Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  They ate mostly in strained silence. After the meat though Altan opened honey wine and filled even the children’s cups, the specialness and warmth loosing tongues and postures. Soon the family talked about the new house, the weather, the blankets, and the youngest twins who slopped their food, and all laughed together. All except Noyon.

  Noyon did not approve of Ruka. If it were only her who’d found him then surely the local chief would already have come. But Altan had given his word. His Matron seemed to love her Chosen and respect his honor, though she was by no means bound to do so. He’d given his protection as host to Ruka, and for Noyon this appeared at least enough to delay.

  Still, they whispered at night.

  “The priestesses lied. We don’t know the real story, and he seems honest,” his host had said the first night while Ruka sat against their house, awake in the darkness.

  “The truth won’t matter if the Order finds him. And what if our neighbor talks?”

  “He won’t.”

  “You can’t be sure. And what about his little dark-skinned…allies? His Noss-mark? And he’s a giant, Altan! What will we do if he turns violent? You saw what he did to the wolves.”

  “He swore to Nanot, my love, and I…”

  “If he’s done half the things they say he’s done, do you think that matters?”

  “I looked in his eyes, Noyon. He doesn’t mean to hurt us. I would know.”

  The couple had at last worn out and slept, but whispered much the same for days. Ruka decided to summon silver from his Grove, and had handed a chunk worth two horses to Noyon after a meal.

  “It…it’s,” her eyes had gone wide as dinner plates. “It’s too much, Bukayag.”

  “For your kindness. And for the animals.”

  She’d eventually nodded, wrapped it in cloth and hidden it away without further protest. After that, she no longer voiced complaints in the night.

  Later he’d brought more silver to buy supplies for Kwal, taking every scrap of lumber and rope Altan had on his beach while the man goggled at the amount. He brought more dried wood, too, along with iron nails, plugs and rods, various clamps and hammers and other tools—all of which he’d pretended to have in the ship’s hold.

  Soon he would need workers, and warriors—the kind of men he could take across a deadly sea to plunder and glory. And somehow he must keep hidden from the Order and the chiefs, who would surely gather and chase him down like a rabid beast to the ends of the Ascom, at least if they knew he was alive.

  In the world of the living he focused half his mind on the now, smiling at the family that risked their lives when they took him in. He drained his wine-cup in a single swallow, watching the boys as they tried to do the same and choked, and Altan laughed and re-filled all.

  These were good, honest folk, that was clear—rich enough perhaps to earn the dislike of Bukayag, but in the world at large they still ranked amongst the poor. Families like Noyon’s were why Ruka had returned—people trapped without knowing in an icy cage.

  He would free them, and open the shell of the world before them, so that the brave might choose their path.

  But how do I spread the word of my return? How do I gather chiefless and teach them all the truth and rally men to my cause?

  He saw no obvious answer, and blinked to stop Bukayag from staring at Ana’s curves before focusing on his Grove. He would have to win back the loyalty of his outcasts, if they lived. Perhaps he would start with that.

  “Let’s stretch that leg a bit,” said Altan just before dark. He seemed a little drunk, and made a face at his youngest twins before helping Ruka stand.

  It wasn’t their first evening walk, and they settled into a comfortable pace along the beach.

  They listened to the waves, the chirping birds and grasshoppers, watched pelicans dive at fish along the coast, at ease in silence before one or the other picked a topic.

  “The first man I killed was a fisherman,” said the farmer, picking at his teeth with straw.

  Ruka said nothing, waiting for the rest. He had already learned his host was a chiefless warrior from the midland hills—not much different in his youth to an outlaw.

  “I was starving, course.” Altan shrugged. “I’d watched him damn near sever a dockboy’s head for fiddling with his rope. Anyway, I tried to take his fish. Ended up knocking his skull instead. He slipped into the water, and that was that.”

  Ruka sighed and stared at the mangled jaw of a walking corpse in his Grove.

  “Mine was a stable-boy. I was twelve, the boy perhaps fourteen.” Here he paused, not sure what else to say, except for the truth. “I’d needed a horse.”

