tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76814314358783087612024-03-05T03:23:35.219-08:00Scéal an Ghamhna Bhuí...The Official Dossier of Hotspur O'Toole in Second Life (TM)Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-33161509707267148012009-06-17T05:17:00.000-07:002009-06-20T10:34:58.508-07:00"The Land Went up in Fire and Curdled Smoke"<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI4Yj5Aoz4REFCgSl03C2yX4Kx9aM4YJMbo2KehIi9b6CoAijaTo7KE88UL7dHlMDzH2hdtLPs6Zxq2EjCbTFBjKqNReZZbyRVadfOVMc_YfCgQ3GKE80UNt-W33huMqAKN31VOz3UJA8/s1600-h/TheValley1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI4Yj5Aoz4REFCgSl03C2yX4Kx9aM4YJMbo2KehIi9b6CoAijaTo7KE88UL7dHlMDzH2hdtLPs6Zxq2EjCbTFBjKqNReZZbyRVadfOVMc_YfCgQ3GKE80UNt-W33huMqAKN31VOz3UJA8/s400/TheValley1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349463189554886962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" >The Advance of General Ying-Tse and the Fusang Field Force, and Ambush<br /></span></div><br />Shea lay prone in the Kunai grass, as still as he could be, with the burlap wrapped spyglass propped up on a rotting log to steady it. All along the ridge, his small command were steadying their rifles to make their shots count. Pan Bao Long, the best shot in the Army of the Progressives, lay next to him, a long rifle with brass scope mounted on top trained down the slope. Both Long and Shea were interested in one thing at the moment, and that was a young Mongolian officer in Fusang green, leading a vanguard of the Fusang Field Force. The officer sat easy in the saddle, as only a natural horseman can, laughing and joking with a taller native Fusang captain and his subordinate bannermen. Shea spoke quietly.. "<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Huo</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span>"<br /><br />Long's gun barked, and a second later the Mongolian officer's epaulette flew off his shoulder. The officer stared, thunderstruck for a moment..<br /><br />Shea quickly said "<span style="font-style: italic;">Dao, pinyin</span>" and Long corrected aim down and to the left. "<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Huo</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">"</span> and he fired again.<br /><br />A small red carnation blossomed in the officer's chest as he fell backwards, amidst general consternation among the troops. Shea raised up on his elbows and shouted "<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">HUO!</span>"<br /><br />The small brick red of the Progressive force unleashed a ragged volley from concealment. Down the slope on the dirt road, the Fusang force recoiled in fear, horses running hither and yon as cavalrymen fell right and left. The greenclad troops were having a hard time of it, but they weren't panicking. Once again, Shea shouted "<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">HUO!!</span>" and the ragged volley crash into the horse patrol, sending it scattering and then back into a formless mass.<br /><br />Shea turned to the bannerman, standing expectantly. He gestured... "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Qi!!</span>". At that the Brick Red colored banner of the Army of Progressive Peace unfurled in the air over Shea's position. The Mongolians appeared puzzled by this development, but the native Fusang captain was decisive. She (whose Mandarin was problematic at the best of times) could not make out the orders but could see that the flag was recognized.<br /><br />Very Good. Now if they only would take the rest of it, Shea thought.<br /><br />Sure enough, the native Fusang officer had assessed the situation correctly and was ordering his men into a line abreast. Exactly as we planned, thought Shea excitedly.<br /><br />Further down the reverse slope, he gazed at the specially rigged PomPom gun. The traces were still on the gun, and it was propped up to fire in a short arc (hopefully) and land on the advancing column. This was the theory, in any event. Pompoms were not designed to be abused like this. Nearby, a Progressive soldier stood by with the mule team for a quick on-the-fly hookup. Shea raised his sword so the team could see him, then he dropped it. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Calling all Angels...</span>" he thought to himself.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"HUO!"</span> The shell arced over the hill, flip flopped in mid air and landed just to the right of the hastily forming cavalry formation. A Pom Pom round isn't even much of a door knocker (<span style="font-style: italic;">as was being discovered at that moment, miles away in Fusang Castle, but </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2009/02/return-to-fusang-ancient-magic-and-long.html">that is another story</a>). However, pom pom rounds CAN make a very satisfying bang, and was routinely used in India to spook horses in an enemy cavalry charge. Shea scoped in on the Fusang formation. The Pom had done an adequate, not optimal, job of disruption. The cavalry formation had dispersed into panicky semi circle, arcing away from the explosion, but it was still under control. The Mongolians were good horsemen, which is why the Lord of Fusang bought their services in such vast numbers. These troops, at least, had been under fire before.<br /><br />Shea made the see-saw Reload motion with his sword. Then he waved the sword in a broad circle, which meant, <span style="font-style: italic;">"choose your targets, fire at will up and down the line"</span>.<br /><br />At the next "<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">HUO!</span>", the entire thinly dispersed line spat out rifle fire on the nose and flank of the Fusang vanguard. To their credit, they acted like soldiers, immediately breaking ranks and searching out cover. As the soldiers in the Fusang line anxiously scanned the ridge line for targets, Shea looked back at them and marveled, recalling General Feng's words from the saddle only hours before. <span style="font-style: italic;">"And thus, the small force pins down the larger force, allowing the army a chance to fight on ground of its own choosing.</span>" So it was proving to be. Another Pom Pom round tumbled end over end, landing with a crash about twenty feet from the Fusang positions-- harming nobody, but raising the excitement level a few notches. Shea wanted the Fusang army to stop in its tracks, and it had done so. Soon, orders would be flying down the Fusang column..<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">What is the meaning of the delay? Report at once!"</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Enemy column </span>(which would be magnified in the telling, of course) <span style="font-style: italic;">sighted. Deploying to counterattack".</span><br /><br />The chain of commands, orders, verifications and counter verifications would significantly slow things up while the main Progressive force won valuable time ahead to set up defensive positions. Shea nodded at Pan Bao Long.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Time to go, I think. We've gained ourselves a half hour here. Let's get the men to the next ambush position."</span><br /><br />Long signaled the ambush force by bugle. Silently, the men cleared their positions and sneaked down the reverse side of the hill where the horses were being held. The Pom Pom gun was already saddled up to the mule team. Shea waved his sword in the onward pose, and they were off again.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" >Title from "Dies Irae" by Willoughby Weaving, 1917</span>Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-36507441460844242472009-06-15T05:37:00.000-07:002009-06-15T05:38:43.097-07:00Steppes of Thoth cancelledDue to copyright claims by the publisher, we can no longer publish the Serial Steppes of Thoth here. Sorry!Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-5969498839642207352009-03-31T12:00:00.000-07:002009-03-31T13:16:01.428-07:00Return to Fusang: An End to Dark MagicFollows directly from <a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2009/01/cold-iron-of-chief.html">here</a> and <a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2009/02/return-to-fusang-ancient-magic-and-long.html">here</a>.<br /><br />I opened my eyes again and saw the red warrior below me as though he were running into battle with Queen Boudicca against the Romans. In that moment I felt the Queen's anger rushing through me as though I were there with her invoking <span style="font-style: italic;">Andraste</span> to assist her and her people in the uprising against the sassenachs so very long ago. Her elite guard touched by the gods of the ancients, sent into a firey rage giving them strength beyond anything known to man poured forth ahead of her chariot as the Roman line ran to their certain deaths.<br /><br />Snapping myself out of this vision, I again turned my attention to the battle below. I saw the large gun that I heard only moments earlier. I allowed myself to take in the entire scene below my position on the balcony of the laboratory. There were hundreds of soldiers all milling about with no sense of purpose. I saw a man laying on the ground just behind (the thing that had been) Hotspur - and a large kilted man standing over him. It was Dr. Mason on the ground! Yes - I was certain it was him, and there appeared to be blood coming from wounds somewhere in his head. I could not see clearly from here.<br /><br />Then <span style="font-style: italic;">IT</span> came into my view as I followed Hotspur's run. A large dragon. A very angry dragon hissing and tearing at this son of <span style="font-style: italic;">Cúchulainn</span><b>, </b>which Hotspur had become. I watched as they battled.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45aRzwCRuLBOajqEoSIALPiUdW56PuA6rRZGXpVnD17bvyVfWoX1HsDV_btedDR0qSK7ftToJCKPrgHUcfsp-YOt5Tn324PlEzM2vNa-5SuZr_MXrN4nRhvJsxt-U_x0Rh96TrUdXylAf/s1600-h/Fusang+end_013.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45aRzwCRuLBOajqEoSIALPiUdW56PuA6rRZGXpVnD17bvyVfWoX1HsDV_btedDR0qSK7ftToJCKPrgHUcfsp-YOt5Tn324PlEzM2vNa-5SuZr_MXrN4nRhvJsxt-U_x0Rh96TrUdXylAf/s320/Fusang+end_013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319442064082420914" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The Dragon Who Waits was waiting no more. His full rage was focused solely on one man.<br /><br />Hotspur attempted to seize the Dragon by the neck; however, it has already grown too large for him to have any real effect. Hotspur hacked at the raking claws with his sword.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg58MGhJjr8gP0YWMIaNOVnDI58l_sXcA6HsIVFsRaEwyiIGkZCOJonUTfO6kfP89nr77-LlKnuqh3edDENOslfm_lxSDIruY6nLjMNlmW6Ul9EDXO6hhb6HxtB4NxVbOVD6ywto0mq9HIU/s1600-h/Fusang+end_002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 205px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg58MGhJjr8gP0YWMIaNOVnDI58l_sXcA6HsIVFsRaEwyiIGkZCOJonUTfO6kfP89nr77-LlKnuqh3edDENOslfm_lxSDIruY6nLjMNlmW6Ul9EDXO6hhb6HxtB4NxVbOVD6ywto0mq9HIU/s320/Fusang+end_002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319444056019266338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div id=":0" dir="ltr" class="kl"><span style="font-size:130%;">One, twice, the sword bounced off the dragon scales.</span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />The two yelled, cursed, and tore at each other for a long while before the Dragon felt the sting of the large sword as it found purchase deep in his front foot. He roared and fire shot upwards in my direction. I fell backwards onto the stones of the balcony with the force of his pain and anger. When I pulled myself up again and returned to the battlement to look at the scene once again I saw Hotspur standing there dumbly looking at a broken sword - hilt still in his hand. The blade was still in the Dragon's foot. I heard the rumbling angry voice of the Dragon - though not aloud. It was in my mind.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"You WILL join me and bend to my will."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />I saw the fierce red warrior smirk as he growled,<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Titim gan éirí ort. You hold no sway over anyone now, Beast. Least of all me."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />And then he leaped toward the great powerful beast. Lieng's Dragon form was enormously strong despite the black pearl lying broken on the ground nearby. Where was his power coming from?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxSuv7w5H59CHzXwF1fmfTXXe-ntSJazlTqSWtjIe6PasipwGQ1Lbgy49-YOyAL8VgSOnAFvZqMiBBJHsq2TY13hIviqaZogqEK_8Yx7Qhbv7EW8cXKfSc4A8jOL_bW5GQ7UC4vfm_Leuc/s1600-h/Fusang+end_007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxSuv7w5H59CHzXwF1fmfTXXe-ntSJazlTqSWtjIe6PasipwGQ1Lbgy49-YOyAL8VgSOnAFvZqMiBBJHsq2TY13hIviqaZogqEK_8Yx7Qhbv7EW8cXKfSc4A8jOL_bW5GQ7UC4vfm_Leuc/s320/Fusang+end_007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319445013543822658" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Suddenly I heard both of them yelling fiercely and in a flash the Dragon had flung Hotspur against the wall of the great fortress. Those of us nearby were helpless at this point to do anything to help our friend. His great red bulk fell to the ground and in one fail swoop the Dragon was on top of him. The cavalry sword laying at his side was broken, smashed, utterly useless. Then I felt, more than saw, the Dragon crush Hotspur's left leg with one step. Just as in the tales of old, the red man seemed to feel no pain as he remained in his Berzerkgegang. He continued cursing his enemy and attempting to rise up.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvzjNpTNp1aTCZcqhvSKROv8w21JTTDAA5RkJeHdb13eOhspy-7LEBLQge-amJ7XVlOGXdtyy7KmmmAr3u97wvgCOarYt4lulE7khzEg32SOoR2UaC9dGdaRvymnexmljm5Y2XdTlITAf/s1600-h/Fusang+end_009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvzjNpTNp1aTCZcqhvSKROv8w21JTTDAA5RkJeHdb13eOhspy-7LEBLQge-amJ7XVlOGXdtyy7KmmmAr3u97wvgCOarYt4lulE7khzEg32SOoR2UaC9dGdaRvymnexmljm5Y2XdTlITAf/s320/Fusang+end_009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319445389503168178" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Cúchulainn and Boudicca must have been standing nearby him - keeping the rage in his blood. But despite that, it was clear to me that the massive beast was ready to come in for the kill.<br /><br />The Dragon leaned forward to rip the life out of him along with his heart. I summoned my grandmother's voice to me; my father's voice.<br /><br />It was my father that I first heard.<br /><br />"</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Pick my sword up, mo nighean - the sword of your forefathers. Claidheamh Flath forged by the ancient chieftain, Simon of Oliver, himself....</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > Forged of the star iron found in the fields around his home in Aberdeenshire.</span><span style="font-size:130%;">...</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >This sword has protected our family from attacks and dangers at many times in the history of our clan...both from physical, human enemies, and fae or demon intruders</span><span style="font-size:130%;">."<br /><br />I raised myself up on the battlement above them and shouted,<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Caisg caraid! Cion-omhaill!"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />He did not seem to hear me. Louder I shouted again,<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Cion-omhaill! Cion-omhaill! Caisg caraid!"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUcUnORlUG8gAul1WcpRWq9ryI4xSKcvdUW7g_Wx_AvRYDamYsSVqTLKOsU2mel-2vi1BX8nUH6y4UevJVZmYkljWGuvgBL6UNkJrqNJ2w2G4cY1WTJt7myxnpl39fiYuSJmCCgNcQwh8H/s1600-h/Fusang+end_008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 145px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUcUnORlUG8gAul1WcpRWq9ryI4xSKcvdUW7g_Wx_AvRYDamYsSVqTLKOsU2mel-2vi1BX8nUH6y4UevJVZmYkljWGuvgBL6UNkJrqNJ2w2G4cY1WTJt7myxnpl39fiYuSJmCCgNcQwh8H/s320/Fusang+end_008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319445609322888754" border="0" /></a><br /><br />He recognized the ancient Gælic of his name and came out of his rage long enough to turn his burning eyes in my direction. I saw questions and confusion there. And then suddenly recognition. At that moment I threw </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Claidheamh Flath, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">the Sword of the Chief, to him. His great hand caught it and despite his injuries, he jumped onto the Dragon - onto Lieng - as the beast swung his awful toothed mouth toward Hotspur's chest.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3W_G8f4jn32r5IIRBXxNzLtSlI_ZnM23kFTLkBkbfkYGPYLtPfQU0grzjZ3eACVSoOS2FkNIQBhPTcvFA70FLcw9hy3L83BDfzqfoy-cRZUdVCeeSDLWYHdbVtrxHX7gslrlG8Zateh69/s1600-h/Fusang+end_014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 221px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3W_G8f4jn32r5IIRBXxNzLtSlI_ZnM23kFTLkBkbfkYGPYLtPfQU0grzjZ3eACVSoOS2FkNIQBhPTcvFA70FLcw9hy3L83BDfzqfoy-cRZUdVCeeSDLWYHdbVtrxHX7gslrlG8Zateh69/s320/Fusang+end_014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319445831892052722" border="0" /></a><br />Hotspur could feel the cold iron of the Frasers in his hands and he knew that this would be the end of The Dragon Who Waits. He lifted his arms over his head an cleaved the mighty beast's head from his neck as he yelled,<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ERfEM2f24BNiR6_45YJ1iK_RLaDNA8inTJPhfNfyjGbPgff6tHJAf1gH2_Wstd4QeDlHIlpFXICb09yvN11Vmv1gRwCO1d3DBAREpAczoJINzhcXDY4Q6ZqKrkXH7PPQvr9IpaWKyjAV/s1600-h/Fusang+end_019.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ERfEM2f24BNiR6_45YJ1iK_RLaDNA8inTJPhfNfyjGbPgff6tHJAf1gH2_Wstd4QeDlHIlpFXICb09yvN11Vmv1gRwCO1d3DBAREpAczoJINzhcXDY4Q6ZqKrkXH7PPQvr9IpaWKyjAV/s320/Fusang+end_019.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319446035417061698" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"Titim gan éirí ort!!" May you fall and never rise up!!</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />Both men fell viloently to the ground. Hotspur was right back up stopping only a moment to see that the head was in fact severed from the dragon's body.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3Wb5zwGwsByQT-qwLyvKms7VUN62tjR4_plHqG2sFttegdUjvEyqibOg-kZjCd2NXUY-CtVe3MmiQ7bnq7Rae1gc8A4SQtwCQ3LHbp8APmHvF0qK-VmYwHxP8xwY-0ZaIBrIWevG5AUA/s1600-h/Fusang+end_023.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3Wb5zwGwsByQT-qwLyvKms7VUN62tjR4_plHqG2sFttegdUjvEyqibOg-kZjCd2NXUY-CtVe3MmiQ7bnq7Rae1gc8A4SQtwCQ3LHbp8APmHvF0qK-VmYwHxP8xwY-0ZaIBrIWevG5AUA/s320/Fusang+end_023.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319446357923926434" border="0" /></a><br />As he lept around still in his rage, longing to take more lives....the blood thirst still on him, I watched as Lieng began the transformation back into his first form. The man. The man he must have been 20 years ago. Small. Younger, but certainly showing the signs of one who has used dark magic for so long that part of his soul and body have been withered. He did not move. He was dead.<br /><br />Suddenly I heard howling. Lieng was dead. I was certain. Where? What?<br /><br />Then a chorus of howls...coming from the hills behind us.<br /><br />Fuzzball! It had to be. And it sounds as though he has brought help.<br /><br />My eye caught movement again below me. The kilted man came forward to look at Lieng and then seemed to be trying to calm Hotspur who was moving about enraged - killing the dazed soldiers around him. I heard him speaking to Hotspur in Gælic, but to no avail.<br /><br />Then I felt my grandmother's hand on my shoulder.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Child, you must always remember the spell for calming and the song of recall. These will serve you in times of dire need."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />In as clear and strong a voice as I could summon, I began the Latin song<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Totus super ira mos iam vado , ex penitus ut externus , planto is sic. Totus super ira mos iam vado , ex penitus ut externus , planto is sic. Totus super ira mos iam vado , ex penitus ut externus , planto is sic."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />Hotspur turned his face up in my direction. The rage was ceasing. I saw him drop </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Claidheamh Flath </span><span style="font-size:130%;">to the ground, and the pain began to show on his face. Suddenly he looked smaller, more like my friend. He seemed to form a twisted smile at me as he collapsed onto the<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>stones</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;">his broken leg and torn body finally giving way</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> In seconds several of his men were there beside him, and I then climbed down to the ground to help as I could.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Lieng is dead. Your mission has been accomplished, mo caraid. Now <span style="font-weight: bold;">don't you die on me</span>, ye great Irish ninny!"</span>Eva Bellambihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15302724705163071907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-83008303285411269112009-03-31T04:42:00.000-07:002009-03-31T04:45:40.926-07:00SPACE 1889: The Steppes of Thoth Parts IV and VJust to break up the story bits before our grand finale, I thought it might be time to catch up with the audio serial, SPACE 1889: Steps of Thoth. Here's episodes IV and V.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part IV</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/M03vIycIe0Q&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/M03vIycIe0Q&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Part V</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/xGQ1i7gdPLU&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/xGQ1i7gdPLU&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-11358669811218585492009-02-04T04:14:00.000-08:002009-03-30T04:32:46.649-07:00Return to Fusang: Ancient Magic and a Long Delayed VisitFollows directly<a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2009/01/return-to-fusang-danger-forward.html"> from this post</a><br /><br />I've been fumbling with the sash for the last minute or so, we are losing time. The men had made up grey tunic for me, somehow, out of castoffs and with quick tailoring. And now the old green officer's sash (really just a rag, but it will suit). I laugh quietly.. Burgrevine would have flogged a trooper for looking this slovenly, but it looks reasonably well at a distance. Doctor Mason had offered me Western clothing, which I declined, as the men had made me this old raggedy version of an EVA officer's uniform-- if I'm to die today, it will be best to die wearing this, instead of the uniform of another Western interloper.<br /><br />Striding out of the cabin, I yell for my gun belt.. Chen, as usual, has it loaded and ready. A Mauser, that newfangled German Automatic gun, a lovely little killing toy. As I walk out to where the men lay hiding, they all look up and recognition dawns on their faces. There is much nodding and grinning. The uniform is a very Chinese gesture, and I can see they appreciate it. I refrain from the turban; only my batman could tie it right over my giant head, so I just wear a green headband to accentuate command.<br /><br />With a finger to my lips, I motion to the attack force to stay concealed and quiet behind the deck squalor and return to the bridge. I can already see the dark, brooding heights of the Fusang Palace over the bend in the river, and we will have only one chance at this deception. The men look very nervous, and why should they not? Counting noses, I have about 120 men with me here, about to stage a coup against.. what? Will there be an army to greet us at Fusang?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;" class="huge">The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Thank you, Sun Tzu"</span>, I breath, as I climb up to the Texas deck and walk in on a very frightened former captain of the Iron River Dragon. As ever, the resourceful Sergeant Chen has him covered. I flamboyantly take out the newfangled German automatic pistol and press it into his back.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiloPJX5-X5upA8b6M0GMs_IKBDw3yrn-D3hgng0epZefcbdzS0aWRB2i8gafYyftmKoQXSuyejhrGX2YSBH6MX2Jqq8fmudhAk3O6uExCZvbSijT5JGLg30aumq5zucIgJ0rEY9Q8fmVY/s1600-h/mm712schnellfeuer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 207px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiloPJX5-X5upA8b6M0GMs_IKBDw3yrn-D3hgng0epZefcbdzS0aWRB2i8gafYyftmKoQXSuyejhrGX2YSBH6MX2Jqq8fmudhAk3O6uExCZvbSijT5JGLg30aumq5zucIgJ0rEY9Q8fmVY/s320/mm712schnellfeuer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300452432973934674" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Captain, I am not in the least interested in taking your life. But I will do it, without a qualm, if you don't stay on script. Do you understand?"</span><br /><br />He is sweating. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Y-y-y-esssir!"</span> Poor chap. Considering what the price of failure is in the Fusang Military, I rather understand the fix he's in.<br /><br />I crouch behind him, keeping him covered all the while. All over the ship, the men are behind bulwarks, hidden behind deck litter, in hatchways, ready to spring. I confess it, my hands are shaking. What will we be walking in to?<br /><br />Silently, the River Dragon chuffs into the port.. I hear harsh words in Mandarin, inquiring of the Captain... Chen, in a Fusang Marine hat, stands next to the captain, and speaks out of the side of his mouth to me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"The harbor master is yelling at the Captain, wondering why he is back early, and inquiring why he has left his duty station guarding the bridge"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span>I whisper:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> "Stay on script, Captain, and this will all be over soon"</span><br /><br />The Captain rises to the occasion... and harangues with the Harbor master like a fish wife.. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"Oh woe! We have engine troubles! We cannot hold station! We need to put in for repair!" </span><br /><br />Not bad, Captain, not bad... You should take up stagecraft..<br /><br />The Dragon comes to a stop. I hear the hustle and bustle as lines are cast off (from Progressives wearing dead crewman's uniforms, of course)<br /><br />The boat shudders to a stop. Again, I hear the imperious sounds of the Fusang Harbormaster.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Sir, it's no good, he's sending a runner to the Palace to check on this." says Chen, worriedly.</span><br /><br />Blast it, we can't let that happen.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Call it Chen! Up and at 'em, it's ON!"</span><br /><br />Chen leans outside the pilot house, pulls out his signaling bugle and gives the agreed three rising-and-falling blasts that is the signal for the attack.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOARRRRRRR!!!!</span></span>"<br /><br />The men have been instructed to scream like devils as they pour off the boat. the Chinese have a higher pitch than Westerners, usually, but this catches me by surprise.. a deep, throaty <span style="font-style: italic;">almost growl </span>of rage as they pour out of their hiding places and leap ashore onto the wharf.<br /><br />I zip down the stairs to the main deck, sliding down the railing without actually cracking my skull, on a sprint, I run to the gangplank to supervise the men filing off.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Long Nose!"</span><br /><br />I look up at Yao. His bandits are taking positions on the gun mounts, ready to cover our advance in the city.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />'Yao! Success to you, my friend!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"And to thee, Colonel O'Toole of the EVA! May fortune grant you victory!"</span><br /><br />And he tosses something heavy at me. It's a long, straight and heavy , weighted on the forward edge, like a Western sword. I look up, quizzically. It is a Prussian style cavalry sword. Not exactly a beauty, this blade, but functional, and strong.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://72.232.229.42/thumb/6/6f/1912_Sword_1.JPG/180px-1912_Sword_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 193px;" src="http://72.232.229.42/thumb/6/6f/1912_Sword_1.JPG/180px-1912_Sword_1.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">"Got it off a dead German! It's more your style than mine!"</span><br /><br />I nod, grinning up at him. He's right.. this chopper will come in handy.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Can you keep start shelling the walls of the Palace when we get up to the Gates? We'll send up a flare when we are in position." </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Aye Long Nose, we'll sweep the ramparts for you.. Just break through!"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"For God's sake, Yao, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Hold this Spot</span>. D'ye hear? If this goes to Hell in a hand basket, you're our only way home!"</span><br /><br />He looks solemn. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh, aye, we will. We'll rake yonder square with bullets if the citizenry get too brave for their own good"</span><br /><br />I salute him and charge up to the quayside.<br /><br />The portside is a scene of mass confusion. We have arrived on market day, it would seem, and the peasants are all running and screaming as their carts are turned over, pigs and chickens running hither and yon... I laugh at the sorry spectacle. Where's the army? There's the harbormaster, a tall, cadaverous fellow whose normal dignified mien is somewhat spoilt by being held two feet in the air by Angus Glitterach. His knees are knocking so loud, I can hear them from six feet away.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Angus, did you intercept the courier?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Och, Aye, you mean this fellow?"</span> He motions to a body pincushioned with arrows at the edge of the square.<br /><br />I grimace. That would be the one, yes.<br /><br />I walk to the head of the column, where the two pom-poms are being dragged by mules. Doctor Mason is standing there, quietly, all pale and trembling.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Are you ready, Doctor?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Yes, Hotspur, I am ready as I'll ever be "</span> He looks somewhat downcast.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"You do recall how to work a field piece, sir? Has it been so long?" </span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"No, no, it's not that. I'm worried about Fuzz.. and.. the other thing-- the Song."</span><br /><br />I speak to him quietly, so the others might not hear.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Listen, Doctor.. if you don't think it advisable to use the Song of Osiris, don't take the chance. We may fight it through yet."</span><br /><br />He looks up, brightening a bit. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Let's get into that castle first"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Right!"</span> I turn to the men, forming into a giant wedge formation.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Form </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">UP</span><span style="font-style: italic;">! ANGUS!!!! Will you take the point on this, please?"</span><br /><br />Angus grins and whirls a pike over his head like a child's toy. The group of a dozen soldiers he had been training form up in a wedge in front of our company.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"FORWARD!!!!"</span></span><br /><br />Our column marches out of the square and up the hill on the way to castle. Angus' men wield their pikes in an efficient pike drill, shoving anyone who would block our progress out of the way, where they get hacked at by the men in the main column. Directly behind Angus are the Doctor and myself, moving the small gun teams forward, then the rest of the company, in an ad-hoc box formation.<br /><br />I can see the top of the Castle from here, a dull, black edged pagoda, painted the characteristic green of Fusang. Shots are starting to be fired from the high wall around the castle. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Forward, forward....</span><br /><br />I'm a bit mystified.. if I were trying to <span style="font-style: italic;">stop </span>a coup, the first thing I would do would be stage blocking forces in the narrow streets here.. but the opposition, such as it is, hasn't heard of this.. we encounter small forces of Fusang soldiers, forming mechanically in line, not taking advantage of any cover, and easily dispersed with pike-charges before they can even present arms to fire.<br /><br />The rifle fire from the heights of the walls is increasing. We need to speed this up. Hsieh Lieng must know we are here, now.<br /><br />Pulling the German blade out of its sheath, I wave it over my head.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Men, on the quickstep, HARCH!!!!"</span><br /><br />The pace doubles as we all lurch into a dog-trot, now the rifle first is a regular fusilade, joined in by the first shot from a cannon. Now we are two streets away from the gates.. Now one. I flourish my sword again..