Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(31)

“At least tell me why I was brought here. What you intend to do with me.”

“I have no intentions to do anything with anyone.” His black eyes glittered. “Besides sleep and eat and drink away my days.”

Mariko refrained from frowning in judgment. Why such a lazy boy would choose to work in service to the Black Clan was beyond her. “If you won’t answer any of my questions, there’s little incentive for me to fight you.” She let the words fall from her lips like rocks down a mountainside. In a rough and coarse tumble. “Especially since I know I will lose.”

“You will lose because you are slow and untrained.”

“I suppose that is what makes me useless in your eyes,” she said. “That and my obvious lack of strength.”

Another bout of dark laughter arose from Ren. A laughter that only served to irritate Mariko further.

“There are many kinds of strength, Lord Lackbeard.” The branch dropped to ōkami’s side; his tone was thoughtful. “Strength of the heart. Strength of the mind.”

Though she was surprised to hear these sentiments uttered by this boy, Mariko was careful to conceal it. “Show me a warrior who believes that to be true, and I will endeavor to take the branch from you.”

A wry grin began to curl up ōkami’s mouth. “Be as swift as the wind. As silent as the forest. As fierce as the fire. As unshakable as the mountain. And you can do anything . . . even take this branch from me.”

Mariko snorted, catching herself before crossing her arms as her mother would. “Needlessly cryptic. Especially since mere words make all things possible.”

“I’m glad we agree.” He raised the branch again. “Take the branch from me, Lord Lackbeard.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Words do not make all things possible. Ideas are the seeds of possibility.”

“Without words, ideas are nothing but voiceless thoughts.” ōkami held the branch steady. Unflinching.

“Without ideas, words would never have come into being.”

“Fine, then. Without words, give me an idea.” Another slow, taunting smile. “Now take the branch.”

Her ire spiking, Mariko returned his unwavering stare. Though ōkami’s expression remained one of detached amusement, a flame sparked behind his eyes like a sun at midnight. The sight prompted her to make a final decision. One of dishonor. One she was sure to regret.

“I prefer to fight battles I know I can win.” With that, Mariko bent to pick up the log closest to ōkami. Just as he lowered the branch a second time, she shot to standing, ramming her full weight into his injured right shoulder. The one she knew still bore a fresh wound from the giant’s kanabō swing the night before.

The Wolf grunted loudly as they both fell to the ground in a tangled heap. Mariko landed on top of him—lunging for the branch—but ōkami flipped her onto her stomach, forcing every last bit of air from her body by leaning on her with unnecessary intensity. Damp soil trickled into her mouth, causing her to sputter and retch and flail.

Mariko tried to shove her elbow into his face, but was met with nothing more than wry laughter.

“I owe you an injury, Sanada Takeo,” ōkami whispered in her ear. “And I pay my debts.” He hauled her to her feet as though she were nothing more than a sack of air. “Now get back to work.”

Humiliation took root in Mariko’s chest, tugging at her center like a fishhook. She swiped the soil from her mouth and straightened her dirty kosode, hoping to pierce his resolve as he had hers. “This is a waste of time. If your glorious leader had granted me use of a wagon, I would have been done moving these logs hours ago.”

It was a sound argument. One he—of all people—should readily agree with, as the Wolf did not relish expending unnecessary effort.

ōkami paused to rub his shoulder. For an instant, Mariko thought he would agree. Especially when she caught a trace of humor on his face. Then he swept his black hair from his forehead, as though he was banishing the thought. “If this is the last task of your life, it’s never a waste of time to do it thoroughly.”

A cold current of fear overshadowed Mariko’s anger. “You—you don’t truly mean that. If you intended to kill me, you would have done it already. Why have you brought me here? To what end?” She focused the last of her fear into something pointed. Sharp. “And if this is indeed the last task of my life, I’d rather be doing anything else—thinking anything else—than this.”

“You’d waste your last day in thought?” ōkami stared down at her, unblinking.

“I would spend it thinking something meaningful. Doing something honorable.”

Like exposing the location of your camp.

Or bringing about an end to your band of bloodthirsty thieves.

“Thinking?” Ren interjected as he spat in the dirt by her feet. “Knowledge feeds no one. Nor does it win any wars.”

“I find your position on this matter unsurprising.” Mariko did not even bother glancing toward the boy with the spiked topknot.

“Honorable?” ōkami shifted closer, his hand still pressed to his shoulder. The coppery scent of fresh blood suffused the air. “Do you consider attacking a wounded man without warning an act of honor?”

Color flooded Mariko’s cheeks. She’d known she would regret that decision the moment she’d made it. Honor was a fundamental tenet of bushidō. And her choice to deceive ōkami and take advantage of his weakness was—without a doubt—a dishonorable one.