Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  “The writings of the blessed Saint Dennis,” Father Jacob said, sitting down on a toppled bookcase and gazing about. “The books mentioned in the prince-abbot’s journal.”

  Albert gave a horrified gasp. “Are you saying, Father, that this . . . this terrible tragedy happened because of me? Because I found that journal? But I don’t understand! If all the demons wanted was to search the library, why murder the nuns?”

  “Hatred and rage, for one reason. But there is another. Picture this: two men stage a fight on a busy city street. A crowd gathers. While people are watching the fake fight, a third man picks their pockets.”

  Albert was bewildered. “I’m sorry, Father, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The term is ‘misdirection.’ We are meant to focus our attention on the murder of the nuns and not on the fact that the demons were truly here to search for the books written by the saint. Fortunately, the demons made two mistakes that led me to look in the right direction.”

  “Mistakes . . .” said Albert weakly.

  “The first was the theft of the journal,” Father Jacob went on. “The demons had to steal it, you see, because they needed clues as to where the prince-abbot might have hidden the work of the saint.”

  “But who stole it, Father? There were only the nuns and Brother Paul and myself—”

  Father Jacob gave a wry smile. “Think about it. That makes one hundred and two people, not counting you, Alfred, and maybe more. The abbess might have mentioned the information in a report to the grand bishop, for example. Or she could have told any number of sisters over dinner, perhaps. They could have told any Trundlers who had stopped to seek refuge with the nuns. Brother Paul might have mentioned it to any sailors whose ships docked here. And so on.”

  “I don’t think the nuns would have talked about it—”

  “Ah, but you don’t know for certain! As for the theft, you were gone from your yacht at least an hour, probably longer. Trout fishing is a leisurely sport. There are unscrupulous crafters who make their living by thieving. A talented thief could have entered the yacht, removed the magical spells, stolen the journal, replaced the spells . . .”

  “It’s all my fault, then.” Albert stood with his arms crossed, leaning back dejectedly against the wall. Father Jacob stood up and made his way back through the mess, stepping carefully over the piles of books, trying not to dislodge anything.

  “Do not take the blame upon yourself, my friend,” said Father Jacob gently. “All you did was find a journal.”

  “I know what you say makes sense, Father,” said Albert. “Still, I can’t help but wish my eyes had been gouged out before I ever saw that thing. What do demons want with writings of the saints?”

  “ ‘Know thy enemy,’ says the wise man,” said Father Jacob. “You mentioned Saint Dennis and that was enough to pique someone’s interest. The thieves broke in, read the journal, and found that one single word: contramagic. That was why they stole it.”

  “I know it is forbidden by the Church to even speak that word, Father, but can you tell me why demons would be interested in it?”

  “Because they are using contra magic, Albert. The green light that destroys magic.” Father Jacob cast Albert a rueful glance. “You are aware, my friend, that no hint of this must get out. I may have to place you under Seal.”

  “Meaning you take me to the Arcanum and hold me there so I won’t tell anyone else what I’ve seen.” Albert gave the ghost of a smile. “I might enjoy the rest. I need to know the truth, Father. I know you say I shouldn’t, but I do feel responsible—”

  “If it will ease your mind, I will tell you what I know. Especially,” Father Jacob added with a sigh, “since there may soon come a time when the Church can no longer hide it. After much study, I reached the conclusion that contramagic had been used to disable the cutter. The sailors spoke of seeing green light, you remember.”

  “My God!” Albert exclaimed, staggered.

  “The bishop refused to believe me or even admit such magic existed. He very nearly had me arrested for even thinking such an idea. Montagne believes me now. He has no choice. And now here we have the abbey’s lone survivor talking of the demons hurling balls of green fire—”

  “But she was mad,” Albert protested feebly.

  “She was not mad,” said Father Jacob sternly. “She was their second mistake. They let her live. They wanted a survivor to talk about demons and giant bats, to make us so terrified of Hell’s legions that their raid on the library would go unnoticed. But she said something that gave them away. When I arrived and asked to talk to her, they feared what she might tell me. She had to die.”

  “But she killed herself!”

  “We are meant to think she killed herself.”

