—Anonymous
THE GATES THAT PIERCED THE TALL GRAY GRANITE WALL encircling the abbey compound were made of oak studded with bronze rosettes and banded with iron. The gates were extremely heavy, their hinges rusted. The nuns would not have been able to open them and, fondly believing themselves safe from any enemy, they had never closed them.
“Not that the gates would have stopped the assault,” Albert added bitterly. “Their attackers came out of the Breath, flew over the walls.”
“Demons on giant bats,” Sir Ander said, shaking his head. “We read the account of that poor girl.”
“Yes,” said Albert in subdued tones, “Brother Paul told me what she said.”
“You did not see her?”
“I helped carry her to the infirmary, but she was unconscious. I have not spoken to her since she woke up. Brother Paul says she needs rest and quiet.”
“I would like to interview her,” said Father Jacob. “I want to hear her account in her own words.”
“She is in the infirmary, Father,” said Albert. “One of the few buildings that was not extensively damaged. Brother Paul has been nursing her. She’s only sixteen. As for demons attacking the abbey . . . After you’ve seen the horror for yourself . . .” Albert sighed and shrugged. “I believe it. No human could be so depraved.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Father Jacob, exchanging glances with Sir Ander.
“The writings of the Saints speak of angels and their evil counterparts,” said Brother Barnaby and he added quietly, almost to himself, “I saw paintings depicting demons on the walls of the Grand Bishop’s Palace.”
“I will hear her and judge for myself,” said Father Jacob brusquely.
The shadow of the dragon, still circling overhead, had been expanding as the dragon flew lower and lower. The dragon was so low now that he had to be careful not to brush one of the cathedral’s spires with his wing tips.
“I believe Master of the Flight, Sergeant Hroalfrig, would like a chance to meet you, Father,” said Albert, as the dragon’s scaled belly passed overhead.
“Of course,” said Father Jacob. He rubbed his hands. “I would like nothing better.”
Sir Ander shot Brother Barnaby a warning glance. The monk gave a slight nod in response. When Father Jacob had been a University student in Freya, his area of study was dragon magic, with particular emphasis on a dragon’s innate ability to deconstruct human-crafted magical constructs. This ability was the reason dragons had once been highly valued by the militaries of all the major powers. A dragon attacking a ship could use his breath to cause the magic of the constructs in the hull to break apart. A dragon could not erase the magic, but he could do serious damage.
Father Jacob had become so interested in his studies, he had expanded them to include dragon lore, dragon culture, and dragon history. If his life had not taken the near-disastrous turn that had caused him to flee Freya, he might have become one of the world’s foremost experts on the subject.
Thus, whenever Father Jacob encountered a dragon, he had a most unfortunate tendency to completely forget the task at hand. He would engage the dragon in endless conversation, delving into the dragon’s family history, find out where and how the dragon lived, and so forth. One of Brother Barnaby’s tasks was to remind Father Jacob of his duty without hurting the feelings of the dragon.
This was the first dragon Father Jacob had met in some time. The great dragon families of Rosia had served proudly in the Dragon Brigade for over two centuries and they had been deeply angered and offended when King Alaric had disbanded the Dragon Brigade. Relations between the noble dragon families and the Crown had grown strained. Dragons no longer attended the royal court, but kept to their estates in the mountains.
Hroalfrig made a lopsided and decidedly ungraceful touchdown. The elderly dragon shook himself, lifted his head, folded his wings against his flanks, and advanced, with a slight limp in his right leg, to greet the newcomers.
“Master of the Flight, Sergeant Hroalfrig,” said Albert, introducing them. “Father Jacob Northrop, Sir Ander Martel, and Brother Barnaby.”
The dragon’s head reared high over the abbey walls. The towers were about one hundred fifty feet in height. The dragon could have looked into the windows about a third of the way up with ease. He had landed on his heavier and more muscular rear legs, but he walked on all four. Father Jacob noted the beast’s stubby mane, his short snout, and thick neck and knew him to be a dragon of the lower class. Dragons of the noble families had long manes, slender and graceful necks, and elongated, elegant snouts.
