The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “Call me a damn lizard…” Unvil muttered, with more concern for honour than for his wounds. As Ginike backed away, Roje barked a short laugh.

  “Did someone mention the fire?”

  They dragged themselves across the field of corpses, already buzzing and cawing with black wings both tiny and large.

  Too weary to circle the keep, they took the most direct route to the hub, passing through the eastern gate and out through the western.

  The outer bailey was equally strewn with the dead, and an eerie stillness hung over the almost deserted castle.

  Slowly, survivors made themselves known. A soldier with a patch over his eye shrank back when he saw them, bowing hesitantly.

  Two curious children froze, whispered, and ran off towards the inner bailey.

  A man limped out towards them. It was Yorvic. He looked different… older. He stopped and regarded Balagir warily before taking his hand.

  “Well met,” he said. “I owe you my life.”

  It pained him that there was something in Yorvic’s eyes that spoke of fear as much as gratitude. He nodded, and they continued.

  People began to line the streets. Somewhere a clapping began. The yellow form of Dunn Elohim appeared, and he himself humbly bowed.

  “This way,” he said. Balagir looked around uneasily. Everyone seemed to be staring at him; even Freya, who walked at his side.

  They passed into the inner bailey, where the headless form of Zyrath still lay. The central courtyard was full of people, mostly the women and children, but also those surviving soldiers who were well enough to stand.

  A noise broke out. A chanting. What were they saying? The din was all too much. Then it came to him.

  “Balagir. Balagir. Balagir,” they were calling from around the courtyard, from atop the walls, from out of the windows.

  He felt strangely detached, as if he watched his progress from high above; the only thing on his mind was the fire.

  “Hero!” came a cry which was quickly taken up.

  He lowered his head so that his black eyes fell upon the cobblestones, his name resounding like thunder about him.

  PART 5: PARAGON

  XXV

  NORTH

  The red gave way to a pit of blackness through which he floundered. Visions plagued him, creatures that stalked on all fours, reeking of wet ash and formed of the dark substance itself.

  When he surfaced he was healed, but altered. The sense of power was a tainted thing.

  The others regarded him as he shuddered and took a breath. They too had changed; they were battle-jaded, eyes darkened.

  He felt an urge to find the relics and make them pay, a keenness to hunt down any straggling largatyn, or the treacherous Hompa and wretched Nifla if they yet lived. Revenge. His quest for enlightenment felt paltry in comparison.

  A hand on his own made him flinch, and for a moment he scowled until the face became familiar.

  “Feeling better?” Kiela asked.

  “Define better,” was all he said and stood.

  They had agreed not to use all of their smoke so that fast travel would be viable. He had gained so much of the thick, intoxicating stuff that he had gone along with it, despite the temptation to become something greater.

  Time was of the essence, but the Dunn had requested an audience, which they obliged, descending the hill, crossing the vale and western gate where all eyes followed them with a mixture of awe and unease.

  “Thank you for coming,” Dunn Elohim said, standing as they entered. “I realise time is precious, so I’ll keep this brief; we too have much to do. As you can see, our houses are somewhat in disarray.” The ashen nodded and sat. Also present from House Eskareth was the Dunn’s younger brother, Fenri. Yorvic and even Kejal had made an appearance, despite looking like he should be abed. From House Ozgar there were fewer; the Dunn himself was absent, but reported stable. Beringal was there, the tough old tactician bearing several wounds. The lych still lay unconscious, the medics reportedly confounded. He would either recover, or die and inhabit one of them. Either way, he deserved a rest.

  Once they were settled, Dunn Elohim began.

  “We owe you our lives, ashen. Not only for the way you fought, but for the warning you travelled south with. Were it not for your interference, we would now be conquered; by horlock or largatyn, who can say.” He shook his head. “I regret to inform you that the askaba, Sassarek, has been found dead in his cell. As a final act of indecency, he has avoided justice. We would hear what you gleaned in your last meeting with him. You mentioned once that you thought the ashen might be involved, that his brother Sisken had you imprisoned and that”—he looked uncertainly at Inverna—“they caused some of you further grievances. Yet I struggle to make the connection. Can you shed any light?”

