The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6)

by James Calbraith

  I wonder if this is how Bran felt for the first time in Yamato?

  She closed her eyes and focused on contacting Bran; she had little problem remembering the way he looked or smelled: no other boy in Yamato was like him, after all. The touch of his lips on hers was the one thing she didn’t need to recall, it was always present in her mind. Her heart beat faster, blood rushed in her ears, and she felt herself lifted by an unseen force and carried in the air over the red dirt plain on a gust of wind.

  Again, she was thrown against the ground, the force of the impact filling her mouth with blood-tasting dust. She opened her eyes; she was standing in front of a tall tower of grey stone, with bright red light shining from the top, and a big wooden door at the bottom. A green dragon sleeping in front opened one eye and glanced at her.

  It raised its head and roared so loud Nagomi had to cover her ears. The air around her trembled in dusty whirlwinds. The dragon went back to sleep.

  A moment later the door opened. Bran, slightly bewildered, stepped outside, blinking and yawning.

  “What…”

  She ran up to him and held him briefly in her arms. He was too surprised to react before she let him go.

  “There’s not much time,” she said. “The Shadows will find us soon.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “How did you find me? We weren’t supposed to contact until… what day is it?”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she replied. “I have something very important to tell you.”

  She explained the situation in quick, short sentences, almost losing her breath at the end. He frowned and scratched the bottom of his chin.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Why would I want to help Mori? He tried to kill me.”

  “But Satō, she is…”

  He put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I can come and help you, always. I can try to find Satō and save her as well. But what you ask of me… that’s an act of war. War between Dracaland and Yamato. I can’t make that kind of decision on my own.”

  She stepped back and stared at him, confused. He didn’t sound like his old self. There was apathy in his voice, and a kind of cold calculation she hadn’t expected.

  I thought he’d jump at the opportunity to do something like this. He’s a soldier, isn’t he?

  “What’s happened to you?” she asked.

  “I met my father,” he answered, wearily. “He’s here, in Kiyō. I… I will have to consult with him. It’s not just us anymore.”

  His father is in Yamato?

  “I went through great risks to reach you here,” she insisted. “If we are caught, in the real world…”

  That gave him pause. She felt a shiver in the air, and a strong tug on her kimono. She staggered.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I think — I should be going back — ”

  His eyes narrowed. “Something’s wrong in the real world. Where did you say you were?”

  “On a ship.”

  He hissed. “He must’ve been found out.” He glanced towards the horizon. “And they are here. Hop on Emrys, I’ll take you to your shrine.”

  The Shadows were coming in a great host, at least a dozen creeping from all directions. She climbed the dragon and wrapped her arms around Bran, leaning her face against his shirt-clad back.

  “There are more of them again,” he said, as the dragon circled the tower in the rising air stream. “You mustn’t come here alone.”

  “I may not be able to, anymore,” she replied. “Not for a while, at least. Torishi-sama needs herbs for his spells. And if we find ourselves in a war zone — who knows how long will that take.”

  She felt him sigh.

  “Very well,” he said, “I will fly to Kokura and see the situation for myself. But I can’t promise anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you safe where you are now?”

  “As safe as we can be anywhere. But please hurry up, the fleet is almost ready to sail…”

  She felt a soft bump; the dragon had landed. Bran helped her down.

  “I will do my best.”

  A Soul Lance shimmered in his hand. The Shadows were almost upon them. Emrys spat flame towards the nearest; the creature split in two, dodging the fireball.

  “And I’ll—” She didn’t finish. He pushed her towards the shrine wall.

  “Go! I can’t hold all of them back for long.”

  He closed the gate behind her; she heard the sickening, moist, buzzing clash of the Lance against the Shadow-flesh, and then she woke up.

  CHAPTER VII

  The oil lamp flickered. The shadows fluttered on the painted wall like a veil of a dancing girl, revealing and concealing the images without order or reason: a face in ecstasy, a foot with curled toes, a naked breast.

