The push was solid, but these guards were fully armored in the Hangyul style, with a heavy cuirass protecting their chest. Behind the guardsman were at least three others, and they extended their swords in the gaps around him and pushed him forward in the narrow staircase like an armored hedgehog. Bekhar stepped back and ruthlessly chopped into a swordsman’s right leg, cutting through the leather straps and severing his artery. He then drove his glaive into the man’s cuirass and strained forward, pushing into the line of men. They were stuck behind the dying guard, but the group heaved against the glaive, sending Bekhar’s straining feet sliding inexorably backwards into the hallway.
Behind him he could hear pounding feet but could not afford to look away.
If they are Hangyul, I am dead.
To his right a scraggly head emerged, glancing at the scene, and then pushed into the archway. Lajos drew his falchion and slashed at the guard’s faces, ignoring the man in the first rank. Following Lajos came one of the Syriot soldiers, tossing the rug onto the ground in front of them, then coming up behind Bekhar. Bekhar swore as he felt the man shoving into his back, but it did stop him from being pushed further backwards. The second soldier approached with a pile of firewood, a burning bundle on top.
“Lajos!” Bekhar said, “get out of there, we’re lighting it up!” The pirate squatted down, jabbing his falchion at the unprotected feet of the guards.
“You got it, Captain!”
Lajos squirmed past Bekhar in the narrow entryway again.
“Do it!” Bekhar grunted in Syriot at the soldier who scattered the burning wood along the rug between Bekhar and the Hangyul guards. The guards pushed forward in fury, tearing the dying guardsman aside to fall atop the first. A musket suddenly protruded where Lajos had exited and fired at the guards, passing through the first two. The musket swiftly retracted, and another appeared to fire once more, felling another guard. Reinforcements from the beach!
“Bring a pitch torch forward!” Bekhar shouted.
A Syriot marine with a burning torch was already emerging into the chaotic stairwell, the flames lighting the grisly scene in the twisting staircase. Bekhar had stepped forward a few paces up to the smoking bundles, and was now stabbing at the bend where new guards were appearing, piercing the first guard’s chin. The man stumbled down, falling into the flames, his screams adding to the hellish scene. The marine with the pitch torch tossed it on the dying guard, the fire below now spreading to the rug. Smoke rose through the winding staircase. The guards on the floor stairwell were now pushing back up, coughing through the smoke, as Hangyul soldiers in the upper reaches who could not see were still impatiently pushing forward. Bekhar backed away into the main room, now satisfied that the stairway was blocked.
He took stock of his men. Lajos was looking very satisfied, the two Syriot soldiers standing ready at the wall, and two others still busy reloading their muskets. Another group of six soldiers and pirates entered, carrying two more torches, the pirates casting avaricious glances at the desk as they strode in. Bekhar reached for the unlit torch strapped to his belt and held it over the growing fire. Steam rose from the torch as the wet pitch began to catch on fire.
“You,” Bekhar pointed at one of the torchbearers. “Burn that desk there,” he said, pointing again. The pirate frowned in disappointment even as he set the desk alight. More than likely there were valuables inside but they did not have a moment to waste.
“The rest of you,” he announced in his rough Syriot, facing the room. “These men here are done for. Let’s go burn their ships!”
The men filed back out the door, Bekhar sparing a single satisfied glance at the burning tower.
“To their ships!” He yelled again once outside, and then the night erupted. A cannonade erupted in the distance, and Bekhar felt as much as saw the cannonballs sail above them into the nearby port. He heard the crack of wooden beams in the distance and the splashes as most of the cannonballs missed their targets. Bekhar was sure Captain Salassi had expected that and intended for the volley of fire at night to be a distraction for his own deeds.
“With me!” Bekhar shouted, his burning torch held high in the air, and his words were followed by another cannonade as the other ships in the flotilla followed the Hellfire’s example.
