The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6)

by James Calbraith

  “And how many dead?”

  “Three, kakka. All old, must have ignored the evacuation order. Oh, and we found four eta buried under the rubble of the — ” He caught Nariakira’s irritated look. “My apologies. Three dead. We have already sent the bodies to the temple.”

  “Impressive, foreman. All your men will receive an extra piece of silver for their work today!” Nariakira announced loudly. “And another if the streets are cleared by tomorrow morning.”

  His words met with a murmur of approval. He flashed a generous smile and moved on towards another block.

  Nariakira stood next to the clacking wind machine, sipping ice-cold saké, and wafting himself with a paper fan — and he was still hot.

  “What terrible weather,” he said, scowling. “You’d think it would start getting cooler after the Obon.”

  “Yes, kakka,” said Yokō, and coughed quietly. She was sitting motionless and graceful in the far corner of the room. Tiny droplets of sweat tricking down her brow glimmered in the sunlight.

  “You know,” said Nariakira, “it pains me to think that nobody in this city will ever know what you did for them.”

  “I only do my duty, kakka. As do Takamori-sama and Heishichi-sama, and all your other retainers… even the two Gaikokujin riders. Without them, none of this would have worked.” She winced and rubbed her right temple with two fingers.

  “Yes, yes,” he replied, distractedly. “I am lucky to have such loyal servants. But your foresight saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives. I saw the merchant district today — utterly destroyed. Not a wall standing.”

  “A servant’s achievements add to the master’s glory.”

  Nariakira smiled. “Well said. I’ll drink to that.” He raised the cup to her with a gesture wide enough for her to hear the rustle of his sleeve.

  When all this is over, I will change the Yamato law and adopt her as well, he decided.

  She bowed. As she straightened, a grimace of pain crossed her face. “Agh!” she cried, and put her hands to her head.

  “What is it?”

  “I — my head — ” She winced again and reeled back. “ — the pain…”

  Nariakira put down the cup and rushed to her. “Guard!” he shouted. “Get me the herbalist!” The girl howled; her mist-pale eyes bulged out of their sockets. “No, a healer! Get me the priest! And water, quickly!”

  She fell to the floor and writhed as if in a fit of madness. He grasped her arms and held tight. Is this a falling sickness? What should I do? “Where’s that healer?”

  The guard burst into the room, holding a water pitcher in one hand, and dragging a frail old priest with the other.

  “Is that the best you could find?” snarled Nariakira.

  “My apologies, kakka, we have sent to Terukuni for their High Priest. He will be here shortly.”

  Nariakira waved the guard away. “You,” he said to the old priest, “do something.”

  The girl was foaming at the mouth. The priest laid his hands on her stomach, closed his eyes and recited a quick prayer. His fingers glowed bright blue. Yokō shrieked again, and arced her back.

  “A chopstick…” the priest said, in a quiet, trembling voice.

  “What? Speak up!”

  “You have to put… a chopstick… in her teeth.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.” Nariakira reached to his sash and drew a black lacquered chopstick. He grabbed Yokō’s jaw and forced it open; he heard the sickening grind of a shattering tooth, but ignored it, and shoved the chopstick inside. The next moment, Yokō bit through it as easily as if it was a straw, and choked on the debris.

  “What — you fool!” Nariakira pushed the priest away and shook the girl violently. She spat out bits of chopstick onto the floor, and fell silent. “No!” He laid her back to the floor and put his ear to her chest. Yokō’s heart was still beating, though slowly and erratically.

  “What madness was that?” He roared at the old priest. “You almost killed her!”

  “I’m sorry, kakka,” the priest beat his head on the floor. “It’s just something a Bataavian physician once taught me…”

  “Get out. And don’t come back.”

  The priest crawled out of the room. Nariakira knelt down beside Yokō and poured water into her lips. The girl coughed, spat the water out, and opened her eyes.

  “Oh, thank the Gods,” said Nariakira. “You’re alright.”

  The door opened again; the High Priest of Terukuni stood at the threshold, gasping for air, purple-faced.

