among the dead on orders of Father Jacob. They found a body in the wreckage that matched the description of the Warlock: a young man of about seventeen or eighteen years of age with blond hair, blond beard and mustache, and intense blue eyes. Those blue eyes were now wide open and staring in death. They could not tell how he had died. There was no blood on the corpse, no sign of a wound.
The soldiers set a guard over the room and sent word to Sir Ander and Father Jacob that they had found the Warlock and that he was dead. No one went near the corpse. Father Jacob had warned the soldiers that if they found their way into the Warlock’s inner sanctum, they were to be careful not to touch anything-an order the soldiers were happy to obey.
The room was below ground level; the walls and floor lined with stone. Two rows of thick wooden pillars supported a vaulted stone ceiling. On the pillars were sigils of warding and protection. Brass lamps shed a dim light throughout the room. Small cells had been built in the middle of each wall. Iron bars enclosed each cell, leaving just room enough for a person to stand. Each contained the body of one of the coven’s many victims. All of them had died horribly, in some depraved manner.
Sir Ander was not a crafter. He did not have a magical bone in his body, as the saying went. Yet he was able to feel the dark magic in that room hiss and sputter like the fuse of a bomb. Bodies of the Warlock’s allies lay on the floor, some torn apart by bullets, others burned to death, victims of their own black magic gone awry. All the victims were young, none of them above twenty years of age. Sir Ander had seen death in many gruesome forms on the field of battle, but the horror of this sight, as he entered the room, made his stomach roil.
“God save us!” whispered a voice at his elbow.
The knight turned to find Brother Barnaby standing at his side. Sir Ander was startled. He had not realized Brother Barnaby had tagged along after them. The young monk was always so quiet and self-effacing, one tended to forget he was around.
Barely in his twenties himself, Brother Barnaby was slight of build, with intelligent brown eyes and a fine- boned face. His skin was the onyx color of those who dwell in the Galiar region, east of Argonne. His hair was blue-black, shaved in the tonsure. Despite his appearance, he was strong and capable, far stronger than he looked.
Sir Ander regarded the young monk with concern.
“Brother Barnaby, you should not be a witness to this sad scene. Go wait for us back at our lodgings.”
“I have a letter for Father Jacob, sir,” said Brother Barnaby, clutching a folded and sealed document. “It just arrived, forwarded to the Father from the Arcanum. And I have a message from one of the Bishop’s Own, who flew to Capione on griffin-back and needs to speak to Father Jacob most urgently.”
“The letter and the Bishop’s Own can both wait until we have finished here,” said Sir Ander, trying to find a way to keep Brother Barnaby from entering the horror-filled room. “Go tell the guardsman that Father Jacob will attend him shortly.”
“I already told him, sir,” said Brother Barnaby, sticking doggedly to Sir Ander. The monk smiled faintly. “You should know by now, sir, that you can’t get rid of me that easily. Father Jacob might need me.”
Sir Ander opened his mouth and shut it again. He knew he would be wasting his breath. Brother Barnaby was dedicated, body and soul, to Father Jacob. Sir Ander would not be able to remove the young monk, short of picking him up and carrying him out the door.
“Very well,” said Sir Ander testily. “But keep close to me and don’t touch anything!”
Brother Barnaby nodded and silently accompanied Sir Ander as the knight entered the bloodstained room. The cavernous chamber had no windows and was as shadowed as the hearts of those who had once inhabited it, or so Sir Ander thought. The soldiers ordered to guard the room were carrying torches, but even their flaring light could not lift the darkness that seemed to settle on the soul.
The soldiers pointed the way to the corpse. Sir Ander had brought a lantern fueled by a glowing magical sigil and by its light they located Father Jacob, on his knees on the floor of a small antechamber off the main room. Brother Barnaby stood gazing on the awful scene, his brown eyes moist with sorrow and wide with shock. Sir Ander looked very grim.
Father Jacob held his own lantern, magically enhanced to give off an extremely bright glow. He had placed the lantern on the floor near the corpse and was kneeling in the blood, studying the corpse with such intensity that he did not hear the footsteps of his comrades.
He sniffed at the cold lips and studied with minute care the victim’s robes. He peered at the soles of the boots and the hands clenched to fists in the agony of the death throes. He was careful not to touch the body, Sir Ander noted.
The knight looked down sternly at the corpse of the young man.
It is a sin to be pleased at the death of any man, Sir Ander thought, particularly one so young. He could not help but feel intensely relieved that this evil young man was dead, his reign of terror ended.
Sir Ander squatted down beside the body. “No trace of blood. How did he die? Poison?”
Father Jacob did not answer. He was frowning, lost in his reflections. Sir Ander, accustomed to the priest’s ways, patiently repeated the question.
Father Jacob roused himself and said abruptly, “Something damn odd about this.” His voice was deep and resonating and although Father Jacob had lived in Rosia twenty-five years, his Freyan accent was still pronounced.
Sir Ander repeated his question a third time, and, since he finally had the priest’s attention, he added in rebuking tones, “Brother Barnaby is here. He came to see you.”
“I have a letter for you from Master Albert Savoraun, Father,” said Brother Barnaby. “And the grand bishop sent a messenger saying he has urgent need of you.”
Father Jacob snorted and with that snort dismissed the letter and the grand bishop. The priest continued to study the corpse.
Father Jacob Northrup was in his early forties. His brownish hair, shaved in the traditional tonsure, was starting to go gray. He was clean-shaven, of medium height, though he seemed taller to most people, perhaps because he was muscular and well built. He had been a prize-winning pugilist in his youth and was still fond of the sport. He wore the black cassock that marked a member of the Arcanum and a black, stiff hat made of felt. He would have been termed handsome, for he had a strong jawline and fine nose, but for his eyes, which were gray- green in color and glittered with an intensity most people found disturbing.
“When Father Jacob looks at you, he sees you-sees all of you, whether you want him to or not,” Sir Ander often said.
Father Jacob’s face was marked with the trials of his life; deep lines marred his brow, wrinkles webbed his eyes. He was thin-lipped, and when he smiled, the smile could be either charming or a prelude to doom.
“Father, you should send Brother Barnaby away,” said Sir Andrew.
“And why should I do that?” Father Jacob asked irritably.
“Because there is no need for this young monk to have to witness such carnage. Bad enough we should have to see it ourselves. I’ll have nightmares for a week and I’ve seen men blown apart by cannonballs and never flinched. But this… They were so young…”
Father Jacob glanced about the room, then returned his frowning gaze to the corpse. Sir Ander sighed and gave up. He knew from long experience that when Father Jacob looked at this room, he did not see the tragic ruin of young lives or think of the terror and pain these young ones must have endured. To Father Jacob’s analytical mind, the dead youths were nothing more than factors in an equation he had been given the task of solving. And right now, judging by his furrowed brow and tight lips, he was not having much success.
“I’m missing something,” Father Jacob said, frowning in perplexity and frustration. “Missing something…”
He pushed himself to his feet and stood with his head lowered, deep in thought. When a soldier came up and seemed about to interrupt the priest in this work, both Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby hurriedly intervened.
“ ‘How did he die?’ ” Father Jacob muttered. “You have a knack, Sir Ander, for hitting the very center of the target. ‘How did he die?’ A most intriguing question.”
He bent back to examine the corpse and Sir Ander, who was growing stiff from squatting, stood up. His knees made popping sounds and he grimaced. He was fifty years old and though he was in excellent condition physically, he was at the age where his bones were starting to creak.
“So very young. So very sad,” said Brother Barnaby. Murmuring the prayer for the dead, he reached down his
