The Seventh Sigil (Dragon Brigade Series)

by Margaret Weis

  Father Jacob was in the lead. He came to a sudden stop, raising his hand.

  “Put away your weapons, gentlemen. We are too late,” said Father Jacob. “Eiddwen has been and gone.”

  “How the devil do you know that?” Alan demanded.

  “There is a trail someone left in the grass over there, heading off toward those trees. And I can see the contramagic constructs glowing on the boulder from here,” said Father Jacob. “I am going to take a look. I would advise the rest of you to keep your distance. Including you, Sir Ander.”

  The rest of them stood where they were as Father Jacob proceeded toward the boulder. He walked around it, studying the constructs intently. At one point, he knelt down on the ground. The others stretched, trying to see.

  “What is it, Jacob?” Henry called. “What have you found?”

  “The detonator,” said Father Jacob.

  “Son of a bitch,” said Alan.

  Father Jacob remained on the ground a long time, studying the detonator. He reached out, taking care not to touch it, and cast some sort of spell. They could all see a faint blue glow of magic.

  Alan grew fidgety. He slapped his cheek.

  “I’m being eaten alive,” he said irritably. “I don’t see what good we’re doing, standing here staring at the damn rock. I’m going back to the coach.”

  “We can all go back,” said Father Jacob, standing up. “I was hoping to find some way to remove the fuse, but I don’t want to tamper with it. I might inadvertently set it off. Eiddwen has been here recently. The blood used in the spell is still liquid—”

  “Wait! I found a trail in the grass over here.” Alan had gone only a few steps before he came to a stop.

  “Oh, God,” he said in an altered voice.

  “What?” Henry demanded, alarmed. “What have you found?”

  Alan didn’t reply. He pointed. The others hurried over and gathered around him. The body of a young man lay in the grass that was trampled and wet with blood. His eyes were fixed and staring. His hands and feet were bound. His face was contorted in a grimace of pain and horror.

  The young man was bare chested. His homespun shirt lay off to the side, near an empty wine bottle. His breeches were unlaced.

  “Eiddwen lured the poor bastard here with the promise of a romp in the hay,” Henry remarked bitterly.

  “Instead she bound him, tortured him, and killed him. He was alive for a long time. He saw death coming,” Father Jacob said.

  “God have mercy on his soul,” said Sir Ander.

  Kneeling down, Father Jacob continued to examine the body. “She opened veins to let him bleed to death. See the cuts here on the thigh and here on the arm. Almost surgical in nature. Very skilled. Very precise.”

  “Why did she have to torture him?” Alan demanded harshly. “Some sick pleasure?”

  Father Jacob looked up at his brother. “I take it you have never before seen a victim of a blood magic ritual. Blood magic requires not only blood. She needed the victim’s fear and pain.”

  “The woman is a monster,” said Alan.

  Father Jacob closed the staring eyes, then rose to his feet. “There is nothing more we can do for him.”

  “We can report this to the authorities,” said Alan.

  Father Jacob and Henry glanced at each other.

  “We can’t tell anyone, Alan,” said Henry. “At least not until this is finished.”

  “We can’t have a bailiff and his men tromping about out here,” Father Jacob added. “They might stumble upon the boulder and the detonator. If they touched it…”

  “We can’t leave him to rot!” Alan protested.

  “We have no choice,” said Father Jacob. “Sir Ander, your handkerchief.”

  Sir Ander took out his handkerchief and handed it to Father Jacob, who walked to the corpse, placed the handkerchief gently over the man’s face and began to pray. Sir Ander bowed his head, and Henry respectfully removed his hat.

  “Bugger it!” said Alan, suddenly angry.

  He turned on his heel and stalked back to the carriage, viciously tramping the weeds beneath his boots.

  Sir Ander was shocked and started to issue a stern reprimand. Father Jacob rested his hand on his friend’s arm.

  “Let him be,” he said gently.

  When Father Jacob had concluded his prayer, he looked back at his brother. Alan had climbed up onto the driver’s box. He sat hunched over on the seat.

  “This is hard for him,” Father Jacob said.

