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  Dag headed down below to fetch the chambers. The Cloud Hopper had two four-pounder cannons, mounted on the main deck, one on the starboard side and one on the port, and one “frog”, so-called because the cannon’s squat body and wide mouth resembled the reptile. The frog was positioned on the sterncastle, placed there to protect the helm. The frog fired an enormous cannonball, twenty-four pounds, or a variety of other types of shot, but had limited range.

  Few Trundler vessels were so well armed. Most could not have afforded such expensive weapons, and there was generally no need for Trundlers to have to defend themselves. The biggest danger in the Breath was from pirates, and they almost never attacked Trundler houseboats, for the Trundlers carried little of value. A Trundler boat might be armed with a single swivel gun or an old-fashioned ballista. Most relied on muskets and pistols for defense.

  “Dag!” Stephano shouted down the hatch. “While you’re there, bring your pipes!”

  Dag stopped on the stairs and stared up at him in astonishment. “My what?”

  “Bring your bagpipes! And tell Rigo to quit reading and start helping!”

  Dag shook his head in bewilderment and continued on down.

  “Why do you want him to play the pipes?” Miri asked tersely. “A funeral dirge as we’re dragged into Hell?”

  Stephano didn’t answer. He was gazing at the cutter, measuring the distance between them with his eye.

  “Miri, there must be some way for you to steer this boat.” He looked up at the balloon. “We have lift. We’re not sinking…”

  Miri sighed, then, and shook her head. “Only in the direction the magic is taking us. We can’t maneuver or change course.”

  “All you need to do is aim for the cutter. That’s more or less sailing in a straight line.” Stephano pointed in the direction they needed to go. “If we can reach the cutter, we can team up to protect each other.”

  Sixty sailors defending the cutter, five on the Cloud Hopper. Six counting the Doctor, who had been forcibly removed from beneath the cannon by Gythe. Judging by the cat’s dismal howls, the good Doctor was now locked up in the storage closet.

  Dag emerged onto the deck, carrying a large wooden case in one hand and a gunnysack filled with preloaded canisters in another. Rodrigo followed, staggering beneath the weight of a similar sack, which he flung with a sigh onto the deck, narrowly missing his own foot, and turned to Stephano.

  “I found what I was looking for. An early Church edict banning-”

  “Rigo, where’s the water?” Dag demanded. “I told you to fetch water!”

  “In a moment. This is important-”

  “So is our need for water,” said Stephano. “In case we need to put out the fires. Dag’s right, Rigo. You can explain all this magic stuff to me later.”

  “If there is a later,” said Rodrigo in ominous tones, and he ran back down below to the hold where they stored the water barrels.

  Stephano looked back through the spyglass at the demons. He could see them more clearly, and he had to admit that they looked exactly like the fiends in the paintings on the walls of his father’s chapel, paintings depicting the torments of the damned. Fiends with snarling faces and those strange fiery eyes, as though Hell’s flames burned inside them. Like most children, he had been fascinated by the demons, more interested in the fearsome looking creatures than in the angelic beings singing among the clouds. His father had been a religious man, but not demonstrative about his faith. He kept no chaplain. What was between him and God, he liked to say, was between him and God.

  Was there a Hell? Did some fallen soul rule over it? Stephano had always believed men made their own Hell.

  The demons were staring in his direction, perhaps trying to analyze the threat. The Cloud Hopper was partially obscured by the mists, which was perhaps the only reason the demons hadn’t flown to attack them already.

  “What are you?” Stephano asked them silently. “Who are you? Where did you come from? Freya? Or some place hotter…”

  Gythe had talked of hearing voices. If so, they weren’t answering him. Stephano shook off his metaphysical musings. The righteous and not-so-righteous aboard the Cloud Hopper were preparing for battle.

  While Dag was loading the swivel guns, Stephano explained his plan. “Miri, position our boat directly above the cutter. That will keep the bats from attacking us from below and the cutter from above. We’ll be able to fire on the bats without risking hitting the cutter.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Miri

  “Once you’re in position, you can go help Dag. Rodrigo can reload-”

  “He is not touching my guns,” said Dag firmly. “He’d end up blowing us all to Freya.”

