The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “We would speak with Dunn Gorokhan,” Beringal cried.

  “The Dunn is currently indisposed,” Yorvic answered. “You may relay your message to me.” Dunn Fannon and the advisor shared a glance. This disrespect would not stand.

  “It should not surprise me that he lacks honour,” Dunn Fannon called. “Therefore, I shall state my demands, which may not be negotiated. Lay down your weapons. Open your gates. All women and children may go free. Soldiers will be given the opportunity to join me. And your liege, Gorokhan, will stand trial for his crimes and the murder of my father.” A long silence followed his words. Balagir whispered something to Yorvic, who nodded his permission to speak.

  “Dunn Fannon, your demands are fair.” Even from this distance, it was clear the Dunn’s mouth drooped.

  “Ashen,” he glowered. “I might have known. I should have dealt with you at Ozgar. Step down, I have no wish to hear your forked words.”

  “Then you shall perish,” Balagir said. “And we too, shortly afterwards.”

  “We’ve heard your lies and have not been taken in by them. You had your chance.”

  “I was betrayed by your askaba, as have you been. As was Gorokhan.”

  “Then why is he not telling me this? Why has he an ashen digging his grave?”

  Yorvic stepped forward once more.

  “I was Gorokhan’s captain until his passing this morning. He died abed after an illness stricken by the askaba.” A susurrus spread out in all directions, both behind the walls and across the siege lines.

  Finally, Dunn Fannon found his voice.

  “Then I’ve been cheated of justice. Send forth his heir, Dunn Elohim, that we may parley.”

  “Dunn Elohim is indisposed too, stricken by the same malice, as is his brother Fenri.”

  “Is there anyone in this city who will not hide behind scapegoats and machinations? For a final time, I ask that you lay down your arms and open your gates. The heirs are innocent of their father’s crimes, I will treat them fairly. The ashen you harbour will be arrested for conspiracies as of yet unclear.”

  “Dunn Fannon, the image I showed you was true. You were deceived by Sisken, as Gorokhan was by Sisken’s brother, Sassarek.”

  “Is that so? Then why have I not been ‘stricken’ down, as seems to be the fashion here in Eskareth?”

  “He had no cause to. You’ve already done his bidding. Attack now, and he will have succeeded.”

  “Enough,” spat the young Dunn. “We waste breath. If Dunn Elohim will not appear, you leave us no choice. My father’s death remains unavenged. Trading insults over a wall offends his memory and undermines me.” He turned to his men. “Prepare the trebuchets. Whoever brings me the ashen’s head will be granted an estate.” He turned back then. “You’ve forced my hand. Ready yourselves.” He nodded to Beringal, and they turned their mounts back to the ranks. Balagir glanced at his companions.

  “That went well,” Ginike said.

  Balagir shrugged, recalling the horlocks. It wasn't the first time he had had an entire army after his head. If he survived, he was done helping people. Suddenly the heroes seemed sagacious up there, ignoring the world and drinking their wine. He should have heeded them.

  “Archers to positions!” Yorvic yelled as men scuttled along the ramparts like insects.

  Before a battle, a stillness descends. As if the world anticipates what is about to unfold and draws a breath to steady itself. Somewhere along the ramparts, a solitary bird cawed, sunlight glinted off a sea of spears.

  But the attackers began to move restlessly, surging in a way that looked strange from above. Something was happening below. Something odd. Balagir strained his eyes. The rear ranks were jostling and swaying as restlessly as a field of corn. Distant cries rose up into the still dawn air. He pulled forth Murdak’s spyglass and zoomed across the glimmering sea. At first he beheld nothing strange, until he let the scope drift upwards.

  The eastern hills were red with more than just the rising sun, a redness that bled and crawled. He removed the glass, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.

  It reminded him of the isle of Shale and the sundering mountain; the hills trickled and ran with a sanguine flow.

  The horlock horde moved with the rumbling of thunder, and dawn’s skies darkened with billowing dust.

  XXII.i

  THE LYCH

  “We must open the gates. Let them in before it’s too late,” Balagir demanded of the pale-faced Yorvic. The young guard drew himself up.