<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br />"Men, CHARGE!!! CHARGE!!!"</span><br /><br />Screaming like banshees, we enter the courtyard in front of the castle gates. In front of us is a hastily forming force of Fusang soldiers. Something isn't right. They aren't panicking. I don't expect them to run away, but I expect them to at least waver a bit. ALL armies will take a second against a charging foe, to mentally set themselves and brace against the charge. And yes, <span style="font-style: italic;">some</span> run away. These troops aren't doing that. With blank expressions on their face, they are forming a battle line, maybe 300 strong, half that in width and two men deep. As they form up in sections, I could see them going through the rifle drill of reaching for cartridge, loading... Think fast, O'Toole!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Into them! Into them, NOW! Before they can deliver a volley fire! CHARGE!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Editorial note:</span> See <a href="http://darienmason.blogspot.com/2009/03/return-to-fusang-crescendo.html">Darien Mason's Journal Return to Fusang: Crescendo</a> to be read in parallel with this entry from about this point<br /><br />Angus screams defiance and charges forward, I follow with the giant cleaver in my hand. The rest of the Progressives charge after, again with a satisfying <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">ROOOAR</span> </span>of defiance... alas, we have no bayonets fixed, but we can't take the time to accomplish that. The gunfire from the walls ceases, then takes up again. I start to see Progressives and Fusang troops fall indiscriminately. The firing troops hardly care who they are hitting. Our line crashes into theirs.. and for the first second or two, things become even more odd. They continue trying to perform the arms drill of loading and firing, and then slowly adjust to attacking in melee.. it's as if they are being manipulated by a puppeteer who keeps missing his cues! I knock the rifle of one soldier aside with a right slash, then bring the blade down on his head, chopping his ear off and catching the blade in his jaw hinge.. I wretch it free and he falls to the ground, silently. What the devil? That was a painful wound, damn it all! He should be screaming his lungs out now! The second rank seems to be catching on to melee more than the first did, they are bringing their rifles up and trying to parry our polyglot attack of pikes, rifle butts, swords, parangs, and other melee weapons. Slow, too bloody <span style="font-style: italic;">SLOW.</span>. who trained these men to fight in a melee? This is slaughter, not fighting!<br /><br />And just as simple as it is to say it, we have fought our way to the other side of the line. Casualties are somewhat minimal.. only 7 dead and 10 wounded, mostly from the fire from the wall. We are now somewhat sheltered from the snipers, as we are under the wall over hang. Doctor Mason brings up the mule teams, a grin on his face and a bloody gurkha knife in his hand.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"now, Doctor, no experimenting until we're done here, no?"</span><br /><br />He smiles back, somewhat wistfully. The shakes he had earlier appear to be gone. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"I think I have discovered something of interest... these men are showing every sign of not behaving under their own free will. They were far too easy to kill."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I noticed that.. I attributed it to poor training at first, but now I'm not too sure. Any rat will fight when cornered. These lads have hardly any fight at all."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No, Colonel, far from that.. I suspect this group is being ensorceled by a wide-area spell of control of some sort.. my word, imagine the concentration this would take!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"That would explain why they act like automatons, instead of real soldiers.. they didn't even fix bayonets!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"It must be quite a feat to even get them all to do the same thing at once, much less use any decent tactics.. it's a poor way to run an Army, Colonel".</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"And I can just bet who is behind this, Doctor. Lien Bao, you may rely on it."<br /><br />"Hmmm, perhaps. Or someone far greater."<br /></span><br />I set up the first pom-pom gun as we keep up the fire on the ramparts. The troops up there, at least, appear busy and animated running hither and yon to try to find a good shot, and occasionally falling back when wounded.. Sergeant Chen and a few other soldiers are detailed to find another entrance if possible. Dr. Mason is still assembling his pom pom gun and cursing a blue streak at his own mistakes when the first shell slides into place on my piece.<br /><br />Already I have my doubts. The main gate is sheathed in lead, it appears, and quite thick. I pull the gun team back and run the lanyard out. Mason is just finishing his piece. He flashes the ready sign.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_b0E_clzZPOvVS_M-QxkytQ1HLvC_OW15dyV2NtSAuSiLm0w5beIZVd9LEnrptwMA5PtnbridWbEoVm05Gv5Va82mT6IbEuHMhUi0KqMO38-sjqUnb9ZAaEW33hfO99PstCJX8nge5Wk/s1600-h/armpompom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_b0E_clzZPOvVS_M-QxkytQ1HLvC_OW15dyV2NtSAuSiLm0w5beIZVd9LEnrptwMA5PtnbridWbEoVm05Gv5Va82mT6IbEuHMhUi0KqMO38-sjqUnb9ZAaEW33hfO99PstCJX8nge5Wk/s200/armpompom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300476155872335890" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">LOAD!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">TAKE AIM!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">FIRE!!!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">POM!</span></span><br /><br />KRUMPF!<br /><br /><br />The gates shake a bit, but nothing happens. One shell had glanced off; the other was buried about three inches deep into the wood.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Switch to Quick FIRE!</span><br /><br />Then, the "<span style="font-style: italic;">ratch-clack</span>" of the quickfire mechanism engaging as the magazine<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">POM, POM, POM, POM, POM, POM POM POM POM POM</span><br /><br />With each hit, we chew more decorative lead sheathing off of the gate, but this is going to slow. We can't give them time to think, and we are losing precious time.<br /><br />Sergeant Chen comes running up at this moment, tugging my sleeve.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Colonel! This way! I have found the way in!"</span><br /><br />Dodging bullets, we run alongside the wall. This will go bad soon. We just don't have the artillery. I notice the Doctor at my side, puffing and huffing.<br /><br />And there it is...<br /><br />A Postern gate. Of course. They wouldn't want to go to all the trouble of opening the big gate constantly, for mundane tasks like grocery delivery, messengers and routine comings and goings. They would have built this for the daily errands.<br /><br />I motion to the a crowd of Progressives hiding under the wall overhang, and yell in Mandarin: <span style="font-style: italic;"> "Come along, fellows, shift these guns with me! Why are you cowering?" </span>They spring forward help us push the guns into position aiming at the postern.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">LOAD!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">TAKE AIM!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">FIRE!!!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">POM!</span></span><br /><br />A large hole appears in the center of the gate. I shout over to Darien.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"That's it, Doctor! Quick Fire now! We're in!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">POM POM POM POM POM POM POM POM</span><br /><br />The smaller gate bursts off its hinges and falls to the ground. I peer inside at a gaggle of shocked Fusang soldiers. Immediately, they run out with their hands up. No charm here, these lads are acting naturally enough. There is a lull in the firing and all the Progressives stare at the gate for several seconds. I pull out a flare and shoot it into the sky. The light goes up, up, up and bursts red over the castle.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Don't stand there gawking, let's GO!!!!!"</span><br /><br />The entire command surges forward as the first shells from the Iron River Dragon start to land, just beyond the wall and into the unseen inner courtyard beyond the gate. I run into the dark maw of the tunnel leading into the castle, hoping this isn't a dead end. I spill out into inner courtyard to see a sight that stops me dead in my tracks. Rank after Rank of men in the black pajama outfits of the Dark Ocean Society, all staring blankly ahead. As I walk out into the courtyard, I see a shell land in their midst. They neither flinch nor run, they just fall over when shot. Beyond them midway up the stairs to the main palace, is a small platform for addressing troops. On the platform, his arms raised, is a familiar and impressive figure.<br /><br />I stand blinking in the sunlight, gazing up at the Hsieh Lieng, Lord of Fusang for the first time in twenty years.<br /><br />I suppose I should feel something more than wonder at a moment like this. Should I leap forward with a manly <span style="font-style: italic;">"ha HA! There you are, villain! Have at you!?"</span> That is what the penny dreadfuls would have the gentle reader think happens at a moment like this.<br /><br />All I can think of is: <span style="font-style: italic;">"Good lord, I'm two years OLDER then him, do I look that wretched?"</span><br /><br />I'm staring hard, and I can't see the face of the youthful student leader I had crossed swords with, all those years ago. The scar is there, to be sure, malforming his rather puffy face from the hinge of the jaw line to his cheek. Otherwise, his flesh is rather droopy, as if it does not fit the person within.. and he has a sickly, greenish cast to his features. Gone is the youthful slenderness, speed and agility.. instead, a rather jowly middle aged (although still heavily muscled) man confronts me, a sardonic smile on his face. His raiment is splendid, however, and the odd black pearl ornament on his neck, looking something like a black jade officer's gorget, is striking. He fingers it nervously as he strides down the stairs.<br /><br />I walk out into the courtyard, and the rest of the Strike Force trails in behind me in a straggly line, attempting to form up into formation. Aside from one of its members occasionally dropping from shell fragments coming from the bombardment of the walls (courtesy of the Iron River Dragon), the Dark Ocean society silently stands in formation ranks, awaiting the pleasure of the Lord of Fusang. We are outnumbered here, by a factor of three to one. I should have known he would have this ace up his sleeve, but who could have predicted it? Lieng is no wizard! What is the source of his power?<br /><br />I decide to take the initiative. It will buy us time.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Hsieh Lieng, Lord of Fusang, styled the Dragon who Waits in these lands, I am Lieutenant Colonel Hotspur O'Toole, First Caledon Lancers, and I have come to you at last. You have waged war against me and mine, and you have many deaths to answer for, in this life and the next. Will you treat with me?"</span><br /><br />Lieng smiles, half-charming, half-snarl. Is he actually trying to negotiate? What in the world for? We both know he has the upper hand here.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Colonel O'Toole, I will observe the ancient forms and treat with you in the language of nobility, although you have no claim to any such elevation, unlike your former master, Ward"</span><br /><br />(he spits, twice, which is a stylized insult-- many Warlords were outraged when the Imperial Court approved Ward's elevation to Mandarin, fourth class).<br /><br />I continue.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"My personal list of grievances is long: the death of my friend and manservant, my own kidnapping from the Western Lands, the condition of my travels to your lands, attempted murder, many times over, torture, and the death of many companions-- your wound, honorably received in combat, hardly serves as justification for vendetta. I will forgo any claim to revenge for myself, but you needs must be brought to answer for the crimes against your own people."</span><br /><br />Lieng laughs.. pleasantly at first, then with rising sibilants, Chinese style.. so his laughter ends as a sort of reptilian <span style="font-style: italic;">hissss</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Colonel O'Toole, did you think I had the Honorable Lien Bao bring you here for petty revenge, for THIS, alone?" </span> He gestures to the scar on his cheek, still livid after all these years.<br /><br />I reply: <span style="font-style: italic;">"You have tried to lure me here once, and the second time by I arrived by force. I rather doubt you brought me halfway around the world to exchange pleasantries. Now, if you mean to attempt to kill me, I am at your disposal, but I warn you, I will NOT go easily..." </span><br /><br />Looking round, I gesture at the ranks of the Dark Ocean Society<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"you appear to have brought enough men for the job. Let us commence, then."</span><br /><br />I'm trying to goad him; he knows it, so do I. I was expecting ANYTHING but more laughter.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Colonel, Colonel, Colonel.. you of the enormous ego! You really thought this was all about you, didn't you?? You do make me laugh!"</span><br /><br />He laughs more, this time with a spiteful edge to it.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No, no, sir.."</span> he wheezes.. giggling, his belly shaking. <span style="font-style: italic;">"I brought you all the way from the ends of the earth to offer you a JOB."</span><br /><br />My father, bless his memory, used to tell me to keep my mouth shut when I'm surprised.. or I would let the flies in. This must have been one of those times.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"A job? ME? What in God's green earth?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Look around Fusang, Colonel. Everything is changing. We are harnessing the power of coal and steam. Our railroad through the mountains will soon be completed. We are building factories, forges, telegraphs.. Soon we will be able to hold our head up high against the arrogant lords of the West that pollute the Celestial Kingdom so. Our friends the Kaiser and the Tsar have their own interests in removing the arrogant English, Americans and even smaller nations such as yours from any influence over trade with the Celestial Kingdom. That is all very well; I will accept their guns and steam tanks and river monitors and other weapons of war, in return for an objective I was pursuing myself. We can use each other, you see."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Where do I fit in all this?"</span><br /><br />Hsien Lieng fidgeted with that odd black pearl neck ornament again, his face darkening..<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"You must have noticed, Colonel. You see the Fusang Field Force.. the men of the Dark Ocean society. They can be led, forcibly, but they are no match for the Ever Victorious Army of old. I seek to recreate the discipline and spirit of that older army with the weapons of a modern industrial kingdom, MY kingdom. You are the last officer of the EVA Headquarters staff left alive, sir. In the absence of Frederick Ward or Charles Gordon, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">you</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, my dear Colonel, will achieve my aims for me. YOU will be the new Generalissimo of the Modern Armed Forces of The Kingdom of Fusang.. and perhaps, some day, of all of China. What say you to that, Field Marshall O'Toole?"</span><br /><br />I stare at him blankly.. trying to keep a straight face. I can't help it.. the big belly laugh comes up out of nowhere and convulses me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"ME? Work for YOU?"</span> His face looks dangerously purple now. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh, Lieng.. oh my.. No, that isn't high on my list of stable employment opportunities. I don't think so."</span><br /><br />Lieng blinks twice, fury growing in his face.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"You misunderstand me, Colonel O'Toole. I do not "ask" barbarians to do the bidding of Fusang. I command them!"</span><br /><br />He gestures, wildly and presses the black pearl breastplate again.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"THUS! You will bend to my will, as the willow bends to the tempest. NOW!"</span><br /><br />And with that.. a sickly green nimbus grows around his head and shoulders, seemingly emanating from the breastplate. I take a quick step forward, blustering a bit in anger. and.. I can scarcely describe what happens next.<br /><br />A queer lassitude grips my limbs... they feel rubbery..<br /><br />My vision fades and the visage of Lieng grows large in my eyes.. he chants. It is like Mandarin, but not.. older, more guttural. <span style="font-style: italic;">Professor Nicholas would have a field day with this dialect.</span>. pops into my mind. I shake my head staring, and the voice of Lieng penetrates the fog in my brain, again.. this time in clear, modern English.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"So, O'Toole..."</span> he hisses. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "You will learn the way of the servant, and justice will be done for the indignity you visited upon me years ago. I cannot take away this (he points to his scar), but I can take away that Devil's pride you bear. YOU will be my Field Marshal, the Generalissimo of all my Armies in Fusang.. you will swear fealty and devotion unto me, and your children, and children's children, until the stars fade...."</span><br /><br />the voice drones on..<br /><br />I feel my sense of reality.. of <span style="font-style: italic;">'being here' </span>start to slip suddenly. as if the courtyard is at the end of a long dark tunnel, with that cursed Chinese Doggerel going on and on and on.. my sense of, of.. SELF fades... and again, in Mandarin.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"NOW, Colonel.. NOW.. Kow Tow before your new master!"</span><br /><br />As if my feet are not obeying me.. slowly I walk forward. Step by reluctant step.. I am confused... it will be so easy to do this. To knock my head on the floor.. to rest.. no more confusion, no more doubt.. no more worry.<br /><br />Yet, a tickle in the back of my brain begins to annoy my sense of lassitude. I somehow know that if I performed the kowtow, that would be it for my free will, forever. The tickle is getting louder.. spiraling upward. It is the meory of Ward again, crouched next to me, having coffee by the fire. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Repeat this after me, young O'Toole. It will bring that help which is needed. No, you young idiot, didn't the Brothers teach you the genitive case? REPEAT! LEARN! .</span>. what was this again.. and suddenly the vision comes to me, and a voice, that I can almost hear..<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;">"Imperiequeritis, tria pendent corpora ramis dis meus et gestas in media et divina potestas dimeas clanator sed jetas as astra levarut</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><br /><br /></span>Again and again, I hear this bit of bastardized Latin.. chanted. in the voice of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Lady Bellambi?</span> I speak the words in tempo with the voice in my head. First as a croak, then louder.. then louder.. and I find myself returning to this world.. an odd, white light seems to be coming from within my chest as a sharp clarity comes back to me-- the green glow almost appears to be in abeyance, pushed back by the white light of ancient magick.<br /><br />The white glow, itself, appears to move expand out from me, encompassing those men around me.<br /><br />I catch myself descending to one knee.. I had almost done it.<br /><br />I roar out <span style="font-style: italic;">"What the devil? NOT IN THIS LIFETIME, OR THE NEXT!" </span>and straighten up quickly. Hsieh Lieng leaps backwards as if struck, falling to the ground. He is not used to such bald-faced rejection, I think.<br /><br />I turn to face the rest of the strike force. With the exception of the men in the cone of the white light with me, they are all staring ahead blankly, as are the doubly glassy eyed unfortunates in the Dark Ocean Society. Focus is coming back.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He can't control them all! He can't! I see it!</span> He needs natural leaders because he can only extend this hell-power so far. I was right all along! Lieng is no sorcerer, any more than I am. Whatever he is wielding, it's a toy.. a trinket.. he has <span style="font-style: italic;">stolen</span> this power to ensorcle the unwitting. It has to be that breastplate ornament he keeps fingering so obsessively.<br /><br />And this tool he uses, it is finite. Which suggests.. that it can be destroyed. I turn towards Darien. He is stumbling from the blanket effects of the jade charm, but recovering. He had been close to me when the old Ward defensive spell had gone off. I grab him and shake him.<br /><br />Lieng starts to rise, shaking his head in anger, cursing gutturally in Mandarin. There's something.. WRONG about his features.. as if he is swelling.. adapting an even greener coutnenance..<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Doctor Mason. It's now, or never. Do you see the black pearl in his breastplate?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Whaaaaaa???.. Pearl? What?"<br /><br /></span><span>He shakes his head, clearing. He nods.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"There" </span><span>he whispers.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"DOCTOR!! The Song of Osiris! Now! Now or we're all doomed!"</span><br /><br />I fear I may be handling him a bit roughly, but I manage to rattle sense in his head. Already I see the white nimbus from Warding spell dissipate; the green glow will seep back in again, and then it will be all up. I sense, I do not KNOW, that I cannot pull the same trick of counterspell twice. This thing had been buried in me for twenty years.<br /><br />Once released, I cannot put it back. I'm no wizard.<br /><br />Darien has regained his wits.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Right! ALL OF YOU!! EARPLUGS! NOW!"</span><br /><br />Darien begins to intone the Song of Osiris.. I cannot relate what happens next in any detail.. a sound more than a vision.. as if every voice in a doomed choir released a wail of anguish at the same time. The men who are rousing from the spell gasp and fall to their knees, myself included.<br /><br />Darien arches backward, the Song arching out like a bolt of black thunderbolt of pain, arcing around crazily.. going out of control, dangerously, then Darien wrests control of it and flings it into the face of Hsieh Lieng. The black bolt of <span style="font-style: italic;">... sound.</span>.. smashes into Lieng, now just getting on to his feet. His face is contorted with fury, then absolute terror.<br /><br />Lieng crumples, as if punched with a giant fist, and there is a rending, tearing sound. The breastplate is cracked in two. The ranks of the Dark Ocean Society collapse in a tumbled heap, released from control.<br /><br />Darien is barely standing, grey in the face, blood seeping from his nose and ears.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"You did it! Well done, Doctor!"</span><br /><br />He nods, smiling weakly, and proceeds to retch repeatedly. I look away, to give him his privacy.<br /><br />All throughout the courtyard, there is a mass of unconscious, semi-conscious and reeling humanity, either the Dark Ocean society or the Progressives, recovering from the effects of the mass hypnosis effect of Lieng's breastplate.<br /><br />I see that Lieng is on his feet again, incredibly.. swelling even larger, his skin starting to grow greenish in color.<br /><br />There's something wrong with his skin.. scales! Suddenly I understand the <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> meaning of the phrase <span style="font-style: italic;">"The Dragon who waits". </span><br /><br />Lieng grows larger, cursing and hurling imprecations in my direction.. all of them quite colorful and sadly unprintable-- the least profane of which suggesting I would spend an eternity in the Seven Hells being sodomized by demons.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">An angry opponent is an opponent off-base, O'Toole,</span> my fencing instructor used to tell me.<br /><br />If I were facing a normal man, I'd be gloating inwardly, for an angry man is certainly easy to tempt into mistakes. But Lieng is no normal man, now... he is rapidly changing into something else. His mandarin robes grow tight, then split at the seams.. his skin is getting scalier, his eyes glowing red, his face elongating... a pity he wasn't a normal, angry man with a sword right now, I think.<br /><br />Wait. Anger.<br /><br />I turn to Darien again.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"HIT ME!"</span><br /><br />Darien stares at me, blankly, panting from his exertions. , eyes wide with shock at the horrific transformation in the center of the courtyard, confuse.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"What... in the world.. are you talking about?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"HIT ME, damn you.. as hard as you can!"</span><br /><br />He tries. In his weakened state, it's hardly a slap. It just won't do.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Harder, dammit!"</span> I groan, and punch myself in the face. It's not working.<br /><br />Suddenly a giant hand grabs my shoulder spins me around and a fist the size of a<br />cantaloupe doubles me over, then an uppercut sends me flying against the courtyard wall. <span style="font-style: italic;">ANGUS! </span>I had forgotten him. Good Gael that he is, I think he has some faint inkling of what will happen next.<br /><br />I roll on the ground, out of breath.. nodding. yep, that's going to do it.. I'm <span style="font-style: italic;">angry...</span><br /><br />I leap up, snarling.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">INCREDIBLY</span> angry, as it turns out.. I feel the old<span style="font-style: italic;"> THING </span>rise up out of nowhere.. the fire of rage in my veins.. and for the first time in my life, I don't seek to contain it any more, but let myself become a sacred vessel for it.. to fill me up with the bright rage, the red, killing anger, to be truly touched by the Gods.... I also feel my self changing.. my clothes tighter.. taller.. nails growing out..<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am here in this courtyard of death, and not here at the same time... I am back in another time, when I and my red brothers came across the sea to serve the Grim Unsmiling Queen who had raised her standard in revolt against the small men of the south. She rides on her chariot into battle, and her red bodyguard flies before her, leaping over the solid line of metalskins with their pilae and rectangular shields, to land behind them, to rip and rend and tear and kill and kill and kill and until called back by the Song of Recall.. I scream with pleasure as another Roman's head leaps from its shoulders in a shower of blood, its face a contorted mask of surprise and anger. And then...</span><br /><br />I am back in the courtyard of Fusang... my skin is reddening, I am grown to a foot taller than normal.. my clothes are in rags... I feel the last tickle of consciousness as I raise my heavy German sword and charge the large green beast that is my enemy. I scream in the ancient tongue of my forefathers, so much older than Gaelic. Why? Why had I denied myself .. THIS.. all my life? I sing as I run foward. I would taste his blood this day, or he mine... and the last thing I remember as I closed with the green beast is the sound of wolves baying.. Wolf howls and screaming... and coming closer..<br /><br />In two more bounds, I am across the courtyard, and I reach for the hated lizard-thing, to smash, to kill, and the element of me who can remember, and record.. flies <span style="font-style: italic;">away</span> for a while.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Editorial note:</span> <a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2009/01/cold-iron-of-chief.html">Eva Bellambi's Cold Iron of the Chief </a>intersects at about this point in the narrative. <a href="http://fuzzball-ortega.blogspot.com/2009/03/steelhead-adventures-journey-to-fusang.html"> Fuzzball Ortega's Journey to Fusang part 29</a> also intersects almost exactly at the tail end of this post, and will continue in part 32, after Eva's next post.Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-36865554711123096662009-01-20T13:59:00.000-08:002009-03-27T15:25:49.767-07:00Return to Fusang: The Danger ForwardContinued from <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/12/return-to-fusang-when-all-else-fails.html">HERE</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>| Dovetails with <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2009/01/cold-iron-of-chief.html">THIS POST</a> at the end<br /><br />The engineering detail fixing the rudder housing is making a fine din below; I can hear the great sledgehammer blows as Angus attempts to true the rudder shaft the old fashioned way; by bludgeoning it back in place. He's a dab hand with a claymore or a hammer, I've found.. taking natural charge of the Chinese engineers despite not knowing a lick of Mandarin. The rest of the River Dragon is rapidly coming together-- bullet holes filled with putty, a quick white wash of the burnt spots and a mopping up of the blood on the decks, and she'll be ready to go within two hours.<br /><br />Leaning against the taffrail, I watch solemnly as the last of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Feng</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Yü</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">hsiang's</span> Army files over the ridge on an interception course with The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Fusang</span> Field Force under General Yang in the North.<br /><br />Earlier, I had expressed my worries to General <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Feng</span> about the upcoming clash. It will be a true test of a general, and we both know it will make or break the Army of Progressive Peace. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"You are outnumbered almost three to one, sir... I would advise extreme caution".. </span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Feng</span> smiled. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Then I shall instruct my men to kill three men a piece, Colonel. How do you put it.. A piece of pie?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No sir, that would be cake"</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No matter. We shall scout ahead, Colonel, and look for the main chance. If he is moving this large of a force on these roads, I cannot see how he can move a compact force anywhere swiftly. My hope is to smash into Yang's front columns, hold him there and move the rest around the right flank."</span><br /><br />Shea (now <span style="font-style: italic;">Major</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Lefevre</span>, Army of Progressive Peace!) threw in eagerly: <span style="font-style: italic;">"Much like General Lee did at the Battle of Chancellorsville, Colonel! We shall stop him in his tracks, and deliver the hammer blow!"</span><br /><br />I nodded, saluting General <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Feng</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Success to you, sir. May your men move swiftly, strike decisively, and retreat before counterattacks like feathers in the wind"</span>.<br /><br />He smiled, returning the salute. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "And success to YOU, sir. Much relies on your effort!"</span> As he galloped away, he shouted <span style="font-style: italic;">"Who knows, Colonel? Perhaps we shall rename this army the Second Ever Victorious Army yet!"</span> I noted the look of bitter disdain in Smith's face as he hears that. What the devil is the matter with that fellow?<br /><br />Now, I exhale the last of the smoke from one of Doctor Mason's cigars. Much to do, much to do.<br /><br />Folding the map, I look up at Dr. Mason. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Any idea of where Fuzz might be, Doctor?" </span><br /><br />The doctor leans against the rail, stretching. It has been a long day. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Nary a clue. He went over the railing about five miles back, and hasn't been seen all day."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"You realize, we have to leave, and soon. I CAN'T wait here, or we're all dead"</span> I gesture in the direction the army left in. