Shadow Raiders

Chapter Twenty-Three

Aertheum the Fallen knows that God has given mankind free will, the choice between good or evil. With honeyed words and false promises, he entices us to leave God’s side and join with the foul legions. Some listen; the choice is theirs. Never turn your back on the Fallen for that is when he drives home the knife.

– “Thoughts on the Nature of Evil” from the writings of Saint Michael

DAG HEARD MIRI’S CRY AND TURNED to see one demon coming at him, ax raised and a demon running at Miri. The demon was right behind her. Dag had his pistol in his hand, but the demon was too close to Miri for him to risk shooting it without hitting her. He roared a warning.

Miri reached beneath the helm, seized a pistol, turned, and fired all in the same motion. The blast struck the demon full in the chest and sent him flying backward. The fiend smashed into the base of the mast and crumpled over in a heap. Miri stood trembling, her face and clothes covered with blood and gunpowder.

Dag fired at his demon, aiming for the hideous face. The demon’s head exploded and the fiend dropped to the deck. Dag threw down the spent pistol and was drawing another when he heard Miri scream. He looked over to see the demon with a gaping hole in its chest had regained his feet and was coming at her again, a knife in his hand.

Horror-struck by the awful sight, Miri could not move. Dag shot the demon again, this time in the legs. The demon crashed down almost at Miri’s feet. Still the demon tried to stand up. Miri grabbed a boat hook and began beating it, hitting it again and again until the fiend finally stopped moving.

Dag turned to look at the one he had shot and was thankful to see he was still dead. The third demon had almost reached the hatch. Stephano and the dragon soared past, the dragon’s belly gleaming in the sunshine.

“I’ve got this one, Dag!” Stephano shouted, aiming his gun at the demon commander.

Droalfrig made a steep banking turn, wings narrowly avoiding taking out the boat’s main yardarm. Stephano fired. His shot struck the demon commander in the back just as he reached the open hatch. The demon commander either jumped or tumbled through the hatch and disappeared. The dragon flew past, shouting as he went something about his brother being attacked at the abbey. Dag had no idea what the dragon was talking about. He lost sight of both the dragon and Stephano in the smoke.

Another demon leaped from his bat and charged straight at Dag, sending the bat to attack Miri. Dag fired the blunderbuss at the bat and the creature was a mass of blood and bone and fur. Dag swung the empty blunderbuss like a club and caught the demon in the midriff. The demon doubled over. Dag smashed the stock down on its neck.

“Reload!” he shouted at Miri.

She dropped to her knees and picked up a pistol and put in the powder and shot. She thrust that pistol into her belt and grabbed a musket.

“Dag, behind you!” she yelled, jamming the ramrod into the musket.

Dag turned to see the demon he’d shot in the face getting to its feet. Blood oozed from the demon’s cracked helm. The orange eyes glowed. The demon reached out his hands and foul-smelling reddish noxious smoke began to flow from the demon’s limbs. The smoke roiled around Dag. He covered his mouth and nose with his hands, but he could not filter out the fumes. He began to feel giddy, light-headed.

Dag had been raised by a deeply religious mother who believed in a God of wrath. People who did bad things in this world were forever damned. Dag had done many bad things in his life. He had since repented and worked hard to make amends, but he feared in his heart he could never right the terrible wrongs. He was doomed to spend eternity in Hell and as he watched the demon coming toward him, reaching for him with bloody hands, he heard his mother’s voice crying that he was doomed, the fiends were coming to claim him and drag him into the Pit. Dag stood helpless, staring transfixed at the fiend.

Miri saw Dag was in trouble. She had no idea what was wrong with him. He was just standing there, making no attempt to stop the demon that was about to kill him. The ramrod was still in the barrel of the musket she had been reloading. She didn’t have time to take it out. Hoping the weapon would not blow up in her hands, she aimed and pulled the trigger. The recoil knocked her sideways. The long wooden rod flew out of the musket and drove like a spear through the demon’s back.

Blood spewing, the demon fell to the deck and this time did not get up. Miri ran to Dag. He was in a daze, his eyes wide and unseeing. The reddish smoke was starting to dissipate, shredded by the gusting winds, but she caught a whiff and tasted the bitter flavor of what might have been some sort of opiate. She cried Dag’s name and flung her arms around him, pleading with him to come back to her. She felt a shudder go through his body and then he blinked and looked up at her. He seemed about to say something when a wail of terror and a frantic shout came from below.

“The demon Stephano shot went down into the hold!” Dag said. “Are any of the guns loaded?”

“Two,” said Miri, pointing to the pistol in her belt and another lying on the deck. She drew the pistol from her belt and handed it to Dag.

“I’m going below. You stay here. If one of those fiends lands on the boat, shoot it.”

He disappeared down into the hold, leaving Miri alone on the deck. Several bats without riders flew around the Cloud Hopper. They screeched at her, but didn’t attack. She picked up the pistol and looked down over the rail at the cutter. Demons had boarded it, as well. Captain and crew were fighting them off.

Three demon riders were still in the air. Miri kept a watch on them and gripped the pistol in her hands. She tried to find Stephano and the dragon. She had lost track of him during the battle, and now they were nowhere in sight.

Three more demons, armed with the green-fire cannons, flew toward the Cloud Hopper. Miri heard yelling and shouts coming from below and her sister’s terrified screams and then green fire dazzled her eyes. She felt the heat of the flames wash over her, and she flung open the hatch and dove through it, shutting it behind her as the green fireballs burst on the Cloud Hopper.

The dragon was pulling out of his dive after Stephano had shot the commander when suddenly Droalfrig lifted his head and roared out his brother’s name. He made a steep, arcing turn that forced Stephano to fling his arms around the dragon’s neck and hold on tightly.

