Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  And he meant it. Alverel had changed everything. Progress could happen now as fast as men could build, supply, and communicate their efforts, and already families were coming from all over the Ascom for work. It was a good problem to have, but the logistics were a nightmare.

  Ruka’s shipbuilders needed more lumber, and different kinds of lumber. He sent men to the smaller but closer Western forest to cut as many as required, knowing he would have to pay the local chiefs. Kormet’s builders needed nails for ships, bins, and more houses for all the new matrons. They needed more tools, more food, more water, more cloth for sails. More everything.

  Each night Ruka stood on the coast and summoned from his Grove, but even so it was not enough. He sent requests to Dala for supplies from Orhus and across the Ascom, the quantities boggling the minds of his Arbmen messengers, which Dala had given him full authority to direct. Some would ask again or for clarification, and Ruka would patiently repeat himself. He paid in silver, hide, or furs, lumber and stone, iron and tin, all of it from his Grove. He managed, but barely.

  A season passed in steady toil.

  Ruka gained thousands of men, many who came with their chiefs, others on their own or with families and all their supplies loaded into wagons. He began the process of moving near-by towns and villages, despite the anger and confusion it caused.

  Dala had sent him a priestess to help him with the the matrons—a woman named Amira she said could be trusted. So far this seemed the case. Whatever insane request he put to her, the priestess nodded and said she would convince the First Mothers and inform the Order.

  The new matriarch herself was busy in Orhus. For every mad change Ruka planned, she would have to soothe rich matrons and priestesses and convince them to part with supplies or alter their trade routes and habits to support the ‘dream of paradise’. She and Ruka exchanged messages almost daily, and he had begun to hear her voice even in her written words. When he told her the people of ash would need more sons and daughters to confront the larger world, her answer had been astounding.

  “I am ordering every Galdric daughter below the rank of High Priestess to take a mate, shaman, and creating new fertility festivals. If you can feed us, I will stress the duty of every matron to bear children. Please inform your men.”

  He’d laughed out loud when he read it, thinking her as crazy as he and a worthy ally indeed. He’d expected something akin to rebellion from this, but soon enough, women of the Order came to the swelling town of Kormet to pick mates and houses and become something like matrons—just as the women from Pyu had already started.

  Dala had also offered many outcasts and rebels pardons, including, of course, Aiden of Husavik, and all of Ruka’s followers. She had permitted the ‘nightmen’ of Orhus to work in the day, and to carry weapons like any other man to prove their point. She had even ‘encouraged’ older priestesses to take them as mates.

  Of course, there were problems. As Southerners, Midlanders and Northerners mixed, tensions rose, duels and brawls happening regularly. Chiefs who had lost half or more of their followers began to wonder exactly what they were chief of, and if the old territories even mattered. Southern towns were abandoned. Thievery was rampant and forced Ruka to protect supplies and waste men who might be more useful. Builders in the North did not understand their work, and Folvar reported injury after injury in all the moving and re-building, often with inexperienced men.

  Ruka’s whalers and all the Northern fishermen were pressed harder and harder to provide for so many new mouths, and even so there was never enough food. Animals were being slaughtered faster than could be sustained, and Ruka tried not to consider what would happen if Farahi did not come in the spring.

  None of Ruka’s followers left him, save for Altan, who returned to his farm with his daughters, and Birmun who returned to Orhus. Despite Ruka’s dismissal, Egil stayed, moving into a home in Kormet with Ivar, and Juchi, who soon gave birth to their twins.

  Aiden sent many of his men home to Husavik, but stayed by Ruka’s side, rune-sword held as ever, hand ready for violence. Tahar took a Pyu mate, a house, and a well-earned rest. Eshen brought his matron from Husavik, but otherwise stayed as Ruka’s vigilant shadow.

  Ruka himself remained ever-busy. On Sula’s back he traveled up and down the length of the Ascom, seeking to improve the salt and iron mines, the lumber camps, and the many forges and workings of the textiles made in Orhus. He chose ground for changes to the river and farmlands, areas to plant new trees, and hoped one day to ride to the steppes to make allies of the horse-tribes, and perhaps even the far-South.

