Sir Ander sat down beside him. “Are you all right?”
Brother Barnaby sighed softly and kept writing.
“Well, I’m not,” said Sir Ander. “I want to run out that gate and keep running.”
Brother Barnaby looked up. “Father Jacob requires me to make notes. I don’t mind, sir. Really. I’d rather be busy.”
He went back to his work.
Sir Ander stood up and walked off. He met the priest coming around the corner of the cathedral.
“A ghastly scene,” Father Jacob said.
Sir Ander nodded. He did not feel himself capable of speaking.
“The attack occurred at the conclusion of Midnight Prayers. You noticed, of course, the time on the clock when it stopped working.”
Sir Ander had not noticed, but he nodded again anyway.
“The nuns were just coming out of the sanctuary after prayer service when they were attacked. The assailants knew what they were doing,” Father Jacob added, his tone grim. “They waited to strike until most of the nuns were in the open. The yard is trampled, churned, soaked in blood. Death came at them from the sky. They looked up to see gigantic bats swooping down on them. I doubt if they knew what was happening. The bats were merciless. They tore their victims apart with sharp, rending claws, ripping their flesh from their bones while the poor women were still alive, and then devouring them.”
“For God’s sake, why?” Sir Ander asked angrily. “Why kill with such cruelty? I thought at first the foes might be Freyan soldiers, but why would Freyans attack an isolated abbey and slaughter every living being inside it? And riding giant bats? Doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense!”
“This atrocity was not committed by Freyans or the soldiers of any other nation,” said Father Jacob with finality. “The assault on the women was an act of hatred, a hatred so deep we cannot even comprehend it.”
“The fiends came simply to murder these nuns?”
“Interestingly enough, they did not come to kill. They came for something else. The murders were an afterthought, a crime of opportunity. I want you to look at something.”
Father Jacob squatted down. Sir Ander ran a trembling hand over his face, wiping the chill sweat from his brow. Drawing in a deep breath, he knelt down beside the priest.
“See this. And this.”
Sir Ander bent closer. “Footprints!”
“Not footprints,” said Father Jacob.
“No, you’re right. Paw prints!” Sir Ander stared, amazed. “Like the paws of a bear!”
“Similar,” said Father Jacob. “But a bear walks on all fours. Whoever made these walked upright on two legs like a man. And a bear has five toes ending in claws. Note this has four toes ending in claws in front and one larger claw in back. See how deeply that back claw gouged into the ground. Remind you of something?”
“A spur on a riding boot…” said Sir Ander doubtfully.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” said Father Jacob. “These prints were left by the attackers. They are all over the ground. All heading in that direction.” Father Jacob gestured to the cathedral. “The bats had riders.”
“Men with clawed feet. You mean… demons…” Sir Ander was aghast.
“Just like the paintings by the old masters that so impressed Brother Barnaby. Judging from the evidence, it would seem the riders turned their bats loose to feed, while they entered the cathedral.”
“The inhuman savage beasts killed the nuns and then went to the cathedral to destroy it like they destroyed everything else.” Sir Ander paused, then said in a low voice. “These were demons, Father. Bent on the destruction of all things holy!”
“Except they didn’t destroy the cathedral,” Father Jacob pointed out.
Sir Ander considered this. “That’s true. They set fire to the dortoir and some of the outbuildings. Why leave the cathedral standing?”
Father Jacob rose to his feet, absent-mindedly wiping his dirty and bloody hands on his cassock.
“Isn’t the reason obvious?”
“Not to me,” said Sir Ander irritably.
Father Jacob smiled and walked off, shouting for Brother Barnaby to draw a diagram of the paw print.
Sir Ander removed his helm, let the wind cool the sweat running down his face. None of this made sense to him. He was glad it made some kind of sense to Father Jacob. The knight took a moment before entering the cathedral to silently pray, asking God for strength and for wisdom, then he joined Father Jacob in the sanctuary.
The scene was gruesome. The floors and walls were covered in blood. The same paw prints that they had seen outside were all over the floor, only these were outlined in the blood. Statues of saints had been destroyed, the altar hacked to pieces, tapestries shredded, stained glass windows broken. Yet, as Father Jacob had said, the demons had left the cathedral standing.
Brother Barnaby entered some time later. He looked about the sanctuary in mute grief and dismay, then sat down in a pew to take notes as Father Jacob dictated.
“The fact that the bodies were consumed accounts for the absence of corpses,” Father Jacob was saying. “From the smears of blood on the floor, it appears that the nuns who had remained inside the sanctuary were attacked by the riders, probably tortured for information. The riders then dragged the women outside and fed them to the bats.”
Brother Barnaby blinked his eyes rapidly to try to stop the flow of tears, but to no avail. A drop fell onto the page, smearing the ink. He hastily wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Father Jacob was not paying attention. He was staring intently at a marble column, running his hand up and down the marble, still dictating.
“-burned the dortoir, but did not set fire to the cathedral-”
Sir Ander rested his hand on Brother Barnaby’s shoulder, offering quiet comfort. Brother Barnaby sat still for a moment, then he put away his pen, laid down the writing desk, rose to his feet and left the sanctuary.
Father Jacob stood with his head tilted back, staring up at the marble column, following its graceful lines to the high, vaulted ceiling.
“Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob, “come over here. I want you to make a diagram-”
“Brother Barnaby left,” said Sir Ander.
“Oh?” Father Jacob glanced vaguely around. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.” Sir Ander snapped the words. “He’s upset, Father. This has been terrible for him.”
Father Jacob was too absorbed in his work to take notice. “You come look at this.”
Sir Ander heaved a sigh and stalked over.
Father Jacob pointed to the column. “What do you make of that?”
The column with its fluted shaft was typical of churches of that period. What wasn’t typical was that in places, the ridges and grooves of the fluting had been destroyed. He could see blast marks on the column, like a castle wall struck by cannon fire.
Father Jacob passed his hand over the column. “Let us take a look at the magical constructs embedded in the stone. See what they tell us. A castle wall hit by cannon fire would still retain traces of the magic that had strengthened the walls.”
Sir Ander hoped he would see the faint blue glow of magic. He hoped Father Jacob was wrong. Unfortunately, the priest was right.
“No blue light. No magic. This is why the grand bishop sent for you,” said Sir Ander. “The magical constructs have been erased.”
“Remember the nun who survived said that ‘the demons threw balls of green fire and cast beams of green light.’ ”
Sir Ander looked down the long double rows of columns, probably twenty-five or more on each side.
“Without the magic, the columns will be too weak to support the roof. The cathedral is liable to fall down around our ears. So why are we standing here discussing it?” Sir Ander demanded. “Why aren’t we standing outside discussing it? Where it’s safe?”
“We’re in no danger,” said Father Jacob complacently. “At least not for the moment. Only a few of the columns I’ve studied were hit with the green fire. The assailants did not want to destroy the cathedral until they had found what they came for. Instead, they weakened the columns. The magic will continue to fail and, in a month or two, the cathedral will come crashing down.”