The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  “The great workshops of Satsuma, boy; the first of many. That’s a brewery, if I’m not mistaken, and that’s a steel plant. The third one wasn’t there the last time I was here.”

  “Where’s the shrine?”

  “Higher up the slope, on the edge of the forest. You can’t see it from here.”

  “I’m not sure we’ll make it there this afternoon.”

  “There’s a good road halfway down that lumberjacks use. It’s not going to be like the last two days.”

  For an instant he tensed, his eyes narrowed.

  “What is it?”

  “Wake the others. There is something… odd in the air.”

  The girls woke and, after quickly eating a small, dry breakfast of pickles and rice cakes, they moved out hurriedly, urged on by Dōraku.

  Bran kept thinking about the peony drawings. The memory lingered at the back of his mind, irritatingly. It was the same with Nagomi and her father. Another stirred recollection. If only he could stop, clear his head…

  They walked for about a mile at a hurried pace. Dōraku’s serious mood spread, and Bran was now also sensing some kind of hard to pinpoint dread. He looked to the girls — they were also silent, grim. None of them was saying anything.

  He heard a faint howl in the distance, then another. Dōraku slowed down; he looked back toward the volcanic road as if searching something along the northern horizon, his whole body rigid and alert, like a hound that had caught the scent of its prey.

  “What’s going on?” asked Satō, but the samurai gestured to them to keep quiet and continue their march towards the trees. He sniffed the air. His neck stiffened, his gaze focused at a point along the ridge. His hands wrapped around the hilts of the two swords stuck in the sash.

  “Keep walking at a normal pace,” he said sternly, “but when I say run, run into the forest. Try to get to the road, there should be people there.”

  “More bandits?” asked Bran.

  “I don’t know yet — it’s… something else. Look, there it is.”

  A grey dot appeared over the ridge, then another, and more. Soon there were dozens of them, running down the mountain in a tight pack.

  Bran reached into the satchel for his spyglass.

  “Are these… wolves?” The pack easily numbered twenty, thirty, maybe more animals. And still more were coming.

  Dōraku drew his swords in a smooth, perfect, noiseless move. The blades glittered in the sun. The swords thirsted for blood.

  “Go, now,” he said.

  “We can fight them,” opposed Satō, “it’s just some wolves. We are stronger here, near the vortex.”

  “These are not normal wolves. And they are after me, not you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Does it matter? He’s right, we need to get to that forest, it’s too dangerous here in the open,” Bran said, thrusting his spyglass into the satchel. He pulled Nagomi with him towards the trees.

  “Satō! Come, I’m sure he’ll manage.”

  “But…”

  “Run, now!” the samurai barked at the wizardess. His cold, fierce eyes demanded obedience. For a moment, Satō hesitated. But the pack now grew to a horde, a sea of grey poured over the ridge down the slope, an immeasurable, unnatural multitude of blood-thirsty animals. There couldn’t possibly have been so many of them in the entire forest. At last the wizardess started running alongside Bran and Nagomi.

  They were a few hundred yards nearer the trees when the first two of the pack reached Dōraku. His swords moved faster than a human eye could register and, with a yowl, both animals were slain. Instead of falling to the ground, however, they perished into thin air with a quiet flash. Three more wolves jumped on the samurai. He cut them down in one smooth strike. Still more came, and still more appeared over the ridge, an unending army of vengeful ghosts. Dōraku’s arms turned into a whirlwind of steel as he fought against the onslaught, but his body remained calm and still.

  “They’re coming towards us,” Bran said. A few of the ghostly attackers ran past the samurai. He tried to pick up the pace, but Nagomi could not run any faster.

  “I’m… sorry…” she started, panting, but Bran silenced her.

  “Save your energy. We’re almost there.”

  Far in the distance, on the barren mountainside, Dōraku’s outline was barely visible under the attack of countless wolves, now swarming from every direction, swamping him under the sea of grey fur.

