Witchsign

by Den Patrick

  Steiner backed off a few paces, hefting the sledgehammer, aware of the silver shadow at his back, still gnawing on the hapless captain.

  ‘You are beginning to annoy me, boy,’ said Shirinov.

  Steiner scowled. ‘You’ve been annoying the shit out of me since I met you.’

  ‘The dragon was an audacious move,’ said Shirinov, leaning on his staff, ‘but they’re fickle creatures.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Shirinov stepped forward and Steiner pointed. ‘Take him, Själsstyrka.’

  It was at that moment the dragon finished dining, flared her wings, and launched into the skies. Steiner and the Vigilant watched her go with quiet reverence. She did not turn sharply and descend in a fury of talons, nor did she incinerate the hated Vigilant with a fiery breath as Steiner had hoped.

  ‘Fuck.’ Steiner looked at Shirinov and thought the old man might be laughing beneath the silver mask. ‘I guess we do this the old-fashioned way then?’

  ‘You have your hammer, while I wield the arcane,’ replied the Vigilant, the silver mask mocking.

  Steiner hefted the sledgehammer past his shoulder, swinging as the ship’s sails came free of their masts in sheets of flame. Shirinov raised a hand, deflecting the main force of Steiner’s attack but the ship chose that moment to pitch forward, a wash of spray exploding over the prow. Shirinov’s feet slipped as the sledgehammer impacted on his arcane ward, flinging the old man backwards, over the lip of the steps. The Vigilant landed on his side, shuddering in pain.

  ‘Old fashioned is good.’ Steiner descended the steps.

  ‘Get away from me!’ wheezed Shirinov as he raised one trembling hand. The main mast was a great pillar of flame, plumes of ruddy orange and vibrant red running the length of the wood.

  ‘You’ll never reach Kjellrunn.’ said Steiner, teeth gritted in determination, and lifted the sledgehammer above his head.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Kjellrunn

  Perhaps the most unnerving aspect of Frøya and Frejna is that they bestow their adherents with powers denied most Vigilants. While it is not seemly to mention this at the academy, the subject is raised on occasion and always the fear is the same. ‘We know not what they are capable of.’

  The ability to cast fiery spears and turn one’s self to stone pales next to the fury of the ocean.

  – Untainted Histories Volume 3: Serebryanyy Pyli

  ‘It is not working,’ said Mistress Kamalov. The wind whipped about the headland, the pines swayed and complained in hushed voices.

  ‘But you’ve been trying for hours,’ said Kristofine from behind them, a flaming torch held aloft. ‘What can I do to help?’

  The skies were pale grey to the south and south-west, but overhead was oppressive with dark clouds, a tumult of wind and rain with the low rumble of thunder in the distance.

  ‘Now would be a good time to reveal you do have witchsign after all,’ said Kjellrunn. She was bathed in sweat from trying to drag the ship north; hours had gone by, spent stirring up the tides, urging the Spøkelsea to rise up against the Imperial ship.

  ‘Let’s head into town,’ said Kristofine. ‘If we can’t stop them here …’

  Kjellrunn shook her head. Her entreaty to the tide had left her weak, but she remained standing on the headland. Mistress Kamalov had marshalled the wind, struggling to turn the vessel. Instead the crew had stowed the sails and relied on oars alone.

  ‘They will run aground on the beach,’ said Mistress Kamalov. ‘No more than that. This task is too big for an old woman and young girl. We need four, five, six Vigilants.’

  ‘If we could just crash the ship into the pier.’ Kjellrunn felt the ebb and flow of the Spøkelsea, it pulled at every muscle and strained every tendon. She was bruised with it, unable to bear such an immense force.

  ‘We must make it sink,’ said Mistress Kamalov, ‘leave no evidence for the Empire. Bad enough we have scores of graves to dig for the Okhrana.’

  Kjellrunn stumbled, buffeted by the wind. Kristofine caught her and shared a concerned look with Mistress Kamalov.

  ‘You can’t keep this up much longer,’ said Kristofine. ‘Your hands are like ice and you must be shattered.’

  Kjellrunn nodded with a heavy heart.

  ‘Things are worse.’ Mistress Kamalov shook her head, shoulders slumping with exhaustion.

