The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  New players sat around the Ciga table now; there was no sign of the horlock nor the breaker, much to the clientele’s relief.

  He wandered to the bar and counted his coin. He wanted to save it for the morning, so he forewent the comforts of a room, instead ordering a final drink to make dozing in the corner more bearable. Graff’s face darkened when he caught him staring at a faded portrait behind the bar of two young girls. Their blue dresses were familiar. The landlord blocked his view, snatched his coin, and waited until he had retired before stepping from in front of the picture.

  Dawn came, and the heavy rain degenerated into an endless grey drizzle. He slunk from the inn, hood up, and made his way to the smithy. Fortunately, for his thick head, the ringing had not yet begun, but the furnaces pumped out a welcome heat, and he rubbed his hands as he entered. Roule leant at the counter.

  “There it is.” He nodded to the pathetic-looking amulet on a bench, wasting no effort on social niceties.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “I’d advise you to seek out Gokin, my cousin in Wormford.”

  “That’s it? Your advice is to seek advice?”

  “I would not mislead you with suspicions. My cousin outshines me in this field.”

  “All the same, I’d hear your thoughts.”

  “Very well. It’s worn beyond worth, yet I make out a feather. If it’s a sigil, it’s not one I recognise, leading me to believe it is a southern trinket.”

  “This is hardly solid information. I hope you don’t expect payment.”

  “I’m pointing you towards your next destination, am I not? Where else would you head?” The smith, surly as he was, had a point.

  “And what else can you offer?”

  “My services vary depending on monies.” He looked Balagir over without any great hope, straightened, and led him to a dusty corner of the shop. “This section may fall within your limits.” Balagir gazed at the assortment of less than striking objects. There were two daggers to choose from, a hand axe, and a cudgel. To the smith’s credit, they were rustless and keen, yet they lacked the air of menace the long swords on the back wall possessed. Still, he was in no position to barter, and anything was better than his bare fists. He selected the longest of the daggers and tested his thumb against its edge.

  “That’ll be twenty.”

  “I’ve ten. Can you throw in anything else?” The smith looked amused, then realised he was serious and rubbed his chin.

  “I suppose I could part with a weak talisman for a couple of keplas, if you were to do something for me.”

  “I see where this is going. No more oaths. I’ve enough already.” Roule’s brow creased.

  “An ashen turning down smoke? That’s a first.”

  “Smoke?” Now it was Balagir’s turn to show confusion.

  “I merely have a letter for my cousin. Since you’re headed that way…” Balagir sighed impatiently.

  “Very well, hand it over. The talisman better be worth it.”

  The smith smiled just as, once more, Balagir felt a tingling at his waist. He raised his shirt to find three of the discs now glowed palely.

  “It’s a Weak Wayward Path,” Roule said, handing him a small object. It nestled in the palm of his hand, green metal in the shape of an arrowhead. “Its powers are limited, but it’s all I can offer for said sum.” Balagir shrugged and tucked it in his pouch. If nothing else, he might use it to open the envelope he also stored. With the dagger threaded through his belt, he lightened himself of the agreed keplas.

  He bid Roule farewell, whose partings were as endearing as his greetings, and stepped out into the dismal dawn.

  As soon as the door closed, a curious thing happened. From the ground emerged a thin trail of black smoke, which circled his feet thrice, and vanished into his belt. A swift inspection revealed that one of the golden discs now swirled with a milky darkness. He had no time for bemusement, for a noise made him turn. Nifla stood, dripping in the morning weather.

  “What do you want?” Balagir growled.

  “To get going. We’ve wasted enough time.”

  “You’re disillusioned. I want no part in your venture.”

  “Travelling in numbers has its advantages.” the jaegir went on, unperturbed.

  “Did I not make myself clear?”

  “Did not Erd’s fate make itself clear? Would you end your days as he? Now follow me if you will.”

  “I’m headed to Wormford.”

