Father Jacob gasped, shuddered, and gripped hold of the table. He gave a fleeting smile. “I have always wanted to study the effects of contramagic… This is my chance…”
Sir Ander turned, met the priest’s eyes. He saw in them faith in God, trust in God’s plan, and deep affection for himself.
“You are my friend,” said Father Jacob simply.
“And you’re a pain in the ass,” Sir Ander said gruffly. “You know that.”
Father Jacob chuckled. Several blasts struck the hatch. The priest cried out and slumped over the table, clutching it in agony.
Sir Ander could hear the bats screeching and raking the hatch with their teeth and claws. Father Jacob managed to straighten. He gritted his teeth and inscribed a sigil on the back of his hand and faced the hatch and waited.
“This is it,” said Sir Ander.
The hatch shattered in a blinding ball of green flame. The riders surged inside. Sir Ander fired both pistols at the mass of seething bodies. Father Jacob raised his hand, fingers outspread, and spoke an arcane word. Five streams of pure white fire flared from his fingers. The holy fire of God’s wrath burst on His foes. The demons screamed and fell back. More took their places. A blazing comet of green fire burst near Sir Ander, throwing him back against the wall and filling the yacht with choking smoke.
Father Jacob slumped over the table. Sir Ander staggered to his feet. The demons were waiting for the smoke to clear before they entered to finish them off. He threw down the useless pistols and reached for his last gun, his dragon pistol. He held the gun in his left hand and gripped his sword in the right.
Four demons stood in the hatchway, their orange eyes glowing, their faces hideously contorted in skull-like grins. They were about to surge inside when a fearsome roar, coming out of the sky, stopped them.
“Take cover!” Hroal shouted.
Flames blazed down from the sky, engulfing the demons. They died screaming, burned alive, their bodies shriveling in red-orange fire that poured from the dragon’s mouth. Sir Ander had no time to heed the dragon’s warning, and he was driven back by the intense heat. One of the demons, his body ablaze, staggered inside the yacht. Sir Ander fired his pistol at the fiend, and it fell back through the hatch.
Suddenly the night was quiet. Horribly quiet. Greasy smoke floated in through the hatch, bringing with it the sickening stench of burnt flesh and singed bat hair. He stepped cautiously over wreckage-nothing was left of the hatch. Peering through the greasy smoke, he looked out on a hellish scene. The blackened bones of bats and demons mingled together in smoldering heaps.
“Still alive, sir?” A voice shouted the question from above.
Sir Ander looked up to see the first rays of sunlight sparkle on gray-green scales. The dragon circled overhead, peering down in concern.
“Thanks to you, Flight Master Hroal!” Sir Ander returned, coughing. “Are there more out there?”
“Rest flew off. Didn’t see me coming.” The dragon appeared inordinately proud of himself. “Probably went for reinforcements.”
“Keep watch!” Sir Ander shouted.
The dragon dipped a wing in salute and began flying over the yacht in circles.
Fighting down a wave of nausea, Sir Ander hurried back inside. Father Jacob was breathing, but he was unconscious.
Sir Ander was baffled. Trained in tending battlefield wounds, he knew how to dig a bullet out of a man’s chest, set a broken leg, apply a tourniquet to stop bleeding. The priest’s injuries were beyond him. He had no idea how to help Father Jacob, because he had no idea what was wrong. He recalled something the priest had said about the magic attacking him physically…
“I need Brother Barnaby,” Sir Ander said to himself. ‘He’s a healer. He’ll know what to do.”
He ran back outside and yelled up at the dragon, circling overhead. “Hroal, I need you to carry a message to the monk, Brother Barnaby. He’s in the stables! Tell him to come-”
“Stables?” The dragon shook his head. “Fire.”
Sir Ander stared at him, a cold qualm twisting his gut.
“Bats,” said Hroal, further elaborating. “Stables on fire.”
Sir Ander remembered Father Jacob’s words.
They’re here for us… We know too much…
“They’re going to torture Brother Barnaby, too. Oh, God, no! Hroal!” Sir Ander shouted. “Can you help the monk?”
Hroal was dubious. “More demons on the way, sir. I shouldn’t leave.”
Logic dictated that Sir Ander should ask the dragon to remain here to help him protect Father Jacob, but logic had not met Brother Barnaby. Nor did Sir Ander want to hear what Father Jacob would have to say if he survived at the cost of the life of the gentle monk.
“You go to the monk, Hroal!” Sir Ander shouted. “I’ll stay here.”
Hroal dipped his wings in acknowledgment and flew off. Sir Ander remembered the cutter, remembered the boom of cannon fire and he looked hopefully in the direction of the naval ship. The cutter, too, was on fire. The bats were a black swarm around it, far too many to count. And now, in the predawn light, he could see a large number of the bats flying inland, heading for the yacht.
Sir Ander hastened back inside. Father Jacob was still unconscious. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch, but his breathing was regular. Sir Ander lifted the priest and carried him to his bed, wrapped him warmly in blankets, and rested his hand on the priest’s shoulder and said a prayer, commending himself and his friends to God. Then he picked up the sturdy table where they worked and ate and carried it to the rear corner of the yacht. He climbed up on the table, opened the trapdoor that led to the yacht’s stern where he had mounted the swivel gun on the stand and loaded the first canister.
Now all he could do was wait and watch and pray.
The abbey stables were constructed of stone and timber; good solid construction dating back to the time of the abbey’s glory days when the prince-abbot entertained members of the nobility residing in the abbey’s comfortable guesthouse. At that time, the stables’ occupants might have numbered thirty or more, including horses, wyverns, and griffins.
The stables were large, narrow buildings, three in number, and were designed to comfortably house each of the species. Not only did wyverns and griffins require different types of lodging, this practice was also useful for keeping the wyverns and griffins from dining on horsemeat. All the stables consisted of two rows of stalls with large doors at either end. The floor was of brick with drainage channels running down the center. The stalls in the wyvern and griffin stables were much larger than those for the horses in order to accommodate room for the wings.
The practical nuns, who kept no horses or wyverns, had no need for the stables. They housed their sheep and goats and cows in one building during the winter and used the other two for storage.
The stables were located some distance from the main part of the abbey complex (to keep guests from being offended by the smell). The demons might not have seen them during the first attack or, if they had, did not think it worth their time to set fire to them. Brother Barnaby’s wyverns were happy with their accomodations, which were much airier and more open than those of the inns where they were often forced to reside. Wyvern stables at inns tended to be small and cramped.
Brother Barnaby fed his wyverns hunks of meat soaked in brine which he kept stored in barrels beneath the yacht. The wyverns preferred fresh meat, but they would not hunt with the dragons flying overhead. They gulped down the large chunks hungrily.
Worn out from the emotional and physical rigors of the day, Brother Barnaby hung the leather harnesses and halters used to tether the wyverns to the yacht on iron nails driven into the walls. He said his prayers, adding a special prayer for the souls of the martyrs, and then made himself a bed in an empty stall and wrapped himself in his blanket. He sank into a deep sleep.