the very demons of the forest rose at her command, ready to wreak their ghostly havoc.

  Another rock glanced across her shoulder.

  A bigger one this time.

  Mariko refused to cry out. To fall to the ground in abject misery.

  “Move faster, boy,” a harsh voice intoned nearby.

  Her lips were parched. Her knees were trembling. Nevertheless Mariko picked up four more logs and braced them against her chest. She tried to channel bravery as a source of strength, but it did not answer. Strangely, it was fear that drove her forward. Fear that she would fail in her task to learn the truth.

  Fear that the Black Clan would discover she was not a boy.

  She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Unless she counted the muddy pond water she’d spat from her lips this morning, the last thing Mariko had had to drink was the sake from the night before. That same terrible night she’d fallen into captivity.

  Her tormentor ambled alongside her, kicking dark soil into her path with undisguised relish.

  “Only four?” he said. “At this rate, we’ll be here all day.” The boy sneered, his yellowed eyes cutting in half. “I’ve never seen a weaker excuse for a man.” Mariko’s chest hollowed at his words, her heart missing a beat. The boy’s gaze did not leave hers, even while he tossed another small rock into the air. Only to catch it. And toss it again.

  Toying with her.

  Mariko braced herself for the pebble’s inevitable strike. Sure enough—even as she quickened her pace—the stone hit the back of her leg, biting into her calf with all the menace of a tiny woodland creature.

  Indignation bubbled in her throat. The same throat that desperately needed a drink of water.

  Her tormentor stepped before Mariko, savoring her obvious distress.

  Ren. The boy with the murder eyes and the spiked topknot.

  It turned out her earliest suspicions had been correct: Ren’s haunted gaze did indeed mask something far darker within—a boy who smiled in the face of suffering, as though he derived great joy from it. Ren had been designated Mariko’s watcher, and he’d taken to the task as only a boy such as he undoubtedly would.

  Like a fox to a swallow’s nest.

  “Did you hear me, Lord Weakling?” Ren angled closer, his expression increasingly sinister. A small log dangled from his fingertips.

  Mariko closed her eyes, her posture rigid.

  So far she’d managed to maintain her composure. She hadn’t cried once. Hadn’t so much as asked for a drop of water. When Death inevitably came for her, Hattori Mariko would not be sniveling and wretched. She would be in control of her emotions, no matter the cost.

  With his free hand, Ren rapped his knuckles on the side of her head. Mariko’s eyes flew open. He’d touched her. Struck her. A wash of anger reddened her vision. She quickly blinked it away.

  Hattori Mariko was a warrior now.

  And a warrior is never weak.

  Ren smiled down at Mariko, as if he could see past her eyes, into the ugly truth of her soul. Though the boy stood scarcely taller than she, he reveled in the fact. Mariko suspected he did not always come across men of shorter stature.

  Unfortunately this near parity of height did not grant her any advantage. Ren was stockier, his musculature hard-earned. She could see the scars and calluses along his hands and forearms. This boy was used to punishing work.

  When Ren caught her studying him, he snorted derisively. “I said, did you hear me, you pathetic excuse for a—”

  “I heard you.”

  Ren’s smile faded. He plopped the log in his hand atop the four already pressed against Mariko’s chest.

  She faltered for the first time. Nearly lost hold of her burden.

  “Move faster.” Ren unsheathed one of the hooked swords from his back. A deadly pair of weapons, modeled after garden sickles. “Boss said if I don’t like your work, I can cut you into pieces and feed you to Akuma.” He pressed the flat end of the sickle to his own neck. Mocking her even further.

  Mariko breathed deeply. She continued on her way, ignoring the pain building in her arms. Ignoring the dry burn in her throat and the sudden threat of tears. Sweat marred her sight. Slicked her palms.

  How she wished she could run away. Vanish into the woods, like a ghost. Never once look back. The thought gripped her. Took hold of her for an instant.

  Chiyo. Nobutada.

  The chance to prove my worth.

  Four steps.

  Four steps were all Mariko could take before she crumbled to the forest floor, the logs tumbling from her grasp.

  Ren laughed darkly. “This will be a long day for you. Too bad it will also be your last.”

  Mariko pushed her face into the earth, her pulse thrumming in her ears. The soil smelled fragrant and alive. She wanted to burrow into it. Disappear. Dig her way through to the other side.

  “Get up.”

  A new tormentor. One whose voice Mariko readily recognized.

  Readily hated. Without question.

  “Get up.” He was closer now. His voice even more gruff.

  She pressed her hands into the earth and lifted to her knees.

  Ōkami peered down at her, his arms crossed, his expression odd. A mixture of boredom and predatory amusement.

  “Stand.”

  A brief moment passed in silent revolt. Mariko met his gaze, surprised to feel a sudden flare of courage ignite within her. The same courage she’d sought to channel all day. Ōkami did not look away, though one of his brows rose in question.

  “Useless.” He inhaled through his nose. “Utterly useless.”

