Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  They rode towards Husavik again mostly in silence, Ivar looking comfortable, if distracted, perhaps lost in ancient stories and imagination. The daylight soon exhausted, and they made camp by a patch of bushes large enough to block the wind, eating carrots and what little salted pork Juchi had ready in the house.

  “We’ve left our animals,” she said once Ivar fell asleep. “We’ve left most of our things. God knows what the neighbors or just some wanderer will do while we’re gone.” She fluffed at the clothes she’d gathered as a bed, separately from Egil’s.

  Ruka shrugged. “If wealth is your concern, priestess, fear not. Your mate is my trusted retainer. I will shower him with gold and silver in the days to come. You will want for nothing.”

  “He’s not your…I’m not a priestess. And my name is Juchi. Try it.”

  Ruka smiled, and looked at the skald, who chewed silently and stared into the fire.

  “I can see why you like her, Egil. She will make a fine mother, and matron.”

  With that he lay against a bush he’d draped with his furs, and rested, thinking of Beyla. Bukayag watched the family, and Ruka was pleased he did not need to sleep, for he would not have liked to tie their arms and legs.

  The next day took them over the flatlands and through another patch of hills, then finally to a road, and Husavik.

  Ruka matched the layout of the town against the first time he saw it. A few new houses had been raised, but otherwise it looked much the same. He waited beyond the outer trench with Juchi and the boy, and Egil went inside to make inquiries. He returned pale and sweating.

  “There’s a new chief here. Or at a least a man who calls himself such and sits in the hall unchallenged. He’s not from here. Neither are his warriors.”

  Ruka nodded, understanding at once the Order had declared Aiden an outlaw in truth, and installed a man from Orhus with their support.

  “And this new chief has a matron? And a priestess?”

  Egil nodded.

  “And what do the men of Husavik say?”

  The skald shrugged. “Little with their words. By their faces I’d say they’re angry and prefer Aiden as chief. I didn’t, well, I’m sorry Ruka I didn’t know. He never said, he…”

  “And where would Aiden the Outlaw go?”

  Egil sighed at this and shrugged, putting a hand to his thick, black hair. “If he had any sense, far away. Perhaps further South, in or at least near a forest, or…”

  “No.” Ruka grit his teeth and thought of his own time as an outcast. He knew Aiden—he would not truly hide as Ruka the child had done. Nor would these Northerners fight him if they could avoid it and pretend they did not know where he was. “Aiden will be close, and the men of Hulbron will know where. Go back and ask them.”

  Egil blinked but nodded as his face gained a touch of pink. Perhaps he knew he had failed to comprehend the mind of the brave.

  “No need,” he said. “If he is truly close, I know the place.”

  Ruka nodded, and let Egil lead the horses East.

  Less than a day’s ride from Hulbron took them to a large, often frozen lake filled with algae. Old, trickling rivers sprouted from it South and West, not strong or deep enough to be much use for men, snaking along the land like old, purple veins.

  Ruka walked to the bank and stood in plain view when he saw men fishing in a narrow boat near the edge of the water. They turned to face him, and he shook his head as he recognized the chief.

  After a time they rowed towards him, and soon Ruka saw Aiden’s hard jaw and his stiffened posture. His eyes were restless, and unsure.

  “Aiden, son of Tora. I am pleased to see you alive.” Ruka recognized most of the burly men in Aiden’s boat, save for one older man at the prow, who was no doubt the true fisherman. The others stilled or shifted uncomfortably, and waited on their chief.

  “You are pleased, shaman? Or are the gods?” He stepped off into shallow water with ease, paddle plunged down as a walking stick, as if he’d been born in this boat and on these shores. His men followed and together they dragged it onto dry land.

  Ruka let the good humor he felt remain on his face. “It is time to finish what we started, Aiden. That’s why I’m here.”

  The former chieftain turned, failing or perhaps not trying to mask his glare. “What did we start, shaman? Little and less has changed, and none of it good.”

  Bukayag bristled at the way Aiden said ‘shaman’, but Ruka kept his calm. “More than you think. Trust the gods, mighty chief, and I will show you.”

