Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Dragon Returns
It was still mid-morning when the tower hove into view. Bekhar was there to see it, silhouetted against the rising sun as the Hellfire continued making its way deep into the territory of the Three Clans, deeper than Bekhar had ever dared even when he was known as the dreaded Black Bekhar and commanded three powerful ships and crews. He had been in an unusually contemplative mood this morning, brought about by a piercing hangover and an unexpected thought.
Could the Syriots really win this war?
He wondered it again. He was no fan of the Hangyul navy, and most of his pirates came from the Ochre Islands, but he was arguably a native. Bekhar scratched his stubble, considering an odd thought that had been occurring to him. Was he on the wrong side?
Bekhar was new to the idea of sides, and the Syriots had just seemed like raiders of a peculiarly well-clothed sort. He mused over this as he stretched out over the railing. The call of the lookout broke his thoughts, the man also spotting the distant tower, and Bekhar squinted, seeing the emerging shape of the tower on an islet where the river widened into two channels. It was even bigger than he had first realized.
“Deodan!” Bekhar shouted to the pirate taking a piss off the railing nearby. “Go down in the hold and wake the boys up!”
“Righto Captain,” Deodan said, tying his sackcloth pants back up. “I don’t think they’ll be eager to claim a prize tower though.”
“Yeah. Shut up and bring them up here. There’s bound to be something inside.”
Bekhar squinted at the tower, noticing a small jetty by the island. The Hellfire began to bustle with movement, the ship’s captain putting a peculiar metal piece to his eye and staring at the tower. He then turned to another of his soldiers and said something in their barbaric tongue. Bekhar had only learned a few insults from the sailors before reaching the limit of his linguistic curiosity. He looked for the translator, seeing him approach. The man was already dressed in his fine and crisp emerald green tunic and looked alert as ever. Bekhar doubted the man even drank.
“Captain Salassi is readying his men,” Vermilies informed Bekhar, pausing as he passed by. “But he has ordered his gunners to hold fire. It seems the captain would prefer to sail past and hope they don’t notice.”
Over the waves, a blaring suona horn could be heard in the distance.
“Although it doesn’t seem likely,” Vermilies added with a grimace.
Bekhar had gotten used to the translator’s strange, lilting tones and could now understand most of what he said. Jade Sea Islanders sounded fairly close to most Hangyuls Bekhar had met, though they were a good ways away from his own home islands where they spoke their own proper Straits Dialect.
“A couple broadsides might knock that tower down,” Bekhar said as he stared at the disant tower. “We’ll be leaving down this river again, anyway. It would be best if we destroyed it now.”
The translator shrugged. “Maybe.”
Bekhar twisted his mouth in irritation. “Tell the captain what I said.”
“Oh, I’m sure the captain knows the effect of his own artillery.” The translator replied, heading off down to the cabins, moving between the emerging sailors, marines, and pirates. Bekhar scowled at his back, then fixed his scowl at his men.
“There’s a tower up ahead,” Bekhar said brusquely. “Captain Salassi might pass it by, or he might not. We might not be needed, but we’re going to be ready to fight, and it’s not like you bastards have anything better to do. Do you have your sabers?”
The half-dozen men gathered around him nodded. They looked very different from the ragged survivors of a few weeks ago, now outfitted with the light brown cloth seized in a fishing village and assorted Syriot navy blue, as well as spare sabers from the ship’s arsenal. Bekhar was still getting used to the idea of trying to wear the same kind of clothes, as well as working for a navy in the first place.
Uniforms. What a fucking strange way of doing things.
Bekhar hefted his new blunderbuss in his hands, taking another moment to marvel at it. It had been the sole concession to Bekhar’s demand for firearms and had impressed the crew greatly when they had seen it fired. One of the ship’s two blunderbusses, it was apparently considered a weapon useful only for ship-to-ship combat. To the pirates, however, it was much more impressive than the muskets they had seen.
