"Pain I visited upon him."

"I know pain,” Xylox replied. “It is a Questor's—"

Crohn saw the Questor's eyes bulge, his fists clench and his jaw drop, as all colour fled from his face. Then, with a hoarse, agonised groan, Xylox collapsed to the flagstones.

"You know pain now, Questor Xylox,” came a voice from the floor, and Crohn saw Questor Dalquist sitting up, rubbing an egg-sized lump on his temple and grimacing.

"What magic did you cast on him?” Kargan asked.

"I didn't,” confessed the younger Questor. “I just brought Shakhmat up between his legs; crude, but effective. We don't have time for diplomacy and civilised debate."

"Bundle him into one of the cells,” Crohn ordered, suppressing a smile at Xylox's ignominious downfall. In a moment, Kargan and Dalquist had thrust the almost comatose Xylox into a clean cell, and Crohn locked the door.

"Let us pay Lord Thorn a visit,” he said.

* * * *

Loras struggled to summon his power, but Chag's mindless, wordless, insane assault continued unabated. It was all he could do to resist the formless bolts of naked power, and he knew he could not defend himself much longer.

He writhed on the floor, his eyes shut and his teeth clenched in agony, when the magical beating stopped. Opening his eyes, he saw Thorn standing over him, the drooling, wild-eyed boy at his side.

"I like my position, Loras,” the Prelate said, his tone almost apologetic. “I am sorry, old friend. Will you not reconsider your demands? I would prefer not to have to kill you."

"How kind of you, Thorn,” gasped Loras, licking his sore, teeth-torn lips and tasting the acrid, metallic tang of blood.

"What do you think of our new Questor?” the Prelate asked. “Of course, he will never go to the Breaking Stone, but he makes a formidable bodyguard, does he not?"

"Questor?” Loras said, spitting out a broken incisor. “He is a chimera, an inhuman abomination, not a Guild Mage.

"May the Names forgive you, for I cannot."

Thorn sighed, and sat back in his chair.

"Is that your final word, Loras? Remember that it is in your power to remit your suffering. I would prefer to have you at my side as a reinstated Guild Mage and an ally.

"Think hard, my friend."

Loras thought, I cannot beat this boy; I have no Questor defence against his perverted power. It would be foolish to throw my life away in this manner. Personal pride is insufficient reason.

"If I agree to maintain your fantasy,” he croaked, “what happens then?"

"I remain Prelate,” Thorn said. “I admit my mother's part in your disgrace and recommend your absolution by the Lord Dominie. I will declare Questor Grimm free of his obligation to the House, and you may both resume a normal life in honour or remain here as full Questors, as you wish. Either way, I will arrange a comfortable stipend for you."

"I am a married man,” Loras said, sitting up with some difficulty. “I will not renounce my wife, and a Guild Mage cannot engage in any liaison with a woman."

"I am sure that problem can be overlooked,” Thorn said, with a casual shrug. “The circumstances are, after all, most unusual."

"And what must I do, Thorn?"

The Prelate smiled. “All you have to do is to agree to a little Compulsion not to betray my ... my less conventional decisions,” he said. “I fancy I can only do this to a Questor of your strength with your acquiescence."

"What else will you put in my head if I agree, Thorn?” Loras demanded. “How do I know I will not end up as much a slave as this poor boy?"

"I am not my mother,” Thorn replied, “and I have no desire to subdue or dominate you. I ask only a little security in my position, and I do not wish to become Dominie. I am content in statu quo, and that is all I want."

"What about the boy, Chag?"

"If you wish, I will put him in the care of a competent Mentalist and a Mage Healer,” Thorn said, opening both hands towards Loras, “after you have agreed to my little caveat. Chag need remember nothing of this, and no word will go outside this door."

It all sounds so reasonable.

Loras might have to swallow a little injured pride, but he could have almost all he wanted: his family; his redemption in the eyes of the Guild; freedom from poverty. After years of struggling, self-condemnation and penury, he might be free.

It was all he might have hoped for, and the smith-Questor felt the strings of temptation tugging at his heart.

What will happen if I refuse? Loras wondered. What will happen to Drima without my support? What will happen to...

Loras clamped down on his train of thought with the discipline of a full Mage Questor, killing it.

"You told me that Grimm is on a Quest to eliminate Lizaveta,” he said, feeling an electric pang of horror that he had spared his grandson so little thought. “Where is he?" Thorn shrugged again, as if the answer to the question were unimportant. “He must be in Rendale,” he said. “Most of the nuns know little of my mother's darker activities; only twenty witches know her true nature. Questor Grimm and his well-armed retinue should be able to overcome them. Set your mind at rest on that score.

"If you wish to add your skills to his, I will be happy to allow you to do so, once we have completed our negotiations."

Loras had never voyaged to Rendale, and he knew nothing of its possible perils. He scanned Thorn's aura, seeing only calm, blue shades of unconcerned contentment.

He felt a cold shock scurrying up his neck.

He's lying; or, at least, he's found some way to hide the fact from me!

He's already used magic on me! he thought, with a shiver. He's been pushing all thought of Grimm out of my head! He's been playing with me all the time!

One part of Loras’ psyche screamed at him to throw the Prelate's false generosity back in his face, while another pleaded for a more cautious approach.

What to do? he wondered, casting a nervous eye at the drooling, lethal Chag. Do I die, saving my honour at the possible expense of my family, or do I pretend to go along with Thorn, waiting for a propitious moment that may never come?

"Do you agree, Loras?” Thorn asked.

The smith felt as if his tongue had turned to ashes. He knew he must give some kind of response: a cold refusal or a false, cloying acceptance.

"Thorn,” he said, indecision clinging to him like a thick, stifling cloud, “I must know—" At that moment, the thick, oaken door to the office disappeared in a blizzard of blue sparks, and Thorn sprang to his feet, his eyes wide. Loras saw an unfamiliar, young man with a seven-ringed staff step through the opening, with Magemasters Crohn and Kargan just behind him. Chag uttered a guttural growl, raising his hands. As the insane youth diverted his attention from Loras, the smith saw his moment.

"Aghamaner-setset!” he screamed, feeling the incomparable, long-forgotten joy of thaumaturgic release as he launched an impromptu spell of lassitude at the boy. “Orgimaringem'ist framintes!" Chag spun towards him, his mouth slack as his knees began to buckle, and Thorn flung his head back, beginning to chant.

Still holding the spell on the tumbling boy, revelling in the stream of magical power flowing from him, Loras took a strong, two-handed grip on Blade and swung it at Thorn's chest. Blue motes flew as the two staves, Loras’ and Thorn's, smashed into each other, but the smith had the advantage of greater momentum.

The Prelate gave an eerie, high-pitched squeal as he flew back to thud into the wall with a wet sound like a plank hitting a freshly-plastered wall. He sank to the floor and lay still.

"Greetings ... gentlemen,” Loras gasped, grimacing at the strain of maintaining his spell on the dormant Chag. “Would one of you please restrain this poor boy? I am a little out of practice, and this lad is a touch excitable."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 10: Sand of Time

Loras raised his right hand and rapped on the oak door. Hearing no response, he clenched his fist and pounded harder.

"What is it?” a peevish, slurred voice demanded.

"It is Brother Bile, Questor Olaf!” he called. “I need to talk—" The door flew open, and Loras beheld a stooped, dishevelled man. An unruly shock of greasy, white hair hung either side of a lined countenance, as if Olaf wore a map of his long life on his face.

"Loras?” the ancient mage croaked, staring at the smith-Questor with wide, grey, rheumy eyes. “What in Perdition are you doing here? To set foot on Guild property means your death!"

"I know, Questor Olaf,” Loras said, forcing himself to remember that this crabbed, wizened old man was his esteemed former colleague and friend. “However, you would not condemn a man before hearing his defence, would you?"

"I heard your defence many years ago,” Olaf growled. “You confessed. You had your trial, and you were convicted. What more is there to say?"

"I placed the pillow over Prelate Geral's face; I admit it,” Loras said.

"You could hardly deny it!” the older man snapped. “I saw it with my own eyes!"

"I was ensorcelled by Geomancy, Olaf. The act was mine, but the will—the intent—was not. I am guilty neither of high treason nor of attempted murder."

"So you say,” Olaf said, with a snort. “Why should I believe you?"

"Will you at least hear me out?” Loras pleaded. “If there is one man in this House I trust, it is you. If you will listen to me, and you remain unconvinced, I will not resist. Nonetheless, if there is even a chance that a miscarriage of justice has occurred, is it not your duty to consider the evidence?"

"No,” Olaf replied. “It is the duty of a duly-assembled Conclave to determine guilt or innocence." Loras sighed. “Olaf Demonscourge. For the sake of the fraternal bond we once shared, will you not at least listen? That is not too much to ask, is it?"

"We were friends,” Olaf admitted. “However, you were always closer to Lord Thorn. I suggest that you throw yourself on his mercy; you mean nothing to me now. The Loras Afelnor I once knew is long dead."

"I choose you, Olaf, for reasons that should become clear."

Long moments passed as the older Questor scanned the smith from head to toes, as if seeing him for the first time.

"I grant you thirty minutes to plead your case,” Olaf said. “No more."

"Agreed,” Loras replied. “Must we discuss the matter in the corridor?" Olaf grunted and stepped away from the door.

"Very well; come in,"

Loras beheld a chaotic jumble of books, scrolls, alembics and bizarre curios littering every surface. A single candle lit the room, throwing fugitive shadows across the floor. Olaf must be a wealthy man after all those Quests, the smith thought as he stepped through the doorway. Why does he choose to live in such squalor?

"Sit there,” Olaf said in a stiff, flat voice, pointing to a chair with faded, cracked, leather upholstery opposite a moth-eaten bed with a thin mattress. “Mind my treasures; some of them are irreplaceable." Placing his feet with care, Loras did as he was bidden, and Olaf sat on the bed, which creaked alarmingly. The older Questor rummaged through a pile of items at his feet for a few moments, and came up with a sand-glass. Inverting the glass, he placed it atop a precarious pile of papers and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What have you to say that has not already been said, Loras?" Loras knew his life, and those of his companions-in-crime, might rest on his argument. He thought of Drima, waiting back at the smithy, anxious and helpless in her ignorance of his fate. He had never been an eloquent man, but he knew his arguments must be convincing if he were to prevail, for the sake of those he loved and respected.

"Feel free to examine my aura at any time, Olaf,” he said. “You will see I tell the truth."

"Mage Sight is not infallible,” the older mage said. “You have had many years to rehearse your story; for all I know, you may well believe it yourself."

"Was I a weak Questor, Olaf?” Loras asked, trying another tack, trying not to think of the sand trickling into the bottom of the glass. “Was I careless, flighty or impulsive?"

"No,” the shrivelled man replied, shrugging. “I was more than satisfied with your conduct on our Quests together. Your self-control in times of crisis was admirable."

"Prelate Geral was dying,” Loras said. “He was a delirious wraith of a man, was he not?" Olaf nodded. “Agreed. You took advantage of that fact, hoping that his death would be considered natural. Unfortunately for you, Lord Thorn discovered your treachery."

"Let us suppose for a moment, that you, as a Seventh Rank Questor, considered it desirable to dispose of such a man,” Loras said. “Surrounded by powerful mages, how would you have chosen to carry out your evil act and avoid discovery? Would you have placed a pillow over his face to suffocate him, a task that might take many minutes?"

"That is irrelevant,” Olaf said. “What is undeniable is that you chose that method of murder." Were you born with the brain of an ox, Olaf, or did you have to work at it? Can't you think for yourself?

Fighting to regain his composure, Loras said, “If I had wanted Geral dead, I could have achieved it in many ways. He was in no condition to resist any magic I might cast. Weak and mindless as Lord Geral was, I could have achieved it from the sanctuary of my own cell in the space of a heartbeat. Is it reasonable that I would have dared to choose such a clumsy, Secular method?"

"But you did!” Olaf said. “I saw you! Whatever your reason, the facts are undeniable. I cannot pretend to know why you chose that particular method of dispatch, but the fact remains that you did!"

"I laboured under a powerful spell, Olaf!” Loras cried. “I have already admitted the act, but can you not admit my behaviour was, at least, bizarre for a Seventh Rank Questor—a feared Weapon of the Guild?"

"Perhaps,” agreed the old man, “but I do not profess to understand the mind of a damned traitor!” He spat the last word out with venom. “Is this the main thrust of your so-called ‘proof''?" Loras clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to find some argument that would sway his old friend.

"You saw how Thorn stopped me,” he said. “He first tried to wrest the pillow from my grasp—a foolish move, since I was far stronger than he—and then struck me across the chest with his staff. I should have been hurled across the room, senseless or dead, but I remained on my feet. Then, he chose a showy, time-consuming method of subduing me, instead of blowing me into a thousand motes." Olaf shook his head. “Lord Geral was too close; a destructive spell might have splashed onto him,” he drawled. “Lord Thorn chose to use caution. Remember also how he pleaded for your life at your trial. Most eloquently, as I remember."

The smith clenched his teeth; Olaf seemed quite incapable of putting himself in another man's shoes. I am losing this battle, he thought. Fight, damn you! Fight!

"Wake up, Questor Olaf!” he cried. “If you had struck me with your staff, after discovering me trying to murder the Prelate, would I have remained conscious? Thorn was just ensuring that he had plenty of witnesses to my treachery!

"If Geral had died of natural causes, who do you think would have been elected to replace him?" Loras did not wait for a reply. “You and I were senior to Thorn, and I had just been granted a commendation from High Lodge. You were a full member of the Presidium, and you must have known that I was recommended as Geral's replacement. I only had to wait, and Geral could barely have lasted another week. It made no sense for me to attack him."

Olaf shrugged. “Perhaps, as Lord Thorn said at your trial, you acted out of misguided mercy, seeking to put an end to Lord Geral's suffering. I don't know."

The vulgar contraction, ‘don't', told Loras he had disturbed Olaf a little, and this gave him new hope. Push, push, PUSH!

"Was it not fortunate for Thorn to discover me standing over Geral?” he demanded. “It led directly to his becoming Prelate."

Olaf leaned forward to look at the glass. “As far as I am concerned, you are just wasting sand, Loras,”

he said. “All you have said is circumstantial. You said you were acting under a Geomantic spell. Lord Thorn was a Questor, not a witch."

"His mother is,” Loras shot back. “As I now know, she is Prioress of the Sisters of Divine Mercy at Rendale. She has an inner coterie of fellow witches who aid her in her more devious and powerful spells. What was cast on me was the Geomantic equivalent of a Great Spell; all so Thorn could become Prelate."

Olaf snorted. “One wonders why you were allowed to run around free after such a mighty Compulsion!

If he betrayed you, why did Lord Thorn not slay you when he had the chance? I am unimpressed." Was ever a man born with such a lack of imagination? Loras raged, inside his head. What will it take to reach him?

"A Geomantic spell enters a mage's soul, and it may be revealed to all if he dies,” Loras growled. “That is why Thorn pleaded so eloquently for my life. Had I been killed, the spell would have been apparent to all."

"Perhaps ten minutes’ worth of sand remains in this glass,” Olaf said, his tone cold. “I promised you thirty minutes in which to convince me. I will give you the remaining time, until the last grain falls, but all you have offered me is unsubstantiated anecdotes and innuendo. Do you have anything else to offer, or may we curtail our discussions now?

"You only prolong the inevitable, Loras. I would remind you that I am well within my rights to kill you in an instant."

Inspiration flooded into Loras like a beacon, lighting up the dusty recesses of his mind.

"I can prove my accusations to you, Questor Olaf,” he said. “Kill me, and you will see the Geomantic spell rise from my body."

Olaf's expression softened. “I misjudged you, Questor Loras. You are not evil, but mentally disturbed! I am sure that I can arrange for your sentence to be commuted to tenure in a charitable asylum. They will take care of you."