  “I’ll not relinquish our city. Not without the Dunn’s authority. It would be treason.”

  “Then go to him! Wake him, shake him, convince him. Else we are all lost!” Yorvic nodded, as though in a daze. Suddenly the fate of the city had been thrust on his shoulders. Fortunately, his shoulders were broad.

  “Kejal!” he barked. “Stand ready, only give the archers the command to fire if the Ozgarians attack.”

  “Sir.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” And with that he was gone, leaving the others unable to do anything save watch as the chaos unfolded below.

  At first the foremost ranks were oblivious, concentrated as they were on the loading of the trebuchets and the slow, creaking advance of the siege towers. It was not long, however, before the cries of consternation from the rear rose to screams of terror, and all heads snapped about to the new threat. Like blood droplets cloud blue water, so did the horlock army, plunging into the blue liveries, swirling, mingling, turning the back ranks to a churning burgundy.

  Suddenly the Ozgarian’s impeccable formation began to disintegrate as pandemonium ensued with dream-like confusion through the ranks. For an instant Balagir caught Dunn Fannon’s eyes. What was in his gaze? An apology? A plea for reconsideration? But the Dunn, despite or perhaps because of his youth, was proud, and would not beg. Instead he wheeled his horse and entered the fray, his banner swept away like a small sailed skiff in a tempestuous sea.

  “It’s a slaughter,” Roje said austerely. Balagir looked across the battlements, where ashen and Eskarathian soldiers alike were morbidly transfixed on the unfolding massacre. He glanced back to where Yorvic had vanished, but there was still no sign. The portcullis remained securely closed even as Ozgarians screamed and rattled against it in desperation.

  He could no longer see the Dunn’s banner. They were being pushed back, and the siege engines, which had been at the front, were now in the middle of the fighting. The soldiers had their backs against the walls, pinioned in a closing vice.

  “We must let them in!” Kiela cried.

  “We can’t,” said Kejal, though his face was drained of colour. “We must hold.”

  “They’ll be destroyed.”

  Kejal wrung his fists and tried to ignore her. He clearly agreed, but how could he betray his own people by opening the gates to an enemy that had moments before been intent on killing them? Below, the blue were being condensed, hemmed in by a wall of stone and a wall of red roaring beasts who hacked and reaped with a lust that chilled.

  “Open up!” came cries from below.

  “Let us in!” rose another, ending in a shrill scream.

  It was too much for Balagir to bear. He caught Freya’s eyes, who gave him a knowing nod. It was past time to act. The ashen abandoned the wall, scuttling down the steps to the gate.

  “Stop!” Kejal shouted half-heartedly. Freya turned.

  “You’ll not intervene if you want to save your city,” she warned. The guard was torn. Torn between his duty and his conscience, between his stubbornness and his common sense. Finally he nodded and followed the ashen down.

  “Open the gates!” Kejal demanded of the guards there.

  They had not witnessed the havoc those from the battlements had and stared at the deputy captain as if he had lost his mind.

  “Last I heard, Yorvic was in command.”

  “Yorvic is indisposed, and in his absence, I am the senior officer. Now, open the gates at once or risk insubordination.”
The guards looked at each other before looking narrowly at the ashen.

  “Are they putting you up to this, sir? Give us a sign, we are many. Ashen, stand back or prepare to die.”

  “Stand down, soldier!” Kejal yelled, his voice shaking. “If we do not act now, the city will be lost.”

  “And by opening this gate, it will be lost all the more swiftly.” The gate shuddered behind them as fists and bodies bashed and pummelled against it.

  “Enough!” Roje roared and drew his blade; the soldiers did likewise, and then from behind the ashen, a voice called out.

  “Drop your weapons.” They turned to find a score of soldiers with arrows nocked and taut. They were surrounded. The door continued to thud and tremble beneath the screams and roars that could curdle blood.

  “You would draw your bow on your commanding officer!?” Kejal barked, summoning every ounce of authority he could muster for one suddenly thrust several ranks higher than he could have hoped to make in a lifetime.

  “You’re a traitor, Kejal. Yorvic will hear of this.”

