Orchestra of Treacheries: A Legends of Tivara Story (The Dragon Songs Saga Book 2)

by JC Kang

  Ming swept his gaze over the officers. Their hard expressions spoke one message: storm the cove, there and now.

  Of course, very few of them had actual combat experience. Ming knew better. He’d charged into a situation before, at the inn, only to find he’d been tricked.

  Since their initial assault, Lord Peng’s faithful soldiers had swelled to five hundred men. At least a hundred occupied the Golden Phoenix, while the rest held strategic points near and around the sandy cove where the ship was moored. More importantly, the enemy controlled the cliffs above. The dock was a bottleneck, much like a certain bridge from Ming’s recent past.

  Ordering his men to assail such a fortified position was practically a death sentence. It was safer to just wait them out. Without a crew, Peng wouldn’t be going anywhere. Yet the imperial messenger in the tent crossed his arms and looked askance. Why the urgency on Prince Kai-Wu’s part?

  Ming stepped out of the command tent and glanced up at the bluffs overlooking the cove. An indeterminate number of Peng’s archers held a ridge above the bluff’s rear access path. Any chance at victory depended on securing that spot. It would provide a good view of the enemy’s deployment and a line of sight to the flagship.

  If the imperials wanted a fight, at least Ming could keep them busy with something that wouldn’t get many killed. On his command, the infantry commander formed up a phalanx of muskets, three ranks of thirty-three men each, facing Peng’s archers.

  The first volley from the lower ground did little more than kick up dirt around the archer’s entrenched position. Peng’s men retreated out of sight and returned an arcing salvo of arrows.

  The barrage pushed the musketmen out of range; nonetheless, it had done its job. From the number of arrows, Ming estimated about three dozen men defending the ridge.

  He pondered the conundrum. The angle of the rise rendered muskets useless. A charge up the narrow path would only get his men killed. Unless the archers above had a reason to keep their heads down... like the night the princess was ambushed on the way to Peng’s. The attackers’ barrage had kept them hiding between the horses. “Commander, set your musketmen in ranks of six men—”

  “Six men at a time?” The commander looked at him as if was insane. “Not concentrated enough. We won’t hit much.”

  Ming nodded. “That is not the point. Each group will approach, fire their volley, then fall back and allow another group to replace them. I want non-stop shooting to lay suppressing fire. It will cover my horses’ charge.”

  All ten of them. Only the officers rode horses, and Ming doubted their cavalry skills. No one else could lead the charge. What had the Founder said? Men respect a title earned, not bestowed? Now if only the cover fire would keep the archers’ heads down until he led his makeshift cavalry to the top of the bluff. He beckoned a captain of the imperial guard. “I want you to follow our horses and engage any surviving enemy at the top.”

  The captain placed his fist in his open palm. “As you command, Dajiang.”

  The musket squad commander shook his head. “It’s never been done before. I can’t guarantee the rebels won’t return a volley.”

  Such insubordination. Ming gritted his teeth. “I will take it into consideration. Now, let us ready our horses. Begin firing on my signal.”

  When his line of horses and the imperial guards behind him were ready, Ming drew his dao and raised it to the sun. “Charge!”

  The musketmen discharged a staccato patter of gunfire, six shots every two seconds. Wind rushing through his hair, Ming dared a glance up. Could it be? None of the archers poked their heads up from behind cover, though some took blind shots that flew toward the source of the musket fire.

  Ming’s horse galloped up the path, rounding the bend and breaking out into the archers’ line at the top of the ridge. He charged through, cutting as many as possible with one run. He wheeled around. The survivors drew swords, even as the rest of the mounted imperial soldiers crashed through them.

  Unslinging his bow, Ming cantered back the way he came. With aimed shots in the gaps between his troops, he dropped five of Peng’s men.

  The imperial guard reached the top of the bluff. Their gleaming breastplates, with their scowling dragons, radiated dread. Peng’s surviving men threw down their weapons and cowered.

  Ming turned to a lieutenant. “Our losses?”

