Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  “By all the gods that’s good.” He closed his eyes and let the fire scorch his throat and belly.

  Birmun smiled and produced another from his bag. “Never met a skald who’d quenched his thirst,” he said, and Egil nodded as he wiped his lips. They drank for a time in pleasant silence, then the nightman chief pointed at Egil’s lyre.

  “How does a man learn such a thing?”

  Egil blinked, surprised, then snorted as he thought of his lonely childhood. “I was a rich matron’s son, born late and last, and my twin died when I was young. I had little enough to do.”

  Birmun nodded and took another long draught. “A good life, no doubt,” he said without tone. Egil smiled politely, thinking yes, once perhaps, it was.

  When they’d finished their skins Birmun took yet another from his saddlebag. “Where we’re going I thought we’d need it,” he said with a grin. Egil nearly groaned as he noticed the stars had blurred already, but took it regardless. He hadn’t had a drop in over a year, and the numbness it brought felt like an old companion forgotten on the road.

  “Have you truly been to paradise, skald?”

  Egil nearly spit his drink at the suddenness and the man’s casual tone. He meant to lie, of course, but changed his mind. “I have not,” he sniffed, and took another drink.

  Birmun stared for a moment. When it appeared Egil was not joking and did not intend to say anything else, the chief took another drink, sagged into his furs, and laughed.

  Egil found the sound warm, and infectious. As he considered why he’d chosen the truth, he knew it was because of the cave, and the feeling in Dala’s presence. He understood this man too was a slave to greater forces, just as Egil was—that his deeds and words were the last scribblings of a simple rower on a mighty ship, trapped in seething waves, never to be written in any tales. There should be truth, he thought, and good humor, between the doomed.

  When they’d both settled and drunk several more generous swallows of the excellent honey-wine, Birmun spoke again.

  “Do you think it exists? Or is your shaman some kind of demon, or half-god, sent to destroy us?”

  Egil looked at the man’s earnest eyes, and took the time to consider this properly. “With Ruka,” he shrugged, “neither would surprise me.” He looked up from the fire, surprised to see confusion on the other man’s face.

  “Ruka?”

  Egil froze, and forced himself to blink and shrug as if it meant nothing. “Bukayag, I meant. Ruka…was his brother. He’s dead now.”

  Birmun watched him but nodded, and looked away as if it didn’t matter. “I had brothers, once. Did you know him? This Ruka?”

  “I…no. No, I, met Bukayag after.”

  Damn drunken fool. But then what does it matter? It makes no difference anymore.

  They spoke little enough after that and slept, and in the morning Egil woke with the familiar squint and raw mouth of his youth. Birmun’s men cooked a breakfast of sheep sausage and oats, and without hurry again took to the Spiral.

  As he rode Egil considered the possibility that Ruka had, in fact, never made it to his men. Despite his earlier display of certainty, the truth was he couldn’t be sure—and it had been many days on foot back to the forest. Ruka would have been utterly without supplies, and chased by twenty warriors. Had it been a normal man, any other man….

  But no, to underestimate Ruka was to be destroyed. How many times had he seen it? Ruka had lived for years as an outcast with nothing and survived. He would have survived the men of Varhus. He would survive his new Northern ally and betrayal, until he had gathered a great and terrible army and brought the world to the brink of madness. Only when all the willing and able were dead could a man like Ruka die.

  But Juchi, and Ivar, on the other hand…they most certainly could be taken or killed if Halvar had betrayed. And this seemed exceptionally possible. The thought plagued him day and night. And by the time their small party saw the outlines of Kormet’s buildings, Egil’s gut seemed to slosh with ice. His hands and armpits sweat and he couldn’t sit still on his horse.

  “Are you well, skald? We could rest awhile before we enter.”

  Egil blinked and smiled politely. “No. I’m fine, Chief, thank you.”

  Birmun nodded but quirked a brow as he stepped closer and spoke more softly. “If challenged, I can say we’ve come for supplies. But if these men are Bukayag’s allies then perhaps they’ll kill us out of fear of what we’ll see. So, what should I say?”

