The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  Finster grinned maliciously. “Ashen should not be so decrepit. What are you, breaker? Tut-tut. You should be fuelling the flames instead of wasting my time. Still, one man’s loss…” He nodded; the mercenaries advanced.

  Pog, for all his squatness, moved with surprising speed. Whether he had seen the reflection of the sellswords in the window, Balagir would never know, but in one fluid motion, he hefted the axe and swung a deadly circumference. By the time he stood facing Finster once more, three headless bodies crumpled to the ground, crimson fountains splattering the flagstones moments later.

  Finster smiled coldly, drawing his blade.

  “You’ve saved me some coin,” he said, sparing a glance for the dismissed hirelings. “Now tell me, who sent you?” But Pog, his axe by now thirsty, swung at Finster, who stepped deftly back. “Over-compensation, methinks,” mocked the tall, pacing ashen. Pog, furious now, swung again, sweat glistening on his brow. It was a weapon to get the job done swiftly; to flirt with it was to flag. Finster stepped in and out as though threading a needle, and each time, dark red stains spread from Pog. Yet still he swung with weary determination and, forgetting the fallen bodies, stumbled, his roaring axe continued its unstoppable descent, severing Gwindle’s feet at the ankles and burying itself deep in the ground. Gwindle fell, shuddered, and shrivelled, evaporating in a smoke that swirled about the two combatants. Finster looked at it hungrily, then at Pog’s red face as he grunted and struggled in vain to free the axe head.

  He barked cruelly and plunged his sword through the ‘gnilo’s neck, who guttered and fell in a scarlet puddle. Finster spread his arms as the ashen dissolved and released his smoke into the swirling cloud that had been Gwindle. He threw his head back as it entered his belt, and when he lowered it, his black eyes smouldered.

  He shot a glance towards the cart where Balagir watched, but up rose a cry when guards leaving the tavern beheld the massacre. Finster nodded grimly, sated for the while, and fled town before the drunken guards could clatter their way across the square.

  As soon as the bodies had been loaded onto a cart and sprinkled sawdust soaked up the red, Balagir crossed the square and entered the smithy.

  The small smith could not have differed more from his hulking cousin. A characteristic reflected in his precise talisman work and lack of bone-crunching metals manipulated by Roule.

  “Hm?” he impatiently enquired, in the middle of something quite delicate.

  “What can you tell me of this?” Balagir asked, producing the amulet from his pouch.

  “Will have to wait ‘til morrow. I’m busy.”

  “I’ve something else for you, if you can help me today.” He revealed enough of the envelope for Gokin to recognise the ham-fisted script of his cousin.

  “Maybe I could spare a moment for so reliable a messenger.” He carefully set his work aside as Balagir handed him the letter. Gokin’s brow furrowed, and promptly he cast it into the fire, not removing his eyes until it had burnt.

  “Problems?” Balagir asked. The smith ignored him, took the amulet, and retired to his desk. Whilst he was busy, Balagir perused his wares.

  Talismans of all kinds adorned a wall behind a locked grill. The prices of which were as varied as their designs. There were also a few blades on display and pieces of lightweight armour.

  “What did you find?” Balagir asked when Gokin looked up.

  “My cousin, how did you find him?” Balagir shrugged.

  “Oafish in stature, but professional and to the point.”

  “I mean, did he give you further instruction to accompany the letter?”

  “I’m afraid not. My amulet?” Gokin withheld it, and Balagir’s patience dissolved. “I’ve not come all this way to gossip about your estranged family. Tell me what you know.”

  “I’ll tell you, in exchange for something.”

  “I’ve keplas, though I’d hoped to purchase some wares.”

  “For an oath.”

  Balagir’s mouth drew thin. “I’ve had enough of ashen treachery. I don’t need more from a settler.”

  “I need something taken to Mudfoot.”

  “Mudfoot? Ha. I wouldn’t go back there were the beer quaffable and the women fine, and I assure you, neither is the case.”

  “Then I’ve little to tell you.” Balagir’s dark gaze darkened.

