Dōraku stood up.
“I would advise against it, Taishō-dono. He would likely do something unwise.”
He stepped forward. Shigemasa shuffled backwards.
“Thou threatens me? By what power?” he said and laughed, but the laughter died in his throat when Dōraku stepped even closer and his eyes glinted gold.
“I was hoping I could trust you to keep a secret,” the samurai said, “but if there be no trust between us…”
Like a striking serpent, Dōraku’s hand flashed forward towards Bran-Shigemasa’s face. And then there was darkness.
He was back on the plain of the red dust. The light from the tower on the horizon was dimmed, hazed by the distance. Shigemasa sighed and started walking back towards it when he heard heavy footsteps thumping in the dust behind him.
He turned around and saw a giant. More than twice the size of a man, he wore a cloak of darkness and wielded twin blades of silver light, each as big as a glaive. Eyes like two pieces of gold shone brightly from under the hood.
“Thy tricks do not scare me, S-swordsman,” Shigemasa started defiantly, but ended on a stutter. He drew his own sword — here he had his old armour and weapons — but it seemed a mere toothpick in comparison.
“These are no tricks, Taishō. Here, everyone shows their true form.”
“If thou wishest to strive with me, then do it honourably, like the nobleman thou art.”
“As you wish.” The air shimmered and in place of the giant appeared the Dōraku as he was outside, with his ridiculous yellow and purple kimono and old-fashioned whiskers.
“Now — ” he started, but Shigemasa did not let him finish. He charged with a short yell, so suddenly, he almost succeeded in surprising the samurai.
The blades clanged — once — twice. Shigemasa’s sword raised a plume of red dust. A tip of one of Dōraku’s swords hovered an inch from the General’s neck, the other — at his heart.
“I don’t even know what killing you here would do to you,” the samurai whispered hoarsely, “but I am itching to find out.” His eyes glowed like lanterns, his breath smelled of death.
Shigemasa blinked then threw back his head and laughed, genuinely this time.
“Dost thou expect me to beg for mercy? I am a samurai!”
Dōraku lowered his weapons and his figure seemed to shrink and darken even further.
“No, you’re right. It is not proper.”
He closed his eyes and whispered something unintelligible, then sheathed his swords and turned on his heels. Shigemasa tried to follow, but he couldn’t budge. His feet sank into the red dirt like quicksand and the more he struggled the deeper he fell.
“What hast thou done to me?”
“I will release you when it’s safe,” said Dōraku without turning, “I cannot have you interfere with my plans.”
The General snickered. “Plans? I could have told thee about thy plans. It is not I that shall be the cause of thy failure.”
Dōraku stopped.
“Thy ears are pricked now, eh? But it’s too late. I shall tell thee nothing.”
The samurai’s shoulders dropped. “Good,” he said, “your prophecies were growing tiresome.”
With that, he walked away into the darkness. A nameless wind blew across the featureless plain, picking up the dirt and shrouding the horizon in a blood red haze.
They huddled together in the darkness, in a large cave on the shore of the Kuma River, not daring to light a fire, not daring to make a sound.
Bats were their only companions, flying in their hundreds to roost as the evening fell. Further in, the cave expanded to a magnificent palace of limestone formations, but they stayed near the entrance, watchful, observant.
“He will find us,” Azumi said, shivering. Rain and fog drenched her clothes and hair as they fled through the forest, but she had nothing to change into. “He will find us and destroy us.”
Ozun kissed her on the forehead. A thunder struck in the distance and she shuddered. The rain started anew.
“You’re a brave kunoichi. Surely you’re not afraid of a storm now?”
“Don’t mock me. You know what He’s capable of.”
“We will be all right,” said Ozun, caressing her wet, cold back. “Tomorrow we will reach the sea, and from there we can sail to wherever we want.”
“But where to? He’ll find us anywhere in Yamato.”
“Then we will leave Yamato. We will go to Nansei. His power doesn’t reach there.”
