The Shadow of Black Wings (The Year of the Dragon, Book 1)

by James Calbraith

  “You have all been marked with the Seal of Llambed,” explained the headmaster after the spell dissipated. “Those who know how to look will always see it upon you. Bear it proudly. It is not only a sign of education‌—‌it is your talisman, a precious gift. Three times in your life you will be able to call upon its power‌—‌and it will deliver you from any danger.”

  A murmur spread throughout the keep. For some of the students this was the first time they had heard of the magic mark and its power, but not so for Bran.

  “You will use up your Seal before you know it,” his father, Dylan, had warned him. “It’s only there to help you through the first years of life as a dragon rider outside the school walls.”

  “When did you use yours for the first time?” the boy had asked. “Was it in a battle?”

  He had been only eleven then, just about to enter the Academy.

  “No, nothing as glamorous as that,” Dylan had replied, chuckling. “I was still in the Academy, getting my baccalaureate. I was racing another boy, one of the Warwicks, along the Dyfrdwy Valley and I broke my dragon’s wing under the Great Aqueduct. A hundred feet drop, that is. I had no choice but to call on the White Eagle.”

  “And what happened?”

  “It brought me straight into the Dean’s office!” Dylan laughed. “I got a right telling off for wasting a charge so recklessly. That’s how the Seal works‌—‌unexpectedly. You never know where it will take you. Other schools have similar charms, but none are that fidgety‌—‌or that powerful. It will save your life, always, one way or another.”

  “Mages of Llambed! Arise!” the headmaster announced in a strong voice.

  The school bard entered the podium to lead the choir, and the crowd erupted into the Academy’s anthem enthusiastically, as startled sparrows took off from the oak trees.

  Men of Llambed, on to glory

  Victory is hovering o’er ye,

  Pride of Prydain stands before ye,

  Hear ye not her call?

  Rend the skies asunder,

  Let the wyrm roar thunder!

  Owain’s knights fill world with wonder,

  Courage conquers all!

  Dean Magnusdottir, head of Dracology, a gentle-faced, mousey-haired woman, browsed the piece of paper unhappily.

  “Bran ap Dylan gan Gwaelod. I can’t say I’m not disappointed,” she said, tutting and shaking her head, “your father was — ”

  “The best student this Academy ever had,” muttered Bran, rolling his eyes. “I know, ma’am, but aren’t you being a bit unfair? I did quite well where it matters.”

  “Where it matters, boy? Where it matters? Every single subject in this school matters. You have barely passed the athletics, your history knowledge is non-existent and your alchemy score was the worst in your class.”

  Bran looked down, feigning embarrassment, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had graduated, and nothing else was important right now. He did not wish to spend anymore unnecessary minutes within the college walls.

  “You are a good rider, certainly,” continued Madam Magnusdottir, calming down. “One of our best. Your Farlink quotient is frankly astonishing. That much of Dylan’s blood shows, and you have his magic talent, of course. You could easily take up wizardry as the second faculty. But it takes much more to achieve real success in a dragon rider’s career. In truth, I would rather you stayed in school for four more years. Catch up a bit on the old scientia vulgaris.”

  Bran looked up, startled. Stay in school for four more years? That seemed like such a nightmare right now. Besides, usually remaining for a baccalaureate was considered a reward, not punishment for bad grades.

  “Think about it, my boy,” the dean insisted, “you have time until October, hmm? Will you consider?”

  “Er… I will, ma’am.” Bran hesitated. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?” he asked, reaching for his diploma.

  The teacher stalled, still holding the paper.

  “Son,” she said, looking earnest, “I don’t mean it in a bad way, but‌—‌we could get you a better dragon if you remained with us.”

  Bran stood up, barely concealing his anger.

  “There is nothing wrong with Emrys!” he exclaimed. “How many more times do I have to prove it to you all?” He grabbed the diploma from the teacher’s grasp, tearing off a bit in the corner. “This is all my father’s doing, isn’t it?”

  “I assure you, your father had nothing‌—‌“

  “I’ve heard quite enough, ma’am.” Bran raised his hand. “I bid you farewell.”

  He turned around and stormed outside.

