Dragon in the Snow

by Forrest Dylan Bryant

  * * *

  “This is where I come into the story,” said St. Cyr. “And your father, too, Angelica. I first learned of Ando Chee in 1913, when I was researching my book, Strange Tales of the Orient. I became obsessed with the story of Shangri-La, and set out to find it for myself. Alas, I did not succeed. But I did find the Chenggi. And I became an ally of those who oppose the Black Dragon. We were building an underground network, making plans. But now, I fear I have ruined everything.”

  “I don’t understand,” said the Baroness. “How does my father fit in?”

  “The rebel Chenggi thought they knew where the final singing stone was. They wanted to smuggle it to America, to buy time while we organized the resistance. We hoped to seize control of the Black Dragon’s machines, and so cut him off from his source of power. Then one night, I had dinner with your father. I wanted to recruit him to our cause. But I fear I drank too much, and I said too little. I told him about Shangri-La, about the singing stone buried in the mountains, but not about the Black Dragon. And dear Franz, always so impetuous... your father set off the very next day, my pet, before I could warn him of the danger. He found the singing stone, and the Black Dragon found him. He escaped back to Shanghai, and our people got the stone out of Asia, but your father... we couldn’t save him, or the friends he called for assistance.”

  “And now the Black Dragon has the stone,” said Doyle, scowling. “We brought it right back into his clutches, so we’re all doomed, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes. The stone should have remained in America. Wo Then-Liang has few men there; you could have hidden it so very easily. But I understand. You’re just like your father, Angelica. You had to know. That is an admirable trait.”

  Bartholomew St. Cyr stood and faced the group. “We still have one chance to avoid the coming catastrophe,” he said. “Only one. The Black Dragon has miscalculated. He sought seventeen stones, and now he has seventeen. But he has failed to account for the eighteenth, the golden stone stolen by Ando Chee.”

  “Eh? You said it was destroyed,” said Doyle.

  “Yes. That is what Ando Chee said; that is likely what the Chenggi royal chronicles say as well. But they lie. The final singing stone, of golden aspect, survives. And it has been in my care for twenty-three years. It is right here, in Shanghai. I have Ando Chee’s amulet as well. I have told no one of this before tonight.” The room was silent; even Nenn Si-Lum was shocked by these revelations.

  Sid looked thoughtful, with his thick glasses halfway down his nose and his hand absently rubbing his chin. “If the Black Dragon doesn’t even know these things exist, then maybe they can be used against him.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting we go after that fiend,” said Armbruster. “Flattening cities? Declaring war on the world? This sounds like a matter for the army now... couldn’t the Baroness call up some of those family friends of hers in Washington?”

  Sid shook his head. “We’re the only ones who can do it; we’re the only ones who even know what’s happening! For three weeks we’ve been hunted, but now we have to be the hunters. After tonight, there may not be time for anything else. Besides...” — Sid grinned broadly — “It’s what Doc Savage would do.”

  “And what my father would do,” added the Baroness.

  “And what we shall do! On to Shangri-La!” declared Doyle, a new confidence in his voice. It was suicide, surely, but so was doing nothing. The Black Dragon could not be allowed to unleash such incomprehensible power upon the world.

  “Right,” said Rosie. “We gotta try. Let’s go get that bastard, for the Baron and Joe and everybody else he’s killed. But I got one more question. Where the heck are Hank and Sonny?”

  Chapter XXV

  THE GRASPING TENDRILS OF DARKNESS

  —

  HANK MARTIN HAD felt this way only once before. The first time was as a young man in France, during the Great War. He was out on a twenty-four hour pass, and he and his buddy Hector Garcia were hitting the town. Hector had always had a wild streak, and he always knew where to find the action. So Hank just followed along as Hector led them through the city’s narrow, winding alleyways to a seedy, dimly-lit tavern called Le Coq Riant — the Laughing Rooster.

