Dark Sea's End (Beyond Ash and Sand Book 1)

by Richard Nell

  "People of Acolca. I am Yacat, son of House Mar, and prince of Copanoch. Why do you hide from us? Are we not your allies?"

  Only the sound of the birds could be heard, and Yacat feared there would be no answer, and that his hand would be forced. Instead, what appeared to be a large rock flew from the cliffs, landing not far from Yacat's feet. Along with his warriors, he stared at the 'rock' until he realized it was the bloody, wrapped head of a king's servant.

  "There is your kinsman!" called a strong voice from the cliffs. "Take him, and leave our land."

  Yacat quirked his brow as he examined the bruised, pale head. A representative of King Etzil Mar was left in every village as diplomat and tax-collector, and Yacat had little doubt this was him, though he'd never met the man. Villages like those who lived in Acolca were ruled by strict hierarchies of kin. They knew everyone in their village, and everyone from nearby villages, so they expected Yacat not only to know this man, but be related to him. Neither was true, of course, and the feeling was no different than the thousands of dead Yacat had seen during a lifetime of war. Still he sighed, and looked away.

  "You have broken the king's law, Chief Tomoa. Tell me why."

  He heard a scoff, and spitting fury.

  "Law? What laws does your king respect? His ambassadors force us to pay, or his warriors steal from us, and take our women. What use are your king's law to us?"

  Their use is irrelevant, and of course they do, Yacat wanted to snap. To call a tax collector corrupt is to call rain wet. Men are greedy, lustful knaves and honor is a rare gem amongst a field of salt!

  Instead he gestured to his army, in case someone was watching.

  "Those laws bind these warriors to me, and me to my purpose. Come down and surrender yourself, Chief. Don't make us come up and get you."

  "Your kings, your cities, and your gods are doomed," yelled the angry voice. "Every town, every chief of the valley hates you. All of you. We'll suffer you no more, son of Mar. Your time has come."

  Yacat shook his head and glanced at his men. Some now smiled in anticipation, knowing they would be given the chance at captives and plunder, and that the Acolca were a prosperous tribe who would have considerable jewelry and many daughters. The fact brought Yacat no comfort.

  "Come down, chief of Acolca," he called one last time, feeling no different than a slave must feel. "Come down or your houses will be burned, your grain eaten, your people killed, or taken."

  There was a pause this time, as perhaps the villagers at least considered the offer. The answer, when it came, was clear and confident—a brave call that earned Yacat's respect, and made him less desirous than ever to do his duty. In a strong, manly voice, their chief called as if he had some chance.

  "Come and take them."

  Chapter 20

  "There's only two paths up the cliffs, Tahana." Mictlan returned panting and bloody from his first attempt up the mountain. The Acolca warriors were guarding the steep inclines from above, loosing arrows, javelins and rocks onto Yacat's men as they attempted it. Already many had been wounded, some severely enough they would likely die.

  "Enough. Call them back." Yacat growled and stared at the thick jungle on both sides of the mountain. "Keep looking for other paths."

  "Lord, there's no point. I have a scout who knows this area very well. He was born here and he says…"

  "I don't care what he says, keep looking."

  With ill-concealed annoyance, Mictlan turned and barked to his scouts to renew their efforts. Yacat stood and watched the mountain, angry at the violence, angry at the rebellion, and at the rife corruption which no doubt created it. It seemed almost impossible to govern so much territory and so many men without greedy opportunists lying and abusing their charges without constant supervision. You could hang a tax collector and stifle it for a time, but it always returned.

  "We'll be here awhile," Yacat said to his other officers. "Set up camp. Search the town for food and get water from their well. But figure out if they've poisoned it."

  "They won't have poisoned their own well, Tahana," said Mazat, Yacat's brother-in-law and a panther warrior with several kills. But when he saw Yacat's eyes he closed his mouth and nodded.

