The Last Dragon of the East

Chapter 5

5

C aptain Tian and I ride through the night, keeping to the main road. He has me on the saddle behind him, my wrists bound by a length of rope that he’s attached to his waist so I don’t make a run for it. It’s near pitch-black, save for the moonlight and the glimmer of stars across the sky. Captain Tian has a paper lantern balanced on the end of a stick, held just in front of his steed on a bracket attached to his saddle. We make good time at a consistent trot. The serpentine mountain pass that separates North from South slowly but surely approaches, growing larger and larger until the rocky formations loom overhead like giants.

At the foot of the mountain, I spot an encampment roughly five thousand men strong—only a fraction of the Imperial Army. The military base of Shéyǎn—Snake Eye, named for the way it sits at the head of the snaking mountain pass.

Canvas tents are arranged row upon row, sprawling out from the center of the camp, where a massive fire pit sits for warmth and light. There is a surprising amount of activity at this late hour. Soldiers are already dressed in full suits of armor, some busy sharpening their blades, while others kneel in quiet corners of the camp with their hands pressed together in prayer.

Captain Tian tugs on the reins, bidding his steed come to a halt. He removes the rope from around his middle before throwing a leg over to hop off the saddle. I jump down, too, though my landing lacks any semblance of grace. I grit my teeth together and groan. My thighs are chafed and sore.

The captain tugs at the knot locking my wrists together, freeing me after several long, uncomfortable hours. “With me,” he snaps.

He all but shoves me toward a makeshift forge near the edge of the encampment. It’s far larger than the rest of the structures, the protective canopy above it a deep red. Within is a treasure trove of armor and weaponry. I daresay I have never come face-to-face with this much gleaming metal.

A team of forgemasters flit about their workstation, all sporting a thick layer of sweat and grime on their haggard faces. They work with the utmost diligence, stoking the fire with a shovelful of fresh coal. They appear to be working on several blades at once, a few placed into the flames to soften their steel, while a handful of others hang just off to the side for sharpening. A nearby blacksmith is in the middle of quenching a red-hot blade in a bucket of cold water when he spots us.

“What do you want?” he snaps.

Captain Tian gives me a good push forward. “A new recruit. See to it that he’s fitted with a set of armor and a blade.”

I frown. “Is that not the armorer’s job?”

“Armorer’s dead,” the blacksmith grumbles, spitting onto the ground. “The buffoon tried to desert his post. You can see him, if you’d like. They have him strung up by his neck near the latrines.”

I swallow hard, unable to dislodge the sticky lump at the back of my throat. I make a note to ask fewer questions.

“Have him fitted and ready within the hour,” the captain says before turning on his heel to leave.

Without anywhere else to go, I remain rooted in place as the blacksmith trudges forward. He scrutinizes me, clearly unimpressed. “Tall, but scrawny,” he mutters to himself. “You’re a Xuě boy, yes?”

“That I am, sir.”

“Why do you smell like vomit?”

My mouth has gone dry. I don’t feel like answering. I haven’t stopped thinking about Doctor Qi’s gruesome execution since I left Jiaoshan.

The blacksmith harrumphs, stomping away toward a rack of lamellar armor. He grabs a set and all but throws it at me to catch. I’m no military expert, but I can tell that it was hastily made. Some of the plates don’t fit quite right, and the stitching is sloppy and rushed, at risk of falling apart if placed under too much strain. Upon closer inspection, I realize that sections of the breastplate are scuffed and scratched.

“This has been used before,” I point out.

“Waste not, want not,” he answers indifferently.

“What happened to its owner?”

“Trampled to death beneath his horse, the poor bastard.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, my stomach churning at the thought of wearing a dead man’s armor.

Sensing my unease, the blacksmith scoffs. “Would you rather go without?”

As with the emperor earlier, his question doesn’t require an answer.

I frown as I slip the breastplate on. The armor doesn’t sit quite right, just shy of too tight around the neck, but much too spacious around the belly. I’m also provided with a set of pauldrons bearing the sigil of the Imperial Family, along with boots that are a tad too small, resulting in an uncomfortable pinching of my toes.

The blacksmith holds out a finished sword, too. I take it awkwardly, holding my newly assigned weapon out to the side like a rake. I have no idea how to use the blasted thing, let alone draw it from its scabbard.

I take my leave stiffly, shifting uncomfortably beneath my repurposed uniform. I feel ridiculous, merely a child playing dress-up. The more I take in of the encampment, the more I realize I’m not the only one feeling uneasy. Most of these soldiers are no older than I, likely recruited from the northernmost territories—perhaps even the ice fields, where the convicts are banished. The youngest looks no older than four and ten. He should be home playing with his siblings, not with sharpened swords.

