Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby had been up much of the previous night, standing on the battlements, observing with interest the naval ships moving swiftly through the Breath to interdict any vessel trying to slip out following the closing of the port. The shore batteries located in the concrete bunkers beneath the battlements were fully manned, though only a few guns had been run out to fire a warning volley of powder and wadding, warning irate ship captains that the port-closing would be enforced. The navy caught several ships trying to escape; mostly small boats loaded with contraband.

Sir Ander had explained the naval strategy to Brother Barnaby, pointing out how the larger naval vessels took key positions around the bay while the city’s gunboats moved inside the bay. The smaller gunboats were twenty-four feet long, each mounting a cannon that fired a twenty-four-pound ball. Six armed marines were aboard every gunboat. If a fleeing vessel failed to stop, the marines would fire their muskets. If that failed to persuade the captain, the gunboat would fire the cannon to disable the ship and force it to land. One such vessel was now perched on the roof of a nearby warehouse. Brother Barnaby had never seen such a spectacle, and he had watched in fascinated awe.

Father Jacob had not been on the battlements with them. He had summoned agents of the Arcanum who were currently in Westfirth to the Old Fort, then sent them out to search for the Sorceress and her young disciple known as the Warlock. Father Jacob was hoping that the embargo would keep the Sorceress trapped in this city. Agents were stopping all wyvern-drawn carriages in and out of the city. All overland routes were under surveillance.

Following his meeting, Father Jacob had been engaged in researching the object he had salvaged from the ambush. He had given orders that he was not to be disturbed. At about midnight, Sir Ander had knocked on Father Jacob’s door to see how he was faring. His knock receiving no response, Sir Ander had opened the door softly and quietly.

He had seen Father Jacob hunched over a table covered with a white sheet, taking measurements of the blackened lump and recording them in a book. Sir Ander had watched a moment, wondering what Father Jacob had discovered, if anything. Sir Ander had known better than to disturb his friend while he was at work. He had closed the door and gone off to his bed.

This morning, Sir Ander was alone in the dining room. A servant informed him that archbishop had dined early and gone to see how the work was coming on the cathedral. Brother Barnaby had also dined and had left word for Father Jacob that he would be in the archbishop’s private chapel, praying. The servant had not seen Father Jacob.

Sir Ander assumed the priest had once again fallen asleep over his work. The servant poured coffee. Sir Ander helped himself from the collation on the sideboard. He was dishing out his favorite: Freyan sausages known as “blood pudding,” when he heard Father Jacob’s voice resounding through the palace, shouting Sir Ander’s name in strident and impatient tones.

Sir Ander sat down at the table and began to eat his sausages. The servant looked at him, startled.

“The priest is calling for you, my lord. Should I tell him you are in here?”

“No,” said Sir Ander calmly. “He’ll find me soon enough. I plan to finish my breakfast.”

Still shouting, Father Jacob burst through the doors with a bang, bounding into the room with such energy that the servant, who was accustomed to the elegant, refined manners of the archbishop, jumped and spilled the coffee.

“Here you are, Ander!” cried Father Jacob in a peevish tone.

“Eating breakfast,” said Sir Ander calmly. He pointed to his plate with his fork. “Blood pudding. Excellent. You should have some.”

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” said Father Jacob.

“And now you’ve found me,” said Sir Ander, savoring his sausage.

“I need you to come with me. Now! Where is Barnaby?”

“In the chapel,” said Sir Ander.

Father Jacob asked the servant to prepare a basket of food and a bottle of wine. When the servant left to carry out the order and they were alone, Father Jacob turned to Sir Ander.

“I know you are always armed, my friend,” he said gravely. “But it might be wise to take extra precautions.”

Troubled by the priest’s grim expression, Sir Ander stood up, gulping his hot coffee and burning his tongue.

Father Jacob went off to fetch Brother Barnaby. Sir Ander returned to his room, put on his light chain mail vest, set with the magical constructs and buckled on his sword belt. He loaded the dragon pistol, placed one of the nonmagical pistols in a concealed pocket and thrust the other in his belt. He grabbed his helm.

He found Father Jacob and Brother Barnaby waiting in the entry hall. Father Jacob was on the move immediately, walking in such haste that his long strides caused his cassock to ride up around his shins. Brother Barnaby, armed with his portable writing desk, had to almost run to keep up. He flashed a look at Sir Ander, asking silently if he knew what was going on. Sir Ander shook his head.

