The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing. It amused me at first, but now I grow tired. I think my crew and I are in need of a little sport to take the boredom out of the journey. Do you know what—argh!” He grasped his neck. With a frown, he composed himself and carried on. “Yes, a spot of keelhauling will improve—argh!” he yelled again as Balagir twisted the doll’s arm. “What the...” The captain met Balagir’s eyes. “You!” he growled. “What are you doing? What have you got there?”

  “Leverage,” Balagir said.

  “You cur.” As he spoke, he reached for his sword.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.” Snap, snap. Two fingers bent at odd angles on the captain’s hand. He stared at them, horrified, then yowled until Balagir pinched the doll’s mouth and his agony became muffled. “Calm yourself,” Balagir warned. “I wouldn’t want to render you senseless. I’ve been waylaid sufficiently.”

  “You’ve got one of the dolls!”

  “Yes, and you’d do well to remember Bassy’s fate. I wonder if drowning in night soil is any less pleasant?”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Balagir’s raised eyebrow was not a bluff. “Ashen!” Murdak spat. “What is it you want? You wish to go somewhere? So be it. Speak and I’ll deliver you.”

  “First I’ll start with the charts. We’ll take it from there.”

  “I can’t march down here with my charts. My men will smell mischief.”

  “Then I suggest discretion. I could pluck an arm like a spider’s leg. Or you’d prefer to experience Faverg’s demise?” The captain paled.

  “I’ll be back forthwith.”

  “Don’t tarry,” Balagir needlessly called. “Idle hands grow restless. Oh, and some wine while you’re at it. The reserve from your cabinet will suffice; Tusco, wasn’t it?” The captain shot him a look between alarm and contempt and left in a hurry.

  A pleasingly short time later, Murdak was back, his pantaloons bulging from the charts and bottle concealed therein. He nursed his swollen hand and looked miserable. He hung his lamp from a nail in the beam and sat grumbling as Balagir examined the charts. Once he had located Silione, he spread it out until the small island identified as Iodon was visible.

  “Am I correct in assuming that we are somewhere between these two points?” Murdak grunted in affirmation. “Good, then this island to our east, Squall—how long would it take to arrive?”

  “Squall?” the captain said, sitting up. “Why would you wish to go there?”

  “Let’s call it curiosity,” Balagir said vaguely.

  “Avoid it,” the captain warned. “A dangerous place. No man is safe there. Rhinogs make a lair of it.” Balagir had yet to behold a rhinog, but the tone of Murdak’s voice painted an unpleasant impression.

  “Sounds perfect,” he exclaimed. “Set our course hence.”

  “Perfect for what? Are you mad?”

  “I believe we’ve already had this conversation, and the answer is quite possibly. I can’t recall.”

  “I’ll not do it!” the captain snapped, spittle flying, fist pounding. “Torture me, but I’ll not condemn my crew.” Balagir sighed and snapped another finger. Murdak howled, doubling in torment. Next Balagir twisted the ear until Murdak’s face was bent grimacing against the bars.

  “Do we have an understanding?”

  “I’ll see to it at once,” Murdak growled, stumbling to his feet. “I’m not sure how I’ll explain it, but—”

  “—you’ll find a way.”

  “Yes,” he said, reaching for the lamp.

  “You can leave that,” Balagir said. “How else am I to read?”

  “Of course.”

  “And when our course is altered, I expect some good fare. Well, fair fare; the doll has its limitations. Oh, and you’ll dine with me, in case you think to lace it.”

  “I’d never,” Murdak said hastily.

  “Very wise,” Balagir said, turning back to the charts as the captain slunk from the room.

  Once he was alone, he unfurled the diagram he had taken from Heggerty’s tea stirrer, but without the remaining coordinates, it would take years to narrow it down. Frustrated, he stored it for later.

  In time Murdak returned, and they shared, if not a pleasant meal, a peaceful one. He had no hunger as such to gratify, but his energy felt buffered. Once they were done, Balagir interrogated the captain about his charts, gleaning years of knowledge over the space of a few cups of wine. Throughout the exchange, Balagir only made the slightest of gestures towards the doll to temper the rage that simmered beneath Murdak’s grim countenance.

