The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “Our trail led us to a hiilg temple. They worshipped the piper once. More than that, they fought beside him and helped create the first fires.”

  Roje’s jaw was as slack as a man’s who’d just been told the stars weren’t what he’d believed them to be all his days.

  “Fascinating. But what has it to do with the isles? And how will it aid us against the askaba?”

  “That’s what I go to find out.”

  “Then I’ll go with you.”

  “No, Roje, you’re needed in the south. Gather them, relay what we’re doing, and keep Inverna from acting rashly.”

  “I’m not sure who has the toughest job,” he said wryly; then his face grew serious. “Don’t tarry. Beringal and Dunn Elohim are anxious to march, and allowing these askaba more time can only be a bad thing.”

  “I’ll be as swift as I can.”

  “Then good luck.”

  “To us both,” Balagir said, clasping the man’s hand and departing with haste.

  North came at his bidding; the thunder of the hooves gave way to Jakan’s tune, the sacrifice of smoke, and the rush of time and space.

  He could still smell Bohal’s hops when Grimwater Bay lay glistening below him.

  Freya and Finster awaited.

  “It’s a stunning view and all, but I’m curious to know how you plan on reaching this island?” Finster, given time, had recovered his snidedness, though their faces were still notably pale.

  “We need to reach the harbour, charter a ship… or commandeer one.”

  “And I wondered why you were so unwelcome here.”

  “That’s not going to be easy,” Freya said quietly. “I walked the bluff before you arrived. There are only four large ships in port. Three of them naval crafts teeming with soldiers; the fourth is a pirate vessel, manned by a swarthy crew.”

  “This pirate ship,” he said, a smile starting to form. “What colour were its sails?”

  “Burgundy,” she said, thinking.

  He clapped his hands, making Finster turn from the view.

  “Have you been drinking?” Freya asked, smelling the Harlequin on his clothes, but he waved her silent.

  “That’s my ship.”

  “You have a ship?” she said, with only moderate surprise.

  “A tale for another time,” he said, returning his gaze to the bluff. “Our entering town and crossing to the harbour will not go unnoticed, nor unremarked.” He caught them both staring and shrugged irritably. “Another tale for another time. What’s important is we reach that ship before it leaves. Were they preparing to sail?”

  “I’m no expert,” she said, shrugging. “She was fully manned, if that’s worth anything.”

  “Then there’s not a moment to lose.” They left at once, hugging the grassy clifftop as the roaring waves crashed below.

  On breaching the bluff, they commanded a fine view of Grimwater, the trail sloping down towards the bustling harbour town. The last time he had been on this path, he had been fleeing. It seemed a lifetime ago now.

  “There she is,” he breathed, his eyes resting on the red-wine-sailed ship.

  “They don’t know me,” Freya said. “I could tell them to bring her round to the next cove.”

  “I think your eyes might give you away,” Balagir said.

  “Compared to you two, mine are positively settler.” Balagir and Finster exchanged a hasty glance and saw she was only marginally exaggerating.

  “Regardless, ashen are not welcome.”

  “So, you got us banished from Silione, well done.”

  “I’m afraid so. Imram was quite put out at the time, though he seems to have embraced Kirfory now.”

  “Then how do you propose we go about it?” Finster said flatly. “Swim round the bluff? Scrape your skin off on those limpets?”

  “No. I’ve another idea,” he said, squinting into the distance. “Follow me.”

  They crouched in the long grass beside the trail, looking across the harbour and the southwest ramshackle quarter of town.

  He bade Era rise from his pouch and pushed her away over the cliff edge so that nothing but the swirling currents trembled beneath her. He felt the bond between them, strong as two hands clasping wrists, then he pushed her further out over the bay.

  “You’re sending her alone?” Freya asked.

