The Chrysanthemum Seal (The Year of the Dragon, Book 5)

by James Calbraith

  “Now we’ll see if our deal came through,” remarked Shōin. “Let’s go.”

  The three of them ran down the slope, to join the rest of the students. Catching glimpses of the battle through the trees, Shōin watched the samurai across the river reach the stockade and clamber up, ignoring the arrows that poured on them from above. The rebels fought bravely, but they were quickly overwhelmed, and the Mori warriors broke inside with little trouble.

  Meanwhile, the Kiheitai approached the gates of their target village and spread out in a fan-shaped formation, waiting for orders, glancing at each other nervously. Shōin bit his lips.

  I don’t want any of them to get hurt.

  He hoped the gambit paid off, but the wait was unbearable.

  There were cries and the sounds of brief fighting inside the stockade, and then silence. The wicket gate opened wide, and out came a small, stocky man in short peasant trousers, an ancient black lacquer breastplate a few sizes too large, and a conical hard hat of blackened tin. He was chewing on a long straw, exuding the unmistakable practical authority of a village headman. He first looked across the river to where Mori’s samurai were finishing mopping up the remains of the defenders, and winced. It was a slaughter: in close quarters, the rebels, armed with bamboo spears and farming tools, stood no chance against the trained swordsmen.

  “Where is the man who spoke with us?” the headman asked.

  “Here I am,” said Takasugi, stepping forth.

  “The village is yours,” the headman said, spitting out straw, “but you’d better keep your part of the bargain.”

  Shōin nodded at Satō, and together they followed Takasugi and his Kiheitai past the palisade fence. The cries of the dying across the river resounded in Shōin’s ears, but he grit his teeth and ignored them.

  I can’t help them, he thought, but maybe I can help the people here.

  They marched down a corridor of grim, tough faces; both hopeless and hopeful at the same time. They were farmers, merchants, craftsmen, monks… all classes of the Yamato society, except the samurai. Following the headman, they reached the centre of the village. The line of men before them parted, revealing the remnants from a scene of the fighting they had heard earlier.

  Bodies of four of the rebels lay strewn on the dirt, hacked almost to pieces; several more knelt or crouched, supporting themselves on their spears, their many wounds taken care of by a few shrine acolytes. In the middle of this carnage lay a swordsman, a rōnin in an unmarked, monotone grey kimono, his hands still clutching his sword, his body pierced with arrows and broken-off spear blades.

  “He wouldn’t let us surrender,” commented the headman.

  Satō gasped and knelt down by the dead swordsman, examining his clothes and weapon.

  “You know who that is?” Shōin asked.

  “I know what he is,” she replied. “He’s one of Ganryū’s men.”

  Before Shōin managed to ask what she meant, a huge explosion shattered the air and shook the ground beneath his feet. A shower of dirt and splinters rained down from the sky, and a column of black smoke rose across the river.

  The small mountain monastery where the Chōfu loyalist forces had made their camp, had been requisitioned as an infirmary. The priests scurried around from one samurai to another, trying to patch up as many light wounds as they could; but many of the injured, still being brought to the camp from the burned village, were beyond their help.

  The few who were already dead lay in biers awaiting burial at the local cemetery. Satō whispered a short prayer as she passed them on her way to the temporary Kiheitai headquarters.

  The small building was bursting with people. It was prepared to accommodate no more than twenty soldiers, but the ranks of the militia had swelled more than twice, and they all wanted uniforms and weapons. Takasugi and Shōin tried their best to bring a semblance of control over this crowd, but in the end they too gave up, left the building, and sat down on the porch: Shōin with his head in his hands, Takasugi puffing ravenously on a long clay pipe. An old battered three-string shamisen lay on Takasugi’s lap.

  This was where Satō found them.

  “Ah, Satō-sama!” Takasugi welcomed her between puffs of tabako.

  “Is this yours?” she asked, nodding at the instrument.

