by C F Welburn
“We don’t bite,” slurred the idris. Dane tittered nervously, and one by one they joined the circle.
“Jests aside,” the first man asked, “have you any wine?”
“I’m afraid not,” Balagir answered.
“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “Not a good start, but let’s hope it can be amended. We were young and impetuous once. Here, drink.”
“Very kind,” Balagir declined tactfully, “but we come on a matter of urgency.”
“Urgency,” snorted the bearded man. “I remember that. Such hassle. Come, let us forget about business. Drink up! Tonight, you sup at the fire of heroes!” If nothing else, these men were not modest. The most heroic aspect so far was the amount of wine they could swill, and the black-toothed man did so with such aplomb, it left his beard dripping red. Balagir knew despair. Were these really the great ashen they had sought? On the surface they seemed as if they could be, but time had made degenerates of them.
“Ah. Where’re our manners, boys?” the emerald-eyed man said. “Name’s Tye. Probably heard of me.”
“Afraid not,” Balagir said. Then quickly affixed: “But I’m new to the south,” to soften the look of dismay that washed across his large, inebriated face.
“I see,” Tye said heavily. “It’s a sad thing when the young ones no longer heed the legends.”
“I would hear of the legends,” Balagir indulged, “but first we have something pressing to speak of.”
“More pressing than wine?!” the idris spluttered, and his companions roared at the notion. “I’m Morogan, by the way. Of me you’ve surely heard.” Balagir grimaced, and the idris glared.
“And I, the mighty Quevil?” asked the jaegir. Once more, the lesser ashen responded with blank stares and shaking heads. The jaegir snorted, popped the cork, and took a disgruntled draught.
“Of these, I’m not altogether surprised,” commented the wine-bearded man. “But I, Ivorn? Ballads have been composed in my name. Damsels swoon, I tell ye.”
“I’ve had scant time to indulge in popular ballads,” Balagir excused.
“Pah,” Ivorn spat and seized the bottle from Quevil.
“There will be time for tales,” Balagir said, patience waning now. “We come in haste.”
“Haste!” exclaimed Tye. “What is there to have haste for? Ye ashen or not, boy?”
Balagir ignored his statement and cut to the point. “War,” he said, as dramatically as his voice would permit. “Even now, the Ozgarians march on Eskareth.”
The heroes looked at each other and shrugged.
“And what’s that to us?” Morogan asked, genuinely perplexed.
“They’ll destroy each other,” Balagir expanded. “The largatyn will conquer the south.”
“As my esteemed idris duly noted,” slurred Ivorn, “how is this concern of ours?” He punctuated his remark with a belch so deep it vibrated the ground.
“No concern at all,” Tye agreed, taking the wineskin. “Nor should you worry your young heads!”
“Where do you get your wine from?” Balagir asked.
“The vales.” Tye shrugged between sips.
“And what do you think will happen to the vineyards if the land is torn apart? Mashing grapes is going to become a secondary concern once the largatyn have finished.”
For the first time, he had their undivided attention.
“That would not be good,” Quevil mused darkly.
“Not good at all,” Balagir affirmed, pleased to have found a chink in their obnoxiousness.
“Bloody largatyn!” Ivorn swore. “Take my wine and I’ll flay so many hides, there’ll be boots for all!” He stood and drew forth an almighty sword that cleaved the air rather than moved through it. It would have been impressive had he not stumbled, forcing Ginike and Dane to duck to avoid a beheading. Balagir could not deny the blade was majestic. He would have to find out where to get one of those.
“So, you’ll help us?”
“Steady on there, boy,” Tye said. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“But you just said—”
“Aye, aye. Never mind all that. There’s more than one way to skin a largatyn, as it were.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, you scratch our backs, we’ll scratch yours.”
“But, you’re heroes. What could you possible need from us?” They seemed to find this amusing and laughed and belched and passed the bottle once more before anyone had the manners to explain.
