Bekhar took a quick glimpse outside. The fishing village was a mass of rampaging war elephants and Veldtlanders with wicker shields and bundles of javelins. He ducked down again, a moment before a javelin sailed through the window to skitter on the stone floor. Bekhar glanced around him at the cramped interior.
Salassi pounded down the corridor, grabbing two men and pointing at the stairs that led to the roof. As the two men made their way up, Salassi approached Bekhar, keeping his back to the stone wall.
“Volley in ten, at the elephant with the rider in blue!” Salassi called out, a few men grunting. The musketeer beside Bekhar cursed again, fumbling with his powder and spilling some, and with unsteady fingers loaded his musket ball.
“Five!” Salassi said, and a few Syriots raised themselves to stick their muskets out as their captain counted down. Bekhar joined them at the window and a blanket of gray smoke erupted around him. Still, he could hear the trumpeting of the elephants below, and saw the elephant bounding off, the blue-clad rider sliding off to land on the churned up road below as the beast’s howdah lurched back and forth. Others were fleeing now, the elephants too frightened to stay in the courtyard below despite the shouts of their riders.
“There’s a group coming in from the left!” Salassi yelled, and Bekhar looked over to see the running forms of Veldtlanders pass by down below, making for one of the harbor-master building’s doors. “Bekhar,” Salassi began, but the pirate was already running.
“With me,” he said, pausing only to pull the arms and shoulders of sheltering pirates, and made his way to the wooden door to see it shuddering from impacts outside. Bekhar raised his glaive in the confined space, steadied his footing, and waited as the other pirates joined behind him.
“Steady,” Bekhar said in a low voice, watching the hinges shake and rattle from the impacts. A javelin point embedded itself midway through the door before retracting itself, and then another and another. Fresh shafts of light pierced through into the dark gloom of the entryway.
“Steady,” Bekhar muttered, as the door squealed, one hinge bursting away. All the javelin points were gone now and for a moment there was silence. Then from outside came a disciplined chanting, and a squad of Veldtlanders burst through the door. In the darkness Bekhar could only make out shapes, and swung his glaive down to lodge itself in the shoulder of the first attacker. His piercing wail joined with the shouting of his companions, and then Bekhar felt the pirates surging behind him, pressing up on both sides as they shouted and slashed away.
It was a fight in darkness, a wild slashing melee of shouts, until just seconds later the surviving Veldtlanders bolted and the bloody scene was lit once again as the shattered door fell to the ground. Bekhar stepped through a few dying Veldtlanders, his pirates following, and entered the courtyard.
The scene had changed dramatically in just a minute of fighting, the courtyard abandoned of elephants and only a few bands of Veldtlanders making their way back with evident reluctance, chased off by a final volley from the Syriots above. One of the Veldtlanders stumbled and fell and Bekhar watched the man as his own steps took him inexorably closer, out into the open deserted courtyard.
The Veldtlander crawled across the street, the rough dirt churned up by cannonballs and the footfalls of elephants, moaning as he inched his way back to his lines. Bekhar’s chest heaved as he watched the man. Time and time again the strange men from across the eastern mountains had probed their way into the ruined village, while covered by the war elephants that rampaged through shacks as if they were nothing, and fired huge ballista bolts at the dwindling Syriot presence.
Bekhar grimaced as he rose and walked the few paces forward through the corpse-laden street. The Syriots and pirates had hunkered down in the harbor-master’s building, powder and shot all but empty, and had somehow resisted even this last assault. Bekhar raised his glaive and plunged it down into the Veldtlander’s back. He waited there a moment as the man died in silence.
Perhaps I will join you soon.
Bekhar pulled his glaive out of the corpse and walked back to the survivors peeking out at him from the stone building, its edifice scarred and scraped from ballista bolts. Lajos was waiting at the entrance.
“Not sure that you should have killed their wounded, Captain. Could be we’ll need to surrender soon. This ain’t our war, you know?”
