Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  Kaptin’s face had turned red, his face flickering with images of Chief Caro, both their honor trampled out of fear and weakness. And like Caro, he obeyed. He pushed the girl forward perhaps harder than he’d intended, his anger truly at himself.

  She trembled as she lurched forward. She recovered and reached out to try and touch Ruka’s chest, tears welling in her eyes.

  I’m sorry, Ruka thought, wishing he could say it. I don’t wish you harm, but you must refuse. Please refuse and face whatever punishment comes, even if it means your death. Die by their hands, beautiful cousin, and not mine. Be brave, here and now when it matters, for the brave live forever, and in death you will be truly free.

  He growled low again, but she ignored it. Then she reached down towards the swell between Bukayag’s legs.

  “No,” Ruka said in his own tongue as he shook his head. Don’t do it, he almost prayed, don’t make me the one to choose.

  She smiled grotesquely through the tears, paints congealing and running down her face. She tossed back her long, thick hair as she rubbed against him in a revolting attempt to seduce.

  For a moment he did nothing, understanding very well why his brother wanted her. Ruka was a young man, too. He felt the pull of lust, the longing and misery of rejection and solitude. But they would not defeat his purpose.

  He clenched his hands, knowing Bukayag wouldn’t help him now. He would have to see and feel, to remember the life leave the girl’s body until the day he died. And perhaps he owed her that. Perhaps the details of the dead were the duty of the living.

  He lifted his arms and seized the girl’s neck, feeling the soft, moist flesh with his own hands. He watched the dread and listened to the air squeeze as he closed the pathways in her throat. The pressure swelled in the pools of her perfect brown eyes, and she stared at him as if surprised.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, holding back his tears, knowing his curse was to see and feel this moment until Noss left his mountain—not one image or smell or inch of skin forgotten.

  He held on and squeezed, very gently, until the struggle stopped. He held her and looked Kaptin in the eyes until the man’s jaw clenched and he looked away. Then Ruka dropped the girl’s corpse to the dirty floor with the dogs, and the waste.

  Only then did he go to his Grove. He built the girl a grave, adding some tree bark and flowers, labeling it ‘Girl in pit’. He drew Zisa’s rune because she’d been beautiful. His tears made a patch of mud by her sign.

  “I will not be a slave,” he whispered later, long after Kaptin and the watchers left him alone, perhaps bored with the show.

  “I will not be a slave,” he said more loudly, hearing the metal door close and lock again—hearing the voices, laughter and babbling fade down the pathways above.

  In his mind he rose and climbed from the darkness, learning every secret of this place. He gathered his strength as he had once intended in the land of ash, and one by one he butchered these corrupt, cruel men like a vengeful god. This thought, at least, brought some comfort.

  Ruka knew he was not a good man. He had killed and tortured and lied, and if he had not been born a monster then perhaps he had become one. But if he could kill this Trung and all those like him—if he could cut away evil men like blackened flesh, or rotting toes deadened by the frost, then perhaps, perhaps the scales might balance. At least then he would have a purpose worthy of his mother’s sacrifice. It was worth a try.

  Chapter 7

  After the girl in the pit, the king starved him for three days. Then came more men with nets.

  Bukayag resisted, roaring and bloodying the small-army of guards as they claimed him. They beat him with their hoop-poles in anger once they’d shackled him, then they bound him with loop after loop of rope, hands trembling even as they handled his chained-up limbs.

  Good with knots, Ruka decided as he watched, then went to his Grove at once to try and copy them while his body was half-carried to a new door, and a new pit.

  There in the dark he saw strange, rusted instruments of fear and pain lining the walls. The specific purpose of each was not always obvious, but Ruka soon got the idea. In one corner a man hung upside down from a rope by his feet with a metal saw half-way through his abdomen, a trench of gaping red flesh opened from his crotch. Ruka could still hear him breathing.

  Another lay tied to wooden boards with a vertical v-shape top. His limbs were splayed, chained with metal weights, and the sharp angle of the wood dug an inch into his chest. A third man sat strapped to a chair, a metal rod protruding from swollen lips, blood dripping from the corners.

