Blood of the Dragon

by Jay D Pearson

  No one called her Jacquotte, the name she had taken. Most called her “Captain” to her face or “Red” when they spoke of her in the taverns. When they chanted her name after another successful raid on a Spanish town along Hispaniola, or captured yet another Dutch galleon, it was “Back From The Dead Red” filling the air with thunder.

  She’d known her enemies would come to her. They could not resist. They’d hidden among rival pirate fleets or fought with the Spanish or English. One had joined her fleet but had been torn to pieces by Alexandre and James the night he’d tried to assassinate her. She’d allowed the assassin’s head to hang like a signpost at the wharves for a year.

  Only one enemy remained. Commodore Howell Johnson had been relentless, although he’d never challenged her directly until last night. He’d whittled away at her ships, focusing on the weak, the slow, and the inept. She’d known he would come here eventually. He was the last and most cunning of those who hunted her. And now he had arrived, with a man-o-war, three frigates, and dozens of smaller ships.

  One frigate listed badly, its mast shattered, but half of her ships were sunk or too badly damaged to be of any use. The British would soon land on the beach. Only la Bouche and his squarerigger The Red Dragon had held them back, and now he was sacrificing himself to buy her more time. Ordering him back would be futile. She would regret his death after the battle, but not now.

  “Order the cannons to concentrate on The Victory. Let’s help Alexandre take her down. It’s just a damn shame the French Navy decided to abandon their privateers.”

  Davis simply grimaced, then called the new orders out to the flaggers. She hadn’t meant to insult him; he had arranged their lucrative privateer contract with France even while her fortress was still under construction. She knew the truth, however. Red’s pirate fleet had become as powerful as France’s navy, and the governor was more afraid of what Paris would think if they found out than the consequences of what was going to happen to France’s empire in the West Indies when her privateer fleet was lost to the British.

  Her fort had 40 cannons and was well stocked with ammunition. Even though she still expected Johnson to eventually cut his way here, it did not mean she would not fight his every step. A cannon blast or a lucky sword thrust could still kill him; it would rob her of the final confrontation, but she had an obligation to her pirates to seek victory.

  After the first volley, she turned back to Davis. He had been an exemplary officer and pirate; she hoped he would survive the day.

  “Signal the muskets. I want every Brit in the first landing to find a hole in his chest.” Then she turned to watch la Bouche broadside The Victory. She could not pick him out from this distance, not through the smoke as cannons from both ships erupted. For several minutes, all she could do was wait. She scanned the entire bay, watching for the inevitable British landings that would overwhelm her men and the two score women who fought with them. There was only one path to the fortress, however, and she and Davis had prepared trap after deadly trap to spill the guts of half the enemy’s forces. She needed the British force reduced to a size that Davis and the other pirates who manned the fortress could occupy while she faced Johnson alone.

  The smoke began to dissipate and faint screams reached her ears. She smiled. La Bouche had drawn The Red Dragon alongside The Victory. Then she saw swords flashing on Alexandre’s ship and not the man-o-war. He would not last long. She grimaced, hoping he was not captured, for that meant the noose. He deserved to fall from a musket ball or a sword thrust.

  Suddenly, The Red Dragon exploded. Shards of wood and men’s limbs flew a hundred feet in the air, shooting out of the cloud of thick, ugly smoke and plopping in dozens of tiny splashes. Flames leaped up, bright against the smoke, and she bowed her head and genuflected. Alexandre had done that for her, a final reminder of how much he’d loved her. She might shed tears later, if she survived her duel. For now, she had given all she could to honor the most loyal ally she’d ever known and hoped he’d taken her enemy to the grave with him.

  “Here they come!” Davis shouted. She watched. The Victory was listing badly and sinking rapidly, but the British had too many ships and too many men. Some sloops were trying to flee now. That had been inevitable; her pirates were mercenaries, after all, but she held no bitterness. She was glad some would escape the battle. Maybe they could even reach Tortuga.

