The Fifteenth Fire

Every witch hunter knew the firebells. A single chime at regular intervals for the Heavenly-Gardens. Twice, a pause, then again for Marshtown. Arata didn't need to hear the bells for the Central Ward, he could see it burning in front of him.

On the horizon, demon fire ebbed a hot blue. All of Marshtown lay between him and the Central Ward—an hour of running through tight streets and raised houses. By then, the flames could have spread to half the city, he had to find another way. His investigation would have to wait, instead he had to find a shortcut. His eyes ran a path from the roof of a closed night market stall to the thatched eaves of the adjacent house. He might be able to make it.

He followed the waves of the buildings, wood giving way to stone the closer he came to the city centre. As Giseizawa Castle passed to his left, he snagged his hikeshi hook against a yawning tile, plummeting to the ground. He landed silhouetted before the noble house burning brilliant blue. A crowd had begun to form. Neighbours who feared the blaze hurried their belongings to the street. Those still addled by sleep only moth-hovered in doorways. Sutras from the gathering monks reverberated in time with the flames. Almost shadowed beneath the outer wall of the estate, a lone woman crouched, chiselling.

“If you show up this quickly to many more of these, someone will say you’re colluding with a witch.” Arata warned as he approached.

The woman turned around, her smile flashing white against a soot-stained face. “As if you’d let anything come of it.” Kurogane put her tools down without argument. "Not that there was much point, I should have waited longer for the fire to spread further."

Arata gave her a glare.

“But it’s good you weren’t far behind, there's been wailing coming from inside.” She jerked her chin up to the core of the mansion burning like a winter's sun.

“Where?”

“Hard to say—large place.” She looked him in the eyes, her smile vanishing. “Better be quick.”

As if he needed prompting. He had already begun pulling down the front gate as a firewall when four more witch hunters arrived. Each carried buckets filled from wells across the city, the handles smothered in their bulky hikeshi coats.

“Wailing, huh?” Sawatari peered towards the inferno, already pulling up her firehood. “We’ll give it six minutes then. Shibagaki—” Arata’s glare stopped her mid-sentence, he wouldn't stand by for this. “Aose Yoshiyori, you'll keep time for us?”

“Are you sure six minutes is enough? The place is massive.” Aose replied, thumb pointing to the outer wall twice his height.

“No, we are not changing anything.” Sawatari's voice was resolute, even with the danger her words carried. Any longer than six minutes would give the fire time to spread, they either got out in that time or got pulled down with the building. “Shibagaki Arata, with me on the west wing. Kajiwara Tomonari and Nagami Mie, you’ll take the east.”

Even through the chaos, Arata wasn't oblivious to the doubts layered upon him. Only one arm, the left side of his face already scarred from demon fire, apart from his size he didn't cut the figure of a witch hunter. He tried to quench those thoughts with the splash of water soaking into his coat. The four turned towards the gateway, began to count down, and stepped beyond.

Arata finally heard the wails, croaked and with a whistle from the throat witch hunters were too familiar with. From its direction, the front door slid open. A figure stumbled out, burning like an afterimage as blue flames trickled up his body.

"Please, my master is—" The servant must not have realised he was on fire before it reached his windpipe. His left leg crumbled into charcoal shards midstep and he toppled to the garden floor. Arata rushed to him but was too late, the man's torso had cracked in half from the impact. Demon fire was a subtle killer, dulling pain and charring flesh until your arms splintered at the shoulders. Within the bounds of the flames, Arata could even forget the itch of his lost arm.

Smoke choked the house's front door like a torii gate to hell. They pulled up their firehoods as they stepped through, drawing down the world to a slit. Their only light inside were the patches of blue ember that grew like mould across the walls.

They crossed the floor as fast as they could in coats designed for protection instead of speed. It was a beneficial curse. In the early days of witch hunters, they lost just as many to exhaustion as to the fire itself. Dressed lighter, they pushed themselves until their legs gave out, hardly able to save anyone whilst gasping in smoke. The groups split once the entrance gave way to a paper-walled corridor. That alone was a demonstration of wealth, to own a home whose architecture showed it survived the Great Fire. Sawatari gestured the direction to Arata with her hook and he followed.

Deeper in, low flames sprouted between floorboards. The contrast of fire and smoke sent shadows dancing across the walls like puppets. They ripped aside the dining room door to see the ceiling bowed low on crossbeams turned to coal. The pantry was empty also, only filled with the husky aroma of burning tea.

"Please, anyone! Help! Please! I'm—I'm in the teahouse!" They were close enough to make out words now, able to hear the tremor behind each syllable. Arata turned to point towards the fork in the hallway where the cry came from when the ceiling caved in. Demon fire must have eaten through the supports like termites as it crashed between the two in a flaming mass.

He jumped back, smacking down licks of flame that clung to his shin guards. “Are you injured? I’ll come to you.” Arata already had his hook in hand, advancing towards the pile and Sawatari on the other side.

“I’ll be fine.” Sawatari’s voice was already moving away. “And we’d waste too much time trying to regroup. I’ll call when I find him, you’ll do the same, understand?”

“Yes.” Arata set his teeth. You’ve survived alone before, this is no different. He tried to reassure himself as he turned towards the flames. But the thought wasn’t any more comforting. All it did was bring back memories of dragging corpses rescued too late out through entryways, their crumbling faces all so similar they could have been his. And above all, every flame before him looked just the same as the ones that had taken his arm all those years ago.

He was running out of time. There were still rooms to clear, even if he had to do it alone. As the most senior of all of them, Sawatari could handle herself the most, you didn't get to that age as a witch hunter without skill. Staggering towards the fire at the far end of the mansion, he needed to prove he had that skill as well.

He stepped into the hive of the inferno, the buzz crackling into his ears, the air thick with smoke and banners of flame. Through the rage, a silhouette flitted between rooms and the shout for Sawatari died on his lips. It wasn't her. The thing ran bent over, like its spine had snapped below the shoulders, arms so low they raked the floor. And atop its head, he glimpsed the brim of a wide hat. Arataa broke into a run, deitetsu katana in front, and he kept tight to the doorway the witch disappeared though.

Inside, he only saw a blue hellscape—either he had lost them through a side door or he was walking into a trap. Sawatari wouldn't risk running back in to find him if he died, he didn't need to worry about putting her in danger. With that off his mind, he made his decision and entered in light, measured steps.

The witch was waiting.

A jet of fire leapt at him from the far wall, almost too fast to parry, but he'd prepared himself. The blade sheared the flames in two around him, cinders ebbing in the tumultuous air. From further back, blue flames reflected in the witch’s eyes. The hunt was on.