  The ashen showed suitable surprise at the tidings of Sassarek’s demise, and presently Balagir stood. A susurrus swept the room but went deathly quiet when he began to speak.

  “We came because we stumbled upon a plot. A plot which at first did not seem to involve the ashen, though we’ve since learnt otherwise. The carnage, the death at your gates, is a result of the askaba’s manipulation, part of a greater scheme involving a weapon they hope to extract from Iylleth. Though we still do not know its ultimate purpose, we suspect it will be used at Ozgar, an established askaba base which remained conveniently deserted during the battle.” Hissed curses rose and died as quickly as Balagir’s black stare swept the room. “One of our number”—he indicated Inverna—“has witnessed the weapon firsthand, in a deep chamber beneath the mountain, unbeknownst to Zyrath.”

  Dunn Elohim’s face grew red, his knuckles white.

  “A mere diversion?” he seethed. “Does life mean nothing to them?!”

  “On the contrary, life—and the extension of it—means everything. Immortality is that which the askaba ultimately crave, and there is no one or nothing they will not betray to achieve it. This weapon has a dread about it.”

  “Nothing?” the Dunn asked, frowning.

  “The master they serve is long gone from this world,” it hurt to say it, but he finished the phrase, “much like our own. If the dhaki were once living, then whomever they commune with is no longer so. A ghost, an echo, who can say…” He let his words fade, feeling a pang. Knowing the truth of the piper lent the hubs a greater air of melancholy. How long had that sad tune been playing? Why had it not ceased? He shook himself free of reverie. “There may also be some connection to a creature called a kraelyn.” There were a few uncertain whispers. “A demon of sorts, or so we are to believe. It has been called Ceniza.” The room suddenly darkened as a cloud passed the high, round window and all eyes turned ominously aloft.

  “These matters are beyond my knowledge,” the Dunn said, with a weariness far greater than the mere two days he had ruled warranted. “What is your course of action?”

  He told them, for it had been discussed on their way back from the hub.

  “We will travel to Iceval. It’s possible the askaba have not had time to extract the cannon. There is also much we must learn. For too long the ashen have lived in the dark. Now it seems our greatest danger may be our own ignorance.”

  The Dunn nodded thoughtfully.

  “The askaba must be stopped. Dunn Fannon is weak, but his house is now bound with my own. We will not leave Ozgar to such an ill fate. Now, we shall not waylay you further, but know this: the Valelands will stand with the ashen, just as you have stood with us. Considering our losses, this may seem a token gesture, but your deeds these days will not be forgotten. Is there any boon you’d ask of me?”

  “Only that you ready yourselves. Have your scholars churn out everything they can on the askaba, turn their tower inside out, brick by brick if needs be. And anything related to ashen or kraelyn should be gathered at once.”

  “I’ll give the orders. For now, farewell, ashen, allies of the south.”

  “Balagir!” a voice called as they were leaving the inner bailey. He t
urned to see two men approaching, neither of whom he recognised. They bowed cumbersomely when they reached him.

  “Forgive us the intrusion, we merely wished to offer you a gift of parting.” Balagir nodded, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, which was an apt turn of phrase given the smell of horse these two radiated. The smaller man relaxed, revealing a brown-toothed grin. “Heffin’s the name. You might have heard me referred to as Heff, or stable master?” Balagir had not of course, and his casual shrug deflated the horseman somewhat. Still, he soldiered on.

  “I have a gift for you. A rare beast to speed you on your travels. A celador of the north. I thought it might suit you, hailing from that region.” Balagir forced a smile, which, augmented with his black eyes, came across as much more sinister than he had intended.

  “Thank you, Heff. But I’ve no need of such a creature.”

  “You’ll find it swift beyond measure. Besides, it’s of the wilds, like yourselves, which—if you’ll beg my pardon for saying so—unsettles my other horses. I’d set it free would it not pain me to see such a magnificent animal go to waste.”

