by C F Welburn
“Might I enquire to our other allies? The heroes of Trummond Dorr, have they responded?”
“Still no news as yet.” It was Roje this time, his face equally as glum. Balagir cursed inwardly.
“We are preparing to march at dawn,” Beringal said. “Our Dunn’s death has escalated matters.”
“So I’ve heard,” Balagir said, recalling the heir was yet a baby and already under siege. “Any news from those within?”
“Nothing since the first reports. Those who fled are unable to return, and the ashen who discovered they could breach the field have been awaiting your return. As have we all.”
Balagir bowed, abashed. “You unduly humble me. I am but one man. But I will do what I can to free the south of this tyranny. I will make the askaba pay, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“That heartens us all to hear,” Dunn Elohim responded wearily. “It pains me that once more we must call upon the ashen. I’m just relieved we share this plight. All agree the askaba must be cast down. Destroyed.”
“Dunn, I’m sure this has occurred to you, but it seems a trap. I can see no other reason they would make this field knowing the ashen could enter.”
“It had crossed my mind. It seems odd they would defend themselves against all save their true enemy. Though the information provided has only troubled us further.”
“Indulge me.”
Kiela cleared her throat.
“We were in a tavern at the time, when the people suddenly ceased talking. The bartender stopped serving and would pay us no heed. There was an eerie silence; unnerving. When we left, we beheld the barrier. At its periphery, the people stared at the shimmering field, but were unable to touch it for freezing. On the far side settlers looked in, screaming, beckoning, weeping, unable to be heard. The source of the barrier radiated from up on the hill from the askaba’s tower.”
“And you escaped without resistance?”
“Without resistance, no. But we escaped. The field reacted like a membrane. We stretched it and won free, for it closed seamlessly behind us. When we looked back at the people, their eyes had changed. They no longer seemed natural.”
“So we must assume that we have not only the askaba as enemies, but the people of Ozgar too.” Beringal looked grave. These were the people he had left behind, doubtless family and friends amongst them.
“They are not to be harmed,” he said sternly.
“Unless they try to harm us,” Unvil said, and Balagir was glad the blunt jaegir was there to clarify what no one dared voice. Beringal’s eyes grew fierce, but he could only nod and lower his head. He had led a long life, happy for the most part; that it should end like this was a woe unlooked for. Like finding a finger in the last mouthful of a delicious pie.
“Then what do you propose?” Dunn Elohim asked. “The people may sink further into the enchantment. The askaba’s power is mustering day by day.”
“You must march at once,” Balagir said. “Every available unit that is ready must be gathered and ready to leave by nightfall.”
“And the ashen?”
“We will await you there. But first we too must gather our ranks.”
“You mean to… warp?” The concept seemed to make him uncomfortable, despite their newfound comradeship.
“Aye. I’ll dispatch ashen, that they might find and convince others to help. It is our cause; there should be some that will rally to our call. I myself will go to the relics, for they will be the most difficult to convince, and those whose help we most greatly need.”
“Very well,” Dunn Elohim said. “Yorvic, Beringal, see that it is done. It will take us three days to arrive, taking the low road. I beseech you, more than I have any right to, hurry.”
“We will be there when you arrive,” Balagir assured.
“Then the council is adjourned. We shall meet on the dawn of the third day from now near the waver, the place you ashen call your hub.”
“Good. From there we can assess the situation and make our move.”
There was a low rumble of voices as people rose and filed from the room; it was a mixture of consternation and defiance, preoccupation and anger.
In the sunny courtyard, Balagir took the ashen aside. They were eleven in number, and the orders he gave brooked no dispute. Even Unvil and Raf Kajor went along without complaint. The askaba had united the ashen in a way he had never thought possible.