  “Rigo should stay with Gythe,” said Miri. “He understands what she does with the magic. She might need him.”

  “We all have our jobs. What will you be doing, sir?” Dag asked, eyeing Stephano curiously.

  “Bring out the pipes, my friend,” said Stephano, watching the dragon circling the cutter. “Play ‘Jolly Beggarman.’ The Dragon Brigade is going to fly again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Constructs degrade dependent upon the medium in which they are set and the processes they facilitate. Targeting constructs set in a cannon require monthly servicing, whereas strengthening constructs set in the stone wall of the Opera House in Galiathe, for example, require little maintenance. Only dragon breath is known to accelerate magic degradation, breaking down a construct in a process know as deconstruction.

  – The Art of Crafting,

  Church School Primer

  WHILE DAG WAS REMOVING HIS BAGPIPES from their carrying case, Stephano ran down to his berth. He put on his flight coat and grabbed his sword belt, his saber, and the dragon pistol that had been a gift from his godfather. He flung the sword belt with the saber over his shoulder, tucked the loaded pistol into the pocket in his flight coat, then ran back up on deck.

  Rodrigo ended a one-sided conversation with Gythe and glanced at Miri, who was still at the helm, looking with distress at her sister.

  “How is she?” Miri asked worriedly.

  Rodrigo shook his head.

  Stephano watched the two of them and groaned inwardly. “What’s wrong now?”

  “Gythe,” said Rodrigo.

  Stephano glanced back at her. She was smiling, relaxed, and happy. Seeing Stephano looking at her, she grinned at him and laughed like a child and waved.

  “Oh, no!” said Stephano softly. “Not now.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Rodrigo. “She’s having one of her spells. As bad as I’ve ever seen her.”

  “Miri was hoping she was better.” Stephano ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “What is she doing?”

  “She thinks she’s a child again, steering her parents’ boat. She’s laughing and giggling, singing old nursery rhymes…”

  “Can you help her?” Stephano asked.

  Rodrigo shrugged. “In a way, she’s helping herself. She’s so terrified she’s gone into hiding, so to speak. She’s gone back to being a little girl.”

  Rodrigo looked out at the strange battle going on between the cutter and the bats-a battle the Cloud Hopper would soon unwillingly join-and he shook his head. “I can’t say that I blame her. I wish I had somewhere to hide.”

  “But the protective magic,” said Stephano urgently. “It only works if she’s singing…”

  “Not necessarily. It works better if she’s singing, but it will work. I don’t know what to tell you,” Rodrigo added, with a helpless shrug. “She may come out of this state. She may not. Perhaps if Miri talked to her…”

  Miri had been listening to their conversation. She shook her head. “I’ve tried before. When she’s like this, she doesn’t even know who I am.”

  Stephano swore softly. The rocky shoreline loomed ever closer. The cathedral had sustained serious damage; the walls were burned and charred and in some places completely breached. The beautiful stained glass windows had been br
oken out. He could smell the acrid stench of the smoke from the still smoldering rubble and another smell more horrible, like burning flesh.

  “Bagpipes are ready when you are, sir!” Dag announced, arranging the chanter and the drone over his shoulder and placing the blowpipe in his mouth.

  “You’re really doing this,” said Miri gloomily. “Flying off and leaving us.”

  “I’m not leaving you. Not exactly,” said Stephano, putting on his leather. “I think it’s our best chance. Stay with Gythe. Try to help her.”

  Rodrigo gave a nod and shook his head at the same time and went back to talk with Miri, who was standing at the helm, watching over Gythe, who thought she was a child steering her parents’ boat.

  “Go ahead, Dag,” said Stephano.

  Dag drew in a deep breath and blew into the pipe, filling the bag with air. He began to “skirl,” referring to the high, shrill, wailing tone made by the pipe known as the chanter. Soon the lively music of “Jolly Beggarman” sounded from the deck of the Cloud Hopper.

