by Richard Nell
Chapter 76
Ruka stood on the gory beach and watched the sea. It seemed the Pyu had proved their reputation. All the ships he’d sent were on fire, fleeing, or destroyed—the islanders’ smaller scouts and transports already coming to collect as many soldiers as they could. Tong and islanders fled into the deeper waters, most swimming, some drowning—all abandoning the unbroken block of Mesanites.
Ruka watched them fight for a time. His exhausted men pushed and hurled themselves against the smaller warriors, who managed at every turn to push back and defend their position. The hillmen and their clever formation switched and rotated so that the fighting rank would be as fresh as possible, while Ruka’s men cluttered each other and fought their own trying to get at the enemy. By a quick count, perhaps half of the Mesanites were dead. Their equipment was failing them, shields breaking, spears and swords denting and bending against Ascomi steel.
Ruka tried and failed to care. He felt as he once had outside Alverel with Priestess Kunla dead at his hands. It was as if he had succeeded and yet failed. He had brought his people to paradise, killed a man with the power of a god, and yet he had lost all.
Farahi was dead. The alliance was dead. If the island king was right—which he usually was—the empire of Naran would invade the Tong in less than a year. The emperor would destroy Pyu’s trade routes, ravage and subdue her allies, and when there was no one left to oppose him, at last he would come for Sri Kon.
Without Farahi’s ships and the Tong’s grain, the Ascom would starve. In the past ten years their population had further outstripped their ability to feed themselves. If they could not secure land and begin shipping new colonists into paradise as promised, perhaps the chiefs would lose faith, and the Order betray. Many more than expected had already died. Now things would get worse.
As he watched the waves, Ruka felt a great urge to simply walk into the sea.
“I tried, Beyla,” he whispered. “I have tried.”
It seemed the world was as dark and cruel as she’d once told him. Even in triumph hope was snatched and crushed beneath the waves of fortune and tragedy. Ruka did not know how to resist. How could he face the suffering of life when all his plans and dreams turned to ash in his hands? How could he go on when what waited was death? Always death?
In his Grove, he stumbled through the devastation Kale had wrought. Beyla’s statue was gone, her garden was destroyed, her house half pulled from its foundations, mostly scattered around the Grove. The mines looked collapsed. The bridges had crumbled, the sewer cracked, the armory scattered like iron leaves. Many of the dead were proper corpses. And Boy-From-Alverel, his oldest friend, was truly gone.
Girl-from-Trung’s-Pit found him, and he ran to her and took her in his arms as he wept.
“You’re alive,” he whispered. When her brow raised he shook his head and laughed. “I’m sorry, I mean you’re still with me. I’m…I’m so pleased. Are you alright?”
She smiled, but her scarf was gone and seeing the bruises on her neck reminded him he still had not paid for all his deeds—that even given the real chance to die at Kale’s hands, instead he had chosen survival.
He had to admit his willingness to die was only words. Every time he was tested he had allowed Bukayag to save him. That was the truth. He despised himself for this, and for his self pity and hopelessness in this moment.
“A man fails in two ways”, he heard his mothers voice. They had been hungry, and cold, huddled in a dirty shack alone and forgotten, and Ruka had wept in misery. “He quits,” she said, squeezing his little but full-fingered hand, “or he dies. Are you dead, my son?”
“No, Momma.”
He smiled at the memory, picturing Beyla’s face. She had lost everything, all at once, and still had strength enough for him. The statue is nothing, he knew, clinging to the image in his mind. The book of Galdra he had once burned had been nothing, just as all a man’s possessions were nothing, and only things. Things could be re-built.
Ruka looked to the dead who remained, already idle as if waiting for instruction. They did not look tired, or dejected. Even in death they looked ready, their broken bodies set to renew the world for as long as their will held true. Ruka shook his head in wonder.
“Yes, I see,” he called to them, feeling chastised. In the end his failure and misery made no difference, nor even his mortality. He had been given a single task, perhaps by star-gods, perhaps by life itself—’stoop and build your broken world with callused hands, again and again, no matter the price’.
