Chapter 21
The New Year’s Festival had come and gone more quickly than Takarro cared to admit. Day by day, shinobi were leaving Tsukikage in droves on a fresh wave of assignments. The village population was dropping back to the normal five hundred or so and was shaping up to drop some more.
Takarro looked at the latest Council report and ran the numbers in his head. Of the two hundred and thirty-six boys and girls currently below the rank of Shadeclaw, only one hundred and twenty-two were under the age of eleven. They could afford to draw manpower from the remaining kits. Ten adults had to stay as caretakers for the younger children below the age of four. At least fifty masters needed to remain to supplement the sentry rotation, and another five to act as instructors. Under normal circumstances, twenty adults were needed as specialised medics as well, but the new Regeneration training regimens were working out so well that rapid response healers were no longer necessary.
It was good that they could afford to divert more manpower. 200 was shaping up to be their busiest year yet. Tsukikage might need to fall back on a skeleton crew of one hundred.
‘Bengakhi,’ Takarro said, shuffling the papers on his desk. ‘Give me a brief rundown of our unit distribution across Tamriel as of the latest deployment.’
‘Sir,’ the advisor said, his arms still clasped behind his back as he stepped out from the shadows of Takarro’s office and forward into view. ‘Including or excluding urotsuki-nin?’
‘Leave them out. They have no means of communicating with us anyway.’
‘As you say, Grandmaster. A total of one thousand three hundred and thirty-three shinobi have already been deployed. Two hundred and fifty-one are currently active in or bound for Cyrodiil. One hundred and seven are operating in Skyrim. One hundred and forty-five in High Rock. One hundred and twenty-seven in Hammerfell. Seventy-two in Black Marsh. Fifty-two in Morrowind. One hundred and three in Valenwood. Sixty-five in Anequina. Seventy-three in Pelletine. Two hundred and twenty of our finest in Alinor.’
Takarro nodded. It added up. ‘That leaves the operatives on the surveillance circuit.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The morning sun sparked off a half-melted icicle hanging from the top of Takarro’s window and a single bright yellow dot quivered between Bengakhi’s brows like a third eye. ‘Seventy-three in our five caravans running across the continent and forty-five at sea.’
Just as the advisor completed his report, there came a knock on the door. It was a kit on courier duty with a sheaf of incoming documents.
Takarro shifted in his seat and rubbed his nose with the crook of his finger. He hadn’t even finished signing off the last batch of assignments just yet. Taking in a deep breath, he looked over the new papers. Requests from the Second Legion, the Fourth Legion, the Fifth Legion, the Seventh, Eleventh and Twelfth Legions, the Penitus Oculatus, both the Synod and the College of Whispers, and the Emperor’s Office itself.
‘They’re asking for more of our help mostly in Valenwood and Black Marsh.’
‘If I may, sir,’ Bengakhi said, retreating back to his spot next to Takarro’s desk. ‘I suggest inserting more operatives into Black Marsh. We can move about far more efficiently than almost anyone else in the swamplands and rainforests except for the native Argonians, and we need to gather more information on the An-Xileel.’
‘Agreed,’ Takarro said, picking up his stylus. ‘I’m prioritising deployments to Black Marsh, but the tactical importance of Valenwood cannot be understated. We also need to look into the regional tensions between the Pelletine provisional administration and the Dominion central government-’
The Grandmaster paused and looked up from his work. A lifetime ago, Bengakhi had lost his wife in Pelletine doing the exact same thing.
‘Of course. I have already diverted the most pressing concerns to your desk. Assuming you don’t finish assigning missions by noon, I will delegate them to the best of my ability.’
Takarro’s smile had a touch of sadness. The only thing Bengakhi had left was his job, and he seemed to prefer it that way.
‘Of course,’ Takarro repeated. He signed off half of the mission requests in silence, then went into his quarters – a small alcove adjacent to his office – to change into travelling garb, pulling a black cloak over his white robes. He stopped in front of the door before he left. The last time he’d left the village had been a few years ago. It had been a mission he could trust to no one else… and he’d visited Runil on the way back. The memory made his right hand twitch.
On an impulse, he reached into the depths of his wardrobe.
