Chapter Twelve: Powder, Fire, and Balls of Caste Iron

The Devil’s Delight, Britva, Mirratroy

The drinking was plenty, and the music was merry, the sound of fiddles, accordions, and tin whistles filling the air with song and shanty. Men played cards at packed tables, laughing, smoking their pipes, drinking their booze, all the while tapping their feet to the tune. Girls giggled, wandering topless amongst the tables, sitting on men’s laps as drunken hands slid Sirens into their cleavage. A young man with brown hair and chiseled features laid his cards out on the table.

“Three Krakens over two Galleons.” He grinned, pulling the pile of loot towards him as men at the table cursed, throwing down worthless hands. The girls left whatever broke louts they were with, immediately drawn to the newfound wealth.

“Mmmm, what’s your name there, sailor?” Said a busty woman with the tan skin of the sand nations, her long brown hair flowing like chocolate satin. The man grinned, leaning back.

“The name’s Conner, or you can just call me the guy with the Brits.” He laughed, the girls laughed too, the sweet, tender laughter of pleasure house women.

“Well, my name is Polly, and I can certainly take good care of you.” She rubbed her hand on the inside of his thigh. Conner laughed yet again, not believing his luck.

“This is unreal, first free booze, then the best damn game of cards I ever played, now I got me a fine woman to love me.” Polly looked at him, confused.

“Free booze? What are you talking about?” Conner returned the look, his brow furrowed.

“I was under the impression that Black Blades got free drinks today?” Polly shook her head, trying hard not to snigger at her meal ticket. She looked back at him, tickled.

“Who on Divisia told you that nonsense?” Conner gestured at the door.

“The man outsi-” The air was torn asunder by a deafening explosion, as barrels of powder ignited under the floorboards, ripping through the brothel with terrifying lethality. Men and women were blown through the windows in pieces, landing in smoking, lifeless heaps, gut strewn piles of red that could not be recognized. The music that had brought so much merriment was gone, replaced with the silence of death. The Devil’s Delight sat, broken, ruined, her insides gutted.

A man stood watching from across the street. He stood there, even as others timidly approached the scene, eyeing the pub with his one good eye, making sure no survivors made it outside. He grunted, scratching the kraken tattoo on his neck. After a good minute, he was satisfied that death was all that remained.

Jack walked up to the front entrance of the brothel, ignoring onlookers that warned him to be careful. Spineless Children. He reached into his pocket and took out a small red creature with tentacles, the thing fumbling weakly in his grip. Krakens were fearsome beasts, capable of capsizing even the largest of vessels out on the water, but the babies were harmless, perfect for sending a message. With that in mind, Jack shoved the thing against the wall, nailing it to the wood with a large dagger. The creature struggled, but then died, hanging limp. Jack looked at it without pity or remorse, then walked away.

…

The smoke rose into the sky as the building burned with all the rage of a blazing inferno. Reis watched as the Siren’s Call was reduced to little more than kindling, standing close enough he could feel the flames nip at him with ravenous intent, eager to spread. Fortunately, the brothel lied on the outskirts of town, which meant less unnecessary damage, but truth be told, Reis would not have cared either way, the Blades wanted a fight, and he would give it to them.

A figure approached off from the side, two men that were with Reis turned with flint pistols, but Reis did not remove his gaze from the fire. Jack came into the light and the men immediately lowered their guns. He came and stood next to Reis. For a long while, they just stared into the flames, two hard men, looking upon the death wrought by their hands. Surprisingly, Jack was first to break the silence.

“What’d you use to get it to go up like that?” Reis scowled, but did not turn to look at him.

“Doused the place in whale oil, shit burns like hell.” Jack grunted, not needing to ask further. The two stood in silence once more, but eventually Reis spoke up. “What of the other pub? You took care o that, I take it? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” Jack grunted.

“Aye, I took care of it, made it good and loud, just like you asked.” He spat on the ground. “Five barrels o powder, the Nameless himself couldn’t have wrought more destruction on that place.” Reis nodded, his face grim, he did not like taking innocent life. Not the Blade bastards, mind you, those dogs deserved this and worse, but the girls, the music players, the hapless sailors who knew nothing of their war. Still, Blades had struck first, and a message had to be sent, that the Terrors were not to be fucked with, that they were worthy of the krakens inked into their skin.

