Sign of the Dragon Read online

  Sign of the Dragon

  Alex Morgenstern

  Copyright © 2018 Alex Morgenstern

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Author's note

  The fictional nations and traditions depicted on this series are inspired by various historical cultures around the world. None is intended as a faithful representation of any nation or culture at any point in history.

  Chapter I - A Message from Beyond

  Alan of Vharzia dreamed that a spear pierced through his wife’s iron armour. Her blonde hair shielded her eyes, now dim and lifeless, while blood dripped down her mouth and chest, as the hopes and plans they built together broke into a thousand shards. He wished he had taken the spear instead.

  He awoke with a roar, his heart pounding, but around him he did not see fallen warriors, armoured knights and burnt roofs, nor did he hear the buzzing of arrows and the screams of the dying. He was not on the battlefield, but miles away from the Itruschian Empire, the deadliest enemy of his tribe. He looked around, trying to gain control of his breath. The wool panels of his movable yurt surrounded him, tightening and cooling the warm air from outside. His dragon armour hung from a wooden stand beside him, next to his sheathed dragon blade, metal tools and a pile of iron and gold for future projects. The movable furnace he used for his metal work stood next to the entrance.

  Alan sighed and prayed silently for the God of War to preserve his beloved wife Ileria. She was fighting in the west, campaigning against the greatest and cruellest empire the world had ever known.

  Steps drew closer, and a hand slid through the entrance of his tent, revealing a flash of sunlight. Jovus, his brother, peered through. His face was pale, contrasting against his brown beard, and he panted as if he had led a training drill in the mountains.

  “Alan. Your wife!” Jovus said in a haste. He stepped in and banged his head against the portable furnace. He grimaced in pain.

  “What’s all this? Why do you keep this here?” Jovus cried, kicking the furnace with his boot.

  “What did you say about my wife?” Alan stood up; a shiver running down his spine. “Did anything happen to her?”

  “She sent an urgent message from where she set up camp,” Jovus answered, rubbing his head, then brushing his long brown hair away from his face. “Come, the messenger girl is here. What’s her name?” He snapped his finger. “I don’t remember. Ask her before she returns to the chieftain’s camp.”

  Alan nodded and grabbed a long hemp tunic from the table, careful not to drop the blueprints and measurements for his future armour designs. He covered his tattooed torso and leaped barefoot through the yurt.

  When he stepped out, a blaze of sunlight pierced through the steppe, and he narrowed his eyes against the bright rays. A harsh summer wind blew through his dark blonde hair.

  “They’re down,” Jovus said and guided him through the yurts and small carriages.

  “Is she alright?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. By Ares, I can’t wait to join our great Chieftain and spill some Itruschian blood, it’s so exciting to get news from the front.”

  Alan remained silent, but his stomach turned inside him.

  There, next to the ashes of the previous night's bonfire, he saw a white horse and Ira, the tribe’s wartime messenger. Her face was pale, stained by dozens of freckles, raven black hair tangled like the sea, and lively blue eyes. Her purple hemp robe shook softly against the wind, embroidered with flowery patterns that ran from top to bottom and concealed the chain mail and trousers underneath. A recurved bow of bone and sinew hung from her back, and a quiver with interlaced spiral patterns from her waist. Aranus the Elder, the high priest of Ares stood next to her, wearing a long robe, golden and red, and a pointed crimson hat with embedded spirals of gold. His beard was as white as snow and reached down to his golden belt. He kept it in place with a brooch of bronze emblazoned with a solar sign.

  “Alan, Master Craftsman.” The messenger greeted Alan with a nod, her blue eyes were serene, and her tone was calm.

  “Miss Ira. What is this about? Do you have any news from General Ileria?” Alan asked, his heart pounding like a galloping horse.

  “Good day, Alan,” the high priest greeted Alan with a nod.

  “Hail, Aranus. Good morning to you.” Alan glanced at the priest, but swiftly turned toward the messenger. “Tell me what happened,” he urged.

  The young rider cleared her throat.

  “I have visited the hordes stationed in the west, on the hills surrounding the Imperial Capital. I received a message from your wife.”

  “Has she been wounded?” Alan asked, as the images of his dream raced through his mind, mixed with memories of the loss of his previous wife and child.

  “She did not say,” Ira stated sternly. “As a matter-of-fact, I did not see her in person.”

  “What do you mean you didn’t see her?”

  “She sent her second-in-command to report on her horde,” Ira replied. Alan studied her expression, calm, accustomed to duty, as it would be expected of her. Although Alan did not know her well, his wife Ileria did. Why would she not show her face to Ira? “The message was simple,” Ira continued. “She needs to talk to you immediately.”

  “Talk to me? What else did she say? Why is she calling me? Did she send a message to our Chieftain too?”

  “I inquired further but received no answer. I was told it concerned you greatly, but you and no one else.”

  Alan scratched his short beard.

  “Is that all you know? No one said anything about her health? Not even her second-in-command?”

  “I would tell you if they had. Her second-in-command begged for the message to reach you. And about the others in her horde, it seems as if they have taken a vow of silence, and no one speaks about her.”