Freya, he sent north to Wormford, Ginike to Warinkel, and Kolak to Cogtown. Roje went to Kasker, Kiela to Kirfory, Inverna to Iceval, Unvil to the Bone Forest, Ygril to Imp—an island where gillards densely populated—and Tal went to the neighbouring islands of Farol and Jenoa, unknown to Balagir, but where she had met Kolak and boarded the Spite Spear. Raf Kajor was smokeless, having needed more to level and heal. He bowed his head as he was given the order to ride out with the settlers. Balagir would ride to Trummond Dorr, having more leverage over the relics than the others and North to bear him.
“Bring any that will listen and that are able. Convince them of the urgency, of the threat to our kind. Promise them smoke if that’s what it takes, though there may be no reward.”
With no further ado, they left for Eskareth hub. All save Balagir, who would leave mounted and had matters to attend to.
He made his way to the infirmary, a dour place that reeked of chemicals, though much pleasanter than immediately after the war. Of those who had not recovered or died, only a few remained abed, and for once the medics seemed to outnumber the patients. This would not remain so for long, for already an emissary from the Dunn was in the doorway with a dispatch of those expected to assist.
Balagir passed along the corridor to the room on the far right.
He went in and blinked at the empty bed. Jerikin was gone, and the room appeared to have been unoccupied for several days.
He returned to the corridor and caught the attention of the first medic he saw, a middle-aged woman with iron-grey hair trussed up so tightly it pulled at the corners of her eyes.
“Excuse me. Where is the man that was in this room?” Her face grew humbled as she recognised him.
“He died. I’m sorry. He was a friend?”
“He was. When did this happen?” She searched the corner of the room for an answer.
“So many have died, I cannot recall. Speak with Medic Trell, he keeps the lists. End of the corridor, next to the main door.” Balagir thanked her and made his way to the room, where Trell sat pouring over the document recently handed him by Dunn Elohim’s messenger. He was scratching his short grey beard, the light reflecting off his smooth, round head. He looked up as Balagir’s shadow darkened the door.
“Can I help?”
“I was told you were in charge of the patient list.”
“That’s correct. What of it?”
“A friend of mine passed, an ash—a man called Dane. Small, moustache.”
“Hm. Dane. Let me see.” He produced a board from beneath his desk and traced his finger downwards. “Ah, yes. Two days gone. His body has been disposed of, for reasons of hygiene. I’m sure you understand.” Balagir nodded.
“May I enquire who was the last to see him alive?”
“It was I, as a matter of fact. But it was already too late by then. Your friend suffered a strange fate. We could not diagnose it. Such a shame, falling when the horlocks were all but defeated.” Balagir paused to consider the doctor’s answer.
“Forgive me, Medic Trell, but how is it you know he fell when the horlocks were defeated?”
“I was there, of course.”
“I don’t recall seeing a medic in our midst.”
“You wouldn’t have.” Balagir bit his lip and gambled.
“Just how close were you to Dane at the battle’s end?” Trell, too, allowed himself a small smile.
“Oh, beside him at first. And then considerably closer.”
“And tell me, Trell,” he said, smiling now. “Would a wise doctor such as yourself just have been enlisted to go to Ozgar?”
“How astute of you. It’s for the best, you’ll understand. I’ll leave one far more qualified in my stead. Hospital matters are rather dull, it turns out.” He stood then, and they embraced.
The lych had taken so many forms since they had met, it had become easier to adapt to new appearances. All in all, it was an improvement over the last few he had worn, and vastly over the multitude of horlocks he had passed horrendously through.
“Will we ride out together?”
“Not this time. I must meet the relics. But we’ll meet there.”
“I’ll count on it, though I’m not sure what good I will serve. From what I’ve heard, only ashen may gain access.”
“Just having you there will help. Besides, you’ve already done enough. You practically defeated an entire army alone.”
“The same is being said about you. Did you know several songs have been penned? ‘Turning the Black Tide’ is the latest. Not a bad ode, though slightly inaccurate.” Balagir cringed.
“I’ll try to avoid it if I can.”
