I could sink it in moments, he thought. It should be in a museum!
A hatch on the bow opened and the multi-barrelled mouth of a rocket-launcher spat missiles after Afreolus. Dylan pulled on the upper reins, turning the dragon on its back in a half-roll. The beast spewed flame, scorching the first wave of the rockets. But one got through; it exploded underneath the dragon’s right wing in a hail of sparks and shrapnel. The tarian held, but the noise and flash angered and frightened the beast. For a second, Dylan lost the link with his mount altogether.
It’s over, he thought in sudden desperation. I was wrong. Its mind is gone.
“Dylan, we need to land!”
“I’m trying!”
It’s on the brink of going feral! How in Annwn did I miss that earlier?
Struggling to retain control over the dragon, Dylan dived for the poop deck, the only surface wide enough for a landing. Just as the dragon’s claws were about to touch the deck, another, stray rocket burst above his head. The dragon landed with a huge crash, rolled on its side and, losing its grip on the boards, slid down onto the quarterdeck with a terrible crackle; it broke through the rigging and smashed against the mizzen-mast, snapping it in two with the force of the massive impact. With a deafening creek, the mast slowly fell, covering Dylan, Gwen, the dragon and some of the Bataavian crew with the heavy shroud of white canvas sails.
Dylan felt the dreaded snap in his mind, and then the all-too-familiar emptiness. The beast growled and threw both riders off in a spasm of fury, tearing its way out through the sail, helping itself with bursts of dragonflame. Dylan dodged the splinters of timber flying all over the place; a stray tongue of flame reached the main mast, and the course sail caught fire. Some of the Bataavian sailors tried to stop the beast with their thunder guns, but that only made it more angry and frightened.
Dylan finally found his way out from under the fallen mast. He saw Gwen standing against the gunwale, defending herself with the Soul Lance and shield from several panicked Bataavians. She was staggering. A long gash ran down her left leg. The sailors’ efforts to subdue her were half-hearted; they were more concerned with the dragon wrecking the ship behind their backs.
He focused and sent a command through the Farlink; then another, stronger. A wave of anger was the only response. The beast was too far gone. It attacked a man now, ripping him in two with its claws and biting the other through with the mighty jaw. Blood and guts spilled on the deck.
It’s too late.
Dylan closed his eyes and focused again. His lips moved noiselessly as he pronounced the Kill Word.
Afreolus raised its head and screamed an ear-splitting, devastating yell; it buckled in spasms, tearing the planking apart with its claws. It coughed, spitting several great balls of flame, which ignited everything in its path. It beat its wings and jumped, trying to fly away. Its death throes rolled the ship from side to side, and the beast started sliding off the bloodied deck. In a last effort, it held on to the gunwale with teeth and claw. The ship listed dangerously, and for a moment it seemed the dragon would pull it down to the bottom of the sea with it. At last, the wooden planks snapped away and Afreolus fell, splashing, into the water.
Dylan fell to his knees; the backlash of the dragon’s death made him briefly deaf and blind, leaving what he knew would be a great mental scar — another one to add to the many. He wiped a nose-bleed and as the sight slowly returned to him, looked up.
He was staring straight into four barrels of a repeating air gun.
“What are we going to do about them, Kapitein?” a sailor, holding Dylan at gunpoint, asked a tall, red-haired, long-faced man in a black-and-orange uniform.
“We can’t risk any more delay,” the Captain replied. “Throw them overboard.”
Dylan smirked. He was standing against the shattered bulwark next to Gwenlian, with his hands on the back of his head. He glanced at the planks and noticed something curious: from under the wooden boarding torn off by Afreolus military-grade steel showed through.
This is an ironclad, after all!
“What are you laughing about,” the sailor barked, pushing the barrel closer.
“I’ve survived worse,” said Dylan.
“You speak Bataavian?”
“I’ve spent two years at Bretten, Captain… Fabius, isn’t it? I remember you commanding a rather more… contemporary vessel.”
