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

by James Calbraith

  Some of the younger children approached him with outstretched hands, begging. He had nothing of value to give and tried to wave them away, but they saw his rich clothes and his pink skin and followed him. More came like scared goats to a shepherd, all crying:

  “Tai-pan, tai-pan!”

  He started to feel uneasy. He was on a narrow bridge cast across a canal, with nowhere to go. The men paid no attention to him, deep in their narcotic daydream, and the women passed him by‌—‌too busy with their ceaseless chores to notice‌—‌but the children were now coming from all the nooks and alleyways, demanding gifts now, not begging.

  He raised his hand and they shushed. He fluttered his fingers and cast a simple illusion, a kid’s toy spell, one of the first any student of magic would learn.

  “Pili-pala!”

  A dozen rainbow-coloured butterflies flew from his palm.

  The children gasped in delight.

  “Blodeuyn!”

  The flowers followed, whole and petals, falling from the sky. The little ones tried to grab them, disappointed when they proved no more solid than soap bubbles. Bran continued his show with some fireworks and little birds, but by now he had caught the attention of the grown-ups. A few of the less drug-addled men were looking at him now, their brows furrowed over narrow eyes. One of them stood up heavily, swaying, raising his hand and shouting something.

  Bran felt strangely tired. The simple spells were much more exhausting than they should have been. He wondered if it was the effect of the Barrier. It was time to return to the Factories. He bowed to his audience, spread some more bubbles from his fingers as an encore and turned around.

  There was a small mob of tall burly men standing across the bridge, looking angry. They were dressed in rags and loincloths, but they stood straight and their eyes were not as milky and blurry as of those lying in the gutters about the village. The men murmured at him in their strange tongue.

  “I… I don’t understand,” he answered, trying to sound apologetic.

  Still they approached, waving their hands and talking with loud voices, agitated. A small stone thrown by an unseen hand buzzed off the shield surrounding Bran and fell at his feet. He stepped backwards, but behind him there was a crowd of children, still eagerly waiting for more entertainment and to his sides‌—‌only the murky waters of the canal. He drew the sword by few inches to show he meant to defend himself. The runes on the blade and the eyes of the dragon on the hilt lit up with a green glow. He linked with Emrys; somewhere in the Ladon’s stables his mount raised a scaly head.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, now with a threat in his voice.

  The men in front of the group halted and let a few others pass from behind. These new adversaries carried wooden clubs and some broken farming tools. A couple more stones whizzed past Bran’s head.

  Suddenly one of the men reeled back in terror, pointing at something in the sky above Bran. The boy looked up, expecting to see Emrys. A great silver dragon hovered above the bridge, its wings rising clouds of yellow dust, dispersing the sweetly scented smoke. Bran felt his energy coming back. The men who threatened him disappeared in an instant, scurrying into the shadowy alleyways.

  “Bran! Your father worried about you,” Reeve Gwenlian cried, her long black hair billowing in the wind. “What are you doing here? This is not a place for a Western boy. Hop on, I’ll take you back to the Factory.”

  Bran did not see much of his father for the next few days. Dylan scarcely left the confines of the Imperial Factory’s boardrooms, where he discussed matters of national importance with the tai-pans‌—‌chiefs of trading companies‌—‌and other officials. The boy was left mostly to his own devices‌—‌although after his misadventure beyond the fence he was now being constantly watched by somebody from the Ladon’s crew. Reeve Gwenlian was his caretaker most of the time.

  He was cautious not to venture beyond the walls of the Western settlement again. There was some entertainment to be found in the Thirteen Factories and around. Bran could fly his dragon along the length of the Pearl River, from the harbour to the sea, as long as he took care not to land on or fly over the riverbank. Whenever he got too close to the city walls, Qin aerial patrols, flying on hand-crank whirligigs, scrambled to frighten him off with flares and fireworks. Although Emrys could blow the fragile bamboo vehicles out of the sky with one breath, Bran was not too keen on starting a war on his account, and dutifully obeyed the warnings.