  CHAPTER II

  The buxom barmaid glanced at Bran sipping his half pint of Llanfairfechan Black and passed the table without stopping. The Red Dragon tafarn was overflowing with guests. Tonight, the graduates of Llambed came in great numbers to celebrate.

  Bran was alone at a small table in the corner, trying to listen to the old harper over the din of the lively crowd. The bearded bard was just finishing the last of the Royal Triad, three epic poems recalling the deeds of the most famous kings of Gwynedd: Owain the Wyrmslayer, vanquisher of the Norsemen; Llywellyn ap Gruffud, the Hammer of Rheged and Harri Two Crowns, the first to sit on two thrones.

  The triad finished, Bran saw the bard look hesitantly around. Failing to spot anyone still paying any attention to his poetry, he bowed to nobody in particular and removed himself and his bulky instrument from the open space by the fireplace. Three other musicians moved to replace the lofty tones of the harp with a coarser tune of fiddle, drum and pipes, more suited to the playful mood of the patrons.

  “What about you, Bran?”

  The dragon rider looked up, surprised. Two boys slammed their pint tankards, filled to the brim with dark foaming cwrw, onto his table. Hywel and Madoc came from Llyn, north of Cantre’r Gwaelod. Like Bran, their families lived by and from the sea and, like Bran, they were commoners. They were the closest Bran had to friends at the Academy.

  “Sorry…?”

  “What are your plans for after the summer?”

  “Oh, I haven’t decided yet…”

  “I’m off to join the dragoons in September,” said Hywel loudly, taking a great gulp from his mug. His face was flushed red, his brown eyes bloodshot. “Father’s already arranged everything.”

  “The Third or the Fifth?” asked Madoc, wiping froth from his proud Prydain moustache, dyed with lime for the Graddio in the ancient fashion. It was the envy of all other boys in the Academy.

  “The Twelfth,” Hywel said ruefully, “they don’t take the likes of us into the Guards.”

  “My folks want me to stay for the baccalaureate,” said Madoc. “I’ve got no real prospects in the army.”

  Hywel nodded. “I figured you would stay. You always had the best grades of the three of us.”

  “Surely your father prepared a spot for you in the navy?” questioned Madoc, turning to Bran, “with his connections…”

  “I haven’t talked to him about it yet,” Bran replied, “I haven’t even seen him since last summer.”

  “Ah, well, that’s the navy for yous,” Hywel said, his speech starting to slur. “I see you have your trinket out.” He pointed to a ring upon Bran’s left hand, a simple twisted band of gold with a single blue gem, an irregular, jagged shard, semi-translucent like a pearl. “Trying to get the girls’ attention with jewellery?” he guffawed.

  He was wearing two golden bracelets upon his left wrist and a bronze torc around his neck.

  “It’s a family heirloom,” explained Bran. “I figured it’s time I started wearing it.”

  “I see, I see,” said the other boy nodding absentmindedly, his attention already turned to the musicians.

  The band was playing “The Trouble at the Tavern”, an old bawdy jig, and Madoc and Hywel joined in with the singing, leaving Bran to himself.

  As he brooded over the half-empty glass, the boy noticed another student sitting alone at a table across t
he room. Wulfhere of Warwick noticed Bran’s curious stare. He stood up and, slightly swaying, crossed the hall in quick steps.

  “What are you looking at, Taffy?”

  Bran blinked. Wulfhere was alone. Other sons of Seaxe noblemen, his usual entourage, were for some reason sitting together at another table, in another part of the room.

  “What’s it to you, Sais?” Bran responded, equally insultingly.

  Now that they were on equal footing he was no longer frightened. Wulfhere tightened his fists. Blue sparks appeared around his knuckles.

  “Go back to your ale, Wulf.” Hywel rose threateningly. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

  He was one of the few Gwynedd-born boys who could stand up to the tall burly Seaxe. The Warwick stared at him for a moment then grunted something and staggered away towards the tafarn door.

  “What’s up with him?” asked Bran. “What did you mean, he shouldn’t be here?”

  “Didn’t you know? Look at his Seal.”

  Bran looked after the Seaxe using True Sight. Among the many enchantments woven into the boy’s aura he could not spot the mark of the white eagle.

