Page 9

The Prophecy

Seocheonkkotbat rests a few miles away, an expansive garden of massive, vibrant flowers that stretches the length of a village. The sickly sweet smell assaults my nose as I sit atop Sonagi, listening to the cries and clashing of swords in the distance. Eventually, the floral scent begins to mix with the smell of blood. The humans are dying.

Good.

The rest of my army and I remain alert as we lurk within the shadows of the forest. It is not time for us to make our entrance, not yet. First, our opponent must let down their guards. And Wyusan’s army is not inconsiderable. Although all of the kingdoms on the Eastern Continent are rather small, Wyusan’s forces number in the hundreds. It was foolish of Empress Moon to concentrate them all in one place, but I suppose she thought that a melded wall of defense was better than one scattered to the winds. I am thankful for her lapse in judgment. This will end, tonight. I shall take Wyusan easily.

Night has fallen, but my sharp eyes see perfectly fine. I can even spot the flush crawling up Iseul’s neck as she listens to the screams of men and Dokkaebi alike, licking her lips. She is anticipating the eradication of Empress Moon. It will take her one step closer to Bonseyo, and her revenge against the royal Jeon family. Yet whatever tension that lurked between us earlier still brews. She is not her usual cheerful self. She has not whispered jokes to me ever since we exited the Stretch. I wonder if I have cause to be concerned. If my perfect weapon is not so perfect, after all.

It is not a pleasant thought.

I stare deep into the forest, listening as Wyusan gains an easy victory over my assassins and mercenaries. The gnarled trees seem to shiver and shake, their leaves trembling. Small animals are scurrying through the underbrush, escaping Hallakkungi’s garden. Beongae keeps catching them in his maw—scooping them up and chewing wetly. Bomin, to my knowledge, is still cowering in the tree.

An hour passes, and when my humans do not return, I am not surprised.

Yet my Imugi do not return, either.

I had instructed them to “flee” in the aftermath, reporting back to me as soon as the last of our Sunpo mortals fell. Yet no susurrations rustle through the forest save for the impatient shifting of the others. Sonagi stirs restlessly beneath me.

“Where are my children?” she worries in a quiet hiss.

“They will return,” I reply, more confidently than I feel.

But they do not, even as the battle sounds cease. I do not like this. Tense in my saddle, I take in the luminous golden eyes of my snakes—and the narrowed brown ones of Iseul. Something has gone amiss. I feel it, deep within me. A mistake, a misstep. Unthinkable. I have spent months with only one casualty. Have I truly just lost three Imugi?

To—what? The new swords? Surely not… How would that be even remotely possible? My creatures are the harbingers of terrible storms. Their venom can fell a group of soldiers in mere moments. They are wicked and wild and fearless. I gnash my teeth together, my breathing growing heavy and my rage growing palpable. Overhead, thunder booms. I am not as deft at storm-summoning as Sonagi and her brethren, but sometimes, when rage overtakes me, I can call upon the winds and rains. I do so now, tasting lightning.

“Do we ride?” Iseul asks, voice grim. Beneath her, Uloe sways expectantly.

My jaw works back and forth. I expected to declare our assault with the sweet feeling of triumph, of a battle already won, of an enemy distracted and fatigued. Now, I only feel suspicion. It is dark and edged with thorns.

“Child of Venom?” Sonagi asks slowly.

“Empressss,” implores another, and its voice is joined by the hisses of its siblings, “we mussst look for our fallen. Otherwise, they will take our scalesss again, use them for armor…”

“Sssacrilege!”

“Savagesss!”

“We mussst avenge!”

The entire forest is alive with the demands of the Imugi. They sway back and forth like cobras in a basket, listening to the song of a flute. Teeth snap and tongues lash into the air. They wait for my signal.

Grimly, I give it.

And we move.

The few miles between us and Seocheonkkotbat are nothing. Sonagi slices through the forest like a knife through flesh. I clutch my bow and arrows, wind whipping my hair back from my face as the night-darkened and blood-splattered garden looms into view.

The camp is littered with broken tents and extinguished camp fires. Soldiers are helping up their wounded, clapping each other on the back, gathering around the limp bodies of my Imugi. Dakho is the larger one, coated in his own green blood. Param and Garam, twin serpents, are twined together and deathly still. They were Sonagi’s fiftieth-borns, younger than most. Rage overtakes me, and I let out a primal scream.

