The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “I need something collected from nearby.”

  “I’m afraid I’m done with oaths. It’s been an ordeal getting here. I think I’ll quit whilst, if not ahead, then alive.”

  “Gwindle,” the balding ashen presented. “And this is Pog.” The surly ‘gnilo grunted.

  “Balagir,” he said levelly, wary as to where this was leading.

  “Listen, Balagir,” Gwindle pressed. “I can see you’re a man already burdened, but this is a simple matter of obtaining some dandal root.” Balagir was about to decline, when the strange word rang like a hammer.

  “Speak.”

  The portly ashen’s face showed visible relief at being given an opportunity.

  He summoned forth a glowing creature, who shimmered in the air.

  “The kalaqai,” Gwindle announced. “Or Era, as I call her.”

  Balagir recognised the creature as the same that had destroyed the tree, and he withdrew cautiously to examine it.

  “What exactly is the dandal root for?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the glowing red orb.

  “I’m hoping to invigorate her. I’ve been exigent of late, and she’s lost some sparkle this far north, removed from her kin.”

  “Then I accept your oath.” The chubby ashen blinked.

  “Pog, you hear that? I told you good will still exists on the road!” Pog did not look convinced, but he did ever so slightly relax his grip on the axe.

  Balagir waited for the faint humming at his belt to signify the oath had been granted before reaching into his pouch.

  “I believe this is what you’re looking for.” The plump man’s mouth dropped before quickly accepting the potion and sniffing it.

  “How could you have known?”

  “Oh, I have many useful things about my person. One never knows just what’s around the corner.” He was amazed and swiftly administered the droplets to the creature, who glimmered with rekindled zest.

  “You, Balagir, have restored my faith in ashen!”

  Balagir smiled as fresh smoke filled the recently activated disc. If only all oaths were as simple. He sat and considered using his smoke there and then.

  “What’s wrong, Era?” he heard the ashen murmur. This was his first warning that something was awry. “Why won’t you obey me?” Balagir propped himself up on his elbow, perplexed as the kalaqai broke its bond with her master and settled on his shoulder. He blinked in wonderment even as Gwindle’s face grew red.

  “Treachery!” he yelled.

  “That’s a bit much. She’s only resting. I’d hardly go so far as to say—”

  “Pog, your axe! This man has deceived us!”

  “This is some sort of a misunderstanding.” He was on his feet now, backing away. Unfortunately, Pog too was in motion, and like a giant pendulum, the momentum of his axe could not be stayed. Balagir leapt back and put the fire between himself and the squat, grunting ‘gnilo.

  “Not here!” Gwindle cried, clasping his head, “After him, Pog!”

  Balagir turned and sped east with the kalaqai in tow. Friendship was fickle these days.

  It was the middle of the night when he made it to Wormford. Torches burned in their sconces and braziers lit the larger squares.

  The trouble with ashen—one of the myriad he was discovering—was that they did not trade in coin, favouring a darker currency. Whilst he was quickly coming to appreciate that, it didn’t help where settlers were concerned. Smoke didn’t fill cups.

  As he neared a noisy tavern, he mentally bade Era ensconce herself, and lo, she obeyed. A neat trick. He wondered what else she could do. Judging by Gwindle’s outrage and panic, he was certain she had been important. He was still confused as to what he had witnessed at the tree, but then what was another drop of doubt in a sea of bewilderment.

  The tavern was delightfully named the Tortured Soul, but he did not allow that to deter him. It couldn’t be as dismal as the Broken Spoke.

  Within was a barrage of sound and light, and his time wandering the wilds had made him ill-accustomed to such cacophonous bustle.

  At the bar he ordered a mug of flat beer and took in the room. The cliental was an eclectic bunch. Men made up the majority, but there was the charcoal skin of the birdlike jaegir, the pale oval heads of idris, and the squat, ruddy-nosed forms of ‘gnilos. Gamers huddled in alcoves, reminding him of the charmed Ciga bones in his possession. Women giggled in a corner, casting provocative looks at those whose purses were full. A group of guards in their green livery sat in another corner, drinking away their wages.

