99

Eight

The remaining ships of the fleet circled the scene of devastation. No one wanted to land on the shifting sands but at last Marlow gave the word. Kurtz had gone down with his ship, so once more the chain of command passed to the captain of the Bright Terror.

A rescue party was called upon to comb the wreckage. From their vantage point in the air the watch called out that there was at least one survivor. Most of the crew muttered and shook their heads but Ansel volunteered immediately. If it had been the Sky Lion down there in splinters, if it was him lying injured, in pain and far from home, he liked to think someone would come for him. And he wanted to see the monstrous centipede up close.

Two others volunteered from the Sky Lion – Karl, a burly deckhand with whom Ansel had only passing familiarity, and Louis, a big, friendly fellow with whom he sometimes played cards. Louis walked like an oaf. He looked as though the sunshine passed straight through one ear to shine out the other. But he played a mean fiddle, despite fingers the size of sausages; intelligence lurked behind those dull brown eyes. Louis used his appearance to part the unwary from their gold, as Ansel had discovered early in the voyage.

The three men nodded to each other, before dropping their legs over the railing to climb the rope ladders one by one. Ansel was used to it, having spent most of his time onboard minding the runes or traversing the nets. However, he usually didn’t work with an arquebus on his back and his chest crossed with bandoliers. He climbed, his arms burning, as the weight of the weapon dragged him down. If only he could paint it with cavorite. It would only take one discrete rune, he mused as his feet sought rung after rung. If cavorite was ever plentiful, he vowed to broach the idea to the Rune Master, as surely lighter weapons would benefit them all.

“There might be meat on that monster,” said Mange, his voice strident and clear, from up on deck. “Good eating?”

“Not the kind you would want to eat,” Mammon’s rasping lilt floated down clearly in the dry desert air. Ansel was nearly at the sand. “The Old God’s flesh is unwholesome. They are dead when they are summoned.”

“Summoned?” asked Boaz, alarm in every syllable.

“Oh, come now,” said Mammon. “Don’t pretend to be shocked. You who sail on a ship coated in death and pain. They are not of this realm! The Old Gods! They are spirits made flesh. Hollow creatures. Wights. We call them from the Night.”

“Call them how?” asked Boaz. The witch did not answer.

“If they are dead when you call them,” said Ezra, and Ansel stiffened at the sound of his friend’s voice, “how were we able to kill it?”

“Smart boy,” said Mammon. Ansel could practically hear the languid smile. “Death is really just a state of mind.” There was a tense pause. Mammon started to hum a little tune.

“Why would you want to summon such a thing?” came Boaz’s voice, aghast.

“Self-defence,” said Mammon, “prestige. Devotions. There are many reasons.”

Ansel blinked, his boots dropping onto the sand.

“Get a move on down there,” bellowed Boaz, his ugly head peering over the side at Ansel and the others.

“Aye, captain,” said Ansel.

His heart beat faster as he hesitated, looking around at the scorched plain. Over and over his mind played out the giant centipede bursting out of the ground. But there were no tremors, no shakes. “Let’s hurry,” he said to Louis and Karl, who nodded, their faces tight. Together they jogged across the sand, setting off for the wreckage of the Unsparing.

The sand shifted constantly underfoot making it hard to gain purchase. A simple step took more effort than Ansel was used too and the tension made his muscles ache. Every few minutes he scanned the empty horizon, but the desert remained unchanging. Empty. There was nothing but the eerie scrunch of sand beneath his feet and the ragged breathing of Louis and Karl beside him. Nought to break the red ocean of desert but the carcass of Mammon’s Old God and the remains of the airships. He prayed to his mother that the monster stayed dead.

They skirted it, on their way, eyes wary. The giant centipede was twisted and blackened, coiled in on itself where it had landed in its last wild death throes. Rotting, ragged flesh lay almost translucent in the morning sun - like a bloated corpse in the last stage of decay - despite it having been shot down less than an hour before. Chunks were ripped from its side, where the cannonballs had taken their toll. The sands were peppered with shot.

This close the stench was appalling. Ansel covered his nose and mouth as he ran, but still the putrid stink assaulted his nostrils with gut-wrenching, gagging intensity. The gleam of silver attracted his eye. In amongst the malodorous flesh the cavorite called to him, but he kept his composure. First, they must see to the living.

Their tiny rescue party was joined by a score of men from the other vessels. So strange to have sailed so far with these men, to have shared the same experiences, thought Ansel, his eyes roving across their faces. And yet they were as much strangers as the day they had left Stonehaven.

Ansel turned stone-faced to the remnants of the Unsparing. There were no living. That much was plain. The ship and crew had been crushed and mashed into the sand. The ship and all who sailed on her had been so thoroughly destroyed that there was nothing of value and no one left to rescue.

