All the magical creatures, he realized with a shudder. Yōkai! Is that what’s happened to them? Trapped in the Divine Wind, sentenced forever to harass those who would dare to sail to Yamato without the Taikun’s permission?
He increased the power of the tarian and climbed another couple of hundred feet, out of the range of the damned Spirits swirling below like a shoal of frenzied sharks.
It took Bran half a day to cross the hundred or so miles of the Divine Winds and catch the first glimpse of the Tamna Island. Both he and Emrys were exhausted and eager to land somewhere, anywhere. The island on the horizon was welcomingly large, forty miles across at least, with a great volcano rising into the clouds right in the middle. As he got closer, Bran spotted a few more small islets to the north, looming through the haze — and a squadron of ships anchored in the open sea.
They were undoubtedly Western ships; one large, black mistfire ironclad, and a few auxiliary vessels around it. A couple of large dragons flew overhead. Bran’s heart started beating fast. It could only be a Dracaland fleet! Home!
He wanted to fly straight towards the ships; but then the sun glimpsed through the clouds and reflected off the wings of the beasts.
They were onyx black.
Bran slowed Emrys down and had it hover in place high above the surface of the sea, at a distance — the dragon’s light green scales made for a good camouflage against the clear sky. Black wings… there were no black dragons. Not in Dracaland, not in Midgard, not even in Varyaga…
A hooded man flying over the wall. Nagomi’s prophetic dream. Were these the dragons he had felt before? No, the distant buzz had definitely been coming from within the Divine Winds barrier, somewhere in Yamato. But it was of a similar nature to what he sensed now; these riders must have been a scouting party — or reinforcements…
He studied the squadron through his spyglass. Only when he saw dots of people moving on deck did he realize how immense the flagship of the flotilla was. Half as big as Ladon, its deck was wide and flat, a typical dragon carrier. Bran was wondering how many dragons such a giant ship could accommodate, when one of the beasts landed on the wide deck. This gave him a size reference, as dots of the crew surrounded the dragon to take it to the stable.
Impossible. It must be a trick of perspective…
He pointed his spyglass to the other dragon still circling the fleet, looking for a rider on its back. At first he thought there was none, before noticing the tiny silhouette clinging between the massive shoulder blades. That dispelled any doubt.
Compared to these black winged monsters even Afreolus was small. A tiny dragon like Emrys was like a kittiwake next to a gannet. Only a secluded and secretive nation could have managed to breed such terrifying monsters in secret, a nation such as... He tried to spot the design on the ship’s banner flapping in the wind; he couldn’t see it clearly, but was almost certain it was the horned circle-and-cross sigil of the Gorllewin.
He remembered seeing the crest in Bharata, and later in Qin. Scouts and spies, all over the Eastern Oceans. I wonder if father ever guessed what they were really after. But their dragons… How did they manage to hide these monsters?
He turned the spyglass back to the ship; the lens blurred momentarily, as if a wisp of mist had obscured his vision. A second later the mist was gone, and Bran found himself looking at a snow-white, fat, squat beast sprawling on the deck: a Snaellander, just like the ones he had seen in Fan Yu.
Glamour, he realized. Like the Shadowclouds. The four from Qin must be the ones I sensed in Yamato.
Suddenly the white dragon launched again, turning back into the jet-black and sleek beast mid-flight. The other mount stopped circling around the squadron and turned towards Bran and Emrys.
They saw me.
The Tamna Island was not far, but the dragons approached at great speed. Bran dived down, towards the rocky shoreline; the surface of the island was pock-marked with ancient craters and lava streams, overgrown by thick jungle. There were plenty of places to hide.
Why would I hide? The Gorllewin are not the enemies of Dracaland.
Something inside him wanted to get as far away as possible from the enormous black beasts. Emrys lunged among the tall trees of the island with the two pursuers on his tail. Now Bran could really test the newly gained ability to control the dragon’s body as well as his own. Zigzagging between the mighty tree trunks, avoiding the rocky outcrops, skirting past stone pillars and arches, he was getting steadily away from the black dragons, which were too big to follow him into the narrow crags and crevices.
