by C F Welburn
The temple drew closer, a colossal structure, and before they reached it, a sprawling network of crumbled walls had to be negotiated.
In Balagir’s mind, they walked along a flagstone street, adorned on either side by towering pillars delicately carved into antlered statues. In the distance, before the steps of the pyramid, burned a fire. Many hiilg gathered there, intent on the flames.
Of course, the reality was different. The flagstones were buried beneath layers of earth, and where they had been thrust from the dirt by heaving roots, they were cracked and green. Only a few of the pillars remained, and none were whole. Crumbled remnants lay, covered in lichen and wrapped in roots. But the fire; the fire was still there.
“Does anyone hear that?” Freya whispered. Finster nodded, but Igmar strained in frustration with his one ear, his mouth ajar like an old man in a noisy tavern. Balagir smiled.
“This way.” He gestured. “There’s a fire at the steps of the temple—” His words were cut off by a rustling in the trees. They froze.
“What was that?” Igmar asked, unsheathing his sword. Balagir looked through the disc. There. A hunched, hulking shape, circling the backs of the pillars.
“What do you see?” Freya asked.
“Looks like a kargore.”
“I knew this would not be easy,” Igmar said, gritting his teeth.
“Let it come,” Finster said, with a confidence only greed could bolster.
“You see it through there,” Freya said, quietly nocking an arrow and aiming towards the trees, “yet it moves here.” Balagir hadn’t considered that. It existed in both times. And yet the hiilg seemed unbothered by it. As if it were protecting them, guarding the temple.
“You think that was what killed Hersten?” Freya asked, wheeling whenever a branch cracked.
“It’s probable,” Balagir said. “Whatever it is, it does not want us to reach the temple.”
“That thing killed ten of them,” Igmar said, searching desperately for an invisible foe.
“They weren’t ashen.”
“Can we make it to the fire?” Freya asked.
“It’s not far,” Balagir said, peering through the disc. “Wait for my signal, then follow.” He clocked the beast’s movements and began to doubt his assumption that it was a kargore, for its skin gave off a silver hue. The fact that it traversed time made it more than an ordinary beast. It passed around the pillars, as if calculating their intentions. He caught glimpses; a silver flash, a black eye, a red mouth.
When it was behind them, they seized the opportunity.
“Now!” he cried, and he sped towards where the fire had been and still was, over neat flagstones with one eye, tripping over roots and rubble with the other. Whereas he was the only one who could behold the beast, the others certainly heard it. For just then, it let out a roar and skidded out onto the path. Balagir turned and stumbled. The others did the same, but saw nothing—only the trees swaying where some transparent force had passed. Balagir met its eyes, black as coals.
“It’s coming,” was all he could say. Invisible or not, the look on his face must have unnerved them, for they turned and ran madly, leaping roots, ducking beneath branches, and then, like a beacon in the night, a haven beyond hope, the fire’s wondrous dome came into view, and they were safe, fighting for their breath in the flickering light.
When they were composed, they straightened and saw what Balagir had seen. The fire’s domed effect acted in a way similar to the disc. The trees were gone, replaced by symmetrical pillars, the stone pathway neat and even, and the temple before them, its wide stone steps leading upwards to an impossible height.
They shared incredulous looks but were distracted by the guardian that paced beyond the firelight. Visible now, but somewhat calmed, as though their acceptance into the circle had soothed it. They had passed a test and were beyond its remit.
“What is this place?” Igmar was the first to find his voice.
“What we were looking for,” Balagir said. They had been following threads and hunches, trusting to faith and luck. But this removed any doubt that the hiilg and the piper were intimately connected. The fire and dhaki statues more than confirmed it.
“And what is that exactly?” Finster asked drolly.
“History, Finster, that’s what. Our history. Our story.”
Finster scoffed, but a long dormant curiosity had been kindled. Like so many ashen this far along the road, he no longer stopped to question such things. The need for smoke was what drove him; what difference did origins make? Why dwell on the past? But he was thinking about it now, and his expression sobered as he realised the connotations.
