The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  Then they drank until the lamp guttered and conversation ran as dry as the bottle.

  As scheduled, the next day saw new lands on the southern horizon, hazy at first, gradually becoming very real.

  “Kasker’s a large port,” Res explained. “We’ll spend a day or two stocking supplies.”

  “You’ll need them. You’ve been loyal, Res. A good man to have at the helm. Kolak will stay on to help, but in my absence, the captaincy will fall to you.”

  “As you wish, sir,” he said with all seriousness, but his quick averted glance to the horizon betrayed his emotion. Balagir had little dealings with non-ashen, and whilst Res was more sailor than settler, he was still a different breed. He did not have the look of a hero in that chubby, rosy face of his—even with his new eyepatch—but he had the heart of one, and there was none more deserving of the ship.

  “Treat her well, I might have need of her again.”

  “And the Spite Spear will answer, sir.”

  Kasker bore many semblances to Cogtown in that they were both ports and had all the chaotic movement of such places. Kasker was the larger of the two, however, and the buildings were of a dark stone with grey slate roofs. The accents were strange; the people, darker skinned, regarded the northerners with both curiosity and disdain.

  Having disembarked, the ashen and some of the crew entered the Blessed Beacon tavern that advertised rooms for the night.

  They occupied the smoky downstairs bar and drank deeply. Kolak overindulged and, shortly after midnight, took Balagir aside.

  “You know why I really travelled north?” He hoisted his cloak drunkenly to reveal a glowing disc. “Still hanging over me.”

  “You can’t break it, Kolak. You know what will happen.”

  “All too well. But is it better to burn up eventually, or walk towards doom willingly?”

  “I’d never looked at it that way. What exactly is this oath?”

  “To open a chest.”

  “And inside?” The jaegir’s mirthless laugh answered his question.

  “Could be riches, could be death.” Kolak looked ashamed. “The giver was ambiguous. Had me over a barrel, so to speak, and I’ve been lumbered ever since.”

  “So why mention it now? You think that I’ll shoulder your burden?”

  “I’d never outrightly ask such a thing. I mention it out of curiosity. There was a lot of smoke involved.”

  Balagir paused with his drink half raised to his mouth. “A lot, you say. Tell me more...”

  It was only a matter of drinks before his belt was laden with another glowing disc.

  There was no official farewell. They drifted off drunkenly or went to the outhouse and never returned. Balagir struggled up to his room and dreamt fitfully.

  While the Spite Spear still slept and her crew swayed in hammocks like babes in cribs, the four ashen slipped out the southern gate. The road was wide and well rutted, carving its way through an autumnal wood. It was a fine sensation to have the earth beneath one’s feet. That well-paced crunch beneath the boot.

  If his time traversing the channel had taught him anything, it was not to repeat the experience. Pleasant memories of his nautical adventures were few, and even the beauty of Thella Barrowhawk or Galadel were tainted impressions. The hospitality of Heggerty and the lost wisdom of Faverg, the treacherous mask he had neither forgiven nor forgotten—all gone awry. And the cold feeling when he recalled that dead fire, the shadow of which he could not wholly shirk.

  But through suffering had come strength, through toil had manifested solidarity, and he was no longer alone. He inhaled deeply of the earthy wood and felt heartened. Morning birds began to sing, and the golden trees lit up.

  PART 3: ADEPT

  XIII

  PILGA’S PECULIARITIES

  The ashen’s progress along that trodden trade road linking the port of Kasker with its interior cousin, Kirfory, did not remain solitary for long. Once the day had dawned, the reason for its rutted, worn condition became apparent, and despite its girth, traffic was abundant.

  Such were the variety of wagons and traps upon the way, not a single eyelid was batted at the four travel-stained vagabonds. On the contrary, they appeared quite unremarkable amongst caravans bearing oddities from lands unheard of and circus troupes on their way to Kirfory’s annual fair.

