Yokoi and Bran looked at the slope, then at each other, then back at the slope. The samurai tied up his robe between his legs and attacked the rockslide with vigour belying his age. Some ten feet up, he looked down towards Bran.
“What are you waiting for, barbarian?”
Bran took a step back and, using his hands and fingers as measures, calculated the angles of approach and rebound.
“Hurry up!” urged Yokoi. “You do know how to climb, don’t you?”
Bran took a brief run-up and launched himself into a sequence of enhanced leaps, bouncing from one cliff wall to another. The boulders were wet and slippery, breaking his stride, but he recovered and leapt one more time before landing on a flat stone, jutting out of the rumble at a right angle.
The leaps took him halfway up the slope, a few feet over the fisherman, and a long way up from Yokoi. It was as high up as he dared to reach in one go. He was surprised to even have got this far.
It’s a long time since I tripped when jumping over the fence at Kirishima, he thought. Was it just the vicinity of the nexus at Fuji that gave his spells the boost they required, or had his magic potential grown along with his confidence — as some of his teachers at Llambed had predicted?
Don’t get cocky, he remembered his father’s voice. Even if it had only been an illusion, it made him shudder.
The rest of the way, he climbed like the other two. The young fisherman still got to the top before him. He reached out for Bran’s hand and dragged him up in one strong pull, almost yanking Bran’s shoulder out of its socket.
Bran looked down. “I’m sorry about your boat,” he said. The furious waves finished reducing the vessel to shards and splinters. “How will you get home now?”
The fisherman waved it off. “I’ll walk. The causeway’s still there, isn’t it?”
“Tokimari-dono will pay you back,” said Yokoi, panting after the long climb.
“It was worth it for the tale alone,” said the fisherman, grinning. “Do you think I’ll be mentioned in your legend, tono? A Gaikokujin warrior, a Hōjō clansman — and me, a lowly fisherman.”
“What is your name, so that I may mention it in the story?”
“My name is not worthy to occupy your esteemed memory,” said the fisherman and bowed. “The people in the village will know it’s me, that’s all that matters.”
He turned to a line of wind-bent pines growing along a ridge to the south. “The causeway and the village is that way,” he said, “but I’m guessing that’s not where you want to go.”
“No. This is where we part,” said Bran. “Be careful. There is evil on this island.”
For the first time, the grin vanished from the fisherman’s face. “I know, tono. It’s too quiet. I hear no singing pilgrims, no music from the shrine — not even the birds in the trees.” He shrugged and beamed again. “Ah well. I’m not the one looking for the demons. I just need to get home before it gets dark.”
He bowed and sprinted off towards the pines, his feet making no sound on the wet grass.
“Where now?” he asked Yokoi. The samurai brushed dust and dirt off his clothes — he was wearing now the Hōjō clansman’s robes, apparently borrowed from his kinsman — and turned narrowed eyes at Bran.
“I didn’t know you barbarians could fly.”
“It’s just a little enhanced acrobatics.” Bran shrugged. “Every dragon rider must know it.”
“Might come in handy.” Yokoi gestured in the direction opposite to where the fisherman had disappeared, further up the hill. “After me.”
The shrine on top of the island’s “head” — smaller and secondary to that on its “back” — was busy with regular priestly activity. The acolytes brushed the leaves off the dirt paths and trimmed the grass along paths, the shrine maidens wove talismans and counted coins earned from their sale during the day. There was even an occasional late pilgrim, dawdling in front of a statue or a sacred well.
Bran and Yokoi observed it all from a hiding place in a great azalea bush, overgrowing a knoll not far from the shrine’s gate. A large black butterfly sat on Bran’s nose. It flew away just as Bran was about to sneeze.
“There’s nothing out of the ordinary here,” he said. “Are you sure we shouldn’t be looking elsewhere?”
“These are not the Enoshima priests,” replied Yokoi. “They are servants of the Serpent.”
“How can you tell? They look like priests to me.”
