The Dragon’s Breath by James Boschert
Copyright © 2016 James Boschert
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN-13: 978-1-942756-52-1(Paperback)
ISBN :-978-1-942756-53-8 (e-book)
BISAC Subject Headings:
FIC014000FICTION / Historical
FIC032000FICTION / War & Military
FIC031020FICTION / Thrillers / Historical
Editing: Chris Wozney
Danielle Boschert
Cover Illustration by Christine Horner
Address all correspondence to:
Penmore Press LLC
920 N Javelina Pl
Tucson AZ 85748
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowlegements
Names
Maps
Prologue
Part I. Chapter One. A Camel Race
Chapter Two. A Meeting and a Marriage
Chapter Three. Chogan
Chapter Four. A Ship
Chapter Five. An Eye for an Eye
Chapter Six. Pate Island
Chapter Seven The Heyda
Chapter Eight. To Sail an Ocean
Chapter Nine. Kalam Mali
Chapter Ten. The Wreck
Chapter Eleven Strange Survivors
Chapter Twelve. Lord Meng Hsü
Chapter Thirteen. Tyger Tyger
Chapter Fourteen. Master Sing
Chapter Fifteen. Precious Stones
Chapter Sixteen. Lun
Chapter Seventeen. The China Seas
Part II. Chapter Eighteen. Guangzhou
Chapter Nineteen. The Path to Governor
Chapter Twenty.Of Cargo and Goods
Chapter Twenty One. Intruders
Chapter Twenty Two. Audience with an Emperor
Chapter Twenty Three. Dojo
Chapter Twenty Four. A Visit to the Police
Chapter Twenty Five. Factions
Chapter Twenty Six. The Dragon’s Breath
Chapter Twenty Seven. The Duel
Chapter Twenty Eight. Fang
Chapter Twenty Nine. The Spirit of the Dragon
Chapter Thirty. A Game of Go
Chapter Thirty One. Farewell
Chapter Thirty Two. A Good Captain
Chapter Thirty Three. Aftermath
Chapter Thirty Four. Retribution
Chapter Thirty Five. The Navigator.
Author’s Note
Preview of the Magician
About The Author
Dedication
To Danielle, who is my rock of support
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks to Chris Wozney and Danielle Boschert for their tireless efforts and help.
Names
Maps
Prologue
In the book A Falcon Flies, Talon, while fighting the much feared Assassins in Syria, discovers that Rav’an is not dead, as he had imagined for six long years. Before he can act on this information fate steps in and Talon is dragged into the Battle of Montgisard. King Baldwin of Jerusalem and the Knights Templar have a terrible confrontation with the formidable army of the Sultan of Egypt, Salah Ed Din. Talon and his comrades barely survive, but the Templars are hailed as heroes. After the battle Talon decides that it is time to find Rav’an and keep his promise to return to her.
The King of Jerusalem grudgingly gives his permission but demands Talon’s word that he will return. Talon survives the vicissitudes of the long and arduous journey across the barren deserts and the prisons of Baghdad to find that all is not well. He discovers that not only does he now have a son but his lover Rav’an was unwillingly ‘married’ to the sultan of Shiraz and is now imprisoned in a seemingly impregnable fortress.
Talon unexpectedly meets up with Reza, his brother-in-arms from their days in the Assassins’ castle of Alamut, who is also going to rescue her. They succeed, but in doing so they are forced not only to flee the sultan’s men, who make a determined effort to recapture Rav’an, but the wrath of her brother the Master of the Assassins. They evade the sultan’s men but the threat of the assassins is never far away.
Because of this they cannot remain in Persia but flee instead to Oman, where Talon has an acquaintance who shared a prison cell with him in Baghdad and whom Talon helped escape the executioner’s sword. There is a debt to be repaid.
PART I
The camel has a single hump;
The dromedary, two;
Or else its the other way around.
I'm never sure. Are you?
—Ogden Nash
Chapter One
A Camel Race
There was a palpable sense of excitement from the crowd gathered on the flat sandy plain. The Omanis jostled and elbowed one another to get a good view of the race track, while ignoring the persistent flies buzzing around their heads. For the most part they were men, dressed in dusty thobes, loose tunics that came down to their ankles; most wore a ragged turban wound loosely around their heads. There were also a few heavily veiled women standing behind their men, craning their necks like everyone else to see what they could of the milling group far down the wide sandy track. A haze of fine dust obscured the starting line and hung over the area where the spectators were gathered waiting for the race to begin.
Young boys rushed about, yelling and getting in the way of the men, who would round on them if they came too close and slap them away. Even the stray dogs that were always skulking around had caught the mood and were barking and dodging the stones that the boys hurled at them. The roars of the camels and the bleating of goats, combined with the chatter of the tribespeople, only added to the festive mood.
