She entered the room, stepping over a discarded lightning trap, its deadly energies spent. The study was ravaged by flame, ice, wind and lightning thrown from Shūhan’s sword and other focus artefacts scattered all over the floor, as the energies within the room soared to a point of oversaturation. All the hair on Satō’s body stood on end, electrified, and the air smelled of ozone and burnt plums.
This magical onslaught was not enough to stop the enemy, who slowly inched towards the Rangakusha holding a long bronze knife. Another blade of the same kind was lying at Shūhan’s feet, its tip bloodied. A great two-handed sword was slung over the stranger’s back. A loose flowing robe of crimson fluttered in the hurricane of energies.
Satō shuddered, recognising a demonic presence in the room. Having trained partially in the arts of the onmyōji magic she was sensitive to evil Spirits, and could tell that whoever stood before her was no mere human. The smell of blood and death filled her nostrils. She drew her sword and released the most powerful enchantments she knew, adding to the already magically permeated atmosphere. A cascade of energy enveloped the assailant, vapour in the air crystallising into chains and shards of ice. Icy spikes and icicles threatened to pierce and crush the crimson-clad man.
The mysterious enemy simply shrugged off the chains of frost, dispelled the icicles and turned towards the girl with deliberate slowness. There was a strange hypnotising beauty in his long gaunt face, pale like the moon. The almond-shaped, predacious eyes gleamed pure gold and when he opened his mouth in a scowl, sharp blackened fangs glistened behind bloodless lips. Transfixed, Satō observed how in one smooth, dance-like move, the man threw his bronze dagger towards her. She moved, but not fast enough. The long bronze blade dug deep into her left shoulder up to the hilt.
At that moment, Shūhan yelled and leaped at the enemy, pinning him to the floor.
“Satō, run! Hide yourself!” he screamed as the creature held him in a lethal embrace.
Their bodies became enveloped in the crackling black and purple energy of fierce raw magic, overcoming each other’s defences.
Satō felt her strength seeping out of the wound. She tried to launch another barrage of spells, but the enchantments fizzled out and all the ice melted. The creature’s willpower was too strong.
“On your mother’s name, girl,” Shūhan cried again, “save yourself.”
Satō swore through gritted teeth. She could not disobey this command, and she could do nothing else to help Shūhan. The mysterious blade seemed to be sapping all her magic away. The black and purple vortices swelled, filling the room, threatening to envelop the wizardess. She was well aware of the dangers of finding herself within uncontrolled currents of raw magic.
“Be brave, Father,” she said, her voice shaking, “I’m going to get help.”
She ran away, tears rolling down her cheeks, her father’s dying screams ringing in her ears, the bronze dagger tearing through her skin and muscle with every step. At last she pulled it out and threw it away, screaming with pain. Leaving a trail of blood on the dirt of the street, she ran north towards the Suwa Shrine, the only place she knew was safe in this time of darkness. The last thing she saw were people running towards her to assist, their hands stretched out helpfully as she fell down.
“Suwa Shrine… Help — my father…” she managed to whisper before the world around her was enveloped in a thick, black impenetrable shadow.
Jōtarō passed under a stone torii gate, over a bridge spanning the moat and onto the artificial island in the middle of a large pond. He moved slowly, bent, supporting himself on a sturdy bamboo stick, holding a long bundle of black silk under his arm.
Struggling through the overgrown beech grove, he located a low earthen wall and, hidden under a massive tangle of wisteria, a large round boulder. With strength defying his fragile form he ripped away the thick dense mass of purple-blooming vine, grabbed the massive rock and rolled it away, revealing a dark round entrance. He picked up a bronze lantern from a niche in the wall, cleaned it up, filled with fuel and lit it with a Qin firestick.
