The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “And what precisely befell Guill?”

  “Haryeks. Swiped him aloft, tore him to bits, and let the pieces rain down over Berrat village. On washing day, no less.” Balagir swallowed. Lost for a retort, he instead looked down at the woeful whistle in his hands.

  “Adorn yourselves,” Raf Hader bade. “And swiftly to positions.”

  Balagir felt ridiculous clad in the green smock, holding a whistle he barely knew one end from the other. Fortunately, the others looked equally as preposterous, disarming any suspicion that he was the butt of some belittling joke.

  It may have been the snug-fitting yellow or the fiddle poised gracefully below her chin, but Freya had never looked so comely. She caught him staring, scowled, and instantly scattered any delusions he might have had.

  “Don’t dally, Hader,” she snapped, omitting the respectful prefix from his name.

  “Then let us play.”

  “And how do you propose four ashen achieve such a feat?” Balagir quizzed.

  “We try.”

  So they did, and it sounded as terrible as he had presumed. Several lizards Balagir had not noticed upped and left the cacophony with all the snobbery of critics leaving a theatre. He found a grudging respect for the piper at being able to carry so powerful a tune.

  “It will be raining when we leave,” Igmar predicted sourly.

  “Let us persevere,” Raf Hader said. “We will click. Follow the drum. Slow down. Igmar, keep it steady. Freya, chin up. Balagir, breathe.” The idris was no conductor, and this group would have tested the best, but somehow, they fell into a fragile harmony. The steadied drum calmed them until they played without awareness. Balagir did not realise it had started to sound melodious until he found his fancy boot tapping. He looked up to see if his companions were experiencing the same sense of peace when a shimmering across the floor caught his eye. It appeared to be moving, writhing almost, like thousands of snakes. Except the snakes had fingers and toes, and wrapped and clawed over terrified faces. The people from the picture, the suffering mass; and they, the musicians. Their moans of torment made the drumbeat falter.

  “Hold,” Raf Hader said softly. “Breathe. Don’t stray.” And somehow they pulled the tune back together, like tightening the threads of a tapestry until the image came clear.

  From amongst the churning forms rose a pedestal. The throne from the painting, and upon it sat the large figure—no man this time, but a large lizard clad in the flayed skin of men. The lightning from the orb played across the slithering bodies, crackling and raising shrieks of pain.

  It had become quite clear to Balagir that Raf Hader’s oath had taken a sinister turn, and things would likely exacerbate ere they improved.

  The figure on the throne saw them, and Balagir felt death in that stare. The whistle fell lifelessly from his hands. Only the drum remained, which beat but thrice and was silent. The largatyn, for he felt sure that was what the creature was, smote the floor, a blistering flash igniting the mass. They wailed in agony and were gone.

  “Who disturbs me?”

  “Raf Hader of the ashen, by oath of Delian. Zanlore, your judgement has come.”

  “Then, messengers of Delian, you must die.” He flicked his tongue once and leapt.

  Balagir thought to flee, to escape the dreadful chamber, but the others had drawn their weapons and were circling the large foe. He cursed when he saw the entrance lay on the far side of the chamber, and grudgingly drew his own blade. It shimmered blue with the Fumbling Frostbite. Igmar’s broad blade sung as it descended, but Zanlore’s staff blocked it with a shudder, and his tail swept the large ashen’s feet from beneath him.

  Raf Hader’s twin blades flashed like needles, drawing lines of blood and roars of rage. A thud as Freya’s arrow pierced both excoriated skin and scale drew forth a venomous hiss. Wounded, Zanlore pounced back to his throne, his orange eyes spinning, and from the roots above scuttled a plague of endless black lizards. They swarmed the walls. Some lost their footing and dropped, grazing shoulders and snapping at ears. Raf Hader would pay for this if they made it out.

  He glimpsed the door and ran, kicking and stomping at the ravenous horde; boots bloodied with them; calves bloodied by them. He stopped short of the entrance when he beheld the black tide that swept through it and into the room. He retreated, at times knee-deep now, blood running from a bite on his thigh. Being eaten alive by possessed lizards had not been quite how he had expected to go.