  As usual the other man said nothing and didn’t seem to judge. He just kept moving along mindful of Ruka’s limp, and this time they went further than they had before—past the Trung ship now pulled up and hidden by trees and brush in low tide, past the jut of marshy land on the Western tip of Altan’s farm, and down the edge of his huge, recently planted crops, which for now looked like dirt-fields lined with man-made trenches and flecks of shrub.

  “It was before your time.” Altan broke the pleasant silence. “But I fought for years in the Grain War, too. You hear of that?”

  Ruka nodded, though he wasn’t sure. Unlike the Pyu, Ascomi kept no written books of their history—or if they did, only the priestesses had them. Egil had told him of many things in their travels, of course—of rebel uprisings and Southern blasphemy, greedy chieftains bribing priestesses for land or favor. He’d never called anything a ‘Grain War’, though he’d spoken of Northern chiefs warring over farmland.

  “That was what we called it, anyway.” Altan shrugged. “The grain-chiefs were tired of giving away their harvests, so one day they got together and…stopped.” His eyes drifted in the way of men in reverie. “It was how I met Noyon.” He smiled. “Gods you should have seen her back then,” he winked and cupped at pretend breasts.

  “The Order gathered up a thousand killers like me and loosed us on the chiefs,” he shook his head. “Just butchery, mostly. We hacked our way through soft Northern boys, killed farmers, ranchers, townsfolk, whatever, long as we got their crops moving, no one much cared.” He half laughed, half snorted, but to Ruka it was a forced thing—a pretend callousness lined with regret. His eyes went far away.

  “I killed Noyon’s man here in this yard—handsome fellow, older. She stood an arm’s length away, beautiful as you please. She had tears in her eyes and a knife but she just stared at me. Imler’s cock I’ll never forget that stare.” He paused, as if still in wonder. “Then she points and says the words and chooses me next, right there—her dead man’s blood on my sword, pack of killers and dogs behind me. I was frozen. I was hers.” He shook his head and had water in his eyes.

  “I never deserved peace or family, not after the things I done, the laws I broke. But the gods gave them anyway.” He stopped and put a hand on Ruka’s arm. “Are you…truly a shaman? Can you really speak with the gods?”

  Ruka kept any reaction from his expression, but a puzzle piece fit into place. Answers, he thought. Answers and guilt are the riddle of your kindness.

  He met the farmer’s eyes and nodded, seeing his mother’s useless piety and trying not to hate the double-edged strength and weakness of faith.

  “They move my hand even now, Altan,” he said, then took his walking stick and drew three perfect runes in the dirt without looking, as if his fingers were moved by some greater power.

  The man’s eyes widened as he watched, his tone eager but afraid.

  “What…which…what do they say, shaman, please?”

  Ruka paused for effect. He took a breath and looked down as if he’d drawn the runes without knowing what they were. He wants forgiveness, he knew, comfort, absolution—but do I give it? And how to make that useful?

  “They say to trust the gods.” He looked away, as if unwilling to be clear.

  The big man gripped Ruka with both rough hands, pupils shifting back and forth. />
  “Please, please I beg you, shaman. Whatever it is, I want to hear.”

  Ruka breathed as if steadying himself. Can’t you see my deception, he thought? Can’t you see me? Can’t you see what I am?

  “That’s the sign of Noss, Altan. He has marked you, as he has marked me.” He put a hand as if idly to his blotchy chin. It was the best he had without warning, and hoped it would bind the man with time.

  Altan swallowed and closed his eyes, as if his worst fears had been confirmed. “Marked for what, shaman?”

  Ruka stared, and sneered. “One does not ask the mountain god his reasons.”

  The grip relaxed. “Of course, yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you for telling me.” He backed away, looking unsure. “We should go back, it’s getting dark.” The farmer turned away, squinting in the moonlight.

  Ruka followed. The journey back felt longer, and more lonely. He understood he could no longer be the man’s ‘friend’, and there would be no more walks.

