Ekō. That’s the name of this hovel, Dylan remembered. He had lost count of how many towns like this he had helped conquer, liberate or destroy. For a moment he pondered why the Dracaland’s complex interests required the previous ruler toppled — Tinubu, was it? — but he quickly decided he didn’t really care. He did not expect this new Oba to last any longer than the Dragon Throne’s interest required.
Dylan was riding Afreolus in front of the marching Marines. The silver dragon ambled onwards awkwardly, grunting unhappily, unused to walking for such long distances. Bran was sitting behind him on the dragon’s back. One dragon was more than enough for the small parade.
“Are people always so glad to see us?” asked Bran.
Dylan let out a short laugh.
“They have no idea why they’re here, or who we are. The local king ordered them to cheer. See how well dressed they all are? This is all just for show.”
The locals forming the crowd were all wearing their finest clothes, loose-fitting, wide-sleeved robes of purple, crimson or white silk, embroidered with golden thread, and long colourful headscarves. Many wore jewellery, silver chains and small gem-studded rings, pearls and glass beads.
The cavalcade reached the steps of the palace of the Oba. It was not a grand building by any measure, a single storey high, with yellow thatch and white-washed walls covered in black ink paintings and bas-relief, damaged in places by the recent battle, but it stood out from the mud-brick houses around it enough to give its owner sufficient prestige. A hastily sewn standard of the old reinstated clan replaced that of the abolished one over a single square turret. A fountain in the courtyard provided a little respite from the overwhelming heat, even if not from the stifling humidity. Several remarkably life-like bronze statues of previous kings and queens decorated the square. Miraculously, they all seemed to have survived the fighting unscathed.
Those bronzes would have been worth thousands at an auction in Lundenburgh, Dylan thought briefly.
The marines positioned themselves in a half-circle around the courtyard, Bran among them in the first row. Local soldiers, armed with ceremonial spears and antique muskets, stood in front of the main entrance. Dylan, along with two other men — the Captain of the Ladon and the representative of Dracaland trade companies — moved forwards, to be greeted personally by the Oba Akintoye himself.
The reinstated ruler of Ekō stepped out of his throne room almost unrecognisable in his dazzling coronation robes. He walked magnanimously, the tails of his kaftan supported by two squires in silk loincloths. In his right hand he held a bronze spear tied with beaded string. He raised his left hand and Dylan bowed before this gesture. Others followed his example.
The Oba gave a short speech in his native language — although he spoke perfect Seaxe — thanking the Dracalish Empress for assisting him in regaining his rightful place on the throne.
He speaks as if he was Victoria’s equal, Dylan thought. His entire kingdom would fit into Ladon’s holds with room to spare.
The three men were each given a large heavy necklace of gold and jewels. Dylan knew that the trade representative valued ink and paper over gold, but the treaties had to wait. Once the rewards were given out, Dylan stepped back, making way for others — local allies of the Oba, spies and traitors. Every one of them demanded praise and reward.
How many will live to see tomorrow?
The ceremony was coming to an end. One last ritual remained — the blessing of the ancestors over the new king, a renewal of contract with the Spirits.
The low droning of drums started, slowly at first, and the dancing shaman, Egungun, wearing a loose kaftan stitched of a thousand different patches of cloth, emerged onto the courtyard. White heron feathers, lining his mask and scarf, shook with every movement. He was already in a trance, spinning, jumping and howling. The drums picked up the pace and the dancer moved faster still, always a step ahead of the rhythm, as if anticipating the musicians’ strokes.
The dancer neared the Oba and performed a series of complicated gestures and leaps. He took out a bunch of parrot feathers from the pocket of his kaftan and threw it over the king’s head. They perished in a flash. The king bowed, smiling. The Spirits were approving.
