The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  They ordered young Motoda to stay with the increasingly uneasy porters and either wait until nightfall or follow if they could find another way. Then, one by one, they sneaked through an opening among two large boulders. Once past this obstacle, the path wound onwards, into an even more inhospitable land. There were no birds here bar a few carrion crows observing them curiously from the tops of the lava outcrops. The rock formations took on more fantastic shapes; sharp, jagged pillars and arches of black stone. Still they could see no trace of any place where the missing Rangaku scholar could be held captive.

  The mountain top was within their sight and Master Tanaka was beginning to lose hope. What if Shūhan had only been carried through this dire place when he had sent his signal? He could be somewhere entirely different by now...

  Just then, Etō discreetly tapped him on the shoulder.

  “We are being followed,” the samurai whispered.

  “Are you sure?”

  Etō looked offended for a brief moment, then nodded. “Let us hide around that next corner and wait,” he said.

  They referred the matter to Yokoi and all three hid behind a massive pillar of volcanic rubble. Etō drew his sword noiselessly and raised it above his head.

  “Careful. It might not be an enemy,” cautioned Hisashige, wary of his divinations.

  A man walked slowly and carefully from around the pillar, holding one hand to his head with pained expression. Etō waited until they were certain the stranger was alone and then leapt out from the shadow, blade aimed at the man’s chest.

  “Halt! Who are you and why are you trailing us?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  His hand reached for the handle of his truncheon but the fierce-looking samurai twitched the blade threateningly. Koyata tensed. He ran out of the brown powder some time ago and his head was beginning to thump again, though noticeably weaker than before.

  “You could, but there’s three of us and one of you,” the samurai said coldly. “Besides, it’s you who had been following us since Shimabara.”

  “I’m not following anyone. You are merely going in the same direction as me — it seems.”

  He could not decide whether they were friends or foes. They may have been allied with whoever was keeping Takashima captive, but one of the samurai wore the triple-scales of Hōjō and the other two bore the bamboo-shoots of Saga, the protectors of Kiyō. These were good credentials.

  “I am following the red pattern,” he said. “Perhaps you could explain to me what it is.”

  The oldest of the three stepped forward with an astonished expression. His head and beard were grey, almost silver, and his eyes were wise and well-meaning.

  “You’re a wizard?”

  “I am doshin Koyata of the Kiyō town guards,” he bowed low, “and although I know many Rangaku scholars, I am not one myself.”

  The grey-haired man whispered something to the other two. The one who bore the Hōjō markings nodded in agreement, but the other one remained unconvinced. At last he, too, lowered his sword.

  “The pattern you seek is a beacon of help,” explained Master Tanaka after they finished their introductions. “Sent by a friend of ours. Though why or how it reached you all the way in Kiyō, I cannot tell.”

  Koyata decided not to share with them the details of his investigation into the mystery of the Takashima mansion. He trusted them, but not much.

  “Have you found the gorge of jagged stones yet?” he asked. They looked at him blankly.

  “The black watchtower then?”

  “We don’t know what you mean,” said Master Tanaka. “I was guiding us using divinations and geomancy.”

  “In fact, we were at a loss as to our direction,” added Master Yokoi, “the path doesn’t seem to go any farther.”

  Koyata looked around. The landscape was familiar; he had seen it before, flashing in his mind. He ran up to the next bend in the road and looked down.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing to a cluster of boulders with a lonely crippled pine struggling to take root in the cracks of the lava. “Follow me.”

  Past the boulders was a narrow gully which soon grew to the valley of jagged stones he had seen in his visions. He bade them crouch down and they made their way carefully between the rocks.

  The lowest part of the gorge was green, overgrown with lichen and moss and a few gnarly trees. Water trickled from some spring in the mountainside, yellow and smelly. Beyond the spring rose a high tower of black stone, a square base with tapering walls supporting the slender second floor, reachable only by a ladder. The third level, rising above the edge of the gully, was built of cedar beams, once golden but now darkened with soot and smoke, underneath a triangular roof of black tiles.

