The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  The outlandish collective drew curious glances, but they were not hindered by the guards, who nodded respectfully as they slipped out of the western gate towards the hub.

  The ashen-turned-settlers were permitted into the fire’s circle and could hear once more Jakan’s ancient tune, and with it their memories returned in flashbacks as vivid as dreams. Yet they could not behold the maker of the music, nor did their eyes return to black. Their belts had been shed and were useless, and their pouches, now empty, maintained the dimensions and limits of the most mundane of bags.

  At length they left the fire’s circle and ambled back to town.

  “What now?” Roje asked. “Our memories are restored, but I no longer feel the draw of the smoke, nor the power I once possessed.”

  “It’s queer,” Lyger agreed. “That nagging, that hunger. Now I just want another drink.”

  “It’s not all bad,” reasoned Raf Isil. “We’re free now, and with it comes many pleasures simple and sublime. The satisfaction of a thirst quenched, the comfort of a hunger sated.”

  “And maybe more,” Tal mused aloud. “Maybe now we may procreate. Make our own descendants.”

  “We’ll also grow old,” Raf Kajor said flatly.

  All of these possibilities had not occurred to Balagir, and he found himself looking at Freya.

  Had he found her only to lose her again? For they were now a different species. What could he, an ashen, offer if she were fertile and mortal? Had Sisken known this? That the cannon would not destroy, but change them? For one that had sacrificed so many, he could hardly imagine the askaba had acted thus out of benevolence, but then much of what Sisken had said had surprised him. Inexcusable as his means had been, his motives could be argued favourably. He did not know who he envied more. Freedom at the cost of mortality: was it a fair exchange?

  “What will you do now?” he asked Freya as they walked ahead of the company. Her eyes were downcast as she answered.

  “Try my luck here, I guess. It seems a prosperous time to be in the south. I’ve my connections to the Dunn, after all.”

  “It’s true that you shall never want for anything.”

  “Where will you go?” she asked after a short silence.

  “North,” he said heavily. “Kirfory, I have thought.”

  “Why not stay?” Still she did not meet his eyes.

  “Not while there’s much to learn.”

  “We did it. We won.”

  “I cannot rest until I know what came before.”

  “Nothing came before.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said distantly. “If I discover anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Then best hurry. I have a clock ticking now, remember?” Her words shook him. Would he return to find her with greying hair? With children? Uncomfortable with the silence, she asked: “Do you have any oaths to fulfil?”

  Balagir consulted his belt. “Just the one,” he said. “In Bone Forest.”

  “Then, take care.” Something in her blue eyes pleaded. But Freya was still Freya, after all, and would never reveal as much. Some traits were too inherent.

  “You know me,” he said wryly.

  “That’s why I’m worried,” she said jokingly, but she squeezed his hand all the same.

  The final farewells were made at the palace. Dunn Elohim awaited in courtly regalia; Beringal, Yorvic, and Kejal were there too, with faces of tired relief. Lurking always in the background was the white cloak of Medic Trell, inexplicably connected to the ashen, but with scant cause to be in the presence of the Dunn.

  The ashen who had changed would stay in Ozgar for a time, though some would accompany Elohim to Eskareth when he took his leave later that day. They were held in respect and would enjoy high social standings for the rest of their days.

  The others prepared to do as they had previously planned and spent one more afternoon together in the Horizon Inn, perched on the cliff, overlooking the docks and rolling vales unto the jagged white Backbone.

  They reminisced, they laughed, they winced, they were solemn, they bickered, they toasted. And they embraced. The ashen, for all their faults, had held true when it had mattered. They must ensure that newcomers be taken underwing before corruption inevitably set in.

  As the sun was setting, they stumbled across the bridge to the west gate.

  The relics had left that afternoon, uncomfortable with settler life despite the new tolerance towards them. They had made little of their goodbyes and had not so subtly insinuated that they be left alone in the future. Morogan was the only one who had shaken Balagir’s hand, but even Quevil and Ivorn had nodded with a grudging respect. He had told them where to find Magledorf, but advised them not to. He knew it was in vain. They had said nothing of Reaver, which hung in place of Greydent, and they left without a backward glance.

