The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  The cube revealed Ginike’s fate; his abandoned shield at the edge of the sandpit the last trace.

  He moved to see Finster staggering up the slope, the slain worm leaking black blood on the sand in his wake. But he was too late. Balagir thrust his final three stones and watched on with morbid fascination.

  The temple about Finster shook, throwing him to all fours. He grasped the wall, dragging himself out into the main chamber, where a warren of molclaws erupted from the ground. He stabbed at them, kicked them aside, and staggered on as more burst forth. Balagir watched him draw nearer, ominously drawing his sword. A rock fell and hit Finster’s shoulder, spinning him, yet still he stumbled on. The third horror, a swarm of bright yellow avisps the size of horlock fists, descended from the shadows. They stung until his face and hands were swollen and oozing, and still he came.

  He was a foot from the cube, his stones outstretched to reciprocate the plagues, when the unexpected happened. With a green flash, the kalaqai shot forth, into the cube and through Finster’s chest. He took one more step and fell beneath a swarm of stings and shredding claws, the three stones tumbling, forgotten, to the earth.

  The kalaqai returned as the cube shimmered and twisted into a portal through which a distant fire could be glimpsed. Balagir dusted himself off and stepped back out into the world.

  He found himself alone at Galnmere hub, save for the piper, whose tune had changed. He let burst a high flutter, and Era flew towards him. Balagir bade her return, but she was beyond his control. The kalaqai alighted on the shade, as if she existed in his realm as well as their own. The long fingers curled, forming a cage, and in that moment Balagir felt trepidation. At the merest whim he sensed his existence could be crushed. And then, for the briefest of times, the piper withdrew his lips from the pipe and whispered something to the kalaqai. As the music faded, the fire died, and the world darkened and stank of ash and death.

  Then he took up the tune once more, and the fire roared back, and the sinister shadow was at bay. Era returned as the world turned red, in a rush as intense as swallowing an ember.

  VIII

  SPITE SPEAR

  Balagir was no longer alone when the blurred world wavered and crackled into focus.

  “I knew you were Good Company material when first I laid my eyes upon you!” He blinked. Igmar was sitting next to him, beaming.

  “Igmar… I thought—”

  “So did I,” he said, stopping him with a raised hand and suppressed shudder. “So did I. The pain was real enough, I assure you.”

  “I don’t understand… And the others?”

  “Rych is over there, though he’s said little. The memory of death has affected him. Freya is hereabouts, testing her new abilities no doubt.”

  “Abilities?”

  “Of course! We did it, Balagir. We won. Through your completion of the task, the entire company was rewarded. Only one of us had to survive.” Balagir shook his head.

  “And the others?”

  “Oh, they were spared too, but did not linger. Why should they, with no smoke to spend and wounded by their defeats? To experience your own death is a terrible thing, and only our triumph has softened the edges of my unease.” He looked at Rych, who rocked silently back and forth. A dead man, back once more, but altered. He could only imagine how the others must feel.

  “Then Finster lives?”

  “Aye, though his fate was a particularly ghastly one. Any grudge he had against you must have intensified. In light of our rewards, however, he’d be reluctant to challenge you here. They’ve slunk off, all of them, like animals licking their wounds.”

  The relevance of Igmar’s words sank in, and Balagir stood and stretched. He did indeed feel stronger, clearer of mind, sharper of eye. He took a few paces, but was dismayed to discover his boots would still not heed his command.

  He strode to the sea’s edge and tested the barrier. It no longer resisted him and resulted in a soaked leg. There, amongst the reeds, he found Freya.

  “I suppose I owe you gratitude,” she said grudgingly.

  “I could not have succeeded without you,” he said, remembering how the sand worm had been sated. He did not dwell upon what twisted memories she must have from her demise. Indeed, something had changed in her eyes; in Igmar’s too. Something darker lurked beneath their serious gazes. Something he decided not to disturb.

  “So where to next?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I’ve things to take care of, but whilst the Good Company holds, I may make use of it. You?” she added, following a long enough pause to label him an afterthought.

