The Seventh Sigil (Dragon Brigade Series)

by Margaret Weis

  “What the devil…”

  “Alan, she has drawn blood!” Father Jacob cried, running toward his brother. “Get away from her—”

  He was too late. Irene threw the dagger to the floor and flung her arms around Alan, using his blood to fuel her spell. Fiery red magic crackled from her body and twined about Alan. He screamed in agony. Writhing and twisting, he struck out at her, trying to break free of the deadly embrace.

  Henry raised his pistol, but the two were so closely bound that he dared not fire for fear of hitting his friend.

  “Jacob, do something!” Henry cried hoarsely.

  Father Jacob seized hold of Irene’s arms. “Release him!” he commanded.

  “Go to the hell that spawned you, priest!” Irene snarled.

  Her blood magic crackled. Father Jacob grimaced in pain, but he kept fast hold of her. Blue radiance spread from his hand.

  “Release him!” he said again.

  The blue glow of his magic intensified. Irene cried out in anger and fell back, letting go. Alan dropped to the floor, groaning. Henry lowered his pistol and was going to help his friend when Irene suddenly sprang at him, her hands extended, her fingers covered in blood.

  The sound of a pistol shot startled him. Irene gazed at him, smiled, then slumped to the floor. Blood poured from a bullet wound in her back. Sir Ander lowered his smoking pistol.

  Henry knelt down beside the body of the young woman. Her fists remained clenched, even in death. He carefully pried loose the fingers of her right hand. A small glass bottle rolled out onto the floor.

  Father Jacob passed his hand over it. The bottle began to glow with a bright green light. Henry jumped to his feet and scrambled back.

  “We are quite safe,” said Father Jacob. “Watch!”

  The green light faded. The bottle broke with a loud crack, splitting into two pieces, spilling out a large quantity of crystals. Father Jacob sifted through them.

  “Sulfur crystals laced with bitumen,” he said. “When set on fire, they produce a lethal gas. Such a weapon was first used in the waning days of the Sunlit Empire, killing two hundred soldiers in less than two minutes—”

  He was interrupted by a bellow from Mr. Sloan, who had been left to watch the front of the inn. “My lord, they’re getting away!”

  They could hear the pounding of horses’ hooves and the sound of carriage wheels crunching over the gravel. Henry opened the window and leaned out to see a phaeton rolling past the front of the inn. A young man was driving. The female passenger, seated beside, looked up at him.

  “Eiddwen!” he muttered.

  She smiled at him, as if she had heard him. And then she was gone. The phaeton whirled off down the highway.

  “We have to go after her!” said Henry.

  “How?” Sir Ander demanded. “Our wyvern’s hurt—”

  “Mr. Sloan will find a suitable conveyance,” said Henry. “Alan, can you stand?”

  Alan tried to push himself to his feet, only to collapse, groaning.

  “What is the matter with me?” he gasped. “I feel like my blood is on fire!”

  “Her magic,” said Father Jacob. “I can help.”

  Alan shrank from his brother’s touch. “Not you. I am fine. I just need a moment to rest.”

  “Don’t be a bloody fool, Alan!” said Henry sharply. “We don’t have time for this nonsense. Let Father Jacob treat you.”

  Alan didn’t like it, but he obeyed. Father Jacob knelt beside his brother and placed his hands on his breast. A soft blue glow spread over Alan and he breathed out a sigh of relief. Father Jacob started to put his arm around him to help him up. Alan pulled away.

  “I can manage,” he said tersely. He staggered to his feet. “Where’s my pistol?”

  “You dropped it over here,” said Henry.

  Alan was a bit woozy, but he could walk on his own. His weskit and the shirt beneath were stained with blood. He picked up the pistol and headed for the door. They were leaving the room, when Henry realized Father Jacob was not with them. He stopped to look back.

  Father Jacob had removed his hat and was standing over the young woman, his hands folded.

  “What the devil is he doing?” Henry demanded.

  “Saying a prayer for the dead,” said Sir Ander.

  “A prayer! That blasted female tried to murder me!” Alan said angrily.

  “As Father Jacob would say, she is one of God’s children,” said Sir Ander. “You gentlemen go on ahead. Father Jacob and I will catch up with you.”

