Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  The island king’s brow furrowed at Ruka’s tone. “Has the sickness spread again? Is my grand-son all right?”

  “No, and yes.” Ruka waved a hand in annoyance. “I’ve come from the coast.” He met his old friend’s eyes and held them. “I saw a miracle today, or at least some act of nature I can not explain. I watched dark clouds swell like pooling water over Nong Ming Tong. I heard thunder without lightning. And I watched the sea itself become still. I can’t explain, but it felt…controlled. As if by something, or someone. I thought perhaps you would know more.”

  Farahi’s eyes narrowed as he leaned back and drifted far away. The man could hide his feelings better than most anyone Ruka had ever known, but at Ruka’s words, the stone-face had cracked with something more than surprise.

  He said nothing, however, and from experience Ruka knew his friend would always win a war of patience. He rose and paced while he waited, then considered working in his Grove, but the dead had long moved past needing his help.

  “I know you’ve seen it. What does it mean?” he said when he could wait no more.

  Farahi blinked but otherwise remained frozen, no doubt still searching his visions. Ruka flexed his hands and took a breath, looking at the few paintings of his ally’s ancestors. The work was done well enough, but the canvass left something to be desired, and the likeness seemed too angled.

  The king finally released a breath. “Yes. I’ve seen it before. I thought it was a dream.”

  “Aren’t all your visions ‘dreams’?”

  Ruka had learned much of Farahi’s visions over the years. He knew, for whatever reason, his friend could see the future, at least his future, or that of his descendants. Usually he saw it best while sleeping, but could do so awake if he let his mind stray.

  Much, however, could hide from his sight. As he explained it, he saw ‘possibilities’, and it took a great deal of time and effort to narrow these down and decide which was most likely. He could never truly be sure, and Ruka thought he relied on them too much.

  “I will need time to see beyond it,” said the king, rather carefully. He fiddled with his papers.

  Ruka scattered pieces from the half finished Chahen board on his desk.

  “You’re all out of time,” he hissed. “I lose men every day to your proscriptions. I need more people and to send transports back with food. And we need to start working with Kapule now, and bringing in your sons, and all the other coastal nations to restore Sri Kon under our new leadership. The time for caution and thinking and plotting is over, Farahi. It is time to act. Now tell me what you’ve bloody seen, because I must prepare for it.”

  Farahi’s mouth opened and snapped shut. He was a guarded, careful man, and sometimes required pushing.

  “There’s more,” Ruka said, picking up some of the pieces, “I’ve seen your son.”

  The king blinked and his face contorted slightly in anger. “I thought we’d agreed to keep Tane in the dark until after. He’s still imprisoned at least?”

  “Your youngest son, Farahi. Kale has somehow come to me in my Grove, or perhaps he was lost. I don’t know how, or why.”

  Farahi blinked again, sitting back as if he’d been struck. Ruka did not blame him. His ally knew much of his own ‘gifts’ to create, but little of his Grove—save that it was filled with the dead.

  “He is alive,” Ruka said after a pause. In his heart he had known the moment Kale fell from the sky and could speak that something in the world was different. Then he’d seen the storm. Now Farahi’s reluctance. He watched his ally very carefully. “I think your son has gifts, Farahi, like his father. And I think he’s coming home.”

  The king flicked his gaze to Ruka’s eyes. He abandoned the Chahen piece in his hand, leaning back to look at the only portrait in the room of his family.

  “Life is so strange,” he whispered, lifting a mostly untouched bottle of rum from a drawer in his desk, as well as two small glasses. “A man can be so careful, Ruka, he can plan for a hundred likely things, neglecting one, and it is that neglect which destroys him.”

  Ruka watched every detail of his friend’s face to lock in his mind and examine. He took a deep breath at his words, and a large swallow of rum. The island king was not a dramatic man, nor prone to sloppy words. Farahi sipped and kept looking at his portrait, a small grin perhaps on his lips.

  “Tell me what it means,” Ruka said, losing his patience. “How do I prepare?”