  Bran sensed that Emrys disliked the whole experience, dizzy and uncomfortable whenever they flew too high or too far from the Factories. There were powerful enchantments, remnants of old spells and forgotten curses woven across this ancient land for generations after generations, which the creature felt with its entire self. The currents and updrafts of the Ninth Wind, which gave the dragon wings their lift, were treacherous and unstable. At least the river, being so close to the great sea and used by foreign traders and travellers for millennia, was more or less clear of these dense influences.

  The boy soon found that the people of the boat anchorages, the Tanka, were much friendlier and more hospitable than the town dwellers. They were not afraid of his magic, minor illusions he cast as thanks for small gifts and snacks they gave him as he hopped from one canvas-covered boat to another. A few of their tradesmen, who delivered fresh fish and mussels to the dining rooms of the Thirteen Factories, even spoke a little Seaxe. Bran befriended one of them, Bou, a small happy man with a bald head, which he usually covered with a garishly-coloured scarf. Bou volunteered to be his guide around the anchorages, gaining visible satisfaction from the fact he could be seen accompanying a rich child of the foreigners.

  Bou was as curious about the Western customs and magic as Bran was about the boat people and Qin. He asked a lot of questions, and the boy obliged him with all the information, glad to have somebody eager to talk to. In exchange, Bou tried to respond to all Bran’s enquiries in a mixture of broken Seaxe and mime.

  “What are they singing about?” asked Bran one evening as they sat on Bou’s merchant boat, watching the sun set over the mountains.

  They were munching on some sticky rice balls covered in sesame. Bran loved these new unknown tastes, and often snuck out to the Tanka anchorage at dinner time, to avoid the bland “Genuine Dracaland” canned food served at the factories.

  The boatmen sang a long-vowelled, wailing, trilling melody without any recognisable words.

  “Fish… and women. Most important in man’s life,” said a grinning Bou.

  “I suppose the women sing about fish and men then,” Bran guessed, nodding towards a group of fishermen’s wives cleaning oysters on a nearby boat.

  “No.” Bou shook his head. “Women sing about you.”

  “Me?” Bran almost dropped his rice ball, his ears reddening. “Why me?”

  “You’re a new, curious thing‌—‌Western boy with power‌—‌not often among the boat people. Worth singing about.”

  “I don’t understand. Why is my magic so curious? I can sense the power running through the bones of this country. The Barrier is like nothing I have seen before‌—‌you must have had tremendously powerful wizards… and yet, wherever I cast the simplest of tricks, a crowd gathers.”

  “The boat people‌—‌never much trade in Words of Power.” Bou shrugged. “We are simple folk, fresh fish and peace from typhoons are all we need, but the town-dwellers, they many-many witch, long time ago, before the Cursed Weed.”

  “The Cursed Weed?”

  Bou nodded again.

  “It muddles thoughts… makes one forget what’s real. It… eats your power and your pride.”

  “Is that what they smoke, the sweet scent? But… why? I can’t imagine anything I would wish to give up my power for…”

  “The Cursed Weed asks no questions. It just is. It gives all he wants and takes all he cares. This not a happy land, only the Weed makes happy.”

  The sad expression did not fit Bou’s round wrinkled face. />
  “Where did it come from? What is the Cursed Weed?”

  Bou turned to Bran and looked him straight in the eyes, which was rare even among the Tanka.

  “Ask your father, boy with Power. Not my tale to tell.”

  Bran opened his mouth to answer, but something else caught his attention. A white dot appeared over the hills to the west, approaching quickly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Long,” Bou answered piously, standing up, “the Heavenly One.”

  It took Bran a moment to realise what the man had said. A Qin dragon! At last!

  “Run to your people, boy,” said Bou, pointing towards Reeve Gwenlian, who was heading for Bran with concern on her face.

  The silver dot turned towards the Factories.

  “The war is near.”

  “War? What war?”

