The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “Sensing his prison was weakening, Kaliga achieved a breach in a cold fire. He reached out and enthralled one hapless traveller that lingered thereabouts. Driving him mad, he plucked the heart coal from the fire, a shard so sharp that he could push it into his forehead.”

  “The askaba.”

  “The first askaba, referred to as Syn by those that remained to record it. They were created to serve their master’s bidding, but of course, we know how that worked out for them. The word askaba in ancient dhaki signified ‘enlightened,’ as their minds were opened by the shard. Syn, a simple shepherd, became wise and acknowledged. A tradition that continued to bolster their reputations, placing them in positions of power, reaching even the ears of Dunns. Their master, however, had misjudged the extent of such knowledge; for their reason overrode possession, shaking the shackles, as it were, by light of wisdom. Sisken told you they had chosen not to obey him, and I believe this to be true. It is something we ashen are not capable of. In many ways, they were the favoured of the dhaki’s engineering.

  “Jakan also sensed the change and felt the loss of the wand acutely. In particular, that of the kalaqai, for whom he knew the servants of his rival now searched. With his last breath, Jakan gave himself to the flames, sundering his energy to create sparks. One from each of the fires that had begun to burn low. They sped off through the night, these sparks. Who knows how they steered. Yet the script tells of them seeking those of a susceptible age, and later of children, approaching the fires. The next image reveals the ashen emerging from the flames.”

  At this point Balagir held up his hand. He rose suddenly to a handy cabinet and returned with two goblets and a decanter of wine. Imram blinked and then accepted, looking off into the fire.

  “So,” Balagir said, draining his drink. “Were it not for the askaba, there would be no ashen.”

  “It appears that way.”

  “Go back to that part about the children again. You think that they—”

  “Were us?” Imram finished with an exasperated shrug. “Who knows. It makes more sense than any other theory I’ve heard. Remember those old fables of the ashen leading children astray? Well, they may have been more than just stories.”

  “If this is true, if we were truly summoned to the fire as children, why do we lack those memories?”

  “Who can say? Something was done to us in those flames. What we were built to be was not like what we were born.”

  “You make us sound like mechanisms.”

  “Are we not? Jakan instilled in us a drive, an unscratchable itch. The addiction to the smoke was his failsafe; his way of ensuring our work would never falter as the hiilg faith eventually had. What he hadn’t foreseen, however, was what addiction could make of man; the inherent competitiveness, the coveting of power. The drive ingrained in us proved so severe that measures were introduced. Penalties should we turn aside from the path and break an oath, consequences should we slay one of our number near a fire, repercussions should we ingest smoke from too many dead instead of earning it on merit. Jakan perhaps had underestimated the hunger it would bring, the divisions, the rivalry it would foster. His own people were a greater danger than the askaba if left unchecked. Still, the measures he took prevented us from destroying ourselves, enabling us to continue serving.

  “Despite this, however, things went awry. Take what happened to us on Farthing, for instance. Two ashen were lost that day, and one hub. Thus, strengthening Kaliga’s foothold and allowing the creation of another askaba.”

  “They grew stronger whilst we grew weaker.”

  “In a way, they were always the stronger. They had free will, whereas we had not. They remembered their past, whilst we were lost. They were driven by a hunger for knowledge, we by our one true weakness. I can see now why Sisken despised us. Had they obtained the kalaqai, well, who’s to say he would not have ended the balance. I guess we will never know. But it would have been the end of the ashen. The askaba would have been unstoppable.”

  “They came close, according to Sisken.”

  “Ah yes, this Huir. A curious tale.”

  Balagir took a thoughtful sip of his wine.

  “If the ashen were truly taken as children, may we not still have families alive?” Imram shrugged.

  “I have considered that, but we do not know how long we were held in those fires. The script tells of young children being summoned, but when we emerge from the fires, we are men, or women, of varying ages.”

  “So, we were kept somewhere, in a void, losing all those years.”

  “Losing is one way of putting it, but it was in this time that we were turned from settler to ashen. From mortal to immortal. Have you never wondered why we all start at different ages?” He tugged at a shock of white hair as if to prove a point. “We must have been held somewhere, waiting for one ashen to die before another could be released. There can never be a greater number than there are fires.”

