Landfall

by Victor Serrano

  Relief shone on the faces of men who did not yet know the meaning of Syriot honor. Vermilies was relieved as well, satisfied that he would live out the day, and given the usual pace of Syriot successes that likely meant the worst was already over. Once the vaunted Syriot army had unloaded, it would be little more than a victory parade eastward through the territories of the Three Clans.

  And yet the guard captain stood there, obstinate, unyielding. “We surrender, and then what?” he demanded of Vermilies. “Your forces attack Perung, Luo Sareng, the other Clans?” He cast his scornful gaze across his silent, shamefaced men, and stared down the governor. “We are not greatly outnumbered. Even if we cannot hold them, we can buy time for-”

  “Captain!” bellowed Governor Tarude. “My authority is final! Commander Jenisutane is not here, and I would not tolerate this insubordination even from him. Do I need to put you in chains?”

  “Would that he was…” muttered the captain. He stood his ground for a moment, then spat on the ground. “Yes.”

  “Lieutenant… Lieutenant Herun!” screamed the governor. On the other side of the gate, a figure detached itself and hurried over, saluting. The lieutenant had the look of a man who really did not want to be there. Vermilies recognized a kindred spirit but had no energy for sympathy.

  “Take this man to the dungeon immediately!”

  “Yes sir,” the lieutenant and a nearby soldier grabbed the captain and pulled him unresisting down the stairs. “Sorry sir,” the lieutenant muttered to the man as they hauled him away.

  Governor Tarude was walking across the ramparts, bellowing orders to his men, two of whom began striding along the wall to carry along the order to surrender. A stern-faced guardsman with a bronze insignia on his cuirass bearing three red slashes leaned toward the governor, whispering something in his ear. Governor Tarude straightened and turned to regard Vermilies for a moment.

  “My officers can keep their swords, yes? It would tear at their honor to remove them.”

  “That should be fine,” murmured Vermilies. It wasn’t the standard approach, but they could always be disarmed after the Syriot troops entered.

  “Have them stack their muskets in the armory,” Governor Tarude was saying to the guardsman, nodding as he rested his hand on his sword hilt. “Let the garrison know-”

  “Look, my lord!”

  The governor turned, looking over the ramparts of the South Gate, and Vermilies hurried behind him. Several guardsmen, their spears stacked together, stared open-mouthed toward the harbor. A few balloons were rising in the distance, the scout craft inflating from the decks of specially-constructed open decked vessels. The Syriot navy floated just offshore, a few sloops darting in closer, risking the narrow strait and low water. The pride of Tamani’s navy had begun the day near those docks, some of the broken spars still visible, jutting out from half-sunken shattered hulks. In death they presented more of an obstacle to the Syriot landings than in life.

  The governor merely grunted. “Open the gate,” he said to the empty-handed guards, his bellow faded to a sullen mutter. “Where’s an officer when you need one?” He scratched at his head in a sudden intense ferocity, then snapped his hands away. The guards averted their eyes as they stormed down the stone steps that led to the demon gate.

  “Do try to make sure that your ships get word of the surrender,” Governor Tarude said to Vermilies in a quiet voice. “I am not a coward, you know.”

  Vermilies blinked. “I didn’t think-”

  “My daughters should be safe, and my son is still young,” the governor said, staring at the Syriot ships. “But I have a nephew in the Town Guard. Did you… see the Town Guard?”

  Vermilies nodded numbly, licking his lips, the memory of their musket volleys uncomfortably clear. He suspected his tunic bore fresh tears because of them.

  “They fought well.”

  “Fought and lost, I take it.”

  Before Vermilies could think to respond the massive gate began creaking open. Instead, he descended the stairs at a brisk pace, leaving the governor alone with his thoughts.

  A row of halberds had already been stacked upon each other in the castle’s courtyard, too long and unwieldy to bring inside the armory. A squad of Hangyul soldiers tossed their own halberds down, more than a few of them shooting hostile glares at him. Vermilies scanned the walls. They looked all but deserted by now.

