The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  “Hoor mij, zee! Hoor mij, elementen! Kalm jezelf!”

  He looked back — she was holding her sword aloft, pointing it into the waves. Her hand was clad in a leather glove, with several bits of metal sewn to it, gears and dials. She shouted the spell two more times; with her third cry, the waters around the horse calmed as if somebody had poured oil on them.

  Bran saw Dōraku lead his horse behind them into the corridor formed in the wake of Satō’s spell, followed by the bobbing black shape of Torishi’s bear form.

  It was an impressive feat, but Bran wondered how long Satō could sustain the spell, and in what fighting shape she’d be once they reach the island. Her jaws were clenched in determination; sweat mixed with rain on her face. The corridor was beginning to taper as the force of the sea battered against the magic barrier.

  Half-way through, the horses began to struggle; they were now in the middle of the mighty current linking the inner sea in the south-west with the Great Ocean to the north-east.

  A boat would have trouble crossing this strait, not just these poor animals.

  But something else drew his attention among the waves. In the blue darkness he saw a white mist, whiffs of smoke and whirls of haze coming out of the billows.

  “Can you see that?” he shouted back to Dōraku and Nagomi. The Swordsman looked up and nodded with a frown.

  “There are faces in the water!” cried the priestess. The mists formed into human forms, masks twisted in anger, dying, agonized expressions.

  “It’s just like the Cave in Suwa,” said Bran, “They must be spirits of the dead!”

  “It’s the wights of Dan-no-ura!” Dōraku shouted back. “Those who drowned in the battle!”

  The commotion was beginning to break Satō’s concentration. Her sword arm dropped and the corridor between the raging waters was now barely the width of a horse. Sea spray blew again in Bran’s face, salt getting in his eyes.

  “Why are they so angry?” he heard Nagomi ask. The spirit faces were twisted in fury. “Are they serving the Crimson Robe?”

  “No,” replied Dōraku, “these are forces more ancient and more powerful than any Fanged. They hate all the living. They must have been awoken by the storm.”

  “They’re not attacking,” said Bran, “maybe they’re just trying to scare us away.”

  “It’s the talisman from Suitengu,” Dōraku said, reaching into his sleeve for the embroidered pouch. At the sight of the amulet, the wights pulled away. “But it won’t hold them forever.”

  As if in response, the wights returned a moment later, and in greater numbers. A few flew past Bran, flashing bared teeth and staring with bulging eyes. A rogue wave broke through Satō’s barrier and washed over the horse.

  Bran put up a tarian, hoping to at least protect himself and the wizardess from the cold and waves; he couldn’t do much for the others.

  “What do we do? We can’t go back, we’re more than halfway through. Satō can’t fight both the waves and the ghosts.”

  “Let me out, boy” a voice spoke in Bran’s head.

  “It’s no time for your tricks.”

  “Don’t be a fool. If you drown, I’ll be stuck here forever.”

  Bran thought fast. The wights were growing bolder and more aggressive with every minute, and Satō’s safe passage corridor was beginning to waver, along with her strength and determination. Nobody else seemed to offer any solutions.

  “What do you need?”

  “The priestess’s help. And the talisman.”

  Bran leaned back.

  “Give that pouch to Nagomi, quickly,” he shouted.

  “Tell the girl to meditate as if she was at the Waters.”

  The priestess thought Bran’s hasty explanation over and then nodded.

  “I understand.”

  She closed her eyes and started chanting. Her body then seemed to glow with a soft, fuzzy light, her copper hair rose in an unseen wind. Dōraku, sitting in front of her, stirred uneasily and his face tensed as if in great pain.

  The light around Nagomi grew in all directions. When it reached Bran, he felt a jolt and a buzz, and then Shigemasa was no longer in his head.

  We must be as visible as a lighthouse.

  The boy’s neck was beginning to hurt from looking over his shoulder. The light solidified, forming the semi-translucent shape of a samurai, imposing in full armour, holding a broad naginata halberd, blade down, ready to strike.