Finally, Reis moved away from the fire, the heat starting to get at him. He stepped back, groaning as he lowered himself onto a crate of leftover whale oil. He felt tired, he was not an old man, but he was approaching his mid seventies, and he did not feel as spry as he once did. This job, which at times made him feel alive, more often than not, it was draining.

“War…” He said, almost to himself. “I knew one was comin eventually. I just wish we be in a better position.” Jack retrieved a silver flask, imprinted with a kraken, from inside his vest, handing it to Reis. Reis took a long drink, handing it back to Jack, who finished the contents and then put away the flask. Reis looked at Jack, surprisingly at eye level despite sitting down. “Why’d this be havin to happen now? We were so close to pullin off that job in Lithia. The crystals-” Jack put a hand on Reis, probably one of the only people who could get away with it, and gave him a look.

“There’s rats on every ship, Cap’n.” He looked over his shoulder at the men standing off to the side, fiddling with their guns and cleaning their fingernails with their knives. Reis removed Jack’s hand, standing back up.

“Aye, you be right. Perhaps it be for the best we just forget the job; we need to keep our strength gathered here til this blows over.” He turned his gaze back to the burning building, little more than a burned out husk at this point, most of the flames died down. That’s if be still alive when this is over.

…

Captain Kreek walked briskly and with purpose, Tom lumbering at his side. They were in the part of town most smart people avoided. The buildings here were dirty and damaged, with shattered, boarded up windows and walls that were vandalized with paint and knives, depicting the symbols of various gangs.

“Are the men in place?” Asked Kreek. Tom huffed, walking a little too fast for his liking.

“Aye cap’n, two dozen or so, just waiting for the signal. Paid off the constables, just like you asked.” Kreek smiled, though it could not be seen the black of night. The man was almost giddy with excitement, and Tom found that people usually wound up burned in their beds when that happened. “You still haven’t told me as to what we’re doin.” Kreek stopped, halting Tom with his hand. Tom looked around, but he never could see too well in the dark; just some rundown buildings, one of them was burned out on the second floor it seemed.

“Tell me, Tom.” He paused, his exhilaration palpable. “Are the cannons in position?” Tom smiled a wicked smile.

“Aye cap’n.”

…

The Kraken’s Den was dark, as to avoid detection on the outside, with the exception of a single candle sitting in the middle of a small table. Four men sat around the glowing light, seated on boxes of rum and barrels of salted pork, swapping stories and laughing as they drank from the stock against orders. They were proper drunk, and their swords and pistols hung on the wall like so much decoration, no one expecting anything except more booze.

Guard duty was a laughable job in the gang, and, rightly so, no one took it seriously, using it as an excuse to spend the night drinking and gambling with shipmates. The Den had been around for more than 50 years, and not once had it ever been attacked, maybe the occasional lost drunk fumbling at the door. The men carried on, spilling rum, laughing at the same repeated stories. Weiss was in the middle of a particularly entertaining tale.

“So I says to em, so I says to em, “I dunno, constable, that donkey was in the tree when I got here.”” The other men laughed, slapping the table repeatedly with their hands. Kevin finished his bottle and stood up on shaky feet, Weiss, Benioff, and Reelins, looking at him expectantly.

“That ain’t noffin, I gots a story for you lot.” He paused, belching, and took a swig from the empty bottle, disappointed when he turned it upside down, confirming the lack of rum. His eyes lit up, however, when Reelins handed him a fresh one. Kevin fumbled with the cork and then took a long drink. “Thanks mate, now... where was I? Oh, yeah. So there was these three sailors and-” The sound of cannon fire interrupted him, the men looked at each other, confused.

“That sounds awful close, don’t it?” Asked Benioff. Kevin waved his hand dismissively.

“Ah, stop being such a woman, probably just drunk deckhands having a bit o fun.” The explosive sounds of cannonballs impacting stone and wood, sounded just outside, probably from the building next to them. Benioff jumped up, startled.

