“Yes, imagine if the Sun Priests got their way,” Dylan added to himself, gazing vacantly at Brigstow’s spiralling towers, “this place would look like Rome…”
“Have you ever been to Rome?”
The ancient Imperium was no friend to the Dracaland and travel between the two empires was rare and restricted except to the open ports of Vasconian coast.
“Only once, on a spying mission,” Dylan replied. A grim shadow passed over his face. “And I would never want to see it again… Don’t get me wrong,” he added after a moment’s pause, “it’s still a great city. After all, it’s the capital of an empire that is two thousand years old and spans half a continent. All the palaces, temples and circuses of the top tier are still there and they’re a magnificent sight, no doubt, but the conditions those people live in, especially in the lower levels…” he shook his head, “the squalor, the filth, the poverty…”
“Lower levels?”
“The entire city is built in seven tiers, like a giant cake. You know how obsessed the Old Faithers are about the number seven. The richer and more powerful you are, the higher you live. The Imperator’s court and the Mithraeum Maximum are on the seventh tier, but the first floor is a slum bathed in perpetual darkness. Six million people in one place. Can you imagine?”
Bran couldn’t. Until they came to Brigstow he didn’t even know what a few hundred thousand people gathered in one place would look like. The world was far bigger and scarier than he had ever envisioned.
“Is it true they still have gladiator fights?”
“Oh, yes.” Dylan nodded vigorously. “The circus for the games is perhaps the greatest building in the world, and sits right in the middle of the second tier, beneath the Imperator’s palace.”
“Do they fight to the death?”
“Mostly to the first blood. They’re well-paid sportsmen, not slaves like in the old days. No, the Romans are not barbarians, but they are so backward—they still have the old gravity plumbing, and only the richest can afford spark ducts.”
And we’re still using a well for water and Faerie fire for heating, Bran thought.
A drop of water fell on Dylan’s nose and he looked sharply to the clouds.
“Oh, look, I do believe it’s going to rain. Finally! Let’s go to the old Trow before the skies open.”
By the morning a message had come from the harbour; their ship was ready to depart. Bran and Dylan packed their belongings and sent them via pneumatic courier to the harbour. Dylan insisted they took a leisurely stroll along the streets of Brigstow towards the seaport, one last time.
They walked down the canyons of tall yellow brick warehouses; sloping bridges, down which the porters rolled barrels of oil and wine, joined the two sides of the street. Iron cranes squeaked, lifting heavy crates to the top floor windows. At length they arrived at the river and moved along the bank, past the sleek yachts and copper-clad barges, until Dylan turned into an alley between another row of warehouses to their left and a great wall of black iron and steel to their right.
“When do we get to the ship?” Bran asked, by now completely lost. “I thought the quays would be somewhere around here.”
Dylan smiled mysteriously, but said nothing. They reached a flight of metal steps leading to the top of the wall of steel, some fifty feet up. Dylan silently gestured Bran to climb it.
The roof of the strange edifice was completely flat, covered with wooden planks and surrounded by silksteel railing. There were what looked like factory structures scattered all over, brass coils, glass pipes and a row of four, tall black funnels running through the middle. Six tall wooden masts protruded from the rooftop, with a white mansion-like building between the third and fourth. Dockers and seamen busied themselves around the structures, hauling goods and making some hasty repairs. The whole construction filled out a wide canal joining the main docks of the Brigstow harbour with the Afon. It seemed to be resting on water like a floating dock. Bran examined his surroundings carefully, but still couldn’t grasp the purpose of the massive structure.
“What is this place?” he finally gave up and asked his father, who stood at the top of the stairs, still smiling.
“You’re standing on the deck of MFS Ladon,” Dylan announced proudly, “the largest ship ever built!”
“This can’t be…”
“See for yourself!”
