by Richard Nell
Egil watched him, utterly frozen. Then he shrugged and tried to pass it off as nothing. “In ten days we may all be dead. What will you do until then?” The skald’s tone was careful, his eyes piercing and full of conflict.
Ruka wished he could explain. He wished he could express his hopes and fears and sorrows as a man might to a friend. But without Beyla, he was alone, save perhaps for Farahi. Only Farahi at long last might understand and be as kin of the mind.
The thought warmed and comforted him, because perhaps he had learned a sort of faith, faith in a man—Farahi would come. He would help the men of ash join the larger world, and for this they would be his ally as he asked, because unlike the Empire to the North he did not seek slaves. But the Ascom must be ready.
“I will do what is required,” Ruka said after a long pause. “Good night, Egil.” He stood and left the hall, nodding to Folvar’s warriors guarding the door. He walked out into the cool night air and breathed, seeing in his mind the great works required in the future, the courage, the commitment, as well as the possible disasters.
His people would have to learn to speak new languages, to sail, to make war, to co-exist with islanders who did not think or worship or behave as they. They would face the sea and its great waves, then kings and armies. And, he now realized, there would be sickness on both sides.
Disease might sweep the old and the young and the weak like a harvester’s scythe, no matter how peaceful their intentions, or how they tried to prevent it. The thought sickened him. It weighed his spirit as an anchor of iron, dragging him beneath the waves.
Or we can do nothing, he thought. We can stay on our frozen patch of meager land and let the rest of the world change and struggle as it will.
This too seemed intolerable. And in either future, in either choice, there would be suffering and death, and one day the sickness would spread regardless. But how could men stop disease without becoming afflicted and letting the weak die? Surely there was a way, even if Ruka did not know it.
No matter what, it was not only him who must choose. Despite his purpose and Beyla’s words, he was beginning to believe it was not only his will that mattered. He would stop the pointless battle, and protect the most ambitious men for a time from slaughtering the other. But he knew he must stop the deception and lies. For what use to save a people with trickery, when one day the true test of their will would come?
* * *
In three days, the trench was ready. The thousand men, women and children that formed Ruka’s allies had dug and flattened the ground from sea to sea. They were exhausted and filthy, with many hands torn and raw.
Tahar returned from the hills to say several hundred chiefsmen were marching from Orhus in two groups. They would arrive before nightfall.
By his tone it was clear he thought they should run. It was also clear that he and all the warriors thought Ruka’s trench useless, and maybe madness. Folvar asked with heavy lidded eyes if he should ready his men for battle.
“No, chief. There will be no battle. Have your people stand before the trench in a line, spaced from coast to coast.”
The man blinked in tired confusion, but had committed to it all already, and went to obey. The gap at the entrance to the peninsula was narrow. Each side of the sea could be seen by a man standing in the middle, so that is where Ruka stood.
In his Grove, the dead placed the last stones atop the wall. They had used largely limestone from the quarry, moving the huge, base-rocks atop logs rolled in unison in the Pyu style. They had lashed them with ropes and winches and pulleys and lifted them one atop the other, then filled in the rest of the height with smaller stones and mortar.
Now the wall of the dead stood twenty ‘Liri’—a unit of measurement from Naran—and the exact width of the ‘fertile gate’.
Ruka put his hand against the cold, hard stone, and closed his eyes. The dead stood in a line, just like the men and women of ash. Boy-from-Alverel grinned with his eyes, broken jaw flopping in excitement. He had led the work on the gate, making it from as much iron as wood, even drawing the runes now displayed proudly in defiance.
Ruka was ready, but waited. If he failed here then all his plans would fall to ruin, and he must flee and perhaps start again. But if he succeeded, it would be best if all could see.
As Volus climbed to his highest peak, the first warriors of Orhus crested the rise to the lowlands. Hundreds of men in a haphazard line carried swords and spears and shields, wearing the finest armor bought by rich and powerful chiefs.
