The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  Rodrigo staggered to his feet. The screams tore at his heart. He should go help, but he had no idea which way to go. Nothing looked the same. The corridor was choked with dust. He stumbled off in one direction, only to find his way blocked by a pile of rubble; so he turned around and walked in the other direction.

  Soldiers covered in dust and blood, looking like ghosts, shoved past him, while the screaming went on and on … until suddenly it stopped. Rodrigo eventually made his way back to the stairs that led to the bridge. He climbed them slowly, hanging on to the rail, trying not to pass out. He made it to the bridge and looked out the window. Flames were shooting out of what had once been a gun emplacement and was now a cavernous hole.

  The enemy ship was in front of the fort, hovering above the ruined guard towers on the top. Rodrigo could look up and see the keel above him. Smoke poured out of a gaping hole.

  A few soldiers with rifles were sniping at the ship from the parapets. The fiendish soldiers on the ship were firing back, raining green fire balls down on the walls. Rodrigo waited in a kind of dazed terror for the green beam to shoot again and kill them all.

  The ship didn’t fire at them. Rodrigo found that odd. He watched the ship with a horrible fascination and realized after a moment that it was descending, drifting down to the ground. The ship had caught fire and was going to land.

  “Monsieur Rodrigo! Where are you? Monsieur!”

  Someone was calling him, and he realized the person had been calling his name for quite some time.

  “I’m here, on the bridge!” Rodrigo shouted, wincing in pain.

  He heard someone running up the stairs, then Master Tutillo burst through the door. He was covered in dust, his uniform was torn and smeared with blood, and his face beneath the dust was white. He was carrying a rifle that was as tall as he was. The stock bumped along the ground.

  “Officer Vega is dead!” he gasped.

  Rodrigo wondered with a sick feeling in his gut if it was Vega who had been screaming. “I’m sorry—”

  “That means I am in command!” Master Tutillo blurted out. He was trembling. He repeated the words as though attempting to convince himself of the reality. “I am in command.”

  “Merciful heavens!” Rodrigo exclaimed, shaken.

  Stephano had once attempted to explain the various ranks. A midshipman was an officer, hoping someday to be promoted to lieutenant. With Vega dead, Master Tutillo, at age fourteen, was now the only officer in the fortress and that meant he was in command.

  Rodrigo realized the young man was looking to him for reassurance.

  “I am certain you will do fine,” he said, not knowing what else to say. Congratulations on his promotion didn’t seem to be in order.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Master Tutillo with a gulp. “I hope so.”

  The boy pulled himself together. Carefully resting the rifle against the wall, he straightened, threw back his shoulders and then, with an air of authority, walked over to the window. He even managed to deepen his voice.

  “I came to reconnoiter, sir. That means to see what the enemy ship is doing.”

  “It’s landing,” said Rodrigo.

  Master Tutillo looked out, and his eyes widened. His voice cracked. “It’s landing!”

  “Coming down almost on top of us,” Rodrigo remarked.

  “Look at that, sir!” Master Tutillo cried excitedly. “See the hole in her hull? Her lift tanks are failing. We sunk her, by God!”

  He paused a moment and added with a terrible calm, “The fiends are going to try to take the fort.”

  Ranks of soldiers formed up on the decks, preparing to abandon the sinking ship and swarm into the fortress. Their uniforms were red, not like the demonic armor. They were not carrying the long guns they had been using against the soldiers on the parapets. They were now armed with curved-blade swords. A body covered in blood lay on the deck beside the green beam weapon. Near the body stood a man dressed in a red surcoat and cloak, carrying the same type of curved-blade sword as the others. He was giving the orders.

  “Swords!” Master Tutillo scoffed. “No soldier fights with a sword anymore. We’ll make short work of these fiends—”

  “They’re not soldiers,” said Rodrigo, his voice tight. He was sick with horror. “They are blood mages.”

  “Huh?” Master Tutillo stared at him. “What’s that?”

  The ship lowered a gangplank, and the blood mages began to descend. Rodrigo shrank back with a sickening sense of dread. He looked into the sky, past the ship, hoping against hope to see Stephano flying to the rescue.

