“Who’s there? Show yourself!” the older samurai cried, but there was nothing in front of them, only the milky white wall of the fog. A great spear blade cut through the air with a metallic whistle and one of the soldiers fell down without a sound, slashed almost in two. The blade struck again, but this time it clanged against the retainer’s sword.
“Not so good against a real swordsman, eh?” the samurai boasted. “Come out and fight like a man, coward!”
A blood-curdling cackle rang out and the owner of the halberd moved into the light. It was no man, but a dark human-shaped shadow, hovering one foot above ground. It held the spear in its long, thin arms with confidence. Its head had no face, just a blank surface, but even without a mouth, it laughed.
The other retainer froze in panic and dropped his sword to the ground. The demon moved towards him in a flash and slashed his torso in two, then turned against the first one. The old samurai managed to parry another blow of the great spear, but he felt his shoulders stiffen with unearthly cold. This is no match for a mortal man, he thought briefly.
“Fall back to the storehouse!” he cried to the remaining soldiers. “Alert the priests!”
Before he could add anything more, the spear’s blade pierced his chest. He slashed his sword at the ghostly shadow, but it went through the enemy as if through thin air.
With dying eyes, he saw the shadow move further into the mist and darkness in search of other prey. A human appeared in the gate, barely visible in his black yamabushi robes. He was leading two pairs of oxen by the reins. The animals were pulling a large, four-wheeled cart with a flat platform. The hermit looked down at the dying samurai with pity, then whistled. Immediately, six samurai appeared around him, dressed in identical grey uniforms.
The three guards posted at the storehouse huddled around a flaming tripod brazier. The day was warm but as night fell and the evening fog rose from the dewed grass, it got cold.
“I wanted to see today’s kagura,” complained one of the samurai, sporting a large moustache in the fashion popular in the southern islands. It made him look older and more distinguished from the other two.
“Worthless rural circus tricks,” scoffed another, shortest of the three, but wearing the most elaborate armour, old style, inherited from some belligerent ancestors. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing like the Hakata theatre. These peasants don’t know proper entertainment; it’s just illusions and smoke for them.”
“It would still be better than sitting here in this fog,” replied the first one and sneezed, “only shinobi enjoy nights like this.”
“There’s no such thing as the shinobi anymore. The Taikun made sure of it.”
Azumi scowled under her hood and clenched her fists. She was sitting a few yards away from the brazier, and had been observing the outpost for the last couple of hours, waiting for the signal to strike. They did not see her, of course; the tengu’s invisibility cloak was flawless.
“I know that! It’s just a turn of phrase,” the guard sneezed again.
“Here, have some of this,” the third guard reached out to the first one with a gourd, “it’s local, powerful stuff.”
“Aaah, excellent! Kanpai!” the moustachioed samurai raised the gourd straight to his lips and took a great swig. “Enough!” laughed the owner of the gourd, “leave some for us.”
“That hit the spot. Those Satsuma folk sure know how to brew!”
“Wait, did you hear that?” the armoured guard stood up, listening to something in the distance.
“I can’t hear anything but the music and clapping from the stage.”
It’s enough that I heard it.
“It sounded like a cry coming from the lumber gate.”
“Well, it’s about time those lazy oafs announced their position. We should too, come to think of it,” the moustachioed guard rose and cried out, “All clear at the store — !”
He didn’t finish. A throwing dagger stuck into his throat. The other two jumped to their feet, swords drawn. “Attack! We’re under attack!” cried the short samurai, slashing wildly into the air in front of him, searching for the shadowy attacker. Azumi observed this with slight bemusement, standing just a few feet away. This is too easy.
“Strike the gong!” the armoured guard cried. The other samurai leapt towards the alarm bell but before he could reach it, three sharp, small missiles whistled through the air and embedded themselves in his neck. Gurgling, he fell on his back. The remaining guard’s eyes widened in fright as he recognized the star-shaped missiles for what they were.
“It’s impossible… you have been vanquished! The Taikun had you all killed!”
“Not all of us,” said Azumi, casting the hood of the tengu’s cloak enough to reveal only her cold eyes. They were the last thing the guard saw before the swift sickle blade on a long iron chain bypassed his parry and slashed through his trachea. His spinal cord severed, he died in an instant.
The lid creaked open. Inside the plain lacquer box lay three slim vials of crystal glass, enclosed with porcelain stoppers. The contents of one was brown and murky, the other grass-yellow, like weak sencha. The third liquid was clear, transparent.
Brown was for sleep. Yellow was for waking. Clear was for death and glory.
Sugimoto took a gulp from the yellow vial. It was his time to join his brothers in the storehouse. The liquid itself was cool and bitter, but soon the familiar warmth and sweetness spread throughout his body. He felt his veins swell — this was the most unpleasant effect of taking the extract of the maō plant. This and the cramps that started wandering from his calf muscles to the shoulders. He shook his head and opened his eyes wide. He felt refreshed and fully wakened.
The earth wizard opened the door of the long, one-story building in which they had been settled and stepped outside, into the fog. Everything seemed bright and crisp. He knew the effects of the extract would soon subside and then he would have to take another sip to be able to stand through the night. And then another. The intervals between sips had been decreasing in an alarming manner.
