Five warrior monks stepped out in the open, exposing themselves to contramagic fire. They carried no weapons, only small bags. The bat riders raised their guns. Sir Ander dashed across the open space behind the monks. As the bat riders fired, the monks tossed their bags into the air. The bags exploded, filling the air with glittering blue dust. The green contramagic fire hit the dust and rebounded, engulfing the Bottom Dwellers in their own green flame.
Sir Ander made it safely to the library entrance. He had been praying that he would arrive ahead of the enemy. His prayers ceased when he almost fell over the bodies of two monks lying on the floor at the foot of the staircase.
Several charred, greasy spots and a trail of blood on the stairs indicated that the monks had managed to kill or wound several of the enemy before they were taken down.
Sir Ander could hear explosions coming from the levels above. The bat riders who had survived the attack must have gone up the stairs. He climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he reached the landing on the second floor he heard foosteps behind him and saw a warrior monk coming up the stairs.
“Brother, I need your help!” Sir Ander shouted. “The enemy is headed for the Library of the Forbidden!”
The monk asked no questions. He joined Sir Ander and the two ascended the next flight of spiral stairs. Sir Ander drew his pistol, holding it in front of him as he climbed. They met no resistance at first. As they neared the Library of the Forbidden they could hear sounds of movement coming from above. Both slowed, moving cautiously.
The monk was as silent as the smoke drifting in the air. Sir Ander tried to emulate him, but his leather boots creaked and his sword clanked. The monk took the lead, leaving Sir Ander to guard the rear.
The monk came to a sudden halt, flattening against the wall and motioning Sir Ander to do the same. Using the curve of the wall as cover, the monk peered up the stairs and indicated that Sir Ander was to look. Moving as quietly as he could, Sir Ander took a quick peek. Two Bottom Dwellers were guarding the landing and two more were in the hall beyond.
Sir Ander swore under his breath. The door to the Library of the Forbidden stood wide open. The attention of the Bottom Dwellers was focused on the library.
Sir Ander moved back and drew both pistols.
The monk exhibited the glittering blue grenades he carried. Leaning near, he whispered, “Draw their fire.”
Having seen the grenade in action, Sir Ander understood the plan.
He shouted out Father Jacob’s name, letting the priest know he was coming, and ran up the stairs. He cocked the first pistol, aimed, and fired. The bullet struck the Bottom Dweller in the back of his head, penetrating the helm. The man dropped down dead.
At the sound of the gunshot, the other three Bottom Dwellers turned around and raised their weapons. Sir Ander lunged sideways, as the monk leaped in front of him and tossed two grenades into the air. One of the bat riders fired. Green light flared, followed by a blazing flash of blue when the contramagic hit the wall of glittering powder and bounced off, catching the Bottom Dweller in his own deadly blast.
The two in front of the library door fired. The monk ran back down the stairs, joining Sir Ander, who was reloading his pistols. The monk tossed another grenade. Green light flared and blue magic crackled, half blinding Sir Ander. When the light faded, he was glad to find that both he and the monk were still standing.
Pistols again in hand, Sir Ander took another look into the hall. The two Bottom Dwellers were reloading their strange weapons. Sir Ander raised his pistol, fired, and missed, the bullet hitting the wall behind one of the Bottom Dwellers. At least the shot had been close enough that the man had been forced to duck. Sir Ander was about to fire again, when he heard Father Jacob’s voice cry out in alarm and then a gunshot.
“Jacob!” Sir Ander cried fearfully.
No answer. Sir Ander had one bullet left and no time to reload. The monk tossed another blue powder grenade, filling the air with sparkling dust, just as one of the Bottom Dwellers fired. The resultant blast caught the Bottom Dweller, sending him reeling back against the wall.
“Go to him!” the monk yelled at Sir Ander.
Sir Ander slid the pistol into the loop in the baldric, drew his sword, and ran through what was left of the sparkling powder. The last Bottom Dweller dropped his weapon to grab hold of a sword with a curved blade from a harness on his back.