  The demon gate clanked, the scraping coming to a sudden end as it finished opening. Vermilies stared outside. The main boulevard stretched before him, cleared of any traffic, an open road down the hill to the houses and shanties below. He stepped through the open gate.

  Vermilies had to force himself to keep to a dignified, measured pace. Everything could be undone by a stray shot by a jumpy Syriot musketeer and Vermilies was in no mood to tempt fate. So it took several long minutes of walking down the hill, spotting a few cautious natives hunkered down in their houses, before Vermilies neared the alleyway that served as a rough perimeter and came across a pair of Syriot marines kneeling behind crates.

  “Well now, look who it is,” announced Captain Salassi, turning around the corner and joining his pickets. “Let me guess. They cut out your tongue, wheeled all the cannon to the south, and vowed to fight to the death.”

  Vermilies smirked.

  “No?” Captain Salassi asked, brushing dirt off his leg, squinting over at the distant castle.

  “Not quite. The governor has agreed to surrender the castle, and they are grounding arms as I speak.”

  The captain whistled appreciatively.

  “Didn’t expect that. Isn’t Commander Jenisutane known for killing emissaries?”

  Vermilies sputtered.

  “What? I didn’t know that. When was this? Why wasn’t I told?” He blinked for a moment and took a breath. “He wasn’t there.”

  “Ah. Well, I can see why command wouldn’t have told you. It was a Qathari raid five years ago, he drew-and-quartered the man they sent to negotiate. Well, there’s always a level of risk involved in war. Not there? Interesting.”

  Vermilies couldn’t help but scowl.

  “Anyway,” the captain continued, “that presents us with a new set of dilemmas. The army is proceeding at its usual sluggish pace, unloading by rafts onto the island, and then using what is apparently the only ferry boat in this whole Gods-damned city to send over a few dozen soldiers here and there. If we take the castle and its cannons, the Hellfire can float in a few more, but…” he looked west, past the balloons and distant Syriot battleships, “it’s only a few more hours until dusk, and we can’t navigate through the wreckage at night. There’s been some fighting in the southern quarter of town, but everywhere else has been quiet.”

  Vermilies shrugged. The excitement of the day was draining out of him and he found the Syriot officer’s problem to be of little interest. Captain Salassi was frowning into the distance now, chewing worriedly at his lips, and sighed.

  “General Eben isn’t going to like this, but I’m going to need to take everyone here into the castle.”

  Vermilies said nothing as the Syriots began bustling about. One of Powluk’s former soldiers, grateful the castle wouldn’t need to be assaulted, offered his canteen to Vermilies. He drank deeply, waiting in silence for several minutes as the last of the Syriot soldiers arrived. There couldn’t have been much more than fifty, all told.

  Up close, and as his tension began to fade away, Vermilies began to notice the differences between the Syriots. While both wore blue uniforms, Captain Salassi’s marines had white epaulettes and sabers while the soldiers formerly under Captain Powluk’s command bore longer muskets, and carried short swords and bayonets. They were marshaled into a column as though they were an honor guard.

  “We’ll have to bluff our way in,” Captain Salassi said, half to himself, as he cast a skeptical eye over the assembled Syriots. “Well, there’s nothing else for it. Translator, stick with me at the front. They refrained from shooting you once so perhaps
they’ll continue that good habit.”

  Captain Salassi started off, the column into line behind him, Vermilies sauntering right beside. The Syriot glanced over. “You’re clearly not a soldier,” he said with a slight smirk.

  “I was in the first wave. I took a castle single-handed.”

  “Well…” the captain trailed off and chuckled. “I see the gate’s open. I’m also not seeing any muskets. But Gods, is that cannon mounted up there?”

  “Never mind that,” Vermilies replied, as he looked up to the glinting bronze cannon still in position along the wall.

  I suppose I should have asked the governor to remove it.

  The column of Syriots now passed through the open demon gate. The sullen defenders watched in silence, a few of noble caste wearing sheathed swords, as the nervous Syriots spread out into the castle’s open courtyard. Steps echoed from the ramparts above as Governor Tarude descended with an uncertain smile.

  “Over here, Captain.”