  Atsuko walked up to the lamp and adjusted the wick. It lit up brightly, bringing the entire painting out of the darkness in all its illicit glory. The couples writhed in the throes of passion, oblivious to the world around them: the servants peeking through the doors, the washerwomen enjoying the show by the windows.

  She returned to the bedding, and sat behind her husband on the edge of the mattress. She laid her hands on his shoulder and began a sensuous massage.

  “You are very tense, Your Excellency,” she said. “You should relax.”

  Her husband — the thirteenth Taikun of Yamato, Tokugawa Iesada — scowled. “How can I relax?” he asked. “Everyone is against me. The Mikado, the Council, the rebel daimyos, even your father.”

  She feigned hurt indignation. “My father’s only wish is to serve Yamato. Did he not send you two hundred footmen a week ago? Are not his soldiers aiding the Aizu with keeping peace in the Imperial Capital?”

  Iesada chuckled. “You know much, for a woman. Sometimes I think you know more than me.”

  She pouted. “What good is a wife who can’t take care of her household? And the court is our household,” she whispered in his ear.

  He touched her hand gently. His fingers were cold, clammy, and trembling. His eyes were puffed up and bloodshot. “Whatever may become of Nariakira’s ambition, I will always be grateful to him for sending you here,” he said, and smiled faintly.

  She reached under his kimono, but he stopped her. “Not today. I am tired.”

  “You are always tired. Or gone somewhere for the entire night, and not to your concubines, I’ve checked. You will die heirless at this rate,” she complained. “Think of Yamato’s future!”

  He laughed. “Believe me, dear, that is not the kind of an incentive I need. I promise, tomorrow…”

  Atsuko revealed her shapely white leg from under her garments. She knew the usual effect it had on him. “Are you sure?” she purred.

  “Oh, very well then,” he said and leaned over to mount her.

  A knock on the door interrupted them.

  “What is it?” Iesada barked.

  “A letter from the Council,” said the eunuch servant outside.

  “At this time of night? Leave it till tomorrow.”

  “It is from the Chief Councillor Hotta himself,” said the eunuch.

  Iesada froze; his muscles tensed. Slowly, he slid from the bedding and stood up. “C-come in,” he stuttered.

  This wasn’t the first time Atsuko had seen him like this. The thirteenth Taikun always reacted badly to the letters from the Chief Councillor, and always dodged her questions when she asked him the reason why.

  The eunuch entered the bedroom and handed Iesada the missive. The Taikun held it in trembling hands, then rolled it and shoved it into his sleeve.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” he said. “I have to go and see to this. I will not be back tonight.”

  “I understand,” she replied with a bow.

  She bid him farewell with a brief kiss and watched him leave. She waited a little and then tiptoed to the door. The eunuch servant barred her way. “His Excellency wishes that you would not leave
your room tonight,” he said. “It is unseasonably windy outside.”

  It was the same every time her husband was called for by the Councillor. Defeated, she returned to the bed. Her eyes fell on a piece of paper on the floor. In his agitation, Iesada must have dropped the letter instead of hiding it in his sleeve!

  She picked it up, unrolled it impatiently and stepped over to the oil lamp to read it.

  A typhoon in Suruga Bay,

  Strong enough to beach the iron whale.

  Ensure no survivors.

  Bran woke up to a barrage of noises coming from outside. Explosions, gunshots, and the distant cries of what sounded like a great crowd of distressed people. He rushed to the small window, but all he saw beyond the wizardry tower and the roofs of the nearby houses was the dark night sky illuminated with red, purple, and yellow flames.

  In the corridor, he bumped into a dishevelled Gwen and Dylan.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Dylan, buttoning his uniform. “It sounds like the city’s on fire.”

  “The Black Wings?” asked Bran, though he knew it was impossible — it was too soon, and he sensed no Farlinks.

  “Maybe. Come on!”