Loras looked the older mage straight in the eye; he felt sure now that he had the proof Olaf demanded. The risk was great, but he knew he had gone too far to surrender now.

"I am not deranged, Olaf,” he said. “Many years ago, you used a spell you called the ‘Little Death'. I was never able to duplicate it, but, as I recall, it caused the death of an unresisting person within a few minutes. I ask you to invoke this spell again; you should see something ... interesting.

"If you avert the magic when you see the effect, I need not die. I do not wish to die before my time is up." Olaf rubbed his forehead with his right hand.

"I have not cast this spell for over four decades, Loras; in any case, what is to stop you from showing me some fantastic Questor illusion?"

"I believe you will not see the truth of my words until I am on the very point of death,” he said. “Could I hide that from you?"

The old man shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “Are you resolute in this? Execution would be swifter and more merciful, and I am not certain I could abort the spell in time to save you."

"I have been dead to the Guild for half a Secular lifetime,” Loras said. “My grandson was brought up here as the progeny of a traitor.

"I wish to live but, now that I know myself blameless of the crime for which I was convicted, I cannot allow a greater crime to go unpunished. Every sleepless night, every bad dream, every pang of guilt I have felt for the last forty years was caused by the weakness of a man I thought my blood brother. I now trust only one man, Olaf: you."

"I may kill you, Loras,” Olaf said, his voice soft but intense. “I have cast no powerful Questor magic for many years."

Loras laughed, stopping the sound before it became tinged with incipient hysteria.

"You were quite prepared to kill me only a few minutes ago, Olaf!” he cried. “Why are you so worried to do so now?"

Olaf shook his head. “I do not know."

"You kicked me as I lay unconscious,” Loras said, looking straight into the grey eyes, “with your right foot. Your boot was unlaced."

"I felt a personal betrayal at your action,” Olaf said, “I ... how did you know about my bootlace? I nearly tripped over it as I walked down the stairs!"

Loras smiled. “A kind Brother Mage showed me the truth of what happened,” he said, a little pleased at Olaf's apparent confusion. “All I want is for you to know it, too.

"There, the sand in your glass has run out,” he said, pointing at the timer. “You are welcome to kill me in any way you wish."

Olaf looked into Loras’ eyes, and the smith now saw the potent gaze of the Questor he had known so long ago. Without looking down, the senior mage picked up the glass and inverted it.

"If you wish to risk death so easily,” he said, “I will accommodate you. Is that what you want?" Loras shook his head. “No, Questor Olaf; but I need you to believe me!" Olaf sighed, and shook back his voluminous, brown sleeves. “Please lie back,” he said. “Are you ready?" Loras nodded as his mind raged, What in Perdition are you doing, Afelnor?

Too late; the chant had begun. Loras felt his fingers and toes becoming numb.

"Ojimandelatimatomanerat ... irandemanigotimanforanet."

Cold, slimy fingers seemed to wander through Loras’ body unchecked, making him shiver. With a shock of sheer terror, the smith realised that he could not control the flow of life-force from him.

"Merimondimenosimarit..."

Loras Afelnor felt his inner essence plunging into oblivion, growing smaller and smaller. Now, it was the size of a marble; now, the size of a barleycorn; now, the size of a grain of sand... He could neither see nor remember his own name: he was a mass of cold numbness, floating in a dark void.

An iridescent bird arose from him, threatening to tear the soul from his body ... but it was so glorious!

So sweet to die like this...

With a thump, the nameless soul dropped back into his cooling cadaver. The agony of returning to the mortal world tore a harsh cry from Loras’ mouth: every nerve burnt; every fibre screamed as feeling returned. Loras gasped, coughed and shivered. Death had seemed a release; almost pleasant.

Only life hurt.

"I believe you!” Olaf shouted, and Loras smiled, bereft of all his strength. “I saw it! I have no idea if Lord Thorn was behind it, but you were held by some kind of a spell. You deserve another trial; I will call Lord Thorn at once."

"Thorn is involved in the spell, as I told you,” Loras croaked, feeling the words peeling from him like leaves from a dying tree. “He is imprisoned, as is Questor Xylox. Questor Dalquist and Magemasters Crohn and Kargan are with me. Doorkeeper will know by now..."

"Thank you for telling me that now, Loras.” Olaf groaned, rolling his eyes. “Now I am convinced at last that there may be some doubt concerning your guilt, you tell me that you have imprisoned a lawfully-elected House Prelate! Are you going out of your way to make my life difficult, Brother Bile, or is this just a knack?"

Loras smiled. “We Questors are trouble, are we not?"

"I declare myself acting Prelate,” the older mage said, raising his right hand, “until a High Lodge Conclave may be assembled to investigate your contentions. You, Questor Loras, and your confederates, are my prisoners."

"I am your prisoner,” Loras agreed. “All I ask is that you arrange for the detention cells to be cleaned; I understand the sanitary facilities there leave something to be desired."

"You will have your retrial,” Olaf growled, standing up, “but do not presume too much upon my good nature. You are under arrest."

Loras stretched and rose to his feet. Now the pain of his rebirth had passed, it felt good to be alive.

"As you command, Lord Prelate,” he said.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 11: ‘Laudable Aims'

"May the Order free my mind from base, unclean desire."

Crack!

The kneeling Sister Weranda bit her lip almost hard enough to draw blood as she brought down the lash once more onto her naked back. Nonetheless, she did not hold back, and the leather thongs bit into her spine and ribs once more.

"Let the Order grant me serenity, and the courage to do right." Her hand trembled, but it did not betray her.

Crack!

"Let the Order show me enlightenment!"

Weranda tottered and almost fell, but she raised the lash again.

This must end soon, a rebellious part of her mind cried, but she pushed the thought away, crushing it into nothingness. Penance was just, and it was unworthy of a potential member of the Anointed Score to wish it over before it was finished.

"Blessed be the Order!"

Her right hand rebelled, refusing to lift the whip. She gritted her teeth, trying to overcome the traitorous member, but without success. Tears of shame and helplessness spilled down her cheeks.

"Sister,” she said to her attendant, Sister Brin, without raising her head, “My body has betrayed me. Please wield the Corrective for me."

"This happens to us all sometimes, Sister,” Brin said, a slender woman of maybe thirty years. She wore a perpetual expression of serene contentment and never raised her voice. “You completed the chant, and I did not see you skimp a single lash. As your petty Superior, I give you permission to forgo the final stroke, in recognition of your diligence."

Weranda opened her mouth to protest, but it would be a fault of Obedience to disobey even a temporary Superior, who represented the Reverend Mother in her absence.

"Thank you, Sister Brin,” she said, instead. “Blessed be the Reverend Mother!"

"Blessed be she, the Wielder of Truth!” Brin responded, bending over to pick up the lash. “I declare you shriven."

With shaking hands, Weranda drew her habit around her shoulders, cursing herself for her human frailty. Brin seemed so kind, so beatific, and Weranda longed to unburden her troubled soul to her. However, the Order's strict rules forbade this.

"Take a few minutes to collect your thoughts and compose yourself, Sister,” Brin said. “Give thanks that your vocation is still strong, and reflect on what you have learned." Her head still bowed, Weranda heard the nun's soft footsteps tapping on the flagstones, followed by the creak and bang of the chapel door. She was alone with her thoughts, and she felt more alone than she had in her entire life.

This is your fault, Afelnor, she raged internally, as saline streams ran down her cheeks. You have ruined my inner peace, you foul rapist! I found my vocation, and you did your best to destroy it! I hate you and all those like you.

Instead of finding solace in her meditation, as she had so often done before, Weranda became more and more agitated. Her bloody back and her aching knees screamed at her with their trifling, physical demands, and she wished Brin had not removed the Corrective.

Although she tried to push away the memory, her mind went back to their times together in the big bed in Grimm's tower at Crar.

How nervous he was at first, she thought, so careful not to hurt me, trying to please me... No! That was just his perverted male artifice! Mother Lizaveta has shown me the true way, free of physical lust and distraction. I will never again surrender my soul to a filthy male!

Denied the painful, mind-numbing solace of the Corrective, Weranda pounded her shoulders and breasts with her small fists, trying to rid herself of the foul image of the flushed, sweaty male grimacing and grunting over her like some filthy, rutting animal, but she could not. I hope the Reverend Mother is ripping the flesh from his back right now; him and his bestial confederates!

She longed for Sister Brin to return, to bring a measure of order and serenity back to her life. The normal peace and contentment of meditation had been denied her, and she could not drag her mind from memories of her former, debased existence. Perhaps it would help her to see Grimm being punished for his evil acts.

* * * *

"Thank you,” Grimm whispered, forcing himself to stay on his knees. His head lolled on his heaving chest, but he did not—would not—fall.

Another pain, dull and inchoate, and he felt his head pulled back by the hair. His eyes focussed on a wizened, sweaty, hate-filled face he dimly recognised as that of Lizaveta.

"Why do you thank me?” the Prioress's harsh voice demanded. “Why do you not curse me?" Grimm spat a thick gout of bloody sputum onto the floor. “Because you want me to curse you, witch,” he croaked through cracked lips. “I had to thank Magemaster Crohn whenever he beat me as a Neophyte Questor. He knows more about torment than you ever will; he broke me, but you won't.

"Your only recourse is to kill me."

Lizaveta's face contorted, and Grimm's body writhed within the grip of the demanding tentacles of self-doubt and fear. However, he knew now how to resist the Prioress's emotional attacks: he let them wash over and through him, but he retained a small inner mental sanctum, an island of resistance within the sea of pain and misery.

"Thank you,” he gasped, as the Prioress released his hair.

Grimm collapsed to the floor, the shackles on his arms preventing him from holding himself upright, but he felt a warm glow of satisfaction. He had taken everything she and her two attendants had thrown at him, and he had prevailed. He could not attack them with his body or his magic, but he had withstood them. Nonetheless, the onslaught of physical violence and Geomancy had been shocking, and he wondered how many more of these sessions he could stand. He knew he could hide his inner drives and personality from Lizaveta, but he feared permanent damage to his body and his sanity. Lizaveta clapped her hands. “You may leave, Sisters,” she said. The two attendant nuns curtsied, and the Prioress waited until they left the room.

"It does not end here, Grimm,” she croaked, her face pale. “This is just the beginning. I am patient and resolute, and I never give up."

"Then we will both suffer a long, painful and fruitless experience, Reverend Mother,” Grimm said, forcing himself to sit up. “You will never break me this way. It's too intense, too swift. It gives me no time to reflect, to doubt myself. You think your methods sophisticated and irresistible, but you're just an amateur; Magemaster Crohn's worth ten of you."

Lizaveta struck his left temple with a knotted fist, and he fell again, but the pain was subsumed within the other agonies clamouring for his attention; his arms, legs, stomach, head and, above all, his testicles. His tongue ran across loose teeth, and he offered a bloody smile.

"Thank you,” he whispered.

Take the bait, bitch, he thought.

"We start again tomorrow.” The Prioress's face contorted in rage. “I see we may need to revise our approach."

Grimm's heart soared, before Lizaveta's words sent him crashing back to the floor.

"We went too easily with you,” she said. “Tomorrow, we'll work with renewed zest. Sleep as well as you can tonight; you may consider the last two days as rehearsals."

Where is Shakkar? Grimm wondered, fighting rising panic. He wouldn't just have left us for no reason!

He must be coming!

He tried to keep his expression calm, as if his battered body meant nothing to him.

"As you wish, Reverend Mother,” he said. “That will only make it easier. After another few days like this, I'll die, and you still won't have broken me.

"I'll have won. Even if I'm wrong and you do break down my resistance, I'm bound to invite suspicion if I saunter into High Lodge looking like tenderised meat."

"Geomancy is not restricted to emotional control, young Questor,” Lizaveta said, replacing her enraged grimace with an almost beatific smile. “If you become so damaged that your life is in danger, we can repair the injuries, so you will be fit to undergo further instruction. By the time you are ready for your mission, you will be whole and undamaged.

"Are you now so confident, Grimm?"

The mage knew he had failed to hide his dismay from his face. The prospect of death had been almost a comfort to him, and the Prioress had snatched that hope away from him. I can't resist this for day after day! Grimm raged, inside his head, before his Questor will clamped down on his wayward emotions.

I've just got to believe that Shakkar hasn't deserted us, he thought. I've got to work on Drex whenever I can. Perhaps the General will find a way out. Perhaps Guy will break away from her control...

"No, Prioress,” he said at last. “I admit you have shaken my confidence. However, I will still fight you to the last vestiges of my will. We Questors are not easy to control, as you will find."

"Pride, defiance, and self-determination are admirable qualities,” the Prioress said. “The Guild forges its Questors in the hot fire of the Ordeal and then tempers them in the cool balm of brotherhood. A tempered blade does not break with a single blow. Instead, one must work it repeatedly, weakening it further with each bend until it fractures. Your resilience enables us to prolong the experience; when you break, it will be decisive and irrevocable."

Grimm knew what Lizaveta said was true. She would break him, sooner or later. It was only a matter of time.

"So, how does your beloved grandson respond to this treatment?” he asked. “Is he bending, or has he already broken?"

Lizaveta snorted. “I have no need to treat Guy so,” she said. “He despises Horin and he is ambitious. I only need to work on his existing drives. Some misguided principle makes him resist us, but his defiance is not as strong as yours. Where you must be broken, Guy just requires a little gentle bending until he takes on the form we desire."

"Why are you doing this, Lizaveta?” Grimm asked. “First Thorn and now Guy; why?" Lizaveta shrugged. “Witches are tolerated in the Guild demesnes, like troublesome, senile relatives. Where are the splendid establishments for young girls to learn the way of our Craft? Where is our High Lodge?

"It pleases me for my kin to be the means of the Guild's downfall; its systematic enfeeblement, destruction and remoulding. In its place will arise a new magical hierarchy, based on feminine principles of decency, justice, and respect."

She's insane, Grimm thought.

"So what you are doing to me, what you do to your nuns; is that decent, just, or respectful?” he demanded.

Lizaveta shrugged. “I am a pragmatist,” she said, her eyes distant and dreamy. “I take no pleasure in doing what I must, but I will not waver. I will brook no defiance, for my aims are just. I will not rest until Geomancy is as respected as Thaumaturgy, until the two crafts are equal in pre-eminence." Grimm shook his head in wonder and then regretted it, as a carillon of agony clanged and chimed in his brain.

She really believes it! he thought, as the clamour in his head began to subside. Can I make her see the insanity of this? Is it worth even trying?

Perhaps not, but I doubt agreeing with her will make my lot any easier.

"Laudable aims, Prioress,” he said aloud, dragging himself to his feet and facing the Prioress. “If I thought you meant those stirring words, that would be one thing; however, I don't. You don't want equality; you want complete domination of both mages and witches. How does torturing your wards free them? How do you defend that?"

"Who are you to lecture me about torture?” Lizaveta demanded, a pair of small, red patches blooming on her pale cheeks. “How did your beloved Guild turn you into a Questor? Were you not tortured for their ends? They make you risk your life again and again, to pay for the abuse they heaped on you! Is that just?"

Grimm opened his mouth to retort, but he closed it without speaking, as a troubled thought swam into his consciousness: She's right! How many times have I been told that the Questor Ordeal is a distasteful but unavoidable facet of Guild operations? My Ordeal can't have been any worse than that of hundreds of other Charity Students, and the same torture is probably going on right now in a forgotten corner of some Guild House. When I think of poor Erek, who chose to commit suicide rather than face another day of his abuse...

Are Lizaveta's methods any worse?

"Think about it, Grimm,” the Prioress said, her voice softer, if still harsh and unpleasant. “I beat you, and you thank me because that is how you were taught to respond to abuse, like a good little automaton. Is that the mark of an enlightened, honourable regime? Can such brutality be overcome with soft words and gentle rebukes? Yes, I am inflexible and stern; it is my only means of changing a system that should be detestable to any right-thinking person.

