The Last Dragon King, page 1
part #8 of The Year of the Dragon Series
THE LAST DRAGON KING
Book Eight of
The Year of the Dragon
James Calbraith
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Published December 2016 by Flying Squid
ISBN: 978-83-939321-3-9
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Copyright © James Calbraith, 2016
Cover Art: Collette J. Ellis
Map Illustrations: Jared Blando, Flying Squid, Metruis
Cover Design: 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.
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands.
Richard II, Act 2, Scene 1
PART I: THE STORM GOD’S SWORD
PROLOGUE
Commodore Stirling gazed with wonder at the multitude of ships bobbing at anchor. From his headquarters — a Qin aristocrat’s villa at the top of a pine-covered dune — he had a clear view of the fleet gathered in Huating harbour: a dozen battleships, two dragon carriers and a swarm of escort units, all ready to set sail to the Qin’s northern regions, as soon as the final orders from Lundenburgh arrived.
All except one of them: a battered mistfire, listing slightly to port, water almost up to its decks. An orange banner hung limp from its main mast.
“Ardian Hywel,” he said, “would you care to explain what this Bataavian wreck is doing in my port?”
The soldier in question rubbed his lime-white moustache nervously. “They say they’ve come from Yamato.”
“The fabled Yamato, eh?” Stirling licked his lips and picked up a spyglass. There was nothing remarkable about the ship, except its rough state — and the fact its deck had been stripped from most modern devices that a vessel of this kind should have been equipped with — as well as all the guns. “Have they been attacked by pirates? Do they need our help? I’m afraid I can’t spare any of my warships on their quarrels with the natives.”
“No, sir,” replied Hywel. “They want to trade, sir.”
The Gwynedd boy was climbing fast in the ranks. He had been a Flight Leader until recently — but then, Stirling himself had only been an aide-de-camp until the sudden disappearances of both Commodores ab Ifor and mab Gwyn left a void at the top of the Qin Expeditionary Force — or the Ever-Victorious Army, as the locals still called it.
“Trade? By Dragon’s Breath, this is a military base, not a merchant factory!”
“Sir, apparently, their cargo holds are filled with gold bars and silver bullion. This is why they’re listing so heavily. They want to buy weapons and equipment — here’s the full list.” Hywel handed him a thick ledger. “And a letter that’s supposed to explain everything.”
Stirling tore open the envelope. He knew the hand at once — a hand that had signed and countersigned countless orders in the short period when Stirling had served as a Reeve to its owner: Edern mab Gwyn, the Tylwyth Teg.
The letter was short and to the point, but the news it brought was far from insignificant.
Yamato … so that’s where they’ve all disappeared! And what kind of mess did the Commodore drag them into?
A civil war, a revolution, overthrow of the ruling monarch — and they wanted Dracalish weapons for that …? Stirling’s mind swirled over the legalities of a Dracalish officer getting involved in this kind of thing of his own accord.
But if anyone could get away with it, and to turn it around to Dracaland’s advantage, it was Dylan — and Edern. His signature at the end of the letter was enough for Stirling to make a snap decision. He handed the ledger back to Hywel.
“Make sure they get everything they want,” he said. “And throw in a few things extra.”
CHAPTER I
Gwen crawled out of the boat’s wreckage, soaked and exhausted, onto a beach of cold, grey sand.
The natives found her when she was near death. Tall, bearded, solemn men, and laughing women with tattooed faces, wearing clothes of tree bark and boots of salmon skin. They were good-natured, but cautious. They put her in an abandoned straw-walled hut at the edge of the village, where they nursed her back to health. They taught her just enough language to get by, but did not allow her to take any part in the tribe’s life — she was thus barred from their rituals and festivals, from their cries and laughter, and their magic.
They never showed any interest in where she had come from, or why she’d appeared on this remote island. They had no reason to suspect the truth — that she had crossed three oceans and half the globe to find this place.
She had no skills to offer the villagers. She did not know how to hunt the black bears in the forest, how to mend the straw walls and roofs of their houses, how to sew clothes out of elm bark and shoes out of fish skin. She resorted to crude physical work to pay for her lodgings — though they insisted it was unnecessary, always considering her a guest.
Months passed, then years. Each year, a muddy, rainy spring turned to a mild, blooming summer, then to a golden and crimson autumn, then to a bitter, face-biting winter. Each year, the summer marked the arrival of the Shamo — the short, squat, flat-faced merchants who landed at the beach to trade steel knives and tight-woven linen for furs and fish. To her great dismay the villagers hid her from the visitors. Forbidden, they said. Death, they said. The merchants sailed away when the winds came from the North, tearing the leaves from the trees.
At the height of one leaf-blooming season, he arrived to the village. Noble in stature, elegant, with a great two-handed iron sword on his back and an eagle at his shoulder, surrounded by a retinue of warriors. The word they used to describe him was not from their language, but that of Shamo, for they had no noble titles of their own. It translated as “the Prince”. It took his one glance and one order to change her life forever. She was taken from the village and joined the Prince’s mobile retinue.
