The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “What a gift you have brought me, ashen! I’m sure you don’t appreciate its value. Ignorance is rife in the world, I don’t hold you solely responsible. Now,” he announced with a sadistic grin, “this might hurt a bit.”

  With the scalpel, he made a small incision in the kalaqai’s breast, and with the tweezers extracted something the size of an apple seed and jet black. He examined it for a moment before turning with surprise.

  “This cannot be… were you not linked?” he muttered, removing his goggles.

  “Our bond is not so simply cut,” a voice directly behind him spoke, making him spin to find the true Balagir’s sword digging into his throat.

  “What—”

  “The problem with cheap tricks is that anyone can learn them,” Balagir said, indicating the duplication device.

  “I was merely trying to examine the—”

  “You removed her heart. Why?” The askaba paled. How quickly he had lost his composure now the tables had turned.

  “Remove your sword and I’ll tell you.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Balagir said, increasing the pressure so a small bead of blood trickled down his long, white neck. “What did you want with the kalaqai’s heart?”

  “It’s research, early stages…”

  “And what did you mean earlier, when you said we were related?”

  Sisken, pallid as he was naturally, took on an even paler sheen. Balagir prodded, and the askaba winced.

  “From the fire,” he muttered.

  “Explain.”

  “We’re from the fire. Both of us. The ashen and the askaba.”

  “The piper’s fire?”

  “Jakan’s… Kaliga’s”

  “Who… is that his name?”

  “Their names.”

  “There’s but one piper.”

  Despite his discomfort, Sisken could not constrain a grim chuckle.

  “Ashen,” he said, shaking his head. “Blessed and cursed. Long life and yet naïve; meaningless motes in the wind.”

  “You’re not making sense,” Balagir growled.

  “You’ve sensed it, haven’t you? Don’t deny it. The kraelyn. It haunts you.”

  “The kraelyn?”

  “Oh yes, Ceniza. When your fires go out and the world turns grey.”

  “The ash creature…” Balagir said, almost to himself.

  Once more Sisken smiled. “That would be him.”

  “What is it?”

  “A kraelyn, of the old order. Older than the hillg; older than the dhaki.”

  Balagir frowned, reeling at the litany of unusual names.

  “And what has this to do with Ozgar and the Valelands? Why have you condemned your people?”

  “Condemned? Ha. The world’s condemned. What’s a few mortals more? Your blue eye would have made little difference in the grand scheme.”

  “You seek to free this… kraelyn?” Balagir induced with mounting unease.

  “Now why would I want to do that?” Sisken asked incredulously, and Balagir was at a loss.

  “If that’s not your goal, and we are truly related, help me understand? For what did you want the kalaqai?”

  “Ah yes. I admit, most impressive, your improvisation.”

  “You’ll not touch the real one again.”

  “No? We’ve found it at last. It will not vanish again.”

  “Explain! What is she to you? Can she stop the kraelyn?”

  Something like detest came over Sisken’s face as he uttered: “The ashen come from the darkness and dwell in it. I’ll shed no light on your ignorance.” With his palm stretched out behind him, a whirring began, and he moved slightly to reveal a rotating ring at his back; a mesmerising disc, whose centre swirled with a grey tempest.

  “The age of the ashen is at an end,” he said, pausing on the threshold. “It is time the worthy take up the mantle.” And with that he stepped through, and the disc went dark behind him.

  Balagir cursed and lowered his sword. He realised he was sweating. He approached the disc and held his palm to the pad as Sisken had done. Nothing. He checked that Era was still safe in his bag, retrieved the Gazer’s eye from the unlocked chest, smashed the case that contained Huir’s grinning skull, and left the chamber before anyone came to investigate.

  He drew a few strange looks when exiting the tower but walked with a deliberateness that brooked no interference. His head was a cloud of confusing thoughts, clashing like waves with no predictable pattern. He had no inkling as to the askaba’s motives, nor of the importance of the kalaqai. But he had names now. Too many of them. Names of the pipers and tales of hillg and dhaki and kraelyn; yet he was lacking the thread that would tie all of these things to the askaba or the ashen. The deeper he dug, the darker the hole. Now more than ever he wished to contact Imram, but that would have to wait if he were to stop the war and thwart the first stage of whatever Sisken’s plan might be.

