The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  “I’ll go to Alan,” Sir Henry cried, running past. “You stay with Father Jacob!”

  “I can’t find him! Have you seen him?” Sir Ander shouted.

  Sir Henry shook his head and kept running.

  Sir Ander fought his way through the wind-driven rain, searching for the priest in the light of every lightning strike. Father Jacob must be here somewhere, caught in the storm, unarmed save for his magic and in a strange, fey mood.

  While he was looking, Sir Ander stumbled upon the soldier who had fired at him—or what was left of the man. The enraged griffin was holding the man like a mouse in its eagle claws, tearing him apart with its razor-sharp beak.

  Sir Ander thrust his pistol into his belt inside his coat, hoping to keep it as dry as possible. Drawing his sword, he kept searching.

  Lightning arced across the clouds in a dazzling array. He glanced back to see Sir Henry standing protectively over his fallen friend, aiming his pistol at something in the darkness. He saw a flash, but no shot rang out. Either the gun had misfired or the powder was wet.

  In the next lightning strike, he saw Sir Henry pick up Alan’s sword and spring at his attacker. Green fire blazed, blue constructs on the sword flared briefly, then went out. Darkness and sheets of rain dropped like a curtain. Sir Ander heard muffled sounds, a cry and a groan.

  “Henry!” Sir Ander risked calling.

  No response.

  Sir Ander’s instinct was to go to the aid of a comrade, even if that comrade was Henry Wallace. His duty, however, was to Father Jacob, as Sir Henry himself had reminded him.

  Sir Ander stood in the rain, grimly taking stock of the situation. Between them, they had disposed of three of the guards, perhaps four, he couldn’t be certain. But the cost had been high. Alan was gravely wounded, perhaps dead and God alone knew what had become of Sir Henry.

  And the two most dangerous people, Eiddwen and Lucello, were still at work, presumably working to arm the bomb. He and Father Jacob were the only people left to complete the mission, and he had no idea what had happened to the priest.

  Sir Ander continued his search. Whenever the lightning flared, he scanned the area. All he could see was the desolate landscape of mud, brush, and stunted trees. All he could hear was the thunder and, from deep inside him, the sound of the drums.

  Sir Ander was no crafter and yet he could hear drumbeats pounding in his ears like the pulsing of his heart’s blood.

  “If I can hear them, then we’re in trouble,” Sir Ander muttered beneath his breath.

  Thunder rumbled, shaking the ground. Sir Ander realized he was walking about aimlessly and he forced himself to stop, wait for the next lightning flash, find landmarks, get his bearings.

  Raucous, joyous cawings sounded in the distance. The cawings grew louder, coming from overhead. Sir Ander looked up to see the griffins winging their way through the storm, returning to their eyries.

  All the griffins, including those they had ridden, still wearing their saddles.

  They’ll leave you high and dry. Sir Ander smiled grimly.

  Purple lightning billowed across the sky and in the flash he located the huge, misshapen lump that was the boulder. He had been walking in the wrong direction, away from it.

  Still no sign of Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander cautiously retraced his steps. He had caught only that one glimpse of the boulder, but it was enough for him to be able to tell that it was massive. He stood over six feet tall and the boulder topped him by several feet. Roughly round in shape, it measured probably a good ten feet across. Judging from the grass growing around the base and the fact that it was partially buried in the ground, the boulder had been here for some time.

  A beam of light, as from a dark lantern, came from behind the boulder, jabbing through the rain. The beam flashed for only a few seconds, then went out.

  Sir Ander stopped dead. He wiped his hands on his shirt, drying them as best he could, to get a good grip on the hilt of his sword. He waited where he was, ears and eyes straining. Light suddenly blazed, catching him full in the face.

  “Sir Ander!”

  “Shut off that light, Father!” Sir Ander hissed, shading his eyes. “You’ve damn near blinded me!”

  “Sorry, I had to be sure it was you.”

  Father Jacob slid shut the dark lantern’s panel, dousing the light. He was hunkered down beside the boulder, trying to find shelter from the wind and rain.

  Sir Ander sheathed his sword and ran toward him. Reaching the boulder, he crouched down with a grunt.