  He focussed on the source, the largatyn who watched on coldly from above. Just then one of Freya’s arrows found its mark, making him hiss with fury. He looked for her but was distracted by Raf Hader’s whirling blades. The idris was too fast even for the largatyn, so he blasted the ashen with blue light from the staff until his skin smoked and he went down beneath a wave of gnashing lizards. Now it was Igmar’s turn to bellow, and he tore through the black sea as though running along a midnight shoreline. His sword met the lizard’s staff, where it sparked and leapt smoking from his hands. Zanlore would have finished him were it not for another arrow finding the soft flesh under his arm. He whirled.

  “Ashen wasp, sting me you will.” And he let loose the orb at her with a whip-crack of lightning. Such a strike would have incinerated the slender girl, but Igmar, who had recovered his wits, moved and took the brunt. His large hat turned to flame on his head, and he staggered backwards, smoke seeping from his body.

  Zanlore turned his ire on Freya, and suddenly Balagir knew he would be alone if he did not act. Even so, it took a lizard taking a chunk from between his shoulder blades to get him moving. He gathered speed and levelled his icy sword. Zanlore turned at the last instant to see his assailant, but it was too late. The sword slid into the same soft flesh the arrow had pierced, and the largatyn bucked in agony, thrashing and wrenching the blade from his grip. Defenceless, Balagir raised his hands apologetically and backed away. Zanlore raised his staff to end him, when his arm unexpectedly stalled in the air. Confounded, he glanced to where the skin around the protruding sword turned to ice. It cracked as he struggled, but continued to spread outwards until his upper quarter was frozen. Hissing, he reached to withdraw the icy splinter, but Freya seized the moment and sank another shaft deep under his jaw. He flinched as if it were a mere annoyance, then coughed, and a string of blood and drool ran from his mouth. Staggering, he made one last deadly bid for Balagir, who stepped beyond his grasp and watched him crumple to the ground. He retrieved his sword even as the sea of lizards, instantly oblivious of the ashen, bore their master towards the painted wall. The floor cleared save for Zanlore’s staff, which lay forgotten on the floor. He seized it, but a voice made him freeze.

  “Put it down and turn slowly around.” He twisted to see Freya’s bow primed and taut. He did as she had bid, shaking his head in self-reproach. Of course they would betray him. But then Igmar was there, bleeding, burnt and hatless, but otherwise alive, and ordering her to lower her bow. As the situation transpired, no one noticed the half-eaten charred remains of Raf Hader drag themselves across the chamber and grasp the orb. It was only when the clinking sound of his feeble attempts to smash it reached them that the tension broke.

  “Stop him,” Freya cried.

  “No,” Balagir said, pointing towards the wall. “Help him.” The lizards had reached the painting, and Zanlore was being sucked back into it, quickening with the oil. Not waiting for approval nor for the sting of Freya’s arrow, he seized the orb and flung it with all his might towards the painting. It hit the wall and exploded in a blinding flash.

  From somewhere within the whiteness, he was aware of many shapes. Bent and crooked human forms shuffling away. When his vision returned, the room, apart from the bloodstains and lizard cadavers, was as they had found it. But the picture had changed. In the centre, where once the pedestal had stood, hung an iron pot over a flame. In the pot the trussed form of Zanlore the largatyn silently screamed, and about him the dancing, disfigured humans were hungry for the feast.

  Sm
oke swirled in the air and entered their belts; Raf Hader was no more.

  They left the cavern one less than they had entered, and decidedly more dishevelled. Lifeless lizards rained down from the trees as they staggered away from the fissure into the woods. There the black smoke of the idris’ oath circled them and vanished into their belts. That should have been cause for celebration; instead they moved southwards without a word.

  The last of the lizards had fallen, and they were rejoining the trail when Balagir found his tongue.

  “Someone might have thought to mention we were summoning a lizard lord.”

  “Raf Hader’s oath,” Igmar said darkly. “He held back some details.”

  “That was more than a detail. I’d state that was the essence,” Balagir fumed. “No resistance, he said. The conniving—”

  “Do not speak ill of the dead,” Igmar said, clearly upset.

