Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  “You will be safe here,” Barnaby said, praying he was right. “Stay until we come for you.”

  Gythe gave a shuddering nod and Barnaby left her to follow Dag into the smoke and fire.

  Gythe remained crouched in the doorway where Brother Barnaby had told her to stay. She saw bright flashes of green light, but this time the magic didn’t hurt her, not like when the magic was hitting the protective spells she’d woven around her boat. She had trusted that she and Miri and the others were safe on the boat with the spells wrapped around them, like silkworms in a silken cocoon. But then the cocoon had caught fire.

  She ran away from the fire, hoping to find the time she had been happy and unknowing. But the world was dark. She couldn’t find the path. And she could still feel the pain, no matter how far she ran. When the pain finally stopped, Gythe realized she didn’t know how to get back. She huddled in the darkness, alone and terrified, and then she heard a man’s voice, gentle and soothing, calling her name.

  She was afraid to answer, but she hoped the man would find her, for he sounded warm and caring. She began to hum a little song to keep up her spirits, and the man heard the song and found her in her hiding place. A monk held out his hands to her, and she took his hands and he led her safely home.

  But the monk had not been the only one to hear her song. Far, far, far away was a drumbeat, soft as a heartbeat, but not as steady. The beat was slow and erratic and frightening. And there were the voices far away as the drumbeat. The voices were not gentle. They were terrible voices: hurtful and cruel and filled with hatred.

  The voices ebbed and flowed like the currents of the Breath. Here in the street the voices were suddenly strong, voices of fury and rage. Voices of killing. Blood and death and hatred.

  Gythe began to hum a song, a little song. Whenever she sang in the park and played her harp, people stopped talking. They fell silent to listen. She hummed desperately, hoping the voices would fall silent and they would stop hurting her friends.

  The voices didn’t grow silent, but they changed. They sounded bewildered. They called to her. Like the demon who had come on board the ship. The demon had been trying to find her.

  Gythe hummed her little song to try to drown out the sound of gunshots. She put her fingers into her ears and closed her eyes, and the voices were again talking about pain and death and hatred.

  Accusing voices. “You left us to die here below!”

  “It wasn’t our fault!” Gythe wept, her silent voice answering all the others, those who were also silent. “We couldn’t hear you. We didn’t know . . .”

  When Dag saw Father Jacob and Sir Ander lying in the street, he was certain they were dead. He could not see them clearly, with the smoke swirling about, but neither man was moving. Dag had made a swift assessment of the situation as he came up on it. Two demons were on the rooftop of a warehouse with what appeared to be a mounted swivel gun. They had not yet seen him. At the end of the lane, a man stood with his hands in the air. Two demons were in front of him, their weapons aimed at him. He was obviously pleading for his life. In a bold move, the man fired at one of the demons and threw whatever he’d been holding in his other hand at the second demon.

  Dag did not know this man, but any enemy of the demons was a friend of Dag’s. He shouted for the man to duck. The stranger reacted with a speed which indicated he’d done this sort of thing before. He hit the pavement. Dag fired his musket and had the satisfaction of seeing half a demon’s head dissolve into a bloody mess. The man was on his feet before the smoke cleared. The man fired another pistol at someone who had apparently been hiding in the alley and then kept on going, leaving Dag and his friends to fend for themselves.

  Dag shrugged. He supposed he couldn’t blame the gentleman. He looked up to see the demons training their swivel gun on him and made a backward scramble to take cover against the same warehouse the demons were using to mount their assault. Expecting grapeshot, Dag was startled to see the swivel gun shoot a ball of green fire. The flames struck the pavement right where he had been standing. The blast flattened Dag back against the wall. Smoke stung his eyes; chunks of cobblestones slammed into him. Fortunately, his steel breastplate protected him from the worst.

  Dag swiftly and expertly reloaded the musket and looked up to see what the demons were doing. They had mounted the swivel gun on the roof directly above him. The demons could look down and see him, but they could not bring their weapon to bear on him. Dag had counted on this when he chose his cover. Seeing their heads poking over the edge, Dag fired the musket. The heads vanished.