  It felt good to have the land stretch off before them once more with no creaking of timber or roll of water beneath. There was a freedom in being in charge of one’s own feet. With effort and desire they could carry you anywhere and could turn hither or thither at the merest whim. The potential was limitless, and adventure beckoned. Of course, freedom was just an illusion. Balagir had a direction and goal, neither of which were truly his own.

  He would not let that unpleasantness mar such a pleasant morning, and he swallowed it as one did the first sour slug of a cheap bottle.

  The morning sun was agreeable, and they travelled with ease, entertained by minstrels and roadside jugglers, all on their way south to Kirfory. They were informed by a traveller, in an accent so thick it bordered on the unintelligible, that Kirfory lay two days hence, and that they would be lucky to find lodgings without prior reservation—a consequence of the festivities. Indeed, they were already in the thick of it, with all manner of entertainers on view. One wagon was so big it was pulled by a large, leathered animal as broad as three horses, whose twisted horns almost touched the trees on either side of the road. As they walked, Balagir studied his companions. The tattoo-faced Drak was soaking in the sights and sounds of the mainland; his time on Iodon and Loral, as well as his other high sea escapades, had given him a fresh appreciation for a world that did not move restlessly.

  Ginike was extraordinarily quiet, which in turn made Balagir wary. The handsome ashen may have revealed himself as a coward, but that made him no less capable of treachery.

  Imram was the happiest Balagir had seen him since their banishment from Silione, and it seemed his freshly inspired search for wisdom had eased his mind; the mourning of his lost library put to bed.

  That first night they camped beneath the stars, sharing the roadside with several others. They found no hub, but many a campfire was lit, and the smell of food and sound of merriment filled the night air.

  They talked a while, and as the sounds of clanking pans and banter simmered down to a low murmur, Balagir struggled not against the dragging reeds of sleep.

  In the dead of night Balagir awoke, sweating. He had been on a boat and watched a hundred gillards boil and scream. He sat, rubbing his face and looking around, but everyone was asleep. Well, almost everyone. He detected a shadow of a man, stooped and stealthy. Motionless, he watched the figure flitter about the camp like an opportune butterfly in a sleepy meadow.

  “Thief!” came a cry. The accused chose to exit between two parked trailers—an unfortunate choice, since Balagir rested there—and a swift twist of his leg sent the man sprawling, his collection of goods scattering noisily across the ground and waking half the camp in the process. Soon a lantern was lit, and a small, round man was staring down into the eyes of the would-be footpad.

  “Biel,” he said, sounding more disappointed than annoyed. “I knew it. Wages not enough for you, eh?”

  “You mistake—”

  “Tidying up, were you? No? Then save it for the law.” He nodded, and two burly assistants seized Biel beneath his arms and dragged him away to a dark trailer, where a series of grunts followed by a rattle of chains could be heard. The plump man turned back to Balagir. His stance was supercilious, augmented by a head of hair too black and robust to be his own. “An ashen, eh? Then I owe you my gratitude.”

  “What’s gratitude but a word? Such a deed, you might say, is worthy of a reward?”

  “Ha,” the man said, shaking his head. “I might have known. What is it you want? Coin? I’m afraid I don’t keep much about my person, and what little I have I need. You use the banks yourselves? Marvellous system for men of the road like ourselves!
”

  “I was referring to smoke.”

  “Ah,” he said, his smile fading. “That’s what your kind hanker after.”

  “We do so hanker,” Balagir said, straight-faced.

  “Well, I don’t deal in that filthy stuff—no offence. I’m a man of the world and seen stranger things than ashen—but I’ll not see your aid go unrewarded. I can go one better.”

  “Better than smoke? Let me hear it.”

  “Three tickets to my show,” he said, proudly pulling out the slips of paper from his pocket and fanning them enticingly.

  “Pilga’s Peculiarities,” Balagir read aloud with a creased brow.

  “Yours truly,” said Pilga. “Previously Pilga’s Compendium of Aberrations, but the name never caught on.”

  “Aberrations?”

  “Aye. You’ll be amongst the first to witness my latest marvels. I’ll even give you front row seats. You can’t say fairer than that!”