  He hurried through the quiet markets, out through the eastern gate, and arrived at the hub in a blur. Knowing they would be there allowed him to shoot them with his most impetuous “what kept you” look.

  “Balagir?” Kiela cried, leaping to her feet. The others followed suit.

  “Well met!” said Roje, whom he couldn’t recall being so friendly up on the mountain.

  “Took your good time,” said Freya coolly.

  “You’re hard to kill!” Ginike said, smiling in his twisted way.

  But as pleased as he was to be back amongst their company, he had no time for pleasantries.

  “We must leave, at once,” he said. His companions shared uncertain glances.

  “What? Now?” The green-hatted Dane frowned. “We’ve barely arrived.”

  “We may already be too late.”

  “For what?” Roje asked, his brow creased in two.

  “We need horses. I’ll explain on the way.”

  “Hold on,” Unvil said, shaking his head. “As far as I remember, you got us trapped in Iceval. I don’t recall anything about agreeing to accompany you afterwards.”

  “Me neither,” said Dane, reluctant to leave the fire. “You seem to attract trouble, Balagir. Whilst I respect your resilience, I’m not so keen to throw in my lot with you.”

  “For once I’m inclined to agree with Dane,” Roje said. “I’m not leaving here without an explanation.”

  “Have you not noticed the city’s deserted? The Dunn himself rode out this morning.”

  “And why should that concern us?” Unvil hissed. “The affairs of settlers are neither here nor there.” Balagir exhaled wearily. Time was of the essence, but if he wanted their aid he had little choice. Kiela and Freya appeared ready, but the others—Ginike included—seemed rather put out by the idea of rushing out into the night.

  “The south is on the brink of civil war.”

  “The south is always on the brink of civil war,” Dane said, rolling his eyes. The moustached little man was starting to grate on his nerves.

  “Not like this,” Balagir growled and withdrew the crystal. Once the augury had finished, there was a short silence before everyone spoke at once. Balagir raised his hand.

  “And why should that concern us?” Unvil said. Balagir looked from the jaegir to the gillard to the two idris, who were all nodding in agreement.

  “Because there’s more afoot here. The war is the surface of something. Something bigger. Something that concerns the ashen.”

  “How so?” barked the jaegir.

  “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting an askaba. Whilst trying to kill me, he revealed a great many things.” He looked pointedly at Kiela now, who had all along been his greatest cohort in the search for truth.

  “So, the askaba manipulated you, there’s a surprise,” Unvil said wolfishly. “That’s what they’ve been doing to the Dunns for centuries.”

  “And the largatyn who tried to halt our progress? You think that a coincidence too?” Doubt prickled his audience.

  “And that proves what?” Unvil
challenged. “That they fear the ashen becoming too powerful? Men fear the same, believe me. I’ve been in the south long enough to feel the cold edge of their prejudice. It’s logical they would want to stop us reaching the challenge.”

  “That’s not all,” Balagir spoke hurriedly. “I showed the image to Dunn Fannon—”

  “You had a meeting with the Dunn?” Dane spat sceptically, but he had missed one blatant detail.

  “Nice try, but Fannon’s not the Dunn,” Unvil said.

  “He is now,” Balagir said.

  “Since when?”

  “Since Gorokhan executed his father a week hence.”

  Roje let out a hiss. “Then war is inevitable.”

  “You’re wrong. The Dunn was willing to listen and was almost convinced. He knew the only way man can survive is by uniting.”

  “But he still rode out,” Unvil said flatly.

  “Because he was betrayed by his own advisor, the askaba, as was I.”

  Roje scratched his red beard and sighed. “What have those devils got to do with this?”

  “Who are the askaba?” asked Ginike. Everyone ignored him.

