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- Herausgeber: Francis Dwight Mealy
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
A High-Stakes Adventure Begins in the Heart of 19th-Century China
In the flickering glow of paper lanterns at the Danish Hong, a daring wager ignites a perilous journey: "Gentlemen," declares Captain Carlo Fontana, his voice resolute as a seasoned gambler’s hand, "I swear—by all I hold holy—I’ll fetch that scimitar within a year." Thus unfolds The Quest For Buddha's Scimitar - Act I: The Scimitar's Call, a gripping tale of adventure, intrigue, and the relentless pursuit of a legendary relic, set against the vibrant and volatile backdrop of 1858 China.
This enthralling narrative plunges readers into a world where East and West collide amidst the bustling ports and opulent trading houses of the Pearl River Delta. Here, a diverse band of Western adventurers—Captain Carlo Fontana, a seafaring Italian with a shadowed past; Thomas Derby, a brash American hunter fueled by pride and glory; Adam Mazur, a youthful Polish cabin boy eager to prove his mettle; and Li Wei, a wise Cantonese guide whose knowledge is as deep as it is enigmatic—embark on a quest to retrieve Buddha’s Scimitar. This is no ordinary blade, but a mythic artifact symbolizing Dharma’s triumph over violence. Yet, this treasure hunt is a descent into a land of beauty and brutality, where every step courts danger and every choice could spell doom.
The legend of Buddha’s Scimitar anchors the tale: centuries ago, a Muslim warrior, armed with a blade he deemed invincible, challenged Buddha himself. In a miraculous moment, the scimitar froze mid-strike, humbled by enlightenment. The warrior knelt, converted, and the weapon became a sacred emblem—later hidden, stolen, and lost to whispers of Lijiang and Amarapura. This powerful story drives Fontana and his crew, who, disguised as Cantonese in flowing changpao and queues, venture beyond the treaty ports into forbidden territories. They face a gauntlet of threats: hostile mobs, cunning bandits, treacherous rivers, and the ever-watchful Qing authorities, all while grappling with their own pride, fears, and clashing wills.
From the card tables of Western merchants to the chaotic streets of Zhaoqing, the journey is fraught with action and tension. A standout moment finds them trapped in a besieged inn: "The inn was turning into a coffin, gradually closing around the four men. They wielded their weapons with relentless precision, each shot true, yet for every foe that fell, ten more surged forward." Such scenes propel the narrative with relentless pace, immersing readers in a world where survival hinges on wit and firepower. The historical setting—amidst the simmering aftermath of the Opium Wars and the Taiping Rebellion—adds rich texture, capturing a China on the brink of transformation, where ancient traditions meet the encroaching West in a clash of cultures and ambitions.
The prose is vivid and evocative, painting the sensory tapestry of 19th-century China: the salt-laden air of the Pearl River, the oppressive heat of Yunnan jungles, the acrid sting of gunpowder smoke. Dialogue crackles with authenticity, revealing the characters’ diverse origins and the simmering tensions beneath their alliance. Themes of honor, loyalty, and the cost of ambition weave through the plot, lending depth to the high-stakes adventure. Quiet moments of reflection—Derby’s struggle with his Yankee identity as he dons a queue, or Fontana’s steely resolve masking unspoken scars—reveal the human stakes behind the quest, forging bonds tested by each trial.
The Scimitar's Call is a masterful opening to an epic saga. It sets the stage with meticulous historical detail, cultural insight, and pulse-pounding action, leaving readers breathless and yearning for the next chapter. Will Fontana and Derby claim the scimitar within the year, or will China’s wild heart consume them? This is more than a quest for a blade—it’s a journey into the soul, where legends are forged and destinies rewritten. Dive in and join the adventure—history awaits.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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The Quest For Buddha’s Scimitar
Act I: The Scimitar’s Call
Table of contents
Hong Gambit
The Yunnan Wager
A Yankee's Queue
Derby's Dilemma
Pirates and Pearls (of Folly)
Whiskey and Bayonets
Zhaoqing Gauntlet
The Fateful Draw
The Dragon's Maw
River of Shadows and Steel
Hong Gambit
Like a jade serpent, the Pearl River snaked 200 leagues through southern China before spilling into a vast delta. Here, where the land and sea met, islands rose from the tide—some bustling with ports and fields, others lying desolate, as still and bare as monks under a scorching sun.
In the manicured courtyard of the Danish Hong, paper lanterns swayed in the warm evening air. Their glow was a gentle call to a grand celebration of a newly docked warship. Western merchants and adventurers—men tugged here by duty or the gleam of wealth—drifted through the gardens with a polished ease. Around them glided silk-draped middlemen and dignitaries, their once-firm privileges now trembling on the edge of doubt.
Twelve gentlemen gathered at their card tables in a magnolia-shaded nook. Opal glass lanterns cast a pale light over their whist game, hands steady as those long versed in fate’s cruel turns. On this lively night of May 17th, 1858, these trade barons wagered their wealth with the quiet poise of men who’d faced chance and walked away whole.