He descended down the corridor leading deep into the earthen mound. As he walked the light flickered, reflecting on lime-plastered slabs of fine granite, dancing on immeasurably old frescoes, paintings of zodiacal beasts, phoenixes, turtles, tigers and dragons. Jōtarō passed under fading images of courtiers and court ladies whose names and titles had long been forgotten, of princes and emperors never mentioned in the chronicles. He moved on, paying no attention to any of these wonders. He had seen them so many times…
The passage narrowed slightly and ended with a large bronze door. Jōtarō grabbed the round handle, turned it and — this time with considerable effort — pushed the great bronze slab in. It moved with a dreadful creak, disrupting the age-long silence of the vast cavern beyond. A plume of dust whirled from the floor as fresh air whooshed inside.
The walls of the perfectly round chamber were painted with pleasant scenes of courtly life — hunting, playing, lovemaking. Once it had been filled with treasure, bronze mirrors, spearheads, swords, clay figurines of Gods and ancestors, pots of coins and rice. All that had been long gone, save a few broken potsherds and unrecognisable bits of metal scattered in the thick layer of dust, unworthy of the attention of generations of grave robbers.
In the very centre of the chamber, on a square pedestal, stood a large richly carved chair made of cryptomeria wood. Sitting on it was a statue of a tall samurai clad in a purple cloak thrown over rich, extravagant, garishly coloured clothes. A shallow saké cup rested in the samurai’s hand.
The statue wore an unmarked black helmet and a moustached face mask with fierce demonic eye slits. The helmet and the mask were the only pieces of clothing on the sculpture that seemed truly ancient. They were cracked and stained in places, the pigments faded.
Jōtarō hung the lantern on a hook on the wall, climbed the two steps of the pedestal and started dusting the sculpture, removing cobwebs and stains of moisture that seeped through cracks in the ceiling. He was in no hurry. Nearly an hour passed before he was satisfied with the outcome. The statue shined like new in the flickering light of the lantern.
The old man then drew a sharp dagger from a sheath hidden in the folds of his robe. Without flinching, he cut a long deep wound into his forearm. Blood dripped into the saké cup in the statue’s hand. When it was full, Jōtarō put the cup to the open lips of the demonic mask.
As the liquid dripped into the opening he spoke in a trembling, but loud, voice.
“Bennosuke-sama! I call upon you with the name your father chose for you on the day you were born. It is time!”
This had no effect, so Jōtarō spoke again, louder.
“Shinmen-sama! I call upon you with the name you chose for yourself on the day you killed your first man. It is time!”
Still nothing happened, so the old man straightened himself and cried at the top of his lungs.
“Niten-sama! I call upon you with the name the Great Butsu-sama himself chose for you on the day you started your new life. It is time! The Shard has returned!”
There was a cracking sound. The statue stirred, its arms moved. A grunt came from beneath the demonic mask. Eyes flickered opened in the slits. The statue’s hand reached for the helmet and cast it away.
The face that appeared from beneath the mask was that of a man in his early thirties. The top of his head was shaven bald, with fringes on the sides and a thick, straight shaggy ponytail sticking out at the back. His lower face sported a thin whisker and the pointed beard of Vasconian fashion.
The man grimaced and stretched his jaw, trying out muscles he had not used for a very long time. He flexed the fingers of his right hand then the left and wiped the blood stain from his lips. The skin on his hands, and on his face, was yellowy pale and paper-thin. His almond-shaped eyes, slightly bulging from under bushy eyebrows, glistened with cunning, intelligence and cruelty. They were the colour of pure gold.
When the man spoke, his voice w
as hoarse and broken.
“Is this true, Jōtarō? Has the Shard really returned?”
“Yes, tono, just as had been foretold.”
On hearing these words, the samurai slowly stood up to full height and stepped forwards from the pedestal.
“How long has it been?”
“Almost fifty years.”
“And what of the Seven?”
“They have already made their first move, tono. I am ashamed. I was unable to stop the Crimson One.”
“No, you wouldn’t have been. I never gave you enough power. Very well, give me my swords.”
Jōtarō untied the silk bundle and unwrapped two swords of nearly equal length, sheathed in plain, featureless black scabbards. His master stuck them both into his sash then pulled out one of the blades and examined it carefully.
“You have taken good care of them, Jōtarō. There is not a spot or blemish.”