  He couldn’t answer her of course; his concentration was strained and profound. The doubt inflected in her voice, however, was reflected in his own mind. He had never attempted to send the kalaqai so far. If she could reach the ship, then Res would recognise her, and she could lead them towards a more sheltered bay where they could board. The problem was the distance. Already the link was strained, fraying like cord, from rope to string to thread to gossamer. She struggled back, but he pushed outwards with his mind. Like a bubble trying to find its way to the surface, she resisted, but he stopped her finding a chink and spread out his mind’s walls, pushing slowly away.

  He could hear voices. Finster? Freya? They seemed a long way away. Or a long time ago. He was not sure which. Maybe both. He felt a lightness, a detachment from this earthly coil, an equilibrium of despair and relief. Just a little more. It would be so easy…

  The water was icy. He sat up, gasping, blinking away the liquid, focussing on the blurred shapes.

  “He’s back,” Finster said calmly. Freya’s voice was not quite as measured.

  “I don’t think you should try that again,” she said, standing. A green shape glimmered at his side, and Balagir turned his gaze upon Era. She dulled as he regarded her. Not only had she been shunned, he had endangered them both with his recklessness. He dipped his head apologetically, and she descended into the swaying grass to sulk. It had been worth it. He knew his limitations now. Knew how tightly they were bound.

  “Any more bright ideas?” Finster asked.

  “What about the shadow cloak?” Freya suggested. “It worked in Iylleth.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That world is also full of risks. Besides, I did not possess such a thing when last I was aboard. It would frighten the sailors, and Res would not follow such an omen.”

  “Then we do it the old-fashioned way,” Finster said. “We’ve hoods, have we not?”

  “It seems we don’t have a choice,” Freya agreed. Reluctantly, Balagir consented.

  “Then we wait for dusk and stick to the backstreets. If we have to flee, we will be cut off from the ship. If she sails without us, things will become much more complicated.”

  From above they plotted, if not the most direct route, the least risky one. It weaved in and out of the low-lying dock buildings where there were, by nature, more ruffians and distinctly fewer guards. Using both the twilight and their cowls as veils, they would not speak to nor draw the unnecessary attention of anyone, and would make the journey alone so as to be as inconspicuous as was able.

  Balagir would go first to secure them access aboard the Spite Spear and avoid any undue discussion on the gangplank.

  When the sun had squashed itself into the distant waters, they began their unhurried descent, pausing by coarse bushes or tumbled stone to listen for activity. There was none, and they progressed down into the first thatched cottages, and then through a stone gate into the harbour side.

  Lamps guttered in windows now, and sparse street sconces were being lit. Sound spilled and clattered out of an inn whose windows were too grimy to pervade.

  Balagir walked unassumingly, taking whichever street was quietest, keeping his eyes within hooded shadow.

  Once he chanced to look up and saw a wanted poster, crudely drawn and damaged by the rain. The ashen depicted could have been him: dark eyes, long, tangled hair, a short scruffy beard. But then, that description could have fit many human ashen. The hair and the beard were consequences of the road, and the eyes were a typical trait. Even Finster, whose gaunt features and lanky body were not depicted in the painting, could have fit the bill.

  Two drunks relieving themselves in
an alley yelled at him to take another route; a soldier smoking in a doorway altered their course once more, and before long, they had strayed from the trail so diligently planned.

  They were still descending, an encouraging sign, and the waft of stagnant water and rotting fish came and went with increasing frequency.

  Then he caught a glimpse of red sail between two buildings, and in the next street, the harbour opened up; he saw the large vessels bobbing and dipping like strange animals grazing on a black, undulating meadow. Waves lapped lazily against the harbour wall.

  It was busy, but the waterfront inns were packed at this hour and helped thin the throngs. Still, there were loiterers: the fishermen who preferred to tell old wives’ tales rather than return to their old wives; the stragglers of the day’s markets, bundling up their stores; hushed chatter and shady deals; beggars with barking dogs.

  They moved with purpose here. Close now, but with nowhere to hide should the need arise. A sudden commotion made Balagir turn. Several dogs were barking at Finster, snarling with bared teeth. He kicked one hard enough to gain a whimper and the pack quickly dispersed. Not before the eyes of all present had been drawn, however; particularly a group of mendicants to whom the dogs pertained. He held his breath, but the incident was not acted upon, and swiftly he turned down the jetty along to where the Spite Spear’s extended gangplank awaited.