  “I’ll speak ill of whoever almost gets me killed.”

  “Well, he’s gone, and we’ve levelled. Let’s move on,” Freya said icily.

  His anger wavered somewhat at her calculating tone. As though she would not so much as bat an eye if the same had happened to him. Igmar’s face, on the other hand, was heavy with grief, and it was evident he had lost an old ally. The loss of his hat had added years too, his balding head lined with an old scar and his left ear hanging like a red rag. Balagir sighed and walked a few more paces in silence before speaking.

  “I guess that means we recruit another? I’m beginning to see why you have such a swift turnover.”

  “It will be difficult,” Igmar said wearily. “The next hub is Galnmere, where the gathering is even now underway. Most will be grouped, save the weak and treacherous that have been rejected.”

  “Regarding treachery,” Balagir said, turning to the ashen woman, “I haven’t forgotten that you threatened to shoot me.”

  Freya shrugged. “I couldn’t let you take the orb.”

  “Yet you seemed ready to.”

  “Let’s put the bickering aside,” Igmar said heavily. “The Good Company must hold strong.”

  It certainly didn’t feel strong. Or good. Balagir looked at Igmar’s tired, burnt face and blood-soaked shoulder; then at Freya’s cold, distant stare. His own wounds nagged, along with the notion that the Good Company may not be worthy of either part of its name.

  That night was an uncomfortable one. Conversation was minimal, and with one less member to keep guard, rest was scant. Balagir bound his wounds with a strip from his cloak. He may have had enough smoke on him to honour the next fire, but his appearance was of a bedraggled settler with no levels to tell.

  He consoled himself that he still had his sword, and as he cleaned Zanlore’s blood on the leaves, he wondered at the talisman and what other combinations he might obtain.

  When he dozed, his dreams were troubled by black lizards, and whilst he watched, he imagined Zanlore’s face peering at him from the shadows between the trees.

  Morn brought with it a steady rain. As they trudged out of camp saturated to their skins, the company could not have looked more wretched. Balagir began to fancy that it would be the other ashen reluctant to join them and not the contrary.

  Even so, Igmar’s spirits lifted in the early afternoon when, by cutting across country, they happened upon one of the trees Balagir had bandied with on the road to Estwil.

  “What entity is this? I’ve crossed one before.”

  Igmar’s brow rose. “Where, might I ask?”

  “North of Wormford,” Balagir lied cautiously.

  “Hm. It’s a tree of spoils,” he said feverishly. “A mage tree,” he elaborated when he saw Balagir’s blankness.

  “Mage?”

  “Askaba,” Freya corrected with a word that sounded to Balagir as though he knew it from a dream.

  “Askaba, no,” Igmar said, shaking his head. “They bind themselves to the Dunns in the south, and have ever followed a different path. Magic is not their way.” Freya rolled her eyes and looked away, bored of the topic. “Whoever enchanted these trees,” Igmar continued, undeterred, “it was done so for a purpose. War. I’ve met no settler that remembers of war in the north, save those that speak of Soaksoil, so these trees are old beyond reckoning.”

  “Spoils,” Balagir said, tasting the word. “A curious name.”

  “Aye. Items of worth would be sealed with spells in the roots of these trees to prevent the plundering of their corpses, should they fall in battle. It’s rumoured as many as a hundred still remain, though they be scattered and lost; their owners never returned. If you say you’ve seen one, mark well its location. Now,” he said, rubbing his hands matter-of-factly, “I suppose this one falls to me.”

  “That’s presumptuous.”

  “I mean no offence, but unless you disguise it well, I judge you not yet able.”

  “I could try,” Balagir said. Freya smirked, the closest expression he had seen to a smile, and Igmar stepped aside, splaying his hands and bowing with pleasure.

  He approached the tangle of roots warily, remembering well his last brush with them. The chest was visible but imprisoned as though embraced by rigid tentacles. He unsheathed his sword and swiped at the thickest root, leaving but a mere scratch. Then, quick as a serpent, a root shot out and grabbed his ankle. He was on the floor being dragged towards the tree, when other larger roots snaked out and beat him like clubs. He held his hands over his face, but his ribs were bruised and his gut winded.

