Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  Ruka’s hesitation enraged Bukayag, who fought only to throw and crush and kill.

  “Stay back, Farahi!” Ruka called, knowing all around him—even the air could destroy other men. Behind Farahi stood Lani, Tane, and Kikay, wide eyes taking in the half-destroyed palace and the magic spewing from the boy they had known since childhood.

  Kale didn’t seem to notice any of it. He looked utterly enthralled, eyes rolled back, arms before him, feet hovering over the stone. Still, Farahi pushed into the storm.

  “My son! I beg you! For our people, for your family. Please!”

  Ruka watched it as if in memory, or in a dream. Even in the center of it all, he felt helpless and terrified, grip forgotten on the warrior in his hand. He screamed, perhaps, before it happened.

  Kale’s power rippled through him, through his Grove, impossible and god-like, only the tiniest surge missing its target. Farahi lifted from his feet, plunged sideways instead of downwards, thrown against the hard stone wall like a mason’s scrap.

  Bukayag seized his moment. He threw two, then three, then four spears while Ruka stood numb, until the last one pierced Kale’s field of power and cut a trench through the prince’s arm.

  Pain lanced Ruka’s side, and Bukayag released the bodyguard. He twisted to find his own spear jammed into his chain, and swung but missed as Dog-Nose danced away.

  Bukayag howled and turned back to Kale, but his enemies flew back, then rose into the sky like birds. He threw spear after spear screaming in rage, but each was plucked as if by the hand of god, and tossed easily aside. Kale and his warriors soared up from the shattered palace, and out of sight, gone in moments.

  Ruka absently touched the spear and sent it back to his Grove. The wound was shallow, and had surprised more than harmed him. He walked in a daze to Farahi, knowing without looking what he would find.

  Kikay already knelt at her brother’s side. It was clear his head had struck the stone, the side caved and red. He seemed to speak to his sister before his eyes rolled back, then the great king of Sri Kon lay still and shattered, far beyond the help of any healer.

  “What did he say?” Ruka took his friend’s hand and felt the tears. “It might be important, Kikay. What did he say?”

  The great matron of the isles looked on Ruka with such disgust, such hatred, it overshadowed her grief.

  “He asked for you,” she said, wiping a hand over her face. “He asked for you, and then he died.”

  With that she stood and left them both to return to what remained of her family, and Ruka leaned down to his brother of the mind. The king who had saved the Ascom, who had found a savage people and extended his hand, had been killed by his own son. Ruka kissed Farahi’s cheek, testing for the breath that was no longer there. It was over. It was all over.

  “For love of your brother,” he said, maybe in Bukayag’s voice,“I will spare you, Kikay, and all your kin. You need not fear me.”

  She stared at him with such loathing he knew he should kill her. But it didn’t matter. Very little mattered now.

  “Shaman, are you alright? We came…we came as quickly…”

  Aiden’s voice called from the entrance, and Ruka saw he had brought many warriors. Egil and most of his retainers were amongst them, their eyes roaming the corpses, the all but obliterated throneroom.

  “The prince has fled.” Ruka explained as he rose.

  His men exchanged careful glances, their brows raised as they again surveyed the ruin, and the naked display of god-like power.

  “Should we…chase him, shaman?” Aiden’s sword was already drawn, his hard eyes already staring at Farahi’s family. “Our men are still hidden all over the city, or on the ships. They could be brought forward quickly.”

  Ruka thought on all the careful planning gone to ruin, mind yet incapable of moving far beyond Farahi.

  He looked at Lani staring at the dead king in terror, clutching her son as she had when they’d first met. She had been promised to him for many years by Farahi, who had long known his eldest son preferred men. Kale had given her the child, he knew, which shouldn’t have mattered and hadn’t before. Now it felt like poison in an already fatal wound.

  This boy had everything. He had Farahi for a father, a life of comfort, brothers. He was handsome, had a beautiful girl who loved him, and beyond all of this a world-shaping power. How unfair life was. And God curse him, Ruka thought. The stupid, ignorant boy. He had destroyed Farahi and shattered his own people’s chances to resist Naran.

