Nothing ever changed in the cave. The monk came here so often that he now knew the position of every item, every accessory. He could see the disturbances done by the three travellers — some papers rustled, the chest burnt through around the lock - but other than that, everything was as usual. The writing pad on the table, the sword stand by the wall, the smell of tobacco smoke…
He sniffed again. This had never happened before. It was the unmistakable scent of a freshly lit pipe. He looked quickly at the place by the bedding where the pipe and tobacco pouch had always lain. They were gone.
He felt a presence behind him; a dreadful, cold presence. If he had any hairs left unshaven, they would have stood on end. The cold sweat of terror replaced the sweat of fatigue.
“Who…”
“Don’t turn around,” a voice spoke, icy and sharp like the blade of a sword.
Sozaemon did not repeat the question.
“You came back,” he stated the obvious.
“Where is Kiyohide?”
“The fourteenth Abbot? He’s been dead for years.”
The shadow behind him hissed impatiently.
“I forgot how short-lived you people are.”
“Can I… can I sit down?”
Sozaemon was feeling increasingly weary in the presence of the dark being. He felt the creature nod, and sat cross-legged on the cave floor.
The Abomination spoke.
“There was somebody here.”
“Travellers,” he said with a shrug.
“More than that. Where are they now?”
“Why do you care? They didn’t take anything from the cave.”
“It would be shrewd of you not to question my motives and just answer me.”
The voice cut him like a knife and the monk swayed as if he had been physically hit. His heart pounded madly. He felt like a mouse facing a snake. He wondered what it would be like to turn around and look the Abomination in the eyes. Were they really golden, like the legends said?
“They were asking for the best way south, beyond Kumamoto.”
“That’s better. When did they leave?”
“Two days ago. I… I gave them Kiyohide-sama’s writings,” he added, sensing it was somehow important.
“I see — interesting.”
“Please don’t hurt them. They are just some kids,” the monk pleaded.
“I will do as I see fit,” the voice said calmly, trickling like a wintry waterfall.
There was a pause in the conversation and Sozaemon heard a puffing sound. A cloud of robust sharp tobacco smoke enveloped him.
“Do you still train in the Five-fold Way?” the creature asked, its voice now milder and warmer.
“I… Not as much as I used to,” the monk admitted.
The question had surprised him, but only a little.
“That’s no good. You should always train. It keeps your mind sharp and your body fit.”
“I know, I just — ”
He didn’t finish. The air around him was not so cold anymore, and he could take a deeper breath. He turned around. The creature was gone, only the scent of tobacco remained, and two sets of wooden prayer beads on the cave floor.
Sozaemon wiped the sweat from his brow and stooped to pick the beads. They were marked with the crests of Magonojo and Motomenosuke clans. He sensed something terrible had happened to their owners.
He sighed. Now he really was all alone. The first drops of rain moistened the bald heads of the statues outside.
A powerful blast shook the brick wall. A soldier dropped his musket and fell down from the battlement with a shriek, but the thirty-foot tall rampart held.
The spider-machine swayed on its thin iron legs, rotated the wooden turret against another target and the long, ornate bronze cannon fired again. This time the cannonball smashed through the wall of a whitewashed steeple on the northern corner of the bastion. The curled pointed roof tumbled to the ground in smoke, and the rebels in and around the machine let out a triumphant cry.
Dylan observed the battle from the safe distance of the Concession, holding the spyglass in his left hand, his right arm in a makeshift sling. The Heavenly Army surrounded the circular walls of the Old City completely, cutting it off from the river to the east and the foreigners’ district to the north. It was a matter of days before Huating was taken, but the rebels left the Concession alone. Where else would they get ammunition and fuel for their hellish machines if not from the Western Barbarians?
The Foreign Concession in Huating was a far cry from the splendour and luxury of the Thirteen Factories. Here, the district inhabited by the Westerners was just a random jumble of low wooden buildings, on a malaria-ridden island in the middle of the marsh. Only the headquarters of the trading company in the centre was constructed of local brick and limestone.
But the place had access to a good river harbour, and was much closer to the great cities of the northern Qin than Fan Yu. Dylan was certain it would grow to become a great port one day. If there is anything left of it, he thought, as another cannonball whistled over the ramparts and exploded near a tall, yellow-plastered pagoda.
There was a triple knock on the door. Dylan put away a map of the river delta and looked up.
“What is it, Banneret?”
The Tylwyth Teg entered, stamping his heels and nodding.
“It’s Reeve Gwenlian, Sir.”
“Leave us.”
She entered the office limping slightly and sat down on a rickety chair.
“Any luck?”
She shook her head. Her black hair was cut short now that they were in a war zone, but still beautiful.
“The villagers know nothing, or so they say. We tried the Southern camp, but it was too well defended.”
Dylan looked at her sternly.
“No casualties, I hope?”
“Nothing but flesh wounds.”
He ran his fingers through his scraggly beard. He hadn’t shaved since the Ladon’s disaster, too busy and distressed to think of such minor details.
“I told you not to risk the soldiers for my sake. The boy is in a safe place.”