  “I’m in command now. I will answer to Yorvic for my actions—” His words were cut off by a thrum and a thud. Kejal staggered back and looked down numbly at the arrow in his stomach. Then he slumped, and Ginike, of all unlikely people, rushed to catch him.

  “You’ve made a big mistake,” Balagir said, drawing his blade.

  “You have one last chance to surrender, ashen!” cried one of the soldiers.

  “And you have one last chance to open the gate.”

  “You’ll all lower your weapons at once,” came a cry from behind. All heads swivelled as one as Yorvic pushed his way through the crowds. “You there! Open the gate. The order comes from the Dunn Elohim himself.”

  But things had gone too far, and instead of obeying their captain, the soldiers shook their heads.

  “Have you lost your mind? Open our gates to those scum?”

  “If we don’t, they will die, and then we will too. The horlocks are just the start. We need all the numbers we can to face the largatyn.”

  “Largatyn?”

  “I repeat, desist and open the gate.” Yorvic drew his blade. It was then he noticed Kejal for the first time, slumped against Ginike’s legs in a spreading pool of blood. “Murderers,” he cried. “You’ll pay for this.” And he ran toward the man at the gate, running him through so that his sword bit into the wood at his back. A hail of arrows was unleashed. Balagir took one to the shoulder, a pain that sickened to the fingertips. Ginike raised his shield and deflected several. Yorvic cried out as one pierced his bicep. Then the ashen roared and charged, chopping down those who opposed. Unvil became a mad man; Freya cold, harsh; Raf Nauger went at it with zeal and a grim mouth. Now blood was being spilt on both sides of the great gate. Horlocks and Ozgarians bleeding and beating on the east, ashen and Eskarathians slashing and skirmishing on the west. The ground became slippery as friend and foe blinked in and out of view.

  Finding himself free, Balagir paused to discover Raf Nauger, an arrow through his neck. The idris’ smoke left him, twisting in the air and entering those that remained like a rush of adrenalin. Then he lost his head until the world became still atop a carpet of twisted limbs.

  “The gate,” he growled, tearing the arrow from his shoulder and stepping over the bodies to lend his strength.

  The chains groaned as inch by inch the gate rose. As soon as it stood a foot from the floor, blue bodies wriggled beneath it, desperate to be away. As it got to shoulder height, more and more fled through. Amongst them, Balagir saw Beringal limp in, his face red with blood that was not his own. Then more came, dragging the body of Dunn Fannon with them. He had a deep gash across his forehead, and his arm was twisted grotesquely. More came, bleeding, looks of terror on their faces, then the red muscular forms of the horlocks appeared. Strong as oxen, tall as kargores. They slew a few so that some straggling Ozgarians might pass, but then lowered the gate before they could be overwhelmed. The eyes of an unfortunate Ozgarian locked on Balagir’s as he failed to make it. Then thud. It was closed.

  A surreal silence descended in the courtyard as the bangs and the grunts of the horlocks on the far side sent shivers down the spine. Finally, Yorvic’s voice rose, bellowing orders. The Ozgarians were ushered into a separate courtyard like frightened sheep as medics rushed down from the keep to deal with the wounded. Balagir wiped his brow and turned to survey the scene.

  Perhaps a thousand Ozgarians had made it, but three times that many now littered the fields outside the keep. Of those rescued, perhaps half were injured. He shook his head. It would not be enough. Behind him the door rattled beneath the weight and fury of the red rampage. He looked down at the carnage at his feet. Kejal lay propped against a post, bleeding profusely but receiving aid. Raf Nauger was no more save the power he had passed into their belts. Raf Isil had a long face, gazing at the spot where his fellow idris had fallen. Yorvic marched about giving orders, shaking off aid despite his blood-soaked arm. Kiela had a slash across her forearm, which Ginike was tending to. Freya appeared uninjured, as did Roje and Unvil, the latter of which stormed about with a bloodlust more whetted than quenched. Dane slunk out of the corner, visibly shaken but unharmed.

