Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  Aiden broke the silence as he rose with a groan from his chair, a stiffness it seemed in his back. He clenched his jaw before he spoke.

  “I go North with the shaman’s guidance.” He pointed at the men. “Tahar, what will you do?”

  The ex-chief rose up. “If Bukayag says tonight we storm the mountain, brother, I will be first.”

  “And you, Eshen of the North, what will you do?”

  “I go with Bukayag, Chief, to Noss if I must.”

  “And I,” called another of Ruka’s few surviving retainers.

  “And me,” said another.

  “And what of you, Egil, great skald, what will you do?”

  Egil flinched as Aiden turned to him. His chair creaked as he pushed back, standing awkwardly to his full height. He avoided Juchi’s eyes with every shred of will he had.

  “I go North, mighty chief, to sing songs of the brave, so their kin will remember their names forever.”

  Many others rose at this and clasped hands and arms, until even the Northerners stood with perhaps some small chagrin, and the men laughed and drank again and made no more jokes about the other’s prowess.

  Egil sat back down, forgotten, until the next time men needed glory.

  I’m sorry, my love, he thought, seeing Ruka’s small twitch of pleasure, no matter how he might try to hide it. Forgive me, he begged, though he still didn’t dare to look at her. You may think I could have stopped him now. But you are wrong. And the day I fail him, the day I turn against him, that is the day you die.

  Chapter 47

  Birmun, son of Canit, Chief of the Iron River, drew his sword.

  “Dag, hold him down.”

  Dagmar, Birmun’s most loyal retainer, grunted as he threw his considerable weight against the murderer in his grasp. Birmun rose his voice, and tried to sound official.

  “For the crime of murder without honor, and for the High Priestess of the South, I claim this man’s life.” He raised the blade and waited, expecting the man to buck like a mule.

  A small crowd of curious townsfolk and warriors had gathered and looked on, though most walked by, going about their day. The accused spit and threw his head back in a failed attempt to break Dag’s nose, thrashing and twisting like an unbroken horse.

  “Go fuck yourself,” he hissed. Birmun sighed.

  Another of his retainers smashed down with a club, and the crack of the man’s forearm made many in the crowd wince.

  “Noss cursed…cowards,” he roared. “My brothers will kill you!”

  The club fell again and shattered his hand with a sickening crunch. This time he screamed. His arms buckled and he fell, his neck sliding between the wooden slot in the board beneath him, and Dag threw the latch above.

  The murderer howled in rage, jerking against the wooden pillory. It was made of fine carved yew, though, and he had no chance of escape.

  In a smooth, gruesomely coordinated motion—well-practiced in the last year—Dag rammed the man forward from behind so his neck would stick out slightly from the binder, and Birmun cleaved off his head.

  A few boys from the crowd cheered. Most of the ‘temporary’ citizens of the newly made town of Varhus shrugged and returned to their business. The entertainment was over.

  “Well, that’s that.” Dag stood up red-faced from his efforts. Birmun nodded, then reached down to grab the corpse by the shoulders. “Ah let the damned nightmen take him,” Dag complained. “Bugger kicked like a wild ass. Tired me out already.”

  By ‘nightmen’ he meant the lowest social order of men—so named because they were only permitted to work in darkness. They spent their lives cleaning the waste and the dead and killing rats or other nuisances, and very often had no matrons, children, honor, or hope.

  Dag flushed a shade more like purple after his words, perhaps remembering his chief had been forced to live as a nightman for years. Without another word he reached down and took the corpse’s legs.

  Birmun masked his smile. He could have let another of his men take the corpse, but in all difficult or unpleasant things he wanted his warriors and the townsfolk seeing him do what he asked of others.

  Besides, he thought, I will always be ‘The Nightman Chief’. I have a reputation to uphold.

  He placed the gaping-mouthed head on the corpse’s stomach, then together with his retainer heaved it all into a near-by cart. Having dealt with such things all his life—and much worse—the distaste and revulsion clearly present on his follower’s face always amused him. This time he let it pass without jest.

