The Call of the Thunder Dragon (58 page)

“No Colonel, but I think he is
telling the truth.”

The Colonel's face was firm and
unmoved, he paused then brushed aside the Captain. “We’ll walk from
here. Tell that beggar to wait with the horses. I don’t know if
we’ll stay long yet or not. We’ll make a plan after we’ve met this
little Lord!”

The Captain told Keiko the
co-pilot to stay with the guide. To watch the horses in case, they
were needed and then turned to hurry after Haga-Jin striding
towards the fort.

Chapter Thirteen – The House of the Ox in the Land of
Thunder

To describe Lord Lang Druk as a
big man was an understatement, he was a mountain. Broader than the
doors and taller than the beds were long. He wore an enormous
handmade coat, which could have served as a bedspread for an entire
family. The thick woollen coat was a traditional red and black
check; with the white cuffs folding back. Across his chest and over
his shoulders he wore a criss-cross mat of made from bolts of silk
ribbons. White, green, red and orange; simply interwoven on his
chest, then tied behind at this waist. The colors matched the woven
ribbons around his huge black conical iron helmet. His felt boots
were big enough to hold a child. He wore no mask, his eyebrows were
thick and hairy like scrubbing brushes. His face was covered with a
black beard that spread out over his chest like a bear skin. When
he scowled, his teeth showed yellow between his curling lips. The
only thing missing from the demonic image was a battleaxe or
blood-stained hammer.

“Get out!” Lang called. “I said
get out! You don’t need my help! You helpless fools! Just get on
with the work! If you stop for every little thing, you’ll never get
the work done! You are a skilled and capable carpenter! I know
nothing! Now get out!”

Lang’s below rebounded around the
hall. The terrified carpenter bowed and left. The carpenter had
seen a change since Lang’s daughter had gone missing. The man had
hardened. Long ago before Lang had married or had children, there
had been stories of wild fights and strong retaliation to any wrong
or word against him. He was still known for his demonic appearance
as much for his tempestuous potency.

Lang turned to the woman at his
side. Almost in a whisper, he spoke quietly to her. “Oh, why do
they bother me so? All this fawning tires me out!”

“Father, he just wants to get
approval before he commits to the work.”

Lang sat rubbing his temples.

“His grandfather rebuilt half
this place without my permission! He can do it as well, if not
better!” Lang’s voice rose again. “That’s his talent. There's no
one like him! I’ll not hold him back!”

“He is concerned about the cost
of the repairs for you! Not the merit of the design. We all know
that you are deeply in debt since Jampa fled with the family’s
fortune.”

“Don’t remind me of that girl!
It’ll be years before there are horses enough to sell, or trees to
cut. Who knows if next summer will bring decent harvest! But the
tower must be maintained!”

The door abruptly flung open.

“Now who in
Arbuda
⁶⁴
is this supposed to
be?!” Lang barked.

Colonel Haga-Jin walked in from
the biting cold, the rest of the party following, hurrying to catch
up. The two paratroopers and Captain Soujiro, all of them in
uniform. The troopers flanking the colonel automatically, standing
either side rifles ready. Captain Soujiro stood by the door.

The colonel stared at the monster
on the raised seat. His words stuck in his mouth. He couldn’t speak
or find his voice. He tried repeatedly to swallow, feeling almost
feeble as he focused on his effort to clear his throat.

Lord Lang Druk regarded them
offhandedly, leaning on his elbow, against the side of his chair.
He waited, indifferent to the stares or the tedious pause of
strangers when they first saw his massive bulk. He nudged his iron
helmet straight with an impatient knock.

“Who are you?” He boomed as he
stood, stepping towards the colonel, the floor creaking, actually
bending under his weight.

The colonel felt the floor move
as the Lang stood. The colonel suddenly felt a surge of confidence.
The sight of the monster gave him one thought; Falstaff would pay
twice over. He coughed trying to find his voice. “Zam!”

Lang stopped still, leaning
forward frowning, so his bushy eyebrows came together under a
frightening notch, like a gash in a piece of timber on his
forehead. “Hey! What did you say?”

“Zam,” The colonel repeated, then
with gulp he spoke in Chinese hoping the man would understand. “We
come with news of Zam. I believe she is your daughter?”