Dylan guided his son around the deck. It tapered down to a point and ended with a sort of jagged beak, a ramming bow lined with armour plates, sloping at an angle down into the water. One of the structures on the bow hid a giant capstan, with an anchor chain the links of which were the size of an adult man. The mansion in the centre of the ship turned out to be a bridge and Captain’s quarters. The quarterdeck boats attached to the sides were as large as the canal barges. The staircases leading to the lower decks were as deep and wide as those in the towers of Llambed.
“Can it even move? Where are the paddle wheels?” Bran enquired, full of doubt, and Dylan laughed.
“Fifteen knots against a gale-force wind, son! It’s another feat of Master Brunel. The man’s a singular genius. Come, I will show you the engines.”
The engine room was built like a basilica, vast, tall, vaulted, running through the entire length of the colossal ship. The engine itself was three storeys tall, surrounded by a maintenance gallery on every level. Four giant cylinders of crystal and copper lined the floor in a row, joined by a network of pipes, valves and flanges. In the massive boiler, forming the core of the engine, hundreds of the purest Jorvik elementals rested dormant, waiting for the command from the ship’s captain. A double row of piston rods, tall as tree trunks, lay in the back of the engine room around a crankshaft.
“This turns the screw which propels the ship,” Dylan said, patting the massive crankshaft, “the largest piece of wrought faer iron in the world. We are now twenty feet under the waterline. Impressive, isn’t she?”
Bran nodded, staring agape at the tangle of metal around him. The buzz of magic needed to keep the elementals in peace, the smell of grease and oil made his head hurt. He wanted to ask about something else, but was finding it difficult to speak.
“You’re pale,” Dylan noted. “Let’s get you some fresh air. Come, I have something else to show you.”
Bran followed his father outside up the winding metal staircase and onto the raised part of the upper deck, a large platform of reinforced wood with a broad ramp leading down into the bowels of the ship.
“This is the landing deck. And ho, they’re bringing in the dragons!” cried Dylan, pointing to the sky, his eyes laughing.
Bran looked at him in surprise. Once on board a ship his father became a different man—tall, strong, bright-eyed and somehow younger and more handsome than he had ever seemed at home. Unwittingly, Bran smiled.
A squadron of Silvers and Azures landed around them. Soldiers climbed down from their beasts, unbuckling the saddlebags. Bran ran up to them. The heat of the dragon breaths made the air around the beasts shimmer.
“What unit are you?” Bran asked one of the soldiers, not recognising the winged anchor insignia on their navy blue uniforms.
The man was lanky, slim and silver-haired. When he turned to answer, his cat-like eyes glistened bright amber in the sun.
“You’re Faer Folk!”
“And you’re a rude little boy,” the soldier said with a grin. “Why so surprised? Haven’t you seen a Tylwyth before?”
“I didn’t know you served in the army.”
“Why not?” The soldier shrugged. “Even Faer Folk need money these days. You can’t spend all your life hunting and singing. Not when there’s no more game in the forests.”
“I’ve seen your people… Dancing in Brycheiniog.”
The Tylwyth nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s where my mother comes from. They are the last to keep to the old ways.”
There was among the dragons one very different from the others, a sleek, smooth-scaled bron
ze beast, with large, wise eyes and long, slim neck.
“Who’s flying that?” Bran asked, admiring the beautiful creature.
“You are, son.”
His father approached. The soldiers stood to attention.
“At ease, men. Soldiers, this is my son, Bran. Bran, this is the Second Dragoon Regiment of the Royal Marines. We’ll be travelling together.”
The soldiers saluted the boy, but Bran’s attention was elsewhere.
“What did you say?”
“It’s your new dragon, Bran. A bronze thoroughbred—fast, elegant and presentable as befits my son. It’s the latest fashion among young riders these days, I hear.”
The joyous mood perished in an instant. Bran narrowed his eyes and leaned his head forwards.
“This is not my dragon. Where’s Emrys?”
“That old thing? I left it at the hotel. But look at this one, son! Isn’t it a beauty?”
“I don’t care. I’m going to get Emrys.”
