Myenemymyenemymyenmymy... the giant lamented. It was turned away, it was crying. It was scared.

Sai was ejected from his nightmare, woke on his straw mat in the stale air of his home. It was pitch black, he could hear murmuring. He was afraid, irritated, feeling still the residual effects of dream. It was hard to resist the call for Mother, and so he did not resist.

“Mom,” he whispered, his mouth was dry. “Mom.”

Fear and disgust at himself for this fear, and another fear too, the one from the dream, a sensation as though the whole of creation was arrayed against him. But surely not Mother, even if he risked waking Father too he needed to see her.

His eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the faint outline of his Father sleeping across the room, that other lump would be his Mother. He stood up, walked over. “Mom,” he called a little louder.

The second dark shape reared up, it was not her. It didn't have her shape. The murmuring stopped. This shape was still. The door was open Sai noted now, in his half crouch, and it was between him and the shape. He held his breath. The shape went back down, the murmur began. Sai strained to hear.

It was a repetition of the dream. My enemy, soft, over and over and over and there was now too he noticed a wet sound, the shape was moving ever so slightly. Distant screams.

He could not contain himself. “Mom,” he called out in his full voice and the shape stood and came into the faint square of light that the open door let in. It was a person, missing an arm, not as though it had been hacked off, but smooth as though it had never been there before. It was pale, ghastly. It's face was misshapen, ill proportioned. It's one arm ended in a bloodied claw.

Sai could make out the pool of blood now. On the mat on which his parents slept, spilling down onto the raw dirt where the fire would be prepared nightly.

He scrambled, placed the firepit between himself and the thing. Frantically sought the knife, his father owned exactly one and it should be on the shelf, it must be. He ran his hands along the shelf knocking things over and growing more frantic for the noise he was making, the thing was getting closer, it moved languidly. He sliced his hand, found the handle of the knife and moved it to his left hand, so as not to lose grip with the hot blood now trickling into the palm of his right. With a weapon his mind was still. He recalled his drill.

“Fighting with the short blade is vicious, deadly. You must disable your opponent before you use the blade, observe.” Miyo stepping close, slapping down what would be the blunt edge of the practice sword Sai held, in the same motion grabbing Sai's wrist with one hand and bringing the short blade in close, poking Sai's ribs. Pressed close together.

Sai prepared. He held the blade close to his body, edge turned up and out, he would lead with an underhand cut, and pray that he could sever those fingers with their sharp nails from the hand, and then he would thrust for the neck.

“whymustwealwaysfightwhydoyoufight,” it whispered, quick slurred words colliding with each other, so soft and gentle.

The thing tripped over the cooking tripod and fell face down close to him. He lunged and shouted, driving the knife hilt deep into the back of the things head. Its blood was black and cold, it matted in stringy, almost translucent hair. He withdrew, stabbed again, and then once more.

He darted back and collided with the wall nearly losing his balance, he assumed a fighting crouch, made himself sturdy and ready to spring. It didn't move. He kept the tip of the knife aimed at it and inched his way around the fire pit to where his parents slept. Now he did slip, smearing their blood on the floor mats. He lost all composure, crawled over to their dark and bleeding shapes.

They were beyond recognition.

Their faces were pulp.

He could see enough to know that their faces were pulp.

He shook violently, wretched. His blood beat so fiercely in his ears that all the clamour from the streets outside came to him through an ocean of sludge. His trembling hands smeared blood on his cheeks, both red and black, as he huddled over. He threw up a thin stream of bile. There was nothing in his stomach. Mom said she was going to save for a good supper tomorrow. That she was going to go down to the harbour and get a fresh cut of fish, that she would even get some spices. Mom.

He shifted to clutch her hand, facing away from the gore that had been her head. Mom. He brought her hand close to his chest and shook and shook and shook.

Now too he grabbed his Father's hand, not always had he been the abusive and abused man. He used to laugh, he used to sing, he used to tell stories. Sai joined their hands.

Someone let out the cry of a gutted animal nearby. Someone or something dashed down the alley passed the door.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Sai grabbed the knife that had fallen. He stumbled in a daze over to his sleeping mat and dragged this over to the bodies of his parents. This he laid gently over them, and he brought his hands up in a quick and silent prayer. It was all that he could do now.

Taku.

He still had Taku. And Yabona. And Miyo.

Where did she say she worked, an Inn? Which one? She had never given a name. And Taku was somewhere in the academy, or the palace, or some strong and well lit and defended compound. To the dojo then, perhaps Yabona would think the same thing, if she wasn't...

There was no use in contemplating her death. Or Miyo's for that matter.

He crouched near the door and peered out, things were running in the street, but there was nothing in the alley. In the moonlight he could make out a smear of blood on the white washed wall across from his apartment. The cut in his hand began to sting now that his adrenaline had faded. He clutched it tight.