Father Jacob strode rapidly through the halls of the Old Fort and headed out for the battlements. Sir Ander thought this was their destination, and he was startled to see the priest keep going.

The battlements extended from one guard tower to another for a distance spanning many hundred feet. In the guard towers, the bored soldiers were relieved to have some amusement to break up the tedium of their watch, observing with interest the attempts by the navy to enforce the blockade. Although the Old Fort had not been occupied for years, the moment the archbishop expressed his desire to move into it, the lord mayor found that he was suddenly extremely attached to the site and did not want the Church to commandeer it. He had taken his grievances to the king, who had gone to the grand bishop. The result was that the Church paid the city of Westfirth handsomely for use of the Old Fort. The soldiers who guarded the Old Fort were under the command of the lord mayor. The archbishop had his own guards, whose main duty was to protect His Reverence’s person.

The archbishop’s soldiers patrolled the archbishop’s living quarters. The Westfirth guards were responsible for the rest. There being no enemy to guard against, the only excitement for either force these days was the occasional skirmish between the Mayor’s soldiers and those belonging to the archbishop when one or the other crossed the demarcation line.

The soldiers in the guard towers saw Father Jacob in his black cassock and Sir Ander in his chain mail armor, his sword clanking at his hip, and looked at each other with raised eyebrows. All breathed a little easier when the Arcanum priest passed them by.

“Where are we going?” Sir Ander ventured to ask, as they walked by the third guard tower.

In answer, Father Jacob pointed to top of the cliff, to the Bastion, the crumbling remains of the abandoned outpost that had once belonged to the Dragon Brigade. The outpost was situated high on a peak above the Old Fort. Sir Ander gaped in dismay at the series of winding steps cut into the rock that led up the side of the cliff.

“Beautiful day for a climb, isn’t it?” said Father Jacob in hearty tones. “Did you know that the dragon bastions are fairly modern, dating back only about seventy years? The bastions are historically important because they are different from those found in the dragon homeland. I have never had a chance to fully study the Westfirth Bastion. No one ever goes there now,” he added with emphasis. “More’s the pity, eh, Sir Ander? You have long said the Dragon Brigade should have never been disbanded. Let us go take a look.”

Sir Ander understood. Father Jacob needed a place to speak to them in absolute privacy, a place where there was not the slightest chance they could be overheard. He braced himself for the climb and was thankful he had decided to wear chain mail and not his heavy breastplate.

The trek up to the top of the cliff did not prove as difficult as Sir Ander had anticipated. The stairs did not ascend straight up, but were cut into the side in a zigzag manner so that the ascent was not particularly arduous. Sir Ander was rewarded for his efforts by a magnificent view of the city of Westfirth and the mists of the Breath in the harbor.

“Humans were stationed here, as well as dragons,” said Father Jacob when Sir Ander remarked that the climb was not as bad as he had anticipated. “Your godson, Captain de Guichen, must have made this trek often.”

Neither Sir Ander nor Brother Barnaby had been in a dragon bastion before and despite the seriousness of the situation, they both looked about with interest as they walked the empty halls formed of stone laid by dragons. The Bastion was built in a circle with halls and rooms radiating from an enormous courtyard of stone. In the center of the courtyard were traces of a mosaic depicting the emblem of the Dragon Brigade: a blue-green dragon in flight, wings extended, on the background of a red-and-golden sun.

“The dragons and their riders landed and took off here,” said Father Jacob. He indicated the courtyard which was open to the skies.

The wind blew continuously from the Breath, shredding the mists, providing excellent visibility. Above them, the sky was a deep, cobalt blue. The Bastion was named “Bastion of the Wind” for this reason. Sir Ander could picture Stephano and his dragon, facing into the wind; the dragon extending his wings, allowing the breeze to lift them. He could picture his godson and his mount soaring out into the Breath, riding the thermals. Sir Ander had never quite understood Stephano’s passion for climbing onto the backs of dragons and flying into the sky until now, in this place with the wind on his face, wrapped in silence, the blue vault of Heaven above, all cares left on the ground far below.

“The dragons were quartered in these rooms that extend out from the courtyard.” Father Jacob was explaining to Brother Barnaby. “Their riders lived in the barracks over there to the north.”

“The rooms and halls don’t seem big enough for dragons,” Brother Barnaby marveled.

“Dragons are large, but they are extremely flexible,” said Father Jacob. “They curl up tail to nose when they sleep. Like foxes and wolves, they feel safe in cozy cavelike rooms. That is why, in even the grandest and most magnificent dragon palaces, you will find the sleeping chambers are small and snug.”

