The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  “Any minute now?”

  His stomach turned. He didn’t feel ready yet. He looked towards the spiral towers of Brigstow. He was about to leave it behind together with Gwynedd, Dracaland, all that was familiar and safe. White smoke puffing from the ship’s funnels changed to grey. Water on the aft-side boiled as the massive propeller started turning.

  A couple of soldiers were standing by the railings, singing.

  Ffarwel fo i Langyfelach lon,

  A'r merched ieuainc i gyd o'r bron;

  'Rwy'n mynd i dreio pa un sydd well,

  Ai'm wlad fy hun, neu'r gwledydd pell.

  Farewell to gay Llangyfelach,

  And all the young girls;

  I'm going to see which is better,

  The faraway lands or my own country.

  “What’s that song?” he asked the Reeve.

  “Farewell Langyfelach,” she answered, her black eyes glinting. “It’s a song of those who sail away from the shores of Gwynedd into the unknown.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Yamato, Winter, 6th year of Kaei era

  The training at the dōjō continued throughout the winter. Six months in, only the two most talented and persevering students remained in Satō’s little class of Rangaku.

  Shōin was a son of a family of tailors and cloth merchants from Nagato, tall for his age, but thin, with his ear-long black hair always messed up and uncombed, and simple unkempt townsman clothes. Keinosuke was his opposite, an heir to a rich samurai family from Chūbu, always impeccably dressed in a black and white kimono with the crest of his clan, Sakuma, on the shoulders and back. The boy usually kept to himself unless asked directly, silently observing the world from under thick eyebrows.

  In the winter months the class moved from practising in the courtyard to studying the theory of magic in a small six-mat room on the upper floor of the main hall of the Takashima mansion.

  “Remind me, what did we start on after the runic alphabet?” Satō asked, checking her notes.

  The boys sat at a low table covered with small scrolls of paper written over in the scribbly Yamato letters and runes of the West.

  “Potentials,” answered Shōin eagerly, rising slightly from his knees.

  The other student just nodded.

  “Ah, that’s right. Answer me this, then: which is easier, encasing a boy’s hand in a block of ice, or freezing a cupful of water?”

  The tailor’s son looked to the ground, sheepishly.

  “Freezing a boy, sensei,” he said quietly.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because… freezing water is True Magic not a mind trick?”

  Satō shook her head.

  “That’s not quite it, Shōin. When you’re frozen, you not only think you’re frozen — that would be an Illusion. The ice is real, it melts and leaves puddles on the ground. Keinosuke, do you know why?”

  The other boy raised his eyes as if surprised that somebody would mention his name.

  “Water… is not alive. It is fixed in form, unchangeable. It has no, er… potential,” the boy replied, struggling.

  Satō smiled and nodded.

  “Every living thing, from a tree to a samurai, has the potential to change itself and its nearest environment. The Bataavians call it mogelijkheid. That’s how it’s written.” She presented them with a piece of paper with the new word inscribed in decorative runes, and waited for a minute until the boys scribbled it clumsily to their notepads. “This is what makes living things grow and transform, from a single bean to a beanstalk, from an egg to a sea-hawk — and that’s what a magic user taps into if he wants to enchant something that is alive.”

  “So our nature is actually making it easier for you to enchant us?” asked Shōin. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “It may seem unfair,” Satō agreed, “and if there was no power other than mogelijkheid involved, wizards would be truly terrifying people, once they’d reach their full power. However, as you grow up, your resistance to enchantments grows also. Without realising it, you become more and more resilient to magic, even if it’s beneficial to you. That’s why it’s so hard to heal adult men, compared with children.”

  “Is this why the Spirit healers have to use sakaki wands and boiled rice to heal old men, but prayer and touch is enough for us?” Shōin guessed.

  She nodded. “Eventually, even the power of kami cannot heal the injuries or extend life for infinity. Some say if it wasn’t for this natural resistance, we could be immortal.”

  “Is it also something we have no influence over, like mogelijkheid?”

  “You can train it, to some extent. Your resilience will grow as you become more attuned to your magic talent.”