“Great heavens!” Benjamin Perkins, a Boston trader, exclaimed, his feigned woe sharp as he mixed the cards. “Fortune’s with the Iberians tonight! Oliver and I are down 500 pesos and left wondering: did you hone some trick in Macau, or stumble on a whist master? Gaspar, Luis—spill it, will you?”
Gaspar Alvares, chief justice of the Leal Senado, narrowed his eyes, a flicker of amusement in their depths as he swept up the winnings. “Hmph, you didn’t think you could face the best unprepared, did you? We’ve been schooled by an artiste—a true king of the deck.”
“Hold your horses,” Oliver Blackburne cut in, his Scouse lilt keen, a hand instinctively going to adjust the impeccable knot of his cravat—a gesture precise and unhurried. The third superintendent of the British factory, he carried himself with a mixture of steel and grace. “I know someone who’d put your teacher to shame. Have you forgotten Captain Carlo Fontana?”
“Not a bit,” Alvares shot back. “Carlo—our dear comrade—was the one who set us straight.”
“Oh? Where’d you cross him?”
“Macau. Hunting a bird for his trove.”
“So the rogue slipped off to Macau without a word to us, hauling Derby in his wake, I’d wager?” Benjamin flung out, a grin splitting his face.
“Dead right!” Luis Barrado rejoined, his smile broad as he loosened his scarf, its Cross of Saint James catching the light. “They’ve been thick as thieves since that wild plunge.”
Blackburne blinked hard. “Plunge? What plunge?”
“Gaspar, you’ve got the yarn,” Perkins prodded, his thumb stroking the worn edge of a silver dollar tucked into his vest pocket. “Spin it.”
“With pleasure,” Alvares said. “You know Carlo’s mad for birds. Word reached him of a rare one in Whampoa’s floating city, owned by a Tanka pilot. So he rigged himself up as a boatman and sailed over. Turns out Derby, with his meager collection of geese, had the same itch. Predictably, he started a brawl, took a nasty tumble into the river, and risked drowning. As luck would have it, Fontana rolled in, sent the thug running, and dove in to haul the American out. Since then, Thomas dogs the Captain’s heels.”
“That Derby!” Perkins laughed, head shaking. “Trouble’s his very soul.”
“Fontana’s not showing, then,” Blackburne said flatly.
“Why not?” Barrado and Alvares chimed together.
Blackburne’s eyes popped wide. “Because if he does, Derby’s on his tail, and that man can’t help but cause problems.”
Laughter thundered round the gathering.
“He’ll come, mark my words,” Svend Laarsen called from the next table, his Dannebrog pin gleaming as he leaned in, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “He gave me his word.”
“Let’s get back to it, eh?” Alvares suggested.
Cards flicked, coins clattered—the game rolled on.
Gaspar’s eyes darted at intervals toward a large vase, its lemon tree spilling over with fruit. Nearby, a grizzled merchant captain haggled with a young Cantonese lord, whose purse clinked—perhaps to flaunt his silver, perhaps from eagerness to stake it. Luis followed the glances, though his gaze drifted to a group of Spanish women close by, their laughter and whispers weaving round the odd pair.
Half an hour on, Benjamin and Oliver stood 300 pesos lighter, their coin siphoned off by the Iberians’ slick fingers. The deck hissed as it was shuffled anew, when a cry from the shore cleaved the air. Every head swung toward the sound.
“New faces, eh?” Perkins tossed his cards down, a grin curling beneath his New England whiskers. “And who’s this? Captain Fontana and my wayward compatriot.”
“Here they come,” Barrado added, “the two you can’t part or miss.” He eased back, his gaze firm and piercing, catching every detail of the unfolding scene.
All eyes glued to Carlo as he closed in, his gait forged on quarterdeck and trading houses’ floor, assurance blazing like sun off a hull. Derby trailed him, his look a keen blade slicing through the crowd of straw hats and Chinese jugglers.
Twelve hands thrust out as the duo hit the tables.
“Figured you’d shun the revels,” Blackburne said. “What’s the rush?”
“Tidings, men, tidings,” the captain answered, downing a porter in one gulp.
“Oh?” the table buzzed.
“Company’s nigh—ten minutes, give or take. Your comrades. Didn’t you catch word?”
Perkins smoothed his whiskers. “News to me. Who’s on the way?”
“Ran into Bourdonnais by the French factory with Tom,” Carlo said. “He’s fetching Ashworth and Vargas from a Saigon freighter.”
“Traveler Vargas!” the players bellowed. Cards slapped the table, wagers cast aside. Even the hardest gamblers stirred at those names.
“Did they seize their quarry?” Hendrik Meijer, the Dutch writer, inquired, his spectacles perched low on his nose.
“Last word from Saigon covered all but the blade.”
“What blade?” Christian Jensen asked, fiddling his Danish Navy cufflinks.
“Buddha’s Scimitar.”
A murmur swept through: “Buddha’s Scimitar?”
“You’ve not heard?”