This he would do because maybe some other fortunate thing could know a love like Beyla’s, if only for a time. That was all. That was the why. That was everything.
Ruka sent the dead to their work, and turned back to the fighting, lifting the horn from his neck. As he blew the withdraw, his men fell back from the enemy in bits and pieces, most seeming grateful as they did. The Mesanites did not follow, instead using every spare moment to throw corpses, broken shields and weapons from their line, re-forming to fill any gaps. Ruka shook his head, and called to his own men.
“Here are foes worthy of Vol’s attention. Shall we spare them, if we can?”
Aiden, still alive and soaked in blood, clanged his sword against his breastplate, and the men followed until the sound filled the air in a ring around their former enemy. Ruka looked on them with pride, and called in the island tongue.
“They honor you, men of Mesan.”
For a moment he feared they did not understand, or would not speak. But a strong voice answered.
“Come closer and we’ll honor you back.”
Ruka recognized the man from the hall, and smiled. He told his men what was said, and they laughed and cheered their enemy’s boldness. It was clear the Mesanites were utterly confused by the display.
“I am Bukayag, son of Beyla. What is your name, warrior?”
The man stared and did not answer at once, but glanced at his men and spoke. “Osco Magda, but that is irrelevant. We will not surrender.”
Ruka nodded. “I do not ask. Men who fight so well and bravely are not my enemies. The beach is yours, with my congratulations. I will withdraw and allow your allies to collect you, but I have a request. Will you carry a message?”
He could see his words confused the commander, but he rallied quickly. “If your message is that you’ve defeated Mesanites in battle, I’d prefer to die, but thank you.”
Ruka smiled, liking the man more with every word. “No, and I don’t believe we did, Osco Magda. What I wish is for you to tell King Kapule the Alakus are finished. Tell him that I, as the new king of Sri Kon, will uphold all of Farahi’s laws. I will keep these seas clean of pirates, and…”
“Will you be using those ships, king of Sri Kon?” The Mesanite commander pointed at the small fleet in flames on the water.
Ruka glared as his smile faded. “I have more ships. And the island fleets will be mine soon enough.”
The young commander’s rather emotive brow raised, and Ruka was suddenly glad his men didn’t know what was being said.
“Tell Kapule I will also honor his bargain with Farahi. I will marry his daughter, Lani, and maintain the alliance. Tell him for this we will even come to his aid in battle, if he requires it. Will you carry my message?”
The Mesanite’s hands seemed to grip his spear as he considered, but again he looked at his men, and softened. “We will carry it.”
Ruka could see the man’s distaste. No doubt he had lost a friend today, and who knew what else. Ruka felt no pleasure in that but nor could he offer any solace. “You served your ally well,” he said, “and you fought like lions. We hold no ill will against your people.”
With that he turned away, gesturing to Aiden that the fight was over. The exhausted men of ash sheathed their blades and started moving to their dead, and Ruka walked to Sula and knelt.
The stallion had somehow managed to skewer a Mesanite with the spear sticking from his jaw, then collapsed on another as he died. Ruka l
aughed as he wiped away the tears, running a hand over his old friend’s bloody nose. His retainers came to his side one by one.
“Forgive me, lord, I have failed you again.” Eshen almost wept, and Ruka put a hand to his knee.
“No, cousin. Every man on this beach fought like the heroes of old. You have never failed me.”
The others said nothing, silent as they looked to the death and glory, lost in the feeling of their own survival. Egil broke it softly.
“It seems your story hasn’t finished after all, my lord.”
Ruka thought he could hear pleasure in the skald’s voice, and almost groaned with relief. “So it seems. We have destroyed one enemy, but gained many more. The islands will have to be secured. We will need more men, more horses, more ships. Aiden—you must return to the Ascom and maintain peace. You’ll need the matriarch and the Order to help keep the chiefs in line. I must remain here.”
