96

Strangers in a Strange Land

Ansel joined the rest of the crew on the deck. The men were silent, clustered against the starboard railings and gazing out across the waves at the new land. Peeking between them Ansel could just make out lines of angry breakers. He pushed forwards. The waves dashed themselves foaming onto the dark line of the sandy beach. Behind the beach – more sand – great piles of sand, rippled by the wind into enormous heaps. Towering dunes bare of any living thing stretched as far as the eye could see. No bushes, no animals. No grass. No trees. Just sand. Behind the dunes, even more dunes.

The shore was a line unbroken by bay or peninsula. A bleak vision. The desolation ran north to south, before disappearing into the mists.

Ansel spotted Ezra in the crush and elbowed his way towards him. Ezra had a little space around him as no one wanted to accidentally touch the Investigator.

“Are we here?” Ansel muttered squeezing into it. Ezra didn’t acknowledge him, his mouth a flat line, his grey eyes distant and agate hard. “Are we here?” he repeated. “Is it Ys?”

“It’s certainly not an island,” said Ezra, after a moment. He did not take his eyes off the shore. “Too big. Maybe it’s the continent we seek? But this is nothing like Varangot described.”

And he was right. Rumours persisted in Lochlanach of a rich land, a land rich in minerals, fertile soil and most of all, a land rich with cavorite deposits. A land rich enough to fund an empire. A land ripe for conquest. However, it was far to the south, and protected by demons and monsters. No one lived there, beyond a few savages. The journey was long and hard. That bit they knew to be true, Ansel thought sourly.

The only man who actually claimed to have set foot on Ys and lived to tell the tale was Varangot. Otto Varangot had led an expedition some fifty years ago. Ys was, he had proclaimed, a wasteland waiting to be settled and tamed. He had drawn pictures of lofty mountains and exotic animals – horned horses, great serpents and winged buzzards as big as a man. Varangot himself had died before he could raise the funds for a return journey.

He had died destitute, a broken man. There were whispers that he had died a cavorite addict drooling into his cups and spouting nonsense. That his visions of Ys were no more than the rantings of a madman, hallucinations brought on by insanity. And perhaps that was so. But the Lochlanach fleet had set sail hoping to prove his claims. Perhaps they were misguided fools, following the maps drawn by a madman on his deathbed. Perhaps. Most of the crew believed they were brave explorers headed for wealth and fame. Ansel did not care for such things. A daily wage and passage away from Stonehaven were what he wanted. What he had got. Looking back, it seemed naïve. One thing was clear – what lay before them was not the rich, fertile land Varangot had described. It was a desert.

“Fucking Varangot,” said the deckhand next to them, and there was a murmur of agreement.

“We are not far enough south, are we?” said Ansel. “By the stars.”

“No,” said Ezra.

“Then there is hope.” It was not quite a statement, not quite a question. Ansel’s own stolen copy of Varangot’s map lay hidden amongst his belongings below deck. He had calculated their trajectory using the stars as reference many times. Their voyage was not over. “Maybe we can find supplies,” said Ansel.

Ezra grunted.

Ansel had to concur, the outlook was not promising.

The sand was orange, almost red in the morning light. Still. Lifeless. Nothing looked remotely edible. There was no obvious source of freshwater. The sun hung like a scorching ball of hatred in a dark blue sky but despite the sand and the sun, the temperature was surprisingly cool. Where sea met sand a fine mist curled, mingling with the spray of the breakers. The wind above blew dry and barren, licking at Ansel’s cheeks with a parched tongue.

Despair pooled in his stomach.

“We’re all gonna die, aren’t we,” muttered Kip, who was hanging glumly over the rail.

“Hush,” murmured Ansel. “Mind your words.” Captain Boaz had come up to stand behind them. The wiry man stood with a scowl fit to curdle milk.

“We wait for the word,” said Captain Boaz. Kip jumped guilty. Boaz’s face mirrored the disappointment of the rest of the crew. “Prime the guns. Have them ready in case they are needed.”

“Aye, captain,” came the murmur from all the crew. Boaz glared around at them, his stare enough to blister the runes of the deck. He turned on his heel and left.

Slowly the crew dispersed to their jobs.

“Needed for what,” muttered Talcott, as the captain disappeared below. “There’s nothing there!”