Still, Bekhar needed two hands for his glaive, and with reluctance he handed it over to Lajos. The squat pirate beamed, a visible gap in his yellowed teeth. Lajos had always made Bekhar think of the very vision of beauty. It was necessary to think about it if anyone looked at Lajos for very long, like taking an antidote for poison. But he kept his eyes fixed on his first mate’s ugly face for a long moment.
“Might be you’ll get to try that piece out, Lajos. Stay ready.”
A small clap sounded out, and there was a splash of water just a few paces away from the ship, a few scattered drops even landing on the assembled pirates. Bekhar grinned. The tower had launched its first shot at the Hellfire, and the ship would undoubtedly respond. All eyes turned to Captain Salassi, who muttered a curse that Bekhar recognized thanks to his drinking sessions with some of the friendlier Syriot sailors, then barked out an order.
A small cannon in the deck below Bekhar and his men fired in response, causing some of the pirates to stumble in surprise. The sound of chipping rock was audible. At a few more crisp orders the ship began to veer to port. Bekhar identified the movement as the Captain deciding to present his broadside to the tower from this range rather than skirting along the island.
Well, it seems we won’t be needed, thought Bekhar, settling in to watch the long-distance duel. The tower was sure to be pounded at, and the crew would only face the remote possibility of a sudden death from the tower’s battery. It was a stout stone tower and would likely hold out for some time at this range, but appeared to be lightly manned. The river went closely past it along the main channel, but another channel banked around the other side, wrapping the islet in the middle of the river. It was a good defensive position, but this tower would not be enough to stop the Hellfire. However…
Bekhar squinted once again. Is that… the dragon?
A sudden splash of seawater erupted a dozen spans in front of the Hellfire, splashing Bekhar and his pirates. This time Bekhar didn’t smile. Not one little bit.
“Hah! Their aim’s getting better!” Deodan said with a chuckle. “I didn’t know their tower had-”
“Translator!” Bekhar shouted. “Vermilies!” He scowled at his pirates. “Someone get me the-”
“I see it, Captain,” announced the translator, sneaking up on Bekhar again. “As does Captain Salassi.”
A burst of shouting at the other end of the ship confirmed this. Bekhar made out a few choice Syriot curses.
“Oh, fuck.” Lajos had craned his head around Bekhar and noticed the ship. “It’s that dragon ship.” He turned to face his confused comrades. “The one we tried to take… back when…”
Fear and confusion showed on the pirates’ faces. They remembered the night. The night that had torn Bekhar’s personal navy apart and whittled his crew down to the eight pirates now present with him. And here, in a small islet of the Irragonda River, lurked the squat little ship with the dragon prow that had destroyed Bekhar’s pirate fleet.
As he watched, smoke puffed out from the approaching dragon’s mouth, and a shell whistled by overhead, ripping cleanly through a canvas sail. On the other side of the tower Bekhar now saw another ship emerging. It was clearly a merchant ship, but it bore the telltale markings of the second ship they had fought that day. The one with a full regiment of Hangyul soldiers below its decks.
Bekhar gritted his teeth.
“Vermilies?”
“Yes?” The translator replied, looking unusually blank-faced.
“I need you to tell Captain Salassi something.”
“Mm…”
“Tell him if he wants to
keep his ship he should leave immediately. Tell him I fought those ships with two of my own, and lost them both. The dragon ship is heavily armed and the merchant ship most likely has a regiment of Hangyul soldiers in the hold. I would gladly take either as a prize ship, but not today. That dragon ship is as well armed as the Hellfire and could likely take more hits.”
The translator let out a long sigh. “I will tell him.”
Vermilies hurried through the press of sailors and marines, speaking to Captain Salassi, standing immobile with the metal piece to his eye.
The captain responded briefly, then folded the metal piece and looked towards Bekhar, their eyes meeting for a moment. Captain Salassi turned to his helmsman, shouted an order, and as the helmsman hauled on the wheen the Hellfire began the slow turn away from the tower.
