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

by James Calbraith

  Even here, the Aizu and the Chōfu soldiers were fighting each other, in small groups or in duels, heedless of the pandemonium around them. Satō spotted the black Kiheitai uniforms scattered throughout the crowd; some were helping the firemen on the bridge, others tried to build an alternative passage across the river from earth and ice. But most fought for their lives against the men in light blue cloaks. The ‘new squad’ swordsmen seemed intent on picking out the wizards from among the Chōfu forces, and revelled in slaying those whose magic powers were all spent.

  All this chaos came to a sudden halt when the Black Wing swooped over the blazing rooftops and proceeded to wreak havoc on the beach. The bridge pillars finally gave way and the majestic arch crumbled into the river, burying the brave firemen with it. Steam rose from the river in a thick cloud.

  “Enough!” Shōin raised his fists. Lightning and flame crackled around his knuckles, and the earth trembled under his feet. A trickle of blood appeared under his nose again.

  “This ends — now!”

  He grasped the Tide Jewel in his left hand, then drew his dagger and slashed a long, deep incision along his forearm. Blood poured forth in a thick stream. The orb blazed with a bright light.

  “Shōin, no!” she cried. “It’s too much power!”

  “I’m sorry, Satō. But somebody has to destroy that thing and I’m the only one who can do it. Don’t come any closer, Hiro!” He raised a burning hand to stop Takasugi. “Get the rest of the men out of here. That’s an order!”

  Takasugi stepped back with a bow and ran off to gather the Kiheitai.

  Shōin gazed sadly at Satō; the wizardess reached out to him, but her burned back rendered her too slow.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated and turned towards the swooping dragon.

  The monster became a bullet of darkness and flame. Fire gathered in its throat into a giant whirling ball. It headed straight for Shōin. The wizard raised the Tide Jewel in his hands. Blood streamed from the incision on his arm — not down, but up, towards the red orb. The wound glowed a sickly blue.

  Four rays of light — white, blue, red, and gold — burst forth from the jewel. For a split second, time seemed to stop — long enough for Satō to remember where she had seen those lights before — and then the rays hit the dragon’s chest.

  There was no explosion, no flames, no more bright lights or strange noises. The monster simply flew over their heads in silence and crashed into the rubble of the ruined bridge with a deafening rumble, leaving behind a long, deep furrow in the sand. It did not move again, and neither did the two men on its back, crushed by the beast’s massive body.

  Everyone on the beach fell silent, as motionless as the dead dragon, staring at the steaming carcass. Everyone, except Satō. Ignoring her pain, she raised her arms and caught the falling Shōin. The red orb dropped to the ground and shattered in three pieces.

  The boy opened his eyes and coughed. Bloody spittle trickled from the corner of his lips.

  “Am I… Am I a Prismatic now?” he asked.

  “You are,” she replied. “The first in Yamato! Imagine that!”

  She laid his head gently on her lap.

  “Hey, we must look like a real newly-wed couple now,” he said, with a weak smile. “Like on the woodcuts.”

  “I don’t have an ear pick.” She laughed through tears. “I’m sorry.”

  He laughed too, and winced in pain. “That’s all right. You can clean my ears when we get back…” He coughed out a clot of blood. “…to Chōfu,” he added, with effort.

  She laid a hand on his chest, and felt his pulse slowing down, his breath growing shallow. His eyes closed, and his voice became a broken whisper.

  “I… enjoyed… having you for a wife — Takashima-sensei…”

  “You were a good husband, Yoshida-sama.”

  She leaned down and kissed his forehead. He let out a sharp gasp and twitched once. For a few seconds he radiated a dazzling, many-coloured light, as the magic potential dissipated from the frail body, leaving a light, empty shell in Satō’s arms.

  “My, my, how touching.”

  The same cold, piercing voice as before. Satō raised her teary eyes. The woman in the silver robe stood over the wizardess, her golden eyes seething with fury; melting ice steamed from her clothes and hair. Behind her stood an army of the ‘new squad’ rōnin, led by the man with the broken, crooked nose.

  “I’m afraid I will have to interrupt your mourning,” said the Silver Robe.

