Shakkar nodded. “The Priory will be my first port of call,” he rumbled, looking over his shoulder as he headed for the barn door. “Goodbye, good physician, and thank you."

* * * *

Grimm realised his mouth had dropped open, and he closed it again. Lizaveta had touched a raw nerve. He had sworn to redeem his family name; he had even named his Mage Staff ‘Redeemer'. He first learned of the Prioress’ role in his grandfather's betrayal while fighting for his life in the Pit at Yoren, and he had vowed to destroy her.

Now, the old woman offered to prove Loras’ innocence of the charge of attempted murder in exchange for the freedom of her spirit to wander.

It did not ring true

She won't be happy to roam the world as a disembodied spirit, he thought. She'll go in search of some poor, blameless witch and possess her body as she has Drex's—if she has any intention of ever doing so. For all I know, Drex is already dead.

His fists clenched and unclenched in indecision, and he touched his brow to Redeemer, trying to order his whirling thoughts.

How to tell if Drex's shade still resided in her body? He could astrally project and search for her, but that would leave his own body inert and vulnerable. He had no intention of according Lizaveta the least advantage.

"How do I know you haven't just destroyed or evicted Drex's spirit?” he demanded. “Let me talk to her. If she's there, let her come out, and stay out. If not, I'll tear this whole Hell-cursed place down around your ears. I don't want another word from you until we arrive at High Lodge."

"Very well, Questor,” the Prioress said, after a brief pause. She shut her eyes—Drex's eyes!—and, after a few moments, opened them again.

"I trust you are satisfied, rapist! Does your victory taste sweet? I would die a thousand deaths for the Reverend Mother, and the only reason I do not kill myself now is that she needs me. Rest assured that, although you may be able to force yourself upon me, you will never have my spirit or my heart." Grimm's heart surged. Although these were not the words he wanted to hear, he recognised it at once as Drex's Priory-moulded diction, rather than Lizaveta's crude attempt at deception.

"I never forced myself upon you, Drex,” he said in a soft voice, “and I never will. I'm just glad you're still alive. I won't lay a hand on you without your explicit permission." Drex snorted, her eyes bulging in apparent fury. “Then you be waiting full long time ... that is, I have not the slightest intention of surrendering to your foul, masculine demands. And you will call me Sister Weranda; I will no longer answer to any other appellation from either of you—the foul rapist or the old lecher."

Grimm suppressed a relieved smile: the brief return of her unmistakable Grivense street patois told him that his Drex, still existed, buried under the Order's brutal conditioning.

"I can accept that, Sister Weranda,” he said. “However, will you agree to go to High Lodge without trying to use magic on me?"

She raised her eyes with the air of a martyr. “Since the Reverend Mother wills it, I will comply,” she said, clasping her hands together in prayer. “It will be a burden, but I will bear it." Grimm turned to General Quelgrum. “Do we have transport yet, General? I don't want to stay here a moment longer than necessary."

"Sergeant Erik and Necromancer Numal have been trying to arrange some transport, Lord Baron,” the soldier said. “They should be reporting back to the Main Hall in forty minutes or so."

"That's excellent, General,” Grimm replied. He turned to Sister Mercia. “How is Tordun, Sister?" The young nun regarded him with wary, frightened eyes; this was not the compassionate, deferent healer he had first met in Lizaveta's private chamber.

"I will look,” she said, her voice sullen and distrustful. “I gave him a narcotic earlier on, to speed his recovery. He may wake up soon."

She brushed past him in a flurry of white. Then she stopped and turned around, her head lowered.

"You are a destroyer and a killer, Lord Mage,” she said, her voice tremulous and full of passion. “I hope you are at ease with your conscience, but I cannot find it in my heart to forgive what you have done. I will try not to hate you, but you make that very difficult. May the Names forgive you; you have not only killed the body of our Reverend Mother, but you have also destroyed the peace of our Order." Grimm's heart was heavy; he had no idea how this poor, virtuous young woman had suffered under Lizaveta's regime, but he recognised the truth in her words.

A destroyer ... a killer, he thought, rubbing his beard in agitation. She's right: I am. Is that how I want to spend the rest of my life? I just feel so tired.

A rush of memories assaulted his mind, spinning it around like a solid blow from a heavyweight prize-fighter: the brutal assault on Lizaveta; the destruction of the beautiful, golden dragon, Gruon; the killing of the bar-room assailant on his first Quest; his violent explosion of wrath in the Scholasticate yard. All he had ever done as a Questor was to kill; to destroy; to brutalise. His reward was seven thin gold rings on a staff he had made himself. He was rich beyond the dreams of most men, but he was not free; the Guild still held the lien on his soul and his will. Everything he had, including his life, could be stripped from him in a moment by the whim of a distant, unaccountable authority.

"I won't let you down, Granfer. The name of Afelnor will shine again; I swear it." The last of a series of memories to swim into his consciousness was that of this solemn vow by a tearful, determined youth. The memory gave Grimm strength and resolve.

Yes, he had killed and destroyed. That he had done so at the behest of the Guild did not matter; he had killed nobody who deserved to live. He had never killed for pleasure, for personal gain or for the approval of others, and he never would.

"I'm sorry, Sister Mercia,” he said, bending to look into her accusing eyes. “I'm sorry for your lost serenity and your shattered dreams. I'm sorry for your loss of innocence. I'm not sorry for what I have done, and I'd do it again and again, if I had to. Life's easy when others make all your decisions for you, but that isn't freedom.

"Freedom is the ability to make your own decisions, Mercia. If I have forced that freedom upon you, I apologise. Your beloved Prioress was an evil, manipulating woman, and my only wish is that I'd known enough to blast her spirit into nothingness when I had the chance.

"You are a healer, a preserver of life, and I am a killer. I accept my role, and I won't apologise for it. It's part of who I am."

"Well spoken, Lord Mage,” a familiar voice rumbled, and Grimm looked up to see the pale, imposing figure of Tordun standing in the corridor.

"Listen to him, little angel,” the albino said, “People like you are precious, but you must also recognise what needs to be changed. Sometimes, the only way to change something is to tear it down and start again. For that, you need a destroyer. Like me."

"Like Questor Grimm.” Mercia's brow furrowed, as if she were trying to make sense of something abstruse and contradictory. Shaking her head, she continued down the corridor and disappeared from sight.

Well, that's a start, Grimm thought. Perhaps confusion is the first step on the road to acceptance.

"Warrior Tordun, I'm so happy to see you looking so well,” he said.

"...were very worried about you,” finished a smiling Quelgrum, who had started to speak at the same time as the Questor.

Tordun blinked myopically. “I did not catch all of that,” he said, “but I do appreciate the sentiments. I feel quite fit to travel, and my eyesight has even improved a little—I can now distinguish colours and faces."

"I saw how he lusted after me,” Drex muttered. “Another Name-cursed pervert ... the oversized ogler."

'Foul rapist', ‘old lecher’ and now ‘oversized ogler', Grimm thought, his heart beating a little faster. So that's how it works—Drex has a little mantra or nickname for each of us. If we can erase those simple stereotypes, perhaps we can bring Drex back.

"That's good news,” the beaming General said to Tordun. He turned to Grimm, snapping off an impeccable salute. “Lord Baron,” he said, “All we need now is to meet up with Sergeant Erik and Necromancer Numal, procure some transport, and we can be out of here."

"That's not quite all, General,” Grimm said. “We also need to rescue poor Thribble—I won't leave him here."

He turned around to face Drex. “Where is the small demon?” he asked.

"I cannot see why you care so much for a stunted reptile,” grumbled Drex. “However, in the interests of removing the pollution of your filthy presence from the Priory, I can tell you that he is in the Reverend Mother's private chapel, on the lowest level of the building. I can take you."

"No, thank you, Sister Weranda,” Grimm said. “I prefer to find my own way, without a chaperone. We will go to the Great Hall to wait for our other two colleagues—I don't feel confident to leave you without at least one mage in attendance."

"The fumbling pederast?” Drex scoffed. “He's no true mage."

"I trust his Mage Staff to keep you in check,” Grimm said.

"Well, at least I will feel a little less threatened by Numal,” she said. “He is no more than a fumbling ped..."

As Drex's voice faltered to a halt, Grimm now felt sure the key to her ensorcelment lay in the application of trite, basic labels or insults for each member of the party. He pretended not to have noticed her verbal slip, covering his smile by turning it into a sneeze.

Grimm wiped his nose with a silk handkerchief from one of his robe's many pockets and turned towards Quelgrum. “Let's get to the Hall, General,” he said. “This dust is playing havoc with my sinuses."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 20: Blood!

Although Drex seemed to have accepted her malign fate, Grimm did not trust her for a moment. Despite niggling demands from his bladder as he waited with Quelgrum in the hall, he dismissed the discomfort; he dared not take his eyes from his former beloved.

It seemed an age had passed by the time Numal and Erik came into view, walking from a side corridor. Quelgrum wandered across the cracked marble floor towards the two men before they had come within twenty yards. Grimm saw the urgent expression on Erik's face as the Sergeant reported to his senior, although he could not make out the two soldiers’ words. The Questor glanced at Drex: her expression appeared bored, disinterested, her eyes focused only on the high, vaulted ceiling, but he guessed that she, too, was trying to make out Erik and Quelgrum's conversation. However, he knew his ears were more sensitive than hers.

Quelgrum sauntered over to the group, accompanied by Necromancer Numal. “Lord Baron;” he said, saluting, “Sergeant Erik would like your opinion on a few horses he saw grazing in a nearby field. I don't know much about horseflesh, but I thought you might have a better idea, having been born in a smithy."

"Why does he not approach?” Drex demanded, her eyes hooded. “Why does he skulk in the shadows and whisper?"

"That, dear lady, is a situation of your own making,” the General said, with a sardonic smile. “He seems to think you don't like him for some reason."

"I'll go, General,” Grimm said, feigning a resolute sigh. “It'll give me something to do, I suppose." He trusted in Numal's Mage Staff to keep order in his absence, and he sauntered over to the green-clad soldier with every appearance of resignation, resisting the urge to run. As he approached, Erik snapped into another of his crisp salutes.

"Sergeant Erik reporting, Lord Baron!” he said, his right hand quivering at his temple. “I have news to—"

"That's all right, Sergeant,” Grimm said. “I'm not a soldier, so you needn't bother with the military formalities. What's going on?"

"Would you mind coming down here, please, Lord Baron?” Erik asked, jerking a thumb towards the corridor from which he had emerged. “We're meant to be looking at some horses." Shrugging, Grimm followed the soldier into the passageway, and Erik beckoned him into a dimly-lit culvert half-way along it.

"Some of those Score women are planning something for tonight,” Erik muttered at last, his eyes blazing.

“I didn't catch everything, but I know it involves a sacrifice at midnight, in the Lower Chapel. I heard the Prioress’ name mentioned. There were eight nuns, and they all seemed to be fighting for the chance to be the ... the lucky one."