  Her cannons boomed again and again, their cannonballs splashing around the rowboats seeking to reach the beach. Sometimes a ball would splinter a boat, spilling and maiming its sailors. The pirates were too few, however, and the British leaped howling from their boats as soon as the water was shallow enough to keep their muskets dry. Sunlight reflected off their bayonets and she swore. Failure to anticipate any factor that favored the enemy could allow too many to reach the fortress.

  A small town had grown up at the wharfs, and a path from the rear of the town snaked through the jungle, then zigzagged up the small hill behind the town to her fortress. Davis had hidden a dozen of her finest riflemen amongst the buildings. As the first British sailors stepped ashore, musket fire ripped through them and they toppled, dyeing the surf red. There would be no time for the riflemen to reload and tamp, however, not with bayonets on the rifles of the next row of sailors who were already jumping onto the sand as the rowboats crashed ashore.

  “Signal for swords, Davis!” she shouted vehemently. “Once you see them drawn, signal retreat. I want as many as possible to reach the fortress.”

  He nodded, obeying her orders with exactness. She had complimented him on his military preciseness just once, a dozen years ago. James might have become a commodore in the British Navy if he hadn’t been forcibly conscripted as a merchant’s cabin boy when he was 10. He served in the same role for the pirate who had captured the merchant’s ship. It was a shame his parents would never know what a capable man he had grown to be.

  The retreat looked like a rout, but only to an eye untrained for combat. She could not see when the traps sprung, but she could hear the screams. She glanced back at the bay. Not a single ship of her fleet remained that did not burn or list. Then she saw him. Her enemy was striding through the surf: Commodore Howell Johnson, the model of a perfect British naval officer with his smart navy blue, gold-trimmed coat, white waistcoat, white breeches and stockings, and black shoes. His hat was missing, revealing his powdered wig, but she could see no other sign from this distance that he’d been in any skirmish. If any pirate remained on the beach, they could have blown a hole wide enough through his chest to sink a frigate.

  He carried a rapier in one hand and a flintlock in the other. She could almost see the hunger in his eyes, knowing that she awaited him. His long strides carried him quickly across the sand and into the small town where he disappeared from sight, the rest of his command jogging to keep up. It was only a matter of time before he reached the top.

  Gunfire sounded in irregular intervals, drawing closer to the fort. There were fewer screams now; the traps had all been sprung. She turned away long enough to fill her pistol with powder and ball, then readied her cutlass. Davis and the other pirates followed her example. Once done, she donned her black cavalier hat with the bright crimson ostrich feather and straightened her waistcoat. She would look no less prepared than her mortal enemy.

  Finally, the sounds of battle drew close.

  “Open the gates,” she told Davis, who promptly relayed the order even as the first pirates raced out of the palm trees thirty yards away. All but one man followed the prescribed path. He stepped on a caltrop, which pierced his foot. No one stopped to help him; the British were too close.

  Most had safely reached the wooden gates by the time the first sailors stepped out of the jungle. They kneeled and began pouring powder into their muskets, but only a couple managed shots before the last of the pirates raced through the gates, which were already being hauled shut.

  Her men climbed atop the stone parapet. It was only one story high, but it had ample crenel
s for them to shoot through, and two pairs of cannons had been set on either side of the gate, facing away from the beach below. Until Johnson lugged cannons up here from his ships, her pirates would be able to fend off any attack the commodore mustered, even outnumbered five to one.

  Her tower had been placed to provide a view of not only the bay, but the open field beyond the front gate. From her vantage point three stories above the fortress courtyard, she could direct all her remaining forces.

  “Hold fire,” she called out. “Hold unless they attack. Save your powder for the commodore.”

  For half-an-hour, more and more British sailors fanned out, standing just inside the tree line. Her muskets and cannons could reach them, but she knew the eventual futility. She knew her enemy, the one who called himself Howell Johnson. Everything else was a sideshow for him, this campaign he led for the British against the buccaneers of the West Indies. All that truly mattered to him was her. The two of them had laid their plans separately, but both had aimed for this day. By nightfall, either she would have peace, or he would unleash terror upon Earth as had never been seen.