Sir Ander attacked the man with several fast, straight thrusts to the chest that forced him to fall backward as he parried. The Bottom Dweller sidestepped a vicious slash at his arm and slid in close, his blade aiming at Sir Ander’s throat. Sir Ander blocked the attack.
Swords locked together, and sparks flew. The two struggled, then Sir Ander managed to drive one of his sword’s quillons into the man’s throat. The Bottom Dweller staggered backward and Sir Ander slammed his fist into the enemy’s jaw. His broadsword followed, and blood sprayed from a gaping wound in the man’s neck. Sir Ander kicked the body out of the way and drew his pistol.
“Go for reinforcements!” he yelled to the monk.
* * *
The sound of rasping, heavy breathing disturbed Father Jacob’s reading. He glanced up to see Brother Paul standing warily inside the open door. He was on guard, knowing from the alarms that someone had opened the gate, wondering if the person was still inside.
“Come in, Brother,” said Father Jacob, rising and closing the book. “I have been expecting you.”
He slid the volume of the confession underneath the desk, picked up the lantern, and walked toward Brother Paul, who had to shield his sensitive eyes from the bright light.
“I know the voice…”
“Father Jacob, Brother.”
“Father! Thank God! I heard the alarm and I feared the demons had broken into the library,” said Brother Paul, squinting, still trying to see. “Could you douse the light, Father? It is making my head ache.”
Father Jacob tapped the glass and the light went out. The library was dark, the only light now emanating from a lantern hanging on a hook outside the door. The light gleamed on the crown of Brother Paul’s head, faintly illuminating his pallid face.
“I would imagine the light does cause you pain,” said Father Jacob in sympathetic tones. “Since you lived most of your life Below with only glimpses of the sun. You must have found the pain of the bright sunlight excruciating when you first arrived here from your homeland.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Father,” said Brother Paul. “I was born in Rosia.”
He took off the dark spectacles and looked searchingly about the room. His eyes were unusually large and liquid. His gaze was drawn to the bookshelves. His hands twitched. He was nervous, edgy.
“You should go for help, Father. I will stay to guard the library.”
“The books you seek are not here,” said Father Jacob.
“What books?” said Brother Paul. “I came because I heard the alarm—”
“You came for the books on contramagic,” said Father Jacob. “They’re not in the library. I was surprised myself. My research into the books of the saints I discovered in the abbey led me to believe they were here.”
“You should not speak of such evil,” said Brother Paul in a low voice. He stared, unblinking, at Father Jacob, who was slowly and steadily moving nearer.
“You were commanded to break into the Library of the Forbidden in search of the books on contramagic. This entire assault was a diversion, giving you the chance. All a wasted effort,” said Father Jacob. “As I said, the books you seek are not here.”
The sounds of the battle raging below echoed up the tower stairs. From where Father Jacob was standing, he had a clear view of the corridor. He could see flashes of green and blue fire. Brother Paul’s hand slipped up the sleeve of his robe and returned carrying a pistol.
He pointed the gun at Father Jacob.
“Where are the books, Father? What have you done with them?”
“Why do you
want them?” Father Jacob asked curiously. He was still holding the lantern, hiding it behind the folds of the skirts of his cassock. He continued to talk, keeping Brother Paul’s attention fixed on his face.
“Your people know far more about contramagic than did the saints, Brother Paul. These weapons you have invented are quite marvelous.”
“Tell me where you have hidden the books!” Brother Paul said angrily.
“I don’t have them.”
Brother Paul aimed the pistol at Father Jacob’s head. “You’re lying!”
“You can search through all the shelves, Brother. I won’t try to stop you. You will not find them,” said Father Jacob gently. “They are not here.”
Brother Paul looked rattled. He waved the gun with an unsteady hand. “Then you’re coming with me.”
He motioned with the pistol. “Walk in front. Behave as if nothing is the matter. I’ll take you over to the ship. You will visit my world. Who knows,” he added with a twitching smile, “you might even be reunited with your friend, Brother Barnaby.”
“Barnaby!” Father Jacob repeated sharply. “What do you know about Brother Barnaby?”