  A plump scruffy-bearded man confronted him.

  “Halt. State your business.”

  “I’ve come to see how you’re treating my ship,” he said, stepping into the light.

  Res squinted and began to chuckle.

  “Well met, Captain.”

  “You’re captain now, Res. I’m merely the proprietor.”

  “I did not expect to see you so soon, least of all here,” he said. “In fact, you’d best come aboard.” He was looking over Balagir’s shoulder at the other ashen.

  “They’re with me,” Balagir said.

  Res stood aside, waving them on.

  “Even more reason to be quick about it.”

  Res led them across the deck where the crew, some of whom he recognised, nodded in greeting. They entered a hatch about midway along. Balagir knew then they were not headed for the luxury of the captain’s quarters, but some darker, more cramped space where they would be hidden.

  What he hadn’t expected in that dark, rat-scuttling hull however, was to encounter a fake wall. Res turned a hidden catch, and a panel slid across, revealing a flickering light within.

  In there. His brief nod suggested.

  Freya and Finster exchanged wary glances, but Balagir ducked, blinking into the light.

  Within, three people sat about a table. Three ashen, to be exact; why else would they be hidden. The furthest rose and covered the room in three strides to clasp his hand.

  “Well met, Balagir!”

  The jaegir had been spared his oath and stood breathing and beaming before him.

  “Likewise, Kolak,” Balagir said before glancing at the two other stowaways.

  “Tal and Raf Kajor. They’ve been loyal to the Spite Spear in recent times. You can trust them,” Kolak said of the petite, hard-faced, shaven-headed, shock-white-fringed woman and the scarred, surly-looking idris. “Come, drink with us. We’ve got the best.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Balagir said with a sudden, mighty thirst. “This is Freya and Finster, by the way.” The two groups of three ashen took measure of each other; Res coughed and closed the panel. Then they sat and filled their mugs with wine.

  It was a small nook, made snug by several candles, a wheel of cheese, and more wine than they needed. The empty kegs on which they sat were more comfortable than they appeared, and a small vent in the ceiling allowed a fresher air to circulate than normally encountered in the dank bowels.

  “We’re not down here often,” Kolak explained as he topped up the last mug. “Only in Grimwater or when one of Barrowhawk’s ships hassles us. The small inconvenience is compensated by the supplies.”

  “You seem to be well stocked already,” Finster said, looking at the bottles.

  “With wine, yes. We came across a merchant boat a few weeks past. It had need of our help, and we of its cargo. Things worked out rather well.”

  The jaegir was more jovial than Balagir remembered. The burden lifted had had a physical impact. “Enough about me,” he said, clapping his hands. “I’d hear of your ventures. Did you find what you went looking for?”

  “More than I bargained for,” Balagir said, taking a deep sip.

  “So, you’re not just here for some leisurely island hopping?”

  “I’m afraid not. Though I don’t recall any of the islands being particularly idyllic.” He extended his mug for a refill.

  “Quite right. Safer on the ship, all be told.” Kolak leant in to fill his glass, hesitating when he saw his eyes. “You’ve changed, but I’m glad to see you still have a penchant for wine.”

  “It’s not Murdak’s reserves, but it will do,” Balagir commented, taking a thoughtful sip.

  “So why have you come back?” This unexpectedly from the stern-faced Tal. What she lacked in size, she made up for in bluntness. The question had an accusing tone that irked him, considering she was on his ship.

  “A dark business that concerns us all,” he said, looking pointedly at her and then over at the brooding Raf Kajor. Kolak certainly had a knack for making friends. Poor Garill of course had had few pleasant things to say about him, but that conversation must need wait.

