The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  No one appeared. No one fired a shot.

  Stephano and his small contingent reached the back entrance safely. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought the fortress was deserted. He should have been elated, but he wasn’t. He was fighting demons with blood magic and he had no idea what he would be facing.

  He ordered the men to stand close to the walls. Looking them over, he chose one he remembered as being an excellent shot. He, Cook, and the sharpshooter moved cautiously toward the door.

  They found it unlocked, standing slightly ajar.

  “This is too bloody easy, sir,” Cook whispered.

  Stephano agreed. “Keep alert.”

  Gripping his sword, he gave the door a push and it swung open, creaking on rusty hinges. This door opened onto the main corridor. If he turned to his right, the corridor would lead to the officers’ quarters, the stairs to the bridge and the dock. Down the corridor to his left was the door that led into the dragon chamber, and from there he could reach the armory and powder magazine.

  The interior was dark. The lanterns mounted on the wall were growing dim and, in some instances, had gone out. Their magic needed to be renewed on a regular basis. When he looked left and right and saw the corridor was empty he motioned for the rest of the men to come forward.

  “You two, stand guard. Keep a lookout for Lieutenant Thorgrimson and his dragon. If you see them, signal to Dag to land and let him know where we are.”

  The two men took up their positions at the door and Stephano motioned the rest of the men inside and led them along the corridor. They had not gone far when he heard the sound of beating drums. The sound sent a cold shiver through his body, raising the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. He looked questioningly at Cook.

  “Each of the demons carries a drum, sir,” Cook said softly. “Not sure why or what it’s for.”

  Stephano had a pretty good idea. The drumming in the temple had something to do with contramagic, and he’d bet these did, too. He brought his men to a halt and listened to hear if the drummers were on the move. The sound remained constant, the drums beating in rhythm.

  “Sounds like it’s coming from the direction of the bridge, sir,” Cook said.

  Stephano agreed. An ominous thought. “Let’s keep moving.”

  They continued down the corridor and had just reached the door that led to the dragon chamber when the floor suddenly shifted, the walls shook, and dust rained down from the ceiling. The quaking lasted only a few unnerving seconds and then stopped.

  Stephano looked at those behind him, a question in his eyes.

  “We felt it, too, sir,” said Cook.

  The fortress had landed on solid bedrock, but Stephano supposed the massive structure still could be shifting, settling. Gripping his sword, he opened the door.

  He continued on, walking cautiously down the short, dark hallway adjacent to the privy, which led to the dragon chamber. He knew by the smell he was in the right place. Halfway down the shadowy hall, he felt the floor and the walls shake again, and everyone halted until the fort quit shaking and everything settled.

  All the while the beating of the drums continued, never stopping. If anything, the sound was growing louder.

  The dragon chamber was pitch black, except for a sliver of light shining out from beneath the door to the armory.

  “You men stay here,” Stephano ordered. “Keep watch.”

  He ran across the chamber and fetched up against the armory door. He listened, but he couldn’t hear anyone inside. He tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He motioned for the stout, heavy cook to join him, and they slammed into the door with their shoulders. They didn’t gain much except bruises.

  They were about to try again when someone on the other side of the door shouted, “Break down that door, you fiend, and I will blow off your head!”

  43

  Plans are useless, but planning is everything.

  —Julian de Guichen

  Stephano recognized the voice.

  “Miri! Don’t shoot! It’s me, Stephano!”

  He heard a glad cry, then the sound of scraping, as though someone was dragging something heavy across the floor. Miri yanked the door open and both she and Rodrigo flung themselves at Stephano with such force they nearly knocked him over backward.

  “We have to stop him, Stephano!” Miri cried.

  “Do you hear the drums?” Rodrigo cried frantically. “We don’t have a moment to lose!”

  “Wait a moment! Where’s Master Tutillo?”

  “Here I am, sir!” a voice called from across the room of the powder magazine. “I’m guarding this door!”