I find the captain not even a few feet away, speaking to a fellow army officer. Their exchange is clipped and hushed, as though they are plotting a conspiracy. The other officer leaves the moment I step forth.

“I wasn’t aware that the emperor’s task required my enlistment.”

“The army moves at dawn,” Captain Tian says sternly. “We’ll slip you past the border in the ensuing chaos.”

“The ensuing chaos?” I echo, dismayed.

“Our enemy awaits just on the other side of the mountain pass. Those bastards have been using this pinch point to mow us down.”

I look around, my unease growing by the second. “Is that why we’re all gathered here?”

“The more of us there are, the more likely we’ll force our way past those Southern bastards. Rushing them at first light increases our chances of success.”

I shudder, the visualization not lost on me—five thousand men barreling down through a funnel to launch an offensive on a waiting army. The fact that I’m to go with them is preposterous. I’m more likely to be trampled underfoot by my own countrymen than make it to the other side unscathed.

“Surely there has to be another way,” I insist, attempting to keep my voice level. I can’t very well carry out my task if I’m killed before I’m able to begin my search. “Why don’t we go around?”

“It’s too long a trek. At least two weeks’ journey. Heading straight through the pass will only take us a few hours.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Scared?” the captain asks with a smirk, every ounce self-righteous and overconfident.

“Of course. I’m a sane man.”

“I’ve been given express permission to spear you through, should you run. Just so you know.”

Setting my jaw, I weigh my options carefully, only to realize that I have none. I’m trapped in a powerful river current, at the mercy of its flow. My head is above water for now, but one wrong move will see me dragged under. If I try to escape and run home, I’ll be killed. If I march forward with the rest of the invasion, I have less than a razor-thin chance of survival, but at least there’s that.

Near the camp’s fire, people begin to gather, all of them kneeling before a man heavily clad in muted mulberry-stained robes. His mesmerizing headdress is what claims my attention, expertly crafted out of the long feathers of a silver pheasant. An Imperial shaman.

He has a bamboo calligraphy brush in hand, the fine hairs soaked through in red ink. As he recites an incantation in a dialect my ears fail to recognize, the shaman slowly works his way down the line, painting talismans directly onto the breastplates of the waiting soldiers. An apprentice follows closely behind, holding a clay bowl between his palms, thick plumes of smoke rising from it.

The shaman’s work is sloppy, to say the least. The characters meant to ward off evil and bring good luck are barely legible. Some of them are missing crucial strokes, rendering the talismans useless. The shaman does not stop to correct his work. There are too many soldiers to bless and not enough time before battle to do so.

Beside me, the captain makes no effort to join the line.

“Will you not ask for a blessing?” I question.

He scoffs. “The might of my sword will see me through.”

I shrug and kneel at the end of the line. I’ll take all the help I can get. Perhaps I will be one of the lucky ones with a working talisman charm.

The shaman finally makes his way to me, his brush hovering just above my armor. He doesn’t make a move. Instead, he leans forward and squints, regarding me with an intense focus.

“You…,” he mutters slowly, his teeth and tongue dyed completely black with charcoal. The shaman’s eyes glaze over as if he’s in a trance. “You reek of magic.”

Confusion swirls within my skull. Is he part bloodhound? He can smell magic? That’s most peculiar, though I suppose I was handling dragon scales.

“I do? How can you tell?” I ask him.

The shaman doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he throws a glance toward his apprentice, who stretches out his arms to present the bowl of what I now see are smoldering herbs and small animal parts. The foot of a chicken, the skeletal remains of a snake’s head, along with sprinkles of silver shavings. The shaman breathes in the fumes, a low, animalistic groan escaping him as tremors rack his body. His eyes cloud over, a thick, opaque gray washing over the dark brown of his irises. He no longer seems present, staring through me rather than at me.

“A broken son, a lover shunned,” the shaman rasps. “Three, now two… soon to be one.”

The little hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end. “Sir?”

Behind me, Captain Tian snorts. He grabs me forcefully by the scruff of my collar and yanks me to my feet. “Are you finished? We’re wasting precious time listening to this buffoon.”

The shaman glares as he lifts a long, bony finger and points at the captain. “A violent end you shall meet, your final breath drawn in the arms of His Red Majesty.”

Captain Tian huffs and rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous,” he grumbles before stomping away, dragging me along with one strong hand digging into my bicep.

My heart hammers. I can’t make sense of anything. I have no time to breathe, to process. As the captain drags me toward the mouth of the mountain pass, I catch a glimpse of the shaman one last time. He’s deep in his trance, kneeling down on the muddy ground. He bends at the hips in a full kowtow, muttering all sorts of nonsense under his breath.

I cannot imagine the toll those fumes must take on the human psyche.