The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Read online

  First published by Flying Squid, May 2013

  ISBN: 978-83-936713-0-4 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-83-936713-1-1 (paperback)

  Visit James Calbraith’s official website at

  jamescalbraith.com

  for the latest news, book details, and other information

  Copyright © James Calbraith, 2013

  Map Illustration: Jared Blando and Flying Squid

  Cover Art: Collette J Ellis

  Inside Illustrations: Victoria Shaad

  Cover Design: Flying Squid

  E-Book formatting: Flying Squid

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Fan fiction and fan art is encouraged.

  It came out of the fog.

  An old, ghostly, Bataavian man-o-war, glowing crimson, its tattered black sails full even though the sea was silent for miles. Gunports open wide along the broadside; cannons primed and ready to fire. And not a soul on board.

  The look-out was the first to cry the words everyone knew and dreaded in these seas south of the Cape: “The Flying Bataavian! Straight ahead!”

  Prone to superstition, the sailors fell into disarray. The captain and the officers tried to stem the chaos, but it was too late. Panic spread like wildfire. The helmsman, deaf to the orders, turned the Birkenhead to the starboard to evade the wraith ship coming towards them.

  A terrible sound of iron plating searing and the wooden hull cracking, splintering and tearing came from the bottom of the Birkenhead as it struck an unseen reef. The frigate shook and stalled.

  “Astern! Astern!” cried the captain, and the crew obliged — backwards seemed the only possible way to go. The ghostly Bataavian was now almost upon them. The paddle-wheels turned with effort and the frigate started sliding off the rock. That was a deadly mistake. The sea rushed into the hole, the plates buckled, the bulkheads ripped open. Whoever was still under the deck drowned in an instant. The flooded engines hissed and stopped. The Birkenhead began to break in two.

  “Drop the anchor!” the captain cried. “Lower the quarter boats! Women and children first!”

  The thick oaken door of his cabin muffled the sounds of alarm whistles and bugles. With no sense of urgency, the old Bataavian physician was packing his meagre belongings into the black leather bag.

  “Master von Siebold,” the cabin boy pleaded, glancing anxiously at the porthole. He could see nothing through it but raging seawater.

  “You go, boy, if you are in such a hurry,” the old man said, nodding, “I have witnessed my share of sinkings. It will be hours before the entire ship is submerged.”

  He hesitated for a moment, picking up the small black lacquer figurine of a dragon. “My dear Ine,” he smiled sadly, “I wonder if you found a husband yet?”

  The cabin boy could take it no longer and dashed for the door. At the same time, it burst open. Several soldiers grabbed the physician by his black coat, dragging him out onto the deck, their eyes mad with fear and anger. “It’s all your fault, Bataavian! Look, your people are coming to get you!” they cried and hissed, pointing towards the ghostly ship. They pulled the old man, still clutching desperately to his black leather bag, over to the side of the quickly sinking frigate, ready to throw him overboard to pacify the angry spirits of the sea.

  “Seventy-Fourth! Halt! Are you men or beasts? Stand to attention when an officer speaks!”

  A voice demanding immediate respect barked out behind them. The soldiers turned around and stood rigid at once as they faced their regimental commander in full Highland dress, impeccably neat and absurdly out of place in the middle of the southern ocean.

  “Release this poor man and get on the poop deck. I will deal with this insubordination later.”

  The chaos on board was by now mostly under control. Discipline and sense of duty prevailed at last over fear and superstition.

  “Doctor,” the commander said, reaching out his hand, “if you could please go to the boats. I believe there is still a place.”

  “Thank you, Colonel Seton, but I’m sure there are younger and more useful men among your crew. I am old, and all my family is lost.”

  The Colonel looked at the physician for a moment, and then nodded sharply, with respect.

  “In that case, I will be honoured to accompany you to the poop deck. All my men are there, awaiting salvation — or death.”

