Landfall

by Victor Serrano

  Even so, although they had lost the advantage of surprise, they might yet deliver the knockout blow…

  “We need to report back to the General,” Major Ribaldi announced, breaking Vermilies’s thoughts. “The men at the port are done for. General Eben will want to know immediately.”

  Vermilies cast a final look at the carnage in the fishing village as the balloon lifted upward and sailed over the reforming Syriot infantry. The crew could hear shouts and curses from the Syriot men, scattered phrases and order caught on updrafts that rose up to the balloon. A number of troops stared up at them in dead-eyed confusion. Vermilies cast a final glance back at the rank of Three Clans soldiers, now bolstered by war elephants. A thin trail of smoke rose in the back.

  Is that… a campfire?

  ◆◆◆

  Banisu stood with the ranks of soldiers, flanked between two war elephants, as the Gutharan mercenary and a coterie of Hangyul officers continued an ongoing argument. Banisu ignored the glances some of them gave him. I don’t know the first thing about war. Abbot Cibu never intended for me to lead, after all. He hunched lower and ignored the discussion.

  The Prince of the Wastes himself had left to take the fishing village downstream but even if Banisu stood on his tiptoes he could not make out what was going on, though the sounds of crashing, trumpeting, and musketry could be heard to the south.

  But it's all quiet on this part of the battlefield. For now.

  A few of the nearby Northern guards muttered in irritation and Banisu followed their gazes upward to a balloon. One of the elephant gunners tried to raise his ballista but it couldn't swivel high enough and he soon gave up.

  Those damn things. They have eyes on the whole battlefield.

  “Emperor Banisu,” Banisu heard from behind, and turned to see his uncle’s attendant, still holding the urn. “Your uncle requests your presence.”

  Banisu looked in confusion at his uncle Prasert, who had started a small fire behind the lines, but strode over to join him.

  “Uncle… what…”

  His uncle whipped out the small parcel of spice with a flourish.

  “It is time to put this shpice to the, ah,” the man spat into the fire, “tesht.”

  “Is now really the best time, uncle?” Banisu asked, aware of the tremor in his voice. The quivering had started up again and even his breathing exercises couldn’t put a stop to it.

  I almost died back there. I could still die. And everyone is looking to me for…

  Banisu shivered and tried to shut out his thoughts. His impassive Northerner guard had joined him, looking down at the scene with disapproval. Prasert was cross-legged on the ground and brandished a small knife in his right hand.

  “Of coursh!” Prasert snapped the words out with gritted teeth, and with dazzling speed he sliced the palm of his left hand open with the knife, and let the thick drops of blood drop steaming into the fire.

  “Blood magic,” the thane hissed beside Banisu, his voice hushed with sudden fear.

  But Prasert ignored him.

  “Remember, my nephew. You musht,” he said, wincing as he discarded his knife and brought the open packet of spice to his face, “ushe the right element. Now then. Let us shee if the shcroll was right.”

  Beside the man was an aged scroll, the edges clearly burnt, but lines of thin text clearly legible.

  Was that… rescued from the fire that killed my father?

  Before Banisu could say anything Prasert snorted from the packet of powder and then closed his eyes as he entered into a meditative trance. Banisu watched, just as entranced, and all of a sudden Prasert whipped his clenched, bloody fist forward. The flames rippled green, pink, and blue, and his uncle's eyes opened and sparkled with a strange red gleam as he let out a roar.

  ◆◆◆

  The flames rippled green, pink, and blue. Vermilies blinked. Had he just imagined that?

  “That's peculiar,” the navigator said, edging closer. “Um, Major-”

  The fire from the balloon erupted with a sudden rage, coating the navigator in a scorching multi-hued inferno. The rest of the men clustered on the small wooden platform screamed in shock, though Vermilies remained rooted to the spot.

  “Get him off!” Major Ribaldi yelled. “Push him off or we all die!”