  “Can you train yourself to become completely immune to magic?” Keinosuke asked softly and unexpectedly.

  “There… there are legends of such feats, usually achieved by powerful priests or demi-Gods in ancient time. They were called Hanryū, Half-Dragons. Can you guess why?”

  “Because the ryū are immune to magic?”

  “The ryū were said to be immune to magic. But it may just be a legend — nobody has seen one in Yamato for hundreds of years. Anyway, going back to the lesson… Now, to easily freeze a cup of water, which is, as you said, fixed in state and has no mogelijkheid of its own, you need to use one of the two methods. The first one the Bataavians call thaumaturgie, or wonderwork. That’s the most difficult and complicated school of Rangaku, and I doubt you’ll ever need to concern yourself with it. It’s the art of transforming lifeless matter. Look at this sparkleball.”

  Satō produced a round object the size of a large orange, which glittered and sparkled in all colours of the rainbow. Colourful flames travelled over the surface of the ball, sparkles formed random flowery patterns. It was impossible to tell what the ball was made of. It was cold and firm to touch, its edges blurred by all the glittering points of light.

  “This is what young thaumaturgists practise on,” said Satō. “They take a round polished stone and change it into this — it’s called twinkelbal in Bataavian — forever. It will never cease to sparkle, it is Truly transformed.”

  “Does Takashima-sama know any thau… wonderwork?” Shōin asked.

  Satō shook her head.

  “Only very little. It’s most difficult to perform in Yamato. From what I understand, when many people start using magic in one place, a field of mogelijkheid grows into which one can tap. The Bataavians call it morfisch veld. However, since we have so few wizards in Yamato, our field is very weak. Do you understand?”

  The boys nodded, but their expressions were blank.

  “Still…” Satō continued, “that’s thaumaturgy, but there is another way to freeze water, and that’s to use the elemental magic - wizardry. This is something not only the Rangaku use — the shamans of the Northern Tribes know it, and priests of the mountain temples use it in their purification rituals, even if they don’t understand how it works. It may well be the oldest magic known to men. Through it, we use the potential of the Earth itself, the mogelijkheid of Nature, of elements. This is the power of water drilling through the rock, of wind eroding a mountain. Now, our scholars recognise five basic elements, but the Westerners only concern themselves with four — Are you writing this down, Shōin?” she interrupted.

  “Of course, h-here it is!” the tailor’s boy stammered, and presented his notepad.

  There were several words written on it in the runic alphabet, full of spelling mistakes, and a doodle of a sparkleball.

  Satō sighed. After a few months of performing teacher’s duties she had learned she couldn’t really expect thirteen-year-old boys to absorb that much knowledge all in one go. Even Nagomi often got bored when Satō became too involved in describing some peculiar aspect of an enchantment.

  The wizardess looked out through the window, the black frame cutting a serene painting out of the city landscape. A thin blanket of pure snow covered the roof of a nearby house and the boardwalk of the street
visible beyond. It was a rare occasion in Kiyō. The snow fell in soft gentle flakes and the world outside was silent and calm. Only a lone hotpot vendor praised the qualities of his dishes into the empty streets.

  She knew it was her duty as an heir to teach the boys — but she wasn’t an heir yet. Until her father officially passed the inheritance, was she truly obliged to do anything for the dōjō?

  Of course you are. Heir or no heir, you’re still a Takashima.

  “Just remember about the four Great Elements — earth, fire, air and water,” she told the boys, “you can write it down in normal characters, not runes — Chi, ka, fuu, sui.” She paused and waited as they struggled with their calligraphy. “Like our Butsu scholars, the Rangakusha don’t count the Void, ku, as a Great Element.”

  The boys stared at her blankly. They have no idea what I’m talking about. She cleared her throat.

  “We’ll get back to that next week. You don’t have to remember it all yet. It’s too nice outside to stay indoors,” she concluded, “that’s it for today.”

  Shōin jumped up immediately. He bowed fast, picked up his notebook and brush, and ran off before the other boy had even managed to reach for his bundle.