  With that, the Wolf turned. Dismissing Mariko in almost the same breath.

  The anger that had been lying dormant for so long erupted in her chest. Mariko staggered to her feet, gripping a log in one hand. She wielded it like a club, aiming for his imperious head.

  Ōkami leaned out of the log’s path without missing a step. His expression did not even register her attempt to strike. Still bored.

  But perhaps a tad less amused.

  He thinks I’m pitiful.

  Worthless.

  Fury tingling in her fingertips, Mariko hurled the log again. The force nearly took her from her feet.

  Ōkami rolled across the forest floor, quicker than lightning over a lake. When he stood, he brandished a long branch in his left hand. With it, he struck Mariko once on her elbow. A burst of prickling pain shot down her arm. The log fell to the ground.

  When Mariko curled her f
ingers into a fist—readying to lunge—Ōkami hit her on the shoulder with the same branch. Her hand opened of its own volition. Resisted her attempt to re-form it into a fist. For the first time since she’d been tasked with moving logs from one forsaken corner of the forest to another, Mariko yelled in guttural protest.

  Not out of pain. But out of hatred.

  Pressure points. The hellspawn was abusing her pressure points.

  “You’ve had enough, then?” Ōkami said as he calmly brushed forest debris off his black kosode.

  Mariko exhaled in a miserable huff. “You’re cheating.”

  “You’re useless.”

  “I am not useless.” She began scrubbing away the dirt from her face, wiping it on her sleeve, as she’d often seen soldiers do.

  Ōkami raised the branch before him, level with his shoulder. “Prove it.”

  “What?” She blinked. Beside her, Ren laughed ominously, stepping aside to lean against a gnarled tree trunk.

  “Take the branch from me,” Ōkami said.

  Mariko’s eyes went wide. Her mind opened to a myriad of possibilities, each of which she dismissed in rapid succession. She scanned the length of him. His impressive height. A body trained for warfare, wrapped in sinuous muscle. The long arm extended her way, fingers expertly coiled around the branch.

  Fully prepared to teach her a lasting lesson.

  Trying her best to convey disdain, Mariko spat the last of the soil from her mouth. “What will you give me if I take the branch from you?”

  “You are not in a position to negotiate.” He angled his head, the scar through his lips appearing silver in a shaft of sunlight.

  “At least tell me why I was brought here. What you intend to do with me.”

  “I have no intentions to do anything with anyone.” His black eyes glittered. “Besides sleep and eat and drink away my days.”

  Mariko refrained from frowning in judgment. Why such a lazy boy would choose to work in service to the Black Clan was beyond her. “If you won’t answer any of my questions, there’s little incentive for me to fight you.” She let the words fall from her lips like rocks down a mountainside. In a rough and coarse tumble. “Especially since I know I will lose.”

  “You will lose because you are slow and untrained.”

  “I suppose that is what makes me useless in your eyes,” she said. “That and my obvious lack of strength.”

  Another bout of dark laughter arose from Ren. A laughter that only served to irritate Mariko further.

  “There are many kinds of strength, Lord Lackbeard.” The branch dropped to Ōkami’s side; his tone was thoughtful. “Strength of the heart. Strength of the mind.”

  Though she was surprised to hear these sentiments uttered by this boy, Mariko was careful to conceal it. “Show me a warrior who believes that to be true, and I will endeavor to take the branch from you.”

  A wry grin began to curl up Ōkami’s mouth. “Be as swift as the wind. As silent as the forest. As fierce as the fire. As unshakable as the mountain. And you can do anything . . . even take this branch from me.”

  Mariko snorted, catching herself before crossing her arms as her mother would. “Needlessly cryptic. Especially since mere words make all things possible.”

  “I’m glad we agree.” He raised the branch again. “Take the branch from me, Lord Lackbeard.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Words do not make all things possible. Ideas are the seeds of possibility.”

  “Without words, ideas are nothing but voiceless thoughts.” Ōkami held the branch steady. Unflinching.

  “Without ideas, words would never have come into being.”

  “Fine, then. Without words, give me an idea.” Another slow, taunting smile. “Now take the branch.”

  Her ire spiking, Mariko returned his unwavering stare. Though Ōkami’s expression remained one of detached amusement, a flame sparked behind his eyes like a sun at midnight. The sight prompted her to make a final decision. One of dishonor. One she was sure to regret.

  “I prefer to fight battles I know I can win.” With that, Mariko bent to pick up the log closest to Ōkami. Just as he lowered the branch a second time, she shot to standing, ramming her full weight into his injured right shoulder. The one she knew still bore a fresh wound from the giant’s kanabō swing the night before.

  The Wolf grunted loudly as they both fell to the ground in a tangled heap. Mariko landed on top of him—lunging for the branch—but Ōkami flipped her onto her stomach, forcing every last bit of air from her body by leaning on her with unnecessary intensity. Damp soil trickled into her mouth, causing her to sputter and retch and flail.