“I would like to see a dragon palace,” said Brother Barnaby wistfully.

“And so you shall,” said Father Jacob, pleased. “I have been wanting to pay a visit to my friends in the dragon realm again, though I fear that pleasure must wait for a time. For now, we have urgent matters to discuss.”

Someone—dragon or human—had planted a rose garden in an angle between one hall and another. Sheltered from the constant wind, yet open to the sunshine and rain, the rose garden must have once been lovely. The garden was now overrun with weeds, though here and there a few rosebushes clung stubbornly to life. The three settled themselves on a stone bench and opened the basket of food, all of them feeling in need of sustenance after the climb.

Whatever was on Father Jacob’s mind, he refused to discuss it while they were eating. Once they were finished, Brother Barnaby packed away the dishes and scattered the remains of the bread for the birds, then brought out the writing desk and made ready to take notes.

“First, I must relate bad news. The Sorceress has eluded capture,” said Father Jacob. “Arcanum agents found where she had been living, but she was gone. There was evidence that she fled in haste.”

“She was warned,” said Sir Ander grimly. He glanced around. “So that’s why we are up here in the clouds. You think someone in the archbishop’s household alerted her.”

“Someone in the house or one of the guards . . .” Father Jacob shrugged. “I do not know and thus I could not take a chance on anyone overhearing our conversation.”

He fell silent, his expression dark and somber.

“I’d like to hear our conversation,” said Sir Ander, after long moments of continued silence.

Father Jacob stirred. “I’m sorry. I am still trying to make sense of what I have discovered. I hope the two of you can help me. You will recall I managed to retrieve that remnant of the demon’s remains yesterday. I spent the night studying it. As I thought, we are not dealing with forces of Aertheum or legions from Hell. Though, as I told Captain de Guichen, it depends on how one defines Hell . . .”

He again fell quiet. Sir Ander waited in foreboding, not certain he wanted to hear. Brother Barnaby’s pen stopped scratching. The only sound was the wind whistling through the empty hallways.

“The demons are, as I suspected, humans,” Father Jacob said at length.

“I don’t suppose any of us really believed they were demons,” said Sir Ander. He caught Father Jacob’s eye. “Well, maybe I did, but just for a moment . . .”

Brother Barnaby was sorrowful, grieving. “I could almost wish they had been demons.”

“I know, Brother,” said Father Jacob quietly. He regarded the monk with an odd intensity. “It is hard to think that human beings could commit such terrible atrocities as we have witnessed. Yet, there is no doubt. I found a part of a human skull inside the burned helmet.”

“Human.” Sir Ander shook his head. “But why the elaborate disguise?”

“We are meant to think they are demons. The demonic mask fosters fear,” said Father Jacob. “Brother Paul and those sailors all believe they were attacked by demons, which is why I placed them under Seal. If they went around telling people that Aertheum was launching a war against humanity, the panic among the populace would be incalculable. Their demonic aspect is designed to play upon the fears that dwell in our hearts from childhood, the terrors that assail us in the dead of night.”

Father Jacob sighed and rubbed his eyes. His shoulders sagged; he was gray with fatigue. “Terrors that are well-founded.”

“What do you mean?” Sir Ander asked.

“The helm the man was wearing was made of leather. But these people, whoever they are, did not use animal hide. The leather hide was from a human.”

Brother Barnaby dropped the pen. He had gone so pale, the ebony skin going gray, that Sir Ander hastened to pour him a glass of wine.

“Steady, Brother,” said Sir Ander. He flashed an irate glare at Father Jacob.

“He needs to know the truth,” said Father Jacob sternly. “These people spoke to him. Remember?”

Barnaby shuddered at the memory, but went on to say that he was all right. He drank the wine at Sir Ander’s insistence and managed a smile that was meant to be reassuring. But Sir Ander could see the lingering shadow of horror and loathing in the young monk’s eyes; a horror he knew must be a reflection of his own.

“These are not humans, Father. They are monsters!” Sir Ander exclaimed heatedly. “How could you tell if the leather was . . .”

He glanced at Brother Barnaby, trying to hold the pen in trembling fingers and could not say the words. “What you said it was.”

“What I have discovered will not be easy to hear, Brother Barnaby.”

“I am myself again, Father,” said Brother Barnaby. “I will not fail you. Please go on.”

He held the pen poised over the paper, his hand steady.