  Dag reloaded. So long as he stood in this place, directly beneath the swivel gun, the demons could not hit him. The moment he moved, the green fireballs would blow him apart. He was considering his options when suddenly he didn’t have any.

  Brother Barnaby came running into Bitter End Lane, heading straight for Father Jacob. Dag looked up to see the gun’s muzzle swinging about, taking aim at the monk. Dag swore roundly and fired the musket at the demons. Not waiting to see if he’d done any damage, he slung the gun by its strap over his shoulder, lowered his head, and charged across the street. He slammed into Brother Barnaby and they both went down. Dag shielded the monk with his body as a green fireball exploded in the air above them. Dag could feel the heat radiate through his armor.

  He scrambled quickly to his feet. Brother Barnaby was dazed, probably wondering what had hit him. Dag seized hold of the monk by the collar of his habit and dragged him into the shadows of a building, hoping without much hope that they were out of range of the swivel gun. Once there, Dag let loose of the monk and took the opportunity to reload the musket.

  “You all right, Brother?”

  Brother Barnaby was bleeding from a gash where his head had hit the stones. He winced when he tried to stand. His body would be one massive bruise tomorrow. If they lived that long.

  Barnaby nodded and said shakily, “I have to go to Father Jacob.”

  Glancing up at the roof, Dag saw the two demons huddled over the swivel gun. They should again have fired by now. Perhaps there was something wrong with it. Nice to know Hell was fallible.

  “Go, Brother, if you must! Be quick. I’ll keep you covered.”

  Barnaby ran to Father Jacob while Dag kept an eye on the demons. He was cheered to see the priest lift his head at the sound of the monk’s voice. Brother Barnaby put his arm around Father Jacob and helped him to stand. Both came running back to the building where Dag was standing with his musket, watching the demons.

  “How is Sir Ander?” Father Jacob asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Dag. “I thought I saw him move—”

  “I’ll go to him,” said Brother Barnaby.

  “Wait!” Dag grabbed hold of Brother Barnaby’s arm.

  The swivel gun was still on the roof, but the two demons were not.

  “Maybe they’ve run off,” said Brother Barnaby hopefully, eager to go to Sir Ander.

  Dag grunted and kept fast hold of the monk.

  It was well he did. Four demons emerged from the side street next to the warehouse. All four were armed, each of them carrying the hellish green-fire cannons they’d used to attack the Cloud Hopper. They walked purposefully toward the little group huddled by the building.

  Dag had one shot with his musket, one shot each with the two pistols in his belt. He would not have time to reload and that left him one demon short. Dag eyed Sir Ander. The knight lay in the street; his dragon pistol—the match of Stephano’s pistol—near his hand.

  “Father Jacob, is Sir Ander’s gun loaded?” Dag asked. “Did he fire it before he was attacked?”

  Father Jacob thought a moment, then shook his head. “I wish I could tell you for certain. I don’t think he did, but I can’t remember.”

  If the pistol was loaded, that gave Dag his fourth shot. If it wasn’t . . .

  “Guess I’ll find out,” Dag muttered philosophically.

  He rose to a kneeling position, fired the musket, dropped it
, ducked his head, ran in a crouch to the fallen knight and snatched up the dragon pistol. Dag rose and pulled the trigger. Flame flashed, the pistol fired. Dag thanked God and threw it down. He drew the first of his two pistols with his left hand, flipped the gun from his left hand to his right, raised it, and fired.

  He had one more shot, one more pistol left. All this time, he’d been thinking only of firing. He had no idea if he’d hit anything or not. He hadn’t dared take the time to look. What he did know was that, inexplicably, none of the demons were shooting at him.

  Dag dropped to his belly, grunting as the metal breastplate dug into his ribs. Two of the demons were down; he didn’t know for how long. The other two stood with their weapons in their hands, but they weren’t looking at him. Their hideous faces were turned away; they were staring at something off to their left. One pointed. The other started to walk in that direction.

  “Gythe!” Brother Barnaby cried.

  Dag could see Gythe crouched on the door stoop, her arms covering her head. The demon was heading straight for her.

