Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  “Let’s assume I believe you,” Valda said at last. “Why come to me? You have a ship and some followers. Go, then. Sail away to your new lands.”

  Dala looked to Ruka, so Valda did too. He stared into the small hearthfire and sighed.

  “We are but one small corner of a vast and complex world, Valda. These new lands have people and kings, great cities that could hold ten of our capitals inside them. They have armies and armadas of ships that make us look like the scattered savages we are. We will not be welcome. To claim our place in these lands will take strength we do not possess.” Here he paused, and smiled as he turned to Valda. “But it could also unite us. I can give your chiefs more glory and enemies then even the most ambitious could ask for. Together, we might give them a vision grander than any ancient book or ancestor ever dreamed. With your blessing, perhaps they will seize it.”

  Valda felt a trickle of drool on her chin and wiped it. She stared into the strange eyes of her kin, unsure of what made him and the few other children like him. Her ancestors said it was the god of chaos. She did not think so, and this brought her fear, and shame. Most such children were put to the sword since she was a girl, and no doubt long before. Even still, they were often abandoned.

  “You have proof? Of any of this?”

  Ruka rose, his head cocked. He held out an open, empty palm, and looked into her eyes with the hint of a smile, as if he could see her thoughts. “You are studying my weapons, yes?”

  Valda made no reaction, and Ruka’s smile widened.

  “See now how it is done.” His voice grew louder, more dramatic. “See yet another world you stand apart from in ignorance.”

  Light flared from his hand. Even in the fog of her rheumy eyes she saw the sparks and the forming cylinder of a blade appearing from nothing in the air. Ruka’s thick fingers clamped around its hilt.

  “You were right, Valda, daughter of Valdaya—you have played your part, and I mine. But the story must change. A new age has begun.”

  Valda stared at the weapon and forced her mind to settle in reality. In truth, she had already believed him. She had felt the shifting of the world for years, and now the blunt and honest nature of this man, nevermind his words or stories. He was the sort who could tell truth with lies.

  “Will you shepherd your people to this new world?” he said, as if he had practiced this speech a thousand times. “Or will you be ground to dust before the endless wheel of time?”

  Valda felt a smile form and did not stop it—a pleasure formed of pride for her fallen grand-daughter, who had saved this creature at birth, and raised it into this man.

  Few warriors of ash could resist his message, Valda believed that. And so the time had come for a king. Strange, she thought, that it would not be a great chief who had conquered his enemies, or a mighty warrior who won a hundred duels. It would be a son of Noss, a rune-shaman of old who could bind the South with the North. But no matter—it would still be a Vishan, and Valda’s kin.

  She pushed down the fear of change and risk and lifted a cup of water to soothe her old, dry throat. “I am Valdaya,” she answered, then grimaced in her seat as if annoyed. “I will always help my people. But I have one condition.” She considered this and changed her mind. “Make it two.”

  Ruka’s narrowed eyes glanced at Dala.

  “When there is new land to occupy,” Valda said, “you will ensure my kin are given choices as befits their support. And before I shrivel up entirely and expire, you will show me this paradise.”

  At this a slow grin formed on Ruka’s face, but still he said nothing.

  “And since I’m an old woman you’ll permit me a third condition I’d forgotten,” she said, and he nodded slowly. “We will speak of your mother and you will tolerate it. Because here is a truth and I’m far too old to lie. Beyla was my favorite grand-daughter. I have not been pleased to treat her memory as outcast.”

  The giant twitched, and his eyes flared. For a moment Valda worried she had stepped into a buried pool of madness too deep to be expunged. But if he could not agree to this, then perhaps the madness would be too strong for the greatness to thrive, and so in any case it would be best to refuse and destroy him. She watched the struggle in the young man’s face, and at last, the mastery of his own demons. She released a breath.