  Altan moved in a daze, no doubt sifting fuzzy memory like a prospector, seeking signs to make his beliefs true. Their pace increased as the man forgot Ruka’s limp, but it was not difficult to keep up.

  Ruka had a strange feeling as they walked, the hint of moisture as if the weather changed—dark clouds formed in the distance while he waited in a windless sea. He tried to understand and perhaps seek his memory and observation just as Altan in his own way. Then in the darkness, he noticed the smoke.

  “Does Noyon make a fire tonight?” he asked, intuition now tightening his chest, knowing he’d smelled it first and perhaps Bukayag had known. He saw a dim silhouette of light, and felt treachery like water in the wind.

  The farmer looked up, still distracted. “I don’t know.” He looked at Ruka’s expression and all at once came back to reality. They picked up speed together, taking a shorter path over the field, trampling green wheat barely sprouted. “She could have,” Altan said, now breaking into a run. “There was enough firewood.”

  Ruka ignored his pain and discarded his stick to keep up. They climbed the last hill in full stride, reaching the top together panting to look out over the homestead and barn with a clear view. They saw the fire. But it wasn’t where it should have been.

  The house crackled and burned. Already it was half collapsed to the ground. Ruka saw men moving in the yard, others near the animals. He counted perhaps thirty breaking apart sheds and fences with swords and torches. He seized the older man’s shoulders.

  “There’s too many, Altan, there’s nothing you can do.”

  He searched the darkness of the coast for signs of men near his ship, seeing nothing through the distance and wind-shelter of trees.

  “My axe…it’s in the house,” the old warrior whispered as if in after-thought, searching his own land as if lost.

  Ruka thought of Ana being ‘raped’ or hacked apart, then remembered he was in the land of ash. The girls would be safe.

  The men would belong to the local chief, or the Order, and in either case they would take the women gently as prisoners for their master’s judgment.

  He looked and saw Altan on the edge of breaking—a man who had all his life expected a cost for his deeds, a reckoning for his past. Now it had come.

  I can’t save his family, Ruka thought, but I can save him. I can bind him to me now, and give him a new life later.

  From his Grove Ruka lifted a war-axe—one of many blue-steel creations etched and waiting in his armory for worthy men.

  “Altan, son of Brandt,” he spoke in his most prophetic voice, modeled after Egil and honed with use. The farmer blinked and met his eyes, and Ruka summoned the weapon from air and fire as the rain of sparks lit them both. “I told you Noss has marked you. You have been called, Midlander.”

  Altan gaped with an open mouth, yanked back from his horror by the brightness and sound of creation. He swallowed and lifted a trembling hand to the steel, as if unbelieving it could exist.

  “I am Noss’ prophet,” Ruka said as he held the weapon firm, until both their hands closed around it. He met the man’s stare, knowing his monstrous bright eyes would glow in the still-falling flames. “Tonight, you become one of His.”

  Chapter 41

  Altan seized the god-forged axe.

  I deserve this, he thought, I deserve destruction and misery, but not Noyon, and not her children.

  He grit his teeth and blocked the many questions of why and how that no longer mattered. There was only fear and failure left, and he would not permit either. With a nod to the prophet or maybe demon of the old world, he jogged down the grassy hill, hoping to approach his destroyed house from the side with the least warriors.

  The only question left to the man or thing at his side that mattered was simple: will you help me?

  More fire flared in the darkness, filling the giant’s hands with a blue-steel blade of legend, as long and vicious-looking as any sword Altan had ever seen. The answer seemed clear enough.

  Light from the burning home he’d built with his own hands lit the bandits, or whatever they were. Three stood guard on his side but mostly watched the flames. They were well-armed with swords and spears. They looked hale and thick, their faces shaved in the Northern fashion. By their postures they seemed unconcerned, as if they knew there might be more victims, but little danger.

  I’ll show you fear, Altan thought, you fucking bastards.

  He charged without waiting for Bukayag’s reaction, thinking with scorn of how Noyon’s first Chosen hadn’t even fought back.

