The Perils of Archipelago

by B A Simmons

  Pete stood watch on the quarterdeck, issuing steering orders to Donald and the crewmembers holding the sheets. He kept a stern eye on the cloud and his other on the Quillian ships behind them.

  After almost an hour of southing, with the cloud now impeding their view to the east, the Quillian veered away to the southwest.

  “They’re turning away!” Trevor bellowed from the crow’s nest.

  A cheer erupted from the crew. Even Joshua seemed to breathe easier as they passed the cloud on the south side of the volcano. Here, the cloud dissipated some, allowing them a glimpse of the towering mountain with fire at the top. They heard a continuous dull roar in the air as they studied the dead rock through far-sees.

  “There’s nothing alive on that,” Yusef said.

  “I haven’t seen anything in the sea, either,” Randall said.

  “Eerie, isn’t it?” Joshua said. “It brings me such horrible memories.”

  “You were a member of the Brotherhood of the Red Serpent then?” Yusef asked. “Jacob told me about them.”

  “What did Jacob say?”

  “That they’ve been at war with the Falcon Empire for decades, before any of us were born.”

  Randall added his knowledge. “That they control all the islands east of the empire. That is, until the Servi Islands.”

  Joshua smiled in amusement, “Did he also tell you that every boy born on those islands is inducted into the Brotherhood as soon as he’s old enough to sail, whether he wants to or not?”

  Yusef and Randall’s smiles faded.

  Joshua continued, “Did he also tell you that every Brotherhood captain swears a blood oath of vengeance against the Falcons, pledging himself and his ship in a lifelong feud to kill as many of them as he can ’til the day he dies?”

  “Iz thees why you leff de Brotherhood?” asked a voice behind them. They turned to see Bernardo standing there. The former slave looked at Joshua with a mix of puzzlement and disgust.

  “I don’t like the Falcons, but I’m not as fanatical in my views as my brothers in Hookville.”

  Bernardo nodded, “L’odio è il vero nemico, non è così?”

  “Odiare significa essere già morti.”

  Bernardo nodded again, this time with a smile. He walked away to the quarterdeck, posting himself there as a sentry.

  “What did he say?” Yusef asked.

  Joshua looked over at Bernardo, ensuring he was upwind from them. “He recited something slaves in the empire often say. It helps them deal with their situation.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Bernardo isn’t the first freed slave I’ve met. He’s certainly the most whole. Most of them have physical and mental scars.”

  The sky to the north cleared of vapor, and Pete called out an order to steer toward their original course. No sooner had he done so when Trevor called down to them again.

  “Sails! Three points off the port bow! Quillian!”

  Pete looked through his far-see to confirm the Y shapes of two reed boats.

  “They must have double-backed on us and come across on the north side,” Yusef said.

  Joshua rushed to Pete on the quarterdeck. “Can we outrun them?”

  “No, we have to go north, else we end up in your old stomping grounds. Seems I underestimated them. All hands . . . prepare for battle!”

  The crew moved to their stations, donning armor and taking up weapons from the arming boxes. Yusef opened one such box, specially designated for grenades and firebombs. He knew what he would find there, but seemed disappointed nonetheless to see only three firebombs and two grenades left.

  Pete considered his options and knew them to be few. The vaporous cloud hanging above the water to the west made portside maneuvers nearly impossible. The Quillian ships were staying to the northeast of their position, so as to block any escape.

  “Load the ballista!” Pete shouted to the bow.

  “Those boats can’t be hulled, Pete,” Joshua said.

  “I don’t mean to hull it. I mean to tow it.” He moved down from the quarterdeck, turning to Donald at the helm as he did. “Donald, be ready for a hard turn to starboard on my command.”

  Ascending the forecastle, Pete stood near Michael, who manned the ballista.

  “Hook a tow line to that bolt!” Pete ordered.

  “A tow line?” several voices questioned.

  As the Alphina continued her north by northeast route, the Quillian ships determined she wasn’t looking to run, but to fight. They both turned south to intercept and provide such a fight, each passing on an opposite side of the human vessel.

