The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  “Promise me,” she said, standing up, “that we will finish this game one day.”

  “Y… yes, hime.”

  Komatsu also stood up and bowed deeply. She felt tears welling up in her throat.

  “Thank you. Goodbye, Komatsu-kun.”

  “Goodbye, Atsuko.”

  The palanquin standing on the slate pavement was the most ornate she had ever seen. Fit for a princess indeed, she thought bitterly. Covered entirely in black lacquer and gold leaf ornaments, with the great cross-in-circle emblem of the Shimazu clan on the sides and red silk-covered roof, it was so large and heavy that six of Satsuma’s strongest porters only managed to carry it with great difficulty. A brass spout in the shape of a dragon protruded from its roof — the exhaust pipe of a small wind machine. Lord Nariakira spared no expenses to make her portable home as comfortable as he could. After all, she was to spend the next few months inside.

  A soft breeze picked up from the sea, scattering the browned petals of the last of the azaleas. The long procession of servants, porters, scribes and retainers waited for her in a rigid line. An unusually large oxcart with an iron studded box stood before the garden gates, surrounded by armed guards. She recognised a few of her father’s wizards standing beside it in silence.

  A girl approached her with a parasol and gestured towards the palanquin.

  “My lady,” she said with a slightly trembling voice.

  “Are you so eager to get rid of me?” Atsuko asked. The girl gasped and dropped to her hands and knees, apologizing for the rudeness. Atsuko recognised her — the youngest daughter of one of the lowest retainers of the Shimazu clan, destined for eternal servitude to her superiors unless a higher ranking samurai decided to adopt her.

  “I’m sorry,” Atsuko said, “please, stand up. You’re Shosuke-sama’s sister, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, hime.”

  “Is he well?”

  “Yes, hime.”

  “Did his facial hair succumb to the barber’s knife at last?”

  The girl giggled, covering her mouth politely.

  “No, hime. It still grows in unruly patches.”

  “I wish he could be here to see me off. And Saigō-sama. And Komatsu-kun.” Her voice trailed off wistfully.

  “Hime?”

  “Oh, nothing. Very well, no point keeping everyone waiting. Are you part of the procession?”

  “Only to Akae, hime.”

  “I will be glad of your company.”

  The girl bowed and then, seeing something behind Atsuko’s back, she bowed again.

  Atsuko turned around to face her father. Lord Nariakira grimaced in a pretend smile, but she could see sadness in his eyes and was grateful to share this glimpse into his heart.

  “Father-sama,” she nodded.

  “Are you ready, child? This will be the longest journey you will ever undertake.”

  “I am prepared well, Father-sama.”

  “Good.”

  “Father-sama, are you sure this oxcart will fit on a ship?”

  “Do not concern yourself with it, Atsuko. It will only go as far as Kirishima.”

  “But what is it?”

  The daimyo’s smile was now real and broad.

  “A gift from the Gods, some might say. Something almost as important for my plans as you.”

  She remembered something. “Does it have something to do with that fishing village you had destroyed two weeks ago?”

  Lord Nariakira’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you hear about that?”

  She smiled and lowered her gaze in pretend coyness. “The paper walls of the palace are thin and the narrow corridors carry the voices far… I know how you despise killing peasants, Father-sama. Something extraordinary must have happened.”

  The daimyo scowled. “You’re right. The peasants are the lifeblood of the province, and I wouldn’t waste any of them if I didn’t have to. Forget about what you’ve heard, Daughter, and forget about the oxcart. I’ll make sure the walls of my palace are reinforced and the voices in the corridors stifled.”

  She shuddered under his angry stare. Lord Nariakira was a man who did not hesitate to strike, even at his own family, if it meant protecting his secrets. She turned towards the palanquin when she felt a gentle shudder under her feet. She swayed and Lord Nariakira caught her arm to assist her.

  “Sakurajima is restless today,” she said.

  “She’s saying her goodbyes. From now on, another mountain’s shadow will be watching over you — the great Fujisan.”