  “How fortunate, Wormford is on the way. Now, come.”

  Balagir grumbled, threw his arms skyward, and followed Nifla out onto the southern trail.

  Before long, the trees and light rain hid Mudfoot from view. Only the spindly form of the jaegir loping before him broke the monotony of the misty woods on either side. Balagir had no intention of aiding his plight, but whilst their paths lay together, maybe some vantage would be had in fellowship.

  Twice that morning his new blade was called into action when they were beset upon by several flapping moth creatures that clawed the air. Nifla, though Balagir would rather be raked to ribbons than show his gratitude, proved his worth and that the road was indeed less perilous in company. He named the terrors glawings, and they swiftly dispersed when they found their prey to be quarrelsome.

  It was perhaps midday when a familiar sound reached his ears. The mournful tune drifted through the greyness, guiding them on. The fire still burned, the piper still played, Finster and Ginike still huddled in its radiance. Strangely, the drizzle ceased as they stepped into the fire’s circle, as though they had entered an incandescent dome.

  “You’re back,” Finster remarked, eyeing the jaegir with distaste. “I hope you’ve not been shouldering too many burdens. Not whilst your debt pends.”

  “I’m tired of this talk of debts,” Balagir spat, fixing all three ashen with an indignant stare. “Point me in the direction of Wormford and sort out your own affairs.”

  Finster laughed, almost genuinely, and shook his head. A faint hissing came from the jaegir and somewhere from within the folds of his cloak the leprous Ginike found the will to stir.

  “You still don’t understand?”

  “I understand that not one word any of you say is to be trusted.”

  “Hm. Maybe you have learned something. Still, the matter remains unchanged. See to my request first, and I’ll speed your journey to Wormford—no strings. I’m sure even your companion there would accept such an offer.”

  Nifla hissed. “Balagir’s path lies with mine. Your task must need wait.”

  “I’ve waited long enough.” He turned to Balagir. “I fulfilled my part, did I not? Now honour yours.” Balagir felt like a rag torn between two snarling dogs.

  “How can you aid my journey?” he asked Finster, ignoring the jaegir’s objection.

  “I’ve a horse.”

  “Then name your task and I’ll make my choice.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Finster said, pleased. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Both my task, and whatever the jaegir has you bound to, will be easier once you’ve spent that smoke you have about you.”

  “What of this smoke?” he asked, recalling the smith’s words.

  “Approach the piper and see.”

  Frowning, he obliged.

  The long face was etched with a woe interwoven in the lament, crooked antlers silhouetted against the stark sky. As he stood before that uncanny host, his belt quivered. Black smoke leaked out of the disc, swirling in the air, flowing with the notes and joining the fire. The tune reached a crescendo, the fire crackled, the sky grew red, and Balagir, his knuckles clenched white, sank to his knees.

  I

  WHILING WINE

  As the redness bled from the sky like a fish killed in water, the music resumed its wistful song.

  “Not so fragile now, eh?” Finster remarked. “Good. All the better for my task.”

  Balagir stretched and flexed. He did feel better. Refreshed, ready to embark. Even his arm
appeared vastly healed, and no grogginess from Graff’s ale remained.

  “Name your task, Finster,” he demanded with a suddenness that surprised even himself. A moment ago he had hated this place, but his mind was sharp now and his step coiled. The gaunt man rubbed his hands so that his elbows jutted out like wings.

  “It’s a simple task. One which I think you may relish.”

  “Out with it.”

  “You’re to deliver a message to my lover.”

  “Your lover?”

  “Aye. There are certain… complications between us. Suffice to say I cannot approach myself, and in obliging, well, you’d be free from your bond in addition to any smoke and the aforementioned horse.”

  “A message for Finster’s lover, or kill a horlock leader…” He stroked his beard in mock deliberation. “I’m sorry, Nifla, you’ll have to go alone.”

  “What trick is this?” Nifla rasped. “I sense knavery here.”