  Ruka had no strategy without Farahi. The Alaku king was required to unite the islanders under a single banner. He had old alliances with the Tong and other coastal nations. He had friends and history and a reputation forged over decades. Ruka was just an unknown conquering pirate.

  He knew instantly he should sue for peace. He should somehow befriend Kale, convince him, unite perhaps in grief. But the thought enraged him. Now, after everything, after a lifetime of work, he had to ask a boy-god for permission. And of course Kale could simply say no. He could start ripping men of ash apart with air, and in his ignorance start breaking quarantines. Who could say how many more would die?

  Ruka took a long, settling breath, and looked to Aiden. The mighty chief had never failed him—not once in all these years. “Bring the ships,” he said. “The infantry. What is left of the cavalry. All of it. We’re going to wipe these soldiers off our island.”

  The big man nodded, and from behind him Tahar muttered ‘about bloody time’. Ruka glanced at Tane, whose eyes had never left his father’s corpse. He watched the now recovered Kikay, and the still terrified Lani. Their futures had changed, too. “Take them to the cells,” he flicked his eyes to Eshen, who nodded.

  “Pirate,” he said towards Arun in Pyu common. “I consider you my ally. What will you do?”

  The ex-monk smiled politely and with infuriating calm, as if nothing in the world were amiss. “I will go wherever the princess goes, savage. But I thank you.”

  Ruka nodded and gestured for them to be taken away before turning back to Aiden. “The sorcerer is our only target. We must distract him, and kill him. His men are meaningless.”

  “As you say. He fled from you once, shaman. The gods will protect you again.”

  For once Ruka wished this were so, and that the gods existed. He looked at the destruction in his Grove, and wondered what would happen if it were truly destroyed. He found he feared this more than death.

  “I can take it, brother,” Bukayag breathed, hand opening and closing in excitement. Aiden’s brow lifted, and Ruka coughed before turning towards the stable.

  He pictured the Northern beach in his mind and the best way to attack it. Kale would not fight him in the city because it would endanger the people. He would stay on the beach because he was either going to flee, or would want his enemies clearly in his sight. In either case it made him vulnerable. The Sons would ride again, no doubt to their doom, with all the speed they could muster. Mighty Sula would lead one last glorious charge.

  Chapter 74

  Kale’s feet touched the white sand of Sri Kon’s Northern beach, then he sagged to the earth. He groaned as Osco tore open his uniform.

  “Surgeon! Damn fool islanders. God curse sorcerers, magic and all foreigners. Why warn you if you just let it hit you?”

  Kale couldn’t help but laugh. “I didn’t let it. And I was a little busy flying, and trying to kill something apparently almost unkillable, oh and keeping your neck from getting crushed. You’re quite welcome.”

  Osco frowned as he doused the wound in alcohol, then did the same to himself. His hand and forearm were oozing blood. “We are both very lucky,” he said, eyebrows drooped in focus. “That man’s throw would have ripped out your heart, and his pick almost took my hand. What in god’s name is he.”

  Kale had no idea, and was about to say something clever, but without warning Osco started stitching his arm.

  “What…wait, fucking hell.”

  He lay against a rock and t
ried to meditate, soon giving up to look around his make-shift camp. Mesanites and all his men were fanned out and waiting.

  Thetma eventually found him, leaned over to inspect the wound and made a face. “So it went well, then.”

  Osco snorted, and Kale looked from one to the other and shook his head. “Do you know I once called a monsoon? That was yesterday. It was about the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard of. I honestly impressed myself.”

  “They have a sorcerer,” Osco explained before yanking another stitch through.

  “Yes,” Kale hissed, “but I didn’t see him ripping the world apart. His powers are more...damnit…defensive, and I was hurting him. I could tell.”

  “Your own injuries require less spiritual insight.” Osco said flatly.

  Kale couldn’t argue there. He’d fled because he’d been so focused he didn’t think he could keep his friends alive. Despite all the power he’d soaked in from the world, the giant and his shadow took it. He’d found himself taking more risk than he should have, grasping further and faster than seemed safe to draw, though he’d again perhaps increased his limits with the test. And he couldn’t explain it, but he knew the shadow was…thinning, somehow.

