The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “Precisely,” Balagir said, meeting his eyes. “We get nothing out of it. But what does Jakan gain? This smoke we crave, what’s it really for? To become more powerful? It seems unlikely, a paltry use of such dark magic. There must be more. Something perhaps only Jakan knew. Does he wish to return? Does he still fear his master?”

  A silence descended, punctuated at last by Igmar’s weary sigh.

  “Well, the story ends here. No more panels. History stops when there’s no one left to tell it. What will you do with the tracings?”

  “Have Imram examine them, I suppose,” he said, trying not to sound despondent. “I doubt he will induce more from the images than we have ourselves, but the symbols that border them may as yet be decoded.”

  Balagir kicked the ground. Maybe there was something they had overlooked.

  Through the disc he watched hiilg busy about the sarcophagus, offering respectful gestures. The ancient hiilg, the kindler of the first fire, was as revered as the piper himself, it seemed.

  “What was that?” Freya asked suddenly.

  “What was what?” Finster snapped.

  “Have the kalaqai return to that wall.”

  Balagir obeyed, commanding Era to hover against the unremarkable back wall. As she did, her green light accentuated unseen anomalies. They crowded in, regarding what at first seemed nothing more than random green dots. The only difference amongst the multitude was that two were slightly more prominent; one which shone with a white incandescence, and one which glowered dully.

  “The hubs,” Balagir said, almost to himself before realising it was true. “The bright one is clearly where we are—Umbra, first fire. If you trace to the left, you will see the distance is valid from here to Chasm’s End. Look, there’s Warinkel.” They followed his finger, down and along as Balagir spread out Imram’s map before them.

  “Yes,” Igmar said, growing excited. “That one directly east must be Wormford, and down there, Cogtown. Look, there’s many more than I expected!” But Balagir had already torn his eyes away from the north. He leapt the channel and picked out Kasker, Kirfory, Planter’s hub, Iceval, down to Ozgar, across to Trummond Dorr, and onwards to Eskareth. More lay dotted about beyond where he had travelled, like unfamiliar constellations in the night sky. To the south, and west to what must be Boegorn and beyond. Then his eyes rose to the channel, finding islands he knew and many he did not. Iodon and Silione glimmered; Coal Isle and Farthing were dim, almost invisible shapes. “These are extinguished fires,” he said, indicating Farthing.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I was there when it happened.” No one seemed surprised.

  As he rescanned the map, he saw there were a greater number of dead fires than those alight. The thought unnerved him, though he could not say why.

  “So what does that make this?” Finster said, drawing their attention to the dull, glowing dot, second most prominent of all.

  “Now what do you think that’s all about?” Igmar mused, stroking his chin.

  “Kaliga?” Freya hazarded, the name seeming to echo ominously about the tomb.

  “Makes sense,” Balagir agreed. “Well, as much sense as anything else. We’ve seen Jakan was here, and the fire burns the brightest. This map may answer what became of his master.”

  “Then it’s there we must go.” Everyone looked to Finster, who seemed even surprised himself to have spoken.

  “You’re suddenly more enthusiastic,” Freya said suspiciously.

  “Well, I’ve decided this might not all be as dull as I previously thought. Let’s go and see this ‘dark dhaki,’ shall we? There must be much to be gained.” Balagir suspected he was not referring to information, but begrudgingly admired the black-eye’s no-nonsense approach. Maybe he had underestimated him. Certainly, they had a history, but he’d met worse, hadn’t he?

  “He’s right,” Balagir said. “There’s little more to be learned here, though much to ponder.”

  “So,” Igmar said, standing and dusting down his knees. “We get there how?”

  “Warp to Grimwater,” Freya said. “That’s the swiftest route.”

  “That’s right,” Balagir said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “You abandon us so soon?” Finster challenged.

  “Wait for me at the hub. I must get these tracings to Imram so that he can start deciphering them.”

  “I’ll meet you in the nearest tavern,” Finster said. “Or go on without you. You’re not my leader.”

