Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  Haku bowed in formal navy fashion. “With great pleasure, lord.”

  Kale winced as he glanced back at the Mesanites. “We’ll need another ship or two, you pick them, with my authority. And…while my allies are brave, and fearsome warriors, they…” He failed to find the right words to finish this, and frowned. “They have never been on a ship.”

  Haku and many of the sailors slowly cracked grins, and looked over the silent ranks of heavy infantry, who of course had no idea what they were saying.

  “We’ll tuck them below, sir,” said Haku, “right as royalty till we reach the shore.”

  Kale laughed as he imagined the hillmen sloshing around below, sick as cadets. “Very good, Captain.” He noticed Osco’s impatient eyebrows, and realized it was even possible the Mesanite spoke his language and had never revealed it. Kale nodded, and the general’s son shouted an order. In near unison the hillmen stomped and broke into lines to enter the ships with spears held low, shields tucked before them.

  The islanders all stared in some mixture of awe, fear, and mockery, until Haku started shouting all into panicked action. They began clearing space in the hull in a cleaning frenzy, next moving to the sails while others ran off to commandeer several more ships. Kale thought he’d help them there.

  With his spirit, he whispered in the ears of every man on the beach.

  “I am Ratama Kale Alaku, called by some the Sorcerer-Prince. Today I am your king. By sacred right I take command of this navy in the name of my forebears. By the claim of blood I declare war on whatever cowards have attacked my island. Get off your damn asses, sailors, and make ready. We leave for our city today, right now. We’re taking back our home.”

  He watched many men go from terror to surprise to resolve in the few short words, and some even cheered, then sheepishly checked if others heard voices. Kale thought it would serve.

  Action soon swept the beach. Sailors and marines started loading, rigging and tying down. They checked the hulls and the sails, the oars and the pontoons, swarming over the boats with the skill and precision that marked the Pyu as the greatest sailors in the world. Kale mostly stood on his deck to watch, visible and—he hoped—looking kingly.

  From his relatively calm vantage, he soon saw a pack of Kapule’s men descending from the palace. He counted maybe fifty in total, armed and ready and walking in a protective circle. Kale resisted the urge to inspect them with his spirit, instead predicting it was a messenger. He took the time instead to decide what he’d say.

  As he waited, further down the beach and coming behind the cluster of initial men, he saw hundreds of spear-tips glistening in the rain.

  Growing more concerned, he floated his spirit towards the approaching soldiers, and found at least several hundred—maybe upwards of a thousand, all wearing thick cloth gambeson, armed not only with spears, but shields, and long knives.

  “Osco,” he whispered, “get your men off the boats and in formation. We may have to fight our way free.”

  The general blinked but did not hesitate, calling at his men as he bolted upright and raced for the ramps leading to the sand, the sound of boots soon behind him. The smaller party of Tong thread their way through the staring Pyu sailors and marines, and walked straight to Kale’s ship. Kapule himself stepped out from his bodyguards.

  “I’ve come to wish you luck,” he announced, somewhat strained grin cracking the round edges of his pudgy face. He wore the silks of his station, wrapped from toe to neck despite the wet heat. His men looked as nervous as he did.

  “Thank you,” Kale said in a neutral tone. “Surely that message could have been delivered without a beach full of soldiers.” He gestured towards the growing outline of the block of spears.

  The Tong king glanced in their direction, and his grin spread into a smile. “I saw you fly away from my palace, young Alaku.”

  Kale shrugged. He bit back his first impulse to say ‘yes, and not all the soldiers in the world could protect you from me’. The king almost crept forward until he reached the railing of Kale’s ship, waving a hand at his bodyguard, whose eyes whipped back and forth like an anxious mother.

  “I thought to myself: if he can do that, then what else is possible? I think you did bring the rains. I believe it’s true. And so for that I thank you. These soldiers are yours to command young Alaku because your father is my ally, and if he’s truly dead than I hope his son is still my ally. I am on your side, Kale, and I hope you’re on mine. I feel no shame in declaring this hope is now based on both respect, and fear! Soon, I think, we will meet again. Go to your people and give them my goodwill. And if you see your father tell him what a slippery snake he is, and…” here he paused, and looked more like a father than a king. “If you see my daughter, tell her that her mother worries greatly.”

