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

by Richard Nell

  As his first enemy fell he rose and slashed his blade down the other's face and chest before he could fall away. He turned and found several more, knowing he had run too far too fast, and was nearly surrounded. He felt his joy rise, hoping an honorable death might find him here before they took his son. And perhaps, if he died in battle, the boy would be spared. Despite this, Yacat would not betray his gods or his ancestors and fight without all his effort. He had his pride, and his heritage. He would not go without a battle.

  "Come then!" he roared and leapt at another man. "Take your glory, men of Acolca! Come and kill a prince of Mar!"

  Together, they tried.

  A spear gouged Yacat's shoulder, but bounced away. He'd felt the thrust before he saw it, and dropped his arm, deflecting the speartip from a proper hit. In the same motion he slashed his blade up and half-severed the hand of a bearded warrior armed with a mining pick. He blocked a hurled stone with his shield, then spun away.

  There was only one motion in battle, and Yacat knew its rhythm. Ahead. Always ahead.

  He raced yet further into the enemy, ignoring the men trying to surround him. Beyond he saw women and boys scattering on the plateau, terrified villagers trying to run down the paths with supplies clutched in their arms.

  Another warrior tried to stop him, and Yacat slashed his throat. Still he charged.

  Two arrows hit his armor and maybe pierced, but he did not feel them. He found the archers trapped against a stone wall and cut their bows, then their arms, then their backs as they tried to run. He heard more arrows whistling through the air and dropped to a knee behind his shield, but the shots had been wide. He hissed in scorn and chased these men too, cutting down another spearmen who tried to stop him. When the archers were dead, at last he turned to face the group of men he knew had followed.

  But there was only the golden eyes of the giant, and behind him, Yacat's warriors. They stood with a group of tribesmen who had risen their arms in surrender, and thrown down their weapons. More knelt with defeated eyes. Yacat looked for enemies, for danger, somewhere, anywhere. But there was none.

  "Mahala!" cried Yacat's second, his bloody fist raised, his eyes held in reverence. "Mahala! Mahala! Mahala!" yelled the warriors.

  Yacat stood panting as he glanced at his own body. Arrows stuck from his shield like a porcupine's quills. At least three had failed to pierce his chest, another his shoulder. Blood dripped from him like morning dew, and he had lost track of the men he'd killed.

  "Where is your chief," he said with the contempt he felt for the men for failing to kill him, and himself for the love of death.

  "He leapt from the cliff," said a young man on his knees. "I am his son. I am chief of the Acolca now."

  Yacat rammed his blade into it's scabbard, eyes sweeping the many men and strong boys who could still have fought him, including the chief's son. "No," he said, neither with pleasure nor remorse. "You are a slave of the sons of Mar, along with all your people." He ignored the giant, who alone matched his gaze with eyes that seemed to pierce the world. Yacat gestured to Mictlan with his chin. "Take them."

  * * *

  "My mighty son returns!"

  King Etzil rose from his limestone throne, his attendants bowing at his feet. Once, Yacat would have reveled in the compliments of his father. Now he saluted as required, and smiled as expected.

  "I do my duty, lord."

  "Your humility bores me, son. If I had five such loyal servants already we would be emperors. Drink! Eat! Sit with me and take your prize."

  It was the king's custom to share a meal with victorious generals. He would grill them on the details of the battle as they drank, and before it was over he would give them a gift or even let them choose their reward, within reason. He had always favored military men, or so Yacat thought. Now he wondered how the king flattered and rewarded his priests.

  "Thank you, lord." Yacat sat, nodding in respect to the heir, who stood in a corner with men of state pouring over messages. Yacat saw a platter of food lain out, and dipped bread in oil and pepper and ate in silence. Battle always made him hungry.

  The king gestured at the fresh, if shallow, wounds on Yacat's neck and head. "You risk yourself too easily. I'm told you were the first into battle, and that you fought like a man possessed by spirits."

  Yacat nodded and shrugged with the same gesture, gulping watered wine as he moved on to a flank of pork.