The Captain frowned.
“Who are you?”
“I am Commodore Dylan ab Ifor of the Royal Marines. I need to get to Yamato.”
“Commodore? Dracaland is at peace with Bataave! Why did you attack us?”
“I’m not here on behalf of my country. All the damage was unintended, and I will recompense you as soon as we reach a friendly shore.”
“I have men dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you here, Commodore?”
“I’m looking for my son.”
Captain Fabius gave Dylan a long, curious look, then waved his hand at the sailor with the gun.
“Lock them down. I want to hear this story.”
Before Dylan opened his mouth, a cry came from the quarterdeck, where the Soembing’s crew was busy putting down fires started by the dying Afreolus.
“Kapitein! Andere draak!”
The Captain looked up; the Commodore and the Reeve did the same. High above the Soembing’s two remaining masts, beyond the range of any of the ship’s cannons, circled a great Qin dragon, gleaming golden in the sun.
“Friends of yours?” Fabius asked.
“No,” said Dylan, “but I think I know who it is. I would advise you let this one land.”
CHAPTER 11
Shakushain breathed in the crisp, sulphuric air and gazed down from the summit of the volcanic cone. The peak of the fire mountain rose tall from the bottom of a vast, bowl-shaped valley, the rim of which loomed in a vertical cliff on the horizon. Several craters spewed yellow smoke and grey ash all over the rough slope. The raw, savage landscape reminded Shakushain of his homeland, far in the freezing North.
“This is a good place, demon!” he cried. The Crimson Robe turned around with a grin.
“Glad you like it.”
“Are you sure it will come here?”
“Sooner or later. This is where all of Chinzei’s magic is centred. And a beast like that will follow the lines of magic, unbeknownst to itself. When will your trap be ready?”
“Soon, demon. Soon.”
He picked up a couple of wooden stakes from a pile and proceeded to insert them into holes dug in the living, steaming rock. He had spent two days preparing the stakes — shaving the wood of the young alder tree; carving the magic patterns; summoning the kamuy spirits to inhabit each and every one of the pieces of wood. This was going to be the greatest sacred enclosure the world had seen. Only fitting for the greatest prey ever caught.
He reached the seventh slot when a quarrel caught his ear. He saw three of the Crimson Robe’s men — the grey-clad rōnin — standing over his dark-skinned companion, mocking him and laughing at the orders the small man tried to give them in his strained, guttural accent.
Shakushain threw the stakes to the ground and in few quick strides approached the laughing men. Without warning, he punched the nearer one in the face. The swordsman fell down senseless; blood trickled from his ears and nose.
“You will all do as Koro says,” he said, pointing a finger at the remaining two. “He’s a better man than all of you put together.”
They bowed and departed quickly, mumbling curses. Koro followed after them, waving his small fist. There was still a lot of work to do before the circle was finished.
He bent the last of the willow boughs, slotted it through a loop made of stripped bark and stepped back to admire his work. The figure was as tall as a man, and twice as long, woven densely out of willow, bamboo and birch. The wings were the most difficult, a delicate structure tied together with vines. A covering of butterbur leaves imitated the green scale
s.
Shakushain hadn’t seen the dragon he was trying to replicate in the sculpture, but it didn’t matter. The figurines of bears and wolves he made as a young shaman’s apprentice always came out resembling disfigured pigs, but they worked nonetheless. This one was the same — only bigger.
With Koro’s help, Shakushain carefully transported the fragile structure into the middle of the sacred enclosure, then he tied its delicate limbs and wings with a chain woven of poison ivy. Like for like, such was the rule of the Northern magic. To trap the real dragon, he had to first shackle the imitation.
He lit up two bonfires, one on each side of the circle — beacons for the crazed beast. It was near; the demon’s spies had brought the news of it ravaging the pastures on the southern rim of the Aso Valley. That meant they should see its flames tonight; he hoped the beast would fall into the trap by midnight.
