The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  “Let us hope this needs never be tested.”

  “Of course, of course. Do you still have that quiet room on the top floor?”

  “Always. Do you want to go there right now? I thought a feast might…”

  “My men will enjoy the feast while we talk.”

  The lord of Kumamoto frowned. Nariakira’s actions were now verging upon insult to the host.

  “And what is this?” he changed the subject, pointing to a large, man-sized piece of luggage which several of Nariakira’s porters hauled behind them.

  “Oku,” the daimyo of Satsuma replied with a broad smile, “a gift.”

  “I gather you’ve been busy lately, Narimori-dono.”

  The two daimyos were sitting alone in the Quiet Room, the most secret place in the castle hidden between the thick walls of the top floor, safe from the prying eyes or ears of any spies.

  “I have, but how did you know?”

  The eyes of the lord of Kumamoto darted constantly towards the corner of the room where, leaning against the thick supporting beam, stood the mysterious “gift” from Satsuma. There was the faintest of golden glints in these eyes, Nariakira noticed; Hosokawa’s skin had an unhealthy, pale hue, and a fresh silken bandage was wrapped around his left forearm.

  Did they promise you immortality? More power? My domain?

  “It’s the only explanation for you not informing me of the recent developments.”

  Narimori scowled. Lord Nariakira was deliberately pushing the boundaries of proper conduct; the daimyo of Kumamoto had no obligation to inform him of anything. Nevertheless, whenever he didn’t, it roused suspicions.

  “What… particular developments do you mean?”

  “The Immortal Swordsman visited me as well, a few days ago. He told me about the Eight-headed Serpent and the return of the Shard of Fukuchiyama. I trust you are fully aware of the importance of these events.”

  The lord of Kumamoto was flustered.

  “I… I was just going to write you a letter. But you understand, of course, with what happened in Kirishima — many of my retainers died in the fire, such a thing has not happened in two hundred — ”

  “Some of my men perished there too, Narimori-dono,” Nariakira said, nodding sagely. “Terrible tragedy. But let it not divert our attention from what is really important. Have you received any news from the Court lately? You’re closer to Edo than I am.”

  Narimori’s continuing grimace showed that the play on words did not go unnoticed.

  “I know the Taikun demands troops from all loyal daimyo. But you were surely aware of that as well, Nariakira-dono.”

  For the first time in the conversation, the lord of Satsuma was caught off guard.

  “News travels slowly across the mountains. When did that happen?”

  “I only got the summons a week ago.”

  “And how do you plan to respond?”

  “The warriors of Kumamoto serve only the lord of this castle.”

  Of course. I wonder - how long did you think you could afford to ignore the Taikun’s orders? Perhaps that’s what swayed you in the end: fear of Edo is still strong.

  “I wonder what prompted that demand.”

  “There’s a war on in Qin again — and this time in the North. Perhaps the Court is wary of the Barbarians gathering in strength on our doorstep.”

  “That would be new. They’ve been ignoring the threat for decades.”

  “I…” Narimori’s voice broke. “I’m sorry, Nariakira-dono, but what is that thing?”

  Nariakira chuckled.

  “Of course, no point in keeping you in the dark any longer.”

  He stood up, came up to the gift, and pulled down the cover. Narimori gasped aloud. The falling fabric revealed an incredibly life-like sculpture — of the lord of Kumamoto himself.

  “I had one made of myself,” said Nariakira. “It’s almost a perfect replica.”

  “I still don’t understand…”

  “Oh, allow me to demonstrate.”

  He turned the key clock-wise and the automaton stirred to life. It looked around, blinked eerily and then opened its mouth.

  “Honoured to meet you, Hosokawa-dono.” Even its voice was a good copy of Narimori’s slightly high-pitched timbre.

  Nariakira switched it off.

  “The kagemusha doubles are unreliable and hard to come by. This machine will fool any assassin long enough for your bodyguards to arrive.”

  “Oh… Oh, I see! It is a great gift indeed, Nariakira-dono.”

