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

by Richard Nell

  Uncle Anatzi still lay dying at his feet, his look of surprise total. Yacat hoped to see him in the afterlife. He kicked a piece of the bonfire to scatter sparks and ash, then spun and charged the cowards trembling at the stairs. They wavered and all but closed their eyes as they thrust trembling spears towards their prince. Yacat deftly avoided the first shaft and hacked off the man's hand, then gouged the face of another on the upswing. He paced across the narrow stone kicking back the closest man, slashing any who dared climb until they'd fallen back from the platform.

  More were coming from the stands. Yacat ran across and cut off a man's foot, then intercepted the closest stairway, slashing around swords and spears without touching anything but flesh. When these fell back he turned towards the priests, and his father's guard.

  His gaze met High Priest Nahua's, the malicious fool backing away with wide, fearful eyes.

  "Kill him! Or your crops, your children, your city—Centnaz will destroy you all!"

  Yacat spit blood and charged. The guardsmen thrust their spears in his face and he was forced to turn, looking for any path through as he preserved his sword's edge. From the corner of his eye he saw fire and fighting towards the slave pens, but he had no time or attention to spare. There was only one left thing to him now, one way to serve his city before his doom—to kill Nahua, and as many of his lying minions as possible before they stopped him.

  "Mahala, stop! Please!" The closest royal bodyguard's face twisted in horror, but Yacat ignored him. He ducked past the flimsy stab that followed, kicked another warrior aside, and leapt through to the inner circle. The priests tried to escape, some stumbling violently into guards or one another. Yacat hacked the closest down with two vicious swipes.

  He heard a roar from behind him, a deep voice speaking in a language he didn't understand. He twisted and ducked a sword slashed for his throat, cutting the guardsman's calf as he fell away.

  "Kill him!" Nahua's eyes were bulged and wild, one hand on the arm of a warrior, the other clutching a star-charm of his evil god as if it were a shield. A rank of men closed ahead of him and Yacat growled in frustration. He was almost surrounded.

  A spear grazed his cheek and again he spun low and cut at unarmored legs, just trying to slow them down and create a gap. His sword deflected off the shaft of a spear, and he heard the crack of his flint edge snap.

  The elite of House Mar had at last gathered their wits and moved with order, pinning him with spears and bodies in a narrowing circle. For a long moment Yacat breathed and recognized he was trapped and finished. He held his half-broken sword and met the eyes of resolved men, knowing it would be his final attack.

  The strange roar got louder, and closer. Along with most of his foes, Yacat looked out from the combat to see a metal giant charge. From the slave pens, this grey-blue monster crushed and knocked four men aside with a shield the size of a palace door. He smashed his way into the circle snapping guardsmen like dry reed until he stood inside facing Yacat. Golden eyes shone from the helmet.

  Ruka's gaze moved up and down, as if inspecting Yacat for the first time, unimpressed by what they found. "You've broken your pathetic weapon," he growled, dropping a huge, metal mace to the stone before extending his hand. Sparks forced Yacat to squint as fire erupted from the air, and a long, thin blade seemed to grow from the giant's hand. "Here. This one will outlast you."

  The giant tossed the blade as if it were nothing, and Yacat caught the handle. As the men around him kept their distance despite the shouting and chaos, he inspected the solid metal blade, astounded at the feel. As he did he realized the giant had again lifted his mace and turned to face the warriors, standing at Yacat's side.

  "The priests," Yacat managed. "They're the ones who matter. Kill the priests."

  Ruka snorted, seeming to shiver as he looked out at the square. "Priests. Soldiers. Kings. All are mine," he hissed. "Do you hear, little things? You are all mine."

  By the voice alone Yacat at last knew for certain the pale giant was truly an evil spirit made flesh. But like the ancient spirits of the dead, or the fallen gods who ate souls, such spirits were only ever summoned by the deeds of man. They were a kind of dark justice, spawned by dark deed into the world. And Yacat knew in his heart they all deserved that judgment.