  “A lot, it seems. I was taken captive. There’s a war coming, and not only between men. The ashen somehow are at the centre of it. The askaba, he said that we are related.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “He was convincing,” Balagir said. “He knows about us. I mean, more than we know about ourselves.” The company shared troubled expressions.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Dane said at last, but his nervous laughter died when the others did not share it. There was a feeling of vulnerability that an enemy should know more about their roots than them.

  “What else did this askaba say?” Kiela asked.

  Balagir shook his head. “He rambled but mentioned the pipers… by name.”

  A silence descended on the hub, though the flute did not waver. Balagir looked at the piper and said: “Jakan.” And then after a moment, “Kaliga.” Still no response. Shrugging, he continued. “They are—were of an ancient race; the dhaki, I believe. I’m grasping here. We have little time, but I shall follow this up in Kirfory should we survive the coming days.”

  “What else?” Freya asked.

  Balagir hesitated before mentioning the kraelyn which instilled a balance of blank and bleak looks on brows. He kept the revelations of the kalaqai to himself, however, uncomfortable with drawing attention her way.

  “We must secure horses,” Roje said.

  “I’ll say it again, it’s not our battle,” Unvil argued.

  “It may well be. If what Balagir says is true, then the askaba has orchestrated this. Only by waylaying his plans can we buy time to find out what he hopes to achieve.”

  “The end of the ashen,” Balagir surmised.

  “Then, let us make haste. But I fear the Dunn will have taken every able beast with him.”

  “I noticed some mules and work horses in the farms,” Raf Nagar said. “Not ideal, but preferable to running.”

  “How far to Eskareth?” Kiela asked.

  “Three days’ hard ride,” Roje said. “But we should stop at Trummond Dorr.”

  “What’s there?” Ginike asked.

  “The heroes,” he said. “We may need their help?” Balagir frowned. He had heard mention of the heroes in the Dunn’s council, and not in a positive light.

  “Am I the only one utterly lost?” Ginike said, his sagging jaw adding to his gormless mien.

  “They’re ashen. Powerful ashen. And old,” Roje said. “We may learn something from them. They’ve been a long time in the south.”

  “And if not?” Freya asked.

  Roje shrugged. “Maybe they’ll offer their help. In any case, it’s on the way and we can refresh at the hub there.”

  Without further debate and only the obligatory sour looks, they departed.

  The guards paid them little mind and were far more drunk than they would have been had their superiors not left with the Dunn.

  “Good riddance,” one of them slurred once he thought they were out of earshot. None of them slowed to retort.

  Balagir had been in the south but the briefest of time, yet it was clear where opinion lay regarding his kind. As they descended through the darkened farmsteads, he began to wonder upon which side of virtue the ashen truly walked.

  XXI.ii

  THE RELICS

  The mules, much like the drunken guards, had been left behind for a reason. Two of them seemed sturdy beasts, but the rest had ploughed too many fields. It was preferable to walking, if not a great deal swifter. Soon Ozgar was dwindling in the night behind them, a smudge of red light, the riverside a palm and the towers long fingers of a blood-soaked hand that smeared down the horizon.

  Balagir faced the dark road ahead. The cloud-covered sky made the night pitch, impenetrable. Yet it was not as black as the heart he had seen plucked from the kalaqai, an image he could not shake from his mind. He sighed. Another tantalising tidbit if he made it back to Kirfory. Maybe between his snippets of information and Imram’s research, they could pluck something from the black cloud of confusion that enveloped the ashen’s lives. Still, there was the small matter of war to resolve before he could contemplate that. He rode on in silence, the others just dark shapes on the road about him.

  They had not covered a great deal of distance, but even so the land had evolved during those dark hours. Dawn was as if someone had whipped a cloth from a table to reveal a fresh, new spread. Hills rose and fell like crests of green on a choppy sea.

  “The Valelands,” Raf Isil said when he caught Balagir’s eye. The trail would be tougher on the mounts, yet a relief from the monotony of the Ozgarian steppes. The brisk wind whisked clouds across the sky, their shadows racing from one hill to the next, vanishing in the creases like scared animals in flight.

