Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  He wanted Sula close if he had to run, but he walked beside him rather than ride to be less visible. Many other men had horses here and moved through the crowds and merchant rings alone or in packs, and this brought him some comfort.

  Alverel still stunk of packed humanity, animal dung and rotting barley. A hundred make-shift houses littered the garbage-strewn land, small herds of animals kept along the edges, smoke rising from every direction. Young warriors lounged or strolled in groups, or threw bones or fought dogs. A crowd huddled around the lawstones, an old woman perched atop doling out her ‘justice’. Ruka snorted. His violence had made no difference.

  It came as no surprise, but still he walked away in anger from the stones towards a drinking hall. He scanned the crowd for watchers, or danger, always moving as if he felt no concern. As he came close to the building, he blinked and stared at a young, confident man in fine, clean mail riding a warhorse, and he froze.

  The rider laughed and spoke with another man on foot near-by, unstrapping the sword at his side as if in display. The blade was black steel tinged with blue, and it was covered in runes.

  “Where did you get that sword?” Ruka had crossed the distance without thinking. The young man hardly looked at him, as if this sort of thing happened often.

  “I was just telling this other jealous man. I killed a bear with my fists, and found this in its gullet.”

  Ruka felt his eyes narrow. Haki the Brave had found a magical sword in a monster’s gut—it was an ancient tale in the Book of Galdra. He was being mocked.

  For now he kept Bukayag’s hands clean and turned away, then wandered into the crowd and waited. He followed the young man through the valley, watching as the young, peacock strut himself about the busy grounds as if some conquering hero, seeming without purpose except to be seen. As light fell the young man bought a flask of wine and turned towards the richer homes.

  Ruka followed him to a barn behind the house, then seized him as he dismounted. He thrust him inside and against the thin wooden wall, one huge hand on the smaller man’s neck.

  “Where,” he hissed, “did you get that sword?”

  The warhorse’s eyes blazed and it pawed at the ground. Its rider panicked, reaching uselessly for a blade as Ruka’s other hand circled his wrist and squeezed.

  “If I must ask again, cousin, I will shatter your arm.” Ruka let Bukayag smile, and watched the man’s pupils flare.

  “I…took it…from a man in the South. I dueled him and killed him. The sword is mine.”

  Ruka doubted very much the boy had ever fought anyone, let alone dueled to the death. “And where did he get it?”

  “I don’t…”

  Ruka crushed until he felt the bone crackle.

  “A cripple! Not himself, but, he said he stole it, from a rich man, and he said the man bought it from a cripple! Please! That’s all I know.”

  Ruka watched until he was sure, then stared at the agitated horse until it quieted. He released the smaller man, now on his knees, and lifted both sword and scabbard from the horse’s flank.

  “You are a fool, but I will spare you. To carry such a weapon marks you for every ambitious warrior seeking a name. One day, a real one would have found you, and killed you.”

  The rich matron’s son clutched his bruised but unbroken wrist. His head snapped up as if he meant to give some retort, but changed his mind.

  Ruka’s mind already moved to the future and where he’d begin his search. Egil had apparently given up his trade, and become the ‘cripple selling artifacts’. It would be just as easy to track this down. Ruka hoped Kwal was making progress, and that Arun and Altan would protect him long enough, and that their supplies would last while Ruka journeyed and rallied men.

  In his Grove he crossed the clearing to the great, green lake he’d discovered. The banks were hard soil save for the patches of island sand he’d made by sending pieces of reality there. The dead toiled silently at the drydock—their third attempt at a larger, sturdier hull in the Pyu style. Ruka nodded to Sailor-from-the-coast as he worked on improving the sails, and finding ways to add more width.

  If Kwal failed, if the Order discovered them, or if Chief Halvar betrayed and Ruka returned to nothing, he could only hope to build ships with the dead.

  But let us hope not, he thought, flexing a scarred hand and imagining the strain. He still understood little of the price he paid for bringing something from nothing. If there is a price, he allowed, but without conviction. Ruka knew nothing of value came without cost.