  “You don’t understand. I travel by a means where a horse—celador—would be of small use.” The two men looked at each other, and Heff showed his brown grin.

  “Ah, you see, that’s where my esteemed colleague Fiki comes in. He’s an artisan, of sorts. Say your piece, Fik.” The artisan, almost as short and equally as bad-toothed, stepped forward, spittle glistening on his grubby chin. He proffered an item made of a dark leather, fashioned with much more ostentation than his appearance merited.

  “A bridle, ashen sir. For the celador.”

  “I still do not follow,” Balagir said, rather sharply; the others were at the gate, fidgeting impatiently.

  “It will allow you to summon the celador,” Fiki said proudly. “Just slip it on see, like so.” He made a superfluous demonstration. “Then when you get where you’re going—however it is you get there—just call its name.”

  “Being?”

  “That you must decide, but not before you’ve met.”

  Balagir sighed. It did seem useful. He waved the others on. If this beast was as good as Heff boasted, he would beat them there at any rate.

  “Excellent! This way!” Heff exclaimed, scurrying off without waiting to see if he followed.

  The stable door creaked open, and Balagir followed the small man past the mostly empty stalls to where several horses whinnied nervously. The battle had done little for their nerves, but there was something else setting them on edge. When he beheld the celador, he knew what. It was black as a starless night, with eyes that glowed glacial blue. The motes which danced in the sunlit shafts lent the scene a fey aura. Balagir’s breath escaped with a soft whistle.

  “Where did you get such a creature? Hardly standard stock in Eskareth.”

  “Precisely. Would’ve sent it to battle had we not feared it might make the rest of the cavalry bolt. Truth is, I’ve had it a few weeks now. A traveller from the north owed me but had no coin to pay. He offered this instead. When I argued, he left it anyway. I would have called the guards but…”

  “Let me guess, this traveller was an ashen?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “It doesn’t scream settler,” Balagir said, eyeing the creature in what felt like a match of wills. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll accept your gift, good Heff, and your handiwork, Fiki.” The stable master clapped his hands, making the tense horses stamp and shy.

  “First fit the bridle and name it; then it’s yours.” Fiki proffered the leather apparatus; suddenly the artisan’s former demonstration seemed lacking, and Balagir hesitated to bridle such an intimidating beast.

  Black eyes met blue. An unspoken bond quivered between them. They were both out of place here. Both odd creatures from the north. Recognising this, the celador snorted, lowering its head in acquiescence of Balagir; not as master, but as equal. Balagir mirrored the gesture and respectfully donned the bridle. A pale rune he had not noticed glimmered dully on the leather strap.

  “I name you North,” he said, “from whence we hail. Serve me well, and you’ll gain your freedom there.”

  North snorted and stomped a huge foot. The rune on the bridle flared blue and faded.

  “A splendid name,” Heff commended. “Now, if you’d be inclined, I think everyone’d be happier if we took it out.” The gift, it seemed, had been as much for Heff’s desire to be rid as for any abounding generosity. Still, he was hardly about to complain.

  Out in the sunlight he thanked them and mounted the celador. It paced uncertainly and then settled with a grunt. It stood two heads taller than any steed he had experienced, and the cobbled courtyard seemed a long way down.

  People had gathered to stare, so he gave them the exit they expected. The one they would talk about later in their cups. He let North rear, paw the sky with a ferocity to tear it, and then thundered hence, leaving Heff and Kiki coughing and wiping dust from their eyes.

  When out of the western gate, he let it have its head, snatching the breath from his lungs. They tore down the vale, blurred through trees, leapt small brooks and, as expected, caught up with the others just as they reached the hub.

  “What in the name of all…?” Ginike muttered, but Kiela answered for him.

  “A celador,” she whispered, unable to break her gaze.

  “A gift?” Roje asked, examining from a prudent distance, for its mighty black form made even the lion-headed ashen seem squat.

  “Good deeds pay off.”

  “Black-eyes would do well to remember that,” Raf Isil remarked sagely, his insinuation being clear.

