by Richard Nell
Chapter 55
Two days of waiting in the sea did not sit well with Ruka’s men. Already the journey had been strange and difficult, overcome with steady toil and a feeling of glory and adventure. Heroes in stories, however, never sat in sweltering heat and waited.
After Kwal and Arun returned from Sri Kon with Farahi’s plan, Ruka set as many followers as he could to fishing or maintaining the ships, and brought the captains to his boat to explain.
Following Tegrin, all at least had made the journey. Their Kingmakers had weathered a few minor storms, and only a few men were lost to the islander’s sea. Now the captains stood with Ruka in the dim light of his flagship’s near-empty hold, and listened intently.
“There are things you must learn, cousins.” He met each of their eyes. “This new world has great wealth, but also dangers. I have already made an ally here—a foreign king, who will help us with our raid. He will distract our enemy’s warriors, then we will land, force our way to his war-fort, and kill him before we plunder.”
The men looked mostly confused. Aiden spoke first.
“What need of this ally? I don’t fear a battle with their warriors. Are the gods not with us, shaman?”
The captains turned their earnest eyes to Ruka together, and he almost snorted at their ignorance. He knew he must be patient. They could not know.
“The gods reward the brave, chief, not the careless. You will see things in this place, things you can hardly understand. First, know this—these island kings sit behind walls of stone so tall and thick, nothing in the Ascom could defeat them. They sits upon thrones made of jewels and silver, inside impregnable forts, surrounded by water filled with flesh-eating fish. We face an army with more warriors than half the chiefs in Orhus combined.”
At this the captains blinked and shifted their weight uncomfortably, none wishing to deny it as a lie, though no doubt they hardly believed. Ruka smiled.
“The gods are with us, as ever. But we must be quick, and ruthless. We must stay together and kill in haste. Do not allow your men to be distracted by the strangeness, the wealth, or the women. Half the men will follow me, the other half will guard the ships with Aiden. Plundering will come at the end. Most of the women we take will come from the fortress. Now is the time for questions.”
“The women,” said Tahar, half eager, half concerned, “how will we get them on the boats?”
Ruka looked into the big, deadly man’s eyes, forcing himself not to laugh at the question, or at the curiosity and excitement of the other men.
“The women here…” he paused, and shrugged, unsure how to truly explain. “Island women are…more docile. Your appearance alone will terrify them. You have been taught a few words and phrases, so use them. But you may have to force them, cousins. You and your men will have to take many physically onto the ships.”
At this thought the men visibly cringed. Some looked at their hands, as if trying to imagine doing such a thing.
Many of Ruka’s followers had never even touched a woman, save for their kin. In the Ascom, violence against a woman meant death and suffering for eternity in the mountain. It would be easier after the killing, Ruka hoped, when their blood was up.
With no other questions he dismissed the captains back to their own ships and told them to keep their warriors in line. He took Arun aside when the men were gone.
“You’ve broken in before, pirate. How would you get inside?”
Arun scoffed, as if not realizing Ruka was serious. “With bribery, and then climbing hooks, alone, and at night.”
Ruka stared because obviously that wasn’t useful. The pirate sighed.
“Trying to get in that castle in the day while the walls are guarded is madness. The gates are thick and heavy, the walls are impossibly high. We have no time to siege them out and likely couldn’t anyway. And this is not a king like Farahi. You could slaughter every man, woman and child in Halin before Trung’s gates, and he would be unmoved to interfere.”
Ruka sneered, knowing Trung would be more than ‘unmoved’. He would stand and watch.
“You’re right, pirate, he would enjoy their suffering. Even now he can’t bear to be far from his precious slaves and their misery. That is why we will not attempt the castle walls, but come up inside the fortress through its master’s weakness. We will go through the pits.”
Arun nodded slowly as if perhaps he expected this.
In his Grove Ruka flattened a map of the fortress’ underground. He had long ago labeled the servant quarters, the torture chambers, the pens, and the doors—but he had not seen everything. Trung would have portcullis and other tricks to seal every passage, if needed. But Ruka would find a way.
