Shadow Raiders

Chapter Thirty-Four

In my years serving the Arcanum, I have seen enough evil in this world to know that we do not need the Devil to create Hell. Hell is the destruction of hope and the loss of faith brought on by man’s inhumanity to man.

– Father Jacob Northrop

DAG AND BROTHER BARNABY WERE ON THEIR WAY to Bitter End Lane and were still several blocks away when they heard the first explosion and saw green fire light the sky.

“Demons!” Brother Barnaby gasped.

Dag shook his head and muttered, “Damn!” He had been planning to approach cautiously, holding back, not wanting to make his presence known until he first ascertained that Father Jacob was truly in danger.

No need for caution now. Dag broke into a run.

“Stay put, Brother!” he shouted behind him.

Brother Barnaby had no intention of staying anywhere. He paused only long enough to hike up the skirts of his long robes. Frantic with fear for Father Jacob and Sir Ander, he fumbled at the cloth. Suddenly other hands were helping him, deft fingers tucking folds of the hem securely into his belt.

Brother Barnaby looked into Gythe’s blue eyes. Startled, he seized hold of her.

“Child, you shouldn’t be here!” Brother Barnaby said in dismay.

Gythe’s fingers were cold. She was shivering with fear. She shook her head, however, and gave him a tremulous smile. Wrenching free of his grasp, she ran after Dag.

“Gythe, come back!” Barnaby shouted.

Dag heard the monk’s shout and glanced over his shoulder. Seeing Gythe running toward him, he scowled and motioned peremptorily that she was to keep out of the fight. Gythe stopped and stood in the middle of the street, staring in horror at the demons. Brother Barnaby caught up with her. Not knowing what else to do, he shoved her into a recessed doorway.

“You will be safe here,” Barnaby said, praying he was right. “Stay until we come for you.”

Gythe gave a shuddering nod and Barnaby left her to follow Dag into the smoke and fire.

Gythe remained crouched in the doorway where Brother Barnaby had told her to stay. She saw bright flashes of green light, but this time the magic didn’t hurt her, not like when the magic was hitting the protective spells she’d woven around her boat. She had trusted that she and Miri and the others were safe on the boat with the spells wrapped around them, like silkworms in a silken cocoon. But then the cocoon had caught fire.

She ran away from the fire, hoping to find the time she had been happy and unknowing. But the world was dark. She couldn’t find the path. And she could still feel the pain, no matter how far she ran. When the pain finally stopped, Gythe realized she didn’t know how to get back. She huddled in the darkness, alone and terrified, and then she heard a man’s voice, gentle and soothing, calling her name.

She was afraid to answer, but she hoped the man would find her, for he sounded warm and caring. She began to hum a little song to keep up her spirits, and the man heard the song and found her in her hiding place. A monk held out his hands to her, and she took his hands and he led her safely home.

But the monk had not been the only one to hear her song. Far, far, far away was a drumbeat, soft as a heartbeat, but not as steady. The beat was slow and erratic and frightening. And there were the voices far away as the drumbeat. The voices were not gentle. They were terrible voices: hurtful and cruel and filled with hatred.

The voices ebbed and flowed like the currents of the Breath. Here in the street the voices were suddenly strong, voices of fury and rage. Voices of killing. Blood and death and hatred.

Gythe began to hum a song, a little song. Whenever she sang in the park and played her harp, people stopped talking. They fell silent to listen. She hummed desperately, hoping the voices would fall silent and they would stop hurting her friends.

The voices didn’t grow silent, but they changed. They sounded bewildered. They called to her. Like the demon who had come on board the ship. The demon had been trying to find her.

Gythe hummed her little song to try to drown out the sound of gunshots. She put her fingers into her ears and closed her eyes, and the voices were again talking about pain and death and hatred.

Accusing voices. “You left us to die here below!”

“It wasn’t our fault!” Gythe wept, her silent voice answering all the others, those who were also silent. “We couldn’t hear you. We didn’t know…”

When Dag saw Father Jacob and Sir Ander lying in the street, he was certain they were dead. He could not see them clearly, with the smoke swirling about, but neither man was moving. Dag had made a swift assessment of the situation as he came up on it. Two demons were on the rooftop of a warehouse with what appeared to be a mounted swivel gun. They had not yet seen him. At the end of the lane, a man stood with his hands in the air. Two demons were in front of him, their weapons aimed at him. He was obviously pleading for his life. In a bold move, the man fired at one of the demons and threw whatever he’d been holding in his other hand at the second demon.

