112

Fire with Fire

Ansel dreamed that he woke in the night. There was a shadow sitting at the end of his cot and he could feel the weight on his legs. The smell of old blood hung in the air, mingling with the frost.

“Ezra?” he said, mussily. “Is that you?”

In his dream Ezra spoke to him, low and intense. Ansel listened in confusion but nightmares and reality muddled his brain into a thorny tangle. He blinked, and Ezra was gone, leaving only restless shadows. Sleep took him once more. When he opened his eyes again it was early morning and grey light was spilling in through the open door.

He groaned and rolled over, falling out of his makeshift bed with a thump. The floor was hard and cold. Kip and Riley were sleeping under his workbench and the young boys mumbled in their sleep at the disturbance.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ansel muttered. He clambered up, rubbing at the fresh bruises forming on his knees. Cursing under his breath, he went to find water. This time he heated it over the fire and washed himself off properly. That done he felt a little better - cleansed outside, if not in. He dressed quickly, suppressing his shivers.

He stood looking at the projects that lay scattered around his shed. With a huff, he coaxed his sore limbs to motion and started tidying up. Some he fed to the fire with a muttered prayer for the hours wasted. The dull and innocent, he left out on display. The ones he couldn’t bear to part with, he hid in the already cluttered decks of the model ship. Really, it was less a model and more an airship in its own right. Nearly sixteen-foot long, it took up a good portion of the available space. Of course, it was ridiculously tiny compared to a real airship. Ansel regarded it fondly. It was still nameless; he should name it sometime, when no one was around to laugh at his foibles. He moved a couple of barrels and a sheet surreptitiously across the bow.

Cleanup done, he contemplated going back to bed but he was now wide awake. What to do? It was too soon for breakfast. Jethro would only now be lighting the cooking fires, and the thought of returning to the mess was…unpleasant. It was too soon.

His eyes drifted to the ashen remains of one of his sketches. There was so much unfinished business, so many mysteries. He thought of the fire scorched in the sand of the beach. Could he figure out how it had been made? And for what purpose? Perhaps it would be interesting to see it in broad daylight, and besides, he needed to find his arquebus. Guns were in short supply and he would not get another. Mind made up, he grabbed some parchment and some graphite and set off before anyone could come along and tell him otherwise.

Men were stirring from their beds and hammocks as he wove his way through the camp, not quite skulking, but taking some care not to be seen. Reaching the barricade, he nodded to the watch on duty and passed through without speaking to them.

He walked along the cliffs, one eye on the mountain, lost in thought. Across the isthmus the peaks were capped with snow and the wind was edged with ice. Ansel shivered and wrapped his cloak tightly around himself.

“Ansel!” someone called.

He jumped, one hand leaping to his sword, but it was only Talcott who came running along the clifftop after him, his shirt flapping in the wind. So much for his efforts to be stealthy. He doubled over, when he reached Ansel, out of breath.

“Can I come with you?” he wheezed.

Ansel shrugged.

“Sure.”

Fortunately, Talcott didn’t seem to want to talk, happy enough to follow along without knowing where they were going. Ansel didn’t volunteer the information. They walked along the bluff in silence, their route winding up past the burial grounds and towards the ruins.

Next to him Talcott stumbled, tripping over something in the path.

“What was that?” the younger boy demanded.

“Just a loose rock?” said Ansel.

They both stopped, eyes widening.

The cairn on the hilltop had been ripped open. The rocks that had been piled on top of the graves had rolled away. Or been pushed away? The earth below had been disturbed as if by some brute force. Several gouges seemed to have been dug out of the mountainside. Swallowing Ansel crept closer, peering into the dark holes. To his relief there was no sign of any of the deceased airmen.

“The graves,” said Talcott, peering down, “what happened to the bodies? Why would they move the bodies?”

“I don’t know,” said Ansel, “I don’t think they did.”

“A wild animal?”

They both looked at the deep holes with unease. Ansel was about to say he didn’t think an animal could be so strong or do so much damage, but then he remembered the dragon.