  “Oh I trust the gods, shaman, that has never changed.”

  Ruka felt his brother’s jaw clench, and his eyes narrow. He knew he must be calm, and patient. But he used his brother’s disdain.

  “I came here by route of Husavik. So tell me, why does another man sit in your hall?”

  Aiden scoffed, and tossed his paddle to the earth. “You’ll give me back my seat, is that it?”

  Ruka let Bukayag’s sneer show plain.

  “I give you nothing. A man takes what’s his, or else doesn’t deserve it. I offer opportunity. Follow me, and challenge this ‘chief’, or sit on this lake and cower.”

  Aiden blinked in anger and met Ruka’s eyes. Like a wolf he sought weakness, or deception—any chance to strike and destroy this thing that challenged him.

  “And then what?” he said low and with menace. “Will you start a new doomed rebellion? The Order will send more men. Their Northern lapdogs have a thousand warriors camped in the belt, fortified on a mountainside.”

  Ruka snorted and stroked Sula’s nose, thinking of how much the world had changed, and how grand it could become. “No, not rebellion. One of your retainers will stay and govern Husavik’s lands once we’ve taken them. You and I will go North.”

  “North? To Orhus? Are you mad?”

  “Maybe. But no, not Orhus. We go North as North goes, and beyond. That is where I’ve been, Aiden—two years in a sun-filled paradise promised by the gods. We go now to make our claim.”

  The great man stared and stared, no doubt searching for madness just as Egil and Juchi’s had. Ruka almost laughed.

  Calm yourself, brother, he has not seen as we have, and his world was shattered in Alverel. Give him time to rage and remember his faith. He will rise to greatness yet.

  “You needn’t believe me,” Ruka said more quietly. “Gather your men first. Do it now, today, and I will fight beside you. After this you may decide if Bukayag, son of Beyla, is a herald of the gods, or of woe. The choice is yours.”

  At this he clucked and climbed to Sula’s back, trotting to where Egil and Juchi waited.

  Aiden stood for a long moment on the bank of the lake. He shook his head and lifted the discarded paddle, then he and his men stowed their supplies and followed with baskets full of fish.

  Ruka said nothing and let Aiden think as they marched to his camp. With some surprise he saw near twenty houses built in two rings on a hill surrounded by sharpened stakes. Men guarded two gated pathways holding bows, whistling as they saw the fishermen return. They opened the gate and stared, open mouthed. Ruka recognized many faces from Alverel.

  “They could betray”, whispered Bukayag, “we could be swarmed and killed in this place.”

  Ruka agreed, but thought the chances slim. Even if Aiden had lost faith in ‘Bukayag’ entirely, he was still a man of honor. If he meant to kill him, he would do it himself and in clear view. Ruka had no desire for such a duel, and it would hurt his cause greatly, but nor did he fear it.

  Inside the fence, women and children worked and played within the central rings, their voices light and happy as they stitched and sewed and washed. All chatter ceased when Aiden and Ruka entered.

  Ruka dismounted, not wanting to sit above Aiden in what passed for his hall. He hid his surprise as he recognized several former retainers, all of whom gaped as they recognized him, then put absent hands to the hilts of rune-swords. Tahar was amongst them—a former chief made outcast, and one of Ruka’s f
irst and best retainers.

  “May I speak?” Ruka asked the chief once the men had gathered, knowing he must win the man’s people before he could be accepted.

  Aiden watched him with obvious concern, but finally nodded. To decline would have shown he feared Ruka’s words, and diminished him. Ruka walked to the top of the hill.

  “I am Bukayag, son of Beyla,” he called. “And I know what it is to be rebel and outlaw. I know you have suffered. I know your children have suffered, and your faith has been tested. But I know too you have had each other, and you have had a chief of your choosing. A chief freely chosen without shame. A great warrior, an honest man, bold and respected by the gods.”

  He waited here to see if the men disagreed with their eyes. But he saw pride, instead.

  “I ask for nothing except what brought you together. I ask only for the thing that has always been yours—the thing that makes you greater than all lesser men and women of ash, no matter their houses or riches. I ask for your courage.” He points at Aiden. “I ask for what is honorable, and right—loyalty to this man.”