“I knew it! Someone’s firin at us!” The men all got up as fast as their boozed condition would allow, grabbing weapons off the wall. “What do we do!? There’s only four of us!” Weiss already had one flint rifle loaded and was working on another.

“We do what we can, we defend the Den.” He handed Benioff one of the rifles, but did not release his grip on it. “And we don’t run.” He let go of the gun and followed the others to the East facing wall, where the cannon fire was coming from. Weiss moved a slat over a rifle hole and looked outside, just in time to see the cannonball impact his face.

The 40 pound ball of cast iron tore through the reinforced wall of wood and stone with devastating force, plowing through everything in its way until it came to a stop, lodged in the west wall of the Den. Benioff groaned, coughing up dust, the blast had thrown him onto his back. He looked up, frantically patting himself, and heaved a sigh of relief, almost giddy, that he was still in one piece. The others had not been so lucky. Benioff looked about the room and saw the carnage that had been wrought. There was nothing of Weiss left, only a red stain on the floor. Kevin lied dead, a sharp splinter of wood sticking out on either side of his head. And Reelins… well, his legs were in the room, but Benioff could not see where the rest of him was.

Another shot struck the building, shaking it to its foundation. A few more sounded, one of them skimming the roof, another taking out the second floor, and then all was silent. There was no time given to breathe, however, as the sound of people approaching could be heard in the stillness, laughing individuals who took humor in the chaos. Benioff could tell they were not friendly, and quickly closed his eyes, lying still on the floor as he loosely held onto the rifle that was still in his grip. They came in through the ragged hole in the wall, over a dozen cackling devils, sifting through the rubble. Benioff risked a peek at the attackers, nearly gasping when saw the black daggers in their hands and on their hips.

“Boy, rotten luck for this lot.” Said a woman with red hair, her voice thick with a Bellemirran accent. She carried a wicked blade, one which curved back and forth in sharp jags. “Took a straight hit from the powder ball. Ah, well, less to worry bout.” A large man with a torn black coat and a scarlet bandana over his left eye, came pushing past carrying a flint pistol.

“Hurry and get that door open, captain’s waitin.” They moved to the front entrance, which was now visible from the room due to cannonballs’ destruction. The sturdy iron door was remarkably still standing firm, undaunted even as the walls around it laid low in defeat. Two blades, an older man with a graying beard, and a fat man with a peg leg, moved to the door, unlatching the locks, and pulling it open.

A scar faced man larger than anyone Benioff had seen, except maybe Reis of course, pushed himself through the entry. The brute carried a massive blunderbuss in his hands, tantamount to a cannon, the thing looked like it belonged on a ship. But Benioff’s attention fell from the colossal juggernaut, when a much shorter, much better dressed man entered the doorway. He did not look like much, a pale man with short hair blacker than a raven’s wing, but the air seemed colder just looking at him, as if he carried the chill of the mountains with him. Everyone moved aside for the man, everyone bowed to him, and Mirratroyans did not bow to shit.

“Well, don’t just stand there, take as much loot as you can carry, then torch this place and everything in it.” He looked at the mangled bodies on the floor with mild amusement. “We don’t have much time before the Terrors catch wind of this, I don’t want a Brit, nor sack of powder, nor bottle of rum to be left for them when they get here.” The Blades moved, hacking open boxes, stuffing their pockets with Brits and other valuables, turning over crates of rum, letting the booze spill onto the floor.

“OY! THIS BLOKE’S STILL ALIVE!” The Bellemirran woman kicked Benioff’s foot, he tried his best to remain limp, but then a knife struck him in the shoulder, thrown by the man who brought the mountain’s chill. He cried out in pain looking down to see the Kendorian blade sticking out of his flesh. The man walked up to Benioff, observing him with legitimate interest.

“Hmm, a survivor, well this is fortunate. Tell me, boy, do you know who I am?” Benioff shook his head no. The man seemed momentarily irked, but then composed himself. “I am Captain Bartholomew Kreek, the leader of the Black Blades, and the destroyer of the Crimson Terrors.” Benioff tried to swing his rifle for a shot, but Kreek kicked the thing out of his hands. He leaned down and pulled the dagger from Benioff’s shoulder, Benioff screaming from the action, and proceeded to hold the thing up to the bleeding man’s face. “Do not try me, the only reason you’re alive is luck, and because I currently have no interest in your death.” He looked at the big man with the blunderbuss. “Take him with us, Tom, he might prove useful.” Tom lumbered over, stowing his gun on his back.