  Two spearmen in familiar grey uniforms guarded the entrance. A few more patrolled the valley, while a group of men and women worked behind the watchtower tending what looked like a very poor vegetable patch. There was one more building at the very end of the gorge — a living quarters for the guards and servants, guessed Koyata.

  “The servants are here, but the master is away,” said Master Tanaka, consulting his geomantic compass. “Can you smell the stench of blood?”

  “I can smell nothing but brimstone,” said Master Yokoi, shaking his head.

  “It’s faint, but it’s there,” agreed Koyata. “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. Evil things. But the needle is steady and I detect no more magic in this place than is present in an average Rangaku abode.”

  “Perhaps Takashima-sama is no longer here,” said Master Yokoi.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” said Koyata, drawing his short kodachi sword. He noticed the silent samurai, Etō, do the same with his weapon.

  “There must be at least eight swordsmen in this valley,” said Master Yokoi, “are you sure it’s wise to just charge them like that? I mean, I can aid you with my blade but Tanaka-sensei here is, if you’ll excuse me, past his prime…”

  Master Tanaka’s eyes glinted. “I would not insist on coming here if I thought I’d be a burden, Yokoi-dono.”

  “I did not mean…”

  “Observe.”

  The mechanician took the lacquer sheath hanging by his belt and instead of drawing a sword he unscrewed the hilt and pulled out a short iron rod with copper wire coiled around it.

  “Teppō!” gasped Master Yokoi.

  “A Bataavian thunder gun,” said Koyata studying the weapon. “I’ve read about them but never seen one. Are you a good shooter?”

  “Good enough. But I reckon I can only charge this toy enough for one shot before the fight is over.”

  “Then make it count. I suggest the commander of that patrol on the right. He seems to me the toughest of the bunch.”

  They huddled behind a wall of piled rocks, waiting for the three-man patrol to come within range. Master Tanaka turned a gear on his gun and the copper coil lit up red. He aimed it carefully and pulled the trigger. The recoil almost threw the weapon from his hand, but the lightning hit the grey-clad swordsman straight in the chest, killing him instantly. Forking bolts grazed the other two men, throwing them into a daze.

  Koyata and Etō leapt over the rocks and struck the other two rōnin down before they managed to recover from the stun. The doshin noticed that Master Yokoi stood back, only feigning a fight. Two against six, he counted quickly, and they’re not bad with swords, I bet. What was I thinking?

  Three more swordsmen ran up to them from the other side of the gorge. Koyata drew his jutte truncheon, trapped an enemy’s sword in the hook protruding from the handle and pushed forward, tripping the grey-clad man’s left leg. The swordsman fell down and never got up, a kodachi blade firmly embedded in his chest.

  This felt nice. This was just like in the old days, fighting the smugglers and the bandits on the streets of Kiyō harbour. Koyata looked up — Etō fought two men at once, with three more running towards them. Spears. Kuso. Doshin’s short weapons were no match aga
inst the pole arms. He turned to Master Yokoi, still waving the sword harmlessly at the back.

  “Be useful!”

  He grabbed the samurai by the sleeve and swung him around. Master Yokoi fell forwards, bumping into one of the grey uniforms. Etō did not waste the opportunity; one of his opponents was dead within seconds. Koyata finished the other one with a truncheon blow to the head.

  “You fight well for a town guard,” the samurai spoke, catching a quick breath.

  “But now I’m afraid we’ve met our match,” Koyata said, nodding towards the spearmen. Etō prepared himself, but his grim face twitched, betraying nervousness.

  A sudden thunder echoed throughout the valley and one of the spearmen fell on his face with a cry. The other two halted and turned, looking for the owner of the gun. Etō yelled and jumped at the closest of them; Koyata followed, although he could only hope to distract his opponent. He dodged too late, tripped on a stone and the spearman thrust and pierced his side, almost pinning him to the rock. Koyata grabbed the shaft and struggled with the rōnin, disregarding the pain.

