The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  Disheartened at not finding anything which might soften the crew’s resentment, he trudged on, past the settlement to the hillside where the land was black and barren. The burnt causeway led him towards a fold in some hillocks.

  He felt the first blackened bone crunch ere he saw it, finding his foot within a cage of abandoned ribs. They were human, and there were several littering the outer rim of the small hollow. The wind snatched, and for an ephemeral instant, he fancied he caught a flurry of the piper’s tune. But it was nothing but an echo. A departed ghost. This hub had long ceased to be. The destruction of the island now seemed portentous. An uneasiness seized him as he looked upon that dead place. A sensation he had felt in Galnmere, when the Piper’s tune had faded, returned to raise his hackles. The ominous smell of ash, a sense of something lurking; like vagres gaining confidence to encircle a dying fire, a presence encroached upon the world here. Something from beyond its borders that should not have been welcome. He shuddered and backed away, putting the charred hills between him and that place where music no longer played.

  Unnerved by his discovery, Balagir skulked back into town. He could hear the distant cries of the sailors working down on the beach, but he had no inclination to join them.

  He was exploring a lonely ruin when a movement caught his eye.

  Amongst tall grasses overlooking the beach, two figures stooped and watched.

  He saw it to be an old hag of a woman and a young girl. He watched them for some time as they fixated on the scurrying sailors below.

  Finally he cleared his throat, making them flinch.

  “May I be of service?” he asked levelly.

  The old woman clasped her chest, turning reproachfully. “Give an old dear a heart attack.”

  “I could conceive of no subtler way of harkening your attention. You appeared quite captivated.”

  “You’re with them?” the girl asked, looking up with round eyes.

  “For all fate’s vicissitudes, I am. Might you know the name of this island? It’s not on our charts.” The hag shrugged.

  “A storm brought us, too. I do not know the name.”

  “Then you came after the village had been destroyed?”

  “Pitifully so.”

  “You’re alone?”

  “The silver side of loneliness is peace. We arrived when the girl was a babe in arms. From time to time another ship washes up, as you have, as we did, dredged from the depths, and then we have company for a time.”

  “And you never ask to go with them?”

  “This is our place now. Why would we leave?” Balagir regarded the pair with a frown. There was something odd at work.

  “What are you holding?” he asked, indicating a bundle in the girl’s hands.

  “A doll,” she said, holding up a half-knit figurine. “We sit and knit and watch and make dolls.” She hopped excitedly from one foot to the other.

  “Exquisite detail,” Balagir observed. “If I were presumptuous, I might say that bears a remarkable likeness to the captain.” The girl blushed.

  “You see it already, and I’ve barely begun.”

  “Quite the talent,” the hag said proudly, stroking the girl’s hair. “She’s been making them since she could walk.”

  “Do you want to see more?”

  “Now dear, I’m sure the man has more pressing matters—”

  “Actually, I don’t,” Balagir said, shrugging. Just then, a cloud covered the sun, and a spot of rain splashed off his hand.

  “Weather’s about to turn,” the hag said flatly. “Why don’t you come and take some tea. We will catch up on world events, and Belitha can show you her creations.”

  “Tea sounds good,” Balagir agreed affably, and together they made their way back to the village as the sailors toiled and cursed below in the whipping rain.

  A stony hut, less destroyed than the others, served as their home. It was surprisingly cosy, the walls patched with mud, and a small log glowered in the hearth. Before long, Balagir was warm and dry, sipping fragrant tea in welcoming company.

  He found himself talking tirelessly. Perhaps it was the tea. He told them his name and of his adventures, of his oaths and the Good Company and of the enemies he had made.

  “The Good Company sound a fascinating band,” Heggerty the hag declared finally. “It’s a pity Belitha could not have beheld them; they would have made stunning dolls.” Balagir agreed and continued talking, little realising how attentive the girl was to his every movement. When his words ran dry, they questioned him at length and were particularly interested in the men on the beach, asking their names and their traits.