  His magic was killing it.

  Osco had stopped stitching and met Kale’s eyes. “We should withdraw, islander. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. Teach us your miracles, bring more men. Or just starve them out with your ships.”

  “No.” Kale didn’t bother adding ‘them’ included Kale’s people, who would starve right along beside the enemy. “I was hurting him. Even if I can’t kill him, you and your men can. I’ll stop his warriors, who are clearly not resistant.”

  Something in the Mesanite’s eyes caught Kale’s attention—some kind of deception. “You’re tired…,” he said, “your men are frightened. I advise…”

  “I’m fine.” Kale was more restless than tired. In truth he wanted another chance at that shadow. His body felt exhausted, that much was true, but his spirit was almost energized by all the power in this place.

  “Their weapons and armor, Kale. It’s a metal I’ve never seen. We could hardly hurt him, and if his men have something similar…

  “It didn’t stop me.” Kale was getting angry now, reminded of his conversation with Mahen. “I’ll tear his God-cursed men apart. You and yours just stop him. One man, Osco, can you fight one man?”

  Osco’s eyebrows didn’t much like that. Kale twitched as the Mesanite yanked a stitch and cut the thread. “I have sworn to help you, islander, and all my men will fight and die for that oath. But that does not mean I must be a silent fool. I advise you withdraw.”

  “Noted.” Kale stood. “We stay. I’ll not allow these men more time to butcher my people. We prepare ourselves, and attack.”

  Osco nodded and turned to his men, calling in his own tongue. They raised a cheer and stomped their feet in the sand, and Kale was pleased at the quick acceptance. He knew he could not motivate his own men so easily, and wouldn’t try. He looked to Thetma, who waited at his side.

  “Tanay, ka?” he said—’do men not drown’ in the old dialect, as he had said in their fight on the beach those years ago.

  “Ka, my lord.” The farmer’s son grinned. “Now let’s go kill the bastards.”

  * * *

  Osco stood in the wet sand and rolled his aching shoulders. “Are you ready to die, brothers?” he’d called, and every man had shouted ‘yes!’.

  Their instant loyalty moved him, but he did not wish to throw away their lives. Already he re-lived the battle in Pyu’s throneroom—watching the huge iron spike near sever his arm as it punched through his shield, the ancient sword of House Magda bouncing off the man’s armor, bent and blunted without effect. Only in his nightmares would he recall the strength in that giant’s hands.

  Now he and his men were in formation again in the center of Kale’s army. Though they had planned originally to attack, it became clear the invaders were coming faster. Their infantry poured from the houses of the city and began forming on the outskirts into tight, semi-disciplined lines.

  “There, General.” Osco’s second in command pointed at the ridge, and he nodded in acknowledgment.

  Osco cleared his bruised throat. He glanced at the islanders guarding his flanks and knew they were almost useless against this enemy. He’d had no choice but to form his men into a square formation, preparing for the inevitable.

  All the giants Osco had seen were huge, well-armed, and real warriors. As he watched them he saw they were not equipped with uniformity, and by their slow mustering did not appear to be proper soldiers, or at least poorly trained. But that would not matter. Osco knew as he saw them that unless Kale’s miracles carried the day, he and all his allies would die on this beach.

  “Stay close, islander.” Osco looked to his friend until he returned it. “That sorcerer is coming for you, and your infantry will not be adequate. Make sure there are always Mesanites in his path.”

  Kale nodded absently. His eyes were already glazed and no doubt he roamed the battlefield with his magic. He blinked and seemed present again. “It’ll be like before, Osco. The power I’ll use will be…destructive. You’ll have to keep your distance.”

  Osco nodded and released a breath. He had wondered at first if Kale knew what he’d done. The prince had been so focused in the throneroom he hadn’t seemed to notice his family’s arrival. His magic had nearly ripped the palace apart, and even Osco and Asna had felt their peril.