  “I wouldn’t do either of those things,” Balagir warned. “Firstly, you’ll find Grimwater no longer tolerant of ashen. It was an accident,” he added with a self-deprecating grimace. “Secondly, I may return with something that can aid us where we are going.”

  Finster snorted and walked off. Freya did not argue, knowing he would not be going were it not vital, yet unwilling to sacrifice her smoke to make both journeys with him.

  Balagir quickly marked all the hub locations on his map, and they were leaving when Igmar raised his hand.

  “Before we leave, there is one place we haven’t looked.” They turned towards the sarcophagus. “Do you think we should…”

  “I think it unwise,” Freya said. Balagir was inclined to agree.

  “He’s right,” Finster said. “Leave no stone unturned.”

  A decision was hesitantly reached; maybe there would be something besides bones within.

  They each took a corner and, grunting, grated the stone across. It was heavy, even when he employed the strength-band. It was perhaps a quarter open when Era flickered and vanished into the dark coffin.

  Balagir knew panic then. Drawing on all talismans and reserves, he heaved the great slab aside. It broke in half as it hit the floor. He froze when he saw Era nestled in the ribcage of the long-dead hiilg, pulsating sadly where once a heart had been.

  Beyond doubt they knew Era had once been bound to this ancient being.

  He swallowed, absorbing that. But something else occurred to him; an uneasy sense of responsibility. The kalaqai had bound with him and led him to the wand. Now he stood in the lost hiilg ruins because of information torn from an askaba, whom he had chanced to meet. Coincidence, he told himself. As Sassarek had mocked, he was but a host to the kalaqai, who had had many. But he had changed her. Made her his luck. And she had shown him things she had shown no other. Was this why? Had she been waiting for him?

  He bade her return, but she did not heed him. He tried again, with the same result. A coldness ran through him, and anxiously he reached down through the brittle ribs to cup the pulsing kalaqai in his hand. As he drew her out, the skeleton gasped as though he had removed its heart. A gasp that sucked in the air of millennia; an inhalation from the depths of time.

  He stepped back alarmed, Freya’s bow already trained upon that poor soul. But the kindler of the first flame was long dead, and slumped, as though finally released from some eternal torment.

  “We should go—” Igmar said ominously, but his sentence was punctuated by a grating noise as the sarcophagus sank into the floor.

  “I think he might be right,” Finster said, backing towards the door. A strange clicking noise came from the dark hole.

  They watched with dread as the first bristled leg came over the rim, then another besides it, and three more on the far side. Then with a hiss, the pit erupted with arachnids, red and as fat as his hand, so many that the floor was soon lost beneath the scuttling mass.

  They ran, Finster with the star-wand casting this way and that, Era who now followed obediently, and the rest in darkness. Balagir experienced the flight before that wave of horrors towards the slowly closing door, juxtaposed with the spiritual calmness of the hiilg coming to pay their respects in the bright ornate mausoleum.

  Finster first, then Freya slid out into the daylight with Balagir barely following, banging his knee and elbow in the process. Such a close call inevitably spelt doom for the large man who followed.

  Igmar became wedged and grunted, like a
proud animal forced to its knees. Balagir and Freya seized his cloak, but the fabric tore. Slowly he was being crushed; they could hear the creak of bones.

  “Pull!” Balagir roared, tugging his arm with all his might. Igmar twisted and thrust out his head, a feat made slightly easier by his lack of an ear. They strained, and even Finster returned and yanked at his leg so hard that his boot came off. Igmar’s eyes bulged; blood ran from his nose.

  “There’s strength in numbers,” he wheezed, clasping Balagir’s cloak. The words tugged an old memory. The man who had taught him trust, who had made him the leader he had become. The most honourable of ashen; loyal to a cause whose origins he would now never know.

  “The Good Company will prevail,” Balagir promised fervently.

  Something glimmered in Igmar’s eyes. Hope? Pride? Or just a release from his burden.