  “You don’t want to take a closer look?”

  Lord Narimori stood a step away from the automaton, cautious of the strange technology. The automatons known to most aristocrats in Yamato were mere toys; there were only a few people skilled enough to create something as immense as this doppelganger.

  “Did Tanaka-sensei help you with its creation?” asked Narimori.

  “I leave details to my wizards,” replied Nariakira with a shrug, “but I wouldn’t be surprised. Notice the craftsmanship. There are almost as many joints in the hand as in a real one.”

  While Lord Narimori leaned over to admire the artificial muscles, Nariakira reached again towards the key and turned it — this time counter-clockwise. The automaton came to life again; its hands shot forward, grabbing Narimori’s shoulders in a tight grip. A hypodermic needle, hidden in one of the fingers, injected the concentrated venom of a habu snake into Narimori’s arm. The daimyo struggled briefly but vainly with the onset of paralysis. When the toxin finished its work, the living lord of Kumamoto looked almost indistinguishable from his artificial doppelganger. Only his eyes were different, filled with pain and terror.

  “I know you can hear me,” said Nariakira. “The poison will not kill you — and the paralysis should pass in a few days. Of course, by then you will be safe in my castle.”

  He turned a hidden knob at the back of the automaton; the metal grip slackened, releasing the hapless lord into Nariakira’s arms.

  “I’m sure you’ll agree this was a much more elegant solution than, say, sending an assassin. In a way, I’m glad your little bit of thievery prompted me to action. I let you do as you pleased for far too long.”

  With some effort, he leaned Narimori against the wall beside the machine.

  “The automaton will announce your retirement and removal into a mountain monastery, where none shall disturb you but the men I trust. You know which ones I mean — I’m sure my brother supplied you with the list a long time ago... They will also make sure your son is a more… reliable ally. The warriors of Kumamoto are famous for their skill and bravery. I need to be sure they are on my side.”

  He covered the paralyzed daimyo with the cloth and turned the automaton back again.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t like my gift, Narimori-dono. I will order it taken back right away,” he said, looking straight in the machine’s eyes.

  Shigemasa climbed up a narrow stone path in frenzy. The waning moon did little to illuminate the thick, almost jungle-like forest of cryptomeria and camphor trees covering the steep hill. With the two minds struggling for domination, a strange madness was overtaking the boy’s body as he ventured upwards through the woods, across the vines and muddied boulders, using his sheathed sword as support.

  A small spring seeped out of the rocks halfway up the slope. The stream trickled across the path, wetting the pebbles and boring a watery groove in the sand. Shigemasa tripped on the slippery stones and fell, cutting a deep gash in his head on a boulder. The pain and blood only added to his confusion, as the General trudged on, ever higher and further away from the accursed village.

  He stumbled out onto a small, perfectly round glade in front of a dark, gloomy cave. A circle of white round stones stained brown surrounded the glade’s edge. There was a dark, foreboding presence here, the air was dense, stuffy and smelled of old blood. Shigemasa took a weak step forward and then fell down, overpowered by the glade’s energies.

  When he came to, he disc
overed his hands had been tied up with string. He tried the knots — they were coarse, but strong. He was lying just outside the circle of stones by a small campfire. The Kumaso man was sitting opposite on a large, flat mossy boulder.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Shigemasa flailed about. “Let me go this instant! I order thee, savage!”

  The Kumaso man patted his beard and smiled softly.

  “I always wanted to talk to you, old Spirit.”

  “Thou shalt die for this insolence.” Shigemasa seethed and gnashed his — Bran’s — teeth.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing my family,” the bear-man said, “but it’s not yet my time. Neither is it yours.”

  Shigemasa grunted indignantly and sat up.

  “The heretics must die,” he said finally, as the silence prolonged.

  “Why?”

  “They are the greatest foe!” Shigemasa shouted, spittle flowing from Bran’s lips.

  “Now I know why my spirit could not ascend to the Heavens — and why Fate brought me to meet the boy. It is my duty to rid the Yamato of the last of the heretics!”