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "This.. all of this.. relies on US being fast.. reacting before they can communicate to the field army. This tub is going to give us the edge we need to get to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Fusang</span> in time. You savvy? We go whether Fuzz shows up or not."</span><br /><br />Mason nods, gravely. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Fuzz has a way of showing up when needed. Have a little faith, Colonel!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Faith I have, in spades. What I NEED are soldiers. And maybe a little heavy artillery for the castle doors. Anything you can help with?"</span><br /><br />Mason pulls out a well worn book out of his traveling bag. In old gilt letters, I read <span style="font-weight: bold;">THE SONG OF OSIRIS</span> in faded type. He grins apologetically. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Hard to find, and damnably expensive for a mere reprint. But I may have something in here that will at least clear a path to the door"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"How about that Staff of Ra thing? That was damnably impressive."</span><br /><br />Mason suddenly looks even more tired. <span style="font-style: italic;">"I don't think so. To recharge that would drain me, and take a lot of time we don't possess. You have NO idea of what it takes from me... to make that whole". </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">"Drat, I wish we had known.. well, it is of no matter, then. What will the Song of Osiris do?" </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"It is a spell of advanced <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">thaumatergical</span> skill, resulting in a loud screech that debilitates a number of targets simultaneously.. To cast it, I must be in position, say the phrases, and point in the direction it will go, and then the targets will tumble like ninepins"</span><br /><br />I nod, bemused. <span style="font-style: italic;">"I hope this will be enough"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Is this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Hsieh</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Lieng</span> character a wizard in his own right?" </span><br /><br />I shake my head <span style="font-style: italic;">"He never showed this kind of skill when he was a youngster... he was a fighting man, not a wizard. That's what puzzles me. How has he show such power? You either have it or you don't, am I not mistaken?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Not entirely so. He may be channeling power for another wizard, such as the Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Bao</span> fellow you mentioned, or.. someone else.."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I've run into Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Bao</span> on many occasions. I would not have ascribed that skill to him, nor is he the type to share power with any other mortal. I sense something darker afoot"</span><br /><br />I yawn, and stretch, myself.. I am damnably sore from assorted bashes and bangs.<br /><br />Doctor Mason's eyes twinkle, as he offers a flask. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Now, in my medical capacity, Colonel, I strongly advise a hearty pull of this concoction, and perhaps an hour or so of rest. We both know what might be at the end of this excursion." </span><br /><br />I nod, and return to the last stages of preparing for the trip upriver. The two pom-pom guns, and the unlucky mule teams that pull them, or loaded aboard on slings. The strike force is primarily soldiers from the Progressive Army, but there are a kernel of the bandit tribe along just for the mad fun of the adventure. They assemble on the fantail, and I say a few words.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Comrades! we are heading into the heart of the devil's den. Our task is to bring the war to none other than the Dragon who Waits himself. Are you prepared to do so?"</span><br /><br />The crowd of soldiers, bandits and ne'er do wells roar their approval.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"To accomplish this, General <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Feng</span> has entrusted us with this fine vessel, which we have hastily repaired. We must rely on stealth for the first part of our journey! So I require most of you to stay in the hold below, with rifles and bayonet at the ready. The rest of you will find uniforms that are not too bloody, wash the gore out, and wear them so that we will deceive the enemy when we approach <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Fusang</span> Port."</span><br /><br />More cheers and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">raucous</span> commentary.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Now, alas... "</span> I say, gesturing towards myself, Doctor Mason and Angus. <span style="font-style: italic;">"We three are at a disadvantage attempting to pass ourselves off as inhabitants of the Celestial Kingdom" </span><br /><br />I rub my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">blond</span> hair for emphasis, to general peels of high pitched laughter.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"So we will remain hidden until the time comes for us to spring into action and shoot our way into the palace. ARE YOU WITH ME, EVER VICTORIOUS ARMY???"</span><br /><br />The Cheers and Hullabaloo are deafening.. I smile.. like old times.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Then let us cast off! Our destiny is in the North!"</span><br /><br />Grinning, the engineers ring for quarter speed on the screws, as dozens of helpful hands run to cast off lines and leap aboard. The Iron River Dragon noses about ponderously, but the rudder casing holds strong and true, and we start on the journey northward.. North to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Fusang</span> Castle itself. I give three long blasts on the steam whistle, and steer her clear for the center channel.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"A piece of.. cake"</span> I murmur, and the helmsman stares at me with a blank smile. I had spoken in English.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh, Nothing, nothing. Keep her on the steady center course at three quarters speed. I'm going to sleep for an hour, make sure I'm awakened one hour from now, on the dot, on pain of painful and humiliating death" </span><br /><br />The helmsman gulps and bows his head, nodding...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Relax, helmsman.. I'm joking. Just send someone to find me, please"</span><br /><br />I nod at Angus <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Glitterach</span>, who is cheerfully instructing the lads in a complicated five point pike drill on the fantail. I recognize a wedge formation, used by police to break up riots. Now that would be handy.<br /><br />I collapse on the former first officer's cot, my eyes closing before my head hits the pillow-- rapidly spiraling downward into the black arms of sleep, as the steady *throb throb throb* of the engines knock me into the land of nod.<br /><br />The vision comes upon me like a runaway freight train. Instantly, I recognize the setting. The Dock at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Fooking</span> again, where this journey started. Ward is standing there with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Burgrevine</span>, about to send me off downriver. We shake hands. Ward drawls in that Yankee accent of his.. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, O'Toole, be careful down in Shanghai, don't let the Mandarins befuddle you. We need the second Regiment ready within 8 months. You savvy?" </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Yessir</span>, I won' t let you down!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Hmph</span>. See you don't!" </span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Burgrevine</span> snickers to himself. Had I known then what I know now, I would have killed him on the dock then and there.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"One last thing, boy.. take what I said to heart."</span> I nod, eyes wide.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"You're touched by the Gods, boy, I saw it in you back in India, and it's getting stronger every day. It will come in handy some day, but until then, you may find it a mixed blessing! You'll want to let that power out! Don't! Let it sleep within in you until the right time! Remember what I told you! Control! The secret lies within Control!"</span><br /><br />I wave farewell at Colonel Ward and Major <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Burgrevine</span> of the Ever Victorious Army. as the rowboat pulls out to the steamboat. I never saw Ward alive again. In two months, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Burgrevine</span> would betray Ward to the Warlords, and he would be killed. By the end of the year, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Burgrevine</span> himself would be dead, at the hands of Gordon himself.<br /><br />I am awakened by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Yao</span>, shaking me awake, gruffly. The vision disappears as abruptly as it arrived. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "Come along, Long Nose, there's a fight to plan"</span><br /><br />In the stateroom, the Progressives have the old captain of the Iron River Dragon tied to a chair. The whites of his eyes are showing, and he babbles from fear. I don't have any time to persuade him, so I draw a pistol and point it directly into his face. <span style="font-style: italic;">"You understand me, yes?"</span><br /><br />He nods, sweating.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Than know this. We kept you alive because the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">dock master</span> will expect to see your face on the Texas deck of this boat when you pull up at the quay. I will have this pointed at you from three feet away, the entire time we approach <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Fusang</span> Dockyard. You will say EXACTLY what I tell you to say. You might try something heroic-- I'd certainly understand if you did. But understand for certain that if you do, the next thing you'll see is the back of your head, rapidly exiting the front of it. You understand THAT? No matter how fast you are, you're a dead man if you try something. They may kill me, but you will for certain sure be dead. Savvy?"</span><br /><br />He <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">nods</span>, nervous, trying to kowtow. Disgusted, I tell him to get back on his feet.<br /><br />I look at the assembled faces in the room. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Yao</span>, Doctor Mason, Sergeant Chen, Angus. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Nieng</span> Bandits and Soldiers of the Army of Progressive Peace, together.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"This will work if we move fast and strike hard. We have no real idea of who is in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Fusang</span> Palace other than <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Hsieh</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Lieng</span> and Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Bao</span>. We don't know how many troops have been left behind. Sergeant Chen here knows the layout of the palace, having served in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Fusang</span> Field Force. Chen nods. He will will draw us a picture of the palace, where the Household Guard might be, and where the throne room is. We don't have a lot of time to practice this. Our plan is to pull up to the quay with some made up excuse about having received battle damage, and then rush down the gangplank, across the plaza as fast as possible, up into the castle area. There are two dangers areas.. the plaza itself, and the courtyard of the palace. We can't get caught in a killing zone. We can't allow ourselves to be trapped in the streets. So we move out on the run, yes?"</span><br /><br />A chorus of nods, and one rumbling "Aye, Laddie".<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Now, Sergeant Chen will be in charge of the riflemen. If we encounter knots of resistance, form three lines and perform volley fire once, then charge in with bayonets. Angus, take that squad of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Pikemen</span> you were playing with and position them out front to break up the crowd in front as a flying wedge. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Darien</span> and I will haul the mules with the pom pom gun teams with us. In front of the castle proper is a large Gatehouse with doors about a foot thick. We won't be able to get through, even with small artillery. However, there's a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">postern</span> at the far end of the courtyard used by servants. That is not well guarded and not nearly as thick. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Darien</span> and I will blow the door to kindling. Then we need to get to the throne room to.. force the issue. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Now, if things go to complete and utter ruin, we badly misjudge this effort, and have to fall back. We'll need someone covering us from the River Dragon. I'll need a small crew to work the secondaries here on the top deck to prevent soldiers from trying to take over the River Dragon. This is our only way home, gents. We need to keep the boilers stoked and engine running. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Yao</span>, will you take this on?" </span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Yao's</span> face grows cold. <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Aieeya</span>, Long Nose.. I want to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Lieng's</span> head on a platter as much as you do. Do you think you have the right to take this from me?</span>"<br /><br />I smiled, knowing this would be hard. <span style="font-style: italic;">"No, my friend, I don't. But can you run at a dead run for several blocks, fighting uphill for a portion of it? I know your ribs got stove in and you have a cracked pate. Do me this favor, will you? I will bring you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Lieng's</span> head to spit on today, or come back dead, this I promise"</span><br /><br />The men nod, liking the high drama of that statement. It's a Chinese thing, we don't understand. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Yao</span> glowered, but relented. <span style="font-style: italic;">"It shall be as you say, Long Nose. I may kill many of them, in any case."</span><br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">I appreciate the honor of the kill, my friend..</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Good, then. let's get to our stations. Remember, yell like madmen the entire time.. that will keep people off their fighting edge."</span><br /><br />Gradually, the boat steam around the river bend, as the black towers of Fusang approach. The long line of Progressive soldiers and bandits crouch in the scuppers out of sight, waiting to spring into action.<br /><br />Followed directly <a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2009/02/return-to-fusang-ancient-magic-and-long.html">by this post</a>Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-65366463740738001012009-01-01T14:21:00.000-08:002009-03-27T15:29:45.414-07:00Return to Fusang: The Cold Iron of the Chief<span style="font-weight: bold;">Follows directly from <a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/12/return-to-fusang-making-connections.html">HERE</a></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />What in God's name just happened?</span><br /><br />I looked around my new surroundings. Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Bao</span> was no more. All that remained of the 400 year old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">wu</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">jen</span> were still smoking ashes. I am in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Fusang</span>...in his laboratory in what seems to be his palace. Quickly I grabbed <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Claidheamh</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Ghaidhealtaehd</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Flath</span></span> (or <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Claidheamh</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Flath</span></span> as it is generally called), the sword given me by my father upon his death, for I was not certain when the guards of the palace would be upon me.<br /><br />It seemed oddly quiet to me. I could hear the hum of a busy palace, but could not hear any evidence that anyone was aware of my presence or the death of the old wizard.<br /><br />I walked over to the window and tried to carefully get my bearings. And I started trying to piece together the events of the last half hour or so.<br /><br />How had I traveled here? Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Bao</span> had been working his way through the rift that Amber had created with her incantations and there was no way that I could let that happen even if it meant my death. He would have killed Amber, who was there only at my request. And I certainly could not let his evil loose in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Caledon</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZQsr-YfWcTeCxDFV2QzO4fGfj7VLnLyrvdM02m51xKy3ImCVL3m14rFZqAy10ZF62hXXK7WyENIULqZG-vPjqbq2VryxwsJRX0U03syxR4Xo1WTG21R7TINZuqr8tl6689NxxQ1JLBL0/s1600-h/EvaSword_001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZQsr-YfWcTeCxDFV2QzO4fGfj7VLnLyrvdM02m51xKy3ImCVL3m14rFZqAy10ZF62hXXK7WyENIULqZG-vPjqbq2VryxwsJRX0U03syxR4Xo1WTG21R7TINZuqr8tl6689NxxQ1JLBL0/s400/EvaSword_001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286499411056268946" border="0" /></a><br />I felt <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Claidheamh</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Flath</span> </span>in the snow<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>at my side. I had trained with the Sword of the Highland Chief as soon as I was strong enough to wield it. James, my father and chieftain, insisted that I use his ancestral sword - passed down from the ancient chiefs of the Fraser line. Raising the sword I yelled out to Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Bao</span> to leave Amber alone - and then I struck him.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vSwRHNcKndHtZZ7o3_0WhXUlGuGgO3gEfVyLn6UDp7KvnNqS6pFMQKVS2SAoS13GRFM8eNdMgxRhygKBNMqslEv94UVM9zmeRrX51QqsbZq8xvdfHgXQMXb5OPDpAXjNKDWpe1OM5h8a/s1600-h/EvaSword_003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vSwRHNcKndHtZZ7o3_0WhXUlGuGgO3gEfVyLn6UDp7KvnNqS6pFMQKVS2SAoS13GRFM8eNdMgxRhygKBNMqslEv94UVM9zmeRrX51QqsbZq8xvdfHgXQMXb5OPDpAXjNKDWpe1OM5h8a/s400/EvaSword_003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286499601248778674" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">Pick my sword up, mo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">nighean</span> - the sword of your forefathers. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Claidheamh</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Flath</span> forged by the ancient chieftain, Simon of Oliver, himself. It is the sword he carried to victory at the Battle of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Roslin</span> after Wallace's death. Forged of the star iron found in the fields around his home in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Aberdeenshire</span>. Many years before he had it made a star fell from the skies - large pieces of iron were uncovered in the fields as he built his keep. </span> I picked the sword up from the sand practice field and held it with two hands as my father had shown me. <span style="font-style: italic;">Good stance, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">tè</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">bheag</span>. This sword has protected our family from attacks and dangers at many times in the history of our clan...both from physical, human enemies, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">fae</span> or demon intruders.</span><br /><br />At my puzzled look he reminded me that the cold iron is especially effective against fairy folk...binding them, and even capable of killing them. <span style="font-style: italic;">This cold iron...the enchanted iron from the heavens holds power over the fairy folk and demons alike, Eva. Never forget that as you wield this weapon, nor as you hang the cold iron horse's shoe over your door. </span><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">That must have been it! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Claidheamh</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Flath</span> </span><span style="font-size:130%;">carried with it the ancient powers of my family and the stars, and it had carried me to </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" style="font-size:130%;">Fusang</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> along with Lien </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" style="font-size:130%;">Bao</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. And it had killed the ancient </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" style="font-size:130%;">wu</span><span style="font-size:130%;">-</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" style="font-size:130%;">jen</span><span style="font-size:130%;">.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPfDuAWoIupWiVLUgAwccoXcij2ZvmG60qvH4F3eM7XI6rhhq5OgJWfOI_g1JTXn-93eeSvXjrKFZp9-GT1OtkdDSSr_wVHmgW597NftmMhTsCqcESAZHADUUWdBSjncP69EbmOukxLAw/s1600-h/EvaSword2_004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 372px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPfDuAWoIupWiVLUgAwccoXcij2ZvmG60qvH4F3eM7XI6rhhq5OgJWfOI_g1JTXn-93eeSvXjrKFZp9-GT1OtkdDSSr_wVHmgW597NftmMhTsCqcESAZHADUUWdBSjncP69EbmOukxLAw/s400/EvaSword2_004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286499944957896146" border="0" /></a>We fell through the rift into the laboratory in Lien </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" style="font-size:130%;">Bao's</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> palace.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivjjKknrsISze3J1_D-qVN-3JpgnwiAxJ8CX4ww3ZP-WYh5Gsh99R-fogMZcLtOf03oooCWIcwm3pKjMJprU-8Rz54vEVoJIITrdweciEuf-BQFNjzYrcidYwl-n-AejxGjQF5iZxYgPq/s1600-h/EvaSword2_007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivjjKknrsISze3J1_D-qVN-3JpgnwiAxJ8CX4ww3ZP-WYh5Gsh99R-fogMZcLtOf03oooCWIcwm3pKjMJprU-8Rz54vEVoJIITrdweciEuf-BQFNjzYrcidYwl-n-AejxGjQF5iZxYgPq/s400/EvaSword2_007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286500223721692866" border="0" /></a>The sword stayed true.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxlQd0Ajq8ZeGqemxVfjv0b065_TPN8m-XWGWgqHyjU5nwRWiy8Dw96TSdzdb1ywbtoAmkWKIySn_Bde89fiPUBjGwW1_JBSn4f8vs6rme6G-JsXnboe7t7RCDZ-X3cYaszoBl2KXArLk/s1600-h/EvaSword2_008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxlQd0Ajq8ZeGqemxVfjv0b065_TPN8m-XWGWgqHyjU5nwRWiy8Dw96TSdzdb1ywbtoAmkWKIySn_Bde89fiPUBjGwW1_JBSn4f8vs6rme6G-JsXnboe7t7RCDZ-X3cYaszoBl2KXArLk/s400/EvaSword2_008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286500525613319874" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD7m-fybRz1QjD15Q8OMmx-FZApGW8Uq320X8n2FQ_1_i1AiQSNGnh9-Xk5Mp6v8_zFyonxjJK5VMPis5AZjQqmfpF_M2bAGWtpG-XRmU_3to62Al7TYjfnpG-VFUTnGqt7m8wnSI5WRfX/s1600-h/EvaSword2_005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 351px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD7m-fybRz1QjD15Q8OMmx-FZApGW8Uq320X8n2FQ_1_i1AiQSNGnh9-Xk5Mp6v8_zFyonxjJK5VMPis5AZjQqmfpF_M2bAGWtpG-XRmU_3to62Al7TYjfnpG-VFUTnGqt7m8wnSI5WRfX/s400/EvaSword2_005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286500796609503874" border="0" /></a>As we fell out of the realm of the spirits and into the real, I lost my grip on </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Claidheamh</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Flath</span>.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKGRR14QJ34t3lRXFpYe1lVMvKx4luG5qnrqLqmQv0-l6kyf7Tp4827Z_-nVJx5TDQeZNOPHH2DT6AxWh-c0Hkx_rLQZpQ9KiVC4Thi-R78qGI4cvh9p1lRew4uHE-NWEM9NIyux4P3Skv/s1600-h/EvaSword2_003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKGRR14QJ34t3lRXFpYe1lVMvKx4luG5qnrqLqmQv0-l6kyf7Tp4827Z_-nVJx5TDQeZNOPHH2DT6AxWh-c0Hkx_rLQZpQ9KiVC4Thi-R78qGI4cvh9p1lRew4uHE-NWEM9NIyux4P3Skv/s400/EvaSword2_003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286501131782725922" border="0" /></a>I was thrown backwards by the closing of the portal and Lien </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" style="font-size:130%;">Bao</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> fell to the floor.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU2_r0eOXn_TEpl8Jk3aVo1CDvKKK6H61QKENWaNMkVJa-fCcmAiIzbBtcJaxUdLSGpYeoCqB64gy0NVmMpDYIkcm_L7CnhbnA4HwOmlOfyT4eVbbP-E04gTQfpiFKLlNrzEIMIWYbz0dP/s1600-h/EvaSword2_002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU2_r0eOXn_TEpl8Jk3aVo1CDvKKK6H61QKENWaNMkVJa-fCcmAiIzbBtcJaxUdLSGpYeoCqB64gy0NVmMpDYIkcm_L7CnhbnA4HwOmlOfyT4eVbbP-E04gTQfpiFKLlNrzEIMIWYbz0dP/s400/EvaSword2_002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286501410433836130" border="0" /></a>The Ancient began to transform before me.<br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >OK - this is good</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, I thought to myself, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >now I just need to get myself out of this lab and find <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Dau</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">LaFevre</span> so we can extract <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Hotspur</span> and get home</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. As I started out the door, I heard the noise of </span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" style="font-size:130%;">artillery</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> coming from outside. I ran out to the balcony to see smoke rising from the river. I decided to watch from this location until I could determine who was attacking and what was going on. The firing kept up and suddenly I heard shouts </span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" style="font-size:130%;">emanating</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> from just below me. Chinese, English, Gaelic.<br /><br />Gaelic?!?<br /><br />Ancient Gaelic....shouted in a deep, </span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37" style="font-size:130%;">resonant</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> voice. Strange, but somehow familiar. Who? I leaned over the railing of the balcony to get a better look.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Och! Is that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Hotspur</span> shouting in our ancient tongue?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> Whoever it is looks like </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39" style="font-size:130%;">Hotspur</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, but much taller and with claws at the ends of extremely long fingers. Sharp, jagged teeth. Red bristling, unkempt hair, and even redder skin.<br /><br />I closed my eyes and looked again. I knew.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >My God! What next?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2009/02/return-to-fusang-ancient-magic-and-long.html">This post</a> follows directly</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span>Eva Bellambihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15302724705163071907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-1518636636249123102008-12-30T14:27:00.001-08:002009-01-02T07:21:20.226-08:00Return To Fusang: Making Connections<a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/12/return-to-fusang-when-all-else-fails.html">Meanwhile...</a> | <a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://fuzzball-ortega.blogspot.com/2008/12/steelhead-adventures-journey-to-fusang_30.html">Meanwhile...</a><br /><br />Personal Journal Entry - Head MI-5:<br /><br /><br />It has been three days since the last dispatch from Shea. Either he has fallen or is in deep cover work and is not able to get any word to me. Blast it, where are the others? The Celestial Kingdom is almost silent to me at the moment, and I REALLY hate that.<br /><br />The snow was falling steadily outside my offices as I sat down to write to Shea and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Dau</span>. I could feel my frown drawn down as it always does during periods of intense concentration or worry. Just then there was a tap on my office door. It was one of the junior offices of the Lancers. Apparently they had just escorted a foreign guest to the manse. When he handed me her calling card, I asked that he please send the young lady to my offices in the keep. I would meet her here<br /><br />Angelica <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ortegavich</span> ascended the steps of my office. Tall – nearly 6 feet, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">blonde</span>, and blue eyed. While she looked very little like her brother, Fuzzball, she has his same expressive face and intense eyes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAKH2BFtqrzzMPvQjWWKTxo7-BAsHy0NLQmA7mUfm5u_CzMQ3ZjEEST9ns6dGeluifxjDnLmU1s9Ig-Ptj0ree5oo58h2CEYPFYq-uOFN1jByYAiHsZc7cmj2JGEOXmGlGsvOcuhdpNWnM/s1600-h/180px-We_never_sleep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAKH2BFtqrzzMPvQjWWKTxo7-BAsHy0NLQmA7mUfm5u_CzMQ3ZjEEST9ns6dGeluifxjDnLmU1s9Ig-Ptj0ree5oo58h2CEYPFYq-uOFN1jByYAiHsZc7cmj2JGEOXmGlGsvOcuhdpNWnM/s400/180px-We_never_sleep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285713501280411010" border="0" /></a><br />Smiling I offered her a seat, and told her that I assumed she was visiting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Caledon</span> – and specifically me – for business purposes rather than pleasure, since she had offered me a card with the Pinkerton emblem and motto.<br /><br />We talked for some time about what we knew and didn't know. Angelica being very close to her brother had some personal interest in what was transpiring, and I was happy to have confirmation about his whereabouts along with those of Dr. Mason, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Dogg</span>. I had whispers coming my way, but had not been able to confirm anything. However, Angelica is also senior enough in the Agency that she had been officially assigned to this case – keeping an eye on the situation for the Americans. She has been authorized to talk to me of their concerns particularly surrounding the actions and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">inactions</span> of the British governmental agencies. Of prime concern to the US is the intelligence that has been coming in regarding <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Nayland</span> Smith's "backup plan" to eliminate American interference in the region. I believe that she has rightly concluded that he means to kill Fuzzball, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Glitterach</span>, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Darien</span>. Certainly the British envoy who visited me indicated that they did not appreciate <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Caledon's</span> part in this. I suspect that Shea, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Dau</span>, and O'Toole are on that list as well.<br /><br />We talked long into the evening and made agreement to keep in close contact via our secure channels. Daily status updates and coordination. It is an agreement that I feel entirely comfortable with.<br /><br />I walked the loch, thinking. I could feel the junior Lancer following me several steps behind. Good man. Somme and O'Toole would feel proud of him: keeping watch per orders, but maintaining a distance.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">What do we know about the British?</span> I asked myself.<br /><br /><ul><li> <span style="font-style: italic;">We know that England wants no more <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">EVAs</span>; they regard them as popular movements, which are too hard for them to control.</span></li><li style="font-style: italic;"> We know that after Gordon was put in charge about 18 years ago the EVA disbanded after a year, and the Warlord "system" started with England in a very predominant place.</li><li style="font-style: italic;"> We know that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Nayland</span> Smith is "British establishment". Most agree that he felt Ward was an amateur and never appreciated his management of the EVA years ago.</li><li style="font-style: italic;"> We HEAR that there is a resurgence of nationals in the Kingdom who think that Ward has come back from the dead. This must be related to the appearance of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Hotspur</span> and possibly others from the old EVA days back into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Fusang</span> regions.