“Walk!” said Brother Paul, waving the pistol about recklessly.
Father Jacob started to walk slowly past Brother Paul. A loud explosion sounded nearby, rattling the shelves, followed by smaller blasts and a pistol shot and Sir Ander’s bellowing voice calling out for Father Jacob. Brother Paul blanched and glanced over his shoulder uncertainly.
“The battle is lost,” said Father Jacob. “Your comrades are not coming. No one has to know about this, Brother. Give me the gun and we will talk…”
Brother Paul brought up the pistol swiftly and aimed it at Father Jacob’s head. A spasm of hatred contorted his face. He cocked the hammer.
Father Jacob whipped the lantern out from behind his skirt and activated the construct. The lantern blazed into a dazzling white light. Father Jacob aimed the beam directly into Brother Paul’s eyes.
He cried out in pain, and flung up his arm to cover his face. Father Jacob dropped the lantern and seized hold of Brother Paul’s wrist to try to wrest the pistol from his grasp.
The two men reeled back and forth. The pistol discharged, the bullet whizzing past Father Jacob’s ear. Brother Paul flung the empty pistol to the floor and reached into his robes. The light flashed off the barrel of a small pocket gun.
“Drop the gun, Brother!” Sir Ander yelled.
He ran into the room. He was bloody and disheveled, covered in grime. He held his pistol in his hand, aimed it at Brother Paul.
“Don’t kill him, Ander!” Father Jacob cried. “He knows something about Brother Barnaby!”
“Drop the gun, Brother Paul,” Sir Ander odered again. “Give up. The fight is over.”
“Tell us about Barnaby,” Father Jacob said urgently. “Is he alive?”
“He is alive,” said Brother Paul with a ghastly grin. “I am sure he wishes he wasn’t.”
He thrust the barrel of the gun into his mouth.
Father Jacob made a desperate lunge and managed to seize hold of the monk’s arm, jostling his aim just as Brother Paul pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through his cheekbone, shattering his jaw, transforming his face into a grisly mess of blood and brains and slivers of bone. He slid down the wall to the floor.
“Damnation!” exclaimed Sir Ander in pity and sorrow. “What the devil did he do that for?”
Father Jacob was on his knees beside the dying man. He placed his hand on Brother Paul’s chest in blessing.
“God’s peace be with you,” said Father Jacob.
The blood gurgled in Brother Paul’s throat. His bloodstained hand seized hold of Father Jacob’s cassock, dragged him close to hear. Brother Paul said two foul words and fell back, dead.
Sir Ander was grim-faced. “I’m sorry you had to hear such filth, Father.”
“I’ve heard worse,” said Father Jacob, sighing. He gently closed the one remaining eye. “Poor man. To be consumed with so much hatred. May God have mercy on his soul.”
“The nuns in the abbey were good to him,” said Sir Ander wrathfully. “I saw how he and his friends repaid them. I hope he burns in hell’s fire for eternity.”
He reached down to help Father Jacob to his feet. “Are you all right?”
“I’m as fine as can be expected, considering I’m likely to be arrested any moment. Are the warrior monks outside?”
“Not now, but they will be here soon. I sent the one who was with me for reinforcements.”
“How goes the battle?” Father Jacob asked.
“I lost track of what was happening when I ran in here. Last I saw, we were holding our own. A good thing you told the monks what you knew about contramagic.”
“Is it safe to leave?” Father Jacob asked.
“Leave the library? Yes, we cleared the enemy from the stairs—”
“No, I mean leave the Citadel.”
“You mean now?”
“I dare not wait.”
Returning to the desk, Father Jacob bent down, reached underneath, picked up the book off the floor. He thrust the slim volume into his cassock before Sir Ander could catch a good look at it.
“You heard the alarm. We should escape during the confusion, before anyone can stop us.”
He walked rapidly out of the library and into the hall. He glanced at the bodies of the Bottom Dwellers lying on the floor, shook his head in frustration and sorrow, and ran down the stairs. Sir Ander had to work to keep up. He heard another explosion. The black ship must still be firing.