“I have a villa in Nansei,” a darkly sweet voice said behind them, “although it’s a bit too warm this time of the year.”
They jumped up and turned around. In a flash of the thunderclap they saw a tall figure in a long robe of crimson, with eyes glowing gold. Stench of death and blood filled the cave.
Ozun stepped in front of Azumi, rising his jingling staff in defence.
“How brave,” the Crimson Robe said, smiling. “And romantic.”
“You can kill me, but leave her. She did nothing wrong.”
“Kill? Who said anything about killing?” the Crimson Robe feigned surprise.
“But I thought…” Ozun lowered his weapon.
The Crimson Robe waved his hand and a powerful force cast the hermit against the cavern wall, knocking him out. Azumi cried and tried to run but she couldn’t move; one word whispered by the Master was enough to hold her in a bind.
“Kill you, after what you’ve done for me?”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “What good have I done?”
“You’ve forced my old friend to come out of hiding! That must count for something. Thanks to you he had to show off his fencing skills and my other spies — you didn’t think you were alone? — could have confirmed it was really him?”
“You… know this …swordsman?”
“Know him!” He laughed again. “Yes, I knew him.”
Ozun stirred and moaned, trying to rise up, but the Crimson Robe snapped his fingers and the hermit’s head was smashed against the wall again.
“Please stop it!” she cried. “You said you would not kill him!”
“I’ve decided to change my tactics,” her master continued unperturbed. “Sending you out one by one will not do, not when that… man is around. I am summoning everyone from the old team — and once we’re done here, I will need you both back.”
“Done with what?” she asked and the way his golden eyes looked at her made her immediately regret the question.
“The tracks from the road lead here,” Azumi said in a hoarse voice. Her ashen skin was almost the same colour as her tight-fitting uniform of the Koga province assassins. Her cheek twitched nervously whenever she had to address her master. His punishments left no trace on her body but drove deep scars into her spirit.
The Crimson One was standing atop a fallen tree, careful not to stain his robe with mud. His men were searching the forest floor around the earthen mound as he watched from beyond the stone circle. Azumi observed his unease with satisfaction. The power of the Ancients was still strong enough to keep the likes of him at a distance. The remnants of their presence permeated this primeval forest.
“Somebody made a very good effort at concealing them,” she added.
“This is what I have spared you for,” he said, smiling. She gulped and continued.
“There was a battle here as well, but much more … lethal.”
“We found them!” cried one of the members of the searching party, shovelling away a pack of fresh dirt. The men all wore the grey uniforms. They were very reliable — and very disposable.
The Crimson Robe knelt by the bodies, already starting to swell and turn blue in the hot and humid spring air. A cloud of hungry flies buzzed irritatingly above until he snarled and made an impatient gesture; the insects dropped dead. He traced the pattern of the wounds with his hand and examined the way the head had been cut off the mage’s body. His golden eyes glimmered with recognition. He chuckled.
“Only one man uses t
hat technique with such precision.”
He turned to the kunoichi.
“Have you found anything else of interest?”
“There was a dead wolf buried along with the bodies. It looks… familiar.”
“Show it to me.”
The men brought out the carcass of the slain animal. The Crimson One examined the wounds and let out a surprised laugh.
“How quaint. With all these dead bodies around… chivalrous as ever.”
“I also found this on the floor of the mound,” Azumi said, showing him several long hairs of deep red colour.
“The young priestess who was a friend of Shūhan’s daughter... what was her name again?”
“Nagomi, I believe.”
“So she’s no longer dying her hair. That should make things easier.”
He stood up and looked at the headless body of an onmyōji, thinking something over. He then looked at the people gathered around him.
“One of them is a wizard, right? I believe that gives them an unfair advantage…”
He leaned over and examined the corpse once more.
“Take this body with you. Burn the rest.” He spat. “No, wait. One more idea. Ozun!”