The samurai scoffed. “Pah. Of course they would, to a barbarian. Look carefully. They only perform the actions of the laymen — cleaning, brushing, washing. No rites. No prayers. No lighting the incense. No carrying ema tablets to the sacred fire. I haven’t seen a single priest or acolyte stop by the altar to give thanks.”
“This doesn’t make sense.” Bran scratched his cheek. “No Fanged can enter the sacred ground. What use would they have of an entire shrine?”
“I don’t purport to understand the Abominations. Maybe if Dōraku-sama were here, he would explain it better. My guess is they are guarding something of importance, something that can’t be taken away from the shrine.”
“So a place, or a building, rather than an artefact.”
“Or a prisoner.”
“Satō!”
The lines of magic Bran saw in True Sight converged on several points throughout the shrine, but nothing indicating Satō’s particular pattern. Yokoi was right — the entire compound was a sham. What had happened to the real priests, he could only guess.
For the first time the scale of the Serpent’s operations dawned on him. It wasn’t just the eight Fanged lords and their vassals. To control the daimyos and provinces, to exert influence on the Taikun’s Council, to elude the official network of checkpoints and spies, all took a vast, hidden enterprise. Only here, near the centre of their domain, was this influence so visible, so obvious.
And Dōraku … stood against all this by himself, for all those centuries?
They retreated from the azaleas deeper into the forest. The nobleman nodded after Bran explained what he had seen. “We need to figure out what it is they’re doing.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Things may have changed since I last came here … but if I remember right, the main building is over there, next to the dragon’s cave.”
One of the magic beacons burned in the direction the samurai was pointing. It was as good a lead as any, but—
“Wait — the dragon’s cave?”
“It’s nothing, just a hole dug in the rock, with a statue of a dragon. Sometimes it spits fire. Tacky and vulgar, popular with kids.” A faint smiled danced on his lips.
“Not many kids at the shrine today,” said Bran. “Shall we check it out?”
“Ssh …” Yokoi pulled him away. A group of “priests” walked past along the forest path. He watched them disappear among the trees. “There’s nowhere to hide further up,” he whispered. “Beyond this wood the shrine grounds spread from cliff to cliff, clear and empty.” Yokoi put his fingers to his lips in thought. “How often can you use this squirrel spell of yours? Can you leap from roof to roof, from tree to tree, or do you need to recharge it, like a thunder gun?”
“As long as I’m not distracted I can go on for a while … but it’s too bright. They will notice me.”
“I’ll distract them.” He stared Bran in the eyes. “Of the two of us, you have more chance against the Abominations, boy. You have your magic, your dragon, your ... strange weapon made of light. All I have is my sword.”
“So … does that mean you trust me?”
Yokoi shook his head. “A few days ago I would never have thought of joining forces with a bar … a foreigner.” He sighed. “But in a war against an enemy like this … who can be fussy about their allies?”
Bran nodded. Master Yokoi nodded back, and tested the smooth drawing and sheathing of his sword. “Give me a few minutes,” he said, and stepped onto the forest path.
Bran stood alone in the middle of the forest. The silence ran
g in his ears. The fisherman was right — there were no birds here, no insects chirping, not even the cicadas — he realized it was the first evening in weeks he hadn’t heard the incessant rhythmic forest hum. If he strained, he heard the distant shattering of waves against a cliff, and the cawing of kites in the sky. A tingling at the back of his head told him the Black Wing was still somewhere up there, watching, observing.
Have I done the right thing?
By now, it was obvious Nagomi was not coming to Enoshima. Takasugi and the kiheitai nursed their wounds on the way to Chōfu. His father and the rebels fought their way through the Taikun’s forces on the other side of Yamato. Dōraku … was nowhere to be found. All Bran was left with now was his dragon, waiting in the hills on the mainland — and one cowardly scholar with questionable sword skills.
And if he falls, I am on my own.
He heard a commotion at the shrine’s courtyard. He took several deep breaths to calm his nerves, then chose a tall pine tree as his initial target and calculated the precise trajectory of his first leap.