“Aye, you got that right, boy—”
“Balagir,” Balagir said, irritation finally unmasked.
“Balagir boy. Aye. That’s right an’ all. But you see, we didn’t become heroes without hardship and toil. You think this was handed to me, eh?” He gestured to his eye, and as he did so, it pulsed green, making all present shield theirs. “Or Reaver,” he pronounced, drawing a sword that crackled electric blue in the air. “You think this the shoddy stock of some settler smith? No. Blood bought and made this. Blood and smoke. But we’re in our golden years now. Don’t we deserve to delight in the fruits of our labour?” The question was rhetorical because he continued without pause. “Of course we do. And maybe one day, when you’ve worked as hard as us, you’ll sit here and drink and play out your years in glory.”
“But, don’t you miss the smoke?” Balagir asked, knowing that they would never have reached their current level without the largest of appetites.
“Course we do, boy,” Morogan said. “But can a horse’s hunger be sated by a seed? Can a kargore’s thirst be quenched by a droplet of blood?”
“What our poetic friend is getting at,” Tye interjected, “is that we only hunt big game.”
“Aye,” said Morogan. “A rich man will not get out of bed for less than a gold coin. Well, we hold a similar philosophy.”
“So, you’ll only undertake certain oaths?”
“Oaths?” Tye roared, finding the notion so ridiculous that some wine was spilt over Balagir’s boots. He bit his lip, letting it slide. “‘Tis a gull’s game when risk outweighs recompense.”
“Then just how do you sate yourselves?”
“There are opportunities, if one knows where to look,” Morogan said, waving the bottle in the air.
“And of course,” Quevil elaborated, “we still compete in local challenges. But ought less, just ain’t worth the bother.”
“Then how would you have us aid you?” Balagir asked querulously.
“We’ve an oath for you. One that in turn will lead us to bigger things.”
“Why not do it yourselves?”
“Like we said, you don’t get this far by acting rashly. Take that from me.”
“And in return, you’d assist us against the largatyn?”
“If you succeed, then yes. This much we can offer.” Balagir looked at his companions, who had thus far been silent. Wasn’t Roje the unofficial leader of their outfit? After this, they may have to reconsider roles.
“So be it,” Balagir sighed. “Speak your oath.”
“See that hill, there yonder,” Tye said, pointing with the skin.
“The one with the standing stones?”
“Aye. That be Monolith Mount. We need you to retrieve something for us.”
Ivorn, who had been silent for some time, gave a sharp snore and woke himself up.
“What? What did I miss?”
“Bald Ear has offered to resolve our little problem.”
“Balagir,” Balagir said, through clenched teeth. He turned to see Ginike smiling, but the maimed man’s face quickly levelled under his reproachful gaze. “Firstly, how many of us will it take to achieve your oath?”
“Only one may enter the stone circle. Of course, if that one fails, another is welcome to take their place.” Balagir looked at the others, who obviously avoided his gaze.
“Hm. I guess it will be me then,” he grumbled.
“Pay no mind to the ash within the circle,” Quevil warned. “I’m sure you’ll do much better.
”
“Now is an opportune time. See how the moon rises. It will allow you to read the stones.”
“And once read?”
“A simple riddle, I believe.”
Balagir nodded. He was not sure how simple a riddle it was if the pile of ash attested to anything. He looked about for support, which seemed to have waned along with the daylight.
“I’ll be off then,” he said, standing and dusting off his trousers even as his belt emitted the familiar rumble. He turned to his companions. “If I fail, one of you must accept the oath.” Roje clasped his boot.
“You have my word I’ll go next.” Balagir nodded, his mouth a grim line; at least honour had not been completely forsaken.
He did not waste time on farewells, although several of his companions wished him luck, and the heroes raised their skins. He descended the hill, and after some wet-footed negotiation of a babbling stream, ascended Monolith Mount. He turned to look back at the ashen silhouetted against the fire, feeling their eyes upon him, then took a breath and stepped into the circle.
