111

(Ansel)

Dragon Breath or Drowning

They stepped back into the clearing, taking care not to be seen. The sun was sinking to the west, and the sounds from the strange native city had softened, reaching their ears as if through a heavy blanket. The wind must have changed. Ansel cast one longing glance at the place, at architecture he had never seen before and longed to explore. If only he could go down, meet the people, learn the language, if only he could find out everything there was to know, about magic, about the land, about the portals but he didn’t dare. It was way too risky with Ezra in toe, even if Ansel could persuade him. He glanced at Ezra. Briefly he fantasised about pushing him off a cliff. Perhaps the world would be a better place if he did.

Ansel fingered the pommel of his sword, frowning.

“Careful with that,” said Ezra, nodding at the soil Ansel still clasped in one sticky hand.

“Oh, right,” Ansel said, guiltily. Carefully he poured half the grains into the inquisitor’s outstretched and rather grubby hand. He had stopped bleeding himself, but it was the work of moments to reopen a small wound. The soil stung. “Ready?”

Ezra nodded, his face bleak.

They both stared up at the gate. What if it didn’t work? What if the savage woman was waiting for them? But worrying would answer no questions. Ansel threw the meagre spray of earth into the gate and to his relief the thing caught alight. One lightning crackle, one gut wrench moment later, he was stepping out onto the cracked stones of the native ruins back where they had started, the cold salt breeze slapping him in the face.

It had been daylight on the other side but here twilight was descending and the torched ruins loomed up around them, shadowy and bleak. Neither man spoke, both listening hard, eyes searching. There was no sign of the savage woman. There was nothing - no monsters, no men, just the flapping of rotting cloth lit by the moon that rose like a ghost ship behind the mountains. They crept forwards, eyes alert. Still nothing.

“Come on,” said Ansel, and his voice sounded rough and coarse to his own ears in the quiet of the gloaming.

They jogged their way towards the ships in the gathering shadows.

“What happened to the savage?” wondered Ezra aloud. Ansel shrugged, the tension not leaving his shoulders.

To their relief they didn’t come across any bodies, didn’t arrive to the fiery remains of a warzone. The ships were all sound and whole, bobby shadows in the twilight and the camp remained undisturbed. They could make out figures moving around down below, indistinct and calm. No one was screaming.

As they made their way down the trail a shadow swooped overhead, momentarily blotting out the stars. They both ducked, instinctively, crouching low as wind from leathery wings buffeted them. Ansel grabbed his blade, sword in one hand and dagger in the other, but then the dragon was gone, swooping away towards the sea.

Shoulder blades twitching they ran the rest of the way.

At the boundary they were hailed by the watch. The parapets and makeshift towers were lined with watchful men, faces strained and terse.

“Good to see you alive!” shouted Kjell, waving from behind the barricade. “We didn’t find you among the dead so we hoped.”

“What happened?” Ezra demanded, as they crossed into the camp.

“Ten dead,” said Captain Joris, his eyes darted backward and forwards. He watched the skies as he spoke, his eyes never resting, bouncing off their faces in a way that made him look a little deranged. Not that Ansel blamed him. “Crazy bitch ran wild, killed a bunch of men and then ran off into the wilderness.” He spat over the parapet. “Surprised to see you two alive. You were right there, weren’t you? How did you manage it?”

“We hid,” said Ansel, quickly, with a sideways glance at Ezra. The inquisitor glared at him but didn’t chime in.

“At this rate,” said Kjell. “None of us will be left.”

“Did you see the dragon?” said Talcott, popping up from further along the wall. He pulled on Ansel’s sleeve. “It flew overhead minutes ago.”

“We saw it,” said Ezra.

“There will be nothing left of us,” said Joris. “I thought it would be better once we landed. But no, we are dying almost as fast as when we were flying over the godsforsaken monster infested water.”

“We need to do something,” agreed Kjell.

“Quiet,” muttered one of the other men. “Not in front of the inquisitor.”

“I agree,” said Ezra, clearly nettled. “We do need to-”

A giant plume of flame erupted behind them, shooting up next to the ocean. A towering inferno of orange and red burnt into the sky, setting the night on fire like a beacon. The base of the cloud tops glowed gold and crimson as they all stood watching, awestruck, their faces aglow with the demonic light. The fire was so enormous they could hear the roar of the flames. Just as quickly as it had started the fire winked out.