Hroalfrig took care to keep a polite distance from the humans, not wanting to risk accidentally stepping on them. He gravely inclined his head in greeting to each in turn.
“Honored, Father, honored, Sir Knight,” said Hroalfrig in a deep voice. “Honored, Brother.”
Dragons had long ago learned human speech, though it came more easily to some than to others. Humans had never been able to speak the language of dragons. The human throat and tongue were not capable of forming the words. Some, such as Father Jacob, had learned to understand it.
“Master of the Flight Hroalfrig served with the Dragon Brigade, Quartermaster Corp,” said Albert.
“Retired,” said Hroalfrig, adding in gruff tones with a growl, “Forcibly.”
Hroalfrig was apparently a dragon of few words.
“I heard about the disbanding of the Brigade,” said Father Jacob. “A serious mistake. I wrote most strongly to His Majesty to protest.”
“Thankee, Father,” said Hroalfrig, obviously pleased. “Call me Hroal and my brother Droal.”
Brother Barnaby attempted at this moment to draw Father Jacob away from the conversation, but the monk’s attempt was foiled by his own ally. Sir Ander was now regarding the dragon with interest.
“You served in the Dragon Brigade. Perhaps you knew my godson, Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen.”
“My commander, m’lord. Good man,” said Hroal. The dragon flicked a wing in salute.
“How were you wounded?” Sir Ander asked.
“Siege of Royal Sail,” Hroal replied. “Barrel gunpowder. Explosion. Too close.”
“Did you fly in that battle?”
“Never flew, m’lord. Would have liked to. Not my job. Hunting. Meat. Lots of it. Keep ’em fed.”
“An army of dragons flies on its belly,” said Sir Ander. “So you were at the Siege of the Royal Sail. Captain de Guichen lost his dragon in that battle. I have often wondered—”
Brother Barnaby was now forced to enter the fray. He fixed Sir Ander with a reproachful gaze, indicative of his disappointment. “I am sorry to interrupt, Sir Ander, but I fear you and Father Jacob are keeping Master of the Flight Hroalfrig from his duties.”
“That is true. Forgive me, Sergeant,” said Sir Ander. “I forgot myself in the pleasure of our talk. I will let you return to the skies. I hope we have a chance to speak again.”
“And I would very much like to speak to you, Sergeant Hroal,” Father Jacob said. “To you and your brother. Later this afternoon, if that is convenient. I would like to hear your account of this tragic event.”
The dragon’s eyes flickered. He gazed at the priest a moment, then gave a brief nod of his head.
“Honored, gentlemen, all,” said the dragon, and he again flicked his wing in salute.
Mindful of his bulky body and long tail, Hroal politely waited until the humans had moved a safe distance away, then he turned ponderously and hobbled back across the field. He lifted his wings and leaped off his back legs to “gain air” as the dragons put it. Everyone on the ground could hear the dragon’s grunt of pain and see him wince before Hroal was once more airborne.
“He’s tough, that one,” said Albert. “He’s been on duty all night, but he’d fall out of the sky before he’d admit he was tired. His brother, Droal, will be along soon to relieve him. You won’t be able to tell them apart.”
Albert cast a worried glance at Father Ja
cob. “As I said, Father, the two dragons are doing an excellent job. They came when they saw the smoke—”
“Don’t be concerned, Albert,” said Father Jacob. “I won’t offend them. I just want to ask them a few questions.”
The morning sun was bright, too bright, making the shadows seem sharpedged, deep and dark. The chill winds blowing out of the Breath glanced off the surrounding cliffs and struck at them from unexpected directions. Sir Ander, in his dress uniform, wished he’d thought to add his fur-lined cape. Brother Barnaby stood with his back and shoulders hunched against the wind. Master Albert had to hold onto his hat. These three stood in front of the gates, watching Father Jacob, whose black cassock billowed and flapped, as he made an inspection of the gate and the ground surrounding the entrance.
“Too rocky to tell much, but, as Albert says, the attackers did not come this way. We will proceed inside.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and strode through the gates, his sharp-eyed gaze going from the posts to the hinges to the walls, to the grounds. The others followed more slowly, reluctant to enter.
