The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “Stay out of trouble,” Roje warned Unvil and Freya as they left. The others, Dane and Ginike especially, hadn’t uttered a word since they had entered and needed no warning. Kiela and the two idris were equally as subdued and kept their eyes to their drinks. The gillard, though he would rile at the turn of phrase, was an even bigger fish out of water.

  “Then be a hypocrite,” Unvil commented as they departed, “and make them suffer.”

  The darkened streets blazed with torches as the prisoners were led (rather too convincingly) at the point of Bail’s prodding spear.

  “You needn’t do that,” Roje complained.

  “Want it to look real, don’t you?” Bail grunted.

  “I hardly think, spear or no, two guards are sufficient against three ashen,” the big, red-bearded ashen grumbled. “Best that we look willing.”

  Bail reddened with indignation whilst Hork hid a small smile.

  As the streets opened up, the palace’s jumble of towers and rooftops came into view. Eskareth appeared older than Ozgar, the grey stone much darker and choked with ivy up on the high walls, crumbled in parts and wind-worn in others. Black birds returned squawking to their nooks as the last light in the west died. Up above billowed a single yellow flag; nothing else seemed to move.

  They passed the main entrance and descended a series of stepped terraces until the gardens came into view. Night may have fallen, but the sweetness of honeysuckle still hung in the air, and birdsong bid goodnight as the batlings took their turn to dart and swoop.

  Two guards stood sentry and nudged each other to alertness. One of them, fortunately, seemed to know Hork. Hork, however, not quite being himself, did not know him.

  “You blind, man? It’s me, Gaffin. Your brother-in-law?”

  “Ah. Damn, smoke got in my eyes back there.” The lych recovered quickly. “I wouldn’t recognise my own mother.” The guard gave him an even stranger look.

  “Well, how could you… Are you sure you’re all right?” His eyes narrowed, and he moved his torch from face to face. He almost flinched when he met Inverna’s cold gaze. “Erm, not really sure I can let you through.”

  “Come on. Family and all,” Jerikin said with a wink.

  “It can’t wait?”

  “Afraid not. We come with direct orders from Yorvic.” Bail winced. The commander would not be pleased he had been mentioned. Still, what did the lych care.

  “Hm,” Gaffin said, looking at his colleague, who shrugged and sipped from a small flask. “Only because of Maude,” he said slowly. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  “Thanks, Gaffin. Always knew you were worthy of my sister.” The guard smiled at this and stood aside.

  “Stop by sometime. Once this is all over, of course.”

  “Will do,” Jerikin lied with ease. Little did Gaffin—or Maude for that matter—know, Hork would never be stopping by, his soul squeezed out like a puff of air to make room for another.

  They ducked behind a hedge as the soft-footed padding of an askaba neared. Balagir noticed Roje lay a restraining hand on Inverna’s shoulder as she tensed. Then he promptly changed his mind and released her. She slipped over the hedge as soundlessly as a bird. There was a short murmur followed by an odd cracking sound. Several moments later and she was back, the dead askaba on the grass beside them. Balagir could see no wound, but his eyes were white, a drop of frozen blood suspended from his nose. He shared an uneasy glance with Roje, but questions would be best left for later. Hork was indisputably calm, and Bail looked as though he would suddenly rather be back in the Whetstone.

  A buttery moon slid its way up the sky as they passed through arbours and glades; its light played on fountains and caught the features of old, proud statues. In the distance lay the flat expanse of the lake. Making their way beneath vine-tangled lattices and over stepping-stoned ponds, they traversed the garden, which seemed a world in itself.

  When the entire lake was visible, they crouched in the leafy shadows to observe. There were four figures at the water’s edge. Three askaba—conspicuous in their uniform black robes and studded nose-bridges—and a fourth old man, who sat on a stone bench, shoulders hunched, long grey hair fallen across his eyes.

  “Four of them, five of us,” Roje commented. “I’ll take the one on the far left; Inverna, the next, and Balagir, you the last.” He looked back at the guards.

