by Richard Nell
When the gamblers realized what was happening, confusion and fear spread like a plague. Men ran for the doors, or tried to get around the attackers to the cave mouth. But other Ascomi were waiting, and killed every man without hesitation. The women they ignored entirely.
“Pirate.” Arun blinked and realized Ruka was staring at him. His armor was already soaked in blood, golden eyes bright in the gloom of the cave. “There is a way to the fortress through these passages. Do you know it?”
Arun nodded. It was secret and maybe shut, but in his many bribes before rescuing Ruka from the prison, he’d been told a way.
“Good. Take these men and find it,” he gestured, then spoke to several warriors briefly in his foreign words. “Find Trung, if you can. My path is through the pits. Hopefully one of us succeeds.”
Ruka’s hand sprayed fire as a metal hook and maybe rope dangled in his open grip. With a mad grin, he turned, attached it to the railing, and leapt down into the arena.
* * *
Ruka stood in the sands and smiled at the wretched gladiators cowering in the corners. His men began climbing down the walls more slowly to join him, and while he waited he inspected the bronze arena door.
While imprisoned he had inspected every door and lock he could find, and noted the shape of the guard’s keys. He’d quickly realized they were all the same, but the arena doors could only be opened from the inside. It would require brute force.
From his Grove he summoned the long, thick pry bar of tempered steel he had made for this purpose, and jammed it through the grate. The thinner, lesser metal creaked and bent and by the time his warriors had gathered behind him, Ruka reached his arm through the hole, unlocked the cross-beam latch, and pushed open the door.
The guards who should have been inside were gone. Whether these had simply fled, or run up to help contend with the madness they’d heard in the arena, Ruka did not know. Nor did he care. Sweating now in his armor from the exertion and heat, he walked out into the dark, dirty slave pens, remembering the smell.
He looked back to his warriors and held up a hand, pulling three keys he’d forged in his Grove.
“Open the cells, but don’t harm them, and leave them inside.”
Eshen took the keys and nodded, and Ruka walked on. He followed in his own footsteps—the same path once cleared by Arun when he free’d him, walking through slave pens he had once shuffled through bare foot.
He felt the hard leather sole of his boots tap against the stone, and breathed the fishy scent of what he now knew were whale-oil lamps. He thought of Trung in his hands, and ran the metal of his blade along the stone corridors, every step bringing him closer and closer to his prize.
Servants poked their heads from behind open doors ahead. Most screamed when they saw Ruka and his warriors, then turned and fled up the winding passages. Ruka didn’t chase them because he had no need to follow. He knew the way.
He followed the map in his mind until he emerged into the huge, tapestry-filled dining room where he had seen his first painting, and his first sculpture. This time it was guarded.
Ten warriors stood ready for whatever might come from the tunnels below. They held their thin, pitiful shields forward, their small, curved swords of brittle iron or bronze in their other hands. They looked ready and calm enough, though they wore only a leather cuirass. Their arms and legs were unprotected, their heads uncovered, their feet in open sandals.
“We are demons sent from hell for your master,” Ruka said in the Sri Kon dialect. He drew a wide, round shield from his Grove, the sparks flaring from an invisible forge. “Run,” he pointed his sword, “or die.”
The guards’ eyes widened and some looked to their fellows. Only the gods knew what they thought of their enemy, but to their great credit, and courage, they stood. The prince behind them ran.
“Forward,” Ruka growled in Ascomi, then advanced first in the narrow corridor. He raised his shield and charged without caution, throwing his body and all his weight at the first barrier in his path.
Three guards tried to hold him. Two of their shields thrashed against his then fell away as Ruka burst into the room. The men behind recovered and attacked, and Ruka spun and slashed as he carried his momentum. He felt a sword ring against his side, his thigh, then another against his shoulder. Through the mail and padding he hardly felt it.
His men followed behind screaming, slashing wildly to catch him, shield-charging and smashing the men away so they could move inside. The guards fell back and protected themselves as soon as one of them fell, withdrawing further and further until they’d all but moved to the great tapestries. The men of ash kept coming.