  The battle resumed as quickly as it had begun. Ruka waded into a line of spears, breaking men with his impossible weapon and armor. Yacat swung his new blade with wild abandon, cutting spear shafts and sometimes hands without slowing his blade, taking another grazing wound to his arm from overextending. He cut through a man's spear and then his arm in the same blow, then stumbled forward in surprise. As he did the guardsmen pounced, and a sword cut hard and true towards his neck.

  A thrown spear caught the guard in the chest, knocking him back too far to land the swing. When Yacat rose he glanced back to find Zaya in a ripped dress, a collection of stolen weapons draped on her back and hips. He wondered, then, was she an evil spirit too? Or perhaps a holy one?

  He truly hoped it was the latter, but it made no difference now. With his back guarded by the foreigners or spirits, and his target ahead, Yacat breathed to clear his mind. He gave thanks to his ancestors for all the years of blood and war, sparing him and preparing him for this final moment of reckoning. For his city, his family, and for the olds ways that once guided a lost people, he would give these few high priests their justice.

  * * *

  Zaya's skin itched with sweaty paint and eyes as she crossed the square. As she watched the shaman and the prince battle alone against a growing army of guards, she knew it was a story in the book of legends. A piece of her wished only to stand close enough to watch, to record, to one day sing the song of their deaths. It was what her father would have done. But though she loved him, emulated him, and had the same song that moved through his blood, she knew then she was more than a skald.

  Her stolen spear had sailed true, another man dead because of her. She followed in the shaman's wild wake and stepped into the circle until she stood at Yacat's side. As he met her eyes, she felt and shared his affection, but this wasn't why she'd come. He was her lover, and a good, strong man, who would be a worthy mate and father. But she had come because he stood against an evil deed—because he was a hero of the book, and whatever she was, whatever she might feel or wish or what the gods might demand, she knew her place was there beside him.

  Then the guards were moving in, and Zaya waved the shaman's spear and cried out as she covered Yacat's flank. "Stay near Ruka!" she shouted, falling back to the growing pile of wounded and dead near the Godtongue. With every blow of his terrifying club, Ruka laughed or kicked the dying men as if in mockery, ignoring their blows against him, waving off spear thrusts as if swatting at flies. When he saw Zaya had entered the fray, he smiled and stepped towards her, then shook his head.

  "Take this, and stay alive." He barked in a hoarse voice, handing her his shield. Then he moved rather purposefully away and turned back on the foreign warriors, another iron rod forming from fire in his spare hand, every blow felling some other poor, outmatched man.

  The stands were emptying now. Copanoch elite were scattering in every direction as more and more warriors raced up the temple steps, or spilled from the palace. Zaya tried to protect Yacat's flank with the heavy shield, using it once or twice to bash away a man who came too close. Spear thrusts and wooden blades bounced uselessly against it, usually cracking in the attempt. Behind the incredible protection of it, Zaya had a moment to look at the dead and dying around her.

  Some men crawled away, or simply lay and moaned in their agony. But even in the gloom of night and with the smoke from the bonfires, she knew something was wrong. A dark fog seemed to be growing from the Godtongue's corpses. Some were almost swallowed by it, and as she stared Zaya could have sworn she saw some of the lifeless bodies move.

  "Shaman!" she called. "What's happening? Are you alright?"

  Almost as in answer, the mighty runeshaman lifted his helmet, seize
d a man with a mailed fist, and picked him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. He brought him close as if he meant to whisper in the man's ear, then instead opened his jaw of jagged teeth, bit the man's cheek, and chewed.

  A nearby warrior stabbed the shaman uselessly, spear snapping off against his armor. Ruka threw away his victim and laughed, crushing the would-be savior with another blow of his mace. He extended his arms, and Zaya could swear she saw dark wings forming from his back, obscured in the night and smoke.

  "Do you feel it, brother?" he shouted in the Ascomi tongue. A wind blew hard through the square, scattering flames and throwing refuse from every side. Zaya squinted and tried to hold her shield against the gale but it seemed to come from all directions. Light bent and flickered towards the center of the square, towards Ruka, angled and low like dawn creeping over a new horizon. "Together," boomed the shaman's voice, not yelled yet echoing over the stone. "We will master life and death, light and shadow. Not the princes of paradise, not some ignorant enlightened, or the fools here at the end of the world. It is as it always has been. It is our destiny."