  “It’s not there… He failed to pass!” he whispered, astonished.

  “Aye,” nodded Madoc, “for all his Saesneg boasting and bullying, he turned out to be one big failure. I wouldn’t like to be in his skin when his family learns about it!”

  “Serves him right,” Bran replied, remembering the Iceberry water.

  The song was finished, and so was Bran’s glass. The musicians started another dance tune, and the other two boys moved into the crowd to find themselves partners for the jig. Bran rose and headed for the door to get some fresh air.

  Once outside, looking at the starry sky above the empty cobbled street leading towards the faer iron gates of the Academy, he decided it was time to go home. He had been reluctant to go to the gathering in the first place. Having sat at the table for an hour and drank a glass of ale, he felt his social duty fulfilled. His head was beginning to hurt from the noise of the crowd, banging of the drum and screeching of the fiddle. He knew he would not be missed.

  He headed for the dragon stables, a wide, high-roofed building of sandstone, with long, slate-tiled eaves. Somebody emerged out of the shadows and walked towards him.

  “Hullo, Wulf.”

  Bran nodded and tried to walk around the Seaxe, but the flaxen-haired boy moved to the side, blocking his passage again.

  “So you’ve passed, Toadboy,” the Seaxe snarled.

  “And you haven’t,” Bran said, unable to stop himself gloating.

  “You’ve had your faeder pull the strings, haven’t you? You’d never pass otherwise. Not with that flying frog of yours.”

  “No, Wulfhere. I simply studied for the exams instead of wasting my time beating up others and playing with poisons. Besides, your father knows plenty more ‘strings’ to pull.”

  “Pah—!” the blond-haired boy scoffed. “I should have known not to go to a waelisc school. You guys always stick together.”

  “If you choose to believe this, so be it. Now, please let me through.”

  “No.” Wulfhere stood firm. “Not before I see whether you really deserved to pass.”

  “What?”

  The Seaxe crooked the fingers of his left hand, summoning a bwcler protecting his forearm, and tightened his right hand into a sparking fist.

  “Don’t be absurd, Wulfhere.” Bran raised his hands in surrender. “School’s over. I’m tired and just want to go home.”

  “Oh, but that won’t do at all! I need to see what it is that a peasant’s boy can do better than one with royal blood.”

  Three hundred years earlier, at the end of a long civil war, the first of the Warwicks, Richard the Kingmaker, had reached for the Dragon Throne. His triumph was brief; Harri Two Crowns had crossed over from Gwynedd and destroyed him at Bosworth merely two years later. The Kingmaker’s blood ran thinly in Wulfhere’s veins, but all the Warwicks still harboured deep resentment towards the people west of the Dyke.

  “I’m not a peasant,” protested Bran, raising a weak single-layer tarian just in case Wulfhere was seriously intending to hurt him. “I’m townsfolk, and I don’t need to prove anything to you. You can see I have the Seal.”

  “Then I will have to make sure you’re dead three times to make it disappear!”

  Bran reeled back. Had the Seaxe gone mad? He could smell liquor in the blond boy’s breath, but his eyes were clear. There was desperation in his voice.

  A blue electric spark struck from Wulfhere’s outstretched fingers, piercing Bran’s shield with ease and hitting his chest painfully. Bran waved his hand defensively, summoning a plume of bluish methanous flame.

  Wulfhere covered his nose in exaggeration.

  “You’re trying to scare me away with your swamp stink?”

  He punched Bran again, this time simply with a fist. Bran yelped, grabbed Wulfhere’s hand instinctively and cast a Strike of Repel. He was still determined not to let himself be dragged into a senseless fight.

  “Gwrthyrru!”

  The Seaxe slid away a few feet across the slippery cobbles. He regained his balance and shook his head.

  “Oh, come on, you’re not even trying!”

  His blue eyes glinted. He raised his hand again and this time Bran ducked, barely dodging a shot of lightning. Another bolt deflected off Bran’s tarian and hit an iron lamp post, showering the street with sparks.

  “You can’t win a gornestau like that!” Wulfhere laughed. “Show me what you’re really made of, swabbie. Draca Hiw!”

