by C F Welburn
Balagir swung back into the saddle.
“See you at Ozgar.” And with that he turned south, leaving the morose relics pondering what had become of the world they had forsaken.
When he was out of sight, he stopped to check his torso, which now bore the original map the snake had inscribed on his skin. It was as he thought: Quevil had been to the west, to the fringes of Boegorn, and he had vanquished Ogo and returned with what Balagir assumed to be a substantial feast of smoke. Likewise, Morogan had headed northwest, beyond Eskareth, to where the hills petered out to challenge and defeat the boss Kravor. Ivorn had travelled directly south to where the horizon stretched dry and flat to slay Kali. Tye, however, largest and seemingly most accomplished of the relics, had gone southeast, where all of the streams meandered to slow and stagnate in the fly-swarming deltas of the humid lowlands. There he had met Magledorf, and for some reason had not returned.
Hoping he had been but waylaid, Balagir swung easterly. North obeyed as an extension of his own body, bearing him hence until the air grew muggy. The hills flattened, the streams joined and slowed, knotted trees tangled and choked the new landscape.
Within these trees water congealed, creating islands of serpentine roots. His brow glistened, and more than a few flies entered his eyes and mouth. He spat and wiped them away, but it was an irritating ordeal.
Before long, even the traces of grass were drowned, and North slowed its pace to wade hoof-deep and then knee-deep through the brown waters that filled the air with their boggy stench. The buzz of flies too tiny to see busied the air, causing his hand to swipe and wave a constant path so that he might see and breathe without further intrusion. Even the celador snorted and swished its tail and mane in annoyance.
He checked the map twice but was reluctant to do so, for each time the biting flies revelled in the flesh on offer. And even when he did look, nothing became clear. The landscape was the same in every direction, the view choked by the cluster of trees. He began to consider that Tye had not even reached Magledorf but had been consumed bit by bit by bothersome flies.
Just when he was considering climbing a tree to see if any landmark could be spied, he caught the scent of smoke. It was no piper’s fire. It had the smell of damp, mossy wood, forced by tenacious flame to smoulder dry and burn with a thickness that filled the air. Also, there was no music save the whirr of wing and snicker of thorax and the slight, sloshing paddle of the directionless North.
Balagir bade it stay and climbed to the nearest tree without wetting his boots. From here to there he could pass through the boughs that linked like twisted bridges across the stunted canopy.
There, bent over a large bubbling pot, was a mottled, spindly creature. It was clothed in rags, but showed enough flesh to reveal its sinewy form, and it seemed double-kneed and double-elbowed, making it difficult to decide how large such a being might be, if not all folded like some nightmarish cricket. It made an odd clicking noise and twitched its head this way and that, as if sensing him. Glimpses of the profile revealed a humanoid face, greenish in pallor with a crooked nose, almost beaklike in its dominance of the face. The small, black eyes were buried deep in dark sockets. About its head hung a thick cloud of flies that moved and swayed with each of the creature’s erratic motions.
Balagir knew doubt. This was not simply any beast, and he slowly understood why it had been called a boss. It seemed ageless, twisted and warped as an ancient man, yet lithe and poised as if to spring.
He edged noiselessly along the branch, attempting to gain better vantage. He held his breath as much for stealth as for the odour of the foul concoction that bubbled and spat away in the dull, dented vat.
He hoped, silently, that Tye had not come this way. That the relic had become lost in the swamps or had a change of heart and doubled back, but this hope was short lived. For beside Magledorf, formed from the roots of rearing trees, lay its lair: a dark, uninviting tangled cavern beside which, stuck in the ground like a signpost, was Reaver. Balagir swallowed. It was unmistakable. The huge weapon he had seen cut the air, the blade the relic had been so proud of, seemed unlikely to have been relinquished willingly.
Quietly he unsheathed his own blade and considered his options.
Could the huge ashen still be alive? Imprisoned within the root cave? It seemed farfetched, but he had to hope. There was no way of investigating whilst the beast hung so close to the entrance, and he did not relish the idea of being trapped within.