  He waited and met Aiden’s eyes.

  “Across this lake, on the other side of fertile land now growing tall with wheat and barley, a man sits in your hall. This man is a Northerner. He has never lived in these lands; he has never starved or prospered on its harvest, nor fought for its safety. His position is unearned. Would you have it otherwise?”

  “I would,” Aiden almost growled.

  “Then there is no more to say. A time will come later for talk of past and future. But today, now, is the time for deed, as it has always been. Where you go, I will follow. I say no more.”

  He stepped from the top of the hill and walked to Sula, who glanced about the dirt and gravel for grass and huffed when he spotted nothing.

  All eyes turned to Aiden now, who paused as if to consider the words. Ruka expected he was not a man of fine speeches, but even so found he could not look away as Aiden stepped to the hill. The tall warrior drew a sword from his hip and examined the edge, his voice quiet as always.

  “Edda has heard your words, and mine. A thing promised need not be repeated. So. I go to Husavik. Who will match word with deed?”

  Tahar stepped forward at once, eyes blazing, hand hovering over his bow. “I will match them.”

  Many of Ruka’s former retainers stepped forwards now unsheathing rune-swords that looked well cared for and polished. “And I,” they called, faces turned now as an old spark threatened to renew.

  The hill below Aiden circled with drawn swords, and many of Aiden’s other followers looked on with some blend of fear, and excitement.

  “Tonigh’ I slee’ in my own huse,” called an older Southerner, scarred and one-eyed and ragged. He wrapped perhaps seven fingers around an axe-haft, and spit on the road. Several sets of twins who looked like him stood and growled. More warriors stood beside them—men who had come from all over the land of ash to serve a renowned chief, then found themselves caught in heresy and dishonor and yet did not stray.

  “We go in daylight,” Aiden said, his voice sure and deadly. “We go outnumbered to an open field.” His pleasure showed clearly now in his tone, as if he had only been waiting for this moment—the fearless madness of a man who believed his place in death assured. “There will be no retreat.”

  Chapter 45

  Egil watched the killers, outcasts and chiefsmen wait in their ramshackle line.

  As promised, Aiden and his men had armed themselves and marched straight to Husavik with bloody thoughts, and Ruka had followed. They walked straight to the edge of the town into an open field, Ruka blew his horn, and there they waited.

  Now the sun had peaked in its rise, and hundreds of Northerners came behind their new chief with spears and axes, leather and mail to oppose them.

  “Easy now, girl, easy.”

  Egil’s horse had been skittish from the start, but with all the men and noise about was verging on anxious panic. He stroked her neck and spoke soothing words, then wondered for a moment who Ruka killed to steal her.

  Ivar squirmed in his arms and pointed at Aiden’s rune-sword, or maybe at some other man beside, or maybe just couldn’t keep his hands down.

  “Da, look at that! Do you think they’ll win? What happens now?”

  Egil sighed. He’d argued with Juchi about his presence before they left. Ruka wanted the boy to come and ‘see how men behaved’, and ignored Juchi’s protests. Once invited, Ivar was ready to bolt out from Aiden’s camp and run all the way here himself.

  “If Aiden or Ruka falls,” Juchi told them both as she collected dried fruits/meats, “you turn that horse and run back here as fast as you can.”

  He’d been about to promise he would and say whatever was required to put her at ease, but stopped himself. That was the old Egil. And the new Egil told the truth, or at least to Juchi. “Aiden doesn’t matter now. But if Ruka falls, I promise we’ll run.”

  Of course he wouldn’t fall, not yet, and not here, because that was not how a man like Ruka died. Egil knew that in his bones.

  Juchi paced and hadn’t really been listening in any case. “In fact you should run when the fighting starts no matter what. He has his men now. He doesn’t need you anymore. We can run and hide and he won’t care enough to find us.”

  Egil had closed his eyes and shook his head. “He does, my love. He’ll find us and kill you and chop me to pieces unless I serve, just to make a point. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  She didn’t acknowledge this and kept pacing, as if to find some escape, some clever ruse or strategem. Egil didn’t blame her. She couldn’t know, not truly. She’d kicked the table and thrown up her hands and turned to him with a sudden fury.