  “I found it in one of the abandoned houses. Surprisingly good sound. It’s been a while since I last played.”

  “Where have you been?” asked Shōin.

  “At the village, or what was left of it,” she replied, “investigating the explosion.”

  “What is there to study?” asked Takasugi. “It looked like a barrel of gunpowder to me.”

  “I’m not sure.” Shōin stretched his legs and moved aside to make way for Satō. “The priests say they haven’t seen such injuries before. It’s not just shrapnel and burn wounds, it’s something that resists their healing power.”

  “The wounds will not heal,” said Satō. “It’s blood magic — as I suspected. Our enemies are no mere humans.”

  Takasugi took the pipe out of his mouth and shook his head.

  “What is going on here, Shōin?”

  They had moved to friendly terms shortly after the battle. Shōin felt uneasy as Takasugi’s superior, especially in a war zone, where it was Takasugi who played the main part, and Shōin could do nothing but stand on the sides, his assistance needed only when magic was involved.

  “I thought we were going to fight some peasants.”

  “I don’t know. Ever since that barbarian came to Chōfu, it’s been mysteries on top of mysteries.”

  “The foreigner would be our best bet to deal with this threat,” said Satō. “We could really use his dorako now.”

  Shōin avoided her stare. The double bluff devised by lord Mori was eating him from the inside. It was a complex web of lies, and Shōin wasn’t sure how long he was able to keep it up. He wasn’t made for lying. His father had always tried to raise him as an honest, straightforward kind of man.

  “Still, it looks like our gamble paid off,” he changed the subject, nodding at the crowded headquarters.

  “And how!” Takasugi laughed.

  “They don’t seem very disciplined.”

  “I know. But they are eager. It’s funny how fast their loyalties shift when they are given the chance. Without those commoners, this expedition would already be a failure.”

  “I hope Mori-dono will see it the same way. Commoners fighting alongside samurai… this has not happened since the Civil War.”

  “And may not happen yet,” said Takasugi, sucking thoughtfully on the nearly empty pipe. “I hoped the attack would be easy and without casualties. Now the samurai are resentful and angry.” Then he added wistfully, “Too bad priestess-sama had to stay behind....”

  A lit particle of tabako fell into his mouth and he coughed furiously, fanning his mouth with his hands.

  “Here, have some water,” Shōin handed him a gourd, holding back laughter.

  “I don’t see what use these peasants are in a war,” said Satō, annoyed. “No matter what, they will just be arrow fodder. They don’t have the guts to fight.”

  “You’re wrong, Satō-sensei,” Takasugi countered, having coughed out the fire. “The Chōfu farmers are a tough breed. They formed the bulk of the Mori armies in the Civil War — armies which conquered land from here to Okayama.”

  Satō was doubtful. “Even so — to train the farmers and merchants in handling swords and halberds will take months.”

  Takasugi tapped the pipe against his mouth. He pointed to Satō’s waist.

  “How easy is it to use this thunder pistol?” he asked.

  Surprised at the question, the wizardess drew the weapon and stared at it for a few seconds before aiming casually at a nearby tree and squeezing the trigger. The thunder blast echoed throughout the temple, and the dazzling bolt ripped the bark off the tree and scorched a deep hole in the trunk.

  Suddenly everyone around was looking at them, and Shōin b
owed repeatedly with an apologetic smile until the passing monks moved away nervously.

  “This is what we need,” Takasugi’s eyes lit up. “Easy to handle, easy to aim, devastating. Weapons that commoners could use. Lightning throwers, air guns, cannons, rockets... Rangaku weapons.”

  Satō laughed, but then noticed the look on Takasugi’s face.

  “You… you’re serious?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Let me tell you about Rangaku weapons. My father made airguns, it was his life’s work — and he only made about a dozen working models. This thunder pistol Tanaka-sama gave me is the only one I’ve seen. And you want enough to arm a — a battalion, or whatever you call it.”

