StoryHack Action & Adventure, Issue Six: StoryHack Action & Adventure, #7

By Mike Adamson, Jon Mollison, Cynthia Ward and 5 more

StoryHack, Issue Six has eight new exciting stories to share. Pirates, mobsters, and fearless heros abound. Here's what you'll find inside:

 

Rakes and the Pirates of Malabar by Mike Adamson

 

1837: Trouble draws a man like a magnet draws steel, and Rakes, veteran of the East India Company, can't stay out of the fight. Compelled to serve a rogue princess who has taken command of the pirates of India's western sea, he finds himself in a desperate mission to penetrate the stronghold of a cruel Raja and steal back the symbol of a conquered people.

 

The Boss's Tale by Jon Mollison

 

The proprietor of a mafia-controlled speakeasy has to find a way out of the business, without getting killed.

 

The Girl Who Sang in the Country of Morning by Cynthia Ward

 

When drought forces a young woman to take up hunting, she runs afoul of bandits. Taken captive, Felissa only has one option, though the forbidden magic may damn her soul.

 

Due a Hanging by David Skinner

 

She was probably on the yacht in the Martian Canal. And he wasn't the only one looking for her.

 

Our Friend In The Cellar by Matt Spencer

 

Supernatural sleuth Frederick Hawthorne infiltrates the home of a corrupt Victorian gentleman, while investigating the disappearances of several children. Once inside the house, Frederick discovers an infernal family secret., and must use brawn, ruthless cunning, and a few magic tricks of his own if he is to survive the night.

 

The Life Price by John D. Payne

 

They got away clean, or so they thought. But when three adventurers try to sell off their prize, things start to go wrong. Dead wrong. What price will they pay for an innocent life taken?

 

Southwest Monsoon by Luke Foster

 

National Park Ranger Abby Baxter leads a rescue party into the Grand Canyon to find a kidnapped child during the worst southwest monsoon in memory.

 

Waterways by Lindsey Duncan

 

Kel has no interest in rebellion or anything except trying to get along, but when her priestess mother forces her under the sacred pool, the Reflected gifts surface within her. Will she cling to her stubborn ways, even if it means execution? Or will she throw in with the rebels, and possibly be killed in battle?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baby Katie Media, LLC
• Release date: Apr 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201732325

Book preview

StoryHack Action & Adventure, Issue Six

© 2020 Baby Katie Media LLC

Bryce Beattie, Mike Adamson, Jon Mollison, Cynthia Ward, David Skinner, Matt Spencer, John D. Payne, Luke Foster, Lindsey Duncan

Cover art by Shadow

All stories appear with permission. Copyright of individual stories remains with the story’s author.

StoryHack Action & Adventure

Rakes and the Pirates of Malabar

The Boss’s Tale

The Girl Who Sang in the Country of Morning

Due a Hanging

Our Friend in the Cellar

The Life Price

Southwest Monsoon

Waterways

From the Editor

Cover

Table of contents

Compelled to serve a rogue princess who has taken command of the pirates of India’s western sea, a veteran finds himself in a desperate mission to penetrate the stronghold of a cruel Raja – and steal back the symbol of a conquered people.

Rakes and the Pirates of Malabar

by Mike Adamson

art by Gian Luca

When you think of pirates, you think of olden days, the Caribbean, the great names that linger in the memory of civilised people like a stain—Morgan, Teach, Calico Jack, the men who wrote a bloody swathe across the pages of history, then went the way of all whose day is done. They must have been giants for us to remember them a hundred years and more later, for even Blackbeard, who looms above all others, sailed for just three years.

Thus my amazement to come face to face with pirates, half a world away, and my disgust to be fighting for my life. Again.

I’d had enough, after all, that was why I got out— Lieutenant Rakes, Edgar Q., late of His Majesty’s Third Marata Rifles, taker of the king’s shilling, just one jump up from the rankers, and hard as the lifetime’s bad luck that took me to bloody India in the first place. I’d soldiered as a lad, swore I’d never show my back to a flogging again, got out and tried my luck as an adventurer, escaped—from a stupid affair involving opium—with my life and just enough to buy myself a commission. Maybe I was a fool, but the army was what I knew best, and officers were never on the receiving end of 14 feet of buffalo hide. Experience with King’s Troops in support of the Honourable East India Company—John Company as it was called—in their endless warring to protect expanding British interests on the subcontinent, stood me in good stead, and when I rode out at the head of a column into the sweltering heat and red dust, I told myself I made a difference.

To somebody, somewhere; just a few who stand out in my memory. But after five years I’d lost my stomach for it, and I hung up my blue coat for the last time. Rather than transport coin and gems, I banked what fortune had brought me with a reputable firm, obtained a draft for the value to be drawn on their London branch, and determined to seek some peaceful pursuit in the green fields of an England I’d not seen in far too many years.

