by C F Welburn
Despite his sorry state, Balagir did his best to appear sharp. He was not sure how they would test him but had to exude an air of competence or else, unarmed and unshod, the four of them would make quick work of him.
Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of the kalaqai in the canopy, but the sight brought more irritation than solace since he held her responsible for his separation from the group.
As afternoon wore on, the path spilled out onto a wider trail, rutted once more by hoof and wheel. Though the wood still hugged each side, it was the most open the landscape had lain since Kirfory, and the strip of washed-out sky did not promise warmth. He dreaded the sound of approaching hooves that his companions would ride into a bloody ambush. Kiela and Drak could doubtlessly handle themselves, but the idea of Ginike or Garill up against Gorj or Jaks was not something he would like to bear witness to. Ginike would likely bolt and Garill blanch like an artisan caught up in something beyond his remit.
Nevertheless, when the sun was halfway across the strip of sky, the sound of hoofs finally reached them. Balagir cursed and looked for any kind of rock or stick he might use to help his companions.
The horses, however, were only three in number and ridden by settlers. Balagir had no time to warn the riders, for they approached with speed, and he threw himself from the road as the two parties clashed.
From the verge he heard ringing swords, and the screams faded to silence and laboured gasping. When he dared emerge, he found Gorj, Jaks, and Hegg examining the saddlebags. Iker lay on the floor, clutching his neck as red ran between his fingers.
Once they were done, Gorj brought his boot down on Iker’s face so that the smoke seeped from the pulp and filled him.
Balagir rose, endeavouring inconspicuousness, but met with Gorj’s snarl. A smoke rage was upon him, his eyes black as bottomless wells.
Were things so bad in the south that ashen roamed, killing and robbing like common thieves? It was a far cry from the unity they should be striving for, the solidarity they would need to unravel the tangled knot of their predicament. Jaks looked down at where Iker had been, now replaced by ash and burnt blood. For a moment anger flickered across his face as lightning forks the sky, but he wisely subdued it and stepped aside to let Gorj pass. Iker’s pouch—the only item that remained intact—was quickly plundered and kicked aside. Then they were on their way once more. Like boulders gathering speed, these ashen increased their potency with each death along their bloody path south.
Soon after, they came upon a caged crossroads creaking in the late noon breeze. Their approach sent a murder of black birds noisily skywards to perch and watch their disturbed feast from lofty boughs.
There were four cages in total, the birds having cleaned fastidiously the bones of former denizens. All save the last cage, where a sorrowful soul clung on with a tenacity which should be applauded. Life and hope had all but left him, and it was likely just the horror of being eaten alive that had enabled him to ward off the birds for so long. Hegg lingered by the cage, tittering maliciously.
“There are worst things than dying, it seems.” Balagir kept his distance, for the smell and the flies hung like a mist. Jaks was not squeamish to such miasma, and leaned close to the malingering wretch. When he turned, he had an amused expression. “What’s this? Balagir, it seems you have a friend here.” Balagir’s stomach grew tight as he approached. The man was in such a state it was difficult to make out much beyond his gender. Despite his desperate grip to life, the birds had already pecked at his face; a row of yellow teeth showed through one of his cheeks. Balagir leant in, shielding his nose and mouth.
“Balagir,” the man croaked, barely audible above the buzzing, creaking, and caws. His brow pinched, but after a moment, he was sure he did not know the man.
“Speak your name.”
“Drak,” the man rasped. Balagir’s frown deepened. This was certainly not the tattooed ashen he had travelled with since Iodon. Whoever it was had been in this cage much longer than two days, and his face was devoid of ink. His eyes were a pale blue, making him settler not ashen, and his faded soldier’s uniform marked him as a southerner, likely fled from the impending war.
“Anything you want to tell us?” Jaks sneered.
“I do not know the man.”
“Strange. He knew your name.”
Balagir hesitated, glanced once more, and shook his head.
“He must have overheard us, for the man is not known to me.”
“So be it. Then you’ll not mind finishing him.”
