by Richard Nell
Arun stood behind the tapestry, frozen for a moment between order and chaos, life and death. Once again he had to choose his gamble, and quickly. The barbarian chose first.
Without a word, the savage charged. All four bodyguards leapt before their prince, holding their ground and drawing curved swords.
Arun blinked, still frozen. The attack was madness. These weren’t pit-slaves with dull little knives—these were trained soldiers, hand-picked from thousands of other men. The barbarian would be hacked to death.
Still he closed the gap until he stood a man’s length apart, then swung back his arm with the pitifully short knife held high. He threw it, and the weapon sailed across the room, far off-target over the heads of the men. For a moment Arun nearly closed his eyes in pain at the foolish, incompetent attempt.
Then the lantern behind the prince shattered as the iron connected. It fell off the stone catch and broke, spilling flaming whale-oil down the wall and over the prince. The stink of fish filled the air, then the burning hair of the crown-prince, who screamed in panic.
Two guards turned at once to help him, cutting off flaming silk and smothering the flames with their bare hands. The other guards came forward with murderous stares, and the giant turned and ran.
Arun watched from the shadows still undecided, but he believed he understood—the giant wasn’t running away. Just like the pit, he had a purpose.
A single other lantern hung near the window. It flicked lonely shadows in the breeze of the moonless, pitch-black night, and all eyes turned towards it.
The giant crossed the room in four huge strides, sparing a brief look back towards the men. His golden eyes slit, almost glowing in the firelight as he smiled. With a flick of his huge hand, he tossed the lantern out the window. In its absence, all went dark.
The same, horrifying laughter from the pit filled the night. Again it stood hairs on the back of Arun’s neck, and he crouched low and opened his mouth, using every trick to amplify sound as his eyes became all but useless.
He heard the guards shuffling blindly. He heard the giant walking as if without care across the room. Then he heard stone grate against stone, and a grunt. He twisted his head back and forth trying to understand, readying two knives as he stepped silently away from the tapestry.
Heavy footfalls crossed the room. Blades hissed through the air in futile terror as the guards seemed to huddle together, perhaps to ensure they didn’t accidentally kill one another. The prince still whimpered in agony.
Arun flinched as the squish of something huge and heavy cracked against flesh, and bone, and men screamed in blind panic.
The barbarian laughed again, the sound now more like a child at play, but in the deep tones of a man.
Arun blinked and believed he understood, thinking of the corpse of Three-toed Braun hurled across a pit. Somehow the giant had lifted a statue. He had thrown it as he had thrown a full-grown man. He had crushed a person to death with a massive chunk of Trung marble.
The guards reacted as any sane men trapped in the dark with a giant, monstrous killer. They turned and fled. Panicked footfalls followed the wall, soon disrupted by grunts and dull thudding and violence.
Arun moved to cut them off—he knew which hall they would flee towards. He raced low across the room and waited, then seized the first man and pulled him to the floor. A sword clattered to the tiles, and the ex-monk grappled both his opponent’s arms as he took him flat to the ground. He jerked and bent the joints until bone snapped, dragged a knife across the man’s throat, then held him until the resistance stopped.
Air rushed past him as something huge sped past. For a moment he wondered only how the giant could run so quickly without light. But the how made no difference, all that mattered was that he could.
Arun rose and followed to the dim light promising safety in the next hall. The savage had already caught and killed the last guard. He held the crown-prince against the wall with one massive hand, the lantern with the other.
Blood pooled from a headless corpse at his feet, the curved-blade abandoned beside. The giant’s face was almost touching his victim’s—his bright eyes staring as he squeezed the prince’s neck. He was whispering words Arun couldn’t hear, and no doubt couldn’t understand anyway.
The prince was wide-eyed and dying, his feet lifted from the stone floor. He thrashed and flailed against his killer, but the attempts were feeble. His eyes rolled back and his tongue lolled while his urine mixed with the smell of blood and fish in the air. The hall and the corridor silenced.
