The Wrath of Silver Wolf (10 page)

A completely different woman stood over her
now, still middle-aged but aglow with a frightening
vigour. Her appearance was more youthful, her
stare bright . . . and filled with ruthless aggression.
Snowhawk stopped struggling. She had to save
her strength.

Think! And do it fast.
Brute force was not going
to get her out of this.

She always kept a tiny flat blade in a sheath deep
inside her belly-wrap. It was an old habit, instilled
by her former clan. If cornered and disarmed, a
Fuma agent was expected to take their own life,
the unwavering penalty for failing a mission.

If she could only get to it now, it might serve
the opposite purpose. She could cut her way out of
this quilt. Then, once free, she'd stand a very good
chance because whoever this mystery shinobi
attacker was, the scheming hag appeared not to
be armed.

Hah! Snowhawk summoned up her resolve.
No weapon, eh? This agent didn't know who she
was dealing with! That insulting underestimation
was going to cost her.

The hovering woman raised one eyebrow.
'Look what I have for you.'

After sliding her feet out to stretch the fabric
tighter across Snowhawk's throat, the stranger
carefully drew twin war fans from her kimono.
They instantly
popped
open, bright green with
black iron spokes. Each spoke tapered into a sharp
point.

Fixing her victim with a superior smile, the
attacker flexed her fans.

'Don't resist me, child. Cuts from these fan
spikes are very fine, very shallow, they won't kill
you . . . just make you sleep for your journey
home
to Fuma . . . with Kagero.'

Moonshadow yawned again and turned over on
his bedroll. His room was tiny, its cool air still,
the light dim now that most of the corridor lamps
were also out. He stretched. Why, despite feeling
wrung-out, couldn't he sleep?

Was Snowhawk asleep yet?

It felt like an hour since the innkeeper had led
her away to her room. He sighed. Snowhawk! It
was probably just as well they hadn't been roomed
next door to each other. Exhausted or not, they
might have ended up talking for half the night.
Again.

He couldn't always follow how her mind
worked, but he loved their conversations, the
many random topics, Snowhawk's particular way
of looking at things. Moon rolled over and put his
hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling's
pool of black shadow.

Life was strange. In just a matter of weeks she
had turned into the best friend he had ever had.
Despite their occasional awkward moments, he
never
wanted to stop talking with her. Or looking
at her. Whenever she laughed, which grew more
frequent as time passed, a little light came on in
her eyes. The very idea that he had triggered it
made him feel important and powerful in a whole
new way, every single time.

He didn't understand it. But that didn't matter.
It felt right.

One nagging concern made him frown. What
would happen when the White Nun met her?
Would the great seer validate Snowhawk as the
latest member of the Grey Light Order? She had
to! But what if instead –

His residue-enhanced hearing picked up a
distant, muffled sound.

What was that?
Moonshadow rose up on one
elbow, hanging his mouth open to stretch his
hearing even further. Over the background
mutter of the river came a sound of impact. Moon
flinched. It came from the direction Snowhawk
and the innkeeper had gone!

He vaulted from his bedroll to his feet.

So that was why they had been roomed so far
apart in an empty inn. He snarled.

An ambush!

Quickly he slid open the door. Louder sounds
now, again from the river side of the inn, pierced
the thin walls and paper screens. Multiple strong
impacts, the unmistakable signs of a violent
struggle in progress.

Moonshadow ran down the corridor, ever
louder
thuds
and
whacks
leading him.

At the end of the passage lay two sliding doors,
one to the right, one to the left.

The right-hand door was made up of strips of
cedar framing opaque waxed paper. Through it
came the diffused glow of a wall-lamp and across
its squares ran wild, shifting shadows. His heart
began pounding. Snowhawk
was
under attack.

Opposite her room, the left-hand door – made
of solid, dark wood – led outside.

It leads to the river.
With that thought, an intense
wave of light-headedness rolled over him. Moon's
legs turned weak and he sank to one knee in the
corridor, just paces from Snowhawk's room.

Go outside
, a voice in his head echoed. It was
his own voice, but not his thoughts.

Moonshadow grunted and shook his head hard,
trying to make it disappear.

See what's outside
, the voice said firmly.
You
know you want to.

'No I don't,' he said aloud through gritted
teeth, 'Snowhawk –'

Suddenly he
did
want to go outside. Leaning
on the corridor wall, Moon struggled back to his
feet. With each breath, the irrational urge to
use the door on the
left
expanded like a smoke
bomb's cloud, attacking his reason, willing him
to obey.

No! Moonshadow argued with the compulsion.
I-will-not. He cursed, hanging his head. He would
force himself
to stride, one grinding step at a time,
to
her
door.

Moon looked up at the end of the corridor. His
face creased with horror.

Now there was only one door: the door that
led outside. Opposite it, where Snowhawk's paper-squared
door had been, stood a solid wall of heavy-looking
dark timber reinforced with vertical
beams.

Moonshadow blinked, reeling with confusion.
What was happening?

Go outside now
, the voice urged.
To the river.
Then you will understand
.

His feet began to move of their own accord.
Moonshadow looked down at them, his mouth
twisting. Another wave of light-headedness struck
him, stronger than the last.

He staggered forward and fell against the door
leading outside, to the river.