  Mariko tried to shove her elbow into his face, but was met with nothing more than wry laughter.

  “I owe you an injury, Sanada Takeo,” Ōkami whispered in her ear. “And I pay my debts.” He hauled her to her feet as though she were nothing more than a sack of air. “Now get back to work.”

  Humiliation took root in Mariko’s chest, tugging at her center like a fishhook. She swiped the soil from her mouth and straightened her dirty kosode, hoping to pierce his resolve as he had hers. “This is a waste of time. If your glorious leader had granted me use of a wagon, I would have been done moving these logs hours ago.”

  It was a sound argument. One he—of all people—should readily agree with, as the Wolf did not relish expending unnecessary effort.

  Ōkami paused to rub his shoulder. For an instant, Mariko thought he would agree. Especially when she caught a trace of humor on his face. Then he swept his black hair from his forehead, as though he was banishing the thought. “If this is the last task of your life, it’s never a waste of time to do it thoroughly.”

  A cold current of fear overshadowed Mariko’s anger. “You—you don’t truly mean that. If you intended to kill me, you would have done it already. Why have you brought me here? To what end?” She focused the last of her fear into something pointed. Sharp. “And if this is indeed the last task of my life, I’d rather be doing anything else—thinking anything else—than this.”

  “You’d waste your last day in thought?” Ōkami stared down at her, unblinking.

  “I would spend it thinking something meaningful. Doing something honorable.”

  Like exposing the location of your camp.

  Or bringing about an end to your band of bloodthirsty thieves.

  “Thinking?” Ren interjected as he spat in the dirt by her feet. “Knowledge feeds no one. Nor does it win any wars.”

  “I find your position on this matter unsurprising.” Mariko did not even bother glancing toward the boy with the spiked topknot.

  “Honorable?” Ōkami shifted closer, his hand still pressed to his shoulder. The coppery scent of fresh blood suffused the air. “Do you consider attacking a wounded man without warning an act of honor?”

  Color flooded Mariko’s cheeks. She’d known she would regret that decision the moment she’d made it. Honor was a fundamental tenet of bushidō. And her choice to deceive Ōkami and take advantage of his weakness was—without a doubt—a dishonorable one.

  “I”—she swallowed—“was pushed to that action.”

  “As many men often are.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t trouble yourself by explaining. Honor bears no weight with me.” The Wolf continued studying her. “And I find knowledge a poison to a weak mind.”

  A litany of retorts collected in Mariko’s throat, but none seemed good enough. Wise enough. Instead she chose to defeat words with silence.

  With an idea.

  “Never doubt. Never fear. Never overthink.” Ōkami watched her as he spoke. As though he was searching for something beyond her. “That is the only way to stay alive.”

  A glimmer of reason shone in his words. It unsettled her even further. Mariko’s lips pressed together. The skin in their cen
ters cracked as the salt of her blood touched her tongue.

  Anger tingled across her skin. Anger at him. Anger at herself.

  How she wished she had a perfect retort at the ready. One she could fire back, like a polished stone.

  Wordlessly, she bent to retrieve the fallen logs.

  When Mariko stood once more, she thought she saw Ōkami wince as though a lantern had been shined in his eyes.

  He stretched, then yawned. “On second thought, take Lord Lackbeard to Yoshi,” Ōkami said to Ren. “Make sure he eats something. A well-watered tree yields sweeter fruit.”

  As the Wolf turned to leave, courage pushed Mariko into his path a final time. “Answer at least one question. After drugging me and dragging me here against my will, I’m owed that much.”

  He waited, his features coolly indifferent.

  Mariko breathed deep. “Am I prisoner, or am I a servant?”

  Ōkami paused before responding. “We choose what we are in any situation, be it a word or an idea.” With a small smile, he walked away.

  I dislike this boy. Immensely.

  Before she had a chance to organize her thoughts, Ren yanked her to his side. Mariko watched from the corner of her eye while Ōkami strapped his bō across his back. The Wolf mounted a grey horse and rode from camp, nodding in salute to the guards patrolling the perimeter.

  How Mariko wished she could best him at something.

  Wished she could trounce him in all things.

  The Wolf wasn’t as clever as he believed himself to be. Mariko found herself contemplating ways to destroy him. To watch him struggle.

  And beg for mercy.

  But she could not waste her focus on such petty emotions. Not when there were so many more pressing concerns at her heels. Mariko needed to learn why the Black Clan had brought her to their encampment. Was it possible they’d somehow discovered who she was? Had she been taken hostage?

  Ice curled down her backbone at the thought.

  As quickly as the fear rippled over her, it melted away. If the Black Clan had known who she was, they would have killed her already. And Mariko would not have been allowed even the limited freedom she’d been granted thus far.

  Mariko sighed. Each step she took brought with it another question. She needed to know why the Black Clan had taken her to their camp. Who they were exactly. But most of all, she needed to discover why they’d been sent to kill her.