  When he had exploited his knowledge and the lamp began to gutter, he sent the captain to give Res his orders.

  “Come for me once land is in sight.”

  “I will, though I implore you to reconsider. It’s a hostile place, no place for men.”

  “Hold true, good captain. All will become clear.” Helpless, Murdak left to put on a brave face and brag to his crew how Balagir was suffering adequately. Balagir, now in possession of his pouch, stored the charts, kept the star-wand and doll close at hand, and let the rocking waves lull his wandering mind.

  “Land!” came the cry that snatched him from a smoke-shrouded slumber. Shortly afterwards, he heard footfalls, and the captain entered, looking tired and woebegone.

  “You’ve dragged us here. Now what?”

  “Release me.”

  “You wish to go to the island?” The concern in his eyes was for the doll’s fate and not the ashen’s.

  “On the contrary. Your crew will disembark.”

  “My crew?” Murdak stammered.

  “Aye. Res and Pegs may stay if they choose, and any newcomer not formerly of your employ. The two ashen for instance, if you’ve not yet had them killed.”

  “You would have me rescue my men from one ghastly isle to abandon them on a worse one? I think not.”

  Balagir dug his nails in the doll’s shoulder.

  “They’ll suspect something!”

  “Tell them they’re to build sandcastles if it works, just get them to the beach.”

  “And then what?” he growled.

  “The door, if you will,” Balagir said shortly.

  Balagir hung back and watched as Murdak ordered his crew down to the beach. They looked confused and questioned the decision, but Murdak, for all his treachery, was a leader, and one they trusted. Balagir kept a steady pressure upon the doll’s neck as a reminder.

  Biller was the last man to mount the gangplank. Murdak made an unfamiliar gesture, and the first mate glanced suddenly at Balagir.

  Balagir flicked the doll’s arm so that Murdak’s large fist lurched involuntarily upwards into Biller’s jowl, sending the stunned sailor over the edge and down into the water.

  “You’ll pay for this, Balagir. I’ve a long memory.” Murdak’s pride simmered below his fear, and his jaw was clenched with rage rather than nerves. “What will you do with the doll?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “And my ship?”

  “She will be treated well. I assume you’ve better wine in your cabin than you’ve offered thus far.”

  Murdak spluttered, but the insult died on his lips. Defeated, he descended the plank.

  Once all the pirates and captain were on the beach, Balagir eyed the remaining crew. Res, the faithful steersman, and Pegs, the rigging spider, had both opted to stay. There were also two ashen that had come aboard from Iodon: a thin tattooed man garbed in red; and an ugly pale one, whose skin was pimpled as a plucked fowl. No one spoke. There would be time for introductions later. A third man, clearly a seafarer from his gait yet with no previous allegiance to Murdak, stood silently watching.

  Balagir withdrew the gangplank to all colour of curses. He decided to give those shaking fists something to do. With a tweak, Murdak thumped one of his men. That was all it required. The captain went down beneath a barrage of kicking, stomping boots.

  The few that chose to defend him pitched in until the skirmish spre
ad and dissolved into a scattering of groaning bodies. They were nine, the castaways. Waran and Biller amongst them, with four more of his rescued crew and two that had been on since Cogtown. Some splashed out into the water, lunging for the side of the ship, but it was too late. The men had exhausted themselves and watched despondently as the Spite Spear departed.

  The figures regrouped, wretched as wet dogs on the beach. Murdak, bloodied and kneeling, held Balagir’s eye, a scowl that spoke a deadly promise. Suddenly from the dense treeline came a monstrous roar. The men wheeled to stare at the eaves. The entire forest rustled and swayed as though something huge moved within its shadows. They drew their swords and waited, quaking in their wet boots.

  Twice more came that terrible sound before distance gave the shapes a silent serenity. Stickmen on a shoreline, their shadows long in the morning sun.

  “Res, take us to Silione.”

  “At once, sir.”

  “Balagir will suffice.”

  “Of course. Balagir. Sir.”

  “You ever been first mate before, Res?”