Grimm slowly nodded. “I imagine they're looking either to reincarnate Lizaveta, or to link another of their number with the Priory, giving her its power,” he said, rubbing his beard, “presumably Sister Judan. Either way could spell trouble."

"It certainly could, Sir,” the Sergeant said, his eyes gleaming. “Necromancer Numal said it made him think of the crypt under High Lodge. I didn't understand what he meant, but he said you'd know, Sir." Of course! Grimm thought. That was how Lizaveta gained power at High Lodge: the blood of sacrifices, all linked to her in some way. The blood soaked into the earth, giving some sort of perverted communion with its power. I thwarted her by drawing the blood out of the ground, severing her link with it. Geomancy, as its name suggested, derived from the earth's inner energies; the deeper the link, the greater the power. Many witches communed with trees or half-buried rocks, and their power was slight, giving only access to minor skills. Lizaveta had perverted the art, linking life-blood with earth-magic to give her almost unlimited strength. At this time, sequestered in a borrowed body, her powers were diminished; Drex and the others of the Score had no such link to the depths of the earth. It seemed as if members of the Score were attempting to re-establish this Geomantic communion.

"...after all, you know a lot more about nags than I do, Lord Baron,” Erik said suddenly, and Grimm nodded.

"I'll take a look at them, Sergeant,” was his immediate response, and he saw one of the nuns passing down the corridor. When she had passed, he nodded.

"I think I know what to do, Sergeant,” he said. “I think I may be able stop this little cabal's plans."

"That's good to know, Sir,” Erik said, with a deep sigh. “Anyway, Sir, I did see some horses nearby; would you take a look at them? We don't want to go back too soon, and the nags might help to get us back to civilisation."

Grimm nodded. “Very well, Sergeant; we should have plenty of time, if your information's correct."

* * * *

"Sergeant Erik's horses are fit only for the knacker's yard, General,” the Questor said, as he walked back to the Main Hall, with Erik in tow. “I believe the Sisters told the truth about the lack of transport around here. I'd suggest that you try to get our money back, and we'll take our chances in Anjar; it's not far. I don't want to stay here a moment longer than necessary."

"It will be dark in a few hours,” Drex said, shrugging. “Why do we not wait until the morning? I'm hungry—aren't you? We have plenty of good food here.” Her manner was almost friendly and enticing. Now, that's just a little too friendly, Grimm thought. Whatever's going on, Drex and Lizaveta seem to be in on it; and they don't want us to leave until the fun starts.

He turned towards her, reminding himself that she was not the woman he loved. He knew she was suspicious, and he thought it best if his story was as plausible as possible.

"Sister Weranda; Prioress Lizaveta; whoever I'm talking to,” he said, his mouth compressed into a tight line, his lips barely moving, “I don't want us to spend another moment in this hell-hole. I don't know what you're planning, but I doubt it's anything for our benefit. We're moving out of here, right now. Is that acceptable to you, or must I tear this hell-damned place down to the bedrock? I promise you, I can, and I will, if I have to."

He saw Drex's lips open, as if she were about to speak, but her eyes began to wander before a word emerged; he had no doubt she was in commune with her inner mistress.

At last, she sighed and waved her hands, as if she were resigned to his will. “There is no need to show your power,” she said. “We ... I have no desire to keep you here any longer than you wish to stay."

"It does not matter. Our power has a long reach, you foul rapist." Drex did not say those words, but they lit up in Grimm's inner brain, anyway, as if she had. Not for much longer, he thought, if I have anything to do with it.

He nodded. “In that case, I ask you to accompany my friends to Anjar. I'll catch up with you very soon, once I've rescued Thribble from the Chapel. I trust this will be acceptable to you." Drex shrugged. “If you must, Questor; it's only an old Chapel, and we hardly use it. All I ask is that you do not damage the sconces, ornaments or icons. Some of them are irreplaceable." Her tone was level and casual, but Grimm guessed she was trying to blind him as to the Chapel's true importance.

"I won't touch them, Sister,” he said. “You have my word as a mage."

"Perhaps it would be better if Sister Judan or I escorted you,” Drex said, still maintaining her air of complete unconcern. “It's easy to get lost in the catacombs."

"I have an excellent sense of direction,” Grimm declared, “and I don't trust you not to try Geomancy on me again. I know where the Chapel lies, more or less, and I should be able to sense Thribble as I approach."

This last was a lie, but the Questor did not wish to reveal that he knew the Chapel's true purpose. He hoped that Lizaveta did not know that the loss of her magic in High Lodge was due to Grimm's destruction of her power centre in the crypts.

"Very well, mage,” she said, turning to General Quelgrum. “Will you shackle me, old man, so you can abuse me more easily later on? I won't resist, but I will despise you all the more."

"I won't shackle you, young lady,” the soldier said. “Not unless I have to, and even then we won't molest you. You have my word on that. You can show your good faith by returning our gold."

"If it will remove your foul, masculine stench from these hallowed walls,” Drex said, with the air of a martyr. “Come with me."

"Where shall we meet, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked. “Do you want us to return here?" Grimm shook his head. “Definitely not, General,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “As soon as you have the gold, I want you to head back up Merrydeath Road while it's still light. I'll either catch up with you on the road, or I'll meet you in Anjar. I don't trust these lovely ladies any further than I could throw them if I had both hands tied behind my back. Every moment we spend here increases the risk of them trying something."

"Our magic came from the Reverend Mother,” Drex said, with a disdainful snort. “It's gone. Are you scared of a few powerless women, mighty mage?"

"Understood, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, ignoring the theatrical outburst. “We'll get the money and be out of here as soon as possible.” He looked down at Drex. “By your leave, Sister?" She gave another dismissive snort and spun on her heel, striding away, the other members of the team hurrying after her.

Grimm waited until they were out of sight and accessed his Mage Sight, concentrating hard. During his sessions with Lizaveta and her cohorts, he had learned to recognise the almost invisible green wisps of Geomancy, and he saw them now. The tendrils of power imparted a vague, unpleasant odour of burning brimstone to his sensorium, at the very limit of his perception. This ‘Mage Smell’ was a new concept to him, but, then, Geomancy was a very different discipline to Thaumaturgy, and it must have different rules and precepts. Slowly, carefully, he began to turn, assessing the concentration of Geomantic power in each quadrant.

Ah; there it is, he thought, detecting the direction of increasing magical flux. West it is. This will be something new to present to the Mage Scholars if or when I get back.

He smiled. “Thank you, Lizaveta,” he muttered. “Without your gentle attentions, I'd never have made this useful discovery."

With a determined tread, he walked towards his goal.

* * * *

Grimm lost count of the twists and turns as he descended into the bowels of Rendale Priory, but there was no mistaking the acrid odour's ever-increasing intensity. He passed several nuns on the way, but none impeded his progress or challenged him. With each deeper level he met fewer women, until the corridors were deserted.

The sulphurous smell was almost overpowering, as Grimm approached a black, gnarled door, and he felt this must be the entrance to the Lower Chapel. Taking a deep breath, he twisted the iron ring and stepped inside.

The place was cold and forbidding. Although several brightly-flickering torches lit the chamber, Grimm had the overwhelming and contradictory sensation of utter darkness. Realising he no longer needed his new magical sense to guide him, he dismissed it, and the scene cleared.

"Friend Grimm!” a familiar voice squeaked to his right, and he turned to see an ornate cage of grey metal hanging from the ceiling, its bars closely-spaced. Inside it stood the tiny form of Thribble, jumping up and down in agitation, causing the cage to swing from side to side.

"I knew you would come,” the netherworld creature said. “Something about these bars prevents me from using my powers of translocation; please let me out."

Grimm smiled. “It's good to see you, Thribble, I imagine they're made of pure iron—the metal seems to block magic. Don't worry. I'll soon have you out of there."

The cage's delicate-looking, ornate padlock looked a likely target.

"Stand back, Thribble,” he counselled, hoisting Redeemer. With a single blow, the staff shattered the lock, and the cage door swung open.

Grimm held out his left hand, and the demon jumped into it with a joyous cry.

"You must tell me of your adventures since we were parted,” the demon shrilled. “I want to hear everything. All that ugly old woman ever did was to set me swinging here and mock me. I need more stories."

"Later, Thribble,” Grimm said, opening his pocket for his friend to hop inside. “I have a more urgent task to perform right now."

"Very well, human,” the minuscule demon grumbled, hopping into the pocket. “I will wait,” he added in his now-muffled falsetto.

Scanning the floor, Grimm made out a shallow, but distinct hollow in the flagstones. Just as in High Lodge, the stones were set in dry mortar, a perfect medium to absorb sacrificial blood.

"It must be here,” he muttered. “All I have to do is to get the blood out, and this damn Priory should lose its power."

He knelt in the centre of the depression, his mind reaching deep into the earth as he gathered his power and began to chant. He soon felt the pull of the lost souls trapped in the soil beneath the Chapel. As he concentrated on them, he became aware of a thin, red mist filling the room, and he smiled. The spirits of a bleating lamb, a new-born baby, a goat and a full-grown woman escaped the clutches of the earth, each rejoicing with its new-found freedom after ... how long? He did not know, but he felt happiness at their release.

Still the red mist poured into the Chapel, getting thicker and thicker, and he sneezed. The ruddy fountain darkened the chamber, showing no sign of weakening, but Grimm did not stop. As his eyes began to water, he raised his right hand and screamed “Ajer'ning mand'krint!" He added more power. Another, more vicious, spell, and the hole widened and became more ragged, extending to the next level up, and the next.

The souls of birds, pigs, men, lizards and other species flew away in increasing numbers, but the dusty flow of dried blood did not diminish. Coughing, his eyes streaming, Grimm blasted an opening all the way to the roof of the Priory, shooting the ruddy powder into the late afternoon sky. The mage heard a low groan from beneath the floor, and he felt the whole building tremble, but he now felt unable to stop himself. The whole Priory was soaked in blood, founded on it, and he was determined to free Rendale from its pernicious influence. Laughing and crying in equal measures, he continued to reach down, down into the very bedrock beneath the Chapel, with no further care for his life or his safety.

All that remained was the desire to free these imprisoned souls.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 21: Collapse

Shakkar strode from the barn into the bright morning sunlight, took a deep breath and flexed his wide, leathery wings. To his immense satisfaction, his body seemed in fine shape, and he began to exercise, as he had often seen Baron Grimm do in the early morning.

A few Anjarians stopped what they were doing to watch him, but only for a few moments. As the demon finished his impromptu callisthenics, the townspeople and shopkeepers turned away, returning to their seemingly customary haggling.

It is a good day to fly, he thought, admiring the way the fields shimmered and shone like fine gold: something he had never appreciated before in his long life. He found unexpected pleasure also in the cheerful twitter and warble of the birds in the trees. After another deep, satisfied breath, he flapped his wings, which bore him aloft without effort.

Shakkar used the thermals and air currents with the unthinking intuition of a creature born to fly, without the least consideration or understanding of the principles of aerodynamics. Sheer instinct guided him, telling him when to twist a wing; when to shift his centre of mass; when to beat his wings just that little bit harder. He revelled in the incomparable freedom of flight, rejoicing in his restored strength. Woe betide you, Prioress Lizaveta, and your cohorts! he thought, baring his teeth. Tremble, mortals, for Shakkar, the Mighty and Indomitable, approaches!

