The Seventh Sigil Read online

  The battle was not prolonged. After the sound of gunfire stopped, Dag did not relax. He did not trust these fiends, and he waited for more to come out of nowhere and attack. He tried to hear what was happening on the bridge, hoping to figure out what was going on. When he heard Stephano cry out in pain it was all Dag could do to stay at his post. He hoped the sound of glass breaking was the dragon smashing the window; after that came muffled shouting, but he couldn’t understand what the man was saying.

  Then came the clash of steel. Dag smiled grimly and nodded in satisfaction. Rodrigo’s magic must have worked. The Blood Mage had only his sword and Stephano was an expert swordsman. He would make short work of the fiend. Dag pictured the fight in his mind. He didn’t think it would last long; the thud as of a body hitting the floor seemed to prove him right.

  Dag waited for Stephano to emerge the victor.

  When Stephano didn’t come out, Dag wondered what he could be doing up there.

  “Captain!” Dag shouted.

  No answer. He was starting to grow worried and was just about to go find out when he heard someone moving. The sunlight, dim at best, was gone. He could see only a shadow. He raised his pistol.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  His answer was a fiery ball, hurtling straight for him. Dag ducked into the doorway. The blazing glob sizzled past him. He jumped back out and fired his pistol in the direction of the shadow. He didn’t hear a scream and he began to fear he’d missed.

  A great and terrible bellowing came from outside the bridge, accompanied by the sound of Miri blowing frantically on the bosun’s pipe.

  Dag forgot the fiend and raced up the stairs, calling Stephano’s name and getting no response. The door stood open, and he got a whiff of the vapor before he was halfway up the stairs. The fumes bit into his throat and stung his eyes; he coughed, choked. Feeling dizzy, he stumbled back down the stairs, out of range.

  The vapor filled the room; it was noxious, possibly deadly.

  Dag sucked in a huge breath, covered his nose and mouth with his hand, and dashed back up the stairs and into the room. He could barely see through the blood-red mist, but finally found Stephano lying on the floor.

  The vapor stung Dag’s eyes painfully, and his lungs were about to burst. He ran to the window, thrust his head out, and sucked in a deep breath. Viola was hovering distractedly, and Miri cried out, asking about Stephano, while Rodrigo shouted something about poison.

  Dag didn’t have time to respond. He drew in another breath, turned, reached down and picked up Stephano by the shoulders, dragged him across the floor and out the door, onto the stairs.

  Dag’s head spun, his vision was blurry, and the stairs seemed to jump up at him. He missed his step, lost his hold on Stephano, and went crashing down the stairs, fetching up against the wall. Stephano tumbled limply down the stairs and ended in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

  Dag crawled over to him and laid his ear on Stephano’s chest. He thought he was breathing, but he couldn’t really tell. He felt for a pulse and found it, eventually, but it was very weak.

  A gun blast went off, and Dag swore with what breath he had left. He had forgotten about the fiend in the hall. Master Tutillo appeared in the doorway, a smoking pistol in his hand.

  “Oh, my God! Is the captain dead?” Master Tutillo gasped. He started gagging. “What’s that awful smell?”

  “Poison!” Dag grunted. “Help me get the captain away from the bridge.”

  By this time, Cook and the rest of the men had arrived. They picked up Stephano by his shoulders and legs and had carried him as far as the dock when they, too, started choking.

  “I can still smell it, sir!” Master Tutillo said, coughing.

  “It’s in his clothes and on his skin,” Dag said, coughing. “Cook, go fetch a blanket.”

  He and Master Tutillo stripped Stephano of his dragon coat, his breeches and shirt, and wrapped him in a blanket. This done, Cook and his gunner partner carried Stephano to his quarters. Dag kicked the pile of clothes out the door and into the rain.

  He posted the rest of the men at either end of the corridor, warning them that poisonous fumes were coming from the bridge and that no one was to go near it.

  Feeling his own breathing start to ease, Dag hurried to Stephano’s quarters. He found his captain lying in his bed with Master Tutillo hovering helplessly, fussing with his pillow. Cook stood in a corner, twisting his apron in his big hands.