“Droal!” Stephano yelled. “Don’t throw me off!”

“Sorry, Captain,” Droal returned. “Forgot.”

Stephano waited for his stomach to resume its proper place in his body, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Brother Hroalfrig, sir! Demons! Attacking the abbey!”

Stephano could now see another dragon, flying over the spires of the cathedral, valiantly fighting off a horde of demons. Splotches of green fire burst in the air around the dragon. Smoke coiled into the air.

“I have to go to him, sir,” Droal yelled. “Should I set you down?”

Stephano looked back at the Cloud Hopper. Dead demons lay sprawled on the deck. Dag and Miri appeared to have killed the boarders. He didn’t see any other demons and he was worried about the nuns in the abbey. He turned back to the dragon.

“I’ll come with you!” Stephano shouted.

If he had waited a moment, Stephano would have seen that the demons lying dead on deck weren’t all that dead. Droal spread his wings and took off with such speed that Stephano had to flatten himself against the dragon’s neck to avoid being swept off. He didn’t have time to look back at his friends.

“Is anyone at the abbey helping the nuns?” Stephano yelled.

“Nuns dead,” said Droalfrig grimly. “Demons slaughtered them. Days ago.”

Stephano was shocked. The demons might have killed the abbey’s nuns days ago, but the fiends had not finished their horrible work, apparently, for they had returned to complete the abbey’s destruction. Was the Fallen One sending his minions to launch an all-out war on those who served God?

Stephano looked over his shoulder again to see the Cloud Hopper was still afloat and no longer under attack. The deck was empty, however. Dag and Miri were both absent, and that was worrisome. Dag would not leave the deck with a battle still raging. Perhaps they had gone below to be with Gythe.

“I should go back…”

“Brother Hroal not quite fit, Captain,” said Droalfrig. “Bad leg. Explosion. Too much to ask, I know. If you could help…”

Stephano could see the dragon’s brother being surrounded by bats, diving and swooping at him, attacking from all sides. The Cloud Hopper appeared secure.

“Let’s go help Hroal,” Stephano said.

Gythe was very ill and Rodrigo had no idea how the magic was harming her. He carried her to the small cabin below deck she shared with Miri, placed her in her bed, which was built into the bulkheads, and wrapped her warmly in blankets. He fetched water and moistened her lips and cooled her feverish skin.

That was all he could do. He sat beside her and watched her moan and shiver. Her body twitched painfully every time a blast of green fire struck the ship. He washed away the blood when it began to trickle from her mouth.

He wondered what was happening. Looking out the porthole, all he could see was smoke. All he could hear was the sound of gunfire coming from above and the enraged howls of Doctor Ellington, in the storage closet. The cat was so frantic that he began hurling himself at the door, beating on it with his large paws.

Fearing the good Doctor would hurt himself and feeling the need of company, Rodrigo freed the cat, who shot out of the closet as though his tail was on fire. The frantic cat evaded Rodrigo’s grab and ran straight to Gythe. Doctor Ellington jumped into bed with her and began licking her face.

Gythe flung her arms around the cat, moaned and held him close, and began singing to him, as she often did. Her voice was raw and shrill and discordant. Doctor Ellington gave her hand a swipe with his tongue.

Rodrigo and the cat both jumped at the loud report of a pistol going off near the hatchway. The gun shot was followed by a loud thudding sound, as though someone large was tumbling down the stairs. Rodrigo froze, terrified, waiting for the sound of footsteps, but nothing happened.

He opened the door a crack and called out, “Dag? Is that you?”

No answer. Rodrigo called again, “Miri? Did you fall? Are you all right?”

Still no answer. Drawing in a deep breath, Rodrigo grabbed hold of a hairbrush to use as a weapon and ventured out to see what had happened. He was unpleasantly amazed to find a demon lying in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs.

Rodrigo was just thinking he was going to be sick when reddish smoke began to waft from the corpse. He caught a whiff and was immediately transported back to his wild days at University when he’d once rashly agreed to visit an opium den. Already nauseous, he covered his nose and mouth. Not knowing what else to do, he seized a blanket and flung it over the smoldering demon, as one might fling a blanket over a fire. He ran back to Gythe’s cabin, shut the door, locked it, and then stuffed blankets in the crack to keep the noxious fumes from seeping inside.

He was about to cast a spell of protection on the door and then he remembered the green fire eating away Gythe’s protective spells.

“Why waste my time?” Rodrigo sat down nervously on the end of the bed and addressed himself to the cat. “The demon is dead.” He then added, as an afterthought, “But it’s a demon. Demons can’t die. Can they?”

He brooded over this a moment and tried to reassure himself. “That thing has a great bloody hole in its back. There’s blood all over the deck. Of course, it’s dead. You agree with me on this, don’t you, Doctor?”

The cat appeared to be about to express his opinion when their conversation was interrupted by the sound of claws scrapping over the wooden deck. Rodrigo prayed he was imagining things or that it was Dag or Miri coming down to tell him the fight was over and they were all safe. He could see that his prayers weren’t going to be answered. The cat was staring, wide-eyed, at the door.

“Oh, God!” Rodrigo whispered, rising to his feet.

He tried to shout for help, but his mouth was so dry that nothing came out. He coughed, moistened his lips, and was about to yell again, when a wailing scream from Gythe almost made him leap out the porthole. She had backed into the corner, clutching the blankets around her, whimpering in terror.

Rodrigo found his voice. “Help! I need some help down here!”

The sounds of clawed feet walking on the deck drew nearer. Doctor Ellington jumped from the bed onto a shelf and crouched there, hissing, his hackles raised, his tail furred out and waving slowly from side to side.

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…”

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.