He had never thought of himself in these terms before, but he was beginning to appreciate the sense of confidence and power such grandiose titles often gave humans, enabling them to overcome odds disproportionate to their size and strength. He remembered the mantra he had heard Baron Grimm mutter on occasion: “I am strength! I am power!"

"I am vengeance,” the demon growled, his eyes almost closed against the wind caused by his passage through the air.

After perhaps five minutes of flight, he felt a growing, burning sensation in his chest and back, and he began to wonder if his proud words had been uttered in haste. He reduced his speed, trying to favour the aching muscles and tendons, but the pain grew worse, until it seemed as if some sadistic interrogator had thrust red-hot blades under his flesh. He struggled on until the pain became unbearable, and he then banked his wings and descended to the ground. To his chagrin, he saw the mighty Priory as a mere dot on the horizon, and he knew he still had many miles to cover. He trudged through the tall grass of the field in which he had landed, until he reached the road. He began to stride down the long thoroughfare with the resolute, mile-eating tread he had seen Quelgrum's men use on many occasions. His leg muscles now began to ache and tremble, too, and he felt mortified by the thought that mere mortals could march for many hours without tiring. He, Shakkar, a demon of the highest caste, felt exhausted after only minutes.

He knew his recent sickness and convalescence, brief though it had been, must have sapped much of his strength and endurance. To Shakkar, his physical superiority over humans had been an axiom, a self-evident fact. He had felt no great pride in this, but it had been a comfort to him since he had come to appreciate the resourcefulness and intelligence of these short-lived, feeble creatures. Not for the first time, he cursed the memory of Baron Starmor, who had robbed him of his magical powers and left him in this cold, miserable realm. Lord Grimm had saved him from Starmor's dismal punishment pillar and given him a new purpose in life, and he resolved anew to come to the mage's aid, come what might. Even if he had to hobble into Rendale on bloody stumps, he swore he would never forget or disregard that debt. A true demon would never, never surrender his honour.

* * * *

"Where is Questor Grimm?” Sister Weranda demanded, as she strode alongside General Quelgrum. She had not looked at or addressed any member of the group since they had left the Priory, and Quelgrum saw that she still maintained her ‘custody of the eyes'. “All he had to do was let a pathetic little reptile out of its cage. What's keeping him?"

"Not me,” the old soldier replied.

At last, Drex looked up, and her eyes met Quelgrum's for a moment. “What do you mean by that, General?"

Quelgrum noted her scathing tone, but it bothered him not at all; he had suffered too much for too long to be troubled by such trifling things as disdain. Most people he had met for the last three decades either idolised him or were terrified of him. There seemed to be no middle ground.

"Simply that,” he said, not lessening his pace in the least. “I'm not Baron Grimm's keeper. He is his own man, and he can take care of himself. Perhaps he's painting derogatory slogans on the Priory walls; perhaps he's picking flowers to put on Prioress Lizaveta's bier. I don't know where he is!"

"General, look!” Numal shouted from just behind the soldier. Quelgrum stopped and spun around to see a red-brown plume rising from the roof of the Priory, shooting hundreds of feet into the sky. “It's on fire!" Quelgrum heard Drex gasp, but he ignored her. “That's not fire,” he declared, noting the straight sides of the plume before it opened up into an umbrella-like canopy. “It looks more like some sort of fountain."

"Permission to investigate, General?” Erik asked, giving another of his parade-ground salutes. “It wouldn't take me long to check it out."

"I don't think so, Sergeant. It would be foolish to split up our forces. We'll all take a—" He started, as he heard a loud, basso roar behind him, and turned to see a distant, misshapen figure shambling down the road. His hand flew to the hilt of his sidearm before he remembered that he had no ammunition.

"It's Seneschal Shakkar, Sir!” Erik's voice was a full octave above its usual register. “I knew he wouldn't desert us!"

Quelgrum squinted at the approaching creature and realised Erik was right. This limping thing was, indeed, the once-mighty demon.

What happened to Shakkar? he wondered. He looks like a wreck!

He ran forward to meet the demon, accompanied by the now-smiling Sergeant.

"Lord Seneschal,” Erik crowed, “I thought you must have died! Are you well?"

"It is ... good to see you, gentlemen,” Shakkar rumbled as they approached him. Quelgrum would have sworn that the Seneschal was gasping from lack of breath. “I ... I have been ill, but I am recovering. Wh

... where is B-baron Grimm?"

Quelgrum jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the Priory and its red-brown plume. “He's still in there, Lord Seneschal. We have no idea what's going on, and we're a little worried."

"General!” Numal yelled, “Look!"

Quelgrum turned to see one of the Priory's turrets canting over at a precarious angle. As he watched, the tower teetered and crashed to the ground in a billowing cloud of yellow-grey dust.

* * * *

Grimm blinked and coughed, seeing the floor of the Chapel only through a rust-coloured fog, but he was fully committed to his spell and he could not have stopped if he wished to. With his Mage Sight, he saw a blurred profusion of souls escaping from their earthy confinement, and he could no longer distinguish one from another. A tangled, confused mess of sensations ran through him: joy mingled with indignation; love blended with hatred; and serenity entwined with vengeance. He no longer knew where the released spirits ended and he began. All he knew was that he must complete what he had started. As if from a distance, he heard the structure of the Priory groan and creak, and he felt a series of dull, heavy shudders run through the flagstone floor, each sending a shower of yellow dust from the vaulted ceiling, adding its hue to the haze that filled the room.

"Lord Baron!” Thribble shrilled, his tremulous voice keening like a sequence of treble notes from a piccolo. “This place is not safe! We must leave!"

"Soon, Thribble,” Grimm replied, his voice distant and dreamy, “when I have finished." A heavy stone block crashed to the floor a few feet from the mage with a shuddering thump, shattering into marble-sized fragments, a few of which scored hot streaks across his forehead, cheeks and chin. The mage scarcely noticed them. All that mattered was his self-appointed mission. With a sharp, cracking sound, a fissure snaked its way down the opposite wall, spreading sinuous tributaries from ceiling to floor. Grimm heard similar noises erupt in a staccato fusillade, and the instinct of self-preservation drifted into his sensorium, clamouring for his attention. We're almost there, he thought, trying to still the wayward, insistent demands from his stem-brain. Just a few more seconds...

He gritted his teeth, his head pounding with the effort to maintain his concentration on the task at hand. He could no longer distinguish between the flood of escaping spirits, the rumbling cacophony of protesting masonry and the acrid scent in his nostrils; his senses blurring together in a soupy melange. Ah!

Grimm felt a sharp pain in his right temple as the last soul fled from its underground prison and the spell came to an abrupt end.

He fell backwards, as if a restraining cord had been cut. Another stone block crashed to the centre of the floor, over which he had been leaning a heartbeat before.

His disregarded, suppressed senses returned with full force. Grimm realised his life was in danger, as the fabric of the Priory began to disintegrate around him. With horror, he realised that he was at the very lowest point of the crumbling edifice, and he felt a numbing flood of claustrophobia wash through him.

"Baron Grimm; we must leave!” Thribble twittered, his voice all but indistinguishable over the overpowering carronade of sound.

"I agree, my friend,” Grimm shouted, surging to his feet. “It is getting a little precarious here." He ran to the door and tugged the handle with all his strength, but the portal did not move. Without a heartbeat of consideration, he yelled a nonsense phrase, backed by a goodly dose of thaumaturgic energy, and the door crumbled into dust. Coughing and spluttering, he staggered from the Chapel, almost blind from the dense dust-cloud. The stairs were coated in dust and larger fragments of stone, and his feet skidded on the rubble as he raced upwards, threatening at any time to send him crashing back to the lower level.

Turn right, Grimm, he told himself, stumbling up another flight of stairs, fighting the cold fingers of panic that ran along his spine. Now, turn left. Left again...

Guided by intuition, dodging stony missiles erupting from the ceiling and walls, he hurtled towards the upper level of the Priory. Twice, he almost fell, but a combination of sheer luck and instinctive magic kept him on his feet. Redeemer, as if of its own volition, lashed out at hurtling missiles, shattering them before they reached him, but the Questor knew his luck could not hold for much longer. There!

With a brief shock of joy, he saw the Great Hall before him, and the hope of escape. What had once been a splendorous structure now resembled a scene from an artist's vision of Hell. Screams and shouts from a milling throng of women filled the air as the huge building writhed like some maddened, chained beast snapping at a pack of tormenting hounds. A young nun, her wimple pushed back to reveal a short, ragged tangle of brown hair, raced for the open door at the far end of the hall, only to disappear in a spray of scarlet mist as a huge stone block fell on her.

Several women tried to make their way to the wide, beckoning exit beyond the rain of death. Only a few succeeded; most were felled by the tumbling missiles, and others were on their knees, praying. Let them die! They all threw their lot in with Lizaveta and her cursed Score. They don't deserve any pity. His right arm twitched, and Redeemer turned another pair of yellow projectiles into dust as it swung in a tight arc around his head.

You haven't much longer! Get out while you have the chance. The doorway's in sight!

They only did what she told them. So did Granfer Loras. They had no more choice than he. You can't let them die!

Redeemer flashed out again, but too late, as a fist-sized rock thudded into his left shoulder, and he felt a sharp, sickening pain as a bone snapped.

He ran forward a few steps as the pain bloomed into fiery effulgence. The building seemed to howl above him, and he screamed an instinctive spell.

"A'jakareman'e ma'jastanemik!"

The cacophony did not reduce, but the rain of stone ceased to pound on the shattered marble floor.

"Get out, everyone, NOW!” he howled in a hoarse voice. “I don't know how long I'll be able to hold this spell!"

Several nuns raced through the door, which was now wreathed in a shimmering, blue light. Grimm groaned, feeling the energy pouring from him like water from a fountain.

"Do you want to die?” the mage yelled to the remaining, still-praying women. “Get OUT!" Most of the nuns heeded his agonised imperative, scuttling out of the crumbling building, although, a handful remained. Grimm staggered towards them, trying to impel them from the ruin by sheer force of will. One of the remaining women, he saw, was Sister Mercia, her lips moving in silent devotion. Moving towards her, he shouted straight in her ear: “Stay here, Sister, if you wish, but I'll stay with you until the end. I don't want to be crushed by these stones, and I don't know how much longer I can hold them up. Please; for my sake, get out of here."

Mercia completed her chant and looked up at him. “You are a destroyer,” she said. “You may reap what you have sown, if that is what you wish."

Grimm groaned, feeling the weight of masonry bearing down on his improvised ward.

"I don't want to see a blameless woman cut down in her prime,” he croaked, his vision blurring. “Please, save yourself ... and me."

Her mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. “So, this is your idea of liberation,” she said. “You have—"

"Now!” The word tore itself from his larynx like a long splinter pulled from a wound. “Do you want to die alongside a destroyer? What purpose will that serve?"