  Farahi snorted, and shook his head. “I don’t know. Not for certain. I have dreamed of my death in a storm and never seen the cause.” He moved to the images of his sons, and smiled sadly. “I can see my descendants future, Ruka, but never while I’m alive.”

  “Tell me what it means, Farahi.”

  The man clenched his jaw and his eyes watered as he drank. “In all my dreams, I have never once seen Kale from his eyes. I had always thought…I thought he might die young, or at least before me. In truth perhaps because of this I tried not to love him, or perhaps it was just because of Hali. In any case I thought I would lose him, and that there was nothing I could do.”

  “Spit it out, damn you. What do you see?”

  The king met Ruka’s eyes. Etched on the stoic rock of his face lay some mixture of pride and sadness, exasperation and fear.

  “I see a fleet of my ships. They carry an army to re-take this island. I don’t know when they’ll come, or who leads them. But all around them is rebellion and chaos and death, and behind them a great storm that blots out the sun and the stars. This storm sweeps your ships from the sea, and your men from the beaches. I don’t see a thread to stop it.”

  “It is Kale,” Ruka said, “Kale is the storm.”

  Farahi met Ruka’s eyes but said nothing, as if he couldn’t himself yet believe. Ruka watched the boy again in his Grove—his plummet through the mists, crashing headlong into soil with the power of a meteor.

  He found me there, he thought, wherever I am. And he could speak. What does that mean?

  “I’ll have to stop him, Farahi. We’ve come too far for this.”

  “You can’t stop the storm in my vision, Ruka, it’s…,” Farahi’s eyes faded again as if in awe, “it’s like a God. Like the power of a great wave directed by a man. Not even you can stop it.”

  Ruka stood and clenched a fist. “You have always relied too much on your visions. I’ll test this ‘storm’. And if the boy is truly so powerful, we must convince him. He is your son, Farahi. Speak to him.”

  The king took a deep breath. “We parted very badly. He may not listen to anything I say.”

  “You’re his father. He will rage, but he will listen. Perhaps we can use this army. You can re-emerge now, sooner than planned. I can call a peace and we can establish an alliance as intended.”

  Farahi blinked, and nodded stiffly “Yes, maybe. I can try. But there’s so much Kale doesn’t know and won’t understand.” He paused, and shifted in his seat. “You could surrender to him. Let him enter the palace a conquering hero, then you and I will have the time to speak and convince him.”

  Ruka almost snarled at the thought. His people had come for land and new lives in a larger world. They had sacrificed and toiled, suffered and died. They had not come to kneel.

  “Every week I kill island lords because you say they will not bend,” Ruka spoke and tried to control his contempt. “Your people are not the only ones with pride, Farahi. The men of ash are not here to surrender to an untried, angry boy who barked at them. That would dishonor us. It is impossible. If Kale has powers and warriors, so be it. They will be tested. Every one of my men would rather die than be dishonored. Peace requires respect. If he chooses to fight, he will learn it.”

  Farahi met his eyes, then gave a tight smile. “Let us hope I am wrong. And if not, that Kale has learned patience, and is wiser than his father.”

  Ruka released some frustration with a breath, then nodded and turned to the stairs. He would save his ships and instead prepare a force on the beach. If Kale h
ad such power, surely he wouldn’t use it unless he saw sufficient threat. He must therefore be threatened.

  As Ruka emerged from the cells and walked towards his men, he felt his steps were quicker and lighter than they’d been in months. His body moved with a strength he hadn’t known in many years—with a purpose, perhaps, other than that of saving others. By the time he’d cleared the gate and signaled a meeting with his retainers, he had to admit, he was excited.

  All his life he had wanted to face a god. Perhaps now he would get the chance.

  Chapter 70

  The rain over Ketsra turned to a deluge as the monsoon moved. Kale had felt the windows of his spirit-house all but close as he spent every scrap of will to coax the sea.

  “Where should we go?” Osco called over the howl of the wind.

  “To my people,” Kale yelled, doubting his friend even heard. It didn’t matter. He struggled just to keep his eyes open, and felt more than saw his friends lift him up by his shoulders and carry him towards all that remained of Sri Kon’s navy.