His task was dull and dangerous, but he took pride in it. Master Heishichi had chosen Sugimoto and five other wizards from among many dozens. He deemed them most trustworthy, most reliable, and most skilled. Trained at the best of schools, by the best of teachers. Entrusted with the protection of Satsuma’s greatest secret.
He stumbled over something in the mist. He looked down and saw, at his feet, the body of a dead samurai with a long, needle-thin blade sticking out of the neck.
“Look, there’s somebody still alive!” the wizardess cried and, ignoring Bran’s plea for caution, darted across the small courtyard in front of the warehouse towards a lonely figure, leaning its back against the pillar. The man raised his sword against them with a shaking hand.
“The pilgrims from the forest?”
“Captain Kiyomasa!”
“What are you doing here?”
Bran passed him by and ran up the short stair, through the burst open gate into the storehouse.
“It’s gone,” he cried from inside. “There’re more bodies here.”
He ran back out.
“You’re too late,” Kiyomasa said and started coughing.
“What happened?” Bran asked, looking at the five dead bodies.
“What does it look like? We were attacked by all sorts of enemies. Shinobi, ghosts, rōnin, you name it. The wizards came to help us and they’re now fighting at the gate,” the Captain said, pointing towards the fighting. The mist in the direction of the gate flashed with explosions and thunderclaps like clouds during a storm.
“Have you seen a man dressed in a crimson robe?”
“That I have not,” the Captain replied and winced as blood spurted from the wound in his side. Nagomi knelt to examine it, but Bran stopped her.
“We don’t have time for this, he’ll be fine.”
“I’m no use in a fight anyway,” the priestess protested, shaking his hand off her shoulder. “Go on
, I’ll join you soon.”
He hesitated for a moment, uncertain what to do. Satō made the decision for him.
“Come on, they’re getting away!” she cried and pulled him into the mist.
The wheels of the oxcart squeaked away in the distance, accompanied by the shuffling of four pairs of hooves. The mist muffled the sounds.
“Wait,” the Daisen commanded, stopping his students from pursuing the attackers. “Let Kiyomasa’s men bleed them out first. We must act smart if we are to avenge our brothers.”
Only Sugimoto and two others remained from the onslaught. Three mages lay dead inside the storehouse; the corpses made for a gruesome sight. They had no chance to defend themselves. The sudden assault disrupted the spell patterns and the backlash of magical energies destroyed their bodies even before the blades of the assassins reached them. That one of the grey-uniformed rōnin had also been caught in the torrent and torn apart was little consolation.
“Spread out,” said the Daisen. “Ishida, go right, along the wall. Try to find out how they manage to control that damned dorako on their own.” Somehow the enemy had succeeded in safely transporting the beast onto an oxcart. “Takano, help those soldiers out before they make a mess of themselves.”
As the other two disappeared into the mist, the Daisen looked at Sugimoto and said:
“Stop that oxcart. At any cost.”
The dense fog was no trouble for him; on the contrary — he could see the enemy without being seen himself. Sugimoto was adept at using the True Sight, a secret technique he had learned directly from a Bataavian tutor at Nansei. From a safe distance he was able to assess the situation and choose the best course of action undisturbed.
His attuned element was Earth. A rare, unpopular element, not as spectacular as Fire or Air. He could not bring down lightning or summon walls of flame like his brothers; but he felt comfortable and calm manipulating the slow, steady rhythms of the rock and sand, safe in the knowledge that, when the time came for action, he could be just as effective as the other wizards.
He knelt down on one knee and touched the ground with both hands, sensing the miniature ley lines like mole-tracks in the moist soil. He whispered the spell word and tugged at one of the invisible strings.
A ripple passed under the dirt like a giant earthworm and headed straight towards the oxcart surrounded by enemy soldiers. Several men fell down as the ground quaked beneath their feet. The wheels of the cart buckled and one of them snapped.
The earth so close to the magical nexus was pliable, yielding. With little effort the wizard turned the flow of the ripple against the bullocks pulling the cart. The animals lowed in panic as the earth beneath them started trembling and cracking. The man leading the oxen, a yamabushi in black robes, stopped and looked around, searching for the unseen enemy but Sugimoto was safely hidden in the thick, impenetrable mist.
The wizard was so concentrated on the task that he only noticed the shadowy demon behind him at the last moment. He turned around quickly to face the new danger. The spear’s blade, aimed at his back, pierced the chest.
But Sugimoto was not one to go down easily. His dying hands grabbed the spear’s pole. The grey shadow tried to wrestle it from the wizard, but his grip was strong. With freezing hands, he reached inside his sleeve and took out the third of the crystal vials. Pouring its contents down his throat, he felt a sudden surge of power. He knew the energies released would destroy him just like the mages in the storehouse, but it was too late to worry about it. With the last breath, with the last surge of power, Sugimoto cried the words of the most dreadful of his spells; the Earth Tomb.
“Aardse Nor!”
The earth opened beneath his feet and swallowed the wizard, the spear and the bewildered yōkai.
