“That’s all right.” She shook her head. “I slept long enough.”
Shadows under her eyes belied her words. Her skin had a greyish, tired hue. Bran felt a pang of guilt. I should never have allowed the party to last that long into the night, he thought. We’re far from safe. What if we have to fight today? I’m weak and tired. But she was having such a good time… I haven’t seen her so happy before.
The girl in question appeared in the courtyard. She was wearing her Rangakusha clothes, tightly bound this time. She didn’t look in good shape, the unfortunate effects of last night’s revelries reflected in her tired face and baggy eyes.
A couple of locals staggered towards the well. Bowing clumsily before Bran, they glanced towards Satō and exchanged a few giggly indecent comments. The wizardess clutched the collar of her robe tightly and stared coldly at the men.
Bran dried himself off, threw the towel around his bare shoulders and bowed before the wizardess.
“Bore da!” he welcomed her in Prydain.
“How could you have drunk that much and still wake up before me?” asked Satō, wincing. “Is that your soldier training?”
“To be honest, I find your drink rather weak,” he boasted, although the back of his head still hurt.
“How long did the party continue after I left?” she asked.
“Not that long.” He tried to remember. “In the end only that samurai in the purple kimono remained drinking. He was even tougher than me — flask after flask, as if it was water. He didn’t talk much. At last even the innkeeper wanted us to go to sleep,” he laughed, but not very loudly.
“I’m not really that used to alcohol, myself. Father always frowned when he saw me drink saké. He said it muddled one’s talent.”
“He may well have been right. I’m certainly in no mood for spell casting today,” he said, laughing again even more quietly. “I had no idea the Yamato were so fond of drinking and singing,” he added. “It was almost like one of the nights in a tafarn back home, with a harper by the fireside and cold cwrw in the tankard...”
His voice trailed off wistfully.
“I had no idea you knew any Yamato songs.”
“That was… Shigemasa,” he admitted. “The Kuroda Warrior was the last song he performed before his death — I felt it decent to let him replay it again.”
“Are there many songs in your land, Bran-sama?”
“Please,” he said, raising his hand, “it’s about time you started to call me simply Bran. It is a custom in my country that those who drink together, as we did, do not need to refer to each other by anything more than a name.”
“Very well,” Satō agreed, “are there many songs — Bran?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied, “children in Gwynedd learn to sing before they learn to speak!”
“You’ll have to sing for us one day then”
Oh great, look what your boasting got you into…
“We should be moving,” Nagomi said. “The innkeeper said the next lodging place is more than half a day away, in this weather.”
“Weather changes quickly in these mountains,” remarked Satō, “and I have no intention of staying in this place any longer.” She cast a nervous glance at the two locals, who were now swaying their way back to the inn. “I think I would like my sword back today,” she added, looking at the wild dark forest rising menacingly over the southern edge of the valley.
Satō was furious with herself. Furious and ashamed.
What she could remember of the last night now was absolutely appalling.
I should never have drunk that much.
It had felt strangely enticing to reveal herself before the foreigner’s captivated eyes. It was a new thing for her. The men, she had learned from poems and books, were supposed to be excited by poetic subtleties, the red lining of the kosode, the blackened teeth, the purple peony in her hair. But something as common as flesh?
How did the night end? What did she tell him? What did she do? She remembered them struggling up the stairs to the room, her arms around Bran’s neck. He smelled so nice… What happened next? Oh no, did she sing that song? She hoped he did not understand its real meaning… Had she brought shame to her family?
No, nothing happened. Nagomi was there and Satō would know from her accusing eyes. Bran just left her alone, sleeping on the cheap uncomfortable futon. He was that chivalrous, or naïve, or maybe he preferred the company of other boys, like so many young samurai sons she knew…
Stupid, stupid girl! All this for what? A few spellbound glances and one drunken embrace. Get a hold of yourself, Takashima Satō, she kept reproaching herself as the party climbed the forest road, ever deeper into the dark mountains. If you need a man, there are plenty of proper Yamato boys. No need to waste your time with this odd, uncouth barbarian.