  Dylan lunged back into his room to grab a clunking satchel, and all three hurried outside. There was already a small crowd gathered by Dejima’s gate. Bran pushed his way through and stood on tiptoes to look over the low wall. He gasped. Kiyō was burning; there were explosions everywhere, and flames bursting from the rooftops in all colours of the rainbow. Throngs of city folk fled to the beach, to the boats, seeking refuge in the sea. This was no dragon attack, but an attack nonetheless, of the kind Bran had not seen before.

  Magic artillery?

  He grabbed the nearest man by the shoulder. “Do something! We have to help them!”

  The man turned and Bran recognised the Overwizard. Curzius blinked in surprise. “Help, boy?”

  Dylan also made his way to the wall. “What is this? Who’s attacking the city?”

  The Overwizard opened and closed his mouth, and then burst out laughing. At the same time, a flower of purple flame erupted over the Suwa Hill, followed by another, blue one. The crowd on the beach raised a cry of joy and triumph.

  Bran felt his cheeks burn in shame. He retreated from the wall into the shadow, away from the Overwizard’s mocking laughter. Of all the people on Dejima, he should have known what was going on in the city.

  He tugged the confused Dylan’s sleeve. “This isn’t a battle,” he said, quietly. “This is Obon. A festival.”

  Dylan looked back towards Kiyō and also laughed. “Of course.” He scratched his head in embarrassment. “Qin fireworks,” he added. “I should have recognised them.”

  “This is like the feast after the fall of Shanglin,” said Gwen. The rockets glinted in her laughing eyes and in the jade pendant on her neck. The tension vanished from her face. “What are they celebrating?”

  “Their dead,” said Bran. “This is their Calan Geaf, of sorts,” he added. “Except more important.”

  After all, their Spirits are really here today.

  He felt sorry for Nagomi, missing out on the celebrations, hiding, huddling somewhere on a Chōfu ship. The day of the dead must have been the most important day in the year for a priestess, all those Spirits wandering the Earth… This must have been the first time she would not be present at the Obon in Kiyō.

  “I wish they’d let us join in,” sighed the Overwizard. “The dancing, the food… I’ve always wanted to see such festival up close. Alas, we have to wait until it’s over.”

  “It’s decided, then?” asked Dylan. “They’re letting us enter the city?”

  “The day after tomorrow. Look, that’s Li’s dragon!” The Overwizard raised his hand. “Lucky sod.”

  The golden long gleamed like a rainbow ribbon, drawing spirals and loops with its slender body between the vibrant explosions. Bran sensed its exhilaration from where he stood, and fainter, impatience, coming from the northern mountains.

  Emrys.

  Bran glanced at Dylan. He was adjusting various dials on his optical apparatus, then raised it to his eyes and returned to observing the rejoicing Kiyō.

  “What do you have there?” asked the Overwizard.

  “I’m trying to evaluate the magic potentials,” explained Dylan. “But the measurements are all over the place. This thing must be broken.” He tapped the device’s long brass barrel and blew on the glass rod jutting from the side.

  The Bataavian smirked. “Come to my office in the morning. I’ll have something to show you.”

  Bran stepped away from them onto an empty street. This was the best time to act, nobody would notice. He focused and called on the dragon. He was flooded by the warm waves of joy and relief.

  You’re in a celebratory mood too, eh.

  Emrys rushed through the night, over the dark and still Kiyō Bay, against the sea breeze. Bran moved towards the dockyard; it was almost empty, lit up by a few braziers. The sounds coming from the city were muffled by the buildings around the yard, and distorted. The bon odori music, a supposedly jubilant jingling of bells and whistling of flutes, was giving Bran goose-bumps.

  He closed his eyes and peered into the Otherworld for a moment. It felt even emptier than usual, darker and colder. The Spirits are among us, he realised. Down there, in the city. But if the Gates of the Otherworld were open that one night, what else could go through them?

  For a moment, he thought he heard screams of terror coming from the city, over the din of celebrations. He shook his head. I’m imagining things again.

  A whooshing wind rocked the paper lanterns, and a glinting green shape landed among the crates and barrels, throwing debris around. Bran ran to the dragon and jumped on its back. As long as the city folk were busy with the festival — and admiring the Qin dragon twisting and turning in the sky — Emrys and Bran were free to fly more or less unnoticed.

