Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  Farahi smiled and leaned back. “And why should I teach you? My people are traders. What do you have to trade?”

  Ruka had not considered this and had no real answer. These people were so rich and powerful. He had little to offer them save as a warrior. But surely one man was not so useful.

  “Teach me the secrets of your blue metal,” said the king after a pause. “Your sword, and shield. For that knowledge I will teach you all that you wish, anything in my power.”

  Ruka felt his brow raise. He had seen many shoddy weapons thus far, but assumed this more choice than anything—cheap armaments for a people unaccustomed to fighting. But if they had poor iron, then perhaps they had room for other improvements. And if Ruka learned what they knew, perhaps it would all seem less impossible.

  He glanced at this new island king, and decided him a different breed than the other. He was clever and difficult to read, and most certainly dangerous. But Ruka did not fear a dangerous man, nor judge him. Indeed, it was the opposite.

  “Agreed. We trade.”

  Farahi smiled, and casually moved a piece to block Ruka’s strategy. It seemed a strange move because it interfered with a plan far away. Ruka frowned.

  “Good,” said the king, a sparkle in his eyes. “Know you are my guest, Ruka. You are to be respected, and treated well by my servants. Understand guest? You are not my prisoner. If anyone mistreats you, you need only tell me.”

  Ruka nodded because he understood. In the Ascom, expensive horses were treated well.

  “Today I will send you to my craftsmen,” said the king as he leaned in his chair, distracted by the tip of a yellow sun rising from the sea.

  Ruka nodded absently. His mind raced up and down the game board for a new strategy. He saw several choices, and decided at once.

  The king glanced at his choice and smiled. He said quietly, as if for his own private amusement.

  “We shall see who teaches who.”

  * * *

  True to his word, that afternoon the king sent Ruka with a pack of men outside the palace. Some of his escort were nervous warriors sheened with sweat, the others carried books and thinly veiled expressions of disdain.

  He did his best to withhold excitement as they left the palace walls, walking amongst the bustling, sometimes staring townsfolk.

  He took in every detail he could, noting faces and clothes and the design of streets and carts and buildings. He saw smoke rising from the direction they were headed, and with every step the noise and activity grew until it seemed every structure was a beehive filled with jabbering foreigners and their toil.

  Ruka’s procession took him into a half-exposed row of huge stalls, with many tables full of discarded bits of clay and wood shavings. He also saw stacks of almost perfectly flat or round, transparent stone, and he lifted one, marveling, then saw the look of concern pass around the worker’s faces.

  “That is very brittle, Ruka. Easily broken. Be careful,” said Aleki.

  “What is it?” Ruka turned it in his hand, feeling the incredible smoothness.

  Some of the old men smirked or rolled their eyes, and the tutor cleared his throat.

  “Glass. It is made from molten sand. We use it for decoration, jewelry, cups, plates, beads, and so forth.”

  Molten sand? Incredible!

  “And this?” Ruka lifted a strange wooden stand full of round stones. Again the old man winced.

  “That…is a calculating plate. The stones represent numbe…”

  “I understand.”

  Ruka set it down and walked past the tables to what looked like furnaces and ovens, as well as anvils and a few troughs of water. In many ways it resembled his own smithy, though of course this was considerably larger.

  “These are craftsmen employed by the king,” called Aleki. “Come this way first and we’ll see the…Ruka…where…”

  Ruka strode straight to the huge, round furnaces spouting heat in waves from open faces. Strong men layered in soot and sweat stared as he approached, their gloved hands suddenly idle.

  “Why open,” he pointed. “How control heat? What is fuel?”

  The men glanced at one another. One wiped soot and sweat from his brow and cleared his throat with a glance at the cluster of palace men.

  “Wood,” he grunted. A few of the others chuckled.

  “And air, how control air?”

  When the men stared at him he motioned as if stoking a gallows. When still they blanked he puffed up his cheeks and blew towards the furnace.

