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  “I’ve never seen the like,” said Dag in solemn tones. “If a man didn’t believe in God, he would surely believe in Him now.”

  “If a man didn’t believe in Rodrigo, he would believe in him now,” said Stephano.

  “I suppose the rascal does have his uses,” Dag conceded with a grudging smile. He reached up to stroke the cat on his shoulder. “He does more tomcatting than the good Doctor here. Perhaps his brush with death has taught him a lesson.”

  Stephano hoped that was true, though he had the feeling that the first sight of smiling lips, blonde curls, and a buxom bosom would erase the terrors of the dueling field from Rigo’s mind.

  The sigils on the balloon began to glow. Lines flashed between them.

  “Gythe, you can let go of the protection spells. Dag!” Rodrigo yelled from where he was clinging precariously to the mast. “You say the propeller is in working order?”

  “It is!” Dag shouted. “Not much to fix, really,” he added in an aside to Stephano. “The bullet knocked the blade askew. I had to take off the blade, reposition it. We were damn lucky.”

  “Not luck. Well protected,” said Stephano, glancing at Gythe with a smile.

  She let go of the spells, and they settled like layers of wool blankets (Stephano refused to let himself think about cake) onto the boat. Rodrigo slithered down the mast and landed on the deck below.

  “I’ve done as much as I can do, Miri. Let’s see if we can bring the Cloud Hopper back to life.”

  Miri gave a nod and walked over to the brass helm. Gythe came to stand close beside her. Too nervous to speak, she reached out to squeeze her sister’s chill hand.

  Stephano waited tensely, arms crossed over his chest. Beside him, Dag muttered something in his own language, Guundaran. Either he was swearing or praying, Stephano could not tell which. Stephano said a prayer of his own, making it short and to the point. “Lord God, let this work!”

  Rodrigo leaned over the helm. He had forgotten to put his coat back on and he was shivering and too tense to notice. Miri placed her hands on the brass panel. Her fingers spread wide. Gythe slid her arm around her sister’s waist and began to sing. Everyone on board stopped breathing except for Doctor Ellington, who sneezed.

  Miri placed her fingers on the symbols inscribed on the brass, her hands darting over them with loving, practiced skill. And then, as if God Himself were breathing life into the little boat, the sigils caught fire. The houseboat blazed with magical light. The balloons swelled. The sails billowed.

  Gythe stood gazing upward, the light shining on her face. She seemed radiant as an angel at that moment. An instant later, the magical light died. Stephano could no longer see the sigils, but they continued to work. He could feel the warmth in the air as the Cloud Hopper started to rise.

  Dag gave a mighty shout that startled Doctor Ellington, who leaped off his shoulder and ran to his favorite hiding place beneath one of the cannons. Rodrigo and Miri were dancing together, capering up and down the deck. Gythe grabbed Doctor Ellington, hauled him out, and began to dance with the cat in her arms.

  Stephano felt giddy with elation. He turned to Dag. “Shall we join them?”

  Dag grinned. He took hold of Stephano’s hands and the two of them began to lumber clumsily about the deck, arguing about who was leading, until Stephano tripped over Dag’s feet and fell on his backside, rendering everyone helpless with laughter.

  The mists parted. They could see the stars shining in the heavens and their laughter died away. They stood together and gazed upward in silence.

  Miri returned to the helm. Using the stars as guide, she was able to calculate the ship’s position. “We’re near the Abbey of Saint Agnes,” she reported to Stephano. “The nuns are friendly to Trundlers. They’ll give us safe harbor and a hot meal. We can rest up and then sail on for Westfirth. I don’t usually like to sail at night, but Rodrigo says the fixes are only temporary. He needs to do more work. We should reach the abbey by dawn.”

  Dag and the Doctor went down below to get a few hours of sleep. Rodrigo, exhausted, had fallen asleep in a deck chair. Stephano draped his coat over his friend.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it,” Rodrigo murmured and rolled over.

  The Cloud Hopper sailed near to the shoreline. They could see the running lights of other vessels: houseboats like theirs, a convoy of merchant ships traveling together for fear of pirates.

  Stephano caught himself about to yawn and managed to close his mouth on it. He was too late, however. Miri had seen him.

  “Go to bed,” she told him. “You’re still not fully recovered from your wound. There’s nothing more you can do,” she added, seeing him about to argue. “Gythe and I will take turns steering the boat.”

  Stephano felt weariness seep through him, starting at his feet and spreading upward. He gave Miri a brotherly kiss on the cheek and another for Gythe, who only grinned at him and shook her head, then he headed for his hammock.

