“What’s wrong, Emrys?” Bran asked, distraught.
The dragon whimpered. It could not breathe fire. The boy recognised the acrid smell in the dragon’s breath: Iceberry water!
Only one person was capable of such a cruel prank on the day of the exam; but there was no time to think of vengeance and Bran was starting to panic. Seconds were running out, the teachers below were no doubt already frowning at his lack of performance. Not one of the targets had, as yet, been set on fire.
Fire. He didn’t need Emrys’ breath. He could channel the power of flame himself. It would have a far shorter range and energy, but it could still work. He focused on the Farlink, the mental connection giving him far greater control over the dragon than just reins and knees. The beast, following his unspoken orders, dived once more towards the bale of straw. He only had a split second as the mount sped past the target, whooshing a few feet above the grass at a dazzling speed. He reached out with his fingers.
“Rhew!” he cried in Old Prydain spell-tongue.
A blazing bluish spark of dragon fire shot from his fingers. Its tip reached the straw and the bale burst into flames. Elated, he repeated the exercise with the next target, a wooden horse, then with yet another and another, five more times in total. With each objective destroyed his exhaustion grew. Channelling the dragon flame drained his energy immensely, and reduced his control over the magic. His hands began to shake and his fingers grew covered with swollen blisters from the heat. With bleary eyes he searched for the next target, but couldn’t find it.
At last, he realized there was none. The exercise was over. He managed to land before the teachers’ observation tower, panting, sweating, too tired to even dismount. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he listened to the Master of Aerobatics assessing his trial.
“That was certainly… unorthodox,” the teacher said, coughing nervously, “but I appreciate the initiative. You did hit all your targets in time, so I have no choice but to pass you.”
Initiative? This was not the kind of school that encouraged initiative… Bran sighed deeply and closed his eyes. All thought of revenge disappeared from his mind. It didn’t matter anymore. He had passed his final exam and was out of the wretched place at last.
Bran’s fingers played with a fiery-coloured tassel on the grip of his heavy cavalry backsword, a proud, solid three feet long single-edged blade, a pattern tested in the Mad King George’s wars. The quillon was curved in the shape of a rampant dragon, the brass mountings and circular guard ornamented in the form of claws, flames and leathery wings. The wyvern-hide grip culminated in a pommel sculpted into a dragon’s head. Anyone looking at the sword would have little doubt as to its owner’s profession.
He sat among thirty other similarly armed boys and girls, all excited and relieved at the same time, all wearing the uniforms of the dragon cadet corps, steel blue with golden stripes. They hailed from all over the Dracaland Empire. Most of them were Prydain, like Bran, with black hair, Roman noses and olive complexion, or the golden-haired, blue-eyed Seaxe from beyond the Dyke. A few dark-eyed Cruthin from Ériu across the sea and tattooed Picts from the northern realm of Alba were keeping to themselves at the back.
The headmaster was nearing the end of his speech. Short and impish, he had to use an ornate mahogany step to reach over the pulpit. His long red beard was forked neatly and tucked under a gem-studded belt. Wind tore on the bushy tufts of his hair — there was no roof above the ruined keep inside which they had all gathered. The headmaster was a Corrie, a member of an ageless race of wrinkly-faced, pointy-eared and red-haired dwarves living among the dales and lakes of Rheged in the North.
The headmaster finished the main part of his speech, waited until the din of whispers quietened and then held up a sword in a trembling hand. The straight, broad blade was rusted and notched in a few places, although the hilt was new, gleaming gold and encrusted with gems.
“It was seven hundred and ten years ago that Owain the Wyrmslayer established this illustrious Academy for the purpose of studying the ways and lore of the mighty Beast, after defeating the Norse dragons at Crug Mawr with this very sword,” the headmaster shook the old blade.