“I think the flies and birds are doing a thorough enough job, don’t you?”
Jaks frowned. “Even so, I’m keen to see you at work.”
“To what end? He’s no ashen. There’s no smoke to be gained.” Jaks looked at Gorj, who hissed and clicked the stub of his tongue. The significance was as clear as any words could have made it.
“And how do you propose I go about it? With my bare hands? He’s rotting.”
“Use this,” Hegg lisped, passing him a rusty blade.
“How thoughtful.” He took the blade and looked upon the dying man. Despite his closeness to death, there was a silent pleading in his eyes. A hope that he might yet make it out. His delusion pained Balagir, even as he readied to snuff out that hope. Where best, the throat? The heart? Which would be swiftest? But an impatient Gorj barged him aside, bloodthirsty for any death, ashen or otherwise. Clicking and clucking, he aimed the star-wand at the dead leaves beneath the cage until flames popped and crackled. The prisoner’s eyes bulged as the smell of smoke reached him, and his throaty rattle turned shrill, like steam whistling from a boiling kettle.
Dead, the soldier’s face collapsed, and smoke swirled out. Gorj made an unpleasant sound that might have been laughter, absorbing it, staining his eyes.
Balagir stood back, and when the laughter and burning had stopped, they turned away from the cage.
“Anything you want to tell us? Should we be offering our condolences?” Jaks asked, feigning compassion.
Balagir shook his head and slipped the rusty sword beneath his belt before it could be requisitioned. The black birds descended as they left, squawking peevishly that they had been cheated their long-awaited feast.
As the day darkened, Balagir looked for opportunities to flee, yet their watch had tightened, and suspicions and speculations abounded since the cage incident. These were no longer normal ashen. They were something apart. Addicted, poisoned, unrepentant. Even the wild, ill-humoured Greman had not been evil. And Finster, whose grudge had been born out of his betrayed betrayal, seemed almost justifiable—at least until his moment of madness in Wormford. Who knew what dark path it may have set him upon. Balagir had had his own taste of the dark smoke at Garwright’s expense. It had satisfied in the way all smoke did, for it brought power. But it had been a bitter draught; wine corked; milk curdled. Developing a taste for it would be as destructive as one who wakes at night to quench his thirst on strong spirits. There would be no turning these ashen back to virtue, and he had his doubts they had been good men even before their hunger for death smoke had sunk its teeth.
The road wound south, and it was almost dark when Balagir saw the kalaqai make a quick darting movement above. He followed her arc to spy a shape between knotted boles; a familiar face, poised, watching intently. Kiela frowned, and he shook his head in warning that she keep her distance. By fortune they had hidden from the road; maybe he had the smoke from the smouldering cage to thank for that.
If Kiela had understood his gesture, then she chose to ignore it; for a short time later, he noticed a movement along the right of the road. Then on the left, as they were slowly flanked. He made sure the rusty sword was loose and walked on, unsure of how this was going to play out.
He grimaced when he heard a stick snap, and the bad company froze. He could only imagine it had been Garill or Ginike that had been so careless.
Gorj looked at Jaks, who glared at Hegg, who drew his blade and went to investigate.
Then, as if the first of the night creatures’ high-pitched warbles were a cue, the scene unfolded.
Hegg gasped and went rigid. Only when he dropped to his knees was Kiela visible behind him. As he slumped, his smoke transmitted, staggering her neath its jaded headiness.
Gorj roared; his fury likely greater for the smoke taken than for the loss of Hegg. Still, that was easily resolved. He rushed Kiela, and only Balagir’s foot made him stumble and miss.
Jaks’ eyes widened at the treachery, and he swung on Balagir with cold intent, but the two ashen emerging at his back were a distraction. Ginike and Garill were out on the road, swords drawn and looking far more menacing than they had a right to. Drak had also appeared beyond Kiela, dispelling any concerns he held about the would-be imposter in the cage.
