“Here, take the bosun’s pipe,” Stephano said to Miri. “Use this to summon Viola. You sit in the saddle. Be sure to strap yourself in. You’ll need to hang tight on to Rodrigo.”
Miri nodded gravely at each of his instructions.
“Rigo and I will be fine, Stephano,” she said, trying to smile. “Don’t worry about us. We have the easy task.”
“Not necessarily,” he said drily. “You have to wrestle Rodrigo onto the back of a dragon.”
Miri laughed a little shakily. “I’ll manage.”
Stephano tried to embrace her, but she slipped out of his arms.
“I don’t want to say good-bye again.”
“After this is over, we will never have to tell each other good-bye again,” Stephano promised.
Miri turned to Rodrigo. “We’d best be going. Rigo, are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be. There better be a knighthood in this,” Rodrigo grumbled.
He and Miri departed. Stephano sent men to escort them and watched until they had disappeared into the darkness of the dragon chamber and he lost sight of them. No one spoke. Stephano waited tensely until he heard the shrill whistle of the bosun’s pipe, summoning the dragon.
“That’s the signal,” said Stephano. “Move out.”
44
I do not fear death so much as I fear failing those who have been loyal to me.
—Joseph Voyou, Duke of Bourlet
Armed and ready, Stephano and his men gathered near the double doors that opened from the dragon chamber onto the hallway leading to the officers’ quarters. Beyond that were the main gates, which had been destroyed, and the corridor to the bridge. He opened the doors a crack and looked into the hallway. Ordinarily, it would have been dark, but now pale sunlight crept inside the hole where the gates had been. The light waxed and waned as mists and clouds obscured the sun, but even that small amount of light allowed them to see that the corridor was filled with debris: chunks of stone, pieces of twisted metal. Walking would be treacherous.
Stephano looked at his men. They were quiet, determined, resolute. Prince Renault had given Stephano sailors from his own flagship, some of his very best. Stephano did not make a speech. They all knew what was at stake.
“Cook, Gunner’s Mate, you both ready?”
The men replied with grunts and tight-lipped nods. Stephano had chosen the two best bocce players in the fortress to toss the canisters. Cook was deemed to have the strongest arm, so he was tasked with tossing the canister that had to travel the farthest. The gunner’s mate—said to be the most accurate—would throw the other.
Stephano nodded. Dag thrust open the doors and the men entered the hallway, moving as quietly as they could. Now Stephano blessed the incessant drum beats that drowned out the sounds of booted feet shuffling down the corridor. Debris from the blast that had taken out the main gate covered the floor, forcing them to climb over and around the rubble.
About halfway down the hall, Stephano came upon the grisly remains of three fallen comrades. The men had died in agony, bellies ripped open, hands and feet chopped off while they were still alive. The floor and the walls and even the ceiling were wet with blood. Stephano had seen many horrible sights in war, but this deliberate and cold-blooded butchery brought him to a halt, shaken. Next to Stephano, Master Tutillo clamped his teeth down on his quivering lower lip and clutched his rifle so tightly his knuckles were chalk white.
“Keep moving!” Stephano ordered in a harsh whisper.
He led the way, and as he walked in the blood of the fallen the stench filled his nose and mouth. His gut twisted, and behind him, he heard the muffled sounds of someone heaving. The drumming grew louder.
As he passed the door of his own quarters, nearing the end of the hall, he raised his hand, ordering the men to halt. A few feet ahead, the hall ended in a T, intersecting with the corridor that to his right led to the bridge and to his left continued around the fort. Stephano flattened himself against the wall and inched forward. When he reached the end of the T, he risked a quick glance down the corridor to his right.
The drummers had formed into two rows in the hallway, their backs against the wall. Their drums must have been part of their equipment, for they were attached to harnesses slung over their shoulders, allowing each drummer to hold a drum in one hand while pounding on the drum with the other. No one was guarding the corridor; no one had drawn a weapon. They were all chanting loudly, oblivious to the danger.
Far too oblivious.
He ducked back and motioned to Dag.
