Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  Still, the instinct to flee was strong, and probably right. Was this a stockade? The last time Ruka was held in one he lost a toe. Was it some kind of holding place for criminals and outlaws? But then why were there women? Surely they would hold their women somewhere better.

  It must be disfavored women, like my mother, he decided—those who’d broken mating laws and stayed to face punishment, suffering the wrath of lawmakers or ‘gods’ instead of running away like Beyla.

  He sat in the gloom and listened to the slaps of skin on skin, and the dull moans of suffering. And though this world might be new and alien, these things were not. Ruka searched his mind and found the fleshy sounds a perfect memory of his youth—memories of a weak and useless father’s night-visits to his mother’s bed, memories of lying still by a dying hearth as a man who was nothing took his mother’s love. It is rutting, he understood, the sound I hear is rutting.

  Rage took him then, quiet and deadly, as the world re-shaped. The concept itself was blasphemy, no matter a woman’s crimes. Even the ‘chattel’ of the Galdric Order forced to ‘Choose’ loyal soldiers or chiefs as mates lived as Matrons in their own houses. They were not trapped in cells like animals.

  His joy at being alive vanished, his hopes for a better place than the Ascom destroyed. Men are men, he thought, and meat is meat. He recalled the images of the foreigners he’d seen, looking intensely at their eyes and mouths and smiles.

  In truth his captors were small and soft, with fat bodies and ignorant stares—the kind that thought the weakness of others made them strong. Yet here, somehow, they were like Imler the Betrayer—like the man who nearly brought a land of warriors, a land of ash, to its knees. They have the power to hold women against their will.

  Ruka brought the wood, the grates, and the plants to his Grove to study later. He repeated the alien-sounding words of his captors, and went to the rune-hold he’d made, which contained most everything he’d ever heard or thought. Dead men were dutifully taking notes for him—scratching new words down on thin rock using runes that represented sounds. He re-read all the Northerner’s conversation, and their attempts to give orders.

  ‘Theesaka’. Did this mean ‘lie down’? Was it one word? Or two or three? He noted it as ‘possible’, and made another spot for ‘certain’, which for now was empty. He had so much to learn and understand.

  For a short, measured moment, Ruka nearly forgot his purpose. But he reminded himself that he was young, and the world more vast than he realized. He had plenty of time to master this new land, then return to his own, if he chose. All things have their time, and their place, just like your garden, Mother.

  First he needed knowledge, and to re-gain his strength. Then he would escape this prison.

  His body suggested they make a river of their captor’s blood, as well, then maybe see if they tasted like pig. There seemed to be no need, of course, and Ruka hadn’t had to eat a man in years. But he had to admit, he was curious.

  Chapter 2

  They ignored him for a day, except to stare through the door-grate and goggle. It was also difficult to tell them apart, but Ruka focused on their features like he might with animals. He watched for skin-marks and nose-shapes and hair-lines and named them accordingly. His guards became ‘Wide-nose’, ‘Bald brow’ and ‘Teeth’, because these things were obvious. He smiled when he wondered what they called him.

  There were other men, too, but these came and went—maybe just to stare at Ruka, or maybe to rut with the captive girls. They’d stick their eager faces up to the bars and gasp with wonder, sometimes speak, and the guards would laugh.

  Ruka tolerated this. His body offered to snatch one man’s hair and twist his neck till it snapped, but he declined. There would be a time for violence, oh yes, but he must choose it carefully.

  “Maybe for now if I plucked out an eye, they would understand.”

  Ruka smiled, but this was all bravado. With his hands tied as they were, he couldn’t do much but ram his head into the grate. And even if he managed to get free and kill them all, then what? Where would he escape?

  He tried to remember his ‘sleep’ on the raft, and found he had no knowledge. Had he drifted for days? Weeks? Did he wash up on the coast, or had these men found him in the water?

  Without this, he may not easily return home. He might need his captors alive and capable of speech he could understand. And besides, for now they were feeding him. Every time he emptied his bowl they filled it—usually they watched him eat, and seemed pleased.

