Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  Father Jacob shook his head. “I can help you.”

  “How?” Sir Ander demanded. “You’re so weak, you can barely stand up!”

  Father Jacob raised an eyebrow. “I am perfectly capable of working my magic sitting down—”

  “Damn it, Jacob, this isn’t funny!” Sir Ander said angrily. He glanced around. “You could reload.”

  “I can do that,” said Father Jacob and he picked up one of the spent pistols and began to pour in the powder.

  One of the bats—this one riderless—dove straight at the window, screeching horribly, wings flapping. Sir Ander fired at its mouth. The bat slammed into the side of the yacht. Blood and bits of fur and flesh spewed through the broken window.

  “The net’s been destroyed,” Sir Ander reported.

  The demons were hurling green fireballs at the hatch, trying to batter it down. Reinforced with iron and magical spells, the hatch continued to hold, but it wouldn’t stop them for long. Father Jacob handed Sir Ander two pistols, both reloaded. Through the broken window, the knight could see the stars starting to fade with the coming of dawn. Green fire blazed. He heard the sound of claws raking the wood. He tried not to think about how the nuns had died.

  Cocking the hammers of each pistol, he aimed them at the hatch. He spoke over his shoulder. “Jacob, please go to the hiding place. If not for your sake, then for my own. I took an oath before God to protect you with my life. If I am to die, do not let me die with the knowledge that I failed.”

  Father Jacob gasped, shuddered, and gripped hold of the table. He gave a fleeting smile. “I have always wanted to study the effects of contramagic . . . This is my chance . . .”

  Sir Ander turned, met the priest’s eyes. He saw in them faith in God, trust in God’s plan, and deep affection for himself.

  “You are my friend,” said Father Jacob simply.

  “And you’re a pain in the ass,” Sir Ander said gruffly. “You know that.”

  Father Jacob chuckled. Several blasts struck the hatch. The priest cried out and slumped over the table, clutching it in agony.

  Sir Ander could hear the bats screeching and raking the hatch with their teeth and claws. Father Jacob managed to straighten. He gritted his teeth and inscribed a sigil on the back of his hand and faced the hatch and waited.

  “This is it,” said Sir Ander.

  The hatch shattered in a blinding ball of green flame. The riders surged inside. Sir Ander fired both pistols at the mass of seething bodies. Father Jacob raised his hand, fingers outspread, and spoke an arcane word. Five streams of pure white fire flared from his fingers. The holy fire of God’s wrath burst on His foes. The demons screamed and fell back. More took their places. A blazing comet of green fire burst near Sir Ander, throwing him back against the wall and filling the yacht with choking smoke.

  Father Jacob slumped over the table. Sir Ander staggered to his feet. The demons were waiting for the smoke to clear before they entered to finish them off. He threw down the useless pistols and reached for his last gun, his dragon pistol. He held the gun in his left hand and gripped his sword in the right.

  Four demons stood in the hatchway, their orange eyes glowing, their faces hideously contorted in skull-like grins. They were about to surge inside when a fearsome roar, coming out of the sky, stopped them.

  “Take cover!” Hroal shouted.

  Flames blazed down from the sky, engulfing the demons. They died screaming, burned alive, their bodies shriveling in red-orange fire that poured from the dragon’s mouth. Sir Ander had no time to heed the dragon’s warning, and he was driven back by the intense heat. One of the demons, his body ablaze, staggered inside the yacht. Sir Ander fired his pistol at the fiend, and it fell back through the hatch.

  Suddenly the night was quiet. Horribly quiet. Greasy smoke floated in through the hatch, bringing with it the sickening stench of burnt flesh and singed bat hair. He stepped cautiously over wreckage—nothing was left of the hatch. Peering through the greasy smoke, he looked out on a hellish scene. The blackened bones of bats and demons mingled together in smoldering heaps.

  “Still alive, sir?” A voice shouted the question from above.

  Sir Ander looked up to see the first rays of sunlight sparkle on gray-green scales. The dragon circled overhead, peering down in concern.

  “Thanks to you, Flight Master Hroal!” Sir Ander returned, coughing. “Are there more out there?”

