Dark Sea's End (Beyond Ash and Sand Book 1)

by Richard Nell

  He said nothing more. Zaya almost laughed at herself for seeking comfort from the prophet of the mountain god. Her hands trembled so she forced them closed, and held them hard on her thighs. A little later she heard the shaman release a breath, or maybe a sigh, as if he sensed her mood. He spoke again, his words forced and utterly without enthusiasm.

  "This time might be better."

  Chapter 12

  "Damned bloody fools," Chang hissed and drew his knives. "Stay together! Due East! Away from the sun!"

  He had no time to consider Zaya and the pilot. He had to get his men back to the ship, back to freedom, back to life.

  "Lead them on." The captain turned away and stopped. He drew a black cloth from his pocket, which apparently was some kind of mask, then ripped off his robe to reveal a tighter layer of the same dark material beneath. His face disappeared as he slipped the mask over his head, even his eyes impossible to see. "I'll distract as many as I can."

  With that he moved into the trees and vanished from sight. Chang had no time to consider this madness either. He wiped sweat dripping from his brow, and ran, Basko and the Steerman right at his side.

  "What should we do if they catch us, neh chief?"

  Chang looked back towards the trees, seeing nothing now but still hearing the shouts and high-pitched shrieks of the unknown warriors. "Whatever you have to," he barked, then counted the men he could see but knew some had likely run ahead. "Leave no man behind," he said, and pushed his officers forward.

  The crew that remained stayed together—perhaps frightened to leave each other's sides. They swore as they tripped over tree roots or took a face full of tropical leaves or branches. Birds and monkeys shrieked at them from above, the high pitched sounds mixing with the enemy's, making it sound as if they were surrounded on all sides. Chang began to wonder if that was the point.

  Still, the sounds of the main group of the enemy seemed further and further away, and Chang thought perhaps they were outrunning them.

  "Keep going you bastards!" he shouted. "No rest until the coast!"

  Time became ragged breaths and muscles burning in waves of exhaustion. They reached a small clearing Chang didn't remember passing the other way, and for a long moment he feared they'd turned. Basko saw an Oarsman at its edge, three enemy warriors jabbing spears and trying to tangle him in rope. He held his long knife high, weaving it back and forth and keeping the men at bay. Chang and the others took one look at the colorful warriors, and charged.

  Two of the three saw them coming and ran. Three others emerged from the trees, as if they'd just been watching.

  "Basko, hold them off!" Chang pointed at the newcomers then circled the lone warrior who hadn't run. He was short, and thin, with a nearly hairless body. To Chang's eye he looked young—no more than thirteen or fourteen. But he held a wicked looking cudgel of wood and sharpened stone, and stuck out his tongue as he growled some kind of war chant.

  "Hurt mine," Chang matched the growl with his own, "I hurt you more."

  He advanced with one knife ready to stab, the other to deflect. He was used to close-quarter brawls to the death with a swaying ship and all the chaos of boarding. By comparison, this seemed rather straight forward.

  His young enemy waved the stick like a torch, as if simply trying to hold his opponent back. Chang waited for it to swing, then lunged. In a moment's work he sunk a knife deep into the lad's chest, sliced his forearm, then kicked him over. He looked away from the boy's wide, startled eyes, grabbed the heavy looking weapon and threw it away before he turned.

  His men fared worse against the other three. They were older, and wore a kind of padded armor over their torsos, as well as wooden helmets and vambraces. Two held long spears and wielded them well, but like the youth, seemed more interested in holding their opponents back than killing them. The third man wore an elaborate headdress of feathers. He chased Chang's men with a weapon much like the dying lad's, shouting wildly as if in display.

  "Kill him!" Chang pushed his way closer. Four of his men stood near the fight with something like confusion, unable to get past the spears or figure out how to attack their enemy. Chang put himself directly in the path of the more aggressive warrior, and held up his bloody knives. "Come on," he snarled, "follow your comrade."

  The warrior met his eyes, and smiled. He changed his stance and leapt forward in a frightening display of athleticism. Chang barely managed to pull his head away as the vicious club swiped, backing further and further away until his opponent left his spearmen guard behind. Suddenly, he was very alone, and exposed.

