The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  The deck appeared clear, yet guards threw themselves across the widening gap to hang and be knocked free from the rails. Those with more sense rushed to their own galleys, where already anchors were being raised and sails dropped.

  Then they were out from beyond the breakwater, where the sea jostled them, drenching them with spray; sails billowed and masts creaked, turning them southwards and away into the open sea.

  “Are you good, Res?” Balagir asked the bloody-faced captain.

  “I’ll live.”

  “Good. Take us east. I’ll send someone to relieve you.” Balagir moved to the stern and watched as one by one, all three of Silione’s galleons departed the harbour, their decks wavering with torches, cries of hatred occasionally punctuating the sounds of the sea and timbers and wind.

  He watched for a moment before retracing his steps. All guards had been slain and disposed of, all the ashen were accounted for, and all sailors were busy about their tasks. He sent one to take Res’s place at the wheel before descending to the table and finishing the bottle of wine that had been so rudely interrupted.

  The night moonless, the sea spray chill, and the mood decidedly tense, he spent it at the stern, a bottle in hand, his eyes on the pursing lights.

  Come dawn, the blue diamonds on the ships’ sails could be made out in the distance, by noon they had dwindled to nondescript shapes, and by dusk all that remained were three small dots on the red horizon. They would remain in pursuit, fixed on course, but the Spite Spear was too fleet for that fleet.

  The crew had worked without complaint, taking it all surprisingly in stride. Balagir wished the same could be said for the two new ashen who, not groundlessly, blamed him for the sudden upheaval.

  Balagir brushed it aside. Shouldering blame was something he’d become surprisingly adept at. He was in charge now. The sooner they got used to it, the better.

  Night fell, and he met the ashen at the captain’s table. Res was in attendance, being the captain and all.

  “You’re no ashen,” he told the podgy helmsman, “but I count you among my brothers.” Res smiled but expressed desire to be out on the deck with his men.

  “It’s about time we put you in the picture,” Balagir said, patting the seat and pouring some wine.

  “I’d say,” Raf Kajor replied, with no hint of warmth in his heavily lidded eyes.

  And so it was that Balagir retold their tale. The bottle diminished; another was fetched. The ashen watched him closely; shared uncertain, condescending, and eventually perturbed glances. They asked questions. Myriad questions. Voices were raised, more wine was brought. A fist was slammed, mugs rattled; a hand went to a blade, insults were thrown. More wine was opened, and fingers massaged temples in weariness… When he was done, silence filled the room.

  They were left with a strange feeling. These revelations lay close to home, awaking an aching void within them. Something unlooked for, but impossible to deny. It was Res who found his voice first, being somewhat detached and infinitely more confused.

  “So, you wish to alter the coordinates?”

  Balagir nodded, passing Imram’s updated map to the captain. “You know it?” Res’s face darkened.

  “Aye,” he said at last. “Any sailor worth his salt does. Or rather, doesn’t, as the case may be.”

  “How so?” Balagir asked, taking a sip.

  “Tempestua, we call it, surrounded by storms. Unnatural like. Its shores are jagged as knives, and its seas are laced with treacherous currents and swells.”

  “Tempestua,” Balagir said, trying the name on his tongue. “Does it appear on Murdak’s charts?”

  “Just a moment.” The captain rummaged through the cabinet and returned with a yellowed scroll.

  “Here it is, yes.” They watched as Res traced the lines with a finger and swivelled it for them to see. “Looks like Murdak discovered another name for it. Beneath he’s written Ceniza.”

  The word, sudden and unexpected, sank like a stone in his stomach.

  “That’s the place,” he said grimly.

  “Chart or no, it’ll not do you much good, I’m afraid,” Res elaborated, scratching his beard. “Countless ships have perished there. Never have I heard tell of anyone setting foot on land.”

  “Can you get us close? We’ll row the rest of the way.”

  Suddenly the other ashen found their voices.

  “Your use of the plural is lavish,” Finster said, running a finger around the rim of his mug.

  “Your friend is mad, Kolak,” Raf Kajor declared. “I’ll have no part in such recklessness.”