Whatever Yokoi had done worked better than either of them expected. When Bran reached the shrine’s perimeter, several talisman stores stood in flames, having caught fire from an overturned incense cauldron. The nobleman stood with his back to a half-rotten gingko tree stump, protesting his innocence. A crowd of angry priests and acolytes approached from all sides.
Nobody paid attention to Bran, who leapt from his maple tree to the top of an ornate gatehouse and from it onto the roof of the main hall. He missed his landing by a few inches, and hit the tiles harder than he had planned. A clinking shower of ceramic shards slid to the ground. He scrambled to the top ridge, making even more noise.
Damn it.
The dragon “cave” was just one jump away. Yokoi had been right — the bronze sculpture on its top was just an enlarged version of the cheap festival figurines, just like Bran’s birthday gift.
A row of purple flags fluttered at the entrance, marked with Hōjō crests and the names of some wealthy benefactors. The entrance was closed shut with an iron grate, and several “priests” armed with spears and naginata halberds guarded the path. And they were looking straight at him.
An arrow whizzed past his ear. He searched for the enemy. To his left, hidden in the treetops, rose a two-man watchtower. The cedar timber of its supports was fresh, gleaming golden in the light of braziers at its foot. The archer nocked another arrow, while his fellow guard rang out the alarm on a brass bell. The men surrounding Yokoi turned in Bran’s direction. They produced weapons from under their robes and hurried back towards the main hall. The guardians of the dragon cave raised their spears and formed a half-circle around the entrance. Bran recognized soldier training in their spare, efficient movements.
Another arrow bounced off his shield. He somersaulted over the guards’ heads. Landing, he grabbed the dragon’s snout with one hand and, hanging a few feet over the ground, slashed through the iron grate with the Lance, bars clanging to the ground. A second later he was inside, raising a wall of dragon flame a foot thick between himself and the enemy.
The “priests” halted. They may have been trained soldiers, but they were no mages. They prodded the fire with their spear tips to see if it wasn’t an illusion, while others kicked dirt onto it and called for water buckets to douse the blaze.
Bran whirled around, ready for whatever danger came from within the cave. The grotto was small, damp, and empty, except for some old withered offerings and melted candles. A part of the stone floor at the far end was raised to form a platform the size of a single bed. The stench of blood magic coming from it was so overwhelming it made his skin crawl. But there was another aura there, an aura Bran was so desperately looking for: the lightning-blue haze of Satō’s ice power.
He pressed both hands to the stone. His thigh burned and the runes carved into the rock altar lit up purple and blue. He sensed a hollow underneath: this wasn’t just a part of the floor cut higher than the rest, this was a slab of rock, set up to conceal something below.
A rain of arrows made his tarian light up in a web of sparks and crackles. He looked over his shoulder. The footmen had made way for a line of archers who were now shooting through the flames. One large fish in a very small barrel. He grabbed the Soul Lance in both hands and pierced the altar. The blade of light burned slowly through the raw limestone. Drops of molten slag flew around like sparks from a blacksmith’s forge. The tarian burned white from the absorbed energy of the arrows. Bran’s forehead was covered with sweat, his hands trembled. His breath quickened — the air in the cave was growing thin, used up to fuel the shield. He was quickly running out of energy.
The altar cracked under the pressure and burst in two, revealing a fissure in the ground. It smelled of salt and seaweed. At the same time, several burly acolytes barged into the cave, finally braving the flames. They wielded iron-studded maces and clubs rather than spears. One glance at their weapons told Bran they knew what they were doing: intense pounding on the magic shield would reduce it in moments, leaving him defenceless and exhausted.
He had no strength left to face all of them now. He pressed again at the two halves of the stone platform and, directing all that was left of his power into his arms, pushed them apart. The left side remained unmoved, but the right one, once he overcame the initial resistance, slid away as if on oiled grooves.
Bran lost his balance and tumbled head forward into the hole.
He rolled down the slick tunnel and splashed into a shallow pool of murky, stale sea brine at the bottom. He lay there, gathering his strength and bearings as the salt penetrated his clothes and wounds.