“Who will we be eaten by? Man or monster?” murmured Talcott. The young lad’s eyebrows were so creased they were almost touching.

“I thought we had established,” said Ansel, lightly, “that we are going to die old and rich, in our beds surrounded by loved ones?”

“Oh right,” said Talcott. “Right.”

They carried on, the wind tugging at their hair.

Once or twice, Talcott looked like he was about to say something but then appeared to change his mind. Ansel was happy not to pursue the matter and they soon arrived at the native ruins. Pools of water lent the place an even more mournful air than usual and the mountain slopes below were damp with rain. Ansel paused, looking around the field where he had so recently fled for his life. The bodies were all gone, nothing remaining of the violence except trampled bushes and blood-stained rocks.

“The inquisitors took the bodies,” Talcott answered his unspoken question.

“Even Mammon’s?”

Talcott nodded.

Ansel wondered if they would bury her. Or would they burn her? They would likely burn her body as a witch. He shuddered and tried to put the thought of bodies and pyres out of his mind. His nostrils twitched as the scent of phantom ash filled them despite his best efforts, and he turned instead to try and locate his weapon.

After a bit of hunting he managed to locate both his arquebus, and Ezra’s, lying where they had tossed them in their wild run. Both would need a thorough cleaning but neither seemed to be badly damaged. Ansel slung them over his back, happy to have the comforting weight once more. That taken care of, he wound his way through the ruin, glancing guiltily at the moongate as he passed by. Talcott trailed after him, seemingly lost in thought.

Down the steep gully they slid, racing the tumbling waterfalls to the bottom till once more their feet rested on golden sands. In daylight the circular scorch marks were clearly visible and even bigger in size than Ansel remembered from the night. The rain had done nothing to wash away the pattern. He bent down and poked at the sand. It was as if it had been baked in diabolical heat.

“What happened here?” he wondered aloud.

“Fire,” said Talcott, with a shrug. “Lots and lots of fire.”

“Hmm.”

He got out his parchment and started to sketch. Talcott wandered about, aimlessly, and Ansel wondered again why he had come at all. Then a glint caught his eye, in the very centre where the mounds of ash and soot were heaped higher.

“What’s that?”

“What?” asked Talcott, alarmed.

Ansel bent down, digging his fingers into the muck. Buried in the very centre of the circle, was something hard - six smooth stones - oval shaped and iridescent blue. He hefted them in his palm. They were surprisingly heavy for their size.

“What are they?” asked Talcott.

“I have no idea,” he said. He showed them to the young lad who poked one with a nervous finger, then jumped back as if he expected them to bite. Nothing happened.

“A mystery for later,” said Ansel and slipped them into his pocket. “Another mystery.”

He went back to his sketching.

“Ansel?” said Talcott, his voice strained and high pitched. Ansel's fingers reached instinctively for his weapon but there was no threat that he could see.

“What?” he asked, a little annoyed.

“Ansel,” Talcott said again, “would you rather keep a secret that made you uncomfortable or remain ignorant?”

“Ignorance always,” said Ansel. There was an awkward pause and the young boy looked like he was about to cry. Ansel chucked him lightly on the shoulder and sighed.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Talcott?”

Talcott's hands twisted in front of him.

“It’s fine,” said Ansel, “either way.”

“You’re a good man, Ansel,” said Talcott.

“Am I?” said Ansel. He looked down at his half-finished drawing with a sigh.

“Yeah,” said Talcott. He sniffed, looking down at his shoes and then back up. “I need your help, and I don’t know who else to ask. I mean…there isn’t anyone else I trust.”

“Alright?” said Ansel, after a moment. “What is it?” His head was a tumble of dragons and monsters and fire. What could Talcott possibly want from him? “What is it?”

Talcott just looked at him.

“Go on, spit it out,” he said, as kindly as possible. He jiggled the blue stones in his pocket and they clinked together.