The dangerous barbarian was not laughing anymore. His jaw had clenched, his eyes searching before him, his body held stiff with effort. He dropped the dead prince as if he’d forgotten why he’d held him, and his face lost all expression. Then he looked straight at Arun—though it was all but pitch-black where the ex-monk stood—and pointed down the hall, as if to ask ‘is it this way?’
Arun nodded reflexively, and somehow, the man saw that too.
Perhaps he is a demon, he thought with a shiver, or an evil spirit in a man’s flesh, or the bastard son of a foreign god. But it made no difference, it was too late for an exit now.
Arun led on as before, first down the corridor then to a room over a sheer high wall. This was one of the king’s many decoys—a fake bedroom designed to lure assassins, or to house guests where he could kill them quietly. But tonight there were no guards outside—only fifty feet of silk rope bundled beside one of the few windows big enough for a man.
Arun climbed down first. The barbarian struggled and seemed not to trust the rope, but he mastered his fear and lowered himself strangely, holding his weight almost entirely with his arms.
They crossed the moat on wooden planks to avoid the piranhas, chests down as Arun paddled with a single oar and showed the savage to avoid the water. Then they took the rampart stairs to the outer wall, slinking past the empty post of another bribed guard, and dropped to a pile of clothes.
An animal-cart pulled by two men waited as instructed, and the pair slipped inside without a word. Arun had ensured enough room to sit, as well as provided rice and water in clay bowls, and loose cloth shawls big enough even for the giant.
We are almost free, my friend, he thought, noting the barbarian looked longingly at the food, but did not touch it.
Will you let me take you across the sea, or are you a demon sent to tempt and destroy me? And if not, will the richest man in Pyu reward my gamble?
Arun knew he should be thrilled. He had perhaps been the first man of the isles to break a prisoner from Trung’s prison—the first man in a thousand years to take what he wanted from a royal palace and survive.
Whatever the pay-off, whatever happened next, people would whisper of the thief who stole the giant in the night for a hundred years.
Yet all he could hear now in his moment of glory was the killer’s laugh; all he could think was the giant’s horror turned to glee, flipped at a moment’s notice amidst the chaos and blood. And Arun felt the same fear and thrill he knew so well when the stakes were high, when life and death seemed the same. He looked out at the night and the buildings flying by, the sleeping citizens and their simple lives, and he smiled without regret.
Chapter 9
After their escape, Ruka and his new benefactor went to the coast. Bukayag wanted his head.
“Let’s kill him and take his ship,” he muttered as the little man loaded them onto a strange, sleek vessel with disjointed pieces somehow lashed and bound together with a single sail.
Ruka sighed.
And then what?
“Then we are free. We’ve been outlaws before.”
Not here, Ruka countered. Not in a place where we understand nothing. Where would we hide? I have seen no forests, no mountains, no plains. We must be patient.
The shadow—rather, ‘Ah-rune’, as he had seemed to indicate was his name—had tried speaking to Ruka as they’d traveled. He was more clever about this then the former captors, gesturing with his h
ands at himself, or at other things, repeating one word till Ruka said it back. He even managed to ask for Ruka’s name.
These conversations added more words to Ruka’s collection, and certainty to a few. He understood more than he let on, of course, but Bukayag was right not to trust too much. Whoever this man was, and whatever his motives, no doubt he hadn’t risked his life out of altruism, and he had already demonstrated his talent for killing.
Where are you taking me, Shadow-fox? And will I be a prisoner there again?
It was hard to imagine any place worse than the pits, but in this strange new world of cruelty and paradise, nothing would surprise him.
For now, he could do nothing. Instead he inspected the night sky and the sea, his memories of the palace and the boat beneath him. He could tell the ‘main’ hull was shallow, long and thin, with even shallower ‘little hulls’ flanking on both sides. The sails looked entirely unconstrained by framework—completely free in the wind, held only by a complex system of ropes.
