Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  The gigantic bats were hideous to look at, but at least they appeared to be mortal, made of flesh and blood. He wondered uneasily if the same could be said of the demon riders.

  Stephano believed in God, a belief he had been taught as a child, a belief he had abandoned in anger when he was a youth. How could he have faith in a God who had allowed his father to die such a terrible death? Stephano remembered that dark time in his life. He had finally struggled through it to find his faith again, with the help of Lady Cam, his dragon.

  Being very private, dragons rarely discuss their beliefs with humans. Lady Cam and Stephano had been unusually close; she had often talked to him of her God, a God who watched lovingly over dragonkind, who hoped they would live courageous, noble lives; a God who grieved when they fell short, as all mortals do, a God who understood.

  Stephano could believe in such a God; though the relationship between him and God was still a bit rocky. He did not believe in the God of the Church of the Breath. That God, according to the grand bishop, had consigned Julian de Guichen to eternal torment in Hell.

  A Hell populated by creatures such as these....

  Stephano banished that thought from his head. Lord Captain Stephan de Guichen had fought many enemies in his lifetime. He’d known fear as he rode into battle and had found the strength and courage to overcome it. But he had never before been confronted with an enemy that had sprung from an artist’s rendition of the torments of the Damned, and he felt his gut twist and a shiver crawl up his spine.

  The three demon riders were built like humans, though they were extremely thin. They rode the bats with ease, sitting forward of the wings, their legs straddling the furry bodies. The demons’ skin was blood-red in color, with black spikes rising along their arms and shoulders. They wore what appeared to be some sort of leather armor. Their faces were red and wizened. Their mouths were thin, dark slits. Gaping holes formed the nostrils. What was most horrible was that the faces were expressionless, impassive, uncaring. Only their eyes were alive and that life was hideous. The eyes glowed orange, as though lit from within by Hell’s fire.

  Stephano grabbed the portfire and held it ready. He was filled with loathing and horror, and he fought an impulse to fire before the bats were in range and waste a shot. Glancing around, he saw his feelings reflected on the faces of his friends. Miri was deliberately not looking at the creatures. She was concentrating on flying, sometimes casting a glance of loving concern at her sister. He saw her hands shaking.

  Rodrigo’s face was pale. He sat quite still and rigid, staring at the bats in disbelief. He was still mindful of Gythe, however, keeping one arm around her. Gythe sang softly to herself with childlike abandon. Dag, manning the other swivel gun, stared straight at the bats, his face stern and grim, his jaw clenched, his brows drawn together in a frown of concentration. Dag was a deeply religious man. Did he believe he was about to fire on fiends sent from Hell? If so, did he think this fight was hopeless?

  Dag looked over. “Hold steady, sir!”

  Stephano nodded. The dragon was drawing near the Cloud Hopper, but he would not reach the boat ahead of the bats. Stephano held the smoldering match poised over the vent.

  “Wait,” he counseled himself softly, “Wait just one moment more . . .”

  The demons held in their hands what Stephano first thought were large blowguns, such has he and Rodrigo had made as children and used to fire darts in an effort to bring down rabbits (until Rodrigo accidentally fired a dart at Stephano, which brought down the wrath of Benoit). As he watched, one of the demons lifted the weapon to his shoulder. It was not a blow dart. It appeared to be some sort of handheld cannon. Balancing with ease on the bat, holding on with his thighs, the demon aimed the cannon at the Cloud Hopper’s helm.

  “Take cover!” Stephano yelled, but he ignored his own command.

  A ball of green fire erupted from the cannon. Time seemed to slow. Stephano could hear Dag yelling at Miri to duck and Rodrigo urging Gythe to sing the song she had sung the other night, the song of her magic. He could hear Gythe’s wild laughter.

  Green fire burst on the helm and blue light flared, half-blinding Stephano. He saw for one dazzling moment the sigils and constructs, layer upon layer, of the protective spells Gythe had cast on, around, and over the boat. She had wrapped Miri and the helm in a kind of cocoon of spun blue magic. The green fire struck the blue glowing sigils and constructs of the outer threads of magic. Wherever the green flames touched, they began to devour the magic. It was like watching Gythe’s spells being eaten away by green fiery acid. The green flames died swiftly, however, leaving the protection spells damaged, but intact.

