Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  At least there were no bat riders here and no warrior monks.

  “You can come out now, Father,” said Sir Ander.

  Father Jacob climbed through the window. He took care to shut it before joining Sir Ander.

  “I still hear fighting,” said Father Jacob.

  “Covering their retreat, most likely. Which way are we going now? The monks will be guarding all the stairways that lead to the carriage yard.”

  “Not the old stumble steps,” said Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander stared at him. “The stumble steps? You can’t be serious! We’ll break our necks! We might as well throw ourselves off the side of the mountain now.”

  The “stumble steps”—so named because they would cause an enemy to stumble—dated back to the time of the Citadel’s construction. Built as a defensive measure, the steep, narrow stairway with its uneven steps had been designed to discourage an attack by sea. With the development of magical defenses, the stumble stairs were no longer needed and had been allowed to fall into disrepair.

  Consisting of nine hundred steps carved out of the bedrock, the stairway plunged straight down the side of the mountain. Navigating the stairs was not pleasant. A misstep could send one tumbling off the rocky cliff. The magical constructs that had been placed to maintain them had failed long ago. In addition to being uneven, the stairs were broken and crumbling.

  “No one will be expecting us to take that route,” said Father Jacob.

  “Because we’re supposedly rational human beings,” Sir Ander grumbled. “Where’s the entrance?”

  He had seen the stairs every time he brought the yacht into the Citadel, a thin line of gray going straight up the side of the mountain. He had never used them and he had no idea how to reach them. All he knew was that a guard tower stood at the top. The Citadel had a great many guard towers.

  “The entrance is not far from here.” Father Jacob started off at a brisk pace.

  “I was thinking about what that wretched Brother Paul said about Barnaby. That he was still alive. I wish there was some way we could rescue him,” said Sir Ander, walking alongside the priest. “I’ve said this before, but I keep thinking we should be trying to save him, not running around looking for moldy, old books. I’m sorry if I offend you, Father, but that’s how I feel.”

  “You do know that we would never survive the voyage below the Breath,” said Father Jacob.

  “The Bottom Dwellers sailed here from Below and they survived,” Sir Ander argued.

  “With specially designed ships and powerful magicks,” said Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander grunted and walked on very fast, his head down. He could feel Father Jacob’s worried, sympathetic gaze.

  “I know I’m being irrational, Father,” Sir Ander said after a moment. “It’s just … it’s Barnaby…”

  “I believe with all my heart that finding those books will help us find him,” said Father Jacob earnestly.

  “I pray you are right,” said Sir Ander, sighing. He peered through the smoke. “I hope you know where you’re going. I can’t see a damn thing.”

  Father Jacob opened his mouth to reply and began to cough in the smoke. He had no handkerchief, for he was constantly using them to clean his ink pens. He put his hand over his nose and mouth and kept going.

  No one ever came to this part of the Citadel anymore except the occasional shepherd and his dog tending the flocks of grazing sheep that kept the grass trimmed. The steeply sloping ground made walking difficult. Father Jacob and Sir Ander slid or skidded much of the way down, fetching up at last against the inside of the curtain wall.

  The walking was easier here, as was the breathing, for the smoke had not settled this low. They made their way along the wall until they came to a small, squat, and extremely old guard tower dotted with arrow slits, through which guards defending the stumble steps in ancient days would have a clear shot at any enemy bold enough to try to climb them.

  A wooden door banded with iron set into the wall at the bottom of the tower permitted access.

  “This tower is never used anymore,” said Father Jacob. He tried the door, which opened easily. “The lock is broken. No one bothers to refresh the spells.”

  Inside, the tower was dark and cool. The only sounds were angry squeals of the rats, the tower’s current residents, disturbed by their coming. The two men waited until their eyes could adjust to the dimness, then searched for the door to the stairs.

  It was easy to locate. The door was blocked by a trestle on which was a sign that read in large, bold letters: DANGER.

  “A sign. That’s all?” said Sir Ander. “No magical warding spells?”

