The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) (35 page)

Another arrow bounced off his shield. He somersaulted over the guards’ heads. Landing, he grabbed the dragon’s snout with one hand and, hanging a few feet over the ground, slashed through the iron grate with the Lance, bars clanging to the ground. A second later he was inside, raising a wall of dragon flame a foot thick between himself and the enemy.

The “priests” halted. They may have been trained soldiers, but they were no mages. They prodded the fire with their spear tips to see if it wasn’t an illusion, while others kicked dirt onto it and called for water buckets to douse the blaze.

Bran whirled around, ready for whatever danger came from within the cave. The grotto was small, damp, and empty, except for some old withered offerings and melted candles. A part of the stone floor at the far end was raised to form a platform the size of a single bed. The stench of blood magic coming from it was so overwhelming it made his skin crawl. But there was another aura there, an aura Bran was so desperately looking for: the lightning-blue haze of Satō’s ice power.

He pressed both hands to the stone. His thigh burned and the runes carved into the rock altar lit up purple and blue. He sensed a hollow underneath: this wasn’t just a part of the floor cut higher than the rest, this was a slab of rock, set up to conceal something below.

A rain of arrows made his
tarian
light up in a web of sparks and crackles. He looked over his shoulder. The footmen had made way for a line of archers who were now shooting through the flames.
One large fish in a very small barrel
. He grabbed the Soul Lance in both hands and pierced the altar. The blade of light burned slowly through the raw limestone. Drops of molten slag flew around like sparks from a blacksmith’s forge. The
tarian
burned white from the absorbed energy of the arrows. Bran’s forehead was covered with sweat, his hands trembled. His breath quickened — the air in the cave was growing thin, used up to fuel the shield. He was quickly running out of energy.

The altar cracked under the pressure and burst in two, revealing a fissure in the ground. It smelled of salt and seaweed. At the same time, several burly acolytes barged into the cave, finally braving the flames. They wielded iron-studded maces and clubs rather than spears. One glance at their weapons told Bran they knew what they were doing: intense pounding on the magic shield would reduce it in moments, leaving him defenceless and exhausted.

He had no strength left to face all of them now. He pressed again at the two halves of the stone platform and, directing all that was left of his power into his arms, pushed them apart. The left side remained unmoved, but the right one, once he overcame the initial resistance, slid away as if on oiled grooves.

Bran lost his balance and tumbled head forward into the hole.

He rolled down the slick tunnel and splashed into a shallow pool of murky, stale sea brine at the bottom. He lay there, gathering his strength and bearings as the salt penetrated his clothes and wounds.

The hole had disgorged him in the middle of a wide, straight corridor with roughly hewn walls and an undulating floor. The rising and falling roar of the furious ocean came from one end, a warm draft blew from the other, carrying the stench of rotten eggs. The floor rose at a low angle towards the noise of the waves.

A hissing, tossing noise came from the tunnel above Bran. He rolled away from under the opening just as a flaming barrel of saké, packed in rice straw, tumbled out of the hole. He hid his head in his arms. The barrel shattered, spraying him with splinters and hot liquor. All the cuts and bruises on his back lit up in pain at once. He heard another barrel fall down the shaft. Clambering on his hands and knees, he rushed up the corridor. The second flaming missile burst moments later, with an ear-shattering noise.

Bran fell to the floor, stunned: this time, the barrel had been filled with lamp oil. With a scream, he tore off Gwen’s cloak before it burned into his back and shoulders. Each move releasing a moan of pain, he crawled away towards the sound of the waves.

The corridor was now well lit by the flames, but the pool of burning oil produced bellows of thick black smoke, rising on the updraft, choking Bran. He found enough strength to summon a weak thermal shield, but his energy was waning fast. He heard the guards climbing down the shaft. He bit his lower lip, and stood up to a slouching shuffle.

