Shadow Raiders tdb-1

by Margaret Weis

  “But she killed herself!”

  “We are meant to think she killed herself.”

  “But what about Brother Paul? He was with her?”

  “He had fallen asleep. They waited for their chance.”

  Albert grew pale. “That means they are out there, watching us.. .”

  “I think it likely. Especially since they did not find what they came for.”

  “How do you know, Father?”

  “They would have burned the cathedral, destroyed all the evidence. As it is, they need to come back to continue the search. The prince-abbot risked his life to save these books. He would have hidden them with care. The books of Saint Dennis will not be easy to find.”

  “You don’t believe the attackers were demons from Hell, do you, Father,” said Albert.

  “I think it highly unlikely Aertheum the Fallen would be interested in the writings of a saint,” said Father Jacob.

  “I saw the paw prints,” said Albert. “The claw marks left by the fiends that ripped those poor women apart. I think you are wrong, Father.”

  Father Jacob gazed somberly out a broken window. He didn’t see bloodstained grass or fire-torched trees or the shadow of the dragon, passing over the bleak land. He saw the future, and he sighed deeply.

  “I almost hope I am wrong, my friend. I think I would rather face the immortal hordes of Aertheum the Fallen than the terrible foes who flew over these walls that tragic night…”

  Sir Ander did not hurry his errand to the Retribution. He walked slowly, taking his time, trying to come to grips with the tragic sights he had witnessed. In the skies above, the faithful Hroal was still on patrol. Or perhaps that dragon was Droal, his brother. Sir Ander waved, and the dragon dipped a wing in return.

  When Sir Ander finally reached the yacht, he looked out into the Breath and saw the balloon and sails of a naval cutter. Had the navy been sent to assist in the investigation? If so, Father Jacob would be furious.

  The cutter drifted slowly among the light mists, sailing close enough to be able to keep watch on the shoreline, but apparently not intending to dock.

  The cutter must be on routine patrol duty, searching for pirates who liked to hide in secluded coves and inlets. The grand bishop might have hinted that the navy pay more attention to this section of coastline, but he would not have told them to start looking for demons riding giant bats! No one is more superstitious than a sailor and no one more talkative when they go ashore. The grand bishop would keep the details of this attack secret as long as possible.

  Father Jacob had both key-locked and magic-locked the yacht door. The key Sir Ander used to unlock the door was inscribed with a magical sigil that broke the spell. He entered the yacht and first checked to make certain all his weapons were cleaned and loaded. He then unlocked and opened a cabinet hidden beneath one of the beds, took out a swivel gun, and, climbing up to the yacht’s roof, mounted it on top.

  He then went to the chest where Father Jacob kept his vestments. Drawing out the alb, the stole, and the chasuble, Sir Ander held the sacred garments, smoothing the fine fabric with his hand and thinking of the battle that he, like Father Jacob, saw coming.

  On his way back to the cathedral, Sir Ander paused to scan the gray cliffs and jagged rock formations. A grim landscape, bleak and desolate. The demons could hide an entire army among those crags, he thought, and he was thankful the dragons were keeping watch from the skies. Hroal and Droal might be well past their prime, but dragon eyesight was still much keener than that of humans-even the eyesight of elderly dragons. The brothers would have been quick to notice any sign of enemy movement.

  Sir Ander shifted his head to look once more into the vastness of the Breath with its swirling mists. Nothing much to be done to stop an enemy that came from the mists. He was glad to have the cutter with its cannons out there. He hoped it stayed around.

  He returned to the cathedral and found the sanctuary cleansed of blood. Candles glowed on the altar. Brother Barnaby was carrying the last few buckets containing the blood of the martyrs. Another monk was assisting him in this sorrowful task.

  Brother Barnaby smiled to see Sir Ander, took the priestly vestments, and went to find Father Jacob. Barnaby made introductions before he left.

  “Sir Ander, this is Brother Paul of the Holy Order of Saint Ignatius.”

  “I am pleased to meet a Knight Protector,” said Brother Paul, straightening from stooping over the buckets and turning to face Sir Ander. “God honors your selfless service.”