  One table in particular caught his eye, however. It was round, nestled in a lantern-lit alcove, surrounded by three laughing ladies and one handsome man. Balagir squinted, picked up his mug, and took a step closer. Ginike was cured, and apparently quite the charmer.

  His look darkened when Balagir approached and sat amongst them.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t Ginike the Striking.” His hood thrown back, Ginike's smooth countenance glowed in all its splendour; his cropped hair, fastidiously arranged into a fashionable quiff.

  “This is a private table, Balagir. Don’t make me call the guards.”

  “Pity there were no guards when you sealed me in the tree and stole my horse.” Ginike looked utterly blank and then apologetically at his lady friends.

  “I think my friend here has had rather too much—”

  “Enjoying being curse free?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ladies, I don’t know what he’s talking about. Where are you going? Ladies!” Balagir smiled.

  “Now that we’re alone, I’ll make one thing clear. Cross me again and pay. Your oaths are not to be trusted.”

  “Has someone hit you on the head?” Ginike barked, his petulance accentuating his youth. “We’ve only met once at Warinkel. Your oath was with Finster, not I.”

  “Look Ginike, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you owe me now. For the horse, for lifting the curse, and for my inconvenience of almost dying.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Did something bite you?”

  “Are you saying you don’t recall the tree? The curse? None of it?” Now that he came to think of it, it was strange how the tree had folded in on itself, vanishing from the world. Just as the stranger had known of the dandal root, as though that conversation had already been foretold. This was the same ashen who had left him at the tree; it was too recent to believe otherwise. And yet, if the tree had not existed, then neither would the curse… He drank deeply, masking his baffled brow.

  “I’ve never been cursed, except maybe with your presence. I’d spent good coin inviting those ladies, now you’ve scared them off.”

  Balagir narrowed his eyes. “You said we last met in Warinkel, then how did you travel here? You don’t recall passing me on the road? Soaksoil? The gully? Nothing?” For an instant, uncertainty touched Ginike’s eyes.

  “To tell the truth, I’m not sure. I came to on my horse, lost in some woods. I put it down to some mushrooms I’d eaten. Anyway, I found the road, recognised where I was, and made my way here, where things were going well until you—What?” Balagir had raised his hand and was looking across the bar. Ginike turned to see the four men recently entered, and smiled grimly. “Looks like justice follows at your heels.” Three of them were wiry, scarred settlers best avoided on a dark night; the fourth, drawn, with a fresh gash across his face, was Finster. “Sellswords,” Ginike said, swigging his beer with satisfaction. “Looks like you really rankled him.” Ginike went to raise his hand in salute, but Balagir grabbed it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Greeting a fellow ashen.”

  “Bring them over here and you’ll be the first that gets stabbed,” Balagir warned icily. There were the guards of course, perhaps the sellswords wouldn’t be so brash. He would have to leave at some point, however, and it was better if they did not know he was here. He pulled his hood so it shaded his eyes and covered his mouth with his beer.

 
; “You know, my silence can be bought,” Ginike said, taking a sip.

  “If you mean an oath, I suggest you stay your tongue. Until I see my horse, you and I are done.”

  Ginike sighed. “Shame. I’d quite fancied a quiet drink and sweet-scented company tonight. I suppose I’ll have to settle for entertainment instead.” He stood, knocking Balagir’s hand from his shoulder and called: “Finster!,” signalling the empty seats at the table. Balagir cursed and swivelled on the bench so that he appeared to be drinking from another table.

  Finster and his entourage sat with their drinks.

  “Ginike.” He nodded. “I did not see you on the road. Pay in smoke?”

  “Just a swift traveller, that’s all. Looks like you’ve had an accident?”

  Finster scowled but did not elaborate. “Tell me, did you happen on Balagir?” Balagir gripped the handle of his mug like a weapon. Ginike’s long pause as he took a drink made the tension palpable. The guards were there, but drunk. Neither did they look favourably on ashen who lived beyond their walls and thus, beyond their laws.

  “I can’t say I did,” he said at last. “Not happy with the oath he did?”

