Sharp Edges by ChillinVillin

Walking into Battle

In the relative peace of a post-Naraku world, Sesshoumaru stalked the promise of a new battle through the woods. Far from the beaten path, his unhurried pace could have easily been misconstrued as meandering. Indeed, he was prone to aimless wandering; it was a favourable past-time to fill the centuries while allowing him to redefine the borders of his ancestral territory. Today, he was hunting the whispers of a new enemy, intent to squash any new threat before it could blossom into real danger. The tip had come from a respectable source, a scout who had sworn allegiance to him shortly after his father’s death.

He did not want a repeat of Naraku.

Typically, humans were beneath his notice, but he followed their stench through a break in the trees, emerging at the edge of a stream that had been diverted and changed into a deep moat. Beyond it lay a courtyard that teemed with men in armour running drills, and above them rose the imposing figure of a towering fortress that dominated the open sky and cast the courtyard in heavy shadows.

The dark structure was built upon a stone base comprised of sharp corners and clean lines, but the western lord did not stop to marvel at the architecture or to acknowledge the men who rallied at the sight of him. A sharp war cry swelled in the air when he stepped onto the narrow bridge connecting the smooth fortress grounds to the untamed woods. Insects, he thought, as men swarmed together to create a single unit. They lunged at him. He drew poison into his fingertips, pushed the hot sensation down into his claws, and struck at the mob with a single flick of his wrist. They were dead before they reached the water.

Sesshoumaru stepped over their bodies, heedless of the second wave that formed closer to the doorway. The men parted. The troop split like an overripe peach and from the pit stepped a man that gave the daiyoukai pause.

He was clad in armour made from demon bone. Strength radiated from him in turbulent waves. He was a beast of a man: tall and wide and clad in shades of grey. He held an imposing ono in his hand, six feet in length with a head forged of shimmering black metal. He didn’t speak. His intentions were clear when he burst forward and swung the axe at Sesshoumaru.

Sesshoumaru leaped back and the warrior gave chase, swinging his weapon with the full force of his body while the lord ducked and swerved out of the way of the blade. The man still did not speak. His mouth foamed. His eyes were feverishly bright and wild. He smelled like rotting oranges and Sesshoumaru found the scent offensive, even disorienting, as the air rushing around the axe swirled with it.

The world shifted so that his attacker was at its centre. Sesshoumaru at last drew his blade. Bakusaiga was a flash of light that should have skewered the mortal, but the man was impossibly fast. He raised his own weapon to block the sword and smashed Sesshoumaru in the face with the flat end of it. Sesshoumaru staggered. Pain blossomed across his nose. Blood ran, marring white silk.

“What is the meaning of this?” He said.

The mortal – and he was beginning to doubt that this man could be mortal – grinned.

His men launched a barrage of arrows, some flaming and some with heads of that same black metal, and when Sesshoumaru attempted to bat them away, he found his arm stuck full of arrows. Impossible.

His opponent came at him once more and Sesshoumaru was forced to use his sword to deflect. When the axe met Bakusaiga, it did not ring as metal should. The clack was a dull thud, a hollow sound, and the demon blade cracked. It splintered like old wood and a finger-sized chunk broke free.

The warrior smirked. He stepped forward, axe raised above his head.

Desperation drove Sesshoumaru into the attack.

The axe cleaved his shoulder down the bone, but white-hot pain and the memory of feeling like half a warrior without his arm couldn’t stop his claws from slicing through his enemy’s throat.

The delicate skin under the warrior’s jaw split into a red smile, his blood mingling with Sesshoumaru’s as his head fell back, separated from his shoulders, and rolled, still smirking, towards the men who abandoned their purpose and scattered. They dropped into the moat or fled into the tree line. Only a few held their positions, drawn weapons shivering like leaves as they met their fearful deaths in the doorway of a castle that was about to burn.

Sesshoumaru ignored the throbbing pain in his shoulder. He would heal. He crossed the threshold at a leisurely pace, his purpose renewed. Life still thrummed inside the fortress. He methodically cut down anyone who crossed his path. He did not blink at the violence. Those who served men who wished to kill him were as much of a threat as their master. Hate was a disease that was easily spread.

The inside of the fortress was dark. The windowless halls were lit by candles, and a servant attempting to flee knocked into one of the lights, sending the candle crashing to the floor where it licked up the wooden wall and burst into flame. Black smoke raced towards the door. The servant fell victim to his whip.

He carried on amidst shouts, not deaf to the suffering but not touched by it as he gutted the burning fortress of all life.

At the top was a man who owed him answers. Someone, he had been assured, who intended him to fail as the lord of the western lands. It was not the first time his position had been challenged. This was not the first fortress to fall to his claws, either. Word would spread about his strength and it would deter any who held similar intentions.

