The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  He caught Freya’s eye as he made to leave and gave her a grim nod. Then he strode out into the square and launched himself high with a thrust of his boots. When he was somewhat higher than the level of the window, he snapped open his cape and glided steadily towards it, gritting his teeth as he approached. With both legs outstretched before him, he crashed through into the stairwell and downwards amidst a thousand shards of glass.

  Picking himself up, he plucked a shard of glass from the palm of his hand. His cheek too stung with a warm wetness. Nothing that could not be fixed.

  He descended swiftly, straining his ears for anyone or anything that may lurk upon the stair, but he came upon the door unimpeded.

  Someone knocked thrice.

  “Balagir?” Morogan’s deep voice permeated. “Open up.” He looked about for a bolt or latch, but the door was quite smooth. There did not even appear to be a keyhole.

  “I can’t,” he cried.

  “Then stand back!” Morogan boomed, giving him just enough warning to scramble up a few steps. The door shook, and a crackle of electric snapped and hissed. Several of the ashen cried out in alarm. Then silence.

  “Morogan?” he called out, fearing they had all been shocked.

  “It’s no good. An askaba spell or something.”

  “Maybe I can shut it down from up top.”

  “Come back out, we’ll think of something,” Freya called.

  But Balagir was already winding his way upwards, and they never got a response.

  The askaba might think themselves clever, yet their stronghold had been breached. Let them try to withstand his wrath now!

  He passed the stair with the broken glass and continued, rounding the corner and jerking to a halt. A white-eyed creature stood on the stair ahead—a fat, bald-headed man who bore down on him. But the creature let out a sudden whimper and shrank back. Startled, Balagir warily followed the creature upwards as it fled, tripping around the walls.

  When at last he came to Sisken’s door, he paused to draw his blade. Surprise was his ally here. And rage. He took a breath, booted aside the door, and leapt through snarling, brandishing his blade with a crazed fervour.

  And there they sat, waiting for him expectantly.

  Clap. Clap. Clap, went Sisken’s sardonic hands. He sat at the far side of the circle, made up of eight other askaba. Balagir looked around, bewildered.

  “Your predictability becomes you,” Sisken said icily.

  “Likewise,” Balagir said, feigning composure. “Your trap was obvious.”

  “And yet you walked into it willingly.”

  “Then you should have stopped me when you had a chance. This ends here!”

  Sisken gave a small shrug, as though the threat were a bothersome fly.

  “We knew you’d come, of course. But we hadn’t counted on you aiding us so much in the process.”

  “Aiding you?”

  “By bringing so many of your friends along. Saved us a lot of trouble, it has. Less dregs to clear up, once this is done.”

  Balagir curled his lip. “Deactivate the cannon, Sisken. You’ve underestimate the ashen. The game is up.”

  “I beg to differ. I estimate them with uncanny exactness. You think it’s a coincidence the man outside did not attack you? No, not whilst you bring us what we want. The others, however, have no such assurance.”

  “It’s time to answer for your crimes. You and your ilk.”

  Balagir raised his sword, but Sisken stayed him with a “Tsk-tsk” and a wag of his finger. “I wouldn’t do that. It would be such a pity to have to kill you before you’ve witnessed the show.” Balagir frowned as the head askaba moved towards the window. Cautiously, and with a morbid curiosity, he crossed the room, his sword never once lowering from striking position.

  There they were, Raf Isil, Tal, and Hect, surrounded by a sea of white-eyes. They had climbed to a low balcony, where they could wave and shout insults down at the mob.

  Almost directly below the window stood the remainder of the ashen, pounding fruitlessly on the door.

  “You’ve built up quite a following, I see. Shame you’ve led them to their demise,” Sisken said. “I’d say this respectfully, though we both know it’s not you they’re truly drawn to.” Distracted by what was happening below, the askaba’s words sank in slowly.

  “Touch them, and I’ll send you to meet your brother.” Sisken’s mouth grew tight.

  “Look upon your companions and know you have brought them to this.”