  “No, never.”

  “Well, I hereby appoint you such.” The tubby steersman swelled with pride.

  “You’ve chosen well,” he said, eyes agleam.

  “I’ll pay you of course, once we reach Kasker. Though we’ll have to pass Silione first. Pegs, climb the mast, make sure we’re clear.”

  “At once,” the half-wooden pirate crowed, scuttling up the rigging with unnatural deftness.

  “You three, what are your names?”

  “Goffle,” the unsightly, pale ashen said.

  “Drak,” the other said, his face a symmetrical tattoo.

  “Meeker,” the sailor answered, meekly.

  Drak must have seen forty winters, the fading ink on his face and well-creased scowl attesting to it. Goffle could have seen fewer, but his pock-ravaged skin made it difficult to divine. Both looked like they had trudged through tribulations. Meeker was middle-aged and decidedly uneasy in such company.

  “Do I have your loyalty?”

  “We’re ashen.” Goffle leered. “Your hopes can’t be high. But as long as I’m on the ship, you have mine. I was trapped on Iodon too long. The water was a snare, but no substitute for smoke.”

  Drak nodded. “For the while, yes.”

  “You were also sent by Murdak?”

  “Aye. I succumbed,” Goffle admitted distantly. “Perhaps fortunately so, seeing how your efforts were rewarded.”

  “Since you bring it up,” Balagir asked, “did you have any intention of rescuing me?”

  Goffle and Drak shared a glance.

  “Of course,” Goffle mumbled.

  “After or before I was keelhauled?” He held their gazes, then grinned at their discomfort.

  “If you’re looking for gratitude, look elsewhere,” Drak retorted. “It was I who informed Murdak of the situation. Why, upon my failure, he sent you with forewarning.”

  “If by forewarning you refer to the jar, then I appreciate it. And I did not do it for gratitude, I did it for smoke.”

  “Of which we share an entitlement.”

  “Choosing to see it that way will not alter matters. Now, are you with me to Silione?”

  “Just that far,” Drak said stiffly.

  “Don’t much like the alternative,” Goffle said, gazing back towards Squall.

  Balagir clapped his hands. “We’ll talk later. Hands to deck, we’re running low.”

  As they left, he turned to Meeker. “And you?”

  “I was there a while,” the sailor said, confused. “I can’t rightly recall.”

  “Are you pleased to be free?” An odd question, yet he asked it with all seriousness.

  “It was a peaceful time. Faverg was benevolent; I hope he was not harmed. But I’ve missed the seas; they move my blood in ways rivers cannot.” Balagir nodded, keeping his eyes from that still dark plank beyond.

  “Good. Then make yourself handy. Each of us must work as two men. A fact we shall remedy in Grimwater.”

  Alone at last, Balagir made a quick inspection of the deck and climbed the mast. The water stretched endlessly, broken only by sporadic crests betraying submarine life. Below, his skeleton crew pulled their weight, though they were not skeletons yet. He squinted into the sun as Res steered them across the deep blue towards Silione, the burgundy sails swollen and proud.

  They dined that eve on humble provender and exquisite wine. It turned out there was a false back to the cabinet where Murdak had kept his vintages. For a captain who had claimed to enjoy the acidic liqueur imbibed by his crew, he had a sophisticated palate.

  “Where were you headed before the oath?” Balagir asked the ashen once the food was done and they settled into their cups.

  “South,” they both answered.

  “Then join me. Help sail this ship and we’ll go together.”

  “Together?” Goffle queried. “That’s not the ashen way.”

  “And why shouldn’t it be?”

  “Rivalry,” Drak said. “Give a man a sniff of smoke and he’d betray his own mother. If he remembered having one.”

  “Drak’s a testament to that,” Goffle said, smirking. “You saw how he reacted to being rescued.”

  “It can have its benefits,” Balagir reasoned, remembering Igmar’s large face and even Freya’s reassuring aim. “Besides, how else will you reach the south without a ship?”

  Just then the door opened.

  “We should raise full mast, Captain,” Res announced from the crack.

  “Who you calling captain?” Drak snapped irritably.

