Dragon in the Snow

by Forrest Dylan Bryant

  The Baroness was agog — not even the vivid prose of Bartholomew St. Cyr had prepared her for anything like this. As the product of hundreds, maybe even thousands of years of construction using methods never seen before or since, the royal palace of Shangri-La made the Alhambra look like a log cabin, the pyramids at Giza like dollhouses and the Taj Mahal like a tin-roofed shack. Every corridor bore lush tapestries, impossibly intricate mosaics and astonishing carvings cut directly into the living rock of the mesa. The subdued ruddiness of the native stone blended with saturated blues, vivid greens and gleaming gold in a dizzying spectral display. They passed rooms the size of houses and great indoor fountains that babbled and rushed, statue gardens to rival the greatest temples of ancient Greece, stairways so tall and grand she grew dizzy just looking at them.

  They had been climbing steadily the entire time, at an angle so subtle they barely noticed. Now they emerged into a broad plaza atop the mesa, and all were caught up by the awesome majesty of the scene: on one side were multitudinous spires, ornate domes and landscaped gardens; on the other, a spectacular view of the valley floor, spreading out serenely below the little dancing snowflakes and the wide, overcast sky. And far off in the distance, well beyond the ridge which bordered the valley, rugged snow-capped peaks marked the end of this hidden world and the start of the one they knew. It was magical.

  But a moment later the adventurers were brought crashing back to earth, their wonderment replaced by oppressive fear. Passing through a heavy metal gate, they were led into a warren of dark, undecorated rooms with tiny, slotted windows high up in the walls. Sullen-looking mercenaries of the Shadow Order stood guard outside each of the metallic doors. There could be no mistake: this was a prison.

  Their journey came to an abrupt halt in a long, poorly-lit room with a heavy door that clanged loudly as it shut. The lock turned with a deep scraping sound, as if it might rust in place and never open again. Spirits sank like stones in a frozen river.

  “Rosie...” said Sid, with a little sob in his voice. “I never should have left her. Now I’ll never see her again.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that, Mister Writer Man.”

  “Rosie!” he yelped. Sid spun around so quickly that the coke-bottle glasses flew right off his head. He ran to meet his girlfriend at the center of the room, where he scooped her up in his thin, wiry arms and gave her a long, passionate kiss.

  But this was nothing compared to the reaction of the Baroness. When she spied the dashing, silver-haired man walking towards her, his arms outstretched, his eyes moist with emotion, she did three things nobody in the room would ever have expected.

  She screamed. She began to cry, in blubbering, heaving sobs. And then she marched up to her father and slapped him across the face.

  “How dare you... tell me... not to... follow you!” she said, choking away the tears.

  * * *

  “So you see no possibility of escape?”

  Reunited at last, the gang of ten comrades held a council in their oversized prison cell, to swap stories and determine their next move. Most of the questions were directed at the Baron Franz de Rothburg, who had spent more than a month in the palace and learned much about their opponent in that time.

  “No. The palace is so large as to be effectively non-navigable, even if we somehow got out of this room. I’ve been moved several times, and it’s an enormous maze. There are people who have spent their entire lives in this building and they still get lost. The windows are out as well; they’re too high and too narrow, and these prison cells hang out over the side of the cliff. It must be a four hundred foot drop. No, I haven’t found any way out.”

  “What about them guards?” asked Hank. There’s ten of us an’ four of them. Can we take ’em?”

  “I honestly don’t know. They seem to belong to some kind of army. They’re tough, but I also get a sense that they’re bored, restless. I suppose they’re as stir-crazy as the inmates here.”

  “Which reminds me,” asked the Professor, pointedly, “Why hasn’t the Black Dragon killed you? Er... no offense, miss.” The Baroness was staring daggers at him.

  “That’s an excellent question. I think part of it is simple distraction. He’s been building something. That’s why he was after the artifact... the ‘singing stone,’ he calls it. Whatever it is, he’s been working on it a long time, and now he’s just about ready to use it. He’s been so preoccupied with that I think he simply forgets about me.”