Mercia's eyes rolled, and she rose to her feet. “Sisters,” she cried, “we can serve the Names better alive than dead. Let us take our chances in the world."

As she ran towards the open doorway, the other nuns followed, and Grimm felt a deep surge of relief, before realising that he was alone in the collapsing Priory. Forcing life into his legs, he staggered towards the inviting arch of light. Blood pounding in his spinning head, he drove himself onwards. Inches seemed to turn to miles, and he screamed his habitual, defiant mantra as he approached the welcoming light: “I am strength! I am power!"

His strength failed in an instant, and pain and confusion vanished into blackness as the open doorway collapsed onto him.

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Chapter 22: Death and Rebirth

As Quelgrum's party approached the Priory, the General beheld a scene of utter chaos. White-robed figures milled around the grounds: some wept; some wandered aimlessly in stunned silence; others, perhaps more devout, knelt on the dusty grass and prayed. The entire area lay under a pall of yellow dust, and the Priory seemed to be in the throes of self-destruction, lurching and tottering like a drunken titan.

As he and his companions hurried through the throng, the building gave a convulsive shudder, and a thick cloud of dust belched from what, moments before, had been the imposing main entrance. The ruin gave a last, almost petulant shrug and then lay still, looking like the remains of a broken tooth. For a moment, complete, unnatural silence reigned; the weeping nuns, and even the birds in the trees, fell quiet.

Quelgrum scanned the area for a hint of Baron Grimm's blue-and-yellow robes, but all he saw was the nuns’ dusty habits.

The General felt numb, knowing that the Baron had been down in the lowest reaches of the Priory, which must now be buried under tons of rubble.

Not even a Seventh Rank Questor could have survived that, he told himself, punctuating the thought with a deep sigh.

The poor young bastard went through so much, and for what? Was it all for nothing?

At a soft tug on his sleeve, Quelgrum turned to his left to see a small, solemn nun. Despite a thick layer of grime on her face, he recognised the young healer, Sister Mercia. Quelgrum noted her earnest, pleading expression, and he saw pink rivulets in her dusty cheeks.

"There may be other Sisters entombed in the ruins,” she whispered, her voice shaking a little. “We cannot leave them there to rot. They should be rescued or decently buried. Will you help us? Please?"

"My concern is to find Questor Grimm's body,” the General said, strong emotion sharpening his voice. “If we find any trapped Sisters while we're searching for him, and if we can move any of these huge blocks, of course we'll get them out."

"I was foolish,” Mercia muttered. “I thought it would be better to die here, but I see no glory in such a pointless death, now. Questor Grimm destroyed the Priory; I know that. But he died to save us, at the end, and I ... we..."

The young nun dissolved in a fit of tearful sobbing, and her voice failed her. Quelgrum felt a brief pang of pity, but it was soon washed away by a flood of righteous anger.

The Order tortured us and tried to make us slaves, he thought, feeling a large blood-vessel pounding in his right temple. Questor Grimm saved us from that. My pity should be for him, not for them!

"He died to save us.” Mercia's words blazed into his mind, echoing, growing louder with each reverberation.

He grasped the weeping nun's shoulders in his rough hands and turned her to face him in a single, brusque movement.

"What do you mean?” he demanded. “Do you know where Grimm was when the building collapsed? Tell me!"

Mercia hung limp in his grip, still shivering and trembling, but she nodded.

"Where?” he shouted, shaking the nun. “Tell me!” He felt a hot flush of rage, and he saw a vision of himself pulling back a hand to strike the girl. On impulse, he released her and took a step back, breathing heavily.

The nun gulped and sniffed; her eyes red and wide with fear. “It ... it was in the main hall,” she said. “He cast a s-spell to stop the stones f-falling. He could have left us there ... I w-wanted to stay, but he made us go. He waited until we'd left, and then he..."

She waved a feeble, limp hand at the toppled remains of the Priory. “The doorway.” She stifled a sob.

“He was so close..."

Quelgrum turned around. He saw Shakkar, standing with head bowed; Numal, who looked a picture of misery; and Erik, who looked almost lost.

Drex—Sister Weranda!—knelt, lost either in prayer or exhaustion. The General could not tell which.

"Gentlemen!” he snapped, and his companions looked up. “Do you feel up to some heavy lifting?" Shakkar grunted, and he flexed his huge biceps and quadriceps, standing tall. “I am not at my strongest, General,” he growled, “but I owe Baron Grimm my freedom and my self-respect. I will move the world to retrieve him."

"I'm not strong, but my magic may be able to locate his body and some of the others,” Numal said; his eyes were red and his voice tremulous, but his expression was stern and resolute.

"There's beams and planks in the ruins, Sir,” Erik declared, casting a practised eye over the ruins. “We can use them as levers, if the nuns will help us."

Quelgrum nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “I knew I could rely on you." He turned back to Sister Mercia. “Will your Sisters aid us?” he asked. “We'll do what we can, until we've retrieved as many bodies as possible—even after we've located Questor Grimm's body."

"I think I saw Sister Judan amongst the crowd,” the nun said, all traces of grief departing, her voice steady and determined. “She could motivate them better than I could." Quelgrum suppressed a curse at the knowledge that the Score's senior member had escaped. I might have known Judan would have saved her skin.

"Very well, Sister; Sergeant Erik will organise the operation,” he said, turning back to Erik and nodding. Erik saluted. “At once, Sir! Would you mind grabbing anything we can use as a lever, Sir?" Quelgrum smiled. “I think I can do that, Sergeant."

Erik turned to Mercia, towering over her. “Will you come with me, Sister?" The tall Sergeant and the nun disappeared into the milling, directionless throng, and the General beckoned to the other two men. The recovery operation was under way, and Quelgrum felt relieved that he was doing something, instead of being a mere spectator to the disaster.

* * * *

Guy Great Flame whistled a merry tune as he rode. With money in his pockets and a good steed beneath him, he felt happier than he had for many years; in fact, for most of his life. Where next? he wondered. I suppose I really ought to go back to bloody Eron House. Prelate Hammor, rot his bones, is probably wondering where I am.

His mouth dried in an instant, despite having taken a deep swallow from his full canteen just moments before.

You will go to High Lodge ... you will go to High Lodge...

The phrase repeated itself in his head, growing louder and louder until he let go the reins, clutched his hand to his temples and gritted his teeth until he thought they would splinter. The pain bloomed and intensified until it seemed as if his head were on fire and about to explode. His limbs felt about to char and crack open, spilling marrow to the ground.

"I will!” he screamed to the sky, not knowing why. “I'll go to High Lodge, I swear!" At once, the pain disappeared like a summer shower, and Guy gasped for a few minutes, wiping cold sweat from his brow. In a few moments, the memory of his brief fit left him, and he took another drink of water.

Thirsty work, this riding, he thought. I just hope that flatulent oaf, Horin, will be pleased to see me when I get back to High Lodge.

* * * *

Loras grunted as he put himself through his habitual, rigorous sequence of morning exercises. Not bad for an ancient man, he thought, straightening up after fifty gruelling press-ups, with only a twinge from his aged bones.

Wiping himself down with a grey towel, he looked around his room, as if it might show him something new. For a prison, it was a considerable improvement on the cell in which he had grown up as a Charity Scholar. His mattress was not too lumpy or thin, and the food was far better than he had expected. Loras also had sufficient room to perform his morning callisthenics, if little else. However, it was still a prison. He was forbidden books, and he was forbidden to speak to anybody unless addressed. He yearned for news of the outside world; in particular, news of his grandson, Grimm, and his wife, Drima, but none came.

At first, he had comforted himself with visions of Grimm, now a full Seventh Rank Questor, a true Weapon of the Guild, bestriding the world like a Titan. After a while, this had begun to pall, and he started to worry about his wife. She was a strong woman, Lower Frunstock was no bed of thieves, and she had Smith Harvel, a man he had known and trusted for many years, to protect her. Nonetheless, he knew Drima would be worried by his extended absence, and he knew their tough decades together had been hard on her.

When ... if I am reconfirmed as a Questor, I will resign the position, he swore to himself. I owe the Guild nothing. I will undergo this trial for Grimm and Drima, and to restore the family name. As best he could, he washed himself with the contents of a pitcher of water, a bar of grey, gritty soap and a small, metal bowl. He then sat back on his bed and worked on his power, gathering it into a tight knot and then releasing it. He called Blade to his side and then instantly dismissed it, repeating this exercise over and over again. The cell's iron wall ensured that no magic escaped the small chamber. He had little sense of time, since no external light entered the cell at any time; the only illumination came from a single globe of Mage Light.

Loras started at a sharp rap on the door.

"Enter,” he said, rising to his feet as a key jangled in the lock. Loras felt surprised to see the tall, gaunt figure of Questor Olaf in the doorway, since he had not seen the acting Prelate since his imprisonment. Olaf bore a brown-paper parcel and a tray of food. “The date of your trial has been announced, Loras,”

he said, his voice gruff and cold. “It will be a week from today, and we must leave tomorrow. I have procured you a fresh set of scarlet silk robes, your favourite colour, as I remember. I can do no more for you."

The acting Prelate thrust the parcel towards Loras, who had no need of a Mentalist's skills to divine that Olaf felt more than a jailer's duty towards a condemned man. He had to restrain himself from hugging the frowning Questor as he took the package.

"Thank you, Brother Mage,” he said, fighting conflicting tugs of emotion. “You have treated me better than I could have hoped. I trust I will prove I am innocent of any treason and vindicate your trust in me."

"The Conclave will decide on your guilt or innocence, Loras. I must not make any comment or pre-judgement."

Olaf delivered his words with full, impenetrable gravitas, and Loras nodded. “I understand, Questor Olaf,” he said, nodding. “I thank you, nonetheless."

The acting Prelate grunted and placed the tray of food on the bed beside the prisoner.

"Eat well, Brother Bile,” he said, his expression twisting into what might just have been a half-smile. “Eat while the meal is still hot. You must be at your most eloquent during the trial. I will be there, and I wish to hear no accusations of brutality or mistreatment of my prisoners."

"You will hear none from me, Questor Olaf,” Loras declared, delivering a full smile. “Thank you very much, old friend."

Olaf grunted, and he dipped his shoulders just a little as he backed out of the room, locking the door behind him.

Loras fell on his breakfast like a starving man, devouring the eggs, the meat and the bread with a new-found enthusiasm, knowing that all his problems would soon be solved, one way or another. Grimm, Drima, Crohn, Kargan, he thought as he consumed the meal. I dedicate this meal, and any others I will eat until my death, to you.

I will win this fight, he vowed. I will regain my Guild Ring and my rank, and I will acknowledge you, Grimm, my beloved grandson, as a Brother Mage, within these very halls. Drawing Blade to him, he regarded the staff with fondness.