  Satō laughed. The pain in her back forgotten, she put Shōin’s head on the ground and stood up. The Silver Robe grunted an order and the rōnin moved forward to encircle Satō. The wizardess raised her sword.

  “Don’t make this difficult, dear,” the Silver Robe said, licking her lips. “I can sense your energy is all spent.” She reached out to the wizardess. Her fingers ended in long, sharp claws. “Come with me. Heed the call of your blood.”

  “Go to hell,” said Satō. She flipped the sword in her hands and thrust it straight into her own heart.

  Blood spurting from the arteries turned into streams of ice in mid-air. Spears of it shot out in all directions, piercing the rōnin nearest to her. A cyclone of frost blades rose around her, and shrouded the attackers, tearing through flesh and bone. The Fanged covered her face with her robe; the ice needles tore it into shreds. The woman cursed and leapt away. She raised the clawed hands and spoke slow, dark words which Satō did not understand through the noise of the frost tornado.

  Dark energy crackled from the Silver Robe’s fingers and met with the ice surging from Satō’s body, as her spewing blood, her very life, fed the magic with more power than she had ever mustered before. The two forces locked into a titanic struggle, and for a moment it seemed possible, against all odds, that Satō’s sacrifice would not come in vain. The Silver Robe slid slowly in the mud, enveloped in the raging storm of frost.

  In the corner of her eye, Satō noticed a man, crawling towards her through the swirling ice. One of the grey swordsmen — determined enough to ignore the cold shards tearing at his clothes and skin… before she could react, the swordsman leapt up and stabbed her in the stomach with a short sword.

  Her own blade snapped. The ice shattered into cold dust. The wizardess spread her arms and fell down on her back.

  The grinning, triumphant face of her killer loomed over her.

  “Keinosuke…?”

  High in the sky, she saw a green, winged shape, speeding south from the direction of the palace.

  Bran… you can’t save me this time…

  The world turned red, and then black.

  A distant explosion rumbled both through the air and ground like the roar of thunder. Mutsuhito stirred nervously inside the boarded palanquin.

  He was being transported in great hurry from the Hall of Ceremonies to the safer ground of the Inner Palace, surrounded by Aizu guards armed to their teeth. Outside, he’d been told, the Chōfu “rebels” were storming the palace gardens. Mutsuhito refused to accept the report; in fact, he thought it insulting that the Regents thought he’d be naïve enough to believe them.

  He knew the Chōfu had no good reason to be so violent. After all, their petition was supposed to be granted and the presence of a barbarian ryū in the sky proved clearly that Edo had long been prepared for this battle. But what he did or did not believe did not matter. The events were now unravelling without his input. As the heir to the throne, his safety was paramount. Once blood had been spilled on the palace grounds, Mutsuhito had to be whisked away to safety, regardless of the circumstances.

  The palanquin halted, and the tight door opened; the Crown Prince climbed out with the help of a young Aizu soldier, and was led into the Inner Palace’s strong rooms. All the court ladies, and all the Regents were already there; the courtiers tied their sleeves back, wore straw sandals, and had swords dangling by their waists. It was stunning to see these old men ready to fight — maybe even die.

  Would they really die to
defend me… or is this just to defend themselves…?

  Armoured soldiers formed a perimeter outside the strong room. Mutsuhito, still hesitating on the threshold, was shoved unceremoniously inside by some annoyed, and terrified, guard. The sliding door shut behind him. This alarmed the Prince more than anything on this day. They must be in a panic to have done something like this! They shouldn’t even dare to touch me, much less push me!

  The small room was filled with the smell of sweat and fear. The walls and floor trembled as if in an earthquake. This was no normal battle, with swords, spears, and bows; he heard explosions, thunder bolts, and other strange, loud noises he failed to identify. Something in the air was making his skin cover in goose-bumps, and his tongue tingle.

  Through the translucent paper walls, he saw dark silhouettes of the Aizu soldiers in the fortified corridor outside — their last line of defence. As they shuffled in silence from one corner of the corridor to another, another group of dark shapes burst into the view, waving swords and spears. Mutsuhito watched the scene in detached fascination. It was like watching a shadow theatre. The noise of the battle outside drowned all other sounds, even as crimson blood stained the white paper of the walls.

