by Vic Connor
“I broke a solemn oath,” she tells hm. “Gods do not look kindly on those who do.”
“Meh,” he says. “Thems oaths t’ our true Lord Almighty, thems be the only oaths that counts. Oaths t’ ‘em false idols…” He waves a dismissive hand. “Thems be like promises made when drunk. Thems don’t counts, they doesn’t.”
Juanita inspects her own hands; they look jagged, old, and slightly lifeless.
“What?” Abe chuckles. “Not havin’ no smart reply, witch? Or maybe that Mirror of yourn be all jealous ‘bout that jug, jus’ like me lad Jake said?”
She leans heavily on her staff and struggles to stand up. “We should move on,” she says.
The pirate’s face grows somber, and he inhales deeply. “Aye,” he replies, getting back on his feet. “Me nose agrees.”
We soon reach the rocky plateau running from north to south like a wide highway of rough stone, cutting through the jungle like a colossal scar.
Things are quiet enough. Perhaps too much so.
“Bless me gizzards, me nose be havin’ a bad feelin’ ‘bout this silence,” Abe growls uneasily.
“Juanita,” I say, “can you send some bees to scout ahead? Or shape-shift yourself, to see what’s on the other side?”
“I am sorry, young Jake; I am too weak for that.”
“We’ll be fully exposed while we cross,” I say thoughtfully. “And at least half of us are in no shape to sprint to the other side.”
“We should have taken our time resting, my child…”
“We hier now,” Hendricks asserts.
We are. And we can’t grow wings.
“Let’s spread out, folks. If somebody will shoot at us, at least let’s not give them a clustered target.”
Miyu, Abe, and Hendricks fan out across the rocky plateau, the pirate in the middle while samurai and gunslinger take his left and right flanks.
“Let’s go, girls.” My crutches poke the stony ground as I move forward, slowly, carefully, eyes fixed on the jungle across from us.
Juanita and Uitzli follow a few steps behind; under the mid-day glare that makes her nearly blind, our little sister needs to stay close to somebody else for guidance.
Abe reaches the half-way point of the plateau, the jungle about a hundred steps away.
He stops, as do Miyu and Hendricks—we all seem to notice movement among the trees. We’re too far for me to see clearly, let alone appraise the danger.
“Three o’ thems,” says Abe. “T’ one on t’ right, he be a rodelero, with a short sword an’ that funny lil’ round shield them Spaniards like t’ hide behind.”
“Three musketeers,” adds Hendricks.
Keep moving.
Hold it.
Let’s pull back.
“C’mon, folks,” I encourage. “Keep moving.”
Miyu does as I say.
“Ya sure ‘bout that, lad?”
Hendricks moves forward, too.
“Yeah, I’m sure. We’re a hundred paces away from them. This spot is exactly where I don’t want to be against long-range weapons.” I trudge along, working hard with my crutches. “If we retreat, we’ll look suspicious as hell. So let’s move,” I repeat as I continue advancing, “and hope they are just travelers, like us. Keep your eyes open, but weapons away for now.”
“Aye, lad,” says the pirate, getting into spear-point position again. “An’ thems three bain’t be lookin’ like much.”
But there could be more behind the trees, or somewhere else nearby.
“Vijftig stappen,” Hendricks says.
“I know,” I reply. Fifty steps is the optimal range for muskets. “Keep moving, but do nothing aggressive just yet.”
The Spaniards seem unsure of what to make of us or of what to do. We don’t look like runaway slaves, and we’re moving away from the Aztec city.
Appraising Gaze
“Alonzo and Funes are the musketeers,” I inform my group. “Miyu, Abe: If push comes to shove, charge against those two. Rodriguez is the rodelero, the one with shield and sword; he’ll probably try to block our charge—so he’s yours, Dutchman. If they start a fight, make bullets rain.”
There’s a hiss from behind Miyu’s mask as a fourth figure steps forward from under the trees. Fairly tall, well-built, dark skinned; he wears mostly Spanish military garb, except the plated vambraces on his arms and a conical helmet.
