The Seventh Sigil (Dragon Brigade Series)

by Margaret Weis

  “Look out, sir!” Mr. Sloan cried.

  A red cloud of noxious gas blossomed right in front of them. Crackling red sparks erupted from the cloud, exploding beneath the horses’ hooves. The animals shrieked in terror and reared up in the traces. One fell and landed on its side, hooves lashing, dragging the other down and causing the landau to roll over.

  Henry hung on for dear life as the landau crashed. He heard wood splintering, horses screaming and the blast of Alan’s rifle. Mr. Sloan, sitting next to him, disappeared.

  And then with startling suddenness, everything stopped moving. The landau was on its side in the road, wheels spinning, with Henry still perched on the seat, still gripping the seat irons.

  Alan appeared out of nowhere. “Henry, are you all right? Does anything hurt?”

  “Everything hurts,” said Henry, coughing in the smoke. He had to make a conscious effort to pry his fingers loose. “But I don’t think anything’s broken. What about Eiddwen?”

  “They’re getting away,” said Alan bitterly, helping Henry to his feet.

  Henry groaned. He was going to be one massive bruise. Blinking his eyes, he tried to see through the remnants of the red cloud, and could just barely glimpse the phaeton rolling down the road.

  “You all right?” Henry looked at Alan.

  “Not a scratch on me. I managed to jump out as we were tipping.”

  “What about you, Mr. Sloan?”

  Hearing no answer, Henry glanced about. “Where is Mr. Sloan?”

  “I lost sight of him,” said Alan worriedly, looking around. He let out a cry. “There! In the water!”

  They rushed to the edge of the bridge. Mr. Sloan was lying face-down in the creek. A stream of blood, flowing out from beneath his head, stained the water red. He was not moving.

  “Good God! Alan, help me!”

  The two men plunged down the embankment, slipping and skidding on loose rocks. They splashed into the shallow water and finally reached Mr. Sloan. Henry bent to examine him.

  “His head struck a rock. He’s not breathing!”

  “We have to get him to shore,” said Alan.

  Between them, they took hold of Mr. Sloan by the shoulders and dragged him out of the water. Alan rolled Mr. Sloan over onto his back and thrust his hand down his throat. Water trickled out. Alan pressed his mouth over Mr. Sloan’s and began breathing air into his lungs.

  Henry watched anxiously and after a heart-stopping moment, Mr. Sloan coughed and gagged and drew in a breath. He moaned in pain, but did not regain consciousness. The deep, ugly gash on his forehead was bleeding freely. Henry, gently probing with his fingers, could feel the crack in the skull. His flesh was white, and as cold as a corpse.

  Henry took off his coat and wrapped it around Mr. Sloan. “He’s going into shock. We need to take him someplace warm.”

  “You stay with him,” Alan said. “I’ll go see if we can use the carriage.”

  Alan scrambled back up the embankment, and managed to untangle the traces and free the horses. Both beasts staggered to their feet, but one was limping and the other was clearly still in the grip of terror. Foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling wildly, the horse shied away whenever Alan came near. Once he finally had the horse under control, he tied both to the branch of a tree growing near the bridge and then went back to inspect the landau.

  “Broken axle,” he reported. “And the horses are finished. One has a bruised shoulder and the other is mad with fear. I’ll go for help. There must be a farmhouse nearby.”

  Henry had pressed his handkerchief on Mr. Sloan’s wound to try to stanch the bleeding, but the handkerchief was immediately soaked. He considered how far they had traveled from the last village, how far they had to travel before they reached Dunham and gave an inward sigh.

  “I think I remember seeing—”

  “Wait! Someone’s coming!” Alan called, pointing to a farmer’s wagon that had just topped the crest of the hill. He stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms and hallooing. The wagon came rolling to a stop. Father Jacob and Sir Ander jumped off the back. Seeing Mr. Sloan lying on the ground near the stream, they came running.

  “Passing farmer,” Father Jacob explained, kneeling beside Mr. Sloan. “We asked him for a lift.”

  “Can you help him, Father?” Henry asked.