  Captain Salassi turned back, gesturing to a flag bearer, the shimmering colors of the Syriot empire held on a long lance.

  “Bring it over, Corporal, and heft the colors high.” Captain Salassi studied the governor for a moment. “Extend my regards to the governor for his high-mindedness and reassure him that he will find his decision to be a profitable one.”

  Governor Tarude nodded when the translation was made, then pointed down the boulevard at the docks, where another ferry with a large crimson standard was just pulling up to the jetty. “More of your soldiers are arriving. Let them know the battle is over.”

  “General Eben’s standard,” Captain Salassi said, butting in as he peered over with a frown. “I imagine he’ll have words for me when he sees the town square deserted. Governor, could you escort myself and Mr. Vermilies to the docks? The General will be expecting your formal surrender in person.”

  “Very well,” replied the governor, once Vermilies translated the request. “Why have you brought so few troops inside?”

  “As a mark of respect for your authority here, I asked the captain here to only bring in a token force,” Vermilies lied.

  “Well, you can be most persuasive,” the Captain added dryly after it was translated. “Please accompany me, governor.”

  The captain selected four soldiers to accompany them on the walk back to the docks. It was a trivially small number, and Vermilies could tell the governor was already starting to wonder at the situation, as no other Imperial soldiers were present. Vermilies could see silent movement in several houses and considered how very quickly things could go wrong.

  A band of only a hundred – no, fifty – could cut them down, kill the general at the docks, and guard it from any further landings today. The garrison could easily slaughter the remaining troops, with their armored tunics and swords.

  Vermilies felt a chill. The shock of the sudden attack would not paralyze the locals forever.

  The shock seemed to at least last for the duration of the walk to the docks, although the governor looked increasingly conflicted with every step. From the docks came a familiar bellowing.

  “Where the hell is Captain Powluk? There was supposed to be a perimeter here hours ago!”

  Blue-coated soldiers noted their approach as they spread out from the ferry. A single old woman stood there, oar in hand, watching the next wave of Syriots spread out into the marketplace with a pained expression. Of more immediate interest was the glowering face of General Eben, the hook-nosed and barrel-chested old Syriot striding up to jab a finger at Catain Salassi.

  “Captain Salassi! Where the hell is my perimeter? I’m going to court-martial you for this, you lazy bastard! I should just shoot you right now!” He hissed, looking like a powder keg on the verge of explosion, and shifted his glare to Governor Tarude. “Who the hell is this?”

  The governor quailed by Captain Salassi’s side as the Syriot answered.

  “Sir! Sorry for abandoning the docks, sir. We captured the castle, sir. This is the Governor of Tamani, sir.”

  The general fixed Captain Salassi with a steady glare.

  “You what?”

  “We captured the castle, sir. Lord Tarude, the Governor of Tamani, has surrendered.”

  The general shifted his steely gaze to the governor.

  “Um, as governor of Tamani, I humbly surrender and offer my services to the Syriot Empire. This man here,” he gestured at Vermilies, “promised the town would be secured and the lives of its residents kept safe.”

  A moment later Vermilies translated the governor’s words. The general looked at them in silence, taking in Vermilies’s explanation as the rest of the Syriot landing party secured the marketplace.

  “I’m sure he did promise that,” he said finally. “I accept your surrender, governor,” he added, extending his hand. Governor Tarude reached out and the two shook hands, formally ending the brief but bitter Battle of Tamani.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Not a Greedy Man

  The hilt of the glaive trailed through the sand, leaving grooved tracks along the beach. Bekhar did not care. If it attracted anyone’s attention, he would simply kill them. He plodded along the coast, feet sinking in the sand with every step he took, the harsh sun already beating down even in the early morning. Bekhar hadn’t slept much. After the battle and the hard swim to the coast he had barely been able to clamber into the jungle, spending a miserably wet night covered in fire ants. The raid had been a disaster. These new trading ships were completely different from anything he had seen before.

