CHAPTER VIII
It’s that dream again.
A soft glow illuminated the dusty plain.
Behind Satō rose a tall spire of gleaming white marble, splotched with stains of dark rusty red. Before her, at some distance, a stone staircase climbed out of the dust, its summit disappearing into darkness. The shadow creatures she’d seen earlier swarmed on and around the staircase, slithering over each other in a struggle to reach the top.
Two silhouettes appeared on the horizon. They approached Satō in shimmering, sliding flashes. They were the two samurai from before, the tall, charcoal-black one and the one in the old Western armour and ruff collar.
“Glad you’ve managed to find the time to visit us again, Queen of Shadows,” said the Yamato samurai. Last time she’d seen him, he’d asked her to call him the Fool. “We missed you.”
“Stop calling me that,” she replied. “My name is Takashima Satō. I have no idea who this Queen is.”
“Of course, whatever you wish, Your Majesty.” He bowed with a mocking smile.
She scowled. “What are these things?”
“You know, I’m not sure myself. I thought you’d know.”
“Why … why me?”
“Because they only came after you’d opened the passage.”
The passage …?
“He means the sacrifice spell,” the black samurai spoke for the first time. He had a heavy, staccato accent. As he came closer, Satō noticed that it was only the dim light of this world that had made his skin seem black — it was more a polished bronze, like the skin of a roasted chestnut, or mahogany wood. A massive, Qin-style halberd was slung over his back.
“What kind of yōkai are you?” she asked.
“I’m not a yōkai,” he answered indignantly. “I’m a man, like you or him.” He pointed at the Fool. “Well, more like you. I don’t know what he is.”
“I’ve never seen a man like you before.”
“And I’d never seen men like your people before the Vasconians brought me here.”
“Brought you? From where?”
He shrugged. “Half a world away. Doesn’t matter now. All I remember is the name of my village, Yasu.”
“And that’s why I’ve always called him Yasu,” added the Fool, with the air of a patient teacher. “Or My Bodyguard. Or ‘Hey, You.’ Actually, I don’t call him that much. He’s sort of always around.”
Satō chuckled, despite herself. The Fool was true to his name, adding all sorts of comical poses and gestures to his words. Meanwhile, ‘Yasu’ stood morbidly serious, observing the antics of his companion — or master? — with tedium.
“They came from over the mountains,” said the Fool. He pointed towards a line of white on the horizon. “To answer your next question.”
“What did — oh.” I wasn’t going to ask that. “I didn’t think there would be mountains here.”
“Well, not here, in the twilight lands,” the Fool agreed. “This is the abode of the living, and there’s nothing here but the mind towers, or whatever you’d call these things.” He looked up at Satō’s spire. “There’s something wrong with yours, by the way.”
She turned and saw the rusty splotches growing and joining, covering now more than a third of the white marble surface.
“I don’t know what’s doing this,” she said. “I don’t understand any of it. Wait — you said abode of the living … Does this mean the Shadows come from the land of the Dead?”
“I told you, you’ve opened them a passage,” said the Fool. “Didn’t I tell her that yet?”
“You did, tono,” Yasu replied. “But you didn’t explain what that meant.”
“Oh, right. Well. What else could it mean? They were there, beyond the impassable Mountains of Time … Now they’re here, clamouring to reach the top of the stair. What do you call it if not opening a passage? Or a gate, I suppose. Not The Gate, mind you. That’s up there.” He nodded at the stone staircase. “You didn’t think there would be no price to pay for what you did? It isn’t called a sacrifice spell for nothing.”
“A price …” She put a hand to her forehead. He’s talking too fast. I want to wake up.
“And for a silly thing like that!” He kept on babbling. “You know, there were lords that gave away their entire castles for the right to use that spell to save their loved ones … And you bought a leg. A Gaikokujin’s leg, too — that’s, like, half a leg, really.”
“You mean what I did to save Bran!” She finally realized. “I brought on the Shadows … because of that?”