  “What do we do for him, sir?” Master Tutillo cast a stricken glance at Dag. “I think he’s dying!”

  Dag had no idea. He could have treated a battlefield wound—dug out a bullet, tied a tourniquet around a bleeding limb. But this was beyond him.

  “Fetch Miri,” he ordered.

  Cook offered to go, glad to have something to do. Dag sat down in a chair and grimaced, feeling the painful results of his tumble down the stairs. He gingerly touched a rising lump on the back of his head.

  The room was growing dark. Master Tutillo lit a lamp and placed it on the nightstand. Dag looked at Stephano and willed him not to die.

  “Keep breathing, sir,” he said softly.

  Stephano lay on his back, his face ghastly pale and his eyes sunken. He made no sound and didn’t move.

  Master Tutillo sat huddled in a chair. His face was black with grime, and he had a nasty burn on his forehead. His best uniform was in shambles. He blinked his eyes rapidly and wiped his nose when he thought Dag wasn’t looking.

  The boy needed something else to think about.

  “Is the fortress secure, Master Tutillo?” Dag asked sternly. “All the enemy accounted for? Did we suffer any casualties?”

  Master Tutillo drew in a deep breath and stood up. Shoulders back, standing at attention, he made his report.

  “The survivors tried to escape, Lieutenant. They ran out the door. One of the dragons swooped down on them, killing two of them. The others ran back inside, where we were waiting for them. Two of our men were wounded in that attack, sir. Mostly burns and such. Nothing as bad as the captain.” He cast an unhappy glance at Stephano.

  “Excellent work, Master Tutillo,” said Dag.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Master Tutillo dispiritedly. “Is there anything else I should be doing? If not, I’d like to wait here.”

  “You may stay,” said Dag gruffly.

  Master Tutillo nodded and huddled back down in his chair again.

  Miri appeared in the doorway. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “Stephano!”

  She was wet and bedraggled, her hair wildly tangled, and white to the lips. She put her hand on the door frame for support.

  “What happened to him, Dag? Tell me what happened!”

  “Some sort of foul blood magic,” said Dag, shaking his head. “Something in the room was giving off a red vapor. I took one whiff of the stuff and it was like breathing liquid fire.”

  Miri pushed herself away from the door frame and walked unsteadily into the room. She reached out a trembling hand to Stephano, smoothed back his hair to feel his forehead. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch. She felt for his pulse and bit her lip.

  “Where’s Rigo?” she asked, glancing around. “He was right behind me.”

  “I’m here,” said Rodrigo in a small voice. He had been standing outside the room. “Is Stephano … Is he…”

  “No,” said Miri sharply. “He isn’t. I need Gythe, Rigo. I need her right now! She’s in the cave.”

  Rodrigo tried to move. He staggered and almost fell. Dag caught hold of him, eased him into a chair.

  “I’ll go fetch Gythe,” Dag offered gently. “You stay here.”

  Rodrigo nodded. His clothes were soaking wet. His hair straggled over his face. He was almost as pale as Stephano.

  “You should bring the countess, too,” he said in a low voice. “She should be with him in case…”

  Miri rounded on Rodrigo. Her red hair flared, her eyes flashed. She shook her fist in his face.

  “He�
�s not going to die! Do you hear me?”

  She began to sob. Dag took hold of her and she sagged against him, beating on his chest with her clenched hands and repeating over and over. “He’s not going to die!”

  Rodrigo looked up at Dag. “Bring the countess.”

  * * *

  Dag found Cecile, Gythe, and Sophia standing at the mouth of the cave waiting impatiently for news. Dag didn’t have to say a word. One look at his face and the countess put her hand to her mouth to stop a cry. The princess put her arm around her.

  “He’s not dead, your ladyship.” Dag hastened to reassure her. “But you should come.”

  “He won’t die. He’s Stephano. He knows he can’t go off and leave us,” said Gythe, smiling. She gazed into the sky and pointed. “Look there. The dragons are returning. The battle is over. Stephano will need to know. We have to go tell him.”

  Dag stood stock still and stared at Gythe.

  “Girl, dear!” Dag said, amazed. “You spoke!”

