Chapter 177 - Accompaniment

 When the enemy ships appeared on the horizon, Corco had long heard of their arrival. Why else would he be here, in this tiny village at the northern coast of the Narrow Sea?

Across the horizon, a total of eight ships had been grouped together, ready to launch a raid on the small fishing village Corco and his troops had occupied. It seemed like the enemies had given up their blockade for now, eager to land and resupply at any cost after they had been rebuffed only days earlier. Going with a different landing site from their first attempt was a smart choice, but it wasn't a surprise, and it hadn't remained hidden from Corco's scouts.

With the help of their new fleet, made up of ships from Puscanacra and the Verdant Isles, they kept a close view on the entire coast line. At the same time, their telescopes and semaphore messaging gave them a crucial advantage. Under the current setup, not even a single ship could sneak its way past their defenses, let alone an entire fleet like this.

At the same time, their scouts had very much remained hidden from the enemy. Why else would this fleet proceed ahead, if they knew an enemy lay in wait? In the end, this wasn't even an especially novel tactic from the enemy admiral. Over the past few days, similar battles had been played out all along the coastline.

Atop the grain silo, Corco was surrounded by his staff as he observed the fight in the distance. As had become usual, the cannons began to fire a good while before the enemy ships were within firing distance. This had been a tactic first deployed by one of Corco's commanders farther along the coast. The noise and impact from the early shots would drain the enemy sailors of their morale and slow down their approach, This way, the cannons had more time to fire, something they desperately needed.

After all, they only had four of them on hand here in the village, despite their best efforts. Ever since Corco had set up a few production lines in Saniya with the help of Egidius, his men had begun cannon production. However, making iron cannons without cracking was a lot more challenging than the much narrower musket barrels. Since their first attempts at cast iron proved failures, they had to return to rare and expensive bronze until they could pass this war.   

Through all of these delays, they had managed to produce a measly thirty-two cannons for their main force, quite a small number to guard an entire coastline. At first, some commanders had suggested to drive back the enemy ships with their infantry instead, since the distances were too large and their cannons too heavy and too few to form an effective defense. However, Corco wouldn't want to further spread out and weaken their core forces when he expected an unwise attack from Pacha any day now.   

Thus, the king had ordered his men to set up central defensive centers, in between key landing sites and some twenty kilometers out from the coastline, to correspond to the command structure of the enemy fleet. Within these centers, their troops would wait together with the cannons and supplies, ready to intercept any enemy landing attempts as soon as they got word from the scouts. Of course, the wheels they had installed on the cannons helped as well. If winter had come sooner, they could have used sleigh-style runners to even greater effect, but one shouldn't be too greedy, really.

The result of their elaborate setup showed itself right before Corco's eyes. Shot upon shot broke into the enemy ranks, to smash apart the oars and hulls of the enemy ships. Compared to what Atau's Fastgrade fleet had dealt with along Arcavia's coastline, these enemies were no better than boats, with thin hulls not built to withstand cannon fire. Here in the west, they had a significant superiority in equipment, which made the defense a joke. Of course they might have been able to break the blockade as well, but the Verdant King hadn't given Corco his ships for combat, only for transportation, and the Southern king also wasn't too eager to leave his strongest and most expensive weapons in the hands of relative strangers. Though the enemy's larger numbers and the complex layout of the Narrow sea made a destruction of the blockade a dangerous endeavor anyways.

Though even beyond all of these reasons, Corco didn't want to increase the number of casualties even further. Of course it was a hypocritical notion from the man who had initiated the attack, from the one who had taken some poor cultivator's life for his own benefit. Yet as he watched Medalan ships crash into each other and scatter in panic, as he heard the cold southern wind carry the Yaku men's screams of confusion and pain and fear over to him, he couldn't stand the weight of responsibility.

As soon as he saw the enemy ships turn and flee, as soon as he was sure that the battle had been won, Corco closed his eyes, no longer forced to observe.

“Cease fire,” he whispered.

“King Corco?” Tama asked in confusion. Of course she wouldn't leave out the chance to thin out the number of enemies. However, even if Corco didn't feel bad, there was little point in more combat.

“I said cease fire,” the king repeated, this time with a strength to match his authority. “It's enough. If their captain isn't an idiot, he's learned his lesson after this and won't attack again. Even worse, we're wasting powder. We'll need all of it once Pacha attacks.”

“Understood, King Corco.” Even though Corco's real reason to halt battle was much more personal, his reasoning was still sound. Now convinced, Tama carried out the king's instructions with great efficiency, as she always did. Armed with a flag, she stepped up to the edge of the silo and began to wave it in the wind. During combat, the horns didn't have much use, not with all the cannon fire.   

“I'll be in my room for the evening. Only interrupt me if there's something important.”

Accompanied by the bows of his staff, Corco left the top of the silo and went into the streets of the half-deserted village. Although they hadn't forced any locals to relocate, many had left on their own accord, all too familiar with war and what it did to the weak. In effect, they had turned countless Yaku all across the coastline into refugees. Now, anyone who had remained hid out inside their homes in hopes the occupants would overlook them. Only a few of Corco's soldiers were in the streets, running back and forth to transport the powder and shot for their cannons.

