Why are there so few Faer Folk riders? They are so much better at it than we are…
He paused rummaging in the dragons’ memories to focus on what felt like an itch at the back of his head. Something was not right; a nagging sensation, a soft buzz he couldn’t quite pinpoint.
It was a Farlink, of that he was sure, but it was weak, and not in a way that a distant connection would be; it was almost as if somebody was shielding their Farlink, in the same way that Dylan’s tarian had shielded their voices from eavesdroppers.
He jumped to his feet. Everyone stared up at him from over the treaty papers in silence.
“They’re here,” he said.
Dylan’s eyes narrowed.
“But you said they were still a few days away.”
“I was wrong.” He stormed outside, calling for his dragon.
First Dylan, then the others joined him in the courtyard. Bran looked up. The darkening sky was hazy with the evening breeze, but otherwise empty.
“I don’t see anything,” Dylan said, stating the obvious.
“They are here,” said Bran. Now that he knew what to search for, he was able to locate the Farlink with more precision. It was weak, but close. Almost as if…
Right above their heads, the sky shimmered and, like a whale emerging from under the water, a dark, massive shape appeared out of the air. The cloaking glamour dissipated in a flurry of colours, revealing first the massive black thorax and abdomen, then the long neck and tail and, at last, the wide-spread wings.
The black dragon slowly hovered over the city in menacing stillness like a storm cloud. Its onyx scales seemed to suck in the light of the sun setting over the bay. Most of the Yamato officials retreated under the roof with fearful cries; only the daimyo and Master Tanaka remained outside. Lord Nabeshima stared at the beast with curious eyes, fearless.
Of the two men on the dragon’s back, one, though barely seen from the distance, was wearing what looked like Yamato clothes.
A guide, guessed Bran.
The rider, his face a dot of black in the shadow of the grey hood, looked down. Bran felt the eyes upon himself. He shivered.
The black dragon lowered its head towards him and opened its maw. A narrow, precise torrent of fire streamed down from between the spear-like teeth. Bran leapt under Emrys. The flames struck the dome of his tarian with a furious crackle.
“Is he insane?” cried Dylan. “Bran!”
“I’m fine, Father.” Bran grabbed the reins and, bouncing off the courtyard sand with an enchanted leap, landed in his new saddle.
“Get the green one, Gwen,” Dylan ordered. “I’ll take Edern’s Silver.”
Bran launched into the air just as another line of dragon flame struck the ground right where he had stood moments before. In the corner of his eye he saw the yellow jacket crossing the courtyard towards the gate: Li, the interpreter, rushing to get his mount from the Qin district.
Zigzagging to avoid the fiery missiles, he ascended at breakneck speed towards the hooded rider. The massive black dragon made no move, as if it was waiting for him. As soon as the two riders found themselves on the same level, the Gorllewin rider threw off the hood, revealing a cascade of flaxen hair.
“Frigga! Stop — it’s me, Bran!”
“I know!” she shouted back. “Did you think we wouldn’t catch on to your spying tricks?”
She reached to her belt and, in a lightning-quick move, drew a four-barrelled gun.
“This is for Thorfinn,” she said and pulled the trigger.
A slick, silver missile zipped between them. The bullets bounced off the scales. The silver dragon flipped in the air and dived back down. Frigga’s mount banked to the side. Dylan followed close by.
The black dragon drew a half-loop, followed by half a barrel roll, all in smooth, quick succession. The Yamato sitting behind Frigga clutched to her back in panic. Bran gasped. A Raleigh manoeuvre! With a mount this size! But this was no time to admire Frigga’s skills; her dragon looped around Dylan and once again was heading straight for Bran. Emrys dived; a spurt of flame singed the tip of its tail.
Another shape shot into the air. Gwen joined the aerial fray. She looked almost comical on the small Viridian, and struggled to control the untried mount in unfamiliar winds. The shieldmaiden swerved and passed her by in pursuit of Emrys.
Bran turned west, towards the waters of the Kiyō Bay, into the sun. The setting orb was still bright enough to blind anyone looking straight into it. He looked back — thanks to Dylan’s and Gwen’s interference, he’d put a little distance between himself and the Black Wing, but Frigga was gaining fast.
