“Ah,” said Rodrigo, looking at the blood on the handkerchief. “Hit by a falling star. That explains it.”
Dag glowered. He was a devout man and took his faith very seriously.
“Not the time for jesting, Rigo,” said Stephano quietly.
Rodrigo nodded his head toward Gythe. “Look at her if you don’t believe me. She feels the magic. And so can I. I’ve gone all gooseflesh and it’s not because I’m shivering with terror—even though I am. Our little boat is caught in the wild, foaming waters of a magical rapids.”
Rodrigo pointed to the giant bats and their demonic riders. “Wherever they have come from, that green fire is not ‘fire.’ It’s magic of some sort. Very powerful magic. So powerful that it is fomenting this wizard storm. Which must mean . . .”
He paused, his brows drawing together in thought.
“But it can’t be . . . It’s not possible!”
“Rigo—”
“Not now. I have to think.”
Rodrigo went back down belowdecks. They heard a thud and a crash and a “Bloody Hell! Where are my books?” Followed by, “Oh, never mind, I found them,” and then silence.
Stephano was only half-listening. They were being sucked rapidly closer to the coastline. The abbey and its walls were now visible through the mists. Bats swarmed over the walls. The abbey itself was under assault. On board the cutter, the sailors had managed to douse the flames, but the mast was gone. The captain had ordered chains dropped over the sides, to keep the bats from attacking the ship from below. A few cannons continued to fire. The cutter, though crippled, was gamely fighting on. But as Stephano watched, the cutter fired a distress signal.
The dragon flew in circles above the ship, no longer fighting the bats. Naval officers had small use for dragons, anyway, and Stephano could imagine the captain’s rage at the dragon who had accidentally set the mast on fire. The captain must have furiously ordered the dragon to keep his distance.
And yet, Stephano thought, the dragon has a much better chance of killing these monsters with his fire than the naval gunners have of hitting one of the swift flying creatures. The Cloud Hopper was being drawn ever closer.
“They’ve seen us,” said Stephano.
Several bats had veered off from the attack on the cutter. The demon riders, with their strange fiery orange eyes, seemed to be staring straight at him. He hurriedly lowered the spyglass and turned to Gythe.
“Those spells of yours. Will they protect the boat?”
Gythe cast a frightened glance at the bats and shrank away. Shaking her head, she put her hands over her ears.
“She is afraid of the . . . er . . . demons,” said Miri with a glance at Dag. “Gythe says their words hurt her. They’re trying to get inside her head.”
“Words? I don’t hear any words. And how can they get inside her?”
Miri gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know what she means.”
Stephano took hold of Gythe’s hands and drew them away from her ears, forcing her to listen to him.
“Gythe, dear, we don’t have a choice. Those demons or whatever they are have seen us. They may attack us at any moment. Those spells of protection you cast . . . This is the reason you cast them! Does your magic work?”
Gythe looked uncertain, then she gave him a tremulous smile and tilted her head and made a gesture with her hand as of something coming out of her throat.
“She needs to sing the magic,” said Miri, translating. “If she sings, the protection spells will work.”
“Good,” Stephano said. He paused, struck by a sudden, unwelcome thought. “These spells won’t stop us from firing our guns at the bats, will they? I mean, the cannonballs won’t bounce off the magic and hit us . . .”
Gythe flashed an indignant look at him and made a rude gesture. Miri started to translate. Stephano grinned.
“No need. I understand. I’m sorry, Gythe. It was a stupid question. Dag—”
“Yes, sir.”
Stephano cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “If those creatures are demons . . .”
“ ‘The righteous will be called upon to drive them back through the gates,’ sir,” said Dag.
“Yes, good,” said Stephano, relieved.
“We’ll use the swivel guns,” said Dag. “No time to load the cannons.”
The swivel guns were small, breech-loading cannons mounted on the rail of the boat. The guns had removable chambers that could be preloaded with powder and grapeshot and then inserted into the breech. Once the gun had been fired, all the gunner had to do was to remove the spent chamber and ram home another. The four swivel guns also had the advantage of mobility. The gunner could pick one up and carry it to another part of the ship, whereas the cannons were mounted on trucks that were roped in place.