  Bukayag jerked and thrashed at the sight, but Ruka knew it was useless. His new guards smiled, talking and laughing now that he’d been secured. They settled him on a sturdy chair with armrests, and strapped his limbs to it with leather at the wrists and ankles.

  Other men here spoke to the guards and dismissed them. They wore aprons like butchers, their faces masked by scarves. Ruka decided these were to mask the smell of their work, noting the distinct, gag-inducing sweet-rot of decayed men. No laughter or words passed between these ‘torturers’ as they lined up tools in wooden trays.

  Despite their masks, to Ruka they seemed no different than smiths or farmers with houses and families. They seemed ordinary men performing a task. And though he thought them cowards, he didn’t hate them.

  As they prepared, he thought of Egil and his own amateur attempt at breaking another’s will. Again he felt the shame, then the questions of why and if and what else might he have done. Egil had become a useful servant, yes, that was true. But had there been no other way? And if not, could Ruka now protest his fate?

  “I will bear it, brother.”

  Bukayag breathed for them and showed no fear. But Ruka looked at the tools and expected not to live.

  He felt some guilt for not giving his brother the girl in the pit. It may have been their only chance—a brief moment of pleasure before misery and death. Had it been pride that made him resist? Was the girl being taken against her will not better than being killed? Ruka found he did not know.

  “It is meaningless,” growled Bukayag. “There is only fear and failure. The world is cruel to the weak. How they suffer does not matter.”

  Ruka sighed, disagreeing, though he could think of no good reason why.

  He looked to the top of this new pit and saw the same collection of padded chairs. This room had two doors, and by referencing these against the lay-out of the area in his mind, Ruka knew they led to rooms or pits he had not seen. But this did not help him. He could see no way to escape.

  “They won’t hurt us badly—you’ll see. I’ll bear it.”

  Bukayag sounded almost excited.

  Soon enough the torturers began to bow and scrape and babble, and Ruka saw the king had arrived. They met each other’s eyes, and the king looked amused. He wore a thin shirt that exposed layered fat, which matched the grotesque, drooping mounds on his neck.

  Ruka sneered, thinking: if I’d found you in empty Ascomi hills, ‘king’, you’d have fed me for a week.

  Two torturers seized his fists. He pulled at the ropes and straps and chains but the chair hardly shook, so he clenched his fingers together with all his might.

  The men strained to pry them apart with both hands but failed. Two others with plant-like sticks beat him about the legs, the flexible shafts seeming designed more for pain than real damage. When this too failed they moved up to his knees and his chest, his head and face, until he tasted blood in his mouth.

  Bukayag spit it out and laughed.

  “Is this all you have, little cowards? Sticks and knives? Skin and fingers?”

  Ruka sighed and left his brother to his task. He buried some of the new Northern plants in his mother’s Grove-garden, not sure how much to water or if there’d be enough sun. After, he walked to his house, which was much grander than its humble beginnings.

  He’d finished two levels now, and dug a basement around the cellar. He’d re-done mos
t of the walls with stone and made new rooms for guests, or for reading, and one for children and their toys just in case. The beds were now all sturdy things with proper frames and mattresses. Pillows lined the wood-based furniture that he’d carved himself and strewn throughout the larger spaces.

  All around him dead men cleaned and dusted, equally proud of their work. Ruka liked to take some meals here in the kitchen. It was just pretend, and his corpse-guests never ate or drank, but he felt it still good practice. Here in his house he liked to do things properly.

  “Pass the salt,” he said to Girl-from-the-pit, who had appeared whole with only a few bruises on her neck from where he’d choked her.

  They smiled at each other, and unlike some of the others, she didn’t seem to blame him.

  Ruka complimented the chefs. He wasn’t sure exactly what the meat was, but he didn’t care. It tasted like blood, in any case, with the torturers beating him still with their sticks.

  From the corner of his eye, Ruka saw the torturers give up on his hands and move to his nine toes. They pulled off a nail with metal pliers, and Bukayag laughed and wiggled his fingers before he clenched them again and winked.

