The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  Dylan could see this awe in his men. None dared approach the beasts closer than a few yards. The troops formed a tight circle around the landing glade, murmuring and pointing with respect.

  The man who climbed down from the largest of the beasts looked around and smirked with arrogance. “Narrow” was the only word Dylan could come up with to describe this strange person: tall, slim and angular in face and movements. He took off the overcoat, revealing the many-buttoned jacket of yellow silk underneath — sign of the Emperor’s favour — and handed it to one of his men. While a servant hastily combed his pointy beard, he put a round blue cloth cap on his bald head, straightened the creases on his clothes and marched proudly towards Dylan and the Admiral.

  He barked a few sentences. His words sounded as angular and sharp as he looked.

  “The Bohan is taking over the command of this city and all troops within,” spoke the interpreter. He was an opposite of his master in every way: crescent-shaped eyebrows and crescent-shaped moustache in a round face. Instead of the rich court robes, he wore a simple dark blue coat with snow-white cuffs. The Dracalish words flew smooth and round from his mouth, with only a hint of an accent.

  “Bohan?” whispered the Admiral, “is that the man’s name or his title?”

  “Both, I would guess.”

  “The Bohan is not on Qin territory,” the Admiral said loudly. “Or do I need to remind you of the treaties between our Empires? His troops are over there — ,” he added, pointing towards the walls of Huating, “ — what’s left of them.”

  “I hear you have been arming the Emperor’s subjects. This is a violation of the treaties and reason enough to revoke your concession.”

  How did he learn about it so fast? How do they always know about everything?

  “No Imperial subject has yet been given a weapon from our stock,” answered Dylan. “We had merely received their request and have been pondering an answer when you arrived.”

  The two men consulted briefly.

  “Whose request was that?”

  Not a chance.

  “Some of the townsfolk — I do not know their names.”

  The man called Bohan eyed Dylan suspiciously and barked some more words, pointing at the Ardian and the Admiral.

  “Which one of you is the Commander of this place?”

  “That will be Ardian ab Ifor,” replied Reynolds, “I am merely the Commander of the flotilla you see stationed on the river.”

  The Qinese followed the Admiral’s hand and opened his eyes wide, as if only now noticing the imposing line of warships, their guns aimed at Huating and beyond. At last, he nodded.

  “You will refrain from answering the petition and from any contact with the civilian populace outside these walls,” the Bohan ordered. “This rebellion is an inner matter of Qin. We are grateful for your assistance, but no more will be required at this moment.”

  With that, he turned back towards the yellow dragons.

  “The Qin army’s skills of camouflage are next to none,” Dylan said quietly in Qin. The Bohan turned again.

  “What did you say?”

  “Admiral, did our scouts spot any Imperial troops coming in Huating’s direction?” Dylan asked, pretending to ignore the question.

  “Only what seemed like groups of marauders, wandering to and fro north of the river.”

  “And yet the Bohan here assures us that our assistance will no longer be required. What can he possibly mean?”

  “Perhaps his armies are moving underground!” replied the Admiral and they both laughed.

  The Bohan’s face turned purple.

  “The invincible Imperial Army is needed elsewhere,” the interpreter said, his calm delivery belying his master’s rage. “We do not need to concern ourselves with every stockade in the middle of a cholera-ridden marsh.”

  “Oh, that’s a relief. When the Heavenly Army returns, we can just stand back and watch the city fall for the second time.”

  The Bohan gnashed his teeth. He spat out his last sentence and marched back to the dragons.

  “You will have your answer tomorrow,” the interpreter said before joining his master.

  CHAPTER II

  A gust of wind shook the ferns and the thin branches of the cypress trees surrounding the glade. The mist parted revealing a samurai, tall and heavily-built,wearing a gaudy, colourful kimono of yellow and blue, and a purple hooded cape. A number of small canvas pouches and wooden inro containers hung off his obi sash. He shook the blood off his twin swords and started to wipe the blades with a piece of paper.

  Bran recognised the round, slightly bulging eyes and the whisker above the narrow lips, that were twisted in a strange, disconcerting smile.

  “You’re the man from the inn!”

  “So I am,” the samurai replied. He bowed in a greeting as if only now noticing the three travellers. “And you’re the boy who can drink like a seasoned warrior,” he grinned.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Saving your lives,” the stranger said. Satisfied with the state of his swords he sheathed them into the plain black scabbards. He said nothing else.

  “Did…did Yokoi-dono sent you?” asked Satō, lowering her weapon. Bran looked at her sharply. Her hands were trembling, she could barely stand. Nagomi propped her up by the shoulder. Her skin was pale, her lips trembled, her eyes lacked focus. They all badly needed rest, but Nagomi seemed to be in the worst shape.

  The samurai looked at her and blinked once before answering.

  “Yes, I have been sent by Yokoi-dono. I should have introduced myself yesterday; perhaps we could have avoided this… debacle.” He nodded at the dead bodies.

  Satō let her sword slip to the ground and leaned her back against the earthen wall of the mound.

  “You have our gratitude…”

  “You may call me Dōraku.” The samurai bowed again. “I left food and water by the side of the road. By your leave…”

  Samurai disappeared into the forest.

