She put on the leather glove and drew her sword. The gears whirred, the brass arrow reached half-way through the dial. She focused her power into the blade and the feedback, multiplied in the air sizzling with the energies of the nexus, made the sword jolt so hard she almost dropped it.
She had not been trained in using the True Sight, but even she could now faintly see the flow of energies around the blade; sparkling currents of blue and white light. When she drew the first frost rune, its image hovered for a moment in the air.
“Bevries,” she whispered. The word thundered and echoed throughout the space between her and the rōnin. A wave of cold air spread from Satō’s sword and froze both of the warriors into solid blocks of ice.
Such a powerful spell should have left her exhausted and spent, but she was barely tired, only a bit short of breath. She felt almost omnipotent. What would happen if she used blood magic here? Would I even survive so much power?
The box of the cart burst open in a flash which blinded her for a second. She laughed. Bran must have also discovered the ease with which magic worked in the shrine. Smouldering splinters and bits of molten iron showered the ground around her.
The oxcart was still moving, although even more slowly and laboriously than before. She saw Bran scramble off the ground, shake his head and jump onto the moving platform. The boy struggled with the chains wrapped around some large dirt-green metallic bulk lying on the cart. It had taken Satō a long while to realise what she was looking at through the mist and smoke. When she did, her heart skipped a beat. The dragon, asleep, bound and famished, was a far more magnificent sight than she could have imagined. No pictures or description could have given it justice. Greater than any animal she had ever seen, dwarfing the two oxen with its immense girth; in its sleep it seemed more like a statue carved of a single piece of jade, a pile of green jewels heaped into the form of a beast. Moonlight shimmered off its scales and black sickle-like claws. She knew she should feel the onset of the dragon fear just looking at it, but all she could feel now was awe.
Bran struggled with the chains and at last he managed to burn them through, but the dragon still would not waken, the leathery wings — wings! — still folded neatly along its sides. The boy noticed something outside the gate, jumped off the wagon and disappeared beyond the wooden fence.
The two rōnin in front of her were still encased in their icy tombs — she wondered if they had already suffocated or froze to death; for a moment she did not care. She could not care about anything now that she had seen the dragon. But there were more enemies to worry about, the other swordsmen and Nanseians were busy with their own fight somewhere in the fog — and she could now see more clearly the mage standing behind the oxcart, casting shields and deflecting the magical onslaught with a heavy iron mace.
She recognised the pattern of his magic first, then the weapon, and then, as the smoke from another explosion parted, she noticed that the mage had no head.
Pressing his hands and face to the scales, he felt the heat inside and smelled the faint brimstone of the dragon’s breath. At last, after so many days, so many miles, so many misadventures they had been reunited. But even this close, he could no longer get through. His Farlink signals bounced off a powerful barrier; an envelope of strange, unfamiliar magic surrounded the dragon’s mind and what little he could glimpse through the gaps in the barrier did not bode well. All he was getting was hunger, fury and confusion, the first symptoms of feralisation.
The spell maintained by the wizards inside the storehouse he could penetrate easily. But this was a new spell that no human could sustain alone. There had to be either a conclave of mages somewhere nearby or a focus artefact of immense power. Bran looked around quickly. Behind the oxcart the balance of the fierce battle of wizards and swordsmen was slowly tipping against the defenders of the shrine, but Bran had no time to worry about that. In front of the cart, holding the oxen reins, stood a man clad in black garb with a bell staff in his right hand. Their eyes met for a moment as the man struggled with the whining animals, forcing them to drag the vehicle despite a broken wheel. They were some twenty yards from a vermillion torii gate which stood further down the forest path, indicating a symbolic boundary of the holy ground. The driver was desperate to reach it, ignoring the fact that the cage and the box around the dragon was no more, ignoring even Bran who was standing at the platform with the sword drawn.
Looking further along the road, Bran saw somebody in the shadows of the trees, a silhouette ominously black with streaks of red light in the True Sight. In the stranger’s hand an orb of dazzling white light shone like a tiny sun, a nexus of energies flowing around Emrys. Whatever spell held the dragon, this must have been its source.
