The Maker of Entropy

by John Triptych

  The Gyawigo captain had noticed it too, and he ordered his crews to maneuver the mainsail so it caught more of the wind. Egyn’s flagship attempted to evade the onrushing Tooan sand sail, but Cinil’s ship was already at top speed, despite the damage it took from the pursuing Exalted ships, and it rapidly closed the gap.

  Egyn had just enough time to grab hold of the ship’s wheel as the Tooan flagship rammed the side of his turning vessel. The forceful impact threw everyone across the decks when the bow of Cinil’s sand sail crumpled against the side hull of Egyn’s ship. Both vessels were now immobile as their masts had been snapped off.

  Lorrt shook his head as he slowly got up from the now tilted deck. The force of impact along the broadside of the hull had made the entire sand sail list partly to one side. No sooner did Lorrt collect his senses when he soon heard the sounds of men clambering up onto the deck. His courage rapidly fleeing from his inner self, Lorrt started making his way to the aft part of the quarterdeck as he drew out his pistol, quickly moving past a groaning crewman with a leg wound.

  Another man suddenly appeared out of the haze and fired a flintlock, hitting the crewman in front of him in the chest. Turning, Lorrt aimed his own pistol and pulled the trigger, but the collision must have dislodged the load or the flint on the firing mechanism, and all he could hear was a hollow click.

  Sudrent stood but a few paces away from him as he dropped his pistol and drew out his broadsword. He grinned wildly as he advanced towards Lorrt. “The gods must be with me this day.”

  Lorrt realized he had left his own sword back down in the ship’s hold. Looking around, he noticed a cutlass on the ground and quickly picked it up. He stared at Vorconis’s son with desperate eyes. “It was not I who plotted to betray you and your father, it was Chief Egyn! He is to blame!”

  “It is of no matter, for I despise the very sight of you,” Sudrent said as he lunged forward and made a thrust with the point of his blade.

  Lorrt tried to parry the blow, but Sudrent adjusted his attack midstride and struck the youth’s exposed wrist. Lorrt cried out and dropped the cutlass, its metal blade making a slight clang as it rattled on the bronzed deck.

  Sudrent made another thrust, this time plunging his blade into Lorrt’s torso. The son of the last Khan screamed as he fell to his side, blood seeping out and staining his embroidered tunic. Sudrent bent low while he began slicing at his now hapless adversary. Lorrt pleaded for mercy, but it was to no avail. In mere moments, Sudrent crouched down and lifted Lorrt’s bloodied head to separate it from the remaining strands of muscle still connecting to the base of the neck.

  As he held the now severed head up in triumph, Sudrent heard someone close by. Turning around, he could see Egyn getting up from the side of the ship’s wheel, a bloody gash on his head.

  “I commend you, young lord,” Egyn said as he leaned back on the man-sized steering wheel. “We were to deliver Lorrt to your father after the battle, but it seems you have done the honor yourself.”

  Sudrent dropped the head, and it rolled away for a short distance with a slight mulching noise. He began to advance upon the chief of the Gyawigo while raising his sword. “It looks like I shall be bringing two heads to my father after all.”

  Egyn smirked while drawing out a flintlock pistol from the folds of his tunic, locked back the firing mechanism with his thumb, and fired. The shot went through Sudrent’s leather gambeson and embedded itself in his ribcage, but Vorconis’s eldest son remained standing.

  Sudrent was livid with rage. He cursed and then began running towards Egyn, his sword held high above his head, intending to cleave the traitorous chief of the Gyawigo in two.

  Egyn yelped in desperation as he pulled out a second flintlock pistol with his left hand, cocked back the mechanism and fired it at point blank range, just as Sudrent made a downward strike at him. The shot caught Sudrent beneath his chin and he tilted his head up, his eyes wide open in shock. The young man then fell forward, his body slumping down on top of Egyn.

  For what seemed a long while, Egyn managed to wriggle free from the now dead body lying on top of him. He had been able to tilt his head sideways and Sudrent’s blade had impacted on top of the ship’s wheel and ended up grazing Egyn’s shoulder. As he got up, he noticed Maskul’s body lying on the ground a few paces at the other end of the quarterdeck. The violent collision with the Tooan flagship must have killed the chief of the Thethtulors instantly.