  “Thank God I found you, Father. I’ve been—”

  “Lower your voice. Have you seen Eiddwen?” Father Jacob asked urgently. “I heard gunshots.”

  “Alan and Sir Henry dealt with three of the guards. My griffin tore apart the fourth.” Sir Ander frowned. “The fiendish woman has to be here somewhere. We saw her griffins leaving—”

  “She is here,” said Father Jacob, his voice grating. “I just don’t know where.”

  “Maybe not,” Sir Ander suggested, hoping he was right. “Maybe she fled. Her guards are dead, and her griffins flew off without her. If she blew up Freya now, she would have no way to escape death herself.”

  “Escape does not matter to her,” said Father Jacob. “She always knew death was a possibility.”

  He slid back the panel on the bull’s-eye lantern and flashed the light on the rain-slick rock. The boulder was covered with constructs that, like the others, seemed to have been etched onto the rock with acid. But she had not used acid. She had used blood. Father Jacob slid the panel shut.

  “The constructs aren’t glowing,” he said. “She isn’t finished. We interrupted her work. Think of this boulder as a powder keg. Eiddwen has placed the fuse. She is out there in the darkness, biding her time, waiting for the opportunity to strike the match.”

  “Don’t forget the Warlock. He’s out there, too, the murderous bastard,” said Sir Ander.

  “Lucello is probably with her. Where are the others, my brother and Sir Henry? You said they killed the guards.”

  Sir Ander had been dreading this question. He didn’t immediately answer.

  Father Jacob saw his expression. “They’re both dead…”

  “I hope not,” said Sir Ander.

  He briefly described what had happened, telling how Alan’s rifle had blown up in his hands and Sir Henry’s pistol had misfired.

  “I called his name. There was no answer. I’m sorry, Father.”

  Father Jacob drew in a breath, let it out in a sigh. “If they are dead, it is up to us to save the country for which they died. Do your pistols work?”

  “I have no idea,” said Sir Ander. “I’ve been trying to keep them dry, but in this downpour…” He didn’t finish the sentence; there was no need.

  “You keep watch. I have to study these constructs and, to do that, I have to have light,” said Father Jacob.

  He opened the panel of the dark lantern. Light flared, shining on the wet rock. As he ran his fingers over the constructs. Sir Ander felt his skin crawl. He could almost see the blood running down the boulder.

  “The constructs form a chain,” Father Jacob explained. “Every construct is a link in that chain connecting each one to the next, just as this boulder is the link in the chain of boulders stretching across Freya. I need to find the last construct.”

  “And I need to stand up,” Sir Ander grunted, rubbing his aching thighs.

  He stood, took a step backward and stumbled over something, losing his balance. Putting out his hand to stop his fall, he touched what felt like flesh and bone.

  He snatched back his hand and opened the panel on the lantern. The light shone on bare feet, bare legs: a naked man, sprawled on the ground. Sir Ander felt bile rise in his throat.

  The man’s belly had been sliced open and the blood was still pumping, the rain washing it in rivulets around him. The green light gleamed hideously on the entrails. As Sir Ander looked, the man’s hands clenched into fists from wha
t must have been terrible pain, began twitching. His eyes opened, and his mouth worked soundlessly.

  Sir Ander switched off the light, overcome with horror and loathing. “Father, come quickly! He’s still alive! We need do something—”

  “God have mercy!” Father Jacob whispered.

  The priest quickly knelt at the man’s side and, placing one hand on his forehead, took hold of the other hand.

  “Go to God, my child. He will grant you ease.”

  The man grimaced and gave a final gasp. His tortured body shuddered, then relaxed, his eyes staring into the storm. Father Jacob murmured a prayer, then placed his hands over the man’s eyes to close them.

  The hair on the back of Sir Ander’s neck prickled as he sensed someone was behind him. With his hand on his pistol, he started to turn. A knife plunged into his back, the blow hitting him between the shoulder blades.

  Magical constructs on his coat flared blue, thwarting the attack, turning the blade aside. He heard a sharp hiss of anger and a muttered curse.