  To Hect and Lyger he had said his partings, and to Tal too. There was a melancholy about them, but also a hopefulness. A weight had been lifted, and today was the first of their lives. Lyger had been hungry for smoke, but now her expression was easy. It would take Hect some years to adapt, judging from the barbarian look he encompassed, and Tal too would find small use for that deadly staff of hers, save maybe for walking in her dotage.

  The two idris had very different plans. Raf Kajor would stay on in Ozgar; Beringal had expressed interest in him training the guard since he had witnessed the idris tending his scarlet double swords. It was about time the cities of men embraced all cultures, as they had so recently the ashen. Raf Isil, on the other hand, wished to return to Imram and help in the library. His thirst for knowledge had not been lost with his other attributes; of course, he would no longer be able to warp, but Balagir offered North to speed his journey as far as the mountains.

  Roje looked the most lost. He scratched his red head as if he had forgotten what he was meant to be doing. He would stay in Ozgar a few days but could not say where his will would take him. “I feel like an insect rescued from a river,” he had drunkenly rambled. “I had clung precariously to a twig, but was at least swept onward. Now the rapids have calmed, but there are many tributaries. Many meandering backwaters. I go without a fear of drowning, but of stagnating.”

  “There will be more rivers,” Kolak had told him. And there would. Tranquil streams, babbling brooks, watercourses that wound lazily and did not churn with white fingers.

  And then last, he had looked at Freya, her blue eyes showing an emotion her black ones had never allowed. Theirs was a lost cause. Fondness had grown unexpectedly and reared its head only when it was too late. It was better they never spoke of it. Let sleeping kargores lie. They embraced wordlessly, and then Balagir turned out onto the road once more.

  That had been it. That was the happy ending. The rest, well, was just life.

  Nine of them walked the last leg of their journey together in relative silence. Balagir considered their number; the three relics, Imram, and Finster, that he knew of, were still out there. Possibly others. Nifla maybe, if Hompa had not killed him. More may now have been spawned in the north, filling the gaps of those who had gone, waking at Warinkel or Wormford, bewildered and eager as he had once been.

  Jakan’s tune welcomed them, and within that glowing circle, they bade their farewells.

  Ginike and Kiela would travel with him—she missing Kirfory and he not caring less as long as he was at her side. Balagir was glad of company, despite it being just a little further.

  As agreed, Denge went with Kolak to the channel, where they hoped to find the Spite Spear and take up with Res once more. Ygril went too, though he would need no ship to make his way.

  Raf Fade stepped from view with the dramatic flare only thespians were capable of, inviting them to attend his shows once he had gained success.

  Unvil never said where he was bound, only that he could not rest until his belt was clear. No one asked what those oaths might be, but the look in his eyes was one of finality. Balagir did not expect to see the cantankerous, staunch jaegir ag
ain. They had never seen eye to eye, but then Unvil never had with anyone—even Roje, with whom he had been most intimate. He had been loyal though, and that’s what had counted in the end.

  Inverna went to Iylleth to explore the ancient mountain; now that the largatyn were few and weak, it would be easier to find whatever she sought there.

  Balagir took some time to trance, and though he emerged enlivened and robust, a poignancy dwelt within. All words spoken, they summoned the rift and travelled a hundred leagues north; Ozgar and old friends were lost far beyond the mountains.

  XXX

  CIVILISATIONS

  Balagir, Ginike, and Kiela walked the last mile along the moonlit woodside and arrived at their destination.

  “It’s good to be home,” Kiela sighed.

  “We’re still ashen, remember. We don’t have a home,” Balagir said.

  “If the relics can do it, why can’t we? Except in more comfort than their blustery hilltop.”

  She had a point. There was nothing in the least bit depressing about drinking forever as people grew and died about them as flowers bloomed and wilted through the seasons.