  “Alan is not squeamish,” said Henry, defensive of his friend. “He’s waded ankle-deep in blood and never flinched. But I know how he feels.”

  “You would think I would have become hardened to such grisly sights,” said Sir Ander. “Every time I see a victim of blood magic, my gut twists.”

  “We accept the savagery of war as something honorable. Men go into battle with the willingness to sacrifice their lives for a cause greater than themselves,” said Father Jacob. “The victim of murder is not given a choice. The murderer steals life, takes from her victim God’s greatest gift. This man was nothing to Eiddwen, less than human. She used his cries of pain and his pleas for mercy only to fuel her magic.”

  As they walked back to the coach in silence, Henry reflected that his hands were far from clean. He had sanctioned murder, if he had not committed the deed. He absolved himself of any crime. He killed out of necessity, for a cause greater than himself, greater than them all. Someday, he would give his life in the same cause.

  He noticed Father Jacob watching him. The priest’s expression was grave, as though he had divined his thoughts.

  “I sleep quite well at night, Father,” said Henry. “Nothing on my conscience.”

  Father Jacob gave a slight smile and shook his head. “I leave you to God, sir.”

  They climbed into the carriage. Mr. Sloan snapped his whip over the heads of the wyverns and they flew off. The carriage circled over the boulder and the corpse lying in the flattened, bloodstained grass.

  “A terrible sight,” said Sir Ander.

  “I fear we will see worse than that before we are finished,” said Father Jacob.

  27

  God, fate, or coincidence, somewhere He, She, or It is laughing.

  —Captain Alan Northrop

  Waight was the town closest to the site of the boulder, one of a series of small towns located on the Longbow Highway that ran from Dunham in the south to Glenham in the north, following the fault line as Henry grimly noted. Originally small farming communities, these towns were becoming more prosperous with the expansion of the highway. Most of them had at least one inn. A few of the more up-and-coming villages offered the traveler the choice of two.

  None of the men spoke much on the journey to Waight. They sat in silence, their thoughts dark, until the coach gave an unexpected lurch and began to lose altitude.

  Henry opened the window and leaned his head out. He was about to ask what was wrong, when he could see the problem for himself.

  He ducked his head back inside. “One of our wyverns has injured its wing and is having difficulty flying.”

  Since they were near their destination, Mr. Sloan deemed that they could keep going. They could hear him shouting encouragement to the laboring wyvern as the coach sank lower and lower. By the time they reached the inn, the coach was barely skimming the ground. The landing was bumpy, but safe.

  Mr. Sloan unhitched the wyverns. After examining the injured wyvern, he looked at Henry and shook his head, then led the beasts to the stables. Henry stood in the yard, gloomily watching the wyvern limp away, dragging its injured wing.

  “The wretched beast could not have picked a worse time to get hurt!” Alan remarked bitterly. “The nearest place we can hope to find another wyvern is in Dunham and that is twenty miles away.”

  “We planned to remain in Waight tomorrow anyway to conduct our investigations,” said Father Jacob.

  “Father Jacob is right,” said Sir Henry. “Mr. Sloan can
ride to Dunham tomorrow to purchase another wyvern. I will obtain rooms for the night.”

  “I don’t like the looks of this place,” Alan grumbled.

  “Then you can sleep in the hayloft,” said Henry. “This is the only inn around for miles. Here comes ‘mine host.’ Let me do the talking.”

  The master of the hostelry had observed the four well-dressed gentlemen traveling in an elegant wyvern-drawn coach and came hurrying out to greet them. He was a tall man with a bald head and a genial face. His well-rounded paunch was a testament to his wife, the inn’s cook, or so he informed them, patting his belly with a broad smile.

  “How can I be of service, gentlemen?” he added.

  “I am supposed to meet my sister-in-law here. Should have arrived sooner but, as bad luck would have it, the damn wyvern came up lame,” said Henry. “As you can see, the beast is not fit to travel. Could you provide us with accommodations until we can find a replacement?”

  “If two of you would not mind doubling up, gentlemen, I can do so,” said the innkeeper. “We have only four rooms and one of them is occupied.”