  “Our families could still be out there!”

  “We’ve no idea how time works in such a dimension. It could have been millennia, or mere minutes in the making.”

  “And if it were actual time?”

  “How would we know? And how would you ever be recognised?” Balagir looked grimly into the hearth. When he spoke again, his voice was heavy.

  “That confirms another thing Sisken said; the children that attacked us were of our own doing. Candidates rejected on account of the reduced fires.”

  “A grim prospect. It seems Sisken was telling the truth about many things.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Balagir said, refilling his cup. “Jakan set rules in place so we would gather smoke, reinforcing the strength of each burning fire. If so, why haven’t the inactions of the relics been punished? They have been less than productive.”

  “Yes. Their retirement, as it were, has not allowed four new ashen to be made for some time.”

  “Three,” Balagir corrected.

  “Still, they could not be punished, for they broke no oaths. It seems that addiction can run its course. The old get weary of all things eventually.”

  “And why are the ashen of some races and not of others?”

  “I’ve considered this at length and come to the conclusion that Jakan only summoned inherently good races. Take men, jaegir, idris, gillards, and ‘gnilos, for example. They live in peaceful communities. They are, for the most part, virtuous. Something which cannot be said for the belligerent horlocks, the sly largatyn, or any other more beastly array of creatures that stalk or crawl the world. You’ve seen what the smoke can do even to the good ashen, how wild the black-eyes can become. Do you think a horlock could have ever served? No. Greed and power would have been too great; fires would have blinked out like stars on a cloudy night.” Balagir nodded, staring into the fire, attempting to assimilate all he had learnt.

  “What now?” he asked at last. Imram exhaled.

  “Who can say? Whilst there are fires, there will be ashen. Whilst the dead fires remain, new askaba will be created. Though the tables have turned. For once the ashen are united, and the askaba scattered. As long as we are loyal amongst ourselves, I do not see how Kaliga can be a threat. Not whilst we do Jakan’s bidding and continue to feed the fires.”

  “So, we’ll always be bound to servitude. Eternally.”

  Imram patted Balagir on the back of the hand. “Cheer up, boy. We’ve come far. Our enemies are undone, and we are more self-aware than any ashen in history. We have the potential to grow strong. And we already have the leader under which to do so.” Balagir grimaced. He had rather hoped there would be an end to responsibility, but Imram was right. They knew and trusted him. He alone had the power to unite them, new and old ashen alike.

  “Of course,” continued the wily-haired ashen, “it goes without saying that the kalaqai needs to be protected. We can never allow her to come so close to the askaba again.”

  “Providing Sisken’s words about Ceniza weren’t true,” he said darkly.


  “Let us hope he was mistaken. So far nothing has happened. It would not be the first time the askaba were wrong.”

  They sat for a while in silence before the old ashen asked: “Where will you go now?”

  “I’ve an oath to keep with Huir Greenfingers—though that not be his name. There are gaps in this story, and I’d hear his part.”

  “That may be wise. I too will continue my studies. There are many mysteries still hidden in these shelves.”

  “And you know once you’re done here, you’ll be welcome in Ozgar and Eskareth. The libraries there will make this seem sparse.”

  “Just as well I have Raf Isil to help me. For a few years at least.” The idea of the former ashen living such short lives was disquieting.

  “Good. I may lend you a hand once I know some peace.”

  “Ha. A novel concept. Yet maybe we have achieved it. Smoke must still be gathered, yes. Fires stoked. But if we can educate the new ashen and keep order in our ranks… And we possess Ihnoban’s wand, after all. What’s saying the dead fires cannot be relit? Let us seal these portals so that no more askaba can arise.”

  “That has to be worth a try,” Balagir agreed, almost believing that was it. That some semblance of peace would come to them.

  “If that’s what it takes, then that’s our lot. The askaba, remember, sought the immortality that we possess. Now that we have been enlightened, what is to stop us from accumulating our knowledge, expanding our wisdom? There may yet be solutions unlooked for.”