The blade hadn’t rusted, and the grip was only two decades old – he’d had to replace it after Runil split the entire thing down the middle all those years ago. The wood was only slightly aged and there were no traces of rot. The chain and the weight were still lightly flushed with the magicka from his last spell. Takarro renewed the magic and tested the chain with a couple of long shakes. Noiseless. Serviceable.
Bengakhi raised an eyebrow as Takarro walked back into the office strapping the kusarigama to his hip and hiding it with his cloak. ‘Expecting bloodshed, Grandmaster? I thought you were just going to see the Emperor.’
‘We’ll be putting quite a bit less pressure on the Jerall bandit warlords surrounding us this year,’ Takarro said. ‘I’m going to remind them why they and their ancestors have always stayed off our mountain. Ten adults from each clan.’
‘I see. Good hunting, sir.’
Takarro opened his window and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the cool air outside on his fur and his skin, tasting it with his whiskers.
‘The Katariah is set to sail halfway across the entire west side of the continent. I won’t be with His Imperial Majesty for the entire trip, and I expect to be back in two months. Maybe more – I still have to hash out our new rates with the Bank of Cyrodiil.’
‘Understood. I will make any further plans based around that two-month timeframe.’
Takarro nodded and bent his knees. Then he looked back one last time at his advisor.
‘I’m leaving the village to you until then. Look after them all, old friend.’
‘I will do my best, Takarro-ri.’
Bengakhi closed the window behind him as the Grandmaster leapt from his office and into thin air.
‘Uncle Jorra!’
His voice was deeper now. Still tinted with the raw tone of youth, but no longer a boy. Jorra smiled and looked up from his plants.
‘What is it?’
Ambarro had never really liked coming to his greenhouse. Jorra went outside to talk after checking the last pot in a row of experimental crossbred flowers.
‘I, uh…’ Ambarro cleared his throat. ‘I need to ask a favour.’
‘Well, no need to be bashful. It doesn’t suit you. Out with it!’ Jorra chuckled, ruffling the kit’s head. Ambarro grinned and he chuckled again. No matter how old he got, Ambarro was the same Ambarro. They stood together next to a pile of collected snow for a moment before they spoke again.
‘The betrothal meeting is coming up in three days but I didn’t know Grandpa would be moving his schedule up by a week,’ Ambarro explained. ‘Do you mind…’
‘Wait, you don’t mean-’
‘Yeah. Do you mind coming to the meeting as my parent representative?’
No wonder Ambarro had been so strangely shy. Jorra almost started stammering as he answered.
‘What – I mean, of course, it would be an honour! Are you really all right with me, though?’
Ambarro nodded firmly. ‘I can’t think of anyone else. You watched over me all the time when I was little, even when Grandpa was busy, and even now… I think of you as family, Uncle Jorra. The honour is all mine.’
‘You silver-tongued little brat, you,’ Jorra ruffled his head again as he blinked rapidly. ‘Learned a thing or two from Harrow, eh?’
The kit coloured. ‘I meant every word!’
‘I know, I know. Of course I’ll come.’
Ambarro’s shoulders slackened. ‘Thanks… I actually think you’ll be able to talk to Diia’s parents way more easily than Grandpa could, anyway.’
Jorra thumped his chest. ‘Leave it to me!’
Unaka let out a loud squeal of delight when he told her, and Torako simply smiled to himself.
‘Your ward’s really coming into his own now, isn’t he?’ The magic instructor was taking a break from a set of calculations and formulae when Jorra visited him at his office. ‘As his teacher and your friend… I’m proud. And truly happy for the both of you.’
Jorra could feel himself glowing. It was horribly embarrassing.
‘Yes, well, thank you. Ahem. Ah, speaking of my wards…’ He winced at the awkward change of topic. ‘I hear Harrow’s making leaps and bounds in lightning research.’
‘Indeed he is.’ Torako fell silent immediately after that, which Jorra found highly unusual. There was disquiet in his voice when he resumed many seconds later.
‘He exceeds our every expectation, doesn’t he? In training or in the field. It’s almost ridiculous to think back to the time he was struggling with Rendanshu potions… just another thing he’s turned to his advantage. All for the sake of the village.’
Jorra wasn’t sure how to respond.
Torako stood up from his desk and paced around the room. ‘Have you talked with him recently?’
Jorra looked away, his eyes downcast. ‘I haven’t spent nearly as much time with him as I needed or wanted to this year.’