  Jovus shook his head next to them.

  “All that urgency for a message that not even you know,” he said impatiently. “Is it a joke?”

  “No,” Alan said. “Ileria would not joke like that. Besides, I have a good reason to fear for her safety.”

  “She is fighting in a war. How should you feel about that?” Jovus added with a hint of sarcasm.

  Alan took a deep breath. “I just saw her die in my dreams,” he admitted.

  “Again?” The priest muttered, narrowing his eyes.

  Alan nodded. “Yes. I fear I am seeing visions of the future. Again.”

  Alan looked down through the yurts and the dragon flags that fluttered violently under the north wind. The horses pastured nearby, on the side of the camp, guarded by a portable fence that surrounded the tents. And beyond, the great steppe that hid the ancient forests, and the White Mountains that shielded the Imperial Capital.

  He could not waste time.

  Alan clenched his teeth, then turned his back and walked up toward his tent.

  “Alan, where are you going?” Jovus’ coarse voice echoed behind his back.

  “To find my wife.”

  “Brother, you cannot leave our position like this!” Jovus yelled.

  “I must,” Alan said, glancing back at him. “My work here is done. Besides, we are all free men, aren’t we? The Chieftain hasn’t ordered any more armours, anyway, there’s little timber here to start enough fire if they want me to make more weapons. I will take a break and go see her.”

  “But brother...”

  “I must.”

  Alan rushed back into his tent and dusted off his dragon armour. He donne
d the leather trousers and the boots lined with hemp fabric; their surface covered with embroidered sacred animals. He stared at the mirror that hung from a pole in his tent. He’d forged the frame for Ileria, in bronze. On the borders, he’d made bronze sunflowers and heavenly birds. His hands, once again, begged him to create something beautiful, not deadly. Something that reminded him of her, something to conjure his love and embed it in metal.

  His reflection revealed his muscular torso and the tattoos on his chest. The rams of Ares, ever fighting, never giving up. Like Ileria.

  He covered his back, then wore the breastplate he had designed and forged in the wake of the coming battle, the armour that marked the Dragon Knights. Its small metal plates resembling serpentine scales shone dully.

  He prepared his saddle, grabbed his dragon helmet and held it against his bosom; the red crest spread from the spike on top, like a firebird’s plume. The visor was shaped like a dragon’s mouth, with threatening fangs above and on the lower cheek guards, and last, he attached the dragon blade to his waist, the greatest weapon he had forged, curved, swift and durable, created for the day that would soon arrive, where they would raid the Eternal Capital and avenge their fallen and innocent.

  His horse Targitaos pastured in the open field with the others. When it saw Alan, it approached with its ears forward in expectation. It was sturdy and well fed, brown except for the diamond shaped white spot between the eyes. It neighed next to him, and Alan caressed its brown mane.

  Alan noticed his brother leaning against the portable fence, with his arms crossed and messy brown hair rumpled by the wind. He straightened and approached him.

  “Brother. You don’t have to do this,” Jovus said. “We need all our forces for the coming battle. And I need you by my side.” Jovus placed a hand on Alan’s shoulder.

  “Jovus,” Alan said with a sigh. “I can go to my wife and come back twice before we reach the Capital. Our victory is imminent. You don’t need me around.”

  Jovus took a deep breath. He glanced at him with piercing grey eyes.

  “Brother, we are Dragon Knights,” Jovus insisted, tensing his fists. “A warrior class bound to duty and service to our great Chieftain. You cannot leave now. I need my older brother to ride with me, and we will always need your counsel in repairing and maintaining our armours. And, what if Chieftain sends a message to demand for more weapons? The production will fall apart without you. Your apprentices are useless, let me say.”

  Alan shook his head, putting the mat above his horse’s back. Then he gently placed the saddle and arranged its position.

  “You do not need me for that. Brother. I must see her. I will not lose all that I have. Again.”

  “All that you have? Alan. Your wife is a general. She fights in the front. You should have thought of that before letting her go to war.”

  Alan took a deep breath.

  “Jovus, if you had seen your wife and children die before your eyes... If you had seen the one you love crushed and humiliated by your enemy, even in a dream, you would move your sorry arse and ride to the ends of the earth.”

  “Then why did you even let her go? I’m asking you.” He pointed his tanned finger at Alan. “She’s a soldier. She has got to fight.”

  “Because she is free. A Gadalian must be free. Nothing can constrain us.”

  Jovus sighed.

  “You are confused again, brother. Go and see Aranus before you do anything foolish. He will make you come to your senses.”

  Alan sighed. He was determined to go, but the Priest of Ares could see the things of the gods, he could confirm whether his vision had been an omen or an illusion, and more importantly, if she was in good health. His heart pounded inside, yearning to know.

  “I hope his words pull you back to your duties. He’s at the shrine. It’s the season of the Goddess Venus. The spirits have delivered the Child and they’re about to start the ritual. Go see him before it gets late,” Jovus instructed, turning his back on his brother, and walking down toward the camp.

  Alan looked at the yurts below and pressed his head against his horse’s forehead.

