The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  Without a blade to focus or fingers to weave patterns, all she could do was cast the simplest of spells. She hoped it would be enough.

  “Ijslaag!” she commanded the elements.

  Her hands, the only conduit she could use, were covered with a layer of ice — thin at first then growing thicker as the spell sucked moisture out of the humid air. Her skin was freezing, but so was the rope. The jute fibre became brittle. Her training made her endure the horrific temperature long enough for the rope to reach snapping point.

  “Genoeg,” she whispered with blue trembling lips.

  The ice dissipated. The remains of the shattered broken rope fell from her wrists. She felt around the floor and found her dagger — another reckless omission on the part of the traitor. She cut the knots between her ankles and stood up.

  There was a commotion in the room next door. She saw silhouettes of four men jump inside, swords in hand. She saw Bran steal the interpreter’s weapon with an amazing agility and then disappear through the wall. The four men followed. Tokojiro screamed in a shrieking panicky voice.

  Nagomi stirred awake. Satō cut her binds with the dagger.

  “What’s going on?”

  The apprentice looked around her, numb and bewildered.

  “Get up,” the wizardess commanded sharply, “we’ve been attacked.”

  “Bran-sama?”

  “He ran away — I think. Stay here. I’ll see what’s going on.”

  Satō slid open the paper panel dividing the rooms. The first thing she saw was Tokojiro crawling on the floor, blood pouring from between his fingers smearing the straw mats. A hole was torn in the outer wall. All Bran’s things were still there, including the Matsubara sword Satō had entrusted to his care.

  She picked it up and pointed it at the interpreter. Tokojiro only now noticed her presence and the tip of the blade aimed at his head. He reached out his hand in feeble defence. An ugly bleeding scar ran right across his face through his left eye — now rendered useless — nose, corner of his mouth and chin.

  “No, please… Don’t kill me…” he begged, gurgling through blood.

  “What have you done? Why? Who are these people?”

  Satō spat out the questions in quick succession.

  “Taikun’s men… I only wanted to… prove my loyalty…”

  The wizardess lowered her sword. This was a sentiment to which she, daughter of a samurai, could relate. At that moment Tokojiro shrieked and leapt at her with surprising swiftness. She fell to the floor. The interpreter’s one healthy eye looked at her with an odd combination of gratitude and hatred and he scrambled hastily on all fours outside.

  Nagomi ran up to her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Quick, he must not get away…”

  “What about Bran-sama?”

  Satō hesitated. They had barely left Kiyō and she already had to make a decision on her own. She glanced at the corridor where the interpreter had disappeared, then at the hole torn in the wall through which the Westerner fled, pursued by the swordsmen. She nodded to herself.

  “Let’s go.”

  They hurried through the pine forest, lighting their way with the paper lantern, Satō in front, trying to track the foreigner and the men who had attacked him.

  It wasn’t easy to follow the tracks in the darkness. Soon she lost all trace of the boy and could only spot the four sets of footprints left by his assailants in the sandy floor of the forest.

  She kept thinking of Tokojiro’s betrayal. How could they have made such a mistake? How could the High Priestess have trusted the interpreter so blindly? She should have guessed a true samurai would keep to his old loyalties.

  It’s a wonder we are still alive — but for how long? She shook her head. It was not the time to fall into despair. There was a clear task before her. One thing at a time.

  “They separated here,” she said, kneeling in the dirt. “I think they lost him as well. He was running really fast!”

  Typical Barbarian, better at running than at fighting.

  “Where did you learn to track?” asked Nagomi, catching her breath. “I can’t see anything.”

  “My old man took me hunting on Mount Inasa a few times, testing the airguns. That was when mother was still alive and we would...” She stopped talking and raised her hand. I can hear them, she mouthed silently, and pointed to her right, from where the faint sound of conversation was coming. Stay here, she gestured, and started creeping through the undergrowth.

  In the faint moonlight she saw three of the four Taikun’s samurai. One was lying dead, his blood staining the sand scarlet. Two others were standing over him, uncertain.