  “South, I suppose. Though first I must charter a vessel.”

  “Cogtown’s your best bet,” Igmar said, having approached unnoticed. “Though it saddens me to hear of your departure.”

  “Come with me,” Balagir offered, but Igmar shook his head.

  “The Good Company has always been of the north, and so it shall remain; at least under my watch. I must honour the line.” Balagir smiled sadly.

  “Then I wish you well. You’ll accompany me as far as Cogtown, I presume?”

  “It’s the least we can do. Then begins our search for a new member.”

  “And Rych?” The skull-masked ashen was not himself, and even his normal nature had been erratic.

  “We shall see. I suspect he may have an aversion towards doors for a while.” Igmar smiled at his own jest, but there was a hardness that never left his black eyes.

  “Then I shall be glad of your company. Where lies Cogtown?”

  “Not far, due east. We should make it before nightfall.”

  Rych took some rousing, but eventually he left the fire. Physically there was nothing wrong with him. Quite the opposite in fact, since the smoke gained had given him a new litheness. But beneath those tattered rags and deep-socketed skull mask, he was shaken. The evidence grew with each mile they put between themselves and the piper.

  They followed the northern shore, an undulating line of steep dunes and stunted, salt-withered spinney.

  “Tell me of the sea,” he asked when they had been a while on the trail. “What lies beyond it?”

  “The Lowlands and forests, Ythinar’s backbone, and further still the Valelands. Beyond that…” he let the words trail.

  “You’ve never been?”

  “Never had the need. Mine aren’t sea legs, and the Good Company’s been my family these long years.”

  “A family of which you are the sole member.”

  “There will be others,” he said, gazing out across the water. “We should not be discounted.”

  “And what of hubs? Are there any to be found upon the sea?”

  “There are islands to be sure. I’ve heard of a hub on Silione and one on Shale. There are likely more. You’d be best off enquiring in Cogtown; seafarers all, for good or ill.”

  “And what of the war in the south? You’ve had tidings?”

  “Always some rumblings coming up from beyond the mountains. I pay it small mind.”

  Balagir nodded, keeping the horlock’s plight to himself. If any race had a nose for war, then it was surely they.

  It was midday when he discovered another benefit the challenge had brought. A fallen tree across their path forced them into the water or up along a precarious ledge. Balagir was encouraged to find Nifla’s strength band bolstered, and a hard shove saw it roll down and splash into the sea. He vowed to investigate its limits privately, and in the meantime endeavoured touching things with greater caution. He had no intention of putting his own shoulder out whilst scratching an itch. The others regarded him curiously, but no comment was made. After the kalaqai and his achievement in Galnmere, he was due a certain leniency where surprise was concerned, and there existed so many secrets between them that one more quirk became unremarkable after a time.

  There were two further incidents of note along that shoreline trail. The first came when Balagir made his excuses to relieve himself. He was in said act when he noticed a tr
ee of spoils choked by strangling undergrowth. He warily approached it, holding his hand over the roots. It looked to respond, but a cracking of twigs made him jerk his hand away before he could be sure.

  “Ready?” Igmar asked.

  “Let’s go,” he said, blocking the tree from the big man’s sight. He was not about to lose more treasures, nor risk an argument over who should receive the spoils. Once back upon the trail, Balagir snapped a thick branch with the help of his band, vowing to return if the opportunity ever arose.

  The second event occurred when a small, dirty figure stumbled out onto the path before them. It froze, its green face a mask of terror as it shakily prostrated itself. Igmar’s hand stayed Freya’s primed arrow, nocked the instant the sorrowful creature had stepped out. Sensing freedom, it stood and slowly backed away, disappearing into the trees. Igmar revealed it was not the first time he had seen such a creature. A former member of the Good Company had told him it was a hiilg, though he had not believed it. The hiilg, he went on, were long extinct, and furthermore, had been an advanced and proud race. He mentioned some old ruins in the north, dilapidated yet still impressive. It was unthinkable that such a miserly beast could have built anything resembling what he had seen. Balagir was not convinced it had been a good idea to let the creature go, but when it became clear he would not be returning with allies, the event faded from his mind.