“Aye cap’n.” Benioff pushed himself back against the wall, as if he could somehow get away.

“Wait, no, do-” Tom punched him in the face, silencing him.

“Shut up.” He threw the little man over his shoulder. Kreek looked at Tom, smirking, he always enjoyed the man efficiency. He looked at the others, tearing apart what was left of the hideout, stuffing their pockets with anything remotely valuable. A few of them had broken their way into the back room, glutting themselves on the wealth found within. Kreek pulled out a pocket watch, an ornate thing of gold and silver, and checked the hour.

“Hurry it up, lads, we don’t have much time.” He flipped the watch shut. “Finish up here and then burn it.” Kreek looked at Tom or, more specifically, at the unconscious man on his shoulder. “I think we’re done here, Tom, there’s no need for you and me to remain.” He began moving to the door, Tom following behind. “Let’s take leave to the safehouse, I have a few questions for this one.”

…

Ryan could not even believe what he was seeing. He had run all the way across town the second he had heard what happened, but all of his wildest fantasies and nightmares could not prepare him for this. The Den… the Kraken’s Den… it… it was gone. He approached the desolate, smoking remains of the place that had, for years, been a second home to him. The walls had been brought down, riddled by cannon fire, balls of round shot lying amidst the rubble of a ruined street. Jim, however, seemed most distraught. He walked past Ryan like a dead man, lost to the world. He reached a hand out tentatively, brushing his fingers on the rough stone where the crimson kraken remained untarnished, defiant in the Den’s destruction, a brightly painted symbol of the gang’s tenacity.

Ryan walked up, and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. For a time they just stood there, 2 friends, silent witnesses of Kreek’s brutality, the cruelty of the Black Blades. Jim inhaled a shuddering breath.

“It’s gone… it’s all gone…” Ryan patted him on the shoulder, not sure what else to do in the situation.

“It’ll be alright, Jim, Reis will know what to do.” But even as he said the words, the giant brushed past the boys, his face solemn and vacant as the big man came upon the ruined building, the home of the Crimson Terrors. Reis stood there staring blankly at the smoldering, ravaged heap of stone and wood, with not so much as a musket ball left for them within its charred remains. Reis fell to his knees, kneeling upon the ash covered ground, his hands gripping the embers, crushing them into powder, letting the soot pour through his fingers. It was all that was left, all that was left of his home. No tears fell, but Ryan could tell the man was broken. He knelt there quietly for a long time, letting the wind blow over him, everyone watching him, waiting for his guidance. The men respected him too much to rush him, regardless of their own concerns, giving him time to grieve in his own way. Finally, the man got up, standing to his full height, turning to the men and women gathered around him, like sheep to a shepherd. All pain and sorrow had left him, as he stood taller than he ever had before, a true captain.

“Tonight the Blades be celebratin in their dens n in their secret places, drinkin rum n bumbo.” Reis pointed at the crumbled base. “They look at the smoke, at the ruined walls of our home, and they think us beat!” Reis spat on the ground, disgusted by the thought. “Tell me men! Are we beat!?” A loud cry rang out from the gang, the sailors and cutthroats hollering in defiance, for there was strength in unity, power in brotherhood, as over 40 men stood together as one. Reis looked over the crowd, at the faces of the brothers and sisters of his gang. “What are we!?” The men cried back.

“CRIMSON TERRORS!!” Reis nodded his head, his face hard, scowled.

“And who shouldn’t have fucked with us!?” Again, the men resounded.

“BLACK BLADES!!” Reis stamped his foot, grinding all uncertainties into the dirt and ash.

“That’s right! This is not defeat! This is fuel for our victory! We are men of the salt! With the strength of the Nameless! WE FIGHT!!” The men cried out, the chanting war cry of sailors and pirates, the words of their captain filling their hearts with courage. It was good for morale, but Ryan knew better, looking at Reis, at the Giant of Britva, he could tell that buried beneath his energy and strength, was fear