by Richard Nell
Chapter 26
“I told you. I told you, Kikay.”
Farahi gripped the rail of his fortress rampart and tried to control his breathing. Despite every dream and intuition it was a mistake, his sister had finally broken him down, and he had sent a fleet to sweep the routes to Halin.
He thought at least if he sunk a few of Trung’s ‘pirates’, and a few of the other lords at that, it might give the old tyrant pause. He knew his ships would be scouted, maybe lured and trapped, and so he sent nearly his whole navy—an almost unstoppable force—in two prongs.
As expected, it had been a trap. Just not for his fleet.
The ‘rebellion’ started within a day of his navy’s absence. Some were clearly locals, others mercenary. Only the Enlightened could say where they’d been hiding so many weapons.
They stormed the courtyards wreaking havoc with torches in a large, coordinated assault. They had simply walked through open gates of the outer walls, killing guards and servants indiscriminately as they dashed wildly ahead.
Farahi was not entirely unprepared. He had summoned his personal troops to the palace the moment he’d sent his ships. The inner fortress was sealed, his few hundred men held the moat and inner walls, and the ‘rebels’ found themselves on the wrong-end of the final gate.
Now it would take them days, maybe weeks to tunnel under, if they even knew how. Farahi’s fortress had its own well, plenty of supplies, and his personal guard included sappers who would counter-tunnel and sabotage the enemy’s efforts. These ‘siegers’ had no rams or towers. Even if they managed to build some they still likely lacked the numbers to storm the walls.
Farahi therefore had only to wait for his fleet to return. When they did, twenty thousand enraged marines would surround the doomed brigands, and promptly butcher them.
“We were reckless, and now I look like I can’t protect my own city,” he sighed. “Another drink?”
Kikay winced and came to the balcony, looking down over the siegers as Farahi poured squeezed oranges and Bekthano rum into her glass.
“We’ll make examples,” she said. “And we can have some admit to Trung’s conspiracy in court. Let these raiders rape and butcher the ungrateful dogs down there. Maybe they’ll be reminded why they need you.”
She took the drink and swallowed most in a single gulp. By her expression, Farahi knew she was more angry at herself than anything, but she likely meant this disregard for the people.
Kikay could rage or wail like an actress, then shrug it off and eat her breakfast cool as a Bato breeze. In truth she despised the commoners of Sri Kon. This wasn’t news to Farahi, however, and he’d made his point.
“Tell me what happened with Ruka.”
Kikay’s eye twitched. They hadn’t had time to speak of it except for Kikay to say he was staying with the monks and that any chance of a cordial relationship had failed. Farahi sent a spy at once, fearing she’d had the barbarian killed.
“Nothing. He made an ass of himself, then asked to stay in Bato.”
“Did you talk?”
“No we didn’t talk.” She turned to face him. “Brother, despite your naive belief otherwise, some people will never get along. I’ve told you your pet scorpion will sting you, and he will. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, or even a year from now, but he will sting you because that’s what a scorpion does. Pretend otherwise if you like, but I won’t.” She dumped the rest of her drink over the rail. “Now I need to prepare a hundred messages for when this siege lifts. So if you’re done rubbing my nose in this?”
He waved her off, thinking the siege won’t just ‘lift’, sister. We’re going to butcher them, many our own people turned against me because they’ve been wronged by us, or because their selfish, stupid lords paid them, and they’re too poor to fear death properly.
Chaos below was only a matter of time now. The ‘rebels’ would come to understand, just as he had, that they had no hope of taking the castle. They would see torture and execution were coming for them and that escape from Sri Kon was impossible. In rage, they would turn their attention on the citizens. They would rape and murder and drink themselves into oblivion to push down their fear.
And what could Farahi truly do?
The ‘greatest king of Pyu’ stood stranded behind his walls, helpless and useless as a child while parts of his city burned.
He supposed he could sally his soldiers out to fight in the streets. But perhaps Trung hoped for exactly that. Perhaps a fleet of assassins waited, all the rest of this violence mere subterfuge to create an opening, a single moment of fatal surprise.