She cast one last look at the valley they were leaving behind as the road climbed back into the forest. The sun was still shining at Hitoyoshi, its friendly households and terraced fields, dancing merrily on the tin roofs of the workshops and silver waters of the Kuma River below; but there were heavy clouds gathering around the tops of the mountains and up the hill where she stood the rain started anew — a drizzle at first, but Satō knew it would not end at that. She pulled the hood of her rain cloak tighter and followed Bran and Nagomi up the forest road.
This was the one part of their journey that truly troubled her. Past the last of the lumber mills started a wild country she knew nothing about. The only road winded up and down, left and right, in zigzags and spiral turns through the deep, dark, mystic ancient wood. The trees up here grew even denser and taller than they had along the river, barely touched by a woodcutter’s axe, only enough to keep the dirt road passable. There was no sign of any lodgings in the distance and they had not passed a single traveller since leaving the village. By the end of the day the mist started rising from the ground and quickly got so thick she could barely see further than twenty feet or so. The sky turned dark. The evening was fast approaching and the rain became an unpleasant drenching shower. The road narrowed to a slippery path. Her hakama was covered in mud.
“It’s no use,” Bran said. “We’ll have to find some shelter for the night.”
“Just a bit more. Maybe there will be some lumberjack hut or hermitage,” said Satō.
“Or a forest shrine,” added Nagomi hopefully.
This was the first the apprentice had spoken since leaving the town. She’s very gloomy today. We’re all tired but there’s something else...
She almost bumped into Bran who stopped suddenly. A large tree was lying fallen across the road. The boy moved forwards to look for a way around it, but Satō grabbed him by the sleeve.
“Look out,” she said, “they did warn us about the bandits…”
“And quite right they were,” a mocking voice spoke behind them.
A tall muscular hulk of a man emerged from the mist. He wore a white tunic, torn at the bulging forearms, and brown trousers. A red band tied his black unruly hair. He held an iron mace, longer than a sword, studded with nails, slung loosely over his shoulder. A little blue electric light wandered along the length of the weapon.
“Well, well, what is this?” he boomed loudly, twirling a bushy beard in his fingers. “Three kids on a mountain path? Are you lost? Where are your parents?”
Again a blue flame flickered along the length of the iron mace. The bandit smiled cruelly and scratched his chest with dirty fingers. His tunic spread apart, revealing a tattoo of a five-pointed, interlaced star.
“He’s an onmyōji!”
Satō pointed at the pentacle on the man’s chest.
“Onmyōji? What’s that?” Bran asked.
“Our own native magic — “
“Have you finished?” the bandit interrupted them. “I don’t think you’re quite as scared of me as you should be!”
He came a few steps closer, swaying arrogantly, the mace still on his shoulder. Satō pulled out her sword with a metallic whistl
e. Bran put his right hand on the hilt of his Prydain sword and locked the index and middle fingers of the left hand together.
The bandit stopped and observed them carefully, squinting. He snapped his fingers and out of the forest came three other men, dressed and armed like the samurai, but without any markings on their ragged clothes; rōnin — warriors without masters, lethal swords for hire.
The boat hobbled up to the pier, frightening a lazy heron, and the passengers began pouring out. First to disembark were four swordsmen in grey uniforms, grim-faced and silent. The kunoichi was the last to step out of the boat, still in her beggar monk’s clothes. The ferryman helped her down and bowed with his hands clasped — a devout superstitious man. Azumi bowed back, reaching out with her bowl. No real itinerant monk would pass an occasion like that. A couple of copper coins jingled into the black bowl.
“May Butsu-sama bless you with a long life. Tell me, good man, what decent inns are there in this town?”
The ferryman looked at her quizzically, but gave her directions to several establishments.
“We have rich temples, monk-sama,” he added proudly. “I’m sure they will be happy to accommodate you.”