  A guard crashed through the wall with a blade in his chest. The women shrieked, the Regents drew their weapons — some more shakily than others. The door slid open.

  “Izumi-dono!” the Prince cried out.

  The priest leaned on his sword, catching his breath. His crossed-circle-marked breastplate was hanging loose off one shoulder, slashed through and splattered red. Blood trickled from a shallow wound on his forehead, and from numerous cuts on his arms.

  “Your Highness…” He reached out to Mutsuhito. “You must come with me.”

  “What’s the meaning of this, Izumi?” Nijō stood forward, aiming his sword at the priest. “We thought you were arrested.”

  “I was. There’s no time to explain. Please,” Master Izumi begged, “we must hurry. You’re not safe here.”

  “Your Majesty.” Nijō stopped Mutsuhito with a stretched palm. “The battle is still raging — it’s too dangerous for you out there.”

  “It seems pretty dangerous for me in here,” the Crown Prince replied.

  “Your Majesty, I insist — ”

  My father trusted him. And he hated the Aizu soldiers. Not much to think about, is there?

  “Out of my way, courtier!” he boomed, in as majestic, imperial voice as he could muster. Nijō took a staggering step back. It was enough for Mutsuhito to get past him and in one leap — constrained by the ceremonial robes — and join Izumi and his men in the corridor.

  With the group of Satsuma samurai accompanying them, they ran down the road leading towards the Northern Gate. The Crown Prince knew this path well. Beyond the gate it led to the Shimogamo Shrine, and this, he guessed, was where Izumi was taking him.

  Mutsuhito started coughing. The sky was covered with billows of thick smoke, blown in from the south; soot fell from those black clouds like rain. Izumi handed him a wet cloth and gestured for him to put it to his face. By now the sounds of battle had moved away from the northern district of the palace, replaced by the eerie rustle of a distant, immense fire. Mutsuhito dared not look back.

  All of Heian must be ablaze.

  They burst out onto the courtyard before the gate, and Izumi let out a moan of despair. Right in front of the gate stood a line of warriors aiming long-barrelled thunder guns at the Satsuma samurai, backed by a dozen swordsmen and spearmen.

  “Give it up, Izumi-dono,” said the Aizu commander. “The Crown Prince’s place is in the palace.”

  “Matsudaira scum!” Izumi hissed. “Get out of my way.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Izumi,” the enemy replied. “It’s not like Mutsuhito is the only prince of royal blood in Heian. Do you want him to go the way of Antoku? Slain when his own nobles stood against him?”

  “Ha. Fine.” Izumi turned to Mutsuhito and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

  “It’s alright, Izumi-dono,” said the Crown Prince. “You did your best.”

  Izumi pulled him to his chest in a tight, bear-like embrace. Mutsuhito was too stunned at this blatant breach of etiquette to react. “Pay respect to my Spirit when you reach Shimogamo,” the priest whispered in his ear.

  “What? I don’t — ”

  Izumi roared and raised his sword high in the air.

  “For the Mikado! For Satsuma!”

  “For Satsuma!” cried his men, and they charged straight at the thunder-gunners.

  Mutsuhito stared, shocked, as the barrage of lightning bolts struck the chests of the Satsuma samurai. Remarkably, none of them fell; they staggered back, and then charged again.

  The gunners panicked — this was clearly not what they’d planned. The thunder guns needed time to recharge. The Satsuma samurai reached them and started cutting their way through. Some gunners managed to fire again, and this time a few of the samurai fell down, but others pushed through. The Aizu commander ordered the swordsmen and spearmen from the back to join the fray.

  “Crown Prince!” Mutsuhito heard Izumi’s desperate cry. “We’ll cut you the way!”

  Shimogamo. He understood now. The northern shrine was surrounded by a thick, primeval forest; if he managed to reach it, he might lose the pursuit there.

  Against the odds, Izumi’s samurai pushed the Aizu men in two directions. Another salvo of thunder guns struck down another couple of brave warriors, but by now the gunners had abandoned their weapons, useless in a melee, and drew short swords, to push the enemy back. But Mutsuhito spotted his chance. Tearing off the upper layer of the unwieldy ceremonial robe, he launched into a desperate sprint down the narrow opening formed among the fighting men.