  “I don’t need you anymore,” Nariakira said. “Go away. No. Stay outside, just in case.”

  Yokō raised her hand, touching around blindly. She reached Nariakira’s face and pulled back in fright, gasping. “Kakka… I — ”

  “What is it, girl? Are you still in pain?”

  “I can’t… see.”

  It’s worse than I thought — her mind’s gone. “What do you mean? You were always blind.”

  “No, kakka, I… I can’t see the future. There’s darkness everywhere. My power — it’s gone.”

  This feels nice…

  Samuel was lying on a warm beach somewhere, half-submerged in gently lapping water. Sun shone on his face; and some small animal was licking at his salty feet.

  He focused on other sensations, trying to remember how he got to wherever he was. His ribcage ached; two of his ribs were probably fractured. He had a large bump on his forehead, and a few bruises on his legs. What’s the last thing I remember…? Darkness… stuffy air… alarm bells… heaving and rocking… falling out of the bunk onto the metal wall…

  The animal at his feet bit his toe. He twitched, sat up and opened his eyes just in time to see the red blur of a fox disappear into the trees.

  The trees neighbouring the beach were smashed to bits, and caked with mud. All over the shore, which stretched straight for half a mile from his position, was strewn debris and flotsam from the Diana: broken bits of steel piping and iron bulkheads, shattered crates and split barrels, torn blankets and pieces of uniforms, but, as far as he could tell, no bodies.

  Another wreckage…

  He stood up and, staggering on his weak, buckling legs, followed the trail of debris.

  Maybe I do bring bad luck to ships.

  Even after spending weeks on board the submersible ship, Samuel’s first impression of the black object was that it was a giant beached whale. Only once he neared it and saw the bent propellers did he realise what he was looking at.

  The Diana was overturned on its side, with a great scar running along its bottom. Part of the aft bulkhead was blown off from inside, the thick steel walls spread apart like tulip petals.

  Samuel spotted tracks in the sand, trails of some heavy objects dragged off the beach towards the forest. The bodies, he guessed. So somebody else survived… He followed the tracks, but once he reached the line of the trees, the footprints vanished into the thick tropical undergrowth. There was no clear path to follow.

  His stomach growled, and his legs gave way from under him. He had to find something to eat before he moved onward; he returned to the ship and, careful not to cut himself on the jagged, torn steel, clambered inside in search of the kitchen storage.

  Diana’s walls were stained with dried blood and oil. Samuel waded ankle-deep in rainbow-gleaming water, stepping over bunk beds and lockers. After some fifty yards, he reached the stairwell leading to the upper floor. The stairs were broken and bent at awkward angles; he climbed, slipping and losing his grip on the handrail. By the time he reached the next level, his legs were covered in bloody scratches and bruises.

  The sealed kitchen doors were mercifully left open: the frame had been bent out of recognition. He crawled through and saw a pile of cans and jars fallen out of the cupboards.

  He searched through them, looking for food that was light and not perishable. He ignored the cans — he didn’t have the time or the strength to play with a hammer and chisel. He gathered a few handfuls of dried fruit, a
small box of pickled herring, some soggy hardtacks, and a half-torn packet of dried bacon, now moist and rubbery. To the pile, he added a couple of slightly mouldy carrots, onions and, after some hesitation, a clay jar of pickled beets.

  He climbed down, and out of the boat, picking up one of the drier blankets along the way. Once on the beach, he spread his treasures out on the blanket. It looks like a damn picnic. He then noticed he didn’t have anything to drink.

  With a heavy heart, he repeated his entire journey to the kitchen. All he found was one metal, screw cap container of drinking water, and a miraculously survived bottle of rye spirit.

  As he neared the hole in the hull through which he had first entered, he noticed there was yet another deck, a third level, concealed from his sight by piles of shattered steel. Looking at the twisted staircase, Samuel remembered — and broke out in cold sweat.

  But curiosity won over the fear. He pulled away some of the debris and squeezed through the hole he’d just created. He didn’t feel now that dreaded, cold presence he had sensed all those weeks ago, as he approached the secret bronze door.

