by Mark Swaine
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
After keeping stacks of notes, short stories and a ton of ideas in my black folder of ideas, in December 2005 I bought my first laptop with my bonus money and started work on my first novel, an as yet unpublished novel called ‘Legend of the Red Sun Village: Day of the Dead’. From there, I didn’t stop writing until I was halfway into the prequel story (which you’re about to read) which I rewrote and continued working on after a long break of writing untill 2011. After completing this story, I decided to write two adjoining stories, ‘The Crenshaw Serpent’ and ‘Interpol and the public Enemy of Diyu’.
An earnest colleague made the valid point that nobody is going to read a book of that size, so I divided them into three separate novels. Eager to publish my novel and see the finished product in my hands, I planned to release the digital version shortly after. Enough time had passed (five years) that I’d completely forgotten to upload the Kindle version. So I’ve reviewed it once again (killed my darlings) and given it a much needed trim. I hope you enjoy the intended first book in the ‘Legend of the Red Sun Village’ saga.
Thanks to my amazing babies, Holly and Amber, I’m proud and happy to be the ‘fat, silver haired Dad’ that you keep calling me. To my amazing fiancée Mandy, who’s supported what was intended to be a one year plan. To my fiancée’s son Rhys, you’re a great lad and I can’t wait to see all of your hard work pay off. I love you all.
To my sisters Jane and Julia (Big perm and Feargal Sharkey) my brother-in-law Krish Rawal for listening to my constant get rich quick ideas.
Thanks to my handful of best mates old and new, Jeffrey Brown, Steve Gonzalez, Lee Mandleberg, Jayce Asquez, Kaylan Candeas, Terry Gager, James Hammond, Israel Perez Ruiz (in Paraguay) and Daniel Lake. It’s great to have such a variety of good friends.
Massive thanks to the always reliable Tara Danino for the front cover (and saving my backside from countless technical issues once again).
Legend of the Red Sun Village
Prologue
Somewhere in the eternity of space
In the soundless picturesque vacuity of the black void, little lights of fire defy the eternal hollow and accommodate journeying visitors with distant illuminations. Some of the stars lose their shine as they're obstructed by a bright round ball, irradiating silver light within the deep crevices of its hexagonal patterned exterior. The tightly packed group of hexagons disperse outwards and reveal themselves as individual ships. The ships remain in a spherical formation as they manoeuvre backwards to expose a silver sphere held within the protective barricade. The hexagonal discs begin moving back into formation whilst spinning rapidly, and all at once they suddenly fire bright streams of light into the silver circular mass. The ships don't reconnect completely this time, but are bound together by bands of multi-coloured strikes of writhing energy. The light grows more intensely as the ships spin in their interlocked positions, and as a blinding explosion attempts to breach the barricade of ships, they spin faster, absorbing the impact of the soundless detonation.
The silent explosion lasts for centuries, but eventually subsides to be replaced by steam, bright colourful gasses and frequent strikes of lightning. The steam and multicoloured gasses fade after time, and we see glimpses of the object contained within their protective formation, until it no longer resembles the silver orb once displayed within their firm, caring stronghold. Fragments of blue, glimpses of grey and brown, bursts of erupting red and traces of white swirling wisps prove the creation to be a true success. The ships give the colourful orb some breathing space and manoeuvre a short distance away before docking together.
The ships of light form one large mother ship in the shape of a hexagon, and maintain a comfortable distance.
One Century later
In the centre of the underbelly of the flat colossal mothership, a giant round hatch of curved panels slide back like the sharp petals of a flower. Behind the misty circular void, a subtle glow pulsates behind hazy bursts of steam as spurts of red, green and yellow plasma burst forth before crystallising in the hostile cosmic freeze. As the vacuum of space robs the smoking plasma of its fluids, the huge, uneven icebergs linger as a cylindrical spike twists forth from the circular innards of the primordial hatch. The pointed end of the segmented silver spire begins spinning in alternate directions before blasting and clearing free of the mothership. Rocketing towards the blue planet, the spire breaks through the dense clouds of its capricious atmosphere and slam dives into the surface of an untamed ocean of rushing and rising tidal waves. The tower propels itself into a dark crushing abyss thousands of miles below until finally hitting the bedrock. In the freezing, crushing depths of the dark murky world, the tower suddenly begins drilling until its entire twisting cone is buried in stone.
The towering javelin of light finally powers down, becoming nothing but part of its dark and mountainous environment.
chapter one
Tokyo
2010
In a forgotten, puddle-laden, narrow alleyway littered with empty wicker baskets, leaning pallets and chicken crates layered in tattered feathers, a coarse raspy voice leads us around a corner. Behind the corner and further down the dark alleyway, the seemingly abandoned path widens into a spacious junction. In the wide enclosure outside the back entrance of the Soup Dragon restaurant, a twenty-foot long, black-scaled beast lies almost wedged between two brick walls with its long snout resting beside a short flight of steps leading up to the back door of the restaurant. Its thick, scaled tail disappears into a manhole leading to the sewers beneath. The dragon lies on its belly sucking from a long lead drain pipe leading to a rusty oil drum filled with Sake. The enclosure trails off to a dead end. A high brick wall, where a tall Bonsai tree spreads its branches out in every direction, partially covers its thick green canopy of leaves over the rectangular black space of bright blinking stars.