  As he passed the battle, one of the gunners took aim at him and squeezed the trigger. The lightning bolt struck Mutsuhito straight on… and fizzled out without any effect. The prince slipped for a split second on a puddle of freshly spilled blood but, somehow, he recovered; he ran faster than ever before in his life, without looking back, past the gate, down the broad avenue leading to the Kamogawa River. Beyond the river, across the narrow, arching bridge lay the dark, sacred grove of the Shimogamo Shrine.

  In it, he would find salvation.

  A thorny branch tore at his kimono. He tripped on a root, and grasped the sacred rope tied around a mighty cedar tree to stop himself from falling. He pushed through a thicket of hornbeams, on to a glade of bright green ferns. He trampled them under his sandal-clad feet, jumped a shallow ditch, climbed over a fallen pine trunk, and waddled across a slow-trickling brook.

  Shimogamo had to be near; Mutsuhito knew he had to follow the rope-bound sacred trees to reach it — they were tracing the line of the ancient, shorter path linking the old palace grounds with the shrine, before the new, ceremonial road had been built. It had been no more than a curiosity for the Prince when he’d been forced to learn the history of the Imperial Palace; now, it could save his life.

  If he reached the shrine in time. He heard the cries of his pursuers, muffled by the vegetation, coming from the back and the sides. They knew he was somewhere in the forest: they saw him disappear in the dense, wild wood of gnarled maples, pillar-like cedars and sprawling camphor trees.

  He heard another shout, and the barking of a dog. They brought hunting dogs from the North! He looked over his shoulder, and spotted a flash of red and white fur, heading his way. Another dog raced through the undergrowth to his right.

  He picked up speed, only to fall into dense scrub, entangling himself in the thorns. The dogs were almost upon him. With one last spurt of effort, he tore himself free from the branches. He tripped again; this time, there was nothing to grasp onto, and he fell, face-first into the pillow moss and wild orchids.

  The dogs leapt out from the thorns after him… and froze. The larger one growled, half-heartedly, with its tail between its legs. The smaller one turned tail and ran off, yelping, into the wood.
Its companion barked once more, before doing the same.

  “What the…” Mutsuhito tried to stand, and slipped again. Something was wrong with his feet. He looked down. His legs were once again covered in green, glistening scales, his toes stubby, curled and ending in sharp claws. He touched his neck: the jade necklace was gone. It must have snapped on the branches! With a pounding heart he crawled hurriedly back into the scrub and searched in growing panic. Green stone among green leaves… I’ll never find it!

  He heard the dogs yelping again, and a man, shouting at them in the northern dialect. The men were near — much nearer than before. Mutsuhito’s breath quickened, and his heart constricted. I’m losing it — I don’t think I can run much more…

  His left hand felt something hard and round under the fern leaves. The jade! He grabbed the necklace — as soon as it touched his palm, the scales disappeared with a gentle shimmer — and jumped back to his feet. The dogs howled, picking up his scent again.

  Mutsuhito ran between the two white paper lanterns hanging at the great, two-tiered vermillion entrance of the Shimogamo Shrine, and fell breathless on the sand.

  The acolytes picked him up and carried him over the bridge of a small, rapidly flowing stream, into a walled-off enclosure, and, as one of them shut the gate, helped him stand up.

  Blurry-eyed with exhaustion, the Prince scanned his surroundings and saw a large, dark green-skinned animal standing in the middle of the courtyard. He rubbed his eyes, and backed away in terror.

  “The dorako!” he screamed and backed up.

  “Your Majesty!” a priest ran up to him and prostrated himself on the ground. “Please, hear me out! This dorako was sent for you from Satsuma.”

  Satsuma? Mutsuhito looked closer, catching his breath. Only now he noticed a man sitting on top of the beast, wearing ill-fitting armour with the crossed-circle crest of the Shimazu. The warrior’s face was hidden under a helmet and a mask.

  The Shimazu have dragon riders? Then all is not lost…!