  “Aye,” Tal agreed. “You’ve just arrived, and already outstayed your welcome. Gladly dash yourself against those rocks.”

  “This is my ship. I’ll decide who has outstayed their welcome.” His eyes grew blacker, his voice harsh. Suddenly all protest was curbed as his companions, even Freya, shied from his gaze. Res looked ready to scarper. Slowly Balagir unclenched his fist, let his shoulders relax, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “This island is a part of our story. Are you content to drift aimlessly? Urged ever onward by your hunger? To never know your origin or purpose? The day will come when our enemy confronts us. We can die now, trying to prepare; or die then, unprepared.”

  “If we get there, even if we learn these secrets, how will we get away again?” Balagir looked at Kolak. The ashen was clearly torn between old allegiances and new. The latter seeming the least suicidal of choices.

  “We can warp.”

  “Providing there’s a fire.”

  “There is,” he lied assuredly. He could not let his will be seen to waver now. Their faces looked hesitant, even Freya’s. But something changed in her eyes when they lingered on his.

  “If he says there’ll be a fire, then there will be,” she said at last, leaning back in her chair. Finster, however, was not easily convinced.

  “Forgive Freya, she’s besotted; compromised by compassion. Do not allow Balagir’s rugged looks to sway your minds,” he scoffed. Balagir’s face hardened, but his old adversary was not to be cowed. “You flicker like a moth from one perilous flame to the next. I’ll admit, you’ve come far since Warinkel, but how you’re still breathing is sheer luck. And luck, my friend, has had its day.”

  Balagir straightened. The word “friend” rankled more than anything.

  “Yes. I have luck. She flies at my side.” As he spoke, the kalaqai rose from his bag, a green star suspended above the table. The ashen were transfixed; Res almost fell off his chair. “She will fly with those who accompany me too. I don’t claim wisdom, and you’re right, luck has served me well; better than I might have deserved. But not to go, not to attempt to unravel our mystery and protect ourselves, that is folly. That is the moth shying from the candle whilst the furnace is steadily stoked. We’ve had our differences, Finster, but I ask you—all of you—trust me.”

  Silence filled the cabin. The ship creaked; someone whistled on deck. Finally, Kolak groaned.

  “If you’ll not be swayed, then you have my support. I’d not be here were it not for you. I’ll not pretend to like it, mind.”

  “You can count on me,” Freya said, not meeting his eye but instead staring challengingly at the others. Tal was the next to succumb.

  “Kolak has been good to me. If he trusts you, then I will. I must admit, I’m curious as to what you will find. Count me in.” Raf Kajor’s eyes widened, then he grumbled, shaking his head.

  “Bah! If Tal goes, I go too. Be it on your head, if there’s no fire, I’ll kill you myself.” Looking at the idris’s cold eyes, Balagir did not doubt he meant those words. He nodded solemnly and looked to Finster, who sat with an incredulous expression. Finally, he drained his mug and banged it on the table.

  “Will I never learn my lesson?”

  Balagir suppressed a smile.

  “See that I don’t regret this. I second what the idris said.”

  “So, it’s settled,” Balagir said, looking to Res. “How long
until we reach the isle?”

  “Two days, maybe less if the wind picks up.”

  “Good. Then, a toast,” he said, raising his mug. “To truth! And to solidarity!”

  “And a larger one for luck,” Finster said, seizing the bottle and drinking directly from it.

  “For lost friends,” Freya said, a gleam in her eye.

  “For the fire,” Raf Kajor added drily. “The one that awaits us there.”

  “For smoke,” Tal said, looking towards Res, who somewhat awkwardly raised his glass.

  “For the sea’s mercy,” he said as the six ashen tipped back their heads and let the warmth fill their throats.

  Res returned to the wheel, where he felt at ease; Finster went out to stalk the decks; Kolak quietly consoled his newfound comrades that Balagir was indeed to be trusted; and Balagir found himself alone with Freya, a half-bottle of wine remaining on the table between them.