  “Well, it’s better than stumbling blindly,” Balagir agreed, forcing a smile, though feeling despondent. What was it? Hadn’t they won? Didn’t he deserve peace? Perhaps it was the knowledge of his stolen childhood, his forgotten parents, his lost past; the thought of Freya beginning a normal life in which she could love, live, and die and in which he would be permitted no part. His past must forever remain blank, and his future stretched eternally before him with little in the way of reprieve. And yet Imram was right. They had come far. If there ever was an age of the ashen, then this could be it. The beginning chapters. Written down, this time.

  He drained the rest of his wine and stood.

  “You’re leaving so soon?” Imram asked.

  “I will finish what I have started, and then return.”

  “Then go with care, Balagir. You’re too important to lose.”

  “Nobody’s too important,” he said solemnly and bade the kalaqai return to his pouch. With a nod, he descended the spiral stair with the weight of his people once more on his mind.

  XXX.i

  PARASITES AND HOSTS

  Without delay, Balagir took leave of Kirfory, emerging at Planter’s hub, shrouded in a ghostly mist. He struck south, picking out the ghoulish fruits and following them one by one towards he who sowed.

  Huir’s crooked shape moved laggardly through the trees, stooping at length to claw the cold earth. He turned as Balagir’s steps clattered the fallen bones. Awkwardly, he fixed a skull onto his jutting spine and regarded him with a leering jaw.

  “Who approaches?”

  “It is I, Balagir, the ashen.”

  “Balagir. Could it be?”

  “It is as I promised.”

  “Then give it me,” he said, dropping the sack and stumbling forward anxiously. Balagir stepped back, putting a white bole partway between them.

  “First you will answer my questions.”

  “What procrastination is this?”

  “I merely need your knowledge before I give you your head.”

  “You gave me an oath.”

  “Indeed. It seems we need each other.”

  “So it seems,” Huir said grimly. “Ask what you will, but do not dally.”

  “I gave you my oath, you said, and how very well you know what that entails.” If his jaw hadn’t already hung ajar, now would have been an appropriate time.

  “Who told you?”

  “Sisken.”

  “Who’s Sisken?”

  “One of the askaba. Formerly.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “As deceitful as he was, I had no reason to doubt him in this.”

  “So, you don’t believe the stories? The murder of the Dunn’s children?”

  “Fabrications.”

  Huir seemed to slump then. “I’d never thought to hear those words. The evidence was irrefutable. I don’t know how they did it… I even started to question myself.”

  “I have something else that you had long given up,” Balagir said, opening his pouch and calling forth Era.

  The skull’s sockets stared, and a low moan escaped as long dormant memories stirred.

  “The kalaqai? I remember you... Then, Gwindle?”

  “Is dead. I became the next keeper.”

  “I… I had forgotten. But yes, now it comes back. I had feared for the kalaqai from the moment I entrusted it.”

  “Well, the askaba are gone for now; she’s safe.”

  “Gone?”

  “Aye. To the last, though they will come again, in time. There may be a way to seal them for good.”

  “I’m confused, yet your words bring me some comfort.”

  “Then you know naught of the wand?”

  Creaking trees filled the silence as Huir’s mind unclouded. “My thoughts are scattered… The wand… Yes, that was what I was seeking. When they caught me.”

  “You knew it was here?”

  “I think… I think she led me. Era, I named her.”

  “I know. Gwindle told me.”

  “Did you find it? The wand?”

  “I will answer your questions after you’ve indulged me mine. Now, tell me what happened?” Huir looked askance as though trying to find thoughts so long banished. At last he spoke, and his words sounded as hollow and dry as the old skull he had elected.

  “I was looking for the wand. I had learnt something of it during my time with Era—the kalaqai.” He paused and extended a skeletal hand. Fickle as ever, she paid her former keeper no heed, and instead began investigating the sack of abandoned skulls. Unable to hide plaintiveness, he went on. “I knew I was close, she was leading me. She knew.” Balagir nodded. He recalled how she had led him also. “It was then the askaba discovered me. They had been tracking me for some time. I had been careless, I think in a tavern in Ozgar. I’d never managed to shake them.”