The men exhaled, cries of alarm and distress filling the night.

“What now,” growled Ezra. “What in the name of all that is sacred -”

“More witchcraft,” said Joris, and there was uneasy muttering. Talcott looked like he might be sick.

“I’m going to look,” said Ansel, and he strode off towards the cliffs without looking to see if anyone was following him.

After a while Ezra, Talcott, Kjell and a few others joined him.

Ansel paused at the top of the cliff, watching. He could see nothing, the beach below appeared to be empty of all life save a few wheeling night birds, and the slap of the waves on the shore. After a few minutes they made their way down the treacherous slope, the light of the moon and a few smoking torches their only guide. Ansel gripped the hilt of his sword, wishing he still had his arquebus. Once on the sand they spread out, combing the area, but finding nothing.

“Over here!” shouted Ezra and Ansel turned, heart pumping. But it was no threat, no dragon - just a mysterious circle of sand, several yards wide, blackened and scorched.

“What could have made this?” said Kjell, leaning down, and touching the soot with two fingers. The soot marks were oddly spaced and symmetrical. They all stood looking down at it, uneasy.

“How would you rather die?” whispered Talcott, breathing through his nose. “Dragon breath or drowning?”

“Come on,” said Ezra, impatient and he turned, robes flapping. He stamped back up the slope towards the airships, Ansel and the others trailing after him.

Back in the camp they went to find food.

The atmosphere in the mess was quiet and subdued. Most of the crew of the Sky Lion and a few others were there, gaunt, wary faces reflecting in the candlelight as they ate. All them just wondering when the next disaster would strike, who would be next. Perhaps pondering the choices that had brought them here to eat at this rough wood table on a windswept mountain slope next to a cold southern ocean.

Ansel sighed and sat down. Suddenly he felt consumed by a deep, bone-wrenching weariness. Jethro bustled over with some stew and he nodded his thanks and shovelled in a spoonful of the hot food. It tasted like ash but his body needed nourishment. They ate in silence. A glance at Ezra’s fevered eyes seemed to indicate the inquisitor was likewise occupied with dark thoughts. Talcott was staring into space, his food untouched.

Boaz walked into the mess looking merry, stumbling a little as he came. His lips were dusted with silver, his eyes dilated. Men moved silently out of his way, scowls and distaste thick in the air. Boaz grabbed a chunk of bread and ripped into it as he swayed through the tables, bumping into those who did not move aside fast enough. Ansel eyed the captain as he took a sip of his hot tea. He had wondered how Boaz would respond to the death of Mammon but it was plain to see the fact had barely registered. He was far gone in his madness.

Ezra stood abruptly, knocking over his stool.

He strode over to Boaz, his face set, blocking his way. Boaz tripped, and then caught himself blinking down at Ezra, eyes struggling to focus.

There was a flash of silver.

Ezra stabbed Boaz between the ribs, driving his blade into the man’s stomach. Boaz grunted, the air expelled from his lungs as he folded over, his eyes staring. A thin dribble of blood slid down his chin.

Ansel leapt to his feet with a cry, echoed shortly after by the rest of the room.

“What are you doing?” shouted Lothor, from the doorway.

Ezra raised his voice, one hand still on the hilt of the dagger that was buried deep in Boaz’s belly.

“He is gone!” he cried, to the assembled airmen. “A demon has him. We all know this! I won’t let the darkness win! Not anymore!” There was a muttered rumble of assent. “It’s time we-”

Boaz’s eyes snapped vivid blue. His hands fastened around Ezra’s throat and he roared in anger, lifting him into the air with a roar, the dagger in his gut seemingly forgotten. Ezra’s legs kicked frantically, and he gurgled, choking, his face turning purple.

Ansel moved without thinking. Circling behind Boaz he leapt onto the big man’s back, driving his blade into his neck with one hand, hanging on with the other. Boaz bucked at this unexpected assault, teetering backwards, but not letting go of Ezra who continued to struggle. Boaz smashed into the table, trying to dislodge Ansel but he clung fast, holding with all his strength. He caught one sickening view of shocked, terrified faces, mouths open, eyes wide as they wheeled past in their deadly embrace.

