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

by James Calbraith

  “The ship is ready, Father.”

  Dylan turned around, surprised. Bran was standing in the doorway looking at the map curiously. He was wearing his blue cadet’s uniform.

  “And they’ve sent you to tell me this?”

  “I… volunteered, Father. Is that the map of Qin?”

  “Yes. See, we are here.” He pointed at a bright dot on the Southern coast and the runes Fan Yu lit up. “We sail north-west‌—‌Ederra Strait is still out of bounds for our ships‌—‌to here, the port of Huating. I’ve never seen it before‌—‌that’s a new one for me,” he said, smiling.

  Bran studied the map for a while, trying to make sense of the moving lines, lights and symbols.

  “There’s always war in Qin,” he murmured.

  “What did you say?”

  “It’s something the Tanka people said.”

  “Mhm. Yes, I suppose some of these townsfolk can’t even remember a time before all the wars and rebellions…”

  “The Qin I read about was a mighty, rich, beautiful empire, a land of fairy tale. But all this… is nothing but a shadow. What’s happened to this place?”

  Dylan scratched his beard, covered with a three-day stubble. Lately he was so busy it was getting difficult to maintain the regulation clean shave.

  “Stagnation,” he replied after a while. “Inability to deal with new threats.”

  “What new threats?”

  “Us.”

  “You mean the Cursed Weed?”

  Dylan glanced at the boy sharply.

  “I see you haven’t been spending time idly. What do you know about it?”

  Bran shrugged.

  “I have seen what it does to people. The boat people told me to seek answers from you. Did we bring the Weed to Qin?”

  “It’s not quite like that. The Qin have always grown and consumed the plant, and so have we, for medicine. You may have heard of laudanum?”

  “Some sort of an analgesic,” Bran recalled.

  “The same plant. The Emperor of Qin had the Weed banned over a hundred years ago and it has become much more desirable and expensive since, as with all things forbidden. This is where we‌—‌rather, the Dracaland trade companies‌—‌came in. They have flooded the land with the cheap product grown in the plantations of Bharata.”

  “The unmarked crates?” Bran guessed.

  “Yes. We bribe the authorities to overlook them in our warehouses.”

  “It’s shameful.”

  “It’s good business,” said Dylan, shrugging, “and what our empire is built upon. Without the Cursed Weed money you would have no tea for breakfast.”

  “Our empire? This is the Dracalish way, not Gwynedd.”

  “There is one crown on both sides of the Dyke,” reminded Dylan, feeling increasingly uneasy about the way the conversation was progressing.

  “But you’re still a freeman of Gwynedd. You don’t have to be doing this.”

  “I don’t deal with the Weed trade. I just… know about it.”

  “So you just close your eyes and let things happen around you.”

  Dylan sighed. Yes, sometimes I have to close my eyes to stay sane, he thought. He remembered himself, on his first assignment in the Imperial Navy, sent to fight in the Cursed Weed war. He was astonished by what he had witnessed. Corruption, smuggling, assassinations, blackmails… There was nothing decent or just about the way Dracaland waged its wars. But, that was a long time ago and he had since learned to accept the harsh realities of the war and diplomacy. He knew Bran would too, one day.

  “Why aren’t the rebels attacking us?” Bran asked.

  “We manage to funnel their wrath at the Emperor.”

  “We then get paid for helping him to deal with the rebels?”

  “You grasp it quickly.”

  “We’re behaving no better than Warwick,” his son said through clenched teeth.

  “Warwick?”

  Dylan frowned at the sound of a familiar name. The old Warwick was his persecutor at the Academy. Did he have a son? So that’s why you didn’t want to go back. He put his hand on Bran’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes.

  “You’re no longer at school, Bran. Adults don’t live in a fairy tale. The Qin are not innocent themselves. They have also conquered nations in the past, and they did it with might and subterfuge, not morals and good deeds. They were a brutal, atrocious race while they were yet strong. Who knows, they still might be, one day…”

  “And now we are the strong ones? Is that your lesson, Father? Power prevails?”