"Now we are together again, Blade,” he whispered, “nobody can beat us. All I want to do is to greet Grimm and Drima, with you at my side, as a full Guild Mage; and I shall." He fell back on the bed and drifted into a blissful reverie; his fate was in the hands of others, and anxiety would serve no purpose.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 23: Hoping

Despite shaving every day for forty years, Loras had allowed his beard to grow for the last few days; a beard was almost as much a sign of a Guild Mage as the staff and the ring. He had exchanged his moth-eaten, faded robes for the fine, red vestments Olaf had given him, and he had burnished and polished Blade until it gleamed.

He scratched at a shallow, itching indentation around his ring finger and gave a rueful smile. It will all be over soon, he thought, slumping onto his thin mattress. Either I will come back exonerated, with a Guild Ring on my finger, or I will be carried back to Lower Frunstock in a wooden box. Either way, I will be free at last.

His mind turned again to his Drima, who must be worrying herself sick back at the forge. It is far harder on Drima than on me, he chided himself. If only I could write her a letter, telling her how much I love her ... I must win through, for her sake as much as for mine. Mentalist Kargan will surely provide strong evidence, as long as the Conclave believes his spell is true, and not some kind of illusion. Mentalist Crohn and Questor Dalquist will be convincing witnesses ... unless the Conclave thinks I perverted their memories with some twisted Questor magic.

Thorn can be very a very convincing man when he puts his mind to it.

His mind twisted and spun in bewildering circles, his thoughts leading nowhere. Loras just wished for an end to this uncertainty and waiting. After several hours of nervous, unproductive inner torture, he felt a blessed, cool rush of relief on hearing a firm rap at the door and the crisp sound of the key being turned in the lock.

Olaf stood in the open doorway, and he uttered the words Loras had longed to hear: “It is time to leave, Brother Bile. Prelate Thorn, Questor Dalquist and Magemaster Crohn have already departed, accompanied by Questor Xylox."

Loras nodded, and rose to his feet, feeling a moment of dismay at the sight of heavy iron shackles in Olaf's hands.

"A necessary precaution, I am afraid,” the acting Prelate said, in an apologetic tone. “The other defendants, including Lord Thorn, are similarly restrained, I assure you. The manacles will be removed when we reach the Hearing Hall at High Lodge, for there will be a Cordon of Suppression erected around it. No magic will be possible inside it."

Loras whistled; the spell, he knew, was a potent and costly one, requiring the cooperation of many mages. A moment of panic seized him: Kargan's spell might be his only chance of proving his case.

"No magic, you say?” he said, feeling a cold river run down his spine. “Part of my defence requires a demonstration of magic."

Olaf shrugged. “It is a Specialist spell,” he said, rolling his eyes. “What know Questors of such thaumaturgy? I will be sure to bring your concerns to the Dominie's attention before the trial commences.

"Your hands, please, Master Loras?"

Loras sighed and extended his hands, taking a tight grip on Blade; once the metal cuffs were upon him, the staff might no longer obey his mental commands.

As a Student, he had learned from a copy of a pre-Fall book that iron was the most ‘stable', most ‘tightly bound’ of metals; that it was in the ‘lowest energy state'. Although the ancient phrases meant little to him then, and he found them no more comprehensible now, he understood that this ancient knowledge was tied up with why iron disrupted magical fields. Loras had worked so long with the metal as a smith that he appreciated its special, almost magical qualities. The nearest thing to magic he had achieved during his long exile had been the transformation of dull pig-iron into gleaming, resilient steel. He felt as much pride in this art as any Seventh Rank Mage Alchemist might find in the transformation of lead into gold. With a loud click, the latch slipped home, first on one wrist and then the other, a solid bar holding his hands apart. In a few moments, Olaf fastened a second pair of shackles, linked to the centre of the bar by a strong chain, to his ankles.

"Are you ready, Master Loras?” asked Olaf.

Loras cast his eyes around the small, bare cell and then nodded.

"I am ready, Questor Olaf."

"Follow me,” the older mage said. “You must not attempt to communicate with the other defendant during the journey. Any attempted exchange of information may prejudice your case. At the first sign of collusion, I will not hesitate to gag both of you, and I will watch you closely. Is that understood?" Loras nodded as he followed Olaf from the cell. He doubted he would have much to say to his fellow prisoners in any case; his heart felt too full.

On leaving his grim prison cell, he felt almost the same wonder he had on first seeing the Great Hall as a seven-year-old boy. The celestial dome, with its myriad twinkling lights, the opulent blue-and-gold honeycomb of the floor and the soft, ethereal music served to remind him of what Thorn's treachery had cost him, and he felt a brief stab of self-pity. With the ruthless self-control of a Mage Questor, he crushed the nascent emotion into nothingness as he followed Olaf to the open portal. I would never have met Drima if I had remained a Questor, he told himself, squinting, as the setting sun shot bright rays into his eyes, and I would never have had the joy of seeing Grimm as a Mage Questor. As he clanked his way towards a small, covered wagon, he knew Grimm would have wanted to be present, had the boy known of the trial. Nonetheless, he felt pride in the knowledge that his grandson was abroad in the world on some important Quest.

Encumbered as he was by his clumsy shackles and his lifeless staff, it took Loras several attempts to climb into the wagon. He sat on a rough, wooden bench to the right of the vehicle, and he smiled warmly at Mentalist Kargan, who sat opposite him. As Olaf bent to lock the chain to the vehicle's floor, Kargan returned a rueful grimace, proffering a friendly wink before the older Questor straightened up and took his own place beside Loras.

"Move on, driver,” Olaf shouted. “You know your orders. Make all speed, and do not stop unless I order it."

"I know the rules, Lord Mage,” a peevish voice replied from beyond the canvas screen as the wagon jerked forward, with such violence that Loras almost tumbled to the wagon floor. “You don’ ‘ave to bang it home all the blessed time."

"Mind your manners, driver,” Olaf snapped. “Remember to whom you are talking."

"Sorry, Sir,” the unseen man replied, with just a little too much emphasis on the inappropriate honorific.

“'Ang on, can't you?"

Loras heard a whip crack, and he just managed to stop himself from cannoning back into Olaf as the vehicle surged forward.

* * * *

Quelgrum wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling it running down his back and sides as he heaved and strained at the long, wooden lever. He had not engaged in such sustained physical effort since his long-ago time as a serf in Garley Province, and only then under a whip-wielding overseer's constant encouragement. He envied Shakkar and Tordun: although weakened, they seemed to cope far better than he as they worked. Quelgrum was determined that his team would be the first to move one of the bigger stone blocks away from the rubble.

Grunting, he hoisted himself off the ground, exerting all his weight on the end of the lever, aided by ten uncomplaining, silent nuns. He tried not to envy Sergeant Erik, who walked around the ruins, directing the operation.

"Easy there!” Erik called to one of the ten teams. “The fulcrum's crumbling—back off carefully and choose another one."

Quelgrum saw that his team's lever, a former roof-beam, was distinctly bowed, but it seemed in no danger of immediate breakage. Then, his feet touched the ground, and he saw the target block begin to wobble.

"Come on, ladies!” he yelled. “Move back towards me ... nearer ... that's it! Now, heave! It's going...!" The stone gave a sudden lurch and tumbled away from the pile of rubble, rolling end over end and settling onto the grass in a cloud of dust. The General tumbled backwards at the sudden release of resistance, wincing as the nun in front of him fell backwards into his groin.

I know I always tell the drill-sergeants to put the Privates through the wringer, he thought, as the sharp, sickening pain shot through his lower body and stabbed into his entrails. Lizaveta obviously gave these ladies similar instructions.

"Well done!” Erik cried, running towards the sprawling group. “That's the spirit!" Some of the nuns on Quelgrum's team raised hoarse cheers as they rose to their feet, but the old soldier could only grunt as he tottered upright. The pain in his vitals had subsided to a more tolerable, dull, throbbing ache, but he felt the weight of every one of his sixty-odd years bearing down on him.

"Where next, Sergeant?” he croaked, as Erik surveyed his group's assigned area, near what had been the main entrance to the now-shattered Priory.

"That one, perhaps?” He pointed towards another block of similar size. The Sergeant shook his head. “I don't think so, Sir,” he said. “It looks a little precarious. If we disturb it too much, it could just fall down to a lower level, taking a lot of other stuff with it. I'd advise clearing away some of the smaller rubble, so we can see what's going on."

The ground rumbled, and Shakkar's team cheered as another block fell away from the main mass of the ruins.

"There's a body!” one of the nuns shouted, and Quelgrum's heart leapt. “She's still alive!" The old soldier felt a moment of disappointment at the feminine pronoun, but he suppressed it: at least the clearing operation was of some use. Several nuns rushed to the site and helped to extricate the casualty. Another, louder, cheer arose from Tordun's team as another block rolled away from the ruins.

"Excuse me, Sir,” Erik said. “I'm needed. I advise you to continue clearing this area, carefully. Make sure your footing's firm before you start carrying away the material." He dashed away, and Quelgrum saw the nuns on his team looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. Again, he wondered why everybody always looked to him for guidance and leadership. Even as a junior member of his renegade group of serfs, people had expected him to provide the answers. Why?

Because I always do, he answered himself with a rueful, twisted smile. Not everyone can make rapid decisions in a crisis.

He forced himself to stand up straight, and he invoked his habitual parade-ground voice. “You four ladies:” he barked, jabbing his right forefinger towards a quartet of women, “start clearing away the rocks around the opening on this side. You four can go around to the other side and do the same. Be careful not to let anything big fall into the hole, and lie flat on the rubble so you don't exert too much pressure." He turned to the two remaining nuns, both stout ladies of middle age. “I'd like you ladies to lean over the hole and listen for any sounds of life as we remove the rubble."

The women went to their work in an enthusiastic manner; none raised the least protest at the soldier's assumption of authority. Quelgrum went in search of Necromancer Numal, who was aiding the other teams by indicating the probable positions of bodies with sticks inserted in the rubble. His face was a dull, grey mask of strain as he ran through a series of identical chants, hardly stopping to draw breath. When the mage stopped to mop his brown, the soldier asked him, “How goes it, Necromancer Numal?"

"It's hard work, General,” Numal said, “even though I'm not doing any heavy lifting. It's a demanding enough spell if you're trying to find even a single body. There must be dozens down there. I have no idea how many of them are still alive."

"Have you located Baron Grimm's body yet?"

Numal shook his head and brushed his hair from his eyes. “All the bodies I've located so far were women."

"Does that mean he might still be alive?” the General asked.

Numal shrugged. “Necromancers don't deal with the living,” he said. “It could mean he's alive, but it could also mean that he's just buried too deep; stone attenuates the death-sign far more than soil does. I won't give up, though. I've located nine bodies so far."

"Good man, Lord Mage,” Quelgrum said, clapping Numal on the shoulder in encouragement. He looked towards the western sky, where the baleful, ruddy sun hung a scant finger-width above the horizon.

"We'll need fires,” he muttered, more to himself than to Numal. “It'll be dark soon."

"I can do better than that, General,” the Necromancer declared. “Mage Light's a cheap spell; I should be able to spare enough energy to cast light over the whole area, and a steady, white light would be far better than a flickering fire. I should be able to keep it going all night, if need be." Quelgrum felt a surge of pride.