  “I’ll go to her,” said Father Jacob. “Cover me!”

  “Father, no—” Dag began, but before he could finish, the priest was running across the street.

  “Son of a bitch!” Dag swore and raised the pistol, not wanting to fire unless he was certain he had a shot. After this, his only weapon was his knife.

  The lane was thick with smoke. Dag could barely see the priest, and he was hoping the demon would have the same trouble. But apparently the fiends could see, for a demon was tracking Father Jacob with his gun. Dag shouted and yelled and stood up. Seeing the threat, the demon shifted his aim.

  Dag dropped to the ground again and buried his head in his arms. Green fire swept over him, searing his legs and buttocks and burning through the leather coat he wore beneath the breastplate. The green fire enveloped his pistol, heating the metal, burning his hand, forcing him to drop the weapon. He picked it up, and was dimly aware of Brother Barnaby kneeling beside him, beating on him frantically, trying to put out the flames. Dag lifted his head.

  “Stop hitting me, Brother!” Dag roared.

  “But you’re on fire!” Barnaby gasped.

  “Never mind! You’re throwing off my aim!”

  Brother Barnaby drew back. Dag pulled the trigger. To his horror, green fire raced down the length of the muzzle toward his hand, like fire racing along the length of a fuse attached to a barrel of gunpowder. He flung the pistol away just as the gun exploded. A split second more and the blast would have taken off his hand.

  The demon who had fired at Dag was reloading. The other demon was still going after Gythe. Dag reached his hand into his boot for his last weapon—his knife. He could feel the pain of his burns now, and he grimaced and stifled a groan as he pushed himself up off the charred cobblestones. He had no idea if his knife would penetrate the fiendish armor. He took aim with the knife when a large chunk of stone coming from behind him struck the demon, knocking the cannon from his hands. Another rock hit the demon in the head, sending him reeling backward.

  Dag looked back to see Brother Barnaby picking up broken chunks of cobblestone and hurling the chunks in rapid fire succession, one after the other, at the demons. Dag watched in admiration. Brother Barnaby was a good shot. The monk kept up the barrage, and the demon could do nothing except try to keep his feet.

  Father Jacob had by this time reached the demon closing in on Gythe. Coming up from behind, Father Jacob grabbed hold of the fiend by the shoulder, wrenched the demon around and slammed his fist into the demon’s jaw. The demon went down in a heap. Father Jacob ran to Gythe, who was huddled in the doorway, her arms over her head. He took hold of her, soothing her.

  “Dag!” Stephano’s battlefield bellow reverberated through the smoke and darkness.

  Dag grinned widely, relief flooding through him.

  “Here I am, Captain! I’m still standing!” Dag shouted.

  Stephano emerged from the smoke. He aimed his pistol at the demon who was the target of Brother Barnaby’s assault.

  “Brother Barnaby!” Dag yelled. “Fall back!”

  Barnaby scrambled to get out of the way. Stephano fired, and the demon flopped about and fell to the street, a hole in its chest. Miri was with Gythe and Father Jacob. Rodrigo stood protectively over them, holding a lantern in one hand. His other hand was glowing; presumably he was going to cast some sort of magical spell. Dag hoped Rigo handled his magic better than he handled a gun, and then he had other things to worry about. He caught sight of orange eyes on the roof of the warehouse. The demon was back, training the swivel gun at them.

  “Take cover!” Dag yelled, and once more he hugged the pavement.

  Stephano dropped to the ground. Brother Barnaby flung himself on top of Sir Ander. Father Jacob shielded Gythe. Miri grabbed hold of Rodrigo, who was standing in the open, staring at the gun with his mouth open. She dragged him down. The gun went off with a shattering boom that shook the buildings. Dag smelled the stench of burning flesh and he looked about in terror, fearing his friends had been caught in the blast.

  He stared in shock. The demon hadn’t been aiming at them. The green fireball had struck the bodies of the four demons. The heat of the blazing corpses was so fierce Dag had to avert his face. He was astonished to catch a glimpse of the priest running past him, heading toward the flames.