</li></ul><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Still not enough information. I need to have first hand accounts from the front lines, as it were. </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">LaFevre</span>! Where are you?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >The Following Day</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br />I should not have even been thinking about this, but I knew that the only way that I would quickly be able to learn what was going on in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Fusang</span> was to contact Lady Amber. God bless her, she had at one point been able to make a direct psychic connection with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Hotspur</span>, though that experience nearly brought Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Bao</span> through the rift. It has taken many months for her to get over the trauma of that connection.<br /><br />I was not even sure she would help me but I sent the message to her last night with some little hope. She just arrived in Loch Avie as I was at my weapons practice. She said that she was extremely fearful of taking on this evil again, and that she did not want to do it. Her hands were shaking and she trembled, but I could see her resolve. She felt this was her duty. Somehow she found the strength (and this time without the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">laudanum</span> that had plagued her since the last encounter) and asked that I find a location on my property of "intense energy" for me.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Lady Eva – your energy should help me connect to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Hotspur</span> once more time, and should hopefully also protect me.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />I chose the area near the base of the waterfall and she began her preparations.<br /><br />She asked me to quiet my mind of all thoughts or concerns (a rather large order if you ask me, but I did my best to comply) and to sit in the circle as she began her incantations. The soft murmurs she made actually did make it easier for me to relax and clear my mind.<br /><br />She spoke clearly. <span style="font-style: italic;">I see Hotspur. Oh Lady Eva he is in a battle and there is water, and some monstrous steam gun boat. OH! OH! The image is gone.<br /><br /></span>Suddenly I could see something - a palace. I started to speak, but could sense that Amber knew I was seeing what she was seeing. I kept quiet and watched the scene unfold. It was as if we were flying through the castle – up and down corridors and stairs. The gilt and stone sparkling around us, I could feel the wind against my face and flowing through my loosened hair. Then I heard something. I was not sure what, but the spirit guiding us obviously also heard it, for we seemed to move in the direction of the sound.<br /><br />Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Bao</span>! He found us in the rift. No. He did not see </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >me</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. He was completely focused on Amber.<br /><br />I heard him taunt her as he laughed, </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"Small child, why do you try to hide from me again? You cannot find him. He is mine."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />Amber wavered slightly, but just as quickly as the fear came, it was replaced by anger and strength. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" > "I will find him despite your power. Get out of my way or I shall move you."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br />The laughter deepened and, as if only to spite her, Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Bao</span> made himself appear larger and began to weave his way through the rift. He was going to step through! My eyes were open I could see my home around me, but could also see into his palace. Suddenly the fog moved from around Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Bao</span> and his image became clearer. A foot, a hand. He reached for Amber as she began to slump over her table.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"No! No you will not harm her!"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> I heard myself yelling at him as I stood and drew my Claymore back.<br /><br />He had not seen me.<br /><br />I felt the cold, hard steel of my Claymore slice into his abdomen as his eyes found mine for the first time. He was utterly surprised and began his retreat back across the rift.<br /><br />Suddenly there was a flash of light and I could feel myself falling. Still holding my Claymore which was deep in the flesh of the old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">wu</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">jen</span>, I too was falling through space.<br /><br />Impact!<br /><br />We both hit the stone floor. In his palace in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Fusang</span>. In what appeared to be a small, austere laboratory. There was smoke all around us, much of it emanating from Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Bao</span> himself at the point where my sword entered his body.<br /><br />Quickly, I pulled the claymore out of his body certain that I would need it to defend against the arrival of his soldiers. He moaned loudly, cursing me in Chinese. I was in battle crouch, ready for what might come my way (or hoping that I was), when the old sorcerer began rapidly transforming in front of me. He wounds were deep. I was certain they would have killed any other man nearly instantly, but he was not going to die easily, if at all.<br /><br /><br />A large raptor, a black bear, a fox demon, a dragon, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">zhenmushou</span><br /><br />With the last transformation the smoke rising from his wound intensified and he burst into flames. I shielded my eyes the fire was so bright. Shrieking as if from a hundred souls swirled around me, and then quiet. Complete and utter stillness.<br /><br /><br />Lien <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Bao</span> was gone – diminished to the small pile of ash on the floor of his palace.</span>Eva Bellambihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15302724705163071907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-4098405389468365692008-12-29T04:27:00.000-08:002008-12-29T04:29:25.595-08:00Space: 1889 The Steppes of Thoth IVWhile (<span style="font-style:italic;">ahem</span>) awaiting patiently developments from my collaborators on RETURN TO FUSANG, I shall post the next thrilling installment of the STEPPES OF THOTH! Here is Part IV.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/M03vIycIe0Q&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/M03vIycIe0Q&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Enjoy!Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-54911835731777734992008-12-27T11:34:00.000-08:002008-12-27T11:35:37.187-08:00Space: 1889 The Steppes of Thoth IIIWe've been getting a tad behind in the Steppes of Thoth, so here is episode III of that thrilling narrative!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cYk1LGm357E&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cYk1LGm357E&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Enjoy!Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-33881636515429368942008-12-18T18:36:00.000-08:002009-01-02T07:18:46.203-08:00Return to Fusang: When all else fails, attacking remains an optionDirectly follows from <a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/12/return-to-fusang-refugees-and-bridges.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;">HERE</span></a> | <a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/12/return-to-fusang-making-connections.html">Meanwhile...</a> | <a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://fuzzball-ortega.blogspot.com/2008/12/steelhead-adventures-journey-to-fusang_30.html">Meanwhile...</a><br /><br />I'm torn between firing at the Marines landing just upriver of the Bridge City and running back and forth to the South side of the bridge to signal to the oncoming flotilla. I can't do two things so I wave at Shea to come out on the bridge. He complies by dashing out with five bandits armed with a collection of weapons. I explain the situation to him and he nods, taking up a firing position behind some rubble and directing fire at the Marines landing. He's a damned fine shot, if a little wet behind the ears. Even at this distance, I see the bos'un at the back of the whaleboat leap up and fall into the water, clutching his chest. It's critical we slow their advance AND maintain the fiction that the bridge is mined and we will blow it at any provocation.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYCJvx1lhF72_f1DNIGrY_tFZ9casiSk058wfLrIzG0uRp1EBAH4VDnJb0lywv_KFNnkWzsz1e9R8dQEFwSaqwnGkG-KnfcgsnrTiB4efwPH_xQhej0H2wlEvHU0XLFx_cZhmNzqjPjI/s1600-h/OneYuan-Fusang.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 289px; height: 289px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYCJvx1lhF72_f1DNIGrY_tFZ9casiSk058wfLrIzG0uRp1EBAH4VDnJb0lywv_KFNnkWzsz1e9R8dQEFwSaqwnGkG-KnfcgsnrTiB4efwPH_xQhej0H2wlEvHU0XLFx_cZhmNzqjPjI/s320/OneYuan-Fusang.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282967794595156130" border="0" /></a><br />The firing from the secondary batteries on the Iron River Dragon starts to intensify as the ship ponderously noses around in a long curve, bringing its two giant main batteries to bear directly at the center of the bridge. They still aren't firing with the big guns yet.<br /><br />Looking South my spirits soar as I see the tiny fleet of shallow draft paddle wheel steamers chugging up to the bridge city, their decks crowded with Celestial soldiers in brick red uniforms. Obviously this is the vanguard of the Army of Progressive Peace, and Feng has stolen a march on his opposite number in Fusang, General Yen. I fancy that killing one of the foreign observers in the Land Dragon slowed Yen's advance to a crawl. Fred is a very competent engineer from what I have seen, but he is no great leader of men I trust he isn't in charge at the moment.<br /><br />On the lead riverboat, I make out a shape I can recognize. A shabby green coat, bottle green glasses, panama hat and handlebar mustache. He is standing next to a florid giant of a man wearing a rather absurd tam-o-shanter. It's <span style="font-style: italic;">Mason</span>, here, in the middle of the back of beyond. He is pointing a spy glass in my direction. This IS good news! The Progressives are getting excited-- the musicians (<span style="font-style: italic;">musicians??</span>) on the riverboats start up a good old fashioned Chinese caterwaul-- banging on gongs and cymbals, shooting off fireworks. I can't help but laugh a bit-- here, at least, was someone who enjoyed the traditional Chinese ways of going to war. I wave the makeshift red flag more energetically, until I am sure the troops on the Texas deck can see me. I gesture to the North side of the bridge excitedly, then point to the shore. The riverboats are made out of wood, and would not stand up to even a single shot from the River Monitor's main gun.<br /><br />Running back to the north side of the bridge, I can see that perhaps our ruse may not last much longer. The white-coated marine force have landed and are forming up for a bayonet charge into the north section of Bridge City, being held by a paltry force of bandits with pea-shooters and limited ammo. Chen runs up, panting, with a bandoleer of bullets and the small rapid fire gun.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Comrade Yao states that you can get a better angle on the white sailormen from here, Long Nose"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"He's right, too! We need to set this up at once!"</span><br /><br />With Shea providing covering fire, we set up the rapid fire gun and commence firing at the party of marines. At least they do us the honor of scrambling for cover in a hasty fashion; we manage to down nary a one, but we have slowed them down. That's the GOOD news. The bad news is that now I can distinctly hear the two rear main turrets cranking up-- they are clearly aiming at the bridge now. I have just enough time to shout a strangled<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Duuuuuck!"</span> when the nearer gun belches fire and smoke with a loud <span style="font-weight: bold;">HOOOOOM!</span> I dive for the ground covering my head with my hands.. only to hear the <span style="font-style: italic;">WHOOOOOOOSH</span> of the giant projectile lobbing over the bridge to land on the other side. I can't run over to see where it fell but it's clear that the River Dragon is firing over the bridge in hopes of hitting targets beyond-- the Riverboats. Then I hear distant <span style="font-weight: bold;">WHAM!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">SWOOOSH!</span> And a water spout appears over the South railing of the bridge. How could that be? How had the River Dragon <span style="font-style: italic;">seen</span> them? As if supplying a mocking answer, I look up, alerted by the <span style="font-style: italic;">whirrring</span> sewing-machine sound again. The kite-thing is back-- high in the air, circling above the river fleet. As I watch, it launches a red rocket I can just hear go off as a distant popping noise. That damned flying thing! It is acting as a flying artillery observer for the River Monitor! There's not much I can do from this distance-- the pea shooter I'm firing with hardly has the range.. then an idea hits me!<br /><br />Maintaining a steady, if somewhat ineffectual fire on the marines, I motion to Chen and explain the plan to him in short sentences. He grins, and is off again, like a wild rabbit, his green ex-Fusang uniform rather distinctive against the bridge background. I cross my fingers, as the secondaries from the upper decks of the Monitor stitch a deadly pattern of misses directly behind him as he runs. Yao leans a head and shoulders out of the upper story of the bank. I point up above at the Kite-Thing circling around. He understands at once and his head bobs up and down vigorously.<br /><br />Shortly thereafter a team of two Jingal-men appear outside the bank and set up their long, outrageous weapon in anti-aircraft mode.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZHsD6BSQD9VlLxY00z7bx2YiTr8l6tBGUs9Cmdo2KjKajq_J4T_1TZr-C9idtPGanQA2F2j9bncOFO29L9Z68A7-KI5pfQ7E-QzDqYMjnUKjx-1cO1aViduFSl9sD0uKVb9yl1-j8OU/s1600-h/JingalGun.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZHsD6BSQD9VlLxY00z7bx2YiTr8l6tBGUs9Cmdo2KjKajq_J4T_1TZr-C9idtPGanQA2F2j9bncOFO29L9Z68A7-KI5pfQ7E-QzDqYMjnUKjx-1cO1aViduFSl9sD0uKVb9yl1-j8OU/s320/JingalGun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282756308555782562" border="0" /></a>In case you have never seen one of these ancient siege weapons, they are a two man "small cannon" in musket form, originally used in siege warfare and castle defense. They have become <span style="font-style: italic;">en vogue</span> in recent years for punching through armor on vehicles and smashing down doors at strong points. What the lack in portability and accuracy, they make up in sheer punch. A Jingal bullet is the size a water-glass, and can punch a giant hole in a wooden door, but the bullet is relatively slow. This would be tricky work. Chen tries to spot for them... the first shot is wide, and the second.. I shout, impatiently, in bad Mandarin:<span style="font-style: italic;"> "LEAD them, you fools! LEAD them! The Flying Kite Thing is faster than your bullet.! You must shoot ahead of them, slightly!"</span> They bob their heads nervously, and try again. <span style="font-weight: bold;">CRAAAAAACK!!!</span> A hit! The top "windsail"? "windvane?" "Steering Vane"? Gives way suddenly, and the Kite-thing flip flops over and over spiraling down into the forest beyond the river on the South Side. The Bandits AND the men on the riverboats (from what I can hear) are yelling excitedly. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "AIiiiiiiiyah! A hit! You are a clever fellow, Huan! Well done!"</span><br /><br />I go back to providing covering fire for the bandits. The marines have abandoned their bayonet charge and have scattered to skirmish order, which makes them harder to hit at a distance. They are advancing in leapfrog bounds, one squad of ten covering the other two as they advance. Well trained, these. I suspect the Prussians again. One bandit topples off the roof, then another, then another. I am running low on ammo for the quick firing gun, now at the last bandoleer. As I busily reload, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look down, and see that it is huge, and freckled. I spin around, and a cup is thrust into my hands. As I sip, I stare up at a kilted giant of a man. "You ordered COFFEE, laddy?" I sip gratefully, and realize it is liberally dosed with whiskey. Gods! But that is good. After months of living on rice and fish and water.. But I must be sociable.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"You have the advantage of me, sir! Hotspur O'Toole is the name, late Lieutenant Colonel in the First Caledon Lancers!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Och, aye, and more besides that, but we're not telling.." </span>he wheezes. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "Angus Glitterach is me name, of Edinborough. Airship Cap'n and Explorer. I've heard stories of you. Looks as if ye have a fight on your hands here, and no mistake!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"That wouldn't be the half of it."</span> I gesture. <span style="font-style: italic;">"See that? That's a German River Monitor with 8 inch Krupp guns. If they WANT to, they can turn this bridge into slag. That makes me think there's a large Fusang army nearby that wants this bridge intact. But they havent' shot at the bridge yet, possibly because I've tricked them into thinking we mined it. They HAVE landed marines on the north shore over yonder, and they're proving deucedly hard to kill at the moment, with the weapons on hand. I have a small force of bandits and refugees in the remains of the north village there, underarmed and rapidly running out of ammunition. Ideas?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I may have something up my sleeve"</span>, says a new, very familiar voice, as a figure with a panama hat and handlebar moustache heaves into sight from behind the massive Glitterach, accompanied by a squad of the brick-red soldiers.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Doctor Mason! Good lord, man, what brings YOU to the back of beyond, like this? You are most welcome!"</span> We shake hands enthusiastically.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Trust you to leave Steelhead in chains, disappear, and be found on the other side of the world, leading an insurrection!"</span> Mason grins sardonically.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I confess, it wasn't in my plans to do so-- these things just seem to happen to me."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Aye, they certainly do. Fortunately we are here to assist at a key moment, it seems. What are the targets of opportunity?" </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"The Marines. The Giant Metal River Dragon.. er.. River Monitor, yonder"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Hmm. not a moment to lose, then. Here, both of you help me here..." </span><br /><br />Ducking from the incessant spattering gunfire from the River Dragon, Glitterach and I help him unship and assemble a series of connecting gold metal rods of increasing girth, so the assembled pole, about 8 feet long, tapered slightly. Then we set it up on a tripod, bracing the feet. Mason grabs the thick end and sights down it the pole.. and turns to me. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "Which target, Hotspur? We've got ONE shot at this!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"The marines! As many as you can get..."</span><br /><br />Doctor Mason crouches over the end of pole-thing, and starts chanting in a sibilant, yet guttural voice, in a tongue that contained a few familiar words but is on the whole indiscernible. Gradually a glowing red nimbus forms on the thick end, steadily glowing at first, then sparking on and off, running up the pole and down again, and the faint <span style="font-style: italic;">hummmm</span> of the contraption grows to an almost roar, when suddenly we are rocked by a huge <span style="font-weight: bold;">BOOOOOOOOOOOM!!</span> as a giant arc of red fire leaps from the narrow end of the pole and arcs over to the Marine force.. most of them are caught up in the weird, eldritch red fire and even from a distance, it appears sickening to see them dance with electrical discharge like so many excited puppets.<br /><br />Of the force of 60 men (approximately) there appear to be ten left, standing in stunned silence.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Gods above, Man! What hell-spawn IS that thing? "</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Staff of Ra,"</span> Mason grins smugly. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Takes forever to charge. "</span><br /><br />Even Glitterach is impressed. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "Och, laddy, that was something your Da nebber taught you and make no mistake!"</span><br /><br />The remaining Fusang marines have dropped their rifles and have their hands up, obviously upset. Suddenly a secondary battery in the top cupola of the River Dragon swivels around and stitches across them, right and left, and all of them collapse to the ground, killed or wounded. So much for surrendering to the enemy as a soldier of Fusang.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"That's bad news, then?" </span>asks Mason.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"It might be. The Captain may loose patience any second now and start firing."</span><br /><br />As if prescient, the top most main battery swivels, aims and fires, in about as much time as it takes to tell it. This time, they land a shell directly on top of the bank building holding Yao and some other bandits. The roof collapses, messily.<br /><br />I frown, remembering Yao's words about not seeking a death in service to the Western powers, and yet, that is just what occurred.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Can't cross over, can't advance against it.. the big Egyptian boom-stick is spent.. What to do?"</span> I asked the company.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Perhaps we can help.. "</span> says yet another voice, this time from a lean, ascetic looking Englishman, and his huge companion, dressed in aviator flying gear. They are accompanied by a youthful, but serious looking Chinese officer in brick red robes. Was this General Feng? It was. Introductions all around. The Englishmen are a government functionary type named Nayland Smith (whose name I've read in <span style="font-style: italic;">the Far East Review</span> from time to time) and an Aviator named Biggles. The Chinese man is indeed General Feng.<br /><br />I bow respectfully upon meeting him, and he returns it.<br /><br />Smith begins.. <span style="font-style: italic;">"They are currently advancing against the current at a low rate of speed to maintain position, with the stern of their ship toward us. To do this, they need rudder, the top part of which is discernible from here, the river being low. We have some portable artillery that won't be able to penetrate that ship's armor, but might impair their steering".</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"What sort of artillery?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"<a href="http://warandgame.files.wordpress.com/2008/03/rml25inchmountaungunassembling1895.jpg">2.5 inch Mountain Guns</a>, mostly"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Oho! The old Pom Pom Guns!"</span><br /><br />Feng nods. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "British Surplus. Very accurate"</span><br /><br />I nod, delighted. <span style="font-style: italic;">"I am familiar with the ordinance in question. It has been a few years since I have used it, though." </span><br /><br />Feng says <span style="font-style: italic;">"Our Gunners are quite proficient, Colonel. Let us demonstrate our drill for you."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">No need, Sir. Let us demonstrate on yonder Iron behometh!</span><br /><br />The conversation is punctuated by another shelling of the North side of the bridge, this one landing in the town square, creating a giant dust and debris cloud.<br /><br />The Pom Pom Gun team is as proficient as advertised. They perform the assembly drill in almost the same amount of time as a British Gun Crew; certainly as well as the old EVA gunners used to manage. Smith sights along the barrel.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Word of Warning, Smith.. that Captain has been here for three hours, waiting for the field army to show up. He may be getting excited. I suggest you make your shots count." </span><br /><br />He gives me an odd, withering look. Oh, I know that look. Doesn't like to be lectured by an <span style="font-style: italic;">Irishman</span>, does he? Oh well, he can play at being in charge then.<br /><br />I find myself mouthing the commands silently as Smith attempts to adopt a heroic stance, pointing at the stern of the River Monitor.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">LOAD!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">PRIME PIECE!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">TAKE AIM!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">FIRE!!!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">POM!</span></span> (they didn't call this the Pom Pom Gun for nothing)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">SPANNNNG!!!</span> The round ricochets off the steal taffrail of the river monitor. The crew needs to decrease elevation 1 notch and correct to the left about a yard. The effect on the Monitor crew is electric. They think they are facing some quick firing automatic guns, the artillery, small as it is, is a new wrinkle. Even at this distance, we can see them diving for cover.<br /><br />Again, then!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">SWAB!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">LOAD!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">PRIME PIECE!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">TAKE AIM!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">FIRE!!!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">POM!</span></span><br /><br />The report isn't much, but it is a square hit and a small explosion. When the smoke clears, it's clear that the shot had achieved its goal: not much in the way of actual damage, but the top part of the rudder is bent sideways from the explosion and broken off its fitting. The Monitor, which had been firing in a desultory way towards the shore, is now a beehive of activity. Even at this distance I can hear the captain frantically ringing for full speed ahead.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tsk, tsk.</span>. running from a little Pom-Pom gun?? <span style="font-style: italic;">This</span> is the vanguard of Fusang's naval future?<br /><br />The River Dragon gets the steam up, and attempts full speed ahead upriver. The effect is almost comical. Slowly, the boat describes a long circle in the Yalu, fighting against the current, and when it arrives at the bottom of the circle, the captain can be seen frantically tugging at the wheel, trying to free the rudder. He's not noticing what the rest of us are.. The River Monitor has executed an almost 360 degree turn and is stuck at an angle heading upriver somewhat, but mostly perpendicular to us-- and the boat is drifting inexorably right towards our position on the bridge.<br /><br />Feng blows harshly on his whistle three sharp blasts. In Mandarin, he barks out orders... three squads of the brick red soldiers arrive, armed with parangs, temple swords and short pikes. I don't have a cutlass, so I make do with a Chinese sword-- far more decorative than I like, and balanced oddly. It'll do, I think.. making a few swishes in the air. I check my pistol. Three bullets left. Doctor Mason is priming a giant clockwork gun of some sort, and Angus has a pump shotgun.<br /><br />I see the captain clearly at last, a thin, spruce looking gent, looking up with eyes in wide astonishment as his River Monitor, almost at level with our position on the bridge, strikes with a grinding, rending crash against bridge. Almost at once, a wave of Brick Red Progressives, Bandits, myself, Doc Mason, Glitterach and le Favre leap across the taff rail.<br /><br />The captain had gambled by placing his entire Marine detachment on shore, and now he had lost-- there was nobody left on board to provide shipboard defense. What is left is the core engineering and gunnery crews, as well as some officers. Once we are 'inside the perimeter' and they can't shoot at us from a great distance, we make short, bloody work of them.<br /><br />It takes all of 20 minutes to hunt down the last handful of crewmen, and hold them prisoner at sword's point.<br /><br />Glitterach, Mason, LeFevre, Smith, Biggles, Feng and two of his officers meet me on the bridge.<br /><br />Feng is looking around him in wonder.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Think of it as the flagship of the Army of Progressive Peace, General."</span> I say, a tad grandiloquent.<br /><br />Feng nods to his officers, one of which spreads a map out on the chart table. It is suprinsingly good; far more detailed than any I had seen of the Yalu before this. Feng points to a mark on the Yalu, about 80 miles form Fusang.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"This is where we are." </span> He gestures again, to a point 20 miles inland. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "this is where I estimate the main army of the Fusang Field Force to be. They are approaching this point rapidly</span>."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Naturally"</span> grunts Smith. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "They wish to seize this bridge. It will be our duty to defend it".</span><br /><br />The officers nod, not looking thrilled with the prospect.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"How many men do you have under arms in that flotilla, General?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Around 6000 Infantry, 10 small batteries of artillery, 2 squadrons cavalry. There are more downriver, but this is the most we could bring on such short notice." </span>Feng said, giving Smith an arch look.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Against a field force estimated to be 10 to 12 thousand? It's doable, I suppose. They won't be all in one spot.. this army doesn't march that fast, I've noticed. If you can hit the head, or better yet, the tail of that column, then retreat.. then hit again, you'll have a chance. I wish there was some force that could pin them down, though..."</span><br /><br />Smith suggests: <span style="font-style: italic;">"Suppose we take up a defensive position on the North side here, with the Monitor supporting us? We would have firepower, then." </span><br /><br />Feng, surprisingly, is dead set against it. "I did not mobilize the Army of Progressive Peace to avoid a decisive battle, Mr. Smith. We must meet the enemy on the field of battle and decisively defeat him, one way, or the other."<br /><br />I interrupt.<span style="font-style: italic;"> "I have a third option, perhaps." </span><br /><br />They all look up, sharply.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"We repair the rudder, which is damaged but servicable.. although it will take longer to fix than we have time before the Fusang Field Force arrives. I suggest we put some of our Chinese nationals in the Fusang Navy uniforms, keep a small force of Progressives and Bandits below decks, and sail this ship right up to the Capital itself. Meanwhile, General Feng fights a hit and run battle with the FFF down here."</span><br /><br />Feng's eyes widen. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "What do you wish to accomplish, Colonel?"</span><br /><br />I turn on him, excitedly. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "Don't you sense it, General?? NOW is the time.. The Dragon who Waits has sent all his forces abroad.. abroad to smash YOU and carry on to Kowloon. How many forces can he possibly have in his capital now? A thousand? two? He CANNOT defend everywhere all at once. NOW! We strike at the snake's head NOW!</span><br /><br />I can tell he is intrigued by this possibility. "Assuming you can sail up to the dock..." he is interrupted, rather rudely, by Smith. "Preposterous, sir! You could never pulls this off in a thousand years!"<br /><br />Feng holds his hand up... "Mr. Smith, need I remind you who commands here?"<br /><br />"er.. no, sir, forgive me.. but his suggestion endangers any position of retreat we could manage on this river! If we lose in the field, we will need this bridge to cross and we will need the Monitor to hold it"<br /><br />Feng looks troubled, but looks up, a decisive tone in his voice. <span style="font-style: italic;">"I have decided, my friend." </span><br /><br />Turning to me: <span style="font-style: italic;">"What will you need?