  The Ascom weathered a fall and then a winter with no harvest from the fertile ring. They slaughtered animals, stretched the crops from the Midlands to the brink, and relied on fishing more than ever. They survived.

  Ruka counted every day. By Pyu reckoning he marked the moon by Matohis, trying to put the fear from his mind that all would end in ruin if not for one foreign king. His huge, empty bins stood ready in Kormet, soon to be either a sign of the great future of plenty ahead, or a sad, useless landmark—testament to a broken hope, and the beginning of another war over grain.

  Ruka returned to Kormet the day before spring.

  More than ever he was treated as some kind of prophet, or demi-god, avoided with panicked respect by most except his retainers. His wall had become a religious artifact, attracting pilgrims from Orhus all the way to the South, travelers coming to leave trinkets or scratch runes on the stone, or beg the gods for favors. Ruka only regretted the land it had made useless.

  Every day he helped his builders or shipmakers, but in the mornings he stood on the beach and watched the horizon, eyes tricking him with every glint of light or dot of ocean spray until he resigned to his work.

  The stores of food ran lower daily. If Farahi failed, or betrayed, no words of comfort or promise would hold back the madness of starvation that followed. Not even Dala could stop the matrons and great chiefs from doing what they had to feed their children and themselves. War would be inevitable, and it would soak the children of ash in blood.

  Spring progressed. Warmth returned to the soil, flocks of birds coming from the North to whine at fishermen and mate on the beach. Ruka now sailed with the whalers trying to help and find new sources. They moved out further and further, took more risks and lost more men. Soon he forced himself to consider what to do without Farahi—thinking perhaps they could hunt the horse herds of the steppes, though he knew it would mean war and death for the tribes who lived there. Instead he chose a kind of faith, and waited.

  He worked every moment of every day—with whalers in the light, and alone building houses in the dark. Once a week a collapsed to his furs in Folvar’s hall to rest his body. But even so, he worked in his Grove. Or at least he tried.

  In the final days of spring, Ruka was jerked awake by panicked footsteps, and a young man’s shouts. He had only vague memories of a nightmare, starving to death on a deserted island.

  “Shaman!” Folvar burst into the hall panting. He looked terrified. “Shaman. From the sea. There are warships. Come quickly.”

  Ruka wiped the sleep from his eyes and bolted after his ally, feeling only a lingering sense of dread. He ran beside Folvar to the beach, fearing some deep and awful treachery—some unforeseen Chahen move that would disrupt his careful strategy and end their game. But he could not understand why.

  What could Farahi gain by making war on the Ascom? Was it simply to destroy a nascent threat? Or could it be some other island king who had learned of the secret? In a kind of panic, he realized: perhaps it is Kikay.

  He splashed into the shallow water of the beach, squinting as he looked out to sea. His eyes were not as good as Folvar’s in the light, but soon he saw the blue and silver flags of the Alakus, huge sails curved in the wind. They were clustered together, and as they came Ruka saw more, and more.

  He almost choked as he saw them more clearly, and realized the truth. He put a hand to Folvar’s shoulder. “Those
are not warships,” he said, knowing the man had seen the size and assumed. Ruka felt the smile coming and did not fight it. “In the new world, cousin, those are transports.”

  He waited and watched the cluster as a single ship broke and sailed to the coast, releasing an even smaller vessel to come ashore.

  Ruka watched the young, beardless, square-jawed man at the helm, his face impassive and perhaps impatient.

  “Loa, sir.” Captain Kwal stepped onto the dark sand of the Ascom for the second time. Several rowers behind him watched the shore and the foreigners with ill-concealed amazement. Kwal held a scroll in his hand, which he waved as he spoke.

