Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  Men, he thought, shaking his head at the young warrior’s confidence. Like wolves they overvalued their strength in numbers. They felt a courage and confidence in a pack that made them feel unstoppable. But only the strongest mattered, only those willing and able to strike and die for the pack, only the brave.

  I’m not going to out-run all of you, Sons of Imler. Ruka smiled. I’m going to out-run each of you.

  He called down to them. “If you can catch me, cousins, you deserve to.”

  Another arrow flew and Ruka turned and bolted, angling his path left then right to make himself a harder target. Like most Northerners his pursuers wouldn’t be expert shots, and the dim light and Ruka’s shield should be protection enough.

  He increased his pace to add a little distance. He hadn’t had to run down any animals in years, and back then he was thinner and lean as sinew. His upper body was bigger and heavier now, but he was also healthier, and compared to most any man in the Ascom, he was very well fed.

  The feeling of the sprint and the cool air on his face mixed with the memories of his time as an outlaw, and in his mind he was alone again in the wilderness, one speck of warmth in a frozen steppe, hunted and alert and in danger, but utterly free.

  A strange feeling of loss swept the corners of his mind. That he should miss such a thing amused him, and he supposed it a loss of innocence—a time when his purpose and been simple, even if it was terrible. To save the world would be a far heavier weight than to destroy it. But for Beyla, and her ancestors, he would bear it.

  He kept his pace harsh. It would hurt him in the long run but he could handle it better than the others. When he’d made enough distance he sent the shield back to his Grove, knowing the men would have to keep their weapons, and it would slow them down further.

  Already they had made a mistake in allowing him some distance. They should have hunted him like wolves—half surrounding him and forcing him back and forth in sprints while most held back and kept their strength. But his pursuers were city-folk, at best farmers or the sons of farmers. They were not hunters.

  Ruka ran through the last shreds of night, until a morning sun rose with the mist over the hills. He looked back over the flatlands to see some of the men had already turned back, perhaps for dogs or more men or horses.

  The rest had spread out now with the better runners up front, others trailing behind. Ruka ran them again to spread them further, then dropped to the grass, and waited just beyond a hill.

  As the first man came panting, he rose up with a Grove-sword and pierced the boy’s heaving chest, watching his wide eyes as he pulled him down.

  “You ran well,” he whispered as he held him, “quickly now, what is your name?”

  The boy grunted in panic and spit blood and hissed nonsense, struggling without words before he stilled for the last time.

  Ruka sighed. He took the young man’s water-skin and a measured drink before thanking him for his sacrifice. He stood and moved Bukayag back to a methodic run, then oversaw the dead as they built the Northerner a grave.

  “Runner-From-Varhus”, he inscribed on the marker with a frown. Like so many things, for now it would have to do.

  * * *

  Ruka ran without pause for a night and two days. His legs trembled and his feet had numbed, his bones and joints creaking like the wooden pillars of his childhood home. His eyes grew tired, and Bukayag offered to finish the run while Ruka slept in his Grove, but he declined. Some tests were best done alone.

  Many times he had re-calculated the distance and doubted himself, but always when exhaustion seemed overwhelming he knew his body would do more—that in truth it would run until shattered, and that doubt only existed in his mind. He pictured the outline of the forest on the horizon so many times he almost didn’t believe when it became real.

  He looked back before he entered, but knew he’d lost his pursuers long ago. They had never sent riders or dogs, and after the first day disappeared as specks on the barren plain.

  Now the moon waned, and what little light it had left tangled in the canopy of the trees. To Ruka, this felt like safety.

  He knew his men were close now. He sat and closed his eyes to rest before entering the camp, for it would not do to let them see him trembling and exhausted. It felt as if only moments passed, but Bukayag’s eyes flared as twigs broke and leaves rustled near-by.

  A few scouts with torches emerged from a clearing on a patrol, and Ruka sighed, then rose from behind his tree.

  “Peace, cousins.” He held up his hands. “I have returned.”

  The men saw him in the darkness and froze, staring at his eyes in the firelight. “Shaman…”, the young scout swallowed, and collected himself. “Thank the Gods.”

