The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) (2 page)

The prisoners were haggard and tired, but they kept their heads and backs straight, some even whistled as they marched. They seemed glad to be relieved of having to defend the castle. Dylan wasn’t surprised. These were all commoners, local townsfolk and peasants, press-ganged into manning the ramparts and watchtowers. Now they would return to running their shops and tilling the fields. There was not one warrior among these captives. Those of the defending noblemen who did not commit suicide were taken to interrogation tents. Dylan did not inquire about what happened there - the Yamato had their own rules for dealing with their kind and all Westerners involved in the conflict agreed to honour them.

One of the minor rebel commanders, a vassal of Lord Nabeshima of Saga, appeared on the road with a small detachment of swordsmen. He shouted at the guards and waved a wooden paddle of his office. The swordsmen pushed the prisoners off the main road and into a ditch. Dylan scoffed at this display of petty arrogance from the nobleman, unwilling to share a street with a bunch of commoners. But the orders didn’t end there. The samurai arranged the captives into a single line, their backs to the road. Swords flashed in the sunlight. Some of the prisoners realized what was happening before Dylan did. They shouted and struggled with shackled hands when the blades fell without a sound and the first head rolled into the ditch, leaving a red stripe in the dirt.

“Hey!” Dylan shouted, knowing full well he was too far away to prevent another strike. He leapt off the gatehouse, cushioning his fall with magic. “Stop that at once!”

These people were not professional soldiers. They had surrendered. He was not going to let them die like dogs. He shot a magic missile at the nearest of the swordsmen and then rolled a ball of flame in his hands, ready to fight his way through, when a shadow blocked the sun and a golden ribbon dropped from the sky in gentle coils.

Li Hung-Chang’s dragon landed on the road between Dylan and the rebels. In the saddle next to the Qinese sat an aristocrat bearing the same Saga crest as the rebel commander.
Nabeshima.

The
daimyo
leapt off the golden dragon, drew near to the rebel officer in four quick steps, and slapped him in the face with force. All colour rushed from the vassal’s face. Without saying a word, the
daimyo
then turned back, mounted the dragon again and bade Li launch into the air.

The headless bodies dropped to the ground.

The
long
rose in a golden, glinting spiral above the captured castle, far from prying eyes and ears. The Dracalish may have had his magical shield of silence — Li was keen to notice any device that could come in useful for spying and intrigue back at the Imperial Court — but this was the next best thing. Here, in the clear sky, he could talk to the warlords and envoys in peace and quiet, which was impossible to find in the crowded roads of Yamato.

Lord Nabeshima needed little convincing to join Li on these rides. He soon appreciated the advantages of observing the world from dragon back. Like his rival, Nariakira Shimazu, he too turned out to be well educated in Qin classics, although his odd accent made him sound like a country bumpkin to Li’s ears.

Li was at pains to stress that his assistance was not to be understood as condoning the rebellion. He never agreed to take Nabeshima or any of the other commanders into battle. He had made them sign an official contract regarding “hiring” his dragon’s services, and the
daimyo
had paid a good sum into the coffers of the Qin outpost in Kiyō for it.

“Do you think it worked?” the
daimyo
asked as soon as the
long
reached an altitude at which only the passing kites could overhear them. “He is a good officer. I’d hate to lose him for no good reason. He has no choice now but to kill himself.”

Beneath them, the surviving commoners marched on in a loose column, as Commodore Di Lán watched to make sure no more harm came to them until their release.

“The Westerners are as,
ah,
inscrutable to me as they are to you, Lord,” Li replied in a diplomatic way. “But I believe we have at least sown a seed of confusion in the Commodore’s heart. He will see that you are not as ruthless as the
Bohan,
my commander in Qin. Maybe he will see that he is right to be on your side.”

“I don’t understand this man. Why does he care so for these commoners? He didn’t bat an eyelid when we tortured the enemy nobles.”

“From what I recall, he is a commoner’s son himself.”

“That doesn’t explain anything. The peasants and merchants would sell each other for a sack of rice. They lack the moral fibre to stand for one another.”