  Egil clenched his jaw as he considered. He noticed his hands had gripped the reins, and did his best to relax them. Have faith, he thought, with a mad, mental cackle. “Tell them the truth, brother. We’re Bukayag’s men, come to serve. If they don’t like that, you’ll have to kill them.”

  Birmun’s eyes widened slightly and Egil wondered for a moment if it had been his words he’d uttered, or Ruka speaking through him. He supposed it didn’t matter.

  They kept moving, and Kormet’s scouts soon came to intercept them. These were typical Northern lads with brown hair and pale skin, carrying good, clean spears and swords. As a few blocked the road, others came from behind trees and bushes and tall grass, until they numbered at least twenty. Egil didn’t recognize any of them.

  “Peace, brothers,” Birmun raised both hands. “My name is…”

  “Which chief do you serve?”

  The menace in the man’s voice was clear, his tone and interruption disrespectful. The warriors inspected each other’s weapons and armor, and Egil realized they’d have heard of Chief Birmun, ‘Killer of Bukayag the Bastard’, and if he said that’s who he was they had a very serious issue.

  Egil was the only one mounted, so most of the men looked to him. He cleared his throat.

  “I am Egil, the skald. I serve no chief.”

  The speaker’s brow raised. “Your name is known to us. You are welcome here. But these chiefless dogs, they must leave.”

  Egil felt Birmun and his men bristle, and if they’d been Southerners blood would certainly spill.

  In truth the lack of welcome surprised him, and he realized perhaps the town’s chief would prefer it if Bukayag’s ranks didn’t swell further. Egil took a breath, and channeled Ruka’s arrogance in his voice.

  “What is your name, warrior?”

  The man twitched an eye and spit orange root, but said “Brun, son of Elena.”

  Egil nodded in respect, then crossed his arms over his saddle. “Well, Brun, these men have come to serve Bukayag. You can either bring them to him and let him decide, or I shall be forced to tell him you thought you knew better, and turned them away. Which one would you prefer?”

  He tried not to enjoy the ripple of fear that washed across the men at his words. Invoking Ruka’s wrath on anyone seemed unfair. The men squirmed visibly until their leader let out his breath.

  “Very well, but give over your weapons.”

  Birmun half-drew his huge, now obvious rune-sword. “Try and take them.”

  The scout looked at it with huge eyes, and Egil held his breath until the man gestured to follow, and turned away.

  Birmun winked, and Egil faked a cough to hide his sputtering, tension-filled laugh. Then he followed towards Ruka and whatever wild future awaited him, for a moment feeling a strange, mad sort of excitement—the way he used to feel as he walked out into the open plain, nothing ahead but horizon. But the moment soon passed.

  Chapter 53

  Kormet looked typical enough. Egil had no doubt been through it once or twice before but now couldn’t recall. The townsfolk glanced at him and the small pack of warriors at his side, but otherwise went about their business. The scouts led them on and past the hall, and Egil was about to question where they were going before he saw the coast.

  Huge, skeletal hulls stretched out along the beach surrounded by men. All around them lay tools and lumber scattered in chaos, boys watching or helping their elders. Egil stood frozen as he stared at the size of the ships under construction. By the silence o
f the men at his side they seemed equally stunned.

  “The great skald returns.” Ruka’s voice carried up the rise without effort as he rose from a near-by workbench. Aiden walked beside him with several armed retainers—as if they spent their days simply following the shaman, and awaiting violence.

  “Lord.” Egil dismounted and nodded in respect. Ruka returned it, then came forward and put a hand to his shoulder. He smiled warmly, and Egil felt the strange pull of pleasure, confusion and fear. He saw the surprise and perhaps resentment of other men at the gesture.

  “You flee the very mouth of danger, Egil, and yet bring us new allies? Does your cunning never end?”

  “We have come to serve you, and sail with you,” answered Birmun before Egil could speak.