  “Stay out of it, jaegir” Finster snapped, making the term sound derogatory. Balagir raised a hand, defusing the tension.

  “I admit to thinking along the same lines. Exactly what is the catch?”

  “My heart is broken, there’s no catch,” he said tragically. Balagir was not taken in by a word of it. Still, given his options… And the smoke had felt good. He would not refuse getting more if it came easily and would aid him on his way.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Mailen.”

  “Why not go yourself?”

  “I was warned off by her brothers. I do not wish to bore you with the details.”

  “I find boredom reassuring.”

  Finster sighed. “Very well, though some diplomacy would not go amiss when a man’s pride is at stake.” Nifla snorted, making him glare. His next words were terse.

  “As your jaegir friend here put it, there is a trick; for whenever have matters of the heart been so simple? Her brothers disapproved of our love, they said it was unnatural. Hear how we are slandered! I say we have as much right to affection as any settler. I know she did not truly believe their lies that turned her against me. Speak to her, and if she agrees it is safe for me to return, bring me her ring as a sign. The one with the blue tear stone. She would not give it unwillingly.”

  “And what of these brothers? Seems they are not taken with… ashen.” The word came reluctantly and sank in the air like a stone.

  “I’m afraid I pushed my luck. They should bear you no malice.”

  “And that would be all? Speak with her and return with, or without, the ring?”

  “That’s the crux of it. I shall see you have a horse and are galloping to Wormford forthwith!”

  “Ssssss,” Nifla hissed in disgust. “Aid me in our task first, then follow the follies of the heart. No good can come of it.”

  Balagir shot the jaegir a silencing glance. “You’ve betrayed me once, whilst Finster has aided me in my quest. I may not trust him, but I choose him now.”

  “Foolishness,” he spat, wringing his hands helplessly. “So be it. I’ll be at Wormford hub. Don’t tarry.”

  “As you please,” Balagir said, dismissively, and turned his back upon the infuriated jaegir. “Where might this lady of yours be?”

  “Take the west path. When you reach Lake Estwil, follow its shore southwards. Look for the fallen tree at the lake’s edge and you’ll find her cottage nearby. But make haste. It’s an afternoon’s walk, and the hour already grows late.”

  “I’ll leave at once,” Balagir said, feeling strangely spirited. His own goal may have been postponed, but he had a sudden urge to do this task. Not for Finster’s sake—not in the slightest, the man was as rotten as the rest—but for what that ethereal figure could offer. He spared the piper a glance, but he remained as ever intent upon his music, heavy-lidded eyes far away. With a shrug, he set off; the rain returned and the fire became an orange smudge in the greyness behind.

  The westerly path wound through old trees that did not encourage exploration. The drizzle of the morning had become a steady rain; he marched on, hair clinging to his face, boots sucking and slipping on the muddy road. His enthusiasm waned along with the warmth in his body, and before the hour was out, he had become decidedly miserable.

  The rain that trickled and tickled his nose birthed an irritation and outrage at his fate. The loss of his mind, the lack of direction, the utter strangeness of it all! What was this bizarre game in which he had woken? His salvation seemed the familiarity of the names. If those he recalled, then surely more must come.

  Certainly the piper’s magic had worked a treat, but he was tired of being an errand boy; jaded by this talk of oaths. He would do Finster’s task, get the horse, and head directly to Wormford. Nifla’s needs would have to wait; he had his own to see to first. No delay, one sinking foot before the other. One tedious squelch after the last.

  The journey was monotonous save for one detail. A curious tree caught his eye, standing just off the path. Warily, he paused to examine it. The thick roots had grown over and around what appeared to be an old chest. His sole attempt to reach it was thwarted when a root struck him in the ribs, knocking him back, snatching his air. The tree took on a menacing, defensive pose, with any given root set to strike. He regained his breath, waved his dagger indignantly, and turned back west, subdued and smarting.

