Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  But they couldn’t, he knew, at least not yet. Some few must first cross into strange waters alone, forging a path for those behind. For now, that task lay with him.

  His sandals touched on the yellowish sand of the Tong coast. The tide surged towards the beach, and he walked out until the water washed over his feet and shins and rose to his knees. He breathed in the salty air and thought of his childhood, of his brothers and Lani, Aunt Kikay and his nursemaids, and yes, even his father.

  “I have lived a good life,” he said with tears of joy in his eyes for what he already had. He had loved and been loved. He had flown through the sky and swum for his brothers and shared in the victory of expendable sons. He maybe even had a son, if the boy yet lived. But he burned this thought at once.

  There were so many questions, so many truths yet to discover, so many deeds undone. But before he could do more, seek more, by God or Gods or spirits, he would bring these people their rain.

  A man fails in only two ways, he heard the strange, forceful giant. He quits, or he dies.

  Kale shivered as he thought of the land of the dead. Another riddle, another mystery he couldn’t explain, like Ando the boy who was not a boy, Master Lo and his shadow, and Master Tamo who had taught him to dance the Ching in a room of symbols and light.

  What a strange, and wonderful world it is, how full of mystery and beauty, and not only suffering.

  Kale looked out past the gentle waves to the deep, roiling power of the sea. What makes the waves, he had asked his oldest brother Tane as a child. A great beast churning in the deep, he’d said.

  Kale laughed, though he wished he knew the answer because the answer mattered, but not today. Today all that mattered is what Kale did. And today he would bring the rain to Nong Ming Tong, or he would die.

  He was ready, and perhaps understood Osco better now than he ever had. It wasn’t a desire for death—only a declaration of intent, an acceptance of meaning. I am mortal, fragile, and flawed, Kale thought, but that will not stop me from doing what I must.

  His spirit rose far above him and reached out for the dense, cords of power stretching out far beyond the mountains to the West. He wrapped one arm inside them, thinking of what he’d tried before and how it had failed.

  Go around, go over, go through, said the giant. ‘Ruka’s’ golden eyes stared at him from the roiling sky as they once had from the fog. Kale thought of Osco fighting the threads of power in the air, flailing and helpless because he sought only control. He must not try to control it, to fight it, that was impossible.

  He knew instantly he’d been an arrogant fool. One did not try to control the world—but rode atop it, like the pontoons of his people’s ships, cutting and skimming above the waves, using the force of the sea and the wind, the master of nothing except himself.

  Kale reached his other arm into the sea. As he touched the cords of power beneath he could almost feel the desire to be one, the pull of the wetness of the rain and the sea as two pieces of a massive puzzle, sloshing against their walls to one day mix and drain to the same gutter.

  He cried out as he pulled. This time, he tried only to bend the threads of the world, not break them. He saw the water seething with foam as he did, waves swirling unnaturally against it, as if fighting yet some greater force. He almost laughed because for the first time he truly understood the story of Rangi and Roa.

  Perhaps his ancestors, trapped between the sky and the sea, could only pass this understanding on through their stories because everything else fell away. In that story, the hero Rupi had not been some mighty warrior, nor a sorcerer who mastered miracles, nor a fearsome king who mastered man—he had been a trickster. Rupi had cut the sun and spilled its warmth, stolen fire as he had stolen the heart of the sea, fleeing beneath the waves. He used great power, he did not contain it.

  Kale tried to do the same. He stood inside a maelstrom of power, between great forces that would punish a misstep, or a single moment of arrogance. He let them wash over his body and spirit, teasing them closer, always closer, until the moment of clash arrived, the two beasts rising to a mutual challenge. Then he ran.

  The force collapsed as if trying to crush him until the sky touched the sea, and cracked like thunder. For a moment Kale blew away in the single flash of lightning, the waves and the clouds lit in perfect daylight, silent and still and beautiful.