“Saké loosens purses,” she said.
“Ah, I see!” His face brightened up in a wide honest smile. “How silly of me.”
She feared she would be too late again. The boat had trudged so slowly up the mountain river she wondered if it wouldn’t be faster on foot, but the ferry moved relentlessly through the tall canyons from dawn to dusk and she needed to be rested for the confrontation, if there was to be one.
It wasn’t hard to find the right guesthouse. The memory of the party and the three young travellers was still fresh in the minds of the locals.
“Do you know when they departed?” she asked the landlord.
They couldn’t have been more than half a day away — the sun was still high.
“Departed?” The man laughed. “I do believe they haven’t even woken up yet!”
Azumi couldn’t believe her luck. Could they really have been so reckless?
She hid behind the corner of the inn, opened one of the numerous ivory compartments hanging at her sash and, unrolling a piece of paper, summoned a lizard messenger.
“Tell them to come to the inn by the riverside,” she ordered, and the spectral reptile skittered away to where the samurai in grey uniforms were awaiting her orders.
Four skilled swordsmen and herself may have been deemed an overkill, but the kunoichi could not afford a failure, and these three kids had defeated an enenra already. Two of them knew magic. She wasn’t taking any chances.
She watched in astonishment as the three youths passed her by, no more than a few feet away. The youngest — a shrine apprentice, Azumi recalled — even dropped a few pieces of copper into the alms bowl. Azumi bowed and muttered her thanks. They were silent and seemed tired, despite sleeping so late into the day, but they were moving fast even so, and the four swordsmen for whom she waited failed to appear. The children were already on the narrow bridge over Kuma. In a few minutes they would leave Hitoyoshi altogether.
The kunoichi could not wait any longer. She merged into the shadows and began to follow the travellers as discreetly as only a trained Koga assassin could.
What had happened to her men? A betrayal? Impossible, unless… Was the Master toying with her, testing her? Was she supposed to finish the task by herself to prove her worth? She could do it, she was certain, now that she had seen the targets up close. They were easy targets, unaware of their surroundings, unprepared for a fight. All she had to do was wait until they were out of the town, out of sight of witnesses. This could be one of her easiest assignments yet…
Her keen senses picked up a sudden presence. She was being watched. Who dared…? She looked around, but could not see anybody. A Spirit? No, it had to be a man. She froze, blending even further into the shadows among the cedar trees. The children moved out of her sight, but she didn’t mind — the road led straight south through a dense forest, they could not escape her now. The new threat required more immediate attention.
A samurai in a purple robe thrown over a flowery kimono stepped onto the road, looking straight at her. He was brandishing two naked swords, their plain black hilts contrasting with the gaudy colours of his unfashionable outfit. How had she missed him in these clothes?
“Come out, monk,” he said, pointing at her with one of the swords.
The blade was caked with fresh blood. She obeyed. There was no point in hiding anymore.
“I know you,” she said, remembering at last. “You were in Yatsushiro, by the harbour, but you haven’t been on the boat.”
“I walked,” the samurai stated simply.
It was impossible. He must’ve travelled day and night without respite to have reached the town before her, and he showed no trace of fatigue.
“What do you want with me?”
“Go back to your Master, monk. These three are my prey.”
The air around them grew noticeably colder. Azumi shivered. This was not an ordinary opponent. She knew now whose blood was on that blade.
Slowly, within the folds of her robe, she bent the palm of her left hand, reaching for a
hidden blade strapped to her wrist. The samurai’s eyes darted towards that hand. He winced.
“Please don’t. I don’t enjoy killing monks. Even pretend ones.”
Smoothly and noiselessly, she let the hidden knife fly towards her enemy’s chest. Even as the blade still flew, she pressed a hidden spring on her pilgrim’s staff. It split in two, revealing a three-foot long iron chain concealed inside one of the halves, with a weight at the end. Another secret blade popped out at the end of the other half. Hot blood rushing through her veins, she charged at the stranger silently.
