Father Jacob straightened. He held the lantern high and gazed around. The chamber’s wall followed the curve of the tower. Shelves had been built into the walls, each shelf neatly labeled so that the provost would know at a glance where to store the books. A very old desk had been shoved against a wall. Other than the desk, there was no furniture. No chairs, no tables. Browsing was not encouraged. The floor was bare except for a few books that had fallen off the shelves, looking very much as if they had tried unsuccessfully to escape. One might have expected the room to smell of brimstone and decay. Instead, the fragrance of old leather and vellum was rather pleasant.
“Such a waste,” muttered Father Jacob, walking past the shelves lined with knowledge languishing in the darkness.
Looking at the titles, he had to concede that many of these books were undoubtedly evil and might lead the ignorant astray. Books containing blood magic spells and rites and rituals, for example. Not far from those, however, he came across sections dedicated to books of a scientific nature. Some questioned the existence of God, others advanced theories that the magic in the Breath was merely a phenomenon of nature.
“Do we have such little faith in God and in ourselves that we are threatened by ideas?” he asked. “A treasure trove of wisdom from all ages is shut up here—lost to us!”
“The creation of the Library of the Forbidden was not my doing, though I suppose I provided the impetus,” said Saint Marie with a sigh. “This tower room was once my office. That was my desk. After my death at the hands of the blood wizards, Father Dennis began to see enemies lurking in every shadow. He confiscated books he feared were dangerous. He was afraid of the knowledge. As was I.”
“We are always afraid,” said Father Jacob. “We should face what we fear, not hide from it.”
“I learned that lesson,” said Saint Marie. “But I learned it too late.”
Father Jacob came to the last of the shelves and looked around, puzzled.
“Where are the books on contramagic?”
“The provost told you. There are none here.”
“I don’t understand,” said Father Jacob. “The books you and the others wrote, the ones you refer to in the books I found at the abbey. They must be somewhere. Where are they if they are not here?”
Saint Marie smiled at him. “It is time you hear my confession, Father Jacob.”
She turned and walked away and faded into the darkness.
“Sister Marie!” Father Jacob called after her.
There was no answer.
He stared about the library in frustration and disappointment, wondering about the books, wondering what she meant by hear my confession?
“How I can hear her, if she won’t talk to me?” he muttered. He paused and said thoughtfully, “Or maybe she did.”
He considered her words, He was afraid of the knowledge. As was I. And the sorrow in her voice as she said, I learned that lesson. But I learned it too late. She had brought him to the library to hear her confession.… This was my office …
Father Jacob hurried past the bookshelves and went over to the old desk that had been pushed to one side, out of the way, forgotten. The desk was of oak and extremely heavy, probably the reason it had been moved aside, and not taken from the room. He opened drawers, holding the lantern over them, searching inside. They were all empty. He spoke a word and passed his hand over the desk, hunting for magical constructs, but found none.
He looked at the desk again. It was plain, not a construct in sight. He decided to search the drawers one last time before giving up. He repeated the spell … and this time he was rewarded! The remains of an old, old magical construct gleamed feebly from the bottom of the lowest drawer.
The construct had probably once been a powerful illusion spell. Only a few lines and a squiggle remained, the illusion having long since disappeared. Father Jacob could see what had long ago been hidden—a drawer within a drawer. He tried to open it, only to find that it was stuck. He could feel something inside. He painfully squeezed his hand into the drawer and after an effort eventually managed to free the object. He drew out a book. The volume was slim, bound in black leather with faded gold lettering on the front.
My Confession
Inside was her name: Sister Marie Allemand.
Father Jacob placed the lantern on the floor, sat down on the cold stone, and leaned his back against the wall. Oblivious to the sounds of battle, he settled himself to read.
29
For centuries, we have been charged with defending the Citadel of the Voice. We vow to defend the Arcanum. We vow to defend those who live and work within the Citadel. And because we vow to defend the grace of God, we try to fulfill the first two vows without the taking of human life.