Dag did not know this man, but any enemy of the demons was a friend of Dag’s. He shouted for the man to duck. The stranger reacted with a speed which indicated he’d done this sort of thing before. He hit the pavement. Dag fired his musket and had the satisfaction of seeing half a demon’s head dissolve into a bloody mess. The man was on his feet before the smoke cleared. The man fired another pistol at someone who had apparently been hiding in the alley and then kept on going, leaving Dag and his friends to fend for themselves.

Dag shrugged. He supposed he couldn’t blame the gentleman. He looked up to see the demons training their swivel gun on him and made a backward scramble to take cover against the same warehouse the demons were using to mount their assault. Expecting grapeshot, Dag was startled to see the swivel gun shoot a ball of green fire. The flames struck the pavement right where he had been standing. The blast flattened Dag back against the wall. Smoke stung his eyes; chunks of cobblestones slammed into him. Fortunately, his steel breastplate protected him from the worst.

Dag swiftly and expertly reloaded the musket and looked up to see what the demons were doing. They had mounted the swivel gun on the roof directly above him. The demons could look down and see him, but they could not bring their weapon to bear on him. Dag had counted on this when he chose his cover. Seeing their heads poking over the edge, Dag fired the musket. The heads vanished.

Dag reloaded. So long as he stood in this place, directly beneath the swivel gun, the demons could not hit him. The moment he moved, the green fireballs would blow him apart. He was considering his options when suddenly he didn’t have any.

Brother Barnaby came running into Bitter End Lane, heading straight for Father Jacob. Dag looked up to see the gun’s muzzle swinging about, taking aim at the monk. Dag swore roundly and fired the musket at the demons. Not waiting to see if he’d done any damage, he slung the gun by its strap over his shoulder, lowered his head, and charged across the street. He slammed into Brother Barnaby and they both went down. Dag shielded the monk with his body as a green fireball exploded in the air above them. Dag could feel the heat radiate through his armor.

He scrambled quickly to his feet. Brother Barnaby was dazed, probably wondering what had hit him. Dag seized hold of the monk by the collar of his habit and dragged him into the shadows of a building, hoping without much hope that they were out of range of the swivel gun. Once there, Dag let loose of the monk and took the opportunity to reload the musket.

“You all right, Brother?”

Brother Barnaby was bleeding from a gash where his head had hit the stones. He winced when he tried to stand. His body would be one massive bruise tomorrow. If they lived that long.

Barnaby nodded and said shakily, “I have to go to Father Jacob.”

Glancing up at the roof, Dag saw the two demons huddled over the swivel gun. They should again have fired by now. Perhaps there was something wrong with it. Nice to know Hell was fallible.

“Go, Brother, if you must! Be quick. I’ll keep you covered.”

Barnaby ran to Father Jacob while Dag kept an eye on the demons. He was cheered to see the priest lift his head at the sound of the monk’s voice. Brother Barnaby put his arm around Father Jacob and helped him to stand. Both came running back to the building where Dag was standing with his musket, watching the demons.

“How is Sir Ander?” Father Jacob asked.

“I don’t know,” said Dag. “I thought I saw him move-”

“I’ll go to him,” said Brother Barnaby.

“Wait!” Dag grabbed hold of Brother Barnaby’s arm.

The swivel gun was still on the roof, but the two demons were not.

“Maybe they’ve run off,” said Brother Barnaby hopefully, eager to go to Sir Ander.

Dag grunted and kept fast hold of the monk.

It was well he did. Four demons emerged from the side street next to the warehouse. All four were armed, each of them carrying the hellish green-fire cannons they’d used to attack the Cloud Hopper. They walked purposefully toward the little group huddled by the building.

Dag had one shot with his musket, one shot each with the two pistols in his belt. He would not have time to reload and that left him one demon short. Dag eyed Sir Ander. The knight lay in the street; his dragon pistol-the match of Stephano’s pistol-near his hand.

