Outlaw:Champions of Kamigawa mg-1 Page 2

  He had been told that he was disarmingly handsome in a boyish sort of way, but only by people he had bested and who were trying to explain how. Besides, to date, his face had never gotten him out of a dangerous situation.

  To his mild surprise, the nezumi were not heading south, away from the Daimyo's stronghold, but north toward it. This meant they were not after salvage from the blasted cities and villages surrounding the stronghold but rather something that someone still owned and cared about. Toshi nodded to himself. Good. Maybe this job would be worth hijacking after all.

  He followed the nezumi for another hour as they skulked across the wasteland. He began to feel more positive about his prospects-the nezumi weren't even searching for valuables among the broken storefronts and once-opulent manor houses along the way. Wherever they were going, whatever they were after, it was worth more than an average night's looting.

  He also caught a glimpse of Marrow-Gnawer, a prominent rat with a small measure of respectability back in the Marsh. Toshi had worked with Marrow-Gnawer and against him over the years, and he was both smart and strong for a nezumi. Marrow-Gnawer kept to the head of the column, leading the others, and Toshi smiled. Marrow-Gnawer did dangerous work, but it was always worth the risk. As the leader of the party, Marrow-Gnawer was also the only one Toshi had to worry about impressing when it came time to assert his claim on the evening's activity.

  Toshi slowly peered around a cornerstone before continuing. Ahead, the nezumi had stopped and were clustering together in the mouth of an alley. As the others disappeared into the alley, Marrow-Gnawer and an unfamiliar nezumi had a conversation that was quickly becoming an argument.

  All the signs were there-they stood face to face, shoulders hunched, ragged teeth exposed, their strange, pointed faces jittering up and down. Toshi could not clearly hear what they were saying, but after a few moments Marrow-Gnawer swatted the other on the ear and shoved him into the alley.

  Toshi was impressed at how quickly and quietly Marrow-Gnawer had decided the matter. Toshi had hired nezumi as backup for the odd job here and there, and he never got them to obey so readily without dire threats, blasphemous curses, and the occasional crippling injury.

  He waited as Marrow-Gnawer scanned the area and led his brothers into the alley. If his own experience held true, Toshi knew that the nezumi would cram themselves into the smallest possible area and wait for the man with the plan to arrive and tell them what to do next.

  Toshi stood up and crept out into the street. All he had to do was insinuate himself into the rat pack before the ringleader showed up and force Marrow-Gnawer to purchase Toshi's noninterference… or better still, Toshi could tag along for an equal share. The hardest part of any score was in identifying the opportunity, which in this case was already complete.

  When he was close enough to hear their hushed, ragged whispers, Toshi cleared his throat. The sounds in the alley died away. Toshi drew his jitte from his belt, tossed it end over end, and whistled as he strode into the alleyway.

  Toshi caught the spiked truncheon by the handle as the first nezumi attacked. The rat-man latched on to Toshi's free arm with his small, powerful hands, but before the dirty claws could cut Toshi's skin, the ochimusha casually clouted the rat between the eyes with the long end of his jitte.

  The first nezumi fell and Toshi followed, dropping to one knee. Now at eye level with the ratfolk, he caught a filthy, rusted dagger in the hook of his jitte and snapped the blade off with a sharp twist. Reversing the weapon, he drove its handle deep into the stabber's midsection. The second nezumi let out a wheeze and fell onto his side.

  "Quit, Marrow-Gnawer," Toshi hissed. "Or the next one doesn't get up."

  "Be still!" Marrow-Gnawer's voice was like a rasp on glass. The other nezumi stopped where they were, red eyes blazing in anger. Marrow-Gnawer stomped up to Toshi and shoved the larger man off-balance before Toshi could rise to his full height.

  "Get lost, stupid Toshi! You'll get us all killed."

  "Hello, vermin." Marrow-Gnawer seemed more frightened than angry, so Toshi decided to overlook being shoved for now. He pushed the little rat-man aside and got to his feet. "I'll keep it simple, so you can explain it to your friends. You're up to something. I'm in."

  "No, no, no. This is bad and you are stupid. Go away, Toshi."

  Toshi paused. This was not standard nezumi behavior. No threats, no craven whimpering, no fleeing to round up reinforcements. Was Marrow-Gnawer bent on keeping tonight's score for himself?

