Tatsuo dismounted and ran to aid the daimyo.
He passed men hauling buckets of water, attending the
wounded, and calming the horses that had escaped the
barn. Many argued, seeking some treacherous arsonist to
vent their pain upon. But if an enemy had started the
blaze, then they had escaped into the night amidst the
panic. Tatsuo would never learn more.
“The castle is lost! We must stop the fire from reaching
the village!” Lord Soma shouted, staring into the dragon’s heart that had been his home. Coruscating shadows
danced across his face, and as Tatsuo approached, the
daimyo spoke.
“I only wish I could have saved the genealogy,” Lord
Soma said in a haunted voice scarcely heard above the
flames. It was doubtful that even his wife heard him
above the din, despite being at his side, but Tatsuo
heard, and answered.
“Lord, I have never been useful to you. It is my duty to
serve you, and now I finally can be of use. I will retrieve
the genealogy for you,” Tatsuo announced, striding up as
confidently as he could.
The daimyo stared at him with the flames mirrored in
his eyes. His wife was asking for assurances from him as
she tried to calm his heirs at his side, but he ignored her.
Everywhere was chaos, and it seemed that Lord Soma
was trying to process what Tatsuo had offered amidst the
churning madness all around them. Burned men
shrieked in the night, as their friends and the castle
maids tried to balm their wounds. Several young bushi
hacked with swords at nearby brush to prevent the
spread of flame. Men with buckets from the well doused
the ground nearest the flames.
Lord Soma looked past Tatsuo and beheld this
madness, saying nothing.
It was Tatsuo’s duty to oversee the Chiken Marokashi—the genealogy kept in the innermost room of the
castle.
wrapped grip smoked through his clenched fingers.
He stalked toward a water bearer, seized their bucket,
and doused his robes. Then he unsheathed his wakizashi,
and with steel in his hand and his heart, charged toward
the inferno.
*
*
*
The castle gate’s opened like a dragon’s maw, spewing
its caustic volcanic breath. Tatsuo raised his cloak across
his face, cringing in the heat and ignoring the tears that
stung his eyes. He pushed on, vaulting through the
portal as his hair curled and smoked in the coruscating
blaze.
And hell devoured him!
The walls, floors, ceiling—all writhed with orange and
black serpents spitting venomous clouds of smoke. He
moved quickly, the heat scorching his eyes and skin.
Embers charred his sandals as he ran, and the water
steamed from his cloak. Everything was engulfed in
snarls of searing chaos. He sprinted through the volcanic
halls, trying not to stumble as his sandals blistered his
feet. There was no time to be distracted.
He heard the ringing crash of steel as he passed the
armory—one of the weapons racks apparently collapsing—and rounded a corner in the hallways when suddenly a sunburst of pain and exploded across his calves.
The cloak!
He threw it off, fumbling as the fibers stuck to his
sweat-soaked elbows and shoulders. It was like peeling
away his own skin—exposing his raw naked flesh to the
fire’s jaws. Tattoos of red agony blistered up his legs,
across his arms, along his chest, back and groin. He
could no longer tell if the liquid pouring from him was
sweat or blood.
The air choked him, and he coughed, holding his left
arm across his mouth. He beat at the flames with his
sword, clutching it in one hand even as its cloth-
He was almost there, almost to the scroll room, almost—
Timbers creaked overhead. He leapt back, even as the
ceiling beams collapsed, thundering down where he’d
been a moment before! The smoke and noise drowned
his screams as sparks flayed his naked skin.
Tatsuo blinked, dimly aware he’d stopped weeping.
Spots flashed before his vision. As the nimbus of smoke
rolled out like the tide, he was able to see that one of the
ceiling beams blocked his path.
He lunged, slashing down at the beam with a twohanded cut. Pain shot up his arm. He cursed, raised his
arms, and slashed again. Then again. And again. Tatsuo
had never been skilled in the training yard, but now he
brought his wakizashi down like the headsman’s blade,
and the blade thumped into the burning lintel until it
cracked beneath his assault.
Wheezing, he stumbled past the debris. The beautifully
painted screen door to the library was a wall of flame, its
dragons and battlefields consumed by ravenous flicking
tongues. He sliced through the screen of flame and it fell
away, revealing what remained of Lord Soma’s library.
Within was the belly of Avici—hottest and foulest of
the Eight Fiery Hells.
Each of the scrolls lining the walls was alight—the rolls
of knowledge gouting flames, and as the door fell away,
all those lines of crackling heat blazed toward Tatsuo.
He screamed, leaping back but still unable to avoid the
dragon tongues licking his wounds raw.
His chest felt tight as he stepped back into the room,
and he struggled to move, a thrumming in his ears and
behind his eyes, but there, there in the middle of the
room, there was the table with its case, and inside, the
Chiken Marokashi. The table was aflame, and the chest
scorched, but the thick wood had protected the scroll.