Jason Hightman - The Saint of Dragons - Samurai

For my family

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One: The Heat of Battle

Chapter Two: Fields of Fire

Chapter Three: Of Serpents and Samurai

Chapter Four: The Dragonhunter’s Home Life

Chapter Five: A Home Life Destroyed

Chapter Six: How a Dragon Tracks its Prey

Chapter Seven: Hunting a Master of Dragons

Chapter Eight: The Ice Dragon

Chapter Nine: A Loneliness of a Great Ship

Chapter Ten: The Tiger Dragon

Chapter Eleven: Showdown at Sea

Chapter Twelve: The Contents of One Abandoned Dragon Ship

Chapter Thirteen: The Unknown St George

Chapter Fourteen: The Dragon of Japan

Chapter Fifteen: How the Other Half Lives

Chapter Sixteen: Culture Clash

Chapter Seventeen: A Traveller to the Orient

Chapter Eighteen: Light Without Heat

Chapter Nineteen: Heat Without Light

Chapter Twenty: Never go to Tokyo Without a Sword

Chapter Twenty-one: Beware of Falling Serpents

Chapter Twenty-two: The Doctor is Out

Chapter Twenty-three: Bullets of a Bullet Train

Chapter Twenty-four: Tricks of the Trade

Chapter Twenty-five: Fire that can Hide

Chapter Twenty-six: Where Tigers Lurk

Chapter Twenty-seven: A Tiger’s Eyes

Chapter Twenty-eight: City of a Billion Wonders

Chapter Twenth-nine: Secrets of Bombay

Chapter Thirty: Cornered Beast

Chapter Thirty-one: Enemies and Allies

Chapter Thirty-two: Where There’s Smoke

Chapter Thirty-three: No Suicide Missions

Chapter Thirty-four: Dragon Trapping

Chapter Thirty-five: Chamber of Horrors

Chapter Thirty-six: The Way a Fire Dies

Chapter Thirty-seven: Small Sacrifices

Epilogue: The Dying Embers of the Day

Keep Reading

Acknowledgments

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

There is only one thing you can count on with Evil.

Evil will do things you never counted on.

Simon St George hated that fact as much as he detested the African sun. The heat in Kenya was unbearable and the shadows the sun cast on the trail were hatefully dark, making it difficult to see if a serpent was ready to leap out of the tall grasses.

And they were hunting serpent. The possibility of a fiery death was always with him, and Simon found it sickening rather than exciting. His father was quite the opposite. Riding tall in the saddle ahead, Aldric St George steered his horse with a stern energy, a quiet thrill that a fight could come at any moment.

Aldric insisted on them both going on horseback for the ease of movement over the rough terrain, but looking back jealously at the car in his wake, Simon cursed his father’s old-fashioned ways and yearned for air conditioning.

Behind him, the battered Jeep spat rocks from its wheels, slowly rolling through the ragged country – a neglected dirt road amid long yellow grasses. Beside the worried Kenyan driver sat Alaythia Moore, the beautiful New York artist who lately looked a bit awestruck by the wilds of Africa.

Simon squinted back at her, the dirt on the windows making her nothing but a pretty shadow. He rode up alongside his father. “You think she’d rather be out here with us?”

Aldric focused his eyes on the trail. “Simon, keep your mind on the task at hand.”

“We’re miles from the African dragons,” said Simon. “We still have to get past the next two villages. I just thought she might be lonely in there.”

“It’s hot in the sun. Why the devil would she want to be out here?”

“For the company,” said Simon unhappily. Unless he was lecturing him, his British father was never much good at conversation. Simon wondered how Aldric and Alaythia spent their time alone. He figured they must always be planning strategy, going over the old scrolls and Books of Saint George, learning the Serpentine language better or designing new weaponry. Alaythia’s skills as a magician had grown tremendously over the past few months.

Simon turned as the Jeep pulled around them and Alaythia looked out. “You have to be sick of the sun by now,” she said to Aldric. “Why don’t you tether the horses to the back and get some shade in the Jeep?”

Aldric smiled at her. “You mean step into the modern world?”

“Yes,” she said with exasperation. “You should’ve left the horses back at the ship.”

Alaythia, Simon thought, had just a touch of what he now recognised as New York attitude, with the slight hint of expectation that rich people carry around which she had yet to completely lose. (Her grandmother had left her a fair amount of money from a Manhattan property fortune, which had soon dwindled away on bad investments and charity donations.) She leaned out more, her beaded necklace clanging on the Jeep’s door. “Come on,” she prompted again. “Quit being the angry warrior and take a break in here.”

“We’ll see what you say when that jalopy gets a flat tyre or the transmission goes,” said Aldric. “We do things the St George way. We’re not going to drop traditions that have been handed down for centuries.”

Simon watched the two of them, surprised to see his father looking relaxed for a moment. That must have been the fifth time he’d smiled in the past two days – a record. Alaythia could bring that out in anyone , he thought.

“We’re coming up on the next village,” she said.

“This isn’t the way I remember it,” said the African driver and translator, as he slowed down and let the horses pass, staring at the settlement. “There should be more people out. It was a busy little place …”

Aldric looked alarmed as they neared the town, a sorry set of flat, boxy buildings in faded colours. A very old Ford sat in the high grass, ruined by time and hard rains, proof of Aldric’s claim that this was no place for motorcars.

And then beyond the junked car, a human skeleton lay in the grass.

“Halt,” Aldric said to his horse, Valsephany.

Simon stopped behind him, having a bit more difficulty with Norayiss, his own stallion.

The skeleton was clean and white, left out in the sun for a long time. Flies scarcely bothered with it. Simon noted with some disgust that an arm had been lost, most likely taken by scavengers, jackals perhaps. He’d seen the rot of death before, but hadn’t quite got used to it.

The skull gleamed, a horror made ordinary by the afternoon sun.

“What does it mean?” he asked his father.

“I’m not sure,” Aldric answered.

Aldric pulled a crossbow closer to him in the saddle, as did Simon. Alaythia had a rifle, its wooden stock covered in runic symbols. She held it closer, leaning out of the Jeep as the driver reluctantly drove it forward.

More death greeted them. Skeletons lined the twisting road, looking as if the people had fallen there in some attempt to escape the tiny town and no one had bothered to bury them. It was a strange sight and Simon felt queasy.

The path to the village became yet more riddled with skeletons and bones, and the horses’ hooves crunched over them as it was impossible to get round them. Large boulders sat on each side of the road and Simon noted with alarm that one of the huge rocks was smeared with blood.

Blood?

Two young boys ran towards the St Georges as they arrived. They were shouting something, terror in their eyes.

“Disease,” said the translator from the Jeep. “They’re yelling about disease. It is some terrible death let loose here.”

“What kind of disease?” Simon asked, suddenly wanting to turn and ride away.

“They don’t know,” said the translator. “Many diseases in Africa. This one works fast, they say. Many days at work. Many people dead. Many dying.”