  Shigemasa shouted an ancient challenge. The wights understood; they poured at the General in droves, drawn to the light like moths to a flame. The halberd slashed through their wispy bodies with ease. The Taishō laughed, elated, launching himself into battle.

  Bran spurred his horse; the animal picked up the pace. By the time they reached the reefs and shallow waters nearer the island, it was foaming at the mouth and heaving. Bran let the horse climb the rising sea bottom until the water reached only up to its chest. Then he dismounted into the cold water with a splash.

  Satō slumped and slid off the horse, half-conscious. He grabbed and held her until she could stand on her own again, then sat her on a flat, black rock.

  “You were brilliant,” he whispered in her ear and kissed her on the cheek. She waved him away, exhausted. The sea resumed its rage around them, and they were drenched to the bone, but they were now sheltered from the worst of the storm by the reefs and a spur of the island’s shore.

  Dōraku led his horse by the reins into the shallows, half-wading, half-swimming. Nagomi lay on the animal’s back breathless, legs and arms hanging down its sides. The light around her dimmed into a faint aura. Shigemasa waved his naginata a few more times before fading away and Bran heard his thoughts again.

  “Glorious battle! We must do it again some time, boy.”

  Glad somebody enjoyed it…

  “You seem exhausted,” Bran said to Dōraku. The Swordsman looked at him with heavy eyes and attempted a weak, shrug-off smile.

  “The girl’s power is… quite astonishing,” he replied.

  So Nagomi can hurt you so much even without trying to… Bran thought with surprising satisfaction.

  A great black bear was the last to wade into the shallows away from the horses. Together, they strode up to the ochre-daubed wall surrounding the island. The water here reached only up to their knees and, at last, they could rest.

  We’re about to go into battle, and there’s not one of us that doesn’t look exhausted, Bran thought, taking stock of the company. He knocked on the wall; it was a solid, thick earthenware construction. Even at his best he couldn’t hope to burn it through with magic.

  “What now? I think I forgot to bring my battering ram.”

  “There’s a secret entrance not far from here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I helped build it,” Dōraku answered. “I told you, me and Ganryū go back a long time.”

  So you keep saying…

  “Perhaps you could share some hints as to how to defeat him.”

  The Swordsman scratched his beard.

  “He’s got a penchant for theatrics. I’ve always told him it would be his doom, and I’d love to see this prediction come true.”

  “Theatrics? That’s it? No weak spots, no secret spells or talismans?”

  “Salt helps, if you’ve got some,” Dōraku replied with a grin, “but you don’t get to live for three centuries without taking care of all your weak spots.”

  With the flamespark’s light reduced to that of a candle, Bran moved carefully along the ochre wall, touching his way.

  “There’s a depression here,” he said, “a finger’s breadth.”

  “That will be it,” said Dōraku. “Torishi-sama, give me a hand with this one. It’s bound to be a bit rusty.” Torishi, now back in his human form, was grumpy and silent. Water trickled down his naked, scarred body in thick rivulets. The two strongmen pushed against the wall with all their strength. A narrow crack appeared at first, then the outline of a door. Sea water r
ushed in, helping the gate to swing open.

  Bran’s horse had to lower its head to cross the threshold. Beyond the wall lay a beach of white pebbles, now licked by the tide flowing in through the secret door, and a slipway with a single flat-bottomed boat tied to a mooring post. A thick line of trees and bramble separated the cove from the rest of the island.

  “This isn’t very secure for a fortress,” remarked Bran, eyeing the wall with suspicion.

  “It would only open for one of the Fanged,” explained Dōraku. “Looks like Ganryū still uses it from time to time.”

  “Why would he need to sneak away? He’s the lord and master on this island.”

  “He doesn’t trust even his own students.”

  Bran helped Torishi close the gate and then followed the rest of the company onto the beach. The island was filled with magic — nasty, dark power which made his sensitive body sick. Satō lay down on the pebbles and closed her eyes, catching her breath. Dōraku helped Nagomi off the mount and laid her beside the resting wizardess.