  “The soldier was going to kill Brother Barnaby,” Gythe added in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “I had to warn him.”

  Dag gazed at her in wonder, but she only laughed and ran off.

  The rain had stopped and the clouds had moved off, revealing the sun glimmering through the mists.

  They hurried down the hill. Dag had brought his rifle, just in case. He didn’t really know why. Verdi was keeping watch above the fortress, and Viola circled, waiting to hear word of Stephano. The other dragons flew overhead, heading for the caves near the mountain peak. They had all of them suffered wounds, but they were coming home; all except one.

  Droal flew alone, behind the others. The old dragon flew slowly, his head bowed. Viola, catching sight of him, went to join him, and said something to him that made the old dragon lift his head and fly a little more strongly.

  Dag took the others to Stephano’s room. Rodrigo had retreated to a chair in a corner, where he sat listlessly, staring down at the floor. Miri was seated on Stephano’s bed, holding his hand. She had recovered herself, wiped away her tears. She rose when Cecile entered and moved aside so that Cecile could take her place.

  Cecile stood gazing down at her son. She was pale, but composed. Dag noticed her hand twisting a little ring she wore.

  Gythe crept softly into the room and put her arm around her sister.

  “I’ve tried and tried to think what spells, what potions might help him,” said Miri brokenly. “Can you think of something?”

  Gythe’s eyes welled up.

  “This is blood magic, sister. We can do nothing. He has to fight this battle himself. But he will. He won’t die.”

  Sophia had not entered the room, but stood in the doorway, looking very alone and forlorn. Hearing a cheerful barking, she turned around to see Master Tutillo carrying Bandit in one arm and an irate Doctor Ellington in the other.

  Sophia gave a glad cry and took hold of Bandit.

  “Thank you so much for taking care of him,” she said.

  Master Tutillo could only gaze at her, tongue-tied. He lost his hold on Doctor Ellington, who jumped out of his arms and ran straight for Dag. Scooping up the cat, Dag put him in the usual place on his shoulder.

  “The captain’s in bad shape,” said Dag, petting the Doctor, who purred in resounding triumph. “We have to pull him through.”

  Cecile bent down to kiss Stephano on the forehead. When she rose, her lips were moving. Dag thought she was praying and he bent his head in his own pleading, desperate prayer.

  And then he heard her say, “Julian…”

  * * *

  The sunlight shone brightly through the window. Stephano opened his eyes, dazzled by the brilliance.

  It was only Benoit, drawing the curtains, as he did every morning. They had no maids, no housekeepers. Benoit wouldn’t have them. He prided himself on looking after Stephano and his father. The old man began puttering around the bedroom, pretending to dust.

  It was Stephano’s old bedroom in the old château. He was back at home. He blinked at the light and realized suddenly that the sun was high in the sky. He was going to be late for training.

  “Why didn’t you wake me earlier, Benoit?” he demanded. “Father will be furious!”

  Benoit smiled and faded away.

  Stephano started to throw off the bedclothes and climb out of bed. Instead, he lay back down. He drew the blanket up over himself and snuggled down underneath it. His bed was warm and comfortable, he was so tired, and his whole body ached. He closed his eyes and basked in the warmth and sunshine.

  “Our son fought bravely today,” said a woman.

  Stephano opened his eyes again. A man and a woman stood at the end of the bed. The woman was holding fast to the man’s arm, and the man clasped her hands in his own. Stephano stared from one to the other.

  “Mother?” he said, astonished. “Father?”

  “I was proud of him,” said Julian. “I fought at his side. He didn’t see me. He never does.”

  “He knows you are there,” said Cecile.

  “Father, Mother,” Stephano repeated, bewildered. “What are you doing here?”

  “He has been grievously wounded,” said Cecile sadly. “This final fight is hard for him. He is tempted to give up.”

  “He is my son,” said Julian proudly. “I taught him better than that.”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Father. I’m sorry.”

  Stephano kept repeating the apology over and over, just as he kept trying to throw off the bedclothes and kept trying get out of bed. Someone kept pushing him back down.

  He was growing angry and frustrated. He needed to find his father, apologize.

