The pirates joined the stream of sailors hauling themselves aboard the Hellfire, which would rock back with every volley of cannonfire. Bekhar pulled himself aboard, catching his footing aboard the slick and shifting deck, and scrambled toward the helm. Captain Salassi was beside the ship’s wheel, where the Hellfire had been turned to face the oncoming transport at its starboard. Another broadside rang out, a number of cannonballs penetrating through the hull of the transport ship, but its course didn’t waver.
Bekhar joined Captain Salassi at the starboard railing, the Captain turning and nodding, his jaw set firmly. “Good to have you aboard.”
Bekhar glanced back to the hills where cannons had been firing at them for some time. They seemed to have stopped, and he caught snatches of movement through the jungle canopy. Then he turned to face the oncoming Hangyul transport ship.
One enemy at a time.
The Hellfire rocked as the men below-decks fired their last volley before impact. The oncoming Hangyul ship was listing, and the broadside volley tore into the lower decks, though they missed the upper deck which was filled with Hangyul soldiers with spears and swords. The transport was clearly taking on water, but now grappling hooks were being thrown on deck, and the prow of the ship smashed into the starboard side of the Hellfire, cracking the timbers and sending the crew staggering. Captain Salassi gripped the railing, leaning over and yelling at his gunners to keep their position and continue firing, as the first Hangyul soldiers jumped aboard.
The open deck of the transport was slightly higher, and the soldiers leapt off the prow to land scrambling on the shifting deck and slash at the unarmored sailors. Lajos fired a blast with his blunderbuss, sending a group of soldiers staggering back, but more kept pouring onto the deck. Bekhar charged in, smashing a shield with his glaive. Around him, dagger and hatchet-armed sailors rushed past to swarm the attackers. One of the Hangyul soldiers was pushed off the deck, suffering the certain fate of armored men in water. Still, they kept coming. Hangyul sailors from the lower decks of the transports scaled the grappling rope to join their armored comrades.
One Hangyul soldier leapt aboard in a long jump, rolling and coming to his feet, brandishing a slender longsword. Bekhar lurched through the milling crowd of hesitant sailors and whipped his glaive around to dash the longsword out of the man’s hands and send him reeling to one knee, the axe end lodging in a timber on the decking. Bekhar let it go and instead rushed forward, picking up the man as he strained to the railing, and shoved him off into the churning waters between the two shattered ships.
Bekhar stepped back, sucking in breath, and grasped the haft of his glaive. A few twists and a jerk, and the weapon was wrested free. But by then the Hangyuls were landing all around them, jumping over or hauling themselves up knotted grappling hooks that had found purchase in the railing, at least a dozen men in Bekhar’s field of vision alone.
To his left, Captain Salassi led a furious counter-charge against the Hangyul attackers, his solid navy scimitar scything through the twisting mass of men. Several Syriot marines reached the grappling hooks and began sawing away with daggers as Captain Salassi’s scimitar lodged in the ribcage of an enemy sailor. As he attempted to pull it away, a sword slash sent him spinning to land groaning on the deck. Before another blow was struck the crewmen of the Hellfire and Saint Garendar’s Gift came to his aid, clearing the space around him.
Bekhar barreled into another mailed soldier, knocking the man back and then raining a blow down on the man’s armored shoulder. His second stroke cleaved the throat of another swordsman, and he stepped back as a Syriot sailor with a hatchet ran up to finish the second man off. The first soldier had recovered, his blade flashing up, and Bekhar jerked away to the side as he barely dodged the impaling thrust. The Hellfire lurched to the side and all those aboard staggered to the side a couple paces as if to some shambolic dance, shoulders ramming into shoulders, and when Bekhar recovered he couldn’t tell which of the armored soldiers he had been fighting.
A pistol shot rang out from Captain Salassi, a Hangyul swordsman sinking to the ground in front of him, and as if that were a signal a wave of Hellfire sailors charged into the breech.