  “All these people want is to be left in peace!”

  “Thou art a fool, savage. They may seem meagre now, but they are cunning and wily. Like a weed, thou let one offshoot live and then one day they will grow over an entire garden.”

  “So you’ve met them before.”

  “I died fighting them. But the Taikun had prevailed in the end, and we wiped them out!”

  The bear-man stopped smiling and stood up. His face twisted in pain and anger, and he swatted his head with his hand in some strange expression of emotion. He grabbed Shigemasa by the hair and snarled in his face, baring his teeth like an angry animal.

  “Wipe out. It’s all you valley people can do. Wipe out the Heretics. Wipe out the Kumaso. Wipe out the Yōkai. Wipe out anyone that is different… Until only you are left, with your metal swords, and your paper houses, and your shrines where the Spirits are imprisoned!”

  “There would be no Spirits at all had the Heretics got their way!” the General said, spitting. “They will overthrow the order of things. They will bring the civil war back. I must stop them before it’s too late. I have seen the coming Darkness.”

  Torishi stepped back and laughed.

  “You think they are the Darkness? They are the reason you remain stuck in the mortal world?”

  “What else? No demon brought so much foulness to this land as their Warrior God.”

  The bear-man’s look changed from anger to pity.

  “I know your kind. You’re the hunter that boasts of killing the grey-haired, toothless and clawless old bear. But the real beast remains, still threatening the forest.”

  The General was silent for a while.

  “What art thou saying?” he said at last.

  “What is your duty, Spirit?”

  “To serve and protect the Empire,” the General answered without hesitation.

  The bear-man ran his fingers through his beard.

  “I was the greatest hunter in my village. I thought I was protecting my family, my people. But I failed to see the real danger before it was too late.”

  The Kumaso returned to his boulder, leaving the General alone. Shigemasa’s eyes fell on the stone circle. Only now did he notice that one of the small white stones was roughly carved in the shape of Jizō, the bald guide into the Otherworld.

  “What is this place?” he asked. “I sense… there was some great evil here.”

  “I sense it too,” said the Kumaso, “but now it’s gone.”

  Shigemasa’s thoughts raced. It must have been a place where the heretics performed their darkest rituals; where they summoned their demon servants. But why did Fate bring him here to this circle of black magic so powerful even a remnant of it was making him, a ghost, shiver?

  Twenty thousand souls had defended the Hara Castle, he remembered. Men, women, children.

  The Taikun had ordered them all dead. At the end of the siege over a hundred thousand soldiers charged the walls of the heretic fortress. And now all that was left of them was this one little town with one little temple.

  He noticed the bright red cloth around the Jizō statue, fresh flowers and a cup of saké. He smiled to himself. The Kumaso was right — the old bear was toothless and senile.

  The General closed his eyes and prayed to the bald god for guidance. Jizō was the protector of lost souls, and who was he but a soul lost between this and another world?

  The red dot pulsated in the distance.

  He was in a dark place. By now, Bran was able to recognize the red dust plain by the smell of damp earth and the sound of distant, incessant winds.

  But there was another light: a translucent flame shimmering with unnatural colours, ghostly blues and otherworldly purples. He started walking in its direction and soon began to make out silhouettes of people in hooded robes standing around the bonfire. They were also wraith-like, made of white and blue light and mists. The wind tore them like clouds.

  The scene was surrounded by a circle of white stones and faint phantoms of trees, vanishing into darkness. The ghostly men did not seem to notice Bran as he stepped even closer, intrigued. One of them was wearing the Phrygian cap of a pater.

  Mithraists. What is this? A vision, but of what… the future? The past?

  The bonfire gave out no heat; on the contrary, the closer Bran got, the colder the air grew. Bran’s breath became visible; an unpleasant, metallic scent lingered on his tongue.