  “We have a long journey ahead, old friend,” he said, petting its sturdy neck. “I’ll be back soon, eat all the grass you need, for our journey will be long.”

  “Talking to your horse again?” Jovus’ voice echoed behind him. “I’d get really worried if you tell me he’s talking back to you.”

  Alan let out a small laugh. That was the Jovus he knew. He would miss him.

  Alan walked through the yurts to the centre of the camp, a makeshift shrine next to a mound of dark rocks. A stone menhir had been erected in its midst. Aranus stood on the side next to a high cauldron of burning seeds supported on an iron frame. A small multitude had gathered, including Ira, a few unarmed soldiers and General Ulmas, the one in charge of that camp.

  When he approached with the clanking armour, a few of them turned with curious glances, then returned their attention to the ceremony that was soon to take place.

  Aranus faced him. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting, old friend.”

  “Not at all. A few minutes to the moment when the sun will touch the horizon. Then it shall begin.”

  Alan looked straight at the priest. Aranus nodded and quietly left the multitude to walk with Alan to a corner.

  “Elder,” Alan said to him, almost in a whisper. “I’m determined to go. But I need your counsel.”

  “Tell me what you wish to know, and I will try to help.”

  “I saw her die in my dreams,” Alan began, and the words felt like arrows in his heart. “Like I saw Karana and Alekos years ago. Before even seeing them die with my own eyes. I love Ileria, and I refuse to let her die as well. I ask you whether I should worry now, and what can I do to prevent her death. It burns me from within to know how she is.”

  The priest breathed slowly, as if searching for the adequate words. Then, he spoke, his voice solemn and soft.

  “This isn’t your last chance to have a home and a family, by the way. You’re a strong man; you have fought your way through a hard life and can do so again. Besides, nothing is eternal on this earth.”

  Alan took a deep breath. He knew Aranus had lost his own family and seemed to have given up. But no one in the world could come close to Ileria. She was unique in character, and her bravery and wit were incomparable. Sharing so many moments and hardships together had brought them close. Those seven months they’d been apart, he had thought of her every day.

  “Elder, give me a sign,” he said.

  The Elder faced the smoking cauldron next to the menhir. The hot coals beneath seemed to conceal a message through their burning ashes and thick smoke. He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to read them. Then, he sighed and shook his head.

  “When the Child of Venus is delivered, Ira will take it to our Chieftain Skapasis. He is at the gates of Itruschia, campaigning against their legions. As he is carrying a peltast division with him, he cannot move too quickly. You can journey with Ira; she knows the fastest passageways. Then, you may ask the Oracle of Venus.”

  “I do not need to go with Ira,” Alan said. “I can go on my own.”

  “Do you want to see her as soon as possible? She knows the quickest path. And do you want to know how she’s doing before seeing her? Talk to the Oracle. That’s your chance.”

  “And can you not tell me? You are a seer as well.”

  Aranus frowned, accentuating the wrinkles in his tanned skin.

  “To tell you the truth, my second sight has been blocked for a year. I cannot see visions and omens, and I struggle to read the signs in the fire. Besides, the Oracle’s sight is clearer and more vivid, although it takes a heavy toll on him. Venus is better than Ares when it comes to giving visions and light.”

  “But why can you not see? Is Ares silent? Is he displeased with our battles and valour?”

  “He is indee
d pleased,” the old priest said, his green eyes were watery. “He has granted us victories many. But I fear there is something off with my spirit.”

  “Your spirit?” Alan raised an eyebrow.

  And then, Alan understood. Aranus’ family had been torn away from him in that cruel war, especially after his grandson was born and was taken to the capital with his father, a Centurion in the Itruschian army, and now a sworn enemy of his Gadalian tribe. That fate could take a toll even on a man with the power of the second sight.

  “I say you go look for your wife. And do what I told you. Talk to the Oracle,” the priest continued.

  “Thus, I must go.”

  In the meantime, voluntaries brought the items for the ritual of the Delivery. A wooden table with arcane markings was erected in front of the menhir, and three men marched through the crown carrying bronze shovels on their shoulders.

  The ritual started with the sound of a gong and a choir of throat singers. The priestess’ assistants dug a wide hole where something had been buried the previous year. It had been covered in red fabric, and Alan could see wide antlers piercing through it. The assistant slid into the hole through the black earth, grabbed the antlers, and pulled the object up the slope, revealing a deer carcass. Its skin had been preserved in red mercury and did not smell. When it had reached the upper part, one of them opened the deer’s mummified belly with a ceremonial knife and pushed his hand inside. The seed had been reborn. He extracted it, revealing a black fungus. It was round, but the shape inside was slightly reminiscent of a human baby, coiled like a crescent.

  He carried it lifting it in his hand above his head, and placed it on the wooden table, where a woman dressed in yellow, with long bronze locks flowing down to her buttocks, wrapped it in hemp fabric.

  “Oh, Venus Agrimpasa, mother eternal!” the priestess cried. “We have come back to this location and see that you have delivered as promised. We thank thee for this gift.”

  The woman carefully grabbed the fungus with copper pincers and placed it on an elaborate golden vase, with holders that resembled ram horns.