How did she get here without me noticing? Did they know I was here all along?
He took a deep breath and focused on fusing with Emrys as he did the last time the Black Wings chased him. But he was too distraught and the link broke in seconds. There were too many things going on around him, too many riders and dragons with conflicting aims. The Farlinks of Dylan and Gwen criss-crossed within his mind. He struggled with the Ninth Wind over Kiyō, the City of Wizards. It twisted and turned unpredictably, pushing and pulling in all directions. His heart pounded again his chest.
No good! She’ll catch up to me. Emrys is too slow.
He swooped down to the harbour and reached Dejima in a few beats of the dragon’s wings. He made a tight turn around the Wizardry Tower when a small fireball flashed past him and hit the building. Its shields buzzed and crackled, absorbing the damage; a couple of tiles fell off the conical roof.
She’s holding back, he realised. She has orders not to do too much damage.
Back over the city, Bran had a split second to scan the streets below. He banked sharply, thankful for the new saddle and the stirrups. Emrys rolled at ninety degrees. The tip of its left wing almost touched the ground when the dragon whizzed down a narrow alleyway, and then took a sharp turn onto the long, straight avenue leading to the grand, bright red gate of the Qin district.
Bran looked up; Frigga remained in the air behind him. Just as he’d guessed, she couldn’t follow the smaller dragon into the city streets. She was searching for a way to cut him off. I only have a few seconds of lift left, Bran judged. Blood was rushing to his head, and his sight grew blurry. Flying sideways put even more pressure on a rider than flying upside-down.
A cone of flame from the left, and a stream of hot steam from the right struck at the Black Wing. Dylan and Gwen finally caught up with Frigga. Soul Lances shone brightly in their hands: Dylan’s golden, Gwen’s lightning blue. Frigga swayed; her dragon dropped in a spin, heading straight for the tallest building in the area, a large hall of a Qin temple.
She’s going to crash!
Somehow, the dragon recovered, mere feet from the temple’s roof. The massive wings opened and Frigga shot back up into the air… alone. The rear saddle was empty, the guide lost in the spin.
No longer able to withstand the strain, ignoring Bran, Emrys levelled out. Its wings touched the eaves of the low houses on both sides of the street; in an instant, the dragon stalled and hit the dirt road at full speed. Bran’s Academy training kicked in at the last moment: he leapt out of the saddle, sideways, to avoid the dragon’s rolling and tumbling body.
Emrys finished its tumble with a long slide on the cobbles; it tore the road with its claws and skidded to a halt, somehow, remarkably, still on all fours. Bran scrambled up with difficulty; he was bleeding from knees and elbows; his scratched brow burned as if touched by a hot iron.
The Black Wing made a wide turn, disappearing momentarily from Bran’s view. He started towards Emrys, but the earth beneath his feet shook with such sudden force that he fell down again.
An earthquake? Now, of all the times…!
The ground between him and Emrys cracked open with a grinding sound. The fissure was too straight and ordered for an earthquake chasm. It continued to widen, forcing the Qin merchants to move away from the newly formed deep, dark hole. Strangely, there was no panic in their movement
s, no cries of surprise.
Emrys pulled back, uncertain what to make of the new development. It purred and sniffed at the dark crevice, sending anxious, questioning emotions into Bran’s mind.
A wide, squat, brass barrel emerged from the opening; as it rose higher, Bran saw that it stood on some kind of platform, full of copper coils, rubber pipes, glass bulbs, and clacking gears. Somewhere amidst all this sat a Qin operator, wearing a thick red silk jacket, a broad-brimmed straw hat, and thick goggles. The platform continued to rise, revealing a set of eight spider-like metal legs underneath.
Frigga and her dragon reappeared in the sky and they were once again heading straight for Bran. The black dragon’s maw opened. Bran crouched behind his tarian, but he knew the shield would not withstand another full-on strike. He prepared the Seal of Llambed in his mind; if ever there was a time to use it…
The brass barrel whirred, angled, and aimed at the Black Wing. The glass bulbs buzzed and charged up. The entire machine shook and burst with a roar of thunder. A web of lightning covered the sky. Frigga swerved to avoid the attack, but she misjudged her distance. Her dragon struck a roof and slid across for a hundred yards, tearing the tiles and crushing the timbers off several houses, before bouncing back into the air.
