Rococoa

  “I truly only have faith in one man. I’m speaking with him now,” he said, looking Simon dead in the eye. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “He will lead us in, but you are my Commandant. I trust you.”

  Simon nodded.

  ####

  The pirates disembarked the Island immediately. They treaded the rocky shore carefully as Blaine led the way to the deep, dark cove. The men lit torches and readied their swords. Kaba followed close behind Blaine.

  The walls of the cove had grown thick with slimy algae that varied in color. Sea barnacles decorated the rocks they walked on.

  From the distance, Kaba could hear low moaning noises.

  “What was that?” Leny asked timidly, visibly shaking.

  “That’s the sound of death,” Blaine whispered.

  He turned to the pirates. Kaba had first thought it was the glow of the flames reflecting in his deep brown eyes but he was wrong. The deep umber of his eyes had been replaced with blood red irises that illuminated in the darkness. Kaba didn’t hesitate for even a moment as he swung his blade, Poisoned Steel, but Blaine was swift. He ducked before the blade made contact and Kaba immediately came back with an overhead strike, slicing a piece of Blaine’s finger away.

  Blaine squealed a high pitched call, like a wounded animal calling for assistance. His reinforcements came, leaping from the darkness and squealing the same beastly outcry Blaine had unleashed. They were men with blood red irises that glowed in the steep darkness of the cove.

  The pirates immediately took action.

  Blaine fled from the chaos, holding the hand that Poisoned Steel had injured. Kaba chased after him, avoiding the ensuing battle.

  Blaine led Kaba deeper into the cove. The rocky tunnel opened into a massive grotto where the walls shimmered blue from the clear waters as the sun shone through an overhead opening.

  To Kaba’s left, inside a colossal, dark cave that surely led to the outside, was a ship that was nearly as large as the Damwedo. Its sails had been tattered and torn and its wood was molded and darkened from years of neglect.

  Blaine leaped across the deep, still river that separated the grotto where four women stood on the other side; one with skin and hair as pale as the midnight moon, one of tan brown skin and straight dark hair and two of skin and hair as dark and deep as Kaba’s. Blaine sat beneath the women, whimpering as an injured animal would to its master.

  Kaba could see the corners of the pale haired woman’s mouth raise slowly.

  “Well it seems as though he’s come to us sisters,” he heard the voice hiss behind him.

  Kaba turned swiftly, swinging his blade simultaneously.

  His steel rapier was caught mid-swing.

  The ebon-hued hand that caught Kaba’s sword latched on with an unrelenting vice grip. Dark blood oozed down its arm, decorating the stony grotto with its deathly red contrast. The shadows of the cave failed to conceal the face that the hand belonged to and the eyes that glowed red with brazen ferocity.

  “Buziba,” Kaba whispered, feeling the word echo in his mind. He stared into the eyes of the enormous minion that was once his own brother. He hadn’t aged a day beyond the twenty-five years he had been on that fateful day fifteen years ago.

  “I think he knows this one, sisters,” the pale haired woman at Buziba’s side uttered slyly.

  Kaba’s eyes couldn’t tear away from his brother’s, even to realize the pale witch had suddenly materialized.

  “It would seem so,” a second voice of smooth seduction whispered from behind him.

  Kaba snapped from his trance and drew his revolver, simultaneously jerking Poisoned Steel from Buziba’s grasp. Leaping backward, he swung his blade blindly at the witch he’d heard behind him, hitting only the air.

  Kaba spun back to Buziba as he came charging at him, all four witches watching amusedly from behind. Kaba dived to the side, just barely escaping Buziba’s crushing blow.

  With calculated swiftness, Kaba fired a shot toward the Crafters.

  The grinning, pale-haired Crafter fell lifeless, assuring Kaba the enchanted bullets worked.

  The Crafters’ look of astonishment told him instantly that they hadn’t expected this to happen.

  The screeching howl of Blaine’s high pitched voice from behind startled Kaba. Blaine was surely calling for help again, which made Kaba think back to his comrades. Had they fallen to the Crafters’ zombies?

