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

by James Calbraith

The gate shook from a powerful blow. A grappling hook flew over the clay wall.

  “Give the Prince back!” someone shouted. “And no harm will come to you!”

  The first of the enemy warriors appeared over the wall; the gate buckled under the force of the ram. The acolytes surrounding Mutsuhito whipped bamboo halberds from their backs and surrounded the Prince.

  “Get on the ryū, denka,” the priest urged. “We will hold them off.”

  Still in a stunned daze, he felt himself pushed towards the dark green beast. The dragon rider grabbed his hand and pulled him on to the mount’s back behind him onto a leather saddle. In that moment the Aizu soldiers swarmed over the wall and through the cracked gate.

  “Hold on to those leather straps!” the priest shouted, as he deflected a sword blow with his halberd. Blood of the acolytes splattered the sand and Mutsuhito’s robe — just another red stain added to the others.

  He grasped the straps, and the rider dug his heels into the dragon’s sides. The monster launched into the air; Mutsuhito took one look down and regretted it immediately. He heaved, and, unable to hold the fear, excitement and exhaustion of the day, retched all over the rider’s back.

  The warrior mumbled something angrily in a language Mutsuhito didn’t understand, and pulled on the reins. The dragon turned south and climbed over the cloud of smoke hanging low over the once glorious Imperial Capital.

  CHAPTER XIX

  There was no point in hiding if they were planning to land in Heian in broad daylight.

  Bran rode Emrys straight over Naniwa, the merchant capital of Yamato. The city was vast. Not only could Kiyō and Kagoshima not compare with this, it dwarfed even Brigstow. Only Fan Yu was more impressive, but where the Qin city was a sprawling mess, Naniwa was a compact, geometric grid of canals, islands, and wharves. The harbour ran in a single line for miles, north to south, and it was just as crowded and full of boats and ships as the city’s wide avenues — if not more.

  Nagomi’s cheeks were red with excitement, her eyes open wide, devouring the view below.

  “You’ve never been here before?” asked Bran.

  “I passed through to get on the ship to Chōfu,” she said. “We were in a hurry, and hiding from the Taikun’s spies… but I remember the castle. Everyone knows the castle in Naniwa. Look, there it is!”

  In the middle of the grid of canals, on a perfectly rectangular, stone-walled island, rose a castle donjon; its scale and opulence matched those of the city below: eight enormous levels of dazzling white stone, each topped with bronze tiles and golden statues. It was so tall and proud, that Bran couldn’t help himself.

  They can all see me anyway, he thought of the merchants and travellers below. And I bet they’ve already seen the Black Wings passing through.

  “Hold on tight!” he warned Nagomi and squeezed Emrys with his knees.

  The dragon dived down towards the white tower. Bran felt the full rush of the acceleration on his face. Nagomi squealed in delight, and he yelled out a triumphant shout as the dragon buzzed past the castle, inches from the top of the tower, right between the two golden fish adorning the edges.

  “That was fantastic!” shouted Nagomi. “And dangerous,” she added, trying to sound mature and serious, but he saw she was overcome with joy.

  She may be cute when she’s sad, Bran thought, but I much prefer to see her happy.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “This was nothing compared to what we had to do in the Academy.”

  But she was right — it felt great. Or at least, it usually did. But this time, something was different; something was wrong. The moment he flew past the castle, a cold shiver shook him to the core, as if he had flown through a winter breeze. A metallic smell lingered on his palate.

  “You have to do this with Sacchan, when we get there,” said Nagomi, breaking his train of thought. “She’ll love it!”

  Satō… That’s right! He shook his head. We’re almost in Heian! I just have to follow this river across the plains, and then — I’ll see her again…

  The river plain over which Emrys soared tapered down towards a circle of low mountains, where it bent northwards for one final straight before Heian. The city continued without pause — it stretched along the river and main road from Naniwa’s outskirts, all the way towards the Imperial Capital, thinning out in the middle to a long, thin, snake-like urban stretch, but never quite disappearing.

  Only twenty, thirty miles left, we’ll be there in no time.

  “What’s this? Is that a — Bran, is that a Black Wing?” Nagomi tugged his sleeve and pointed to the sky above them. Her voice trembled.