“Father Jacob, is Sir Ander’s gun loaded?” Dag asked. “Did he fire it before he was attacked?”

Father Jacob thought a moment, then shook his head. “I wish I could tell you for certain. I don’t think he did, but I can’t remember.”

If the pistol was loaded, that gave Dag his fourth shot. If it wasn’t…

“Guess I’ll find out,” Dag muttered philosophically.

He rose to a kneeling position, fired the musket, dropped it, ducked his head, ran in a crouch to the fallen knight and snatched up the dragon pistol. Dag rose and pulled the trigger. Flame flashed, the pistol fired. Dag thanked God and threw it down. He drew the first of his two pistols with his left hand, flipped the gun from his left hand to his right, raised it, and fired.

He had one more shot, one more pistol left. All this time, he’d been thinking only of firing. He had no idea if he’d hit anything or not. He hadn’t dared take the time to look. What he did know was that, inexplicably, none of the demons were shooting at him.

Dag dropped to his belly, grunting as the metal breastplate dug into his ribs. Two of the demons were down; he didn’t know for how long. The other two stood with their weapons in their hands, but they weren’t looking at him. Their hideous faces were turned away; they were staring at something off to their left. One pointed. The other started to walk in that direction.

“Gythe!” Brother Barnaby cried.

Dag could see Gythe crouched on the door stoop, her arms covering her head. The demon was heading straight for her.

“I’ll go to her,” said Father Jacob. “Cover me!”

“Father, no-” Dag began, but before he could finish, the priest was running across the street.

“Son of a bitch!” Dag swore and raised the pistol, not wanting to fire unless he was certain he had a shot. After this, his only weapon was his knife.

The lane was thick with smoke. Dag could barely see the priest, and he was hoping the demon would have the same trouble. But apparently the fiends could see, for a demon was tracking Father Jacob with his gun. Dag shouted and yelled and stood up. Seeing the threat, the demon shifted his aim.

Dag dropped to the ground again and buried his head in his arms. Green fire swept over him, searing his legs and buttocks and burning through the leather coat he wore beneath the breastplate. The green fire enveloped his pistol, heating the metal, burning his hand, forcing him to drop the weapon. He picked it up, and was dimly aware of Brother Barnaby kneeling beside him, beating on him frantically, trying to put out the flames. Dag lifted his head.

“Stop hitting me, Brother!” Dag roared.

“But you’re on fire!” Barnaby gasped.

“Never mind! You’re throwing off my aim!”

Brother Barnaby drew back. Dag pulled the trigger. To his horror, green fire raced down the length of the muzzle toward his hand, like fire racing along the length of a fuse attached to a barrel of gunpowder. He flung the pistol away just as the gun exploded. A split second more and the blast would have taken off his hand.

The demon who had fired at Dag was reloading. The other demon was still going after Gythe. Dag reached his hand into his boot for his last weapon-his knife. He could feel the pain of his burns now, and he grimaced and stifled a groan as he pushed himself up off the charred cobblestones. He had no idea if his knife would penetrate the fiendish armor. He took aim with the knife when a large chunk of stone coming from behind him struck the demon, knocking the cannon from his hands. Another rock hit the demon in the head, sending him reeling backward.

Dag looked back to see Brother Barnaby picking up broken chunks of cobblestone and hurling the chunks in rapid fire succession, one after the other, at the demons. Dag watched in admiration. Brother Barnaby was a good shot. The monk kept up the barrage, and the demon could do nothing except try to keep his feet.

Father Jacob had by this time reached the demon closing in on Gythe. Coming up from behind, Father Jacob grabbed hold of the fiend by the shoulder, wrenched the demon around and slammed his fist into the demon’s jaw. The demon went down in a heap. Father Jacob ran to Gythe, who was huddled in the doorway, her arms over her head. He took hold of her, soothing her.

“Dag!” Stephano’s battlefield bellow reverberated through the smoke and darkness.

Dag grinned widely, relief flooding through him.

“Here I am, Captain! I’m still standing!” Dag shouted.

Stephano emerged from the smoke. He aimed his pistol at the demon who was the target of Brother Barnaby’s assault.

