Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  They both knew the contramagic was responsible. Neither mentioned the word aloud. There were too many people around.

  Sir Ander went inside the yacht to find everything much as it had been. The box of dominoes—Father Jacob’s favorite game—was on the table. The smell of fresh paint was still strong.

  “I didn’t know what you wanted me to do with this,” said Master Albert in somber tones.

  He led Sir Ander to a small trunk tucked into a corner. Sir Ander recognized the trunk and his heart constricted. Inside were Brother Barnaby’s few possessions: a clean robe, a leather-bound prayer book that had been a gift from Father Jacob, and a bag of sweetmeats the monk had purchased, probably with the intention of treating the wyverns, who had been his special pets.

  “We’ll keep this with us,” said Sir Ander.

  “He had no family, did he?” said Albert.

  “We were his family,” said Sir Ander.

  He gently closed the trunk.

  “Everything appears to be in order, Master Albert. Thank you for supervising the work. I hope this didn’t interfere with your duties as guild master.”

  “I was able to manage both,” said Albert. “To tell you the truth, I enjoyed the labor. I’ll have the lift tanks filled this morning. Should I sail the yacht ’round to the palace?”

  “No place to dock it,” said Sir Ander. “What with the fleet and the royal barges and yachts clogging the harbor. We’ll pick it up here this afternoon. I stored the swivel guns in the fort’s armory. I’ll have them delivered.”

  “I purchased two wyverns from a guild brother,” said Albert. “They are young, strong, fast beasts. A bit temperamental, but then what wyverns aren’t.”

  They made arrangements to meet later that day. Master Albert left to see to the filling of the lift tanks, and since he still had a few hours until his midday meeting with the dragons, Sir Ander went to the Trundler village to find Angus McPike.

  The Trundler village was actually a flotilla made up of Trundler houseboats docked in an area outside the city of Westfirth. The Trundlers and the city officials had reached an agreement that allowed the Trundlers to live in their floating village and sell their wares from their boats, though not in the city.

  The Trundlers had fared worse than the city of Westfirth in the attack by the Bottom Dwellers. Their village had been struck with particular ferocity. Sir Ander saw empty docks where Trundler houseboats had once moored; now decorated with flowers or other tokens of grief and remembrance. He worried that Angus McPike might have been one of those killed.

  The moment Sir Ander set foot on the pier, he was immediately confronted by several Trundler men carrying clubs. He had come prepared for such a greeting. He was familiar with Trundlers from having visited their village with Father Jacob. He knew they tended to view anyone in a uniform with distrust.

  “I’m here to see Angus McPike,” said Sir Ander. “Papa Jake sent me. I am Defender.”

  “I can vouch for this man,” said one of the Trundlers. “Come with me, Defender. I’ll take you to Angus. How is Papa Jake?” he asked as they walked along. “We heard he was hurt in the attack.”

  “He’s recovered,” said Sir Ander. “I was very sorry to hear about the losses your people suffered.”

  The man’s face darkened. “The fiends killed women and children and our old people—all for no reason. We weren’t a threat to them. You know our ways. None of our boats carry weapons. We had no way to defend ourselves. It was a slaughter. They told us why,” he added grimly.

  Sir Ander stared at him, astonished. “They spoke to you? What did they say?”

  “We didn’t hear them so much with our ears as inside our heads. ‘You left our children to die. Now you suffer as we suffered.’ I know it sounds strange. You likely don’t believe me—”

  “On the contrary, I do believe you,” said Sir Ander.

  The Bottom Dwellers had spoken in the same way to Gythe and to Brother Barnaby, who both said words had formed in their minds. Sir Ander found this information relevant to Father Jacob’s theory about the sinking of the Trundler island and made a mental note to relate it to the priest.

  They located Angus McPike aboard a houseboat belonging to a fellow Trundler, helping to repair it. Angus was the head of the McPike clan and the chief of the Trundler village. He was in his sixties, still strong and active, still bearing the flame-red hair that was the hallmark of the McPike family. He greeted Sir Ander and left his work to come meet him.

