The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  Balagir could not pull his eyes from Shale, nor even blink. For he knew what was coming, and his knuckles were white as he clenched the rail. The very earth trembled as though stretching from a great sleep, and trees parted as black rock thrust upwards. The gillards that had regained their feet were throwing themselves into the water, swimming desperately away from the island. But it was in vain; for a column of black smoke shot up into the firmament, surely touching the place where the stars hid. And then the terrible red; the fire water, the earth’s blood gushing out down those rocky slopes, washing trees aside like twigs, making candles of them. Fortunately, distance hid the screaming, and billowing smoke and steam as lava kissed water obscured the fate of the residents. Balagir swallowed, his mouth gone dry. He dared not meet the eyes of any on board, nor was he required to, for at that moment, an explosion of such magnitude ripped the island from existence. From the fire and steam and smoke came something terrible. A rising black wave of destruction, gathering speed as it spread outwards.

  The ship shuddered as every inch of sail caught the gust of wind that foreshadowed the wave, carrying them before it like a child’s toy.

  “Secure yourselves!” Balagir roared, and he threw himself against the nearest mast, looping rope about his waist. He had a moment to see the crew had scurried below deck, battening the hatches. Imram had managed to make it inside, and the other ashen had already been below deck, but Res remained, holding on to the wheel as it twisted in his hands, shaking him like a doll. He did not let go. Not even when it snatched and left one arm hanging, disjointed. Balagir could have closed his eyes. He could have chosen not to see. But he had just witnessed too much death. Untying the rope, he staggered across the lurching deck. He coiled it about Res, whose consciousness lulled. He gripped the wheel, feeling Nifla’s strength band tremble as he wrestled with a might greater than his own. He grit his teeth as the wave lifted them; saw the world drop away below as they rode the crest, balancing on the precipice as if the earth were flat and they had reached the edge. Then his stomach rose into his throat, and down they went. Down, down, every last one of them, into the swirling throat of watery pandemonium.

  X.iii

  FARTHING TORCHED

  When Balagir opened his eyes, he was still clutching the wheel. It was no longer attached to the ship, however, and he hung precariously from a tree, the branch that had saved him hooked beneath his belt.

  Far below he could see shapes moving. He blinked. It was the sailors, some of them at least, and they wandered amongst the wreckage in a daze, like ants whose nest had been kicked apart. In the tree next to him was wedged Murdak’s drinks cabinet; the door hung open, and all the contents were gone.

  Gingerly, he unhooked himself and descended to assess the damage. The ship for the most part appeared intact, although there were several gaping holes in the hull and both masts had snapped. Above, a torn sail flapped noisily in a tree.

  “Captain!” Res cried, a bandage across his eye. “We thought you lost.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “The others?”

  “Most survived. We lost a couple of sailors, Jort and Gleson. Shook the life outta ‘em. The other ashen are alive, with some injuries.”

  “And yourself?”

  “I owe you my life, Captain. Were it not for you—” Balagir dismissed his gratitude with a wave of his hand. He could not shake the fact that it had all somehow been his fault, and appreciation, warranted or otherwise, tasted bitter.

  “What of the Spear?”

  “Well, as you can see, she took a beating. But we are fortunate to have landed here. The shoreline is forested, and I’ve already set men to felling trees.”

  “Good work, Res. We made it then to Farthing?”

  “Aye, though we’re on the northern shore. The fire you were after lies a trek to the south.”

  “Hm. I’ll see to the others. Keep the men working. You’ve done well.”

  “Right you are, sir,” he said, saluting, and turned to bark orders at the staggering men.

  Balagir found the other ashen on the beach. They were relieved to see him, but no one looked happy. Goffle had come off the worst, with an angry split down the centre of his forehead and an eye swollen shut. Drak’s nose was broken, and Imram had his arm in a sling once more. The jaegir appeared his normal self, save for a dent in his armour and a snapped quill on his head.