  There was barely enough light falling through the cracks in the hull for him to see his way. The walls were colder to touch than elsewhere, and slick. He slipped with every step. At last, he reached the end of the corridor. The bronze door was shattered from inside.

  He stepped in, slouched and watchful. The room was freezing cold; thick iron chains, snapped in half, hung from the ceiling and the walls. A large fissure ran through the floor — big enough for Samuel to climb through with ease.

  He jumped down, back onto the beach. A trail of prints led from where he landed: giant, clawed feet, striding in giant paces into the forest.

  Samuel was about to tuck into a bacon-and-hardtack sandwich, when he heard voices coming from the jungle. Yamato voices, talking loudly and chanting in rhythm. He stood up and reached for the sharp piece of piping he’d picked up from the ship after he’d discovered the clawed footprints.

  The bamboos parted. A column of grimy men wearing loincloths and headbands entered the beach. Four of them carried a linen stretcher, upon which rested a large, black-bearded Westerner, with his left leg in a makeshift sling.

  “Doktor!” Admiral Otterson bellowed. “You’re alive!”

  He ordered his porters, and they brought him forward to Samuel. He embraced the doctor in a bear-like hug.

  “I see you’re settling in,” Otterson joked, looking at Samuel’s ‘picnic’. “Ah, my akvavit!” His face brightened at the sight of the bottle. “What a treasure you’ve found. This will brighten our day.”

  “Where are the others?” asked Samuel.

  “At the fishing village, where these people come from,” replied Otterson. “Pack your things, if you have any, we’re going back there. Only…” He lowered his voice and grew solemn, “there aren’t many of us left.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “The sea has been washing up bodies for days. That’s why I keep returning here.”

  “For days… How long exactly have I been out?”

  “Three nights have passed since the disaster. You’re lucky, I was almost about to give up. Come,” he urged Samuel and ordered the porters to turn him around.

  “Wait — ” Samuel grasped the bamboo edge of the stretcher. “Admiral, I — I saw the room behind the bronze door. It was empty.”

  “Ja.” Otterson nodded with a grimace. “I will explain along the way.”

  The jungle was dense, noisy, bright green; the air was thick with moisture and bird song. If there was a path that the Yamato column was following, Samuel was unable to spot it in the thick underwood. The invisible trail took them along the coast, over the low, wooded dunes.

  “It started as an orkan, a great hurricane,” said Otterson. “The luftpump broke and we had to surface. Then came a huge freak wave. I have never seen anything like it, not even in the Sea Maze. We stood no chance.”

  “Who are these people?” Samuel asked, nodding at the porters.

  “Fiskare from a nearby village,” replied Otterson.

  “How come they haven’t reported you to the authorities?”

  “The letter from the Bugyō,” Otterson said, and pulled out the crinkled piece of paper. “Luckily, this place is such a backwater that none of them knew how to read, except the headman. But they understood the Taikun’s seal — and I blagged the rest.”

  The porters slowed down to heave the stretcher over a fallen tree.

  “And the headman…?” asked Samuel once they got to the other side.

  Otterson chuckled. “A gold piece was enough to buy his kooperation.”

  The guide shouted and raised his hand. The porters moved forward — here, at last, was a path, cut through the grove of young bamboo.

  “What happens now?”

  “We must get to Edo one way or another. I’ve decided I’ll have the villagers build us a baat.”

  “A boat — but that will take ages!”

  “This is a fiskare village, and they’ve always built their own boats. But don’t take my word for it — look!”

  Like a change of scene in the theatre, the curtain of trees parted, revealing a large village of thickly-thatched houses, nestled between the dunes and a crescent-shaped, calm bay. The biggest of the houses stood to the side, with its back against the forest. A couple of fishing boats bobbed on the waves by the beach — and between them floated a half-built hull of a Western-style, thirty-foot sloop.

  “This is amazing!” gasped Samuel. “All this in three days?”