  Finally, a large contingent of British marched out of the jungle, quickly forming ranks, the men in front kneeling, their own muskets aiming at her fort. She would have laughed loudly had Commodore Johnson not accompanied them. His power was no match against hers, but she would have to transform to utilize her power fully, and he was the most cunning of all her enemies, the last who still hunted her.

  She watched as he signaled a man, who promptly raised a black flag, following the commodore as he strode confidently towards the gate, easily navigating through the caltrops that lay hidden in the field.

  “We can cut him down, Captain,” Davis offered. “Shall I order the men to fire?”

  She glanced at him disapprovingly. “Under a flag of parley? Pirates we may be, but our honor is as great as any Brit. Besides, I would not have you throw away your lives needlessly. Enough blood has been shed today. Let us see if we can shed the blood of only one more man.” Then she turned her attention back towards Johnson, who now stood only a dozen yards from the gate.

  “What is it ye want, Commodore?” she called. “Why the black flag?”

  The man stood so calmly and confidently. Of all her enemies, he was the only one she admired. Of course, she had already slain the others.

  “I would settle our dispute in the time-honored tradition.”

  “You would call for a duel? Against me? What kind of fool do ye take me for? You would not last one minute against me with either sword or pistol!”

  He showed neither fear nor arrogance as he responded. “It is not by fancy words that I have risen to my rank, nor by the deeds of others. I am willing to match my skills against yours. Will you honor me?”

  She frowned, unable to perceive why he would risk himself this way. He was so different from the others she had executed. But she had chosen this role as pirate queen, and there was no other option available, not if she truly cared about her remaining forces. That was what had always separated her from her enemies: she had compassion for humans where they threw them away wantonly. All except him.

  “What of our men?” she called back. “Mine would rather die defending this place, their home, than face the gallows. Do ye truly want to waste all of that fine British blood for this rock?”

  “A fair point, but you already knew I would have an answer. Should you defeat me, my men will depart and not return for six months. Should I defeat you, your men shall depart and I will not give pursuit until every building on this island is rubble.”

  “Ye have destroyed my fleet, commodore. Ye must give them one of thy ships. Not a frigate, but a fast ship.”

  Johnson shook his head. “That I cannot do, not with His Majesty’s ships.”

  “Then pardon them and give them a place in your navy. Ye are rather short on sailors after this morning.”

  The commodore was silent for several moments, but she was certain it was all for show. He would have come to the same conclusions as her. This was the only way to avoid a slaughter on both sides.

  “It seems to me,” he said, “That that is the only way out regardless of the victor. Save for you, should I lose.”

  She was well aware of her men staring at her, open-mouthed. Even Davis could not believe what she had negotiated.

  “This is my last day as Back From The Dead Red regardless. Tomorrow, should I win, I will be a simple French noblewoman. Now, if ye accept the terms, I will admit thee to my courtyard in one hour, ye and a second. I will send thee my boatswain to ensure your second’s safe return.”

  Johnson bowed sharply. “One hour, captain.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Davis had protested vehemently, of course, but in the end, he had no choice but to obey. She wished he could have been her second, but if he was to survive this day, the British had to see him as valuable despite his peg leg and missing ear. He deserved that much.

  Now she and Johnson faced each other, each armed with the sword of their choice. She had chosen her cutlass, of course, and he his rapier. Their seconds stood opposite each other, backs against the courtyard walls. Her pirates stood atop the low ramparts on all sides, weapons at hand, but not raised. The gates had been opened wide. The British sailors could not see all, but they could witness enough that any treachery on either side would result in swift retaliation.

  Johnson removed his heavy jacket and she her waistcoat. Her hat she’d already given to Davis with the promise to return for it. Ten feet apart they stood, then bowed, neither taking their eyes off the other. She still remembered his dark eyes from the last time they had met so long ago. Surprisingly, they seemed to hold only sorrow, not the hatred she’d expected.