  “But what about Brother Paul? He was with her?”

  “He had fallen asleep. They waited for their chance.”

  Albert grew pale. “That means they are out there, watching us . . .”

  “I think it likely. Especially since they did not find what they came for.”

  “How do you know, Father?”

  “They would have burned the cathedral, destroyed all the evidence. As it is, they need to come back to continue the search. The prince-abbot risked his life to save these books. He would have hidden them with care. The books of Saint Dennis will not be easy to find.”

  “You don’t believe the attackers were demons from Hell, do you, Father,” said Albert.

  “I think it highly unlikely Aertheum the Fallen would be interested in the writings of a saint,” said Father Jacob.

  “I saw the paw prints,” said Albert. “The claw marks left by the fiends that ripped those poor women apart. I think you are wrong, Father.”

  Father Jacob gazed somberly out a broken window. He didn’t see bloodstained grass or fire-torched trees or the shadow of the dragon, passing over the bleak land. He saw the future, and he sighed deeply.

  “I almost hope I am wrong, my friend. I think I would rather face the immortal hordes of Aertheum the Fallen than the terrible foes who flew over these walls that tragic night . . .”

  Sir Ander did not hurry his errand to the Retribution. He walked slowly, taking his time, trying to come to grips with the tragic sights he had witnessed. In the skies above, the faithful Hroal was still on patrol. Or perhaps that dragon was Droal, his brother. Sir Ander waved, and the dragon dipped a wing in return.

  When Sir Ander finally reached the yacht, he looked out into the Breath and saw the balloon and sails of a naval cutter. Had the navy been sent to assist in the investigation? If so, Father Jacob would be furious.

  The cutter drifted slowly among the light mists, sailing close enough to be able to keep watch on the shoreline, but apparently not intending to dock.

  The cutter must be on routine patrol duty, searching for pirates who liked to hide in secluded coves and inlets. The grand bishop might have hinted that the navy pay more attention to this section of coastline, but he would not have told them to start looking for demons riding giant bats! No one is more superstitious than a sailor and no one more talkative when they go ashore. The grand bishop would keep the details of this attack secret as long as possible.

  Father Jacob had both key-locked and magic-locked the yacht door. The key Sir Ander used to unlock the door was inscribed with a magical sigil that broke the spell. He entered the yacht and first checked to make certain all his weapons were cleaned and loaded. He then unlocked and opened a cabinet hidden beneath one of the beds, took out a swivel gun, and, climbing up to the yacht’s roof, mounted it on top.

  He then went to the chest where Father Jacob kept his vestments. Drawing out the alb, the stole, and the chasuble, Sir Ander held the sacred garments, smoothing the fine fabric with his hand and thinking of the battle that he, like Father Jacob, saw coming.

  On his way back to the cathedral, Sir Ander paused to scan the gray cliffs and jagged rock formations. A grim landscape, bleak and desolate. The demons could hide
an entire army among those crags, he thought, and he was thankful the dragons were keeping watch from the skies. Hroal and Droal might be well past their prime, but dragon eyesight was still much keener than that of humans—even the eyesight of elderly dragons. The brothers would have been quick to notice any sign of enemy movement.

  Sir Ander shifted his head to look once more into the vastness of the Breath with its swirling mists. Nothing much to be done to stop an enemy that came from the mists. He was glad to have the cutter with its cannons out there. He hoped it stayed around.

  He returned to the cathedral and found the sanctuary cleansed of blood. Candles glowed on the altar. Brother Barnaby was carrying the last few buckets containing the blood of the martyrs. Another monk was assisting him in this sorrowful task.

  Brother Barnaby smiled to see Sir Ander, took the priestly vestments, and went to find Father Jacob. Barnaby made introductions before he left.

  “Sir Ander, this is Brother Paul of the Holy Order of Saint Ignatius.”

  “I am pleased to meet a Knight Protector,” said Brother Paul, straightening from stooping over the buckets and turning to face Sir Ander. “God honors your selfless service.”

  “Thank you, Father—” Sir Ander began.

