Inside the village one of the foreign soldiers with a strange woolen cap was having an argument with a fisherman next to the village well. Beside him stood a slender Jade Sea Islander in a fancy robe with a strained expression, interjecting occasionally in a barbarian tongue, but now speaking in the Standard Dialect that wasn’t far off from Bekhar’s native tongue.
“As I told you before, you are now part of the Sss…” the islander trailed off, noticing Bekhar’s approach.
Having no idea what was going on, Bekhar simply decided to walk in and speak to the foreigners. He grinned at them, the universal symbol of friendliness, and grasped his glaive.
◆◆◆
Vermilies blinked. He had thought the island off Tamani was provincial, but now he had spent the better part of a week among the most backwards people in the Three Clans, “securing the coast” for the Empire. This particular specimen, however, had no comparison. Bare-chested, tall, with mutton chops, a ring of shark teeth around his neck, and a weapon that was half-halberd, half-axe resting on his shoulder, smelling like the sea-soaked carcass of a putrefying walrus and flashing a roguish smile as if he were the very embodiment of charm.
“Hello!” the stranger announced in heavily accented Standard Dialect. “Who nation is that?” he asked, pointing at Captain Salassi.
The captain looked unflappable, as if this sort of thing were a regular occurrence. Sadly, given the gist of their orders, this seemed an increasingly likely possibility. Captain Salassi raised an eyebrow at Vermilies but otherwise seemed completely unperturbed.
“You have the gift of gab, Mr. Vermilies. Talk to the savage. If you think he needs killing…” he shifted his hand towards the pistol hidden in his greatcoat, “kindly give me a wink. I trust your judgment.”
The two had developed a mutual level of respect over the past week, tempered by the fires of ungrateful superiors and hardened by the rigors of gunboat diplomacy.
“An offer I may soon take up,” muttered the translator, as he noticed the insolent fishmonger was also gaping at the newcomer. So he’s not from around here.
“We are agents of the Syriot Empire, and this territory is now under our control,” Vermilies declared.
The savage scratched his chin for a moment. Several moments. Finally…
“Sorry. I don’t… what?”
Vermilies sighed. Years of the finest training in languages studying under upper-class immigrants from the great cities of Kintari and Hangyul, and here I am, swatting mosquitoes away in coastal villages where the natives can barely count up to ten in their own language.
“Syriot. You know.” He pointed out to the sea. “West. Long way.”
“Ah, ah, Syriot. I know. Yes, long way. Why you here?”
“Why you here?” asked Vermilies impatiently.
The savage smiled. “Kill you all. Take your things.” He squeezed the haft of his glaive, then let go and laughed. “Maybe.”
Vermilies gawped at the man. He turned his head and started winking rapidly at Captain Salassi, who didn’t take any notice. The Captain stared at the savage as if he was mesmerized, and then said, “hang on, Mr. Vermilies, do you think this man could be a pirate?”
He turned to Vermilies and saw the translator winking.
“What, really?” The Captain looked at the savage. “So he is a pirate. Don’t be so hasty, Mr. Vermilies. Our orders are to raise a local militia, you know.”
“Gods, Captain, are you serious? The man threatened us, you know! Sort of.” Vermilies looked back to the smiling barbarian. “What do you want, man?” Vermilies asked in Standard Dialect.
“All I want is trade. Maybe.” The stranger smiled. “I am wealthy man. Many gold.”
Vermilies snorted. “Honestly Captain, I think we should kill him.”
“What did he say, Mr. Vermilies?”
“Oh, he said he’s rich, and he wants to trade.”
“Did he…”
“He’s clearly full of shit, sir. I think–”
There was the sudden sound of a musket firing, soon followed by primal yelling in the distance.
“Fuck,” cursed the captain, looking at the milling soldiers behind him. “Form a line on me, now!”
The Syriot soldiers began rushing up as a band of savages came storming up the path. Vermilies watched in gaping amazement. They had shaggy hair, at least half with short beards, unlike the natives here. But the savage turned and began yelling at them.
