The general stepped through the crumbling gate and took a deep breath. The air was crisp and moist — and real.
He came down to the common room. The landlord looked up from the counter. Shigemasa presented the golden coin given to the boy by the kappa.
“The maidens of Hitoyoshi,” he asked, “are they truly as white as the songs say?”
The landlord rotated the coin in his fingers and licked his lips, greedily.
“For this I can find you Oyuki-hime herself, tono.”
“Good. Bring the woman to my room, and give me thy best shōchū — believe me, I shall know the difference.”
The landlord bowed deeply and disappeared into the back.
“You gave a very moving performance tonight, boy.”
Shigemasa turned around. The samurai traveller was still sitting there, his bamboo pipe in one hand and a shallow cup in the other, looking greatly bemused. “I haven’t heard the Warrior of Kuroda being sung in these parts for… oh, many long years.”
The general strode the length of the common room in several, quick long steps.
“Thou,” he said, “I know thee.”
The samurai turned serious. He looked deep into Shigemasa’s black eyes. At last, he bowed, slowly.
“It is a strange and fateful meeting, Taishō-dono,” said the samurai.
“What art thou doing here, Swordsman?”
“I heard rumours. I wondered if they were true.”
“What rumours?”
“That an ancient prophecy came to pass and the last Shard has returned to Yamato. That the Eight-headed Serpent is awake. That the dragon child is coming.”
“Hmph,” Shigemasa grunted, “and thou thinkest this boy is the dragon child?”
“I do not know. Perhaps.”
Shigemasa grunted again.
“You are displeased, Taishō-dono.”
“I had hoped the boy would be just a vessel that I might use for my own purposes, to settle whatever holds me to this Earthly plane.”
“It still might be true, Taishō-dono. Perhaps your path is entwined with the boy’s.”
Shigemasa contemplated the samurai’s answer in silence.
The tavern door opened and the landlord walked in, leading a fragile-looking woman wearing the flowery robes of a courtesan.
“Are you certain of this?” the samurai enquired. “The boy has had a rough night already.”
“He is young and strong, and I have waited two hundred years. Do not worry, I shall return the boy to bed long before dawn.”
“I’m certain he’ll appreciate it.”
The samurai sipped from his cup and puffed on a pipe.
The woman proved more than satisfactory. Her eyes were large, brown and unafraid, her skin surprisingly smooth for a woman in her late thirties, perfectly white and glistening with tiny droplets of sweat on her long neck and back. She was politely quiet and patient throughout the ordeal as Shigemasa mounted her awkwardly, unused to the barbarian’s long legs and arms. It did not take long before he reached the shuddering explosion he had longed to feel for so many endless years. The woman beneath him squeaked and panted in unison. He knew she pretended, but was impressed that she knew how to do it so convincingly. When he finished, she complimented him on his potency and prowess.
“Do not go yet,” he said, as she started picking up her clothes in silence.
She bowed and sat down, covering her nudity modestly with a bunched up red yukata.
“Thou hast been trained in a city?” guessed Shigemasa.
“I have, tono. My family sold me to a place in Kumamoto.”
“What happened?”
“I bore a child... with one of my customers.”
“Ah! Most unfortunate.”
“If I may be so bold, tono,” the woman said, lifting her eyes, “it is rare to find a boy of your age with such... refined taste.”
Shigemasa laughed.
“Thou may travel the length and breadth of Yamato and thou wouldst not find another youth like me,” he boasted.
A hint of alarm appeared in the woman’s brown eyes as she sensed something odd in the general’s voice, and she started rising to her feet. Her fear excited him.
“Do not fear me, woman. I am merely a boy! Come.” He reached out his hand. “I can feel this young body regaining its vigour already. Oh, ‘tis good to be alive!”
The snow-skinned woman dropped the yukata to the ground and stepped forwards, her face becoming the impenetrable mask of politeness and resignation Shigemasa knew so well.