He gestured around and Bran’s eyes inadvertently followed towards the familiar thick walls of the Great Auditorium, rising towards the sky like the crooked teeth of a long dead giant. Tapestries of red and white dragons had been brought to adorn the cold stones of this vast ancient ruin for the duration of the ceremony. The heavy oaken chairs upon which the teachers were sitting recalled the time of the War of Three Thorns and the realm of Harri Two Crowns. Leaves rustled and sparrows chirped on the branches of ancient oak and elm trees growing in a dense circle around the keep. Far in the distance a booming sound of a siren announced lunch break at the local elemental mine.
“The graduates of the Sixteenth Year of Victoria Alexandrina, the Queen on Dragon Throne! Today you finish your first four years at the Academy. The bards will now take my place on this stage to tell tales of past glory much better than I can. Let me just put a final touch on all of you before I release you into this dangerous ever-changing world.”
This was the moment Bran had waited for the whole day. The headmaster straightened himself, full of youthful vigour. He raised Owain’s Sword towards the blue sky and whirled it around in a complex pattern. The air sparkled and buzzed with powerful magic, and the fresh scent of ozone spread throughout the auditorium. A flash of dazzling light flared above the heads of the gathered, taking the form of a great white eagle hovering in the blue sky. The raptor shrieked and a shower of stars rained down from under its spread wings, each dazzling star landing upon a shoulder of an astonished student.
“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 told 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, as was expected of the son of a Prydain officer.
“No, nothing as glamorous as that,” Dylan 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 Pontcysyllte 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. But 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’s voice boomed.
The school bard entered the podium to lead the choir, and the crowd erupted into the Academy’s anthem enthusiastically, startling a flock of sparrows hiding in the branches of an oak tree.
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 pa
per 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 — we could help you develop the necessary skills. 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.
What?
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 when Bran did not reply, “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, heading straight toward the stables.
CHAPTER II
Yamato, Spring, 6th year of Kaei era
Hendrik Curzius sweated profusely.
A servant brought him another silk handkerchief and took away the previous one, damp and smelly. The wizard put the cold wet cloth to his bald forehead. And it’s only May, he thought. What an accursed place.
The Nansei Islands lay far to the south of Yamato. Even in the deepest winter it never got really cold around there. In spring the weather became fickle, alternating between gusts of cold northerly winds, bringing showers of freezing rain, penetrating to the bone, and waves of heat coming from beyond the southern horizon, foreshadowing the unbearable tropical summer — like today.
“I wish there was somewhere else we could meet,” said Curzius, quaffing cold spring water from a clay cup.
“You know very well it’s impossible, Overwizard-dono. We can never be seen together. Only this island is truly free of the Taikun’s spies.”
The man speaking these words was broad-shouldered, balding, had a long oval face and close-set eyes. He wore the flowing silk robe of a Yamato aristocrat. His name was Nariakira Shimazu.
The small cosy villa they were in belonged to this man, as did the garden around it, filled with the fresh scent of azaleas exploding everywhere in bursts of maddening pink. In fact, the entire island and the surrounding archipelago was Nariakira’s property. This was one of the most powerful men in the country, a daimyo — lord of a province. Curzius recalled what little he had learned about the complex feudal power structure of the Yamato from a small booklet given to him before he had left Bataave to take over the post of the Overwizard of the trading factory at Dejima. Below the daimyo were their many retainers, forming the samurai warrior class. Above them — the Tokugawa Taikuns, a dynasty of generals ruling from the eastern capital of Edo. And watching over all of this, at least nominally, was the half-divine Mikado, an emperor-like figure whose true name could never be spoken without first ritually purifying one’s lips.
But the Mikado had no real power over Yamato, and even the Taikun had no power over the Nansei Islands. This was the Shimazu clan’s sole domain, by right of conquest and cunning. Never officially recognised as part of the greater Yamato archipelago, the islands were suspended in a kind of diplomatic limbo. They had their own laws, own customs, even own language. The government’s edicts did not reach the islands and the foreigners could come and go as they pleased — as long as they knew how to reach them, of course, and for the last two hundred years this had limited the number of visitors to just the Bataavians.
He waved a paper fan, desperately trying to cool himself enough to think clearly. What he had come to discuss with Lord Nariakira required his utmost concentration. Curzius may have been a newcomer to Yamato, but he was an experienced diplomat and had been thoroughly briefed by his predecessor. He could only hope it was enough to deal with the deceptively gentle-faced man before him.
