Father Jacob raised his head. His face, eerily reflected in the flaring green light, was wet with sweat and contorted with pain. He spoke in shuddering gasps.
“Contramagic… Destroying my spells…”
A large burst of green fire caused the yacht to shudder. Father Jacob cried out again. His body went into spasms, his hands jerking and twitching.
“Destroying your spells! It’s destroying you!” Sir Ander cried. “What is happening?”
Father Jacob sat up, breathing heavily. The spasm had passed.
“They’re trying to break into my mind!” he said, awed. He pressed his hand over his chest. “Erratic heartbeat, racing pulse, pain, and difficulty breathing… Being a savant means my magic is physical. .. a part of me… They’re trying to destroy my magic to see inside… find out what I know… I must… make notes…”
A flash of blue light was followed by a loud crackling sound and a horrible screeching. One of the bats had apparently flown into the magical netting. The net was still holding.
“Not for long,” Father Jacob murmured, grimacing. “The contramagic is burning up sigil after sigil. My constructs are starting to break down, fall apart…”
Sir Ander had a sudden, terrifying thought. “Brother Barnaby! He’s in the stables with the wyverns!”
“We must pray for him,” said Father Jacob. “There is nothing we can do to help…”
Sir Ander said an agonized prayer for the monk and returned to the cabinet. Every day, he unloaded and reloaded the pistols, making certain they were always ready to fire. He laid the four new pistols on the table, along with his dragon pistol. Catching hold of his sword belt, he looped it over his shoulder. He turned to find Father Jacob hurriedly gathering up the books they had taken from the abbey.
“Are the demons after those?” Sir Ander asked, astonished. “How could they? No one knows we found them!”
“They’re here for us,” said Father Jacob. “Because they know we’re looking for the books, they want to find out what we’ve discovered.”
A tapestry depicting the Four Saints hung on a wall at the back of the yacht. Father Jacob passed his hand over it, and the tapestry dissolved, revealing a second hidden compartment. Father Jacob thrust the books into the opening, closed it, then replaced the tapestry which itself was magical. He spoke a few words of magic, and sigils with connecting lines flared at his command, forming an additional complex spell of protection over the tapestry.
Another burst of green fire lit the interior of the yacht. The blast penetrated the net, striking one of the windows. The glass cracked. Father Jacob staggered beneath the blow and nearly fell. Sir Ander caught hold of him and lowered him into a chair.
Sir Ander was reminded of the time he’d been in a fortress under siege. The Guundarans had fired round after round. The din had been so constant he hadn’t heard it after awhile. He and his men could do nothing but pray and endure the pounding and make ready for the attack that would come when the walls crumbled.
“I assume they’re planning to kill us,” said Sir Ander.
“They’ll try to take us alive. Torture us first,” said Father Jacob.
“You’re such a comfort,” Sir Ander growled.
More blasts rocked the yacht. Another window cracked. The hatch shivered, but the wood was magically reinforced, and it did not break. Sir Ander held two of the plain, unmagical pistols, one in each hand. A massive green burst of light struck the yacht, blowing out a window, sending shards of glass flying. Father Jacob clenched his fist and closed his eyes. Sweat rolled down his forehead. Blood dribbled from his mouth.
Sir Ander stood at the broken window, hoping to get off a good shot. The green fire blinded him, seemed to burst in the back of his eyeballs, leaving a blazing image imprinted on his eyes. The bats flitted past almost faster than he could see. He had no idea how he would hit one. He could not get a clear view of anything except the glowing orange eyes of the riders. He fired his pistol at one of the dark shapes, more out of frustration than with any hope of hitting it. He was rewarded with a shriek of pain that came either from the bat or its rider.
The shriek was heartening to Sir Ander.
“Damn fiends are mortal!”
He hadn’t liked to admit it, but he’d had his doubts.
“Of course,” Father Jacob said. “The demon yelped… ”
“Ah, so that’s what you meant,” said Sir Ander. He threw the empty pistol on the table and picked up the third, then looked back with concern at Father Jacob. “You should go to the coffin.’ ”
“A bit premature, don’t you think?” Father Jacob asked with a faint smile.
“You know what I mean,” Sir Ander said tersely, peering out the window, watching for a shot.
The coffin was a compartment built into the floor of the yacht large enough to hold a man. It had been designed for occasions such as this. Father Jacob had given it the name after he’d been forced to use it once several years ago when the yacht had been attacked by a Freyan privateer lurking around outside the port of Marklin in Bruond, hoping to snap up the Retribution, the yacht belonging to the traitor, Father Jacob Northrop, to collect the bounty on the priest’s head. He had boarded the yacht and searched it, but found nothing. The approach of a frigate bearing the Rosian flag had driven the Freyan off.
Father Jacob shook his head. “I can help you.”
“How?” Sir Ander demanded. “You’re so weak, you can barely stand up!”
Father Jacob raised an eyebrow. “I am perfectly capable of working my magic sitting down-”
“Damn it, Jacob, this isn’t funny!” Sir Ander said angrily. He glanced around. “You could reload.”
“I can do that,” said Father Jacob and he picked up one of the spent pistols and began to pour in the powder.
One of the bats-this one riderless-dove straight at the window, screeching horribly, wings flapping. Sir Ander fired at its mouth. The bat slammed into the side of the yacht. Blood and bits of fur and flesh spewed through the broken window.
“The net’s been destroyed,” Sir Ander reported.
The demons were hurling green fireballs at the hatch, trying to batter it down. Reinforced with iron and magical spells, the hatch continued to hold, but it wouldn’t stop them for long. Father Jacob handed Sir Ander two pistols, both reloaded. Through the broken window, the knight could see the stars starting to fade with the coming of dawn. Green fire blazed. He heard the sound of claws raking the wood. He tried not to think about how the nuns had died.
Cocking the hammers of each pistol, he aimed them at the hatch. He spoke over his shoulder. “Jacob, please go to the hiding place. If not for your sake, then for my own. I took an oath before God to protect you with my life. If I am to die, do not let me die with the knowledge that I failed.”
Father Jacob gasped, shuddered, and gripped hold of the table. He gave a fleeting smile. “I have always wanted to study the effects of contramagic… This is my chance…”
Sir Ander turned, met the priest’s eyes. He saw in them faith in God, trust in God’s plan, and deep affection for himself.
“You are my friend,” said Father Jacob simply.
“And you’re a pain in the ass,” Sir Ander said gruffly. “You know that.”
Father Jacob chuckled. Several blasts struck the hatch. The priest cried out and slumped over the table, clutching it in agony.
Sir Ander could hear the bats screeching and raking the hatch with their teeth and claws. Father Jacob managed to straighten. He gritted his teeth and inscribed a sigil on the back of his hand and faced the hatch and waited.
“This is it,” said Sir Ander.
The hatch shattered in a blinding ball of green flame. The riders surged inside. Sir Ander fired both pistols at the mass of seething bodies. Father Jacob raised his hand, fingers outspread, and spoke an arcane word. Five streams of pure white fire flared from his fingers. The holy fire of God’s wrath burst on His foes. The demons screamed and fell back. More took their places. A blazing comet of green fire burst near Sir Ander, throwing him back against the wall and filling the yacht with choking smoke.
Father Jacob slumped over the table. Sir Ander staggered to his feet. The demons were waiting for the smoke to clear before they entered to finish them off. He threw down the useless pistols and reached for his last gun, his dragon pistol. He held the gun in his left hand and gripped his sword in the right.