  "Take him."

  The pirates converged with their knives, and though obviously surprised, the strong foreigner still managed to bash the Pitman in the arm, his jagged weapon slashing flesh in several bloody lines. In answer, half a dozen bronze knives sunk into his body, and the sailors pulled him down to keep stabbing.

  Chang enjoyed the horrified expressions of the spearmen, and with a last look at their fallen leader, they turned their backs and ran.

  "Keep moving." He panted and watched the trees for more, hoping he didn't sound as terrified as he felt. Why these men had come in such small numbers and fought so strangely, he had no idea. He was just glad they did.

  The jungle soon moved with shadows as the sun dipped towards the horizon. Chang and his men moved as quickly as they could in the direction they'd chosen, hoping they weren't far from their original path, and would end up on the beach close to their ship. The Pitman clutched his arm, but seemed right enough. Two men half-carried Old Mata, whose scalp was red, his face pale, but otherwise seemed alert.

  Chang still felt enemy eyes in the flickering light of the canopy. He heard warcries in the calls of creatures in the trees. It began to feel like a dream, a terrible nightmare of life as a landsmen, hunted and trapped like an animal.

  "It never bloody ends," cried the Steerman, his spirit flagging first as usual.

  "Maybe it's some damn peninsula, and we've missed the coast," said an Oarsmen.

  They went on because they had no choice. When they found the sea it was almost dark, and for a moment Chang stared out at an empty beach and a gentle tide lit red by a sliver of sun, with no idea where to turn, or what to do.

  "There!" The Steerman pointed down the coast to a dark bump in the sand, and Chang stared until he saw the outline of an unnatural thing. It was the transport.

  "True," Old Mata gaped with his toothless mouth, and the crew laughed realizing they'd live.

  "Go! Go!" Chang forced his numb legs onward. The men's sandals slapped against the wet sand, their ragged breaths caught only to spit or vomit from exhaustion. They found two of the crew waiting at the transport. They hadn't lost a man.

  "There they are!" the Boatswain shouted, and the pair whooped in encouragement as Chang and the others made the final distance. Several collapsed on arrival, but the others heaved the boat into the water, lifting their comrades with their hands or just words of abuse.

  "A little further you lazy mongrels," Chang lifted Old Mata, dumping him inside once the transport was off the sand. "We're nearly free."

  "Where's the captain?" The Steerman almost whispered, and Chang looked back to an empty treeline with no sign of movement. The hollering of the foreigners had apparently stopped, and he saw no sign of anything at all save a few dark wings in the trees.

  "We can wait a little while," he decided, then met the unhappy eyes of the men. "We can wait," he repeated. "I'd rather not cross that damn sea without the pilot. And I don't leave men behind."

  "You won't need to." A shadow appeared from the gloom as if from nothing, sending the men for their knives in a panic. Captain Eka removed his silk mask, which—like the rest of him—was now greased with the wet trails of men's blood.

  The pirates silenced as he climbed onto the transport. The Oarsmen pushed off and fought the tide, angling the small but heavy boat to the side of the Prince, where the last swabbie waited.

  "I was about to bloody swim
out, you greedy bastards! What took so damn long!" He called before he got a better view of the ragged, exhausted men, then quieted when he noticed some missing. He helped them tie to the transport and haul them up with ropes to the deck.

  "Thank the spirits," the Steerman dropped to the rail. Two men helped carry Old Mata below, while the rest went wordlessly to their bunks or posts. The captain met Chang's eyes.

  "Come with me, Chief. We've decisions to make."

  * * *

  "Why didn't the damned pilot run? Surely those bloody tree stump legs are good for something."

  Chang dropped heavily into the only chair set out for guests in the captain's quarters. The captain snorted and removed a box of long, thin cigars from his desk, offering one to Chang, which he took as gratefully as the rum poured from a fine glass bottle.

  "Running implies fear," said the captain after a long pause and a sip from his glass.

  "He didn't want them to think he was afraid?"

