The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  Only the starboard side was on fire. The flames were spreading, but not very rapidly.

  Cecile and Sophia had climbed safely over the rail and were waiting for them, hidden among the broken tree branches. The ground was soft and wet, part of the marshland that lapped up against the bedrock of the mountain. They stood up to their ankles in muck.

  The Blood Mage’s ship was sailing slowly above them. Miri could not see the green beam weapon, but she could not take the chance that they might fire again.

  “Go join the countess and Sophia,” Miri told her. “Stay with them.”

  Gythe shook her head. “I can’t lose you, too!” she said, her newfound voice shaky and uncertain.

  “You haven’t lost me,” said Miri. “I’ll be along. First, I have to spread the fire.”

  “Our home!” Gythe said bleakly.

  “It’s only a boat,” said Miri, shrugging.

  Gythe cast her an unhappy glance. She started to leave, then turned back.

  “What about him?” She pointed to Xavier’s corpse that lay on the forecastle, shrouded in a blanket.

  Miri shook her head. They would be lucky to escape without trying to lug the body with them. Wherever Xavier was, he would understand.

  Gythe made her way along the canting deck and climbed over the rail. Miri dashed back down below. Running to the kitchen, coughing in the smoke, she grabbed up a bottle of Calvados, and ran back on deck. She flung the liquor about. The fire drank it thirstily.

  The flames spread to the mast and crawled upward, igniting the balloon. Smoldering shreds of silk began to rain down on the deck, and the flames licked at the cloak covering Xavier’s body. She doused the corpse with the remainder of the Calvados—a fitting Trundler burial—spoke a brief blessing, and watched as the flames began to consume it.

  She stayed on the Cloud Hopper as long as she could, coughing and choking in the thick smoke, reluctant to leave. When the hem of her skirt caught fire, she knew she had to go. She clambered up onto the rail and jumped, landing in the muck on her hands and knees.

  Now fully engulfed in flame, the Cloud Hopper’s last act was to protect those who had sailed her, hiding them from view of the enemy with thick, roiling clouds of black smoke.

  The Blood Mage’s ship sailed on past them. The green beam fired again, but not at them. It was aimed at the fortress.

  The four women huddled beneath the trees and took stock of their situation.

  “The fortress is under attack. We won’t find refuge there,” said Cecile.

  “The fort will hold,” said Miri. “They’ll repel the attack.”

  “You don’t know that, my dear,” said Cecile gently. “Think what the Blood Mage would do if he got hold of Sophia and your sister…”

  Miri pressed her lips together. Rodrigo was inside that fortress, and so was young Master Tutillo. It would hold. But as if to confirm Cecile’s words, an explosion shook the ground, and smoke and flame belched out of the side of the fortress. The green beam had hit one of the gun emplacements.

  “We can go to the caves in the mountains,” said Miri, reluctantly agreeing. “We’ll be safe there.”

  The women started their trek over the soggy ground, heading toward the mountain. Miri paused to cast one last look back at the Cloud Hopper. The boat was now little more than a blackened skeleton, lying on its side, smoke and flames pouring from the hull. She turned her back and kept going.

  The mud spattered their skirts and sucked at their boots, sapping their strength. Luckily, though, they did not have to go far, before they struck solid ground, the stony feet of the mountain. Gythe came to a sudden halt and dragged Miri to a stop.

  “What is it?” Miri asked, alarmed.

  Gythe pointed to the fortress, to a magical construct on the wall, shining bright blue and green.

  “Rodrigo did that,” said Miri, hoping with all her heart that he was somewhere safe, perhaps hiding in the storage room with Doctor Ellington and Bandit. “He calls it the seventh sigil. Papa Jake taught him.”

  “The magic is very powerful,” said Gythe, gazing at the construct with wide, solemn eyes. “I wonder what it does.”

  “Not even Rigo knew for certain,” said Miri.

  They gave the fortress a wide berth, heading for the caves. They lost sight of the ship, which had landed on the ground, and they had no idea what was happening. They heard another massive explosion and then there was silence. Reaching the entrance to one of the caves, they stopped, looking at one another in consternation, not knowing if the silence boded good or ill.

