105

(Ansel)

A Dream

The scouting party trudged through the twilight. The sun had long since sunk into the sea, leaving behind a molten trail of pink and gold wave caps.

“Should be easier going downhill,” commented Louis. And it was. They made good time, journeying most of the way back to the airships before dark. As it became harder to see, they paused to light their brands before continuing on. The night was mild and very, very quiet.

Trudging at the back of the group, Ansel could see the trail of flaming, bobbing lights strung out before him. The torches made him uncomfortable. They were surely visible for miles around. Ansel twisted around as he went, staring out across the mountain slopes, peering into the thick darkness, skin prickling.

A riot of stars was sprinkled overhead. Sound carried in the still evening air, close and intimate. Ansel could hear the panting of the men in front of him - the rasp of their breath and the clump of their boots lending a steady rhythm to their march. He could also hear someone, behind him, where there should be nothing. He whirled. The light from his torch blinded him. He held it high but there was only bleak, empty hillside. Ansel glared at the darkness suspiciously and then rushed to catch up with the rest of the party. They walked on.

Again, Ansel heard a sound. This time it was more distinct - a shuffling noise, like someone dragging something heavy and wet over rocks.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?” asked Louis, who was in front of him. Ansel strained his ears but the noise had stopped.

“Nothing,” he said, beginning to wonder if he was imagining things. Ansel fixed his eyes on Louis’ broad armoured back. The flame of the brand reflected off the dented metal. Thump, Thump. Pause. Thump. Unmistakable, and getting closer.

“There’s something behind us,” he said, loudly.

“What was that?” asked Kjell, swinging his torch towards the back of the group. The red flame made the shadows dance.

“I can hear something!” said Ansel. “Following us.”

The party came to a stop, piling into each other with curses and clanks. They all peered into the darkness.

“Maybe it's an animal,” said Louis.

“Haven’t seen no animals,” muttered one of the others and there was a rumble of unease.

“Quiet!” shouted Kjell.

They quieted.

They all heard it then. A dull shuffling noise. Something clumsy. Thump, thump, thump. It stopped, and once more Ansel could only hear his own quickening breath. He held his torch high, trying to see, the other hand gripping his sword hilt.

“Who’s there?” demanded Kjell. “Show your-”

A howl ripped out of the darkness, a vibrating spitting hiss wrapped in a lion’s roar. A predator’s deathrattle. An answering howl echoed up from the ships, just visible from the rise, followed by distant bedlam. Bangs, crashes and screams echoed up into the sky. Flares bloomed red above the sails, tiny and toy-like.

“Wha-” said Louis.

A thing leapt out of the gloom; a monster, a dead man? It came at Ansel, lumpy and grotesque with white translucent flesh dripping from exposed bones. White hair stuck to its skull in clumps. It might once have been human. No longer.

Ansel ducked as it swiped at his throat. Before it could strike at him again he lifted his sword and drove it through the creature’s heart. Or where the heart should have been. He met no resistance. The sword went through its chest like a hot knife through butter. The monster exploded into dust motes, the remains collapsing into powder on the ground. Ansel stumbled back, his breath rasping. As the shocked scouting party watched, the dust blew away in the light, evening breeze.

“The ships!” shouted Kjell, memory returning. “Something is happening on the ships!”

They ran, clanking down the slope. Along the clifftops, along the dunes to arrive, out of breath just as the pandemonium was abating.

Whatever violence had taken place seemed to be over. A foul stench lingered in the air. The Valiant was on fire, and men were working to put out the blaze, those who were not helping standing around muttering.

“What happened here?” asked Kjell. They stared as a groaning man was carried past on a stretcher.

“We were attacked,” shouted the pair of men carrying him. “The savages sent their demons to kill us!”

The scouting party exchanged glances.

“To the Warspite,” said Kjell. The big man’s brow furrowed. “We are supposed to report to Marlow.”

The group trudge their way across the dunes, casting glances up at the burning Valiant. The fire seemed to be under control now, but Ansel knew the runes would need repainting from scratch, and it looked like the sails and ropes had been burned half away.

The Warspite was attracting a crowd. They joined the throng hurrying up the gangplank, and pushed their way across the deck where an impromptu fleet meeting seemed to be in progress.

The head inquisitor was standing on a barrel. The other inquisitors and Marlow standing looking up at him. Lothor’s face was puffed and red, and he was shouting. Anger simmered in the air like bitter cyanide.

“We must burn them!” he was bellowing. The gathering crowd cheered and jostled. “It is our duty to wipe this new land clean! The demonic infection must be purged!”

