The Ashen Levels Read online

  ©2019 Craig Farndale Welburn.

  All Rights Reserved.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For my parents, Carol and Paul Welburn.

  Special thanks to my beta readers Matthew Welburn, Gus Chou Castro, William Penney and Benjamin Jager, and my editor Holly M. Kothe.

  Cover art by Benjamin Jager.

  THE ASHEN LEVELS

  “A man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time.”

  — Homer, The Odyssey

  PART 1: FLEDGLING

  0

  THE FLUTE AND THE FLAME

  The flute or the flame, the flame or the flute; which came first? A question for the ages.

  If the flame were the wavering sun on the surface that lured him from dark depths, then the flute was the hook that snagged and heaved. To strand him, gasping and round-eyed in the lambent red light.

  The clearing swam into view, and he was not alone. On the fire’s far side sat two men. One clasped his knees, face hidden in the shadows of his cowl, a large wooden shield upon his back; the other, thin-faced and long-limbed, black eyes dancing with the flames into which he gazed. He did not look up.

  It was neither of these who dominated his attention, but a third figure. The one who loomed over them; the perpetrator of the music.

  He knew unease as his perusal swept the tall form—from hooves and curiously jointed knees, over black-robed torso, unto bovine snout and crooked antlers that sprouted from a wide, flat head. His eyes finally rested on the flute which was worked nimbly by long man-like fingers, sending the plaintive melody out across the dark night.

  He shuffled back, but the creature did not flinch. Neither did it register when he stood to wave a hand before its unseeing eyes. In fact, it seemed little more than an apparition. A projection from another plane that shimmered on the fabric of air.

  “You’re wasting your time.” A voice came from behind. He turned to meet the dark stare of the thin man. His long face sported a wispy moustache and pointed beard, his eyes were black holes in the night.

  “Where am I? Who’s he?” He struggled to prioritise the surge of questions that jostled for attention. The man smirked and looked back to the fire, bored by so predictable an outburst.

  Balagir took this moment to gather himself. For that was his name. Balagir. He was sure of it. But how had he come here? Where was here? He cast his mind back, though nothing but blankness awaited. Loose threads, tantalising wisps that vanished when he examined them, grasping at mist to find hands empty.

  He sank down beside the fire, whose flames made shadow play upon the knotted boles of the encroaching trees.

  He made a brief inspection of himself; a confused exploration of fingers which found his cheeks grown out with stubble, his hair in tangles unto broad shoulders. He wore a black cloak and carried a pouch he found in no way familiar. Something restrictive embraced him—an unusual belt of thick leather, studded with flat, pale discs. He fumbled with the buckle, which seemed devoid of any functional mechanism.

  “You’re still wasting your time.” It was the same voice, though there was amusement in it now.

  “At risk of wasting more, will you answer my former question?”

  “Which one?” returned the man drily. Balagir bristled, but since the hooded fellow showed no signs of engaging, and the unnerving creature seemed altogether incapable of discourse, he counselled himself to patience.

  “Where are we?” he repeated, clipping his words.

  The man smiled, his eyes blacker than the night beyond the circle.

  “Warinkel hub.”

  Balagir waited, but it became apparent he was not about to elaborate.

  Warinkel. He tested the word. He had heard it before. Long ago it seemed. Or maybe he recalled it from a dream. As to what the hub signified, he was at a loss.

  “Who is he?” he proceeded, nodding towards the creature.

  “The piper. The one we pay.”

  “Pay what exactly? Is it a ghost?”

  Balagir frowned as the thin man smiled craftily.

  “We all know what it’s like to be lost. To lack direction.” Balagir blinked. He was lost. Hopelessly. Yet he was loath to admit it to a circle of strangers on a dark night in the middle of nowhere. He made as if to protest, but his efforts were stayed with a dismissive wave. “In truth you’ve been fortunate arriving just now, with help so close at hand.”

  “Beware what he offers.” The hooded man spoke at last.

  His face, though mostly hidden, was young, and raw with a mottled rash disturbing enough to warrant its concealment. The brief flash of his eyes revealed them likewise to be black.

  “Pay no heed to Ginike here,” the thin man said irritably. “He’s got himself a case of the curse. His mind wanders, else he’d realise that all three of us would benefit.”

  The one named Ginike bowed his head and said no more.

  “I’m Finster. Just so you know who you’re dealing with.”

  Finster and Ginike. That was about as formal as introductions were likely to get. The former must have been approaching forty winters, whilst the other, difficult as it was to tell, couldn’t have seen many more than thirty. He studied Finster’s sly face for a moment—the sort you would not trust even in broad daylight—before succumbing.

  “What is it you think you could offer me?”

  “Direction.”

  “And how would you know what direction befits me?”

  He shrugged. “Do you?”

  “And in return?”

  “No great deal.” His black eyes gleamed. “A favour for a favour.”

  Balagir was not taken with the idea of being indebted, but what was there to bind him? He would seek advice from the stranger, and if he decided to act on it, he may, or may not, decide to reciprocate. Indeed, there was no telling he would even come back here. With that in mind, he accepted.

