The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7)

by James Calbraith

  “I can’t help it if I overhear you over the flames,” the samurai said. “Get back into your tent if you want privacy.”

  Bran snorted. He shaped the fire in his hand into Yokoi’s caricature. Nagomi giggled.

  “He’s right, though,” Bran said. “I think we should go to sleep.”

  “Not yet.” Nagomi squeezed his arm. “It’s a nice night.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “It’s colder in the tent.” She reached out her hands and spread them against the flames. “Yokoi-dono?”

  “Yes, Itō-sama?”

  “Why do you have three dragon scales in your crest? You mentioned this place called Enoshima.”

  The nobleman’s lips bent into a letter ‘V’ rather than curled, and the effect was disconcerting, but the smile was sincere.

  “It happened near the end of the Genpei Wars,” he began. The flames danced in his eyes. “How well do you know your history, priestess-sama?”

  “It was the war when the ryū were destroyed, wasn’t it? At the battle of Dan-no-ura.”

  Bran wiggled his fingers, manipulating the flame into the shape of a ryū, Yamato dragon, as he remembered it from the lacquer figurine. Nagomi lay her head on his shoulder.

  “Yes, but do you remember why the war started? Who fought in it, and for what?”

  “I’m sorry. We weren’t taught much history in Suwa beyond that of the Taikun’s family.”

  Master Yokoi waved his hand. “I’m not surprised. The Tokugawas don’t want people to remember there were other Taikuns before them.” He picked up a stick with a scorched end and drew something in the ash only he could see. “The Hōjō fought on the side of the Minamoto clan in the war. Against the Taira and the young Mikado, Antoku.”

  “I remember him,” said Nagomi. “He drowned at Dan-no-ura, along with the Sacred Sword.”

  Yokoi glanced at her. “The Sword was soon recovered, priestess. But yes, the boy perished and the Taira lost. This story happened a few years earlier, though. The Minamoto had suffered defeat after defeat. They couldn’t stand against the Taira dragons, and were on the brink of destruction. They retreated to their fortress, beyond the circle of mountains — and the Hōjō with them. It was on this coast.” He pointed the stick down the slope. “Enoshima was part of the ring of defences then, a minor watch point. The Hōjō were to man it, and keep a look out for any dragons coming from the sea.”

  “Why didn’t the Minamoto have any ryū of their own?” asked Bran. The story intrigued him, as it involved Yamato dragons — a topic he had always longed to learn more about.

  “They hated the beasts,” said Yokoi. “Nobody now remembers the reason. It was one of the main bones of contention between them and the Taira. Their commander, Yoshitsune, was the greatest dragon-slayer Yamato had ever known.”

  “The horses …” remembered Bran. “Satō mentioned a dragon-slayer who rode the white horses we used at Ganryūjima.”

  “The Ikezuki?” Yokoi nodded. “Yes, those were his mounts. But it wasn’t enough. Just like now the might of our arms alone is not enough against the Black Wings.”

  “What happened on Enoshima?” prodded Nagomi.

  The nobleman thrust the tip of his stick into the bonfire and watched it burn. “One day, the Hōjō commander was on patrol and discovered a cave that could only be accessed at very low tide. He ventured inside … Its walls were covered with ancient paintings, showing dragons and little dark people who worshipped them.”

  “The Ancients …” whispered Nagomi. Master Yokoi did not hear her.

  “At the end of the cave was a great chamber. Inside lay a female dragon, curled around her eggs. She knew the commander was a Minamoto vassal, and she knew they would slay her if they found her. She pleaded with the samurai to spare her life and that of her offspring, and in exchange, she would grant him immeasurable power and wealth.”

  “Did he accept the deal?” asked Bran with bated breath, forgetting for a moment how spurious the tale sounded.

  “Eventually, yes. He sealed the cave entrance and never mentioned it to any of the Minamoto. The dragon gave him her three blue scales, to confirm the pact. Those are the scales on my crest.” He drew the three triangles in the ash.

  “Did the dragon keep her word?”