  "No, Chang. He wasn't afraid." The captain shrugged. "Maybe he was curious. Maybe he didn't want to risk killing someone in his flight. The motives of the man you call 'pilot' are best deciphered by wiser men than I. Now tell me, why did you pause and not leave me there on the beach with pleasure?"

  Chang met the man's eyes. He inspected his long limbs, his perfect posture, thinking on his fine accent and expensive clothes. No doubt he was some noble-born landowner's second son, raised in a palace in a family loyal to the king. That a royal assassin should look down his nose on a common man who did what he had to was not shocking, but it still rubbed Chang the wrong way. When he spoke it was with more of a tone than he should have.

  "There is more than one kind of honor. Sir."

  The captain stared, and eventually smiled. He rose with a nod to a cupboard at the back of his quarters, and began stripping the now bloody black silks he'd been wearing beneath his clothes. The body beneath was like a sculpted statue of bronze. "And what of our now captured crew, chief? Does your kind of honor allow us to abandon them?"

  Chang had been considering that since he fled the jungle. By any reasonable estimation, both Zaya and the pilot were dead or imprisoned somewhere impossible to find. That so many of the natives had managed to attack them, and so quickly, implied these lands teemed with warriors and tribes. "We could maybe survive the journey home without the pilot," he said, and shrugged.

  "Yes, maybe," agreed the captain.

  Chang glanced up at the man's near nakedness and saw whip scars coated his back. His arms, legs, and chest held scars from blades and gods knew what else. Chang felt his estimation changing, and forced himself not to stare as he cleared his throat.

  "I don't leave men behind, Captain. At least not without a fight."

  The captain covered himself with a plain sailor's shirt and pants of linen cloth. He quirked his mouth as if amused at the answer, then returned to his seat for another sip of rum. "You surprise me, pirate. I expected you to try and convince me to run."

  The man was getting on Chang's nerves now and he leaned slightly in his chair. "With respect, you know nothing about me. I'd kill you and a hundred other kingsmen to protect my own. And maybe the two we lost aren't strictly mine, but that man is one of Roa's guides, whatever you might call him, and Zaya is a spirit born of the sea. So yes, I'll help them, and not because you asked."

  With that he threw back his rum and would have stormed from the quarters if his legs didn't feel like limp noodles from his flight. Captain Eka was grinning now and poured Chang another glass, the fingers of his other hand outstretched in a gesture of calm.

  "I didn't mean to offend you, Chang. I merely suggest you're a practical man—a man who judges what he sees. And I suspect, like me, you saw a whole land filled with savage killers. Does the thought of facing that not frighten you?"

  Chang felt his eyes drooping from the day and the rum, thinking of all the years of survival at sea. Lucky Chang, they called him, because he'd survived two shipwrecks and a hundred things others hadn't. Survived, even thrived under the iron boot of the sorcerer king, when so many crews had died or fled, surrounded on all sides by kings and laws that told them and everyone there was no such thing as a free man on the sea. But Chang knew the truth. He wasn't lucky. He was a killer, and long ago he'd made a pact with the dark god of the sea. He belonged to Roa, and only him.

  "You just tell me your plan, Captain, if you've got one, and my boys and I will see it done. When we're home and safe we'll expect you to keep your word and give us our prize, or we'll see that's finished too."

  The captain leaned in his chair, no more trace of amusement or judgment that Chang could see. "You have my word," he said, then grinned. "After they've had their rest, tell the men we sail on the dawn. I think we're going to be here a little longer than expected. We've got some exploring to do."

  Chapter 13

  Yacat, son of Mar, stood on the temple steps as a batch of the Chichi tribe were cleaned for execution. As a military commander, and a member of the Mar family, it was his responsibility to ensure these men were treated honorably, then presented properly to the gods.

  "Warprince Yacat?"

  "Hmm? Yacat blinked and looked to the prisoners. The speaker stood at ease with the others as the slaves washed him, and though they were young, strong men, Yacat had no fear they would attack, or flee. They had fought with honor.