“Good luck with that. There’s not a household in Eskareth that does not know your name. They’re counting on you, you know.” Balagir’s expression darkened.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You learnt nothing of the askaba during your absence?”
“Of them, no. But it was not a complete waste. I’ll tell you all when we reach Ozgar.”
“Very well. I must pack, though I have very little. Medic Trell, it seems, was not a materialist. His wardrobe is full of white cloaks. Not a good colour for the road.”
“Just make sure you let someone else treat any serious injuries,” Balagir said, looking at the untidy pile of paperwork the lych had clearly neglected since his inheritance.
“Ha. If it’s greater than a sprain, I’ll make myself scarce.” Balagir smiled.
“We owe you, Jerikin. Once this is all over, I will make sure the people know who the true hero was.”
“I would just as soon remain anonymous. Besides, I was absent for the coming of the largatyn, where ‘Balagir the ashen, with his blade was a smashin’; the largatyn deceived, received such a thrashin’.”
He winced. “Now I’ve even less desire to hear the ballad.”
“Oh, that’s not the ballad. That’s a drinking song, and you’ll struggle to avoid it if you want to have a drink around here. In any case, I’d rather my abilities remain undisclosed. I’m happier out of the limelight.”
“As you wish. But I’ll never forget what you did.”
“When I figure out my destiny, I’ll leave… But I’d see this through until the end first.”
“It’s coming, Jerikin,” he said soberly. “I don’t know what it will bring, but it’s nearly upon us.”
Balagir left the disorganised doctor to ready his possessions and went back out to the street.
A voice from across the square called his name, and he glanced to see the smith waving frantically.
Curiously, he approached the red-faced, sweat-gleaming man.
“I’ve something for you,” he said, swelling with pride. “On the house, of course. Oh, how they will talk that I, simple Dof, aided you in the purging of Ozgar! Please, come this way.”
“You’re too kind, Dof, but I have little time.”
“It will take but a moment!”
Balagir followed, not relishing the people who watched on and whispered.
“I could not help but notice your attire. Your boots, in particular. Oh, we’ve all heard the songs, how you flew, how you swooped!”
“You shouldn’t believe everything the bards say.”
“I know, I know. But there must be a seed of truth in the words, and I recognise those boots by their work.”
“You know something of them?”
“More than a little. They’re coilweave; rare. Very rare. Such skill has almost been lost to the artisans.”
“They’ve served me well.”
“I imagine. But what, may I ask, is an arrow without a string? Hm? A blade without a hilt?”
“Is this leading somewhere?”
“It is, Balagir. To this.” And with a flourish, the smith whipped out a dark green cloak, the same royal green that formed the heal of the boots. “The cape,” he announced ostentatiously. When Balagir’s face remained blank, he hurried to elaborate. “Made of coilweave, of course. Part of the set.”
“The set?”
“Aye. A complement to those fine boots. Try it and see.”
“I’m rather attached to my current cloak.” The smith raised an eyebrow and leant in to examine it.
“Ah, I see, a shade-band. Not to worry, I can transfer that, no problem, but you’ll lose whatever attributes the season-cloak has enhanced.”
Balagir considered for a moment, then shrugged.
“Go ahead.”
He was loath to play with the shadow world he did not understand, but even more reluctant to not have the option should it be his sole choice. As for the other aspects, he was done with Iceval and the Backbone for now. He could make do with normal fabric and fire.
Dof worked swiftly, and within the space of time it took Balagir to examine the oddments on the shelves, he was done.
“If you’re back this way, I’d like to know if it served you well.”
“If I come back, I’ll let you know,” Balagir answered, hearing the doubt in his own words.
He bid farewell to the smith then and continued swiftly on his way, lengthening his strides until he was through the eastern gate and onto the field where only scattered remnants of the recent carnage lay strewn.
He summoned North, who appeared obediently, though not without malcontent at having been plucked from its homeland so suddenly.