The machine clacked forth on its metal legs, chasing after the dragon. The silo from which it had emerged closed up; Bran finally crossed the distance separating him from Emrys.
A shadow fell on him. He ducked.
“Bran!” he heard a cry. It was Gwen, struggling to control her Viridian. “Get out of here. We’ll hold that dragon off!”
He nodded, and she sped off towards Frigga and the Black Wing. Right after her, one more shape whizzed through the air, long, slender and golden. There were now four dragons fighting in the Kiyō sky. Bran didn’t waste his time observing the spectacle. He mounted up and spurred Emrys to flight once again; north this time, away from the city, away from the aerial battle.
As his mount climbed the updraft of the mountain ridge shielding the Kiyō Bay from the northern winds, the boy looked back one last time. Flames, lightning bolts, and explosions lit up the dark blue evening sky; against this backdrop, the Black Wing soared, twisting and turning, diving and climbing, fending off the other three dragons like a great hawk fighting a family of magpies desperate to defend their nest.
I’m sorry, everyone, Bran thought, gritting his teeth, but I need to save my friends.
CHAPTER XI
Dylan glanced towards the mountains and saw the jade green dot disappear over the ridge. Good.
“Enough!” he cried. He called off the Soul Lance. Just like the breath of his dragon, it, too, did little harm to the black monster. The Gorllewin dragon was impervious to any attacks. The only vulnerability, Dylan realised, was its rider. He swooped towards Gwen’s Viridian. “I need you to lure her,” he said. “I have to get nearer.”
Gwen nodded and broke off; she flew in front of the Black Wing’s nose, daringly close. The Gorllewin rider zoomed swiftly after her, too swiftly to Dylan’s liking.
Careful! he hissed.
But Gwen knew what she was doing. By now, she’d got the hang of her new mount, and was making good use of its small frame, rolling, looping, and turning just out of the black dragon’s reach — always tantalizingly close, enough for the enemy not to grow irritated, and not to notice the looming trap.
At last, Dylan positioned his dragon right on top of the Black Wing, less than twenty yards away. The rider finally spotted him, and swerved to avoid Nodwydd’s fire; but attacking with dragon flame again was no longer Dylan’s plan. He knew he’d only get one shot at this — timing and distance were crucial. He curved his fingers into a rune of power and shouted the Binding Words.
The Black Wing flew on, but without the human’s guidance its movements were confused and sluggish.
As I thought. Dylan lessened his distance again, but kept safely at bay from the enormous wings. Farlink alone is not good enough for a beast this size. A nearly rider-less dragon was now made even more dangerous by its unpredictability. At length, the Gorllewin beast picked up a strong current of the Ninth Wind and circled upwards, out of the city, towards the open sea.
She’s getting away. At this rate, the Binding Words will dissipate, before…
He leaned forward in the saddle and picked up speed. As befitted Edern’s mount, Nodwydd was fast and nimble, even for a Silver. The two dragons drew level, and then Dylan slid forward on a sudden breeze.
“Halt!” he shouted at the Gorllewin rider.
The Black Wing bolted and roared, but did not slow down.
She can’t make it stop.
“I am the representative of Her Majesty, the Queen on Dragon Throne, Victoria Alexandrina,” he shouted. “Our countries are not enemies. If I release you, will you land and talk?”
There was a pause, and then the black dragon’s wings broke the pace of its flapping, making it bob up and down in the wind.
I’ll take that as a yes.
He snapped his fingers. “Chwalu!”
The Black Wing leapt forward, then swerved from side to side like a bucking mule, as the rider struggled to regain control. Dylan gestured to her to follow him. He searched for a place to land — the Gorllewin mount was too big to fit even on the Magistrate’s courtyard, where Gwen was already touching down with the Viridian.
“There,” he pointed. “See that hill-top shrine, with the fish pond? Land there.”