  “Enough,” Igmar said, after what felt like an unnecessarily long time. He stepped forward and held his hand over the roots. Smoke trickled from his fingertips and into the tree, and the roots withdrew from the beaten Balagir to expose the chest.

  Balagir brooded the rest of the afternoon. Not only had he humiliated himself and ached in places unto now unknown, but Igmar had taken a sack of coin too old to be keplas, a snake scale talisman, and an enticing diagram he rolled up and dropped in his pouch.

  He felt it then, stronger than ever; the lure, the ambition, the calling of the smoke. There would be more trees of spoils, and he would be ready for them. The equipment he owned beyond his capability ached to be tested. There were too many dangers he dared not face and barriers he could not cross. The ashen, his only allies, seemed ready to betray him at every turn. The smoke seemed the answer to all, and the piper, the curious arbitrator through which he must peddle.

  The trail descended along the banks of a rushing river, and steadily they merged with other ashen making their way south to Galnmere.

  The hub was sheltered on the north by shrub-studded dunes and a great body of water stretched off to the south. The river they had followed spilled into it and vanished, lost like a coin once so coveted tossed into a hoard. Despite its differences from Warinkel and Wormford, the piper remained the same, as did the eerie melody which clawed their minds, familiar as a lullaby hummed at forgotten cradles.

  There were perhaps a score gathered, and although cordial, they remained segregated in defined groups of varying size. The Good Company was by all reckoning the smallest and sorriest of the lot. Those that weren’t talking or trading were in smoke trances, recuperating from recent journeys.

  Balagir picked out Ginike, regaling a group with tales of his exploits. Their eyes met briefly, but no exchange was offered. One by one they approached and paid their smoke; Freya first, then Igmar, and finally Balagir. The tune changed, and the other ashen became little more than silhouettes against the flare of the fire’s acceptance.

  VI

  DYING DEATHS

  Balagir must have spent most of the night in a trance, for when he came to, the stars were fading over the channel. His wounds from the lizard bites had healed, though the white scars from their teeth would serve as souvenirs. Otherwise he felt rested, stronger, and hungry to continue. What this day would bring, he dared not ponder, but the nag of the clear orbs on his belt gave him to muse privately on ways he might refill them.

  The ashen still hung in various gr
oups, talking quietly. Freya and Igmar consorted with another at his side, and addressed him when he made his sentience known.

  “Balagir, Rych; Rych, Balagir. Meet the newest member of the Good Company.”

  Balagir looked the strange fellow over, silently stung they had made such a decision without him. Rych was dressed from head to toe in wispy, grey rags, giving him the appearance he had stumbled through a giant web rather than purposely dressed. His skull-masked face and scythe would have been more daunting had he not stood so small and spoken with a high-pitched, almost genderless timbre.

  Once the introductions were done, they continued discussing the uncertainties of the impending challenge.

  “The time is upon us,” Igmar said, glancing towards the east. “It’s well we are rested; today we will need our wits about us. Which reminds me, we want no nasty surprises. Is there anyone here you think you might have crossed?” Balagir looked around, lingering on Ginike, and shook his head. If anything, Ginike ought to be wary of him. “And that man there?” Igmar prompted. Balagir glanced, and his eyes stuck on two black points of ire.

  “Finster,” he breathed.

  “He’s not taken his eyes off you since he arrived. Something we should know?”

  “The man tricked me; I returned the favour.”

  “Well, luckily for you—for us—conflict is forbidden in the piper’s presence, but it’s an added nuisance we may have to be wary of once the challenge starts.”

  “And you?” Balagir asked, irked at the inference he had somehow jeopardised the group. “Never rubbed anyone the wrong way?” Igmar laughed, healed now, though bereft of an ear and his hat.

  “Ah, the capricious nature of our kind. Indeed, everyone outside the Good Company could be labelled such at this moment. But any personal altercations I’ve had are settled. Best not let bad blood boil.”