  Keinosuke bowed slowly and deliberately.

  Satō finished rolling up her scrolls and noticed the boy was still in the room.

  “What is it?”

  “Takashima-sensei, do you have any books or writings about dragons — or hanryū?”

  “Keinosuke… this knowledge is forbidden. I’m not even sure I should have told you about those legends.”

  “I see.”

  The boy seemed dejected.

  “I’m sorry, but my family is in trouble as it is. Even the Bataavians aren’t keen to mention these matters openly. Maybe one day you’ll get to talk to one of them about the dragons… but you’re way too young for it now.”

  “Yes, sensei, but…”

  “What else?”

  “You didn’t say you don’t have the books.”

  How does he …?

  “The class is over,” she said abruptly, and slid the door open, “see you next week.”

  The samurai son bowed again, unsuccessfully concealing a satisfied smirk, and left without a word. Satō followed him down the stairs, made sure he put on his winter sandals and watched him walk past the guards at the gates. Returning to the upper floor, she entered her father’s library. She knew Shūhan would still be in the elemental laboratory he had set up on the other side of the residence, across the courtyard, far away from his precious books. A tall, Bataavian-made bookcase stood in the corner. Satō rose on her toes and reached to the top-most shelf with an effort. From among many identical leather-bound tomes she chose one without hesitation, wiped the dust and spoke a magic word. Crimson fiery letters appeared, burning upon the leather cover.

  She did not know the language of the book — it was some Western tongue, but not Bataavian — but she knew what the letters said, for the smuggler who had brought it from Dejima had told her father as she listened through a hole in the floor, hiding upstairs while the men talked in hushed, rasping voices one moonless night.

  The fiery letters spelled the long, mystic title: Applied Dracology, Student’s Handbook, Year One. Property of Llambed Academy, Ceredigion, Gwynedd.

  Satō did not open the book, just gazed at it admiringly. She did not understand many of the foreign words of the title, but still it invoked in her mind an image of a great hall filled with books of lore and magic scrolls, a tall tower of stone — as she had seen in a Bataavian painting once — around which dragons of all shapes and colours soared, and a crowd of wizards practising their powerful spells on wide bright courtyards. This image appeared in her dreams ever since she had first heard of the “Llambed Academy”, dreams full of mysterious words like “Ceredigion” and “Gwynedd” and of majestic winged, serpentine creatures, spewing fire and lightning.

  Keinosuke’s words made her uneasy. How could the boy possibly have known the secrets of the Takashima library? Had he been spying on her? But how? The residence was guarded, surrounded by tall walls… she shook her head. He was just a kid! It must have been something else. Maybe she had blabbed something unwise in improper company… Or maybe he had overheard Shūhan talk about the book with his father. Master Sakuma was a renowned Rangaku scholar in his own right, and as frequent visitor to the Takashima mansion as the conditions of Shūhan’s house arrest allowed. Yes, that must have been it.

  I hope the kid knows how to keep his mouth shut. His family would also get in trouble if they were caught dabbling in dragon lore.

  She heard familiar steps on the squeaking stairs. Quickly, she slid the book back among the others and sneaked out of the library.

  CHAPTER IX

  Off the coast of Yoruba, West Africa, December, 2606 ab urbe condita

  A deafening broadside roared over the beach, startling a flock of parakeets that fluttered away in a green cloud. The shower of cannonballs brushed the tops of the palms and disappeared into the jungle beyond.

  As soon as the ringing in his ears quietened, Bran heard his father speak in the commanding tone he had always assumed when talking to other soldiers.

  “Still no reaction, Banneret?”

  Dylan, wearing the gallant uniform of a Royal Marines Ardian, scarlet with golden Aberffraw lions on cuffs and buttons, turned to the Tylwyth standing beside him. Edern lowered the brass telescope and shook his silver-haired head.

  “Nothing, Sir.”

  “I told you, Ardian, Tinubu will not give up easily,” a third man spoke, rubbing the back of his neck. His dark bronze skin stood out against the white linen of his navy shirt.

