The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  Nim gave his father no end of strange looks as they wheeled the trembling ashen out to the river. Neither believed he stood a chance, but who were they to deny a dying man his final wish.

  “Just leave me here,” he said when the barrow’s wheel had sunken into the soft mud. They obeyed and stood back with plaintive expressions. To their minds, Balagir simply wished to die out in the open; there was never any hope of him succeeding.

  They waited several moments before Bok gave Nim the silent nod that he may take the skiff and depart if he were to be back by nightfall. The ashen, with his back to them, could have passed away already for all they knew.

  But he hadn’t, of course. Balagir fumbled in his bag until his hand closed about a tiny object the size of his thumbnail. With a flick of his wrist, he cast the chip of ciel-smite into the centre of the river. The two fishermen turned at the splash, but nothing happened. Balagir watched, holding his breath. Then, just as hope had faded, with a sudden whoosh, the river erupted. The water leapt so high that the trees were left dripping, and for a brief instant even the riverbed was visible. Balagir laughed like a madman in a storm as the water drenched him to the bone. Bok and Nim rushed down to his side, shaking with alarm. Never had they beheld such a spectacle. Then a thud. And another. And then many more as it rained fat fish. One hit Bok on the side of the face. Several more landed in the barrow and gawped from Balagir’s lap. As shock subsided, the two fishermen began to laugh. Balagir felt his belt hum, and from around the barrow, smoke circled. His chuckle became hysterical, and before long, all three were roaring with mirth.

  “Gonna have to smoke these. Got enough for weeks!” Bok was saying, rubbing his hands. “I must say, Balagir, your methods are unconventional.”

  “Ashen are naught if not unconventional,” he said. Improvisation was key when plans so often went awry.

  “Do it again,” Nim cried excitedly.

  “Now Nim,” Bok said fondly. “Let’s leave some fish for them poor folk down river!” Nim laughed and ran to collect the fish in a basket. An oar was used to poke several from the branches of the tree, and one was even found on the roof of the cottage. “I don’t know how we can repay you,” Bok said, a fish the size of an infant in his arms.

  “Well, there is one thing—” Balagir began.

  “Name it!”

  “The use of your skiff. So that I might pass one final night with my own kind.”

  “Of course! I’ll have Nim take you downstream at once. Nim! Ready the skiff.”

  “You’re a good man, Bok. Settlers don’t usually treat us so fairly.”

  “And you’ve changed my idea of ashen,” he said, smiling. “You’ll take some fish with you, of course.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need them where I’m going,” he said. “But I thank you all the same.”

  A short time later, Balagir lay in the stern of the boat as Nim pushed them out into the river’s flow. Bok stood, waving from the bank.

  “Farewell,” he called. “We’ll talk about this day for years to come.”

  “And I’ll remember your generosity,” Balagir said, weakly waving as the reeds obscured the fisherman from view and the river swept them around the bend.

  Nim rowed in silence as Balagir closed his eyes and shivered in a fevered dream.

  When Bok had dealt with the fish, he would surely sweep out the barn. He hoped that then, behind the mouldering straw, he would find the rods and nets hidden in the dusty shadows.

  “Sir, sir, we’re here.” He awoke at the gentle shaking of his shoulder and blinked at Nim’s face, little more than a blurred shape. The concern in his voice was plain enough to suggest that he had feared the ashen would not wake. Balagir struggled to sit. From the riverbank, through the trees, he could hear the tune calling him.

  “I’ll be fine from here,” he said.

  “You sure, sir?”

  “Quite. Go back and help your father.” Nim nodded gratefully and pushed away in the boat.

  “I hope you get to ask your questions,” he called as the skiff disappeared once more beyond the rushes.

  Balagir crawled up the bank. He shook and shivered, and several times put his forehead to the cool ground and trembled. Then he would repeat the process. It was a toilsome journey. He entered the firelight, where only the piper was present. He was drenched with sweat and his mouth hung slack. Three more paces; he stopped, coughing. Two more; he shuddered and winced in pain. One more; the world began to darken. Then he was there, and he let the smoke pour out of him into the fire. The sky turned crimson, and he did not know if he had made it, or if it was just death finally come to claim him.