This should have been the end of the ritual, but the Egungun dance did not stop. He looked around the courtyard from under the heron mask, as if searching for something. Dylan frowned when he noticed the direction in which the dancer headed. The shaman whirled towards the row of marines, where Bran stood. For everyone else it must have seemed a harmless extension of the ceremony. The dancer stopped in front of his son, screeching wildly. Suddenly something long and metallic glistened in his hand. Dylan launched forwards, but even as he started moving he knew he would be too late. The dancer dropped his arms down on Bran’s head. Gwenlian, standing beside the boy, raised her hand at the last moment…
By the time Dylan reached the place where Bran stood, everything was settled. The dancer was lying on the courtyard floor clutching a broken arm, the piece of metal beside him. Bran was breathing hard, but was otherwise unharmed.
“Take him away,” Dylan commanded sharply. “Hide him in a safe place.”
Gwenlian grabbed Bran and pulled him towards the harbour. Dylan crouched by the injured shaman to examine the item with which he believed his son had been threatened.
I promised Rhian there would be no risk, he thought. I should have left him on the ship.
The bit of metal was shaped like a long chisel with a short handle, it was blunt and rather harmless-looking — a mere ceremonial weapon. The shaman started explaining something in an agitated voice. Dylan stood up and looked at the Oba quizzically.
“What is he saying?”
“This is a Spirit dagger,” explained Akintoye, “it destroys all evil.”
“Why did he attack my son?” Dylan enquired, allowing himself to sound angry.
“Not the boy, but the evil that is to befall him. It is a great honour.”
Dylan frowned.
“Great honour? How so?”
“The Egungun deemed the boy worthy of their blessing. Rarely does one of no royal blood deserve the power of the daggers. I assure you the shaman meant no harm to your son.”
Dylan nodded and helped the dancer to stand up.
A blessing dagger. Of course.
He remembered he had seen this sort of harmless “weapon” before.
“Tell the shaman I’m sorry for what happened. I’ll send the ship’s doctor to treat his arm.”
According to the ship’s calendar it was the middle of the winter, but Bran had never been so hot and sweaty. He was finding it very difficult to concentrate, and he needed all the attention he could spare. He was playing tafl, the King’s Table, with Samuel, the ship’s doctor. He had never played the game before boarding the Ladon, although the Seaxe boys at the Academy had been spending hours at a time pondering the movements of the black and white figures. After a few weeks of Samuel’s tuition it had quickly become his favourite pastime.
“This is like a dream,” he said, trying to turn the doctor’s attention from a particularly bad move he made with his Archwizard. “I never imagined the world was so vast and beautiful.”
Samuel nodded, moving one of the Priests along the diagonal.
“And you’ve only seen a fragment of it.”
“I think I understand now why father so rarely comes home. There’s just so much to see. I can hardly remember Gwynedd now.”
“Believe me, you will always remember your home. Now watch your Wizards, boy. You’ve completely exposed yourself with that move.”
“It’s this damn heat. Will it never end?”
“The weather rarely changes in these parts, so close to the equator,” Samuel explained. “Only the wind can grow weaker or stronger.”
As if in confirmation of his words, a gust of wind bent the palms on the beach low to the ground — a finger of a winter storm they were holding out in Goa, a Vasconian outpost on the coast
of Bharata. The proud golden eagle of Rome spun on its mast like a weathervane.
By the evening the wind lessened and a small black ship steamed into the harbour, adding its grey banner with a strange black sigil of a horned circle to a multitude of colours already gathered in what was the only neutral port for days. Not long after its arrival, shouts of joy and gun salutes roared all along the Ladon. The agitated dragons buzzed with excitement in their holds under the deck.
Bran wanted to ask his father about the sudden celebration, but he was nowhere to be found. This was not unusual; Dylan rarely kept himself idle. There was always some errand he could run for the Empire, even without direct orders. Instead, the boy stumbled onto Edern.
“What’s going on? Who sails that ship?”
“The ship is Gorllewin — don’t you recognise their crest? It doesn’t matter. What matters is the news they bring: the war with Arakan is over!”
“What’s Arakan?”
“A kingdom on the other side of Bharata. We had some nasty border dispute with them.”