CHAPTER XV
The precious passenger salvaged from the wreckage of the silver whirligig turned out to be the Governor of Huating — incidentally, the nephew of the viceroy who had perished on Ladon. He was recovering from concussion, lying on a mattress at the makeshift infirmary prepared in one of the tea warehouses — the Western medics, guarding their precious neutrality, had been treating the injured on both sides of the front line as long as they were paid to do it.
“What on Owain’s beard were you trying to do?” Dylan bellowed.
The doctor bandaging the governor’s head winced, but said nothing, knowing Ardian ab Ifor was not a man whose anger one could hope to placate.
“Huating… will fall,” the governor whispered. “I need your help.”
“What makes you think we can help you? We’re as trapped here as you are. I have only a dozen dragons and a few hundred armed men behind the palisade. Good enough for a breakout, maybe, but not to relieve a besieged city.”
“There are more… coming.”
“More Dracalish soldiers?” Dylan moved closer. He wrinkled his nose at the heavy, sweet smell of the Cursed Weed. An addict, even at such a high position. Our tradesmen have fared exceptionally well in this area. “How do you know?”
“Last night — a messenger came through the enemy lines from Jiankang. Your Queen… is sending another ship.”
“A ship, you say?” Dylan scratched his scar. At last some good news! “A troopship? A frigate? Is it ironclad?”
“I do not know. It will come too late to save the city, but with luck you can use it to recapture it…”
“I can use it to get out of this mosquito-infested island!”
“You must help the city,” the governor whispered weakly. “If it falls, the Concession is next. I know that’s what the rebels are planning. They now feel strong enough not to care about your trade.”
“Strong? I admit there are many of them, but they’re still just a bunch of rag-tag — ”
“No — listen… The messenger did not come just to tell me about your ship. He came bringing news about… Jiankang…”
The man heaved and started retching bile into an enamelled bowl.
“Please, this poor man is obviously — ” started the doctor, but Dylan pushed him aside.
“What is it? What about Jiankang?”
“Jiankang…” the governor said, raising his eyes with the effort, “has fallen.”
The triangular red flags of the Heavenly Kingdom — as the rebels demanded it to be called — hung from the ramparts and turrets of Huating Old City. The defenders were brutalised, tortured. All officials had their pigtails cut off, and their precious robes torn off in a public humiliation. The common townsfolk were driven away in a long column across the causeways, over the marsh, into the unknown.
Dylan observed all this from the back of Afreolus, using the lull in the fighting to spy on both sides of the conflict. The rebels were too busy with looting the city to pay attention to the silver dragon above their heads. Only when he got too close to the labyrinthine Yunan Gardens, where the rebel commander had established his headquarters, was Dylan shot at by one of the spider machines. The cannonball whizzed past the dragon harmlessly, but Dylan decided he had seen enough.
Heading back to the Concession he passed a lonely kirin rider approaching the wooden palisade with the flag of the Heavenly Kingdom at the saddle of his mount, a snow-white horned hors
e with hooves of flame. The emissary of the rebels was bringing the conditions of surrender.
Dylan entered the brick headquarters and climbed the stairs to the dining room. The Intendant of the Concession and his councillors had already gathered, discussing the message presented by the envoy.
“They are letting us go free!” the Intendant exclaimed, waving a piece of paper. “We’re saved!”
“On what terms?” asked Dylan, frowning.
“We leave all weapons, munitions and supplies, taking only enough to get us all back to Fan Yu…”
“And…?”
Dylan sensed the intendant had not told him everything.
“And your dragons,” another councillor explained.
Dylan banged his fist on the table.
“Ludicrous!”
“Ardian, we appreciate your input, but you’re not an authorised member of this council,” the intendant reminded coldly.
“I’ve just seen what they did to the people of Huating. If you think they’ll just let us go, you’re deluded. It will be Gandhara Retreat all over again.”