  In one swift, trained move Sir Ander drew his pistol and pivoted. He faced his attacker, Lucello, known as the Warlock. The young man had handsome features, large melting eyes, and a full, sensuous mouth that was twisted in a disappointed scowl.

  Lucello’s crimson robes crackled with magical protective constructs, his bloodstained fingers curled around the handle of a butcher knife. He began chanting a spell, ugly words drenched in blood.

  Green glowing magic flickered at the Warlock’s fingertips, aiming at the pistol.

  “Magic, meet contramagic!” Lucello laughed as green jagged bolts shot from his hands and flared around the pistol.

  He waited expectantly for the weapon to explode. When nothing happened, he frowned.

  “No magic,” said Sir Ander. He raised his pistol. “Meet your God.”

  He cocked his pistol, waited a split second, long enough to give Lucello time to see his own death. The melting eyes widened in fear.

  Sir Ander fired.

  The bullet hit Lucello in the forehead. He went over backward, landed in the mud and lay there, unmoving. The rain beating on his face washed away the blood that oozed from the hole between the terror-filled eyes.

  Sir Ander looked up to see Father Jacob standing, watching.

  “If you ask God to save this bastard’s soul, Father, I may shoot you.”

  Father Jacob gazed a moment at the body, then went back to studying the constructs on the boulder. Sir Ander returned the pistol to his pocket with a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanks to God and Cecile.

  Eiddwen was alone. Her four soldiers and now her apprentice were dead. But she was the most dangerous of all. Sir Ander could feel her eyes on them. Father Jacob was the threat. She was watching the priest, waiting for her chance.

  A bolt of lightning streaked across the heavens turning the stormy night as bright as day. And there was Eiddwen, only a few feet away, holding a pistol in her hand.

  “Father, behind you!” Sir Ander shouted.

  Father Jacob, startled, looked over his shoulder. Eiddwen raised the pistol. It was not an ordinary pistol. The barrel was long, like a horse pistol. She aimed.

  Sir Ander flung himself in front of the priest. Eiddwen fired.

  Green light flared from the muzzle, and the green glowing bullet slammed into Sir Ander’s left hip, knocking his leg out from under him. He landed heavily in the mud and lay there groaning.

  He had heard the bullet hit bone. The contramagic glowed. He could smell the stench of his own flesh burning. The pain was excruciating. He rolled over onto his right side, clutching his hip, and choking off a cry of agony. He’d die before he’d give Eiddwen the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

  “Sir Ander! My God!” Father Jacob dropped down beside him and grasped hold of him. “Where are you hit?”

  Sir Ander shifted his head.

  “Never mind me, Father!” he gasped through clenched teeth. “Stop her!”

  Eiddwen emerged from the darkness, coming to stand over them.

  “A noble sacrifice, Knight Protector,” she said to Sir Ander. “But useless.”

  She drew a second gun from the folds of her capacious cloak. Sir Ander fumbled for his pistol, only to find it soaking wet. He bit his lips to keep from screaming.

  “The good thing about these new contramagic pistols is that rain has no effect on them,” Eiddwen remarked.

  She raised the pistol and pointed it at Father Jacob’s head.

  “Jacob!” Sir Ander struggled to rise.

  “Rest easy, my friend.”

  Father Jacob lifted his hand. Dazzling blue shot from his fingertips and arced through the air. The blue fire bolts struck the pistol and began to sizzle around the barrel. Eiddwen stared in shock for an instant, then flung the pistol from her with a cry.

  The gun exploded in midair. Chunks of it fell to the ground, glowing blue in the mud.

  The shocked expression on Eiddwen’s face at seeing magic destroying contramagic instead of the other way around was almost comical. Sir Ander would have laughed, but the pain of his wound was all-consuming. He was dreadfully cold and a strange lethargy crawled over him, the grayness of obliteration. He started to sink beneath it, then felt strong hands shaking him.

  “Stay with me, Sir Ander!” Father Jacob ordered sharply. “Do not leave me!”

  Hands, strong and comforting, grasped him tightly.

  “I do not have Brother Barnaby’s skills at healing, my friend,” said Father Jacob. “But perhaps I can stop the bleeding and ease the pain.”

  A soothing warmth spread through Sir Ander, dulling the pain’s knife-sharp edge and driving back the gray.