  Something was happening. A body was brought into the circle and thrown on the ground. It hovered eerily a few inches above the red dirt. Then, one by one, the gathered stood above it and cut their forearms deeply with phantom blades. Blood poured on the body like a stream of pale blue light. At last, the pater did the same, closing the circle. He raised a brightly glowing talisman showing the horned cross-in-circle, the symbol of the Mithraists. His lips moved in a silent incantation.

  Somewhere in the distance, drums began to roll.

  Two of the hooded men held the body by its arms and legs; it stirred, twitched and started thrashing about. The pater touched its head with the talisman and it quietened. He ordered the men to let go.

  Slowly, staggering, the dead man rose from the ground. His body was black with a red tinge, only the eyes shone like golden nuggets. His teeth were long and sharp. He lunged at the priest, but covered his eyes before the talisman’s light and bent his knees in a show of subservience.

  The drums grew louder, more frantic.

  A Fanged, Bran recognized the creature. This is how a Fanged is created.

  The newly born Abomination looked around the circle, and raised its head, sniffing, hunting. Its glowing golden eyes met Bran’s and its muscles tensed.

  It sees me!

  The creature leapt outside the vision, out of the circle of ghosts with terrifying speed, and suddenly appeared on the red dust plain in the flesh. It was no longer a wispy wraith; its naked skin was pale and bloodless, but its sinews and muscles were all too real, as were the claws and long fangs. Its face was twisted in agony and rage. Before Bran could react, it jumped at him, pinning him to the ground.

  They wrestled; the Fanged’s teeth tried to reach Bran’s neck. He fought back with all his might, but the creature was strong, stronger than Bran, and the claws tearing at his wrists seemed to sap the boy’s energy; he couldn’t summon a shield or a lance. Llambed Seal, he thought in desperation. Will it work here?

  The drums stopped abruptly and a shadow appeared over Bran and the Abomination: another man, wearing a mask lined with white heron feathers and a colourful kaftan, with both hands raised in the air, holding sharpened bits of steel. He struck at the Fanged between the shoulder blades and disappeared.

  The creature howled, screeched, and jumped up, trying to reach the blades embedded in its back, but within seconds, a black rot spread from the twin wounds and engulfed its entire body. With an agonizing cry, the Fanged flailed its a
rms and then exploded in a cloud of grey ash. The blades fell on the red dust with a clunk, their ends twisted and melted.

  What in Annwn just happened?

  With an effort, Bran remembered the Egungun dancer’s ritual in far away Ekó, and his father’s anger at what he perceived as an assassination attempt.

  Not the first time he was wrong, he thought.

  He heard steps and turned around, Soul Lance in his hand, this time ready to fight. It was Shigemasa; he seemed weakened and dishevelled.

  “Come, boy,” the General said with a tired voice. “Time to go back to the others.”

  They touched hands and Bran woke upon an overgrown forest glade surrounded by polished white stones. The same metallic scent lingered in the air.

  His hands were tied up with string; the light of a campfire flickered on the glistening leaves of the camphor trees. Torishi, sitting on one of the boulders, noticed him awake. He observed Bran for a moment, then nodded, stood up, drew his long dagger and slashed through the knots.

  There was no trace of Bran, the path had ended long ago, and everywhere she looked, the wood looked exactly the same.

  She was alone in the dark forest; she was tired and lost, her head ached and her stomach rumbled.

  What was I thinking? I will have to wait until dawn to get back.

  She felt a numb pain in the corners of her eyes and behind her ears. She felt hot.

  It’s that damn drug. Nagomi was right not to drink it.

  She loosened her clothes and staggered on from tree to tree.

  I need to walk down the slope… keep straight…

  There were lights among the camphor trees, colourful wisps and flashes like the ones showing under closed eyelids. Satō shook her head and the lights disappeared, but not for long.

  I’m being poisoned, she realised and giggled. Why am I giggling? This is terrible.

  She laughed out loud.

  Another, greater light appeared behind the trunk of a huge tree. When it moved towards her, she saw that it was the shape of a man.

  Is that their God, the Sun? Is that what they see?

  The shining man came closer with his hand stretched towards her; he was completely naked. She recognized him at last.