  “I prefer to be known simply as ‘Brother Paul,’” said the monk, with a grave smile. “I joined the Order of Saint Ignatius several years ago and have since dedicated my life to his service.”

  Brother Paul was not ill-favored, but he was certainly unusual in appearance. So much so that Sir Ander found himself staring. Brother Paul was slim, of about average height with a wiry build. What struck Sir Ander was the monk’s excessively pale skin, almost alabaster. His hair, cut in the tonsure, was dark black and curly. His face was smooth. He had no facial hair. He was not too young to grow a beard. He looked to be at least thirty-five. Sir Ander could not tell the color of the monk’s eyes; they were hidden behind spectacles made of dark glass.

  “You find these curious,” Brother Paul said, touching his spectacles.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” said Sir Ander, flustered. “I’ve seen spectacles before, but never ones made of dark glass.”

  “No need to apologize. They are specially made for me. My eyesight is weak. I am subject to headaches, and I find these help.”

  Sir Ander muttered something about that being good, then asked, “Can I do anything to assist you?”

  “Our sad task is finished,” said Brother Paul. His voice was deep, with a musical tone that had a pleasant, soothing quality. He staggered at that moment, and almost fell.

  “Sit down, Brother,” said Sir Ander. “You seem weary to the point of dropping.”

  “I have slept little in all the nights since the attack,” said Brother Paul in an apologetic tone.

  “No one could blame you,” said Sir Ander, assisting the monk to a pew.

  He sat beside the monk, noting as he did so that the hem of his robes was covered in mud and stained with blood.

  “You were nursing that young woman who survived,” said Sir Ander. “I heard she died.”

  “Thanks be to God, she is at peace,” said Brother Paul somberly. “The demons did not rend her flesh, but they sank their claws into her soul and dragged her down into Hell’s pit. I pray for God’s love and mercy for her tormented soul.”

  “Then you believe Hell’s legions were responsible for this attack?” Sir Ander asked.

  “I do not have the slightest doubt, sir!” Brother Paul seemed astonished at the idea that anyone could think otherwise. He regarded Sir Ander sternly. “You do believe in Hell, Sir Knight.”

  Sir Ander didn’t know quite how to answer. He and Father Jacob had often held discussions regarding the nature of Hell and Heaven. Sir Ander didn’t like the thought of a wrathful God who doomed souls to eternal torment.

  “We are commanded to believe in Hell, sir,” Brother Paul added in rebuking tones.

  Sir Ander saw the road ahead littered with theological caltrops and wisely reined in the conversation and switched subjects, asking questions about the grand organ whose pipes gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. Did it still work, did anyone play?

  Brother Paul answered readily, and the uncomfortable moment passed. Astonished by the monk’s fervor, Sir Ander made a mental note to tell Father Jacob.

  There was no more talk of Hell, for Father Jacob, robed in his vestments, entered the sanctuary, accompanied by Brother Barnaby. Both made a reverence to the altar, then Father Jacob took his place before it. Master Albert joined Brother Paul in a pew in the front. Sir Ander retreated, finding a pew by himself in the back. He felt in need of solitude.

  Father Jacob’s voice resonated through the sanctuary.

  “Eternal rest grant to them . . .”

  The sun shone through the broken glass. Sir Ander felt its warmth ease the chill that seemed to have struck to his heart. Outside, he could hear birdsong, making up for the lack of music, for the sister who had played the organ was dead. The song of the birds, accompanying the words of the mass, comforted Sir Ander. Simple souls, the birds gave no thought to Heaven or Hell. They sang for joy because the sun shone.

  He brought his mind back to the service and was kneeling to pray when, to his immense astonishment, he caught sight of a man also seated at the very back, in a pew a few rows over. The man was short and nondescript. Dressed in a plainly made traveling cloak well-splashed with mud, he looked like a clerk on holiday. He was on his knees, his hands clasped, as Father Jacob prayed for the souls of the dead.

  Sir Ander dared not interrupt the sacred sermon by calling attention to this stranger who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He cast a glance at Father Jacob, to see if he was aware of the stranger. If so, the priest gave no sign. Sir Ander wondered how the man had slipped past the dragon, who was apparently keeping such careful watch. The Knight Protector clapped his hand on his dragon pistol and kept his gaze fixed on the interloper. If the man noticed, he gave no indication. He sat listening to the service reverently.

