Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  “This atrocity was not committed by Freyans or the soldiers of any other nation,” said Father Jacob with finality. “The assault on the women was an act of hatred, a hatred so deep we cannot even comprehend it.”

  “The fiends came simply to murder these nuns?”

  “Interestingly enough, they did not come to kill. They came for something else. The murders were an afterthought, a crime of opportunity. I want you to look at something.”

  Father Jacob squatted down. Sir Ander ran a trembling hand over his face, wiping the chill sweat from his brow. Drawing in a deep breath, he knelt down beside the priest.

  “See this. And this.”

  Sir Ander bent closer. “Footprints!”

  “Not footprints,” said Father Jacob.

  “No, you’re right. Paw prints!” Sir Ander stared, amazed. “Like the paws of a bear!”

  “Similar,” said Father Jacob. “But a bear walks on all fours. Whoever made these walked upright on two legs like a man. And a bear has five toes ending in claws. Note this has four toes ending in claws in front and one larger claw in back. See how deeply that back claw gouged into the ground. Remind you of something?”

  “A spur on a riding boot . . .” said Sir Ander doubtfully.

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” said Father Jacob. “These prints were left by the attackers. They are all over the ground. All heading in that direction.” Father Jacob gestured to the cathedral. “The bats had riders.”

  “Men with clawed feet. You mean . . . demons . . .” Sir Ander was aghast.

  “Just like the paintings by the old masters that so impressed Brother Barnaby. Judging from the evidence, it would seem the riders turned their bats loose to feed, while they entered the cathedral.”

  “The inhuman savage beasts killed the nuns and then went to the cathedral to destroy it like they destroyed everything else.” Sir Ander paused, then said in a low voice. “These were demons, Father. Bent on the destruction of all things holy!”

  “Except they didn’t destroy the cathedral,” Father Jacob pointed out.

  Sir Ander considered this. “That’s true. They set fire to the dortoir and some of the outbuildings. Why leave the cathedral standing?”

  Father Jacob rose to his feet, absent-mindedly wiping his dirty and bloody hands on his cassock.

  “Isn’t the reason obvious?”

  “Not to me,” said Sir Ander irritably.

  Father Jacob smiled and walked off, shouting for Brother Barnaby to draw a diagram of the paw print.

  Sir Ander removed his helm, let the wind cool the sweat running down his face. None of this made sense to him. He was glad it made some kind of sense to Father Jacob. The knight took a moment before entering the cathedral to silently pray, asking God for strength and for wisdom, then he joined Father Jacob in the sanctuary.

  The scene was gruesome. The floors and walls were covered in blood. The same paw prints that they had seen outside were all over the floor, only these were outlined in the blood. Statues of saints had been destroyed, the altar hacked to pieces, tapestries shredded, stained glass windows broken. Yet, as Father Jacob had said, the demons had left the cathedral standing.

  Brother Barnaby entered some time later. He looked about the sanctuary in mute grief and dismay, then sat down in a pew to take notes as Father Jacob dictated.

  “The fact that the bodies were consumed accounts for the absence of corpses,” Father Jacob was saying. “From the smears of blood on the floor, it appears that the nuns who had remained inside the sanctuary were attacked by the riders, probably tortured for information. The riders then dragged the women outside and fed them to the bats.”

  Brother Barnaby blinked his eyes rapidly to try to stop the flow of tears, but to no avail. A drop fell onto the page, smearing the ink. He hastily wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Father Jacob was not paying attention. He was staring intently at a marble column, running his hand up and down the marble, still dictating.

  “—burned the dortoir, but did not set fire to the cathedral—”

  Sir Ander rested his hand on Brother Barnaby’s shoulder, offering quiet comfort. Brother Barnaby sat still for a moment, then he put away his pen, laid down the writing desk, rose to his feet and left the sanctuary.

  Father Jacob stood with his head tilted back, staring up at the marble column, following its graceful lines to the high, vaulted ceiling.

  “Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob, “come over here. I want you to make a diagram—”

  “Brother Barnaby left,” said Sir Ander.

  “Oh?” Father Jacob glanced vaguely around. “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know.” Sir Ander snapped the words. “He’s upset, Father. This has been terrible for him.”

  Father Jacob was too absorbed in his work to take notice. “You come look at this.”

  Sir Ander heaved a sigh and stalked over.

  Father Jacob pointed to the column. “What do you make of that?”

  The column with its fluted shaft was typical of churches of that period. What wasn’t typical was that in places, the ridges and grooves of the fluting had been destroyed. He could see blast marks on the column, like a castle wall struck by cannon fire.

  Father Jacob passed his hand over the column. “Let us take a look at the magical constructs embedded in the stone. See what they tell us. A castle wall hit by cannon fire would still retain traces of the magic that had strengthened the walls.”

  Sir Ander hoped he would see the faint blue glow of magic. He hoped Father Jacob was wrong. Unfortunately, the priest was right.

  “No blue light. No magic. This is why the grand bishop sent for you,” said Sir Ander. “The magical constructs have been erased.”

  “Remember the nun who survived said that ‘the demons threw balls of green fire and cast beams of green light.’ ”

  Sir Ander looked down the long double rows of columns, probably twenty-five or more on each side.