  “This contains the full contents aboard my fifty ships. Beyond considerable rice and salted pork, there is wheat-seed, fennel, mustard…,“ he shrugged in disinterest, “I know nothing of farming, sir, but Farahi’s man said there is a mixture of crops that might survive in colder weather and provided details. I have also brought the king’s Chief Builder, and some of his men. My lord says they are to serve you until next spring when we return with more supplies. I am told you can perhaps provide us with some silver, and iron. But he says this year whatever you can give will be adequate, though I will also need fresh water. Next year we will expect more in trade, and for assistance in war if he calls, but he says, and I quote ‘I don’t expect to’.”

  Ruka met the mostly blank expression of the man who had just brought an entire people life, and salvation. He took the scroll and inspected it for a moment, then laughed and stepped forward, lifting the surprised islander in his arms. Kwal eventually grinned, and returned the squeeze.

  “You stink like rum,” Ruka said, face buried in the man’s shoulder, unable to stop the full-toothed smile.

  Kwal sniffed. “I’m a marine, sir. We all stink like rum.”

  Ruka laughed and set him down, lost for words as he looked at the fleet of transports. He tried and failed to imagine the cost, the effort, the absolute impossibility of what Farahi had done.

  “I assume I may tell my lord you accept his trade and friendship?” Kwal lifted a brow, as if there were some chance of rejection.

  Ruka bowed as low as his pride would allow. “You may tell your lord he has made an eternal ally. Assure him we will make the Alakus ever more famous for silver. And may his enemies tremble in fear.”

  Kwal smiled politely and turned towards his boat. “We’ll begin unloading, sir. But I have few crew. Yours will need to do most of the work.”

  Ruka nodded absently, flooded now with a relief so great he could hardly stand. His hands trembled and with the sensation he felt his brother fading, as if preparing for a long sleep like the plants and beasts, perhaps knowing he would not be needed. Ruka thought it wise, for he had another brother now, a brother of the mind across the sea. Farahi had come.

  The men of ash would at last have time, and support. They would re-build their frozen lands, and Ruka would find ways to stop the sickness and disease that spread between them and their new allies. He would forget the past and the old hatreds that could form with a room of runes and the legacy of the Vishan. One day he would give the full history to his people, but it could wait. Farahi had come.

  Ascomi and islander would work together in peace, and prepare for the future Farahi had seen. If he was right, it would not be easy. They would mix their fates and fortunes as perhaps they had been mixed since the day the Enlightened came. But the past need not decide the future. One day Ruka’s and Farahi’s people would face the larger world together, and preserve the legacy of their ancestors.

  He looked to the birds circling over the islanders’ ships—the same birds that had once led an outcast North, and smiled. Welcome home, clever cousins, he thought, welcome home.

  Chapter 67

  A cold, dark place. 15 years later. The present.

  Kale woke to a crackling fire, and a deep, sonorous hum. Above him he saw carved beams holding a painted, wooden roof. The planks serving as walls had been decorated with many drawings of animals, most strange and unfamiliar, but all made with incredible detail and skill. Many shelves held wooden figurines, also of real or imaginary beasts, so intricate and perfect they looked alive.

  “The sleeper wakes.”

  Kale blinked and jerked to his elbows. He lay in a bed twice his size, covered in what looked like thick, dark fur. His head pulsed in agony and he could see cloth bandage covered parts of his exposed torso. The giant with bright eyes sat next to a fire stirring an iron pot.

  “I have covered your wounds in ointment, and bandaged them. I have also given you a tincture to help with the pain.” He pointed at the pot. “This is mostly rabbit, and potatoes. But I have many Pyu spices now and attempted to make something that will taste familiar to an Alaku prince. That is, if you are hungry.”

  Kale blinked. His own family name formed in his mind as the giant spoke it.

  “You know who I am?”

  At his words, the giant jerked and spilled some of his soup. He stared until his eyes grew watery.

  “You can speak. I…I had thought you had, but wasn’t sure. I didn’t think you were dead, but...you can speak. Yes I know who you are.”

  Kale found the man or creature’s reaction strange, but lodged in the far stranger reality of his surroundings he paid little attention. “Where am I? And who are you?”

  The giant stirred his pot, and sighed. “Those are complicated questions. My name is Ruka.” He squinted and gazed around the house. “Once I believed this place a child’s fantasy, a harmless day-dream to house a troubled mind. But it is more. Like the other world you know it is governed by rules I don’t truly understand. How you have come here, even how I created it, I am not certain.”