But to get there meant a ship, and as the passenger-carrying East-Indiamen had already sailed for the season, to make their passage before the hurricanes stirred the Indian Ocean to its belly, I was compelled to seek less salubrious transport. A trader out of Calicut was headed for the Red Sea and Egypt, from which I could catch a P&O packet home through the Med.

I should have known better. Has anything in my life ever gone to plan?

They jumped us just before dawn, two days out, in Nine Degree Channel. I could have wept, there had been a couple of fine frigates of the Royal Navy in harbour, but protecting these sea lanes was not their brief, and capital ships had gone with the big merchantmen. This local scow was on its own—no wonder passage had been cheap, and the Malabari seamen were surly and hesitant. There had been muttering around the wharfs of trouble out on the blue, but what Englishman in the time of King William IVth gave ear to talk of pirates?

Maybe I should have. The first I knew was a desperate scuffling on deck, a thudding, a cry, the ringing of the ship’s bell, swiftly curtailed—and my heart beat doubled as I tumbled out of my billet and dragged on pants and shirt, snapped braces up over my shoulders and flung up the lid of my chest to pull out the cavalry sabre I’d kept. I had loaded my pair of pistols before coming aboard, I had no trust for anyone, and now shoved one into my waist band, the other in my fist with the hammer back.

I knew the sound of strife, and was on my toes twenty seconds before the crew was roused, but by then the fight was half lost. A heavy thump told of another hull alongside, and a babble of voices rose to a din as swords met and pistols barked. I was out of my billet by then, cleared the flimsy partitions that constituted quarters on a hulk that would never have passed for King’s service, and shadows moved at the aft scuttle. Bare feet came down the steep stairs, followed by a broad belly and a bloodied sword in a gnarled fist, and I lunged fast, split said belly before its owner could react, then I went up the stairs two at a time and found the morning watch already down or kneeling with hands upraised in supplication for life. A dozen swarthy pirates, bare-chested, clad in baggy pantaloons and grubby turbans, were joined by a dozen more coming over the rail as the pirate vessel hauled us close with grappling lines.

The first thing that struck me was that we were not actually becalmed, our sails were down—the pirate had not had to give chase, but closed up silently. I registered this with the kind of turn of the stomach that tells you you’ve been sold, and I determined with a grit of my teeth to make them pay a high price.

I had faced my death more times than I cared to count, between fever in a Goa jungle and an Afghan ambush among the harsh hills of the north, but I would never have picked a rotten tub in the Lackadive Sea for the place I went up to my maker. But with a soldier’s pragmatism I knew one spot was as good as another, and came out of the scuttle like the wind, put a pistol ball through the forehead of the big bugger in charge, then laid into the nearest with cold steel. They went on the back foot at once, I drove them toward the taff-rail, laid about with great strokes and dropped another before I dived into cover by the charthouse, to tug out my second pistol and use it for its intended purpose. Then, as the powder smoke hung on the sea breeze, I gave a great shout and whirled into them again.

But now I faced a wall of muskets, every barrel aimed fair at my face, and self-preservation made me hesitate—what use was a blade against powder and shot? Maybe I was not ready to die, but the moment it took for my experience to tell me going quick in the fight was preferable to whatever else may lie ahead robbed me of the option, as a pistol butt cracked across the back of my head and the deck came up to hit me with a dull thud.

~

I woke on cold timbers with a sour taste like barnacles in my mouth and a headache all too familiar. I was below decks, in a dank, dark place I guessed was a hold, hands tied behind my back. The ship was underway, pitching softly to the ocean swells as rigging creaked above, and I sensed I was alone. Whatever had become of the crew, I could hazard a guess. After a little sport, pirates were known to keep the slave trade supplied with bodies, and I wondered vaguely if that would be my fate.

What irony, saying farewell to arms, my only ambition to find a country investment to set me up for the rest of my days, and to miss the year’s convoy by a couple of weeks. Now I faced an uncertain future and could only work on my bonds as I had learned to, bide my time and be thankful I was not yet done more harm than I could cope with.

I did not have long to wait. By midday much shouting above heralded a hatch creaking open, and brawny pirates heaved me up, dragged me aft into the glow of a skylight, then I was half-lifted up the steep stairs to the upper level, thence to the deck, and the sight that greeted me drew an appreciative grunt from my landsman’s soul.

The ship alongside was comfortably larger than the merchantman, and a deal larger than the pirate tagging along nearby. I was not experienced in vessels but picked it as a heavy frigate, probably French-built, from the days before Napoleon ascended the throne. The French had interests out this way dating back to the 17th century, and though seized by British forces during the wars, were returned to France in 1816. Their holding at Mahé was not far away on the Malabar coast, Pondicherry was on the Coromandel Coast to the east, and there were others. It was not so surprising an old French man-o-war would find its way into service out here.