He turned his attention back to Gorj, who had recovered. Kiela had vanished, retreating into the shadows, and the black-eye marched back, seething. Balagir would have to face his own Doom-augmented sword before he had used it himself. If he had known it might be his death, he would have bartered a lower price. The rusty blade he had hung so much hope on splintered in his hands against Greydent, making his hand sting and his arm shudder to the shoulder. He threw the hilt, which bounced harmlessly off Gorj’s barrel chest.
That could easily have been the end of his adventure, but Gorj was distracted by Jaks’ horrified scream as Kiela’s thin sword emerged from his chest like a red needle. He slid off, and for a few moments became a fountain, spurting decreasing gushes of red until he shrivelled and seeped a swirling smoke.
Gorj’s greed compromised him; for greater than the need to defend himself was the hunger for such smoke. He charged towards the expiring Jaks, seizing Ginike’s arm and flinging him against a tree as a child in a tantrum discards a rag doll. He threw his head back as his former ally’s smoke filled his belt, and when he lowered his eyes, they were pits of jet malice. A frenzy upon him, he strode towards the crumpled Ginike to finish the job. But Kiela was there then, flitting in and out like a moth daring the flame to lick her wings. Gorj grasped empty air as once more the flame-haired ashen evaporated into the pools of darkness. Growling, he swung on Balagir, who was bewildered by a dim glow radiating from the boots. Weaponless, he backed away, and Gorj charged with alarming speed, forcing him back against a tree. Beyond the stampeding hulk, he caught a glimpse of Garill and Kiela, too distant to help. Ginike lay motionless, and Drak was lost from sight. Gorj’s tongue clacked in what no doubt must have been bitter last words; then he leapt. But the boots, unknowingly activated, propelled him directly upwards to collide with a thick bough.
Later, when Balagir remembered that sound, he could never determine if it had been wood or skull that made such a crack.
Despite the gaping damage, a tragic puzzlement lingered on Gorj’s red-running face. His smoke-filled eyes drained into the air like a swarm of back flies over the road and drifted into those who remained until the night was clear and quiet again.
They tidied up. Ginike was not dead of course, for his body had not burned away. He had suffered a grave blow, however, his jaw twisted to the side, his nose split and uneven. Blood ran from his scalp and soaked his shoulders.
Balagir regained all of his possessions, including the useless wand that had been the catalyst for all of this. He replaced his boots with a newfound respect, despite the talisman being dim again, and the star-wand too held fresh wonder after he had seen it create flame in more powerful hands. The kalaqai slunk back like a disobedient dog.
They also had some new items to divide out; a profitable side effect of murder.
They took turns in electing and left the unconscious Ginike a few remaining items. For himself, Balagir took a heavy ring from Gorj’s finger. When he made a fist, it made his skin and knuckles harden like a rock, so he could punch a tree without incurring damage. This, combined with Nifla’s strength-band, promised interesting potential. Also from Gorj he took a talisman to ward curses. From Jaks he obtained a small crystal globe that had a tiny red bubble within. He turned it, but the red spot always remained to the north. So much for Baramunda. He also obtained a glass rod, which Kiela decided tested for poison if dipped in water or wine. From Hegg he took two things of interest. A small eight-eyed bauble he screwed onto the hilt of his dagger, which rumbled when arachnids were near; and a pair of leather gauntlets which, although lacking magic, were expertly crafted and bore a talisman slot, inviting augmentation.
Once settled, they walked some distance to where the horses were tethered and kindled a small fire.
“So, you mind explaining yourself?” Kiela asked. Balagir met her darkened eyes but did not comment. Instead he explained how the kalaqai had followed the chisps and how he had been forced to follow. Then he showed them the wand which, despite all their efforts, still displayed no apparent use. Garill studied it silently, and a distant, peculiar expression rested on Drak’s face. Ginike murmured in stupor, plagued by nightmares. His head and nose were bandaged, and only his twisted mouth and left eye were visible, trembling in the firelight.
“He’ll survive,” Kiela said when she saw him looking. “Though he’ll spend less time in the mirror.”