  No one spoke of the gillards and the fate of Shale. The celebrations were still too fresh to believe that they had been so utterly eradicated.

  After ensuring the men were working well, they struck south, hugging the coast for the better part of the day. It was sometime around late afternoon when they heard the music hovering on the breeze like the hum of an unseen insect; heartened, they lengthened their strides.

  The fire was unfrequented, and one by one they took their turn. Balagir had never experienced so intense a rush, sinking backwards onto his haunches as consciousness wavered. The combined smoke of three oaths sent him into a red world, where only music and the crackle of distant flame could touch him.

  When he emerged, he noticed three things. That he had tranced longer than his companions due to the quantity of smoke spent; that Goffle was no longer present, having descended to the stream to cleanse his wound; and that they were no longer the sole occupants of the fire.

  Two new wanderers now sat at the far side.

  “Well, if it isn’t my old friend, Balagir.” He focussed on the speaker for the first time and recognised Ginike. While not delighted to see the man, worse people could have shown up.

  “So, you managed to get out of the north?” Balagir asked. “I wonder how many more you’ve riled in doing so.”

  “I’ve no idea what you mean,” Ginike said, smiling. “Ashen shouldn’t hold grudges, there’d be scant time to do ought else if we went down that road. Besides, you left your share of enemies behind. And how came you to Farthing? I saw no ship in the bay.” Balagir ignored the question, but was pleased that nothing had been said of the Spite Spear in his absence. Ginike shrugged. “Have it your way. I’ve a new companion now. We’ll make it south in good time.”

  “Found another to get their hands dirty?”

  Ginike did not react. “I see you no longer travel alone. A mixed bunch and no mistake. You going to introduce us?”

  “They can introduce themselves, though I’d advise them against it.”

  Ginike sighed. “Ah well, small loss. I have in my one companion more fight than in all of yours combined.”

  “Remember, Ginike, a limpet, for all the mightiness of the rock to which it clings, remains just a limpet.”

  “A profitable limpet,” he said with his dashing smile and no attempt at denial. Indeed, the fact he bore a magnificent shield and an average blade spoke volumes. “We each make our way in this world as best we can, and I’m doing just fine. Made it this far, haven’t I?”

  “Astoundingly, yes.”

  Ginike’s likely droll retort was stayed as his large companion stirred from his trance and lowered his cowl. The white-haired man flexed, testing his new power, and locked eyes with Balagir.

  “You,” he said coldly.

  Ginike tutted and shook his head. “I see you’ve already met Greman. Why am I not surprised?”

  It was the ashen from Cogtown, the one whose deal with Murdak he had thwarted.

  “You realise how much trouble you’ve caused me?” Greman growled.

  “Nothing personal. Ask your friend Ginike here, he’s got an interesting philosophy on grudges.”

  “Ginike is not a problem, you are.”

  “I needed a ship and I seized the opportunity. I meant no personal foul.”

  “And yet foul was caused. You took my ship, the result being a month in Cogtown dealing with deplorable settlers. I hold you accountable.”

  Balagir tried to make sense of time, but after Loral, he had no idea how long had elapsed since Cogtown; enough for a month to pass and another ship to cross the channel.


  “What do you say we put it behind us. A bump in the road. I’m sure I could find room for two more ashen aboard my ship.”

  “Your ship? What happened to the captain?”

  “We were incompatible. We head for Kasker come dawn, I offer you passage.”

  “Oh, I intend to take your ship, but you won’t be on it.” He slowly drew his sword. Nobody moved, save the piper’s long fingers.

  “That’s out of the question. The Spite Spear is mine.”

  “So, you betrayed Murdak too. You’re a wretched one.”

  “That’s a point of view. I see it more as self-preservation. Now, I’ll only make this offer once more. Join me as crew, or find your own way.”

  “You’ll not leave Farthing alive. You’ve no smoke to warp. Like myself, you’ve just spent it.”

