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

by James Calbraith

  The Highland Greys were bred exclusively on the Isle of Scathach in the north-western Alba, to be used by spies and scouts. Only one person in the Academy rode one. Madam Magnusdottir, the Dean of Dracology, sat calmly in the saddle. She nodded at Bran to step closer.

  “Thank you ma’am.”

  “You’re lucky. I was flying close enough to see everything‌—‌it looked almost as if he was trying to kill you.”

  “It was just a gornestau, ma’am.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. The Dragonform was too powerful an enchantment to be used on a whim. It had to be fed on a strong emotion.

  “Transformation is forbidden in magical duels.”

  “We’re not at the Academy anymore, ma’am.”

  She laughed briefly, clicked her tongue and the shimmering dragon raised its talons. Wulfhere, back in his human form, cast Bran a furious look, scrambled to his feet and ran away into the night without saying a word. Madam Magnusdottir looked after him pursing her lips in thought, then turned back to Bran.

  “Is your leg all right? You’re limping.”

  “Yes, it’s just a bruise.”

  “That was a particularly shoddy performance, young man. Enchanted acrobatics is an essential skill to the dragon rider!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He scratched his head, not knowing what else to say.

  “That’s all right,” she smiled, her features softening. “You’ve passed the exam, after all‌—‌barely, if I recall. I suppose all that ale does hamper one’s abilities a little. Give my regards to your father when you see him,” she added before launching into the air. The dragon shimmered and disappeared in the darkness.

  Several boys and girls had run out of the tafarn, intrigued by the noises of combat and their dragons’ distress calls.

  “What’s going on?” asked Madoc.

  “Wulfhere Warwick. I think he just had too much to drink tonight,” replied Bran, rubbing the bruises on his face.

  A red-haired girl tugged Madoc back towards the tafarn.

  “They’re playing ‘Farmer’s Fancy’! I want tae dance!” she said, rolling her “r’s. She noticed Bran and lowered her eyes, bashful. It was Eithne.

  “You coming back, Bran?” Madoc smiled. “The night is young.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll fly home.” Bran sighed. He knew, no matter what his own decision after the summer, he would not see her ever again‌—‌she was moving to the Mon Island in October. “I don’t feel so good. I think I’ve bruised my ankle.”

  “As you wish.”

  The other boy shrugged and returned to the Red Dragon with Eithne in tow. Bran headed for the stables. The dragons were slowly calming down. He patted his mount on the neck soothingly.

  “Let’s get out of here, Emrys,” he said.

  The beast grunted in agreement.

  The unmistakable whoosh of a landing dragon came from the front yard. Dylan ab Ifor put away The Cambrian and stood up from the black wood armchair to welcome his son. The boy entered the living room straight from the door, staining the carpet with dirt. The white mice Bran’s mother employed as household imps scurried to clean away the mud.

  “I see you didn’t even bother to come to my Graddio.”

  Dylan scratched the scar running across his cheek with discomfort.

  “I only just got here from Brigstow. We had to pick up survivors from the Birkenhead and then our Weatherman came down with jungle fever,” he explained. “I really hoped we’d get here much sooner.”

  Bran shrugged dismissively. They moved to an awkward embrace. He’s really grown, thought Dylan.

  His wife entered the room, wiping muddy hands on a linen cloth. The sweet smell of vervain and betony followed her from the garden. Certain herbs had to be picked at night.

  “Oh, back you are!” she exclaimed. Rhian spoke with a gentle southern valley lilt, even after all the years of living on the coast. “How was it? Did you get the Seal? Dylan, did he get the Seal?”

  “Do you not see it?” Dylan raised his eyebrows. “Ah, right, I forgot.” Rhian had some magical talent, but she had never pursued the scholarly path, preferring the ways of the Cunning Folk‌—‌making potions and casting small mending charms. She had never developed the True Sight necessary to perceive the Academy’s secrets.

  “It’s just above his right shoulder, as bright and beautiful as any I’ve seen.”

  “What did the dean say?” Rhian asked.