He watched as Magledorf hefted a ladle, dipped it into the cauldron, and withdrew it. The ladle brimmed with a grey, greasy liquid, and the boss supped and smacked its lips several times before beginning to retch. The muscles in its back contorted as it heaved and brought up a gush of grey vomit, spattering the trees and spilling in the water. Balagir clapped his hand to his mouth, his own stomach churning.
When the creature had convulsed and heaved and could expel no more, it shrieked, a hideous sound that sent hackles to rise. Then, with one long-fingered, unfurled hand, it knocked the cauldron aside, spilling its contents to slop and ooze out into the swamp. The grey gruel was as thick as the marsh mud into which it slid.
Then the creature turned, and its eyes fell upon him, crouched like some guilty eavesdropper above. Balagir’s only reaction was to let his mouth fall slightly ajar.
Magledorf surprised him then, twice in an instant. Firstly, he saw that it was decidedly female, if the sagging scarred breasts could be in any way described as feminine. Secondly, she spoke, and her voice was the voice of a child’s dread, crooning and wicked, hungry and shrill.
“You would spy upon Magledorf?”
“I would spy upon an abandoned sword and wonder what has befallen its owner.” The creature’s head flicked to the side, the pulse throbbing beneath the paper skin in the veiny throat.
“You knew the man?”
“It was no man, but an ashen of the utmost order. And I will avenge him, if it has come to that.” Magledorf paused, then issued a blood-chilling cackle that escalated into a wet cough and ended in a furious splashing of the grey waters with her long, double-jointed limbs.
“Your friend is dead,” she said, once still and the flies settled.
“I would have proof.”
“You have it. The sword.”
“And his body?”
She sneered.
“I wonder,” she said. “What sort of being are you? A man? Hm? Or of an ilk with that foul one who sought to slay me.”
“I too am ashen.”
She growled, and her black eyes pierced his own. “Then what good are you to me? Be gone, and I may forgive your intrusion.”
“Only when you have proven that the ashen is dead.”
“Ashen. Ash. Ashes. Ashes in my mouth. Such good meat, turns to dust, to ash in my pot. Makes me vomit, such grey filth. Be gone!” Balagir swallowed and glanced to where the water still looked oily and grey. Tye, for all his bulk and braggart, had left nothing but a greasy residue. A sad end for such an old ashen. An end which Balagir could not let go.
“I would take then his sword so that I may pass it on to those who knew him.”
“I brought up my breakfast for him. It’ll not have been for naught.”
“Then, Magledorf, prepare to meet your end.” She laughed again, but this time the mirth seemed genuine.
“And what, tiny ashen, makes you think you can do that?” She began to straighten until she was almost level with the tops of the trees. “You think you and your friend were the first? It has been long since I have been called young. The collection I have in my cave attests to it.”
“I’m not just any ashen,” Balagir said, hoping the tremble in his voice was not as loud as it sounded in his ears. “I am Balagir; a leader amongst my leaderless kind.”
“Is that so? Then maybe you will be worth cooking.” Her long hands unfolded to reveal five nails as long and ugly as blades. “Come, leader of the ashen. That I may feast upon you whilst you yet live. Eat my fill before you
turn.” And with that she leapt, clawing her way up into the trees, snapping branches like twigs beneath her thrashing ascent.
Balagir did not linger and ran back along the boughs, back the way he had come. The trees bent and bowed at his back as she closed in, her green skin and knotted arms making it seem that the trees themselves were in pursuit.
He saw North waiting through the trees and knew pause. For Magledorf could eat the celador, and even if it escaped, Balagir would be lost here without his mount. So he turned, drew Greydent, and held his ground.
She came to a halt, close enough that she could have ripped him to ribbons had she lashed out. He could not outrun her. Not here, in her domain.
“What now, ashen? You plan to fly?” She cackled, the grey slime of Tye still strung from her chin. But her words made him ponder, and he glanced sidelong at the sleeve of his new cloak.