  “Now, now,” Imram said calmingly. “We all know no blood can be shed here, so why don’t we—”

  “Silence! Or you’ll join him.” Imram obeyed. “And you, jaegir, you look handy, but you think you can match me?” He twisted his sword so that a golden talisman glimmered on the hilt. If its showiness reflected its effect, it was surely devastating. “And you, Tattoo, got anything to add?”

  Drak shrugged. “I’ve no quarrel with you.”

  “So I thought,” he said, sitting back and laying his sword across his lap. “Now, I’m in no rush. The moment you leave the fire, we will solve this. You’ll not leave Farthing.”

  Ginike looked uneasy at how quickly the confrontation had escalated but chose to remain impartial. A feat which, for someone with his obstinance, must have been a veritable torture.

  Balagir thought about reasoning but could see it would be in vain. He eyed the grim, white-haired ashen. There was not a great difference in size between them, but Greman had an unsettling hardness about his face, enhanced by the cruel scar he bore; his weaponry was of a high calibre; his demeanour that of a simmering pot.

  “You don’t want to give Greman your little speech about grudges, Ginike?” The handsome ashen smiled coyly and looked uncomfortably into the fire. Balagir sighed. “Well, I see no point delaying the inevitable.” He stood slowly, stretching, and Greman did the same. His companions shared anxious looks, though nobody dared intervene when the outcome was so uncertain. Greman might become their future captain; only a fool would antagonise him now.

  The confrontation never came to pass. The resolution came from an outside source, and far more swiftly than any would have believed; for in that moment, Ginike gave a startled cry.

  “Monster!” They all swung to see the shambling shape nearing the fire. Greman acted first. Whether it was because he already had his sword drawn or because his temper was hot, none could say, but the fact that a monster could never be so close to the fire did not register in his mind. With deadly accuracy, he struck the ugly creature in the heart.

  The ashen were all on their feet then, staring down, aghast at the ghoulish face of Goffle, pale and puckered, scarred and misshapen; a horrified look in his one open eye at what had happened. He tried to speak but only managed a gurgle. The name Haringa bubbled and died on his lips.

  Realising his error, Greman let his sword fall to the ground. The piper’s tune took on a disturbing pitch; his eyes darkened and his brow creased. Ginike backed away, swiftly allying himself with the others. Greman looked panicked, but remained rooted to the spot as his eyes began to burn and burst. He opened his mouth, letting out a long, tortured scream, smoke spilling out like a nightmarish chimney. His hair ignited as a candle, the skin dripping like wax and running down his neck. He sank to his knees, smouldering and spouting, shrieking and stinking, and then his life was gone.

  Balagir looked from the blackened face of Greman to the white face of Goffle, and finally lingered on the piper, who continued to play with fury. The fire burned so brightly they shielded their eyes, and when he squinted, he saw Goffle and Greman were gone, with nothing but ash remaining. The fire sparked and spread outwards, and they backed away before the advancing wall of ravishing heat.

  The flame stopped when it had burned away half of the island, reducing every living and dead thing to cinders. The five ashen stood at the charred edge, looking grimly across the devastation. Balagir finally understood what had befallen Coal isle, and the same sense of unease that had come over him that day returned. His flesh crept as the smell of dead fire filled his nose. The others felt it too, for he saw Ginike shudder and Kolak look about anxiously. There was something sinister in the fire’s absence. Creeping shadows kept at bay were encouraged to return with dead, reaching fingers.

  “Does your offer still stand?” Ginike muttered sheepishly.

  “We should leave him here,” Kolak rasped.

  “It was not me who killed your man. Though you can hardly blame Greman. I mean, his face...” He trailed off.

  “You’ve your own boat.”

  “They’ll not take me without Greman. He was the one who organised it. Besides, I’d have to cross... that.” He looked once more at the desolation and could not disguise his fear.

  “I’ll not stand for it,” Drak spat.

  “We must stick together,” Imram counselled diplomatically.

  “Goffle would still be with us if it weren’t for this coward.”