  “God cursed messengers,” Dag muttered. “When do we get more horses?” He pushed the cart, with some difficulty, through the half-dirt and half-gravel muck of Varhus’s side roads. Birmun pulled from the front.

  “Soon,” he said, and grinned. Dag returned it, and both men laughed.

  “This fucking place.”

  “Aye. But it’ll end.”

  “You’ve been saying so for a year, Chief. No, a year and a half.”

  Birmun had stopped counting but supposed that was true. Following the priestesses, he had come down nearly two years before to ‘put down rebellion’, and kill Bukayag, son of Beyla with nearly a thousand men from Orhus. Only forty or so were his own sworn retainers, the rest ‘gifted’ temporarily by the many chiefs in the North for just this purpose. In all that time, though, he had found little trace of rebellion, and none at all of ‘the last runeshaman’.

  Many of the men he’d been ‘gifted’ were also no such thing. They were too old or too young, drunks and rule-breakers, insolent or incompetent. The great chiefs of Orhus had taken the opportunity, it seemed, to dispose of their worst men. And more worthless mouths to feed.

  Birmun grunted as he tripped on a rock, then shot Dag a look to ward off the grin. Their path to the outer trench was entirely downhill. Varhus, which was just as much fort as it was town, had been built on the side of a small mountain on the Eastern reach of Alverel. The idea at first was to protect their camp from attack, so they’d constructed a stockade that circled a sheer cliff and network of caves, then hunkered down and waited for their scouts.

  But days and weeks and then months went by without battle or a need for the army, and the camp followers grew. The valley and surrounding towns came to feed, entertain and otherwise supply the warriors, and many never left. Life for Birmun soon became an endless cycle of miserable logistics, begging the priestesses for more coin and more supplies, and just trying to keep order.

  At the bottom of their little mountain, Birmun and his men dumped their grisly cargo and sighed as they looked up the slope.

  “I need a drink,” Dag said. And Birmun almost instantly agreed.

  He had a hundred things to do, of course, but the men looked at him like little boys, and by any god you please—he needed a drink, too.

  “Great Chief!”

  Hooves stomped across the flat stone base of Birmun’s mountain, and he turned with a sigh. An Arbman, or messenger-scout of the Order, raced towards the spear-like fence with his arm raised and a scroll in hand.

  Birmun waved him in without a shred of pleasure.

  He’d dealt with this rider before and recognized him, so he walked to the bored-looking warriors at the fence of wooden spikes and told them to open it. They groaned and lifted the wood and iron contraption to clear a space, and horse and rider squeezed through the almost inadequate effort.

  “I bring message, chief, for big priestess.” The short, little steppesman—most Arbman were small and light—dismounted and glanced up the steep incline with a grimace. “But…you may deliver.”

  Birmun cocked an eyebrow and grabbed the scroll. “Medek, if you send me up that damn mountain, it better be important, or I’ll sit you on that bloody fence.”

  The horse-tribesman nodded and hunched to put his hands on his knees while he caught his breath. When he stood he glanced around and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper.

  “Husavik is taken, chief, by outlaw. A Great M
other sends me herself.”

  Birmun blinked and met the messenger’s eyes. “Taken?” He lowered his voice. “By outlaws? What sort of outlaws can take a town?”

  Medek grinned, as if knowing he shouldn’t say but couldn’t resist—a common trait, no doubt, in men who carried secrets.

  “Bukayag, son of Beyla, says Mother. He leads and throws fiery spears from hell, she says, on warhorse made of iron.”

  * * *

  Birmun left his men to drink, and ascended the mountain alone.

  Almost instantly he saw a few men dumping waste in an area they weren’t allowed. He ignored this and moved on, and soon saw warriors tormenting builders and no doubt stealing from them. He saw a sodomite being forced to work despite his protest, and half a dozen men waiting their turn. Such was daily life on Vahrus.

  He soon regretted not bringing his men, too, because he attracted a few stares and in truth he had many enemies. Every day he had to punish someone, it seemed, and though he was chief and had many loyal men, he had a great deal more who weren’t loyal. He quickened his pace.