  Stephano looked worriedly from Miri to Rodrigo. Both were covered in grime, Miri’s skirt was muddy and charred. Rodrigo’s face was smeared with gunpowder and he smelled of saltpeter. But both seemed to be well and unharmed. Stephano breathed easier.

  “Now, what’s this about the drums? Who are we trying to stop from doing what?”

  “Did you feel the walls shake?” Rodrigo asked.

  “Yes,” said Stephano with a sudden sense of dread. “Why? What does that mean?”

  “The fortress’s magic is working again,” Rodrigo said. “The seventh sigil must have repaired it. I don’t understand … well, I do understand. I just didn’t foresee … I should have known … It’s my theory that the elemental base structure of the magic and contramagic being brought into balance by the seventh sigil causes the magicks to be drawn together, their sigils completing each other instead of destroying. Thus—”

  “Devil take your theories!” Miri elbowed Rodrigo aside. “All you need to know, Stephano, is that the magic is working again, and the Blood Mage has gone to the bridge and is trying to escape in the fortress!”

  “Is that possible?” Stephano asked, alarmed.

  “Sadly, yes,” Rodrigo replied. “The shaking you felt was the magic starting to flow from the helm to the lift tanks. The magic is weak, so far. That’s why we haven’t flown off. Probably some constructs still need mending.”

  “What about the drumming?” Stephano asked.

  “The drums are an ancient part of the blood magic rituals. Drumming enhances the magical power of the mages. Probably what gave these fiends the idea to use drums and blood magic to enhance the power of contramagic. They’re using the drumming to try to help the Blood Mage power the magic of the helm. It might be having the opposite effect, though,” Rodrigo said, frowning. “I need to consider this.”

  “All we need to consider is that the Blood Mage is on the bridge and his troops are with him. That’s why no one was guarding the door, why no one fired on us,” said Stephano in sudden realization. “They don’t care if we’re inside the fortress or out.”

  “They are probably glad we are here,” said Miri, shivering. “They can kill us and use our blood.”

  The thought was chilling. The drumming continued. The sound was grating, teeth jarring. Stephano found it hard to concentrate with the drums beating in his head.

  “Master Tutillo!” Stephano called.

  There was no response. The door to the powder magazine stood wide open.

  “Damn it!” Stephano was about to send men to look for him when the midshipman popped up out of the shadows like an imp.

  “I’m here, sir! I went to reconnoiter, see what the fiends are doing. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “That was extremely dangerous!” Stephano glared at him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Master Tutillo. “But it wasn’t really, begging your pardon. I just ran down the corridor by your quarters, peeked around the corner, and ran back. No one saw me.”

  “What did you see—?”

  “It doesn’t matter what he saw. I have an idea!” said Rodrigo. “We can remove the crystals from the lift tanks! Then the Blood Mage can’t go anywhere! All we have to do is sneak down to the lower level and unlock the door that leads to the fueling chamber and … what’s wrong?”

  “How do you
plan to unlock the door?” Miri asked.

  “With the keys … which are on the bridge with the Blood Mage.” Rodrigo sighed. “And the door is by the bridge. Never mind.”

  “What did you see?” Stephano asked Master Tutillo again.

  “The Blood Guard are assembled in the corridor leading up to the bridge. There must be twenty of them, sir. All banging on their drums. They’re covered in blood, and the walls and the floors are glowing red. I went all wobbly at the sight, sir.”

  “Blood magic,” Rodrigo explained, “inspires fear and terror. Drains the will to fight.”

  Stephano swore beneath his breath. “So the only way to reach the bridge is down that corridor and up the stairs now being defended by mages armed to the teeth with blood magic, not to mention green fireball guns and swords.”

  “What about Viola?” Miri suggested. “The dragon could destroy the bridge with a blast of fire.”

  “And if she destroys the bridge, how do we get home?” Rodrigo asked.

  “You were the one who was going to blow up the fortress,” Miri retorted.