  Alan cast Henry a grim glance. “And you talk to me about wasting time with nonsense.”

  He started down the hall. Henry looked back into the room.

  Father Jacob began to pray. “Your power gives us life. By Your command, we return to dust.…”

  Henry shrugged and went on, catching up to Alan.

  Hurrying down the stairs, they came up short. The innkeeper was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, holding an ancient blunderbuss in a shaking hand.

  “Don’t move! I will shoot!” said the innkeeper. “So help me, God!”

  The door to the inn stood open. Through it, Henry could see Mr. Sloan, his pistol drawn, standing alongside a luxurious landau drawn by a pair of matching black horses.

  “Deal with this gentleman, will you, Alan?” said Henry.

  Turning aside the muzzle of the blunderbuss, he walked past the innkeeper and out the door. Mr. Sloan was aiming his pistol at an enraged gentleman, his equally enraged wife, and their bewildered elderly coachman.

  “I see you found us a carriage. Well done, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry.

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  Henry glanced at the coat of arms on the door of the landau and doffed his hat. “Sir Oswald Beckham, if I am not mistaken. I am Sir Henry Wallace and I am commandeering your landau in the name of the queen.”

  The nobleman went red in the face.

  “I don’t give a damn who you are—” he began.

  Lady Oswald gasped and jabbed her husband in the ribs. “Henry Wallace! He’s the queen’s—”

  She whispered something to her husband, who went from red to sickly yellow.

  “Of course, you may have the carriage, Sir Henry,” Lady Oswald said meekly, dropping a curtsy.

  Her husband whipped off his hat and bowed.

  “Thank you, madame. Mr. Sloan, go fetch the rifles from our carriage. I will keep an eye on Sir Oswald and his lady.” Henry drew out his own pistol.

  Mr. Sloan returned to the barn and came back armed with the rifles. Stowing these inside the landau, he climbed onto the driver’s seat and took hold of the reins. Alan emerged from the inn. He glanced from Henry, who still held the pistol, to the quaking nobleman and grinned.

  “I see Mr. Sloan found us a carriage.”

  “How is ‘mine host’?” Henry asked.

  “I took the gun away from him,” said Alan. “Fool man might have shot someone. Speaking of fools, Jacob is right behind me.”

  Alan opened the half door and climbed into the landau.

  Father Jacob and Sir Ander came hurrying out of the inn. Sir Ander held open the half door and helped the priest in. Alan was lowering the landau’s cloth top, which was divided in half, so that the top could be opened with one half folding into the back and the other half into the front. Henry shoved his pistol into his coat and swung himself up onto the box alongside Mr. Sloan. He tipped his hat to the aggrieved nobleman.

  “Her Majesty extends her grateful thanks! Ready when you are, Mr. Sloan.”

  Mr. Sloan slapped the reins on the backs of the horses and they lunged forward. The landau rolled out of the yard and onto the road.

  “They were heading north, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “Very good, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry, getting a firm grip on the seat irons.

  A landau was a type of carriage meant to be driven around the park or taken for a leisurely drive through the countryside. The horses had probably never
run faster than a slow walk. Mr. Sloan cracked the whip and the horses, startled, broke into a gallop.

  “They are traveling down the highway in the direction of Dunham, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “According to Master Yates, that is site of the last boulder.”

  The landau bounced up and down on its springs, making for an extremely uncomfortable ride.

  “Indeed, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry, trying to keep from biting his tongue.

  “They have about a fifteen minute start on us, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “They are traveling in a phaeton. I did not recognize the young man who was driving. I did recognize Mistress Eiddwen.”

  “So did I,” said Henry grimly.

  “She was dressed as a servant, as Father Jacob surmised. I assume the young man is her accomplice?”

  “Twenties, dark hair, good-looking, walks with a limp?”

  “I did not see him walk, but, yes, sir. That describes him.”

  “The Warlock,” Henry stated. “Very dangerous, the pair of them.”

  “Did they kill the young woman, my lord?” Mr. Sloan asked.

  “In a way. She was their accomplice. She tried to kill us. Sir Ander shot her.”