  "They say you killed five men, and wounded four more," the king went on. "Nine in a single battle, Yacat! No living warrior in the valley that I know of has ever done such a thing."

  The number was vaguely surprising. Yacat hardly remembered the details of the battle. Once he would have felt pride—even glory at such a deed, but now it put him from his appetite. He left the pork half-eaten on a plate, and said nothing. His father frowned and leaned in his chair.

  "There are more rebellions."

  "So our captured rebels tell me," Yacat answered.

  "They say the Huixly, the river tribes, even the barbaric mistmen from the jungles and Western mountains are gathering—that they've made a peace for the first time in decades."

  Yacat nodded, feeling his excitement grow. The might of his city was vast, its vassals stretching from East to West across the valley, with at least twenty thousand warriors at their call. They would gather and quash it, that was inevitable. But fresh rebellion meant more battles—more chances for Yacat to risk himself in combat.

  "I will be sending your brothers, Cuali and Patla to deal with it," said the king, and Yacat felt his eyes snap to his father's like a trap.

  "I am General of the interior," he tried not to raise his voice. "I have never lost a battle. I return now stained with the blood of your enemies, and you replace me? Have I not…"

  "Yield, I yield!" The king raised his hands, then laughed and looked to his eldest son across the room. "Our spitting viper strikes. Look how he speaks to a king. Gods preserve me. I do not send them in your place, Yacat. I am promoting you, to Lord General of all my armies."

  Yacat stopped and in his heart heard himself shouting no, please, no. He thought of the old general currently in the position, a cousin of the king and more a diplomat than a warrior. He spent most of his time flattering rich noblemen, and very little on the battlefield.

  "Your brothers need experience, Yacat," the king was saying. "They need some damn danger and discipline as well. And you, my son, need rest, and reward." Here he gestured, and one of the attendants with the heir arrived with a scroll. "This is an official deed to the rice lands East of the river. From this day on, the sons of Yacat will be landed lords."

  Yacat stared at the unfurled scroll bearing the king's mark, and his own name above the royal decree. As the son of a concubine, it was not customary for him to be given land. As a lord he would no longer live in the king's court, only attending him when required, and otherwise ruling over his own people. The specific land being offered had belonged to the crown for centuries. It was rich and close to the city, and giving it was a sign of trust, and respect, and an honor greater than any Yacat could remember his father giving.

  "Does my gift please you, my son? Do you see now how I value you?"

  Yes, Yacat thought, which only made the sacrifice of his son worse. It meant his father was so blinded by ambition and perhaps belief that still he would do this thing, and cover the guilt and shame with gifts. He looked into the eyes of a man he once thought great, now a fool who tried to win love with bribes.

  "I see, father," he whispered. "And I thank you."

  The man nodded and beamed, clapping Yacat's arm.

  "You may take what officers you wish as aids, and throw out or use whichever of the old general's retinue you like. I leave it all in your capable hands."

  Yacat nodded, unable to process the hills and valleys of his life. He thought maybe, just maybe, away from the city he could go on. With enough time, perhaps, he could forgive his family, if not himself. He smiled and thanked his king and fa
ther as befit the gift, but failed to bond with him as he might once have done.

  "Well." Etzil rose and sighed as he looked at his impatient advisors. "Sometimes I wonder who is truly king. Is it me, or these tiresome drudges with their quills." Yacat smiled politely, and the king waved him away. "Go. Inspect your land, and take your new concubine." Here he waggled his thick brow. "Rest. Recover. And by the fifth day of the new moon, come back and whip your lazy brothers into shape for me, Lord General. I do not ask a simple thing for they can hardly piss in the right pot. Go my son, and make them men for me."

  Yacat saw the love still in his father's eyes, but it brought him no comfort. He said the only thing he could think of that was true.

  "I am yours to command, my king."

  Chapter 22

  "Mistress! Please!"

