Taijitu World Building > Pre-Modern Era Fiction

Colony (1781-1789)

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La Llanura Libre:
Kita Coast, 1781

Armando Caro observed the Royal Navy frigate from afar with his Pelagis-made telescope. He had been delighted with the craftsmanship and abilities of this ingenious device and had reflected sadly that business with Myroria’s regional rival in Delfos had brought him more Myrorian luxuries than trading with Myroria itself. Now, however, none of the precious emeralds nor rubies on the telescope could distract him from that ship in the distance, gliding elegantly through the black waters of the Kita Coast. It was a small but formidable frigate, flying the crimson colours of the All-House Union.

Red was a most fitting colour considering the seas of blood that the men had filled under this banner, mused Capitán Caro. He would have happily steered his merchantman right at the enemy, leapt from ship to ship, and torn the Myrorians to bloody shreds, such was his hatred for his oppressors. However, Caro knew that discipline was vital in war, and while raw passion could overcome surprisingly much, it would not overcome the frigate’s twenty-eight cannons. And so he simply waited while the Myrorian warship closed in, presumably to arrest him and confiscate his goods.

The sun was high in the sky when the two ships met. Intimidatingly, the frigate aligned against Caro’s merchantman broadside to broadside, boasting fourteen starboard guns. However, Armando Caro was almost overtly confident as he stood on his vessel’s modest quarterdeck and stared at the Myrorians with cool eyes. He calmly watched as the Myrorian captain swaggered haughtily out of his quarters and glanced dismissively at the merchantman, before spontaneously appointing a spokesman to engage Caro.

‘On the authority of the great All-House Union and His Majesty the King of Myroria, you are under… ‘ the spokesman begun. Caro cut him off without hesitation.

‘Cállate, boy. Bring me your captain.’

Mivanas Noraseth, captain of the HMS Fellowmoore, was outraged when he was relayed Caro’s request. He was a flamboyant, handsome man with a feathered tricorne and an expensive purple justacorps and was disgusted with the straw-hat-wearing swarthy foreigner who was supposedly a renowned merchant.

‘How dare you ask for me, fisherman!’, Mivanas thundered, ‘It is beneath me to grant a lowborn subhuman my conversation!’

‘Then do keep the conversation short and to the point,’ replied Caro with a Myrorian that would not be out of place in a respectable Pelagis household, ‘I do not wish to converse with you any more than you do.’

This inflamed Mivanas Noraseth even more, as was evident from his reddening face. Yet, as a military man, he soon composed himself and acquired a coldly formal tone.

‘You are under arrest. Sources have confirmed that you, Armando Caro, have exported and imported goods with Delfos, which violates the All-House Union’s law.’

‘Acknowledged. ¡Vamos, amigos!’ said Caro.

Without further ado, preparations begun on the merchantman to leave; the sails were adjusted, and the humble ship, old and weather-beaten, begun to drift away. For a moment, Noraseth stood still in the breeze, his mouth agape.

‘Grappling hooks! Stop the scum!’ he suddenly roared hoarsely.

Myrorian sailors threw ropes with hooks that lodged themselves on the nooks and crannies of the merchantman. The ship was dragged violently towards the frigate and a some marines with muskets had been assembled to forcibly remove Caro from his ship. However, as the two ships thudded awkwardly against each other, Noraseth realised that his cannons were not aligned with the quarterdeck of the merchantman. Rather, they loomed menacingly yet utterly uselessly above.

Capitán Caro drew his cutlass, brandished his flintlock, and barked “¡Ahora!”. Now! Noraseth knew he had fallen into a trap.

Amnoran seamen, armed to the teeth with knives, cutlasses, axes and guns filed out of the lower quarters of the ship and scaled the Myrorians’ own ropes like Delphic monkeys. Hacking through the boarding nets, they leapt fearlessly onto the gunwales of the frigate and lunged at the stunned Myrorian sailors. Although the Myrorians were larger and better equipped than the malnourished Amnorans,  Caro’s sailors had the element of surprise, while most of the frigate’s crew was manning the gun deck rather than the upper decks. Armando Caro himself jumped aboard and engaged Noraseth in a savage swordfight, which ended quickly after the Myrorian was impaled from behind with a pike.