  She put her foot into the black and golden box and turned her head one last time towards the garden and the mansion. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her kimono.

  “You will forget all your woes in Edo,” her father reassured her. He was smiling again.

  How quickly he changes his mood.

  “There’re too many distractions to worry about the past.”

  “Yes, Father-sama.”

  “I will join you in a few months, once I deal with all my matters in Satsuma.”

  “I shall await you eagerly, Father-sama.”

  She stepped inside the palanquin at last and sat herself down as comfortably as she could among the black silk pillows, scented with plum blossom. She lowered the golden grate, enclosing herself in the darkness. The wind machine attached to the ceiling began to whirr and clack rhythmically.

  A cross-shaped shadow passed over his face, waking him from slumber; another albatross far above the clouds. The majestic birds were the only diversions in the featureless azure sky. Even clouds were scarce. The sea and sky were remarkably calm, almost boringly so.

  Samuel reached for the barrel and poured the last few drops of fresh water into a tin cup. The raft hobbled dangerously as he let slide the now empty barrel into the sea.

  There could be no other way to describe what had happened to him other than a miracle. The old nameless God of his ancestors must have looked upon him with a sympathetic eye on that terrible night.

  He still could not remember how he had found himself, soaked and battered, on the piece of wooden decking floating on the dark waves. The Ladon burned and sank on the horizon. Screams of the dying carried over the sea for miles and he could do nothing to help them, struggling himself to survive.

  When he woke again it was high noon. He was still not far from where the ship had gone down — this was another miracle. A vessel the size of Ladon never sinks without a trace — there was an ocean of buoyant debris strewn all around him. Using a wide board as a paddle, Samuel sailed among these riches, trying to gather as much as he could onto his little makeshift raft — barrels of freshwater, crates of rusk, sacks of dried meat. With careful use his finds could have lasted him for weeks.

  And then his luck — or Providence’s favour — had run out. A storm raged, not strong enough to drown him, but devious enough to destroy all the meticulously prepared provisions. By the time the wind passed and waters calmed, he was left with one crate of hardtacks and a single barrel.

  To make matters worse, looking at the stars, Samuel realised he had drifted to the north-east of his original position, into the open sea, far away from any known land.

  In his grandmother’s fairy tales, which he read from a big old tattered book written in strange letters, the unnamed God was often trying his people. One particular story had always terrified Samuel. As the result of a wager with one of his servants, the God tormented some poor human in increasingly horrendous ways, just to prove his point. Samuel had never learned the end of the story — his mother saw him crying and forbade him to ever read from the book again.

  Is this unnamed God now testing me?

  The raft bobbed up and down ceaselessly as the current carried him ever farther away into the vast ocean. He had lost count of the days. Food and water had run out a long time ago, and with them — hope. His skin, burned by the sun, was peeling off and covered in painful blisters, his mouth and throat parched, his eyelids stuck together with dust. He lay still, motionless, w
aiting for death.

  A shape appeared in the water, long, vertical and black, like the fin of some strange fish. The sea water bubbled and foamed. A black form emerged slowly out of the waves, larger than the greatest whale. Samuel gathered the last of his strength to raise himself on one elbow and observe the mysterious phenomenon. So this is how my life will end …eaten by a monster in the middle of an empty ocean...

  Metal fittings glinted in the sun as the strange object halted just a few yards from the raft. It was no fish — it was a machine! A round hatch screeched and began to unscrew at the top. Samuel waited patiently. As his raft drifted alongside of the vessel, he saw an easily- recognisable crest painted on the black steel hull; a two-headed bear, rampant, holding an axe. The Varyaga Khaganate. What were the Northern people doing in these waters, and what kind of a ship was this?

  The hatch unscrewed at last and a bearded sailor emerged, wearing a blue and white uniform and a white flat cap. He shouted something in the stiff, harsh tongue of the Varyaga and reached down to pull out a kisbie ring tied to a rope. The ring-shaped buoy landed with a splash a few feet from Samuel, but he was already too weary to keep hold of it. Seeing this, the sailor jumped into the water and, holding on to the kisbie ring with one hand and to Samuel’s raft with the other, let himself be pulled in by another crew member. More curious sailors came out onto the narrow deck to watch the Ladon’s doctor being brought up a rope ladder.