  “Without the magic, the columns will be too weak to support the roof. The cathedral is liable to fall down around our ears. So why are we standing here discussing it?” Sir Ander demanded. “Why aren’t we standing outside discussing it? Where it’s safe?”

  “We’re in no danger,” said Father Jacob complacently. “At least not for the moment. Only a few of the columns I’ve studied were hit with the green fire. The assailants did not want to destroy the cathedral until they had found what they came for. Instead, they weakened the columns. The magic will continue to fail and, in a month or two, the cathedral will come crashing down.”

  “When it would be filled with masons and crafters and priests and others working to repair it,” said Sir Ander grimly. “They would all be killed.”

  “I fear so,” said Father Jacob and he added in an undertone, “Demonically clever.”

  Sir Ander grunted. “So turning the cathedral into a death trap was the reason they didn’t destroy it during the attack.”

  “No, I believe that was an afterthought,” said Father Jacob. “Another crime of opportunity. They left the cathedral standing because of the library.”

  Sir Ander blinked. “The library?”

  “Well, of course,” said Father Jacob. “That was the real reason they came. The library is inside the cathedral. The attackers could not destroy the cathedral because they needed to search the library.”

  “Demons came for the library? But why?”

  “Ah, that is the question. I need to ask Albert—” Father Jacob looked around impatiently. “Where is Albert? He has been gone far too long. You better go search for him. I will investigate the library—”

  They were both stopped by the sight of Brother Barnaby entering the sanctuary. The monk carried a large wooden bucket filled with water and a bundle of rags.

  “Are you finished with your work here, Father?” Brother Barnaby asked.

  “Yes, Brother,” said Father Jacob. “I am finished. What are you doing?”

  “The sanctuary has been d
efiled, Father. With your permission, I will clean it.”

  He set the bucket on the floor, kilted up his robes, and knelt down on his hands and knees and began to mop up the blood. Father Jacob watched a moment, then he walked over to where the young monk was scrubbing the blood off the floor and wringing the soiled cloth in the bucket. The water was already stained red.

  “You are my conscience, Brother Barnaby,” Father Jacob said, rolling up the sleeves of his cassock. “I think that is why the blessed Saint Castigan sent you to me.”

  Brother Barnaby looked astonished at the thought that he could be anyone’s conscience, much less Father Jacob’s. He gave a self-deprecating smile and shook his head as he continued his sorrowful task.

  “Sir Ander, return to the Retribution and fetch my sacred vestments,” Father Jacob continued. “When we have finished the cleansing, I will say a mass for the dead.”

  He hiked up his cassock, got down on his hands and knees, and began scrubbing.

  Sir Ander stood watching the priest and the monk working together to cleanse God’s House, and he reflected on the fact that there were times—many times—when Father Jacob could be arrogant and insufferable, insensitive and demanding, stubborn and infuriating and so on and so forth. More than once, far from protecting Father Jacob, Sir Ander could have cheerfully throttled him.

  And then there were times like this when Sir Ander saw the Father Jacob he had come to revere and admire, the brilliant, gifted Freyan crafter who had been offered fame and fortune if he would only renounce his faith; the priest who had risked his life and fled the land of his birth to remain true to his beliefs.

  As Sir Ander left to fetch the vestments and see if he could find Albert, he again affirmed the vow he had taken when he had become the priest’s Knight Protector.

  “ ‘If Death reaches out for Father Jacob,’ “ said Sir Ander, “ ‘I will step in between.’”

  He added quietly, “And the same holds true for Brother Barnaby!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  There are many paths to Heaven. The Martyr walks a dark path holding her faith like a candle that lights her way but also attracts those that hunt in the darkness. Some on that path would hide their candles until the evil has walked by, but the Martyr holds her faith dear, her candle bright, no matter the outcome.

  —The writings of Saint Marie

  who was martyred three years later

  “WHAT DO WE DO WITH THE WATER we used for cleaning, Father?” asked Brother Barnaby somberly, wringing a bloody cloth into a bucket. “We cannot simply dump it in the yard, as if it were waste.”

  “You are right, Brother. This water contains the blood of martyrs,” said Father Jacob and he sat back on his heels to give the matter serious thought.

  They had worked for over two hours, and the sanctuary was finally almost clean. Brother Barnaby had found additional buckets in the stable. He had placed the buckets filled with water red-tinged with the blood of the murdered nuns before the altar. Another bucket, this one covered with a white cloth, contained the gruesome remains recovered from the ground outside the cathedral. Father Jacob had attended to this heartbreaking task. As for the blood on the ground, the tears of the angels and the saints falling from Heaven would eventually wash it away.

  “The first abbess is buried in the cathedral, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “Her tomb is in the catacombs beneath the cathedral. We will pour the water around the tomb. We will bury the remains in the abbey cemetery.”

  Brother Barnaby was content and went back to washing away the last vestige of blood. Father Jacob spent a few moments quietly observing the young monk. His expression was solemn, sorrowful, troubled.

  “You must have questions for God, Brother,” said Father Jacob abruptly. “Perhaps you find yourself doubting in His love and mercy?”

