to His Majesty to protest.”
“Thankee, Father,” said Hroalfrig, obviously pleased. “Call me Hroal and my brother Droal.”
Brother Barnaby attempted at this moment to draw Father Jacob away from the conversation, but the monk’s attempt was foiled by his own ally. Sir Ander was now regarding the dragon with interest.
“You served in the Dragon Brigade. Perhaps you knew my godson, Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen.”
“My commander, m’lord. Good man,” said Hroal. The dragon flicked a wing in salute.
“How were you wounded?” Sir Ander asked.
“Siege of Royal Sail,” Hroal replied. “Barrel gunpowder. Explosion. Too close.”
“Did you fly in that battle?”
“Never flew, m’lord. Would have liked to. Not my job. Hunting. Meat. Lots of it. Keep ’em fed.”
“An army of dragons flies on its belly,” said Sir Ander. “So you were at the Siege of the Royal Sail. Captain de Guichen lost his dragon in that battle. I have often wondered-”
Brother Barnaby was now forced to enter the fray. He fixed Sir Ander with a reproachful gaze, indicative of his disappointment. “I am sorry to interrupt, Sir Ander, but I fear you and Father Jacob are keeping Master of the Flight Hroalfrig from his duties.”
“That is true. Forgive me, Sergeant,” said Sir Ander. “I forgot myself in the pleasure of our talk. I will let you return to the skies. I hope we have a chance to speak again.”
“And I would very much like to speak to you, Sergeant Hroal,” Father Jacob said. “To you and your brother. Later this afternoon, if that is convenient. I would like to hear your account of this tragic event.”
The dragon’s eyes flickered. He gazed at the priest a moment, then gave a brief nod of his head.
“Honored, gentlemen, all,” said the dragon, and he again flicked his wing in salute.
Mindful of his bulky body and long tail, Hroal politely waited until the humans had moved a safe distance away, then he turned ponderously and hobbled back across the field. He lifted his wings and leaped off his back legs to “gain air” as the dragons put it. Everyone on the ground could hear the dragon’s grunt of pain and see him wince before Hroal was once more airborne.
“He’s tough, that one,” said Albert. “He’s been on duty all night, but he’d fall out of the sky before he’d admit he was tired. His brother, Droal, will be along soon to relieve him. You won’t be able to tell them apart.”
Albert cast a worried glance at Father Jacob. “As I said, Father, the two dragons are doing an excellent job. They came when they saw the smoke-”
“Don’t be concerned, Albert,” said Father Jacob. “I won’t offend them. I just want to ask them a few questions.”
The morning sun was bright, too bright, making the shadows seem sharpedged, deep and dark. The chill winds blowing out of the Breath glanced off the surrounding cliffs and struck at them from unexpected directions. Sir Ander, in his dress uniform, wished he’d thought to add his fur-lined cape. Brother Barnaby stood with his back and shoulders hunched against the wind. Master Albert had to hold onto his hat. These three stood in front of the gates, watching Father Jacob, whose black cassock billowed and flapped, as he made an inspection of the gate and the ground surrounding the entrance.
“Too rocky to tell much, but, as Albert says, the attackers did not come this way. We will proceed inside.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and strode through the gates, his sharp-eyed gaze going from the posts to the hinges to the walls, to the grounds. The others followed more slowly, reluctant to enter.
“It’s like walking through the gates of Hell,” Albert said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief he was holding over his nose and mouth.
Father Jacob turned back to regard them with impatience. “You’re dawdling. Albert, please go tell Brother Paul we are here and ask him when would be a good time to interview his patient. Sir Ander, Brother Barnaby, I need you both with me.”
The great cathedral with its twin spires, each topped by an ornate cupola, towered above them. The spires were known for their red-orange stained glass windows. When lit from behind, the windows glowed with flame that could be seen even through the thick mists of the Breath. The stained glass windows were gone, the leaded glass panes smashed. Father Jacob stared at the destruction for a long time, then turned away, his expression thoughtful, somber.