The tunnel widened as he neared the exit. Another, narrower passage split away at an angle. A faint line of purple light zig-zagged down it. Bran rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the line didn’t vanish. All the pain and exhaustion made him sensitive to the powerful energies buzzing in these underground corridors to the level where he started seeing the magic with just his natural sight.

He followed the purple line. A loud splash, followed by a curse, told him the first of the priests had reached the burning pool at the bottom of the corridor. The passage wound left and right, up and down, the floor and walls not as smooth as those in the main tunnel. He guessed it had been hewn at a later date, and with less effort and precision. There was another draft here, coming from some ventilation shaft above. It helped to keep this part of the caves clear from the black smoke for the time being.

The corridor ended abruptly in a small room. It looked almost like the inside of a samurai house. The walls were whitewashed — and scribbled all over with blood runes. There was straw bedding under one wall, a chest of drawers at the other end, and between them, a writing desk. A giant crest of the Black Serpent loomed on the wall above it.

Somebody was sitting at the desk, dressed in a long hooded robe of silver silk, surrounded by piles of densely written paper and dozens of shards of crystals and gems. Immersed in some thick book, the robed figure was oblivious to the noise, light, and smoke coming from the corridor. Despite his confusion and aches, despite the unfamiliar clothes and surroundings, it took Bran only one glance to recognize the person at the desk. Blood curdled in his veins. He stepped forward and glanced at the book over the silver-clad shoulder. It was the Dracology Handbook from Llambed, with Yamato translations scribbled in the margins.

“Satō ...” he croaked.

She turned lightning fast and pressed her hand to his chest. Her eyes glowed golden in a pale face. Her parched, bloodless lips moved noiselessly, pronouncing a dark spell. The air turned into ice around Bran. Lightning shot from Satō’s fingers. Bran flew in the air and slammed against the wall.

CHAPTER XXII

Nagomi opened her eyes in pitch darkness. At first she thought a small earthquake had woken her, but there was no usual silence following the tremors. The forest spirits were agitated.

The tent was empty. Gwen was outside, crouching. Nagomi saw her silhouette in the faint moonlight. She crawled up to the entrance and peeked through the flap.

“What’s going on?” she whispered.

Gwen put her finger to her lips. She pointed to the trees and imitated moving legs with her fingers. Somebody was approaching through the woods.

The dragon snored and rolled onto its side. The earth shook under it. The forest burst in a brief cacophony of sounds, disturbed from their slumber. Gwen kicked sand over the remains of the smouldering campfire. She rolled over to the dragon and hid herself in its shadow. She gestured at Nagomi to stay in the tent.

Through the small slits between tent’s flaps, Nagomi saw five men emerging quietly from between the trees. She didn’t sense an evil presence, so they weren’t servants of the Serpent.

Forest bandits? Here, in this wilderness?

The men entered the glade and spread out in a semicircle. They approached the tent from three sides, giving a wide berth to the sleeping dragon. In the moonlight they looked haggard and worn, they wore ill-fitting, dirty clothes, but their hair was cut neat and they wielded long swords with ease of practice.

Rōnin, then?

Gwen rushed from under the dragon, a grey blur of action. She buried a short blade in the back of one of the men, pulled it out, and threw it at the throat of another. Before the two bodies dropped to the floor, a bright white lance buzzed in her hand. She whirled around and the third man fell, his chest slashed.

The remaining two raised their swords over their heads. One charged forward. He was almost as swift as Gwen, but she dropped to her side as the sword fell on her, and thrust the Lance through the enemy’s chest. She rolled back to her feet and leapt at the last swordsman.

“No, stop!” Nagomi shouted, jumping from the tent. Gwen hesitated. The swordsman struck. She slashed through the blade, but half of it flew onwards and pierced her shoulder. With a growl, she let her shining lance vanish and rushed the enemy to the ground. He writhed under her, but she kept him pinned down in a grasp belying her small, slim form. She drew another small blade from her boot and put it to his neck. The swordsman froze.