"You will suffer again tomorrow, and again the day after that, and for as long as is necessary, Grimm. After all, you are a proud, indomitable Mage Questor, are you not? Just ask yourself one question as you writhe in pain: why are you fighting?

"Do you think the Guild loves you? The indoctrination is so strong that even my own son, Thorn, sent you to try to kill me. All I ever did was to try to raise him to the peak of Guild status, to bring about the replacement of a corrupt and perverted establishment that isolates its members from women; half the world's population, dismissed by a lie!"

Grimm gulped. He knew the Guild regulations concerning physical relations between men and women were based on untruth; a mage did not lose his powers after sexual congress. Why did these strictures exist? Surely for no reason other than the total subjugation of Guild men and boys!

Crack!

Grimm raised a trembling hand to his burning left cheek.

"Thank me for that if you wish,” Lizaveta snarled. “You have given your life over to suffering. If that is your desire, I'll give you suffering."

Grimm tried to speak, but he could not. Strong emotion welled within him, threatening to overwhelm him. Drawing great, hacking breaths, he fought to control himself. He waved his hands and screwed his eyes shut; Lizaveta's rhetoric had provoked a greater result than all the pain he had suffered in the previous two days.

"You're just playing with my mind, witch,” he said, almost sobbing.

"Is that so bad?” Lizaveta asked, running her fingers over his bruised face. “Why fight it? I need you to love me so that you will help me achieve my ends, but I bear you no personal animosity." The Prioress’ face looked almost appealing, attractive ... for just a moment. The vision of Drexelica as Lizaveta's indoctrinated, willing slave destroyed the brief image.

"I will fight you to the end of my life, bitch,” he whispered, although he knew his feeble voice lacked conviction. “I will fight you every step of the way."

"That is your privilege, Grimm,” Lizaveta said. “Just remember that a single, heartfelt kiss will stop the pain and the suffering. Did your precious Guild ever offer you that escape?

"I will send food, and I advise you to eat every scrap. If you are as resolute as you say, tomorrow will be hard on you."

With that, she was gone, and Grimm fought the urge to call the Prioress back. I will fight, he thought. I'll beat her yet!

He crushed down the traitorous thought that bubbled up from within: Why?

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 12: Sickness

Seneschal Shakkar's head lolled on his scaly neck. He knew he was close to exhaustion as he approached the southern boundary of Anjar. His right wing had been badly torn in the encounter with the zombies, and he could not sustain flight for long. His legs were designed to ensnare and disembowel prey, not to carry him swiftly over long distances. He also had lost a considerable amount of blood, and he needed frequent rest periods.

He was accustomed to physical wounds healing within a few hours, but the zombies’ claw-gashes remained open, weeping with blood and cloudy fluids. His steps were slow and clumsy; the only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that Baron Grimm and his retinue were now in the power of Prioress Lizaveta, as was Mistress Drexelica.

Of my own free will, I swore an oath to Baron Grimm, he told himself. He has been a friend to me ever since he freed me from Starmor's evil influence. I cannot and will not let him down. Or Sergeant Erik, he thought, forcing his taloned feet to keep moving. Erik has been a good companion and I would prefer him to remain alive. I also admire Tordun; he is a powerful and resourceful fighter. General Quelgrum is an efficient organiser and he motivates his men; Crar would be the poorer without him.

He did not think much of Necromancer Numal, who was no warrior, and he disliked the manner in which Questor Guy had sought to belittle Baron Grimm at every opportunity, but he had no wish to see them dead. Once, he had despised humans, and, out of necessity, he had consumed the flesh of many when he was Starmor's prisoner. Nonetheless, he now saw much to admire in these strange, short-lived creatures; they did not all cower in fear and succumb to domination when threatened, and the demon had seen evidence of nobility, self-sacrifice and honour in several of the frail beings. I will never eat the meat of humans again, he muttered. I will eat grass, earth or stones before I ever consume manflesh again.

He could not admit, even to himself, that he had come to admire humankind, but he acknowledged some admirable qualities on occasion.

These creatures deserve the opportunity to grow and develop, he thought, his lungs burning as he trudged towards a large building. Perhaps they are worth saving, after all.

To Shakkar's surprise, the streets looked deserted; the last time he had seen Anjar, it had been a hive of industry, with scores of Anjarians buying, selling and going about their daily business. As he drew closer to the building, a human emerged from a small side doorway.

"Hold, demon!” the man shouted, from a distance of thirty feet. “Who are you, and what do you want?"

"My name is Shakkar, Seneschal of the Barony of Crar; I beseech your help," The man approached the demon and whistled through his teeth as his eyes fell on Shakkar's suppurating wounds.

"I presume you've fallen foul of the Night Ones,” he said. “I'll ask our resident Healer, Porpitt, to tend to your injuries. He used to be a Guild Mage, and he has some knowledge of the demonic physique." The man extended his right hand to Shakkar, which the demon recognised as a sign of non-confrontation. The Seneschal followed suit, taking the human's appendage in a careful, gentle grip.

"I am Peder Mallion, Mayor of Anjar,” the man said, pumping Shakkar's heavy hand with some difficulty.

“I'm happy to see that your confrontation with the Night Ones was not fatal, but you need medical care."

"I will not argue with that, Mayor Peder,” Shakkar said, “but I must make a few other demands on your time first."

"In good time, Lord Seneschal,” Peder replied. “I insist that Healer Porpitt attend to those gashes first; the Night Ones’ blows cause fatal infections if not treated in time." Shakkar's wounded left leg buckled and he sprawled to the dirt, almost taking Peder with him.

"Very well, Mayor Peder,” he said, his head spinning. “I agree. I am not in quite full fighting condition, and the undead monsters may have infected me with some strange sickness." His head fell back; his neck seemed unwilling to support his weight. “I feel a little strange,” he mumbled.

"I'll assemble a party of men to carry you into the Great House. This can't wait,” the Mayor said, running into the large building at considerable speed.

Shakkar had never suffered a bodily illness before in his life but, now, his heart pounded and his scaly skin grew even colder as weakness flooded through his once-mighty frame. Now, his vision blurred, and he began to mumble in his native demon tongue. The last thing Shakkar saw before blackness took him was the image of his long-dead clutch-mother.

* * * *

Grimm awoke with a start as he heard the key clang in the lock of his cell door.

"Good morning, Questor Grimm,” Prioress Lizaveta said, resplendent in pearl-white robes. “Did you sleep well?"

"Where are your attendants today, Prioress?” he demanded, sitting up with some difficulty. Lizaveta laughed; a sound like gravel being crushed under an iron boot. “They await my call, young mage. I thought it would be pleasant to have a little chat with you before your more ... physical education begins; if that should become necessary."

"You're wasting your time, Lizaveta,” Grimm growled, with a fervour he did not feel. “You may as well summon them right now. I will not betray my House or my Guild!"

"Spoken like a true slave,” the Prioress replied, clapping her hands like a happy child. “Do you enjoy pain? Are you so eager to suffer again, just so your vaunted High Dominie can live like a prince?"

"He resisted your advances, Prioress, as did my grandfather. Should I submit where they did not?" Choler flooded into Lizaveta's cheeks.

"That bloated idiot, Horin,” she said, her words slow and deliberate, “only withstood my magic with your aid. I hoped that your grandfather, Loras, would respond to me without Geomantic persuasion, but he did not.

"Consider my position,” she continued, her eyes gleaming like chips of glass. “I am proud to be a witch; I hail my calling, as you hail yours. Why should I be considered a second-class magic-user because of my sex? Why must I seek respect from within the insipid refuge of religion? Do you think of women as mere baubles, to be displayed on some Guild ornament-shelf?"

Grimm shrugged.

"The question is a reasonable one,” Lizaveta demanded. “Is your only answer a slovenly shrug?"

"I'm not responsible for the way the world is!” Grimm snapped. “Yes, women are treated badly in our society. Can I change that? No!

"Should I then help to tear down the regime which gave me, a disgraced blacksmith's grandson, a sense of self-worth and self-respect? The Guild gave me all you seek, when I had no right to demand it; I won't betray it."

Lizaveta came close to Grimm, until her lined forehead almost touched his. “Should I then abandon my dreams because I should not change what is?

"Answer my question: why should not witches be granted equal respect to their male counterparts? Your beloved Drexelica is a witch, but you prefer to see her as a concubine, do you not; a comfortable pillow, to give you solace and understanding when you return from your arduous travails? When she came here, she was ashamed of her magical legacy. I taxed her, harangued her and bullied her, until she recognised the true power within her.

"Does that sound familiar, Questor Grimm?"

She's twisting words! Grimm thought, trying to find a way to answer the shrivelled woman.

"You just want me to say women are better than men,” he said at last. “That witches are more principled and egalitarian than mages."

"I did not say that!” Lizaveta said, her brows raised. “I just asked you to tell me how you think of women in general and of witches in particular. Is that such a hard question to answer?" Grimm fought to find a suitable riposte, but he found none. However, every moment he forestalled the unwelcome attentions of Lizaveta's lieutenants was another moment of respite, another moment of hope. He knew he must speak.

"Women are oppressed in our society,” he admitted, opening his palms towards the Prioress. “Witches are held in lower regard than Guild Mages; perhaps unfairly. However, I have met only three witches in my life, as far as I know: you, Sister Madeleine and Drex. You condemned my grandfather to a life of misery and self-contempt; Madeleine tried to enslave me and failed, and you killed her; Drex, the love of my life, calls me a despoiler of women, at your command. Should I hail you as a liberator? I don't think so. Just call in your torturers.

"That's all I have to say. Do what you want."

Grimm hoped he had persuaded Lizaveta to talk further, to allow him to regain a little strength, but he knew a sudden shift in allegiance would seem suspect.

The Prioress said, “Madeleine died after I beat her; a weak heart, I suspect. Did your friend, Neophyte Erek, fare any better as a Neophyte Questor—a youth in such despair he took his own life? How many times did you consider suicide during your own Ordeal, Grimm?"

"How did you hear about Erek? Was it pillow-talk from Lord Horin when you held him under your spell?"

"Thorn told me,” Lizaveta replied, with the trace of a smile on her lips. Grimm felt a shock of horror blaze through his body like a flash-fire. He had guessed that Lizaveta had tried to control Thorn, but he had assumed that the Prelate had shaken off the shackles of her control since she disowned him.

"I know what you are thinking, Grimm. You think he resisted me from the first, don't you? I assure you, this defiance is a recent development. He has been telling me Guild and House secrets for years." Grimm nodded, mute; learning from Lizaveta that Thorn was her son had been shock enough, but to think that his Lord Prelate was a traitor to the Guild...

"You're lying,” he said. “Lord Thorn ... I think you tried to control him, but you failed."

"Thorn knew all about what happened to your grandfather."

Grimm felt his eyes bulge.

"Indeed, he benefited from it. He was a full, if unwilling, participant. While my spell held Loras’ will in abeyance, Thorn placed the pillow in his hands. He raised the alarm, so that other mages could witness his heroic rescue of Geral.

"I have owned Thorn's will all his life."

Grimm's world seemed to tumble around him like an ill-built house of cards. The very metaphor brought back vivid memories of his own Questor training, when he had been required to construct such a pasteboard edifice with the power of his mind alone.

This time, more than his pride was at stake.

His hatred had been reserved for Lizaveta alone, ever since he had discovered her part in Loras’

downfall. Now, he had to accept that Lord Thorn, a man in whom he had placed his implicit trust, had betrayed Loras as part of a plot to destabilise the very Guild he claimed to serve. As Grimm fought to rationalise this new learning, he heard a soft rap at the door.

"Enter,” Lizaveta barked, turning her back on him.

The door opened to reveal Sister Judan, who gave a respectful curtsey. “Begging your indulgence, Reverend Mother,” she said. “The pale giant is very sick. He does not respond to the standard healing spells. The sickness is eating him up; I've never seen a disease advance so quickly. I consulted Sister Mercia, Reverend Mother, but even she could not help."

Lizaveta shook her head, and turned back towards Grimm, her face ashen. “Our discussion can wait,”

she said. “I understand you have some knowledge of herbs. Perhaps you would like to minister to your friend?"

The Questor saw deep concern etched into her face.

Grimm's mind reeled. “Why do you care what happens to Tordun, or Erik, or any of us?” he demanded.

“We're all just pawns in your game, aren't we?"

"I dislike needless death, Grimm. Your friends are not essential to my plan, but I do not wish them to die, either."

This woman's just full of surprises, Grimm thought. I'll bet she poisoned Tordun, just to see my reaction. This must be some sort of test.

"Of course I want to help, if I can,” he said. “How far does your largesse extend, Reverend Mother?"

"What do you mean, Questor Grimm?"

"How about healing some of my injuries?” he asked. “I'm not in the best condition to play Healer at the moment."

Lizaveta shrugged. “Of course,” she said.

"I'll need medicinal herbs—I don't know which ones at the moment. I may also need to talk to my other companions."

The Prioress nodded, but did not speak. If she was acting, she was a superb actress!

What's she up to? he wondered, before clarity flashed into his mind: Of course! She doesn't know what it is, and she's worried that it might be contagious! So much for the new, caring Lizaveta!

"You will receive whatever you need, Questor,” the Prioress said in a low voice, and Grimm could swear he heard a tremor of fear in her tone. “This cannot wait."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 13: Contagion

Grimm stared in wonder as his cuts and bruises faded away. He had seen magical healing at work before, but always to the accompaniment of runic chants and hand gestures. Sister Judan did her work in complete silence, her hands still and hovering inches over the centre of his chest as she crouched over him. As he had been bidden, he lay on his back in the middle of the cell, his arms and legs splayed. The aches and pains suffusing his body began to shrink, drawing away from the periphery of his body like ice thawing on a lake. He gasped at a sudden, biting pang under his sternum, but it soon passed.

"There,” Sister Judan said, standing and wiping her forehead with a handkerchief. “You are whole again."

"Thank you, Sister,” he said, marvelling at the absence of pain as he sat up. “You are a miracle-worker!" Judan frowned. “Do not blaspheme, young man!” she reproved him, her voice as prim and affronted as that of the most repressed maiden aunt.

These ladies are a mass of contradictions, he thought. How can somebody engage in torture one moment and be horrified by a few words the next?

"My apologies, Sister,” he said, with just a trace of sarcasm colouring his voice. “I have been under some strain, and my mind must have strayed from my religious sensibilities for a moment." Judan sniffed. “We will attend your poor, sick friend now,” she said. “It is such a shame for a fit young man to be stricken so."

"Kindly lead the way, Sister,” he said, rising to his feet.

Are they all madwomen here? Grimm wondered.

Judan led him out of the cell to the long corridor outside, where Lizaveta waited. Grimm's heart beat faster as he saw Drex standing beside the Prioress.

"I have instructed Sister Weranda to accompany you and ensure your good behaviour,” Lizaveta said.

“Sister Mercia, our resident Herbalist, will be in attendance, and she is not a member of the Score. As far as she is concerned, you are all our honoured guests, and you are not to disabuse her of this belief. Is that understood?"

Grimm raised an eyebrow.

I would have thought a stinking cell and a battered patient would give the game away at least a little, he thought, but he nodded.

"I understand, Reverend Mother. I will tell Sister Mercia that I am here of my own free will."

"I will see to that, Questor Grimm,” Drex said, her face like stone. “You are not to address me except in response to a direct question, and you will keep your filthy hands away from me. If you do not comply, you will soon regret it!"

"Take care, Sister,” Lizaveta said. “Questor Grimm must retain enough freedom of movement to see to the pale man's needs."

Drex curtsied. “As you wish, Reverend Mother."

"Sister Judan; you shall wait outside the door. If anything untoward occurs, it may be necessary to restructure Sister Mercia's memory a little."

