Force Majeure: Chapter 1 - Bereavement

The sword was in his right hand and a loaded pistol in his left before his eyes were open. Kitsune snapped awake, screams of rage ringing in his ears. Dim morning light seeped into his bedroom, casting vague, shifting shadows. The nose of his gun followed his eyes as he swept the room. No one lurked there waiting for death. He was still alone. For a moment, he thought he had been having the bad dream again. Slowly, he laid his head back down to the soft pillow on his bed, trying to get some sleep after spending most of the day helping his father in the barracks, training the lower-ranked soldiers so they can prepare for war if the time had ever come to do so. A long time ago, when he was younger and afraid of the night, his father had carved the marks of horse, bear, and wren on the crooked beam above his bed to keep him safe. He had spent light summer evenings tracing them in his mind, feeling the wall of their protection. Now he lay in the pressing silence, praying for light, and saw nothing. If the moon had risen, it did not shine on his side of the house. If there were stars, their light did not penetrate the thatch. Inside, the cooling embers of the fire in the living room outside of his bedroom gave off a thread of smoke but no flame. It was the blackest night he could ever remember and he might as well have been blind, or still dreamed. He wondered if his father and mother were doing alright, sleeping along in the house adjacent to his, for it was nights like these when the real criminals came out to play. Soon, however, in only a few moments, he was already whisked away into sleep.

The attack came in the hour before dawn. Kitsune woke up to the stench of burning thatch and the sound of his mother screaming. Outside, in the clearing beyond the hut, he heard his father's response, and the clash of iron on bronze. Another man shouted--not his father, and the sound of gunshots rang out--and he was up, throwing off his blankets. He finally took a look around, and noticed his house was half in flames! Reaching back into the dark behind the sleeping place, he looked for his sword or, better, his favorite gun, a Smith & Wesson Model 29 Magnum. He found neither. His mother screamed again, differently. He scrabbled frantically, feeling the fire scorch his skin and the sliding ache of fear was the threat of a sword-cut to the spine. His fingers closed on a haft of warn wood, running down to the curve of a grip he knew from hours of oil and polish and the awe of youth; his father's hunting spear. He jerked it free, turning and pulling the leather cover from the blade in one move. A wash of predawn light hit his eyes as the door was ripped from its hinges and toppled to the floor, and replaced as rapidly by a shadow. The bulk of a body filled the doorway. Dawn light flickered on a sword-blade. Close by, his father screamed his name, "Kitsune!"

He heard him and stepped out of the dark. The warrior in the doorway grinned, showing few teeth and a ski-mask covering his face, and lunged forward. His blade caught the sunlight and twisted it, blinding them both. Without thinking, Kitsune did as he had practiced, in his mind, in the safety of the forest beyond.