  The smoky haze all around him obscured much of his field of vision. As he started walking over the bodies of dead and wounded crewmen, he heard a shrill voice coming from close by. He tracked it down and soon came upon Cinil, who was lying by the side of the ship’s gunwale.

  Egyn stood a few paces in front of him. “So it ends, Chief Cinil. I wish to begin talks so we may pledge a Pact of Truce between our tribes.”

  Cinil grimaced, drops of blood seeping from the side of his mouth. He could no longer feel his legs. “No pact for your kind … you traitorous sand eater.”

  Egyn chuckled, drawing out a dagger from the folds of his tunic. “If that is what you desire, then so it shall be.”

  Cinil gritted his teeth as he lifted up his flintlock pistol and pulled the trigger, only to hear an embarrassing click. He looked up at his approaching enemy. “Damn you to the afterlife of darkness, worm!”

  Egyn bent down and slashed at the old man’s throat. Cinil began to gurgle and cough as his blood started to pour from his now opened jugulars. Within a few moments, the Tooan chief’s eyes glazed over. Egyn drew back from the bloody side of the deck, but not before cleaning his dagger on the now dead man’s leather tunic.

  The haze around him partly cleared, exposing the looming black hull of the nearby Exalted land ship. Egyn waved using both arms so his new allies could see him. When he saw the vessel pointing its large guns towards the deck, he got on his knees in despair, finally realizing the terrible certainty of it all.

  There was a loud roar as the Exalted cannons swept the remaining decks of the two wrecked sand sails clean of life. With this side battle now concluded, the black vessel moved off to join the other Exalted as they headed towards the main battlefield at the flatlands below.

  Chapter 28

  Vorconis got down to one knee while reaching into the small pouch hanging on his belt. Feeling nothing but the inner linings of the leather sack, he grunted with disappointment. His flintlock pistol had run out of shells. He turned to Bugurt, who was crouching beside him. “Do you have any shot left?”

  Bugurt reached into the folds of his clothing before looking back at him with sadness in his face. “I do not, milord.” He reached out, offering his own pistol to his master. “You may have my gun. I have but one shot left.”

  Vorconis shook his head while holstering his pistol. “That is your weapon. I still have my sword.”

  Bugurt stood up and looked around. The sounds of battle had begun to die down, but the smoke from all the discharges of powder still hung in the air like an opaque grey miasma that wouldn’t go away. The potent mix of sulfur, blood, and excrement assailed his nostrils. Along with Vorconis and his son Ratunt, there were only four other men remaining with them. This small group had walked over countless corpses and the wounded who cried out for help that would never arrive.

  Ratunt was the youngest son, and his injured left arm was in a makeshift sling. “Where are Sudrent and Chief Cinil? They should have brought their reinforcements to us by this time.”

  Vorconis shook his head. “Your older brother must be spending his time chasing the remaining sand sails of the traitorous ones. Come, we must continue onwards.”

  The lead man in the group held his musket with both hands as he tried to peer out into the haze filled air. “Milord, I believe we have reached the other end of the fleet.”

  Vorconis frowned as he pointed to the deck of another stricken ship beside them. “Let us move along the sides, for we must find others in our faction or the enemy.”

  Ratunt made a r
unning jump as he leaped over the side of the deck he had been standing on and onto the top of the next immobile land ship. As he waited for his father and the others to join him, he sensed something dark and massive approaching just beyond the borders of his vision. Leaning forward he made his way to the gunwale and tried to focus his eyes at the incoming shapes. There was a strange droning noise coming from somewhere, but he could not place it.

  Another man wielding a cutlass made his way beside him. “What is that sound?”

  Ratunt shook his head while continuing to scan the fog. “I-I cannot be certain. It is something I have never heard of before.”

  The man standing beside him pointed out into the mists. “Look!”

  Ratunt’s eyes grew wide in surprise. It must be another sand sail, he thought. He turned towards his father who had just made it onto the deck with his remaining men. “Father, it is Chief Cinil and my brother! They have returned to aid us.”