  By the time he reached the beach, the celebrations seemed to be over. The fireworks had gone silent, and the crowds departed from the beach, leaving overturned stands, paper streamers in the sand, and floating lanterns bobbing in the waves.

  This ended quickly, Bran thought. Is it always like this?

  He flew closer to the fishing boats along the pier. This is where the sea washed me out, he remembered. Where Nagomi and Satō first…

  A blood-curdling shriek cut through the memory. He pulled up and sped towards the noise. More cries came from the narrow streets of the merchant district, followed by the clashing of weapons.

  Bran and Emrys reached a crossroad of two broad streets. Here, a crowd had gathered: angry men, panicked women, wailing children; they were too distraught to even pay attention to the appearance of Bran’s dragon. Something far more threatening lurked in the shadows around the crossroads, forcing the people back into a great circle. As Bran watched, a couple of samurai lunged forward into the darkness, their swords drawn. A sickening, slithering sound cut short their battle cry. In the moment of silence, he heard the swords fall and clang on the cobblestones.

  He knew that slithering sound all too well.

  He dived down to street level and flashed a flamespark. In its light, Bran saw the entire avenue filled with the hideous tentacle shapes, beings of darkness and death.

  The Shadows.

  They had got out. Was it just in Kiyō, or all over the Yamato?

  Have they somehow come after me? He shuddered at the thought, but had no time to fear. The tentacles shot towards him. A Soul Lance shimmered in his hand, slashing through the smoky flesh with ease. Emrys spewed a thick, angry column of bluish fire, burning a good dozen of the creatures at a time. They are weaker here, Bran noticed. Unused to the light and the noise. The Shadows flinched away from his Lance, lurking just beyond its range in the darkness under the eaves and in the narrow cul-de-sacs.

  The cries behind Bran intensified. He turned his head to see another group of Shadows launch at the haples
s city folk. Swords and spears were useless against the creatures, and whomever a shadowy tentacle touched, fell to the ground, senseless.

  The Shadows and the people were mingled together in the melee; burning the monsters down was impossible without harming the innocents. Bran leapt down, commanding Emrys to guard the outer streets, and charged at the creatures with his Lance. The Shadows clustered around him like a pack of angry dogs. He slashed and pierced, cut and thrust, until his arm went numb. Still more were coming; the Lance paled and flickered. He raised his hand.

  “Rhew!” Dragon fire shot from his hand. His breath grew short, rasping, his heart ached with effort. “Rhew!” He cried again, but only the tips of his fingers lit up.

  This is bad.

  A flash of white light struck down a shadowy tentacle in front of him. A waft of white mist solidified into a human shape and engaged one of the monsters in combat. Another appeared beside Bran; in its hands it held a long lance with which it pierced the dark flesh.

  The Spirits!

  A group of silk-clad priests joined the fray alongside the ghosts, blowing conches, ringing small brass bells, and making all sorts of horrific braying. Others flashed paper lanterns and shot small, handheld rockets over the creatures. The Shadows pulled back, frightened of the noise and the lights.

  Bran summoned a tarian and barged, head first, ram-like, through the mass of oozing flesh until he was close to a young priest. He recognised the elaborate green silk robe. “You’re from Suwa!” he wheezed, gasping for breath. He never felt so drained.

  The man stared at him blankly. “Who…” He raised a lantern to his face. “Gaikokujin!” He reeled back. “You shouldn’t be here! You are not allowed outside Dejima.”

  “Never mind that now! I’m here to help you.” Bran pinned a crawling Shadow to the ground. “Where are these monsters coming from?”

  “We — we don’t know. They are all over the city. We cleared most of the merchant district, but there’s still more… a great mass of them is heading for the Gaikokujin quarters.”

  Dejima!

  “We have to figure out how to stop them from spawning.” He ducked an attacking shadow arm; a wispy Spirit of an ancient warrior grabbed it and tore it apart. “Do you know where the Gate is?”