  “What luck,” the wizardess sighed, collapsing to the ground, “Yokoi-sama made good of his promise.”

  “I’m not so certain,” said Bran. He walked up to the dead bandits. The onmyōji’s headless corpse was covered in blood that was quickly drying; the others seemed as if they had been dead for a long time; their faces had now returned to human form. He still could not detect any magic. Does my True Sight simply not work on Yamato spells?

  “What do you mean?” asked Satō.

  “How do we know he’s telling the truth?”

  “He did save our lives.”

  “This could have just been a ruse.”

  “Why bother? He could have killed us in a blink of an eye.”

  “There are fates worse than death,” said Nagomi quietly.

  “Not you too!” Satō raised her hands in exasperation.

  “I just think we should be cautious, that’s all.”

  The samurai returned noisily with a large bundle of luggage. He took out a large bento box.

  “It’s not much but you can have it all,” he said. “I have already eaten today.”

  He then presented a dusty sword. “I found this on the road,” he said. “I see your sheath is empty.” He pointed to Bran’s waist.

  “This is my weapon. You have my thanks.”

  “Interesting blade. I have not seen a design like this… for a long time.”

  Bran bowed stiffly, sheathing the sword without a comment.

  Satō looked to the sky. “I suppose we’re staying here for the night.”

  Bran turned to Dōraku.

  “Will you not come and sit with us... Dōraku-sama?”

  The samurai hesitated. He glanced at Nagomi for a moment so brief only Bran managed to notice. “There doesn’t seem to be enough room inside. I don’t mind the rain and the air is nice and fresh.”

  “Except for the smell of the dead.”

  “They do not smell yet,” the samurai replied, smirking. “If you need me,
I’ll be over there,” he said, pointing to the remnants of an old wooden shed, half-buried in the ferns and ivy.

  By the light of Bran’s flamespark, Satō unpacked the bento box, reached for the rice ball and started munching it as eagerly as her manners allowed. Nagomi gingerly picked up a piece of broiled eel.

  “Aren’t you going to eat, Bran?” asked Satō, swallowing the rice loudly.

  “I’m fine.”

  “It’s not poisoned.”

  “I’ll have some later.”

  He did not wish to argue but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something odd about the whiskered samurai.

  “You said wearing two swords was just for show,” he said.

  She thought for a moment before answering.

  “I have never seen anyone fight with two blades. I will need to ask Dōraku-sama about his technique.”

  We will need to ask him about many things, Bran thought but decided to keep his doubts to himself. Feeling his strength slowly coming back as he rested, he charged the flamespark a little more. The light, until now the equivalent of a faint, small candle, illuminated the cave like a bright chandelier, revealing the limestone walls around them. He looked up and opened his mouth in silent astonishment.

  Nagomi followed Bran’s finger with her eyes and, in the flickering light of his magic flame, gazed at the white limestone wall over their heads. It was covered with carvings, etched painstakingly into the soft rock from the top to the bottom of the chamber.

  They were primitive drawings, made only of thin straight lines, but they were strangely compelling and seemed to be brimming with ancient primeval power. She could feel their energy. Bran was pointing to a group engraved in the middle of the wall some four feet from the ground. It showed several human beings, stick figures with dots for heads; some of them had horns, others wings. All were gathered around an outline of a circle and inside it, a few specks of bright blue enamel were still stuck to the limestone. The figures were kneeling before the circle. Above the scene were engraved serpent-like creatures, coiling zigzag-like in the air, with bony wings spread wide. The largest of them all, in the most prominent position, had eight long necks ending with eight large heads.

  Even she knew at once what they were. Dorako. Dragons.

  “What is it...?” Bran managed to finally find his words.

  “The Ancients,” said Nagomi, “they must have carved it while building this tomb.”

  Bran leaned over to examine the roughly hewn carvings.

  “What do you think that round thing is? The Sun? The Moon?”

  “I have no idea,” Satō said, shrugging. She joined Bran by the wall but pretended not to care much about the discovery. “Nobody really knows anything about the Ancients.”

  “It’s blue,” he said, tracing the outline of the circle with the fingers of his left hand, “look, there are still bits of colour left. A blue… stone.”

  He looked at his hand as if remembering something. Nagomi remembered too. What through tide stone can you see?

  “I… I have something to tell you,” she spoke softly. They turned to her in surprise and all the carefully prepared sentences evaporated.

  “Well?” Satō urged her.

  With a breaking voice she recollected what she had seen in the Waters of Scrying all those months ago: the red, blue and green stones, the man in the red robe, the sea monster and the ray of jade green light.

  “There was more,” she added. “Kazuko-hime showed me an old scroll with black dragons drawn on it: the rest of the Prophecy. It spoke of the coming of monsters, the Storm God and an eight-headed serpent…”

  They stared at her for a long time in silence.

  “So you think my grandfather’s ring — the blue stone — is somehow involved in all this?” Bran said.“And the eight-headed serpent is this one, here?” he asked, nodding at the largest of the carvings.

  “That’s an ancient legend,” said Satō, “Orochi, eight-headed dragon, was the father of all the ryū. It is said it was slain thousands of years ago. But why haven’t you told us all of this before?” she asked Nagomi.

