102

The Bay of Giants

Boaz refused to send a message to Marlow. The crew muttered and whispered amongst themselves - that their captain was in thrall to the witch was now obvious. There was talk of mutiny. Three deckhands rushed Mammon accomplishing nothing but their own deaths. Boaz would not be reasoned with and took to spending all his time below deck with the witch. The mutters grew darker. One of the more pious airmen jumped overboard and was lost to the sea.

The atmosphere onboard was untenable. Everyone walked and slept with their weapons, as if that would afford them some degree of protection from the madness that stalked the planks in a ragged white dress and an unnerving smile. Kip vanished, and for a while Ansel feared the worst. Talcott frantically tore the ship apart searching for the young boy. Kip was found at last, hidden in an empty water barrel. He refused to come out, and Ansel didn’t blame him. In the end they just left food and water for him, and let him be.

“I told you,” hissed Ezra as the two men huddled at the top of the crow’s nest. It was one of the few spots they could be assured their conversation would be private, at least while the gale continued to blow from the west. The howling wind snatched their words from their throats, making it hard to breath, and hard to hear so they had to shout. “We should have opened fire on the savages, killed them every one,” bellowed Ezra. He spat over the side, the spittle instantly snatched away by the wind. Ansel watched it clinically, his mind working. “As soon as we saw them in that godforsaken desert, and we should never have let that woman set foot–”

“Alright,” said Ansel, “maybe you are correct but it is done. What do we do now? I don’t know about you but I want to survive this.”

“None of us are going to survive this,” said Ezra bitterly, “only a naïve fool like you could think it was possible. Why did you even sign up? Off for a little adventure in the sun, home again before winter with gold in your pocket and a pension from the Empress? Pah.”

“If we can leave my shortcomings out of this,” said Ansel, stung. “There must be a way to kill her. And why did you sign up anyway?”

“I didn’t sign up. I was conscripted. Inquisitors go where they are sent. I am not an idiot. Any money I earn goes back to the state. And how? How do we kill her? You saw what she could do! She swatted a crossbow bolt out of mid-air for the Allmother’s sake!”

“She must sleep,” mused Ansel. “She can’t be invulnerable.”

“And then there’s that shadow that watches over her,” said Ezra, “the one you can’t see? What do you plan to do about that?”

“I mean,” said Ansel, eyes on the water, “you are the expert on the supernatural are you not?”

“We could put up a flare,” said Ezra, “to alert the rest of the fleet.” The young inquisitors’ lips were pressed together so firmly, they made a flat line. They both searched for the rest of the fleet, barely visible in the gusting night.

“The weather is too foul,” said Ansel. He glanced down at the water far below. It rushed past in a frenzy of white foam-capped waves that galloped alongside them. The wind had picked up and the fleet was moving fast. A small blessing. “And what would that accomplish? What could Marlow do? In this weather?”

“At least they would know something was wrong,” Ezra said, stubbornly.

“According to Mammon we are hours away from the cavorite. As soon as we arrive Boaz is no long in charge of this ship.”

“And if we don’t survive the hours till then?”

“What are you suggesting?”

Ezra opened his mouth and then paused.

“Salt, fire, water…Hmm. All purifying agents.”

“Water?” said Ansel, as if he didn’t know that water disrupted magic.

“Yes, if we could throw her overboard,” said Ezra. “That’s what we should have done straight away. Witches hate water. They can’t work their magic wet.”

“What about the others? I could ask Louis and-”

“No, I think more people are just likely to get in the way. To get themselves killed. You saw what she did.”

“So what? We throw a bucket of water over her, and what? Hope? Shoot her?”

Ezra shrugged.

“It would be a start.”

They waited till the dead of night and then crept down to the large cabin. Jumping at every creak and groan of the ship, Ansel inched along, his heart in his throat. Before they could lose courage, Ezra flung the door open, sloshing the bucket of water through with all the energy he could muster. Ansel aimed his arquebus. The water fell over the bedding, and the figure that was lying there. Boaz startled awake with a grunt. He was alone.

“Damn,” said Ansel, and fired anyway, without thinking. The shot went wide, making a hole in the planks behind Boaz’ head.

“What the–” the captain spluttered, shaking water from his hair, his eyes wild and blue. The room smelled rank, spoiled food lay on the floor, and amongst the crumpled blankets.

Ansel whirled, scouring the tiny cabin for Mammon. She was standing in the doorway directly behind him, swaying gently, her eyes glazed. She must have been standing behind the door. Had she been forewarned? Her hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. His feet left the floor and he grabbed at her fingers, trying to pull her hands away but her grip was like metal. He started to choke. Panicking – the vision of Otto’s neck being snapped, playing again and again in his head, he kicked his feet, trying desperately to dislodge himself.

