by C F Welburn
“Next time I would appreciate some warning,” Freya said as they returned to Mudfoot.
“Well, we’re done for now.”
“No more side quests? No more collectables?”
“Well, there is a tree of spoils on the way, you did say—”
“Fine,” she said. “It’s about time I got something out of this.”
“Then let us make haste. Hold tight!”
He gave North its head. Freya, at first reluctant to grasp his waist, had no choice once the scenery became a blur. He laughed in the wind, finding amusement at her discomfort and taking an unbridled joy in the wilds as the world rushed by about them.
About halfway to where Imram’s map became blank, they stopped while Freya opened a tree of spoils. He did not see what she took, but it satisfied her, and afterwards she did not even complain about embracing him. The forced intimacy of horseback had done wonders for their fellowship. The journey could almost be described as delectable, were it not for the pressure of time and the thought of the askaba’s conniving.
When he had a moment, he examined his torso. There were no trees of spoils in the vicinity, but he saw how he could efficiently sweep up a couple of easy ones that lay next to hubs. The rest would have to wait. He had no time to be a completionist; trophy hunting was an unaffordable leisure. Once this was all over however…
He would not dwell on what that might mean and where it might leave them. He shook himself and let the whistling wind whisk such worries from his mind.
As they rode, the trees thinned to the south, and the bulking hills of Soaksoil rose like large humpbacked fish breaching a placid sea. He recalled seeing them from the far side, listening to Ginike’s explanation of their grisly name, and was glad to not have to venture and verify the truth of that tale.
Still, the path ahead did not look particularly inviting. The trees twisted and greyed until they rode through a crowd of bent-backed creatures, stooped and observing their ephemeral passage. As the afternoon wore on, a wraithlike mist rose from bogs, curling and creeping across the rooted earth and forcing even North to tread prudently. Balagir pulled his cloak tighter and blew the moisture that dripped from his fringe and moustache. It was not yet dusk, but the imposing gloom made it feel late, and what remained of the sun was nothing more than a pale white circle. The moon offered as much warmth.
North’s pale blue eyes guided them until the roots underfoot became rock, and they dismounted to enter a narrow, uneven gully. Balagir began to wonder if they had reached Bluster Chasm earlier than expected, but his thoughts were disturbed when North suddenly drew up.
Beyond a bend came a trickling of water and low murmur of voices.
Freya nocked an arrow and stepped past the celador, Balagir in tow with Greydent drawn. Peering past jagged rocks, they noted three men, two with their backs turned, the third kneeling, looking through his pack. They were ashen, that much was clear, though the only visible face was not familiar.
Then Balagir heard a voice. Barely daring to hope it true, he held his breath until the man spoke again. There was no mistake. He shared a nod with Freya, and they stepped from cover.
“You’ve grown lax!” he said, startling the trio. The man facing them leapt to his feet, blades instantly in hand.
“You’d be dead already if we wanted it,” Freya said, shouldering her bow.
Igmar turned, his bald head and missing ear confirming beyond doubt that this was their old ally. Trepidation turned to glee.
“Well, I never…” He stood, covered the ground in three giant strides, and embraced both Freya and Balagir in bearlike arms. “Stand down,” he said to the men behind him. “They’re old friends. I’d never thought to see you again.”
“Nor we you,” Balagir said, smiling genuinely for the first time in a long while. The big man stood back to examine them.
“You’ve changed. Both of you.”
“And you’ve lost your hat,” Freya said.
“Kept slipping down on one side,” he said, grinning. “It seems ears are for more than just hearing.”
“The Good Company still thrives?” Balagir asked.
“It exists,” he said heavily. “Though as you can see, we’re just three at present. Let me introduce you. The jumpy one is Fry. You’ll have to forgive him. We’re all a bit on edge.” The lanky, pale ashen with a long dagger in each hand and uneven, rusty hair gave an almost coy smile and lowered his weapons. “And this is—”
“We’re already acquainted, aren’t we Balagir?” said the black-eye frostily.
