Will they remember? doubted Shōin. Will they be focused enough?
The first lightning strike shot from the first bamboo spear, then another. A blast of flame followed, and a blade of ice. The Kiheitai ran forward and kept shooting for as long as the magic charges remained in their weapons. Not all farmers remembered to fire, not all missiles hit the target, and not all shots were fatal, but it didn’t matter. The plan’s success depended on surprise, shock, and the resulting chaos — and it seemed to work. The rebel rear guard, dismayed and bewildered at an attack which they could not comprehend, turned and fled even before the first of the militia reached their line.
For the past several days, all the wizards of the Kiheitai had been hard at work on the bamboo spears. The process was called imbuing; every scholar of Rangaku was familiar with the term, but few had as such detailed knowledge of it as the Takashima family. Indeed, it was at the heart of the Takashima-ryū style. Satō’s sword was always imbued with powerful frost magic, a trick which enabled her to cast combat spells fast and easily.
There was no time to learn all there was about imbuing, but the basic process proved simple enough, and easy to teach. Each wizard would transfer some of his elemental power into a make-shift bamboo spear, or any other weapon the militiamen possessed. The weapons could hold just a few spells before disintegrating — and not for long, either; it was a hasty, slapdash job after all, even with the blood rune which Satō had inscribed into every bamboo shaft. The risk of misfiring or exploding in one’s hands was grave, but the ability to turn any peasant into a spell-caster, even if for only a few seconds, far exceeded the risks. The rebel intelligence knew by now about the presence of twenty or so wizards in the Chōfu force… but nothing had prepared them for a mass attack of a hundred of them.
The strategy worked. The battle was over as soon as it had begun. Once the smoke and dust cleared, Shōin saw the samurai climb the five-span bridge. They had the bulk of the rebel army exactly where they wanted it; trapped on the narrow passage between two groups of trained and vengeful and bloodthirsty Mori swordsmen.
The militia dispersed. Unarmed — the bamboo spears having expended all the imbued charges — and leaderless — Takasugi, Satō and the other wizards entered the fray on the bridge — they quickly began doing what the victorious rabble had always done at the rear of the battle: chasing after the marauders and looting the camp.
If there are traps, they will all die, he thought. But there was nothing he could do to help. Preparing for the battle took virtually all his strength, and he could only watch it from afar, cursing his weakness.
The pincers on the bridge were closing in on the rebel core. The river below was filled with bodies of the dead, and foaming as the deserters leapt into the water, trying to make for the shore. It was turning into a massacre, and Shōin felt great pity at the loss of so much life.
The sound of explosions and beams of bright red light made him forget all about the dying rebels. The chaos came from the middle span of the bridge, and resembled, not the single powerful blast he remembered from the previous battle, but a barrage of gun fire. It was a regular, if brief, magic battle, and Shōin could not tell who was winning.
“Satō!” he cried, and ran towards the bridge as fast as he could.
Satō was in the middle of a bloody slaughter — and she was loving every moment of it.
She had never imagined herself taking part in an actual battle like the one unfolding around her. Noone of her generation had. There was supposed to be eternal peace in Yamato. No samurai was ever to raise the sword against another samurai in war as long as there was a Taikun sitting on the throne in Edo.
She had fought bandits and wolves, and she had fought Ganryū’s swordsmen and his assassin, but she was fighting for her life back then and there was never the time to enjoy the pure thrill of combat, the joy of clashing sword against sword. This time was different. This time, she was a part of a charge, a victorious strike — and it was the others who had to fear for their life, others fled before her vengeful, ice-cold blade and others cowed before her magic power.
She ducked a spear thrust, cut through the shaft of an incoming halberd, dodged a flying chain-blade and grabbed it, pulling its owner onto the point of her sword. She cut with right hand, and let loose a volley of ice missiles with the left.
“Bevries!”