  Halfway up the side of the walkable face of the mountain, Birmun reached the so-called ‘Priestess Cave’—or as often snickered by the men—‘Galdra’s hole’.

  The smell of damp salt hit him at the entrance and he cleared his throat to keep from chuckling at the name. The ‘caves’ were in fact ancient lava-beds, drilled when the mountains spewed flame and melted the stone into almost perfect, rounded tubes. Some of the walls still looked wounded from the experience, translucent crystals in whites, greens and reds showing like the rock’s innards laid bare, stalagmites and stalactites framing beside like broken ribs.

  Birmun nodded at the two men guarding the narrow opening before stepping past. He used only his own retainers to watch the caves, and placed all the most critical supplies within. In the deeper tunnels they’d built almost permanent homes for crates and crates of salt, tools, and vellum. And of course, Dala.

  Once past the first small ‘guard room’, the cave opened into deeper cavern. Birmun saw a group of women in torchlight sitting on boxes in intense conversation. He entered the light and stood at a respectful distance, waiting to be noticed.

  Dala saw him first, and smiled. The sight stirred him still. She had been just a girl when he met her, full of fire and life and passion. But she had a hardness, a metal spirit forged in some unknown fire beyond Birmun’s understanding. For a time he’d hoped it might temper and soften, but no longer. It made no difference. He was entirely hers.

  She soon rose and dismissed the women politely, but Birmun could tell the meeting had been strained. He nodded in respect and they returned it as they passed. Both were merchants who sold goods North and South down the Spiral, both from rich families who had traded goods for a hundred years.

  “That looked interesting,” he said when he and Dala were alone. She sighed.

  “They’re threatening to leave. They’re running out of stock and will need to buy more from Orhus or wherever else, but they’re afraid our camp will disappear one day soon and leave them with far too much supply. They want a guarantee, somehow, as if anything in this life can be certain. Bloody merchants.”

  She looked over his shoulder and shouted to the guards. “Don’t let anyone else in, I need to take Birmun down to storage for a moment.”

  One waved a hand, and she led Birmun deeper into the caves.

  “Good, I should see the state of the supplies, and we’re still waiting on horses, Dala. And if…”

  She turned and seized a handful of his crotch, her eyes glassy.

  “I want you. Now.”

  He blinked and saw the hunger, and felt his loins tighten even before she started massaging. With her other hand she worked at his belt, and with a growl he pulled up her long priestess’ dress with both hands until he could get one under and between her legs. His heart pounded when he found she wore no smallclothes, that she was smiling at his discovery, and more than ready.

  He pushed her down to a crate, spread her legs and took her right there, trying only to hide his bites and clawing where they’d be covered by her clothes. He grabbed every part of her, letting some of the wild craving he was forced to hide emerge. When they were finished, she sunk against him and wrapped her arms and legs around his body, and half groaned, half sighed.

  “Just what I needed.” She kissed him almost chastely on the cheek, slipping her breasts back inside their cloth and straightening her dress. Birmun watched and tried to soak up every moment in his mind to sustain him in the nights to come.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” she chewed her lip as she straightened herself, then leaned up and kissed him one last time. “But I assume you climbed up here for a reason?”

  He nodded and slumped on a barrel, already missing the oblivion of lust. He took the scroll from his belt and held it. Now that they were so close he noticed the dark, purple smears under Dala’s eyes. Her lips were dry, her hair verging on unkempt, her shoulders tense. It made him want to protect her, but he didn’t know how. He tried to do what he could, to take what weight he could, but he knew it was never enough. He only hoped she could take this news and carry it, too.

  “A message from the First Mother of Husavik.” He handed it to her, having only the word of the messenger on its contents, since like most men he could not read.

  Dala snatched it, brow furrowed with concern and perhaps curiosity as she unfurled the vellum and scanned the symbols.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll gather the men and we’ll go sort it out. Honestly something for them to do will be helpful…”

  “No.” Dala put the Vellum to her chest and closed her eyes. She squirmed almost like a little girl, and shouted “Thank you, Goddess!”, her voice echoing around the caves.