"I understand, Reverend Mother,” Judan said, bobbing. “Let us visit the patient." To Grimm's surprise, the older Sister led him past the main row of cells and down a flight of stairs. “The Reverend Mother had the poor man moved to her own quarters—such is her mercy." Grimm nodded.

Of course; Lizaveta's just playing the bounteous hostess.

The mage squinted as the dim illumination of the corridor gave way to the well-lit vestibule outside Lizaveta's private chambers.

Drex brought her mouth close to his right ear. “Just remember, Grimm,” she whispered, “I'll hurt you if you step out of line by a single pace. Prioress Lizaveta's taught me a lot, and I can do all kinds of nasty things to you, if I choose. After what you did to me, I'm just waiting for the chance." We'll see about that, Drex, Grimm thought. I know you're in there somewhere, and I'll bring you back, I swear.

Judan approached the white door and opened it, revealing the marbled splendour of Lizaveta's outer chamber. The mage and the younger nun stepped inside, and Judan closed the door behind them. Drex opened the inner door to the Prioress’ bedchamber. In the plush, silk-covered bed lay the stricken Tordun, and Grimm almost recoiled in horror at the giant albino's grey, mottled face, his roaming, sightless gaze and his matted hair.

Tordun's really sick!

He rushed to the bed, beside which knelt a young woman, her face a mask of worry and compassion, deep lines of concern etched into her features.

"I am Sister Mercia,” the nun said, turning a pair of large, moist, blue eyes towards him. “Can you help us, Lord Mage? I've tried everything I know."

"What can you tell me, Sister?” Grimm asked. “I am no Mage Healer, but I have studied the properties of herbs."

"His body bears several wounds that look as if they came from the claws of an animal,” she said. “An infection is spreading outwards from them and consuming his flesh. I cannot drive out the infection. He has a very high temperature, and I fear he is slipping away. His pulse is fast, but weak."

"Have you tried feverfew or dragon-tail?” he asked, searching his memory for suitable febrifuges.

"Both, Lord Mage,” Mercia said. “I also applied tincture of sea-balm. Nothing seems to work."

"I need to see the wounds,” Grimm said, and the young nun drew back the covers. The mage gagged as a musty stench filled the air. Holding his breath, he leant closer. He saw a series of five black, gaping wounds along the left side of Tordun's ribs, bordered in angry red and exuding pus. They ranged from just above the warrior's left hip to just under his armpit. The smell appalled him: it seemed as if the wounds were growing in length and width as he watched, eating up Tordun's’ muscular body.

This has to be something to do with those undead monsters they faced. It has to be!

Tordun groaned, as if from the depths of some nightmare, and Grimm turned to Drex.

"I need to speak to Necromancer Numal immediately,” he said, his voice firm.

"I will take you, Lord Mage,” Drex said. “Sister Mercia, you stay with the patient."

* * * *

Numal lay back on a straw mattress, but he leapt to his feet as Grimm and Drex entered the noisome cell. His clothes and hair were dishevelled, but he seemed otherwise unhurt.

"It's good to see you, Questor Grimm,” Numal said. “What's the matter with Tordun? I heard he was sick."

"I don't know, Brother Mage,” Grimm said. “I think it must be something to do with your zombie friends; Tordun's blood seems to be poisoned, stemming from the wounds he received fighting them." Numal gulped. “I've heard of that; I was taught to invoke a warding spell whenever dealing with them; something to do with keeping the tainted air away. I'm using one now."

"Tordun's dying,” Grimm said. “What can we do to save him? Do you know anything that may help?" The Necromancer responded with a despairing shrug. “I'm only a Second Rank Necromancer,” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"I didn't ask what you are, Necromancer Numal!” Grimm snapped. “I asked what you know!" The Necromancer nodded. “I'm sorry, Questor Grimm; I didn't mean to be defensive. There is a disease of the blood that can arise from contact with the dead; some kind of corpse-dust. Normally, it's only a problem when inhaled, or if it enters the body through an open wound. It is not contagious. Have no fear on that score. I may be able to help more if I may see Tordun; I was given some training in the treatment of this disease, since it is of great relevance to Necromancers." Grimm turned to Drex. “With your permission, Sister?"

"I suppose it can do no harm,” she said and sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead and closing her eyes, as if in pain. “Do what you must."

Grimm led Numal from the cell without waiting for further response. The two mages hurried along the corridor and down the staircase as quickly as their robes would allow. Sister Judan, standing outside the door to Lizaveta's apartments, frowned. “Who is this, Questor Grimm?

And where is Sister Weranda?"

"This is Necromancer Numal,” the Questor said. “He may be able to help; Sister Weranda gave her permission. She is just behind us."

Judan nodded and waved the two mages through the door as if shooing away flies, putting a hand over her nose and mouth as she did so.

The young nun, Mercia, looked up.

"Numal may have some knowledge that will help to save this man,” Grimm said, indicating his companion. “Numal, this is Sister Mercia."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mage Numal,” the nun said in a small voice. “Are you a Healer?" Numal shook his head. “No, Sister, I'm a Necromancer,” he said, throwing back his cowl and revealing his bone-white, hairless head and dark, sunken eyes.

Mercia started a little, her eyes wide, but she said nothing. Numal drew back the covers to reveal the warrior's ravaged form.

The Necromancer recoiled and looked at Grimm with wide eyes. “This is the disease,” he said, his voice tremulous, “but it should never have advanced so far in such a short period. No Guild Necromancer would raise the dead without taking at least basic precautions; this looks like a Resonance in the spell." The stink of death seemed even worse to Grimm than it had a few minutes before, and he had to fight to retain the contents of his stomach. The red-black, oozing wounds had now blurred into each other, so that he could no longer distinguish where one ended and the next began. He had never felt so helpless in his life, as he gazed in horror at the sight of the proud, valorous warrior twitching on the stained bed.” What can be done, Numal?” he pleaded. “There must be something!" Numal leaned over Tordun once more; perhaps he was more accustomed than Grimm to such smells.

"Certain fungi can help,” he said. “Black Boletus, Bishops’ Agaric or Monks'-cowl."

"I'm sure they don't grow in this region, Lord Mage,” Sister Mercia said, her eyes moist. “Are there any herbs which could provide a cure?"

Numal straightened up and faced the nun. “I don't know,” he confessed. “I'm no Herbalist, I'm afraid. Even the fungi don't cure the condition; they just strengthen the patient so his own bodily processes can fight it."

Grimm thought back to his youthful studies of plants in the Arnor House Scholasticate Library. “What are the signatures of the fungi you mentioned, Numal?” he said. “I know herbs." Numal licked his lips and scratched his bald pate. “Um ... the primary attributes are ‘bitter', ‘frangible’

and ... ‘fumiferous', if I remember correctly,” he said. “Secondaries include ‘clarificatory',

‘spirit-strengthening’ and—what is it?—ah, yes, ‘forceful'. I don't know the tertiary attributes; I haven't gone that far yet. They're complex rune sequences, and I couldn't hope to invoke them without months of dedicated study."

Grimm clenched his fists in frustration. All mages other than Questors relied on complex sequences of runes with which to accomplish their spells; Questors only had to visualise a spell's effects in order to be able to cast it.

His right hand strayed towards a small pouch hanging around his neck by a leather cord. He looked down at the bag of herbs, which he had carried with him ever since his deliverance from the vile addiction he had suffered after defeating the demon Baron, Starmor, on his first Quest. He had only defeated the emotion-hungry Starmor by using one herb, Trina, to dull his emotions, and another, Virion, to strengthen his sense of purpose. He had sworn never to take either of the potent herbs’ smoke again since his addiction; how could he consider the possibility of leaving another in their thrall?

He knew both herbs had medicinal applications, but he had no idea of the required dosage; perhaps Sister Mercia would know better.

I must act quickly! he thought. Tordun's dying!

"Dried Virion matches the primary and secondary attributes, Sister,” he said, resolved to do whatever it took to arrest this terrible disease in his friend and companion. “Do you know the proper dosage for such a substance, applied as smoke?"

Mercia shook her head. “The application of psychoactive substances is forbidden within the Order, Lord Mage,” she said. “Nothing is allowed which might interfere with a Sister's religious conscience. Such herbs are proscribed, although I know something of them from my former life in the World."

"Tordun is dying,” Grimm replied, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable. “He is not of your Order, and Virion may be his only hope. Will you let him die?"

The nun sighed. “I cannot allow an honoured guest to die,” she said, shaking her head. “A quantity of dried Virion sufficient to cover a thumbnail is the normal pharmaceutical dose, I believe." Grimm blinked; he had used a whole handful of the substance, since he had had no idea of the effective quantity; such information was not included in the House literature.

Mercia took a small, ceramic crucible from a pocket in her robes. “Do you have fire?” she asked. “I have no flint."

The Questor raised his right hand, but he then remembered the restrictions placed upon him; he could not cast magic without the ensorcelled Drex's permission. He turned around, but she was not in the room. As he opened his mouth, he heard a distant, muffled cry, almost a scream: “Sister Weranda is diseased!

She has the sickness!” The voice was distant, but the words acted as an imperative on the Questor. His mouth dry and his heart pounding, Grimm turned to Numal, tearing the bag from his neck and tossing it to the Necromancer, who caught it clumsily. “You can cast Fire, can't you, Numal? Just do it! Use the dark grey herb, not the yellow one."

Without waiting for an answer, he ran from Lizaveta's rooms, up the stairs and along the corridor, to see Sister Judan standing over the slumped figure of Drex. Grimm's heart surged, and he gasped at the sight of his lover's flushed, expressionless face.

"Where is Prioress Lizaveta?” Grimm demanded. “I need to talk to her!" Judan raised a teary, blotched face towards him, damning him with her eyes. “We are locked in!” she said. “There is no way out of here; we are all going to die! I hope you are happy with the Names’

judgement on your filthy ways!"

The nun raised her right arm, allowing her long sleeve to slide down. The angry, red marks on her triceps showed the incipient path of the disease that had already begun to claim Tordun and Drex. Grimm fell to his knees, giving way to his emotions, sobbing at his utter inability to affect the situation. All his mighty Questor powers could not stop the march of the virulent germs the Prioress had unwittingly released.

"Damn Lizaveta!” he screamed. “This is her fault, for playing with powers she didn't understand! Damn you! Damn your bloody Order!"

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 14: Motivation

Grimm took a series of deep breaths, fighting to quash his inner fear and anger as he knelt on the corridor's cold flagstones.

Think, Afelnor! Are you just going to surrender without a fight?

He thought back to what Magemaster Crohn had barked at him when he was still learning to control his new powers: “You do not need one spell for this, one spell for that, and another for the third Wednesday in June! You are a Questor!"

That was his strength, but it was also his weakness; he had no idea of the sickness affecting Drex, Tordun and Sister Judan, so he could not visualise any spell that might act upon it. He looked up to see Sister Judan on her knees beside him, her hands clasped, her eyes closed and her lips moving without sound. A little further on lay the prostrate figure of Drex, moist, pink lines showing through the back of her white robe as she moaned. Tears prickled at the margins of his eyes, but he could not seem to put his mind to work on the problem at hand.

Perhaps Judan's praying to whatever goddess the nuns of the Anointed Score worship, he thought. I suppose that's as good as anything I can do...

No! I won't wait here for some malign fate to sweep me up like a twig in a hurricane!

He stood up.

"Sister Judan."

Judan did not react.

"Sister Judan!” His voice cracked like a whip; the nun opened her eyes and looked up.

"What is it, Thaumaturge?” she said, her mouth twisting at the generic term for a male magic-user, as if she had been forced to utter an obscenity. “Can you not just accept what is and leave me to put my spiritual affairs in order? The pain grows worse by the minute; I will not live much longer. I hope your own death is worse than mine, for all the misery you and your kind have visited on the world."

"Charming sentiments!” Grimm snapped. “This filthy disease may have been caused by your own Prioress playing with Necromancy, using powers she did not comprehend!"

"Mere supposition, mage,” Judan replied. “What do you want? Or do you just enjoy robbing women of their spiritual serenity in their final hours?"

"I want you to open the other cells, Sister,” the Questor said, ignoring Judan's rhetorical question. “I have no intention of giving up and dying, and I must consult my imprisoned friends." The Sister crossed her hands over her breastbone. “I will do nothing to help you, Questor. The keys are secreted in my bosom. Take them if you dare, and prove yourself a despoiler of women. I will fight you and scratch you; then, we will see how long you remain unaffected by this rotting plague!" Grimm stepped back three paces, eying the Sister's hands and noting her long, sharp-looking fingernails, each extending an inch or more from the end of its associated digit. A scratch on the face from any one of these could seal his fate in short order if, as he assumed, the illness struck its victims through broken flesh.

"I do not need to sully your pristine body with my hands, Sister,” he said, smiling. “I can take the keys from you with the power of my mind alone, ripping them through the material of your bodice, and I will do so if you refuse me. I promise not to look."

Judan narrowed her eyes like those of an alley-cat cornered by a brace of hungry dogs, and she cast her eyes around as if seeking an escape route.

Then the nun smiled. “You can cast no magic without permission,” she reminded him. “Your threat is hollow."

Grimm knew his Geomantic prohibition was caused by his link with Drex, and she seemed in no condition to maintain such a powerful spell.

"K'chuk!"

Just a pinch of power, just a fragment of his spell-language was all it took to kindle a cool, blue flame on the tip of his right index finger, and he smiled, holding up the ensorcelled digit.

"I think not,” he said. “I advise you to reconsider. I can think of a dozen ways to kill you before you can make peace with whatever dark deity you worship."

Staring at the small flame, Judan grasped a cord around her neck and lifted a bunch of keys from between her breasts, flinging it at him as if throwing a javelin. He resisted the impulse to catch it, stepping swiftly aside to let it clatter to the floor; there was no sense in risking an infected cut from the keys’ sharp edges.

"Thank you, Sister,” he said, bending to pick it up. “Enjoy your meditation." Wait! his hind-brain screamed, as he hefted the key-ring. If the others are injured, they may be exposed to the disease if I open the doors!

Changing his mind, Grimm raced along the corridor and down the stairs to Lizaveta's chamber. Tordun still lay in the ridiculous, pink-upholstered bed, with Sister Mercia and Necromancer Numal in attendance, but the stench of Tordun's advancing illness seemed to have lost a little of its edge. Numal, crouched to the right of the bed, looked up. “Virion seems to have had some effect,” he said, with a lopsided smile. “It hasn't eradicated the disease, but it seems to have at least delayed it. He's still a very sick man, but we've won some time; I don't know how much."

"How many doses do we have?” Grimm asked. He knew the little pouch had held little more than a generous pinch of the potent herbs.

"Four ... maybe five,” Numal said, shrugging. “This plague doesn't appear to have affected me or Sister Mercia. Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to be all-powerful."

Grimm glanced at the young nun. Her eyes were closed as she prayed, and her face was pale, but she appeared to be in good health. He guessed that either Mercia's skin was unmarked, or Numal's ward extended far enough to include her in its protection. On the other hand, Mercia was in the room before he released Numal...

Enough of this! he thought. Drex is dying, and I don't want to expose the others to this hell-plague!

"I need your warding spell, Numal,” Grimm said. “I want to let the others out, and I don't want them to catch it."

Numal scratched his bald head. “I can write it down, if you have ink and a parchment."

"I don't. But, if you'll let me use my Sight, I may be able to work out what it does." Numal shrugged. “Feel free, Grimm,” he said, “but I haven't had much sleep recently. I'm not sure how accurate Sight would be, and a miscast could be disastrous. It's too risky, if you ask me." A miscast could topple the mightiest of mages other than Questors, and Numal was no magical titan. Grimm could not risk it ... could he? He felt time slipping away as he struggled with indecision; a luxury he could ill afford.

Action, now! he chided himself.

"Sister Mercia,” he said in a gentle voice, turning away from the useless Numal. The nun opened her eyes and unclasped her hands. “Yes, Questor Grimm?"