  “Nobody told us the boy was good with a blade,” said one, looking around warily.

  “Don’t be absurd, Tendō, he just got lucky,” replied the other.

  “Are you blind, Saotome? That’s a masterly cut.” The first one pointed to the dead body with the tip of his scabbard. “Where did he learn to fight with katana?”

  “It doesn’t matter. There are three of us with Hibiki, and one of him. We just need to stick together.”

  “And where is Hibiki?” The first samurai’s voice was increasingly shaky. “He was supposed to be here by now.”

  “He’ll come, don’t worry, and the boy can’t be far away. We’ll catch him before dawn.”

  Satō listened to the conversation with increasing amazement. What were they talking about? Bran — master of the sword? It didn’t make any sense. He had no samurai training. He may have been a soldier back in his homeland, but she had held his Western sword in her hands — it was a heavy, unwieldy, badly balanced hatchet, there was no way somebody familiar only with that blade could handle a katana with ease.

  Suddenly the bushes parted and the fourth warrior appeared in the glade, clutching his stomach.

  “Hibiki!”

  The other two ran over. The samurai slipped to his knees, gasping for air.

  Satō could not comprehend what she was witnessing. She considered Bran amusingly helpless, a nice boy who could tell her about dragons, but was generally useless, like most foreigners. It seemed she couldn’t have been more wrong.

  She slowly crept back to Nagomi who was crouching under a big larch, trying to hide herself as best she could.

  “Bran-sama is here somewhere. He’s alive and free,” she told the apprentice, whose face lit up with joy and relief. “Let’s try that way.”

  She had to find him. She had to learn his secret.

  CHAPTER V

  There was darkness at first, and emptiness. No sensations, nothing to touch, smell or see. He was nowhere. Cut off from the reality around him, from his own body, he found himself in a hollow featureless void.

  Slowly some shapes began to emerge from the darkness all around him. A red light pulsed in the distance. As the veil lifted, he found himself lying on a vast barren plain of red-brown dust, with a tall spire of grey stone rising on the horizon. It was from the top of this spire that the red light was coming, like the beacon of a lighthouse.

  He heard a voice booming, God-like throughout the strange domain - the sound of General Shigemasa’s thoughts. Was this how the Spirits experienced the reality? Was this what Shigemasa’s world was like ever since his soul fused with Bran’s in the cave?

  Or was he still dreaming…? There was no magic that could rip the consciousness straight out of one’s body and cast it into this empty realm of nothingness. There couldn’t have been. It was all a nightmare. Soon he would wake and everything would be back to normal.

  Something appeared in the sky, coming from the direction of the tower. A speck at first, bright green against the auburn clouds, it grew into the familiar silhouette of a jade dragon.

  “Emrys?”

  The dragon landed gracefully on the dust and chirped welcomingly. It seemed real enough… Even the faint smell of brimstone and methane was there. Bran touched the beast carefully. In an instant, he was flooded with images and emoti
ons, just as if he was using Farlink — but far stronger than ever before. The cage, the hunger, the bewilderment… he let go of the dragon and breathed out.

  He was beginning to get the idea of what was happening to him. The world around him was, somehow, an image in his mind. The dragon represented the Farlink connection. The pulsating, beckoning red light remained a mystery, but there was no other feature in the landscape. Was this where he had to go to regain control over his body?

  Bran looked doubtfully at the jade dragon beside him. Would it accept commands from him, just like the real Emrys? Was there such a thing as a Farlink to the Farlink? He climbed upon the dragon’s body as he would normally. Emrys lowered its head and spread its wings ready to fly.

  So far so good.

  He could hear Shigemasa’s loud euphoric thoughts. The general was overcome with joy at having a body of his own again. The red light projected images from the Taishō’s eyes upon the auburn sky, the red clouds serving as an enormous screen — a samurai emerged from among the pine trees, sword lowered, unwary. The general cut him down with one stroke, without mercy. Blood stained the sand.

