“Tell the… battery… run out… all the guns…” Father Jacob gasped. “All of them!”
The officer nodded. Clapping his hand over the sword that was banging against his leg, he dashed off, shouting commands as he went.
Sir Ander’s duty was to guard the person of Father Jacob, but he did not forget Brother Barnaby the monk’s steps lagged. He stared at the demons. Ander wandered if the fiends were speaking to the monk again. Brother Barnaby saw Ander looking back at him with concern, and he smiled and waved his hand and shouted out, “Tell Father Jacob I’m coming, sir!”
The battlements were divided into four segments, each guarded by a tower manned by twenty soldiers armed with muskets and smaller field artillery. The large batteries were down below-cannons lined up in a long row, each manned by its own crew. Sir Ander had been down to have a look at the batteries when they’d first taken up residence at the Old Fort, and he’d been impressed by the gunnery officers and the men they commanded. The city of Westfirth relied on the shore batteries for its defense; a Freyan attack would undoubtedly come from the Breath, not overland.
A few of the guns had been run out to deal with the merchant vessels. Now they were all being run out. Sir Ander could feel the rumble beneath his feet and picture the activity in the bunker; the gun crews opening the gunports, running out the cannons, swabbing, loading; stacks of cannonballs piled neatly nearby. The demons would find the fortification difficult to attack, for the guns were in a man-made cavern dug out of the side of the cliff, protected by stone, concrete, and magic.
“We should take cover, Father!” Sir Ander yelled, pointing to the guard tower they were fast approaching.
Father Jacob shook his head and kept running. He shouted over his shoulder. “The books!”
Sir Ander understood. The books on contramagic written by the Saints were in Father Jacob’s room in the main part of Old Fort and although they were hidden in a safe place, protected by all manner of magical spells, Father Jacob was not about to risk letting them fall into enemy hands.
Father Jacob stopped at the second tower to give the same orders, which proved unnecessary, for drums were beating and the guards were already in position.
“Can we at least… stop and rest…” Sir Ander gasped, bending over, his hands on his knees to relieve a painful stitch in his side. “And wait for… Barnaby.”
Father Jacob had no breath left to answer and stood for a moment leaning with his hand on the wall. He and Sir Ander watched in silence as the bats swooped past the Old Fort, flying toward the merchants in the harbor. The guards in the tower were thrown into confusion at the sight of the gigantic bats and their demon riders.
Some cried that they were fiends from Hell and that the world was ending. Throwing down their guns, they fell to their knees and began to pray. Others remained grimly at their posts and fired their muskets, but the fastmoving bats were almost impossible to hit.
“They’re human,” said Father Jacob testily. “Tell them they’re human!”
“They won’t believe you,” said Sir Ander. He helped himself to water from a barrel, drinking from the community mug that was attached to the wall by a rope.
He offered the water to Father Jacob, who drank gratefully. “And even if they are human, they have the accursed souls of demons, which is how I will always think of them. So why do these Bottom Dweller demons want the books? Why torture Brother Barnaby and Brother Paul to try to find out where they are?”
“A question I would love to be able to answer,” said Father Jacob. “They obviously know far more about the use and workings of contramagic than the Saints, who barely understood the true nature of their discovery.”
“Perhaps these fiends are afraid we may learn how to combat them through reading these books,” Sir Ander suggested.
Father Jacob gave a grim smile. “The Bottom Dwellers have no need to worry. It will take us years and years of study and experiment to even begin to start to understand contramagic. If the Church had not suppressed it…”
He shook his head in bitter frustration, then smiled to see Brother Barnaby running up to the guard tower. He drank the water Sir Ander offered and stood panting for breath.
Father Jacob walked over to peer out a murder hole. Gunfire was sporadically going off around them. Most of the Bottom Dwellers were still too far out of range for anyone to hit.
“They are concentrating their attack on the naval ships,” said Father Jacob. “Look! There are our friends! That’s the Cloud Hopper! ”
Sir Ander and Barnaby crowded next to him to see.
“They’re coming under attack,” said Sir Ander.