  XXI

  DISTANT RELATIONS

  Upon emerging from the red dream, he found dawn had broken and his legs were not. He tested his weight as gingerly as one might thin ice. They were as new—better in fact—gone was his fever and the miasma of death. He was alone, save for Era and the piper, and with a widening smile he stretched and took in the world as if for the first time. The sun was low and the colours bright. Somewhere a bird loosed an unfamiliar warble, and beneath the piper’s tune the river babbled below in the trees. The air had never tasted so vivacious. He would have leapt for joy had not a wariness of his boots stayed him.

  He left the fire without a second glance for the piper and appeared on the road as if burst from a bubble. An approaching cart screeched to a halt as the horses stomped and whinnied.

  “Good morn to you!” he greeted the driver with far more enthusiasm than was decent at that early hour. “Are you bound for Ozgar?”

  “Where else would I be bound?” muttered the driver, still sour at having been startled.

  “Splendid! Will you accept a kepla for a ride on your cart?” The driver’s eyes followed his hand distrustfully as he reached into his pouch and produced a coin.

  “What good’s that round these parts, ashen?”

  Balagir shrugged and went to pocket it, but the driver suddenly changed his mind. Waving him over, he inspected the coin, bit it, and grunted his assent. Balagir leapt nimbly onto the laden cart and proceeded to whistle as they took off along the golden-grain-lined road.

  The road was already busy, and before long the fields became populated with small farms, bent-backed workers, and scrawny mules. These settlements grew larger and more industrious until the landscape had merged seamlessly from countryside to city outskirts. In the hazy distance, like a mountain, rose Ozgar. A steep hill crowned with a jumble of white sporadic spires—both twisted and pointed—and formidable ramparts, notched with small windows and glinting grates. Blue banners buffeted in the breeze, and the fish crest blazoned with a proud and warning abundance. The glistening river, along which they rode, snaked about the city’s foot, brown and slow.

  Roadside markets sprang up, and a wide red-brick bridge spanned the river, leading down into a cluster of uneven buildings that made up the docks.

  Beside the bridge, the river bobbed with boats, dancing masts, tangled nets, brimming baskets, swearing sailors, and all the chaos and cacophony inherent in such illustrious trade towns. The morning catch was already being snapped up by eager customers who jostled, hollered, and haggled to secure their share.

  Once they had rattled over the cobbled bridge, Balagir leapt down from the cart. He thanked the driver, who ignored him and trundled off.

  It mattered not. Nothing could sour his mood when everything had the savour of the first time. He had barely made it off the bridge when a horn went up from a wide gate set in the city’s outer wall. Near to fifty horses emerged in formation—riders clad in house livery and armour catching the midday sun. He watched with a sense of foreboding, realising that the images he had caught a glimpse of in the Gazer’s eye had not passed, but were imminent. It could of course be used to his advantage; a valid reason for an audience with the Dunn. Even if the askaba held his ear, such tidings could not be dismissed. One did not arrive at a new city, however, to be handed the ruler’s confidence—less so a
n ashen, and further still with war brewing. The situation demanded tact. A good place, he decided, to gain a measure of life in Ozgar was the river market and inns therein. He entered a tavern—rather lengthily dubbed The One That Got Away—and slammed his fist down on the bar.

  “Your best beer, inn-keep!” he called with all the zest of a man freshly reanimated. He wanted to perform a jig, so incredible were these legs he had taken for granted. The fat, greasy-faced man scowled, banging down a tankard before him so that the foam splashed into his face. He paused, chose to ignore the lacking service, and moved out to the small terrace to toast his second shot at existence. Surly inn-keep or no, life was good, and certainly tasted better than the tipple.

  “You’d better watch yourself round here,” a far from cordial voice sneered. He turned to find two sailors, already in their cups and clearly not having utilised a washroom since they had docked.