Bekhar made for the port, his motley crew moving alongside him as shouting and cannons broke the silence of the night. The port was only about fifty spans away over the sandy islet and Bekhar could make out the shadowy outlines of two ships reflected in the light of the moon and the burning tower. Yet even in the heat and humidity of the night he felt a chill as he recognized the sloping hull of the smaller ship. The dragon ship.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Among the Elephant Corps
The Prince of the Wastes strode through the encampment, observing the orderly arrangement of tents and cookfires with quiet satisfaction. Around him squads of soldiers were roasting their requisitioned chicken and were boiling pots of rice and local Shinzen green tea. As he watched, a nearby squad of smiling Veldtlanders stood up and cheered him, offering him room by their fire.
“Thank you, no,” Prince Sharnipur said in the most common Veldtland tongue. “Be ready.”
They nodded, veteran warriors ranging from twenty to fifty, more than a few bearing jade and silver amulets. They had grown prosperous from campaign to campaign and flashed easy smiles at their commander. The prince continued along the path to his command tent, lost in thought about the distant thunderclaps he had heard to the south, ignoring the mercenaries around him.
Lord Marshal Feruke Hangyul had said there was a fortified garrison along the river, hadn’t he?
The Prince of the Wastes paused, hand at the very edge of his yak hide pavilion, staring at the Hangyul encampment in the distance. It was illuminated by a dozen great fires.
They don’t seem worried. Perhaps I’m taking after my mother, worrying all the time.
That brought Prince Sharnipur up short. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. After his brother’s coup his mother hadn’t wasted any time in picking sides. Prince Sharnipur grimaced, pushing the memories away, and entered his pavilion.
Two men stood there, breaking off their conversation as Prince Sharnipur entered. The closest was the Ranvir Guard Captain Ajit, but beside him was Don Ventu, the Corps’s quartermaster, a stout man with tousled long gray hair that served to hide his spreading baldness. Don Ventu usually stayed near the supply wagons during the march, but had been busy requisitioning local supplies under the semi-legal authority of the Imperial Army. He was a mercenary to mercenaries, a half-breed son of a Jutland merchant and his Veldtlander mistress, and had been with the Prince for four profitable years.
“If I may, my prince,” Don Ventu began, “our food supplies are beginning to run low. I understand there is a river nearby, along with a fishing village. We could replenish our water stocks and resupply from the fishing village if we make it there before those Imperial vultures. If we stayed a day longer I’m sure we could fish out a great deal of trout.”
Don Ventu nodded with all the decisiveness of a man who had listened to his own argument, weighed out the merits, and had come to an affirmative conclusion.
“Yes, a man fights better when he has trout in the belly, my prince. The men have been marching every day since we stopped grazing outside Kintari lands.”
“And they know I’m grateful for it,” Prince Sharnipur said. “But we have a battle before us tomorrow. And with these Shinzen forces still unaccounted for, plus the cannon fire…” he fell silent and waited a moment but the distant rumbling had ceased some time ago. “Well, we can’t rest and fish just yet, though the gods know I would like to. There’s a large hill to our southwest and I intend to secure it before first light. You know as well as any, Don Ventu. Is our force currently capable of moving through this terrain at night?”
Don Ventu sucked in his breath and considered for a moment. “I would not advise it, with the wagons and supplies,” he said slo
wly. “That would be a treacherous route, even during the day. We have already let most of the elephants roam free to feed in the jungle and you know how cranky they would get if we rounded them up. Not to mention the complaints they might make to the Matriarch.”
Prince Sharnipur nodded. Elephants had their deities like any other, the herds of the Veldtlands communing with an elephant goddess who looked after their interests. Humans could speak with the Matriarch too, if they knew the secret mixture of spices and incantations, but very few did. Fewer still could convince the Matriarch of the Herds that lending her strength for the incessant wars of humans was in her best interest.
But I have done it.
“I will make my explanations at the next Gathering and provide a suitable offering. Round up four of our jungle elephant units. I will take Ranvir and a Veldtlander detachment to secure the hill. Once dawn breaks, send our bronze cannons up to the hill along with the rest of the Corps.”