  A boot scuffed against wood, and Bukayag turned. He snarled, almost with glee, as if he’d been waiting, and seized the young man’s arm. He held a small, clean knife he must have had concealed in a sleeve.

  “My brother spared you,” Bukayag hissed. “But I knew better. Oh yes, boy. I knew.”

  Ruka’s would-be-killer blinked, face pale but still determined. He threw a wild strike with his other arm. Bukayag hammered the fist with his forehead.

  The young man gasped and stumbled away, and Bukayag followed. He wrapped his thick arms around him as if in embrace, opened his mouth wide, and clamped down on the almost beardless cheek to chew.

  Ruka sighed in his Grove. He blocked out the screams and laughter as his brother broke limbs and spit chunks of the man’s flesh, thinking cruel, and unnecessary, but such is life. Ruka’d given him his chance.

  “Tell your kin you tried to kill Bukayag,” his brother hissed, leaving the half-dead valley-son whimpering and shattered on the ground. “I take your horse in place of your life.”

  The animal had moved to the corner of the barn in fear, but it hadn’t panicked. It cowered as Ruka approached, close now to running or fighting, but unsure. It was no Sula, of course, but it would do, and Egil would need a mount.

  Ruka seized the reins and tugged the animal until it moved, walking out into the night and to his own, true companion.

  “Come,” he said, leaping to Sula’s back, feeling the new horse calm at once in a greater presence. He drank water from a skin and swished it, then spit the valley-son’s blood to the grass.

  * * *

  Ruka hunted rune-swords for two weeks with no avail. In town after town he announced himself a shaman in a darkened hall, then hid in his cloak as he spoke to skittish valley-chiefs. None of them were useful, and it was an old builder, in the end, that led him to Egil.

  “Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout any runeswords,” he’d said as he took the silver. “But, aye, I know a cripple an’ ‘is young matron. Built ‘em a fine ‘ouse by the East river last spring.” He glanced about to see if anyone was watching. “Paid full in silver ore, he did, not a bit in trade or anythin’ else.”

  Ruka said nothing and left the shop. A day’s ride later in heavy rain, he stood before a grand house of red cedar and cut-stone. He marked the thick thatching and good construction, and the size of the house, noting at least three rooms.

  He left both horses soggy and miserable in the downpour, and stood at the entrance. He felt suddenly strange, almost hesitant, as he had perhaps when he first considered leaving Sula to his peaceful fate. Whatever it was, Bukayag soon felt contempt for it and knocked.

  A boy poked his head from a window in the darkness, staring with narrowed, wary eyes. Ruka stood still and let him inspect, liking the sharp, curious look of the boy. He was too old to be Egil’s.

  After thirty drops of Ruka’s water-clock, the door slid open on a well-greased hinge, and the former skald stood in a soft, rich robe and held a knife. He took one look at Ruka, his eyes rolled back to their whites, and he collapsed to the fine fur rug at his feet.

  Ruka sighed. He stepped into the house with hands raised in peace, for he saw a young woman he recognized holding a sword. She held it up as if to challenge him, her eyes moving unwisely to the skald as she wavered on what to do. Ruka walked straight past her towards the fire, and she went to her lover on the floor.

  “Is he awake?” Ruka asked, glancing about the house, noting smoo
th, well-crafted chairs and tables, and an expensive pile of furs. The young woman said nothing, and Ruka took a moment to match her face with his memories. He found a young priestess from Alverel who had once opposed him with Kunla, and tried to send Aiden against him.

  Egil finally groaned and placed a hand to his face before rising groggily to his elbows.

  “What happened?” he muttered. Ruka spoke before the priestess.

  “You fainted.”

  He almost laughed as Egil clenched in fear. Perhaps, in truth, he’d missed the man’s cowardice a little, too.

  Egil turned and bumbled a greeting to ‘Bukayag’, perhaps for the sake of the woman—no doubt he feared Ruka would kill her if she heard his real name.

  But he wouldn’t, and meant her and the boy no harm. He inspected his old retainer, finding Egil healthier, stronger, and perhaps happier. This pleased him, but it passed.