  Ruka looked up at the interruption as if annoyed, and his eyes drifted over Birmun and his warriors while his face contorted. “I don’t know you, save now that you speak when you should listen,” he said harshly. The expression dissolved as he looked back to Egil. “I’m pleased to see you, skald. Your loyalty at Varhus will not be forgotten.”

  Egil nodded and felt a flush rise to his cheeks. He wasn’t sure why Ruka should honor him here and now, but long ago he had stopped trying to understand the man, and tried to push down the pleasure he felt.

  Ruka released a deep breath and inspected Birmun’s men again. “What can you do?” he said at last, his tone still unfriendly.

  Birmun glared for a moment, then half-lifted his rune-sword from its scabbard. Aiden saw it and twitched, and his men shifted a step closer.

  “We are warriors,” he answered, tone brash and appropriately arrogant.

  Ruka stepped forward and smiled his predatory smile. “You carry a great weapon. But are you worthy? Will you kill? Will you die?” The smile disappeared. “If you wish to see paradise, cousin, swear that sword in service to the old gods, and their prophet. Do it now. Otherwise, I do not accept you.”

  Egil blinked and watched Birmun’s face redden, his hand still on his sword. No doubt he had expected this conversation to take place in private—to relay Dala’s order and be quietly accepted and carry on some kind of deception.

  Now he was being made to swear publicly. And though a Northerner like him likely didn’t believe Edda heard a man’s every word and judged him, he was a warrior—a chief, even if in secret for the moment—and few things lost a man more honor than broken oaths.

  Aiden’s hands twitched as if he hoped the man before him refused and became an enemy, and Egil shook his head in wonder at Ruka’s never-ending cleverness.

  “I…swear it.” Birmun gestured, and the men behind him muttered their oaths. Ruka’s menace dissolved at once.

  “Good. Aiden is your new chief.” He pointed at the big warrior, who stood near-by tapping a knife against his chest. “You will do as he says, and learn to sail. My ship needs a crew.” He looked around at the men watching. “Enough idleness. Volus waits for no man.”

  The workers dispersed in perhaps some mild disappointment, and Ruka gestured for Egil to join him as he walked towards the sea.

  “Juchi and Ivar await you with Kormet’s matrons.”

  “Thank you, lord.”

  Ruka nodded and stopped to meet Egil’s eyes. “What happened with Dala on the mountain? Will she betray?”

  Egil felt his master’s strange eyes pierce him, knowing to lie was pointless and in any case unnecessary. The truth was he did not know. Perhaps Birmun had been sent to kill Ruka, or at least to try. Perhaps the High Priestess even now marched her thousand warriors North and meant to obliterate Ruka and his followers all at once, and in view, then march straight to Orhus in glorious victory.

  Egil supposed in his heart he had considered this. Perhaps he even hoped for it. By trusting Dala, Ruka had exposed himself in a way Egil had not expected. But even if she betrayed, Egil did not believe Ruka would be defeated. Even if he fled alone into the sea, somehow the man would survive, and his wrath would be terrible. Egil had doubted him once. He would not make that mistake again.

  He scratched his beard in thought. “I believe she cares for this Birmun. I don’t think she’d send him to die.” He shrugged. “Unless absolutely necessary.”

  Ruka nodded as if he agreed. He looked to the water and his face took on the far-away look Egil had grown accustomed to. “We are safe here for now. Return to your family. Soon you will meet men from far-away islands and begin to learn their words, and see all the splendor of a wealthy land. Together we will build a new future for our people.”

  The Vishan son and outcast and maybe demon smiled with a warmth that seemed genuine, and Egil returned it, feeling like a fool.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust, exactly—though he didn’t—nor that he didn’t believe such things were possible. It was that he did not feel as if he truly smiled at a man, but a hungry bear, or perhaps at the tide as it swept him away.

  * * *

  “We saw no sign of a larger force, lord—only the skald and these few others came from the mountain.”

  Ruka nodded, unsurprised but still pleased. He looked to Tahar—one of his most loyal, competent retainers, and put a hand to his shoulder. “You’ve done well, chief, as ever. One day you will be a great lord, and no man will be more deserving.”