Corco marched past his men as they saluted him one and all until he reached the most spacious building in the city apart from the silo, the village chief's home. These would be his quarters for the duration of his stay, as provided by the chief, more out of fear than anything else. Of course, the chief himself had found shelter elsewhere in the village, and only a few of Corco's guards remained.

Once he had reached his private room, Corco sat down in front of his baggage, exhausted from the death and callousness he had caused. There were a few things he would always carry with him even when he was on the road, and this time was no exception. After he had opened the long box of precious wood, he first removed the satin cloth cover.   

Underneath hid the various compartments with their valuable contents. On the left were stacked some of his books, for reference, together with paper and ink in case he remembered something worth writing down. On the right was the compartment for Corco's armor, empty while it was in use, and a small compartment for a single bottle. Though of course, the center of the box was the most important, and the reason for its size. Carefully let in, encased in satin, sat Corco's koto, the instrument he would play at the end of a rough day. Lately, he had spent more time with it than before.

Before he begun his play, he took out the bottle, another new creation, made under his instructions. Ever since their first contact with the Verdant Isles, he had begun to import some of their agricultural products. Though the amount of cotton they had gained from the trade wasn't yet enough to revolutionize warfare, at least they had gotten enough sugar cane to make some rum. With the stopper removed, a sharp smell filled his nose. Still a bit too raw and unrefined from the short ageing, but he already preferred the taste over most brandys. Plus, he wouldn't have to drink it pure anyways.

From deeper within the box he added a few more bits of new invention. Some sugar syrup would dilute the harsh drink, and some vanilla extract would round off the taste. Of course it was only vanillin and not genuine vanilla, but beggars couldn't be choosers. After he added a generous amount of ice and stirred a bit, Corco took a deep swig. First the cold of the ice numbed the dread in his bones, then the warmth of the rum replaced it. Of course, all of it was nothing more than an illusion. No amount of alcohol had ever solved a personal problem.

Really, what's Pacha waiting on?

At this point, he had expected his brother to show up long ago. The longer Corco and his army stayed in enemy lands, the more damage they would do to the local population, and the worse it would be for his present reputation and his future plans. With this landing, Corco had wanted to force an early resolution, but now they were stuck in the north, reliant on a response from Pacha. At least he still had a few cards left. If Nahlen managed to clean out the hinterland a bit more, they would be able to push further north and disrupt Pacha's own supply lines. That way, they could all starve together. With all sides in equally precarious position, he would be surprised if Pacha's unstable alliance of particular interests would hold together for longer than his own monolithic army.

So long as he could solve the Nahlen problem, that was. Despite his best efforts to give up some control and burden, he still felt bad about loading that much responsibility off to Tama, even after she had shown herself to be willing capable. He just hoped she wouldn't do anything she would regret later on.

After the drink had calmed him down, food for the soul would be next. As he had done every day since his return from Chutwa, Corco bent down over his instrument and played a short melody. This time he played around with a few piano pieces. Not composed for koto, but transposing had been easy enough, and the challenge took his mind off his worldly issues. Maybe he could have his people at least make a clavichord once they were no longer forced to use all their efforts on wartime industry. A music revolution would be nice, much more pleasant than the violent revolutions they had been plagued with for a year.

As the plucked strings released their sound into the lonely night, Corco looked out of the narrow windows, a harsh wind in his face. Before the start of this war, he hadn't been this troubled about his actions. Before, he had always been the true heir, the defender, the one in the absolute moral right. While everyone else had acted like a monster, he had played fair, in accordance with tradition. He had been the good guy. Ever since his return, that was not the case any longer. He had launched the attack, had displaced people, had burned crops. Of course he understood that he needed to act in this way.

If he didn't start to play dirty, he might lose this contest of kings, even with all of his advantages combined. And of course he also felt that his actions justified his means, that his actions would, ultimately, be to everyone's benefit. Yet he also remembered that these were common excuses for tyrants, words to justify their cruel, despotic acts. Maybe that was what he had become: A cruel despot. Today, the music failed to cheer up the king.

As he began his second piece for the night, he chose one he had played on several occasions before. Something familiar to conjure up a simpler time. As he entered the second movement, a peculiar sound joined in. From somewhere within the village, a flute began to accompany his song, sweet and sad to lament the loss of his ideals. Somehow, the company soothed him, and he calmed down at last.

If nothing else, he wanted to guarantee that his actions would benefit others, rather than himself. Even if he had to become a monster, he would go ahead with his plans and charge towards the future in his memory. His own people, his own allies, would be behind his back, ready to follow towards a better world. The flute had made him understand that he wasn't alone, that there were millions who relied on him. What was a single soul in exchange for an entire nation? Reminded of his responsibilities, the king continued to play deep into the night, always followed by a lonely flute on the wind. 

Hermit's Notes: Well, this is how I temporarily resolve Corco's moral quandries. Too easy? The whole thing might have turned out a bit too flowery in places, but I like it I think. Also, I listened to some well-tempered clavier when I wrote this, so you might wanna do the same.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1osi_pQcUdM