  Kaba stood with his blade poised at Buziba and his revolver at Blaine as his head darted between the two. Across the grotto he spotted a glint, something so bright he couldn’t ignore it. The glimmer of this object was not blinding, it was pleasant and almost hypnotic. For only a moment Kaba was dazed, entranced by the beauty of the radiance of this massive and beautiful object. But his trance was broken as the air in his lungs was stolen from him.

  Two of the three remaining witches stood before him but something behind him had encased his throat in a death grip, lifting from the ground.

  As the witches began shouting the ancient curse, Kaba felt his blood run cold. Regardless of the heavy gear he wore, he was freezing. From some last moment of desperation, he realized he had not dropped his revolver and began firing wildly.

  No more than a moment later he was dropped to the rocky grounds, gasping for air.

  “What have you done?!” One of the witches shouted.

  “You fool!” Another screamed, terrified.

  A furious, howling whirlwind raged through the grotto.

  Kaba covered his head, peeking out as the Crafter women raised their hands in unison, as if in prayer, in an attempt to satiate whatever Kaba had angered. They shrieked in distress as the whirlwind lifted the three of them and their dead sister, tossing them through its currents violently.

  Kaba could feel his body lift from the ground. He scrambled to grab something, anything that would stop him from being sucked into the vile storm. His arms searched wildly before a hand found his own, gripping him tightly. He braced the hand tightly for his life, squeezing it with both hands.

  Kaba’s eyes met the large brown ones that stared back at him, wide and alarmed. Behind him the storm had begun to subside as a flare of purple light sent Kaba flying forward, falling on top of the enormous person that rescued him.

  “Brother!?” He said, his hands scrambling for the sides of Buziba’s face. Buziba’s wide, brown eyes were closed now. Kaba forced an ear to his mouth, listening for breathing. Nothing came. He rigorously tapped the side of Buziba’s face in an attempt to wake him.

  No, he thought. No, no, no. For the first time in fifteen years he’d looked into the eyes of his brother. He was sure he was dead, sure that the last bit of his family was gone forever.

  “Cap’n, sir!” Simon called from the entrance of the grotto.

  Kaba heard footsteps echo in the empty cave, surely the other members of the Damwedo’s crew.

  “No,” he whimpered, his head falling against Buziba’s body. All Kaba could pay attention to were the sounds of his own sobs and whimpers against his dead brother’s chest.

  He could feel the other men behind him but he didn’t care if they saw this vulnerability. He had to release this, all of the anguish and hopeless expeditions. His brother had been avenged but that hadn’t brought him peace.

  “You squirt,” a groggy voice said, vibrating his face.

  Kaba’s head shot up.

  “Still crying,” Buziba said weakly, forcing a grin.

  Tears flooded Kaba’s eyes as his brother attempted to sit up, opening his brown eyes.

  The crew gasped behind Kaba as he flung his arms around Buziba. It was only when he brought his left hand up to hug him back that Kaba remembered the wound from him grabbing Poisoned Steel.

  “What was that?” Buziba asked woozily.

  Kaba looked over to the opposite side of the grotto. The hypnotic shimmer met his eyes once more, only now he could see it more clearly. It was a massive jewel – larger than a cannonball and more purple than the night sky ben
eath the lights of an Aldonian metropolis.

  “It was the jewel with which they trapped their captives’ souls,” Kaba uttered. “The source of their power.”

  Kaba could see a small hole in the side of the jewel, surely where his bullet had landed. He turned back to his crew, who was covered in blood and grime from their battle in the cove. He released his brother and stood, helping Buziba to his feet.

  “Crew,” he bellowed before them as they popped to attention. “This is my brother, Buziba. He comes with us, no questions asked.”

  “Aye, aye cap’n,” the crew said in unison.

  After pushing the Damwedo back to sea, they set sail from the haunted remains of the Island Kingdom. In his cabin, Kaba gazed into the massive shimmering jewel that had once belonged to the Crafters. Now the Crafters belonged to it, absorbed by its power. This would be worth a fortune on the market but its power was priceless.

  “Can’t believe all of this is yours, now,” Buziba said, poking around the cabin.

  “You mean ours,” Kaba said from his desk. “You’re my brother; what’s mine is yours.”

