by C F Welburn
They made to surround the girl, but she was already aware of them, and she disappeared down the passageway.
When they rounded the corner, she was on a barrel, pulling herself through a narrow window.
“Wait!” Balagir cried. “We mean you no harm.” The girl hesitated, her straw-coloured hair dirty and unkempt, eyes that looked much older than she.
“The tune you were humming?” Freya asked, taking a slow step forward. “Where did you learn it?” The girl lowered herself, facing them; a laugh at once sweet and chilling filled the corridor.
“Have you seen the fire?” Balagir asked softly.
“Fire,” the girl repeated, her eyes dark and hard. “Ash!” She laughed, her gaze smouldering. Just then, a drunken patron rounded the corner in search of the elusive outhouse. They swivelled at his footfalls, and when they turned back the girl was gone, the small square window open onto the blustery night.
They were back at the bar only long enough to drain their drinks before they reached a decision. The Mended Bucket and White Quiver were shadier establishments than the Harlequin, and seemed likely locales for the strange girl to show up. Urchins were rife in those dim parts of town, and she would be easily identifiable amongst the smoke and the swagger.
The notion, although sound, proved fruitless, and they went next to the Knotted Arm, even seedier on the ever-sloping scale. They did not find her there either. But as it happened, she found them first.
It was a shadow, a scrape of a tile on the roof that caught Balagir’s eye, and he turned just in time to see the shape descending on him as a haryek might a sheep. Her small form hit him harder than it should have, and he crashed into an old cart, losing his footing. By the time he had gained his bearings, she had scampered up a drain and was launching herself again, this time at Freya, who skipped aside. The girl’s nails clawed her neck in passing, making her curse and clasp a hand to the deep, angry furrows.
Suddenly the creature seemed not a child, and this was no longer a game. Balagir thought about drawing his sword. She was in a frenzy, this possessed stray, but she was still small. If they could pin her, she might be subdued without bloodshed. Freya seemed to have come to the same conclusion, and they circled warily, never taking their eyes from her as she leapt from barrel to sill to creaking gutter and crouched, poised once more on the eaves of a low building. The night was dark behind her, but her eyes glowered like wind on dying embers.
“Come down,” Balagir beckoned, and she obeyed, albeit not in the manner he had intended. Once more she flung herself at him, and it was only a swift backhand that saved his eyes from her nails, sending her crashing into a shop front with a shattering of glass. He winced at the sight of the child picking herself up, pulling a long splinter of glass from her punctured cheek. But what he found in her eyes stayed any pity. She snarled and leapt forward again, only to receive a well-timed kick from Freya. She yapped like a small dog and scurried wildly around in the shadows.
“Look out!” Freya cried, and he turned in time to see her leaping, this time brandishing a savage shard of glass as long as her forearm. The makeshift weapon passed close enough to his throat that it parted his beard. No sooner had he turned than she was airborne once more, such fierceness in those eyes. Such hatred.
Freya was not known for her patience, and there was nothing human about this creature now. Nothing to stay her hand. Balagir heard a thud, saw the impact turn her in mid-air, and then noticed the shaft through her chest as she skidded limply across the ground, tinkling shards in all directions.
Just then, a lamp was lit in an upstairs window.
“What’s that racket?” someone complained, and then gasped as he saw the dead child and Freya standing over her with her bow in her hand. Balagir jerked back, unseen, into the shadows. “Guards! Guards!” the voice called shrilly, and lights flickered in windows along the street. Balagir and Freya shared a quick glance before fleeing in opposite directions. He made it to the Harlequin’s Cap before four guards hurtled past him, swords drawn and torches ablaze. His hand was still shaking when he waved for Bohal’s attention.
XXV.ii
LOOSE ENDS
The early-morning bells tolled incessantly as Balagir cradled his head on the university’s marble steps, each clang seemingly louder than the last.
Now, in the glaring autumnal light, he regretted those last couple of drinks; the ones that had helped him forget.
Freya had prudently kept her distance; he had been alone with only his dark thoughts and drunken settler drivel for company. The sole redemption was that the girl’s appearance had stopped him crossing a line. They had enough trials ahead without added awkwardness. Still, what had happened was arguably worse. The creature had once been a girl, but there remained no doubt that any humanity had been burnt out. Neither was she ashen, yet she had known the tune, recognised what they were; hated them for it. He rubbed his eyes, tired of mounting questions and fleeting answers.
In stark contrast, Imram and Raf Isil appeared fresh and smiling, having bonded during their long night of lecture. They approached as though they had not a care in the world, and he envied them with a less-than-cordial glare.
“Rough night?” Imram chided, knowing all too well that squint-eyed grimace from their days draining Murdak’s reserves. He snorted. “And Freya?”
“She’s at the fire. We had an incident.” The two scholars shared painful looks.
“Nothing like that,” he said, though they were close to the mark. “We were attacked.”
“Attacked? By whom?” Imram shot.
“A child with fire in her eyes. One we heard humming the fire tune.”
“The fire…” Raf Isil puzzled. “How can that be?” Balagir shrugged and picked himself up. “Where is she now?”