“Help us!” he screamed, and his words seemed to break the spell.

Talcott darted forward with a high-pitched shriek, burying a short blade into Boaz’s shin. Kjell slashed at Boaz’s other leg with his sword, Jethro plunged his kitchen knife into his kidney, narrowly missing Ansel. Lothor, Joris and the rest of the crew piled on, weeping and stabbing until the mess floor ran scarlet and Boaz looked like a human pin cushion. Still he fought. Reeling with demon-strength, he crashed through the mess dragging half the men with him. They clung on, trying to bring him down, but Boaz seemed unstoppable. More men jumped on, adding their weight.

Caught in the crush and barely clinging on, Ansel pulled out his dagger with a wet pop. He rammed it into the artery of the big man’s neck with a desperate blow, releasing a bubbling crimson fountain.

Boaz staggered.

He fell, at last, dragging everyone down with him. They lay in a heap, hearts thumping, waiting for Boaz to twitch. Ansel clung to the slippery body like a limpet on a rock, breathing hard, his muscles fit to bursting. But Boaz lay still in the wreckage, his body pumping blood from a dozen wounds, pierced by a multitude of silver blades. His fingers opened and relaxed as the lifeforce left his body, releasing Ezra. His eyes clouded over.

Ezra sat up, coughing, rubbing at the bruises around his throat. Slowly, the pile of men stepped up and away, until only Ansel was left. He forced his fingers off the dagger. Wearily, like an old man, he got up. His shirt was a patchwork of scarlet and brown and he looked at it with distaste, and then at the corpse of the man they had just killed. The silence was heavy, filled with the heaving breaths of twoscore throats.

“The demon is gone!” Ezra shouted, and the place erupted in cheers.

Weariness gripped Ansel and he turned, pushing his way through the crowd of men. Sick of the violence, sick of everything. Behind him Ezra climbed onto the table, one hand still rubbing at his throat. His voice was weak and instantly the place quieted.

“No more!” he shouted, his voice hoarse but gaining confidence. “From now on, we will not tolerate this!” There was a rubble of agreement. Ansel flashed a peek at Lothor, the chief inquisitor’s robes stained with Boaz’s blood. His face wore a peculiar expression as he looked up at Ezra. The bitter look of an old man losing his power to a younger rival? Ansel didn’t care. “We will preserve the lives of those who matter, defend ourselves from those who would seek to corrupt our souls!”

Ansel escaped into the night, rubbing the kinks from his neck, feeling the bruises in his side. Slowly he trudged to his workshop, seeking the familiar shapes of his projects and possessions, trying to blot out the sound of Ezra’s righteous passion that followed him through the night. Soon it was a distant mumble, replaced by the natural noises of the night.

Outside his workshop he paused, stripping off his shirt and pouring a bucket of water over his head. He shivered, wishing the liquid could wash away more than just Boaz’s blood. A small body rocketed out of the dark of the workshop, hitting Ansel in the stomach and throwing its arms about his waist. Ansel looked down at Kip in surprise. The younger boy looked up at Ansel, his eyes luminous and his chin digging into Ansel’s stomach.

“I thought you were dead,” said Kip. He squeezed Ansel tight, and then let go, embarrassed. As suddenly as he had arrived he left, disappearing between the ramshackle buildings.

“I’m fine,” Ansel shouted, lamely.

“Good!” came back the faint cry.

Ansel turned away with a faint smile, chucking the bloody bundle of his shirt into a corner and rummaging for a fresh one. He was glad Kip had finally left his barrel and wondered if Talcott knew.

The smile slipped off his face as he stepped into the workshop and looked over at the model moongate he had built. The curves of the portal, the pale symmetry were pleasing to the eye, the placement of the runes he had laboured so hard to replicate. He admired it for a moment, then walked over to his tool chest and pulled out a hammer. It hurt a little to destroy the project that had taken so long to assemble, but destroy it he did, taking great care to smash several of the key runes, and to wrench a large chunk out of the base. His notes he gave to the fire, murmuring a quiet prayer.

That done he stood in the shadowy workshop listening to the distant cadence of voices in the distance. The shadows in the corner of his eye moved slightly, coiling and undulating. A sibilant voice whispered, just on the edge of his hearing.

“Burn it all…”