  “I’ve just come from there. I’m hardly going to risk the journey back.”

  “Warp then. Isn’t that what you wanderers do?” Balagir frowned, but was reluctant to reveal he was not privy to the workings of his kind. Is that what Finster and Ginike had meant? How Bry had come so swiftly from the south?

  “Supposing I do go back, what is it you would have me deliver?”

  “This,” Gokin said, taking out a wooden box so small it could contain no more than a ring.

  “I’d need time. I’ve more pressing matters than being a smith’s errand boy, you understand.” Gokin was not pleased, but having little choice, he handed over the box, which triggered that peculiar sensation upon Balagir’s belt. Almost simultaneously, the wisp of black smoke from Roule’s completed request circled him and turned another orb dark.

  “Now, my amulet,” he said stiffly.

  “It’s a southern sigil, that’s clear. Though from what era and why it should matter to you I’ve not an inkling. It’s certainly not a house I recognise, and you… well, you know.”

  “Indulge me.”

  “You’re gonna make me spell it out? You ashen don’t have homes. What you would want with a sigil from an extinct southern house is beyond me.”

  Balagir did his best to look nonchalant, but Gokin’s remark stung.

  “Extinct?” he repeated, shifting attention from the homeless connotation.

  “Many of the old houses were forgotten in the splinter wars. You might say you have a fragment of a splinter, thus my advice can be only as substantial. It certainly pertains to neither the Eskarathian nor Ozgarian families, thus I must assume it’s obsolete. Its wear would suggest so.”

  Balagir pondered aloud, lack of hope overshadowing chagrin. “Where must I go? The south, you say, yet if this house no longer exists…” The smith could only shrug.

  “I’ve told you what you asked based on my craft. I’m no historian; no scholar of defunct dynasties. I can counsel you no further save in the respect that your oath to me is much less obtuse, therein more profitable.”

  “You’ll not deter me whilst I yet have a course. Now show me your wares.”

  Gokin, getting that gleam in his eye all merchants do, stepped briskly around the counter.

  A short time later, with his coin as well as his bartering skills exhausted, Balagir was equipped once more. Bereft of keplas and patience, he was in possession of a journeyman short sword, adorned with a Middling Fumbling Frostbite. He also bore upon his pouch strap a Lesser Shambling Corpse, which Gokin assured him would ward off bothersome undead.

  He was about to leave when a queer metal box caught his eye.

  “What’s the purpose of that?”

  “Not for sale.”

  He wasn’t sure if it was the smith’s tone or something about the box itself that snagged him.

  “May I?”

  Gokin’s eyes narrowed. “So it was you who sent it. A spy?”

  Balagir frowned, but the answer came to him ere he spoke.

  “She’s alive?”

  “You think my forge unprotected? The smell of burning talisman is as pungent as burnt toast.”

  “She belongs to me; you cannot keep her.”

  “Can I not?” the smith said with challenge. Eventually his expression slackened.

  “Argh. I’ll not dabble in ashen affairs. Not natural. None of it.”

  “Then I may take her?” Balagir asked, letting the slight slide.

  “I can’t keep her against her will. But neither can I order her to accompany you. Let her decide.”

  “Very well.”

  Gokin set the welded box next to the coal
s, and within minutes it was red enough to ply. The kalaqai emerged and hovered accusingly between them. Her redness gone, she glowed green, branded brazenly by the molten Wayward Path.

  He tested their link, and though she resented it, the bond could not be denied. She slunk into his pouch as sulkily as a scolded child might its room. But she would get what she wanted now. Both their paths lay to the south, and for good or ill, they were for the time inseparable.

  It was as if nothing had happened when he emerged into the failing afternoon light, and he struck directly for the hub to exploit what he had gained.

  On arrival he found but one ashen sheltering that chilly eve. Nifla the jaegir, who agitatedly flapped and ranted.

  Balagir duly refused to listen until he had paid the piper; until the music had triumphed; until the world had turned red.

  IV

  TRINKETS AND TRAITORS

  Nifla would not let him be and despite his renewed vigour, the jaegir’s rasping tongue was wearing.