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Engineers to fix the rudder as fast as humanly possible. A small field gun, perhaps two.. those Pom-Poms will suffice. We will need them for the assault on the palace. And about 100 picked men. I only wish Yao had survived to see this, he would have liked to have taken part."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh, but he has, Colonel!"</span> In marches a grinning Yao, his arm bandaged and head in a sling.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"YAO! My God, man, are ye hurt? The building fell in on you!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh, I have the luck of a Celestial, Long Nose."</span> Turning to the General:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Captain Yao, Second Ever Victorious Army, reporting, sir"</span><br /><br />We all laugh.<br /><br />Doctor Mason chimes in. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, O'Toole, this sounds like a mad enterprise, almost certain death, with little chance of success. naturally, I'm in."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Aye, me too, Laddy! You have the devil's luck, for an Irishman, and I mean to see it through!"</span> rumbles Glitterach.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sir?</span> a quiet voice behind me asks. It is Shea. He looks positively shame-faced.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I was wondering.. erm.. if I might accompany General Feng? Perhaps I am a novice at Field Intelligence Work, but the Army of Progressive Peace is about to engage in a form of warfare that I DO know, intimately.. when I was a cavalryman in the late unpleasantness, this was the sort of hit and run warfare that we excelled at" </span>He mumbles... <span style="font-style: italic;">"Perhaps I could be useful..."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Hell's Bells, Shea, it's fine by me if it's fine by the General!"</span> Feng nods, granting permission.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"But don't you getting yourself killed, you hear me? The Duchess will beat me about the head and shoulders if we bring you back in a tar sack!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Nothing personal, sir, but I think the odds are with ME this time.. "</span> he returns, seriously.<br /><br />"To work then!" cries Feng, and we scurry off, to take charge of our various tasks.<br /><br />Followed by<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2009/01/cold-iron-of-chief.html">HERE (<span style="font-style: italic;">about 20 hrs. later</span>)</a>Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-56833000702708412772008-12-09T10:23:00.000-08:002008-12-18T18:14:29.364-08:00Return to Fusang: Refugees and BridgesContinued<a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/11/return-to-fusang-screw-your-courage-to.html"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">from HERE</span></a> | <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://fuzzball-ortega.blogspot.com/2008/12/steelhead-adventures-journey-to-fusang.html">Meanwhile...</a><br /><br />It is our second day since meeting with Yao and the field agent Shea LeFavre. I had been ready to run some appalling risks to get into Fusang by myself, if need be, but the introduction, entirely out of the blue, of trusted friends and comrades from Steelhead-- no matter how far away off they might be when it was reported... well, this opens a world of possibilities I have not anticipated.<br /><br />Perhaps I may emerge from this alive.<br /><br />I admit I had not given thought of an alternative plan other than sneaking into the Fusang citadel and confronting Lieng. The rational part of me agrees this is a stupid idea-- not from lack of bravery, but the realization it would be a futile waste of life (and other lives not mine to waste). I am surprised how easy it was for me to jump on the idea of heading south to the Bridge city to link up with this "Feng's" army. I really must look into him. He sounds promising.<br /><br />I still need to arrange a situation where I will be within a very short physical distance from Hsieh Lieng-- the facts are what they are. I have no chance of killing Lieng in any other situation. So we must be canny, and we must find strong allies. So, Feng it is then.<br /><br />In the last two days, we have encountered and absorbed two more bands like Yao's and fought two sharp skirmishes with Cavalry patrols. We are moving fast, not as fast as I would like, but fast enough to outstrip any infantry force sent against us. Sadly, this means we cannot slow down to shelter a refugee column. I tell the ones on foot to head for the river and cross over to South of the Yalu as fast as they can. As we ride, the rain of the last three days abates and the sun breaks out. I realize, oddly, that I am strangely content. 20 years may have gone by, yet here I am, engaged in an irregular war, dressed in rags, bandoleered like a Mexican bandit, enjoying it far more than the bureaucracy and paperwork waiting for me back home. Every refugee group we meet has Ward or Gordon's name on their lips.. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Devil Soldier has Returned!</span>" Silly, superstitious lot that they are.. they know, intellectually, that Ward was killed in a crossfire arranged by his own lieutenant years ago. That won't stop the hoping, no matter how hard I try to correct the assumption. I won't deny the comparison gives me an entirely irrational stab of pride-- the flattering devils.<br /><br />But that has been the last two days. Today's encounter is shaping up to be a pickle.<br /><br />Yao and Shea and I are on the edge of a drained rice field, having blundered into a Fusang cavalry force. The leader, a young Mongolian captain, brandishes his new-fangled Automatic pistol in my direction and gives the order to charge in guttural Cantonese "<span style="font-style:italic;">Look! It is the Long Nosed Devil there!</span>". Suddenly, his face is blown off. The sergeant, behind him, canters forward, stops,and rips the Fusang symbol off of his tunic. The men follow suit, pulling out a crude imitation of the old EVA banner they had hidden in their saddlebags.<br /><br />Yao and the Sergeant (Chen by name, apparently an EVA veteran from the red turban he puts on, but I don't recall the man) are having a spirited discussion as we head South towards the bridge. There is a large pattern of cavalry patrols near the river, performing a circular pattern search at Fusang General Yen's insistence. There is a large field force, Chen says, marching down the North bank of the Yalu with the intention of crossing the bridge to invade Feng's territory to the South. 10,000 men, all branches of arms, several guns, and the Land Dragon. Having killed the Land Dragon's pilot, I wondered how fast that devil's chariot would be moving onward any time soon. <br /><br />I gaze up at the sky, worried.. three times today I have seen the strange kite-craft that moves against the wind.. a large unwieldy conveyance made of wings and gears and emitting a strange whirring sound, not unlike a modern sewing machine. The Kite-Craft is clearly here to observe and not fight-- he dropped some explosive charges last night, but they were weak, designed to flash and bang like fireworks, not explode and wound. I think they are signaling other forces to triangulate on our location.<br /><br />There are about 200 bandits and refugees streaming along in our wake when we crest the bridge to gaze out at the mighty Yalu stretching out in front of us, armed with a motley collection of rifles, Fusang carbines, muskets, blunderbusses, Jingal Guns and even parangs. The Bridge City appears to be uninhabited-- the North section burnt and deserted, with only the bank, the gate house and the jail standing intact. I gesture to Yao, pointing at Bridge City downstream. He dispatches Chen and Red-Top, another bandit, to reconnoiter the city as we approach.<br /><br />Within moments Red-Top is seen, pelting back to us as fast as his nag can carry him.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Master Yao! Come Quick!"</span><br /><br />Yao and I ride down to the village where we tie up our horses at the edge of the main street. I can see Chen frantically signaling me with a hand wave on top of the Gatehouse at the edge of the bridge. Quietly, Yao and I run over to talk to Chen.<br /><br />Our hopes are somewhat dashed as we climb up on top of the Gatehouse, for, rounding the North bend of the Yalu has come something new to this section of the river. With a loud ringing of bells and whoosh of steam whistles, a large deep water River monitor of Germanic design is approaching under a full head of steam, her guns rotating to place the Bridge City's northern side in her sights. The Iron River Dragon is finally ready, weeks ahead of schedule. And she appears ready to blast her way to Kowloon, if she hast to.<br /><br />DAMN that kite-like thing in the sky, it had been calmly transmitting our location to this ship the entire time! A ranging shot from the forward gun fires; it lands short but with an impressive spray of water. I look up on the ridge, where the rest of them are dangerously overexposed, and run for my horse. Yao is right behind me.. it takes but a second to get to the force of bandits on the hillside, and to start them moving towards the hard points in the city-- the customs house, gatehouse and remains of the bank. We are going to need hard walls here.<br /><br />Yao, LeFavre and I take stock. We have about 80 rifles, varying amounts of ammunition. One light rapid firing gun we took off a cavalry patrol, about 5 drums of ammunition for it. Not enough, not enough. As we disperse the men (and women) to firing positions, the first shell lands in courtyard, the shock wave sending roof tiles, bricks and dust flying.. I run over to my horse to get her under cover. She turns, stares at me for a second, and crumples to the ground to lie on her side, dying in seconds. A shell splinter has ripped her throat open, leaving me staring, blinking back tears. She was such an excellent little mare. I pull two ammo bandoleers off of the saddle and run for the bridge. Red-Top, Chen and Le Fevre are there, gazing at the approaching Iron River Dragon. It has stopped, rotating against the current and bringing the North side under her guns again. Le Fevre gestures excitedly and hands me his binoculars. The River Dragon is dropping boats over the side, as cool as ye please. White jacketed Chinese soldiers are starting to load into the boats-- I have to assume these are some form of marines.<br /><br />I see Yao's men setting up the little rapid fire pea shooter on top of the Customs House. I wave and point at the boats, making a chopping motion. He grins, catching on and directs rifle and rapid fire on the boats. Sadly, they are out of range yet. The Fusang officer in charge of the landing force is taking no chances.<br /><br />We are in a fix here. We can't cross the bridge without getting shot to pieces. There appear to be no boats, no fording places handy. Heavy caliber shells are landing on the village, but not the bridge, which tells me something. They are only using light caliber secondaries to fire on the bridge itself. They don't wish to damage it-- the Fusangs want to take and KEEP the village. Why is that? To get to the other side with a large force, that's why. So that tells me there is likely a large field force on its way here, which means they have come out to fight The Progressives at last. Chan's report from the field is borne out by the evidence of my eyes now.<br /><br />Suddenly, I have an idea. Wrapping a rag around my head in imitation of the old EVA turban, I sling my rifle, and explain my thought to Red-Cap. He grins excitedly and runs off for necessary equipment, returning with a box, a spool of twine and a rope spool. I put the box on my shoulder, and he winds the twine around the empty spool. Then with infinite care, walking as if I had all the time in the world, I move towards the center of the bridge, standing up to do so. Red-top follows behind, unspooling the twine, looking for all the world like an engineer's assistant in the EVA helping a engineering officer mine a bridge. The secondaries open up fire again, but as I predicted, they don't have the range yet. We make it to the middle of the bridge before the River Dragon has drifted downstream long enough to fire on the center of the bridge with her secondaries. Red-top and I leap the last ten feet or so, as the bullets are now spattering on the metal parapet of the bridge, getting all too close.<br /><br />I think they have bought it hook line and sinker. I laugh, turning to Red-top to congratulate him. He returns a glassy stare. I hadn't heard the bullet hit him, but it had gone through the base of his throat so quickly he didn't have time to react.. he just dies. I nod, closing his eyes for him. Slowly, I raise my head over the parapet to assess the situation. The parapet of the bridge is taking heavy small arms fire from the River Dragon, still, but they do not know where I am. Yao is waving at me but he is too far away for me to make out what he is going on about.. is he pointing DOWN stream? Or Up?<br /><br />I risk a peek-- the landing boats are still coming, gun fire or no. It appears that a bloody fight is in the offing, one which a bandit force is ill equipped to handle with only one light quick firing gun and some rifles. The bandits may have to find another way to cross over into the country south of the river. I am running out of ideas.<br /><br />Suddenly, I understand what Yao is gesturing and waving about. I hear a<span style="font-style: italic;"> chuff chuff chuff</span> sound from down river, followed by the immediate appearance of a the lead ship in a small flotilla that is making its was upstream. The lead boat is flying a strange flag with Chinese characters, but is followed by the British flag. Grinning, I reach out and pull a strip of red cloth from Red-Top's turban. tie it to my rifle barrel and wave it at the River flotilla.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Good heavens! It took you lads long enough!! Do you have any coffee? I'm dying for some!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Continued</span>Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-84320059868832446712008-11-28T22:43:00.000-08:002008-11-28T22:44:33.991-08:00Space: 1889 The Steppes of Thoth II... and here is the second installment in the Audio Play, THE STEPPES OF THOTH, set in my favorite steampunk universe of all time, SPACE: 1889 from GDW.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KHDtPSIiZgQ&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KHDtPSIiZgQ&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Enjoy!Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-75571534889631992952008-11-28T13:44:00.000-08:002008-11-29T08:46:40.502-08:00Return to Fusang: Screw Your Courage to the Sticking Place<a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/11/return-to-fusang-headlong-flight.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Links from</span></a> | <a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/11/british-envoy-arrives-in-loch-avie.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Meanwhile...</span></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBUZXVfG9Zh8HsTw0fT9Rh6D-XZTNkF1wEt4oyd0WDQ5oLHgO_jJx4h94Ejm-6ms_YQCGqQLrkcjjhaPvIB1KVt1lioSgoh1mS7ePGUFj5pASszgruAVAFC0r9R5iw2zdzcbVzlwOmAQ/s1600-h/header-ot-crayon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBUZXVfG9Zh8HsTw0fT9Rh6D-XZTNkF1wEt4oyd0WDQ5oLHgO_jJx4h94Ejm-6ms_YQCGqQLrkcjjhaPvIB1KVt1lioSgoh1mS7ePGUFj5pASszgruAVAFC0r9R5iw2zdzcbVzlwOmAQ/s400/header-ot-crayon.jpg" alt="O'Toole in the Sorghum field" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273828785388896258" border="0" /></a><br />The newcomer is shorter than me by about half a head, wearing Western clothing (ill advised in the surrounding neighborhood), and transmits an earnest, energetic air about him that is not unpleasant.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Who might you be, sir?"</span> I say, nodding at the MI-5 signal, giving a countersign (three fingers brushing the hair back, as if distracted; not that this will do the casual reader any good; they will have been changed by now).<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Aye, stranger, whom might YOU be?" </span>says <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Yao</span>. The newcomer could not but feel a bit apprehensive at so many rifles, carbines and choppers pointed in his direction by big, grinning bandits. I think <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Yao</span> doesn't like to have the rug pulled out from under him in this manner. He is perhaps a tad peevish about a newcomer walking in unannounced with no warning from his scouts. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Tsk</span>. Crafty devil, this fellow.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I am Shea <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">LeFevre</span>, a trader and resident of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Caledon</span>. This is my companion in whose company I have traveled with since Kowloon. You are Colonel O'Toole, if I am not much mistaken?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No use denying that. I rather doubt there are that many Westerners in this neck of the woods to confuse me with"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Sir! Are you aware that there is a rather concerted effort to see you dead by the so-called "Dragon who Waits", from </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Fusang</span><span style="font-style: italic;">?</span>"<br /><br />I goggle at that one, and start laughing. The bandits join in after <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Yao</span> translates.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Yes, Mr. </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">LeFevre</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, I had some notion. But I thank you for the warning, nonetheless."</span><br /><br />He goes somewhat red-faced.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"That is to say, you are familiar with her Grace, Eva <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Bellambi</span>?"</span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Yao</span> intercedes, grinning. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Ah! The head of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Caledon</span> MI-5! You have hidden depths, Colonel!"</span><br /><br />I shrug my shoulders, repeating tonelessly:<span style="font-style: italic;"> "There is no <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Caledon</span> MI-5. There never was a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Caledon</span> MI-5. If such an agency existed, I'm certain *I* should have had nothing to do with it.</span>"<br /><br />Even <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">LeFevre</span> laughs at this jibe.<br /><br />I continue:<span style="font-style: italic;"> "I have made <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">acquaintance</span> of the lady of which you speak, sir, I believe I met her at her last Winter Ball. Charming affair. Somewhat spoilt by a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Norwegian</span> fellow with gigantic boots that insisted in gobbling up the cucumber sandwiches before I could hook a few for myself.. "</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Yao</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">LeFevre</span> look at me, quizzically.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"....er, in any event, yes, I have met her."</span><br /><br />Shea continues. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "The Duchess has arranged for your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">exfiltr</span>... er.. your repatriation after wiring me for assistance and intercession. I have an extra horse for you, sir. If we ride out now, and are stealthy about it, we can make Kowloon via the North shore of the Yalu in four days."</span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Yao</span> frowns. I look at the healer lady from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Hanxian</span> village and smile. She smiles back at me. I know that English isn't her native tongue so she's probably getting one word in 50.<br /><br />"You are mistaken, sir..." I start, grinning.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I am in no means in distress. Nor, as you can see, am I 'kidnapped' any longer. I will not be leaving until certain business here is concluded."</span><br /><br />His eyes bulge at that one. "But SIR! You are commanded! Surely you are in no shape for.. that is to say.. how could you possibly... you seriously don't mean..?"<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh, I mean to, alright"</span> I reply. <span style="font-style: italic;">"The Western Powers have made a horrid mess of things here in the Celestial Kingdom, for an easy price they didn't have to pay. These last few days, I've seen not dozens of people, but hundreds of people slain by this madman. HUNDREDS. Wrap your mind around that, son. How did they do that? With tanks and aeroplanes and cannon that the Chinese didn't used to have.. until WE gave it to them. People like ME gave it to them. We have to fix this. And I intend to do so."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It is hardly our fault that the Dragon Who Waits is a genocidal madman, Colonel...</span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Yao</span> looks sharply up at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">LeFevre</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No? it isn't? Listen here, long nose, and learn some wisdom. You know how we in the Celestial Kingdom used to go to war? We would all meet on the assigned time and place. There would be bands along playing gongs and drums. The astrologers would be along to cast portents. The generals would stand on hills under umbrellas! In my father's time, we took breaks in the middle of the battle for tea and rice! All very ridiculous to you, I'm sure, but very Chinese to us, and the way it has been done for a thousand years. Now we witness the machines that rend the earth, and the black smokes, and Land dragons with iron skins.. and.. villages destroyed..."</span><br /><br />His voice is catching with anger. I look at him with some sympathy, suddenly realizing why a divinity student had become a bandit leader working for British Intelligence.<br /><br />She turns back to me:<span style="font-style: italic;"> "But sir! Listen to reason! They have tens of thousands of men under arms, they have a steam leviathan! There are rumors of kite-ships in the air, and railroads, and other, larger constructions of war! You don't stand a chance! Besides, the Duchess has commanded it. "</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Mr... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Lefevre</span>? What would your rank be, in that non-<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">existent</span> organization, if it did exist (speaking entirely hypothetically)?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">"J-junior field agent, sir. Probational. I mean, if it were real, that is."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"And mine? If there was such an organization?"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"S-s-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">ector</span> lead, Celestial Kingdom desk, sir" <br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">"Entirely correct. So if, say, a notional sector lead says 'make it so', does a theoretical junior field agent say 'no, you have to follow me instead'?"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">"<br /><br />Er, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">nossir</span>, I didn't mean to make the presumption...."</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"I thought not. Now, we have plans to make, and you could be useful as well as energetic. Someone has to scout the approaches to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Fusang</span> Castle. You're quite correct, they have a very large army.. But it can't be everywhere at once, so we can move quite freely in the places where it is not. I suggest we move with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Yao's</span> band here, as close to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Fusang</span> as we can go, and then perhaps a small band of 3 to 5 of us try to infiltrate in through cover of darkness..."</span><br /><br />At this point <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Yao</span> snorts derisively.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"In the words of my grandparents, 'you one crazy long nose devil'. Infiltrate.. and do WHAT?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Unspecified tasks.."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Colonel, just a minute ago, you were boasting that The Dragon Who Waits has lived long enough. If you mean to kill him then say so."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"That's the rub, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Yao</span>.. governments don't kill leaders, they don't make war on individuals."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">He laughs at that one. "You don't strike me as being naive, Colonel. Though they won't come out and say it, I suspect that is what your former masters are attempting to do right now."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"The British? How?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"They are funneling arms and supplies to the Army of of Progressive Peace, under General <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Feng</span> They are trying to goad him into making an advance on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Fusang</span> to commit an 'unspecified task' on General <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Lieng</span>"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Trust the British to use one <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">warlord</span> to supplant another. Isn't <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Feng</span> a bit long in tooth for this sort of adventure?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"The son. Old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Feng</span> died about four summers back. The younger <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Feng</span> is a different breed. A reformer, you might call him. Wants land reform, and a representational government"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"That would be a first. I'd like to meet him some time, but not until we are through with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Lieng</span>... do you think you could get us close to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Fusang</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Yao</span>?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"You are not listening, Colonel. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Fusang</span> has the largest armed force in the Celestial Kingdom at the moment. More so, it is whispered, than the army of the Emperor himself. There are dozens of patrols. Machines that march on land and fly in the air. Even now the engineers from the West are building him the Iron River Dragon. There is no way to get there undetected. You plan is rash, and smacks of heroics... I am not eager to play the role of 'convenient villager who helps the Western heroes along, only to conveniently die assaulting the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">fortress</span>' and I don't want that for my men, either. I suggest we make for the Yalu and join forces with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Feng</span>, who should be advancing on the Southern bank of the Yalu. It may take more time, but it will be more sure than just riding into the jaws of the Dragon who Waits."</span><br /><br />Shea jumps on this argument.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Yessir</span><span style="font-style: italic;">! The Army of Progressive Peace has grown tremendously in the last six months. They have the start of an aerial squadron of some sort, and British </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">advisers</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, from what I have been told. </span><br /><br />I am bemused..<span style="font-style: italic;"> " 'An aerial squadron' you say. As in airships? "</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"If reports are true, yes, and other, faster style aeroplanes under the command of a British pilot they have sent out here to assist."</span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Yao</span> puts in: <span style="font-style: italic;">"And more Westerners have arrived, from the reports"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Anyone I would know of?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"THEY appear to know YOU, Colonel. They asked for you by name!"</span><br /><br />I'm startled..<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"They asked about me? Who was this?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Three men. Two American by appearances. One could not be mistaken for being anything but a Scot"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Did you see them? What do they look like?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No, I did not, the information was sent via courier. But I am told that one of them carries the Moon curse, but not from the tribe that was tracking you just now"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Moon curse? You mean.. a </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Lycan</span><span style="font-style: italic;">?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Yes, that is your word for it."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"What about the other American?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Large moustache, carries a doctor's bag</span>"<br /><br />I am dumbfounded. Americans? A <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Lycan</span>? This could only mean... <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">Sheriff</span> Ortega, and that sounded like Doctor Mason. The Scot, I'd never heard of. Good lord above, what were they doing here? Suddenly, many of the pieces fell together at once. The hallucinations, the visions while under torture and in a coma. This is heaven sent! They had come here looking for ME, of all people. I am touched. I never expected this. This changed things drastically. Suddenly I was close to allies I could trust...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Yao</span><span style="font-style: italic;">! I see the light of your wisdom. I shall make for the Yalu, and attempt to join up with General </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Feng</span><span style="font-style: italic;">. Mr. </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">LeFevre</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, will you and your strange accomplice accompany me?"</span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">LeFevre</span> is grinning and bobbing.<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Absolutely, Colonel!"</span><br /><br />I turn to Pu <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">Ying</span> and address him in Mandarin: <span style="font-style: italic;">"What will you do, oh brave </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">bannerman</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> of the EVA?"</span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Ying</span> grins. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "We have the job to complete for iron boat Masters (the Pigeon, he meant). We escort this one (gesturing to the little healer lady) back to </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Hanxian</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> before she gets in trouble. Then we enter </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">Fusang's</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> army once more and record information for Iron Boat master"</span><br /><br />I bowed, deeply.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Thank you, Small </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">Shang</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, for the gift of the knife. I buried it in the Russian's heart" </span><br /><br />(Not exactly true; but theatrics is part of job in China)<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">Shang</span> breaks into a bucktoothed grin and bows three times, chattering excitedly.<br /><br />At that revelation, the bandits chatter excitedly, too. I sense <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">Ignatieff</span> was roundly hated by the local citizenry.<br /><br />I turn to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">LeFevre</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I suggest we get started at once. We have tarried in this spot FAR too long, and every minute brings more </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">Fusang</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Cavalry patrols closer."