  “I think you’ll find he’s referring to me,” Balagir said, leaning back and sipping his wine.

  “What else I gonna call him?” the chubby steersman asked.

  “Pay them no heed, Res. They’re not accustomed to how things work at sea.” Res shared a conspirator’s wink with Balagir and went back to tilling the wheel. The two ashen exchanged a glance, but no argument was brooked.

  As the evening wore on, the wine flowed. Meeker and Pegs joined them, as did Res briefly, though he insisted on maintaining the helm. Balagir was well pleased with his choice of first mate.

  The ashen told tales of their exploits and of completed oaths. The pirates listened with fascination and later regaled them with shanties that set their moods soaring. None of them spoke of it, but it was the tune of the piper they longed for, and Peg’s song kindled wistful emotions in the ashen.

  Later, the conversation became slurred and candid.

  “Don’t know why!” Goffle barked. “Just following my nose.”

  “Me an’ all,” Drak spat, shaking his head. “Got no place better to be, and heard the smoke is richer down there.” Meeker, unable to conceal his confusion, sat up.

  “You mean, none of you know why you’re going south? And I thought us sailors were mad.” Balagir kept quiet, but the words unnerved him. Were they really just chasing smoke? As mindless as vagres chasing sheep? But what else was there to give them direction? He was weary of being lost. Somewhere lay the clue to their past. It had to. Everything had an origin, even the ashen.

  “Y’know,” Drak was saying, “I can’t even remember getting these tattoos. Woke with ‘em, see. Thought ink was a reminder of lessons learned; yet I wear only uncertainty on my face.”

  “You woke at Warinkel?” Balagir enquired.

  “Nah, Wormford,” said Drak.

  “Me at Hungerblade,” Goffle said in a tone that did not encourage Balagir to visit. Perhaps their paths had already crossed. Maybe they knew some of the same people. None of them spoke of it though, for who knew whose friend was another’s enemy. As far as they were concerned, this ship signified a truce. A place away from the fires where they could, for a time, lower their guard. It was almost pleasant as Pegs and Meeker provided the music and mirth common in a tight crew. The night whiled away. Beyond the cabin, the Spite Spear was a single point of light on a wide black canvas.

  Heads
were sore and conversation sparse the following day. Each perhaps feeling they had revealed too much. Still, they began to function well as a crew, even if the tasks were relentless and at times demeaning.

  The sinking sun on his third day as captain saw Silione slip into view. As they approached, stars and lamps winked into being above and below, from south-western shore unto coastal heights.

  “Grimwater,” Res said from the helm.

  “Avoid it,” Balagir warned. “The Spear will be recognised, and questions as to Murdak’s whereabouts may be asked. We’ll find a cove.”

  They had passed the town when Drak’s fevered cry came from the mast. Balagir rushed over, fearing the worst.

  He pointed, grinning.

  On a clifftop, two long bays beyond Grimwater, was a tiny orange dot. He squinted for some time before he heard it. The faint pipe snatched about on the wind like a buffeted flag. His blood stirred, and he shared a knowing glance with the other ashen.

  “Take us there!” he instructed resolutely, and Res obeyed.

  The cove they entered was deep and enfolded the ship like a toy in a palm. The chains rattled as the anchor descended, and then in the silence, the ashen took their leave.

  “Keep her steady, Res. And be ready to sail. If we send men, Faverg will be the code.”

  “Understood, Captain,” Res said and hurried off to furl sails and batten hatches. Pegs remained also, but Meeker accompanied them, charged with beginning the search of Grimwater’s taverns for a likely crew.

  The rock trail was loose, and when one slid, so did the rest. Hauling themselves up by bracken as much as walking, they arrived on a plateau of flat grass, broken by lichen-dappled stones. There, overlooking the sea like a beacon, crackled the fire. Two figures kept company this night, and instantly the three newcomers knew a bond, approaching warily. Meeker, unable to hear or see the hub, vanished from view as they entered and likely scratched his head and continued on alone towards town. Balagir dreaded he may recognise those present, but the grey wild-haired man and the black-armoured jaegir were fortunately unfamiliar.