The Last Dragon King, page 3
part #8 of The Year of the Dragon Series
I have been a fool to refuse this power for so long, she realized. Her father had wisely steered her in the right direction. He must have known, too, that with the energies of Blood Magic at their disposal, the Yamato wizards could easily trump those in the West. She’d only glimpsed what she was capable of when tapping into her veins before, in times of desperation, but back then she had no guidance, no knowledge how to use it effectively. If only Yoshida Shōin had known what she knew now, maybe he would have lived … and the Red Jewel would still be whole.
Shōin …
She paused with her hand on the page. Sometimes, she caught glimpses of her past: names, people, and events. She knew Yoshida Shōin was somebody important because of what he’d done to the Tide Jewel, and how he’d died. A powerful wizard — one that, as Father Saturn — Yui-dono — had explained, they tried to recruit along with Satō. But there was more to him than that, a nagging emotion hidden in the depths of her mind. Whenever she tried to access it, her head hurt and she needed to drink more blood.
There were others, too, hidden behind an even thicker veil, and attempting to remember them hurt even more. A glimpse of fiery hair. Bright, green eyes. She didn’t like having parts of her mind rendered inaccessible, but she understood it was the price for the powers she’d gained.
You may succeed in remembering everything one day, warned Yui-dono, but you might lose what you have now in the process. Is that really what you wish for?
The Serpent’s Heads themselves remembered little of their past before they were turned. One name that would come back to her was that of the Renegade, a Fanged that was a great danger to their plans. Already he’d thwarted Chiyo’s assassination attempt in Satsuma, and neutralized Brother Sun of the Golden Robe long enough for Tosa navy to join the Rebels. Satō was only vaguely aware of the strategic implications of any of this, but she sensed clearly the irritation, growing into seething anger, of Brothers Saturn and Jupiter, the chief strategists of the Serpent.
“When I meet him, I’ll wring the Curse out of his neck with my bare hands,” seethed Jupiter of the Bronze Robe. He and Saturn were the last to join the Serpent, recruited after it became clear that their skill in military strategy might be needed more than the talents of assassins and spies. His eyes fell on Satō. “Or maybe we should send her to do it. She was his ally once, after all.”
She had faint recollection of her time at the Renegade’s side, and felt greatly ashamed of it. Having understood the Serpent’s true purpose, she recognized how his actions led directly to the subjugation of the country by foreign forces, inducing internal chaos, weakening the Taikun’s position, fostering rebellions … And to think she had assisted him in this foul endeavour! She was ready to do anything to atone for her mistakes.
“He’d know,” Yui-dono said, shaking his head. “He’d smell her on us. Sooner or later we’ll get him.” He turned to Satō. “For now, you have to focus on the ryū.”
The Blue Dragons, awakened on Enoshima, needed to be brought into control and, to achieve that, she needed both Tide Jewels at her disposal. If the debacle at the Black Wings base had taught her anything, it was that the hatchlings were little more than fodder to the adult beasts, mounted by skilled riders. She remembered the needles of pain she had felt in her mind after each dragon’s fall from the sky over Shimoda as she struggled to contain the beasts’ blind rage and turn them away towards Azuchi. The Blue Jewel burned her hands. Cracks had appeared in the crystal, and she had feared all her efforts would be undone, until at last, the monsters had yielded.
Was the pain and anger she sensed the ‘Farlink’, mentioned in the Western handbook she’d read? What if that dragon was slain? How would it feel? Like losing a limb …? The handbook said that an army rider would go through several mounts in his lifetime. What a terrible burden that must be.
There was still something lacking from all of her research; bits of knowledge the books and scrolls only skirted around. It was as if Ganryū had missed an important library, some remote temple or a mountain villa hidden from him, that contained all the information she needed. Without it, she was unable to refine her control of the newborn dragon army. Unable to progress any further, she confessed her troubles to Yui-dono. He nodded, stroking his chin.