  Gythe screamed. Stephano turned to see Rodrigo holding her in his arms. She was writhing in pain, moaning and crying out.

  “Gythe! What’s wrong?” Miri cried, unable to leave the sails. “Rigo, what happened to her?”

  Rodrigo could only shake his head. “I don’t know!” he said helplessly.

  Stephano had no time to help either Gythe or Rodrigo, for Dag was telling him, “Make ready, sir! Here they come!”

  Stephano tore his gaze from Gythe and tried to sight in his gun on the bats that were about thirty feet away and closing. He was having trouble finding a target. Reddish smoke flowed from the demonic riders, as though their flesh were on fire, wrapping them in a hellish fog and making it difficult for him to see.

  Stephano aimed the swivel gun where he’d last spotted the bats and touched the portfire to the vent. The gun banged. Grapeshot flew. Dag’s swivel gun went off a second or two later. Stephano could not see anything through the fog, but he heard a shrill screech, as if one of the bats had been hit. Picking up one the preloaded chambers, Stephano rammed it into the breech.

  “Stephano!” Miri was pleading. “Go to Gythe!”

  With Miri’s attention on Gythe and not on the airscrews, the strong winds left over from the wizard storm were pushing the Cloud Hopper closer and closer to the heart of the battle.

  “Take over firing!” Stephano yelled to Dag, who nodded as he reloaded his own gun.

  Stephano looked about for the dragon, but had lost him in the reddish smoke. He could not see the demons either, but apparently the demons could see them because a wave of green fire washed over the boat. The Cloud Hopper rocked. Blue sparks burst; sigils and constructs seemed to wither and melt away. This time, Stephano could feel the heat of the blast.

  Gythe screamed again and doubled over. Her fists clenched in pain. She shuddered and Rodrigo clasped her tightly. He seemed to be holding her together.

  Stephano knelt beside her. “Is she wounded? Where? I don’t see any blood . . .”

  “The demon magic,” said Rodrigo. His face was pale and strained and covered with a sheen of sweat. “The green fire is destroying, layer by layer, Gythe’s protection spells. It’s also destroying her for some reason. Oh, and by the way,” he added, “your dragon friend is about to roast us!”

  The dragon flew out of the reddish smoke, shredding it with his wings. Only two demons remained; Stephano must have hit one. The dragon’s gaze was fixed on the demons and their bats. His mouth opened. He was sucking in a deep breath, ready to breathe a blast of fire that would incinerate everything it touched: demons, bats, and the Cloud Hopper.

  “No!” Stephano bellowed, waving his arms in a signal that meant to break off the attack. “Stop!”

  The dragon heard the shout and looked down at the boat which lay beneath him.

  “Use the Hawk Attack!” Stephano yelled and held up both hands, fingers crooked, like claws.

  The dragon understood. He shifted his body in midair, and—claws extended—dove like a stooping hawk. He struck one of the bats before it could escape, sinking his claws into its back. The bat made a horrible screeching sound then went limp. The dragon shook it off. The demon rider, straddling the neck, leaped from the falling bat. The rider made a desperate attempt to seize hold of the dragon’s claw. The demon missed and fell into the Breath, vanish
ing silently, without a scream.

  The dragon pulled up out of his dive and soared over the Cloud Hopper. Dag fired his gun and then ran over to fire Stephano’s at the surviving bat. The demon rider apparently decided he didn’t like the odds, for he turned his bat and fled, heading back to join his fellows, still attacking the cutter.

  Stephano motioned for the dragon to come up underneath the Cloud Hopper. As the dragon was circling around, Stephano bent down to examine Gythe. She was shivering in Rodrigo’s arms, her head buried on his breast. Her body was drenched in sweat. She shuddered and moaned, gripping hold of Rodrigo tightly.

  “Dag!” Miri yelled. “Take over. Keep the helm just as I have it.”