  “Here!” shouted the first at the last moment. He raised his spear, and Altan clove it in two, the heavy weapon striking through to hew the bandit’s head like a piece of firewood.

  The sharpness of the blade surprised him. The arc of the swing felt so natural, so familiar—the sound and feel of bone blasting away the years of cutting trees to bring Altan back to younger days of desperation and violence.

  He tried to kick the body off, his balance thrown, knowing another man’s charge would come.

  But the others had stepped back, pale-faced terror clear as Bukayag growled and entered the fray, sword and eyes shining in the firelight.

  The first seemed too distracted to fight back, falling away red as the giant’s sword opened his gut. The second turned and ran, yelling bloody murder before a spear shaft lit by embers pierced his back.

  “Noss sends his regards,” the shaman growled. Then he pulled his bloody spear from the dying man’s chest, muttering “Waste not, want not,” with a crooked-toothed smile, as if in private joke to himself.

  Altan had to put the madness of it all from his mind. “I don’t see my family,” he whispered between pants, then crept along the rounded house, hoping none of the others had heard their fellows screaming over the blaze.

  Many of the bandits must have spread out searching the yard and land, leaving perhaps five more near the house. They stood just far enough away from the fire to be hard to see clearly, clumped together and talking.

  Altan gestured at Bukayag, hoping he understood, then moved out from the fire into darkness, sweeping around to get closer. He caught the scent of cooking meat on the wind, and prayed to Bray it was his pigs.

  He lost track of the shaman but didn’t wait, creeping at the end on hands and knees to get close enough to hear, no longer bothered by swelling joints or the dull ache always in his back.

  “The priestesses promised me!” Altan heard a Northern man’s voice, so wrong to be familiar now.

  “And I’m sure they’ll hand her over when they please. But I’m to take the girls, and kill the rest. Those are my orders.”

  The shape of Tabin’s scrawny limbs became clear in the meager light. He was tugging at his wispy beard, twisting back and forth in a restless pace as he’d done when Altan first proposed their joint merchant venture.

  “What sense to walk her all day and night just to turn around and march her back?”

  The black bearded man speaking glared. He was le
an and sinewy, tall but broad in the shoulders, and draped in iron ring.

  “I don’t make orders, I follow them. Now fuck off.”

  “Four ounces of silver,” Tabin said. “I take her now and we tell the priestesses whatever you like.” He produced a chunk of ore from his pocket wrapped in cloth, and Altan realized, chest fluttering, it was the same silver Bukayag gave Noyon.

  The man inspected, then unwrapped it. He raised a brow, then glanced to his men. In a single knock of Altan’s fast-beating heart, he drew a sword, and pierced Tabin’s chest.

  “Bribing an Order guard,” the killer hissed as he twisted the blade, “is punishable by death.” He waited for Tabin’s legs to give out before he pulled away.

  “Take the girl,” he said to the others, pointing into the darkness and wiping the stain off his sword with Noyon’s cloth.

  Altan watched it all in perfect silence, and remembered to breathe. He watched the dying man he thought his ally, and pushed down the niggling fear that Noyon was somehow involved. She loves me, and she loves her children. Tabin must have found the silver in the house.

  He moved closer now, slow and sweating, thinking of what he could still lose. More shapes appeared in the night, and what he’d thought was five men was really more like fifteen. Even with the shaman, he thought, he couldn’t possibly kill them all.

  So he kept watching, startling as he saw his daughters huddled on the ground, arms wrapped around each other as if it offered some protection. The sight of them there, terrified and trapped, broke his heart.

  They were so close. He could shout to them now, run to them, but it would accomplish nothing. From where they sat they must have heard everything their captors said—heard the man who all but ordered their destruction.

  “Get up. Just you.”

  The killer pointed with his sword, and several men moved to pull the girls apart.

  They tried to resist—tried to hold on to each other’s hands, then dresses, some of the cloth ripping. Altan realized Noyon was amongst them.