  “Thanks for your support,” he said, rubbing his eyes. She shrugged.

  “Are we going to actually talk about what happened?” she asked quietly. Balagir sighed.

  “Igmar was a good man. A good ashen. His death will not be in vain. What we learn here will be thanks to him.”

  Balagir said these words, but even if he actually believed them, they did not lift his spirits. They languished tonight in a deep well, thick as ink and just as blemishing.

  Freya, however, seemed moved by them. Maybe it was the wine, or perhaps she sought any feeble shelter from sadness. A wealthy man will not envy a dog its kennel, until he finds himself without roof in the rain.

  “The Good Company will go to Ceniza,” she said, her voice growing louder. “We will finish these askaba, we will discover the truth, we will free ourselves!” Seeing the light kindle in her black eyes, Balagir almost believed her. “And when it’s done, we will remember all those we have lost. They will go down as legends in the first histories of our kind.”

  They wearily clinked their glasses and drained them in silence. Balagir did feel better. He felt, if not hope, then challenged. They had a goal now. To stop drifting, to grow roots, to remember their dead and to build a new world. First, they would deal with what they found on Ceniza, and then onwards. He must swim this sea one stroke at a time, lest he drown in its overwhelming depths.

  Dawn found him leant upon the rails, eyes closed to the stirring breeze. All sight of their pursuers had been lost, and onwards they sailed, cutting through the waters, sails taut as a pregnant belly.

  It was past noon when the sky began to bruise like old fruit, assuming an unsettling, yellow murk.

  “We’re near now,” Res confirmed, squinting yonder.

  “Yet we cannot see it.”

  “It’s there, in that muck.” He followed the captain’s eye to where the blue faded to grey, ripened into mustard, and blossomed into blood-orange, thick as soup and charged with the crackle of electric.

  “Is that normal?”

  “Normal for Tempestua, though I’ve not seen the like elsewhere.”

  “How close do you think you can get us?”

  Res chewed his bottom lip. “Closer, but already the rudder trembles. There’s more at work than what lies above. Below, the water churns like snakes and pulls us this way and that.”

  “I feel it, though I had hoped it was just the wind. Very well,” he said, straightening. “Let me know when it becomes unsafe. I’ll not risk your men.”

  “As you wish,” Res said, torn between his loyalty to Balagir and his love of the Spite Spear and her crew.

  “I’ll see that the ashen are ready.” He clapped the stout captain on the back and left him to struggle alone with the tenacious, twisting helm.

  The day had darkened, and although dusk was still far off, by the time the ashen huddled on the deck, warm rain lashed them, and winds whipped from the flickering brume.

  “Enough!” Balagir cried to Res when a wave washed over the boat, drenching every man to the bone.

  “I could take her closer.”

  “No, Res. Keep her safe. Await us beyond the storm, should we return.”

  “We must be mad,” Kolak muttered, just before the surging sea sent them staggering and grasping for handholds.

  When the Spite Spear had righted, Balagir saw just how much Res had been willing to risk, for a darker shadow of land loomed before them now. A dim, menacing silhouette.

  “It’s getting too rough, sir!” one of the captain’s men cried, alarmed. “We must turn about!”

  “A little more,” Res shouted, peering through the lashing rain, looking towards the black, jagged headland. “Ashen, to the boat!”

  They did just that, leaping with the pitching movement over the rail and into the dangling skiff. Two men set free the ropes, and they burned and hissed through the metal rings as they plummeted, hitting the surface hard.

  No sooner had they recovered than the current seized them, tearing them from the ship like an infant from its mother’s grasp.

  Above, several faces peered down. Balagir blinked. Finster was little more than a dark silhouette against the mottled orange storm, but his eyes glinted blackly as they were swept apart.

  He cursed and gripped the sides as they were tossed like a cork from one crest to another, swirling, churning this way and that. Something dark loomed, something hard, jagged. A row of black blades, the deadly coast welcomed them.

  He knew an instant of doubt. A bleak certainty that he had been wrong and that he had condemned not only them, but likely the crew of the Spite Spear to a crushing and grisly end.