  Shots rang out. Riflemen posted in the ruins of the guard towers were firing at the green beam weapon in an attempt to disable it. A red fog billowed out from the ship, spewing from iron tubes set with crystal panels on the deck. The fog had the effect of hiding the ship and the green beam weapon, making it difficult for the fort’s soldiers to find a target.

  The green beam shot out from the red fog and hit the guns guarding the main docks. The blast blew up a chunk of wall, knocked out the cannons, and rocked the bridge. Rodrigo caught hold of Master Tutillo, who nearly tumbled into the helm. The air was thick with smoke and dust and a noxious odor from the red fog. Rodrigo coughed and wiped his eyes.

  As the riflemen continued to shoot into the fog, hoping for a lucky hit, the enemy fired the green beam again. It streaked through the red cloud toward the iron-banded wooden doors on the dock below. Rodrigo braced himself as a brilliant flash of blue light lit the interior of the bridge and the fortress shivered. The doors held.

  The magical shield was working to protect them, at least for the time being. But the green beam was like a battering ram; all they had to do was keep firing. Eventually the shield would fall and the Blood Mage and his troops would enter the fortress.

  “I have to go, sir,” Master Tutillo said, heading for the door. “The men will be going to guard the doors, preparing to repel the invaders. I need to be there—”

  “Good God, no!” Rodrigo cried. “You have to order the men back. Tell them to run—”

  “Retreat in the face of the enemy? Never, sir!” said Master Tutillo indignantly.

  “I wouldn’t use the term ‘retreat,’” Rodrigo said nervously. “Leaving by the back door. Not the same thing at all. Stephano and I have done it when occasion demanded.”

  “We can’t let the enemy seize the fortress, sir,” Master Tutillo pointed out. “How would we get back home?”

  “You’re right,” Rodrigo said. “The problem is…”

  He tried to think how best to explain. “Those men are blood mages. The more people they kill, the more powerful they become.”

  “We have rifles, sir,” said Master Tutillo patiently, as though talking to a child. “They just have those funny swords—”

  “They have magic! Blood magic!” said Rodrigo. He couldn’t make this lad understand. He made up his mind. “Our men can’t fight that. At least not by conventional means. I have to stop them.”

  He left the bridge and ran down the stairs. The green beam must have fired again, because he felt the walls shake. Master Tutillo grabbed his rifle and came pounding after him.

  “Sir, you can’t!”

  Rodrigo halted just inside the stairwell and peered cautiously out the door. Across the hall were the officers’ quarters. The main dock was down the corridor and to his right. A blast, coming from that direction, shook the floor and the walls and knocked Rodrigo off his feet. He toppled backward, landing on his rump on the stairs. Master Tutillo tumbled over him and went sprawling, dropping the rifle. The corridor filled with smoke and debris rained down on top of them.

  When the building quit shaking, Rodrigo checked himself quickly for injuries and found nothing serious. His head still hurt, but apparently gut-clenching fear was an effective medicine; that pain seemed to have receded. Master Tutillo was on his hands and knees, searching for the rifle in the smoke.

  “Sir! You should go back to the bridge!” Master Tutillo
urged.

  Rodrigo ignored him. He peered out to survey the damage.

  The main doors leading to the dock were gone, blown apart, along with a portion of the wall and the ceiling. He could see sunlight filtering through the dust and the smoke. Soldiers had taken up positions behind the large piles of rubble, aiming their muskets at the entryway. They were calm, confident. They had plenty of ammunition and would be firing at point-blank range.

  “They have no idea of the nightmare that is about to walk through that door,” Rodrigo said. “And I can’t tell them.”

  Now that he was here, he had to face facts. He could urge these men to flee, but they wouldn’t listen to him. Why should they? He was, after all, the captain’s foolish friend, the foppish gentleman who whined over the bad food and worried about soiling his lace.

  “Sir, if you won’t go to the bridge, go to the storage room. My boys can deal with the fiends,” Master Tutillo said proudly.