  Kale searched the man’s words and eyes and found no malice or great deception. He saw the Tong soldiers stopping a safe distance from his men so as not to alarm them, their weapons held at rest, their backs loaded with supplies. He had no words to thank this man.

  “You need never fear me, my lord,” he said, controlling his voice. “You have proved your friendship twice over. My people will not forget.”

  Kapule smiled, and patted Kale’s hand on the rail. “Nor will my accountants, young Alaku, I assure you.”

  With that he turned and gestured at his entourage, and Kale held back his laugh as the squat king waddled towards the hill where his servants already constructed a sort of viewing tent of plush fabric and cushions, protected by silk drapes.

  Kale turned back to his men, brow raised as he gestured to get back to work. All at once Haku roared back to life, ushering Mesanites to their hold, and marines to their ships.

  By mid-morning, the remnants of the Pyu navy floated gently on the Northern edge of the Alaku sea. Smaller scout ships pushed out in a wave, dizzying in their pattern and chaos as they rushed South through the waves to test and spot for the enemy.

  In a huge, unbroken line, the greatest warships full of marines blew their horns and pushed out into the sea, oarsmen sweating and pulling hard.

  In battle these would use their sails if wind allowed, but did not need them. If the enemy came they would loose flaming arrows covered in pitch, throw hooks and javelins, ramming and boarding to charge their marines across if necessary. Just as skillfully, they would fall back, letting the scouts and smaller ships distract and sew chaos in a controlled, but frantic attack of fire and missiles so confusing and precise most enemies hardly knew what was happening.

  No doubt when the enemy first scattered the fleet they’d caught it utterly by surprise. Wherever they came from, and however they even existed, the king’s navy wasn’t ready. This time they were.

  The islanders of Pyu had sailed since time immemorial; they were born to loving and hating the sea as the Tong loved and hated their farmland. In a thousand years they had never lost a battle on the waves. Kale intended to show this ambusher, this honorless thief in the night, exactly why that was.

  “So this is sailing.”

  Kale blinked as Osco lurched to the rail beside him. His face was pale, and he clenched his jaw as he swallowed burps.

  On a different day, in some other context, Kale would have found pure joy in the stoic warrior’s discomfort. Today he needed him at his best, and wished there was another way. Still, he felt a small grin.

  “It’ll get worse if there’s a fight, and your men will be useless. Fortunately, we won’t need you. Once we’ve landed you’ll recover soon enough.”

  Osco’s eyebrows didn’t like being called ‘useless’, but he said nothing, then squinted.

  “Why ‘if’? Are your powers not…useful here? Shouldn’t you be out looking with your spirit-eyes already?”

  Kale looked back to the waves and the ships and nodded. He breathed and felt the sway of the water, knowing beneath him were currents so long and powerful they would terrify anyone who could understand. He felt the monsoon, he felt heat trapped in the water,
air whipping over it blown from the North.

  “The scouts will do their work,” he said. Already an anger built the closer he came to home. He found he couldn’t truly burn the thoughts of his family imprisoned or slaughtered now, his people attacked by some foreign foe. Not knowing anything about his enemy made it worse—it made them some nameless evil, their attack of an innocent people who had never even heard of them so unambiguously wrong. He tried to feel some understanding or compassion for them but failed. He saw no reason to show restraint.

  “My father’s fleet is the greatest in the world,” he said. “And my ‘powers’ are stronger here than they’ve ever been. I hope they send their ships, Osco. I truly do. I hope they send every last one of them, filled with their warriors. Because if they do I’m going to rip them timber from timber, and leave their men for the sea god.”

  He looked at the young warrior who nodded weakly, caught in another bout of nausea. He thought of his friend’s view of the world, and no doubt the view of all warriors, including the conquerors of Sri Kon—the notion that the strong ruled the weak, and this was simply the way of the world.