  “Target the one to port!” Pete told Michael, who began training the large weapon at the designated target. “Try to strike her bow, but make it a solid strike.”

  Quillian arrows began flying at them. A few made their way over the gunwales and into the masts. A man cried out in pain, but Pete did not look to see who. He focused his attention on the boat approaching the portside. At least three Quillian, their blue skin taking on a dull gray color in this light, were mounting their bow, preparing to jump aboard.

  “Fire!” Pete shouted and he turned his head, shouting back at Donald. “Now, Donald!”

  The bolt, trailing a rope from its back end, struck true and firm into the Quillian bow. The Quillian screamed in surprise or anger, perhaps both. However, the Alphina took a sudden sharp turn away from them before they could realize that the bolt hadn’t done any real damage to their ship.

  For a moment, the Alphina’s speed lagged as her sails shifted to take in the wind. Once that wind filled the sails, the rope connecting them to the Quillian, which Pete’s crew had tied off on a sturdy winch, snapped taut. Two Quillian fell overboard as their boat lurched to port in a moment. The Quillian vessel on their starboard received the full force of the Alphina as she plowed into it. However, without being at top speed, the ramming did not break either ship, but rather knocked much of the Quillian crew into the water.

  Several tense moments passed in confusion. Pete shouted at Donald to take them to port again, reverting back to their previous course. Much of the Alphina’s crew occupied themselves in firing arrows and bolts into whatever Quillian they could find. Yusef had lighted a firebomb and prepared to throw it at the vessel in tow while directing fire at their archers.

  Another man fell with a Quillian arrow in his arm. Pete saw a flash of blue skin as an alien warrior jumped aboard. It was hit almost immediately with a harpoon thrown by Joshua. Yet, two more followed it and engaged crewmembers near the starboard bow.

  Yusef successfully firebombed the Quillian vessel in tow, chopping the line that held them. A Quillian warrior climbed over the gunwale near Pete. A quick slash from Pete’s sword sent it back into the water.

  The fire burning the reeds of the Quillian bow flashed to life with sudden energy, as if it would consume the very air around the boat. It spread in all directions, even to the surface of the water where it spurted and spat as the waves tried to extinguish it.

  Only after seeing this did Pete realize the burning sensation in his throat. He coughed and heard others around him cough.

  He heard Joshua shouting at him. “Pete! The Quillian boat is under our bow! It’s acting like an anchor.”

  “Get the hooks!” Pete shouted.

  Joshua understood at once, locating and laying hold of the grappling hooks and lines they used when boarding other ships. Pete joined them as they fought off the few remaining Quillian who weren’t attempting to salvage the ship on fire. Pete noted that several of the Quillian on that ship seemed to gag and choke on the air as it fell farther behind them.

  Joshua led four other men in hooking the rammed Quillian craft. They hauled and tugged on the lines to force it out from under the Alphina. With all their straining, their eyes turned bloodshot and ran with tears. The tears felt like an inadequate ointment attempting to sooth the chemical-scorched skin of their faces. They coughed and hacked repeatedly until, at last, the smashed reed
boat came out.

  The Alphina picked up speed. Her crew, too tired and sick to cheer, wheezed and coughed instead. They escaped the gas and Quillian, having lost two men in the fight. The mercenaries Gordon and Oliver—men from Isle de James who had served more than eight months under Pete’s command—gave their lives for the cause and were buried at sea a few hours after the battle.

  Eyes watered, throats burned, and the coughing continued for days as they headed northward toward the Falcon Archipelago. Kymberlite Isle lay directly northeast of them, yet Pete knew they couldn’t just sail up from the south. All ships of the empire would come from the north, from their own archipelago. Therefore, Pete and his crew had to hope they could slip into the normal shipping lane without being noticed. They could then arrive at Kymberlite looking like a Falcon supply ship.

  Once talking didn’t cause them to break into a coughing fit, they ramped up their Iyty lessons with Joshua and Bernardo. Bernardo also spent time teaching the crew the Falcon naval salutes: when to give them, to whom they should be given, and for the officers, how to respond. They were drilled on how to recognize rank on the Falcon uniforms, for it wasn’t just Pete and Joshua who were to be saluted, but any officer and sottufficiale, as the boatswains were called in Iyty.