I didn't think much of Numal at first, he thought. I thought he was a slack, useless coward then, but he's certainly pulling his weight now.

"We couldn't even think of doing this without you, Lord Mage,” he said, smiling in appreciation.

“Seneschal Shakkar's and Tordun's strength are essential to the work, but, without knowing where to dig, we'd all just be floundering in the dark."

Numal's face brightened, and Quelgrum realised the Necromancer must have little experience of encouragement and praise.

"You're doing a fine job, Necromancer,” he declared, patting the mage's shoulder once more. “With your help, we'll get through this.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to my team."

The painstaking, arduous work continued apace, and Quelgrum now felt strong enough to aid the nuns in their task. By now, a deep, black void had been revealed, over which hung many, many tons of stone. What's holding all this lot up? he wondered, gazing down into the pitch-black depths. A wooden beam couldn't support all this stone.

Leaning forward as far as he dared, he saw a faint gleam within the gloom. His arm reached towards it. He cried out, his head exploding with blazing light, and fell backwards, tumbling down the rubble-pile and banging his head on a rock. As his head whirled, and he tried to bring his twitching eyes into focus, he saw three nuns racing towards him, their faces pale with concern.

"Are you all right, General?” the nearest nun cried, whose name he could not remember. “What's the matter? Do you need help?"

Quelgrum smiled, not bothering to try to stand. He had never before felt the avid bite of a Mage Staff, but he had seen its effect on others unlucky enough to get in the way of one. He had answered his own question: “What sort of wooden beam could hold up a hundred tons of rock?" An unbreakable Mage Staff was the only answer, and he knew such a weapon died with its owner, reverting to a simple lump of wood.

"All I can get,” he said. “Baron Grimm's down there, and he's alive! I don't know how we're going to get him out, but I want every available person here to aid in the effort." With some difficulty, the old soldier climbed to his feet, his legs feeling like useless, dead tree-trunks that might splinter at any moment.

"Sergeant Erik!” he yelled. “Seneschal Shakkar! Warrior Tordun! Please come here at once—the Baron's alive!"

"What about my Sisters?” a well-built, ferocious-looking nun demanded, her green eyes burning like were-gas over a swamp.

"They can bloody well wait!” Quelgrum snapped, fighting exhaustion and disorientation. “We get Questor Grimm out first, or the deal's off! Is that abundantly clear?"

He did not even know if the woman replied, as he saw the Sergeant, the demon, the albino and Necromancer Numal racing towards him.

We'll get you out, boy, he thought. Don't worry; help's on its way.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 24: Preparations for Extraction

General Quelgrum regarded Sergeant Erik with apprehensive eyes, as the younger man stood gazing into the dark chasm.

"Well, Sergeant?” he said. “You're the combat engineer. Can we get him out?" Erik straightened up and shook his head. “It'd be a tall order, even with a full squad of trained engineers and all the right tools, Sir,” he said. “Even if we could construct a crane out of this old lumber, there's no safe footing.

"There's a large stone block resting on Baron Grimm's staff, Sir. All that's stopping it toppling over is the packed rubble around it. If we open up the hole, the whole lot could collapse. The only solution I can think of at the moment is a large treadmill crane to lift it vertically, but there's nowhere to stand one. If we mount it a long way from the hole, a wooden lifting arm will never take the strain."

"If we level an area near the hole, can we make a crane?” Quelgrum hazarded. Erik shook his head. “I'm afraid not, Sir. We'd need tools, metal bolts and braces, strong ropes or chains, and some way of shackling them to the stone. A crane's out of the question, Sir." Quelgrum rubbed his forehead. “Can we brace the block in some way, so it won't fall if we clear away the rubble?"

"I don't think so, Sir. These beams are pretty sturdy, but they were only meant to hold up the roof, braced by cross-trees. They were acting in compression or tension and at their strongest. If we try to brace the rock with them, they'll break for sure. If we try to slide one of them under the block, it'll break. In any case, we'd never reach far enough under the block to make sure it was firmly seated in the rubble. One false move, and this whole mass would collapse."

"So that's it, then?” Quelgrum said in a tart, sarcastic voice, his mouth twisting. “We just say goodbye to Baron Grimm and walk away: is that what you want, Sergeant?"

"No, Sir,” Erik replied, his face calm. “I don't want to give up on Baron Grimm any more than you do. Nonetheless, with the materials we have on hand, we can't save him. Two of these beams broke when we were just trying to use them as class-one levers, with the load near the fulcrum. None of them would take this block's weight bearing down on its centre."

Quelgrum compressed his lips and spun on his heel, his eyes closed. He did not like Erik's analysis, but he knew he was in no position to refute it.

"May I speak?"

Quelgrum opened his eyes to see the slight, bowed form of Necromancer Numal, and he nodded, too full for words.

"My staff is as unbreakable as Questor Grimm's. It can take the weight." Quelgrum turned his head to the right. “Well, Sergeant? Does this change the situation? We can roll the block back onto Necromancer Numal's staff, so it can be stable while we clear the rubble away." Erik rolled his eyes upwards as if scanning the heavens, his head cocked to one side. His lips moved without sound. After a few moments, he faced the officer again.

"It's worth a try, General,” he said, “but I can't see how we'd secure the staff in position without widening the hole further. That could tip the block over. If we try to slide the staff under the block, it'll probably be at an angle, and that could cause all sorts of trouble."

Silence descended for a few moments.

"Help! Somebody, please help!"

The faint, thready sound was at the very limit of Quelgrum's hearing, and, for a moment, he thought he had imagined it. He looked into Erik's face, to see a pair of wide, wondering eyes.

"Yes, Sir,” the Sergeant whispered, in answer to the General's unasked question. “I heard it, too." Quelgrum inched his way back up to the hole, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Necromancer Numal, can you cast another one of your globes of light here, so I can see into this Names-cursed hole?"

"Of course, General,” Numal said He uttered a swift, staccato stream of mage-words and soft, white globe of luminescence formed in the palm of his outstretched left hand, rose into the air and meandered in a lazy fashion over towards the small opening.

"Thank you, Lord Mage,” Quelgrum said, gazing into the hole.

"Ah! Now I see,” he muttered, as the small globe cast its cold, brilliant effulgence into the chasm. Redeemer was wedged across the gap, with the enormous stone block perched atop it. The cube must be at least six feet on a side, and it rested at an angle of perhaps forty-five degrees to the vertical, a bare hand's-width of stone overhanging Redeemer on its nearest side.

At least it isn't lying on edge, he thought, raising his head a little to ease the crick in his neck. That could have caused all sorts of problems. All we have to do now is thread a six-foot staff through an eighteen-inch hole so that it finds a firm footing at each end.... Still, perhaps Questor Grimm can help, if that was his voice I heard.

Bending his head to the opening again, he called into the chamber, “Baron Grimm? Are you awake?"

"Questor Grimm is unconscious,” a faint, high-pitched voice replied. “I, Thribble, raised the alarm, General. What kept you? Are you deaf?"

The General felt a fierce blaze of frustration: not only was Baron Grimm unconscious, perhaps badly injured, but the only hope of wedging Numal's staff in position rested on the narrow shoulders of a six-inch-tall creature from the underworld, whose main talents lay in elaborate story-telling and mimicry.

"Your voice doesn't carry well, friend Thribble,” he called, fighting to keep the bitter disappointment from his voice. “I came as soon as I heard you. It is good to know that you and Baron Grimm are still alive."

"How will you extricate us out from this dismal hole?” the tiny demon demanded, his piccolo-like voice tinged with unmistakeable peevishness.

"I don't know,” the soldier admitted. “All we can think of is to wedge Necromancer Numal's staff under the block over your heads, and then remove the rubble slowly, letting the block settle into a secure position. With luck, we can then hoist both of you out of there." He heard a faint snort, like a small child's sneeze.

"So why do you not do so, General? Questor Grimm requires medical assistance."

"We need to ease the staff into position from your side. Could you bear its weight?"

"I could probably manoeuvre it into position if you lowered it on a rope, General,” Thribble declared.

"The hole's too small; we can only lower it vertically, friend demon. You'd have to rotate it into position. I doubt you have the strength to do that, even if you found a convenient perch."

"A moment, please, Sir,” Erik said, kneeling on Quelgrum's left side. “I have an idea." The General raised his eyebrows. “I'm open to any suggestions, Sergeant."

"If you don't mind, Sir, I'd like to ask little Thribble a few questions first,” Erik replied. “There's no sense in getting our hopes up if my idea's no good."

Quelgrum nodded. “Go ahead, Sergeant."

Erik crouched over the hole and said, “Master Thribble, we need to wedge Necromancer Numal's staff parallel to Baron Grimm's, perhaps two feet apart from it. Are there any ledges or stone blocks we can rest it on?"

"A moment, please, friend Erik."

Quelgrum heard faint scrabbling sounds to his left, a few moments of silence and then another brief interval of scratching to his right.

"I think so, Sergeant,” the demon chirped, panting a little. “The floor of the hall subsided, but the lower supporting walls are still intact. They are supporting Questor Grimm's staff. I am sitting on one of them at the moment, and it looks very sturdy. The walls are somewhat less than a man's height apart."

"Very good. Is there enough room to rotate the staff through a right angle from the vertical, if it's completely inside your chamber?"

"I think so, Sergeant."

"That's excellent, Thribble,” Erik said, his voice intense and serious. “Now, my last question: if the staff hung horizontally, with all its weight supported on ropes, are you strong enough to guide it into position?"

"I could try,” the demon twittered. “Would it hurt me? I know what a Mage Staff can do to the unwary." Erik turned towards Numal, who stood a little further down the rock-pile, his face pale and drawn. The Necromancer shook his head. “I heard, Sergeant. My staff will not hurt Thribble."

"You won't be harmed, friend demon,” Erik assured Thribble, a broad smile spreading across his face.

“Wait a few moments, and we'll see what we can do about getting you out of there.” Crawling back from the hole, he stood up and massaged his lower back.

Quelgrum followed the Sergeant's example; his spine seemed as if it were on fire. “What are you planning, Sergeant?"

"Of course, Sir; it's really very simple. We use two ropes, tied around the staff about eighteen inches apart. We leave one rope slack, lower the staff and then use the other rope to pull it horizontal. With that arrangement, we can tilt it, turn it, or move it in any other direction, as guided by Thribble. We take the weight, and he can just finesse it into position."

Quelgrum nodded as the simplicity of the plan flooded into his forebrain. “That's so simple that it's almost brilliant, Sergeant,” he said, mirroring Erik's smile for a few moments before his expression darkened. “I see only one little flaw; we don't seem to have any ropes."

"We're only talking about supporting a few pounds’ weight, Sir. Belts, pieces of string and strips of strong cloth should do; perhaps about ten feet for each rope."

Erik still wore his army uniform, equipped with a multiplicity of leather straps and burlap webbing, and he began to divest himself of these, his practiced hands joining them together with sturdy, locking knots.