  The inside of the cigar-shaped ship was dark and stuffy, smelling of oil, tar and sweat, filled with the buzzing hum of pumps and engines. Samuel coughed and heaved, but had nothing left to throw up. They carried him down a narrow corridor and laid him on a canvas bunk.

  He allowed himself to drift off.

  The walking machine waded across the muddy-brown river to the other side. A lonely shell fell into the water a dozen feet away with a whistle and a splash but no explosion — a dud.

  The ground was pock-marked with craters and scorched with dragon flame. Remnants of tents, carts, kitchens and destroyed war machines were strewn all over the plain between the walls of the Huating Concession and the river bend. A few rear-guard marauders wandered about the field of battle, assessing what seemed like the complete rout and destruction of their army. The soldiers of Huating garrison wasted a few bullets chasing them off.

  “That’s the last of them,” said Edern, lowering his binoculars.

  “They’ll be back,” said Dylan. “They are merely regrouping. The delta is too important.”

  A strange clanking and hissing sound came from behind their backs.

  “Here comes the Admiral,” said Edern, turning. A white-haired, surprisingly lively man, short and stout, approached them from the pier where his cutter had moored. As he walked, steam puffed from a small brass box at his belt. A fetching young aide-de-camp followed, a few feet behind, carrying a large satchel and an old sword.

  “Rear Admiral,” said Dylan quietly and climbed down from the palisade to welcome the newcomer and to introduce himself.

  “Ab Ifor?” the Admiral squinted, remembering something. “Bore da! I used to have a midshipman called Ifor. Good sailing stock, you Gwynedd folk.”

  He turned a spigot on the box at his side. The gears in his shoulder and elbow whirred and his hand reached out in a greeting. Dylan clasped it carefully, feeling the cold metal through the calfskin glove. An automaton. The Admiral’s right arm and right leg were artificial, thaumaturgic devices made of steel rods, brass clockwork and leather straps. The contraptions were noisy and their moves were clumsy, but they seemed to be serving the Admiral well enough.

  How could anyone outside the Royal Family afford something like this?

  “We have sea in our blood, Sir. Or so my wife says.”

  “A sailor with a wife!” The Admiral laughed. “Ho! Now there’s a dangerous combination. And what about you, Banneret? Is a Faer lass waiting for you back in your forest?”

  Edern’s eyes darted aside. “No, Sir.”

  The Admiral stopped laughing and turned back to Dylan.

  “Take us to your war room. You have a war room prepared, Ardian?”

  “I have requisitioned the council’s building. This way, Admiral. Edern, will you take the Admiral’s aide to the quartermaster. We need to figure out how to accommodate everyone. I predict we will have a lot more guests coming…”

  The Tylwyth Teg looked at the handsome young man standing shyly behind the Rear Admiral and grinned.

  Rear Admiral Broughton Reynolds leaned over the map, straightening out a rolling corner with his left hand. The metal arm hung limply along his right side, switched off — the noise and fumes would be too bothersome in the small enclosed space. The map was smudged with soot and blotched with ink and oil.

  And I thought Fan Yu was bad, thought Dylan. The “war room” he had managed to procure on short notice was just a small chamber in the basement of the council hall, with a single table, an evertorch on the ceiling and a battered cabinet against the wall.

  “And where are the Councillors, Ardian?” the Admiral asked, looking up from the map.

  “They wanted to give the concession away to the rebels, so I had them locked up for treason.”

  Reynolds laughed with the hearty laugh that was beginning to grow on Dylan.

  “Dracaland needs more men like you, ab Ifor. Do you know, there are folk back in Lundenburgh who think we should support the rebels instead of the rightful rulers?”

  Dylan grimaced. “Their ideology can appeal to certain… elements in the Capital.”