  “I could try—” Ginike began, but Imram, ever interested in the odd and obscure, waved him silent.

  “Most kind of you, Pilga. We accept your generous offer.”

  “Might I make an additional request?” Balagir asked, seizing the moment.

  “Go on.”

  “Since we travel afoot, we would not wish to miss your opening night. Might we ride with your caravan?”

  “Well, I’ve Biel’s seat free. I don’t see why the rest could not ride atop, though the road is not smooth.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “That settles it then. Rest now, we’ll be off at first light. My show opens in Kirfory tomorrow night. I cannot keep my audience in suspense any longer!”

  The wagon’s tarpaulin roof was surprisingly comfortable, and Balagir passed a fine morn stretched out, staring upwards at the passing patterns of bending branches and fluttering leaves. He had certainly travelled under worse conditions, and at one point a cooked lunch was even offered up to the ashen, who had never before fallen so firmly on their feet. It was almost a shame Kirfory approached so quickly. By early afternoon, the woodland had thinned and, gradually, a scattering of farmsteads squatted in clearings and open meadows. These in turn began to have less space between them, until one settlement became indistinguishable from the next, morphing into the outskirts of a city more sizeable than any he had seen before.

  Made out of the same grey slate as Kasker, the buildings imposed against the chill blue skies. The city revealed itself in a piecemeal way, but soon left him beyond doubt that it was large. Imram looked about anxiously, absorbing the details as a dog watches a squirrel from a window.

  Once within the outer wall, Balagir walked beside the caravan, noting several inviting taverns and a large smithy he was itching to investigate. The place was abuzz with denizens both local and foreign, and makeshift tents for the upcoming fair were being hoisted as desperately as sails on a ship before a storm.

  They stopped in a large square, fronted on all sides by shops and inns. As Pilga haggled and later bribed the guards to secure the most prominent spot for his show, the ashen stood aside. They drew no attention. Being a freak had its advantages when travelling with a freak show.

  “Plans?” Ginike asked.

  “We’ve until this evening,” Imram said. “I’m going to the inner sanctum to see the university.”

  “I’ll come along,” Drak said.

  “Splendid,” Ginike said, becoming his old self now that he could not be abandoned in the middle of nowhere. “I think I’ll go there,” he finished, eyeing a tavern surrounded by a gaggle of ladies dressed far more scantily than the biting breeze warranted.

  “I’m off to the smithy,” Balagir announced, wanting a drink himself but reluctant to get lumbered with Ginike and his lascivious conquest all afternoon.

  “See to your weapons. I’ll see to mine,” Ginike said disinterestedly.

  And with that they went their separate ways.

  Though the fair was due to start that evening, and in some cases was already underway, many were still arriving, lending an air of madness to the square and surrounding streets. Balagir was glad to leave it behind as he entered the dark, sweltering smithy.

  “I’m all out of tent poles,” the smith stated before examining him more closely. “But I’m sensing you come for something else.”

  “Your senses do you justice.”

  “Forgive me, we don’t get many ashen in these days, but I suppose the fair brings all sorts. Follow me.” The smith was a young man made older by a receding hairline; that his eyebrows had been lost to the furnace, only exaggerated the expanse. They passed the billows into a small room, where several curious items were displayed in cabinets on the wall.

  “Quite a collection you have.”

  “Do my best, but times aren’t what they once were.”

  “How so? You mentioned fewer ashen. Were we once more plentiful?”

  “My father used to tell of when he’d have a queue of strange fellows—pardon the expression—lined up outside. Now I’m afraid my time is spent making pitchforks and, as you heard, tent poles. The fair is about as exciting as it gets in Kirfory.”

  “Well, I’m here now. Tell me, what do you have in the way of hilt talismans?” The smith swelled, becoming the salesman that perhaps his father had been.

  “Ah. You’ll not be left wanting. Take this piece, for example. A classic plate shredder. For those who fail to find the chink in the armour, this nifty thing will cleave mail like ghot cheese.”