  Dag grabbed hold of the lines. Miri ran to her sister, knelt beside her, and spoke her name. Gythe lifted a tear-streaked face and, making a low, animal sound in her throat, she flung her arms around Miri’s neck and clung to her.

  “I’ll take her below,” Miri said.

  She put her arm around her sister’s waist and helped her to her feet. Gythe kept her face hidden in Miri’s shoulder. Stephano held the hatch open for them as Miri helped Gythe slowly descend the stairs. He could hear Doctor Ellington, locked in the storage closet, howling dismally.

  For a moment, there was a lull in the battle. The bats were clustered around the cutter. They would be back, and next time they would come in greater numbers. Dag yelled for Rodrigo to come look at the helm. Rodrigo held his hand above the shining brass panel. His lips moved in what Stephano assumed was some sort of incantation.

  “How’s Gythe?” Dag asked, his face creased with worry.

  Stephano shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

  Rodrigo stood up. He looked very grim. “I know what’s wrong with her. The green fire.”

  Stephano stared at him in perplexity. “But it didn’t hit her. Did it?”

  “The green fire wiped out two layers of Gythe’s protection magic above the helm and let some of the green fire seep through. Here”—he pointed at places on the brass panel—“and here and here. Wherever the green fire struck, the sigils and constructs are gone.”

  “Like dragon fire,” said Stephano. “Dragon fire hits the sigils and weakens them until they eventually break down.”

  “I did not say ‘break,’ did I?” Rodrigo returned testily. “I did not say ‘weaken.’ I said ‘gone.’ Wiped out. Vanished. Obliterated. As if they had never been,” he added with biting emphasis.

  “That’s not possible,” said Stephano. “Even I know that much. The magic in a sigil inscribed in a block of stone might fade, but the sigil will always be there.”

  “Except when it isn’t,” said Rodrigo, gesturing to the brass. “The magic is gone. And not only is the demon fire destroying her magic, the fire is hurting Gythe through her magic.”

  “But it’s not hurting you.”

  “I’m not a savant. With me, the magic is in my brain. With Gythe, the magic is a part of her, like her skin and her blood . . .”

  Stephano ran his hand through his hair that was wet with sweat.

  “You’ll have to put the sigils back,” he said. “How long will that take?”

  Rodrigo raised his eyebrows. “Let’s see, I would be required to start as an apprentice to a shipwright crafter. That would take me about two years . . .”

  “Be serious!” Stephano snapped.

  “I am serious!” Rodrigo snapped back. “The sigils that are gone are wiped clean! I don’t have the skill to lay down new ones. Neither can Miri. Only a crafter who is trained in this sort of magic can replace them. My dear friend, you don’t seem to understand—”

  “You’re damn right I don’t understand!” Stephano shouted angrily. “Giant bats and demonic green fire disabling the helm and hurting Gythe and there’s nothing anyone can do!”

  He realized he was losing control and stopped to draw in a deep breath. He said more calmly, “Dag, can you and Miri fly this damn boat?”

  “I can steer, but it’s the magic from the helm that is keeping us afloat. If the fiends wipe that out . . .” Dag shook his head.

  “I might be able to bridge the gaps,” said Rodrigo.

  Stephano assessed the situation. The Cloud Hopper was adrift, being drawn toward the naval cutter that was still bravely fighting the swarm of demons. Two cannons remained in operation out of fourteen. The number of bats and riders attacking had decreased considerably, but those remaining were bombarding the ship with green fire. The Cloud Hopper, caught up in a magical tide, was being swept along at a rapid rate and the cutter was now almost within hailing distance; Stephano could see the deck without need of his spyglass. The captain and another officer were too busy trying to save their ship to pay them much heed. The Cloud Hopper was, after all, only a Trundler houseboat. Still, he must have heard them firing on the bats. Stephano turned his gaze toward the abbey, which was also under attack. He could see bats darting about the walls.

  Stephano needed to talk to the captain. He needed to find out what was happening at the abbey. He needed to protect his people. And he couldn’t do any of that where he was. He made up his mind.

  “Dag, you’re in command while I’m gone.”

