The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) (15 page)

A cloud of grey smoke rose up from top-floor windows and a burnt-out hole in the roof. Tongues of flame licked the frames, but he heard no sounds of fighting. Nobody was even coming to douse the fires. Seen through True Sight, the keep was wrapped in streams and strands of magic too tight to penetrate.

This doesn’t feel like Satō’s magic. Where’s the ice? She doesn’t fight with fire.

“We are coming down,” he said. “Hold tight.”

Nagomi clung to his back. He surrounded them both with a
tarian
and dived.

At the same moment, the roof of the keep bristled with opened hatches. A storm of arrows, harpoons, ropes and nets flew towards Emrys. Bran banked to the left and right, avoiding the first wave of missiles. The dragon’s breath vaporised a few, but some ropes and nets entangled its wings. The dragon’s muscles tensed and the ropes snapped. Bran burned the remaining stubborn nets away. He turned a tight circle and charged at the castle again. But the element of surprise — if ever there was any — was lost.

They knew …

Another salvo launched towards them. This time, none of the missiles reached past Emrys’s breath. The dragon rounded the topmost floor, pouring flame into the hatches. It perched on a beam overhanging the burnt-out hole in the roof, and spat a fireball down it. Horrid cries of agony and the stench of scorched flesh came from inside, followed by a rush of panicked steps and then — silence.

Bran waited until the flames subsided, then jumped down into the smouldering opening. He hissed at the burst of pain in his chest.

Damn it, I should’ve let Nagomi deal with this as well.

It was obvious something very wrong was going on inside his ribcage.

Nagomi landed alongside him. The corridor was dark, narrow, and filled with choking smoke. Bran stepped forward and tripped on something: a body, burnt to a crisp. He felt the bitter taste of sick in his throat. He put a trembling hand to his mouth.

“They are the enemy,” said Nagomi, as if reading his thoughts. “They wanted to kill us.”

Stop it. You’re supposed to be the merciful one.

“Be careful,” he said. “They will be waiting for us.”

“I don’t hear any fighting.”

“I know. It worries me too.”

He focused the
tarian’s
energy in front, and they moved forward. They passed over abandoned bows, quivers, and spear shafts. They reached a trap door leading downstairs.

“I think it’s empty,” he said, eyeing the floor below with True Sight.

“I know,” replied Nagomi. “It’s safe.”

He glanced at the priestess.

Has she seen this already? Is this why she’s so determined?

He climbed down the short ladder and summoned the Soul Lance. The shimmering golden light cut through the thick smoke. The floor was hot under his feet. Thick, oozing sweat covered his skin. The magic shield filtered some of the smoke and heat — it was the only way they could still move through the blazing building. Somewhere in front, a beam burned through and snapped, launching a swarm of buzzing sparks.

“The whole place will come crumbling down in a minute,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” said Nagomi, her voice muffled through the sleeve of her kimono. “Where is everyone?”

“Waiting in a trap somewhere, no doubt.”

The corridor wound on. Bran opened door after door, finding nothing but empty storerooms and armouries. They reached a broad staircase on the opposite end of the floor. The flames had not yet reached there, but the smoke and soot gathered at the top in an impenetrable column, snaking towards the ceiling. Bran pierced the darkness with True Sight — and was blinded by a flash of bright purple light. He staggered back into Nagomi’s arms.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re close,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “The Fanged was here. I can feel him. The magic …” He moved down the staircase. The cold, metallic taste made his tongue numb, and a sudden chill came over his body, banishing the heat of the fire.

He stepped onto the floor. The walls burst open, showering him with shards of ice. The
tarian
sizzled, absorbing the magic.

Ice wizard …? Where in Annwn—

“Bran! Look out!”

He glanced up and leapt back, bringing Nagomi with him to the floor and covering her with his body. A roar of thunder shattered the air. The hair on his back stood on end.

“Hounds of Annwn! Another thunder gun! How can they have so many?”

Without looking, he reached out and shot a barrage of fiery missiles down the corridor. Another bolt of lightning crackled over his head, hitting the ceiling. A body fell to the floor with a thud.