Bekhar felt a peculiar sense of relief. He was used to picking his fights and hadn’t enjoyed not having that control on this occasion. His pirates were quiet, apparently not bloodthirsty enough to complain. Still, Bekhar listened for dissent.
After a moment, Lajos muttered, “Well, when we get ourselves a ship and crew, we can take them later.” Deodan grunted agreement.
Turning to them, Bekhar shrugged. He could tolerate this sentiment. More than that, he shared it.
“Well, it seems the Syriot Captain is in agreement. The dragon looks like a fine ship indeed. We’ll have to take it from them sooner or–”
The pirates stumbled as the splintering sound of an impact reverberated through the air. A cannonball had penetrated belowdecks, and a piteous screaming began, resonating through the hold. From above, a sailor on the mast fired a musket at the distant dragon ship. A Syriot soldier below yelled at him, waving his saber angrily. Ah, the sweet sounds of naval combat, thought Bekhar, smiling slightly. It was almost a shame, putting the fight off. Some day, though, I will have my vengeance. Mark my words.
The Hellfire was now almost completely turned around, scattered shots landing around the unprotected rear of the ship. The dragon ship had turned to present its broadside, halting its movement, and was now rowing to catch up. Over the distant water Bekhar could hear drumming from the dragon, and the oars were moving at impressive speed, but Bekhar doubted very much that it could keep up. The wind was blowing out to sea and now filled the Hellfire’s previously slack masts. The merchant ship was hopelessly behind as well, and would undoubtedly be sunk if it was unsupported.
Before long, the two ships drew up, circling back around the tower. Bekhar figured they must have planned this trap. He didn’t particularly care about the Syriot’s overall strategy, but it was evident the Irragonda River could not be forced any further without a ground force. He clapped Lajos on the shoulder as he passed, making for Captain Salassi.
“Get back to drinking!”
The pirates chuckled behind him. They had been kept busier on Bekhar’s ships, but they weren’t really part of the crew here. Bekhar weaved through the crowd, sailors pulling on twisting rope and shouting to each other, young marines looking sickly relieved, a few with disappointed expressions. The Hellfire had taken a few hits, but sailed as fast as it had before, and the wailing from belowdecks soon ceased. Bekhar approached Captain Salassi, the translator glancing up with his customary bland disdain. The captain spoke a few words to his helmsman, then nodded to Bekhar.
“Where to now, Captain?” Bekhar asked in Syriot, ignoring the translator.
The answer was simple enough and required no translation.
“Tamani.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Resistance and Survival
“Right, left, right! Right, left, right! Right, left, right!”
The man’s fists flew in a flurry. He was lean and growing leaner by the day, a man from the very far west of the Three Clans. In a past life he had been known as Trang Kattaren, a smiling farmer with a loving family living on a small island off of Tamani. But that life was long gone, and the smiles had died along with it. Around him an evenly spaced band of men and women mimicked the same move, called out by the bare-chested monk at their head.
A gong rang. One of their few breaks. The men and women paused, taking the time to stretch. The man resisted the urge to continue punching and instead looked to the front of the gathering. In the wake of the Syriot invasion many had fled to the upland monasteries seeking sanctuary. These families were ranged around outside and had been promised entrance to the monastery buildings if the Syriots approached.
However, some came to fight and joined the only authority that had not yet abandoned them. Those willing to fight had stayed in the interior courtyard of the monastery, training under the merciless instruction of the monks and nuns of the Three Clans. It is their lack of mercy that brought me to them. These holy warriors will fight, not sit around and bicker like the boy emperor and his lackeys. One of these nuns strode amongst them, and began to speak in a firm, bellowing voice.
“The Syriot invasion force has taken Tamani, as well as the entire province. Our people are held hostage by this foreign force. And where is our Emperor? Where is our army?”
The people surrounding the saffron-robed nun grumbled in bitter resentment. They wore the cloaks of different sects, classes, and occupations, some stripped down to almost nothing, but were united by their common struggle. There was a new order to be found here. No one was judged by their past lives. They were only judged by their willingness to fight against the invader.