Bekhar shrugged, his shoulders aching as he did so. Lajos’s eyes kept scanning through the ruined streets and shacks as if looking for the hulking shapes of elephants to emerge once again through the dust. One of the pirates was bent over a dead Veldtlander and raised an emerald necklace to the sky, whistling appreciatively as it reflected the fading light.
“Thought we were done for. Then they just turned away. Captain, we should sneak away. This isn’t worth…” Lajos squinted, and Bekhar turned.
Another wave? Fine then, I am ready.
But he saw nothing. Until he looked up. A Syriot balloon was drifting toward them, a growing speck of white against an angry orange backdrop. Within the building Salassi had stripped away the blue coat of a trooper and was swaddling the man in a bandage.
“Stay with me, Kale,” he said.
“Captain, there’s a balloon coming in,” Bekhar said, and winced as he felt a new pain in his arm. He stared at the fresh blood, a reddening graze that didn’t look like much.
When had that happened?
“A balloon? Good,” Captain Salassi said, cinching up the bandage. The wounded Syriot soldier was gasping on the ground in a way which reminded Bekhar of fresh-caught fish.
“Tabor, Jerrels. Grab his legs, I’ll take his back. Up to the roof, quick!”
Bekhar stood there motionless, watching as the groaning Syriot was hauled up to the roof. Several other wounded were up there, and a few sharpshooters with the remaining powder and shot.
Deodan emerged from the shadows of the harbor-master’s building, a dark unlit area of shifting and grumbling marines and pirates. His face was darkened with powder and he was cleaning his falchion with a grimy rag as he approached.
“What’s going on, Captain? I thought these Syriots were supposed to be the toughest bastards around,” he said, a slight stammer the only indication that he was afraid. “Why haven’t they won yet?”
Bekhar worked his mouth and spat on the floor. “They’re coming. There’s a balloon on its way and… their army must be coming.”
Deodan rubbed his dirty face as Bekhar walked up the stone staircase to the exposed rooftop. Salassi was standing now, beckoning in the descending balloon, a few Syriot musketeers watching stone-faced as the wicker basket touched down. Salassi pointed out the wounded trooper Kale and a few others as several crewmen from the balloon bustled out, leaving several crates on the roof. Bekhar helped a Syriot musketeer break one open to reveal more canisters of powder and a few dozen musket balls. Beside Bekhar another crate sloshed with water, Syriots rushing over to fill their canteens. Bekhar looked up to see Salassi gaping at the aeronaut officer.
The crewmen loaded up the last of the wounded and the aeronaut patted Salassi on the side before returning, the dimmed fire now blazing again, and the balloon slid a few feet in one direction before it lifted off from the roof. Bekhar walked over to the motionless Syriot captain.
“What did he say?” Bekhar asked.
Salassi took his sweat-stained fur hat off and brushed his hair back, his expression one of extreme bafflement.
“The battle’s over.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Monks and Their Tactics
Scattered musket fire rippled through the tree branches up ahead, and the lean man hesitated a moment, waiting for the other white-clad zealots to reach him. An older man bumped into him.
“A thousand apologies, brother,” he said, though he looked more like a father with his gray mustache and lined face.
“Not to worry,” the lean man said, as the tree line filled with zealots. He scanned past the underbrush and twigs and snapped his he
ad back instinctively as a single musket ball flew past. The Syriots were shouting now, panic intermingling with anger in their strange language, the enemy just past this copse of trees.
Monk Thegu strode forward, his drum silent, and with a flourish he twirled his drumsticks. He smiled as if utterly at peace with the world and Trang Kattaren felt a twinge of envy.
All I feel is rage.
“Now,” he said, and began beating the drum at a fierce pounding pace. The zealots surged forward, the lean man soon overtaken by his comrades, and the scattered musketry and shouting began again. Trees whipped past the man, branches clinging to his arms and whipping away, and as they stormed through the forest in a screaming wave Kattaren saw the first of the Syriots.
He didn’t look like the merciless soldiers they had been told about. No, he looked like a construction worker, and he fumbled his reload as the wave rushed toward him. This was no disciplined firing line either, no volleys to take down rank after rank, just scattered shots from panicked men. And they were running! Running already, with the zealots not even on them, panicked shapes ditching their weapons and gear and scrambling away. Not this man, though. He had just finished loading his musket and whirled it up to face Kattaren.