  Fine, he thought, feeling drenched in elemental forces, endless and terrifying, invisible and only for him. If power rules, let’s see what these usurpers think of me.

  Chapter 71

  All day the winds rose. The sea swayed, but still Sri Kon’s navy moved in formation behind their scouts, unhindered by the growing storm.

  Osco, on the other hand, kept up his vomiting, then went back down to suffer with his men. Asna stood beside Kale and beamed, showing not a hint of sickness.

  “I like this sailing,” he said in Naranian. “When Islander is king, he should make Asna…Chief Captain Pirate.”

  Kale grinned but otherwise ignored him. He watched the horizon, his nerves growing a little unsteady.

  His scouts had not seen a single sign of the enemy, and he was tempted to start looking himself. The coast of Sri Kon was close now, other little islands already forming on the horizon. But his confidence in his scouts hadn’t changed. If they hadn’t found anything, no doubt he wouldn’t either. Perhaps the enemy was afraid of the storm.

  “No, no,” Asna continued in self reproach. “Captain is small thing. Admiral. Pirate Admiral Asna Fetlan. Terror of sea, Destroyer of Ships, Capturer of Virgins! Your enemies will tremble, islander.”

  Kale sighed and pushed away from the rail. “Alakus kill pirates, Asna, though not as well as the sea. We’d best find you something else.”

  The mercenary frowned but nodded sagely, then leaned off the rail again like a child trying to catch the spray.

  Kale was beginning to suspect there would be no sea battle at all. Perhaps his enemy’s ships were all hidden on the other side of the island, to be brought forward only when sure. Perhaps they’d all gone back to wherever they came from. Most likely they hid from the winds. In any case it seemed they didn’t fear their enemy making a landing, and that thought was sobering.

  “It’s time we readied the soldiers, I think.” Kale said mostly to himself. Asna was nodding and saying ‘You can rely on Asna,’ as he headed down towards the hatch. But Kale didn’t need his help, or anyone’s. He reached out with this spirit and spoke to every ship at once.

  Prepare to beach. Form up in your groups as determined by Admiral Mahen. My men will form the vanguard.

  He hoped no one panicked at the sound of his voice suddenly appearing in their mind again. And by ‘my men’ Kale meant both the Mesanites and now Kapule’s spearmen. In truth, both were far more experienced soldiers.

  Pyu were very good sailors, and it was prestigious to be in the navy, but only the worst, poorest, or most desperate souls joined the army. With limited need, even these were poorly trained and equipped. Most carried short-spears, bows and knives. They had no armor worth mentioning, rarely had shields, and fought in what might charitably be called ‘loose’ formation. Osco would say ‘disorganized mob’.

  Kale’s scouts had approached Sri Kon now, then turned down the coasts to watch for enemies further out. The main warships waited for a report, but seeing no flag of warning, dropped anchor and released their transports.

  Kale loaded in beside Asna and Osco and some of his men on the first deployment. He sat still and calm as the waves buffeted their ship, until the sail was out and the pontoons deployed, and they started moving in a calmer rhythm.

  “How are you feeling?” Kale asked. Osco only groaned in response.

  The coast filled with hundreds of transports, a thousand men rushing the beach with oars at once. All involved were at their most vulnerable now, for if they were attacked they’d be abandoned by the warships, who themselves were at risk unless they pushed out to sea for more room to manouever. Kale was still not afraid because the scouts would have warned them. He kept his eyes locked on the empty coast.

  This surprised him again. If the enemy had seen them and intended to fight, they should already be forming on the beach. The longer they waited the better chance for an invader to gather and face them on open ground and with coordination. Yet Kale still saw nothing. At last he lost his patience and burned his thoughts, sending his spirit up and over the water to inspect the coast.

  He realized as he did that it was the first time he’d inspected his home from above as a spirit. He wished he did it only for pleasure, and that he could laze about the sky as he spotted old childhood landmarks. But for now he put this from his mind.