“Allmother preserve us,” whispered Karl, and Ansel nodded, his face tight.

“The Albatross,” he said, “someone was seen alive.” Pivoting, his feet slipped on the bloodstained sand, the need for haste foremost in his mind. This was not a place to linger.

Here amongst the smouldering flames and kindling of the once mighty Albatross, was hope of a kind. Between the twist of wretched dead, limbs moved and feeble cries drifted. Ansel counted five men still moving, but there were sure to be more, buried in the debris. They needed to dig. He tried not to look at the bodies. They would haunt his sleep but for now he could spare them no thought. The rescue party, however, were staring, transfixed; mouths open, jaws slack.

“Quickly now!”

Ansel’s words prodded them into motion, but still they hesitated. Of course, these men were used to being told what to do. There were no officers present and they were in shock. He was in shock himself, but Ansel could not get the image of the centipede out of his mind. His shoulder blades twitched, and he turned his head sharply, but the monster still lay, dead on the dunes.

“Make haste,” he said. “Come on! You and you – I see someone moving over there! Louis, help that man, there behind the – yes! But gently! Strap the wounded to planks and carry them. Here! Wrap them with the sail cloth so they don’t fall. Like so. Don’t take them all to the same ship. Hurry. Come back if you must.”

Most of the survivors were semi-conscious and unable to walk. The majority had been killed when the ship had crashed into the desert. Those still living had been lucky, thrown wide, breaking limbs and banging heads but still breathing. All were dazed. Some were able to hobble, supported by those more able.

The sails were on fire, the flames eating into the wood. One section of the castle was still floating, tethered to the rest of the ship by ropes and snapped timbers. Some were on the edge of death. Ansel clasped the hand of one such, a young airman, making reassuring noises. He was bleeding heavily from a wound on his chest. The bone showed through the skin and his breath rasped, blood bubbling from his lips as he tried to reply.

“It will be fine,” Ansel lied, stroking his fingers over the caked blood. He died moments later and lay, eyes reflecting the desert sky.

“At least he wasn’t alone,” said Louis. Ansel got to his feet.

The next man fared better.

“Thank you,” he whispered as they heaved him onto a nearby plank, and tied him fast. His arm hung at a strange angle and his brown face was pinched and strained. He lost consciousness as they strapped him down, but he was still breathing. Ansel and Louis trudged over the sand, cursing the difficult terrain. The journey back to the ship seemed to take ages, but at least they made it with their burden.

The crew up top dropped ropes over the side. Carefully the wounded men were hauled upwards, the plank twisting and bumping. Ansel winced, but it was better than being left on the sands.

“I think we got everyone?” he said, turning to Louis who shrugged.

Ansel cupped his hands and yelled up to the deck. “There’s cavorite on the beast! Master Otto? Do you want us to-”

Someone was coming down the ladder, at speed. Ansel jumped back.

Ezra landed on the sand with a thump and straightened with a glare that could cut iron. He was holding a pair of flaming torches.

“Here,” he thrust one at Ansel, who took it out of reflex. The young inquisitor started running across the dune, his robe flapping. Ansel charged after him, his feet slipping and sliding in the soft sand.

“What are we doing?” he gasped, catching up after a few moments. Ezra didn’t reply, but made a beeline for the carcass of the giant centipede. He skidded to a halt in front of it.

“Set it on fire,” he said, holding out his torch to the body, covering his mouth and nose with the other hand. Ansel did as he asked.

The monster was even more imposing this close. Easily the width of the Sky Lion, perhaps even double the size of the little caravel airship. The flesh was sticky and moist, rot and juice dripping into the sand. Ezra’s torch made the body steam but it did not catch alight.

The carcass twitched. At least, Ansel thought it might have. It was probably just the decomposing gases escaping. Such lies we tell ourselves, he thought clinically, while another part of his brain screamed. His hand started to shake.

“Here!” he said. “To the silver.” He held the flaming brand not to the sagging flesh but to the cavorite flecked carapace. The flame caught, and the fire burnt fast and hot. The flesh caught moments later, first a dull smoulder then a raging inferno. The two boys moved back together, out of the fumes. Smoke billowed up as the creature’s flesh hissed and spat.

“Thank the Empress,” breathed Ezra.

They ran back to the welcoming bulk of the Sky Lion, chased by the stinking fumes of the burning monster. Adrenaline coursed through Ansel’s body. He had never run so fast in his life; he wasn’t sure what he was running from, but he felt like he was flirting with death for every second he stayed on that dune.

Back up the rope ladder, and minutes later they were airborne. The centipede belched black clouds into the sky and the Sky Lion circled the burning monster, like carrion over prey, before rising to set out once more for the south.

Ansel and Ezra collapsed in a heap on the deck. Shading his eyes from the glare, Ansel spotted Karl and Louis across the deck.