Dag headed down below to fetch the chambers. The Cloud Hopper had two four-pounder cannons, mounted on the main deck, one on the starboard side and one on the port, and one “frog”, so-called because the cannon’s squat body and wide mouth resembled the reptile. The frog was positioned on the sterncastle, placed there to protect the helm. The frog fired an enormous cannonball, twenty-four pounds, or a variety of other types of shot, but had limited range.
Few Trundler vessels were so well armed. Most could not have afforded such expensive weapons, and there was generally no need for Trundlers to have to defend themselves. The biggest danger in the Breath was from pirates, and they almost never attacked Trundler houseboats, for the Trundlers carried little of value. A Trundler boat might be armed with a single swivel gun or an old-fashioned ballista. Most relied on muskets and pistols for defense.
“Dag!” Stephano shouted down the hatch. “While you’re there, bring your pipes!”
Dag stopped on the stairs and stared up at him in astonishment. “My what?”
“Bring your bagpipes! And tell Rigo to quit reading and start helping!”
Dag shook his head in bewilderment and continued on down.
“Why do you want him to play the pipes?” Miri asked tersely. “A funeral dirge as we’re dragged into Hell?”
Stephano didn’t answer. He was gazing at the cutter, measuring the distance between them with his eye.
“Miri, there must be some way for you to steer this boat.” He looked up at the balloon. “We have lift. We’re not sinking . . .”
Miri sighed, then, and shook her head. “Only in the direction the magic is taking us. We can’t maneuver or change course.”
“All you need to do is aim for the cutter. That’s more or less sailing in a straight line.” Stephano pointed in the direction they needed to go. “If we can reach the cutter, we can team up to protect each other.”
Sixty sailors defending the cutter, five on the Cloud Hopper. Six counting the Doctor, who had been forcibly removed from beneath the cannon by Gythe. Judging by the cat’s dismal howls, the good Doctor was now locked up in the storage closet.
Dag emerged onto the deck, carrying a large wooden case in one hand and a gunnysack filled with preloaded canisters in another. Rodrigo followed, staggering beneath the weight of a similar sack, which he flung with a sigh onto the deck, narrowly missing his own foot, and turned to Stephano.
“I found what I was looking for. An early Church edict banning—”
“Rigo, where’s the water?” Dag demanded. “I told you to fetch water!”
“In a moment. This is important—”
“So is our need for water,” said Stephano. “In case we need to put out the fires. Dag’s right, Rigo. You can explain all this magic stuff to me later.”
“If there is a later,” said Rodrigo in ominous tones, and he ran back down below to the hold where they stored the water barrels.
Stephano looked back through the spyglass at the demons. He could see them more clearly, and he had to admit that they looked exactly like the fiends in the paintings on the walls of his father’s chapel, paintings depicting the torments of the damned. Fiends with snarling faces and those strange fiery eye
s, as though Hell’s flames burned inside them. Like most children, he had been fascinated by the demons, more interested in the fearsome looking creatures than in the angelic beings singing among the clouds. His father had been a religious man, but not demonstrative about his faith. He kept no chaplain. What was between him and God, he liked to say, was between him and God.
Was there a Hell? Did some fallen soul rule over it? Stephano had always believed men made their own Hell.
The demons were staring in his direction, perhaps trying to analyze the threat. The Cloud Hopper was partially obscured by the mists, which was perhaps the only reason the demons hadn’t flown to attack them already.
“What are you?” Stephano asked them silently. “Who are you? Where did you come from? Freya? Or some place hotter . . .”
Gythe had talked of hearing voices. If so, they weren’t answering him. Stephano shook off his metaphysical musings. The righteous and not-so-righteous aboard the Cloud Hopper were preparing for battle.
