by A. C. Cobble
“Let’s go do it,” she said.
Mister Samuels, stepping lightly on the hot volcanic stone, led the way back up the tunnel to the light of day.
Sam raised her fae light high, turning and studying the ouroboros carved above, the letters embedded in the raw stone of the floor, and the mechanism on the underside of the sarcophagus lid. Darklands artifacts buried in a lone island in the tropics. Who had done it, and had it all been to hide the uvaan?
The Commander I
Sweating and itching like a madman from innumerable insect stings, Commander Brendan Ostrander shuffled along, offering a hope to the spirits it would be over soon. Hells, the things he was doing for the Crown. For his family, too, he supposed, but he couldn’t help wondering whether they would rather he be sitting behind a desk in Southundon, coming home to them every evening, instead of risking his life and sanity for a promotion. Or better yet, he could be involved in a proper trade like his wife’s brother.
She’d smiled when he told her of the Imbon campaign, hadn’t she? He thought she understood the sacrifice would be worth it. A record of steady service in Archtan Atoll, leading a successful campaign in Imbon, a friendship with the duke… it could lead to a promotion and a title with a bit of luck. He thought she’d understood.
He waved his hand in front of his face in a vain attempt to stir the air, to make his own breeze, to dissipate the cloud of insects which swarmed around the exposed skin of his face.
His children would enjoy the royal school, he hoped. A bit stricter than their tutors had been in Archtan Atoll, but they would have others around of their age and station. Surely, that would be good for them. Besides, whether they decided to follow in his footsteps into the armed services or perhaps take a commercial tact, the royal school was where they could make the necessary connections. That was, if he made it out of this spirits-forsaken place.
Under Brach’s stiff wing, on speaking terms with Duke Oliver Wellesley, he was doing his part. He was doing all that a man of his station could do. Frozen hell, he’d gotten the runs and guessed he’d lost half a stone of weight already! They certainly hadn’t discussed that bit when he’d been recruited into the marines. He would be a changed man in more ways than one, if he made it home.
Maybe a few years behind a desk and stopping at the pub for a tipple on the way home each evening wouldn’t have been such a sour fate. He’d earned his station, and his children could as well. At least they’d have a better start of it than he had.
“Commander,” mumbled a man holding up a round canteen. “Have a drink, sir. You’re looking a bit red in the face. Duke Wellesley told us to drink. Said we’d pass out if we didn’t. I just refilled this at the last stream. Got it deep enough that none of the ash fouled the water. It’s good, sir.”
“Drinking that water is why I was crouched over cursing for half a turn of the clock this morning,” Ostrander complained. “It’s not the falling ash that’s making us sick. It’s whatever animal pissed in the water upstream.”
“We’ve got to drink, sir.”
“I know, Captain,” grumbled Commander Ostrander, accepting the canteen. “I was in the atoll before this, you know? I know how to survive in the tropics.”
“Of course, sir,” replied the captain, cursing and slapping a stray branch out of the way. “I suspect you never had to hike across country like this, though.”
The commander grunted. The captain had a point. Several years in the atoll, and he’d never had to spend the night out in the open. Never had to spend the day hacking his way through the jungle. They would just sail around to the other side of the island when they needed to get there or, if they had an airship, sail right over it. Hells, they were in the atoll to mine the levitating stones that made the airships possible. With Enhover’s technology, it was rare a man in his position had to thrash about in the field like this anymore.
Brach. He swished the water in his mouth and spit, thinking of that pompous bastard. The admiral had probably been having a good laugh about it along with his evening sherry.
Ostrander took another sip of water and swallowed this one before pouring a little into his hand and smearing it on his neck and face. Grimacing, he tore off his wig and tossed the thing into the foliage beside him, ignoring the grin on his captain’s lips. He scrubbed his face, the white ash that had been falling like snow and the talc powder from the wig blending with his sweat to form a muddy mess that covered his fingers and brow. He thought maybe it would keep some of the insects away.
He promised himself if he managed to make it off this spirit-forsaken island, he was going to apply for a job at a desk back in Enhover, no matter what the admiral claimed it would do to his career.
He tilted up the canteen one last time, sloshing water into his mouth and no small amount down the front of his royal blue coat. He handed the container back to the officer and craned his neck at the men ahead. Five of them were hacking and slashing with curved sabers to carve a path through the jungle. Useless weapons in a modern military, he’d always thought, but they were damned effective at carving a hole in the jungle. In rotating teams, the men had been burrowing their way across the island, coming up over the ridges around the village of Imbon and progressing toward the warehouses and plantations on the other side.
The plan had been to harry any natives ahead of them and force them through the jungle and into the open where Brach was waiting with more men and the airships. Down around the warehouses and in the open fields of the plantations, Enhover’s superior weaponry would be insurmountable. It was only in the jungle that the natives could make it a square fight. Though, since he’d led the column of men out of the ruins of the village and into the battle-scarred terrain nearby, they’d yet to see a living enemy.
They’d stepped over plenty of dead ones in the immediate vicinity of the village, but a league and a half from there, it was just flora and fauna. The jungle, grown into a nearly solid wall of green, was populated by a dazzling array of screeching monkeys, screaming birds, and vicious insects.