The hermit appeared before him and Azumi winced. His left arm hung limply along his body and he slouched slightly, but in his eyes still glimmered the rebellious streak she loved him for.
Ozun’s eyes narrowed when he saw the wolf’s mangled body.
“I need your powers to hunt down the owner of this beautiful red hair,” the Crimson Robe said and let the thin copper-coloured thread float down with the wind onto the yamabushi’s outstretched palm.
“The spirits of the forest yearn for revenge,” Ozun said, looking at the dead animal.
“Do they, now?” The Master looked at the hermit with interest. “Fine. Let them have it, then. But! The dragon rider must be unharmed.”
Ozun nodded.
“I need fresh blood. This is useless.”
The Master whistled at one of the grey-clads. The man came up and knelt down. Azumi turned her eyes away, knowing what was about to happen. The great nodachi blade fell and the rōnin’s head rolled on the grass. Blood splattered the dead wolf’s body.
Ozun crouched by the animal and patted it gently on the side, sighing. His fingers caressed the grey fur, now turned red. He stood up, put the conch to his lips and blew a solemn melody. At first nothing happened, but then white-and-blue will-o’-the-wisps appeared in the crowns of cedar trees. Spiralling, they descended to the ground all around the glade, in their dozens. The forest reverberated with the sound of the shell, and the wind and leaves joined in with their own morbid song. The entire wood mourned the death of the noble animal.
Wherever the wisps touched the ground, they turned into ghostly wolf shapes. Soon there was a great pack of them before the shrine, howling for vengeance. The largest one approached Ozun, who let the beast sniff the glimmering copper strand of hair. The hermit leant down and whispered something to the leader of the pack, then stamped the jingling staff twice. The wolf snarled and launched into a chase. The other spirits followed in deadly silence.
“And you are certain they will find their prey?” the Crimson Robe asked.
Ozun nodded, pale and frail after casting the spell. “Nothing escapes my yōkai.”
The Crimson Robe turned to the rest of his men who awaited further orders.
“Destroy this eyesore,” he said, pointing at the earthen mound, his eyes glinting with grisly satisfaction, “I don’t want a trace of the Ancients to remain.”
CHAPTER VIII
Captain Kiyomasa came up to the campfire and poked it with a stick.
“This fire will go out in an hour,” he said, “bring more wood.”
Two guardsmen rushed to carry out the order. He clasped his eyes with his palm in exasperation.
“No, no, no, no! Never leave your post together, how many times have I told you?”
“Apologies, Captain Kiyomasa,” the two soldiers bowed.
Kiyomasa sighed.
“You stay here — you get the firewood,” he ordered. When the younger of the watchmen disappeared into the dark cedar forest, the Captain sat down on a log and gestured to the older of the soldiers to join him.
“I know what you think. I’m too rigid. A martinet. No, don’t protest. Every night I make sure the watch is set up properly, the fires are lit, the weapons are at the ready. But you must understand, I don’t do it for my own benefit.”
He waited for a prompt, but the soldier was too overwhelmed by the presence of his superior to speak out.
“It’s because of those highborn, the samurai,” he continued, “they are not used to being in an army. You’ve seen them, a band of arrogant snobs. Each thinks himself equal to another — and they all think they’re better than me. They would never follow my orders. I can’t command them, but I can give them an example. Perhaps observing how disciplined you common footmen are will inspire them to act as warriors should.”
The soldier nodded, then opened his mouth and licked his lips.
“You may speak.”
“Forgive me, Captain… I don’t understand. What are we even doing here?”
“You know the reason. We are to escort Nariakira-dono’s daughter across these wild mountains.”
“But… thirty of Kumamoto’s finest samurai and a troop of footmen? Who would dare to even think of attacking such a force?”
“I don’t know. These matters are as over my head as yours. All I know is that I’ve got my orders and you have yours, and we must do our best not to neglect our duties.”
Kiyomasa was lying. He had received his own secret orders directly from the daimyo on the day of their departure. He was one of the two people in the entire entourage who knew about the real treasure hidden at the Kirishima Shrine.