  As soon as they stood, he attacked, lunging with a jab then a riposte as she responded. For five minutes, each sword thrust was met with a parry or a twisting evade, but it was obvious from the start that she was superior. Then her sword sliced his forearm when he was a shade too slow to respond to a feint, and the pirates cheered lustily as blood blossomed on his white shirt.

  She pressed her advantage immediately, and the commodore was forced to defend a rapid succession of attacks until the tip of her cutlass pierced his thigh. It was not deep, but the wound bloodied his white pants. Again her pirates cheered, sensing that it was only a matter of time. Then the world shifted.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Pink clouds floated across the soft blue sky above the fortress courtyard, the pastel shades reminding her of sitting atop Mt. Sun-a-do with Bear and Salmon watching an early morning sunrise simply for the wisdom it might bring. The thought jarred her, having left the acumen of the ancient spirits behind her long ago, when the first of her enemies had finally escaped the valley prison and its Skookum guardians. She had pursued them relentlessly and without mercy. Beijing. Machu Picchu. Coventry. Kronborg Castle, and a dozen other places of power. Three of them had attacked her in Stockholm and she had destroyed them all. Constantinople and Cairo had been the only places where she had been wounded, but neither enemy had survived. Only one had ever escaped, and he had done so in both Tenochtitlan and Venice. He would not do so a third time.

  The other pirates and Johnson’s second had disappeared. Only the commodore remained. She glanced out the open gates. There was no sign of the British sailors amongst the pale palm trees. From this distance, the trees appeared fuzzy, the edges of the trunks and broad leaves blurred like a smeared chalk drawing.

  “You have become a shell of yourself, Wu Zhao,” he said suddenly. “What has happened to the great dragon who banished the Sluagh Sidhe? I watched you destroy Finaarva’s dome. I heard you swear vengeance and justice. Yet all I see before me is another of Månefè’s changelings, the ones who only know murder and revenge.”

  His words ignited her belly. Even as human, the dragon fire burned. She swallowed, trying to tamp it down, for if she did not, she would have to transform or the flames would kill her.

  “What wo
uld any faery of Finaarva’s know of justice, especially a changeling? You slew the Great Ones! You mutilated my parents! Your king’s magic brought down my brothers! Justice for the Sluagh Sidhe has already been rendered, and death is all you deserve!”

  Commodore Johnson’s form suddenly shifted, and the tall, pale, dark-haired faery with dragonfly wings stood before her. He still held his rapier, but that was all that remained of the British officer he had appeared as for the past twenty years.

  “My name is Tigano and I was once Lord of the Changelings. I do indeed deserve death for deeds in my past, and I will be willing to accept your judgment, but only if I know it is tempered with mercy.”

  “Mercy?” she roared, shaking her cutlass. “What mercy has any changeling ever shown?”

  The faery’s face sank and shoulders slumped. “You are more right than I think even you know, Wu Zhao. Or would you prefer Jacquotte, or possibly Red?”

  The mention once more of her true name caused her to pause. Flames rumbled deep within her, but for now, the thought of who she had once been—so long forgotten—penetrated and she recalled the last hunt with Wu Tian and Wu Fei before Ao Shun had arrived and shattered her world, the day her parents had begun to die. She had not known any tranquility since then, save for her time as Thunderbird, although even that period had lacked innocence.

  “The day you condemned us was also the day you saved some of us,” continued Tigano. “Some on Faery had repented of following Finaarva long before. I married the wisest of those faeries, and she set me on a new path. Would it surprise you to learn that, on the day you attacked Bruagh-na-Boyne, I was ready to repent and surrender myself to Oberon?”

  She stared at him, disbelieving, then chuckled.

  “You are a liar, Tigano, like all faeries who serve the Usurper. Do not think you can escape your fate today with guile and fraud.”

  He frowned, resting the tip of his rapier on the peach-colored sand.