  As he looked he realized there was nothing damaged at all. He saw no burnt shells of warehousing laying like skeletons, no destroyed docks or houses or merchant stalls that had been overturned or destroyed. The only strangeness to his eyes was the absence of life, for he could see no people. Houses looked clean but closed up, most windows shuttered. Kale hovered down to look inside one that was open, and heard a mother chastising her children.

  “Get away from there! There’ll be fighting! Didn’t you hear your uncles? Go back to your rooms!”

  Kale blinked, for a moment confused, then pulled back and flew towards the coast. He used his real eyes and saw his and many other boats had already reached the shore. Men were leaping out and pushing the transports back into the water, others forming up into lines. Some of the Mesanites kissed the sand.

  He felt an anxious panic but could see nowhere for the enemy to hide save inside the coastal buildings themselves, but even so, not very many. There was simply no enemy close that he could see. Infantry could of course be hiding further out on the island, or in the city, but by the time they arrived Kale’s forces would be gathered. It made no sense.

  More and more boats kept arriving and the infantry soon numbered in their thousands. They started forming up into three groups as ordered, Kale’s men standing out front on the slight rise of the hill towards Sri Kon, most of the others on the flanks of the flat beach.

  Kale was nearly ready to order the advance and start heading into the city when he heard something—or rather, felt it. Sand moved against his feet like insects leaping off the ground, jittering and shaking as if alive. After a moment, he believed he knew what it was. The islands suffered not only great waves and mighty storms, but also earthquakes.

  Kale had felt many in his life. He outstretched his hands for calm when he saw Osco’s eyebrows panic. He called a warning as he braced his feet when the tremble started, thinking in truth it felt rather weak compared to most. He put his spirit’s hands down into the earth to feel the great forces moving below him, but he couldn’t sense it. The threads seemed solid and still, undisturbed and sleeping. Then he heard the shouts.

  Men on the East flank were screaming and calling out in terror. Kale hovered up with his spirit to see dust rising from the beach. He stared and squinted because though he could see it he didn’t understand. Leading the dust, moving so swiftly across the flat white sand it didn’t seem possible, looked like half-men, half-beast creatures with four legs.

  The beasts’ charge shook the earth, and Kale’s mind
reeled, blank, because they approached so quickly.

  His friends were down there on the East flank because he’d put them there. He wanted them in the back, hidden away so the real soldiers could do the fighting. Instead, they were directly in the path.

  The distance between the strange enemy and Kale’s unformed islanders vanished with every moment, and he had no idea what to do. He called out with his spirit, telling his helpless Mesanites to cross the ground, to prepare, somehow, to do something, anything, before he flew closer to try and help the men himself. He gathered threads of power as he moved, but he knew he would be too slow.

  * * *

  Ruka felt the warm sea breeze rushing over his brow as he charged. He had waited for the enemy just past the curve of the first trees until the landing fully gathered. He had hidden all his infantry, and kept his cavalry waiting until the islanders felt safe. He knew they would not look so far for an enemy force—they did not know any soldiers on land could close such a distance so quickly. Ruka and his men had waited, and waited, then rode like the wind.

  Amongst his first great fleet he had brought two-hundred and fifty warhorses from the land of Ash. These were one of his secret weapons—a might never seen in this New World, which had nothing truly like them. For years he had trained them to charge behind the bravest in a staggered line, hopefully to shatter infantry like a spear, or ride along them taking heads. They were designed to face Naranian spearmen, of course, but these would serve. They had never been tested.

  He led them himself on Sula’s back. Despite the animal’s twenty-odd years, there was still none braver, nor greater. Sula had a great many colts now, and many rode at his back carrying the great chiefs of ash and their sons—all who wanted glory as desperately as any man wanted life.

  Their courage was bolstered by their own legend already spun, as yet unearned. Egil had taken to crafting stories of ‘The Prophet’s cavalry’, though Ruka had rolled his eyes. He learned to tolerate it, however, because of the name. Egil had called them the ‘Sons of Sula’.