Yet the men around Bekhar were being driven back by the increasing numbers of Hangyul swordsmen clambering aboard and pushing forward. Bekhar sucked in breath with his nose and bellowed as he swung his glaive, barely missing one of his own men, and landing a blow on the feathered helmet of a Hangyul officer. A second blow from his glaive cut through the officer’s breastplate, making a sickening crunch. Bekhar withdrew the glaive and gritted his teeth.
Another blast rocked the Hellfire as it fired a volley into the bowels of the enemy vessel. Glancing past the fallen officer, Bekhar noticed that the upper deck was no longer above them, the transport ship now smoldering in flame as it listed to the side and sank in the shallow harbor. Once more Bekhar charged forward, pushing his shoulder against a Hangyul shield. The swordsman braced himself and heaved back, but Syriot crewmen had made their way behind him in the chaotic melee, one Syriot hacking at the swordsman’s back leg. The swordsman’s strength gave out, and he dropped the shield with a cry. Bekhar left this one to the crewman, moving to his side as he saw Deodan stab a spear through the unguarded left knee of another Hangyul swordsman. Bekhar’s downward cut into the man’s shoulder finished him off.
He paused to breathe, looking to his left for Captain Salassi. If there had been any sense of organization in this fight it had all evaporated, clusters of Hangyuls fighting clusters of Syriots all through the deck. Captain Salassi was back up, his jacket slick with blood and pistol discarded, and the sailors were hacking away at grappling hooks and slicing at the hands of new arrivals. Below them the gunners had been repelling boarders as well, and as Bekhar moved to the railing he saw a long sponge stick being rammed at an attacker’s legs. Two grappling hooks had snagged on the railing in front of him and he raised his glaive, smashing the railing to bits. The hooks fell into the water below, and there were shouts and heavy splashes as the climbers hit the water.
Bekhar looked back to his right where a dozen Hangyul swordsmen were backing away in a corner, Syriot crewmen and some of his pirates penning them in. One of the swordsmen raised his hands in surrender, another dropping his sword and waving both hands at the defenders. Lajos let loose a shot from the blunderbuss at them and the first rank sank to the ground.
“Mercy!”
One cried out, but the rest kept their shields up. No mercy was given, regardless. A few glances showed this was one of the last groups of Hangyuls left aboard, Syriots now at the railings and cutting away frantically at grappling hooks, as several Hangyul soldiers threw their weapons away and jumped overboard. Captain Salassi strode next to Bekhar, his jacket damp with blood, and his scimitar wavered as he pointed at the surviving swordsmen.
Bekhar nodded, pushing through the sailors, and joined them as they charged the Hangyul swordsmen. The men were soon overwhelmed on all sides, cut and cleaved to pieces even as they hacked down a half-dozen Syriots. A few of the last were either pushed off the side by the momentum of the charge or chose that death instead, and the deck was finally clear of boarders.
Captain Salassi and Bekhar stood there together, chests heaving. Bekhar leaned his glaive against his leg, clenching and unclenching his strained arm muscles. Lajos was pouring powder into his blunderbuss, peering over the railing as if considering a shot at the swirling mass of drowning men. Captain Salassi limped to the starboard railing, looking over at the surviving Hangyul men who were swimming for the western shore. Leaning against the railing, he turned to look behind him at the scattered groups of Shinzen soldiers still observing from the distant beach to the east, watching the transport ship alongside the Grasping Kraken. With Saint Garendar’s Gift beached and Hellfire cracked and trapped in the narrow harbor, there were no seaworthy vessels left at all.
Captain Salassi turned to the north, limping away from the railing but preserving his stiff bearing
, his weariness apparent to all. He pointed his cracked scimitar to the beach.
“To the shore,” he croaked. “Form up by the stone building. We will… make our stand there.”
He staggered forward, the shell-shocked defenders moving along with him, stepping over their moaning wounded comrades. Bekhar glared at the Shinzen men still motionless on the far side of the river.
Fucking Vermilies. Those men should have fought alongside us.