Must I suffer this, too, to protect the future? Farahi curled his fingers into a fist. Must I become so cowardly I lock myself away from all dangers to protect my people’s children?
He stood frozen on the rail, watching, debating. When he could wait no longer, he summoned his sergeant and asked for advice. They walked through city maps and choke points, considering what the citizens would do now with the palace trapped—whether they’d stay locked in their homes, or flee to the outskirts.
Farahi thought of fishermen drowning in great waves, laughing as the sky darkened and all the merchants ran. He knew they would not flee. Islanders did not fear death and tragedy on their doorsteps, for it was always there.
They would go to work, open up their shops in the city-square and hawk their wares, even to the enemy soldiers. They would live their lives as usual, hopeful and calm in spite of danger, right to the end.
Farahi closed his eyes and thanked the soldier, telling him to be ready if the order came.
He looked up at the falling sun, standing still as the light faded to a dull red and Sri Kon settled into evening. He stood still and silent as a statue, waiting, until the ring of men thinned around his castle, and the screams began.
* * *
Arun led them as he had in Trung’s dungeons, though Ruka knew every street of Sri Kon.
There was no need for silence now that the fighting started, but still the monk stalked and slid through alleys, motioning without words, slitting two throats before Ruka raised his hands to fight.
“Take a weapon,” he’d said as they’d pushed up onto the coast, but Ruka walked on unarmed.
“Focus on saving your princess, pirate, you needn’t look after me.”
He’d watched the surprise in Arun’s face, and nearly shook his head. Men thought themselves so clever, so unpredictable, but their desires in life were few.
Together they trekked through the city and saw many houses in flames. A few corpses lay in the streets, and soon they passed groups of men and boys lying dead in piles. Some had women and girls dragged off beside them.
‘Raped’, Ruka knew, thinking such an act should not have a word. But word or no, the thing was the same. He decided the men who did this had destroyed the very purpose of their civilization. They had defiled the very thing that gave them all life, and given up the right to be men. They deserved the death that would follow.
Arun led them past the piles of corpses in silence, but the mood had changed. They crossed the river and crept near the temple, always careful because they couldn’t know how many men were nearby. The raider’s purpose seemed only cruelty and destruction, for they had no carts or wagons, nothing to steal with, nothing to hold their plunder.
It also seemed as if they attacked the rich houses first, as if they knew the city well. Ruka thought it must be common men rebelling against their wealthy neighbors. But he felt no pity or sympathy for the Pyu ‘poor’.
Farahi and the temple gave food away for nothing, and even the poorest in the isles had something in their bellies. They had warmth enough just from the sun; they had good clean water to be drunk from the great river or the many wells. And if these people had any right to violence, then Ascomi poor could butcher all the world.
The two men stalked to a dark corner of Sri Kon’s square—an open street ringed with shops and carts at the foot of the outer palace gates. At least fifty war
riors stood guard, and did not wear Alaku blue and silver.
“Shit.” Arun leaned against the sandstone wall and closed his eyes. “If they have guards, it means they’ve held this safely for some time. We might be too late.”
Ruka doubted that very much. He knew little of the game of kings, but he expected Farahi and his sister were very good at it.
“There’s more gates, pirate. Straighten your spine.”
Arun perked up and stared with a squint. “I’m going to climb my way into the palace. I expect you can’t follow.” Ruka looked at the walls and said nothing. “Our deal is off, then, you’ve been quite useless.”
Ruka stared until he felt the man’s discomfort. “Our deal remains. I’ll see you inside shortly.”
Arun snorted, muttering ‘lunatic savage” in Batonian as he snuck round the corner. “I won’t be there to save you this time,” he called.
“You think very highly of yourself, pirate,” Ruka called back. He watched the men outside the gate, and waited.
In his Grove the dead lined a hundred weapons on racks in easy reach. They fired the forges just in case, then gathered at different distances on his field for target practice.