“It’s like walking through the gates of Hell,” Albert said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief he was holding over his nose and mouth.
Father Jacob turned back to regard them with impatience. “You’re dawdling. Albert, please go tell Brother Paul we are here and ask him when would be a good time to interview his patient. Sir Ander, Brother Barnaby, I need you both with me.”
The great cathedral with its twin spires, each topped by an ornate cupola, towered above them. The spires were known for their red-orange stained glass windows. When lit from behind, the windows glowed with flame that could be seen even through the thick mists of the Breath. The stained glass windows were gone, the leaded glass panes smashed. Father Jacob stared at the destruction for a long time, then turned away, his expression thoughtful, somber.
The towers framed a central bell tower, smaller than the other two, topped by a dome. The church bell might have summoned help if there had been any ships passing in the night, but, according to Albert, the bell had been silent. Death had come upon the nuns too swiftly for them to call for help.
The bell tower also featured an enormous clock, said to be the largest in the world. The clock chimed the hour and the half hour; its distinctive music, known as the Chimes of Saint Castigan, was mimicked by other clocks throughout the world. According to Albert, the clock had been silent since that night.
Albert hurried off to find Brother Paul, heading for the infirmary, which was about a half mile from the cathedral, close to the dortoir where the nuns had lived.
Father Jacob and his companions crossed a paved courtyard that surrounded the cathedral. Beyond the courtyard lay ornamental gardens that once must have been beautiful; with marble fountains, statues of saints, clipped hedges, shade trees, and broad swards of green grass. These gardens had been a marvel, astonishing all who saw them, completely out of place with the abbey’s wild surroundings.
The monks of Saint Castigan had discovered early in their occupation of this rugged land that little would grow in the rocky soil. What did grow was stunted by the wind. The monks shipped in immense quantities of rich, black dirt, hauling it to the abbey by the barge load. They worked for years developing and designing their gardens. The high walls had protected the roses and flowering trees and grass from the wind, and the plants had flourished. Father Jacob did not go immediately to the cathedral. He turned his steps toward the gardens.
Brother Barnaby cast Sir Ander an interrogative glance. Sir Ander shook his head in reply. Who knew why Father Jacob did anything? Sir Ander began to think he should have accepted that handkerchief. He had smelled the stench of death on the fields of battle, but this was far worse. Brother Barnaby held his handkerchief over his face. Father Jacob had forgotten his entirely. Brother Barnaby later found it lying on the ground.
The practical nuns had taken over the gardens, digging up the rosebushes and planting vegetables and herbs. Much of the vast gardens had been left unattended and were now overgrown by grass and weeds.
The gardens had been destroyed, the dirt churned up, new plants and seedlings trampled. Large divots of sod had been gouged out of the ground. All of the statues had been pulled down, smashed, and lay in ruins.
“Senseless, wanton destruction,” said Sir Ander.
“On the contrary, the destruction was far from wanton,” said Father Jacob. He was down on his hands and knees on the ground, studying what looked and smelled like a pile of manure. He rose to his feet, dusting his hands, and glanced around. “This was deliberate savagery.”
“Please take a sample, Brother Barnaby.” Father Jacob added, indicating the manure. “I want to study it further. Be careful not to touch it.”
Brother Barnaby had been gazing around in grief-stricken awe. He looked startled at the request, but he hastened to obey. Placing the writing desk on the ground, he opened it, removed one of several small glass vials and, using a wooden spatula, gingerly scooped a small portion of the manure into the vial and stopped it up with cork, then put it back into the writing desk.
Father Jacob’s next request was for a measuring tape such as tailors used. Brother Barnaby supplied the tape, retrieving it from the desk. The priest measured the pile of manure, taking care to keep from soiling his hands. Sir Ander watched with rising impatience until he could contain himself no longer.
“A hundred women are dead! Why are you wasting time on a pile of sheep droppings!” he said angrily.
“No sheep dropped that,” said Father Jacob. “Unless I am much mistaken, it is bat guano.”