  “Smoke-eaters aren’t welcome here,” added the second.

  “My coin’s as welcome as yours,” he retorted offhandedly.

  “Hear that, Ralph? Coin, he said. Maybe he wants us to take it.” Balagir smiled and set his mug down on a barrel.

  “You prefer the taste of river water to the beer?” He allowed his cloak to fall open enough for the sun to catch Greydent.

  “Pah. Ye ain’t worth botherin’ with,” Ralph spat in an attempt to save face as well as his own hide. The other curled his lip, hawked, and went back to his drink. Balagir took up his mug, straightened, and took in the scene. The brown river shone in the sun; two dogs ran snapping at each other, narrowly avoiding a sailor’s drunken kick; a man with a basket full of fish slipped, and the bystanders pointed and guffawed as if it were the most hilarious thing they had ever witnessed. Nobody stopped to help, though several sneaking hands helped themselves to loose fish.

  Across the bridge, another company of horses thundered.

  “What’s that about?” he asked a sailor smoking a pipe in the doorway.

  “War. Hoped to avoid it in my time.” His moustaches were stained orange from a life of habit.

  “With Eskareth?”

  “Of course with Esk—Are ye thick, lad? Oh, you’re one of them.” The man chugged on his pipe and looked away.

  “Need some information—”

  “Bother someone else.”

  “There’s a beer in it.”

  He withdrew his pipe and stared for a moment. “Two.”

  “That depends on the quality of the information.”

  The sailor grunted, nodding for him to proceed.

  “Is Dunn Ortho still here? Or has he ridden out?”

  “You’re a bit late.” His grim chuckle became a rumbling cough and ended with an impressively arched spit over into the river. Balagir responded with a frown. “You ain’t heard?”

  “I’ve just arrived.”

  “Killed him, didn’t they. Lopped his head off. Sorry business. He wasn’t bad—for a Dunn at least. Only one I’d ever known.”

  “The Dunn is dead?” Suddenly the sour mood made more sense. This was a city not only on the brink of war, but angry and grieving. At that precise moment, a cloud passed across the sun. “When did this happen?”

  “A week back. That dog, Gorokhan, killed him. Public execution and all. Met a sailor who claimed to have seen it.”

  Balagir shook his head. He was too late. War had already begun.

  “Who’s Dunn now?”

  “His son of course.”

  Balagir cast his mind back to the image in the Gazer’s eye. The youthful fellow in blue. He would ride to war, a war that would be the ruin of all. He put his mug down heavily.

  “Has he left?”

  “Far as I know he’s still here. What’s it to you?”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” he said, impatient now. “You know if there’s a fire round here? The kind for ashen?” The sailor’s eyes narrowed, and he would likely have turned away had not the beer’s flavour been slightly less distasteful than the company.

  “Heard there’s one out the east gate. Unnatural stuff.” He shuddered. “Should drown ‘em all.”

  “I’m right here.” The sailor rolled his eyes but offered no apology. “And a good smith?”

  “How’d I know? I work on the boats.”

  “You want that drink or not?”

  “Two,” he corrected hastily. “Start over there.” He indicated a distant street that screamed commerce. “Or else you might try the outer wall. Of course, there’s the hill, but prices tend to rise with the altitude. Convenience is not the sole reason us sailor’s stick to the wharf.”

  “You seen any ashen recently? A large group?”

  “I told you, I don’t meddle with their sort. How many questions do you have? I’m parched.”

  “Any other rumours?” Balagir persisted, ignoring the man’s complaints.

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know, anything odd?”

  “Odd? Aye, fishermen pulled out a tangle of largatyn yesterday. All bound up they were. Bloody disgusting. They thought it a curse of some order, and what with Dunn Ortho and all, I half believe it.”

  “Anything else?” He drew thoughtfully on his pipe, the smoke clinging to his yellow beard.

  “Awful rash goin’ round the brothels, I heard.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Anything more… politically orientated?”