  He had many more words now for the ‘possible’ stack of meanings, but he was patient. ‘Wide-nose’ liked to talk, and his endless stream of alien sounds were getting clearer. Sounds for ‘I’ and ‘him’ and ‘we’ and ‘yes’ grew closer to being certain in Ruka’s mind, and studying them occupied his thoughts.

  So occupied, in fact, he hadn’t noticed the silence, and the swish of light, soft fabric. His door unlocked.

  Behind it stood another small, pudgy brown man like all the others, but this one wore blue clothing so thin Ruka could see his nipples, which puffed out like a woman’s from floppy slabs of fat on his chest. He had a knife in his soft, little hand, and his face was a mask of friendly deception.

  Ruka lowered his eyes, hoping to look as un-threatening as possible. He extended his hands as if to beg for release.

  The man turned to the three guards, then almost screamed at them, gesturing wildly and frothing at the mouth. He again plastered that false, friendly grin on his face, and bent to a knee. He gently took Ruka’s hands, gestured with the knife as if asking for permission. And then, unbelievably, he cut the ropes.

  Every muscle in Ruka’s body screamed for blood, and he saw fear in the man’s eyes. Are you brave, or stupid, ‘Nipples’? He supposed it didn’t really matter. He smiled and nodded as gently as he could, then rose to his feet.

  The little chief cut his feet-ropes and withdrew, seeming to understand for the first time the enormity of his prisoner. He showed the briefest signs of regret, but covered quickly and gestured for Ruka to come out.

  They led him to another room with a large table, this one covered in food. Nipples beamed and gestured, slid back a chair, and poured cups full of something dark. All the guards glistened with sweat. They were armed, but Ruka ignored them and sat.

  He began to stuff himself, though he recognized nothing except some fish. It smelled good enough he didn’t care, and the dark liquid smelled alcoholic, but seemed weak, so he gulped it down at once.

  For a moment he considered that it could be poisoned. But then, why bother? They could have stabbed him to death in his cell.

  Nipples watched him with wide eyes. The men all talked and laughed, but it didn’t slow Ruka down. The pudgy chief tried speaking in a tone that implied questions, trying again and again as if Ruka could understand. Minutes passed this way, Nipples getting redder and redder as Ruka made no attempt to respond.

  He used the time to eat a whole fish, then two plates of mystery greens, and a few hunks of grey meat. Then he started on the mushy white grain and some kind of fishy soup. Finally finished, he leaned back and looked at his captors.

  The guards were dripping now. Their brown skin glowed red, and Ruka felt treachery in his bones, but couldn’t understand it.

  He realized as he looked at them, they held a faint blur. He blinked but it wouldn’t fade. He realized even the skies in his Grove had fogged, the sounds of the birds growing distant and distorted. His stomach roiled, and in panic or perhaps rage reached out to seize Nipples by the throat. Except Nipples had crossed the room at inhuman speed.

  Ruka tried to stand and lift a chair as a weapon. In the Ascom it took days to kill a man with poison, yet he felt oblivion rising up to strangle his world, inevitable as winter.

  Why didn’t you just poison my white mush while I was bound and helpless? Their incompetence galled and enraged him. He would be killed by fools.

  He heard their same infuriating babble, and felt their h
ands grabbing at his limbs, and still he tried to note their words for his rune-hold, just in case. If your poison doesn’t kill me, he thought, you’d best run far away…

  * * *

  Ruka dreamed of the sea, and then brown men in boats and choking on water funneled down his throat. Then he woke in chains, surrounded by four walls of pitted stone.

  For a few moments he forgot where he was entirely. He called out for Egil—a handsome teller-of-tales from the land of ash, a former servant, and a cripple at Ruka’s hand.

  But Egil, like all of Ruka’s retainers, was probably dead. They had fought and likely died in Alverel—the circle of law—when Ruka rose up in rebellion and killed the lawspeaker and a high priestess, and slew many men before fleeing North to the sea.