“But why so much celebration?” Bran said as another of Ladon’s guns thundered joyously.
“Had the war continued, we would have to join the fighting. And Arakan is a terrible place to do battle: hot, wet, fever-ridden jungles full of monsters and hostile natives. It would also have meant at least another month of delay. Now we can sail straight past Temasek, the shortest route possible.”
The soldiers of the Second Dragoons prepared a great feast on board the Ladon. Dylan, having at last returned to the ship, ordered signal flags thrown from the masts inviting everyone in the harbour to celebrate the victory. The Breizh and Bataavian sailors came first, with song and wine. Their nations may have had their differences with Dracaland, but here in the colonies all Northerners were allies. The Vasconian rulers of the outpost were at first reluctant to bask in the glory of a competing imperial power, but then they saw barrels of prime grog being rolled out onto the deck and quickly changed their minds.
As dusk fell, a group of silent men in grey hooded robes entered the ship: the Gorllewin delegation. They stood on the side, in shadows, everyone giving them a wide berth.
“Come, Bran,” said Edern, winking. He held a jug of grog in one hand and a chunk of cheese in the other. “I bet you haven’t talked to a Grey Hood yet.”
The two of them came up to the grim figures. One of the silent men came forward and cast down his hood. He was bald shaven, and had a horned, crossed circle tattooed on his forehead. His eyes were black as night, but his face lit up with a gentle smile.
“You have brought us joyous tidings, friends,” said Edern, presenting him with the jug, “you should come closer, join the festivities.”
The man nodded. “Thank you for the invitation, Arthur’s Kin, but we are tired with the journey. We came here hoping we might speak with your Commander.”
“Oh, Ardian ab Ifor? He’s over there, on the bridge,” Edern said, waving his cheese-arm.
“Why did he call you Arthur’s Kin?” Bran asked when the hooded men shuffled off.
“Because that’s what we are. Your king Arthur was of our people. Who’s been teaching you history?”
“Miss Farnham,” Bran said. Edern chuckled.
“Yes, I remember her. She wasn’t too keen on the history of the Faer Folk.”
A firework shot up from a Congreve rocket launcher and lit the sky up with red, white and blue, the colours of Dracaland Empire. At this signal, several dragon riders took to the air in a show of acrobatics. Chasing after them a bright green shape emerged from the holds..
“Emrys!” Bran cried. He focused on the Farlink connection to command his dragon back, but the distance and excitement coming from the beast were too big.
“Who let it out?” he asked, angrily.
“We thought your pet could use some fresh air,” said Edern. “Look at it fly!”
The celadon-scaled dragon fumbled comically in an attempt to match the silvers and azures aerial prowess. It tumbled over itself chasing after the larger dragons.
Edern laughed.
“I can see why you like it so much. That’s just priceless!”
“It’s really a good beast,” Bran said quietly. “It’s just… not used to the life at sea, that’s all.”
“I’m sure it will grow up into a decent dragon.”
“It is grown up!” the boy blurted, “I’ve had it for six years now.”
“Duw! A six-year-old Swamper that’s not gone feral yet?”
“Is that so strange?”
Despite Dylan’s warnings, Bran had not seriously considered the likelihood of his mount turning against him. It was the eventual fate of every dragon rider and Bran knew how to deal with it, but unlike Afroleus and many other military dragons he had known, Emrys had never yet shown any signs of rebellion. In time, Bran had all but forgotten about the risk.
“Aye. Our silvers can last ten years, but they’ve been bred for loyalty. I’ve never heard of one of the lesser races take more than five years to turn wild. I take everything back, that’s a fine specimen you’ve got there!”
“Father doesn’t seem to think so,” Bran looked at the bridge, where Dylan turned for a moment from his conversation with the Grey Hoods to look at his son. Bran could not see his face clearly but was certain it was filled with disdain as always when Emrys was around. Edern coughed.
“I’m sure Ardian ap Ifor does whatever he thinks is in your best interest.”