Mivanas Noraseth coughed blood and stumbled across the slick deck, before managing to lean himself against a mast, trying to stem the flow of blood from his wound.

‘Dog! You allow your men to kill an enemy from behind?’ he croaked.

‘Your rule has made us dogs.’ Caro replied.

Noraseth slumped to the ground and died. After some brief but brutal fighting, the weather decks were red with blood and completely overwhelmed. The Myrorian marines had all fought valiantly to the end, but now they were scattered around, mauled and mutilated.

Meanwhile the remaining Myrorian crew had barricaded themselves in the lower decks and captain’s cabin.

‘Give me a blunderbuss.’ ordered Capitán Caro. His once white overalls where soaked with blood and he appeared rather crazed. However, his henchmen knew better than to defy him and reluctantly passed him a blunderbuss.

Without a word, Caro took a few steps down to the gun deck, which was still held by the frigate’s crew. Immediately, a challenger hurled himself at him with a cutlass. Caro ripped off the man’s face with a hail of pellets. Then he bade the Myrorians to surrender. And so they did.

Myroria:
New Cefaruth, Am Nanmora
1781

Governor-General Ninirassour Demnevanith sat in a plain wooden chair positioned behind and to the right of a considerably more extravagant throne; intended for the Sedera on his visits to Am Nanmora, it remained empty as it had for the past seven years. The room in which both chairs were contained was empty, for the moment. Ninirassour had learned to enjoy these rare moments, where countless courtiers - Myrorian and native - strived for his attention and, by proxy, that of the king.

Ninirassour propped his arm up on the arm of the chair and held his head on his palm. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined the first snow of the year at his home outside Thanelen. He smiled, and thought of going for a hunt with his cousins. Every time he did his wife asked to come, and every time he refused, but this time he let her. She was a hell of a shot.

The door at the opposite end of the room unlatched and creaked open. A soldier standing in dress uniform spoke.

"Your Grace,"

Ninirassour was roused from his daydreaming.

"Yes?"

The soldier stepped out of the way, revealing a man in a deep blue jacket and cream-colored waistcoat underneath.

"Commodore Neldran Girothraneth." the soldier said. Commodore Neldran stepped forward and bowed.

"Governor General,"

"Commodore."

"Serjo," Neldran began. "The Fellowmoor did not return from her patrol yesterday. A fisherman reported seeing and hearing gunfire about twenty nautical miles off shore this morning."

Ninirassour's eyes widened for a minute and he sat up.

"Gunfire?"

"Captain Benethran of the Northern Pine was dispatched to the area shortly after noon. We're waiting on his report, but, if I may, serjo - "

"You don't think it's Delfian?"

"The Delfians would have no reason to disturb us. I think it's smugglers. Or pirates,"

"Pirates?!" Ninirassour exclaimed. He stood suddenly.

"That's just my opinion, serjo." Neldran's attempt at soothing the governor's concerns went unheard.

"I would like to speak to some people about this," he said. "If your thoughts are true - we must find these dogs and make an example of them." Neldran walked towards a door to his left.

"Bring me Benethran's report as soon as you get it, Commodore!" he yelled behind his shoulder. "We have to nip this in the bud!"

La Llanura Libre:
Kita Coast
1781

It was early in the morning and it was still dark. Armando Caro gazed at the loot that had been unceremoniously thrown on the yellow sand. All manner of treasures could be found in that heap, from pearl necklaces to engraved flintlock muskets to bulging bags of Amnoran spices, the latest craze in Myroria. He glanced back at his men. They were assembled obediently on the beach, but Armando could see the greed and wonder in their eyes. He sighed. Perhaps his own men would be greater adversaries than even the Myrorians, he thought.

‘We will give half of those treasures away, amigos.’ Armando said quietly but clearly.

For a moment, there was stunned silence. Only the screaming of the seagulls, the gentle lapping of the waves, and the rustle of the woods beyond the beach could be heard.

‘Qué, Capitán?’ one sailor, a man named Gonzalo, exclaimed. Like the rest of the crew, he did not understand why and to whom the plunder of three merchantmen and one frigate, all from hated Myroria, would possibly go to.

‘Tell me, dear Gonzalo, why did we capture that Myrorian warship? Why did we accept probable death just to kill some spoiled aristocrat, enslave his crew and sell his warship? For riches?’