“Finster,” Balagir said, the name sounding like a word from another life. “I see you’ve blossomed in the north.”
“Seems I’m not the only one who got the taste.”
Alarmed at the sudden animosity in the air, Igmar stepped between the two.
“You’ve let the standards of the Good Company slide somewhat, Igmar. This man is a murderer.”
“And you’re not? Your eyes are blacker than all of ours combined.”
“This isn’t going to be a problem, is it?” Igmar grumbled. Balagir looked at Finster; Finster looked back. Both ashen had their hands on their blades. It was Finster who relinquished.
“I can put aside our differences for the time,” he said levelly.
Balagir acquiesced with a curt nod. Slowly, both men relaxed.
“Good,” Igmar said tersely. “We’ve enough enemies without harbouring them. Set your grudges aside; channel your energy where it’s needed.” After an uneasy silence, Igmar clapped his hands. “Well, the surroundings hardly help. I see no point in talking in the mist. There’s a hub not far yonder. Shall we?”
“Good idea,” Freya said, wiping the mist from her brow. North whinnied in agreement behind them, and the curtailed Good Company turned to regard it with varying degrees of surprise. “Incidentally, which hub is it?”
“Bluster Chasm,” Igmar said, not taking his eyes from the celador. “You know it?”
“We know of it. Tell me, Igmar,” she said, falling into pace beside the big man like old times. “What do you know of the hiilg?”
XXVI
BLUSTER CHASM
The Good Company—if it could still be dubbed as such with Finster in its midst—was now five, when it traditionally should have been four. Still, Igmar seemed willing to snub tradition for survival. There was much to be said for pragmatism, and many a martyr doubtlessly kicked themselves at the end. In fact, he was heartened at their arrival, and though there seemed something strained in his eyes, and a whiff of acrimony in its ranks, he declared the company whole once more and did not stop talking all the way to the hub.
Balagir had paid the piper and rested, safe in the knowledge that he was surrounded by friends and that Finster, even if he had wanted to, could not touch him within the fire’s circle. He emerged like a coiled spring, more ravenous than ever for smoke.
The gully in which they had stumbled across the Good Company had not been Bluster Chasm itself, but served as a mild prelude. They had followed it for some way until the piper’s tune had called them on. Now, from the fire, they commanded an impressive view down into what could no longer be mistaken as anything other than Bluster Chasm. It ran wide and deep through towering grey rock, narrowing in perspective until its end was no more than a spec in the distance. Like looking down a concaved blade towards the tip. Neither was it necessary to ponder the origins of its name. Even from where they sat, they could hear the eerie howl of the wind moaning, screeching, crying down that long-tortured throat. It had set Balagir’s nerves on end even before Igmar had delighted in telling them its history.
“That plateau over there backs onto Soaksoil.”
“I already know the origins of that cheerful term,” Balagir had said, rather not having this conversation until after they had passed the chasm. Igmar would not be deterred, however.
“Then you’ll know of the battle that took place there and the blood that soaked through and was drank by the worms. But n
ot everyone died there. Many were pushed back and fled until they were trapped at the edge of this chasm. I think you can guess what happened next?”
“They grew bored and decided to go home?”
“They were forced over the edge. One by one, women and children, clinging to each other, dragging over their friends. Spattering the rocks below. Look, down there, it’s still stained like wine.”
“I preferred my version.”
“The wind you hear, the bluster—”
“Let me guess. It’s not wind at all, is it?”
Igmar grinned evilly. “Of course it is, my superstitious friend.” He laughed, slapping Balagir on the shoulder. “Only those with vivid imaginations choose to hear the torment and despair in the wailing.”
“Then I thank you for sowing those comforting seeds.”
“You’re welcome.” Igmar sat back with a mischievous glint in his eye. He winked at Freya, who seemed susceptible to his charm.