  “Maybe they blew up the Blood Mage’s ship,” said Sophia hopefully.

  “No,” said Miri. “Look at that.”

  A rocket soared into the air, trailing flame, and burst over the fortress in a ball of yellow.

  “A distress signal,” said Cecile.

  “Soldiers coming!” Gythe warned.

  “They’re ours,” said Miri, after a moment. “I recognize the uniforms. They’ll tell us what has happened.”

  “I can tell you what has happened,” said Cecile softly. “They’re in retreat.”

  The soldiers had been in full flight, seemingly, for their coats were awry, their stockings ripped, their hats missing. But they had slowed to a dismal walk, their heads down, their shoulders slumped. In the lead was a big man wearing his uniform coat over his apron. His round, usually jovial face was grim. He wore a rifle slung across his shoulder and moved doggedly, looking back constantly at the fortress.

  “Cook, what is going on?” Miri called.

  He stopped dead, reaching for his rifle.

  “Cook, it’s me! Miri!” she said.

  His eyes bulged, then his face broke into a smile.

  “Mistress Miri! We saw your boat go down. We thought you were dead!” Cook walked forward to shake her hand. He glanced at the other women and made a little bow. “Ladies.”

  “What has happened?” Miri asked. “Where are you going?”

  “We’ve been ordered to the caves,” said Cook, adding with a scowl, “I don’t like it, running from the enemy, but orders is orders. You ladies best come with us. The fort’s not safe. The demons got inside. They’ve butchered our boys. They aim to escape in the fortress, sail off with it, leastwise that’s what Master Tutillo says. He and the captain’s friend, the foppish gentleman, are going to try to stop the fiends.”

  “Rodrigo!” Miri gasped. “He’s there? With the Blood Mage? How is he going to stop him?”

  “Danged if I know,” said Cook, shaking his head.

  “He can’t fight them alone,” said Miri. “Gythe, take the countess and Her Highness to the caves.”

  “You’re going to help Rigo, aren’t you?” Gythe said accusingly.

  “I am. And, no, you can’t come with me. You have to stay with Sophia.”

  Gythe started to argue, saw Miri’s grim expression, and fell silent.

  “Orders be damned!” said Cook. “We’ll go back with you!”

  “No, you will not, sir,” said Cecile. “This young lady is Her Royal Highness, Princess Sophia of Rosia. I am her guardian, the Countess Cecile de Marjolaine. Her Highness has just escaped from an enemy prison. She requires your protection. Miri, you will need this.”

  She handed Miri the dragon pistol. The amazed soldiers, after staring blankly at the princess, provided Miri with powder and shot. She loaded the pistol, then tucked the bullets and the powder horn into her pockets.

  “Stephano will come,” said Gythe.

  Miri looked back over her shoulder at the battle raging above the city. She saw a confusion of burning ships and dragons flying around them, green fireballs arcing through the air, green beams blasting.

  Even if Stephano can leave his command, he won’t, Miri thought. She didn’t say this aloud, however. She smiled at Gythe and nodded agreement.

  Gythe eyed her sister narrowly.

  “You don’t believe me. I know by that silly smile you wear when you’re lying. I’m right. Yo
u’ll see.” Gythe tossed her head, her wet hair flipping around her shoulders.

  “I liked you better when you couldn’t talk,” said Miri, laughing shakily.

  She embraced her sister, holding her tight, then left, making her way among the rocks down to the fortress.

  * * *

  By the time Rodrigo had everything arranged, he was covered in grime and dirt and gunpowder. He had carefully removed his coat and laid it on a large metal chest. His shirt was ruined, as were his trousers. His stockings had long since met their end. He smelled of saltpeter. He sadly gazed at his hands—black with grime—and wondered if he would ever manage to clean them.

  He had opened the door to the powder magazine a crack to hear what was going on in the fortress. A terrible scream sounded close by. He felt suddenly weak and he sat down on a metal gun case. He’d been trying to concentrate on his work to keep from hearing the screams and, what was worse, the sounds of voices raised in hideous chants.