Many of Ruka’s retainers looked on them in fear, but they did not run. Some turned to see Ruka, perhaps for courage, and he grinned at any who’d meet his gaze.
“Have faith, cousins,” he shouted to any close enough to hear. Still he waited until more of his ‘enemy’ had gathered and readied themselves to charge. He wanted them close enough to think their victory assured, to be looking out at the thin line of half women and children with disbelief. He held out his hands.
In his Grove, the more obedient dead placed their palms against the stone. Some had broken fingers or shattered arms, and so placed their foreheads or backs instead. Many still hated Ruka for what he’d done. He saw it often as they passed him, moving to their endless toil with deep scowls and bitter eyes. But they did not hate life or the living. Even in death their old purpose and habits sustained them, or perhaps their love, or just their memories of honey and sunshine.
“It will stand for a thousand years,” he called. “It will last longer than every creature on this field, a great monument to the dead. And today it will save these people.”
Most of the walking corpses seemed appeased by this, and Ruka only hoped it was true. He still did not know the limits of his Grove. Could he do anything he could conceive? Was the only limitation his knowledge, and his means? And why could Ruka alone do such things?
He did not know, nor did he assume any answers. For now he could only imagine, and test.
First, he imagined a wall. He imagined every detail, from the huge, solid base that would sit on the flattened ground of the trench—to the crenelations and the ramparts above. Protect us, he prayed to the dead, protect your kin. One day we will share your fate, but let it not be today.
Other corpses moved to the wall as if they understood. They forced broken bodies past nerve and sinew with only the will that moved them, and Ruka watched with pride.
The living owed them so much already. They owed the Vishan fleeing across the sea, then those suffering to survive and have children, taming the land and building tools one by one over thousands of years. They could owe them a little more.
Take it back, brother, use it. Stone does the dead no good.
Ruka put both sets of hands to the wall, and both worlds around him trembled.
It started with Bukayag. Heat came without fire, then a slow rise from the soil, a hill growing from a rumble that should have meant a fissure—an earthquake in reverse.
Ruka felt the will of the dead mingling with his own, their purpose crossed and strengthening his until it spread through the trench. It felt directed, but unstoppable, like releasing the Kubi. Heat and purpose flowed like a river across the land of ash, and the air shimmered and shook as if it were water rippling across a pond.
All along the wall, Ruka heard screaming. He did not know why, but it made no difference. It could not be stopped.
As the stone released he could only stand in witness, helpless and meaningless next to the reality of such creation. Where there had once been nothing now rose a great wall of the dead, thick as a man, tall as four, spewing from the air and the earth like a landslide going up. The noise consumed all, growling and roaring as elemental forces clashed and ground together.
It lasted only ten drips of the water-timer, and yet forever. All at once the rumbling of the sky ceased, and the dead in Ruka’s Grove stepped away from the crushed line of ruined grass now open before them.
In the land of the living, Ruka stood at the open, iron g
ate of a massive stone wall, as if it had grown from his hands. He looked to the sides, and saw that it stretched along the trench from sea to sea, blocking off the entire fertile ring.
He looked to the men and women along it and saw many had fallen, though he did not know why or to what end. Some had their hands placed over ears or chests. Some bled from their noses. Others had perhaps stepped too close, and Ruka saw several bodies thrown back and shattered.
They will be honored, he thought, stepping forward to hide his own shaken spirit. His gut trembled with fear and confusion, but he had to be strong in this moment. They would look to him for answers, and whatever the cost, the wall had worked. A few dead townsfolk had saved thousands.
Ruka stepped out so the men could all see him clearly. The approaching chiefs had stopped, the men staring in awe at the huge barrier. Ruka walked inside the open portal—the only way to enter now save for the high rocky cliffs at the edges of the peninsula, or the frigid and dangerous waters guarded by Aiden and his ships.
He pulled the clever Pyu winch with a screech of greased steel, and the rune-covered gate slammed shut.