'Snowhawk,' Moon murmured. His hands
gripped the solid sliding door. He had no say in
it; he was going outside, though with all his heart
and mind he didn't want to.

A dreadful awareness dawned on him. Where
it came from, he had no idea.

He was going down to the river. It was simply
meant to be. It was his fate.

There, something ancient, inhuman and nasty
would be waiting for him.

Moonshadow tried to say her name again, but
instead, he opened the door.

A sound broke the lull: like a person blowing hard
through pressed lips.

Kagero's eyes flared with surprise. The tip of a
small, flat blade flashed along a perfectly straight
line towards her feet, the quilt peeling open behind
it. Kagero hunched closer and peered.

Grunting, sweaty and red-cheeked, Snowhawk
drove the knife up in line with her own shoulder,
cutting the taut band of fabric pinning her
throat.

Its last bundle of threads gave way with a
snap.
Snowhawk hissed and glared up at Kagero,
anticipation glazing her eyes. The bounty hunter
hesitated, as if in disbelief, as her former victim
dropped the knife.

Snowhawk arched her back, brought her knees
to her chest and planted her palms at her sides.
With a roar she swung her feet up and then thrust
backwards, rolling into a handstand that quickly
became a double back-kick.

One foot glanced off Kagero's wrist, ramming
her fans together and off to one side. The other foot
connected hard directly under her chin. Kagero
stumbled backwards, snatched at her upper throat
and coughed. Her eyes narrowed furiously.

'I hope that hurt!' Snowhawk landed on both
feet, snatched up the knife and skipped side –
ways to her pack and unused bedroll. Watching
Kagero warily, she sank to one knee and thrust
a hand into the mouth of the rolled-up reed
traveller's mat.

'Stop! You
are
full of surprises, child.' The
bounty hunter grimaced hard and raised her fans,
blocking the door in a warlike stance. 'But don't
you
dare
try drawing that sword.' Deftly snagging
the edge of her lapel with one fan, Kagero pulled
her kimono top open a finger's length.

Snowhawk saw a pouch inside, bristling with
curve-bladed Fuma shurikens.

'Let's not escalate the weapons.' Kagero winked.
'You're worth more alive.'

'Slimy old dragon,' Snowhawk shouted,
'I trusted you! I let you give me advice!'

'Aw, so
now
I'm old, you insincere little
squirrel!' Kagero curled her lip. 'And don't
disrespect my advice. On the road home to the
Fuma's mountain fortress, I'll give you some more
if you like. What? Don't pull that face! Even
people I've later killed have said I give excellent
advice. I once helped one of my employers with his
marriage!'

'And later slew his wife, I bet!' Snowhawk felt
herself erupt with fury. It was beyond her control,
again
. 'May death find all the Fuma! Don't you
ever call those rat-hole caves
home
! You want to
go home? I'll send you!' She heard her own voice
arc into an explosive, nerve-stretching shriek. Its
intensity disturbed her, yet the rage plumed on.
'I'll send you on your final journey! Across the
River Sai to the land of the dead!'

Kagero's face again betrayed surprise as
Snowhawk leapt at her, flying fast and high,
slashing wildly with her tiny knife. The bounty
hunter closed the fans and ducked, turning
sideways and rolling along the reed mat into the
heap of slashed quilting.

Snowhawk hurtled over her, crashing into the
door of cedar planks and paper.

It tore and splintered apart, debris whirling
around Snowhawk as she burst through it and
landed in the corridor. She cartwheeled down the
passageway, flicking small broken sticks of wood
into the air. Using only one arm as she wheeled,
Snowhawk slashed behind her with the knife in
case Kagero was pursuing closely. She landed and
turned. Her attacker had not followed. Why?

Panting, eyes on the doorway, Snowhawk
waited for her nemesis to appear.

Still nothing. Instinctively, she backed away
down the corridor, knees bent, feet gliding slowly
without making a sound.

Her heart had already skipped several beats. Now
the full realisation of her plight made it pound like
a distant war drum. Unless her attacker was telling
a pointless lie, she was facing
the
infamous Kagero.
Long ago, among the Fuma, she'd heard of this
veteran shinobi, raised and trained by her former
clan, now a man-catcher and killer for hire. Kagero
had been one of only a handful of agents to attain
elite status, so respected by their masters, it was said,
that they were permitted – for an almost impossible
sum – to buy their own independence from the clan.
On hearing such tales, Snowhawk had wondered
whether agents that powerful were truly allowed
to buy their freedom out of respect. Or was it that
even their masters came to fear them? This Kagero
was certainly a frightening opponent, and one with
a unique approach to the art of ambush!

Why had she not sensed the presence of
shinobi energy when her disguised attacker
first appeared? Why wasn't she feeling it now?
Snowhawk ground her teeth together. And what
in all the floating worlds made Kagero think
she could be a stalking predator
and
a roving
wise-woman at the same time?

Give your prey
advice
? That was as insulting as
it was mad!

What was that?
Snowhawk's head inclined
quickly. Her eyes flicked up.

The white wooden ceiling panel directly above
her rose. It flashed to one side, vanishing. For an
instant blackness replaced it, then she saw the
soles of white cotton tabi boots and the ripple of a
silk kimono's hem. Out of the dark ceiling Kagero
plunged, feet aimed for Snowhawk's shoulders,
trying for the oldest shinobi take-down in the
scrolls.