While Dag was loading the swivel guns, Stephano explained his plan. “Miri, position our boat directly above the cutter. That will keep the bats from attacking us from below and the cutter from above. We’ll be able to fire on the bats without risking hitting the cutter.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Miri
“Once you’re in position, you can go help Dag. Rodrigo can reload—”
“He is not touching my guns,” said Dag firmly. “He’d end up blowing us all to Freya.”
“Rigo should stay with Gythe,” said Miri. “He understands what she does with the magic. She might need him.”
“We all have our jobs. What will you be doing, sir?” Dag asked, eyeing Stephano curiously.
“Bring out the pipes, my friend,” said Stephano, watching the dragon circling the cutter. “Play ‘Jolly Beggarman.’ The Dragon Brigade is going to fly again.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Constructs degrade dependent upon the medium in which they are set and the processes they facilitate. Targeting constructs set in a cannon require monthly servicing, whereas strengthening constructs set in the stone wall of the Opera House in Galiathe, for example, require little maintenance. Only dragon breath is known to accelerate magic degradation, breaking down a construct in a process know as deconstruction.
—The Art of Crafting,
Church School Primer
WHILE DAG WAS REMOVING HIS BAGPIPES from their carrying case, Stephano ran down to his berth. He put on his flight coat and grabbed his sword belt, his saber, and the dragon pistol that had been a gift from his godfather. He flung the sword belt with the saber over his shoulder, tucked the loaded pistol into the pocket in his flight coat, then ran back up on deck.
Rodrigo ended a one-sided conversation with Gythe and glanced at Miri, who was still at the helm, looking with distress at her sister.
“How is she?” Miri asked worriedly.
Rodrigo shook his head.
Stephano watched the two of them and groaned inwardly. “What’s wrong now?”
“Gythe,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano glanced back at her. She was smiling, relaxed, and happy. Seeing Stephano looking at her, she grinned at him and laughed like a child and waved.
“Oh, no!” said Stephano softly. “Not now.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Rodrigo. “She’s having one of her spells. As bad as I’ve ever seen her.”
“Miri was hoping she was better.” Stephano ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “What is she doing?”
“She thinks she’s a child again, steering her parents’ boat. She’s laughing and giggling, singing old nursery rhymes. . . .”
“Can you help her?” Stephano asked.
Rodrigo shrugged. “In a way, she’s helping herself. She’s so terrified she’s gone into hiding, so to speak. She’s gone back to being a little girl.”
Rodrigo looked out at the strange battle going on between the cutter and the bats—a battle the Cloud Hopper would soon unwillingly join—and he shook his head. “I can’t say that I blame her. I wish I had somewhere to hide.”
“But the protective magic,” said Stephano urgently. “It only works if she’s singing . . .”
“Not necessarily. It works better if she’s singing, but it will work. I don’t know what to tell you,” Rodrigo added, with a helpless shrug. “She may come out of this state. She may not. Perhaps if Miri talked to her . . .”
Miri had been listening to their conversation. She shook her head. “I’ve tried before. When she’s like this, she doesn’t even know who I am.”
Stephano swore softly. The rocky shoreline loomed ever closer. The cathedral had sustained serious damage; the walls were burned and charred and in some places completely breached. The beautiful stained glass windows had been broken out. He could smell the acrid stench of the smoke from the still smoldering rubble and another smell more horrible, like burning flesh.
“Bagpipes are ready when you are, sir!” Dag announced, arranging the chanter and the drone over his shoulder and placing the blowpipe in his mouth.
“You’re really doing this,” said Miri gloomily. “Flying off and leaving us.”
“I’m not leaving you. Not exactly,” said Stephano, putting on his leather. “I think it’s our best chance. Stay with Gythe. Try to help her.”
Rodrigo gave a nod and shook his head at the same time and went back to talk with Miri, who was standing at the helm, watching over Gythe, who thought she was a child steering her parents’ boat.
“Go ahead, Dag,” said Stephano.
Dag drew in a deep breath and blew into the pipe, filling the bag with air. He began to “skirl,” referring to the high, shrill, wailing tone made by the pipe known as the chanter. Soon the lively music of “Jolly Beggarman” sounded from the deck of the Cloud Hopper.