  Trundlers paid homage to no king; they followed their own laws. Titles meant nothing to them, and they tended to judge a man on his own merits. Angus McPike liked and trusted Sir Ander and offered his hand in friendship—among—Trundlers a mark of high regard.

  Angus invited Sir Ander to his own boat, where he insisted they have a “tumble” of Calvados, the potent liquor for which Trundlers were famous. Sir Ander had no desire to drink this early in the day, but to refuse would have been insulting. He agreed to the tumble, short for “tumbler,” a glass made of lead crystal, heavy enough to withstand the vicissitudes of life sailing the Breath.

  On board, Angus’s wife, Anna, was dealing with two wealthy Westfirth matrons who had come to buy Anna’s beautiful watered silk. Anna smiled at Sir Ander as she continued her business. Angus escorted the knight down below, where they could sit in comfort and privacy in the galley.

  Once the Calvados was poured and Sir Ander had drunk to the health of the family, the health of Papa Jake, and his own health, they settled down to business.

  “How is Papa Jake?” Angus asked, his brow creasing in worry. The priest was popular among the Trundlers. Because they held their own religious beliefs, which were often contrary to church teachings, the Trundlers had long ago been cut off from the church. Father Jacob had, of course, defied the edict. He traveled and worked among the Trundlers at least one month out of every year. “We heard he had been mortally wounded in the attack.”

  “We nearly lost him,” said Sir Ander. His eyes were watering from the burning Calvados. “The healers drilled a hole in his head and he survived.”

  “A hole in his head!” Angus said slowly, marveling. “Think of that. Our priest is seemingly not an easy man to kill. And so what brings you here, Defender?”

  “Father Jac—that is, Papa Jake would like to speak to you in person, Angus. He would come to you, but he is still not fully recovered. He asked if you could meet him at our yacht in the Bollinger shipyard this afternoon.”

  Angus nodded. “I will be there. Will you have another tumble, Defender?”

  “No, thank you, Angus,” said Sir Ander, hastily. His head was spinning. “I will not keep you from your work. I do have one question, though,” he asked as Angus was escorting him off the boat. “Have you heard from your niece, Miri?”

  “Not a word since the attack. No one’s seen hide nor hair of her or Gythe or the Cloud Hopper. I don’t mind telling you I’m worried. Why do you ask? Have you heard something?”

  “Miri is friends with my godson, Lord Captain de Guichen,” said Sir Ander. “I am friends with his mother and she has not heard from him, either. She is concerned about him.”

  “Stephano is a right man,” said Angus, meaning Stephano was right-minded. He thought like a Trundler. “And my nieces are bonny sailors. If I hear anything, I’ll send word.”

  The two shook hands again. Angus went back to his work and Sir Ander left to make his unsteady way to the Bastion, to meet with the dragon brothers.

  * * *

  Located at the top of a cliff overlooking the city of Westfirth and its valuable ports, the Bastion had been the base for the famed Dragon Brigade, whose dragons and riders defended those ports that were the lifeblood of Rosino. Home to a score of dragons and their riders for seventy years, the Bastion had been abandoned with the disbanding of the Dragon Brigade.

  The fortress had been designed by dragons for their own comfort. Stone walls surrounded a large central courtyard that was open to the
sky. Each floor contained workrooms and quarters for the dragons and men who lived here.

  The members of the Dragon Brigade would generally arrive at the Bastion on the backs of their dragons. The only other way to reach the fortress was by climbing a series of steps that crisscrossed the side of the cliff. The blast that had destroyed the gun emplacements had also taken out much of this route, as Sir Ander soon discovered.

  He had to cut through the archbishop’s garden, climb over a wall, then flounder among thick underbrush before he reached the steps. He tore a hole in his trousers, scraped his knee, and cut his hand when he slipped on a loose rock.

  By the time he reached the summit he was out of breath, his head throbbed, his muscles burned, and his shirt was soaked with sweat. He had to pause a moment to rest and catch his breath and massage a cramp in his calf, before he walked over to greet Hroal and Droal, who were waiting together in the courtyard.

  Both dragons were old soldiers. They stood at attention, their heads up and their necks straight, with wings folded at their sides. Hroal clearly found such exertion an effort. His brother cast worried glances at him. As he drew near, Sir Ander understood why. Hroal had suffered terrible wounds, some of which were still not healed.