Twice already had a messenger arrived on horseback from the castle, carrying a coded message from lord Hosokawa, and rode back with the answer. The missives exchanged did not bring him peace of mind. The daimyo was just as unsure of what to do as the Captain. Were they to charge the shrine and capture the dragon by force from Satsuma guards? But that would mean an open conflict between the two daimyo, who had until now been staunch allies and, ostentatiously, friends. Wait and observe, hoping for a solution to arrive? They did not have that much time; the princess was expected at Edo in a month and that meant she had to depart Kirishima at most within a week from now.
“He’s taking his time,” he said, nodding towards the trees.
“There’s something wrong with this forest, don’t you think, Captain? It gives me goose bumps whenever I stray too far from the camp.”
Kiyomasa nodded. The wood sprawling the steep slopes of Mount Takachiho was unlike any he had ever seen. The cedar trees grew into twisted and bent shapes instead of straight majestic pillars. Outcrops of sharp volcanic rock scattered among the wild ferns were bathed in the yellow vapours descending from the summits. No animals lived here apart from snakes and crows.
He stared into the evening mist and spat in disgust. He had never wished so badly to be back in Kumamoto.
Bran woke at dawn and looked around. The girls were still asleep, but Dōraku was sitting a few feet away, observing an azalea bush, a paper scroll on his lap and a painting brush in hand.
He yawned and walked behind the samurai to look at the paper over his shoulder. He expected to see a simple sketch, one that a pretentious warrior would draw to while away a sleepless night. The flower on paper, though marked with a few quick strokes of black ink, seemed more real, more alive than the one hanging from a twig. Again, Bran felt a twang of envy, recalling his own clumsy attempts at drawing.
Is there no limit to this man’s talents?
Dōraku finished his sketch, stretched out the scroll, looked at it and nodded with satisfaction. He left the paper to dry, pinning it to the warm ground with four pebbles.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he said, noticing Bran behind hi
m. His face was even more pale than usual, and his movements seemed slower, less energetic.
So even he can get tired.
“What do you think?” the samurai asked, nodding at the scroll.
“It’s… astonishing.” Bran couldn’t lie.
“Yes, I’m rather glad of it myself,” the samurai smiled and for the first time Bran saw him genuinely pleased about something. “You know, I once spent five years trying to capture the beauty of a peony flower.”
A peony flower…?
The samurai put the writing utensils into one of the containers hanging from his sash.
“What do you keep in all those pouches?” Bran asked.
“Ink pillow, thread and needle, tabako, yuzu sauce, shichimi spice…” the samurai recited out. “Everything a man needs on the road.”
“And the big one?”
“That’s salt.”
“Salt?”
“I guess I’m a little superstitious,” Dōraku said, chuckling quietly. “They say some kinds of demons are afraid of salt.”
“That’s a lot to carry around just because of some superstition.”
The samurai smirked.
“Some demons are bigger than others.”
Bran started rolling up the bedding. The clouds had cleared a little, and from their position near the summit of Takachiho he could see far down towards the cedar forests covering the slope, and beyond, into the valleys.
“Is that the town of Kirishima?” he asked, looking at the chequered board of fields and orchards below the forest. There was a blue ribbon of a river flowing down from the mountains to the north and, where it turned west to circumnavigate another mountain, spread a small town of grey- and blue-roofed houses.
Dōraku nodded.
Several large structures of red brick stood on a hill on the outskirts of the town, across the river. They looked out of place in this otherwise idyllic landscape; the sprawling buildings reminded Bran of sleeping monsters, spewing white smoke from their nostrils high into the sky. It had taken him a while to realise what he was looking at. The last time he had seen buildings like those was in Brigstow.
“Are these… ” Bran struggled to speak. His knowledge of Yamato failed him: there seemed to be no word for a factory in this language. “What are these?” he asked at last, pointing to the red brick buildings.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 56
