Rodrigo practically crawled into the bulkhead. He did not move. He did not even breathe. The demon walked past him, never noticing him. The demon was staring at Gythe.
The fiend was a hideous sight. He had red, wizened skin; his eyes glowed orange. Blood from his ghastly wound dribbled onto the deck. Reddish smoke flowed in wisps off his arms like morning mists. Doctor Ellington, on the shelf, hissed and spat. Gythe shrank into the corner and covered her head with the blankets.
The demon’s attention was completely focused on Gythe. He appeared to be more curious than threatening, for he held the ax loosely in his hand. A part of Rodrigo wondered why he was so interested in Gythe, even as most of Rodrigo was quaking with fear. He braced himself, drew in a deep breath, and hurled the boiling water at the demon
The steaming water splashed over the demon’s head, shoulders, and arms. The demon flinched and grunted and turned, swinging the ax, but missing Rodrigo, who had dropped to the floor.
The demon raised the ax again and walked closer.
Rodrigo was hastily tracing a construct with shaking fingers in the palm of each hand. Trying not to look at the demon’s orange eyes or the blood or the ax, Rodrigo gulped, swallowed, closed his eyes, and tickled the demon’s ankles.
When Rodrigo performed this act for the lady of choice, the small electrical tingle dancing from his fingers over the skin and running tantalizingly up his lover’s legs never failed to make her shudder with pleasure. The demon shuddered, but not with pleasure. Electricity, connecting with the water, gave the demon a horrific jolt. The demon fell to the floor, his body thrashing and flailing.
Rodrigo stared at the electrified demon and wondered what to do with it. The ax lay on the floor, but he could not bring himself to pick it up and finish the job. He had to do something, though. He was reaching gingerly for the ax, fighting down a wave of sickness when Dag burst through the door, aimed his pistol at the demon’s head and fired.
The demon jerked and then, finally, lay still. Dag stared at it in awed wonder, then he bent over it.
“Look at these boots-” he began.
The body began to glow green.
“Get back!” Rodrigo shouted and he seized hold of Dag’s arm and dragged him away from the corpse.
Gythe screamed horribly. The green glow died. Gythe collapsed and lay unconscious.
All that remained of the demon were scorch marks on the wooden floor. No ashes, no trace of the corpse. Nothing.
“I’ll be damned!” Dag breathed, catching Doctor Ellington as the cat jumped from the shelf onto Dag’s shoulder.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” said Rodrigo faintly.
He staggered over to the slop bucket.
Dag held the yowling cat and, petting him soothingly, looked down with helpless anxiety at Gythe.
“What’s wrong with her?” Dag asked, his voice cracking. Rodrigo came back, white-faced, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.
“She’s leaving us,” he said with brutal frankness. “And I don’t know how or why…”
Some distance away, in the abbey stables, Brother Barnaby was preparing himself to die. He was not afraid of death. He knew God was waiting to receive him. Brother Barnaby clasped his hands and asked God to forgive him his sins and then he waited for the demons to kill him as they’d killed his poor wyverns.
But the demons did not kill him. A horrible smell filled his nostrils and mouth, leaving him sick and disoriented and too weak to help himself. Rough hands seized hold of him and dragged him off.
Brother Barnaby was vaguely aware of his surroundings. He saw grass and mud and blood, the legs and feet of the demons, a stall in the stables. He was aware of vomiting, choking, fighting to breathe. Strange visions filled his head: fiends and fire, blood and torment and death.
A hand touched his shoulder. He flinched and lashed out in panic.
“Brother Barnaby!” said a ragged voice. “Don’t be afraid. It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Brother Barnaby stopped fighting and blinked up to see a face reflected in the gray light of dawn. He knew the face. He gasped in amazement.
“I am sorry,” said Brother Paul. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I wanted to see if… if you were alive…”
“I am…” said Brother Barnaby, bewildered.
“Thank God!” Brother Paul said.