  Dag shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Dag, you’re in command,” said Stephano harshly, his voice grating. He turned his back, pretending he didn’t hear Dag’s protest, and crossed the deck to the forecastle. Rodrigo went with him.

  “Dag in command,” said Rodrigo, shaking his head. “The man who swore he’d never give an order again.”

  “I know.” Stephano was having second thoughts. “Maybe I shouldn’t leave.”

  “This is why you formed the Cadre, my friend,” said Rodrigo, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Each of us has a job to do. We’ll do ours. You do yours. Dag will come through. He always does.”

  “I know. Fix the helm, will you?”

  Rodrigo nodded. Stephano motioned for the dragon to fly closer, come up under the ship. The dragon’s head lifted up over the hull.

  “Lord Captain de Guichen!” the dragon exclaimed with a gasp.

  Stephano looked more closely at the dragon. “Droal, isn’t it? Master of Flight Droalfrig.”

  “Yes, sir!” The dragon was immensely pleased, though he was now eyeing the small houseboat in some confusion. “Begging your pardon, sir, but what are you doing on board a Trundler—”

  “I’ll explain later!” Stephano cried. “Come closer!”

  The dragon floated upward, taking care not to hit the boat’s keel with his wing. Stephano reached over the rail, caught hold of the very last spike on the dragon’s long neck and, hoping he still remembered the knack of boarding dragons and trying not to think of what would happen to him if he didn’t, he took firm hold.

  “Ready when you are!” he cried.

  The dragon, Droal, eased away from the boat, taking Stephano, hanging onto the spike, with him.

  “Mind your tail!” Stephano yelled.

  Sometimes dragons misjudged the distance from a ship and would accidentally smack the hull as they flew off.

  Droal, both proud and extremely nervous at the honor of carrying on his back the famous Lord Captain of the Dragon Brigade, was so terrified of doing anything wrong that he was practically flying with his tail between his legs.

  “We’re clear,” Stephano called urgently, for they were rapidly losing altitude. “You can relax!”

  Droal flapped his wings, rising into the air, and Stephano settled himself on the dragon’s back. Ordinarily he would have been sitting in one of the specially designed saddles made for dragon riders. All dragon riders are taught to fly bareback first before they are given saddles. Feeling the movement of the dragon’s muscles provides a rider with a better knowledge of the art of dragon flight. And riders never knew when they might encounter an emergency situation when, like now, they might be forced to fly without benefit of a saddle.

  Stephano kept hold of the
dragon’s spike and flung one leg over the neck, then settled himself firmly on the broad back at the start of the curve of the spine. He gripped the dragon’s scales with his knees.

  “Orders, sir?” Droalfrig asked.

  “Fly me close to the cutter. I need to talk to the captain.”

  “Captain won’t like it, sir. I started a fire,” said Droal unhappily. “Accident. Never flown combat.”

  “We won’t stay long,” said Stephano. “I only need a few words.”

  The dragon veered around and began to fly toward the cutter. Stephano looked down on the Cloud Hopper. Miri had come back on deck. She saw him and waved her hand, then she hurried over to relieve Dag at the helm. He went back to manning the swivel guns. Rigo looked up at Stephano and gave a jaunty salute.

  “They’ll be fine,” said Stephano to himself. “Rigo’s right. We each have a job to do and this is mine.”

  As the dragon veered around, the wind struck Stephano full in the face, whipping his hair, stinging his eyes. He buttoned up the flight jacket, hunched his shoulders, and tried to keep from grinning like a kid on Yule. After five years with his feet on the ground, he was flying again.

  He knew now how much he missed it: the freedom, the exhilaration. Dear God, how he had missed it!

  As it was, he was not particularly comfortable. His flight coat protected him from the wind, but he was not wearing a helm with the protective eyescreen, and his eyes were starting to water from the wind in his face. And many years had gone by since he’d flown bareback. He hadn’t been on the dragon ten minutes and already his posterior was aching.

  The bats and their riders swarmed the cutter, hitting it with green fire. Between the red smoke flowing from the demons and the smoke rising from the fires on board the cutter, it was difficult to see anything clearly. Stephano wondered if the demons had caught sight of him and the dragon.