  Balagir let them refill his cup.

  “Do you know what happened to this island? Where everyone went?”

  “We found only rubble and bones,” the woman said distantly. “But it’s not without its beauty, and Belitha has flourished here!”

  “Follow me!” the girl called impatiently. Heggerty smiled and nodded, so Balagir set down his cup and followed the girl to the next room. In the wavering lamp glow, he marvelled at her work. The room was furnished with shelves upon which sat a hundred intricate dolls. They were made from old sacking and painted with hues of crushed beetles and berries. The hair and beards were immaculately fashioned with threads and dry grass.

  “Incredible,” Balagir said. “How do you get them so lifelike?”

  “I just copy the people,” the girl answered, giggling.

  “These are other shipwrecked sailors?”

  “They come and go, but we never forget,” Heggerty said from the doorway. “They touch our corner of the world and leave a mark.”

  Once he had commented on several more of the dolls, they returned to the fireside for a final pot of sea leaf tea.

  “Tell me, did anything else survive of the former residents? Was there not a smithy here? Was nothing saved?”

  “Most was gone, though we salvaged what we could. Would you like to see?”

  “With pleasure.”

  His enthusiasm was swiftly dampened when she upended a crate of odds and ends that he discarded with a bat of his eye. Then something did leap out at him, though it was not part of the collection, but being used to stir the pot of tea. He gestured towards the metal cylinder.

  Heggerty followed his eye and shrugged. “Thought it was a flute of some sort, but it has no holes. Has come in handy as the tea stirrer though.” Balagir leant in.

  “May I?” She nodded, and he examined the strange tube, feeling something slide within. He examined the end and saw how, with a subtle twist in the right place, it might be opened. Sighing disinterestedly, he dropped it back into the tea.

  When he had drunk more than his bladder could withstand, he made his excuses. He thanked them for their hospitality, and they, for his tidings and compliments. They made him promise to return before he set sail to see Belitha’s progress on her latest batch.

  Balagir returned to the ship whistling. The afternoon had been rather agreeable. The bitter expressions of the drenched, exhausted sailors curbed his humour somewhat, and he deigned it wise to spend the night locked within his cabin, even if his bed were on the wall.

  The following day, Murdak sent Balagir with the lumberjacks for protection, citing that strange noises had been heard from the trees and that his men were unnerved. Having an ashen’s presence may calm them and allow them to work without distraction. But Balagir did not hear a thing and, after a tedious day, concluded it was Murdak’s way of ensuring he not swan around, causing further disgruntlement among the crew. It worked, for his expression that night was one of hardship and longing to be on their way.

  The final day dawned. The hull was patched, and the mast was being rigged. Sailors crawled over the ship like insects on an eyeball. An afternoon’s wait lay ahead before the tide would creep in and lift the timbers.

  From the windswept sands, Balagir watched the two figures concealed on the cliff.

  Instead of heading directly for the village, which w
ould draw their attention, he returned to the diminished stand of trees, scaled a steep incline, and by route of the burnt-out hub, entered the village from behind.

  The house was empty and pungent with tea. To his satisfaction, the silver phial remained in the pot and opened just as he had deemed. A rolled-up parchment slid out, and he stored it in his pouch, replacing the stirrer with care. He took a small bag of the sea leaf tea—should he ever need to loosen a tongue—and was leaving when he noticed the other door stood ajar. Curiosity conquering caution, he crossed the threshold. The girl had been busy. Her collection had gained several new characters since his last visit. Most alarmingly, he recognised himself staring back with small, coal eyes. There was something queer about this, and he did not feel comfortable leaving it behind. He dropped it in his pouch, hesitated, and grabbed that of Murdak on a whim.

  He left not a moment too soon, for as he was descending the sodden, charcoal path, Heggerty and Belitha appeared.

  “Not leaving without a farewell?”