"Sister Weranda and Sister Judan are sick,” he said. “Will you please administer the herbal smoke to them at once?"

He hesitated at the thought of using his dwindling supply of Virion on Judan, but he could not bring himself to allow her to rot away in agony.

"At once, Lord Mage,” Mercia said, rising to her feet and taking the small bag from the foot of Tordun's—Lizaveta's—bed. “Will you cast the flame?"

"Use the torches,” Grimm advised. “I need to talk to Necromancer Numal for a while. Please be frugal with the leaves; we may need them for others. Breathe in the smoke yourself. We can't afford to lose you!"

"I understand, Lord Mage,” the nun said, her lips crinkling in a brave smile. “We'll beat this illness, somehow, I'm sure.” In a moment, she was gone.

The Questor's heart went out to her.

Poor girl, he thought. I'll bet she knows next to nothing about the evil that goes on here, or about this disease, but she maintains her composure. She seems to believe in me for some reason. I wish I could.

Tordun's breathing had eased a little, and his skin had lost some of its former blue-grey tint. He appeared far from healthy, but he seemed, at least, stable.

"Numal,” he said. The Necromancer started and looked back at him, his eyes wide and expectant. Grimm stifled a groan. I hoped Numal would take the lead here, he thought. Instead, he seems to expect me to perform some bloody miracle!

"We may have found a little respite,” he said, choosing his words with care, “a little time to think. We need it. Lizaveta has locked us in here, to prevent the infection spreading further. We're on our own." Numal's jaw dropped, and Grimm feared the Necromancer would lose control, but the older man just nodded.

"I understand, Questor Grimm,” he said in a quiet voice. “What is your plan?"

"I don't have one,” Grimm said, through clenched teeth. “I hoped you'd be able to shed some light on the problem."

Numal stood up, his face crimson with rage or embarrassment; Grimm could not tell which.

"Why me?” he demanded, his fists clenched. “I'm only—"

"I'm fed up of hearing what you're only, Numal! You are a Guild Mage! I don't want excuses, rationales or reasons for what you can't do! I want you to tell me what you can do!

"I'm out of ideas, my friend. Tell my something about this disease: ideas, opinions, anything!" Grimm sighed.

"I won't open the cell doors for the moment,” he said. “It was a stupid idea, bred out of panic; I've no idea what this miasma can do, and I don't want to expose our friends to it. I wanted you to show me your warding spell, so we can prevent them from catching the infection in the first place; you don't want to miscast, so I guess that's out of the question.

"Why don't you come up with a few ideas for a change?” he demanded, “I'm asking you to help me, Numal; I'm out of ideas!"

"You're a Seventh Rank Questor!” Numal snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. “What can a lowly Second Rank Specialist hope to contribute, if you're stumped?"

"You're a Mage Necromancer, Numal,” Grimm replied “This disease may concern those zombies that attacked you. That sounds like your bailiwick, now, doesn't it? I'm not asking you to perform a miracle. I just want you to think! The Virion fumes will work for forty-five minutes at most. I want us to come up with a plan of action before that time elapses. So let's get to it!" Grimm did not feel ready to tell the Necromancer of his addiction to Virion after the defeat of Starmor on his first Quest; he knew that he must appear strong and indomitable, at least for the moment, if he were to motivate the jittery mage.

"You told me the disease was not contagious,” he said. “Can you tell me why this variant is so active?" Numal shrugged. “I was evidently wrong,” he said, his lips extending into a sulky pout. “I'm sorry." We don't have time for this! the Questor thought, clenching his fists. We're going to squabble like fractious children for hours at this rate.

"Stop acting like a damned adolescent, Numal!” he said, frowning. “I don't want blame, accusations or excuses—I'm trying to come up with some data on which we can work. In your opinion as a Mage Necromancer, why is this disease so different from the ailment you described? The effects are the same, but it progresses much faster. Why might that be so?"

Numal's face was still blank; he looked more like a village idiot than a Guild Mage. How on Earth did a man this obtuse ever win the Guild ring? he wondered.

"Do you know how to animate a corpse, even if you can't do it yourself?"

"It depends.” Numal sighed. “There's a Third Rank spell for animating a body dead for less than two hours, a Fifth Rank spell for corpses up to a week old, and a Seventh Rank spell for rotted creatures or skeletons."

Now we we're getting somewhere! Grimm thought.

"In what condition were the creatures that attacked you, Numal?" The older mage's eyes rolled. “Oh, they were long gone,” he said. “All of them were pretty far gone, and most were just skeletons. Only Seventh Rank magic and a huge amount of power could have animated all of them."

The Questor nodded. “Do you know why each type of cadaver needs a different spell?” he asked. “Is a different principle involved for each?"

Numal began to give his usual, non-committal gesture but then stopped in mid-shrug, his face clearing.

“There is, Grimm!” he said, wide-eyed, in a sudden access of enthusiasm. “I see what you're getting at here. The easiest spell involves accessing the intact nervous system, before corruption takes hold. The Fifth Rank magic requires the mage to insert intricate webs of force in place of the decayed nerves. The ultimate spell involves the mage extending a field of energy from his soul, animating the dead matter.

"If disease germs were affected, there's no telling..."

The Necromancer's voice faltered for a moment, and his face fell. “No, that's not the answer. The full spell is selective. Corruptive influences aren't included in the animation." Despite his worry, Grimm smiled, and he patted the older mage's left shoulder in encouragement. “It wasn't a Thaumaturgic spell, Numal,” he said. “It was Geomantic. I suspect Lizaveta wasn't sufficiently careful in her application, and she energised the disease agents along with the corpses, making them more virulent. Does that make sense?"

Numal nodded slowly. “I suppose it does. Necromancy is a difficult discipline, and we're barred from any unauthorised research.

"Still, how does that help us, Questor Grimm? Even if we know what's going on, we're no closer to finding the answer to the sickness."

It was Grimm's turn to shrug. “I'm not sure,” he said, “but I think I have the ghost of an idea." He sighed. “I wish I hadn't said that; I don't think I'm going to enjoy this at all." As a bemused-looking Numal looked on, Grimm sank to the floor in a cross-legged stance of meditation and began to chant.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 15: The Inner Light

Grimm was familiar now with the techniques of Astral Projection, but he had never before considered what he was about to attempt. He guessed that Lizaveta's spell had given the disease germs a form of sentience. If he was wrong, if he had failed to take into account any one of a number of relevant factors, then Drex and Tordun would be condemned to a creeping, agonising death; however, this was his only plan, and he was determined to try it.

He felt the familiar lurch and brief moment of disorientation as his spirit left his body. He looked down from the ceiling to see his body, eyes closed, sitting cross-legged on the floor. That's the easy bit, he thought. Now, it gets ... interesting.

Spirit-Grimm regarded the stricken albino, assessing the crimson-black gashes that stood in stark contrast to the warrior's otherwise livid skin.

Yes ... just there!

He willed himself to shrink, as he had done when facing the disembodied, insane mage, Garropode, within the brain of the dream-dragon, Gruon. The infected area on the albino's flesh appeared to grow, looking now like a vast chasm in a desert of snow. Still he shrank, further and further... Single hairs now stood like scaly, curving, translucent tree-trunks, rising from islands of pale pink. Then, the descending spirit saw only the wound's steep walls, exuding heavy, bulging, straw-yellow droplets. Spirit-Grimm headed for one of these, imagining he felt a brief moment of tension before he popped into the yellow globe.

This is the true battleground for Tordun's life, he thought, remembering his lessons in Basic Healing. The germ theory of disease was one artefact from the reign of Science that had survived the Guild's ruthless suppression of the ancient arts, and Grimm was familiar with it.

He knew he needed to shrink further to distinguish the tiny combatants in this life-and-death struggle, and he maintained his remorseless diminution of scale. The pale liquid became viscid and mucilaginous, but spirit-Grimm's insubstantial form felt no impediment or pressure as he continued to decrease in size. Had he possessed his mortal senses and emotions, he might have felt terrified at this dizzying descent into the invisible, but he knew only determination, empowering him, driving him on and in. Now, the formless fluid began to clear, as enmeshed tendrils and motes came into view, and spirit-Grimm tried to make sense of the scene: a frenzied dance of particles with gelatinous, translucent, blue blobs swimming into view and fading to grey as they tangled with a greater number of green, barbed cylinders, which writhed and multiplied as he watched, lengthening and splitting into two, four, eight, sixteen ... an inexorable, exponential increase.

Spirit-Grimm stopped shrinking and floated in the midst of the microscopic battlefield, surveying the conflict that was killing his friend. The blue fighters tried to envelop the invaders, but the attackers seemed to shimmer and slip from their grasp, shooting sharp, whip-like tendrils into the hapless defenders, killing them before moving on to fly upwards and outwards. A hundred, a thousand, ten thousand valiant sentries died before him in moments. The blue warriors came in a dazzling variety of shapes and forms, trying to subsume the green assailants, but they were too slow; the tiny, mindless soldiers were helpless in the face of the invaders’ ruthless, ever-changing strategies. The battle was more one-sided than any in the bloody history of humankind, and the corporeal Grimm might have felt horror at the microscopic carnage. However, his spirit body felt only wonder at the intricacies of the mortal drama unfolding before him.

There!

Life, control, self-determination; animalistic and cunning, remorseless... Spirit-Grimm reached towards one of the rapacious, green cylinders. Despite his tiny size, he had all the Guild-honed willpower of a Mage Questor; the battle of wills was over in a moment. You are mine, he commanded. The tiny creature struggled for the briefest of moments and ceased its depredations.

We are going on a journey, he told the mindless creature. Up!

Spirit-Grimm flew up from the battlefield, carrying his green prisoner with him at an acceleration that would have crushed any mortal being to paste in an instant. The precipitous valley now lay far below him, and spirit-Grimm began to search for a specific tendril of thought: an emotion; a concept; a direction... Now, there was only purpose: a distant goal, towards which he flew at the speed of thought. A vertical field of vast peaks and valleys stopped him, as if a chain of mountains had been tipped on its side. He saw countless green creatures batter themselves to death on the rutted surface as they sought fresh victims. Others rebounded, flying off in new directions.

However, spirit-Grimm guessed he had one sense they lacked; he still felt the weak but insistent tug of gravitation, even if it did not discommode him. The air felt as thick as broth, buoying up his prisoner, but the nagging, ever-present force gave him a sense of position.

This must be the door to the main stairwell, he thought. Ah, here we are!

A mighty, ragged chasm appeared, devoid of the microscopic, unintelligent warriors; it seemed that they had no concept of true strategy. Like hungry wasps, they flew only towards the scent of prey: wet, bleeding, human flesh. If denied, they battered themselves against their barrier, or sought another, more accessible victim.

Spirit-Grimm felt the pull of another sense: the signature of the mortal soul he sought. He dashed through the dense, hazy medium of the air without restriction, seeking his goal. Twists, turns, precipitous dives and climbs; he followed the unmistakable spoor of his prey without hesitation, pursuing his quarry, following the steep gradient of mortal awareness. At last, a craggy, vertical plain stood before him, pulsating and swaying, and Grimm guessed this was Lizaveta's face.

How do these things know where to attack? spirit-Grimm wondered.

He began to shrink further, entering the germ, becoming one with its primitive, alien, magic-stimulated intelligence.

Naked desire, akin to an all-consuming hunger, was all the minuscule life-form knew, shocking in its intensity.

We must eat, he thought, feeling the primitive creature's basic drives and desires, becoming one with it. He took the germ's bright surge of energy as affirmation.

A faint, metallic sensation, red and moist, entered his sensorium. Was it olfactory, visual or tactile? The strange feeling seemed to fall into none of these convenient categories, but it was strong, nonetheless. Flailing its long tentacles, the germ tried to take him away from the Prioress, but the Questor's spirit insisted, No, no; here, my friend; we must find a closer target.

Had spirit-Grimm possessed teeth, he would have ground them; the creature's drive and passion was phenomenal for any being, let alone such a tiny one. Nevertheless, after a period of frenzied thrashing, the germ seemed to acquiesce, allowing the mage's shade to steer it around the titanic, fleshy edifice. We scent an opening!

It was faint but discernable; the sensation was weaker than before, but it grew undeniably stronger, as spirit-Grimm let the hungry, green being choose its own path. Still, he saw nothing, but the germ seemed to have located some blemish or contusion in the Prioress’ skin. Down they went, faster and faster through the dense air, and the spirit-mage at last saw a yellow-red crater coming into view, starkly delineated in the rugged, magnified landscape. Larger and larger it grew, until it assumed the dimensions of a vast volcano. The germ shot its spiny tentacles forward. With a distinct pop, spirit-Grimm knew he was in the Prioress’ body.

The green creature surged inwards, seeking sustenance to aid it in its reproduction, but the astral mage stayed it.

Not yet, he thought. Soon, my friend; soon we can eat.

Lizaveta; can you hear us?

A sense of shock: another mind, strong and implacable.

Afelnor! You are foolish to confront me so, in my own domain—

The alien mind dripped with vengeance, hatred and horror.

We are not alone, witch, spirit-Grimm thought. We have brought one of the disease-creatures with us. You may be able to crush our mind, as you did our grandfather's, and we invite you to try. If we die, this tiny, isolated being, animated through your own, botched spell, will revert to type: attacking you, multiplying and adapting to your body's defences. You live only because we will it. You may die in agony, if you wish; you and all your flock. Otherwise, we advise you to heed us. After a long pause, spirit-Grimm sensed Lizaveta's thought-processes blazing and swirling; trying, no doubt, to find some way out of her predicament.

Think quickly, witch, he pulsed. Our friend hungers for human flesh, and we find him ever more difficult to control as time goes on.

Feeling the creature's ravenous rage strengthening, he passed the sensation on to Lizaveta. What do you want?

The distant mind's turmoil subsided to the heavy, turbid rippling of resignation, tinged with a little fear. You must return your undead warriors to whence they came. Cancel your animation spell; that is what makes the disease so unstoppable. Once you have done that, we can talk further. Just remember; the least trace of treachery, and we unleash the disease. Even if our companion loses its former virility, it has us to guide it. We have seen its strategies, and we know its secrets. We can re-animate this single cell in an instant, as you did, and the result will be as if you did nothing, even if you destroy our physical or astral form.

After a few moments, spirit-Grimm saw golden motes of magic drifting upwards, and he felt the germ's uncanny fervour fade to a low, inchoate want. All traces of intelligence had left the tiny being, which no longer struggled against his restraint, and whose colour faded from vibrant green to a dull grey. The sense of ‘we', a single, combined entity, had gone.

I have done as you ordered. Do you want more?

Yes. You will send messengers to the lower levels at once, to tell Sister Mercia that the disease can now be controlled by her standard methods. You will ensure that Drexelica and warrior Tordun are healed first. Sister Judan is also affected, as may be others of my party; you are to heal them all, without exception.

Spirit-Grimm detected a swaying, tumbling motion, but he felt unaffected by it; he knew only a distant, vague satisfaction at the thought that Lizaveta seemed to be obeying his commands. Comply with my demands and I will destroy the germ, he shot into the Prioress’ mind, but remember, Reverend Mother, if you or your minions destroy my mortal body, I will still have sufficient time to remind my tiny friend of his former mission before I die. It will take me the merest fraction of a mortal heartbeat. In my present form, death holds no fear for me.

More trembling and shaking ensued as the Prioress moved around.

I have passed on your orders, Questor. Now I have fulfilled your requirements, will you destroy the disease agent and quit my mind?

Not yet, spirit-Grimm thought. I intend to leave here with all my companions, including Drex. Not Sister Weranda, your slave, but the woman I love.

Impossible, the Prioress snapped, her answering thought cracking like a whip. Such a thing cannot be done in an instant. I will let you leave with your companions, but I doubt Sister Weranda will wish to go with you.