“It’s a trap,” he whispered. “They know we have to try to reach the bridge. They’re waiting for us to enter that corridor.”
“I guess we should oblige them,” Dag said.
“I guess we should,” said Stephano grimly. “Cook, Gunner, light the fuses. Be ready to throw on my command.”
Cook and Gunner lit the fuses. They had only moments now to toss the grenades or risk blowing themselves up.
Stephano and Dag, both carrying rifles, jumped out into the hallway, preparing to fire. Blood mages were waiting for them and a green glowing cloud of contramagic roiled down the corridor and over Dag and Stephano. When the contramagic struck the magic in their rifles, the barrels sizzled.
“Now!” Stephano ordered.
He and Dag flung their rifles as far as they could and dove for cover back down the hallway. Cook rushed past them, holding the canister, the fuse blazing, dropping showers of sparks. He heaved it as far as he could. The gunner was right behind him, and the moment Cook let go, the gunner sent his canister rolling along the floor toward the nearest drummers.
Both he and Cook came racing back around the corner to the safety of the hall.
Stephano risked a glance to see what was happening. The first canister landed in the middle of the corridor, lying on the floor, hissing and sputtering while the drummers stared in amazement and sudden horrified understanding. Before they could react, the first canister blew, followed almost immediately by the second.
The force of the two blasts took Stephano by surprise. The air was suddenly thick with black smoke, but he could hear the grapeshot rattling off the walls and the floor and the screams of the victims. The drumming stopped abruptly, and the green cloud of contramagic vanished.
“Ready, sir?” Dag asked.
He was armed with two pistols, one in each hand. Stephano was armed with his two pistols and wore his sword on his baldric.
“Ready.”
He and Dag dashed into the hall, holding their breath, trying to keep from breathing in the smoke. They ran down the corridor, heading for the door that opened onto the stairs leading up to the bridge. The corridor was awash in blood, the floor littered with bodies of the wounded and dying. Here and there, men were rising up, reaching for their swords or their drums. Stephano left them to Master Tutillo and his small force, who would be on their heels.
Dag kicked aside bodies and battered down the door. He and Stephano entered, pistols drawn, hammers cocked. Smoke rolled in behind them. The stairs were dark and the smoke didn’t help. The door to the bridge itself was closed. Stephano started to climb the stairs.
“Look out, sir!” Dag cried, firing his pistol.
Red streaks of crackling lightning flashed out of the darkness, striking Dag, hitting him in the shoulder and knocking him sideways into the wall. Constructs on the dragon coat burst into a blue glow, protecting him from serious harm. Shining brightly in the darkness, they also made him an excellent target.
Stephano couldn’t see anyone, but he heard the man chanting and fired his pistol at the sound. The man cried out and toppled over. The body thudded down the stairs. Apparently bullets didn’t bounce off him.
“Go, sir!” Dag yelled. “I’ll hold the door!”
Stephano jumped over the body and dashed up the steps, taking them two at a time. Dag planted himself in the doorway, a pistol in each hand. Rifle shots echoed in the corridor. Master Tutillo raised his young voice,
leading the charge.
Stephano expected the door to the bridge to be locked. He hurled himself against it, crashing into it to force it open. To his surprise, the door unexpectedly gave way, sending him staggering into the room.
On the bridge, the sounds of the battle raging down below were muffled. Sunlight shone through the single window, gleaming on the brass helm and the man standing over it.
The Blood Mage was tall and spare. His red cloak, crimson surcoat, breeches, and shirt were wet with gore. Magical constructs seemed to crawl on his face, and every change of expression caused them to move. His hands, on the helm, were stained with blood.
Stephano raised his pistol. A gentleman would have demanded this man’s surrender, but Stephano had waded through the blood of his victims. He started to pull the trigger.
The Blood Mage did not move; and did not say a word. A lurid red glow suffused the bridge. Both pistols grew as hot as if they had been dipped in fire. Stephano dropped them with a curse and reached for his sword, only to snatch back his hand, for the hilt, too, blazed red hot.