—Master of the monks of Saint Klee
A vast courtyard paved with flagstone ran between the two guesthouses used by dignitaries visiting the Citadel. Sir Ander crossed the courtyard on the run, keeping a watch on the black ship as he headed for his quarters. A warrior monk in crimson robes was moving people along, urging them to take cover.
The hospital was also on this level, though some distance away from the guesthouses. Healers, physicians, and surgeons hastened to take up their duties. Sir Ander caught a glimpse of Sister Elizabeth, who looked grim and did not see him.
Across the courtyard from the guesthouses were the communal dining hall and large kitchen with adjacent outbuildings, gardens and vineyards, barns and staff quarters. A curtain wall connected by guard towers encircled this entire side of the mountain.
Sir Ander was ten steps away from his guesthouse when the monk shouted to him to take cover. He bolted for a nearby doorway just in time to escape being knocked down by a blast of wind that took off his hat and sent it flying.
The wind caught up dead leaves and flowers, snapped small trees, flung dust into his eyes, and flattened him back against the wall. The monk sought shelter alongside Sir Ander.
“What is going on, Sister?” he yelled over the blasting wind.
“My brethren are casting, ‘Air as Wall,’” she replied.
Two other monks had taken positions on his side of the curtain wall between two guard towers. Each monk twirled a staff in his hands. They chanted words and the whirling staves became a blur of blue magic.
“I need to reach my quarters!” Sir Ander shouted, pointing to the other guesthouse. “My pistols!”
The monk cast him a sympathetic glance, but shook her head. “Wait. It is not safe.”
Sir Ander fumed as gale-force winds howled through the courtyard.
“At least tell me what they are doing!” he said.
“Magical constructs etched into the stone run along the top of the wall and extend up the sides of the towers,” she told him. “The magic of the staves transmits magic to the constructs on the wall. The wall and the towers form a channel through which the magical wind will flow with ever increasing ferocity.”
The two warrior monks stood in place whirling their staves, their feet firmly planted and their robes whipping about them, the constructs on the wall glowed brighter and brighter.
The bat riders flanking the black ship had spread out, flying to attack different parts of the Citadel. Sir Ander saw a large number of them heading in the direction of the library. He cursed the loss of precious time, but there was nothing he could do. Gale force winds roared around him.
Several bat riders had caught sight of the apparently undefended opening between the guard towers and were flying toward it. The lead bat riders hit the wall of air at full speed and split apart, disintegrating in horrible masses of blood and fur, flesh and bone.
The bodies of these bats and their riders rebounded off the air wall and struck their comrades flying close behind. Bats screeched and flapped, and their riders plummeted to a bone-crushing death on the rocks below. The first wave of the enemy had utterly collapsed. The survivors—those that had been in the rear—broke off the attack and flew away to regroup.
The commander
of the black ship must have witnessed the destruction, for the ship changed course and began sailing in their direction. The gun mounted on the prow of the black ship, slightly larger than a swivel gun, but a hundred times more lethal, took aim at the wall.
Sir Ander remembered the Royal Lion. He remembered what had happened to Dag’s magical pistol when the contramagic hit it. His nonmagical pistols had been designed for this very reason.
“Take cover!” Sir Ander roared at the monks. “Throw down the staves!”
He turned to the warrior monk, who was regarding him with cold disapproval.
“You don’t understand!” he told her. “If the staves are hit by the contramagic—”
He was too late. The green beam struck the “Air as Wall.” Constructs blazed fiercely blue and then faded as the green contramagic broke the constructs apart. The wind began to die. The bat riders flew to attack, approaching the wall more cautiously, firing their shoulder-mounted green fire guns as they came.