  They ran into the shadows of the tall cedar trees, but the wolves kept on running. One of them caught the hem of Satō’s hakama in its teeth. The girl stumbled, drew her sword and cut through the animal’s body. It disappeared in the same white flash as those slain by Dōraku. The other two wolves turned away and started running alongside the runaways, safely out of range of Satō’s sword.

  “The blade works against them!”

  “If we stop now there will be too many for us to fight,” said Bran, “if we get to the road, maybe we can find help.”

  As he glanced at the wolves running beside them — two more appeared on their left, seeking to encircle their prey — he thought he noticed something else in the forest, deeper among the trees. A glimpse of… crimson? His blood froze. Are the wolves just a ruse?

  He ran out onto a wide dirt road. The wolves jumped behind them, but hesitated to attack, growling uncertainly. Bran turned around to see what made the animals stop. On the road before him stood a company of about thirty samurai, accompanied by foot soldiers, servants and porters.

  “What’s the hold-up?” a voice asked in a commanding tone. An important-looking samurai came forth to the front. He was short, stocky and round-faced.

  “Why are we not moving? I want to be in the Shrine by evening! Oh…”

  He stopped, seeing the three travellers and the wolves behind them. He frowned.

  Bran noticed the symbol embroidered on the samurai’s kimono. The same symbol had been stitched onto the soldiers’ cloaks and banners on the horses. The eight circles; the crest of lord Hosokawa of Kumamoto.

  He clenched the hilt of his sword tightly and made a step forward.

  Two young samurai and a girl wearing the travelling clothes of a priestess stood on the road; a straw hood fell from her head, revealing her hair — red like a fox’s fur…

  The wolf growled, then another came out onto the road, head low, teeth bared. More howled, hidden among the trees. Kiyomasa counted at least a dozen of the beasts. What got into them? He had never heard of the wolves behaving in such manner, not even in the harshest of winters.

  One of the boys, wearing a dark blue kimono, stepped forward, holding a long sword. There was fear and determination in his eyes.

  “I am Captain Kiyomasa Katō, son of Kiyotada, of Kumamoto castle guards,” the Captain introduced himself formally, “who are you?”

  The boy eased a little and looked back to his companions.

  “Please help us,” said the other of the youths in a high-pitched voice. “We are pilgrims on our way to Kirishima”. His vest was black and his kimono vermillion, like the pillars of a torii gate. Kiyomasa had never seen one of this colour.

  The wolves, apprehensive at first, now started moving towards the group, growling quietly. The eyes of their brethren blazed among the trees. The horses in the train started neighing in fright, as they felt the pack close in from both sides.

  His men whispered among themselves.

  “Goblins! Demons! This damned forest…”

  “Come,” he said, gesturing at the three youths to join the convoy. “I don’t think those wolves will attack thirty samurai, but even if they do, we’re sure to make short work of them,” he boasted, trying to encourage himself as well as the strangers.

  “Thank you, Captain,” the boy in the blue kimono said, bowing — though not deeply enough, Kiyomasa noted. He bore himself with the arrogance of a high-born samurai.

  Kiyomasa gave the signal to march onwards, but nothing happened.

  “What now?�
��

  “It’s the wolves, Captain,” reported the Sergeant, “they’re not moving.” The animals stood a few paces from the front of the group, growling fiercely. The soldiers lowered their halberds and the wolves’ eyes lit up with an unnatural glow. The air in the forest turned cold, the mist smelled of blood.

  The Captain, his hair standing on end, murmured a short prayer to the Goddess of War. Benzaiten-sama, give me strength in combat and valour in death. He drew his sword and marched towards the closest of the wolves. He stomped the ground in an attempt to frighten the animal, but the wolf only growled back, showing its sharp teeth.

  “Kuso!”

  Kiyomasa slashed his sword, aiming for the head. The wolf disappeared in a flash. The Captain fell on his bottom in surprise, and everyone else gasped in terror.

  “Inugami! The yōkai are back!”

  The wolves sprang from all sides in silence. Lord Hosokawa’s samurai started slashing around at random, some hid behind the horses and the wagons. The servants dropped their loads and ran away. But Kiyomasa’s soldiers stood their ground, forming a triangle of spears around him and the three travellers.