She blocked a short-sword blade and kicked the man who held it in the stomach. She punched, cut, slashed and blasted her way through the rebel throng. Next to all the other Mori samurai in the fray, she felt a part of a well-oiled war machine. In the midst of the melee it didn’t matter whether she was a man or a woman. Those fighting alongside her only cared whether her blade was in the right place in the right time.
In the beginning of the battle, she was trying to stay close to Takasugi and the other wizards; but they were too slow and too defensive, and she moved to the head of the charge, where the real fight was happening.
Her kimono was soaked in blood; some of it was her own. She was no Dōraku, no Gensai — no untouchable master of the sword. But she didn’t care. The smell of it was heady, metallic, intoxicating. She couldn’t get enough of it.
If only Father could see me today…
She didn’t notice the first crimson missile fly past her. The next one she parried instinctively, the frost blade soaking in the fiery blast. Then, when the samurai before her was felled by a well-aimed magic strike, she saw him. Standing at the top of a bridge span, surrounded by a guard of several grey-clad swordsmen, was a bald man wearing the blue sash of a Butsu monk, his entire body covered in tattoos. Blood runes, everywhere, lighting up in sequence as the spell-caster executed barrage after barrage of deadly magic.
The bridge’s timber barriers lit up in flame, trapping within anyone who hadn’t fallen or fled. Another line of fire ran down the middle, but Satō blocked it, rising a column of ice in its way. The man narrowed his eyes and smiled at her. It was a clear challenge.
They got separated again by other fighters, and for a while she had to focus back on deflecting spears and slashing down panicked farmers. The air around her exploded with magic as other wizards finally joined the fighting at the front. She felt the electric tingling on her tongue. Ice crystals, electric sparks, flames and smoke filled the air around her. The ground beneath her feet trembled and cracked.
Again, the strange caster rose right in front of her. It was as if he was searching her out among the fray, ignoring everyone else. He shot with both hands, a dozen fire lances at once; she parried and dodged, but a few hit her, sharp, deadly blades piercing her arms and stomach. She doubled over in pain.
The world around her changed colours: everything was coated in rust-red hue. The blood in her veins ran hot and fast. Her wounds, old and new, glowed bright blue, and her body filled with radiant energy.
With a roar she rose and charged at the tattooed wizard. Two grey-clads stood before her, but she just swiped them aside with a gesture.
How am I doing that?
She leapt into the air with the sword high above her head to fall on the tattooed man like thunder. He grinned at her, licking his lips, and reached out his hand. A blinding flash and a great force repulsed her and struck her down against the bridge floorboards.
She rolled aside, dodging a fireball smashing the boards where her head had just been, and jumped up. She charged again, parrying and blocking the attacks as she ran. He made no attempt to block her blade as she drove it straight through his chest. A fountain of blood spurted from the wound. Its smell made her almost faint. He grabbed her neck with a dying grasp.
“Join us,” he uttered, spitting blood. “You’ll have all the power you want.”
She felt her strength sap, and her breath give out.
“Who are you?” she croaked. “You’re not a Fanged.”
“I am merely the servant of the Serpent. But you… you could be so much more.”
She had no force left to resist him. His voice was
so smooth, sweet — and convincing... Her sword slipped from her hand and she closed her eyes.
“Satō!”
She winced. A wave of light, four rays in different colours, blasted one by one right through her and into the body of the tattooed man. He blinked in surprise and then blew up into a million tiny pieces of scorched flesh.
She dropped to her knees, close to fainting. Once she was able to see again, she found her sword on the ground and stood up. Around her, the battle continued to rage, but all the grey-clads lay dead, and the rebels were on the run, fighting for mere survival as the battle-raged samurai took no mercy. She tried to raise her sword and join the fight, but she swayed. Hear head was spinning. Somebody caught her from falling.
“Come, sensei” someone said, pulling her out of the fray. “We’ve won. Time to rest.”
CHAPTER XVI
Wulf woke up with a groan. It was already bright outside. He lay for a while yet, breathing the faint smell of Yokō’s body on the still-warm futon mattress next to him.
The door slid open. The girl smiled at him and beckoned outside.