Ezra flew along the passage, aiming his sword at the witch’s back. Mammon twisted, grabbing the blade with one bare hand, holding Ansel easily with the other. She knocked Ezra back with the pommel, blood running over her hand from the blade's edge. Ezra staggered back, clutching his eye. She looked down at him for a moment, as he scrabbled away, then seemed to forget about him.

“Foolish boy,” she drawled, turned back to Ansel. This is it, Ansel thought. This was how he was going to die. He had survived so much and now­– Mammon threw him to the ground. He hit his shoulder with bruising impact and lay curled in a foetal position, gasping for breath, clutching at his bruised throat.

“Why?” he managed to croak out.

“Are you complaining?” she asked, standing over him. Suddenly her accent changed, and she spoke in a broad East-Stonehaven dockside cant, thick and burred. Just like Otto. “I know everything about you Ansel Frost,” she said. “I know you are training to be a rune master, I know you are good at your job, so good that your foolish old master overlooks your thieving.”

“What?”

“That’s right. I know about the secret pot of cavorite you have stolen to practice your craft.”

“How,” Ansel blurted, too scared and confused to think clearly. She laughed, throwing back her head.

“I ate the old man’s heart, boy,” she said, her voice harsh, returning to normal. “I know everything he knew. His memories. The taste of his wife. What he was like as a child. His knowledge of runes. I have his soul. Forever. And fortunately for you,” she prodded him with a toe. “I know you are the only person on this disgusting bucket who can keep it flying.” She paused. “Apart from me of course, but I have better things to do. So go. Run and do your job. Keep the runes burning, boy.” Ansel scrambled up and made for the door. “But when we get to land,” her voice chased him down the passage, “I won’t need you anymore. And I won’t forget you tried to kill me. So go – make yourself useful or make yourself scarce.”

He ran, colliding with Ezra as he sped around the corner.

“We had to try,” said Ezra, once they were a safe distance away. He was holding one hand over his right eye, which was bloodshot and swollen. They stood in the dark, swaying hold, humiliated and angry.

Ansel shook his head, and walked away.

Ansel spent the remainder of the night frantically tending to the runes, his shoulder blades twitching. He knew the theory. He had practiced. But never once had he been responsible for the entire ship’s wellbeing without Otto looking over his shoulder. He managed well enough, although his progress was slow, but better to be slow than to kill everyone with a badly drawn or misplaced rune. Only once did he misjudge, in a section towards the keel. He lit the fire, and the runes rushed into flame, covering the fins. The Sky Lion started to tilt, imperceptibly, until he rushed to make the correction. Fortunately, it was not a death dealing mistake. Settling back on his heels, he wiped his brow. Feeling eyes on him, he looked up. Mammon was watching him from across the deck. She smiled and floated away.

Finished with the runes Ansel made his way to the musty hold, ostensibly to stow his brushes. In the dank, swaying silence he picked up the last remaining barrel of cavorite paint, and looked at it. There were less than ten litres of the glowing paint remaining. Barely enough to keep the ship aloft for three more days. Mammon had better be correct, because if they did not find cavorite soon, the ships would have to risk landing forever, or be lost in the treacherous southern waters. Despite the absence of kraken, Ansel did not fancy their chances of survival.

After checking to see that he was in fact alone, Ansel carefully measured out half the paint, decanting a fraction into a smaller jar, which he placed with his personal belongings. The rest of the paint he dumped into a larger pot that he hid in the bottom of an empty barrel, covered in some sacking. Jumping at every squeak and turn of the ship he painted a rune on the underside of his arquebus, one on his breastplate and one on his helmet. Discreet, barely visible, but would give him an advantage. He lit the flame with a shaking hand, setting the cavorite alight. It gleamed, vivid and unnatural for a hot second before fading, scorching the script into the metal. He lifted the gun, and smiled in satisfaction. It had gone from about nine pounds in weight to a single one. His breastplate and helm were likewise featherweight. A small act of rebellion to be sure, but one that gave him satisfaction. A beginning. The remaining cavorite he returned to its spot, the jar now considerably lighter. Calmly, he walked back up on deck.

The night passed blustery and without further incident.

An hour after sunrise they arrived. A vast, circular bay guarded by an immense mountain greeted their eyes in the morning light. The crew rushed onto the deck, lining the rails, staring out at the scene that so closely matched the one drawn by Varangot in his journal. They had made it. The southernmost tip of the continent lay before them, the conjunction of two mighty oceans clashed, and more importantly, where rich cavorite deposits lay, unguarded and unclaimed.

