Distant Worlds Volume 1

by Benjamin Sperduto

  Konstantin worked the bolt of his rifle, ejecting the spent cartridge and sliding another in place.

  The dragon picked up speed as smoke billowed from its nostrils.

  Konstantin raised his rifle and took aim, knowing that he would have only one shot.

  It was less than two hundred yards away now.

  The dragon increased speed, its serpentine body rigid and straight.

  One hundred and fifty yards.

  Konstantin trained his sights on the beast’s mouth.

  One hundred yards.

  His finger applied pressure to the trigger.

  Seventy five yards.

  The dragon opened its mouth.

  Fifty yards.

  Konstantin fired.

  The bullet ripped into the soft flesh at the back of the dragon’s mouth just as the fire churning in its gullet rushed forth to incinerate its prey below. A sudden rush of air sucked the flame through the bullet hole and into the dragon’s horned skull. Its body jerked once grotesquely before fire burst forth from its nostrils, ears and eye sockets. The body went limp then as it plummeted to the earth.

  Konstantin leapt aside to avoid being crushed by the dragon’s immense body. The ground shook when it crashed down only a few yards away from him and the force of the impact threw him to the ground. His head hit something hard and Konstantin fell unconscious.

  The sun was rising when Konstantin opened his eyes again. He shook his head to clear up his blurry vision and saw the hulking, white-scaled corpse of the dragon before him. Faint wisps of smoke still issued from its nostrils and empty eye sockets. Carrion birds were already picking at it, digging their beaks under the steel hard scales to reach the warm flesh beneath them.

  He got to his feet and was amazed that he hadn’t even suffered frostbite after being exposed to the cold for most of the night. A closer inspection of the dragon, however, revealed a slight shimmer in the air around it. Even after being dead for several hours, the beast still gave off a great deal of heat.

  “Konstantin!”

  Konstantin turned at the sound of Blagoi’s voice and saw the young soldier staggering out of the forest. There he noticed the thin clouds of smoke rising from the trees beyond, a sign that only ash and charred wood remained of the raging fires of the previous night.

  Blagoi stopped about a dozen yards from him and stared at the dragon.

  “By God,” he said. “You killed it!”

  “It was a lucky shot,” Konstantin said. “Are you alright?”

  Blagoi nodded. “I passed out when I got to those rocks. When I came to a few hours ago, I was afraid to move, thinking that you were dead and that thing was still looking for me. When the sun started coming up, I came looking for you.”

  Konstantin said nothing. He noticed that Blagoi carried his rifle in his hands, not slung over his shoulder. The young soldier raised the rifle to take aim at his chest.

  Konstantin sighed, but said nothing.

  “I have orders from Captain Ushakov,” Blagoi said.

  “I expected as much. What did he promise you? A promotion?”

  “No, nothing. I’m a soldier. I follow the orders I’m given.”

  “You didn’t think to ask why he would want me dead?”

  “What does it matter?”

  Konstantin shrugged.

  “I suppose it doesn’t. ”

  The crack of the rifle’s discharge broke the serenity of the morning and Konstantin fell to the ground clutching his bloody chest. Lying next to the enormous corpse of the dragon, he suddenly felt a strange kinship with the beast as his vision began to fade.

  Blagoi walked over to him, the barrel of the rifle hovering only a few inches away.

  “You were right about one thing, Konstantin.”

  Konstantin smiled, his body quickly going numb. He managed a final whisper before the cold darkness overtook him.

  “There will always be dragons...”

  La Tierra de la Sangre

  Originally published in Theaker’s Fiction Quarterly #18 (Silver Age Books, 2007)

  My second published short story, “La Tierra de la Sangre” was intended to be the first in a series of pulp adventure stories set in an alternate history version of the Caribbean during the golden age of piracy. At one point, I was so enamored with the idea that I worked on designing a roleplaying game set in the same world (which I’m still threatening to finish one of these days). The story itself reflects that enthusiasm for the source material, sometimes to its detriment. Since this story was published early on in my career and never reprinted, it hasn’t been touched since I submitted it a decade ago. I’ve come a long way as a writer since then, but I hope I still bring as much energy to my current work as I did to “La Tierra de la Sangre.”