  “She… Asked me if I wanted to stay for baccalaureate,” said Bran.

  “See, I told you they’d want him back!” She beamed to Dylan. He smiled knowingly. So the old Magnusdottir had received my letter.

  “You seem tired… Your face is dirty and your hair is singed. Did something happen?” Rhian continued her investigation.

  “Nothing, I was just playing with Emrys,” Bran replied.

  Dylan knew this was not the case‌—‌he could still detect the faint lingering traces of battle magic. He chose not to say anything; there was no point in worrying Rhian. Boys would always be boys, but something else in Bran’s response made him frown.

  “Do you still have that toy drake?” he asked, sharply. “You know I could get you any breed you wanted.”

  “I have Emrys. He’s my friend.”

  “Bran,” Dylan looked his son straight in the eyes, “you can’t get attached to a dragon. They are the most egotistic of creatures. Sooner or later it will betray you, no matter how kind you are to it.”

  “Emrys is more loyal to me than any human.”

  “There’s no such thing as a loyal dragon. I have scars to prove it.”

  “Well, maybe you just don’t know how to handle them!”

  Rhian intervened.

  “Oh, let him have his pet dab for a while yet, Dylan. The lad’s just graduated. Starting his holidays, he is. He won’t need a new draigg for some time. Let’s have some tea‌—‌I’ll go put the kettle on.”

  With her gone, the two men sat down in front of each other, uneasy.

  “You’ve been away for almost a year,” said Bran, interrupting the silence.

  Dylan looked vacantly around. The room, with its white-washed walls, heavy oaken furnishings and a roaring fireplace, seemed at once familiar and unreal. Had it really been just a few months since he had been sitting in the tent in the middle of the savannah, negotiating with the Bataavian commander?

  “I was overseeing the Transvaal agreement,” he said, more to himself than to Bran. “The negotiations were very difficult.”

  The herd of wildebeest the only witness to our quarrels.

  “How did it go?”

  “The Empress finally granted sovereignty to the Bataavian settlers. Our borders in the South are secure and our friendship with the Bataave strengthened.”

  “You sound like a royal pronouncement.”

  Dylan chuckled. “I had to talk like this for a year.”

  “What about the Birkenhead? There was something in the papers, but I didn’t have time to read before the exams.”

  “She was brought upon the reefs by Xhosa illusions, off the Cape. We had to run twelve sorties to bring everyone safe.”

  “Then the war with Xhosa is still on?”

  “More than ever…”

  “It must have kept you busy.”

  “Rest is a rare privilege in a war zone.”

  That was as much as he could say. Most of his work had to be kept secret even from his closest family. In the silence that followed Dylan decided to change the subject.

  “So, have you been thinking of what you will choose for your baccalaureate?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t really like that place,” Bran replied with a shrug.

  “I know, son, but believe me, things change later. As an alderman you’re too highly ranked for‌—‌“

  “It’s not just that… I want to…” Bran paused. “I don’t want to go back.”

  Dylan glowered. “Look, boy, you can’t just decide your
future on a whim. What else would you do? Work down the pit, herding fire elementals?”

  “I could join the navy…”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Most of my… friends will be enrolling in October.”

  “Most of your friends didn’t get a choice. By Owain’s Sword, you’re not some farmer’s son!”

  Rhian entered the room with tea. Dylan leaned back, putting a smile on his face. He relaxed the grip of his fingers on the leather armrest.

  “What are you two on about?”

  “Nothing, dear. Oh, I just remembered. I brought some tinned fruit from the South. Why don’t I go get them.”

  CHAPTER III

  Bran sipped on his ale and winced. It was too warm; everything was too warm this summer. The eldest of the yeomen gathered at the Red Dragon tafarn could barely remember a July as hot as that of Victoria Alexandrina’s Sixteenth Year. The south-easterly wind bringing rain and fog from over the bay was gone. The air was stale and dry.

  “I’m telling you, it’s all the damned navy’s fault,” said a tall stout fellow wearing a blue felt cap crooked over one ear. “They’ve taken all our best Weathermen and left us only the shoddy ones, who messed everything up instead of fixing it.”

