Part 26 (2/2)

But Nilaihah did not fall. He pressed one taloned hand over the wound to try to staunch the bleeding. The other hand slowly raised the spear, pointing the bloodstained tip at Ruaud.

By now Ruaud could hear voices. His Guerriers had come to the rescue. But the doors to the chapel were locked and bolted. He began to back away down the aisle.

Nilaihah launched the spear at him. It caught him full in the chest, the force of the thrust pinning him to the wooden door.

The daemon strode toward him and pulled out the Dragonslayer's spear and cast it away.

”Enguerrand-” Ruaud tried to say his pupil's name, but his mouth had filled with blood. As he slid slowly down, he saw the dazzling form of Nilaihah rising on golden wings, making for the far window.

”What's happened here?” As Linnaius brought his craft swooping down toward the palace of Swanholm, he saw flames and smoke rising from the East Wing. Far below he saw the lines of servants and guards working to extinguish the fire, pumping water from the lake, pa.s.sing buckets from hand to hand. But in spite of their efforts, the fire had taken hold; and from the air Linnaius could see the flames gusting toward the rest of the palace.

He pressed his fingers to his forehead, summoning a swift storm wind to blow rain clouds to aid their efforts. Soon the sky darkened and rain began to pour down, dampening the flames. Gaping open to the sky, a ruin of fire-blackened timbers and tumbled stone, the wing looked as if it had been subjected to an intense bombardment. And yet there was no sign of enemy troops encamped in the park or patrolling the grounds.

Linnaius made his way on foot through the rain into the palace, searching for anyone, courtier or guard, who could give him information. Dust lay everywhere and a pungent smell of smoke clouded the lofty entrance hall.

”Why is this entrance unguarded?” he demanded, his voice echoing around the empty hall. A man appeared at the far end, hurrying toward him.

”Magus!” he cried. ”Thank G.o.d you've come.”

Linnaius recognized Eugene's majordomo; usually spotlessly attired, his palace livery was drenched and his face was smeared with fire s.m.u.ts.

”The princess,” the majordomo said, his voice rasping as he coughed the smoke from his throat. ”We tried to stop him-but he was too strong for us.”

”He?” Linnaius said.

”Count Alvborg.”

”Oskar Alvborg,” Linnaius repeated, his heart growing cold at the sound of that name; Alvborg was a rebellious n.o.bleman who had long borne a grudge against Eugene. ”What has Alvborg done with Princess Karila?”

The majordomo seemed to be struggling to get the words out.

”He-he transformed into a dragon. And then he abducted her.”

”Drakhaoul.” This was worse than Linnaius had expected. ”A Drakhaoul has taken the princess.” And the hidden text he had discovered months ago at the monastery in Azhkendir returned to his mind, laden with a new, ominous relevance.

For only by the sacrifice of the Emperor's children in that far-distant place can that Door ever be opened again and the dread Prince Nagazdiel released. And no mortal would dare stoop to such a base and inhuman act.

”No mortal would dare,” Linnaius murmured as he hurried back to his sky craft, ”but a Drakhaoul...”

”Whatever dreadful sounds you may hear, don't interrupt the ceremony,” Ruaud had warned Alain Friard.

But Friard was about to disobey his commanding officer for the first time in twenty years of service. He had waited long enough. His duty was to protect the Maistre.

First there had been m.u.f.fled voices, raised as if in argument. Friard had heard laughter; horrible, mocking laughter that made his skin crawl. And then the sudden, bloodcurdling cry that sounded as if it issued from the throat of a fiend in torment.

Friard tugged at the door. When he found it was locked, he pounded on it with his fists, yelling, ”Open up!” with the full force of his lungs.

”What's wrong, Captain?” Lieutenant Viaud came running up, followed by several of his men.

”We've got to break this door down. The Maistre's in danger!”

And at that instant a sudden, violent thud set the door timbers shuddering.

Both officers stopped, staring at the door. Friard pointed. A pointed metal tip had penetrated the door panel and blood dripped from its sharp end. Someone on the far side had been pinned to the door, like a b.u.t.terfly to a collector's tray.

As they watched, mesmerized, the spearhead was withdrawn. Seconds later came the sound of shattering gla.s.s.

”Come on, lads, put your shoulders to this door!” Friard cried. When, a few moments later, they broke the bolts and burst into the chapel beyond, they almost fell over a body lying on the tiled floor in an ever-widening pool of blood.

”Ruaud!” Friard forgot all military protocol and knelt beside his old comrade in arms, gently turning him over. The Maistre's robes were soaked with bright scarlet and more was frothing and bubbling from his lips as he tried to speak.

”Who did this?” Friard propped the Maistre's head up against his knee as Viaud attempted to staunch the flow of blood with his scarf.

”The-king.” Ruaud's hand rose feebly, trying to point. ”Drakhaoul-took-the king.” Friard followed the direction of the pointing finger and saw that the arched window above the altar was shattered, as if someone-or something something-had burst its way through. Surely the Maistre couldn't mean that the king had been abducted by a Drakhaoul?

”Find the king!” Viaud ordered his men.

”And send for a doctor,” added Friard automatically, although he knew from one look at the Maistre's pale face that it was too late.

”I-I tried to stop him, Alain.” Ruaud tried to speak again and Friard saw the desperation in his eyes as one hand rose to try to grip his coat.

”We'll get his majesty back,” Alain said staunchly. ”You know you can count on us.”

”Be caref-” Ruaud began to cough and a sudden gush of blood drowned his words. His blue eyes, which had been fixed on Friard's face, lost their focus and stared through Friard, beyond him. The hand that had been grasping at his collar fell away. ”Maistre? Maistre!” Friard's voice broke. Ruaud was gone. He had died trying to protect the king, whom he had loved as dearly as a son. He laid the Maistre gently down on the tiles and drew a shaking hand over his eyes, closing the lids.

Viaud, coming back down the aisle, stopped abruptly. He knelt beside his commander's body and began to murmur the words of the Sergian prayer for the dying. Friard tried to join in but his voice was choked with tears. He wanted time to mourn the Maistre properly, but if he had understood Ruaud's dying words correctly, they were faced with an unprecedented crisis. Francia had lost not only the head of the Commanderie but her king, who had been abducted by one of the daemons he had been trying to defeat.

Part III

CHAPTER 1.

One moment, all the bells of Mirom were dinning out a joyful cacophony in celebration of the birth of Prince Rostevan, heir to the Empire of New Rossiya. Then the sky began to darken.

At first Celestine thought it no more than an oncoming thunderstorm, blowing inland off the Straits.

I must find shelter before the storm breaks.

Alone and dest.i.tute, she had arrived a day earlier in the bustling capital of Muscobar and had been trudging from theater to theater in search of work. If she had been rash enough to use her real name, the concert managers would have fought for her to appear in their halls and opera houses. But she was a wanted woman on the run from the Francian Inquisition. She could not afford to reveal her true ident.i.ty.

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