Brother Barnaby looked at his fellow monk with shocked concern. Blood oozed from a vicious gash on the top of Brother Paul’s head. His face was bruised and battered. His robes were soaked in blood. Barnaby saw, to his horror, that the back of the monk’s robes were torn, his flesh was stripped with the marks of the whip. He had lost the dark lenses that shielded his eyes, and they were almost swollen shut.
“Let me tend to your wounds, Brother,” Brother Barnaby said, his heart wrenching. “God has given me the gift of healing.”
He looked about the stall to see if he could find water. The air held a lingering odor, but the smoke, the noxious smell was gone. Except for an annoying buzzing sound in his ears, Barnaby’s head was beginning to clear. The sun had risen, morning light filtered dimly through the smoke-filled air. He and Brother Paul were in the stall of one of the abbey stables. Not the stables where he had housed his poor wyverns; that stable must be a heap of charred rubble. This stall had no windows. The stall door was shut. He could hear the screeching of bats and movement outside, so he guessed the demons were not far off.
Brother Barnaby rose to his feet and nearly fell down again. He waited until the dizziness passed, then he walked unsteadily to the stall’s gate and pushed on it. The gate would not open. He stood on tiptoes and looked out. At the far end of the stables, he could see three demons, silhouetted in the sunlight, standing guard. More demons stood at the opposite end.
Barnaby considered the possibility of escape. He could probably climb over the gate, but then what? He was still weak, and his mind was foggy. He was not a trained warrior, not like Sir Ander. He thought to back to the murderous rage that had consumed him at the deaths of his wyverns and went hot with shame. Besides, even if he could flee, he could not leave Brother Paul, who was grievously wounded. Barnaby walked back to Brother Paul, who was mumbling prayers through his bloody lips.
“We are prisoners of Aertheum,” Brother Paul was praying. “Father in Heaven, please help us!”
There is a time to ask for God’s help and a time to ask God to help you help yourself: the Word according to Father Jacob. Brother Barnaby could almost hear the priest’s voice, and he could hear Father Jacob say further, Seek the truth. Never be afraid. You have questions. Ask them! Brother Barnaby said a fervent prayer that Father Jacob and Sir Ander were safe, then knelt down beside Brother Paul.
“Did the demons do this harm to you, Brother?” he asked, placing his gentle hand over the monk’s bloody wounds. “Tell me what happened.”
Brother Paul nodded his head and then sighed to feel his pain ease. “I was on my way to the abbey for morning prayers when I heard the sound of cannon fire and saw the demons flying over the walls. I feared for you and Father Jacob, and I came running to help. Suddenly there were demons all around me. They seized hold of me and dragged me here. They… began hitting me…”
Brother Paul moaned and buried his head in his hands. Barnaby put his arm around the monk’s quivering shoulders.
“Why didn’t they kill you?” Brother Barnaby muttered, more to himself than to Brother Paul. “Why didn’t they kill me? They murdered the nuns. Why leave both of us alive?”
“The books,” Paul mumbled. “They kept asking me about the books. When I didn’t tell them what they wanted, they hit me.”
Brother Barnaby was startled. “Books? What books?”
“Can’t you hear them?” Brother Paul asked, shivering. “The voices in your head. ‘Books’ over and over.”
Brother Barnaby had been trying to ignore the terrible buzzing sound in his ears, but now that Brother Paul mentioned it, he did seem to hear words
. Books. The books. Books. The books.
Brother Paul suddenly cried out and clutched his ears. “I don’t know! I can’t tell you! Stop tormenting me!”
Brother Barnaby whispered a prayer and sent the soothing warmth of God’s grace flowing from his body to Brother Paul’s. The monk relaxed again at the healing touch and gave a shuddering sigh.
“What do they mean-books?” Brother Barnaby wondered, mystified. “What books?”
Brother Paul raised a haggard face and sighed wearily. “All I can think of are the books of Saint Dennis. Those mentioned in the journal.”
“But I don’t know where they are,” said Brother Barnaby. “Do you?”
“No,” said Brother Paul, shaking his head. “But since we were with Father Jacob… Perhaps they think he told us…”
“Father Jacob has nothing to tell,” said Brother Barnaby.
The buzzing in his ears seemed to be growing louder and it was no longer annoying. It was starting to be all he could think about.
