Rise of the Dragon

by C K Gold

  They circled back toward the headquarters, taking a different road, but detoured to another, sturdier warehouse, built mostly of stone rather than wood. It was newer than most of the other buildings, and clearly meant to last. Red Hand ushered him inside, but to Fang’s surprise, the bodyguards remained outside. He said nothing, though, and merely followed.

  The interior was dimly lit with hanging lamps, casting weak light on glass cases — rare and impractical showcases, expensive clear glass without noticeable flaws. Fang ran his fingers across a cool, smooth pane and marveled at it.

  This place was a repository for the rare and precious, right here in Dockside. Racks of weapons and armor awaited on the second floor, gleaming metal that smelled and looked recently oiled. Nothing bore even the slightest speck of rust. Fang ran his fingers lovingly over the hilt of a jian, a sword he’d once trained with before joining the Four Winds. Now he felt unworthy of even wielding one.

  “Go on, try it,” Red Hand urged. He looked every inch the indulgent father, giving his son the pick of his finest toys.

  Fang decided to take him at his word and took the blade off the rack. There was a large space cleared in the center of the second floor, and he moved through the stages he remembered from years ago, first hesitantly, shy under Red Hand’s gaze, but then more fluidly as muscle memory returned. He’d used many weapons since then, often improvised, but nothing matched the feeling of a balanced sword. He reluctantly returned it to the rack and wondered what Birch would think of Red Hand’s prizes.

  “You collected all these?” Fang asked.

  “Every one,” Red Hand replied, regarding his collection with pride. “Come, there’s one more floor. You’ll be interested in this.”

  The wood steps creaked under the old man’s heavy tread. Fang didn’t let that throw him off. Red Hand could move as silently as a cat when he felt like it. He was disconcertingly nimble for someone with a potbelly. Boar had lumbered, but Red Hand could dance. It didn’t do to underestimate him.

  The third floor was filled with things obviously looted from temples, from guardian dogs to a broken stele occupying the prominent pride of place in the center of the floor. Fang circled it, examining the unreadable characters chiseled into its weathered faces. Idols and statues and texts filled shelves and cases along the walls. And resting on an indigo-dyed cushion was the stone. Fang peered at it, trying to see what about it so captured Red Hand’s imagination.

  “I’ve gathered these things for years. Artifacts of power. Some simply command faith from believers who see them, but some, like that stone, have something extra, something innate to themselves.” Red Hand picked up a glass orb and it glowed, casting clearer light than any of the low-tuned lamps.

  Fang felt his eyes round despite himself. He hadn’t ever been so close to actual magic. “It doesn’t burn your hand?”

  Red Hand laughed and tossed it from one hand to the other as carelessly as Birch had juggled his piece of broken brick. “Doesn’t even get warm. And look.” He set it back in its place, and the light vanished as soon as he pulled away.

  “What about this other stuff?” Fang idly touched a staff cut from wood so dark it was nearly black.

  “That one’s a—”

  A crash below caught both of their attentions. The main door slammed open and men stormed up the first flight of stairs. Fang’s thoughts fixed on the weapons, but there was no way he’d get down there in time. His eyes met Red Hand’s. The old man nodded almost imperceptibly as the intruders pounded toward them. Nothing on the third floor was useful as a weapon, and the old man would surely kill him if he ruined anything.

  The leader, his face wrapped with rags, burst onto the third floor, followed by five men who piled out behind him, all wielding curved swords and marked with blue sashes. Fang drew his long knife. Behind him, Red Hand unsheathed the short, straight sword he always bore. Fang heard the characteristic clank of the brass beads on its tassel. The sound filled him with dread, but he couldn’t pinpoint why.

  “You were right about these Knives,” Red Hand said. “Too persistent!” He caught the leader in mid-lunge, almost scoring a stab through his heart.

  Fang batted away a slash from another Knife and followed through with a kick that tangled the poor bastard with his fellows. They had too little space to fight effectively. They should have scattered as soon as they’d reached the third floor in order to give each other space. The Knives were better fighters than that, or at least Fang had always thought so. They wouldn’t have sent an inexperienced team after Red Hand.