“I know why we need to go there,” Balagir said, breaking their special moment. “But you still haven’t said what it is the Good Company are doing this far north.” Now it was Igmar’s turn to grow solemn. Freya shifted uncomfortably; Finster watched the piper as though nothing else existed, and Fry had still not torn his gaze from where the distant howling originated.
“You’ve returned in dark times,” he said, reluctant to sour the mood.
“Dark times abound, regardless of where one is, I assure you,” Balagir said.
“Hm.” Igmar nodded thoughtfully, seeing something in his eyes. “I believe you. Yet you went looking for trouble. I did not, and still it has found me.”
“I beg to differ. Being an ashen, trouble is never far away.” He looked meaningfully at Finster, who had been the first ashen he had met, when times had been simpler, but certainly no less perilous.
“Will you two stop comparing battle scars and get to the point,” Freya said impatiently. Igmar chuckled.
“I remember why I liked having you around now. But yes, you’re right. Let’s to it. You’ve seen we were but three; not a week past, we lost a member.” He shook his head, reliving the disturbing moment. “It wasn’t so much the way in which he went, rather the place. At a hub.”
“At a fire?” Balagir said, sitting up.
“We’d all been trancing, see, just come good on an old oath. Erod must have surfaced before us, for when we came to, he was not by the fire. We thought it odd, since we had all tranced equally and awoken at the same time. When he didn’t come back all night, we began to think something was amiss. Erod was not the most talkative of ashen, but he fit well within the company and had been amongst the first I re-enlisted after your departure in Cogtown. We waited, speculated. Maybe he’d opened a rift and fast-travelled to achieve some private end. It wasn’t until the morning we found him in the grass still within the hub’s radius. I say him; more his ashes. But perfectly preserved, as though he slept.”
Balagir blinked. Dead at a hub. The news was akin to finding someone drowned in a boat or starved at a feast.
“What had happened?”
“We don’t know. But before the breeze got up and broke him apart, we investigated. Part of his leg had been trampled, and in that compacted ash were footprints. Very small feet.”
“Some kind of creature?” Freya asked.
“Oddly enough, no. These feet were shod, as those of a child. We could make neither head nor tail of it. Unnerved us somewhat though, as you can imagine.”
Balagir shared a grim look with Freya. It fit. A child, at a fire, one who had heard the tune. One who disliked ashen. But why now? Two incidents in as many days? Unless… Could it be a result of what the askaba were about? The thought chilled him.
“What happened then?” he asked, regrouping his thoughts.
“Then we came here. We had another member a while back. Varg. He’d come this way. We were coming to find him and enlist a fourth member, but then you found us. In fact, I’d rather hoped he would be here. And now you, why have you returned? The south too warm?”
But his question remained unanswered as Balagir’s mind returned to Erod’s death.
“Just last night, Freya and I were attacked by a child.”
“What, here?” Igmar said, coming alert. Fry swivelled, and his knuckles were white about the blades they had barely seen him sheathe.
“No. In Kirfory. She had eyes that burned like coals, and she hummed the tune of the piper.”
“How can this be?”
“I’m not sure. But she was intent on killing us. And now your tale, the ashen, turned to ash… It reminds me of something the askaba told me, about the Ceniza.”
“The askaba?” Igmar shook his bald earless head, and Balagir at once pitied and envied his sheltered existence in the wilds.
“Balagir is getting ahead of himself,” Freya said drily. “Much has happened in the south. Too much to tell here.” Igmar sat back, bewildered.
“Ceniza. Never heard of it. Heard of the askaba, though. Advisors to the Dunns, are they not?”
Balagir rolled his eyes and began.