If there were natives hiding out there, they were easily avoiding the column of grumbling, sweating, noisy marines from Enhover. There could have been a hundred native warriors waiting just a dozen paces away to ambush them, and Commander Ostrander would have no idea. Except for where they’d cleared a pathway with swinging sabers and stomping boots, he couldn’t see more than a few paces in any direction.
More than ambush, though, he feared them not making it as quickly as they’d planned. It was impossible to assess their progress in the thick undergrowth, and he’d started to lose men — one to a snake bite and four to the runs and the resulting dehydration. More and more often, the men were complaining of cramping stomachs and rising fevers. His own belly growled in sympathy. It was disease from the insect bites and bad water, but there was little they could do except press on. Brach had all of the physicians with him on the airships, and Ostrander’s men needed to get to them quickly, or there wouldn’t be much fight left in the company.
He glanced behind at the red-faced, slow-moving column. They were standing there, sweating, waiting on the men ahead to cut a path. He barked, “Switch the men.”
The five in front sheathed their sabers and stood gratefully to the side. Grim-faced, the next five men passed him by, drawing blades. Without need for further instruction, they started to attack the jungle in front of them.
Just half an hour later, a distinct rumble crashed through the trees and branches.
“Brach’s airships!” cried Commander Ostrander. “That can’t be more than a few leagues away, and we’ve got the plantations in between us. Hurry up men, double time. We’re getting close to the end of this nightmare.”
He waved behind to call up a fresh set of soldiers to hack their way through the vegetation. The men, just as eager as him to be free of the smothering jungle, charged ahead. Sabers flashed, and the men pressed onward. The boom of the cannon sounded as a counterpoint of their grunts of exertion.
It took another hour, but finally, they broke free of the jungle and emerged into the relatively clear space of the spice plantations. Trellis after trellis of bamboo racks supporting rows of flowering vines spread out in front of them. The ways between the trellises were narrow but clear, and through the length of the fields, he could see the three royal marine airships hovering over the long buildings of the colony’s warehouses.
“What are they shooting at?” wondered the captain.
Ostrander shook his head, not sure. Thick smoke roiled around the airships, slowly dissipating in a steady breeze, but the guns continued to thunder. He couldn’t see anything on the ground.
“We’ll circle the fields,” he instructed, the order getting relayed back to the bulk of the men by the officers. “If we move around there to the west, we can come up behind whatever it is they’re firing on. A quarter turn, men. Run a whetstone over those sabers, check your firearms and your powder, and empty your bladders. This is what we came for.”
An hour later, they made it around the edge of the peppercorn plantings, and Ostrander saw what Brach was up to. Tied to the spice piers, two dozen small vessels were sinking in the shallow water, ketches and cutters that must have been seized by the natives when unknowing merchants from the Vendatts came to trade. Brach had blown gaping holes in the hulls of the vessels, and even from half a league away, Commander Ostrander could see the boats would never be seaworthy again.
Between the piers and the orderly rows of the warehouses, they could see individuals running back and forth, dodging to and fro to avoid the snipers on the decks of the airships.
“Must be holed up in the warehouses,” muttered the captain, watching the fracas with a hand over his eyes.
Commander Ostrander nodded. “I thought they would’ve been back in the caves, but perhaps they were staging to flee on the water. Well, makes it easier for us.” He turned to the men. “Form up, boys! We’ll hit ‘em hard from behind while they’re worried about the attack from above.”
The men, professional soldiers all, hoisted their weapons, checked over their kit, and then fell in behind Commander Ostrander as he set a quick, ground-eating pace. These men had spent the last two days forcing their way through the jungle, hacking and fighting for every step. Now, in the open, a new energy surged through their legs. He could feel the mood rising behind him as he marched. It wasn’t the first native population they’d had to quell, and they knew it wouldn’t be the last, but the end of this campaign was in sight. The men would do their job, but every one of them was ready to get back on the airships and go home to spend their action pay in the flesh markets and ale sinks of Southundon. The best of them might even save a little bit of that coin for the missus and the children, if they had any that they acknowledged.
The royal marines drew a certain type, particularly those who were selected for service in the tropics. Some might call them bloodthirsty. Ostrander thought of them as practical. For Crown and Company, they would do what was necessary. Hard men for a hard job.
Quickly, they covered the ground between the jungle and the warehouses, unnoticed until they were several hundred yards from the structures. Then, some of the native men who were racing about started to point at them and yell.
Soon, dozens of shirtless men and a few women were pouring out of the giant structures, wielding crude knives, bows, and spears. Ostrander also saw a handful of blunderbusses that must have been scrounged from the wreckage of the compound. Deadly weapons, if the natives had trained how to use them and had managed to keep their powder dry in the stifling humidity.
But Ostrander and his men did not pause at the sight of the opposition. They kept marching.