  “Shouldn’t we speak with the Dunn first?” Bail muttered worriedly. He was no longer in charge here, and his earlier boasting seemed a sham.

  “Look at him,” Balagir said. “Do you recognise that man as your liege? Look closely.” Bail frowned.

  “Even so, I’ll not have this come back on me. Let’s just explain ourselves—Uff.” Hork set back the stone he had seized from a rockery and gave an apologetic shrug. Roje and Inverna were about to turn on the guard.

  “He’s with us,” Balagir revealed quickly. “I’ll explain later. Just don’t kill him, whatever you do!”

  “Right,” Roje amended, perplexed. “Four on four then. Same plan.”

  The lych reached the Dunn first, pulling him backwards over the bench and stifling a cry with a mouth-clasping hand. Before the askaba could take stock, they were each assaulted by three charging ashen. They writhed like ferrets but were scholarly types whose power lay in their instruments and minds. Both Balagir and Roje easily handled them, and no amount of brawn could prove equal to Inverna’s hatred.

  One muttered something disquietingly spell-like, and Roje thrust his head beneath the water. Balagir’s quarry pulled a wand from his cloak but lost it as he was shoved into the lake. Inverna, needing no excuse, wrestled her thrashing victim down into the cold waves. Suddenly the water grew chill.

  Her hands clenched about the askaba’s throat, eyes blazing as ice spread out like a creaking blue spider’s web. Roje cracked himself out of the ice and staggered to the bank. By the time he stood dripping on the shore, that whole section of the lake was frozen.

  A bumping sounded as the askaba Balagir and Roje had apprehended banged and scraped against the underside of the ice, mouths bubbling in horror.

  Inverna’s askaba was submerged apart from his blue face.

  “Stop,” Roje cried, but a fury was upon her. Balagir raced out, skidding across the ice to her side.

  “He has answers,” he said, touching the ashen’s shoulder before snatching his hand away at the biting chill.

  The other two askaba slapped weakly at their prison, grew still, and drifted away with ever-staring eyes.

  The final askaba tried to say something; perhaps a plea for mercy, maybe a destructive charm; whatever it was never found its release. His tongue turned to white crystal, and his eyes went hard as blue marbles, frozen in their sockets.

  Inverna swooned and released her grip. In that instant the ice receded, and all three ashen sank, cursing into the water.

  By the time they had waded ashore, the Dunn was propped up against the stone bench, shuddering.

  “What…?” he tried; then: “Who…?” His eyes widened in sinking realisation. “What have I done?” he said, glancing down at his hands and wretchedly beginning to weep.

  “Relax, Dunn,” Jerikin said, attempting to block the three terrifying-looking ashen from his line of sight. “It’s me, your loyal guard, Hork. Let’s get you back to the palace. Let’s get you warm.”

  Following the Dunn and the imposter, Inverna shot them a frosty look.

  “They did this to me,” she said before they could speak.

  “How?” asked Roje.

  “A contraption, a test of some kind. It failed.”

  “Sisken?” Balagir asked.

  “Among others. They attached me to a machine. A cannon perhaps. I’d not seen anything like it. There were many—studying, taking notes, making adjustments. I had the feeling I was not the first to have been their subject. Not the first ashen.”

  “A cannon, you say,” Roje muttered ominously. “For what purpose?”

  “I never fo
und out,” Inverna said. “It backfired. Turned me into… this. Took out several of their own too.” Her pale lips twisted grimly. “I escaped only because they assumed me dead beneath the ice. I found my way out onto the slopes of Iceval, and there we met.” Roje nodded, recalling it.

  “Show restraint the next time we meet an askaba,” Balagir warned. “Our questions are becoming a litany.”

  Their conversation was cut short as the two guards from earlier rushed through the gate, alarmed at the sight of their Dunn stumbling, clutching Hork’s arm. Fortunately, Yorvic and Kejal arrived just then and took matters into their own hands.

  Before long the Dunn was abed, attended by medics, and the ashen sat in a large library, warming themselves by the fire.