Well, I thought, if the pirates have a ship equal to a British Sixth Rate or higher, they’re a force to be reckoned with.

The ships were close enough for a raucous conversation by speaking trumpet to occur, and soon after both dropped sail and the merchantman prepared to put a boat over. I saw with disquiet as my sea chest was placed aboard before the tackle squealed and it smacked down into the azure waves, then I was prodded down to it with a curved sword. I kept a surly silence as a coxswain and four burly pirates took the craft across, and I was soon aboard what seemed to be the flagship of this nest of vipers.

My chest disappeared aft, no doubt for inspection and plunder, and I waited, silent and chafing at my bonds as orders were shouted in a variety of languages, and the pirates got under way again. My throat was dry, my head throbbed, and I was as much angry as intimidated. How could providence have been so wicked? What in particular had I done to deserve this?

Wallowing in self-pity had never been my habit, but with nothing else to do I indulged for a while, until a pirate officer in the remnants of some naval uniform or other appeared from the quarterdeck and growled something at me, a big hand beckoning. I took his meaning and accompanied him, tolerated an uncomfortable grip on my upper arm. My eyes spasmed from the afternoon light so I made out nothing in the gloom within, and I was marched aft. The officer rapped at a door and thrust me through into the great cabin, lit by the blue gleam from the sea through the wide stern windows, and I felt my hands released. I squinted and was at once arrested by a figure silhouetted against the panorama of the blue horizon.

She was tall, I guessed, certainly for an Indian, and her demeanour was nothing if not royal, a composure with folded hands that spoke of absolute dominion. A waved, black mane fell to her waist and she was dressed in sari of the most expensive sort, while my chest lay open upon the Captain’s desk before her.

Edgar Quincannon Rakes, came a voice in English with the qualities of both velvet and steel, in the flat yet musical vowels of India, and I squinted again as my eyes adjusted. Do you not remember me, Lieutenant? Perhaps I should be offended.

Memory stirred vaguely and I took a step forward, the better to make out my host, and my expression must have been a picture. Features of a dark yet elfin beauty were framed by that amazing hair, and bangles of gold glimmered upon her arms.

Princess Adhira…?

So you do recall. She smiled just a little. I had begun to wonder if I was mistaken to seek you out.

Seek me out? I glanced figuratively toward the ship off to port. You could have done that more easily on dry land.

Not so easily anymore, Lieutenant. The last two years have been disastrous. You have clearly not heard of all that transpired in Ghondakhor.

I cast my mind back to skirmishes a few years ago, a series of actions on behalf of John Company to keep the peace for a minor Raja outside Cochin, one of the territories which maintained local independence within the British-controlled Presidency of Madras. I served further north until recently, I said softly. I sense your news is grave. How is your esteemed father?

My lord Samudra, Raja of Ghondakhor, is dead, Lieutenant. He was killed when a rebel prince expanded his dominion, absorbing smaller neighbours before your soldiers finally took a hand. Oh, the peace was restored, but too late for my father and my father’s line. I escaped with a few retainers. The princess nodded and my eyes followed, finding a dark giant standing silently to one side, a naked sword point-down, his hands folded upon the pommel, and his moustached face impassive. Ydris has been my bodyguard since I was a child, and he fulfils the role even now. There are too few of us left to be other than loyal.

I shook my head faintly. I’m sorry, Highness. But I don’t follow… How did you come to be with_ pirates_— I said the word with the scorn it deserved —and what does it have to do with me?

A tail of woe, Adhira returned softly, and gestured to a chair before the desk. It seemed we would be here for some time.

~

Pirates set a fine table, as ever, and the princess offered me fruit, bread and wine. Part of me remained outraged at the waylaying of the ship on which I had quit the subcontinent, frustrated to not be heading home, more than anxious for the fortune I had put by—and very glad I had not tried to carry gold or gems, for pirates knew every trick and would have had it out of me in the blink of an eye. As it was, the banker’s draft was meaningless to them, they would not even recognise it. On that slim hope I placed my future.

My outrage did not keep me from eating. My head had mostly cleared from the blow this morning, and I chewed as the princess spoke. A looted Bordeaux was a strange companion to mangoes, cashews, dried pawpaw and naan, but I enjoyed it well enough.

It was the June of 1835. The wet season had just arrived, the south-west monsoon was in full might, and as you know, the mountains behind the Malabar Coast catch the rain. This is the wettest place in India.

