116

Broken Jaws

Ansel and Kjell set off in the Sky Cub as the sun crossed its zenith, sailing south-east towards the savage village. Jethro and Kip stayed behind to mind the camp. Kjell refused to let Ansel go alone despite his deep unease with the idea of trying to trade with the natives. The big man sat squeezed in the narrow ship, the arquebus he had insisted on bringing clutched in his lap, and an expression of grim determination plastered on his face.

“Try to smile,” said Ansel, “when we get there. You look…er… quite scary.”

Kjell lifted thunderous brows.

“They are gonna kill us,” he said, “and we probably deserve it.”

“No,” said Ansel, his eyes on the sail. “We don’t. Shut up and... let’s find out where this takes us. Alright?”

Despite his outward confidence Ansel’s palms were sweaty enough to slip on the ropes as he brought the Sky Cub to a stop in a narrow gorge, grounded her, and hauled down the sails. He folded them neatly, leaving everything ready to go. Just in case their departure needed to be hasty. Together, they moved the ship into some bushes, obscuring it from casual view. Hopefully it would be safe there till their return. Kjell left his arquebus with the Cub, after a little grumbling.

Keeping a watchful eye out, they walked through the gorge. Beyond it lay the clear blue sea, and a hillside dotted with thickets and low scrubby forest. They walked in silence, following the curve of the seashore, the scrunch of their feet over hard earth the only noise to mark their passage.

After fifteen minutes or so Ansel spied the village. It lay in the dip of a shallow valley, serene and golden in the midday sunlight. He hadn’t gotten a good view of it previously, his mind too full of matters of survival, but now it had his full attention. It was both like and unlike the larger settlement under the mountain.

It had the same hip height boundary wall, the same brightly painted homes and the same mysterious markings on the walls. Or rather it had similar markings. They were not identical. Ansel’s keen eye picked out some notable differences. The dwellings were smaller and ruder, and less plentiful. This was a rural place, and the people he could already see seemed happy and peaceful.

Ansel’s stomach knotted. Doubt increased with every step.

It felt the same, uncannily like the first time he had seen a savage settlement. Once more he was approaching a village, full of hope. Perhaps he was stuck in a nightmarish loop of existence, doomed to repeat the same actions again and again, with no way to break free? He closed his eyes and saw the ruined bodies, the burning thatch. But no. He was here now, in the present. It was real. This time, it would not end in violence. This time there were no inquisitors. Just him and Kjell. He looked up at the big man fondly. Kjell didn’t notice, his grey eyes were fixed on the village, and his brow furrowed.

They pushed on, Ansel’s anxiety coming full circle to be displaced by his natural curiosity. Here was an opportunity. There was so much he could learn, if they gave him a chance. So much he wanted to know. So much he would find out.

Like the native settlement by the sea, the savages had no watch. Ansel and Kjell were almost on top of them before anyone noticed them. In fact, Ansel was beginning to worry no one would notice them until they were standing in the village square next to the moongate he could see gleaming in the distance. He made pains to walk loudy, and cleared his throat as they approached.

A woman sat sewing outside her house was the first to spot them. She looked up, startled. She leapt to her feet, spilling thread and material, shouting something. Springing backwards she brandished a broom at them, waving it at them like they were wild animals. Savages came running from all directions. In the distance a bell clanged.

“I think they noticed us,” said Kjell.

“Dydh da!”said Ansel. He looked sideways at Kjell. “That means ‘hello’. I think.”

“How do you know that?” asked Kjell, suspiciously.

“A little girl taught me,” said Ansel. “That day-” He saw her then, like a ghost. A small girl running through the village in a cotton dress, a tray of toys in her hands, her hair streaming behind her in the wind. The girl whose body he had searched for. Here she was, flesh and blood.

“Kerra!” he said in shock.

The little girl looked up at the sound of her name. The tray in her hands fell to the ground and she stared at Ansel, the colour leaching from her cheeks. For a moment they locked eyes, then she screamed, and fled sobbing. A grey- haired woman scooped her up and held the crying child close to her chest. She glared at Ansel accusingly, and patted Kerra’s head making soothing noises.

A loud argument broke out amongst the adults. Several of them brandished pots and pans at the two Lochlanach men, who stood very still.

“This is going great,” muttered Kjell, out of the corner of his mouth.

“Shut up,” said Ansel. “Try to look friendly.” He smiled and held up his hands. “Dydh da!”

There was silence.

Every eye in the village was on them. One of the men started talking to Ansel rapidly, gesturing with his hands.

“Oh no,” said Kjell. “They think you understand them.”

