The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  “Believe me, I do,” replied the younger girl, “you’ve been complaining about it every night since this trip started. I thought you’d got used to wearing boys’ clothes. Weren’t you always trying to sneak into kendo trainings in this disguise?”

  “I was an urchin then, and didn’t need those.” Satō threw the bandages into the laundry basket. “Still, it’s a small price to pay for being able to walk around the city with a sword.”

  When they came out of the bath, relaxed and refreshed, clean summer yukatas waited for them folded neatly on the straw mat. Nagomi changed into a pink floral robe, while Satō dried herself with a fragrant towel.“I like this blue dye,” said Nagomi, picking up the other yukata, “I haven’t seen it before.”

  “Father must have bought it as a surprise. I don’t think it’s local.”

  “Looks like Arimatsu cloth. It must have cost a fortune!”

  “Sometimes I think he doesn’t really know how much things are worth… Since Mother died, he’s been useless with money. Like this sword he got me — it’s marvellous, but was it really necessary to buy a Matsubara blade? He always says the blade is only a tool…”

  Satō shook her head and stood up to put on the yukata.

  “What about your father and sister? Will they be coming tonight?”

  “I believe so,” answered Nagomi. “I just hope Father doesn’t have any patients booked for the evening.”

  The girls tied their sashes and Nagomi finished braiding her long auburn hair. The sound of the kitchen gong and the smell of broiling eel coming from downstairs announced it was time for dinner. Satō felt her stomach rumble with the thought of a good meal. She had forgotten how hungry she was.

  CHAPTER III

  Gwynedd, June, 2606 ab urbe condita

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

  “Surely your tad 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, “in fact, I haven’t even seen him yet since last summer.”

  “Ah, well, that’s the navy for yous,” Hywel said, his speech starting to slur. “You’ll have to tell him about your areo… aero… flying exam! That was something!”

  Bran shrugged. He was certain all his father would get from the tale was that Emrys had failed as a mount — just as he had always predicted.

  “I see you have your trinket out,” Hywel continued, pointing 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 sinewy 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 loud singing, leaving Bran again to himself.

  As he brooded over the half-empty glass, the boy noticed another student sitting alone at a table across the room: Wulfhere of Warwick. The 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 going on?

  Wulfhere of Warwick noticed Bran’s curious stare, stood up and, slightly swaying, crossed the hall in quick steps.

  “What are you looking at, Taffy?”

  Bran blinked, surprised.

  “What’s it to you, Sais?” he replied. Now that they were on equal footing he was no longer frightened. Blue sparks appeared around Wulfhere’s tightened knuckles, but dissipated when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

  “Go back to your ale, Wulf.” Hywel said threateningly. The Seaxe’s uniform under his fingers started smouldering faintly — Hywel’s mount was an Eryni Ruby, a firedrake. “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. Among the many enchantments woven into Wulfhere’s aura his True Sight could not spot the mark of the white eagle.

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

  “Aye,” nodded Madoc, taking another gulp of ale, “for all his Sais boasting and bullying, he turned out to be one big failure. I wouldn’t like to be in his skin now!”

  “Serves him right,” Bran replied, remembering the Iceberry water and all beatings he had to endure over the years.

  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. 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.

  I will 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 tried to walk around the Seaxe, but the flaxen-haired boy moved to the side, blocking his pas
sage again.

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

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

  Wulfhere pointed his finger at him accusingly.

  “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 practiced 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,” Bran said and made a step forward.

  “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, semi-translucent shield protecting his forearm, and tightened his right hand into a sparking fist.

  “Don’t be absurd, Wulfhere.” Bran raised his hands. “It’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 a mere 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 shield 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. Dead? Had the Seaxe gone mad?

  Is he drunk?

  There was desperation in his voice that worried Bran more than the smell of liquor in the boy’s breath.

  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 flame. Wulfhere covered his nose.

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

  He punched Bran again, this time simply with a fist. Bran gasped, grabbed Wulfhere’s hand instinctively and cast a Strike of Repel.

  “Gwrthyrru!”

  He was still determined not to let himself be dragged into a senseless fight. 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 and the Seaxe pulled away briefly. A scream of pain turned 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 his 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 dragon-formed Seaxe flapped his vestigial wings and landed clumsily on the tiles.

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

  But 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 boy leaned backwards in a reflex. His feet slipped on the edge of the roof. 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…

  A memory flashed in his mind: a student in the second year who, failing to perform a proper rolling leap, had lost focus and fallen to the ground from a dragon’s back, a hundred feet down. The medics had 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…

  Landing, his feet slipped and he fell face first into the mud. He hissed with pain and cursed aloud. He tried to scramble to his feet clumsily, but slid on the wet cobbles whenthe Seaxe landed before him with a massive thud, instantly reached out a clawed hand and lifted Bran by the collar of his blue uniform. The Gwynedd boy grasped powerful talons, trying to wrestle himself free, in vain; the Dragonform was unstable and a risk to the caster but for a moment provided him with almost unlimited strength.

  There was a whoosh of wings and the sound of claws scratching against the cobbles and Bran was thrown aside by an impact of a large warm body. He looked up and saw a large grey dragon standing before him, pinning transformed Wulfhere 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.

  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 s
tand up.

  “Thank you ma’am,” he said, half-relieved and half-embarrassed.

  “You’re lucky. I was flying close enough to see everything! This is very serious.”

  “It was just a gornestau, ma’am.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. The Dragonform had to be fed on a very strong emotion and was too powerful and intense enchantment to be used on a whim. Even soldiers on the battlefields were reluctant to transform unless their life depended on it.

  “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. A moment later the dragon shimmered and disappeared in the darkness.

  Just then 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 transformed. I think he 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 head, bashful. It was Eithne.

  “You coming back, Bran?” Madoc smiled, wrapping a muscular arm around the girl. “The night is young.”