The Rokkoh Adventures

Rokkoh and the Old Woman, Chapter 5

"How many times do you think they rehearsed that?" I ask in the same fashion.

"At least all morning."

"Definitely."

"GRAAH!" Nana chimes in, loud.

"And if we don't?" Max calls out to them. The tiger sounds off again in response, a thunder in our ears.

Max and I look to each other, nod, and dismount. I tell Nana to stay on the horse, and she seems to understand; she does not reach out to me or attempt to crawl off. We meet between the horses, slow steps approaching the painted ones. Only the sound of our footfalls on the dirt play with the feline's rumble, the birds gone. We stop a few yards away, Max's hand going to his pouch of coins. He hesitates there, his fingers caressing the leather. A devious smile grows on his face, and so does mine.

"Not used to slaying this kind of pussy, but it's worth a try," he jokes.

"So crude," I comment.

We both draw our swords and take stance. The tiger growls louder, and the men offer harsh noises of their own. The tiger sets back, hungry murder in its eyes as it readies to pounce. A sound cuts through then, innumerous avian voices crying out. A confusion replaces our foes' malice, their eyes drifting beyond Max and me. We follow, certain of no misdirection on their part. Back between the horses stands Nana, coat shaken off and rail-thin arms held out to either side. Chin down, those blind eyes target the trio. Sitting on the tree branches, the road, and her arms alike is a cacophony of birds. Different colors and sizes make up the party, but each look on with the same wicked intent.

"WAR!" Nana bellows, an unnatural deep and guttural command that sends my heart cold and racing.

The birds take flight at the word. Soaring together, they block out the sun for a moment before descending upon the white tiger. It runs into the plain, hissing and swiping at them. As it bloodies one, another takes its place. The cat shrieks, terrified desperation. But the birds are fearless and do not yield. Pecking, biting, clawing, crimson sprouts amongst the white fur.

More frustration, an enraged mourning, comes from the men. They leap, daggers slashing in greed and anger. My attacker holds his weapon in his right hand, the blade coming close but not quite enough to pierce my heart. With my free left hand, I smack his arm away. The short and slim blade flies to his other hand, and he brings it down on my sword arm. A slit of scarlet spreads there, staining the white cloth. My fist around the hilt of the sword tightens, bolting the black lines on his face. The hit knocks him back a few steps, the dagger switching hands once more to lay a protective hand on the impact point. Despite the sting in my arm, I swing my blade as it remains high. A stream lets loose at his ear, a chunk of the thing sliding down the sword and leaving a crimson trail.

A gloved hand rises to hold the new little river at bay. My sword rises again and crashes down on the dagger, sending it flying to the dirt. He cries out, pulling the newly disarmed hand in close to his chest. A heavy foot lands in his gut, sending him back a few feet, breathless. A shaky, bloody hand reaches out. Tendrils of scarlet inch toward me, twisting and turning in the air. The shapeless form tightens in a snap and becomes a long length of crimson chain. The painted one thrusts it out, fast as an arrow. With a swing of my sword I try to parry it, but to no avail. The blood chain finds my neck, wraps itself there in a tight coil, and like a vicious viper squeezes. What little breath in me chokes in my lungs, setting them ablaze. Frantic, desperate, dying, I claw at the constriction. My fingernails find the sanguine hard as steel and just as ruthless. A cold breath of futile weakness fills my veins and drops me to my knees. Stars burst to life and die in my vision, pockets of black holes forming where they may.