  Both his spirit and body blasted away from the power. He lay on the beach, looking up at the swirling colors of the endless sky, threads layered like a rainbow as infinite as the stars.

  “Are you alright?”

  Osco was checking him for wounds as thunder rumbled from the West. The clouds swelled and darkened until even Kale’s spirit lost sight of the threads beyond. He raised his hands as the first raindrops fell, and laughed like Rupi when he’d outrun death.

  He knew he was just a man. Yes, he knew that, and men were nothing. But he thought again of Ruka the maybe-dream giant, scowling in the dark. Piss on your humility, he’d said, you’re still alive.

  Kale watched the sky moving faster than seemed possible, clouds pulling towards the sea bringing water and life and salvation for a million thirsty mouths. It was not his power that saved them, because it came from the earth.

  But still, he, Ratama Kale Alaku, with the help of the sea, had called the monsoon. Maybe for this one act he would become a legend, a myth come to life out of some ancient book. The fourth prince, they would say, the expendable son—like Rupi cutting the sun-beast, or tricking Roa before him—Kale the Sorcerer-Prince had called the sky, and the sky-god answered.

  Chapter 69

  Not far across the North Alaku Sea. The present.

  “Look at the water, shaman!”

  Ruka grunted at Eshen’s voice without looking. He stood on the Northern beach of Sri Kon in the sweltering afternoon sun, leading a group of young Ascomi warriors in their drills.

  “Spearmen,” he growled, “double line.”

  The teenage boys—all from what the men of ash now called the ‘Galdric generation’, or the sons of priestesses after Dala required them to mate—panted but leapt to obey. Sweat poured down the red flesh of their uncovered faces and necks, and they shuffled apart from their massed formation and spread out as ordered. Ruka turned and walked to the water.

  He blinked, confused by what he saw as he approached. He raised a hand over his brow to block the sun and stared at the sea, thinking perhaps it was some kind of trick of the eye. But it lasted too long. And the sound—the sound of the sea itself was wrong.

  The warmth of the day vanished as a coldness spread through Ruka’s gut.

  In the distance, the sky roiled with thick, dark cloud, and perhaps warned of a storm. This was not so unusual of the season in the isles, but Ruka soon understood what had caught Eshen’s attention. It was the tide. The tide had stopped entirely.

  Beyond and further out to sea, the North Alaku itself seemed stilled like a pond in calm wind. Flat, unbroken water stretched from the white sand as far as Ruka could see. He knew this was impossible. Yet, he could see it with his own eyes.

  “What does it mean, lord?”

  Ruka was about to shake his head, then jumped as the sky crashed with a thunderous roar. As if leashed by some godly chain, the dark clouds in the distance mashed together far in the North, then flashed with thick lightning, followed by a hundred pale echoes of the first boom.

  Eshen held up his hand and made the mark of Bray, and for the first time in his life, Ruka was tempted to join him. Instead he shook his head, caught for a moment in awe.

  Ripples began in the water, and soon the tide surged and foamed and white spray followed waves as the water renewed its attack against the sand. Within several more heartbeats, all seemed returned to normal.

  Ruka stared for a long time at the images and sounds because he did not understand. The image of a man soaring through the sky like a meteor, crashing headlong into the land of the dead refused to leave his mind. But he put it away. For now
he would assume nothing, and if any man could give him answers, it was Farahi.

  “Drills are over. Go back to your posts.” Ruka turned to find the young warriors had managed both to obey his order to form lines, and also face themselves to the coast to watch the spectacle. Despite his concern, it made him smile.

  But as usual he had no time for pleasant things. He jogged towards the palace, Eshen close behind him with an open stack of letters and notes. He had learned to read and write with the Galdric generation, and known Ruka long enough now not to further question the sky, or the sea, and instead focus on the things requiring attention.

  “Aiden has returned from the Molbog, shaman,” he said without panting from their run. “He said the list of nobles for execution were all found save for one, who he believes fled to the continent.”

  Ruka nodded, not really caring about individual island lords. “How many losses?”