The monoliths were hewn roughly of a stone he did not recognise, looming like tall figures inspecting their next morsel. Old ash compacted underfoot, and a low wind moaned through the valley.
At first, he could determine no difference between them, but as the silver moon slid from behind a cloud, strange runes began to glow. Depictions of snakes and other beasts more curious still, one with a beard of tentacles and another with tusks the size of his legs. He had no inkling of his purpose, but as he touched the stone with the snake, he heard a sound behind him. He spun to find that in the circle’s centre a chest had appeared, upon which sat a being. Small, almost ‘gnilo like, but with sharper features. It reminded him of the hillg he had seen in the northern wilds.
The creature spoke in a language not his own, but the words realigned to make sense to his ears, the wind shuffling syntax, sifting syllables.
“By moonlight ancient runes you see, thus a riddle I propose for thee. Success will see you on your way, failure on high your ash will lay.” Balagir shrugged. There was no going back now. “What have I guarded in this chest? Say it true and at last I’ll rest.” There was a long pause in which Balagir began to fear that was it. That he had only any infinite number of items in the universe to choose from. Fortunately, as the monoliths shimmered about him, the creature spoke on.
“My cities are devoid of people.
My rivers are as dry as bone.
My forests have no trees to shelter.
Name me in your clearest tone.”
And that was it. Only the sad howling of the wind filled the night. Balagir felt cold perspiration bead his brow.
Now the riddle gave him pause, but only because the stakes were so high. The answer had come to him swiftly, but when one’s life was in the balance, prudence never harmed. At last he drew his breath and answered.
“You are a map,” he said, with a slow, nervous smile. The creature regarded him as expressionlessly as one of the stone pillars, then gave a curt nod and promptly vanished. The soft sound of the chest clicking open seemed to reverberate through the night. Balagir pumped the air with his fist and pushed open the lid with his toe.
It creaked open and at first glance appeared quite empty. He leant over, when from out of a dark corner, something struck. He staggered back, gasping, and looked down in horror at the small yellow serpent attached to his chest. Its fangs had buried themselves deep enough for the venom to be swift. His head swooned, and he sank to his knees. Era fluttered about him, a green panicked light. How could this have happened? He had been certain. The world about him spun, the moon-blue runes leaving long trails behind them, blurring until they formed an unbroken gyrating ring; beyond them, a dimming orange light where he vaguely recalled people waited. But he had failed. His body began to burn, and he clawed at his cloak, tearing it free. The serpent gave a long, low hiss and vanished into the darkness, leaving two punctures over his heart, oozing with a thick, green puss.
He lay back on the ash, his head bent at an odd angle against the chest. The poison worked its way across his body, spreading out from the wound like black veins clotting and bleeding intricately across his torso.
Then he died.
Or at least he thought he had, until he lurched with the gasp of someone bursting from under trapped ice. His head swam, but the pain had gone. He rubbed his eyes and squinted down at the punctures in his chest. They had sealed already, and the blood had dried. But etched across his body, in grey lines finer than the most elegant of quills could have depicted, was a map. He pulled himself up so that he sat against the chest and carefully studied the macabre cartography. It appeared to show the location of four creatures, their identities scrawled in vein-like letters beneath. Suddenly the heroes’ intentions became clear. The risk of obtaining it had been too great, but now, with this information they would be willing to strike a deal.
He half considered concealing it, telling them he had failed. But irk him as it might, they were needed. He shivered as his sweat dried in the whipping wind and donned his cloak once more. When he was certain he could stand, he left Monolith Mount, retracing his steps, back towards the piper’s wind-snatched tune.
“Well, I’ll be… he made it!” Tye laughed, slapping Morogan on the back.
“Finally!” Morogan said.
“Ha!” laughed Quevil, looking at the other ashen. “You’ve got quite a leader there.”
“He’s not our leader,” Unvil muttered, one jaegir to another.