“As you say, shaman. But there are other great chiefs. Why should they listen to me?”
Ruka smiled. “Because you are no longer a chief, Aiden. You are now First Chief and lord of the Ascom. You will bear a message for Dala and the matrons and they will crown you in Orhus. Tell them it is the will of Nanot. It was always so.”
Aiden seemed to swell at the words as men had once swelled at Beyla’s. “And you, shaman? What will you do?”
Ruka considered his answer and what it meant, feeling as trapped as Bukayag.
“I will pacify these islands and become their king by right of conquest. You and I will rule both lands together.” His retainers all grinned knowingly, as if they’d only waited for this to be so. “We must hurry, cousins. Our enemy from the mainland will begin his war soon. If we do not fight him, all our efforts will fall to ruin.”
The men nodded as if without concern, though destruction surrounded them on every front. They didn’t know about Farahi’s visions, of course, but they’d been told long ago of this enemy, and long accepted Ruka knew things he shouldn’t.
“Go. See to the dead,” he told them. As they dispersed, he did the same.
* * *
Ruka had many new graves to dig. Several burnt trees had fallen amongst the graveyard, and by himself he chopped them and dragged the pieces away. As usual he did not know the names of those he’d killed. He labeled all ‘Pyu soldier’, or ‘Tong soldier’, then gave them numbers and a place together under a name for the battle.
As he worked he considered what must be done in the land of the living. A piece of him knew Farahi’s son Tane could be placed as the new king. By all accounts the young man was well-liked by local lords. He was an Alaku with an heir, already married to Kapule’s daughter, and in nearly every way was perfect. Except Ruka did not trust him.
With time, perhaps, he could be convinced, and for honor and the love of Farahi Ruka committed to try. He would protect the islanders now as he did own people, though in truth he did not wish to be king. Rulership was ugly lies from pretty faces; it was coddling those too timid to face the hardship of the world. Ruka had not been made for such things.
If he had the power he would wave his hand and remove the threat to his people, help them colonize new lands or at least travel them, all without war. After that, he would let other men rule.
Ruka wanted to build, and explore—to race ahead of other men and mark the way. With the rest of his life he wanted to complete the map of the world and find its limits, work to understand its secrets, and answer as many questions as he could.
Instead he dug men graves.
When he came to the last, a piece of him hesitated. For a moment he questioned why he even returned the dead to his Grove. It was supposed to be honor. It had begun as a way to recognize a fallen foe, or at least a fellow living thing that died; it was remembrance, and gratitude—a final thanks for eternal sacrifice. But what was it now?
He stooped to the earth one last time, and dug. When he’d finished he took a plain stake no different than the others and placed it at the end. The signpost was wider than the others, because this time Ruka knew his victim’s name.
Ratama Kale Alaku, he carved in runes and then in the island tongue, Prince and Sorcerer of Sri Kon, son of Hali, son of Farahi.
He stood with a heavy heart and did not brush the dirt from his hands. Then very slowly, and with a reluctance he had not felt for any other grave, he turned and looked at his field.
Kale stood before him in simple robes. He looked like a Batonian monk rather than an Alaku prince. His left cheek was still shattered, but otherwise he had died very cleanly.
“Loa,” Ruka said sadly, expecting the prince to join the ranks of those who hated him. He had been young and powerful, with a long and beautiful life yet to be lived, and Ruka had stolen all with his knife. One day he would pay the cost.
The island prince put his hands in his sleeves as he looked about the Grove. He turned away, as if only curious, and unlike most of the others did not seem interested in the toil, or indeed in Ruka himself. As with Arun, the boy’s apathy was unnerving.
“I’m sorry,” Ruka called to him, thinking now he could explain all he’d not had a chance to say in life, and that this might make some kind of peace between them.
A small breeze touched Ruka’s face, which felt pleasant but bizarre because he had not meant to call it, and he controlled almost everything about his Grove. He blinked and saw the islander had managed to smile, despite his jaw.