  “I wanna talk more about them guards,” said Hank. “I think mebbe I’m onto somethin’ here. The guy who told me about dat Shadow Order said they was mercenaries, right?”

  “That’s correct,” affirmed Bartholomew St. Cyr. “For centuries the services of the Shadow Order have been for sale to the highest bidder. They have been employed by emperors and revolutionaries alike.”

  “Right. Now, I look at these guys, an’ I don’t see ’em doin’ much fightin’. I see ’em standin’ around in hallways, pullin’ guard duty, chasin’ mugs like us around alleys. Small-time stuff. Must get mighty boring for a trained soldier who’s signed up for emperors an’ revolutions. And these guys are in it for the money, but I got a feelin’ they ain’t been paid in a long time. They’ve been pickin’ up cash on the sly, running opium and stuff, skimming a little off the top when the boss ain’t lookin’. It’s like they work for this Dragon guy, but their hearts really ain’t in it.”

  St. Cyr and the Baron leaned in closer. They seemed to have an idea where Hank was heading.

  “And then I look around dis room, and who do I see? The Baron Franz de Rothburg, one of the wealthiest men in the world. And no Chenggi anywhere around, just the Shadow Order. Makes a guy think, y’know?”

  “Indeed,” said the Baron. “Indeed. Bartholomew, you seem to know something about these people. How does one go about retaining their services?”

  * * *

  Not long afterward, the prison cell was filled with men: the supreme commander of the Shadow Order had arrived with his personal guard, twenty-one in all. In accordance with the ancient code of the Order, Franz de Rothburg had called for a parley, a formal audience, to discuss business. The Black Dragon and his Chenggi forces were not informed of the meeting: as far as the commander was concerned, this was not their affair.

  “Your eminence is welcome in my humble abode,” said the Baron in rough but passable Chinese. “But let us not waste time. You know why I wish to parley. What has the Black Dragon promised you for your loyalty? I wish to make a counter-offer.”

  The commander was easy to spot in the mass of soldiers: he was the only one without the ubiquitous black suit and mask. Instead he wore a resplendent cape and a square silken hat, both heavily embroidered with golden thread. The man smiled unpleasantly.

  “China,” he said simply. “When the Black Dragon takes the world, the Shadow Order shall have all of China for its own, to do with as we please. Can you do better than that, old man?”

  “Ah,” said the Baron. He hadn’t counted on this. There was no counter-offer he could make to all the wealth of China. The interview was over. He told the others what had been said as the Shadow Order commander turned to leave.

  “China? Is that all? Ha!” Sid, thinking quickly, was making a move to rescue the negotiation. But nobody could see what he was aiming at.

  “You have been taken for fools,” he continued. He spoke in English, of course, waving at Bartholomew St. Cyr to translate for him. “You’re on the losing side. The Black Dragon will never win the world, and you will be left with nothing.”

  “You think you can defeat him?” sneered the commander. “You, a prisoner in his tower?”

  “Not us,” Sid replied, “The Great Khan who sent us. The Black Dragon is nothing. The real war of conquest has already begun, and he is not a part of it. Look around you. Japan has seized Manchuria. Italy has taken Ethiopia. Germany and Russia are rising. And what has your Dragon done besides peddle opium and tinker with his machines? Nothing!”<
br />
  The commander looked annoyed, but then his expression softened. The young foreigner had a point; so far they had seen very little benefit from their association with the Black Dragon. The Baron had caught on to Sid’s line of thinking now, and picked up the thread.

  “Why do you think he keeps me here in this prison for months, yet does not kill me, does not even interrogate me? Because he is afraid. He keeps me prisoner because he does not wish me to meet with you as an equal, knowing you would join us. But he dares not kill me, or the Great Khan of Europe will come and extinguish him like a candle.”

  The commander was confused. Europe, Japan, Manchuria, these places he had heard of. The other names sounded vaguely familiar, but he knew nothing about them. He had spent his entire life in remote mountain fortresses and hidden camps, attaining his high station through violence, not guile. All he knew was the management of his army; foreign affairs were of no interest to him. And the “Great Khan”... that was something from the distant past, wasn’t it? Was there really a Great Khan in Europe? He thought hard and remembered, yes, he had heard of something like this once on the radio. Fascism, that was his name. The rising power in Europe who threatened to seize the entire world.