  A Black Wing?

  “It can’t be, it’s still over — ” He bit his tongue. I almost told her it’s over Heian.

  His eyes followed her raised hand. High above, appearing and disappearing in between the clouds, soared the unmistakable cruciform of a dragon in flight.

  With the beast in sight, Bran locked his Farlink sense onto it and its rider in seconds. There was something familiar about both of them.

  It wasn’t a dream. There is another rider here!

  He tugged on the reins and darted off in pursuit.

  “But Heian — ” protested Nagomi, “Sacchan!”

  “We’ll be there in a moment. I have to know.”

  The other dragon was speeding, but not in a hurry; Emrys was catching up fast. The rider did not yet notice the pursuit. From half a mile away, Bran noticed that the other dragon, too, had two people on its back.

  He recognised the mount soon after. Dark green scales, slightly larger than Emrys: the Forest Viridian, Cenhinen. But the person riding it was neither Gwen nor Edern. The rider wore samurai armour, and a horned kabuto helmet; the man — boy, really — sitting behind him was clad in a rich robe of red and golden silk.

  Who are they? How can a Yamato ride a Western dragon?

  He spurred Emrys to one last spurt of speed. They were now so close he managed to read the mon on the rider’s armour: the crossed circle.

  “Satsuma!” he shouted. “What’s going on here?”

  How did Nariakira get our dragon? What happened in Kiyō?

  “Bran…” Nagomi clutched his arms tightly. “That boy at the back…he is…”

  “He’s what?”

  “I saw him in my dreams! He must be the boy who can’t be seen… and…look! He has a Chrysanthemum on his robes.” Nagomi gasped. “He’s the Prince!”

  The samurai rider at last noticed them. Emrys and Cenhinen were now flying wing to wing. The rider turned to Bran — his helmet was masked, turning his face into a demonic grimace.

  “Who are you?” cried Bran in Yamato. “Where did you get that dorako?”

  The rider laughed and raised the mask, revealing a pale-pink face bound in a fringe of straw-yellow hair and short stubble of the same shade.

  “I’m not as good with their gibberish as you, Bran! Speak Dracalish, will you.”

  “W-Wulf!” Bran’s jaw dropped. “What — how — why — ” He stared at the Seaxe. Other than his face and hair, he would pass perfectly for a Satsuma retainer: the lacquer armour, the kimono underneath, even a katana sword in a black scabbard.

  Of all the worst things that could happen…

  The Seaxe laughed again.

  “I’d love to chat, Bran — after all, we haven’t seen each other since the Graddio — but I have a package to deliver.” He nodded at the Prince, clutching his back in terror.

  Bran couldn’t see the boy’s face buried in Wulf’s back. Wulfhere lowered the mask and kicked the sides of his mount to accelerate. Bran did the same, overtook the Viridian, and turned around to face Wulf head on.

  “Where are you taking the Prince?” he asked.

  “Haven’t you guessed by these?” Wulf replied, pointing at the crest on his chest. It was strange enough to see him unexpectedly like this, but having him talk through the mask was even more disconcerting.

  Maybe this is still a dream. Maybe I’m still asle
ep on that island beach.

  “As for the other question you no doubt want to ask me — your father gave this dragon to Lord Nariakira,” said Wulf. “So if you want to argue, you better argue with him.”

  Somehow Dylan being behind all this didn’t surprise Bran in the slightest.

  “Are we letting him go?” Bran whispered in Nagomi’s ear.

  “No!” she cried. “This wasn’t in any of my visions. I have to speak to the Prince!”

  “She’s cute,” said Wulf. “Is she yours? Not as good as mine, though.” He licked his lips. “But then, you’ve always preferred red-heads.”

  “Land, and we’ll talk,” Bran commanded.

  “No can do.” The Seaxe shook his head. “I have my orders.”

  “Then I will force you to.” Bran raised one hand and ignited the Lance with a buzz. He lowered his stance. Nagomi did her best to lean down, out of his way.

  Wulf chuckled. “I see your Lance has improved. But I don’t have time for this. And I don’t think you do, either.”

  “What?”