Raven-black beard and mustache.
“Beelzebub’s demons take ‘im…”
The man carries a short axe in his left hand, a long scimitar in his right, steel gleaming ominously under the sun.
Memory Unlocked:
Failed Ambush (1 of 2)
“Escapa, niño,” he says, axe and scimitar drawn but not raised. “Vete.” Half a dozen pikemen stand behind him, awaiting his orders. “Mientras puedas.”
“I’m not running away,” I tell him. “I have no trouble with you.” I raise my two dueling pistols. “It’s Barboza who has done me wrong.”
Like wings, Miyu and Abe spread to my sides.
“Escapa,” he repeats. A greenish mist coils around him.
I keep walking, guns aimed at his chest.
He charges; I open fire.
“Damn it…” I whisper. “I know who he is.”
El Morisco recognizes me too. “¡Fuego!” he cries.
“Charge!” I yell.
Hendricks is already doing so, running at full speed and attempting to come from their right flank. Rodriguez the rodelero advances slowly, buckler raised, ready to block the Dutchman’s incoming charge and prevent him from reaching the musketeers.
I swing on my crutches as fast as I can. I have only four guns, and the pistolón is useless at long range.
Miyu glides toward their left flank. El Morisco does not move; he must know that range is on his side and he holds his position. Alonso and Funes raise their muskets to aim at the approaching pirate and samurai.
Silks whirl as Miyu begins to spin just an instant before they shoot. She rushes toward Alonso, raising her blade high, while the musketeer frantically attempts to reload his weapon.
Funes’ bullet hits Abe in the right shoulder.
“Curses an’ plague on ya!” shouts the pirate, stumbling. He drops to one knee, grabbing the wound with his left hand…
…the wound seems on fire, as whirls and ribbons of smoke come out of it…
…Uitzli is chanting behind me, drawing the tendril-like coils of smoke toward her.
Abe stands up, yelling, “¡Maldita sea vuestra puñetera Reina, y maldita sea España!”
Funes seems to be struck by the words for the briefest of moments, but…
Sailor’s Curses…
Failed!
“…Your barking has no teeth, Englishman!” shouts El Morisco. He jerks his left hand holding the short axe, as if he’s about to throw it at Miyu…
Djinn’s Fury!
…but instead hurls a whirlwind of sand, which sweeps straight at the samurai.
Miyu’s kiai echoes across the rocky plateau as she cuts downward with her blade at the approaching twister. She literally strikes the wind, and in the next moment Morisco’s spell engulfs her.
Hendricks keeps running, shooting his pistols non-stop and growing extra arms as he does. Rodriguez hides behind his buckler, but it offers little protection against the hail of bullets. He gets hit in the thigh and falls to the ground.
Abe advances like a drunken bear, still twenty paces from El Morisco and the musketeers, who are about to finish reloading.
El Morisco makes a pitching motion again…
Djinn’s Fury!
…this time, the Dutchman is engulfed by a raging whirlwind that blinds him with hot, rough sand.
The musketeers fire their salvo. Alonso’s bullet misses Abe…
…but Funes shoots true again. Blood pours from the pirate’s leg. He staggers and drops his cutlass. “Beelzebub’s demons take ya!” he cries in pain.
This is bad.
…damn it, this is bad…
…I glance back and lock eyes with Juanita. “We need all the help we can get,” I tell her. “Now.”
She looks at me as if afraid to be contaminated by some blasphemous words.
“¡Preparen…!” I hear El Morisco say.
“C’mon, Juanita!”
“But it is … it is a blessing…” she protests. “I cannot…”
“¡Apunten…!”
That means ‘Take Aim.’
Damn it… As I grow desperate, my imagination conjures a picture of my voice becoming so powerful that others have no choice but follow my commands. I physically feel a new ability clicking into place. A notification flashes before my eyes:
Skill Unlocked!