“No,” whispered the wind, a voice emerging as if from contact with the trees. “You aren’t. But I think you will be.”
Ruka blinked and dropped his shovel. Even the dead men working near-by stood and turned to look at the source of the words. The prince walked away, Ruka’s eyes boring into him. His damaged face was serene, almost peaceful as he strolled the grounds, but he soon vanished in the deep mists of the Grove, lost from Ruka’s sight.
End of Book Two.
Look for the next and final installment in 2020, with the third book of the Ash and Sand trilogy: Kings of Heaven.
Epilogue
Emperor Yiren Luwei invited his newest spymaster to report from a suicide pan. The man’s predecessor had been asked to join his ancestors in the same manner, and so it was with some surprise the new man entered without a shred of obvious fear.
“Welcome, Master Zao-Yu. You come most highly recommended by the Grand Chamberlain. Your presence is an honor.”
Zao-Yu bobbed his head respectfully, and Yiren next inquired after his health and his day because these things were polite, and the correct behavior even from an emperor was politeness.
Zao-Yu responded briefly and with equal politeness. He bowed perfectly and knelt in his Seat of Honor before prostrating equally perfectly. He was very plain looking, which was true of most of the greatest spies, and despite his somewhat baggy formal attire it was clear his body was lithe and strong. Yiren found himself unable to decide even how old the man was.
“This worthless servant is embarrassed by such praise and attention, divine lord,” Zao-Yu said after the correct length of time. “Please accept my humble report.”
Yiren nodded, and an attendant visible from Zao-Yu’s prostrate angle also nodded.
“This servant’s network informs him of two important matters, divine lord: first, Prince Ratama Alaku is killed in battle, and second, the conquerors of Sri Kon have presented terms of peace and alliance to King Kapule.”
Yiren nodded politely to hide his surprise. His own network had learned of the sorcerer’s death, but not of the terms offered to his enemy. To have learned this and revealed it so quickly meant Zao-Yu was incredibly impressive, ambitious, or foolish.
He must have a spy in Kapule’s inner circle, he thought, or connected with them.
Yiren wondered exactly who, though, because his network had found the court most impenetrable. The Tong king was as careful with his advisers as he was with his rice.
“Can you trust this information?” Yiren asked.
“Oh yes, lo
rd, with my life.”
Yiren frowned because of course his life was the risk. But then perhaps Zao-Yu was simply indicating he was most aware of that fact, yet offering the information anyway. Impressive, then, and ambitious. Yiren would have to be careful.
Not for the first time, he contemplated the death of Ratama Alaku and squirmed on his throne. He knew little of these ‘conquerors’ save that they were large, pale, and couldn’t speak any civilized tongue. He found it difficult to believe they existed at all, let alone that they had done a thing Naran itself could not do. Yet he could see no other explanation. Where such an enemy had come from seemed equally impossible, and yet also without other explanation—they had come from beyond the map.
“And will King Kapule accept this peace and friendship, Master Zao-Yu?”
“I do not know, lord.”
Yiren grunted, satisfied because he had not asked the man to elaborate or speculate. The answer in any case was ‘yes, if at all possible’, because Kapule had little other choice. The monsoon had come and soon his silos would overflow with grain, and he would need to honor his commitments and sell down the coasts, which he could not do without ships because Yiren would ensure ‘bandits’ attacked any and every caravan as usual.
For years he had done the same with ships, too, but in the last decade Farahi Alaku had seized control of his waters with an iron fist. Now not a single pirate or island lord could be paid enough to accomplish much. But perhaps things had changed.
“Thank you, Zao-Yu, that will be all. Please return to your duties.”
The spymaster closed the gap between his head and the floor and held it before rising from his suicide pan. He backed out smoothly and correctly with lowered eyes, and Yiren decided he was pleased for now with the appointment. More than ever he would need men of competence to face this new world already forming. He would have to tolerate a little risk.
“It’s time for a walk,” he announced as he rose.