“Poor Gythe!” said Brother Barnaby unhappily. “She will be terrified.”
“God be with them,” said Father Jacob softly. He turned to Sir Ander. “We will make a run for it. Are you ready?”
“No,” Sir Ander growled, “but I don’t suppose that makes any difference.”
“You mustn’t go out in the open, Father!” cried Barnaby, alarmed. “You should stay here in the guard tower where it is safe!”
Barnaby suddenly winced and put his hand to his ear. He looked distressed.
“You hear the voices…” said Father Jacob.
“They are asking about books,” said Barnaby in helpless confusion. “They keep asking me about the books! What books? I don’t know what they’re talking about!”
Father Jacob and Sir Ander exchanged glances. They had still not told Brother Barnaby about the writings of the Saints. Both men knew the monk would die before revealing any secrets to the foe, whose voices were still in his head. Father Jacob did not want Brother Barnaby to have to make that choice. If the monk could honestly plead ignorance, the Bottom Dwellers might eventually cease to torment him.
Directly below them, the guns of the shore battery had opened fire on the bats. They could feel the ground shake and smell the smoke as it swirled into the tower.
“We should go now while we can use the smoke for cover,” said Sir Ander urgently.
The three men made a mad dash across the top of the battlements, Father Jacob in front, Sir Ander running behind him, and Brother Barnaby keeping watch in the rear. The smoke that had concealed their movements began to dissipate. They had reached the center of the battlements and were running along the narrow stone walkway that led from the guard tower to the stolid bulk of the Old Fort ahead of them, when six demons caught sight of them.
Brother Barnaby saw them first; gigantic bats closing in on their prey. He cried out a warning. Sir Ander raised his pistol, aiming at the bat and rider closest to them. He was carrying the pistols that did not rely on magical constructs. Sir Ander blessed Cecile for having given them to him.
“Keep going, Father!” Sir Ander shouted.
He fired his pistol, striking his foe in the chest and blowing it out of the saddle. The Bottom Dweller landed on his back. Sir Ander remembered his experiences at the abbey, when the demon he had thought he’d killed had come most unexpectedly back to life. He ran up to the demon, drew out the dragon pistol, and shot the demon between the orange glowing eyes. He holstered the pistol and turned to look for Father Jacob.
Sir Ander swore beneath his breath. He’d told Father Jacob to keep running, but he had, of course, not listened to the advice. Father Jacob had stopped, turned, and was racing back to Sir Ander. A bat and rider veered away from the pack. They had circled around and were flying at the priest from the rear. The demon was taking aim at Father Jacob with the green-fire cannon.
“Father! Drop!” Sir Ander bellowed, drawing his third pistol.
Father Jacob dove for the pavement. Sir Ander shot the demon, knocking the weapon from its hands. The screeching bat landed on top of Father Jacob as he lay on the ground, digging its claws into his back and trying to sink its teeth into the priest’s neck.
Sir Ander remembered the gory lumps of flesh, all that remained of the slaughtered nuns. He could see vividly how they had died as the bat tore a chunk ou
t of Father Jacob’s shoulder. Father Jacob was trying vainly to grapple with the creature, but the gigantic bat was heavy, weighing him down, and he could only lash out futilely with his fists.
Sir Ander drew his sword and was running to the priest’s aid, when the demon rider rose up in front of him, wielding a wicked-looking dagger with a serrated blade. The demon made a clumsy attempt to stab Sir Ander. He easily parried the strike and sent the dagger spinning out of the demon’s hands. His return sword stroke sliced through the demon’s neck. Blood spurted and the fiend fell to the ground, flopping and twitching.
Sir Ander jumped over the demon and, reaching Father Jacob, drove his sword into the bat. The creature screeched horribly, gave a hideous gurgle, and died. Sir Ander, his gorge rising, took hold of the beast and dragged it off Father Jacob, who was covered in blood.
“Help me up!” he gasped, holding out his hand.