The hole had disgorged him in the middle of a wide, straight corridor with roughly hewn walls and an undulating floor. The rising and falling roar of the furious ocean came from one end, a warm draft blew from the other, carrying the stench of rotten eggs. The floor rose at a low angle towards the noise of the waves.
A hissing, tossing noise came from the tunnel above Bran. He rolled away from under the opening just as a flaming barrel of saké, packed in rice straw, tumbled out of the hole. He hid his head in his arms. The barrel shattered, spraying him with splinters and hot liquor. All the cuts and bruises on his back lit up in pain at once. He heard another barrel fall down the shaft. Clambering on his hands and knees, he rushed up the corridor. The second flaming missile burst moments later, with an ear-shattering noise.
Bran fell to the floor, stunned: this time, the barrel had been filled with lamp oil. With a scream, he tore off Gwen’s cloak before it burned into his back and shoulders. Each move releasing a moan of pain, he crawled away towards the sound of the waves.
The corridor was now well lit by the flames, but the pool of burning oil produced bellows of thick black smoke, rising on the updraft, choking Bran. He found enough strength to summon a weak thermal shield, but his energy was waning fast. He heard the guards climbing down the shaft. He bit his lower lip, and stood up to a slouching shuffle.
The tunnel widened as he neared the exit. Another, narrower passage split away at an angle. A faint line of purple light zig-zagged down it. Bran rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the line didn’t vanish. All the pain and exhaustion made him sensitive to the powerful energies buzzing in these underground corridors to the level where he started seeing the magic with just his natural sight.
He followed the purple line. A loud splash, followed by a curse, told him the first of the priests had reached the burning pool at the bottom of the corridor. The passage wound left and right, up and down, the floor and walls not as smooth as those in the main tunnel. He guessed it had been hewn at a later date, and with less effort and precision. There was another draft here, coming from some ventilation shaft above. It helped to keep this part of the caves clear from the black smoke for the time being.
The corridor ended abruptly in a small room. It looked almost like the inside of a samurai house. The walls were whitewashed — and scribbled all over with b
lood runes. There was straw bedding under one wall, a chest of drawers at the other end, and between them, a writing desk. A giant crest of the Black Serpent loomed on the wall above it.
Somebody was sitting at the desk, dressed in a long hooded robe of silver silk, surrounded by piles of densely written paper and dozens of shards of crystals and gems. Immersed in some thick book, the robed figure was oblivious to the noise, light, and smoke coming from the corridor. Despite his confusion and aches, despite the unfamiliar clothes and surroundings, it took Bran only one glance to recognize the person at the desk. Blood curdled in his veins. He stepped forward and glanced at the book over the silver-clad shoulder. It was the Dracology Handbook from Llambed, with Yamato translations scribbled in the margins.
“Satō ...” he croaked.
She turned lightning fast and pressed her hand to his chest. Her eyes glowed golden in a pale face. Her parched, bloodless lips moved noiselessly, pronouncing a dark spell. The air turned into ice around Bran. Lightning shot from Satō’s fingers. Bran flew in the air and slammed against the wall.
CHAPTER XXII
Nagomi opened her eyes in pitch darkness. At first she thought a small earthquake had woken her, but there was no usual silence following the tremors. The forest spirits were agitated.
The tent was empty. Gwen was outside, crouching. Nagomi saw her silhouette in the faint moonlight. She crawled up to the entrance and peeked through the flap.
“What’s going on?” she whispered.
Gwen put her finger to her lips. She pointed to the trees and imitated moving legs with her fingers. Somebody was approaching through the woods.
The dragon snored and rolled onto its side. The earth shook under it. The forest burst in a brief cacophony of sounds, disturbed from their slumber. Gwen kicked sand over the remains of the smouldering campfire. She rolled over to the dragon and hid herself in its shadow. She gestured at Nagomi to stay in the tent.
Through the small slits between tent’s flaps, Nagomi saw five men emerging quietly from between the trees. She didn’t sense an evil presence, so they weren’t servants of the Serpent.
The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) Page 25