  “They assume no one in his right mind would go down those stairs,” said Father Jacob.

  “Which shows they never met you,” Sir Ander stated.

  He removed the sign and shifted the trestle. This door was locked, but the lock was rusty and gave way when Sir Ander kicked it. He opened the door, stepped out onto the first step, looked down and closed his eyes. He did not suffer from a fear of heights, yet the sight of the stumble steps plunging straight down the side of the mountain made him queasy.

  “Too bad we didn’t bring any rope,” said Father Jacob.

  “Too bad you had to break into the damn library,” said Sir Ander with a grunt.

  “You speak a true word there, my friend,” said Father Jacob somberly.

  Sir Ander saw the priest slip his hand into the pocket of his cassock where he had secreted the slim volume he had taken from the library, checking to make certain the book was safe.

  Father Jacob had been unusually quiet since they had left the library. Sir Ander had attributed this to seeing a man blow half his head off or that he was thinking of Brother Barnaby. Now Sir Ander wondered if the priest was thinking of that small book.

  “God be with us,” said Father Jacob, and he began to descend the stairs.

  The trip down the stumble steps turned out to be one of the most terrifying events in Sir Ander’s life. The stairs were uneven and irregular, cracked and crumbling, and in some places were completely missing. He was at times forced to resort to simply letting go and sliding on his rump, fetching up against a scrub tree or boulder. Once his heart stuck in his throat when a step cracked under Father Jacob’s foot, causing the priest to fall. He tumbled into Sir Ander, nearly sending them both down onto the foam-covered rocks below. By the grace of God, Sir Ander was able to hang on and save them.

  He was never so glad to see anything in his life as the eight hundredth and ninety-ninth step. By the time he reached it, his hands were bruised and bloodied, his breeches were torn and his knees skinned. Father Jacob’s cassock had a large rent in the back, and he was limping.

  “Given a choice between fighting an army of demons or going down those damn stairs again, I’d choose the demons,” said Sir Ander fervently. “Can you walk?”

  “Bruised my ankle,” said Father Jacob. “There’s the Carriage House. We don’t have far to go.”

  They made their way to the stable yard. At first they saw no one. The stables had not come under attack, probably because they contained nothing of value to the Bottom Dwellers. Sir Ander wondered what had happened to the lay brothers who worked here. He gave a shout.

  “Sir Ander!” a voice called out in response. “Is that you?”

  The lay brothers had been hiding in the barn. They emerged, filled with questions, for they had not been able to see what was going on. Sir Ander answered their questions briefly, then said he and Father Jacob needed to leave immediately on urgent business.

  The lay brothers were dubious as to whether that would be possible. The wyverns had been thrown into a panic by the sounds of the explosions. Sir Ander was insistent and he and the lay brothers searched the stables until they found two wyverns who appeared calmer than the rest. With the help of Sir Ander, the lay brothers managed to harness the beasts to the yacht.

  “Looks like we made it safely so far,” remarked Sir Ander in an u
ndertone.

  He climbed up to the driver’s compartment and assisted Father Jacob. Reaching out to unlock the door, Sir Ander stopped in alarm and grabbed hold of Father Jacob, preventing him from entering.

  “What is it?” Father Jacob whispered.

  “The door was unlocked,” said Sir Ander in smothered tones. “Someone is inside. Wait here.”

  “I’m coming, too,” said Father Jacob. “If the monks are waiting for us, you’ll need my magic.”

  Sir Ander conceded the point. He had his sword, but if the magic-wielding monks of Saint Klee were waiting to ambush them, his sword would be useless. He thrust the door open with a bang. He and Father Jacob barged inside. Both came to a startled, dumbfounded halt.

  Ferdinand de Montagne, grand bishop of the Church of the Breath, was standing at the window, gazing outside. Hearing the two men enter, Montagne turned to face them.

  “Eminence!” Father Jacob exclaimed, amazed. “What are you doing here?”

  “You defied us and broke into the Library of the Forbidden. I guessed you would be intent on leaving to pursue your ill-fated obsession.”

