The demon raised the ax again and walked closer.
Rodrigo was hastily tracing a construct with shaking fingers in the palm of each hand. Trying not to look at the demon’s orange eyes or the blood or the ax, Rodrigo gulped, swallowed, closed his eyes, and tickled the demon’s ankles.
When Rodrigo performed this act for the lady of choice, the small electrical tingle dancing from his fingers over the skin and running tantalizingly up his lover’s legs never failed to make her shudder with pleasure. The demon shuddered, but not with pleasure. Electricity, connecting with the water, gave the demon a horrific jolt. The demon fell to the floor, his body thrashing and flailing.
Rodrigo stared at the electrified demon and wondered what to do with it. The ax lay on the floor, but he could not bring himself to pick it up and finish the job. He had to do something, though. He was reaching gingerly for the ax, fighting down a wave of sickness when Dag burst through the door, aimed his pistol at the demon’s head and fired.
The demon jerked and then, finally, lay still. Dag stared at it in awed wonder, then he bent over it.
“Look at these boots-” he began.
The body began to glow green.
“Get back!” Rodrigo shouted and he seized hold of Dag’s arm and dragged him away from the corpse.
Gythe screamed horribly. The green glow died. Gythe collapsed and lay unconscious.
All that remained of the demon were scorch marks on the wooden floor. No ashes, no trace of the corpse. Nothing.
“I’ll be damned!” Dag breathed, catching Doctor Ellington as the cat jumped from the shelf onto Dag’s shoulder.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” said Rodrigo faintly.
He staggered over to the slop bucket.
Dag held the yowling cat and, petting him soothingly, looked down with helpless anxiety at Gythe.
“What’s wrong with her?” Dag asked, his voice cracking. Rodrigo came back, white-faced, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.
“She’s leaving us,” he said with brutal frankness. “And I don’t know how or why…”
Some distance away, in the abbey stables, Brother Barnaby was preparing himself to die. He was not afraid of death. He knew God was waiting to receive him. Brother Barnaby clasped his hands and asked God to forgive him his sins and then he waited for the demons to kill him as they’d killed his poor wyverns.
But the demons did not kill him. A horrible smell filled his nostrils and mouth, leaving him sick and disoriented and too weak to help himself. Rough hands seized hold of him and dragged him off.
Brother Barnaby was vaguely aware of his surroundings. He saw grass and mud and blood, the legs and feet of the demons, a stall in the stables. He was aware of vomiting, choking, fighting to breathe. Strange visions filled his head: fiends and fire, blood and torment and death.
A hand touched his shoulder. He flinched and lashed out in panic.
“Brother Barnaby!” said a ragged voice. “Don’t be afraid. It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Brother Barnaby stopped fighting and blinked up to see a face reflected in the gray light of dawn. He knew the face. He gasped in amazement.
“I am sorry,” said Brother Paul. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I wanted to see if… if you were alive…”
“I am…” said Brother Barnaby, bewildered.
“Thank God!” Brother Paul said.
Brother Barnaby looked at his fellow monk with shocked concern. Blood oozed from a vicious gash on the top of Brother Paul’s head. His face was bruised and battered. His robes were soaked in blood. Barnaby saw, to his horror, that the back of the monk’s robes were torn, his flesh was stripped with the marks of the whip. He had lost the dark lenses that shielded his eyes, and they were almost swollen shut.
“Let me tend to your wounds, Brother,” Brother Barnaby said, his heart wrenching. “God has given me the gift of healing.”
He looked about the stall to see if he could find water. The air held a lingering odor, but the smoke, the noxious smell was gone. Except for an annoying buzzing sound in his ears, Barnaby’s head was beginning to clear. The sun had risen, morning light filtered dimly through the smoke-filled air. He and Brother Paul were in the stall of one of the abbey stables. Not the stables where he had housed his poor wyverns; that stable must be a heap of charred rubble. This stall had no windows. The stall door was shut. He could hear the screeching of bats and movement outside, so he guessed the demons were not far off.
Brother Barnaby rose to his feet and nearly fell down again. He waited until the dizziness passed, then he walked unsteadily to the stall’s gate and pushed on it. The gate would not open. He stood on tiptoes and looked out. At the far end of the stables, he could see three demons, silhouetted in the sunlight, standing guard. More demons stood at the opposite end.
Barnaby considered the possibility of escape. He could probably climb over the gate, but then what? He was still weak, and his mind was foggy. He was not a trained warrior, not like Sir Ander. He thought to back to the murderous rage that had consumed him at the deaths of his wyverns and went hot with shame. Besides, even if he could flee, he could not leave Brother Paul, who was grievously wounded. Barnaby walked back to Brother Paul, who was mumbling prayers through his bloody lips.
“We are prisoners of Aertheum,” Brother Paul was praying. “Father in Heaven, please help us!”
There is a time to ask for God’s help and a time to ask God to help you help yourself: the Word according to Father Jacob. Brother Barnaby could almost hear the priest’s voice, and he could hear Father Jacob say further, Seek the truth. Never be afraid. You have questions. Ask them! Brother Barnaby said a fervent prayer that Father Jacob and Sir Ander were safe, then knelt down beside Brother Paul.
“Did the demons do this harm to you, Brother?” he asked, placing his gentle hand over the monk’s bloody wounds. “Tell me what happened.”
Brother Paul nodded his head and then sighed to feel his pain ease. “I was on my way to the abbey for morning prayers when I heard the sound of cannon fire and saw the demons flying over the walls. I feared for you and Father Jacob, and I came running to help. Suddenly there were demons all around me. They seized hold of me and dragged me here. They… began hitting me…”
Brother Paul moaned and buried his head in his hands. Barnaby put his arm around the monk’s quivering shoulders.
“Why didn’t they kill you?” Brother Barnaby muttered, more to himself than to Brother Paul. “Why didn’t they kill me? They murdered the nuns. Why leave both of us alive?”
“The books,” Paul mumbled. “They kept asking me about the books. When I didn’t tell them what they wanted, they hit me.”
Brother Barnaby was startled. “Books? What books?”
“Can’t you hear them?” Brother Paul asked, shivering. “The voices in your head. ‘Books’ over and over.”
Brother Barnaby had been trying to ignore the terrible buzzing sound in his ears, but now that Brother Paul mentioned it, he did seem to hear words. Books. The books. Books. The books.
Brother Paul suddenly cried out and clutched his ears. “I don’t know! I can’t tell you! Stop tormenting me!”
Brother Barnaby whispered a prayer and sent the soothing warmth of God’s grace flowing from his body to Brother Paul’s. The monk relaxed again at the healing touch and gave a shuddering sigh.
“What do they mean-books?” Brother Barnaby wondered, mystified. “What books?”
Brother Paul raised a haggard face and sighed wearily. “All I can think of are the books of Saint Dennis. Those mentioned in the journal.”
“But I don’t know where they are,” said Brother Barnaby. “Do you?”
“No,” said Brother Paul, shaking his head. “But since we were with Father Jacob… Perhaps they think he told us…”
“Father Jacob has nothing to tell,” said Brother Barnaby.
The buzzing in his ears seemed to be growing louder and it was no longer annoying. It was starting to be all he could think about.