“Stop, you bastards! There’s no killing yet!”
“But we heard-”
“You were taking forever-”
“Shut up. Deodan, Lajos, go bring the gold.”
Vermilies struggled to follow. It was similar enough to Standard Dialect that he understood the gist of the conversation. Gold? Interesting.
“Captain,” he butted in, as the soldiers formed around him, muskets now brought to bear on the savages. “I do not think they mean us harm. Have your men lower your weapons!”
“Ugh. Make up your damn mind, Vermilies.” The captain’s mouth twitched. “Troops, lower your muskets.”
There was a sudden silence to the proceedings, stopped only by a single blue-coated soldier who approached out of the jungle, carrying a deer carcass over his shoulder. “Captain, I got us supper!” He announced excitedly, halting in confusion when he noticed the savages.
Captain Salassi fixed the man with a frown. “Trooper Kale. What have I told you about firearms?”
“Uh… that they are what divides the civilized races from the primordial sludge-”
“Trooper, what else have I told you about firearms?”
“That… my musket is like a good woman and I should lay her by my bed beside me and not keep getting it mixed up with the others.”
Some of the soldiers began to chuckle.
“Ugh. Dammit, Kale. Take that deer back to the ship and just stay there.”
“Uh, yes sir,” Trooper Kale said, heading back to the Hellfire through the line of Syriot marines, still hefting the deer carcass on his shoulder.
A couple of the savages were now hauling a chest to their leader and set it down heavily. The fishmonger had backed away, but curiosity kept him around, although most of the other locals had scattered.
“Right,” Vermilies attempted. “Let’s start again. My name is Enbo Vermilies. I represent the Syriots. Syriots. Who are you?”
“Am Bekhar!” the savage announced. “Hello.”
The fishmonger stared in shock. “Bekhar? … Black Bekhar?”
The savage smiled at him. “Right here. In your village.”
The man turned pale and shrank back, then turned and ran for his shack.
“Heheh. Hello Syriots. I want this ship.” He pointed at the Hellfire. “This one. How much?”
Vermilies looked at the chest, then at the inquiring gaze of Captain Salassi. “The man wants to buy your ship.”
Salassi snorted. “The man needs to have quite a lot of gold to buy a ship as good as the Hell- oh my.”
Bekhar had opened the chest and gestured to it. The entire first rank of soldiers instinctively took a step forward, peering in. Gasps flowed down the line of Syriots as they stared at the shimmering coins held within the chest.
“Well…” said Captain Salassi, “he probably does have enough gold to buy a ship like this at fair market value, but I’m not about to sell a ship to a barbarian! We have a war to win. I’m not even authorized to consider that.”
“Mm, well, I’m sure you are aware of the opportunistic tendencies of the Syriot Empire… I’m sure something could be arranged.”
“There is no way I am selling my ship.”
Vermilies thought for a second. “You mentioned something about a militia. Indeed, it is in our orders, though it seemed a bit far-fetched.”
“Tell them I would be willing to hire them as a local mercenary detachment.”
Vermilies shrugged and relayed the request. He looked amused at Bekhar’s response. Bekhar then launched i
nto a long discourse, and Vermilies positively blanched.
“What is it?” asked Captain Salassi.
“He says he wants to buy himself a title.” Vermilies tried, and failed, to keep from laughing. “Apparently he is aware of the custom, as they sometimes do it in the Three Clans as well. He says they are willing to be mercenaries, but he personally wants to be a noble in the Syriot Empire. He also wants the first prize ship we capture in battle of at least 1,000 tons displacement as well as first pick of any slaves. He offers an initial amount of forty pieces of gold and sixty of silver for the title of nobleman, the ship, and ten muskets – and yes I told him the muskets were completely off-limits – but expects to receive a monthly salary of one gold piece per head, or four silver pieces per head, whichever is most convenient.” Vermilies took a breath.
Captain Salassi stared at the grinning savage.
