As if we hadn’t shown them enough how superior our tactics are, he thought bitterly. But he knew this wasn’t the case. The Qin officials had to be convinced that the Western tactics could be applied to the mentality of the Eastern soldiers. And of that even Dylan himself wasn’t certain.
“I must admit, you’ve done a great job, Ardian. They look almost human.”
Dylan winced and scratched his scar nervously. He was trying to stamp out this sort of attitude in his own men, but he could do nothing about the Admiral’s old fashioned prejudice.
“I had plenty of valuable help from that Lee fellow.”
“The interpreter?”
“He turned out to be more than an interpreter. He’s a sort of lieutenant to the Bohan, or a protégé. I have a feeling it was his whispers that led to us having this exercise.”
He stood up in the stirrups and raised his hand. A hush spread throughout the battlefield. Both sides watched him, a small human figure on top of a great silver dragon. The respective assigned commanders — Edern led the blue-clad hundred — raised their own banners in anticipation. The Banneret’s men screwed on their bayonets.
At the signal, the thousand men charged ahead with a variety of battle cries. A perfectly executed rifle salvo thundered and a flood of bullets whistled over the heads of the running rabble.
The first line of the attackers was to drop to the ground after the first salvo. This was, after all, supposed to be just an exercise. But nothing of the sort happened.
What are they doing?
“Cheating bastards!” the Admiral cried, waving his fist.
Edern cried a new order, but Dylan couldn’t hear what it was. The blue-clad men aimed the rifles again, slightly lower this time. Another thunder of shots echoed throughout the mud plain and this time, a row of running soldiers stumbled and fell. Nine hundred men ran past their comrades rolling on the ground, wailing and groaning in pain.
The Admiral laughed a wheezing laugh, but Dylan frowned. He didn’t want to start another war when the first one wasn’t yet finished… but he trusted Edern knew what he was doing.
The Banneret’s men shot twice more — two more lines tumbled under the feet of those running behind them — and then split into three groups, in a classic flanking formation.
Dylan’s heart rose as he watched the perfectly performed manoeuvre. And they only had a week of training! The Qinese were proving to be just as good soldiers as his own men. He glanced at the Admiral. The old soldier was engrossed in the spectacle, his eyes wide open. His hand clapped against his thigh when the flanking troops pierced the now seven-hundred-strong battalion from both sides. The bayonets flashed against the swords and halberds. Most of the attackers wore heavy studded armour and their weapons were hefty while Edern’s men bore themselves lightly and moved swiftly, and their bayoneted rifles held a nasty surprise that no spear or halberd could counter: once in a while a shot was heard, followed by a cry of anguish.
The Qin battalion fell into confusion and disarray when the middle group of the blue-clad soldiers charged head on, led by Edern whose hair and Lance shone like silver stars in the melee.
“Observe now, Admiral,” said Dylan, “this is a modification to our usual tactics that Lee had advised us would suit best the Qin style.”
Edern led a wedge of soldiers straight for the heart of the “enemy” formation. Disregarding their “losses”, they charged onwards. For a moment, the silver haired head disappeared in the sea of blades and banners, but then a loud cry of triumph was heard and the remaining Qin dropped their weapons and surrendered. The battle was over.
“Aim for the head and the body will fail,” Dylan said. “It’s old fashioned, but seems to work here still.”
The Bohan and his entourage marched quickly across the battlefield, stopping only for a moment to assess the injuries of his men. None of them were life-threatening. Edern’s riflemen had been aiming for the feet and shins of the attackers, and their aim was accurate.
“How many of the rifles and uniforms can you procure?” the Bohan asked as soon as he climbed to the top of the small mound upon which Dylan and Reynolds stood.
His face was an impenetrable mask. No discussion of the result, no explanation for his men’s behaviour during the exercise. The Bohan acknowledged his utter defeat without so much as a twitch. Dylan couldn’t help but smile in admiration.
