Landfall

by Victor Serrano

  The prince gave a curt nod and patted the Veldtlander as he passed by. The next few patients were sleeping but Prince Sharnipur paused when he saw the Veldtlander commander Abaeze. The bearded man smiled weakly and the prince smiled back, moving closer and hiding his disgust at the wounded man’s stench.

  “Is there to be fighting today?” Abaeze asked. “If need be I could-”

  “No, no! You should have plenty of time to recover. We’ve struck a peace of sorts and the wet season begins soon. We can just wait out the monsoon. Easy money by any measure.”

  Abaeze grinned and leaned back. “Since when have we ever made easy money, Prince Sharnipur? Something always comes up.”

  “Yes… yes, that’s true. Perhaps this will be a first.”

  “Ah, sir?” The prince leaned in. “The men have been talking. When are we going to return to Guthara?”

  The prince smiled grimly and decided to be honest. “I’m going to level with you, Abaeze, and I expect you to keep this to yourself.”

  The man nodded.

  “You know how it is, Abaeze. We are a band of exiles facing a nation and we’ve just lost more. It’s a tall order to expect us to fight and win. A tall order indeed.”

  “But we all want you to try! The kingdom by rights belongs to you. Even after all these years we are willing to fight for you, King Sharnipur. But you must try.”

  He looked away in the silence. “I was king for what, an hour? Two, before my brother’s assassins came?”

  Abaeze laughed. “The timing doesn’t matter. You were King, once. What more do you need?”

  “More elephants and men for a start,” Prince Sharnipur said with a wry laugh. “And money. What I really need is money.”

  “The Syriots must have plenty of it.”

  The prince paused and scratched under his turban. “Switching sides is bad for our reputation. We’ve never done it yet.”

  “If the money is right once may be enough. Then we can put the mercenary life behind us and win you back your kingdom.”

  “I’ll think on it,” he said with a wry smile as he turned away. Abaeze was a Veldtlander, and he doubted the man had ever even been to Guthara before. The way the Gutharan exiles talked made it seem like Guthara was paradise; a delusion brought upon by nostalgia mixed with wishful thinking. “Take care, Abaeze.”

  After just a few minutes in the field hospital it was a mercy to clear his nostrils outside. Prince Sharnipur strode forward, feeling his worries evaporating, and made his way to the elephant enclosure. The unflagging Timariota Srinijar was looking after the work, the construction elephants of the Corps able to set down their own enclosures given just a few hours and enough timbers. Timariota Srinijar brushed sweat off her forehead, her long hair more gray than black, as she greeted Prince Sharnipur with a weary smile.

  Beside her a girl was rolling tamarind into rice balls, the sticky substance a treat the elephants loved, and a few other children were splashing water on a baby elephant. Prince Sharnipur smiled to see it.

  Perhaps one day you will be mahout and war elephant. But for now, at least, enjoy your childhoods.

  “How goes it, Timariota?”

  “We’re done, I’m just adding another pen here.” She hesitated for a long moment. “My prince, I feel you should know that many of us exiles have been talking and we’re growing restless for a return to the Gutharan Kingdom. Or at least to the Wastes.”

  “We’re nowhere close to ready.” The prince paused, hesitant to say the rest of his thoughts, but there were few he trusted more than Timariota Srinijar. She had lost her title and estates with the coup and proven her loyalty a hundred times over the years of exile. “If we’ll ever be.”

  “I know that, my prince, at least in terms of manpower and supplies. But the men believe in you. For years they’ve fought for you and you’ve brought them victory after victory, barring that last incident in the North. They’re ready, my prince. As long as you are.”

  Prince Sharnipur looked away and listened to the baby elephant’s furious trumpeting and the laughter of the children.

  “How can anyone be ready to sacrifice their friends to kill their own brother?”

  Timariota Srinijar frowned and bent to pick up a tamarind and rice ball. She rolled it in her hand as if it helped her think.

  “You know we have to fight him eventually, my prince. You know we’ve always had to do that at some point.”

  One of the girls carried a sloshing bucket of river water over her head and shrieked as she chased the baby elephant.