  He pulled back, electing the fate of spiders rather than the door. It rumbled to, and the hissing and gnashing became lost beneath the sound of birdsong out in the forest. They sought the stones to no avail. They were now defunct. Freya buried her head in Balagir’s shoulder.

  The tomb was forever sealed, where now slept two heroes, instead of one.

  XXVI.ii

  UNFRIENDLY WATERS

  No one spoke, not even when they had reached the fire. It was too fresh, too vivid. They had already made their plans; there was nothing left to say. Finster and Freya warped to Grimwater, and Balagir opened the way to Kirfory, stepping into autumn with a sadness that made the leaves fall like golden tears about him.

  He hadn’t even the heart to summon North, and despite having little time, he walked into Kirfory, head down, reluctant to meet anyone’s eyes. Not even Hoki’s, who smoked a pipe in the smithy’s doorway.

  He drifted up the grand university steps, listless as a shadow, and not even Imram’s scarecrow eccentricity could lift the gloom that shrouded him. That cracking of bone, the hungry chittering—they still echoed in his mind. What had happened in a place so far removed was all too recent, and he could not think of anything else.

  “Balagir!” Imram called, looking up from the infant-sized tome. “You got my message then?”

  “What message?”

  “You haven’t checked the device?”

  In a daze, he withdrew the small box and saw it was flashing.

  “I’ve been occupied.”

  “Really, how are we to turn the askaba’s inventions against them if we pay them no heed? Well, never mind. You’re here now. Roje was here, there’s news from the south.”

  “Out with it.”

  Imram must have sensed something was amiss and proceeded without his usual flamboyance.

  “You were right. The askaba have taken control of Ozgar.”

  “Go on.”

  “Men arrived in Eskareth. They reported a transparent blue dome over the city. Anyone caught within was unable to escape. One distraught man whose family were trapped described seeing his son turn to ice on trying to reach him.”

  “And Eskareth’s reaction?”

  “Predictably, they want to march on Ozgar at once.”

  “I’m surprised they’ve waited.”

  “There’ve been complications… Dunn Fannon’s taken a turn for the worse. His injuries were more serious than they anticipated. Also, they are in shock. To have come through a war and now this. To hear Roje tell it, it sounds like, well, like they’re waiting for you.”

  Balagir deliberated. Dunn Elohim would want the ashen at their side to face such a foe, knowing as they did that they were somehow connected. He pushed the thought of the other young, curly-haired Dunn from his mind.

  “And Roje?”

  “He may still be here,” Imram said. “He arrived last night and was hoping you’d arrive promptly.”

  “The Harlequin?”

  “Last I heard. Incidentally, why did you return?”

  “Here, take these,” he said, unceremoniously retrieving and dumping the furled scrolls upon the desk. “Tracings from inside the Temple of Umbra. We need you to decipher the writings.”

  “You found it?”

  “Aye, and what was left of Hersten’s expedition too. Look, time is short, but know this, the wand I showed you belonged to a hiilg. You’ll see so yourself from the tracings. The kalaqai herself makes an appearance. We located a map of all current and extinguished hubs and… we think we know where Kaliga went.”

  “Most impressive! Maybe once this is over we can form a partnership, you and I? You plunder the wilds, and I the annals! We’d be unstoppable—Kaliga?” He stopped as though the word had taken that long to register. “The piper’s adversary? You can’t… you’re not going there, are you?”

  “What better timing? The askaba hold the south hostage; why not pay a visit to their master on the way?”

  “But surely it’s dangerous.”

  Balagir had to laugh, though it was a bleak sound. Imram’s confusion turned to resignation.

  “And I suppose nothing I could say would convince you otherwise.”

  “It wouldn’t.”

  “Right, well…”

  “Get to your tasks, Imram. I’ll return, and when I do, I want solid information.”

  “Sure, sure…” he muttered, scratching his head. “I’ll decipher a long-dead language, of which nobody in living history has seen more than a few random symbols. Not a problem. I mean, hardly a visit to a long-dead dhaki, is it?”