Spirit-Grimm cogitated for a few moments. Then you may cast a Geas on her to compel her to come, and to refrain from using her magic on me except when I ask her to; I know you can do this. That could take hours, Lizaveta responded. Can you control that ... thing for so long?

Spirit-Grimm knew he could not, as he felt the insistent tug of the silver cord binding him to his body. His physical form needed him back, and soon.

I have no desire to end up a wandering spirit, he thought, but what can I do? If I give up now, she will find some way to trick me. It's not worth the risk.

He assessed the energy-carrying capabilities of the shining cord; he had used minimal amounts of magical energy so far, but he felt he had to try. The pragmatic, driven spirit began to draw his physical mind's power into it as quickly as possible, hoping the cord would hold.

It did.

What are you doing, mage? the witch demanded.

Spirit-Grimm needed no mortal words to pattern his power.

Ensuring you keep your promise, Lizaveta. This is something I should have done long ago, but never had the chance to do.

After a blinding flash, spirit-Grimm found himself flying backwards, expanding at an ever-increasing rate. With a bump, Grimm was again.

His first sensations were of numb legs and an aching back, but he knew it was better to be alive and hurting than to be a lost soul. He fell backwards and opened his eyes to see Numal standing over him.

"Grimm!” the Necromancer said, helping the Questor to sit up. “It's good to see you back. Sister Mercia's methods seem to be working at last!"

"How are Drex and Tordun, Numal?"

"They're still sick, but the disease seems to abate almost as quickly as it came. All the cells are open, and the Sister's making sure nobody else is infected. Isn't that good news?" Grimm managed to stand, aided by the Necromancer. Tordun's former, gaping wounds seemed to shrink as he watched, and the grey tone of the giant albino's skin had fadeed from grey to its normal, healthy pallor.

The younger mage smiled. “Very good news, Necromancer Numal,” he said. “Now, I must see Drex."

"I'll take you,” the older mage said, with an answering grin, escorting the Questor to the door. “What did you say to Lizaveta to change her mind over locking us in?"

"I appealed to her better instincts,” Grimm said, wincing as the blood returned to his legs. “Then, I found out she didn't have any, so I changed her mind permanently."

"A Geas? A Compulsion?” the older man queried, as they reached the stairwell.

"No; I just turned a little light on,” Grimm said. “I—"

He and Numal started at the distant sound of a horrified, feminine scream. “I think somebody's just found her,” he said. “She's dead, Numal."

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Chapter 16: Happy Ever After

Grimm heard a second scream, louder than the first, tinged with hysteria, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck bristling. As a spirit entity, he had terminated the Prioress’ life without compunction, knowing that he needed to return to his body, and that any kind of compact or deal with her would be betrayed, but he now felt a vague, growing sense of unease. Numal did not hesitate, running up the stairs. Now that sensation and strength had at last returned to Grimm's legs, he followed the Necromancer. Nuns seemed to be running from every direction, hurrying through the doorway to a large, marbled hall. Grimm and Numal stopped in their tracks, cut off by the stampede of white, starched robes.

"It's good to see you well, Baron Grimm,” a familiar voice shouted behind the mage. “What in Perdition is going on? A nun came to open the cells, and then we heard those screams." Grimm spun around to see General Quelgrum and Sergeant Erik approaching, and he smiled, relieved that his companions appeared to have been spared the dread plague.

"I'm glad to see you're unhurt, General, Sergeant,” Grimm said. “I killed Lizaveta with a burst of energy from inside her body. Don't ask how,” he continued, waving his raised hands as the General's mouth opened to speak. “It's a long story. I don't know what happened, but it seems to have been pretty effective."

The stream of running women lessened, and Grimm said, “I want to see the effects of my handiwork." His tone was more callous than he had intended; his returning emotions screamed that he had killed an old woman, no matter how misguided or malevolent. Grimm had done what he had felt was necessary, but he did not like it.

Nonetheless, he had to know he had succeeded.

"Is that wise?” Numal asked. “Most of the nuns won't know who we are or why we're here and there may be some of Lizaveta's acolytes around."

"The Anointed Score,” Grimm replied, nodding. “The Prioress herself couldn't beat me, even when they took my magic. Now I have it back, they would do better to stay out of my way." With a confident stride, he led the way into the large hall, towards the throng of nuns clustered in the centre. Some wept, others bore twisted expressions of horror, and some wore blank, uncomprehending expressions, but none of them noticed the ragged-robed Questor merging with the crowd. He heard brief, hushed snatches of conversation from the horde of nuns: “...some kind of brainstorm ... a tragedy ... awful ... what shall we do?

At last, he drew close enough to see the fallen figure, and he gulped, grimacing as he fought to retain the contents of his stomach. His head spun as he saw what had once been a living, breathing woman. Lizaveta's dull eyes bulged from their sockets. Her head lay in a wet, ruddy lake. A few curved, pale sticks sprung from the red-stained robe, and Grimm realised they were ribs, thrust through the chest wall by the energy volcano that had erupted within her body. An engorged, brown tongue extended from between the lips of the corpse.

Grimm could stand no more. His head spinning, he turned tail and fled whence he had come, drawing whooping breaths as he pushed his way through the throng of nuns, straight past Numal and Quelgrum, shaking his head, speechless with horror at what he had done. He ran headlong back down the stairs towards Lizaveta's chamber and sat at their foot, trying to collect his thoughts.

"I had to do it,” he muttered, trying to convince himself that those shattered remains in the hall were the result of a justifiable act. “She didn't suffer; it was quick, almost instantaneous. I took the only chance I was ever going to get to beat her. She deserved to die; sooner or later, I would have been convinced I needed to kill Horin so that Guy could take over. After what she did to Drex..." Drex!

This spell had been ugly, but more merciful than the fate the Prioress had in mind for him. However, as a result of that impulsive, instinctive act, Drex might continue to hate him. He doubted that she could control him as she had, denied the support of the Prioress’ mighty Geomantic power, but the knowledge that she would continue to hate and oppose him was almost unbearable. However long it took, he swore he would bring her back ... somehow. The vow gave him new purpose, sustaining him. As he rose to his feet, he heard footsteps behind him and turned around to see the green-clad figures of General Quelgrum and Sergeant Erik.

"That was messy, Lord Grimm,” the officer said, “but unavoidable."

"I know, General, but it was disgusting, and it threw me for a minute. I'm all right now. I just want to see how Drex and Tordun are."

The General frowned. “We'll have to leave them here, Lord Baron. We should make our exit while we still can."

"I'm not abandoning Drex,” Grimm replied, his voice low and intense, “and I won't leave Tordun here to become some mindless slave or puppet. Thribble's around here somewhere, too, and I mean to find him." Quelgrum's lowered brows showed no sign of conciliation. “Noble sentiments, Lord Baron: I wish I could echo them. However, the Sisters won't stay stunned forever. Sooner or later, the Score will come for us, and we'll be back where we started. We have no weapons, no transport and no chance of finding any.

"I insist we leave now, while we still have the chance!"

The old man's eyes gleamed like chips of black diamond.

"All right,” Grimm said. “You, Erik and Numal may leave now. I'm almost sure I can handle the Score if they come knocking, and I won't leave the others behind."

"What about Questor Guy, Lord Mage?” Erik asked.

"What about Guy?” Grimm demanded. “For all we know, he's already—" He stopped, seeing a familiar, black-robed figure standing at the top of the stairs. The General and the Sergeant turned to face Guy Great Flame, behind whom stood a white-faced Numal.

"Taking my name in vain, eh, Dragonblaster? So you thought you'd leave me here, did you? That's no way to treat a brother Questor."

Grimm's eyes narrowed. He did not trust Guy an inch, and he had no idea what wiles Lizaveta might have worked on her favoured grandson. He considered direct confrontation but decided against it. He engaged his Mage Sight, seeing in Guy's aura shades of mendacity, disdain and contempt—in other words, just what he expected to see. He saw no sign of unfamiliar hues that might indicate the grip of Geomantic ensorcelment, but he now knew this most basic of mage skills was not an infallible guide.

"I'm glad you're safe, Questor Guy,” he said at last. He refused to be drawn by Guy's taunting, teasing sneer, which reminded him of his Scholasticate nemesis, Shumal.

"Don't worry on my behalf, youngster,” the Great Flame said. “I've been well-treated since I've been here. I just told my ever-present Sisters whatever they wanted to hear. Yes, I'd like to be Dominie some day, when I'm old, doddering and grey, but I'll make a lot more money as a Questor—" Guy stopped in mid-speech, and he gaped. “You really thought I'd gone over to her side, didn't you?” he said, his eyes wide. “That was touching faith in your brother mage, I must say! I'll have you know that I like being a Seventh Rank Mage Questor; it keeps me in good clothes, good food and good wine.

"Dear Grandma always thought she could turn me around her little finger, ever since I was young, but I always knew the right things to say. I thought I'd have a nice little sinecure as a paid Student, and she sent me to the Guild as a bloody Charity case. I suffered plenty, Dragonblaster, as you did, and I'm not about to give up a lucrative, hard-earned career as a Questor to satisfy her insane lust for power. I know you don't like me, youngster, but I'm not about to change for you or anyone else! Oh, well, kiss my arse or go to Hell; I'm off."

Guy spun on his heel and began to walk away.

"Questor Guy!” Grimm felt an unexpected surge of kinship with the independent, headstrong mage. He had no brother or sister, and he felt the absence of that close relationship. Although he would have hated Guy as his sibling, Grimm still felt a link with him, as someone who had faced the same Ordeal he had. He knew Lizaveta could be subtle, but he had no reason to disbelieve the proud Questor.

"What is it, Dragonblaster?” Guy demanded, turning around. “Do you want to kiss me? Not my style, I'm afraid; fancy a little match-up outside, instead?"

Now, that's just pure Guy, Grimm thought. I hate to acknowledge it, but he's a Questor, after all; perhaps he really has resisted whatever Lizaveta threw at him. After all, I did.

"Not right now, Great Flame,” he said. “Just take care of yourself until we can meet up in a more congenial location. Then, I'll give you a fight to remember!"

"Sounds good to me, Dragonblaster. I wouldn't miss it for the world. It's a date." Guy winked and blew a kiss over his shoulder as he left, heading for the main hall. Grimm shook his head in perplexity. The older mage's sudden mood swings seemed bizarre, but, perhaps, the Questor Ordeal affected people in different ways; this might just be the Great Flame's way of dealing with the lingering after-effects of his own torments.

"General Quelgrum; Sergeant Erik; Necromancer Numal,” the Questor said. “I want you to go back to Anjar and wait for me. I have a few errands still to do."

Without waiting for an answer, Grimm marched down the corridor to the cell block; he wanted to see Drex, no matter what her reaction to him might be. All the doors were open, and, in the fifth cell on the left—his own former prison—he saw Sister Mercia crouched over a pale figure lying on a rude straw mattress and covered by a grey blanket.

On Grimm's entrance, the young nun looked up and proffered a weary smile. “Greetings, Lord Mage,”

she said, brushing a few rogue tendrils of hair from her eyes. “I must apologise for the poor condition of your quarters; the guest suites must all be occupied."

She really has no idea, thought the mage. She still thinks we were honoured guests. It's strange that she doesn't ask about those screams; perhaps they're not all that uncommon in this awful place. How is ... Sister Weranda?” he asked, with a catch in his voice. “Will she..." Mercia laughed; a merry, tinkling sound that seemed at odds with the austere Priory. “Don't worry, Lord Mage,” she said, her face beaming, open and guileless. “Your concern for our dear Sister is gratifying. She improves at an encouraging rate, and I think I'll soon be able to leave the remainder of her treatment to the Names and her own bodily defences. She is young and strong, and I have every reason to believe she'll make a full recovery."

Grimm sighed in relief; where there was life, there was hope.

"Sister Judan is almost healed,” Mercia said, her cheerful grin intensifying. “Isn't that good news? Her wounds were relatively light, and the infection didn't have time to advance far." Alarm bells rang in Grimm's head; Judan was the senior Sister of the Score, and he knew he would have to face her, sooner or later. Perhaps it was better to cross that river now, while she was still relatively weak.

"May I see Sister Judan?” he asked.

"Of course, Lord Mage,” Mercia said, her cheeks dimpling. “She is poorly but awake. She's convalescing in the next room. Soon, she can move back to her own cell, but I judged it better that she rest here for a little while before trying to walk. The illness has taken a lot out of her, as you might imagine."

"Thank you, Sister,” he said. “Your dedication to your craft is an inspiration to us all." Mercia shrugged, her complexion reddening a little. “We all do what we can,” she said. “That's what a community is all about, isn't it?"

As the young nun turned to tend to her patient once more, Grimm stepped back into the corridor. He felt a brief pang of disappointment that his other companions were not in evidence. Oh, well, he thought. I ordered them to go, after all.

As he walked to the next cell, he saw Judan sitting cross-legged on the flagstones, in the same position of prayer in which he had last seen her, lips moving in silent prayer. He cleared his throat, eliciting no response.

"Sister Judan,” he said, and the nun opened her eyes.

"The Reverend Mother has passed on,” she said, her tone and her eyes accusing him, scorching him.

“You murdered her!"

Grimm nodded. “Aren't you going to call down the wrath of the Score upon me, Sister?” he asked.

"The Score is shattered.” The nun's face reddened, and she shook with evidently sincere rage. “I cannot hear their thoughts, and I cannot converse with them. Our common link was through the Reverend Mother, and you have destroyed her. May the Names forgive you, assassin, for I cannot. Kill me if you wish; without the Reverend Mother's strength to succour and support me, I doubt I have enough power to stop you.

"Go or stay, mage, as you will. You have destroyed something serene, something beautiful; have the decency to allow me to mourn its passing in my own way."

She shut her eyes and bent again to her prayers.

"Serene? Beautiful?” the Questor replied, burning with indignation and disbelief at the woman's sanctimonious manner. “You worked to rob me of my mind so I could murder another person. Was that serenity? Was that beauty?"

"It was necessary,” Judan mumbled. “Go away, and do not disturb me again. I never want to see you again. I was raised here from an early age, and you have destroyed the inner peace I fought for years to attain. Just go away."

Grimm had been prepared to face the Score in their anger and their power, but he felt almost robbed by Judan's pathetic acquiescence. His Quest was over, and he had won, but he felt only emptiness instead of triumphant joy.

Judan swayed, moaning, lost in some religious trance, and Grimm left the dismal cell, unsure of what to do.

Outside the next cell stood Sister Mercia, her face transfigured by an expression of transcendental joy.

"Lord Mage,” she said, “Sister Weranda is conscious now, and she wishes to see you. If you'll excuse me, I wish to check on Master Tordun's condition."

Grimm nodded; his heart leaden, as the young nun hurried back down the corridor. As a member of the Score, Drex must also be aware of Lizaveta's death, and, no doubt, she wished to give him a magic-addled tirade of hate.

"Grimm! My love!” a familiar voice called; Grimm's heart leapt.

He rushed into the cell, to see a smiling Drex on her feet, her arms open. She was pale, but she seemed strong, just as he remembered and knew her from their brief, idyllic tryst in Crar.

"Kiss me, my darling!” she cried. “I have felt so worried about you!" Grimm needed no further encouragement. He rushed over to meet her, tears prickling on his eyelids, and swept her up, his lips seeking hers. Drex's mouth seemed to devour his, the fury of his lover's fierce, almost animalistic, passion both overpowering and gratifying him. He drank deep, taking in her strength; her joy; her love.

At last, the long, dreamy kiss ended, and he held Drex at arms’ length, his heart almost bursting with happiness.

"Everything's all right now, my love,” she said. “I can't tell you how happy I feel."

"I must ensure the remaining members of the Score pose no further threat,” Grimm said, his heart pounding. “I need to find Thribble and some transport out of this hellhole, but there's no reason why we can't go home after that."

