Koyata rushed to the prison entrance and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The door was untouched. The prisoner inside was safe — for the time being.
CHAPTER IX
Itsunen stood in the shukubō’s entrance, observing the street. An odd, hair-raising coldness and the unmistakable reverberating hum of the Otherworld was creeping ever closer. It had been years since he had sensed a presence like this. It felt almost nostalgic.
Together with Ingen they had already woken and escorted all the pilgrims out of the temple — except the three newcomers who had been inexplicably missing from their rooms. When they had finally appeared it was already too late lead them to the main gate, so Itsunen had to explain the way out the back to the raven-haired apprentice while the others packed.
“Through the kitchen to the steel door — it will lead you into the camphor tree grove. There’s an old gate there, unused for centuries. Where are you heading?”
“Do you know of a village called Kawachi?”
He froze at the name. That’s no place for a girl like you to look for, he thought, but then forced a smile. “That old place? There’s a path through the fields that will take you around a mountain to the west,” he said, “the place you seek is on the other side, on a slope overlooking the sea.”
“Try to avoid the main roads,” added Ingen, “and the hills.”
The girl did not question why. She must have been sensing the oncoming presence herself, Itsunen guessed.
“What about you?” she asked instead.
“Don’t worry about us, little apprentice.” Itsunen smiled, touched by her concern. “We are the Hosts of the Shukubō. Taking care of the guests is our duty.”
He watched her join the samurai boy and the servant, and as the three departed through the back doorway he turned to the other monk with a meaningful glance.
“Have you felt it too, Brother?”
Ingen nodded.
“They carry heavy burdens,” Itsunen added.
“But the young one carries the heaviest,” said Ingen.
Ingen removed a small shrine of Kojin, the three-headed kitchen god, from its stone pedestal and opened a trap door underneath. He climbed inside and started coughing and sneezing furiously.
“I’m sorry, it hasn’t been cleaned in a long time,” Itsunen said apologetically.
The other monk came out of the dugout carrying two bundles of white fabric and black leather armour. He then disappeared again and brought up a pair of long poles, the ends of which were wrapped in hemp cloth.
“Hurry,” he said sternly, “it’s close.”
“I know.”
Itsunen proceeded to put on the old armour made of black leather scales laced together to form a wrap-around coat. He then tied a white cloth cowl around his head and face, and threw a dark cape over his shoulders.
“I hope you were at least sharpening those,” Ingen grunted, unwrapping the hemp cloth from the end of his pole, revealing a long glistening blade of a naginata halberd.
“Of course, Brother,” replied Itsunen, preparing his weapon.
He slashed through the air three times to test the elasticity of the bamboo shaft. The blade buzzed and lit up in a red glow, as if welcoming an old friend.
“Let’s see if you still remember how to use this,” said Ingen, picking up his naginata and heading for the door.
“Your words wound me, Brother Magonojo,” Itsunen said, grinning. “Have I not always beaten you in duels?”
“Only because I let you, Brother Motomenosuke,” the other monk replied, with a gruesome smile.
The Abbot stood in the middle of the road, misty wisps floating down from the hillside weaving around his short stocky frame. A young man was standing beside him, tall, bald, a staff topped with jingling bells in his hand. His robe was similar to the white cowl that Ingen and Itsunen wore, but jet black, with red pompoms dangling from the sash across his chest and a large conch tied to the waist. A mark of treason was burned into the man’s forehead, but he wore it proudly, making no effort to conceal it.
“A renegade,” growled Ingen, and spat.
“Not one of us — he’s of the mountain hermits,” Itsunen said, and turned to the Abbot. “Father, is this really the way to treat our honourable guests?” he asked resolutely. “What about the reputation of our temple?”
“Guests? You mean thieves, who sneak into my house at night. Do you know how much it costs to keep the scrolls in pristine condition? I only wanted a little upkeep fee and an offering for a new roof over the archive room.” The Abbot spread his hands helplessly. “Was that too much to ask?”