  Zaya seized Temolata and pushed the much smaller girl stumbling across the room. "I will not spread legs," she growled for the second time, and the exasperated girl began to cry. "It is expected, Mistress. Your body must be hairless. It isn't painful." After this she tried and failed to explain what was in her mixing bowl, which appeared to be a kind of paste to slather over Zaya's skin.

  "If it isn't done, Mistress," the girl managed through her sobs. "I'll be punished. You are a royal concubine, you will not be harmed. But I…they will give me to the Devourer!"

  In the past month, Zaya's grasp of the foreign language had increased in leaps and bounds. She had always had a gift with tongues, and already spoke several of the languages of the isles and the continent. Her book of words had made it far easier, and the language of the valleymen was very clever and simple to learn, with clear rules and few exceptions. She didn't know who the 'Devourer' was, exactly, beyond being a god, but she knew being given to him was entirely bad.

  With a deep breath she at last accepted this latest indignity, sitting on the table with her legs apart and her dress hiked up to her waist. The girl shook her head, and with some struggle removed the dress altogether. Zaya sat uncomfortably as the girl arranged a tray of tools, which included a vat of oil, several seashells, the white paste, and a series of rough and sharpened rocks. Zaya seized the stone table and forced herself to stillness, but nonetheless prepared mentally to batter the girl away if there was pain.

  Her legs were oiled, then the rock scraped carefully in long, sure strokes. The tools were so incredibly sharp the hair sheared away without effort, and the same process repeated on her arms and armpits, and finally the paste was applied between her legs. Zaya squirmed at the strange sensation, but as promised it was not painful, and after a delay Temolata again used the oil and sharp rock. It took much of the morning, and when it was finished her skin was bathed and scented in more oils. Beads, rings and paints were fastened or smeared in her hair and on her face until she could feel the weight of it all. At last she was given a new dress of thin cotton, which seemed to Zaya conspicuously loose and easily donned or removed.

  Red-faced, Temolata at last breathed a full, comfortable breath, inspecting her handiwork.

  "You are very beautiful, Mistress. The prince will be pleased."

  Zaya frowned, but took a similar breath.

  "Thank you. I know you only do…" she struggled for the word, "duty."

  "Yes," the girl nodded vigorously. "Now you must do yours. And you have learned so many words, and so quickly. The prince will be so pleased." She took Zaya's hands and smiled with encouragement. "Prince Yacat is a handsome man, and very kind to his wife and children. As First Concubine, your sons will be royalty. You are a fortunate woman."

  Yes, Zaya thought wryly, such a fortunate slave.

  She nodded in what passed for respect to a servant, and Temolata told her not to disturb the paints on her face or the set of her hair, and to avoid eating until the prince arrived to collect her.

  "Would you like some Ektha spice?" she asked, and Zaya shrugged in confusion.

  "It will stop your…" the girl reddened slightly, and threw up her hands. "Stop you from shitting. So you are very clean. For when…"

  "No." Zaya felt her own face glowing with heat and hoped it didn't disturb the paint. "I will not." When the girl nodded, but remained, Zaya took another breath to control her frustration. "Where I going? What I doing?"

  The girl's gaze danced across the floor, then she glanced out the only window and frowned at the sun as she rose.

  "Whatever the prince says, Mistress," she said with a tone that implied the questions were truly foolish. With that she left Zaya alone in the almost sheer, immodest gown, with nothing to do but sit on her bed, and wait.

  * * *

  The prince's late arrival caused a flurry in the woman's quarter. From listening to bits and pieces of gossip, Zaya understood he was being honored by the king—that he was one of the most important men in this land, and being made more so. This surprised her, considering his relative youth, and his…morose countenance in her presence. But whether he was pauper or demi-god, it made little difference to Zaya, so long as she was his slave.

  Several of the women's servants collected supplies and clothing in crates, which were loaded onto wide, flat carts carried by half naked male servants. These all crossed their hands in some kind of supplication in her presence, and she stood awkwardly at the door to her room hoping they didn't find her book of words. Mostly, she watched the other women's faces. All wore carefully guarded expressions of polite contentedness, and did not look at her. She noticed Yacat's wife also stood at her doorway, similarly dressed and ready to leave. Zaya winced at the thought of an outing with her, but realized if she attended, perhaps Zaya would be spared…the difficulties of a private setting.

