by C F Welburn
“Farewell,” he said and took off across the plateau.
Nifla’s cries of fury followed him and, before long, turned into wails of terror.
Balagir was dusty and bruised by the time midday found him descending onto the trail once more. His anger at Nifla’s betrayal was offset by the jaegir’s abrupt and brutal comeuppance.
Hompa awaited him by a gnarled tree at the roadside, an ugly smile splitting his ruddy face. Balagir paused, checking his sword. The gesture only made the horlock’s grin widen.
“So, you’ve honoured your oath. I’m impressed.”
Balagir shrugged. “Your people should change their customs if they wish to avoid so simple a trap.”
“Alas, bravado oft clouds sense. Such archaic customs must be tweaked once I assume command.”
“Command?”
“My brother, who incited the banishment, is dead. I’m the blood successor; hacked horns or no, there are none who’d defy me.”
“From outcast to granfeder? That’s quite the climb.”
“There’s more to politics than wasteful words. Actions get things done.”
“Rocks get things done, evidently. And were your actions to become knowledge?”
For the first time, Hompa’s smile faded. Straightening, he loomed a clear foot over Balagir.
“Who’d be so foolish to start such slander?” There was a crispness to his voice that could wilt a flower.
“Who indeed,” Balagir said, dismissing the subject.
“You’ve your smoke, I’ve my clan. Shall we quit whilst we’re ahead?”
There was a dangerous challenge in his yellow eyes.
“I’ve no qualms with turning the other cheek.”
“That’s what I thought.” Hompa let his shoulders relax so the veins were not quite so prominent in his muscular neck. “And the jaegir?” he asked, almost as an afterthought.
“Didn’t make it.”
“Ahh, shame. I don’t suppose you saw what became of those bones of his?” The question was ambiguous. The Ciga bones were in his possession, the others were likely broken to bits by now. “He wasn’t a bad one, as far as ashen go.”
“If you say so.”
“Tried to take advantage, did he? Ha. He wanted the smoke for himself, and now you’ll get it. Such are the vicissitudes of the wilds. As for me, I’m off. The clan shall be in turmoil until I seize control. We’ve some ground to cover.”
“You’re headed south?”
“Aye. Striking while the iron’s hot. These are the days of great opportunity. Oaths aside, you’ve seen justice done. Should our paths cross again, I shall see the horlocks show you… tolerance.”
“Most kind,” Balagir said drily.
As Hompa strode triumphantly north to claim his mantle, Balagir let the thick smoke fill his belt. He wasted no more time and reached the hub as the shadows lengthened.
His offering was accepted with the flurry of flute he had come to find most gratifying. The flames flared and filled the world with crimson, as a glass is filled with wine.
V
THE GOOD COMPANY
The reverie broke. These moments were like waking from a slumber, impossible to distinguish if one had slept five minutes or as many days.
Three unfamiliar ashen slowed their conversation when they saw he was cognitive.
“Took your good time, son.”
Balagir squinted at the large man, whose hooked nose was the only prominent feature beneath a broad-brimmed hat.
“I was unaware there was any rush,” he said sullenly.
“Then you’re not headed for the challenge?”
Balagir frowned.
“He doesn’t know of it,” said another voice, female and condescending. “Look at him. We’re wasting our time.”
“He does seem fresh,” an oval-headed idris, who made up the third, commented. “Yet a curious collection he has upon him.” Balagir noticed them examining his boots, and then Nifla’s strength band visible in his sleeve. He cursed himself for being careless with his inventory, regrouped, and went back to staring at the fire.
“What challenge?” he was forced to ask, despising the girl for her disdain. Her hard face and cropped black hair made her fierce, despite a petite stature.
The man in the large hat, contrarily, had mirth in his voice.
“Seems you’ve acquired wealth beyond your wisdom. Tell me from whence you hail.”
“Warinkel.”