With a yell, Bran leapt from the cart and started towards the torii gate; only now did the man in black let go of the reins and stood before Bran, the jingling staff raised like a lance in defence.
“Out of my way!”
Bran slashed wildly. His sword bounced off the staff with a loud clang and as he flung himself forward, the enemy swung around and suddenly appeared behind, grabbing him by the neck with the shaft of the staff and pulling him close.
“You’re out of your league, child,” he whispered “Get out of here while you still can.”
Bran struggled but couldn’t set himself free. He hit the enemy under the ribs with the pummel of his sword, but it was futile. If it was my old sword, it would punch the breath out of him, a thought flashed through his mind.
He grasped the arm of his captor and cried “Rhew!” The sleeve of the black robe lit up in flames. Its owner released Bran for a moment, but then caught the boy by the shoulder and spun him around. The last thing Bran saw was the butt of the staff heading for his face.
The oxcart was still lodged between the gate posts when they arrived. The battle seemed to have moved beyond it; the Captain Kiyōmasa could not see well through the smoke and mist, but he heard the clashing of the swords clearly. He did not know who was fighting whom. All his men, he had found dead. Of the wizards, the only one still standing was Daisen Heishichi, whom he discovered wounded and staggering by the side of the road. One of the priests healed his most threatening wounds and the Daisen, after gulping some of his life-giving extract, soon rejoined the fray.
The dorako! The priests halted seeing what lay on the oxcart. Only Nagomi kept on running.
“Come on! Look, a child is braver than you,” the Captain shouted, prodding the priests onwards. Shaking off their fear, they grasped their weapons — long, iron-bound sticks — and followed the red-haired girl.
Bran came to seconds later, lying in the dirt of the road, his sword flung away from his hand. His nose was swelling up quickly and he was nauseated with dizziness. There was an odd buzzing in his head, a sort of murmur growing slowly from deep within. The man in the black robe was standing above him, putting out the flames on his sleeve.
“Ozun!” a strong, dark, commanding voice cried out of Bran’s sight, “this is the rider! Bring him to me.”
Ozun leaned over Bran and reached out to lift the helpless boy from the ground when a red shadow appeared behind him. He turned around; a sword flashed. Instinctively, he raised his left arm in a vain attempt to block the falling blade. The Matsubara sword cut through the forearm with ease, lodging itself deeply into the man’s skull. The severed hand dropped to the ground. The hermit threw his arms apart and fell backwards, without a sound.
Satō was standing in the middle of the road, her sword chipped and bloody. She was trembling and breathing hard. The man in black robes lay in the dirt beside Bran, his skull cleaved through. Blood and gore oozed from the crack onto the road. Bran scrambled to his feet hastily and tightened the satchel straps. He felt the acrid taste of vomit gathering in his throat.
He stepped over the dead body towards the girl and touched her on the shoulder. She raised her eyes to him, wide open, blank and black, but then shook her head and was almost back to normal; only her hands kept tre
mbling. Looking down he noticed one of her hands, clad in a leather glove, was covered with fresh blood.
“You’re hurt!”
“It’s nothing. Bran, back there is the onmyōji — the one from the forest! I did all I could but he just won’t die. I think the body must be animated by the Crimson Robe, he must be somewhere near — ”
She stopped and narrowed her eyes looking past Bran’s shoulder. He turned and saw the man behind the torii gate, now fully visible, standing in the middle of the road. His eyes gleamed golden in the gaunt, smooth face, his long black hair flowed gently over the shoulders draped in a robe of bloody crimson. The jewel in his head, an orange-sized orb, was also the colour of blood.
“You…!” Satō let out a hoarse cry, but before she could leap towards the Crimson Robe, out of the fog and shadows appeared a woman in a tight ashen-grey uniform. Her face and arms were burned, her eyes sweltering with fear and hatred. She saw the slain man in the dirt and a wordless, feral howl escaped her lips. Madly she spun back towards Bran and Satō, flinging a deadly chain-and-sickle weapon towards them.
The wizardess barely managed to dodge the throw, more by instinct and luck than skill. The sickle’s bronze blade grazed Bran’s cheek, drawing blood. Weapon-less and struggling to keep focus required for spell-casting, he pulled back, knowing he would just get in Satō’s way for the moment.