“I can send for a transport of three thousand from the Fragrant Harbour. It would be here in two weeks.”
“Slow.”
“It would be faster if we could sail past Ederra. And the messages take longer since the ley line’s disruption.”
The Bohan snorted and then grinned. His mood changed surprisingly fast.
“Come, Ardian. The Qin have secrets of their own — it’s time I showed you one of them.”
“What’s going on? Where is he taking you?” the Admiral demanded. The entire conversation had been in Qin and he caught no word of it.
“I have no idea, Admiral, but I bet it will be an interesting trip.”
CHAPTER VII
The three travellers lay around the fireplace in silence, the beating of the rain on the tent cloth the only sound of the night. The wizardess wrapped her cloak and blanket around her like a mummy. Nagomi lay on her back, hands on her stomach, in her usual pose. Bran turned away from the fire, facing the rain and darkness beyond the makeshift tent, contemplating what Satō had said.
She had the right to say it. It was her land, her people. Whoever he was, Dōraku, a real samurai who had lived in Yamato for his entire life, was closer to the wizardess than a Westerner. The boy felt a sudden, surprising pang of jealousy. He shook his head. He could not lose focus now. He had a mission to perform; a dragon to rescue. Emrys was now almost within his reach, no more than a couple of days walk away. He could feel the beast almost as strongly as if it was right beside him.
He reached a hand into the night and conjured a dancing sparkle of dragon flame. It came effortlessly, like a child’s illusion. Dōraku was right — it was very easy to perform magic in this place. He could sense the currents of energies surging through him from all directions. With a wave of hand, he formed it into the shape of a rampant dragon, its wings spread widely. Then, just to see if he could, he sculpted the flame to show his own figure, dressed in the Yamato clothes, sword at his side. It seemed odd when viewed like this, it did not feel like him at all. The samurai uniform and haircut did not suit him. Another flick of the fingers and the dancing figure of fire changed to resemble the wizardess, with her tomboy posture and the katana in her hand. In his fiery vision, Satō wore the samurai gear much more comfortably and with more confidence. Just like Dōraku... Bran weaved his hand again and the flame split into two figures, one of him, one of Satō. The figures got closer. With another flicker, they were naked…
A twig cracked in the darkness. Dōraku returned from whatever his nightly errand was. Bran closed his hand, extinguishing the flickering flame sculptures, and pretended to sleep. The rain poured around the camp without respite.
The sweet smell of sizzling meat tickled her nostrils. She opened one eye and saw Master Dōraku, sitting by the campfire, holding a makeshift roost of long, sharpened sticks.
“Fish!”
She sat up immediately. Oil dripped from two fat trouts into the fire, sending out aromatic sparks.
“Where did you get it?”
“There are streams full of fish in these mountains, if you know where to look.”
“So you’re a fisherman now, too,” said Bran, picking himself up on the other side of the campfire. “You are a man of many talents.”
The samurai only smiled and turned the fish to the other side. He reached for his baggage and rummaged for a while. He took out a small bamboo box from which he poured some dark sauce on the fish, but something else caught Satō’s attention; she glimpsed a corner of something round and white.
“Is that a… a theatre mask?”
Dōraku l
ooked at her curiously and took out the mask. It was old, yellowed, fractured in places, trimmed with patches of white fur and painted in fierce red and black patterns.
“You like theatre?” he asked.
“I love it!”
The samurai gazed at the mask for a long time, then up to the sky with a faint smile, as if remembering something. He then turned to Bran.
“Will you hold the fish for me, Karasu-sama?”
Bran sighed grumpily, reaching for the roost. What is it now?
The samurai stood up, stretched himself and waited until Satō woke up the priestess. When he had the full audience at last, he put on the mask, bent his back and stretched his arms.
He began a strange wail, one in which Bran, at first, could barely discern the words. It was unlike any song he had ever heard, with no rhythm and scarcely any melody, yet strangely harmonious and haunting. It wasn’t until he began to understand the lyrics that he realised Dōraku was telling a story.