The towers framed a central bell tower, smaller than the other two, topped by a dome. The church bell might have summoned help if there had been any ships passing in the night, but, according to Albert, the bell had been silent. Death had come upon the nuns too swiftly for them to call for help.
The bell tower also featured an enormous clock, said to be the largest in the world. The clock chimed the hour and the half hour; its distinctive music, known as the Chimes of Saint Castigan, was mimicked by other clocks throughout the world. According to Albert, the clock had been silent since that night.
Albert hurried off to find Brother Paul, heading for the infirmary, which was about a half mile from the cathedral, close to the dortoir where the nuns had lived.
Father Jacob and his companions crossed a paved courtyard that surrounded the cathedral. Beyond the courtyard lay ornamental gardens that once must have been beautiful; with marble fountains, statues of saints, clipped hedges, shade trees, and broad swards of green grass. These gardens had been a marvel, astonishing all who saw them, completely out of place with the abbey’s wild surroundings.
The monks of Saint Castigan had discovered early in their occupation of this rugged land that little would grow in the rocky soil. What did grow was stunted by the wind. The monks shipped in immense quantities of rich, black dirt, hauling it to the abbey by the barge load. They worked for years developing and designing their gardens. The high walls had protected the roses and flowering trees and grass from the wind, and the plants had flourished. Father Jacob did not go immediately to the cathedral. He turned his steps toward the gardens.
Brother Barnaby cast Sir Ander an interrogative glance. Sir Ander shook his head in reply. Who knew why Father Jacob did anything? Sir Ander began to think he should have accepted that handkerchief. He had smelled the stench of death on the fields of battle, but this was far worse. Brother Barnaby held his handkerchief over his face. Father Jacob had forgotten his entirely. Brother Barnaby later found it lying on the ground.
The practical nuns had taken over the gardens, digging up the rosebushes and planting vegetables and herbs. Much of the vast gardens had been left unattended and were now overgrown by grass and weeds.
The gardens had been destroyed, the dirt churned up, new plants and seedlings trampled. Large divots of sod had been gouged out of the ground. All of the statues had been pulled down, smashed, and lay in ruins.
“Senseless, wanton destruction,” said Sir Ander.
“On the contrary, the destruction was far from wanton,” said Father Jacob. He was down on his hands and knees on the ground, studying what looked and smelled like a pile of manure. He rose to his feet, dusting his hands, and glanced around. “This was deliberate savagery.”
“Please take a sample, Brother Barnaby.” Father Jacob added, indicating the manure. “I want to study it further. Be careful not to touch it.”
Brother Barnaby had been gazing around in grief-stricken awe. He looked startled at the request, but he hastened to obey. Placing the writing desk on the ground, he opened it, removed one of several small glass vials and, using a wooden spatula, gingerly scooped a small portion of the manure into the vial and stopped it up with cork, then put it back into the writing desk.
Father Jacob’s next request was for a measuring tape such as tailors used. Brother Barnaby supplied the tape, retrieving it from the desk. The priest measured the pile of manure, taking care to keep from soiling his hands. Sir Ander watched with rising impatience until he could contain himself no longer.
“A hundred women are dead! Why are you wasting time on a pile of sheep droppings!” he said angrily.
“No sheep dropped that,” said Father Jacob. “Unless I am much mistaken, it is bat guano.”
Sir Ander stared. His jaw sagged. “Bat guano! You’re not serious!”
“I am, I assure you, my friend,” said Father Jacob. “Deadly serious. Look around. You will see more of these piles. And where are the sheep? Here, I’ll show you.”
Father Jacob walked off a short distance and picked up a hunk of wool stained with blood. The skin and flesh were still attached. “The sheep were torn apart, probably devoured.”
“But how is that possible?” Sir Ander demanded. “To carry off a fullgrown sheep, a bat would have to be the size of a horse…” His voice trailed away.
“‘Demons with glowing eyes of fire riding gigantic bats,’” said Father Jacob, repeating what he had read in