Sir Ander heaved the priest to his feet. Shielding him with his body, Sir Ander turned, ready to fight. For the moment, he and Father Jacob were safe. The shadow of wings flowed over them. Sir Ander looked up to see the dragon, Hroalfrig, circling protectively above them, while the other demons were coming under fire from several guards in the tower. They had seen the priest and his friends under attack and, led by a quick-thinking soldier, ran to their aid, closing in on the demons from the rear. Two of the soldiers fired their muskets. One shot missed, but the other hit one of the demons and knocked him off his mount.
Another demon fired at the soldiers. The green fire from the handheld cannon struck one of the men in the act of raising his musket. The green fire sparked along the muzzle. The gun blew apart. The soldier screamed in agony. His companion fired, hitting the bat and causing it to fall onto the stone parapet, bounce off, and go tumbling into the Breath.
Barnaby heard the man scream and turned to see the wounded man standing on the battlement, staring in shock at the splintered bones and bloody, mangled flesh that had once been his hands and arms.
“Stay with Father Jacob!” Barnaby cried to Sir Ander. “I’m going back to help!”
Sir Ander did not reply. He was watching the strange black ship that had reared up out of the Breath, the black sails with the bodies hanging from the masts, the archaic design and the single silly-looking gun mounted on the sterncastle.
Brother Barnaby was helping the soldier, who had fallen to his knees, moaning, just as the monk reached him.
The black-sailed ship began to come around, bringing its single gun to bear on the shore battery. Sir Ander looked at the ship. He and Father Jacob looked at each other. The same thought, the same memory came vividly to mind: the pirate ship and the green-beam weapon that had nearly sunk the cutter, Defiant.
“Run, Father!” Sir Ander shouted. “Run!”
“Barnaby!” Father Jacob gasped. Blood poured down his arm, soaking the cassock, and dripping off his hand.
“I’ll go to him!” Sir Ander yelled. “You save the books.”
Father Jacob cast an agonized glance at Brother Barnaby, and then broke into a staggering run, heading for the Old Fort that was only a short distance away.
Sir Ander saw the green-beam gun taking aim at the shore batteries. The green beam that would obliterate every magical sigil and construct it touched. He saw the guard tower, built of stone reinforced by magic, and Brother Barnaby kneeling on the pavement in the shadow of the guard tower, holding the wounded man in his arms.
The green beam blazed from the muzzle of the gun. The light was blinding, the heat overwhelming. Sir Ander could not see anything or feel anything except the terrible heat that was like being roasted alive in an ironmonger’s Is furnace. Hearing a terrible cry, Sir Ander frantically rubbed his eyes, trying to see past blue-and-yellow sparks.
Father Jacob lay sprawled on the pavement some distance away. His eyes were closed, his head lolled, his body was limp. Sir Ander ran to him and knelt beside him, trying to find a new wound. There had been no explosion, only light and heat. Sir Ander thought hopefully that perhaps the gun had misfired.
Then the world shook beneath his feet. Concrete cracked, steel rods buckled, wooden timbers snapped, stone ground against stone. The magic disintegrated. Sir Ander could hear the screams of the men crushed to death as the bunker’s walls and ceiling collapsed on top of them.
The guard tower began to sway. Men inside cried that it was going to fall and it did fall, before they got the words out of their mouths. Brother Barnaby was holding the wounded soldier in his arms, trying to drag him to a place of safety, a place that did not exist.
The ground split beneath Barnaby’s feet. The wall crumbled.
Sir Ander bellowed, crying out the monk’s name in helpless denial.
Barnaby looked up at him and gave a fleeting smile, then he disappeared in a cascade of tumbling stone. Sir Ander roared in anger and lunged across the shaking ground with some wild idea of saving the monk. The pavement began cracking beneath him. He knew it was hopeless. Swearing in anger, he ran back to Father Jacob, who was either unconscious or dead. Sir Ander picked the priest up in his arms and carried him through smoke and fire and a rain of debris across the battlements until they reached the Old Fort.
Sir Ander tried to go on, to carry Father Jacob inside, but his strength gave out. He laid the priest on the ground beneath a stone archway and collapsed beside him. He had no idea what was wrong with Father Jacob. He could find no wounds other than the bat bite. Yet Father Jacob’s breathing was shallow, his skin ashen and chill to the touch.