  Fang pressed the advantage against the three as best he could, leaving the leader to Red Hand. The fourth presented more of a problem. Fang kept an uneasy eye on him, aware that he could be easily trapped between four well-armed men in a flash if he didn’t keep them off balance.

  A quick stab forced the lead of the three-man team back down the stairs, pinning them in an easier single file formation. The fourth tried for his back, but Fang twisted and ducked between the two, and kicked the one on the stairs in the balls as hard as he dared. That one went down like a rock, forcing the others to support him.

  Fang snagged the one-edged sword from his slack grip and spun on the fourth, aggressively boxing him into a corner. Disarming him proved simple given both a knife and a sword. He trapped the blade and twisted back and forth until the hilt slipped from the man’s sweaty grip. Fang kicked the fallen sword under the railing, grabbed the man by the collar, and hurled him down the stairway after his brothers.

  Red Hand fended off the leader, who proved far better at swordsmanship than his brothers. Fang was reluctant to strike from behind, but the Knives hadn’t been. What was good enough for them was good enough for him. He slashed at the man’s exposed back, but the floor creaked underfoot as he stepped forward. That split-second warning was enough for the Knives’ leader, who spun with surprising swiftness. The man’s sword moved faster than Fang’s eye could follow, opening a line of fire from sternum to hip.

  “Fang!” Red Hand yelled.

  Fang dropped the knife and pressed his hand to his stomach, surprised to find that the wound was shallow and his guts weren’t spilled over the floor. He brought the sword up in time to block another blow. This close, he realized the leader wasn’t a man – she was the same fighter from the assault on Ranu’s gambling hall, the dart-rope woman. Fang hissed a curse and swept in with a strong strike that drove the woman back a pace, pushing her closer to Red Hand.

  Back in the stairway, two of the Knives managed to pull themselves out of the tangle of bodies. Red Hand sidestepped away from the Knives’ leader now that her attention was commanded by Fang’s vicious, undisciplined blows.

  Blood ran over Fang’s fingers, spilling freely with each twist, each lunge. The pain had let out the same berserk rage Fang had felt at the Pearl. He didn’t want to welcome it in again. That was the kind of madness that devoured men. The distant, reasonable part of him slowed his swing. He turned the blade to strike his foe with the blunt side when he felt the tearing in his shoulder. He’d hesitated too long. As he stunned the swordswoman, she in turn slipped the tip of her blade into Fang’s shoulder and sheared into his chest. The edge slid along a rib and bit in deep, stealing Fang’s breath. He staggered over her slumped body and into the display. Blood pumped furiously from the wound, spilling over his fingers. Unlike the first slash, this one wasn’t trivial. He sank against Red Hand’s display cabinets, failing to grasp anything to support himself. His bloody hand fell on the stone as he dropped.

  The stone suddenly flared with heat, burning itself deep into the meat of his hand. The clash of sword on sword hadn’t ended. Red Hand still fought. Fang screamed as every bone seemed to snap and reshape itself. He felt his skin split, bursting like overripe fruit. The overwhelming stink of charred flesh filled his nose and mouth as he writhed, caught in the stone’s fell magic. All Fang could think was that he’d been wrong after all, and that Birch would never know it, because he was going to b
urn alive.

  The agony receded, though, and Fang still lived. His lung didn’t fill with blood. He opened his eyes and saw deep green, almost black hide, rippling with tiny, glittering scales. That was his arm, he knew, and the fingers ending in black talons were his. He stood, wobbling, and caught himself against the cabinets. He’d become taller, and somehow his knees were bent backward, or maybe he was balancing on his toes. Red Hand had his back to Fang. Their foes were down to two. Red Hand had used the chaos to account well for himself, if brutally.

  The last two took a look at Fang and fled. Red Hand let them go in an uncharacteristic display of mercy. It was only when Fang looked over the railing that he realized the door was closed. The bodyguards had likely blocked it from the outside.

  Now the fake Knives were locked in with two monsters.

  “I knew it,” Red Hand said, a feral gleam in his eye. “Let’s see what this improved body can do, boy!”