  “Perhaps the occupant is my sister-in-law,” said Henry. “She is Estaran, quite striking in appearance. She is of medium height with black curly hair and black eyes. She might be in company with a young man, her nephew.”

  The innkeeper shook his head. “I am sorry to disappoint you, sir. The lady currently residing here has chestnut hair and green eyes. She travels in company with two servants. She has been with us for several days.”

  “That’s odd,” said Henry, frowning. “I am certain my sister-in-law wrote to meet her at the”—he cast a swift glance at the sign—“Wyvern’s Head inn. I trust nothing has happened to her.”

  “We can’t go anywhere with the wyvern laid up, Sir Henry,” said Father Jacob. “Perhaps you’ll hear some word of her. We’ll take a look at those rooms, Innkeep, if you would be so good as to show us.”

  The innkeeper was all smiles, talking affably as he accompanied them into the inn. His demeanor suddenly changed when he caught sight of Mr. Sloan returning from the stables. The innkeeper stopped talking in midsentence. He stared hard at Mr. Sloan. His brow creased, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed.

  “Who is that person?” he asked coldly.

  “He is my manservant,” said Henry, taken aback by the sudden change. “Why? What is wrong?”

  The innkeeper regarded Henry with contempt.

  “I cannot accommodate you, gentlemen.”

  The innkeeper walked off, leaving the men standing in the yard, staring at one another. They shifted their stares to Mr. Sloan.

  “Is anything amiss, my lord?” Mr. Sloan asked worriedly.

  “I was about to ask you the same question. What the devil have you done, Mr. Sloan?” Henry demanded. “That man took one look at you and refused to provide us with lodging.”

  “Did you sleep with the bloke’s wife, Mr. Sloan?” Alan asked, winking at Henry.

  Mr. Sloan stiffened and drew himself up. “Certainly not, sir.”

  “He’s jesting, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry, casting Alan an exasperated glance. “Can you think of anything?”

  “I confess I am baffled, sir,” said Mr. Sloan. “I was in this part of the country investigating the boulders, but I took care not to come near the inn. My agents inquired after Mistress Eiddwen.”

  “Well, now, what do we do? Something is certainly very odd here. Father, you’re looking grim. What do you think is going on?”

  “I think the young woman staying here is in very great danger,” said Father Jacob gravely. “We may already be too late to save her.”

  Alan blanched. “Good God! Not another bloody corpse! I’ll put an end to this!”

  He drew his pistol, cocked the hammer, and started for the door. Henry caught hold of him and dragged him back.

  “We can’t go in guns blazing, Alan. Keep your pistol handy. Let me do the talking. Are you armed, Sir Ander?”

  The knight brushed aside his coat, revealing a pistol in his pocket. Alan kept a grip on his weapon, but he released the hammer. Mr. Sloan patted the inner pocket of his coat. Father Jacob folded his hands. He had only his magic and he was the most dangerous of them all.

  Henry reached into his pocket, but he did not draw a pistol. He took out a leather case and entered the inn with Alan at his side. Father Jacob moved quickly to the foot of the stairs that led to the rooms on the second level. He peered up, looking and listening. Sir Ander and Mr. Sloan took up positions at the door.

  The innkeeper glared at them.

  “How dare you barge in here?” he demanded. “Get out of my establishment! I warn you! I will summon the bailiff—”

  Alan raised his pistol. The innkeeper gulped. Holding his hands in the air, he backed away from his desk.

  “Don’t shoot! You can have all the money! It’s in the strongbox—”

  “We are not here to rob you,” said Henry in disgust. He opened the leather case, drew out a card and laid it on the desk. “I am Sir Henry Wallace. You might have heard of me.”

  “Wallace!” The innkeeper went pale as death and began to wring his hands. “Please, your lordship. I am innocent! I have done nothing! Don’t take me to prison. I have a wife, children—”

  “All I want is information, my good man,” said Henry in soothing tones. “How did you know of Mr. Sloan? Is there some connection to the young woman staying here?”

  The innkeeper hesitated.

  “Be quick, sir!” Father Jacob said urgently. “Her life may depend on it!”

