The Seventh Sigil (Dragon Brigade Series)

by Margaret Weis

  I may not be overly burdened with courage, but I am not a coward.

  His own words came back to him. This Blood Mage and his followers were demented murderers. He could not let them continue their atrocities. He knew, too, the truth of what they would do to him and to the boy beside him.

  If I have done nothing else good in my life, Rodrigo said to himself with a sigh and a faint smile, I will do this.

  “You misjudge me, sir,” he said aloud and he flung the lantern to the floor.

  The lantern crashed in a shower of glass and flaring blue sparks. The magical constructs on the floor burst to life. Blue fire flashed along the trail, spreading rapidly to the barrels.

  Master Tutillo’s hand closed over his. “Will it be quick, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Rodrigo.

  The Blood Mage grunted in surprise and cast a startled glance at the flaring magic.

  “Run!” he shouted. “Back to the ship!”

  The Blood Guards made a desperate dash. Their feet pounded down the hall. The Blood Mage followed, disdaining to run, although he did move at a rapid walk, his coat flowing behind him. He paused in the door to look back at Rodrigo, his eyes reflecting the blue glow, were dark and malevolent. And then he was gone.

  The magical fire reached the barrels of gunpowder. The magical constructs on the barrels flared. Rodrigo shut his eyes tightly and waited for the blast that he imagined as a white-hot sun turning him inside out.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  No blast. Nothing happened. Rodrigo opened one eye.

  The blue magic had gone out. The barrels of gunpowder stood untouched, safe and secure, in no danger of exploding. Rodrigo opened both eyes, staring.

  “I guess your magic didn’t work,” said Master Tutillo.

  Rodrigo was shocked and indignant. “My magic always works! This should have blown up! We should be dead!”

  He felt quite annoyed and was about to go examine the constructs to see what had gone wrong.

  “Sir!” Master Tutillo seized hold of his arm. “That Blood Mage! He’ll know the magic didn’t work when the fortress doesn’t blow up! He’ll be back!”

  “Good God! You’re right!”

  Rodrigo jumped to his feet and started toward the exit, with Master Tutillo behind him. Reaching the door, Rodrigo stopped. The fortress was crawling with members of the Blood Guard. Not to mention the Blood Mage, who would be justifiably angry at Rodrigo for the fright he had just given him.

  “We can’t go out there,” he said.

  “We can’t stay in here either, sir,” Master Tutillo pointed out.

  “Rigo! I can hear you!” Miri called from the darkness. “I can’t see you, though. Where are you?”

  Rodrigo blinked. “That sounded like Miri.”

  “It is Mistress Miri, sir!” Master Tutillo said, elated. He pointed the opposite direction from where they were standing. “She’s at the door to the armory! We can go out that way!”

  “I didn’t know there was a door to the armory,” Rodrigo said. “But then I didn’t know there was an armory. Lead the way.”

  Master Tutillo started off. Rodrigo was about to follow. He glanced back at the barrels of gunpowder, the constructs on the floor, and saw them glimmer with faint blue-green glow. Rodrigo came to a halt. He stared at the constructs and then he began to laugh.

  “The seventh sigil!”

  Master Tutillo came running back in search of him. He eyed Rodrigo with concern. “Sir, are you hysterical?”

  Rodrigo shook his head and wiped his eyes. Master Tutillo latched on to him and began to lead him through a maze of muskets stacked like corn stalks and cases of ammunition and what-not. Miri was waiting for them at the door, looking grim, a pistol in her hand.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked, glaring at Rodrigo.

  “The seventh sigil,” he explained. “It’s working.” He began to laugh again.

  Miri snorted and went back to keeping watch out the door. “I’ll pretend to care later. Right now, we have to get out of here. If we can make it to the privies, we can go from there out the back door. But that’s not going to be easy.”

  To reach the privies they had to cross the large, cavernous corridor, about thirty yards with no cover.

  A loud voice echoed down the corridor. The Blood Mage was redeploying his troops, sending them to secure the fortress.

  “And if you find that fop, bring him to me—alive. I will be on the bridge.”