  ‘What’s worse?’ said Kjellrunn, squinting through the rain and darkness.

  ‘Look!’ A finger pointed to the sea. ‘They have brought a dragon. Soldiers are bad, but a dragon … There will be no fighting a dragon.’

  ‘There are no dragons—’ But anything else Kjellrunn wanted to say was lost to the wind as a vast plume of blue fire illuminated the ship and the creature who breathed it. Vast wings the colour of steel stretched wide, the serpentine body writhing with unnatural grace. ‘Frøya save us.’

  ‘An actual dragon,’ whispered Kristofine, her grasp tightening on Kjellrunn’s hand.

  ‘Wait! It is attacking the ship.’ Mistress Kamalov frowned.

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Kristofine. They watched in disbelief as the dragon landed on the deck, then a struggle followed and men’s screams could be heard. The storm abated as Kjellrunn’s and Mistress Kamalov’s attention dwindled.

  ‘It means that we’re not the only ones trying to stop that ship from reaching Cinderfell,’ said Kjellrunn.

  ‘This is a more direct way of sinking a ship,’ said Mistress Kamalov, nodding her head, obviously impressed. ‘Your brother’s work perhaps?’

  ‘Steiner?’ Kjellrunn shook her head, such a thing was impossible.

  ‘He is the only person who wants to stop that ship as much as we do,’ said Mistress Kamalov. ‘Even if it means flying a dragon from Vladibogdan.’

  ‘Steiner?’ Kjellrunn could barely dare to hope Steiner could be so close.

  ‘He must be crazy,’ said Mistress Kamalov, ‘or a berserker. Perhaps both.’

  ‘Steiner’s come back?’ There was a note of hope in Kristofine’s voice that felt irresistible to Kjellrunn, irresistible and yet terrible. If it wasn’t him, if he hadn’t ridden a dragon from Vladibogdan … Kjellrunn clasped Kristofine’s hand and stared out to sea, hoping for a glimpse of her missing brother.

  ‘I was wrong,’ said Mistress Kamalov.

  ‘About what?’ said Kristofine.

  ‘About my brother,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘She said he’d be killed the moment they discovered he doesn’t have witchsign.’

  ‘I am sorry, Kjellrunn. I was wrong.’ Mistress Kamalov shook her head. ‘In my experience, so many have died …’

  But Kjellrunn wasn’t interested. She headed along the cliffs, almost running back to town.

  ‘Where are you going?’ called Kristofine.

  ‘I’m going to see if Steiner survives drowning in the storm I raised,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

  Kjellrunn knew they would follow but did not slow her pace for the old woman. Cinderfell’s bay was illuminated by the burning masts of the Imperial ship. Somewhere amid all the burning timber and briny spume was her brother, somewhere amid the chaos and terror was the boy who had gone to Vladibogdan so she might be spared.

  ‘Steiner?’ Her pace quickened, eyes fixed on the ship, caught in the cruel swell of the Spøkelsea. ‘Steiner!’ The dragon ascended from the deck, rising into the sky, leaving the ship to burn. Kjellrunn’s heart grew cold and heavy. Was he leaving so soon?

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Steiner

  Above all, a Vigilant is encouraged to use their powers in subtle ways that do not arouse suspicion. Keeping the arcane secret is the most important task any servant of the Empire can attend to. It would not do to call down a mighty storm and howling winds, such things are conspicuous, even to serfs riddled with superstitions.

  – Untainted Histories Volume 3: Serebryanyy Pyli

  Steiner ran forward and raised the sledgehammer in both hands, poised for the blow that would end Shirinov’s pe
rsecution. Aurelian emerged out of the press of bodies, elbowing and shoving at men much larger than himself. A bitter smile crossed his face as he cradled one hand inside the other then flung them forward. Steiner had not been struck by a fireball before. The force of the strike was surprising, knocking him back, sending the sledgehammer tumbling from his grip. Flames reached all around him and guttered to nothing in the rain. His padded coat caught fire at the sleeve as he covered his face with an arm. The leather surcoat was charred black.