  “Of course not. I just called to find you not at home.”

  “Might we offer you a final tea?”

  “Sadly I must decline. The tide is rising, and the captain will be waiting on my presence.”

  “Must you go so soon?” Belitha pleaded, her large eyes welling. “I’ve yet to finish the collection.”

  “I fear so. Who’s that you’ve got there?”

  “The one with the funny nose,” she said, holding it up. There was no mistaking it for Bassy.

  “You’ve a fine eye.” She blushed at the compliment, clasping the doll tightly to her chest.

  “I’d hoped to gift you some tea,” Heggerty offered.

  “You’ve been generous enough. Your hospitality is unequalled.”

  “Alas, I see you will not be swayed.” She sighed. “We’ll remember you, Balagir. If you can find your way back, visit again.”

  “Fortune willing.”

  They exchanged farewells, and he left the strange pair, hurrying down to the beach, where the sailors were grunting and straining to right the ship. The swelling waters were already lapping, setting it to bob and drift.

  “Where’ve you been?” Murdak barked. “All hands to deck!”

  He rushed to join the sailors at the starboard side, finding a rope and heaving in rhythm. The water swelled until they were waist-deep in chill water, hauling so the ship sat proud.

  “All aboard!” Murdak hollered, and they climbed, dripping, to the deck.

  A few moments and fist-shaking curses later, they were drifting out to sea. Coal island, he had decided to dub it, swung away to the stern.

  It was at that moment Heggerty and Belitha appeared on the beach.

  “Look!” Pegs, suspended from the rigging like a stunted spider, hollered down.

  “Who are they?” Murdak demanded, whipping out his spyglass to behold them the better. Balagir prayed the slapping waves drowned out his name, which he could read on their lips.

  “What are they saying?” Bassy, hand cupped to an ear, asked. “Bell a gear?”

  “Sounds to me like—” Jared began.

  “Out of here,” Balagir blurted. “Out of here.” He then proceeded to cough as the tide carried them to a safer distance. He felt suspicious eyes upon him, but his gaze was set on the diminishing figures. The hurt in Belitha’s slumped shoulders might have haunted him had Heggerty not done what she did next. Wading into the water, she held a tiny bundle aloft.

  “What’s that?” Murdak murmured, squinting through his scope. But he never saw it, because the hag thrust the object below the waterline.

  Commotion broke out as Bassy began to choke. They turned to watch him wheeze and whiten, sprawling to claw and thrash on the deck. Only when he was still, did Murdak look up.

  “Tell me this is not your doing, ashen.”

  Balagir shrugged innocently. The captain growled as a dog on the verge of biting. Finally, he spat and ordered the sails at full mast until the island and its mysterious inhabitants dwindled in the east.

  Balagir spent the evening in his cabin, avoiding confrontation. He had already been deemed bad luck, most vocally by the recently deceased; now suspicions ran rife.

  He carefully wrapped his doll up and stored it securely in his pouch. Then he looked at the other, stroking its bushy beard with a twist to his mouth.

  Murdak might not know it yet, but he and his ship were now at Balagir’s bidding.

  VIII.ii

  GODS AND FROGS

  During the course of the night, Balagir decided he would undertake Murdak’s oath—not because he must, for through the doll’s manipulation he speculated he might have it rescinded—but because of an urge; a hunger. Time had lapsed since he had paid the piper, and he knew an odd anxiety. He also surmised there would be a similar field at the southern shore. To arrive and be unable to pass would be a bitter setback. Best to be prepared. He had not fooled himself that the oath would be as unexacting as Murdak had alluded, but if he could handle an ancient largatyn and a horlock horde, what harm could one small frog pose?

  Despite the doll, he deemed it prudent to remain conspicuous, keeping to his quarters save when gruel and biscuit were served. In the dark, creaking hours, he studied the parchment he had obtained from the tea stirrer. It was part diagram, part chart; both elements of which made small sense. The chart contained a set of incomplete coordinates, and the diagram was equally as ambiguous and portrayed nothing but half a hollow-eyed face. Committing the coordinates to memory, he paid a visit to Murdak’s cabin to see if he might study his charts.

