Facing the Monster

Half of the witch hunters were outside the circle. If nothing could get in or out, they were trapped with less manpower than they needed. Arated picked up the drumstick. If Turushno freed the witch, they would lose all advantage. They needed to strike now. He struck the drum.

Its beat reverberated above the screaming, cutting straight to each of the watch towers. The witch hunters looked in Arata’s direction, expecting to see his signal for the location. Instead they saw Turushno on top. They let the arrows fly.

The first hit Turushno in the shoulder. For a second he didn’t react, then he realised something was wrong. This wasn’t like at the hunter’s house when Sawatari used the bow. These were dangerous.

When Arata asked Kurogane the question of whether she kept the shards of the deitetsu blades she was unable to fix, she gave him a flat look. “How many do you think I can’t fix?” Was her response.

It turned out she did. Over the course of twenty years, she and her father collected enough to fill a crate. They finally were useful. Each arrow was tipped with deitetsu, the only thing that could permanently injure witches. And Turushno felt it.

He gave up trying to free the other witch, instead dragging her off the watch tower without care what damage it did to her arms. He held her body over his as the arrows rained down. When there were no more to fire, the watch towers waited for movement. Turushno through the corpse of the witch aside. Only two made it through. He looked down in the direction of the drumbeat and cocked his head when he saw Arata staring back at him.

“Shunitcha’s new brother.” He climbed down onto Arata’s level. “I thought I had already scorched thine hand from thine arm.”

“I’m more a foster father,” Arata replied, rolling backwards across the watch tower’s railing to its legs. He couldn’t fight Turushno alone in close quarters but on the ground with reinforcements, there was a chance. Turushno was adamant he didn’t get it. From above him came the crack of wood and he looked up to see the witch chop away at the supports. Arata had to get to ground faster than he liked, turning to slide down on his back. He impacting the grass hard. A second later, the tower collapsed in a burst of splinters and dirt. Turushno stepped free from its centre, his blade in one hand, the other hand curled.

The lanterns, Arata realised, and turned to see the paper cages dropped in the confusion turn blue from the inside. Demon fire burst skyward, swirled together, then tipped over like a falling tree. The crowd at the edge of the witch circle trying to escape was his target. Arata didn’t have time to run over and push people out of the way, the other witch hunters were still climbing down their own watch towers. Only one option remained. Arata reached out his hand and tightened it into a fist.

He should have practiced it more, yet what Shinutcha had to do to let him keep his hand disgusted him to his core. The bandages shrivelled into cinders as Arata’s charred hand took control of the pillar of flame. With a rip, he swept it back to Turushno, away from the crowd.

“That unravels the matter. Did Shinutcha do this for thee? I instructed her how.” Turushno charged forward, his free hand outstretched as it took hold of the fire column once more. The flames shrunk, compacting into a hard edge, until the blade of flames fell into his grasp.

Would his comrades save him or save the citizens? For a witch hunter, the answer was obvious. He was on his own. Trying to take control of the flame blade was useless, like wrestling a river with his bare hands, Turushno’s power far exceeded his. Arata drew Crowsbane and faced the monster running towards him.

Turushno had the advantage, of course he did. Twice as many arms as Arata, twice as many weapons. One acted to guard whilst one pressed for an opening, switching between each blow so Arata could never guess which was the next attack would come from. If all witches were just bodies resurrected from the bog, when Turushno was alive he would have been a devastating warrior. Now he was dead, even more so. Arata saw the swing of the demon fire sword come down hard to his right and blocked with only a hands-width between the edge and his shoulder. He pushed it off and took another step back. If that flame blade caught him, it would cut through all his padding and the burn would go so deep he wouldn’t be able to get the flame put out. The perfect weapon against witch hunters.

Arata looked for any opening but it was as if the air was only blades. He took blow after blow on his katana, losing ground every time, even forced to use his other shoulder to support the blade. Then, as if he prayed for it, an opening appeared. A direct cut low and up into the witch’s ribcage. It wouldn’t kill him but it would slow him down.