When they reached the landing, Sir Ander stopped. “Get behind me, Father. There might be more Bottom Dwellers on the ground floor. I am still required by my vow to protect you.”
Father Jacob flattened himself against the wall to allow Sir Ander to squeeze past.
“Even though I’ve broken the church’s law?” Father Jacob asked, half in jest, half in earnest.
“I took an oath to God, Father, not the grand bishop,” said Sir Ander drily. “One question,” he asked, as they ran down the last flight. “Why did Brother Paul kill himself?”
“He feared the fate that awaited him,” said Father Jacob.
“He could have told the provost that he was there to protect the books,” said Sir Ander. “You couldn’t have proved otherwise.”
“He did not fear us,” said Father Jacob gravely. “Brother Paul had assured his superiors the books on contramagic were in the Library of the Forbidden. The Bottom Dwellers launched this attack to obtain the books. He would have had to explain to his superiors that they had gone to all this trouble for nothing. I would guess his people do not view failure kindly.”
“So the provost was right about the books,” said Sir Ander. “I’m sorry, Father.”
“Brother Paul failed,” said Father Jacob. “I did not.”
He added with a sigh, “I almost wish I had.”
30
For the Arcanum to function, it must remain an autonomous order within the structure of the Church of the Breath. The provost reports to the Council of Bishops, and cannot be beholden to any single member, including the grand bishop. Only by maintaining this separation can the Arcanum remain an effective means for fighting corruption of the soul and not become a weapon in the internal politics of the church.
—Father Raynard du Galinea, seventh provost of the Arcanum
Father Jacob and Sir Ander reached the ground floor of the library to find that the invading Bottom Dwellers had either been killed or driven off. Priests and nuns were helping the healers to tend to the wounded, covering the faces of the dead, granting God’s blessing to the dying. Warrior monks remained at the entrance, for the sounds of battle could still be heard raging in other parts of the Citadel.
Books were strewn all over the floor. In some instances, the shelves had fallen down or had been overturned to form crude barricades. Charred and greasy spots on the floor marked the final resting plac
e of the Bottom Dwellers, whose magical armor immolated the bodies after death.
Despite their haste, Father Jacob and Sir Ander slowed their pace, not wanting to call attention to themselves by running. Father Jacob kept his head bowed, his face averted; Sir Ander walked at his side. No one paid any attention to them except a nun who was hurrying past with a handful of blood-soaked rags. Seeing blood on Sir Ander, she stopped to ask if he required assistance. He told her no, he was not seriously hurt. She thanked God and hastened on. The smell of blood mingled with the smoke of burning.
“So many dead and wounded,” said Father Jacob.
“It was a hard-fought battle, but the monks did their job,” said Sir Ander. “They fought off the invaders and set fire to their black ship.”
“How did they manage that?”
“Incendiaries,” said Sir Ander. “The monks launched rockets that ignited on impact and burned like a son of a bitch. Pardon the language, Father. The last I saw, the Bottom Dwellers were running around the blazing deck in confusion, trying to put out the fires.”
“Will they launch another assault?”
“I doubt it. The Bottom Dwellers hit us with everything they had at the outset. Where are we going?” Sir Ander asked in a low voice.
“We’re leaving the library the same way I came in,” said Father Jacob. “I don’t want to encounter the monks if I can avoid it.”
“They have no way of knowing it was you who broke into the library,” said Sir Ander.
“Don’t bet on that,” said Father Jacob grimly.
They climbed over the upended shelves and piles of books, treading on broken glass and staying out of the way of any monks. The room with the casement window through which Father Jacob had entered was in the rear of the library, far from the main entrance.
Sir Ander crawled through the window first and stopped on the lawn outside to assess the situation.
A smokey haze made it difficult to see. The last time he’d caught a glimpse of the enemy ship, it was on the opposite side of the mountain. He couldn’t see any of the bat riders, but he could still hear in the distance the crackles and booms of magical discharges, shouts and screams and sporadic pistol fire. He guessed this meant that some of the Bottom Dwellers were still fighting.
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