  Dag knew the tune well, for Stephano often asked him to play it in the evening hours when the members of the Cadre would sit on the deck of the houseboat on a fine summer’s evening or were snug around the fire in Stephano’s house on a winter’s night. The moment the music of the bagpipes started, an irate yowl sounded from down below emanating from the storage closet. Doctor Ellington took strong exception to bagpipe music.

  The march made Stephano’s blood tingle, bringing with it a flood of memories. He watched the dragon, who was still flying above the cutter, waiting for him to react.

  Dragons are passionately fond of music. A dragon’s greatest sorrow is the inability to make music, the one skill in which dragons concede humans are superior. The wealthy dragon families often hired human musicians, bringing them to live in their immense castles, where they were treated like royalty.

  Stephano hoped the dragon would be able to hear the sound of the pipes over the noise of battle. Dragons have excellent hearing, far better than humans, and they especially love the sound of the bagpipes. Unfortunately, the demon bat riders also had very good hearing, apparently, and perhaps they did not like the sound of the pipes. At the first notes, the demons who had been conferring about whether or not to attack the Cloud Hopper made up their minds. Three bat riders began flying toward them. The dragon, so far, was oblivious.

  Dag cast a sharp glance at Stephano, requesting permission to stop playing and man the guns.

  “Just a few more bars,” Stephano urged.

  Dag continued to play, and at last the dragon heard the music. Hovering in midair, he turned his head, searching for the source of the sound. Stephano had no way of knowing whether this dragon had ever been part of the Brigade, but all dragons knew the march, which was ages old, going back to the days when noble dragon families had signed the first nonaggression treaty with the human king of Rosia.

  The dragon turned his head in the direction of the houseboat. Stephano waved his arms. The dragon dipped his wings in a signal of acknowledgment used by the Brigade and altered course. The dragon flew toward them.

  “All right, Dag! You can stop now,” Stephano shouted over the music. “He’s seen us!”

  Dag took time to hastily repack his precious pipes and stow them in the compartment beneath the helm, then went to man one of the swivel guns. Stephano was already readying the other. He made certain the powder charge was set, his slow-burning match smoldering in its bucket, one chamber loaded, more ready to load. Rodrigo and Miri were talking earnestly, both of them looking with worried concern at Gythe, who had been singing a song to the music of the pipes.

  “We’re too close to shore, Rigo,” Miri was saying, “I have to stay at the helm. We’ll end up on the rocks if I don’t. Dag has to man the guns. You’ll have to help Gythe. I’m worried sick. She’s hasn’t been as bad as this in long time!”

  Rodrigo patted Miri’s shoulder, said something meaningless and soothing, and went to be with Gythe, who greeted him with an eerie laugh. Rodrigo started talking to her in cheerful tones and even joined in her singing.

  Stephano felt helpless-again. The three enormous bats with their demonic riders were closing rapidly on the Cloud Hopper. Stephano had never known any creature to fly so fast. The bats were little more than a black blur. A sleek young dragon might have given them a race, but this elder dragon with his graying mane, heavy girth, and lumbering flight could not hope to reach the Cloud Hopper before the boat came under attack. Stephano could see that the fire in the old soldier’s eyes still burned bright, however. Stephano hoped the same would prove true of the fire in the dragon’s belly.

  As the bats and their demon riders drew near, Dag muttered a prayer. Miri shivered, but she remained at her post, her hands moving with Gythe’s over the sigils on the helm. Rodrigo stared at the bats intently, then swiftly shifted his position so that he blocked Gythe’s view.

  As Dag had said, each bat was the size of a “bloody horse,” with a wingspan of about forty feet, large pointed ears, and small, glistening eyes set on either side of its snout. The bat’s gaping mouth had four long, curving fangs in front used for ripping apart its prey. The body was covered with rusty black fur. Clawed feet thrust out from the gray-black membrane that spread wide between gigantic “arms,” allowing the bat to fly. Large hooks were visible on the upper part of the wings.

  The gigantic bats were hideous to look at, but at least they appeared to be mortal, made of flesh and blood. He wondered uneasily if the same could be said of the demon riders.