“Previous advisors, to previous Dunns. Look, what’s important here is that they are warring on us. On the ashen. They want our powers that their master, Kaliga, Jakan’s master—allegedly the name of the piper by the way, who was reportedly a dhaki, an ancient race predating the hiilg—did not bestow upon them. That is why we are here. And these children, whatever they are, are too much of a coincidence not to be connected to the askaba’s plans, which are, even as we speak, gaining momentum.”
There was a long silence that not even the wind seemed to disturb. After some time, Igmar blinked.
“Balagir has a habit of bombarding people,” Freya explained. “But that is the crux of it. We’ve allies in the south preparing to attack Ozgar; we are after clues as to the ashen’s history, presumably hidden in the lost hiilg temple, Umbra.”
If Freya had hoped to clarify matters, she was met with equally stupefied expressions.
“What did you say about the Dunns?” Igmar managed, still trying to process the first piece of a fragmented puzzle.
“Dead,” Balagir said bluntly. “We’re working with their heirs, Elohim and Fannon.”
“You’ll have to forgive Balagir,” Freya said wryly. “In the south, you see, he’s become somewhat of a hero.”
Igmar’s eyes went wide before he slapped his knee. Finster eyed his adversary warily, as one might a plant they suddenly discovered was venomous. Balagir dismissed it.
“What’s done is done. All that matters now is stopping the askaba. If they get what they want, they will be too powerful to stop. Worst case scenario, there will be no ashen left to oppose them.”
“The hiilg—the ancient hiilg, not the wild creatures you may have seen—they worshiped the dhaki, a race so old even man has forgotten. An askaba gave up the information though. Might have said more if something had not killed him.” Freya paused to look meaningfully at Balagir. “We might learn something of the ashen. Something we ourselves have forgotten.”
“Not forgotten; never remembered,” Balagir added.
“Fascinating,” Igmar said. Even Finster sat bolt upright now, and Fry had shuffled several feet closer, like a child eager to hear the end of a story. Indeed, what they were suggesting was unheard of. Unthought of even. You could not dangle the prospect of someone’s mysterious identity and origin before them and not expect a reaction.
“And you think somehow this might help you stop the askaba from doing… what is it they are doing again?” Balagir ignored his sarcasm.
“Who can say? All we know is that they know more than we do. An intimidating quality in an enemy. Our allies in Eskareth and Kirfory are working to similar ends.”
“And I recall once meeting a fresh ashen who disliked the idea of working with others.”
“Things change,” Balagir said. “The Good Company taught me much.”
“Pleased to be of service,” Igmar said, look
ing like he would have doffed his hat if he still had one to doff. “Once more, allow us to aid you.”
“You’ll come with us?”
“Well, we were headed that way, and if half of what you say is true, I don’t see how we could refuse. Besides, it will be like old times.”
“I hope not too much like old times,” Balagir said whimsically, recalling the fate of Raf Hader and the demise of the crazed Rych. Igmar laughed then, and Balagir could not help himself either. Finster watched them from across the fire as though he thought them both quite mad.
Now that their goals were in alignment, there was no point in delaying; they had recently tranced and so, almost immediately, began their descent into the uninviting chasm.
“Is that true what Freya said? About you being a hero in the south?” Igmar asked, once they had fallen into step. “I know Freya, and she’s not one to unduly sing someone’s praises. I assume, therefore, there’s something in it.”
“I was in the right place at the right time, I guess. Anyone could save a Dunn if privy to certain knowledge and sufficiently lucky.”
“You saved a Dunn?”
“Two actually.”
Freya, overhearing, could not let it lie.
“He’s right. He did save two Dunns. But what Balagir is omitting is that two others had to die first, as well as an entire army.” Balagir shrugged nonchalantly.
“No hero’s perfect.”
“So, now what? Dunn Elohim and Dunn…”
“Fannon.”
“They’re at peace, working together?”
“They are. Though peace is not the word I would use anywhere in Ythinar I have been.”
Igmar scratched his head in disbelief.
“I understand your scepticism,” Freya said plainly. “I’d struggle to believe it had I not been there.”