  Tal took him in, her hard cheekbones showing no emotion, her fighting staff, taller than she was, still across her back. Raf Kajor, an idris so scarred his face resembled the old map Imram had made, regarded him with flat eyes, lemon skin offsetting his iron mail. The two red swords protruding from each shoulder leant him the air of a haryek whose wings had been skinned bare. He opened his mouth to speak, but his words were cut off by a sharp rapping at the door.

  “We’ve been boarded,” a voice from outside warned. “Stay quiet.” Kolak cursed and stood to bar the panel.

  “An inspection. Were you seen?”

  “I think not,” Balagir said, looking at Finster. “Res was sharp about it.”

  Finster looked into his drink, no doubt recalling the incident in the street.

  Tal’s brows beetled further, and Raf Kajor’s unseemliness was marginally improved as he lowered lamps to the merest glimmer. Balagir suddenly felt like the harbinger of doom. The clammy guest who brings plague to the party.

  Outside, over the constant creak of the timber, a babble of voices grew distinct.

  “We’ve naught but rats down there; we’re riding high,” Res was saying. “Why d’you think we’re here? It ain’t for the hospitality.”

  “Out of my way,” came a Silionese accent, undeterred.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Res grumbled, leading them down into the hull. “Satisfied?” his voice came again, from just beyond the panel this time. Balagir held his breath during a long and painful pause.

  “What’s behind there?”

  “There?” Res said, sounding confused. “The sea I suppose.”

  “Open it.”

  “What?”

  A thudding noise and a grunt.

  “I’ll not ask again.”

  “I can’t. Infestation. A bad one. Poisoned the nest and blocked it but—uff.”

  Someone, presumably Res, slumped to the floor.

  “Dex, get that.”

  “Right you are, sir,” came a chirpy voice, followed by approaching footfalls. Balagir saw every hand in that room drop to their weapons. Dex was about to lose that enthusiastic streak very swiftly.

  The scrape of the wood opening was terribly slow, almost as slow as the dull realisation that came across the moonfaced guard’s eyes. Finster was upon him with a flashing arc that ended in blood across the floor and across several pairs of boots.

  “Ambush!” was all the guard who stood over Res’s crumpled form had chance
to say before Freya’s arrow found his throat. He grasped it, gurgled, and toppled sideways like a felled tree.

  The ashen strained their ears. All seemed quiet, then a stirring of feet.

  “All good, sir?” a voice came down. “Sir?” A pause. “Lads, I think we have a problem.” Balagir heard several voices calling across the deck.

  “The entire Silione guard will be alerted. We should flee,” Raf Kajor said.

  “We can’t let them take the ship. Res, are you able to sail?” Res was sat upright now, holding his scalp and pulling his hand away bloodied.

  “I’m more than ready,” he said, stumbling to his feet and swaying for reasons other than the water.

  “Follow us and give the orders. We’ll take care of the guards.” As if to punctuate his intent, Tal’s staff caught a guard under the chin as he reached the bottom of the steps, making his jaw rattle shut and blood run from his dripping tongue. Her next jab took him through the eye, and he slid down the remaining steps like a discarded doll.

  More voices came from above, and several more from what sounded like the harbour. They could not allow the ship to get swarmed. Swiftness was the key here.

  They ascended the steps in a tight line, emerging as one onto the deck, where they spread out in every direction. Freya’s bow took one man in the back, his scream cut short by the splash. Raf Kajor’s twin blades took off both of a guard’s arms so that he stood there, dumfounded, unable even to shrug; a kick in his chest sent him over the rails and helplessly down into the black waters. Tal swept away legs and jabbed the breath from lungs even as Finster dealt death of his own, in a fervent frenzy only a black-eye could relish. Balagir ran with Res up to the helm, shouting orders and protecting his captain twice from those who would interfere.

  “The anchor!” Res barked, even as more guards appeared, sounding their horns.

  Torches appeared from every alleyway; word spread as swiftly as the unfurled sails. The chain stopped clanking and the anchor was free. The Spite Spear awoke groggily from her slumber, to drift towards the harbour mouth.