Bekhar hefted his glaive back against his shoulder, and turned to follow Captain Salassi, as the surviving Syriots and pirates gathered to climb aboard the Hellfire’s rafts. The loose, ragged survivors of the other moored ships were gathered along the shore by the stone building, forming rough ranks, as the Syriot marines on the roof peppered the advancing war elephants with musket shots.
It wasn’t much of a defense.
Bekhar looked up at the sun as it began to set. Still, we might hold until nightfall. And then? The pirate voice whispered in his ear. Retrieve your gold from the cabin. Take one of the rafts, and your crew. Leave this place. He ignored it, for now. Perhaps when night fell. Bekhar leaned on the now twisted railing, squinting past the stone building and into the smoky waste of the fishing village.
Where the fuck was Vermilies, anyway?
Chapter Fifty
Armed with a Flag
Vermilies felt queasy as he watched the landscape changing beneath the balloon, queasier even than before, especially as he saw the outline of the Irragonda River. He could make out several massed formations and the slope down to the river was littered with what looked to be bundles of clothing that he knew to be corpses.
And I am to approach the army and endeavor not to join the ranks of the fallen. I get all the shit assignments.
To his right a few troopers were jabbering away in excitement. Vermilies turned to look and saw them pointing toward the burning fishing village in the south. The lumbering gray shapes of elephants were circling around it, and humans the size of ants were swarming around them. As he watched, the fires spread from one building to another. Vermilies gulped and looked away.
At least I’m not there. It could always be worse.
Major Ribaldi had stepped away from the flame and was passing a scroll on to an aeronaut. The major turned closer to address another aeronaut and Vermilies could just make out his words over the wind.
“And you, take this message to Colonel Penha. His knights are to cross the ford to the north but not engage in unprovoked hostilities.”
“Major Ribaldi!” Vermilies shouted to be heard over the wind. “The Knights of Serraca could be sent back to General Eben’s camp to stop the approaching force.”
The major frowned at him and took his place once again at the balloon’s fire.
“That goes against orders. The general wants them keeping an eye on the Three Kingdom’s army until nightfall.”
“But sir, if he had known-”
“That is not your call to make!” Major Ribaldi pointed a finger at his chest. “We have a chain of command here. This is the last time I will tolerate an outburst.”
The major began lowering the flame and in the uncomfortable silence that followed the balloon began to descend to the ground. They were almost on top of the position of the reforming Syriot troops, their equipment battered and faces smudged with powder, those nearby shifting warily away. The balloon came to a sudden halt on the grassy ridge; the troopers jostled by the impact, but the basket soon ceased its rocking. There were a couple jeers from the nearby Syriot soldiers before their officers silenced them.
It seems the fighting men have made a successful transition from terror to boredom.
The basket tilted at a precarious angle as the first messenger hopped out. Then the second worked his way out of the wicker basket and Vermilies followed along. He kept the white flag close, careful not to bump the balloon, and scrambled to his feet. The sound of galloping horses caught his attention and Vermilies turned to see two mounted men approaching. The first messenger was running off to an infantry officer, but the second waited as the cavalrymen approached.
“Colonel Penha, I have a message from General Eben,” the aeronaut declared.
The colonel was encased in a steel shell with a curved golden helmet which he removed with gauntleted hands. Vermilies shuffled nervously, knowing that he should head down the slope, but reluctant to go just yet. The knight looked down at the messenger from his mount, a stern and middle-aged man with a long white scar across the brow of his olive brown face.
The trooper handed over the scroll, still sealed with the wax markings of General Eben. Colonel Penha pulled off his gauntlets and wedged them into his armpits as he opened the scroll. The knight scowled as he scanned the writing. His breastplate was scored with fresh markings and part of his knee armor had been torn away.
“This can’t be right.” The knight shifted his glare to the trooper. “Aeronaut, bring me back to General Eben. I must speak with him about this at once.”
“But… your armor is heavy, and I need to return-”
“Stay here,” the colonel said, dismounting in a rush. “You as well,” he said as he noticed Vermilies, and then halted as if just noticing the translator’s presence. “What are you doing here, Islander?”
