Shadow Raiders

Chapter Thirty-One

Bitter End: the last part of a rope or chain. The term has passed into common usage so that: “One hangs on until the bitter end.”

– Anonymous

SIR HENRY WALLACE, IN HIS GUISE AS THE ELDERLY PRIEST, hobbled slowly across Threadneedle Street. He paused a moment in a doorway, leaning on his cane, pretending to rest as he watched the commotion outside the Four Clovers. The constables arrived with much blowing of whistles and a great show of energy. They promptly arrested several people who had nothing to do with the affair, including the two gentlemen who had been attempting to revive the fainting ladies, and the serving girl who had crashed into Rodrigo on the grounds that she had helped the miscreants escape. The crowd lingered in hopes of seeing the body and eventually the constables emerged from the cafe bearing the corpse on a shutter. Although his face had been decently covered with a handkerchief, Sir Henry recognized James Harrington. He watched impassively as they carted his dead agent away, most likely to a pauper’s grave, since he had little money and no one would claim the body. Certainly not Sir Henry, who pronounced James Harrington’s epithet.

“Bloody fool!”

Sir Henry had entered the Four Clovers that day in a good mood. Alcazar’s brother’s ship, the Silver Raven, was due to sail into port tomorrow. He and the journeyman could at last leave Westfirth. Sir Henry had heard from one of his underworld contacts that inquiries were suddenly being made around Westfirth regarding a man named Sir Henry Wallace. A well-dressed, well-spoken, handsome young man and a former mob enforcer were both looking for Wallace.

Henry had no idea who these people were-agents of the countess, agents of the grand bishop? It didn’t much matter. He cursed Harrington, whose stupidity had set the hounds on his trail. He did not think they would be able to find him, for he had taken excellent precautions, but his good mood had evaporated.

Henry waited a moment hoping to see if the constables were going to arrest Captain de Guichen. He did not see them hauling the captain away, and he thus gathered gloomily that the captain had escaped.

Sir Henry resumed his walk. He hobbled down the street until he found a small, neighborhood church and went inside. The church was empty except for two old women in black shawls who were lighting candles for the dead. Both made a reverence to the elderly priest as they passed him on their way down the aisle and out the door. He waited until they were gone, then sat down in a pew near an open window and fished out the folded letter sent to him by Sloan.

Sloan’s handwriting, usually so neat and precise, was in some places almost illegible.

My lord, I run the very great risk of writing to you, which I would never do were the matter not of the greatest importance. A dire and most terrible event has occurred. Before I relate the circumstances, I want to assure you that your lady wife and unborn child are both safe. By the grace of God, the family was not in residence. Your lady wife, feeling lonely in your absence, decided on a whim to accept the long-standing invitation of Her Majesty the Queen to return to court for her lying-in. If she had not made this sudden decision, I would not be writing this to you. I would be dead.

As it was, I traveled with your lady wife to court. Seeing her safely settled in the palace with every comfort, I returned to the manor alone. I arrived before dawn to find a horrific sight. The roof of the manor house was ablaze. The exterior walls were charred and blackened as though they had been struck by cannon fire, which was what I first thought had occurred. And then I beheld the real cause-demonic looking creatures with eyes of orange flame riding on gigantic bats, hurling green fire at the walls. (The words “green fire” had been heavily underscored.)

My horse was crazed with terror and nearly threw me from the saddle. I managed to regain control and rode into the woods before the creatures saw me. I remained in hiding, watching, until the bats and their riders left with the rising of the sun.

Once I was certain the attackers were gone, I rode to the manor house to see if there was anyone who could tell me what had transpired. I am not a squeamish man, having seen much in the service of my country. Yet the horrible sight that met my eyes nearly caused me to lose my senses. The people who had not died in the fire had been slaughtered in a most gruesome manner. I found limbs and even heads scattered about the blood-soaked grass. The bats had torn apart the bodies and undoubtedly devoured them.

We were fortunate, my lord, that there has not been much rain and that the grass was dry. I helped the flames spread and saw to it that the fire consumed the bodies and wiped out all traces of the true nature of the attack.

News spread quickly, however. Everyone in the village had seen the flames and smoke and rushed to view the destruction. I rode swiftly to Haever to apprise your lady wife and Her Majesty of what had occurred before they heard any wild rumors. Though I pleaded ignorance as to the attackers, I hinted at the Rosians. Her Majesty is already blaming them, and there is talk of war.