Ruka simply waited, curious now, watching the eyes of Halin’s guard as ten then twenty giants crowded the room. As every new warrior entered the guardsmen fell back, and back, until they’d withdrawn to the rich fabric and the barred windows behind them. Ruka could see their terror, the slow understanding of how outmatched they were.
Men called from another corridor, and more islanders charged with the prince who’d fled. Folvar growled and turned to them, the men he’d brought close behind. For a moment it seemed the sides were almost matched in number, both formations eying the other as if to decide who held the upper hand. But this was an illusion.
Ruka’s warriors had been culled by hardship, surviving when so many before them had fallen. They were killers and fanatics, desperate men with nothing to lose. In this moment of violence they howled only for their gods to watch them kill, or die, believing only the brave would be rewarded. They charged without fear.
Wooden shields shattered and bamboo spears shivered and cut as iron showed its strength. The bravest islanders died first, hacked to pieces with nowhere to flee, trapped between flesh and stone. The men behind them fled.
Ruka saw the Trung royal amongst these and gave chase, leaving Folvar to finish the survivors. Run, run little prince, he thought, show me where your father hides.
He threw off his helm so he could hear the footsteps better, racing down gray corridors then up several flights of stairs. Even in his armor he could have likely caught the man, but kept his pace matching as he only tried to follow.
Eshen caught up behind him with two others, though many might have been separated and lost. It made little difference now. The fortress would be cleared, and soon enough there would be time to collect slaves and plunder, and return to their ships. Farahi had obviously succeeded in drawing out Halin’s soldiers. Ruka would assume he had the day.
As he gave chase, he realized the windows and floor-sizes were shrinking, and that he’d nearly reached the top of the fort. He picked up his pace and caught sight of the prince, who had stopped before wide, open double doors of iron to glance behind.
“Inside, my prince!” shouted a voice from the inside. The island royal turned to flee, and next to him, as if from nothing, hands seized his arms.
Arun stepped out from the only shadow darkened by the hallway’s tapestry and pulled him down to the corner screaming. Ruka ran and lunged for the iron doors, but the men inside shouted, and slammed them shut.
“He has ten guards with him,” said Arun, as he slowly squeezed the air from the prince’s throat and held him fast.
Ruka scanned the walls of the room and soon understood they were built of thick, solid stone. The doors would be all but impossible to break, designed as a last stand to buy time. Trung and the rest of his family would be inside.
Bukayag shouted and seized a hammer from Ruka’s Grove, ramming it uselessly against the door, hitting again and again as he panted with rage.
We will find a way, brother. Be calm. I’m thinking.
Bukayag dropped the hammer and leaned against the wall like a petulant child. “Trung won’t bargain for his son,” he growled.
I’m aware of that.
Ruka wondered if the island king would build some secret passage as an escape, and even now fled down beneath the bowels of his fortress. Certainly, that is what Farahi woul
d have done, but this king was arrogant and proud. He wouldn’t plan on running.
Instead he would sit behind his iron door and hope his men would return and save him before Ruka got inside. He thought of the man’s cruelties, his torture, his unworthiness as a leader and king, and the idea of leaving him alive nearly incensed Bukayag again. But Ruka repeated the thought again and again, knowing such a king would be despised by many servants. Particularly honorable ones.
He looked out the window and saw several on the tower, knowing his words would be heard inside. He raised his voice.
“One of you will be the captain of Trung’s guard. You will remember me. We stood together in a pit, you and I. You honored your word, and I mine.” He waited with no answer, but to try cost him nothing. “You are well trapped now, my friend, as I once was. Soon enough this door will be undone. Your choice is this: open it, and I will spare you and all your men. Or wait, and die with Trung.”
Arun looked at him as if he were wasting his time, and perhaps he was. He wondered next if he could try to take the door or a part of the stone back to his Grove, despite not having created them. This felt like a risk, but he was about to try when he heard voices from the tower. They raised in volume, growing more and more agitated.