  “Don’t worry, Oba Akintoye,” replied Dylan, “we’ll get you back on the throne today. The navy always keeps its promise.”

  It was not the first time the ship had to turn from its course towards Qin to play a part in some local skirmish or influence a diplomatic stalemate one way or another. The Ladon’s course had been plotted deliberately so that the ship would pass near as many of the empire’s troubled colonies as possible. A month had passed since the Ladon had set sail from Brigstow and they had been barely half-way to the Cape.

  The bronze-skinned man was, as Bran had learned, some native pretender whose claim to the throne the Dracaland had decided to support. The reason did not matter; the orders from Lundenburgh rarely divulged more than the details necessary for a particular mission.

  “Banneret, aim at the fort, and load the wall-breakers,” ordered Dylan.

  “Aye-aye, Sir.”

  Edern’s cat-like eyes glinted in anticipation. The smooth-bores lowered in preparation for another salvo. The striped banner of the incumbent ruler Tinubu flew proudly over the fort’s stone ramparts.

  Bran noticed something on the horizon, a square of white in the sea of azure.

  “Another ship, father?” he asked. Dylan looked to where he was pointing.

  “Well spotted, son. Edern, what is it?”

  The Banneret did not even need to raise the spyglass. The Tylwyth were famed for their keen eyesight.

  “They’re flying Napolion’s Eagle, sir. That’s a Vasconian man-o’-war if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Romans!

  Bran had never seen a Roman ship before. Of all the many nations inhabiting the Imperium only Vasconians, from the northern coast of Iberia, were an ocean-going race — although their sail-driven ships could not dream of matching the mistfire ironclads of the northern nations.

  “They dare not intervene,” Dylan said. “They’re just here to observe. Fire at will, Banneret!”

  The guns bellowed again and this time the shells struck the limestone walls with a terrifying force. The rolling thunder of repeated explosions shook the small island, and a thick pall of black smoke hid the beach from sight.

  “The wall’s been breached, sir,” the Banneret reported, when the echoing rumble had passed and the smoke rose in the wind, revealing the scene of destr
uction. The officer’s words were something of an understatement: the fort’s sea-side ramparts were reduced to a smouldering pile of rubble. Still the striped banner flapped defiantly in the wind over the tall sandstone turret, in the middle of the stronghold.

  “Right,” said Dylan with a sigh. “I don’t have time for this. Scramble up, we’re coming in.”

  “Careful, Master Dylan!” Akintoye said, “Tinubu knows many tricks!”

  “So do we, Oba Akintoye,” Dylan said, laughing.

  “Father, look!”

  Bran pointed at the sea between the island and the ship. The waters bubbled and frothed, and the rolling waves parted, revealing the head of a giant hissing serpent. Its emerald-scaled body, most of its coils still hidden in the water, was easily as big as a frigate. The snake rose from the sea and sped towards the ship.

  The Royal Marines dragons, which were waiting impatiently for their turn to take part in the battle on the landing deck, were now shaking their neck frills and snorting boiling steam from their nostrils. Their metallic silver scales glinted blindingly in the tropical sun.

  “Damballah! I told you, Ardian! I warned you!” cried Akintoye.

  For a brief moment Dylan gazed at the creature unfazed.

  “Shall we launch the torpedoes, Sir?” Edern asked, glancing nervously at the approaching serpent. It was not big enough to threaten the Ladon, but it could still do some costly damage on deck.

  “No, Edern,” Dylan replied, “the time for trinkets is over.”

  He turned to his son.

  “You’d better step away from the railings. This may get nasty.”

  As the dragons flew past the bridge of the Ladon like two silver bullets, Bran shouted and waved. He was certain his father did not see him, but at the last moment Dylan turned in the saddle and waved back — seconds before his dragon and the giant serpent struck against each other with tooth, flame and claw.

  The parade processed down the main broad street of the town, rising clouds of yellow sand billowing into the sky so bright and pale blue it seemed almost white. Crowds of natives lined both sides of the road cheering and dancing, throwing wreaths of flowers, beads and bird feathers under the feet of the marching soldiers.