“Everyone alright?” he shouted, and they nodded, Louis giving him a thumbs up.

“Good lad,” said Mange, piously from the wheel. “The wounded are below, Jethro is tending to them.”

“Good,” said Ansel, the tension was leaving his body and his joints felt as loose as a rag doll. Boaz stared over the railing at the billowing smoke.

“That’s a beacon alright,” he said, to Ezra. “But I think you did right.”

“I know I did right,” said Ezra, speaking low. His eyes narrowed as they sought out Mammon, who was seated in state near the prow. “I’m an inquisitor. That’s what we do. We burn out corruption. And I know an unholy thing when I see it.”

Mammon smiled at him from across the deck, although there was no way she could have heard. Boaz grunted noncommittally.

“Eat something,” he said to Ansel, his voice curt. “And be ready to watch at twilight. I have an idea that the land will be no less deadly than the sea. Perhaps we misjudged, choosing the land route.”

“At least we were able to kill it,” said Ezra. “The kraken – we don’t even know if we dented it.”

“Don’t speak of it here,” growled Boaz. “And don’t antagonise the witch. At least not until we have what we need.”

He stomped off across the deck.

Ezra withdrew into his robes, his mouth a sour twist.

The wind snapped in the pennons and the two boys watched the crew work, savouring the quiet moment. Ezra slipped down onto the decking to sit next to Ansel, his long brown legs sticking out of the robes that had always been a little too short. Or perhaps Ezra had grown taller during the voyage. It was possible. Ansel felt very detached from everything, now that the pounding had left his heart.

“Do you think it would have come back to life?” he said after a while. “That thing. Whatever it was.” He rubbed at a sore spot on his neck. He was aching all over and, somewhere on the adventure, he had scored a magnificent purpling bruise on one arm.

“I want to believe it's not possible,” said Ezra, scowling at the planks. “But the witch taunts us. And this is an evil place. It shouldn’t be possible, by the Allmother’s Grace. But best to destroy it than to be sorry.”

Ansel wanted to ask the inquisitor if he had seen the corpse move. But here, floating through blue clouds, it seemed stupid. Mammon drifted across the deck, drawing the eyes of most of the crew as she went. Ansel and Ezra watched her likewise.

"You know I'm training to be an Inquisitor, right?" said Ezra. His eyes were distant, but then he turned them on Ansel with piercing intensity and Ansel felt his heart sink. Ezra’s profession was something he tried hard not to think about. They were, he supposed begrudgingly, friends. A similar age, thrown together in difficult circumstances. That was it. In Stonehaven, they would never have crossed paths. Ansel would have made sure of it.

"Yes?"

"What you might not know," said Ezra, his voice lowering to such an intense whisper that Ansel had to lean forward to hear, "is that I'm a Witch–Finder as well as an Inquisitor."

Ansel swallowed. Suddenly he couldn’t feel his feet.

"You are?” he heard himself say. Casual. As if he didn’t know. With just the right amount of fear and curiosity, as Ezra would expect. “What does that mean? I thought Witch–Finders were a rank?” He shifted uncomfortably. But that was fine, Ezra would expect him to be impressed, and intimidated.

"It’s not a skill that can be taught,” said Ezra, grey eyes fierce. “It can be honed, but not taught. Those who have the ability are rare. We can see magic. We can feel it. We can see what others can't.”

“Alright?” said Ansel, icy fingers pricking his spine. But he had no reason to fear. He hadn’t done anything. "What? Is Mammon–"

"I know she is a witch, yes, although I think it is pretty obvious...after that business with the ...you know the gun. The one that she twisted into two. I can see more though, I can see when she actually performs a spell."

"You can? She is working spells?” He did his best to sound like an incredulous peasant. Immediately he wondered what, or how, and made a mental note to watch more carefully. Maybe he could learn something. He suppressed a shudder, although whether it was for Mammon or Ezra he did not know.

Ezra's lip curled a little.

"Mammon is using dark magic all the time," Ezra said grimly, "Constantly. She is not alone. Some apparition stalks her."

"What? An apparition?"

"Some demon or spirit. It looks like a shadow. A dark stain that appears and disappears. I cannot quite make it out and I have not yet figured out whether she does its bidding or it does hers."

"Do they know? Does Lothor know? Does Captain Boaz know?"

"They know,” said Ezra. “They risk everyone's lives and our sanity for fame and fortune. For cavorite."

Mammon walked once more across the deck, and their eyes turned to follow her. Ansel stared, trying to pick out the apparition that Ezra spoke of but he could see nothing. As far as he could tell the savage woman walked alone. Feeling the intensity of their gaze, the witch turned and gave them a languid smile.

“They know,” repeated Ezra. “And there is nothing we can do but pray. At least until we find cavorite. Then we can be rid of her.”