  Vorconis remained unsure while squinting his eyes to get a better look. The approaching shapes just beyond the deck were unlike any other sand sail he had encountered in all his cycles of existence. When the mists finally parted, revealing the dark metallic hulls of the Exalted vessels, his hope quickly turned into despair. “Get down!”

  Bugurt had just clambered up into the sand sail’s deck when he saw the great cannons of the Exalted being positioned to fire upon them. With a yelp of alarm, he threw himself over the gunwale and wedged his frame in between the small spaces of the immobile wrecks.

  Vorconis dived into the deck just as the massive guns fired. He could feel the onrushing air currents around him as the space above his head was filled with a storm of metal balls, ripping apart anything standing in their way. After discharging a single volley, the Exalted land ship turned and disappeared back into the smoky haze once more.

  Tilting his head up, Vorconis glanced around him. His men had just been slaughtered, pieces of them lay on the floor along with the splattering of their blood, staining the bronze deck with crimson and pink entrails. Rising up to his full height, he looked over to where his son was. “Ratunt! Speak to me!”

  His hopes ran high as he saw his youngest son still standing by the gunwale, apparently unharmed. Vorconis ran up to him and tugged at his shoulders, only to realize Ratunt’s face had caved in when a metal ball smashed into it, all the way through before embedding itself to the back of his skull.

  Vorconis lowered him gently to the floor before placing his cloak to cover the youth’s face. His words came in a whisper, as bitter as the growing darkness in his soul. “I shall avenge you.”

  The wounded man standing a few paces in front of him held up his cutlass in a high guard, still eager to continue the fight. It was apparent he wanted to have the privilege of being able to slay the chief of the Zaash, even if it meant he would be killed doing so.

  Wulfgen made a grim smile as he held up his rapier close to his face and gave his opponent a mock salute. The hatred he had felt for the enemy was mostly gone now, replaced by a weary sense of respect. The bandaged wound on his right shin was bothersome, but he could still maintain a fighting stance and maneuver. “Of what tribe are you?” he asked his opponent.

  “I am Heizuras of the Kleset,” the man said. “I remain loyal to my tribe and to our cause. I shall never surrender.”

  “That I know,” Wulfgen said as he strode forward, this time keeping his sword pointed low, hoping his adversary would try to attack him high.

  Heizuras did just that, lunging forward as he tried to make a stab towards Wulfgen’s seemingly unprotected face, but the Zaash chief pounced lower, tilting his head down just underneath the Kleset tribesman’s attack as he made an upward thrust with his own blade. Despite the wound on his left arm, Heizuras still had some speed as he deftly retreated and the strike barely missed his exposed ribcage. Both men backed away, resuming their deadly dance once more.

  Despite his exhaustion, Wulfgen couldn’t help but smile. “You are good. The best I have fought with so far this day.”

  Heizuras made a slight bow. “And you honor me, chief of the—” His words were interrupted when a metal rod impaled his chest. The man fell backwards onto the deck, mortally wounded, the blood gushing out from the embedded shaft.

  Wulfgen turned around and saw Jukin had fired the shot from a musket he had just found nearby. For a brief moment he wanted to admonish his son for such a dishonorable act, but he quickly realized fair play no longer mattered when compared to survival. It was just the two of them now, and still the battle raged around them.

  Jukin had a look of disappointment on his face while locking back the gun’s firing mechanism. “I cannot find any more bags of shot or powder horns, so I had to use the reloading rod instead of a shell.”

  Wulfgen nodded while making his way towards his son. “You did well. I had become distracted by my opponent’s sword play, but now it is one less dilemma we can deal with.”

  Jukin grinned. “Thank you father, I—”

  Another shot rang out and Wulfgen’s youngest son tilted his head up and screamed before collapsing to the floor.

  Wulfgen’s eyes opened wide as he ran over to where his son lay. “No!”

  Cradling Jukin’s head in his arms, he placed the rapier on the ground as he tried to look for the wound. His son’s eyes began to flutter and a gurgling sound came from his mouth. Wulfgen’s fatigue was pushed aside by his sense of mounting despair as his already bloody hands could not feel the area of the wound. The youth’s eyes rolled up, revealing only whiteness before making a final shudder, and Jukin’s whole body soon became still.

