by C F Welburn
Balagir could have left him. In many ways it would have evened the score between them. But almost at a whim, he rattled his blade against the nearest bars. The huge beast swivelled with unnerving agility, making him instantly regret his decision.
He flung himself from the trailer, into Drak, and onto the ground as the huge shape sailed snarling over their heads. Struggling to his feet, something hit him in the back, sending him sprawling. He expected it to be Ginike, but no one was there.
The kargore saw a light flicker in one of the trailers and raced towards it just as Pilga opened the door in a ridiculous nightgown and back to front toupee. He had barely wiped the sleep from his eyes when he was snatched by the gaping jaws that crunched and drooled and chewed. When it turned, only his left foot remained on the doorstep.
Balagir had frozen, and only Ginike dropping from the wagon broke him from his horrified trance.
The kargore wheeled and approached with a velocity to give even the stoutest of hearts pause. Its mouth hung open wide enough for them to see Pilga’s bloodied nightgown tangled around its back teeth. They would both have met their fate then, the two of them in the same stomach of a grave, but suddenly the kargore stopped short. He appeared to have something in his mouth, chewing and snarling on the air. One of his teeth snapped, and his black tongue bled as he roared. About them, doors flung open as terrified settlers and fair folk watched in horror. With great effort, the kargore swallowed whatever was in his mouth, but something unseen thrust through its throat and it collapsed, guttering, scratching, and clawing at the ground. In that instant, Balagir realised what had hit him in the back. The Famished Phantom had escaped and, fortunately for the unwitting crowd, had chosen the kargore as its first target. Both had met their match.
Silence had barely descended when a shriek rose, and Hilga and Halga could be seen shambling away gleefully towards the crowds, each head spying a different objective, making her stagger indecisively from side to side. At that moment, Garwright appeared, shoving his way through the crowds and racing over to gape numbly at his employer’s foot.
“I think we’d better leave,” Balagir said, and they slipped off unnoticed around the side of the sagging tent and into the busy street.
Only when they had caught their breath in a dark alley did they remember the breaker.
“I can’t see him,” Drak said, scanning the chaotic crowds. But doing so was unnecessary, for there was only one place he could go. Towards the doom that was calling him as relentlessly as the horizon draws the setting sun.
After gaining his bearings, Balagir took off towards the east gate, Drak and Ginike in tow.
Beyond the city’s walls there was little light, for the night was moonless, and the small settlements were mostly deserted in favour of the festivities that still lingered in the baileys. There was less light still once the road passed into the woods, but by that point, it wasn’t needed. For already they could detect the distant pipe, tickling through the trees like luring tendrils of temptation.
Where the firelight licked the trunks, they witnessed the pale figure emerge from the treeline. Balagir tackled the man to the ground, but he possessed surprising strength and dragged them both towards destruction. Drak grabbed the other leg, but it was hopeless. The frailty of the man was nothing compared to his obsession with the fire and the pipe filling his mind; he was as unstoppable as an avalanche that had gained momentum from a single swirling snowflake to a force that could pluck trees from the hillside.
Balagir began to sweat, the fire’s heat making their straining faces glisten. After everything, they would have to let go, watch him burn. In a last desperate effort, Balagir flipped the man and pinned his arms beneath his knees. He squirmed persistently, as a worm chopped in two continues to wriggle.
“Let him go,” Drak said, rolling aside, panting from exertion.
“He clearly wants to,” Ginike observed from a more comfortable distance.
Balagir sagged. They were right. Some forces of nature could not be stopped. He pushed himself up, and as he did so, the key about his neck swung loose of his shirt.
The man’s eyes clicked into focus, clearing as a pail of milk diluted with black water.
“Where…” He struggled and coughed. Balagir followed his eyes as the ashen began to weep. Tears ran down cheeks already more solid, his skull and teeth vanishing, his bones and heart fading beneath a normal skin.
Perspiring in the proximity of the flame, they rolled aside and sat back with laboured breath.
“You saved me,” he managed, before his eyes closed and a profound weariness claimed him.
They left the ashen recovering near the fire and made their way back into town. Ginike talked as incessantly as an excited child, but Balagir’s thoughts were grave.
It was Kolak’s key that had saved him. Had he failed the same oath that bound the jaegir? Kolak could not have known that by giving Balagir his key, he would be condemning himself. It was too late to go back to Kasker now; the Spite Spear would be on its way again come dawn. All that remained was to deal with the oath before his friend turned breaker.
If he had thought leaving the sea behind would be an end to tribulation, he had been woefully wrong.
XIII.i
HERE BE FLAGONS
After what had been an eventful first day in Kirfory, there was nothing else for it but to drink. The Harlequin was still thriving, so they washed the thirst from their throats and took lodgings in the less than inviting Hive, where the mattress was lumpier than the roots of some trees he had rested against.