  Then the entire world surged and fell. Something caught him in the face; there was a flash of light, ringing ears, and a curtain of darkness that descended to snuff orange to black.

  XXVI.iii

  CENIZA

  Above the wind, above even the sound of crashing waves, Balagir heard a groan. He focused, blinked, and beheld its source.

  Several feet from where he lay sprawled Raf Kajor, his leg bent gruesomely behind his back, an arm hanging limply from its socket. His eyes were scared and full of hatred.

  “You! You did this.”

  Balagir pushed himself up onto his elbow and briefly examined his own injuries: a swollen eye and split cheekbone which was still wet with blood, but nothing more substantial. They were alone.

  “Even your own man abandoned you!” Raf Kajor went on. “Why were we so foolish?”

  “Where are the others?” Balagir mused, ignoring the idris’s whining.

  “Who cares about the others. Look at my leg.”

  “You’re alive, aren’t you? All will be made well at the fire.”

  “What fire? Have you looked around? This place is forsaken. Only the dead have set foot here.” Balagir looked around for the first time and was not comforted.

  The entire coast was lined with broken ships. A forest of masts with a canopy of tangled rope and rotting canvas. Skeletons and bones lay strewn upon the rocks, and here and there still hung from rigging, where they continued to cling for lives long passed.

  He scanned the coast as far as he could see, and never was there an end to the carnage. An endless shoreline of quietus and wreckage.

  The orange storm had withdrawn, or rather they had withdrawn from it. For it still swirled and howled just off the coast, obscuring any view from whence they had come.

  He hoped that meant the Spite Spear had escaped, though if she had not, it would be impossible to tell her apart from those gone before. Splinters and rags; bones and stillness.

  “Well?” Raf Kajor spat, as though he had been awaiting an answer. “Where is it? You’ll damn well carry me now. It had better be near.” Balagir stood and dusted himself off. Gingerly he touched his face and winced. His vision was hampered somewhat by his half-closed eye, yet he could see all he needed to know they were alone. He stroked his beard, looking for any colour, any movement.

  There, behind that twisted beam; a colour too bright, too unbleached by salt and sun. He moved rapidly and
discovered Tal, face down. He flipped her with his foot and wished he hadn’t. She had a gaping hole in her cheek, exposing her broken teeth. She made a disgusting sucking noise as she inhaled and slobbered the words: “Get me to the fire.”

  He nodded and looked around. His promise of a hub had been taken to heart, and although he wanted to honour it, he could have done with slightly less pressure.

  He swirled at a noise. Two figures came stumbling over a ridge, supporting each other. He breathed relief. They were all accounted for at least, albeit in varying states of wellbeing. Kolak dragged a twisted ankle and leant heavily on Freya, who sported a scratched cheek and cradled her wrist gingerly.

  No words of greeting were spoken. Silently Balagir and Tal lifted Raf Kajor to his foot and began heading inland. Whether they believed there was a fire or not, it was clear nothing but death lay snagged and jumbled upon the rocks. The centre beckoned, and they heeded.

  Away from the desolate shore, the island did not much improve. It was grey, bleached of colour, and only the burning ochre firmament leaked any light. A forest grew up about them, masts that mimicked crooked trees against the orange sky. A tattered sail wavered lonely in the breeze. A bone here, an old boot there.

  Balagir’s mood blackened with each step, and he sensed unrest welling within the others. Whatever this place was, it was no place for the living.

  When the nautical forest showed no end and no hint of the piper’s tune reached their ears, they grew desperate.

  Suddenly Raf Kajor cried out. “My hand!” He glared. “You…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence, for already Balagir was looking at his own hand, witnessing the same; the mottled pearl skin, the grey, ashen colour.

  “What’s happening to us?” Kolak asked, a tremor in his voice.

  “We’re fading!” Raf Kajor yelled, jabbing his finger towards Balagir’s face. “He’s deceived us. There’s no fire here. This is the opposite of fire. The absence of it.”

  “We must go on,” Balagir said distantly. “We must find out.”