  “No, Bran…” Dylan grew exasperated. “Listen-”

  “What would Grandpa say to all this?”

  “Ifor?” Dylan blinked. What is he on about?

  “He was a decent, straight-forward man. I’m sure he would disagree with all this subterfuge and deception.”

  Dylan almost burst out laughing.

  “Who told you that? I’m sorry, but there was nothing straight-forward about that man. Your grandfather, he‌—‌he left my mother, left all of us when we most needed him, chasing after some long lost dream, disappearing into Sun knows where. If he dared to talk to me about morals, I’d laugh in his face. Look, you don’t know‌—‌”

  “I know enough. Leave me alone.”

  The boy shrugged his father’s hand off his shoulder.

  “Your soldiers are waiting,” Bran said, then turned around and stormed out of the room.

  It had taken the Ladon a full week to navigate around the island of Ederra and along the eastern shore of Qin towards the Chang River delta.

  Bran’s excitement grew as the ship sailed north. They were now in the waters mentioned in Ifor’s diary, sailing past the Tagalogs out onto the open ocean where the big red question mark had been scribbled on his grandfather’s map. Plenty had changed since HMS Phaeton ventured through these straits. The sea was now properly charted, the Qin coast accessible to Western shipping in several places. None of the crew, however, made any mention of the mysterious land of Yamato as if Bran was the only person on board aware of its existence.

  It wasn’t even on any of the navigational charts at the bridge.

  The Ladon was to wait about a hundred miles offshore for the Qin official guide-ship that would lead them past the small, but swiftly growing, port of Huating deeper into the delta where Jiankang lay.

  Dylan walked the length of the ship back and forth, checking the equipment and weaponry in preparation for another Barrier crossing. There was now a great deal of delicate and precise equipment on board, so everything had to be carefully taken care of. Bran followed, trying to learn as much as he could from observing his father’s meticulous craftsmanship. They may have had their differences, but Dylan’s skill was next to none and it would be unwise‌—‌and childish, Bran reminded himself‌—‌to ignore the opportunity to study.

  By evening they reached the foredeck, where Dylan hunched over the launching pad for Congreve’s rockets. He examined it and grimaced.

  “What the…? This has not been properly locked. Help me with that wrench.”

  “Why do you have to do it yourself? This ship has got an army of technicians.”

  “I need to know the position of every screw and bolt on this vessel if I want to weave them all into the Passing Spell.”

  Despite himself, Bran glanced at his father with admiration. He could hardly imagine the mental strain caused by such a complex enchantment. He tightened a few bolts in the base of the machinery as instructed. His father, with some effort, pulled out a coiled copper wire from inside the launch pad, held it in a clenched fist and murmured a few words of a Binding Spell.

  “That should do it.” He pushed the wire back, closed the hatch and stood up, stretching his back and arms. “That was the last thing. I’d say we’re good to go.” He stood for a while, looking longingly over the bow at the waves below. He spoke at last. “I remember sailing these seas with my father‌—‌before he settled down‌—‌the best years of my life.
I should’ve brought you here earlier, son, when the world was much safer.”

  “To show me how you help enslave some other people?”

  Dylan shook his head.

  “There’s more to the world than Dracaland’s wars, son. I can show you so many beautiful things…”

  “Can you show me Dejeema?” asked Bran.

  Dylan stared at the boy.

  “Where have you heard this name?”

  “I… overheard Bataavian merchants in the harbour. I haven’t seen it on any maps.”

  “They must have been most careless.” Dylan licked his lips. “The very existence of this place is one of their best kept secrets.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Some four hundred miles that way,” Dylan said, pointing to the east, “lie the islands of Yamato. Dejeema is where their main harbour is‌—‌so I’ve heard.”

  “So you’ve never been there?”

  “No Western ship can sail there, except Bataavians.” Dylan shook his head. “Who knows how they’ve managed to do it.”

  “Can’t sail? With all this power?” Bran asked, waving his hand around the Ladon.