  Not even Bohal’s brew could settle him, and the following day, on the porch of said establishment, he bid the two ashen farewell. It was a brief parting; they knew where to find each other.

  And at last, there was one. Alone he finished his journey, under the archways and up the university’s white steps. His shadow looked long and lonely as it slanted down the zigzagged stair.

  Imram spied him from a balcony and vanished. For close to a minute his hurried footsteps could be heard, descending the stairwell and echoing across the great cold flags. The look of consternation on his face softened as Balagir smiled.

  “You did it! And who could have doubted the hero of the south?” Balagir cringed as the scholar embraced him, the whiff of parchment filling the air. “Come, if you’ve as much to tell me as I have you, we’d best get started. I’ve a fire on upstairs, let us be seated!”

  Piece by piece Balagir recounted his tale, and crooked did it now seem upon the telling. He told first of Ceniza, the dead isle, of the wand and absence of fire. He mentioned Magledorf and the lych, the liberating of Ozgar, the destroying of the cannon, and the fate of his companions. Imram shook his head in wonder and regret as he listened from the edge of his seat. And then, when Balagir told of his words with Sisken, Imram grew excited and asked a flurry of questions, flapping and batting like a moth released from a dusty book.

  He finally burdened the scholar with the askaba’s foreboding and felt a relief at the sharing. Imram sagged back, and for a long while stared into the fire.

  “You’ve food for thought and no mistake. I would scarcely believe a word of it had I not been privy to your earlier exploits.”

  “And Siskin’s words? Do you hold stock?”

  The ashen chewed his bearded lip.

  “There’s something troubling there.”

  “How so? What have you unearthed?”

  Imram exhaled and then leapt almost exuberantly to his feet to fetch the scroll.

  “You’ve discovered something about the tracings?”

  “Better. I’ve decoded it.”

  “You’ve learned hiilgtongue?” Balagir asked incredulously.

  “Learned, no. I’d say I’m novice at best. But recognising the algorithms in the ciphers, I’ve almost pinpointed their alphabet. It still throws out an unintelligible sentence here and there, but I’ve gleaned sufficiently.” Imram’s eyes glistened as he sat and proceeded avidly.

  “Siskin’s words ring true. Kaliga and Jakan were master and apprentice. If you’ll notice these small symbols here in the shape of insect wings and inverted sarcophagi—”

  Balagir raised a hand. “Spare me the technicalities.” Imram sniffled before conceding.

  “So be it. Kaliga was a dhaki sorcerer, living in northern Ythinar, some five millennia past. He took on an apprentice, one Jakan, who—as accurately as I can tell—spent several decades in his employ before being recognised in his own right.” Balagir blinked at the tracings, unable to fathom how Imram had obtained so much.

  “They both gained disciples, and even in their own time became recognised as more than mere dhaki. Despite their separate branches, it’s evident that they remained cordial—even amiable—and frequent in conclaves. That is, until the day of their confrontation.” Imram’s voice suddenly took on a sinister tone. “Jakan uncovered his former master’s work and perceived his designs: to summon a kraelyn.” For an instant the fire seemed to stutter in the hearth.

  “Ceniza.”

  “In this case yes, though the term kraelyn is more generic and can be applied to any number of demonic entities. Kaliga would have succeeded too, had not Jakan intervened. Having grown wise to Kaliga’s obsession, he worked the kalaqai from ember, binding it with a musical charm so that it might aid him. They met on the brink of the portal, where Kaliga was yet in contact with that shadowed being, luring it through. What occurred is not precise, but Jakan succeeded in casting his master into the grey portal and sealing it by way of fire. Fire from the kalaqai.”

  “So, the fires are portals?”

  “Closed ones, yes.”

  “I’ve seen what lies beyond. It’s a dead place.”

  “Dead, and yet Kaliga was not; as much as circumstances allowed, he flourished. Trapped on the isle, this world’s reflection of the kraelyn’s void, he worried the boundaries, ever seeking a chink to return and avenge himself. Meanwhile, over the decades, Jakan kept his guard at the portal. Ever greater did Kaliga’s determination become, and such apertures as he probed needed to be sealed by a kindred flame. Jakan was strong and, despite Kailga’s tenacity, he bore it well. Yet the dhaki were not immortal, not even the sorcerers, and as the centuries passed, so too did Jakan’s life.