  “Rest flew off. Didn’t see me coming.” The dragon appeared inordinately proud of himself. “Probably went for reinforcements.”

  “Keep watch!” Sir Ander shouted.

  The dragon dipped a wing in salute and began flying over the yacht in circles.

  Fighting down a wave of nausea, Sir Ander hurried back inside. Father Jacob was breathing, but he was unconscious.

  Sir Ander was baffled. Trained in tending battlefield wounds, he knew how to dig a bullet out of a man’s chest, set a broken leg, apply a tourniquet to stop bleeding. The priest’s injuries were beyond him. He had no idea how to help Father Jacob, because he had no idea what was wrong. He recalled something the priest had said about the magic attacking him physically . . .

  “I need Brother Barnaby,” Sir Ander said to himself. ‘He’s a healer. He’ll know what to do.”

  He ran back outside and yelled up at the dragon, circling overhead. “Hroal, I need you to carry a message to the monk, Brother Barnaby. He’s in the stables! Tell him to come—”

  “Stables?” The dragon shook his head. “Fire.”

  Sir Ander stared at him, a cold qualm twisting his gut.

  “Bats,” said Hroal, further elaborating. “Stables on fire.”

  Sir Ander remembered Father Jacob’s words.

  They’re here for us . . . We know too much . . .

  “They’re going to torture Brother Barnaby, too. Oh, God, no! Hroal!” Sir Ander shouted. “Can you help the monk?”

  Hroal was dubious. “More demons on the way, sir. I shouldn’t leave.”

  Logic dictated that Sir Ander should ask the dragon to remain here to help him protect Father Jacob, but logic had not met Brother Barnaby. Nor did Sir Ander want to hear what Father Jacob would have to say if he survived at the cost of the life of the gentle monk.

  “You go to the monk, Hroal!” Sir Ander shouted. “I’ll stay here.”

  Hroal dipped his wings in acknowledgment and flew off. Sir Ander remembered the cutter, remembered the boom of cannon fire and he looked hopefully in the direction of the naval ship. The cutter, too, was on fire. The bats were a black swarm around it, far too many to count. And now, in the predawn light, he could see a large number of the bats flying inland, heading for the yacht.

  Sir Ander hastened back inside. Father Jacob was still unconscious. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch, but his breathing was regular. Sir Ander lifted the priest and carried him to his bed, wrapped him warmly in blankets, and rested his hand on the priest’s shoulder and said a prayer, commending himself and his friends to God. Then he picked up the sturdy table where they worked and ate and carried it to the rear corner of the yacht. He climbed up on the table, opened the trapdoor that led to the yacht’s stern where he had mounted the swivel gun on the stand and loaded the first canister.

  Now all he could do was wait and watch and pray.

  The abbey stables were constructed of stone and timber; good solid construction dating back to the time of the abbey’s glory days when the prince-abbot entertained members of the nobility residing in the abbey’s comfortable guesthouse. At that time, the stables’ occupants might have numbered thirty or more, including horses, wyverns, and griffins.

  The stables were large, narrow buildings, three in number, and were designed to comfortably house each of the species. Not only did wyverns and griffins require different types of lodging, this practice was also useful for keeping the wyverns and griffins from dining on horsemeat. All the stables consisted of two rows of stalls with large doors at either end. The floor was of brick
with drainage channels running down the center. The stalls in the wyvern and griffin stables were much larger than those for the horses in order to accommodate room for the wings.

  The practical nuns, who kept no horses or wyverns, had no need for the stables. They housed their sheep and goats and cows in one building during the winter and used the other two for storage.

  The stables were located some distance from the main part of the abbey complex (to keep guests from being offended by the smell). The demons might not have seen them during the first attack or, if they had, did not think it worth their time to set fire to them. Brother Barnaby’s wyverns were happy with their accomodations, which were much airier and more open than those of the inns where they were often forced to reside. Wyvern stables at inns tended to be small and cramped.

  Brother Barnaby fed his wyverns hunks of meat soaked in brine which he kept stored in barrels beneath the yacht. The wyverns preferred fresh meat, but they would not hunt with the dragons flying overhead. They gulped down the large chunks hungrily.