“I joined the fleet,” said Talcott, turning his gaze out to the waves, “because it was the only way to be with my husband.”

“Your husband,” repeated Ansel, looking at the small lad. “Wait, what?” His ears caught up with his brain. “…your husband. Oh.”

He looked at Talcott again, more closely this time. He had always thought Talcott couldn’t be older than seventeen, a small boy, still growing. Ansel’s eyes widened as he took in the pointed chin, the small nose, the face scattered with freckles and the hair, roughly cut above the ears, like someone had hacked it off with a knife. But then so had half the crew, barbers were in short supply onboard the airships. Of all the things he had expected to hear…this wasn’t one of them.

“What happened to … um… your husband?”

Although he could guess.

Talcott’s face fell, her face clouding.

“He sailed with the Trillium,” she said.

“I’m so sorry,” said Ansel.

Talcott shrugged, dismissing the world of pain on her skinny shoulders.

“I’m not the only one who lost someone,” she said. “Kip’s brother was on the Unsparing. Riley had friends on the Valiant.”

“True enough,” said Ansel, “so much death.” He looked up at the great mountain, lying dormant above the bay. “And for what?” But what did Talcott want him to do about it?

“He didn’t want me to come,” said Talcott, “it's ironic really. He was so worried that I would come to harm, and now here I am while he lies under the waves somewhere.” She waved a hand vaguely at the great Southern Ocean, a tear sliding down her cheek. “But there was no way I was going to be left behind and I’m glad. I mean, not glad, but you know. Glad I came. I had no idea if he would ever come back. So easily he could have left and I would never have known, I would just have been waiting, forever. And Stonehaven isn’t friendly to our kind.”

“Your kind?” echoed Ansel, stupidly, still in shock. “Er…women?”

“No, idiot,” Talcott grinned, then the smile slipped. “Well, yes actually that’s true too but I meant-”

She snapped her fingers and a flame appeared on her index finger.

Ansel blinked and they both watched it dance, the tiny flame weak in the golden sunlight.

Then Ansel came to his senses and clamped a hand over it, extinguishing it. The fire singed his skin as it went out.

“Not here,” he hissed. He looked up the beach but there was no one there, no observers on the hill. At least, no one that he could see. He realised his hand was still clamped over Talcott’s and drew it back as if stung, suddenly awkward as if he had never touched a woman before. That was stupid, it was still Talcott. His friend. She was still the same person. Except she wasn’t.

She was a witch.

“It’s not just me,” she said. “Kip as well, and Jethro.”

“What? Jethro the cook? What? How? Hang on. Why are you telling me this?” He drew himself up, panicking, as if Ezra would appear behind him at any moment, and stab them both in the guts. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I saw you,” Talcott whispered. “I saw you working magic late one night, in your shed, when you thought no one was watching.”

The blood drained from Ansel’s face. The thought that other people might be in the same position as him, that other people might have the same proclivities…it was not a comfort. They were all in danger, and that danger had just multiplied exponentially. It was uncomfortable enough keeping his own secrets.

Talcott however, seemed eager to talk. Now she had confessed the words came tumbling out.

“It’s easier here, isn’t it?” she said. “In Stonehaven I could barely summon a flicker, not without tons of preparation and concentration and here it just arrives. It's like the air is soaked in magic. All I have to do is-”

“So, what do you want?” said Ansel. Anything to stop her talking about witchcraft as if it were normal, as if it was something not to be ashamed of.

“It's Kip,” she said, her mouth twisting. “Ever since we’ve arrived he… he hasn’t been quite right. He says the spirits here are evil. That they are talking to him, telling him to do things. Telling him to do terrible things. At first, I just thought it was the stress. Now I’m worried he’s losing his mind and I’m worried he’s gonna blab, or do something in front of an inquisitor. I can’t keep him hidden anymore. I don’t know what to do.” She looked at him, her eyes full of hope and trust.

Ansel thought he might vomit.