Lang stretched himself up to his
full height, a smile flickered across his lips. His eyes
blazed.

“Zam? Where is that foolish girl?
What has she done now?”

“She is currently in the company
of a fugitive from China. He is a bandit and thief. He is coming
here with Zam. We believe he intends to ask a ransom for her
life!”

Land Druk took one look at the
colonel and laughed loudly slapping his knee.

“Does this mean that you all take
me to be a fool!” Lang turned stomping back to his chair. “First my
lifelong friend, the Champlain leaves, stealing the household’s
wealth with him! Then I get news that my precious third daughter
has up and disappeared! Now you are telling me some brigand is
bringing her back?” His tone changed from absurdity to anger.

“And I don’t have a single piece
of gold with which to pay this ransom!” He sat down slowly. The
chair creaked as he rocked back and forth on the edge of his chair.
“What am I to do!”

The mighty man looked genuinely
pained. “I cannot fight this brigand! I am now a man of peace and
law!”

The Colonel stepped forward and
took a deep breath.

“I believe we will be able to
help. Our intelligence tells us that this bandit was travelling
with a large cache of gold. If you help us, we will not only deal
with Falstaff but hand over the gold as a reward for your good
services!”

“Bugger!” Falstaff suddenly
exclaimed. “Zam are you awake?”

She sat up, ready and willing to
take Falstaff’s instructions, shaking with fatigue and numbing
cold. Flying she was beginning to realise was terrifying and
dangerous. It wasn’t fun, it was cold and the sights although
spectacular, were fleeting. She complied with her instructions like
a trained maintainer and followed Falstaff’s orders.

“We’re nearly out of fuel!”
Falstaff shouted.

“Already?” Zam looked
astonished.

“I’m sorry, but can you open up a
can quick and start pumping!”

Falstaff didn’t want to add, they
were already in the red with unknown reserve, with three engines at
top revs at twelve thousand feet. He checked his watch and the
clock that was still ten minutes slow? He estimated between the two
times that they needed to be up to seventeen thousand feet shortly,
the highest peak being only ten minutes to half an hour away. Below
there was nothing but streaks of white and grey cloud. Ahead a dark
bank of cloud, the peaks of ridges just visible; and more coming
into focus as the clock ticked away.

Falstaff could hear Zam working
on the pump grunting with effect just behind his ear, as the fuel
spurted into the empty tank.

“How’s it going?” He called.

“Zam, I’m sorry, but I am
beginning to freeze up again?” Falstaff called out. “I feel a bit
useless here just sitting doing nothing!”

“Don’t you dare move you
bastard!” Zam shouted into his ear. “I’ll do anything it takes to
stop you crashing this machine. I’m nearly home, thanks be to
Buddha!”

She finished pumping the third
can and then crawled forward. “The stoves empty, we’ve no more
oil!”

“It was paraffin! Use the damn
gasoline!” Falstaff called out. “Sorry!”

Zam gritted her teeth, frowning
at the pilot. She reversed direction and crawled out again; she
halted by the step up from the co-pilot seat into the nacelle. This
was the point she felt most exposed. With the stove in one hand,
she precariously clambered over the seats and back.

Falstaff felt a judder on the
control column, he glanced to the side and saw the wings flex, ice
shattering and shuddering, flying free. “Zam hold on!”

They dropped twenty feet as if
they had fallen into a pit of empty air until they hit the denser
air below. The wings supported by nothing literally flexed, as if
twanged by a schoolboy with a ruler on the edge of a desk. The ice
shattered bursting off the surfaces flying away in a stream of
debris and crystals behind them. The nacelle rocked and shook, at
first, they were in free fall then with a heavy jar were back in
flight as the wings caught into denser air.

Zam screamed flailing, her hand
on the back of the co-pilot seat slipped. She let go of the stove.
The lurch brought her heart into her mouth. She saw the empty gas
cans flying away after the plummeting stove. The other tin cans
tumbled over and Zam rolled bouncing across the nacelle. She
screamed, her hands grabbed at the cage, stopping her fall.