But Emrys was getting tired; it had been an exhausting day already, and the small dragon could not keep flying for long. Bran swooped to the bottom of one such crevice, deep and tight, ending in a large cave with walls of smooth, glittering crystal. He landed Emrys in front of the cave and led it inside. His heart thumping, he pulled out the letter Dōraku had given him and read quickly through the brief note.
It was addressed to the commander of a ship stationed near the Tamna Island; a description of the opening of negotiations between the Great Council of Edo and the invading Western force. The proposals were surprisingly lenient: opening of ports, trade monopoly, full diplomatic liaisons. Bran tried to wrap his head around it; everything he had heard in Yamato pointed to the Edo government being ready to fight any foreigners to the death if need be, to keep them off the “Sacred Land”. Was it all a façade? It seemed the Taikun was ready to sell his nation to the highest bidder. Bran knew now what the price of this purchase was.
He imagined the Taikun’s samurai riding the mighty flying beasts into battle, supported by modern navy and army built with the help of the Grey Hoods. No rebellion against them would have a chance to succeed. Satsuma and its allies would not last a day, crushed and trampled under the claws of the black dragons.
And what are the Grey Hoods getting in the bargain? Trade opportunities? No, that can’t be enough…
A vision from Amakusa, the dark, forgotten ritual of necromancy, flashed through his mind. Bran swore loudly and crushed the piece of paper in his hand. He felt manipulated. Dōraku knew what was in the letter when he had given it to him. He had planned the route for his return home as well, so that the boy would “chance” upon the Western fleet near Tamna. But what did he expect from Bran? Turn around, hand over his dragon to Satsuma? Die in a war he didn’t care about?
Emrys snarled and growled. Bran heard the rush of wind from the enormous wings. One of the black dragons hovered over the crevice.
“This must be the place,” the rider shouted. Bran was surprised at first to hear him speak in a mixture of Seaxe and Prydain, until he remembered the Gorllewin had started as the colony of Gwynedd several centuries ago. He heard the other dragon fly near, and they both landed almost on top of the cave.
“Come down and see if he’s really here. Be careful.”
One of the riders appeared in the cave’s entrance brandishing a broad sword with an eagle-shaped hilt. He threw back the hood of his grey greatcloak; his hair was fair and cropped short, shorter even than the Dracaland military style. He saw Bran and Emrys and jumped back.
“By the Bull’s Horns, who the hell are you?”
“What is it, Thorfinn?” the other rider cried.
“You’d better come down and see for yourself! You — ” the rider waved his sword at Bran, “out!”
Easy, Bran ordered Emrys silently and stepped into the light. The other rider came down to take a good look at him.
“What are these funny clothes he’s wearing?”
“I’ve no idea,” replied the first one, Thorfinn. “But he’s definitely not from around here.”
“I thought we were supposed to be the only ones.”
“Maybe the narrow-eyes are playing on several fronts.”
“I don’t like this whole endeavour. We should have just stayed in Huating.”
“Have you not read the first squadron’s reports yet? Huating is a goner! I’m sure the rebels have o
vercome it by now, and we never got anywhere with those Black Lotus guys. Yamato is more eager to cooperate.”
Huating a goner? What about Dylan and the Second Regiment?
“I wouldn’t trust any of the narrow-eyes. Qin, Yamato, Nam, they’re all the same, lying heathen bastards. I’m sure they’re plotting something against us even as they sign the treaties.”
“That’s not for us to discuss, ensign. What do we do with him?”
“Take him back to the ship. The Vice Komtur will want to have a word. You — ” the rider turned back to Bran and pointed to one of the black dragons. “Dragon. Now. Understand?”
“I can fly on my own,” the boy replied. This took them aback.
“You speak our language?”
“I speak Prydain.”
They exchanged looks.
“What are you doing here, boy?”