  The small army of warriors set about exploring the town on guard for ambush. Many supplies had been abandoned, many animals left behind, and the crops of maize and amaranth remained in the field. It seemed their decision to climb into the mountains had been done in some haste, and therefore without the intent to stay up there for long. Did they expect reinforcements? Or something else to take their attacker's attention? Yacat explored the chief's house himself, looking over religious icons, children's toys, clothing, still unsure why he'd rebelled. Corrupt tax collectors was nothing new, and he might have complained to the royal family before he took such drastic measures. So why now? What hope did they have?

  Evening fell quietly as the crest of Awonotza flagged and fell. The officers would expect Yacat to sit with them around their fire, laughing and gossiping and maybe discussing strategy. Most were good men and Yacat liked them, but he found he had no stomach now for the brotherhood of warriors. Instead he walked a ways from camp, with some difficulty dismissing his bodyguards as he walked along the edge of the great lake that brought so many life. He thought of his wife, and though he knew his feelings were impossible and unreasonable and that she could do nothing else, he felt a kind of hatred at her betrayal of their son.

  "What is it in me?" he asked aloud, looking up to the stars. "Why must I suffer when all others say it is right, and divine?"

  As ever, the gods did not answer him. Yacat returned to the camp by moonlight, and for a moment froze, thinking he spotted a beast lurking in the night. He realized it was the war-slave, Ruka, his golden eyes staring from the darkness. The king was not foolish to be wary of him, Yacat thought. He saw in those eyes the same monster he'd seen in the prison—an evil spirit, just as the priests had said to Yacat's father—an ill omen released from the god's prison to devour the lives of men. As it turned out, they'd urged Etzil not to sacrifice him lest they anger the gods with the gift. Better to keep him far away, they said, better to let others kill him.

  Out of curiosity, perhaps, or just lack of purpose, Yacat sat beside the creature. His huge hands whittled a piece of wood with a bronze knife he must have found in the village, moving with a craftsman's practiced ease.

  Yacat sat but found he had nothing to say. 'Are you an evil spirit sent to destroy me?' seemed unlikely to work. 'What have I done to anger the gods?' seemed equally silly. In the end it was the slave who broke the silence, without looking up from his work.

  "What happened?"

  Yacat's eyes narrowed as he stared. The slave's incredible aptitude for the language was either trickery or magic, and his dropping of all honorifics and niceties in polite speech was certainly intentional. Yacat didn't bother to correct him.

  "What do you mean?"

  The slave shrugged and lifted his carving to blow off a piece of scrap. "You are powerful and young, a prince amongst your people. So I must wonder, what is it that destroyed your joy?"

  Yacat clenched his jaw rather than answer. Are you mocking me, spirit? he wanted to shout. Do you know everything about my life, and yet sit there and pretend ignorance, speaking as if you don't?

  No, Yacat breathed, he didn't believe that. Not truly. No evil spirit would allow itself to be taken so easily, to be imprisoned and enslaved. Whoever this 'Ruka' was, he was just a strange, foreign man, deformed and bizarre, at the very most possessed secretly by a trickster spirit. The thought calmed him.

  "What do you know of my joy, or sadness, slave?"

  The strange man glanced up from his work. "Nothing. But I know your look. I have seen it many times in mirrored glass, and in clean, clear pools."

  Yacat stared, then snorted. In normal times, a quip would form on his lips and he would put such a comment in the fire where it belonged. Instead he looked out into the darkness that reflected his hea
rt, imagining his son as a boy, laughing as he lifted him.

  "I've lost men for nothing," he said bitterly. "Tomorrow or the day after I will go up that mountain and lose more men, and kill and enslave those people for nothing. I see no way to stop it." He turned and spit into the dying fire. "There is the use to my titles and power."

  "Your men seem eager for it," said the golden-eyed man or maybe spirit, who should not speak the words of Yacat's people so well. "Are you not?"

  "I have never wanted to kill," Yacat hissed, then quieted, because he knew it wasn't true. As a younger man he had felt the joy of battle, when he had survived duels and captured his first prisoners and won himself fame and his father's pride and favor. "Glory fades," he heard himself saying, "the faces of the dead remain."