  He dished a ladle full of soup into a wooden bowl and set it on a near-by table. “Eat,” he said, but made no attempt to move it closer.

  Kale had to rise to get it. He groaned and pulled off his furs, setting his feet firmly on the floor. He decided he must still be dreaming, or unconscious, or hallucinating, though he didn’t remember ever doing so this vividly. It was a very strange dream. His vision blurred but he stood steadily enough and held out his arms to keep his balance.

  ‘Ruka’ watched him and nodded as if pleased, but still made no move to interfere.

  Kale thought eating imaginary food no more unusual than anything else in this dream, so he sat at the sturdy table and spooned dream-soup to his lips.

  He realized he was famished. He leaned forward to gorge as if he were back in the navy, burning the roof of his mouth but beyond caring. His host watched and said nothing, and Kale’s world became only chewing and filling his stomach until the bowl emptied and he took a breath and leaned back in his chair.

  “Almost like coconut soup,” he said as he realized, and the strange dream-creature smiled. Kale found himself staring at his host’s ugliness—made worse by the beauty of the small, but comfortable home.

  “So bizarre,” he said.

  “What is, prince?”

  “That I’d imagine such a frightening man as you, and all the details here. I’ve no memory of anything. Yet I expect I’ll soon wake in my bed in the palace.”

  ‘Ruka’ blinked and his eyes sparkled in the firelight. His grin faded, and despite knowing he was really just talking to himself, Kale felt a bit embarrassed at his choice of words.

  “Perhaps you would like to use those legs, and have a tour.”

  Kale shrugged, then nodded politely. They rose together and Kale wobbled a moment before steadying. The giant watched him but made no move to support. Instead he walked to the door and opened it, his eyes narrowing slightly at a squeak from one of the hinges.

  “Come, island prince. See what else your sleeping mind has made.”

  Kale nodded in thanks as he passed through the held-open door, stepping out into lush, green grass. The air struck him—cool, and dry, like a palace cellar, and a fog sat heavy over a world of colorful and varied plants. Rows of vegetables separated and labeled with woode
n stakes ran all around the multi-leveled house. Beyond them built in rings were huge, foreign trees, mixed with palms and maybe figs and mangoes in a pattern so thick they blocked sight. The canopy stretched up into the fog and Kale couldn’t see the sky, save for perhaps a few bright spots of stars.

  He looked at his host, who had closed his eyes. As he did, a chanting music drifted from the heavens. Kale listened and realized it was Pyu and perhaps Batonian monks, their voices mixed with a deep, throaty hum, and the quiet strumming of some instrument with strings. The sound was slow, and sad, but peaceful. It rose and fell as Kale watched the giant sway to the sound as if in rapture. He opened his eyes again.

  “This way, young Alaku.” The giant moved onwards, breathing the air as if he too had just come to this place anew, and Kale followed in fascination.

  They walked through an elaborate garden of bushes and flowers and fountains. The flowers all seemed in full bloom, reds and blues and violets built as if in paths to guide the way over flat, smooth stones laid perfectly together.

  “It’s beautiful,” Kale whispered, because it was, and the giant smiled.

  “It is for my mother. The house as well, the garden, and other things.” He pointed to a clearing, and Kale’s eyes widened. In the center stood the most life-like, perfect sculpture he had ever seen. A woman carved from stone emerged from the garden’s core, one hand raised to the heavens, the other over a small, maybe pregnant bump on her belly. Even the lines in her face were visible, her long hair grooved with tiny strands—every piece of the stone rounded or etched or carved until it seemed all but alive.

  “You must have loved her very much,” Kale managed, overwhelmed at the sight. “I never knew my mother. She died when I was young.”

  His host glanced at him, then looked away as if embarrassed. He turned and led down one of the many paths away from the clearing, and they walked in silence for a time. Kale felt a little as he had on Bato—a peaceful sort of escape from life, too perfect to let simple worries intrude.