  His aide-de-campe beamed. “Four musketmen killed, seven wounded. Two of your riders were also injured.”

  Ming nodded. A sad sacrifice, but one made for the sake of superior position. And certainly better than the blind charge the imperials wanted. “Redeploy the musketmen along the bluff, facing the cove. Send the imperial guards to the access road to await my orders.”

  “What about the prisoners?” His aide lifted his chin toward Peng’s defeated men, who knelt in a line with hands on their heads.

  Ming strode over to them, twenty-one in all, mostly uninjured. Several prostrated themselves, perhaps hoping to avoid the penalty for treason. But no, the princess had treated the dying Xie Shimin with dignity and kindness. “Soldiers of Nanling. You have risen up in arms against the Son of Heaven. You know the punishment.”

  One man whimpered. “It was Lord Peng. He ordered us to do so. Said it was for the good of the nation.”

  “You obeyed orders. For that, I give you two choices.” Ming held out his curved dagger. “You may cut your own throat and die with honor. Or, I will organize you into our army.” Heaven knew they needed archers, even if the imperials preferred guns.

  All twenty-one rose into one-knee salutes.

  “Traitors,” the imperial commander muttered.

  Ming flashed him a sharp glance. “Assign a dozen men to watch over them, ready to run them through at the first sign of treachery. Provide bows only if we need their service.”

  Lips pursed, the commander placed a hand in his fist. “As the Dajiang commands.”

  Letting out a long breath, Ming turned around and used the new vantage point to reassess their situation. Peng’s men held the cove’s beaches and the dock. The Golden Phoenix remained anchored about four hundred feet away from where he stood, making it difficult to pick out Lord Peng from the other men on deck.

  He turned to the musketmen’s commander. “Can any of your sharpshooters find Lord Peng and hit him from here?”

  The commander gawked. “Not from this range, no. We would splinter the Golden Phoenix with all of the misses.”

  Ming looked back at the ship. From this range, it was an impossible shot with a bow, even if they could locate Peng among the defenders. He waved toward the newly appointed commander of the archers. “Bring your unit here. When we storm the beach, I want our new recruits to prove their loyalty by raining arrows on the ship’s deck.”

  He then turned to the musketmen’s commander. “On my order, lay down volley fire into their units on the beach and dock.”

  Orders passed from unit to unit. Soldiers brought the command tent to the top of the bluffs. Within two hours, everyone was deployed.

  When the fusillade of muskets tore into the beach, many of the enemy threw themselves into the sand or cowered behind the docks’ pylons. Arrows from his new archery unit arced into the ship, sending Peng’s men below deck.

  The imperial guard swept in. Ming had seen combat in Rotuvi before, but never the beautiful but brutal efficiency with which the imperial guard fought. The defenders put up little resistance, many throwing down their arms and begging for mercy.

  The beach was theirs in just minutes.

  A volley of musket fire roared from the Golden Phoenix’s portholes, ripping into the imperial guards’ efficient lines. Ming gritted his teeth. There had been no report of Peng’s men having guns.

  “Sound a defensive withdrawal,” he told an officer. “Without a crew, their only escape is by the beach. Have our men fall back and guard the access road. Do not let anyone through.”

  Another officer shuffled on his feet. “What about the Tianzi’s
command to take the ship?”

  Ming sighed. “As long as they have guns, the ship is a floating fortress with one point of access. I will not needlessly sacrifice our men in a futile attempt to take it.” Even with his archery skills, the portholes were a near impossible shot given the range and angle. Which left... “How many days of food and water do they carry?”

  The officers chattered among themselves before a quartermaster spoke up. “I don’t know much about ships, but it takes six days at best to reach Ayudra. If it were me planning, I would provision for ten days.”

  Ten days. A long time, but hopefully, the stark reality of Peng’s situation would set in sooner: a soldier’s bravado would last only as long as his stomach was full.

  Ming pointed toward the city. “Procure lumber from the port and construct cover fortifications that bring us closer and closer to the ship. Then we will wait.”

  They waited three days. Ming imagined the ship’s occupants must be growing unsettled, wallowing in their own stench and perhaps rationing food.