“I’m glad you’re being honest,” he said. “It’s important that we all work together — arrogance and selfishness were what brought doom to the Crimson Robe. Leave this to me. I’ll try to find out as much as I can.”
He returned two days later with an odd look on his face which she interpreted as him not keen on telling her what he had to say. She knew what this usually meant: he needed to divulge another bit of her forgotten past, something that would cause her another headache, or worse.
“You were right,” he started. “There was a shrine the Crimson Robe omitted in his search — even though it was at his doorstep.”
“Mekari,” she guessed. She knew the name from the notes. “But he was there. He writes about it in his report. It’s where he found the Kanju.”
“And yet, after he got the jewel, he chose to ignore the temple’s library.” Yui shook his head. “There’s that arrogance of his again.”
“But we can still retrieve it, right?”
“When our agents got there yesterday, they found nothing. The head priest was dead, and the secret scrolls taken.”
“By whom?”
He grimaced. “This will be painful, but I need to tell you about another one of your former allies. Listen closely, for you may need this knowledge when you meet her.”
Her …?
CHAPTER III
There was a double tap at the door.
“Come in,” said Bran. “I’m decent.”
He reached for the chair and raised himself from the bed with effort. He opened the book at the worn bookmark. It was one of the Old Faith books he’d been forced to read by Leif during his previous stay with the Gorllewin. He didn’t want them to think he was spending his days idly.
The chaplain had not visited him in person yet. Bran wasn’t surprised. They hadn’t exactly parted in the friendliest of ways.
Frigga entered the room and slammed a tray on the table. It contained his lunch — a bowl of gruel, two barley-bread toasts and a pot of thin black coffee. She stared at Bran. He turned his eyes away, unable to look at the ugly scars of his doing, running from her left cheek across the neck and disappearing under the uniform shirt.
“How is everyone doing?” he asked. He was still too weak to leave his room in what looked like a village priest’s house. Frigga was the only Gorllewin soldier he’d talked to since waking up.
“Gundur’s not going to make it,” she replied. “He got scorched hard.”
Bran didn’t know the details of what happened when the blue dragons reached Shimoda, except that the Gorllewin riders fought them back with what sounded like heavy losses. Gundur was the name of the rider who’d guarded Bran’s rear during the flight from Enoshima.
“I’m sorry.” He closed his mouth, not knowing what else to say.
She scowled and reached for his head. He jerked back.
“Your bandage needs changing,” she said. “Stop messing with it.”
“Sorry.”
He’d grown unaccustomed to having to worry about wounds and bandages in Nagomi’s company, and now kept forgetting about the still seeping grazes on his forehead. Frigga unravelled the bandages with brusque, rough gestures. She brushed his wound with her fingers. He hissed in pain.
“Thank you,” he said when she finished dressing the wound.
She cast him a narrow-eyed glance.
“You think I want to do this?” She glowered.
“No, I’m sure you don’t.”
“This is the Komtur’s idea of punishing me for breaking the truce,” she said. “I don’t know why he keeps letting you live. I wouldn’t.”
The sliding door almost fell out of the groove as she slammed it shut.
She stepped through the opening into the darkness beyond. In the light coming from the tip of the monk’s staff she saw a staircase made of some slippery, slimy stone, widening towards a red glow at the bottom. Black, slithering shapes probed at the edges of the sphere of light.
“Stay at the back, priestess, and pray,” whispered the monk. “Let us deal with the danger first.”
She wasn’t sure how to refer to the man — to treat him as ‘Ihoru’, Bran’s estranged grandfather, or Tadaemon-sama, the powerful hermit she sensed inside his head. Their relationship was different to that of Bran and General Shigemasa. The onmyōji was the dominant personality, allowing the Westerner to come out to the surface only when talking to Gwen. She wondered if the same would have happened to Bran, had he stayed in Yamato for as many years as his grandfather with General Shigemasa still lingering in his mind.
