The Yu Dragon Read online

  80AD

  The Yu Dragon

  by Aiki Flinthart

  Amazon Edition

  Copyright Aiki Flinthart 2011

  All Rights reserved

  Cover Art by Jason Seabaugh of Avatar Art

  Discover other titles by Aiki Flinthart at: http://aikiflinthart.weebly.com/

  Discover 80AD Book One - The Jewel of Asgard - at Amazon.

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  80AD Book Two - The Hammer of Thor at Amazon

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  80AD Book Three - The Tekhen of Anuket at Amazon

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  80AD Book Three - The Sudarshana at Amazon

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  Table of ContentsPrologue

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  80 AD

  The Yu Dragon

  Prologue

  Feng Zhudai dipped the tip of his brush into a small pot of ink. His lips twitched into a faint, satisfied smile. With his left hand, he caught up the silken sleeve of his robe so it wouldn’t smudge the calligraphy. The brush hovered for an instant over a narrow strip of bamboo. Then, with graceful strokes, the Emperor’s advisor penned an order to execute his prisoner.

  Carefully replacing the brush, he allowed the ink to dry before summoning his servant. The man entered timidly, his nose almost touching the floor. Irritated, Zhudai threw the order onto the polished wood.

  “Ensure that is carried out before the end of the day.” He paused, dark eyes narrowed in thought as the eunuch scrabbled to pick up the bamboo slip. “And if General Ban Chao or Emperor Han Zhangdi find out, I will know who to blame. This must be done in secrecy. Do you understand?”

  The top of the servant’s head bobbed as he bowed and nodded his nervous understanding. Satisfied, Zhudai waved him out and turned back to his desk. He smiled again but anyone watching would not have felt comforted by his expression.

  Zhudai moved his long fingers in a curious, twisting motion and a small, dark, red-purple flame danced for a moment on the palm of his hand. As he watched, it curled into the shape of a slender woman who sat with her arms wrapped around her knees and her head buried in them. A miniature chain encircled her ankles and wrists. The flame twisted and reformed into the image of a man; sprawled on an invisible floor and also chained. Zhudai’s unpleasant smile broadened. He moved his hand as though to dismiss the dancing light but, before he could, it shifted again into another shape. This time, a broad-shouldered warrior stalked purposefully across the sorcerer’s narrow palm. He looked...brooding, angry. A sword glinted in his hand.

  With a snap of Zhudai’s fingers, the dusky-red flame vanished. His fine, black brows drew together in a frown. He stared blankly at his own hand for a moment then turned to look at the floor as though seeing through it to the levels below. He rose to his feet in a sudden, decisive movement. Sweeping long, black robes around himself, Zhudai strode toward the door on silent, soft-shod feet.

  Outside, his secretary eyed the execution order with misgivings. It was the third one this week. At this rate, the Emperor had to hear of Zhudai’s doings. Anyone with any brains could sense a confrontation coming between the Emperor and his pet warlock. General Ban Chao, the only possible stumbling block to Zhudai’s ambition, had been sent on a sudden posting to India. It dawned on the hapless servant that he wanted to be well out of Xijing before Zhudai’s plans came to fruition.

  As he pondered how he could arrange to have himself sent to Luoyang before the ri shi, his master appeared suddenly at his side. He jumped and almost made the fatal mistake of looking Zhudai in the eye. He knew it to be fatal, because the name of his masters’ previous secretary had been on an execution list three weeks before.

  “Bring me the prisoner,” Zhudai demanded.

  His servant glanced in confusion at the death sentence lying on his desk.

  “Not that one, you imbecile. The girl. Yajat’s captive. Bring her to me. I think I have a use for her alive, after all.” Without waiting, the warlock vanished back into his rooms, leaving the secretary to stare after him in fearful bewilderment.

  CHAPTER 1

  Phoenix gritted his teeth, wishing his horse came with shock absorbers. Every jarring hoof-beat lanced pain through his arm. Marcus had set the bone well enough but he really needed Jade’s healing powers. How was he supposed to swing a sword now?

