The footfalls stopped. Something struck the door. Splinters flew. The wood split apart. An ax blade appeared briefly, then was gone. The ax hit the door again. Rodrigo looked down at the hairbrush he was clutching, shook his head sadly, and tossed it aside. He cast a swift and desperate glance around the cabin. The water pitcher stood on a table. The pitcher was still almost half full. He had used only a little for Gythe and he himself never drank the stuff. He picked up the pitcher and hurriedly drew three sigils on the base, connected them with a line, and a stammered few words.
This was one of his favorite constructs. He used it to make afternoon tea for the ladies of the court, who were always charmed and delighted.
The ax struck the door again, and though more splinters flew, the door held. Rodrigo flattened himself against the bulkhead near the door and waited tensely, staring into the pitcher, urging the water to boil. He was certain the magic never took this long, and he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Then he recalled that a watched pot never boiled and he looked away-just in time to see the ax smash through the door not six inches from his head. The door fell to pieces. The bolt snapped. The demon commander, who should have been dead, walked through the wreckage and into the cabin.
Rodrigo practically crawled into the bulkhead. He did not move. He did not even breathe. The demon walked past him, never noticing him. The demon was staring at Gythe.
The fiend was a hideous sight. He had red, wizened skin; his eyes glowed orange. Blood from his ghastly wound dribbled onto the deck. Reddish smoke flowed in wisps off his arms like morning mists. Doctor Ellington, on the shelf, hissed and spat. Gythe shrank into the corner and covered her head with the blankets.
The demon’s attention was completely focused on Gythe. He appeared to be more curious than threatening, for he held the ax loosely in his hand. A part of Rodrigo wondered why he was so interested in Gythe, even as most of Rodrigo was quaking with fear. He braced himself, drew in a deep breath, and hurled the boiling water at the demon
The steaming water splashed over the demon’s head, shoulders, and arms. The demon flinched and grunted and turned, swinging the ax, but missing Rodrigo, who had dropped to the floor.
The demon raised the ax again and walked closer.
Rodrigo was hastily tracing a construct with shaking fingers in the palm of each hand. Trying not to look at the demon’s orange eyes or the blood or the ax, Rodrigo gulped, swallowed, closed his eyes, and tickled the demon’s ankles.
When Rodrigo performed this act for the lady of choice, the small electrical tingle dancing from his fingers over the skin and running tantalizingly up his lover’s legs never failed to make her shudder with pleasure. The demon shuddered, but not with pleasure. Electricity, connecting with the water, gave the demon a horrific jolt. The demon fell to the floor, his body thrashing and flailing.
Rodrigo stared at the electrified demon and wondered what to do with it. The ax lay on the floor, but he could not bring himself to pick it up and finish the job. He had to do something, though. He was reaching gingerly for the ax, fighting down a wave of sickness when Dag burst through the door, aimed his pistol at the demon’s head and fired.
The demon jerked and then, finally, lay still. Dag stared at it in awed wonder, then he bent over it.
“Look at these boots-” he began.
The body began to glow green.
“Get back!” Rodrigo shouted and he seized hold of Dag’s arm and dragged him away from the corpse.
Gythe screamed horribly. The green glow died. Gythe collapsed and lay unconscious.
All that remained of the demon were scorch marks on the wooden floor. No ashes, no trace of the corpse. Nothing.
“I’ll be damned!” Dag breathed, catching Doctor Ellington as the cat jumped from the shelf onto Dag’s shoulder.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” said Rodrigo faintly.
He staggered over to the slop bucket.
Dag held the yowling cat and, petting him soothingly, looked down with helpless anxiety at Gythe.
“What’s wrong with her?” Dag asked, his voice cracking. Rodrigo came back, white-faced, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.
“She’s leaving us,” he said with brutal frankness. “And I don’t know how or why…”
Some distance away, in the abbey stables, Brother Barnaby was preparing himself to die. He was not afraid of death. He knew God was waiting to receive him. Brother Barnaby clasped his hands and asked God to forgive him his sins and then he waited for the demons to kill him as they’d killed his poor wyverns.
But the demons did not kill him. A horrible smell filled his nostrils and mouth, leaving him sick and disoriented and too weak to help himself. Rough hands seized hold of him and dragged him off.
Brother Barnaby was vaguely aware of his surroundings. He saw grass and mud and blood, the legs and feet of the demons, a stall in the stables. He was aware of vomiting, choking, fighting to breathe. Strange visions filled his head: fiends and fire, blood and torment and death.
A hand touched his shoulder. He flinched and lashed out in panic.
“Brother Barnaby!” said a ragged voice. “Don’t be afraid. It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Brother Barnaby stopped fighting and blinked up to see a face reflected in the gray light of dawn. He knew the face. He gasped in amazement.
“I am sorry,” said Brother Paul. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I wanted to see if… if you were alive…”
“I am…” said Brother Barnaby, bewildered.
“Thank God!” Brother Paul said.
Brother Barnaby looked at his fellow monk with shocked concern. Blood oozed from a vicious gash on the top of Brother Paul’s head. His face was bruised and battered. His robes were soaked in blood. Barnaby saw, to his horror, that the back of the monk’s robes were torn, his flesh was stripped with the marks of the whip. He had lost the dark lenses that shielded his eyes, and they were almost swollen shut.
“Let me tend to your wounds, Brother,” Brother Barnaby said, his heart wrenching. “God has given me the gift of healing.”
He looked about the stall to see if he could find water. The air held a lingering odor, but the smoke, the noxious smell was gone. Except for an annoying buzzing sound in his ears, Barnaby’s head was beginning to clear. The sun had risen, morning light filtered dimly through the smoke-filled air. He and Brother Paul were in the stall of one of the abbey stables. Not the stables where he had housed his poor wyverns; that stable must be a heap of charred rubble. This stall had no windows. The stall door was shut. He could hear the screeching of bats and movement outside, so he guessed the demons were not far off.
Brother Barnaby rose to his feet and nearly fell down again. He waited until the dizziness passed, then he walked unsteadily to the stall’s gate and pushed on it. The gate would not open. He stood on tiptoes and looked out. At the far end of the stables, he could see three demons, silhouetted in the sunlight, standing guard. More demons stood at the opposite end.
Barnaby considered the possibility of escape. He could probably climb over the gate, but then what? He was still weak, and his mind was foggy. He was not a trained warrior, not like Sir Ander. He thought to back to the murderous rage that had consumed him at the deaths of his wyverns and went hot with shame. Besides, even if he could flee, he could not leave Brother Paul, who was grievously wounded. Barnaby walked back to Brother Paul, who was mumbling prayers through his bloody lips.
“We are prisoners of Aertheum,” Brother Paul was praying. “Father in Heaven, please help us!”
There is a time to ask for God’s help and a time to ask God to help you help yourself: the Word according to Father Jacob. Brother Barnaby could almost hear the priest’s voice, and he could hear Father Jacob say further, Seek the truth. Never be afraid. You have questions. Ask them! Brother Barnaby said a fervent prayer that Father Jacob and Sir Ander were safe, then knelt down beside Brother Paul.
“Did the demons do this harm to you, Brother?” he asked, placing his gentle hand over the monk’s bloody wounds. “Tell me what happened.”
Brother Paul nodded his head and then sighed to feel his pain ease. “I was on my way to the abbey for morning prayers when I heard the sound of cannon fire and saw the demons flying over the walls. I feared for you and Father Jacob, and I came running to help. Suddenly there were demons all around me. They seized hold of me and dragged me here. They… began hitting me…”