  Birmun gaped for a moment in surprise. “It won’t be him, Dala. ‘Bukayag’s’ are always popping up, and we know Aiden and his men are camped near-by. No doubt they’ve just caught the new chief by surprise.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see?” She sat beside him. “This isn’t some lone fool trying to make a name. It’s fresh rebellion. Fresh evidence of the need for this army in the first place. I can send scouts further now, ask for more supplies.”

  She jerked forward and threw her arms around Birmun’s neck, and in the warmth of it he was just pleased he’d decided to bring her the message himself. He stood still, not wanting to break the contact, but she pulled away and stood to pace.

  “Husavik still needs to be dealt with,” he said. “I’ll take two hundred men. We can be there in two days.”

  “No. Not yet.” Dala bit the inside of her cheek and looked away. “Just a few scouts for now. Just you and a few trusted men.” She smiled, walking to the small table that kept most of her things. She took a quill and flattened a fresh piece of vellum , holding the corners with stones. “I want you to take a message to this ‘Bukayag’.”

  Again Birmun felt utterly lost. A message? “You want Birmun, the great and celebrated slayer of Bukayag, to deliver a message…to Bukayag?”

  Dala snorted as she wrote. “No one believes he’s really dead. Anyway, as you say, it probably won’t be him. You don’t need to give your real name. I trust no one else to do it because it might be him. So it must be you.”

  Birmun watched her excitement and decided she wanted it to be Bukayag, though he had no idea why. It certainly wasn’t because she wanted an end to all this—if anything she wanted more men, more supplies, and he had no idea what she did with it all besides feed her little army. He watched her hand scrawl across the vellum more carefully than her other letters.

  “He won’t be able to read it,” he said. She paused for a moment, then shook her head.

  “If it’s him, he’s a runeshaman, so of course he can. If it isn’t, then it doesn’t matter.”

  She rolled it carefully and placed it in a leather satchel, then walked and placed it in his hands. “Do this for me, Birmun. Take Dag with you,
and be careful. If it’s really him, and I think it is—the goddess sends me a message. I must answer.”

  He controlled his expression, uncomfortable as ever with her prophetic beliefs, but unwilling to outright deny them.

  She smiled in her knowing way, and moved closer, whispering “Hurry back to me,” in his ear, her warm breath on his neck. Then she sealed the scroll with wax, and his lips with a kiss.

  He knew in his heart she loved the Goddess more than him, and perhaps always would. But this made no difference. Whatever her reasons, whatever her visions of the future and her goals for the Order, he would die before he failed her.

  He turned back to the mountain and the dusk, and hoped his men weren’t overly drunk.

  * * *

  “Stop whining. You’ll be paid.” Birmun refrained from twisting in his saddle to meet the Arbman’s eyes. They’d been riding for several hours and he was already sore and tired. He focused all his attention ahead of him because he felt at any moment he might fall to his death. In fact, he’d nearly tumbled twice already.

  “Pah.” Medek spit orange root and looked back to Varhus, now on the horizon. He glanced at Birmun and Dagmar’s horses and scowled. “You are too big, and carry too much. Old, stupid mules will need as much rest as riding.”

  “We’ll be fine.” Birmun rode on with a careless expression, but actually—after a pause, and a subtle glance at his blankets and supplies, weapons and armor—he’d likely brought too much. He supposed he could shed some weight now if he had to, though the thought of dumping perfectly good supplies galled him. Could have said something before we bloody left, he thought.

  For now he turned and winked at Dag, who rolled his eyes.

  It was only Birmun’s second time on a horse. As a little boy his father once set him and his brothers together in a line on his mother’s mount, and Birmun vaguely remembered crying as the big man laughed and let him and his twin down. Tears and discomfort. The experience had changed very little.

  Every step the animal made slumped or flopped him back to fight the movement and the pull towards the earth. No matter what he did or how he fought, eventually, he lost. His already sore crotch banged against the muscled back, his thighs rubbed and stretched in their awkward pose, his lower back increasingly stiff. And the animal was only moving at a trot.