Sir Ander stared. His jaw sagged. “Bat guano! You’re not serious!”
“I am, I assure you, my friend,” said Father Jacob. “Deadly serious. Look around. You will see more of these piles. And where are the sheep? Here, I’ll show you.”
Father Jacob walked off a short distance and picked up a hunk of wool stained with blood. The skin and flesh were still attached. “The sheep were torn apart, probably devoured.”
“But how is that possible?” Sir Ander demanded. “To carry off a fullgrown sheep, a bat would have to be the size of a horse . . .” His voice trailed away.
“‘Demons with glowing eyes of fire riding gigantic bats,’” said Father Jacob, repeating what he had read in Brother Paul’s report. “This proves the young nun is not crazy. She reported exactly what she saw.”
“‘And the Gates of Hell will open and Aertheum the Fallen will send forth his evil legions,’” Brother Barnaby quoted.
“Evil legions . . .” Father Jacob shook his head. “I need to interview that young woman. What can be keeping Albert? Well, we have learned all we can here. Let us move on to the cathedral and the grounds.”
They left the gardens and walked across the courtyard. Sir Ander had a great many questions, but he dared not ask them. He had been with Father Jacob so long he knew the signs. When the priest walked slowly, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind him, he was a fox hound running round and round, trying to find the scent. When, as now, he walked briskly, his head up, his cassock flapping about his ankles, his eyes glinting, he had picked up the scent and was on the trail.
As they approached the cathedral, Sir Ander looked curiously at the paved area immediately in front of the entrance. He wondered why the paving stones here were black, when the rest of the courtyard was white. And then he realized, the hair prickling on the back of his neck, that the stones were not black in color. They were stained black. Black with blood. And as he drew nearer, he saw lumps lying scattered about.
Not much left to bury, Albert had said.
Lumps of flesh, parts of bodies.
Sir Ander was shocked to feel himself grow queasy. He sought the shelter of the shaded portico and leaned against a column until he felt better. He had seen the grass of battlefields red with blood, seen men disemboweled, heads severed. This was worse. Men went to war for a reason. Maybe not a good reason, but
still a reason. This was butchery—horrible, senseless.
If he had been so affected, he wondered suddenly what Brother Barnaby must be feeling. Sir Ander went in search of the young monk and found him seated on one of the stairs leading into the cathedral, the writing desk on his lap, his pen in his hand, hard at work. He’d managed to sit on a portion of the stairs that was not stained with blood. Father Jacob was off on his own, walking slowly around the north side of the cathedral, his gaze fixed intently on the ground.
Sir Ander sat down beside him. “Are you all right?”
Brother Barnaby sighed softly and kept writing.
“Well, I’m not,” said Sir Ander. “I want to run out that gate and keep running.”
Brother Barnaby looked up. “Father Jacob requires me to make notes. I don’t mind, sir. Really. I’d rather be busy.”
He went back to his work.
Sir Ander stood up and walked off. He met the priest coming around the corner of the cathedral.
“A ghastly scene,” Father Jacob said.
Sir Ander nodded. He did not feel himself capable of speaking.
“The attack occurred at the conclusion of Midnight Prayers. You noticed, of course, the time on the clock when it stopped working.”
Sir Ander had not noticed, but he nodded again anyway.
“The nuns were just coming out of the sanctuary after prayer service when they were attacked. The assailants knew what they were doing,” Father Jacob added, his tone grim. “They waited to strike until most of the nuns were in the open. The yard is trampled, churned, soaked in blood. Death came at them from the sky. They looked up to see gigantic bats swooping down on them. I doubt if they knew what was happening. The bats were merciless. They tore their victims apart with sharp, rending claws, ripping their flesh from their bones while the poor women were still alive, and then devouring them.”
“For God’s sake, why?” Sir Ander asked angrily. “Why kill with such cruelty? I thought at first the foes might be Freyan soldiers, but why would Freyans attack an isolated abbey and slaughter every living being inside it? And riding giant bats? Doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense!”
Shadow Raiders Page 27