Finally, I paid a call upon your former associate. You will know of whom I speak and also why I mention her in connection with this tragedy. Her house is still as it was eight years ago-closed, empty, vacant. I made discreet inquiries and learned that a young associate of hers, a depraved young man of about seventeen, who calls himself the Warlock and is wanted in connection with a string of gruesome murders, is known to be in Westfirth and is making inquiries regarding you. I urge you to take precautions, my lord. (That was also underlined.)

I await your orders.

Franklin Sloan.

The letter slipped from Sir Henry’s nerveless fingers. Sweat broke out on his neck and chest. He stared, unseeing, into the chancel. His first thoughts were of his wife and child and he found himself trembling at the thought of how narrowly they had escaped a horrible death. Sir Henry muttered a heartfelt prayer of thanks and then, chastising himself for his weakness, pulled himself together and began to think about the incident coldly and rationally. What did this portend? Who had attacked him? He discounted Sloan’s incredible tale of demons. The man had ridden all night. He’d been short on sleep. Sloan’s final paragraph at the end of the letter hinted at an answer-a very disturbing answer.

Ten years ago, Sir Henry had met an extremely attractive and mysterious woman named Eiddwen, a Trundler name, though she was not a Trundler. With her blue-black hair, gold-flecked black eyes, and olive complexion tinged with dusky rose, she appeared to be of Bruond extraction. An orphan raised by nuns in a Freyan orphanage, she did not know her parents. Judging by her way of shrugging off the matter, she did not care to know them. She had been given her name by the nuns, who told her that Eiddwen meant “blessed” or “holy.” She had no surname.

“I am a child of every man,” she said. She always smiled when she said it, but by the arch in her black brows and the shimmer of the golden flecks in her eyes, she was more than half serious.

Sir Henry was introduced to Eiddwen at the hunting lodge of the Baron of Gahllendale, Lord Brobeaton, during the shooting season. Like many single young women of no family and no means, Eiddwen was serving as a hired companion to the baron’s mother, an elderly woman confined to her wheeled chair. The old woman had been passionately fond of hunting in her youth and though she could no longer ride to the hounds, she enjoyed listening to the horn calls and the baying of the dogs and reliving her most memorable moments. Eiddwen’s duties were light; she read to the old lady, pushed her about the garden in her wheeled chair, and listened patiently to her tales.

The baron had invited a great many guests to his lodge and the men were united in their opinion that Eiddwen was one of the most beautiful women they had ever seen. The women were united in their jealousy of her, but that soon faded. The twenty-six-year-old young woman was not flirtatious. She evinced no interest in “catching” a rich husband, nor was she prone to stealing the husbands of others. Men and women alike thought her too severe, too serious-minded. Some proclaimed her “dull.”

Eiddwen’s clothes suited her station in life. Her dress was simply cut of black, serviceable cloth, with tight sleeves to the wrist, a form-fitting bodice that buttoned from the waist to the neck unrelieved by even a hint of lace, and a long skirt that fell from the V-shaped bodice. Her plain attire served to emphasize her striking appearance.

Eiddwen did not “do” her hair, for she had no ladies’ maid. She twisted it in a chignon. During the day, long tendrils of black curls would often escape from their captivity and twine down her long, slender neck. Her only adornment was a slender golden chain she wore around her neck from which hung some sort of pendant that appeared to be a sea-going knot done in gold. She termed it a good luck charm.

Eiddwen was not a flirt, but she did have the ability to fascinate, and Sir Henry found himself fascinated. He was, at the time, unmarried. He was considered an eligible catch, and he was prepared to be caught by Eiddwen, for he was rich and powerful enough to overlook the fact that she had no family and no money. He was pleased to find out that she was interested in him, then astonished to discover that her interest had nothing to do with matrimony.

The old lady spent the afternoon napping, which left Eiddwen free to pursue her own interests. She arranged a tryst with Sir Henry, inviting him to take her rowing upon the lake. When they were alone in the rowboat, she laid out her plan. Sir Henry listened in amazement.

Eiddwen explained coolly that she had managed through various means to become acquainted with the baron and to be hired as the old lady’s companion for one purpose-to arrange this meeting with Sir Henry, a meeting that would appear to be accidental.

“I am not what I seem,” said Eiddwen. She sat in the stern of the rowboat, facing him, her black hair blowing about her. While she talked, she would sometimes reach up to play with a curling tendril.

“I am a member of a group of people who have a single goal and that is the utter destruction of Rosia. To this end, my associates and I have developed a weapon that has the power to destroy magic. Ah, you laugh, Sir Henry, but I assure you I am quite serious. I would prove it to you, but we lack the funds to build it. We were wondering if you might be interested in assisting us.”