“Come on.” Bran helped Nagomi up. “We’re getting closer.”

“And that’s as far as you go,” said a commanding voice.

Over the body of the gunner stood a samurai — the man with the broken nose, in the light-blue uniform. Behind him, in the smoke, loomed silhouettes of more men — archers and gunners, their weapons trained at Bran and Nagomi.

“You again? I thought they killed you in Heian.”

“I’m hard to kill,” the swordsman smiled. “Just like you seem to be, barbarian.”

He raised a fist and stepped back into the smoke. Arrows and bullets flew down the corridor and bounced off the
tarian.

“We can do this all day,” the broken-nosed swordsman said. “Eventually, you’ll run out of power. Isn’t that how this works?”

“How would
you
know?”

“Your wizardess friend told us.” He chuckled.

“Liar!” Bran shot one tongue of bluish flame after another, with each step. The swordsman pulled back, behind his men. The missiles flew again.

“You die here, barbarian, you and your little priestess,” the swordsman spoke from the darkness. “For good this time.”

Bran’s
tarian
flashed and flickered, reflecting another volley. Lance in hand he charged at the enemy. The archers fled and in their place stood forth the spearmen, four abreast, tightly packed in the narrow corridor. The Lance whirled, slashing through the spear shafts first, then through the chests … but when the smoke cleared, the men were gone, leaving a few bodies scattered on the floor.

“I told you, we can do this all day!” the swordsman’s voice came from the darkness. “I have more men to spare than you have your fire missiles.”

Bran coughed. With the shield losing its power, the smoke and flames were beginning to reach his lungs. “I need clean air to power the shield. We have to get out of this fire. Find the stairs. Get to the lower levels.”

He kicked the thin paper wall. Breaking through room after empty room, he led Nagomi past the flames until they reached another stairwell.

“Bran …” Nagomi caught his hand. “If that swordsman was here, waiting for us—”

“I know. That means Satō’s already gone.”

“Then why are we still—”

“There will be clues. This is why they started this fire — to get rid of clues, evidence.”

“It’s too dangerous. We should get Emrys and leave while we still can.”

“Don’t you want to know where they took her?”

Nagomi bit her lip. She looked down the stairwell, then ran past Bran and disappeared in the shadows.

“Wait … damn it—”

He charged after her, but by the time he reached the floor below, she was nowhere to be seen. The smoke had begun to clear a little — the source of the fire was no longer spreading throughout the corridors.

“Nagomi! Where are you?”

“Here, Bran!
Ah
—!” Nagomi’s voice broke in a cry, and was replaced by the sound of clashing arms.

He launched towards the noise, dropping the
tarian
and the Lance. His heart beating madly, he reached a large sliding door and rammed it down with his shoulder.

He barged into an octagonal hall, its gold-painted walls covered with soot, crimson stains, and runes drawn in red paint. Nagomi stood in the middle of the room, a bloodied dagger in her hands, and a body in a light-blue uniform at her feet. She was surrounded by a dozen more swordsmen.

At first Bran couldn’t grasp why they were so reluctant to approach her. Then he noticed: the priestess was enveloped in a dazzling white, slowly receding aura.

When the men spotted Bran, they turned to him — an unarmed boy a seemingly easier target than Nagomi. He faced them with a
bwcler
on his left hand and the Lance in the other, but both were flickering and crackling with dissipating energy.

I can’t sustain it. I need a sword.

They charged at him from three sides at once. He ignored the left attacker, who struck at the
bwcler,
and cut through the right one’s sword with the Lance, but the third weapon dug into his forearm, its blade trapped between the bones. He bit into his lip to suppress a cry of pain and thrust forward with the Lance. The light blade vanished, leaving a gaping hole in the enemy’s chest.

Bran retreated into the corridor, pulling the sword out of his forearm. For a moment, the pain and shock blinded him. He covered his face and neck with the
bwcler,
just in time to reflect
two more forceful blows.

Once he felt the sharkskin grip in his hand, Shigemasa’s memories came flooding in. Like the Yamato language, the skill in swordsmanship was still embedded deep in Bran’s mind.