“It’s different in the West, my Lord. You see, Sir Di Lán is well bred and properly educated, and his moral fibre is worthy of a philosopher. It can be stronger even than his sense of duty, as his actions in Qin proved.”

“
Eeeh.
” Nabeshima rubbed his chin. “I see how this could have proven troublesome in the long run.” He waved his wooden paddle down, indicating his desire to land. “You did well, Qinese. Your Kiyō outpost may count on another grant increase this year.”

Gwen sat down beside Dylan on the grassy bank of the river. She put her battle-weary feet in the fast-flowing water and reached out a cup to him. He poured her a portion of the strong local liquor from a clay flask.

A reflection of a golden firework burst in the water among the glimmering stars bobbing calmly in the waves. All along the riverbank, the Yamato soldiers drank, laughed, and danced in celebration of victory.

“The party lasts longer than the battle,” she said. “We’ll lose more men drowning drunk in this river than in the siege.”

“Let them have their fun,” replied Dylan. “Most expected to die here. They are not used to fighting, after all. Even those samurai sword masters — the only time they have fenced before was in tournaments.”

“You can say that again,” Gwen scoffed and poured herself another cupful. “They were useless on the upper floors. It’s a good thing the enemy’s not much better, either.”

“They tested our strength. I don’t believe those soldiers were the best the
Taikun
could muster.”

She looked over his shoulder, back to the castle and the town beyond, bathed in light. Braziers and lanterns marked the paths to the inns and brothels, eager to welcome the victorious army. The townsfolk would sleep light tonight — but at least they’d wake up richer.

“If only we could hope for all the battles to be that short,” she mused. “Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe this isn’t a ruse.”

“How do you mean?”

“This
Taikun
we’re up against — and his government ... Well, Curzius claims he’s not some ruthless tyrant. After all, his family ruled this place for centuries. No one staged an uprising before.”

“So you think he’s let us win here, rather than risk a slaughter of civilians?”

“In this dry weather, this town would burn to cinder from a spark.”

“Like Heian, you mean,” he said, recalling the harrowing report Wulfhere had brought back from the North to last night’s Council. “They didn’t seem too bothered with the civilians
there
.”

“The Gorllewin and those … Abominations were in charge there. Those are our real enemies — and we’ll need more than the spearmen and swordsmen to deal with them.”

A loud splash announced another soldier falling into the river, his comrades shouting from the shore. A foaming spout of water gushed the drowning man back out, and buried him head first in the sand. Gwen looked to the opposite shore. A man with a dragon-burned face stood there, in his impeccable
Rangaku
uniform, framed by two attendants with bright torches and Shimazu banners. The trace of a rune of torrents lingered faint in the air before him.

“Satsuma has arrived,” Dylan muttered. “Now we may stand a chance.”

A black-and-golden palanquin marked with a crossed circle arrived at the castle gate. An attendant rushed to open the door and help the aristocrat inside climb out.

Dylan did not recognize him at first. A sunken face the shade of a rotten lemon, a bent back, one hand resting on a bamboo cane, the other hanging limp by his side. Only the eyes remained as vigilant and bright as ever.

“Lord Shimazu!” Dylan cried in genuine shock. “What happened to you?”

The
daimyo
waved the servant away and straightened himself up proudly, wincing. “I was struck in my own home,” he replied in hoarse Bataavian. “The enemy’s blade cut deep.” He raised the limp hand. The broad sleeve fell, revealing a two-fingered palm. “I lost a lot more than just my fingers.”

Bran’s ring is gone.

“I see you have much to tell,” said Dylan and stepped back to allow a nobleman from Saga clan to approach Nariakira and offer his arm in support. “The Council is about to begin — though with your permission, I’d like to speak with you alone first.”

The
daimyo
frowned as he saw the tents and cloth screens scattered around the courtyard.

“The Council meets outside?”

“We still haven’t flushed out all the spies from the castle,” Dylan explained. “We keep finding them in the walls and secret compartments. Devices, too.”

“Western Magic?” Nariakira raised an eyebrow. “
Rangaku
?”