Sir Henry was interested, though cautious. The two arranged a meeting in Haever in a house located at the end of the street in a quiet, upper middle class neighborhood. Court gossip had it that Eiddwen had been established in this house by Sir Henry as his mistress. That was true, in part. Sir Henry paid for the house, but Eiddwen was not his mistress. She had repulsed his advances with a firmness that left no doubt she wanted a business relationship, nothing more.

As time passed, he found himself wondering how he had ever thought her desirable. Eiddwen was ruthless, single-minded, determined. One might say she was a female version of himself, but with a dark, underlying passion for something unknown that chilled even Henry’s blood. He recalled vividly the night she showed up with the plans for the weapon and explained the theory behind it.

“The weapon is powered by contramagic,” she said.

Henry frowned in displeasure. “That is nothing to jest about, Eiddwen. Even to speak the word is to risk imprisonment and death.”

In answer, Eiddwen lifted a strange-looking weapon and fired. Green flame struck the cellar wall. The fire left burn marks on the brick.

“Examine it,” said Eiddwen. “You will find that the sigils placed on the bricks by the crafter masons have been obliterated. The contramagic does not merely break sigils. The beam erases them, as though they had never been.”

Sir Henry had examined the wall and discovered that she had indeed destroyed the magic. She was not only talking heresy. She was practicing heresy. If he were caught listening to her, nothing could save him-neither wealth, rank, nor power. The queen herself would be forced to disavow him. He would be proclaimed a warlock and burned at the stake.

Yet, if this contramagic could be transformed into a weapon as she claimed… He could see in his mind’s eye the destruction of the ships of the Rosian Naval Fleet: masts falling, hulls breaking apart, balloons exploding in green fire, men plunging to their deaths in the Breath. Rosia humbled, ground into the dirt.

After much serious thought, Sir Henry decided that the development of this weapon was worth the risk. He funded the project; within two years, they were ready to test it. Their choice of target was the naval cutter, Defiant. Disguised as pirates, Eiddwen and her “people” attacked the cutter with devastating results. The green beam weapon almost completely disabled the ship. They did not sink the cutter. They deliberately left it afloat in order to later sneak aboard it to study the damage.

Henry was there with two of his most loyal associates: Admiral Randolph Baker and the famous Freyan privateer, Captain Andrew Northrop, (brother to Father Jacob Northrop of the Arcanum, a relationship neither cared to acknowledge). Mr. Sloan was there because Mr. Sloan was always there.

Sir Henry and Admiral Baker and Captain Northrop were all enthusiastic about the contramagic weapon, seeing it as the salvation of their country. The next day, Sir Henry paid Eiddwen an immense sum of money, practically a king’s ransom. Several days after that, Eiddwen vanished.

Sir Henry went to visit her and found the house vacant. He let himself inside, hoping to find some clue as to her whereabouts, but the rooms were bare. She had left behind nothing but dust. He had been duped by this woman, who had taken his money and then fled. Baffled and furious, Sir Henry spared no expense trying to find Eiddwen. All he could discover was that she had an alias as vague and mysterious as herself. She was called the Sorceress by some of her associates. He could find no trace of her, however.

The years passed. Sir Henry had not forgotten Eiddwen nor had he forgiven her. He had come to believe the experiment on the Defiant had been some sort of hoax, an event staged to induce him to hand over the money. And then he began to receive reports of watchtowers crumbling for no apparent reason. He visited one of the sites and saw for himself the scorch marks, so similar to those on the Defiant. He knew the cause, but he dared not tell anyone, for he would have been forced to admit his involvement in contramagic.

And now this murderous attack. Demonic creatures riding giant bats. If any man other than the practical Sloan had written this, Sir Henry would have dismissed him as a lunatic.

I am a member of a group of people, Eiddwen had told him. Were those people fiends? Was she in league with the forces of Hell? Sir Henry could have believed this if he had believed in Hell. As it was, the prospect was dire enough without involving the Evil One. Yet, if not the Devil, who?

Eiddwen had lashed out at him, and he had no way to strike back. For the first time in his life, Henry was helpless. He did not like the feeling. It made him angry. Eiddwen had attacked his family. He wondered why. Why come for him after all these years? If she had wanted to kill him because he knew about her and her connection with the contramagic, she could have done so before this. Her timing could not possibly be worse.

“Not now!” Henry muttered, his hand closing, crushing the letter. “I can’t deal with this woman now!”

He rose to his feet, picked up the satchel containing the tankard, and limped slowly out of the church. He walked though the graveyard, pausing here and there as though fondly remembering old friends. He stopped at the tomb bearing the Rosian version of his name, “Henri,” and glanced down.

A bunch of violets lay in the grass.

Other agents besides Harrington knew to leave messages for him here, yet none of his agents used violets. He picked them up. They were bound with a green ribbon and there was a note tucked beneath the stems.