  “And what will your Great Khan Fa-Shizam grant me if I abandon the Dragon?”

  The Baron stared for a moment, caught off guard by the unexpected name. But his reply was firm, declarative. “China. And Japan. And...” he paused for effect. “Chenggi-Lai.”

  The commander smiled again, baring his rotten teeth.

  “That is most appealing. Most generous. And why should I believe you, prisoner?”

  “You don’t have to believe me,” said the Baron. “You can believe my money. Ten million dollars — American — yours as soon as I leave this place. A down payment. From Fa-Shizam.”

  “And fighting? You can promise us real fighting, and not this pointless drudgery?”

  “Oh, yes! The Great Khan of Europe will dispatch the Shadow Order to Switzerland immediately. You will find the Switzers a worthy foe. Mountain fighting. You’ll love it.”

  The commander paced to the far end of the room, apparently lost in thought. But when he returned, the rotten smile was back on his face.

  “Do not worry, comrade. The Great Khan Fa-Shizam cannot fail with the ancient and fearsome Shadow Order at his side,” said the commander. “We shall send these Switzers fleeing like mice. But we will have twenty million in advance. Not ten.”

  “Excellent. You shall have your money as soon as I can send word to the Great Khan. But first we must deal with this so-called Black Dragon...”

  A short time later, after the commander and his men withdrew to issue their new orders, Sonny turned to the Baron.

  “Sir, isn’t he going to be upset when he realizes he’s been duped?”

  “One thing at a time, Sonny. One thing at a time.”

  Chapter XXXII

  THE GREAT MACHINE

  —

  ONCE THE SHADOW ORDER turns against the Chenggi, this place is going to go up like a powder keg,” said the Baroness. “If we’re going to stop the Black Dragon, this is our chance.”

  The Baroness was sitting with her father, Sid, Hank and Bartholomew St. Cyr, who were all clustered around the single small table in their prison cell. St. Cyr had the amulet of Ando Chee in his hand and was deep in discussion with Hank about something arcane, but the others were considering tactics.

  “Agreed,” Sid affirmed. “I think we should ask for an audience with the Black Dragon at once.”

  “Eh, what’s that?” Armbruster looked startled. “My dear Sidney, that sounds rather foolhardy. Why on earth would we do that?”

  “Because we still don’t know what he’s doing with all those singing stones. And now he has the most powerful one of all. We need to get up close, and then when the fighting starts, maybe we can take advantage of the chaos to do something. That’s what...”

  “Yes, yes,” said the Professor testily. “That’s what Doc Savage would do. We get it. But wouldn’t it be more prudent to use this... chaos...” — he said the word with distinct unease — “to get the hell out of here?”

  “My dear Professor, you are naught but a coward!” shot Doyle. “We came all this way, ten thousand miles or more, to solve the mystery of the singing stone, remember? And now, when all we have to do is walk down the corridor — all right, a lot of corridors — and ask the man who’s collecting them, you want to turn tail and run!”

  A metallic scraping sound interrupted the argument as the heavy cell door swung open. St. Cyr managed to stuff the glowing amulet under his clothing just before two red-robed Chenggi guards entered the room. The Shadow Order men in the corridor glared openly at them as they passed but made no hostile moves — the attack signal would not come until the entire legion could be informed of their new mission.

  “You come,” said one of the guards. “The Glorious Dragon demands an audience.”

  “Well, that settles that,” said the Baroness.

  * * *

  Another marathon march took the prisoners across the top of the mesa and into a massive tower near its center. Inside, Sid stopped the moment he crossed the threshold, his jaw hanging open in astonishment.