  “Shouldn’t you be checking on your friends over there?” He raised his hand and pointed to the north, over the circlet of mountains separating Heian from Naniwa.

  Bran had not spotted it when they were flying low, but from the height they were at now, he saw everything with a terrible clarity. An enormous cloud of thick, black smoke hovered above the plain, fed by countless rising billows, glowing bright red and orange at the bottom. The entire city was ablaze.

  “Satō!” Nagomi let out a heart-wrenching cry and leaned forward in the saddle, as if wanting to reach Heian by herself. Bran dispersed the Lance and caught her waist.

  “By Owain’s Sword, Wulf! Is that your doing?”

  Wulf scowled. “Don’t be an idiot, Bran. This is just a Viridian and I’m nowhere near as powerful — you know that better than anyone. Now, out of my way, Taffy!”

  He swerved around Emrys and flew off, leaving Bran to watch the withering flames devour the Imperial Capital, hopeless and helpless.

  Takasugi could run no more. Neither could his men. He propped himself against the wall of what looked like a crab restaurant, breathing heavily.

  He glanced at the soldiers around him; the sole remnant of the Kiheitai was in a sorry state. Thirty men out of several hundred…

  They were all exhausted, bloodied, burned, their proud black uniforms in tatters; some slumped to the ground, others, like himself, rested on the walls and timber pillars of the two-storeyed tea-houses and saké shops around them. The majority of them were the commoners from the Reserve Unit, who had more stamina left to run and fight. Most of his friends and students from the school, proper wizards, either tried their own luck getting out of the city, or were already dead.

  He’d managed to lead them into this narrow alley in the riverside district for a brief respite, but he knew it wouldn’t last. The enemy was closing in on all sides. It’s a whole army out there, not just the palace garrison, Takasugi thought in desperation, as he tried to come up with a plan to save what was left of his troops. Where did they come from? How did we miss that they were in the city?

  He heard the roar of flames encroaching upon their hideout, and wondered whether the fire would reach them first, or the Aizu warriors. At least the dorako seemed to have lost interest in pursuing them — Takasugi had not seen the monster blot out the sky in a while. Maybe it was all the smoke…

  He gathered his strength again and stood up straight. “We must move on. We’ll go along the river,” he said. “Out of the city, and the south, towards Naniwa.”

  “Naniwa! That’s more than ten ri from here,” moaned one of the commoners, a portly, ruddy-cheeked man, holding his stomach. Takasugi felt sorry for him, but he knew this was the one moment he had to be firm with his men, like a true officer. They were all looking up to him for their salvation.

  “Then you’d better make ready for marching the full ten ri! More, if that’s what it takes! Don’t you want to see your family back in Chōfu?”

  “I — I do.” The man winced.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get you back safely. I’ll get all of you back!” Takasugi announced to the rest of the soldiers. “But first, we have to get out of this burning maze!”

  The moment he finished the sentence, a group of the light blue cloaked swordsmen appeared on the western end of the alleyway. Takasugi led his men down the east exit — only to be confronted with another squad of warriors.

  They were cut off.

  He gathered the few remaining wizards around him and crossed his arms in front of his chest, pumping them with energy. This will be the last strike, he thought. Maybe at least we can scythe the path for those behind us.

  One of the enemy swordsmen, an ugly man with a broken nose, stepped forward and raised his sword above his head, holding it in one hand, and supporting the blade with the other. It was a clear challenge. Does he want to fight us all at once?

  A clay pot filled with tooth blackener flew from the upper floor of a tea-house, and hit the swordsman squarely in the head. He fell down, senseless. The black liquid trickled down his brow like blood.

  A hail of missiles followed, showering the “New Squad” soldiers with pots, pans, jugs, roof tiles, even bronze mirrors and make-up boxes. The women of Ponto — the waitresses, the courtesans, the dancers — were leaning out of their second-storey windows, throwing anything they’d managed to get their hands on at the enemy. Takasugi glanced over his shoulder — the same thing was happening on the other side of the alleyway.