  “The heat is all that matters, Ruka,” said Aleki, now a little red-faced as he glanced at the others.

  Ruka looked around at the islanders, and their stares—the great furnaces stocked constantly with the hardwood he now saw piled behind. He looked at the baked clay, the unwieldy shape, the open areas. And he laughed. For the first time since he’d landed in Pyu, he felt at least, for a moment, to have found solid ground.

  He grunted, and waved in dismissal at the old, soft-handed men in robes who had likely never touched a hammer or a forge.

  “I make proper iron. Do you have…” He had no idea what the word for ‘coal’ was. “Black rock, for burning?”

  The smith nodded. “Some.” His face was at least a little interested. “Iron is expensive and difficult to use. We have little enough.” He glanced at the tutors. “Mostly we make bronze here.”

  “Yes.” Aleki cleared his throat. “Bronze would be better, Ruka, and far more useful to improve, since it…”

  Bronze!

  Ruka almost rolled his eyes. If iron were rare here, then perhaps the Ascom had more to trade than he thought. They had several deposits, and far more than they could use.

  “King said iron. Ruka makes iron. Get large piece. And fanners. And potter. We close furnace. And need clean water.” He waved in disgust at the dirty troughs.

  Ruka assumed the men would comply and now ignored them. He considered bringing tongs and hammers and bellows from his Grove, but thought better of it. Better to leave room for improvement in the future. Drawing the tools from nothing would overshadow his current efforts.

  He considered what to make and decided a sword would be too difficult and take too long. Besides, it seemed hardly any of the islanders used them. A good, thick steel rod, perhaps, might serve his purpose. He smiled at the shape forming in his mind, then noticed the men had yet to move.

  “Guest of king,” he said, as if annoyed. Then louder, making each word clear. “Guest of king.”

  Aleki smiled politely but without his eyes, and Ruka stared down any of the old men who would meet his gaze.

  “Black burning rock,” he said again. “Ore. Fans. Potters. Water. Now.”

  Aleki clenched his jaw, but gestured towards the smiths. They bowed, and moved to their tasks.

  The team of island smiths and potters accomplished what Ruka needed with astounding speed. Carts full of coal, wood, tools, and smelted metal wheeled to his disposal in moments. Many of the near-by men came to watch, and once or twice Ruka noticed chiefs or foremen red-faced and shouting before later coming to see for themselves.

  First, Ruka and the potters completely closed the furnace. They disconnected the grate, and stuck a metal catch to hold it open when required. To temper iron properly required a heat so hot it might even burn or melt through the bottom of the islander’s clay furnace, but they would find out soon enough.

  Next, they set up two fanners, but Ruka also sent men to fetch wineskins and leather. He thought perhaps with a little effort he might make a bellows, because the air from the fans would not easily reach the fire.

  In truth, he did not know why exactly air was required. All he knew—from many, many experiments— was that metal become brittle without it. The more air as the metal smoldered in the heat, the more malleable, and the less brittle hardness.

  For this effort he wanted some balance between the two, but since he intended only a rod good for bashing, he wished it to be just soft enough to crush anything he st
ruck without snapping. It made little difference if it dented, so he could make it almost impossible to break.

  The islanders loaded their furnace with coal and some of the hardwood, and then waited. Ruka arranged his tools around the table as he did in his Grove. He scrubbed the wood, he scraped the hammers and tongs and files for every speck of dirt or sediment, then replaced the water in every trough. Whatever the exact rituals of steel, he knew, uncontrolled elements were a mistake.

  As the heat from the furnace grew, he stripped off every layer of wrapped silk until he wore only his loincloth.

  The men stared at his body with wide eyes but he no longer cared. The smiths at last brought him a huge clump of ore, which he submerged into the hottest embers of the sweltering flame, and waited, counting water-drops in his Grove. Much could be learned by sight, but he had a rough estimate of time for every single step—from heating to blowing, cooling to hammering: each step had purpose.

  He snapped his fingers, and the smiths jumped and met his eyes.