By now you have heard about the destruction of your manor house. Are you impressed? Come to Bitter End Lane this evening when the clock chimes six. We need to talk.

No name, but a knot had been drawn on the bottom of the note. He had seen that knot before-on the pendant that hung from the golden chain around Eiddwen’s neck.

He sniffed at the violets and carried them back with him into the church. Henry took his seat in the pew and remained there to hear the afternoon service. After the service, he entered the confessional. Once inside, Henry took off his clerical robes. The well-dressed Rosian nobleman who emerged from the church that afternoon bore no resemblance to the elderly cleric who had entered it with one exception-he was still carrying the satchel.

Returning to the inn, Sir Henry pondered the instructions in the note. The dockyards at that time of evening would be deserted, though there would still be some light for the sun did not set until after seven. Eiddwen would know, of course, that he would have refused to meet her in the dead of night.

On his arrival at the Blue Parrot, he told the jubilant Alcazar that his brother’s ship was due in tomorrow and that he should start packing.

Late that afternoon, a tall man dressed as a lawyer, with a white periwig sitting slightly askew atop his head, left the Blue Parrot. The lawyer, like most lawyers, was carrying a leather satchel.

As a guest of the Archbishop of Westfirth, Father Jacob Northrup had taken up residence in the archbishop’s temporary residence, a stolid and imposing structure known among the city’s residents as the Old Fort.

Father Jacob disliked staying anywhere as a guest of anyone, but with the Retribution being refitted at the ship yard, he didn’t have much choice. He could have taken lodgings at an inn, but he required a secure room in order to protect the books of Saint Dennis. Much to the amusement of Sir Ander, Father Jacob was forced to swallow his pride and accept the invitation of the archbishop, who was honored and delighted to have such a renowned priest as Father Jacob of the Arcanum stay with him.

The archbishop was less delighted when Father Jacob arrived. Father Jacob was not a good guest at the best of times. Impatient to return to the Arcanum, where he could study the books on contramagic at his leisure and not worry about their safety, the priest was irritable and demanding. He insisted on changing the location of his rooms three times before he found one that suited him.

Fortunately, the archbishop was an energetic, enthusiastic, zealous man who was so busy cleaning up the disreputable city of Westfirth and building his new cathedral that he had little time to fret over the peccadilloes of his eccentric guest. The archbishop was away most of the day, supervising the construction or marching into opium dens proclaiming the Word of God, leaving Father Jacob, Sir Ander, and Brother Barnaby to themselves.

The Old Fort was located at the bottom of a mountain that towered one hundred feet above the north entrance to the bay. At the top of the mountain was the Bastion, where dragons of the defunct Dragon Brigade had once resided. Once home to a local marquis and later to the Admiral of the Western Fleet, the Old Fort consisted of a castlelike structure with a great many drafty rooms that looked imposing, but which were actually cheerless, cold, and uncomfortable. The battlements extended out from the castle, running along the edge of a cliff, broken by watchtowers. Gun emplacements made of concrete had been built into the cliff face beneath the battlements. Ten forty-twopound, long-barreled cannons guarded the entrance to Westfirth Bay, and a full score of sixty-four-pound, short-barreled cannons, known as frogs guarded the long guns.

At the very hour Stephano and Rodrigo were entering the cafe where they would encounter James Harrington, Father Jacob and his friend, Sir Ander, were strolling the parapets overlooking the Breath. The view was magnificent, as Sir Ander noted.

Father Jacob paid no attention to Sir Ander or to the view. He walked the length of the parapet-from one guard tower to the other-then turned and walked back. His head was bowed, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression grim, his thoughts grimmer. Sir Ander had tried to keep up with him, but after the third time back and forth, the knight gave up. He leaned against the wall and gazed out at the naval gunboats patrolling the harbor.

The archbishop had stated gloomily that he’d heard from the grand bishop that war with Freya was imminent. The death of Ambassador de Villeneuve made war a certainty. The arrival of a large squadron of naval vessels two days ago meant that the king was about to declare war and was planning to shut down the port. Four thirty-two gun frigates were anchored near the mouth of the bay, along with one of King Alaric’s new battleships, the Royal Lion, boasting two full gun decks. The lower deck mounted twenty cannons that each fired a twenty-eight-pound iron ball. Twenty cannons on the upper deck fired eighteen-pound balls. Twenty-four twelve-pound cannons were located on the main deck, the quarterdeck and the forecastle.