Falstaff was aware of something
wrong. He’d faintly heard the scream. Falstaff looked around for
Zam and couldn’t see her. Setting the controls to neutral, he
leaned back and twisted still nothing. He strained around and
glimpsed Zam clinging to cage on top of the nacelle.

“Hold on Zam!” He shouted. “Climb
down, one hand one foot! Just hold on!” It was a short climb and
drop back into the nacelle, but Zam was frozen in terror.

Falstaff hooked a cord over the
yoke to steady it. He didn’t dare to stop and think any further.
Crawling back until he was as near as he could get to her. He
reached over the canvas covering the nacelle. Zam lowered herself
onto the canvas from the cage. Falstaff grabbed Zam by the belt on
the top woollen coat.

“I’ve got you!” He said as the
belt ripped away.

Zam had already let go of his
arm. She slipped and fell into the nacelle, with a scream at
Falstaff’s feet.

“Bugger, I’m sorry I nearly lost
you... twice!”

Falstaff made a fuss of her,
pressing her down and reassuring her. The Caproni bucked again
unsettling them both.

“Follow me!” Falstaff dived back
to the cockpit, hurrying to secure himself. He grabbed the yoke
with one hand. Pressing Zam into the co-pilot’s seat with the
other. “Stay there, put the belt on!”

Zam held on to the seat belt with
both hands. It was nothing more than a thin, worn leather strap
around the waist. She gripped the edge of the cockpit and looked
over into the void of thick cloud. She shivered, her teeth
chattered uncontrollably, she pulled her coat tighter and wished
she was home, wrapped in a thick woollen blanket, beside the fire
on her father’s knee.

Falstaff, back behind the
controls, his teeth chattering from the cold and crashing together
from the turbulence. Falstaff had an image of his teeth shattering
like brittle tiles. The pocket of turbulence was shallow but
continued to shake them for a few moments more. Falstaff could hear
stuttering from the engines, they obviously didn’t like being
shaken up any more than they did.

“Fuel!” Falstaff called out as
one engine stuttered then another.

Zam shook her head. This time,
she wasn’t moving.

Falstaff levelled out, taking a
heading away from the mountain. He looked at the clock, still slow;
maybe it had even stopped?

“I’ll do it,” Falstaff said. “You
take the yoke.”

Zam stubbornly shook her head too
terrified of flying, let alone taking charge of the machine.

“Just hold on gently. Don’t grip
it, just stop it from moving.” Falstaff coaxed, pleading. The
engines blipped again, Falstaff’s heart stopped each time they
stuttered. “Please, you are nearly home!”

Zam nodded and leaned forward,
lifting her hands to the controls.

Falstaff helped her put her feet
on the rudder. “Rest your feet gently, just by your toes is
fine.”

He turned and crawled to the fuel
tanks, found the pump on the floor of the nacelle and grabbed the
first can. Pumping was hard work. The oxygen was thin and he was
already near exhaustion from the cold.

The next can seemed to take an
age, the handle of the pump was slipping in his hands. The floor
was wet and oily, the stirrup slipped again and again from under
his foot. He slithered each time the Caproni rocked.

He had to get to the cockpit
urgently. His heart had been pounding in his chest while he pumped,
but he was slowing down, gasping for breath. The pumping had
exhausted him, his arms and legs were stiff with cramp and wouldn’t
respond. He wanted to sleep. Over and over he cried out to himself
‘run’!

“Bunny baby!” He called out
desperately. She couldn’t hear him or was too scared to turn and
face him.

Zam snapped out of her daze.
“What?”

“Let go!” Falstaff called out,
“We’ll stall!”

He pushed the throttles forward
to maximum, the engines responded, crackling with power shaking the
airframe shook. Falstaff dipped the nose of the Caproni, taking
them into a shallow dive.

All around them was white, no way
of judging the air speed, the indicator had stopped, clogged with
ice. Falstaff struggled to reach up and dislodge a lump of ice
forming around the wind driven fuel pump. Standing for a moment on
the back of Zam’s seat. With a thrust of his gloved fingers, he
knocked the ice away. The blades starting spinning again, and the
fuel began to flow to thirsty, guzzling engines.

Finally, they increased speed,
the danger of a stall had passed. Falstaff levelled out then
resumed their original heading. He groaned at the thought of still
more flying and more refuelling.