He pushed through the soldiers, passing his father by. Dylan reached out to him.
“Son, wait.” There was pleading breaking through his commanding voice that made Bran stop and turn. Dylan nodded at him to step aside, away from the unloading soldiers.
Bran relaxed his fists and unclenched his teeth.
“I’m sorry, father. It’s a beautiful mount, and I’m sure it was expensive, but I can’t leave without Emrys.”
“But you’re too old! It’s as if you’d insist on bringing a pony! It’s a danger for you—and for the others in the open sea—it’s bound to go feral soon.”
“It will stay calm as long as I’m with it.”
“You can’t promise that and I can’t take that risk. If you want to sail with us, you must leave the dragon behind.”
“Very well. I’m going back home. Maybe I can still make it to the inauguration.”
“It’s you who wanted to come with me in the first place!” he heard his father say as he stormed towards the metal stair.
“What happened? I’ve seen the boy leave the ship in a great huff.”
Dylan was pretending to study the maps when Reeve Gwenlian found him on the bridge. He was too distraught to focus on the task at hand.
“I’ve decided my son is not mature enough for this journey,” he said, turning to her. Seeing her soft features, surrounded by a storm of jet-black hair, calmed him down.
“You’re letting him go back home?”
“Tell me, Reeve—at what age does a young dragon rider obtain his second mount?”
“I got mine when I was thirteen.”
“And the third?”
“Ooh… seventeen I think. What is this about?”
“Bran’s had his beast since he was ten. And he refuses to leave it on shore.”
“Is that it?” She almost laughed. “I’m sorry, Dylan—I mean, Ardian ab Ifor—”
“It’s alright, we’re alone here.”
“Dylan—I know you’re used to tough negotiations, but the lad’s your son. It was to be your first trip together. Let him be.”
“You sound like the boy’s mother,” he scoffed, “but you’re a rider yourself, you should know better. By Owain’s Sword, how can I make a man of my son if I let him keep his childhood toys?”
“Looks like you’ve been doing a great job so far. You know what will make him even more manly? A whole another year without seeing his father.”
He took a deep breath. This whole affair was taking too much of his time and nerves. The ship was about to take off and he hadn’t even talked to its captain yet.
“How do you know so much about me and Bran? I don’t remember telling you about my family in such detail.”
“I have brothers—and I know you,” she replied, touching his face gently. Her face lit up in one of her famous smiles.
From dragonback, Bran could appreciate the full size of the MFS Ladon. It was aptly named—after the legendary Broodfather of the volcanic dragons, Ladon of the Hesperides. Other vessels, even the great ocean-going warships, seemed like mere toys compared to this black floating monster. The four enormous funnels of the ship were already spewing white steam as the elementals inside the engine cauldron awoke in preparation for the voyage.
Feeling the warm Ninth Wind on his face calmed him down. He now had time to think his situation through. He still wanted to sail—even more now, that he had finally seen the ship—and the thought of coming back to school filled him with dread. But he knew Dylan would never agree to take Emrys. There was nothing Bran could think of that would convince him. His reasons made sense—for a soldier, not a father. And for as long as Bran remembered, in Dylan’s mind the navy had always taken precedence over the family.
If I start flying now, I should be at Abertawe before nightfall—and back home for tomorrow’s lunch… Mother will be surprised.
He saw a silver shape launching from the Ladon’s deck. Father? No, the dragon was smaller and nimbler than Afreolus; but it was heading unmistakably towards him. As the beast got closer he saw a young black-haired woman riding it—astonishingly beautiful and strong faced.
“You must be Bran,” she cried over the sound of her dragon’s beating wings, “I’m your father’s Reeve, Gwenlian. Ardian ab Ifor asked me to take you back to the ship.”
“I’m not leaving my dragon!” he cried back.
“It’s alright. You can keep it. Come, the ship is about to steam off.”