  She could be an orphan. If not now, then after a few more battles like this.

  “I know. I know.”

  But I don’t want to think about that. My men have been through so much already. And I have done wrong, lost in the anger of the fighting. I need to fix that at least.

  One of the baby elephants bounded to the prince, and he knelt down to smile at it, rubbing the elephant’s fuzzy head. Prince Sharnipur stepped up and smiled down at the little elephant. If all went well, the Corps could have a few more successful campaigns, and then they’d take back his throne. This elephant wouldn’t even be an adult by then. If all went well. The prince stepped away and the baby elephant bounded off on unsteady legs.

  Though how Prince Sharnipur expected to seize a kingdom was beyond him. It was one of those impossible tasks he had put far in the future, back when they were just a few refugees escaping in the trackless Wastes, back when it had seemed utterly impossible.

  But now? Now it was no longer impossible. Just very unlikely…

  Prince Sharnipur looked down the length of the Irragonda River, recognizing even at a distance the distinctive ivory tusks of Ranvir, the left tusk coming to an end halfway, the tusk sword stowed away. The prince approached Ranvir, who was being splashed by water from the river by Sanjay and Ajit, as Dhamdalek snoozed under a tree. The great elephant snorted, spraying them with water from its trunk, and trumpeted. He was clearly having a good time.

  Far in the distance, a Syriot flag hung limply from the ruins of the fishing village, hanging from the village’s single stone building.

  Doubtless the Syriots are watching us from there. But what of it?

  The prince strode through the circle of elephants and their attendants, nodding at those he passed. Don Ventu’s voice boomed out from within a storehouse, and Timariota Srinijar kept close as the prince walked along. Children were mucking out the stables, the sons and daughters of the Corps’s veterans. And among them one man in the corner, alone, carting a wheelbarrow filled with dung.

  “Has he been working all night, Timariota Srinijar?”

  “Yes, my prince. All night.”

  “Good.”

  Prince Sharnipur approached the man, who glanced up with red-rimmed eyes.

  “My prince.”

  “I’m sorry, Javeed. I let my anger get a hold of me. It’s just that… we can’t afford to lose our war elephants.”

  “I loved those elephants,” Javeed said, his voice quavering. “You know that, sir.”

  The prince looked over the weary former commander. “You’ve been thinking about those you lost.”

  Javeed blinked, as if confused by the question. “How could I not?”

  “I know. I know,” Prince Sharnipur said. “I haven’t been able to think of anything else.”

  He trailed off for a moment and the two shared an uneasy silence.

  “Anander died in the fighting. I have need of another ballista gunner. I would like it to be you.”

  Javeed stared down at the dung. “I am not fit for the position. I let the Corps down. I have not even fired the ballista before.”

  “Sanjay will train you. Take to your studies. Earn your place back. As a gunner, and then perhaps back as a mahout and commander.” The prince sighed. “They say a monsoon is coming soon. This place has wet seasons and there is never any fighting during that time. Make use of the peace and train hard.”

  Javeed sniffed. “Yes, sir.�
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  Chapter Sixty-One

  Second Class

  “Major Ribaldi, you are hereby sentenced for dereliction of duty and gross incompetence for your role in the Battle of the Irragonda River…” the officer droned on as the sun beat down on the Tamani town square and mosquitoes tormented the drawn-up ranks of Syriot musketeers.

  Bekhar swatted a mosquito on his leg, grinning triumphantly but attracting stares from some of the more stuck-up Syriot officers. That’s probably the most blood that lot have ever seen. His eyes scanned the ranks of his fellow gentlemen officers out of sheer boredom until his very soul was filled with contempt.

  At the end of the front line was Captain Salassi, standing motionless in his naval uniform, wearing his fur hat once again.

  Now there’s a fighter. Three shiploads of Syriots had beached themselves in the shallow harbor, and barely a dozen walked out.

  He had heard the savage general commanding the elephants had been nearly apoplectic with rage when he had seen how few were left. Bekhar chuckled to himself, causing nearby listeners to look at him askance.