  “You’re a god damn coward. You’ve given up. Fine. Well I haven’t, and I won’t.”

  Her tone and words had hurt, but still he sympathized. He knew what it was like to believe, to have hope in safety and freedom and how hard it was to see it fall.

  “I would die for you,” he said softly, “and Ivar. I would do it gladly, Juchi. But it wouldn’t help. Ruka will kill you both so the next man who thinks to disobey knows the price. I know it’s hard to understand, but please believe me. The only way I can protect you is to serve. Please understand that. Please.”

  “He’s not a god, Egil. He’s just a…”

  “What? Just a man? No, my love, he never was, not even as a boy. He can see in the dark, I’ve told you that. I’ve heard him kill without even enough moonlight to see my hands. In two years I never saw him sleep, not as you or I or beasts sleep.”

  “Yes you’ve said, but…”

  “Every word of it was true, and more.” He took her shoulders and met her eyes. “These are not the fanciful stories of a skald. He knows things he shouldn’t, my love, he sees things. Did you not see him draw a sword from nothing? He’s not some pious shaman. He mocks the gods with every word, he hates them. He’s half man and half demon and all his fine tales are lies. But we can no more stop him than we can stop a storm. We can only weather it and survive. Please, Juchi, please. I want you to survive. Let me help you.”

  Still she’d shaken off his hands and kicked a water-flask across Aiden’s guest-room. But when Egil stood still and silent, she’d come back to his arms, and wept.

  “I’m sorry, you’re not a coward,” she whispered. “We’ll all survive together.”

  He’d smiled for her and kissed her, hoping only he was worthy of her trust. But he did not believe for a moment he’d survive. Not this time. This time he would stand beside his master when the ‘inferno’ came, trapped in his death throes to the unmaking of the world. But Juchi and Ivar would live.

  Now, as the sun drooped from its high zenith into a pink and orange sky, he looked out at the new chief of Husavik across the field. A hundred warriors at least gathered with him on the town’s edge. They’d assembled in two lines, each as wide or wider than Aiden’s, and Egil’s heart raced hard and fast.
r />   “Can we win?” Ivar turned, his face now holding some of the fear Egil felt.

  “Of course we can,” he said. “Numbers aren’t everything.”

  But they’re a hell of a lot. And what do I bloody know anyway. I’m a Noss-cursed skald.

  He looked down the line of Aiden’s warriors, though, and felt at least some hope. Most of these men were those who’d broken hundreds in Alverel. They were blooded warriors who’d killed before; they wore armor and most carried rune-swords. And, we have Ruka, he thought, unsure how this made him feel.

  Egil turned and spotted his master instantly—the only other man on a horse.

  Ruka had ‘transformed’ again into Bukayag the runeshaman. He’d smeared most of his head and face with ash, then drew runes in the black mask with his finger. He carried a scabbarded longsword he’d no doubt just pulled from nothing, or maybe the mountain god’s hell. But—Egil realized as he watched him—he still wore no armor at all. He’d covered his thick torso and limbs only in tight-fitting cloth, without even the leather padding worn by the wildest of Aiden’s warriors.

  God-cursed madman, he thought, watching him. Damned bloody arrogant fool. If he’s even wounded these men will be shaken…and if he falls…well.

  But wasn’t that good? Wasn’t that what Egil wanted? For a long, uncomfortable moment as he watched the man, he had absolutely no idea.

  Sula broke his thoughts, snorting as he stepped forward from the line. Ruka looked briefly to Aiden for approval, then shouted, his huge voice reaching far enough to scatter a few birds nesting in Husavik’s houses.

  “Erden of the North.”

  Men on both sides stopped their chatter or fidgeting and stared at the owner of such a voice. A tall youth wearing the black of a Galdric warrior stepped forward. The lines were close enough for Egil to see sweat shining on the young man’s brow. He held his shield firmly, and his eyes looked hard.

  “Leave this place,” called the would-be chief. “You are outmatched.”

  Ruka smiled, and pointed a finger at Aiden.