  Up ahead, the coast curved into a small inlet. His head pounded as if after a hard night of drinking, but despite that Bekhar perked up. There could be survivors there and perhaps even some loot that had washed ashore or been brought by raft. Before he had jumped overboard Bekhar had spotted a few small rafts rowing away from his sinking ships. He hefted his glaive, resting it on his right shoulder, and picked up his pace. Rounding a small hill, Bekhar saw a group of sheltering pirates in the shade of palm trees, talking amongst themselves. The wind and tide had masked their voices, but now they noticed Bekhar, squinting up at him, framed by the sun.

  “Is that… Black Bekhar?”

  Bekhar walked forward, his glaive still leaving a trail of sand in his wake.

  “Where have you been, Captain? It was pretty rough last night, huh?” asked one of the pirates, with a nervous edge.

  That was reasonable of him. Bekhar was known to be dangerously erratic. He walked up close to the pirate, one of those who had been left on the prize ship during the fighting.

  “Where is the loot?” Bekhar asked quietly. He knew they wouldn’t have abandoned the prize ship without grabbing what they could.

  “Um… what loot? We never grabbed any.”

  Bekhar nodded, almost as if he was conceding the point with grace and good humor. He looked down, and then rammed the haft of his glaive into the man’s throat, backing up a pace away as the pirate collapsed. Two other pirates quickly drew their swords and sprang up. Bekhar arced the glaive behind him, scattering sand as it trailed over the ground, and swung it into the nearest pirate’s skull. The axe head embedded itself in the pirate’s shattered skull, and Bekhar let go to dodge a wild strike from the other pirate. Backing away, Bekhar dodged two more slashes before grabbing the man’s wrist with his left hand and landing a solid punch with his right. The pirate stumbled back, Bekhar stripping him of the weapon.

  Bekhar glanced at the falchion, then tossed it into his right hand, swiftly delivering a horizontal cut to the pirate’s nose. The pirate gasped and staggered back, left hand clasped around the bleeding nose, right hand fumbling for a dagger at his belt. Bekhar glanced to his side. The other seven pirates sat still, a few now standing but showing no inclination to fight.

  Bekhar turned back to the pirate, lunged in, and sliced the man’s hand off from the wrist. A second later his back-hand tore through the man’s neck, and the pirate collapsed in a gurgling wreck.

  Bekhar stood,
stretching his shoulders, and calmly walked back to his glaive. Dropping the pirate’s falchion, he clasped his glaive firmly and planted his left foot on the dead pirate’s face. He wiggled the glaive, cracking the skull, until it broke free. Bekhar turned to the other pirates, sticking the weapon in the sand.

  “Where is the loot?” Bekhar asked again.

  “Under the raft,” the pirates replied in scattered unison, some pointing to the upside-down raft a few spans away.

  “Rejik thought to hide it from you,” added another.

  “I gathered that.”

  “We didn’t think it was a good idea,” he said with a nervous laugh. “But you know how Rejik gets. Got.”

  Bekhar walked to the raft, and the other pirates cautiously joined him. Together they pushed the raft back up. Underneath it was an unlocked chest. Opening it, the pirates smiled to see the gleaming silver coins within. Undoubtedly they had already seen it before, but it was a sight that put every pirate in a brighter mood. Though their backgrounds, ages, and beliefs could span all ranges it was a shared love of numismatic acquisition that united them in their common purpose.

  “You know I am not a greedy man.”

  The pirates nodded avidly.

  “I do not keep the shares from my men.”

  They nodded again.

  “There are certain costs that must be borne by the pirate leader alone. Outfitting a ship, buying provisions, maintenance… my share must cover all of this.”

  They nodded slowly.

  “The raiding expedition began with 63 men in two ships, and four rafts. We were shot to pieces by the enemy’s gunship, and now there are only the eight of us, and one raft. This is a significant financial setback.”

  They nodded sadly.

  “However, as your elected leader and first among equals, I fully intend to set this right. We will use these funds to outfit a new ship, hire more crew, and begin raiding once more. However, this small chest will barely cover these expenses. I will have to forfeit my entire share to do this, and you must understand that you will have to do so as well.” Bekhar paused to study the pirates around him. “You do still intend on a life of piracy, correct?”