“Who are you?” Itsunen asked, referring directly to the silent renegade.
“This gentleman has made a substantial donation to the temple,” the Abbot said, “and in exchange he only wished to meet our new guests. Surely you have no problem with that? Please, let us through, there is no need for violence.”
“You have dabbled in the dark arts for too long, Abbot.” Ingen lowered the humming, glowing blade of his naginata. “What’s that lurking in the mist behind you?”
“I have done nothing, I assure you. It is all our benefactor’s doing.”
The man in the black cowl stomped his staff. The bells jingled and out of the darkness emerged a Spirit, white as death, of a great man clad in ghostly armour, wearing a tall conical hat and brandishing a long hunting spear. His eyes burned red like coals, his hair and beard were a blazing flame.
“Behold, the Spear of Shizugatake!” cried the Abbot with glee.
Itsunen stepped back, astonished, recognising the yōkai summoned by the renegade.
“Kiyomasa-dono!” he whispered in awe.
“You dare to wake the master of Jōchibyō?” Ingen growled. “Have you lost all sense of what is right?”
“Enough of your insolent prattle, I am your Abbot, your superior! Remove yourselves from my path, or suffer the consequences of disobedience.”
“May Butsu-sama have mercy on your soul, Abbot.”
Itsunen raised his halberd above his head, poised to strike.
“You will regret that,” the Abbot warned, stepping back. “Move over or you will die!”
“It is better to live one day with honour than to live to a hundred and die in disgrace,” Itsunen recited grimly.
The renegade put the conch to his lips and blew. The Spirit of Lord Kiyomasa roared and launched itself upon the two monks in fury.
Even having their way lit by Bran’s flamespark and Nagomi’s Spirit light, Satō found it hard to navigate in the thick dark mist. The gnarled entwined branches of the ancient camphor trees formed a barely penetrable web of solid black wood.
“There’s the wall,” she whispered, pointing at a brick surface glimpsed among the trees.
The night around them was completely silent, the mist muffling all sound.
“Then the gate should be nearby as well,” replied Bran, “let us venture this way first.”
They soon found the remains of the entrance, little more than a pile of wooden beams, blackened with age and rotten to the core. Remnants of gilding on a carved crossbeam were a reminder of the gate’s better days. The two planks that had once formed the wings of the door lay buried in the moss, eaten through by time and worms.
Bran reached for one of the planks to heave it out of the way, but Satō stopped him.
“We don’t have time for this,” she said, “give me my sword.” The wizardess pointed the end of her blade at the pile of wood. “Bevries!” she cried, and drew a frost rune in the air.
A chain of ice formed around the beams, sharp icicles penetrated inside with a loud crackle. Satō stared into the ice, focusing on the enchantment as the frost spread through the planks, shattering them into splinters in its wintry embrace.
“Genoeg!”
She finished the spell, breathing heavily and the ice sublimated, returning its moisture into the mist.
“Most admirable, Satō-sama,” said Bran. She did not r
eply to the compliment; the boy may have been impressed, but she remembered how effortlessly the Crimson Robe had shrugged her ice magic off.
“Snuff out that light, we’re trying to be stealthy,” she said.
A sound of a horn pierced the silence, followed by a blood-curdling roar. The noise of clashing blades came from the direction of the temple grounds. The mist around them thickened. Satō’s shoulder burst in pain; she hissed and almost dropped the sword to the ground...
“Art thou all right?”
Bran offered his arm to support her, but she shook her head.
“I’m fine.”
Something shifted in the mist behind Nagomi.
“Look out!” Bran cried, leaping towards the apprentice and pinning her to the wet ground.
A reddish-grey phantom dashed out and back into the milky haze.
“What was that?” the Westerner asked, staring wide-eyed into the mist.