  Just as it looked like the women were about to run out of ammunition and Takasugi readied to charge at the bewildered swordsmen, a new source of chaos and confusion appeared in the alley. An army of angry men, most of them common townsfolk, struck at the rear of the enemy with fury and passion. Wielding sticks, clubs, short-swords and truncheons, in seconds they turned the battle into a tavern brawl on a grand scale.

  The blue coats fought bravely and with great skill, but, trapped in the confined spaces of Ponto, between a throng of thugs, bodyguards, and wrestlers on one side, and Takasugi’s wizards on the other, they stood little chance.

  It was the most chaotic, and brutal, fight he had ever witnessed: skulls split, ribs cracked, limbs smashed, teeth and bloody bits flying left and right. He felt sick, even as his sword slashed through another stomach, ripping the guts apart like a ripe pomegranate.

  A few moments later, it was all over. The surviving swordsmen lay on the ground, moaning and trying to crawl away, while the townspeople — of whom many, too, had perished in the fray — were busy finishing the survivors off with long knives and broken-off sword-blades. Takasugi winced and turned away. His stomach churned, and his samurai heart burned at the thought of fellow noblemen treated in this manner. But his mind was coolly analysing the situation.

  Shōin was right. This is how the commoners fight, when cornered…

  Three men strode towards him, stepping over the bodies. They wore samurai clothes, with Aizu-Matsudaira crests upon their shoulders, and they bore katanas rather than short swords, but the townsfolk paid no attention to them as they passed. Takasugi recognised one of them by the eye-patch.

  “Tokojiro,” he said with a nod and turned to the most official-looking of the three. “Then that means you are…”

  “Koyata Jumonji, chief of the Heian City Guard, until yesterday,” The man smiled sadly. Takasugi noticed the sleeves of his kimono and the hem of his hakama skirt were soaked in blood, but he was otherwise unharmed.

  “Are you their leader?” asked Takasugi, nodding at the commoners. “You saved us all.”

  Koyata laughed. “The Ponto Mob doesn’t need a leader. They just let us tag along. All they want is to protect their homes and livelihoods.” He pointed vaguely north. “Most of them are fighting the fire, not swordsmen. It’s easy now that the dorako is dead.”

  “Did you say — dorako is dead?” Takasugi grabbed Koyata by the coat.

  “I
don’t know how it happened, but you can see its carcass by the Third Bridge — what’s left of it.” The guardsman released himself from Takasugi’s grasp and straightened his kimono. “But the battle is still on. You should hurry up out of here.”

  “Yes, yes,” Takasugi said absentmindedly and ordered the Kiheitai to move out again. They did it! Shōin and Satō-sama… That means they may be still alive!

  “It’d be best if you told your men to wear these,” said Koyata, picking up one of the light blue cloaks from a dead swordsman. “You’re far too conspicuous in those black uniforms.”

  “Good idea,” said Takasugi. “You heard him,” he told the rest. “Strip the bodies, but do it fast.”

  “They’re soaked in blood,” complained the same portly commoner as before. “And guts,” he added with disgust.

  “All the better,” replied Takasugi. “It’ll prove you were in a battle, and are now regrouping to rest.”

  “As far as I can tell, the road is clear south of the Fifth Bridge,” said Koyata, watching as Takasugi struggled to rip off the uniform from one of the slain for himself. “Most of the Chōfu and Satsuma survivors moved west, towards Arashiyama.”

  Satsuma? So Izumi did not betray us after all…?

  Takasugi cast the bloodied cloak around his arms and looked back. The Kiheitai were dressed and ready.

  “Can you — can you help them reach the Fifth Bridge?” he asked Koyata. “Most of them have never been in a big city.”

  Koyata wiped his forehead. “I suppose so — but, what about you?”

  “I have to go back to the Third… I need to check something.”

  The interpreter stepped forward, and stared at Takasugi with his unnervingly unblinking healthy eye. “It’s about Takashima-sama, isn’t it?” he asked. “I’ll go with you.”

  Takasugi nodded, and turned to address the Kiheitai: “You will follow this man out of the city, and then follow the river until you reach a place called Yamazaki, between two mountains. I trust him, and so should you. I will — I will catch up to you along the way,” he finished, stumbling on his words. “Come, Tokojiro-sama! Time is short!”