“Ah. Lonely place. News might not have reached you. Let I then, Igmar, be the first to invite you.”
“I need not your invitations, nor oaths, nor schemes. I’ve a destination, and I’ll ask you to keep your nose from my affairs.” The man’s large nose actually twitched at this.
“There, there. Who’s crossed you?”
The girl snorted. “Can’t even do the man a favour. Told you so. Now let’s be off.”
“Just about everyone’s crossed me. Why should this be any different?”
Igmar, crouching, tipped back his large hat until Balagir looked into his black eyes.
“This is different,” he said seriously. “You know how much smoke is at stake? Look, I’ll be candid. We could use another ashen. We’re a tight group, but one more would be prudent to see it through.”
“See this challenge through?”
“Precisely.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Of course!” Igmar almost relished. “How could it not be? The risks equal the rewards.”
Balagir raised his brow at what felt like the first thread of honesty he had heard since awakening. He nodded for Igmar to continue.
“The piper sets us one, once in a while. Such a prize is coveted by the ashen. We are a small band, yet the reward will be split generously amongst so few.”
“In which direction does it lie?”
“South.”
“Of course it does.”
“Do I sense an interest?”
“You might.”
The big man clicked his fingers. “I knew it.”
“You’ve just proven he’s greedy, not capable,” the girl said.
“Don’t mind Freya,” Igmar said. “She’s just lost a bet.”
Freya sighed, turning to regard the fire.
“Exactly how big a reward are we talking?”
“Enough to get those boots working, I’d warrant,” the idris said, his bald, pale-skinned dome reflecting the firelight. “Name’s Raf Hader.”
“I’d say,” said Igmar, clapping his large hands like thunder. “Enough to pass the boundary to boot.”
“The boundary?”
“Your destination lies south, does it not?”
“Yes. South, and south some more. One foot before the other.”
“And when you can go no further? What then?” Balagir grunted. He was tired of always knowing less than everyone else. This was perhaps an opportune time to swallow his pride and learn something.
“And what exactly is this… boundary?”
Igmar shrugged. “None know. Settlers claim it does not exist, yet it’s a force no ashen may breach save those who’ve earned it.”
“And this challenge will yield enough to pass?”
“He’s a bright one, eh?” Igmar laughed.
“He’s as green as they come,” Freya growled. “Challenges are called so for due reason.”
Igmar considered and in due course, nodded. “True. You’re committed, or you’re not. Dead weight is not something we will bear. Throw your lot in with us, and we will triumph or fail together.”
Balagir deliberated. Boundary or no, it was clear he was sadly lacking for his long journey south. If the rewards promised were true, then he may as well work with this Igmar. They were heading in the same direction after all, and he seemed less foul than Finster and less conniving than Ginike. Shame the same could not be said for Freya, but then he could not have everything. The idris, for his part, seemed frank enough; his black eyes were calm, suggesting a ca
lculated intelligence within.
“When do we leave?”
“We came here to trance, and you, my friend, were the last to wake. We were waiting on you.”
“Then let’s go,” he said, feeling refreshed and strong.
“A man who wastes little time,” Raf Hader acknowledged, satisfied, though Freya still reserved judgement.
Igmar extended a hand, and Balagir warily accepted.
“Welcome to the Good Company, son.”
Balagir raised a brow but chose not to comment on the somewhat biased name.
“How far to this hub?”
“Three days afoot, and we must make a stop along the way,” Igmar declared, already on his feet.
“A stop?”
“Yes. Raf Hader here has a certain oath pending. If we help him, then we may all pay the piper once more before accepting the challenge. Anything we can do to better ourselves will help.”
“An oath?” Balagir repeated, eyes narrowing. “Convenient of you not to mention it before.”
“You need not do it,” the idris said, “for it has not fallen to you. But should you decide to help, I’ll share the smoke, so that we may all answer the challenge that bit stronger.”
“Tell me more on the road, and I’ll consider.”