“Jacob,” said Sir Ander urgently, shaking him, trying to rouse him.
Father Jacob did not move.
Sir Ander shouted for help, and help came. The archbishop’s guards ran to his aid. They asked him about Father Jacob, about what had happened. Ander didn’t know. He couldn’t say. They asked Sir Ander if he was hurt. He shook his head. They brought a litter and placed Father Jacob on it and bore him to where the healers had established a makeshift hospital. They wanted to take Sir Ander with them, but he refused to leave and eventually they quit badgering him and went away, leaving him alone, crouched beneath the arch.
The ground had quit shaking, except for a rumble and tremor, like a body twitching in its death throes. Sir Ander wondered if the contramagic weapon was next going to fire on the Old Fort. If so, he was too exhausted, too numb to care.
All he could see was Brother Barnaby’s face as the monk realized he was falling to his death. There had been a little fear, and then a fleeting smile of faith and reassurance.
“God holds me in his hand,” Brother Barnaby had seemed to say to his friend. “Do not grieve for me.”
Sir Ander closed his eyes and felt the hot tears burn through his lashes. He gave a shuddering sob. How was he going to tell Father Jacob that the gentle monk who had come to him by a saint’s command was gone?
Chapter Forty-Two
Stephano is the soul of honor and valor. He is brave, intelligent, but he is not, I fear, very wise. Too often Stephano’s restless, reckless heart carries the day. Yet I would not change him! He was born of an illicit love that doomed both his father and myself, yet to my way of thinking, Stephano is proof that God has forgiven us. God gave Julian and me the greatest gift-our brave and noble son.
- Letter from the Countess de Marjolaine to Sir Ander Martel
A DAY AND A HALF HAD PASSED SINCE THE ATTACK on Westfirth. The Cloud Hopper had traveled far from the ravaged city, yet they could still see the smoke of burning-a smudge on the horizon, darker than the mists of the Breath of God. Ahead of them, the damaged merchant vessel carrying Henry Wallace, Pietro Alcazar, and Rodrigo was afloat and still sailing. But the Silver Raven continued to lose altitude.
“A slow leak somewhere,” Miri said. “Probably when the yard and rigging crashed into the mizzen balloon, it damaged the outer skin. Hard to repair when the balloon is at full capacity. They’re going to have to land soon and make repairs.”
“Land on what?” Stephano asked. “We�
�re in the middle of Nowhere.”
They were, quite literally, in the middle of Nowhere, this being a region in the Breath marked “Nowhere” on Trundler maps. Located off the western shore of Rosia between Westfirth and Caltreau, the shoreline for about five hundred miles was wild, desolate, and rock-bound, beautiful to look upon, but deadly if a ship sailed too close. Whipping curls and eddies of the Breath swirled among the crags and tossed against the cliffs. The bones of wrecked ships that had been caught in those eddies could be seen amidst the trees, a most effective warning to stay away.
Miri consulted a map. “The only place for the Raven to land would be somewhere in the String of Pearls Islands off to the northwest here.” She pointed to a mass of small, floating islands, the larger of which, numbering about a hundred, formed a rough circle that made them resemble a pearl necklace. The “pearls” were surrounded by innumerable small islands; too many to count and too unimportant to chart. Free-floating, drifting among the Breath, the islands frequently collided, causing widespread destruction and making them unfit for human habitation. A ship in desperate straits could set down on one of these islands and make repairs; far safer than risking a smashed hull against the cliffs of Nowhere.
“Raven’s altered course. Looks like that’s where they’re headed,” Dag reported, watching the ship through his spyglass.
“The way she’s leaking air, she’d best hurry,” said Miri.
“Good!” Stephano rubbed his hands. “Maybe luck is with us for once.”
“Spit!” Miri ordered, alarmed. “Spit over your left shoulder! Now! You’ve put the hex on us and you have to lift it!”
“Better turn so you’re not facing into the wind, sir,” said Dag, trying to keep from grinning.
Stephano rolled his eyes, but he did as he was told. He spit over his left shoulder. Miri then ordered him to swab the deck.
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