"The Score won't trouble you now,” Drex said, her eyes gleaming. “Why not rest here a while, so Tordun can heal, and I can regain my strength? The Order will need leadership until a new Prioress can be found. It wouldn't be right to abandon them at this difficult time. Just wait a few days, and I'm sure everything will become clearer."

Grimm felt a hot flash of astonishment run through him. “After all you've been through, I'd have thought you'd have jumped at the chance of getting out of here, Drex!"

"I feel safe, now,” she said, nestling close to him. “I have my very own Mage Questor to protect me. I feel some kinship with these poor women, and I can't just abandon them." The mage blinked, vacillating between the desire to escape this awful place and the wish to please the woman he loved. He buried his face in Drex's wimple and tried to collect his thoughts.

"Drex; I—"

"Lord Mage,” a soft voice from the doorway said, and Grimm looked up to see the dumpy figure of Sister Judan.

"What is it?” he snapped.

"I have communed with the spirits,” the nun said, her face calm, almost beatific. “The scales have fallen from my eyes, and I see how you have been wronged. Your vengeance was just, at least in your own eyes, and I have no right to judge you. Please, Lord Mage, stay a while and help us in our hour of need. You will not be beaten or tortured again; I swear it on my head and on the blessed Names."

"Please, Grimm,” Drex said, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Just stay a little longer." Grimm, almost drowning in confusion, closed his eyes and looked into himself. Am I ensorcelled? he wondered. Is Drex still under a spell; is she trying to trick me?

Opening his eyes, he pointed his left forefinger at the far wall and muttered a brief, nonsense syllable. A small, bright globe, spinning and sparkling, formed on the extended digit, detached and flew to the wall, spreading over it until the small chamber was suffused in warm, cheerful luminescence. While he had his power under his control, he knew he was still whole and a formidable opponent.

"Very well,” he said, on pure impulse. “I'll stay a while."

He stepped back from Drex, so he could look her straight in the eyes. “I'm only doing this for you, my love,” he said. “You know that, don't you?"

She smiled. “Of course, darling,” she said, her voice laden with warmth and happiness. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that. Later tonight, I'll show you just how happy I am." Grimm felt a hot flush on his cheeks.

He smiled.

Drex seemed her old self again.

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Chapter 17: Suspicion

General Quelgrum had no intention of abandoning Baron Grimm. His first priority was to procure transport and supplies for the journey to Crar, since the party's wagon had been destroyed by the marauding zombies in Merrydeath Road. He also wanted to retrieve his weapons, even though he knew ammunition would be unobtainable.

As three nuns laid the dead Prioress’ shattered body on a makeshift bier in the main hall of the Priory, another group began to mop the bloodstains from the marble floor.

"I don't reckon any of these ladies carry any weight around here, General,” Sergeant Erik observed. “We need whatever passes for an officer around here."

Quelgrum nodded. “That would be a member of the Anointed Score, Sergeant. Still, I'd rather not deal with them if we can avoid it; I was entertained by one of them when I was first taken prisoner. She told me how she'd take great pleasure in breaking me, and how she looked forward to having me crawl to her, pleading for punishment."

"Perhaps there's a nun who acts as an ostler or a wrangler, or some such,” Numal hazarded. “If we..." The Necromancer's voice faded away, and he stared past the General's right shoulder. Quelgrum turned to see a tall, slender, middle-aged nun, and he recognised her as the one who had so enjoyed baiting him.

"Sister Kellen,” he said. “Are you going to threaten me again? Or do you want me to beg for forgiveness?"

The nun did not meet his stern gaze, looking instead at the floor. “I am sorry, my lord,” she whispered. “I was under a spell when first we met; a spell augmented by many years of pain and suffering. After the Reverend Mother's death, things seem much clearer. She was an evil, manipulative woman; I see that, now. I will aid you in any way I can."

Quelgrum jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the reverent nuns tending to Lizaveta's corpse. “Is this how you treat a despised slave-mistress, someone who stole your mind?"

"I do not mourn Prioress Lizaveta's passing,” Kellen said, “but the loss of guidance, leadership and stability. Brutal as her reign may have been, I found comfort in its routine and constancy.

"Only we of the Score live with the shame of knowing the acts to which the Reverend Mother drove us, as we revelled in the power she gave us. All the Sisters know the lash and the discipline, but few, indeed, know the inner workings of the Order. That is the shame, the dishonour, with which I must live." Kellen bowed her head; her shoulders began to shake. Quelgrum heard a few sobs from under the nun's lowered cowl, but he felt in no mood to comfort the woman.

"Should I cry, Sister?” he asked, with a humourless, contemptuous laugh. “She's dead, and, I say, good riddance to her."

Kellen stiffened and straightened up, this time looking the General straight in the eyes. “What do you want, General?” she asked, her voice cold. “We are a poor Order, and material goods hold little interest for us; if it is money you want, we cannot oblige you. I did not expect you to understand our traditions, but I do ask you to respect them."

"I want a cart or a wagon, four horses and provisions for five men for at least three weeks,” Quelgrum said. He knew a direct journey to Crar would not take that long, but he wanted to give Brianston and Yoren the widest possible berth.

"I see,” the nun said, her expression impenetrable. “What else?"

"You say you have no money,” the old soldier said, “but you still have the gold you stole from us—yes, stole, saintly Sister—and our other effects. If such things are unimportant to you, you won't mind giving them back, will you?

"We're not thieves. All we want is transport to replace what your late, beloved Prioress’ undead friends destroyed, and our property."

Kellen shrugged and nodded.

"Very well, General,” she said in a husky voice. “It will take a few days to arrange food and transport for you; the other mage took our cart, our only pair of horses, and a large quantity of provisions. I have no idea where the Reverend Mother secreted your goods, but I will do my best to return them to you."

"The other mage?” Numal said, his brows raised.

"Questor Guy,” Kellen said, and the Necromancer nodded.

"I see,” he said, his tone level, slowly nodding. “I suppose it was too much to ask that he share his transport with the likes of us."

"Your internecine squabbles have nothing to do with us,” the nun snapped, and Quelgrum saw a trace of the old Sister Kellen. “I will do my best. If that is not enough for you, then take your chances on the road."

Soft-hard, Quelgrum thought. I've interrogated enough people in my time to recognise the approach. If that's the way she wants to play her little game, let's just test the water.

"Very well, Sister,” he said, cold and business-like. “We spent our time here in cold, hard cells, and I won't go back to one. I don't want to impose too much on your poor Order's generosity, so give us what we need to build a temporary shelter outside. We'll stay there until we can leave. All we'll want then is firewood and daily food."

Kellen laughed. “I am sorry, General,” she said. “If I seemed too harsh in my concern for the Order's future, I apologise; I would not dream of allowing you to languish outside in the cold, after the way you have been treated. We have comfortable and serviceable guest suites here, and I invite you to rest there while we satisfy your requirements. All I ask is that you do not trouble the worried Sisters during your stay. As I said, they know nothing of the ugly truth about the Order." Quelgrum nodded in apparent acquiescence, but he felt his suspicions confirmed. She wants us to stay here, he thought, I'll bet the only reason she doesn't attack us is because her power was somehow tied up with Lizaveta. I don't know what she and the Score intend for us, but it must involve the Baron.

"I must discuss this with Baron Grimm first,” he said, his stern tone brooking no argument. Kellen's lower lip trembled for just a few heartbeats. “I will see what I can do, my lord,” she said at last, the very image of the dutiful penitent. “Will you please wait here?"

"Of course,” the General said. “Where else would we go?"

The nun rushed off, and the soldier looked at the women tending to the corpse and the floor. They moved like clumsy machines, their faces as expressionless as stone. Quelgrum believed that they had no idea of Lizaveta's true personality or acts, but he did not believe that the Score had exchanged the dowdy mantle of slavery for the glowing cloak of enlightenment.

The General said to the other men, “It's a trick, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. They'll give us a series of delays, problems and reasons why we should stay just a little longer, just a few days more ... until they spring whatever trap they have in mind."

"Why don't we just walk out then, General?” Erik asked. “There aren't so many of them here, and I don't think they could stop us. Anjar looked all right; I bet they'll sell us what we need."

"I won't go without Baron Grimm,” Quelgrum replied. “We're without weapons, food, transport or money. The good merchants of Anjar won't just give us what we need, and I reckon we'd starve on the road; this isn't exactly a good hunting ground. On the other hand, perhaps Baron Grimm can magic us out of here."

* * * *

Grimm turned towards Drex, staring into her large, beautiful eyes. “I want to find Thribble,” he said. “I hate to think of him imprisoned."

"Later, my love.” Drex leaned her head on his shoulder and looked up at him with an adoring expression.

“I've missed you so much. Can't it wait? I'm sure he's happy where he is." The young Questor felt his heart pounding, wanting to release his long-pent emotions more than anything

... almost anything. He had expected a Drexelica enslaved by weeks of torture, ready to tear out his heart with her bare hands, and he had found, instead, a willing, compliant lover who craved his touch. It's too good, he thought. This isn't the dreamy, drunken infatuation I felt for Madeleine, back in High Lodge. It's not the hungry lust for blood I felt at Yoren ... but it still feels false. What in Perdition is wrong here?

He looked down again into Drex's pleading face, but he began to feel revulsion rather than love. This woman did not merely want to be with him; she wanted to possess him.

I don't know her, he thought, with a cold rush of realisation. It looks like Drex, it sounds like her, and it smells like her; but it's not her.

"I'm sorry, Drex,” he said. “I won't be able to sleep while Thribble remains in a cage. Can't we get him out before we ... do anything else?"

"Is saving your little demon more important than spending time with me?” Drex demanded. “I thought you loved me."

She licked her lips and waggled her hips in a flirty gyration, looking less like Drex than ever. Without thinking, Grimm accessed his Mage Sight, but, as soon as he did so, he chided himself as a fool. In place of a normal, variegated field of colours, he saw only the impenetrable, immaculate white aura of a witch, as he should have expected.

He wanted Drex, his Drex, more than anything in the world, but this young woman seemed a mere caricature of the girl he loved.

She's been through a nightmare, he thought. I'd have to be a fool to think it wouldn't have changed her, but I just don't recognise her.

"Can't we do both?” he pleaded, trying to buy time. “Thribble's my friend. Come on, Drex, it wouldn't take long to release him."

"I'm beginning to think you don't—"

She cut off her words at the appearance of a woman Grimm recognised as Sister Kellen, one of the Anointed Score; one of the nuns who had abused him.

While Kellen was still at the end of the long corridor, Drex turned to him and said, “This won't take long,” she said, proffering another dazzling smile. “Excuse me for a moment." She looks like her feet are on fire, Grimm thought, as the image of his beloved hurried to meet the nun. What's so urgent?

He thought for a moment that Kellen stumbled when Drex approached her, but he realised it was an aborted curtsey. Even his sensitive ears could not make out the two women's conversation, but there was no mistaking the older nun's deferent pose and Drexelica's domineering attitude. He heard but a few disjointed phrases: “No, absolutely not ... “; “...he insists..."; “Must I repeat ... some excuse ... succumbed to the disease. Get...” However, there was no mistaking the authoritarian tone of Drex's voice.

Grimm saw her flick a nervous glance at him, and he made a show of looking at his feet, at the ceiling and into the cell, as if unconcerned. Nonetheless, his suspicions strengthened; somehow, the spirit of Lizaveta must have entered Drex's body.

She couldn't beat me through torture, or through the false emotions she flung at me, so she's trying to use my love for Drex now. I'll bet that after a night in bed with me, she reckons I'll be eating out of her hand. He felt a moment of cold horror at the thought of having kissed the Prioress, when he thought he had kissed Drex, but he determined that he would go no further than that, regardless of her blandishments. As he inspected his nails, he saw an approaching shadow, and he looked up to see her returning down the corridor, alone.

"Is everything all right, Drex?” he asked innocently. “Was Sister Kellen giving you any trouble?"

"No trouble at all, Grimm,” she said, smiling. “She wanted to apologise for treating me so badly. Since the Prioress’ spell ended with her death, Kellen has lived in shame, and she only wanted to expiate it. I was a little angry with her at first, but I forgave her.

"Now; where were we? I believe we were discussing a little night-time entertainment." Her tone was intense, almost desperate, and Grimm nodded.

She's lost her powers, he thought. This Priory was Lizaveta's source of energy, her main sphere of influence, and she's trying to re-establish the link from within an unfamiliar body. She wants to gain control over me first, and she thinks sex is the best way to do it. Lizaveta told me so many times that this would be where it would end: with me loving her, desiring her....

His heart began to pound. Is my Drex still in there? Has Lizaveta, somehow, thrown out her spirit?

If she's killed Drex, then so much the worse for her! Whatever my true worth, I am a Guild Questor of the Seventh Rank, and I will honour my destiny! Who is Lizaveta to oppose me?

"What do you want?” he demanded, his voice as cold and hard as a flint. “Shall we dance here?"

"If you want,” the image of Drex said. “I'd prefer somewhere more private, but—"

"Shall we perform in front of Sister Judan? Perhaps you'd prefer it in the Main Hall?"

"What is the matter with you, Grimm?” she cried. “I just wanted—"

"You wanted my soul, Lizaveta!” Grimm felt the hot blood pounding in his head and his chest. “You wanted to take possession of more than my body; don't bother to deny it. I hate you, and I will destroy you!"

Almost in a trance, he raised his right hand and spat out the nonsense phrase, “Ap'shgat'oye'madas!" A green stream of sheer hatred exploded from his hand, hammering the stone roof over his head, showering the corridor with tiny, pale motes. A red-glowing, wagon-sized hole in the ceiling showed the hall above, with the confused faces of several frightened nuns peering through it.

"I am power!” he screamed, ignoring the rain of pulverised material. “I am your nemesis, woman; I will kill you, one way or another! Release Drex, and I will spare you my righteous wrath; deny me, and I will make you suffer more than the worst nightmare you ever tried to give me! I do not beguile my victims—I destroy them! I will tear this stinking hell-place apart, if I have to!

"I am destruction!"

With a sheer effort of will, Grimm shattered the cell in which he had been tortured, blasting the stone walls apart as if they were made of rice-paper. He felt apprehensive no longer; he was the Dragonblaster, the avenger of the family name this female demon had tried to immure since before he was born!

He clutched Redeemer, one friend who would never betray him as long as he lived, feeling its warmth and its empowering strength.

"I won't hesitate to destroy Drex's body if you've expunged her soul,” he snarled. “I can make you suffer more than you would believe.

"Choose: quit Drex's body and give her back to me, or see what a true, unfettered Questor can do to you. You told me, many times, that a woman understands more of pain than a man ever can; but what does a shrivelled, unemotional husk like you understand of insecurity, grief, blasted hopes and self-doubt? Thanks to you, witch, I understand those feelings well now." Grimm raised his arms over his head, letting the motes of blue mage-light play around his body like cerulean fireflies. He could not be beaten, and he knew it, revelling in and savouring his arcane strength for the first time in his life. He laughed: a hacking, humourless sound.

"I am power!"

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 18: ‘All Is In Your Hands'

Quelgrum turned to Sergeant Erik. “Sergeant, I don't believe dear Sister Kellen's little story. I want you to covertly reconnoitre the Priory and its grounds. I want to know if there's any transport here they're not telling us about. Take note of any of the Anointed Score you see: the ones who met us at the gate when we were escorted here. Are they huddled together, cooking up some nasty little surprise for us? If they are, I want to know about it."

Erik snapped to attention, performing a parade-ground perfect salute. “Yes, Sir. What do I do if one of the nuns challenges me?"

"I don't know, Sergeant. Tell them ... tell them you're looking for the jakes or something! Use your imagination. Just try to stay out of sight if you can. I'll meet you back here in an hour, if I'm able."

"I understand, Sir, but what if the nuns take you by surprise? How will I know?" Quelgrum shrugged. “By the clock at the end of the hall: if I'm not back here within an hour, get out of here by any means possible. Go to Anjar, and, if I don't turn up there within two days, get back to Crar any way you can. Give Colonel Shandimar the codeword ‘Blazon', and he'll get the whole army out here to raze the damn’ place to the ground."