He turned from the map and walked to his training field where some of the dead smiths and weavers lay hooks and rope. They bound them together, and set down hammers and thick prying rods to bend metal grates, or perhaps destroy stone walls. Others placed weapons and armor in a line so that it would be easier for Ruka to choose what he needed when the moment came.
He walked along it, callused hand drifting over the perfect, beautifully made tempered steel. A hundred javelins filled ten racks; swords ranged from short-stabbing blades to huge, two-handed greatswords and hung next to their leather scabbards.
The armor at the end, though, was Ruka’s true masterpiece. With thin plating over corrugated mail, he had found the perfect balance between hardness, strength, and absorption. Nothing these islanders made could pierce it, or even harm him much without luck.
Not with every arrow and sword in Pyu could they kill him quickly, at least not in the heat of battle, save for bludgeoning him a thousand times. He had engraved the runes himself and with great care, covering every inch of the armored plates with a short version of the story of the Veeshan.
The thought already pleased him. He would carry the riddle of the islander’s guilt on his chest—the answer to their butchery, the reason for their deaths plain and bare to their eyes if only they could read it.
In the world of the living, Ruka walked to the railing of his ship, eyes pointed towards the speck of paradise in the distance. He was close now, very close. He felt as if justice were some physical thing just beyond his grasp, and if he were patient than sooner or later he would take it in his fist.
Trung is yours, brother, when the time comes. Cleave through these warriors with me and give our followers a legend. And then I give you my word, the king is yours.
He froze the image of Trung’s face watching him in the pit. The fat, over-stuffed limbs, the contented smugness, the hard, cruel eyes. Ruka didn’t know what his brother would do to the man, or how long it would take, but imagining it made him smile.
Before the first day of waiting ended, it began to rain. At first the men of ash were pleased and set out their barrels to be re-filled with fresh water as they laughed in the downpour.
It helped cool the air and disrupt the endless, unbearable heat that chased the men below deck in turns, burning their skin, and sapping their energy. But if men of ash were not accustomed to such heat, nor were they used to an endless, flood-making wet.
Ruka hoped it would end but knew in the rainy season it likely wouldn’t. What mattered was if it disrupted Farahi’s plans. Would the king expect Ruka to know what rain meant to his navy, if anything, and delay? He couldn’t be sure. Nor did he wish to wait. Instead he hoped that after so many victories at Chahen, the wily king would correctly guess Ruka’s actions.
Ater two days of the ships swelling and rocking in the drizzle, with sodden, miserable men hunched together below decks, Ruka ordered the assault as planned. The various crews went to their work, weighing anchor and setting their sails, others moving to rowing seats in case of temperamental winds. They started forward, and Ruka tried to hide his anxiety as he watched from the deck.
When he could stand it no more he went below deck to ready Sula, finding the stoic creature restless and angry in his stall.
“You will soon run free, my
friend.” Ruka extended a hand and tried to calm him enough to place the saddle, but feared if he stepped inside he might be kicked or thrashed against the hull. At last he stepped back and stilled, growling until Sula felt the challenge and watched him. “You are a warrior,” he said low, angry for a moment with the usually unshakeable beast. “You will live, or die, but not as some trapped and helpless coward, not mewling in fear.”
He raised his tone, and watched the black pool of the creature’s eyes until he could see his reflection. Sula snorted, calming, and Ruka laughed. “Forgive me,” he said, understanding the truth. The beast showed only the anxiety of its master. He stepped forward and stroked his friend’s nose.
“Forgive my weakness, mighty Sula. We will succeed, or die together. Let lesser creatures worry which.”
He unbound and saddled him, and ordered Eshen to bring him up as they approached the shore. He saw the man’s fear of the animal, and smiled.
“Live only in this moment, cousin, and know the brave live forever. This is easy to forget when a man has something to lose. Even for me.”