“She—” Balagir corrected, “—it, is dead.” Raf Isil thumbed his thin lips.
“I start to see why Freya is not present.”
“Precisely,” Balagir said. “And what of your night? Any interesting snippets you’d care to divulge?”
“Nothing new, I’m afraid,” Imram said, shaking his white mane. “I do have the map you requested though.”
“Good,” he said, accepting it, finding it to be wrapped about the loaned wand. Imram also handed him parchment and charcoal, presumably for the eventuality of taking tracings. “Inform me of any major developments, but only use the box if it’s urgent.”
“Of course. You’ll be on your way then?”
“Time is pressing,” Balagir said.
“I may stay,” Raf Isil suggested, carefully. “Imram has much work; an extra pair of eyes will unveil twice as much.” Balagir managed a weak smile. He had suspected as much. Part of the reason he had invited the idris was because he knew he would appreciate Imram’s knowledge; though he had not expected them to get along quite so famously.
“That could work well,” he said, nodding. “Keep the others involved with what is happening. Unless you hear from them, they should not stray from Eskareth.”
“It is done,” the idris said, bowing once.
“Then once more, it’s farewell,” Balagir said, rather bluntly, but he had neither the time nor the humour to make more of an effort.
“Farewell,” Imram said, clapping him on the shoulder, making his head throb.
And so he left Kirfory again and, as before, another mysterious death in his wake. If the town was to salvage its reputation, he would have to abstain for a while. On his way through the gate, he tore a hastily drawn wanted poster off the wall; the close-set eyes and wild hair of the suspect at least gave him some amusement.
“Clearly it was too dark to see,” Freya said, screwing it up and tossing it on the fire.
“Be thankful it’s not more of a likeness,” Balagir said, smiling. “Hide your bow next time you visit Kirfory, and you should be all right.”
She scowled, but unwittingly smoothed down her hair as she turned away.
The air shimmered as they stepped throu
gh, leaving the burnt orange for the grim green and cold grey of Warinkel’s woods and damp, mossy stones.
It felt so long since he had been here. He no longer remembered who he had been back then: a weak man, lost and alone. Freya appeared to be dwelling along the same lines.
“As you remember it?” he asked.
“Quieter,” she said, looking around at the shadow-pooled eaves and lichen-dappled rocks. He nodded but was relieved to find the hub empty. He had crossed people in the north and was in no mood for a grudge-ridden reunion.
Indeed, recent happenings and the sombre ambience of Warinkel made it difficult to be in the mood for anything. Where the morning in Kirfory had promised to be bright and golden, here a grey shroud draped the land, one that leant the gloomy woods a troubling edge.
Just then, Balagir felt a curious sensation on his torso. A burning, ghostly hand at work. To Freya’s surprise, he tore his cloak and shirt from his body to reveal the map he had worn in the south, morphing before their eyes. It no longer showed the location of the bosses, but of something else entirely. A slow grin of understanding split his face.
“What’s so amusing?” Freya asked, a hand poised on her dagger.
“Trees of spoils,” he said wolfishly. “We’re about to get rich.”
“Seldom have I turned down that sort of offer, but haven’t we got somewhere to be? In fact, Wormford would have been a better choice. You’ve brought us wide.”
“Perhaps. But it matters not.”
She was about to belabour him when he muttered something beneath his breath. From the misty silence came a sound. A beat. A pumping rhythm. Suddenly, from just beyond the trees thundered North, halting to rear triumphantly before them. Freya’s open mouth betrayed her wonder before she had a chance to conceal it with her usual oafishness.
“Very impressive,” she said with a slow clap. “Now, if you can just summon one for me?”
“We’re going to have to share,” he said, his sudden majesty paling under her scrutiny. “It’s a celador,” he hastened to justify. “It could bear three men should needs must.”
After a moment she shrugged.
“You’re going at the front,” she said with no trace of banter.
As they left the clearing, he felt Freya’s chin on his shoulder.
“Are you lost? We head north!”
“Just some loose ends.”
“We haven’t got time.”
“We’ll make time,” he said, and though she could not see it, his eyes shimmered blackly.
It was just off the road to Estwil and did not take long.
“This way,” he said, dismounting and leading Freya uncertainly into the trees. When they arrived at the thick twisted trunk, she smiled.
“I’ll take this one,” Balagir said, not offering as Igmar once had, and he reached into the hollow of the tree. Smoke trickled from his fingertips, something wooden-sounding clicked in the darkness, and the roots slithered back with serpentine grace.
“Ha!” he said, mocking the tree for having once lashed out so brutally. He stopped and retrieved the coin pouch that rested there. It was satisfyingly heavy until he dropped it in his pouch, where it became weightless. Next, he examined a ring with a yellow talisman the shape of a crescent moon. He slipped it on his finger, but it had no immediate effect. The final item was a nifty dagger, a vicious thing with a serrated edge and a green talisman set in its hilt. He exchanged it for his old dagger in the sheath at his ankle.
His enjoyment was marred by Freya’s eyes on his back.
“I’m having the next one,” she said coldly.