It needed to be done and the responsibility fell to him alone.

A group of men stood trembling at the stairs. More humans, one easily mistaken for another, all dressed in browns and dull, faded clothes, their hair a muddy sea. Even the thick smoke trailing behind him like an eager pup did not block their unpleasant scent. These were not warriors or soldiers, but valets, cleaning staff, cooks; the heart of the fortress. They were already infected.

“You should have fled,” he said. They looked at him with hate. A few shouted obscenities or choked on their fury. A cook leaped at him with a knife. The man was young, perhaps little more than a boy, and Sesshoumaru simply batted him aside. He rolled when he hit the ground, got his knees under him, and charged again. The others, emboldened by his courage, followed suit, surging down the steps as the fire rounded the corner and licked at Sesshoumaru’s heels. His whip slashed out, culling the mass, and he gripped the boy in his good hand until his neck snapped. He dropped him there, food for the flames, and ascended the staircase.

The upper rooms were silent. The household must have fled at the news of his encounter with the greater warrior out front. For one long moment, he waited, listening for the sounds of life, but was met only by the crackling of the fire as it devoured everything behind him. A portion of the structure collapsed in the distance.

He passed open doors on his way up. They gaped at him like laughing mouths. At the end of the hall was the wet noise of a heartbeat. His hand fell to his broken sword. This would be the man who opposed him. He blasted the door open, ripping it from its track, and froze.

A familiar body was crumpled on the floor. Unconscious, but alive, he surmised as he crossed to her. Inuyasha’s miko, familiar by her bright scent. He inhaled deeply. The smoke dominated the scents of the place, but Inuyasha was impossible to miss and Sesshoumaru couldn’t detect the hanyou anywhere. He tried to remember if he had ever seen the girl without his half-brother.

There wasn’t time to think with the flames raging behind him, but the unexplained ties to his brother made this all seem more menacing than it had been before. Was Inuyasha planning to usurp his rightful role? Or did the person responsible for this want to eliminate both brothers and leave the western lands defenceless against some future onslaught?

“Miko. Get up.” He commanded in sure tones.

The woman offered no answers.

A doll lay next to her, as though she had been playing with it before she fell unconscious. He nudged her with his foot. Her face fell to the side, but she didn’t stir.

The flames reached the door. Its orange fingers stretched along the open frame before it collapsed, and the entire structure gave a sharp whine.

A narrow window beckoned from the end of the room, a small slant of blue sky visible beyond the thick air of the collapsing fortress. He had lingered long enough.

Leaving her behind was an option that was easily discarded. His honour would not allow it. Every step he took away from her was a betrayal of whatever alliance they had held against Naraku, and would upset his ward. Besides, it was strange to find her here when he had been expecting an enemy. The thought occurred to him again that Inuyasha could be behind this, that he’d perhaps chosen to claim Sesshoumaru’s rightful place as he had so much else.

For the answers he knew she must have and for the brief and unpleasant history they shared, he spared her life.

Lifting her with one arm was an awkward task. Her body dangled from his hand and he held her away from him. She did not stir at the jarring movement, didn’t so much as groan at the rough handling, even when he used his foot to kick the wall open wide and the flames behind them gasped at the influx of oxygen and roared up against his back. He stepped out into the sky and the exposed air made goosebumps rise along her flesh. The unseeing eyes of the doll watched them go, its face fixed in a smile as the fire, at last, reached it.

They landed on the ground at the edge of the tree line. The moat was considerable in width; the fire would not be able to jump to the forest.

Ah-Un came at a sharp whistle. He tossed his human burden onto the creatures’ back and gave them a sharp smack to send them trundling forward. Each step made the miko bounce on the saddle. Twice, she slid off. He would turn around at the sound of her hitting the ground only to wrench her back up by the arm and stick her in the seat where she would begin to slide down again.

At last, fatigue won. He slid up onto his dragon behind her, using his thighs to hold her steady.

The thrill of battle was over and he was wounded. His arm burned. At least it is still there. Healing was sure to be more painful than the initial moment of the attack as his flesh hurried to mend itself back together. It would scab and itch within a few days’ time, and he wanted nothing more than to find a dark corner of the world and wait alone to heal, but then the miko fell back against him. She jostled his shoulder and he hissed. I cannot get rid of her until I know what she knows.

Au-Un knew the way to his retainer and ward, and after a firm press of his heels, they were air-born. The stench of blood, men, and smoke clung to the miko. It was going to be a long ride.

At least she was quiet.

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 Prompt: Chie's monthly prompt for November 2020, Honour