  “…at once!” he was saying, as the trance faded and Balagir found himself staring into the reverie fire.

  “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

  “But at dawn they march. If we miss the—”

  “Who march?”

  “The horlocks! Have you not been listening?” Balagir shrugged and turned back towards the flames.

  “Then go. Claim your smoke. I’m done.” Nifla hissed.

  “You jest. Easy smoke. Big smoke. We go, both of us, now.”

  “Two of us or twenty, you’re talking about a horlock tribe; numbers are irrelevant.”

  “Good. Know your enemy. That’s wise. But we do not go to confront them head on. Of course not. My plan is shrewd; come, we’ll be back by morn with belts full to bursting. That’s what you need, is it not? To be on your way, fit and fast. Let us go at once; the stars are out and light our path.” Nifla was not to be trusted, but then no one was. And he did make a point. He would need to be stronger if he were to survive the journey south, and working with someone could have its advantages. He eyed the jaegir for a moment, the irony of his broken quills and Hompa’s hacked horns did not escape him. Jaegirs in general were unreadable, with their small eyes and expressionless hooded mouths, and an ashen jaegir as degenerate as Nifla, doubly so. He did not, however, have the luxury of being picky.

  He sighed. “Lead the way then, before I change heart.”

  “Wise, wise Balagir. Keep up, we head north.”

  And they did, along the trail at first and then over rocky terrain to the west, which Nifla dubbed the Mort Plateau. The rock became barren, moulding and melting into bestial formations and stooped, watching figures. Boulders as large as taverns balanced atop the other, defying logic, and at times there were archways Balagir dared not linger beneath.

  Most of the night passed this way, weaving through toppled silhouettes and wind-carved gorges until, at the paling of the east, they came to a cliff. Nifla skirted its edge for some distance as the sun peeked into their eyes. With each footfall, Balagir became more perturbed about what they were about to do. But he had no choice, and Nifla knew it. He could still hear Erd’s shrill anguish; see his vacant, ghastly eyes.

  “Here,” the jaegir hissed excitedly when a huge boulder blocked their path.

  “I see nothing except more rock,” Balagir snapped.

  “Peer over, if you will, but be cautious.” He obliged, making sure he was a safe enough distance from Nifla to avoid a sudden shove.

  What he saw made him snatch his head back. Slowly, with hammering heart, he peered once more. Below and to the east was pitched a horlock camp. A thousand strong, two thousand black horns glinting in dawn’s glow. There was much movement as their camp was struck. It was enough to make one rue their decision. Era hovered on the lip of his pouch, and he willed her back into the shadows should her green light draw an eye.

  “Where are they headed?” he whispered, in spite of the distance.

  Nifla shrugged. “If Hompa told true, south.”

  “South? To the war?”

  “They are the war.”

  “You can go first, I’ll watch,” he told the jaegir without any trace of humour.

  “No need. We’ll do it from here.” Nifla approached the huge boulder and tapped it knowingly. “Shortly, they’ll be making their way westward through this gully.”

  As the jaegir’s intention dawned, it was not the perfect plot he had hoped for.

  “No offence, Nifla, but you’re a wiry fellow.”

  The jaegir’s black eyes gleamed, and he let his sleeve slide back to reveal a dark metal band. So, he had a bracelet of strength. Interesting. First the charmed bones, and now this. Nifla was proving to be a treasure trove.

  “I pray your aim is true. Hompa asked us to remove their granfeder. From here, they all look the same.”

  “Ah yes, but custom undoes them. The leader always leads, you see. Heads the horde as a challenge to the world.”

  “And you learnt all this from Hompa?”

  “The grudge against his brother runs deep.”

  “And you think he’ll want us alive once it’s done? He’s revealed their flaw as well as gaining witnesses who could accuse him.”

  Nifla snorted. “They’ll be on their way, we’ll be gone. Our paths will never meet.” Balagir nodded, not nearly as convinced.

  “Suppose we achieve it?”

  “Run of course. The smoke will find us, don’t fret about that.”