Erik surged to attention and saluted crisply. “Orders received and understood, Sir! Wait for one hour, go to Anjar, wait two days and report to base if no further contact with you. Codeword is ‘Blazon'."

"Excuse me, General,” Necromancer Numal said, standing just behind Erik. “I'd like to go with the Sergeant. If there's any trouble, a Mage Staff is a pretty good weapon. We Mage Necromancers also have some affinity with shadows."

While Quelgrum doubted Numal's reliability under fire, a lack of offensive weaponry might be a major disadvantage. Since encountering the zombies in Merrydeath Road, the Necromancer had become somewhat more outgoing and confident, and the General did not want to crush those nascent qualities. He felt encouraged that Numal had volunteered his services for an uncertain mission.

"You're not under my command, Lord Mage,” he said, “you're a free agent, as far as I'm concerned. If you want to go with Erik, I can't stop you. I just ask you to defer to the Sergeant in tactical matters."

"Orders received and understood, General,” the mage said, touching his right brow in a creditable attempt at a salute.

As Numal turned to follow Erik, Quelgrum said, “Lord Mage?"

"Yes, General?” the Necromancer replied, stopping and turning his head.

"Thank you."

Numal just nodded and hurried away.

Quelgrum sighed; it felt as if a lifetime of conflict, command and responsibility had lodged in his chest in one, solid, heavy mass.

Why does everybody expect me to make all the bloody decisions?

Numal wanted me to make his mind up for him, and he's not even in my army. Is it just my rank, does something about me make people think I'll solve all their freaking problems? Have I got a tattoo on my forehead that says ‘Get your decisions here, free to all-comers'?

What have I to show for a life of service, other than scars? I should be at home, dandling grandchildren on my knees, a loving, supportive wife at my side. I'm tired of fighting and making decisions. If I ever get back to Crar, Shandimar can have the bloody army! Why do I still need to fight at my age?

Another part of his mind shot back, Because nobody will fight without somebody to take responsibility or lead the way. It's relatively easy to be a common soldier. He may have to fight and die, but somebody else thinks for him. That doesn't come easily to many people. Ordinary soldiers don't have to worry about food, drink, clothing or housing. Many soldiers prefer to follow orders without thinking; the removal of individual responsibility makes it easier for them. Committee discussions or arguments delay action, and usually lead to unsatisfactory compromises. If an army were some democratic commune, where every order was debated, there'd be chaos!

Quelgrum's inner dialogue stuttered to a halt, as the General saw the unmistakeable, wand-thin figure of Sister Kellen emerging from the archway to the stairs and approaching him.

"May I inquire where your companions are, General?” she asked.

Quelgrum shrugged. “We've been cramped up for days, madam. Sergeant Erik wanted to stretch his legs, and Necromancer Numal chose to join him. I have no idea where they went. What of my request to see Baron Grimm?"

"I regret that that Questor Grimm is very sick and in quarantine.” Sister Kellen's face was now the very picture of contrition and sorrow. “The illness struck him with frightening ferocity after he visited your sick friend, Tordun. For your own safety, I beg you to stay away from him. I will pray for him, and I urge you to do the same. He may not survive."

"I don't believe you, Sister,” Quelgrum said, battling a born peasant's ingrained dread of capricious disease. “I saw him only about quarter of an hour ago, and he was in perfect health!" Kellen shook her head. “The infection is swifter than any mortal disease, General. It took us all by surprise. Everyone is forbidden to see him, by the order of Sister Judan. Only our Healer, Sister Mercia is permitted to attend him, and she is locked in the room with him.

"I am so sorry."

Quelgrum's eyes scanned the nun's face, A lifetime of dealing with men and women, of interrogations and court-martial, had given him what amounted almost to a sixth sense, enabling him to detect the most delicate scents of deceit and falsehood. This lie-sense was not infallible, but it was more than capable of detecting the outright stench of dishonesty, and this nun dissembled poorly. Her eyes were a touch too wide, the tremble in her lower lip just a trifle overdone. The woman was lying.

"Very well, Sister,” he said, not taking his eyes off Kellen for an instant. “In that case, we will talk with Sister Weranda. She must be worried."

Kellen cringed like a peasant slave before her high-born, imperious master. “Impossible, I am afraid, my Lord. Sister Judan's order is that nobody is allowed to enter or leave the cell block. She would be angry with me. You have no idea how stern Sister Judan can be when she is balked. I would be very grateful if you spared me her wrath."

She fluttered her eyelids in what might have been an alluring gesture in a younger woman: however, on Kellen, it looked as brash and insincere as a Countess affecting gutter patois in order to ingratiate herself with a rough-hewn labourer.

Bad move, Quelgrum thought. First, it was concern for Baron Grimm; then, for us. Now, she's trying to make me feel pity or passion for her. She's just looking for a lever—

At that moment, he felt the floor tremble. A tracery of cracks appeared in the marble, leading from the vicinity of the slave block. The General heard several screams and turned to see Lizaveta's bier almost toppled, as several nuns fought to keep it upright. When the tremor passed, they went back to their work, as if nothing had happened.

These nuns astound me, he thought. They seem to be able to accept anything weird that happens around them. I guess that's due to years of being punished for asking questions.

"I didn't know there were earthquakes in this region, Sister." Kellen smiled ... again, just a little too widely. “Ah, yes ... it is quite bad sometimes, General. That was a mild one, I assure you."

"So why are this marble floor and these stone walls so undamaged, if these earth tremors are a common event?"

Kellen just shrugged, and the old soldier lost patience with this verbal fencing.

"You're lying, Sister,” he said. “That was no earth tremor, and you know it. Questor Grimm is no sicker than you or me, is he? That was his doing, wasn't it? Admit it!"

The nun's face contorted into an ugly grimace. “Do not try to browbeat me, General,” she said. “I can make you regret it, I promise you."

"But you choose not to, in your bounteous mercy,” he said, with a contemptuous laugh. He raised a large, liver-spotted fist whose protruding knuckles bore an intricate tracery of white and pink scars.

"I've never hit a lady before,” he said, “but I really don't think you qualify, Kellen. Get out of my way; I'm in no mood to argue. I've just about had a gutful of this place. Stand aside; or I swear I'll knock you to the floor."

"I have Geomantic powers,” she warned him.

Quelgrum swore under his breath, and made to barge past the slender nun, who made a balletic jump backwards, raising her hands as if to cast a spell. He looked at her with an expression of sheer contempt.

"I don't have time for this,” he said, landing his meaty left fist on the point of her jaw, pulling the blow only a little. Kellen's eyes rolled upwards as she crumpled to the floor like a collapsing house. With a trace of disgust, the General saw that the paper-thin skin over his two larger knuckles had split, sending a thin tracery of red over the back of his left hand.

"I'm getting too old for hand-to-hand combat,” he muttered, stepping over the unconscious woman and racing down the stairs.

Turning right into the cell corridor, he saw a scene of devastation: pale dust floated through the air, and the floor was littered with fragments and larger pieces of stone. As he stepped into the haze, he saw a large, ragged hole in the ceiling, with Questor Grimm and Drexelica standing underneath it. Grimm's face was twisted in anger as he looked down at the girl. Drexelica, her back toward the General, seemed to be standing up to him. Behind Grimm stood the ashen-faced figures of Sister Judan and a younger nun the old soldier did not recognise.

The young mage looked up as Quelgrum approached. “Treachery is afoot, General,” he said, his dark eyes glittering. “Lizaveta's spirit has possessed Drex's body, and, I think she's trying to re-establish her link with the structure of the Priory; the source of her Geomantic power."

"Approach no further, General,” the body of Drexelica said, turning to face Quelgrum, and the military man saw that she held a small dagger poised between her breasts. Her face bore a cool smile, and her voice was calm. “If you attempt to surprise me, I will kill this body and move on to another; yours, perhaps."

"That's an empty threat, Prioress, and you know it,” Grimm said, shaking his head. “You'll need a female body with Geomantic sleight. It wouldn't break my heart if I were forced to destroy Sister Judan, I assure you."

Grimm stood still and closed his eyes, and Drexelica-Lizaveta shook her head.

"Stop that!” she shouted, “When you gather your crude tendrils of magic, I can see it as easily as you can breathe. If you think to destroy my dagger, I'll kill the girl before you ever complete the spell. There are many witches in this Priory apart from Sister Judan, and my roving spirit will not be contained by stone walls."

The General saw the Baron gripping his staff tighter, but Grimm did not speak. Quelgrum's mind spun like a top as he tried to collect his thoughts. This seemed to be a classic stand-off. If Drexelica's body were to die, there was no telling where Lizaveta's essence might go; every moment of inaction might make her stronger. It seemed imperative to contain the situation in this narrow corridor, if at all possible, but this impasse could not continue forever.

It seemed that Lizaveta had come to the same conclusion, as her avatar turned back to Grimm and said,

“We have a difficult situation, do we not? Perhaps we can come to some sort of compromise ... a compact, if you will."

Baron Grimm's face was expressionless, his eyes hooded. “What do you propose, witch?” he asked.

"I have something you want,” she said, “your loved one. She has no love for you in her present form, but I can remove her conditioning, if you wish. She is still here, but subordinated to my will. I can relinquish until a more suitable, willing host comes to light."

Quelgrum saw a flicker of hope, a frisson of indecision in Grimm's eyes, and he felt moved to speak.

"And just what do you gain from this, Prioress?” he demanded. “Won't Lady Drexelica need to die before you can move to another luckless host?"

"Questor Grimm's colleagues in Arnor House and High Lodge will be able to extract me from this body, I'm sure,” she said, still facing Grimm. “Thaumaturgy is a crude, mechanistic art, but it can still achieve many ends that Geomancy cannot."

"I don't believe you, Prioress,” Grimm said. “I think if you still had the power to transmigrate, you'd kill Drex in an instant, just to escape.

"I think you're trapped right now, and you're just trying to buy time. You tried to infatuate me because that would let you access my powers, augmenting your own. Lord Horin would never consider liberating your soul just so I could have Drex back. He'll destroy her to be rid of you. You offer nothing." Good man! Quelgrum thought, pleased that Grimm seemed unprepared to clutch at this thin, insubstantial straw. Don't trust her an inch.

"I have something else you want, Grimm perhaps even more than the return of your slut,” Drex said in a low, almost seductive voice. “I, and only I, can prove your grandfather's innocence beyond a doubt. Only I can provide the proof that will clear your family name. I offer to accompany you to High Lodge and do this in exchange for my soul's freedom, as sworn by the High Dominie on his name and on his Guild Ring. You can have everything: your lover; the redemption of your name; Loras’ total exoneration.

"All I ask is for the freedom of my spirit; I swear it on my name, my craft and my soul. Deny me this, and I'll kill the girl and seek my fortune where I may; it's in your hands. That is my final offer, Grimm. Take it or leave it."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 19: Preparations for Departure

Shakkar had slept more over the last few days than in the previous decade, but, as he awoke from a pleasant, formless dream, he felt refreshed. Perhaps he might engage in this mortal practice a little more often in future!

He lay on a straw pallet in a large barn, since the Anjarians had been unable to find more comfortable accommodation for someone of his size. Dimly remembering how he had thrashed and kicked whilst delirious, he understood only too well their desire to limit the destruction he could cause. Even in his weakened state, he was capable of wreaking considerable havoc.

Nonetheless, he had no complaints about his basic lodgings. They were capacious and well-lit from several high openings that also let in plenty of fresh air. Shakkar disliked the cramped, constricting chambers which humans seemed to prefer, and the wooden structure seemed more than adequate to his needs.

He heard the barn door creak, and he turned his head to see the bald-headed, spare form of his physician, Porpitt.

"Good morning, Doctor Porpitt,” he rumbled.

"Well met, Lord Shakkar,” the doctor said with a cheerful, breezy air, despite his formal Mage Speech.

“How do you feel on this fine day? You look much better than when I first saw you." Shakkar raised himself from his straw pallet and swung his arms in a series of wide arcs, feeling the counter-play of the opposing sets of muscles beneath his tough, leathery skin. He felt some soreness and stiffness in the joints, but he expected this after the last few days’ immobility. Grunting in satisfaction, he flexed his wings several times, feeling a little tightness in the scar tissue on his side, but no pain. For the first time since the disease seized him, his mind was clear.

"I feel in excellent health, Doctor,” he declared, moulding his sharp-fanged mouth into his nearest approximation of a human smile. “I owe you my life, and I thank you." Porpitt shrugged. “You were very ill indeed, Lord Demon,” he said. “I feared for your life on several occasions—I have never seen the sickness advance with such fury. I wish I could take full credit for your condition, but your underworld physique and an unexpected abatement of the disease played the greater part in your recovery."

"You are too modest,” protested Shakkar, shaking his head, now free from dizziness and pain. “Your expertise was paramount."

Porpitt rubbed his lined brow with the back of his right hand. “I have treated the Night Ones’ wounds before,” he said, “but not often. One or two of the creatures have been known to walk abroad on occasion, and most Anjarians know well enough to stay indoors at these times: we have nocturnal lookouts, whose sole job is to watch for the Night Ones’ approach and to warn us by ringing the town bell, although the monsters never stray far from their earthy beds. I have saved wanderers from small scratches and bites, but you had long, deep gashes all down your right side and your back. The watchmen told me that it was as if the whole graveyard erupted the night you were attacked. The Night Ones usually wander only in small groups."

Shakkar grunted. “I do not believe the undead monsters arose of their own accord, Doctor,” he said, “I believe they were summoned."

"Summoned? I've studied these monstrosities in some depth, Lord Shakkar. Even a powerful Necromancer can only call one or two of them. It's said that the graveyard at Merrydeath Road was the scene of an ancient battle between two mighty mages, and the continued restlessness of the cadavers is due to lingering energies from the confrontation."

The demon said, “I think the undead warriors were summoned by witchcraft. It does not seem to function on the same principles as Thaumaturgy.” He frowned. “If the battle was so long ago, Doctor, then why were some of the animated corpses so uncorrupted?"

Porpitt pursed his lips, as if unsure how to reply at first. Then he nodded. “I haven't been able to save all the victims, and Merrydeath Road is the only logical place to bury the bodies. We daren't inter them here. The Night Ones may pass their walking curse on to their victims, and our religion forbids cremation.

"We bury them with full ceremony at high noon, when the Night Ones are dormant." Shakkar nodded. “A prudent precaution,” he said, after a while. “Now, Doctor, how may I repay you for your care and your compassion? I am needed in Rendale, and I dare not delay longer. I carry no money with me, but I have access to considerable funds from the Crarian city coffers." Porpitt shook his head. “The city fathers of Anjar pay me an adequate salary and a bonus payment for each person I treat,” he said. “I cannot accept additional payment just for doing my job—especially since I have no idea why your illness came to such a swift end, and I played little part in that.

"If you insist on doing something for me, all I ask is that you recommend me as a physician to any ailing person you may meet around here ... and that you take care to steer clear of zombies in the future." Shakkar smiled again, finding that the expression came to him more easily this time. “I will do so with pleasure, Doctor Porpitt,” he said. “I regret that I cannot stay longer in Anjar, but I ask that you thank Mayor Peder and his colleagues for the hospitality you have shown me during my stay here. I hope to show my gratitude to you in a more tangible fashion later, but I regret that my presence in Rendale is imperative."

Porpitt nodded. “I understand, Lord Seneschal,” he said. “I am happy that you're quite recovered now. You seem to be a person of some importance, and I don't want to delay your urgent mission any longer than necessary. If you run into any unexpected problems in Rendale, I advise you to apply to the Priory. The Sisters of Divine Mercy will be more than happy to help you, I'm sure. They are frequent and valued visitors here in Anjar."