  “My well is running dry,” another yeoman added to the complaints.

  “What if there is famine, Huw?” a younger lad said. “I don’t want to have to leave my land and sail to Gorllewin.”

  “Gorllewin? Those merchant folk across the sea?”

  “That’s what they did in Ériu. My cousin said the entire villages packed and left overnight. Swathes of land left abandoned…”

  “They say nobody ever came back from Gorllewin,” the man called Huw said grimly.

  “And who would?” scoffed the third of the farmers, stroking his greying beard. “I’ve heard that anyone who sails there gets a piece of their own land the size of a village.”

  “A piece of wild forest you have to fell yourself, or a piece of stony grassland you have to till yourself,” said Huw, shaking his head.

  “And they’re all Grey Hoods there. Sun worshippers,” added the youngest, spitting, “as devoted as the Romans. You’d have to convert back to the Old Faith.”

  “It’s better than seeing all your crops wither,” the third man snorted, “and all your livestock perish with famine.”

  “Don’t worry, Rhys, the Llambed boys won’t let us starve. Right son?”

  Huw raised a tankard towards Bran. The boy smiled weakly. There were no Weathermen at Llambed, and even his father showed some concern about the weather. There had already been recruiters from Gorllewin sneaking around the town‌—‌shifty, grey-hooded men, speaking an oddly twisted version of the Seaxe tongue, offering land and untold riches across the ocean.

  “Why, I can feel the rain coming already.”

  The man in the felt cap winced and rubbed his elbow emphatically.

  The weather was beginning to take its toll on Emrys. The dragon was of the race the scholars called Draco Palustris, a Swamp or Marsh Wyrm, said to be descended from the great Tarasques of the Rodanus delta. Its domain was the wet mud pits, peat moors and shallow brackish pools. Now the swamps along the Teifi river, which flowed through Gwaelod, were scorched dry and the beast’s parched body demanded moisture. Bran did what he could to accommodate the beast’s needs. Bathing in seawater brought only a little respite to the land-born creature. When Bran had to help with something at home he would have Emrys sleep by the well and, from time to time, pour buckets of cold water over the dragon’s jade scales.

  Sometimes when he glanced at the windows of their house, with its old walls painted bright red, he saw his mother observing these efforts with concern. The dragon was a constant source of problems‌—‌and mockery from neighbours, family and other pupils at Llambed. It was a child’s toy, the first dragon Bran had ever ridden. By the time of the Graddio most dragon riders would already have moved on to one of the large races, Belerion Crimsons, Forest Viridians or Highland Azures, but Bran grew attached to his mount and had not yet considered replacing it.

  The jade green drake looked particularly wretched next to Afreolus, Bran’s father’s mighty mount. Reserved for the noblemen and soldiers of the Royal Dragoons, the Mountain Silvers or Wyrmkings, as they were more commonly known, were rare and expensive. Larger than any other race, bred exclusively on the royal pastures of the Pictish Highlands in the far north or imported from overseas, these were the dragons with the most strength and stamina of all the known Western races, and Afreolus was a prime specimen.

  Dylan was spending most of the summer away from home, always finding something with which to busy himself. Between shopping excursions to Penfro, hunting trips with army colleagues and helping with research at the Llambed Academy, he was almost as rarely seen in the small, slate-roofed house as when he’d been sailing. They rarely talked. Most of their conversations turned to quarrels.

  Bran was restless as well. The days of reckless adolescence may have been over, but he did not care much for the duties of a grown-up yet. He wasted away the days swimming in the sea, wandering the hills, and picking berries and nuts in the forest. In the afternoons, when it was cool enough, he and Emrys flew around, training acrobatics over the green tops of the five-peaked Pumlumon, or chasing red kites over the Elenydd uplands, enjoying the solitude of the blue sky.