  “As you wish,” he said, as if the struggle had not been obvious. “But Beyla was never an outcast, Valda, for no one banished her. It was me you did not accept. For that she chose to leave you. Not once did she mourn this choice, nor did she wallow in misery, or speak of regret.” His eyes looked far away and moist with pride, as if he could see his mother now. “A lioness cares nothing for the shriek of jackals, old woman. Now hear this, and hear it well—if she had raised me to hate, I would kill you and all your kin, and no man or god could stop me. Until the end of days, Valda, remember: your line lives by Beyla’s grace.”

  With this he turned and vanished through the gloom of the window, his movement sure and controlled in the dark. Valda watched him go, then sat in silence.

  She sat long after the priestess rose politely and left her with words of thanks and promise, and Valda mumbled something polite in return. She let the fire dwindle and did nothing, angry then sad then numb, and finally at peace.

  Ah, life, she thought, what a wonder.

  She had heard the truth in Ruka’s words because she was too old to bother avoiding it. Sending Beyla away had been a mistake, she’d felt it then, yes she’d known, but not how deep the mistake had been.

  Valda thanked whatever gods of ash existed, and that in their wisdom they made their children different, so that when some were wrong others might redeem them. Beyla had been the promised child, and her son had seen it clearly. He had been made by love, then saved by it, and now it had saved Valda, too. She smiled, because in all her years she had never had a favorite grand-son.

  She lay against her chair and wished for the thousandth time she could live forever, which was perhaps the last childish thing she had never given up. She sighed as she settled. Instead, she would die soon, far too soon, her part in the great story finished and left to others. But she would do what she could for her kin now, today. Or at least tomorrow. She closed her eyes and slept, because the morning would be very busy, and a nap always helped.

  Chapter 62

  Dala walked beside Valda with a growing tension in her gut.

  In many ways, this moment was the culmination of years of her blood, sweat, and planning. But she did not know exactly what the old matron intended to do, or say. This concerned her.

  After their ‘meeting’, Valda had rallied seven of her grandsons to escort them across Orhus. Two were great chiefs of the capital, another lesser—the others warriors of various renown. The ancient matron had first argued with these men behind closed doors, perhaps explaining her position while Dala and Bukayag waited anxiously in the morning fog. Loud voices and grumbling drifted unintelligible through the wood. But whatever their protests, they had come.

  Now Bukayag walked amongst them with a plain hood drawn, and shoulders hunched.

  They walked together across Orhus at the slow pace of the ancient woman, who refused to ride or be carried. “Never do for someone what they can do for themselves,” she snapped, then focused on the road with a glare as if at some old foe, placing foot after tiny foot as she crunched gravel and dirt.

  Many citizens of the richer chiefdoms noticed them. They stared at Valda—Vishan crone and great matron of the North—and at two mighty chiefs and a pack of rich, older men with swords. But like most of the warriors at her side, despite his attempts to remain hidden, Dala couldn’t help but steal glances at Bukayag.

  Here stood a son of Noss in the depths of power. He was an outcast who had murdered priestesses—who had been declared heretic, and was hunted by nearly every civilized warrior in the world. No, in the Ascom, she corrected herself, not the world. And yet here he stood in plain sight, in the capital, strolling to the source of law itsel
f, surrounded by thousands of enemies. And he did not look afraid.

  What a man, she thought, watching him, with a warmth rising in her gut. His face was monstrous, true, but not his body. Even hunched, Bukayag ‘the last rune-shaman’ stood above the warriors around him. Dala had seen him shirtless and covered in runes at Alverel, and she had seen lean, sculpted, hardened flesh. Since then he had grown and filled out. Now the cords of his neck sprouted like the bones of some winged bird preparing to rise. He walked like a predator, purposeful and dangerous—the owl preparing to shred nightingales with its claws. Ruka was a lone wolf in the shape of a man, and the truth was, Dala wanted him.

  And if Dala wanted him, then perhaps God herself intended it. What better way to bind him? To guide him? No doubt he’d never felt a woman’s touch.