Instead of replying, Satō raised her sword defensively, the blade covered with hoar frost. The wraith appeared again, and a clawed arm of smoke struck and bounced off the wizardess’s sword with an Otherworldly clang. The phantom vanished once more.
“Take Nagomi and run,” Satō ordered.
“What… nay!” Bran drew his own sword, the runes along the blades lighting up with green radiance. “I shall not leave thee.”
“I have trained all my life to fight things like this one.” She was adamant. She had not yet recognised the wraith, but could sense its energy. How did the Abbot manage to summon a yōkai so powerful? “You stand no chance.”
The spectre reappeared from another side, speeding towards them, rolling its eyes and extending its claws. Bran lunged forwards and slashed his sword through the air and through the Spirit’s ghostly body. It shrieked and lashed out against the Westerner. He managed to draw back, and the wraith’s long red claw merely tore his kimono and lightly touched the skin.
“C-cold!” the boy gasped.
“Western magic is no good,” Satō said, blocking another strike of the deadly claws with her icy blade. As she did so, the wound in her shoulder radiated pain again. “Please protect Nagomi. I’ll take care of this thing.”
Bran nodded and moved aside. The wraith and the wizardess focused on each other.
It was her first real fight, apart from the brief failed encounter with the Crimson Robe. She kept telling herself she had to remain calm and focused, but her hands trembled, her breath escaped her. She was foolish to waste so much energy on those wooden planks when they could have simply been moved away.
Recalling her training, she rolled sideways from under the monster’s claws and touched the ground, marking it with a small glowing rune of frost. The phantom followed her, but it was too slow — before it reached her she was already on its other side casting another rune.
She managed to stamp the third magic seal and then the fourth. This was going well. Her father would have been proud of her. Blood in her veins ran hot with the rush of battle and she almost forgot about the pain in her arm — but when she reached for the last spot, she cried out in agony and fell to her knees, piercing darkness momentarily appearing before her eyes. One of the Spirit’s red claws reached her back.
The wizardess braced herself, expecting another blow, but it did not come. Instead she heard the ghost shriek, not in triumph or pain, but in helpless anger.
She turned to see Bran standing between her and the enemy. For the moment, with the light of the moon filtering through the clouds illuminating his stark silhouette, he seemed tall, proud and strong, like a real samurai.
A shimmering magic shield separated him and Satō from the monster outside.
“Western magic be no good?”
The boy winked, his green eyes reflecting the pale rays of the moon.
“Where’s Nagomi?”
“Safe beyond the wall,” Bran replied, “whatever you plan to do, make haste.”
Satō froze the fifth rune promptly. The Pentacle of Seimei was finished.
“Get back,” she cried and, as Bran leapt aside, she cut through the phantom with great force.
The mystic energies of the five points beamed into the blade, and the Spirit vanished with a noiseless flash, banished into the Void.
This time she accepted Bran’s shoulder with gratitude.
Nagomi’s heart pounded. She ran through the pine forest, down the slope of the hill upon which the temple stood. Behind her, the mist covered the ground with a heavy blanket. Before her there was only night, cold and dark, lit up only by the comforting flicker of Bran’s flamespark.
The shadows of the trees loomed above her. They seemed sinister, spiteful. The branches tore at her skin and dress as if on purpose. The silence of the forest pressed upon her like a heavy blanket. There was evil in these woods and she did not know how to cope with it. The Spirits she had learned to commune with were never malevolent. Neutral at worst, like nature itself, they often required coercing to be helpful, but they never posed any direct threat. She trusted them more than she trusted most humans. The yōkai — demons — were the stuff of legends, nightmares.
Only now the reality of their endeavour struck her. This wasn’t an excursion around Chinzei. We could die here. Was this the kind of threat Lady Kazuko had meant when she sent Nagomi along on the quest? But she could do nothing — she was just a burden, as she had always feared; Satō and the Foreigner had managed the monster well enough on their own.
We should have gone back to the shrine. This is far too dangerous.