  Eiddwen was watching Father Jacob through narrowed eyes, pondering, reevaluating.

  “You surprise me, priest,” she said abruptly. “You have studied contramagic, committed a mortal sin, forfeited your soul. But, at least now, you can appreciate my work.”

  She reached out her hand to touch the boulder. Brilliant green light flared beneath her fingers. The bright light dazzled Sir Ander’s eyes.

  Magical constructs on the boulder came to life. One by one, they burst into flame, lighting the surroundings, shining through the rain. The light cast a lurid green glow over the stony ground, illuminating the scrub bushes, the scraggly trees, the tortured corpse, the dead Warlock.

  Father Jacob said quietly, “I have to leave you now, Sir Ander.”

  Fear for his friend gripped the knight. He struggled, reached out his hand to try to stop him.

  “Father—” Sir Ander was too weak. His hand fell to his side.

  “God be with you, my friend,” Father Jacob said.

  He regarded Sir Ander with deep affection, then rose to his feet to face Eiddwen.

  “The sin lies with those who named contramagic evil and then used it to sink the island of Glasearrach,” Father Jacob told her. “Xavier has compounded that sin, corrupting the contramagic with blood magic, sacrificing his own people to achieve his terrible goal of revenge. Sacrificing you…”

  The harsh, cold, aloof lines of Eiddwen’s face softened. Her black curls were wet and tangled, straggling down her back. Her cloak was soaked. She shivered beneath it and drew near the glowing boulder for warmth. She smiled, a faraway smile.

  “The father of this Xavier held me in his arms when I was a child and told me of the sinking, of the fall through the cold, the descent into darkness. He told of the prayers that were wasted. He named me ‘holy’ and said that I would be his Son’s Avenging Angel. His Angel of Death. He did not sacrifice me. He gave me purpose, a reason to live.”

  “With God’s help, I will stop you,” said Father Jacob.

  Eiddwen began to laugh. “God?” She jabbed her finger at the boulder. “This is contramagic, blood magic! What has God to do with it?”

  “Everything,” said Father Jacob.

  He laid his hand upon the boulder and drew a single sigil.

  The sigil shone a soft blue. Eiddwen
eyed it, frowning.

  “What is that?” she asked scornfully.

  “The seventh sigil,” said Father Jacob. “God.”

  The sigil was pale in comparison to the bright green glowing constructs around it and, as they watched, the blue glow dimmed and wavered.

  “God. Fading away…,” said Eiddwen.

  Dismissing it with a shrug, she knelt down beside the body of Lucello. His sightless eyes seemed to stare at her. She rested her hand on his forehead, dipped her hand in his blood.

  “Stupid boy,” she said. “To get yourself killed. Yet you are still of use to me.”

  She drew back her hand, wet with blood, then smeared the blood, mingled with the rain, over the boulder, down near the bottom. She began to etch constructs into the stone. The contramagic hissed and burned. She glanced at Sir Ander and smiled.

  “The end of Freya will be quite dramatic, Sir Knight. Too bad you will die in the explosion.”

  “So will you,” Sir Ander said harshly.

  She shrugged.

  “Do you hear the beat of the drums?” she asked. “Far below, in a grand temple, a hundred people beat drums made of human skin taken from the blood magic sacrifices. The Blood Mage says the beating drums echo the beating heart of revenge. When I finish this construct, the boulder will radiate contramagic.”

  She continued to talk as she worked.

  “Amplified by the drumming, the spark will leap from this boulder to the next in the chain, setting off a spark that will leap to the next and so on in a line that spreads across Freya. When the spark hits the last boulder, they will all explode, sending waves of contramagic through the ground, splitting the fault line. The streets will crumble, buildings fall, fires erupt, and people will die by the thousands. The ground will shudder and crack, and with a horrendous roar of splitting, shattered rock, the continent of Freya will break apart and fall, as Glasearrach fell—”

  She stopped talking, drawing in her breath with a hiss. The seventh sigil blazed into a radiant blue light. The blue flame spread from one contramagic sigil to another, expanding rapidly, flowing over the green constructs like sparkling rainwater. The green glow was starting to go out.