"I reckon this will do for one rope, Sir,” he said, grunting as he tugged on his improvised rope. “I just hope my trousers don't fall down in front of all these ladies."

Quelgrum wore a leather belt and a single cross-strap angled across his chest, and he added them to the cause; the resulting rope was, however, some way short of the needed length. He considered asking the nuns to tear strips from their ample robes, but he thought better of it. He did not want to foster accusations of lewdness or prurience; he needed all the help he could get from these ladies. Shakkar wore no clothes, but after Numal provided the rope cincture from around his waist, and Tordun had contributed his ample belt, Erik pronounced himself satisfied. He tested the knots and nodded.

"Your staff, please, Necromancer Numal?"

Numal handed the six-foot weapon to Erik.

"Don't worry if the knots come loose, Sergeant; I can always retrieve Justice with a word, if she falls. I've told her not to hurt you, demon Thribble or Questor Grimm."

"Thank you, Lord Mage,” Erik replied.

His nimble hands made swift work of fastening the makeshift ropes around the staff. “I'm ready, General."

"Very good, Sergeant. Carry on."

Erik leant over the hole and began to lower Justice into the chamber. Quelgrum tried not to breathe.

"That is far enough, Sergeant,” Thribble called from below. “You have just enough room to level the staff."

"So far, so good,” Erik muttered, and he began slowly to manipulate the ropes, like a puppet-master playing a marionette's strings.

"Stop!” the demon squeaked. “Hold it steady, please."

The General heard a series of breathy, high-pitched grunts as Thribble worked, unseen, below him.

"One side is in place,” the imp declared, and Quelgrum fancied he heard a distinct tone of satisfaction in Thribble's voice. “Hold it there, please."

The General heard a rat-like, scrabbling, scurrying sound, followed by further grunts.

"You may release the ropes, Sergeant,” the demon twittered after several minutes. “The staff is secure." Erik released his hold, and the improvised ropes shimmied into the hole, like a pair of rapacious snakes seeking prey.

"We must clear away the rubble on the far side of the hole, General,” he said, locking Quelgrum's eyes with his own. “Once the block's revealed, we'll probably need to use the levers to ease the stuff away from it, starting next to the block and moving outwards. We can't rush this, Sir; we have to move it in small increments so it doesn't get away from us. If the block tumbles, we'll be in a world of hurt." Quelgrum clapped his hands to draw the attention of his crew of nuns, and he relayed Erik's earnest instructions to them. As they began to clear the rubble away with careful movements, he heard a harsh, peremptory cough behind him. Turning his head to his left, he saw Lady Drexelica standing at the foot of the rock pile, her arms akimbo in an aggressive, unladylike stance. He noted the pursed mouth, as if she had drunk vinegar when expecting fine wine.

"How long will this ridiculous charade continue?” she demanded, her tone icy and brittle. “While you carry on with this futile exercise, there are innocent women dying down there; women who could be saved in a tenth of the time it would take you to rescue a foul rapist who may already be beyond help!"

"We haven't forgotten your sisters,” Quelgrum replied, his voice as stern and uncompromising as Drex's.

“However, my first loyalty is to Baron Grimm. Further excavation may put him at risk, and I have no intention of allowing that."

Drex snorted. “I thought you would say that,” she said, talking to herself as much as to the General. “I should have known better than to trust a group of males."

She half-turned away from him, as if resigned to his decision, and began to walk away. After a few steps, she stiffened, spun around and surged towards the rock-pile. With a sick, cold shock, Quelgrum realised she was about to throw herself at the stone block, in an attempt to send the whole heap down on Baron Grimm. He tried to move to interpose himself between her and the hole, but his feet skidded on the loose rubble, sending him sprawling on his face.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 25: An Angry Mob

Drex dashed up the slope like a soul possessed. From the corner of her eye, she saw figures running toward her, but they were too slow or too far away to catch her.

Justice will be done, she told herself. I will be free from the foul rapist at last. She laughed, preparing to launch herself against the stone block to send it tumbling down onto Grimm, but the harsh laugh was crushed from her by a pair of strong arms, and she realised her feet were now pounding against nothing more substantial than thin air.

"No!” she screamed, putting all her strength into the cry, but all that emerged from her lips was a breathless gasp as she floated over the stone block, her flailing feet missing it by scant inches. Higher and higher she flew, rising up to dizzying heights. The milling people below now looked like insignificant mites. Her vision blurring, her lungs burning, she felt a cold shock of terror, expecting her abductor to drop her onto the stones below at any moment. Her fear, however, soon gave way to a warm flood of inner peace and acceptance.

The Names will greet me with open arms, she thought, closing her eyes in a moment of spiritual rapture. I offer my soul to their beneficence and grace...

She felt almost disappointed when her feet again touched solid matter, and the cruel, crushing arms loosened their hold on her. Drawing a rasping, whooping breath, she opened her eyes, and she staggered from a sudden, dizzying fit of vertigo. She would have fallen, were it not for a scaly arm that restrained her.

"Peace, young mistress,” a familiar, bass voice rumbled, as she stared down at the sheer drop mere inches from the tips of her toes. “I have brought you up here to cool down a little. Do not worry; I will not let you fall."

As rationality returned to her, Drex found herself perched on the parapet of the Priory's only remaining turret.

"Why did you stop me, Seneschal Shakkar?” she demanded, spinning around in the demon's arms, her ire heated by the knowledge of her failure. “You know what that foul rapist has done to me and my beloved Order. He deserves to die."

"Have you no pithy, cutting epithet for me, Lady Drexelica?” demanded the demon, looking down at her with those intense, scarlet eyes. “'Scaly monster', perhaps? Or would ‘fanged despoiler’ be better?" Drex felt conflicting emotions snarling and fighting within her: rage at being denied; relief that she was not dead; misery at the loss of her brief, transcendental moment of grace. Most of all, she felt perplexity. Shakkar was friend to the man who had torn her innocence from her, but the demon had never behaved towards her in anything less than a gentle and protective manner. Alone among Grimm's companions, Shakkar evoked no angry reaction in her, and sheer confusion stayed her tongue.

"Maybe ‘winged pervert’ would suit me better?” the demon Seneschal suggested, and Drex found her voice.

"Of course not, Seneschal Shakkar,” she heard herself saying in a whining, little girl's voice, much to her disgust. “You are ... you are you, and you have always been kind to me."

"Do you prefer ‘old lecher'?” Shakkar asked.

"That is General...” Drex began, trailing off as her head began to pound. She struggled to make sense of her whirling thoughts, but the loud, increasing noise in her brain made rational thought all but impossible.

"The ‘foul rapist’ is Baron Grimm, I understand,” the demon continued, in a friendly, conversational tone.

“I imagine you reserve ‘oversized ogler’ for warrior Tordun. Am I right?" Drex said nothing; Grimm had roused the same confusion in her, just before his destruction of the Priory. The clamour in her head was now worse than the tumult in her home town of Griven on market-day, and her head throbbed with an abominable, stabbing ache.

"Necromancer Numal!” Shakkar snapped, showing his fearsome array of steak-knife teeth. “Who is he?

Speak, Lady Drexelica!"

"Numal is not worthy of your respect,” she muttered. “He's nothing more than a fumbling—"

"Pederast?” Shakkar demanded, making the masonry beneath them shake with the power of his deep voice. “Is that not what you were going to say?

"My eyesight is quite poor, but my hearing is excellent. I heard you muttering these imprecations like religious mantras, while the other nuns were working. They did not vary in cadence, tone or vehemence from one repetition to the next.

"You have been robbed of the gifts of thought and free speech, Lady Drexelica; your mind is nothing more than a puppet. You do not insult me because you have not received a convenient label with which to belabour me."

"The Order is all,” Drex muttered, trying to blot out the demon's words with the force of her faith. She tried to listen for the calming, soothing voice of Prioress Lizaveta within her, but the Reverend Mother's ever-present advice was drowned in the cascade of tumbling, colliding emotions.

"The Order is my only friend!"

Drex tried to find comfort in the familiar words, but they seemed cloy like cold, sulphurous ashes on her tongue.

"Warrior Tordun may be a man of great strength and violence when confronted by enemies,” Shakkar rumbled, “but I have never seen him regard you with anything but ... I have never seen him look at you at all; your youth and beauty embarrass him, yet he would fight to the death to defend you. He is weakened by disease and half-blind, yet he has fought to the limits of his strength to help save your sisters. You prefer to dismiss this noble human with a trite rote phrase.

"On more than one occasion, I saw the way you looked at Baron Grimm, and he at you, when you were with him in Crar. You did not then regard him as a rapist; nor did he regard you as a chattel. Somewhere deep within you, Lady Drexelica, you know this; yet you belittle him as a ‘foul rapist'."

"Shut up!” Drex screamed, feeling as if her muscles were turning to water. Feeling the barb-like thoughts of Prioress Lizaveta begin to push through the tumultuous din of her roiling emotions, she screamed,

“Both of you! Shut up and let me think!"

Shakkar ignored her outcry. “I will stay with you, young mistress. You cannot run from me. You cannot trick me or deter me, but I will not kill you. Shall I take you back down there, to allow you to murder Baron Grimm? I will not do that, either.

"You and I will stay here, Lady Drexelica, until you divest yourself of these asinine, thoughtless labels and try to think for yourself."

"Let me go!” Drexelica's eyes prickled from the sting of nascent, hot tears. “Let me go, you ... you big beast!"

"Was that an insult of your very own, Lady Drexelica? If so, I am honoured to wear the appellation. However, I am happy to stay here with you; protecting you, as I always have and always will. Rail as you will, but I will not let you go. I will, however, remain silent, so you can listen to your own thoughts." With that, Shakkar fell silent. Drexelica groaned, helpless in the demon's arms. The sudden silence seemed a worse torture than any she had ever faced, as Shakkar's last words reverberated and rebounded in her head, but she tried to cut through the morass of conflicting influences. Somewhere, somehow, she must be able to regain the spiritual peace and comfort she had lost.

* * * *

As several nuns stared into the dark night sky, stunned by Drex's impulsive attempt at sabotage and by Shakkar's swift response, Quelgrum crawled towards the hole, shaking with relief. He fought with every fibre of his being to control his trembling limbs, and, for the most part, he succeeded. I can't let the others see how shaken I was, how slow I'm becoming, he told himself. I must at least look as if I'm in control.

Steadying his breathing, he clapped his hands to attract the nuns’ attention. “Ladies,” he said, “we still have a job to do, in case you'd forgotten."

The women turned as one to face him, their faces aghast. “The monster has abducted Sister Weranda,”

one cried, pointing upwards, into the darkness. “We must save her!" A faint susurration arose from the crowd, growing louder by the moment, and Quelgrum feared he might be losing them.

"Sister Weranda was not always a member of your Order,” he shouted, fighting to keep his voice level.

“Once, she lived in the Barony of Crar. Seneschal Shakkar, amongst his other duties, acted as her personal bodyguard and protector. He would no more hurt her than you would eat dung. She was trying to kill Baron Grimm, and Shakkar acted to remove the threat. He could have destroyed her in a heartbeat if that had been his wish, but he did not do so."