“I’m sorry, Dylan —Ardian,” she corrected herself hastily, “but, how can you be so sure?”
“You studied in Brigstow, didn’t you? So you won’t know how the Seal of Llambed works… Trust me, Bran’s whereabouts are the least of our worries.”
“If you say so.”
“How is your leg?”
“I will live,” she replied, grinning.
“That’s as much as any of us can hope for,” he said, nodding.
“What about you? You look as though you haven’t slept for days,” she said, her black eyes filled with worry.
“I don’t sleep that well lately,” he agreed. “I still dream about the disaster.”
In his long career as a soldier and spy, Dylan had seen his share of death and suffering, but he knew the screams of his men and crew of the Ladon being boiled alive in the raging flaming waters of the Qin Sea would haunt him until the end of his days.
There was nothing he could have done to help them. He was the leader of his soldiers and had to make a decision, however difficult it would prove to be. They were over a hundred miles from the nearest land, and the dragons were already tired with battle — some were injured. If they were to have any chance of survival, the squadron had to fly away from the mayhem, unburdened, leaving the poor souls to their doom.
He had never learned what had caused the terrible explosion, but he could guess it was no accident. Only a skilled, well-prepared saboteur could have sunk the greatest ship ever built with one blow. How did he get past the guards? Were there traitors among the crew? He would never know for certain.
At least Bran was safe. Of that he was sure. He had witnessed the white pillar of light pierce the night sky over Ladon and knew instantly what it meant — the Seal of Llambed. He had circled over the chaos once to make sure — the boy was nowhere to be seen and his jade green dragon was fl
ying away into the darkness, in the opposite direction to the land, too far to try to catch it. Good riddance, Dylan had thought, angry with the dragon for not trying to save its rider. In the end it was just a selfish coward like all its kind.
Nonetheless, he knew Bran’s fate was only his own fault. If only he had been more forceful in Fan Yu! He should never have agreed to the boy’s demand, and then, just before the explosion — did he have to lose his nerve and enchant Bran with Binding Words? What it must have been like for the boy to see the ship fall apart around him and not be able to move... Still, he was proud of how his son managed to stay calm enough to invoke the power of the White Eagle. He could only hope the Seal’s magic did not carry him all the way to Gwynedd. Dylan would never be able to face his wife again.
“I’m sure I could help you forget,” the Reeve said with a coy smile.
“Thank you for the offer, Gwen, but I’m afraid I will be too busy tonight.”
“Don’t overexert yourself, Ardian. We will need all your strength and wits if the battle comes our way.”
“Let’s hope it won’t come to that.”
The squadron — whatever was left of it — had landed in Huating at the break of day the morning after the disaster. There was no time to mourn their fallen comrades. By afternoon they realised they were in the middle of a war zone. The right wing of the rebel army besieging the Southern capital moved against the harbour town, defended only by a handful of imperial soldiers and the tall walls of red brick and dark sandstone.
The rebels seemed as numerous as the grains of sand, but even more fearsome than their numbers were their fighting machines. Like the whirligigs of Fan Yu, these monstrous automata were built of bamboo, leather and rope, powered by cranks and gears turned by the arms of men. They were as big as houses, armoured with studded cast iron plates, armed with cannons and pipes spewing Roman Fire. The garrison at Huating had nothing that could even touch the machines.
“If only we still had the Ladon,” said Edern, standing beside him at the wooden palisade surrounding the Concession — a boundary mark more than a fortification. “One broadside would wipe this entire battlefield clean.”
He was also wounded — his left side was tightly wrapped with blood-soaked bandages, but his Faer organism was strong and quickly regenerating. The Ardian and his Banneret suffered their injuries on their first — and, so far, last — patrol over the front line. In an uncharacteristic mistake, Dylan had underestimated the rebels and their ability to quickly gather a strike force against a couple of Western dragons. There were only five of them on patrol and at least fifteen rebel longs, white as alabaster, topaz yellow, and green like fresh grass, spewing poisonous mist and lightning. They fought bravely and cast all fifteen from the skies, but failed to come out of the skirmish unscathed. Four of them returned with injuries, the fifth, ensign Dunstone, was thrown off his mount and captured.
Dylan wondered if his son had suffered the same fate — imprisoned by the rebels. There was no way of knowing. No message could get in or out of besieged city except a carrier wisp they had managed to send out on the first day, before the rebels disrupted Huating’s ley line.
“The Crown must have already sent reinforcements,” he had told Edern, “they should be here in a matter of weeks.”
“Will we hold out that long?”
“They wouldn’t dare touch us.”
“They already have. That’s why we’re here.”
“That was subterfuge. We have no proof of the identity of the perpetrators. It could have been any of the Dracaland’s foes. An open attack against a colonial power would bring down the wrath of the entire Western world upon their heads. They must be aware of this.”
“I hope you’re right, Ardian. Ho! There’s something flying from the city!”
Dodging the musket shots, zigzagging around rockets and deflecting the rebels’ arrows, a fragile whirligig was approaching swiftly across no-man’s-land and the marsh separating the Old City from the Concession. It was a large vehicle, powered by at least three men, armoured with silver plate and decorated with the imperial colours.