He breathed and summoned his memories—the feel of hard, leather wrapped pommel, the heavy sag of metal and padding against his skin.
Ruka smiled as he thought of the impossible things he intended, and his faith that it could be so.
In a way he forged his own religion in the land of the dead—a belief in concreteness, a belief in the possible. The purest faith there was. Believe it to be real, he thought, and it will be so.
Wet heat flared from his skin as Bukayag’s body wrapped in leather hide. Sparks and light followed, then the flare and spray of steam as it all weighed down with chain-linked and plated steel. He brought a shield but not his sword, then pulled down the single whale-oil street-lamp and doused the fuel in dirt.
He stepped, ready now, from the alley to open square. In his Grove he lifted a throwing-spear from its wooden grooves—one of many now in reach, sharpened and weighted to pierce wood and flesh with ease.
Bukayag held back his arm and walked forward just as Ruka did, the spear flaming into existence mid-throw as they released together with the might of both.
The steel sailed forward as if launched from a bow. Ruka seized another and threw again, both spears flickering with fire through the air, lighting the dark night before the first one struck. The target turned to look, then flew from his feet as the missile pierced his chest.
The others started shouting in alarm. They hunched and scattered, searching and readying bows. Some loosed arrows at nothing, or at every dark mound in the gloom.
Ruka didn’t fear their arrows in any case, and threw more spears. Sparks lit his body, and soon the men pointed and turned their attacks in the right direction. Flimsy arrows bounced off Ruka’s shield, one off his arm-plate, though most clattered and missed.
He started killing any man he caught standing still. Others drew blades or lifted spears and charged across the square, frantic steps uncoordinated and rushed without clearly seeing their foe.
Ruka skewered the first and second with a single throw. The third reached him, and he swiped his shield’s edge into the man’s face, splattering blood and teeth and battering him half dead into the paving stone.
Ruka drew a chopping sword in the mid-swipe of his arm, cutting through a man’s spear-shaft and deep into his shoulder. With a savage kick he knocked the foe back from the alley, twisted and hacked a neck with the backstroke.
With every kill he fell back into the alley swinging, feeling a few useless spear-tips rattle against his shield till he plugged the space. Only one or two men could approach. Two tried, and Ruka cut them down.
Others fell back hurling rocks or spears or knives, all of which clattered like hail against Ruka’s steel.
As they fell away, he dropped his sword and threw more javelins. The first pierced a man’s gut, straight through to skewer him to the earth. Bukayag saw it and laughed his laugh.
He drew a new sword as fire rained down from its scabbard of air, and readied for more. Island voices were crying ‘Demon! Demon!’, so Ruka screamed like Noss to make it true. He charged from the alley swiping at any not wise or fast enough to flee.
At least thirty men turned and ran, wild-eyed into the night.
Chapter 27
Arun untucked the climbing kit tied to his back. He wore sandaled foot-spikes now, but kept his hands free, dousing them in alcohol to dry and remove grime. He chalked his fingers, wiped some off, and chalked again.
Farahi’s walls were huge and sheer. Most of it was square stone blocks cut and stacked then held in place with mortar, coated in whitewash and plaster. They were too high to throw a hook.
Arun stood for a moment on the ground to seek holds and grooves, then, deciding on a path, began to climb.
His hard fingers clawed and locked at corners and indents, scraped out dirt, and held his weight as he spread his limbs out flat and flexed. Even amongst the monks of the monastery, he had been an excellent climber.
Soon all thought was gone—there was only the wall, the next hold, the nearly invisible path above. Hand then foot then knee, dig then thrust, lift and splay.
Time lost all meaning until Arun’s hand touched flat rock at a new angle. Then he had both hands on top and pulled himself to the safety of a horizontal world, where every movement didn’t contain the chance of death. He raised his body straight up and over the rampart without looking back. He kept his spikes and moved on his toes down the unmanned ledge and steps, through the courtyard to the next wall.
More rebel guards sat about the outer courtyard, tense and wary with weapons held or close at hand. He held back the swear.