“He is aware even nobles in the Syriot Empire obey orders? And have genealogies that go back centuries? And… and… this is just absurd. I reject it out of hand. You can’t haggle for a noble title. Tell him this is absurd and… well I’ve never heard anything quite like it.”
Bekhar said a few words in his guttural accent.
“Oh, and he wants some of that deer, too.” Vermilies added.
Bekhar grinned, as Vermilies stared in the distance, lost in thought.
“Sir… we do have captaincies that can be bought.”
“There is no way that brute is going to be equal in title to me,” Captain Salassi said heatedly. “Fourteen years I’ve served, and no upjumped barbarian is going to-”
“I hear what you’re saying, but…” Vermilies began.
◆◆◆
Two hours later, the newly titled Captain Bekhar and the members of the First Colonial Guards celebrated their enlistments over a hearty meal of stewed venison, as Captain Salassi began drafting a very carefully worded letter about the origins of his new militia force.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Living Legend
The cicadas continued their incessant chirping in rolling hills and jungle outside Luo Sareng. Banisu watched a herd of water buffaloes stroll in placid contentment beside the rice paddies and gazed in jealousy at the herons that would sail in the air and land along the water bank. There was no war for them. They knew their place.
Banisu grimaced, thinking of the disappointment he had faced in this crude little border town, on the eastern edge of Kintari territory. They had spent days heading east, days of hushed whispers outside the loose cloth of the palanquin as the Imperial procession had picked up followers and drifters and aristocrats. All to end their exodus here, at the far end of the Three Clans. There was nothing east of here but the mountain pass, guarded by trolls some said, and the Veldtlands beyond. Nowhere to run.
A dragonfly buzzed along, and a swarm of midges pestered one of the water buffaloes, whose tail gave a languid slap in annoyance. Ah, yes, the petty wars of animals. Even they can’t live in tranquility forever. Yet here I sit, powerless and unwanted. Unless…
It had been a desperate hope; the silly hope of a boy. To buy the services of a living legend. And yet… they were sighted not so far away…
Even less far away was the distant form of Lin Karatsu, making his way down the winding dirt path that led to Luo Sareng. It was a tall form, taller than most boys of sixteen. Banisu tried to still the rise of excitement. Lin was the son of a Kintari lord, but more than that, he was one of the very few Banisu could count on as a true friend. He’s probably just hurrying back to say it was unsuccessful. Or I’ve been summoned for some ceremony, or the army is marching, or… or…
Banisu half-smiled at the thought. Well, it wasn’t so unreasonable, was it?
The Emperor smiled, waiting for Lin to draw closer.
“So?” he asked as Lin arrived.
“They’re coming!” Lin said, unable to hide his excitement, positively gleaming with sweat and joy in the bright summer sunlight. “Well, he didn’t agree to anything, but he’s bringing his army here. They should be over the pass by nightfall.”
“Really? Prince Sharnipur will support me?”
“Well, either that or they mean to invade.”
They chuckled. The dragonfly soared off into the steaming rice paddies but Banisu took no more notice. He had affairs of state to attend to.
“Even that might be useful,” Banisu said. “I don’t think Abbot Cibu or the Lord Marshal ever plan to fight.”
“And I was worried I might be too late,” Lin added. “It seemed like he was about to leave. ‘I have many offers,’ he had said. But I convinced him to stay.” Lin beamed at this.
“Well, it’s time to break the news. This should be interesting.”
“You haven’t told them?”
“I thought I would wait. But with marauding war elephants on the way, I suppose I should inform the army commander.”
The two boys chuckled, then walked to the meeting-house. It was a spacious but humble dwelling for the aristocrats, senior monks, and officers who had swarmed inside for their endless conferences. This was a sleepy provincial town even during market days and they had never before seen so many new arrivals.
“Should I change into more formal wear?” Lin asked. “I’ve been running in this for hours.”
“Never mind that, just wait here.”
Noticing their approach, one of the Kintari guards rapped his spear several times on the wooden flooring beside the door. The fleeing leaders of the Three Clans had requisitioned this estate, a large manor with outbuildings from a cadet branch of the Kintari family. The family and the estate both had fallen on hard times, the timbers half-rotted and letting in light, with faded stains all along the entrance.