“Let’s find out,” he said, and he leapt. The boots crackled and sent him high into the misty sky, higher than before; the trees became miniature below, the green form of Magledorf and the black form of North the only living things in the broken canopy. He did not fall—such a fall would have certainly killed him—but his cape became ridged across his shoulders, the green seams shimmering with the heels of his boots. For a surreal moment he hovered like a haryek, then began his descent. He angled the green wings, soaring back across the trees, dipping and bobbing accordingly by clenching his shoulders, to land before the cave next to the spilled pot and stolen sword. He seized the weapon with both hands from the soil, and it became strangely weightless in his hands. Something green and resplendent in the grey muck caught his eye and he grasped it, dropping it in his pouch as the sound reached him.
The trees swayed and bent as Magledorf, frothing with rage, rushed back to protect her hoard, but he was up and away, passing back over her head like a bolt, a sword in each hand. Down, down into the muddy water that swished around North. The celador snickered and stamped at his sudden appearance. He leapt up, and they began wading northward. After stowing Reaver in his pouch, he took the bridle.
Behind them the trees snapped and bounced; Magledorf was closing in. The water shallowed and North found its footing, only to slip on unseen roots and sink deeper. Balagir dug his heals to no avail. The screech of fury at his back seemed upon him. He turned to see the revolting shape immediately behind, then North gained a small bank and lengthened its pace. Magledorf swiped, and he felt the air behind his head ripple; a splash and shriek and North pulled away, faster and more assuredly. When he dared look back, nothing but twisted trees remained.
When the earth was solid once more, he let North slacken the pace. The swamps of Magledorf were gone. The boss yet lived, but he had the proof he needed. He did not dare divine what the outcome of such a fight would have been, but he was needed elsewhere. People were depending on him; his people. He could not risk ending as spilt pottage from some grisly cauldron. Even as he rode, he devised a more fitting tale of the great ashen’s demise.
XXIX
OZGAR AWRY
North bore him in its namesake’s direction until the great walls of Eskareth loomed.
He dismounted at the hub and suddenly buckled to his knees. It took him a moment to understand his predicament.
His scabbard already occupied, he had stored Tye’s mighty blade, unlikely as its size suggested, in his pouch. The sword, so light in the hand, had suddenly taken on rock-like densities, pulling him to a stoop.
He had wondered when something like this may happen. For all Magledorf’s avarice, it turned out he was just as guilty a hoarder.
It was a conundrum. He could neither abandon Greydent, the blade that had made him a living hero, nor yield Tye’s blade, the requisite evidence in convincing the relics to join them.
There was an answer, of course, though he must sacrifice both smoke and time to accomplish it. Unless… Maybe if he were stronger? He calculated how much smoke he had stored and, holding enough in reserve to get him to Ozgar, paid the piper for the first time in a while.
Once through that red haze, not only did he feel revitalised, but the bag also rested lighter upon his shoulder. His theory had worked for now, but he would have to consider selling items next time he had the luxury of visiting a smithy.
He bade North farewell, opened the rift, and warped thirty leagues east across the rippling vales to the crowded Ozgar hub.
He had arrived ahead of the marching Eskarathian army, not that they could have been present at the hub in any case. The ashen, however, had almost all succeeded.
Where he had sent out nine reaching arms, six of them had brought back recruits. In addition, the three relics had joined the ranks, bringing their numbers—including himself—to a staggering nineteen. The largest contingent of ashen he had ever seen in one place, challenges notwithstanding. There was a sense of irony that it had taken the askaba to achieve this. Indeed, he only knew of two more that still roamed: Imram, who was their working glossary back in Kirfory; and Finster, who lingered who knew where upon the channel. There were perhaps others. The nameless ashen who had left North, for example, might still be at large; the companion Igmar had been seeking in Bluster Chasm; the large, angry Bry he had met so long ago at Warinkel; Nifla, who might yet draw breath… But for now, this would have to suffice.