“I am a Dracalish soldier and I will speak to your Commander only,” Bran said defiantly. He wasn’t afraid of the two riders; he had already assessed them. Like all Old Faithers, they bore no magic weapons or shields. Thorfinn wielded a gunpowder pistol of complex design, but obviously did not deem the unarmed boy enough of a threat to draw it. Even if they knew how to draw upon their dragons’ power — and something in their gait told Bran they weren’t ready to do so — the boy was confident he could fight his way out, if need be. Would he be able to flee the black beasts? He looked at one of the dragons peering curiously over the crevice; its head alone was as big as half of Emrys’s entire body. The beasts had already proved themselves resilient in pursuit.
I would need to kill the riders to be sure of escaping…
But now he was intrigued. He wanted to learn what possible reason had brought the Gorllewin to these seas.
And there was something else the riders had mentioned... Black Lotus. The tattoo on the saboteur’s arm... Bran never forgot that image. Did the Grey Hoods know who caused the Ladon’s disaster?
The riders looked at each other again and shrugged.
“All right. Mount up,” said Thorfinn. “But no tricks; you stand no chance against the Black Wings.”
“And wherever you were heading to, you can forget about it now,” added the other. “You’re coming with us. All the way to Yamato.”
CHAPTER 21
Hotta Naosuke entered a vast underground chamber lit only by a few torches; the flickering light outlined six silhouettes in the shadows — four men and two women, all clad in long, flowing robes and wearing masks of demons; twisted faces painted in garish colours.
They stood in a circle in the middle of the cavern floor, waiting. One of them, wearing the white robe, stepped into the centre.
The Speaker guides the ceremony, but is not the leader, remembered Naosuke. All Heads of the Serpent are equal, but one.
There should have been seven of the celebrants; today one of them could not come. And there was only one reason why a Head would miss the Gathering.
“Today, our circle is broken,” the Speaker boomed. “Today, the unthinkable has happened. One of us will never again grace us with his presence; never again grant us his wisdom and strength. Mars’s Curse has been lifted!”
A murmur spread about the circle. They had already guessed what had happened.
“A war is upon us,” the Speaker continued, “we are being attacked once again, and in our very heart. Ganryū was one of our finest and bravest. He will be remembered.’
“He will be remembered,” the others repeated in unison.
“What about Mars’s plans?” asked one of the Heads, wearing a golden robe and a black and yellow horned face of an oni. “Have they failed? It would be a major setback to our cause.”
“Some have,” the Speaker replied, “but not all. Some are still going strong.”
“Who will replace him?” asked one of the women, her robe silver, and her mask a pale fox’s head.
The Speaker clapped his hands.
“Initiate, come forth!”
Naosuke put on his mask — it was a blank, white, featureless surface with only holes for eyes and mouth — and stepped slowly out of the shadows.
“Show yourself.”
He lifted his mask and bowed with pride. He had dreamed of joining the Eight-headed Serpent ever since his recruitment into the ranks of the Fanged twenty years before. He never actually imagined it would be possible, not before decades or centuries passed — a Head would have to be destroyed or retire before another took his place. And yet, here he was, the youngest, the least experienced of them all.
“Your name and position, Initiate.”
“Councillor to His Illustrious Excellency, Taikun of Yamato. Hotta Naosuke.”
The others murmured again.
“Who will vouch for the Initiate?” the Speaker asked.
“I will,” said a tall, broad-shouldered man in the robe woven of metallic thread shimmering in the light of the torches like fire, and the mask of a leopard. When Hotta had first met him, in the library of the Mito school, the man had been using a common samurai name; here, in the Circle, he was known as Jupiter of the Bronze Robe, the master strategist of the Serpent.
“I confirm that Hotta Naosuke has passed his tests and is ready to join our ranks,” said Jupiter.
The Speaker nodded and asked:
“Are there any here who would object?”
Hotta cast a quick glance around. None uttered a word.
“Then, as is our custom, Initiate, step into the circle in place of the one who has created you. You will take his name and position as yourself: Mars, of the Crimson Robe.”