“Who knows? They retreated days ago and left the people alone. But we will never leave the people alone. If the Syriots attack tonight, we will fight to our death. This I swear.”
The other monks and nuns nearby nodded, and Kattaren believed them. He had heard rumors earlier that those who had advocated the peaceful way had been pushed out to go on pilgrimage. And that was right. Teachings of peace are fit only for years of peace.
“Some of you have said you cannot fight without weapons. We will teach you to do so.” The nun gestured to a group of monks, practicing with ceremonial halberds and strange whipping weapons. “We do have some weapons,” she said, “but they are not available for you. Only those who have trained in their use and have the proper alignment of thought and spirit may use them, and these monks are doing so. When you have mastered the martial arts, you will be more able to move on to using captured weapons. However, you will not have enough time to properly learn even this.”
Kattaren wasn’t so sure about that. He figured he could handle a halberd adequately enough, but he wouldn’t argue with the nun. He stretched his sore body, tired from the hours of constant instruction. Twice the current number had been present four days ago when the training had started. He had never been tempted to leave though. I have a mission now, like never before.
Trang Kattaren’s entire family was in enemy hands, and the abbot of this monastery had promised to train a Righteous Army to defend the realm, as they had done back in the old days. Kattaren had looked to enlist in the Hangyul army, but they had all died, changed sides, or fled. His fists clenched again, impatient for the gong to ring again. He knew he could never have been a monk in normal times. Trang Kattaren was not a patient man, and the war had stretched his patience even further. Gritting his teeth, he began practicing his punches once more, as the nun strode away to speak with another group.
The bare-chested monk in front of Kattaren’s group was seated on a blanket, contemplating the late afternoon sky, a bead of sweat trailing down his muscled torso. He noticed Kattaren and crooked an eyebrow. The gong rang again, and the monk rose to his feet.
“Once more,” he said simply, moving his left foot ahead, “but leading with the left.”
Trang Kattaren continued alone, dead to the world, thinking only of his family and of his vengeance.
◆◆◆
The girl barged into the hut, her eyes shining with glee.
“They were monsters, Grandmother Liu! Monsters!”
The ferrywoman shushed the excitable girl. Preeda was from a family just
down the road, and with the Syriots in control of Tamani the ferrywoman had been speaking with the villagers more than she ever had before.
“They’re just people from across the sea, Preeda. They’re not that different from you or me.”
“No, not the Syr… Syrah…”
“Syriots.”
“Not the Syriots. In their fences, they’ve been keeping monsters. They’re like big goats.”
“What did they say about going to the fences? More importantly, what did I say about that?”
Heat rose to the ferrywoman’s cheeks. The Syriots had been very clear that all inhabitants of Tamani island were to ignore their guarded quarter of the island. In the end, that had turned out to be their only iron-clad rule. The sentence was death. That could mean death for Preeda… or her family. Or the entire island!
The ferrywoman scowled down at the girl. “You shouldn’t have done that. What would your mother think if you had been caught?” She poked her hard in the belly. “And speared right through. Huh? Is that what you want?”
“But… no.”
“I don’t want you dying either. Keep your mouth shut about this. Did you tell anyone?”
Preeda sniffed. “I came straight to you,” she said, her voice sad and piteous.
“Keep it to yourself. Don’t even tell your family. They could be in danger.”
The girl was silent.
“Understand?”
“Yes, Grandmother Liu.” Preeda slowly got to her feet.
“Straight to home now.”
She strode off, a tear in her eye. “I just… I wanted to tell you. There are monsters here!”
The ferrywoman felt her heart softening, but she kept her countenance stern. “Go home. Now.”
She arranged her skirts, settling herself for her evening meal. Monsters, she says. The ferrywoman stirred her pot of soup around with slow, almost languid motions, the rippling of the wooden spoon in the broth so very like her oars. She raised a cup full of broth to her lips and slurped as Preeda closed the door behind her.
Landfall Page 17