Dag knew the tune well, for Stephano often asked him to play it in the evening hours when the members of the Cadre would sit on the deck of the houseboat on a fine summer’s evening or were snug around the fire in Stephano’s house on a winter’s night. The moment the music of the bagpipes started, an irate yowl sounded from down below emanating from the storage closet. Doctor Ellington took strong exception to bagpipe music.
The march made Stephano’s blood tingle, bringing with it a flood of memories. He watched the dragon, who was still flying above the cutter, waiting for him to react.
Dragons are passionately fond of music. A dragon’s greatest sorrow is the inability to make music, the one skill in which dragons concede humans are superior. The wealthy dragon families often hired human musicians, bringing them to live in their immense castles, where they were treated like royalty.
Stephano hoped the dragon would be able to hear the sound of the pipes over the noise of battle. Dragons have excellent hearing, far better than humans, and they especially love the sound of the bagpipes. Unfortunately, the demon bat riders also had very good hearing, apparently, and perhaps they did not like the sound of the pipes. At the first notes, the demons who had been conferring about whether or not to attack the Cloud Hopper made up their minds. Three bat riders began flying toward them. The dragon, so far, was oblivious.
Dag cast a sharp glance at Stephano, requesting permission to stop playing and man the guns.
“Just a few more bars,” Stephano urged.
Dag continued to play, and at last the dragon heard the music. Hovering in midair, he turned his head, searching for the source of the sound. Stephano had no way of knowing whether this dragon had ever been part of the Brigade, but all dragons knew the march, which was ages old, going back to the days when noble dragon families had signed the first nonaggression treaty with the human king of Rosia.
The dragon turned his head in the direction of the houseboat. Stephano waved his arms. The dragon dipped his wings in a signal of acknowledgment used by the Brigade and altered course. The dragon flew toward them.
“All right, Dag! You can stop now,” Stephano shouted over the music. “He
’s seen us!”
Dag took time to hastily repack his precious pipes and stow them in the compartment beneath the helm, then went to man one of the swivel guns. Stephano was already readying the other. He made certain the powder charge was set, his slow-burning match smoldering in its bucket, one chamber loaded, more ready to load. Rodrigo and Miri were talking earnestly, both of them looking with worried concern at Gythe, who had been singing a song to the music of the pipes.
“We’re too close to shore, Rigo,” Miri was saying, “I have to stay at the helm. We’ll end up on the rocks if I don’t. Dag has to man the guns. You’ll have to help Gythe. I’m worried sick. She’s hasn’t been as bad as this in long time!”
Rodrigo patted Miri’s shoulder, said something meaningless and soothing, and went to be with Gythe, who greeted him with an eerie laugh. Rodrigo started talking to her in cheerful tones and even joined in her singing.
Stephano felt helpless—again. The three enormous bats with their demonic riders were closing rapidly on the Cloud Hopper. Stephano had never known any creature to fly so fast. The bats were little more than a black blur. A sleek young dragon might have given them a race, but this elder dragon with his graying mane, heavy girth, and lumbering flight could not hope to reach the Cloud Hopper before the boat came under attack. Stephano could see that the fire in the old soldier’s eyes still burned bright, however. Stephano hoped the same would prove true of the fire in the dragon’s belly.
As the bats and their demon riders drew near, Dag muttered a prayer. Miri shivered, but she remained at her post, her hands moving with Gythe’s over the sigils on the helm. Rodrigo stared at the bats intently, then swiftly shifted his position so that he blocked Gythe’s view.
As Dag had said, each bat was the size of a “bloody horse,” with a wingspan of about forty feet, large pointed ears, and small, glistening eyes set on either side of its snout. The bat’s gaping mouth had four long, curving fangs in front used for ripping apart its prey. The body was covered with rusty black fur. Clawed feet thrust out from the gray-black membrane that spread wide between gigantic “arms,” allowing the bat to fly. Large hooks were visible on the upper part of the wings.
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