  “Great changes had come over the land during this time. The dhaki faded, and a new populace known as the hiilg emerged from the forests and began to settle and build. This was some four thousand years gone. The hiilg had gained intelligence in their dark forested hibernation, and they were a superstitious type, already rich in folklore. As such, when they found Jakan, last of the dhaki, they believed him holy, linked not only to the fire, but to the creation of Ythinar.

  “Alas, faith is still perpetuated in this way; the settlers with their new gods, the hiilg with theirs, and not even the dhaki were immune to it, worshiping older spirits, and kraelyn to an extent. It seems everyone must have something in which to put their faith, lest their lives lack meaning. But the hiilg cult spread like a fever, and over time Jakan and his fire became the dogmatic core of their faith. They erected shrines and devoted their lives to worship, forming a hierarchy of zealots. The lost Temple of Umbra was perhaps their proudest work, standing beside that first fire where Jakan had defeated Kaliga in an—even then—long lost time.

  “When Jakan, ancient and frail, began to falter, he summoned this man.” He indicated the etching of the thin, robed figure. “Ihnoban, the cardinal hiilg.”

  “Ihnoban,” Balagir mouthed the words.

  “Yes. I think you know where this is going.”

  “He bestowed upon him the wand, so that he might seal any new portals.”

  “Precisely. It was a grim task, but there are no finer martyrs than fanatics. He made it his mission to travel the lands and seal any chinks in the fabric Kaliga fondled, whilst Jakan preserved what remained of his depleted power, guarding the principal portal. Ihnoban was granted the help of the kalaqai, and as such became its first warden. Needless to say, Jakan risked much separating himself from the kindling ember, yet it was the only means of focussing his efforts and plugging the holes.”

  “And where do the ashen come into this?”

  “Patience,” Imram chided. “I’m getting there. This is four millennia, not what I had for breakfast. Jakan faded eventually from the realm of the living. Yet his aura lingered, an echo, anchored to that first fire and projected through those t
hat Ihnoban had made. For long, darkness slept, and even Ihnoban grew old. When he could no longer travel, he returned to Umbra, where he died passing on his knowledge to an apprentice who took up the duties.

  “And so the centuries passed, and time, as it is wont to do, changes all things. Younger generations of hiilg held increasingly less import in the legends of old, and like wine watered down, the memories of the dhaki and legend of Ihnoban grew faint, becoming little more than antiquated ritual. To the rebellious young, it was conspiratorially seen as a way of curbing their inhibitions, keeping their moral code in check. A strain of disciples persevered, though they came to be regarded with disdain or even ridiculed for their lofty, misguided ways. It is only through these that we can trace the ending of this tale, for they must have remainined in Umbra; hermits, even when it stood forsaken and dilapidated. The last wand-wielder, one Salion, approached the spirit of Jakan with his concerns. Yet the dhaki would not heed him. Never had the old faith been so sorely tested, and all but the devout questioned their purpose.

  “And so, more water was added to the wine, until it became transparent, until the ritual lacked reason and rhyme. Even the wand-wielder forgot or cared little for what he had been born—an outdated gesture that none save crazed zealots cherished or professed to understand. Furthermore, the hiilg became divided amongst themselves, weakened by internal conflicts and ravaged by plague; slain by newer, fiercer races that had emerged upon Ythinar. When Salion never returned from the south, it was barely noted. The temple already stood deserted and overgrown, apart from the fanatic recluses that remained. The once proud race, guardians of the flame and worshippers of the dhaki, were no more, and became those pitiful waifs that still skulk in the forests. Their dominance was over, and new populaces of men, of jaegir and idris, took over. Largatyn came from the forests, horlock from the southern deserts. The world had changed. But there was one race that still had yet to come.