  “So, where to from here?”

  Kaba considered the question seriously for a moment, gazing back into the jewel.

  “Cap’n sir,” Blaine said timidly, poking his head into Kaba’s cabin. He’d been forgiven, the crew understanding the influence that the Crafters had upon him. Kaba regarded him silently.

  “I think I may know someone who might be able to tell us the origin of the jewel.”

  “And where might we find this person?” Buziba asked, crossing his arms.

  “On my home Isle of Caris, in the Cayan Isles. My people called him a mystic,” Blaine said.

  Kaba considered Blaine’s words. Perhaps they should have consulted the Order first. Perhaps he should have left the jewel where it was. But Kaba was all too curious of this new treasure to let it go that easily.

  “What do you say Buziba?”

  Buziba’s wide eyes found his brother, a grin spreading across his face.

  “I say we find out how to use this thing to our advantage; we’d be some of the most feared sailors on the waters,” Buziba answered.

  Kaba grinned at his brother’s words. “My thoughts exactly.”

  MARCH OF THE BLACK BRIGADE

  Balogun Ojetade

  One

  February, 1778

  The snow that fell over New York City, like a gossamer curtain over a frost-covered window, was tinged pink by the bloody mist in the air, birthed by arquebus and caliver and tomahawk.

  The Queen’s Rangers – the elite of the British forces – charged the Patriots, weaving past burning corpses caused by the Patriots’ maple grenados – apple-sized fragmentation bombs equipped with a small clockwork mechanism on top, above which sat a propeller that resembled the “wings” on the seeds of a maple tree. Wound up by hand, the maple grenado would then be released into the air, flying upward to a distance of sixty feet, then drifting down like a maple seed, exploding on contact with the first thing it touched.

  The Patriots stormed forward to meet their red-coated foes, stumbling along the raised mounds of snow.

  Exhausted, soldiers from both sides lost their footing on the icy, uneven ground and collapsed, never to rise again as they were impaled by bayonet or crushed by boot-heel.

  Soldiers garbed in red and blue tumbled, tripped, cursed and crawled their way across the battlefield, taking and losing lives and quenching the earth’s thirst for blood.

  A frightening roar rose from behind the horde of Patriots.

  The Queen’s Rangers slowed their advance.

  The Patriots retreated to their flanks, leaving space for a hulking figure that loomed in shadow in the distance.

  Puffs of steam burst from its iron snout. The massive figure roared again; its huge, fangs flashed a glint of silver. The figure galloped toward the Rangers, leaving the shadows behind. A grizzly bear, with flesh of iron, came into view. A big bronze key protruded from the creature’s back, turning slightly with each pounding step.

  Captain James Youngblood, commander of the Queen’s Rangers, raised his saber high. “A Franklin Sentinel! Retreat!”

  The soldiers turned on their heels and ran, careening across the snow and ice.

  The Franklin Sentinels – clockwork monstrosities, given sentience by bits of Benjamin Franklin’s sanity – were the most feared weapons in the Patriots’ arsenal.

  The iron bear closed on the Rangers, slashing with claws the size of short swords and gnashing with teeth the size of daggers.

  Limbs, entrails and red cloth peppered the alabaster ground.

  Ranger-upon-Ranger was left dying in the snow.

  The Patriots charged forward again, fueled by the realization that New York City would soon be theirs.

  There was an explosion. The Franklin Sentinel teetered, hopping on one leg and then fell with a loud crash.

  The clockwork bear’s left leg leaked oil from just below its hip.

  The Patriots halted their advance, searching madly for the source of the blast.

  The bear struggled to its feet.

  Another explosion echoed across the frigid sky.

  The Franklin Sentinel went down again.

  Again, the automaton pushed itself up. Steam and bits of copper wire and gears poured out of large holes in its chest and back.

  A rhythmic tick-tock – a din like the alternate tapping together of two immense spoons, one wood and one silver – came from a line of dead trees in the distance.

  “Iron Horses!” A Patriot shrieked. “Scoot!”