“It’s what’s in his interest that concerns him most.”
“I believe you’re being unfair. He sounds worried whenever he talks about you…”
“I wish he talked less about me and more with me.”
To that the lieutenant found no answer.
Whatever was left of the grog after the feast at Goa was now shared among small party of the crew and the soldiers in Bran’s honour. It was the boy’s sixteenth birthday. The Ardian’s son was sitting at the top of a long table in the officers’ mess, in a neatly ironed blue uniform. After the squadron’s piper finished his celebratory ditty, Samuel stood up and rubbed the back of his bald head. Everyone looked at him expectantly. He presented the boy with a set of ivory-carved Staunton tafl pieces, where the blacks were Sun Priests and whites, the Wizards and a small spyglass, richly ornamented with brass lions and copper elephants he had picked up at a market in Temasek.
“It is a most precise instrument,” he explained, “and I trust you will take good care of it. The barrel was wrought on the island of Kilwa in Zangibar, the iron came from the secret mines of Motapa. The glass is Bataavian, of Walcheren, enchanted at Delft. The case is made of grey selkie skin from Brendan’s Island, so that it never sinks when dropped into the sea.”
Samuel was delighted to see sparks of recognition light up in the boy’s eyes as he listed the exotic place names. Over the last six months he had witnessed Bran’s transformation from a country bumpkin, a landlubber, into a true traveller.
It reminded Samuel of his own humble beginnings in the navy. Son of a mohel from Bethnal, he had known nothing of the world outside the dark, narrow stinking streets of eastern Lundenburgh until he had boarded his first ship as a surgeon’s apprentice. That very first voyage had taken him through lands of myth and legend, through oceans and continents he had only ever read or dreamt of. He had seen monsters and Gods, and ancient magic hidden in the jungles and deserts — and he never wished to go back home again.
It must have been the same for Bran. Any journey with Ardian Dylan and his dragoons was bound to be filled with adventures and excitement. On Brendan’s Island they had flown over active volcanoes, assisting a group of Dracologists in their research. At Oyo they went with the embassy to the Yoruban King, who had treated them to a show of horsemanship and archery. Past the Skeleton Coast they’d sailed through mist so thick one could not see the end of an outstretched arm. On a south-westerly gale they’d passed the whitewashed, many-pillared walls of Zangibar and tall-spired fire-
temples of Pemba, past the islands of sea coconuts until they reached the jungles of Bharata. From Goa the Ladon hurried across the Bangla Sea, past Temasek, due east, towards Qin.
Along the way Bran had become acquainted with most of the crew and the marines on board. The soldiers let him join their training in fencing and lancing. Samuel watched these bouts with slight concern at first. The army issue swords and cutlasses were larger and heavier than what Bran was used to, and their Soul Lances were solid flexible shafts of energy, a full nine feet of length, as befitted trained soldiers. The boy had to build up some muscle before he could think of matching their skill. The physical effort made wonders for his mood. Even Emrys eventually earned the crew’s sympathy as the ship’s informal mascot.
Among all the new friends and in all the excitement of the journey, Bran must have felt even more acutely the neglect with which his father seemed to have been treating him throughout the journey. The first few weeks of the voyage had been exemplary. Dylan was showing his son around the ship, introducing him to the crew, spending as much time with the boy as he could, trying to rectify the years of abandonment. The two had spent an entire day together on Brendan’s Island and then another on the Rock; but the idyll had ended once the Ladon moved into the colonial waters. The commander of a Royal Dragoons regiment was rarely at rest. The dragons were too precious to idle for several months at sea.
Dylan was noticeably absent at his birthday party. At last, when the brief celebration was almost over and there was no fruitcake left, the Ardian appeared in the mess with an apologetic look on his face and a small bundle in his hands.
“Happy Birthday, son,” Dylan said sheepishly, “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“It’s all right — work. I understand.”
Bran waved his hand generously, although his voice was cold.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 12