I well knew the misery of humidity so severe mist clung to the sodden earth and the jungles steamed. Footrot and boils were the companions of the soldier, even when he avoided fevers, snakebite and dysentery, and officers were immune to none of them. A hard time of year for campaigning, I grunted, knowing this year’s torrential rains were not far away, and itching to be gone from India by then.

Serashtra, Raja of our neighbouring independent province of Kanjiranagar, moved under cover of the weather, struck like a tiger to overwhelm our defences, he came out of the storm when all the rules of warfare said he should have acknowledged the conditions were untenable. Well, he proved that assumption incorrect, and we paid for it with our sovereignty. The bitterness behind her expression was unmistakable. "We appealed to the Honourable East India Company to send troops, but apparently the Indian marauder fights better in the rain than the disciplined sepoy."

That was not necessarily the case, but I knew the laxness and self-interest of the Company officer corps and could easily imagine some coffee-house dandy with a bought commission not being willing to go out in the wet until it was simply too late. Go on, I said softly.

My noble father defended his walls, less I think in the hopes of holding Serashtra at bay than of winning time for we few to escape. But what is a royal house when bereft of its fortunes? We called upon the loyalties of marriage, but those ties were not strong enough, it seems, to win troops to set matters to rights, and my family were sheltered temporarily by houses with which we were in alliance. But, until the British disciplined Serashtra, none were willing to chance his wrath by taking a stand. In the process of our dispossession we lost almost everything.

Adhira sat in the captain’s armchair, reclined regally, and I began to sense she was far from a passenger here. Her gaze was harder than I recalled from our meetings years ago, when I had served the Raja’s needs as a King’s soldier, and I genuinely regretted her loss of innocence. She had always been mentally keen and of a will perhaps stronger than custom approved of in traditional society, but Lord Samudra knew which of his children was a worthy successor, and had groomed her accordingly. In this, I saw purpose in her escape, and waited for the details with a growing sense of expectation.

You may rest assured what wealth could be moved was saved from the invader’s war-chest, and it bought what strength was possible. This ship, for one thing, and all the powder and shot we could come by.

Why? I asked, genuinely puzzled. Landsmen do not often trade it for the sea.

She smiled, a hard line of her dark brows. Not many know, but my grandfather, the Raja Maarku, was a merchant-prince of the sea, and his grandfather before him fought upon the blue. Think of it as a family tradition. And what else are we to do but wager all we are against all we might become? She sat forward. We are not finished, Lieutenant! Though a puppet heir now sits in a storm-ravaged palace in Ghondakhor, the laughingstock of his neighbours and ripe to be toppled once and for all the next time John Company’s attention is elsewhere, I will not see it happen! You ask me what I am doing among pirates? She balled a fist and hammered it on the desk. "I rule them!"

My expression must have been priceless, and I almost dropped my wine. I began to shake my head but realised what was happening here and paid her the due of understanding her own game. It is a harsh world you have entered, your Highness, I murmured.

As well I know, she whispered, and I saw, just for a moment, the all too human regret for the actions destiny had forced upon her. Years ago I would have scorned their like and seen royal duty to lie in their destruction. Now we are reduced to piracy to rebuild all that was taken from us, and do so under the threat of the same British law that failed us.

I sat back, cradled my wine and thought fast. Obviously, she had some role in mind for me, and my options were precious few. If I wanted to get out with my hide and fortune intact, I had better be at least sympathetic. The Queen of the Malabar Pirates, I mused, and the words drew a smile from her, a genuine flash of humour, though edged with her disquiet at what she had become.

Hardly a queen. The truth is, British presence largely stripped the power from the pirates in the last half century. What few remain haunt the islands a few days out from the coast, the treacherous shoals and atolls where only fishermen pass with safety and few Naval men are willing to follow. Since the pirates lost their taste for preying on the Europeans’ goods of trade, they have enjoyed tacit immunity.

Perhaps too strong a word…

What else would you call it when the Royal Navy has no ships to spare to protect Indian coastal trade when European interests are not at risk? Her brows formed the question. "We have known this for many years, just as we have known the pirates were a disorganised collection of scoundrels and cutthroats whose goods go to market anywhere from Persia to the Horn of Africa. A concerted thrust to take control was a calculated risk, but it worked. Her beautiful features were uncommonly hard. Procuring this ship—the Vijay—took much dealing, it was bought in Pondicherry and returned to us by trusted members of my father’s court, all of whom now live under the blade of British justice. But a frigate, a genuine warship, has become the power among the vagabonds from here to the equator, and I have cultivated their loyalty for the past eighteen months. I give them their plunder, they give me a place out of sight of the authorities. Acknowledge me their leader. And one day…"

One day? I prompted. Then what?

When the holds are groaning not with silk and ivory but with gold, then, my dear Lieutenant Rakes, I shall return to claim my throne as Rani of Ghondakhor.

I saw the determination