  These wounds were not typical of any battle injuries Sir Ander had ever witnessed. Dragon scales acted much like armor, though they were far stronger than any armor humans could produce.

  Hroal had suffered what appeared to be deep burns on his breast and flanks. Scales were missing in some places, revealing the flesh beneath. The scales that remained had turned black. Hroal appeared to be standing upright by sheer force of will.

  “Sergeants Droalfrig and Hroalfrig reporting, sir,” said Droal.

  Sir Ander recalled that the dragon brothers’ speech tended to be short and to the point. He expressed his pleasure in seeing them both again.

  “Sergeant Hroalfrig, I am sorry to see you have been wounded. What happened?” Sir Ander asked.

  “Hurt in attack, sir. Bat riders. Roed. Bad for dragons. Very bad,” said Hroalfrig.

  “Touch and go, sir,” Droalfrig added gruffly. “Pulled through. Couldn’t fly for a month. Not up to it.”

  “I’m not sure he should be flying now,” said Sir Ander.

  He was intrigued by the statement that roed was bad for dragons, and was about to ask what that word meant, when the dragons caused his thoughts to veer off in an entirely different direction.

  “Glad to find you, sir,” said Hroalfrig. “Came to tell you. Monk. Friend of yours. Information.”

  “Brother Barnaby!” Sir Ander exclaimed excitedly. “You have information about him?”

  “Yes, sir. And no, sir.”

  Hroalfrig’s breathing was labored. He had to pause to catch his breath.

  “Blast. Tower fell. Monk fell. Ledge. Monk safe.”

  Hroalfrig paused again for breath. Sir Ander thought back to the last he had seen of Brother Barnaby. The monk had vanished in a cloud of smoke and crumbling rock when the Bottom Dwellers blew apart the gun emplacement. From what he gathered from Hroalfrig, Barnaby must have fallen onto a ledge. But what had happened to him after that? Sir Ander waited impatiently for the dragon to continue.

  “Bat riders,” Hroalfrig said at last. “Took monk prisoner. Tried to rescue, sir. Hit by roed fire.”

  “Are you saying that the Bottom Dwellers took Brother Barnaby prisoner?” Sir Ander was astonished. The demons had taken no prisoners at the abbey. They had simply killed. “Are you certain?”

  “Prisoners,” Hroalfrig confirmed. “Priests. More than one. Black ship.”

  “Priests…” Sir Ander mulled this over.

  He recalled hearing reports that several priests who had been in the new cathedral when it came under attack had disappeared. At the time Sir Ander had been preoccupied with concern over Father Jacob, and had paid little attention to the tale beyond thinking sorrowfully that their bodies would probably be found in the rubble. He wondered why the Bottom Dwellers would want to abduct priests.

  “What happened to the black ship that was carrying the prisoners?” Sir Ander asked. “Did you see?”

  “Sailed away. Into the Breath.”

  Sir Ander did not know what to make of this news. He didn’t know whether to rejoice or to grieve.

  “I thank you for coming to me, Sergeant Hroalfrig,” Sir Ander said earnestly. “I know this trip must have been very difficult for you. I feared Brother Barnaby was dead. At least now I have hope that we may yet find him.”

  The dragons exchanged grim glances. Sir Ander knew what they were thinking, for he was thinking the same. He changed the subject.

  “What news of the abbey?”

  “Cathedral gone,” Droalfrig reported unhappily. “Crashed down. No one there. No one hurt. No one ever comes now. Deserted.”

  The dragons appeared deeply saddened by this. They had been fond of the nuns, who had been good to them. Sir Ander doubted if the church would rebuild the Abbey of Saint Agnes. The cathedral had been beautiful, with its twin spires in which the nuns hung lanterns to guide sailors benighted in the Breath. Their rest would not be disturbed.

  Sir Ander bid the brothers farewell. As he slid and stumbled his way back down the cliff, his thoughts were on Brother Barnaby. The more he considered the probable fate of the young monk the darker and gloomier those thoughts became. He couldn’t stop thinking of the helm made of human skin flayed from the body of a blood magic sacrifice.