  This felt like another life, now, though it was no more than a month away. Or so he hoped. The sea-crossing took only a few weeks, even with the wind’s nearly fatal delay—but how long had he slept on the waves? He couldn’t remember.

  He stared at the square walls around him, smooth and thick and the height of five men at least. There was nothing else in the room except Ruka, his shackles, and a bowl of water. But as his eyes followed the sheer rock, he saw, with some surprise, there were people above. He was in a pit.

  They stared down at him, and gestured. They spoke and laughed and ate. They looked clean, and even above the stink of his dirty floor he detected scents of spice that reminded Ruka of his mother’s cooking.

  As he moved and looked at them they pointed, exciting amongst themselves as he rose up to his water-dish. A chain attached to metal rings clattered across the floor and apparently bound him by the ankle, but he could still use his hands enough to lift and drink.

  He wondered at the poison the little cowards had given him. A most useful trick, he thought.

  Ruka’s body laughed, perhaps because it was still alive. His crowd of watchers at first seemed pleased with the show. But he filled the ‘pit’ with his strong voice, and they pulled away at the sound as if he’d cursed, or thrown a rock.

  “You’re clever little buggers, aren’t you?” He shouted. “Very good.”

  His body raised the water-dish in salute, and drained the rest, still smiling and laughing.

  “I’m still alive, brother,” it said out loud, sounding pleased.

  Ruka blinked. What did you call me?

  “I am Bukayag. Surely you know that. And are we not both the sons of Beyla?”

  Bukayag. The man Ruka had become. The fake name Egil had given him those years ago to evade the law, and assume the role of a rune-shaman. Bukayag ’the arrogant seer, re-born’. It had all been nonsense, just a ruse, and yet…

  I suppose we are like brothers, he thought. Ruka had always wanted a brother as a child, even the murderous, rage-filled kind, and even if he’d made him up.

  “Before I had no name,” said Bukayag, “but now I do. I exist.” His body, or maybe his brother, stretched then sat down.

  In any case Ruka knew he was right. His body was always doing things he hadn’t strictly told it to. The men of ash said it was because he was single-born—that he had eaten his twin in the womb. Perhaps it was true, perhaps it joined them somehow, like the dead in Ruka’s Grove.

  I’m sorry if I ate you brother, he thought, I might be a monster.

  Bukayag shrugged. “Maybe it was me who ate you.”

  Ruka thought on this and supposed it should be a terrible thought, but it made him feel better. He felt a sense of justice—right from the start they’d been in it together, killer and killed, just the same. He dug a grave with all the others and put ‘Bukayag’ on the post, just in case.

  Don’t worry, brother, I’ll think of a way out of this pit.

  “Good. Best do it quickly.”

  Bukayag lay down in the filth without concern, resting like on the sea to conserve his strength.

  Keep your eyes and ears wary, if you can, Ruka ‘told’ him.

  “I shall try,” he mumbled.

  Ruka left him to it, trusting him, and feeling a warmth in that trust. While his brother rested, he practiced climbing the rock walls of the cave in his mind.

  Chapter 3

  After two days of water and gruel, guards came with spears and shackles.

  There were four of them, all wearing thin leather padding, carrying poorly forged blades of maybe bronze. They yanked at Ruka’s chain till he rose and followed.

  They dragged him past a trough—a big wooden bucket used for feeding animals in the Ascom—where a dozen other filthy, half-naked, half-starving men jostled for food. Then through another metal door, into another dirt-floored pit.

  He struggled and lingered long enough to examine the hinges and lock, and the thickness of the metal. On the other side of this new pit-room stood a big brute of a Northman, with two guards of his own holding chains.

  Crude wooden clubs lay in the center of the dirt-caked stone. All around the top of the pit stood fine-smelling, fine-looking watchers, many of whom Ruka recognized from before. He noted their clothing, their faces, the other people they watched, and who laughed when who spoke.

  All at once, the guards released the chains. They sprung away and slammed their clever metal doors behind them, and the big brute ran forward with fear and violence in his eyes. He scooped up a club along the way, raising it up with a wordless, language-crossing shout of bloody intent.