Come dawn, the events of the previous night were impossible to ignore. Tales of horror were on the tips of every tongue; of how podgy Pilga had met his fate; of how a strange two-headed beast had been caught in the stables feasting on a horse and a stable hand at the same time; and of how, despite these things, it had been the most interesting fair any could recall! How they were ever going to top it was beyond anyone’s guess. A massacre might be the only way, Balagir almost suggested, when he grew tired of the gruesome accounts. He did his best to ignore the gory details, but they were all too fresh in his mind to pretend they had not happened. A rope across the entrance of the big blue tent read: Closed due to unforeseen circumstances. He shook his head and went to find Imram.
The scholarly ashen had made off shortly after sabotaging the tent and had avoided the unfolding carnage. Still, even he, as he sipped his morning tea on the sunlit terrace, was well aware of what had happened.
“A foot?” he said in distaste, almost put off his breakfast.
“It was ghastly, but not in vain.”
“Then you freed the breaker?”
“In more ways than one.”
He proceeded to recount the tale of the chase and of how the breaker had undertaken the same oath as Kolak. Imram shook his head, troubled.
“Alas, if what you say is true, I fear for the jaegir.”
“It may not be too late. We must pass through Bone Forest on our way south. If I can complete the task without delay, maybe he will avoid any… unpleasantness.”
“Maybe,” Imram said, dubiously stirring his tea. “So, you plan on going south with Drak and Ginike?”
“And with any other who would come. You still mean to stay?”
“Of course,” he said, as feverishly as a starving man with the key to a larder. “And now that we know where the hub is, you’ll be able to come back from time to time. I’ll delve into settler knowledge and see what I can unearth.”
“Good,” Balagir said absently. Although it would be beneficial to have a personal glossary he could refer to at will, thinking that far ahead was daunting. Like a small child told to save for their dotage, they will nod, but inwardly never imagine such a time will ever come.
“Do you want to see the library before you go?”
“Very well. Let’s walk.”
And so they did, Imram walking off his breakfast, and Balagir his dark memories of the night’s events.
The lofty passageways of the university echoed with their footfalls, and even in the morning sun, a chillness seeped from the stone.
“You know, we’ve never talked about what happened on Shale,” Imram said as they took a twist and turn.
“What’s there to talk about?” he said glumly. They had made a mistake, a costly one.
“You still have the mask?”
“For all the good it’s worth.”
“I dare say it’s worth a great deal of good—and bad, depending on whose hands it falls into.”
“But it deceived us.”
“Deceived us no, we were hasty. You see, it shows only a short time beyond the now.”
“Then what good is seeing the future if you don’t have time to change it?”
“But you can change it. One small thing at a time. Push enough grains of sand, and you can stop one door from opening, or allow another to swing ajar.”
“Sounds like hard work.”
“Well, I’ll see if I can find anything about that too. But you shouldn’t discount it in the days ahead. Sometimes a few minutes foresight is all one needs.”
Aside from a few sack-clothed figures, they were quite alone in Kirfory’s great library. Balagir had never seen so many books and mused that even were he to read without sleep for the rest of his days, he would still get no further than the end of the top shelf.
At one point, Imram seemed to select a book randomly, blew the dust from its russet cover, and sighed.
“The Galoran Dynasties.”
“What’s that?”
Imram shrugged, a giddy look on his face. “Exactly. Settlers have enough history to warrant dynasties, whereas what you supped last night is relative history for us. With so rich a canvas here, I’m bound to pick out more than a few threads relating to the ashen.”
“Just make sure that by doing so, the whole thing does not unravel.”
Imram chuckled, but there was more than a shade of concern in his eyes.
By the time they had emerged into the morning light, Balagir was sure he’d seen enough books—and inhaled enough disturbed motes—to last him a while. He rolled up a map of the mountain pass Imram had hastily traced and dropped it in his pouch.
“So, you’ll be making tracks?”
“I’m thinking one more day in Kirfory. I have a couple of loose ends to tie up. We’ll leave at dawn.”
“Well, you know where I’ll be.”
“Then good luck to you, Imram. You’ve been a trusted companion. I shall be hard pushed to find your like on the road.”
“Then be sure to return. I too have my work cut out; as many pages as you have steps. But together, maybe we can make this journey mean something.” Balagir embraced the wild-haired ashen and left him there on the dazzling steps to plunder the depths of settler knowledge.
One of the loose ends was the recruitment of Kiela. She had been unconvinced when last they had spoken, but he would not leave without a final attempt. Not only was there safety in numbers, she had proven a good drinking companion—always a favourable attribute on the road—and was as shrewd as she was attractive; both positive traits.
He paused at the threshold and decided to put Imram’s suggestion to the test and explore the mask’s possibilities.
Vying for inconspicuousness, he proceeded along the unevenly cobbled back row until he stood in the outhouse yard at the rear of the Harlequin. Alone, he donned the mask.
It was surreal to step away from his body as his future self entered to find Kiela sitting at a window table, gazing onto the street.
“I wondered if I’d see you again,” she said. “Drink?”
“Bit early isn’t it?”
“Suit yourself.”
He shrugged. “What’s your poison?”
“Deadly Quiver.”
He got Bohal’s attention and ordered two more of the same.
“Did you have anything to do with last night’s events?” she asked.