  Montagne was a tall man; his head almost brushed the cabin’s ceiling. His voice was ragged, weary, his face gray with fatigue and illness. He did not appear to be injured, though his fine robes were stained with soot and blood and smelled strongly of smoke.

  “I seek the truth, Eminence,” said Father Jacob gravely. “Please do not try to stop me.”

  “You know damn well I cannot stop you,” said the grand bishop, adding caustically, “You must think yourself very clever, Jacob, to have taken advantage of this tragic situation to enter where you were forbidden.”

  “If you intend to try to shame me, Eminence, I will say in my defense that you left me no choice,” said Father Jacob. His face darkened. He was growing angry. “I asked permission and was denied.”

  “Where are you going?” Montagne asked abruptly.

  “Since you will exert all your efforts in attempting to thwart me, I prefer not to say.”

  “Did you find the books on contramagic?”

  “I did not, as Your Eminence knows.”

  “You plan to go in search of them.”

  Father Jacob stirred restlessly, his anger mounting. “You have looked the enemy in the face, Eminence. You have witnessed for yourself the terrible threat the Bottom Dwellers pose to the world. They have already murdered countless hundreds: the nuns at the abbey, the crew of the Royal Lion, the innocents in the Crystal Market. Their deaths might have been prevented, as well as the deaths of the enemy, for they are also God’s children. The church knew the truth … and did nothing. You knew the truth … and did nothing.”

  The blood had risen to Montagne’s face. He made no answer, and the blood slowly drained, leaving his skin sallow.

  “All these years,” Father Jacob continued, “you have known far more about contramagic then you would admit. You recognized from Brother Paul’s letter that the so-called demons who attacked the abbey were using weapons of contramagic. You knew the collapse of the Crystal Market was caused by contramagic. You have done everything in your power to try to prevent me from discovering the truth. As a result, thousands are dead! Needlessly!”

  Montagne’s jaw worked, a vein in his neck twitched. He swallowed and remained silent.

  “I don’t understand, Father,” said Sir Ander.

  “Grand bishops down through the centuries have known far more about contramagic than they have ever admitted.”

  Father Jacob drew the book from his pocket and held it up in front of Montagne’s face.

  “Saint Marie knew the truth. She blamed herself. She made her confession in this book.”

  The sunlight glimmered off the title, My Confession, stamped in gold. Sir Ander thought back to the time when Father Jacob had first told him Saint Marie had come to him to ask him to hear her confession.

  “The truth about what, Father?” Sir Ander asked.

  “The church took the innocent work Saint Marie and the others had done on contramagic and used it to develop powerful weapons that sank the island of Glasearrach and plunged the world into centuries of darkness and despair. Worse than that, Eminence, you have known that magic throughout the world is failing and that the Bottom Dwellers are the cause! Instead of revealing the truth, so that the nations of the world could work to stop them, you persist in lies, denials, fabrications!”

  “There is more to it than that!” Montagne said heavily.

  “More to what?” Father Jacob asked, frowning, startled by the man’s intensity.

  The grand bishop closed his eyes, his mouth worked in some private agony. He swallowed, as though tasting bitter medicine, and shook his head, refusing to answer.

  “What do you intend to do, Jacob? Denounce me?”

  “I do not know yet,” Father Jacob said shortly.

  Outside the yacht, the wyverns were screeching and squabbling. One of the lay brothers holding the reins shouted that he could not control them much longer. Montagne rubbed his eyes.

  “Do not pursue this course of action, Father. You will end up destroying that which you are trying to save.”

  “We can no longer live in ignorance and fear, Eminence.”

  “God help you, Jacob,” said Montagne.

  He left the yacht. Moving shakily, he almost fell as he tried to climb down off the driver’s seat. Sir Ander went to assist him, clasping him by the upper arm and helping him descend. The grand bishop walked with slow and faltering steps past the astonished lay brothers, never seeming to see them. Sir Ander waited to make certain Montagne was safely on his way, then he returned to the yacht.