Eshen smiled and nodded, and when Ruka returned to the deck he felt renewed. He walked to the front of the ship, noting Birmun’s quiet calm with a nod, smiling when he saw Egil and even the now obviously-pregnant Juchi taking a place at the oars.
He smiled at his crew not to please them, nor to comfort, but because he imagined the possibility of success, and even the chance of it seemed not so long ago a dream within a dream.
The coast of Halin soon spread large in his vision. Part of him already imagined it in flames, but another part saw huge, wide docks filled with trade ships—a great island fortress connecting Pyu and the Ascom, islanders and men of ash. They worked together in this dream, built families, learned each other’s ways and found new, better methods to explore and tame their worlds.
“Bring my horse,” he called over his shoulder, and Eshen went below.
He turned to Halvar’s son—Folvar—who had been quiet much of the journey, but whose eyes Ruka liked. He thought, with the right guidance, the boy could be made a useful man.
“Folvar,” he called, and the young man broke his wide-eyed gaze away from the beach to return Ruka’s stare. “Race behind me, chiefling, if your will holds. Show your men the way with courage and they will follow you to hell.”
Folvar blinked then looked back to the shore, but Ruka thought his jaw set with determination rather than contempt or fear, and he nodded in respect.
Ruka recalled the first time he had seen white-sand and gentle slopes—the first sight of palm trees with leaves so green and wide a man could lie atop them, a thousand houses and buildings with two or even three floors, protected by beautifully tiled roofs and walls made of brick, marble and stone. He knew what his men saw, the beauty of it all, and didn’t blame them for their wide-eyed stares.
Catamarans drifted about the coast. Soon, Pyu fishermen stood on their little hulls, hands blocking the sun as they stared in utter confusion as men of ash came from an endless sea. They abandoned rods and nets, frozen at the sight of Ruka’s small fleet of Kingmakers. Few fled, equally enthralled by the cloth sails wide and taut, rows of oars splashing through open sea in a navy charge.
Ruka almost laughed at the pure, wild chaos to come—the changing of the world beneath him. He knew Halin had no guard-towers on the South side, but he could still see many men on shore.
Some would run to the castle or at least begin to warn the soldiers, and as he stared he realized that some of the ships at the docks were actually scouts and small warships. They weren’t manned, however, nor ready to sail.
No doubt the navy used this side of the island to train—removed as it was from the sight and presence of the other islanders. A cluster of these men had stopped to watch the ships, too, and now many were shouting and running towards open-sided buildings that looked more like stables. Ruka grit his teeth as he understood—they were attacking barracks.
Eshen came to his side with Sula, and Ruka mounted on the widest curve of the deck. In his Grove, Boy-From-Alverel finished clasping him in his armor, but he waited to give it to Bukayag.
He breathed, feeling his men’s eyes on him, feeling their overwhelmed senses and fear. He felt their courage, too. He waited until the ship skimmed the bottom of the beach, finally striking island sand in earnest.
“Ride!” He lifted his sword. Without hesitation, Sula leapt from wood to sand, snorting as he sprinted up the gentle slope.
Bukayag woke and laughed his laugh, sensing blood and glory and vengeance. Ruka gave him his armor, wrapping his body in flames as he charged towards the first doomed men to stand.
Regardless of the outcome, he had already won. With this landing, his people had left their frozen world since their first flight in Tegrin’s shadow—the first anyone had seen them in force since history could recall. The men of ash had come to paradise. Ruka intended to make it memorable.
Chapter 56
Arun sat in confusion on the barbarian’s ship. He saw the mad, wild excitement of the men, but felt none of it himself. In fact he had debated not returning at all to Ruka’s ship, or being part of this, joining neither Farahi nor Ruka and instead fleeing to the continent and starting a new life away from everything.
But as he’d walked down towards the coast, his feet had taken him back to Kwal, and Kwal had taken him back to the ship. And here he was.
