The Disfavored Hero by Jessica Amanda Salmonson Page B

traced a repeating double-arc through the air, averting a dart intended for her. Its explosion dazzled her vision momentarily. When the sparkles cleared from her dark eyes, she saw the two magician-ninja rear before her on their slender horses.
    She advanced on them unhesitantly. But the jono priest raised a palm, and suddenly Tomoe could advance no further. Her swords moved like straws through syrup when she tried to carve in the direction of the priest and priestess. The jono priest’s other hand moved, it seemed, to a fold in his robe. Tomoe saw the sliver of a dart between his fingers.
    The jono priestess said, “No, my brother. Let this one go.” Her voice was muffled by the wrappings which covered the top of her head and the lower half of her face; but Tomoe heard the words as clearly as though they’d been whispered directly into her ear. The priest bowed slightly, as though the priestess were the greater authority. Then their steeds spun around, and they vanished in the carnage.
    All around, Tomoe witnessed horrors which drove other samurai mad with fear; but she was unimpressed. The portions of the ghouls which had been severed began to put themselves back together to make still weirder monstrosities. One ghoul’s severed hand ran like a spider along the ground until it found a severed leg. The hand attached itself to the leg’s ankle, then dragged the new burden toward a ghoul who fought from a sitting position, unable to stand on its one remaining leg. The ghoul acquired the new leg, which was too long, causing a posture of whimsical insult as it stood and battled. The hand which served as foot wielded a stone club, with which it pounded samurai toes. Elsewhere, a head walked on two hands, fighting with a hammer in its third. Most terrible of all were the ghouls who fought using parts of fallen samurai, striking terror into the warlords’ forces, who might recognize a friend’s armored hand on a hideously miscellaneous body.
    The sky was brilliant blue. The sun had risen to her highest point for the season, and baked the scene without relent. The warclans were weakening, but the battle could last the entire day before a definitive outcome.
    The enemy’s morale was further ruined by the sight of ghouls lingering near the slain, to feast upon the hearts, testicles and brains of samurai. Disciplined samurai were unafraid of death—but this horrendous disfigurement and ill-use of those who had fallen was beyond comprehension. Proven, hardy warriors dropped their swords or fled. Others fought with concern for personal survival, not for victory or honor.
    The magician-ninja had dwindled the ranks of the ghouls somewhat, and a few samurai had learned to hack the ghouls into pieces too small to find one another again; but in large part the ghouls appeared to be as strong and numerous as when the battle had begun.
    Ushii might have become wearied, but madness kept him unfailing. Tomoe felt little or no effect from the long battle, for her emotional aloofness had let her use the energy she had with mechanical precision. Ushii wore himself out in a whirlwind of activity and slaying; Tomoe was more inexorable in her killing—like a plague, like famine, slower but no less effective and therefore more terrible.
    Unexpectedly she came upon Goro and readied herself for a worthwhile opponent. But he backed away, pushing two rag-clad peasant women who had somehow been caught in this horror. He was trying to save them, though it oughtn’t be his business. Tomoe increased her pace lest he slip away. She knew that he was last of his line, that he was loath to die by alien steel. Yet, as Ushii’s miserable state did not touch her, Goro’s fate was no concern. She intended to slash him along the back, but he spun and blocked her blow, though it was so powerful it unbalanced him and he fell sideways.
    Her next blow would finish him unless, as was possible, he surprised her with some