  The rain was falling so thickly and the light so dim, he almost walked directly into the lake. Indeed, the greyness of the sky and of the silent water were one, lending it a spectral air. Heeding the instruction, he turned south, hugging the shore. Out in the water, something moved beneath the surface. Something long and dark; a ridged back breached and descended. He hastily moved away from the slippery banks that could at any moment carry him to whatever maw awaited.

  Finster had not specified the distance, but he walked for such a while he feared he had missed the tree and become lost. The sky darkened, and the chittering night creatures took up their chorus in the trees.

  Between the trunks, pale human shapes flittered, matching his progress and hooting grotesquely. He checked his dagger, though it seemed inadequate against such numbers. He pressed on, for he could do no more, and the shapes for the while did not stray from the treeline.

  Then, just as a silent despair welled within, he noticed a fallen trunk half submerged in the water. He hurried forward, and a faint light blinked into existence.

  He checked himself at the door of the cottage, remembering the brothers Finster had warned him against. The dagger, though unassuming, gave him some comfort, and he rapped loudly on the damp wood.

  The window light dimmed as someone passed, and a moment later came a female voice.

  “Who calls at such an hour?”

  “But a wanderer seeking the audience of Mailen.”

  “At whose behest?”

  “At Finster’s.” There followed a lengthy pause in which he regretted giving the name. Then, with a grate and a clunk, warm firelight spilled out onto the muddy trail.

  “Enter,” she said, stepping aside. “The wights are abroad.” Not wishing to look over his shoulder at the shapes he could feel had drawn near, he stepped swiftly into the light, and his hostess closed and bolted the door behind him.

  “You’re soaked. Let me take your cloak…”

  “Balagir.”

  He obliged and looked upon her face for the first time. She was beautiful, far more than Finster deserved, no matter how dainty his beard. He felt a pang of recognition, but it faded. Beneath lustrous black hair, her skin was pale, her lips full and red, her eyes grey and deep. They fell upon his dagger. “You’ll not be needing that. No evil passes my door.”

  “All the same, I’d keep it at hand.” She shrugged and floated to a larger room, her white dress flowing like a bridal gown.

  “Take off your boots and set them before the fire. Your oath will not be fulfilled if you die of fever.”

  “You know of my oath?”

  “It was only a matter of time until he sent som
eone. And given the nature of the ashen…”

  “And your brothers?”

  “Oh, don’t fear them. They’ll not be back until the new moon.”

  Put at ease, he obliged. His socks and shirt too he hung on a frame, and she fetched him a robe. His clothes had dried quickly upon entering. He noticed the mud on his boots had already hardened and cracked in the fire’s heat.

  “Your kindness humbles me. I confess my reluctance to come, but those creatures out there have heartened me at your hospitality.”

  “You arrived just in time. The wights of Estwil linger ‘til dawn. It’s unthinkable you leave until first light.”

  He heard the rain lash against the window and unsettling noises from the lakeside.

  “Then I thank you, Mailen. But I cannot help wondering what you may wish in exchange for such kindness. It seems nothing is given freely in these parts.”

  “Ha. We are very different, you and I. Besides, is your company not enough? And that you set Finster’s mind at ease of course. I understand how difficult it must have been for him. But let’s not speak of that here. I’ve just set the table, let us sit and drink.”

  And they did. The table was set for one, but she quickly placed and filled another plate and glass. The wine was sweet and the robe warm and dry. He recognised the wine. He had tasted it before. It tingled his tongue with memories he could not quite appoint. A fire crackled in the hearth, and Mailen’s laughter tinkled like a bell. How swift his fortunes had changed! He could imagine no such comforts on the road with the jaegir.

  “What are the wights?” he asked, almost absently. The unease they had instilled seemed unreal amidst such cordial surroundings.

  “The drowned of the lake,” she said, sipping her wine. “In the day they float with the mists, but come dusk they return to their watery grave to drag travellers unto the depths. How is it you managed to evade their lure?”