  It was clear now he did not know his father was dead. Telling him did not seem wise, now, or maybe ever. Osco felt a moment of fear at the thought of his ally for the first time, but this was not helpful either. He turned his mind to the now, to the ground they’d chosen and shedding all their supplies. He hoped his assumptions were correct.

  The tide was still coming in and the sea directly behind them. The sand was wet and would churn to mud in the battle. But Mesanites were trained to fight in mud and sand. If their formation held they could fight all day and night in it without rest or water. Osco’s enemy on the other hand were large, heavy, and on the attack. They would like the sand far less.

  “Be ready for the beast-riders, and save your…strength, if you can,” Osco said, still thinking fly away, you damn fool, fly away to your ships and safety and forget this place and these monsters, it is your miracles that truly matter!

  He knew in his bones the giant sorcerer was coming for Kale, and Kale alone. The bloodlust and maybe rage he’d seen in those golden eyes would haunt his dreams. All his life Osco knew the minds and habits of warriors, but he had never seen such raw, murderous intent.

  If the giants had any sense, they would send everything they had, all their strength at once to overwhelm Kale’s magic and distract him for the kill. That is what Osco would do.

  Kale smiled as if unconcerned, and his confidence gave Osco at least some comfort. God only knew what the island prince could do when pushed to the limit. Every moment, every encounter seemed only to grow his power and understanding. Perhaps they need only protect him, and keep the deformed giant away. If they could buy Kale time, there was a chance.

  The enemy had mustered thousands of men now, spread across the outer city and the gentle slopes leading to Sri Kon. But here they waited, and Osco was about to question why when he heard the horns.

  “It’s the scouts,” Kale said as he looked to the sea. “One means enemy sighted.” Another horn blew. “Two means many.” The men silenced on the beach as they listened, and Kale’s jaw clenched even before the third horn sounded. “Three means they’re coming. It seems the enemy doesn’t intend for us to withdraw.”

  Osco hid his concern, because it seemed his enemy was not some mindless barbarian. He put a hand absently to his neck and cleared his aching throat, then scowled and spit to the sand.

  “We’ve apparently upset them,” he said, then glanced to his friend. Kale had a strange look in his eyes. It wasn’t anger, for Osco had seen that look
before—it was something more familiar, something ugly—the dull glaze of a soldier in combat, blank to the horrors while he did what was required.

  “Just hold them back,” Kale turned to the sea, and spoke now as if only curious. “We’ll see who decides to run.”

  Osco nodded, feeling a shiver at the tone. Any soldier understood the will to kill, of course, and even fostered it. But in Kale’s acceptance of his own power came something frightening, something inhuman. For a moment Osco imagined what it would be like to be his enemy— to be charging across the beach in the sight of a god, killed by power you could not see.

  The thought disturbed him, but he needed all his will and courage for the battle, so he put it from his mind.

  * * *

  Ruka watched from Sula’s back as the men of ash advanced on their enemy. His warships moved forward in a single block, though in the end he had only sent half. They were outmatched and undercrewed, told to withdraw after a short fight. Ruka required only distraction.

  The infantry advanced in three blocks—Aiden led the center for not even Ruka could convince him otherwise; Tahar took the right flank, Folvar the left. Their warriors were a mix from across the land of ash—Northerner and Southerner, Midlander and outcast. Chiefsmen stood beside rebels and once chiefless raiders, now all volunteers who had come to risk their lives and do the hard work of first colonists. Some had come for glory, others escape, some loyalty or hope. But whatever their reasons, what they shared was courage. They would do what needed to be done.

  Some few islanders already loosed arrows, and the men of ash raised their shields. The Pyu marines shouted warcries and pounded the sand with their spears. Their real warriors stood in perfect formation in their center. Ruka realized as he saw them that they were ‘Mesanites’—a tribe or city of warriors from West of Naran he had read of in his time in Pyu.

  As the ashmen approached, these loosed their javelins. Most struck steel shield, deflecting or falling away. Ruka smiled, unsurprised. His men were clad from neck to shins in good chain, with thin but near unbreakable shields made wide and tall. They would not fall easily.