Bodies, some from my army and some from the Wyusan-Gyeulcheon alliance, scatter the thick ground of tall grass. With roars, we ride over them and crush the hundreds of vibrant flowers as we make our entrance, a cascade of scale and storm. Rain, seeping past the foliage, runs down the creeping vines that loom overhead, pummeling the flowers as large as trees with heavy drops of rain.

The soldiers shout, yell, stumbling backward as my forces utilize our favorite formation. We spread, in the shape of a fan, taking up as much space as is physically possible.

My plan has worked well. Wyusan and Gyeulcheon are unorganized, believing the siege over and won. Chaos unfolds, my Imugi crunching necks and skulls. I laugh as Sonagi sprays venom, rain and poison sluicing down my face. I lick some off my lips.

Human and Dokkaebi alike are yelling coarse orders. I hear Haneul’s strong voice amongst them, and suddenly, with a stretch of shadow and a tugging of the red thread, he is before me atop his chollima. His Supreme Commander, Chan, appears next to him. As does Empress Moon. Haneul drops to the ground, and his winged horse soars off.

“Prophecy,” says Haneul, holding a hand up as his two companions begin to move forward. They stop, but only barely. Chan actually growls as he is forced to cease movement.

I smile. Sonagi extends herself, and I savor looking down upon them. Haneul is panting, blue sparking in his glare. Chan, as always, looks quite unhinged. His eyes, usually emerald green, have dilated to a pure black of hatred. Empress Moon, to her credit—which I am really loathe to give—looks somewhat calm, even as her forces begin dying around her. She holds two empty hilts in each hand. I warily observe them. These new swords, they do not look like much. Chan and Haneul also hold similar, empty hilts.

“I’ll give you one warning,” says Moon. “Turn back.”

“Fine.” I sigh. “I am convinced.”

Moon blinks.

A cruel laugh escapes my lips. Then, quicker than her mortal vision can track, I nock and shoot one of the poison-tipped arrows at her heart. But Chan, faster, blocks it. In a split second, he has flicked his wrist, revealing a blade of dark blue. Lurching in front of Moon, he diverts the arrow with his sword. It flings to the side, and I hiss in frustration.

Moon pants and draws her blade as well. Sonagi dodges her next attack—the aiming for her underbelly. Although it is covered in scales, the empress seems to believe in the capabilities of her blade as she slashes it violently though the air.

Sonagi is discomforted by Moon’s surety in her blade. I feel it through her consciousness brushing against mine. Gritting my teeth, I urge her to hold. Chan and the empress are spinning around Sonagi, weapons flashing as they flip and roll, seeking a weak point in my Imugi’s flesh. Sonagi whirls, twining her body in sharp, random movements to avoid the blade’s touch. Haneul’s gaze is fixed on mine, bright blue with—

Dokkaebi fire.

The swords are forged from Dokkaebi fire.

Haneul’s eyes are unfathomably sad as he draws his own cerulean sword.

Hatred strangles me, and I scream in wordless wrath, thunder roaring with me. But the rain doesn’t impact the swords at all. It does not render them useless, like it does a pure flame of the blue fire. Hardly able to breathe, I relay the message to Sonagi, mind-to-mind. Her reaction matches my own, and her attacks become even more violent. I unhook myself from the saddle and kneel upon it instead, keeping my balance as I aim arrow after arrow at Moon and Haneul.

So focused am I on the two rulers that I don’t see Chan, stepping into a shadowy portal and reappearing midair a moment later. He lands on Sonagi’s head, feet coming down hard, blade pointed at me.

Somewhere down our bond, I feel Haneul’s sudden fear.

“You,” snarls Chan. “You killed my own.”

“CHAN!” Haneul roars.

I sneer at the white-haired Dokkaebi. “Oh, please.” Below us, Sonagi is moving violently, spraying venom and trying to shake Chan off. He sways but does not topple, steadying footwork helping him regain his balance. I urge Sonagi to stop. I can finish this here. “Come closer,” I croon and—hooking my bow around my shoulder with the quiver—extend my scaleblades.