“You think that thing will leave us be?” Igmar asked, eyeing the creature.
“Only one way to find out.”
Together they left the firelight and began the dizzying climb.
It did, as fortune have it, leave them alone. Just as well, considering the steepness of the steps and their quantity.
On exiting the hub, the trees returned, but it ceased to matter once the stair climbed above them; soon the canopy was nothing more than a carpet of thick moss unto the horizon.
They were perhaps halfway up when they came upon a wide platform. Balagir stopped to gaze across the world. How such a structure, decayed and abandoned as it was, had not been visible from miles around, he was not sure. The density of trees and sheer walls of the chasm, he assumed. Or perhaps it had faded in and out of time as soon as they had gotten the key. A brisk but voiceless wind tugged at the high ledge; the steps tapered away both above and below.
“Are you going to admire the view all day?” Finster snapped. Freya had already examined the stone facade and was shaking her head.
“I don’t see any opening. Maybe we need to try further up.”
Igmar groaned and followed the stair upwards with a weary gaze. But Balagir held aloft the disc. Just then, or rather, aeons earlier, a pair of elegant hiilg stepped from the stairs and onto the platform. He watched as they approached the wall. One held his palm flat to a smooth stone to the right, and the other placed his palm on an equally inconspicuous stone to the left. Soundlessly the door slid open, and they passed into shadow.
“This is a key in the metaphorical sense,” he said, stepping over and placing his hand to the left. “You do the same,” he instructed Freya. Frowning, she obeyed. “No, just there, a bit higher.” And then clunk, the stone slid sideways into the wall.
Drawing forth his star-wand, he stepped within, marvelling that despite having just seen the hiilg enter, no one had set foot here for time uncounted.
The star-wand and hovering kalaqai benefitted the others who walked down a dark, cobwebbed tunnel, over crumbled masonry and through thick dust. But Balagir walked in the light of blazing sconces, amongst hiilg performing duties, and passed through them like a wraith. He felt something tug at his hand and returned to desolation.
“I’ll take that,” Finster said, relinquishing him of the star-wand. He blinked, having almost forgotten it had once been a loan from the black-eyed ashen. That all seemed so long ago. He considered arguing, but he didn’t need it here. This place was not one to dawdle, and they could debate it later.
“This way,” he said, and they followed, dependent on his eye to the past.
The tunnel widened, and the walls became decorated with strange symbols.
“Here,” he said, lowering the disc and gesturing at an unremarkable wall. He stepped over and wiped away the dust and webs, finding the engravings dull, but incredibly intact. Igmar peered closer in puzzlement; Freya glared, demanding their meaning; Finster maintained an air of aloofness, whilst evidently curious. Not for the first time, Balagir found himself wishing that Imram or Raf Isil were present.
“What does it mean?” Igmar muttered. It was just as well his query was rhetorical, for nobody spoke up. Balagir continued along the wall, clearing the dirt as he went.
The symbols belonged to another age, another tongue. He had no mean
s of deciphering them but began to take tracings for Imram to decode. Taking his cue, Freya did the same with the first.
“Does this remind you of anything?” he asked, pointing to a tall figure whose nose had since crumbled away, but whose antlers remained very much in place.
“The piper,” Igmar said, somewhat austerely.
“My thoughts. So, the dhaki coexisted for a time with the hiilg, or so this image depicts.”
“Let’s keep looking,” Freya said, already having moved to the next section and busily dusting it down.
Piper or not, the image of the dhaki became more frequent. There were two identical figures, tall, antlered, and thin. The small creatures that surrounded them were almost certainly hiilg, yet in reality the hiilg were by no means a small race.
“They worshiped them,” Balagir said, indicating the prostrate figures. “Look,” he said, gesturing a further example. “There they are again, the same two. Jakan and Kaliga, perhaps?”
“Who?” Finster asked, his interest piqued enough to breach his apathetic facade.