  Steiner stumbled away, whipping his arm back and forth, but the flames remained. A sailor ran past with a bucket and Steiner snatched it from him, upending the water over the spreading flames.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Steiner, but the sailor was unimpressed, reaching for his knife. Steiner lashed out with the bucket, hitting the man in face, sending him sprawling against the rail as the ship listed to one side. A sudden shout was followed by a splash and Steiner stared from the man overboard to the battered bucket.

  ‘Of course there would be storm. Just my luck,’ he said, clinging on to the handrail to avoid the same fate as the sailor. A moment later Steiner had retrieved his sledgehammer and glanced across the deck. Aurelian had helped Shirinov to his feet while Steiner had fought the sailor. Vigilant and novice approached, only to be barged aside as soldiers fled the hold. There was a lot of shouting and Steiner understood none of it.

  ‘We have you now,’ said Aurelian, grinning beside his master.

  Steiner looked around for some advantage but found nothing. He was outnumbered twenty to one, but the soldiers had no mind to attack, fleeing for the lifeboats being lowered to the waves below. The ships’s masts burned fitfully above them in the rain, the flames on the sailcloth stubbornly refusing to die.

  ‘Armoured men have no business at sea,’ said Steiner as he retreated up the steps to the stern. A shocked silence smothered the ship as the crow’s nest fell, a flaming comet that smashed into the forecastle, ending a dozen lives in a heartbeat.

  ‘Aurelian! Wait!’ Shirinov’s voice was desperate above the din. Steiner spent long moments casting his gaze across the deck, thick with rushing men and burning wood. Shirinov’s novice was lost in the throng. Steiner fell back as the ship lurched under violent waves. The deck rose up before him and he stumbled backwards, colliding with a sailor. Not a sailor. Aurelian. The blond-haired boy had snuck across the main deck and circled around behind.

  ‘You always seem to be under my feet,’ said Steiner, raising one arm in anticipation of the flames to come. He set his head down and charged into the boy. There was dull smacking sound as Steiner’s elbow connected with something. He hoped for Aurelian’s nose, but any part of his face would do. Aurelian was undoubtedly more powerful, with fireballs and fiery breath at his disposal, but Steiner pushed him across the deck, shoving him with an elbow mashed into his face. The novice fell back against the rail, unable to concentrate enough to focus on the arcane. A glance over Aurelian’s shoulder revealed roaring waves surging about the ship’s hull, forbidding blue, and the stark white of storm spray. Aurelian snatched a look behind and Steiner didn’t waste the moment of distraction. Too close to swing the hammer, the punch was sufficient to send the boy overboard, catching Aurelian under his chin. There was a moment of flailing limbs, hands reaching for the handrail, followed by a wordless cry.

  Steiner scowled as Aurelian thrashed in the water. A high wave smashed down on the boy, dragging him inland. ‘Try breathing fire now.’ But his joy was a short-lived thing.

  Själsstyrka’s fiery breath had spread to all parts of the ship. The mizzenmast toppled like a felled tree, meeting the sea with a boom and splash. Everywhere the crackle of flames and groaning wood sounded loudly. The shouts of men were few, a handful of fishermen’s boats had come to rescue those aboard during the fighting. Steiner held a hand to his mouth and coughed as smoke seared his lungs.

  ‘Where are you, Shirinov?’

  Rigging and sails lay across the deck, burning bright. Everywhere was shattered timber and the bodies of men who hadn’t reached the lifeboats. The sailors had taken their chances with the Spøkelsea, tiny figures casting about in the waves, swept this way and that by furious waters.

  Steiner had neared the prow when he caught sight of the Vigilant. Shirinov raised his hands and a selection of burning debris rose into the air at his command.

  ‘It’s a shame about Aurelian,’ said the Vigilant, staring at the cloud of blazing debris overhead. ‘He showed such promise.’

  Steiner didn’t have a chance to reply, diving to one side, curling around the base of a barrel. Wood and fire rained down and several impacts beat against his ribs and shoulder. He’d barely pulled himself from the drift of shattered wood when Shirinov loomed out of the smoke, grabbing him by the throat. Steiner thought of Marozvolk and the way she had turned her hand to stone. ‘Off. Me,’ was the only sound he had time to make, throwing up an arm, too weak and too late to fend off the old man. The blow caught him across the temple. For a heartbeat the inferno around him became glaring white, the ship itself indistinct. Shirinov released him and Steiner sprawled across the barrels, dazed and unfocused.