  “I was under duress. Stephano is here and he will have a plan. He always has a plan.”

  Stephano did have a plan, or at least the beginning of one. He was trying to think through the pounding in his head when he heard the sound of heavy, booted feet running across the dragon chamber.

  Dag burst into the doorway, carrying his rifle. His long, leather dragon-riding coat was covered in grime and ashes and spattered with blood. One spot over his breast was charred black. Stephano, glancing down at his own coat, realized he himself didn’t look much better.

  Dag came to a halt. “Are you all right, sir? What’s going on? I saw the Hopper. Where’s Gythe? Is she all right?”

  “She’s safe. She’s in the caves with Stephano’s mother. We lost the Cloud Hopper, but something wonderful happened,” Miri said with a faint smile. “You’ll find out. Gythe wants to tell you herself.”

  Dag looked confused; he must be wondering why Miri wouldn’t tell him anything more.

  “What about Doctor Ellington?” Dag asked.

  “He’s in the storage closet, sir,” said Master Tutillo. “I’m afraid he’s not getting along well with the princess’s dog.”

  Stephano explained their situation, how the Blood Mage planned to steal their fort. “The fiends are guarding that corridor so we can’t reach the bridge to stop him. They outnumber us and they’re whipping up some sort of fear-inducing magic.”

  “So what’s the plan, sir?” Dag grinned. “I know you have one.”

  “I remember you telling me that at the siege of the Royal Sail, you shifted one of the cannons so that you could fire it down a hallway.”

  Dag nodded. “Fired canisters filled with lead balls.”

  “It won’t work,” said Rodrigo.

  “Rigo, this is no time—” Stephano began impatiently.

  “The cannons rely on magic,” Rodrigo continued, “and the seventh sigil is playing merry hell with the magic.”

  “Huh?” Dag stared at him. “What’s he talking about, sir?”

  Stephano heaved a sigh and ran his hand through his hair. “I’m afraid he’s right. Don’t ask him why.”

  “Well, sir,” said Dag thoughtfully. “If we can’t fire the canisters from the cannon, maybe we can throw them. We’ll make grenades. Pack the canisters with shot and gunpowder, add a slow burning fuse, and toss them into the corridor.”

  “Then, during the chaos, you and I can enter the corridor, charge the door, run up the stairs, and kill the Blood Mage,” said Stephano.

  “And how do you propose to do that?” Rodrigo asked.

  “Shoot the bastard,” Dag growled.

  “This man is a blood mage, one of the most powerful wizards in this or any world. He is skilled in the use of blood magic and contramagic. Shoot him? You’d be dead before you got in the door.”

  “He’s right, Stephano,” said Miri unhappily. “I saw him kill a man with a flick of his hand.”

  Stephano looked at Dag, who shook his head.

  “Don’t look at me, sir. I never had to fight a wizard.”

  “Neither have I,” Stephano muttered.

  They all fell silent. The drumming was growing increasingly louder, or so it seemed. Miri was watching him anxiously. Master Tutillo shuffled his feet.

  “I have another idea regarding the lift crystals,” said Rodrigo cautiously. “You only used one or two of them in each of the lift tanks, right?”

  “Right,” said Miri. “That’s all we need.”

  “I remember you saying you stored the barrel containing the rest of the crystals here, in the armory, where it would be safe in case of attack.”

  “The barrel is right behind you. What do you plan to do with the crystals?” Stephano asked.

  “Do you remember my balloon filled with lift gas that I used to protect the pinnace from the Bottom Dwellers’ attack? I covered the silk with magical constructs and the lift gas gave them the power to work. I might be able to do the same with the seventh sigil and the crystals. It would protect you from the Blood Mage’s magic. There’s only one problem.”

  “You had to be physically connected to the balloon to make the magic work,” Miri pointed out.

  “That’s the problem,” said Rodrigo. “If I was a savant, I could work the magic with my mind alone. As it is, I would need to be on the bridge with you—”

  “Good God, no!” Dag protested. “You’d get us all killed!”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t work, Rigo,” said Stephano. “Dag and I are going to have to fight our way onto the bridge. We wouldn’t be able to protect you.”