  Ruka nodded politely in respect, and together they walked to the main camp. Ruka did his best to hide his pain and exhaustion, and didn’t bother mentioning the pursuers. Aiden greeted him at the evening bonfire.

  “The fourth day, as promised. But where is Egil, and the horses?”

  Ruka felt a touch of his brother’s anger at the greeting. For the love of the gods, he thought, I have likely just run further and faster than any man in the history of the Ascom. I have walked the sands of paradise, created steel harder than anything in the world, pulled something from nothing, and with this one small setback I did not expect, these are the first words from your mouth.

  He blinked, and took a long, collecting breath. “Egil will meet us on the coast. The horses are gone.” Ruka heard the shortness in his own tone and regretted it, but Aiden only nodded.

  “We have made good progress. It will be slow moving North with the carts and lumber and only Sula to help us move it.”

  “Sula does not drag lumber,” Ruka snapped. Or perhaps Bukayag did.

  Some of the men standing near-by glanced at each other now. Ruka reminded himself that Southerners killed each other over even slight offence, and a man like Aiden was not disrespected lightly. He took another deep breath, knowing his own hatred of weakness was maybe a weakness of its own.

  “Ignore me, chief. The day has been long. If it suits you, we can discuss our route and logistics in the morning, and of course Sula is yours to do with as you please.”

  Aiden nodded at once, and the tension drained. “In the morning then. Goodnight, Bukayag.”

  Ruka attempted a polite smile and turned to his tent. He realized, too, he was tired of being called Bukayag. He was tired of the deceptions and pretending what he did was some divine workings of the Gods instead of just the broken dreams of a dead, desperate mother, and a people who fled from paradise. It’s just the exhaustion, he told himself. A night of rest and our purpose will renew with the dawn.

  He could do nothing in any case but hope this was true, and staggered to his furs, collapsing in the darkness. Even in his Grove the false light of an unknown sky dimmed as he leaned against Beyla’s house.

  When Bukayag was asleep—only moments before Ruka—he found he wished that for one night he might forget like other creatures, that he could put away pain and love, suffering and truth, and all the dead faces and names and words of ancient men. He wished he could live again as a child relying only on his mother, and that he wasn’t so alone. But within moments, he slept like his brother, and the thought was gone.

  * * *

  Ruka dreamt of a woman whose face he could not see. He crept towards her prone body, silent and excited, with no understanding of where he was. Despite the cool air she slept in only a thin, cloth shift, and Ruka’s hands moved over her legs, then her hips and stomach and to her breasts as she slept.

  As he massaged them, she startled, but at first didn’t move as his hands roamed her body. He tried to pull up the cloth between her thighs and she thrashed and kicked and he was forced to hold her down. He felt a fury at being interfered with, at being rejected, and one of his hands wrapped around her tiny throat and began to squeeze. He heard whimpering across from him.

  He looked and found Ivar in the corn
er holding a seax. The boy clutched it firmly but remained paralyzed with fear, and when Ruka looked again he saw the woman beneath him was Juchi. Her wide eyes were frozen and full of tears, and Ruka stepped away in horror. He fled for the tent-flap, and as he emerged he woke in his own furs. He sat up and put a hand to his cheek.

  Tell me it was a dream, brother. Tell me we didn’t terrify Egil’s mate and his little boy in the night.

  Bukayag sneered. “What difference to me. Still you deny us. You deny us both a simple pleasure, and why? Why, brother?”

  Tell me it was a dream, brother!

  “What you do in your dreams is no business of mine. I slept. I needed rest. I need it still.”

  Ruka listened to this answer again and again but couldn’t tell if the words rang false. He winced, thinking he would see the ex-priestess and boy soon regardless, and would know well enough. Even Ando the island god couldn’t force Bukayag to speak the truth, Ruka wouldn’t bother to try.

  He rose with a groan and stepped out into a late-morning sun. Men were already moving about the camp preparing food and packing lumber and supplies into crudely built carts. Ruka found Aiden by a pile of wood directing the men.

  “Good morning, shaman. I’ve begun preparations. I assume we leave today.”