  They followed Falcon naval protocol, or as much of it as they knew. Soon, life aboard the Alphina took on a new tone. They washed her decks with seawater and vinegar to make her look fresh. They no longer called her the Alphina, but the Artiglio d’Aquila (which was shortened to Arty). Pete even considered taking on an Iyty name, but settled instead for just being called Capitano.

  Three weeks into their journey, they entered the shipping route between King’s Isle and Kymberlite. No other ships were seen there, nor in the three days sailing to Kymberlite. The island rose before them as a gray-black lump, devoid of green. In fact, it seemed as lifeless as the volcano, but without the deadly gas and fire.

  “Is there even any water on this rock?” Harland said.

  Bernardo answered. “A well, near de center of de town, Porto Arsenale. Eet ees de only source of watur.”

  “At least that,” Pete said. “We need to refill our supply. Joshua, you’ll take Harland and Jack for that.”

  “I should be with you in buying the powder,” Joshua said.

  “The water is just as important. We won’t survive a trip back without it, and you’re the only one I can trust to do it right. I’ll have Bernardo to help me, if I need.”

  Joshua resigned himself to the loathed duty of fetching water. As much as he wanted to ensure the purchase went off without a problem, he recognized Pete’s authority as captain and having seen him in action twice, respected his leadership, however reluctantly.

  Port Arsenale sat nestled at the base of a small inlet on the east side of the island, the east side of the inlet being formed by a peninsula. Atop the peninsula, overlooking the small harbor, a fortress stood with cannons positioned along the walls. It reminded Pete of his first view of Alimia Castle, except this fortress stood in perfect position to destroy them should their ruse fail.

  Sailing along the eastern shore, a strong scent of sulfur assaulted their nostrils. Bernardo explained, as best he could in Engle, about openings in the ground that expelled hot air. This is what caused the smell all over the island.

  “You become-ah used to eet,” he told them with a smile; however, he wrinkled his nose as much as they did.

  Approaching the inlet, Pete kept watching the fortress. A signal appeared over the main bastion. The single letter I—obviously meant for them.

  “Joshua, what does the signal ‘I’ mean?” Pete said.

  Joshua’s eyes went wide with fear as he shrugged. “It’s obviously an identity challenge, but I don’t know what to respond with.”

  “Bernardo?” Pete said. “We need to respond now. Any ideas?”

  “Send de letre ‘M’ een rehturn.”

  There was doubt in Bernardo’s voice.

  “Are you sure?” Pete asked.

  Bernardo did not answer except by biting his lower lip. Pete had no choice but to trust Bernardo’s judgment, however flawed it may be.

  “Signal ‘M’ in return and quickly,” he ordered.

  He watched as his crew sent up the pennant flag. His eyes then returned to the fortress, where he knew that either they would lower their signal in approval or open fire on them.

  Each moment seemed to drag on for an hour. Pete fought against the impulse to command Donald to turn them around. When the signal above the fortress came down, he heard the entire crew breathe.

  Pete turned to Bernardo. “You guessed correctly.”

  “Eet ’ad to be-ah M or C; militare o civile. Or so-ah ay tink.”

  “Educated guesses are just as good, often better than confident answers. Or so I think.”

  Bernardo smiled.

  Two Falcon supply ships sat in the harbor. One in the process of loading barrels of powder, the other unloading sacks of grain. Surrounding the docks on each side of the inlet, large warehouses were constructed. The steep, uphill terrain allowed them to see behind the warehouses and into the town. Pete and the crew noticed the area beyond the docks where two dozen small, but comfortable-looking houses sat. Their tiled roofs and windows distinguished them from the rest of the town. For behind these houses were hundreds of hovels made of cemented stone with slate roofs. The open doorways seemed to be the only sources of natural light, though most were so small they wouldn’t need much more than that. Half-naked figures loafed about near some of them, occasionally moving along one of the packed gravel streets.

