Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  Body-servants, bodyguards and councilors bowed and scrambled, lifting the silk train of his robe, holding his slippers steady as he poked his feet inside.

  “General Cao,” he spoke over his shoulder, and one of his five chief military men came forward. “Please assemble a war council. I would like several different invasion strategies for Nong Ming Tong to read this evening. Please assume minor to moderate rebellion in the provinces, as well as conflict with these new invaders.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  Yiren next waved to High Priest Sanfeng, his representative from the Order of Two Waters, who bowed his ancient back in response.

  Yiren did not like the man’s title or the ancient religions and customs it had sprouted from, but he had not yet found the time to deal with it. The priests of Two-Waters had existed for a thousand years or more, and their secrets were largely their own. Yiren stepped carefully and with a polite smile along his carpet, following the man to the rarely used descending staircase.

  Another priest from the same order stood ready inside. He bowed and lit a torch, but Yiren allowed two of his bodyguards to go first, with another two behind him. These and his hundred other bodyguards were the only men Yiren truly trusted—soldiers trained since childhood for their task, paid well and assisted with their marriages, their entire extended families living on royal land.

  The hiss of flame and the shuffling of feet accompanied them all the way down the several flights of stairs into the gloom, and they emerged into a wide cavernous hall that stunk like mildew and old sweat. Already Yiren felt his mood dampen so far from Ru’s sight.

  He couldn’t see much, but knew the dark hall was decorated with the ancient spirits and gods, massive stone pillars carved with monstrous faces and long snake-like beasts that could fly and breathe flames.

  The small party walked in silence until they reached several rectangular tables arranged like a soldier’s mess hall. Chairs all around them were filled with robed apprentices eating plain rice from small bowls more fit for children. They stood and bowed low as Yiren and Sanfeng approached, and the old priest beamed and gestured towards them.

  “Fifty-two apprentices have now demonstrated aptitude to the holy flames, lord,” he said, clearing his ancient throat. “Two are already ranked high enough to be considered ready as Flameweavers in war. Twelve more are very close.”

  Yiren chose not to react. When he had first become emperor, the Order of Two Waters had approached him secretly and told him of the ‘holy iron’ beneath the palace—the ability to transform it into fire, and the carefully guarded process of training Flameweavers. Yiren had eventually asked them to begin training more, but he had certainly never said why—whether it was war, his own amusement, or anything else.

  He would not tolerate such presumptuousness from any of his other servants. But then, that was the problem. The priests of Two-Waters did not see themselves as his servants.

  “Thank you, High Priest Sanfeng, very impressive. But I would please like that number doubled in three months. Please also inform the temple in Nanzu to begin a new testing program. They should declare Ru will choose five anointed, and have the academy gather volunteers from any province, class, race or occupation. They should test only for aptitude with the metal, the training as priests can come later.”

  The old man stared for a moment before glancing very subtly at his colleagues and apprentices. Water dripped from the cracks in the ancient ceiling and Yiren felt damper and more oppressed with every sickening breath.

  “Surely, my lord,” the old priest hardly hid his scoff, “surely so many are not needed against the Tong. And to resort to such extreme measures, and so quickly?”

  Yiren blinked for a moment without comprehension because no one had uttered a single protest to his commands since his uncle Amit had died.

  He turned very slowly to regard the old priest, considering the stooped back, bald pate and liver spots. No doubt he was old enough to have seen the fall of the previous emperor—to see Yiren’s father, a trumped up merchant and farmer, crowned the new son of heaven. The thought galled him.

  He smiled politely and ignored the issue for now. “Perhaps first just a demonstration. I would like your two finest students to compete against each other, please.”

  Sanfeng raised a brow, looking almost impatient, as if he were educating a child. “Competing is very dangerous, lord, and it’s wasteful to harm an anointed. We can certainly demonstrate in the testing area, though, and have them…”

  “Am I not the son of heaven?” Yiren snapped in calculated rage.

  The priests, apprentices and even his bodyguards tensed like startled rabbits, and Yiren wondered how many sphincters he had clenched. Sanfeng looked perhaps slightly chastised, but not afraid.