The airmen roared their approval, brandishing their weapons in the air. The torch light flickered, casting all their faces in flickering red.

Ansel gulped, remembering another crowd long ago. A cold hand seized his heart. He spotted Ezra, and hurried over to his side. His friend's face was sombre, his clothes battle-stained and he was looking up at the head inquisitor with a tense expression. Boaz stood next to him, his eyes glazed.

“Tomorrow,” said Lothor. “Tomorrow we will destroy them! I will lead the cleansing myself!”

“You can’t prove they are sending the hollow men!” a voice shouted. Ansel was a little surprised to find it was his own. All faces turned towards him and he flushed red. But he squared his shoulders. “You don’t know it was them,” he repeated.

“He’s right,” shouted Audric. “We just returned from the settlement. The savages are peaceful folk. Strange and simple, but not warlike.”

Boaz smiled at them, seeming to find a moment of clarity.

“Foolish,” he said. “The savages will keep sending the wights. We must destroy them before they destroy us. Kill their shamans and burn the place to the ground. Only then can we be safe.” He said it, airily, as if he wasn’t bedding a savage witch himself.

“The captain speaks the truth!” shouted Lothor.

“Kjell and the others pushed their way to the front, standing arrayed behind Ansel.

“I don’t think-” said Kjell. “I mean the savages seemed peaceful.” His big, honest face creased in discomfort. “Ansel and Audric have the right of it.”

“Kjell!” said Marlow, looming out of the shadows. “You are back. Did you find cavorite?”

“No,” said Kjell. “But we made contact with the natives. We-”

“If they have made a pact with demons!” roared Lothor, “they must be cleansed with fire.”

“Burn them!” said Oskar.

“Hear, hear,” the inquisitors took up the call.

“Surely you can’t mean it,” said Ansel, raising his voice. His cheeks burned, but he sought Ezra’s face. It was as stern and unyielding as a rock. “They are just people. Men, women, children! You wouldn’t kill children?”

“In self-defence?” said Ezra. “Yes, I would. A nest of young vipers might look innocent, but I would still drown their young, to prevent myself from harm.” There was a roar of agreement. Ezra held up his hands, his face tight. “But not without evidence,” he called. “My friend here is right. Not without evidence. Our order is founded on reason. Rational thought must prevail. He is right.”

“The evidence is all around you,” said Boaz, his eyes feverish. He gestured at the blood-stained deck. “I see it in the crimson wash, I see it in the bruising and the hurt. I see it in our dead.” The men muttered, nodding along.

“What does it matter?” said Reuben, turning to Ezra. “They are only savages? We have lost enough men. It is time we protected our own.”

“Better to kill them all,” said Joris. “Better safe than sorry!”

A cacophony of shouts and arguments split the deck. Boaz leaned back against a barrel and folded his arms. Beside him, the head inquisitor’s head bowed in thought. He let the sound of the fleet wash over him for several long moments, then he straightened on his barrel, his wispy grey beard floating in the breeze.

“The young men are right,” he said, eyes blazing. He held up a hand, as if to stay the mutterings. “Let it not be said we are men without justice. Though we are far from home let us follow the teachings! Reason. Honour. Conquest. We need to see for ourselves the evidence of their depravity before we put them to the flame.”

There was a subdued rumble.

Boaz threw back his head and laughed. It was an uncomfortable sound, as if he was one step from madness.

“Go then,” he said. “We will find your evidence. But we must hurry! Before they send more demons to hound us and steal away our souls in the night.”

“Tomorrow!” said Marlow. He had the wide-eyed look of a man trying to keep control. Things were getting away from him. “Tomorrow, we will march on the settlement and judge for ourselves! See if we can find evidence of these demonic activities. But most importantly we will find the cavorite, and we will avenge our fallen comrades! If not on the savages there then on whoever is responsible!”

The airmen cheered.

That night Ansel dreamed.

He flew, bird-like to a great cold city, far to the north. Overhead, the clouds hung heavy and dull while in the centre of the stone city snow lingered on the ground. A great pyre burned there. The edge of the harbour might be frosted with ice but the pyre flames licked wood and flesh alike, hot and all consuming. Soot drifted skywards, mixing with a few stray snowflakes.

A small boy watched his mother burn.

Her screams filled Ansel’s ears. The terrible scent of burning flesh filled his nostrils. He turned his face away, unable to watch that beloved face twisting in pain. Instead he watched the little pieces of ash ghost away. Floating they spiralled up and away on the gusting northern wind; but no matter how he watched he could not block out the sounds, not of the dying woman, nor of the baying crowd.

