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

A total of eight ships slowly rose from the distant waves, ready to launch a raid on the small fishing village Corco and his troops had occupied. After they had been rebuffed only days earlier, the enemies had completely given up on their blockade. Eager to land and resupply at any cost, they had come in full force. Going with a different landing site from their first attempt was a smart choice, but it wasn’t a surprise, and their maneuvers hadn’t remained hidden from Corco’s scouts.

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

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

At his lookout atop the grain silo, Corco had the perfect view of the fight in the distance. As had become usual, the cannons began to fire a good while before the enemy ships were within effective range. This had been a tactic first deployed by one of Corco’s commanders farther west. Although the cannons had little chance of hitting on the first volley, it had still proven effective. The noise alone from the early shots drained the enemy sailors of their morale and slowed down their approach. This way, the cannons had more time to fire; and time was desperately needed to deal with so many ships.

After all, they only had four of these small-caliber cannons on hand here in the village, despite their best efforts. Ever since Corco had set up a few production lines with the help of Egidius, Saniya’s craftsmen had begun cannon production. However, making iron cannons from molds without cracking them was much more off a challenge than the narrower musket barrels had been. Since their first attempts at cast iron cannons proved failures, they had to return to rare and expensive bronze for this war.

Through all these delays, they had managed to produce a measly twenty-eight cannons in the past year, quite a small number to guard an entire coastline. At first, some commanders had suggested to drive back the enemy ships with their infantry instead. Since their cannons too few to form an effective defense, direct combat was a good alternative. After all, the sailors would be the most vulnerable when they tried to land on the shallow waters of these villages. However, Corco wouldn’t want to further spread out and weaken their core forces, not when he expected an unwise attack from Pacha any day now.

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

The result of their elaborate setup revealed itself right before Corco’s eyes. Ball upon ball of solid iron broke into the enemy ranks, to smash apart the oars and hulls of their old-timey battleships. Compared to what Atau’s Fastgrade fleet had dealt with along Arcavia’s coastline, these vessels were no better than boats, with thin hulls not built to withstand cannon fire.

Here in the west, they had a significant superiority in equipment at sea, enough to make all of Ichilia’s precious battleships useless. Of course they might have been able to break the blockade by force with their own ships, but the Verdant King hadn’t given Corco part of his fleet for combat. The Verdant Folk were only in charge of transportation. The southern king also wasn’t too eager to leave his strongest and most expensive weapons in the hands of relative strangers. The enemy’s larger numbers and the complex layout of the Narrow Sea made a destruction of the blockade a dangerous endeavor anyways, so this passive defense was the safest option.

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

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

"Cease fire," he whispered to his attendant who had silently stood by his side all this time.

"King Corco?" Tama asked in confusion. Of course she wouldn’t want to leave out the chance to thin out the number of enemies and strengthen the morale of the southern army further. Corco’s was the wrong decision, so she asked for confirmation.

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

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

"I’ll be in my room for the evening. Only interrupt me if there’s something important."

As he felt a crushing weight tighten around his chest, Corco left the top of the silo and went down into the streets of the half-deserted village. Although they hadn’t forced any locals to relocate, many had left on their own accord, all too familiar with war and what it brought to the weak. In effect, they had turned countless Yaku all across the coastline into refugees. By now, any who had remained hid inside their homes, in hopes the invaders would overlook them. The streets were only inhabited by a few of Corco’s soldiers, running back and forth to transport the powder and iron for their cannons.

As Corco marched past his soldiers, they saluted their king to the man, yet he barely noticed. He didn’t stop nor look around until he reached the most spacious building in the city, the village chief’s home. These would be his quarters for the duration of his stay, as offered by the chief, more out of fear than anything else. Of course, the chief himself had found shelter elsewhere in the village, and only a few of Corco’s guards remained in the building to keep him company.

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

Underneath hid the various compartments with their valuable contents. On the left were some of his scientific books in a neat stack - for reference - together with paper and ink in case he remembered something worth writing down. On the right was the compartment for Corco’s armor, empty while it was in use, and up top he had a few small bottle-sized compartments. Though of course, the center of the box was the most important. Carefully let in, encased in satin, sat Corco’s koto, the instrument he would play at the end rough days. Lately, he had spent much more time with it than he cared to admit.

Before he began his play, he took out the bottle, its brown contents swishing around. This was another new creation, made under his instructions. Ever since their first contact with the Verdant Isles, he had begun to import some of their agricultural products. Though the amount of cotton they had gained from the trade wasn’t yet enough to revolutionize industry, at least they had gotten enough sugar cane to make some rum.

*A fitting second prize,* Corco mused.

With the cork stopper removed, a sharp smell rose into his nose. Though still a bit too raw and unrefined from the short ageing process, he already preferred the taste over most of their brandys. Plus, he wouldn’t have to drink it pure anyways.

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

*Really, what’s Pacha waiting for?*

At this point, he had expected his uncle to show up long ago. The longer Corco and his army stayed in enemy lands, the more damage they would do to the local population, and the worse it would be for his present reputation and his future plans. With this landing, Corco had wanted to force an early resolution, but now they were stuck in the north, reliant on a response from Pacha. At least he still had a few cards left.

If Nahlen managed to clean out the hinterland a bit more, they would be able to push further north and disrupt Pacha’s own supply lines to Huaylas. That way, they could all starve together. With all sides in equally precarious positions, he would be surprised if Pacha’s unstable alliance of particular interests would hold together for longer than his own monolithic army.

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

historical

After the drink had calmed his nerves, food for the soul would be next on the menu. As he had done every day since his return from Chutwa, Corco bent down over his instrument and played a short melody. This time he played around with a few piano pieces. Though they weren’t composed for koto, transposing had been easy enough, and the challenge took his mind off his worldly troubles.

Maybe, once they were no longer forced to use all their efforts on wartime industry, he could have his people make a clavichord at least. A music revolution would be nice, much more pleasant than all the violent revolutions they had been plagued with in his first ruling year.

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

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

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

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