Books. The books. Books. The books.
And then, beneath the buzzing, Barnaby heard someone moving outside the stable door. Brother Paul heard the noises, as well. He choked and clasped his hands and began to pray. Brother Barnaby rose to his feet and stood protectively in front of his fellow.
The gate opened. Two demons walked inside, one of them holding a scourge in his hand. This was the first time Barnaby had seen the demons in the daylight. Sir Ander always said one must look fear in the face. Brother Barnaby fought down his revulsion and looked the demon in the face. Father Jacob had taught Barnaby to be observant and he was surprised to note that the demon was wearing a helmet made to resemble a hideous face and that the glowing orange light actually emanated from the helm. A visor made of glass gave off the strange light.
Brother Paul cried out in terror and shrank back against the stable wall. Barnaby moved swiftly to interpose his body between the demons and the monk.
“Don’t hurt him anymore,” said Barnaby. “He can’t tell you about the books of Saint Dennis. He doesn’t know.”
The books. The books. The books.
The words were now like a hammer in Brother Barnaby’s head, pounding on his brain. The demon swung the scourge, striking Brother Barnaby on his shoulder. The scourge seemed made of fire; the pain was excruciating. Barnaby gasped. Tears sprang to his eyes.
Books books books books!
“I don’t know!” he cried or at least he thought he had cried out the words. He could no longer hear his own voice. He couldn’t hear anything except the horrid buzzing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The first time I sat on Lady Cam’s strong back and felt the play of her muscles as she took to the air, I knew I would never truly be happy on the ground again. I had ridden dragons before but this was the first time as a member of the Dragon Brigade. She and I were battle companions and I was a Dragon Knight and that made everything different.
– Sir Stephano De Guichen, in a letter to his friend, Rodrigo.
DURING THE BRIEF RESPITE BETWEEN THE FIRST WAVE of demons and the second wave he knew would be coming, Sir Ander made certain the swivel gun was in working order, the chambers ready for loading. Then he went back down into the cabin, reloaded the pistols, took two short barreled muskets from a hidden compartment near the hatch to the driver’s station and readied himself for the assault. As he worked, he kept a worried eye on Father Jacob. He had carried the priest to his bed and wrapped him warmly in a blanket. He had not regained consciousness. His lips moved and he made sounds, as though he were speaking, but the words made no sense.
The sun shone through the broken windows. His pistols loaded, Sir Ander went to the front of the yacht where there had once been a door and looked out the gaping hole into the Breath to see if the naval cutter was still afloat. He was surprised to see a smaller boat had joined the cutter. He recognized the boat as one of those Trundler floating houses. Bats swarmed around both vessels. Green fireballs burst in the air. The fireballs looked smaller and paler than they had appeared in the dark of night, but he assumed they were still just as deadly.
Hroal’s brother, Droalfrig, was out there, as well, flying around the houseboat. Sir Ander looked up to see if he could find what had become of Hroal, saw the dragon battling in the skies over the cathedral, fighting off the attacks of three bats and their riders.
The dragon was fighting for his own life and would not be able to help Sir Ander.
Smoke was still rising from the area of the stable. Sir Ander pictured Brother Barnaby, trapped by the flames, fighting off demons, lying there hurt… dying.
Sir Ander asked God to help them all, then climbed up on top of the yacht where he had mounted the swivel gun. More bats were flying his way. He was ready for them, as ready as he could be. While he was on the roof, he gave the yacht a cursory glance, surveying the damage.
Most of the demon’s fire had been concentrated on the center of the yacht. The hull on the port side of the main cabin was badly burned. The fireballs had blasted through the outer and inner bulkheads in three places. The hatch was so much kindling. The roof was charred and burned to such an extent that a good rain would cause at least two places to give way. Sir Ander made a mental note not to step on those.
He caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned around, pistol drawn. He could see, through the haze of smoke, someone running toward him. He raised the pistol, then saw to his relief that the figure was human, not demonic. He recognized Albert. The guildmaster had come armed; he held a musket in one hand and a pistol in the other.