  Gritting his teeth, Wulfgen closed his eyes and rested his son’s head over his own shoulders, making a silent farewell and wishing the youth a pleasant time in the afterlife.

  A nearby voice, both familiar and profane, called out to him. “At last, we meet again, Chief Wulfgen. And for the final time too. Shall we fight?”

  After lowering his son’s body back onto the floor, Wulfgen grabbed his blade and stood up. The hatred he had for the other side had returned as he looked over at his nemesis standing a few paces away. His answer was not a greeting, but a declaration. “Vorconis.”

  Vorconis held the longsword with both hands while resting the flat of the blade over his shoulder. The empty flintlock pistol he had taken from Bugurt lay on the ground in front of him. “I have lost my son, and now you have lost yours. Once again the balance is kept.”

  Wulfgen resumed his fighting stance while holding the blade out in front of him. “Let this be the end.”

  “Agreed,” Vorconis said softly. He began to advance while placing the longsword high above his head.

  Wulfgen knew he could hold his blade out since his basket-hilted handguard offered more protection to his hand, while Vorconis had to keep his hands close to his body, for the longsword had but a scant, crossguard hilt which did very little to protect his extremities. Although Wulfgen seemingly had an initial advantage in weapon reach, he knew that once Vorconis made his attacks, the slightly longer blade of the longsword would keep him on equal terms.

  Both men swung their weapons, and the clashing of metal began as they parried each other’s attacks. Wulfgen wanted to get in closer so he could strike at Vorconis’s inner arms, but the slightly taller man kept him at bay, defending his strikes with parries and his own counterattacks.

  With a newfound ferocity, Wulfgen charged forward while parrying Vorconis’s blade high, making a cut along the back of the other man’s shoulder as they both ran past each other. Vorconis grunted as he slashed downwards while moving past Wulfgen, further cutting into the latter’s already wounded leg. Both men continued onwards as they moved away from weapons range before facing each other once more.

  Vorconis ran his hand along his right shoulder, feeling the warm blood seeping from where the gash had cut through the gap in his armor. Ignoring the burning pain, he wiped his fingers clean using the sides of his scale mail before resuming his two-hande
d grip.

  Wulfgen could no longer feel his right leg. He knew the damaged knee could give way at any moment, robbing him of further mobility and thereby making him helpless against further attacks. He needed to make the next strike count or else he would surely lose this fight. Placing his left hand into the folds of his cloak, he reached for a hidden weapon. There looked to be a torn gap right underneath the ribcage of Vorconis’s armor, and he felt it would be the best place to land an attack.

  Just as Vorconis advanced, he kept his sword point low, creating a seemingly vulnerable area where his head and chest were. Wulfgen lunged at him while drawing out a dirk with his left hand and made an upwards strike with the rapier, hoping to attack his exposed neck region. Vorconis parried away the thrust while twisting his longsword in between the two opposing blades, right at Wulfgen’s own jugular and partially connected, tearing into the base of his opponent’s throat.

  Wulfgen cried out as the blood began gushing from his neck. With nothing left to lose, he pushed forward, the wound to his throat cutting ever deeper into him as he thrust the point of his rapier at the damaged portion of Vorconis’s scale armor, just below the ribcage.

  Both men fell to their knees. Vorconis used both hands to cut deeper into Wulfgen’s neck as his breathing became shallower. Wulfgen’s own thoughts were of his son before he blacked out from the loss of blood. Vorconis knew his enemy had pierced his heart, and he could feel his own life draining away.

  The pair of them locked into one another’s eyes and each felt the other’s mutual hatred and contempt, right before death’s oblivion overtook them both.

  The four steam-powered land ships of the Exalted continued their slow, relentless attacks on the wrecked sand sails all around them. The Oracle had decreed a cleansing, and they were duty-bound to obey her wishes. They had already begun to run out of grapeshot, but since almost every enemy ship deck they encountered had been mostly cleared of anyone still living, they figured their task had neared its end.