  Henry looked over his shoulder. Alan and Sir Ander were attempting to load the two rifled long guns, as well as an assortment of pistols, not an easy task, given the jouncing of the landau. Father Jacob clung to the sides, trying to keep his seat. The wind had carried away his hat. Henry clamped his own tricorn down hard on his head.

  “Lucky for us Sir Oswald happened to be driving past,” Henry commented.

  “‘Ask and ye shall receive,’ my lord,” Mr. Sloan said gravely.

  “You prayed to God to send us a carriage, Mr. Sloan?” Henry could not resist teasing his secretary. “You should have asked Him for one with a more comfortable ride.”

  “I fear that in my haste, my lord, I asked for a conveyance in which to pursue the criminals. I did not think to specify what type,” said Mr. Sloan, adding. “I will know better next time.”

  Henry glanced in astonishment at Mr. Sloan, then saw the small smile on his lips.

  “You made a jest, Mr. Sloan!” said Henry, chuckling.

  “I trust my levity is not misplaced, my lord, given the gravity of our situation,” said Mr. Sloan.

  He slapped the reins on the horses’ backs. They had attained their stride now, breaking into a mad gallop. Mr. Sloan had all he could do to keep them under control. Henry peered down the road, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of their quarry.

  “Our time for laughter may be growing short, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry with a sigh. “We should make the best of it.”

  28

  God hath work to do in this world; and to desert it because of its difficulties and entanglements, is to cast off His authority.

  —Franklin Sloan

  The landau jounced and rattled down the dirt road. Mr. Sloan yelled and cracked the whip. The horses galloped madly, hooves pounding, nostrils flared. Henry hung on to the rails and stared ahead, trying in vain to see Eiddwen’s phaeton. The road was muddy from the recent rains and the tracks of the wheels were clearly visible, but there was no sign of the carriage itself.

  The driver’s seat was only slightly elevated above the seats of the passengers. Father Jacob was sitting directly behind Henry, and the priest’s head collided with his back whenever the landau’s wheels bumped over a rut.

  “Pistol or rifle?” Alan shouted.

  “Pistol,” Henry yelled back. “You’re a better shot than I am with the rifle!”

  As he reached for the pistol, the landau bounced over a stone, almost throwing him off the seat and causing him to bite his lip. He spat blood and swore.

  “I see the phaeton, sir,” Mr. Sloan reported.

  “Do you, by God?” Henry squinted down the road and shook his head. “I don’t. You have eyes like a hawk, Mr. Sloan.”

  He turned to report to the others. “Our quarry is in sight.”

  Alan stood up, swaying perilously, steadying himself by placing his hand on Sir Ander’s shoulder. “I see it. Too far away yet for a decent shot. What’s the young man’s name? The one you call the Warlock.”

  “I doubt he knows his true name. He was some guttersnipe Eiddwen picked up. He is known as Lucello.”

  Henry now had the phaeton in sight. A light, open-air carriage pulled by a single horse, the phaeton was the vehicle of choice for rash young men who dared each other to races on lazy Sunday afternoons.

  “I fear we are not going to catch them, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “They have only one horse to our two, but with five people in the landau, our horses will start to tire.”

  Father Jacob had twisted around to see, and he overheard Mr. Sloan.

  “Slow the carriage!” he shouted. “Sir Ander and I will jump out!”

  Startled, Mr. Sloan turned to Henry.

  “He’s right!” said Henry. “Slow the carriage.”

  Mr. Sloan slowed the horses. Sir Ander handed the rifle to Alan and with the wheels still rolling, he and Father Jacob leaped out. Mr. Sloan shouted and cracked the whip and the landau hurtled on faster than before. Alan, standing upright, spread his legs wide on the landau’s floor for balance. His head was about level with Henry’s shoulders.

  Henry looked behind to see Father Jacob waving to them as he and Sir Ander trudged down the road.

  “He’s a decent fellow, your brother,” Henry remarked to Alan. “That time I tried to kill him, I’m rather glad my pistol misfired.”

  Alan grunted. He lifted the rifle and put it to his shoulder.