  “Anything else I should know?” Balagir interrupted, already walking to the door.

  “Nothing really. One reference that could refer to the kalaqai, but may possibly relate to wood chisps. Superstitious settler stories. Bedside tales for the most part. Leading folks astray, beguiling travellers.”

  “There may be something in that. Remember the kalaqai used the chisps to protect the wand. Follow it up.”

  “Certainly. It’s not that I have any other plans, apart from that whole extinct language—”

  “That’s what I brought you Raf Isil for.”

  “Raf Isil, ah, about him—”

  “I trust you’re working well together?”

  “Yes, yes. Inquisitive fellow, swift reader, gets underfoot a bit.”

  “Use him. You can’t do it alone.”

  “Of course. I’ll—”

  “Oh, and there’s been another sighting of those children that attacked Freya and I. At a hub this time.”

  “At a hub!?”

  “Farewell, Imram.” They had reached the entrance by now, and he disappeared through it without further elaboration. It was akin to teasing a dog with a treat before eating it yourself.

  “Yes… Farewell,” Imram muttered absently, shuffling back to the shadows with too much on his mind.

  Roje leapt up from the bar.

  “I swear, one more drink and I’d have been gone.”

  “Imram told me the news,” Balagir said, saving the red-haired ashen surplus explanation.

  “Then he has told you Eskareth waits on us?”

  “He has.”

  “But not why?”

  “Is there a reason beyond the obvious? That we helped them once before.”

  “The field the askaba have created resists only settlers. The ashen can pass it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ginike and Kiela reported it so. They saw it with their own eyes. Tested its boundaries before returning.”

  Balagir thought for a moment.

  “It’s a trap. Has to be. Why else let only your enemies in? Make sure they don’t return. Not until I’m there.”

  “Another explanation is that their experiments have failed them. You heard Inverna’s account of the cannon not working as they had hoped. The askaba are intelligent, but not infallible.”

  “Let’s hope they destroy themselves before we get there, in that case.”

  “That’s the general hope in Eskareth too.”

  “But still they plan to march?”

  “What choice do they have? This
is civil war all over again. Worse, Dunn Fannon is, well… they’ve given him days.” He laid a hand on Balagir’s shoulder. “You did your best.”

  “My best wasn’t good enough.”

  “There’s only one heir. His younger cousin. A girl, a babe in arms.”

  “And she’s inside Ozgar?”

  Roje nodded grimly.

  “It will be the end of a dynasty. His men, Beringal in particular, will die before they see that happen, and the new alliance means that Dunn Elohim is bound to support them.”

  “So, they need the ashen’s help once more. What do the others say?”

  “They like it not. Kiela is suspicious. And Unvil, well, as you can imagine, is furious at being pushed and pulled like a pawn. Ygril keeps quiet, and Ginike will do as Kiela does.”

  “And Inverna?”

  “It took all of us to convince her to wait. She stands on Eskareth’s walls, looking east with more ice in her eyes than in Iylleth’s deepest vaults.”

  “And you?”

  “What choice do we have? The men will die if they go alone, and it is clear now that it is the ashen the askaba truly want. We have to support them. We have them pinned down, or so they would like us to think. They will only grow more powerful, more prepared given time. We have to hope that they’ve still not mastered the cannon.” Balagir gazed into the distance for a while. He didn’t like it, but Roje had a point. Delaying would give the askaba more time to prepare.

  “We will need more ashen,” he said at last. “Has anyone approached the relics?”

  “Word has been sent, yes, but so far we’ve had nothing back. We made a sweep of surrounding hubs and found a couple willing to help—for smoke, of course. You know of any in the north?” For a moment Igmar’s large face flashed through his mind, the pain in his exploding eyes, the final thud of the closing tomb.

  “Not many, but I will do what I can. Maybe in the isles.”

  “Isles? All I got from your man Imram was something about the hiilg?”