The Diamond Dragon (Kip Keene Book 4) (12 page)

Strike threw up as the rope caught her at the bottom of the drop. Keene looked on with a bemused grin. It’d been like this for the past hour. Stop and go free falls coupled with a brutal climb down the mountain.

Alessia had insisted it was the fastest route to the valley. She had never claimed, however, that it was the most pleasant.

Strike slashed herself loose with a long combat knife, tumbling into a heap. Keene offered a hand.

“I’ll be…fine,” Strike said. “Just let me catch my breath.”

Keene shrugged and continued walking up the path. Hopefully there would be no more rope rides. Keene rubbed the feeling back into his chapped fingers. The tips were blistered, blood running from the peeling cuticles. Next time he came to Shambhala, he’d have to pack a pair of climbing gloves.

At least Martin Redbeard’s spare boots fit just fine.

Alessia held up two fingers and Keene stopped. She pointed towards her eyes, then at the horizon. Keene peered over the short woman and saw that the terrain ahead didn’t require boots. In fact, it could be traversed with sandals. He edged closer to Alessia, who was scanning the end of the pass with a watchful eye.

The border between the two lands was a chaotic blend of opposites. Earthy, humid soil mixed with the crisp, sharp wind. Errant snowflakes flipped end over end through the air, only to melt upon impact with the grass. Keene stared further ahead, into the valley proper, at the rows of irrigated crops and lush bushes. Houses dotted the serene landscape. Many were falling into disrepair, no doubt due to the estate in the distance, which overlooked everything.

It wasn’t the fact that the mansion was perched on a slight incline that made it prominent. Instead, it was the sheer sprawling size of Cladius’ estate that drew Keene’s attention. Although hundreds of acres stretched out before it, the vast complex seemed far larger than everything in Shambhala—even the Himalayas towering above.

Cladius’ presence loomed over everything, a shroud over the pristine landscape.

The estate was a strange amalgamation of Roman design coupled with the realities of the valley. Without stone, the entire building had been crafted from gorgeous oak slabs, the colonnade at its front gleaming.

“Took over a hundred years to build that place,” Alessia said. She notched an arrow on her bowstring and peered over the valley. They were only a couple hundred feet above the ground. “That’s where he’ll be.”

“We have nine hours,” Keene said. “How many miles is the estate?”

“About an hour’s walk,” Alessia said. “But we cannot be seen.” She gave him a stern look.

“Don’t look at me.”

“You’re like an elephant trampling a herd of baby elephants.”

“Maybe you have me confused with her,” Keene said. He pointed at Strike, trying to deflect the blame.

“Your blonde friend is nimble. You are not.”

“You could hurt a guy’s feelings like that, you know.”

Alessia began walking forward, down into the dirt path. “You do not understand everything, Kip Keene.”

“I’d be the first to agree.”

“There are those who live in Shambhala who have become loyal to the Centurions. They act as spies, alerting the invaders to the presence of the resistance in exchange for small favors and worthless titles.”

“They haven’t caught you yet,” Keene said.

“Only because you weren’t here.” Alessia let the still-drawn bow slacken. A muffled crack came from the jungle. She disappeared into the brush as if she were wearing camouflage. Keene hurried after her, but found himself surrounded by grass and trees.

Then he heard a hushed voice, speaking in a language he didn’t understand. He followed the trail, his neural implants adapting to the foreign tongue, identifying it as Nepali. Keene almost tripped over Alessia and her prey.

“Watch it, clumsy one,” she said with a snarling voice. “They have found you already.” She pressed her soft boot against something. Hidden in the grass was a prone man, almost completely still and invisible—aside from the whites of his eyes.

He gave a small jerk and moan. Alessia jabbed an arrow head glistening with blood at his hidden face.

“What has Cladius done with my father?”

The man mumbled and spit weakly. This was apparently the wrong answer, because Alessia took the arrowhead and plunged it into his thigh. Keene jumped back.

“It is the only way to survive under the rule of Cladius,” Alessia said, as if sensing Keene’s resignation. “Speak!” Keene watched as small spurts of blood stained the perfect grass.

The man whispered in a hoarse voice, “There’s a banquet at the estate tonight. A celebration.” Keene’s neural implants allowed him to fluently understand the foreign words.

“For what?”

“He’ll kill me.”

“You’re already dead,” Alessia said, almost soothing. “But you still have two choices.”

“I won’t tell you, demon-woman—” A sharp cry cut off his insult, the arrowhead thrust even deeper into his thigh. Alessia released the pressure, only to stamp her boot hard enough against the man’s shoulder to crack the blade.

“The first way is you die well.” She took a small pouch from her pocket and dangled the leather in front of the man’s nose. His eyes grew wide with recognition and a small hint of relief. “The second is the road upon which we’re travelling.”

“What’d I miss,” Strike said, finally catching up. “Oh, shit.”

“It’s a celebration,” the man whispered, his voice trembling with fear, “for finally eliminating both of you.” Then he started laughing uncontrollably, like he’d broken completely with reality. “Your father’s already dead, demon-woman.”

Alessia dove on him, hands at his throat. The man’s eyes bulged out and turned red, then rolled into the back of his head after a sickening snap. She shook the body again and then fell backwards on the ground, like she’d just exited a trance.

Keene blinked and gave Strike a look. She returned it, eyes wide.

“We’re losing time,” Alessia said, wiping her hands on her pants. “Let’s go.”

“He could be lying,” Keene said.

“Dead men don’t tell lies,” Alessia said. “I’ve known many.”

“So where do we go now?” Keene said. He offered a hand to Alessia, but she got up by herself. “The temple?”

“We meet with the resistance,” Alessia said. “And we crush this scourge for good.”