Prince Sharnipur had no particular desire to split his forces on the eve of the battle. He was also nominally under the command of the Lord Marshal Feruke Hangyul, although that man seemed to have washed his hands of the Elephant Corps and stuck him with the boy emperor.
But the security of the Elephant Corps takes priority above everything else. We need to know if there are enemies to the south, and the commanding heights of the hills will keep the Corps secure.
“Very well,” Don Ventu said. “There is another matter. The stuttering noble fool Prasert visited me this afternoon, asking after red kava. I shooed him away, but I thought to check our stocks after he left and we do indeed have one satchel. We took it from the mountain chieftain a few campaigns back… oh, what was his name…”
The prince shrugged. “Charge him triple the asking price. We could always use more funds though I can’t see why he’d be interested.”
Don Ventu nodded. “I don’t want the logistics train turning into a wandering bazaar but it is true our funds our low. I’ll sell the man his spice. Then tomorrow I will wake the camp in the hour before dawn and begin moving after you,” Don Ventu said, scratching at his belly. “If I receive any messengers from the Imperial Army, what should I tell them?”
“Tell them the Prince of the Wastes is scouting and will soon return.”
At that Prince Sharnipur exited his command tent, making for the elephant enclosure, trailed by Guard Captain Ajit and his men. At the entrance of the enclosure two guardsmen saluted, grounding their halberds as the Prince passed inside. The enclosure had to be constructed nightly from a mix of local timbers and designated supply wagons, a difficult task even for the construction unit of a dozen elephants and a hundred laborers.
Dhamdalek was crouched inside, moving a stick around in front of a small elephant, the young one eagerly grasping for the stick with his trunk. Prince Sharnipur smiled to see it. It was the custom in most lands to capture full-grown elephants in the wild and break them into submission.
The Elephant Corps did not follow this custom.
By striking a deal with the Matriarch of the Herds Prince Sharnipur had agreed to instead provide protection from the raiders of the Wastes. Tucked safely inside the mercenary company were the elephants’ offspring and a few half-blind old elephants who could still keep with the Corps’ pace. Besides, seeing the cheerful young elephants always brought a smile to Prince Sharnipur’s lips, and he was far from alone in that.
The old mahout noticed the Prince entering, and he strained to stand up. “My prince.”
“Dhamdalek, I need to take Ranvir and the jungle elephants to secure some favorable ground. I would like you to lead Ranvir.”
“Yes, prince. I will inform the Timariota and be there in a moment.”
Timariota Srinijar was in charge of the construction unit, a strict overseer who would carry tamarind balls to reward the elephants for good behavior. She was tougher than her noble title would suggest and had traded in the customary silks for simple cotton and mail years ago.
When the exile began the timariota had forty handmaids. There were perhaps two dozen left now and with Timariota Srinijar’s estates and holdings gone they had learned to command and look after the construction elephants instead. Some of the handmaids were clearing away spots for campsites, two elephants and a group of laborers putting the finishing touches on the stockade enclosure.
“Fine, but remind her to get some sleep. This march hasn’t been easy on her. Or you, for that matter.”
The mahout shrugged. “I had a nap this afternoon, after the march. Don’t worry about me, my prince. Do you really need to do this yourself, scouting all night?”
“I need to see the situation with my own eyes. Anyway, the boy and his handlers may not even have need of us tomorrow. Perhaps you will find yourself napping the day away or fishing along the river. But right now I want you to ready the elephants.”
The prince sat there as movement began once again in the previously quiet enclosure. Unattended, the young elephant padded over to Prince Sharnipur, snuffling at his robes with his trunk. The prince smiled as he rubbed the stubble along the elephant’s head.
“You’re not coming with us, young one,” he said in a kind voice to the little elephant. He turned to Ajit at his side. “Lead him to his pen, would you?”
Ajit bowed, and prodded the young elephant along, who followed agreeably to his nest beside his sleeping mother. Among the Prince’s people there had long been a taboo against using female war elephants. There was no taboo about female elephants in the construction units however, and in fact they were in the majority.