  Pushing the thought aside, he stretched out one leg, easing a bruised butt cheek off the saddle. It didn’t help much. They had ridden non-stop since before dawn in an effort to reach Karla Caves. It was taking longer than he’d expected to make their way west. The road toward the coast seethed with refugees from the recently-ended war between the Kshatrapa Bhumaka and the true king, Guatamiputra Sakatarni. Their pathetic footslogging pace made for slow going on the narrow path through the mountains.

  Several times, Phoenix had to physically bite his lip to stop himself from shouting at the peasant-soldiers trudging homeward. He just didn’t have the patience to deal with this right now. They had to get to Karla Caves and the portal gate to China quickly, or any hope of rescuing Jade would be gone.

  For all he knew, she could have already lost her three remaining lives and be dead. A spasm of fear twisted his guts. His mind shied away from the thought but Phoenix forced himself to consider the possibility. If Jade had lost all her lives and was really dead then he was stuck here. Forever.

  He glanced around at the dramatic, tropical, humid landscape. A rugged mountain range rose before him, signalling an abrupt end to the enormous Deccan Plateau at his back. So different from the soft, cool greens of England: the heat of the sun; the dark greens of the forest; the heavy, cloying scents of the jungle; even the food wasn’t like Indian food at home in the twenty-first century.

  Suddenly, it seemed an incredibly long time since he’d seen his mother; his home; his own time. Memories of his old life were fading: being a thirteen year old at school, aikido training, playing computer games and even the harsh reality of his fathers’ death and his stepfather’s stupidity were all more like a dream. Reality was here in 80AD, India: wars, gods, magic, friends and foes. It wasn’t even that great a reality any more. What had been a brilliant adventure to start with now, frankly, sucked. He’d just about had enough.

  A wave of despair swept through him and he had to swallow hard to keep down a groan. He had come to rely on Jade in the last few weeks. She had been gone just one day and he felt her absence keenly. Everything seemed harder without her quick wits; magical abilities and commonsense. He even missed her pointless worrying. They had been unwillingly and unwittingly thrown together in this surreal game-world over three weeks ago. During their first few days here Phoenix had, in his carefree impatience to be adventuring, wished her away a dozen times or more. In the past day, since her kidnapping, he’d begged every god he knew, and he’d met several now, to bring her back. It hadn’t worked.

  After a full-scale war the day before and hardly any sleep since her abduction, Phoenix now ran on faint hope and sheer determination. He looked across at his grim-faced companions and realised they must be jus
t as weary; just as worried.

  Marcus, the battle-hardened son of a Roman Governor, looked older than his sixteen years. His dark, curling hair stuck to his forehead as the sun baked them all in its tropical heat. With soldier’s train alertness, his dark eyes swept the surrounds constantly; seeking danger. Glancing to his left, Phoenix saw Vasi, son of Guatamiputra, riding easily beside Brynn, the youngest of their group. Vasi was clearly tired but Brynn looked worse. The ten year old boy-thief from ancient Britain winced with every hoofbeat; his usually cheerful, thin face screwed into a bizarre cross between determination and pain. The pony tossed its head and Brynn’s eyes widened in alarm. He wasn’t a very good rider.

  Prince Vasi, a native of the area, looked the most comfortable in the afternoon heat. His brown skin barely glowed with sweat and he still moved effortlessly in the saddle. It was due to his father’s generosity and gratitude that they were on the road so quickly this morning. Vasi knew the way to Karla Caves and his father provided fresh horses and supplies. Even if they kept going at this slow pace, they should be at the caves before dark.

  That hope was dashed the very next moment. Vasi threw up a hand and pulled his mount to a halt. Behind, a servant, leading six spare horses, followed suit. Phoenix frowned and dragged back on the reins. Vasi swung down from his horse, leading it off the track, into the shade of an enormous fig tree. His servant followed.