  Ruka nodded but found for the moment he didn’t care. He scanned the cooking fires and dead trees for a sign of Juchi and saw none. “Where is the ex-priestess and the boy?”

  Aiden shrugged. “Bathing, I think, at the stream. Do you want them?”

  Ruka nearly flinched at the wording. “No.” He forced his mind to the present and what mattered, picturing a route through the forest on his map, then the path through the small stretch of hills North to the outskirts of Kormet. “When the men are ready, chief, so is our path.” For a moment he considered his next words, and chose caution. “If you wish to use Sula to help move supplies, of course you are welcome.”

  Aiden smiled. “Bored men are dangerous, shaman. Especially mine. It will be good for them to end their days exhausted.”

  Ruka grinned at this, glad for the courtesy, and also in agreement. Aiden walked through the camp speaking with a few of his men, and the preparations to leave began in earnest.

  “I’ve prepared your horse, lord.” Eshen brought Sula with saddle strapped and supplied, and Ruka nodded his thanks. Ordinarily he’d walk, but already he could feel the weakness in his legs and thought an afternoon mounted would be pleasant.

  By the time the men were ready, pushing and pulling the crudely made carts in some semblance of a line, Ruka spotted Juchi.

  He walked straight towards her, ignoring everything, eyes locked on her face. When she finally noticed him she startled a little, but said nothing.

  “Egil will be re-joining us on the coast,” he said. “You needn’t fear for him.”

  Juchi’s hair was still wet from the stream. She wore leather breeches and quilted gambeson much like the warriors. When she’d seen Ruka she nodded with the bare minimum of respect, but this didn’t surprise him. He saw no terror in her eyes. Nor hatred.

  “Thank you. But I wouldn’t. Fear for him, I mean.” She turned towards her tent in dismissal, but this was not unusual, and as a woman not cause for offense.

  It was just a dream, Ruka breathed a sigh of relief. Had it been real she would have acted strangely, and couldn’t have hidden such a thing. He mounted Sula again feeling a weight lifted from his shoulders. Then he looked on the hard, well-armed gathering of his warriors and smiled. How far I’ve come, he thought, remembering Ruka the Outcast and his tiny ambitions.

  Now, because of him, these would be the first men of ash to stand on paradise in maybe thousands of years. They were close now, very close. They need only avoid roads and move unseen for three days, and if they were spotted perhaps they must kill whoever saw them.

  They would need more lumber, more rope, tar, pitch, nails, and many other things. Some Ruka would bring from his Grove, and already the dead were piling nails made from hard iron in moulds Ruka designed. His silver would pay for the rest, though if he spent it too fast perhaps the value would fall and the Northern chiefs and perhaps the Order would become suspicious. But he did not need long—less than a season. Only two, maybe three months to build his first ships and make his raid.

  He thought of the possible betrayals. First and foremost Halvar, who might have already done so, and Ruka might arrive to find the Order’s dogs waiting. Now perhaps Dala, or Birmun, or even Egil. But he had many loyal men. They would not sell their lives cheaply, and if Ruka must, he knew, he would sacrifice it all, and survive.

  Perhaps later he’d sneak into the matriarch’s home and strangle her in the night. Perhaps for a few years he’d sew chaos and terror until the world of ash convulsed in fear, and in the madness begin again. He did not wish this, but his purpose transcended failure. As usual, his mother had told him the truth: a man failed in only two ways. He quit, or he died. Ruka did not intend to quit.

  “Ready, shaman?”

  Ruka blinked away from thoughts of the future, and looked to Aiden. He wore Ruka’s gifts at all times now—the hard, blackened iron plate perfectly fit to his chest, his torso wrapped in chain. He wore them well, as he seemed to perform all the tasks worthy of respect well.

  One day you will be a king, great chief, Ruka thought. Perhaps you will rule this land of ash for all those left behind, or an entire island. But you must keep your faith, your wits, and your courage.

  He nodded, liking the man as ever for his competence, and his potential. Then he led Sula and his small army of outlaws and traitors out of the valley, and towards the future.

  Chapter 52

  Egil glanced again at Chief Birmun and his handful of warriors, their backs loaded with supplies. You’re likely all dead, he thought, not for the first time. Your mistress sends you to your doom.