  Hector sat down and immediately ordered some drink Hank had never heard of, speaking quickly and quietly in French. When the stuff came young Hank just goggled at it, perplexed. It was a bright green liquid, served in a small glass with a slotted spoon balanced on top. A sugar cube rested on top of the spoon. But his friend knew exactly what to do. Hector poured some water over the sugar cube and into the drink, which, surprisingly, turned opaque. It smelled like licorice. Hector took a slug of the stuff, and Hank did likewise. Hank was a big guy, but the alcohol still hit him like a freight train. The drink was absinthe, the notorious “green fairy,” and it had been illegal in France for two years.

  They ordered another. This time, Hector reached into his jacket pocket and, with a wink, replaced the sugar cubes with something else. Hank was never sure what it was. The drink clouded up as before, but Hank remembered nothing after that. He awoke in a fog the next morning, lying alone in some farmer’s field. His head felt like someone had stuffed it full of cotton balls, and yet he was strangely euphoric. The clouds over his head were cotton balls too, asking him if the ones in his head could come out to play. The cool, wet grass tickled his ears. It was green, like the drink, only more vivid than any green he’d ever seen before. Hank smiled, and went back to sleep. The next thing he knew, his twenty-four hour leave was over, and he and Hector were both AWOL.

  So when Hank felt the same cotton-ball sensation in his head now, he knew, somewhere deep down in the part of his mind that could still think, that he had been drugged. He was stretched out on a cot, in a room lit even more dimly than the Laughing Rooster. There were other people with him, also stretched out on cots, arranged in several rows. Little oil lamps sat next to most of the beds, offering the barest minimum flame and light, and a sweet, heavy aroma filled the air.

  Opium. Hank knew the stuff. He had seen an opium den once before, in New York, that had become fashionable amost a certain set of wealthy idlers seeking a thrill. He’d helped the narcotics squad to bust it. Hank was in another such den now, but this one wasn’t some fancy dress-up game. This was the real deal.

  Hank rolled over awkwardly, his body sluggish and resisting. He could see a dark figure lying in the next cot. It was Sonny, fast asleep, with a long pipe sitting next to him.

  Something in Hank’s mind clicked, realizing the danger he was in. How long had he been here? There was a surge of adrenalin that began to counteract the effects of the dope. They had to get out, get back to Sid and the Baroness.

  Hank struggled to a sitting position, his body fighting him all the way, wanting only to recline and sleep. He tried to stand up, but felt himself pushed back down by a pair of rough hands. Hank looked up into an ugly, scarred face that could only belong to a hired goon. Hank had seen hundreds of faces like this; he knew the type on sight.

  The goon shoved Hank back down onto his side — his body was happy to comply — and jammed a pipe into Hank’s mouth, holding the bowl end over the oil lamp. Hank could smell the hot smoke rising, feel its sticky sweetness filling his lungs... No! He rebelled.

  It happened on its own; Hank was only an observer, watching as his huge hairy hand flew upward and caught the goon by the throat. He rolled upward effortlessly and slapped the man hard, catching him off-balance and sending him toppling over the cot. Sonny awoke at the sound, groggy but aware. He staggered upright and joined the fight.

  There wasn’t much resistance: the men supposed to be guarding the house had been smoking too. But Hank felt as if he were fighting the entire Chinese Army. His fists missed more often than they connected, but the massive impact of his punches made up the difference. He sent one man flying into a lit oil lamp, spilling it, and a fire began to spread across the floor. Hank was dimly aware of Sonny using his own lamp
as a weapon, hurling burning oil into an attacker’s face. As the noise and the flames grew, more men awoke and began to panic in their stupor, half running and half shuffling for the exit. The fight dissolved into a stampede. Hank lurched forward, using his bulk to open a path through the mass of men as Sonny fell in just behind him. The two adventurers stumbled up the stairs and out the door, while the air inside became clogged with smoke.