“I said, shut up!” said Ansel, nettled. He turned to the man, spreading his arms wide, showing his palms, making sure they could see he was not armed. “I don’t understand,” he said, loudly. He pointed at Kerra, who was watching him from the woman’s arms, the corners of her mouth wobbling. He could only imagine what the tiny girl was feeling. She had seen her family brutally butchered in front of her. Had seen Ansel split a man in two. She couldn’t be older than six. He would cry too.

“Kerra,” he said to the girl, pointing helplessly. He patted his chest. “Ansel,” he said.

Kerra stared across the village at him, her eyes wide and luminous..

“Ansel,” she said, and then burst into fresh floods of tears. The savages exchanged wary glances and then started arguing amongst themselves once more. The old woman took the little girl into one of the houses and shut the door behind them. Ansel was glad. He didn’t want to give the poor child nightmares, although it was probably too late. He was glad to know she was alive though. All the survivors must have escaped through the moongate. He had hoped so but the sure knowledge lifted a weight off his oh so heavy heart.

Moving slowly and deliberately he reached into his bag and pulled out a jar of cavorite. The villagers all stopped talking and watched him with great suspicion. He put it down carefully, on the table the woman had been sewing on. The savages all looked at the silver liquid as if it might explode.

“There,” said Ansel, pantomiming wildly to the man who had spoken. “For you! A gift! Or even better…something to trade with! Yes?”

The man walked over and picked up the jar. Keeping a sharp eye on Ansel and Kjelle he tapped it, then held it up, inspecting the contents. He said something to Ansel. Ansel nodded enthusiastically, smiling broadly.

“You don’t have any idea what he’s saying, do you?” muttered Kjell.

“No!” said Ansel, still smiling. “But I think it's going well. We are still alive, no one is chasing us! Or running away. Look!”

Another of the savages came over with a loaf of bread, and slid it across the table, warily. “Oh, thank you!” said Ansel, with enthusiasm.

“That,” said Kjell, “is daylight robbery. One measly loaf of bread for a jar of cavorite? What are they thinking?”

“Thank you,” said Ansel to the man who was watching him anxiously. He bowed, picking up the bread and smelling it with exaggerated pleasure. The smell made his stomach rumble. “If you feel like that,” he said, sideways, to Kjell, “you don’t have to eat any.”

“Ask them if they have any cloth,” said Kjell.

“Do you have any cloth?” Asnel said to the man who looked at him blankly. “Any material?” Ansel tried again, plucking at his shirt which was getting decidedly ragged, showing it to the man. Understanding dawned. The villagers all started talking at once. One of them hurried away and came back shortly with a bag of clothing. The woman handed it over nervously, snatching her hand back as if Ansel might bite.

“Nice!” said Kjell, his scowl bursting into a good humoured smile for the first time. “You speak good savage, Ansel.”

“Thank you,” said Ansel. “And thank you,” he said to the villagers. He started to back away, still smiling, clutching the bread and the clothing. “Come on. Let’s get away while the going is good.”

“Dyw genes,” said the man. He gave a little bow in return.

“Dyw genes,” said Ansel.

The savages watched them back away. Ansel and Kjell watched them right back.

As soon as they were some distance away they turned, walking as fast as they could without running. As soon as they crested the rise they broke into a sprint, laughing with relief.

“Thank the great sky lords and my mother dearest, long may her ashes rest,” said Kjell, as they jogged across the valley. “I swear I thought they were going to kill us.”

They ducked into the bushes where they had hidden the airship.

Everything was as they left it.

“I told you,” said Ansel. He held out the loaf. “Lunch?”

“We should probably share,” said Kjell, regretfully.

The trip back to their house was a merry one. Kip and Jethro were relieved to see them, and excited to hear the story.

“It’s not much,” said Ansel, as the four of them sat, legs dangling over the platform of the bobbing house. The air was particularly clear as they looked out over the mountains, sharing the bread between them.

“It’s a start,” said Kjell, begrudgingly.

“I’ll make something to trade,” said Jethro. “Some stew maybe?”

“I mean we just need to get them talking,” said Ansel, watching as the sun dipped towards the horizon. “The more we can learn, the sooner we can explain what we actually want.”

“Yes, I suppose not being stabbed was the true victory,” said Kjell, sourly.

“The clothes will come in handy,” said Ansel. “Even if we can’t make sails out of them.”

“The most expensive things we’ve ever worn,” said Jethro, fingering the exotic fabric. “Can you imagine walking the streets of Stonehaven, clad in something that costs a king’s ransom?”

It was a good night, and they all slept well.

Two days later Ansel and Kjell set off again, this time clad in their new, slightly ill-fitting finery. They followed the same path to the village and the savages greeted them, warily, but this time no one shook a broom at them which Ansel took as quite a victory. He managed to exchange a few more words, as well as some of Jethro’s stew, and some gathered herbs in return for some actual material. He left a small bunch of wild flowers for Kerra, that he gathered along the way.