  Suddenly the dome that curved down from the apex of the tower shimmered, as though they looked through a waterfall. It pulsed white twice before returning to its former state. At first nothing seemed changed, then the sounds from below reached him.

  The citizens, lethargic before, had entered a frenzy. They began to scream and rant and yank at their hair. The three ashen perched atop the balcony suddenly froze, their baiting cowed.

  Then, with hideous speed, the creatures climbed the walls like arachnids, up and over onto the balcony. Balagir cried out, clutching the windowsill as the three ashen were swarmed. Raf Isil had been more suited to Kirfory library; he should never have come. Tal and Hect, well, they had known the risks. They swung and chopped and were quickly lost beneath the swell.

  “Cease!” Balagir yelled, whirling on Sisken. “If it’s me you want, then you’ve won. Leave them be.”

  “Oh, the vanity. One of the pitfalls of leadership is the bloat of self-import. You’re nothing, ashen. A host, that’s all, soon to be relieved of your burden.” Balagir opened his mouth, but Sisken hissed. “Quick. You’re missing the best part.” Balagir turned to see that the white-eyes had finished at the palace and were rushing towards the askaba tower.

  “Run!” he yelled out in futility.

  Several of his companions broke off, and some remained near the door. Drawn to the moving ashen, the creatures swerved and gave chase. The ashen were swift, but these things were crazed, oblivious to the constraints of their human forms. He squinted, trying to see who had fled. Roje was there, running himself into a corner. And Freya, surrounded on all sides as her pursuers scampered along the walls and rooftops, hemming in their quarry.

  “No!” he cried, making for the door. But Sisken laughed, touching a small globe in his hand to seal the door with such fastness as bound the one below.

  A scream rose, and he whirled. Roje was gone, just a swarm of shapes in the corner where he had been trapped. Freya still ran. She was fast, but she would never make it to the barrier. The things were closing in on her. He watched helplessly as one of the shapes hurled itself from a roof, bearing her down with a crunch as a wave of pursuers washed over her like scuttling beetles.

  He spun, eyes ablaze. Even in his own tower, surrounded by his fellow askaba, the bald-pated Sisken flinched. Then he let out a sad sigh.

  “She wasn’t? Oh no… I’m sorry. I—” Balagir did not let him finish but leapt with a roar, bringing Greydent down with a force that could have cleft the tower itself like two halves of a smote log. But Sisken had been swifter and blew a cloud of fine powder. As the blade passed through, it turned brittle and shattered on the floor like ice. Balagir stared down at the hilt in his hand. Doom flickered and went dark.

  A thunderous look on his face, he reached slowly into his bag and brought out a clenched fist. From through his fingers leaked the kalaqai’s soft light.

  The askaba hissed and muttered upon beholding her. Even Sisken, who had seen her before, glared feverishly.

  “Give it me and I’ll call them off. Quickly, and maybe not all perish.”

  “Take it!” Balagir yelled, releasing the kalaqai, but at the same time hurling the hilt of his sword. It had served him well, let it do so now in its final act.

  Siskin’s eyes were drawn by the green sprite, and not until it was too late did he see the glinting missile. It took him through the back of the hand, and the small ball he had been holding dropped to the floor, bounced twice, and shattered. The door returne
d to its former condition and sagged inwards. The askaba looked aghast at the broken fragments. The lower door was open too, and the relics and the others entered. He could already hear the commotion echoing up the stairwell, their footfalls and the screeches of those creatures pouring through the doorway in pursuit.

  “Where’s the cannon?!” Balagir demanded, seizing Sisken by the collar. The askaba rolled his eyes upwards. Balagir shoved him violently aside but stopped when he reached the door. He turned to see the askaba holding a small blue field in his hand containing the subdued kalaqai.