  Inverna stared into the flames, the countering element to the ice which dwelt within her. She reluctantly agreed to wait behind when they interrogated Sassarek, though she was not happy and would need to be watched.

  The other ashen had not spent their time idly in the Whetstone, and Dane in particular was quite drunk. Unvil paced darkly and shot the green-hatted ashen many a murderous glance whenever he would titter or puff at a book he spied.

  When at last the double doors swung open, Balagir leapt to his feet.

  “The Dunn will see you now,” Yorvic announced. “Just you three,” he added, indicating those who had entered the gardens, and expressly not Dane, who stepped hopefully towards the door.

  They were led along a statue-lined corridor, up a sweeping carpeted stair that branched onto equally impressive landings, and ushered through imposing doors to stand before the four-posted bed, where they bowed and waited for the sickly figure to stir.

  Dunn Gorokhan opened his mouth, coughed, waved for his butler to wipe his face, coughed some more, and regarded them languidly with feverish bloodshot eyes.

  “I owe you my gratitude. Alas, I was their puppet for too long.”

  “The situation has been unfortunate,” Balagir agreed, “but it’s not too late.”

  “I was unaware ashen could resurrect a man.”

  “The Dunn’s execution was not your fault.”

  “I fear the Ozgarians at my gate do not share your view.”

  “We must explain it; offer a truce, show them that you were manipulated.”

  The Dunn’s face flushed, and he entered another coughing fit.

  “A stooge they made me!” he spat, a proud man admitting weakness. “What man is fit to rule that cannot govern his own mind?”

  “The askaba are devious, you must not feel blame.”

  “And yet I do. My own son is imprisoned! I’ve brought civil war to our gates. My fault or not, who else is there to answer for what has been done?”

  Yorvic cleared his throat.

  “Sir, Sassarek has been restrained. Even now the inquisition is at work so that we may unravel his scheme.”

  “None of this will matter if we do not resolve the siege,” Roje said.

  “Ah, yes,” the Dunn said, spluttering. “Yorvic has informed me of your warning.”

  “Good,” Balagir said, once more admiring the young captain’s efficiency. “Then it shall save time. You must parley with Dunn Fannon at once.”

  “Out of the question,” Gorokhan said, his grey hair knotted and his once majestic beard encrusted with mucus. “I started this—against my will as it was—and I must see it through. A great man has died, there must be blood to atone for it. If I open my gates, I’d be condemning my people. They’d destroy us from within, war in the streets! In the palace! You think the Ozgarians would believe I was bewitched? They’d see it as an excuse. A coward’s way out now that we are surrounded.”

  “The young Dunn is astute, my lord, and his advisor Beringal a wise man. I think you underestimate their rationality.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, though it hardly matters. What good is a weak leader? I admit my failure, and what becomes of my house? What becomes of my son’s inheritance?”

  “This askaba, Sassarek, will confess. And you still have many men loyal to you.” He looked to Yorvic as he said this.

  “The ashen has some sort of crystal, Dunn,” Yorvic explained. “We can use this information when questioning the askaba.”

  “Show me,” Gorokhan said, weakly now. Balagir withdrew the Gazer’s eye so that all could peer into its starry depths.

  “How certain is this portent?” the Dunn wheezed when it was done.

  “I’ve heard reports of the horlock’s approach, and a largatyn scout has been captured on your borders.”

  “Grave tidings indeed,” murmured the Dunn distantly.

  “It does not have to be so,” Balagir pushed once more. “Let the men of the south stand together. United, the Ozgarians and Eskarathians will outnumber the horlocks.”

  “And the largatyn? They’ll still wash down to drown the remnants of any conflict.”

  “They are not yet aware we know of their plot, and the heroes of Trummond Dorr have agreed to help.”

  “Bah. They’re worse than the lizards! Why don’t we have a chat with the horlocks whilst they’re here too? Break bread, clash cups?”

  “We don’t have a choice. Your walls will not withstand three sieges by as many armies. You’ve witnessed what will pass should we not act.” Gorokhan’s face sweat like a strong cheese left in the sun. His words came faintly.