‘I know you’ve been busy, Jorra-jo, but… the last time we spoke with him together, it was about his last mission to High Rock.’
Jorra’s mood plummeted even more. ‘Yes. And I stand by what I’ve said. He’s become ruthless, unempathetic. I’d even go on to say that he doesn’t care about innocent lives anymore. I think it all started after he came back from the mission in Anvil’s brothel. What kind of things did the Council put him through?’
‘I won’t debate with you over the ethics of our profession, Jorra-jo,’ Torako said tiredly. ‘I’m just worried – vague worries that I don’t know how to verbalise. Probably not over the same things you’re worrying over. I want the best for our young kit. He’s devoted to Tsukikage and his work, but still-’
‘Fanatically devoted,’ Jorra said shortly. ‘There’s no world for him outside of us.’
Torako frowned. ‘I know I was the one to bring it up, but is that really so bad? From a certain point of view, there’s no world for us outside of us, either.’
Jorra sighed. ‘Yes, but I’m beginning to think that for him, there’s no place for even his own self in that world.’
Torako shook his head and remained silent.
‘Torako-jo,’ Jorra said suddenly. ‘Have you ever wondered what you could have been if you hadn’t been born into this life?’
‘If I hadn’t been born into this life, I wouldn’t be me, and that’s fact. So no, not really,’ Torako said after a while. ‘Still a teacher, I think.’
‘I have. I do. Every day when I look in the mirror and put on this tunic. And I know that my poor old friends – they wouldn’t have wanted this for their son. I promised them. I promised Arn that I’d look after him, that he would always survive… but there’s more to life than just enduring, isn’t there? “A shinobi endures.” Ancestors forgive me, but what an insidious motto that is.’
Once again, Torako had no answer.
‘Ah, I’m rambling.’ Jorra turned away. ‘Never mind.’
He knew her body like a map.
Light olive skin, her hair red like fire. Facial features and muscles equally sculpted. Rich lips. Twin feminine mounds pert, firm, the size of grapefruits. A mole three inches above her navel. Fingers rough but gentle, with nails trimmed for swordsmanship. Her entire length laid out next to him, much of it in her legs, tangled up with his own. Their breaths as one.
Your target.
He opened his eyes and sat up on the bed. No equipment this time. Did Bengakhi expect him to use his bare hands?
He examined the curve of her back into her neck. Her spine. His eyes moved from the thoracic vertebrae to the cervical.
Not so fast, kit. Wait for my orders.
Her eyes opened. Hazel, like Ambarro’s, but different, speckling bright blue and brown in the sunlight.
Sunlight?
Always be aware of your surroundings.
Morning. Dust motes flickering. Late birdsong. Soft sheets, silken. Smelling of them. Bed. Their clothes strewn across the ground. She was always messy. Not her old room in Flavana Manor. The sound of the sea, waves lapping against the shore only a few hundred feet away. Salt in the air. Warm air. Marine currents. Breeze carrying in through the window. Pure white buildings highlighted in the same window. Drying fish and herbs. Spices. Hawkers. Accents. Southern Gold Coast.
A masterwork. Drawn not just from his own memories but also the caster’s, along with all the knowledge required to make the little details. Complete immersion of the senses. The tell-tale, dreamlike signs of obfuscation were still there, and he only needed to bring his own magicka to bear to dissolve the imagery, however masterful it was – but that wasn’t the point of the exercise.
Do not think of it as an exercise, kit.
Of course. After all, even if it was real-
‘Harrow?’
He blinked.
‘I never get over how quietly you wake up.’ Her laugh was as strong and hearty as ever, but the quality of her voice had changed somewhat. There were new lines to her face. A full adult’s face. ‘Scratch that, how you do anything without making a noise. But I can chalk it down to all that training, eh?’
‘Harrow,’ he repeated in a daze. ‘You just said my- and you- my training-’
‘Oh no.’ She was at his side in a flash, holding him, their scents mingling. He could taste the sweat on her arms. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- damnit, I’m an idiot, idiot, idiot. You don’t have to worry about them anymore, all right? The here and now. Focus on the here and now… you’re with me. You’re all right. I’m here. Harrow…’
‘Harrow. My name is Harrow…’ But that couldn’t – her heart was still beating.