The voices followed by ringing metal and screams, and with a creaking shudder, metal snapped on stone, and the huge door unsealed. It pushed open slowly, and behind it stood ‘Kaptin’—the one man in this hell who had treated Ruka with respect. His face was pale and dripping. He looked on Ruka’s armor and the men behind him with stark, naked terror, and backed away.
Ruka stepped alone into the room. The captain’s men held Trung at spearpoint, as well as three princes, four daughters, and at least ten other relations.
“These warriors are not to be harmed,” he called in Ascomi to his men. “Eshen, you will go with them from the palace. Ensure they are not killed by our other warriors. They are under my protection. Understood?”
“Yes, lord.”
Ruka nodded, and turned to Trung’s guard. “These men will take you to safety. Keep your weapons, if you wish. Now go.”
The captain swallowed, and his men lined up behind and gave panicked, trembling bows as they sped from the room.
Ruka swept his eyes over the plush furniture, the children’s toys, the jugs of wine and plates of fruits and sweet-meats, as if the family were having a picnic. A big cooking pot sat in the center of the room, and Ruka smiled as he looked at it. At last he met Trung’s eyes.
“Hello, Chief of the Pits,” he said. “Remember me?”
* * *
Bukayag shivered at Trung’s fear. Ruka thought of Kunla and how killing her had been so unsatisfying—how it had removed his meaning and left him with nothing. This time, though, his purpose was far larger. It would take all his life, no doubt, and in any case far outlast Trung and Halin. But he could still enjoy the little things.
“I am much more use to you alive,” said Trung, huddling against the further corner. Sweat beaded on his red neck, fine silks sticking to the folded flesh on his torso. “I have many riches buried. I…I can help you, whatever you’re after. And I know secrets, many secrets, things worth a fortune. You’re clever, I can see that. Be clever now.”
Ruka stepped closer and pictured Kunla as she said much the same. She had been very brave in death, Ruka had to give her that. He did not think Trung would go as admirably.
“There is but one thing I want to know from you, great king. If you can answer, I will let you live. As you can see,” he gestured towards the path of the still-living guards, “I am a man of my word.”
Trung swallowed, and his eyes darted but looked dubious. No doubt he was the kind of man who might taunt his victims in such a manner, knowing no matter what they did or said they would still be butchered. Ruka, though, meant every word.
Bukayag almost shook with impatience and the thought of losing his kill, but Ruka was the master. He closed his eyes and lifted a newly-crafted iron rod in his Grove, pulling it to the world as he raised his arm and formed it in Bukayag’s hand. He had spent many hours on the detail of the head—sculpting the curves and angles, particularly the face. He had made Girl-from-Trung’s-Pit sit for him as he scraped the edges just so. It was very fine work.
“What is the name of this slave girl, king, the one you sent to die in my hands like a dog? Tell me that, and I will set you free.”
Ruka walked to the girl’s grave with a marking stone holding her hand. He had prepared a sign, in case the man knew, but was confident he did not. He looked into the king’s terrified eyes and saw the desperation, the naked duplicity as it formed so clearly, lie swelling from the man’s lips like a bruise.
“Iliana,” he said, “it was Iliana.” He met Ruka’s glare forcefully, as if to bludgeon him into belief.
Ruka looked at Girl-From-Trung’s-Pit, and she shook her head sadly. He touched the scarf hiding her neck, wishing she could speak, or at least write, but it seemed the dead could do neither.
He did not lie to himself and claim no responsibility for her death. One day for this and all he had done, he would be judged, just as Trung. When he had served his purpose he would pay without complaint. In the meantime he would honor them, give meaning to their sacrifice, and carry on their deeds. If he could, he would give them justice.
Ruka stepped forward and took Trung’s arm, then swung the perfect, beautiful visage of the man’s dead slave, and broke it at the elbow. The king of Halin screamed and would have collapsed, but Ruka held him. He swung again and broke the other arm.