  The blood guard marched down the gangplank, armed with their “funny” swords. They wore leather armor, probably made from the skin of their victims, and they were covered head to toe with magical constructs. They had no helms and their bald heads were marked with constructs. Before they left the ship, each man dipped his hand into the blood of the sacrifice and smeared it on his face.

  The Blood Mage led them. His hands and face were bloody, his cloak and surcoat covered with intricate magical patterns. Rodrigo thought he could see the magic glowing a lurid red, but that might be his terrified imagination.

  “Please! Order the men to retreat,” Rodrigo begged Master Tutillo.

  The lad shook his head. “I can’t do that, sir.”

  He started walking toward the gaping hole in the wall.

  Rodrigo ran after him and caught hold of him by the cravat he wore around his neck, half choking him. He dragged the young man kicking and protesting into a corridor directly across from the main dock, near the officers’ quarters. Crouching behind the wreck of a door, Rodrigo pulled the angry and indignant Master Tutillo down with him and held on to him.

  The soldiers opened fire, and the bullets hit the armor of the Blood Guard, knocking some down, but doing little damage. They kept coming. The soldiers reloaded, glancing at one another uncertainly. They had never faced a foe like this. Master Tutillo quit struggling. He looked questioningly at Rodrigo.

  “Blood magic,” Rodrigo answered.

  The soldiers fired another volley. Bullets struck the blood mages, wounding some and killing others. The blood mages smeared their hands with their own blood or that of their comrades and marched on.

  The Blood Mage seemed impervious to bullets. He fairly crackled with magic, brushing off bullets as if they were annoying gnats. He strode through the rubble, stepping over fallen beams and twisted iron, kicking aside splintered boards.

  One of the soldiers stood up, aimed his rifle at point-blank range at the Blood Mage’s head. Before he could fire, the Blood Mage lifted his hand, and the rifle barrel burned red hot, forcing the soldier to drop it with a cry. The Blood Mage made a backhanded slash with his sword across the soldier’s neck, nearly severing the head from the body and sending blood spurting from the gruesome wound.

  Seeing his comrade lying dead at his feet, another soldier tried to run. The Blood Mage pointed at him, and red magic snaked out and wrapped around the soldier’s legs, tripping him. He fell on his back on the blood-covered floor. The Blood Mage slashed open his gut, exposing his entrails, as the soldier screamed in agony.

  Rodrigo had seen enough. He knew what had to be done; he was the only one who could do it. He caught hold of Master Tutillo, who was crouched beside him, white faced, his lips quivering.

  “Where are the rest of the men?”

  Master Tutillo didn’t answer. He was staring at the Blood Mage, who was lathering himself in the blood of the dying soldier. Behind him, the rest of the Blood Guard was now entering the fortress. They cut down soldiers with their swords or bound them with hideous magicks, and within mere moments, the troops defending the door were either dead or horribly dying.

  Rodrigo grabbed Master Tutillo, hauled him to his feet, and ran for the interior door that led from the officers’ quarters to the enormous chamber where the dragons sheltered. Feeling exposed in the cavernous room, he ducked into the privies and closed the door.

  Master Tutillo stumbled along beside him. He seemed in a horror-stricken daze.

  Rodrigo gave the boy a shake. “The rest of the men! Where are they? Master Tutillo, you are in command. These men are depending on you. I’m depending on you!”

  Master Tutillo gulped and shivered. “There are twenty-two men with the cannons and six manning the gun emplacements, plus Cook and his helpers…”

  “Order all of them to leave the fortress!” said Rodrigo urgently. “They can run for the caves in the mountain where the dragons were living.”

  “They won’t want to go, sir,” said Master Tutillo.

  “You are in command. You have to make them obey you,” said Rodrigo sternly. “You’ve seen for yourself what will happen to them.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Master Tutillo in a whisper. He started off, then turned back. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  “No,” said Rodrigo. “They have to be stopped.”

  He could still hear screams of the dying men from the main entrance. He tried to blot out the sound.

  “How are you going to do that, sir?” Master Tutillo demanded. “You have to tell me. I’m in charge.”

  Rodrigo didn’t answer. He opened the door, looked out. The dragon room was empty. The Blood Mage and his fiends were busy torturing and killing, enhancing their magical power. He shut the door.