  The moment the service ended, Sir Ander bounded to his feet, crossed over to the pew, and seized hold of the man by the arm. He searched him for weapons and pulled an odd-looking gun from a leather holster. The man offered no resistance, but smiled placidly at the knight.

  “Who are you, sir?” Sir Ander demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sir Ander Martel,” said the man. “I am glad to see the Knight Protectors take their vows seriously. My commendations.”

  “I take my duty seriously, sir, as you will find out to your sorrow if you do not answer my questions,” Sir Ander said grimly.

  “His name is Dubois,” said Father Jacob, walking down the aisle. “He is the bishop’s agent, Sir Ander. One might say we are on the same side.” He regarded Dubois with a slight smile and added, “Or one might not.”

  Sir Ander released Dubois reluctantly and handed back his weapon. Dubois tucked the gun into its holster.

  “All of us are on the side of the angels,” Dubois said gravely. He cast Father Jacob a keen glance. “I would very much appreciate a moment of your time, Father.”

  “I rather suspected you might,” said Father Jacob wryly.

  The two walked off toward a shadowy alcove. Seeing Sir Ander moving to accompany them, Dubois stopped and said politely, “You are not needed for the moment, Sir Ander. Your charge is safe with me.”

  “I am here to ensure the safety of you both,” said Sir Ander gravely. “We have reason to believe that whoever committed these atrocities may still be in the area.”

  Dubois appeared rather disconcerted by this statement. He looked around uneasily, as though suspecting murderers hiding beneath the pews.

  “My time is short,” said Father Jacob irascibly. “As I am certain your time is as well, Dubois.” He glanced at the mud-stained cloak. “My guess is that you are hot on the trail of someone. Sir Henry Wallace, perhaps?”

  Dubois gave a great start of astonishment. Then he smiled and twirl
ed his hat in his hands. “You do like to have your little jests, don’t you, Father? But since you bring up the topic yourself, you won’t mind my asking if you have seen any signs that might lead you to think Henry Wallace had anything to do with this terrible tragedy?”

  Father Jacob regarded Dubois with narrowed eyes. He did not immediately answer, but asked his own question.

  “Do you have reason to think he does?”

  Dubois gave a little cough. The two stood staring intently at one another.

  Like a pair of duelists, Sir Ander thought.

  “No,” Father Jacob said at last. “I have not.”

  “Do you have any idea where Sir Henry Wallace might be?” Dubois asked.

  “The last time I saw Henry Wallace was some twenty years ago. He was firing a gun at me at the time in an attempt to kill me. Needless to say, we do not keep in touch,” Father Jacob answered gravely.

  Dubois inclined his head, then put on his hat. “That is all I needed to know. I should warn you, Father, and you, Sir Ander, that I have reason to believe Sir Henry Wallace is in Rosia. You should be on your guard.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Dubois, but since I have nothing to do with the Royal Armory, I doubt if Wallace would be much interested in me.”

  Dubois again looked startled, then he wagged his finger. “Ah, Father Jacob, you are a caution. You will have your little jest. And now, I must be going. God be with you, gentlemen, and speed your holy work to find those who committed this unholy crime.”

  Dubois gave a bobbing bow and took his leave, looking more like a clerk than ever, Sir Ander thought, as he escorted him out of the cathedral. Sir Ander kept an eye on Dubois until he exited the gate, where a wyvern-drawn carriage was waiting for him. The shadow of wings passed overhead. Hroal was also keeping an eye on Dubois.

  He waited until the carriage had taken to the skies, then walked back inside the cathedral. He found Father Jacob standing with his head bent, deep in thought.

  “You think Wallace is behind this, Father?” Sir Ander asked.

  Father Jacob shook his head. “Henry Wallace may be many things and most of them bad, but he is first, last, and always a Freyan patriot. He has worked all his life to one end and that is for Freya to rule the seven continents. He has no motive. The slaughter of these poor women has nothing to do with politics.”