  Only the stern section of the frigate was still above the water. Soldiers of the Seventy-Fourth and Ninety-First Foot stood, silently, as the ship sank slowly and surely. All the women and children were safely away on the ship’s surviving quarter-boats; all the horses driven into the sea so that they might try to swim ashore.

  Calm and composed now, the soldiers and the officers observed the Flying Bataavian in its full glory as it passed them by without a single sound, and without firing a single shot.

  “What do you think, Doctor?” the Colonel asked, pointing at the ghostly ship disappearing back into the fog.

  “An illusion of the Xhosa shamans, no doubt,” replied Von Siebold, “they are very crafty with shaping mists and clouds.”

  “Very crafty indeed,” the Colonel said, nodding, “I wonder if we’ll ever win this war.”

  The ship’s Captain approached them. “Colonel, we are done for here. Perhaps you should release your men to make for the boats, if they can?”

  “Nonsense, Captain. The boats would be swamped. Stand fast, men! We will die like gentlemen!”

  “Aye, Sir!”

  And so they stood there, valiant, as the water came creeping up to the poop deck, then to their feet, ankles, knees... some of the soldiers started climbing onto the rigging, a few hurled themselves into the abyss, but others remained unmoved, even as another piece of bulwark broke off with a tremendous crash.

  “Ho! In the skies!” somebody pointed up.

  “Another illusion,” spat another.

  “No, it looks like... it’s dragons!”

  The men started cheering as the two brightly-shining dots dived towards them like a couple of bullets, soon growing into mighty silver-scaled dragons. They hovered several feet above the sinking remnants of the Birkenhead, beating their great leathery wings and shaking their horned heads. One was ridden by a man seven feet tall, slim, silver-haired, with vertical pupils in amber eyes like a cat — a Faer Folk. The other rider, black-haired and green eyed, wore the scarlet uniform of a Royal Marines Ardian. He cried out in a firm calm voice.

  “Ahoy, there! I’m Ardian Dylan ab Ifor of the Second Dragoons. Is the commanding officer still among you?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Seton, of the Seventy-Fourth Foot, Twelfth Light. Damn nice to see you, Ardian.”

  “We noticed your signal flares. The Lioness is steaming at full speed and should be here in an hour. Can you hold out that long?”

  “We will do our best.”

  “My dragons can pick up some of the weak and wounded in the meantime,” the Ardian said, scratching a scar on his face in thought, “select the first ten, Colonel, we’ll be back in no time. Edern, you stay and keep an eye on the sharks.”

  “Aye, Ardian,” the Faer Folk said, saluting.

  “Well, Doctor,” Colonel Seton turned to the Bataavian, “this time I must insist. You will go with
the first sortie. Somebody must take care of the wounded.”

  “I yield to that,” the physician agreed and reached out his hand, “it was an honour to meet you, Colonel.”

  “Likewise, Doctor,” the soldier said and shook the old man’s hand with vigour.

  THE SHADOW OF BLACK WINGS

  Book One of

  The Year of the Dragon

  James Calbraith

  Unchanging the river flows, and yet the water is never the same.

  In the still pools the foam now gathers, now vanishes, never staying for long.

  So in the world are men and their dwellings.

  Hōjōki

  PROLOGUE

  A single gear whirred and clicked into place. A valve opened, letting out a thin plume of grey steam with a quiet hiss. A gold-plated dial moved by a notch. A tiny mallet sprang from its compartment, striking the brass gong — one, two, three, four, five, six times.

  Master Tanaka looked up in surprise — an hour of the Hare already? He turned towards the window and the pink light of dawn illuminated his face. The temple bell only now started to ring out the time. He sighed then yawned, rubbing tired eyes. Another night had passed without him noticing.

  The elementals inside the clock awoke with a soft purr and the automatic brush began to move swiftly inside the glass cloche. A slot opened in the mahogany pedestal and spat out a piece of paper upon which was written the day’s divination. Hisashige reached for it absentmindedly, his attention focused on the piece of complex clockwork on which he had been working. He glanced briefly at the calligraphy — Oku, “a gift”. He smiled to himself and nodded knowingly.

