“It really is dead…”
Takasugi carefully approached the dorako’s enormous carcass, turned on its side, and still steaming; it spread all along the riverfront, as long as the river was wide; its neck was as broad as a bull’s shoulders, its head the size of an oxcart. It was unreal to look at in its lifeless form — it resembled an oversized sculpture, a monument of a vengeful god, carved in onyx-black stone.
A man was lying underneath it, a tall, young Westerner in a grey hooded robe, his right arm twisted in an unnatural way. He seemed asleep, but Takasugi knew no one could survive having his ribs crushed by the monster’s weight. Another man, a Yamato in an Edo courtier’s robe, lay a few feet away, face down in the mud.
The beach was all but empty; the battle had moved on elsewhere, and all the civilians had long fled the fire. All that remained were bodies, strewn among the debris. Takasugi and Tokojiro searched through them in haste. “So many slaughtered,” he said, choking on tears. “Too many. This is the end of the Kiheitai.”
“On the contrary,” said Tokojiro. “I think it’s only the beginning.”
“Rubbish. There can’t be more than thirty of us left,” replied Takasugi, turning another body on its back. Kusaka Genzui. He recognised the mangled face and remembered how beautifully the young, high-spirited wizard sang at the party in the governor’s mansion in Iwakuni. My shamisen will never join your voice again.
“You may have lost the battle, but think of the fame it will bring you,” said Tokojiro. “You’ve downed a Black Wing. You stood alone against the Taikun’s armies. Those people in Ponto think you’re all heroes.” His voice trailed off, as he moved further north in his search for Shōin’s and Satō’s bodies.
Part of Takasugi hoped they wouldn’t find anything; that the two had managed, somehow, to escape from the beach. But he knew it was a faint hope. He did not regret his decision to abandon them — they were all soldiers, and soldiers of a new model army, created for a new era: making a last stand, or dying in a suicide charge, was good only for the noble-born. Takasugi’s responsibility was with his troops, and by fleeing from the enemy, he had at least salvaged the nucleus of the Kiheitai. Maybe, if Tokojiro was right, it hadn’t all been to naught.
Still, he would feel a lot better knowing he hadn’t left his friends for dead.
“Takasugi-sama, come here!”
He ran up to Tokojiro; the interpreter stood on the edge of a shallow crater, filled with water. All along its edge lay the swordsmen in light blue coats, their clothes torn and their bodies hacked by what must have been thousands of little missiles: without a doubt, powerful magic.
“Down there,” said Tokojiro, pointing at a body in Kiheitai uniform, submerged partly in the water.
Takasugi, with a tight chest, stepped into the puddle and hissed. The water was freezing cold, with granules of ice still floating near the surface. He waded forward; his sandal-clad feet burned with every step. He knew who it was, lying face-down in the mud, even before he touched the body.
He picked up Shōin; the dead wizard was surprisingly light, as if hollow inside. Takasugi wiped the mud off his face and hair. It was a stunning sight: Shōin’s unruly hair was silver-white, devoid of pigment, his skin pale, almost translucent. What magic could have so drained a man?
A waterlogged, leather-bound pile of papers fell out of Shōin’s uniform. Takasugi picked it up and shoved it into his chest pocket, then put his friend down on the edge of the crater and scanned around, looking for Satō; she was nowhere to be found. She wouldn’t have left him like this, he thought. The mud was too trampled in all directions to even try to track any discernible footprints. He was about to give up, when a glint of sunlight in the water caught his eye.
He picked up a sword — with half of its blade snapped off; its hilt and guard bore a cherry-blossom crest, and a Heike butterfly adorned the tsuba.
“I’d recognise it anywhere,” he said. “It’s Takashima-sama’s Matsubara blade.”
“They must have captured her alive,” said Tokojiro. “It’s what they prefer to do.”
“They?” Takasugi looked up. “Who’s ‘they’? The Aizu?”
Tokojiro shook his head and raised a large piece of silver silk cloth, slashed off a robe by the same spell that massacred the enemy swordsmen. It was marked with some sort of crest, a fragment of a design embroidered in a thread as black as night: two long, winding serpents, joined together below their necks. The crest was torn where their bodies would continue.