“Now why would you think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Ashen always seem to leave a trail of chaos in their wake.”
“You need not be in that wake if you come with us.”
“Tell me, what do you hope to find in the south?”
“Answers,” he said, and she snorted as if he had announced he sought a rainbow’s shadow.
“Then I wish you luck—” she began, when suddenly the door burst open, framing an enraged Garwright. He had clearly spied them through the window, for he strode over purposely, bearing a wicked cudgel. Balagir barely had time to set his drink down before all the big man’s brawn bore that club down. The sound of splitting bone filled his world.
He snatched the mask off, sweating and blinking the stars from his eyes. For several heartbeats, he had to lean against the privy wall and even checked his scalp for blood, so real had it seemed. Once the shock had subsided, he retraced his steps and viewed the confrontation again. This time he sat with his sword at the ready, but kept his alertness hidden from Kiela as best he could. He was ready for Garwright this time, but still underestimated the big man’s strength, enhanced by his rage. He stood, deflecting the cudgel with his sword, but was at such a disadvantage being penned in the alcove he could offer no riposte. Kiela sought to draw her own dagger, but Garwright’s cruel cudgel crumpled her skull like a dried leaf, and Balagir surrendered in horror, knowing victory could not be won this way.
Once more he stood in the backyard, pushing the gruesome image of Kiela’s maimed face from his eyes. Then he explored the yard’s crannies and staged his ambush. He had only to saunter provocatively around the front of the Harlequin to ensure the bait had been taken, then, out of sight, he rushed to his hiding place. A few moments later, his would-be murderer’s heavy footfalls came echoing down the passage. This was no longer a mask vision, and he would be given no more opportunities. He heard the hinge creak on a privy door and knew Garwright’s back would be to him. It was a cheap move, treacherous even, but he had already been killed twice by the man, and thus justified his action. He stepped out and, as swift as a bobbing needle, his sword sewed in and out thrice in the big man’s back. He retreated as Garwright turned to eye him in surprise. For an instant, Balagir feared that it had not been enough. That it would take a hundred such jabs to fell such a man. An oak struck three times by an axe would hardly topple. But he had hit well, and already the blood pooled around his feet. His cudgel slipped from his wet hand and hit the cobbles with a thud.
“You villainous cur…” was all Garwright managed before he slumped and went silent. Then something quite unexpected happened. The blood upon the floor smoked and began to swirl upwards; much as he had once seen Finster absorb the death smoke of Pog, so now did Balagir take that of Garwright. All along the big assistant had been an ashen, and judging by the smoke he had exhausted, a powerful one. He had hidden it well behind those odd glasses, but why deny it? Why look with such contempt upon his own kind? Balagir had to admit that travelling with the fair and earning smoke by catching creatures must have been a prosperous way to live—for it seemed clear now why Pilga had hired him, the plump late owner having nothing of the beast-catcher about him. It could have been a tempting prospect, if he had not a greater goal, and they were not all now dead, of course. Garwright’s reasons would never be known, and Balagir quickly wiped his blade on the ivy-draped wall and left the scene. Once more he had smoke in store, though it lacked that satisfaction of completing an oath. Moreover, it seemed tainted, a feeling like guilt; food pilfered rather than food earned. Either way, he had further reason to return to the fire later, and he swallowed the jadedness down.
Balagir entered the bar and sat beside the girl at the window. “Two Deadly Quivers, Bohal!”
She looked at him strangely. “You can tell that from just looking?”
“I have an eye for fine things.”
“Is that why you came to my table?”
“It may have been.”
“Did you have anything t
o do with the events of last night?”
“Because us ashen are wont to leave chaos in our wake?” He smiled at her barely concealed surprise. “I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered joining me on the road?”
“That depends on what you seek. I need no fool’s errand to give me direction.”
“Justice,” he said without hesitation. “For our kind. Something is foul, you’ve felt it too. I intend to root it out.”
“Hm. Then you’re not as gullible as the rest.”
“So, that’s a yes?”
“You’ve intrigued me, Balagir, I’ll admit. Most ashen are blind to their motives or refuse to question them, hungry only for smoke. I sense something different in you.”
“Good. Then meet me at Kirfory hub at dawn. Things are going to change. Our destinies are unwritten, and they are our own.” They toasted to that, and shortly he left Kiela deliberating these intriguing new prospects in the bubbles of her beer.
The noon sun was bright enough to dazzle, too weak to warm. Next up was the smith and the cape he desired, but with no coin at hand, he had to take an unwanted diversion by the Hive, where he had seen gaming tables the night before. To exacerbate matters, Ginike was at the bar with a woman on each arm, beckoning him over the instant he entered. Groaning inwardly, he approached.
“Allow me to introduce my friend,” Ginike said, and one of the girls floated over to Balagir’s side as flirtatiously as a butterfly might from one flower to the next. He shrugged her off, drawing a scowl and a stamped foot.
“Do you have some bones I might borrow?”
“I do, but they’re my lucky bones. I can’t let anyone use them, lest it break their charm.”
“If that’s how our relationship is going to work, I’ll leave you here. You can make your own way.”