‘Not for riches. Attacking warships is not worth the risk. Merchantmen are both juicier and weaker.’ Gonzalo replied. He was a confident youth known for brawling and womanising, perhaps even somewhat overconfident.

‘Then tell me why.’

‘The Myrorians are our enemies. Before we were banished to Am Nanmora, they killed our fathers, raped our mothers and burned down our homes. If there is a way to hurt them, then that way should be taken.’

‘Correct, Gonzalo,’ Armando said mildly, ‘I would hope we are not merely pirates, but rather scourges of Myroria. We are trying to avenge your forefathers, my forefathers, all our forefathers, not to shame them with our piracy, which is as virtuous an occupation as thieving and robbing.’

One of the older crewmates, a grizzled great-grandfather called Prudencio, recognized where Armando was taking his speech.

‘Then, how do we completely avenge our ancestors, Capitán?’ he asked with a slight smile.

‘We liberate Am Nanmora from the Myrorians and declare it an independent state.’ answered Armando firmly.

Once again there was a moment of silence. The morning sun begun to appear from behind the horizon, and the sky was painted with a beautiful flurry of oranges, reds and pinks. The waters of the Kita Coast lightened from a glistening black to a deep blue.

Then suddenly, someone begun cackling uncontrollably, and within seconds, there was an uproar of laughter. What a deluded, impossible ambition, the men thought. ‘Capitán, have you gone loco?’ one sailor barked boisterously. Armando was not surprised, but was rather pained anyway.

‘Amigos, I do have a strategy.’ he said irritably.

The crowd quietened. They knew that an angry Armando was a fearsome sight to behold, and they wanted to celebrate this night at the smuggler’s hideout with rum and native women, not spontaneous floggings.

‘We must win the hearts and minds of our people.’ Armando begun, ‘I want to continue plundering Myrorian merchantmen and distribute half of the loot among the Librean poor, so that we can count on their support in the future rebellion. Another quarter of will go to funding the materiel for that rebellion. The last quarter will be divided amongst the crew.’

‘How and when will this future rebellion happen?’ Prudencio questioned.

‘We wait for a good opportunity.’ Armando said sheepishly, knowing full well how unsatisfactory that answer was, ‘If you do not want to get involved in this, feel free to leave.’

‘Don’t worry, you can count me in.’ Prudencio said without hesitation. The crew stared at the man, their mouths agape. Here was an old cynical sailor willing to follow a foolish, idealistic young captain with a bad plan to likely death.

Suddenly Gonzalo grinned and said, ‘I guess I’ll have to look after the old fart and come along too.’

Then one man exclaimed, ‘¡Viva la Llaruna Libre!’, and the scepticism of the crew transformed into hot-headed enthusiasm.

‘What is a pearl necklace when you can etch the annals of history yourself?’

‘I shall avenge my beloved mother and gut Ninirassour myself… and the damned Myrorian king while I'm at it!’

There was a burst of joyous laughter.

‘Hombre, since boyhood I have dreamed of this!’

The red, rising sun had escaped the horizon and the day had arrived. However, Armando mused that it was not just a new day that had begun, but also new age for Am Nanmora, if not Taijitu.

Myroria:
"I'm sure you understand, serjo, that House Thimalveseth has little patience for its affiliated merchant ships being harassed like this."

"Nor does House Indiotrovth. It's become almost impossible for us to do business in 'Nanmora."

Ninirassour looked up from his plate, and chewed his pheasant. He portrayed thoughtfulness as best as he can, but he was really just hiding annoyance. To his left sat Llondryn Thimalveseth, a nephew of the deceased king Resdayn I, and to his right sat Andalas Indiotrovth. They dressed in the colors of their Houses - Llondryn in browns and beiges, and Andalas in blues and indigos.

When the Myrorians brought civilization to Amnora, they brought the Houses with them as well - along with all the feuds and baggage they came with. Powerful, noble families that ruled the homeland in a loose coalition with the king and his retainers, they stood to make vast amounts of money in the new colony, and used all their resources to ensure the Governor General was as placid and obedient as the Sedera.

Ninirassour swallowed his pheasant.

"Gentlemen," he began. "are you going to talk about business and politics with ladies present?" He raised his glass in the direction of his wife and those of the two House representatives at the other end of the table. They all smiled.