And the speed!
Once out into the open waves, Ruka and his new companion nearly flew through the water, tacking faster through the sea in high wind than Ruka could have imagined. The ‘little hulls’ gave a width and balance that mocked the waves, yet almost rose up above the water as the wind moved them, so that the drag was slight.
Do you see how much we have to learn? Ruka pointed, feeling his brother didn’t truly appreciate the ship’s brilliance. We will not survive without knowledge like this. We must be careful until we master this place.
Bukayag said nothing, and Ruka closed his eyes and rose up to feel the coolness of the night air. Even when the sun was down this land was hot, and despite his life-long desire for a world warmer than his homeland, he was finding it hard to bear. His skin constantly glistened with sweat, and each breath felt labored as if drawn through a damp cloth. He hoped only this was summer, and the hottest the weather turned.
As the sight of land moved further and further away, Ruka felt uncomfortably trapped, and helpless. He could barely swim, and there were no other boats that he could see. When morning came the land was entirely gone. Blue, calm water covered every horizon, and the sun beat down with a still fury Ruka had never known.
He and the shadow took turns hiding under a tarp, and their boat kept moving well with the wind, which held steady, if mild. But once the sun drooped again, and the land returned to view, Ruka’s new friend looked back and forth and rubbed his fingers together as if anxious.
Many other boats dotted the new coast. The long, flat shore and the signs of men reminded Ruka of the Ascom, but here he saw huge wooden buildings, man-made stone walls built into the sea, and docks that stretched out floating for impossible lengths. He covered himself in the strange, thin fabric, and hunched, hiding his skin and size as best he could.
They docked as far off from the busy port as possible, but still there were men waiting. Ahrune unlatched a board from the boat. From beneath he removed a box that clinked with metallic sounds, and he plucked several round pieces of maybe silver before tucking it away beneath his clothes. He spoke with the men and seemed to pay them, then gestured for Ruka to follow along a worn stone path leading away from the coast.
The wet, salty scents of the sea soon replaced with cloistered humanity. Ruka’s stomach growled at the smell of cooking meat, and he could see smoke rising in the distance. But nothing could have prepared him.
They crested a steep hill rising from the coast, and beyond it lay a city more vast, more colorful and beautiful than anything he had ever seen. Buildings sprawled in organized chaos into the horizon in every direction, a great stone fortress lodged in their collective heart.
By their design, Ruka could not even understand exactly what the buildings were. Some had multiple roofs of colored tile, stacked as if a forest canopy had grown straight up in layers. Streets of flat rock wound between them without a trace of the dirt beneath. And all about them, inside them, coming and going and standing on balconies and reaching out windows—clogging every ounce of rock and wood as far as Ruka could see—were little brown islanders.
The children he could see were plump, and healthy. They laughed and ran through tall grass along the pathways leading to the city, or beneath rough-barked trees that drooped with branches heavy with lush, green leaves like ladles. In his Grove, Ruka fell to his knees in open awe.
Even in the real world he had stopped to stare. The men jabbered and waved him onward but he ignored them. He reached down and scooped a hand into soft, black earth, knowing in the Ascom, such soil would be fought over by every chief, and every matron, until the blood of a thousand sons stained it red. But here it looked largely ignored. It held weeds, and a stone path.
Oh, mother, he thought. Here is the paradise that was promised. It is a world beyond our frozen wasteland. It is the end to an endless nightmare. You were right. And your ancestors were right.
He held back the tears as he thought on his purpose—first only to survive, and to avenge, and to make good the sacrifice of a holy woman who had spent her life to save her son. All his life he had clung to this with a desperate need, the barest hold on a dangerous cliff as he dangled from its edge. But perhaps no longer. Perhaps here, across an endless sea, lay the answer to a shattered life.
Oh Beyla, beautiful Beyla, you were right to save me. There is meaning to what I’ve done. Paradise exists. And your son has found it.