  “The way is clear. You should go.”

  “Not until you tell me, sir,” said Master Tutillo stubbornly.

  Rodrigo drew in a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of Stephano’s shirt.

  “I’ll be in the powder magazine.”

  Master Tutillo didn’t understand at first and then he gasped. “Sir! You can’t!”

  “It’s only a bluff,” said Rodrigo. “I won’t really do it. Now, you have to go. We’re running out of time.”

  Master Tutillo cast an agonized glance at Rodrigo and then he flung open the door to the privies and ran off. Rodrigo heard his footfalls echo down the corridor.

  He looked out the door again. Seeing no sign of the Blood Guard, he made a dash for the powder magazine. Reaching it, he found it was locked.

  “Bloody hell!” Rodrigo muttered.

  He forced himself to calm down and think. Making one’s way in court depended not only on who you knew, but what you knew about them. Locked doors, locked desks, locked diaries. Rodrigo had learned to open them all. He removed the lantern hanging from the wall and shone it on the lock. It was only a simple padlock, with no magical spells to interfere.

  He twitched his fingers, muttered a few words. Blue sparks hit the lock and it clicked open. Rodrigo entered the powder magazine. His nose wrinkled at the smell. The light from the lantern revealed barrels of gunpowder stacked on one side of the chamber; rifles and other weapons were arranged on the opposite side.

  Outside, the screaming had stopped. The Blood Mage would be on the prowl, but it would take him time before he found this place.

  Rodrigo shut the door and hung the lantern from a hook on the wall. He had work to do.

  41

  It has been my experience that heroes are those who bloody well do what damn well needs to be done.

  —Admiral Randolph Baker

  Miri yanked open the door that led to the deck of the Cloud Hopper. She had prepared herself for the worst, but not for this—flames spreading across the deck and the brass helm in ruins.

  The Cloud Hopper had suffered a direct hit from the green beam weapon. The moment Miri had sighted the enemy ship, she’d ordered the others to the safety of the hold below. She had stayed at the helm as long as she could, nursing the Cloud Ho
pper along, running below deck just before the green beam struck, and slamming the door shut behind her.

  The little boat had withstood the blow far better than she expected. Gythe’s magical protection spells had done their work, keeping the boat in one piece, even though the hull was staved in, saving the women huddled below deck. In the end, however, the contramagic had overwhelmed Gythe’s spell, causing the magic to fail, and the Cloud Hopper had gone down. Fortunately it had not been sailing very high off the ground, and it landed with a thud in a tangle of scrub trees and bushes. The four women had been knocked around a bit in the landing, but were otherwise unhurt.

  “I can … put out the fire,” said Gythe.

  She raised her hands, preparing to cast a spell that would smother the flames. Miri drew in a breath, closed her eyes, and crushed her hand over Gythe’s.

  “No,” Miri said. “Let it burn.”

  Gythe stared at her in dismay.

  “The Blood Mage is on that boat,” Miri said harshly. “We have to make him think he killed us or he will try again. We will use the smoke as cover to escape.”

  Miri turned and made her way through the smoke to Cecile and Sophia, who were waiting in the same cabin where Dag and Stephano had once hung their hammocks. The hammocks lay rolled up in a corner. Miri looked away. Smoke was rolling through the open door and wafting down the corridor.

  “We are abandoning ship,” Miri said crisply. “We have to leave now. Gythe will guide you.”

  She indicated her sister, who was crouched in the doorway, beckoning to them as she covered her nose and mouth against the smoke.

  “Go along, Your Highness,” said Cecile. “I will be right behind you.”

  Sophia made her way to Gythe, who grabbed her hand and pulled her up onto the deck. Cecile took a moment to squeeze Miri’s hand in silent sympathy, then she left, hurrying after the princess.

  Miri took a last look around the boat that was alive with memories of her friends: Dag’s thundering snore, Stephano’s laugh, Rodrigo’s complaining, Doctor Ellington yowling from the storage closet. Her eyes filled with tears and she dashed them away, muttering about the smoke, and returned to the deck.