  The cannonball sailed over the bow of the French merchant ship, narrowly missing the main deck where sailors were diving for cover. From his vantage point several hundred yards away, Julian Singer watched the ship’s sails, waiting for the Frenchmen to have the good sense to take them in and surrender without making trouble. But the ship sailed onward, its sails full with wind and the sailors no doubt full with false hopes of escape.

  “Rutger,” Singer said.

  “Aye, Captain?”

  “Bring one of her masts down.”

  “Aye, sir!” The big Dutchman relayed the order and ranges to the men below deck and soon the air trembled from the discharge of cannons. Singer watched the main sail of the French ship rip apart and its mast shred under a hail of cannon fire. The mast wavered for a moment before it fell, nearly tipping the ship on its side as it tumbled into the choppy sea. The French sailors scrambled to cut the rigging loose from the sinking mast. As they worked, a well-dressed Frenchman leaned over the side of the ship and waved a tattered piece of white sail to signal their surrender.

  Singer turned to the Chinese woman at his side.

  “Song,” he said, “have the men ready hooks and prepare to board.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Bring us up alongside her!”

  The Wraith glided across the water towards the French ship with astounding speed for a ship its size. There was no vessel like it in the Caribbean, at least none Singer knew of. It was of Chinese design and manufacture, rigged with massive junk sails instead of European-styled square rigs. Singer had yet to meet its match for speed and maneuverability in all the Caribbean.

  Song had readied the boarding party long before the Wraith maneuvered abreast of the French ship. When they were close enough, they threw their hooks over and pulled the ships against one another. The French sailors held their hands up as Singer’s men swarmed on board, swords and muskets at the ready. Singer crossed over as the sailors were being rounded up and asked one of them a question in French, which he spoke fluently.

  He saw confusion on the sailor’s face and knew then that something was wrong.

  “Captain!” Song said. “Sails to port!”

  Singer turned and saw two frigates flying British colors bearing down on them from the east. He wondered that he hadn’t seen them moments ago in that vast expanse of water. Then the air around them shimmered and three more frigates of the Royal Navy appeared out of thin air.

  “It’s a trap!” Singer said. “Get back to the Wraith! Now!”

  Just as the pirates made to retreat, British soldiers burst forth from the doors and hatches that led below the deck of the French ship, each carrying a loaded musket. Singer drew his pistol and fired a shot from each barrel. The bullets scarcely found their marks before his men followed his lead and opened fire. But these soldiers were British regulars, not the cowardly washouts that normally protected merchant vessels. They didn’t panic or retreat, instead diligently forming ranks and firing as one to cut down Singer’s men in bunches. Less than half of them made it back to the Wraith as it pushed off from the decoy ship. A few of the British soldiers leapt across the growing gap between the two ships but were met in the air by a volley of musket fire.
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  “Rutger!” Singer said, calling out over the cacophony of gunfire.

  “Aye, Captain!” Rutger said, coming to his captain’s side. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine. Ready the guns and sink that damned ship!”

  “Already done, Captain!”

  The big Dutchman cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted to the men manning the Wraith’s cannons below deck.

  “Fire!”

  The starboard side of the targeted ship exploded as the Wraith’s heavy guns fired, sending a thick cloud of splintered wood into the air. Only a few of Singer’s men were injured from the explosion, but the decoy had nearly capsized, with much of its starboard side now floating in a thin layer of pulverized wood upon the surface of the water.

  “Bring her about,” Singer said, making his way back to the helm. “And get those cannons reloaded!”

  When he reached the stern of the ship, he got a better view of the pursuing British frigates. They were closing in quickly, much faster than they should have been considering the strength of the wind. He fetched his looking glass for a closer look at them. Song joined him just as he brought the ships into focus.