  Torishi unravelled a bundle of his belongings tied to one of the horses. He put on the loincloth, bark-spun tunic and the head-scarf and tied the long dagger to his waist. He strung the bow and checked if the arrows were loose enough in the quiver. He then knelt by Nagomi and caressed her copper hair.

  “Little priestess.” These were his first words on this side of the strait. He reached into a small wooden box he carried with him and took out several sprigs of some herb. Somehow, they had managed to remain dry throughout the ordeal. He crushed the herb under her nose.

  Nagomi gasped and woke up. Torishi smiled and moved to Satō to repeat the procedure, but the wizardess pushed his hand away and sat up on her own.

  “I’m fine. I just need a few minutes to catch my breath.”

  She twiddled a brass knob on her glove.

  “Quite a performance, wizardess-sama,” said Dōraku. “Your Honourable Father would have been proud.”

  She nodded.

  “Are we safe here?” asked Nagomi.

  “Ganryū wouldn’t want his men to come here. But there will be guards just beyond those trees.”

  “I assume you have a plan,” said Bran.

  “Your dorako will be kept somewhere in Ganryū’s residence; perhaps in the garden. All we need to do is charge the mansion’s gates and break through.”

  “You make it sound easy. But there’s a small army between us and the mansion, and two watch-towers overlooking the place.”

  “We’ll try to sneak as far as possible. If stealth fails, I will lead the charge with Torishi-sama. That should keep most of Ganryū’s men occupied.”

  “Are they just swordsmen? No mages, no yamabushi?”

  “No. Ganryū is jealous of power. He’s the only one allowed to use it on the island. I think he’s afraid others would use it up,” Dōraku added with a quiet chuckle.

  Bran noticed Satō trying to stand up, and leapt to her aid. The wizardess held a hand to her forehead.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I… yes. This place… can you feel it? I smell blood,” said Satō and shivered.

  “At least we know it’s definitely the right place,” he said with a forced smile.

  “Have you rested?” Dōraku asked. He had just finished tying up the horses to the mooring post. “We’d best be going.”

  Satō nodded. Like Torishi before her, she too readied her weapon. The sword slid in and out of the sheath with ease. Bran did the same; there was some resistance at first.

  Eh…I forgot to oil it, he thought. It will rust badly.

  He saw Nagomi pull out the remains of her paper-tasselled wand, ruined by sea water. She eyed it sadly and threw it away. Satō came up to the priestess and gave her a dagger.

  “I don’t really — ”

  “Just in case,” said the wizardess. “I have my gun.”

  “I wouldn’t even know how to use it.”

  “Press here,” said Satō quietly, touching Nagomi’s chest, “if it comes to the worst. It’s a swift death.”

  Dōraku turned to the group and gave them a long, solemn look. His hands rested on the hilts of his twin blades. He hid his face in the shadow of the purple hood.

  “We’re ready,” said Bran.

  CHAPTER 17

  The trees provided them with shelter for about twenty yards, but the grove ended abruptly, opening onto a long and narrow courtyard running across the length of the island. At the far end, the white-washed walls of the two-storey mansion loomed in the faint light of the stone lanterns beyond a loose bamboo hedge.

  The fortress was asleep but for the lone watchtower, its light directed outside the island at the sea; the other tower, Bran remembered, stood watch over the pier on the southern end of the island. The entire central courtyard was bathed in pitch black darkness. In the occasional distant flash of lightning Bran could make out some long, low buildings on the right-hand side.

  “It looks so quiet…” he whispered.

  “Make no mistake — they will be expecting us,” said Dōraku. “Be prepared. I’ll try to get us as close as possible without them noticing.”

  Bran tried to use True Sight and immediately regretted it; it was like looking into the heart of an explosion. The island was covered with dense energy flows, some ancient, some new; a rainbow of bright lights and colours too painful to bear. He shut his eyes and shook his head, waiting for the after-image to dissipate.