  “Decisions, decisions,” he mused viciously. “Save your allies, or maybe yourself.” Balagir cursed and, not thinking at all rationally, hurtled up the stairwell. It was but one floor, but with each step he could feel the bond with the kalaqai stretch. There, stooped over the cannon, a scrawny askaba whirled in surprise. The ashen seized him, aided as much by seething adrenalin as he was the strength-band, and hurled him through the open skylight to plummet like a stone to the cobbles far below. He turned on the cannon. What kind of contraption had they built? It was made almost entirely of metal. The molten stuff of swords, beaten and hammered into an unsettling device. It rested on a tripod. From its nozzle, aimed directly up at the skylight, shone the beam of white that was the source of the field. It was the part that was not metal that arrested him, however. The ghastly battery. He would not have recognised the dilapidated face had it not been for the armour. Bry, the ashen he had met so long ago in Warinkel, had been drained dry. He groaned pitifully when he saw an ashen had come, and Balagir did not hesitate in ending his suffering with his dagger and a dry puff of smoke. A loud noise echoed across the city, a powering down drone of a sound that descended into an eerie silence. The shield was gone, the dome depleted. Far below at the city’s edge, the Eskarathian army would be on the move. But they were too far away to help. And too late to bring back those they had lost. An image of Freya’s face flashed through his mind and he blinked it away. Era. Where was she? She felt far away, their link taut as a web being twitched by some great fly.

  He sank to his knees and could only crawl down the stairs to find Sisken had activated the transporter circle and stood poised on its threshold.

  “Thank you, Balagir, for this gift to our door. The last of your kind will perish in the coming days, but at least your final acts were not for nothing. May you find respite from the flame.” He looked down at the kalaqai, which floundered helplessly in the field, and stepped through and out of sight.

  Era was gone! Whisked away across unknown space. He rolled onto his side just as the ashen came rushing into the room to find him. There was no sound of pursuit from below.

  “What happened?” Morogan demanded in horror.

  They helped him up, and the room swam. It had all been for nothing. The ashen destroyed, his friends dead, Siskin and the askaba escaped with what they had wanted. They had played right into their hands.

  Balagir focussed on their faces, and as he did so, a clarity settled. His vision sharpened, and his breath laboured less. As one woken from a nightmare to find the sun still shining outside, he gazed uncertainly about. Through the window, a red glow appeared.

  “Era,” he whispered. “How…?” The kalaqai regarded him with the faceless condescension only she could. How could she be both here and there? And why was she red once more? For a moment he considered the askaba’s duplication device, but that would not explain her altered hue. The last time he had seen her like this had been in Wormford, before the smithy, after the tree. His head swam, but he grasped at pieces of the puzzle. This was not Era; at least, not his Era. Though he had seen her before; watched her destroy the Tree of Ages and alter history in the process. He shook his head dazedly. Where had she been this whole time? And why return now? But the answer was at once obvious and surreal. She could not let herself be sacrificed to the askaba—even another version of herself. No matter how much it must have cost to return to slavery, she could not allow that to happen. Rightfully, he should not be alive, his bond broken. And yet she had patched it, a temporary splicing, red for green. She pulsed as if confirming his thoughts and moved towards the portal. She had not returned through any loyalty to him and was anxious to begin.

  “Where are the askaba? Where’s Sisken?” Inverna demanded, shaking him and looking about for something to ravage.

  “They escaped.”

  “And you’re smiling?” She loomed over him, her fists bunched.

  “He thinks he’s won.”

  “And he hasn’t?”

  Balagir stood, his eyes smouldering black. Slowly he drew Tye’s Reaver, now his own. The relics watched; no one argued.

  Activating the coilweave cloak, he leapt from the window and retrieved the cannon operator’s hand. Shortly he was back, the dripping appendage pressed gruesomely against the pad.

  “Come,” he said, eyeing the portal as a warm air blew through into the tower. “Let’s finish this.”

  The others followed cautiously as he stepped into a dry, red desert.

  XXIX.i

  ASKABA

  The hot air buffeted them as though they had entered a smithy.

  “Where are we?” Kiela asked.

  “Far south,” Quevil said, sniffing the air.