  Worn out from the emotional and physical rigors of the day, Brother Barnaby hung the leather harnesses and halters used to tether the wyverns to the yacht on iron nails driven into the walls. He said his prayers, adding a special prayer for the souls of the martyrs, and then made himself a bed in an empty stall and wrapped himself in his blanket. He sank into a deep sleep.

  He was wakened by the wyverns restlessly prowling about their stall, making loud screeching sounds, clawing at the floor, and hitting their tails against the sides of the stall. Such behavior was unusual, especially after a long and tiring journey. He ascribed their nervousness to the proximity of the dragons and he went into their stall to try to reassure them that they were safe. The wyverns could not see the dragons, nor hear them, yet they seemed unable to settle.

  The wyverns calmed down for the moment, curled up on the straw-strewn floor, their tails wrapped around their bodies, their heads buried in their tails, and closed their eyes. Brother Barnaby returned wearily to his bed, only to be roused again by their screeching. He was certain the noise must be disturbing Father Jacob and Sir Ander, even though the Retribution was on the other side of the wall, some forty yards distance from the stables. Wyverns have carrying calls.

  Fearing they would rouse Father Jacob, Brother Barnaby picked up his blanket and went to stay with his wyverns in their stall. His presence soothed the beasts—at least they quit screeching and lay down. But the wyverns remained exceedingly nervous. They could not sleep. He could see their reptilian eyes glittering in the darkness.

  Their nervousness began to affect Brother Barnaby. Wyverns were believed to be distantly related to dragons (who indignantly refuted this claim) and, though wyverns were not nearly as smart as their more advanced cousins, wyverns had good instincts. Brother Barnaby recalled the time his wyverns had stubbornly refused to fly, going so far as to rip the leather halter out of his hands when he’d tried to put it on. Father Jacob had been incensed and suggested darkly that they have wyvern stew for dinner. Within a matter of hours, a fierce storm came out of nowhere, with hail, hurricane-force winds, and torrential rain. If the Retribution had been caught in the storm, the yacht would have crashed. Brother Barnaby gently pointed this out to Father Jacob, who grumbled, but eventually apologized to the wyverns, though he was still heard to refer to them as “witless lizards.”

  Near dawn, Brother Barnaby and the wyverns both heard the cannon fire. The wyverns’ heads reared up, yellow eyes gleaming in alarm. Brother Barnaby knew the naval cutter was flying routine patrols. Sir Ander had pointed it out to him. The monk did not have much experience with navy ships or naval customs. He had no idea why the ship would be firing its guns. He wondered if it was some sort of salute.

  The stable had windows on both sides of the building, allowing for the flow of fresh air through the stalls. Brother Barnaby walked over to the window and looked out. He could not see the naval cutter. The abbey wall blocked his view.

  The cannon fire continued unabated and now even someone as naïve about naval warfare as Brother Barnaby realized this was no salute. The ship was engaged in battle. The wyverns were on their feet, tails twitching. Their nostrils flared. They turned their heads this way and that, sniffing the air and not liking what they smelled, apparently, for their lips rolled back in snarls, exposing sharp fangs.

  Green fire suddenly lit the night. The fire came from the other side of the abbey wall in the direction of the Retribution. Brother Barnaby could hear shrill, ear-piercing shrieks mingled with the sound of crackling explosions. He heard a bang, the report of a pistol.

  Green fire—the demons.

  Father Jacob and Sir Ander were under attack by the same demons who had slaughtered the nuns. Brother Barnaby’s first reaction was to go to the aid of his friends, do what he could to help. He was turning from the window when he heard whirring sounds. He bat wings blotting out the stars and the glowing orange eyes of their demon riders.

  The orange eyes saw him.

  Shocked and appalled, Brother Barnaby sprang back from the window. He now knew what had been upsetting his wyverns, who were crazed with fear, flapping their wings and stomping their feet and lashing out with their tails. Trapped inside, they might break bones or tear the membrane of their wings. Brother Barnaby flung open the gate to the stall and tried to drive the wyverns out.

  The panicked beasts were flustered and afraid. He shouted and waved his arms and finally they obeyed him and ran from the stall. Still shouting, he drove the wyverns down the long aisle toward the large stable doors that were standing wide open.