Command: Bark Orders
“THE JUG, JUANITA!” I order in my new, compelling voice. “NOW!”
My words are like an electric jolt, snapping her into action. Grim determination sets in her eyes, and her jaws clench. She reaches inside her poncho, lifts her hand high with the tiny jug in it…
“…O Tlaloc!” she shouts. “Lord of Rain and Thunder, Master of Winds—”
She plunges the jug straight down to the rocky ground, smashing the multicolor ceramic into a thousand pieces.
“—help us!”
Two shots echo through the rainforest. Two bullets buzz past me as I turn to face our foes.
There’s a sudden breeze coming from the west behind us…
…it becomes a gale, then grows into a storm, while heavy clouds gather in the sky out of nowhere at an incredible speed…
…the cold wind blows harder and harder from behind us, pushing us forward. The desert twisters engulfing Miyu and Hendricks waver, flicker, then dissolve into nothing.
Stronger and stronger the storm rages, roaring as if to say, “I’ve got your back now.”
Free to attack, the samurai unleashes a blood-curling roar. “Kutabare!!” she yells, and, supported by the gale, she sprints toward Alonso, who fiddles about with his musket.
Abe grabs his cutlass and follows her lead, bellowing like an enraged Kraken.
Struggling to stand against the storm unleashed against him, El Morisco crosses sword and axe over his chest and yells, “¡Habúb!”
Blasting Sandstorm!
A downburst of hot air hits the ground from above El Morisco’s head, raising a wall of dust around him and the Spaniards, hiding them from us. The western wind keeps blowing furiously against the sudden sandstorm while silt and clay and bits of rock fly everywhere.
Miyu, Abe, and Hendricks peer into the dust cloud, just as I do, trying to get a glimpse of our foes. Our weapons are ready, in case they charge us.
Then, it all stops.
The western wind eases to a gentle breeze, dust clouds settle, and we’re left looking at the empty spot on the rocky plateau where El Morisco and his Spaniards used to be.
They’re gone.
28
Belch Choir
“I’d call that a win, boss,” Sveta said.
“That was some wind, definitely…” I replayed the fight once more, to study El Morisco’s hand movements before he unleashed the massive sandstorm. “A win, I’m not so certain.”
“Any fight your foe flees and you walk away alive is a victory, I’d say.”
“I remain unconvinced, my dear Svetty.” There wasn’t much to see. Winds exploding into a cloud of silt and sand, my crew waiting for it to dissipate, then finding nothing afterward. “I can’t even tell if they sneaked away under the veil of the sand, or if they escaped by some other means.”
“Maybe flying on a magic carpet?” She chuckled. “Like in the Arabian Nights?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, to be honest. His nickname itself is a dead giveaway: ‘Morisco’ means ‘Moor’ in Spanish. How did a Moor become Barboza’s lieutenant, though? That’s some backstory we’re bound to find out, I’d say.” I fast-forwarded to my current position: Uitzli tending Abe’s wounds, Hendricks and Miyu by the border of the forest looking out for foes, Juanita kneeling by the smashed fragments of her clay jar.
“How did you guess the little jug would counter the whirlwinds?” Sveta asked.
“I didn’t. But we were getting our asses kicked down there, and Juanita’s jar was the only powerful item we had.” I tapped the desk’s surface. “I think this was part tutorial, part foreshadowing. It would’ve been an impossible fight without Tlaloc’s jar; now we know that the Aztec divine magicks can turn the tide of battle. And I bet you another of those massive gold coins we’ll face El Morisco again.” I leaned back on my hover chair. “In a way, this was a warning shot.”
She frowned. “Didn’t seem like a warning to me, boss. Those musketeers shot to kill.”
“Yeah, they did. But the game is sort of warning us we’re not ready to face these foes just yet. I mean, Juanita kept saying so herself. She wanted us to rest.”