“Brother Barnaby!” Dag yelled. “Fall back!”

Barnaby scrambled to get out of the way. Stephano fired, and the demon flopped about and fell to the street, a hole in its chest. Miri was with Gythe and Father Jacob. Rodrigo stood protectively over them, holding a lantern in one hand. His other hand was glowing; presumably he was going to cast some sort of magical spell. Dag hoped Rigo handled his magic better than he handled a gun, and then he had other things to worry about. He caught sight of orange eyes on the roof of the warehouse. The demon was back, training the swivel gun at them.

“Take cover!” Dag yelled, and once more he hugged the pavement.

Stephano dropped to the ground. Brother Barnaby flung himself on top of Sir Ander. Father Jacob shielded Gythe. Miri grabbed hold of Rodrigo, who was standing in the open, staring at the gun with his mouth open. She dragged him down. The gun went off with a shattering boom that shook the buildings. Dag smelled the stench of burning flesh and he looked about in terror, fearing his friends had been caught in the blast.

He stared in shock. The demon hadn’t been aiming at them. The green fireball had struck the bodies of the four demons. The heat of the blazing corpses was so fierce Dag had to avert his face. He was astonished to catch a glimpse of the priest running past him, heading toward the flames.

Father Jacob spoke what sounded like gibberish and made a circle with his hand, opening a hole in the flames, like one opened a door into a room. He reached his hand into the fire to seize hold of something. The object was hot, for Father Jacob said a most unholy word and dropped the charred and blackened object on the ground and wrung his burned fingers.

The swivel gun turned and fired again, blasting apart the bodies of the demons Dag and the stranger had killed. Within moments the flames had gone out, leaving a large gaping gash in the street and piles of black and greasy ash. The demon on the roof mounted a giant bat and flew off in the direction of the Breath. The fiend had left the swivel gun behind and Dag was just thinking he could at last get a look at the weapon when it blew apart.

The night was still. All of them listened intently, but the only sounds were Miri’s soothing voice and Gythe’s sobs.

“We should get out of here before the constables come,” said Stephano.

“Take your time,” said Dag, picking up the pistols, planning to reload. He limped over to inspect what was left of the bodies.

“But someone must have heard the gunshots-” Stephano began.

“Nothing new, around here,” said Dag. “Trust me, the police won’t be in a hurry to investigate.”

Sir Ander had regained consciousness and was sitting up, ignoring Brother Barnaby’s pleas and remonstrations. The knight looked shaken and pale. Stephano walked over to join Dag, shouting for Rodrigo to bring the lantern.

“Turn around,” Stephano ordered Dag.

When the lantern arrived, Stephano inspected Dag’s back. He looked at the leather coat with the large holes burned through it and shook his head. Dag gingerly removed the breastplate, stifling a groan.

“You look as though you’ve been slow roasted,” said Stephano. “You should go back to the boat.”

“And let Miri slather me with yellow goo?” Dag said, grimacing. “No, thank you, Captain. You’re not in much better shape yourself.”

He pointed to the patch of blood staining Stephano’s pants leg.

“I’d say you need more yellow stuff,” Dag observed.

“I’ll keep quiet if you will,” said Stephano.

“A deal. How is Gythe?” Dag asked.

Stephano shook his head gloomily and ran his fingers through his hair. “She’s more scared than hurt. She keeps telling Miri that the demons were talking to her in the Trondler language. Doesn’t make sense to me, though it seems to make sense to him.”

He jerked his thumb at Father Jacob, who was squatting on the pavement, examining the grisly object he had rescued from the flames.

“What is that he’s got there?” Stephano asked.

“Looks like the head of that demon I shot,” said Dag. “He saved it from the fire. Damn near burned his hand off trying to get it.”

“So now he’s a ghoul,” said Stephano, scowling.

Rodrigo raised the lantern. “What do you have against that man?”

“I don’t trust him. He has secrets-”

“So do we,” Rodrigo pointed out.

“You don’t like him because he’s a priest,” said Dag in accusing tones.

“Oh, just shut up, both of you,” Stephano said irritably. “I’ve been stabbed and shot at by demons today. I don’t need to be lectured.”