  “… and the death of over seventy cooks and laborers. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty…” whispered Major Ribaldi, trussed up against the well in the center of the square like a pig ready for the slaughter.

  “I couldn’t hear you, Major Ribaldi. Will your last words be whimpers?” General Eben boomed from on high.

  Not a whisperer, that one.

  “Not guilty.” Major Ribaldi managed, then coughed several times. “Not guilty, sir!”

  “We’ll see. Captain Salassi. Do you consider Major Ribaldi guilty of these crimes?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. I believe more accurate intelligence information could have saved the lives of many of my men.”

  “I most heartily agree. Captain Salassi, you may do the honors.”

  Salassi brandished his chipped scimitar in a particularly dramatic fashion and raised it up high. Major Ribaldi whimpered and closed his eyes.

  “Wait.”

  Salassi paused and glanced back at the general. “Sir?”

  General Eben strode forward to the well, watched by a dozen officers, several hundred musketeers, and perhaps twenty wary locals and curious street urchins. Bekhar watched a dirty street urchin sitting atop the roof of a bakery, legs swinging back and forth as he chewed on an apple, and Bekhar chuckled again, reminded of his own childhood.

  General Eben knelt and put his head by Major Ribaldi’s ear not five paces away from Bekhar. Oh, so he can whisper. Bekhar leaned forward and heard the general repeat the word loyalty, the major’s head bobbing up and down feverishly.

  The general stood up. “Cut him free, Captain Salassi.”

  With evident regret, Salassi lowered the scimitar and sliced away at the rope.

  “Though I find Major Ribaldi guilty of dereliction of duty and gross incompetence both before and during the Battle of the Irragonda River, personnel requirements force me to lighten his sentencing.”

  General Eben paused, to let the audience take this in.

  “Through the gallantry of Captain Salassi and his crew the fishing village has been recognized as leased property of the Syriot Empire. With significant improvements, the village has the potential to become a major trading artery. An officer with an engineering background is needed to oversee the strenuous labors needed to both improve and secure this enclave. Major Ribaldi will lead this effort.”

  The major staggered to his feet, looking dazed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Colonel Penha, Captain Salassi, Captain Bekhar, Sir Jacinto, Sergeant Edrick, Lieutenant Burkher, Quartermaster Sarco. Please step forward.”

  Bekhar had been tuning the Syriots out again, but he gathered enough to know he was wanted for something. He lined up next to Salassi, who was looking uncharacteristically worried about something. General Eben surveyed the line of Syriots and frowned.

  “Where is Colonel Penha?”

  “He took ship to the island, General,” The knight to Bekhar’s right volunteered. The man’s left arm was bandaged to his chest, and a crude crutch supported his right side. “If you have something for him, I can deliver it for you.”

  “Typical,” the General muttered, then reverted to his regulation shout. “Colonel Penha! For gallantry in combat you have been awarded the Iron Talon, First Class!”

  With great ceremony, the general’s aide delivered the medal to Sir Jacinto, who looked quite pleased.

  “Sir Jacinto Ortegon of the Knights of Serraca! For gallantry in combat you have been awarded the Iron Talon, Third Class!”

  With great ceremony, the general’s aide delivered the medal to Sir Jacinto, whose expression faded into glumness.

  “Captain Salassi of His Majesty’s Ship Hellfire! For gallantry in combat you have been awarded the Iron Talon, First Class!”

  Salassi bowed and received the medal, then staggered slightly as Bekhar enthusiastically clapped him on the back.

  Whatever they’re giving him, he deserves it. That’s a bloody-minded bastard if ever I saw one.

  “Captain Bekhar of the First Colonial Infantry!”

  Bekhar felt a sudden chill, thinking of the pirates that had died under his command, but pushed the thought away as he had so many times before.

  “For gallantry in combat you have been awarded the Iron Talon, Second Class!”

  With great ceremony, the general’s aide delivered the medal to Captain Bekhar, who just stared at it dubiously.

  "I killed an elephant to hold that village," Bekhar said in his rough Syriot. "What the fuck do I have to do to get firs–”

  Bekhar staggered forward as Salassi slapped him hard on the back.