He smoothed its mane and spoke gently, promising swift return before mounting. Then they were off, leaving Eskareth to assume toy-like proportions with each thunder of hoof.
The Valelands rolled and sank like a stormy green sea, and over and amongst the folds sailed North like a fleet black galleon.
It was not long before he recognised the monoliths on a distant crest, and beyond it the pinprick of the Trummond Dorr hub.
As he drew close enough to snatch flurries of the piper’s tune from the breeze, he counted just three figures sitting somewhat despondently about the flames.
“Ho!” he called, rearing on his steed against the sweeping backdrop. “Where be Tye?”
He had their complete attention. They were decidedly soberer of mind and sombre of spirit.
“Balagir, your return is timely.” It was Morogan who spoke, his tall slender idris build almost at a height with North’s powerful form. Quevil and Ivorn stood on either side, looking troubled and impatient. “Tye has not returned. We need the location of the boss you disclosed to him.” Balagir considered this. Enough time had passed since he had left, and the others had all accomplished their deeds. Something had clearly gone awry. He saw it for what it was. A bargaining chip.
“I’ll look for Tye, but first I must have your word.”
Quevil snorted, his burgundy armour the same colour as his wine-stained lips. “You’d make more demands of us?” Balagir leapt from North and stood, unintimidated before them.
“Yes, I would.” A flicker of doubt crossed the jaegir’s face. He saw now not the needy ashen who had first appeared, but a potential rival.
“Let’s hear him out,” Morogan reasoned.
“Your rationality does you credit, Morogan.” He meant this not so much as a compliment to the idris but as a slight to the others; an insinuation which did not go unnoticed.
“So be it. Speak your piece,” Quevil growled. Ivorn grunted. If it were possible, the eye tattoo on the crown of his head seemed to scowl.
“Once more I call upon your aid, yet this time, you have little choice. The askaba have gathered, have seized control of Ozgar and are waging a war. Not against man, no. Against ashen.” The relics bristled indignantly, as if such an affront w
ere unthinkable.
“How can they hope to defeat us?” snarled Quevil. “Scrawny scribes, the lot of them.”
Balagir shrugged. “We do not know. Perhaps with the weapon they created in Iylleth. Much is unclear. What we do know is that only the ashen may enter or leave, and every day their power is growing.”
“Then you want us to march on them?” Morogan hazarded.
“That is why I have come. At this very moment, we are summoning all the ashen who will heed our call. I’ve come to you, and you must answer. If not for me, if not for Tye, then for yourselves. For our kind. This is a slight that threatens us all.”
The short silence was filled only by Jakan’s tune before Ivorn stomped defiantly.
“I’ll make a necklace of those askaba heads!” Balagir was pleased, if slightly disturbed by his zeal.
“Nobody threatens us without consequence,” spat Quevil, and Balagir was glad to have deflected his inherent ire towards a common goal; albeit the us likely referred to themselves, not the ashen as a collective.
Morogan nodded solemnly.
“We cannot ignore this, but first we must go for Tye.” Balagir shook his head.
“It would take too long for all of us to reach him. I’ll go. My celador will bear me as swift as the wind.” He spoke with greater authority when he sensed a rising complaint. “You must begin your march at once, or warp if you can. The other ashen will be awaiting at Ozgar hub.”
“How do we know you will truly look for Tye?”
“Because we need him,” Balagir said levelly. “We need all the ashen we can muster. Now is the time we must stand as one; the time to cease internal bickering and rivalry.”
“And if he has fallen? What then?” Morogan’s voice was dark. The possibility seemed real, though none wanted to admit it.
“Then, I’ll avenge him, and bring you some proof that it is done.”
The relics looked at each other, grumbled, and nodded.
“Very well, Balagir. You impressed us at Eskareth. You are an ashen with power beyond your years, that much is true. And we cannot ignore this insult to our name. It will not stand. Bring us Tye or bring us proof of his fate and vengeance, and we will give you our service in this matter.”