The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  “That’s our prompt,” murmured Hywel as the bombardment moved further south. The Commander raised his Soul Lance and, one by one, the dragons of the Twelfth Light sprang into the skies. Their task was to cover the western flank of the landing party — the Second Marines doing the same thing on the opposite side. The first wave of the barges launched from the moorings.

  “Where’s the enemy?” Wulfhere asked, straining to see anything among the smoke and dust raised by the shelling. The barges were almost halfway across the river and there was still no response from the rebels. He felt nervous. The dragons flew slowly, to let the barges keep up. We’re sitting ducks here, he thought.

  “Maybe they ran away,” replied Hywel hopefully.

  “Look, they dug trenches along the river bank.”

  Several rows of dugouts ran parallel to the shoreline, now mangled and partially buried by the barrage. Nothing seemed to move inside.

  “We’re flying too low,” said Wulfhere. “Why are we flying so low?”

  “Don’t be a coward, Wulf,” said Hywel, but his voice trembled.

  An easterly wind picked up, dispersing the smoke clouds, and they saw a line of the rebel war machines, standing on the top of a tall cliff like patient spiders, their cannons aimed at the middle of the river.

  “There they are,” said Hywel.

  “For the Dragon Throne!” the Commander yelled. The dragons roared in response, and fifty winged beasts swooped down as one.

  They were sitting in the canteen tent, by the long table, finishing their meal. Fighting still raged on the other side of the river, but half of the regiment was allowed to fly back to the camp for a brief respite. The battle was obviously going in their favour.

  “Our naval guns are making mincemeat out of the enemy,” said Berthun, a black-haired, thick-browed rider from Rheged. His voice was not boastful and his face was grim, a face of a man who had seen too much for one day. “This battle will be over before nightfall.”

  “Mincemeat… now there’s something I’d like to eat instead of all this rice and fish!” replied another boy and many laughed, though not all.

  “You’re not drinking your rum?” Hywel asked. Wulfhere sat quietly over his bowl, a tin mug filled with muddled brown liquid untouched.

  You call this swill “rum”, he thought bitterly. In my father’s house we would drink the finest of Burdigala wines.

  He wasn’t sure where the sudden memory came from. He shook his head.

  “I have a feeling we may yet need our clear heads.”

  “You worry too much. Berthun is right, with the ironclads on our side nothing can stand in our way.”

  “I’ve heard a rumour the fleet is ordered to set sail on the morrow.”

  The Gwynedd boy looked at him sharply. Wulfhere may not have been a reliable soldier most of the time, but his good connections made him a valuable source of gossip.

  “It will be all over by tomorrow,” Hywel said at last.

  He grabbed the Seaxe’s mug and drank the rum in one gulp, snorting.

  “Did you know Bran was supposed to be here with his father?” he asked.

  Wulfhere shook his head. “I thought he stayed at the Academy.”

  “No, apparently he’s gone missing in the Ladon disaster.”

  “Dead, you mean.”

  “Nobody here seems to think so. The Seal of Llambed saved him, but nobody knows where he is. Imagine if he was here, though — three boys from the same year on one battlefield!”

  Hywel laughed, his cheeks already rosy from the drink. Wulfhere sat silent. The memory of Bran, and of his humiliation at the Red Dragon tafarn spoiled his mood completely. He pushed back the bowl and stood up.

  “I’ll go check on the dragon.”

  Hywel nodded. “We’ll be flying again in ten minutes anyway.”

  Wulfhere stepped outside the flapping tent door and gazed across the muddy river. The waters flowed calmly now, unaware of the carnage on the southern shore, undisturbed by the smoke and flares.

  There was a sudden quiet thunder strike in the distance, and a great flash in the sky. A ball of flame hurtled, rolling and tumbling from beyond the southern horizon, like a meteor. Long before it reached its destination, Wulfhere guessed what the strange missile was aiming for. The flaming rock hit one of the warships dead on, smashing through all the decks, straight for the ammunition storage. A blink of an eye later a tremendous explosion tore the hapless ship asunder.