The Fool glanced at Yasu. “She’s catching on fast, isn’t she?” He rolled his eyes. “Of course, the Renegade did most of the work there. You were just a vessel. But we can’t have the Renegade be the King of Shadows, can we? Who knows what he would tell them to do.”
“I can tell them what to do?” It was difficult to make sense of everything the Fool was saying. The words flowed fast from his mouth, interspersed with chuckles, ‘hmms’, ‘oohs’ and ‘aaahs’ in a disjointed cacophony of human sounds.
“I think so. Why else would they have bowed to you?” He looked at the Shadows and rubbed his chin. “Hmm, can’t seem to pay much attention to you now, though. These stairs draw them in too strongly. And I think there’s a bit less of them than there used to be. Hey, You, what do you think?”
“You’re right, tono,” replied Yasu. “Especially since the Obon incident.”
“What’s at the top of the stair?” she asked.
“Why don’t you go and see?” He wriggled his eyebrows.
“But the Shadows …?”
“How many times … they won’t hurt you. Go on, try.”
He nudged her in the direction of the staircase. The Shadows slithered out of her way, clearing a path. She started climbing — the stairs were wet, soft, and slimy, just as she remembered. They were taller than she remembered, though. The stairs tapered, leaving just enough place for her feet near the summit. The Shadows here had to drop away and hit the dirt below with a sickening splatter. The red glow gave way to darkness, with only a ray of silver light coming from above.
She reached the summit and entered a narrow black tunnel. Its far end was enclosed with a glowing sheet of silvery metal. She pushed it with her hand — it yielded like stretched leather. She knew she could break through it with ease and then all the Shadows lined up behind her would pour out through this gate.
Why would I want to do that?
“Do you remember last summer, back in Gwynedd?” Bran asked. “We thought it was hot then.”
Emrys snorted. The dragon was tired and sleepy. Heralded by the awakening of the cicadas, the dawn crept over the rolling ridge rising to the north-east, and with it, the relentless, dazzling sun. The straight trunks of the cedar and bamboo grove Bran had made camp in would scarcely be enough protection from its rays. The moisture in the air made it impossible to escape the heat.
Bran climbed underneath a canvas canopy spread over the branches of a young cedar and lay down on the grass. At least the morning dew gave his burned back and shoulders some respite. It would do nothing for the thick-scaled dragon. Emrys licked his snout and snorted again. Its wings were spread wide across the glade, steaming hot to touch, lazy tail swaying from side to side in a wafting motion. The dragon was definitely not in the mood for anything as wearisome as flying.
And the hot season had only just started.
How much more of this did Takasugi say? Six weeks? How can anyone get anything done in this weather?
He rolled on his side, yawned, and closed his eyes. It was hard enough to fall asleep in the stuffy heat. Worrying about Satō didn’t help.
At least I know she’s alive, he kept telling himself. After all, what good would her dead body be to the Fanged … But why keep her? To get Information about the kiheitai’s hideouts? It didn’t make sense.
It’s a trap, he realized. She’s bait for me. They know I’m here. Everyone saw me flying over the city. They still wan
t me captured. Maybe hold me as a hostage against Father or get their hands on Emrys.
The realization changed nothing. He still had to save her. If anything, it made his conviction stronger. He just had to be more careful, and plan more wisely, that was all.
If they lay a finger on her … His fists clenched.
Emrys snorted again — and this time, stirred. Stirred? Apart from wafting itself with its tail, the dragon would not move a muscle during their time of rest, conserving its energy. It stirred again, and raised its head, blinking lazily.
Bran sat up and penetrated the forest with True Sight. In the hazy, grey darkness of the dawn, three silhouettes of buzzing light headed towards him from the direction of Sakai. He turned around — two more men crawled from the other side. His pulse quickened. They were yet too far away to make out details — if they carried any weapons, Bran was unable to spot them.
They must know I can see them. Can they see me, too?
He crawled out from under the canopy and through the wet grass, towards the bamboo bordering the glade.