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"One moment, sir! I brought </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">Anh</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> from the village to see if she could assist your wounds. Those are good field dressings, but that hand is looking nasty"</span><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">Anh</span>, eh? I realized I hadn't learned her name.<br /><br />I bow to her, respectively. She blushes.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I am at your disposal"</span><br /><br />She sits me down on a stump while the camp saddles up the horses and makes their gear ready.<br /><br />She removes the torn and bloody shirt I am wearing. Clucking with sympathy at the angry red wound in my side from the bayonet. Reaching into her basket, she pulls out a small pair of scissors and three bottles of some form of liquid.<br /><br />She gestures to the stitches..<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Yes, </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">Anh</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, they were the best I could manage with one hand."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"This is.. not bad work"</span> she says, shyly.<br /><br />She quickly cuts the stitching I made (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_68">shooshing</span> protests) and pulls the thread out. Filling the wound with the blood-stanching, constricting medicine I had seen earlier, I felt the area grow warm and tingly. Then she uses another medicine (this one thick and gluey) to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_69">pack into</span> the wound. The whole area was bandaged around with clean linen. Almost immediately, it begins to itch horridly..<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Do NOT scratch. That is body going back into harmony. Do not disturb it"</span><br /><br />I scratch at other parts, instead. I suspect whomever had this outfit prior to me had a flea problem. Wounds or no, a long soak in a tub would be wonderful at this moment.<br /><br />Next, she looks at my left hand with the broken small finger. She applies an orange-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_70">ish</span>, tingling medication to the broken finger, which is quite swollen. Then she holds the finger bones together, which is an agony.. yet, within minutes the swelling goes down, and I can tentatively waggle my fingers again. This is a miracle of healing!<br /><br />I rise up and bow again.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I must depart. I am sorry about what happened at </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_71">Hanxian</span><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"So am I" </span>she says, shaking her head sadly.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I hope to make things right, </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_72">Anh</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, or try to"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Be Careful"</span> she says.<br /><br />I mount up on the little mare that had provided such excellent service escaping from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_73">Fusang</span> cavalry earlier.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_74">Yao</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, Mr. </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_75">Lefevre</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, shall we go?</span>"<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_76">Yao</span> grins, and gives the move out whistle to the rest of the bandits.Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-90851208637602700222008-11-27T19:31:00.000-08:002008-11-27T19:36:30.561-08:00A British Envoy Arrives in Loch AvieSteelhead Adventures/Return to Fusang<br /><br />Private Journal Entry<br />Head, MI-5<br /><br />I was sitting in my private offices in Taigh Róis late one afternoon working through the many files requiring my attention, and preparing to write several letters when my assistant knocked on the door asking if I would receive one Lord Lloyd George of Her Majesty Queen Victoria's Intelligence Agency. She presented his card for my inspection: First Earl of Dwyfor.<br /><br />"Welshman," I thought to myself, and began recalling through the few phrases of Welsh that I was still able to credibly pronounce.<br /><br />"Do tell His Lordship that I will join him momentarily. And please brew a pot of the Earl Grey Supreme for us."<br /><br />I freshened myself and descended the stairs. Taking in the gentleman: moderate build, receeding hairline, teeth in need of some repair, impeccably dressed and an air of superiority oozing from his pores.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwapf7O3d3ryF-xq9pPFSwBjApagm9J-py6WQMrcJyfRsk2UvqSGWCcJoSA8jLk3a4e7dwfPRSXMG_IYE92yeKYS_viJnXtuFlkckhxbHKm9KjuvjGixDo_6NqZyf0R6fGTr0tz85sYOm/s1600-h/Ambassador+Fusang+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwapf7O3d3ryF-xq9pPFSwBjApagm9J-py6WQMrcJyfRsk2UvqSGWCcJoSA8jLk3a4e7dwfPRSXMG_IYE92yeKYS_viJnXtuFlkckhxbHKm9KjuvjGixDo_6NqZyf0R6fGTr0tz85sYOm/s320/Ambassador+Fusang+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273506533339187074" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"Da bnawn , 'm Naf Dwyfor. At beth gwna Fi ddylu hon anrhydedda?"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Good afternoon, My Lord Dwyfor. To what do I owe this honor?"</span><br /><br />"'r anrhydedda ydy pawb chloddia , 'ch Gras. Gobeithia Ca 'ch bydew." He responded<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"The honor is all mine, Your Grace. I hope I find you well."</span><br /><br />I seated him in the parlor off the main ballroom and served the tea. A few pleasantries being passed, he jumped straight to the chase.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpacm2PU7O7ZjJyWFiooipqN53igVfpmbRIpBXxePiu4yGZ_xslxtCH_TSB24VxXsn2y0O90JhZ-VBTiexcFWyURmQP2Un0ukKivH2FTU8pozv4myNhUjEBBRYoU7wLrivUgUXNQXnoJgw/s1600-h/Ambassador+Fusang.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpacm2PU7O7ZjJyWFiooipqN53igVfpmbRIpBXxePiu4yGZ_xslxtCH_TSB24VxXsn2y0O90JhZ-VBTiexcFWyURmQP2Un0ukKivH2FTU8pozv4myNhUjEBBRYoU7wLrivUgUXNQXnoJgw/s320/Ambassador+Fusang.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273504519945875682" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"As head of this small country's intelligence agency, I am sure that you are aware of the current crisis in the Fusang region of the Celestial Kingdom."<br /><br />I nodded.<br /><br />"I am sure that you are also aware the our government has for some time been working in the region, but I shall not divulge the full resources or operations details."<br /><br />"Yes, Lord Lloyd, Her Majesty has informed me in the past of such things that interest her in the region."<br /><br />He sniffed, took a breath and said, "Then I will thank you to kindly remove the amateurs from Caledon who are upsetting the delicate plan regarding the army of progressive peace."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjbTvTKHaAFhp5otbkEeFJnVTnWzQMXFtCiZpOx9ZUHP9kqS39IM2hq1ppQiEw0asA9ve066Imq6r2UnR-kTHM4WC-ltx-07d7JbpZeF37KFwPQGXYplQkqe0qslSwOjRlGj3KOQXef9B/s1600-h/Ambassador+Fusang+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjbTvTKHaAFhp5otbkEeFJnVTnWzQMXFtCiZpOx9ZUHP9kqS39IM2hq1ppQiEw0asA9ve066Imq6r2UnR-kTHM4WC-ltx-07d7JbpZeF37KFwPQGXYplQkqe0qslSwOjRlGj3KOQXef9B/s320/Ambassador+Fusang+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273506715159904418" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"Amateurs?!" I questioned intensely, but softly.<br /><br />As he nodded I reminded him that my agent did not choose to be kidnapped.<br /><br />"Why then, you should simply be prepared to disavow him. For if you know anything about The Great Game, young lady, you will understand that this is how it is played. Agents who cannot be managed - who cannot be trusted to stay out of the way, must simply be moved out of the way. No sentimentality. No softness."<br /><br />I arched a delicate brow.<br /><br />"But perhaps you are too young to understand this, and being female... Well I can see that this may be too difficult for you to understand, I could certainly assist you in making the plans for such a thing. Why I could even...."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfN8_br_6bM6gIx95Knjmcq9xNqxWXemh4g8T_WdwfBnnsZStWXGr-nSkTQVqElyGx208vwb4nsy-wB4r-PrV_bTFGblAGZohhRfRjKvITwWNkSmxlkhKnK9uGGjMfXqN5NPLedRvUjTcK/s1600-h/Ambassador+Fusang+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 293px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfN8_br_6bM6gIx95Knjmcq9xNqxWXemh4g8T_WdwfBnnsZStWXGr-nSkTQVqElyGx208vwb4nsy-wB4r-PrV_bTFGblAGZohhRfRjKvITwWNkSmxlkhKnK9uGGjMfXqN5NPLedRvUjTcK/s320/Ambassador+Fusang+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273506967522704322" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"Lord Lloyd!" I interrupted cooly. "YOU have greatly facilitated this entire mess with your Wards and your Gordons. Your armour. YOUR æroplanes. YOUR tinpot dictators. You should be grateful that our small nation is even willing to help salvage your chestnuts from the fire."<br /><br />"Hmmmph," he grumbled like a great walrus beached on a distant northern shore. "WE already have operatives on the scene. And your operatives in the region trying to save this O'Toole and whatever else your little minds might have thought about trying - should stay out of our way. We cannot guarantee your agents' safe passage."<br /><br />Calmly and cooly I looked directly into his eyes, leaning slightly onto the table between us. "My operatives, sir, are taught to fend for themselves."<br /><br />"I remind you, Dwyfor, that Caledon and some of her allies, being smaller countries, are uniquely able to have a lower profile in the region, and should be of benefit to Her Majesty's efforts. Fortunately, O'Toole's situation seems completely unrelated to MI-5, Caledon, or England, sir. And I will see that he is safely home."<br /><br />"Now that you have finished your tea, I shall see you to the door, sir. I believe that you have said all you came to say. Rather than trusting a letter to Victoria through your delivery, I shall send through my normal <span style="font-style: italic;">secure</span> channels."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBaV7DtTXJjtOePdTTK64dzsCbHVtTFTSLl_n6qKR9egkuAmLi_EtOjNmk3BLWHgxjVWB2wFnKILfMviwUUs4HOOYK5Q7C2nm1eirgNTSvC3IAxWVteZMuiTTI3jbjJxrnlPECMbyT5KP/s1600-h/Ambassador+Fusang+5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBaV7DtTXJjtOePdTTK64dzsCbHVtTFTSLl_n6qKR9egkuAmLi_EtOjNmk3BLWHgxjVWB2wFnKILfMviwUUs4HOOYK5Q7C2nm1eirgNTSvC3IAxWVteZMuiTTI3jbjJxrnlPECMbyT5KP/s320/Ambassador+Fusang+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273507215833395586" border="0" /></a><br />The door closed.<br /><br />Good Lord what an insolent little man.<br /><br />"Your Grace?"<br /><br />"What is it, agent?"<br /><br />"Some slides and a memo that may interest you."<br /><br />I retired to my offices once again.<br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Your Grace. The Steam Lemur is functioning beautifully as you can see.<br /><br />We have found him. He is alive, but entirely recalcitrant. You did not warn me of the possibility that he might refuse exfiltration!<br /><br /></span> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1TGU0g1z-XW8bGeQgdXZdDVt5lZTaH5YAz4EEktORbCNXjfyAmR7M9tgparNxmIFvXjveWo8RhKKiCTVmgP5cp9WUOsM_BmN1k16E08GOqCO_LPxzdBOTHM-JnQGLfj0-gU-rs_1l0Ks/s1600-h/Shea_013.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 305px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1TGU0g1z-XW8bGeQgdXZdDVt5lZTaH5YAz4EEktORbCNXjfyAmR7M9tgparNxmIFvXjveWo8RhKKiCTVmgP5cp9WUOsM_BmN1k16E08GOqCO_LPxzdBOTHM-JnQGLfj0-gU-rs_1l0Ks/s320/Shea_013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273541874819560274" border="0" /></a><br />He was not pleased with my suggestion for removing him from Celestial Kingdom.<br /><br /></span> </div> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqti7F9v-S5L1dou1mzLoiHfFsQHCfcs2jAmUiTJ1Sx6ba__DPP8uayK-fzD_lt6m0NuYKzz9BXuRc0b6dRjhzZIHy1TXacVcWZxEDTUEZVQXIIDSEzayS-8x_svH_tcgLCAAORWVTHMQb/s1600-h/Shea_014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqti7F9v-S5L1dou1mzLoiHfFsQHCfcs2jAmUiTJ1Sx6ba__DPP8uayK-fzD_lt6m0NuYKzz9BXuRc0b6dRjhzZIHy1TXacVcWZxEDTUEZVQXIIDSEzayS-8x_svH_tcgLCAAORWVTHMQb/s320/Shea_014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273542467840504402" border="0" /></a><br />Reasoning did not good whatsoever.<br /></span> </div> <span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVWooRhG5qnWzBfwYGG1TGyJxxvHRuGDRV0YsLnHhH5pUuaAlCpsU-HehiKylRfET9AJTky8ZG0hu45cMPVTvt_1i3M9pRNeWG-z3XB-2I9Ih2Z-awyTWp3tyklZVGMOWM3d7gHTPfB-C/s1600-h/Shea_018.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVWooRhG5qnWzBfwYGG1TGyJxxvHRuGDRV0YsLnHhH5pUuaAlCpsU-HehiKylRfET9AJTky8ZG0hu45cMPVTvt_1i3M9pRNeWG-z3XB-2I9Ih2Z-awyTWp3tyklZVGMOWM3d7gHTPfB-C/s320/Shea_018.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273542855140672930" border="0" /></a><br /></span> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxqNT-eWraDijEwvOQCRhVN9qzRmwF-lYYhYyVCb8TJM101rwChjUpVgOiSK_vJmDdf4NAJhpIfa_YNspVPhya_zr7Q9sowhO3kHTLxog6zAV0rvEVoTB8AMiPfZmpWW4yrBTZKlN2db1/s1600-h/Shea_016.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxqNT-eWraDijEwvOQCRhVN9qzRmwF-lYYhYyVCb8TJM101rwChjUpVgOiSK_vJmDdf4NAJhpIfa_YNspVPhya_zr7Q9sowhO3kHTLxog6zAV0rvEVoTB8AMiPfZmpWW4yrBTZKlN2db1/s320/Shea_016.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273543138255767698" border="0" /></a><br />He was much in earnest. Until I receive further orders, Your Grace, I shall stay with O'Toole - the only way to ensure his eventual extraction, ma'am.</span></div> </blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"> ***<br />I sigh and and frown a little. "Heroics again, O'Toole?"<br /><br />Yes. Yes, of course.<br /><br />I draw the silver pen from it's place on my desk, find the ink, and begin my orders to LaFevre...</span>Eva Bellambihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15302724705163071907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-5981597399880974772008-11-23T09:56:00.000-08:002008-11-23T10:07:27.559-08:00Space: 1889 The Steppes of Thoth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.space1889.com/products/images_space1889/space1889_02_cover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://www.space1889.com/products/images_space1889/space1889_02_cover.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />A slight diversion, one that will be welcomed, I trust.<br /><br />This is the start of an infrequent posting from SPACE 1889: The Steppes of Thoth audio play from one of YHN's favorite RP settings of all time, SPACE: 1889 from GDW Inc.<br /><br /><blockquote>In Syrtis Major's corridors of power, a threat to the British Empire's dominion over Mars is close to discovery, and Governor-General Sir Henry Routledge faces ruin if it ever comes to light.<br /><br />In the wilderness of the Thoth Steppes, enemy powers, savage tribesmen and even nature herself bar the way to the wreckage of a lost Ether Flyer, and the secrets it hides.<br /><br />For Captain Roger St. John Ffolkes, it is a mission he cannot refuse; for the adventuress Georgina Golightly, a journey that will risk all - and for Mars, it is the chance to save a world...or ignite a war.<br /><br />Everything Jules Verne should have written.<br />Everything H.G. Wells could have written.<br />Everything Arthur Conan Doyle thought of, but never published -<br />because it was too fantastic.<br /><br />Space 1889 - Scientific Romance from Noise Monster Productions</blockquote><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fDc-xqgTv-U&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fDc-xqgTv-U&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-8959773442725624432008-11-18T17:19:00.000-08:002008-11-19T05:58:16.776-08:00Return to Fusang: Headlong Flight<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXtLCaN1y5af8F9_7tTl7QaVUHbVROE8lTNoekXBDF9PtWfoiFryfbvWvMQrFtXmvH38gEy4I5OsN8YcebwI7EZLePxzME1KFDlfl40WNXdEUPXaAfBaj0NX9ixP5YjH6uG1E4Bx2PQ1w/s1600-h/horseneg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXtLCaN1y5af8F9_7tTl7QaVUHbVROE8lTNoekXBDF9PtWfoiFryfbvWvMQrFtXmvH38gEy4I5OsN8YcebwI7EZLePxzME1KFDlfl40WNXdEUPXaAfBaj0NX9ixP5YjH6uG1E4Bx2PQ1w/s320/horseneg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270188450539622258" border="0" /></a><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/11/return-to-fusang-russian-and-german.html">Continues From..</a> | <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://koenthekat.blogspot.com/2008/11/steelhead-adventures-journey-to-fusang.html">Meanwhile..</a> |<a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://fuzzball-ortega.blogspot.com/2008/11/steelhead-adventures-journey-to-fusang_17.html"> Meanwhile...</a><br /><br />The mare is in fine shape; she speeds down the reverse slope of the pass where the Land Dragon had stopped for the night, bullets starting to whisk by us right and left.. one of them coming uncomfortably close, plucking at my sleeve. It does nobody any good to ruminate on bullets. When they find you, they find you. Besides, the mare is a dark grey color, and so are my Chinese peasant clothes. I doubt the cavalrymen are doing anything more than frantically pursuing their decamped horses and firing wildly into the night<br /><br />I do not grieve <a href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/11/return-to-fusang-russian-and-german.html">Ignatieff's death</a>; I'm not in the slightest bit shaken about the moral implications of taking his life-- he was dangerous, fanatical and absolutely ruthless. He would not shy away from killing ME were our positions reversed. The boy soldier fumbling with his rifle, though, the fear in his face... that will bother me for a long time, I suspect. I must shake that thought away, and maintain the fury for a while longer... long enough to get me to a place of safety. Moral pondering will weaken the Fury almost immediately. I know, instinctively (for there is no science to the berserk), that I had not had nearly enough bodily essence (what the scientists are now calling metabolic energy) to maintain the berserk for very long-- a steady diet of rice and fish scraps will only take you so far. I am keenly aware I am in a race against time.. my hands are already shaking with adrenalin quivers.<br /><br />At the bottom of the mountain trail the railroad cut disappears, although the foundation for a railroad bed spreads out before me pointing in an almost perfectly straight line towards Fusang.. German engineering again. Clearly the Fusang engineers wished to tackle the harder part of the task first, and are busy dynamiting and grading the cut through the mountains, no matter how many slaves they kill doing it. The railroad bed is fine, pulverized rock and packed dirt; my little mare hardly makes a dent in it. Perfect for hiding the trail-- long enough to throw off pursuit. I had no doubts about the inevitability of pursuit-- a Celestial Kingdom cavalry unit can be quite proficient under the right leadership, and I know it would be reformed shortly (if it wasn't already) and the pursuit would be on. They fear the consequences of failure far too much. <span style="font-style:italic;">Tsk Tsk..</span> is <span style="font-style:italic;">this</span> any way to run an army?<br /><br />Five <span style="font-style:italic;">Li</span> of riding along the railroad bed and the trees open up on either side to reveal a wide field full of untended <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sorghum">sorghum</a> plants. I smell the corpse-stink long before I see the pathetic group of bodies at the side of the railroad bed. Had they tended these fields? Had they objected to a railroad being built by strangers running straight through it? Perhaps a necromancer could find out, but I will never know.<br /><br />I pull off the railroad bed and ride South and East now, trying to cover tracks as best I may.. through the fields of sorghum. I have been riding for an hour and a half, and the fury has left, and the withdrawal is coming on full force. Hands and feet shaking, vision dimming.. I manage to get the mare to the edge of the forest before falling off... flopping about in a fit like an epileptic fakir, in pain and nausea. I raise myself to my hands and knees, feeling the welling up of toxins inside me.. and I vomit, copiously, again and again. The Fury must be fed, or the price is somewhat dire-- the rage eats <span style="font-style:italic;">you</span> instead, and this malaise and sickness always ensues as the body seeks to rid itself of the toxic effluvia of rage. I blank out as the pain from the bayonet wound suddenly reasserts itself. My normal nervous system has returned-- My eyes are blue again, I am down to my normal size, and I cannot ignore pain any more. I grunt, a broken finger shouldn't be nearly as distracting but for some reason I'm aware of it more than the wound in my side. I look down at my left hand, covered in blood, holding my steadily bleeding side. This wouldn't do. I stagger up to my feet... the mare is still there, cropping sorghum plants placidly, appreciating the down time after the long run. I mumble something that must sound soothing, her ears flick away at flies calmly. I put one arm around the mare's neck and walk her a bit.. where there is a field, there is a hut. Another corpse is by the door, in an advanced state of putrescence. I walk through the fly cloud (some of which take an unhealthy interest in the blood flowing out of my side), and look about the hut. Not much is here.. overturned baskets, grain larder taken.. the floor dug up to look for the typical cache of meager coins the family managed to save. I am astonished to see even <a href="http://www.artasiagallery.com/ourmuseum.html">the ancestral statues</a> are looted. My heart sinks for the unknown owners of this house. Even the worst of the worst would not dare the wrath of heaven in the Celestial Kingdom by committing this worst of all atrocities.<br /><br />I doubt the Fusangs would loot the kitchen, and a quick glance shows that aside from breaking such crockery as they had, they had not done much here. Looking through my nameless benefactor's herb collection, I find what I'm looking for: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Achillea_millefolium">Achillea millefolium</a>, commonly called bloodwort or yarrow. My eyes are swimming a bit now but I manage to make a poultice from an herb paste of bloodwort, charcoal, and a little wild honey. Yes, honey. I don't trust the water here one bit. First, I sew the wound with one of her precious sewing needle collection, which she had stuck in the curtain in a neat little row. Clever woman! May angels speed thee to thy rest! comes unbidden into my brain. The poultice is the work of minutes, bound tight with ripped pieces of cloth from the mattress ticking (already slashed with bayonets). As I work, I look out the window from time to time.. no pursuit yet. Tsk.. surely I hadn't shaken off their pursuit this easily. I shall be revising my view of their cavalry soon.<br /><br />A few more valuable minutes.. binding and splinting my left little finger, which is now a swollen agony. At least it's my left hand. As I leave, I turn and painfully bow three times in the direction of the niche where the ancestor statues are supposed to be. Nobody is alive to be honored any more, but I feel as if *something* should be done to thank my nameless farm wife, who, all unknowing, has helped me far more than she could ever realize. It hurts to walk, and isn't going to be a treat to ride, either. But I suspect I have lost my valuable lead time now.. the Sun is just beginning to silver the edge of the horizon, and I do not wish to anywhere out in an open field by daylight. As I painfully attempt to mount the mare, I hear the first of the far-off Chinese voices punctuated by a weird, ululating cry. Fight, Flight, or Hide? <span style="font-style:italic;">Fight</span>: not recommended.. I can barely stand up, my side is imperfectly stitched, and I'm still sickened in the aftermath of the Fury. <span style="font-style:italic;">Flight</span> is possible, but I don't relish riding in the open anywhere near the Fusang Immortals. They look proficient enough with those carbines. <span style="font-style:italic;">Hide</span>, then. There's enough time to hide with the little mare in the hayrick out behind the hut. Painfully, I climb to the top of the rick and lay down. The view is excellent-- I'm laying on a pile of moldering hay sighting down the railroad bed. Far off, I see a small troop of cavalry approaching. Only ten of them? No, 9.. plus an odd figure that is running ahead of them, close to the ground. That's about 8 more than I can manage in this state. They must have lost my trail and split up to cover a wide search pattern.<br /><br />I slide down to the ground, and carefully untie the mare and walk her to the woods edge. At this point, the sounds of the approaching cavalry are very near. I hear excited exclamations in Mandarin with more of the strange whoops and howls. They have spotted something.. of course, blood. DAMMIT.. I forgot. They've been following a blood trail-- that strange figure, it's so familiar. Of course! A Lycan! The Celestial Kingdom <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huli_jing">is crawling with both kinds</a>-- of course Fusang would have some in their employ. I can't believe I made such a stupid mistake. They will be at the farmer's hut in minutes. Already I can just make out the first of them coming through the edge of the sorghum field. <span style="font-style:italic;">FLIGHT</span> then! I lead the mare into the trees and painfully mount up, moving out on a walk. There's no trail, but the forest grove is thin here, opening up to another field to the South, planted with some form of grain I don't recognize. Spurring the mare now, I bring her to a light canter, ever jolt a bit of fire in the side.. there are dense woods farther off.. dammit, I will be in view for a substantial distance. Perhaps they will not look this way. mmm hmmmm... Nothing for it, then, I lean over the mare's neck (excellent, uncomplaining creature! There are oats in your future!) and lay it on for all it is worth. She flies through the field, exalting at the chance to run. I hold on for dear life, crouched low over her mane. From back at the tree line, I hear the yelps of Fusangs again, they have espied my fleeing form. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! bullets whiizzzzz by, uncomfortably close. Nobody is a crack marksman with a carbine on horseback, no matter what.. the far edge of of field looms closer, closer. I hear the CRACK CRACK CRACK of rifle fire, again. This time, is it my imagination, or am I hearing it on two sides? Have I been flanked? <span style="font-style: italic;">Dear lord.</span>.. I crash through the wood's edge at the far side of the clearing.. the tree branches are very low here.. suddenly, I feel a tremendous clout to the head, I see the ground approaching quickly, then, darkness.<br /><br />I have awakened with a cracked skull in many a dicey spot in the past. This is an unfortunate hallmark of my profession. Occasionally, I have awakened to have a weapon pointed at me. This was what I was expecting when I came to, an unknown amount of time later. Instead I found myself gazing into the ape-ugly, grinning face of Kasukalan Tauhan. I never could get my brain wrapped around Tagalog, but his intentions are clear-- he is wrapping a bandage around my throbbing head. Pu Ying and Small Shang are behind him, grinning. I sit up. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Ying! Shang! Father of Fakers! It was a ruse!"</span> Ying grins. "<span style="font-style: italic;">We work for Long Noses from the Iron Boat at the mouth of the Yalu. They pay many yuen for us to spy on Fusang, join army, tell them what Dragon who Waits does. You work for Long Noses, too, no? Or has Father Ward sent you from heaven?" </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"What about the cavalry, Ying?" </span><br /><br />He gestures with his rifle. At the clearing's edge, hanging upside down, are ten bodies, stripped of clothing and accouterments.<br /><br />I shudder a bit. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Ying! we don't treat the enemy this way!"</span><br /><br />He frowns, and points behind him.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I do not, Banner Chief (using my old EVA title). But they do."</span><br /><br />I had not noticed it, my brain was so fuzzy from riding full tilt into a tree branch. There is a small crowd here. Men and women, all of a certain type.. dull black clothes, mixed in with discarded Fusang uniforms, wielding recently liberated carbines, bandoleers, swords, shotguns. A very ugly crowd. <a href="http://www.china.org.cn/images/24200.jpg">Nieng Bandits</a>.. answerable to nobody. They were a plague in the side of the EVA back in the old days. They must be a plague in the side of Fusang, now, judging from all the captured Fusang weaponry I am seeing.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Their leader, Hai'zi, wishes to speak with you"</span><br /><br />A rather rotund Chinese man approaches. Unlike his rather evil looking counterparts he seems big, healthy, cheerful.. a veritable Buddha. Unlike almost any Chinese man I have met, he seizes my hand and pumps it vigorously, Western style, a large smile on his face.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I am Hai'zi" </span><br /><br />I sound this out in my head... it is Cantonese for...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Child?"</span><br /><br />He laughs. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Close enough. I am the Bandit Leader the Fusangs call "Big Baby Yao"</span>. His English is remarkably good.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Schooled in the West, perhaps?" </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Indeed! Two years divinity school, <a href="http://www.tcd.ie/Religions_Theology/news/index_publiclectures.php">Trinity College, Dublin</a>!"</span><br /><br />My facial expression must be comical for he laughs loud and long.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"You marvel at it being such a small world, Colonel! I sometimes do work for British Intelligence, which has a headquarters on the <a href="http://www.battleships-cruisers.co.uk/images/lge0134_hmssylvia.jpg">HMS Pigeon</a>, at the mouth of the Yalu. What my colleagues here call the Long Nose Iron Boat. You have caused quite a stir, sir!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I have? I didn't know anyone knew I was gone!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh, rather! Inquiries from the Pinkerton Agency. From the British Government. From a small intelligence unit named "Caledon MI-5" whatever that might be. Your presence here is like the pebble dropping into a still pond.. the ripples spread ever outward... touching many, perhaps, who knows, toppling Empires?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"How did you end up... here...?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Let us say... I chose to, and leave it at that. Now, you might do me a favor, Colonel."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Anything in my power, of course."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"This group of partisans (NOT Bandits, despite appearances) are quite suspicious. They think you are the reincarnation of the Devil Soldier, or his son. You know these types. Would you speak with them, please? I don't wish for any misunderstandings.. they could be fatal."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Certainly, er.. what do you wish for me to say?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Tell them who you are and why you are here, please"</span><br /><br />I stood on my (rather wobbly) feet. One of the bandits rushed to give me a flask of tea, which I gulped from. My imperfect Mandarin would have to do.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Hear me, friends. I am Banner Chief O'Toole, who fought with the Devil Soldier in days of old. I fought with Ward and I would not fight with Burgrevine</span> (many present spat at that unlucky name)<span style="font-style: italic;">, so I left the Celestial Kingdom as my enemies had grown many and were endangering the Ever Victorious Army. I have fought in many wars since, in many places. Now I have returned, not as the reincarnation of Ward </span>(At this, many downcast eyes)<span style="font-style: italic;">, nor as his or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_George_Gordon">Gordon's son</a>. In truth, I came to the Celestial Kingdom uninvited. Now that I am here, I will make this promise. I am here to see H'sieh Lieng </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">dead</span><span style="font-style: italic;">. That is one man who has stayed above the ground far longer than his time. I will accept no other outcome. I have said my piece."</span> I stand with my arms crossed.<br /><br />The cheers in that small clearing are very gratifying, but perhaps too loud. They may draw attention from unseen quarters.