  ‘Stay away from my sister,’ growled Steiner, swinging the sledgehammer blindly with every muscle and sinew.

  Shirinov was already moving, hobbling to one side of the strike. But the swing described a wider arc than the old man had anticipated; the sledgehammer caught him across the shoulder with a dull clang of metal on stone. Shirinov stumbled back, clutching his arm with his free hand. The other arm lay limp at his side. Steiner was reminded of Matthias Zhirov, the way his head had shattered like masonry.

  ‘That’s quite the hammer you have, boy,’ said the Vigilant.

  ‘It was my great-grandfather’s,’ replied Steiner, glancing at the weapon with reverence, though who his great-grandfather had been was yet another of Marek’s secrets.

  ‘It is unfortunate that the hammer will go down with the ship.’

  The vessel listed to one side and Steiner caught sight of Cinderfell, a large crowd on the pier, cowed by soldiers disembarking from their small boats.

  ‘Then we’ll both drown,’ said Steiner as the ship lurched again, an icy wave splashing down over the deck. Some of the fires hissed to wet ashes, but the damage was done. That which had not burned would surely sink.

  ‘Both of us?’ Shirinov’s tone was gloating. ‘I think not. An inglorious end for one such as I. Hardly befitting a Vigilant of the Holy Synod.’

  Steiner looked about as the sea splashed over the sides of the vessel a little more with each panicked breath. With no plan and nothing left to lose, Steiner sprang forward, the sledgehammer held over his head.

  Shirinov made a flicking gesture with both hands, as if shaking off water. He ascended into the air, higher than the sledgehammer, out of reach and drifting higher.

  ‘Enjoy the ship, boy. Such a shame it’s your last voyage.’

  Steiner could only watch as Shirinov ascended higher and higher into the air. The wind whipped at the Vigilant’s robes, bringing snatches of hateful laughter. The ship groaned its last beneath Steiner’s boots, slipping beneath the waves as the snapped masts continued burning.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Steiner

  Not every problem in life can be solved with the arcane, any more than every conflict can be won with strength of arms alone. The Emperor learned this during the war with the dragons and remembered it well. Used in concert, the arcane and strength at arms are fierce indeed, greater than the sum of their parts. This is why I fear for the Scorched Republics and the people of Shanisrond.

  – Untainted Histories Volume 3: Serebryanyy Pyli

  ‘Coward!’ bellowed Steiner. ‘Come back here and fight!’

  The Vigilant drifted through the air, alighting on the end of the pier as if he’d just stepped off a gangplank. The townsfolk of Cinderfell cried out in alarm, awed by the arcane power. Several fled back to the town itself.

  Steiner ran t
o the edge of the deck, steeling himself to dive off and swim to shore. Only then did he realize that the burning vessel had not slowed during the fight. The sails were long gone but the onrushing waves ushered the ship towards the shore. To jump in would risk being run down by the very ship he sought to escape.

  ‘Frøya, if you exist, if you can hear me,’ – Steiner crouched at the prow by the figurehead, an eagle, yellow paint peeling and salt-bleached – ‘keep me close!’

  The wood groaned and shuddered beneath his boots as the hull slid against the shingle. Barrels and crates and corpses jolted along the deck as the vessel slewed into the beach. The ship turned, waves battering the hull, forcing it against the shore. Wood exploded, a shower of spikes and splinters, and then the stony beach was racing towards Steiner. A glance confirmed he’d been thrown clear of the prow, as legs stumbled on nothing, one hand clawing the empty air, while his other hand gripped at the sledgehammer. And then stone, slamming into face, ribs, knees. For long seconds his lungs would not work and when they did his ears were filled with a pitiful wheezing.

  Is there anything left that isn’t bruised or burned?

  The sea ran up the beach in a blue surge, splashing over his boots and up his legs. The freezing brine shocked him out of the daze and Steiner staggered to his feet with gritted teeth. A weary look over his shoulder confirmed the ship was a shattered hulk; the flames flickered despite the rain and smoke twisted above the broken wreck. So much smoke.

  A loose semicircle of soldiers waited further up the beach. All had maces ready, their black cloaks fluttering in the chill breeze. Steiner guessed there were nearly twenty.