  “There are powerful storms and currents along the way, like an ocean maze. The navigation tools become useless. Even the clocks run in a strange way. In a way it’s even more effective than the Qin Barrier. I’ve heard rumours of a Dracalish captain once forcing his way into Dejeema, but that was long before you or I were born.”

  There was some shouting coming from the port side of the ship. Dylan broke his tale and turned in the direction of the noise.

  “That will be the Qin boat. I must welcome it.”

  He walked off leaving Bran alone. So Dylan didn’t know his own father had been to Yamato… The boy stared towards the eastern horizon, trying futilely to see the distant harbour of Keeyo, but there was nothing but grey clouds.

  He took his grandfather’s box and the dragon figurine from the satchel. Bran wondered if the dragon, too, had come from Yamato; both things were made of the same smooth, glistening material. The medallion lay inside peacefully, but there seemed to be a faint azure glow within the blue stone of the ring, which Bran had been keeping inside throughout the journey, near the golden brooch from which the stone was taken. He raised the jewel to the sun. The gem was no longer translucent, but slightly cloudy, as if it had begun stirring back to life.

  The Qin pilot arrived in a small junk with three square red sails, tiger eyes painted on the bow and a band of gold and enamel running along the broadside. Two bronze cannons adorned the foredeck, more decorations than real weapons.

  The pilot and his entourage, all dressed in rich dark yellow robes, were shown around the Ladon. Their faces showed no sign of emotion as they examined the advanced weaponry and technology of the ship. They listened to the interpreter’s explanations and nodded in unison. Eventually they were led to the mess hall where dinner awaited.

  As soon as the second course was served, Bran slipped outside. As he would most nights when the ship was in the open sea and he didn’t play tafl with Samuel, he went to the stables on the second deck, untied his dragon and led it outside via a large ramp leading astern.

  Emrys would only want to fly for a few minutes each night, just enough to straighten its wings. It was still afraid of the open ocean, even after so many months at sea. If the weather was less than clement, the dragon loathed even to leave the stable for too long, but it enjoyed strolling the width and breadth of the top deck, breathing the salty air while Bran looked at the stars through the spyglass, marking subtle changes in their positions in his notepad as the ship moved through latitudes.

  The dragon fell asleep on the foredeck, and Bran put the spyglass back into the satchel and took out a book on tafl rules he had borrowed from Samuel. These were his favourite moments; the dark silent nights. There was nobody outside except for a couple of watchmen on extreme points of the ship, each far away from where he sat. Some noise was coming from the mess hall where the Qin pilot and the crew still banqueted, but it was muffled and easily ignored. Apart from that, only the soft lapping of the waves and gentle ringing of the rigging in the breeze disrupted the quietness. With a snap of his fingers, Bran conjured a floating flamespark and settled himself among the coiled ropes with the book.

  The lookout on the bow cried out. The portside searchlights lit up, their beams setting the sky ablaze, and all the bells and sirens rang out in alarm. Three long whistles meant they were being attacked from the air.

  Emrys stirred and woke up uneasily. The boy jumped up, but could not yet see anything in the night sky. Unlike the lookouts, he did not have the naval Farfinder device that could spot danger for miles, at night, in storm or in fog.

  Within seconds the soldiers and crew started appearing on deck. Bran had seen them train the battle alarm countless times before, but now, at last, it was the real thing. The great hatch opened, the ramps lowered and the dragons were led by the stable hands out onto the landing deck, one by one. Their riders poured from the forecastle cabins, strapping swords to their belts and donning flight hauberks and wind goggles. The gunners ran to the fore and aft turrets. Smaller rapid guns, six of them clustered on the aft side, were the first to howl. The operators, always on watch, appeared inside the glass turrets moments after the alert rang, propelled from their cabins under the aftercastle by mistfire lifts. The smooth-bore broadsides were useless against an aerial attack, but the quadruple barrels of the great self-repeating cannons could be winched to a high enough angle to wreak havoc in the sky above the ship.