  “There always war in Qin,” the little merchant said sadly.

  The dragon came fast like the hurricane, its alabaster scales glowing crimson in the setting sun. The elongated serpentine body coiled among the clouds as it soared on the Ninth Wind without the aid of wings. The silver antlers on its head glistened brightly, and the tip of the long tail blazed with a red flame. The rider, a tiny black figure, could barely be seen on the dragon’s jagged back.

  One of the town guard whirligigs tried to get near the splendid creature, shooting its usual red and blue flares to frighten it away. The dragon opened its wide mouth and a powerful stream of water gushed from it like from a fountain. In an instant, the thin bamboo and paper structure of the flying vehicle shattered into splinters and the hapless guard plummeted to his death with a bloodcurdling cry.

  The soldiers of the Second Dragoons observed the dragon in silence at first, admiring its beauty, but when it attacked the guard, they immediately sprang into action. A wing of three Silvers scrambled off the deck of the Ladon. They were smaller than the graceful flying serpent, but more muscular and aggressive. The Qin dragon was almost within range of the dragoons’ lances when its rider decided to turn tail. The beast spat a dense puff of protective mist and disappeared into the thick grey clouds above.

  Dylan watched the skirmish from the balcony of the Imperial Factory, stern-faced. As soon as the white dragon vanished he ran down to the stables and mounted Afreolus.

  He came back two days later and, without even changing his clothes or washing himself, called a meeting in the dining hall between himself, the tai-pans, superintendent of the port and captains of the royal troops. Before long, a decision was made.

  Dylan paced the deck of the Ladon observing the ceaseless commotion around him. The carrier wisps travelling back and forth between the ship, the Factory and Fragrant Harbour. The soldiers armed with pneumatic rifles, glass air tanks strapped to their backs, standing watchful as the Qin porters filled the hauls to the brim with rice, grain, dragon fodder, dried fruit and Bangla rum. Weapons hauled up from their hidden compartments onto the gun deck. The armament was all state-of-the-art, as modern as the ship itself. Four huge mistfire-powered autoguns of Brezhon design, each with four rotating barrels, were winched onto the top deck, aft and fore; smaller smooth-bore cannons firing explosive shells lined the broadside. A battery of Congreve’s rocket launchers was mounted on the foredeck. A lightning thrower, complicated coiled apparatus capable of hurling electric bolts over vast distances, was assembled in the machine hold and connected to the copper-gilded rods of the main mast with rubber cables. Magic amplifiers hummed in glass canopies along the sides.

  He climbed onto the landing deck, where Gwenllian was briefing the stable masters. Even with all the magical arsenal the dragons were the ship’s main weapon, and their comfort on the journey was of utmost importance.

  “Have you seen my son somewhere?” he asked her after they exchanged greetings.

  “He went to see the Gorllewin steamer. Do you want me to bring him?”

  “No, no, you’re busy. I need to talk to him myself.”

  He flew back over the Fan Yu harbour. He easily guessed what had intrigued Bran about the ship of the Grey Hoods. Many vessels were arming themselves with guns, canons and other machines of war in expectation of conflict, but only one was carrying dragons: a broad black steamer with four of the snow white beasts on the landing deck.

  He found Bran observing the ship from the end of the pier.

  “Surprised? I know I was.”

  “You didn’t know the Grey Hoods keep dragons?”

  Dylan shook his head. “Not until recently. We still know little about what they’re up to. The Gorllewin have appeared in these waters only a few years ago, keeping themselves neutral from all the conflicts.”

  “These dragons were not bred for fighting,” said Bran. The white beasts were squat, heavy and slow. They paid little attention to their surroundings, dozing off on the landing deck in the afternoon sun.

  “Oh, a Snaellander can be fierce if it is roused. But you’re right, they’re not much of a threat. Not sure why bring them all the way here…”

  One of the dragons raised its head and yawned lazily.

  “We’re moving out tomorrow,” said Dylan.

  “Where to?”