  Ruka sighed, and didn’t intervene. It would be wiser to show pain and terror, he knew. But since they were likely dead regardless, he let his brother have his fun.

  * * *

  A crippled killer has no value.

  Arun watched as the fools pried and thrashed his prize. He strained against the door, still and quiet, forcing sense to overcome desire.

  Damned idiot, he thought. Why damage him? Stupid man. So wasteful!

  King Trung sat comfortably as the pale savage turned red from welts, bamboo sticks thwack thwack thwacking a rhythmless beat.

  Will they butcher him now, then? Am I too late? Or can I pluck him out before the king’s eyes?

  Arun did not know, but feared to risk it. He clenched a fist and waited in the darkness, breathing against his mask. If he did nothing and the man died, then all his work and preparation and risk already meant nothing. But he knew he had no choice except to wait.

  First, Trung needed to leave. If he saw Arun spring on his torturers, he’d run to his bodyguards, and in moments a hundred swords and eyes would come running, all of them warned and watching for a big white creature Arun maybe couldn’t quiet or conceal.

  He could call it all off, of course. He had spent a small fortune already; and yes, he could have bought two boats instead of one before all the bribes. But to attempt, and fail? Unthinkable. Better to live and gamble again, and for now, right now, he could wait. The damage to the barbarian was still slight. And the king might yet leave. Or a rock might fall from the sky, Arun thought dryly, or the earth may erupt in some fiery explosion.

  He forced a calm he did not feel, and took slow, steadying breaths. He waited as the torturers plucked two nails from the barbarian’s toes; he watched as they lifted blades and pokers and held them inches from the barbarian’s strange eyes. But the man did not wail or flinch, and the torturers set down their blades. They lifted their bamboo rods and knocked them against his flanks as if they tendered meat. But all the while the crazy savage only laughed, or spit blood, and grinned.

  I need him to run, and fight, and swim, Arun thought. Not possible if he’s ruined; not possible if he’s driven mad.

  Throughout it all, the king stared at his prisoner. When the barbarian had borne more pain than any man had any right to bear with good grace, he laughed, too. He shook his head in disbelief, and perhaps pleasure.

  “Enough! Enough!” He waved his hands. “What a wonder! Let’s not ruin him. But keep him from food or sleep till I return. Perhaps he’ll be more docile.”

  The chief torturer stood from his work, red and sweating. “Yes, lord, very wise to stop now; he would have broken soon.”

  Arun almost choked on his spit.

  But the king nodded as if it were true. He eased his fat belly up in the way of old men, aided by grunts and a rolling stand, and Arun heard the happy whistling of his exit down a near-by hall.

  For the first time all evening, Arun smiled.

  “Get the guards, they can move him back,” said the head torturer as he pulled down his scarf and wiped sweat from his cheeks.

  Arun fingered his short throwing spears, his hands dry and steady now that violence loomed.

  No, he thought, choosing his targets. No, I think not.

  Chapter 8

  Ruka watched as a shadow cut a torturer’s throat, then tossed a plant-spear through another.

  He left his Grove and his supper to come back and watch, blinking as he tried to understand what he saw.

  Soon he realized the shadow was just a man in dark clothes, very tall and thin compared to the others. He had been hidden from Ruka’s eyes because he stood almost behind him, and very still. But who he was and why he attacked made no difference. He was killing torturers. That made him Ruka’s ally.

  Bukayag filled the pit with their own pretend shouts of agony, drowning out the sounds of the dying men to cover the shadow’s attack. The shadow leapt from man to man throwing knives and slashing faces and throats, leaving only the faint moans of suffering, and the dripping of fresh blood.

  Ruka shivered at the rare feeling of surprise.

  The shadow stood before him with one bloody knife raised, then he stooped low and cut at Ruka’s many loops of rope. Once finished, he rummaged through corpses for a key to the metal shackles, and took no pause to rest or enjoy his victory. In moments, he set Ruka free.

  Bukayag stood. He stretched his arms and cracked his neck as Ruka inspected them. His skin looked a bloody mess, and his toes throbbed, but in truth he hadn’t been badly damaged.