  "We deal," Toshi said. "And I'm in for one-tenth of the take. No haggling. A fair share."

  Marrow-Gnawer sneered. "Fifteen of us. Sixteen, with you. And you get one-tenth?"

  Toshi smiled, and his green eyes flashed. "I could kill a few of you to even things out. Or maybe I'll just make a whole lot of noise-rouse the go-yo squads so that nobody gets anything."

  "No constables," Marrow-Gnawer snarled. "Big job, secret." His eyes were darting nervously.

  "Think it over, then," Toshi said. "You and your pack get nine-tenths or you get nothing. I'm offering you a bargain."

  "That's a fool's bargain, sir, even for a nezumi." The new voice was hollow but sharp, like a stage whisper. It echoed off the bricks and resonated in Toshi's ears.

  "Stand aside, Marrow-Gnawer. I will attempt to renegotiate with this young entrepreneur."

  The ratfolk leader locked eyes with Toshi, his expression woeful. "Oh, good. Now we die. You, me, we, all die. Thanks, stupid Toshi."

  Toshi turned to the voice at the back of the alley. Two hooded, robed figures stepped into the quickly fading sunlight. They were tall and narrow-shouldered, with large, oddly shaped heads. Something about that cold, hollow voice and the nezumi's reaction put a lump of suspicious dread in Toshi's stomach.

  "You must be the brains behind this endeavor," he called airily. "Allow me to offer my-"

  "Your head?" The figure on the left reached up and pulled back his hood with his thin, white fingers. His pale face was small and angular, with a series of tattoos across the eyebrow ridges. His long, floppy ears were twisted around his head like a turban, and also tattooed. The markings on his head and ears moved and shifted like a line of tiny dancers.

  "Because if you're offering your head, I think we can come to an arrangement very quickly. One less ochimusha lowlife will hardly be a blow to the community. Eitoku?"

  Toshi swallowed hard. This shinobi was a soratami. No wonder Marrow-Gnawer was so anxious: working with them was as uncertain and as dangerous as balancing on the end of a poisoned blade.

  The second hooded figure drew a long katana from beneath his robe and tossed back his own hood. This moonfolk was a bushi, a warrior. He was silent but visibly furious, and he clearly knew how to use his sword.

  As the soratami bushi stepped forward, Toshi said, "Some other time." Then, he quickly dropped and punched the tip of his jitte down through Marrow-Gnawer's foot. He yanked it free immediately and then kicked the screaming nezumi into the center of the ratfolk gang, between himself and the soratami. The rats went wild in fury and panic, and the alley exploded into a mass of hissing, thrashing bodies.

  With Marrow-Gnawer's blood still dripping from the tip of his weapon, Toshi scrawled a kanji symbol on the pavement stones.

  "Smoke," he read silently, focusing both will and magic through the symbol, giving them form and substance.

  There was a bright flash of light and a geyser of foul-smelling black ash. Toshi grabbed another ratfolk by the tail and slung him into the confusion. Then he turned and sprinted back toward the marsh.

  Even as he ran, Toshi cursed his luck. What were moonfolk doing with nezumi in the first place? It was like the Daimyo's elite guard recruiting blind, legless madmen for the infantry. Times must be tough for them to come slumming among the ruins.

  He'd heard some tall tales about the moonfolk in action, but no one he knew ever claimed to have seen anything first hand. The soratami were notoriously good at going unseen and undetected-so good
that they were more like rumors than real people. Even if you did well for them, you were likely to wind up dead, just to sever any links between them and their crimes.

  Toshi ducked around another corner, complicating his trail as much as possible while continuing to put distance between himself and the moonfolk. He sincerely hoped they weren't as good at seeking as they were at hiding.

  A gleaming steel spike suddenly sprouted from the pave stone in front of him. Toshi stopped short, his eyes darting up. He caught a glimpse of a dark, two-toed sandal and a pale white foot before a forearm clamped around his throat and hauled him off the ground.

  Make a note, he thought. They are good at seeking.

  Unable to breathe, his vision rimmed in red, Toshi fumbled with his jitte. The iron arm tightened across his windpipe and his captor shook him, trying to dislodge the weapon. Toshi slit the gray cloth over his thigh as he tried to hold onto the jitte. The sharp tip scored angry red lines across his flesh.