“When I touched the helm, I felt intense pain,” said Father Jacob. “The pain did not come from the so-called demon. The pain was from the victim whose skin had been used to make the leather. I had a vision of a man tied to a rock, while other men were flaying the flesh from his bones. He was alive during the heinous procedure.”

Sir Ander’s gut clenched. He rose to his feet and, wiping his hand over his mouth, took a walk around the garden. Brother Barnaby recorded the information. A tear dropped on the page, but he hastily whisked it away and continued writing.

“Are they Freyans?” said Sir Ander harshly, coming back to resume his seat. “No offense, Father, but I have to ask.”

“No, they are not. There are indications—” Father Jacob shook his head and fell silent.

“So who are they?” Sir Ander demanded.

Father Jacob looked again at Brother Barnaby, as though he could provide the answer. The monk was completing a sentence and did not notice. Father Jacob rose to his feet with a grimace and massaged his back.

“You could use the Corpse spell,” said Sir Ander abruptly.

“I could,” said Father Jacob. “I did.”

Sir Ander had witnessed the priest performing the magical spell that could be used to determine the identity of corpses. The energy of a living person remained with the body for a long time after death. Father Jacob used his magic to cause this so-called “ghost” to materialize. The use of such magic was forbidden to all except those of the Arcanum, who were often called to identify bodies that had been burned or mutilated. Unless the bones were too old, the spell could sometimes be used to identify skeletal remains. Contrary to popular opinion, the ghost that was summoned by the magic did not speak to the loved ones. It was not capable of pointing to a murderer, nor did it go flitting about graveyards, fling dinner plates, or dwell in attics. A portrait artist would make a likeness of the ghostly face and, once this was done, the priest would end the spell and the ghost would fade away.

“The spell takes a long time to cast and requires a vast store of energy,” said Father Jacob wearily. “I am exhausted.”

“What did you find out?” Sir Ander asked. “What did you see?”

Father Jacob continued to regard Brother Barnaby as he spoke. “I saw a man with pallid skin, white as milk, with a sickly yellowish hue. He had unusual eyes, large with enormous pupils. Given the abnormally pale skin and strange eyes, I theorize this person had been born to darkness, had been raised in darkness—”

“The Bottom Dwellers,” Brother Barnaby said softly. He let the pen drop. His gaze was abstracted, looking inward.

“Is that what they called themselves?” Father Jacob asked quietly. “When they spoke to you?”

Brother Barnaby nodded. “They said the same to Gythe, only in her language.”

Sir Ander was about to interrupt. Father Jacob raised an urgent, warding hand.

“Continue, Brother,” he said.

“That’s all. I don’t know . . .” Brother Barnaby appeared distressed. “Except . . . they hate us . . .”

“Indeed they do,” said Father Jacob. “Even after death, the rage felt by the dead man lived on, radiating from the corpse. I had never seen the like before now. I did not know such hatred was possible.”

He sighed deeply and said sadly, “Yet, perhaps, they have good reason to hate us.”

Brother Barnaby stirred and regarded Father Jacob with wondering anguish. “Who are they, Father?”

“And what bottom do they dwell in?” Sir Ander asked, looking skeptical.

“I do not know for certain,” said Father Jacob slowly, seeming to talk to himself, as though thinking his thought process out loud. “But I have my suspicions. Recall your history lessons. Long ago, the nations of Aeronne banded together to rid the world of pirates, who were taking shelter on the Trundler island of Glasearrach. War crafters of both Freya and Rosia and the other nations came together to use powerful magicks to sink the island, dooming the pirates and those innocents who had refused to heed the order to flee to certain death in the foul mists of the Breath below.”

Father Jacob raised his eyes. “But what if those people on the island did not die?”

“Merciful God in Heaven!” Sir Ander exclaimed. “You can’t be serious, Father? You are saying they live in the depths of the Breath? That is not possible. We know that no one could survive down there!”

“We have long theorized that no one could survive,” Father Jacob corrected. “We do not know for certain. The pirates were said to be dabbling in contramagic, the reason the Church advocated the sinking of the island to stop the spread of heresy.”

Sir Ander swallowed. “Which is why these fiends want to silence the Voice of God.”

“And they have the ability to do so,” said Father Jacob in grim tones. “They are now quite skilled in contramagic. They sank a naval cutter and toppled stone towers. Imagine what would happen if they turned their weapons on a city . . .”