  “What are you doing?” Phoenix demanded. “We don’t have time for this. We’re already a night and most of a day behind Jade. If we don’t reach the Caves soon, we may as well have climbed over the Himalayas into China to get to her.” He flung his good hand at the distant, purple mountains to the northeast.

  Vasi calmly sank into a cross-legged position on the ground and nodded to his man.

  “We need to eat and the horses need to rest. There is a stream over there. We will water them and move on when we are all recovered.”

  Phoenix slipped awkwardly off his horse, holding his broken right arm out so it wouldn’t be knocked. His foot caught in the stirrup and he had to hop a few times before it came loose. Brynn snickered, hiding his mouth with his hand. Phoenix glared at him.

  “You think this is funny?” He heard the angry edge to his own voice and snapped his jaw shut.

  Brynn sobered, staring back at him with solemn, dark eyes.

  “Sorry,” Phoenix muttered, turning away. Out of habit, his left hand rested on the hilt of his sword, Blódbál. Its berserker song of glory and death swelled in his head, trying to take over his thoughts and emotions; trying to turn him into the ultimate, amoral warrior. He snatched his hand away, shaken by the power of the song. His emotions were all over the place and the enchanted sword was trying to seize the opportunity to use him as a weapon against his enemies. He had to be careful. If he let it take over he would turn berserker – no longer able to tell enemies from friends. Right at the moment, though, he would have welcomed a few enemies to go berserk on. Inaction was driving him nuts.

  Sitting down with a thump, Phoenix dropped his head into his good hand and scrubbed fingers through sweaty hair. His right arm throbbed; the fingers fat and stiff. Sharp shafts of pain shot up into his shoulder, dragging at his resolve and strength. Sighing, he closed his eyes. Despair tightened like a band around his chest again. He pressed his lips together. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. Jade couldn’t have lost all her lives and have left him here alone. Surely, when he opened his eyes, she would be sitting right across from him, looking anxious, ready to fix his arm and tell him exactly what he had done wrong so he could argue with her. Half-hopeful, Phoenix opened his eyes. There, sitting across from him looking faintly concerned, was not her fair, green-eyed, Elven face but Marcus’ handsome, square-jawed one.

  “Gaaah!” Anger burst free and flooded his belly with fire. Phoenix sprang up. Marcus stood as well, laying a hand on his own sword, his expression watchful. His friend’s caution inflamed Phoenix’s mood further. He glared at the Roman, grabbed awkwardly at Blódbál and wrestled the magic sword from its sheath with his left hand.

  “Get out of my way, Marcus,” he warned. Sitting around was pointless. If Jade was stupid enough to get herself captured and Vasi wasn’t going to help then he would have to go find her, himself.

  Marcus eyed him, circling to stay between him and the horses. “What are you going to do?”

  “Go get that stupid girl on my own, since you lot are too pathetic to do it with me,” Phoenix growled. Blódbál’s music rose and fell in his head; a symphony eagerly urging him on, feeding his anger at Jade and turning it toward Marcus as the nearer target.

  “You can’t save her on your own,” Marcus reasoned. “You’re injured and exhausted. You wouldn’t be able to fight anyone at the moment and you know it.”

  His logic annoyed Phoenix further. Marcus was always calm. Faced with death and danger, he barely even blinked an eye. It was irritating. In fact, he decided, it was about time someone taught the arrogant Roman a thing or two.

  “Y’think, do you?” he sneered. “I can beat you any day.”

  Marcus slid his sword free, his eyes following Phoenix’s slightest movement. “Maybe, right-handed but left-handed? I doubt it.” His derisive chuckle inflamed Phoenix’s rage until it consumed his thoughts.

  “Marcus?” Brynn’s question was loaded with doubt.

  “Shut up,” the Roman gestured the boy back, “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that,” Phoenix mocked. “You’re always letting Jade do the thinking for you. What are you going to do now she’s not here? No-one to worship and slobber over now. She’s gone. She’s left us to fend for ourselves. She’s probably dead by now and I’m stuck here with you. That’s what people do. They leave when you need them. So why don’t you go, too, Marcus? I know you only came with us because of her,” Phoenix taunted, his mind filled with fury - anger at Jade for being stupid; anger at Marcus for turning against him. He would leave too, so what was the point in prolonging it? He wasn’t needed anyway. Phoenix didn’t need anyone.