  “Very well. But your advice must be of value.”

  A thin smile tugged at the corner of Finster’s lips.

  “Then we’re of an accord. Firstly, you’d do well to check your pouch.”

  Balagir’s eyes narrowed.

  “What would you know of that?”

  “It’s merely a logical place to begin.”

  Allowing his eyes to linger suspiciously, he took a moment to investigate. As he had suspected, empty. But—wait, something cold in the corner. He cupped his hand to examine it free from prying eyes. A worn amulet. No bigger than a coin, made of bronze, smooth and dull. There may have been an inscription of some sort, but the size, the gloom, and the fact he was trying to observe it secretly made it impossible to divine.

  “Looks like your first clue.”

  Balagir shot him a look. “Have you pried?”

  “One does well to know the company they keep in these dim days.”

  “What else did you take? Where are my things?”

  “You had none. Nothing save that scrap. It’s worthless, I do not doubt. But it may steer you with something pertaining to purpose.”

  Balagir tilted the amulet and examined it properly. It did look worthless, and even had it been in good condition, he failed to imagine it impressing. The faint tracing of an emblem was barely discernible; like a coin passed through too many fingers.

  “Nothing, huh?” Finster chimed. “How sad. Luckily for you, that’s where I come in.”

  “You ramble.”

  “Perhaps. But I only in words. You Balagir, do so on your path.”

  “You know my name?”

  “Even the flute cannot drown the fever of some men’s mutterings.”

  He shrugged. “You know my name, I know yours. It wields no power.”

  “Knowledge is power here,” F
inster said. “Knowing your path and walking it. Do you know your path, Balagir?” The words were swallowed up by the night, sucked through the dark spaces in the trees as he looked from one ominous path to another. He didn’t. Warinkel was just a word. A memory as dim as the fringes of the fire.

  “What did you mean by clue?” he asked, at length.

  “Something to give you meaning.”

  “I need no trinket for that.”

  “If you say so.”

  He found his patience waning. “Out with it then. This flute is a driving distraction.”

  “So, you agree to the oath?”

  “An oath? You mean to bind me?”

  “Think of it as a favour owed once you’re back this way.”

  “I don’t mean to return.”

  Finster laughed. Even Ginike’s mottled face smiled cruelly within its hood.

  “What say you?”

  “I think not.”

  “Suit yourself. Take your pick of paths.”

  Balagir stared grimly at each dark mouth. Four paths, each more harrowing than the last.

  At length, he sighed. “Go on.”

  Finster smiled and began to speak. As he did so, Balagir felt a curious vibration at his waist. He snatched his cloak back to see one of the flat discs was now imbued with a honey-coloured light. Finster paused, his grin wolfish.

  “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Why, that’s your oath.”

  “Then rescind it, I want no part of this.”

  “Ha. Were that possible, you’d not see Ginike here so glum. No, I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.”

  Balagir stared anew at the two men.

  “What are you? Why are your eyes black?”

  “We’re ashen. As are you.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Be sure to find a looking glass in Mudfoot.”

  “Where?”

  Finster gave an impatient shake of his head and looked back to the flames as Balagir rubbed and buffed furiously at the glowing disc to no avail. Finally, he let his cloak fall back, demanding that Finster finish and be quick about it.

  “As I said, Mudfoot. You’ll find the smith there; Roule’s his name. A rare talent for such a backwater. A waste, really. He has experience with talismans and such. I’d start there. And get yourself a blade while you’re at it. Only a fool goes abroad unarmed. Or a wraith.”

  “Is my welfare your concern? Or the fulfilment of this oath?” Finster looked sidelong at Ginike.

  “A quick one, isn’t he?”

  “Where lies this… Mudfoot?” The name also nagged with an odd familiarity, yet he could not place where or when he had heard it.

  “North, five miles hence.”

  Balagir looked skyward, but the constellations were strange.

  “I’d advise you wait for sunrise. Ill things walk abroad in these parts. Yet if you’re eager, I can teach you a trick. You see the brightest star in the sky?”

  He squinted and found it. “That’s north?”

  “No. To the left and down a little, can you see that speck?” He shielded his eyes from the fire, and after a few moments thought he detected something.

  “That fleck of orange?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Yes. That’s Baramunda.”

  “And that’s north?”

  “No. It’s northeast, but it’s as true as you’ll get. Know it well. It’s one of few friends you’ll find on the road, and no guide will give you such honest direction.” Balagir glanced once more at the space where he thought it had been, but already it was lost behind a wisp of cloud.

  “I’ve given you much for such paltry return, now make haste so that my generosity may be compensated.”

  Balagir hid his smirk. He could not wait to see the back of this place and could imagine no desire to return. The belt was a small matter. A trifle. He would cut it free on the road. Perhaps use the sword Finster had advised him to purchase as an ironic gesture.

  But as Finster sat back, his black eyes reflecting the flames in satisfaction, Balagir knew doubt. He had the sensation he had walked into a trap without truly understanding what the trap might be.