  “He’s a liar and a thief, and I’ll see him burn before I take his smoke.”

  “We’re all liars and thieves, and those who say otherwise are doubly so in their denial. And what of your company? They look like pillars of the community.”

  “At least our currency is clean, ashen,” a man missing an ear spat. For all the men’s unwholesomeness, their eyes were clear.

  “Yes, coin. Cold, hard, practical. Hardly clean.”

  “It buys weapons right enough,” leered another, opening his cloak to reveal a hilt. A scar across his brow had turned one eye white.

  “He has a point. Quite a company you keep,” Ginike said, turning back to Finster, who shrugged.

  “I’ll take help where it’s available and worry about smoke later.”

  “Have you checked the other inns?”

  “Just arrived, rode my horse into the ground hoping to pass him on the road. Matters not. I know he’s come to see Gokin. We’ll wait at the smithy for a month if needs be; he can’t avoid us. Unless he’s dead already of course.” Balagir cursed into his drink. Not only had another obstacle placed itself between him and his main quest, but he could not face these men without a weapon, and the smithy was the only place he knew where to secure one.

  “Heard about the challenge?” Ginike asked, changing the subject. The sellswords began talking amongst themselves, losing interest in the ashen.

  “Heard rumours,” Finster said. “I’ll get this business finished first and see if I might join.” Unsure of what they were talking about, yet relieved he was no longer the subject, Balagir sipped his beer and eavesdropped. They talked for some moments before Finster made his excuses.

  “Time to sweep the taverns. Hopefully catch him drunk.”

  “Good hunting,” Ginike said as the men stood and drifted off. When they were safely through the door, Balagir spun.

  “What were you thinking? To intimidate me?”

  “To obligate you. You see, Gokin and I are acquainted. You may as well forget visiting him. Were I to mediate, on the other hand, a secret meeting could be arranged.”

  “We’re all liars and thieves. Your own words.”

  Ginike shrugged and supped thoughtfully. “If you’ve time and keplas, I’m sure you could eventually outwait them. If you want Gokin to come to your room at midday tomorrow, however, I will extend you an oath.” He considered it, but the horse and the tree were still too fresh in his mind, even if they were utterly absent from Ginike’s.

  “I think not,” he said, draining his drink and standing. The ashen gave an indifferent shrug, but the bitter remark he could not constrain revealed his true feelings.

  “You’d better not be present when Finster comes back, or I’ll be claiming some of the bounty he’s set on you.”

  Balagir left the handsome man alone and crossed to the Ciga tables, where he won easily. The trick of the charmed bones, he discovered, was that they would produce two strong hands and then one terrible one, thus tricking the player into betting confidently and losing. When he counted seventy keplas into his pouch, he retired. Some of the players he had beaten were watching him suspiciously, so he bought them a beer to sweeten their spleen. He need not ruffle any more feathers.

  With the coin, he secured himself a room, and from the small window looked out over the square, where he would occasionally catch glimpses of Finster and his sellswords doing their rounds. The smithy sat in the corner and presented no inconspicuous approach.

  He opened his bag and felt the faint flutter of Era within. He summoned her so that she hummed, suspended in the air before him.

  “I wonder,” he said to himself. With a plan forming in his mind, he stretched back on the lumpy mattress.

  Dawn saw him rested and staking out the stakeout. The forge billowed black smoke up into the cool morning air. He recognised a sellsword lurking in a corner, smoking a pipe. Occasionally he would make hand signals to someone just out of sight, but he could not see if it was Finster or one of his cronies.

  His surveillance was disturbed momentarily when a woman began vomiting beside the well. It was swiftly covered, and a board painted Don’t Drink in large letters was set against it.