As he landed, Bran could feel the entire deck humming and trembling with the tremendous power of the engine. Emrys snorted uneasily; this was unlike any surface it had landed on before.
“I will take you to your quarters,” she said and smiled warmly at Bran, removing her goggles. Her eyes were dark as night. He felt his cheeks redden.
“What did you call my father? Ard…”
“Ardian—that’s his rank in the Royal Marines, commander of the regiment. You may have noticed our titles are different from the other units. I’m a Reeve—equivalent of a Sergeant.”
Commander of the regiment? This meant all the riders on the ship were under his command. Bran knew Dylan must have been a high-ranking officer, but he had never suspected just quite how high. I know nothing about him, really, he realised.
“And where is he? Why didn’t he come for me himself?”
“He’ll be busy at the bridge, with the ship’s captain and all the steersmen. We’re sailing any minute now and there are still some preparations to take care of.”
Immediately, the boy’s mood soured. His stomach turned. Any minute now? He didn’t feel ready yet. He was about to leave Brigstow, Gwynedd, Dracaland, all that was familiar and safe. His life was to change forever.
White smoke puffing from the ship’s funnels changed to grey. Water on the aft-side boiled as the massive propeller started turning.
A couple of soldiers were standing by the railings, singing.
“What’s that song?” he asked the Reeve.
“Farewell Langyfelach,” she answered, her black eyes glinting. “It’s a song of those who sail away from the shores of Gwynedd into the unknown.”
She stopped and joined the singing with a clear, strong voice.
Ffarwel fo i Langyfelach lon,
A’r merched ieuainc i gyd o’r bron;
‘Rwy’n mynd i dreio pa un sydd well,
Ai’m wlad fy hun, neu’r gwledydd pell.
Farewell to gay Llangyfelach,
And all the young girls;
I’m going to see which is better,
The faraway lands or my own country.
It was too late to change his mind now. Finally, Bran had to face the consequences of his decision. Perhaps this was what it meant to be an adult.
CHAPTER VI
A deafening broadside roared over the beach, startling a flock of parakeets that fluttered away in a green cloud. The shower of cannonballs brushed the tops of the p
alms and disappeared into the jungle beyond.
As soon as the ringing in his ears quietened, Bran heard his father speak in the commanding tone he had always assumed when talking to other soldiers.
“Still no reaction, Banneret?”
Dylan, wearing the gallant uniform of a Royal Marines Ardian, scarlet with golden Aberffraw lions on cuffs and buttons, turned to the Tylwyth standing beside him. Edern lowered the brass telescope and shook his silver-haired head.
“Nothing, Sir.”
“I told you, Ardian, Tinubu will not give up easily,” a third man spoke, rubbing the back of his neck. His dark bronze skin stood out against the white linen of his navy shirt.
“Don’t worry, Oba Akintoye,” replied Dylan, “we’ll get you back on the throne today. The navy always keeps its promise.”
All Bran knew about the bronze-skinned man was that he was some native pretender whose claim to the throne the Dracaland had decided to support in place of the current ruler, Tinubu. The reason did not matter—the orders from Lundenburgh were clear and the Second Marines had to obey. It was not the first time the ship had to turn from its course towards Qin to play a part in some local skirmish or influence a diplomatic stalemate one way or another. The Ladon’s course had been plotted deliberately so that the ship would pass near as many of the empire’s troubled colonies as possible. A month had passed since the Ladon had set sail from Brigstow and they had been barely half-way to the Cape.
“Banneret, aim at the fort, and load the wall-breakers,” ordered Dylan.
“Aye-aye, Sir.”
Edern’s cat-like eyes glinted in anticipation. The smooth-bores lowered in preparation for another salvo. The striped banner of the incumbent ruler flew proudly over the fort’s stone ramparts.
Bran noticed something on the horizon, a square of white in the sea of azure.
“Another ship, father?” he asked. Dylan looked to where he was pointing.
The Shadow of Black Wings (The Year of the Dragon, Book 1) Page 7