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

by Richard Nell

  "Be careful of their blood," Zaya shouted again to anyone who would listen.

  Yacat had already moved on, racing across the square with the shaman's sword flashing like lightning, spraying dark gore with every stroke. Neither man nor shadow could touch him, both limbs of flesh and darkness falling away in defeat at every turn. Despite the horror and chaos, Zaya's spirit soared to watch him, a song close to her throat.

  The huge, winged demon watched him, too.

  With a hissing moan it stepped from the shaman's side, dark sword spraying mist as it walked towards the prince.

  "Shaman!" Zaya called as she tried to slow it down, plunging her spear into its side with almost no affect. "Help us!"

  Ruka groaned as his eyes forced open. He turned and leapt at the demon with a feral growl, seizing its arm and holding it fast. It spun and hacked down with the dark blade, but fire blazed from the shaman's hand as his own sword formed and blocked the blow. They stared at each other and held, red eyes meeting gold, jagged teeth bared against fang.

  "You. Will. Obey."

  Ruka's deep voice filled the square, though which of the shaman's personas had spoken Zaya had no idea. The creature roared and hacked again, the sound of the blades meeting echoing off the pyramids as man and demon dueled, bound by a chain that held them together.

  "Macha!"

  Zaya blinked at the familiar word yelled from the East in a smoky baritone. She turned to see Chang and a line of warriors armed like ashmen in iron mail, crossing the square in formation. She was so surprised she nearly died to a shadow's claws as it leapt for her throat. A dark, impossibly fast thing caught it mid-air, two blades flashing as they sunk into its chest and pulled it down stabbing. What could only be the dangerous captain of The Prince rose in his silks, the briefest nod to Zaya as he raced towards the winged shadow at a speed that seemed inhuman.

  Hope flooded Zaya's heart for the first time since the night began. That the crew had come at all seemed impossible, yet was true. If they could only deal with the giant creature, perhaps they could survive…if the shaman could win his private war, perhaps the creatures would simply fade away, and they could escape in the madness…

  Zaya blinked as the first shadow she'd stabbed rose from the stone. It choked and spit blood as the wound in its throat simply closed, others already rising. The first creature Yacat had cut down stood as a new arm and head emerged from its body, twisting as smoke from a doused fire until it formed bone and sinew. A sound like a landslide of screaming children rung in Zaya's mind—and she paled as she understood the sound of the winged demon's laughter.

  "Impossible," she whispered, not knowing who to tell. "We have to run." A little louder. "We have to get out of here!"

  But she knew even as she said it there was no escape—that violence like this had no end save death.

  The shaman's blows sprayed inky chunks of demonic flesh. Sparks of red and purple flew from the clash of his blade against the demon's, both roaring in rage and desperation as they tried and failed to bring the other down. All around them the smaller shadows were gathering to assist their master, leaping against Chang and his men, but always repelled. Zaya stood beside them, the hope fading but not her courage. She sang the song of the hero Egil to block out the feral cries, holding the heavy shield to protect her comrades with an arm already numb from use.

  In another scene of insanity she couldn't comprehend, a huge black cat the size of a horse leapt up from the stairs, sending men and shadows scrambling away from the pirates. Half-naked tribesmen followed, throwing spears and shooting arrows at warriors and unarmed civilians and shadows as if all were equally their enemy.

  Zaya watched it all, but saw no victory. No matter who won the shadows would butcher them all unless the shaman's madness could be stopped. She looked again to the golden chain binding Ruka to the creature—the small links as much mist as substance, the small gaps no wider than the head of a spear.

  She was for a moment protected by the ring of pirates, and tossed down her heavy shield. "The chain!" she shouted, hoping Yacat or Eka or someone could hear in the chaos, and understand. "Break the damn chain!"

  For a moment she wondered if they could even see it—or if the gods had brought her here, and given her this gift of sight, just for this moment. Either way, she knew she must act.

  Her target would have to be close. She leapt over a fallen warrior, holding the shaft of her spear along her stronger arm. The chain bounced and pulled between the two combatants like a ship caught in a storm. If the demon turned on her, she knew it could cut her in half with a single blow. She may get only one chance, and in any case didn't know what would happen if she succeeded.

