Yelling wildly, he flung himself at the demons, battering them with his timber, hitting them on the head, shoulder, back, whatever was near. He startled them with the ferocity and suddenness of his attack and for a moment he actually drove the demons back. Then the demons saw that he was armed with nothing but a wooden stick, and they fell on him. He was bleeding and crying out in rage, knowing he was bound to fall before his foes, for he was outnumbered with no weapons now except his fists. All he wanted before death came was to make these fiends suffer.
Shrill shrieks came from above him and the demon standing in front of Barnaby disappeared, hit by a lashing wyvern tail that lifted the fiend off his feet and flung him into the stable wall. The same wyvern lit on top of another demon, flattening it beneath its claws. The second wyvern caught up a demon in its mouth and shook it like a sheep, breaking its neck.
Brother Barnaby fell to the ground. The fire of his fury had died down as suddenly as it had blazed up. A wound in his arm was bleeding profusely. His head ached from a blow. He could taste blood in his mouth. He felt unbearable cold steal through him and knew he was going into shock.
Dawn was gray in the heavens. Looking up, he saw silhouetted against the sky, more bats and more demons with their orange glowing eyes. They were hurling green fire down on the wyverns, his beloved wyverns, who, instead of flying off to save themselves, had come back to fight for him.
The fire hit the wyverns on the neck and back and wings. Wherever the fire touched, flames bubbled and boiled like acid, eating away their scales and burning through to their flesh. The wyverns screamed and flailed about in agony. They tried to fly away, but the green fire was burning holes in their wings. Barnaby tried to go to their aid, but he was too weak. He heard himself shouting curses at the demons. He heard himself shouting curses at God.
The wyverns’ screams changed to gurgling gasps and they sank feebly to the ground and lay there, thrashing about in their death throes. Barnaby managed to drag himself over to the head of one of his wyverns. The wyvern saw him and gave a pitiful moan. Barnaby gathered the wyvern’s head in his arms and held the dying beast close to his breast, rocking and murmuring until he felt the head droop in death.
The demons were coming for him now. Barnaby closed his eyes and gave himself into God’s hands.
Chapter Twenty-One
Trundler tradition says approach your destination from the west whenever possible. This way you greet the sun in the morning. And always keep your eye on the Breath. Her moods are reflected in the color of the mist.
– The Story of the Trundlers by Miri McPike
“STEPHANO!” THE BOOMING VOICE SHATTERED dreams of battle.
Hearing the urgency in the voice, Stephano rolled out of his bunk
… only to find that he hadn’t been in a bunk. He had been in a hammock suspended from a beam overhead and he was now lying on the deck, swearing at the pain in his injured shoulder.
Cognizance returned a second later. Stephano staggered to his feet. He’d been sleeping in his clothes for warmth. Clad in shirt sleeves and trousers, he thrust his feet into his boots and started to reach for his coat, only to realize that the air was warm again. They had risen up out of the depths of the Breath. He grabbed the small pistol he’d tucked into the inner pocket of his coat and raced up to the top deck.
Dag was at the rail, staring intently at the twin spires of a large cathedral silhouetted against the light gray-blue of approaching dawn. The boat itself was still in darkness. The stars above shone brightly. The balloon was fully inflated. The sails billowed with God’s Breath.
Miri, at the controls, was also gazing out into the east. Rodrigo was sitting up in the deck chair in which he’d spent the night, groaning and rubbing his neck and back and demanding querulously to know why no one had awakened him.
All seemed right with the world.
“I must have been dreaming,” Stephano said. “I thought I heard cannon fire.”
“You weren’t,” said Dag, adding grimly, “You did.”
A flash of orange in the distance was followed by a loud boom. Stephano rubbed his eyes that were bleary with sleep.
“Sounds like a four-pounder,” he said, referring to the cannon.
“So I’m guessing,” said Dag, with a nod.
Miri reached down below the brass control panel to a small storage area to retrieve the ship’s spyglass. Stephano held the glass to his eye and, after a moment’s search, made out the two masts and ballast balloons of a navy cutter. As he watched, the ship’s starboard cannons fired raggedly. The gun crews were being told to fire as they found their targets, not to wait for all to be fired in a broadside. The navy ship was under attack, but by who or what was the question. Bursts of strange green fire illuminated the cutter. Stephano was frankly puzzled by this sight.
“What the hell is making those green flashes?” Stephano asked Dag.
“Damned if I know, sir,” Dag replied. “Some sort of signal flare?”
“No,” said Stephano, staring through the glass until his eyes began to water. “The green fire is not coming from the cutter. It appears to be aimed at it.”
Miri took the glass from Stephano and put it to her eye. “Is that navy ship firing on the Abbey of Saint Agnes?”
“Perhaps His Majesty has finally declared war on the grand bishop,” said Rodrigo, coming to stand alongside Stephano.
Miri’s eyes flashed, her brows constricted.
“He’s teasing, Miri,” said Stephano and hastily changed the subject. “I could use a cup of hot tea. Anyone else?”
“Gythe and the Doctor went to put on the kettle,” said Miri, still glowering.
“Rigo, go help,” said Stephano.
Rodrigo grinned and departed.
Stephano assured Miri that the king would never declare war on the nuns and also pointed out that the cutter was aiming at something in the Breath, not on shore. He and Dag continued to watch the orange flashes and green flaring lights blaze in the distance. Miri, not entirely convinced, went back to her steering.
“Pirates?” asked Dag.
Stephano shook his head. “No pirate in his right mind would be fool enough to attack a navy cutter that carries fourteen four-pounders. Might be a Freyan privateer…”
They watched for another few moments, then Stephano said, “Miri, is it my imagination or are we sailing closer to the battle?”
“We are sailing closer to the Abbey of Saint Agnes. We were going to stop there to get a hot meal, remember?” said Miri with a look of innocence.
“Uh-huh.” Stephano grunted. “Our meal’s liable to be a bit hotter than we can swallow if we end up in the middle of a naval battle with the Freyans.”
“The nuns were always good to Gythe and me,” said Miri. “If anything is wrong, we might be able to help.”
She glanced at him and Dag from out the corner of her eye. Her red hair was damp from the mist and clung to her face. Her eyes narrowed. “Do either of you have a problem with that?”
Dag cleared his throat, rubbed his grizzled chin, glanced at Stephano, and said in a low voice, “Sorry, sir, but you’re on your own.” Dag moved off to take cover behind the mast.
“Miri, be sensible. We don’t want to get caught in the middle of a naval bombardment-”
“So now you’re calling me daft,” Miri said.
“I never said any such thing!” Stephano returned.
“You said I wasn’t being sensible. That’s the same as daft.”
“It is not-” Stephano began, then he stopped, drew a deep breath, and started over. “If one stray cannonball hit the balloon or the lift tanks or took down a mast, the Cloud Hopper would be finished. We’re only a few hours from Westfirth. We’ll sail there, report what we saw-”
A billowing mass of red flame suddenly lit up the sky. Stephano forgot Miri, forgot everything.
“I’ll be damned! That’s dragon fire!” Stephano said excitedly. He seized hold of the spyglass and brought it to his eye. “There’s a dragon in this battle! Maybe a dragon from the Brigade!”