are fairly modern, dating back only about seventy years? The bastions are historically important because they are different from those found in the dragon homeland. I have never had a chance to fully study the Westfirth Bastion. No one ever goes there now,” he added with emphasis. “More’s the pity, eh, Sir Ander? You have long said the Dragon Brigade should have never been disbanded. Let us go take a look.”
Sir Ander understood. Father Jacob needed a place to speak to them in absolute privacy, a place where there was not the slightest chance they could be overheard. He braced himself for the climb and was thankful he had decided to wear chain mail and not his heavy breastplate.
The trek up to the top of the cliff did not prove as difficult as Sir Ander had anticipated. The stairs did not ascend straight up, but were cut into the side in a zigzag manner so that the ascent was not particularly arduous. Sir Ander was rewarded for his efforts by a magnificent view of the city of Westfirth and the mists of the Breath in the harbor.
“Humans were stationed here, as well as dragons,” said Father Jacob when Sir Ander remarked that the climb was not as bad as he had anticipated. “Your godson, Captain de Guichen, must have made this trek often.”
Neither Sir Ander nor Brother Barnaby had been in a dragon bastion before and despite the seriousness of the situation, they both looked about with interest as they walked the empty halls formed of stone laid by dragons. The Bastion was built in a circle with halls and rooms radiating from an enormous courtyard of stone. In the center of the courtyard were traces of a mosaic depicting the emblem of the Dragon Brigade: a blue-green dragon in flight, wings extended, on the background of a red-and-golden sun.
“The dragons and their riders landed and took off here,” said Father Jacob. He indicated the courtyard which was open to the skies.
The wind blew continuously from the Breath, shredding the mists, providing excellent visibility. Above them, the sky was a deep, cobalt blue. The Bastion was named “Bastion of the Wind” for this reason. Sir Ander could picture Stephano and his dragon, facing into the wind; the dragon extending his wings, allowing the breeze to lift them. He could picture his godson and his mount soaring out into the Breath, riding the thermals. Sir Ander had never quite understood Stephano’s passion for climbing onto the backs of dragons and flying into the sky until now, in this place with the wind on his face, wrapped in silence, the blue vault of Heaven above, all cares left on the ground far below.
“The dragons were quartered in these rooms that extend out from the courtyard.” Father Jacob was explaining to Brother Barnaby. “Their riders lived in the barracks over there to the north.”
“The rooms and halls don’t seem big enough for dragons,” Brother Barnaby marveled.
“Dragons are large, but they are extremely flexible,” said Father Jacob. “They curl up tail to nose when they sleep. Like foxes and wolves, they feel safe in cozy cavelike rooms. That is why, in even the grandest and most magnificent dragon palaces, you will find the sleeping chambers are small and snug.”
“I would like to see a dragon palace,” said Brother Barnaby wistfully.
“And so you shall,” said Father Jacob, pleased. “I have been wanting to pay a visit to my friends in the dragon realm again, though I fear that pleasure must wait for a time. For now, we have urgent matters to discuss.”
Someone-dragon or human-had planted a rose garden in an angle between one hall and another. Sheltered from the constant wind, yet open to the sunshine and rain, the rose garden must have once been lovely. The garden was now overrun with weeds, though here and there a few rosebushes clung stubbornly to life. The three settled themselves on a stone bench and opened the basket of food, all of them feeling in need of sustenance after the climb.
Whatever was on Father Jacob’s mind, he refused to discuss it while they were eating. Once they were finished, Brother Barnaby packed away the dishes and scattered the remains of the bread for the birds, then brought out the writing desk and made ready to take notes.
“First, I must relate bad news. The Sorceress has eluded capture,” said Father Jacob. “Arcanum agents found where she had been living, but she was gone. There was evidence that she fled in haste.”
“She was warned,” said Sir Ander grimly. He glanced around. “So that’s why we are up here in the clouds. You think someone in the archbishop’s household alerted her.”
“Someone in the house or one of the guards…” Father Jacob shrugged. “I do not know and thus I could not take a chance on anyone overhearing our conversation.”
He fell silent, his expression dark and somber.
“I’d like to hear our conversation,” said Sir Ander, after long moments of continued silence.
Father Jacob stirred. “I’m sorry. I am still trying to make sense of what I have discovered. I hope the two of you can help me. You will recall I managed to retrieve that remnant of the demon’s remains yesterday. I spent the night studying it. As I thought, we are not dealing with forces of Aertheum or legions from Hell. Though, as I told Captain de Guichen, it depends on how one defines Hell…”
He again fell quiet. Sir Ander waited in foreboding, not certain he wanted to hear. Brother Barnaby’s pen stopped scratching. The only sound was the wind whistling through the empty hallways.
“The demons are, as I suspected, humans,” Father Jacob said at length.
“I don’t suppose any of us really believed they were demons,” said Sir Ander. He caught Father Jacob’s eye. “Well, maybe I did, but just for a moment…”
Brother Barnaby was sorrowful, grieving. “I could almost wish they had been demons.”
“I know, Brother,” said Father Jacob quietly. He regarded the monk with an odd intensity. “It is hard to think that human beings could commit such terrible atrocities as we have witnessed. Yet, there is no doubt. I found a part of a human skull inside the burned helmet.”
“Human.” Sir Ander shook his head. “But why the elaborate disguise?”
“We are meant to think they are demons. The demonic mask fosters fear,” said Father Jacob. “Brother Paul and those sailors all believe they were attacked by demons, which is why I placed them under Seal. If they went around telling people that Aertheum was launching a war against humanity, the panic among the populace would be incalculable. Their demonic aspect is designed to play upon the fears that dwell in our hearts from childhood, the terrors that assail us in the dead of night.”
Father Jacob sighed and rubbed his eyes. His shoulders sagged; he was gray with fatigue. “Terrors that are well-founded.”
“What do you mean?” Sir Ander asked.
“The helm the man was wearing was made of leather. But these people, whoever they are, did not use animal hide. The leather hide was from a human.”
Brother Barnaby dropped the pen. He had gone so pale, the ebony skin going gray, that Sir Ander hastened to pour him a glass of wine.
“Steady, Brother,” said Sir Ander. He flashed an irate glare at Father Jacob.
“He needs to know the truth,” said Father Jacob sternly. “These people spoke to him. Remember?”
Barnaby shuddered at the memory, but went on to say that he was all right. He drank the wine at Sir Ander’s insistence and managed a smile that was meant to be reassuring. But Sir Ander could see the lingering shadow of horror and loathing in the young monk’s eyes; a horror he knew must be a reflection of his own.
“These are not humans, Father. They are monsters!” Sir Ander exclaimed heatedly. “How could you tell if the leather was…”
He glanced at Brother Barnaby, trying to hold the pen in trembling fingers and could not say the words. “What you said it was.”
“What I have discovered will not be easy to hear, Brother Barnaby.”
“I am myself again, Father,” said Brother Barnaby. “I will not fail you. Please go on.”
He held the pen poised over the paper, his hand steady.
“When I touched the helm, I felt intense pain,” said Father Jacob. “The pain did not come from the so-called demon. The pain was from the victim whose skin had been used to make the leather. I had a vision of a man tied to a rock, while other men were flaying the flesh from his bones. He was alive during the heinous procedure.”
Sir Ander’s gut clenched. He rose to his feet and, wiping his hand over his mouth, took a walk around the garden. Brother Barnaby recorded the information. A tear dropped on the page, but he hastily whisked it away and continued writing.
“Are they Freyans?” said Sir Ander harshly, coming back to resume his seat. “No offense, Father, but I have