  The room was the size of a football field, its ceilings a hundred feet high, crosshatched with arched beams like some vast, overgrown cathedral. It housed a collection of treasures to rival the world’s greatest museums, but it was dominated by a line of statues, apparently wrought from pure gold, commemorating the Glorious Dragons of history. Each wore finely wrought crystal ornaments in the color of his “aspect” — reds and blues, as the first in succession, were the most common — and their stern faces overlooked a central walkway covered by a lush, embroidered carpet.

  Beyond the statues, the room opened up to a grand reception chamber. A bonfire burned within an enormous hearth built into one of the reddish stone walls, giving the vast chamber an eerie light and comforting warmth. Directly opposite the hearth was a great window, through which the constant swirl of delicate snowflakes could be seen against the leaden sky and distant mountaintops, melting into a fine mist as they fell.

  In the center of this imposing space they saw a platform, raised three steps above the floor, and atop this was Wo Then-Liang, the Glorious Dragon of Black Aspect, perched upon an immense, beautifully carved throne. He watched the party come slowly up the long, blood-red carpet with an intense expression that made his queer gray eyes seem even more hypnotic than before.

  Beside him sat the singing stone, shining brightly in its golden yellow incandescence, its endless song softening the intimidating atmosphere of the Great Hall. The Black Dragon rose, towering in his height, and addressed the prisoners.

  “What... is... this?!” The man hissed the words with a shocking vehemence, his slender hand pointing at the stone as if it were an unruly child who must be punished. Sid felt his knees begin to shake, but Bartholomew St. Cyr stepped forward.

  “It is exactly as it appears,” he said. “The eighteenth singing stone, stolen by Ando Chee more than six centuries ago. It survives, and it is of golden aspect. Just as the ancient writings say.”

  The Black Dragon cracked his unnerving smile. “You are well informed, Bartholomew St. Cyr. But you do not appreciate the true importance of what you say. This item was believed lost, destroyed. I have produced the greatest scientific advances in human history without it. Now that you have brought it to me... and for this I thank you, sir” — he affected a mocking bow — I can do more than even I had dared to imagine.”

  The villain walked across to the glowing cylinder and began to stroke it, slowly, lovingly. It was obscene.

  “Yes,” he said. “What was impossible only yesterday is possible now, thanks to you.” He paused; something else had occurred to him. He ceased his molestation of the singing stone.

  “But you have not seen the Great Machine. Come, appreciate my genius before you die.”

  And with th
at, he descended the steps and made for an oversized side door. The guards prodded the prisoners to follow. As the gargantuan chamber emptied, nobody noticed the bizarre sight of the singing stone suddenly trembling on its pedestal, or saw it abruptly, improbably, take flight. Untouched by human hands, the stone soared upwards and through the open window, disappearing into the swirls of falling snow.

  * * *

  At that same moment, on the far side of the royal palace, another significant event was taking place. Down at the foot of the mesa, near one of the gigantic outer gates, a black-suited assassin of the Shadow Order crept silently up behind a tall, solemn Chenggi guard, raised a small, curved blade, and slit the other’s throat in a single swift motion.

  The battle had begun.

  * * *

  The Royal Palace of Chenggi-Lai had presented wonder after wonder to the prisoners. Now they saw something completely unexpected.

  At the very center of the mesa was a circular pit, an ancient quarry, several hundred feet in diameter and an equal distance to the bottom. A series of enormous structures, gleaming white, thrust upward from the depths to form a vast ring, each tower connected to its neighbors by slender aerial walkways.

  “This,” said the Black Dragon, “Is Cheng-Dal-Ruk, the Gift of Heaven. Here the singing stones were mined, many centuries ago. Here the machines of old were built and destroyed.”

  He walked them out towards the nearest of the towers, the cluster of prisoners and guards shuffling like a group of schoolchildren being dragged unwillingly through a museum. Hank and Rosie were getting vertigo: the walls of the quarry dropped straight down towards the distant bottom, making the walkways feel spindly as the winds gusted in disconcerting updrafts.

  “I rebuilt these machines one by one. I made them better than before. But over time I came to see the true power of the singing stones. If a single stone could maintain the wall of fire or grant me virtual immortality, what could two of them do? What could all seventeen stones do, working together in a single Great Machine?”