<br /><br />I must have a prescient streak, for as the cheers died down, I heard another clear English voice say (in a pronounced Southern accent)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Why, I am delighted to hear that, suh! We may be walking the same path after all!" </span><br /><br />Into the clearing strides a strange man, a Caucasian-- tall and lean, ruddy of face, with dark hair and eyes. Alongside him is a strange were-creature, unlike anything I've ever seen. A raccoon? Too big for that.. and very strange eyes. And the sad little village healer from Hanxiang! I glance back at the man, frowning in puzzlement.. He seems familiar. I realized where I had seen him before! I had dreamed of this stranger in a fit of delirium, some nights ago! His eyes are gesturing.. to his raised hands (an excellent precaution, as 30 Nien rifles are at this moment pointing at him). Suddenly I realize what he is doing-- he is bringing my attention to his fingers. They are flashing the Caledon MI-5 recognition sign!Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-38016824857590173272008-11-15T21:42:00.000-08:002008-11-18T08:09:56.667-08:00Return to Fusang: The Russian and the GermanConnected <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/10/return-to-fusang-in-which-march-of.html">HERE</a> | <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/11/first-report-from-celestial-kingdom.html">Meanwhile</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span> | <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://fuzzball-ortega.blogspot.com/2008/11/steelhead-adventures-journey-to-fusang.html">Meanwhile</a>...<br /><br />I stand in the doorway of the Go-Down, mouth agape in confusion, hands still manacled with chains, being very careful to disguise the fact that I understand Russian. I took the crash course they had given Indian hands at the training center at Lucknow, but never rose to the level of conversational. Later, I had sat in on the Grafina's "sack lunch Russian" series at MI-5 headquarters, but I'm afraid they were far too pedantic for my feeble attainments.<br /><br />Who, then, is this chap, and what brings him here from the other side of Asia,<span style="font-style: italic;"> hmmm?</span> he stands, squinting at me. A tall chap, thin blonde hair, a sour face with slavic eyes. I note with a start that he possesses an interesting half brown and half blue "gotch eye". That settles that, I have never met the man before. He has a memorable look. He looks me up and down. I fear I am not too prepossesing at the moment. "войдите бак, англичанина, мы имейте длиннее путешествие вперед" he rasps (which is: "<span style="font-style: italic;">enter the tank, Englishman, we have a long journey ahead</span>"). I don't rise to the "Englishman" insult, but continue to look affable and stupid. It works on Russians.<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">See here, fellow.. what the DEVIL is a Russian doing here, of all places in this forsaken wilderness?</span>" I say, trying to play the imperious card. He jumps down from the steamtank and slowly walks up to inspect me, removing his gloves.<br /><br />In heavily accented English, he says:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Ai aym <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicholas_Pavlovich_Ignatiev">Count Nicholas Pavlovich Ignatief </a>of the Tsar's Semioysky Regiment, Anglishmann. You are moy prisoner, and you will accumpanye me to Foosang in the Land Dragon. Ai have read your dossier, Colonel, and ai aym given to understand you are known to be resourceful. Do NOT attempt an escape, Colonel, such an attempt will surely spell your death."</span><br /><br />"I am NO Englishman, sir! I am Irish by birth, Caledonian by adoption. I suspect your dossier is faulty! And what is a Russki doing out here in China, anyway?"<br /><br />He signals. The local Fusang Army captain pulls the chains up, holding my arms behind my back, painfully. Ignatieff slowly lights a reedy cigarette, one of those foul Turkish kind, and inserts it into a cigarette holder.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Ferst of all, Colonel, let us define the terms of thiss relationzhip." </span> He sucks in on the cigarette, making the tip glow red, and blows smoke in my face, making me choke and splutter. Swiftly, he grabs my throat with one iron hand, holds my head up, and burns my left cheekbone with the tip of the cigarette.. The pain is intense, causing me to thrash hard enough against the Fusang Captain to cause him to call for another guard excitedly.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Now, filth.. this is how it goez, yes? You are prisoner. I am jailer. I ask questions, you answer, yes?"</span> Waving cigarette close to eyes. <span style="font-style: italic;">"What I tell you, that is what I choose for you to know, yes?"</span> closer. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "Yes?"</span> Furiously, I nod.<br /><br />Alas for the plans of mice and men, this is the moment when the enterprising Fusang captain discovers that the chains below my wrists are substantially weakened. Much hullaballo and high speed dialogue in Mandarin. the Chinese cavalry dismount, and six of them are instructed to draw a bead on me with their rifles, as the chains are exchanged for new ones. In the crowd behind them, I see my old comrades Small Shang and Pu Ying. Our eyes lock as they are hammering the rivets on the new chain. Small Shang nods. It was he that planted the knife. I very subtly nod back to him.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Colonel, you will enter zhe Land Dragon, walk to the right gun sponson, and Captain Engels will lock you to the gun chassis. If you attempt enhee shenaniganz, I will shoot not only you, but everyone left alive in this village. Are we quite clear on this?"</span><br /><br />I nod, glaring. I will not put a village to risk by my actions. Ignatieff, the bastard, certainly is the kind of man who will do exactly what he says. The dour Fusang cavalrymen ("Fusang Immortals", they are called) give me a hand up to the roof of the giant land-machine. Dropping into the roof hatch, I am expecting a gloomy dark interior, which isn't a surprise. What I wasn't expecting was a long drawn out curse in the German language, with colorful biological and religious metaphor. Inside the Land Dragon, there is another European, clearly of Germanic origin. The originator of the salutation is a dark visaged, bearded, powerful individual of medium height. Much of his face is obscured by large green goggles. He stands up, making an imperious heel click salute, which ended with him pranging his head on the low ceiling.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"I haff the Honor of beingk Hauptmann <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friedrich_Engels">Friederich Engels,</a> Imperial Prussian Army, on extended detached duty to the Prince of Fusang. You may call me.. Fred". </span><br /><br />As he stuck out a paw grimy with grease. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Colonel Hotspur O'Toole, First Caledon Lancers", I reply stiffly, wiping my hand surreptitiously on my peasant smock. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Erm, ja, I know dat. Now, I vill chain you to the right gun, rechtig? Make no trouble, Anglander, dot's a gut fellow"</span><br /><br />I nod.. my right arm is held painfully up, and chain is cuffed to the steel gun frame.. I try it. This is no rusty old freighter. I look around the interior of the compartment. The Land Dragon is a long rectangle of rhomboidal aspect, with a moving circle of steel plates transversing a system of rolling wheels causing traction, much like steam tractors. A small, but powerful steam plant in the back appears to be the domain of the coveralled Hauptmann Engels. There is a small room forward for the Dragon commander to steer the dragon in, and command the gunfire. Apparently Ignatief pilots the Dragon from there. There are two powerful 37mm guns on sponsons right and left of the central rectangle, plus a rapid fire weapon up front. The gun sponsons remind me of dreadnought guns on a ship... a Landship, in this case.<br /><br />I settle down, making myself as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. The chain to the gun is tight. My face hurts.. my ribs are only half healed yet. I grimace to myself.. <span style="font-style: italic;">"no heroics, O'Toole. False heroics are the enemy of clear analysis!"</span> I can still hear the Duchesses' ringing voice reprimanding me so long ago.<br /><br />So, time to analyze. If my sense of the map is clear, Fusang is at least two days away overland, perhaps more. These beasts do not move swiftly from what I know of them. And we will be going up a slope, probably along the railroad cut. What do I know now? He still wants me alive for some reason. This seems very elaborate for simple revenge. What does he have in mind? Unknown. Why the Russian? Why the German? Easy enough. Prussian Krupp Guns and Krag Rifles. Russian narrow gauge railway engineering, light cavalry tactics. And this remarkable copy of <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/worldwars/wwone/nonflash_tank.shtml">the English Mark V landship</a>. Why would the Kaiser and Tsar detach men to come here, then? What would they have to gain?<br /><br />I realize that my old masters in the Horse Guards would be grinding their teeth to find out some of these secrets. But I resigned that commission in India. Still... a Chinese army, with these weapons of war? Led by a madman? This could be a major threat... The English should be told. Maybe the Yanks, too. And certainly MI-5. Hmmm.. to attempt it would be foolhardy in the extreme. A death sentence. Yes, surely. Ah dash it all.. who am I kidding? Of course I'll try to get away. Sorry, Duchess. It will be cheap heroics after all.<br /><br />The engine sound is loud and roaring; the entire compartment vibrates and shakes alarmingly.. slowly, the tracks rotate around the edge of the conveyance. The Landship sways back and forth, and starts to move.. I shake my head in the darkness. What will these whizzo chaps think of next? I really should file a report with the Guvnah about this thing. If the Celestial Kingdom can copy it, surely we coudl in Caledon. I could see Somme's reaction. <span style="font-style: italic;">"And give up HORSES, man? Are you MAD?"</span><br /><br />The trip is slow, and rather dull. The heat in the engine compartment grows oppressive. I talk with Fred from time to time. Unlike that cold-hearted bastard Ignatieff, he seems like a pleasant blockhead, and unlike most Prussians I know. Sure, he's a Captain in an Engineering Company, but not a Ritter or a blue blood. His mutterings about historical materialism and "der alienation uf der working class" whenever Ignatieff would shout down an imperious order or two in Russian accented German were certainly puzzling.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"So Fred, what is the story behind Russian and Prussian military advisors out here in the back of beyond? Are the Kaiser and the Tsar in bed with each other then?"</span><br /><br />I'll say this about Fred; he has a sense of duty. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"Dot is nun of yur business, Anglander. Ve go vere our leaders tell us to. Und der Kaiser has sent me out here to advance the Foosang regime.</span>"<br /><br />Ah well, a dutiful blockhead, but still likeable for some reason. He's a bit like a male version of Tombola, if she spoke Prussian.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"What about Ignatieff? He doesn't seem like your sort."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Ach, he is.. er.. how you call it, one evil bastard. He hass been out here for 23 years, working with Chinese warlords against the English, French and Yankees."</span><br /><br />Now that was interesting. Perhaps a long term alliance with Lieng, eh? I never saw him back in the day, but that does not mean he wasn't here.<br /><br />Fred loosens his collar and opens the side sponson doors to let the air in. The air inside the compartment grows less close. I lean my head out the door a bit to catch some air. We are advancing up a very narrow valley where the railroad cut was being hewed out of the mountain by a veritable horde of laborers.. my nose wrinkles at the charnel stink of the valley. Hundreds of peasants are here, breaking rocks with picks, moving rubble with baskets.. men, women, children, elders, engaged in slave labor of the foulest kind. Suddenly, I knew why there weren't any people in the riverside villages the last time I had come up the Yalu in search of Chiang. They are all here now, building a railroad for Fusang's Army. The corpses line the railway cut, bloating in the sunshine where they fall.<br /><br />The day passes, I chat with Fred now and then. We take a break or two to do a brewup and to attend to bodily needs. The Chinese cavalry follows behind the Land Dragon, seemingly impatient to be loping along so slowly while keeping pace with the machine. By nightfall, we were at a point I would consider a third of the way to the Capital, up in the desolate mountain range between the Yalu and the Pei-Yang. Apparently Ignatieff thinks the way is too treacherous up here for the Land Dragon to operate in pitch darkness, so we camp for the night. Ignatieff and Engels converse with each other, and they gesture for a cavalryman to haul me out of the Land Dragon for a meal. Again, a small squad point rifles at me to prevent escape, while I am treated to a decent helping of rice and some meat of some sort. I stretch next to the fire while I eat, being glad to have room to uncramp my legs. I could use more red meat, dammit. I will need it for what will happen next.<br /><br />Ignatieff coldly ignores me. Fred sits next to me, checking the chains briefly, then, looking somewhat abashed from a withering glare from Ignatieff, moves off to sit by himself, muttering in German. I drink the weak Chinese tea by the pot load.. I've been lightheaded for a while now, a state I attribute to dehydration. After I am finished, Ignatieff gestures to the Cavalry sergeant major and I am pulled back inside the Land Dragon for the evening. We'll see about that. I am chained to the sponson, as before Gradually the night sounds diminish as the soldiers doss down for the night. From the sounds of it, Fred and Ignatieff are sleeping on the roof.<br /><br />Good, very good indeed. I flex my muscles against the steel-- it is hard and unyielding.. I pull harder, slapping my face hard to bring the possession on me.. reach down deep, there's a feller.. bring on the battle madness. harder.. <span style="font-style: italic;">harder...</span><br /><br />I feel the blood pumping in my veins... faster and faster.. my breathing is great gasps of air.. as I <span style="font-style: italic;">pulll pullllll PULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL... YES!! YESS! IT IS UPON ME! THE RAGE!!! KILLLL!!! </span>With a noisy wrench, the chain parts at the wrist cuff, breaking the cuff and my small finger, but I do not feel it.. I am full with the berserk, the battle lust, and I do not care who hears me now. My eyes glow the deep red color of the berserk as the hatch smashes open and Ignatieff is down in a trice. I am waiting for him, one length of chain in my hand, the other holding the clasp knife from my boot. I am grinning terribly...<br /><br />Ignatieff lets out a hiss of hatred and pulls out his cavalry saber.. <span style="font-style: italic;">STUPID WEAKLING!</span> I think... This is not a place for fighting with swords.. I am on him. claws and biting. He cuts, once, twice.. upper arm and grating along hip bone.. but it is enough to make me jump back.. crouching in wariness, swining the broken chain in a small circle. He circles me, point guard out.. <span style="font-style: italic;">Stupid man...</span> his intentions are so obvious.. he telegraphs the attack. I move inside his attack, and whip the chain around his neck, simultaneously body blocking him a blow that knocks him back ten feet. His neck snaps in mid air and falls ponderously to the deck. His sightless eyes stare uncomprehendingly at the ceiling.<br /><br />Up through the hatch I go.. The camp is surprisingly not fully awake, I hear Chinese voices raised in alarm but the only one near me is Engels.. he gazes up, his eyes pale in fear. Shielding his head with both arms, he cringes... and I bring a spanner down on his head. Even in my rage state, I cannot kill him.<br /><br />Where were the horses... up the cut a bit, tied up on a trot line. I leap off the land dragon and run like the devil is behind me.. There is a sentry present, a young Fusang boy with a carbine. He starts to raise it.. and time telescopes as I LEAP from 20 feet away to land upon him in a snarling melee of claws, teeth, chain and rifle. The carbine goes off, and I feel a stabbing wound in the abdomen, but I have not been shot, it seems. In the midst of the melee, I shove the clasp knife into his ribs, and he sits down with a "CHUFFF" sound, looking surprise and pained as he dies. I look down.. and that's when I discover the bayonet sticking into my side. I had not felt it. Running forward, I seize a likely looking mare and slice the trot line, galloping up the railroad cut into the direction of Fusang...<br /><br />Loud angry Chinese cries behind me.. the bullets whistling overhead.. holding my side (for fear of my entrails coming out), I lean over the horse's neck and kick my horse with my heels. She moves out like a good 'un, and we gallop off into the night, the horses in the picket line following me. It has cost me dearly, but I am <span style="font-style: italic;">free</span>, and I have a well rested horse under me, and I know the land. Woe betide me if I allow them to catch me now. I'd sing if it didn't hurt so much...<br /><br />As I gallop off and night enfolds upon me again, the old bastardized Latin phrase comes again to my mouth, all unbidden:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Imperiequeritis, tria pendent corpora ramis dis meus et gestas in media et divina potestas dimeas clanator sed jetas as astra levarut</span><span style="font-size:130%;">...<br /><br /><a href="http://fuzzball-ortega.blogspot.com/2008/11/steelhead-adventures-journey-to-fusang_17.html"><br />Immediately Following...</a><br /><br /><hr><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Note: As forewarned, there are real historical characters in this narrative, and we introduce two of them here-- Count Ignatieff and Friedrich Engels. Astute readers may note they are a tad bit "out of time and place" here, but in this universe, they aren't. So there.</span> </span><br /></span>Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-63792524702301308352008-11-13T05:10:00.000-08:002008-11-14T19:59:17.931-08:00The First Report from the Celestial KingdomSteelhead<span style="font-weight: bold;"> Adventures/Return to </span>Fusang<br /><br />Personal Journal Entry - Head MI-5:<br /><br />After a very long and dark day, I was sitting in the Conservatory in Loch Avie when I saw some lights go on in the Keep. One of my staffers was still working. I decided I had better pull myself up and go see what was happening.<br /><br />As I walked into the offices, I found one of my most senior agents sitting at the desk pouring over maps, a small dossier tucked under his thumb.<br /><br />"Your Grace." he nodded. " Report from our man on perimeter security. He found this morning: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">'hoofprints in the mud around the Loch....a recent campfire...an arrow fletching recognized as Sir Tele's nearby.' </span>We realize that TS is abandoned but there are rumors of a rider who moves silently in Caledon...usually in the Loch itself, watching."<br /><br />I smiled softly. "Yes. I have seen this rider on occasion in the dark of the evening, or when I am awake in the middle of the night."<br /><br />He handed me the folder. "This was found near the spring where the campfire was located."<br /><br />"Thank you. I will retire to my offices in the manse. Keep alert tonight. There are strange things afoot."<br /><br />He nodded silently and stood as I walked out of the Keep.<br /><br />I called to Bucephalus, who followed me up the hill to the manse. My groom was awaiting us and took the horse to his well-earned rest.<br /><br />Once inside the house, I opened the sealed envelope.<br /><br /><blockquote>Eyes Only - Head MI-5<br /><br />Report directly to you, Rose. Your message and gift of the Steam Lemur was received. I have made contact with Dau as per your instructions and we have successfully infiltrated the exotic animal show that is traveling through the region.<br /><br />We have heard rumors - as you have - of movement among the Dragon and his minions and now something about an Iron Dragon or a Land Dragon. Reports vary. We had been following the most recent rumors of a white male in the company of known agents of H'sieh Lieng, when we found ourselves in<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>Hangxian.<br /><br />The poor peoples of the region, who are now essentially slaves, were talking non-stop about a steaming metal beast and a small, but evil, Russian-speaking man. Upon our arrival in the village, we were greeted with some level of suspicion, but the moment we pulled out the animals - snakes, exotic birds, a large Bengal tiger, and my lemur - the blank eyes began to brighten. We had a large group of both villagers, and soon thereafter, soldiers around us for quite some time. This was the opportunity we needed to begin talking to some of the people and to see the area.<br /><br />I was able to pull away from the soldiers bringing the lemur with me as they were much more interested in the power of the tiger. Dau and her Bengal kept them well occupied. I gathered a small group of children around me and began trotting through the village staying near the river. A small woman approached us and readily followed along our path. She seemed to physically examine me as her eyes passed over my face shoulders, neck. It seemed to me that she was looking for a way to speak to me. I sat the Steam Lemur down on the ground and the children promptly scampered along the river's edge with it. As soon as they were occupied, the woman said, "You come with Dau. She knows people from outside the Celestial Kingdom. Do you?"<br /><br />I acknowledged that I did and that I had been born in the Americas. She seemed to understand me and smiled carefully. She told me that a Land Dragon had just roared through the city along with many of the Dragon Who Waits' closest companions. 5 hours ago - or less, she estimated. She took me to the tracks of the beast.<br /><br />Your Grace, they are enormous! This iron beast is larger than I believe our scientists imagined possible. The woman spoke swiftly now as the lemur approached taking pictures as instructed and the children not far behind. She made it known that she and her entire village had either become the slaves for the Dragon Who Waits, or they were killed. Having no particular affection for H'sieh Lieng given her current circumstance, she described the white man who was injured and then loaded onto the steam tank. Her description fits that of O'Toole. She was sure he was headed to his death.</blockquote><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The rest of the entry described how he and Dau would follow the tracks of the beast and monitor for any course changes. Looking for any opportunity to free the prisoner.<br /><br />I sat the dossier on the seat beside me as I began to think of what my response would be. The lag time on this message had not been too bad - but time is definitely of the essence.<br /><br />Suddenly I had odd visions before me:<br />Shea and Dau questioning villagers in a southern port city....The Dragon was not nearby.<br />Hotspur injured, but running, calling out to someone.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Imperiequeritis, tria pendent corpora ramis dis meus et gestas in media et divina potestas dimeas clanator sed jetas as astra levarut</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />Ah - the visions were entirely replaced by this snippet of a spell. Again. Over and over it ran in my mind.<br /><br />I pulled out my fountain pen and began to write my instructions.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Agent LeFevre - Mark me well, do not fail.....</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>Eva Bellambihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15302724705163071907noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-78559061192172533302008-10-29T07:38:00.000-07:002008-10-29T14:04:45.058-07:00An Imperfect Satori for the Confused and Exasperated<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/df/Satori.svg/280px-Satori.svg.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 79px; height: 152px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/df/Satori.svg/280px-Satori.svg.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Steelhead Adventures</span>/<span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">Return to Fusang</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(meta post)</span><br /><br />A "Satori", in Buddhist terms, translates to a "moment of perfect clarity", or "insight". This is a term popular with Go-players; it is exclaimed when the player sees the entirety of the game, from start to finish, even in the midst of play. We realize that Steelhead Adventures bounce around quite a bit, at the moment between four blogs and sometimes five. A multi-author project can be amusing and quite a creative outlet for the participants, but sometimes confusing for people who jump in the middle and wonder at what's going on. So if the reader will accept a moment of "imperfect clarity", as it were, we'll take a short breather and explain the story thus far.<br /><br />Cast (seen or referred to so far)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Adventurers, reluctant or otherwise</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hotspur O'Toole</span> (first person voice, on this journal): A Soldier of Fortune of sorts, currently in service to the small independent nation of Caledon, but known to work far afield, hither and yon. Very close ties with Steelhead establishment and frequently found doing "odd jobs" in support of Steelhead (<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">ref: Bloodwing Foundation</span></span>) Originally from Ireland, served (very briefly) as subaltern in British Army of India. Recruited by F.T. Ward many years ago to serve as junior officer in the Ever Victorious Army, a populist force that was attempting to destroy the growing power of Warlords in the Celestial Kingdom (analogous to "China" in our world). Left Celestial Kingdom after Ward's death (<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">refused to serve under Burgrevine- ed.</span></span>), served elsewhere. Has returned once to rescue a comrade (<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">failure: see "Journey to Fusang"</span></span>). Kidnapped, at the start of this story cycle, and brought to China again, by his most implacable enemy, Liang aka "the Dragon who Waits"<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fuzzball Ortega</span> (on the "Ortega Chronicles") congenial Sherrif of Steelhead City, also known as Ortegavich. Originally from a small country in the Balkans named Moldavia, became a naturalized citizen of the United States, around the time of his involvement with the legendary "Capper Brigade". At some point incurred the wrath of Jobias Barthelmess, former dictator and agent provocetur. Fuzz is a lycanthrope that can transform at will. Recently shot with silver and almost killed, rescued by his cousin Purdy. When O'Toole (above) was kidnapped at the end of the Silver Poison affair, organized a rescue team with two of his Capper Brigade fellow vets, Doctor Mason and Glitterach.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Purdie</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Uggla</span> a Time Lord. He and his cousin <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Rasslonis</span> were involved in the Last Great Time War and were trapped in the Medusa Cascade as it was sealed behind them. Both wound up in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">parallel</span> world where our story takes place, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Rasslonis</span> in 1390 AD in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Moldovia</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Purdie</span> in the late 1880's in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Caledon</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Rasslonis</span> used the powers of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">TARDIS</span> to rewrite his DNA, so that he would be human (reasons unknown, but possible to hide from enemies also trapped in this world). <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Rasslonis</span> married, had children, and died an old man. Fuzzball Ortega is descended from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Rasslonis</span> on his mother's side. Despite the DNA being rewritten, some Time Lord DNA managed to be handed down from generation to generation, giving the descendants the ability to heal quickly, in most cases. Uggla pops into and out of adventures consistently. May be from the future. Has saved Fuzz's life recently by taking from this time period to heal in time-stasis. Enigmatic and terse, but quite committed. Currently taking a parallel course with Ortega, but with his colleague, Koen.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Angelica </span><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Trescothick</span> (stage name). Sister to Fuzzball Ortega. Recently revealed to be an agent of Pinkerton Intelligence, a secret branch of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Unknown how much further the involvement would be at this point. Born without the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Lycan</span> gene.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Darien Mason</span> (from the Blog of Darien Mason) Vivisectionist, Re-animator, Formerly possessed by a demon, killed and cloned. Has many, many, many relations. Former medical officer of the Capper Brigade. Good friend of Ortega.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Eva Bellambi</span> (from The Red Rose of Caledon and this journal) Duchess, adventurer, scientist, the head of Caledon's notorious MI-5 branch for intelligence operations. Headed Caledon's intelligence network during the inglorious Neualtenburg War, where she recruited O'Toole as field operative. Somewhat exasperated with O'Toole, in a friendly way.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shea LeFevre </span>(from this journal) American, ex-CSA. recruited recently into MI5 service. On his first assignment in the Celestial Kingdom. Last seen in a dream vision by O'Toole. Redirected by MI5 to extricate Senior Agent O'Toole. They have never met.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Celestial Kingdom</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">H'sieh Lieng, The Dragon who Waits</span><span style="font-style: italic;">: </span>fictional character. Years ago, a student leading a "liberation party" in China, fell in with radicals and the warlords. From a proud and haughty family. No coward, he fought the younger O'Toole at Foo-King, during a disastrous retreat of the EVA. O'Toole's backhand slash cut his face to the bone, leaving a permanent livid scar. Sensitive to the literal "loss of face" after losing that combat, Lieng has demonstrated a consistent, implacable hatred of O'Toole that will not abate until one of them is dead. O'Toole does not return this, which only serves to infuriate him more. Having deposed the former Imperial Governor of Fusang, now holds the seat of Fusang as a warlord in his own right. Reputed to be a sorcerer of sorts, and known to be fascinated with modern military technology. In his youth he organized against "Demons of the West" invading China. Recently has quietly accepted the help of foreign military advisers for a railroad project stretching between Hanxian and Fusang. Evidence he is soliciting illegal arms shipments. He is very interested in obtaining access to the sea, to contend with "Great Powers".<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lien Bao</span>, "The Clever Old Bastard": fictional character. 400 year old Wu-Jen ("wizard") in Lieng's service. Member of the Dark Ocean Society, which works for Lieng (although who works for whom is a matter of conjecture and comment). Chinese in appearance and dress, speaks perfect, Oxford accented English (he attended the university in the late 1600s). Cheerfully amoral and out for the main chance, will serve Lieng for as long as it serves the ends of the Dark Ocean Society. Reputed to have a far older, far more evil master that remains unseen.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pu Ying, Small Shang,</span> and <span style="font-weight: bold;">Kasukalan Tauhan:</span> fictional characters. Members of the old Ever Victorious Army in years past, recently recruited to the forces of Army of Fusang to help train Fusang's infantry. Outwardly hostile to O'Toole, whom they seem to think betrayed their cause years ago, at least one of them has not lost faith and secretly gave Hotspur a knife to assist with escape.