“I’d expect no less,” Raf Hader said.
“Are we going to sit around talking all day?” Freya snapped
“No.” Igmar smirked. “Let’s be off. With such zest for smoke, how can we fail?”
The question hung rhetorically as they left the hub. Strange to be abroad in such copious company.
There was something to be said for numbers; he no longer flinched nor wheeled at each crack of twig, trusting to the experience of his companions.
Igmar was the most talkative of the group, and the most welcoming. His wide hat, Balagir noticed, had several talismans sewn into the brim, each as strange as the last. Within the folds of his long cloak hung a sword adorned with a glowing charm. The combination of his greying beard and large hat obscured most of his face save the hooked nose, and he strode long, purposeful strides that greedily devoured distance.
Raf Hader was more peculiar. Once he had gotten over the strangeness of his hairless, oval head and jaundiced yellow skin, the idris seemed essentially human. Unlike Igmar’s billowing cloak, the graceful idris wore tight-fitting garments that accentuated his slenderness, and revealed his belt adorned with as many pending oaths as it bore talismans. He sported twin blades as slim as fingers and as long as forearms, and looked capable of dicing an apple in the air with them.
Freya was the grimmest and most distant of the three. Her angular face could have been pretty had she not worn a permanent scowl; her eyes were hard and mistrustful. She was dressed in an armour of dark, hardened leather, a bow at her back and a cruel, serrated dagger on her belt. She was the youngest of the three, perhaps of his own age.
Balagir himself walked with his hood down. His beard was becoming wild, but his hair was long enough to tie back, allowing the slanting sun to warm his face. Knowing his eyes were as black as his companions’ was a surreal thought.
The first night passed with small detail. They took turns at watch, and Balagir’s stint was only disrupted by a far-off hooting and a single bloodcurdling screech. He dozed in fits, making sure his pouch and boots were securely fastened and his sword at hand. He trusted no one.
The second day dawned bright, and they struck south, skirting bright green woodland broken by wild meadows that swayed drunkenly in the breeze.
In such amiable travelling conditions, he seized the opportunity to unravel some of the beguiling knot.
“Why do we not simply warp?” He used the terminology Gokin had as though it were a phenomenon he was comfortably acquainted with.
“Smoke’s too precious a commodity. Why waste it for the sake of a couple of days?”
“Fair enough.”
“On occasions it’s prudent, even necessary, yes. But only when the gains eclipse the losses. One has to weigh these decisions shrewdly.”
“If I may enquire,” asked the idris, “where did you get such splendid boots? The craftsmanship is exemplary. Coilweave, if I’m not mistaken.”
“A farmer gave them me in exchange for clearing out his barn.”
“Might one be willing to trade? It seems they are as yet useless to you?”
“As they would be to you, Raf Hader,” said Freya irritably.
“She speaks,” Balagir commented, to which she swung her piercing eyes upon him.
“Those boots are as worthless as bare feet. More so, for in a river they would drag you down.”
“But warmer,” amended the idris. Based on the comments his boots attracted, he felt they were more extraordinary than he had thought. He began to disguise them, trampling and stomping through the puddles that pooled the roadside, kicking up dust so it rose and stuck.
“Wise,” Igmar noted. “Not all ashen are as polite as our idris here. Some will take what they like and your life smoke with it. Flaunting is a precarious vice in the company of green-eyed men.”
“Yet you show your charmed sword.”
“Enchanted; there’s a difference. And I rather think having it on show is more of a deterrent than an invitation, unlike your boots, which offer no obvious threat.” Balagir grunted, and the conversation lulled.
When they stopped at midday, Freya glared suspiciously as something writhed within his pouch.
“Keep a mouse as a pet?”
All three were bent upon his response, attempting to fathom him out as much as he was them. He hesitated before beckoning the kalaqai to emerge. She rose like a green star in the dappled air.
