“And they have the ability to do so,” said Father Jacob in grim tones. “They are now quite skilled in contramagic. They sank a naval cutter and toppled stone towers. Imagine what would happen if they turned their weapons on a city…”
Sir Ander once more rose from his seat and began to pace restlessly about the garden. Brother Barnaby sat quite still. He had made no move to pick up the pen. When he did, belatedly, Father Jacob stopped him.
“No, Brother. Do not record a word of this. I must confer with my colleagues. It is imperative that I return to the Arcanum. When will the Retribution be ready? Why are the repairs taking so long?”
“Master Albert is hopeful we can leave tomorrow,” said Sir Ander.
“Tomorrow!” Father Jacob glowered.
“The crafters are working as fast as they can, Father.”
“I know, I know. But it is critical that I make my report,” said Father Jacob. “The Bottom Dwellers know I am here. They will come after me.”
Sir Ander was staring off into the distance.
“What is that?” he asked. “Sorry to interrupt, Father, but look to the southeast. There’s something in the sky. I can’t make out what it is…”
He pointed. Father Jacob turned, as did Brother Barnaby.
“A dragon,” said the monk promptly.
“God bless young eyes,” said Sir Ander, squinting. “All I can see is a blob.”
The dragon was flying rapidly and appeared to be heading in their direction.
“I believe that is our friend from the Abbey of Saint Agnes, Sergeant Hroalfrig,” said Brother Barnaby, as the dragon drew nearer.
“You are right,” said Father Jacob. “You can see his bad leg drooping. I fear he is the bearer of bad news.”
“No one ever flies that fast with good news,” Sir Ander agreed.
The three hastened to the central courtyard, keeping a safe distance from the landing area, waiting for the dragon. As Hroalfrig began his descent, they could see the dragon appeared immensely tired. He was gasping for breath and came down with a bone-rattling crash, pitching forward onto his nose.
“Are you all right, Sergeant?” Sir Ander hastened forward when there was no danger of being crushed.
The dragon stared in astonishment. “Sir Ander! Father Jacob! Did not expect. You. Here.”
“More to the point, Sergeant,” said Sir Ander in concern. “What are you doing here?”
Hroalfrig managed to raise himself up. He sucked in huge quantities of air, his rib cage heaving. “Came to warn you, sir. Large flight. Demons.”
“Is the abbey under attack again?”
Hroalfrig shook his head, neck, and mane. His tail lashed the ground. “Westfirth. Coming here.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Right behind me.”
Sir Ander saw a dark, black cloud rolling toward them, boiling up out of the Breath.
“That’s not a storm cloud,” said Brother Barnaby tensely.
“No,” said Father Jacob. “A cloud of bats. We are too late.”
Sir Ander stared. “There must be hundreds of them!”
“Flew as fast as I could manage… Hroalfrig bowed his head. He was still gasping for breath.
“We’ll sound the alarm,” said Sir Ander. “Thank you, Hroalfrig. You should take cover in the Bastion-”
“Cover!” Hroalfrig glared fiercely. “Never. Catch breath. Ready to fight.”
Sir Ander feared the demons (he could not think of them in any other terms) would make short work of the exhausted dragon, but he didn’t have time to argue. Father Jacob had turned and was running for the stairs that led back down the cliff face. Brother Barnaby was hurriedly gathering up paper and ink and replacing them in the portable desk.
“Leave it!” Sir Ander ordered.
“But Father Jacob-”
“We’ll come back for it!” Sir Ander said urgently. He didn’t like to think what would happen if the demons caught them up here, out in the open. “You can run faster without the desk.”
Barnaby quite sensibly agreed, though he did take time to close everything securely in the desk and hide it under a bench. He and Sir Ander hurried after Father Jacob, who was clambering over the stairs, not bothering to use them, but sliding and scrambling straight down the side of the cliff. Brother Barnaby, fleet of foot and extremely agile, soon caught up with Father Jacob. Sir Ander eyed their reckless descent and pictured himself trying to emulate them wearing his sword and chain mail and carrying loaded pistols.
“You go on!” he shouted to Father Jacob. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Sir Ander began to run down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He glanced at the warships, as he ran. They had not seen the threat or, if they did, they likely thought the cloud was nothing more than an approaching storm. The warships and patrol boats were too busy attempting to enforce the harbor closing to pay attention. Officers on board the gunboats were engaged in shouting matches with the captains of merchant vessels, firing warning shots across the bows of those who tried to slip past.
The guards in the guard towers were hanging out the windows, watching the altercations; their muskets propped against the walls. He thought of the people of Westfirth, going about their business, soon to be caught up in a horror they could never have foreseen. He thought of his godson, Stephano, and his friends.
“God help us!” Sir Ander breathed.
Chapter Forty
Upon inspection, the Guild of Greater Masonry is fully prepared to affirm that the Westfirth large-bore cannon emplacements surpass the requirements specified. Carved directly into the cliff face and faced with stone and concrete, the addition of multiple layers of strengthening and hardening magical constructs has created a virtually impregnable series of defensive positions. Battlements and towers linking the positions add another layer of defense and support. Any enemy foolish enough to attack Westfirth will quickly find themselves overmatched.
ONBOARD THE CLOUD HOPPER, STEPHANO had his spyglass trained on the merchant vessel, Silver Raven. He could see signs that the crew was making the ship ready to sail, and he wondered how much Wallace had paid the captain to try to run the blockade. An immense sum, no doubt. Stephano swept the deck with the spyglass, searching for Rodrigo. Wallace could have simply killed him, left him back there in that house with the other bodies.
“Rigo’s fine,” said Miri, from her place on the forecastle, steering the boat. She flashed Stephano a reassuring smile. “He’s Rigo.”
“That’s what worries me. He must know we’re searching for him,” said Stephano. “He could give us a sign. Sail closer, Miri. Maybe he hasn’t seen us.”
“Wallace knows the Cloud Hopper, too,” Miri pointed out.
“Bah! He won’t notice us,” said Stephano. He grinned. “We’re selling calvados, like all the rest of these boats out here.”
The harbor was surprisingly busy, considering the blockade. Ships were being permitted to enter, just not to leave, which meant that in some cases, arriving vessels had no place to dock. They were now lined up in the harbor, waiting for ships in port to leave so that they could unload their goods. The harbormaster was frantically urging vessels that had been unloaded to vacate the dockyards to allow others to enter. Most furious captains were not in a mood to cooperate and refused, which meant a good deal of confusion in the harbor and on the docks.
Trundlers, ever quick to take advantage of a situation, filled their houseboats with food, water, and calvados-especially calvados-and sailed around from ship to ship, selling their wares to stranded sailors. Merchant captains were notoriously lax when it came to discipline and they could not keep their crews from trading with the Trundlers. Now many of the sailors on board the merchant ships were roaring drunk. Collisions between the hundreds of ships massed in the harbor were inevitable, even if the sailors had been sober. Fortunately, none of the incidents were serious: masts splintered, balloons punctured, the lines of two ships becoming entangled.