  “I am not a healer, unfortunately.” Father Jacob shook his head gravely. “He needs expert medical attention. The farmer who drove us was telling us that his house is near here. We will take him there.”

  The farmer had been hauling hay and the bed was still covered with straw. Sir Ander and Alan carried Mr. Sloan between them and laid him in the wagon. While they were making the injured man comfortable, Henry questioned the farmer.

  “Is there a physician in the area? A healer?”

  “Little Sadie,” said the farmer, nodding.

  “What sort of healer is Little Sadie?” Henry asked, skeptical.

  “Trundler, your lordship,” said the farmer.

  Henry scowled. “No one else?”

  “Little Sadie’s all we’ve ever needed, your lordship.”

  “The Trundlers have been practicing the healing arts for centuries,” said Father Jacob.

  Henry only shook his head. Alan obtained directions to Little Sadie’s and set off at a run.

  Sir Ander offered to take the injured horses to the farm. Neither could be ridden and so he walked, leading them by the reins. Father Jacob and Henry sat in the back of the wagon with Mr. Sloan. The farmer drove slowly to minimize jostling Mr. Sloan as much as possible.

  Henry grasped Mr. Sloan’s cold hand and gazed down anxiously at the man who had been so much more to him than a secretary; who had rushed into a collapsing house to save him and his family; who had saved his life on more than one occasion.

  “He is strong,” said Father Jacob in a reassuring tone. “Do not lose hope.”

  “Spare me your platitudes, Father,” Henry returned morosely. “You and I both know that men with cracked skulls sometimes never wake up.”

  “What happened? How did Mr. Sloan come to fall into the stream?”

  “Eiddwen threw some sort of bomb at us. A red cloud of noxious gas and fireworks spooked the horses, causing the landau to crash. She escaped and now we have lost her.”

  “We know where she is going,” said Father Jacob with quiet confidence. “Where she has to go, to put in place the final magical spell.”

  Henry gave a bitter snort. “The last boulder was hidden in the middle of a field miles from any town. We have no wyverns. We don’t have even any bloody horses! The day after tomorrow is the first day of Fulmea, the day she is supposed to destroy Freya. How the devil are we supposed to stop her?”

  “Certainly not by asking the devil,” said Father Jacob with a half smile. “Mr. Yates and Mr. Albright are searching for the boulder from the air, aren’t they?”

  “They are. Simon may have found it, in fact. But the rendezvous site is outside of Dunham and we have no way to reach the site to find him,” said Henry, discouraged.

  The wagon turned off the highway onto a road that was little more than two well-worn ruts. In the distance, they could see a modest farmhouse and outbuildings.

  “You priests believe in miracles, don’t you, Father?” Henry asked.

  “A dead saint spoke to me,” said Father Jacob. “Her voice was as clear to me as yours. She led me to the understanding of contramagic. Yes, I believe in miracles.”

  “We could use a miracle now. I suggest you pray to this dead saint of yours to work a miracle and send us some horses.”

  “I’m not sure Saint Marie is in the business of horse-trading,” said Father Jacob. “But as we were riding here, the farmer was telling us about his master, the Earl of Brooking. The earl raises and trains griffins.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Henry in almost reverent tones. “I am acquainted with the earl, Lord John Benedict, though I have never been to his estate. We are not friends. He is a bit of
an eccentric, as well as being a member of the loyal opposition. But, now that I recall, he is known for keeping griffins.”

  Henry regarded Father Jacob in wondering silence for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Mr. Sloan. The wounded man had quit moaning. He was not responding to anything, even the bumping of the wagon. Henry had to rest his hand on his heart to make certain he had not died.

  “Will you do something for me, Father?” he asked abruptly. “Will you say a prayer for Mr. Sloan?”

  “I would be glad to, Sir Henry, but I fear my prayers might offend Mr. Sloan,” said Father Jacob gently. “He does not approve of me or my religion.”

  “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” said Henry.

  29

  Despite the fact that our country deserted us, let it never be said that we deserted our country.