“At least there are no sea monsters in the sands,” said Kip. The young men of the ship cast worried glances at the rolling waves of sand. “That we know of,” added the small lad.

“You can go first,” said Talcott, unkindly. “Just walk about and we’ll see if something comes out to eat you. But what is worse? Sand monsters or just… nothing? How long till we are drinking seawater?”

“Quiet, you lot,” growled Mange, “or I’ll throw you overboard. Get to your work.”

They scurried away.

The cannons were prepped. The decks were cleaned and scrubbed. All the airships hung, buffeted by the shore winds, keels above the roaring breakers. The wind was brisk, snapping the pennons but the sails were stowed, and the ships held stationary.

They waited.

At last the word came from Captain Kurtz of the Unsparing. The Sky Lion would land first, then if all went well the rest. A small, cynical part of Ansel wondered how long Kurtz would live to retain the position. The fleet edged forward.

Boaz’s mouth twisted even further on receipt of this message. As the smallest ship, the Sky Lion was the most disposable. The least amount of resources would be wasted by their loss. The logic was sound, Ansel mused, as he watched the land approach with rapt attention. It did not make the pill easier to swallow. But they were beyond civilisation now. Hard choices had to be made.

The crew hung from the netting, three lookouts crowding the nest. Men stood by the cannons, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. But there was nothing. Ansel scanned the horizon. It was empty. Just sand blowing in the dry, dead air. The Sky Lion settled cautiously on the sands. The retractable braces were extended, sinking deep into the soft surface of the dunes. Then, suddenly they were still.

It was strange after so long in the air. Ansel’s legs felt odd. He clung to the railing, trying to make it look casual. About him, everyone was doing the same. But they had no attention for each other - all eyes were on the sands. A breathless minute passed. Nothing came to get them. No monsters burst out of the sand. No savages burst over the horizon.

There was just the soft, whistling hiss of millions of granules trickling over the lip of the dune in the wind.

“Get on with it!” Boaz shouted. “The fleet waits!”

Three deckhands who had drawn short straws climbed down the rope ladder to the ground. They had their arquebuses strapped across their backs, chests criss-crossed by bandoliers. They dropped onto the sand and stood there, unsteady.

“Walk about!” shouted Boaz. “Check for danger!”

Act as bait, he meant. They all knew it. The men on the sand knew it. Grim faced they walked in a wide circle around the Sky Lion, the rope of their matches glowing in readiness. Much good it would do them. The firearms were slow and awkward to load. Useful if something came charging at them from a distance, but caught unawares they might as well use the butt of the firearms as a club. They would have less chance of dying. However, all was well. No one came. Nothing attacked them.

“All clear,” one of them shouted. Ansel and the crew heaved a collective sigh of relief.

The rest of the fleet moved in to land at the top of the beach. Shouts and the slap of boots on wood rang out.

“What now?” said Ezra. They did not have long to wonder.

Captain Kurtz announced he would lead a small scouting party on a search for …anything. Food, water. Something besides sand. Ansel’s heart leapt at the thought of exploration but his hopes were dashed. Captain Kurtz took with him only a selection of soldiers from the Unsparing. All ships were commanded to hold steady, to watch. Each crew could take a turn on the sand, but only one at a time.

“He’s brave,” murmured Ansel to Ezra as they watched the landing party set out across the dunes. “Many men would send others in their place.” His gaze slipped back to Boaz who was striding up and down the deck, the scowl fixed to his face permanently.

“He’s a fool,” said Ezra.

They watched the scouting party trekking like a row of ants across the highest dune. They were soon lost to sight.

Boaz set the crew to work repairing the damage of the voyage so far with the limited resources they had available. It was better than sitting around waiting, even though it felt strange to be on land.

Now that the immediate danger was past Ansel was back to his normal job assisting Otto, the Rune-Master. There was a great deal to do repairing and repainting the Sky Lion’s runes. Many had been burned or broken during the events of the previous few days.

Under Otto’s watchful eye, Ansel scoured the ship from one end to the other. Part of his job was to reach the places the older man found difficult to access. A ladder and rope harness was slung over the side and Ansel worked his way across the keel. It was an uncomfortable job, even with sand below instead of water. At least the vessel was stationary. The last time he had tended to the keep runes the ship had been over deep ocean, and moving at quite a clip. His harness was secure but it was still an unsettling experience.