  He lunged, stabbing with the tip of his sword. Marcus twisted aside but Phoenix had seen the flash of real fear in the Roman’s eyes and he exulted at it. Blódbál urged him on, flooding his mind with the desire to give in to the blood-rage. If he did, Blódbál promised, he would never be unhappy again; never be frightened; never be alone.

  Finally, tired of fighting it; tired of being scared and alone, Phoenix did what he had sworn to Thor and his friends he would not. He let go. Letting down his mental barriers against the sword, he felt its full power pour into his soul and rejoiced in the molten, mad energy it gave him.

  Now, his enemies would see his real power. The time had come to kill them all. Starting with this cocky little Roman in front of him. Phoenix bared his teeth in an animal growl and advanced on his friend, the red light of battle glowing in his eyes.

  The two antagonists prowled around each other. Phoenix was only vaguely aware that Vasi grabbed at Brynn as the boy took a half-step forward.

  He heard the prince mutter: “Not now,” as he backed away and dragged Brynn with him.

  “But they’ll kill each other,” Brynn’s protest sounded distant and muffled.

  “I don’t think so,” Vasi shook his head. “Phoenix is grieving for his lost friend. Anger is just one of the stages of grief. Beneath it, he knows Marcus is his friend.”

  Brynn shook himself free. “You don’t understand. Phoenix’s sword is magic. It feeds his anger. I’ve never seen him quite this bad before. I don’t think he’s in control anymore. I think the sword is.”

  Vasi frowned. “Then we must watch closely. If Phoenix looks like he is going to hurt Marcus, we will intervene. In the mean time, let him get it out of his system if he can.”

  Brynn crossed his arms mutinously but stayed put.

  For some reason, Brynn’s lack of faith in his ability to control Blódbál stoked the flame of fury in Phoenix even higher. The red mist of wrath n
arrowed his vision until all he could see was Marcus’ glittering sword dancing in front of him. What right did Brynn, Marcus or anyone else have to question him; to curtail him; to try and stop him? None. They had none. He was their leader. With Blódbál in his hand, he was invincible.

  Phoenix lunged again, his lips curling into a sneer of disdain. Marcus deftly turned the blade aside and danced out of reach. Phoenix went after him, slicing with a flurry of overhead blows from every angle. Marcus blocked them time and time again, metal clanging against metal in the dusty afternoon heat. Phoenix spun suddenly, dropping low and slicing at Marcus’ legs. The Roman leapt back, barely avoiding Blódbál’s razor edge. By the time his feet were on the ground again, Phoenix closed the gap between them, fury consuming all reason and thought of friendship. He flicked limp, dark hair out of his eyes, unaware of the feral expression that drew his mouth into a snarl and made him almost unrecognisable. He didn’t see Brynn shiver and glance fearfully at Marcus.

  The Roman boy was sweating, a frown furrowing his brow as he concentrated, barely keeping Phoenix’s furious sword-strokes from connecting. With the power of Blódbál fully unleashed, Phoenix’s disadvantage in fighting left-handed was all that kept Marcus alive. Phoenix’s exultation grew as he saw Marcus’ breath grow fast and ragged. His parries slowed and twice Blódbál’s tip skimmed close to his chest as he sidestepped to avoid a strike.

  Phoenix drew more energy from the sword and redoubled his efforts. His arm seemed to move of its own accord. The song of death blotted out the world. It was only a matter of time. Marcus only just managed to get his sword up in time to block the next vicious overhead blow. He couldn’t last much longer.

  Suddenly, Marcus seemed to lose his footing. He stumbled and fell onto one knee. A triumphant laugh escaped Phoenix’s stretched-thin lips. It didn’t sound like his voice but he didn’t care. He stepped closer and raised the bloodthirsty sword over his head to deliver the final blow.