He thought for the first time of the shadows that had called his name in the night. When did it start? The night he had killed Marlow? He had thought they were nightmares - the result of stress and fatigue, of a fevered brain, but perhaps not. He remembered the demonic strength in his arm when he had sliced Marlow in two, the speed in his legs as he had run from the savage woman. His breath came faster. Yes, he had experimented in his shed in the dead of night. A mistake clearly. But they had been small tests. Projects. Nothing dangerous. Thankfully he had burned the evidence. Most of it. He should have burned it all.

“What do you expect me to do?” he asked helplessly.

Talcott’s eyes fell.

“I thought – I don’t know, I thought you would know what to do.”

Ansel squashed down his anger at the unfairness of it all. Talcott, widow or not, was just a kid. Kip and Riley were children. Jethro… well Jethro was whatever he was - a hired hand to help in the kitchen. None of them were equipped to deal with this madness. He had thought joining an airship crew would make his life simpler. Get him out of trouble, away from the inquisition. He swallowed and his throat felt like sandpaper. Everything was the same. He had sailed halfway around the world and still everything was the same. The anger boiled in his veins and he let out a deep rattling breath. He needed to calm down and think clearly.

“Come on,” said Ansel. “Let’s go and find Kip. I’ll… we’ll think of something.”

What though?

Ansel’s mind was full as they made the return climb. It was slow going in the wet gully, the rocks slick beneath their feet. Wild ideas flitted through his mind. Perhaps he should run, taking the others with him. They could escape through a moongate…and end up…where? They were barely surviving with the airships and cannons, and the base they had built. What chance would a handful have in the hostile wilderness? Starting from scratch without any resources? He needed space to think calmly. To examine the options.

Concealing his own abilities had been one thing. Now others were involved… how close had he already come to discovery? The thought made him sick to his stomach. He trod the ruins unseeing, his feet carrying him along the now familiar tracks.

He could kill Ezra, maybe he should have done it already but Ezra wasn’t the only inquisitor. And fear of witchcraft was deeply baked into the Lochlanach psyche. Ansel might be able to sway a few people but…no he was being unrealistic. The massacre at the ruin had happened for a reason. The crew would see any magic use as a threat, even something as innocent as preparing food.

“Ansel,” said Talcott, a warning in her voice that made him look up immediately.

A filthy plume of smoke was rising from the camp.

Ansel swallowed down the rising bile, sweat pricking his palms despite the frosty wind.

“Probably burning Mammon,” he said. He was uncertain whether he was reassuring himself or Talcott.

“Probably,” said Talcott, her face pale.

Without another word they both broke into a sprint.

Ansel forced his legs forward. They were burning Mammon. He was sure of it. The icy air burned in his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He wanted it to be true. She was dead. It was just a corpse. It wasn’t his mother, he wasn’t five. What were they burning? Who were they burning?

They raced through the camp, the dual arquebuses banging against Ansel’s back, his feet slapping the ground. The place was almost empty. Only a few lonely souls looked up as they raced by, clustered around the forges, trying to keep warm. There was a crowd gathered up ahead. Ansel could see them gathered in the wide open flat before the airships.

Now he could smell the smoke. He wanted to choke but he kept running. The air was thick with the sickening stench of burning flesh. Someone screamed, an ear-splitting wail. Someone was begging, but was it real or his fevered memory? Ansel urged his legs faster. Talcott was panting beside him, her shorter legs straining to keep up.

A bonfire raged in the centre.

Ansel staggered to a halt, Talcott crashing into his back.

Ezra was standing on a raised platform preaching. His face was beatific, peaceful. His arms were raised to the sky as he spoke, the crowd in front of him entranced. They were indeed burning Mammon. The flames had eaten her body, he could see the blackened remains of her ribcage through the blaze, her flesh eaten away.

But someone was tied to the stake protruding from the top of a bonfire. Someone alive - Kip, his small face twisted in pain, the flames already licking at his trousers.

“No,” screamed Talcott, beside him. “No!”

Fire flared in her palms and she raced into the crowd.