  “You help hammer.” He rolled his shoulders and stooped, lifting the anvil with a grunt to place it in the center of the cleared space. He released a breath and stood, and saw the men staring with open-mouths. He supposed the anvil was rather heavy.

  After enough water drops he inspected the color of the iron, removed it with the tongs and placed it on the anvil.

  “Long, and thin, like spear,” he said, and began hammering. The smiths approached and took their positions, awkward at first, but soon found their rhythm. One man held the metal with the tongs and turned it occasionally without instruction, and it was clear they were all very skilled.

  They soon began a sort of humming chant as they worked, and grinned when Ruka joined. They heated the iron, and began again. They heated the iron, and hammered again.

  In truth the heat was barely enough and the process went on and on. The smiths dripped with sweat from the toil and the sweltering furnace while the robed men sat on crates or wood-piles and chattered amongst themselves.

  When the ore was at last vaguely shaped, Ruka told them they must be careful now. He blew more air with his make-shift bellows, submerging the iron in water before heating it again. The smiths watched him in silence, eyes quick and curious, the soot and sweat of their faces forgotten.

  Ruka checked the hardness as best he could. It seemed the ore they used was slightly different than what he was used to, and he noticed small differences in the color of the flame, in the reaction to the heat, and even the hammering of the metal. The result was more imperfect then he’d hoped, and would require considerable testing to understand. It was darker than he wished, too, which meant more brittle, with hardly a trace of the malleable blue of his Ascomi steel. But it would serve.

  Finally he stepped to the oak table and set down a smooth, three foot length of tempered, island iron. The smiths stared, captivated.

  “Good,” Ruka grunted, flipping it over as they examined together. “Very good.” He nodded to the men, who grinned and returned it. He watched their pleasure, and for a brief moment he simply stood and basked in the shared moment of competence, sensing the strangeness of standing so far from home, and in the company of strangers, yet feeling the strength of the pack.

  “The sun is nearly gone.” Aleki glanced at the rod and rose from his seat. “It seems a rather lengthy and expensive process to make a single iron…club, Ruka, which is useless, and we would never do in any case. What we truly need are better nails and clamps for ships and buildings. Perhaps tomorrow…”

  “Useless?” Ruka lifted the steel, annoyed as the brittle feeling of unity he had shared swept away. He walked to the rack of weapons and lifted a bronze blade.

  With a grunt he chopped down and bent the flimsy thing against the floor. He struck again, and the thin, vastly inferior metal snapped.

  “Useless?” he growled, then stepped to the pile of rock and smashed a chunk from it, hitting again as he broke apart stone and ore. He smashed the spears and tables next to it. He held up the rod, which wasn’t even scratched, and grunted between his heavy breaths.

  “Warrior is useless. Unless there is war.” He held it forward. “Take. Gift. For king.”

  He took the time to bow to the smiths, then gestured at the half-sleeping guards in the direction of the palace, and walked out into the night.

  Chapter 18

  After the craftsmen, Ruka learned with Aleki and his men of books for another full moon.

  He grew his words and understanding of the rules and subtleties of the islander’s speech. He read of ancient gods and spirits, of a sea-faring race of men who had traveled the world until they arrived at the islands of Pyu, led by a sort of prophet they called the ‘Enlightened’.

  These people had their heroes, too, like the Ascomi had Haki the Brave. Pyu heroes however were not warriors. They were often men much like priestesses, or explorers, their greatest a trickster named Rupi.

  Ruka was interested, but to him it seemed largely the same nonsense his people invented to explain the world. Buried in such myths and stories there existed truth, perhaps, wrapped in some useful mixture of practicality and illusion—the perfect meal for the human mind. What truly intrigued him was the timing.

  By islander reckoning, they had been in Pyu now for two thousand years. Where exactly they came from was not clear.

  The scholars knew the continent to the North was far older, and had been inhabited since time immemorial. Their books described a dozen races and kingdoms, city-states and chiefdoms—even an ‘empire’, or a king of kings.