The Western woman brushed past her on the narrow stair and moved forward, swiping a wide arc with the summoned Lance. Ifor-Tadaemon waved his jingling staff and the light from its top burst out in a cascade. Nagomi did not see the effect of their attack, as it fell just beyond the illuminated area, but she guessed it worked: Gwen charged ahead into the darkness, followed a few steps behind by Ifor. Nagomi spoke a quick prayer and rushed to keep up on the slippery steps.
When they reached the bottom, Ifor extinguished the light of his staff — there was no longer the need — the red glow of the Otherworld was sufficient to see the army of the black, squirming shapes spread all around them. The Shadows, wary of Gwen’s Lance, Ifor’s staff and Nagomi’s own white shimmer of prayer, slithered around them, readying for the next wave of attack.
“Where to now?” the monk asked her. “You must lead the way.”
“Me?” Nagomi pulled back. “But I don’t know how …”
“Focus on what you’re searching for. Neither of us can do this but you.”
She closed her eyes and thought of Satō. It wasn’t difficult — after all, she’d been thinking of her every single day since they parted. Last time they’d been together was the day the Kiheitai marched out to fight the peasants at Iwakuni. She looked strong and manly in her new black uniform, full of hope and trepidation. “I’ll be back soon,” she’d said — all those months ago …
Nagomi felt a wisp of wind touch her ear. She opened her eyes and saw the strands of visions, ribbons of images, sounds and colours, flowing all around her, and through her, through Gwen and Ifor, long strands coming from all directions. She knew these wisps — the false prophecies Prince Shakushain had taught her to filter through to perfect her Scrying abilities.
If I find the right one … will it guide me to Sacchan?
She prayed to the Spirits for guidance, and peered through the visions. She moved her hand through them; observing the way her glowing fingers interacted with the flows, she blew at them to see how the strands folded and twisted in the wind. One by one, the false images dissipated under her touch, until, only one, faint and weak, but with a strong red thread throughout, remained.
“This—”
Before she finished, the monk grabbed her by the hand and pulled in the direction she was pointing. Gwen charged forward, slashing and thrusting her way through the swarming darkness.
Nothing seemed to change around them as they ran, as if they didn’t move at all. She didn’t know for how long, the horizon remained as featureless, the plain as flat as it had ever been. It was just as the monk had said — time had no meaning here. Eventually, her calves began to ache. Her breath quickened into a wheeze.
“Wait—” she pleaded. “I can’t—”
“We’re getting closer!” Ifor replied.
“How do you know?”
“The Shadows are growing in numbers.”
She looked around, and her heart sank. He was right — despite their efforts, the slithering army was at least double the size it had been before. The red sand was barely visible from under the black bodies.
She looked to Gwen. No trace of weariness showed on the soldier’s face, but her Lance arm, mowing down the oncoming enemy, was weaving through the air slower and with more effort.
Nagomi scanned the horizon, searching for something to renew her hope, sending out beacons of prayer. A red beam of light flashed in the distance. A black spire, rising from the dusty plain. Satō’s Tower. But it was too far away, and the Shadows had gathered in a uniform dark mass between them and the beacon.
“We’ll never get through …”
Gwen and Ifor halted. Again, the monsters circled around them, wary of the weapons of light, but creeping close; braver now as their numbers increased. Gwen said something to the monk. He nodded.
“What did she say?”
“Climb on her back,” Ifor translated. “She’ll carry you.”
She did as she was told. The Lance vanished from the woman’s hand. The air around her shimmered — Nagomi recognized a shield similar to Bran’s. Ifor whirled his staff and stomped it into the ground and the earth around them trembled. A crack appeared in the red dust, zig-zagging towards the black spire on the horizon. The Shadows parted. With Nagomi holding her tightly, Gwen launched into a frantic run along the crack, her shield pushing the monsters apart. Ifor followed, his staff shooting beams of light at those of the Shadows that dared come closer.