“I knew the Serpent was involved in this,” said Tokojiro and shoved the cloth into his sleeve. “I could smell them.”
The earth rumbled beneath Takasugi’s feet. He turned in the direction of the sound and froze.
The dorako was alive. The beast slithered slowly off of its rider’s body. It moved sluggishly, as if in half-sleep, shaking its head and growling.
“Get down!” said Takasugi and pulled Tokojiro to the ground.
The dorako spread its wings and raised its head. It sniffed the air, then roared. Takasugi covered his ears; so close to the monster, the noise was head-splitting. The beast leapt into the air, flapped its wings, picking up speed and altitude, and then… it turned north and flew away into the mountains, swaying in the wind.
“What the…” Tokojiro stood up and stared after the dorako with his mouth wide open.
“It’s rider-less,” said Takasugi. “It must have lost interest in the battle.”
“I hope it’s on its way to burn down Edo,” said Tokojiro, his face twisted in a vengeful grimace. “Or Aizu.”
Takasugi picked up Shōin’s body again. “Come on. We have to bury him somewhere.”
They turned away from the river and headed back to the Ponto district, when Takasugi heard the flapping of wings above his head once more. “It’s back!” he cried and, instinctively, ran for the cover of the nearest building.
It was a dorako, but a smaller one than the Black Wing, and jade green. It swooped down and landed between him and the feeble safety of the ramshackle tavern. Tokojiro rushed forward with his sword drawn, but when he saw the two people on the beast’s back — a boy in a Western uniform, and a red-haired girl — he stopped and lowered his weapon.
Nagomi was the first to jump off the beast. She swayed, passed Tokojiro without noticing him and ran up to the bewildered Takasugi.
“Takasugi-sama! Is that… Shōin!” she cried as she touched the dead wizard’s face. She looked up at Takasugi, and he felt as if his heart shattered into a million pieces at the sight of her eyes, wide open, full of tears and despair. “Where’s Sacchan?” she asked, grabbing his arm.
“She… we don’t know,” he said, suddenly feeling tired. “All we found was this.” He pointed at the Matsubara sword lying on the ground.
“And this,” added Tokojiro, showing the silver rag.
Bran strode up to them, grim-faced and tight-lipped. He grabbed the cloth and clenched it in his fist. He spat out a series of words in his native tongue. Takasugi didn’t need Tokojiro’s help to guess their meaning.
“What happened here?” Bran asked. “We must find that Fanged. They can’t be far.”
“We have to get out of here,” said Tokojiro. “Before the Aizu realise we’re still in the city. Look around you — ” He swept the field with a gesture. “This is a war zone. My priority now is to bring Yoshida-sama’s body to a temple, for a proper burial.”
Bran glanced around the beach, muddling the situation in his mind for a moment. The priestess stood still, staring at the broken sword in her hands in stunned, disheartened silence. Takasugi yearned to reach out to her and console her.
“Fine,” said the Westerner. “Give him to me.”
Takasugi handed Shōin’s body to him, and then reached out to Nagomi. He embraced her awkwardly. The girl clung to his chest, still silent.
“He’s so light!” said Bran. “Where do you want us to take him?”
“Uh…” Takasugi hesitated. He pushed Nagomi
gently away. Her hair smells of sea, he thought. “I…the Kiheitai — what’s left of it — should be somewhere on the road to Naniwa by now. They will be wearing these blue uniforms.” He pointed to his tunic. “We will reach you in a place called Yamazaki.”
Bran laid Shōin’s body over the dorako’s back and tied it with leather straps. “Come, Nagomi,” he said. “The sooner we do this, the sooner we can return here to search for Satō. And we will find her.” Nagomi nodded, wiped her tears, and climbed into the saddle. The Westerner paused with the reins in his hands.
“The Chōfu harbour was also burned to cinders,” he said. “I thought you should know.”
“I — I understand,” said Takasugi, downcast.
Bran tugged on the reins, and his mount launched into the air, its wings blowing dust into Takasugi’s eyes.
CHAPTER XX
Captain Takamori entered the audience room and passed through the rows of guards, carrying two cylindrical boxes.