I’m sorry, he sent a thought to Emrys, but we’re going to have to break some sweat today, me and you. Just don’t move, yet …
The approaching men made no sound as they moved through the undergrowth. As they got nearer to the glade, Bran spotted threads of elemental magic around their hands.
Rangaku weapons. Of course. He remembered the thunder guns in Kokura. They’re too close. They could actually hurt Emrys at this distance.
He wanted to yell at the dragon to fly. But the sluggish, half-asleep beast would not get away fast enough beyond the range of the weapons — and the enemies might have more tricks up their sleeves.
The men halted while Bran reached the bamboo. Their trunks were thick, massive, grey with age. He touched the smooth bark and focused on infusing it with dragon flame.
“Rhew.”
The moisture within steamed up. He did the same to two more bamboo canes nearby, then quickly crawled aside. The attackers were kneeling in the tall grass, no doubt aiming their guns at Emrys, now perfectly visible as its scales reflected the rising sun.
With a deafening burst of gunshot the first bamboo exploded from inside with the power of condensed steam. Bran jumped up, Lance buzzing in his hand.
The second tree erupted, the blast followed by thunder: one of the guns discharged towards the burning bamboo. Bran leapt over the ferns, reached the nearest assailant, and slashed him through.
Two more exploding trees added to the confusion. A second gunshot in Bran’s direction, this time from a gunpowder rifle. The bullets missed him by inches.
“Now, fly!” Bran thought, and ran towards the second attacker.
Emrys launched heavily, flapping its wings with effort. It picked up speed fast, but not fast enough. The dragon roared in pain when a thunder discharge reached its flank. It swerved, crashing into the cedar trees, bouncing from trunk to trunk.
“Fly!” Bran urged again, and that was all the attention he could spare the mount. He reached the second enemy. The man, wearing the tight grey uniform, was ready for him. A point-blank shot enveloped Bran’s tarian in black smoke and shrapnel. His ears ringing, Bran slashed the Lance, but the weapon cut through bamboo over the ducking enemy’s head. The assassin threw his gun away and drew two short swords.
Acute pain exploded in Bran’s head. He shot a cone of flame from his fingers, forcing the assassin to shield away, and focused on the source of pain.
Emrys!
He looked up. The dragon hobbled over the treetops, bobbing up and down in the air and waving its wings in a frenzy. Below its stomach, hanging onto the reins, was one of the assassins. He kept jabbing at the scales with his short sword, looking for an opening; each prod was a sharp needle in Bran’s mind.
Two enemies neared towards him from the sides, each holding a freshly recharged gun, buzzing and crackling with energy. His tarian would not last another point-blank shot.
Without it, he stood no chance. His Lance vanished and he reached both of his hands out and spread a wall of fire between himself and the enemies. He turned, and fled.
He needed to get out in the open — and so did Emrys. Splitting his attention in two, he struggled to run through the dense undergrowth and guide the dragon at the same time. Each second they wasted fighting the assassins was a second the man hanging on to Emrys could find the chink in the young beast’s armour of scales.
Tripping over roots, his face bleeding from a dozen scratches, his clothes torn on the briars, Bran reached the irrigation canal that formed the border of the forest. He leapt over it, landing ankle-deep in the mud on the opposite shore. Seconds later, Emrys appeared over the trees — and at the same moment, the assassins emerged from among the bamboo, their blades glistening in the sun.
Slipping on all fours, Bran clambered out of the ditch. He took one quick glance at the dragon and closed his eyes. The complex curve of the enhanced leap materialized in his mind.
No mistakes now.
He leapt in a backwards somersault. His feet slammed into the smooth tree trunk. He opened his eyes and bounced off towards Emrys.
“Up!” he shouted at the dragon. The beast flapped its wings and climbed in a straight vertical line, the assassin dangling desperately at the reins. Right on time, Bran felt a strong jolt as the wind elementals whirled around his arms and carried him higher still into the air. A lightning bolt crackled beneath his feet.