He told her of a war his folk fought in the forests and villages of the South, of the Shamo warriors coming with swift swords and metal armour, with arrows, spears, and flame to steal their children and conquer their most fertile fields. He told her of how his people were once prosperous and advanced, living in towns not just on this island but further south, across the narrow sea, rather than having to skulk in the half-frozen woods, eking out a meagre existence on the outskirts of civilization.
His plight caught her heart, and she confessed a desire to aid him as much as she could — not least because it would get her closer to the mysterious Shamo who, she believed, were the people she had crossed the world to find.
When the marshes froze, he led her into the deepest heart of the island — past the Meadow of the Dancing Cranes, past the Bear Lairs, to the mountains where the Little People dwelled — a dark-skinned race even shorter than the Shamo, and more ancient than the bearded natives, hiding in thatch-covered burrows like rabbits.
The Little People took her to a valley of shattered rocks, inhabited by grey-haired monkeys. At its bottom lay a lake of milky-white, steaming, bubbling waters. The valley was silent and filled with the smell of brimstone. The shores of the lake were strewn with sun-bleached skeletons. Wisps of white mist rose from the waters.
“This is Shamo magic,” the Prince explained. “The bones are of those of us who tried to breach its secrets.”
She balked. “How do you know it will work on me?”
“We tried it before on ones like you,” he replied. “But they went South and never returned.”
She entered the water and the water entered her and, in that instant, she sensed another mind in her head. The milky mists parted over the lake and, in the still surface, she saw a face of another: a pale, flat-nosed man. She crawled back to the shore, and fainted. The ritual had been successful.
The Spirit which came to inhabit her mind was that of an onmyōji — a Shamo saint, a hermit so powerful in life that his very death in this magic pool created a fissure in the fabric of reality through which other Spirits had been coming, seeking bodies to bind. It had chosen her as his new vessel, for it had seen what was coming and knew the world would once again need his talents. The Spirit gave her more than just a new tongue and face — it gave her the knowledge and skill of the ancient priests: the ability to see the future and to heal wounds, and to commune with the Otherworld.
Armed with these skills and with a new identity of one Maki Tadaemon, she entered a Shamo — Yamato — trading outpost on the southernmost tip of Ezo Island.
Gwen opened her eyes and reeled back.
The man claiming to be Ifor ap Meurig, Dylans’s father, took his hand from her forehead. The real world returned in waves and flashes of cold wind, sharp rock and grey sky.
“I figured this was a faster way to tell my story to both of you at the same time,” he said. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any distress.”
“How … how long have I been out?”
She blinked and looked around — nothing seemed to have changed since she and Nagomi had crossed the slow-moving stream at the top of the grey mountain. The red-haired girl sat nearby, slowly coming to her senses.
“A few seconds. Please, sit down.” He gestured to a flat, empty patch of rock. “I have little in the way of comforts here, I’m afraid.”
She stared at his face as he talked to Nagomi.
“Are you really Dylan’s father …?”
The old man couldn’t possibly be Ifor. It must be a trick. Yet the resemblance was obvious now that she knew what to look for among the wrinkles, the white moustache and the sparse grey hair. He was even more similar to Bran, his supposed grandson. The way he spoke in Prydain was not how she expected an old sailor to sound — it was too formal, almost aristocratic, as if translated by a court interpreter.
“Why are you here?”
Ifor chuckled and rubbed the back of his head in a gesture she’d so often see in Yamato. “Eh, it’s an old story … a folly of youth. I came searching for solutions to the riddles that haunted my life — but found even more mysteries. I think I was brought here by some strange destiny. I certainly found myself thrust into matters I could never have expected. After all, I am just a simple Prydain navyman.”
Just like Bran. She felt dizzy. Here, on the mountain of Spirits, the threads of fate linking them all were almost tangible.
“What happened to the Prince? What’s the rest of this story?”
He waved his hand. “In the end, not even the onmyōji that now lives inside me could have helped him. Poor lad. His little rebellion ended in tears and bloodshed, and he had to flee deep into the Yamato lands …” He frowned. “By then, we already had a much bigger problem on our hands.” He pointed to the Gate with a wide gesture.
He says “we” … Is that other man also here? Can he hear us? How does any of this work?
“You said you have a power to see into the future?” she said. “You didn’t seem surprised to see us.”
“Only as much as Tadaemon lets me see. And he knows only what the Spirits tell him, so it’s all kind of … That said, your arrival was a surprise. We were only expecting the priestess …”
“You won’t have to be surprised much longer. I did my job — now I have to go back.”
“To my son, I presume? He’s here, too, isn’t he …? Just like Bran.”
“He’s in the South with the rebels. And he needs this dragon back.” She nodded towards Nodwydd, coiled across the creek, watchful. “I’ll let him know you’re here. I’m sure he’ll be … amused.”