“What a twp,” Dylan shook his head. “Flaunting the flag in this situation — are they trying to get themselves killed? Prepare the landing glade.”
The vehicle was almost over the palisade when a stray flare hit one of its bamboo propellers. The whirligig turned over and fell to the ground with its landing legs sticking up like a dead beetle.
“Jawch! Edern, get the medics!” shouted Dylan, jumping off the palisade.
CHAPTER XIII
A broad-shouldered, balding man with a long oval face stood in front of the cage, peering inside. His eyes were close set and clever. A large cross-and-circle crest adorned his elegant, rich off-white kimono and vest.
“Marvellous,” he said quietly, “amazing, and, dare I say, quite terrifying.”
“The dorako are known to induce irrational fear in anyone unprepared, kakka,” the lanky man in horn-rimmed glasses said, stepping forwards, “even when they are dormant like that.”
“There’s nothing irrational about it, my good wizard,” the aristocrat said, laughing. “It’s as big as a whale and has teeth bigger than a shark. I’m certain this little cage of yours will avail nothing if the beast wakes up.”
“We are doing our best to prevent this from happening, kakka,” the wizard said with a bow.
“Are you prepared for the transfer to Kirishima?”
“Almost, kakka. The oxcart will be ready tomorrow.”
“Good. We can’t wait any longer. I need my daughter to be on her way in a matter of days.”
“You will not be accompanying us?”
“I need to sail to Nansei. There’s a report of some black-winged monsters I need to investigate.”
“More dorako?”
“If only we were so lucky!” the aristocrat said. “No, I don’t think — ” He stopped abruptly, leaned nearer to the cage and stared closely at the dragon. “Look at its eyes, Heishichi. The beast is not asleep at all — it’s watching us.”
The wizard frowned then clapped his hands twice. Two more men appeared, reaching their hands out towards the dragon. Together, all three chanted a brief incantation, then the man in glasses puffed a handful of white dust into the air. The dragon’s head dropped to the floor of the cage with a thud.
Bran awoke from a half-dream, half-trance. It was the middle of the night and the rain outside the inn’s windows lashed in a monotone. The blue light on Bran’s finger faded fast, just like the memory of the vision, and soon both the room and his mind were again enveloped in total darkness.
The floor was trembling strangely as if it was alive. At first he thought it was just another part of the dream, but then realised the tremors were real, though now barely felt. The whole thing lasted for less than a minute and he soon fell asleep again, quickly forgetting about the odd experience.
The boat was long, narrow and wobbly, but the oarsman knew his job and the shoddy-looking vessel soon started moving up the Kumagawa at the pace of a brisk walker.
The great Kumagawa, Bear River, tumbled down the mountains into the Yatsushiro Sea, forming the southern boundary of the flatland. On Bran’s map the only way farther south was by the sea — a route which they could not choose, fearing the harbour guards might spot them — or up the river, across the wild hills that quickly became ominous rocky summits, hemming the Kuma Valley in between walls of granite and basalt.
An oar-powered boat... Bran had never seen one of this size; the only oar boats he knew were leisure coracles and canoes used for recreation on the rivers and camlas of Gwynedd. He remembered the great canal barges, transporting elementals from the Southern mines to the industrial centres of the north. Most of them had mistfire engines, although some were still pulled by kelpies. The Yamato had neither technology nor magical beasts to ease their lot, and the oarsman — just like the palanquin porters, Bran remembered — had only his strong muscles to push the boat again
st the swift current.
He pondered Satō’s words about “changing the world”. She may have been boasting, but there is some truth in it, he thought. The polders through which they had travelled were an astounding feat for a people who used neither magic nor machines. How many hundreds of years had it taken to reclaim the marshland and turn it into fertile fields? How many thousands of people had struggled against the elements throughout the centuries? The potential of these people was staggering. It seemed once they decided to do something, they would spare no time, effort and resources to achieve it in the best way possible.
The way they performed magic, once they got into it, was amazing too. The Yamato have managed to turn even Western wizardry into art. He wasn’t just flattering Satō with praise - with the power and control she exhibited, the girl would have been a star of any school of mystic arts. She said her father was even more talented! Yes, these people had the capacity to change the world, if they were stirred enough to do it. But to what end? He remembered Satō explaining nonchalantly about suicides and executions and a shudder went through his spine. And she was supposed to represent the enlightened ones…
The river meandered across the valleys, canyons and gorges, through deep, dense humid forests of tall proud cedars and spry cypresses. Their trunks shot straight upwards like pillars supporting the skies. He had never seen trees like these, and he would often cry out in admiration at a particularly awe-striking specimen.
“It’s just trees, what’s so great about them?” asked Satō.
“In my country we cut most of our forests down,” he replied sadly. “The Dracaland fleet needed a lot of timber. Only in the mountains the old wood remained, but nothing like this...” he paused, gazing at the striped bark with awe.
“Many great Spirits live in these forests,” said Nagomi piously.
The other two looked at her in surprise, as she’d been keeping quiet all day.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 40