  The shadow bent forward rather purposefully at the waist, and held up a a knife. Bukayag seemed keen to plunge it into the shadow’s chest just to be safe, but Ruka mimicked the bowing gesture, and took the blade.

  He scanned the tight-fitting, black fabric sheathing every piece of the man’s skin, and in the gloom, even for Ruka, the shadow’s dark eyes were hard to see. Darkness seemed to gather in his clothes, and Ruka marveled at the fabric and whatever trick made it possible.

  The shadow put a finger to his mask where his mouth should be, and hissed softly. Apparently ‘quiet’ was a universal gesture.

  Ruka nodded, then followed his savior through one of the unlocked doors. His feet were bare, and he tried to move stealthily, but his skin slapped or crunched against the dirty stone no matter how he stepped.

  The shadow, on the other hand, seemed made of air. His knees bent, arms held out; he stepped strangely, as if he rolled forward on the edges of his boots—if the tiny slips of black fabric on his feet could be called boots.

  Ruka decided he looked like a fox stalking its prey, and grinned. He summoned the many images in his mind of the lithe hunters of his homeland as he’d seen them in the steppes, and the comparison felt right.

  The shadow led them through many more doors and sloped passages, all poorly lit by the curious glass-candles, and always higher. The shadow led him on, slowly but with confidence, twice passing through rooms with dead servants tucked neatly into corners or under tables.

  You’ve been a busy little fox, Ruka thought, looking at the expertly slashed throats, and seeing little sign of struggle.

  They kept moving, up and up now until the scents on the air turned from blood and squalor to spice and cooking. Ruka heard voices and laughter, clatter and kitchen-work, and the shadow would sometimes hold his hand up and stop. He entered one room alone, and when he came out to lead on, the noise had ceased.

  Ruka smelled fresh blood as they passed. It covered the faint odor of sweat and soap with copper, and as he passed through he saw two young women lying together in death. It seemed the fox had slaughtered them as a man might slaughter sheep.

  “And so?” Bukayag whispered, as if annoyed. Ruka had no answer.

  Room after room, hall after hall they moved forward, everything made
of perfect-cut square stone. Ruka added it all to the map in his mind, and their escape began to seem so easy he cursed himself for a fool. They had not seen a single guard, nor even an armed servant.

  Soon the rooms had huge colored bed-sheets hanging near or over windows that revealed a fog-filled, moonless night. The window-slits were too small to crawl through, and they moved on, skirting intricate, glossy-surfaced tables and chairs. The richest hall in the Ascom was a sty in comparison.

  Statues made of metal or stone sat on raised, wooden platforms next to life-like creations of half-naked women, or strange, animal-like monsters. Dyed images of men lay on flat, paper surfaces hung from nearly every wall, haunting in the dim light.

  For many long moments, Ruka could only stop, and stare. The skill of it all made a mockery of the crude statues and carvings of his people, and it made no sense to exist in the same place as Ruka’s captor.

  Does ugliness seek out beauty, he wondered? Or is it just more noticeable when it does?

  The shadow held up his hand, and turned his head as if to listen. Before Ruka had time to consider, the fox sprung to motion, sprinting to the wall to disappear behind one of the bedsheets.

  Ruka hesitated because he did not think he could move so quickly, or quietly. He heard voices the same moment a group of young, armed men rounded the corner from a more brightly lit hall ahead.

  They stopped, and stared. Ruka stared back.

  One man he recognized—a watcher from the pit. His dark, thick hair was oiled, his clothes brightly dyed and clean, covering a body unfit to wield a sword. The rest were warriors, garbed in leather armor with small blades on their hips, and maybe knives on their belts.

  The stunned moment passed. The men drew their weapons.

  * * *

  Arun clenched his jaw and held back the curse. He had accounted for the princes. There was no reason for any of them to be here, and yet here one was. This meant not just him, of course, since princes hardly wiped their asses alone, but four of the Trung family’s bodyguards—some of the finest warriors in Pyu.