Chapter 64
The dead dug more graves. Ruka had lost track of them now, but he preferred not to look if he could avoid it.
“How…what was that, shaman? How is this possible?” Folvar gestured at the wall, his face pale, his hand trembling.
Ruka’s retainers had crowded around him. Fifteen people were badly wounded—some deafened, others shattered. Nine more had been killed, including two women and a child. All, it seemed, had been badly shaken.
“I felt…I felt…something. A coldness. It was as if I was being suffocated,” Folvar whispered. “It felt…like the hand of Noss, choking me, shaman.”
Ruka nodded but shrugged it away, as if this were expected. In truth he was greatly disturbed. He did not know the rules of his Grove, nor indeed even of the world he could see with his eyes, or any other world beyond it. He did not know if the coldness had been the dead grasping at the living, or some force required to create the wall—if it had been necessary, or if it was over. He did not know the price of such power.
But there was no path but forward, and all greatness came with sacrifice. He ignored the fear and told Folvar and the others to keep preparing the granaries, to keep building ships, and to guard the coasts.
“I must go to the valley now, chief. But you may keep every warrior.”
The young chief’s concern showed plain. “The valley? Why, shaman? We’ve already won. We are safe at least for a season. We can hold this wall against ten times our number. Even if the chiefs agreed and banded together now, it would take months to build enough ladders to get over with enough force to dislodge us. The peninsula is ours.”
“Yes,” Ruka nodded, then turned to the stables. “We are safe. But the gods require more than safety. They demand strength, and courage.” With that he walked along the edge of the town towards the stables, and perhaps his death. The few townsfolk at their labors watched him, staring like rabbits as a predator passed. He did not blame them.
If a man could make such miracles, blocking a whole army with his will, was he even a man anymore?
Ruka did not feel any different in his body. In his mind and Grove, if anything, he felt less in control, more like a son of chaos than ever, trapped in a whirlwind or a great wave and only playing his part as Valda claimed. And yet, what else could he do? He had one last role to play.
“We’ll go together, old friend.” Ruka put a sloped brow to Sula’s cheek and used the Pyu word. The animal snorted but did not pull away—tolerance the closest he came to affection. Ruka smiled regardless. He considered it respect.
“Ah, mighty Sula. What a man you’d have made.” He patted the muscled flank, then placed his saddle and tied the cinches. If anything, the warhorse had grown since his arrival—hale and healthy and thick as he ate lush grass and waited. In his time in Kormet, Sula had also sired several colts, and for the greatness of the future Ruka hoped he sired many more.
And what of me, it made him wonder. Would Ruka die childless? Would Beyla’s line end with him?
Perhaps that was to be his punishment. If so, he would not complain. Perhaps in another thousand years a man like Ruka would come, or with the changes made already then in another generation the sons and daughters of ash would turn North on their own. Perhaps Ruka had already planted the seed of change, and even if Farahi betrayed and Ruka was destroyed, then a bright future may yet still come.
It put his mind at ease, and he mounted, riding from the stables South towards the mountain and the valley of law. The ride would be short along the Spiral, and it would give him time to rest and work in his Grove while his brother followed the well-kept gravel and stone.
Ahead and blocking the road he spotted a cluster of warriors at the edge of Kormet. For a moment he considered riding to the chief’s hall, but recognized Aiden and his men armed and dressed for battle.
“We go with you, shaman,” said the great chief of Husavik as Ruka approached.
Beside him stood Tahar, Birmun, Folvar and many of their warriors. Ruka nodded to them, and smiled.
Near every warrior carried a rune-blade, spear or axe. Most were Ruka’s oldest retainers—men who had lived difficult lives, then been led into the valley and abandoned. They had survived as outlaws, re-taken Husavik, sailed to paradise, then captured the richest land in the Ascom. Had their deeds been recorded in the book of Galdra, already they would be heroes.
“You are all free men,” Ruka said with a shrug, trying to control his voice. “You may go where you please.”