  As she closed she breathed and let the world blur and vanish save for her target. Everything faded but the bouncing chain. She saw as a vague blur the captain leap from the corner of her eye, stabbing at the creature's back. It pulled away, and the chain pulled taut and straight for just a moment before the shaman followed. Her test had arrived, and this time not to save a child or her pride, but to save them all. Zaya pulled back her arm, and threw the runic spear.

  A sound like jangling coins followed sparks as the weapon struck, bending the link as it passed. It halted as it lost momentum, lodged firmly in the chain. It didn't break.

  Red eyes followed the throw, fixing on Zaya. The winged shadow charged, ignoring the shaman's sword as it tore another chunk from its breast. Zaya fell back as the dark blade slashed where her neck had been. She scrambled backwards, scraping her hands harshly on the stone as the demon followed with sword raised in fury.

  Chang and two of his biggest men seized her spear and spun it like a rudder's wheel, and the chain snapped in two.

  A pulse of light and wind erupted from the break. The force of it threw men, weapons and refuse all over the square, many shouts of agony or panic following the blast. The demon stared off into the night as if it had heard some distant bell, its eyes rolling back as its mouth slackened. The dark blade vanished as it howled, or maybe wept. Then it staggered away to the sounds of snapping bone. It smashed straight through the wooden stands, its smaller brethren chasing after with animal calls and keening, vanishing quickly into the night and the far side of the temple.

  "Macha," came the smoky baritone, followed by a wet cough. "Take to sea."

  Zaya's ears rang, and she spit blood as she stood. She found Chang laying beside her, somehow thrown from his feet and knocked some distance away. The pirate chief lay on his back on the stone, face bloodied and burnt, one of his arms twisted. He met her eyes before his head sunk. "Sweet Macha, small favor. Take Chang's body…to sea."

  Two other pirates lay shattered nearby. The half-naked tribesmen were still fighting with city guard at the further stairwells, the other few people still left in the square trying to escape. Everywhere she looked there was corpses.

  "The ship," a panting Eka rose to one knee, pulling off his singed mask. "The city is burning. We have to get to the ship."

  Zaya looked to the armored, maybe unconscious form of the giant shaman, the many wounded sailors, and as yet saw no sign of the prince. While she had no desire to stay in Copanoch for another moment, especially at the temple, even now she saw the fires spreading across the cityscape below. She had no idea how they were going to go anywhere, or even how they'd get down the stairs.

  Chapter 31

  Yacat found his father ripped open by the altar of Centnaz. His glazed eyes scanned the stars, and when Yacat knelt beside him and extended his hands, he did not take them. The king of House Mar died as he had lived—strong, and unrepentant.

  "I stayed where you told me, father." Zolya stepped from the temple wall pale and trembling, his eyes locked on his grandfather's corpse.

  "Good boy. Good lad." Yacat took his son in an arm and kissed his brow.

  "Is…Centnaz angry, father?" The boy's eyes were slick with tears. "Is it because I didn't…that we didn't…"

  "No, son. It is the opposite. It's nothing
to do with you, and everything to do with the men who would kill a child. Do you understand?" The boy nodded, though Yacat had no doubt he did not. It didn't matter. Very little did now.

  The shadows had butchered half the elite or more of Copanoch, yet the slave-spirit called Ruka had fought them. He had fought to protect Yacat, and to protect his son. Why?

  Yacat could see no reason save that he had stood against Centnaz. Perhaps this strange man and spirit was a herald of the ancient gods, just as Nahua was a herald of doom. Yet Yacat could see the flames, and the tribesmen. He looked out at his people's city and saw rebellion and destruction of men by other men—the ending of civilization.

  He took his son and started walking, though he had no idea where. Across the square he found Ruka, and Zaya, then a crowd of armored men. The demonic blast had ended the melee save for a few clashes at the edge of the temple. Zaya's eyes were wide and frantic, the familiar panic of a warrior broken on the battlefield. Yacat knelt at her side, and took her arms. "You're alright, Zaya. Look at me. You're alright."

