The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “And our weapons?”

  “Keep them if you must. You’ll be waylaid until such a time as Zyrath permits your progress. No weapon will get you where you’re headed without his consent. Your horses must remain here though. They’ll be fed and watered.”

  Grudgingly they left their steeds with one of the guards and followed the rest through a long, dimly lit chamber. Several faceless silhouettes watched as they passed through a door which closed behind them.

  Balagir banged on the rough wood and a hatch snapped back.

  “It certainly feels like we’re under arrest. How long must we be waylaid?”

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” the guard said and whipped the hatch shut with a guillotine’s rasp. Slowly, as their eyes adjusted to the torch-lit gloom, it became apparent they were not alone. Someone in the shadows cleared their throat.

  “I wondered when I’d run into you again.”

  “Freya?” Balagir asked, squinting. “How did you get here?”

  “Same way you did I expect; headed south, kept moving. You’ve taken your time.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “So I see,” she said, casting an eye over his apparel and then across his new companions.

  “I thought you’d stayed in the north?”

  “Plans change.”

  “You know this woman?” Kiela quizzed.

  “Her name’s Freya. We travelled together for a time.” The two women eyed each other in a way that two cats might over a dying rodent. Now it was Balagir’s turn to clear his throat.

  “This is Kiela. That’s Garill; the one you can hear breathing is Ginike, and that fellow over there is Jerikin.” Introductions over, he glanced meaningfully at the man in the shadows beyond Freya.

  “This is Toral, he’s with me,” Freya announced as the ashen, a black-eye if ever there was one, leant forward from the shadows with a nasty grin.

  “Now,” she said matter-of-factly. “We must escape.”

  “You heard the guards,” Garill somewhat naively protested. “We’ll be released when Zyrath verifies it. We’ve committed no wrong. They have no reason to hold us.”

  “I have my suspicions about the latter, and the former I highly doubt.” Balagir glumly noted that time and distance had done little to warm Freya’s mien.

  “Why should they keep us here?”

  “Why, is beside the point.” It was Toral who spoke now, or rather growled. He was a bull of a man, almost as broad as he was tall. The thick ring through his nose did not help soften his appearance. “If we don’t get out soon, we’ll be too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “For the challenge,” Balagir said, remembering in that instant.

  “At Iceval,” Toral elaborated, nodding. “The largatyn seek to waylay us until it’s too late.”

  “What’s ashen affairs to them?” Kiela asked.

  Freya puffed. “Whatever it is, Zyrath doesn’t want us arriving in time. We’d heard tales that it had become harder to pass through the mountains of late…” She trailed off with a look of annoyance towards Jerikin. “Why’re you smiling?”

  “He’s not one of us,” Balagir explained candidly. The revelation made them bristle like birds in a coop who had discovered one of their number was an imposter.

  “But he wears the belt,” Freya said, frowning.

  “It’s a long story,” Balagir hedged.

  “You going somewhere?”

  “Don’t mind me,” Jerikin said. “I’ll wait for you out there if it’s all the same. Bend some ears to your cause.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Freya growled. “How long have you known this man?”

  “I leave not due to the company,” Jerikin explained. “Merely for the taste of good food. I don’t expect you to empathise, being ashen and all, but there it is. A few centuries can build up an extensive palate, let me tell you.”

  Balagir was glad that his final words had left them more puzzled than insulted. He was not sure how the black-eye would react if affronted, and in these confines, who could say which body the lych might be flung into next.

  “Jerikin’s right,” Balagir intervened. “He can gain nothing from being in here, and if we are held for the reason you suspect, they’ll have no cause to withhold him. I vouch for him.”

  “Then be it on your head,” Freya snapped, looking at the pretty Kiela; the plump, bald Garill; and finally at Ginike’s twisted face, locked in a crooked, lecherous sneer. She exhaled in disgust and sank back into the gloom.

  Shortly afterwards, Jerikin saw his chance when a largatyn came to check on them.

  “I’m not an ashen,” he said. “I merely walked the path these last miles with these men.”

  “Then take off your belt.”

  “Very well.” At first his hand slipped and fumbled, and before he was done, he was bent double over the thing, straining in frustration.

  “You’re staying put.”

  “At least some food!” Jerikin pleaded. The guard hissed in amusement.

  “It would be a waste.”

  And with that the hatch swiped to, leaving the lych cursing when its echo had faded.

  “An enslavement of the body,” he grumbled when he caught them staring. For a time they sat in silence, pondering the lych’s painfully close-to-the mark words.

  “Did you ever see Igmar again?” Balagir asked when the quietness had become overbearing.

  “No. This is hardly the time to reminisce.”

  “Agreed,” Kiela said, taking charge. “Does anyone have anything on them that could help?” Freya nodded in approval, but still did not warm to the newcomers. He figured she solely tolerated him out of some slither of sentimentality she had buried like a splinter within.

