The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “You know what books make?” Drak mocked. “Lots of smoke.”

  “Those type of comments are precisely why I’ve had to act with such delicacy. It’s taken a while for them to trust an ashen enough to come and go unimpeded.”

  “What’s so interesting about books?” Balagir asked.

  “History,” Imram said.

  “Settler history,” Drak said, curling his lip.

  “Which is far more expansive than our own. We must glean what we can, albeit from external sources.”

  “You’re investigating the ashen?”

  “Someone must,” Imram said. “I’ve taken to the task with relish, though the rewards are few. But my gallivanting days are behind me. Too many close scrapes.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Twelve years by my reckoning, though what’s time to us?”

  “That sounds like settler talk,” Drak accused, but the wild-haired Imram only shrugged.

  “Grew tired of the path, true. But I never abandoned the fire, nor spent more than a night in Grimwater.”

  “You don’t miss it?”

  “The smoke? Why else would I be here?” His smile was pained.

  “And what have you unearthed about the ashen?”

  “Hearsay, legends, myths, folklore, superstitions, you name it. Throughout generations, we are mentioned. But this is settler history, in which our role is predominantly background.”

  “And now you’re ready to move on?”

  “Move on? Not I. Grimwater library is surprisingly vast. Barrowhawk may be an oaf, but his forebears were learned men.” The white-haired scholar glanced off across the sea. He had done too much thinking, this one. A true ashen never had time to ponder. An ashen turning settler was a strange notion.

  “And you, Kolak?” The jaegir, unlike Nifla, retained an impressive crest of quills that ran down his neck and hung over his dark, scratched armour. His skin was a deeper grey and his beak-like face, although typically impassive, seemed nobler than that of his browbeaten brethren in the north.

  “Never met an ashen with a ship before,” the jaegir said flatly. “Could be an opportunity.”

  “You came from north or south?”

  “South, and I’d avoid it.”

  “The war?”

  “Oh, that’s brewing, to be sure. Tensions are high. But there are other reasons to stay away.”

  “Are there other ashen?”

  “You’ll find no shortage of black-eyes there. Be warned, the further south, the worse they get.”

  “So why come with us? Drak must have told you our destination lies south.”

  “He did,” the jaegir said wryly, “but I figured we’d see a bit of the channel together first.” He knew they weren’t strong enough to pass the southern barrier and would have to hunt smoke on the way. For all his barbaric appearance, Kolak was diplomatic enough not to belabour the point.

  “So, what exactly do we aim to achieve?” Imram asked as they crested a bluff.

  “To secure a haryek egg.”

  “Some sort of bird?” Drak queried.

  “Haryeks are no bird,” Imram said darkly.

  “Then what? A snake? What else lays eggs?”

  “It’s a harpy of sorts, or a descendent thereof. Its form is human, albeit winged. What exactly did Barrowhawk say?”

  “I never said who gave me the oath,” Balagir said, frowning.

  Imram smiled shrewdly. “He told you he wants it for his collection, didn’t he? Ha. A falsehood.”

  “How so?”

  “Firstly, how many eggs do you know that don’t hatch or go off in weeks? Secondly, there’s a myth about haryek eggs. One which, considering the Thell’s circumstances, is more probable.”

  “Which is?”

  “That consuming the egg will induce virility.” He winked. “I told you the library was extensive.”

  “So he means to eat the egg to sire an heir? Could that really work?”

  “It’s an old wives’ tale, but he’s desperate enough to try it. He’s not getting any younger, and if you believe the gossip, his wife’s child will be illegitimate.”

  “That would explain why he did not want his guards knowing about it.”

  “Whatever the reason,” Drak grumbled, “we must face this haryek first. Are we talking about more than one?”

  “They are solitary creatures,” Imram stated. “At birth they feed on their mother and weaker siblings. They are rare now, especially on the seas, though there are reportedly more in the north. I’ve heard of no other isle that supports them, though there are several nests along this coast—”

  A harrowing screech cut him off.