“That can’t be a bad thing. Vanity was a distraction. I appreciate that you came to my aid.” He made a point of glaring at Drak, who had been absent from most of the skirmish.
“Well, that’s what we should do, isn’t it? Stick together?”
“I’m not so sure anymore,” Balagir answered tersely. Then he recounted his time with the black-eyes. “Is it the beasts we should fear, or ourselves? Those ashen made the horlocks seem civilised. They were beyond reason.”
“Death smoke,” Kiela said darkly. “This time let it serve us; invest it at the next fire. But be wary, it’s a noxious substance.”
“Yet easy to see how these men were tempted. It’s much simpler than fulfilling oaths.”
“Simpler and dirtier. Better a cup of clean water drawn from a well than a river of sludge flowing freely. We’re distrusted enough as it is; the blacker the eye, the more so. It would make it difficult to integrate in the cities.”
Balagir acquiesced and turned his eyes to Drak. “You’re quiet tonight.”
“It’s been a trying day.”
“He’s been like this since morning,” Kiela said.
“Did you happen to pass the crossroads?”
“Ah yes,” Garill said. “One of the prisoners took quite a shine to Drak.”
“It was nothing,” Drak said shortly.
His tone made Balagir sit up. “I’d hear more.”
Despite Drak’s reluctance, Garill proceeded to elaborate.
“Well, he approached the cage, didn’t he? Warned him not to. Worse things than flies on those poor sods. Next thing we know, the man was grabbing him—”
“I was trying to help,” Drak protested. “No one deserves such a fate.”
“Well, that explains something.”
“What?” Kiela asked, piqued.
“He pleaded for help. Said he knew me. Almost caused me considerable grief with Jaks. What did you give him our names for?”
Drak looked flustered and answered with the churlish tone of a child caught with food on their face.
“Put him at rest, that’s all. Do you grill everyone who does a good deed?”
Kiela shook her head, and Balagir leant back, throwing a twig to the fire. “Well, you needn’t worry about that man’s fate anymore. Gorj put an end to him.”
“The fire?” Garill asked.
“Aye. Cruel way to go, if ironic.”
“How so?”
Balagir watched Drak carefully then, looking for the slightest of tells. “Well, he was an ashen.”
Kiela blinked; Garill belittled it on the grounds he had clear eyes; Drak was motionless, and in his silence revealed himself. Balagir steadily regarded the ashen. Of all present, they had trav
elled together the longest. Shared many ventures, few of them pleasant. Yet now he found himself wary. The dark wood was not a place for confrontation, however, and Balagir dismissed the subject with a sigh.
“Well, let’s put this whole affair behind us. With any luck, we’ll be out of this wood tomorrow. What say you, Garill?”
“Aye. Out of the wood, but into the forest. I fear what you hope to escape will soon become favourable in retrospect.”
“Well, I’ll be content when this oath is complete. How far to the chest?”
The bald ashen wafted his hand vaguely.
“Not far. Another day. Or so.”
“You do recall, don’t you?” Balagir asked sharply.
“Of course. How could I forget such a thing?”
“Good. Then get your heads down. I’ll take first watch.”
Morning was misty, and the trees crowded them like lost, crooked figures. The fire was out and too damp to rekindle, so they saddled up and made it back onto the main road without delay. Gradually the weak sun burnt away the greyness, and the golden woods turned brown, then grey, then white beneath the crisp blue. The trees stretched from stumped, gnarled things to featureless, tall beings. That was the first indication they had reached the Bone Forest. Indeed, the trees were so white and smooth it was not difficult to guess how it had received its name.
They followed the road until midday before Balagir voiced his consternation.
“Garill, do we not need to make a turn? It seems we are passing through the forest on the most direct route.”
“Just up ahead, there’s a fork.”
There was a fork, but it wasn’t just up ahead. In fact, they rode for some time before it appeared, and Garill craned his neck and made excuses that it was further than he recalled; that he had formerly approached from the other direction. It did not soothe Balagir’s growing consternation.
When they did reach the turning, it followed a stony trail into the trees, and a steep drop fell away on one side.