  On calm warm evenings they glided over the shaded hazel groves and slate-walled sheep pastures. Rising currents of the Ninth Wind carried the dragon effortlessly along the elm-lined brooks and across the green marshes, all the way towards the tall brick chimneys and iron towers of the Enchanted Mines along the southern coast, where the wizards cut deep into the Earth’s crust to reach the realms of the fire elementals. Sometimes the air got so hot and stagnant Emrys refused to fly. Then Bran wandered alone about the wilderness of Eryri, far to the north, until he reached the summit of the mighty Yr Wyddfa and looked down over the misty crags, ridges and peaks towards the northern sea and the dreaded Ynys Mon, the foreboding island fortress of the Druids, Guardians of Prydain, in a foolish hope of catching a glimpse of Eithne’s red hair among the oak trees.

  These were the limits of his world. Here, unbound at last from the walls of the Academy, he could go wherever he wanted. From Mon in the north to Ynys Dewi in the south, from the sunset-facing beaches of Gwyddno to the peaks of Brycheinniog where the dawn rose and the silver-haired Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Folk, danced around the ruined gate to their long lost homeland.

  He could just wander these wild lands forever, chasing deer and falcon, growing old, watching Emrys mature into a fully adult dragon. He could live the life of a small town mage, settle down somewhere near Penfro, meet a nice girl… but his father would never have that. He had to come up with a better idea for his future and his time was running short.

  Old Huw’s rains neither came in July nor August. It was now September and while the evenings got somewhat cooler, the clouds were still scarce in the azure skies.

  The earthy scent of fresh peat and dew on wet heather rose on the breeze. Bran stooped as he neared the pond in the middle of the dried-up moor, hiding in the brambles and thorn. He brushed the sun-scorched yellow fern aside and sniffed. There it was; the unmistakable smell of sulphur and methane. It was very faint‌—‌a less experienced tracker would have dismissed it as the natural aroma of the swamp. The beast was very careful not to let itself be detected.

  The young stalker sneaked through the hazels and rowans around the pond, to stay downwind. He was now entering a shallow treacherous bog‌—‌the river flowed freely here in spring, but now it was all but dried out. It was harder to move quietly and smoothly. Soon Bran had to half-creep, half-swim in the brackish mire, his jacket now blackened with mud. He suppressed a sneeze.

  He could see it now, almost submerged in the shallow water, larger than a fully grown bull, horned head covered under a leathery wing, long tail coiled neatly around the sca
led body, sleeping‌—‌or feigning sleep. Bran unsheathed his sword, pointed it in the direction of the creature and murmured the Binding Words. The spell was not powerful enough to fully chain its target, but it should make its movements sluggish and restricted.

  The dragon stirred as it detected magic. This was the moment to strike. Bran raised his sword and jumped ahead with a battle cry. His boot got trapped and he fell face-first into the water with a loud splash.

  By the time he got up, cursing, the dragon was fully awake. It bared its teeth, hissing at short intervals.

  “Oh sure, laugh”, muttered Bran, trying to wipe the mud from his leather tunic and squinting his bright green eyes, full of brackish stinging water. “I almost had you this time, you know.”

  The dragon yawned and stretched to its full six feet, still sluggish from the effects of the spell. Bran licked the blood trickling from his knuckles, grazed against something hard in the water.

  “What the Duw did I trip on? There shouldn’t have been any roots here…”

  He stooped to investigate by the light of a conjured flamespark and saw what looked like bones of some great ancient animal submerged in the mud. As the riverbed dried out in the heat, the falling water levels had revealed the ageless fossil. Bran touched the remains gingerly.

  “I wonder what it was. Something big‌—‌a moose maybe, or a wyvern‌—‌”

  The blue gem on his left hand suddenly burned up with a bright, warm azure light. Bran stared at the jewel in disbelief for a moment, before something else drew his attention.

  “By Owain’s Sword…”

  The fossilised bones stirred and started moving, crackling, slithering in the mud like ivory snakes. Bran jumped backwards, frightened. Emrys whinnied anxiously as the shattered parts of the massive skeleton combined into one and the creature slowly started rising from the moor.