  “Fifty three dead, a hundred or more wounded.”

  “So many?” Ruka snapped his attention to his retainer at this, and spoke more loudly than he intended. “What the hell happened?”

  “Mostly dead at sea, lord. The Molbog had several warships. They fought bravely.”

  Ruka’s hands twitched and his pace increased. Damn these islands, he thought, damn Farahi’s complex world and all his nobles and all their petty problems. Already there was so much stupid waste. So many executions for island lords or Orang Kaya because Farahi said it must be so, because ‘they would turn traitor when the empire came’, and because he was usually right. Even in paradise, the wealthy squabbled over whose plate should be the fullest.

  We were supposed to come in peace, he almost growled. But Farahi said the island lords would not accept it—that even now the Alakus had too many enemies, and in every vision of the future he saw assassinations, piracy and even outright alliance with Naran no matter what he did. Better to have the Ascom ‘attack’, he’d assured—better to kill Farahi’s enemies in pretend ‘raids’, and when all the ‘problem lords’ were dead, make a lasting peace thereafter.

  So as always, Ruka had done what was required. Farahi had sent nearly his whole navy away on ‘training exercises’, and Ruka had landed to ‘capture’ Sri Kon’s open gates in darkness. For months now he and his men had purged the island lords, and the death and waste continued to mount. Fifty three more, he thought. Fifty three more brave men of ash who had come so far would never enjoy the fruits of their labor.

  Ruka tried to put this from his mind. He passed out of the navy district and into the edges of Sri Kon proper. The streets bustled with trade as usual. Ascomi and Pyu civilians did their best to communicate and had since the occupation began. It did not always go smoothly, but things had improved.

  Warriors stood at their posts—or at least hid in shade close to their posts—and after so many months of largely peaceful control, the islanders had returned to daily life. After the initial fear and hiding, the Pyu women in particular had begun to realize the white-skinned giants meant them no harm, and indeed, even feared them. Though they had a tendency to stare.

  Ruka had ordered his men to avoid violence since the beginning. Most obeyed, though incidents happened. Food supplies were still adequate because Farahi had stockpiled, though with the drought lasting so long this could change.

  All of this was only distraction, though—the true problem was disease.

  Since the first cases with Trung’s concubines, Ruka had done all he could to understand how it spread and how to treat it. He had learned there was more than one illness. For ten years and more he had experimented, tested, made potions and herbal remedies, isolated and listed symptoms and every possible combination he could try. Still, the diseases spread. The worst began with a skin rash and fever, then vomiting and diarrhea which could be treated but not stopped. The very young or very old often died before it ended.

  The men of ash too began reporting strange illnesses, though far less severe. Different kinds of spots and rashes formed on their skin. Eyes turned bloodshot, fevers came and went, as well as any number of minor ailments. He had brought only strong and healthy men so far to the isles, however, and few of them died.

  It was the children of Pyu who fared worst. Ruka had spent nearly all his time since landing trying to treat them and keep them alive. Farahi tried to tell him it was inevitable and not his fault, that with time all would strengthen and resist the illness. But it seemed so unjust. It was as if no people so different could come together without death, regardless of their intentions—that whether they meant war or peace, trade or plunder, their very nature rejected their aims.

  Each day Ruka forced himself to walk amongst their graves. Farahi had set up ‘military districts’ far in advance to serve as quarantines, and this at least controlled the spread. The men of ash served the sick islanders as nursemaids and cooks, and at least some of those who survived perhaps would come to see their ‘invaders’ differently.

  Ruka entered the busy city streets with Eshen and several bodyguards, and the islanders stared. Many fled before him, as usual, the street thinning as citizens pushed to the edges and clustered near buildings.

  He meant them no harm, of course, and never had, but he did not blame them. He wore the island silks but had covered himself in dyed, dark runes just to intimidate. Better they be frightened, he thought, then build the courage to rebel and force him to put them down. He carried a sword and shield at all times, and he knew his bald, disfigured face frightened even his own people. The islanders knew he was one of the invasion’s leaders.