  “Kazuko-hime believed the Prophecy foretold the… fall of the Taikun. She asked me to keep it a secret.”

  “Fall of the…!” Satō gasped.

  “Then why are you telling us this now?” asked Bran.

  “Because...” Nagomi took a deep breath, “it doesn’t matter anymore. The damage is done. The High Priestess is dead.”

  Satō’s face turned grey. Bran narrowed his eyes and then slowly nodded.

  “How do you know?” the wizardess asked.

  “I saw her in a vision in Hitoyoshi and then in a dream, last night…”

  “So you’re not certain — ”

  “I am!” she protested. “The vision was very clear.”

  “I don’t know much about these things,” Bran interjected. “You speak of visions, prophecies — is it anything like geomancy?”

  “I don’t know what — ” Nagomi started, but Satō interrupted her.

  “It’s just as vague and enigmatic. There are many interpretations — ”

  “Not this time,” said Nagomi. “I know what I saw!” she started coughing. Exhausted, she leaned back against the wall and could not speak for a while.

  “I don’t doubt that,” the wizardess said, “But what if you saw something in the future, not the present?”

  “I know…what…I saw,” Nagomi repeated. She reached for the water flask and both Bran and Satō rushed to help her; the boy was faster, pressing the bottle’s mouth to her lips.

  “How did she die?” asked Bran when she finished drinking.

  “Executed by the Magistrate.”

  Only when she spoke those words did she understand and accept their meaning. Her heart was surprisingly calm.

  “It’s my fault,” the boy said.

  “Everything she did was of her own accord,” she said. “I’m sure she wouldn’t have helped you if she didn’t believe it was important...”

  “Important? Why? I’m just a castaway. You should have left me on that beach.”

  “Haven’t you been listening?” she protested, “the Prophecy…”

  “Even if my ring is somehow involved, it’s not like I have anything to do with it. I just carry it around.”

  “What about the other two stones?” asked Satō, “what of the blood stone and the jade?”

  Bran’s eyes glinted in the light of the flamespark and Nagomi thought of her own interpretation of the Prophecy, the one she hadn’t even shared with the High Priestess.

  “I don’t know… those remain a mystery.”

  “All my ring ever does is light up whenever I contact my dragon,” the boy said.

  “You’ve never mentioned it before,” Satō eyed Bran’s hand.

  “It never occurred to me that it was important. I thought it was just some magireactive mineral, like Carmot.”

  “And yet the onmyōji attacked us because of your ring. I wonder how he knew?”

  “I bet that man outside knows about it too,” Bran said, nodding towards the tomb’s entrance. “I noticed him glancing at my hand a few times.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. People in Yamato don’t wear rings, so it’s natural he was curious.”

  “You seem very eager to trust him.”

  “Dōraku-sama saved us all. I just think he deserves a little more confidence.”

  “We don’t know anything about this swordsman. We don’t know anything about those bandits. All that happened today could have been an elaborate trap. How did you even manage to find this tomb?”

  Satō’s hand, holding a pickled plum, stopped halfway between the box and her open mouth. She turned to Nagomi.

  “That’s a good question — how did we get here? I was following your lead.”

  “I… I had another vision yesterday,” Nagomi admitted and told them about the third of Aoi Aso Shrine’s revelations. The first one, concerning her and Bran, she
chose to keep to herself. She finished by recounting the last message she had received from Lady Kazuko’s spirit.

  “Do you think she meant Dōraku-sama?” Satō said, biting her lip in doubt.

  “Who else?” Bran shook his head in exasperation. “But what was she trying to tell us? ‘You must…’ what? Trust him? Follow him? Fear him? Kill him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry,” Nagomi replied.

  “You don’t have to apologise,” said Satō, “we’re all stumbling aimlessly in the dark.”

  In the silence that filled the tomb they heard the pitter-patter of the rain upon the wooden door frame and the rustling of the cypress trees in the wind. Nagomi raised a hand to cover her mouth.

  “We should go to sleep,” said Satō, packing the bento box and stowing it away in the corner of the chamber, underneath the ancient carvings. “We’ve learned much today, but we need to think it through in the morning. My father always says there are two things one shouldn’t do in excess before night: eating and thinking.”

  The girls soon fell asleep, despite having to lie on the packed dirt floor without so much as cloaks to cover themselves. Everything they had, except what they carried on them, was lost somewhere on the road.

  Bran sat with his back against the limestone wall, his hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword. He was wide awake. The rain poured outside, and the water found its way through the earthen mound and a crack in the stone, dripping rhythmically into a small puddle on the floor. A thunder clapped in the distance.

  “Well, well, so the old witch is dead at last,” the spirit in his head spoke suddenly.

  “What do you care? You didn’t know her.”

  “On the contrary, boy,” Shigemasa replied, “you’re forgetting I was one of the Scrying spirits of Suwa. I’ve known her since she first came down to perform her divinations.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Very noble, I suppose,” the General admitted with some reluctance, “and with great insight. She was the only one who could read straight through me whenever I tried to play with the visions too much.”