  Ruka did not move. He could feel his brother’s urge to kill—to seize the smaller, terrified man and rip him to shreds. But he knew that was what his captors wanted. No doubt it’s what they expected from a big, monstrous looking creature. And in that moment Ruka was sure these people had never seen his kind before.

  At the last moment before the other man struck, Ruka lunged, catching the forearm as it swung. His attacker moved much too slowly, and much too boldly. Ruka took the meat of the man’s arm, held him back with it, and squeezed. He held his eyes as he squeezed harder, and harder, until the bones of the arm flexed and threatened to snap.

  In the briefness, and in the obvious mismatch of the contest, the cheers of the small crowd faded. The filthy prisoner lost all his courage in Ruka’s grip, as had so many others before him. He dropped his weapon.

  Ruka crushed until his foe whimpered and sagged, until the contest of strength was so obvious and unequal it became obscene. Then he motioned back to the other side of the pit, and released him to flee back to his corner.

  Ruka lifted the discarded weapon as he scanned the crowd. He watched them closely, looking to see who was pleased, who wasn’t, and where the eyes turned.

  The tribe’s hierarchy was soon obvious. One man alone became actively ignored—peered at only with the corners of eyes. There you are, Ruka thought, chief of the pits.

  This chief was older than most. He was well groomed, with the stature of a man who once liked to fight, but now liked to eat. The crowd tried to watch him without watching. They seemed worried, but some at least looked amused. Almost pleased. Perhaps these were his enemies or rivals.

  From the moment he’d entered the room, Ruka had begun to practice throwing a club in his Grove. He moved a target and tried again and again in the training field he had labored in since he was a boy.

  The pit above him had no railing, and the distance was short. Men began shouting at the other prisoner, who had scurried back to his side and huddled on the ground. Ruka waited for the chaos to grow. Be ready, brother, your moment is soon.

  The crowd kept up its calling in harsh tones, others turning to one another and laughing perhaps to soothe the mounting tension. At last the chief spoke, and all eyes turned to him.

  Now!

  Bukayag launched the weapon hard at a smiling-man closest to the edge. It was not a tool designed to be thrown, and its flight was awkward, but it struck. It hit the man in the gut and no doubt did little damage. But damage was not the intent.

  The terrified watcher startled in surprise. He jostled his neighbors, who themselves panicked as he stumble
d against them. They knocked him forward—the only place they could push—and he lost his footing. With a wild, useless flail, he fell into the pit.

  The crowd cried out in horror, and Ruka paced forward in measured steps. He knew the door behind him was complex. It had several latches and required a key, and would take the guards far too long to open.

  None of the fine-smelling, fine-dressed watchers carried weapons—at least nothing except perhaps knives small enough to be hidden. He did not think they had the skill or the instinct to throw what they could down to intervene.

  ‘Smiler’ moaned and turned over to his back. He held his wrist as if he’d broken it in the fall, and his face was bloody from where it bounced off the stone. But he was very much alive.

  With one hand, Ruka reached down and lifted him by his neck, amused at the slight weight. He was heavier than Lawspeaker Bodil, perhaps, but not by much. Ruka wondered if he would crush as easily.

  The guards had entered now with swords drawn, but waited across the pit. Perhaps they waited for orders, or perhaps from fear of the big white demon. It made no difference.

  Ruka looked up and waited for the chief’s eyes. This is for you, he meant to say. I am a killer, but I am not mindless. I can be useful.

  He squeezed till the flesh of Smiler’s neck shrunk—until the harder structure inside crushed and popped to half the size it should be. He dropped the poor man to suffocate on the ground, and started on his grave in his Grove.

  The crowd gasped and shrieked. Many covered their mouths in horror, though some few of the men still looked pleased.

  The dying man writhed and squirmed on the ground, his mouth leaking blood as he made his last, desperate strangled sounds. Ruka felt a sudden anger at the reaction above.

  Why do you recoil? He wanted to scream. Isn’t this what you came for? A dead man in a pit?