  “Anyone we know, Captain?”

  “I can’t make out the names, but they don’t look familiar. Must be some new foolhardy captain the British called in to stir things up.”

  “Moving a bit fast for this wind, aren’t they?”

  Singer didn’t answer; he was too busy inspecting the ships’ sails. At first he thought it was a trick of the sunlight reflecting off the water that made them appear to shimmer, but he quickly realized it was a sign of something far more ominous.

  “They’ve bewitched the sails,” he said.

  “What? Since when does the high and holy Royal Navy employ sorcerers?”

  “Since now, apparently,” Singer said. “That would explain how they appeared right out of thin air as well.”

  “Can we outrun them?”

  Singer looked at the Wraith’s junk sails. There was enough wind in them to escape a common frigate, but there was no way of knowing how much their pursuers’ speed would be aided by sorcery. His eyes turned back to the British ships.

  They were closing far too fast. Two of the ships were already breaking off from the others to hem them in and prevent their escape into the open sea to the east, where Singer guessed they would be able to outrun them, enchanted sails or not. Soon they would turn and open up with their cannons from an angle that would prevent the Wraith from returning fire. Some distance to the west, he knew, were the northernmost islands of the Gulf of Honduras. If they could reach those islands, Signer thought, the Wraith’s superior maneuverability gave them a chance of escape, however small.

  “We can’t make it around them,” he said. “Our only chance is to head west for the islands. We might be able to lose them in there.”

  “Captain…you realize that takes us terribly close to Mexico…don’t you?”

  “Right now it’s the best chance we’ve got. If we’re lucky, they won’t want to risk their ships in the shallows; and if they’ve got any sense, they won’t follow us any closer to the mainland.”

  Song said nothing for a moment, then sighed and nodded.

  “What are your orders, Captain?”

  “Change our heading; make for those islands as fast as possible.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The crew adjusted the Wraith’s massive sails and it nimbly swung westward. It gained speed as it straightened out and closed in on the distant islands swiftly. The British ships continued to gain on them, but not so quickly as before. Singer saw that they would make it to the shallow waters around the islands well ahead of the frigates.

  The little relief he felt was short lived, however, for just as the Wraith passed the small, outermost island, the British ships became blurry, waved in the wind like smoke, then disappeared.

  “They’ve vanished again!” Singer said. “Every man keep a sharp eye! Song, get up here!”

  His first mate quickly answered her captain’s call.

  “Aye, Captain?”

  “Get a man up in the lookout baskets and post spotters all around the ship. I don’t want those bastards sneaking up on us again. Tell them to keep their eyes on the water for wake; it’s the only part of the ship that sorcery can’t hide unless they have a very powerful sorcerer on board. And make sure they know to keep a watch out for…anything else that could be in these waters.”

  “Understood, Captain.”

  As Song left, Singer shouted down to Rutger, continued to bark orders at anyone who got in his way or looked even slightly unproductive.

  “Rutger!”

  “Aye, Captain?”

  “I want those guns ready to fire at a moment’s notice, understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And break the rest of the muskets and pistols out of storage, we might be needing them soon.”

  “Aye, Captain!”

  The ship’s crew fell unusually quiet. It was as if they feared that the slightest noise might cause the British ships to appear right alongside them at any moment. Singer knew the real reason for their unease, however. Every league they traversed brought them closer to the coast of Mexico, the one place in all the Caribbean that no sailor wished to visit under any circumstances. The lure of gold still brought many foolish opportunists to its shores, but few of them ever returned to a European settlement. Although maps identified it as Mexico, most people found the name used by Spanish sailors to be more appropriate: La Tierra de la Sangre, The Land of Blood.

  After over an hour of weaving through the islands, Singer went down to the main deck to speak with Song. He found her at the bow of the ship, her sharp eyes scanning the path before them intently.

  “Any sign?” he said.

  “None.”