  “A pity you can’t keep it,” Ginike said, dampening the mood.

  “We’ll see,” Balagir dismissed offhandedly.

  “How did it get here?” Kiela asked, brave or curious enough to stroke its flank. “Such steeds are rare and rumoured only in the far north.”

  “Another ashen left it here, clearing debts.”

  “Who’d trade such a creature?”

  “Someone who needed something other than speed. He gave no name.”

  “This is all very charming,” Freya remarked critically, “but we warp. I trust you’ve not forgotten.”

  “It’s of the wilds,” Balagir said flippantly. “It’ll appreciate some alone time.”

  “Still, such a shame,” Kiela said as he dismounted.

  “Off you go, North,” Balagir said, meeting the creature’s pale eyes. The celador dipped its head once and took off across the vales like a black bolt. The world seemed less beautiful once the folding vales had swallowed its fleetness from view.

  “Has anyone done this before?” Kiela asked as they gathered about the fire. Balagir shook his head, but surprisingly, Ginike assented.

  “On a couple of occasions in the north. I was in a tight spot.” With that explanation, it suddenly was not so difficult to believe. It would also account for his lowly state, squandering smoke to travel rather than trance.

  “I too have some experience,” Roje said. “It’s how Unvil and I made it to Iceval in time for the challenge.”

  “Then let’s be about it,” Balagir said, gesturing. “Lead the way.”

  Roje nodded and stepped over to the piper. Presently there appeared a rift in the air above the fire, a shimmering slash. It called to mind the challenge portals with a subtle difference: its dimensions were spherical, and if he tilted his head, he fancied he could see the dim outline of the Backbone.

  “See you there,” Roje said, stepping out of existence. Ginike and Unvil followed, with Kiela, Freya, Inverna, Raf Isil, and finally Ygril taking their turns. Alone, Balagir approached the piper, relinquishing the slither of smoke required to cross the threshold. It was a nagging feeling, as though he had lost something but could not put his finger on it. The sound of a coin falling from one’s pocket to bounce away unseen. It gave him a sudden urge to replace it.

  He would make time. He would find a way.
r />   He took a breath and stepped through into thin air.

  The world turned from green to white; round vales surged into jagged peaks; warm sunshine bleached to blank canvas. He shivered, rueing the loss of his season-cloak.

  The scene swam as though rising quickly from a hot tub; then the rift sealed, and the piper’s tune continued unbroken.

  “I can see how that could be useful,” he commented, steadying himself.

  “Too useful,” Roje admitted grimly. “Get too comfy and you’ll never trance again.”

  “Inverna, do you recall the route?”

  “Follow me,” she said. They did just that, abandoning the shielding dome of Iceval hub and pressing into the blinding blizzard.

  They found the entrance to Iylleth guarded by an old largatyn who was easily dispatched. Unvil held no qualms about hauling him from the narrow path. It seemed Ginike’s earlier comparison had cut deep and given him something to prove.

  Once the guard’s mortified hiss had faded, the way stood clear. How many more they would encounter remained to be seen. It was still a functioning city after all, but the force they had marched south with suggested it would be quiet, with few experienced warriors in place. Indeed, as was the nature of a pass, there was still steady traffic paying passage from one side of the Backbone to the other. There were men amongst the caravans, as well as several idris and ‘gnilos. This was not odd. What was notable, however, was the unhurried, unconcerned nature of those passing, confirming that news of the recent war, and the largatyns’ devastation, had still not arrived.

  There was a considerable knack to timing, but by exploiting the busy checkpoints where cargos were searched and tariffed, they were able to get deeper into the ice palace without excessive toil.

  “This way,” Inverna hissed, leading them down a curving passage within what appeared to be a warehouse of sorts. Stockpiles of confiscated contraband lined the cold walls, waiting to be traded back to disgruntled caravans for substantial gain. Some things traders had in common, so sublime they superseded race, were shrewd eyes for business and opportunistic thrift. That was as true here in Iylleth as down in the markets of Ozgar, and the ashen were no exception, save their desire being for something less mundane than materials.