A light wind lifted the banners that hung from the top of the large tents where the Caliph of Oman and his retinue were seated. They were in full view of the Muscat citizens and other tribesmen who had come to witness this singular event. In sharp contrast to the milling crowd, these people were dressed in grand clothing. Their massars were made of the finest wools and decorated in the traditional Omani patterns. Some were even stitched in gold thread, thus demonstrating the affluence of the wearer. The men were wearing dishdashas, the fine, primarily white tunic worn by men of stature. Some also wore a bisht, a black woolen over robe.
To a man they sported elaborate belts of the finest silver filigree on leather that held the obligatory ornate knife known as the Kkhanjar at their waists: it was usually turned so that it sat on their stomachs for all to see and admire. They were the sheiks and royalty of Oman, accompanied by their watchful bodyguards. Many of these were tall, glowering, black men chosen for their fierce looks and strong physiques. The guards held lances and carried swords through their sashes.
This was the final race of the day, but by now, with the sun low over the distant mountains to the West, the haze of dust thrown up by people and camels made it hard to identify the individual riders from a distance of half a league away. Those who were nearest the edge of the wide track strained their eyes to see the colors which identified the runners. Most had placed a modest bet of a few dinars or lesser coins on their favorite animal, but in the grand tent there were those who had placed huge bets.
These same people were now sweating with anxiety as they fingered their prayer beads and wiped the perspiration off their brows, while at the same time trying to look unconcerned. For the most part they were sheiks, wealthier merchants, and other men of note. If their expensive clothes were not enough to distinguish them from the noisy throng on the other side of the track, the armed guards and the slaves attending to their needs indicated th
at much power was gathered here on the outskirts of Muscat to watch the final and most prestigious camel race of the year.
There was a hush as all eyes turned to the stone tower opposite the Caliph’s stand. A figure appeared on the top, followed by another, smaller one carrying a rolled up banner. Standing high above the crowd where all could see him, the frail old man with a long beard looked over to the stands to where the Caliph of Oman and his attendants were seated. He bowed low, and when the Caliph raised a languid hand he took the rolled up flag from the boy beside him and began to unfurl the silk material. By now the entire crowd was tense with expectation and had quietened considerably. Everyone watched with impatience while the old man, fully aware of his moment of importance, took his time to unfurl the large cloth emblem of the Caliph emblazoned upon the green silk background.
Finally he lifted the banner, which instantly caught the light breeze and spread its wings like a huge undulating bird. It nearly tipped the old man off the tower, but the boy seized his belt and hung on. The old man began to wave the flag slowly from side to side and the crowd roared.
In the distance the milling camels at the starting point began to move. The twenty or so finely bred racing camels had been roughly lined up by attendants who shouted, sweated, and cursed them, and by their riders, who used their whips to prevent them from taking off before the starting flag had been raised.
The choking dust kicked up by the agitated animals made it difficult for the harassed men to account for everyone, so there were no lack of opportunists who tried to get a head start on their competitors. The riders of the camels, mostly young boys, jostled for the best place with savage intensity, using their short whips and cursing each other. They beat their roaring charges into place and even used their whips upon one another when the chance to gain a small edge presented itself.
Then the sharp-eyed attendant in charge noticed the old man’s arrival on the tower in the distance and screamed at them all to get ready, waving his arms and pleading with the mounted boys to prepare. They had barely settled down when the banner was raised and the attendants screamed in one voice, “Allah Akbar, Go!!”
The mass of camels and riders were off. The boys flapped their legs and thrashed their mounts. The camels snarled, bared their yellow teeth, ambled into a trot, then rapidly moved into an all out gallop that ate up the distance towards the stands. Their necks were stretched forward and their heads lowered on their seemingly ungainly bodies, but their long legs were covering the ground in great, loping strides.
The small riders perched on the light, ornate saddles strapped to the humps of the camels screamed as they urged their mounts forward, even though few of the animals needed much persuasion. However, they ran closely bunched, and it was not long before legs became entangled. One camel went down, bringing three others with it in a dangerous flurry of limbs with boys shrieking abuse at one another as they scrambled about, trying to avoid being crushed by a rolling body or killed by the flailing legs of the downed animals. The remaining racers spread out and concentrated on the distant stands and the ever louder roar of the crowd.
The soft thud of many padded feet could barely be heard as the boys continued to breathlessly urge their mounts forward. The screaming and yelling of the starter line had been replaced with endearments and pleading words addressed to their precious charges. The boy who won this race would be hugely rewarded for his efforts, and his camel would represent a breeder’s dream, male or female, and make its owner very rich.