  A ball of green fire flew through a window into one of the stalls. The timber posts and straw burst into flames. The fire and smoke spurred on the wyverns. They shrieked in terror and made a dash for it. Running out of the stable door, the wyverns spread their wings and were about to take to the air when they were attacked by the bats and their demons riders.

  Brutish, sullen, and not very smart, wyverns are notorious bullies and cowards. They will kill deer, sheep, horses, cows, or humans—any prey not likely to put up a fight. Confronted by a dragon, a griffin, or even a good-size eagle, wyverns will turn tail and run for their lives.

  The wyverns had never encountered such creatures as these gigantic bats, which dove and darted at their heads in an attempt to claw out their eyes. The wyverns had no intention of fighting this strange and terrifying foe. Shrieking in terror and pain, the wyverns kept trying frantically to escape by taking to the air. The bats clustered thick around them, striking at their wings, preventing them from getting off the ground.

  Green fireballs burst in the stables. The building was now fully engulfed in flame. Half-blinded by smoke, Brother Barnaby heard his wyverns’ frightened screams and saw them surrounded by the darting bats. He grabbed a length of flaming timber and ran out of the stables.

  The bats had no riders. Brother Barnaby did not stop to think about what that might mean. His one thought was to save his wyverns. He waved the flaming brand at one of the bats. The bat snarled and shrieked at him, but the creature did not like the fire and veered off.

  Heartened, Brother Barnaby drove away two more bats and one of the wyverns managed spread his wings and fly off the ground. A bat clung to the neck of the second wyvern, biting at the wyvern’s head and trying to dig its claws into the scales. The wyvern was frantic with pain and terror, shrieking and flinging its head about, trying to dislodge the bat. Brother Barnaby struck the bat with the flaming timber. Burning cinders set the bat’s hair ablaze. The bat snarled and let go its hold on the wyvern and flew off, trailing smoke.

  Barnaby slapped the wyvern on its flank and yelled at it, urging it to fly. The wyvern at last managed to leap into the air. Now that the wyverns were airborne, they could attack with their claws. The bats hung back, wary.

  “Fly!” Barnaby yelled at the wyverns. “Fly away!”

  Something caused him to turn around. He did not know what. Perhaps he heard something.
Perhaps it was nothing more than primal instinct, the prickling of the hair on the back of his neck. Brother Barnaby felt the foe behind him and whipped around. He saw glaring orange eyes and the reflection of their hideous light on the blade of an ax poised to strike him.

  Brother Barnaby had never received martial training. The monk was a healer and had vowed to never take a human life. He acted out of instinct, thrusting the flaming wood straight at the glowing eyes, striking the demon in the face. The glowing orange light went out. The demon dropped the ax and clasped its hands over its face. Three more pairs of orange eyes emerged from the stables. The demons were closing in on him.

  He saw suddenly these same fiends attacking the helpless nuns, their axes cutting off their limbs, chopping up the bodies, feeding them to their bats. Anger blazed inside Brother Barnaby, anger such as he had never known before. He had read about the wrath of God. He knew then how God felt.

  Yelling wildly, he flung himself at the demons, battering them with his timber, hitting them on the head, shoulder, back, whatever was near. He startled them with the ferocity and suddenness of his attack and for a moment he actually drove the demons back. Then the demons saw that he was armed with nothing but a wooden stick, and they fell on him. He was bleeding and crying out in rage, knowing he was bound to fall before his foes, for he was outnumbered with no weapons now except his fists. All he wanted before death came was to make these fiends suffer.

  Shrill shrieks came from above him and the demon standing in front of Barnaby disappeared, hit by a lashing wyvern tail that lifted the fiend off his feet and flung him into the stable wall. The same wyvern lit on top of another demon, flattening it beneath its claws. The second wyvern caught up a demon in its mouth and shook it like a sheep, breaking its neck.

  Brother Barnaby fell to the ground. The fire of his fury had died down as suddenly as it had blazed up. A wound in his arm was bleeding profusely. His head ached from a blow. He could taste blood in his mouth. He felt unbearable cold steal through him and knew he was going into shock.