  “Thank you, Father-” Sir Ander began.

  “I prefer to be known simply as ‘Brother Paul,’” said the monk, with a grave smile. “I joined the Order of Saint Ignatius several years ago and have since dedicated my life to his service.”

  Brother Paul was not ill-favored, but he was certainly unusual in appearance. So much so that Sir Ander found himself staring. Brother Paul was slim, of about average height with a wiry build. What struck Sir Ander was the monk’s excessively pale skin, almost alabaster. His hair, cut in the tonsure, was dark black and curly. His face was smooth. He had no facial hair. He was not too young to grow a beard. He looked to be at least thirty-five. Sir Ander could not tell the color of the monk’s eyes; they were hidden behind spectacles made of dark glass.

  “You find these curious,” Brother Paul said, touching his spectacles.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” said Sir Ander, flustered. “I’ve seen spectacles before, but never ones made of dark glass.”

  “No need to apologize. They are specially made for me. My eyesight is weak. I am subject to headaches, and I find these help.”

  Sir Ander muttered something about that being good, then asked, “Can I do anything to assist you?”

  “Our sad task is finished,” said Brother Paul. His voice was deep, with a musical tone that had a pleasant, soothing quality. He staggered at that moment, and almost fell.

  “Sit down, Brother,” said Sir Ander. “You seem weary to the point of dropping.”

  “I have slept little in all the nights since the attack,” said Brother Paul in an apologetic tone.

  “No one could blame you,” said Sir Ander, assisting the monk to a pew.

  He sat beside the monk, noting as he did so that the hem of his robes was covered in mud and stained with blood.

  “You were nursing that young woman who survived,” said Sir Ander. “I heard she died.”

  “Thanks be to God, she is at peace,” said Brother Paul somberly. “The demons did not rend her flesh, but they sank their claws into her soul and dragged her down into Hell’s pit. I pray for God’s love and mercy for her tormented soul.”

  “Then you believe Hell’s legions were responsible for this attack?” Sir Ander asked.

  “I do not have the slightest doubt, sir!” Brother Paul seemed astonished at the idea that anyone could think otherwise. He regarded Sir Ander sternly. “You do believe in Hell, Sir Knight.”

  Sir Ander didn’t know quite how to answer. He and Father Jacob had often held discussions regarding the nature of Hell and Heaven. Sir Ander didn’t like the thought of a wrathful God who doomed souls to eternal torment.

  “We are commanded to believe in Hell, sir,” Brother Paul added in rebuking tones.

  Sir Ander saw the road ahead littered with theological caltrops and wisely reined in the conversation and switched subjects, asking questions about the grand organ whose pipes gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. Did it still work, did anyone play?

  Brother Paul answered readily, and the uncomfortable moment passed. Astonished by the monk’s fervor, Sir Ander made a mental note to tell Father Jacob.

  There was no more talk of Hell, for Father Jacob, robed in his vestments, entered the sanctuary, accompanied by Brother Barnaby. Both made a reverence to the altar, then Father Jacob took his place before it. Master Albert joined Brother Paul in a pew in the front. Sir Ander retreated, finding a pew by himself in the back. He felt in need of solitude.

  Fathe
r Jacob’s voice resonated through the sanctuary.

  “Eternal rest grant to them…”

  The sun shone through the broken glass. Sir Ander felt its warmth ease the chill that seemed to have struck to his heart. Outside, he could hear birdsong, making up for the lack of music, for the sister who had played the organ was dead. The song of the birds, accompanying the words of the mass, comforted Sir Ander. Simple souls, the birds gave no thought to Heaven or Hell. They sang for joy because the sun shone.

  He brought his mind back to the service and was kneeling to pray when, to his immense astonishment, he caught sight of a man also seated at the very back, in a pew a few rows over. The man was short and nondescript. Dressed in a plainly made traveling cloak well-splashed with mud, he looked like a clerk on holiday. He was on his knees, his hands clasped, as Father Jacob prayed for the souls of the dead.