“Who sent you?” Nagomi asked him quickly. She looked to Gwen and she nodded in silent response.

“Why’re ye helpin’ ’er?” he asked in reply. His was a thick, northern accent she barely understood. “She’s a barbarian.” He spat.

“Did Aizu send you? The
Taikun
?”

The man winced and spat. “Aizu?
Pah
. We are Mito. The las’ o’ the rebels.”

“Rebels? But we — you thought we were the Black Wings?”

“Silver wings, black wings, wha does it ma’er. We swore to hunt down all foreign demons, no ma’er wha they rode. Even if it meant our death.”

“You’re wrong. We’re not your enemy.”

“Your hair—” The swordsman noticed the glimpse of red in the moonlight. “Ye’re a ha’-demon ye’eself.”

“My father was a physician from Dejima, not a demon!” she protested.

“Dejima? I thought ye talked funneh.”

“Are there many of you left around here?”

“I’m na tellin’ ye tha!” The swordsman scoffed, holding back a grimace of pain. His face was turning pale. She glanced at the wound in his leg and ran her fingers along it, stemming the flow.

“Listen,” she spat quick words to keep his attention, “I don’t know how much you know of what’s been happening in the South. There’s a rebellion in Chinzei, too. Lord Nariakira of Satsuma and others are marching north. They have
dorako
and
Gaikokujin
generals on their side, just like her.” She nodded at Gwen. “The
kiheitai
escaped the destruction of Heian, and so has the
Mikado.
There’s still hope!”

She searched her memory for anything else that could convince him she was telling the truth.

“I … I don’t believe ye,” the rebel muttered. “It’s a trick.”

“Oh — and I met Yokoi-
dono,
” she remembered. Didn’t the nobleman mention having taken part in the Mito rebellion? “He escaped from the Black Wings’ prison.”

“Lord Yokoi?” The rebel grasped her hand. “He’s alive?”

“I travelled with him for a few days. He told me about your fight. I swear it’s all true.”

“I — but if—” He glanced around the glade, his gaze stopping at the bodies of his fallen comrades. His mouth twisted in a grimace of pain and disappointment. “Stupid.”

“You didn’t know.”

She gestured at Gwen to let the rebel rise up. The woman’s eyes narrowed in an unspoken question. “It’s all right, he won’t fight,” she said, hoping she at least understood the tone. Gwen sheathed the knife back in her boot and helped the man up.

“Tell the others to hide and wait,” said Nagomi. “Help is coming,”

He picked up a half of his sword, stuck it awkwardly back into the sheath and limped away into the trees.

“Make sure to return for the bodies of your comrades,” she shouted at him.

“The wolves will take care of them,” he replied and vanished in the darkness.

Gwen sat heavily on the ground, clutching her arm. She said something in the strange language of hers.

Nagomi remembered. “You’re hurt!”

Gwen noticed her look and shrugged nonchalantly. Her shoulder spurted blood and she winced in pain. Nagomi touched the wound gently. Gwen jerked her arm away, but Nagomi pressed on.

“I can help,” she said gently. She touched the wound again. A warm, healing energy poured through her fingers. The cut clasped shut, leaving a large dark scab.

“I’m so sorry,” said Nagomi bowing, “I can only do that much. There wouldn’t even be a scar if a real healer was here.”

Gwen stared at her shoulder and touched the scabbed wound. She then grabbed the priestess’s hands and studied them, shaking her by the shoulders and speaking swiftly in her own tongue, more to herself than expecting Nagomi to answer.

Only now did it dawn on Nagomi what she had done. She’d shown the healing magic to a foreigner — other than Bran. In any other time, this would have been a crime of highest treason. There was a sense of dread at the back of Nagomi’s head at the realization, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Sooner or later, all
Gaikokujin
would figure out the mystery. She was sure Dejima knew. She bet the Black Wings at least suspected. Her father … her
real
father must certainly have been aware of it.