“Gohan,” she said.
It meant it was time for breakfast. He rose and fumbled with the confusing Yamato garments until she came over to help him.
They ate the rice, egg omelette and soup in silence, not knowing enough words of each other’s language to strike a conversation. Instead, he simply stared at her. She was no beauty, he was first to admit it, but there was something about the girl that made him go crazy with lust. He knew it made her uncomfortable — she blushed and giggled nervously — but that only made her seem more adorable in his eyes.
They finished the meal and he moved to embrace her, but she squeezed out of his arms.
“No,” she said. “Come.”
From her gestures he understood they were supposed to leave the house. He frowned. He didn’t feel comfortable going outside without his Qin companion — and the only interpreter.
“Shouldn’t we wait for when Li’s back?” he asked. She tilted her head, trying to understand the words. “Li-sama,” he said.
“Come,” she repeated, pulling him gently towards the door.
They walked out through the garden of pink and blue flowers towards the castle gate. He stopped.
“The city?” he asked. “I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
But she had none of it. “Come,” she said, forcefully this time.
She led him a short distance down a broad street linking the gate with the castle moat. It was lined with a dozen wooden scaffolds, upon which hung bodies of criminals, some still barely alive, others dead, quickly decomposing in the summer sun. Wulf covered his nose and averted his eyes.
The men were Nariakira’s guards, punished by the lord for their failure in stopping the Black Lotus from running away. Wulf remembered the day of the execution well. It was a grim spectacle. There was no trace of emotion on the warlord’s face as the men were tied to the scaffolds. The convicted too had remained silent, throughout their ordeal.
Like everyone living in the castle, Wulf had to pass the line of bodies several times a day, but he still could not quite get used to the sight — or the smell. He breathed in only once he and Yokō had crossed the deep moat.
Turning right, they went up a low-rising hill until they reached a large, two-storey mansion of thick white-washed walls, covered by a lattice of black wooden slates under a blue-tiled roof. He carefully opened the door and looked inside. The house was empty. Yokō pointed down the corridor.
What’s happening?
Expecting the worst, and prepared to defend himself from any danger, he entered the room at the end of the hallway. It was completely empty, lacking even the ubiquitous packed straw mats. On the naked floorboards in the middle of the room Wulf spotted a large bronze stain.
The man standing by the window turned around with a broad smile. It was Shimazu Nariakira.
The warlord’s arm swept around the room, and then pointed at Wulf.
“Jouw!” he said.
“This room? Mine?” Wulf asked, uncertain.
“Ruim? Nej. Huis!”
“The entire house…?”
“Ja, ja! Uw huis!”
The warlord then took the sheathed katana from his belt and thrust it into the hands of a stunned Wulf. He grunted forcefully, until the boy took the sword.
He slapped Wulf’s shoulder with a grin. “Samurai!” he said, and then left the room in that purposeful manner of his.
Wulf stared at the sword for a moment, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He walked over to the window in a daze. He unsheathed the sword by a few inches. The blade was razor sharp and patterned in a complex manner; the scabbard was richly decorated with golden dragons and crossed circles of Satsuma.
He heard Yokō slide the door close behind him and shuffle across the floor. He smoothed his clothes bearing the Satsuma crest. New clothes to go with his new life. A new woman. A new weapon. And now, a new house. Things were changing quickly around him; he didn’t understand all of the changes or reasons for them, but he didn’t mind at all the direction in which they were taking him.
He looked at the dust-shrouded city below, the bright blue sea beyond, and the peak of the volcano in the distance. Not for the first time, he thought of Bran ap Dylan. Was he really still somewhere in this strange land? Had Lord Nariakira offered him the same rewards before presenting them to Wulf? The sword, the house — maybe even… Yōko? His hand tightened on the sword’s hilt.
The girl’s warm, soft hand slid under his kimono from behind and she nibbled his ear. He forgot all about the jealousy. It didn’t matter. Bran wasn’t here. He obviously wasn’t up to the task — whatever task Lord Nariakira had in mind for him. But Wulfhere would not fail. He was a Warwick — a scion of kings. The daimyo must have noticed that in him. He smiled, triumphal.