“I understand your concern, but I can’t risk the lives of civilians. We’re merchants, Ardian, not soldiers. If we have a chance to get away with our health, we must take it.”
“They say their leader believes in Mithras. They can’t be all that bad,” added another councillor.
“Their leader believes he is Mithras,” Dylan said, eyeing the councillors with narrow eyes, his scar twitching unnervingly. They can’t be serious.
The Intendant coughed.
“Does anyone else have anything to add?”
The Intendant never managed to give his reply to the rebels. Within half an hour, all councillors were arrested by the soldiers of the Second Dragoons. Dylan effectively took over control of the Concession.
At first he pretended to consider the proposition of the surrender. In reality, he was playing for time, still hoping the ship promised by the messenger from the Southern capital would materialise sooner rather than later.
Two days had passed on fruitless negotiations and the rebels were at last done with waiting. The Heavenly Army began to unravel its lines, surrounding the marsh island from the west and south. To the east was the Huangpu River, and to the north a flooded canal. The walking machines moved forwards, the footmen readied themselves at the rear. The long riders patrolled the sky over the Concession, making the dragons of the Second Dragoons agitated and irritated, but largely helpless.
The relief was nowhere to be seen. A few merchants sneaked out of the island in the hope of fleeing, but it was too late to count on the rebels’ mercy. The Heavenly Army captured every one of them and cut their throats in front of the wooden palisade, in mockery of the Sun Priests’ rituals. After this display, the remaining civilians swelled the ranks of Dylan’s tiny army. They preferred to die fighting than to be slaughtered as slaves.
“We are breaking out,” Dylan decided at last, “east along the river and then north. All the way to Ta Du if need be.”
“It won’t be easy,” said a grinning Edern.
“It never is.”
Dylan turned to his men to give them final orders, when suddenly a barrage of powerful explosions shattered the air, followed by a roar of thunderbolts and a whistle of rockets flying above their heads.
He looked over the palisade to the east. A mighty ironclad battleship, black like the night, chuffed at full speed up the river, cannons blazing, funnels steaming. It was followed by a large stable-ship and a couple of escort vessels. The Queen had sent them not just one ship, but a whole flotilla!
A dozen dragons launched from the deck of the stable-ship. The Qin riders tried to fight them briefly and futilely, overwhelmed by the combined might of flying beasts and the rapid guns of the escort. The marsh to the west of the island filled with smoke and flame, scattered wrecks of the walking machines and bodies of the slain soldiers. The rebels were not yet ready to retreat from the battlefield, but they were certainly much less eager to attack.
A silver dragon landed in front of Dylan and his marines. It carried two men. One of them — a flaxen-haired Seaxe boy - remained mounted, while the rider, a young, brown-eyed soldier of Prydain stock with the shiny new Leader insignia upon his epaulets jumped off with heavy grace and saluted. Dylan noticed the Seal of Llambed on the soldier’s chest. He looks about Bran’s age. I wonder if they knew each other.
“Flight-Leader Hywel ap Cadell, Twelfth Light,” the soldier said with a strong Llyn accent, “hope we’re not too late.”
“Ardian Dylan ab Ifor of the Royal Marines, and interim Commander of the Huating Concession,” Dylan said, returning his salute. “You’re just in time. First time in combat?” he added, recognising the tell-tale signs in the boy’s face, the flushed excitement and hint of fear.
“Green as spring grass, Ardian, but eager,” replied Hywel with a grin. “I’m sorry we’re not the Guards, but we were the best the Empire could procure at short notice.”
“You will have to do.” Dylan smiled back. “Whose ship is that?” he asked, nodding towards the black ironclad.
“This fine frigate, Sir, is Wintoncaestre, the flagship of Rear Admiral Reynolds of East Bharata and Qin Station.”
“Rear Admiral, eh?” Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Come, Flight-Leader, I believe we have a lot to discuss.”
The Flight-Leader turned towards the Seaxe.