  As he spoke, the corpses at his feet twitched and shook, inky darkness rising from their skin with red eyes and ebony claws. Ruka was laughing as the men before him scattered, his own golden eyes watching the shadows rise.

  "Pitiful nothings. Come to me. Give purpose to your useless lives."

  He reached out for the first with his hand, and Zaya sprung. She crossed the frozen scene of carnage, jamming her spear into the rising shadow. It hissed and withdrew, black maw opened to swallow the dark as it fell away.

  The shaman turned on her with eyes wide, mailed fist extended to grasp her throat. "You dare, insect? Pitiful wretch. You are meat and weak bone and I will eat your limbs before you die."

  His face contorted, and the reaching hand instead went to his face as he screamed, falling to a knee. He blinked and Zaya saw the eyes of the man she had known.

  "Fight him, Ruka!" she called into the storm. "This is not who you are!"

  Again the face twisted, the lips curling into a sneer. "Oh but it is, daughter of lies. My brother is the mask."

  "I'm not speaking to you, creature." Zaya snarled. "I speak to Ruka, son of Beyla. What would your mother say to you now?"

  The man's eyes widened and misted, the armored giant stilled as he stared at Zaya. All around him shadows had risen and circled like wolves, snarling and grasping at nearby guards, but seemingly unable to move too far.

  "Would she see a legend of ash?" Zaya's heart pounded in her chest as the shaman stared. "Would she see the man who took her people across the sea? The man who brought an empire to its knees? You're not this monster, Ruka. You're a hero of the book."

  Ruka's lips uncurled, his expression softening until wetness touched his eyes. "One day you may see," he gasped, "to become the second, you must be the first." He dropped his weapon and growled in agony, hands gripping his helmet as he screamed. The dark shadowy wings sprouted and firmed as they had on the ship, a black torso following, attached with bat-like tissue misted in shadow. A red eyed demon from hell grew from the shaman's back, attached with thin gold chain like some unholy umbilical cord, jangling with the creature's heavy step. It roared, and the shadow creatures charged from the square, leaping at men, women and children with equal fervor, their dark claws spraying blood.

  The shaman collapsed, his huge shadow swaying as if dazed on its feet. Zaya had no idea what to do.

  "Are we too late?" Yacat came to Zaya's side drenched in blood. He stared out at the shadows as if horrified but unsurprised. "Is this the price of my people's failure?"

  The shaman's eyes were closed, but he had turned his face up, exposing his throat. Zaya felt the weight of the spear in her hands, but knew the gods would not approve. It wasn't for her to kill such a man, no matter what he said, not like this.

  "We fail in only two ways." Zaya quoted the words, clutching her divine weapon. "We quit, or we die. Are you dead, Yacat, son of Mar?"

  The prince's handsome face drew back.

  "Stop thinking. Do what needs doing. Go and stop them."

  Yacat looked to Zaya, his expression firming beneath the blood, and he was the man she much admired again. Like so many of the brave, he became who he truly was only with the closeness of deed, and danger. They attacked the shadows together.

  Chapter 30

  Chang and his crew killed their way to the temple steps. Alongside their tribal allies, they had fought across Copanoch against small packs of confused, drunken soldiers, or men armed with kitchen knives. It seemed the shaman Pacal had been right—the valleymen had not feared attack, nor been prepared in any way. They had believed in their own superiority, obsessed with their own idols, confident in the walls they'd all but forgotten. Now all their lives and houses burned.

  "How can we know the pilot's up there?" Chang panted and leaned on the temple steps. He glanced around for the captain, and found him dispatching a soldier in near silence nearby. Before the captain could answer, a man screamed from above, his body flung far from the temple steps to land badly on the cobblestone street.

  Chang and the others stared at the broken man, then up at the square, which was very far for the man even to have run and jumped.

  "Alright boys," Chang wiped sweat from his brow with a mailed sleeve. "We get ours, and we go. No looting or lollygagging. Ka?"