“Never,” voices overlapped.
“It’s hot talk among the Chinese,” the Italian remarked.
“Worth much?” Lars König leaned in, his Polar Star badge gleaming in the light before shadow swallowed it. He sipped his teacup deliberately, his gaze fixed unyielding on Fontana’s.
“Maybe Carlo’s got the tale,” Derby growled, his eyes like daggers piercing a stout mandarin pushing through the throng, silk dragons stretched tight over his bulk, the pearl finial of his liangmao winking as a solitary star.
“Spill it, Captain!” Nils Lindström urged.
The players bent nearer, gazes locked on Carlo, fierce as tigers stalking prey.
The captain’s voice, coarse as a storm-worn deck, sliced through the lantern’s dim glow. “Gentlemen, you chase the tale of Buddha’s Scimitar. It’s no treasure of coin, but a story—passed from desert camps to these river docks, luring men with its whisper of splendor.”
A collective frown creased the faces around the table. König arched a brow, bringing his teacup to his lips. A muted scoff rippled through the circle, mingling disdain with open skepticism.
“A tale, you say?” Jensen snorted, pushing a card away with his finger. “We’re merchants, Captain, not youths.”
“Patience, Christian,” Fontana said, his voice dropping slightly, drawing them in. He leaned nearer, the candle’s glow tracing the stern angles of his face. “It’s a tale worth hearing, sirs, for its truth and its power. Centuries back, a Muslim warrior, all fire and steel, believed his scimitar, sharp as a sandstorm, could humble any man. He challenged the Buddha, who, calm as a lotus on still water, met him before a gaping crowd.”
Meijer adjusted in his seat. He chewed the inside of his lip, eyes narrowing.
Fontana’s gaze shifted to him, then returned to Nils. “The warrior’s blade flew, a silver flash meant to pierce. Yet it halted, suspended in the air, quivering as if bound by unseen chains. The Islamist, stunned by this miracle, saw not defeat but truth. He kneeled, forsaking his scimitar for the Buddha’s path. That weapon, they say, became a sign—the triumph of Dharma, the law of peace, over the steel of violence.”
Jensen snorted, his cards slapping the wood. “A fine story, Carlo, but what’s this blade worth in silver?” Blackburne’s grin gleamed, whiskers twitching. “Or in sway—that’s the true prize, isn’t it?” Murmurs of the scimitar’s lure—wealth, glory, or a sharper game—hovered like smoke.
The captain’s lips parted to reply when he glimpsed shapes drawing close—Francisco Vargas and Sebastian Ashworth, their forms wavering in the lantern’s gleam. “Gentlemen!” he cried, springing to his feet, “The travelers are here!”
The light toyed with Vargas, now sharp, now dim, a specter conjured from fever’s grip. A fresh scar clawed his jaw, the East’s newest brand on a ledger of narrow escapes. Ashworth trudged after, steps cautious, his frame pared to bone and resolve—distance paid in flesh, not miles. Their starched attire jarred against their wear, as new varnish on a battered hull.
The gamblers sprang up, casting dice and cards aside, and surged with Carlo and Thomas to meet them, closing in like a wave. “Three cheers for Francisco! Hip, hip, hooray for Sebastian!” The cries rang out, keen and bright, beneath magnolias where white blooms quivered in the evening air. Alvares flung his arms round Vargas, then recoiled, struck by the jaundiced tint of his friend’s skin. Blackburne’s steady grip wavered against Ashworth’s gaunt hand. “You look as if you’ve met spirits, old man,” he said. Sebastian’s laugh snapped as brittle timber. “Perhaps we have.”
Benjamin and Gaspar herded the crowd to a table laden with sherry flasks. Cups gleamed amber in the faint glow. Amid the din, Laarsen’s soft Danish tone cut through: “The scimitar—did you seize it?” Silence crashed down, heavy and abrupt, the clatter of glasses stilled.
Vargas’s fist tightened round his cup, his eyes meeting Ashworth’s, whose pipe froze midair. Francisco raised his drink with measured care. “To old comrades and safe shores.”
The throng echoed, “To fresh ventures,” their stares glued to the pair, greedy for more. Alvares bent closer, voice taut. “A year’s march across southern China…”
“And Cochinchina,” Ashworth broke in, his crisp accent shearing the words.
Benjamin glanced at Gaspar. “Give them breath. The night’s young.”
But the merchants’ thirst burst free: “Bandits?” “Tigers?” “The River of Golden Sand—is it real?”
Vargas tugged his linen coat, Bolivian coins clinking in the loops. “Spare me. This yarn merits more than scraps flung to the clamor.”
Barrado’s bellow rolled over them: “Silence! Let him talk!” The order hung, dense as fog. Chairs scraped close, gravel crunched; the clink of bottles and cups died. Even Derby fell still.
Francisco’s face darkened for a breath. “You know nothing of the blade?”
“Little,” came the eager chorus. “Naught of your journey,” added Alvares, as a breeze stirred the magnolia leaves.