  Prince Yacat at last entered the quarter with a handful of guards. The simply adorned, pale shadow of a man Zaya had seen before was entirely gone. Now the prince's strong chest was painted with reds and blues, bare save for a bronze medallion; his limbs were wrapped in coils of thin rope, spiraling down to the sandals on his feet; feathers jutted from a headdress that looked like the jaws of a wolf, while gold rings hung from his dark hair. Where before his proud face turned with a dour expression, now he smiled and looked on the world as if it was his. He walked first towards his wife, but stooped to a knee and gestured for his children, who ran out to him. The girl he lifted and tossed high in the air, then became more serious with the boys, who he asked several stern questions before wrapping his arms around them with a playful grin.

  The women seemed hardly to breathe as he finally approached his wife. They exchanged words Zaya could not hear, though the prince's expression seemed to have cooled. With a snort he turned his back and walked away from her, and a young wife near Zaya gasped softly. His sandals clicked as he approached, and Zaya bowed her head as she'd been taught, and said the words that were expected.

  "I am told you learn our words quickly. Is that so, Honored Concubine?"

  Zaya prayed she had translated correctly, and met the prince's eyes, though she wasn't sure that was correct.

  "Not quick enough, Great Prince."

  Yacat's smile was wide and attractive. His eyes roamed Zaya from head to toe in a way that brought heat to her face. "I take my children to see lands that will one day be theirs. Will you come with us?"

  Considering Zaya had absolutely no choice in the matter, she thought the question mere formality. But she played her part. "Of course, prince. My honor."

  The smile remained, and maybe widened. "You are my official concubine, so now you should call me Tekit. It means…" here he shrugged and looked to some of his guards with a wry smile. "Patron? Lover? It doesn't matter. That is the word you should use." Here he waited, rather expectantly, and Zaya felt her skin redden again.

  "Yes, Tekit."

  He nodded, then the servants and the guards and the children all gathered and moved as if they shared some common understanding, and Yacat said his formal goodbyes towards the remaining women. Even Zaya could sense the shame and insult done to his wife, though she had no idea why. Yacat see
med to sense it too, but in response, he moved closer to Zaya, and put his hand on the small of her back to direct her onwards.

  "There is a large estate," he said, much louder than necessary for her to hear. "The children will play for hours on their own."

  Zaya said nothing, focused entirely on showing no sign of her anxiety or anger. What she would do, exactly, if the prince tried to seduce her, she wasn't certain. But she fought the urge to slap the hand from her back, or touch the knife she'd tied to her thigh.

  * * *

  They traveled on foot from the palace, surrounded by guards and servants. Yacat walked, but offered for Zaya to 'ride' on one of the flat platforms carried by the men. She refused, but he insisted, and so she found herself carried on the shoulders of ten slaves, painted and dressed like a noblewoman, escorted through a foreign city.

  The townsfolk stared, often with mouths agape, as she passed. Many made gestures that could only be called religious, and some sprayed a kind of dusted perfume in her direction, which by now she understood to be a kind of respect.

  The city swarmed with activity. Merchants called from every corner at the procession, sometimes rudely ignoring their custom to do so. Young boys were sent scampering from nearby stalls to hold up jewelry or clothing for her, others sweet treats or pottery, only leaving if Zaya shook her head.

  Yacat seemed at first tolerant, and then annoyed. In fact all his charm and interest vanished once they'd left the palace, save for the occasional smile for his children. He guided the party through cluttered streets with impatience, hand constantly on the hilt of his sword.

  Zaya well understood strong, quiet men. The men of ash, her people, were illiterate warriors who bore hardship in silence, whose only answer to suffering or dishonor or almost anything was violence. As she looked at the man she had first thought weak, she now saw something both greater and more tragic—a caged animal, a deformed spirit, his strength trapped with invisible chains.