Sir Ander once more rose from his seat and began to pace restlessly about the garden. Brother Barnaby sat quite still. He had made no move to pick up the pen. When he did, belatedly, Father Jacob stopped him.

“No, Brother. Do not record a word of this. I must confer with my colleagues. It is imperative that I return to the Arcanum. When will the Retribution be ready? Why are the repairs taking so long?”

“Master Albert is hopeful we can leave tomorrow,” said Sir Ander.

“Tomorrow!” Father Jacob glowered.

“The crafters are working as fast as they can, Father.”

“I know, I know. But it is critical that I make my report,” said Father Jacob. “The Bottom Dwellers know I am here. They will come after me.”

Sir Ander was staring off into the distance.

“What is that?” he asked. “Sorry to interrupt, Father, but look to the southeast. There’s something in the sky. I can’t make out what it is . . .”

He pointed. Father Jacob turned, as did Brother Barnaby.

“A dragon,” said the monk promptly.

“God bless young eyes,” said Sir Ander, squinting. “All I can see is a blob.”

The dragon was flying rapidly and appeared to be heading in their direction.

“I believe that is our friend from the Abbey of Saint Agnes, Sergeant Hroalfrig,” said Brother Barnaby, as the dragon drew nearer.

“You are right,” said Father Jacob. “You can see his bad leg drooping. I fear he is the bearer of bad news.”

“No one ever flies that fast with good news,” Sir Ander agreed.

The three hastened to the central courtyard, keeping a safe distance from the landing area, waiting for the dragon. As Hroalfrig began his descent, they could see the dragon appeared immensely tired. He was gasping for breath and came down with a bone-rattling crash, pitching forward onto his nose.

“Are you all right, Sergeant?” Sir Ander hastened forward when there was no danger of being crushed.

The dragon stared in astonishment. “Sir Ander! Father Jacob! Did not expect. You. Here.”

“More to the point, Sergeant,” said Sir Ander in concern. “What are you doing here?”

Hroalfrig managed to raise himself up. He sucked in huge quantities of air, his rib cage heaving. “Came to warn you, sir. Large flight. Demons.”

“Is the abbey under attack again?”

Hroalfrig shook his head, neck, and mane. His tail lashed the ground. “Westfirth. Coming here.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Right behind me.”

Sir Ander saw a dark, black cloud rolling toward them, boiling up out of the Breath.

“That’s not a storm cloud,” said Brother Barnaby tensely.

“No,” said Father Jacob. “A cloud of bats. We are too late.”

Sir Ander stared. “There must be hundreds of them!”

“Flew as fast as I could manage.... Hroalfrig bowed his head. He was still gasping for breath.

“We’ll sound the alarm,” said Sir Ander. “Thank you, Hroalfrig. You should take cover in the Bastion—”

“Cover!” Hroalfrig glared fiercely. “Never. Catch breath. Ready to fight.”

Sir Ander feared the demons (he could not think of them in any other terms) would make short work of the exhausted dragon, but he didn’t have time to argue. Father Jacob had turned and was running for the stairs that led back down the cliff face. Brother Barnaby was hurriedly gathering up paper and ink and replacing them in the portable desk.

“Leave it!” Sir Ander ordered.

“But Father Jacob—”

“We’ll come back for it!” Sir Ander said urgently. He didn’t like to think what would happen if the demons caught them up here, out in the open. “You can run faster without the desk.”

Barnaby quite sensibly agreed, though he did take time to close everything securely in the desk and hide it under a bench. He and Sir Ander hurried after Father Jacob, who was clambering over the stairs, not bothering to use them, but sliding and scrambling straight down the side of the cliff. Brother Barnaby, fleet of foot and extremely agile, soon caught up with Father Jacob. Sir Ander eyed their reckless descent and pictured himself trying to emulate them wearing his sword and chain mail and carrying loaded pistols.

“You go on!” he shouted to Father Jacob. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Sir Ander began to run down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He glanced at the warships, as he ran. They had not seen the threat or, if they did, they likely thought the cloud was nothing more than an approaching storm. The warships and patrol boats were too busy attempting to enforce the harbor closing to pay attention. Officers on board the gunboats were engaged in shouting matches with the captains of merchant vessels, firing warning shots across the bows of those who tried to slip past.

The guards in the guard towers were hanging out the windows, watching the altercations; their muskets propped against the walls. He thought of the people of Westfirth, going about their business, soon to be caught up in a horror they could never have foreseen. He thought of his godson, Stephano, and his friends.

“God help us!” Sir Ander breathed.