Ismail rode Jasmine with a light hand and called to her over the noise all around them. “Go, my sweet Jasmine. May your legs run faster than ever before. Do what you do best, my sweet Jasmine!” he pleaded, and only occasionally snapped his stick onto her shoulder. She gave a low grunting roar in acknowledgement and affection for her rider, and jostled her way towards the front of the pack. Ismail was watching for any kind of dangerous behavior from the two remaining boys in front of them. Neither would allow Jasmine through if they could prevent it, as they, too, stood to gain great prestige from winning the race; and while they were in the pack almost anything went.
Ismail coaxed Jasmine on with shouts of encouragement, and she gained steadily on the two camels ahead of them. He tapped her on the right shoulder and she veered in that direction just a little; this suddenly gave them a clear view of the tents and the by now hysterical crowd screaming and waving in the distance. They still had three hundred paces to go, but with their two most serious competitors off to the left of them Jasmine was now able to really get into her stride. She began to move past the closer boy, who was momentarily unaware of the threat on his right. He had been concentrating on trying to keep pace with another opponent. Suddenly his mount became aware of Jasmine and tried to bite her. Jasmine grunted as the teeth tore at her neck, but Ismail snapped his whip onto the nose of the offender and edged Jasmine on past. As he drew parallel to the rider, who was a larger boy, Ismail could not resist flashing a wide, cheeky grin. He was small for his age, and when he laughed he presented white teeth in a wide open mouth.
The other boy was not going to let this new threat pass him by without doing something about it. He scowled angrily and swung his whip hard at Ismail’s head. All Ismail could do was to lift his arm and take the blow. He retaliated instinctively by poking at the other boy with his whip and inadvertently stabbed him in the eye. He hadn’t meant to hurt, but the sting of the blow he had received made him react. The other boy howled and clutched at his eye and almost fell off his camel. Ismail snapped his stick onto Jasmine’s long thigh behind him and yelled. “Go, beloved! Go, or I am done!”
They were now only fifty yards from the finish line and there was still one other camel in the lead, ridden by another older boy who was very skinny and therefore light, who knew how to ride, but he was shouting abuse at his camel and beating it hard with his stick. The animal rolled its eyes and bared its teeth with anger and fear, but it fled the whip nonetheless. Ismail was very tempted to use his stick but was reluctant because he loved his mount.
“Jasmine!” He screamed. “For God and for me, run for your life, run, run, run!”
Hearing her name, despite the roar of the crowd who were now on either side of them, his mount put in a last burst of speed and they hurtled across the finish line only a short neck ahead of the other camel. The crowd went mad, screaming and waving their hands in the air. Turbans were unravelling and some men were waving them like banners. Men who had won their bets were dancing and hugging one another, shouting with glee. The losers were shaking their heads in disgust and some were even wondering where they were going to sleep that night, having bet almost all their possessions, including their own camels. The normally impassive visiting tribesmen who had accompanied many of the desert Sheiks to witness this very special event joined in the general atmosphere of celebration.
Ismail allowed Jasmine to run out her race and return to a trot before he turned her. With words of love and affection he talked to her all the way back to the victor’s stand, where her master stood with a cluster of family members around him. Ismail leaned forward and stroked the back of her neck, he rubbed the welt from the bite and spoke soothingly to her. “My lovely Jasmine! You won, you won! We are famous!”
She rolled her eyes back at him and groaned. As he murmured her praises she lifted her head to turn it and give him a look of affection, because she loved this little imp who slept in her stall and ministered to her every day. They walked back towards the excited and noisy crowd.
The chief camel syce for the master dashed out from the press and ran up to tie a strap onto the headdress of Jasmine. His dark, bearded face was beaming so that his dark eyes had almost disappeared in the creases of his sunburned face.
“God be praised, Ismail,” he called up to the proud boy. “I never doubted you, but that was so very close!”
“God be praised indeed, Mehmet. She gave me everything she had!” There were tears in his eyes as Ismail said this. The huge smile o
f happiness lit up his dust-caked features and he thought his heart would burst. By now they had arrived at the enclosure and it was time to ask Jasmine to go down on her knees so that he could dismount to prostrate himself in front of his master.
Allam al Mardini stood in front of the kneeling camel and the boy; he was trying hard to control his emotions. He was shaking with relief and felt like weeping with joy, but forced himself to present to the world and its people a look of pleased satisfaction instead. He reached down and pulled the boy to his feet, embraced him hard, then turned to the crowd, his arm still around the small boy’s thin shoulders, and waved. The crowd of onlookers cheered and shouted praises to the boy.
After a few moments, Allam turned back to Jasmine and put his hands on either side of her long head and stroked her gently with much tenderness. She gazed back at him with her limpid eyes under long eyelashes and grunted with pleasure; the sound rumbled deep inside her, and her upper lip bobbed about, showing her yellowed teeth, but it was clear that she was happy. He slipped a small but very sweet cake under her nose and stood holding her head while she drooled spit in the sand while chewing and then swallowed it with a small shudder of pleasure.
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