It was true King Alaric had sent the Royal Lion to Westfirth, but not because he was about to declare war on Freya. The Countess de Marjolaine had urged the king to send the ships to Westfirth because she believed Sir Henry and the kidnapped journeyman were in that city. She had wanted King Alaric to shut down the port immediately, but the king was reluctant to take such a drastic step. Although the mere mention of the name of Sir Henry Wallace was enough to put him in a dark mood for days, Alaric could not justify shutting down the most lucrative port in the country. Nor was he ready to go to war with Freya.

The countess discovered a most unexpected ally in her arguments for shutting down the port: the grand bishop. Montagne was fearful that ships sailing the Breath would be attacked by the same demons that had attacked the abbey. The grand bishop had not told the king about the assault on the abbey. The grand bishop was not ready to do so and he could always use as his excuse the fact that the Arcanum had placed the attack under Seal. Hearing that the countess recommended closing the port of Westfirth, the bishop astonished the king by agreeing with her. Beset from both sides, Alaric still could not make up his mind.

Sir Ander watched the ships sailing through the light morning mists and thought about his godson, Stephano. The knight was curious to know why Stephano and his interesting and diverse collection of friends had come to Westfirth. Sir Ander wondered if Stephano was here on some mission for his mother. That led him to the thoughts of Cecile.

The musings of both men were interrupted by Brother Barnaby, who came hastening along the parapet, his robes blowing in the light breeze, his tonsured head glistening in the sunshine. Brother Barnaby waited in patient silence until Father Jacob, pacing the parapets, became aware of the monk’s presence, which he did only when he almost stepped on him.

“What?” Father Jacob demanded, scowling.

“This came for you, Father,” said Brother Barnaby, holding out a note.

Father Jacob took the note, unfolded it, scanned it. His brows rose. He read the note again, then handed it to Sir Ander.

You seek the Warlock. I can tell you where to find him. Meet me at Bitter End Lane this evening when the clock chimes six. Bring the knight if you are distrustful, but no one else.

The note was not signed.

Sir Ander grunted and handed it back. “You know what I would say to this.”

“Yes,” said Father Jacob. “And you know what I would say in return, so let’s move on from there.”

He examined the note carefully. “This was written by a woman. Note the feminine nature of the curling tails of the ‘g’s’ and the grace of the ‘m’s’ and ‘n’s.’”

“Another of the Warlock’s conquests,” Sir Ander suggested. “Perhaps a young woman who managed to escape him.”

“Perhaps,” said Father Jacob, still studying the missive. “But I don’t think it likely. There is evidence of a forceful personality in the firm pressure on the paper. Bold courage flows from the capital letters and self-confidence abounds in her sentence structure.”

“We both know of one woman who fits that description,” said Sir Ander.

Brother Barnaby looked from one man to the other and his expression grew grave.

“You mean the Sorceress, Mistress Eiddwen,” said Father Jacob.

“But if that is true, Father, you must not go,” Brother Barnaby said anxiously. “It might be a trap.”

“Bah! Not in broad daylight in a public place,” said Father Jacob. “And she says I may bring Sir Ander with me.”

“But if it is her, why this meeting? Why betray her young disciple?” Sir Ander asked, frowning.

“I can think of many reasons,” said Father Jacob. “For one, he may be on the verge of betraying her.”

“Or perhaps she feels the heat of the Arcanum’s fire and wants to try to make a deal,” said Sir Ander.

“Or perhaps she wants to kill you, Father,” said Brother Barnaby unhappily.

“We can stand here and speculate all day,” said Father Jacob. “Or we can go this evening and find out.”

He rubbed his hands and smiled broadly. “What time is it? Near dinnertime, I hope. I’m starving.”

He thrust the note into the sleeve of his black cassock and walked rapidly and energetically along the parapet, his black robes whipping in the wind.

“Don’t worry, Brother,” said Sir Ander, resting a reassuring hand on Brother Barnaby’s arm. “I’ll be with him. Let us count our blessings. This mysterious assignation has cheered him up. He’ll be much easier to live with now that he has something else to think about besides demons and giant bats.”

“He’ll be easier to live with only if he lives,” said Brother Barnaby. “Can’t you stop him, sir?”

Sir Ander extended his arm. “See those naval warships out there in the Breath, Brother. You could line them all up, open their gunports, and aim their cannons at him, and you still won’t stop Father Jacob once he’s set his mind on something.”

Brother Barnaby conceded, with a sigh, that this was true. “At least you’ll be with him, sir. I will pray for you both.”

“Ah, you know, Brother, I sometimes wonder if God himself doesn’t shake His head in despair over Father Jacob,” said Sir Ander.

Brother Barnaby was shocked by this statement, but he reflected that Sir Ander was a military man. Allowances must be made.