  With one final shake, the jitte fell. Toshi felt his sword belt being torn away, and then the cold embrace of the stone wall as his face slammed into it. The pressure around his throat vanished, but that same grip now held his head immobile against the wall.

  A practiced hand searched his body for any hidden weapons, and then a hollow voice whispered, "He is now unarmed."

  The soratami shinobi spoke from overhead. "Thank you, Eitoku. Turn him to me."

  Toshi was roughly spun around as Eitoku manhandled him into the center of the alley. The moonfolk warrior grabbed both Toshi's elbows and forced them to touch behind the ochimusha's back.

  "Easy there, whitey," Toshi growled. Wincing, he struggled until Eitoku slammed him into the wall again, all the while maintaining the pressure on Toshi's arms. The soratami bushi dragged him into the center of the alley once more and held him upright.

  The moonfolk shinobi floated down from above, both feet now shrouded in small silver clouds. His face was calm, almost amused. His eyes were wide and cold. "Marrow-Gnawer and his brothers have withdrawn, but we shall visit them soon. In the interim, I will ask you one question, lowlife, and ask it only once."

  "Could you make it a history question? I'm good at those."

  Eitoku squeezed Toshi's elbows together and the ochimusha winced again.

  The shinobi floated closer. "What are you doing here?"

  Toshi struggled for a moment. "Sorry, was that the question? I wasn't ready."

  Eitoku sent him on another trip to the wall. Toshi left some of his blood on the jagged stones.

  "He knows nothing," Eitoku said. "Kill him and be done with it."

  Toshi spat blood, careful to miss the floating moonfolk. No sense in being overly rude. "I know you don't want to mess with me. It's not healthy."

  The shinobi drifted back and rose slightly above Toshi. "Oh? And who protects you, ochimusha lowlife? What kami answers your prayers?"

  Toshi smiled through a mouthful of blood. "I take care of myself."

  "Then you'd best get started. Eitoku," the floating moonfolk began to rise, rotating so his back was to Toshi, "you may kill him now."

  To Toshi's surprise, Eitoku turned him loose before administering the death blow. True, the moonfolk warrior had every reason to be confident. Toshi was unarmed, his arms weren't working well, and the left side of his face was swollen and bleeding. But in the fen society where Toshi and the nezumi lived, confidence killed many accomplished warriors.

  Toshi didn't even try to defend himself. His shoulders were too sore and his arms too drained of blood to do him any good. He simply stood facing the soratami bushi, taking solace from the fact that even if the moonfolk had stabbed from behind, the end result would be the same.

  Eitoku's sword was a gleaming whisper in the dark. It punched through Toshi's chest but did not come out of his back, even though Eitoku jammed the blade in all the way up to the hilt.

  The kanji Toshi had carved into his own thigh flashed. The cold gray light was reflected in his eyes and on his chest, where Eitoku's sword was lodged. The ochimusha smiled.

  "That looks like it hurts." He glanced down at the blade in his torso, then back up at Eitoku. "Does it?"

  The soratami's mouth hung open and his eyes went glassy. His jaw bobbed, but no sound came out. A line of brackish purple formed in the center of his chest, and Eitoku clutched at it with one hand as his pulled the sword free with the other. Warrior and blade alike then dropped loudly to the ground.

  Almost instantly, a silver spike sprouted from Toshi's forehead. Above him, the floating moonfolk gasped. Then he, too, came crashing down, landing in an undignified heap of robes and twisted limbs. A small, perfect hole adorned his forehead.

  Toshi quickly retrieved his weapons. Both soratami were struggling to move, clawing and grasping at his ankles, but he carefully avoided them. Calmly, casually, he tied his sword belt, repositioned his katana and wakizashi, and sheathed his jitte. From sheer force of habit, he nudged both moonfolk over with his foot and scanned their bodies for valuables.

  There was not much to choose from. Eitoku was wearing a stiff, hardened fabric under his robe, but beyond his own daisho swords that marked him as a samurai, the soratami bushi was unadorned. His partner didn't even have any extra silver spikes to steal, but he was wearing some sort of silver emblem around his neck. As Toshi reached for it, the soratami under him murmured.