“Three hundred years ago, when the Westerners first arrived in Yamato, we were all awestruck and terrified of your power and wealth,” he started. They were conversing in his own language which the daimyo knew fluently. “It was the same with Qin and Bharata, and Sri Vajaya, and everywhere else in the Orient. There were just so many people in the world, so many riches, so many warriors! We could only hope to gain some profit by subterfuge and cunning, never by force. Yamato itself had more men than Rome’s entire Imperium, Qin, ten times of that, and in those days of sword and musket, sheer numbers mattered most. Now the Bharata jungles are overrun with mercenary armies led by Dracalish generals. The Qin is thrown to its knees by the West, and everyone is looking for the next conquest. There are not many left here in the East.”
Lord Nariakira nodded. Curzius guessed the daimyo must have been well aware of the recent events in Qin — the Cursed Weed trade, the Emperor’s futile edicts, the countless rebellions and the war so badly lost by the imperial army.
If mighty Qin fell so quickly, what hope was there for Yamato?
“When you first arrived, you were but children and we were like your ancient ancestors,” the daimyo said, pausing often. “Your priests like beggar monks at the Mikado’s court, your merchants like village peddlers trying to hawk their wares on the festival market. Now the children have far outgrown the parents. The teachers have fallen asleep, their dōjō overgrown with moss, while the world outside turns faster and faster. How many people live in your greatest cities now?”
“More than a million in Ker Ys, twice as many in Lundenburgh,” answered Curzius.
And only two hundred thousand in Noviomagus, he thought, but you don’t need to know that.
“Pah!” The daimyo clapped his knee in an expression of helplessness. “That’s already more than Edo, and I bet it won’t stop at that. How is it that you can spawn so fast?”
“It is not that we bear more children than you; our medicine and science help us keep more people alive. You may have your shrine healers, but we have conquered the pox and cholera, and those kill thousands more than battle injuries. Our crops are more plentiful, our storage and transportation systems more efficient, so we keep famine at bay. There are also many other improvements that allow us to combat death and disease. You know it as well as I do — we finally caught up with the East.”
Nariakira nodded again.
“Yes, the world outside seems to spin much faster than in Yamato. It’s as if every year passing on the Sacred Islands is merely a day in the lands of the West. The Divine Mikado in his everlasting palace a
nd the illustrious Taikun behind the impregnable walls of his castle are barely aware of what’s happening just outside their shores.”
“The winds of history blow fast and strong, Shimazu-dono.”
“I know what you’re after, Curzius-sama. Don’t think that your reports to the Taikun are the only source of my knowledge of the West.”
The Overwizards of Dejima were responsible for providing news of events overseas to the court in Edo. They had abused this monopoly to produce reports that were increasingly further from the truth, as Bataave was losing its significance as a major Western power. The Taikun had no knowledge of the revolutions rolling through the continent, or of how close the Kyrnosian Imperator and his invincible legions had come to vanquishing the tiny merchant republic sixty years before. How the small nation had been split even further by wars and rebellions and economic crises, how they were slowly losing their hold on all colonies, until only the precious trade monopoly of Dejima remained as the main source of income. All this was omitted from the annual report on “Western matters”.
“You are as frightened of other Westerners as the Taikun himself, aren’t you?” Nariakira continued. “That is why you came to me so eagerly, because, unlike the old Tokugawa, I understand your plight and can assist you — if you assist me. What is that funny saying in your country? You scratch my back…”
“…I’ll scratch yours,” Curzius said, nodding.
“I hope there can be a mutual understanding between the two of us. I have great respect for the men of your talent.”
Curzius sensed a hanging “but”. Respect did not mean leniency.
“I know of the little network of friends and allies to your cause that your predecessor has been building around the Southern provinces,” Nariakira pressed.
“It is well known that your web of spies is second only to that of the Taikun himself,” Curzius said, having no choice but to admit the truth.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 2