At long last, the spire with the red beacon was getting nearer. Nagomi whooped, cheering Gwen to a faster run. The soldier picked up the pace. A stray black tentacle reached below the shield — she jumped over it. Then another — and Gwen tumbled into dust with a cry of pain. Nagomi skidded on the dust, bruising her knees and hands. The trouser leg of Gwen’s uniform was torn, revealing a deep black scar running from ankle to knee, a jagged, quickly swelling wound Nagomi had never seen before: the touch of a Shadow.
Ifor crouched down, bringing the light of his staff to guard them. Nagomi reached to Gwen’s leg to heal the wound, but the monk grabbed her hand.
“No! You’ll only bring more of them.”
Gwen made an attempt to stand, but the leg buckled under her. Ifor helped her up. She shook her head.
“We can’t leave her here,” said Nagomi.
“We may not have a choice. She can defend herself until we come back.”
Nagomi moved to protest but then heard a stamping sound of a heavy, galloping animal, and squelching of the trampled Shadows. She stood up and searched for the source of the noises. A mountain of black fur was approaching them at breakneck speed. Her heart leapt with joy.
“Torishi-sama!” she cried out.
But it wasn’t the Kumaso shaman. The giant black bear arrived with a dumb growl. There was no wisdom glinting in its eyes, just instinct and bloodthirst. Nagomi stepped back, and bumped into Ifor.
“It’s a Spirit guardian,” said the monk. “Do you know it, priestess?”
“It’s … mine, I think,” she remembered. Had it been sent by Torishi — or did it arrive of its own will?
The bear grunted, shaking its muzzle towards its back.
“I think it wants you to ride it,” said Ifor.
Slowly, hesitating, she climbed the animal’s wet, smelly back, and clutched its fur. The bear growled at the Shadows. The monsters retreated.
“What about you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about us,” the monk replied. “It’s your quest, priestess. Your story. We’ll wait for you here.”
He slapped the bear’s flank. The animal roared and made a huge leap over a tight group of Shadows.
The spire’s original white stone was still visible from under a black, organic substance growing over it. The black goo glistened and pulsated like a living thing, reaching almost to the top of the tower.
The bear’s jaws snapped on one last Shadow before the beast reached the tower’s door. It slammed its head on the thick timber. The door shuddered; the lock cracked open. Nagomi jumped down and pushed. The door creaked into darkness. She glanced back. The bear grumbled and swayed its head, urging her on.
Satō’s Otherworld “abode” was nothing like the simple white shrine that represented Nagomi’s mind. This one resembled most closely the tower of the Bataavian wizards on Dejima — or Bran’s own tower. The inside was cool and white, the growth from outside not reaching here yet.
She climbed the narrow, creaking, wooden stair, holding onto the slippery stone wall. Once in a while, the red light from the top swooped over the staircase, drawing strange shadows on the wall.
She reached the round room at the top. The red beacon hovered under the conical ceiling. By a square window stood a black-haired girl in a flowing robe of silver silk. She faced Nagomi.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” the girl said. “I was certain they’d stop you.”
She looked like Satō — emaciated, sunken-faced and pale-skinned — but didn’t sound like her at all. Her voice was biting cold, devoid of emotion, as were her eyes, black and matte, drilling into Nagomi without the glint of recognition
“Do you know where these creatures have come from?” Satō asked, looking down to the red dust plain, where the Shadows circled the tower and the black bear stood guard at the door below.
“I don’t …”
“Pity. Neither do I. But I know what they are.” A faint smile lingered on her lips. “They are darkness incarnate. They are emanations of fury. Little pods of hatred, seething with vengeance.”
“Is that what they want? Vengeance?”
Satō shrugged. “They don’t want anything. They are mindless, driven by blind anger. More like plants or insects than spirits. We attract them like magnets.”
“How do you know all this?”
The wizardess’s smile grew. A golden flash glimmered in her eye. “They whisper to me.”
Nagomi took a step back. I’m not here for this. “Sacchan … Do you — do you know who I am?”
“Of course.” Satō reached out to her. “You’re my best friend, Itō Nagomi.” She wrapped her arms around the priestess in a mechanical motion. “You’ve come to save me.”