It took him a long while to muster the courage to go outside, armed so lightly as he was. If he had the swords Miyo had gifted him, he would feel more confidant, but only just.

Move, coward, move.

He crept cautiously to the mouth of the alley, hugging the wall. There were fires now everywhere, people running, people falling on each other, screaming. It was a scene out of a demonic play come to life. He had seen Fujin and The Night some years ago, and while the actors costumes were crude and not entirely convincing, it struck Sai, kept him up long nights. He didn't remember the man with the long white hair and the horns stomping after the man dressed as Fujin, he remembered the scene his mind had painted – and it looked like this.

Slaughter and chaos and order up turned and spilled all over table like dark wine. No matter where he looked he saw danger and death. There a woman with her jaw torn and hanging from her face dragging herself piteously along the wall, one of the Pale Men was stalking behind her, dragging a bloody hammer along the street. There on the roof a mass of writhing tentacle in the moonlight, people choked in the long muscles, flung. One body made a wet thud in front of Sai. He shook off his shock. He ran now, careful, keeping as much distance from everyone as he could. He didn't stop for anything. Not when a woman clutched at his hand and tried to urge him inside her home where she cried he would be safe, not when he tore away and heard her scream cut off in a gurgle. Not when one of the tentacle things came within yards of him and snapped a mans spine. Not even when he was ragged and drawing hot breaths and found himself free from the crowd and chaos. Not even when he had reached the gates to Miyo's dojo.

Up here on the hill the slaughter had not yet reached. There were plenty of people about, milling in groups and talking nervously, all looking down at the burning city and terror below.

“Miyo!” He yelled louder than he ever had before, his voice breaking. He flung open the door, he thundered around in the dark calling for the Master.

“Sai, is that you Sai?”

“Yes Master! Yes! It's it's it's...” He kept shouting, kept trying to remember his way through the hallways of the dojo in the dark. A light appeared at the end of the hall, Miyo, old and worn, carrying a lantern and armed. His swords looped through his belt.

Sai stopped three steps from Miyo, chest heaving.

“My god,” Miyo said, “your face, what happened, are you hurt?” And the old mans free hand went to his sword, his thumb resting on the cross guard, he peered out behind Sai, holding the lantern up.

Sai shook his head vigorously. “No, I am. It is not bad. My, my parents Master...”

Miyo dropped his grip on his sword. He hugged Sai close. “You are safe now, pupil.”

Sai blubbered into Miyo's robes, and Miyo stood silent and alert.

“Have you seen Yabona?” Miyo almost whispered.

Sai shook his head in his robes, and at the mention of her name attempted to recompose himself. He stepped back and wiped tears and blood from his cheeks.

“What's happening down there?”

“It's like Fujin and the Night. It's like Hell has poured out all its demons.”

Miyo's brow furrowed, but his expression was still tender.

“It is, one of them killed my parents. I killed it.” Sai brought up his left hand, covered in black blood, with the knife.

“I believe you, son. Come inside, you're safe now.” Miyo stepped to the side and motioned with his head. Sai stepped behind him.

Miyo lead him to the practice room and snuffed the lantern, he paused a moment looking out into the yard, listening to the distant clamour, and then closed the doors which did nothing to keep the sound out.

“Whatever is happening, you will be safe here if you keep quiet. It's furthest from the street.”

“Where are you going?” Sai, surprised at the urgency, the alarm, in his own voice.

“To Yabona.”

“You know where she is?” Sai perked up.

“I suspect I know the Inn, I will find it if I do not.”

“Let me come. Where are my swords, I can't see.”

“You will remain here, and safe,” Miyo said and Sai could hear him walk some distance, and then back. “Here are your swords.” They clattered on the mat before him.

Sai cast away his kitchen knife and drew the long blade as he stood up.

“I am coming.”

“Where are we?”

“Your dojo.”

“And what does a student do, in a dojo?”

Sai hesitated. “Practices.”

“No,” they spoke in whispers, but Miyo made this one sharp. “What does a student do?”

“He... obeys.”

Sai was about to protest when a sound from the front of the school arrested his speech, the rasp of the door opening. He could feel himself tense, heard the minute shuffle of Miyo's feet as the old man took up a fighting posture.

“Wait here,” Miyo commanded under his breath and then he went into the hall.

Sai directed his sword at the gaping dark of the door through which Miyo had just went. He tensed, he shook, he couldn't let the old man fight those things alone. He wouldn't. Miyo would understand. Sai could not loose any one else tonight. He was resolved to rush out. Crying from the hall, Miyo's voice hushed and urgent, a scuffle. Sai sprung, tripped on the corner of the door. Miyo in the dark with one hand on the little shape of person.

“Let me go, I need to get back!”

Yabona.

Sai dropped his sword, he ran to Yabona, hugged her.

She stopped resisting Miyo, cried into Sai's chest and returned his embrace.