The two other monks were trying to renew their spell. The staves flared with blue flame. A green ball of fire hit the staff of one of the monks. The magicks collided, blue and green crackling fiercely. The staff blew apart. Sharp wooden shards pierced the monk’s body, and he fell to the ground, clutching at one of the shards that had gone through him like a spear. His comrade flung his staff at one of the diving bats, then ran to check on his companion. One of the riderless bats swooped down on him, striking him with its clawed feet and biting at his head.
The warrior monk and Sir Ander ran to help. Noxious red fumes spread from the bat riders’ armor and rolled down over the courtyard. Sir Ander began to cough and choke. The monk managed to grab a handful of the bat’s fur. Blue lightning crackled, and the bat fell to the pavement, writhing and twitching. Sir Ander examined the injured monk, who was bleeding from numerous bat bites. None looked to be serious.
The warrior monk waved at him. “Go on, sir!” she shouted, coughing in the smoke.
“Heaven forfend!” a woman cried, coming up behind Sir Ander.
He turned to see Sister Matilda, a nun visiting from his homeland of Travia to lecture about an ancient scroll she had discovered. Sir Ander and the sister had spent an enjoyable evening discussing the homeland Sir Ander had not visited in many years.
Sister Matilda was now standing behind him, her face pale with horror. Sir Ander rose hurriedly and pushed her toward the guesthouse.
“Go to your room, Sister. Lock the door and stay there until this is over!”
“But … that young monk—”
“He is with Saint Klee, Sister. He died to protect us.”
Sir Ander escorted the nun back to the guest hall, shoved her inside, and shut the door. He hoped to God she would heed his advice. Using the curtain wall as cover, he ran for the guesthouse where he was staying in a ground-floor room.
He went straight to a large wooden chest at the foot of his bed and began pulling out its contents. He was already wearing his belt with his broadsword. He added a long dagger to that, then grabbed up the baldric that had loops for his pistols. He thrust powder flasks and extra bullets into his pockets and tucked his dragon pistol into his belt. He took out the construct-free pistols from the chest, loaded them, and slid them into the heavy leather loops on his baldric. Thrusting a pair of throwing knives into sheathes stitched into each boot, he remembered the poisonous red smoke, grabbed a handkerchief, and tied it around his neck.
At the bottom of the trunk lay several glass vials that had belonged to Brother Barnaby. The monk had made a vow to his own patron saint to never take a human life. Yet because he traveled with Father Jacob and was often placed in dangerous situations, Barnaby had devised a variety of ways to defend himself. He had concocted a liquid made of distilled Estaran hot peppers and finely ground black peppercorns and poured it into vials. Tossed into the face of an attacker, the liquid caused excruciating pain, but did no long-term damage. Father Jacob had playfully dubbed the mixture “Barnaby’s Revenge.”
After stuffing the vials into his pockets, Sir Ander ran to the window to assess the situation. Several small boats, each drawn by three gigantic bats and carrying a contingent of troops, were pulling away from the black ship.
“Ground forces,” Sir Ander muttered.
Once the Citadel’s air defenses had been disabled, the ground troops would land. The black ship had again changed course, seeking a new target—a guard tower on the opposite side of the mountain from the library. Father Jacob had been right. Brother Paul would have warned his comrades to leave the library tower untouched.
Black smoke billowed into the sky, mingling with the noxious reddish smoke that still roiled off the attackers. Buildings were on fire. He couldn’t see what had been hit.
Sir Ander ran out the door and entered the courtyard to find that Sister Maltida had ignored his warning. She was out in the courtyard trying to assist the monks, overcome by the smoke. One was on her hands and knees, retching; the other had passed out. She was ministering to them and did not see the bat rider jump off his bat and come running toward her.
He did not intend to kill this victim, Sir Ander saw at once. He was going to take her prisoner.
“Run, Sister!” Sir Ander yelled.
Sister Matilda looked up and saw her danger, but instead of running, she flung herself protectively on top of the injured monk.
Sir Ander wished that just once in his life, one of these stubborn faithful would listen to him. He drew the dragon pistol, took careful aim, and fired. The bat rider staggered as the bullet tore through his chest. The bullet slowed him, but he kept running.