The forest ended abruptly and she ran out onto a field of barley. The city below slept, only points of light in the distance marked the watchtowers of the Kumamoto Castle. The thin ribbon of a river reflected the silver light of the moon.
“I think we made it,” said Satō, panting.
She dropped her bag onto the ground and sat on it to rest.
“You’re bleeding,” Nagomi said, reaching towards her with a handkerchief.
“It’s nothing,” said Satō and wiped her mouth. She had been biting her lips all through the fight.
“Your back,” said the apprentice, “you are wounded. Take off that shirt.”
“What was that monster?” the boy asked.
The wizardess started to remove her outer garment carefully, hissing. The claw scratch on her shoulder blade was swelling.
“An enenra,” she replied, ‘smoke wraith. I used to train fighting them in my father’s school — but those were just illusions, this one was real.”
“A yōkai…” Nagomi whispered.
“A minor one that must have come down from the mountains. So I was right to fear the mist… What’s wrong, Bran-sama?”
The boy was staring at the wizardess in astonishment. His eyes focused on the bandages wrapping her chest. When he noticed the girls looking at him, he turned away quickly. His face was red in the light of the Spirit flame.
“Thou… thou art a female,” Bran mumbled, swallowing loudly.
Satō blinked twice then burst out laughing.
“Oh, of course, you didn’t know. You’ve never seen me in girl’s clothes! Was my disguise that good then?”
“It… fooled me,” the boy said, still looking away. ‘so thou art not… Nagomi-sama and thou…?”
Nagomi was the first to understand what he meant.
“Eeh? No! We’re childhood friends.”
The boy grunted something beyond hearing. For some reason he would not turn his face in their direction until Nagomi had finished bandaging the wound, quickly healing under her warm touch, and Satō put on her servant’s tunic again.
“I will need to sew it back together when we get to a village,” the wizardess said. “You fought well.” She nodded at Bran with honest praise. “You have my gratitude.”
“It was nothing,” the boy replied quietly, looking into the darkness.
“There was something else,” said Nagomi.
She could still sense the malignant presence, distant now an
d weak. The other two looked at her in surprise.
“Even more terrible. It filled the whole place with dread. Did you not feel it?”
Satō shook her head, but Bran spoke slowly.
“‘Tis true. I felt… something. The chill, and the humming noise, as if of the Otherworld.”
“Whatever it was, we got away,” said the wizardess.
“But those two poor monks,” Bran said, looking with worry towards the temple, “and the pilgrims…”
“I will pray for their safety,” Nagomi said and discreetly stifled a yawn.
“We can’t do anything to help them,” said Satō, “we’re tired and haven’t slept all night. We need to rest.”
“Is it safe to break camp here?” the dragon rider asked. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“We won’t find a better shelter in this darkness. At least there is cover of trees here.”
The dragon rider did not argue. Silently, he nestled himself in a pile of leaves, leaning against the trunk of a massive cedar. Nagomi wrapped herself in the thick travelling cloak and anything else she could find in her bags to stave off the cold. She huddled up to Satō and, exhausted by the long eventful night, fell asleep quickly.
A perfectly round jade glimmered in the darkness, spreading the life-giving light. There was a shadow in the background, a long, serpentine coiled silhouette.
Something — somebody — was lying among the coils.
The green jewel blinked.
A hand gently stirred Nagomi out of her sleep.
She yawned, stretched and looked around. She was the last to wake. The sky was painted pink, the forest rang out with the morning choir of birds and the green barley shoots covered the boundless fields below. By day the landscape was almost idyllic compared to how sinister it seemed in the evening.
There was little as good for one’s mood as spending a night in the wild and waking at dawn. The horrors of last night seemed distant and almost forgotten. For a brief moment the apprentice recalled the dread she had felt in the mist, but she shook her head and forced herself to focus on the present. We can manage. Kazuko-hime trusted in us. But I need to be strong, not just another weight they have to carry.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 35