The big chief grinned. Hoofbeats clopped through the square behind him as Dala, Egil, Juchi, and a host of Kormet’s matrons rode to the warriors in traveling clothes.
“We come, too, shaman,” said the newly minted matriarch, her smile radiant as an island dawn. “I would not miss the great Bukayag as he speaks before Alverel.”
Ruka nodded in respect to her and the other women, then turned towards the valley. He did not wish the crowd to see the wetness in his eyes.
In a slow, comfortable pace, he rode towards the stones that had destroyed his life. For thousands of years Alverel had been the holiest patch of earth in the Ascom—the great mountain looming to the clouds, a frozen monument to the gods. It was where all great heroes had spoken, their words captured and re-told mostly by illiterate men and women for an age.
Ruka knew every word of every story. As a child he had played in the woods pretending to be Egil the Brave as he rallied five towns against the nomads; or Haki the Fearless as he promised to stop a mighty beast, then succeeded.
But Imler the Betrayer too had spoken at the valley. He had promised greatness and peace, delivered somehow with blood and iron. Ruka knew that perhaps the heroes did not exist at all—that they were simply stories told to create a vision of the world the men and women of ash could understand, emulate, or avoid.
Yet Tegrin could still guide a ship, shining like a lighthouse in the heavens. Runes etched by ancient hands could still be read by a long lost son. So whether real, or fiction, the stories in the book were rooted in truth. Imler’s was a dark tale of a man who killed because he could—who took because he wanted, whose love of power was lodged deep in the breast of most honest creatures.
In this way Ruka knew Imler to be as real as a brother who hated all the world. And whatever that meant, whatever the truth or the meaning of things—Imler had spoken at the valley, too.
* * *
Ruka said little to his men on the road to Alverel. They had seen him perform ‘miracles’ many times now, of course, but the wall was clearly different. When he approached they hushed and lowered their heads, scrambling to give him room or to see if he was thirsty, staring as if awaiting some grand pronouncement. Ruka had never felt more alone.
In a way he envied their faith in him—their comfort in believing some grand design, some powerful prophet that gave them meaning and purpose. Ruk
a had only his hope that the past did not guarantee the future—that with enough effort and sacrifice, a man might change his world with his own two hands for the better.
In quiet moments he missed Hemi and his builders and drinking rum together at the end of a long, simple day of sweat and labor. He missed Arun and Kwal and all foreign men of competence who knew much of the world. And he missed Farahi—his patience, his cold, careful eyes. He even missed losing at Chahen.
“Something has pleased you, shaman? Do the gods speak?”
Ruka blinked and looked to Aiden’s earnest expression at his side. He felt the genuine smile slip away.
“No, chief. I was imagining the new lawspeaker’s face as I approach her stone.”
Aiden grinned, and glanced at the men who had witnessed Ruka strangle the old lawspeaker. Soon all were laughing and wiping at their eyes, and for a moment, at least, Ruka felt like a man again instead of a prophet, even if it was at the expense of an old, dead woman.
But it didn’t last. On the second day, as they neared the valley, Ruka rode alone at the front with his entourage behind. Only Dala dared push through to ride by his side, and for a moment he loved her for it.
“This should be interesting,” she said, grinning. Together they looked out at the huge gouts of smoke rising from the crowded valley. The crowds had already grown and swelled beyond usual in the make-shift markets and the gathering place that had all but become a city. “Shall I speak to the Lawspeaker for you?” Dala’s brow quirked in amusement, but it was clear she meant it.
Ruka felt the impulse to decline and take offense at her humor, but he knew this now as weakness grown from a life of scorn. He nodded respectfully.
“That would be useful. Thank you, priestess.”
The sun lit the road and valley save for the great shadow of the mountain, and Ruka urged Sula forward. He followed the edge of Bray’s river to the Western edge of the valley, the low hum of humanity cascading from stone cliffs, growing louder and louder until the party reached the first bridge. Fishermen and herders stopped to watch them.