  “We’re close,” Balagir said, and they moved stealthily over a rocky outcrop until a nest came into view; not in a tree as might be expected, but on a mound of rocks like a woven wicker crown.

  Despite seeing no sign of the haryek, they remained alert, creeping closer. Several crimson feathers as long as his forearm littered the cliff and clung to the coarse grass that was unshorn by sheep. Their size did not instil in him a desire to meet their owner.

  When but a short distance remained, Balagir signalled for them to wait. Cautiously, he clambered the cairn and dropped down into a space large enough to sleep five men. Fortunately, its sole content was a black egg the size of a human skull. Barrowhawk would need quite a thirst.

  He was storing the egg delicately in his pouch when the piercing cry came again. He looked up to see a black dot in the sky, descending rapidly, growing larger by the instant.

  “It comes!” Kolak cried. Balagir readied his sword. The creature was twice the size of a man, yet agile as a bird. It skimmed the nest and wheeled out over the cliff to rise on the updrafts.

  It came again, lower this time, and Balagir barely ducked, leaving him in fond possession of his head as the wind stirred his hair. A dangling talon raked his shoulder, leaving a groove in the new armour. When he dared raise his head, the haryek had already turned on the wing and was descending as straight as a spear.

  “Here!” Kolak shouted, drawing it away so that Balagir could escape the trap. It worked, for in its rage the creature turned upon the three figures on the cliff. Imram threw himself headlong into the grass whilst Kolak knocked aside a large talon with the sound of two blades meeting. Drak fared worse. The other talon hooked him under the arm and swept him up into the air without even the time to scream.

  Balagir, back with the others, stared helplessly as the haryek glided over the cliff’s edge and released the ashen, who vanished without a sound. Wheeling, the haryek noticed the theft and emitted a hackle-raising shriek.

  As it bore down, Balagir captured every grotesque detail. Human shaped, plum coloured with a stunt of a nose, yellow fangs that glistened in the light. Its legs hung long, barbed, with talons that could seize a horse. Its wings beat like heavy black leather and buffeted the grass. Once more, Imram sprawled length long in the grass. Kolak swiped but missed, leaving nothing between Balagir and the beast.

  He fell backwards so that the creature passed an inch above his face, and his sword scraped across one coarse, black wing. The haryek screeched and rose on the thermals. It was turning for a deadly strike when the wing turned white. It twisted, perplexed by the thick frost that spread out from the wound, and flapping wildly with the other wing, spiralled frantically and plummeted beyond the ridge.

  When no further sound came, they crawled to peer over the cliff. Far below, spread out and splattered on the rocky shore, twitched the haryek. Halfway down, snagged on an old tree, hung Drak. He looked at them imploringly, daring not speak. His cloak tore, and he sagged a little deeper. Kolak, more than earning his place on the Spite Spear, possessed a rope, and they finally heaved the trembling Drak onto the grass.

  By mid-afternoon they were making their way back towards Grimwater. Conversation was sparse, but aside from a few bruises, they were content. The tattooed Drak had never known such comradeship, and Balagir wa
s reminded of his time in the Good Company. Kolak was harder to read, decidedly guarded; whilst Imram observed every detail as though mentally documenting it.

  Balagir left Imram and Kolak at the fire and was accompanied into Grimwater by Drak, who insisted he needed a drink. He left the shaken ashen in the Hook and went directly to see the Thell.

  He was kept waiting by distrustful guards until his appointment was verified, and even then, their sour faces did not soften.

  In a warm room with a thick red carpet and canvas portraits of the Thell’s long lineage, Balagir presented the egg. Instantly the smoke circled him, filling his belt with the satisfaction of one whose purse is filled. Barrowhawk was equally pleased.

  “You’ve done well, ashen. I may even let you view my collection.”

  “That’s most gracious of you. I presume you include the chart in that?”

  “You’re in luck. I’ve had it cased just this morning.”