The blonde rider climbed off her dragon. She leapt down the last few feet, raising a plume of dirt as she landed. The beast snorted uneasily, releasing dark waves of anger that made Dylan nauseous.
Such power…
He regained control and approached the rider with an extended hand.
“Dylan ab Ifor, Commodore of the Royal Marines,” he said.
Stripped of the title as soon as I return to Qin. Not that it matters now.
She eyed his hand with reluctance, then reached out her own to shake it.
“Frigga Rhyd, Flight Leader, Oceanic Squadron.”
She’s young, Dylan noted, studying the rider’s determined face. Not much older than Bran and Wulf. They let a kid like her fly a dragon this size?
“I’m surprised,” she said. “We had no idea Dracaland was already here. Don’t you have enough to deal with in Huating?”
“Why did you attack us?”
Frigga’s lips tightened. “I was only after the boy.”
“He’s a Dracalish soldier, too,” said Dylan. “And he’s under my protection.”
“He killed one of our men.” Her eyes narrowed and glinted. “Wounded another. Damaged our ships. We searched for him for days.”
He… what? He never told me any of this…
There was something in Frigga’s cold stare that went beyond sense of duty and simple revenge. He knew that look well: the unmistakeable confused hatred of an inexperienced soldier who had just witnessed her first combat death.
A friend, maybe? That won’t make things any easier.
“If that’s true, your grievance may be justified,” replied Dylan, “but… this isn’t your land, Grey Hood, and your justice does not reach here.”
The girl smiled. She reached under her uniform and handed him a folded letter. It looked almost like the one Lord Nabeshima had received from the Mikado — only the seal was different: a three-leafed mallow flower.
The upper half was written in that squiggly Yamato writing that always caught Dylan out trying to read it using his knowledge of Qin. But below were first, a Bataavian, and then a Seaxe translation. As far as Dylan could tell, the hand writing had been the same, some Yamato interpreter, trying his best with the angular runes.
It was, more or less, a warrant on Bran’s head, issued by the Taikun’s government. The reason given was “an attack on allied army”, and the legal basis was the treaty signed with the Gorllewin.
But there’s nothing in the official accord to support this kind of order…
“Why are you smiling?” asked Frigga.
“Am I?” Dylan shoved the letter into a pocket.
This is good.
“Sorry. Must be nerves. Fly with me down to the Magistrate,” he added and headed back to his dragon. The rider hesitated.
“Don’t worry, you can leave your mount here,” he said. “I guarantee no harm will come to it while we’re there.”
Edern had arrived at the Magistrate in the same cramped palanquin that had earlier carried him over to Dejima. “I had to check up on Nodwydd,” he said to Gwen. “I don’t trust Dylan with dragons.”
They watched as the Gorllewin rider marched across the courtyard to meet the city officials and Lord Nabeshima. All along the eaves of the courtyard hung brightly lit paper lanterns, giving it a festive feel, contrasting with the seriousness of everyone present.
“She’s a pretty one,” said Edern.
“I should be the one noticing this,” said Gwen.
Edern laughed. “You? You’re always blind to women around Dylan. You’re never jealous.”
“Do you think I should be?” she asked. Now that Edern had mentioned it, the tall, blonde-haired rider was quite attractive, in that cold, angular way of the Northerners.
But she’s too young, she thought. She could be his daughter.
Edern’s lips remained curled in a smile, but his golden eyes turned serious and bold. “No. You really shouldn’t.”
After exchanging the obligatory bows and greetings, the delegates turned to the council hall. Dylan left the rider alone and paced quickly to Edern and Gwen.
“How’s your arm?” he asked the Tylwyth.
Edern raised his hand in the air. “I told you it would heal.”
“Can you fly?”
The Tylwyth looked to the sky. The light of lanterns made it seem pitch-black, but even so, the sun had set a good while ago, and the twilight was falling fast.
“Tonight?”
“I will want the news of today to reach Kagoshima as soon as possible,” Dylan said, speaking more to Gwen than to the Tylwyth. “And Nariakira will need that Viridian.”
The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6) Page 14