  It was clear the skald loved this woman and child, and though Ruka would not harm them, as long as they could be threatened, Egil would obey. Still, it was best to be sure.

  “Now tell me,” he said with a menace he did not feel, “why I shouldn’t just strangle your priestess.”

  The young woman rose with sword held before her, and by her footing seemed to have been at least briefly trained. Better to be no swordsman at all than a poor one, he thought, but simply stared at Egil’s fear-widened eyes. I’m sorry old friend, he thought, seeing the love as plain as day, but now you truly belong to me.

  His point had been made, so he soon softened and promised he had not come for violence. The brave ex-priestess asked what he wanted, and he told them a lie they might believe.

  “More of these.”

  He reached a hand beneath his cloak and took a freshly minted coin from his Grove, this one made of gold—a metal the Ascom did not have. When they stared in marvel he told them pieces of his journey North through the uncrossable sea, and the beautiful islands of the Pyu.

  They didn’t believe him, as expected, but for now it made no difference.

  “Tell me of the last two years,” Ruka said later and sat forward, truly curious. “What happened after Alverel?”

  Egil’s eyes lost focus as he remembered. He stared into the hearth.

  “We ran away. Or at least I did. Aiden and Tahar and some of the others tried to follow you. They…they fought like demons, Ruka. Two valley chiefs rallied men against them at the river, but by then most of Aiden’s warriors had chosen to die at his side, and with your warriors—fifty maybe against hundreds—they charged and routed them. After that,” he shrugged, “mostly, it was slaughter. When they couldn’t find you they scattered. They knew they were outcasts, or at least would be. They hide on the edges of the steppes, or with Southern chiefs, or in small groups near townships or who knows where. The Order hunts them.”

  Ruka said nothing, and Egil cleared his throat.

  “Pretending…assuming I helped you, in whatever small way I even could, what would you have me do?”

  Ruka watched the priestess’ hatred and rage and felt Bukayag’s urge to rise with it.

  “You will spread word of my return. With my wealth you will help me gather lumber, weapons, men and supplies, and find any of my retainers who still live. You will convince men to join my cause.”

  The fire popped and sizzled, and Ruka knew his brother was ready to kill the woman if she charged him. He would still have the boy as leverage.

  “And what is it you’ll do with these things?” Egil asked. “Kunla is dead. Hulbron would not be hard to burn, if you wish. Why not simply tell the world about this Northern land?”

  Because they won’t believe me, just like you, Ruka thought. He almost snorted in remembrance at the small dreams of his youth—the petty vengeance of a boy to burn a town or kill a single priestess.

  “I will fulfill my promise,” he said, thinking of his ancestors, of the future, and his mother’s words. “I will destroy this land of ash, and make my followers kings in paradise.”

  He watched the skald’s eyes—the resigned sadness. No doubt he thought Ruka mad and suicidal and no different than before. But nevermind. Ruka was alone, just as he had always been, and it must be him that bore the truth for others until they grew strong enough to withstand it. For now, only obedience was required.

  “You’re out of your bloody mind.” The priestess’ legs moved again to a warrior’s stance, and Egil begged Ruka desperately with his eyes not to kill her.

  I don’t want to, Ruka wished he could say. She is a victim of the past, and this place—just like me, and you, and all of us. But he showed his grief and frustration only in his Grove.

  “No. Soon enough you will see. Collect your things, I have two horses but perhaps we should buy or steal another. In the morning…”

  “I’m not going anywhere!” The girl’s eyes were wild as she waved the sword. Egil turned and almost fell from his chair.

  “Juchi, please…”

  “No!” She pointed the blade. “This is madness. Get out. Get out of my house, or I’ll open your guts. And if you come…”

  Ruka stood, tired of the charade, and raised his open palm in the air. In his Grove he walked to his armory, which now stretched for a hundred paces filled with tempered steel swords and axes, maces and spears, javelins and shields.

  “Tell me, priestess,” he smiled, knowing he should not enjoy the fear he knew to follow. “Do you believe what your own eyes see?”

  He grasped a three foot sword of blued steel, and Bukayag closed his fist. The fire of creation filled the air with sparks, dim light lighting even the small, armed boy hidden in the corner, and Juchi’s bright, green eyes.