  Brother Barnaby looked up from his task. “I do have questions, Father. With God’s help, you and Sir Ander will find the answers.”

  “And with your help, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “Our triangle is equilateral.”

  Brother Barnaby smiled. “All I do is drive the wyverns, Father.”

  “There, you see? That’s more than I can do,” said Father Jacob. He rose to his feet, grimacing at the pain in his knees and back. He reflected that he had not scrubbed floors since he was a novice, some twenty years ago.

  He remembered that time. He remembered that person—the man he had been. A young man with a dazzling gift for magic, Jacob had been proud and arrogant—a real bastard, he could now admit. He had always felt God’s calling, but he had tried to ignore it. He had harangued and questioned, fought and bullied, tested God’s patience every step of the way. He had turned his back on God, run to the edge of the precipice, stared into the blackness and had been ready to leap when he had felt God’s hand gently drawing him back. He had been guided by the touch of God’s hand ever since.

  Father Jacob glanced about the sanctuary. “I will hold the service when Sir Ander returns. See if you can find some candles, Brother, though I have no idea where we will place them.”

  The beautiful golden-and-silver candlesticks that had graced the altar had been hit by the same ruinous green fire that had melted the stone. Father Jacob recalled what he had said to Sir Ander about the hatred that had driven these attackers to destroy what they could have stolen for gain. The candlesticks alone were easily worth fifty gold rosuns. Whoever attacked the abbey did not raid it out of greed. They came for something far more important than gold.

  “I am going to the library,” said Father Jacob. “Let me know if anyone finds Master Albert—Ah, speak of the man and here he is! Albert, where have you been? You have been gone for hours. I was growing worried. Now that you are here, when will I be able to speak to this nun who survived? I have a great many questions. It is more important now than ever that I talk to her . . .”

  Albert stood in the door that led into the sanctuary. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard, so hard he had to wait a moment to catch his breath before he could respond.

  “As to that, Father, I fear you will never be able to talk to her this side of Heaven. The woman is dead.”

  The echoes of his voice reverberated off the walls, sounding hollow in the empty chamber.

  “Dead?” said Father Jacob, regarding Albert intently. “You said her injuries were not severe.”

  “The injuries to her body were not serious,” said Master Albert with a sigh. “But those of the mind could not be cured, seemingly. She took her own life, Father. She threw herself off the cliff.”

  Brother Barnaby gave an exclamation of pity and grief.

  Father Jacob was very thoughtful. With an abrupt gesture he motioned Albert to accompany him into a hallway.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said when he and Albert were alone.

  “I went to find Brother Paul. When I reached the infirmary, the monk was in a terrible state. He said that his patient had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Weary himself from watching over her, he dozed off. When he woke, she was gone. He asked me to help him find her.

  “Her trail was easy enough to follow. She had taken no care to hide it. We came across her tracks on the path leading up the cliff. They led to the edge of the cliff. No footprints led back. Brother Paul and I searched for her body on the rocks below—” He shook his head.

  “Damn and blast it to Hell and back!” Father Jacob swore, causing Albert to stare at him in astonishment. “Poor child. May God grant her ease.”

  He sighed deeply, his brow furrowed. Whatever he was thinking, he did not share. “Show me the way to the library.”

  Albert escorted the priest through a door that opened into a narrow corridor leading to the other areas of the cathedral. They passed schoolrooms, the office of the abbess, a communal room where the nuns ate their meals, the kitchen, and eventually arrived at the library.

  They had no need to open the door. It lay splintered on the floor. Father Jacob stepped over the sham
bles and paused to survey the damage. Shelves had been knocked down, their contents strewn about. The floor was covered, ankle-deep in some places, with papers and parchments and books.

  “A real mess,” Albert said unhappily. He started to right a bookshelf.

  “Please, Albert, have I taught you nothing?” Father Jacob said sharply. “Don’t touch anything. Go stand by the door and don’t move. You told me that the library was well-organized. Church records in one place—”

  “Over there, Father,” said Albert, pointing.

  Father Jacob waded through the piles of books and papers, careful to disturb as little as possible.

  “To your right were the books on theology,” Albert continued. “That bookcase, the one on the floor, held hymnals and sheet music.”

  “I see, yes.”

  Father Jacob took note of some of the titles of the books, then roamed on. One of the shelves was still standing, though all its contents had been pulled down and scattered about. He happened to come upon one of the few spots on the floor not carpeted with books or paper and saw what he had expected to see: bloody paw prints, the same that had left marks on the ground outside and tracked blood through the sanctuary.

  Father Jacob carefully shifted a pile of books and found more paw prints. He straightened and looked around, but he was not looking at his surroundings. He was seeing, in his mind, the attack.

  “The demons—we will call them that, for the time being—flew over the walls as the nuns were leaving the sanctuary. Probably they had been lying in ambush. They left the bats they were riding to kill the women outside and entered the sanctuary, where they tortured and murdered the women they found inside. Some of the demons remained behind to defile the cathedral and drag away the bodies, which they fed to their bats. The rest came here, to the library. The true reason for the attack. They spent their time searching . . .”

  “Searching for what, Father?” Albert asked.