  “But you were not alone.”

  “No. Gwindle was with me, and another. I had not known him long, but had little choice. In desperation, I bestowed upon him the kalaqai and he fled. He was a soft man, flabby, weak. I regretted I had no other, but he was a better choice than them. The askaba were so wrathful, they took me to their tower in Ozgar, where they questioned me using all despicable means possible.”

  “You mentioned there was another. Why not choose them instead of Gwindle?”

  “He was no ashen.”

  “You travelled with settlers?”

  “No, he was a strange one… the face he wore was not his own. He called himself a lych. I don’t know what became of him.”

  Balagir’s skin prickled. What was Jerikin doing here all that time ago? When they had found him in the cage, it had only been a few miles from here. Surely he’d had time to travel. He became aware that Huir was waiting and shook himself.

  “I know the tower of which you speak, all too well; though several generations of askaba have come and gone since then.”

  “I begged them to end my life, but they would grant me no such mercy. Not until I had disclosed the whereabouts of the kalaqai—something I would never do. My screams, however, did not go unnoticed. It was the gardener, Huir, the real one, who heard my torment. Fetching the young Dunns who had been playing in the orchard, he came to investigate. I think you know the rest…”

  “Humour me.”

  “They threw Huir from the tower, making it look like suicide after the murder of the children with his sheers… jagged, messy wounds. As for me, well, you know of the curse. My eternal planting. Th
ey kept my head until I was ready to tell. They spoke through my skull, askaba I no longer knew. Maybe this Sisken of yours.”

  “But you never told them?”

  “No. And as time went by, I forgot. Forgot even my name. I’m not Planter, nor Huir. Strange I remember Era now, but myself… In time the askaba planted the chest, to bring more ashen, reawaken my memories.”

  Balagir recalled Kolak’s oath, previously Garill’s, subsequently his own. The one he had completed for just another key. He had thought it a means of perpetuating smoke, but knew it now as a snare. The more ashen required to come looking, the more chance Planter would come into contact with the kalaqai, bestowing upon the one his oath, leading them to Ozgar and the askaba.

  “What do you know of it—her?”

  “She protected me. Led me, pulled me towards this place. Now that I look upon her, I see she has changed. She once was red, but I’d recognise her in any hue.”

  “That was my doing,” Balagir said, tracing a root with his toe. “I branded her with luck in the forges of Wormford. I fear she has never forgiven me.”

  “Nor ever will.”

  “Did you know she was an ember of the first fire?”

  “I’ve never heard such a thing. Where is the wand? Might I see it?”

  “It’s safe.”

  “Safe,” he repeated. “Have you used it?”

  “Once. Era obeyed, came to my aid. Saved us, in fact.”

  “Be wary. She does not act without purpose. You’d do well to remember that.”

  Slowly Balagir began to compile his thoughts, shuffling them about, like ordering loose pages spread out on a table.

  Yes, Era had kept him alive, but only for her own sake. Their fates were entwined for good or ill, and there was certainly no love lost between them. She had led him to the wand, that much was true, just as Huir had been led, but again he saw nothing sinister in it. And she had saved them on Ceniza, opened a way for them to escape. Opened a door. Left it open. Sisken’s words nagged him. Had she worked in the interests of Kaliga? His mind flitted back, joining dots. How had they come to Ceniza? It had been Era who had illuminated the hidden map in the hiilg temple, it had been she who had armed him with the wand. Had she used him when he thought he had been using her? He shook his head. No, he mustn’t let Planter’s bitterness turn him. Nothing had come of Sisken’s words; as of yet Era had done no foul. He would have been dead ten times over had it not been for her. But in Balagir had she found one who might complete her goals? Gwindle had been weak and lacklustre; she had lingered long attached to the unambitious coward who had once fled from this very spot. It was small wonder he would not return. Yet in him, she had achieved a great many things. Who had been pulling the strings? He wished she could communicate, that she could give some answers. And then a thought occurred to him. The askaba technology, the prism Sisken had used to bind her—could that be an opportunity to discourse? Sisken had not been able to command her mentally; he was not an ashen. But he had been prepared to do so verbally with the device.