  Takasugi smiled. “A platoon. Fifty men is a platoon. Battalion is five hundred.”

  “Fifty, or five hundred, doesn’t matter. We don’t even have five guns.”

  “Then the Kiheitai as I imagined it is impossible.”

  Satō shrugged. “I told you, we’re wasting our time on these peasants. You tell him, Shōin.”

  Shōin frowned. “You’re being unreasonable, Takasugi. Mori-dono only wanted us to provide him with a troop of battle wizards, not an army of gun-toting peasants. We are overreaching our authority as it is with this lot,” he waved a hand at the building behind them.

  The first of the new recruits emerged from its walls. They had no uniforms yet, but each wore a sash of white hemp across their chest – and a weapon, assigned from the stash they had discovered in the village: a short sword, half a spear, a halberd blade, a hunting knife...

  “Look at them,” Takasugi said, “so proud. So much prouder than those samurai over there.”

  “Those samurai would have their heads if they could, you know,” replied Satō. “Look, here comes one of them.”

  Lord Kunishi, the commander of the retainer troops, walked towards them at a brisk, if lightly limping, pace. Most of his face was scarred with a myriad of tiny, fresh scratches, which bled constantly.

  “What is the meaning of this, Yoshida!” he shouted, shaking his fist. Another farmer passed him, waving an old, chipped katana. The samurai reached for it and tore it from the farmer’s hands. “A commoner cannot wield weapons, you know that!”

  “They are all members of the Kiheitai,” said Takasugi, calmly. “We are waiting for the letter of confirmation from the daimyo.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” The samurai’s lips trembled with anger. “What use would the daimyo have of rice farmers and shoe makers?” He stared at Satō. “I should’ve known it would end like this. First women, now peasants.”

  The wizardess looked as if she had been struck by her own thunder gun. She stood up.

  “Control yourself,” whispered Shōin.

  “Your samurai have suffered great losses in the morning attack,” said Satō. “The priests can’t heal them in time — I can see even your face is beyond their help.”

  “Yes.” Kunishi eyed Satō suspiciously. The veiled insult escaped him. “This expedition will have to be postponed until we receive reinforcements. What’s it to you?”

  “Do you think Mori-dono will appreciate your retreat from a handful of peasant rebels?”

  The samurai grunted in response. This time, Satō hit a nerve.

  “We have your reinforcements right here.” Satō pointed to the recruits. “You won’t have to wait, you won’t have to retreat. We can push on with the offensive as planned.”

  “My offensive plan requires samurai. Trained warriors. Not this… rabble.”

  “Just give us a few days to prepare these men,” Shōin said. “You will not be disappointed.”

  He stared at the back of the samurai as the man walked off in a huff, then looked back at Satō.

  “You look like you have a plan.”

  “Not sure if it will work. I will need everyone’s help.”

  There was no castle at Iwakuni. No white keep rose over the town like a watchful heron. It had been demolished a long time ago when the Mori clan took control over the surrounding territory and gave the remainder for the governor’s residence. But the ramparts remained; layers of curved granite guarding the wide bend of the Nishiki River and the small harbour nestled in its mouth.

  All of this paled into insignificance compared to the bridge spanning the river, leading into the former castle grounds. Five massive arches, like five rainbows of wood and stone, floated gently in the air, almost defying gravity. Admiring it made Satō proud to be Yamato; surely, nowhere else in the world could such a graceful and at the same time powerful structure exist.

  And now, it was threatened. The rebel siege closed all access to the city, leaving only the bridge as the last intact passage. A fortified bridgehead across the river was still holding on, but barely, as the bulk of the rebel army gathered around it for one last push. Once the bridge fell, the city and the governors’ residence would have lain open to the victorious and loot-thirsty soldiers.

  “Look how many of them there are,” whispered Satō.

  “A thousand, at least,” replied Takasugi. “This must be the entire rebel army. They know we’re coming, and yet they put up barely any defences from this side.”

