“I’ll come with you!” Stephano shouted.
If he had waited a moment, Stephano would have seen that the demons lying dead on deck weren’t all that dead. Droal spread his wings and took off with such speed that Stephano had to flatten himself against the dragon’s neck to avoid being swept off. He didn’t have time to look back at his friends.
“Is anyone at the abbey helping the nuns?” Stephano yelled.
“Nuns dead,” said Droalfrig grimly. “Demons slaughtered them. Days ago.”
Stephano was shocked. The demons might have killed the abbey’s nuns days ago, but the fiends had not finished their horrible work, apparently, for they had returned to complete the abbey’s destruction. Was the Fallen One sending his minions to launch an all-out war on those who served God?
Stephano looked over his shoulder again to see the Cloud Hopper was still afloat and no longer under attack. The deck was empty, however. Dag and Miri were both absent, and that was worrisome. Dag would not leave the deck with a battle still raging. Perhaps they had gone below to be with Gythe.
“I should go back…”
“Brother Hroal not quite fit, Captain,” said Droalfrig. “Bad leg. Explosion. Too much to ask, I know. If you could help…”
Stephano could see the dragon’s brother being surrounded by bats, diving and swooping at him, attacking from all sides. The Cloud Hopper appeared secure.
“Let’s go help Hroal,” Stephano said.
Gythe was very ill and Rodrigo had no idea how the magic was harming her. He carried her to the small cabin below deck she shared with Miri, placed her in her bed, which was built into the bulkheads, and wrapped her warmly in blankets. He fetched water and moistened her lips and cooled her feverish skin.
That was all he could do. He sat beside her and watched her moan and shiver. Her body twitched painfully every time a blast of green fire struck the ship. He washed away the blood when it began to trickle from her mouth.
He wondered what was happening. Looking out the porthole, all he could see was smoke. All he could hear was the sound of gunfire coming from above and the enraged howls of Doctor Ellington, in the storage closet. The cat was so frantic that he began hurling himself at the door, beating on it with his large paws.
Fearing the good Doctor would hurt himself and feeling the need of company, Rodrigo freed the cat, who shot out of the closet as though his tail was on fire. The frantic cat evaded Rodrigo’s grab and ran straight to Gythe. Doctor Ellington jumped into bed with her and began licking her face.
Gythe flung her arms around the cat, moaned and held him close, and began singing to him, as she often did. Her voice was raw and shrill and discordant. Doctor Ellington gave her hand a swipe with his tongue.
Rodrigo and the cat both jumped at the loud report of a pistol going off near the hatchway. The gun shot was followed by a loud thudding sound, as though someone large was tumbling down the stairs. Rodrigo froze, terrified, waiting for the sound of footsteps, but nothing happened.
He opened the door a crack and called out, “Dag? Is that you?”
No answer. Rodrigo called again, “Miri? Did you fall? Are you all right?”
Still no answer. Drawing in a deep breath, Rodrigo grabbed hold of a hairbrush to use as a weapon and ventured out to see what had happened. He was unpleasantly amazed to find a demon lying in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs.
Rodrigo was just thinking he was going to be sick when reddish smoke began to waft from the corpse. He caught a whiff and was immediately transported back to his wild days at University when he’d once rashly agreed to visit an opium den. Already nauseous, he covered his nose and mouth. Not knowing what else to do, he seized a blanket and flung it over the smoldering demon, as one might fling a blanket over a fire. He ran back to Gythe’s cabin, shut the door, locked it, and then stuffed blankets in the crack to keep the noxious fumes from seeping inside.
He was about to cast a spell of protection on the door and then he remembered the green fire eating away Gythe’s protective spells.
“Why waste my time?” Rodrigo sat down nervously on the end of the bed and addressed himself to the cat. “The demon is dead.” He then added, as an afterthought, “But it’s a demon. Demons can’t die. Can they?”
He brooded over this a moment and tried to reassure himself. “That thing has a great bloody hole in its back. There’s blood all over the deck. Of course, it’s dead. You agree with me on this, don’t you, Doctor?”
The cat appeared to be about to express his opinion when their conversation was interrupted by the sound of claws scrapping over the wooden deck. Rodrigo prayed he was imagining things or that it was Dag or Miri coming down to tell him the fight was over and they were all safe. He could see that his prayers weren’t going to be answered. The cat was staring, wide-eyed, at the door.
“Oh, God!” Rodrigo whispered, rising to his feet.
He tried to shout for help, but his mouth was so dry that nothing came out. He coughed, moistened his lips, and was about to yell again, when a wailing scream from Gythe almost made him leap out the porthole. She had backed into the corner, clutching the blankets around her, whimpering in terror.
Rodrigo found his voice. “Help! I need some help down here!”
The sounds of clawed feet walking on the deck drew nearer. Doctor Ellington jumped from the bed onto a shelf and crouched there, hissing, his hackles raised, his tail furred out and waving slowly from side to side.
The footfalls stopped. Something struck the door. Splinters flew. The wood split apart. An ax blade appeared briefly, then was gone. The ax hit the door again. Rodrigo looked down at the hairbrush he was clutching, shook his head sadly, and tossed it aside. He cast a swift and desperate glance around the cabin. The water pitcher stood on a table. The pitcher was still almost half full. He had used only a little for Gythe and he himself never drank the stuff. He picked up the pitcher and hurriedly drew three sigils on the base, connected them with a line, and a stammered few words.
This was one of his favorite constructs. He used it to make afternoon tea for the ladies of the court, who were always charmed and delighted.
The ax struck the door again, and though more splinters flew, the door held. Rodrigo flattened himself against the bulkhead near the door and waited tensely, staring into the pitcher, urging the water to boil. He was certain the magic never took this long, and he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Then he recalled that a watched pot never boiled and he looked away-just in time to see the ax smash through the door not six inches from his head. The door fell to pieces. The bolt snapped. The demon commander, who should have been dead, walked through the wreckage and into the cabin.
Rodrigo practically crawled into the bulkhead. He did not move. He did not even breathe. The demon walked past him, never noticing him. The demon was staring at Gythe.
The fiend was a hideous sight. He had red, wizened skin; his eyes glowed orange. Blood from his ghastly wound dribbled onto the deck. Reddish smoke flowed in wisps off his arms like morning mists. Doctor Ellington, on the shelf, hissed and spat. Gythe shrank into the corner and covered her head with the blankets.
The demon’s attention was completely focused on Gythe. He appeared to be more curious than threatening, for he held the ax loosely in his hand. A part of Rodrigo wondered why he was so interested in Gythe, even as most of Rodrigo was quaking with fear. He braced himself, drew in a deep breath, and hurled the boiling water at the demon
The steaming water splashed over the demon’s head, shoulders, and arms. The demon flinched and grunted and turned, swinging the ax, but missing Rodrigo, who had dropped to the floor.