“No?” Quevil said. “Well, after this, he should be.” Ivorn got so excited he threw his wineskin into the fire and danced a drunken jig. He slapped Dane on the back so hard, he went sprawling onto the damp grass. Ginike flinched and shamelessly moved behind Kiela.
By this point Balagir had arrived, to rapturous applause.
“You did it, you fortuitous whippersnapper!” Tye shouted. Balagir looked around, never having seen the heroes so animated. Freya came over and examined his torn cloak.
“Well, out with it then. What did you find?”
“A map, of sorts,” he said.
“I told you it was there!” Morogan roared, as if he himself had fetched it. “It’s the boss map, is it not?” Balagir had no idea, but from what he had seen, suspected it so. He nodded.
“Splendid! This calls for a drink!” Ivorn said, scanning for his misplaced wineskin before snatching that of Tye.
“Wait,” Quevil said. “Are we going to do this as agreed?”
“Of course,” answered Morogan.
“Fine,” said Tye. “Boy… Balagir, is it?”
“That’s correct.”
“We’ve long since decided how this would play out. But first, can you confirm that there are four bosses on the map.”
He nodded. “It depicts four locations.” He wasn’t sure they were bosses, or even what a boss was.
“Just as we thought,” Tye said, beaming. “Now, you’re to give each of us the location of one boss, understood?”
“As soon as I have your oaths you will fight for us.” Tye’s enjoyment ebbed momentarily before he tossed his hands to the sky.
“So be it. You have my word.”
“And mine.”
“Mine too.”
“Count me in.” Although he couldn’t see it, he knew that their four old ashen belts hummed beneath their cloaks, just as he felt his own belt tremble as smoke trickled into an empty disc.
“Very well,” Balagir said, and one by one they approached him and went aside.
To Tye he gave the location of something called Magledorf. The emerald-eyed ashen seemed to relish this, clapped him on the shoulder, and retreated, licking his lips. To Ivorn he revealed the whereabouts of a being known as Ogo. He too seemed likewise enthused. To Quevil he disclosed the exactness of one dubbed Kravor. And finally, the location of Kali he bestowed upon Morogan.
Once done, it seemed there was great hunger upon the heroes. They finally had some
thing that could satisfy their ravenous appetites, and the wine was almost forgotten in their urgency to depart.
“You must wait until after the battle,” Balagir warned.
“I see no reason,” Tye objected. “I’ll be back in two days, with even greater power.”
“Likewise,” echoed Quevil.
“You gave me your word,” Balagir reminded. “What if one of you was to not succeed? Or you became waylaid? Would you risk turning breaker should I summon you before you were done?” They mumbled in reluctant acknowledgement.
“When do you expect this battle to be?”
“Soon,” Balagir said. “The pieces are moving into position.”
“Then we shall accompany you now.”
“Not immediately,” Balagir said. “If so many ashen descend upon the gates, we might startle the men into acting rashly. Hang back. Await my order. First we must convince them to become allies.” Quevil snorted and took up his wine once more.
“Then I wish you luck. These southern men are as stubborn as stone. Might as well return to the monoliths and convince them to help.”
Balagir shrugged. “We must try.”
“Is that it then?” Roje said, breaking his silence. “We can leave?” The others seemed equally as eager to be away from these drunken sots.
Balagir nodded. “Fine. But give me a moment.” He turned to Tye, the marginally more rational of the four. “A question, if you will?”
“Speak,” the hero said, his one normal eye blurred and bloodshot.
“How long have you been here?” A puzzled look came over Tye’s face, and after looking to his companions, he shrugged and sipped his wine.
“Who can rightly say. Time to immortals is like rain to a sea creature. So much of it, it becomes unnoticed.”
“But you remember the days before you arrived here?”
“Of course. We’re old, not senile. Memories are what make us.”
“Then what can you tell me of Ceniza?” Tye looked confused.
“That’s not a term I’m familiar with.” Balagir ignored his disappointment and soldiered on.
“Of the kalaqai?”