  He shifted on the small, unfamiliar saddle of his old, borrowed horse, and tried to look pleased. But to be honest he’d grown to like the nightman chief, and didn’t want to see Ruka kill him.

  After Ruka had fled out into the night, some of the men had found Egil and challenged him. His limp and lack of weapon saved him from instant death, but they’d seized him and forced him to explain he was a skald invited by High Priestess Dala herself. Still, they hadn’t looked impressed, and quite literally dragged him back up the bloody mountain.

  “Mistress, we found this man lurking outside the stockade. He says he knows you, that he’s your ‘guest’.”

  She’d waited much longer than Egil found comfortable, fixing him with an almost Ruka-like stare that seemed to indicate ‘I can grant you life, or death, with a single word. Best remember that.’

  “He speaks the truth,” she said at last. “But thank you, chiefsmen, for your careful watch, and your diligence. You have my thanks.”

  They half-bowed in what seemed actual respect, then dropped Egil like sackcloth before leaving the cave-mouth without a word. He found a barrel of maybe salt and collapsed with a groan.

  “I’m sure your cave is very nice, priestess, but perhaps your home would be better placed at the foot of the mountain.”

  High Priestess Dala rewarded him with the barest of smiles. And perhaps it was her curves and beauty, or the slight redness in her cheeks, or the small crinkle in her otherwise smooth dress, but Egil’s mind began to wander to rather unwholesome things. A man’s voice disturbed the darkness, and Egil understood his intuition.

  “Back so soon, singer? You must have missed me.”

  Egil nodded at Birmun and kept all trace of carnal suspicion from his face. “Not for all the wine and widows in Orhus would I have climbed your god-cursed mountain again by choice, chief.”

  “Oh I’d say it’s more like a hill, really.”

  Egil grinned but Dala’s face seemed entirely unamused.

  “Explain your presence here.”

  Egil took a breath, and did. He explained the loss of the horses and the dozen or more men
who’d chased Ruka into the night. Then—when the couple glanced at one another—his complete confidence they wouldn’t catch him.

  “You seem very sure,” said the priestess. “I didn’t take you for a man of faith.” Her tone maybe held an edge of contempt, but Egil didn’t mind.

  “I’ve little enough.” He shrugged, trying to find some words to explain the one thing beyond his love of Juchi and Ivar that he knew for certain. “I am a storyteller, Mistress. I know a man like Bukayag doesn’t die in a field in the middle of the night, and not with only young, unblooded warriors to see it.”

  Dala’s steady gaze watched him as he spoke, so intense it overshadowed her youth. Once, perhaps, it would have shriveled him. But he no longer feared priestesses. “Is your master a good man, skald?”

  Egil smiled then nearly laughed out loud. When he collected himself to speak plainly he found his own answer sobering, because he believed every word.

  “No, priestess. But he is maybe a great man. I think none of us can understand him. Perhaps only later in stories will he be judged. I shall not try.” At least, not with you, he thought, feeling a night of screams in the stumps of his toes. For this he could judge Ruka, but only him, and certainly not when and how anyone else asked.

  The young woman watched him closely. She asked more questions but he shrugged or lied or answered in riddles until she grew tired of him.

  “Birmun and some of his retainers will take you to your master, and stay with him,” she said with some finality. The chief glanced at her with wide eyes before mastering himself. “And you will tell Bukayag he is to take them with him to paradise. They will serve him as warriors until they return.”

  Egil nodded slowly, knowing what he said made no difference, but really thinking ‘you mean if they return, priestess’. Because if Ruka didn’t wish it, they would most certainly not.

  But, as usual, his opinion was not sought. They sent him again down the god-cursed mountain on foot, while Birmun woke men and gathered supplies, and even produced an ancient horse for Egil.

  He mounted with a resigned groan, and Birmun led him with a pack of ten older and somewhat disgruntled-looking men. They traveled along the spiral for two days in mostly silent and confused company. Each night they found their places by the fire, and when Birmun found Egil eyeing his wine-skin for a second night he raised it with a questioning brow. Despite promising Juchi he’d permanently abstain, Egil took it.