  "The dead remain," repeated the foreigner, almost like a prayer. They sat in silence for a time before the giant spoke again. "If you wish, prince of the new world, I can help you take that mountain. Though I am a man, and not a spirit as your people believe—you can use my strangeness. Say it is my will that the townsfolk live. Or make up some other lie. What is true is that I can help you protect the lives of your men. But that is my price. Spare those townsfolk, and I will help you. Many who would die will live, and the great legend of Tahana will grow."

  Again the perfect words seemed impossible, the understanding inhuman or a trick. Though Yacat's world was now as dark as the night, he had to admit, he was curious about this man, and how he could do as he promised.

  "Tell me how."

  The giant smiled with angled teeth. He held out a four-fingered hand, and revealed his carving. It looked like a tall, rectangular house with wheels, a thin platform at its peak. The giant gestured towards the town. "We'll need wood. I will start by pulling apart those houses, and I saw wagons that might be useful."

  Yacat said nothing and gave no reaction, but as if he meant to start immediately, the giant stood and turned towards Acolca. How a man would work in the dark Yacat had no idea, but he still said nothing as the giant walked away. Instead he stared a long time at the carving in his hand, feeling a strange sense of smallness, even helplessness, as the world changed around him.

  * * *

  The spirit-man made considerable racket all night, and an equally considerable pile of lumber by morning. Yacat sent his slaves to assist when the sun rose, but let his warriors sit idle because to assist a slave would have shamed them. He sat and watched the frame of the strange device come together, then an ascending staircase surrounded by four rectangular walls resting on long piles. When his officers could stand it no more they sent Mictlan.

  "Tahana—what…what are the slaves building? And should we not keep looking for paths up the mountain?"

  Though it was clear to Yacat now what the spirit intended, and he suspected it would work, he had to decide now whether or not to back the project. "No path will be necessary, Commander. I know the way up that mountain. Sit and relax. In a day, perhaps two, I will show you."

  Yacat took some pleasure in the man's confusion. He clearly had questions but instead saluted and returned to the officers, where he no doubt tried to pretend confidence as he explained.

  By the next nightfall Ruka had begun to betray his true nature. Again the slave worked in the dark, almost entirely without rest now for two days and nights, and Yacat knew a moment of fear. Only once or twice did Yacat see him eat with the slaves, drink a bucket of water, or walk to the woods to relieve himself, as if he maintained his flesh only for appearances. By afternoon on the second day, using ropes and wooden ramps, he and the slaves managed to lift the towering structure onto the wheeled frame. It stood taller than several houses stacked one on top of the other, at its peak some kind of opening with a ramp that might extend. It looked almost exactly like the carving.

  When it was finished, Ruka walked purposefully from the town, his huge, pale body covered with a sheen of sweat. He sat next to Yacat and inspected his tower from afar. "The townsfolk will be watching, and may guess the tower's purpose. Wait until nightfall, then roll it there," he gestured with his chin towards a low section of the mountain. "Your men can climb and gather, then attack from the East."

  Yacat could hardly believe the man's arrogance, or perhaps confidence. That a slave would tell a general of Yacat's stature how to do anything was beyond belief, further proving this was a spirit and not a man. Yacat nodded noncommittally. "If the device is sound, I will do as you suggest."

  The spirit's golden eyes narrowed.

  "It is sound."

  "Good." Yacat smiled. "Then you will be inside it, and the first man up the mountain."

  "I told you, I will not kill," the giant's words failed to hide his anger.

  "Then wound, and capture. It's all the same to me, slave."

  The big foreigner's shoulders flexed like a bow curving under strain. "It is a weak man who risks only the lives of others," he said with the same quiet menace, but Yacat was no longer afraid of him. He snorted and stood, feeling his strength and spirit renew at the prospect of battle, though he wished it wasn't so.

  "I agree. That is why I will be the second man up the mountain. Now go, rest and eat, if those are things you require. I'll collect you when the sun falls."

  Chapter 21

  Explaining Ruka's plan to Yacat's officers was harder than expected. They feared the tower would tip, that the enemy would wait for them and attack any man who tried to come out, that it wouldn't get them high enough to matter. Mostly, they just didn't trust Ruka.