“Jakan was the name the askaba gave our piper. The other would be Jakan’s master, Kaliga; he whom the askaba claim to serve.”
“I’ll get this one,” Igmar said, unfurling the parchment. “You proceed. This place has an eeriness about it.”
The next section of the wall was badly damaged where water had found its way through the stone and turned it slick and green. Balagir looked at it through the disc, beholding its former glory, but still not grasping its significance.
The next mural, however, caught his attention. For in it, the two dhaki were clearly depicted at odds. Their stance one of confrontation, the hiilg cowered in the corners.
“An altercation? The beginning of the end?” He handed Freya a parchment as he moved silently on.
If the meaning had been ambiguous, then the next panel brooked no doubt. The dhaki stood at opposing ends of the panel, with the hiilg at war amongst themselves, some of the scenes impressively gratuitous in their rendering.
“Wars…” Igmar mused. “Doesn’t matter how long has passed, we’ll never learn. I’ll get this one.”
“They became divided; was this their downfall?” Balagir mused aloud, even as he moved on to the next.
Here the battle faltered, the dead littering the ground. The dhaki met each other’s eyes with a challenge that resonated even in stone.
In the next panel, only one dhaki remained, a pipe to his lips, encircled by hiilg. Jakan. It must be. Strange to see him thus, more alive even in stone than the spirit that guarded the fires. A particular detail of note was a solitary hiilg that held something in an outstretched hand, but in both versions, current and ancient, it was unidentifiable.
The next section solved the riddle, for it focussed now on this individual. The object was thin, wand-like. Balagir felt a shiver and looked towards his pouch. Could it be? The hiilg in question was aiming it at the earth, great concentration on his face.
Balagir traced these glyphs as the others caught up. Then they proceeded together.
The next image was of the same hiilg, still holding the wand, a fire burning at his feet.
“The first fire?” someone whispered, and Balagir was surprised to recognise Finster’s voice, all pretence at indifference having been dropped. From the columns in the background, it seemed to depict Umbra. Was this the place where it had all started?
“What’s that, there?” Freya asked, indicating a small floating object near the wand. Balagir felt the hairs on his neck prickle. The kalaqai. It had to be. He turned to stare at the strange green orb as she danced carelessly about the passageway. Had she really been here? Was she coming home?
The others followed his gaze, and realisation sank in.
“What is it? An ember? A spark?” Igmar muttered, unable to tear his eyes from her.
“Something of the sort,” Balagir said quietly. “From the first fire. The askaba called her Jakan’s chisp.” Era, sensing attention, flitted away, like a child suddenly the focus of discourse in a room full of adults.
“And what’s that wand?” Igmar asked. “I saw it earlier; the piper gave it to the hiilg.”
“This wand?” he said, withdrawing it almost sheepishly. “I’ve been asking myself that for a while.”
His companions’ mouths had dropped. “It appears to kindle the fire, but for me it’s as good as a stick.”
“Any other secrets you’d care to divulge?” This from Freya, whose expression was somewhat hurt at his deception.
“Where in Ythinar did you get that?” Igmar asked, stunned.
“The kalaqai led me to it, deep in the Golden Woods. I’d been unable to determine a use for it, but now that I see this…”
The kalaqai had led, that was correct. But why him and not one of her other keepers? There must have been many. He suddenly wished he’d questioned Gwindle, but it had been Finster, of course, who had ended that line of enquiry. With every answer came more questions. Boxes within boxes.
“You think it’s the same?”
He shrugged. “I see no other reason she would lead me.”
“I’ll trade you the star-wand for it,” Finster tried, earning Balagir’s predictable derision.
“It doesn’t do anything?” Igmar asked disappointedly.
“I’ve even had Imram examine it, but to no avail. Let’s keep looking. Maybe there will be a clue.”
The next section was uncannily familiar. A fire with Jakan playing beside it. Now he was alone.
“Where have the hiilg gone?” Igmar asked. “Surely they outlived the dhaki.”