  “What wild fancy! Do you know how I came by these charts? You think another captain let me ‘take a look’? No. Through peril and suffering, that’s how. Meticulous drafting, cartographic skill, by looking death in the face and spitting. Share such knowledge for free? With an ashen, no less? One whom I suspect of villainy. Ha. I’d rather see them burn.”

  “So, that’s a maybe?”

  “Don’t push me. I saved you on the beach, but my patience has worn thin. You’d be keelhauled if I didn’t need you on Iodon.”

  “Surely you’re not blaming me for the wreck? Superstitions on a ship are expected, but from the captain—”

  “I watched Bassy drown on thin air, and I’m not alone in thinking you had a hand in it. You’re lucky I disliked the man. Now, make yourself scarce. We arrive at dawn, which leaves plenty of time for me to change my mind.” Seeing the mood darken Murdak’s brow, Balagir obliged. One more day in his cabin was bearable. Once he had completed the oath, Murdak would have a change of heart; of that he felt certain.

  As scheduled, dawn saw a hazy mass pop up on the horizon, sharpening until it sat substantially in the water before them.

  “You’ve three days,” Murdak said, handing him a small sack as he poised dubiously at the ladder. Investigation revealed a jar, a list of seven names, and a flask of the throat-searing liqueur the pirates seemed to live on. “Tardiness or deception will not end well for you.”

  “Just to clarify, this frog—”

  “You’ll find your answers in Peaceriver.”

  “The jar?”

  “A precaution.”

  “Nothing else you’d care to add?”

  “Follow the river. Beware the water. Bring my men back. And the frog.”

  “I’ll be off then,” he said when it was clear no words of luck were forthcoming.

  The oarsmen, Malech and Jip, were uneasily silent, and only the rhythmic splash broke the cool stillness of dawn. He had to wade the final few feet up the pebbled shore, cursing the pirates as he slipped on submerged stones.

  The island stretched away, craggy and wild, culminating in a high, green peak at its centre. He headed in that direction, so that he might gain perspective. He walked a rocky, root-tangled trail for the better part of morn ere he heard the distant thunder of water. The river, when he found it, cascaded from lofty vine-draped rocks to pool deeply and flow through the vivacious forest below. The sou
nd gave him a parched sensation. Something akin to that thirst settlers spoke of. With great effort, he turned his head away and followed its banks, which wove a path through drinking roots.

  The sun had travelled far across the sky when he heard voices. Cautiously he observed the settlement that stood on the river bank. Fires burned, figures mulled, music from a lute plucked at his ears. Having loosened his sword, Balagir stepped from the treeline toward certain confrontation. Yet not an eye batted. His presence went completely unchallenged. A woman laden with two pails braced across her shoulders simply nodded as she passed towards a cave where a line of people queued. He warily approached a fire, but the strangers only shuffled to make room.

  They talked quietly, nodding wistfully to the flat-pitched lute. Nobody minded half of its strings were broken, nor that the man was repeating the same short tune over and over. Nobody noticed him, nor the flies from the river that pricked their skins. An old woman and two middle-aged men drank from hollowed seed pods in the flickering light.

  “A good flow today,” the woman commented mellowly.

  “I’ll drink to that,” agreed one of the men, initiating a toast.

  “I’m Yrma,” the woman stated abruptly.

  “A fair name.” The man smiled “You can call me Biller.”

  “And I, Waran,” said the other, and they clashed vessels and drank once more. Balagir had seen enough. Their minds floated with the river, wandering, vapid.

  “And who might you be?” the recently dubbed Biller asked, leaning over.

  “Balagir.”

  “Greetings. Where’s your vessel, that we might drink together? You’ve not been to the cave?”