Father Jacob put the object he’d recovered in Brother Barnaby’s script, first dumping out the contents. This done, the priest gave the script back to Brother Barnaby with orders to handle it gently, keep it safe.

“How is Sir Ander?” Father Jacob asked the monk.

“He says he is all right,” said Brother Barnaby worriedly. “The wraith did not have time to drain his life. He says the green fire from the demons destroyed the wraith.”

“Of course, it would!” said Father Jacob. “The wraith is a creature of blood magic. The contramagic would put an end to it.”

“Your hand, Father,” said Brother Barnaby, as the priest started to walk off. The priest’s knuckles were burst and bleeding and his fingers were burned.

“I’m fine,” said Father Jacob.

“What was that thing you grabbed out of the fire, Father?” Stephano asked, coming over to join them.

“I’m not sure,” said Father Jacob.

“Looked like the demon’s head,” Stephano said.

The priest shook his own head impatiently and turned to Dag.

“That man who was here,” said Father Jacob. “The tall man. You saved him from the demons. I saw him join the Warlock who sent the wraith to kill Sir Ander. They both disappeared. Did you see which way they went?”

“Down that alley, Father,” said Dag, nodding with his head, while reloading his weapons by the lantern’s light. “Who were they, Father? Did they bring the demons here to kill you?”

“The tall man was not here to kill me, not this time. He was caught in the same ambush. As for the other-”

“The Warlock,” said Sir Ander grimly, walking over to them. He glanced at the smoking remains of the demons. “So the Warlock and the Sorceress are now in league with the Devil. I’m not surprised.”

“I am,” said Father Jacob. “What surprises me is that they know Henry Wallace-”

“Wallace!” Stephano had been listening and he gave a start. “What was that you said? What about Henry Wallace?”

Father Jacob regarded Stephano with interest. “Do you know him?”

“Do you mean Sir Henry Wallace? The Sir Henry Wallace? Are you saying he was here?” Stephano demanded.

“He was the tall man whose life your friend saved.”

Stephano cast Dag a glance.

“How was I to know?” Dag demanded.

“You’re certain it was him, Father?” asked Stephano.

“He is one person I am not likely to forget,” said Father Jacob dryly.

“I came to Westfirth in search of Wallace,” said Stephano. “It is vital that I find him! Can you tell me where he might have gone?”

Father Jacob rested his hand on Stephano’s forearm. “Listen to me, Captain. You are a brave man. You are a fine shot and an expert swordsman. And I say to you that if you see Sir Henry Wallace walking toward you, turn and run as fast as you can. Wallace is a dangerous, a deadly, an implacable foe. Don’t cross him. Don’t meddle in his affairs. If you came here to find him, leave immediately and pray you are not too late. Pray you are gone before he finds you.”

Stephano was startled by the priest’s intensity.

“I thank you, Father,” said Stephano, uncomfortable. “I will take your warning to heart. But it is important that I find this man.”

Father Jacob glanced at Sir Ander. Stephano knew what they were thinking, that he was here on business of the countess. He could almost hear his mother’s name resonating between the two of them, and he smoldered with anger.

“If you know of any way to locate him, Father,” Stephano said coldly. “I would take it as a great favor. And if Wallace does kill me, I absolve you of any responsibility.”

Dag looked shocked. Even Rodrigo was mildly taken aback. Sir Ander only smiled, however, and said something quietly to Father Jacob.

“I see,” said Father Jacob. “I suppose you are right.” He turned to Stephano. “I do not know where Sir Henry is and even if I did, I doubt he will be there long. He knows I recognized him. I pose a serious threat to him and whatever nefarious scheme he is plotting.”

Seeing Stephano look downcast, Father Jacob smiled; albeit gravely. “If you insist, I can devise a means for you to track him. Wallace was carrying a leather satchel that was destroyed during the fight. He seemed very attached to it. Hand me that light.”

He took the lantern from Rodrigo and flashed it around on the cobblestones. “Pick up those bits of burnt leather, will you, Monsieur de Villeneuve? Sir Ander, if you would fetch me the remains of that pistol I see lying over there. The gun that blew up after the green fire hit it. I will make use of it.”

“For what?” Stephano asked.

