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.
The guard tower began to sway. Men inside cried that it was going to fall and it did fall, before they got the words out of their mouths. Brother Barnaby was holding the wounded soldier in his arms, trying to drag him to a place of safety, a place that did not exist.
The ground split beneath Barnaby’s feet. The wall crumbled.
Sir Ander bellowed, crying out the monk’s name in helpless denial.
Barnaby looked up at him and gave a fleeting smile, then he disappeared in a cascade of tumbling stone. Sir Ander roared in anger and lunged across the shaking ground with some wild idea of saving the monk. The pavement began cracking beneath him. He knew it was hopeless. Swearing in anger, he ran back to Father Jacob, who was either unconscious or dead. Sir Ander picked the priest up in his arms and carried him through smoke and fire and a rain of debris across the battlements until they reached the Old Fort.
Sir Ander tried to go on, to carry Father Jacob inside, but his strength gave out. He laid the priest on the ground beneath a stone archway and collapsed beside him. He had no idea what was wrong with Father Jacob. He could find no wounds other than the bat bite. Yet Father Jacob’s breathing was shallow, his skin ashen and chill to the touch.
“Jacob,” said Sir Ander urgently, shaking him, trying to rouse him.
Father Jacob did not move.
Sir Ander shouted for help, and help came. The archbishop’s guards ran to his aid. They asked him about Father Jacob, about what had happened. Ander didn’t know. He couldn’t say. They asked Sir Ander if he was hurt. He shook his head. They brought a litter and placed Father Jacob on it and bore him to where the healers had established a makeshift hospital. They wanted to take Sir Ander with them, but he refused to leave and eventually they quit badgering him and went away, leaving him alone, crouched beneath the arch.
The ground had quit shaking, except for a rumble and tremor, like a body twitching in its death throes. Sir Ander wondered if the contramagic weapon was next going to fire on the Old Fort. If so, he was too exhausted, too numb to care.
All he could see was Brother Barnaby’s face as the monk realized he was falling to his death. There had been a little fear, and then a fleeting smile of faith and reassurance.
“God holds me in his hand,” Brother Barnaby had seemed to say to his friend. “Do not grieve for me.”
Sir Ander closed his eyes and felt the hot tears burn through his lashes. He gave a shuddering sob. How was he going to tell Father Jacob that the gentle monk who had come to him by a saint’s command was gone?
Chapter Forty-Two
Stephano is the soul of honor and valor. He is brave, intelligent, but he is not, I fear, very wise. Too often Stephano’s restless, reckless heart carries the day. Yet I would not change him! He was born of an illicit love that doomed both his father and myself, yet to my way of thinking, Stephano is proof that God has forgiven us. God gave Julian and me the greatest gift-our brave and noble son.
A DAY AND A HALF HAD PASSED SINCE THE ATTACK on Westfirth. The Cloud Hopper had traveled far from the ravaged city, yet they could still see the smoke of burning-a smudge on the horizon, darker than the mists of the Breath of God. Ahead of them, the damaged merchant vessel carrying Henry Wallace, Pietro Alcazar, and Rodrigo was afloat and still sailing. But the Silver Raven continued to lose altitude.
“A slow leak somewhere,” Miri said. “Probably when the yard and rigging crashed into the mizzen balloon, it damaged the outer skin. Hard to repair when the balloon is at full capacity. They’re going to have to land soon and make repairs.”
“Land on what?” Stephano asked. “We’re in the middle of Nowhere.”
They were, quite literally, in the middle of Nowhere, this being a region in the Breath marked “Nowhere” on Trundler maps. Located off the western shore of Rosia between Westfirth and Caltreau, the shoreline for about five hundred miles was wild, desolate, and rock-bound, beautiful to look upon, but deadly if a ship sailed too close. Whipping curls and eddies of the Breath swirled among the crags and tossed against the cliffs. The bones of wrecked ships that had been caught in those eddies could be seen amidst the trees, a most effective warning to stay away.
Miri consulted a map. “The only place for the Raven to land would be somewhere in the String of Pearls Islands off to the northwest here.” She pointed to a mass of small, floating islands, the larger of which, numbering about a hundred, formed a rough circle that made them resemble a pearl necklace. The “pearls” were surrounded by innumerable small islands; too many to count and too unimportant to chart. Free-floating, drifting among the Breath, the islands frequently collided, causing widespread destruction and making them unfit for human habitation. A ship in desperate straits could set down on one of these islands and make repairs; far safer than risking a smashed hull against the cliffs of Nowhere.
“Raven’s altered course. Looks like that’s where they’re headed,” Dag reported, watching the ship through his spyglass.
“The way she’s leaking air, she’d best hurry,” said Miri.
“Good!” Stephano rubbed his hands. “Maybe luck is with us for once.”
“Spit!” Miri ordered, alarmed. “Spit over your left shoulder! Now! You’ve put the hex on us and you have to lift it!”
“Better turn so you’re not facing into the wind, sir,” said Dag, trying to keep from grinning.
Stephano rolled his eyes, but he did as he was told. He spit over his left shoulder. Miri then ordered him to swab the deck.
Stephano and Dag began to plan their assault. Miri voiced her opinions from the helm. Gythe sat in a deck chair, singing softly to the Doctor, who lay curled up in her arms. She looked pale and seemed troubled, but insisted she was fine. Stephano asked her if she had heard the voices again. She nodded. He asked if she wanted to talk about it. She shook her head.
“Gythe thinks about things,” Miri had said, when Stephano had urged her to force her sister to reveal what she knew. “Turns them over in her mind. She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”
Stephano sighed in frustration. He was curious about the demon raid on Westfirth, wondering about the strategy behind it. The demons had displayed their capability of using awful, terrifying, mysterious power. But, analyzing the attack, he realized that the targets the demons had attacked had been easy, vulnerable targets of opportunity, such as the merchant ships. The demons had attacked major military targets, that was true, but only two-the shore battery and the Royal Lion. With the shore battery destroyed, the city of Westfirth had been left completely undefended. But instead of sailing in to finish the foe, set fire to the city, slaughter thousands, the strange demonic ship had vanished, disappearing into the Breath and taking the demon bat riders with her.