  “Useful, but I tend not to fight with armoured men. Beasts are more my forte.”

  “Then you haven’t been south yet. Not to put a dampener on your day, wanderer, but the men there don’t take too kindly to foreigners. You’d do well to go prepared.”

  “I thank you for the advice. Even so, I would peruse further.”

  “Very well. This green one, an exquisite piece even if I do say so myself, is the toxin jab. Turns your sword tip into a scorp’s tail. One jab can send an enemy into a seizure. A larger foe may lose feeling in the area or experience debilitating cramps.”

  “Again useful, but not really my style. What’s that one?” he asked, pointing out a plain black one with a silver skull in the centre.

  “That’s Doom.”

  “I see. And what exactly does Doom do?”

  “If the rumours I’ve heard are half true, you’ll not be disappointed.”

  “Then I’ll take it.”

  “I must warn you, it’s not like your current talisman. It needs charging and will not have effect upon the first strike.” Balagir frowned. He so much liked finishing a fight with the first jab. Still, Doom was too intriguing. He had it replace the Enfeebling Frost on Riorn’s Greydent blade.

  Satisfied, he looked over the armour. There was not much he could afford, and that which fell within his range lacked the quality which Riorn had fashioned from the thick, flexible hide.

  There was a curious cape that the smith claimed would maintain the body’s temperature, warming or cooling depending on the environment. A useful garment for the mountains. But despite trading his own wares, he was still pitifully short. He promised he would not leave Kirfory without it, and would obtain sufficient funds during his stay.

  On the off-chance, he showed the smith the amulet. The man, rather predictably, shrugged.

  “Hm. Unusual. Don’t recognise the sigil. Could try asking in Eskareth, maybe the askaba could help. Though now’s not a good time down there. Bubbling like a crone’s cauldron. Gorokhan’s gone mad, if the latest rumours be true.”

  “Who?”

  “Dunn of Eskareth. Turbulent times, my friend. You want my advice? Stay here, or head back. The south is not what it once was. Wine prices have shot up. It affects us all in one way or another.”

  “The casualties of war. Your name, smith? You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Hoki.”

  “Hold on to that cape, I’ll be back. In the meantime, who serves the best ale in town?”

&nbs
p; “You’re in luck. Bohal has his annual festival on, down at the Harlequin’s Cap. I hear he’s outdone himself this time.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve had more than swill. I bid you good day.”

  “Good day, ashen. And be sure to send your friends this way.”

  The street was even busier upon exiting, and despite many tents and stalls still being hoisted, the festivities were in swing. Jaunty music played, and several drunken townsfolk were dancing an uncoordinated jig whilst a dog barked at them furiously.

  The Harlequin’s Cap was a short walk in a neighbouring square down a crooked snickleway, and though avoiding the brunt, was nevertheless bedraggled in bunting and lined with amusements. Balagir did not diverge.

  “Your finest, Bohal.”

  The large, ruddy-nosed man looked up, squinted, and filled a mug.

  “Get that down your gullet,” he said. “Kirfory Keg, going down like water.” Balagir accepted, drank, and nodded his approval.

  “I could see myself coming to like this place.”

  Bohal barked and went off to serve another patron.

  Balagir glanced along the bar. At the far end sat a woman with fire-red hair. She was watching him with unequivocal black eyes.

  He raised his beer to her and drank. By the time he had lowered it, she was sat in the seat next to him.

  “Not bad, eh?” she said, observing the foam clinging to his beard.

  “I’ve had worse.” Apart from Freya, she was the first female ashen he had met. In stature she was similar to the stern, bow-wielding former member of the Good Company, but her face was softer, and clad in a dark green cloak as opposed to Freya’s cold armour, she felt instantly more amiable. She had a mischievous gleam to her black eyes.

  “Where you headed? Or you’ve just come for the fair?”

  He could not tell if she was being sarcastic, so answered with all seriousness.

  “Just passing through.”

  She seemed to find this amusing, laughing into her mug.