  For now she ignored these thoughts. They crossed the iron river to the old city, and she felt an anxious flutter because she would likely have to enter the Order-hall alone. The High Priestesses and Prefects would be huddled together inside Galdra’s Hall already, counting votes and scheming. For weeks they would jostle for position, bargain and bribe, until the old matriarch called it to an end, and the final tally was counted and the new yearly rankings decided. This year, as determined every five, they would even decide on a new matriarch.

  Of course a new matriarch was never chosen. The reigning priestess closest to God was always re-elected unless her health or mind had crumbled, because the position gave such power and advantage that to unseat her was nearly impossible. Dala would not bother to try. She would instead convince her which way the wind was blowing, keep her position as High Priestess, and ask for the Order to do what was sensible. They were a practical institution, despite their corruptions. They would see reason.

  “There are many Galdric guards, grand-mother.” Valda’s son, Marnuk, frowned as the Order hall came into view. Valda had finally allowed him to at least support her as she walked, and she turned her head this way and that with squinted eyes trying to see. With a sigh she sat on a near-by bench.

  “If they will not let me pass, will you kill them?”

  The big man chewed at the thick hair on his lip, then looked at his kin. “No. Not unless we are attacked, grandmother. To start a fight with Galdric guard…it isn’t honorable. It would damage our reputations. It would hurt our family name.”

  Valda blew air and shook her head. Dala’s breath caught as Bukayag pulled back his hood.

  “I will kill them, Valda, if you ask me.”

  The old woman looked at him and smiled, and Dala wondered at the exact nature of that smile.

  “There are at least ten men,” spoke Marnuk, as if addressing Bukayag brought him pain. “We…can’t help you.”

  The shaman met the chief’s eyes, then looked him up and down as if judging his worth. “It was not I who asked for your presence, son of Imler. Do whatever your courage allows.”

  Dala felt the tension flare—the men’s pride curling at the stink of insult. Bukayag seemed oblivious, or at least didn’t care.

  He extended his arms high like a madman, or a seer, as if beckoning the sky for some purpose. Dala would have gawked with the others if she had not already seen, and did not know what was coming. Still, she stared.

  The air sizzled like fat burning on a skillet. All at once his body seemed to swell and grow, and as Dala blinked at the light she saw his skin had turned grey. She blinked again and saw where there had been nothing now sat smooth, iron plates connected by mail. A dozen runes of power decorated the metal. Dala stood wide-eyed with the others.

  Bukayag turned and strode towards the hall, and Valda followed, elbowing her grandson back to reality.

  The Order guard came to life as they saw Bukayag. They moved from their rest and formed a line before the hall, hands resting on scabbards, dark tunics and cloaks moving to show good mail and leather beneath. A man wearing a bronze circlet of renown and the silver earring of a Captain stood before the door—the point of a V formation like a flock of birds. His sharp eyes moved over the group, beginning and ending on Bukayag.

  “You come armed to a holy place. Leave it quickly, or die.”

  Dala was surprised at the instantly aggressive tone and words. For a moment she saw Bukayag smile, but she stepped before him and threw back her hood to reveal the Galdric shawl about her shoulders. “I am High Priestess Dala of the South. I’ve come for the elections, and to address this holy gathering.” She gestured at the old matron. “This is Valda, daughter of…”

  “I know who she is.” Again the man’s tone shocked her and she knew something was amiss. “Only a priestess enters the hall.” He looked directly into Dala’s eyes, which was almost always considered rude for a man not her kin. “You are welcome, High Priestess. But know that you are accused of several crimes. You will stand trial on the rock inside.”

  Dala nodded slowly, at last understanding. She had known this was possible. It was not uncommon to be accused of crimes before elections for political reasons, though the disrespect of the Captain suggested her accusers had already established her ‘guilt’. It would make little difference to her argument, though perhaps increase the price if she failed. She intended to respond but the Captain spoke again.

  “This abomination must be Bukayag. It would seem the accusations against you are true, priestess.” The man’s hand moved to his scabbard, and the shaman’s grin widened, but it was not friendly.

  “We have met before, Captain. Or, at least, I have seen you.”

  The wiry soldier glared but said nothing. Bukayag went on.

