Strange Fire

Anolf watched the books burn, the constantly changing flames licking at their covers and bindings before ferociously devouring the thin leaves of paper and vellum within. Quite a crowd had gathered in the village square: young boys stared at the flames with eager shining eyes; their mothers held their hands tightly; thickset labourers who should have been in the fields working watched impassively. Just like Anolf did.

He shifted his position slightly. The wall of the hut against which he was leaning was poorly worked and poked into his back. He sniffed.

"Reckon they'll burn old Gregor too?" said Frans, his voice low.

Anolf grunted non-committally, eyes flickering towards the two strangers in their broad brimmed hats before returning to the fire.

"What do you think he's done?" Frans Gruber was the closest Anolf had to a friend in this Sigmar-forsaken dungheap, but right now Anolf just wanted him to go away.

"Dunno," he muttered.

"Been mucking around with dark magic, I reckon," said Frans.

Anolf glanced across at the strangers. One of them held Gregor Weissman by the shoulder. The old man was stick thin and frail. His lined face was impassive. A livid red mark stood out on his cheek. The witch hunters had not been gentle.

"Aye," muttered Anolf.

The fire was roaring now. Anolf didn't know how many books old Gregor had kept in his study but it seemed like a lot to him. Of course, he couldn't read. There were few in the village who could. To him, the books had just been a sign of old Gregor's difference from the other villagers. Anolf hadn't given much thought to what they'd contained.

He watched them burn. The flames had taken on a life of their own, it seemed. They danced and swirled around the blackening, crisping shapes of the ancient books. Orange, yellow, red. White. Thin wisps of black smoke uncoiled like serpents on the stiffening breeze. But it was the flames that held him – the way they moved and changed. They were never still. Never the same. There was something about them. Something... wonderful.

"Yes! Come closer!"

As hard and unyielding as flint, the witch hunter's voice cut through his reverie and Anolf glanced up quickly. Without realising, he had left the relative anonymity of his station by the wall and stepped forward. He swallowed nervously, but his gaze was drawn back to the burning books. This close to the fire, the smoke began to get in his eyes. He blinked furiously but would not – could not – look away.

"Knowledge is dangerous!" the witch hunter declared, his voice ringing out over the roar of the flames. "Better to be ignorant and trust in our Lord Sigmar than raise yourself up on wings of false pride and... learning." He said this last word with a profound loathing. "Don't you agree, boy?"

Even through the smoke, Anolf could see the flames dance and leap. Such life they had! Such... power!

"Boy?"

With an effort, Anolf wrenched his head around. The witch hunter was staring at him with hard grey eyes. His fingers tapped the blackpowder pistol thrust into the crimson sash at his waist.

"Yes, my lord," he said. "Yes."

The witch hunter's eyes gleamed then, the light of the fire reflected in his eyes, and, quite unexpectedly, Anolf felt a surge of hatred, as hot and powerful as the flames that devoured the books, rush through him. He bit his lip savagely to prevent the words that he was tempted to say from spilling out. He turned back quickly, tasting hot blood in his mouth and something else.

Something powerful.

The flames continued to burn and in them Anolf saw his first vision: of fire grasping the old village hall and crushing it in its powerful grip; of men and women crying; of the aged timbers cracking and splitting like so much matchwood. But most of all he saw the flames – unleashed and dancing, their wanton blazing power displayed for all to see, their simple message roaring out across the village and the valley in which it nestled.

Everything burns.

"I think he suspected, you know. That witch hunter." Anolf checked the ropes binding the other man, tightening the ones around his wrists with a sharp tug. "But he was too interested in old Gregor, who didn't burn that day like Frans thought. The witch hunters took him back to Schonfeld in the end. Gave him a trial before they threw him to the flames. They do like their little dramas, don't they?" He stepped back from his handiwork and nodded approvingly. Everything was in order. He smiled at the other man who struggled futilely against his bonds. "Still, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

The other man's eyes bulged with the effort of his struggling. A muffled, incoherent cry came from behind the filthy rag stuffed into his mouth and held there by his own silk sash. A crimson sash.

Anolf laughed.

"Just to make clear. The gag is to stop your self-righteous prattle." He glanced around the cavern pointedly. Torches flared and guttered in crude sconces lashed to nearby outcroppings of rock. "You're miles away from anywhere. There's no one coming to rescue you. You're going to die. Quite nastily, too, it must be said. I just... I've never told anyone this before. You understand?"

He didn't wait for a reply.

"I burned the village hall down, just like I'd seen in the flames that day. I had to use kindling and my da's old tinderbox. I had to be quiet." He paused, leaning in close. He could see the pores in the hunter's skin. The other man was beginning to sweat. "It's hard to be quiet when your mind is screaming with the bright, beautiful flames. But I did it." He drew back again. "And then I had to leave. I couldn't stay in that shithole, could I? Not with the message burning in my head." He grinned. "So, I started to let it out. The fire... the flames... Where was it you started to chase me, hunter? Korvik? Lancer's Field? Morgenheim?" He held up his hand in front of the bound man's face. "It was in Morgenheim that I realised I could do... this."

Slowly, he began to whisper the words that he now knew had been written in one of the books. The words that had danced and shimmered in the flames in that dirty village square. No, Anolf couldn't read, but he understood them all the same. And with each fire he lit, they became clearer and clearer, seared into his mind.

The pain started in his palm – just like it always did. It was an itch at first, but it quickly grew into a vicious burning. Anolf did not watch the first flame spring from his skin like a fiery bloom, more beautiful than any of the flowers this wretched land could produce. He did not watch the fire spread to engulf his hand, although he felt the beautiful pain and smelled the exquisite aroma of charring flesh. He kept his attention focused on the witch hunter who had dogged his steps through Ostland and Talabecland for the last twelve months.

"Was it worth it? The chase? I left you one hell of a trail, hunter." The pain in his hand was exquisite. The heat of the flames scorched the side of his face, even as he saw it dry the sweat on the witch hunter's brow. "And now you're here." He lent in close. The scent of crisping skin stung his nostrils. "I told you I couldn't read, hunter. And I still can't. But I've seen the message in the flames." The air was scorching hot and his voice was hoarse. "Everything burns."

The flames danced in the hunter's fear-filled eyes. Smiling and with a casual movement of his burning fingers, Anolf put them out.