  It was about this time that two of the mules died. Ygril, the gillard, was forced to saddle up behind Inverna. Ginike, whose mount veered off into a ditch before giving up the fight, accepted an offer from Kiela. They carried on, but it was only a matter of time before another succumbed to the hardships of the undulating road.

  By midday, a distant, craggy hilltop poked into view.

  “Trummond Dorr,” Roje announced, now on foot. “We should be there by dusk.” Balagir tried to take heart from that, knowing that a fire would be waiting, but with each rise and fall, each bend and crook in the trail, it did not appear to get any closer.

  When another mount had sagged to its knees, grunting in stubborn protest to be left behind, they breached a taxing peak and were able to see the orange pinprick of the fire.

  When Raf Nauger’s mount lost its footing in a stony, fast-flowing river that carved its way through the vales, it signalled an end to their mounted venture. It was carried away helplessly until its pitiful whinnying was swallowed by the sound of the rapids. Fortunately for the remaining steeds, they were set free here to live out their autumn days grazing on the wind-ruffled tuffs of the green-boulder hills. They had gained perhaps half a day by taking the mules; whether they had earned a hero’s end or merely been sacrificed in vain remained to be seen.

  Either way, the setting sun saw the weary ashen ascending Trummond Dorr on foot.

  At its zenith, the beacon blazed, and about it sat the four heroes, gloriously portrayed beneath the halo of the fiery sunset. Two of them were men, though they seemed unusually large. The third was a jaegir and the fourth an idris. They looked powerful, adorned in so fanciful an array of capes, talismans, and trinkets as to shame any smithy. It was clear from this visage alone that these were ashen of the utmost order, of renown and repute, of fierce reputation.

  If only they had not opened their mouths, then this impression may have lasted.

  “A’up! What’ve we got here then?” the largest of the men said, belching as he looked up. Even sitting, the man appeared huge, his bicep the width of Balagir’s thigh and his shaven head round as a boulder and crisscrossed wi
th white scars. His left eye had been replaced by a glistening green stone, though if it served a function beyond the disquieting aesthetic, Balagir could only speculate.

  “Brethren come to pay their respects?” slurred the idris. He too, though slender like all his kind, was tall, and his limbs had the rigid look of thick, twisted ivy. Although clearly old, his pale oval face remained smooth and was marred only by a missing ear.

  “‘Bout time!” said the other man, almost as large as the first. His head too was hairless, though the long braided grey beard more than compensated. On the top of his head he had the tattoo of a large eye, staring upwards. His grin was gapped with teeth ill-cared for. “I trust you’ve brought wine.” Balagir glanced sidelong at Roje to confirm they were not mistaken, but the red-bearded ashen only pursed his lips and looked down apologetically. The heroes were drunk. The jaegir rose to his feet. His burgundy armour, a mirror in the firelight, could not detract from the empty wineskin in his hand.

  “Well?” he asked with a slight stagger. “What’ve you got? Not come empty-handed, have ye?”

  “Ahh that won’t do—hiccup—that won’t do at all,” said the bearded, bad-toothed man.

  There was an awkward silence in which Balagir cleared his throat. It was painfully clear no one else was about to speak, so once more he took it upon himself.

  “We’ve come seeking the aid of the ones called heroes.”

  “So you come to take, but not to give?” the cruel-faced jaegir growled, frown flickering with flame.

  But the emerald-eyed man’s expression had softened at their use of the word heroes, perhaps aided by the wine that flushed his cheeks.

  “Rarely get any visitors these days. ‘Cept meddling men, that is.”

  “Aye. Gather round. Take a load off,” the idris conceded, hiccupping. “Lesser ashen. Ah. Reminds me of the old days.” His nostalgia was as condescending as it was endearing.

  The “lesser ashen” shared uncertain glances. Balagir could not deny it. Of late he had been feeling more experienced, competent. But in their presence, he had a sense of being back at Warinkel again, bewildered and belittled.