  He fought sleep despite the exhaustion, reveling in the thick droplets of water falling into his face. Soon he saw vessels ranging from ten-man scouts to large, hundred-man warships moored and lashed in various states of readiness. Shirtless sailors swarmed over them tying down sails or stowing provisions.

  One marine in particular caught his attention. He was standing on the sand pointing and screaming as he directed others. It was a young man, Kale realized, half-naked in nothing but an island loincloth, stomping footprints in the wet beach with muddy feet as he moved.

  Kale recognized him, and couldn’t help but smile: it was Haku—one of the captains who had served with Kale in training school, and saved his team from utter failure when they’d been betrayed and dumped in the sea.

  “Take me…to him.” Kale pointed. As they got closer, Haku turned and stared, his momentum of screaming interrupted as he blinked in surprise.

  “Captain…Prince Alaku…,” something near the ships caught his eye, and he seemed torn between protocol and rage. “Take him aboard.” He pointed at a near-by flagship, and gave the briefest of bows before spinning back on his men with obscenities.

  Even half-conscious Kale grinned and would have hugged the young man if he could. If Haku lived, then maybe so did the others. Maybe Thetma and Fautave and Lauaki. He realized he should very much like to see them again.

  Asna and Osco dragged him past several staring marines without a word, then up the boarding ramp and out of the rain and into a cabin without knocking. The officer rose from his bunk as if to scream bloody murder, then inspected the intruders more closely and silenced.

  Kale mumbled a half apology as the man helped Osco set him down. He’d meant to ask the sailor’s name, but soon heard only the creaking of wood, the howl of the wind, then all was blissful darkness.

  Admiral Mahen visited him in the night. After giving his apologies and inquiring after Kale’s health so many times he’d have impressed the most tedious Naranian diplomat, he came to the point.

  “We’re almost out of supplies, my lord. Since your…efforts on the beach, the Tong have stopped bringing grain. We fish, of course, though the locals despise us for it and there’s more than a few incidents. But…we have to move. Spreading out down the coast is wise, I suggest all the way to Samna. We will have more desertion, but there’s too many men in one place to feed, and...”

  Kale raised a hand and sat up. He was feeling stronger already, though he could still sleep for a week.

  “Tomorrow I’ll speak to the men, Admiral. We’ve waited long enough. It’s time to go home.”

  Mahen clenched his jaw and looked as if he wasn’t sure whether to speak. “I’m sorry, my prince, but we can’t. We will lose. Even if we beat their fleet or surprise them and land, and even if we beat whatever fighting men they have, we don’t have the supplies. They’ll hole up inside the palace, and we have no way to breach the walls. We would be forced to plunder our own people for food and water—which, the enemy has likely already done. Sooner or later we’ll be forced to withdraw.”

  Kale forced himself not to interrupt the man, knowing this was all likely very reasonable. He knew the admiral didn’t believe he’d brought the monsoon—that the rains were due and had simply come now on their own accord.

  “I can get us in the gates, or through the walls,” he said. “I can also cause great damage to the enemy’s fleet, or their army. Once we’ve landed, the people of Sri Kon will rally to our cause. I’ll help there, too.” He smiled. “And you’ve not seen my Mesanites in battle, Admiral. They’re worth five times their number. Likely more.”

  He glanced at the older man’s expression and saw his opinion hadn’t changed. Another miracle might do the trick, he thought. But the truth was the officer owed him his loyalty no matter what he deemed their chances, and Kale was already tired of trying to convince him.

  “That’s the last I’ll say of it. I am your king.” He stared until Mahen met his eyes. “We are at war, Admiral. You have two options. Do your duty.” He had intended to say ‘or be stripped of command,’ but the severity of their situation, and perhaps his anger, changed his mind. “Or die.”

  With his spirit he whispered to Asna and opened the door, and the Condotian entered with a hand resting on one of his many knives. The admiral glanced back, then returned his gaze to Kale, as if assessing the seriousness of that claim. Kale truly hoped he didn’t test it.