Now all I need is a new dragon, and this place is as good as mine.
Samuel finished packing his papers into the leather satchel and considered the view from the window; the bright summer sun dazzled the waves, gently lapping against the walled shore of Dejeema, spreading like a fan out into the Keeyo bay.
He had spent less than two months in this place, but he knew he would miss it — even though at times the island felt like a prison, as it must have done for those who actually had to live in the tiny space between the sea and the single-gated bridge leading onto the mainland.
In a way, it was Samuel’s first real holiday in years. With his status half-way between prisoner of war and a guest, there was little for him to do other than amble through the narrow, cobbled streets lined with pastel-coloured houses built in an odd manner that mixed the styles of the Bataavians and the Yamato. Sometimes he stood on the wall with the Porro glasses borrowed from the Admiral, and watched the comings and goings of the Keeyo harbour; as busy a port as any he had ever seen. The Yamato men, mostly, seemed to ignore the presence of the foreign outpost in the middle of their city, never even consciously turning their faces towards the island. Only the children and the women acknowledged Dejeema’s existence, each in their own way. The children would stand on the edge of the waves, trying to see who could throw a stone far enough to reach the outpost wall; the women, meanwhile… Samuel sighed at the thought. Yes, the fair city of Keeyo would be sorely missed.
At first, he had thought they were there merely for entertainment. And, sure enough, some of them were… but he soon discovered there was a lot more to it. The term Dejeema Wife that he began to hear a lot around the city was not a euphemism. The men — and there were only men on Dejeema according to the local law — really did take local women for wives, even if only by custom.
The Keeyo women — apart from those who got paid to fake interest — did not pay much attention to Samuel; the bushy black beards and fierce eyes of the Varyaga sailors drew far more of their notice. But, as he had eventually learned, there was more than a craving for the exotic at play.
“They
are regarded as outcasts, yes,” explained the Overwizard; the commander and governor of the outpost, who had arrived at Dejeema from some distant errand half-way through Diana’s stay. “The children of the union even more so. Shunned from most of society, especially if they are noble-born.”
“And what do they get for all that trouble?”
“Protection. A way out. Escape from an arranged marriage, or from an unwanted life. They may not be officially wedded, but everyone in Keeyo knows not to touch a Dejeema Wife. There was enough trouble over women in the past to make it into an unwritten law. Women of Yamato are an unhappy race,” the Overwizard said. “My men don’t need much – a loving touch, a friendly smile… and they know how to show their gratitude. Compared to what those women would suffer in a loveless marriage, it’s paradise.”
“And what about you, Overwizard? Do you have a Dejeema Wife? Or an actual one, back home?”
The plump man smiled sadly. “I had both and I lost both. I gave up.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. I’ve learned to deal with death the Yamato way. These people don’t dwell on the past, Doctor. It’s a useful trait.”
Samuel remembered well the sad smile. The Overwizard was a strange man: short, portly, and innocuous in stature, but he exuded energy. He was, of course, a powerful mage, though he rarely used magic in every-day life. But he had, above all, an immense authority over the rough rabble of hardy sailors and cut-throat merchants that made up the Dejeema crew, and that kind of power did not come from magic skills. In a quiet, subdued way, the Overwizard was at least as much of a leader of men as Dylan ab Ifor had been.
He tied the satchel up with a piece of string. Borrowed from the Overwizard it had, of course, a magic lock, but Samuel did not trust it. What if it broke? I would need to find a wizard to get to my notes.
The notes contained crucial clues to what Samuel believed to be the greatest secret of Yamato. As one of the few Western-trained and experienced doctors in the city, he had been giving his assistance in various medical matters during his stay on the island, both to the Bataavians and their Yamato kindred. It was then that he had begun to notice a curious pattern.
The Chrysanthemum Seal (The Year of the Dragon, Book 5) Page 25