  Rodrigo stopped laughing.

  Miri eyed him. “You are the fop in question, I assume.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Rodrigo with a self-deprecating smile. “He’s going to try to escape in the fortress. He said he needed me to help with the magic.”

  “But he can’t raise it off the ground,” Miri said, frowning. “The magic was failing.”

  “But the seventh sigil is working. That’s what’s so funny.” said Rodrigo. “The seventh sigil has been repairing the magic. We have to stop him.”

  “We can’t, Rigo,” said Miri. “This place is crawling with his soldiers. We might have a chance—a slim one—to escape out the back door. But that’s all we have.”

  Rodrigo and Master Tutillo exchanged glances. Master Tutillo had armed himself with a rifle. He gave a tight-lipped nod. Rodrigo sighed deeply.

  “Miri, we have to try—”

  “Hush!” Miri gripped hold of him, digging her fingernails into his wrist. She looked back into the powder magazine. “I heard voices.”

  “Blood Guards!” Rodrigo said. “They’re searching for me.”

  “And there are more coming from this direction,” said Miri, looking out the door. “We’re cut off.”

  A huge, bellowing roar resounded through the fortress.

  Rodrigo recognized Viola. He sighed deeply and thought to himself that angels must roar like that dragon.

  The Blood Guards who had entered the powder magazine jerked their heads around in alarm and then hurriedly fled.

  “We have to find Stephano,” Rodrigo said. “Warn him about the Blood Mage—”

  “No,” said Miri firmly. She slammed shut the door and leaned her back against it. “We’re staying put, right where we are. Master Tutillo, go shut that other door. Shove something up against it and stand guard. Rigo, help me drag that crate over.”

  He and Miri hauled a large crate across the floor and positioned it in front of the door. Master Tutillo shifted a metal crate and stood beside it, rifle ready. Sounds from outside grew muffled.

  “We’re safe for the moment,” said Miri. She smiled at Rodrigo. “You can stop being a hero now.”

  “Thank God,” he said in heartfelt tones. “I’m simply not cut out for it.”

  Miri drew close to him, putting her arm through his arm. She leaned her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her.

  “I hope it’s over soon,” he said.

  “It will be,” said Miri. “One way or the other.”

  42

  In my experience, being a hero is bad for the complexion. I don’t recommend it.

  —Rodrigo de Villeneuve, journal

  Stephano left the battle in the skies over Dunlow with mingled feelings: sorrow over the death of Hroal, grim satisfaction in the destruction of the temple, and cautious optimism that they had succeeded in stopping the invasion fleet. He could not yet know with certainty they had won, but he could see many ships on fire and more sinking to the ground.

  His concern now was the fortress. He had heard the cannons firing, then a loud blast, and then nothing. He could only assume that the green beam weapon had destroyed at least one of the gun emplacements.

  He was so desperate to see that he released the straps holding him in the saddle and stood up, balancing himself precariously as he held his spyglass to his eye. The ship with the red flag had landed in front of the fortress, and he could not tell from this angle, but he assumed its crew had the fort under siege.

  Lowering his spyglass,
he noticed smoke rising from a patch of trees off to his left. He looked more closely and sharply ordered Viola to fly over to investigate.

  The dragon flew low over the trees as a gentle rain fell. Heavy gray clouds seemed more sorrowful than threatening. Smoke rose from the blackened, smoldering wreckage of a boat. All that was left was a strip of gaily colored silk caught on a tree branch. The silk fluttered gallantly like a tattered flag, refusing to surrender.

  Stephano recognized the Cloud Hopper.

  Bleak, bitter pain tore at his heart; rage and anger burned in his throat. Viola also recognized Miri’s boat, and she turned her head to stare at him in anguish. He indicated with a hand signal she should circle, looking for survivors, although he knew that was hopeless. No one could have survived that fire.

  The land around was empty.

  “Fly to the fort,” he ordered harshly. “The ship first.”