  —Lord Haelgrund of the Dragon Brigade

  Stephano rose early, far too preoccupied with all he had to accomplish today to stay in bed. Tomorrow the tugboats sent by the prince would arrive to haul the fortress out into the Breath, and the fortress was far from ready to fly. Rodrigo and his crafters were still working on the magic. Dag was not satisfied with the gunners so he was going to conduct yet another gunnery practice. Miri was working on the Cloud Hopper, which they were going to take with them. The unexpected arrival of supplies he’d been told not to expect meant that everything the sailors had previously stowed had to be shifted about to make room. And just when he thought he had thought of everything, he remembered something else.

  Still in his shirtsleeves, he climbed the stairs to the battlements at the top of the fortress. Aside from those on watch, he was the only one awake and walking the battlements this early. Dawn was just breaking, and faint pinkish yellow light was starting to spread over the eastern sky. Soon the trumpet would sound and the world would wake and he would be plunged into the frantic chaos of preparing his fortress to descend into the Breath. But for now, the world was quiet. Still asleep.

  A slight breeze sprang up, ruffling his hair and parting the morning mists. He was about to go back to his room, bathe and dress and prepare for the day, when movement caught his eye.

  He gazed in that direction. His pulse quickened. His heart raced. His breath came fast.

  The dragons had been hidden from view by pink-tinged mists of God’s Breath. Now he could see them, flying in formation as they had flown so many times before. There were not many of them, only about twelve, a far cry from the thirty-six dragons that had once formed the Brigade. Haelgrund was leading them, flying proudly in front, with the other dragons in a V formation on either side of him.

  “You came,” said Stephano softly.

  The soldiers would catch sight of the dragons any moment now and raise the alarm. But for just an instant, in the stillness of the morning, this moment of happiness was his own. The old loyalties remained; the past could be forgiven, if never forgotten.

  Droal, the old quartermaster dragon, was the next to see the returning members of the Brigade. Wakened, perhaps, by stirrings of memories, he raised his head and saw the approaching dragons shredding the mists with their wings. He gave a trumpeting roar of welcome that woke Viola, Petard, and Verdi.

  Petard was about to leap into the air and fly to join them—a serious breach of etiquette. Hroal hooted a command that stopped the young dragon in midleap. Viola added her own scolding and Petard slunk off, chastened, but Stephano saw the gleam of excitement in the young dragon’s eyes. Viola herself was flustered, holding her head a little too high, trying to look as if the return of Haelgrund was of no interest to her. When Verdi saw her preening, he gnashed his teeth and dug his claws into the dirt.

  The men on watch were shouting in astonishment, staring and pointing. Stephano had told them to be on the lookout for the members of the Dragon Brigade. He was fairly certain most had not believed him.

  “Where’s that piper?” Stephano called sharply.

  “I’ll fetch him, sir!” came a voice behind him.

  Stephano turned to see the energetic and ubiquitous Master Tutillo running down the stairs, shouting for the piper at the top of his lungs. Stephano wondered how long the lad had been up and lurking about, hoping to be of use.

  A short time later, Master Tutillo returned with the piper. The man had obviously been roused from his bed; his uniform coat flapped open, his hat wobbled on his head, his gaiters sagged.

  “Play ‘The Jolly Beggarman,’” Stephano ordered.

  The piper blinked the sleep from his eyes, drew in a deep breath, brought the mouthpiece to his lips and began to play the rousing march. Prior to this, Master Tutillo had buttoned the man’s uniform coat, straightened his hat, fixed his gaiters, and made him presentable.

  Stephano gave the order to raise the colors. As the Rosian flag soared into the air, Stephano stood at attention. He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Master Tutillo doing his best to imitate his captain, standing so stiffly he was in danger of falling over.

  The dragons circled the fortress, dipping their wings in salute. Everyone in the fortress was awake now, hurrying from their quarters to witness the sight. Dag came running up the stairs, with Miri at his heels.

  “They came, sir!” Dag exclaimed.

  “I knew they would,” said Miri, smiling at Stephano.

  She wore a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and her red curls were unbound, blazing in the sunshine. Dag was resplendent in his new lieutenant’s dress uniform. The coat was the largest size he had been able to obtain from the admiralty at short notice and was still a tight fit. Stephano expected the shoulder seams to give way at any moment.