Sore koso sashimo Atsumori ga saigo
Made michishi fuetake no…
Indeed until the last moment
Did Atsumori keep the bamboo flute…
The samurai began to pace around the campfire on tiptoe, shaking his head and waving his arms, miming to the words. It was a tale of some duel in the middle of the battle, between a youth called Atsumori and an older warrior, Kumagai of Musashi province. The story was reaching its climax, and the song and Dōraku’s movements were picking up the pace.
Uma no ue nite hikkunde
Namiuchigiwa ni
Ochikasanatte…
And on their horses they wrestled,
Then, falling into the waves,
Dropped one against another
At last…
“The fish!” cried Dōraku, tearing off the mask and leaping towards the campfire. He grabbed the roost from Bran’s hands at the last moment — the sticks had almost burnt through; any second later, the trouts would have fallen into the fire.
“What happened?” asked Satō. “Who won the duel?”
“Kumagai,” said the samurai, “but he did not rejoice in victory. Atsumori was the same age as Kumagai’s son. The old warrior became a monk, dedicating his life to the atonement for his sins.”
“But it was death on the battlefield. There is no wrong in that.”
Dōraku looked at her with sad and strangely solemn eyes. “I pray that you never have to ponder this dilemma yourself, young warrior. But look, the fish is ready. Eat well, we have a long way to go.”
As he sank his teeth in the tender white flesh of the trout, Bran heard a soft humming. He glanced at Dōraku. The samurai was looking into the fire, singing the rest of the song so quietly that Bran was certain only he could hear the words.
Kataki nite wa, nakarikeri
Ato tomuraite, tabitamae
Ato tomuraite, tabitamae.
If thou art not my enemy
Pray for me often,
Pray for me often.
By midday, the terrain got even tougher, as the travellers had to climb ever higher upwards, towards the summit of the mountain, along the needle-sharp, rocky ridges and jagged, weathered bluffs.
The black and grey mountaintops, naked, save for a few tufts of the shrimp grass or lichen-covered boulders, seemed to Bran indeed a good home for Gods and Demons to roam. This was how the world must have looked like when it was still young, in the age of Unbridled Fire. The red earth here was warm to touch. Plumes of steam spewed from fissures and rifts in the rock. Small, round craters were filled with clear blue-green water, boiling hot. There certainly was beauty in all this rough, rugged landscape, but overall Bran was thankful that they only needed to spend two more days climbing these volcanic slopes.
Based on the phases of the moon he was noting in his diary, less than a month had passed since they had left the Suwa Shrine. It seemed like a year. This journey had been by far the longest he had ever had to undertake. Any distance longer than a few miles back in Gwynedd, he would have just mounted Emrys and flown. The thin straw sandals the Yamato used for long-distance travel were barely any better than walking barefoot. His legs burned, his arms ached, his whole body cried “Enough! Get rest!”
He dared not complain. The journey was hard, but if the girls were managing to walk all this distance without so much as a whimper, so could he.
They never complain, he thought. Not even Nagomi. The priestess seemed excited to leave the city at first, but he could see clearly the recent events had taken their toll on her. She was more focused, more serious than when he had first met her.
She was the only one in Yamato who did not hide her feelings. She cried openly, and she laughed without restraint. All the other people he had met so far had worn masks of politeness, cheerfulness and indifference as impenetrable as Dōraku’s theatre mask.
Satō is really good at this game, he thought. She played her role perfectly throughout the day. Seeing her, one could almost believe she was just on some country holiday with her friends. It was only at night that Bran could sometimes hear her sob, quietly. He never mentioned it. I don’t need to give her another reason to be angry.
Before evening they had climbed almost to the top of Mount Takachiho, into the clouds covering the jagged summit, a gruelling trek through the empty and dusty lava fields. Weather up here changed abruptly. The day before they’d had to suffer a torrential shower, now Bran would have been grateful for a drop of water or a gust of wind to disperse the stale, humid, hot air. Below, spread the valleys of Kirishima; seas of tall, bushy grass. But he could not see far beyond the hellish steams and sulphurous mists emerging from the cracked slopes of the mountain.