  She stared and matched his breathing, pupils shrinking as she calmed.

  "We have ship, Yacat, but…our men are wounded. It's far, and dark, and the shaman…" she trailed off, and though Yacat had no answers he squeezed her arms. If he could reach the soldiers he was sure many would still be loyal to him, but he could do nothing in this chaos. First, they had to get out of the city.

  "Mahala."

  Yacat rose with sword in hand to find a familiar face, though he couldn't remember from where. The man was painted for sacrifice, surrounded by slaves that must have come from the broken pens. The men carried looted weapons, and the familiar face saluted like a warrior. Yacat realized it was a captured soldier from many months ago—a man he'd spoken to and thought sacrificed.

  "Nahu," he said as the name came to him. "From the Orino river. I thought you'd be long dead. You must be a hard man to kill."

  The younger man stiffened at his name, and smiled. "The gods saw fit to spare me, prince." He looked around the square. "Honor demands my life still belongs to the sons of Mar. As far as I can see, you are the only one left alive. Command, and I will obey."

  Yacat snorted, half expecting the men had come to kill him. He gestured at the dead king, the burning city. "The House of Mar is no more, Nahu. Your life is your own."

  "Can you help us?" Zaya rose with a groan. "Can you help carry wounded? Help escape?"

  The young warrior's chin raised. "We would be honored."

  Yacat shrugged and gestured at the fallen men, and the slaves gathered them on shoulders and backs, two men lifting Ruka. Fortunately, once the giant was on his feet he seemed to move on instinct, face contorted as if still enraged. Promising she was alright, Zaya helped carry one of the men. "What is best way out?" she stopped and stared at the burning city.

  "Not that way," pointed a man garbed almost entirely in black cloth, his voice humming strangely. Yacat followed his hand and saw thousands of torches swarming the streets.

  "West, then," said Yacat. "There is a gated tunnel built for nobility. It will get us under the wall."

  The black garbed foreigner looked Yacat up and down. "Remove your royal dress, do it now," he hissed through his mask, his words echoing strangely but clearly in Yacat's ears. After so much blood and violence, Yacat's body still trembled with opposition, but he could see the sense. He stripped off his headdress and jewelry, and the strange man spoke again. "Stay close. Don't even look at the rebels."

  Yacat nodded, holding his son with his least bloody hand. The boy shook and his eyes were wide with silent terror, but he kept moving, and Yacat was proud of him. He tried not to think of his wife and other children, of his dead father and brothers and the chaos that now enveloped his city. There was nothing he could do for them now. But he could still save his son.

  His body faltered with fatigue and wounds, and he nearly stumbled on the rough stones as they made the long descent. All around him the other tired, wounded men grunted in exhaustion, but managed until they reached the main street heading West. In the dark it was difficult to tell, but he felt several shallow cuts on his limbs, and his back ached in waves of agony.

  The street was all but abandoned. Fire and battle cries and screams could be heard clearly from the East, and to Yacat it seemed as if the entire countryside had risen in rebellion. They walked on carrying their wounded, and soon saw men dressed for war burning and pillaging. Yacat grit his teeth, choking back the rage of such desecration on a holy festival, which had held meaning to all long before the stolen rituals of Centnaz. The raiders moved nearly unchecked, ducking in and out of houses, murdering citizens and killing the few warriors sober and close enough to realize what was happening. Yacat expected that by the time whatever generals were still alive could gather an army, the city would be burned to the ground.

  "My ancestors built this place," he said, mostly to himself. "It has stood for a thousand years."

  No one answered him, and the dead could not complain. Yacat felt the weight of failure as he watched it burn. Untold generations had passed their labor down from father to son, father to son, until corruption and decadence had replaced reality, weakness with strength. He knew life was too cruel to let them learn from such mistakes. It was all over now.

  In the wreckage of Copanoch, the valley would split apart as cities and tribes bickered over ancient feuds, fighting over the spoils. None knew now how to build a city-state; all alive had been given that miracle as a gift before they could stand. They had forgotten what it took. They had forgotten what had made them kings.