  Emrys launched into flight. They were heading straight for the spire of grey stone. There was nothing but the featureless plain before him. If the general was at all able to notice him approach, he was too busy enjoying his newfound perceptions and senses to do so.

  A great cry echoed throughout the realm of Bran’s soul.

  “Life! How I’ve missed you!”

  “It’s not your life!” cried Bran defiantly, surprised by the strength of his voice which echoed throughout the dust plain. “Give it back!”

  This finally drew the general’s attention. The red light turned straight on him. Shigemasa began to defend his dominion. First, a stone wall rose from the ground between Bran and the grey tower, but he managed to fly over it before it grew to tall. Next, some horrible demonic minion launched from the tower’s balcony, a creature of nightmares, creation of a twisted mind, with shadowy body and wings of night clouds.

  This was something Bran knew best — aerial combat. He swooped his Farlink dragon towards the creature. Claw clashed against claw and tooth against tooth, but the demon stood little chance against Emrys and its rider. With a thrust of its powerful limbs, the dragon shoved the creature tumbling towards the ground and then dived after it, spewing bluish fire until it made sure the demon perished, its shadowy body razed to ash.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Bran shouted.

  “No!”

  An invisible shockwave spread from the tower, casting Bran and his dragon away.

  “I have waited for two centuries for this, I am not letting go!”

  A deluge of images and sensations flooded Bran’s mind as the general raged, waves of memories and pent-up emotions washing over the boy: painful death from a heretic’s arrow; awakening to a ghostly existence in the Cave of Spirits; hopeful expectation that a spy, scholar or poet would descend into the misty sulphuric waters to merge its soul with Shigemasa’s; centuries of pitiful existence, after the closure of the caves, shared with innumerable other Spirits trapped for eternity, with no chance of ever solving the riddle of their entrapment, and hesitation when the filthy barbarian had submerged his stinking body into the Waters. Had the general really sunk so low as to possess this long-nosed half-animal, this hateful, devious Gaikokujin? Finally an acceptance of fate and firm resolution. He had no trouble exerting his dominance over the other rivals. They were no match for him, the Taishō of the Taikun’s armies.

  “The old witch had no idea what she had unleashed,” Shigemasa said, chuckling boastfully, ‘say farewell to your body, Barbarian — I will find a much better use for it!”

  Bran spurred his spectre dragon back into flight. He was not giving up that easily. Suddenly he felt a burning sensation on his hand. The blue ring — it was also here, in this phantom world! But why…? It blazed brighter than ever before. The light grew stronger and soon it was brighter even than the red beam coming from the tower. Bran raised his hand and the ring shone like a little sun on his finger.

  “What — what is this?”

  Bran could sense Shigemasa’s bewilderment and pain.

  “I’m coming to get what’s mine.”

  “No… No! You cannot send me back into the darkness — you can’t…”

  In the blue light of Bran’s ring, the grey tower started to crumble like a melting candle. By the time Emrys had reached the stone bulwarks, it was all but reduced to rubble. Only a single floor around the gate remained standing. Bran bade his dragon land in front of the massive wooden door and banged his fist against it. The gate dissolved into dust.

  “I won’t let you — I won’t… Two hundred years…!”

  Before entering the gateway Bran turned around and touched the scaly neck of the dragon one last time. He linked through to the real Emrys — the beast was half-sleeping, dormant, imprisoned somewhere far away, but at least it was still alive.

  He crossed the threshold of the tower of his mind and the dirty red world around him disappeared.

  He panicked at first, fearing something had gone wrong. He was again surrounded by impenetrable darkness. And then he remembered to open his eyes.

  The pines rustled above him in the morning breeze. It dawned. He stood up slowly, staggering, dizzy, his right hand still clutching the hilt of Tokojiro’s sword.

