Brother Paul moaned and buried his head in his hands. Barnaby put his arm around the monk’s quivering shoulders.
“Why didn’t they kill you?” Brother Barnaby muttered, more to himself than to Brother Paul. “Why didn’t they kill me? They murdered the nuns. Why leave both of us alive?”
“The books,” Paul mumbled. “They kept asking me about the books. When I didn’t tell them what they wanted, they hit me.”
Brother Barnaby was startled. “Books? What books?”
“Can’t you hear them?” Brother Paul asked, shivering. “The voices in your head. ‘Books’ over and over.”
Brother Barnaby had been trying to ignore the terrible buzzing sound in his ears, but now that Brother Paul mentioned it, he did seem to hear words. Books. The books. Books. The books.
Brother Paul suddenly cried out and clutched his ears. “I don’t know! I can’t tell you! Stop tormenting me!”
Brother Barnaby whispered a prayer and sent the soothing warmth of God’s grace flowing from his body to Brother Paul’s. The monk relaxed again at the healing touch and gave a shuddering sigh.
“What do they mean-books?” Brother Barnaby wondered, mystified. “What books?”
Brother Paul raised a haggard face and sighed wearily. “All I can think of are the books of Saint Dennis. Those mentioned in the journal.”
“But I don’t know where they are,” said Brother Barnaby. “Do you?”
“No,” said Brother Paul, shaking his head. “But since we were with Father Jacob… Perhaps they think he told us…”
“Father Jacob has nothing to tell,” said Brother Barnaby.
The buzzing in his ears seemed to be growing louder and it was no longer annoying. It was starting to be all he could think about.
Books. The books. Books. The books.
And then, beneath the buzzing, Barnaby heard someone moving outside the stable door. Brother Paul heard the noises, as well. He choked and clasped his hands and began to pray. Brother Barnaby rose to his feet and stood protectively in front of his fellow.
The gate opened. Two demons walked inside, one of them holding a scourge in his hand. This was the first time Barnaby had seen the demons in the daylight. Sir Ander always said one must look fear in the face. Brother Barnaby fought down his revulsion and looked the demon in the face. Father Jacob had taught Barnaby to be observant and he was surprised to note that the demon was wearing a helmet made to resemble a hideous face and that the glowing orange light actually emanated from the helm. A visor made of glass gave off the strange light.
Brother Paul cried out in terror and shrank back against the stable wall. Barnaby moved swiftly to interpose his body between the demons and the monk.
“Don’t hurt him anymore,” said Barnaby. “He can’t tell you about the books of Saint Dennis. He doesn’t know.”
The books. The books. The books.
The words were now like a hammer in Brother Barnaby’s head, pounding on his brain. The demon swung the scourge, striking Brother Barnaby on his shoulder. The scourge seemed made of fire; the pain was excruciating. Barnaby gasped. Tears sprang to his eyes.
Books books books books!
“I don’t know!” he cried or at least he thought he had cried out the words. He could no longer hear his own voice. He couldn’t hear anything except the horrid buzzing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The first time I sat on Lady Cam’s strong back and felt the play of her muscles as she took to the air, I knew I would never truly be happy on the ground again. I had ridden dragons before but this was the first time as a member of the Dragon Brigade. She and I were battle companions and I was a Dragon Knight and that made everything different.
– Sir Stephano De Guichen, in a letter to his friend, Rodrigo.
DURING THE BRIEF RESPITE BETWEEN THE FIRST WAVE of demons and the second wave he knew would be coming, Sir Ander made certain the swivel gun was in working order, the chambers ready for loading. Then he went back down into the cabin, reloaded the pistols, took two short barreled muskets from a hidden compartment near the hatch to the driver’s station and readied himself for the assault. As he worked, he kept a worried eye on Father Jacob. He had carried the priest to his bed and wrapped him warmly in a blanket. He had not regained consciousness. His lips moved and he made sounds, as though he were speaking, but the words made no sense.
The sun shone through the broken windows. His pistols loaded, Sir Ander went to the front of the yacht where there had once been a door and looked out the gaping hole into the Breath to see if the naval cutter was still afloat. He was surprised to see a smaller boat had joined the cutter. He recognized the boat as one of those Trundler floating houses. Bats swarmed around both vessels. Green fireballs burst in the air. The fireballs looked smaller and paler than they had appeared in the dark of night, but he assumed they were still just as deadly.
Hroal’s brother, Droalfrig, was out there, as well, flying around the houseboat. Sir Ander looked up to see if he could find what had become of Hroal, saw the dragon battling in the skies over the cathedral, fighting off the attacks of three bats and their riders.
The dragon was fighting for his own life and would not be able to help Sir Ander.
Smoke was still rising from the area of the stable. Sir Ander pictured Brother Barnaby, trapped by the flames, fighting off demons, lying there hurt… dying.
Sir Ander asked God to help them all, then climbed up on top of the yacht where he had mounted the swivel gun. More bats were flying his way. He was ready for them, as ready as he could be. While he was on the roof, he gave the yacht a cursory glance, surveying the damage.
Most of the demon’s fire had been concentrated on the center of the yacht. The hull on the port side of the main cabin was badly burned. The fireballs had blasted through the outer and inner bulkheads in three places. The hatch was so much kindling. The roof was charred and burned to such an extent that a good rain would cause at least two places to give way. Sir Ander made a mental note not to step on those.
He caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned around, pistol drawn. He could see, through the haze of smoke, someone running toward him. He raised the pistol, then saw to his relief that the figure was human, not demonic. He recognized Albert. The guildmaster had come armed; he held a musket in one hand and a pistol in the other.
Sir Ander dropped back down inside the yacht, took a look at Father Jacob and, seeing no change, hastened out to meet his friend.
“You come in answer to a prayer!” Sir Ander cried.
“Thank God, sir, you are alive!” Master Albert gasped. He stood staring in dismay at the destruction, the greasy piles of ashes, the wrecked yacht. “Is Father Jacob all right?”
“He is not,” said Sir Ander grimly. “He’s hurt and I don’t know what’s wrong, so there’s nothing I can do.”
Master Albert looked stricken. “How can I help, sir?”
Sir Ander had been thinking this through and he had made up his mind. “The one person who might be able to save Father Jacob is Brother Barnaby. He is in the stables-”
“But they’re on fire, sir,” Master Albert said, alarmed. “They’re crawling with demons!”
Sir Ander was tucking the pistols into his belt. “I’m going to leave Father Jacob in your care. I’ve mounted the swivel gun on the roof. Preloaded chambers for the gun are up there, as well. The roof’s been damaged, so be careful where you walk.”
Master Albert nodded. “I understand, sir. I will not fail you or Father Jacob.
Sir Ander gripped his friend by the hand, then, picking up one of the muskets, he ran to the wicket that