Vermilies had sudden visions of being executed for treachery by the Militant Order. And here I thought I’d be killed on the other side of the river, he thought, eyes glancing to the battleaxe hanging on a leather loop near to the knight’s hand.
“I was ordered to negotiate a truce with the Three Clans Army. By General Eben. Just ask–”
“I know.” Colonel Penha scowled in silence for a long moment, staring into the distance. Then he nodded to himself and fastened a fervent gaze on Vermilies. “I will be accompanying you,” he said, dismounting with an ease that belied his age and armor.
“I see…”
This wasn’t much better. The Knights of Serraca were known for their bravery, hatred of heresy, and willingness to die. Which was effective on the battlefield, but problematic when it came to negotiations.
Does he mean to assassinate their leaders?
“The Syriot language is completely unknown here,” Vermilies said. “The entirety of the negotiations will be in the local language. So perhaps you–”
“I know,” said Colonel Penha, in roughly accented Standard Dialect, as he handed the reins of his horse off to his accompanying knight.
Vermilies blinked. “You speak the Standard Dialect?”
“Yes,” Colonel Penha responded in Standard Dialect. “A little.”
“I wouldn’t have expected a knight of the Militant Order to learn a foreign language.”
“You must know of heresy in order to exterminate it. It is the same with other cultures.”
“Very wise,” said Vermilies diplomatically. I’m not sure what Master Alessandros at the Jade Academy would think of that. The other knight began leading the colonel’s horse back behind the Syriot lines as the balloon rose once more.
“I mean no disrespect, but perhaps you should pose as a simple guardsman assigned as my bodyguard, and keep the talking to me.”
“Perhaps,” Colonel Penha said. Vermilies hefted the flag of truce, resting it on his shoulder as he took in the mass of peasant soldiers, mercenaries, and war elephants at the bottom of the corpse-strewn slope.
Will I join them?
“Let’s go,” the colonel said, and began striding down the hill. Vermilies hurried to catch up, waving the flag high as if his life depended on it.
Whether they were scouts or vultures Vermilies couldn’t say, but a few men materialized from the blanket of fallen soldiers, a couple running back to their lines while the rest just kept a wary distance. The colonel didn’t pay them any attention, trotting forward down the slope as his weaponry jangled along to announce his arrival.
Battleaxe on his right, longsword on his left, shield on his back. And me just armed with a flag.
Vermil
ies wasn’t sure whether he felt comforted or concerned by being next to such a well-armed and armored target but he was sure the colonel wouldn’t pass for a simple guardsman. He edged away a few paces and strained to hold the white flag even higher. A volley of muskets and I’m dead. Or arrows. He scanned the enemy lines and noticed the ballistas mounted on the war elephants swiveled to track him as he approached.
He grinned widely as if that would somehow help.
Don't shoot, you bastards, don't shoot.
A young Kintari noble weaved his way through the front rank and strode up to meet Vermilies and Colonel Penha, his black armor of ancient design jingling as he walked.
“Who are you?”
True to his word, the colonel remained silent, glancing at the translator and keeping his arms down.
“My name is Enbo Vermilies, translator for the Syriot Empire, and I have come to talk peace.”
Chapter Fifty-One
The Weight of Empire
“Hold your fire,” Banisu said, as if his musketeers had any powder and shot remaining. The balloon was sailing away from them now, having just landed and disgorged a few of its passengers. There’s nothing we can do about those balloons anymore. Banisu clenched and unclenched his fists. I doubt we could stand up to another charge either.
“Sir, your royal uncle is resting now,” said his uncle’s attendant.
“Good… good…”
Murmuring had swept through the ranks, a few hands pointing up the slope, and Banisu moved up a few paces to get a better view.
“Are they charging?” Banisu squeaked. No one made a reply. Next to him Lin Karatsu was standing on his toes to look over the soldiers in front of them, a few rusted helmets and drifting spearpoints interfering with the view.
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