A jolt went through Ozun’s body, and the yamabushi dropped to his knees, supporting himself on the staff. Azumi appeared at his side promptly, helping him up.
“What is it?”
“I lost the yōkai — the one from Honmyōji.”
“Lost? How?”
“I don’t know, but … it cost me dearly.”
“Do you need help?”
“No.” Ozun shook his head and wiped the trickle of blood from his nose. “Get back to the others. They need you now more than I do. I sense more danger coming.”
She nodded and slipped back to the rear of the convoy.
He pulled on the reins strongly, forcing the oxen to press on. The animals lowed in protest, the broken wheel snapped away and the axle ground in the mud, but the cart moved slowly on. There was yet hope. The cart was their passage to freedom. The load had to be delivered to the Master; only then would he set them free from his service.
The ground around the cart was scorched, cratered and scarred with fire and lightning. The few remaining rōnin and Nanseians — masters of unarmed combat recruited from the southern islands — huddled behind a kekkai shield, helpless. The enemy wizards, out of range of any counterattack, were launching missile after missile against the weakening barrier.
“What happened to your other men?” Azumi asked the commander of the grey-shirts, a bulbous-eyed youth with big ears and a gloomy face. There should have been at least a dozen of his rōnin in the troop but she could see only half that number.
“We were ambushed by a bunch of samurai while you were flirting with your lover-boy,” he snapped. “At least we got all of them.”
“That shield won’t hold for much longer,” she said.
“You think I don’t know that?” He ducked as another missile exploded a mere foot ahead of them.
“There’s another wizard hiding in the fog; much more powerful than those two,” explained one of the Nanseians. His bald head was covered with sweat and burn marks. “He keeps us in check whenever we try anything.”
“Why don’t you make yourself useful, kunoichi, and do something about it,” said the grim-faced rōnin.
“Useless brawlers,” she scoffed. She wrapped herself in the cloak of black feathers and disappeared into the shadows and fog.
From behind, the enemy wizard in glasses seemed almost unassuming. Thin, long-limbed, awkward in movements, a weakling by any measure. While Azumi approached him under cover of her magical garment, he performed a series of strange dance-like movements, waving arms in wide curves that left fiery traces in the air; a powerful incantation that even she, otherwise blind to magic, could sense through her quivering skin.
“Behind you!” a voice shouted a warning. The wizard turned around, losing focus; his incantation fizzled out in a noiseless flash.
Who dares?
Nobody should have spotted her. The black feather cloak was a powerful artefact — the old tengu fought long and hard defending it. Who could have peered through its magic?
She glanced to the side. Two youths ran, without stopping, towards the oxcart. One in Rangakusha clothes, paid her no attention. The other, in an indigo kimono, looked straight at her with a puzzled expression as he ran past. She recognized them in an instant.
Them! Here?
Was the red-haired girl somewhere here as well? She quickly shook off her surprise and started after them, forgetting all about the wizard.
He, however, would not let her go so easily.
“Show yourself, filth,” the wizard cried and whirled his hands in half-circle, igniting the very air before him.
Her feather cloak caught fire.
CHAPTER XVII
The priestess tied the bandage and rose from her knees. Her hands felt warm on his cuts; blue light spread from her fingers and where she touched, the wounds closed.
“We need to help them,” the girl said, ready to run after her friends.
“No, child,” he said shaking his head. “Heishichi-sama’s wizards will hold out, and if they don’t, we won’t help them. But we can get help. Come with me.”
He led her away from the battle, towards the outer court. As they got closer, the lights grew brighter and the cheerful din of crowds grew louder.
The pilgrims were oblivious to the massacre in the inner compound and the Captain could almost forget about the fighting himself. The kagura dance entered its most frantic, loud and magical phase, the tale of Mikado Jimmu’s battles with the Long-legged Man.
“Gather as many priests as you can,” the Captain shouted over the noise, “and meet me back here. But don’t take long.”
“They… they may not hear me out,” said the priestess.
“Tell them I sent you. Tell them it’s about the Treasure.”
The priestess nodded and her red hair disappeared into the crowd. Kiyōmasa himself ran to the Offertory Hall, where he was hoping to find the head priest and his retinue. If his suspicions were right, they would need all the holy hands they could find.
Near the gate the fog thinned out and Satō could see everything more clearly. It was a regular battle; the Rangakusha wizards, led by the lanky man in glasses, and Captain Kiyomasa’s soldiers, strove against a few rōnin swordsmen in grey uniforms. There was a mage also among the enemies, some onmyōji who cast protective spells from behind, but she could not see him very well in the fog.
An oxcart was stuck in the middle of the lumber gate, one of its wheels shattered. The bullocks whined, trying to pull the broken wagon across the muddy road. On the cart’s platform lay a large box-shaped container covered with a black cloth. The cargo was guarded only by two rōnin.
“Do you see the Crimson Robe anywhere?” asked Bran.
Satō shook her head.
“This is still sacred ground. He must be hiding somewhere outside.”
“Can you take care of those two swordsmen?”
“Easily.” She could feel the energies of the nexus surging through her. It made her dizzy and exhilarated at the same time. Even the headache disappeared. “Leave them to me.”
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 68