  The burning navigator barged into another man, who pushed him away and swatted at his own smoldering clothes, as the navigator screamed. An instant later three other Syriots prodded him with musket barrels, as he writhed backwards on the railing. The scene was frozen, the Syriots in the crowded wicker basket not daring to move any further. And then, to Vermilies’s astonishment, the burning man turned to pull himself over the railing and fell from the balloon.

  Silence reigned on the balloon, broken only by a Syriot stomping out a few embers on the platform, the rest dampened and carried off by a gust of wind. The fire flickered, its hue now reverting to the same dull orange glow, though the Syriots stayed well away from it.

  After a moment, the major approached. “Damnable devices,” he said, his voice quavering. “I will… I will take us in.”

  ◆◆◆

  From the ranks of soldiers came a scattered cheer as a burning man fell from the Syriot balloon. Prasert coughed weakly, fumbling for his packet of spice. “More,” he muttered. Banisu stared in fascination as a trail of blood streamed down his uncle's left nostril. “Need more…”

  Banisu reached out, putting a steadying hand on his uncle.

  “That's enough.” Banisu had seen the flames almost envelop the balloon. Then whip away back to nothing in an instant as his uncle had collapsed, crying out in pain.

  Beside him the thane was crossing himself, his fingers performing a litany of blessings as he muttered in Northern over and over. “Shaman,” he finally said in the common dialect. “He's a fucking shaman.”

  “Take him back to the wagons,” Banisu snapped, looking at Prasert’s attendant. “Hurry!” He looked over to the thane. “Help him.”

  The Northerner remained rooted to the spot. “I’m not touching a shaman,” he said in a low voice and Banisu realized the man was afraid.

  “I’ll do it,” said another man, kneeling down to join them. Lin Karatsu’s father. Together he and the attendant hauled up Prasert and took him back through the shallows.

  Banisu had turned to look back at the balloon which was departing with some haste, but was apparently no worse for wear. Still, my uncle almost destroyed it with the Reverie alone. Banisu looked at the discarded packet of spice, bare aside from a few red grains. We will need more if we are to win this war.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Making Peace

  There's something about seeing a burning man plummeting to his death that gets a person to thinking. Vermilies found that he was doing a lot of it now. Thinking that he’d put off for too long.

  Make your peace with the Syriots, Vermilies’s father had said. Accept the fact that they are our overlords. Go to the new Academy and get a good job with the Empire. And he had gone along. Then, ink still wet on his degree, the invasion force had docked at the Jade Sea Islands. And, malleable as ever, Vermilies had gone along. There was nothing more powerful than the Syriot Empire, after all.

  And yet a man had just been burned alive in front of him, and if that wasn’t evidence of the magic the royal family of the Three Clans was said to possess, then he wasn’t Enbo Vermilies, handsomest linguist in the Jade Sea Islands.

  Vermilies opened his mouth as if to say to the Syriot troopers, “that was magic, you know?”

  But they were silent, fixed looks and fixed minds. So Vermilies just swallowed and looked over the railing at the ground passing below them.

  “Something wrong with the balloon,” the major had said, and they had nodded at this. No reason to talk about magic. They were Syriots, after all, and had the finest technology in the world. They seemed to have made their peace with their fallen comrade.

  So why shouldn’t I?

  There
was a whistling in the balloon that hadn't been there before, the jaunty tune of gas venting through a new hole in the leather bladder, and a heavy stench of soot and fear that even the winds that whipped past couldn't erase.

  To Major Ribaldi's credit he didn't shirk his new post at the bellows and as the minutes passed by, the scenery changing to scrub forest below, it almost seemed like normal.

  At least, as normal as floating in the sky could ever seem. Perhaps mankind was never meant for this.

  They were above the Syriot encampment now and from the other side of the wicker basket one of the aeronauts stepped up to the railing. He pointed outward and said something to Major Ribaldi. Vermilies strained to catch his words in the wind.

  “Dust, sir. To the northwest. Should we investigate?”

  Vermilies and a few others looked over, though one aeronaut was leaning over the edge of the basket, shouting and gesturing at the ground crew as they began their slow descent.