“Get her to the stables, Wulf. Make sure she’s got a nice stall this time!”
“Yes, Sir,” replied the blond rider quietly, with only the slightest hint of venom in his voice.
The large sturdy cage of iron bars was much more robust than the previous one. Three men stood around it, feeding a barrier woven closely of many Binding spells. They were wearing vermillion robes with the crest of a circle and cross on their shoulders. He sensed their terror and the immense effort with which they struggled to keep him from breaking out.
Suddenly, with a wild roar, he stood up, stretching his back and wings, shattering the bars of the cage like matchsticks. The wizards tried to fight back, but to no avail. He lunged towards one of them and, in a blink of an eye, snapped his mighty jaws on the man’s midriff. Hot warm blood gushed into his starved throat.
Bran woke up strangely sore. His thighs and stomach muscles ached, his shoulders were covered in scratches. He wasn’t rested at all, as if he hadn’t slept all night. His head was pounding. He remembered scraps of dreams, vivid images. The women from Shigemasa’s memories were there again and once more they all had Satō’s face. For some reason it annoyed him greatly.
There was something else… a vision of the dragon. Bran could not recall the details of the dream, but could not shake off the feeling that something terrible had happened. He tried to focus and reach out with the Farlink, but received nothing except faint signs of life. The beast must have still been asleep. Perhaps it hadn’t eaten for too long — hungry dragons in the wild would sometimes fell into a kind of hibernation, preserving energy until an opportunity to feed presented itself. He dared not to think of another reason for the dragon’s silence.
Slowly, he dragged himself from the flat mattress and put on the bottoms of his travelling clothes. With great effort he staggered down to a vegetable garden at the back of the inn, looking for the well.
The mountains around the valley were steaming. The rain had stopped and the dew rose, filling the garden with a milky mist. In the midst of it, by the well, stood Nagomi, looking at her reflection in the dark water, her hair covered with a fresh layer of the black gunk. She nodded and smiled at him weakly. Bran was delighted to see her relaxed and in higher spirits than the day before.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
Before answering, Bran took a bucket of the cold well water and poured it over himself.
He was slowly remembering the events of the previous evening. Satō had been so exhilarated with the opportunity of having a proper night of revelry, she had decided to buy everyo
ne in the inn a round of best local shōchū — then another. With every round, more people had come into the inn, until eventually the whole neighbourhood joined in the merrymaking. One of Satō’s golden coins was more than enough to cover the bill.
It had been almost a year since Bran had spent a night at a tavern. He was never big on parties, but this time was different. Was it because the local liquor was stronger, the people more cheerful and friendly — or because Satō’s clothes seemed to magically loosen a little bit more with every cup she had gulped?
During the day, as he had already learned, all the conduct of the Yamato people was guided by strict rules. Their manner of speaking, manner of walking, even gestures and facial expressions were always controlled and subdued. However, after a few cups of saké, all this was changing. That night everyone, rich and poor, had joined in singing, dancing and joke telling.
Bran had observed Satō showing off her wealth with concern. She was making them conspicuous. Everyone at the inn had warned them of travelling farther south through a wild mountainous region. As if the rumour of bandits was not enough, there was the water sprite’s mention of malevolent creatures hiding in the forests — and Nagomi’s strange behaviour a few hours earlier. All of this was very unnerving.
By the end of the night the wizardess had been hanging off Bran’s arm, unable to stand, her face deep red. He had dragged her to the room she shared with Nagomi and laid her gently on the futon. For a brief moment she had wrapped her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes daringly, singing in a drunken drawl.
Ima wa ima wa ima wa
Okoran bai ka?
Shita kota gozansan!
Now, now, now,
Why are you angry?
Nothing’s happening down there!
Before he could guess what the song meant, she had closed her eyes and was sound asleep.
“I feel fine, thank you,” he answered Nagomi’s question at last. “Did you sleep well? I’m sorry for waking you up...”
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 43