The old man only bowed, but said nothing.
“Is everything ready for my return?”
“Just as you have ordered, tono.”
“Excellent. This makes me very glad. What reward do you wish for your efforts?”
Jōtarō raised his head, and his sad wrinkled eyes met those of his master.
“My tono knows my desire.”
“You have not changed your mind then?”
“Never.”
“Very well, you have served me faithfully, and the time has come. You deserve nothing less. Assist me outside, please.”
Jōtarō raised the lantern and lit their way out of the mound. Once outside, his master stopped, gently touched the light pink flowers covering the tomb’s entrance and looked at the sun. He breathed in the fresh crisp air of the morning and grinned. His eyes turned plain brown.
“On ceaseless breeze,” he improvised, “sweetly lingers the scent of wisteria flowers.”
“Tono,” Jōtarō reminded patiently.
“Oh, forgive me. It’s been so long…”
The samurai approached him and put a hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“I release you from my service. You are free to join your ancestors.”
A shudder came through Jōtarō and he felt his body start to painlessly scatter into ash. He raised his eyes up, tears streaming down his ancient, cracking face.
“Thank you, tono,” he managed to speak one last time.
“Farewell, friend,” the samurai said solemnly.
THE END
THE WARRIOR'S SOUL
Book Two of
The Year of the Dragon
James Calbraith
The same attitude is needed to defeat one man and ten million men.
Go Rin No Sho
PROLOGUE
The majestic brilliant globe of the sun ascended slowly out of the waters of Kinkō Bay, beyond the slopes of the imposing cone of the Sakurajima Mountain. The first fishing boats of dawn were scattered on the pastel blue ocean like dots of silver thread embroidered on an indigo-dyed kimono. From where Atsuko was sitting the entire scene — the great mountain, the sea and the boats, the rising sun — formed a living backdrop to the lush green garden, gentle hills covered with fresh grass and tall dark trees cut to form a frame for the moving picture.
“This is my favourite season in the garden,” said Shimazu Nariakira, sitting beside her on the veranda of a small, perfectly proportioned teahouse.
“Surely the time of blooming azaleas or flowering hydrangeas is much more beautiful, Fmather?” she said, referring to the bushes lining a narrow pond winding at their feet. Atsuko knew her adoptive parent enough to know the answer to this riddle, but she also knew he enjoyed telling it. The great daimyo of Satsuma rose a little and leaned to her side.
“I have designed this garden to show the spirit of the Satsuma clan — for those who know how to look. Right now, gazing at the pond, we see the present. The azaleas are already past their prime, a reminder of glories gone by. But the hydrangeas are yet to sprout flowers — ”
“A promise for the future,” she said, finishing his thought. He smiled and nodded.
Once, at the height of their power, when the civil wars ravaged Yamato, the Shimazu had gambled to conquer all of Chinzei Island. They failed, but, unlike other defeated clans, were not destroyed. Allowed to live, but not flourish, like the early spring hydrangeas, the clan bided their time for revenge. Time and patience was what the Shimazu had in excess. Two and a half centuries had passed since their last unsuccessful gambit and it seemed like even more would have to pass before they could try again.
“All this beauty and refinement,” said Nariakira, taking a long, sad look at the flowers, the maple trees and the framed landscape, “all this futile, fruitless effort is just a substitute for the power and action we are no longer allowed. Have you read of the eunuchs at the Qin emperor’s palace?”
“I have, Father. An awful fate for a man.”
“We are all like those eunuchs. The daimyo, the samurai... Castrated by the Tokugawas, rendered feeble and powerless by the system they’ve introduced. Like the eunuchs we concentrate our energy on the meaningless pursuits of art, philosophy and courtly intrigue. We concern ourselves more with the taste of tea and smell of cherry blossom than warfare.”
Atsuko nodded politely. She was the only one Nariakira could discuss such matters with. He had no sons and he trusted none of his advisors enough to share the most secret plans with — except perhaps Torii Heishichi, his Chief Wizard.