  For a moment everything was deadly quiet. Then the debris started falling down on the camp — half a mile from the blast — and the dragon riders poured from the tent to see what was happening.

  “By the Red Dragon’s Breath…” Hywel whispered, sobering up in an instant. “That was the Admiral’s frigate!”

  A swarm of Qin dragons headed towards them like a cloud of colourful ribbons in the wind.

  “Look at that,” whispered Hywel, “there must be dozens of them.”

  The regiment divided into two groups; one squadron, led by the Commander, flew upwards and to the West, to strike at the enemy dragons with the sun at their backs. The other split further, into individual flights, to deal with the danger on the ground. Hywel was a Flight Leader — a rare promotion for one so young — and so he and Wulfhere found themselves leading a group of four riders, speeding low over the heads of both the enemy and friendly soldiers in the direction from which the flaming boulders were coming. The mysterious cannon — if cannon it was — took a long time to reload. It had shot only twice more since the Twelfth had scrambled. Neither of the shots was as precise and deadly as the first one, but the ships were forced to stop their bombardment and engage in evasive manoeuvres. It was imperative to locate it and destroy it fast, before the enemy regained their initiative.

  “It came from beyond that low line of hills,” said Wulfhere, one of the few who had seen the first shot fired. Hywel’s flight turned along an irrigation canal running south-west across the rice fields towards a crest of sand dunes.

  Something was running towards them down from the hills. At first it seemed like a cavalry of ponies, or a battalion of warhounds.

  “Watch out!” Hywel cried to the other riders, “It’s what’s-their-faces, the leaping lions!”

  “Bishiu,” Wulfhere corrected him grimly.

  In his notepad the name Bishiu was circled in red. Though the vestigial wings on the backs of the horned, lion-shaped creatures did not give them the power of flight, they could still pounce a hundred feet or more into the air to bring down any beast unfortunate enough to fly so low. Their strength and fierceness were legendary, and although one-on-one they were no match for even the smallest of dragons, they always travelled and fought in great packs.

  “Up twenty!” Hywel commanded and the four dragons climbed to two hundred feet. The Bishiu were now following the flying beasts at speed, howling and barking, and leaping without much effect.

  “Let them howl!” Hywel said, laughing, but at the same moment one of the lions leapt farther than any before it and its claws grasped a hind leg of one of the dragons. The mount snorted and dropped a few yards, flapping its wings desperately, trying to shake the beast off.

  Two more of the Bishiu reached the dragon, pulling it further downwards. Hywel turned the flight back to save the hapless rider. Lightning and flame poured like rain on the heads of the leaping lions and the beasts scattered, squealing like pigs on fire. Soon, however, they began regrouping again at the foot of the hills, growling menacingly.

  “Up ten,” shouted Hywel with a tired voice, “and keep those shields on! Next time you’re caught, you have to fend for yourselves. We’ve had enough delay as it is. That infernal cannon is about to make another try at our ships, I bet. Onwards, men of the Twelfth!”

  It was difficult to assess the size of the enormous mortar until they got close enough to see the crew and soldiers bustling around it, and even then it was hard to comprehend. Each of the six wheels upon which the heavy wooden platform rested w
as at least twelve feet in diameter. The barrel of the gun, painted bright red and decorated with coiling hieroglyphs, rose menacingly into the sky like a giant chimney, leaning at a slight angle towards the battlefield.

  “If these are the rebels,” asked Wulfhere, “how come they have access to such weapons and not the Qin army?”

  Hywel shrugged. “You want to switch sides?”

  The Seaxe did not answer.

  The cannon was manned and guarded by what seemed at first like very large men in bluish-green uniforms.

  “Sheng-sheng,” whispered Wulfhere when they got closer.

  A hail of musket balls and flaming arrows bounced uselessly off the tarians. A few rockets exploded between the dragons without harm.

  Hywel reached out his right hand and summoned a bluish Soul Lance. He gestured to the rider at his left side — grey-eyed Eadgyth — ordering her to take out the rocket launchers and war machines on a ridge to the south. Hywel and one other dragon, led by a silent, tattooed man from Alba called Nechtan, swooped down towards the gun. There were only three of them left in the flight; the fourth rider flew back to the rest of the army to announce the discovery of the gun’s position.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” Wulfhere asked.