  “Imram’s right,” Balagir said. “Believe me, I like it less than anyone, but Kasker’s not far. In the meantime, we need all the hands we can get. I don’t want to spend any longer on this island than necessary.” In that they could all agree, but Drak cursed, kicked the ground, and stormed off in the direction of the boat.

  “Thank—” Ginike humbly began.

  “I didn’t do it for you,” Balagir said coldly. “Now keep up, we’ll not suffer stragglers.”

  Res and the sailors had made surprising progress on the ship, the first mast already being fitted and the recovered sail stitched up. Even so, it would be another day until the hull was fixed. The ashen pitched in where they could. Even Ginike worked late into the night, sanding down boards and varnishing, keen to prove his worth.

  By dawn on the third day, they were finally ready to depart. Their adventures on Farthing had been brief and bitter, and they had lost more than they had gained. Even so, Balagir could feel the benefits of his invested smoke. In his muscles, in his mind; stronger, sharper. This, in turn, affected the equipment he tested. The star-wand glowed with an intensity that dazzled, the strength band allowed him to haul chopped timber to the boat in a way that had the sailors whispering. Even Era seemed to respond more swiftly to his subtlest whim.

  But none of this could nullify the sense of foreboding that troubled them; the sensation that something dire had transpired. Not the loss of Goffle, disturbing as it had been, but the absence of the fire, the extinguishing of the hub. It felt like a star had vanished from the night sky; a refuge forever lost. And with it came the skin-prickling awareness that they were no longer safe here. No one gave it voice, afraid that doing so would draw attention to it, would give substance to whatever nameless malevolence stalked the peripheries of the flame.

  Farthing looked strange from a distance, the north still dense with forests, its centre and southern reaches a blackened swath where life would struggle to flourish again.

  “How far to Kasker?” Balagir asked, lowering his spyglass and putting the black ruin from his mind.

  “Two days, give or take,” Res answered.

  “Hold course, we stop for nothing.”

  That night the ashen convened in Balagir’s cabin. They had to make do with sailor grog, since anything of quality now lay at the bottom of the sea.

  “Our journey draws to an end,” Balagir said, sipping and sucking his teeth. “This part at least. What will you do when we reach Kasker?”

  “You mean to disembark?” Kolak asked.

  “I must. Answers, if any are to be found, lie in that direction.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Imram said. “As far as Kirfory, in any case. I mean to continue my—o
ur research there.”

  “Good,” Balagir said, nodding. “We may be separating, but we should not lose sight of our goal. If we work together, we may yet unravel this mess.”

  “You already know my feelings,” Kolak replied. “I’ll remain aboard if I may, help Res and Pegs protect the ship. Maybe I’ll head north eventually.”

  “Then you shall be missed, Kolak. My experience with jaegirs had not been good, but you’ve changed my mind.”

  “And you’ve opened my eyes, Balagir. You’re right, we should not be content to wander. I may be leaving, but I’ll ponder that of which we spoke. Fate willing, we may yet meet again.”

  “If you head north, look for one called Igmar, leader of the Good Company. You’ll find a trusted companion in him.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” the jaegir said, bowing respectfully.

  “And you, Drak?”

  “I’ve had enough of this water to last me a lifetime. Count me in.” Balagir smiled. All eyes fell to Ginike then, who had been uncannily quiet since the incident on Farthing.

  “My path too lies to the south, if you’ll have my company.”

  “We shall see,” Balagir said noncommittally.

  “We should stick together, right? Weren’t those your words?”

  “It depends on your help or hindrance. A ship sticks together. A sail pulls, an anchor drags. Which are you to be?”

  Ginike for once did not retort, but nodded solemnly in understanding.

  “Well, that settles it then. We’ll land at dusk tomorrow, but for tonight, gentlemen”—he raised the caustic grog—“I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but it’s imperative a captain be candid. So, here’s to the road.”

  “To the road,” they echoed.

  “And to answers,” Imram said.

  “And to Goffle,” Drak added.