He knelt down before Lord Nariakira and revealed their contents to the daimyo: two freshly cut-off heads, frozen in a grimace of terror and pain.
“Two more spies, kakka,” said Takamori, wriggling his bushy eyebrows. “We caught them snooping around the docks.”
“I see,” said Nariakira, tiredly. “Well done, as usual. Wait — ” He raised his paddle of office. “I know the one on the left. Wasn’t he one of your men?”
“I’m afraid so, kakka.” Takamori put his fist to his chest. “I take full responsibility. If you want me to — ”
Nariakira stopped him. “That’s enough. You captured them, that’s all that matters. I need trustworthy people around me. Like my brother, here.” He tapped Hisamitsu on the shoulder.
His brother turned around and nodded. Ever since the battle with the dragon, Hisamitsu was allowed to sit on the edge of the raised dais during the audiences, on the same level as the daimyo.
“How are the troops?” Nariakira asked.
“Almost ready, kakka. We await your orders.”
“Good, good. Keep up the good work, Captain.”
Takamori bowed one last time and left the hall, passing once again between the rows of guards. There were twenty of them in the room, all in full armour, sitting in strategic positions along the walls and sliding windows, and around the dais; on Nariakira’s orders, they rotated their seats every hour, so that no two guards would have a chance to conspire with each other against him. Another dozen guards stood outside, and more lined the open-walled corridors leading around the courtyard to the audience hall.
The door shut behind the Captain of the Guards. Nariakira slammed his fist on the floor. The brass and leather bracer device on his wrist shook violently. “Spies! Traitors, everywhere,” he uttered.
“Calm down, brother,” said Hisamitsu. “All this anxiety is not good for your health.”
Nariakira grunted. He clapped twice. A retainer shuffled over with a tray — a bottle of saké and a small bowl of trembling cubes of bean curd, topped with shaved tuna.
“I mean, really,” continued Hisamitsu, raising the curd to his lips, “have you seen yourself in the mirror lately? Your eyes are sunken, your face is ashen-grey. When did you last sleep?”
Nariakira gulped a cupful of saké and wiped his mouth. “I haven’t slept since Yokō’s sickness.”
Hisamitsu scowled. A slight underbite was giving his face a constant pout, only exacerbated by his grim demeanour. “Now that is unhealthy. It’s been what, two days now?”
“Two and a half.” Nariakira looked to the paper-covered east-facing window. “Two and a half days of waiting for news, in darkness. The boy, Wurufu, should be in Heian by now… I can only hope that Izumi-dono prepared everything as planned. Otherwise — ” He clutched the frail saké cup in his hand. The clay cracked. “Kuso!” He kicked the tray away. The bowls and cups scattered all over the floor. “I feel so helpless without Yokō. I knew I shouldn’t have relied on her so much — I got too used to knowing everything!”
Hisamitsu wiped the soy sauce stains from his kimono. “You still have your Scryers, brother.”
“Oh, they are useless, the bunch of them. ‘Darkness and blood, fire and ice,’” Nariakira mocked their voice. “And untrustworthy. I bet even the High Priest of Terukuni is in Taikun’s pocket.” He glanced at his wrist. “Great, I got saké all over the device.”
“What is that thing, dear brother?” Hisamitsu asked, trying to make his voice sound sweet and innocent. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”
The device consisted of a leather bracelet studded with brass rivets, a short rubberised tube and a glass vial, topped with a metal piston and filled with golden-brown liquid, which jiggled in its casing with every movement of Nariakira’s arm.
Wouldn’t you like to know, thought the daimyo. “Just something Heishichi built,” he answered vaguely. “Ah!” He mellowed as another guest entered the audience hall — a physician of Western learning, who was attending to Yokō. “What news?”
The physician glanced at the overturned bowls and scratched the back of his head. “I can’t see anything wrong with the girl, physically. Apart from her blindness, of course. Healthy reflexes, body warmth average, stool and urine normal. She is of overall good disposition, although weak and confused.”
“And those fits?”
“Never returned.”
“I see.”