He would acquaint himself in good time, but first his responsibility lay with the relics. All eyes were upon him as he crossed the hub, newcomers doubtlessly wondering what exactly it was that made him special, that gave him the right to summon those who would wander free.
Morogan eyed him with grim anticipation, which was compounded when he drew Tye’s huge blade impossibly from his pouch as a magician pulls endless kerchiefs from a sleeve.
“Reaver,” the tall idris said hollowly.
“How did you get it?” Quevil asked, his tone not free of suspicion.
“I found it at Magledorf’s lair.”
“And Tye?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? How do we know that you did not merely make off with his blade, leaving him to his fate?”
“Because of this,” Balagir said, opening his hand to reveal the green emerald. It had been the only part that had not turned to grey sludge, and stared lifelessly back, reflecting the four crowding faces.
“Then, it’s as we feared,” Morogan sighed morosely.
“Tell me you made the beast pay,” Ivorn growled. Balagir shook his head, and the relics bristled.
“Magledorf yet lives?” spat Quevil, outraged. “I’ll not stand for it.”
“It pains me too,” Balagir reasoned, “but we have more important enemies.”
“Not whilst Tye goes unavenged.”
“You shall have the location of Magledorf’s lair—all three of you—once we are done.”
“You dare deny me?” barked Quevil, and suddenly all eyes were upon their new leader and this altercation.
“I dare, yes,” he said, straightening to his full height. “If you want it, you’ll have to kill me. Though I hope you’re a swift reader, as the map will be turning to smoke.”
“You wretched… after we came to your aid—”
Morogan put a restraining hand on the huge jaegir’s shoulder, but he shook him off. He had not had a drink today, and his mood was foul and dangerous.
“You came late. I should kill you for almost leaving us to die.”
“You? Kill me? Ha!” the jaegir mocked, looking around. But confronted with so many ashen, as well as an uneasy look in the eyes of his old companions, he knew doubt. “Unfortunately, you’ll come in useful against these askaba. But we will settle this afterwards.”
“As I said, afterwards you can have the map. I’m sure you’d fare better against Magledorf.”
“Do you know how he died?” Morogan asked, defusing the tension.
“I saw his ash, that was all. The sword and eye were all that remained by the time I arrived. Be warned, this creature is foul. It would have been folly for me to challe
nge her before our business here is done.” As Balagir finished, he realised that the hub had become very still. There seemed a sense of awe that he had made the relic back down, and when he turned to address them, all was silent save Jakan’s tune.
“Some of you know me, some of you don’t. Some are here through friendship or honour, others revenge. Some are likely here for reward. Whatever your motive, know this: we cannot lose. To do so could spell the end of the ashen. We may possibly be all who are left. I’ve seen where we began, where the piper is from, and I’ve seen a map of our fires. More are cold than still burn. Fail here, and one by one they will go out. We will fade. We will disappear.” He jabbed his finger in the direction of Ozgar. “The askaba want what we have and are willing to destroy us in order to take it. If you will not come willingly, so be it, off you go. I’ll not try to stop you. But this is the turning point. The instant where we make our own destiny, not the one ingrained in us by the piper. A new beginning. One where our actions have meaning!” He glanced across the black-eyed faces. No one moved. No one flinched. At last he nodded. “Then I am proud to count you among my allies. Among my people. Ready yourselves, for tomorrow we take back Ozgar.”
Several did exactly that; entered trances, used up reserves, and emerged fresh. Meanwhile Balagir, Freya, Ginike, and Roje left the hub to examine the city and its ominous field.
“That was a quite a speech,” Roje commented as they climbed the escarpment to look out across the city. “Almost had me welling up.”
Balagir ignored the sarcasm, but beneath the gentle mocking dwelled a respect. He had become their leader, somehow. Perhaps after the battle. Perhaps because of the kalaqai. Maybe even recently, in confronting the relics, who now offered obedience. Whenever it had happened, his authority had become irrefutable, and uncomfortable or not, it was he who would lead them in these decisive days.