“I suspect the Gorllewin supplied the parts,” said Dylan, though the markings on the machines indicated a Bataavian influence. This wasn’t surprising — Curzius had been playing on both sides until recently ... or perhaps he still was. If he was, Dylan couldn’t blame him — he would do exactly the same in his place.

“I see.” The
daimyo
looked to the sun and clicked at the palanquin attendants. “Put it in the shadow,” he ordered. “It’s going to be another scorching day.”

Dylan helped Nariakira limp up the stairs to the top of a watchtower. The
daimyo
turned towards the Chikugo River, which drew a wide bend eastward along the foot of the castle. A small flotilla of ships rested at anchor at a mooring point to the west of the town’s only bridge.

“It’s all on foot from here,” said Nariakira. He lit up a long bamboo pipe. Dylan joined him with a rolled up cigarette from Bataavian supplies. “All the way to Kokura, fighting through swamp and mountain.”

Dylan reached for the spyglass and studied the ships. Most of them bore Satsuma banners — a few belonged to the other rebel
daimyos.

“Have you brought your entire fleet up this river?” he asked.

“Almost. We feared it would be needed to support the siege, but looks like the ships are not needed where
dorako
can fly.”

Dylan smiled politely. “There will be other sieges to win.”

“I know, I know. This war’s only just started. We’re not even out of Chinzei yet.”

His speech was slow and measured — no longer the machine-like flood of words that Dylan remembered from their first encounter. He arced the landscape, encompassing the entire army camp below with his gesture.

“Do you think this is a strong enough force to take on the
Taikun
? To reach Edo?”

Nariakira chuckled. “You’re wondering if you’ve chosen the right side. Don’t worry, Dracalish. Even if we lose, I’m sure you’re cunning enough to earn some profit from it.”

“That may be, but I don’t like wasting time on fool’s errands.”

The
daimyo
tapped his pipe on the battlement. “I sense you have an idea, Commodore-
dono
.”

“I have several, but only one involves your help.”

“I’m listening.”

“You said almost your entire fleet is here—” Dylan picked up the spyglass again. “But I don’t see the most important of your ships. The mistfire warship.”

Nariakira puffed on the pipe. He leaned against the battlement. His fingerless hand was pale and shaking.

He’s in pain,
realized Dylan.
This will make things easier.

Finally, Nariakira spoke again.

“It’s guarding the river’s mouth, some ten
ri
away. I couldn’t risk bringing her here. What do you want with my ship anyway?”

“I want to borrow it.”

The
daimyo
bit on the pipe’s stem. “I don’t like this idea, Commodore.”

“I spoke with Curzius. If we man it with a Bataavian crew, it could still make it to Qin and back before the pattern of the Sea Maze changes.”

“To
Qin?
A Yamato ship? But that would—” Nariakira gasped and shook his head. “What for?”

“Weapons. I’ll write an order to my men in Qin. In a couple of weeks, you’ll have enough thunder guns, cannons, and Congreve rockets to vanquish any fortress, with or without the help of my dragons.”

“Wouldn’t that mean the Dracaland endorsing the rebellion?” the
daimyo
asked. “Have the hold loaded with silver, gold, silk. You will
buy
the munitions from the Dracalish quartermaster. Better yet, mention something about willing to acquire some new technologies, for a good price. A pneumatic railway, or a blast furnace.”

“And your superiors would agree to it?”

“They will, if I show them where the profits lie.”

In reality, the order would have to be written by Edern. After all, Dylan no longer held any position in the Dracalish army; he wasn’t even presumed to be alive. But Nariakira didn’t need to be made aware of any of this.

The
daimyo
tried to light the pipe again, but his hand was shaking too much.

“Allow me,” said Dylan, and set the tobacco aflame with a snap of his fingers.

“There is one thing you’d have to remember,” said Nariakira between puffs. “It’s
my
ship. Not the rebellion’s, not the
Mikado’s
. The ship, and everything on it, belongs to the Shimazu.”

Dylan nodded. “I understand perfectly.”

A movement caught his eye across the river. He raised the spyglass: a column of warriors marched up the road under a banner he did not recognize. He handed the spyglass to Nariakira.