  Finding no escape downstairs, one threw down his weapon and cowered, begging for mercy. Red Hand truly had none. A bold stroke partly severed the man’s neck. Seeing his brother’s fate, the other man lunged for Fang, who grabbed his wrist and swung. The bones snapped like matchsticks in his grip. What Fang had intended to be an ordinary throw sent the man into the wall with a landing that sounded terribly final.

  ⁂

  Red Hand’s bodyguards smuggled Fang back into the Four Winds’ compound under the cover of night and an enormous, hooded cloak. The others took care of the bodies, though Fang didn’t know what became of the unconscious woman. He expected her fate would be too awful to consider, but there was little he could do.

  Some hero I am. She had attacked Fang several times now, whether driven by hatred or by some plot, but he knew how Red Hand liked to dispose of assassins. It wasn’t pretty.

  Now Fang stood again in Red Hand’s sitting room. The old man paced, possessed by a dark glee that exceeded anything Fang had ever seen in him.

  “This is what I’ve been waiting for,” Red Hand muttered. “If I’d known bloodshed was the answer, I would’ve bled all over it myself. Imagine what I could do with the blood and spit of a dragon!” He pointed at Fang. “You don’t know how lucky you are, son. None of your brothers deserves this more than you. Yes… you and I are the only ones with a dragon’s soul. This is a sign from heaven that you’re meant to be my successor.” The old man closed his eyes and closed a hand over his sword hilt. “And maybe much more. Has heaven ever shown its divine favor so clearly?”

  Before Red Hand could veer closer to the treason Fang could almost already hear, Fang interrupted. “Father, I don’t know how to change back,” he said. He didn’t want to listen to more of Red Hand’s delusions, not right now. “I can’t go out and do business like this.” He idly clawed at the place where the disguised Society swordsman had stabbed him. The wound was gone, but he could still feel an itch. Some part of his new flesh remembered it. If I changed back now, would I bleed to death right here?

  The stone had vanished, too. He thought it had burned its way into his palm, but when he flexed his newly monstrous hand, he didn’t feel it there. But if Red Hand had the stone, he would’ve surely tried to transform himself.

  “Do business?” Red Hand laughed. “I have a grand campaign in mind for my favored son. Perfect for a heavenly dragon. We are branching out to Ten Gates. I want you to establish the franchise there. Success will establish you firmly as my successor. The others will not challenge my will. I’ve already begun preparations. Your followers will be setting out soon; I’ve reserved a few to serve as, hmm, your honor guard.”

  More like kidnappers, Fang realized. Red Hand wasn’t making an offer. This was an order. Fang was going to be pressed into service. Without thinking, he tasted the air with his new serpent’s tongue, scenting his own fear and Red Hand’s joy.

  The bodyguards had been awed. Red Hand was the only person who didn’t reek of terror, Fang included. The stink was so sharp he wasn’t sure how Red Hand couldn’t tell. Maybe he could, and that only excited him further. Fang didn’t want to know Red Hand’s mind that closely.

  Fang broke the lengthening silence. “What about my reward?”

  The old man crossed his arms, impatient that Fang wasn’t tripping over himself in gratitude. “Is this how you thank me? I’m telling you you’re a made man now.”

  “I… I’m truly fortunate, father,” Fang murmured. Forming the words was harder now with a maw not well-suited for speech. “I’ll prove myself worthy.” So much for anything, Red Hand.

  “You already have,” Red Hand replied.

  If I leave, I won’t be here to kill you myself. And Birch… He’ll decide I really have turned. But if I take even a quarter of the brothers, the gang will be weakened. No doubt my elder brothers will want to set up their own schemes, so they’ll send men, or use funds to buy them off at Ten Gates. Either way, Red Hand, your grip on Dockside will slip, and the Moon Knives and Demons will start testing you. The Rootless Society will nip at your heels, waiting for a stumble, and then someone will pull you down and tear you apart. If I haven’t sent a hundred arrows for your heart first. Fang closed his eyes.