The Supreme Commander rushes down the length of Sonagi’s neck, sword slashing. I am no fool. I know this weapon poses a considerable threat to me. Dokkaebi fire has always been the ages-old enemy of the Imugi. It nearly thwarted me once. Now that it has been imbued into a weapon—a mass-produced one, too—I must be careful.

How have they done this? They must have crammed their forge with dozens of blacksmiths to have these terrible weapons so quickly made, so readily distributed amongst their troops. Their hatred of me knows no bounds—but my hatred of them does not, either.

My feet dance across Sonagi’s scales. Chan’s movements are violent, unsophisticated. There is no method to his attacks. I find myself on defense, blocking his blows with my scaleblades, but—

Each time my blades touch that cursed metal, pain shoots up my entire body, burning it with invisible flames. Panting hard, I resort to dodging and ducking, fingers leaping to the spare jikdo hanging from my waist. I am on the defensive for the first time since this war began.

Down below, Moon has been joined by other brown-armored soldiers—all targeting Sonagi. Haneul is watching Chan and me intently, as if searching for an opening in which to intervene.

For the first time ever, I feel my treasured Imugi’s fear. She thrashes, and I nearly lose my footing. Chan’s sword whistles through the air, and I hiss as it slices open my stealth suit, scratching skin. The cut does not heal as fast as it should.

He, like Haneul, is wearing Imugi-scale plate armor. My attacks will not reach his heart unless I remove the scales—or disarm him and take that sword for my own. The world spins as Sonagi moves, and white strands of hair flutter around us as he narrowly dodges my blow. He stumbles, the sudden motion combined with Sonagi’s spin throwing him off balance.

I approach, teeth bared.

But Iseul, close by, snarls low in her throat and launches herself off Uloe. Midair, she shifts into a white, nine-tailed fox with claws as sharp as daggers. She tackles Chan, sending him crashing to the ground far below.

I do not want to admit it, but I am out of breath. As Iseul shifts back into her human form, I meet her eye. Hers are dark and resolute. “Moon,” I mouth, and she nods. As Uloe encircles Chan, a winding circle of scale and sinew, Iseul sprints for the warrior-empress. Moon has been pushed away from Sonagi, and she won’t make it back. I’ve no doubt that my Gumiho will take care of her.

Sonagi will be able to move more freely if she does not have to concern herself with me. I leap to the ground. My left leg feels a flare of pain, but I push it down. My eyes are on Haneul, who is fighting off one of my serpents. She is smaller than the others: Bisbangul. I scream myself hoarse as he kills her, driving his sword through a gap in her scales, underneath which her heart rests. She falls. I do not even know that I am running until Haneul is inches away, blocking my sword with his own.

Rain and sweat dribble down his face. I feel his surprise as I, mindless with rage, lash out and press him further and further into the bedlam. “The swords were a nice touch,” I growl as he struggles to keep up with the intensity of my blows. “I must admit—” I spin, crouching low and sweeping out a foot. Haneul stumbles. “It was almost creative.”

“I’m honored that you think so,” he retorts, regaining his balance.

“Do you truly think you can do it?” I snap as our swords meet. Our faces are just inches from each other. “Kill this body? I don’t think you’re that strong.”

“I would do anything for her,” he bites out, whirling away and sending a quick burst of flame toward me as he twists. I dodge it, snarling. “She wouldn’t want this. She didn’t want this.”

“Well, she’s gone,” I pant maliciously. “Gone and gone and gone .”

“You think I don’t know that? Despite your nightmares, I know—I know my wife is”—his grief slashes through me and I laugh, disemboweling a mortal soldier who has the audacity to try to surprise me—“is forever lost to me. Even your trick with the door in my dreams hasn’t convinced me otherwise—”

My eyes narrow as the soldier’s body crumples to the ground. Door? I do not recall a trick with a door. Oh, I play many tricks—I like to give him dreams of his beloved dying in the most horrific ways—but one with a door? It does not sound familiar.

“What door ?” I hiss, channeling my confusion into fury, and that fury into battle.

My sword is a blur of silver as I flip over another attack from another hopeless human and level it at Haneul’s throat. “Drop the sword,” I demand. “Now.”

He pants hard, face turning to granite. Seeing no choice, he does as I say. Around us, others are trying to come to his aid, but my Imugi—as wounded as some are—do not allow it.

“Now tell me,” I whisper, “what door it is that you speak about.”