The little Sky Lion led the way into the wind tossed bay followed by the Warspite, the Storm Lotus, the Bright Terror and the Lazy Magpie. Sails tightly trimmed, spray from the water kicked up so high it splattered the decks. Shouts rang out across the deck as men crawled across the rigging, heaving and pulling covers across the cavorite under Ansel’s direction.

Buffeted by the vigorous headwind all five ships inched towards the wide stretch of golden sand straight ahead. Guns bristled from every porthole, every canon was manned by watchful eyes. The bay before them was wide, lined by a spit of sand and rock fully half a league along if Ansel was any judge. At the entrance was a single featureless flat island. Beyond the beach there was nothing to be seen, no indication of life, human or otherwise.

A cheer went up from the Warspite, as it overtook the Sky Lion, its vast sails bulging with the wind. The cheer was taken up by the other vessels as they approached the first wave of dunes. The Sky Lion alone was subdued, but Ansel could not help but feel hopeful.

After a hasty, shouted conversation the five vessels came to a rest, far enough from the sea to be safe from any menace. Across all five ships the airmen set about furling their sails. Too busy to look too hard at the scenery, Ansel caught stolen glimpses. To the right, from the entrance of the bay was a steep, triangular peak rising steeply from the waters. To the left was a rugged cliff face that would look massive anywhere else but was dwarfed by the rest of its family. And in the centre was the true monster - a mountain rising vertically into the sky, a granite and sandstone beast the like of which Ansel had never seen before. Ansel had read Varangot's description but seeing it was another matter. He felt awed and dwarfed, for no such mountains existed in Lochlanach. In the very distance he thought he could make out a collection of buildings, and his heart leapt with excitement.

Ezra wandered over to the rail, his one eye a dark and angry purple. The two young men peered out at the foreign landscape, the wind whistling through the ropes overhead.

“What fresh horrors await?” he asked. When Ansel did not reply he looked up at the sun. “It would be midsummer’s day today, back home.” It was strange to think of Stonehaven, here. They were so far away.

“It’s the winter solstice?” asked Ansel.

“An inauspicious arrival date,” said Ezra. Ansel bit his lip, wanting to tease Ezra for such a peasant-like statement. But it was not wise to bait an inquisitor, even one he had grown to see as his friend. The thought made him uncomfortable.

"Well, we are here," he said, looking down at the sand below, "and I for one am grateful. Now to find cavorite! And then we'll fly home high in the sky with our fortunes made."

He spoke with an easy confidence he did not entirely feel, knowing the powder boys and some of the deckhands were listening. God’s knew, they all needed to believe it was true. Ezra didn't say anything, and Ansel felt foolish. Somehow – out here in this strange place where the very air tasted different such sentiments seemed childish and naive.

He turned his head. Mammon had arrived on deck, her wild white-blonde hair streaming behind her in the wind as she gazed up at the great mountain. Boaz walked beside her, looking slightly confused. The captain seemed to have aged overnight. His already salt and pepper hair was now streaked through with patches of white. His eyes, before a dark brown had turned milky and pale. He wandered after Mammon like a lost puppy. Ansel had been nervous, after the events of last night, but Boaz had not looked at him once. There had been no summons, no recriminations. No comment even. Ansel wasn’t sure whether this brought him comfort or not. But soon they would be on land, and Boaz would lose his importance. On the Sky Lion he might be master but on land he was but one captain amongst five, and Marlow was his superior.

Boaz left to confer with the other captains onboard the Warspite. A watch was set, and the crew of the Lion sat around cleaning their weapons while they awaited the outcome. Meanwhile inquisitors from all the ships were having their own huddle on the ground. There were seven inquisitors in total, and seeing them gathered together, their red robes flapping, the Empress’ sigil emblazoned across their cloaks made Ansel feel queasy. It was easier to treat Ezra like a person when he was alone. His friend, face intent, was standing in the centre of the group, talking animatedly. The inquisitor Ansel had rescued from the dunes was standing at Ezra’s side, nodding, and waving his crutch. Ansel could only imagine that they were explaining the events of the last twenty-four hours. As he watched, all their faces turned to look at Mammon.

He felt a tug on his shirt, and he jumped, but it was just Talcott.

“Ansel,” the young lad said, “Marlow has called for volunteers to scout. Will you go?”

Ansel’s heart leapt.

“Where are we going?”

Talcott pointed to the mountain.

“Excellent,” he said, shouldering his arquebus. “When do we leave?”