  As the glow faded, the priestess stared, bewildered. Ruka lurched and swung, snapping the hardened, too-brittle sword in her hand clean in half.

  The boy leapt forward as if to strike, and Ruka liked him even more. Juchi held him, and made the mark of Bray.

  “Tell me, daughter of the Book.” Ruka closed his eyes for effect, then sent the sword back to his Grove. The sparks flickered as the steel blurred and faded like the dead from other men’s memory, until Bukayag opened his empty hand. “What am I,” he said without tone, perhaps a little curious himself, “what am I if not a god, or a demon, or a prophet? And who are you to challenge me?”

  Egil stared, too, transfixed at the hand that had just before held steel. Ruka watched their shoulders slump as the fight drained from even Juchi’s eyes. She took the knife from the boy’s small hand, and sat quietly beside Egil.

  Chapter 44

  Ruka half closed his eyes and kept the fire stoked while Egil and his family slept. In the morning they gathered supplies and clothes and tied them to the horses in silence.

  “Aiden should be first,” Ruka said at last. “Do you know where he is?”

  Egil nodded. “Still in Husavik, incredibly enough. His crimes were all unofficial.” Egil glanced uncomfortably at the two mounts.

  “You and Juchi can take the mare,” Ruka said. “The boy can ride with me.”

  The ex-priestess reddened, and the boy paled as he looked to her. “His name is Ivar. And is this how you treat all your followers? Frightening their children?”

  Ruka smiled, stepping towards them until they both cringed. He turned and seized the boy, lifting him to Sula’s back before leaping up behind.

  “I mean you no harm,” he said quietly. “You must be brave. The future belongs to the bold.”

  He clicked his tongue and rode East without waiting for a response, and Juchi and Egil mounted and followed, leaving behind most everything they owned. Outcasts or even townsfolk would no doubt squat or steal, but this no longer mattered. Ruka had no intention of beggaring his followers, and would make Egil a rich man one day.

  Ivar trembled at first, but soon calmed as the gentle hills passed in silence, and the Noss-monster holding him didn’t eat him. The morning was warm and clear, and when they reached a flat field of grass Ruka leaned down and whispered. “Stick
out your arms, I’ll hold you up.”

  The boy blinked in fear but obeyed. Ruka urged Sula into a run.

  The great stallion snorted in challenge, pawing at the grass before he began. The wind whipped the boy’s long hair back with Sula’s mane, and even Ruka ducked as he held the boy with one hand and Sula with the other. Ivar yelped but kept his arms wide, and despite the wind he opened his eyes to see the world speed past. Ruka grinned at his wonder.

  “Run, Sula! Ha!”

  The mighty warhorse snorted again, moving full out into a sprint with pleasure across the flat ground until even Ruka clung with his thighs and at last pulled on the reins in caution. Sula returned to a trot, head raised and tail whipping, looking rather pleased with himself.

  Ivar glanced up with arms still extended, his heart pounding so hard Ruka could feel it. The boy grinned, and ran his hands through Sula’s hair in wonder.

  Juchi called as they caught up later. “What is wrong with you? That was needlessly dangerous.”

  Ruka snorted. “So is life, Priestess. Ivar wasn’t afraid, were you boy?”

  Ivar shook his head, whitened knuckles clinging to the horse, forehead moist with sweat. His lips spread wide in a smile.

  “You see? Like Haki the Brave,” Ruka summoned the image of the boy’s readiness to fight for his family in the dark again with pride. “One day he will ride down his enemies, like Egil Bloodfist, victorious on the field of Wends.”

  “There was a hero named Egil?” Ivar looked up again, and Ruka shook his head in dramatic disappointment.

  “And to think you live with a skald. Yes, Bloodfist was a great legend. He broke his sword in the maw of a mighty beast, then killed it with his bare hands.”

  Ivar frowned at this. “Seems foolish. He should have carried a seax.”

  Ruka laughed in genuine pleasure. “Yes, he should have. Always keep yours close, and keep it sharp.”