  At last, with a flush of salmon, the long night ended. He waited until the shadows had receded and left with little in the way of farewells to the unsavoury company he had briefly kept. He had nothing save an empty pouch, the garments on his back, the awkward belt, and an inkling of destiny. He spared a glance for the piper, who seemed neither to notice nor care for his departure, then he turned to the north, his back to the flames.

  0.i

  MUDFOOT

  And so it was that Balagir set forth, unsure of what he sought, but bolstered somewhat by the sun on his skin and the birdsong that gradually replaced that eerie flute. What strange fellows he had passed the night with, and he wasn’t purely referring to the fey piper. Ashen, they had said, and tried to alarm him with their japes. Oh well, it was done now. He was on his way, somewhere. A few steps closer to what he hoped was home. Certainly, the name Mudfoot seemed familiar, and where bells rang, ropes surely led to known hands.

  He was perhaps a mile down the road when things went awry.

  Carelessly kicked mauve plants engulfed him in spores, setting his eyes to stream and his feet to stumble; over verge, through briar and bramble, ceasing waist-deep in a brook that snaked the floor.

  He examined his torn wrist, cursing whilst batting away apparitions that swooped and dived.

  Where the thorns had punctured, a yellow puss oozed, and when he flexed his fingers, they felt not his own.

  Sodden and disheartened, he crawled through the mud to lean giddily against an old bole. He assessed the slope down which he had fallen. It was too steep to climb, though it gave signs of levelling out further on. Thus he continued, hugging the trail above, all the while wary of further foul flora. His shredded cloak trailed behind him and finally tore free on spindly shrubs that clung at his calves. Shivering, intoxicated, and wounded, his venture had not begun well.

  It was midmorning when he came upon a clearing and was able to judge the sun’s trajectory. He was still northbound but had drifted from the original trail. He became aware of an oddness about this place; a silence that even the birds failed to fill. He decided not to linger.

  No sooner had he reached the centre of the clearing than it bloomed with a sudden unnatural mist. A giggling made him wheel to see a brown-haired girl in a blue dress on the path behind him. His skin prickled at the melancholy sound; the sad echo of mirth. She could not have had seen more than eight summers. She clapped her hands in sudden delight.

  “Mister, come play our game.”

  “Yes,” said another voice, and he spun to see an identical girl on the path he had been headed. He wondered at her speed, but sidestepping saw they were indeed two.

  “What game?” he asked uneasily, looking to the path. But they circled him slowly, and his direction was confounded.

  “Yes, Father’s game! Let’s play it.”

  “Yes,” said the other.

  “I’m afraid I’ve a pressing matter. Why don’t I stop on my way back?” Both girls giggled.

  “Silly. That is the game.”

  “You must choose your path.”

  “Yes. Like Father taught us.”

  Balagir frowned. “And how, devoid of sun, must I determine my path? This mist is beguiling.”

  “The sun rises.”

  “The sun sets.”

  “I’ve gathered as much, yet I see not how it aids me now.”

  “He doesn’t know.” One of the girls giggled, clasping her mouth.

  “Of course he doesn’t.”

  “He couldn’t.”

  “I really think this game better suited for a more leisurely occasion. If we rushed it now, it would feel cheapened on hindsight.”

  “It’s too late,” one girl said.

  “It’s already begun,” said the other, and they resumed their measured pacing. Balagir looked at the four p
athways, each as unassuming as the last.

  “This game lacks merit,” he said. “Where is the skill in pure guesswork?”

  “But you’ve not heard our question.”

  “No, he hasn’t. Ask him.”

  One girl stepped closer, and he resisted the urge to draw away.

  “Which of us is older?” she asked.

  Balagir blinked.

  “Which of us is younger?” said a voice just behind his ear, and he flinched to find the other had approached in silence. He stepped away and examined them. They were similar in every detail.

  “Are you not twins?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Yes,” they said.

  “Yet one of us was born as the sun set.”

  “The other, scared of the moon, arrived as the sun rose.”

  “This is a riddle,” Balagir said.

  “Yes. Father liked riddles.”

  “And your father left you here?”

  “He’ll be back,” one said.

  “Just went to gather truffles,” the other chirped quickly.

  “Right,” Balagir said, wondering how long they had been dead, and just what their father’s game had been. The girls skipped around him, halting each upon a path.

  “My path lies north,” he said. “To Mudfoot.”

  “As does ours. Now choose.” This last they spoke at once, so that their voices filled the misty circle.

  “And if I err? Where do the other paths lead?”

  “Here.” The girl laughed.

  “Here and here and here,” giggled the other shrilly.

  “I see,” he said unhappily. “Since I have no choice…”

  He paced the circle, considering, but there was no discerning betwixt them. Yet, wraith or no, young girls were wont to be petulant, so he approached one and, feigning triumph, he said: “It’s plain as day. Just like the dawn, the sunrise is the prettier.”

  “It’s not!” said the girl behind him indignantly.