  A breeze kicked up and Toshi's well-developed sense of self-preservation kicked in. He hopped back just as a blue glow enveloped both soratami. With a quiet susurrus of sound and light, the two pale figures disappeared.

  "Not that I'm keeping score," he called after the vanished moonfolk, "but right now the ochimusha lowlife from the fen is up on the snooty, whitewashed aristos two-nil."

  Perhaps, came a distorted, disembodied whisper. But the game is far from over.

  Toshi swallowed hard. He dabbed the blood from his thigh and checked the marks he had scratched into his own flesh. The kanji that had reflected the soratami's attacks would last only as long as the blood flowed, and the minor wound was already starting to scab over. It occurred to him that he was alone in the ruins, having antagonized two demigods and the most capable nezumi he had ever met.

  Carefully, he slid into the shadows and quickly headed back to the marsh. If there was ever a prudent time for him to disappear for a while, this was it.

  His mind worked furiously as he plotted out the details. He needed a few things from his hovel. He needed to make some small arrangements before he went. But once those minor errands were run, it was well past time for a change of scenery.

  Silent as a shadow, Toshi slipped out of the ruins and into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 2

  Toshi climbed down the side of a rocky mud-hill that separated the Takenuma Swamp from the edge of the old city. The ruined buildings on the higher ground had been slowly leveled by twenty years of the Kami War, but his own home had been a wasteland for far longer. As his feet sank into the swamp, he looked out over acres of oily water and fetid marsh.

  "Home sweet home," he muttered. He trudged through the watery mud, keeping a careful eye out for hostile spirit manifestations. They came most often to the ruins directly outside the Daimyo's stronghold, but lately the attacks had been spreading outward, increasing in frequency and scope.

  Though now little more than a rotten bamboo forest struggling out of a thick, noisome ooze, the marsh had once been a thriving village. The story of its rapid slide into decrepitude varied depending on the teller. The nezumi said that the fen was a paradise for their kind until the Daimyo's human ancestors came and ruined it. The local cult ofjushi wizards told of a spell cast generations ago by a handful of ogre mages-the intent was to construct a breeding ground and hunting preserve for the terrible demonic oni they worshiped, but the end result was just another cursed cesspit.

  Still, Toshi thought, the fen provided a haven for people like him: the fallen and the forgotten. Most of the marsh residents were barred from the
Daimyo's society, unwelcome in the wilds, and unwilling to take up the hard, violent, and frequently short life of a bandit. The swamp had its own society with its own rules and castes, but unlike the rest of the world, they were self-enforced and easy to circumvent with impunity… provided you had the wit and the power.

  The old city vanished into the yellow, sulfurous mist behind him as Toshi marched on. His own shack was in the southeast quarter, on the edge between Boss Uramon's turf and a large nezumi village. If Toshi kept west and circled around, he would minimize the chances of meeting one of Marrow-Gnawer's people. This would take him into jushi territory, but he was on excellent terms with several of the cult's more powerful wizards. It would be relatively easy to negotiate his way past if they stopped him.

  Up ahead, the mist parted and Toshi caught sight of a pair of armed sentries standing under a tall torch. The male sentry bore a huge no-dachi battle sword strapped across his back and crude plate armor over his shoulders and chest. He also sported a metallic, wide-brimmed hat and a black scarf over his nose and mouth. The female wore a heavy wrap over a colorful kimono, and a cowl that covered her face and scalp. Her long hair streamed out from under the cowl, reaching down past her elbows. It was a strange purple-black color, and to Toshi, the hair made it seem she was also wearing a cape. The cowled woman had a simple fuetsu axe on her belt and an vivid purple flower embroidered on her shoulder.

  "Hey," Toshi called. "I'm coming through the fog. Don't kill me by accident."

  The male stiffened and put his hand on his no-dachi. The woman unfolded a black and purple fan and gently waved the fog away from her face. Toshi peered carefully through the yellow haze and spotted metal gleaming on each of the fan's spines. It was a tessen, a disguised weapon that could either block an incoming sword or crack the arm that wielded it.

  Toshi stepped out of the fog with his hands held open at his sides. He stared at the woman and the purple flower on her shoulder. He smiled.