“I am merely a doctor of the body, kakka,” the physician said. “I can’t help with the Spiritual matters. Perhaps a priest would be better…”
“You are dismissed,” grunted Nariakira, irritated again. The physician backed out in a hurry. “Is there anyone else today?” the daimyo asked, his grumpiness growing.
“Only the harbour master,” replied the chamberlain. “With the report on repairs.”
“Tell him to come tomorrow. I’m not in the mood. And somebody clean this mess up!” Nariakira added.
“Shall I leave, too, brother?” asked Hisamitsu, moving out of the way of the servant kneeling to pick up the cracked saké cup. His hand rested casually on the hilt of a short-sword at his sash. “Is the audience over?”
He wants to be me so badly, he even copied the design of my sword.
“No, you stay. I still want to ask you about — ”
In the periphery of his vision, at the back of the room, Nariakira spotted a green blur. The trip wire, one of many in the room, snapped without a sound. The device on his wrist whirred, and the thick bronze needle pierced his skin. The piston pumped the golden-brown liquid into his veins.
The world around him slowed down, almost to a standstill. The green blur solidified into the shape of a golden-eyed, voluptuous woman in an emerald-green hooded robe. She moved — unhurriedly — around the room, from one guard to another, piercing each of them in the neck with a short, curved blade, shaped like a raptor’s claw.
Nariakira remained sitting still; surprise was on his side — the woman seemed oblivious to the fact that she’d been spotted. Little by little, he began to move his hand to the hilt of his short-sword. By the time the woman reached the last of the twenty guards, her first victim was halfway to the floor. She stepped onto the dais and leaned over Nariakira with a predatory smile. She reached towards his neck with the claw.
He drew the short-sword and stabbed her in the stomach. Her jaw dropped in shock, but not — as he’d expected — in pain. He looked down at the blade: it was normal steel, not the black metal he’d hoped for. This blade would not harm her.
He kicked her away. She fell back; he jumped onto her and hacked away with the sword as if with a hatchet. This was no time for subtlety; his only hope now was to maim her body enough to give him time to flee.
Overcoming her surprise, she stopped the sword in her hand. The blade buried deep into the palm and came to a grinding halt on the wrist bones. She grabbed him and threw him off herself with a great force. He flew in the air and slammed to the floor, feeling his ribs crack. She straddled him, graspe
d his neck in a tight clutch and raised the claw for a strike.
“Chiyo!”
Nariakira twisted his neck to see Dōraku, standing on the threshold of the audience hall, the tips of his twin swords aimed at the green-robed woman, as he stepped slowly forward. “Get away from him.”
She hissed furiously, her tongue lolled between her black teeth. “As usual, you’re too late, Renegade. You can’t stop all of us on your own.”
“I will keep trying.” Dōraku made another step forward.
Their movements were growing faster in Nariakira’s eyes; the effects of Heishichi’s preparation were running out. He glanced around, searching for anything that would help him defeat the woman, still holding his neck in a brace. Hisamitsu — or rather, the sword at his waist - was the closest, almost within reach.
He grasped the woman’s wrist with his left hand, and struck her elbow with the right one; a trick he’d learned from a Ryūkyūan master of unarmed combat. The elbow cracked and buckled under the blow. The woman howled, and brought down the claw upon Nariakira’s hand, slicing three of his fingers off — including the one with the blue stone ring.
He rolled out from under her, tumbled forward, and reached for the hilt of Hisamitsu’s sword with his left, still whole, hand.
The drawn blade blackened the room, drawing the light to it and buzzing ominously. He whirled about, slashing blindly. The sword cut through the emerald-green robe, the tight grey uniform, and the flesh underneath it. The blade flashed red; this time, the jagged wound remained in place.
The woman shrieked and reeled away. She dived to dodge Dōraku’s twin blades aimed at her neck, picking up Nariakira’s ringed finger off the floor mid-roll; in two great strides, she reached the paper window and burst through it into the garden beyond.
Dōraku rushed after her, stopped on the threshold to take one glance at Nariakira, and jumped out, disappearing from the daimyo’s view. As Nariakira clutched the bloodied stumps of his fingers, the world around him returned to normal speed — and twenty dead bodies hit the floor.
The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6) Page 27