  Yokoi chuckled. “Yes, I suppose so. The Minamoto won the war, as if by a miracle. But then they started fighting among themselves, and it was the Hōjō commander who took over power while they bickered. He became the first Taikun — long before the Tokugawas — and the Hōjō clan ruled Yamato for the next two centuries.”

  “And what about the dragon — and the eggs?” asked Bran.

  Yokoi threw the burning stick away. “Nothing. It was just a legend. Dragons are dumb beasts; they can’t make promises of power or grant wealth. You of all people should know that, dorako rider.”

  “I thought … there was at least a grain of truth to the story.”

  “Maybe there was … But what does it matter now? It was seven hundred years ago. The cave is washed out by the tides. The three scales are gone, stolen from the Hōjō court during the Horse Lords invasions, and with them, any of my clan’s power or wealth. We are not even a shadow of our former selves, servants of more powerful lords.” His voice turned rueful, bitter. He picked up a handful of ash and watched it vanish in the wind.

  Bran’s flame took the form of a dragon egg, a pockmarked oblong with a ring of horns around its circumference. “And yet, the Fanged took an interest in the island. And the cave from the legend. And I know for a fact that they are very interested in dragons.”

  Yokoi shrugged. “They won’t find anything there but bones. Not even dragons live that long.”

  No, thought Bran. But the eggs might … In the right conditions. Is that what the Serpent wants? A squadron of dragons of their own? But where would they find the riders …?

  “This story tired me,” said Yokoi. “Are you ready to sleep now, priestess?”

  Nagomi’s head dropped along Bran’s shoulder. He picked her up and carried her to the tent. He laid her on the blankets, and returned to the bonfire.

  “You may pretend it was just a legend, but I know you’ll be going to Enoshima next,” he said.

  Yokoi rubbed soot out of his eyes. “What if I am?”

  “How long would it take you to get there on foot? Four, five days? On dragonback, we’d be there before nightfall tomorrow.”

  “You wish to take me to Enoshima?” The nobleman raised his sharp eyebrow. “It won’t be easy. The island is watched by many eyes. The Abominations, the Grey Hoods ... A lone pilgrim is inconspicuous. But a dragon?”

  “We may not have time for discretion anymore. Whatever the Serpent is planning, it’s going to be big, and it’s going to happen on the island. And I believe that’s where they’re taking Sa … Takashima-sama, too.”

  The nobleman’s hand reached for the hilt of his sword. “Is that so? Then we must fly there immediately!”

  Bran moved a burning log deeper into the flame. “First we need to investigate what happened here. I have to make sure we know what we’re doing. We’ll set out at dawn.”

  “Very well.” Yokoi nodded. “A night’s rest before battle is always a sound idea. If one can truly rest in a place like this.” He snorted and returned to his meditative position. “I shall wake you at first light.”

  “Thank you.” Bran straightened, and walked up to Nodwydd. Gwen lay at the crease in the dragon’s leg, wrapped in woollen blankets.

  “I know you’re not asleep, Reeve,” he said. “I have a favour to ask of you. A big one …”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The formations of grey rock were hard to spot from dragonback at first, melting into the background, moulded ash on ash, colourless and dull. Only after dismounting and approaching on foot, did Bran realize the scale of the maze of boulders surrounding the centre of the saucer-shaped valley. A series of concentric rings spiralled out of the nexus, risen by some earth-shattering
spell in imitation of the castle ramparts. The only thing lacking was the crew: the castle was unmanned, abandoned.

  “I remember this,” said Yokoi. “I saw those rocks on Mount Unzen, when we rescued the older Takashima-sama. Just not on such a scale. You were right, Gaikokujin. The Serpent was here.”

  He called me Gaikokujin, not a barbarian.

  “But where are they all?” asked Nagomi. “Why is it so empty?”

  “Their scheme must be coming to fruition,” said Bran. “They’re all gathered somewhere, waiting … Careful—” He grabbed her by the sleeve, as she stepped over a gap in the ring-wall. “The Fanged may be gone, but there will still be traps … or worse.”

  A shadow dimmed the sun for a split second. It was Nodwydd, soaring over their heads in slow, majestic circles. Gwen was their backup, watching out for any danger coming from outside or above.