She turned away. Ifor laid a hand on her shoulder. It sent a shiver down her spine
“I was hoping you’d stay and help us.”
“Help you?” She faced him again. “I shouldn’t even be here. I don’t have time for any of this.”
She concluded the Imperial Army must have reached Kokura by now. They needed her, and the dragon. She did not wish to delay her return to Dylan any longer. She still didn’t believe the man was Ifor, but rather that he was playing tricks with her mind, and she didn’t know how to protect herself.
There was something else, too. The idea of Spirits and the Otherworld filled her with dread she couldn’t explain. And yet … The silver-covered Gate pulled her in with its enigmatic glow. There seemed to be so few secrets left in the world ruled by science, and magic studies advanced every day, pushing the Unknown further and deeper into the shadows of myth and superstition. What she faced now, however, was a real mystery, a myth staring her right in the face. The Door to Annwn, a place only the Faer knew ... The secrets of the dead …
She shook her head. What this place required were scholars — an army of scholars — not her.
“If it’s time you’re worried about … Where we’re going, time flows differently,” Ifor explained. “Days will pass in minutes.”
“I’m just a soldier,” she said. “Not even a wizard. You need somebody else to help you.”
“But I don’t have anyone else,” he replied. “You are here. And nothing in Yamato happens by accident. I’ve learned that much.”
He glanced at Nagomi. The priestess replied to his gaze with a tilt of the head and a raise of the eyebrow. She said something in Yamato. Ifor nodded.
“We’re all connected — either through Bran, or through this girl,” he said. “She knows of the Shamo’s magic. My grandson went through a similar ordeal; he, too, is a man of two faces, as the Little People called me — she was there to witness it.”
“What did I bring her here for?”
“I don’t know much. She needs to find someone on the other side. Tadaemon wants me to assist her in this.” He pointed his jingling staff at the Gate.
“Why does she need your assistance? Is it going to be dangerous?”
“There’s an army waiting for us across the Gate. Creatures of Darkness, mindless but powerful. We did all we could to stop them from getting out.”
As if in response, the silver sheet spread across the Gate reverberated with several loud bangs.
The Shadows.
“I know them,” she whispered.
Ifor’s eyes went blank for a second. “Yes, you do,” he replied. “And you know how to fight them. Come with us, please.”
She bit her lip and, against herself, nodded.
The blue dragon before him shook its head and blinked, reeling from the blinding flash of Llambed Seal’s light.
A jade bullet swooped through the opening in the cave’s ceiling, enveloped in flames and rage. Emrys landed with a heavy thud, shielding Bran from the blue dragons with its body, and let out the loudest roar Bran had ever heard him yell.
It may have been a young beast, but Emrys was the oldest dragon in the cave — a grown-up among whelps. The Blue Wings pulled back, baring teeth and growling. Bran looked up to the gallery. The acolytes ran about in panicked chaos. He recognized the voice of the white-robed master of the ceremony rising above the cacophony.
“Kill it! Destroy it!”
“What of the Red Stone?”
“Initiate, do your duty!”
He would not wait to see if Satō managed to break through her conditioning. He slung himself over the dragon’s back and, with the remainder of his strength, grasped the reins. Emrys spat one last cone of flame to ward off the approaching dragons and launched into the air.
Once they cleared the cave’s entrance, Bran dared to look back. The blue dragons spewed from the opening like lava from a volcano, a ceaseless stream of beasts. Most crawled over the island’s surface, still unsure of their wings, but others leapt up and charged after Emrys. Soon the fastest and strongest of the dragons were gaining on Bran’s mount.
I’m too weak to fight them.
A vast black shape materialized in the air in front of him. Bran sucked his breath.
Not him, too!
“Fly to Shimoda!” shouted the Gorllewin rider over the whoosh of the massive onyx wings. “I will hold them back!”
What?
Before Bran processed the rider’s words, the Black Wing dived towards Enoshima, bringing fiery wrath upon the Yamato whelps.
The beasts, dwarfed by the new enemy, pulled back at first, just as they had before Emrys. But they were quickly growing in confidence and cunning. Already Bran sensed the leaders of the dragon pack; the same ones that had been the first to chase after him. They gathered the others around them and tried, clumsily, to lead their troops in a coordinated strike against the giant black mount.
Bran turned away, clenched his grip on the reins and bade Emrys to head south, towards the Gorllewin base. The dragon bucked at first, and Bran’s mind was flooded with the memories of captivity before yielding to the order.
Flying at the speed of a hurricane over the calm sea, Emrys reached the Grey Hoods’ anchorage a hurried hour later. Bran saw neither the blue dragons nor the Black Wing behind them — but he sensed raw, frenzied emotions in the distance, getting nearer. Too weak to exert any control over Emrys, Bran relied on the dragon’s instinct to land them safely at Shimoda. The Gorllewin warships trained their guns at the jade mount, and one of the Black Wings scrambled to intercept it.