  “It could be we’ve lost them in here. We’ll wait another few hours and then make a run for it if we’re still clear. Even if they spot us, those enchantments aren’t going to hold out forever. If they’ve got a sorcerer on board, I doubt he can keep channeling that kind of power all day long. Even a warlock has to sleep.”

  “How may do you think they have?”

  “Well, even with five ships they could probably get by with only one if he was powerful enough. Besides, I can’t imagine they’ve managed to get any more than one or two just to hunt down a band of pirates.”

  “But didn’t the British outlaw sorcery on the high seas?”

  “Unsanctioned sorcery is against British law and punishable by death, yes. But there’s no law stating that the British can’t employ one like any other sailor. Typical British hypocrisy.”

  “Do you think this is something we should start expecting from every British ship?”

  “I would doubt it,” Singer said. “Sorcerers are too bloody unpredictable for those elitists in the Royal Navy.”

  “And for other Englishman as well, it would seem,” Song said.

  “Wait, you’re not saying that…?”

  “It just would have been nice to have someone on board able to spot those British frigates before they appeared out of thin air, or to know that what looked like a French merchant ship had a hold filled with British regulars.”

  “It’s frightfully bad luck bringing a sorcerer aboard, Song. You should remember that better than anyone that they all go crazy sooner or later. Remember what Delamarcus did to that customs official in Havana? Or what Zedain did to the governor of Santo Domingo after that game of chess? There was a reason your father wouldn’t even allow a sorcerer to set foot on his ship.”

  Song nodded.

  “I know, Captain, you’re right. It’s just that I wish we could have been a little more prepared this afternoon. Have you considered…?”

  The two pirates felt the Wraith shift strangely and they both looked back to the main body of the ship. Its sails hung limply from their rigging.

  “That’s odd,” Singer said, “the wind just died. I wonder what…�
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  His eyes widened when he realized what had happened and the threat posed by the British frigates suddenly became a secondary concern.

  “Sails to port! Sails to port!”

  The warning calls were quickly consumed by the thunder of cannon fire from the British frigate that appeared suddenly alongside the Wraith. Cannon balls ripped into the Wraith’s port side as its guns returned fire. Although Singer’s ship had the frigate outgunned, two more of them appeared off to the starboard and immediately opened fire. Boxed in by islands and her enemies and without the aid of a strong wind, the Wraith was exposed and vulnerable in the narrow shallows. By the time the final two frigates appeared in the already crowded waters, one at the bow and one at the stern, Singer’s ship was being torn apart as the British pounded its hull and deck with sheets of cannon and musket fire.

  After several minutes, the British ceased their bombardment. Singer picked himself up off the deck and surveyed the destruction. It appeared that at least half his men were dead or wounded. The Wraith’s hull, damaged as it was, didn’t seem to be breached, but it was possible that there was a slow leak or two he couldn’t see below the water level. Amazingly, the ship’s masts and sails looked to be undamaged, though without any wind they were all but useless.

  “Ahoy, there! I wish to speak to captain of the Wraith! ”

  Singer turned towards the voice and saw a British officer standing importantly along the railing of the frigate to their port side. For a moment, he seriously considered shooting the man.

  “Aye, this is Captain Singer!” he said.

  “Captain, I sincerely hope that you are willing to discuss terms of your surrender? It would be a shame to send that fine ship of yours to the bottom of the ocean when we can settle this like civilized men. Surrender now and our guns will remain stilled. Otherwise, we shall resume our bombardment until your ship has been reduced to pulp. What say you, Captain Singer?”

  Singer looked over to Song, who had already drawn her sword and pistol. For a moment, he considered joining her in a last, futile stand against the countrymen he so despised. Then he looked down at the men who remained on the deck of the Wraith. Many of them were severely wounded and would die soon if they didn’t receive some kind of medical care. He knew that not all of them would be condemned to death if they were taken into custody, whereas resisting the British would certainly mean death for each and every one of them.