There was, at last, a patch of greenery, a clump of low azaleas blooming bright pink, huddled on the southern incline, which provided them with some welcome shade and shelter. They ate a brief meal there and, at Dōraku’s advice, drank the last of their boiled water.
“Below that ridge the mountains end and, from there,” the samurai said, pointing with his bamboo pipe, “tomorrow we start our descent straight to Kirishima. It’s a cedar forest all the way down, pleasantly cool and dark at this time of year.”
Satō moaned, discarding the ruined straw sandals and picking new ones from the bag. She was down to her last pair. “I can understand not going by the main roads… but this is not even a road!”
“It would be too easy to follow us through the woods. I needed us to stay out in the open, to see any incoming danger. From here, we can see far down but remain unseen from below.”
Even Bran had to admit this sounded reasonable. How many enemies were now after them? The Magistrate, the Crimson Robe, the lord of the Kumamoto Castle… and whoever kept Emrys imprisoned. It seemed as if all of Yamato had turned against them.
This was the most desolate, miserable place he had ever had the misfortune to see. He had once flown to the top of a volcano on Brendan’s Island, but it was surrounded with greenery, vineyards and orange orchards. There was nothing so abundant growing here, nothing to make a fire with. Only the lonely clump of wild azaleas, exposed to the elements.
He reached over and fluttered his fingers over the pink bloom. He knew a real samurai would at this moment think about the flowers in some poetic terms. Here was life, clinging desperately to a hellish wasteland, flourishing, ever hopeful in its fragile beauty. He tried to think like a cultured Yamato warrior, come up with a way to capture the beauty in words, but couldn’t. His Western mind tried instead to assign a taxonomic rank to the plant, analyse the way the soil composition was reflected in the colour and size of blossom. At the Academy he had been taught botany, not poetry.
I will never be like them.
He picked a large, five-fold flower and, without thinking, crushed it between his fingers. A mocking chuckle resonated in his head.
Bran stirred, moaned and threw his head from side to side in his sleep before finally opening his eyes. They were black as the night around the camp.
Gen
eral Shigemasa sat up and stretched the muscles of the boy’s body. He looked around. The campfire was sizzling away into ashes, giving just enough light to illuminate the girls lying close together underneath their blankets and the dark silhouette of Dōraku who sat outside the tent cloth, cross-legged, in the pouring rain.
The General rose and crept quietly up to the samurai.
“I may be deep in meditation, but I can still hear you coming, Taishō-dono.”
Shigemasa chuckled. “And thou canst even tell ‘tis me?”
“The boy does not know how to sneak like that. Why do you disturb my exercise?”
“I see… things. This close to Mount Takachiho my senses are as sharp as in the Caves.”
“Oh? And what do you see in the darkness and mist?”
“I see a head of the eight-headed serpent reaching out towards us. I see monsters coming from beyond the sea. I see one of the three perish, but I know not which one. And I’d rather it not be the boy.”
“Two of these I am aware of,” nodded Dōraku, “but what is this about the monsters from beyond the sea?”
“I do not see it clearly yet. I am worried, Swordsman. I require this body. I need it safe.”
“I will do what I can to protect the boy.”
Shigemasa scoffed.
“It is thee that I am worried about.”
Dōraku uncrossed his legs and turned around. His eyes glistened in the campfire light.
“I am not like the…others.”
“So thou sayest, but how can I believe thee?”
“Have I ever betrayed your trust, Taishō-dono? When we fought at Shimabara… have I ever done anything improper?”
“That was more than ten score years ago. A lot has changed since then, even the way people speak.”
“I have not. Not like that.”
Shigemasa looked into the night for a long while in silence.
“I will have to tell the boy about thee,” he spoke at last. “Let him decide what to do.”
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 55