  Sir Ander returned to the palace to find Father Jacob stomping about the room, fuming with impatience.

  “Where have you been? What have you been doing?” he demanded, noting with shock the state of Sir Ander’s uniform. “Did you get into a brawl?”

  “I scaled a cliff,” Sir Ander said. He looked around. Books and trunks and clothes were gone. All that remained was a leather satchel. “At least you packed while I was gone.”

  “Master Albert sent men to take our luggage to the yacht. I had them take everything except the books of the saints. They are here, well protected.”

  Father Jacob indicated the satchel, which was covered with magical constructs to protect the contents.

  “Father, we need to talk—” said Sir Ander, picking up the satchel.

  “Not now! We are late as it is. I don’t know what took you so long.”

  Father Jacob stalked out of the room, his impatient strides causing his cassock to flap about his ankles. Sir Ander hurried after him.

  “Father, you will want to hear this—”

  “I have said our good-byes to the archbishop,” Father Jacob continued. “The man could not conceal his joy. He was so glad to be rid of me he loaned me his carriage.”

  “Jacob,” said Sir Ander, seizing hold of Father Jacob’s arm. “Stop! I have news of Brother Barnaby.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? What have you found out? No, wait. Not here. Tell me when we are in the carriage.”

  They left the palace without ceremony. The archbishop’s carriage stood waiting. The driver opened the door and placed next to it a box as a step for them to use to climb inside. Once they were settled, the driver closed the door and took his seat in front. He flicked the reins lightly at the horses and the carriage rolled off.

  Sir Ander sank back thankfully into one of the luxurious leather seats.

  “Tell me about Barnaby,” said Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander related everything the dragon brothers had told him. Father Jacob’s face grew grim.

  “This news is not good, my friend.”

  “I know,” said Sir Ander. “The Bottom Dwellers are still trying to find the books of the saints, aren’t they? That’s the only reason I can think of why they would take priests prisoners.”

  “There might be other reasons,” said Father Jacob. “Some practitioners of blood magic believe that the blood of holy men and women has special power.”

  He sat in dark thought, his body swaying back and forth as the carriage bumped over the cobblestone
streets. Then he sighed. “It does no good to speculate.”

  “They tortured Brother Barnaby once before. I can’t bear to think of the torment he must be enduring down there,” said Sir Ander. “I almost wish we had taken him into our confidence, told him we had the books. He could tell them what they want to know and at least then they would stop the torture.”

  “By killing him,” said Father Jacob. “Once they had the information, they would have no more need of him.”

  He gripped the satchel tightly. “Brother Barnaby needs our prayers. When we reach the Arcanum, I will hold a special mass for him.”

  Sir Ander sat suddenly forward. “The hell with the Arcanum, Jacob! We should go save Barnaby. We should take the yacht and fly down there and free him from those fiends!”

  Father Jacob gave a grave smile. “You are courageous, Sir Ander, and a true friend.”

  “Then you will do it!” Sir Ander said eagerly. “You will come with me!”

  “Of course not,” said Father Jacob. “Your suggestion is completely irrational. We have no idea where the island of Glasearrach is located. I doubt if the wyverns would survive the journey. I doubt if we would survive. The best way to help Brother Barnaby is to return to the Arcanum where I can continue my studies.”

  Sir Ander flung himself back angrily in the carriage and sat silent, brooding, then said abruptly, “Very well. I’ll go by myself. I’ll find a way!”

  Father Jacob regarded the knight with affection. “My dear friend, I admire your resolve. I must remind you that you are a Knight Protector. You swore an oath before God…”

  “The hell with my oath! The hell with God! Where was He when those fiends took Brother Barnaby?” Sir Ander blinked his eyes rapidly and lowered his head into his hands.

  He felt the warm and firm pressure of Father Jacob’s hand on his arm. “God is with Brother Barnaby, Ander. He has never left him.”

  Sir Ander wiped his eyes and mouth. Father Jacob offered a handkerchief, which Sir Ander accepted. He blew his nose, then stuffed the handkerchief in the sleeve of his coat.