At the base of the restaurant steps, a dark-skinned man with a fresh black eye, wearing a dirty, grass-stained, smart silver suit sits on an upturned crate. The Mexican, sat beside the dragon’s long, sleek, horned head, sits in a depressed state as he contemplates the events from the past twenty-four hours. The two beings stare into the fuzzy screen of an old TV set, watching six handsome youngsters splashing and dancing around a fountain to an upbeat and catchy song. The sides of the dragon's mouth rise as his favourite show plays out the musical introduction, and all seems right and normal with the world as he imagines his life as carefree as theirs. The Mexican appears lost as he stares longingly at the out-of-contrast, flickering and partially static screen. The unhappy Mexican appears indifferent to the sitcom as his thoughts rest firmly on his beloved Anna. The dragon thuds the side of the antique TV set with his heavy tongue, hard enough to be certain that a few knocks will fix the extremely bad reception, if only for a while. As the screen clears off its crackling and buzzing static, the dragon's mouth rises higher, like a dog grinning at the sight of its kind master returning home.
“We used to watch this show all the time, Anna and I,” says the forlorn man, lost in a sad state of nostalgia.
The dragon's smile drops slightly as he senses his guest's lack of joy, and so averts his attention to the solemn man.
“How did this begin?” asks Pedro, gazing at the TV set.
“I could not say, I have not yet seen the first season,” replies the dragon, completely misunderstanding the Mexican's question.
“No. I mean this… you… How did all of this… madness begin?” asks Pedro, staring hopelessly at the intoxicated beast.
“Drink,” bellows the dragon merrily.
The dragon's front slattern eyes widen and narrow as it tilts its head towards the Mexican whilst attempting to foc
us on him. The intoxicated Mexican takes the bottle of Sake next to him and refills his glass again.
“Salut,” slurs Pedro knocking back his ninth shot of Sake. “No puedo mas,” he adds, holding up his hand in protest and retching slightly.
The dragon wheezes a laugh at Pedro’s inability to keep up with him.
“Ahh,” the dragon exhaled, dredging the sound from the depths of his throat, “Pedro you are good man for keeping me company, it has been long time since someone has sat and had a drink with me,” says the dragon with gratitude in his coarse booming voice.
“You don't need to thank me, not after what all you people have done,” says Pedro, placating the beast with a drunken smile. “So, are you going to tell me where you people come from?” asks Pedro suddenly.
“The Yù Xīng Dynasty,” replies the dragon, hoping to quickly end his curiosity.
“Yù Xīng Dynasty?” muses Pedro. “I have never heard of it, I have degrees in both Geography and History and there is no record of a Yù Xīng Dynasty,” continues Pedro.
“Nor will there ever be. Were the population of Earth to discover what lies beyond the boundaries of your realities, you would surely self-destruct,” replies the dragon.
“I am handling knowledge of what I have seen,” replies Pedro, in disagreement.
“A few Demi-gods and a talking dragon,” snorts the dragon condescendingly, “you have seen nothing,” he adds sternly.
“Then tell me, help me understand. Dragon, I deserve to know,” slurs Pedro.
The dragon sighs at Pedro’s request to explain those things that have kept him in this lonely and secluded place, eons away from his true home.
The dragon had been moved from one location to the next. Each place was some out of sight shithole with no space to roam, or any view to admire. And with no contact with his own kind, the dragon's only escape from his existence were the barrels of Sake prepared for him by the current keeper of the Soup Dragon Restaurant. It didn't matter where the dragon went; each place was like some run-down slum, but anything more upmarket than his current residence would make it easier for his enemies to locate him. The dragon hadn’t been able to move since what felt like the beginning of the Yù Xīng Dynasty, so what else was there for an old, battle scarred dragon to do, but wait, watch sitcoms, sleep, eat and (his personal favourite) drink?
The dragon's black, heavily scaled eye lid slowly rises to reveal its centre-focused, elongated black pupil, and his top lip rises from the corners of his jagged mouth as he adjusts the drainpipe between his side incisors. The dragon sucks hard on the drainpipe until loud slurping sounds echo from the bottom of the barrel. Realising that Sake is running low, the dragon’s red-forked tongue flops out to the side in complete desertion of energy or interest. The dragon snorts loudly whilst flaring its large rubbery diamond-shaped nostrils and twitching its leathery and tough loose hanging whiskers. A hot mist escapes the dragon's nostrils and it fills the back alley of the restaurant swirling with vapour. The heavy smog hits the multiple dead ends of endless brick walls and churns continuously around Pedro as it seeks an exit. Pedro fans the haze away as it finally escapes with the steam billowing from the industrial, wall mounted steam extractor duct above. The dragon observes the Sake tinged cloud blowing and swaying into a circular dance as the unpredictable rickety fan discards it over the high roofs. The rough, deep, echoing voice from this all-too-real giant lizard adds a mystical feeling to a starry night. Away from all the noise, deep into the unknown, deep into the heart of down town Tokyo. Away from the traffic, away from civilisation, away from everything that betrays reality. The dragon blinks a few times to acknowledge the Mexican's earlier question.