  “Ah, yes. But, it’s bad for business, right, lad? Changing regimes like that. Much better the old evil.”

  “I believe so.”

  “Politics! Pah,” the Admiral snorted. “All I know is that I have my orders to keep this place safe from any barbarians, no matter what side they’re on. War! Let’s get back to that. What can you tell me about our situation, Ardian?”

  Dylan briefly described what his scouts had been reporting. Once the Rear Admiral’s flotilla steamed up the Wusung River and removed the immediate threat of the rebel siege, the riders of the Second Dragoons were able to fly once more and the information started trickling again to Dylan’s headquarters. The Heavenly Army had indeed captured the old Qin capital of Jiankang and managed to reduce all government-held cities along the great Chang River delta. Huating was the last fortress standing between them and the sea.

  “The rivers are the key to all war in this land,” Dylan explained. “We must control both riverbanks if we are to even think of successful defence.”

  “Rivers? I’m not a pike, Ardian, I’m a shark.”

  “The rivers and canals of Qin are like the straits of the lesser seas, Sir. The Chang is fully navigable for a thousand miles, even for a flotilla like yours. I’m certain we’ll be able to use the firepower that you have brought us, wherever the war takes us.”

  The Admiral scratched his side-burns in thought.

  “Well. A man learns all his life — I may yet have to learn how to fight on a river. But what did you have in mind?”

  Dylan put his finger on the map and winced, feeling the grease.

  “A thirty-mile perimeter, all the way to the Tien-shan Lake here. We will need two thousand people.”

  “We have two hundred.”

  “I know. But we can train and arm the people of Huating. They have already requested it. I have the first hundred waiting outside the walls.”

  The Admiral’s eyes widened and he started coughing violently.

  “You wish to give them our weapons? Have you gone mad, man?”

  “Anyone can be trained to use a rifle, Admiral. They are eager to learn.”

  “I bet they are.”

  “They are just townsfolk who want to defend their land. The Qin army has abandoned them.”

  Reynolds squinted one eye.

  “What’s your history with this place, Ardian? I’m sensing this isn’t your first time here.”

  “I have fough
t in our previous war with Qin.”

  “Ah, the Coronet affair…”

  “There was a bit more to that. It lasted three years.”

  “I was stationed in Bharata back then. Recovering from this,” he said, patting his iron thigh. “Never paid much attention to the issues of the Orient until I got this assignment.”

  Dylan said nothing. The Admiral seemed a clever enough person.

  Let him figure it out.

  “They will need to swear allegiance to the Crown if we’re to command them.”

  “That… may cause problems in the long run.”

  The Admiral sighed.

  “Then we will need to wait for the Emperor’s permission.”

  “Do we have that much time, Sir?”

  “How do you think the Qin government will react to us arming their citizens willy-nilly? I may not know these particular people, but politics works the same everywhere. There must be some semblance of order.”

  There were fast steps on the stairs outside and a rapid knock on the door.

  “Come in, Banneret.”

  “Sir, there are dragons coming from the north.”

  “An attack?” the Admiral asked before Dylan opened his mouth.

  “I don’t think so. There are only three of them, and the beasts are all yellow.”

  “What does that mean?” Reynolds turned to Dylan.

  “Yellow is the Imperial colour. I believe our wait may be much shorter than we had expected.”

  The beasts coiled on the landing glade, surrounded by curious soldiers, many of whom had not seen a Qin dragon up close, on the ground. They were smaller and slimmer than the mounts of the Marines, their yellow scales smooth, more like those of a fish than a snake. Their horns branched like deer antlers, and their ends were rounded, not sharp. And of course there was only a vestige of wings in the middle of the long, serpentine body. But there was no doubt of the kinship between the long and their Western cousins. The same wise eyes shone above the many-teethed maws, the same sharp claws glistened at the ends of the muscular legs, and the same commanding dread surrounded the creatures. Perhaps even more so; the Qin dragons, especially the Imperial Yellows, spread among their admirers not a primitive, wild fear, but an inspiring awe.