  “I’d be at peace. Leave me.” He wafted a hand to stay protest. “You’ll have my answer at dawn.”

  “It’s folly to delay.” The Dunn struggled to sit up, huffed, and instead raised a trembling finger.

  “You’ve done a great service, ashen, but do not forget your place. You’re in my halls now and speak above your station. Retire to the library; eat, drink, rest, and await my answer. Press me further and join the askaba in the dungeon. Trust is hard earned these days, especially when forced. I’d be with my own men for a time.”

  Balagir ground his teeth but remained silent. Yorvic, unable to do more, led them solemnly back to the library, the double doors closing behind them like the sealing of a tomb.

  Back in the library, tempers were as frayed as the old tapestries on the walls. Occasionally Balagir would look to the window to confirm the hour. Hope remained with the darkness, but slowly a pinkish hue touched the east. It was before dawn, however, when the news came. Dunn Gorokhan had died in the night, abed and in the throes of nightmare.

  Yorvic gave them the tidings grimly.

  “Where’s his son?” Balagir barked, no time for mourning. “The new Dunn?”

  “In the infirmary. He too ails. I fear the askaba still has a hold.”

  No sooner had the sentence finished than they were leaving the library, down dank passages to where the dungeons and Sassarek’s cell lay.

  “Sisken!” Balagir hissed through the bars. The askaba looked up with a cold smile.

  “So. You’ve met my brother.” Balagir shook his head. How had this been allowed to happen? Brothers advising Dunns on opposing sides? They were identical, more so because they bore the typical black robes and piercings. Sassarek may have been slightly taller, though the cramped confines made it impossible to tell. “Are you him? I wonder. My brother spoke of your special friend. May I see it?”

  “What’s your game?” Balagir barked. “What do you gain by war? Is it connected to the cannon?” Sassarek’s cold eyes showed mild surprise, but his response was interrupted.

  “You treacherous cur!” Yorvic roared, hammering on the bars. “Release Dunn Elohim and Fenri!”

  The askaba looked from the ashen to the guard with an amused grin. But then both were shoved aside as Inverna pushed her way to the bars.

  “My, my,” Sassarek said, “what a day for reunions. I knew we should have finished you.”

  “What did you do to me?” Inverna said through bared teeth. Her grip on the bar was so tight, it began to turn blue.

  “Get her away!” Roje roared, attempting to pull her back but flinching at the contact. The bar shattered
then, and she squeezed through the gap so that she and the askaba were alone in the cell. Sassarek’s smile faded.

  “The keys!” Balagir yelled at the gaoler, who gaped and fumbled at a huge bunch on his belt.

  “Inverna!” Roje implored. “We need answers.”

  “He cannot live,” she hissed.

  “You can have him. I promise,” the red-bearded ashen said. “But first he must be interrogated. We need information.”

  “Maybe we can use him,” Balagir tried. “Lure his brother out from hiding.” Inverna physically struggled, and with great exertion pulled back.

  “He’s mine,” she said, glaring at the gaoler and inquisitor, who had until now been hiding in the corner. Then she leaned very close to the askaba, looked him in the eyes so any trace of a smile had vanished. With a cruel twist, she tore the piercing free, drawing a cry of anguish as blood spurted down his nose. She pushed back through the bars and opened her hand to reveal the spike.

  “The young Dunn should be safe for now. And he won’t be calling for help.” Sassarek rocked back and forth, cursing and clutching the bridge of his nose, unable to stem the flow.

  “Good,” Yorvic said, turning to the inquisitor. “Now get to work. We need to know what they are conspiring—”

  But his words were cut off by a distant tremor. A sound that reverberated through the halls and stairwells of the great keep. Dawn had arrived, and war was upon them.

  Later Balagir could not recall passing back through the keep, but all of a sudden, he found himself atop the battlements, next to Yorvic looking down at the advancing Ozgarian army. They were expertly organised, and several siege towers, rams, and trebuchets were being wheeled towards the front lines. Slowly two figures detached themselves from the ranks and rode out, stopping just short of arrow’s range.