  By the time the Alphina came to a halt at one of the docks, her crew looked grim and unpleasant. What amounted to nerves could be seen as military discipline, or so they hoped the Falcons who greeted them would perceive it.

  Indeed, no sooner had they moored to the dock than a portly petty officer came out to them.

  “Che nave è questa?” he asked.

  Pete understood the question and was prepared with an answer.

  “Artiglio d’Aquila.”

  “I’ve never heard of this ship before,” the officer said in Iyty.

  Pete smiled and ran his hand over the hull, patting her as one might a favored goat. “She’s a new commission,” he answered in Iyty. Pete watched the officer’s face for any sign of disbelief. Was his accent good enough to fool this man? Was his answer satisfactory in his mind?

  “What do you need at Porto Arsenale?” the petty officer asked.

  “Ah, bene,” Pete’s smile broadened. “First, we need to refill our water barrels, and we’ve many to fill.”

  “Why so many? You know our water here tastes of sulfur.”

  Pete’s expression changed, he hadn’t realized that, but of course it would. He bet himself that if he put a handful of the gritty island soil in his mouth, he would taste sulfur there, too. He forced his mind to think through an acceptable response, then hoped he knew the correct Iyty words to express it.

  “Of course, I didn’t know that. I’ve never been here before, sottufficiale . . . ?”

  “Vitale, Sottufficiale Giuseppe Vitale, signore!” It was as if the officer had just remembered that Pete (according to the Falcon captain’s uniform he wore) outranked him. He saluted Pete by bringing his hand to his brow, the palm facing outward.

  Pete waited a moment before returning the salute. Then he said, “Vitale . . . I’ll remember that. I am Captain . . . but I forget. I am under orders not to disclose my name. You see, sottufficiale, I am on a special mission for His Majesty. I cannot tell you my name, nor where I am going. This is why I am on a ship you have never heard of before. Understand?”

  “Sì, signore!”

  “Bene. Now direct my men to the well where they may draw water.”

  The crew had already begun lowering the barrels to the dock. Vitale turned and signaled two of his own subordinates to fetch the wheelbarrows. Pete watched as they called out to a group of scrubby-dressed men
near a warehouse. These men responded, each with a cart in hand, following the orders to report to the dock. Pete figured these were slaves as their unwashed uniforms had numbers sewn over the breast and along the trouser legs. Their leather sandals were in bad need of repair, or better yet, replacement. Yet, it was clear the men were fed adequately, as none of them struggled to heft the carts even with two or three barrels in each.

  “Tenente, see to the water,” Pete said to Joshua, who went to work with the discipline of a Punisher in battle formation. Pete wondered if his performance was a bit overblown, but Vitale didn’t seem to notice.

  “What else can we do for you, Capitano?” Vitale said.

  “Yes, the business at hand,” Pete said. Reaching into his tunic, he drew out the banknote that Ambassador Marcel gave Edwin for his first purchase of elixir. Pete had taken the liberty of writing the amount for twenty-thousand gold florins. The amount had been debated between himself, Rob, and Joshua for an hour before deciding on twenty-thousand. It seemed the most they could try for without raising too much suspicion. They figured that with prices continuing to rise, they could get between five and six tons of powder.

  Pete handed the signed and sealed note to Vitale, saying, “Our mission requires black powder. Provide us with what we need.”

  Vitale’s eyes widened as they saw the amount on the note. He looked at the signature and seal, then back to the amount.

  “Vuole tutta questa?” he said.

  Pete was troubled. He didn’t understand everything Vitale said. Something about the powder, which he was certain was a question. How to respond? The entire mission could be over if he answered amiss.

  Pete scrunched his brow and scowled in annoyance, throwing up his hands he turned away from Vitale.

  “Sì sì. Of course you want it so,” Vitale said, muttering apologies as he backed away.

  He turned from Pete and walked as quickly as he could carry his mass toward one of the warehouses. Pete breathed a sigh of relief and turned his eyes up to the looming fortress. His only fear now was that someone with more education than Vitale came to inspect them. The odds of passing further or more comprehensive examination seemed low. For the time being, all Pete could do was return to the ship and wait for water and powder.