  “We sail north, to Huating and then Jiankang. It’s the southern capital of Qin, and it’s about to be besieged. The viceroy requested our help.”

  “Besieged? By whom?”

  “There was a major rebellion not far from here. That’s what’s causing all this… ruckus.”

  Dylan waved his hand around the harbour.

  “You feared the rebels would march on Fan Yu?”

  “Yes, but we managed to… convince them we’re not worth the trouble.” A year’s worth of unmarked crates it cost us, he remembered. “The court at Ta Du is their target and enemy.”

  “And now we go to help that court against the rebels, even though they left us in peace?”

  “The Dragon Throne’s interests are diverse,” said Dylan, the corner of his lips raised in a faint smile. We need to recoup our losses after all.

  “I’ll go get myself ready.”

  “You are staying in Fan Yu.”

  The boy stared at his father in silence.

  “I promised your mother you would stay safe. The ship is moving to a war zone, that’s no place for you.”

  “Father, don’t you even-”

  “I’m serious. Fan Yu is safe. In Jiankang there will be a real battle, real death. I will not dare losing you to a stray bullet or arrow.”

  “Or do you think that I will not manage, that I will shame you with my toy dragon?”

  “By Owain’s sword, don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Do you think I have not noticed the way you kept shunning me, the way you’ve always looked at Emrys with contempt? Would you have let me go if I rode that bronze you wanted to give me? Is that it?”

  Bronze‌—‌? Ohh, that thing. He still remembers.

  Dylan scratched his forehead, sighed deeply, sat down on a bollard and loosened a button in the collar of his uniform.

  “Look, Bran, I had no idea… I didn’t even remember‌—‌”

  “Why not just send me back on the first ship to Dracaland? I’m obviously of no use to you here.”

  “What would you have me do? You’re my only son. You’re just a boy…”

  “I know you’ve almost managed to forget it, but I just had my sixteenth birthday,” Bran reminded his father dryly. “I could just go to the quartermaster and volunteer myself to join the regiment.”

  Bran was right‌—‌past sixteen, he was free to sign up to the army if he so wished. Of course as the regimental commander, Dylan had a final say in who got accepted but he knew the refusal would only further antagonise his son.

  He closed his eyes and clasped his furrowed forehead in his fingers.

  “Right,” said Bran, turning around, “I’m off to enlist.”

  “Wait!” Dylan grabbed him by the arm and sighed deeply. “Promise me… promise me you won’t be doing anything foolish,”
he said at last.

  “Father!”

  “Promise!” Dylan cried impatiently. Bran pulled back in fright.

  What am I doing?

  “If you want to be treated like an adult, behave like one,” he said, calming down. “In the army you have to listen to your superior’s orders. Well, on board the Ladon you will listen to me. This is my order.”

  “I promise, Father.”

  “And not a word about this to your mother. She would skin me alive.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  The large dining hall on the top floor of the Imperial Factory had been turned into a war room. A great geomantic map of Qin was spread out on a surface made of several dinner tables. The map did not show the physical or administrative layout of the country, but was a diagram of ley lines, hot spots and power points that were known or detected by the map makers. Sacred and Cursed Grounds were painted white and black, while crucial nexii were marked with red wax seals. The entire land was divided into sixteen regions, each signed with one of the geomantic tetragrams. Dozens of tokens and markers were spread throughout the map. Some obvious, like miniature cinnabar pagodas where temples and monasteries were known to exist, others obscure, like a small turtle of black clay, which moved a little bit every evening on its journey from north to south towards the centre of the map, where a large yellow Qin dragon was painted, sleeping.

  Dylan stood over the map, observing intently the changing colourful lines and flickering flaming dots lighting and extinguishing, seemingly at random. He scratched his scar in distress. Once the rebel army had passed through the province, his precious network of spies and scouts became dispersed, communications broken. He had to rely on divinations and geomancy to track the movement of enemy armies, and it troubled him. One could never depend fully on magic in this ancient, tormented land.