  A higher-pitched chime rang eight times — counting out the hours of the Western reckoning. The door slid open noiselessly and a small boy entered the workshop. With his long and angular face, puffed lips and wide straight nose, he bore no resemblance to Master Tanaka.

  “It came from Kiyō this morning, Father,” the boy said, presenting Hisashige with a large, ornately packed wooden box.

  “Excellent!” the old master exclaimed.

  He put the box on the workbench beside the clockwork and began to unwrap it eagerly.

  “Shūhan-sama was supposed to send me some Walcheren glass.”

  He stopped abruptly and his shoulders sank when he saw the crest on the box, in golden leaf — three lines in a circle. He lifted the lid without enthusiasm. Inside was what seemed like a small human head, completely bald.

  “Some gift.” Hisashige looked at the clock with reproach. “It’s just another of Zōzan’s broken dolls.”

  He took out a small paper envelope containing his fee, and gave it to the boy.

  “Put it in the treasure box later.”

  The old master opened a hatch in the top of the doll’s head and studied the complex web of gears, cranks and pulleys for a moment. With one swift twist of his fingers, he snapped a rubber band back onto the hooked lever.

  “Hardly worth the effort,” he murmured, closing the head and the box. “I really need those divinations to be more precise in the new clock.”

  “Is that the new year-plate?”

  The boy craned his neck to see over Hisashige’s shoulder to view the mechanism sprawled all over the workbench.

  “Yes. You have a good eye, Daikichi,” the old master said with a gentle smile.

  “Still can’t get it to work?”

  Hisashige shook his white head.

  “Come, I will show you.”

  He put the loose screws and gears back into place and lifted the plate gingerly. He moved across the workshop to a tall sculpted cabinet of Western make, and opened the oaken door.

  There was another clock inside, similar to the one standing in the corner of the room, but larger and with even more dials, switches and levers.

  Hisashige inserted the clockwork plate precisely into its slot and turned the key. The gentle warm hum of the elemental engine filled the cabinet. Steam hissed from the valves.

  “I don’t understand. Everything seems perfect,” the old master commented as the dials turned to their desired positions, showing exactly the same time and date as was visible on the old clock. “I can’t find any fault within the mechanism. The minute hand is even more precise than before. All the Major Trigrams match. But look at that zodiac dial…”

  A round ivory plate turned slowly. Pictures of animals, encrusted in black lacquer, appeared in the glass lens one by one — monkey, rooster, dog, boar, mouse, ox…

  “It should stop now,” said Hisashige, and the boy nodded.

  It had been the Year of the Ox for a few months now — water ox, to be precise. But the plate continued to turn inexplicably past the tiger and hare until, at last, it halted.

  The black lacquer silhouette of a coiled sleeping dragon glinted mockingly from the lens.

  CHAPTER I

  Gwynedd, May, 2606 ab urbe condita

  The distance from Llambed to Dinas Bran is computed at seventy miles, as the crow flies. The prevailing wind is north-westerly, steady at fifteen knots along the entire distance. Given an average velocity of an unladen Purple Swift equal to forty knots, and allowing for the pressure pocket of Berwyn Hills — oof!

  Bran bumped into someone and dropped the exercise book to the ground, his notes scattering all over the freshly cut grass. He knew who it was just from looking at the thick leather boots. Only the Seaxe wore shoes on the sacred meadow of the Scholars’ Grove.

  “Honestly, Toadboy, it’s as if you wanted to be beaten up,” a familiar vile voice mocked.

  Bran looked up and sighed. Wulfhere of Warwick towered above him in his impeccable blue uniform. His sky-blue eyes stared at Bran from under a neat flaxen-yellow fringe with disgust.