Now he watched the awe, confusion and terror in the people of Halin, which until this moment he would never have considered his people. But compared to the men of ash, they certainly were.
Islanders all liked to think of themselves as different, but were so thoroughly mixed it was almost impossible to know a man’s roots. They spoke in some small different dialects and even language, but all spoke the ‘Common’ words of Sri Kon. They had the same gods, or close enough, the same traditions and calendar and ways. In this moment, next to the men of ash, to claim any true difference felt ridiculous.
The barbarian ships moved closer, propelled by a fine wind and long oars rowed by huge men. They struck the gentle slope of the sand without pause and started gathering to make their assault.
Ruka—mounted on his monstrous animal he called a ‘horse’—and with a last, crazed look to the men behind him, leapt off the ship onto the beach.
The savages all screamed and followed him, most carrying shields and swords, many others a motley of axes and spears, picks and hooks. Arun moved quietly behind, unable to see much of anything for all the huge backs of the larger men around him.
There appeared to be two gatherings of Halin marines on the beach, but Arun realized they were recruits. They were boys, really, clustering now into unorganized packs behind red faced and terrified sergeants.
Ruka raced past them with a wild shout, his body wreathing in flames as he threw spears from the air in a now-familiar miracle, like some demon straight from hell. The islanders fled before him in raw, instant terror, and his warriors cried out and raced to follow.
Fishermen, merchants and warehousemen began to scatter, with some few fools too frightened or confused to run simply hacked apart.
Another group of young men near the beach began to muster, coming out of barracks and mess halls with knives and spears, some few with bows. These rallied other near-by men, growing bolder as more men of ash left and split their forces near the boats.
Arun looked at the young men readying for a fight—half naked and soft, armed with old, dull weapons made of more wood than iron. He knew none would have ever killed, never seen war, or death. Then he looked at the men of ash.
These were warriors forged as hard as their iron; they were killers who knew only suffering and violence, and even as they looked out over this strange, new world with awe, he saw their readiness for death and murder. They watched the islanders but did nothing to build their own nerve. They stood together almost at ease, calling to each other in their harsh, foreign words, all eyes on the giant ‘Aden’, who s
tood before them sweating and covered in iron, but smiling in genuine pleasure.
They are wolves in a sheep-pen, Arun thought, feeling some strange mixture of embarrassment and pride in the boys who stood ready to oppose them. He knew what was about to happen here, and did not wish to see it. He raced after Ruka and his attackers.
The fortress attackers had kept in good order though they struggled to walk in the sand. They marched over a few corpses left by their prophet, slaughtering some few too slow or too foolish to escape them. They went largely unopposed, straight to the plaza—the flat, clear section of volcanic rock surrounded by merchant stalls just before the entrance to the pit.
Arun realized it was festival season, and by the looks of the active stalls that perhaps it was a slave-fighting day. If yes, there would be hundreds of men and women inside for the show.
Ruka waited for his men at the entrance, massive and terrifying on his animal, spear held high like the tip of some dark spire. Most of the merchants had already fled, though one hung skewered and sagging from the cave wall.
The savage leader called to his men in the barbarian tongue, and Arun didn’t need to know the words to hear their meaning. His tone was harsh, brutal, and merciless. The warriors of ash matched it with war cries, and raced inside.
Arun went with them and soon saw the gamblers. They were shouting, the noise and excitement of an ongoing fight so loud it had drowned out the death outside. Ruka led his warriors around the pit without a hint of pause, and the slaughter began.
For a moment Arun wondered if the crew of the Bahala were here, but supposed it didn’t matter. They were pirates and murderers and did they not deserve this fate more than most? They had lived their whole lives ruining others because they were stronger, and because they could. Surely this was the spirits’ reckoning.
Arun himself didn’t take part in the killing. He stayed close to Ruka to ‘protect’ him as promised, but this quickly became a joke. Ruka wore armor that seemed nearly without weakness, and in any case faced an enemy that didn’t fight back.