  He roared and leapt towards Bran, shape-shifting midflight into a blue were-drake. He was now six feet tall, covered in scales and hovering above the Prydain boy, his great azure wings spreading, his bright eyes blazing.

  In a reflex, Bran jumped backwards and crouched, compressing his tarian into a stronger thrice-layered shield. He clapped his hands then spread them apart. A Soul Lance shimmered between his palms and solidified. He hoped the sight of it would bring the Seaxe to his senses. The Soul Lance was a deadly weapon when used against dragons and Dragonforms, the only blade certain to pierce through any dragon scale. Wulfhere pressed on though, with claws and lightning, pounding relentlessly against Bran’s tarian. The lightning strikes bounced off the shield in all directions, throwing tiles off the stable roof and scorching the wooden beams. The dragons inside the building woke up and started snorting and screeching in agitation.

  The magic duels, gornestau, never lasted long. No man could keep casting spells or sustain shields for long. The victory was usually a matter of who ran out of energy faster, or first made a mistake.

  Bran’s shield fizzled and vanished. He raised his lance in both hands. Wulfhere grabbed it with his talons and they wrestled for a while, lightning crackling around them, scorching the hair on Bran’s head.

  “Rhew!” cried the Prydain boy, summoning a little dragon flame.

  The lance burst with bright blue fire, blasting the opponent’s clawed hands. The Seaxe pulled away briefly, a scream of pain turning into a roar of rage.

  Bran darted inside the stables and tried to slam the gate shut, but the thick fireproof door burst open, and the impact of the explosion threw him back. Wulfhere leapt inside. It was difficult for him to move in the confined space, but he still pressed on towards the hapless Gwynedd boy, who stood up on shaky legs and continued his retreat.

  The dragons around them went mad with excitement, filling Bran’s head with a buzz of Farlink messages and emotions. He swayed and almost fell down again. His skull throbbed with pain. He hit something with his back, a ladder leading to the stable roof. He grabbed a rung and hoisted himself upwards in a flip. Wulfhere’s claws smashed the ladder underneath him, but Bran managed to grab onto a ledge and climb outside.

  A slight breeze cooled Bran’s aching head. The slate covering was damp and slick. He only managed to tread a few steps away from the ladder chute before the roof exploded. The drago
n-formed Seaxe flapped his vestigial wings and landed clumsily on the tiles.

  “Wulf…” Bran tried to plead. “Stop this, please. I don’t want to fight you…”

  The Seaxe was too far gone to be reasoned with. He opened his mouth and let out a mindless bellow. His clawed hand scratched at Bran and the black-haired boy leaned backwards in a reflex. His feet slipped on the edge of the roof.

  Bran remembered a boy in the second year who, failing to perform a proper rolling leap, had slipped, lost focus and fallen to the ground from a dragon’s back, a hundred feet down, missing the safety net. The medics had immediately carried him off the training field and nobody had ever seen him again. The enchanted acrobatics had always made Bran uneasy since. He wasn’t built for physical prowess and found it difficult to grasp the complicated calculations necessary for merging his own body with a stream of mystic force.

  Still, he had been learning how to take falls for four years, and the training kicked in instantly. He imagined his legs and torso following the perfect curve of spiral rotation. He had a split second to calculate the optimal trajectory for the manoeuvre. The air around him heated up as the dragon magic enveloped his body…

  He missed. Landing, his feet slipped and he fell face first into the mud. He hissed with pain and cursed. He tried to scramble to his feet clumsily, but kept sliding on the wet cobbles. He was at Wulfhere’s mercy. The Seaxe landed before him with a thud, reached out a clawed hand and lifted Bran by the collar of his blue uniform. The Gwynedd boy closed his eyes and waited for a strike.

  There was a whoosh of wings and the sound of claws scratching against the cobbles. Bran was thrown aside by an impact of a large warm body. He opened his eyes. A large grey dragon was standing before him, pinning Wulfhere’s transformed body to the ground with its fore talons like a hawk holding a mouse. Bran turned his gaze away; it hurt to look straight at the beast for too long. The glamour cast on its scales caused them to shimmer and shift, making the dragon seem transparent, half-invisible. It was easy to forget it was there at all.