  Bran had landed as near the centre of the valley as was possible, but he dared not risk landing in the bullseye. The streams of energies raging there were too much for Emrys’s wings. The final hundred yards or so they traversed on foot, with great care and anxiety. A dragon wouldn’t be of much use in such close quarters, anyway. There was barely enough space between the rock barriers for them to walk single file. Bran was confident in his own powers, increased tenfold by the magical nexus. The dragon flame he was able to summon from his fingers was so hot it turned the basalt shapes back to the lava they’d come from.

  “Don’t get cocky, son,” said a familiar voice.

  Bran whipped his head around. Standing atop a shattered boulder in an impeccable blue uniform was Dylan. The edges of the rock at his feet shimmered as if in a haze.

  “What are you doing here, Father?”

  “I came to help you, of course,” replied Dylan. “I knew you wouldn’t manage on your own.”

  “I’m managing perfectly fine, thank you.”

  “Oh? Then why have you let your friends get captured?”

  Bran looked to where Dylan was pointing. Nagomi and Yokoi were bound in chains and being taken by a pack of grey-skinned humanoids towards a menacing spire of black rock, rising in broken twists in the middle of the spiral maze. A translucent dome of purple light shimmered around it against a blood-red sky.

  How…how I haven’t noticed it before?

  Nagomi called his name and stretched out her hand. One of the creatures whipped her back in response. Bran leapt after them.

  Four creatures made from the jagged ash-grey rock blocked his path. They bore stone-tipped spears, and shields of slate. They had no eyes or faces, only round boulders where their heads would be, blurry at the edges.

  He spewed a tongue of dragon flame at the nearest creature, but it scattered on the slate. He swiped the Lance and cut through the shield, and the monster’s hand. The golem thrust its spear and the stone tip cracked against the tarian. Bran shot fire again. Blue flames enveloped the monster’s body and the rock melted off in dollops of red-hot lava. He slashed the Lance, splitting the stone in half. The monster tumbled to the ground in a pile of rocks.

  “See?” He cried back to his father. “I don’t need your help! I never did!”

  And I’m not even tired. Bran smiled. Now that he knew their weakness, he was ready to face the monsters. But where just seconds ago stood three golems, rose now six of the creatures. Six steady bursts of flame and light and they were gone.

  The power that animated the rocks raised another batch of monsters to throw at him, and then another. It didn’t matter. He slashed, cut and thrusted, burned and scorched his way through the enemies, pushing closer and closer towards the black tower. The valley seemed much bigger than it had before. The tower was now a good half a mile away, beyond several new rings of basalt. The red sky glowered menacingly.

  “They’re getting away,” said Dylan. He was standing just a few feet away from Bran. The golems ignored him.

  Bran heard his name again, followed by another crack of a whip. The group carrying the prisoners reached almost the foot of the tower. He lost his focus when a stone mace struck his tarian. The shield yielded. A dull, cracking pain in his shoulder restored his focus at once. He slashed back. The golem exploded, showering him with a rain of jagged stone shards, bouncing from the shield.

  Bran pushed forward, dodging and ducking the blows. A blunt spear tip bruised his side. A mace head grazed his forehead and landed on his clavicle. The bwcler protected him from the worst, but his body was covered in a map of bruises and scratches. He tripped over a rocky outcrop. His legs refused to carry him forward. The golems gathered around him in a circle. They abandoned their weapons and smashed their stone fists on the magic shield. Each of the blows raised plumes of ash from under Bran’s boots. Each was enough to crack his skull open. The tarian crackled and hissed. Bran bit his teeth.

  “Help me!” he cried out.

  In a blast of light and noise the golems vanished. The ash they turned into rained down on the slopes of the mountain. Dylan hovered a foot in the air on a cushion of wind, his arms crossed on his chest. He watched Bran stumble to his feet.

  “Pathetic,” he said. “Can’t even save his friends and now even your little dragon has abandoned you.”

  Bran searched the sky for Emrys. The mount was flying away in an erratic manner, towards Gwen. He tried Farlink and his mind was flooded with anger and confusion. He reeled back. He sent an order and dragon did not respond.

  “No …”

  Emrys charged at Nodwydd, forcing Gwen to bank.