  “No time. At the least we can distract them from making another shot.”

  The sheng-sheng dispersed, cowering before their dragons and the gun halted its slow rotation. But the dragon flame could not penetrate the casing. The gun carriage was magic-proofed. Only the iron bindings of the wheels started melting in the fire, settling the entire machinery deep into the ground.

  “Cover me, I’m going down,” announced Hywel, standing in his stirrups.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I’m going to dismantle that thing from the ground.”

  “That’s insane! Didn’t you hear the instructor? Those furry apes will rip you apart!”

  Hywel’s eyes glinted with battle rush and pride. “That’s why I need you to cover me. You should be happy — if I die, you get to keep the dragon.”

  “But — ”

  “That’s an order, ensign. Bring us close to that cupola at the back, that’s where the steering mechanism must be.”

  Reluctantly, Wulfhere took over the reins and guided the dragon down. He could see Hywel’s lips move wordlessly as the Gwyneddian calculated the trajectory of the enhanced jump. Nechtan circled above them, checking the crowd of the sheng-shengs with precisely aimed balls of dragon flame.

  Hywel leapt down, somersaulting in the air before landing upon the platform. His Lance flashed, cutting an opening in the iron dome and he disappeared inside.

  Wulfhere cursed, bringing the dragon to heel. There were more enemy soldiers swarming from all sides, and there was no sign of their own reinforcements coming, except Eadgyth returning from her mission. Several war machines smouldered on the ridge.

  He’s as good as dead, the fool.

  Wulfhere and Nechtan were doing their best to keep the enemy from returning to the gun carriage, but both they and their mounts were growing tired with the prolonging battle. His mount struggled to keep airborne. Now that he was in charge of the dragon, he could feel the chaotic whirlwind of magic currents around the machine, disrupting the flow of the Ninth Wind. It was like flying through a tornado.

  There was a small explosion inside the vehicle and one of the great wheels broke off, falling down with a thud, burying a few of the sheng-sheng combatants underneath.

  Nechtan whooped, but the cry of joy died in his throat. Wulfhere felt it too. There was a dark presence on the battlefield beneath them. It did not take him long to find its source. A Qin man in simple red robes and long uncut hair was walking unhurriedly towards the gun, accompanied by several soldiers carrying long bronze tubes. The ranks of rebel soldiers parted before him like grass. The sheng-shengs dropped to their hairy knees.

  The Alba rider, recognising an officer of some sort, let out a battle cry and dived down. The strange man looked up with eyes shining gold and Wulfhere was certain he smiled wickedly, though it was too far to see his features. The man raised a hand. His soldiers aimed their bronze tubes and launched flaming spears carrying what seemed to be fishing nets made of silver, glittering thread.

  Wulfhere pulled up out of the range of the missiles, but Nechtan was too late. His dragon’s wings got entangled in the nets and the beast tumbled down to the ground. The sheng-shengs swarmed to it, swamping both the dragon and its rider with their bodies.

  “We need to retreat! Where’s the Flight Leader?” shouted Eadgyth.

  “Inside,” Wulfhere pointed grimly at the gun carriage, from which the sounds of a fierce battle were still coming. The two riders tried to get close to the bombard but the nets launched again, keeping them at bay. The enemy footmen were now climbing onto the platform on all sides and the strange Qin man was reaching for a rope ladder.

  “Swyfen!” the Seaxe cursed, “I’m coming after him. Cover me!”

  He dived in and, swerving back and forth to avoid the nets, he landed the dragon on the carriage, in the middle of a troop of the sheng-shengs, who dispersed in an instant.

  “Stay here,” Wulfhere commanded the beast. The dragon had enough sense of its own to understand the order, despite their weak Farlink connection. “Guard the entrance.”

  The Seaxe looked up one last time towards Eadgyth circling above and then leapt through the opening in the iron dome.

  He found Hywel on a narrow staircase reaching deep into the bowels of the war machine. The Gwyneddian was limping towards the exit, his side covered in blood and his cavalry sword broken, but a broad grin lightened his face.