The Blood Mage continued to study the helm. When Stephano saw him make a casual movement with his hand he remembered Miri saying how she had seen him kill a man “with the flick of his hand.” Stephano dropped to the floor, as the puffs of red smoke struck the wall behind him with explosive force. He looked up to see holes punched into the stone. Those puffs would have taken off his head.
He remained on the floor, on his belly, wondering what the devil to do now, while the Blood Mage continued to be absorbed in whatever problems he was having with the helm. He had not even really looked at Stephano.
A drop hit Stephano on the back of the hand. The liquid looked like blood, but it seared his flesh as if it had been a droplet of boiling lead. Stephano gasped in pain and tried to wipe off the drop, but another hit him on the back of his neck and yet another on the top of his head, causing him excruciating pain. He frantically wiped them away, only to see the ceiling covered with the red droplets of blood that were now falling like rain.
The hands of the Blood Mage and the scars on his face began to glow red. He looked at Stephano now, raised his eyebrows and said in flawless Rosian, “You come as a gift, sir. My magic was starting to wane.” The Blood Mage moved his hands over the helm.
Stephano choked back a cry. Everywhere a drop hit him, his skin burned as if struck by a red-hot poker. Pulling the collar of his dragon coat up over the back of his neck, he dove for cover underneath the chart table and crouched there, helpless to stop this man, equally helpless to save himself. He looked down at his hand to see an ugly, gaping wound where the first drop had struck him. More wounds covered his body, all of them bleeding and burning with a pain he could not have imagined.
He clenched his fist to keep from passing out and, tilting his head, looked at the window, hoping to see Viola. Clouds were gathering and the room grew darker, but there was no sign of the dragon.
The Blood Mage muttered something, and suddenly the stone floor beneath Stephano began to glow red and grow warm, then unpleasantly warm, and then blazing hot. Stephano stood it as long as he could, praying Viola would appear. When at last the heat was unbearable, he crawled out from under the chart table.
He looked up to see the Blood Mage standing over him, curved sword drawn. Stephano made a desperate lunge, struck the Blood Mage around the shins, and carried him down.
The Blood Mage went over backward, narrowly missing striking his head on the helmsman’s chair. He lay still a moment, shaken. Stephano, on his hands and knees, made a grab for the curved sword. The Blood Mage raised his hand, and puffs of smoke slammed into Stephano, hitting him in the chest, shoulders, and arms. The constructs on his coat protected him, but the impact sent him flying. He crashed into the wall beneath the window, where he lay gasping for air. His coat was smoldering, the magical constructs were starting to fail. He wouldn’t survive another hit.
Dazed, he thought he saw movement in the window above him. Then he caught a brief glimpse of Viola’s head and before he could blink, saw a gigantic clawed foot lunging for the window. Still reeling, Stephano flung his arms over his head as the claw smashed through window, covering him with shattered glass. Dimly, he saw the canister containing the crystal marked with the seventh sigil sail through the window and land on the floor with a metallic clatter.
The Blood Mage was just starting to rise and he jumped back, thinking the canister was going to explode. When nothing happened, he eyed the canister warily.
Stephano pulled himself to his feet, crunching on broken glass. Raindrops spattered in through the opening, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Viola hovering slightly above the window, her wings scarcely moving. Rodrigo sat on her back, in front of Miri with both arms wrapped around the dragon’s neck in a deathlike grip. He was staring intently at the canister that lay in the middle of the floor.
The canister kept on doing nothing, at least as far as Stephano could tell. He tried to draw his sword, only to feel the hilt still red hot.
The Blood Mage was growing impatient. Retrieving his own sword, he walked purposefully across the room, heading for Stephano. Sounds of fighting came up from the corridor. He heard Dag bellowing and the bang of gunfire. Stephano warily kept his gaze divided between the Blood Mage inside and Rodrigo outside, who now was lying on the dragon’s neck, his face pale, drawn, intent.
The canister started to glow with a faint blue-green light. Stephano breathed an inward sigh. “God bless you, Rigo!”
The Blood Mage had his back to the canister, and couldn’t see the glow. He raised his hand. Red magic blazed … and then died.