  He drew up a letter:

  Brave soldiers of Hua, your loyalty to your lord is admirable. However, you now stand in rebellion against the Tianzi. Surrender Lord Peng, and your death sentences will be commuted.

  He tied the note to an arrow and shot it onto the deck.

  Nobody went up top to retrieve it.

  He rewrote the letter and had a messenger deliver it under the flag of parley. The unfortunate man made it halfway down the dock before falling to a barrage of musket balls from the ship.

  The imperial soldiers shouted and cursed. Ming stared wide-eyed. To kill a man walking under the flag of parley was unthinkable. Let Peng starve. The Golden Phoenix would bake under the sun, all those below deck boiling in a stinking cesspool of disease and misery.

  On the fourth day, the enemy soldiers lowered the gangplank and began filing off one by one, weary, unarmed, and hands on their head.

  Ming rode down to accept Lord Peng’s surrender.

  Instead, he found himself talking to Yu-Ming Lord Tu, the young heir to one of Nanling Provinces’ more prosperous counties.

  “Where is Lord Peng?” Ming demanded.

  Lord Tu shook his head. “Dead. Killed by one of your arrows on the first day.”

  Not totally unexpected. Nonetheless... “Why did you not surrender at that time?”

  “It would have been dishonorable.”

  And yet, they had slain a man approaching under the flag of parley. Ming raised an eyebrow. “You surrender now.”

  Lord Tu cringed. “Your agent onboard murdered several of us each day. I was faced with a mutiny.”

  Agent? Ming scowled. Why had he never heard of this?

  Voices stirred Liang Yu out of the Viper’s Rest technique and back into the world of the living. He instinctively remained still and kept his breath near imperceptible as he tried to piece through the disorientation and memory loss the technique caused.

  At least he remembered his identity—Moquan who were not true masters like himself might even forget their very name.

  Beside him laid dead corpses, cold, but not yet rancid with the stench of death.

  The memories trickled back.

  He was the one who killed those soldiers.

  Days before, he’d melted in with Lord Peng’s troops as they marched to Jiangkou.

  He made sure he was part of the boarding party that initially captured the Golden Phoenix.

  That first night, he hypnotized Lord Tu with the Tiger’s Eye and learned the attack on the flagship was meant as a diversion for Lord Peng’s escape over the border into Rotuvi.

  Liang Yu focused. Why was that so important to him?

  Because he intended to kill Lord Peng, lest he became a threat. Yes, Peng had pushed Expansionism, but according to Minister Hong, it was mostly as a way of garnering support among the Expansionist lords. What he would do after actually capturing the Dragon Throne was anyone’s guess.

  Though now, it turned out Peng was quite clever. Perhaps he would be worth keeping alive a little longer.

  Liang Yu peeked out of a nearly closed eye once the voices faded into the distance. He was still below deck on the Golden Phoenix, lined up among the dead. A blade of fading afternoon light cut through a partially open porthole.

  He withdrew a slender bamboo reed from his hidden pouch. Though not as supple as he had been in his youth, he could still squeeze out of a sea-side porthole, and then swim below the water, undetected.

  He had done as much thirty-two years before when an elf pushed him off a bridge and left him for dead.

  Unfortunately, Lord Peng had escaped his reach. And apparently the Tianzi’s as well.

  For now.

  CHAPTER 37:

  Rogues Gallery

  Prince Dhananad disliked visiting the Teleri embassy not just because of the vermin inhabiting it, but mostly due to its spartan décor. It seemed that even in Vyara City, a magnet for culture and refinement, the Bovyan Scourge prided itself on its bland lifestyle. The sooner his country ended its alliance with the Teleri Empire, the better.

  The huge guards, dressed in black surcoats that must have left them roasting in the South’s sun, stepped to the side and let Dhananad and his Golden Scorpion escort pass.

  Dhananad stormed through the halls and slammed open the metallic double doors to the audience room. The Teleri ambassador sat straight-backed and cross-legged on a dais, holding audience with several— Dhananad skidded to a halt.