  “Provincials,” Salassi explained to those nearby, shrugging. The general’s aide looked unimpressed.

  “Lieutenant Burkher! For gallantry…”

  Bekhar tuned out the rest as he examined the medal. It was surprisingly plain for jewelry and he doubted it would fetch much of a price in the southern markets. Why do they make such a fuss over a little trinket like this? I wonder if I could ask for more gold later. The general continued with his plaudits for a couple of soldiers and a cook.

  “… and after repelling the attack, managed to turn out a hearty soup. We could all learn from your example.” General Eben looked up, surveying the ranks of musketeers, and then nodded. “Dismissed!”

  Bekhar turned to leave, then paused as he noticed General Eben addressing Salassi, and listened in out of curiosity. The general’s booming voice wasn’t hard to pick up although Bekhar couldn’t understand all the words.

  “It’s still unofficial, but you can consider yourself a Commodore now.”

  “Thank you very much, sir. I will strive to prove myself worthy.”

  “Yes, well, that will prove a bit difficult with the loss of all your ships.”

  Salassi fidgeted uncomfortably. “The situation–”

  General Eben waved it off. “I understand the situation. You held the town when it looked like you were done for. Even so, I have no ships for you. That’s why I am assigning you back to the fishing village with Major Ribaldi to assist with the building effort and to salvage your ships if at all possible. You will also be acting commander of the balloon unit. I trust you are not afraid of heights.”

  “I’ve climbed masts since I was a boy, sir, but if I understand correctly, I will be under the major’s command. Pending an official promotion.”

  “That is correct. It is a long way to the Syriot Empire, as you know, and so that will take some time.”

  “Ah.” Salassi seemed to struggle for a moment. “I testified against him. I almost executed him.”

  “So you did. Will that be all, Commodore?”

  “… Yes, sir.”

  General Eben’s head turned to regard Bekhar.

  “Captain Bekhar. I see you have been listening in. Well, I have been meaning to speak with you as well. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “Ye
s, sir.” Bekhar replied, copying Salassi’s cadence.

  “The Commodore here is all out of ships and you are all out of men. However, I intend to fix that. Now that we have secured this territory, we find ourselves hated and despised and yet in possession of a sizeable native population. I have already begun forming a local garrison force in the cities to establish law and order. However, I have in mind another force… one that will cause disruption and chaos beyond our lines. Only the most vile and opportunistic of men will join our army, yet we absolutely require a force of this nature to keep the native chieftains on the defensive. I had you in mind for recruiting and heading this army.”

  “Opportun…” Bekhar scratched his chin for several moments. “Could you… repeat… more slow. My Syriot is not so good.”

  General Eben sighed. “Where’s Vermilies when you need him? Come with me, Captain Bekhar. I’m going to show you the worst scum in the dungeons of Tamani and we’ll see if you can make an army out of them.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Just the Beginning

  Vermilies stretched languorously on the grassy hillside and gazed in contentment at the fish bobbing near the surface of the river. Vermilies’s emerald tunic was laid out to dry beside him, though some of the new mud and blood stains looked to be permanent. Vermilies yawned as he sat up, bare-chested in his linen trousers. He watched a nearby dragonfly float about with faint concern, seeing it peel away over the cattails near the island’s crude ferry station.

  This station was now seeing some work, another pier being added by several workmen, their light hammer-blows echoing faintly up the hill. Near the workmen Vermilies faintly recognized the old woman he had spoken with what seemed to be ages ago, but he saw little reason to renew their acquaintance. After weeks of constant diplomatic wrangling and stomping through the jungle, Vermilies felt he had earned a brief respite.

  He felt a slight chill and noticed that the shadow of a cloud was forming around him. He glanced up as it passed by, but the sun was still beating down relentlessly. The slight hubbub of voices around the pier had raised to a commotion and the steady sound of hammering came to an abrupt stop. Vermilies glanced over to see a ferry boat pulling in, the gleaming armor of a Knight of Serraca catching the noon light.