  Once outside, Hank and Sonny were hit with a deluge of rain that jolted them most of the way back to consciousness. There was little time; they had to get away, and fast. The two men staggered down the street, soaked to the skin, looking for a taxi, a rickshaw, any way to get back to the lane house. And then a miracle occurred. A car pulled up right in front of them, and a hand emerged from the driver’s window, beckoning. Joe! Joe had found them! They threw open the rear door and climbed in without thinking. The car gunned to life and sped away from the decrepit alley, just as gunshots began to sound from the burning building behind them.

  “Joe, you’re a wonder,” said Hank. “You really saved our bacon back there.”

  “Not Joe,” said an oddly accented voice from the front seat. “Joe is dead.”

  Hank felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He was still muddled and confused. He didn’t know if he should try to fight or attempt to jump from a moving car — neither option had much appeal. But then the voice spoke again.

  “Relax, sir, I am a friend. My name is Djali, and I have spent half the night looking for you. Luckily, our enemies lack imagination.”

  “Do they really?” said Sonny, “That wasn’t my impression at all.”

  * * *

  Far from Shanghai, a terrifying shape rose above the thick clouds and into the slowly gathering light of dawn. It had the form of a huge stone dragon, but its wings flapped as if alive, its body glowing a ghoulish green.

  Within his flying transport, Wo Then-Liang, Glorious Dragon of Black Aspect, gazed lovingly upon the bright blue singing stone, his fingers lightly caressing the elaborate carvings and lines of holy symbols etched into its cylindrical sides. He had not waited for his men to arrive with their prisoners; they could follow in their own clumsy airplane. He was impatient to get back home, away from the stench of the cities, and set his plans into motion.

  He had waited so long. Almost ninety years had passed since the day he first learned the truth, there in the royal archives of Chenggi-Lai. He knew then that he was destined to rule, to reclaim the singing stones and restore his land to magnificence. The valley had once been a paradise, a technological marvel still unmatched after hundreds of years, and it would be so again.

  But those self-righteous fools, the so-called holy lamas, had feared his ambition, his mind, his will. They feared his power. Cast out, left alone in a strange world, he had to make his own way into greatness.

  For years he wandered: riding alone through Tibet, Afghanistan, India, China. With each passing season he became more disgusted by humanity’s wretchedness and corruption, and more envious of his brothers, who would be princely rulers of a beautiful, pristine land. But Wo Then-Liang, a scholar above all, learned much in his travels. He studied engineering and chemistry, politics and psychology. He mastered Mandarin, Nepali and English. And he learned to master men.

  In China, he saw the Opium Wars first-hand. He saw how the tiny islands of Great Britain brought the mighty Chinese Empire to its knees from half a world away, eroding it from within by controlling the opium trade, using vice to enslave the populace and sap their will. It was a lesson he would never forget.

  High in the Kunlun Mountains, he found clues to the location of the first singing stone. For three months, he fought off blizzards and starvation, proceeding on foot when his mount could travel no farther, finally collapsing into a hidden cave which lay at the very edge of madness of death. And there it was, bright green and shining. It sang its angelic, undulating song, renewing his spirit and strength, and assuring him that someday he would be victorious.

  The Black Dragon reflected on all that had happened since. How he had found the dragon-ship, the same one in which he now rode, abandoned in the broad wastes of the Tarim Basin, shunned by the nomads as a cursed ruin, but with two more stones cradled deep within its hold. How his father, the doddering old fool, had eventually reached his end, and the scheme he had so carefully prepared before his exile was finally put to use. His brothers were assassinated by the Black Dragon’s allies: one while hunting, the other by poison. And then, his moment come at last, the kharpat exile came thundering back into Chenggi-Lai like an avalanche, sweeping his enemies away and seizing the coveted throne.

  For decades he studied the singing stones, deciphering ancient codices from the archives and rebuilding the great machines of old. The first granted him virtual immortality, projecting its power into the amulet around his neck, keeping him safe from attack like an invisible shield while replenishing the cells of his body. The second restored the ancient defenses, making the remote heights of Chenggi-Lai completely inaccessible to any foreigners who might venture near. And the third, most important of all, gave him the power of transmutation. It was a slow and difficult process, taking two full decades to master, but now he could alter the stones from one aspect to another at will, unlocking their hidden potential.