  “We have Nobelius helping them with the konstruktion — without a common tongue, imagine! — and they are a remarkably industrious people,” said Otterson. “We’ll be out of here in no time.”

  A gaggle of naked, and half-naked, children ran out of the village to meet them, waving pinwheels and long reeds. Samuel noticed that the oldest of them — a leader, no doubt — had a Varyagan sailor’s hat; the other wore a striped navy shirt.

  “And what about the…” he hesitated. Even mentioning it seemed to darken the bright summer sky. “…the bronze door?”

  Otterson scowled. “We tried to track the Weapon, but it’s gone. Off on a jakt, a hunt, no doubt. After all, that’s what we brought it here for.”

  “A hunt, Amiral? What kind of Weapon it is? What have you brought to this land?”

  The stretcher-bearers reached the big house by the forest. One of Diana’s bearded sailors emerged from inside to help Otterson down.

  “A varulv from the great northern woods of our country,” the Admiral said, leaning heavily on the sailor’s shoulder. “A great man-wolf.”

  Man-wolf…

  “What do you need a werewolf for?”

  “It smells blood — and blood magiska. It preys on necromancy and Abominations.”

  “Is that what you expected to find in Yamato?” Samuel stared at the Admiral in astonishment. “Necromancy…?”

  Otterson shrugged. He lowered his head to enter the low door of the thatched hut. “The varulv ran off to find something, didn’t it?”

  Join us, the tattooed man said, spitting blood. You’ll have all the power you want. His hands reached out to her. She tried to run but the hands grew, turning into tentacles of shadow; they grasped her ankles, cold and slippery, and she fell. Her mouth and nostrils filled with the fine red dust, smelling of iron.

  The bad dream vanished from Satō’s memory before she opened her eyes; but it was enough to wake her up.

  She shut her eyes tight, trying to fall asleep again, but it was no use. The room was too quiet. Silence rang in her ears. She couldn’t even hear Shōin’s heavy breathing; the boy struggled to cope with Heian’s dry, hot air in the night. She turned around to face him, but the futon was empty.

  Where’s he gone at this hour?

  She put on the loose summer yukata and went outside. The monastery — to which they had at last returned to prepare for tomorrow’s procession to the palac
e — was just as quiet as the room; even the birds and insects were asleep, saving their energy for the approaching dawn. The only light came from the two lanterns hanging over the temple gate. She stepped barefoot off the veranda onto the soft, refreshing, moist moss pillows. A gentle breeze wafted from the river, cooling her under the yukata. I’m glad I came out here. The nights are lovely…

  There was another light, a faint glow emanating from one of the small sub-temples, walled off from the main compound. Intrigued, Satō walked towards it, first over the moss, then grass, then the finely polished stones of the main north-south path. She hadn’t bothered to remember the names of the several sub-temples forming the monastery, or their functions. The Butsu monks always struck her as too bureaucratic, too absorbed in petty divisions and arguments. She understood why there were so many shrines — after all, there were many Spirits and Gods with whom the priests had to communicate. But as far as she could tell, there was only one Butsu-sama – so what was the point of all those different small, walled-off buildings and gardens?

  The heavy wooden gate was closed, but a smaller wicket was open — this was where the glow was coming from. As she crossed it and got closer to the sub-temple’s hall, the glow changed colour from natural pale yellow, to bright red and then… dazzling purple. That’s not a lantern. It must be Shōin’s magic.

  Even more intrigued, she tip-toed over the noisy gravel. The paper windows were shut; all she could see were flashing lights, and hear the noise of summoned elements.

  He’s worked all day — he should rest by night. Satō felt proud of him, but also worried. Imbuing the weapons for the Kiheitai — real iron spears and halberds this time, not mere sharpened bamboo — preparing the tactics with Takasugi, working out the details of combat spells for the wizards to use… he seemed to be everywhere at the same time, tireless. During the day, Satō had to force him to pause every several hours, to have a drink or something to eat. During the night, there were no such distractions. How long has this been going on? I usually sleep so quickly, I never noticed.