  Sir Ander dared not interrupt the sacred sermon by calling attention to this stranger who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He cast a glance at Father Jacob, to see if he was aware of the stranger. If so, the priest gave no sign. Sir Ander wondered how the man had slipped past the dragon, who was apparently keeping such careful watch. The Knight Protector clapped his hand on his dragon pistol and kept his gaze fixed on the interloper. If the man noticed, he gave no indication. He sat listening to the service reverently.

  The moment the service ended, Sir Ander bounded to his feet, crossed over to the pew, and seized hold of the man by the arm. He searched him for weapons and pulled an odd-looking gun from a leather holster. The man offered no resistance, but smiled placidly at the knight.

  “Who are you, sir?” Sir Ander demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sir Ander Martel,” said the man. “I am glad to see the Knight Protectors take their vows seriously. My commendations.”

  “I take my duty seriously, sir, as you will find out to your sorrow if you do not answer my questions,” Sir Ander said grimly.

  “His name is Dubois,” said Father Jacob, walking down the aisle. “He is the bishop’s agent, Sir Ander. One might say we are on the same side.” He regarded Dubois with a slight smile and added, “Or one might not.”

  Sir Ander released Dubois reluctantly and handed back his weapon. Dubois tucked the gun into its holster.

  “All of us are on the side of the angels,” Dubois said gravely. He cast Father Jacob a keen glance. “I would very much appreciate a moment of your time, Father.”

  “I rather suspected you might,” said Father Jacob wryly.

  The two walked off toward a shadowy alcove. Seeing Sir Ander moving to accompany them, Dubois stopped and said politely, “You are not needed for the moment, Sir Ander. Your charge is safe with me.”

  “I am here to ensure the safety of you both,” said Sir Ander gravely. “We have reason to believe that whoever committed these atrocities may still be in the area.”

  Dubois appeared rather disconcerted by this statement. He looked around uneasily, as though suspecting murderers hiding beneath the pews.

  “My time is short,” said Father Jacob irascibly. “As I am certain your time is as well, Dubois.” He glanced at the mud-stained cloak. “My guess is that you are hot on the trail of someone. Sir Henry Wallace, perhaps?”

  Dubois gave a great start of astonishment. Then he smiled and twirled his hat in his hands. “You do like to have your little jests, don’t you, Father? But since you bring up the topic yourself, you won’t mind my asking if you have seen any signs that might lead you to think Henry Wallace had anything to do with this terrible tragedy?”

  Father Jacob regarded Dubois with narrowed eyes. He did not immediately answer, but asked his own question.

  “Do you have reason to think he does?”

  Dubois gave a little cough. The two stood staring intently at one another.

  Like a pair of duelists, Sir Ander thought.

  “No,” Father Jacob said at last. “I have not.”

  “Do you have any idea where Sir Henry Wallace might be?” Dubois asked.

  “The last time I saw Henry Wallace was some twenty years ago. He was firing a gun at me at the time in an attempt to kill me. Needless to say, we do not keep in touch,” Father Jacob answered gravely.

  Dubois inclined his head, then put on his hat. “That is all I needed to know. I should warn you, Father, and you, Sir Ander, that I have reason to believe Sir Henry Wallace is in Rosia. You should be on your guard.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Dubois, but since I have nothing to do with the Royal Armory, I doubt if Wallace would be much interested in me.”

  Dubois again looked startled, then he wagged his finger. “Ah, Father Jacob, you are a caution. You will have your little jest. And now, I must be going. God be with you, gentlemen, and speed your holy work to find those who committed this unholy crime.”

  Dubois gave a bobbing bow and took his leave, looking more like a clerk than ever, Sir Ander thought, as he escorted him out of the cathedral. Sir Ander kept an eye on Dubois until he exited the gate, where a wyvern-drawn carriage was waiting for him. The shadow of wings passed overhead. Hroal was also keeping an eye on Dubois.

  He waited until the carriage had taken to the skies, then walked back inside the cathedral. He found Father Jacob standing with his head bent, deep in thought.

  “You think Wallace is behind this, Father?” Sir Ander asked.