It would be simple enough to sneak along the rampart and hide in the shadows, but who knew how far in the rebels were? And if they controlled other gates, then perhaps he’d have to climb those too.
But he had no choice. The only way was forward and the Alakus—and all the wealth they could lavish on their loyal protectors. For a moment Arun watched and waited to see patrols. He saw nothing, but soon heard shouts and fighting back from the square. He ignored this for a moment, assuming some sort of clash with civilians. Then he heard a scream birthed deep in darkness—a familiar voice locked forever in the pits of Arun’s mind. A madman judging all the world.
He crept back to the wall-walk behind and peered over the ledge, for a moment seeing only the dim silhouette of the guards and buildings.
Then fire like a torch lighting sparked in the night, and a man sheathed in polished silver walked to the square alone. He was lit by flames as he threw maybe spears at the rebels.
Arun realized dead and dying littered the street. They looked like meat on sticks in a large, square serving tray. Maybe ten, maybe more. Men fled from the lone figure screaming ‘Demon’, ‘Demon’, towards the inner gate and more allies. Others ran to the city sprawl.
Ruka—for surely it was him—walked without hurry towards the open entrance, now cleared of rebels. He stepped over wounded and dead men, past the blue-green Feet of the Traveler, the perfect grass and bushes and trees to the first courtyard.
“I serve the King of Pyu,” he growled to the new and larger group of men before him, his voice deep and dramatic. He reached out an empty, metal fist, flames filled the air, and suddenly he held a sword. “Run,” he said, “and live.”
The night stilled and Arun blinked, unsure of what he saw—unsure even of his own eyes and perhaps his mind. Seventy, perhaps eighty men stood against one, and the one threatened them with death.
For just a moment it seemed almost possible they would turn and run away, as if they shared the same sense of dread as Arun, and the pit-fighters, and the gamblers. But they stood.
They looked to each other and shook off the strangeness, forming into sloppy angled lines, with the runners from outside hiding well behind their fellows.
Ruka snarled and stomped and clanged his sword against his shield, as if pleased.
“Come and die, then. Who is first?”
Certainly not the runners. These shook their heads and backed away even as the others advanced, hands trembling on their weapons, further and further away.
Arun felt enthralled, knowing he must be watching Ruka’s mad death—that the only possible outcome was fifty Trung rebels dragging the giant down to the ground. Yet somehow, he didn’t believe it. Even as he watched them close the distance and the giant stand, he couldn’t.
Several of the runners in the back cried out and seemed to fall.
Arun’s eyes whipped back and forth across the group trying to see as men cried out in alarm.
Blue and silver silk and iron raced across the courtyard, even as the black shafts of arrows rained from the sky. Men came running from the closest gates and ramparts, or from hidden doors and corridors as a horn blew. These were Kings-guard—draped in Alaku colors, trampling leaves and garden, charging with swords and pole-blades high in feral screams.
Still Arun did not move, even as the rebels turned and panicked and Ruka charged as if he had known, or perhaps did not care.
Only the knowledge that Trung’s assassins would be surely lurking and that Kikay might be in danger forced Arun’s muscles to react. He turned towards the inner courtyard, trying to banish the madness he’d witnessed, and ran a hand over his many knives.
* * *
The ‘invaders’ split in half, and Ruka charged. Many simply tried to flee past him, away from Farahi’s guards. Ruka cut through flimsy blades and spears, often with the same stroke that maimed the wielders.
Others tried to fight him, bouncing blows off his armor. One spear-thrust hit square against the chain-links guarding under his arm, and pain shuddered through his chest.
He jabbed the edge of his shield into the man’s nose with a crunch, then moved out from the open ground to put his back to the wall. He knew with such numbers all they need do is seize him together and drag him down.
But they were confused and panicked. His strangeness, the dark, and the ambush had them trapped and dying. They were ignorant of armor and metal so hard and sharp. They thrust spears at him because it felt safer, and easier, and even as the weight and heat dripped sweat down his body he slaughtered any man who tried.