“Sons of bitches just won’t die!” Sir Ander swore in frustration.
Running toward the sister, Sir Ander drew his second pistol and shot the bat rider again. The Bottom Dweller fell to his knees, blood pouring from another hole in his chest, and finally crumpled.
“Are you all right, Sister?”
The nun was staring transfixed at the dead man. She was deathly pale and Sir Ander feared she was going into shock. She needed something to take her mind off the terror.
“Sister!” Sir Ander shook her. “Stay strong! These monks need your help.”
Sister Maltilda swallowed hard, licked her lips, and managed to nod her head. Sir Ander lifted the unconscious monk and carried him inside. The other monk was able to stagger to her feet and follow them.
“Now do as you’re told, Sister,” Sir Ander said. “Stay here with them and shut the door. If you know any locking constructs, this would be a good time to use them.”
He reached into his pocket, brought out Barnaby’s vials. “Take these. The fiends wear helms that cover their eyes, but not their mouths. If one of them gets near you, throw this directly into the mouth. It won’t kill, but it will give you time to escape.”
Sister Maltilda managed a wan smile as she took the vials, clutching them tightly. “Thank you, Sir Ander. God be with you.”
“God better be with us all,” Sir Ander muttered as he left.
He reloaded each of his pistols on the run. A group of monks dashed past him, carrying what appeared to be barrels filled with fireworks, such as were fired on His Majesty’s birthday to the delight of the crowds. Sir Ander trusted these fireworks would do more than produce oohs and aahs. He had almost reached the stairs that led to the library level when he was half blinded by a blaze of dazzling green light. An explosion rocked the ground.
One of the guard towers crumbled and collapsed. Stone blocks rumbled down the side of the mountain, destroying the stairs that led to the hospital.
One of the small boats drawn by the giant bats landed in front of the hospital. Bat riders climbed over the sides and were met by monks wielding their magic. Sir Ander shook his head and kept going. He had to reach Father Jacob.
Sir Ander took the shortest route to the library, climbing the main stair up the side of the cliff to the library’s front entrance, a beautiful plaza encompassed by a colonnade with fluted stone
columns.
He climbed the stairs as fast as he could. The black ship was almost lost to sight in a haze of reddish, noxious smoke and the black smoke, which he could see now was coming from the docks at the base of the mountain. He could barely make out the green beam gun swiveling around and then smoke swirled and he lost sight of it.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he stopped to catch his breath and reconnoiter. The poisonous smoke was making him feel light-headed so he used the handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. Green light flared and he saw the black ship’s weapon fire. Smoke rose, this time from the cathedral.
Not far from where he stood, two warrior monks manned a large metal tube aimed at the black ship. One of the monks touched his hand to the tube, and constructs flared blue. A dozen rockets burst from the tube and soared through the air. These rockets were joined by dozens more, launched from the tops of other buildings. The rockets rained down on the black ship and wherever they hit, they burst into white-hot flame that quickly spread.
Soon one of the sails was burning, along with the rigging. Fires sprang up on the deck. The ship’s crew was forced to abandon their duties to fight the flames.
Sir Ander cheered. The sight renewed his energy. He headed for the library, only to find that, as he had feared, it was under assault.
Two bat riders flying ahead of a small boat intended to dart between the columns of the encircling colonnade to reach the library entrance. Chains of magical arcing constructs wound round the columns. One of the bats soared over the chain, slamming his rider into the stone ceiling, probably breaking the rider’s neck, for he went limp. The magical chain caught the second rider in the throat, garroting him, taking off his head.
The Bottom Dweller who was captaining the boat saw what happened to his escort and brought the boat in for a hard landing. The troops climbed over the sides, some firing their contramagic weapons at the monks manning the chains, others running in the same direction as Sir Ander—the entrance to the library.
“Cover me!” Sir Ander bellowed.
Storm Riders Page 42