  “I wonder what he meant—‘there is more to it,’” Father Jacob said, musing.

  “Whatever it was, that ‘God help you’ wasn’t a blessing. It was a threat, Father.”

  “You shouldn’t come with me, Ander,” said Father Jacob. “Once I leave these walls, I will be a fugitive. The full force and might of the Arcanum will be exerted against me.”

  “God didn’t add conditions to my service,” said Sir Ander. “God didn’t say that I was to guard you only during calm days. He meant stormy nights, as well.”

  “We are facing a hurricane, my friend,” said Father Jacob, sighing.

  Sir Ander took his place in the driver’s box. “Do we travel to the palace? Speak to the king? Tell him about the Bottom Dwellers?”

  Father Jacob gave a rueful smile. “How close do you think we would get before we were arrested? If by some miracle we did manage to talk to His Majesty, he would not believe me. He did not believe the countess. I have no proof.”

  “So where are we going?”

  “The dragon realms,” said Father Jacob.

  “Dragon realms!” Sir Ander repeated, amazed.

  “The duchy of Talwin to be exact.”

  Father Jacob placed his hand on Sir Ander’s shoulder. “I am being very selfish in allowing you to come, my friend, but I honestly do not think I could make this journey without you.”

  He went inside the yacht and shut the door.

  Sir Ander’s mind was in turmoil. Dragon realms! What did dragons have to do with any of this? He forced himself to concentrate on flying the yacht, finding something calming in the familiar task of preparing to set sail. He touched constructs set into the brass control panel, channeling the magical energy into the lift tanks and the ballast tank.

  He could feel the yacht respond as he increased the buoyancy and it slowly rose from the ground. He touched a second set of constructs that guided magical energy along the braided leather control lines connected to the wyverns’ harnesses, allowing him to direct the beasts. His first task was to locate the black ship. He did not want to end their journey by flying the yacht into the enemy’s gun sights.

  As the yacht drifted upward, he could see the fires on the docks below blazing out of control. No one was fighting them. They were letting them burn out. The smoke that had been a curse was now a
blessing, concealing the Retribution’s departure. Sailing above one of the guard towers, he sighted the black ship. It was limping away. He brought out the spyglass from underneath the helm and put it to his eye.

  The Bottom Dwellers had managed to bring the fires on board under control, but their ship had sustained considerable damage. One mast was broken and several sails had been destroyed, as had much of the rigging. He could see sailors and even soldiers in demonic armor working on the deck. Bat riders accompanied the ship, but their numbers had been considerably reduced.

  He scanned the deck and saw a group of prisoners huddled near the stern. As he watched, two Bottom Dwellers grabbed one of the nuns and dragged her across the deck to where the green beam-firing cannon was mounted. The nun fought, struggling against her captors.

  Bottom Dwellers hauled the woman to the gun and forced her to bend over it. One drew a knife and slit her throat, almost severing the head from the body. Blood gushed, spilling onto the gun. The Bottom Dweller who had murdered the nun rubbed her blood into the weapon.

  A blood magic ritual. Sick to his stomach, Sir Ander lowered the glass.

  The yacht sailed over the walls of the Citadel. The magical defenses that might have stopped Father Jacob had been knocked out by the enemy.

  A sign from God? Sir Ander wondered.

  The moment he left those walls behind, he became an outlaw.

  He smiled, shook his head, and turned, opening the door a crack. “Father, could you bring me a cup of tea?”

  Sir Ander settled back comfortably, touched the controls, and gave the wyverns a little tingle on their backsides. The beasts flapped their wings and the yacht sailed north to the dragon realms.

  * * *

  When evening fell on the first day of their journey, Sir Ander was concerned about where to land for the night. Ordinarily he would have chosen a town or city with stables for the wyverns and an inn with good food and drink. He did not think it likely that the word would have already been sent to search for them, but he wasn’t taking chances. Sir Ander landed the yacht far from civilization, setting down in a large, grassy sward.