  Ruka asked Aleki many more questions he could or would not answer.

  “How many people live in Pyu? How many in Naran? How many in the world?”

  Each made the man squirm.

  “We do not know. The last census was in the king’s grandfather’s time, and there has not been another. As to Naran, or the world, no one knows.”

  “You must have a guess.”

  “I try not to guess.”

  Ruka stared in silence, thinking you guess all the the time, about everything, you stupid fool.

  Aleki cleared his throat.

  “Naran is very large. Perhaps three million people, though I expect this number means little to you. And the world…” He shrugged, and scoffed. “Perhaps…triple that. Why does it matter? It’s very large.”

  Ruka goggled because he suspected it would be even more than Aleki believed. The same pride his own people shared would no doubt inflate the man’s sense of his own importance. He held back the reflexive sneer at the question of why it mattered.

  Aleki had his uses, but like many of the other islanders he believed his knowledge of the world all but complete, and the last few details of little importance. Ruka knew they were so very wrong.

  He knew fear and pride prevented men from seeing how ignorant they were, how ignorant every creature truly was of the mighty world around it—of the things he could not see, touch, or hear. Ruka expected there were many new seas to cross, many mysteries so complex he could not even begin to ask the right questions—perhaps far more complex than he could comprehend. But he intended to try.

  At night while the islanders slept, Ruka sat on the same balcony he had once fought assassins for his life. His guards leaned sleepily on their spears, and he read by moonlight.

  Farahi had a vast library filled with thousands of books, and had made them available without boundary. Ruka intended to read all of them.

  He started with mathematics, eyes wide like a child learning stories of a far-away land. He read of shapes and symbols representing numbers so vast he could not imagine them, Aleki was right about that.

  The Pyu had ‘formulas’ to calculate shapes in the real world, to understand the weight and strength of wood or stone, or the correct angle of their construction, and could use it all to plan building or ships. These apparently worked perfectly every time you used them, and could be calculated without much effort. The knowledge opened a window in Ruka�
�s mind, and he did not know if he should laugh, or weep at his own ignorance.

  In his Grove, he began testing everything. He would need to know if things could be improved by using stronger materials, and expected they could.

  His old tutor was right about the nails and the clasps. With Ruka’s iron perhaps they could build in ways they had never imagined before, and perhaps the future might change for them as well as the Ascom.

  With Farahi, trade seemed possible. Perhaps the men of ash could bring their iron and their salt, or their lumber from huge and untamed forests. Maybe they could serve as warriors to their island neighbors, too, or conquer the weakest with permission. The possibilities were endless now.

  Ruka was left alone and free to roam the palace as he liked. Servants brought him all the food and water he wished. All the while, Bukayag stayed silent, dazzled by complexity beyond his interest or understanding—civilization and a future forged perhaps with more peace than bloodshed.

  Ruka was learning much, but he still wished to see more of the world, and even more of the islands.

  He knew at some point he must gather all he’d learned and make order from this new chaos, but he could handle more. He read on architecture and sailing, astronomy and geography, warfare and earthworks.

  In the back of his mind, already he wondered if he should ever return to his people. If he owed them anything, if he would not prefer instead to stay in this new world and bind himself to this king. He did not know, and for now, did not care.

  When Matohi came again—what the islander’s called the full moon—the guards came to summon him, and Ruka rose expecting another meeting with the king, excited to discuss all that he’d learned.

  * * *

  “Loa Kana, and Hoilo.”

  The young guard grinned and bowed politely as they gestured down the corridor.

  Speaking the islanders words at all still seemed to entertain the servants. That Ruka remembered their names and could pronounce them seemed endlessly fascinating. He supposed anyone would be delighted if their pet learned words.

  This time they took him North around the palace—to a different wing than his previous visits, up near the fortress itself. He found Farahi sitting at another small table covered in their game pieces, scribbling at paper over a wooden board. He wasn’t surprised to see another clear view of the horizon.