  “As you say, my king. I will do my duty.” Mahen displayed not a shred of pleasure, but Kale believed him a man of honor. He would do as he pledged. With that he turned and stooped to leave the cabin, and after a nod from Kale, Asna stepped aside.

  “Don’t let anyone else in. I need to rest.”

  The mercenary grinned and closed the door, and Kale lay back and blinked away the tears, feeling every moment, even in his thoughts, he became more and more like Farahi. Another sorcerer king, he thought, rising to power at the death of all my kin.

  The part of him still a boy and not a prince or king cried out in frustration. He didn’t want it, any of it. Yet tomorrow he would ask thousands of men to risk their lives to make it so. And one way or another, he would lead them to bloody slaughter.

  * * *

  In the morning, Kale changed into a navy uniform. He woke feeling stronger and clearer than he had since Nanzu, remembering the strange dream-giant’s words of purpose.

  Your life is not yours alone. You owe the dead, prince of paradise. You have accepted their gifts, and so you bare the burden of their deeds.

  It made him realize there was more at stake than just suffering, and the lives of his people. He must honor all they had built already, and so too must all the islanders. It made him feel less responsible for the violence to come, as if in a way it were inevitable, and required. Like the admiral—it was his duty.

  He stepped out from the flagship’s cabin into an almost flooded beach. The sky was still so dark it was difficult to tell if it was morning. The rain still poured, though it had lessened slightly.

  Sailors were hard at work dealing with the weather and swelling tide. They covered everything in tarps, lashed supplies, wrapping ropes over masts and sails until nothing moved but the hulls in the water. Kale kicked Asna’s foot, who was sleeping outside the door beneath a canopy. He jerked awake and pulled a knife in each hand, then grinned and stood with a stretch by Kale’s side.

  “Look good, islander. Healthy, neh?”

  Kale smiled and stepped out into the rain, using but a tiny thread to protect himself from getting soaked. He breathed and flew out with his spirit, feeling restless already, eager to test the power he felt hanging all around him.

  He walked amongst the men, soon finding Osco and all his Mesanites camped and waiting under the closest trees. They looked soaked, and rather miserable.

  “Don’t see this in the hills, I imagine?” he shouted. His friend’s eyebrows twitched like a soggy cat’s whiskers.

&nbs
p; “Can we sail in this?” Osco pointed, and Kale grinned because the Pyu could sail in damn near anything. He waved to follow, and the general rallied his men.

  Together they crossed the beach attracting stares from waking or waiting men. For a moment he considered telling Mahen and some others to get the navy moving and maybe gathered first so he could make a speech. But he realized—he didn’t need them gathered. He could speak to every man whenever he wished.

  Kale walked in full view, straight and with purpose—like a navy man and maybe like the prince he was. Osco and Asna kept at his side, near five-hundred Mesanites in full, soggy kit around him. The sailors outside his ship were now awake and moving, but stood still and silent as they watched him approach.

  “Where is your Captain?” he called. The sailors looked at each other.

  “Dead, lord. Don’t have one. Not official-like.”

  Kale held back a smile because he knew all about unofficial captains. Haku stepped out from below deck, and the men cleared him a space.

  “Still doing what needs doing, eh marine?” Kale spoke in a neutral tone. Some of the sailors looked confused and rather impressed, and all eyes turned to Haku.

  “I try, lord.”

  Kale grinned. Up from the stairwell, several heads bobbed and cluttered each other with grunts as they pushed to the top. Soon beside Haku came Fautave and Thetma, faces cracking into shit-eating grins.

  “Well aren’t you a bloody sight for sore eyes,” said Thetma, whose sun-dark farmer skin had gotten even darker since training.

  “He always was the pretty one,” added ‘Big’ Fautave, who’d gotten bigger.

  At this the other sailors almost cringed, and even Fautave looked concerned he may have overstepped. Kale laughed, and the tension diffused.

  “Your mouth was always bigger than your brain, you pennyless son of a whore.” His friend grinned and looked at his fellows as if he’d been picked out for some special honor. Kale turned back to Haku. “Would you and your miserable men do the honor of carrying me and my allies to Sri Kon, Captain?”