  Red Hand was still talking, detailing his plans for dominating Ten Gates with an early foothold. He might have even fantasized about placing Fang on the imperial throne. None of it mattered. Fang sat in the foreign chair from before, tail trapped uncomfortably against the back. He had to hunch up to fit.

  “For now, you’ll stay in the compound until this form ends,” Red Hand said.

  Fang’s head snapped up. “Do you know how to end it?”

  “There’s not much on the subject,” the old man hedged. “If it’s not over by the new moon, we’ll just move forward. But you shouldn’t be out on the streets like this. Rumors from our own men won’t be taken seriously, but too many reports from the peasants and spies will bring more attention than we want right now. Anyway, let’s see a bit of what you can do, then you’ll rest. There’s little a good night’s sleep can’t fix, eh?” He chuckled at his own joke.

  Fang sketched an awkward bow and followed Red Hand down to the silent courtyard. Maybe Red Hand was right, and he’d wake up normal in the morning. Being extra strong was kind of fun, anyway.

  He demonstrated his new grip strength by snapping thick boards and seeing how far he could bend iron rods the bodyguards brought. They’d been as curious about his new power as he once the initial shock faded. Fang tested his new body under the eyes of the others, growing angrier as the challenges mounted and grew more ridiculous. Everyone but Jun treated the testing as a show – and Red Hand was the master of ceremonies. Hours passed before the novelty finally dimmed for Red Hand.

  At last Fang could rest, but he didn’t know how he’d manage it. His mind was tired, but his new body felt fresh and ready to climb mountains and wrestle gods. The last two days had been filled with fighting, and more of the same was all he had to look forward to.

  His new body seemed purpose-built for mayhem. His skin was now tougher than any leather. He could crush a sword in his hand. He had no doubt he could blaze a path of death through the whole compound if he wished, but the idea nauseated him almost as much as this horrible thing Red Hand insisted was a dragon.

  He found more holes in the walls as he paced. Were the men driven by curiosity? Or is this all at my brothers’ orders – or Red Hand’s?

  It hardly mattered. Fang rearranged the room again, blocking the holes with the furnishings his new form did not fit. Now he was just an accursed freak – something that belonged in the governor’s menagerie. He’d thought he’d had it bad after presenting the stone to Red Hand.

  Fang slammed all the shutters closed and turned up the lanterns until they blazed. Then he glared into the polished bronze mirror that had once been his rival’s. A monster snarled back at him, stoking the rage in his belly. The stone had defiled the body his parents had given him. It was unholy, no matter what Red Hand had said about hermits and divinity. F
ang hadn’t asked for this.

  The deep green of his unnaturally glistening skin reminded him of the swamps beyond the city, where monstrous things hid. Now, perhaps, he belonged with them. At least the mosquitoes would find him unpalatable. He had the brassy eyes of a cat, complete with the third, sideways-blinking eyelid. He could see through it, which was actually kind of interesting, but seeing it up close was repulsive. He even had a snout of sorts, perilously similar to an alligator’s, but not as narrow, with all the armored ridges that entailed… and horns. Now he towered over almost every man on the compound, and even needed to look to meet Jun’s gaze.

  But the worst of all these changes was the smooth space between his legs. The transformation had mutilated him. He’d become a eunuch, a fate reserved for criminals and the emperor’s closest advisors. The anger chewed at him, hungry for fuel. Now he was trapped in the body of a devil with no purpose but to destroy. What kind of men had dreamed up such a body?

  None of the furniture suited his new body. His short tail, useless for anything but perhaps balance, had nowhere to go. He was simply too large for most other things. None of his old clothes really fit.

  He ripped the last shreds of his old clothes free and stood entirely naked in the room. “What would you think?” he asked aloud, picturing Birch.

  Fang’s rage bubbled over, then, and he raked his talons across his hide until they pierced the scales and drew blood. It dripped, black and smoking, to the tiled floor, where the ichor ignited and burned away. He hissed, irate as the wounds burned shut. He tried pulling a larger scale free, but the resistance, combined with the sensation of trying to pull out one’s own fingernail, made him give up. Peeling off his own flesh didn’t seem to be the answer, anyway.