Koro cried out excitedly and waved his hands. His blue necklace was glowing. Shakushain ran up to him and looked in the direction where the little man pointed. A dot of light flashed against the dark shadow of the southern cliff-side, followed by a blast, and a bright line of flame. A second later a whoosh of hurricane-like wind and a sound of explosion reached where they were standing.
It’s coming.
Samuel fell off his bunk and slid across the floor, hitting the opposite wall with his shoulder. The entire ship shook from some heavy impact, rolling to one side and then back again.
All the alarm bells rang out at once, all the evertorches lit up. The bearded sailors ran past Samuel back and forth, shouting orders and repeating them further. The ship was listing and, as far as Samuel could tell by the changes in air pressure, rapidly descending.
The doctor’s instincts kicked in.
There may be wounded. I should be in the infirmary.
But the layout of the vessel was yet unfamiliar to him and instead of the infirmary, he found himself in a corridor he hadn’t seen before. It was eerily empty and quiet compared to the chaos everywhere else. A door at the end caught his eye. It was unlike any other on the ship. He approached it slowly. Made of a slab of patinaed bronze, it had no visible handle, just a red locking rune blinking slowly where a keyhole should be. Samuel touched the metal surface; it was freezing cold.
I shouldn’t be here.
He realised his hands were shaking and his throat felt dry. He turned back and hurried down another corridor, down a flight of metal stairs. This led him straight to the ship’s bridge. An officer shot out through the round door and Samuel had never been so happy to see another human being. The crewman looked at Samuel in bewilderment, waved him aside and ran on with some important orders. Inside, the Admiral was sitting at his desk of many knobs and buttons, holding the steering wheel with one hand and pushing levers with another. He, too, was shouting something at the navigator, who was clutching a broken, bleeding nose and trying helplessly to plot a course on the map which seemed to consist mostly of a blank space and a few scattered navigation points.
Samuel’s grasp of the basics of the Varyagan language allowed him to understand some of the Admiral’s yells and curses.
“Vad fan! That was a mistfirer! What’s a mistfirer doing in these waters?”
“I don’t know, Amiral. We are definitely in the right place.”
Somebody pushed Samuel aside and barged into the cabin.
“Nobelius!” the Admiral hollered, “do you have the skaderappor?”
“The komandotorn is breached and the roder is stuck.”
“Can we hold her up?”
“Only if we blow all the ballast.”
The old engineer and the Admiral began to exchange technical naval jargon at great speed, and Samuel lost track of the conversation. He decided to depart from the bridge and look for the sick bay elsewhere.
“Doktor!” the Admiral shouted after him. “Shouldn’t you be at the infirmary?”
Satō woke up in pitch-black darkness. Her head throbbed and her left shoulder was sore from where she had hit the floor. She stood up on wobbly legs; the cold seawater, rushing through the narrow, jagged breach in the ship’s iron hull, reached her knees and was rising fast. The only light she could see was the small glass window in the cauldron, where the elementals frantically continued to exchange their magical energies.
The ladder should be somewhere to the left… or was it right?
She stumbled and grabbed some handle; a valve opened, letting out steam.
Oh no! I broke something!
She tried to set the handle back to its original position, but slipped and dropped to the floor again with a splash.
The trap door opened above her head and somebody leapt into the water. A strong arm grabbed her and led her towards the ladder.
“It’s alright,” she said weakly, “I can manage…”
Somebody pulled her up onto the deck, somebody’s hands loosened her clothes and held her while she retched out the seawater.
“Get this hose down,” somebody shouted.
Captain Kawamura.
She was beginning to recognize the voices and the faces around her. Red hair — Nagomi, standing closest, worried. The Captain, setting up some heavy iron device with a long leather hose attached. The bear-man’s storm of hair.
“Where’s Bran?” she asked.
“Downstairs,” answered Nagomi.
The Westerner appeared up the ladder, soaked through, spurting water.