  He paused in the hatchway to look back. Miri and Gythe stood together at the helm, the wind blowing their hair wildly. They were sharing some private joke, apparently, for both were laughing softly.

  Stephano thought how much he loved them, loved all of them. His family. Safe. He lay down in his hammock. The rocking motion of the boat lulled him to sleep.

  When Stephano heard the cannon fire, he thought, like Sir Ander, that the booming noise of battle was part of his dream.

  Chapter Twenty

  We surround ourselves with wood and stone walls imbued with magic to keep us safe. Behind these walls, we cower. But walls do not make us safe, nor does sword or musket. It is the men and women who wield these weapons, standing shoulder-toshoulder, that fight back the darkness.

  – General Roberto Estaban,

  Grand Army of Rosia, Ret.

  SIR ANDER SAT UP IN BED, BLINKING IN THE LAMPLIGHT. Cannon fire. The booming sounds were real. Not a dream. He reached beneath his pillow, pulled out his pocket watch. The time was five of the clock, five hours past midnight.

  “Father Jacob!”

  The priest was sprawled across the table, sound asleep, his head resting on his arms. The lantern burned brightly, lighting the interior of the yacht. Making them excellent targets. Father Jacob sat bolt upright.

  “They’re here…” he said softly.

  “Douse that light!” Sir Ander hissed.

  Father Jacob spoke a word, and the lamp went out. In the darkness, Sir Ander reached up his hand to one of three ornate brass hooks fixed to the wall above his bed. His cloak hung on one of these hooks, his sword belt on the second. One hook was bare. He took hold of this hook and gave it a yank. The wall slid open, revealing a hidden cabinet. Inside were four pistols, including Sir Ander’s favorite, his dragon pistol; bags of shot and gunpowder, and two long knives. He grabbed the dragon pistol.

  “Use your new pistols!” Father Jacob said urgently. “The ones that don’t require magic.”

  Sir Ander glared at him. “Am I never to have any secrets?”

  Sir Ander couldn’t see Father Jacob’s smile in the darkness, but he could picture it. He pulled on his boots, grabbed one of the new pistols, and hurried over to the window. He parted the curtain and looked out to see winged shapes silhouetted black against the stars flying toward the yacht. Riding on their backs were creatures from a bad dream, men of darkness with orange glowing eyes.

  “You’re right, Father,” said Sir Ander grimly. “They’re here.”

  Green balls of flame, aimed at the yacht, showered down from the sky. The balls of green fire hit the “boarding net,” his term for the defensive magic Father Jacob had embedded within the yacht’s hull. The fire struck the magical net. Blue-and-red fire arced. Father Jacob cried out in pain.

  Sir Ander reached the priest’s side in a bound. Outside the yacht, green fire burst and blue fire sparked. Father Jacob had doubled over, groaning.

  “Father, are you hurt? Were you shot?” Sir Ander had not h
eard a pistol go off, but that seemed the only explanation.

  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 bu
rst 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.

  Four demons stood in the hatchway, their orange eyes glowing, their faces hideously contorted in skull-like grins. They were about to surge inside when a fearsome roar, coming out of the sky, stopped them.

  “Take cover!” Hroal shouted.

  Flames blazed down from the sky, engulfing the demons. They died screaming, burned alive, their bodies shriveling in red-orange fire that poured from the dragon’s mouth. Sir Ander had no time to heed the dragon’s warning, and he was driven back by the intense heat. One of the demons, his body ablaze, staggered inside the yacht. Sir Ander fired his pistol at the fiend, and it fell back through the hatch.

  Suddenly the night was quiet. Horribly quiet. Greasy smoke floated in through the hatch, bringing with it the sickening stench of burnt flesh and singed bat hair. He stepped cautiously over wreckage-nothing was left of the hatch. Peering through the greasy smoke, he looked out on a hellish scene. The blackened bones of bats and demons mingled together in smoldering heaps.

  “Still alive, sir?” A voice shouted the question from above.

  Sir Ander looked up to see the first rays of sunlight sparkle on gray-green scales. The dragon circled overhead, peering down in concern.

  “Thanks to you, Flight Master Hroal!” Sir Ander returned, coughing. “Are there more out there?”

  “Rest flew off. Didn’t see me coming.” The dragon appeared inordinately proud of himself. “Probably went for reinforcements.”

  “Keep watch!” Sir Ander shouted.

  The dragon dipped a wing in salute and began flying over the yacht in circles.