  Leisurely nestled in a mountain of cushions was a turquoise-skinned altivorc dressed in a dapper military uniform. Dhananad knew this particular specimen. Unlike the rest of his kind, this one was handsome, with refined, almost elf-like features. No one was sure how old he was, or even if he was the same person over the centuries. He had first appeared in history a millennium ago (but who was counting?) as his people were losing the War of Ancient Gods. Nobody knew his name, and Dhananad joined everyone else in addressing him as the King of Altivorcs.

  Humph. King of what? A pack of ugly humanoids of little consequence. The Tivari might have once controlled all of Tivaralan, enslaved all of humanity; but now they hid away in subterranean cities sprinkled throughout the mountains of the Northwest. Both the altivorcs and their more hideous, stupider cousins, the tivorcs, worked as mercenaries for the highest bidder. Dhananad’s homeland of Madura had nothing to do with them. If he had anything to say about it, they never would.

  Dhananad avoided the altivorc’s gaze, and instead turned to Ambassador Piros di Bovyan. Like all of the Teleri Prospecti—the upper echelon of Bovyans who ruled their empire—he was an imposing man, with dark hair and grey eyes. He had been in Vyara for six years, and Dhananad tired of having to pander to him.

  “Is it true?” he asked. “Did Princess Kaiya really meet with the Ankiran insurgents?”

  The Bovyan brute Piros shrugged and cocked his head. When he spoke, his Ayuri reeked of the North. “If by insurgent, you mean their former maharaja, then yes. Perhaps you should have paid heed to our advisor, instead of falling for the girl’s charm. She was obviously misleading you.”

  Dhananad spat. “Bah. A meeting with some outlaws means nothing. Perhaps the filth begged her to speak to me on their behalf.”

  Another familiar face sneered. With Lord Benhan’s light-brown skin tone and dark hair, a Northerner might have mistaken him for Ayuri; but Dhananad (and any other Southerner!) recognized him as Levanthi. This dolt hailed from the Empire of Levastya, which, unlike Madura’s other ally, at least had a semblance of high culture. Albeit inferior to the Ayuri.

  Dhananad glared back. “Do you find something funny?”

  Benhan laughed. “Do not assume Cathayi women are as easily cowed as those in Madura.”

  Dhananad cast him a disdainful glance. It wasn’t worth acknowledging the comment. “Her meeting with them means nothing.”

  Piros scoffed. “Don’t you find it suspicious that she also met with the Vadarans, Bijurans, and Daburan
s? While not your enemies, they certainly aren’t your friends.”

  The Altivorc King let out a yawn a lion would envy. “I would be more concerned with her visit to the Paladins’ Crystal Citadel in two days.”

  Dhananad was about to respond, but found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words. His mouth hung open as the others afforded him patronizing grins. When he found his tongue, his voice squeaked. “Your Nightblades are following her, then?”

  Piros shrugged again. “Of course. We must know what she is up to. It is ultimately our goal to bring Cathay into our alliance’s sphere of influence, though our plan could take a decade to accomplish.”

  Dhananad stomped his foot on the marble tiles. “Then you must see the importance of my marriage to her? Our son would have a claim to rule Cathay, which could move up your timeline by many years! Imagine, my infant son on the Dragon Throne, with me as Regent! It would give us access to more and better guns, and limitless firepowder. Not even the Paladins are fast enough to avoid a bullet!”

  He glanced back to see his Scorpion shifting on his feet, in denial of the truth.

  The Altivorc King cackled. “Humans! Always concerned about short-term gain. It is ironic that the Bovyans, the shortest-lived of your kind, seem to be the only ones who understand the effectiveness and subtleties of long-term planning.”

  Lord Benhan shared Dhananad’s scowl, but before either of them could speak, the King wagged a finger at the Levastyan. “Don’t try to deny it. Even though your ruling priests in Levastya now worship the Ancient Gods of Tivara, they do not seem to have embraced the wisdom of long-term thinking that we teach. Otherwise, you would not be threatening the Estomari in Korynth without having fully subjugated Selastya.”