Displaying classic Indiotrovth social ineptitude - it must be the Eluvataran blood - Andalas spoke first.

"Perhaps the ladies could take their own conversation elsewhere."

Ninirassour nodded slowly.

"Ladies," he begrudged. "would you?"

Ninirassour's wife leading first, the three women stood up and shuffled out of the room quietly.

"I don't think they were having a conversation in the first place, Andalas." Andalas scowled.

"We have to know, serjo, who is harassing our ships. House Thimalveseth and Indiotrovth are united on this. Demnevanith might control the Royal Treasury, but the rest of us can't make money appear out of thin air."

Ninirassour opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Llondryn.

"You came to me after word got to the Mansion about the loss of the Fellowmoor and said 'we have to find who did this'. It's been three weeks! And nothing!"

"Check your tongue, Llondryn." Ninirassour said. He put down his fork and knife. "The Navy is doing all they can to investigate these reports, but the ocean is a big place. And I have to work with what His Majesty gives me. I doubt word of the loss of the Fellowmoor has even reached Pelagis yet."

The two House representatives were silent for a moment. Ninirassour counted his blessings, as well as the seconds until they spoke again.

"There are thousands of Amnorans walking the streets of New Cefaruth. One of them has to know something." Andalas said, seven seconds later.

"I can't detain people without a warrant."

"Do you think anyone will stop you?" Andalas asked. Ninirassour picked up his fork and knife and cut off a piece of pheasant. He chewed thoughtfully once again. Audibly sighing, Andalas leaned back in his chair and weaved his fingers behind his head.

"You have to do something," Llondryn said.

"Something," Andalas repeated with emphasis. Ninirassour swallowed.


"Those people are too stubborn," the governor's wife said. The pair stood in the upstairs vanity - Ninirassour dressing for bed, and his wife already in her nightdress. "Chances are, an Amnoran would die before he'd tell you anything."

"I have to look like I'm doing something, Mivanu." He removed his cravat and threw it over a wardrobe door. "Indiotrovth and Thimalveseth will tear me apart if they keep losing their ships like this."

Mivanu sat at a mirror and began combing the last remnants of powder out of her hair.

"Dr. Sarothrilith in Thanelen says the Amnorans have the countenance of a child and the stubbornness of a bull moose."

"Is that so?"

Mivanu grunted affirmation. "The skull case of a 21 year old Amnoran man fit as many seeds as that of a 15 year old Myrorian. And the section of the skull associated with fixed beliefs had the largest bump of any race he examined."

Ninirassour smirked for a moment and nodded his head. He sat in an oak chair and removed his shoes.

"I thought we had you leave the room, anyway? How do you know I was planning to take in some Amnorans?"

Mivanu picked up a pint glass off the vanity table and showed it to her husband silently. The closed end was smeared with hair powder and white foundation.

Ninirassour smiled. He took his wig off, placed it on a stand by the wardrobe, and washed his bald head from a bowl nearby. He turned to Mivanu, who was nearly done brushing her hair.

"You have some grays," he said. She turned to him.

"You have a belly."

Ninirassour smirked. "I have a birthday present for you downstairs."

"Show me tomorrow. My birthday isn't for another week anyway."

"I want to show you now."

Mivanu sighed. "I'm already undressed."

"So? No one's here except for the help."

Mivanu sighed and put her brush down. She turned in her chair to face the governor.

"Where is it?"

"The wine cellar."

"Agh," Mivanu said. "Not tonight, Ninny. The stone is so cold on my back."

"What?" he said. "No, no. Just follow me." Ninirassour put his slippers on and rebuttoned his waistcoat.

Mivanu sighed again, more loudly this time, and put her slippers on as well. By the time they had descended into the wine cellar, they were both shivering - despite the warm summer night. They walked through aisles and aisles of stacked wine bottles - some nearly fifty years old - before the aisles ended and the room opened up. In the center was a table.

"Stay here," Ninirassour said. He ran forward with his candle and lit four lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

"Come here!" he said, after each lantern was lit. Mivanu sighed a third time and stepped forward. She shrieked.

"Is this for me?!"

"Yes!" Ninirassour exclaimed. "For your birthday! You can study with it!"