  “They may be ghosts, but they can be cut by steel,” Kiyomasa cried to his men. He noticed the two boys joining him in the fray. The girl stood in the middle of the convoy, praying. A pale aura of sanctity surrounded her, repelling the yōkai. The beasts attacked in waves, without fear or remorse. One of Kumamoto’s retainers fell down with a ghostly animal at his throat, then another. There seemed to be no end to the demonic pack; the samurai got pushed away from the footmen; the defenders were stretched dangerously thin, their line breaking. Another soldier fell down with a gurgling cry.

  Like a herd of deer, thought Kiyomasa. They will pick us off one by one. But the deer don’t fight back!

  “Form an arrowhead!” he cried an order. The soldiers obeyed instantly, setting themselves up in a tight wedge of glistening spears.

  “Charge!”

  His fear disappeared completely, replaced by the rush of exhilaration. This was no exercise! This was a real battle, the likes of which he had only dreamt of. His entire soldier’s training led up to this moment.

  He led the charge against the wolves, chasing the demons back into the forest from which they were emerging. His men cried and died, their throats, thighs and stomachs torn by the ghostly fangs, but they pushed on. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two boys fighting alongside the soldiers. They fought well.

  And then, as suddenly as they had appeared, all the wolves vanished. The forest was silent.

  The losses were grave. Five of Kumamoto’s retainers were dead, either slain by their own companions’ indiscriminate hacking, or torn apart by the wolves. Six more were too wounded to walk on their own and had to be carried on stretchers. Of the footmen, a third were either dead or incapacitated. Blood turned the sand of the road into mud.

  “I lost many good men here!” the Captain burst out, feeling his face turn hot. “I demand to know what just happened! It’s no coincidence —”

  “Captain Kiyomasa!”

  He scowled hearing the shrill voice.

  “Gensai-dono,” he said calmly, bowing before the young, fierce-faced samurai. Kawakami Gensai was one of lord Hosokawa’s most trusted men. He emerged from the battle unscathed, but Kiyomasa knew it was not because he had strayed from a fight.

  “There are wounded men awaiting your attention, Captain. I will take care of our noble guests.”

  The military convoy turned into a funeral procession as the bodies of the slain samurai were put on the wagons. The servants and soldiers were buried on the spot in the hard volcanic soil. At Master Kawakami’s request Nagomi had agreed to oversee the funeral rites.

  The samurai poured saké from his own flask into two small white cups and offered it to Bran and Satō.

  “I’ve heard stories about the yōkai of Satsuma forests, but I never imagined I’d see them with my own eyes,” he said. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly under the thin moustache and Bran realised this was Master Kawakami’s way of smiling.

  Thick, dark eyebrows accentuated a plain, strong face. His hair was tied in a tight ball-like bun, stretching the skin on his forehead in what must have caused constant irritation. A thin, badly stitched scar ran from the corner of his right eye towards the ear.

  “We were just as surprised,” said Satō.

  “Oh, I’m sure, I’m sure. But what were you doing off the main road? These mountains are not hospitable to lonely strangers, even without demons roaming about.”

  “We… got lost in the mist,” Bran said. This excuse had worked once before. The samurai narrowed his eyes and his lips twitched again.

  “I hear you’re both good with the sword,” he changed the subject. “We must spar later. You’re on your way to the Kirishima Shrine, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “This little affair set us back a few hours, but we should reach it before night. Ah, I believe the young priestess returns. That hair of hers is quite remarkable. We best be on our way, lest Captain Kiyomasa gets all irritable again.”

  The samurai’s lip twitched one last time.

  “He suspects something,” Bran said to Satō quietly.

  “Obviously. You should’ve let me speak to him.”

  “And what would you have told him?”

  “I’d certainly come up with a better explanation than being lost in the mist.”

  Nagomi joined them, wiping water off her hands.

  “Do you think Dōraku-sama…?”

  “Who knows,” said Bran, “but we must assume the worst.”