He must have pulled the trigger. Perhaps he did, but nothing happened, and his expression was one of confusion as the lean man plunged his sword into the man’s chest.
“Oh,” the man said as he collapsed, and Kattaren frowned down at him. Oh? Is that it? He sounds so normal.
The older man had joined him, reaching for the musket, and ripped it out of the dead man’s hands. He turned it over and whistled in admiration while the lean man looked on. Around them the howling zealots fell on the few remaining Syriots while the rest pushed off into the underbrush. The older man noticed Kattaren’s attention.
“Let me have this, brother. I used to be a musketeer in the Hangyul army.”
The lean man handed it over with reluctance that faded as the older man gave it a cursory examination and with smooth and precise actions began to reload. The former musketeer grunted in appreciation as he rammed down the wadding and ball.
“Loads smoother than ours. You don’t have to worry about keeping your match lit, either. Marvelous.”
“I wish I knew how to use those,” the lean man said.
The other man smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s stick close. You’ll get the next one, brother. I’ll show you how to use it.”
The lean man nodded. “Let’s get going before they leave us behind.”
Monk Thegu passed by, banging on his drum, and most of the whooping zealots had already made their way through.
“Monks and their tactics,” the older man groused, strapping the Syriot’s gear to his chest. The lean man frowned. How dare he criticize the abbot! Where was the Emperor and the clan leaders when the Syriots invaded? But he kept his mouth shut as the older man twisted a bottle open and gave it a sniff.
“That’s no powder horn,” he said with a chuckle. “We’ll share it later, eh, brother? My name’s Jashi.”
“Kattaren. Trang Kattaren.”
The lean man and the old man ran after the tide of white-clad zealots, a few monk and nuns in their saffron robes mixed in, and followed the increasingly urgent sounds of shouting and musketry. Pushing through a thicket of brambles, the two finally came to another rough clearing. Just a hundred yards away a thin blue line of Syriots was plainly visible, and this group was not firing in panicked volleys. At a shout a curtain of smoke blossomed from their ranks and a dozen charging zealots fell to the ground in the open area.
The lean man hesitated, his muscles straining to charge forward, but kept still behind the cover of a tree. How do you fight that? He glanced at his sword, still spotted with blood, and saw that it was shaking. Kattaren shook his head and clenched the sword’s grip so tightly that he felt the pain of the ridged leather digging into his palm.
I had been so happy to receive a sword like this. But now…
He edged over, staring at the rank of Syriot musketeers reloading in a frenzy, a few brave zealots now charging out of the woods at them. Another volley sounded and Kattaren flinched back as he saw the whole lot of white robes drop to the ground. One of them writhed on the ground, screaming an unearthly howl.
How do you fight that?
Jashi bounded forward a few paces, resting his new musket against a tree limb, training it at their line for several seconds, and then fired.
One of the Syriots cried out as he fell, and was followed by several others as puffs of gunpowder blossomed nearby, several musket-armed initiates taking cover in the scrub brush and firing at the Syriot line.
There was a new urgency in the Syriot formation, visible gaps apparent where some of them had fallen, and several musketeers broke from reloading to take their wounded back. One of the Syriots wore gold braid that glinted in the dark-orange glow of the setting sun, striding back and forth without a musket of his own, bellowing commands and waving a saber.
The lean man leaned over Jashi just as the old man finished reloading, and with his sword pointed to the yelling Syriot.
“See him? I think he’s an officer.”
Jashi grunted and swiveled his musket over. He was silent for several seconds, making minute adjustments as the Syriot officer paced around and then paused, raising his saber in the air as if counting down another volley.
A harsh crack sounded and gray smoke blanketed Jashi’s face. Kattaren stared at the Syriot line as the officer fell to his knees. The rest of the Syriots seemed frozen as well, and then a few fired, the rest still hesitant and looking over at their fallen commander. Standing, Jashi turned to Kattaren, blinking his eyes to clear away errant powder.