  Father Jacob spoke what sounded like gibberish and made a circle with his hand, opening a hole in the flames, like one opened a door into a room. He reached his hand into the fire to seize hold of something. The object was hot, for Father Jacob said a most unholy word and dropped the charred and blackened object on the ground and wrung his burned fingers.

  The swivel gun turned and fired again, blasting apart the bodies of the demons Dag and the stranger had killed. Within moments the flames had gone out, leaving a large gaping gash in the street and piles of black and greasy ash. The demon on the roof mounted a giant bat and flew off in the direction of the Breath. The fiend had left the swivel gun behind and Dag was just thinking he could at last get a look at the weapon when it blew apart.

  The night was still. All of them listened intently, but the only sounds were Miri’s soothing voice and Gythe’s sobs.

  “We should get out of here before the constables come,” said Stephano.

  “Take your time,” said Dag, picking up the pistols, planning to reload. He limped over to inspect what was left of the bodies.

  “But someone must have heard the gunshots—” Stephano began.

  “Nothing new, around here,” said Dag. “Trust me, the police won’t be in a hurry to investigate.”

  Sir Ander had regained consciousness and was sitting up, ignoring Brother Barnaby’s pleas and remonstrations. The knight looked shaken and pale. Stephano walked over to join Dag, shouting for Rodrigo to bring the lantern.

  “Turn around,” Stephano ordered Dag.

  When the lantern arrived, Stephano inspected Dag’s back. He looked at the leather coat with the large holes burned through it and shook his head. Dag gingerly removed the breastplate, stifling a groan.

  “You look as though you’ve been slow roasted,” said Stephano. “You should go back to the boat.”

  “And let Miri slather me with yellow goo?” Dag said, grimacing. “No, thank you, Captain. You’re not in much better shape yourself.”

  He pointed to the patch of blood staining Stephano’s pants leg.

  “I’d say you need more yellow stuff,” Dag observed.

  “I’ll keep quiet if you will,” said Stephano.

  “A deal. How is Gythe?” Dag asked.

  Stephano shook his head gloomily and ran his fingers through his hair. “She’s more scared than hurt. She keeps telling Miri that the demons were talking to her in the Trondler language. Doesn’t make sense to me, though it seems to make sense to him.”

  He jerked his thumb at Father Jacob, who was squatting on the pavement, examining the grisly object he had rescued from the
flames.

  “What is that he’s got there?” Stephano asked.

  “Looks like the head of that demon I shot,” said Dag. “He saved it from the fire. Damn near burned his hand off trying to get it.”

  “So now he’s a ghoul,” said Stephano, scowling.

  Rodrigo raised the lantern. “What do you have against that man?”

  “I don’t trust him. He has secrets—”

  “So do we,” Rodrigo pointed out.

  “You don’t like him because he’s a priest,” said Dag in accusing tones.

  “Oh, just shut up, both of you,” Stephano said irritably. “I’ve been stabbed and shot at by demons today. I don’t need to be lectured.”

  Father Jacob put the object he’d recovered in Brother Barnaby’s script, first dumping out the contents. This done, the priest gave the script back to Brother Barnaby with orders to handle it gently, keep it safe.

  “How is Sir Ander?” Father Jacob asked the monk.

  “He says he is all right,” said Brother Barnaby worriedly. “The wraith did not have time to drain his life. He says the green fire from the demons destroyed the wraith.”

  “Of course, it would!” said Father Jacob. “The wraith is a creature of blood magic. The contramagic would put an end to it.”

  “Your hand, Father,” said Brother Barnaby, as the priest started to walk off. The priest’s knuckles were burst and bleeding and his fingers were burned.

  “I’m fine,” said Father Jacob.

  “What was that thing you grabbed out of the fire, Father?” Stephano asked, coming over to join them.

  “I’m not sure,” said Father Jacob.

  “Looked like the demon’s head,” Stephano said.

  The priest shook his own head impatiently and turned to Dag.

  “That man who was here,” said Father Jacob. “The tall man. You saved him from the demons. I saw him join the Warlock who sent the wraith to kill Sir Ander. They both disappeared. Did you see which way they went?”