  He dispatched agents to gather more of the stones. By the start of the twentieth century he had collected all the known aspects: red, green, blue, even lavender... all except black, the aspect of destruction, and gold, the unknowable one. Even if these two aspects were real, which he doubted, they were said to be unstable, too dangerous even for his mad experiments.

  The Great War came and went, leaving Chenggi-Lai untouched. But the Black Dragon observed, and what he saw was repugnant to him. He already regarded the outside world as a festering mass, overcrowded with bestial humanity. But the senseless brutality of the war convinced him that the nations of the world were incapable and unworthy of self-rule. They needed the Glorious Dragon of Chenggi-Lai to unite them and subjugate them. The natural order of things had been disturbed; the ants had no queen. Only he could put the world back in its place. His dreams of glory were thus transformed into a vision of conquest.

  His plan had two stages. First he would use his own Chenggi agents and a powerful mercenary force — the legendary Shadow Order — to conquer from below, taking control of vice and crime throughout the world. This would give him money, position and influence while softening the populace, all prerequisites for the second stage: conquest from above.

  To achieve his ultimate goal he needed one more of his great machines, something more grand and complex than all the others combined. For this one would not be directed inward, to serve Chenggi-Lai, but outward, projecting from the mountaintops to cover the entire globe. He drew up plans for a device the likes of which the world had never seen, never even dreamt of. But to make it work, he needed every last ounce of Cheng-Dal-Ruk, all seventeen of the surviving singing stones.

  And now he had them all. It had taken the better part of a century, but the time of the Black Dragon had come at last.

  Chapter XXVI

  RACE ACROSS THE ORIENT

  —

  FAR OUT IN THE South Pacific, a thousand miles from any shipping lane or population of note, a little black boat bobbed atop the rolling swells, her motors idling. The boat had a crew of six, including one old salt who was an expert in navigation: his eyes were sharp as a sea eagle’s and his knowledge of sun, moon and stars encyclopedic. The grizzled old sailor could determine latitude and longitude with uncanny accuracy, down to the arc-second if necessary. Today it was necessary.

  About a mile to starboard there sat a tiny scrap of an island, hardly more than a sandbar atop a shelf of white coral. It had no name, and wouldn’t be found on any standard nautical chart. But the men from the boat had scrutinized this godforsaken lump of land with great care throughout the morning, taking precise measurements, setting up a series of signal flags and installing a cr
ude seismometer, a device for measuring ground vibration in event of earthquake.

  The old sailor had applied all his skills, determining the precise location of the little island and sending the coordinates back to the boat’s home port via radio. That had been more than two hours earlier. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the appointed time.

  At the stroke of noon, the men all gathered on the deck of their little black boat and watched the island. Some of them used spyglasses or binoculars; the rest simply shielded their eyes from the sun with outstretched hands and squinted. They stood like that for perhaps three minutes, waiting and watching.

  The signal flag at the north end of the island wavered, shook, and toppled over. A moment later the other flags did likewise. The sea began to churn, and a deep rumbling sound could be heard, coming from some unidentifiable place, like distant thunder echoing off the water from beyond the horizon. All at once there was a violent heaving motion, and the deck dropped out from under the men. The boat rolled and nearly capsized, the spyglasses lost overboard or smashed against the rail. For thirty seconds the world was in confusion.

  When at last the sloshing waves subsided, the men scrambled back to their feet and looked off to starboard again.

  The island was gone.

  While the men pointed and yelled in surprise, the boat’s captain quietly returned to the cabin, kicked the motors up to full speed and pointed his little craft towards home. Their work was done.

  * * *

  Nenn Si-Lum could not believe his good fortune.

  From the moment he had killed his Chenggi colleague and set their prisoners free, he believed himself to be a hunted man. The rebellion’s cover was surely blown; the Master would know there were traitors in his court and that Nenn was one of them. A life on the run lay ahead, a brief, sleepless existence full of fear and pain. But it had been a noble sacrifice.