The Blood Mage frowned, confused. He looked out the window to see Rodrigo working his magic, then he turned to stare at the canister. He lowered his hand, amazed at what he was seeing.
The seventh sigil. Contramagic complementing magic, not destroying it. The blue-green light spread over the bridge like a soothing balm. Stephano grasped the hilt of his sword and, feeling it cool to the touch, slid it from its scabbard.
When the Blood Mage heard the scrape of metal, his body stiffened. He carried a sword, but he probably only used his weapon for slitting throats and chopping off body parts, so he would be no match for an experienced swordsman.
Stephano advanced, his sword drawn, watching the eyes of his foe. The Blood Mage circled around the helmsman’s chair, keeping the helm between him and Stephano. The Blood Mage gripped his sword. His eyes were hooded, calculating.
Stephano tried to dart around the chair. The Blood Mage kept moving, keeping the chair always between them. He raised his sword, but instead of attacking, he slashed the sleeve of his own shirt and cut open a large vein in his upper arm.
Blood spurted, flowing fast, and the Blood Mage began to chant, very softly.
Stephano stared, appalled. Blood spilled down the sleeve of the man’s shirt and dripped onto the floor. The Blood Mage fixed Stephano with a look of venomous hatred and continued to chant.
The canister’s glow began to fade. The magic was failing. Either Rodrigo was losing his concentration, or the blood magic was overwhelming.
The chanting continued, the blood flowed, and the Blood Mage’s magic began to work again. Stephano felt the magical, debilitating fear twist inside him, choking him with bile, squeezing his chest. His palms were wet, his mouth dry. His hands shook so that he had trouble holding his sword.
He once more tried to dash around the helm, but his movements were slow and sluggish, mired in fear. The Blood Mage no longer tried to evade him. Grasping his sword with both hands, he rushed at Stephano, swinging his blade in great, sweeping, slashing arcs.
Stephano stood his ground, letting go of thought and fear, letting instinct and his body meld with his blade. Ducking the vicious stroke that was meant to decapitate him, he thrust his blade into the man’s chest.
The rapier slid deep, biting bone, piercing lungs, puncturing the heart. Stephano jerked his sword free and the Blood Mage
fell, sliding off the blade to land on the floor.
He was almost assuredly dead, but Stephano wasn’t taking any chances. Kicking the body over, he stabbed the Blood Mage in the throat. The scarred face froze in a strange and hideous smile; the eyes, still dark with hatred, stared straight at him.
Stephano sagged back against the chart table. He was covered in blood. Blood glistened on the floor, the helm, the walls and the ceiling. The stench of blood was sickening. Blood spatter covered the canister, which had gone dark. Stephano pushed himself off the table, planning to go to the window, to breathe some fresh air and let Viola and his friends know all was well. He could see the dragon, gazing anxiously inside the broken glass, trying to see what was going on.
He was arrested by a strange sizzling sound. He turned to see the dead man’s blood starting to bubble. And now, all the blood in the room, from the spatters on the ceiling to the pools of blood on the floor, began to boil, giving off a red, noxious vapor.
The vapor hung in the air, seeped into Stephano’s mouth and nose, seized him by the throat. His lungs burned, his eyes watered. He couldn’t see, and he couldn’t breathe. He tried to reach the window, to find fresh air, but the vapor dragged him down. He collapsed, gasping for breath, only to draw in more of the poison.
His vision blurred, his body convulsed. He could hear voices … but he couldn’t answer.
He couldn’t breathe.
45
Never despair.
—Motto of the Cadre of the Lost
Dag stood in the doorway leading to the bridge, pistols drawn, watchful and wary. The Blood Guards who had survived the blast had first tried to fight, but Master Tutillo and his men had surged into the corridor, firing rifles and pistols with deadly effect. When the few remaining Blood Guards tried to flee, Master Tutillo and his soldiers had gone after them.
Dag could not see what was happening, but he could hear Verdi hooting the alarm, then sporadic gunfire, calls, and shouts. The Blood Guards must have run outside. The dragon had seen them and attacked, driving them back inside the fortress where the riflemen waited.
The Seventh Sigil Page 61