It was an equal match. The woman’s skill with her weapon was far superior to Satō’s swordsmanship, but the wizardess had her magic to rely on, flinging icy missiles and freezing the ground beneath her opponent’s feet to catch her off balance. Bran had never seen anyone fight like that, so seamlessly matching magic and fencing. This must have been how the battle mages of old fought, in the Age of Unbridled Flame.
There was no time to admire the duel. Still more enemies ran towards them, as if answering to the unspoken summons of their master beyond the vermillion gate. Bran wondered briefly whether they had defeated everyone in the shrine already, or whether they chose him and Satō as the greater danger to their plans. The grey-clads and the unarmed warriors had gone past the oxcart and were almost upon them, but a greater danger loomed in the fog, slowly lumbering its way towards Bran. He could see it now without the need for True Sight — the headless, rotting body of the mage slain in the forest by Dōraku’s twin blades.
Bran swooped underneath another flight of the sickle-chain, rolled and, jumping to a stand, summoned his Soul Lance. He hesitated. He could not strike a woman in the back, even in fierce combat. He shouted a challenge.
The woman produced a glass ball from her sleeve and shattered it on the ground. A cloud of smoke burst forth and by the time it cleared, she was gone.
Satō blinked and turned immediately towards the newly arrived enemies, clashing swords with the first of the grey-clad rōnin. Ice shards shattered around her, a cold wave covered the swordsman’s arms with hoar. Bran looked around and, not seeing the woman in grey anywhere, joined the wizardess at her side, protecting them both with a front-facing tarian. His lance flickered worryingly. When did he lose so much energy? He had barely cast any spells…
Our last stand, he thought grimly, watching as more enemies arrived. Where’s Nagomi? Did they get her as well?
He caught a movement behind his back, to the right. He turned quickly, but not quickly enough. The sickle blade, hurled in a smooth, precise motion, flew towards Satō’s back.
As in slow motion, Bran saw a white, blurry figure leap in between Satō and the weapon, arms apart, red hair billowing. The bronze blade struck, wedging itself between ribs. Nagomi cried out and fell down.
Bran stood transfixed, unable to move, feeling something terrible swelling deep within him. He saw Satō turn around, releasing the full power of her enchanted blade against the woman appearing from the shadows, cutting through the deadly weapon. The links shattered, the ice covered the rest of the chain and, through it, the assassin’s entire arm.
The wizardess dropped to her knees beside Nagomi. The priestess gasped a few times and then collapsed limply into the arms of her friend.
Captain Kiyomasa arrived a mere few seconds too late. The little priestess lay dying in her friend’s arms. And the boy… something strange was happening to the boy. He grew in stature, taller and broader than any man. Wings sprouted from his back, spreading across the width of the road. He roared like a tiger and spewed hot smoke and steam from his reptilian snout.
Even the ever stoic Daisen reeled from the monstrosity. The enemies pulled away. The creature made one giant leap towards a female assassin who was clutching the remnant of a chain and handle in half-frozen arms, and cast her aside like a rag doll. The woman hit a tree and collapsed to the ground. Several of the rōnin ran up to creature, trying to stop it, but the swords failed to penetrate the celadon scales, serving only to irritate the monster as it continued on towards the torii gate.
One more person stood in the creature’s way. No, not a person, Kiyomasa realised. A headless corpse. By some unholy magic it still moved, casting all manner of spells against the approaching monster, waving a heavy iron mace threateningly.
The creature’s clawed arm reached out and ripped the mace out of the corpse’s hands, snapping it like a stick of bamboo. It then grabbed the animated body and in a swift move ripped it in two.
Kiyomasa did not even try to comprehend what he was seeing. The dragon, sleeping on the oxcart, would be enough to rid anyone of their senses. Now he observed a battle between a moving, headless corpse and a boy transformed into a giant lizard-like beast. He knew only one way to react.
He drew his sword and with a battle cry — “Hosokawa!” — he rushed towards the enemy swordsmen.
CHAPTER XVIII
Nagomi!