  “Yes, of course lord, but...”

  “Do I not then speak with the will of god?”

  The old man paused far longer than he should have, finally almost jerking forward with the proper bow as he muttered, “Yes, lord.”

  Yiren paused a moment to let the response settle. “Thank you. Then I require your two finest students to compete. The loser will join their ancestors. Please step forward.” He gestured to the apprentices.

  The priests exchanged looks and did nothing, and for a moment Yiren wondered if they planned some kind of refusal or rebellion. At last a young man and woman stepped forward from the tables with fierce looks of pride. Yiren inspected them both, thinking one was an old blooded Naranian from the capital, the other little more than a peasant from the Northern provinces. He smiled with pleasure.

  “Very good. I’ve changed my mind. A demonstration will be adequate.”

  Priest Sanfeng almost sagged with relief, pitifully attempting a renewed look of humility. Yiren spoke in his most polite, and therefore dangerous tone, as a signal of deadly intent to his bodyguards.

  “Honored Priest Sanfeng—please stand in the testing area. Your two apprentices will demonstrate their power by assisting you in joining your ancestors.”

  Yiren watched very carefully as the priests and their apprentices froze. He thought if they intended to disobey him than now would be the moment. If the Fireweavers were loyal, they would be most dangerous, but his bodyguards would move quick and strike them first.

  “I am a high priest of Two Waters,” the old man croaked. Unbelievably, he met Yiren’s eyes. “No emperor has ever dared to order such a….”

  Two of Yiren’s bodyguards charged forward and clubbed the old man across the neck. As the apprentices gasped, the soldiers lifted him up and carried him to a stone pillar, wrapping a leather strap around him to keep him standing. He groaned and wavered feebly. Yiren turned to the two chosen students.

  “Please assist Priest Sanfeng in joining his ancestors. Do you have what you require?”

  By ‘what you require’ Yiren meant the holy iron beneath the palace that produced Ru’s miracles.

  “Yes lord,” said the young woman at once, producing the holy metal from the palm of her delicate hand. Yiren watched her eyes for threat, for betrayal, debating having her killed instead before she could work her power.

  He knew only the very skilled held the metal to their actual flesh, rather than in a pouch or container of some kind. He looked to his bodyguard, who he trusted also to see danger, but none gave indication. He felt sweat sticking his robes to his flesh, but gestured for her to proceed. The young man moved beside her, his brow red and jaw clenched.

  Yiren breathed sharply, aroused by his own fear. He watched in fascination as the young couple clasped their holy icons, raised their other palms, and each sent a thin stream of fire snaking through the air like a river of flame.

  Two waters, he thought with amusement, thinking of the stream that ran through the base of the cavern, and the water-like appearance of the miracle. How clever.

  He felt the heat already and stepped back reflexively. Yet he couldn’t look away, staring in fascination as the fire reached Sanfeng, roaring to life as it e
nveloped him. Despite his half-conscious daze, the old man still screamed.

  After a few very long moments, the blackened, charred flesh of Sanfeng collapsed from the burnt strap, and Yiren closed his eyes in the terrified silence.

  “What are your names, apprentices,” he whispered. The couple blinked and turned away from their handiwork, hands still clasped hard on the holy iron as they answered.

  “Thank you both,” Yiren said genuinely. “You will both be promoted to High Priest and serve me directly. Please inform the other priests of your new roles, and know you have my full support. We will speak again soon.”

  “Thank you, lord,” they mumbled together, and Yiren turned back towards the stairs.

  He had taken a risk, but risk would be required in this new future. Next he would change his mind a dozen times about the number of students, the appointments, the timelines, and many other things. Most people were simple and stupid and assumed a thing once said or planned was true, and to confuse them was always best.

  The Order of Two-Waters required a cleansing sooner rather than later, and Yiren would see it done. He thought again on the priest’s question of using Fireweavers against the Tong, and almost snorted as he began ascending the stairs.

  Stupid man. Yiren could have destroyed the Tong years ago. He would send a vast army, strangle their trade, terrify or turn their allies, and bring Kapule to his knees. Yes it would be better if Amit were alive to lead it all instead of his mostly noble-born and simple generals, but nevermind. The task was straight-forward enough.