Sir Ander dropped back down inside the yacht, took a look at Father Jacob and, seeing no change, hastened out to meet his friend.
“You come in answer to a prayer!” Sir Ander cried.
“Thank God, sir, you are alive!” Master Albert gasped. He stood staring in dismay at the destruction, the greasy piles of ashes, the wrecked yacht. “Is Father Jacob all right?”
“He is not,” said Sir Ander grimly. “He’s hurt and I don’t know what’s wrong, so there’s nothing I can do.”
Master Albert looked stricken. “How can I help, sir?”
Sir Ander had been thinking this through and he had made up his mind. “The one person who might be able to save Father Jacob is Brother Barnaby. He is in the stables-”
“But they’re on fire, sir,” Master Albert said, alarmed. “They’re crawling with demons!”
Sir Ander was tucking the pistols into his belt. “I’m going to leave Father Jacob in your care. I’ve mounted the swivel gun on the roof. Preloaded chambers for the gun are up there, as well. The roof’s been damaged, so be careful where you walk.”
Master Albert nodded. “I understand, sir. I will not fail you or Father Jacob.
Sir Ander gripped his friend by the hand, then, picking up one of the muskets, he ran to the wicket that pierced the abbey’s wall and entered. The smoke was thicker behind the wall, stinging his eyes and stealing the breath. He cursed it and peered through it, trying to get his bearings, trying to see the stables or what was left of them.
Only one building was on fire, but the stable yard was filled with demons. Their heinous bats darted about or perched on the roof. He saw no sign of the wyverns or Brother Barnaby. Recalling the gruesome and horrifying deaths of the nuns, Sir Ander was sick with dread. He longed to rush in and kill every demon in sight. Sir Ander was an experienced soldier and he knew better than to let hatred and vengeance guide him. He told himself not to give up hope. Brother Barnaby was quick-thinking and intelligent. Sir Ander pictured his friend hiding somewhere, waiting for help.
In that case, help needed to arrive in one piece.
Sir Ander was thinking he would circle around the cathedral, using the smoke for cover, and come up on the demons from behind. A roar caught his attention. He looked up to see a dragon soaring over the abbey walls. Droalfrig coming to his brother’s aid. The dragon was about twenty feet above the walls and the direction
of his flight would bring him near Sir Ander.
He had only seconds to make a decision. A gunshot would alert the demons to his presence. He decided to risk it and fired the musket into the air-taking care not to hit the dragon-and used his best battlefield bellow to call Droalfrig’s name.
The dragon heard the gun blast and saw the flash of fire. He snaked his head around and Sir Ander saw a dragon rider seated on the dragon’s back, near the neck. Sir Ander waved his arms, threw down the musket, and broke into a run.
The dragon rider coolly looked in the direction Sir Ander was indicating and saw the demonic force surrounding the stables. The dragon rider waved his arm in return and bent forward to speak to the dragon. Sir Ander cast a glance at Hroal, who was fighting his own battle. Hroal had slain one of his foes. He had only two to contend with now and, though he had a bloody gash on his chest, he was holding his own. Droalfrig shifted the direction of his flight toward the stables, roaring a challenge as he went.
The demons could both see and hear the dragon bearing down on them. Those on the ground summoned their mounts, while the demons in the air flew to the attack, raising their handheld cannons to their shoulders. Green fire burst around Droalfrig. Sir Ander had lost sight of the rider, but assumed he was flattened against the dragon’s neck, keeping his head down.
Sir Ander wondered about this reckless rider; a man rash enough to jump on the back of a dragon. Perhaps he was a sailor from the cutter. Whoever he was, Sir Ander was grateful to him and to Droalfrig. Most of the demons and their riders had taken to the air to fight the dragon, leaving only a couple on the ground, standing near the smallest of the three stables. The thought came to Sir Ander that these demons had been left behind, perhaps to guard something. Or someone.
The smoke that he had cursed was now Sir Ander’s ally. Concealed by the smoke and the deep shadow of the stable building cast by the morning sun, he counted three demon guards near the entrance to the stable, all of them gazing into the sky, intent on the battle between the dragon and their comrades.
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