  Tahar swelled, and Ruka thought on his mother raising up the chief of Hulbron and his warriors with simple words. Thank you, Beyla, he thought, for teaching me their ways.

  “Take your men and return to the hills, Tahar. We must know if an enemy comes in force.”

  “I will not fail you, lord.”

  Ruka nodded in dismissal, and walked to his ships. Kwal had nearly all the supplies he needed now. Ruka had brought much from his Grove, and through Chief Halvar purchased a great deal more from merchant ships from every town and port in the North, as well as the material brought with Aiden’s wagons. Lumber cost little here, and so he largely purchased this, as well as the food to feed his men.

  Alone on the beach in darkness, he brought crates and crates of iron nails, barrels of tar, and more specialized lumber in neatly laid piles. In the morning the men found it and gaped in awe, and Ruka smiled and said Vol was pleased, and so the construction continued.

  Weeks passed without interruption. Ruka introduced Egil and Juchi to Kwal and Arun and hid his smile at their stares and disbelief. The islanders largely avoided the men of ash and stayed near the boats, but at night Ruka forced them to sit with him and his retainers by the fire, and often translated at least a little smalltalk.

  Soon Ruka sent his men further and further out to sea to fish and at least delay the inevitable complaints of Halvar, and the growingly exorbitant price of meat and grain. He brought more and more silver and other supplies to trade.

  “It’s getting easier, brother,” Bukayag had smiled as they’d finished another night of creation. Ruka found he had to agree. Each thing he brought seemed to strengthen his grasp and memory of turning nothing to something.

  The dead dug deeper and deeper into the mines of his Grove, they cut down more trees and did more work without him even realizing. He told himself this was only natural, and efficient, that he should be pleased the dead went to their work to tame their land, just as the living. Still he felt an anxious fear.

  Each day he watched the skeletal frames of his new ships, his ‘Kingmakers’ as he called them, gain flesh and structure. He helped Egil and Juchi learn Pyu words, and it seemed far easier for the priestesses who could already read and write.

  Tahar and his men roamed the countryside every day looking for the enemy. Aiden and his warriors helped with the ships and kept the peace between the different warriors from North and South, usually by frightening them witless. Birmun and his men kept to themselves, but did what was asked and did their best to learn the ships and the toil to come.

  Soon Kwal was overseeing construction of the decks, flat and raised in the fashion of Pyu warships, so that many men might stand and fight together on top with balance.
The huge masts now jut from the beach like spears, and soon they would hang with cloth sails spread wide and taut in the wind like the skin of a drum.

  Ruka turned his mind to the voyage to come. The islanders of Pyu knew much of the sea, and the stars, and had ways to navigate far beyond the men of ash. Still, they largely used landmarks, and sometimes a device made from wood that could be used to measure the shadow of the sun at a fixed point to know their position North and South. It was far from accurate, however, and Ruka needed each ship able to determine their direction in case of a storm—to have some idea of there whereabouts and proceed without instruction.

  He knew it must be possible.

  A week before Kwal said his ships would be ready, Ruka stood on the beach and watched the stars. He knew for certain the world was a sphere. He knew whatever the celestial bodies in the heavens truly were, they moved about this sphere in a predictable way. He believed they could be measured.

  Ruka stood perfectly still and watched from a rise on the coast, away from the lights and smoke of Kormet. He did not turn away or sleep, and blinked rarely. Many times men came to him and sometimes he spoke, if necessary, including once with Chief Halvar who complained—as usual—then said Ruka must take his son and some men when he finally sailed. Ruka took a moment to intimidate him, but agreed.

  After six days of watching the heavens—perhaps with prompting from the now greatly disturbed Aiden and a few others at a distance behind—Egil finally approached him.

  “Are you…alright, lord? Do you speak with the gods?”

  Ruka breathed, and let himself feel the stiff exhaustion of his body. He felt his eyes bulged with bruise, and no doubt red with dryness. But he didn’t care. After the fourth day he had suspected, but by the sixth he was sure.