  A sword struck the bamboo shaft, splintering it in two. The spearman stumbled, losing his balance, falling straight onto the blade. Koyata rolled aside, letting the rōnin drop to the ground before finishing him off with the short sword.

  “You’re hurt!” Master Yokoi helped him up. The doshin knelt on one knee, breathing hard, holding his bleeding side. As far as he could tell, his vital organs were still intact. All the enemies were dead. Etō was also bleeding from a cut, though not a severe one. Master Tanaka climbed out of his hiding place among the rocks, where he had crept during the fight, and helped to bandage the doshin’s wound with a strap of cloth. Yokoi’s nostrils were wider than ever, as were his eyes. His sword was bloodied. Koyata realised it was this blade that shattered the spear.

  “Thank you, tono. And apologies for earlier. I was unspeakably rude.”

  “No, no, that’s quite understandable. We were all fighting for life. But now we must hurry into the tower. I’m afraid the ladder…”

  “It’s fine. I’ll keep watch.”

  The men and women tending to the garden had already disappeared into some nooks and crannies of the mountainside. The way to the tower lay open. Etō and Master Tanaka climbed the ladder first, followed by the ever cautious Master Yokoi.

  More sounds of battle came from inside the tower, followed by another thunder clap from Master Tanaka’s gun. Soon the door opened from inside and Master Tanaka appeared carrying a bloodied, battered body. Master Yokoi climbed the ladder behind him, with another man in his arms. Last came Etō; his sword was broken and his right arm hung limply along his side. When the silent samurai reached the ground he staggered and fell to his knees.

  “What now?” the doshin asked wearily. The make-shift bandage around his stomach was soaked through; he was badly in need of a doctor or a priest. “We’ll never drag them back to the path. I’m struggling to stay up as it is.”

  “We won’t have to,” said Master Tanaka smiling. He pointed to the ridge of the valley where the young Motoda stood waving and shouting.

  “It was madness,” the doshin said, laughing quietly and wincing as the wound in his side twitched. The old priest taking care of the local shrine had barely enough power to stem the internal bleeding. “I would never have dreamed of charging a fortress like that with just four men.”

  “All my divinations confirmed my endeavour would succeed, but even I did not believe them in the end,” said Master Tanaka, shaking his head.

  They were sitting in the common room of the headman’s house near the foot of the mountain. The porters managed to carry them down only to the first village; there the injured had to rest, waiting for the more skilled healers to arrive from Shimabara.

  With Etō out cold in the headman’s bedroom alongside the men they had brought from the watchtower, there were now just three of them left to decide the next important matter: what to do with the freed captives.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Master Tanaka when Master Yokoi raised the question.

  “Surely each of us had his reasons for coming here. Who of us will take the scholar back home with them?”

  “Naomasa-dono has already prepared a house in which Takashima-sama will rest far from prying eyes,” replied Master Tanaka.

  “He could do the same in one of my Kumamoto villas,” said the other man, “What about you, doshin? What were your orders?”

  “I have no orders, tono — I told you, I came here of my own accord. The Magistrate officially announced the scholar dead. But if they ever found out he was alive and I helped him escape…”

  “Do you have any family in Kiyō?” Master Tanaka asked.

  “I don’t — but I don’t see what that’s got to do — “

  “My master’s domain may be small, but Naomasa-dono has many connections in high places. He would gladly arrange a position for you somewhere else. A better position, in a more prestigious city.”

  Koyata noticed Master Yokoi’s nostrils flare like two mountain caves. He’s started bargaining already. There’s three of us and my vote decides. What can you offer, Hōjō clansman?

  He knew Master Tanaka’s proposition was hard to beat. Hosokawa may have been a powerful daimyo here in the south, but he was one of the outer lords, with no access to the Taikun’s court. The lords of Saga, on the other hand, were welcomed even to the Mikado’s palace.

  “The treasury of Kumamoto would be at your disposal,” Hosokawa’s retainer said uneasily.

  A bribe, then. Not bad, but not good enough, either. Why was that injured scholar so important, anyway?