  Yiren needed Fireweavers because Ratama Kale Alaku had been a miracle worker and now he was dead. Somehow, despite his great power, these strangers from across the sea had killed him.

  The moment Yiren had been taught about Ru’s metal he had wondered if it existed elsewhere. When he had learned of the island prince’s miracles, it had only cemented in his mind that divinity could be brought from heaven onto earth and duplicated by man.

  This knowledge did not frighten him. Ru’s servants would be ready. He had always thought it unlikely Ru was the only god, since Naranians had other gods before him. What mattered was that Ru was the greatest. His prophets, servants, and teachings would soon hold dominion over all lands touched by his light.

  After they conquered the Tong, Naran’s borders would stretch from sea to sea to sea—the ancient analects all but realized, the sun god’s dominion over every land touched by his rays. Yiren had believed it would take many more years, but now his chance had come. The world would be moved one small step closer to perfection, earth reflecting heaven, and the name Yiren Luwei would last ten thousand years. He could not imagine anything more important.

  Acknowledgments

  As it turns out, second books have a lot more people to thank. Perhaps this is because my first involved mostly just me alone in a basement with the occasional phonecall from my mother wondering if that little book project is done yet.

  Well. Not so number two! Many good friends and new acquaintances have helpfully cracked the whip. Some even gave the impression my family might see more utility with this work than burning the pages in a zombie apocalypse.

  Writing a book is great, and satisfying, but if no one reads it you’ve built an artistic bridge to nowhere. That is just a painful truth, and thus would have been the fate of Kings of Paradise and now Kings of Ash without a great horde of book barbarians - also known as generous, brilliant bloggers and podcasters, megaphone-waving readers, fellow writers, and general fiction and fantasy lovers of many stripes. It’s not nearly enough, but for those who help strangers turn dreams into reality, and particularly those who have helped me, I intend to at least thank you here.

  Let’s start with the colleagues. Yes I have some of those now. Thank you ML Spencer, Rebekah and Jesser Teller, Charles Phipps, Rob Hayes, Michael Baker, and all the other wonderful Grimdarklings for welcoming me into your dark, murky midsts, giving good advice, and for shooting the writing shit. Thanks to Josh Erikson, Dave Woolliscroft, and William Ray also for their advice and chats.

  Thank you to the bloggers and reviewers, first generally for your time and insight, and for the heroic work of separating wheat from chaff. Thank you more specifically to Lukasz Przywoski and HiuGregg for leading the KoP Reddit discussions, to Anton Baboglo for your early support, James Tivendale for your many chats (and free books!)—to Samir Karajic, and Jordan (Lostinliterature), and Petrik Leo for helping to spread the word. Thanks to Lynn Kempner for the ARC interest, and Mihir Wanchoo for making me read the Mahabharata (or, you know, some of it).

  Special thanks to Brittany ‘the matron saint of indie’ Hay, for taking the chance on my book so early on, and pulling it up from the depths. No one ever forgets the hand when they needed it most, and hers was one for me. Thanks to Adam Weller for tireless support, brilliant insight, professional level beta reading, dad-quality jokes, and just for being a stand up fella. Thanks to Jon Adams for all the same, plus proofing, minus the last bit. Also thanks to Michael Nedelcov, Tyler Yaehne, Steve MacDonald and Scott Mckague for their time, support and internet skillz.

  Finally a thanks to the many readers who’ve supported me, making everything else possible. Thanks in particular to those who’ve taken the time and energy to send me notes of encouragement, leave reviews, or otherwise get in touch. The older I get, the more I realize whenever one gets the urge to say something positive to another human being, one should do it. Many wise readers seem to have realized this long ago, but you’ll forgive me—I’ve always been a late bloomer.

  I hope you’ve enjoyed this latest installment, and that this note finds you well. I hope to give you many more.

  -Richard

  P.S. - To those I’ve neglected and inevitably missed - I apologize. Please take a future opportunity to shame or guilt me to your own benefit.

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