  Balagir ran through his inventory. The kalaqai flickered against his knuckles, but she could not help him here, the door being fastidiously well sealed. Neither could the mask, save to show him themselves sitting in the same room some time later, having by then discounted the idea of its aid. Eventually the answer came to him, though it was not anything from his pouch but an item he had upon him. Not his boots of course, for the ceiling had no openings and was low enough to shorten him considerably. Neither would the strength-band and stone-fist serve; it would take more than Nifla’s crude trinket to budge that stout door. But it was the cloak that hung untested about his shoulders which called him, and he positioned himself before the torch so that a long, wavering shadow spread across the floor.

  “Bear with me. I’m going to attempt something.”

  They followed his eyes to where his shadow slowly detached itself and slid across the room and out beneath the door.

  The shadow floated out down the cold corridor. The door, like the others, was handleless, revealing it for the prison it was. Chains running up through the frosty ceiling showed that not even the guards had the ability to open the door from here. He assumed that at the top sat someone who could. Someone important.

  He returned to where he remembered seeing an upward path, and his ascension went without falter, save when two hissing guards passed and he melted inside a stalagmite’s shadow. The cold, grey rock turned white with frost, then blue with ice, and finally the walls and ceiling themselves became transparent and filtered a cool azure light.

  He kept track of where the chains must lead, but the passage twisted this way and that, and only when it opened into a larger chamber could he double back. The ice-blue ceiling loomed so high here that the cavern assumed a new grandeur, demonstrating why it was dubbed a palace. Azure stalactites hung like crystal haryek talons, glittering above their upward-reaching brethren whose hollows pooled every shade of blue describable.

  Fortunately, the direction towards the chains led away from where the sounds of activity echoed beyond humbling, jagged pinnacles.

  That must be the market Jerikin had mentioned. He could only imagine what rare items the smiths of Iylleth must craft, for the ice had been sculptured not only by nature, but
by many hands, over as many years. On the walls were murals, faces, statues, and symbols, each made more intricate by their inner-twinkling light.

  Still, trade was off, at least as far as the ashen were concerned. Once out of their cell, there would be no call for commerce.

  The path he took may have drawn him further away from the crowds, but it grew no less spectacular for its seclusion. On the contrary, some of the ice sculptures, of what he presumed to be former largatyn rulers, were so exquisite he could almost believe they were the actual ancestors frozen and made transparent by the centuries. This only confirmed his suspicions that whoever sat above in control of the chains must indeed be important. Possibly Zyrath himself.

  He was only rarely required to blend into the shadows when a patrol passed, or once when a group of scholarly largatyn bumbled along, cradling tomes. Oh, how Imram would salivate to get his hands on some of these. Human lore was strange enough for ashen; who knew what mysteries the largatyn may have documented over the aeons.

  The ice passage twisted and turned, rose and fell and branched off towards distinct chambers and hallways, yet all the while he fixed on the direction which would see him directly above his companions, and indeed, himself. He could almost forget he was a shadow save for the way he slid across the floor and around edges; folding like parchment, gliding like a ghost. Thankfully he would not be required to negotiate the labyrinth in reverse, since rejoining would be instantaneous.

  The increased guard presence warned him he was nearing his goal. Being as silent as a shadow would not suffice when one could be spotted by the shade they cast, yet the glittering ceiling refracted the light with such kaleidoscopic chaos that his shadow never held a bold outline.

  He was beginning to fear he was lost when, through the blue ice, so faint as to be veins beneath mottled skin, he detected the chains. He traced them as one might a crack in plaster or a thread in a tapestry to find its source; break his gaze for an instant and he would lose it again.

  The path rose into an elaborate spiral stair, crafted entirely of the same startling translucence. Two fearsome guards stood at the base, but were easily passed, disguised within the shifting light.

  They spoke quietly, their tongue strange and serpentine.

  The stair spilled out onto a wide, flat expanse, blue and smooth as a frozen lake. On the far side stood a building so elaborate, he could not decide if it had been made or formed. Sculpted from the same substance, its blue spires twisted upwards to touch the great cavern’s roof, soaking colour from the blue skies beyond. If the chains led here, then they were being taken far more seriously as prisoners than they had suspected.

  Several large largatyn lurked at its entrance, and two detached and crossed the flat surface towards him. He froze, being so close to the sky he cast a definable shadow once more. The guards were close, and any movement would alert them to devilry.

  They were upon him, when a cloud passed, sailing briskly on the breeze. He stepped into its shade and hurried to keep within as it sped across the wide surface, between the guards and through into a deeper shadow once more.

  In a window, overlooking his domain, stood the largest largatyn he had seen. Even from this distance it was clearly a lizard lord of some import, and the jagged iron crown convinced him this was none other than Zyrath, ruler of Iylleth and their presumptuous captor. He noted with dismay how those vein-thin chains ran up into that tower, and knew Zyrath as a ruler who literally pulled the strings.

  Well, there was no abandoning it now, not if they were to reach the challenge in time. Indeed, ever since it had been mentioned, he had felt the weight in his mind. The coveted itch to arrive and attend, nagging like a pending chore. Whatever Zyrath’s motives, the likelihood was there would be fewer ashen arriving from the north, thus more experienced competitors from the lands beyond. What did the largatyn stand to gain from this interference? Or rather, what did they stand to lose if they didn’t intervene? He would never get this close again, but shadow puppets would not suffice to unravel such convoluted designs. In any case, questions would be better voiced later, once they were free and at the hub.