“I got him out of the water, but won’t manage to bring him up here.”
“Bring whom?” asked Satō. She had a nagging feeling she was forgetting somebody.
“The Daisen! He’s unconscious.”
“I can help,” the priestess stood up, but the Captain stopped her.
“Nobody’s coming down until we stabilize the ship,” he said. “If that cauldron floods, you’ll be boiled alive. Come, Kumaso, I will need all your strength.”
Torishi rushed up to the device Captain Kawamura had set up.
“Keep pressing that end of the lever,” the Captain ordered. “Try to synchronize with me. Can you do that?”
Torishi nodded.
“One of you needs to make sure the hose isn’t crooked and the water flows freely,” the Captain said to Bran and Nagomi. The priestess straightened the coils and dropped the end of the hose overboard.
“What about the breach?” asked Bran. “The water is still coming in.”
“One thing at a time. We’d need a wizard to fix it and our only one just got himself knocked out.”
“I’m a wizard,” said Satō. The Captain looked at her and stopped pumping for a moment.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
“It’s just a bruise. What needs to be done?”
“How good a swimmer are you?”
She slumped.
There was never time to learn…
“Not very good.”
“I’ll help you,” said Bran. “The sea is calm enough; I can hold you while you cast spells.”
He dropped his clothes quickly, leaving only the linen loincloth, and leapt into the sea. She heard him yell and, fearing something terrible had happened, ran up to the bulwark.
“Cold!” he shouted, spitting. “Come on, I’ll catch you!”
She stood against the rail, paralyzed with fear at the thought of leaping into the dark abyss.
He’s shaming me again. I can’t swim, I can’t ride a horse… what kind of samurai am I?
She took a deep breath and jumped over the edge. Freezing water enveloped her.
I’m drowning, she thought. I’m going to die.
She started thrashing about in panic, until a strong pair of hands embraced her tightly and pulled her up to the surface.
“Calm down,” said Bran. “It’s harder when you move about.”
With one arm wrapped around her waist, he swam slowly towards the stern, helping himself along the way by holding onto the spokes of the silenced paddle-wheel. The pistons were quiet, and the ship drifted sideway
s on the waves.
“The breach is under the water-line. Can you hold your breath for long?” he asked.
She nodded. She was certain she could do at least that much. He pulled her down and she inadvertently opened her mouth. Instantly, they emerged back to the surface.
“It’s all right, we’ll try again. Did you see the breach?”
“No,” she said, coughing. “I had my eyes closed.”
He chuckled. “I’ll try to guide you. Can you cast with your eyes closed?”
“I have to say the word.”
“As long as you remember to only exhale. Right, one more time — on the count of three. One, two, three!”
They submerged much more gently this time. She felt his hand on hers, holding it straight and steady. He tapped her gently on the waist with his other hand.
“Bebblubblu!” she cried. The sound of the spell word was distorted by the water, but it didn’t matter, what was important was her mental focus on the incantation. She felt her hand turn cold as the bolt of ice shot from her fingers, freezing the water around it.
They were back on the surface.
“Almost there. One more try,” said Bran. “Deep breath. One, two, three.”
She repeated the spell, this time trying to keep her eyes open. The salt stung, but she endured, making sure she covered the bubbling breach with a thick layer of frost.
“I’ve never… done… magic under water,” she said, coughing and spluttering and trying to wipe salt from her eyes.
“Don’t touch your eyes,” said Bran, “it will only make it worse. You need to wash it with fresh water.”
They swam back towards the stern, where Nagomi threw down a rope ladder. Now that the immediate danger was gone, Satō relaxed, letting Bran drag her freely against the waves; she felt the warmth of his body pressing against hers through soaked clothes.
No, she scolded herself. You promised yourself.
She climbed down to the engine room to secure the breach from inside. The water was now just up to her ankles, too low for the pump to be of any use, so Bran, Torishi and the Captain were pouring it out with buckets.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 84