He rose only when he felt he could control his trembling, and followed the men again, knowing very well where they would take him.
They passed the playing children, then the young women carrying baskets to the shore or the river that ran through the center of the city. They passed thousands of people ranging from light brown to a deep black, and Ruka hunched as best he could and tried to hide, but still attracted stares on every street.
The crowds seemed to squeeze his body like a bedroll made too small. To distract himself he tried his best to note everything—the sheer, colorful clothing, the strange shapes of the buildings, the plants hung in decoration. He noted none of these people carried weapons, not even the men. He noted no one seemed afraid despite being surrounded by strangers, and wondered if they had no outlaws or criminals, and if men even fought duels for offense.
By the time they’d crossed the section of city in their path, he believed himself prepared to enter another war-fort and face what followed. But as the huge, grey walls loomed, his feet slowed and his brother hissed.
Beyond would be another great war-house of rock, another king and another pit, and all his traps, locks and torture chambers. Bukayag flexed his hands.
“I won’t be imprisoned again, brother, not while I still draw breath.”
Ruka felt much the same, but what choice did they have?
Ahrune slowed now, too. He followed Ruka’s gaze and seemed to understand. From his belt he drew a small sword, and stooped down as he had in the pit, holding the blade much like Ruka had as he gifted a rune-sword to an Ascomi chief.
Bukayag breathed, and clenched their jaw. But after a long, tense wait, took it, and troubled Ruka no more.
This place might be different, Ruka soothed. We won’t eat or drink until we’re sure—and if we must, we will fight to escape, or die. I promise you that.
Despite the words he found himself sweating from more than just the heat. He didn’t want to die—not now, not anymore. He wanted to learn every truth this new land had to offer, to plumb these foreign minds for every scrap of knowledge, and decide if the world were worth saving after all.
He couldn’t do that fighting slaves in a pit, or if some new king stripped his flesh in a torture chamber. And more and more, he was sure, he couldn’t do it without Bukayag.
Chapter 10
Arun couldn’t seem to stop his hands from shaking. It was the waiting, of course, and the lack of control. He had sent a message to his buyer before he left Trung’s city, but with nobility, there were no guarantees.
The men w
aiting at the docks at least confirmed interest. Arun was at the city’s mercy now, and his prize could be taken at a pittance, or indeed for nothing at all. Still he dared to hope. The young king had a reputation for being fair and reasonable, and he’d been the best choice.
When ‘Rooka’ waited at the entrance to the fortress, though, Arun cursed himself for a fool. Of course the castle scares him, he realized. He’s just been tortured and fought like a dog in one!
Yet they had to go in. They’d been followed all the way from the docks and there was little doubt what would happen if they ran. Arun thought he could escape, perhaps, by charging into a crowd and changing his clothes or cutting through houses and alleys. But not the giant. No, the huge, strange man was surely and truly trapped. So Arun handed him his sword, and it at least got him walking.
They entered the outer fortress, with checkpoints manning each gate of each layer of wall. All stared but let visitors pass into the informal market inside. Arun soon saw ‘common’ men hiding swords, and keen-eyed ‘merchants’ selling too little for too much. Boys came begging, their hands darting about as if for loose coins or trinkets, but their true purpose was clearly to search for blades.
Arun understood every step took him further into a well-made trap—a maze of death designed by a shrewd, paranoid mind.
Once at the inner fortress, they took a side entrance into the palace. There were more guards but no questions as they passed into a garden-filled courtyard. Servants here pruned perfect bushes or swept fan-brooms over dustless paths. No one looked at or bothered them except an older man with oil-slicked hair and a trimmed goatee.
“Come this way, please.”
Arun felt the tense, menacing movements of his companion and wondered if he’d sensed the danger too. He wondered if at any moment the giant might panic, draw his new sword and hack a bloody path towards the sea. But Arun hid his concern. He smiled and gestured forward with his hand, using all his will and training to be calm as still water. The giant nodded.