Kjell took along a nail and showed it to the wizened old man who nodded. On the third visit there were nails waiting for them. And to Jethro’s absolute delight, some cake. Ansel’s vocabulary expanded by another few words.

On the fourth trip, however, the atmosphere was different.

Ansel and Kjell left the Sugar Bun, the same as before, at the bottom of the small ravine, out of sight, and set off to the village.

When they arrived the villagers stood awkwardly. There were strangers present, sombre-faced men and women dressed in brown fighting leathers. They were all armed. To the teeth. The savage who normally greeted them did so without smiles.

“What should we do?” said Kjell, softly.

“Act normally, but get ready to run,” said Ansel, who did not like the way the tallest stranger was looking at him.

They approached warily and the leader barked something. He levelled his spear at Ansel’s throat. Ansel ducked back, not wanting the iron tipped blade so close to the vulnerable flesh of his throat.

“That’s just not friendly,” said Kjell.

“No, it isn’t,” said Ansel. “I don’t think this is going to work out.”

He held his hands up, showing he was unarmed, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. A woman with a staff poked Ansel and gestured imperiously to the moongate in the centre of the village.

“Go,” said Ansel, and they ran, just as the strangers lunged forwards.

The village exploded into shouts and action.

Ansel dodged a blow from a surprisingly well aimed staff, and thundered away across the hillside, Kjell close behind him. Arrows peppered the soil and they swerved, barely managing to avoid getting hit.

Ansel channelled all his magical energy into his legs, pushing himself to run faster. He and Kjell had discussed this eventuality. Without speaking they split up. Ansel dived into a thicket, Kjell charging down a ravine.

Ansel ran, pumping his arms and legs, and making sure to keep low. He could hear the sound of pursuit behind him, but not right on his heels. He swung himself up into the branches of a low, scrubby tree. Pulling up his legs, he made himself as small as possible. A moment later, gambeson clad warriors ran past below.

He breathed out through his nose, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. So the savages did have fighters. There were just not many of them. He wondered if Ezra had discovered this fact yet. Come to mention it he could have sworn he recognised some of them. Ah, yes, the tall one he had seen before. He had been a part of the ill-fated parley attempt at the camp. The thought was not comforting.

Ansel stayed hidden in his tree, and let the long minutes tick past. When he was reasonably sure he was alone he dropped to the ground and crept carefully back to the ship. Kjell was waiting for him there, and they greeted each other with quiet joy.

“It was a good plan,” said Kjell softly. “It was worth a try. I’m sorry, friend.”

“We can talk about it later,” said Ansel, his eyes on the sail.

There was no sign of the savage hunters, but his shoulder blades prickled. It had been too close for comfort. The Sky Cub surged upward.

Ansel breathed out as they left the ground, the little vessel bobbing gently up the sides of the cliff. Something caught his eye. He looked up as something moved. Instinctively he wrenched the ship to one side. But it didn’t matter.

Darkness flew over the cliff edge, twisting out, expanding in an exploding spiral, momentarily blotting out the sun. It crashed down on top of them. A net. A metal lined net weighted with rocks, and as heavy as sin. The projectiles punctured through the sail, tearing it loose. Kjell roared in pain. He must have been hit. Ansel was hit. His hand was suddenly a mass of blood and torn flesh. The Sky Cub tilted, veering madly.

Ansel’s stomach lurched as he had a brief, ghastly view of the ground swinging past. Rock flew. Ansel tried to protect his head, tried to protect the runes but it did no good. The fires unbalanced and the Sky Cub went into freefall. Ansel fought to right the vessel but she was spinning too fast. A rock struck his head.

Ansel blinked.

The controls slipped from his fingers. He was having trouble moving. He couldn’t move fast enough. Wood crunched. When had the ground got so close? Kjell was shouting something. What was he saying? It wasn’t important.

The ship was tipping.

Everything went dark.

Ansel awoke with a throbbing head.

He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his brain. What had happened? The pain caught up with him with a whoosh. His head was on someone’s back. Actually it was bouncing up and down on someone’s back, no wonder it hurt. He was being carried like a sack of potatoes.

Ansel struggled, kicking the person carrying him. His foot connected with flesh and he was dropped without ceremony. He landed on the ground, unable to catch himself because his hands were tied, a fact he discovered too late to save himself. He let out a grunt of pain and frustration.

Looking up he saw the grim faces of the savage warriors, standing around him in a ring. The tall man poked him with the butt of his spear. Ansel growled and struggled to get up. He was glad to see Kjell was standing watching him, alive, with a neat bandage on his shoulder. The big man’s hands were likewise tied, and his eyes were sorrowful as he looked at Ansel.

“Goodbye, old friend,” said Kjell. “At least we weren’t fish food. In the end.”

“What’s going on?” demanded Ansel.