  “Aren’t you going to help her?” he asked Dylan. “Emrys has gone feral!”

  Dylan smiled, his green eyes drilling into Bran’s. “She’ll manage just fine. Shouldn’t you be more worried about your girlfriend?”

  Bran searched the summit. The golems and prisoners reached the purple light dome of the black tower: it flickered and opened, letting the convoy inside. He scrambled to a run, imbuing his feet with enhancements, leaping over the rock walls, almost flying from one boulder to another, but the dome locked shut, sealing the tower, the golems, and Nagomi away. Bran threw himself against it. The purple light struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. The rocks hit cold and painful against his back.

  His father hovered up and landed next to him. The mocking expression on his face hurt Bran more than the wounds.

  “Do you want me to open this for you, boy?” he asked.

  Bran clenched his teeth. He studied the shield in True Sight, looking for patterns in the weave.

  “Hurry up,” Dylan prodded. “Who knows what they’re doing to the poor girl!”

  As if in response, a shriek of terror and agony came from inside the black tower. It was Nagomi, without a doubt, though he had never heard her make such a noise. His hands trembled. The skin on his hands turned into scales.

  “Dragonform again? You always revert to that when you’re desperate …”

  No, no. I can’t lose focus.

  He smashed his knuckles into the edge of a sharp rock. The pain brought him back to reality. He stared at the shield and, at last, he spotted the weft in the weave: a dark purple thread pulsating along its circumference. He latched onto it with his mind.

  “Chwalu!”

  The shield vanished in a waterfall of lights. The way to the tower stood open.

  “Finally!” Dylan raised his hands to the sky. “I thought you’d never get it. And such a simple spell, too!”

  “Shut. Up,” snarled Bran. “If you’re not going to help, get the duw out of here.”

  “Oh, the little pup wants help? He can’t manage on his own?” Dylan’s voice turned an irritating, pitiful timbre. Bran struggled to ignore him, as he investigated the tower’s gate. It had no knob or bolt, and no runic lock. It was just a slab of polished granite, flushed with the wall. A dark mist oozed from underneath it, reaching its tentacles towards Bran.

  “Stumped?”

  “Why are you even here?” Bran shouted. He tried a few opening spells, to no avail. “Don’t you hav
e a war to fight? Country to invade?”

  “Oh? Didn’t Gwen tell you? The war is over. The Taikun won.”

  Bran turned about. “What … what are you talking about?”

  “The rebels have been destroyed. The Shimazu clan is no more.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  Dylan smiled. “How do you think? I betrayed them in the middle of the battle. Burned their rearguard, killed Nariakira. They never stood a chance.”

  Bran slumped to the ground. Doubt and despair gripped at his heart. “Why … why would you do that?”

  “The Taikun’s offer was better.” Dylan shrugged. “He agreed to buy Cursed Weed from us. We got an even better price than in Qin.”

  “That’s a lie …”

  The dark mist from under the door reached his feet and climbed up to his knees. It felt cold and slimy.

  “That’s politics, son. That’s diplomacy. I’m sorry.” He reached out his hand. “Come, Bran. It’s all over. There’s nothing left here worth staying for. Forget them. Let’s go home.”

  Bran touched his father’s hand. It was cold, firm, reassuring. Dylan helped him up. At this moment, Nagomi cried again from the top of the tower. This time, he heard his name called among her screams of pain. He pushed Dylan away.

  “I told you before, none of this matters,” he said. “War, politics, Taikun, Mikado … I don’t care about any of this. I have to save my friends. Rhew!”

  He pressed his palms against the door and spewed a steady, gushing stream of dragon fire from his hands. The torrent of flames poured incessantly, even as Bran’s power waned. His link with Emrys became strained as the dragon’s mind succumbed to the wild. He smashed his fist at the rock again, until blood spattered the gate. He let the flames feed on it. Unable to penetrate the stone, the fire rushed back, enveloping him in a blazing whirlwind.

  “Bran,” said his father, “that’s enough. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  He paid Dylan no heed. The fire was finally chipping away at the rock, boring its way through inches of molten lava. The surface of the door became covered in a web of thin cracks and fissures. The dark mist was swirling up to his chest.