  They were gaining on the phaeton. Henry could see Eiddwen, her black curly hair whipping in the wind, sitting beside the Warlock. He saw her glance over her shoulder, gaze at them a moment, and then lean close to say something to her companion. Probably urging him to drive faster.

  “Too far yet,” said Alan, lowering the rifle. “You realize, Henry, that this shot is going to take more luck than skill.”

  “That’s why you are doing the shooting, Alan,” said Henry.

  The pursuit continued. The horses’ hooves pounded, flinging up clumps of mud that struck the landau and its occupants. Intent on watching those they were pursuing, excited by the chase, Henry paid no heed to the mud spattering his face and clothes. He leaned forward on the seat, his hands gripping the rails.

  Mr. Sloan was intent on managing the horses and trying to avoid the deep ruts in the road. Alan stood with one hand braced against the seat, the other holding the rifle. He kept the barrel pointed down and focused intently on the ever-narrowing gap between the landau and the phaeton. Not one to waste a shot by firing wildly, he waited with the patience of the skilled marksman.

  Lucello had his back to them, shoulders hunched, driving the horse, and Eiddwen was looking at the road ahead. As the landau drew closer, Alan lifted the rifle.

  Eiddwen turned toward them again, and stretched out her right arm. Henry realized she was holding a pistol, but it was too late to duck. He saw a puff of smoke and heard a flat-sounding bang.

  “She’s shooting at us,” said Henry.

  Alan shook his head. “Waste of a bullet. The range is too far for a pistol.”

  He raised the rifle to his shoulder. The landau bounced and shook and he leaned his bent knee against the seat to steady himself. He had no choice but to hold the rifle so that the barrel thrust out between Henry and Mr. Sloan.

  “This will be loud,” Alan warned.

  Henry covered his ears with his hands. Mr. Sloan leaned away from the rifle as far as he could. Alan aimed and fired.

  They watched intently. Lucello looked back and kept driving, and Eiddwen was again facing forward as the phaeton drove on.

  “Missed, damn it,” said Alan.

  He dropped the empty rifle and reached for the second.

  They lost sight of the phaeton a moment as they crested a small hill, speeding past fields planted with wheat and corn. Then the road dipped down and they caught sight of th
e phaeton again, heading for an old stone bridge that spanned a small, sun-dappled stream.

  The bridge had been built a hundred years ago to accommodate farm wagons and pedestrians and was so narrow only a single vehicle could pass, so anyone driving the opposite direction would have to pull over to wait. The stone surface had been paved over, but Henry could see the cracks in the surface even from here.

  “The phaeton will have to slow down or risk breaking a wheel or crippling their horse,” Henry remarked.

  “Now we have them,” said Alan.

  As the landau hurtled down the hill, Henry could see Lucello had slowed the phaeton. Alan took careful aim, but just as he fired, the landau’s front wheel hit a rock, throwing him off balance.

  Henry had forgotten in the excitement to cover his ears, and the blast half deafened him. He watched the pair closely. The phaeton rolled across the bridge and then sped up. Henry shook his head.

  “You must have missed.”

  Alan swore. “I’d have better luck throwing rocks at them!”

  He crouched down in the landau to reload the rifles. Henry drew his pistol, planning to try for a shot himself. He then thought better of it. He wouldn’t have time to reload and he would need his pistol if he did manage to capture Eiddwen. The landau wobbled from side to side. Alan was swearing again as he spilled gunpowder all over the floor.

  As the landau came up on the bridge. Mr. Sloan hauled on the reins with all his strength, shouting at the horses. Henry kept his eyes fixed on Eiddwen; when she turned around and held up her hand, he thought she was going to shoot at them again. But she wasn’t holding a pistol. The object glittered brightly in the sunlight reminding him of glass … a glass bottle …

  “Alan! Shoot her!” Henry cried.

  Alan rose to his feet, bringing the rifle to his shoulder. Before he could fire, Eiddwen flung the bottle at them. It landed on the bridge and rolled toward them.

  “Stop!” Henry roared. “Stop the horses, Mr. Sloan!”

  Mr. Sloan struggled to obey, but the maddened horses were out of control and rushed forward. The landau’s wheels hit the rough surface of the stone bridge, shaking every bone in Henry’s body.