Ansel worked with fierce concentration. A protective mask covered his mouth and nose. Raw cavorite powder was dangerous in the extreme. It was a highly addictive substance that gave you visions so terrible you would stab your own eyes to escape them. The runes were painted with a paste made of ground cavorite powder, shark oil, gum and resin. They could be applied to wood or metal with equal ease. Once set on fire the runes would burn for hours with a subtle, eldritch glow. Wherever the runes burned, whatever they touched became weightless. Cavorite rune-craft was the reason a many tonne vessel could take to the air equipped with twenty great cannons powered only by the wind. Cavorite rune-craft was why the Lochlanach Empire was the largest in the world.

A limited, precious resource it was heavily regulated by the state. Great care was taken not to let it fall into the hands of the general populace. A smile curved on Ansel’s lips as he dipped his brush.

He glanced up. Otto was out of sight, as was the rest of the crew. Ansel was well under the keep hidden from the view of any casual observer. Even so, it paid to be cautious. Without breaking concentration Ansel dabbed his brush into the little glass vial he had placed next to the Rune-Masters. Dab, dab. A brush stroke here, a brush stroke there. Nothing Master Otto would notice. But it added up over time. Not enough to make a difference to the flight of the Sky Lion of course. Ansel wasn’t a monster. But enough for Ansel to use on his private experiments. Ansel palmed the little glass jar with long practice and secreted it into an inner pocket. He made sure never to take too much. Never enough to arouse suspicion.

Frowning he bent to work, painting, sweeping broad brush strokes across the top of the symbol, endeavouring to be as accurate as possible. One error could see the ship lose balance. One wrong rune was unlikely to tip the bulk of the weight but small mistakes added up quickly. Linked in cursive, once lit the mistakes could spell disaster.

“Alright, Frost?” Otto called from above.

“Yes, Master,” he replied.

It took Ansel the better part of five hours to finish the runes. When he was done the sun was high overhead, and the temperature had risen significantly. The off-duty crew were huddled in what shade the rigging allowed. No one wanted to waste water, at least until the landing party returned with good news.

Ansel settled down with a hard biscuit and watched Talcott, Audric the scribe and one of the deckhands, Louis, play cards. Periodically he scoured the dunes. Now the sun was so high they were painful to look at for any length of time. When he was done with his meal he joined them for a round of able-whackets. After a while they switched to dice. Ezra came and lurked disapprovingly in a corner, but Ansel noticed he watched the game with rapt attention. No one had anything of value they were willing or able to bet, so they made do with shells, purloined utensils from the kitchen and Audric’s dirty handkerchief.

As the hours slipped the players glanced up more and more. No one wanted to admit they were anxious. Once or twice Ansel thought he heard a noise, or saw dots in the sand. But it was always his imagination. Maybe they had found an oasis, or something that was worth the delay. Time passed.

“Holy mother,” said Ezra.

The players looked up from their dice.

“Man your posts!” screamed the look-out. The dice went flying. The party was back but they were not alone.

The top of the dunes was ringed with savages. Unnaturally pale-skinned men and women dressed in skins and furs scowled down at the fleet. Their exposed skin was covered with blue whorls, tattooed in designs that twisted the eye. Their faces were pierced and painted; bones and feathers decorated hair that glinted gold and white in the harsh sun. None of them were wearing armour.

The landing party was with them. Kurtz and his men had their hands tied, spears poking into their backs.

"Man, the canons!" cried Captain Boaz. "Assemble your guns!"

Similar cries were echoed across the dunes as each ship's crew scrambled to make ready for battle. Sweat trickled down Ansel's brow. His hand shook as he set up the arquebus that he had learned how to assemble less than a month ago. He listed the steps in his head, and the familiar words soothing his actions. Ten steps in total and he was ready, powder tapped down and flash pan cover open.

Ansel squinted across the glare of the dunes, awaiting the command to fire, the wooden shaft of the weapon pressed into his shoulder. He could feel Ezra shaking gently beside him. Ezra disapproved of firearms on principle, but the crew was too small to make allowances, even for an Inquisitor. All men, from the youngest powder boy to the captain himself were trained to fight.

Out across the sands one Kurtz was pushed forward. Kurtz was shouting but the wind snatched away his words.

"Hold your fire," said Boaz, "but stand ready."

Kurtz stumbled forwards, his eyes wild. He shouted again, and this time they heard him.

"They want to talk! Don’t shoot!”