“My, my. You’re full of surprises,” Igmar said, unable to tear his gaze from the spectacle.
“What manner of chisp is that?” Freya asked, her voice rife with distrust.
“It’s a kalaqai,” he said to the circle of blank faces. Eventually it was the idris who spoke.
“Such a creature is fable. I heard an old ashen speak of it once.”
“Then behold your fable.”
“Impossible,” Raf Hader dismissed. “And in any case, it’s the wrong hue.”
“A stroke with luck has stained her thus.”
Uncertainty touched his face. “But if this is true, then what befell her previous wielder? How can it live, and they not?”
Balagir shrugged dismissively. “He’d grown weary. Wanted an end.”
Igmar shook his head, confused as Raf Hader elaborated.
“The kalaqai I heard tell of is bound to a life, and that life to it.”
Balagir nodded. “It’s true. Gwindle, her owner, was quite the ancient, and tired as the hills for it. He was hollowed out when she left him.”
Igmar stroked his beard pensively. “One must grow jaded after so many years in the wilds.”
“I can scarce believe it,” the idris murmured.
“See,” Igmar said, grinning. “Told you we’d chosen a good man.”
Raf Hader mumbled something inaudible, but Freya remained tight-lipped, her white knuckles never leaving her dagger as they kicked out the fire and pressed on.
After their respite, they left the road at a fork whose signpost was too worn to be legible. A dark lizard sat atop, regarding them with swirling orange eyes, flicking its tongue and hissing indecently. Henceforth the sibilating accompanied them, reverberating across the canopy until Balagir felt sure that wherever they were going, they were expected.
“What of this oath, Raf Hader?” he voiced, only after the introduction of the kalaqai had had time to settle in.
“There’s a cavern not far from here. It will not keep us long.”
“Something tells me that said cavern is not a pleasant place.”
“It has its history,” the idris explained cagily, “but has been quiet these lingering years. We shall find no resistance there.”
“We shall see,” Balagir contested grimly, and they pushed on
through brambles as the lizards filled the air with their susurrus.
The cavern, as they are wont to do, looked ominous. Little more than a fissure at its entrance, it soon opened up enough for them to walk abreast. Despite Raf Hader’s assurance, his swords were loose, and Balagir’s hand hovered at hilt. Once the light behind them had diminished to the size of a kepla, a new light revealed itself. It came from a large chamber, whose ceiling was a thatch of twisted roots crisscrossed with shafts of stabbing sunlight, a swirl with motes. On the far wall was a painted mural, and as they drew near, Balagir was awed by its detail. Its centrepiece portrayed a podium upon which sat a large, stern-faced man; garbed in lizard scales and brandishing a staff that pulsed blue light. About his feet curled men and women, naked and fearful. Their pleading eyes and up-reaching hands told of woe and despair. They filled every inch of the wall unto the borders where, in each of the four corners, stood a musician. One red man with a drum, one green with a whistle, a purple figure with a lute, and a yellow fellow with a fiddle.
Raf Hader startled them all by clapping his hands.
“Good. It’s as I prepared. Please, if you will.” Without further ado, he began handing out items to the group. When Balagir noted the green garb and whistle, he felt uneasy.
“To positions,” the idris continued, as if they were performing a regular task. It was then Balagir noticed the four pedestals, one in each corner of the square chamber, and suspicion reared.
“You’ve always needed four people to complete this oath. Does this challenge even exist?” Igmar sighed.
“You’ve us sussed. It exists, to be sure. But first we needed you for this.”
“Then why not tell me?”
“Would you have come?”
“And why me? The fires are not short of ashen.”
“We were desperate. You find our group in a time of mourning.”
“You refer to this company?”
“The Good Company, yes. We’ve always been four. Occasionally one of us gets replaced. You take the place of Guill. He perished.” Balagir did not know whether to feel honoured or betrayed. Either way, the fate of his predecessor hardly bolstered his confidence.