  The Swordsman bid them all crouch and sneak along the western edge of the courtyard, past the hedgerow, along what looked like the training grounds. Bran walked carefully among the straw poles for practicing sword cuts, archery target boards, dummies of soft wood for spear and halberd training, empty weapon racks. The closer they got to the centre of the island, the darker it got, until they walked almost blind, touching their way.

  The noise of the wind and storm drowned their footsteps. It started raining in earnest again, a fierce shower battered against Bran’s face. The gravel beneath his feet turned to slushy mire.

  They were almost half way across the courtyard when a lightning strike bathed the island in a bright white light. Five shadows were cast against the white gravel, five silhouettes cut out sharply by the flash, for just an instant, a blink of an eye.

  Bran heard the rustle of the bush on his left, and the sound of many sandal-clad feet on the mud; Dōraku’s blade swished in the darkness, and somebody fell down with a cry. Another lightning blasted even closer, and in its light he saw a dozen or so swordsmen in grey clothes, charging at him from all sides. He flashed a flamespark, reached for his sword, and felt a thud on the back of his head.

  Satō drew her thunder gun and aimed it at the nearest group. The blinding-white lightning leapt from one man to another; three warriors fell at once. The wizardess herself almost fell, stunned by the recoil. She looked behind; she was being surrounded. Twenty, thirty swordsmen were heading towards her, pouring from the direction of the low stone buildings. She pulled the trigger again, but the charge was not yet full and the weapon’s electrodes sizzled in vain. She thrust it back into her sash and drew the sword.

  With mighty swipes of his fists, Torishi made his way through the enemy and reached Satō just as her frost-covered blade cut side-ways through the first of the spears, splitting it in two. Another warrior fell with an ice-lance embedded in his chest. The bear-man grabbed her at the waist and, despite her protests, dragged her behind, punching his way back towards Master Dōraku, who was fighting what seemed now like fifty men at once. Satō noticed Nagomi, cowering behind the Swordsman, clutching the Spirit Light in her hands.

  Against all reason, he seemed to have the upper hand in this battle. There was a half-circle as wide as his two ruthless swords could reach where none of the attackers dared approach. At least a dozen bodies lay sprawled on the ground beneath his feet.

  “This is like Ichijōji all over again!” Master Dōraku cried, and laughed.

  Ichijōji! The story in Mast
er Kawakami’s book — the nameless swordsman…

  Was that… him?

  Seeing Master Dōraku now she could easily believe what she had once thought was an exaggeration. The attackers numbered less than a hundred this time, but it wouldn’t have made any difference if there were twice as many. The Swordsman enjoyed himself immensely, taunting the warriors, threatening them with pretend attacks and licking the bloodied blades of his swords. When he stepped forward, the crowd rippled back in fear. He was like a bear cornered, not by a pack of hounds, but by a swarm of rats. In desperation the archers tried to pierce him with arrows but he simply sliced the missiles in half.

  “Come on!” he goaded, laughing, “Is this the best the Ganryū Dōjō has to offer? Do I fight children or men?”

  His blades whirled around the spears and halberds, and broke through steel chains. He jumped and rolled, slashed high and low, turned and twisted, dodged and parried. None of the enemies’ blades even touched his clothes. The smell of blood mixed with rain and mud.

  “If only I could fight like that…” said Satō, filled with profound awe, forgetting about the danger for a moment.

  Torishi grunted. “He lost his humanity to gain this power.”

  “If that’s what it takes,” she whispered, shaking.

  “Where’s Bran?” asked Nagomi.

  “They took him — towards the mansion!” said Satō.

  “Go get him then!” Master Dōraku yelled. He moved forward, cleaving a corridor through the enemy as if he was cutting a path through the bamboo grove.

  “Kumaso, lead the way.” His eyes glinted gold for a moment, then turned black. His face contorted in a fierce, blood-thirsty grimace.

  “They will stay here, with me,” he seethed through bared teeth, glinting black and sharp in the light that shone from the watchtower.

  Satō darted towards the residence, still a hundred yards away. Arrows twanged about her from the balcony of the watchtower. She saw Torishi draw his bow and, not even slowing his run, let two arrows lose one after another. Two archers fell to the ground.