Ranks of grey-faced inquisitors lined the square, facing outwards, composed and grim. The peasants shouted and jeered.

"Witch!" they roared as the flames consumed her. "Witch!"

The fire had reached her waist now, but the woman was still alive. She screamed again, and again, throwing back her head - a high-pitched, tortured sound full of agony and pain. She screamed as if the sound could free her from the agony she endured. But it could not.

Ansel covered his ears, rocking backwards and forwards in an attempt not to hear, but his uncle snatched his hands away, forcing his head back to the pyre.

"Watch, boy," he said, "watch and heed the lesson."

So, Ansel Frost, five years old, watched as his mother's body turned to ash and smoke. After a while she stopped screaming. The fire did its work, and the crowds left, deprived of their entertainment. The inquisitors went back to their warm chambers.

At length it was just Ansel and his uncle, kneeling, and heartbroken before the ashes. A single, ragged man arrived to sweep the square, piling the charred wood and remains into a barrow to wheel away. To make way for the next execution.

The grizzled old man wiped soot off Ansel’s cheeks, cupping his face in his large, calloused hands. Both their faces were wet with tears, and streaked with ash.

"I know it is harsh," said uncle, “but you needed to see this. You need to know the penalty. If you are ever tempted... think of this day. You will grow up to be a good man, Ansel, and you will make better choices, wiser choices than your damn mother. Do you understand?"

Ansel nodded, although he didn’t.

He vowed silently that it would never be Ansel, up there, helpless and tied to the stake while the flames took him. He would make sure of that.

Ansel woke with a gasp, covered in sweat, heart pounding.

He lifted a hand to wipe away the soot but found only fresh tears. He lay in his hammock, staring up at the Sky Lion’s dark ceiling, waiting for the sticky cobwebs of his nightmare to release him.

It was early. Too early to get up. At least an hour before dawn. He cursed under his breath and swung his legs over the hammock. His mother’s face fresh in his mind, he eased feet into shoes and crept up to the deck.

The stars were still out, and all was quiet and dark. He waved up to the watch, aware that eyes were on him and then made his way to one of the few corners he was sure he could be alone, and unobserved. For a few moments at least. He fumbled for his tallow candle, striking flint on iron to make a spark. The watch probably thought he was smoking a secret stash of tobacco.

Before her face could fade from his mind, he sketched out his mother’s features on stolen parchment. By the wavering light he drew her short dark hair and her warm smile. He pictured her face not twisted with pain but as remembered from those few, precious memories he retained of their time together, when he was very young. He drew feverishly, consumed by emotion.

When he was done he set down his charcoal. Breathing deeply, he stared down at her. It was a decent likeness. Enough for tears to prick his eyelids once more. His mother. She stared up at him from the parchment, looking so young. So happy. So alive. Ansel had her nose, he thought with a grin, reaching up to touch his own. He had never noticed before.

The sound of boots on the deck brought him crashing back to the present. It was nearly dawn. The captain had ordered everyone awake, in case the iron didn’t hold and more monsters crawled out of the doorways. No one wanted to be caught asleep if they were attacked again.

Ansel looked down at his mother one last time. For a split second he debated keeping the drawing, but he couldn’t bear it if someone saw. If someone asked who she was.

“Ansel?” Ezra’s voice floated up the stairwell.

Moving quickly, Ansel held the drawing over the candle flame, and let the flames eat his mother for the second time in one night. He murmured to her as the paper burnt, apologising, and telling her he loved her. It wasn't quite a prayer, although it felt like one.

Ezra’s head popped over a barrel.

“There you are,” he said. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Philosophising,” said Ansel. “And pondering the absolute lack of privacy living in this tub entails.”

“Ha,” said Ezra. “Well, you had better hurry if you want some breakfast. You know what those pigs are like.” He disappeared again.

Ansel looked at the candle in his hand. The flame was weak and barely visible in the pre-dawn light.

He pinched it out with his fingers.

The smoke curled upwards in a pale plume as Ansel checked over his shoulder to make sure he was in fact alone. He was. Ansel held up a finger. Carefully he touched it to the wick. The candle burst into flame, the fire consuming not just the wick but half the wax as well. It dripped onto his hand, scalding hot and he cursed, leaping backwards and hitting his head on a nearby barrel.

A laugh bubbled up in his throat. But he swallowed it down and went to breakfast with the inquisitor.