  Dylan was already on deck, shouting orders and peering into the darkness, paying no attention to Bran. At last the enemy was in plain sight. A whole skein of Qin Long, twelve at least. They were glorious to behold; long coiling bodies surrounded by a haze of mist and lightning, scales glinting with all colours of the rainbow in the beams of the searchlights.

  “Mount up!” cried one of the marines. Bran recognised Banneret Edern by his silver hair, eyes burning brightly as they always did when he was agitated.

  “Scramble the Silvers!”

  “Gunners, protect the pilot boat,” ordered Dylan, “and prepare Afreolus, I will lead the first squadron mys— Bran!” He noticed the boy at last, somewhat surprised. “What are you doing?”

  Bran had finished preparing the saddle by now and was ready to mount Emrys and join Ladon’s defenders.

  “What are your orders, Ardian?” the boy asked solemnly, putting on his flying goggles.

  “I order you to stay here where it’s safe. You are not a soldier yet.”

  “Father, I’m more than capable—”

  “We’re in a war zone now. Do me a favour and just keep quiet,” Dylan snapped. The Qin dragons were almost upon them. “You’d only get in the way.”

  “So that’s what you really think of me?”

  “Boy, I have no time for your quarrels now!”

  “Then just let me—”

  “By the Red Dragon’s Breath, just stay here and wait!”

  Dylan pointed at Bran and Emrys, and spoke Binding Words. The boy felt himself freeze, his entire body paralysed by the powerful enchantment. Amazingly, the spell was strong enough even to stun his dragon. Neither the boy nor his mount could move a muscle. Bran could only speak –barely more than a whisper‌—‌but his father would not listen anymore.

  Dylan spread the palm of his right hand and summoned his Soul Lance. This was the first time Bran had seen his father’s weapon. It was unique; as bright as the sun, a twelve foot long shaft of solidified golden light, slightly curved and broadened at the end, like the blade of a cavalry sword. Dylan grabbed the lance firmly, mounted his great silver dragon and launched into the air, followed by other soldiers of the Second Dragoons.

  With his fists still clenched the way they were when he was Bound by the spell, and heart burning with rage, Bran could only observe the battle in the night sky, illuminated by searchlights, flares and blasts of the guns. The Qin dragons w
ere swift and agile, and there was a whole flock of them now swarming over the ship. They were blue, red and yellow, spewing dense mist, spouting streams of boiling water from their maws and shooting lightning from their antlers.

  Ridden by skilled men, these would be formidable opponents, but their riders were nowhere near as well trained or experienced as the Dracalish soldiers and were soon overwhelmed by the Ladon’s squadron. Dragonflame of the Silvers proved a terrible weapon against the beasts of Qin. Even before the marines closed in for a melee with their brightly shining lances, the first of the Qin Longs fell, burning, spilling golden blood as it tumbled towards the dark sea, still coiling like a silk ribbon in the wind. Seconds later another followed. At last the others started breaking off. The marines followed them in hot pursuit, swiftly disappearing beyond the range of Ladon’s lights.

  Silence fell upon the ship as the fighting dragons departed towards the western horizon. Bran could only wait for them to return, still paralysed by his father’s spell as if he was a child.

  He felt a presence. Somebody was sneaking along the line of coiled ropes and toolboxes. A man crept out from the shadows and looked the boy straight in the eyes. It was a Qin man. Bran recognised him by the black lotus tattoo on the forearm: one of the gaffers from the Fan Yu harbour; the quiet one.

  He was holding a large tube of soft iron. Bran felt cold sweat trickling down his forehead as he realised what it was‌—‌the warhead of Congreve’s rocket, a hollow chamber filled with potent explosives.

  Bran struggled to speak.

  “What… what are you doing?”

  The man was startled at first, but then simply grinned.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” the Qinese answered in surprisingly fluent Seaxe.

  “You’re going to b-blow us up!” Bran stuttered.

  Big though the ship was, there was enough ordnance, magical and otherwise, in the munitions hold to split the Ladon in two, and a lot of it was now brought up to the upper decks in preparation for the battle.