  He counted the smoke that pulsed from the chimney, finding a rhythm in its belches. Three, a pause, then two; a longer pause, then repeating. Era fluttered nervously, conscious of his intentions.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said absently as he penned a note for the smith, slid it within the empty vial, and tied it to her body. “Wait for the long pause,” he instructed, needlessly since she seemed to respond just as swiftly to his thoughts as his words. Just then though, the steady rhythm altered. The smoke rose and splurged sporadically. He delayed, but when it did not regain its former pattern, he took measures. Withdrawing the Weak Wayward Path, he slid it between the vial and the kalaqai’s shimmering form. Though to him it was the size of an arrowhead, it covered the front of her body as efficiently as an armoured plate. If it had protected him from the Estwil wights, then it should aid her descent through the funnel of smoke.

  He opened the window a crack and wafted her out into the cool morning air, watching tensely as she floated across the square. She kept high enough that to those below, her form would be no more distinguishable than a moth.

  She hovered uncertainly beside the chimney before a lengthy lull in the smoke gave her the opportunity to breach and plunge.

  Balagir held his breath, willing that she exit the furnace before another fiery eruption belched forth. But even the talisman could not bring such fortune.

  A sharp crack resounded across the square, sending a flock of birds fluttering across the rooftops. A plume of bright green smoke spiralled up into the sky. Suddenly his knees buckled, and only by grasping the sill did he avoid falling. He recovered, mopping sweat from his brow and breathing heavily. In one stroke not only had his plan been thwarted, but he had lost the kalaqai and his talisman. He kicked the bed angrily before grasping his unshod toes in pain.

  By mid-afternoon, still feeling decidedly weak, impatience got the better of caution. The smithy had received various visitors throughout the day; as long as he disguised himself and aroused no suspicion, he could make it past Finster’s sellswords. And once within, well, he would have no shortage of weapons to fight his way back out again should the alarm be sounded. He had keplas enough for days at the inn, but he would not squander them until he had seen what goods the smith stocked. The one-eared mercenary had been replaced by the white-eyed man, and Finster’s thin form could be seen through the window of the Talking Fish, another square fronting tavern. If he was going to wait for an opportune time, it may never come, and surely the forge must soon be closing for the day. Anguished, he donned his pouch and left the room. He took the back door and was passing the outhouse when a bony hand caught his cloak.<
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  Leaping back, he looked upon the drawn figure. So much had he changed, he had to squint to recognise Gwindle.

  “Where is she?” he rasped. His black eyes were misty, his once plump hands were all bones and veins.

  “I’m sorry, Gwindle. She’s gone.”

  He wailed, a thin, terrible sound. “Then you must die.” From the shadows of the outhouse a huge axe head appeared, followed by the sweating form of Pog. “Do it,” he instructed the stumpy ‘gnilo. Pog advanced, but Balagir raised his hand.

  “Kill me, and you’ll never get her back.” Gwindle gasped in faint hope.

  “Who has her now? For I feel she’s no longer close.”

  “The man who ordered me take her from you. I’m sorry for the grief I’ve caused, but my life was forfeit had I not obeyed the oath of another.” Gwindle’s body trembled with rage.

  “Who is this man? Help return the kalaqai and your punishment may be less severe.”

  “You’re in luck. He’s here in Wormford, in the Talking Fish. His name is Finster.”

  “Pog, let’s go,” Gwindle hissed.

  “I’ll await you here,” Balagir said.

  “You’re not leaving my sight,” Gwindle said. “Now move. My life wanes, and I’ve lived too long to die in a stinking privy.”

  They passed through the Tortured Soul and out across the square towards the Talking Fish. Balagir did his best to hide his face. Fortunately, Pog’s axe was large enough to obscure the sun itself; he had just to walk slowly and position himself behind it.

  One of the sellswords noticed something amiss, for he signalled the inn window. A moment later, Finster came out to meet them.

  “Finster?” Gwindle demanded.

  “Who wants to know?” His lip curled as he took in the scrawny ashen, shrivelled as an empty wine skin.

  “Return her at once, and your sufferance will be brief.” Now Finster, had he been of normal temperament, may have asked him what he was talking about. But his patience was all but diminished, and the threat from so wretched an ashen and his fat companion were a welcome vent. The fact that his sellswords were closing in made him rash with confidence. No one had noticed that Balagir had detached himself from the two men and hung behind a cart, watching the scene unfold.