‘That’s what you said that day too.’ Her eyes were shining, dancing, damp. Her arms were tightening, cradling him, rocking him back and forth. ‘But none of that matters now, okay? That life – it’s done looming over our heads. It’s all over. All over…’
‘Sabina-’
The girl was small. Five or six years old. Her voice tremulous but bold.
‘Mama? Is something wrong?’
Sabina put on her tough face. He’d always loved-
No, you didn’t. You never did.
Sabina put on her tough face. ‘Your father’s just having one of his episodes again.’
The girl clambered onto the bed. Her pout was extraordinary. He must’ve taught her how to use one for maximum effect himself.
‘Papa, if you made Mama cry, I’ll never forgive you!’
Her eyes were hazel, like her mother’s. Her hair was black, though, and the same texture as his. Her lips were Sabina’s, but she had his heart-shaped face and slanted brows. They had the same nose, too – the most prominent of features.
Blend in. Don’t do anything until I command you otherwise.
‘I’m sorry,’ he smiled. ‘I just… get a bit confused in the mornings.’
Sabina breathed a heavy sigh of relief and hugged him even closer before releasing him and sliding off the bed. ‘If you’re not up to making breakfast, you don’t have to force yourself…’
‘Nonsense. When it comes to being a housewife, I’m still in perfect condition.’
The daughter tugged at Sabina’s nightdress. ‘Mama, is Papa a girl?’
‘We’ve talked about this already,’ Sabina said patiently. ‘You and I have girl parts. Papa has boy parts. Papa’s a boy, you see?’
‘But he does girl things! And he’s so pretty! He’s prettier than you, Mama!’
Sabina shot him an exasperated glare. ‘Yeah, and apparently half the town thinks we’re a couple of deviant women.’
‘Mama, what’s a dee-vee-unt?’
‘Oh no. We’re not going down that rabbit hole just yet, young lady. Come on now.’ Sabina led the girl towards the door. ‘You haven’t brushed your teeth yet, haven’t you? We’ll do it together.’
‘No fair! Why does Papa get to not brush his teeth?’
‘Papa’s body is very different from ours...’
‘Is it because he’s a boy? Can boys not brush their teeth? I want to be a boy!’
‘Some of them don’t, but their breath starts to stink when they don’t brush. It’s the same for girls, too-’
‘Papa’s breath doesn’t stink! It smells better than yours!’
‘Yes, well, Papa’s body is different in other ways – wait, my breath smells?’
He fried up bacon and eggs in butter as Sabina freshened up with their daughter. The bacon was thick-cut and just a little crunchy; the eggs lightly brown on one side and slightly runny on the other, the yolks perfectly melty, creamy, quivering on top. He toasted some bread on the pan, making good use of the last sizzles. He set out three plates and made tea. Red, a High Rock breakfast leaf. Her favourite.
They ate. The girl shared Sabina’s tableside manners, yellow yolk staining both sides of her face as she munched noisily. Sabina was grinning as she stacked another slice of bacon on top of her egg on top of her toast.
Now. Execute. And use your lightning.
Harrow stood up slowly, sliding his chair back into place. Sabina looked up.
She saw his eyes. He saw hers. And he knew that she knew.
‘You don’t have to,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘They don’t control you anymore… you’re not a weapon, not their slave, not just a thing that they-’
‘I am a shinobi,’ Harrow said calmly. ‘And I will always be just a thing.’
‘Papa?’
‘Sweetheart, get behind me.’
‘Ma-’
‘Get behind me now!’ Sabina yelled, picking up her butter knife. In her practiced hands, it might have been able to do some damage – but then again, it wasn’t real.
And if it was real, kit, would it make a difference?
‘No, sir,’ Harrow said. ‘Everything for the village. Anything for the village.’
His hands flared up, sizzling, crackling like the bacon in the pan. The air flashed with purple and blue. The girl was shrieking now.
Good, Harrow, very good…
His praise made him shiver with pleasure.
‘Papa!’
‘No – not our baby!’
‘I can’t have children. I will never be able to have children.’
‘Harrow,’ Sabina was sobbing along with her daughter. ‘I love-’
He unleashed the electricity and drowned out her cries.
‘I don’t. I never could. I never deserved to.’
Bengakhi made sure they screamed.