  Father Jacob shook his head. “Henry Wallace may be many things and most of them bad, but he is first, last, and always a Freyan patriot. He has worked all his life to one end and that is for Freya to rule the seven continents. He has no motive. The slaughter of these poor women has nothing to do with politics.”

  Sir Ander shook his head. “Still, I don’t like the fact that Wallace is in Rosia.”

  “The man is up to some mischief, you may be certain,” said Father Jacob. “But let us leave Wallace to Dubois. We must lay to rest the blood of the martyrs.”

  Master Albert, Brother Barnaby, Father Jacob, and Sir Ander each picked up the buckets of bloodstained water and carried them to the back of the cathedral. Brother Paul led them to the entrance to the catacombs-a long row of stone stairs that had been cut into the ground, leading down to a wrought-iron gate.

  Beyond the gate, the dead slept in silent darkness.

  The gate was not locked and, though the hinges were rusted, it opened easily enough. Brother Paul brought two lanterns. Guided by their light, they entered the catacombs.

  Dating back hundreds of years, the catacombs had likely been constructed at the same time as the abbey, built far below ground level. The men entered a long corridor with an arched ceiling made entirely of bricks. Magical constructs would have been placed on the bricks to keep the catacombs dry and preserve the structural integrity. When the magic constructs started to fade, crafter priests would have renewed them.

  Many bodies, shrouded in white linen, had been placed in niches in the walls. Due to space considerations, only high-ranking members of the Church had been buried in tombs. During the Dark Time, the abbey had been abandoned and there had been no more burials. When the world emerged from the Dark Time, burial customs and practices had changed. The idea of placing bodies out in the open covered only by a shroud was considered distasteful. The Abbey of Saint Agnes, like many other churches, established a cemetery where the sisters were laid to rest. The abbesses were entombed in the cemetery’s mausoleum.

  The catacombs were not forgotten. Once a year, the abbess and the sisters entered to pay their respects to the dead in a reverent ceremony, saying prayers and placing flowers on the tomb of the first abbess.

  The men walked single file in respectful silence through the narrow corridors. They found the abbess’ tomb-a large and elaborately carved marble sarcophagus-in a large niche covered with dust and remnants of dead flowers. The effigy of a woman graced the top of the sarcophagus; her stone face seemed grave, sorrowful.

  “She grieves,” said Brother Barnaby softly.

  Beyond
, the corridor grew narrower. Dimly seen in the lantern light were the tombs that dated back to the time of the prince-abbot. The men placed the buckets on the floor, gathered around the tomb, and bowed their heads.

  Father Jacob led them in prayer, then Brother Barnaby slowly and reverently lifted a bucket and poured the water stained with the blood of the martyrs onto the stone floor around the tomb. The red-stained water slid over the bricks that had been worn smooth by time and seeped down through the cracks. One by one, each man said a soft prayer, then poured the water around the tomb. Brother Barnaby placed the bucket carrying the remains on the altar.

  Their sad task accomplished, the men stood a moment in silence, broken by Brother Paul saying softly, “The martyrs shine with glory, safe in the arms of God.”

  Brother Paul turned to leave. Albert, carrying one of the lanterns, accompanied him. Sir Ander was about to go with the other two, when Father Jacob softly called his name. Turning, Sir Ander saw the priest standing beside the tomb, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I feel the need to remain here a moment,” said Father Jacob. He shot Sir Ander a glittering glance from out of the corner of his eye.

  Sir Ander tensed and slipped his hand inside his coat, to the pocket where he kept his stowaway pistol.

  “Leave the lantern with Sir Ander and go with the others, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “I know your wyverns will be hungry.”

  Brother Barnaby’s face brightened at the mention of his beloved wyverns, then constricted with concern. “You are right, Father. Poor things. They must be starving. I have neglected them. I will go to them at once.”

  Brother Barnaby handed over the lantern, then hurried off.

  Sir Ander played the light on the stone walls, sending it jabbing into dark niches. “He is safely gone. What is wrong?”

  “I hear something,” Father Jacob said, cocking his head.

  Sir Ander cocked the pistol’s hammer and listened.

  “I don’t hear anything,” he said after a moment.