  “They must know how small our numbers are.”

  They were crouching in tall grass on a low, rice bowl-shaped hill, no more than a quarter of a mile from the enemy camp. The wide beach and muddy flood-plain to the south of it were both filled with campfires and tents. The day was coming to an end, and it seemed there would be no more action until the morning, giving Satō and the others plenty of time to survey the future battlefield.

  “They’re running out of time,” said Shōin. “Their leaders know it. You were right; this was never about the peasants’ demands. There’s something in that governor’s residence that they want.”

  The sound of horns blowing stirred the twilight, echoing throughout the rebel camp. The soldiers came out of their tents and shacks and ran towards muster points marked with rectangular banners of azure cloth.

  “Are they going to attack?” asked Shōin. “It’s almost dark!”

  “You said it yourself, they’re running out of time,” replied Takasugi, standing up. “And so are we.”

  “They’re not ready yet,” opposed Satō. “We haven’t finished preparing the weapons.”

  “We won’t get a better chance. The bridge will fall today, I can tell. Come, let’s gather the troops.”

  The ranks of the Kiheitai had been swelling ever since the rumour had spread throughout the river and mountain valleys of the region. The promise of being armed and getting paid to fight in the name of the Mori clan was enough to sway dozens of new recruits to join the cause.

  Still, the hundred or so mountain farmers standing before Shōin seemed a feeble force compared to the rebel horde, no matter how proudly they wore their white sashes and bamboo spears.

  “You all know what you’re supposed to do?” asked Takasugi one last time. The recruits grunted. Shōin looked to the other side of the muster field, and caught a sceptical shake of head from the samurai commander. They too were preparing for the battle, but their preparations were of a different quality altogether. Donning the armour, sharpening the swords, strapping on the helmets; it all resembled a complex ritual, a dance even. Seeing their preparations made Shōin lose all confidence in his wizards’ efforts. If anyone was going to win the battle for the Mori clan, it was these samurai – armed, armoured and skilled. Satō was right: the peasants were only good for arrow fodder.

  But there was no way to tell her any of that now. The wizardess was pacing up and down the first line of the troops; serious and focused, adjusting the stance and bearing of the soldiers as if her own honour depended on their performance.

  He glanced again at the samurai; without a word, in grim silence, they marched off towards the bridge. Some were limping — the commander ordered anyone who could still wield the sword to join in this final combat — but that did not diminish their powerful presence i
n the least.

  He turned back to the militia and his heart sank even lower. Despite Takasugi and Satō’s best efforts, the soldiers slouched, slumped, chewed tabako; most were unable even to stand to attention.

  “Takasugi,” he said with resignation, “that’s enough. Let’s go.”

  By the time they reached the flood plain, the rebels had already overrun the bridgehead. The fighting moved on to the bridge arches, and the shallows below it.

  “We’re too late,” said Shōin.

  “No,” replied Satō, “this is perfect. They are trapped.”

  “The samurai are moving in,” noted Takasugi. “Right on time.”

  The Mori retainers charged from their positions on the bowl-shaped hill in a neat, disciplined wedge. Their task was simple — to drive a hole into the rear guard of the enemy for the militia recruits to pour through. As soldiers, the Kiheitai were far too poor to attempt such a charge on their own.

  The wedge of swordsmen struck the rebel army in a clash of blades. There was confusion at first, and signs of panic, but soon the rebels realised how tiny the samurai force was and began to push it back.

  “Now!” cried Takasugi. The hillside erupted with a salvo of magic missiles, carefully prepared by the Meirinkan wizards. Before the noise and smoke dissipated, Takasugi and Satō leapt onwards with their swords raised and the hundred mountain men armed with bamboo spears followed them into action. Raising plumes of dust from under their feet they ran, head-over-heels, like a herd of deer. The rebels paid even less attention to the approaching rabble than they had to the samurai. It seemed the charge would simply crash and dissipate against the wall of the enemy rear guard.