  "Nor do I," Yacat said with a smile, his mood much improved at the possibility of death. "That's why the giant will go first."

  He explained that if the enemy waited for them they'd simply move the tower and try elsewhere, or in the distraction send men up the paths. They still complained, but ultimately, he did not need their approval.

  As darkness fell Yacat donned his armor. His slaves painted his skin, scented him with smoked perfumes, and arranged his headdress and feathers. For several years now Yacat had run out of space to wear his trophies in battle. He wore the full markings of the eagle warriors, keeping the rest in his meeting room to remind the officers.

  In the history of their people, few were known to have killed or captured so many as Yacat, and all were older men. He was the youngest warrior of Copanoch or any other city in the valley to have earned the final feathers, and beyond. It was why they called him Tahana, why they feared and respected him, because in a hundred battles he had killed or captured men personally every time. How many deaths and captured slaves he was responsible for, he no longer knew. He was the victor of the war of two kings, the killer of a dozen chiefs, the destroyer of rebels from one side of the valley to the other.

  Now he would put down these latest uprisings, and who knows what else for his ambitious father, and his brother, the soon-to-be emperor. But it made no difference. He was as much a slave as the warriors outside, and the only escape was death.

  When he was ready, he banished the slaves and stood alone in the dark tent, staring into nothingness.

  "I have never lost a battle," he whispered to the gods. "I did my duty, I was never cruel or weak. Yet all I love is ash. Tell me, mighty stewards of the heavens, how is that justice?"

  Without waiting for an answer, he strode from his tent, stood beside the spirit made flesh perhaps sent to destroy him, and pushed the tower in the dark.

  * * *

  As the spirit-man had expected, the townsfolk of Acolca were watching, and waiting.

  Yacat hunched inside the tower with Ruka and a dozen of his warriors, and the slaves wheeled them towards the mountain cliff. The strange construction tilted and creaked, and though Yacat welcomed death he still felt the animal panic of fear. He flinched at the cracks and booms as rocks and arrows struck the tower. A javelin tip pierced the wood and shallowly cut a panther warrior's cheek. The man moved his head from the wall and said nothing. Inspired by the display of courage, Yacat took a breath and called out, his voice echoi
ng down the tower.

  "For Copanoch, and the king!"

  The men cheered their approval, and the tower struck hard against the stone cliff and stopped. Ruka turned his strange eyes towards Yacat, then with something like a sigh, gripped the rope that released the platform at the top of the tower. It fell open, smashing loudly on the hard rock of the mountain, and the giant raced across.

  Yacat followed with his shield raised, eyes straight so as not to see the high drop on either side. An arrow whistled past his arm, another hit his shield and stuck, yet another skimmed the flesh of his shin. He growled at the pain, but could have wept at the joy of battle, as all other things faded to nothing. For this moment there was only the grip of the pommel in his hand, the hot breath filling his lungs, and the men who wanted his death.

  He heard the whistle of a javelin and dodged as he spun his shield against another arrow. As Yacat had learned in his first battle, where two thousand men filled a marsh with their corpses, on the battlefield, as in life, there was one rule that almost always worked: attack.

  He raced at full speed across loose rocks, complete confidence in his own agility. He felt rather than saw the giant as he passed, hollering another war cry as he swerved from more arrows and found his first man—an archer loosing from a high stone. Without slowing, Yacat slashed his obsidian-edged sword across the man's gut, and felt blood spray against his neck. Yacat had always had one great advantage over other warriors in battle—he despised making men slaves, so he fought only to kill.

  Enemies closed behind him now but it made no difference. Two more loomed in the dark ahead, and Yacat lost no time. He crashed shield to shield into the first, then dropped and sliced across the man's legs, ripping a terrible wound. The edge of his obsidian was sharper than any bronze, and cut through even thick wool gambeson with ease. Sometimes it would break on bone or wood, and so a man's blows must be precise. Many warriors carried two or three blades for this reason. Yacat carried only one. He had not broken an edge in five battles.