  "My name is Nahu. I fought you at the Orino river," said the prisoner. "It is a privilege that it should be you who sends me to Centnaz." He put a hand to his forehead then waved it forward with respect.

  "The privilege is mine." Yacat nodded. "Your tribe fought like tigers. Had you not been betrayed by the cowardice of your neighbors, you may have beaten us. Their men were killed, their corpses left rotting for the crows."

  Nahu snorted. "Then you have my thanks." He stood straight and proud, as was his right and duty as an honorable captive, and Yacat liked him. That he should be sacrificed seemed in that moment such a stupid, useless waste, Yacat felt a lifetime of revulsion fester like an open wound. He found he could no longer watch.

  "Please excuse me, Nahu. But I will be at your side for the ritual. You have my word."

  The prisoner nodded lower than honor demanded, and Yacat turned from the temple platform, leaving a scowling High Priest in his wake.

  The citizens and warriors of Copanoch bowed or saluted as Yacat passed, only the priests refusing him the honor. His father was not popular with the temple of Centnaz, the Devourer god, but Yacat himself was openly reviled. This didn't bother him, and was entirely deserved. He had mocked their rituals and beliefs since boyhood, and nearly killed one of their priests over a woman. One day, he thought as he stared, I will find a way to destroy you. You and all your false, lying priests, and your wasteful, foolish sacrifices.

  His personal guard swarmed around him as he moved, watching the citizens for weapons or any threatening move, ready to disarm or kill any who got too close. Yacat himself felt little concern. He was largely loved by the citizens of his city—a proven warrior, and a great hero of many battles. Because his mother's blood was common, they sometimes called him the Peasant Prince, for he was not a viable heir to the throne. But no doubt this also helped, for it was always easier to love a man who would never rule you.

  It was mid-day of the second week of the sixteenth month, and the holiest festival of the divine calendar in Copanoch loomed. It was for this reason alone Yacat's father had sent him East to defeat the armies of the river tribes, and take prisoners. The people loved victory, and they loved the spoils. Now the city hummed with activity. Rich and poor prepared paints, food, clothes, and jewelry, readying for family feasts, and sacrifices to the gods. The landowners and noble classes would be bringing their tenants and laborers to dine with them, or visiting their houses with gifts. Allied noble families from the two other great cities were arriving with their entourages to cavort and plot with relatives and allies in war. They would prepare for months to host a week of ritu
al and celebration, but Yacat did not share his people's joy.

  With his men encircling him, he hurried through the lesser temple grounds, climbing without pause to the noble houses and the palace. He returned the gestures of respect given by the royal guard—the Wolf, Puma, and Fox warrior-priests that were his kin by deed.

  "What is my father's mood?" he asked at the heavy stone entrance to the king's inner court. One of the three elite warriors there cleared his throat.

  "Mixed, I would say, Tahana," the big man answered. He used Yacat's unofficial military honorific, which literally meant 'spirit of war'. This was technically not allowed for living men, but all knew Yacat would be known as such in the histories when he died. Most who had fought with him used it, unless the royal family was in earshot.

  When Yacat said nothing the older warrior winced. "His bowels have been running like the Madje river. And he has been meeting with Centnaz priests."

  Yacat swore and took a breath. He looked at his uncle more seriously. "Are you not the Silent Guard, Anatzi? Do you betray all your oaths so easily?"

  "Yes," Anatzi answered. "All but one, Tahana."

  Yacat remained serious, and held his ground. "Were you not so ancient and feeble, Old Goat, I should kill you where you stand."

  "You could try, Young Yack," the old warrior shrugged, and Yacat finally grinned.

  "If you hear me raise my voice in there, be merciful, and come save me."

  His uncle nodded most austerely, and Yacat pat his shoulder as he walked inside.

  The royal chamber was as bleak and boring as ever. His father and brother hovered over a table filled with documents, three royal scribes exchanging pages with feverish effort. His brother noticed him first, giving a small wave as he rolled his eyes at the work. The king turned and grunted.

  "So the prodigal son returns."

  Yacat's brother, and the heir to the throne, hissed air.