  Viola banked, wheeling in the air, and flew toward the ship. Stephano expected to come under fire from the green beam weapon, and braced himself for the attack. He was surprised when nothing happened. Drawing near the ship, he saw the reason. Six fiends in garish red uniforms were hauling the green beam weapon down the gangplank with the apparent aim of taking it into the fortress. Stephano had no need to give Viola orders. The two were a team; she knew what to do.

  The dragon dove swiftly and silently on the enemy. The soldiers were so busy with their work they did not see Viola coming until one of them glanced up and saw death swooping down. Stephano had to give the fiends credit. They did not flee in terror, as he expected. They tried frantically to shift the barrel of the weapon, bring it to bear on the dragon.

  Viola breathed a blast of fire that incinerated the weapon and its crew, who died before they could even scream. The dragon flew up out of her dive and soared over the walls of the fortress, leaving behind a mass of twisted metal and charred flesh.

  Stephano studied the ship, which was flying a red flag with a black sun pierced by a curved-bladed sword. He found this odd. The ships of the invasion fleet had all flown a different flag, what he assumed was the flag of Glasearrach: a golden tree against a background of green and white stripes.

  The same blood-red flag was now flying over his fortress.

  Stephano blamed himself. When the fortress had come down in the wrong place, he had known it might come under attack. He should have made better provisions for its defense, though even as he thought this he asked himself what more he could have done. He had needed Dag and Verdi to lead the assault on the ships. He had needed every one of his dragons to attack the fleet.

  His men had not given up without a fight. He could see the gaping hole in the wall, the twisted remains of the cannons, and the smoldering remnants of the main gate, destroyed by enemy fire. He ordered Viola to set fire to the ship. They made several passes and soon the masts were burning brightly and the deck was in flames.

  “Fly over the fort,” Stephano told her.

  He examined the bridge as they flew past and was pleased to see that it had not suffered any damage. The constructs of the seventh sigil, Rodrigo’s pride and joy, were intact. But if it had been supposed to protect the fort, it had failed. Rodrigo would be unhappy. Stephano tried not to think about Rodrigo lying dead in that fort, and comforted himself with the thought that his friend had a strong sense of self-preservation. He would have found someplace safe to hide. Perhaps he was in the storage room with Doctor Ellington.

  As Viola circled the fortress, she began picking off the red-uniformed soldiers manning the parapet that encircled the top. Drawing in an enormous breath, she spewed out a slow, steady stream of fire down on the fiends as she passed overhead. Some broke and ran, while others stood their ground, returning fire, shooting green fireballs at the dragon.

  One of the blasts hit Viola in the shoulder, and Stephano felt her flinch with the pain. Having run out of breath by this time, she killed the fiend who had shot at her with a swipe of her claws, ripping him apart and taking out a chunk of the parapet.

  The walls of the fort were now empty except for the bodies of the dead. Those who had managed to survive had fled inside. Stephano nudged Viola with his legs, and she rose into the air, making a wide circle above the fortress. As he considered whether or not to wait for Dag, Viola suddenly shifted her head. Stephano looked to see what she had spotted.

  A group of men wearing Rosian uniforms were marching down out of the foothills. Sighting the dragon, they began waving wildly to draw his attention. Stephano signaled Viola to land, and she flew down to the ground.

  Stephano freed himself from the saddle and dismounted. The men approached as close as they dared, taking care not to come too close to the dragon. Viola stood aloof and proud, her wings folded at her sides, her tail slightly brushing the ground. She kept a narrow-eyed watch on Stephano, who fairly radiated anger.

  Stephano removed his helm and eyed the soldiers grimly. “Why have you men abandoned your posts?”

  They all began to talk at once. Stephano silenced them with a baleful look. One man stepped forward. Stephano recognized Cook. He had apparently made himself their leader.

  “What have you to say for yourself?” Stephano asked coldly.

  “It was Master Tutillo’s orders, Captain,” said Cook. “He’s in command now, sir.”

  “He told you to retreat?”

  Stephano couldn’t believe it. The midshipman might be young, but he had always proven himself to be an exemplary soldier.

  “It was that friend of yours, Captain. The foppish gentleman.”