  Balagir’s next words were cut short by a distant horn blast. The horlocks were on the move.

  He moved swiftly to position and watched as the distant horde formed unnervingly orderly ranks, arrow-heading towards the gully. Their granfeder marched at the front, large and alert. It was a fearsome sight.

  The earth began to tremble beneath their passage, and Balagir seriously debated the prudence of their imminent actions. The leader was larger than his followers by a head, and none of them were small. His black horns jutted outwards, catching the morning sun and spreading long, threatening shadows along their path. Drums beat, and the cool air was charged with their energy. He glanced doubtfully at Nifla, who simply nodded in encouragement.

  The army was within the gully now, funnelling towards them like blood trickling between teeth. Balagir realised he hadn’t blinked in some time, fearful that even so small a gesture may betray them. When they were near enough for their grunting to be heard, he gave the signal.

  Nifla strained, and Balagir held his breath as the boulder disappeared over the edge.

  Time slowed, stretching out until it seemed a long while had passed when the crunch rose up from below. In the moments that followed, Balagir recalled a strange peacefulness. He even thought to hear a bird chirping somewhere off in the coarse bushes. Then the roar rose; the clanging of blades and shields as the ranks dissolved into frenzy.

  Balagir peeked to behold the granfeder’s legs protruding from beneath the boulder, even as the red river rushed around it, driven by the wail of horns. Hands pointed skywards, and he snatched back. Whether he had been spied or not, the horlocks clambered upwards with the swiftness and chaos of a thousand scurrying beetles.

  “Run!” Balagir cried, but the jaegir was already halfway across the ledge and disappearing between two boulders. He twisted to rise, but his ankles were hampered. A huge rock had been laid across his calves, pinning him in place. He wormed and writhed, but it would not budge.

  “Nifla!” he bellowed, “Come back!” But the jaegir did not turn. He disappeared, and only an abrupt grating noise and sudden grunt resounded back to him.

  In desperation, he upended his pouch but saw nothing that might aid him. Once more he twisted and turned, but being pinioned face down made it impossible to get his hands around to the rock so deviously laid over the hollow where his legs had been.

  The kalaqai fluttered anxiously at the cliff’s edge and eventually abandoned him to his fate. He shook his fist after her, though he could not blame her dec
ision; the snarling made it sound as though the entire horde were scaling the cliff.

  He began to picture how his end may come, and neither option of being hurled from the precipice or pummelled with rocks was appealing.

  Just then, something odd caught his eye. He squinted, but even then it made little sense. From the direction Nifla had fled, a small black ring was scraping itself laboriously across the rocks. He blinked, recognising the strength band the jaegir had worn, and then noticing the green glow that lit it from within. Era was returning. He twisted desperately this way and that, each time fearing to see the first horns breaching the rocks, and then back to the excruciatingly slow scrape of the metal across stone.

  With fingers grasping so that his shoulder came loose, he tipped the ring onto its side and slid his hand through. Hesitantly, he reached around to the rock that pinned him and toppled it over the cliff, where a few startled cries rose up.

  Then he was up and moving, disappearing between the boulders just as the first horlocks made it onto the plateau.

  He hurtled, heedless of direction, desperate for distance. Horlocks were brutal to kith and kin; he dwelled not on the fate that awaited an enemy. By all imaginings, dying would be the best of it.

  He scuttled past precarious pinnacles, pebbles rattling down into the abyss, his pace flagging when he came upon Nifla. The jaegir’s shoulder was pinned between two boulders disturbed by his flight. He grimaced in pain and grasped desperately for the strength band he noticed on Balagir’s wrist.

  “Pass it me!” he cried pitifully.

  “Not likely.”

  “Don’t leave me, I beg you.” Balagir took two steps, cursed, and turned to shift the boulder. Nothing happened. He strained, but to no avail.

  “You lack the level for such mass!” Nifla shrieked. “Give it me!”

  Leave the treacherous liar to the horlocks, or return the band and risk being deceived by one who could deftly wield it? There was only one choice.