“Perhaps the dhaki is already dead. Look, he has the stance we know so well. In the other panels, his eyes were open.”
“And the hiilg?”
But Balagir thought he knew. “They went off with the wand. To start more fires.” It seemed obvious when he said it aloud.
“Why?” Igmar asked. But it was Freya that answered.
“To sustain Jakan’s spirit. To make it stronger by spreading fires.”
“And Kaliga?”
Balagir shrugged. “Dead, gone, who can say? But he was not here at the kindling, that much is clear. It was Jakan who bestowed the wand upon the hiilg. To stop himself from fading from this world.”
“That’s all very well,” Finster said, having adopted his arrogant gait once more, “but where do the ashen come into this? I’ve seen dhaki and hiilg and whatever the kalaqai is, but no mention of us. Wasn’t that why we came?”
“Let’s continue,” Balagir said, holding up the disc once more. But here the panels, and the history they had been following, ceased. Instead the passage opened into a circular room with a sarcophagus at its centre. The others had not noticed it, surrounded by rubble and gloom as it was, but he saw it clearly; a place of glorious reverence. At length he raised his voice.
“This is no temple,” he said as the kalaqai moved to illuminate the chamber. “It’s a tomb.”
“You think he’s inside?” Igmar whispered.
“Jakan? No, it’s too small.” It was by no means a small coffin, but certainly too short for the piper.
“Then who?”
“The hiilg, perhaps? The kindler.” Balagir deduced, pacing around the sarcophagus. “Apart from the dhaki, he’s the only individual of note.”
“If he’s in there, how did the wand end up in the lowlands?” Freya asked.
“Passed down, someone else assumed the role. It probably became lost when the hiilg died out.” It was really only deduction, but his train of thought did the rest. “That’s where we come into it,” he said suddenly, excited by the epiphany. “The hiilg died off, or changed beyond recognition, no longer capable of performing Jakan’s task. He had to create the ashen.”
“Create?” Finster mocked. “He’s our god now? That’s a fair stretch from master.”
“Create, summon, mould… I’m thinking aloud here.”
“Supposing this theory is true,” Igmar said,
more rationally. “Why now? Why did she lead you?”
“I’ve asked myself that, and I have no answer. Also, I wonder what the kalaqai’s connection is to the chisps in the wood. For they guarded the wand. It was being kept safe; no idle wayfarer could have stumbled upon it.” Once more all eyes were on Era, and Balagir felt it time to confess.
“It’s her the askaba want, you know. Eternal life, yes, but they think to gain it from the kalaqai. Sisken told me as much when he thought he’d succeeded. Said they had been searching for centuries.”
“At Kaliga’s behest?”
“Perhaps, or for their own ends. Never underestimate the treachery of an askaba. They may pertain to Kaliga, but I doubt his desires come before their own.”
“How is it they know so much?” Igmar murmured, disheartened.
“Perhaps their master communes with them, instead of just playing a worthless pipe.” It was Freya now, and there was a shocked silence at her sudden vehemence. “What?” she said defensively. “Like you’ve not thought the same.” She spoke directly to Balagir. Igmar may not have entertained the notion, living day to day, protecting his small band, relatively content in his role in the world. And as long as he got his smoke, Finster would not care otherwise. She was right though; they were bound to a voiceless master, expected to perform with no explanation or recompense.
Not deigning to answer, Balagir scanned the room with the disc, finding little of note, as questions battered his mind like waves on a jagged cape.
“Enough,” Finster snarled. “You’ve dragged me all this way to tell me what I already knew. That we serve some old spirit; that we collect smoke. What’s new? What can this knowledge of the hiilg change? It did them no good. And this wand? If it’s been abandoned for so long, it can’t be that important—we’ve all been doing fine. And what can the askaba do, down south in their little towers? If you go looking for strife, you’ll find it, but they’ll never come to the wilds. There was no oath here. We’ve got nothing out of it.”