  Balagir was overwhelmed by just what an accumulator the Thell was. He recognised things he had seen in the north—a set of horlock knives, a pickled glawing, an obsolete coin collection, maps, an oddly shaped skull, and an ornate mirror shield; myriad items from the isles, including fishing paraphernalia, figureheads, pearls, and even gillard scales; and things unfamiliar still from the south, things of men and beast, items of wealth and grandeur. And then there was the chart, pressed in glass, wall mounted, splayed with all its mystery laid bare.

  Once he had pilfered it, he took immediate leave of the manse and returned to the fire. The piper’s tune plucked him up the hill like invisible fingers in the night.

  He knew by their trances that the others had already spent their share of the bounty. He gave a grim nod to the piper, cast in his lot, and was swift to join them.

  X

  OFFSPRING

  He had the makings of a crew.

  The ashen contingent comprised of the tattooed, serious Drak; the anaemic, grotesque Goffle; and the hardened, stone-faced Kolak. Balagir regretted Imram would not be joining. He may have aided little against the haryek, yet he had opened up a path of possibilities in revealing his research. He would make an attempt to convince him to join them before they left, though he fancied it futile. The rest consisted of the loyal steersman, Res; the rigging spider, Pegs; and the efficient Meeker, who had enlisted three more hands—keen of course for coin—who awaited orders in the Rusty Hook.

  Despite this motley crew, he was not ready to set off just yet. Not until he had paid the cartographer one final visit.

  As he made his way over the bluff, he heard a familiar tinkling. He caught sight of the shepherd he had seen previously. He stumbled forlornly and without direction. Not a reassuring trait in a shepherd.

  “Good morning,” Balagir greeted warmly, for his spirits were high.

  The shepherd muttered incoherently.

  “What ails you, old herder?”

  “Gone!” he sobbed.

  “You’re referring to your sheep?”

  “Aye. Two more in the night. Betsy amongst them.”

  “And what do you think befell... Betsy?”

  “Haryeks. I live in their shadows.”

  “I’ve some experience with haryeks. Unpleasant beasts, though I thought they dwelt on the north shore?”

  “They’re straying south. Eaten the north shore bare.”

  “And you think lamb is on the menu?” The shepherd winced, and when he spoke, his voice choked.

  “I’ve found red feathers.”

  “Perhaps I could assist. For a price.”

  “You’re an ashen?” he said, a gleam of hope in his tearful eye. “You’d do one of those oath things of yours?”

  “You’re in luck. As it happens, my business on Silione is all but tied up. I can spare my morning.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the shepherd said, clasping Balagir’s cloak. “You aren’t a bad lot. Tarred with the wrong brush, I reckon. Please, I implore you, find my sheep!”

  “Where exactly did this incident take place?”

  “A mile east, over yonder. You’ll see a stone wayfarer hut; the embers of my fire will likely still be warm.”

  “Good day, shepherd. I’ll look for you here.”

  Balagir struck off east, cresting the green boulder of a hill impeccably trimmed by the sheep.

  It wasn’t long before he spied the collection of ramshackle buildings. He prodded the shepherd’s fire, verifying it was still warm, and searched for signs of interest. The buildings themselves contained nothing save weeds and rodent droppings on the floors, and webs and old nests in the rafters. The settlement must have once been of import, for a well had been dug and cobbles marked an old road. But the well had surrendered to ivy, and the cobbles were cracked and mossy. Satisfied no mischievous sheep were playing truant in the ruins, he turned his investigation outwards.

  Shortly, he came upon the first large feather. He twirled it between his fingers; there was no mistaking the red haryek hue. He looked about, loosening his sword. Perhaps it would have been prudent to have brought another ashen along.

  Tucking the feather in his pouch, he advanced, spying a further and another still. When he had found half a dozen of the crimson quills, a mouth-watering aroma reached him. He frowned. As far as he knew, haryeks did not possess culinary skills.

  Presently he heard the clatter of pots and pans and then the sound of hushed voices.