The journey through the jungle and the edges of the fields continued in absolute silence, the only sound the crunch of Keene’s heavy step and the faintest of sobs far up ahead, from where Alessia led the way.

Keene coughed and covered his mouth with his shirttail. Torchlight flickered along the cave walls, the flaming pitch emitting a foul smoke. The density of the gray fog reminded him of the Chinese opium den. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the shadowy light.

“If we ventilated, it would tip off Cladius,” Alessia said. It wasn’t an apology, but an explanation. Apparently Keene wasn’t the only one made uncomfortable by the air quality. “Discomfort and survival are often linked.”

Strike tapped on Keene’s shoulder.

“Clock’s ticking here, Captain Keene,” she said in a low murmur.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Keene slowed his pace down to allow Alessia to get a little further ahead. “We don’t know how to even reach the Diamond Dragon.”

“Ask around in the village.”

“Kind of hard to tell who’s our friend and who’s not.”

“That girl isn’t our friend,” Strike said. “She’s drunk on vengeance.”

Alessia waited up ahead, her foot kicking against the dirt wall. The tight tunnel forked in two directions. One was unlit. Keene peered into the black, trying to figure out where it led.

“This way,” Alessia said. She tugged on the collar of his shirt, pulling him towards the light. “Only a few hundred more meters.”

“How’d you get all the dirt out?”

“Slowly,” Alessia said. The weight in her voice suggested that it took years—decades, even. Keene ducked beneath a short overhang, entering a slightly wider and taller alcove. The four members of the resistance inside the tight quarters glanced at the newcomers with suspicious and probing eyes.

Keene nodded at the men sitting on the ground, but they didn’t return his greeting. On a whiteboard hanging next to a strip of dangling LED lights, the apparent leader stood scribbling furiously.

“Did you bring it,” he said without turning around. He had a slight accent, but it added a hint of flavor and richness to his voice, instead of making his English more difficult to understand. He finished his work with a cursive flourish and turned around.

“I brought you something else, too,” Alessia said. She leaned forward, like she was about to kiss him. Was she going to kiss him? Keene couldn’t tell, because the man stepped past, brushing her aside to get a better look at Keene. He didn’t even bother to reach for the leather bag.

The same leather bag she had dangled over the man in the jungle. What was inside?

“You brought an outsider here?”

Keene immediately became aware that he and Strike were heavily outnumbered in a small, tight space that only his new associates were familiar with. The men on the ground hadn’t moved, but the stiffness in their shoulders and glossy look in their eyes suggested they were ready to pounce.

All eyes, figuratively speaking, were on Keene. And all their hands would be at his throat if he couldn’t convince their esteemed leader that he wasn’t the bad sort of
outsider
. Given the track record of outsiders coming to Shambhala, that seemed like a long shot.

“Please, Prashant,” Alessia said, and nudged the man with the bag. He snatched it with an uninterested sort of anger, averting his eyes from Keene for only a second to check the contents.

“The berries are to be kept secret.”

“He doesn’t know what the berries do.” Alessia brushed the man’s long black hair with her finger and patted his cheek. Prashant didn’t back away this time, but his tense arms shook slightly. Keene considered taking a step backwards, in case the man was going to throw a punch.

“But still, he is a stranger. And on this, this is the most important day in our history. The day of the prophecy.”

“About that,” Keene said. “I came to help you all out of your jam. Considering, well, it’s been a couple thousand years and you’re not doing too great.”

“We have a plan,” Prashant said in a sharp tone. He gripped the bag tight. “And it does not involve you. Or your silly tassels.”

Keene looked down at the rope hanging from his belt. He’d taken it from Alessia’s cabin. “This might come in handy.”

“We need a man who fights with knives and his hands. Not an outsider who pretends to know our customs, our lands, our tactics.”

“Have it your way,” Keene said. “I’ll be on my way to the temple, then, if someone can just point the way.”

“You will never survive.”

“You’d be surprised at what I’ve survived,” Keene said. He stood taller and waited. Worst came to worst, he’d bash his knee into the closest guy’s face. Strike would take the other man with that combat knife Alessia had given her. From there, it’d be tricky.

And that wouldn’t get them closer to the temple, or stopping this prophecy from becoming reality.

Keene loosened his shoulders and flashed what he hoped was an easy smile.

No blows came. Instead, the two men studied each other. Keene could understand why Alessia had fallen hard for this particular resistance leader—Prashant was incredibly handsome, his features well-defined. His style impeccable, down to the well-trimmed black beard. While the other members of the rebels were in somewhat rough straits—as might be expected—Prashant had an air of imperial confidence.

It was no wonder he was leader of this resistance.

“He looks strong,” Prashant finally said after a few minutes of awkward silence.

“Thanks,” Keene said. “Been hitting the gym.”

“He’s here to help,” Alessia said. “I swear.” She tugged at Prashant’s tunic like a little girl begging to go to the zoo.

“And the woman?” Prashant nodded towards Strike, who was leaning against the narrow entrance to the room. “Who is she?”

“The brains and the brawn,” Strike said. “The whole package.”

Prashant didn’t laugh or answer. He turned his attention back to Keene.

“If he can answer one question, then he stays,” Prashant said. He pushed Alessia slightly aside and stepped forward so that he and Keene were but a foot apart. He raised one eyebrow and looked Keene up and down.

“See anything you like?”

“If you answer wrong, however…” Prashant said with a little sour grin. “Well, you look like a man of the world, do you not?”

“That the question?”

“No,” Prashant said. He shook out the sleeve to his tunic and checked his watch. “Time is of the essence. I will be expected to attend to my duties shortly. A celebration is in store, apparently.”

“Great. I like hanging with her better, anyway.” Keene saw the man’s dark skin flush, Prashant’s eyes flaring with the hint of a quick temper. It must’ve been rare—at least down in the caves—that people made such comments to him.