“A fine weapon!” Jashi said with a grim smile. “But I think we should join our comrades…”
The sound of Monk Thegu’s rapid drumming drew their eyes forward, and as if embroidered in a tapestry Kattaren could clearly see the monk and a few followers running directly towards the Syriot line, heedless of the musket fire. Around them small bands of white and saffron-clad zealots and monks were bursting out of the scrub forest and following Monk Thegu’s example.
Kattaren shouted as he ran after them, his feet pounding relentlessly forward, joining a stream of jostling white-robed men and women as they leapt over their fallen comrades. The hundred paces between the two sides seemed like an endless chasm as Kattaren fought down his rising terror and protesting muscles. He heard the unfamiliar sounds of musket balls flying past, some followed by bone-shattering impacts but most flying high, flashes of black that looked like diving blackbirds.
The nun ahead of him staggered to the ground, Kattaren stumbling his way past the woman clutching her stomach, and then he saw the Syriots up close, their foreign faces staring fearfully at the onrushing attack, fumbling their weapons, dropping muskets, drawing sabers, fleeing, charging, hesitating, panicking, grim, yelling, silent, a whole chaotic medley of expressions. Ahead of Kattaren was a man not even wearing a Syriot uniform. He had a stained apron on and was squeezing the handle of a large pot, looking backwards desperately as if to find an officer, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish floundering on the ground.
With a final leap, Kattaren tackled the man just as his head whipped back around, wrenching him to the ground as the Righteous Army slammed into the Syriots all around him. Kattaren rolled and grappled with the Syriot, the sword falling away in the struggle, and savagely head-butted the cook as he squealed and writhed on the ground. As the man cried out in pain, he reflexively released his grip on the pot.
Kattaren grasped the man’s hand, pried the pot free, and screamed as he slammed it into the man’s face. He smashed it again and again, until the man below him stopped struggling, and then slammed it down again. He heaved a breath in. To his left a leather-clad Syriot and a middle-aged monk were locked in struggle, shoving against one another until Kattaren whipped his borrowed pot into the back of the Syriot’s knee
, sending him reeling to the ground.
At that same moment a knee rammed into the back of Kattaren’s left kidney, knocking him stammering to the side. Coughing, he raised his arms up in reflexive defense as a man stumbled forward, a heavy club clasped in his hand.
“Sorry,” the man muttered, absurdly, then pushed off of Kattaren and careened forward, his shoulder bearing a knotted white cord.
Kattaren stifled an oath as he pushed himself back up. He stood, panting, taking in his immediate surroundings. The Syriots around him were dead or dying, and he saw a few more fleeing before more jostling latecomers from the Righteous Army pushed past him. Mixed in with a few fallen bodies was Kattaren’s lost sword and he bent down to grasp it.
Pulling himself together, he pushed forward to follow the white-clad fighters who had rushed ahead. It was then that he heard the shouts of surprise and alarm from the front. Peering over the heads of the bounding zealots in front of him, he saw a row of dark black lines pointing towards the sky and a shimmering gleam, as if they had come upon a fence of long spears. Then the spears lowered as one in a thunderous roar of galloping hooves.
The men in front of him staggered back and a monster appeared in their midst. A fearsome metal-clad man-beast had broken through, covered in blood-spattered gray plate mail and wielding an enormous lance. As the monster struggled forward the monk ahead of Kattaren reached for the lance and joined by other hands they managed to pry it off the armored demon.
What in all the hells is that? A centaur?
Kattaren pushed his fears aside as he raised his sword, scanning for gaps in the monster’s armor. He never managed to find any. A strange rumble arose from the man-beast as it leaned forward to slam a gauntleted fist into Kattaren’s face and his world erupted into pain and blackness.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Gone Amok
The Prince of the Wastes stared in shock at the elephants in front of him, trumpeting wildly as they ran away from the burning ruins of the fishing village. The nearest had panic-stricken eyes, and the mahout was grappling for control, repeatedly murmuring soothing noises, hands clasped on his hammer and chisel.
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