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Others</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Frederick Townsend Ward</span> (dead, seen in flashbacks) <span style="font-weight: bold;">and the Ever Victorious Army</span>. Historical character, seen in a very different form in this story-- as a wizard and general of great power. Hotspur's mentor and commanding officer in the EVA days, he teaches H. a secret that inexplicably becomes important years later. Ward was killed years ago, and succeeded by Henry Burgrevine <span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(American, ex-CSA)</span></span>, a traitor that H. would not serve under. Eventually, James Gordon took over the EVA after Burgrevine attempted a defection and was executed. Under Gordon, the EVA smashed the power of the Warlords in central China, but was eventually expatriated due to protests from Russia and France. In their absence, the Celestial Kingdom has slid back into the old ways of seizing power with the rifle and bayonet, mixed with Chinese sorcery. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dogg Food, the Intelligent Cat from the Future</span> is a pet of Tensai Hilra of Steelhead City. Pretty much what the name sounds like, he is an intelligent cat from the future, and pretty good in a scrap.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Koen</span>, son of Darien Mason. Of the Nekko breed, or perhaps half-nekko. Companion to Purdie. Loves adventures. Outwardly simple, but perhaps he hides much. <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Thus Far...</span><br /><br />Hotspur was captured in Steelhead while investigating the appearance of a known thug at the docks. Spends an agonizing two weeks in the hold of a freighter, returning him to the Celestial Kingdom. Tortured, ineptly, on the way, discovers his captors are a very old enemy indeed. Wavering between conscious and unconscious during the journey, has dream visions of the past that prove helpful. Landed at Hangxian, instead of the expected Kowloon, very suspicous.<br /><br />Fuzzball, Doc Mason and Dog the Intelligent Cat from the future have taken an airship from San Franciso to the Celestial Kingdom. Attacked by the air pirates of Iron Paw on the way, they take some damage but survive the engagement. Currently landing somewhere in the Celestial Kingdom.<br /><br />Purdie and Koen have taken a Tardis to make the same trip, but have taken a TARDIS, and appear to have landed in the imperial palace at Fusang.<br /><br />Eva B. is still in Caledon, but directing an agent already in place (Shea) to investigate the O'Toole disappearance.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A very generalized idea of what is where in relation to what</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv1Nv4y3JXbZqaiUyPIHbFX9jWmZev61mPsFHV6EVdH1oap8H7-z3kCcavRJfhYRUpFGqkVM4FEDzqQvSv4L-8CKMxHAXDQfWehYLE2TMlDUT3dKd2YmHzTwgwUoxFvSktudqZzj_8ZkU/s1600-h/SmallmapFusang.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 347px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv1Nv4y3JXbZqaiUyPIHbFX9jWmZev61mPsFHV6EVdH1oap8H7-z3kCcavRJfhYRUpFGqkVM4FEDzqQvSv4L-8CKMxHAXDQfWehYLE2TMlDUT3dKd2YmHzTwgwUoxFvSktudqZzj_8ZkU/s400/SmallmapFusang.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262609689747186658" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This</span> Celestial Kingdom is vaguely related to <span style="font-style: italic;">our RL</span> Chinese Geography, and has several place names and geographic features in common, re: Peking, Yalu, Kowloon. However, these locations are not identical to our RL China locations. Many of the characters in the Celestial Kingdom are either lifted straight from 19th Century Chinese history or are based strongly upon it.Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-41102388529055761982008-10-28T19:51:00.000-07:002008-10-28T20:02:36.095-07:00Sent By Rapid Courier - MI-5 to Field<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">STEELHEAD ADVENTURES</span>/<span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">RETURN TO FUSANG<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX7fy9Hl8og0m1FATnH8CJbqM6eQzrLymBtzSPfRxdPozsrz8Y5GaeBNvjDYl2AcNSFwEIlffhpAyD5ULE4Enfx-roAhcBAHNiT3uJ54zkR3IlwQZASpALM7x-1w6HwGHWD6cgLIqmuyS7/s1600-h/TopSecret.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX7fy9Hl8og0m1FATnH8CJbqM6eQzrLymBtzSPfRxdPozsrz8Y5GaeBNvjDYl2AcNSFwEIlffhpAyD5ULE4Enfx-roAhcBAHNiT3uJ54zkR3IlwQZASpALM7x-1w6HwGHWD6cgLIqmuyS7/s400/TopSecret.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262403573016482738" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9h6WqrLheUjPfdywqz7YjzAPK9McYK3E9WXsoPCS67UKMYVIBj3-lGL84ysPWov5jau1dh-QhSJnvPhDjaHXsIMy4DKzq24mjrow4DzeY4vSoO35r_pZOVkKEF15LY8_p47NQNzlPCJq8/s1600-h/Top+Secret+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9h6WqrLheUjPfdywqz7YjzAPK9McYK3E9WXsoPCS67UKMYVIBj3-lGL84ysPWov5jau1dh-QhSJnvPhDjaHXsIMy4DKzq24mjrow4DzeY4vSoO35r_pZOVkKEF15LY8_p47NQNzlPCJq8/s400/Top+Secret+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262404042196024914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcTaWLlH4gZe6TzgkL-Wrey31lnArQfnvCg5ae5hxdj36YiAdhSsjWf_rMkJjjMR-bzBi_fyeKwq9TxG1zyjziWSAtiQ2qVxqyq61EKdQgU-CgVGnFnXWfGwgA9h3OYV-DbkqbF7DnWfNq/s1600-h/steamure.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcTaWLlH4gZe6TzgkL-Wrey31lnArQfnvCg5ae5hxdj36YiAdhSsjWf_rMkJjjMR-bzBi_fyeKwq9TxG1zyjziWSAtiQ2qVxqyq61EKdQgU-CgVGnFnXWfGwgA9h3OYV-DbkqbF7DnWfNq/s400/steamure.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262404935833035570" border="0" /></a>The Secret Steam Lemur...A gift from Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, to Caledon's MI-5.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Lemur image from <a href="http://steampunkwallpaper.com">Steampunk Wallpaper</a><br />used under Creative Commons agreement</span><br /></div></div>Eva Bellambihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15302724705163071907noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-31578262167819997622008-10-27T14:13:00.000-07:002008-10-29T06:55:30.002-07:00Return to Fusang: In Which The March of Progress Shows its Flaw<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">STEELHEAD ADVENTURES</span>/<span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">RETURN TO FUSANG</span></span><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/10/return-to-fusang-comrades-in-arms.html">ENTRY POINT</a> |<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/10/sent-by-rapid-courier-mi-5-to-field.html">Meanwhile...</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>| <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://fuzzball-ortega.blogspot.com/2008/10/steelhead-adventures-journey-to-fusang_24.html">Meanwhile...</a><br /><br />I shake my head in disbelief. Here are three old Ever Victorious Army comrades-in-arms from almost twenty years ago. Have I gone back in time, then? Pu Ying, in particular, had been a banner leader (roughly equivalent to a Western Captain, with two companies under his command). Small Shang had never risen above what we would call a "Top Sergeant" but he was a demon for drilling. The Filipino.. the name finally came to me.. "Kasukalan Tauhan" had always been a mouthful. I recall him being a demon in a fight, disdaining musketry and charging into a brawl with his Malay Chopper out, screaming in Tagalog, chopping away. All of them were wearing what appeared to be the dull green field uniform of the Fusang Infantry these days, with strange insignia on the sleeves. Behind them is a man I don't know, clearly a high officer in the Fusang Field Force.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"What brings you here, bannerman Ying?"</span> I ask, respectfully.<br /><br />Ying's eyes widens, and his eyes goggle in theatrical fury. I am not expecting a backhand slap that rattles my teeth in my head.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"The Prisoner will not speak! The Prisoner will ONLY LISTEN!" </span> he barks, mechanically. Small Shang and Kasuk keep their eyes lowered in deference.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"It pains me to converse with you, foreign long-nose devil,"</span> he continues. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "The pollution of the Western Ways will not be undone in a day or a night, as our glorious Dragon who Waits reminds us. My Superior Officer, Colonel Po, has no knowledge of your tongue, so he instructs us, who knew you once and know your language, to communicate details of your fate. Listen, for this will be so. Tomorrow, you will be escorted Northward along the rail line to Fusang. A seat on the Land Dragon is being prepared for you, as well as an escort fitting for your station. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Until then, we will make every effort to avoid foreign devils and their devil's lies! </span><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><br /><br />I splutter a bit at that last.<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Devil's Lies? Pu Ying, <span style="font-weight: bold;">you</span> were a Bannerman in the Devil Soldier's Army, commanding the respect of the corps, how is this lies?" </span><br /><br />He raises his fist, threateningly. I gaze up, placidly. I can take this... he's not hitting very hard for some reason.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh Princes of the West! You make a grand noise of modernization, and bettering the lot of the peasants, and ending repression, and you gave us the knowledge of walking in straight lines and shooting many times prodigiously, and the rifle that fires many bullets... but in the end, as always happens, where were you when your moneyed masters called you home? Where was the Celestial Kingdom? A mere afterthought. The Dragon who Waits means to be a strong leader.. to stride boldly on the world stage, and to treat with you foreign devils as the inferior beings you are!"</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0u4TugHyzzrgXiOahkWH0w5AGjbMWoK5-sSdeMRqqC2689-azqAkxelLFvTHfaLHWyMzvCjOWok27Mo2gLXThQ4lZCsnq5mqtnPBue6MktW8of8a-xA5OhtE0vkLPkVTxgXRNZGP8GA/s1600-h/steamtank_001j.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0u4TugHyzzrgXiOahkWH0w5AGjbMWoK5-sSdeMRqqC2689-azqAkxelLFvTHfaLHWyMzvCjOWok27Mo2gLXThQ4lZCsnq5mqtnPBue6MktW8of8a-xA5OhtE0vkLPkVTxgXRNZGP8GA/s400/steamtank_001j.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261954420138747314" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I shake my head up at him, pulling at my chains. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"Nonsense, Ying. This Dragon Who Waits is a Slave commanding an army of Slaves. He has no notion of true Power, which derives from the people-- he can only feel the corruption of force. Lieng wishes to set himself above all other men. I spit on this tyrant's chair-- I would not wipe my arse on the throne of Fusang! At least in Ward's Army you held you heads up as free men! Look at you now! Fighting for money, then? Can you truly call yourselves anything but slaves any longer?"</span><br /><br />That last statement probably is a mistake. Yes, definitely. The results are predictable, graphic, and quite visual. I have only myself to blame. <span style="font-style: italic;">"O'Toole, ye great brawling lout!"</span> the Duchess said to me repeatedly during training. "<span style="font-style: italic;">False heroics are the enemy of good analysis! Shut that mouth of yours and open your eyes and EARS!"</span><br /><br />Yet, somehow, it was not as severe nor damaging a pummeling as the clumsy beating administered on shipboard. When they are finished, the officer with them hisses a command, and they walk out sullenly. The officer, whom I assume to be Colonel Po, walks over to examine me. I am still sitting up, hands behind back. He leans in close, letting out a tuneless, sibilant hissss between his teeth... <span style="font-style: italic;">"He's examining for damage"</span> I think to myself. What in the world are they so spun up about? Why is it so important to deliver undamaged goods, as it were? As he examines me, I become aware of an object in my lap, which hadn't been there before. I hide this by keeping my knees together. Apparently, he is satisfied that my face is not too badly bruised, and abruptly leaves without having uttered a word. I look down in my lap. There, in the folds of my peasant's jacket, is a clasp-knife with a black handle and 7 inch blade. One of my comrades in arms had dropped it there. They have not lost faith after all! Sure, they had worked me over, but I have to commend them for playing it smart. And the knife was fast thinking. It will come in handy. For now, I will hide it in my boot.. if I limp, well, that can be explained away easily enough..<br /><br />That night, the lady entrusted with my care comes to me again with a simple meal of fish, rice buns and tea. I eat greedily. Afterward, she cleans my much abused face with a hot towel, and applies some herbal concoction that quickly coagulates the surface cuts and alleviates the swelling to a prodigious degree. "<span style="font-style: italic;">A healer</span>," I think, "<span style="font-style: italic;">probably the village healer.. and a damned fine one. The Duchess would be interested in this herbal concoction</span>" I try to speak to her in Mandarin, but she shakes her head and refuses to be drawn out. I ask her for the name of the herb, and she readily tells me. I mentally make a note..<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"What is the Land Dragon, little Miss?"</span> I ask. Her eyes are wide with fear. <span style="font-style: italic;">"It shakes the earth! You will see it soon enough!"</span><br /><br />I realize there probably aren't words to describe the Land Dragon in her experience, so gratefully take a straw mattress and go to sleep. Again, I am no seer, not given to prophecy and certainly not a far-seer like the Baroness. Yet my dreams, which were so vague before, grow increasingly sharp and fraught with meaning and portent. I see the Sheriff, a large flamboyantly dressed man wearing a kilt, and Doc Mason in a small enclosed space, firing wildly out of a porthole at a group of smaller, black airships that are attacking them in... an airship of their own! What could this mean? The scene is quite vivid.. I sense this is not potential, but real. As the vision fades, it is replaced with a scene of a complete stranger.. a man of my own age, stocky and well-muscled, with the steady hand of a soldier and man of action, asking questions in the stalls and dives of Kowloon. <span style="font-style: italic;">"YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY! I'M UP HEEERE!"</span> I shout at him in my dream.. but he does not appear to hear me.<br /><br />I am awakened the next day by shaking. The little go-down's walls are shaking, rumbling and rattling as a I hear a distantly approaching roar. The healing lady runs in.. she gestures wildly in the direction of the noise. "Land Dragon!" she says again and again, urgently. Shortly thereafter, Fusang soldiers enter the room, unshackle the chain from the hasp in the wall, and unceremoniously drag me to my feet, and out into the sunlight. Once again, I blink.. as an apparition enters the remains of the town square of Hangxian. Later generations will not be shocked and amazed by them, but in my time.. these beasts are only whispered about in military circles.. the amazing Landships that are just now coming out of Woolwich, Edinburgh, Pittsburgh and Cinncinati. So my jaw drops about as low as many of those of the soldiers present, who are showing a disconcerting desire to break ranks and run as far from this beast as possible. This is impossible!! They are only in prototype! Yet, here is one, chugging up to me flying the flag of Fusang. The beast is escorted by a small troop of gaudily dressed Mongol cavalry, spearpoints and carbines at high port. It rumbles to a stop in front of the Go-Down, and emits a hugh hissing sigh. A small metal door on the top of the beast opens, and small man of European origin hops up and stands on the roof, staring down at me, his hands on his waist in a jaunty and confident manner.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I say, old man</span>" I venture, convivially enough <span style="font-style: italic;">"Are you my pre-arranged transportation? I shan't be a second to pack my valise."</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv3RdBv7jWn-AVERp3YdyZe63AiZxaVj9B90JgGIEXtZlMaYottFsKWB9LIS34y1H2MBlrr52W1vtLWA5TqxnOCoM32x3BcjhgmQqhohdsUJMlszpFf8A2Pjz2u1D2yh3oNQbCwPiwIHQ/s1600-h/steamtank_002j.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv3RdBv7jWn-AVERp3YdyZe63AiZxaVj9B90JgGIEXtZlMaYottFsKWB9LIS34y1H2MBlrr52W1vtLWA5TqxnOCoM32x3BcjhgmQqhohdsUJMlszpFf8A2Pjz2u1D2yh3oNQbCwPiwIHQ/s400/steamtank_002j.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261961103836192834" border="0" /></a><br /><br />He grins, and says <span style="font-style: italic;">"Я думаю, возможно, Вы должны быть тихими и позволить мне делать разговор."</span> Which is "If I were you, I'd shut up and let ME do the talking", in flawless Russian.<br /><br />My consternation can only be imagined.Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-54729780226158849192008-10-23T04:31:00.000-07:002008-10-23T04:32:33.292-07:00meta-post: Concerning an Irishman who talks to much..<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGYmcbmrz9sYILue_tv7bbL4zQR6gJI1zDTjH9_ULZDO-V-w-mGnn2CEOBAJhyphenhyphenaJt2KqNTdWaau0iGNbE12Mch3JI1pBAYY9WEcYpSd4U9pB3LQZ2ajXw97b4cgn10D6M-1lSfT23QaE/s1600-h/storytelling.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGYmcbmrz9sYILue_tv7bbL4zQR6gJI1zDTjH9_ULZDO-V-w-mGnn2CEOBAJhyphenhyphenaJt2KqNTdWaau0iGNbE12Mch3JI1pBAYY9WEcYpSd4U9pB3LQZ2ajXw97b4cgn10D6M-1lSfT23QaE/s400/storytelling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260306120742027202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" >YHK in Storytelling Rig<br /></span></div><br /><br />... so said the good fathers at Saint Trinians. In this instance, however, a talkative Irishman was actually a good thing.<br /><br />I hosted a themed storytelling event last night, at Caer Blanco, a gothically themed sim. Our objective was to raise money for the Phelisanong Clinic II in Lesotho. The current establishment is so poor it actually has dirt floors. In the words of the sim owner, Rascal Blanco:<br /><br /><blockquote>Lesotho is a small country in southern Africa; mountainous and stunningly beautiful, the country is home to the Basotho people. AIDS is taking a devastating toll on the country, with people in their productive years, i.e., parents, farmers, teachers and health workers, dying in alarming numbers. Left behind are children and the elderly, who struggle to survive.<br />In the foothills of the Maluti mountians, a remarkable community is providing a home for disabled children and those whose parents have died of AIDS. Founder Mamello Lehlotha has a wonderful strength of spirit, a sense of humor and a clear picture of what she wants to accomplish. The Phelisanong Disabled HIV-AIDS Orphans and Vulnerable Children Community Project provides a resource center for disabled adults and children, a primary school with over 300 students, several HIV-AIDS support groups, a farm, a pre-school, a handicraft cooperative and an outreach program that serves 14 villages in the area.<br />Recently a small clinic has been established at Phelisanong. This clinic is housed in a tiny rondeval which has an army cot for examinations, a small locking cupboard and a desk and table for the nursing assistant. There is a great need for basic medical supplies and equipment. Since our visit this spring, we have learned that the community around Phelisanong has begun to rely on the clinic thus putting an additional strain on their already meager resources. Partners for Others will be shipping a container of donated medical equipment and furnishings for the clinic and school in early 2009. We are working on raising the funding for a new clinic building that will give patients some privacy and enable waiting patients to be inside rather than out in the weather. Thank you so much for helping us with this project.<br /><br />In 2006, Partners For Others, owners of Better World in Second Life partnered with SOLID to bring a bit of Lesotho to the virtual world. We raised awareness with a beautiful exhibit for Gardens of Hope. This project linked five communites in Lesotho through the construction and maintenance of tree nurseries , gardens and greenhouses. Gardens of Hope project assisted in the production of tree, vegetable, medicinal herb and fruit seedlings and crops. We are thrilled to announce that these projects have been successful and have reached the point of being self-sustaining. We can't thank the community of Second Life enough for their generous support of Gardens of Hope. </blockquote><br /><br />Our combined efforts and donation raised more than 8 thousand lindens last night, which may seem like not much compared to RFL dollars, but that's not bad for an hour's work, I must say!<br /><br />The audience seemed to enjoy the evening; at least the laughed in the places they should laugh, and clapped sometimes. :-D<br /><br />I had prepared 20 stories, honestly not knowing what to expect. I managed, i think, to tell four:<br /><br />The Foundations of Our Traditions: a zombie invasion short story<br />The Tell Tale Heart: Poe's story of obsession and murder<br />The Bowmen: a story about a supernatural salvation that I love to tell<br />Dey Ain't No Ghosts: done in dialect,and edited for PC reasons (whew!)<br /><br />I greatly enjoyed participating in this event, and will happily volunteer for another, if called upon.Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-3866351864317117092008-10-21T03:13:00.000-07:002008-10-21T05:48:17.871-07:00Return to Fusang: Comrades in Arms<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Steelhead Adventures</span>/<span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">Return to Fusang</span></span></span><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://talltalesofhibernia.blogspot.com/2008/10/after-affair-with-carpenters-nail.html">Entry Point</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://darienmason.blogspot.com/2008/10/journey-to-fusang-surgeons-log.html">Meanwhile...</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> | </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://fuzzball-ortega.blogspot.com/2008/10/steelhead-adventures-journey-to-fusang_20.html">Meanwhile...</a><br /><br />Blinking in the sun, I stand on the dock at Hangxian, surveying the landscape with mounting horror. This village had stood for time immemorial, long before there was a Warlord of Fusang, or even the Emperor himself. At 300 li from Fusang's capital, they had never had any dealings with the people from the highlands. Entire generations of families had been born, fished the banks of the Pei-Yang in peace, and nobody had ever even heard of Fusang before. Now, they were vanished. My look of disgust and loathing must be palpable, for Lien Bao somehow feels inclined to comment.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"See how the Dragon who Waits now has access to the wider ocean, Colonel. You Lords of the West have taught China an important lesson-- we shall not ignore the wider world any longer. The conquest of Hangxiang is the first step towards that wider world-- what you see will be rebuilt into a modern port city, servicing the Fusang Highlands! Impressive, is it not?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Impressive? What happened to the Villagers who once lived here? This isn't Fusang! It's hundreds of li from Fusang! What is your master up to?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"My master?"</span> Lien Bao laughs.<span style="font-style: italic;"> "You are droll, Colonel. Pray you do NOT make acquaintance of my true master. As for the Dragon who waits, He desires a river port and a navy, perhaps a merchant fleet in time, so he may hold His head up amongst other Lords of China, perhaps the Emperor himself. "</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"But why here on the Pei-Yang, Bao? We both know this is no great river of commerce, like the Yalu to the south. You will have to extensively dredge and reengineer what's left of Hangxiang to even begin to have the proper sort of harbor for this effort. Why not go to the Yalu? It's less than half the distance, over flatter ground. Hangxiang will require an army of men months to complete!"</span><br /><br />Bao grins strangely.<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Time and manpower, Colonel, are both resources the Celestial Kingdom posesses in abundance. As for the Yalu, it will eventually provide a waterway for Fusang to reach Kowloon and beyond. But for now, the Dragon who Waits had set his eye on the Pei-Yang."</span><br /><br />I smirk.<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Would Feng Yü-hsiang factor into that decision, perhaps??"</span><br /><br />Lien Bao glowers... (Aha!, I think.. that's close to home!). <span style="font-style: italic;"> "It is not for us to question the will of the Dragon who Waits, Colonel. The Progressive Army of Heavenly Peace hardly factors into His will at this juncture".</span><br /><br />I ponder that, while keeping an outward mask of calm. The guards lead me, half dragged, to the small go-down (warehouse) at the pier edge. The Progressive Army of Heavenly Peace must be the latest grandiloquent name for the army of Liang's southern rival, Feng Yü-hsiang. The fact that Liang didn't start expanding towards the easier target speaks volumes. Perhaps he fears a confrontation with Feng, at least until he builds his army up.<br /><br />Once again, I'm chained to the wall in the go-down. I'm laughing to myself, now. Musn't smirk. These are the same chains I have been testing in a state of berserkergegang for the last week. The guards seem oblivious to weak points developing in some of the links. <br /><br />Bao enters with a small woman of middle years. Her eyes are downcast and filled with fear and sorrow, and perhaps.. rage?<br /><br />Bao says, in Mandarin: <span style="font-style: italic;">"You will see to the Long-nose's comforts, including food, a bath, and such of our clothing that might fit him". </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Yes, Worshipful One."</span> She bows, and departs.<br /><br />(in his flawless, Oxford English)<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Now, Colonel, I must leave you for a time, and report to my Master at Fusang, so He might prepare for your arrival. He greatly looks forward to your meeting."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I must say I relish the meeting somewhat less, but I cannot fault your wonderful hospitality."</span><br /><br />Lien Bao bows. <span style="font-style: italic;">"The next step of your journey shall arrive tomorrow. We have arranged for an escort fit for a prince, Colonel. You should be honored!" </span> he exits. I hear a rush of wind outside the warehouse, and the diminishing laughter of Bao, heading.. Upward? Crafty old bastard.<br /><br />The woman arrives presently. I ask her: <span style="font-style: italic;">"What is your sorrow, child?" </span><br /><br />She does not reply, only passing me a bundle of clothing, bathing accountrements and a hot bowl of rice with fish. I eat, greedily and quickly, feeling strength return. She stands with her eyes downcast as I bathe, then change from the filthy rags of a Wrath Commodore undress uniform and into the padded, shapeless chinese garment, not much different from the dress affected by about 300 million other citizens of the Highland region. I wouldn't pass for a native (ever), but at least I would be warm and comfortable, now reasonably clean. The woman watches the process with dull fascination, her eyes lingering on many of the marks of recent encounter with Bao's questioners. I am a fast healer, but the whip marks are still quite livid, and the multiple bruises are transitioning from sickly purple to puffy yellow/green now, which must have been a sight to see.<br /><br />She seems to wish to say something. Again, I ask: <span style="font-style: italic;">"What is your sorrow, child? You needn't tell me if you don't desire to." </span><br /><br />She looks at the whip marks, the chain, and tears fill her eyes. Choking, she leaves. <br /><br />It occurs to me. She is a citizen of Hangxian. What she must have seen!<br /><br />Yawning, my head droops. This is hardly a point to relax, but I the warm food in the belly was always a trigger to get sleep while I could.. or was it drugged again? I couldn't tell, for once again, I found myself spiraling into blackness.<br /><br />This time, my dreams are more incoherent visually, but more acute aurally. I hear, again, and again, Ward reciting <span style="font-style: italic;">"Imperiequeritis, tria pendent corpora ramis dis meus et gestas in media et divina potestas dimeas clanator sed jetas as astra levarut..." </span>with me.. like the impatient Brothers of Saint Trinians trying to drill Latin into my resistant brain. I see him by the fire, laughing, eyes crinkling up, and he turns to me.. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Are you slacking on your lessons, O'Toole?" </span>Then, other voices, without faces, but I can recognize them. A woman's voice.. the Duchess? She is dictating a telegram. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Do not fail me in this assignment, Shea..."</span> and then, again, the faint voice of the Sherrif of Steelhead.<span style="font-style: italic;"> "I ... saw... Hotspur"</span> and another voice I don't recognize... <span style="font-style: italic;">"far greater danger than..."</span> and then blessed blackness again.<br /><br />I awake to a rough shaking. It takes a minute or two to recognize them, but before me were Pu Ying, Small Shang, and the Filipino whose name I couldn't ever pronounce but means "Wild Man". From the old days! My eyes widen. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Good Lord, am I dreaming still? This IS a pleasant surprise.. how the DEVIL did you find me here? It's been years!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Be quiet, Running Dog Lackey of the West!"</span> snaps Pu Ying.<br /><br />I stop short at the expression on their faces, which are filled with anger and sorrow. It was at that point the sleep cobwebs clear, and I realize they are not in EVA uniforms any longer, it is twenty years later, and they are now wearing the uniform of Fusang.Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7681431435878308761.post-45853828195532297122008-10-20T11:43:00.000-07:002008-10-22T06:43:40.593-07:00Storytelling Meta-Post: Storytelling for African Clinics<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The Inner Fright!</span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic;">NOTE: Date Change on Poster.. typo, sorry!</span><br /></div><br />Join us at the gothic sim of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Caer Blanco</span> for a charitable evening of storytelling and Inner Fright. The beneficiary will be a fund to build a new medical clinic in the African country of <span style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.lesotho.gov.ls/home/">Lesotho</a></span>, courtesy of the charity <a href="http://www.partnersforothers.com/">Partners for Others in Canada</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsMUJwfHB9eVgwRsu6tFfGqtj0skEnIPCxBOt6f4bKcBI3l5nurpnVXmwIE2arfuMF-s5bl1ru8Mf0BQ6i79KPDmCpjpBB75951o4Zew8BJ2rf-GYimzIXuTiJNFKnxdMPFezUkeqzIE/s1600-h/InnerFrightAd.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsMUJwfHB9eVgwRsu6tFfGqtj0skEnIPCxBOt6f4bKcBI3l5nurpnVXmwIE2arfuMF-s5bl1ru8Mf0BQ6i79KPDmCpjpBB75951o4Zew8BJ2rf-GYimzIXuTiJNFKnxdMPFezUkeqzIE/s400/InnerFrightAd.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259973434627591026" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">October 23rd at 7pm SLT</span><br />~ Story-Telling Event On Grounds of the Monestary in Caer Blanco</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caer%20Blanco/188/115/76">Caer Blanco</a> is a special sim, created specially for Halloween by some of Second Life’s top designers. There is a fully furnished haunted castle, a crooked cottage, a ghostly ship, and a ruined monastery to explore.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">There are also silent auction items avaialable and many special events planned. All this will raise funds for a small medical clinic in Lesotho, Southern Africa, through the charity Partners for Others.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >YOUR HUMBLE NARRATOR has been asked to</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> lead the group in a story-telling session whose theme is </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" >Inner Fright</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. I will tell 4-6 stories based upon the theme (depending on participation) and then I hope there will be enough <strike>hams</strike> stalwart tale spinners present to declaim upon the notion of what frightens <span style="font-style: italic;">them</span>.<br /><br />Come prepared to listen to several short-stories in this theme - and perhaps to share your own.<br />What scares <span style="font-weight: bold;">YOU</span>? Vampires? Spiders? The economy? Success? Evil Clown Armies? Pie?</span>Hotspur O'Toolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222149865235117975noreply@blogger.com0