“Know this as you die,” he hissed over the sound, “if you had been a better king, you would not be suffering this. It was within your power, Trung. The fault is yours.”
Ruka looked back to his men, doing all he could to control Bukayag, feeling the raw urge to tear this man and his whole world apart.
“Kill the men. Take the women. They won’t want to see this.” He turned to Arun and spoke in the island tongue. “Find the king’s harem, pirate. All the women there will be taken as matrons.”
His chest heaved and his hands opened and closed in anticipation. The pressure on his mind began to lift at last, a great urge on the edge of fulfilled.
Alright, brother. He’s yours. He’s all yours.
Ruka took Pit-Girl’s hand and led her to his garden, letting the dead dig the graves for the guards he had killed.
“Would you like to see my homeland’s Road Roses? I have a new row by my mother’s statue.”
She smiled, and nodded, and together they walked the clean, flat path towards Beyla’s garden, where Ruka would put yellow and blue flowers in her hair, and perhaps they’d lie on the cool, moist grass and sleep for a time.
Ruka could vaguely hear the screams, and taste the blood, but had never enjoyed such things. He focused on the girl’s pretty smile.
Chapter 57
The men of ash slaughtered Trung’s male kin as if cutting firewood.
Arun walked away from the wailing and smells in a daze to explain to the weeping, retching women that they would not be harmed, but they would be coming with the killers.
“Show us to the harem.” He grabbed the arm of what he thought was one of Trung’s daughters, and she cringed. “Don’t make them angrier, you damned fool. Do it quickly.”
She glanced at the others, and they huddled together and moved to the open iron doors. The men of ash—finished with their grisly work and covered in blood—then transformed.
The giants stepped aside and lowered their heads as if in respect to the women, gesturing at the corridor. None of them made a move to touch, though the royals wept at their every gesture. In fact the men hardly looked at the royal ladies, and when they did it was only in stolen glances, as if the tears they caused confused and shamed them.
Arun didn’t bother trying to make sense of it. He lingered briefly at the door as the party left, his eyes transfixed on Ruka, and his prize.
During the butch
ery, the leader of the ash-men had never wavered in his attention on the king. He had cornered the man and begun to beat him with an iron rod, shattering bone and crushing tissue until the king collapsed, his face a pale canvass of suffering.
Arun had thought this simple cruelty, then blinked in memory, seeing Ruka beaten in Trung’s prison with bamboo in the exact manner. At last the savage dropped the weapon and muttered words in his own tongue, as if to himself. Then his lips curled as he growled. He dropped to his knees, seized the older man’s head, and tore a chunk of flesh from his cheek with his teeth.
Trung’s horror and the eating became the only sounds left in the room, and Arun knew no amount of rum would ever purge it from his mind.
“Stop,” he said, finding his nerve. “Farahi needs his head.”
Ruka’s face turned back slick with gore, his eyes wild as they’d been in Bato’s temple. Again it was as if he didn’t recognize Arun at all. He growled and bared his now red, crooked teeth, then lurched forward as if he meant to cross the room and rip Arun apart with his bare hands.
Instead he stopped and blinked until his face and eyes cleared. He shuddered with a long, deep breath, and lifted a near-by discarded sword as he stood. Trung—still alive—wept and begged pitifully until Ruka seized his hair, swung the blade, and struck the king’s head in a single blow.
“Go with the men,” he said, tossing it to Arun’s feet as if it no longer mattered. “I will leave Trung’s successor a little message. Help the warriors get the women aboard. They will find it awkward. I shall see you at the boats.”
Arun wandered in a daze to the harem. The hundred and fifty-odd women and girls at first stared at him and the noblewomen in confusion, as if perhaps this were all some elaborate ruse. Arun broke his trance and screamed at them and brought five men of ash to help gather their clothes, and the women wept and obeyed.
Soon they were paraded through the fortress, stepping over dead guards and servants, collecting some of the terrified serving-girls on the way. The men of ash killed every man except the few Ruka spared.