  Slowly order was restored, the yellow armour of the Eskarathians mingling now with the blue of the Ozgarians, lending their aid wherever they could. But always in the background the great door shook, timbers showing signs of weakening.

  In a moment of freedom, he caught Yorvic’s arm.

  “What of the Dunn?”

  “Which one?” He grimaced wryly.

  “Both.”

  “Dunn Elohim is still weak but seems to be coming around after Sassarek’s spike was taken. He was administered salts, but his consciousness waned after giving his command. Dunn Fannon…” He shook his head. “It does not look good.”

  “I would speak with him. We must resolve this horlock threat.” Yorvic nodded grimly.

  “Aye. I don’t think we can rely on the largatyn arriving in time.”

  “No,” Balagir agreed, eyeing the slowly buckling timbers.

  “Follow me,” Yorvic said, leading him through the dead and dying to an inner courtyard where many Ozgarians groaned and wept. Amongst these lay the young Dunn, his yellow hair now bright red.

  He looked up, focussing on Balagir’s face as though remembering it from a dream.

  “I should have listened…” he wheezed, but medics pushed him aside before he could speak, going to work, cauterising wounds and mopping blood.

  Balagir stood back. The sun had barely risen in the sky, and they had lost almost half of their force. Yorvic allowed a medic to bandage his arm but stood looking about attentively.

  “What now?” he asked Balagir. But there was no need to answer. For from beyond the wall, a mighty horn blast rose, and suddenly the banging at the gate ceased. Balagir shared a look with the captain, and they rushed up to the battlements to gaze across the red sea.

  The horlocks had been busy. He remembered the last time he had seen such a horde. Even then they had been fearful, but they appeared to have doubled their number on the crusade south. They had fallen back from the wall, and one lone horlock with the horn had separated himself from the mass. Balagir swallowed. He knew that face; in part he was responsible for it being here. Hompa looked up at the battlements. His horns had almost fully regrown, and he stood taller than the horlock warlords, who in turn stood a head higher than the already larger than man-sized horde. Even from this distance, his face was fearsome, and the day they had diced up in Mudfoot seemed a surreal and distant thing.

  “Men of the south,” he boomed. “I am Hompa, Granfeder of the horlocks. I have a one-time offer to save our sweat and your blood.”

  “Then speak,” Yorvic called down, showing none of the fear that perhaps Hompa had expected. He snarled but reined in his bestiality to converse.

  “And who might you be? A new Dunn? For you seem as ephemeral as campfire moths these days.�
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  “I am Yorvic, captain of the guard. I speak on behalf of the Dunn, who is indisposed.”

  “I see,” said Hompa unhappily. “Then seeing as he is busy, tell him this. You are to surrender your keep. You are to yield your arms. You are to leave and head west to Boegorn and never return.”

  “That is not a deal we are willing to—”

  “I’ve not finished,” Hompa boomed, and even up on the ramparts, Yorvic stepped back somewhat.

  “All this is on the condition of a price. That the Dunns, for I know there are two in there, leave their heads to make our war goblets.”

  “Outrageous!” Yorvic called. “Stand down now or suffer our full force.”

  “You cannot win. Accept this offer and save your young. We will not hunt them on the plains. Not for a few years. You have a chance to live another day.”

  “Neither can you win,” Yorvic said defiantly. “Not ultimately. And not without a culling of your number.”

  “It is true you could prove an inconvenience, but only as a thorn in our side. For this reason we state our terms. Your keep, your arms, and the heads of your Dunns, and you shall be banished, yet live.”

  “Then prepare to fight,” said Yorvic.

  But Balagir touched his arm and whispered, “There may be something else we can do.”

  “Then spit it out.”

  “I know this Hompa, I’ve met him in the north.”

  “You know this animal?”

  “‘Animals’ and men are not so segregated in the north as they are down here. We had dealings once upon a time.” Yorvic frowned.

  “Go on.”

  “Let me down to speak with him. He owes me that. If I can convince him that the largatyn come, maybe they’ll not risk fighting on two fronts.”

  “You think he will listen to you?”

  Balagir shrugged.

  “I can but try.”

  Yorvic considered for a moment and then sighed.