  “There might be a way,” said Miri slowly. “You brought the seventh sigil to life, Rigo; you figured out the mystery of contramagic. You may not be a savant, but you are one of the most skilled crafters I know.”

  “I’m one of the most skilled crafters I know,” said Rodrigo. “I don’t see how that helps.”

  “I believe you are more talented than you imagine. I’ve seen you do wondrous things with your magic.” Miri put her hand on his arm and looked up at him earnestly. “You could inscribe the seventh sigil on the crystal, throw it onto the bridge and then concentrate on the construct, use your mind to make the magic work.”

  “I did send the grand bishop’s miter sailing around the dining hall,” Rodrigo reflected. “That took considerable mental concentration, not to mention about six glasses of wine. Let me think about this.”

  He began pacing back and forth, muttering to himself.

  “How would he throw the crystal onto the bridge?” Stephano asked. “He can’t get close enough.”

  “He could if he and I were riding Viola,” said Miri.

  “Absolutely not,” Stephano said sharply. “You may have flown a dragon once, but that was under different circumstances—”

  “You’re right,” Miri returned heatedly, putting her hands on her hips. “This time I would be riding a trained dragon with a saddle! Not an untrained dragon bareback!”

  Stephano smiled. “You have a point,” he conceded.

  “Viola could handle the mission, sir,” said Dag. “Miri could sit in the saddle with Rodrigo in front of her.”

  All three of them looked at Rodrigo, who saw them and stopped his pacing.

  “I just thought of something. How do I get to the bridge?”

  “We think we have a way,” said Stephano. “You can ride Viola—”

  “Viola? Me? A dragon?” Rodrigo exclaimed in horror. “You have all gone stark raving mad. I’m not even certain I can control the magic with my mind. I know I can’t if my mind is shivering in terror!”

  “Rigo, you were ready to blow yourself up—”

  “A far quicker death than falling off the back of a dragon,” Rodrigo observed, shuddering.

  The fortress lurched, rose into the air, hung there for a few terrifying moments, then sank back down.

  “He’s at the helm. H
e’s learning how to control the magic,” said Miri in grim tones. “You won’t fall off, Rigo. I’ll be there to hold on to you.”

  Rodrigo sighed deeply. “If I ever want to see home again, I suppose I will have to. Someone pry open the lid of this barrel. I’ll need a knife and one of the empty cans from the whirly gun.”

  “Canisters from the swivel gun,” Stephano translated.

  They set to work. Rodrigo began to carefully scratch magical constructs onto the outside of an empty canister. Under Dag’s direction, Cook and the rest of the men removed the lead balls from a standard canister round and replaced them with a powder charge from one of the cannons. They then packed as many of the lead balls into the canister as possible.

  Miri made fuses out of thin strips of cloth cut from Cook’s shirt that she rubbed with a paste of black powder and Calvados, then braided them together. Using a bayonet to punch a hole in the top of the canister, Dag fed the fuse through the hole into the powder charge.

  The fortress shook twice more, causing everyone to look at one another with strained expressions, wondering if this time would be the time it rose into the air and didn’t come back down. Each time it landed, but the periods of flight were lasting progressively longer.

  Stephano joined Miri, who was slicing up Cook’s shirt. He looked over at Rodrigo, bent over the canister, scratching on it with a knife, moving his lips as if he were also scratching the constructs onto his mind.

  “He’s been a true hero today, Stephano,” said Miri.

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” said Stephano, regarding his friend with deep affection.

  “We’re ready, sir,” Dag reported.

  “Rigo?” Stephano looked at his friend.

  Rodrigo was tamping down the lid of the canister with the hilt of the knife.

  “Half a second,” he said.

  He gazed intently at the constructs of the seventh sigil, tracing them over and over with his finger, murmuring to himself.