The Shadow of Black Wings (The Year of the Dragon, Book 1) by Calbraith James

Author:Calbraith, James [Calbraith, James]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Young Adult, Steampunk, dragons, Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, Japan
ISBN: 9788393552900
Publisher: Flying Squid
Published: 2012-06-27T18:30:00+00:00

The rain poured incessantly with the noise of gravel beating on a tin plate, with the force of a great waterfall, with the coldness of a mountain stream. A million cascades gushed from the blue clay roof tiles and gutters of the narrow wooden townhouses. The packed dirt roads turned to treacherous swamp paths. All the late blooming trees had lost their flowers, their petals washed off by the rain like make-up that had gone out of fashion.

A shallow brook, which in good weather trickled quietly along the town’s southern limits, now swelled to a roaring river. An old heron stood on the edge of the thundering waters, unmoved, enjoying a feast of eels and sweetfish, battered dumb on the cobbles by the swift current. The rolling billows licked the brink of the causeway dangerously, the last of the late farmers hurrying across it with their belongings.

Nagomi stared at the raging waters, trembling. A straw cloak and a wind-tattered umbrella did a poor job of protecting her sodden clothes from the elements. Water dripped from the strands of her long, luscious amber hair sneaking out from under the indigo-striped hood of the raincoat.

She was rarely so far from the comforts of her home city of Kiyō, so exposed to the raw elements. The swollen river carried tonnes of yellow mud, debris and flotsam, gathered along its way from the hills, but there was something else in the water, something Nagomi knew only she could see. Streaks of blackness, threads of un-light flashed among the waves. She knew at once what it was‌—‌somewhere upstream the river had disturbed a cemetery shrine, and released the troubled Spirits into the world. She shivered, only partly from the cold.

“I thought as much,” her mother, Lady Itō, said, observing the chaos before them. She straightened her silk yukata robe, once dazzlingly colourful and light as a feather, now grey and heavy with water and dirt. “We cannot cross today.”

“It’s still safe!” said Satō, a ponytail of black hair bobbing up and down with her every agitated move. Nagomi’s best friend cut her hair and wore her clothes like a samurai, down to the long katana sword in a red lacquer scabbard dangling from her silk sash.

“Look, if we hurry…”

“It’s too risky,” Lady Itō said, shaking her head.

“Can’t we just go back to the inn, Mother?” Nagomi asked quietly. “Drink some hot cha…”

“I don’t like their cha,” muttered Satō, “it’s bland and dead. They boil it too hot, and serve it too cold. If we go back now, we’ll have to wait for days until this calms down.”

Lady Itō looked at the river doubtfully.

“All right, but be very careful. Let the porter through first.”

She waved at the servant, who entered the causeway with trembling legs, the heavy bundle of their belongings bending his back. They followed him across. A small group of men and women in simple linen clothes, tattered and mud-stained, waited on the other side‌—‌the causeway was already only wide enough for single file.

“Almost there,” said Satō.

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