He only saw it was a trap when it was too late. Crowsbane was never meant to cut into Turushno, it was all part of his game and he spun into a kick at the last second. Just as with Sawatari, it cracked into his hip, and the force sent Arata shoulder over chest into the dirt. His back impacted an abandoned stall.

It wouldn’t end like that. Arata pushed himself upright on the wooden counter, and had to vault over to dodge another sword strike. He lost Crowsbane in the fall, nothing to defend himself with except his hook and his rope, but he had to fight. Turushno pulled his flame blade back out just as the wood caught alight, and tossed it up, out of Arata’s view. Like he expected, Turushno jumped into the stall after him, eager to make use of the close quarters. Arata had his hook ready between the ceiling slats. Turushno rolled into another slash, Arata pulled, and the roof came down between them.

It was only a second but he took it. Pushing his back through the side entrance, Arata fell back as the stall turned into a blue inferno, and sprinted for support. His hip throbbed like a knife stuck between the bones but it was better than the real thing. From above, he heard a rush of hot air, followed by a white hot pain in his leg. Turushno had pulled down the flame sword from the sky. Arata fell and hissed in breath through grass and dirt as behind him Turushno stormed forward to finish the job. A lighter set of footsteps came in from another different angle. The two collided behind him.

Arata turned to see Shinutcha holding Crowsbane in between Turushno’s ribs, the larger witch stopped midstride. It couldn’t kill him and Shinutcha didn’t have the strength to pull the sword back out.

“Who…” Turushno began before reaching for Shinutcha’s fox mask, ripping it free. When he saw the face of his sister crumpled with effort, he began to laugh. “Well is this not a familial gathering? Mark thee well, huntsman, she be not thy daughter. Hither, look!” As Shinutcha still struggled with the sword, he traced the edge of her face with one long nail and it came away as a flap of skin. “I severed this face from a girl succumbed to the mire a year hence. Forgive me if she be thine own, it was just a guise we required.” As he grinned like a skull, Shinutcha’s face fell off further. Underneath was only graphite flesh receded back to the bone. Her real face. Chiyo’s face hung off her head like an ajar gate.

No one comes back from the bog, that’s what Hinoe had said. In his heart, he thought he already knew, but to have it explained was like having it ripped from him still beating. He tried to get up, not knowing what he would do but knowing Shinutcha needed him. His hip and his leg refused to comply. He crawled forward instead, willing one of his legs to move.

Turushno grabbed hold of Shinutcha’s arm, her black eyes tearing with ash. “Grandmother doth frown upon thee, come hither. Thou would not wish to disappoint her.” Turushno turned away from Arata, he got what he came for.

Turushno turned around to look at the other witch hunters on the way, before sheathing his sword and pulling over an ember from the burning stall. That’s what he would use to disappear like he always did. Only this time, he was taking Arata’s daughter with him. Turushno shouldn’t have turned around so soon. A burst of strength Arata had only felt once before coursed through his body. It hadn’t been enough back then in the mire but now…

Arata surged up, swung on his good leg, and grabbed hold of the deitetsu-tipped arrow sticking from Turushno’s back. He pulled, Turushno tried to grab him, he pulled again. It came free. Holding it close to the edge, he brought the edge low to the scalp, cutting up into the hairline. Turushno lost all balance in his legs and fell with Arata on his back.

The ember flung towards him and caught Arata on the shoulder. He didn’t even feel it. The blade pushed further, to the crown of Turushno’s head, and his arms went limp.

“No,” The witch snorted, “Thou cannot!”

"Take a daughter of mine away again. See what happens.” Arata passed the blade through the other side and his scalp came loose. Turushno slumped into the dirt.

Arata’s strength was gone. He rolled off the body, resting on the cool grass. Somewhere to his right, the stall burnt with a passionate orange and he felt for the witch’s scalp. It wasn’t glorious, it would never be captured in a painting, but Arata held it up towards the smoke-choked sky and knew what he was. A hero of Giseizawa.