“You’ll have to catch me bathing if you want to see the map,” he retorted.
She shook her head but seemed almost amused as they remounted.
The next detour had been nagging him for some time. They took the easterly road until shortly before midday, when an isolated farm came into view. Freya watched curiously but was silent as he dismounted and drew his sword. The idea that Farmer Gristle had been more than he pretended had surfaced with Garwright, an ashen hiding his identity and using settler surroundings to great gain. It was the boots he had worn that had truly betrayed him, of course. No settler could have used them—a fact which, at the time, had escaped him.
The house was quiet and dark, so he cautiously approached the barn. With a grunt he shouldered aside the door and was rewarded with a stale swirl of black smoke. Upon quick examination, he was granted an explanation. The dead carapace of Ratkins, hunched, shrivelled, and white on the floor; beneath it, a smudge of bloodstained ash—the only evidence of her former owner and final victim. It was suddenly clear why Balagir had not been pursued—a chase which almost certainly would have cut his journey short.
Balagir made a quick inspection of the webs, but found nothing to match the coilweave he wore, and without a backwards glance, he sealed the dusty tomb behind him.
Back at the fire they turned north, the piper’s tune barely audible over the roar of wind in their ears. The celador bore them with ease, the scent of home in its flaring nostrils. It had taken him the best part of a day to reach Mudfoot the first time. North, however, carried them there in a short while, without any of the troubles that had plagued his first ill-prepared venture.
Much to Freya’s vexation, he reigned the celador in when they reached Mudfoot’s—if not main square, then—flattest, empty space. An assortment of fowl flapped for their lives before its stamping hooves, and several villagers rushed indoors with a child under each arm.
“More loose ends?” she asked with a raised, sceptical brow.
“Just a couple,” he said, dismounting and striding into Roule’s smithy. It was strange seeing the large smith with the giant arm again, though he did not remember Balagir and would likely not recognise him if he did. Even so, he passed on the box from his cousin, finally filling the nagging, petty orb at his belt. He held up a hand before the smith could even think about asking him to bear another message.
“My eyes may be black,” he said, “but I’m no raven.” Roule watched uneasily as the oath smoke was absorbed, and was left insulted when the ashen did not even pause to peruse his wares.
There was no time for knickknacks.
He strode wordlessly past the exasperated Freya, over to and around the back of the Broken Spoke. Whilst in town, he might as well capitalise.
The back door was unlocked, and he passed directly through the kitchen to where the landlord sat pouring his eyes over ledgers and his spirits over ice. He flinched when he beheld the black-eyed ashen looming over him, but had no time to react. Balagir knocked him over the head, hauled him over the shoulder, and carried him back to the waiting celador.
“I told you she could carry three men,” he said once Freya’s outrage had subsided and they rode south once more with the body slumped before them.
It did not take him long to reach that strange clearing. It was as though all paths inevitably led there due to the gift he bore.
The wraiths made themselves known, bedraggled and pitiful as before.
“The ashen returns,” one whispered.
“Perhaps he wants to play some more.” The other giggled. Freya sought an arrow, but Balagir stayed her with a raised hand.
“I bear a gift in gratitude for your wonderful game.”
“A gift!” they exclaimed as one, clapping their hands, hissing with anticipation. Balagir dismounted and laid the man down in the centre of the clearing. The two wraiths circled and gasped with such an intake of air, the leaves on every tree rustled.
“Father,” one said.
“Yes. His likeness,” said the other. “But how queer to see him. He said he did not want to play.”
“Yes. Left us to play on our own.”
“Told us not to come home.”
“Long ago.”
“Long ago,” echoed the other.
Steadily, Balagir returned to the celador, where Freya looked on with a pale face.
“Well, he’s bac
k now.”
“To play!” cried one of the girls with such hollowness it dimmed the light of day. “Oh yes. We have many games.”
“And the new one!” the girl said.
“Yes! The new one. But save that until last. It’s dangerous.” They looked at the two ashen.
“Do you want to play?”
“Not right now,” Balagir said pleasantly. “But you have fun.”
The sprawled shape on the ground groaned, sat up, and rubbed his head. His eyes wandered before locking on Balagir.
“Ashen, what is the meaning of this?”
“I think you know,” Balagir said, nodding. The man turned, and from the tenseness that suddenly seized his body, his face must have been white. He began to shuffle backwards through the leaves, muttering incoherently. The girls laughed as his back met with a broad bole.
“What do you want of me?”
“To play.”
“But I never meant to… It was your mother. We h-had no food…” His sobs turned his words to gibberish.
“Don’t cry, Father,” one of the girls said, touching his shoulder.
“Yes. We’ll show you the game you taught us. Remember? We call it Little Girls Lost, but we can change the name for you.” The landlord trembled as the girls laughed and danced around him. They took his white hands in theirs.
“Goodbye, ashen,” the girls said. “Come back soon.”
“I’ll try,” he said grimly, and he watched as the three figures faded from view, drawing the cold light behind them like a bridal gown. From the centre of the clearing rose a dark smoke, circled him thrice, and filled another orb.