  “No time for it,” Major Ribaldi said.

  The trooper leaning over the basket turned to face Major Ribaldi. “Just a smidge to the south,” he said, and the major made a slight adjustment.

  “That's good. We’re on target.”

  There did look to be some faint plumes of dust though I couldn't swear to it.

  Major Ribaldi switched off the bellows with evident disgust.

  “Damn thing will need looking at,” he said, even as he climbed over the railing and jumped down on the ground outside. That’s some distance, especially for an older man. Vermilies opted to wait with the others until the balloon was tied down and the railing opened.

  “What's up with the major?” One of the ground crew asked. “He just ran past us.”

  There was no response. General Eben's tent was nearby, flanked by two massive troll grenadiers of the Raven Guard, the canvas entrance rippling as Major Ribaldi pushed his way inside. Vermilies dithered a moment, unsure whether to follow, waiting at the edge of the clearing where the balloon had landed.

  “Hey, where's Joas?” one of the ground crew asked as the others looked over the balloon. “He hop off or something?” the man asked with a laugh. If anyone gave a reply Vermilies didn’t hear it.

  “Translator!”

  General Eben's voice boomed from within the tent and Vermilies hurried over between the two trolls. One of them whipped the tent flap open as he approached, and Vermilies entered the campaign tent where a furious tongue lashing was just wrapping up.

  “We will discuss your failures at a later date,” General Eben snarled at Major Ribaldi. “Aside from the huge gray horned monsters is there anything else you haven't informed me about?”

  The major lowered his eyes. “No.”

  “Then get out of this tent before I have you shot. Ready the balloon for another mission. Now then, translator!”

  They fell silent a moment as Major Ribaldi departed, all white knuckles and clenched teeth. General Eben waited for the major to leave as he fixed Vermilies with a stern gaze.

  “Initiate peace talks with the savages.”

  “Peace… talks.”

  “That is why you are here, after all. To accept their surrender.”

  Vermilies shifted uncomfortably. Last time I had seen them they didn’t seem too keen on surrendering.

  “Ah… well I’m not sure that they’ll see the situation like that. They have a solid position and have taken the fishing village and may not be amenable-”

  General Eben snapped his fingers.

  “I did not bring you here for your tactical advice, translator. Dress it up how you see fit, but ensure that we have a ceasefire in place by the end of the day, followed by an exchange of prisoners and weaponry. I do not want the savages getting their hands on our muskets, or gods help us, any horses.”

  “Yes, sir.” Vermilies let out air he didn’t realize he’d been holding. A ceasefire I can work with. Probably.

  General Eben stroked his thick mustache as if lost in thought. He had always seemed the very picture of strength of fortitude. But he was no longer a young man, and in this instant Vermilies got a sense of the pressure he was under. When the general spoke next it was much softer, the customary hard edge gone.

  “We need to secure our gains. If your effort fails we will hit them again in the morning. Lives are riding on this, Vermilies. See that you do not fail.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  What else was there to say?

  “Major Ribaldi will speed you to our lines. Approach them on foot under a flag of truce. Bring it over, Bodeshmun.”

  The general turned and beckoned to one of his Raven Guards and the silent troll produced a white flag from a wooden chest which he handed to Vermilies. General Eben also gathered up several scrolls that littered his desk, pushing his ink pot to the side. He handed the scrolls to Vermilies.

  “Deliver these to the front lines. They are the latest orders for Colonels Lobato, Kandoro, and Penha. Dismissed.”

  Vermilies stumbled out of the cramped headquarters tent, making for the balloon, a low fire still burning on the wicker basket. Major Ribaldi was already at his station, his face tense and reddened. The ground crew had scattered like birds at the approach of a predator and now hung around the periphery watching Vermilies with blank expressions.

  “So where am I taking you?” Major Ribaldi asked sourly as Vermilies opened and shut the wicker door. He could already tell the balloon was beginning to rise, above them a shrill shrieking noise from the venting gas heralding their departure, and Vermilies handed the scrolls to Major Ribaldi.