  Stephano believed in God, a belief he had been taught as a child, a belief he had abandoned in anger when he was a youth. How could he have faith in a God who had allowed his father to die such a terrible death? Stephano remembered that dark time in his life. He had finally struggled through it to find his faith again, with the help of Lady Cam, his dragon.

  Being very private, dragons rarely discuss their beliefs with humans. Lady Cam and Stephano had been unusually close; she had often talked to him of her God, a God who watched lovingly over dragonkind, who hoped they would live courageous, noble lives; a God who grieved when they fell short, as all mortals do, a God who understood.

  Stephano could believe in such a God; though the relationship between him and God was still a bit rocky. He did not believe in the God of the Church of the Breath. That God, according to the grand bishop, had consigned Julian de Guichen to eternal torment in Hell.

  A Hell populated by creatures such as these…

  Stephano banished that thought from his head. Lord Captain Stephan de Guichen had fought many enemies in his lifetime. He’d known fear as he rode into battle and had found the strength and courage to overcome it. But he had never before been confronted with an enemy that had sprung from an artist’s rendition of the torments of the Damned, and he felt his gut twist and a shiver crawl up his spine.

  The three demon riders were built like humans, though they were extremely thin. They rode the bats with ease, sitting forward of the wings, their legs straddling the furry bodies. The demons’ skin was blood-red in color, with black spikes rising along their arms and shoulders. They wore what appeared to be some sort of leather armor. Their faces were red and wizened. Their mouths were thin, dark slits. Gaping holes formed the nostrils. What was most horrible was that the faces were expressionless, impassive, uncaring. Only their eyes were alive and that life was hideous. The eyes glowed orange, as though lit from within by Hell’s fire.

  Stephano grabbed the portfire and held it ready. He was filled with loathing and horror, and he fought an impulse to fire before the bats were in range and waste a shot. Glancing around, he saw his feelings reflected on the faces of his friends. Miri was deliberately not looking at the creatures. She was concentrating on flying, sometimes casting a glance of loving concern at her sister. He saw her hands shaking.

  Rodrigo’s face was pale. He sat quite still and rigid, staring at the bats in disbelief. He was still mindful of Gythe, however
, keeping one arm around her. Gythe sang softly to herself with childlike abandon. Dag, manning the other swivel gun, stared straight at the bats, his face stern and grim, his jaw clenched, his brows drawn together in a frown of concentration. Dag was a deeply religious man. Did he believe he was about to fire on fiends sent from Hell? If so, did he think this fight was hopeless?

  Dag looked over. “Hold steady, sir!”

  Stephano nodded. The dragon was drawing near the Cloud Hopper, but he would not reach the boat ahead of the bats. Stephano held the smoldering match poised over the vent.

  “Wait,” he counseled himself softly, “Wait just one moment more. ..”

  The demons held in their hands what Stephano first thought were large blowguns, such has he and Rodrigo had made as children and used to fire darts in an effort to bring down rabbits (until Rodrigo accidentally fired a dart at Stephano, which brought down the wrath of Benoit). As he watched, one of the demons lifted the weapon to his shoulder. It was not a blow dart. It appeared to be some sort of handheld cannon. Balancing with ease on the bat, holding on with his thighs, the demon aimed the cannon at the Cloud Hopper’s helm.

  “Take cover!” Stephano yelled, but he ignored his own command.

  A ball of green fire erupted from the cannon. Time seemed to slow. Stephano could hear Dag yelling at Miri to duck and Rodrigo urging Gythe to sing the song she had sung the other night, the song of her magic. He could hear Gythe’s wild laughter.

  Green fire burst on the helm and blue light flared, half-blinding Stephano. He saw for one dazzling moment the sigils and constructs, layer upon layer, of the protective spells Gythe had cast on, around, and over the boat. She had wrapped Miri and the helm in a kind of cocoon of spun blue magic. The green fire struck the blue glowing sigils and constructs of the outer threads of magic. Wherever the green flames touched, they began to devour the magic. It was like watching Gythe’s spells being eaten away by green fiery acid. The green flames died swiftly, however, leaving the protection spells damaged, but intact.