Naosuke took his place in the half-circle, his hands nervously squeezing the ends of his fresh robe. It still smelled of the sacrificial blood with which it had been infused. At the Speaker’s gesture, the remaining Heads began the ritual of Recognition. One by one, in a line, they approached Naosuke and showed him their faces without masks. That way the new Initiate was able to learn the identities of all of them.
“Yui Shōsetsu, Saturn of the White Robe,” said the Speaker, the last in line. Naosuke recognized every name; they were all ancient, hidden in the shadows behind fallen plots and failed rebellions.
And me among them. Me, Hotta Naosuke, aged thirty-nine.
He knew he was lucky; had Ganryū succeeded in turning Takashima Shūhan before his demise, it would have been the old wizard standing in Naosuke’s place.
Luck is also a talent.
After the entire procession passed, the six Fangeds stepped aside, letting Naosuke approach the wall of black, semi-opaque crystal. He stepped forward with a deep bow. Behind the crystal, in the flickering light, he saw the Armour: a cuirass of polished steel plate of old Nanbando Western style, topped with the pointy helmet and the long silver feather.
There was another man standing next to the Armour, behind the crystal; he was not a Fanged, but looked more like a demon in samurai clothes: seven feet tall, muscular, and… dark as night. His skin glistened like polished mahogany. He observed Naosuke with great white eyes in silence.
So it’s true. Oda does have a black samurai for a servant.
Two flames lit up in the eye sockets of the Armour’s metal mask.
“Hotta.” A dark, chilling voice spoke. “A clan of traitors.”
“It… it’s an old story, Master…”
“Quiet. Your ancestor’s betrayal brought me my first victory.”
Naosuke felt the eyes study him all over.
“Blood red is the colour of your clan.”
“Yes. The Red Devils of Sekigahara.”
“How fitting. You may yet be of more use to me than Ganryū. His arrogance and recklessness were always troublesome, and his plans needlessly elaborate. And now it seems we may not require his trinkets after all. When you’re done with the ritual, I want you to tell me all about your dealings with these… new Westerners.”
The flaring eyes grew dim and then vanished. Naosuke turned around and stepped into his place in the complete circle. T
he Speaker then presented Naosuke with his new mask: a green and black tengu, a mountain goblin.
“The wheel rotates,” the Speaker intoned, “the spoke is replaced. The ox cart rolls forward. Our journey continues.”
“Our journey continues,” the others repeated. Naosuke was a little late with the unison murmur. He noticed a scorning glance from one of the masked Eight.
No matter, he thought. I am part of the Serpent now. Nothing can change it. Now all my plans can be set in motion.
He remembered the last words of the Prophecy his Master, Jupiter of the Bronze Robe, had revealed to him, all those years ago:
The Eight-Headed Serpent rises,
But the Storm God’s sword is sheathed.
At the breaking of the world
The Mightiest will fall
And his dying cry will break open
The Gates to the Other World.
THE END
APPENDIX: GLOSSARY
(Bat.) — Bataavian
(Yam.) — Yamato
(Pryd.) — Prydain
(Seax.) — Seaxe
aardse nor (Bat.) spell word, "Earth Tomb"
amazake (Yam.) a traditional sweet drink from fermented rice
ardian (Seax.) the Commander of a Regiment in the Royal Marines
banneret (Seax.) the Commander of a Banner in the Royal Marines
bento (Yam.) a boxed lunch, usually made of rice, fish and pickled vegetables
bevries (Bat.) spell word, "Freeze"
biwa (Yam.) fruit of loquat tree
blodeuyn (Pryd.) spell word, "Flowers"
bugyō (Yam.) chief magistrate of an autonomous city
bwcler (Pryd.) magical shield covering a fighter's arm, a buckler
cha (Yam.) green tea
chwalu (Pryd.) spell word, "Unravel"
Corianiaid (Pryd.) a race of red-haired dwarves from Rheged
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 98