  “Damn it, Benoit! Let me up! I have to go—”

  Hands, strong, but firm, rested on his shoulders and shoved him back in the bed.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Stephano de Guichen,” Miri said in stern tones. She used his full name, which meant he was in trouble. “We nearly lost you once. We’re damn well not going to lose you again.”

  Stephano opened his eyes. The bright sunlight was gone, and the room was dark except for the light of a lamp.

  His mother stood at the end of the bed, exactly where she had been standing before. This time she was alone. She smiled at him.

  Stephano smiled back.

  Miri was at his side, ready to block any attempts he might make to get out of bed. Stephano lay back, giving up the fight. He was so weak, even smiling was an effort. Gythe stood beside her sister, her hand on Miri’s shoulder. Dag was close by, as always guarding and protecting them both.

  “Glad to have you back, sir,” Dag said gruffly. “We thought you’d left us.”

  Doctor Ellington gave a loud meow.

  “The Doctor says he is glad, too,” said Gythe.

  Miri sniffed. “The fool beast is just hungry.”

  “Viola has been so worried about you she couldn’t eat,” Gythe continued. “Petard tried to fly into the fort to see you. Dag wouldn’t let him.”

  “The dragons have given us no peace, sir,” Dag added, “wondering how you are.”

  “Tell them I am fine and I will be with them soon,” said Stephano. He was missing someone.

  “Where’s Rigo?”

  “I’m here,” Rodrigo replied in a choked voice. He had been keeping to the shadows. His hair was uncombed, his clothes disheveled. He held a crumpled handkerchief in his hand. “I am glad you are here, too, dear friend.”

  Clasping hold of Stephano’s hand, Rodrigo pressed it tightly.

  “You look terrible,” said Stephano.

  Rodrigo heaved a doleful sigh and sank down on the edge of the bed. “I feel terrible. I’ve had the most frightful day. You can’t imagine!”

  Stephano began to laugh. Laughing hurt, but he couldn’t help it. At first Miri tried to stop him, then she began to laugh. And soon everyone was laughing, a little shaky, laughter mixed with tears. Stephano looked at them lovingly. His friends.

&
nbsp; He was very tired. He didn’t remember much of what had happened to him, but that didn’t matter. For now he was content to lie here with his friends around him.

  “I’m going to sleep now,” he said. “Just for a little while. We have lots of work to do to get this fortress ready to go back home.”

  “You rest, sir,” said Dag. “The work will take care of itself.”

  “We will be here when you wake,” Miri promised.

  Stephano closed his eyes.

  Easy, restful, healing sleep crept over him.

  We will be here when you wake. And so they would.

  The Cadre of the Lost.

  Not lost anymore.

  46

  Our evils can never be so great as to oppress us, for His power is great to deliver us.

  —Franklin Sloan

  Henry Wallace woke to find himself lying on a slab of cold stone with raindrops hitting him full in the face. Given the cold stone, his first thought was that he was in the morgue. The rain splashing in his face was a relief to him at first, proving he was not dead, but then started to become a damn nuisance. He found this situation highly uncomfortable, and he couldn’t think why he was in it. He tried to sit up and fell back with a stifled cry. Movement brought pain and remembrance. He didn’t know which was worse.

  Above him, the sky boiled with black clouds shot through with purple lightning. Thunder pounded on the rocks. He had a dim recollection of Sir Ander shouting his name, pleading for help. That did not bode well. Neither did this wizard storm beating down on him. He wondered if Father Jacob had managed to stop Eiddwen or if the ground on which he lay was about to fall from underneath him.

  There was nothing he could do about it either way. He lay still, catching his breath, not wanting to move again, yet knowing he had to. He shifted his head, looking for Alan. The last he had seen of him, his rifle had blown up in his hands. Henry had been running to his aid when he’d been hit by a green fireball, and that was the last thing he remembered.

  Another flash of lightning revealed Alan, lying only a short distance away, deathly pale and unmoving. Henry’s breath caught at the sight of his friend’s mangled arm. Blood oozed from the horrific wound. Henry called his name, but Alan didn’t stir.