  “That gun won’t move again. But what are you doing here? I told you to stay up.”

  “We have to get out of here. The others have still not arrived and there are enemy reinforcements outside. Can you fly?”

  “I can try.”

  With Hywel hanging on his shoulder, Wulfhere climbed out onto the platform only to see a swarm of strong arms covered in blue fur reaching towards him. He pulled back inside, hacking at the sheng-shengs furiously. Hywel joined him, but with a broken sword and not enough power to sustain the Soul Lance any more, he could do little against the onslaught.

  Several of the creatures grasped the jagged iron edges of the opening and, with tremendous strength, tore it apart. Others poured in through the breach, forcing the two riders further down the wooden stairs. Rocks and arrows flew, bouncing off Wulfhere’s tarian with a shimmer. One of the beasts moved forward, wielding a heavy spear with a blunt bronze head. The blade penetrated the shield with a crackle, hitting Wulfhere’s side and pinning him to the wall. He hit his head and his legs gave in. The sheng-shengs trampled and tumbled over him and a red darkness shrouded everything around.

  The cold wind woke him up, but he dared not stir or open his eyes. The harsh, ineligible howls and barks around him told him he was still among the sheng-sheng. He wasn’t bound — they must have thought he was dead. The wound in his side ached.

  Very carefully, he opened one eye by a slit, just to get his bearings. He was laid on the gun platform, not far from the iron cupola. Hywel lay beside him, to the left, not showing any signs of life. Further along the Seaxe could make out the outlines of two more bodies: Eadgyth and Nechtan, he guessed. The sheng-sheng stood around them in a circle, agitated.

  What are they doing to us? Some kind of sacrifice?

  Another kind of cold passed through his body and he sensed the strange Qin man coming up to the riders. Wulfhere’s skin got covered with goose bumps. The sheng-sheng fell silent and stepped aside. The man reached for the first of the bodies — Nechtan, judging by the hair colour, though the body was mangled almost beyond recognition — and raised it to his face. A sleeve of the robe slid down, revealing a tattoo of a black lotus flower on the forearm.

  The Qin man’s eyes turned from gold to black and he plunged his teeth into Nechtan’s neck. The Alba soldier woke suddenly,
gasped and twitched briefly, before falling limply to the floor.

  Their tormentor moved to Eadgyth. Wulfhere closed his eyes and tried to calm his breath and heart to stay undetected. What was this creature? No briefing mentioned anything like it.

  The man — the demon — now leaned over the body of Hywel. He turned his back to Wulfhere for a brief moment. This was all the boy needed. A Soul Lance appeared in his right hand and he leapt up, striking the enemy under the ribs. The Lance went straight through the lungs and heart. The Qinese let out a terrible shriek which made all the sheng-shengs fall down on their faces in fright.

  Gathering all his strength, Wulfhere pulled the Lance downwards and to the side. There was no blood, no guts spilled from the gash, just rotting flesh. The creature reached back with a hand blackened with blood, but the dragon rider pushed on the Lance and the demon tripped over Hywel’s body, falling.

  It’s still alive. How is it still alive?

  The creature flailed its arms, trying to stand up. Wulfhere grabbed Hywel and, dragging him along the platform, hewed his way through the crowd of terrified sheng-shengs.

  A ball of flame dropped from the skies, then another, then a lightning bolt. He looked up. Coming from over the sand dunes, the dragons of the Second Marines were coming to the rescue on the northerly wind, led by a man wielding a shining golden Soul Lance.

  He sighed with relief and turned around. The platform was empty. There was no trace of the sheng-sheng soldiers, the two dead dragon riders — or the mysterious demon.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Dry wind blew volcanic dust across the arid highland. Particles of dark grey fell onto the torn and tattered remains of Dōraku’s kimono and covered gaping, open wounds with a thin layer of ash. The samurai lay sprawled on the ground. His arms, thrown apart, still held on to both swords, but most of his upper body was ripped and slashed to pieces by ghostly fangs and claws, which pierced through the clothes and the mail shirt underneath like paper.