“Appreciating fine art refines the swordsman’s soul and skill,” she said.
“What need is there for a swordsman’s skill when he stands against a peasant armed with a thunder gun?”
She laughed. The thought was preposterous.
“That will never happen. No peasant could afford a thunder gun.”
“It will happen sooner than you think. And the samurai, with all their elegance and comfort and refinement, will be caught completely unprepared — mark my words.”
“The samurai are the world’s greatest warriors.”
“We were once — and we might be again… but under the Tokugawas we’ve become a mockery. All the neighbouring countries laugh behind our backs. All the Westerners are sharpening their teeth, ready to pound their ironclad fist on the gates of Edo. Even the commoners no longer respect their superiors.”
“And do you plan to defeat them all with your smoking boat?”
Nariakira turned his gaze north, where the garden ended with a tall impenetrable hedge, and smiled. There, beyond the hedge and the cliff side, lay his secret wharf and in it his beloved ship — a black yacht with no sails.
“That’s just a toy. A little more than a model.”
“An expensive toy.”
She knew he could afford it. After Nariakira’s father’s reforms, the Satsuma fiefdom was the richest in the country. The Bataavian machines had opened new lands for farming, the overseas trade — through ‘smugglers’ based on Nansei Islands, which Nariakira only pretended to fight — was more profitable than ever. The Taikun’s tax collectors had no idea of Satsuma’s real income. Here, far beyond the Southern mountains, his word meant little, his spy network was non-existent. The province was so remote and inaccessible it was almost like a separate country. No Tokugawa ever decided to risk an all-out war to bring the impudent Shimazu to heel, and no Shimazu would ever dare to dream of openly opposing the Taikun and his many vassals.
“I needed to know I can build it without having to rely on the Bataavians in case they change their minds.”
“And can you?”
Nariakira grinned. “The blueprints came from Dejima, but everything else was made by my men. Satsuma’s shipwrights built the hull, Satsuma’s engineers created the engine, Heishichi provided the fire elementals from a pit inside Kitadake Mountain as good as the Bataavian ones. I could build ten more ships like it before the end of the year.”
“Ten more toys.”
He chuckled. “Put a gun on each and we would already have a mighti
er fleet than all of the other daimyos put together. And the ocean-going warship I have ordered will dwarf even that. But then what? Nobody ever won a war in Yamato by the strength of ships alone. I would need something else to change the balance of power… something radical, something new.”
There was movement in the bushes and Nariakira froze, his hand reaching for the sword. Atsuko drew breath. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the garden at that time.
“An assassin?” she whispered, but Nariakira shook his head.
The man emerged onto the path in a hurry, making no effort at secrecy. It was one of the daimyo’s personal messengers. Nariakira frowned.
“What message is so urgent that it has to be brought to my private garden at dawn?”
CHAPTER I
“So you’re saying the neighbours saw nothing?”
“Nothing, doshin Koyata. The silk merchant from across the street heard some screams and noises, but that’s all.”
“What about the girl? We still can’t reach her?”
“She’s hiding in Suwa — outside our jurisdiction.”
Koyata stood before the entrance to the Takashima Mansion’s main building, squinting at the afternoon sun. This day was too long. The plain grey overcoat marked with the red pentacle badge of the Kiyō police lay heavily on his shoulders. His clues were as scarce as his resources — the precinct could only spare two men to help him. The bodies of the guards had disappeared before anyone could inspect them. The members of the household were all either dead or missing and, worst of all, nobody could investigate the scene of the crime.
“I will try again,” declared Koyata, whose high rank of a doshin meant he was responsible for supervising all crime-fighting activities in the district.
“Be careful, Koyata-sama,” Ishida, the shorter and fatter of his two subordinates warned him earnestly.
Dismissing their fears, he entered the building and climbed the narrow steps to the first floor. He stopped in front of the remnants of the broken sliding panel separating the ruined study from the corridor. He carefully reached into the room with the jutte truncheon. Nothing happened. Encouraged, he stepped forwards, crossing the threshold.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 23