  “General Eben wants me to make peace with the sav-… the Three Clans. These are orders for his officers.”

  The major collected the scrolls without comment and focused on increasing the balloon’s lift. Vermilies busied himself thinking of possible approaches and convivial phrases to increase his chances of living out the day. He looked at his bruised hands, clutched around the flag of truce. Not very warlike, carrying a white flag on campaign. Around him the ground crew slipped the ropes, and the balloon cast off.

  “Near thirty years in the Artillery Corps and here I am ferrying barbarians around,” Major Ribaldi muttered as if to himself.

  Vermilies raised an eyebrow but said nothing. So much for getting along. Well, what should I expect from the Syriots, anyway? That's what they're all thinking on the inside.

  A few of the aeronauts were pointing to the northwest and talking amongst themselves. One of them approached the major.

  “Sir, did you tell the general about the dust plumes?”

  “What? I didn’t see any dust.”

  “Over there, sir.”

  The major shaded his eyes as he peered over.

  “Damn sun’s in my eyes.”

  Vermilies looked along with the others, into the sun as it made its way to the west. Probably three hours until sunset. Then he saw a faint brown smudge trailing upwards, like distant sand rising towards the sky. Major Ribaldi scowled beside him.

  “General Eben made it clear this mission takes priority over everything else. The guards must notice the dust by now anyway.”

  “Reinforcements?” One of the aeronauts asked.

  “General Eben isn’t expecting reinforcements,” the major said between gritted teeth. A few aeronauts exchanged glances.

  “Should we turn back and inform him?”

  “We’ll have to do it on the way back. Though I suspect he will know by then.”

  “But Major, our ground crew is there!” Another aeronaut interjected in a panicky voice. “The general is out of reserves. They can’t fight off another army!”

  “All the more reason to propose a ceasefire,” the major said, as the balloon left the scrub forest for the open plains. He turned and clapped a hand on Vermilies.

  “I hope you’re up for the task.”

  Vermilies gave a weak smile.

  Major Ribaldi studied him for a moment. “I do hope you’re planning on being more convincing than that.�
��

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Fight on the Hellfire

  Bekhar had never been much for the ordered life. The caste system and the life of menial drudgery that his birth had assigned him. Tanning hides in the slums? Boring. Cleaning up after your “betters”? Boring. Even the life of a pirate captain could get boring from time to time, he had to admit. But staying one step ahead of an army of rampaging war elephants and howling javelin-men?

  Bekhar ran with a smile on his face and a glaive on his shoulder. This… this is not boring. They thought I belonged with the slave children and maimed ones, to clean the messes of others. But this is where I belong, in the chaos of a village under assault, creating my own messes and maiming others.

  Behind them, the marine messenger ran into the building, and was assaulted by questions.

  “Kale! Where’s the powder?”

  “Uh, well the Captain ordered me back over.”

  “What, without any powder?”

  “Dammit Kale!” another Syriot butted in. “How the fuck are we supposed to fight elephants with empty muskets? Club them to death?”

  “Well, the ancient cavemen of yore–”

  The trooper was interrupted by a punch to the face and a scuffle broke out as Bekhar and his pirates began paddling their raft away. Bekhar glanced back and saw a solitary figure staring at him with open eyes, terror on his face, while the other Syriots scuffled and shouted. A massive armored elephant barreled into a shack just a block away, crushing the shattered remnants underfoot and sending reverberations throughout the fishing village.

  Another two-story thatched building began to slide and fall, revealing the dark outline of a war elephant through the dust, and one trooper on the roof of the harbormaster’s building fired through the smoke. Bekhar looked away and resumed paddling. He had his own fight ahead of him.

  As the raft drifted closer Bekhar could see the Saint Garendar’s Gift sinking in the water and dozens of sailors leaping off the side and swimming over to join the Hellfire. The raft bumped a few of them as they made their way through the churned up waters, and several hard strokes later the raft came alongside the Hellfire.