  “We’d best not lose the portal,” Ginike said flatly. “It’d be a fair walk back.”

  “We won’t be long,” Balagir said, his eyes ablaze. The others followed to where the remaining askaba crawled over red rocks towards a wide, unassuming cave.

  Nobody spoke; they simply took off, all struggling to keep up with Inverna, who was as a loosed bolt and twice as deadly.

  “We need answers!” he warned her as she leapt from rock to rock. If she heard him, she gave no sign.

  Inside was no cave, but a lair. As intricate as their chiselled towers, this cavern had been hollowed out symmetrically and ran in tiers up around the cylindrical funnel that ended in a distant round patch of sky. It was as if the tower in Ozgar had been turned inside out.

  Voices came from an archway, and they rushed to investigate. A group of askaba talked within, though Sisken was not amongst them. Balagir bowed back from the doorway, letting Inverna and the rest storm the room to a series of gasps and weapons being drawn. He glanced upwards to see a door on the upper level slowly shut.

  His boots hummed, sending him soaring, gliding to the tenth balcony. Rather unceremoniously, he booted open the door, locking it behind him.

  Sisken spun.

  “You should be—”

  “Dead? Yes, I’m inclined to agree. Unfortunately for you, it’s not the case.”

  “I don’t know how you survived, but the kalaqai answers to me now, and I’ve just decided what its first act in my service will be.”

  “You’re no ashen. What good would it serve?”

  “Pity you haven’t got time to find out.” And with that he bade the luck-blessed kalaqai to kill him.

  The askaba’s face became lined with concentration as, slowly but surely, the green kalaqai turned upon her former master. Although unsurprised, Balagir could not deny a hurt at the betrayal. Still, she was under Sisken’s control now and could not be entirely blamed. She approached, glowing brightly, and he knew the damage that could be done by one of her pulses. She halted mere inches from his face. Sisken frowned, a bead of sweat on his temple. His eyes reflected the red of the new light rising from Balagir’s pouch. The two orbs poised in the air, frozen in their regard for one another.

  “Looks like we’ve more time than you thought,” Balagir said, allowing himself to exhale.

  “But how can it be?”

  “Not so predictable after all,” Balagir said, stepping around the glowing kalaqai.

  “Why, you conniving—” He never got to finish.

  Balagir flexed his knuckles as the askaba reeled on the ground. He squinted up through a swollen eye and spat a glob of red spittle on Balagir’s boot.

  “I’d sooner die than live in a world favour
ed for you.”

  “If only it were that easy. No, not after what you’ve done.” He strode menacingly towards the waspish man, who shuffled into the corner. The image of Freya swallowed beneath the scramble of bodies was scorched upon his mind’s eye, and only curiosity gave him composure over compulsion. “You will tell me what you know.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “We’ll inevitably get to the same result, only after weeks of torture in Ozgar dungeon. I know several there itching to turn the screws. You’ve made some powerful enemies.”

  “Powerful? Pah.”

  “Why is it you despise us so?”

  “Despise? Yes. Maybe that’s the word.”

  “Because of her?” he said, looking to Era, who blazed at his shoulder like a lambent lapel.

  Sisken wiped the blood from his mouth, staring blankly across the room until Balagir kicked his foot.

  “I’ll not fish for scraps. Your brother was surprisingly loose-tongued in the end.”

  “Leave him out of this,” Sisken spat.

  “Ah yes, Sassarek. You know he tried to take the kalaqai himself? Killed him, it did. Ripped him apart. Have you ever considered that you’re just not capable of wielding such a power?”

  “You lie. He was as loyal to the cause as any of us.”

  “A desperate man is prone to desperate acts. For in the end, you know, he was just that: a man. We tore out his spike, and he blabbed like a child.” Sisken’s bloody mouth foamed with rage. “The ashen have changed. We are not as ignorant as you think. Your brother, you see, in his final hour, told us of the hiilg; something we followed up to discover the truth of the dhaki. Learnt some interesting things about your master too.”