  Cogtown was big, bustling, and dirty. Larger than Wormford, with boats shuttling like multi-coloured beetles through its port, it was vibrant and crawling. What began as a smattering of huts and ramshackle cottages along the shore swelled until they passed beneath the town walls and were bombarded by all the clamour, stench, and spectacle evident in a thriving harbour town.

  Never straying far from the water’s edge, they soon reached the gangways and piers. Balagir had not realised so many people existed in the world; the wilds he had walked had been lonely places. Boats were being unloaded by whistling, swearing, spitting sailors. Promiscuous women batted eyelids and fluttered fans. Dogs and children snarled and screamed underfoot. Fowl fluttered, bells rang, an accordion wheezed and coughed out a jaunty soundtrack to the chaotic scene. Wafts of food mingled with less savoury odours. They paused as a fight broke out between two sailors and was swiftly settled by a knife, a groan, and a body dropping over into the water with a splash. Life went on, and so did they. Indeed, the absence of law and order in Cogtown made itself known swiftly. Even Igmar let the hilt of his sword show to discourage opportunists.

  Amongst all the disorder, they arrived at a shack claiming to be in charge of the arrival and departure of vessels, both seaworthy and otherwise.

  “Passage to the south for one,” Balagir said, to which he was greeted with surprise, followed by a general guffawing.

  “Irve, hear that? Ashen wants to go to Kasker.” The fat Irve instantly earned Balagir’s disfavour by spluttering whatever caustic grog he was drinking into their faces.

  Igmar frowned and distastefully flicked some spittle off his lapel.

  “I fail to share your amusement.”

  The skinny man, wiping his eyes, hesitated. “You’re serious? Look, you might get as far as Silione. Mayhap Farthing. No trade ship sails far south without making the island route. Unless you want to travel with pirates? Ah, well, I suppose you are an ashen. They’ll take you anywhere if your coin’s good.”

  “Take your coin and slit your throat, more like,” Irve said, foam still blowing on his dirty stubble.

  “Silione will do,” Balagir said, knowing only that it was in the right direction.

  “Hm,” the skinny man mused and turned to consult a ledger. “You’re in luck. Last space I have for a week; trader leaves tomorrow at dawn.”

  “I’m assuming there’s a fee?”

  “Three hundred keplas.”

  “Your prices are scandalous.” The man smiled, not arguing. Balagir looked to the Good Company, but found no aid there. Igmar took great interest in a thread on the hem of his sleeve.

  “If you’re not happy, there’s always the Spite Spear,” he said offhandedly. “She’s ready to sail. Of course, captain’s… well, Murdak’s his name. Just make sure you catch him in a good mood.”

  “Where might he be found?”

  “Where he usually is on dry land; keeping wet. In the Clam, I wouldn’t doubt.”

  “Ah good.” Igmar sighed. “A drunk pirate is much more pleasant to deal with.”

  “Precisely. Now hurry back, this offer will not keep forever. Already had two others interested this morn.”

  “Went to get their coin and never came back, did they?”

  The man’s smile faded, but he kept his composure.

  “You made my day earlier with your sense of humour. What’s say we call it a straight two hundred?”

  “I think I’ll take my chances with this Murdak,” Balagir said, turning. “Pirates at least tell you they are robbing you.”

  The two men grumbled, shaking their heads as the ashen walked back up the pier.

  “Fancy a drink?” Balagir asked.

  “Thought you’d never ask,” Igmar said.

  “If you’re paying,” Freya agreed. Rych just shivered, which Balagir interpreted as a nod.

  An icy wind whipped their backs as they pushed into the raucous tavern; the warmth made even the smell of sweat preferable to the sea’s chill. There were many colourful characters in the rundown waterfront bar, but even here, Murdak and his crew stood out. There was a clear circle where other patrons did not trespass. There were seven of them in total along the beer-soaked table, Murdak himself sitting at the head. He was large and grisly, his beard black and robust, his ears stretched long by thick rings of gold, and an audacious seafaring hat that only a captain would dare presume. He belched and glanced up when their shadows darkened the table.