  “Sorry, Wulf.” Bran stooped to pick up his papers. “I’m in a hurry for the Octagonometry exam…”

  “Pah!” snorted the Seaxe. “What’s the point? You and your Toad will never pass the Aerobatics.”

  “Its name is Emrys,” Bran said coldly, “and it can outfly any dragon in this school, including your fat thoroughbred.”

  Wulfhere narrowed his eyes and tightened his fists. Tiny sparks crackled around his knuckles and Bran prepared himself for a blow. The Seaxe glanced towards the red brick arches of the Southern cloister where the house prefect stood, watchful.

  “Out of my way, serf, you’re lucky I’m not in the mood today,” he scoffed and pushed Bran aside.

  The papers scattered again. Gathering his notes, Bran mumbled a Prydain slur, loud enough only for Wulfhere to hear. The Seaxe stopped and turned back slowly.

  “What did you just say?”

  Bran looked around helplessly. Nobody was coming to his aid, of course; this wasn’t a fight worth joining in. Somebody was paying attention though. The red-haired Pictish lass, Eithne, stood under a large oak tree with several giggling friends. Their eyes met. He saw pity and embarrassment in hers, and something inside him sank.

  She wore the robes of the Geomancers, although Bran knew her dream was to one day become one of the Derwydd — Druids, guarding Gwynedd from their fortress at Mon Island since ancient times. The brown-green, plaid cloak suited her auburn hair and green eyes, framed in a delicate spiral tattoo. They liked each other but never went any further than a few walks under the oak trees and an occasional awkward teenage kiss. In the end their relationship had simply fizzled out, to Bran’s sporadic regret.

  He repeated the slur, suddenly feeling brave. Now everyone heard him. Several people stopped curiously, waiting to see what would happen. But with only a few days left until the final tests, Bran no longer cared. After the exams none of it would matter, anyway.

  “You’ve done it now, Taffy. You’ll have to take your tests in the infirmary!”

  The Seaxe grabbed Bran’s neck and the boy tensed. With an electric crackle and sizzle, a cloud of painful sparks appeared around Wulfhere’s hand. Paralysed, Bran made no sound, though his eyes welled up when he felt his nerve endings scorched. His neck was on
fire, but he knew too well the electricity would leave no marks on the skin. The ability to tap into the lightning power of his mount, Eohlsand — a Highland Azure — made Wulfhere’s punishments both immensely painful and perfectly undetectable.

  Just as Bran felt he could no longer take the pain and would have to cry out for mercy, the provost finally appeared, heading towards them. Wulfhere let go of his victim. Bran fell to the ground, gasping.

  “I’ll get you next time, Taffy,” the Seaxe hissed and shuffled off, unhurriedly.

  “Are you alright?” the provost asked, reaching his hand out to Bran. “Did he hurt you?”

  “I’m fine,” Bran murmured with embarrassment and raised himself slowly, wincing as he massaged his aching neck. He glanced towards the large oak tree. The girl was nowhere to be seen. Sighing, he retrieved his papers from the grass for the third time and headed towards the dormitory cloister.

  He tugged both sets of reins sharply and leaned back. The dragon pulled up and rolled on its back in a tight half-loop. Ground whizzed past the top of Bran’s head. He jerked the top leeward rein. A leather strap fastened to the base of one of the dragon’s horns tightened, and the mount turned upright. With one beat of its leathery wings it caught a strong waft of the Ninth Wind and its flight stabilised. The boy breathed out.

  The series of manoeuvres finished, Bran brushed an unruly fringe of black hair out of his flying goggles and bade his mount swoop fast down towards the target range. The dragon needed no guidance here. They had been practising on the range for two years and both knew exactly what to do. The beast turned confidently towards the first objective: a large bale of straw. The dragon’s neck stretched in a straight line. Its jaws opened but it coughed to no effect as the target dashed past. Shaking its head, the beast turned around to try again. Again it merely coughed and spluttered with great effort and a thin plume of smoke puffed from the dragon’s nostrils.