He made sure their flesh crisped off in calcified flakes. Made sure their skeletons were illuminated through each flash of energy and made sure they charred. Made sure every smell, every wisp of smoke, every major detail of the moment matched reality; made sure his and Harrow’s imagination shaped everything in between.
The illusion had no safeguards and placed no emphasis on maintaining control. Easy to break if the subject was inclined to do so. Undoubtedly a technique inspired by the nightmare induction spells of Vaermina cultists. They were most often used on unconscious victims and didn’t always work even on the weak-willed, but since Harrow was a willing participant-
Willing-
Jorra staggered back from the doorframe, wrenching his consciousness out of the streams of magicka, gasping, the tears beginning to stream down his cheeks. ‘No, stop it…!’
Bengakhi was still hunched over in the centre of the dojo, a finger pressed firmly against Harrow’s forehead, in between his eyebrows, sending a continuous river of magic into and around the kneeling elven boy’s brain.
‘You are interrupting the exercise,’ Bengakhi rumbled. ‘And you were intruding into my illusion. I do not take kindly to either-’
‘You call this- you call this an exercise?’ Jorra rasped, shaking. ‘Forcing this sick farce on-’
‘Forcing? Harrow came to me. He needed another session to allay the doubts that had sprouted during the New Year’s Festival. Now leave. And mind your tongue.’
‘Another sess-’ Jorra took another step back, feeling his chest hollow out. ‘All those personal lessons, all that specialised training he was talking about… this is what you’ve been doing with him all this time? This is what you’ve been doing to him… all… these… years?’
Bengakhi nodded. ‘It’s been hard work, but he has come a long way-’
‘Harrow!’ Jorra shouted. ‘Harrow, wake up – snap out of it!’
Harrow’s face was tilted slightly back. His eyes were rolled up into his head. His mouth was slightly open. And Jorra felt his heart clog shut as he saw that he was smiling, an unspeakably beatific sigh escaping his lips.
‘I must finally admit it,’ Bengakhi said as he stood up and left Harrow in the dream. ‘You were right from the beginning, Jorra. He will be an excellent Shadeclaw.’
Jorra continued to shake as he stood there, his frame outlined through the open door as his blue fur rose and rippled and his joints shifted. A choking hiss issued from his throat.
‘No...’ The advisor’s words lowered to a murmur as he ignored Jorra and turned back to look down at Harrow. ‘He will be our best.’
‘BENGAKHIIIIII!’
Jorra’s howl was feral. It echoed three times across the screens of the dojo as he burst through the doorway, paper panels exploding into splinters as he closed the distance in a tenth of a second. The claws on his right hand popped out as he moved immediately into a slanted uppercut slash.
It was Goutfang, sudden and unexpected, and although Bengakhi was more than fast enough to read and dodge the attack he failed to think another two moves ahead. Jorra halted the momentum of the claw strike even as it sailed past Bengakhi’s snout and executed a half-turn – not clockwise but counterclockwise, snapping his body in the opposite direction like Argonian rubber and whirling on his left foot as he switched his hind leg, sweeping high with his right. The principle was Whispering Fang but he put his hips and waist behind it, supplementing the speed of the kick with the sheer power of Rawlith Khaj.
Bengakhi had raised his right arm to block and extended his left arm to counterattack, but Jorra had already completely reversed his motion. His heel smashed into the advisor’s jaw.
Even Bengakhi’s skeletal structure couldn’t withstand such force. The impact sent his head cracking ninety degrees to the left. A spurt of blood splattered across the wooden planks of the floor as the giant Po’ Tun toppled to the side and landed hard. A split premolar bounced to the other end of the dojo.
Bengakhi fell silent. His lower jaw lolled weakly off his skull. It was dislocated.
‘Enough. You’re done with Harrow. I’ve had enough,’ Jorra snarled, his mane and tail standing straight up as he crouched low. The claws of his left hand slid out of their sheathes, their tips glinting razor sharp. ‘Understand? I’ve had enough, you sack of shit!’
Still prone, the advisor let out a huff. Then he rose, an ocean of muscle rippling underneath his robes as he worked his jaw and locked the bone back into place using nothing but his facial tendons. He spat out another tooth. And then he crouched low as well.
‘Language,’ Bengakhi said, and struck.
Comments