Margaret Weis - Shadow Raiders

“God be with them,” said Father Jacob softly. He turned to Sir Ander. “We will make a run for it. Are you ready?”

“No,” Sir Ander growled, “but I don’t suppose that makes any difference.”

“You mustn’t go out in the open, Father!” cried Barnaby, alarmed. “You should stay here in the guard tower where it is safe!”

Barnaby suddenly winced and put his hand to his ear. He looked distressed.

“You hear the voices…” said Father Jacob.

“They are asking about books,” said Barnaby in helpless confusion. “They keep asking me about the books! What books? I don’t know what they’re talking about!”

Father Jacob and Sir Ander exchanged glances. They had still not told Brother Barnaby about the writings of the Saints. Both men knew the monk would die before revealing any secrets to the foe, whose voices were still in his head. Father Jacob did not want Brother Barnaby to have to make that choice. If the monk could honestly plead ignorance, the Bottom Dwellers might eventually cease to torment him.

Directly below them, the guns of the shore battery had opened fire on the bats. They could feel the ground shake and smell the smoke as it swirled into the tower.

“We should go now while we can use the smoke for cover,” said Sir Ander urgently.

The three men made a mad dash across the top of the battlements, Father Jacob in front, Sir Ander running behind him, and Brother Barnaby keeping watch in the rear. The smoke that had concealed their movements began to dissipate. They had reached the center of the battlements and were running along the narrow stone walkway that led from the guard tower to the stolid bulk of the Old Fort ahead of them, when six demons caught sight of them.

Brother Barnaby saw them first; gigantic bats closing in on their prey. He cried out a warning. Sir Ander raised his pistol, aiming at the bat and rider closest to them. He was carrying the pistols that did not rely on magical constructs. Sir Ander blessed Cecile for having given them to him.

“Keep going, Father!” Sir Ander shouted.

He fired his pistol, striking his foe in the chest and blowing it out of the saddle. The Bottom Dweller landed on his back. Sir Ander remembered his experiences at the abbey, when the demon he had thought he’d killed had come most unexpectedly back to life. He ran up to the demon, drew out the dragon pistol, and shot the demon between the orange glowing eyes. He holstered the pistol and turned to look for Father Jacob.

Sir Ander swore beneath his breath. He’d told Father Jacob to keep running, but he had, of course, not listened to the advice. Father Jacob had stopped, turned, and was racing back to Sir Ander. A bat and rider veered away from the pack. They had circled around and were flying at the priest from the rear. The demon was taking aim at Father Jacob with the green-fire cannon.

“Father! Drop!” Sir Ander bellowed, drawing his third pistol.

Father Jacob dove for the pavement. Sir Ander shot the demon, knocking the weapon from its hands. The screeching bat landed on top of Father Jacob as he lay on the ground, digging its claws into his back and trying to sink its teeth into the priest’s neck.

Sir Ander remembered the gory lumps of flesh, all that remained of the slaughtered nuns. He could see vividly how they had died as the bat tore a chunk out of Father Jacob’s shoulder. Father Jacob was trying vainly to grapple with the creature, but the gigantic bat was heavy, weighing him down, and he could only lash out futilely with his fists.

Sir Ander drew his sword and was running to the priest’s aid, when the demon rider rose up in front of him, wielding a wicked-looking dagger with a serrated blade. The demon made a clumsy attempt to stab Sir Ander. He easily parried the strike and sent the dagger spinning out of the demon’s hands. His return sword stroke sliced through the demon’s neck. Blood spurted and the fiend fell to the ground, flopping and twitching.

Sir Ander jumped over the demon and, reaching Father Jacob, drove his sword into the bat. The creature screeched horribly, gave a hideous gurgle, and died. Sir Ander, his gorge rising, took hold of the beast and dragged it off Father Jacob, who was covered in blood.

“Help me up!” he gasped, holding out his hand.

Sir Ander heaved the priest to his feet. Shielding him with his body, Sir Ander turned, ready to fight. For the moment, he and Father Jacob were safe. The shadow of wings flowed over them. Sir Ander looked up to see the dragon, Hroalfrig, circling protectively above them, while the other demons were coming under fire from several guards in the tower. They had seen the priest and his friends under attack and, led by a quick-thinking soldier, ran to their aid, closing in on the demons from the rear. Two of the soldiers fired their muskets. One shot missed, but the other hit one of the demons and knocked him off his mount.

Another demon fired at the soldiers. The green fire from the handheld cannon struck one of the men in the act of raising his musket. The green fire sparked along the muzzle. The gun blew apart. The soldier screamed in agony. His companion fired, hitting the bat and causing it to fall onto the stone parapet, bounce off, and go tumbling into the Breath.

Barnaby heard the man scream and turned to see the wounded man standing on the battlement, staring in shock at the splintered bones and bloody, mangled flesh that had once been his hands and arms.

“Stay with Father Jacob!” Barnaby cried to Sir Ander. “I’m going back to help!”

Sir Ander did not reply. He was watching the strange black ship that had reared up out of the Breath, the black sails with the bodies hanging from the masts, the archaic design and the single silly-looking gun mounted on the sterncastle.

Brother Barnaby was helping the soldier, who had fallen to his knees, moaning, just as the monk reached him.

The black-sailed ship began to come around, bringing its single gun to bear on the shore battery. Sir Ander looked at the ship. He and Father Jacob looked at each other. The same thought, the same memory came vividly to mind: the pirate ship and the green-beam weapon that had nearly sunk the cutter, Defiant.

“Run, Father!” Sir Ander shouted. “Run!”

“Barnaby!” Father Jacob gasped. Blood poured down his arm, soaking the cassock, and dripping off his hand.

“I’ll go to him!” Sir Ander yelled. “You save the books.”

Father Jacob cast an agonized glance at Brother Barnaby, and then broke into a staggering run, heading for the Old Fort that was only a short distance away.

Sir Ander saw the green-beam gun taking aim at the shore batteries. The green beam that would obliterate every magical sigil and construct it touched. He saw the guard tower, built of stone reinforced by magic, and Brother Barnaby kneeling on the pavement in the shadow of the guard tower, holding the wounded man in his arms.

The green beam blazed from the muzzle of the gun. The light was blinding, the heat overwhelming. Sir Ander could not see anything or feel anything except the terrible heat that was like being roasted alive in an ironmonger’s Is furnace. Hearing a terrible cry, Sir Ander frantically rubbed his eyes, trying to see past blue-and-yellow sparks.

Father Jacob lay sprawled on the pavement some distance away. His eyes were closed, his head lolled, his body was limp. Sir Ander ran to him and knelt beside him, trying to find a new wound. There had been no explosion, only light and heat. Sir Ander thought hopefully that perhaps the gun had misfired.

Then the world shook beneath his feet. Concrete cracked, steel rods buckled, wooden timbers snapped, stone ground against stone. The magic disintegrated. Sir Ander could hear the screams of the men crushed to death as the bunker’s walls and ceiling collapsed on top of them.