  The dragons landed in the open field, starting with Haelgrund. Stephano missed the human members of the Brigade. Even if he’d known the dragons were coming, he would not have had time to summon them. But the dragons were here and that was what counted. They had all been trained to fight without riders.

  “Should I fetch your coat and hat, sir?” Master Tutillo asked, diplomatically reminding his captain he was still in his shirtsleeves.

  “Good God! I have to change!”

  Stephano started down the stairs.

  “And you might want to shave!” Miri called after him.

  Once he was presentable, wearing his dress coat, Stephano made ready to leave the fortress to greet the dragons. He was taking Dag with him. He would have taken Miri, but she said she wasn’t dressed to meet dragon nobility and she had work to do aboard the houseboat.

  As they were leaving the officers’ quarters, he and Dag nearly ran headlong into Rodrigo.

  “Rigo!” Stephano exclaimed, amazed. “You’re awake!”

  “Don’t remind me,” Rodrigo muttered.

  He was unshaven, with his hair straggling around his face and his shirt buttoned wrong. He was wearing two different style boots, and he stumbled along the corridor blindly, squinting against the sunlight streaming in through the main gate.

  “What are you doing up at this hour?” Stephano asked.

  “I have to finish working on the magic. It’s taking longer than I anticipated. Why the hell does God have to make the sun so bloody bright! You’d think He’d have some consideration.”

  “Master Tutillo!” Stephano shouted.

  “Here, sir!” said the midshipman, popping out from beneath Stephano’s elbow.

  “Fetch Monsieur Rodrigo a cup of strong tea.”

  “Yes, sir!” Master Tutillo dashed off, heading for the galley.

  “Point me in the direction of the bridge,” said Rodrigo groggily.

  Stephano aimed his friend the right way and watched him stumble down the corridor, heading for the stairs that led up to the bridge, which overlooked the main gate.

  “Rigo’s done yeoman’s work, sir,” Dag remarked, adding in grudging tones. “I never dreamed I’d say it, but I’ve been mistaken about him all these years. I used to think he was a lazy, selfish bastard with the morals of a tomcat. But I was wrong. He’s worked sunup to sundown, wa
lking on scaffolding ten feet off the ground.”

  “He is accustomed to climbing out of the windows of ladies’ bedrooms. I don’t suppose he finds this much different,” said Stephano, grinning. He grew more serious. “I’m glad you’ve come to value him, Dag. I’ve found that Rigo always rises to the challenge.”

  “Like pond scum, sir?” Dag suggested.

  Stephano laughed. “For God’s sake, don’t tell him that!”

  They left the fortress through the main gate and walked out into the field where the dragons were resting after their long flight. Haelgrund greeted them and made formal introductions, although Stephano remembered every one of them. His father had taught him that like people, dragons appreciate personal attention. Stephano took the time to ask about each dragon’s family, and he carefully avoided politics.

  With this formality concluded, Stephano introduced the three wild dragons. These noble dragons had not attended the Gathering, but they had heard what had happened and they observed their wild cousins with interest. The young dragons were abashed in such exalted company and kept their distance.

  Stephano brought forth Hroal and Droal, who had been staying in the background. The two were common dragons of low rank, fit to supply the food the noble dragons required, but that was all. Stephano praised the fine work the brothers had done teaching the young dragons, bringing in deer meat, and helping with the refitting of the fortress. The noble dragons listened politely and asked when they could expect to be fed.

  Finally, Stephano was able to talk privately to Haelgrund.

  “I hope you won’t be in too much trouble with the duke,” said Stephano.

  “He sanctioned our coming,” said Haelgrund.

  “Did he?” Stephano was amazed. “Why did he change his mind?”

  “You have the Duchess of Talwin to thank. It seems her grace met with a priest, someone called Father Jacob. He told her about the Bottom Dwellers and explained how they were killing our young. She told her husband that he was wrong about them and argued that the dragons should stand with the humans in this battle. The duchess doesn’t blaze up often, but when she does, the duke listens.”