“Emperor Banisu approaches,” the guard intoned, sliding open the bamboo and rice paper door.
The boy emperor entered the room, looking briefly at the maps and scrolls scattered about. The room was filled with a motley assortment of noblemen, bureaucrats, and military officers. Huddled at the back of the room, Lord Karatsu noticed his son and frowned in confusion. He was middle-aged and wrinkled, his hair almost entirely gray, but was tall like his son.
In the middle of the bustling aristocrats Abbot Cibu was mediating a discussion between General Samuso Kintari and Lord Marshal Feruke Hangyul, but the conversation stopped as they noticed Banisu’s approach. All around the room the officers and nobles bowed, but Abbot Cibu and the Lord Marshal didn’t bother, a pointed slight that Banisu could do nothing about.
“Gentlemen, I have received a missive. Earlier today I requested the services of the renowned Prince Sharnipur, the Gutharan with the army of war elephants and Veldtlanders. It has come to my attention that he is now en route with his forces, to discuss contractual terms.”
“You what!?” The Lord Marshal sputtered, struggling to moderate his reply. Around the room faces grew worried, a few merely looking surprised at the outburst.
“Emperor,” Abbot Cibu began in a scolding tone, but Banisu dismissed it with a wave. The monk’s eye twitched. He will remember that, no doubt, and take it out on me later. But this is worth it.
“We have lost Tamani and our forces have retreated all the way to the border. I have waited here a week for a plan of action, and it seems we are in need of more forces and the proper martial spirit. I believe Prince Sharnipur’s force will give that impetus.”
The Lord Marshal grimaced, the side of his head pulsing. He was an ugly man, though powerfully built, and the moles on his head seemed to stiffen in unison at the thought of any usurpation of his authority. Banisu fixed him with a long gaze.
I believe this man killed my father all those years ago, no matter what they say about his self-immolation. Killed him and gave me the throne, such as it is.
“Emperor,” he began sternly, “mercenaries are more trouble than they are worth, and the clan armies are more than sufficient to defeat this enemy. We were just formulating a plan of march to Napthalong. By concentrating our f
orces with Shinzen’s levies inside the citadel we hope to defend the interior-”
“Lord Marshal, I thought I made myself clear previously that I expected a plan for attack. I was unaware you had disregarded that. This army is marching tomorrow with Prince Sharnipur’s men under a Lord Marshal who is willing to fight. Do you understand?”
The room was shocked into silence. The emperor technically had the ability to remove and appoint new Lord Marshals, but this had never been exercised. Everyone in the room remembered the previous emperor who had attempted to restrain the clans’ authority. It was hard to imagine the previous emperor’s son would breach protocol in such a manner.
Abbot Cibu stood up, his face impassive but his voice in the same booming tone, as if he were a ringing warning bell.
“Your highness, if I may, I would like to speak with you privately.”
Ignoring him, the Emperor addressed the Kintari general, a man he had only the slightest familiarity with. Samuso Kintari was gray-haired and slender, and he had inherited the leadership position in his clan just a few years earlier.
“General Kintari, your thoughts on the campaign, if you please.”
It was a gamble, but from days of pacing the estate in bored isolation Banisu knew that General Kintari and the Lord Marshal had frequent and heated disagreements over policy. Besides, these clan leaders all hate each other. That’s the only reason one of them hasn’t claimed the Empire for themselves.
“Your highness,” the general saluted sharply, “I believe we should move towards Tamani, sending messages to the Shinzen units to meet us along the march. Once there, we should cautiously invest the castle and assess the enemy’s strength.”
“Good,” said the Emperor, mainly approving of the general’s tone. Attitude is the important thing. Details can be amended. “And Prince Sharnipur’s force?”
“I would have to discuss terms with him to be sure…” the general said cagily. He cast a glance at Marshal Hangyul. “The Lord Marshal has reasonable concerns about mercenaries. However, we could use more experienced troops in this fight.”
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