  The Blood Mage and his demonic forces were steeping themselves in blood, enhancing their power before advancing. They undoubtedly thought they were facing an army of soldiers who were preparing to stop them. But there were no soldiers. Only Rodrigo, armed with magic and chicanery.

  “But those,” Rodrigo said to himself, “are in the hands of a master.”

  He could regard his work with satisfaction and that was some comfort. The long trail of magical constructs leading to a cluster of gunpowder barrels looked quite impressive. He had altered the magical constructs in the lantern. That, too, was ready. Now all he had to do was wait and keep from throwing up.

  The screaming stopped. The chanting continued for a moment, and then the voices fell silent. He had no idea what was happening, but he pictured the Blood Mage and his Blood Guard fanning out, searching for resistance.

  When he heard the sound of footfalls coming down the corridor, his heart failed him. A hand pushed on the door. It opened, creaking on its hinges.

  “Monsieur Rodrigo?” came a whisper. “Are you inside?”

  “Master Tutillo!” Rodrigo gasped in relief. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with the others in the caves.”

  “I’m in command of the fortress, sir,” Master Tutillo replied, stepping into the lantern light. “I can’t leave my post. You know that.”

  Rodrigo, usually so glib, found himself without words. The young man looked so very young. His best uniform, that he had put on to meet the princess, was covered in dust and dirt and blood. One sleeve was torn, his hair fell around his face and beads of sweat glistened across his upper lip.

  “Can I help, sir?” Master Tutillo asked, looking about curiously.

  “It would look more impressive if we pushed those barrels closer together,” said Rodrigo. “I couldn’t manage it on my own.”

  They pushed and shoved at the barrels filled with gunpowder until they stood clustered together in the center of the room.

  “Did all the men leave safely?” Rodrigo asked as they worked.

  “Only after I threatened Cook with a flogging,” said Master Tutillo. “I sneaked a look at the enemy ship, sir. Her crew is transferring that green beam weapon to the fortress. And I did something else, sir. I set off a distress flare.”

  Rodrigo regarded Master Tutillo with admiration.

  “An excellent idea! Stephano or Dag or someone will be sure to see it!” Rodrigo exclaimed eagerly.

  Master Tutillo shook his head. “I think it’s a long shot, sir, what with the dragons blasting fire and the ships burning and all. The captain would have to be looking this direction when the flare went up. But I thought it was worth a try.”

  “Good lad,” said Rodrigo. “You’ve done an excellent job as commander. Stephano—that is, Captain de Guichen—will be very proud of you.”

  “If something happens, if we lose the fight, I hope the captain will know I didn’t abandon my post,” said Master Tutillo with a little quaver in his voice.

  “We haven’t lost yet,” said Rodrigo.

  Master Tutillo was about to reply when, cocking his head, he whispered loudly, “Someone’s coming!”

  They could both hear booted feet of what sounded like several people moving slowly and cautiously down the corridor. Reaching the door to the powder magazine, they stopped. Two voices conferred in the Trundler language. Rodrigo couldn’t understand them, but he could guess by the tone that they were questioning what was inside the room.

  Rodrigo picked up the lantern. His mouth was so dry he had trouble speaking the words that would activate the constructs. He licked his lips and managed to get the words out. The lantern, that had been shining with a bright yellow light, began to glow a soft blue.

  Master Tutillo set his jaw and stood ramrod straight, every inch the commander.

  One of the Blood Guard kicked the door open and peered inside. Catching sight of the blue glow, he hissed something at his comrade and jumped back, expecting an ambush. When nothing happened, he cautiously entered the doorway and stopped to look around.

  What he saw caused his eyes to first widen, then narrow suspiciously. Rodrigo was holding a blue glowing lantern near a great many barrels of gunpowder. He was flanked by Master Tutillo.

  “Both of us appear scared, but courageous and resolute,” Rodrigo said to himself, thinking how he would write this in his memoir.

  The two blood guards stepped into the pale blue light. Their faces, hands, and arms were smeared with fresh blood, the smell of which made Rodrigo gag. Raising their swords, the two guards started to approach.

  “Stop right there!” said Rodrigo, gulping. “Don’t come any closer.”