  “She … she arrived two nights ago, your lordship,” said the innkeeper. “She’s very young and pretty, sir. She told me she was fleeing her abusive husband and she begged for my help. She asked me to keep him away if he came.”

  The innkeeper cast a stricken glance at Mr. Sloan. “She gave me a description of the brute. I regret to say it matches you perfectly, sir.”

  “Very clever. She knew you were on her trail, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry.

  “Is this young woman traveling alone?” asked Sir Ander.

  “Yes,” said the innkeeper. “Except for her two servants. She has no visitors.”

  “And is she still in her room?”

  “As far as I know, your lordship,” said the quaking innkeeper. “I took luncheon up to her not long ago.”

  “What the devil difference does it make if she’s in her room or not?” Alan asked impatiently. “The woman in that room can’t be Eiddwen. She might be good at disguising herself, but she’s not that good—”

  “Not her,” said Father Jacob sharply. “Her servants!”

  “Two servants! Of course!” said Henry. “What room is she in?”

  “Number four, the room at the end of the hall.”

  “Keep watch at the door, Mr. Sloan!” Henry ordered.

  Father Jacob was already hurrying up the stairs. Henry and Alan and Sir Ander climbed quickly after him.

  “Quiet!” Father Jacob ordered softly.

  Arriving on the second floor, they moved down the hall, trying not to make any noise and not succeeding. Henry winced each time a floorboard creaked and groaned beneath his feet.

  When they came to the door marked with the number 4 in brass, Henry motioned Father Jacob and Alan to stay back. Alan had his pistol drawn. Henry drew his pistol, then rapped at the door.

  “Who is it?” a woman called.

  “Is that her voice?” Alan mouthed.

  Henry shook his head.

  “Innkeeper,” he said, doing a credible imitation of the man’s voice. “I saw the man you warned me about, your brute of a husband.”

  “Oh, my heavens! Please come in and tell me what you saw,” said the young woman. “The door is unlocked.”

  “Be careful!” Father Jacob warned softly.

  Henry nodded. “We go on three! One, two, three—”

  He flung open the door and sprang inside, pistol drawn. Alan ran in with him. The room’s only occupant, a young w
oman, rose to her feet, regarding them with astonishment.

  “Who are you?” she gasped. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “We mean you no harm, mistress. Search the room, Alan,” Henry ordered.

  He looked behind the curtains. Alan opened the door to the wardrobe and peered inside. Father Jacob stood in the doorway. Sir Ander stayed near the priest.

  “No one else here,” Alan reported.

  Henry turned back to the young woman. She was in her early twenties, or so he guessed. Her long chestnut hair was bound neatly around her head in braids. She was fair complected with a flush of rose on her cheeks. Her pretty frock was plain, but well made.

  “Who do you expect to find? I am quite alone, as you see,” she said haughtily.

  Henry glanced out the window. “Where are your servants, madame?”

  “I sent them on an errand,” she replied. “Tell me, gentlemen, do you make a practice of barging into ladies’ boudoirs with pistols? Or have I been specially singled out?”

  Alan cast an accusing glance at his brother. “She’s in no danger, Jacob. You’ve made us look like damn fools!”

  Alan removed his hat and bowed. “We beg your pardon, madame. We have made a dreadful mistake. I hope you will forgive us.”

  The young woman regarded the handsome captain with a smile. She hesitated, then relented.

  “How could I reject such a charming apology,” she said. “We must be friends. I am Irene Fairchild.”

  She held out her hand to him.

  “Don’t touch her, Alan!” Father Jacob warned. “She’s a sorceress!”

  Henry didn’t know if she was a sorceress or not, but he was suspicious of the young woman’s calm demeanor. By rights, with four strange men invading her room, she should have been shrieking for help.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Jacob, don’t be an ass!” Alan said in disgust.

  Taking hold of the young woman’s hand, he bent to kiss it.

  Irene smiled at him. “I am so pleased to meet you, Captain—”

  Her hand darted from the folds of her skirt and thrust a dagger into his midriff. Alan gasped in shock and pain. He pressed his hand to his side and drew back his fingers, covered in blood. But the dagger meant to kill had merely sliced through his flesh. The magical constructs sewn into his weskit had saved him from serious harm.