  “What do we have here?” he asked from above the crouched pair, sending them scrambling for their staffs, knocking a pot to the ground.

  “Back, stranger. You’re not welcome here,” warned the first.

  “Who are you to come sneaking upon us?” the second growled.

  “I’m a shepherd’s justice... And apparently just in time for lunch.”

  Eyeing his armour and sword, they beckoned him down, creating a space around the simmering pot. They did not seem pleased, but there was nothing their crude staffs nor gaunt bodies could do to dissuade him.

  “S’pose Shep sent you?”

  “The herder is concerned for his flock. Rightfully so, as my investigation has proved.”

  “We’re starving,” the older of the thin men whined. “He’s tight as a cork, won’t give us so much as a shank.”

  “He’s somewhat attached to his sheep. He sees it not so much as stealing, but as murder. These are all the family he has.”

  “Surely loneliness is preferable to starvation. And he’s plenty more.”

  Balagir shrugged and accepted the plate they offered. Crime had never smelt so good. As he sucked the meat from the bone, he looked about the camp. The two men were alone with their meagre possessions, a large pot being the most impressive of their lot. On a gnarled root hung a sack of red feathers.

  “Your ruse has worked well thus far. He believes the culprit to be haryek.”

  “It’s not been an easy gambit to uphold. There were four of us before we gathered those feathers. The haryeks are ever watchful.”

  “So, you take the sheep, the haryek take you. Thus, the chain is formed.”

  “And where do you fit in this chain, ashen?”

  “I killed a haryek. I suppose that would put me at the top.”

  “Except now you’re working for Shep? That how it is? Well, whatever he’s offered, we will match it.” Balagir shrugged ruefully.

  “My position is inflexible. An oath’s an oath, after all. You know what happens to ashen who break one? Let’s just say, it’s not pleasant.”

  “I thought you lot didn’t eat, anyway.”

  “Not out of hunger. But why should we be denied pleasures? The taste of food; the inebriation of drink. Carnal delights.”

  “So what do you mean to do? Kill us?”

  “After you’ve fed me? No. But I do need your word you’ll stop. In fact, I insist on it.”

  “If we refuse?”

  “I happen to be on close terms with the Thell. Were I to point his guards in this direction... Well, I’m sure you know better th
an I Silione’s punishment for rustlers.”

  “Then we’ll likely starve ere winter,” the younger man moaned.

  “I didn’t say stop stealing. Nor even stop stealing sheep. Just stop stealing these sheep. What say we put this business behind us?” The two men looked at each other.

  “I s’pose we could change our den. East of here there runs a nice stream.”

  “Yes. Perhaps it’s time for a change,” the other agreed.

  “This accord pleases me,” Balagir said, tossing a stripped bone into the fire and noisily sucking his fingers. “Now, the skulls, if you will. I must make tracks.”

  The men obliged, but kept the fleece and bones to fashion blankets and tools. They did not know it yet, but their new den with the small stream would be a source of more red feathers, and the cold of winter would never arrive to trouble them.

  He wished them luck in their new venture, leaving them cleaning pans as he headed west, back over the hill and through the abandoned village. He was pleased with his morning’s work and walked off his lunch with a contented whistle, a tune he could not get from his head.

  Shep, if that was truly his name, gasped and covered his eyes when Balagir upended the sack and let the two skulls roll out onto the grass. “Not in front of the others!” he hissed, attempting to block the horror from the restless flock. “How did you find them?”

  Slightly undercooked, would have been the candid response.

  “Haryeks do not concern themselves with discretion.” He showed the shepherd a fistful of red feathers. “Fear not, the villain has been dealt with. You should not be bothered in these parts anymore.”

  “Thank you, ashen. I do not know how to repay you.”

  “The smoke will suffice.”

  “Will you eat with me? I’ve a stew prepared.”

  “I couldn’t,” Balagir said, patting his stomach. “I had a large breakfast.” He stood back as the smoke circled him and vanished into his belt. Satisfied, he bade the shepherd farewell and made his way into town.