  Some citizens still stood in the streets, a stunned hopelessness in their eyes. Families gathered with their belongings looking unsure where to go, and Yacat wanted to call out to them, to help them, to say 'follow me, I will lead you to safety'. But he didn't know if he could.

  At last they reached the edge of the city, buildings turning to farmland, with only the road they'd follow East as far as possible, apparently to the sea. At the crossroads they found a party of tribesmen guards—painted warriors who stared and armed themselves as they lined up along the road.

  "We are allies of mist tribes, and the shaman Pacal," called the black-garbed foreigner in his strange, echoed voice. "We are not your enemies."

  The tribesmen seemed to understand, but did not clear the road. They inspected the group, careful eyes moving over everything, one speaking to the others, his eyes steady on Yacat. "We don't know you, though by your voice perhaps you are ally to Pacal. You may pass." He pointed a finger. "But that man is Prince Yacat, the great killer of House Mar. He has murdered and enslaved hundreds of our people."

  Yacat slowly pushed his son behind Ruka, hoping they didn't recognize him too. He saw other tribesmen had heard the speech, at least twenty more approaching from the nearby fields. His heart ached at the thought of his son growing old without him, and witnessing his father killed here brutally. But often a man could do little enough but meet his fate with courage.

  "I served my king," Yacat stepped forward. "Now he is dead, and so I have no quarrel with you. I never did."

  The tribesman snorted, the awful excitement of revenge growing in his eyes. "But we have quarrel, Prince. Give him to us, stranger, and we will know the rest of you are allies as you claim."

  Yacat did not wait for the inevitable betrayal. He took another step forward and unhooked his metal sword."You want me? Here I am. Come and be the first to die."

  "Take that bastard, brothers!" a man yelled from the group. A handful came forward with spears and drawn bows.

  One of the armored men being carried who looked half dead coughed and spoke with a rasp. "I'm not an ambassador, friend, but I don't think they like you."

  "Savage," whispered the masked man. "Can you fight? There's a great deal of them."

  The giant spirit-man stirred and swayed on his feet, though he still looked as if he were already fighting. His breathing was ragged, and he used his spear as a crutch, gold
en-eyes webbed with veins. "Of course," he growled, then slumped to the dirt and groaned.

  Yacat searched for something, anything else useful he might say to the angry tribesmen to stop the violence. Then the group of warriors ahead yelled, and charged.

  * * *

  Chang pushed off the men carrying him, drawing his sword with his good arm. With the one eye he could still open he watched the rising dawn, and the expressions of shock from the men as he steadied on his feet.

  "Stop your staring," he barked through bloodied lips. "Stay together. Kill them all."

  Basko looked about as red as Chang felt. He nodded and slapped the Steerman hard. "You heard him, kill the bastards!"

  The only Oarmen left stepped ahead with his shield, dripping blood from deep bruises. Chang hadn't heard much of anything that was said since the explosion, but that didn't matter. Enemies were between his crew and the sea, and for that they would die.

  The half naked tribesmen slammed spears, arrows and knives off the thin shields, chain links, and plates on Chang and his men. They struck a moment later, pushing against the line of iron, slashing their wooden swords as they tried to leap over the defences. They failed.

  Chang jammed his sword into the first unarmored chest. Grunts and screams followed as the crew of The Prince showed the strength of the shaman's weapons. Wooden swords and spears smashed and broke against them, more arrows and rocks bouncing away without purpose. One ripped skin off Chang's burnt cheek and he roared in pain, stepping forward to hack another spearmen down. He could hardly see but he knew by their numbers the enemy were trying to wrap around his men's flanks. Made no difference. They were too outnumbered. All he could do was hope the others held.

  The armor soon felt like an anchor tied to his back. His arm throbbed with agony that matched the waves of pain from his face, and he was very tired of fighting. He was in fact tired of landsmen and mosquitoes and words he couldn't understand. He wanted the feel of the sea, the sound of the ship as it creaked over the waves. He wanted what he was owed, or to go down to Roa and sleep until another life. But a good pirate needed stamina.