“Pedro, refill that barrel of Sake....and I will tell you the whole story,” says the dragon in a drunken raspy voice.
“In a time of calm in ancient Earth, a tale of old orient begins, in a world of misty planes where death is bestowed upon honour and shame. Those days are now long gone. Only memories exist. Gravity held no bounds to the warriors who trained swift with steel foot and iron fist.
Those of worth and great power watched over the village. Sacred bloodlines protected the sacred ground against those who burn and pillage.
Wanderers are welcome, but are often hooded Demons. They hunger forever, hiding in disguise. If you get close enough to one, be sure to keep your distance. They toy with their food and they like to surprise.
In the Red Sun Village, Master Samurais and Warriors of Wushu, offer the service of wisdom and blade for those passing through.
Wells in the cobbled square echo faintly, for the fresh springs travel light from the sky climbing mountains, as Demon blood washes the badlands in red jets of everlasting fountains.
Jasmine grows in bunches of sweet perfume that lingers in the air, long tailed swifts nest on the curved tiled roofs and fly amidst the dying day without a care.
Children fly kites that hover and swerve high, like sky born elegant beasts. Though violent wind carries screams of pain across the ocean, in the birthplace of Yu-Huang, we are safe and at peace.
A tiny bricked bridge curves over a trickling river where youths hunt for knowledge of body and soul. They train intensely balancing the world on their toes, manipulating every which way the howling wind whistles and blows.
They leap upward with grace, higher than they ever did in their dreams, then relax in karma, soaking up the last of the day’s sunbeams.
In the dusk, lit lanterns swing a graceful glow, casting warm shadows in the breeze. The Guardian Samurai, Kamui Li remains mindful of his surroundings with his mind centred on the calming sound of the dormant Portals, the rustling soothing sound of the Bonsai trees.
Fire Swifts arrive in the village with crackling wings flapping urgent news. The fifty darting flames fly a circle round the Watchman, forming calligraphy with their flaring tails screeching with burning yellow beaks screaming a story of terror with red lined streaks.
Warming the crisp morning air, with a message of dread, they warn the Watchman about an enemy they share.
Their chirpings become tired. The children of the Phoenix are weak and frail
for their journey was long and their frightened message ends as they ignite into nothing from a distant dying song.
Silence is golden but one Dragon is silver, and as its scales flicker and coil, Kamui Li sees the peace being stolen.
Rushing against the violet morning sky and into a plane of pink haze, the rushing sparkles disappear. The warriors hear its distant roars, the archers mount horses and the guard’s ready spear.”
The Black Dragon stops his fable to repeat his request for another barrel-shot of Sake…
“Pedro, Sake, more Sake my friend,” bellows the dragon.
Pedro stands and staggers over to the barrel with unsure feet and spends the next half hour refilling the barrel with bottles of Sake from the stacks of crates lined up and against the wall. Pedro fills the drum to the brim and drunkenly climbs over the dragon's front legs and staggers back to the steps.
“Continue,” says Pedro, who was clearly enjoying the tale in his drunken stupor.
“Drink,” bellows the dragon once again.
Pedro fills his glass and raises it to the dragon.
“Salut,” says Pedro, knocking his shot back. “Continua,” adds the interested Mexican.
“Suddenly, two sparkling wings drop out from the morning sky; wings fold back on the still faraway beast and with its long tail held straight, the screeching beast looks like a shimmering Sai.
The Watchman leaps backwards onto the tallest hut as the villagers open out doors leading to under hill shelters to find cover from fire.
The Diamond Dragon roars with hate and as it swoops further down, it sees its target in the open, and it vows to leave nothing, not even bones for a pyre.
Flying level towards the Watchman at great speed, its fierce red eyes level with his, snarling at its feed.
Drooling great long sparkles of saliva, the dr
agon opens its mouth. This creature was feral and bribed, lusting for carnage. It can only be a beast sent from the South.
With only seconds to spare, the master of Shuriken flicks two stars from his wrist. Both fly parallel delivering much plight, peril and pain to the dragon’s sight. Screaming shrill with pain, unable to see, the Watchman unsheathes his Katana by the name of Xan Li, a soul he swears one day he’ll find a way to free.
With one swift movement as the beast passes by, he slices off its head and is showered in sparkling blood. Calmly he wipes the red glitter from his face, balanced by a strong high knee as a gem-layered head lands with a thud.
This was the work of a Sorcerer; a strong and evil wizard. Only those trained in the arts of black magic have the power to summon and command a treasure-guarding lizard.
One winter night, the Watchman meditates hard and senses the evil doer close; he meditates harder and begs for the strength of the 'Watchmen' of old and his father the ghost.
His eyes snap open knowing this twisted illusionist spreads fear to those who embrace life the most.
A few days pass and the villagers look upon the tall embodiment of evil atop a distant snow covered hill. Cloaked and hooded in purple and black, he glides through the fog. "Evil approaches," says the frothing deep snarl of a fat, flat faced dog.