She managed to stand against him for several long seconds, and she knew then that this was her greatest moment, the fight she would be most proud of until the end of her days — if she survived the ordeal. His swords were like snakes, living creatures with minds of their own, ribbons of steel, flashes of metallic lightning. The two blades whistled around her a sweet song of triumph and skill, but the samurai’s face remained impassioned all through the duel, as if he was trimming a garden.
She felt droplets dripping down her face and she couldn’t tell whether it was sweat, blood or tears of exasperation. With a clang, her weapons were torn from her hands, disappearing into the ferns. She tumbled back, just as one of the two inhuman blades whizzed past where her neck had been a fraction of a second earlier. She reached for the smoke grenade and threw it at the samurai, but he cut through it with such force that the air buffeting off the blades dispersed the poison. He was unstoppable.
A white wolf jumped on the samurai’s back, snarling, reaching towards the man’s neck with its teeth. Azumi didn’t have time to think from where the beast had come — it was not her companion… This was the one moment of distraction she could use. Weaponless, she did not consider another attack, but she could still run, and run she did, into the forest, into the mist as far away from the terrifying swordsman as she could.
CHAPTER XVI
“Now,” the mage spoke in a calm voice, “you have something that I would very much like to have. Give it to me and I will spare you. I have no desire to hurt children.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bran replied. Something told him the bandit was not after Satō’s gold coins.
“The blue stone, the sapphire shard. This — ” He pointed at Bran’s left hand. “It is much too precious a thing for a youth like you to carry around these forests.”
“This?” Bran looked at his finger with surprise. “My grandfather’s ring? Why would you want it?”
The bandit chortled.
“If you don’t know what it does, you won’t miss it, will you?”
“Tell the Crimson Robe to come and get it himself!”
The bandit blinked in confusion.
“I ha
ve no idea who this Crimson Robe is.”
Then who — ?
“Come now, this is taking too long,” the bandit interrupted his thoughts, “I really only want the jewel, but if you trouble me any longer, I am willing to take your gold too, as compensation.”
“Three swordsmen and a mage against three kids?” mocked Bran. He was already observing the scene of battle with True Sight and noticed the three rōnin had no magical weapons. This filled him with confidence. “Not taking any chances, eh?”
“You have swords,” the bandit replied, shrugging his muscular shoulders. “I like my face unscarred.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “Let’s finish this, the rain is most annoying. I have given you enough warning.”
He stepped forwards and swung his mace, aiming for Bran’s head. The strike seemed fatal but Bran stood steady, unwavering, watching the iron weapon buzz off his tarian without effect, the shield’s surface shimmering softly in the rain.
Satō raised her sword threateningly and the mage pulled back. The three rōnin looked at their boss but he shook his head.
“What now?” Satō whispered.
“He can’t get through. Not without a Soul Lance or an Unravelling spell,” Bran replied confidently.
“A kekkai, huh? I see you know a few tricks. So do I…”
The bandit scratched his scraggy beard. From a fold of his shirt he pulled out a strip of paper with Qin characters written on it in black ink. He threw it at the shield. It burst with blue flame. Bran swayed and felt the barrier’s collapse around him almost like a physical blow.
“W-what?” he gasped.
“Get them!”
The mage waved his hand and the swordsmen rushed to capture the three travellers.
Satō cried out a spell word and slashed the air twice with her sword. Arches of ice struck the closest two opponents in their chests, throwing them backwards. The third swordsman hesitated.
“I knew it!” the onmyōji cried. “You’re all wizards!”
Bran snapped out of his astonishment. His blood rushed in expectation of combat, accelerating his reflexes, but his poise faltered. Without his dragon he was like a cavalryman turned footman. He was trained to rely on shields, Soul Lance and the link with Emrys, but the Farlink was overstretched and could maybe provide him with one or two bursts of dragon flame, and his shield turned out to be useless.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 44
