The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Ten

“What —” Ashne began.

“Shhh,” said Braksya. “Not now.”

He crept to the door, listening. When he was satisfied that the bandits had left, he whispered something — so quickly Ashne thought she must have imagined it — and the wooden barricade outside fell to the ground with a thud.

This time, she caught sight of his snake slithering back up his sleeve again.

Braksya pushed the door. It swung open.

“After you,” he said, beaming.

She resisted the urge to slap the grin off his face and stepped outside into a scene of chaos. A trail of blood and severed parts wound through the streets. The sky, just yesterday a brilliant blue, was now streaked with silver wisps, like an old man’s sparse beard. Bandits and officials bolted past, shouting for help, even as women and children hurried away into the woods, seeking shelter.

At the edge of the village Ashne saw Inhai yelling out orders, waving men to and fro.

Then a great roar echoed through the mountains, shaking the very earth itself. Followed by a long, ear-piercing scream.

A giant bird bolted into the sky from the trees.

Only it was no normal bird. Its beak was long and keen as a blade, and its claws were like a dragon’s — five on each scaled foot. Bright multi-colored plumage trailed behind it like a banner over the remains of a battlefield, and with every flap of its wings, a powerful wind swept through the village.

A sword. She needed a sword. Not far away lay an arm with a blade still clutched in its grasp. She pried it away easily; the fingers were still slick with blood and not yet stiffened. Its balance was uneven, the quality of its metal nowhere near as fine as that of the one the bandits had confiscated from her, nor indeed of her trusty Shenkes. But it was better than nothing.

She spared a moment to mourn the loss of that nameless blade, for it had served her well in their brief time together despite its ignominious origins. In its own way it had perhaps helped her even more than she could say, for had it not led her to its original master in the end, after all?

Now was not the time to wonder which poor swordsmith had been coerced into the prince or the Matron’s services, or if indeed the smith had offered his skills of his own will. Braksya was nowhere to be seen.

The bird swooped down again, its long azure neck twisting and curving in vicious thrusts. Inhai was now swinging her axe through the air with a fierce grin, hair fanning about her face like a dragon’s mane. Neither she nor the bird seemed able touch the other.

“Fire!” shouted Chief Tuanwat from somewhere in the distance. “Use fire! Fire overcomes!”

All around Ashne, men scurried into action. Some were felled by another gust of wind; a few managed to obtain torches but strayed too close to Inhai and the bird and were caught by a stray swipe of a clawed foot.

Ashne stumbled along, watching her footing, searching for Braksya, grateful that both bird and bandits were preoccupied with each other — save for one poor fool of a man who suddenly leaped into her path, spear at the ready.

Her new sword was, unfortunately, quite uncooperative. It cut a wicked path through the air, hindering her efforts to dispatch of the man quickly. Ashne grimaced and adjusted her grip as she jumped back from a barrage of thrusts.

Just her luck, always ending up with the misbehaving ones.

A few more exchanges later, the man slumped to the ground. Ashne risked a quick glance back at the bird again. At some point the swordsman Rahm had joined the fight as well, circling and watching for openings like a waiting viper while Inhai continued to harass the creature. A ring of torch-wielders had gathered around them, alternatively cheering, ducking, and thrusting, trying to drive it away. One of the men was bleeding from his right eye.