  “Rodrigo?”

  “Yes, sir. He told Master Tutillo that these demons were … what did he call them…”

  “Blood mages,” several of the men called out.

  “That’s it, sir. They murdered our boys and then used their blood to make themselves more powerful. Master Tutillo said that if we stayed, they would kill us and use our blood the same way.”

  Stephano remembered Miri telling him about blood mages, how they tortured and then slaughtered the sacrificial victims.

  “We did as Master Tutillo ordered, sir, though we didn’t like it,” Cook went on.

  “Where is Master Tutillo?” Stephano looked around.

  “He and your friend are in the fort. The foppish gentleman said he knew how to fight the demons.”

  “You’re talking about Monsieur Rodrigo? Fighting demons?” Stephano repeated. “Are you certain?”

  “That’s what Master Tutillo told us, Captain. We did as he ordered, came out here and found the women,” Cook continued.

  Stephano stared in confusion. “What women?”

  “Mistress Miri and her sister, a countess and the princess,” said Cook.

  For a moment Stephano couldn’t speak or even breathe as joy and relief overwhelmed him. “Are they … all right?”

  “Wet, worn out, and hungry, but otherwise fine. The countess and the princess and Mistress Miri’s sister are back in the caves,” Cook said, jerking his thumb in that direction. “I left men to guard them.”

  “Where’s Mistress Miri?”

  “When she found out your friend, the foppish gentleman, was still in the fortress, she went to fetch him. I tried to stop her, sir,” Cook added hurriedly. “She gave me such a look. It’s a wonder I’m not burnt to a crisp.

  “After she left, the rest of us talked it over and decided to join her, go back to the fort. We know we’re disobeying orders, Captain, but we’re not going to give up without a fight. We were on our way when we saw you.”

  Cook and the other men anxiously watched Stephano. He had only been half listening. He had planned to wait for Dag and the dragons to attack the fort, but couldn’t do that now, not with Miri and Rodrigo and Master Tutillo still inside.

  Stephano turned to the dragon. “Viola, these men and I are going to enter the fortress on foot. I need you to keep watch from the air, give us cover.”

  As Viola lifted her wings, bounded off with her powerful hind legs, and soa
red into the sky, Stephano shifted his attention to the terrain around the fort. He and his men were in the foothills, hidden from view of anyone inside the fort by trees and boulders. Once they descended, the ground they would have to cross was devoid of cover, with not so much as a single tree or a ditch. Even the rain, which would have obscured their movements, had stopped. The sun was trying to break through the clouds.

  Stephano ordered the men to fall into line. Taking the lead, he walked beside Cook.

  “Tell me about these blood mages,” Stephano said. “How do they fight?”

  “They use demon magic, sir,” he said, sounding awed. “They smear themselves with blood and bullets bounce right off them.”

  Stephano wondered if that was true. He had fought Bottom Dwellers before and knew they were hard to kill. But bullets bouncing off them? He didn’t consider that likely, magic or no magic.

  He looked back at the line of marching men, fifteen in all, carrying rifles. “How are the men fixed for powder and ammunition?”

  Cook shook his head. “We have what we carried with us. And likely the powder’s damp by now, sir.”

  Stephano nodded. He was armed with two empty pistols and his sword. He had long since run out of ammunition.

  “We’ll go to the armory first,” he said, deciding on the spot. “Pick up extra muskets, powder, and ammunition. I hope the enemy hasn’t raided it.”

  “I doubt they would, sir. Their guns shoot fire and they have their accursed swords and their demon magic. All we have is bullets,” Cook concluded morosely.

  When they arrived at the edge of the woods near the fort, Stephano halted the men just before they broke cover.

  “We’re going to make a run for it.”

  Drawing his sword, he led the charge, bounding over the soggy ground, splashing and squishing, slipping in the mud. The men ran after him, carrying their muskets high, trying to keep their powder dry. When they reached the stony ground, they could run faster, but those in the fort with an outside view would be able to see them coming. Viola flew overhead, keeping watch, ready to attack any of the enemy that dared show themselves.