He parried, blocked, and dodged the first few strikes to ascertain the enemies’ skill, but within seconds he counter-attacked, pushing the surprised samurai back into the octagonal room. With the tip of his blade he drew a smooth, deadly triangle, slashing through the thigh and stomach of one attacker and the shoulder and chest of another. The others pulled back beyond the range of his sword to regroup, and strike again.

He could not see Nagomi or her aura through the enemy ranks. They were pushing him back into the hallway: even Shigemasa’s memories could not help him hold out against ten skilled swordsmen, once the surprise and magic ran out. The
bwcler
disappeared, as his strength spilled out of his forearm along with the blood. He picked up the dead samurai and used his body as a shield, but even this, he knew, would not last long. His legs trembled, and his grip on the sword grew weak.

Two swordsmen leapt at him from left and right. He pushed the dead body at the left one, and reached forward to parry the other’s attack, but the force of the blow threw the weapon out of his hand. The blade reached his shoulder and dug deep into the collarbone. He fell to his knees. The enemy raised his sword again to finish the job.

A roaring thunderbolt struck him with full force and threw him across the corridor.

Nagomi ran up to Bran and supported him from falling. Behind her, in the octagonal room, Takasugi, Koyata, and Tokojiro stood back to back, their kimonos splattered red. Around them lay the bodies of a dozen dead samurai in light-blue uniforms. The blue electrodes of the thunder gun in Koyata’s hands still smouldered.

Bran leaned against the wall and watched how Nagomi’s blue light penetrated deep into the wound in his forearm. No matter how often he’d seen it, it was always a fascinating sight: the way the blood congealed on his skin, and the tissue, nerves, and blood vessels reconnected, first into a pink, jelly-like mass, then into a more familiar shape of muscles and skin.

The priestess gasped and doubled down. The blue light dissipated.

“I’m sorry,” she stuttered, “It’s all I can—”

“It’s all right,” he said, stroking her hand. “It’s enough.”

“But your shoulders, all your other wounds—”

“Just dress them, please. It’ll be fine.” He turned to Takasugi. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Tennoji?”

The
kiheitai
commander kicked one of the slain men onto his back and studied his face for moment, before moving to another one.

“We thought you could use some help,” he replied.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” said Tokojiro.

“But what about your men? What about the monastery?”

“They’re still fighting — I hope. We don’t have much time. Can you stand up?”

Bran attempted to rise, but his legs buckled under him and he slid back down to the floor. “Give me a moment. Have you found him yet? The man with the broken nose?”

Takasugi leaned over the last of the bodies. “He’s not here.
Kuso.
He got away again.”

“And so must we,” said Koyata. He reached out to assist Bran to stand up. “This place won’t remain empty for long. Come.”

“Wait.” Bran raised his hand. “We have to find out what happened to Satō.”

“We tried to find a clue,” said Takasugi. “They were very thorough — two whole floors burned to ash. There’s nothing left.”

“Just … wait.”

Bran took a deep breath and straightened himself, ignoring the needle of pain in his chest. He closed his eyes and let the streams of magic flow through his mind. They were quickly dissipating, but he could still sense them. He knelt down and put his hand to the floor.

“A teleportation hex. From this room,” he said. He opened his eyes and looked around. “Those runes on the walls … that’s not red paint.”

He approached the nearest wall. There was plenty of blood on the bodies around, but he sensed it was better to use his own. He dabbed a finger in the wound in his shoulder and touched the rune.

His left leg exploded with light. He cried in pain. The runes on the wall lit up purple and blue, sucking the offered blood to the last drop. A web of dark, wavy lines came together in the middle of the hall, and a single, thin thread came out, disappearing into the wall.

Bran crouched down, cradling his pounding head in his arms.

Nagomi ran up to him. “Bran?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. That wall.” He nodded. “What … direction is that?”

Koyata stood in the middle of the room, with his arms outstretched. “We came up from here, the main gate is there, so I’d say … east?”

“More or less,” added Tokojiro. “Can’t really be sure—”

“No,” said Bran. “Look at this room. Eight walls, eight directions, straight like the compass, am I right?”