  “That’s twice he’s saved our lives,” said Satō, “we need to honour his memory.”

  Bran let his mind wander, observing the soldiers marching around him with curiosity. The only other time he had seen Yamato footmen was at the picket in Kumamoto, but Captain Kiyomasa’s men seemed much more like a real army than those shivering guardsmen. They bore a range of weapons, spears, swords, long-barrelled rifles of antiquated design, but he was most interested in their naginata glaives. They consisted of long curved, widening blades attached to wobbly bamboo poles. They looked remarkably similar to his father’s golden Soul Lance. He asked one of the soldiers to let him hold it for a while; it was well balanced and hefty. It felt good in his hands.

  Once out of the cedar forest, the road descended steeply towards the market town spread below the Kirishima Shrine, amongst a thick carpet of pink-blooming azaleas and, further down, vast tea plantations. The sky was hazy grey.

  It was the time of the harvest. The white headscarves and pointy straw hats of peasants bobbed up and down between the bushes as they filled baskets with freshly picked leaves. Bran had never seen a tea plantation up close. He wondered how the thick, moist green leaves were transformed into the hard, black brick with which he was more familiar. The Yamato cha was served either as a bright green, foamy, soup-like liquid or a yellowish-green drink, bitter and refreshing. Neither of those resembled the ‘tea’ he knew from home.

  “Milk and sugar,” he said, tracing his fingers over the young tea leaves.

  “What?”

  “We drink cha with milk and sugar,” he repeated.

  “Ugh!” Satō said. “Why would anyone do that?”

  Bran shrugged. “It’s just a custom... we like sweet things. I’ve heard that in Shambhala, in the mountains west of Qin, they eat the leaves with butter and salt. Everyone has their own way.”

  “Did you hear about the Way of Tea?” Satō asked. “I studied it, but only got as far as folding the cloth. It’s very difficult.”

  “The Way of Tea?”

  “The Cha Ceremony, a proper way to drink powdered cha.” She then started to describe a complex and highly ritualised procedure. He tried his best to feign interest, but quickly got lost in the many small rules.

  “You’ll have to teach me later, when this is all over,” he said when she finished and thought, Liar. There wil
l be no “later”.

  A group of nearby labourers in red sashes and dark blue tunics erupted into song. The first harvest must have been a joyous occasion to the entire community.

  Without the Cursed Weed money, you would have no tea for breakfast, Bran remembered his father’s words from Fan Yu. He imagined the Yamato peasants lying on the side of the road, their minds addled with laudanum, as clipper ships filled with cheap tea sailed from Kiyō harbour to Lundenburgh.

  Satō shook him by the shoulder — the road turned abruptly and he was almost about to walk straight through the tea bushes.

  “What is it?” she asked with concern. “Suddenly you’ve grown all dour.”

  “You told me once your father desired a change for Yamato… but what if the change brought only more suffering?”

  “You mean like in Qin?”

  “You know what happened in Qin?”

  “Of course! Everyone was shocked to hear of the humiliation brought upon the Emperor…”

  “It’s not the Emperor you need to worry about, but the people.”

  “How do you mean?”

  He told her briefly of his experiences in Fan Yu. She stared at him with her eyes growing wide, but when he finished, she shook her head.

  “This would never have happened here. The days of Qin’s glory are long past, but Yamato is still strong and virile. It just needs some reforms…”

  “I may know little of the situation here, but I’ve seen enough of the world outside. If the Westerners — if we come in force, do you think we will be impressed by your reforms? By your swordsmanship, by your calligraphy, by your cha ceremonies?”

  “If your people do come in force, we will fight them and remove them from our lands — or die trying,” she said with defiance, her hand inadvertently reaching for the sword.

  “Then you will die trying,” he replied unhappily.

  CHAPTER IX

  Ardian ab Ifor was sitting at his desk in the cabin on the first deck, buried in some papers. Samuel tried to discuss with him Bran’s upcoming birthday, but the Ardian paid him no attention, mumbling something in response.