  The air in the forest was cool, fresh and aromatic, smelling of resin and sea salt. Bran’s head was clear. He could sense the general very faintly somewhere far at the back of his mind, cursing and thrashing about helplessly. He could feel his shame and despair, but he did not care.

  Something rustled in the undergrowth. Bran grasped the sword — it was a bit lighter than his cavalry blade, and oddly balanced. He tried to swing it like he would his own weapon. It almost flew out of his hand. The rustling in the bushes repeated. Bran retreated against a large tree trunk, holding out the sword before him defensively. He summoned a bwcler to shield his left hand. Whatever was coming, he was ready.

  “Bran-sama!”

  The apprentice girl ran out of the bushes crying with joy. She stopped a few steps short of hugging him and pulled back, embarrassed. Satō followed warily, looking at Bran with anxiety.

  “Good, he’s alive,” the boy said, nodding with relief.

  “W—what do we do now?” Nagomi said. “We have no way to communicate without Tokojiro-sama…”

  “We’ll have to think of something. For now let’s try to go back to the temple, avoiding the Taikun’s men if possible.”

  Bran listened to their conversation with increasing bafflement. Was he still dreaming, or trapped within his mind? The youths seemed to speak perfect Prydain. He understood every single word.

  “I — ” he started.

  They turned to him swiftly.

  “I comprehend thee.”

  “How…?” Satō opened his eyes wide. “What magic is this?” he questioned, holding out his sword threateningly.

  “I do not know.” Bran shook his head. “‘Twas the Spirit from the cave — somehow, the ritual must have…”

  “Oh, who cares how? Isn’t it brilliant?” Nagomi clapped her hands. “We don’t need an interpreter now!”

  “Are you really you, Bran-sama?” the boy was still suspicious. “Did you cut those samurai who were after you?”

  “I understand thy trepidation,” he said, suddenly aware there was something odd about the way he spoke. “It was not me who did the slayings, but the Spirit within me. I do not possess the skill with this blade.”

  He presented the sword to Satō.

  “Leave it,” the boy said, “I don’t want anything that belonged to that traitor.”

  “We can discuss everything on our way back to the temple,” said Nagomi.

  “You’re right.” Satō nodded solemnly. “Let’s move. It seems we have a lot to talk about. Oh, and Bran-sama — your face…”

  “I understand.”


  Bran nodded and turned around reluctantly to focus on the agonising transformation back into his Yamato disguise.

  The warmth with which the monks of Mogi Temple had greeted the travellers the previous day was gone. The head monk stared at them coldly as they emerged from the pine forest.

  “You are wanted by the government,” he announced, “you have brought violence under the roof of this temple. If it weren’t for the debt we owe to the Suwa Shrine, we would not let you go free. As it is, we can only request that you leave promptly.”

  He nodded at one of the monks, who dropped their travel bags to the floor in silence.

  “You will find the boats at the pier. Now go, before I change my mind and report you to the guards.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” said Nagomi, bowing.

  Bran also bowed. They picked up their belongings and departed towards the harbour.

  “Shouldn’t we go back to Suwa?” asked Nagomi as they stood on a low hill overlooking the harbour, trying to decide their next move. “We can’t possibly go farther on our own…”

  “Why not?” Satō shrugged. Going back was the last thing on her mind. The entire shrine may have been swarming with traitors like Tokojiro. “It’s not like that interpreter would have done us any good. He was all talk. He said he was good with the sword, but Bran-sama disarmed him in one move.”

  “Th-that wasn’t me,” protested Bran.

  She stared at him, still surprised that the boy could talk.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” she said, waving her hand at last. “What matters is that we’re just as fine without him, now that you can speak our language. The three of us will be less conspicuous anyway.”

  “Those samurai who pursued me,” said Bran, ‘shall they not return, with more men? Now they know who to look for…”

  “This is why we must move on.” Satō was adamant. “The roads back to Kiyō will be swarming with guards by now. We can only go forwards as far away from the city as we can.”

  “And as far south as we can,” reminded Bran, “that is where my dorako is.”