  Within the palace, the hue darkened, dimming his outline and granting him brazen advancement. There was only one path to tread, the spiral stair leading upwards; handleless doors were sealed on each landing.

  The room at the top of the tower was as luxurious as it was uninviting. Balagir assumed that largatyn were immune to the cold, else their thrones and tables, each carved meticulously from the ice, would offer small comfort. As such, Zyrath seemed particularly at ease in his ornate gleaming chair, watching all his kingdom drip and shimmer below him. The chains were not the only thing of interest in the room, nor were they the most prominent, but they were there all the same, accentuating how personally the large lizard lord was taking their captivity.

  As he reached them, he realised his next hurdle: shadows were insubstantial. Might as well ask a phantom to do your work. He cursed, or would have, had he a mouth. Maybe far below, his body groaned and startled his cellmates.

  There were five levers in all. He fancied his body was in an end cell, though the path had been intestinous enough to doubt these were the same chains, let alone which the correct one may be. He grasped for one but, as expected, passed through it with the consistency of mist. Nevertheless, he tried once more, and again, over and over with renewed vigour until he was certain his body must have broken a sweat or lashed out and caused harm. Finally, he gave up. It was futile. As glum as any weary shadow, he decided to explore Zyrath’s palace so that his trip may not have been completely in vain.

  Gliding across to the throne, he saw that Zyrath was not looking across his domain at all, but into a glimmering crystal. Balagir peered closer.

  Within, two armies moved on each other, one with yellow banners, the other with blue. The vision swept over their ranks. A proud man, wounded and grey; a young man, desperate and fierce. An army of red washing down on them; a massacre, a ferocious scene. Was Zyrath witnessing something that unfolded at this very moment? Could this be the war finally breaking between the estranged southern cities?

  Before he could learn more, a movement caught his eye. He turned, but there was nothing to be seen. He must have been mistaken—

  But there it was again. A shadow like he, and another beside it. But they came out of the floor, not across it, and slid menacingly towards him.

  It was too late to recall what Hoki had said of the shadow world; they were upon him. He twisted aside, but they were more real in this realm than he, clutching him with claws that turned even his shadow cold. His body must have roared as he tried to tear away from them, wrenching and squirming whilst Zyrath sat oblivious to the struggling shades at his back.

  Balagir tried to return; shook himself, striving for wakefulness, but the link could not be broken. Not with these foul things on him. In desperation, he heaved until his shadow ran up the wall. He had nowhere to go. Whatever happened to his body should his shadow be slain would likely be devastating.

  The shadow creatures reared up from the floor as though they were living things and fell upon him. He lurched sideways, and the shades fell across the levers, setting them into motion with a tremendous rattle. Zyrath spun in his chair. The room may have been empty, but he roared when he saw the chains spinning in clouds of rust and ice. Balagir froze, unable to decide who he was more afraid of: the shadow catchers or the enraged largatyn.

  Either way, he realised in that instant he was free, and as though stepping from a robe, he left his shadow crumpled on the floor and flew back to his trembling body.

  XVI.i

  STARGAZER

  “Get him up!” someone was shouting. A female voice—he couldn’t remember whose. His head lolled as he was dragged towards a slowly closing door. He drew his legs up, vaguely aware that not doing so would bring a distant crushing sensation. Then he lay on cold stone, spinning.

  “You did it!” Another voice, this one from a distorted face
, all crooked jaw.

  “Ginike?” Balagir squinted, struggling to rise until faintness bayed him back down.

  “Save your celebrations for later,” a dark-haired woman said shortly. “They’ll be on their way.” There were no disputes, and with a shoulder beneath each arm, he was borne cumbersomely onward.

  They took the way he knew, evoking memories. The ice tower, Zyrath and his far-seeing crystal, the shadows that stalked that shaded dimension, and the path they were staggering down.

  He groaned, warning them to take the lower tunnel and not ascend into the palace’s heart. They adhered, and soon he shook off the two that aided him: Kiela and Jerikin. He knew them now. He had returned; all those little wisps he had been, trailing through the ice. The others ran at their side: fierce Freya with the towering black-eye, Toral; a rasping Ginike; and a wide-eyed Garill just behind. They were being pursued. That was the bones of it.

  The passageway’s bare rock burned the skin with its chill. There was none of the beauty and intricacy from above. These were the warrens, the bits behind the scenes with no sweat toiled on splendour.

  Time and again they elected the forks which appeared least frequented; finally, the rugged throat turned to chiselled symmetry and abruptly widened to reveal two slender towers stretching against a dark sky of ice. He knew then Zyrath’s throne to be a facade; this was the true ice palace. Iylleth. It was not made of ice, however, but of stone locked within a glacial prison.

  The entrance was unguarded, and within was a labyrinth of frozen stairs and icicle-draped landings. They took whichever stairwell looked least precarious. The walls were decorated with encrusted emblems, glimmering beneath the ice.

  When it felt like they had climbed to the Spine’s very zenith, they came upon a wide landing with an intricate archway at the end.