  Two black, metal vehicles, balanced on two spiked iron wheels, broke the tree-line. The vehicles were heavily armored. The metal plates at the front were bashed together to resemble a crude horse’s head. The iron horses’ sharp lines and large rivets made the machines look even more disconcerting and fearsome. With the thick armor that wrapped around the front and sides of the vehicle, a soldier would need incredible luck or unmatched skill to shoot the rider of an iron horse that was bearing straight down upon him.

  Thus, the Patriots followed their comrade’s advice and ran, scattering in all directions.

  Behind them, a man of bronze and brass rolled. Its feet were similar to, but much smaller than, the spiked iron wheels on the iron horses. Its hands, however, were perfectly human-shaped; odd, as its maker had not bothered to give the creature eyes and only the rudimentary features of a Black man’s face. The metal man stood as tall as the clockwork bear and its arsenal made it just as fearsome – five flintlock pistols worn around its waist, locked in place by either magnetism or magic, or perhaps a bit of both; it bore a blunderbuss on each thigh and in its perfectly formed hands, it carried an arquebus. Smoke billowed from the mini-cannon’s muzzle.

  The metal man fired the arquebus once more.

  The Franklin Sentinel’s head flew off its shoulders.

  The clockwork bear’s body collapsed and remained unmoving.

  The iron horses ran down the fleeing Patriots, crushing them under their tremendous weight.

  The few surviving soldiers scampered off, their cries of fear and agony resounding across the battlefield.

  A cheer rose up from the Queen’s Rangers.

  The men on the iron horses and their metal companion rode up to the Rangers. The two men dismounted their “steeds.”

  One was a man of average height; a sturdy, rugged man, but so handsome, the women thought him beautiful, with his shoulder-length, silky, black hair and flawless russet, reddish-brown complexion.

  The other man was a looming figure, who, when he was still, appeared to be a statue carved from onyx. As he approached, the Rangers chanted his name.

  “Tye! Tye! Tye Tye!”

  “Please, please,” Tye said waving his hands before his chest. “Just call me ‘Colonel Titus Cornelius;’ or simply ‘Colonel Tye.’”

  The Rangers laughed.

  Captain Youngblood thrust his saber into the air.
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  The laughter stopped.

  “It took you long enough,” the Captain spat.

  Colonel Tye frowned. “Whatever do you mean, Captain? We were heading over to the Velvet Kitten when we saw you stumbling about in the snow, leaving a trail of yellow behind you and figured we had better help out.”

  Everyone laughed; everyone, except Captain Youngblood.

  “I doubt the Velvet Kitten would serve a savage, a black savage and a…whatever the hell you are, Barbey.”

  “I am ut yuh eepuh caw ‘automaton’,” Barbey said. “I am what your people call an ‘automaton.”

  The beautiful man with the silky black hair lurched toward Captain Youngblood. “Call me a savage one more time and…”

  Captain Youngblood’s hand shot to his saber.

  Colonel Tye pressed the back of his hand against the beautiful man’s chest, stopping him. “It is alright, Talako. The 4th Earl of Dunmore has requested our presence. We have to scoot.”

  “Aye, Colonel,” Talako said, “Let us take leave. It’s cold, after all; I am sure the Captain would like to change out of those wet knickers.”

  Laughter erupted from among the soldiers again.

  “Shut up!” Captain Youngblood hissed.

  Colonel Tye and Talako mounted their iron horses and rode off with Barbey cruising behind them.

  ####

  Colonel Tye pulled into the winding station. Talako and Barbey pulled in beside him.

  All clockwork devices needed winding up in order to work. The iron horses – and Barbey – were no exception.

  With small, easily portable devices, a key was usually enough. Larger or more powerful clockwork technology however, required more than a simple key.

  The power of the water in a watermill was transferred to the device needing winding through immense cogs that powered a large spindle that protruded from the side of the mill. This spindle was then fitted with a metal cap, designed to fit into the clockwork device.

  Levers and gears were then employed to allow the measured winding of the device.

  The iron horses would take five minutes to “charge;” Barbey, fifteen.

  “Hey, Talako,” Tye said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s grab a bowl of stew at Mrs. Wilkes’ before we meet with Governor Murray; I’m famished.”