The natives began assembling in a bunch. First dozens then fifty and then a hundred. When they’d gotten three-quarters of the way to the group, Ostrander estimated there were two hundred of the natives, outnumbering his own men, with more still coming. In front of the native force, a giant of a man with wicked-looking scarring on his torso was raising a massive club and shouting exhortations to his warriors. He was stirring them up, trying to whip them into a frenzy.
In contrast, the marines marched on quietly, saving their breath for the fight.
Fifty yards away, the giant native started spinning the club above his head, screaming at the top of his lungs in a strange language that Commander Ostrander did not understand. Two hundred and fifty of them now, and the commander could sense that in moments, they would charge.
Ostrander held up a hand, stopping his men.
They fanned out around him with no need for instruction, forming ranks of three perfectly straight lines. This was what they drilled every day for. This was what they did. Without a word, they waited.
The natives, all shouting and hollering now, waved their weapons and stared death at the royal marines. Then, they broke into a frantic run when the huge leader pointed his club at Ostrander’s line. Three hundred of them, the flow from the warehouse finally trickling to a stop. The natives raced directly at Commander Ostrander and his men.
The commander held a fist in the air and waited. The eyes of his captains and sergeants were on him. Everyone else looked ahead calmly. A group twice their number, weapons held high, was rushing directly at them. To their credit, not a man broke formation.
At twenty-five yards, Ostrander dropped his fist. His captains shouted orders, and the first rank pulled the triggers of their blunderbusses. Fifty of the weapons erupted at the same moment, flinging lead at their charging enemies.
A breath later, the captains shouted again, and the first rank knelt, digging into pouches for another wad of powder and another load of shot. Another call from the captains, and the second rank fired, fifty more barrels barking with flame and smoke.
The second rank knelt, and the third fired.
The natives were just five yards away when, still on their knees, the first rank got off a second volley at point blank range, ripping through the tattered line of attacking natives. Then, the marines dropped their firearms and, as a unit, drew their sabers while the second rank stepped around them, ready to take the charge.
Two hundred discharges from the blunderbusses had devastated the attackers. Bunched in a tight mass, as untrained warriors always came, it’d been impossible for the marines to miss even at twenty-five yards on the first volley. Half of the natives had fallen, and most of those still coming had blood streaming from where shot had ripped into their unarmored bodies. Even the uninjured survivors showed the terror of those who’d lost most of their companions in the span of a few breaths. When they hit the line of royal marines, they were wild and panicked.
The slaughter continued.
Trained for just such an attack, the second rank of marines had stepped around the first and hefted their firearms, now fixed with bayonets. They stabbed into the oncoming wave of the attackers, skewering several, shoving the bodies to foul the path of others, or simply deflecting the charge with their firearms. Their purpose was to absorb the first swings and push attackers off balance, and then the men who’d been in the first rank attacked, swinging sabers at men and women who’d been thrown from their lines of approach. That rank struck ruinous blows, swiping at arms and legs, maiming their opponents, and knocking them to the ground. The third rank advanced, slashing and stabbing down at injured natives, cleaving into necks or heads, and stabbing into their chests.
Three ranks, each with a different purpose, operated flawlessly as one cohesive unit. Most of these men were experienced. They’d been in the royal marines for years. They’d trained on these maneuvers thousands of times. At least half the marines had used these exact same tactics in combat, and those who had not were bolstered by the confidence of their peers. The training was embedded in every motion, one unit defending, one injuring, and one finishing the task. It wasn’t just the airships and the bombs that made them royal marines. They were the best disciplined fighting force in the known world.
Commander Ostrander watche
d with pride as the lines moved out in front of him, decimating the charge of the natives, butchering those who’d thought to raise blades against them.
Half-a-dozen paces from him, a man crawled on the ground, a short-handled axe in his hand. A deep laceration split his thigh, but he kept coming, dragging himself closer. Ostrander stepped forward and brought his blade down, ending the man’s struggles. By the time he looked up from the kill, his men had won the day. All around them, dead natives littered the battlefield like a carpet.
“Reload!” he bellowed into the suddenly quiet space. “Prepare to breach the warehouses.” He observed for a moment as the men prepared for another bout and then turned to his captains. “Report.”
“One man dead, sir, four grievously injured. Several others with minor wounds, but they’re in condition to fight until we can get them to the infirmary on the airships.”
Ostrander nodded, “Assign two men for each of the seriously injured. Have them move toward the docks and prepare for evacuation. Two more to carry the casualty. If that’s all…”
The captains nodded and assigned the necessary men. Then one of them gripped his saber, arranged a squad of marines around him, and approached the open doors of the warehouse.
Ostrander watched as the men spread out on either side to rush in, creating a pattern of cover for each other. The marines were not as well trained in this style of close combat, and he considered whether they should wait for Brach to fly over and simply bomb the buildings, but there’d been a reason so many natives were gathered here instead of fleeing for the jungle or the caves. Either option would have been a safer choice for them than the shoddily constructed warehouses. Ostrander observed as his captain dropped a fist, and royal marines started to pour inside the warehouse.
There were several scattered shots, the clash of close combat, but nothing like the cacophony of the first engagement. He guessed only a few combatants had been left inside or perhaps the injured. It was just a few short minutes until his captain reemerged.