Perfect aim, Bran noted, if I were falling.
The energy of the enhanced leap fizzled out when he reached towards Emrys and grabbed the saddle belt. Up, up! he urged, and swerved to avoid the assassin’s blade. The blade slashed the air inches from his face. The enemy was fast and skilled, but Bran had the rider’s training on his side. Gripping the saddle belt, he kicked with both feet, knocking the sword out of the assassin’s hand. The man swirled around on the leather strap he was holding. His kick reached Bran’s side, making him almost lose his grip. Bran shot a tongue of flame at the strap. The leather finally snapped, and the enemy hurtled to his death.
The fight was not over yet. Two thunder gun discharges electrified the air around Bran, weakening his fading tarian. He dropped the shield, and scrambled up to the top of the saddle. Up! Getting out of range of those guns was the only thing that mattered. The dreaded sound of thunder roared below and his left leg burst in pain. The blood magic runes on his leg lit up blue, and the pain disappeared.
What? What was that?
Emrys sped up, at last free from the extra burden, though still sluggish. The rice paddies zoomed below, pink and grey in the dawn haze. Bran looked over his shoulder — the assassins turned to dots, then blurred away into the distance.
His breath and heartbeat slowed down. With the battle rush receding, he was beginning to feel the pain of the fight. Piercing in his side, where the enemy had kicked him. A cracked rib? A warm liquid flowing down the outside of his right thigh — a shallow sword cut; he didn’t even know when he got it. And there was more, pain coming from beyond his own body, the pain of scorched scales and blade wounds.
How did they find me? Have they found the others, too …? All their plans needed to be recalculated. The assault on the castle had to happen now, in broad daylight. He needed to find Takasugi, gather the rest of the Kiheitai … Let Nagomi know she needs to—
Nagomi!
The red light of dawn bounced off the golden sparks of a sleeping carp. Nagomi watched a small, white, thin spider march along the railing of the bridge. It reached a point not far from her hands, then began a slow descent on a silvery thread, towards the water. A single rooster crowed. There were several of them perching on a willow tree overlooking the pond, but only one yet awake. Soon, the acolytes would come to feed the sacred birds and the sacred carps. The water would foam up in a frenzy, and the willow tree would become a storm of feathers. But for now, all was quiet.
She heard soft footsteps, and squeezed the railing in anticipation.
Is it now?
A glint of the light of dawn on an assassin’s blade.
She was exposed here, on the top of the rainbow bridge — it would be an ideal moment to strike …
She breathed out. It was just the High Priestess. The hem of her golden and white robe shuffled along the gravel path. The girl stood away from the railing and bowed.
“High Priestess.”
The woman’s lips curved. It was less a smile, more an acknowledgement of a small success. “My acolytes told me I’d find you here.”
“You were looking for me?”
It was rare to see the High Priestess up so early in the morning. She was as different from Lady Kazuko as two women could be. She was young — in her late thirties, at most — tall, and conscious of her rarefied, aristocratic beauty. She always wore the finest robes of Qin silk, and Nagomi had never seen her without elaborate make-up: thick black eyebrows and crimson lips. She bore her long, black hair in an ancient manner, with twin strands falling down the front of her shoulders. She looked as if she had just stepped out of a painting from the Age of Dragons.
“I thought we might have a little chat. I hardly know you, and you’ve lived here for so long already.”
This was true — they had rarely talked before. Being the High Priestess of the largest shrine in Naniwa was a job requiring full attention — but that was not the only reason.
“Are you sure it’s … prudent?” asked Nagomi.
When she’d been brought to the shrine, the deal was simple: nobody would ask any questions, and she would not speak to anyone about who she was, or where she’d come from. The red-headed girl living in an overgrown, unused pavilion in the back gardens was supposed to be invisible. As far as the priests and acolytes were concerned, this state of affairs was to last only a day or two, while the kiheitai prepared to flee back to Chōfu.
The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) Page 9