Kjell shrugged, looking around at the group of armed savages.

“Our friends from the village sold us out,” said Kjell, bitterly. “I assume.”

“Where are we?”

“Ah,” said Kjell. “That I cannot tell you. They brought us through one of your fancy moongates.” He looked over his shoulder. Ansel followed his gaze and his mouth dropped open.

They were standing in front of a vast ruined castle.

It was bigger than any structure he had seen since leaving Stonehaven, as big as the Inquisitor’s library. Crumbling rock and weathered stone stretched into the sky. Tiles and stone lay everywhere, as if they had been ripped from the edifice by a giant’s hand.

Whatever damage had been done to the tower it had been done recently. Ansel looked around, blinking, trying to take it in. Perhaps he was still unconscious? Perhaps this was a fever dream. Debris lay everywhere. The surrounding area was churned to an uneven muddy mess. More people dressed in mountain colours scurried everywhere with an air of purpose. Some of them glanced their way. None of them looked friendly. Many of them were injured.

“What happened here?” asked Ansel in bewilderment.

“I have no idea,” said Kjell, and his voice was grim. “And it gets worse. Look.”

Ansel turned, afraid of what he would see.

His breath hitched, and suddenly all the air was squeezed from his lunges.

At the edge of the mountain, smashed into a million pieces lay a sight so familiar and so terrible he nearly lost control of himself. The wreck of the Sky Lion lay before him. Her familiar wooden planks lay in nightmare splinters. The crow’s nest where he had spent so many hours, dangled free from a broken mask.

His knees felt weak. Blood rushed to his head, and he staggered, making a small noise of distress. The tall savage grabbed him roughly, steadying him and muttering something under his breath. He pushed Ansel forward but he had eyes only for the wreckage of the Sky Lion. The once so familiar outlines taunted him. The ship he had called home, her once proud lines smeared across the battlefield. What had happened? His eyes moved. Beyond the Lion he could see the blacked skeleton of another ship, this one burnt beyond recognition. Was it the Storm Lotus, perhaps? He couldn’t tell.

“What happened?” he asked in wonderment, and not a little fear.

“What I want to know was what in damnation was Ezra thinking?” said Kjell.

The savage warriors herded them into the shadow of the towering ruin, and up a cracked flight of stairs. The two men went willingly, their legs walking without them, their bodies feeling unreal.

“Did…” Ansel was almost speechless. “Did the savages win?”

“Winning might be going too far,” said Kjell, looking around at the devastation. “But I would say it was a serious draw, if not an outright win?”

The leader pushed them forwards roughly, and the whole group trudged through a wide doorway. One of the doors was hanging off its hinges.

“No wonder they arrested us,” said Kjell.

“But…what weapons did they have that they were able to win the day against the might of the fleet? They don’t even have cannons,” said Ansel, in amazement.

“Maybe you can ask,” said Kjell. They were led down a cold, shadowy interior. Savages in uniform eyed them suspiciously as they passed, but none of them stopped. “After they put our heads on spikes.”

Ansel had nothing to say. His brain was too busy processing. Refusing to process what he had seen. His head hurt so much and suddenly he was very tired. He became aware suddenly of the bruises all down his side and arms. They were marched down an echoing passage, and past a huge hole in the wall, where weak sunlight spilled in.

The group came to a halt outside a stout, unadorned door. A prison door, Ansel assumed. He watched dully, as the tall savage rapped on it sharply with his knuckles. To his surprise a feminine voice answered.

They were pushed through the door and Ansel found himself inside a small office.

A woman sat behind a desk.

Ansel knew her.

He felt Kjell stiffen at his side. She was different. Her hair was dark and her eyes were brown but it was definitely her. Ansel would never forget that face as long as he lived, it was etched on his brain in lines of pure terror. It was the face of the savage woman who had beheaded a human being with a swipe of her hands. The face of a woman who had the strength to toss buildings into the air. The face of mindless cruelty and violence.

And here she was sitting behind a desk with bags under her eyes, and piles of paperwork propped in front of her. If he wasn’t so convinced it was the same woman he would think this the domesticated twin to the feral creature who had stalked him on the wild mountain slopes next to the sea.

“I told you we were going to die,” said Kjell, and this time there was no humour in his statement.

The savage witch looked up at them with a faint smile. There was nothing friendly in that smile but it was not the smile of a crazy person. It was calculating, and maybe a little cruel.

“Gentlemen,” she said in flawless Lochlanach.

Both men stiffened in shock.

She leaned closer, looking them over, and tapped one long finger against her cheek.

“Ansel? Kjell? If I’m not mistaken? I’m the Mester. Welcome to Gwavas, or what is left of it. Now.” She steepled her hands together as she surveyed them.

“Why don’t you tell me right now, why I should keep you alive?”