  The two guards looked at him, then at each other, frowning.

  Rodrigo suddenly saw the fatal flaw in his plan.

  “Good grief! They don’t understand me!” he said frantically, out of the corner of his mouth. “They don’t speak our language!”

  “What do we do?” Master Tutillo asked in dismay.

  “I don’t know!” Rodrigo said helplessly.

  The guards shook their heads, shrugged, and once more started to move toward them. Master Tutillo pointed desperately at the barrels of gunpowder, then pointed to the lantern, and said breathlessly, “Boom!”

  Apparently “boom” was a word that was universally understood. The guards came to a halt and stood frozen in place.

  “We want to talk to the Blood Mage,” said Rodrigo, using the imperious tone of voice that had often curdled the blood of some rude lordling at court. “Go fetch him.”

  Whether the two understood or whether they deemed that this situation called for their commander, Rigo couldn’t tell. But they conferred briefly, and then one of the Blood Guards departed. The other retreated, removing himself to the doorway. He watched them with a scowl.

  Rodrigo lowered his arm, which had started to ache from holding up the lantern. He shifted the lantern to the other hand, and wiped his sweating palm on his trousers. He tried to think about something else besides his twisting gut and the god-awful taste in his mouth.

  To bolster his courage, he pictured Stephano catching sight of that distress flare and ordering Viola to fly to the fortress as fast as her wings could carry her. Rodrigo could almost see the dragon winging her way toward the fort.

  He just had to keep the Blood Mage occupied a little longer.

  “He’s here,” said Master Tutillo in a smothered voice.

  The Blood Mage entered and took a moment to assess the situation. He glanced around the shadowy room lit only by the lantern’s magical blue glow. He gazed at the barrels of gunpowder, the stores of weapons, the two men standing near the barrels. His eyes glittered and his brows came together.

  Master Tutillo was the one who had suggested the Blood Mage might want to sail off in the fortress, use it to escape. Perhaps the Blood Mage had been up to the bridge, trying to figure out how to operate the helm. That wouldn’t take him long, Rodrigo reflected. The seventh sigil was busy repairing the magic. The Blood
Mage wasn’t alarmed. He was annoyed.

  “I am told you two are threatening to blow up my fortress,” he said. “Who the devil are you?”

  He spoke Rosian. Rodrigo was relieved. The word “boom” could take him only so far.

  “This is Master Tutillo, the fortress’s commander,” Rodrigo answered. “I am Rodrigo de Villeneuve, a gentleman of Rosia. Return to your ship. If you don’t, I will destroy ‘your’ fortress. And you.”

  The Blood Mage snorted. “And yourselves. This is a trick.”

  “You deal in magic,” said Rodrigo. He found himself growing surprisingly calm. He had detected a note of doubt in the man’s voice. “Even though my magic is pure and uncorrupted, you must still be able to identify the constructs. Look at those I have placed on the lantern, on the floor, and on the barrels of gunpowder. Then tell me if this is a trick. Or if I am sincere.”

  The Blood Mage’s eyes were hooded, the glitter gone. He took a step toward them.

  “If you come one step closer, I will drop the lantern,” Rodrigo warned.

  The Blood Mage smiled grimly. “No, you won’t, monsieur. You are a ‘gentleman,’ as you say. I know your kind. I have been around many like you in my travels Above. You think too highly of yourself to commit suicide. Give me the lantern and I will let you live. I need a crafter to repair the magic.”

  Master Tutillo had turned quite pale, and his lips were clamped tight to suppress his fear. His body trembled.

  Rodrigo was no longer calm. He was shaking and sweating and sick with fear. His trick had not worked. The Blood Mage was not going to be duped, frightened off.

  Where is Stephano? Rodrigo thought wildly. Why doesn’t he come?

  The Blood Mage drew close, so close Rodrigo could smell the revolting stench of the fresh blood that covered his face. His robes were spattered with blood. His eyes were empty and seemed to suck the life out of Rodrigo, needing his blood to fill the void.

  The Blood Mage reached out to take the lantern. He smiled, patronizing, as to a naughty child. He no longer had any doubt. He was confident, sure of himself.