  One of the crew foolishly slapped Freya’s leg and was rewarded with a dagger pressed firmly under his chin. The noise dimmed; the tavern grew still.

  “Let’s not be hasty, lass,” the scrawny, scar-faced pirate said, leaking blood as he swallowed. “I was but stretching.” Freya’s blade did not move, and it was only the slow clapping of Murdak that broke the tension. He smiled, a mouth of black and gold.

  “A feisty one. I could use more like you on the Spear. Maybe I’ll get her to replace you, Jip.” Jip smiled nervously and rubbed his neck, checking his hand as Freya lowered her blade.

  “Caught me unaware,” he said, saving face. “Let’s take it outside, see who’s faster.”

  “Excuse Jip, not the first time his pride’s been injured by a woman,” the large, bearded captain said, grinning drunkenly. “Now, I assume there’s good reason you’ve disturbed our recreation?” His smile dropped, and his eyes were stormy seas.

  “I was told you’re sailing south?” Murdak swivelled his gaze upon Balagir.

  “And what’s my business to you, smoke-eater?”

  “I’m seeking passage. As far as Silione, or further if you’re going.”

  “And you think we’d take you? Your friend here, maybe…”

  Balagir took a step forward. “Name your terms, then see if we can come to some arrangement.”

  Murdak considered, and Balagir became aware of his crew, each swarthier than the last, all eyeing him with distaste.

  “Alas, I find conversation thirsty work.”

  Balagir nodded, signalled the innkeeper, and promptly a round of fresh mugs was brought to the table. Murdak supped deeply.

  “So ashen, convince me.”

  “I’ve coin, though not a great deal.”

  “If I’d wanted your coin, I’d have taken it. Jared there”—he nodded to a squint-eyed fellow wearing a dirty, grey bandanna—“best cutthroat on the seas. Sometimes takes men hours to realise they’re dead, so fine is his work.”

  “I’ll hear your offer, not your threats. Now speak your terms, or I’ll be on my way.” Murdak’s unsettling grin returned.

  “Maybe I misjudged you. Maybe yo
u are the ashen I need.”

  “Ashen?”

  “Aye. That fellow over there’s interested. Maybe you can sway my mind. I’ve space only for one.” Balagir recognised the white-haired ashen drinking alone at the bar. He had been the leader of the fourth group from Galnmere. He turned back to regard the captain narrowly.

  “What’s your game?”

  “Oh, just an oath. That’s what your kind like, isn’t it? Can see it in those black eyes of yours. That hunger. I’m not judging. I feel the same pull, but to the sea, the swells, the tides.”

  “Why use an ashen? Why not have one of your men take care of it?”

  “Look at ‘em,” he said, casting his hand about. “Good crew, even Jip there. Fearless in a storm. We walk with gaits in Cogtown, used to the roll of the timbers. Look at Pegs, those wooden stumps of his aren’t suited for rocks and sand, but on the deck he’s almost graceful. This is a job for a landlubber, and it’s commonly known that your kind can be… resourceful.”

  “I’d hear more before I decide.”

  “There’s an island by the name of Iodon, southeast, halfway to Silione. There’s something there I wish to retrieve. Accomplish this, and I’ll set you down in Grimwater Bay, free of charge.”

  “I can’t help but notice the scarcity of details.”

  “Details are tedious. When you sup your ale, do you ask its ingredients? When you lie with a woman, do you ask her to reminisce her upbringing?”

  “I take your point. Even so, I wonder upon the true nature of this task.”

  “I’d not known the ashen were so fastidious. It’s smoke you want? Well, you’ll get it. And your passage. What else is there to consider?”

  Balagir glanced at Igmar, who shrugged. There was clearly more to it than Murdak was revealing. But then, there always was where oaths were concerned. Unless he could rustle up enough keplas, he might have little choice. He did still have the bones, however, and several games were taking place in smoky alcoves.