to ask.”
“No, they are not. There are indications-” Father Jacob shook his head and fell silent.
“So who are they?” Sir Ander demanded.
Father Jacob looked again at Brother Barnaby, as though he could provide the answer. The monk was completing a sentence and did not notice. Father Jacob rose to his feet with a grimace and massaged his back.
“You could use the Corpse spell,” said Sir Ander abruptly.
“I could,” said Father Jacob. “I did.”
Sir Ander had witnessed the priest performing the magical spell that could be used to determine the identity of corpses. The energy of a living person remained with the body for a long time after death. Father Jacob used his magic to cause this so-called “ghost” to materialize. The use of such magic was forbidden to all except those of the Arcanum, who were often called to identify bodies that had been burned or mutilated. Unless the bones were too old, the spell could sometimes be used to identify skeletal remains. Contrary to popular opinion, the ghost that was summoned by the magic did not speak to the loved ones. It was not capable of pointing to a murderer, nor did it go flitting about graveyards, fling dinner plates, or dwell in attics. A portrait artist would make a likeness of the ghostly face and, once this was done, the priest would end the spell and the ghost would fade away.
“The spell takes a long time to cast and requires a vast store of energy,” said Father Jacob wearily. “I am exhausted.”
“What did you find out?” Sir Ander asked. “What did you see?”
Father Jacob continued to regard Brother Barnaby as he spoke. “I saw a man with pallid skin, white as milk, with a sickly yellowish hue. He had unusual eyes, large with enormous pupils. Given the abnormally pale skin and strange eyes, I theorize this person had been born to darkness, had been raised in darkness-”
“The Bottom Dwellers,” Brother Barnaby said softly. He let the pen drop. His gaze was abstracted, looking inward.
“Is that what they called themselves?” Father Jacob asked quietly. “When they spoke to you?”
Brother Barnaby nodded. “They said the same to Gythe, only in her language.”
Sir Ander was about to interrupt. Father Jacob raised an urgent, warding hand.
“Continue, Brother,” he said.
“That’s all. I don’t know…” Brother Barnaby appeared distressed. “Except… they hate us…”
“Indeed they do,” said Father Jacob. “Even after death, the rage felt by the dead man lived on, radiating from the corpse. I had never seen the like before now. I did not know such hatred was possible.”
He sighed deeply and said sadly, “Yet, perhaps, they have good reason to hate us.”
Brother Barnaby stirred and regarded Father Jacob with wondering anguish. “Who are they, Father?”
“And what bottom do they dwell in?” Sir Ander asked, looking skeptical.
“I do not know for certain,” said Father Jacob slowly, seeming to talk to himself, as though thinking his thought process out loud. “But I have my suspicions. Recall your history lessons. Long ago, the nations of Aeronne banded together to rid the world of pirates, who were taking shelter on the Trundler island of Glasearrach. War crafters of both Freya and Rosia and the other nations came together to use powerful magicks to sink the island, dooming the pirates and those innocents who had refused to heed the order to flee to certain death in the foul mists of the Breath below.”
Father Jacob raised his eyes. “But what if those people on the island did not die?”
“Merciful God in Heaven!” Sir Ander exclaimed. “You can’t be serious, Father? You are saying they live in the depths of the Breath? That is not possible. We know that no one could survive down there!”
“We have long theorized that no one could survive,” Father Jacob corrected. “We do not know for certain. The pirates were said to be dabbling in contramagic, the reason the Church advocated the sinking of the island to stop the spread of heresy.”
Sir Ander swallowed. “Which is why these fiends want to silence the Voice of God.”
“And they have the ability to do so,” said Father Jacob in grim tones. “They are now quite skilled in contramagic. They sank a naval cutter and toppled stone towers. Imagine what would happen if they turned their weapons on a city…”
Sir Ander once more rose from his seat and began to pace restlessly about the garden. Brother Barnaby sat quite still. He had made no move to pick up the pen. When he did, belatedly, Father Jacob stopped him.
“No, Brother. Do not record a word of this. I must confer with my colleagues. It is imperative that I return to the Arcanum. When will the Retribution be ready? Why are the repairs taking so long?”
“Master Albert is hopeful we can leave tomorrow,” said Sir Ander.
“Tomorrow!” Father Jacob glowered.
“The crafters are working as fast as they can, Father.”
“I know, I know. But it is critical that I make my report,” said Father Jacob. “The Bottom Dwellers know I am here. They will come after me.”
Sir Ander was staring off into the distance.
“What is that?” he asked. “Sorry to interrupt, Father, but look to the southeast. There’s something in the sky. I can’t make out what it is…”
He pointed. Father Jacob turned, as did Brother Barnaby.
“A dragon,” said the monk promptly.
“God bless young eyes,” said Sir Ander, squinting. “All I can see is a blob.”
The dragon was flying rapidly and appeared to be heading in their direction.
“I believe that is our friend from the Abbey of Saint Agnes, Sergeant Hroalfrig,” said Brother Barnaby, as the dragon drew nearer.
“You are right,” said Father Jacob. “You can see his bad leg drooping. I fear he is the bearer of bad news.”
“No one ever flies that fast with good news,” Sir Ander agreed.
The three hastened to the central courtyard, keeping a safe distance from the landing area, waiting for the dragon. As Hroalfrig began his descent, they could see the dragon appeared immensely tired. He was gasping for breath and came down with a bone-rattling crash, pitching forward onto his nose.
“Are you all right, Sergeant?” Sir Ander hastened forward when there was no danger of being crushed.
The dragon stared in astonishment. “Sir Ander! Father Jacob! Did not expect. You. Here.”
“More to the point, Sergeant,” said Sir Ander in concern. “What are you doing here?”
Hroalfrig managed to raise himself up. He sucked in huge quantities of air, his rib cage heaving. “Came to warn you, sir. Large flight. Demons.”
“Is the abbey under attack again?”
Hroalfrig shook his head, neck, and mane. His tail lashed the ground. “Westfirth. Coming here.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Right behind me.”
Sir Ander saw a dark, black cloud rolling toward them, boiling up out of the Breath.
“That’s not a storm cloud,” said Brother Barnaby tensely.
“No,” said Father Jacob. “A cloud of bats. We are too late.”
Sir Ander stared. “There must be hundreds of them!”
“Flew as fast as I could manage… Hroalfrig bowed his head. He was still gasping for breath.
“We’ll sound the alarm,” said Sir Ander. “Thank you, Hroalfrig. You should take cover in the Bastion-”
“Cover!” Hroalfrig glared fiercely. “Never. Catch breath. Ready to fight.”
Sir Ander feared the demons (he could not think of them in any other terms) would make short work of the exhausted dragon, but he didn’t have time to argue. Father Jacob had turned and was running for the stairs that led back down the cliff face. Brother Barnaby was hurriedly gathering up paper and ink and replacing them in the portable desk.
“Leave it!” Sir Ander ordered.
“But Father Jacob-”
“We’ll come back for it!” Sir Ander said urgently. He didn’t like to think what would happen if the demons caught them up here, out in the open. “You can run faster without the desk.”
Barnaby quite sensibly agreed, though he did take time to close everything securely in the desk and hide it under a bench. He and Sir Ander hurried after Father Jacob, who was clambering over the stairs, not bothering to