The construction units were small families, and often had a distantly flirtatious relationship with the war elephants, which were frequently encamped nearby. This meant that baggage trains in elephant units under sudden raid were especially vulnerable as it could lead to massive stampeding. Prince Sharnipur grimaced at the thought.
I hope I’m making the right decision.
Dhamdalek soon returned, leading Ranvir to Prince Sharnipur, the plains elephant dipping his trunk down to sniff the prince in greeting. Ranvir was the last of the personal elephants the former Prince Sharnipur had on his estate. That was a lifetime ago, and Ranvir was all that remained of his previous position in life. Ranvir was in his forties, a good age for a war elephant, and had a notoriously fearsome temper. In fact, he only really seemed to get along with the Prince and the mahout, with a guarded toleration for the veteran Ranvir Guard who accompanied him.
Anander, Sanjay, and a few of the assembling Ranvir Guard were now buckling the howdah along the elephant’s sturdy frame, a long-practiced motion which both man and elephant were accustomed to. The howdah was cinched around a front-facing heavily padded cloth garment which protected the elephant’s neck and upper chest. A similar padded cloth had been fitted to Ranvir’s face, with spaces for his eyes and trunk. Ranvir lacked defenses to his flanks, but the Ranvir Guard was specially trained to protect these positions. Another guardsman had brought forth the curved tusk sword that had been fashioned years ago.
He tightened the base of the tusk sword onto Ranvir’s broken left tusk, as the elephant let out his customary low rumbling growl of irritation. The elephant’s tusk had broken during the final furious assault on the gate of Veduc Shanasta, Ranvir smashing his way through the timbers and bursting through the entrance into the panicked ring of spearmen. The prince had led the final charge aboard Ranvir with five men ringed around him, four elephants at his back, and a hundred exhausted foot soldiers waiting for the gate to fall.
The gate had fallen, and the soldiers had swarmed in to slay the garrison, but the Prince had ended the assault surrounded by the corpses of his fellow riders, amid the carnage of his dying elephants. They had left the very next day, pursued by the massive elephant-mounted forces of Timariot Belthu. The ragged remnants of Prince Sharnipur’s army had loaded what water and supplies they could find onto the back of the stalwart Ranvir, and stumbled into the Endless Wastes, the trackless western bounda
ry of the known world.
Those few who had stumbled back out into the first small stream marking the beginning of the Veldtlands were those who became the first Ranvir Guard. Prince Sharnipur tried to break his melancholic reminiscing and looked at the rest of the arriving Ranvir Guard. Many of the original number were elephant riders now, breaking a caste tradition that had been held since the dawn of time. Several Veldtlanders were also now part of the Ranvir Guard, reflecting the mixed composition of the entire Elephant Corps. He had become known as the Prince of the Wastes since their journey westward, but he never forgot that his survival had depended on a single elephant and the stalwart band of loyalists who had joined the Prince’s exodus.
Without them, I would have just been another dead noble, butchered in my brother’s seizure of power.
Most of the handlers had not even been awakened as they had only fallen into their bedrolls an hour ago. The only three jungle elephants in the entire unit were being marshaled alongside Ranvir by their handlers, who attached small canvas bags of supplies to their backs, as the elephants shifted complainingly.
Jungle elephants were smaller than the plains elephants who made up the bulk of the Elephant Corps. They had characteristically smaller ear flaps but were more dexterous and less prone to trumpeting. Prince Sharnipur had assigned each elephant to a trusted handler who would ride with them. These elephants would carry spare javelins and supplies for the scouts but would not be weighed down by a howdah.
Dhamdalek approached the Prince of the Wastes, halting and standing to face the elephants. The mahout stepped forward, squinting at Ranvir. He lifted the elephant’s left ear flap, then bent down and checked the strap passing along Ranvir’s belly. Satisfied, he moved to the next jungle elephant, pulling at its buckle. He frowned, tightening it slightly. The mahout circled the rest of the elephants, making occasional small adjustments, before again walking up to the Prince.
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