  Ruka crossed the Kubi and nodded to the few workers setting up the beginnings of a sewer. Ironically, the Ascom’s new capital and Northern towns were now far more advanced in their irrigation then Sri Kon. Over a decade they had constructed copper pipes beneath the earth stretching all the way to Turgen Sar, and every home in between had access.

  In the few months he’d been in the isles, he had already begun a project to improve the flow of fresh water, as well as more barriers against flooding in the rainy season. His old friend Chief Builder Hemi even helped, though he had retired and could hardly move from his ill health after a lifetime of bad habits.

  Ruka grinned as he approached the young Ascomi guards outside the palace gates. They’d huddled and lay prone in the shade of the wall, and when they noticed him they turned an even deeper red as they found their posts and stood tall with spears at the ready.

  “Be calm,” Ruka said quietly as he passed, “I will not tell your chief.”

  Their ‘chief’ was Tahar—who Ruka had placed in charge of the island’s security, and the relatively soft, young boys of the North and the new generation soon learned the iron of an old Southern outcast.

  “Thank you, shaman,” said the elder of the twins. Ruka knew his name, just as he knew the name of every man who had come across in the ‘First Wave’. He pat the boy’s shoulder and moved through to the courtyards, dismissing his guards at the gate.

  A skeleton crew of servants still maintained the palace. Since the initial attack, these were mostly women because Ruka’s warriors were less likely to cause an issue. His overzealous raiders had also killed many of the men in the attack.

  As he cleared the first courtyard, Ruka followed his mental map of Farahi’s fortress. He knew every hallway now, every false room and secret door in perfect detail. Farahi kept most of his unpleasant rooms together in the same wing, and so Ruka was forced to pass through the torture chamber on his way to the prison, flexing his four-fingered hand in memory. He pushed down the exactly recalled feeling of pain, then the taste of the torturer’s flesh, summoning the pleasure of saving Arun, instead.

  “Loa pirate.” Ruka grinned as he reached the cells.

  Arun, or Eka as he now preferred, had begun his evening stretches in his ‘cell’. He held his body inches from the stone floor, contorting himself strangely. Despite being at least forty now, the exertion seemed hardly to bother him, and in truth his body looked little different
than it had in his late twenties.

  “Loa savage,” he said, without a trace of physical strain.

  “I’m in a hurry.” Ruka tapped the bars, and the ex-monk frowned as he stood.

  “Your guards are…”

  “Yes, yes I left them at the gate, open the bloody door.”

  Most of Ruka’s people were not privy to the alliance and deception, thinking they had truly invaded to prove their point. This was far easier for a culture of warriors to understand.

  “You used to be much more lively,” Ruka said.

  Farahi’s spymaster smiled politely and flipped his secret lever, and the trap door clicked at the same time as the gate. “So you’ve said,” he answered, as if neither annoyed nor pleased. Ruka entered the cell, then lifted the bed to descend the secret stairs.

  A thin red covering of carpet began at the bottom of the steps. Dim light lit the bare stone walls of a narrow corridor, and Ruka emerged into the only opening.

  “You’re early,” muttered the king of Sri Kon. He sat at his favorite desk in his favorite chair with a simple cushion, surrounded by books and parchments, inks and quills. He pinched his nose and blinked in the comfortable gloom of his candles and fireplace.

  Ruka frowned. “I knew I would regret giving you a water-clock. I need your talents.”

  Farahi shrugged and returned to his scribbling. “Well I’m not ready. I have three messages for families in the Eastern islands yet to finish, and another short list of names for proscription.”

  “Another bloody list?” Ruka grunted and took the only guest seat. “Nevermind. Forget your letters, this is more important.” He sighed in pleasure at the cooler air in the ‘dungeon’ and wiped sweat from his brow with the fine, silk fabric of his shirt.