He cried and lunged forward in fury. There was nothing in his heart but hatred; hatred towards the woman who attacked his friends, towards the Crimson Robe, towards the men who had kept him chained in the cage for so long…
Wait, that’s not me. That’s Emrys.
Does it matter?
Pent-up energy surged within him; the dragon had plenty of it to spare. A grey-clad swordsman ran up to him — small and weak in Bran’s eyes. One swipe of a clawed arm and the man fell down, blood spurting from a shattered hand. Another of the rōnin came up from behind; his sword broke on the scaled back. Bran turned with a fierce cry, which turned into a dragon’s rumbling growl. He grasped the swordsman’s head in his hand. The skull gave in with a satisfying crack.
These are not the men I want to fight. Where is the one with the spectacles?
He shook his head. No, not that one either. He turned again, towards the torii gate, where the creature in the crimson robe stood in the shadows, still calm, still smirking.
The demon stretched out a hand holding a large blood-red orb. His lips moved and the orb lit up with bright crimson light. Bran swayed as if some unseen force had hit him, but managed to swipe one of his claws and hit the enemy on its outstretched hand. The red jewel flew away. The smirk vanished from the demon’s face. Another of Bran’s swipes reached the face, leaving bloody claw-marks on its cheek.
The demon leapt back and drew his weapon, a giant, two-handed sword. Magic shimmered along the blade.
We don’t want to fight it. Bran staggered away, trying to refocus. Emrys was growing stronger and, somewhere deeper, another will was stirring. Shigemasa! If I have to balance all three inside me, I’ll go crazy.
The enemy. Concentrate on the enemy. But it was too late. In the crowd of clashing warriors, Emrys spotted the lanky man in the horn-rimmed spectacles. Bran tried to pull his attention back to the Crimson Robe, but the dragon’s fury was too strong. He felt the beast’s mind yank away and suddenly he was alone. The Farlink was broken.
A roar sounded behind Kiyomasa’s back, a roar so tremendous it silenced all other noises. Even the sounds of the festival in the distance quietened down.
The Captain turned around and watched in terror as the green dragon rose, shook
off the chains and spread its majestic wings. It roared again and in the wrath of its bellow the Captain heard the words of an ancient cry. He stood transfixed, unable to move or even blink.
“Down, fool!”
Daisen grabbed him to the ground and covered with his own body as the dragon lowered its head towards them and spewed a tongue of flame as hot as the Sun itself.
The dragon beat its wings twice, as if testing, before leaping off. It flew towards the shrine, fast like the wind, spewing flame and steam, setting fire to the thatched buildings of the inner compound, destroying everything in its path. In a few seconds, it was gone.
Bran’s strength quickly waned. The Dragonform could no longer be sustained with Emrys awakened, away and unheeding his call. He was confused, lost, for the first time in long years not sensing the Farlink connection. He made a step towards the Crimson Robe. The red orb lay in the ferns by the roadside, shining with a pulsating light, making him dizzy and nauseated. Something was amiss, but he couldn’t think straight enough to realise what it was.
The Crimson Robe scrambled towards the jewel. Bran tried to stop him but was too slow, too lumbering in his still transformed body. The demon rose, clutching the orb triumphantly. The gem beamed brightly and Bran swayed again under its spell. He felt tired and sleepy. Waves of negative energy flowed from the jewel. What little of the dragon power remained within him subsided; he could feel it seeping away.
The Daisen crawled off the Captain with a moan, holding his hands over his face. Kiyomasa scrambled to his feet, ready to fight again, but all around him was deadly quiet. Many of the priests and the grey-clad rōnin lay dead, scorched by the dragon’s breath; the others were afraid to get up.
In this silence, the Captain watched the boy-turned-beast sway aimlessly to and fro, disoriented. He seemed to be shrinking in size. A long-haired man clad in a dark red robe emerged from the shadows of the torii carrying a great nodachi, a horse-slaying sword, effortlessly in one hand, and an orb of red crystal in the other. The man stuck his weapon into the ground, reached with the freed hand inside the folds of his garment and drew a bunch of white paper dolls. He scattered them on the ground under his feet.
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