“And brush up on your long-range skills, sir.” She grinned. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”
“You’re always polite to a fault, my dear Svetty. Our long-range strategy royally sucks, plain and simple. Mine, in particular. In this fight, I was a sitting duck—and a frigging lame duck, at that.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, boss.” Smiling, she gestured toward the wall. “Something to cheer you up.”
I cursed under my breath. “Fifty-eight point six!? How is that going to cheer me up!?”
“Oops… Sorry, boss, I forgot…” Another figure flashed below the multi-player count: 1.3%.
“What’s this?”
“Those are the ones you don’t have to worry about anymore,” she said, a trace of her Razor character creeping into her smile. “Dead and gone.”
“Now that’s good to hear.” I grinned. “Did they die during their single-player campaign?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir. But my point is, it’s good to still be alive.”
I grunted, nodding. “I’ll take your Russian optimism over my American pragmatism for now, Svetty dear. Except when it comes to our long-ranged strategies. They most pragmatically suck, nothing optimistic about them.”
Sveta beamed. “Glad to be of help, sir. Shall I get you your favorite now, or would you rather first reach Duurstad?”
“On that front,” I said, “let’s be optimistic. See you after we reach safety.”
A gentle breeze coming from the west accompanies us while we follow the Southern Road across the jungle, on our way to Duurstad. To Juanita’s and Uitzli’s already slow pace, we now add Abe’s sluggishness— with each step he takes, the pirate looks increasingly like a drunken sailor about to pass out—and the extra care that the Dutchman and the samurai take to scout ahead.
We keep our ears open for the barks and howls of Barboza’s Alanos, and eyes peeled to every movement among the branches and trees.
It’s hard to keep track of time. The tension makes moments feel like lifetimes; the sameness of the jungle and the heat and constant buzzing of insects lock our progress into an animated .gif image set in an endless loop, in which minutes run in circles.
But, from time to time, I can’t help noticing that the shadows around us grow longer and the sun dips farther west, from where the gentle breeze carries whiffs of salty sea air.
In a clearing where the jungle opens its leafy ceiling and reveals the faraway horizons, we can see the clump of hills in the middle of Isla Hermosa. They were to our left and ahead of us when we departed the Aztec town at noon. As we made our progress along the Southern Road, we saw them straight to our left first, then to our left and behind us, and, at last, straight behind our backs, hiding the setting sun.
“The Netherlanders’
town should not be far ahead,” observes Juanita. Her head hangs low, exhausted.
“Aye,” agrees the pirate. “Two miles or so, me nose be sayin’.”
Four thousand painful steps later, the jungle grows thinner. With Juanita and Abe fighting for breath, and my crutches welcoming the sandy ground after slogging along the muddy jungle trail, we reach the peak of the bald hill overlooking Duurstad’s bay.
I’m ready to find Barboza’s men and dogs waiting for us there, but no enemy blocks the entrance to Duurstad, where Hendrick’s colleagues stand guard with an air of slight boredom.
Beyond Duurstad stretches the open sea, dark in the gathering dusk.
“Sheesh.” I sigh. “We’re too late.”
“Yet we have arrived, my child.”
“I’d have preferred the glass completely full, for once…”
“Witch be right, lad,” Abe whizzes. “Safe harbor ahoy.”
The crystalline giggle from behind the Noh masks jingles in the air. “Uitzli,” Miyu says. “Back.”
Our little sister looks at me. With the sun gone, she has removed her hood, and her eyes seem to welcome the soft twilight. She smiles, her small teeth glittering like pearls.
I smile back. “Yeah. You’re right, guys. We made it.”
Only three soldiers guard the town’s entrance, as if they couldn’t care less about foes attacking the city at night.
“Them Dutch be gettin’ better ‘n’ better at not pickin’ a fight with nobody…” says Abe as we approach.
Hendricks chuckles. “Strife is fun,” he says. “Calm is profijt.”
De Groot, Mueller, and Van Dyk, bored as only soldiers on peacetime guard duty can be, seem thankful to have something else to do than keeping their eyes at the sandy hills.