  “You don’t remember. I don’t blame you. You were busy killing an unarmed woman named Noyon, matron of the fertile ring. You killed all her young sons, as well, and took her daughters.” The shaman’s pretense of humor disappeared, and it was clear to Dala the man recognized what he was saying. “The night was dark, and quiet,” said Bukayag. “But the Gods were watching. Now here we stand outside the hall of Nanot. A fitting place, I think, for a man to be judged.”

  Valda cleared her throat. “There’s no need for unpleasantness. Stand aside, captain, and we will…”

  “Oh we are long past unpleasantness, Greatmother.” Bukayag’s bright eyes bore into the man as he sneered. “These sons of law won’t give you the justice you deserve, Captain. But Noss will see it done.”

  Whatever ‘tension’ had existed between Bukayag and the chiefs was like a thin broth compared to this. The air felt thick, and oppressive, and Dala’s skin tingled with the threat of violence. The captain stood very still.

  “I think I’ll feed those cursed eyes to my dogs,” he said, “come forward, heretic.”

  Bukayag did not move. They stood across the road from one another, the Galdric warrior with many men at his back, the shaman on his own. Bukayag watched them all, and laughed

  “I like you, captain, such a shame. You have been blessed with strength, skill, and courage. But you have abused those gifts. I think it is Vol who will judge you.”

  The captain’s eyes rolled, and he glanced at his fellows as Bukayag raised his arms in the air.

  Again, the air shimmered. This time Dala felt the heat on her face as the wind whipped through the street. Bukayag flared with light as if beside a roaring fire. Metal grew before him like a huge mushroom from the earth, curving and screeching as it seemed to bend into shape. When it was finished, it looked like a giant bow lay flat and placed on an anvil, or some kind of stand—a strange weapon the size of a man pulled from nothing but air. Everyone stared.

  In its center, an arrow the size of a man’s leg faced the hall. Ruka had his hand on a metal stick protruding from the side of the weapon. His head quirked as he inspected it, then he pulled.

  A sound thrummed like a hammer striking a bell. The echo hung, and the arrow released and flew. The captain drew his sword in a blink, then the arrow struck his chest.

  It knocked him back, ripped him from his feet as if rammed by a bull. He hurled backwards and smashed the door,
blood splashing from his body like water thrown from a cliff. The entrance to the hall cracked and splintered as it flew from its hinges to rattle on the stones inside.

  An attendant priestess turned from the corridor with a panicked stare.

  “Vol has spoken,” the shaman growled, then turned to his great-grandmother. “The way is open, Valda.” He quirked a brow and looked back to the Galdric warriors. “Unless another man would like to be judged?”

  The guards glanced at each other, then to the twitching corpse of their captain. They stepped away.

  Valda snapped her fingers and Dala blinked. “Come along girl. I won’t live forever.”

  They walked arm and arm inside, stepping over the door and the mangled corpse of the captain, whose torso had almost ripped from its body. Dala looked at the impossible wound and the huge arrow leaning against the gaping hole and realized there were runes etched onto the shaft. They were stained slightly with gore, but she could still make them out. In a simple, but elegant hand, they read: “Altan’s Justice.”

  * * *

  It was the first time Dala had ever entered the Hall of Nanot. She had been made High Priestess in absence at the nomination of the matriarch, and accepted her new power quickly and without strangeness. But now, walking inside the huge, cavernous den of legal authority, she felt rather small—again like the scarred up farm girl in an unwelcoming city.

  She looked at the faces of the most powerful women in the world, Priestesses and Prefects, positions arranged in descending benches like circular steps, all surrounding the seat of the matriarch. Every face was turned towards Dala and her entourage. All of them were staring.

  Dala still felt shaken from the death of the captain, and the strange, divine weapon used to kill him. Long ago she had accepted the power of God in the mortal world, and that Bukayag too served Her will. But to see it employed so…directly…

  She breathed, controlling her movement as she tried to focus on the now and calm her nerves. Bukayag is God’s greatest warrior, she thought, why shouldn’t she grant him feats of divine might?