  "Ka chief," Basko looked up the long flight of steep, railless stairs and swallowed. The Steerman moved up behind them with weapons drawn, his courage holding for now. Only Old Mata hadn't yet been wounded, everyone else oozing blood from hands, faces, or scalps. The pilot's armor had saved them all a dozen times from arrows and spears, but that didn't mean the attempts didn't hurt.

  They ascended together. The temples were joined, staircases linked in seamless joints of stone that allowed the enemy to race up every side. Already Chang could see forms in the dark moving up towards the square above. Screams and the sounds of fighting echoed along the sloped walls amidst the revelry, half the city still celebrating as the other half burned.

  Arrows, javelins and stones hissed and clattered past or over them, hurled from both above and below, impossible to tell whether from friend or foe. Chang and his men held up their small shields and advanced with heads down, little else to do but move and pray. Their whole world became gasping breaths at the exertion, no room left for fear after a mad dash through the city, watching the once happy, fun-loving tribesmen become mad, bloody wolves trapped in a coop.

  They reached the top and killed four men to step uncontested onto the square. Warriors fought in its center in a chaotic melee, impossible to tell apart save for the familiar, iron giant at its core. Civilians filled a kind of coliseum, some scrambling madly to escape, others oblivious, others cheering on the violence. Chang blinked and gripped his sword in anxious fear when he saw Zaya fighting at the pilot's side, seemingly two against an army of warriors. Then he saw the shadows.

  "Dear spirits." The Steerman clutched his luck charm. "Is it like the ship, chief? Is it the pilot's doing?"

  Chang glanced at Eka, whose masked face of course revealed nothing. "What do we do, Captain?" he yelled over the din.

  The island assassin's knife tapped against his thigh—the only sign he felt a hint of the concern now surging through his men. He shrugged, and wiped the blade. "Protect our crew. We get them back."

  Chang ground his teeth without noticing, his eyes sweeping the scene of death and madness without much comprehension. Still, his survival instinct had never failed him, and even now it warned there was only one place to stand in safety: the correct side of the barbarian warlord.

  He rolled his neck and called in a courageous tone he did not feel. "Circle our crew, brothers," he shouted. "Kill any man, beast…or spirit that gets in your way."

  His bowels trembled, his bladder so tight it almost leaked down his leg. A death on land would cost him his soul. Haumia, Goddess of the earth, would know Chang had betrayed
her brother, the lord of the sea, and she would devour him without pity.

  But there was nothing else for it now. The only thing 'Lucky' Chang could do now was step further into the square, and pray his men and namesake held.

  * * *

  Black, acidic blood splashed again over Zaya's shield as she pierced another shadow. Yet another leapt at her side, and she stumbled and nearly fell before Yacat took off its head.

  The king's warriors, moments ago the biggest threat, fought desperately for their lives. Most hacked at the creatures in twos or threes, trying to pull them off their fallen comrades. Their weapons, it seemed, did almost nothing. Only the shaman's iron killed them with any speed.

  Ruka had risen again, eyes open, growling and locked in some private war Zaya feared as much as the walking shadows. Any warrior of Copanoch that stepped too close to him was mobbed and ripped apart by darkness.

  The huge, winged creature that sprouted from the shaman's back woke with him. Already it had grown since its appearance on The Prince, and it looked out at the temple square with malevolent eyes, burning like coal in a craftsman's forge. It raised a clawed hand, and purple flame erupted, forming a blade of darkness deeper than obsidian. A single word whispered in a long rasp in Zaya's ears, and she suspected in the ears of everyone else in the square, in a language Zaya did not speak, yet somehow understood.

  "Diiiie."

  The chaos, for a moment, stilled, then erupted. The shadows no longer stayed near the shaman, but left the square and raced into the stands, charging at guards and citizens alike. In moments they had killed men, women and children in scores with equal abandon, their claws and fangs spraying blood. Zaya blinked as the night shimmered. Two shadows leapt straight for her.

  The first screamed as Yacat's sword lopped off its arm, then silenced when he took its head. The second crashed against Zaya's shield, claws screeching against the iron as the creature nearly shoved her over. She kept her feet and hurled it back, stabbing the shaman's spear through its neck. It fell away streaming black ooze, which slopped off Zaya's shield and hit the ground steaming.