“I am going to make a compass,” said Father Jacob.

“I know what direction north is, Father,” said Stephano. “We’re wasting time-”

“No, we’re not,” said Rodrigo excitedly. “I know what he’s doing. Why do you need the pistol, Father?”

“The presence of other constructs might interfere with my magic. The demon’s green fire erased the constructs that had been laid upon the gun.”

“I didn’t think erasing constructs was possible, Father,” said Rodrigo coolly. He squatted down to get a better view. “Aren’t you talking heresy?”

The priest glanced at him. “I see that we will have to build a special dungeon at the Arcanum to hold that mouth of yours, Monsieur.”

Rodrigo grinned and watched as Father Jacob took up a bit of scorched leather and placed it on the flattened piece of metal. He touched the leather with his finger three times, at three different points. The priest set no construct or sigil, yet all three points began to glow with a soft golden light. Father Jacob drew a line connecting the three points to form a triangle of light.

While Father Jacob was constructing the compass, Brother Barnaby came over to ask if he was needed. If not, he wanted to go back to the houseboat with Gythe and Miri.

“Mademoiselle Gythe heard voices again, Father,” said Brother Barnaby, deeply troubled. “And… I have been hearing them, too.”

Father Jacob paused a moment in his work to look at the monk. He did not ask any questions, but gave him permission to accompany the sisters. “Give Sir Ander the script containing the demon remains.”

Brother Barnaby handed over the script with the mysterious object inside.

“Dag,” said Stephano, seeing his friend gritting his teeth against the pain of his burns, “Go with Miri and Gythe and the brother. Keep your musket handy.”

“And have Miri see to your back,” Rodrigo said loudly. “I hear that yellow goo is excellent for burns.”

Dag cast Rodrigo a baleful glance, then went off with Brother Barnaby. Miri had her arm around Gythe. She walked slowly by her sister’s side, clinging to Miri and holding fast to Brother Barnaby’s hand. Dag walked behind, his musket in his hand. The clocks in the church steeples began to strike seven times.

“Sir Ander, could you find me a sliver of metal from the pistol?” Father Jacob asked. “Just a small piece will do.”

The knight quickly complied and handed his friend the metal splinter. Father Jacob wrapped the splinter in the bit of leather from the satchel and held it directly above the glowing triangle. A thin stream of light rose from each point and touched the splinter, which began to glow brightly and shifted its direction.

“The priest could also use part of the fabric from Sir Henry’s coat for this spell,” Rodrigo was explaining to Stephano. “Anything that the person handled or wore on his body. The ‘needle’ makes the connection using latent magical energies-”

“Of course it does,” said Stephano impatiently. “The question is, will it lead us to this man?”

“It will,” said Father Jacob. “But the connection fades quickly, so make haste.”

Father Jacob handed the device to the fascinated Rodrigo. Following the compass’ point, the four men walked swiftly to the end of the lane and found a trail of blood. Stephano had his pistol in hand, keeping watch for trouble. When they reached the alleyway, they came to a sudden halt.

The light of the lantern shone on the body of a young woman, no more than fifteen or sixteen, lying dead on the street. Her throat was cut. Her blood ran in gruesome rivulets among the cobblestones. Rodrigo gasped and covered his mouth and turned away. Stephano gazed down in shock and horror.

“The wraith!” Sir Ander exclaimed.

“Poor child. The Warlock used her blood for his conjuration.” Father Jacob sighed deeply. “May God in His mercy take her to her rest.”

He knelt beside the body and reached out his hand to close the staring eyes.

“Did Henry Wallace do this?” Stephano asked, shaken.

“No, Captain,” said Father Jacob, rising to his feet. His face was drawn. He seemed to have aged in the space of moments. “This is dark magic, blood magic-the work of the young man, the Warlock. He killed this girl, then drank her blood, and used her life force to create the wraith that attacked Sir Ander.”

Stephano seemed stunned. “I can’t believe that anyone… Is that even possible?”

“Sadly, yes,” said Rodrigo in muffled tones. He kept his eyes averted from the corpse.

“We’ve seen this young man commit such murders before,” said Sir Ander, his voice burning with anger. “He seduces these young women and then makes them believe that by dying for him, they’re proving their love. You’ll note there is no sign of a struggle.”