  “Political? Aye, Gorokhan and Eskareth can rot in the void!” He spat and continued to glower in—if not reflective silence—some rudimentary equivalent.

  Presently Balagir bought Yellow-Beard his beers and left the tavern.

  The guard at the gate made an effort to look imposing at Balagir’s approach.

  “Business?” he barked.

  “Social. Is this really necessary?”

  “We’re at war. Of course it’s necessary.” Balagir looked about; in the time they had been talking, five others had passed unhindered.

  “And him?” He gestured towards a small fellow with a straw hat and a brace of fluttering fowl.

  “He’s no stranger.”

  “He’s no ashen, you mean.”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “It’s hardly a derogative term.”

  “Once more: your words, not mine.”

  When the guard had painstakingly scribbled his details into a notebook and made an overlong scrutiny of his face, he stood aside.

  “Good day,” Balagir said to the barest of grunts. Ozgar opened up before him, and though it revealed its grandeur, it was found lacking in congeniality.

  Within the wall, the streets widened substantially, leading towards the hill where the city spiralled upwards in ever-increasing opulence. It was small wonder Yellow-Beard and his ilk skulked by the river. High above, a tapering tower imposed its shadow across the low-lying town, making a living sundial of Ozgar, the people cog-wound marionettes going about their routines.

  Between the grey cobbles, dark-red bricks, emerald-leaved trees, and deep-blue sky, the city had a pleasing aesthetic. A shaded charm existed in the narrow streets between leaning ivy-latticed houses, and small water courses trickled with a calm contrary to the market’s turmoil.

  Once the city had risen above the wall, it offered views across the Valelands. He stopped to watch the glistening river wind away to the north and thought briefly of Bok and Nim and their simple lives. He surveyed the plains for tiny dots that could be his companions, but the only movements were caravans on their way to or from the city and, far to the west, dust clouds kicked up by a multitude of departing hooves.

  At its zenith, he entered a wide gardened square. It was surrounded by structures vying for attention, culminating with the centrepiece: the residence of the Dunn.

  Nothing on his journey came close to Ozgar’s ostentation; even Kirfory’s university seemed humble in comparison.

  On the east side of the square was the peculiar tower he had noted from below. The scholarly figures gathered there suggested a library of so
rts, and on closer inspection, his suspicions were confirmed. All were garbed in flowing black robes with shaven heads, and through the bridges of their noses, black spikes curved upwards. The askaba. He felt something stir inside him at the name; he recalled Planter’s curse and the chest, and stepped back into the shadow of a statue when one of them glanced over. So these were the advisors of the Dunns. But what had they to do with the ashen?

  He sat between two trees pruned fastidiously into leaping fish, so lifelike one might question why the bench was not wet from their passing. With his back to the sun, his long shadow spread out across the flagstones; he regarded the Dunn’s residence and weighed up his options. Loath as he was to enter the shadow realm again, he saw little choice. The guards’ stances and weapons made the previous guard seem cordial. He surveyed the square once more, but no one was paying him note; even the gaunt, sour-faced askaba that had held his eye had moved on. Two children splashed each other in a nearby fountain, but he might as well have been invisible to their young eyes. Two fat pigeons with ruffled necks strutted past, and somewhere above and below, bells discordantly chimed out the hour. He straightened and detached his shadow off across the flagstones, hugging the shadows of sculpted trees and poised statues until he reached the palace, which cast its own solid shadow over the square.

  The palace was more ornate within than it was without. He glided at random along marble-flagged corridors, through fountain-cooled courtyards, and past antique suits of armour, vivid tapestries, and larger-than-life portraits. His meandering brought him to an elaborate double door and a circular chamber, where even now a heated council was in progress.

  At the head of a long table sat a young man. The blond curls that framed his youthful face did not hide the furrows at his brow, deepened by the sudden responsibility thrust upon him. He was beleaguered by those who sought to advise or take advantage of the unrest. Amongst them, Balagir was disquieted to find the askaba he had seen earlier and hoped it was a coincidence that his eyes lingered for a time in his direction.