"I could publish!" she exclaimed back. "Ninny, thank you!" Mivanu ran forward and hugged her husband, showering him with kisses. She stopped and hugged him more tightly before finally letting go and walking to the table.

The light shone peculiarly on the clammy skin of the Amnoran cadaver, but she didn't mind. It was the best present she had ever gotten.

La Llanura Libre:
Near Omalorith, 1781

The northern wind swept through the barren hills and the cold settled down upon the borderlands as the sun sunk slowly into the horizon and the shadows lengthened. The rocks and dusty slopes were painted a bloody red as the daylight died. To the south one could still make out yellow dunes of the Mahara Desert, but to the north the distant peaks of the Virits had already faded into the twilight. Indeed, the land beyond Omalorith was hard and desolate.

Sergeant Idril Landrith felt abandoned as he gazed at his surroundings. He had been shipped to the colony hoping for a better life, not to spend days at a time deep in the wilderness with no company other than his patrol of Am Nanmoran recruits who loathed him and spoke in a tongue he could not understand. Sighing, he tightened his grip on his musket and continued to wander along the path.

The soldado behind him, Diego, watched the sergeant bemusedly and wondered whether Myrorians had feelings. He decided it did not matter. When nightfall came and they would be at the farthest point from the barracks of Ciudad Vanda, they would knife Landrith and make a run for it. There was still a blockhouse or two at the desert’s edge to bypass but that would be trivial. He glanced at his little brother Pepito and grinned conspiratorially. Pepito reciprocated.

Pepito was the only family Diego had. Their father had died in the wars in Pelagea, their mother in La Gran Travesía, the Great Crossing, from the occupied homeland to La Llanura, the Plain. What allegiance, then, did they have to the dominion’s military? Ninguna, none, Diego thought. And there was nothing the Myrorians could deter him with. He would no longer risk his life guarding the borders of the hated dominion.

He mulled over this for some length before sunset was almost complete and Landrith halted, wearily held out his hand, and ordered the patrol to stop.

‘We will rest here.’ he said quietly.

The soldiers sat down among the rubble, shrubs and boulders that characterised the southern highlands. Dressed simply in weatherworn white shirts, trousers and straw hats, the men shivered as they sat around a campfire and chewed stale biscuits and dried strips of meat.

‘You would all love to kill me, right?’ the sergeant suddenly said with a peculiar smile. Diego had been tightening his bayonet and he stared at his commander with alarm. There were no replies.

‘I’m going mad in this place.’ the sergeant muttered. ‘My family is far across the ocean. Ancestors, what am I doing here?’

He ran his hands through his black hair and his eyes glistened with suppressed tears.

‘I miss home.’ he said. He seemed to have given up trying to engage the recruits and simply talked to himself.

Compassion welled up in Diego. He grinned good-naturedly and patted Landrith on the back.

‘No worry, sergeant. We no kill you.’ he said in broken Myrorian.
 
The sergeant, Pepito and the other five soldados stared at Diego in surprise. Then Pepito leapt up, knife in hand, and lunged at the sergeant. Diego, having anticipated this reaction, deftly grabbed his brother’s arm and shoved him against a big rock.

‘¡Idiota! Why lie to a man in his last moments? Have you no honour?’

Diego sighed.

‘We won’t kill him.’ he eventually said.

Sergeant Landrith had tried to get up but the other soldiers had put him to the ground. Now, they merely watched the confrontation between their two ringleaders. Diego was calm but troubled, Pepito confused and angry.

‘What do you want to do with him?’ Pepito spat. ‘If we let him go, they’ll make an example of us and sent cavalry to run us down.’

‘He hasn’t treated us badly. We can’t just kill him. Do you think mother would smile upon two murderer sons?’

One of the soldados, holding a bayonet against Landrith’s neck, spoke up.

‘We’ll take with him with us. A prisoner.’

‘Buena idea.’ replied Diego immediately thankfully. Then he glanced questioningly at his brother.

Pepito sighed, exasperated. He strode over to Landrith, grabbed his hand and helped him to his feet.

‘It’ll just be Bos Basit who’ll kill him rather than me.’ he said grimly.

He knew that Idril Landrith did not understand Am Nanmoran, but he was still impressed with the man’s sudden composure and cold demeanour. Although there were drying tears on his cheeks, the man was no weakling.

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