“Good God!” Stephano said softly. He swallowed hard.

“There’s more blood down here, Father,” Sir Ander reported, flashing the lantern light about on the pavement. “Not the young woman’s. It might belong to the Warlock.”

“How do you know it’s not her blood?” Stephano asked.

Sir Ander squatted down. “See how the blood is smeared? Looks as if the person was shot in the foot. He was dragging his boot in his own blood. And here he trod in it. You can see bloody footprints. And so did Wallace. You can see faint traces of his footprints walking along behind. Probably holding a gun on the young man. I’ll follow them, see where they lead.”

He continued down the alley, shining the light on the cobblestones.

“I take it from what Sir Ander says that the two of you have been working to stop this Warlock,” said Stephano.

“For many long months,” said Father Jacob.

Kneeling beside the body, he began to pray. Rodrigo bowed his head. Stephano didn’t want to pray. He wanted to lash out, hit someone-God, maybe.

Sir Ander was not gone long. He waited for Father Jacob to finish his prayer to make his report.

“The bloody smear of the Warlock’s trail ends at the canal. Wallace’s prints continue down the street. Maybe he threw the young man into the Breath,” Sir Ander said hopefully.

“I doubt it. Wallace took him hostage. If he’d wanted to kill him, he could have just shot him. With all the barge traffic, Wallace probably dumped him in a passing boat. There is something between Wallace and the Warlock, that much is clear.”

“The Sorceress,” said Sir Ander. “We know she spent time in Freya.”

“I fear you may be right, my friend,” said Father Jacob. He paused, then said, “And I believe I know how she and Wallace might be connected. We long suspected he had something to do with the attack on the Defiant.”

Father Jacob started to stand, caught his foot in the hem of his cassock and staggered. Stephano reached out his hand to steady the priest. He was eager to start on Wallace’s trail, but there was something he needed to say first.

“What will happen to this young woman?” Stephano asked, gesturing to the body.

“Sir Ander and I will take care of the poor child,” said Father Jacob. “There is a convent nearby. The nuns will tend to her until we can learn her name and give the sad news to her family.”

Stephano coughed, cleared his throat. “After seeing this… Well, um, I may have misjudged you, Father. I’m sorry if I’ve been.. .” He paused, uncertain.

“An ass?” Rodrigo suggested.

Stephano flushed. “Not exactly the word I was going to use in front of a priest.”

Father Jacob smiled. “I understand, Captain-perhaps better than you think. May God go with you.” He held out his hand.

“And with you, Father,” said Stephano. He accepted the priest’s handshake.

Sir Ander lifted the young woman in his arms, cradling the lifeless body as gently and tenderly as a father. Rodrigo drew a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket and laid it over the cold, pale, blood-smeared face. Father Jacob gave both Stephano and Rodrigo his blessing and told them to take the lantern.

“We walk with God’s light,” said Father Jacob, as he fell into solemn step alongside Sir Ander.

Stephano waited to see them safely on their way with their sorrowful burden, then turned back to the business of tracking Sir Henry.

“I’m amazed,” said Rodrigo. “A priest blessed you, and you didn’t sneer.”

“Because I have a feeling we’re going to need it,” said Stephano. “Let’s see if that compass-thingamajig works.”

The compass worked, apparently, for it led them down the alley in the same direction as the faint trail of bloody footprints. When they came to the end of the alley, the compass indicated that Sir Henry Wallace had continued along Canal Street. Rodrigo walked on, delighted with his new toy, then stopped when he realized Stephano wasn’t with him.

“Hey,” he said, glancing around. “What are you doing? Father Jacob warned us that the magical connection wouldn’t last long.”

Stephano stood in the darkness that seemed thick and heavy with evil, hard to breathe.

“You heard what Father Jacob said about this man, Wallace,” said Stephano. “The priest was serious. My mother calls Henry Wallace the most dangerous man in the world. She told me I should quit looking for him. Even she’s afraid of him.”

The two were quiet, somber.

“My mother does pay well,” said Stephano.

“And on time,” Rodrigo said with a deep sigh. Looking down at the compass, he pointed. “Wallace went that way.”