  “I will have to think about it,” Koyata said at last, standing up from the low table and bowing. “The wounded can’t be moved until the priests arrive, so we’re not in a hurry.”

  “Of course,” both old men agreed eagerly.

  “Oh, and what do you want me to do with the interpreter?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “The other prisoner.”

  Master Yokoi shrugged. “We didn’t even know he was there, did we, Tanaka-sama? Is he of any interest to you?”

  “I have a few questions to ask when he wakes.”

  Master Yokoi waved his hand. “Do whatever you wish.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  As the evening turned into night, the guards began to grow bored and restless.

  In the north-western corner of the inner compound, a dirt path led through a small, simple gate deep into the forest. Once, it must have been built for transporting lumber for construction and repairs straight from the woods, but nowadays it was mostly used by those of the priests who went into the forest to gather herbs and mushrooms.

  Apart from the gate leading towards the main courtyard, this was the only way in. Captain Kiyomasa, aware of the strategic value of this point, made sure to put a strong watch around it. Two of Hosokawa’s retainers agreed to stand at the gate alongside several of Kiyomasa’s own spearmen.

  “Damn this fog,” said the younger of the two, almost a boy, wearing striped hakama and blue kimono, “have you ever seen anything like it? It appeared so quickly, almost as if conjured.”

  “Hold your tongue,” the other samurai reprimanded sharply, “you’ll bring us bad luck with your superstitious talk. We should be glad the fog is here, nobody will attack in this kind of weather.”

  “Do you really think somebody would want to assault this shrine?”

  “The Captain seems to think so, and that should be good enough. He’s getting his orders directly from Hosokawa-dono, so we can’t argue.”

  The younger guard scoffed.

  “That upstart. I don’t see why — ”

  “He’s a good soldier. And he comes from a great family.”

  “A distant, impoverished offshoot. Thinks too much of himself, if you ask me.”

  “Good thing nobody asks you, then.”

  The younger samurai scowled and paced around the brazier to ke
ep himself warm.

  “There’s nothing worth taking here,” he said.

  “I’m not so sure. Have you seen that great storehouse in the middle? There’s three of our own posted in front of it and those mages keep coming in and out. I think there’s some kind of barbarian weapon inside. You know what they say about those Satsuma folks.”

  The other retainer nodded. There was no need to add anything more, the Shimazu clan were well known in the South for their illicit contacts with the Westerners and it only made sense that there was some kind of device or magical treasure stored in the shrine that had something to do with the barbarians.

  “I wonder how long we are supposed to endure this schedule,” he said. “Night is for sleeping, not for standing outside in the fog.”

  “It shouldn’t be more than a day or two; I think we’re supposed to get some reinforcements from Kagoshima.”

  The guard in the striped hakama raised his eyebrows.

  “Shimazu samurai are coming here? That should be interesting.”

  “I hope they will bring something to drink. This place is supposed to be famous for booze, but I haven’t seen so much as a flask of saké since we’ve been stationed here!”

  “What do you expect, it’s a shrine. The only saké they have is the one on the sacrificial altar.”

  “Too bad Gensai-sama has gone with the princess. He always had something to wet one’s lips.”

  The older guard started to laugh along with his companion, but the laughter died in his throat.

  “Hark! Did you hear that?”

  There was a strange, gurgling noise on the other side of the gate, where two of Kiyomasa’s footmen stood guard. The old samurai stood up, grasping the hilt of his sword in anticipation.

  “Everything all right over there?” he shouted. There was no response.

  “Should we raise the alarm?” asked the other.

  “Not until we know what’s going on. You, man, go and see what’s going on the other side.”

  Kiyomasa’s spearmen, as ordered, opened a small wicket in the gate and peeped outside. A cry of terror froze in his throat.

  In an instant, the gate burst open with a terrible force, showering the two samurai with shards and splinters of wood. Retainers drew their swords, ready for a fight. The soldiers stood alongside them, except one, who started running towards the alarm gong. The runaway was the first to die, slain by a dart thrown by an invisible enemy from within the mist.