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

  THE SHATTERING WAVES

  Book Seven of

  The Year of the Dragon

  James Calbraith

  Published May 2016 by Flying Squid

  ISBN: 978-83-936713-5-9

  Visit James Calbraith’s official website at

  jamescalbraith.com

  for the latest news, book details, and other information

  Copyright © James Calbraith, 2016

  Cover Art: Olga Kolesnikova

  Map Illustrations: Jared Blando, Flying Squid, Metruis

  Cover Design: Flying Squid

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Fan fiction and fan art is encouraged.

  In this unhappiness

  All is the same to me.

  We must meet now

  Even if I were to perish

  In the Bay of Naniwa.

  Prince Motoyoshi

  PROLOGUE

  Nodwydd, Edern’s silver dragon, circled the dense wood covering the top of the shrine hill. Dylan bade it dive towards a clump of tall cedars.

  Gwen didn’t spot the small glade until the dragon descended beneath the forest canopy.

  “You’re sure it’s here?” She saw nothing but a ruined wooden shack and a broken-down vermillion gate. Was this place really the source of the mysterious shadowy creatures that had attacked the city during the Feast of the Dead?

  Dylan was keen to find out more, but there were only a couple of days left to investigate. Soon the rebel armies were to march out of Kiyō and the war would require his and Gwen’s undivided attention.

  “All the traces lead towards it.” Dylan approached the ruin, holding a pocket potential meter in his hand. “I can’t sense anything now, though.”

  But Gwen felt something, something other than the magic of the elements. She felt a presence around her, as if of living things, invisible but watchful, hiding among the trees. The “spirits” that she had sometimes sensed in the deep jungles of Bharata or Merina, but almost never back home in Prydain. Not even Edern knew about it, and she never dared mention this to Dylan. There was no place for the “spirits” or “demons” in the Western magic. To Dylan, these were at best crafty illusions, at worst - primitive superstition.

  The longer they stayed in Yamato, though, the stronger the sensation grew. And now, in this ancient forest on the grounds of an equally old local shrine, it was almost overwhelming. She rubbed her eyes. The woods buzzed with the invisible presence.

  Dylan didn’t notice her distress. He removed a couple of rotten boards from the pile of rubble and stooped to investigate.

  “Stop it,” she said.

  He glanced at her curiously. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s something underneath.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s what I’m trying to get to.”

  He reached for another log and froze. A black tentacle slithered from between the boards. Dylan observed it with the dispassionate fascination of a scholar. He prodded it with a piece of wood: it melted, oozing with a black liquid.

  She was struck with a wave of cold air, palpable and coarse.

  Can’t he sense it?

  The tentacle penetrated her mind, rummaging and searching. Another tentacle appeared among the rubble. The creature ignored Dylan’s poking and slithered instead towards Gwen.

  It knows I can feel it.

  The invisible presence of the forest fell silent. It was not fear, but the premonition of evil that bothered her. That, and the fact that Dylan remained oblivious to the danger, as if the crawling shadow was a specimen in a jar, rather than a monster, capable of killing a human with a single touch.

  “We’ve seen enough,” she said through clenched teeth. She summoned the Soul Lance.

  Dylan opened his mouth to protest, but one look at her face made him pull away from the ruined shack.

  She raised the Lance and thrust it between the two tentacles where the shadow’s main body hid beneath the stones. The creature burst in a bright flash and thunder. The blast threw Gwen a few feet in the air. The earth moaned and heaved under her in a torturous tremor. The trees rustled and creaked, and the spirits cried out in terror. When the dust and the rumbling settled, the pile of rubble was gone, vanished into a bottomless, sulphur-smelling crevice.

  Dylan peeked over the precipice, scratching his scar.

  “I suppose we’ll never really know what happened here …” he murmured, despondent.

  Gwen closed her eyes, listening to the forest. Somehow, she knew this was not the end …

  CHAPTER I

  The silver dragon circled the smouldering castle keep one last time before descending towards the courtyard. The last of the marauding rebels crossed the shattered breach in the granite walls. The soldiers stood upright, shielding their eyes from the sun, and gazed at the empty battlefield in disbelief. The few enemy troops that remained to surrender the castle sat in a loose circle before the bare stable building, guarded by a few weary-looking spearmen.

  Dylan climbed a fallen rampart and waited for Edern to dismount. The Tylwyth brushed hair from his cat-like eyes and looked down. His forehead glistened with sweat. It was the beginning of August — the hottest month in this part of the world, and with the sun high up, every moment out of the shadow was a torture, even for a Faer.

  “Well, that was easy,” he said.

  Dylan nodded. They both knew what he meant. The siege of Kurume Castle, the first real battle of the Southern Imperial Army — as the alliance of the rebel daimyos decided to call itself in the official proclamation — had lasted only a few hours, rather than the expected days. The castle, and the town below, had been abandoned to the rebels. The real enemy was concentrating his power somewhere else — and drawing them into a trap of his own devising.

  “It’s a boring war without dragons to fight,” added Edern. The Gorllewin had not shown themselves in battle since the burning of Kagoshima.

  “We’d be hard-pressed if even one of them came here,” said Dylan. “This army is not yet ready to face them, even with our help.”

  Several windows on the third floor exploded in sequence, showering the roof below with shards of scorched timber. Two bodies followed, in black armour, bouncing off the ramparts before hitting the dirt of the courtyard. Moments later, the flag of the alliance — a red, radiant sun on a white sheet — fluttered in the wind.

  Dylan beamed. “That’s Gwen done,” he said. “The siege is over.”

  A column of prisoners marched out of the castle under the guard of rebel soldiers, their hands and legs tied together with rope. Dylan watched them from the gatehouse, now adorned with the Red Sun banners, instead of those of the overthrown daimyo.

  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,” s
aid 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.”