"What if Sister Weranda had killed your precious Baron?” Quelgrum recognised the voice as that of Sister Judan. “There may be many other Sisters down there, who deserve help more than our Prioress’

murderer. He despoiled our home and besmirched our faith. He violated Weranda, back in the world, and he kept her prisoner!"

The murmurs grew uglier, and Quelgrum heard a few assenting shouts:

"Why save such an evil man?"

"He's just a Names-cursed destroyer!"

"Down with him!"

Quelgrum made to slip his pistol from its holster before remembering that he had no ammunition. The situation was becoming untenable, as the white-clad women began to close in from all sides. He shot a nervous glance at Sergeant Erik, but the younger man, his face ashen-pale in the cold glare of Numal's mage-light, shook his head; it was plain he had no idea of how to quell this growing rebellion. Some of the nuns had picked up the beams they had used as levers in the rescue effort, but it was plain they now had a darker purpose in mind as they moved towards the General and his companions. Tordun twisted and turned, his damaged eyes flicking back and forth as if trying to locate an unseen tiger in a dense jungle. Numal's hands were raised in a threatening, spell-casting pose, but Quelgrum knew the Necromancer had little magic that could stem the advancing horde.

"STOP!"

At the high-pitched, tremulous cry, the General spun to see a diminutive figure standing a few paces behind him, her hands raised in supplication.

"Stop, I say!"

Sister Mercia's voice might not carry the weight of Shakkar's booming bass or Quelgrum's parade-ground bellow, but it stopped the women in their tracks, except for the dumpy, grey-haired Sister Judan.

"Who are you, Sister, to countermand a member of the Score?” she demanded, her eyes blazing. “Have you thrown your lot in with this monstrous group of male destroyers?"

"How dare you!” Mercia's tone cracked like a whip. “While you and the other members of the score sat in judgement over the rest of the Order, eating veal and quails’ eggs, I toiled for the good of us all, receiving no thanks and expecting none. I have only ever worked to help my Sisters." Speaking louder, she demanded, “How many here have been tended by me? Show yourselves!" A forest of hands arose from the milling throng of women.

"I have treated pneumonia, bloody flux, marsh fever and a hundred other ailments during my time here. At times, I was sick to my stomach from the diseases I treated. Often, I caught the same diseases myself, but I never quailed, and I never complained about my allotted tasks.

"When was the last time you treated a case of bowel-wrack, Sister Judan?" Quelgrum heard a few amused chuckles, and he realised he had been holding his breath. He drew fresh air into his lungs in a convulsive gasp, but he felt transfixed; in a heartbeat, this tiny woman might be dashed away like a sapling in a flash-flood, but she stood firm and seemingly unafraid.

"Pretty rhetoric, Sister.” Judan's voice was a low hiss. “Each must play her part in our Order. Even we of the Score have—"

"When was the last time you were whipped because your curtsey was not deep enough, or because your gown was untidy? Three months ago, you condemned me to kneel on sharp stones and hold a heavy stone over my head for two hours; just because you considered my morning devotional chant insufficiently sincere."

Judan's mouth opened to speak again, but Mercia continued: “I had been awake for three days, dealing with a virulent outbreak of measles. I told you so, but you added three hours of third-level Contrition to my punishment, for insolence."

Turning to the crowd, she demanded, “How many of you suffered similar injustices?" A loud chorus of affirmation greeted this last question, and Quelgrum guessed that peremptory punishment had been a prominent feature of Priory life. His heart went out to Mercia; this tiny, courageous slip of a girl was winning the argument, beyond doubt.

Judan shook her head as if confirming some painful doubt."You fool nobody, Sister,” she said. “You have proved the justice in my opinion of you. You are insolent and ungrateful. We will—"

"We?” Mercia cried, and the soldier saw tears gleaming like jewels in her eyes. “Who is ‘we'? I have served the Order since I was a small child, and my only reward was pain and humiliation.

"I once revered the Score, accepting my punishment as the Names’ judgement on my fallible soul; I now see you and your kind as bloated betrayers of your fellow women." Mercia reached behind her, and Quelgrum heard the tearing of cloth. She spun in a slow circle, to show a complex map of livid scars on her young back. Many were bordered in pink, showing recent abuse.

"How many women here bear similar marks?” she screamed. “Why do you not show us all your own, fresh scars, Sister Judan?"

A feral, angry cry arose from the crowd in response to this demand.

"I would never be so immodest,” Judan blustered. “As all can see, you have proved yourself unworthy—"

"Questor Grimm killed Prioress Lizaveta,” Mercia continued, again interrupting her senior. “He also brought down this foul palace of pain and suffering. I and several other Sisters were in the Great Hall when the fall came. He saved us at the risk of his own life, using his last magic to hold up the collapsing roof as we escaped. That was not the act of a mindless, heedless destroyer." She pulled a small bag from between her breasts and held it over her head. “He also gave me the herbs that helped to save lives from the plague that Prioress Lizaveta unleashed on us all ... he saved your life, too, you ungrateful woman! For recognising that, you wish to punish me again.

"I do not accept your judgement, Sister! You will never beat me again!" The crowd surged forward again, screaming imprecations, but Quelgrum could see that their angry eyes were now locked on Judan.

"Please, Sisters, no more vengeance!” Mercia cried, snatching up a broken, four-foot length of wood.

“We have had enough of that! We must work to save Questor Grimm, who saved us from slavery! Then, we must work to save our dear, lost Sisters!"

"YES, SISTER MERCIA!"

The huge cry almost rocked Quelgrum on his feet, and he saw Judan's face fall. He was close enough to touch the older woman, and he whispered in her ear, “You've lost, lady. Better get out while you still can."

Judan looked at the angry faces around her and bustled away towards Merrydeath Road. The other nuns moved towards the excavation, still bearing their wooden planks and beams. Erik told the nuns where they should place their levers, and the General smiled as they hurried to carry out the Sergeant's instructions.

"Well done, Sister,” Quelgrum said, as Mercia turned towards him. “That was a spectacular performance."

She snorted. “That was no performance, General. I was acting only as my conscience guided me. I trust you will do the same."

"Steady, Sisters!” Erik shouted to the workers. “Let it down slowly!"

"I always have, sweet Sister, even if you don't believe it,” Quelgrum said to the nun. “I was beaten every day when I was your age, and I rebelled against my masters, too. You did well." Mercia opened her mouth, but her words were stolen by a loud thump that rocked the ground. Quelgrum held his breath while Erik surveyed the excavation, and he felt sure the young nun felt no less involved in the work.

"It's good, General!” the Sergeant said. “The rock's stable. Now we can start clearing away the rubble. Hurry, now!"

From the corner of his eye, Quelgrum saw Numal tumbling to the ground in a dead faint, but he hardly noticed; he had eyes only for the beautiful, courageous nun. Since he had first rebelled against his masters, he had felt only the inexorable demands of real and imagined duty. He had never known any love but that for his army, and he found it hard to imagine that any woman could ever love him, but he now felt the strong, undeniable stirrings of long-denied and forgotten man-feelings within him.

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Chapter 26: Claustrophobia

"Bless you, Sister,” Quelgrum found himself saying, feeling hot blood flood into his face. “You are ... lovely."

Sister Mercia's lips twisted into an embarrassed half-smile, and she looked down at the ground, her only answer a brief, nervous laugh.

She likes me, he thought, his heart singing. For a moment, his mind conjured up a series of dreamy images of him and Mercia, walking hand in hand on a distant, golden beach... Pull yourself together, man, he told himself. You're old enough to be her grandfather, you old fool. What could a young girl like that ever see in you? Mercia's just a kind soul; she'd act the same way towards anyone.

"I'm sorry, Sister,” he said, pushing his dreams to the back of his mind as he had done before so often in his long life. “Please forgive a silly old man's babbling. I never meant to embarrass you." Mercia raised her head a little, but she did not look him in the eye. “This is hardly the time for such compliments, when lives must be saved, General; but I thank you in any case. They were kind words, and I appreciate them."

Quelgrum wanted to say more, but he dared not, trusting himself only to reply with a brisk, impersonal nod.

"Let us go back to the excavation, General,” Mercia said. “The work goes on apace, and my services may soon be needed ... if Questor Grimm still lives."

"He does,” Quelgrum asserted. “If he died, I understand his staff would revert to a length of ordinary wood. It'd give way at once under all that weight."

The old soldier thought of taking Mercia's hand as they walked towards the rescue site, but he crushed the impulse at birth, instead trying to concentrate on the urgent work in progress. As the young nun had said, it was, indeed, proceeding at a prodigious rate; the opening's eighteen-inch diameter had been widened by a good three feet on the far side of the stone block, easily wide enough to allow an adult male to descend into the chasm.

As he approached the Sergeant, standing alongside a shaky-legged Necromancer Numal, the General asked him why the excavation continued.

"I want to ensure there's plenty of clearance for a makeshift stretcher, if we need one, Sir,” Erik replied.

“Baron Grimm may be badly hurt, and we may need a lot more room."

"Very good, Sergeant. Carry on."

Quelgrum recognised that he might be what members of his army called a ‘fifth wheel’ or a ‘second wig'; someone superfluous to requirements.

Be content to delegate for once, he thought. Erik knows what he's doing, so just let him do it!

He forced himself to stand in silence as the blur of digging and hauling continued, with the half-blind albino, Tordun, seizing heavy rocks and hurling them aside under the Sergeant's cool, clear, patient direction.

"That's enough, I think, ladies and Warrior Tordun,” Erik said, with a satisfied smile and nod. “Well done, and thank you; you've carried out a difficult and hazardous task with stubborn determination. You should all be proud of yourselves; I know I am."

Diplomacy, too, Quelgrum thought, feeling his own heart swelling with pride. The man should be an officer.

The Sergeant stood at the edge of the hole and called down, “Friend Thribble, I am six feet tall. Can you estimate how far I'll have to drop if I'm held at arms’ length?"

Quelgrum did not hear the tiny demon's reply, but he saw Erik nod in response, adding, “That's a short enough drop. Warrior Tordun; would you do the honours, please?"

"Of course, Sergeant.” The albino took Erik's wrists in his meaty hands. “I will not release you until you give the word. Trust me."

"I trust you, friend Tordun.” Erik smiled. “Just don't crush my wrists to powder. I might need them again." The pale man nodded. “I'll be careful, Sergeant."

Tordun hoisted Erik clean off the ground with little effort and began to lower him into the pit, his muscular arms extending to their full length. With surprising grace, he sank to his knees and began to lean forward until he lay prostrate at the lip of the hole. Not for the first time, the General marvelled at Tordun's awe-inspiring strength as he slowly lowered his outstretched arms into the opening. From the calm expression on the albino's face, the warrior barely seemed aware of the considerable strain on his arms and shoulders.

"That's far enough, Tordun,” Erik shouted. “Let go."

A normal man's arms would have flown upward at the sudden release of weight, but all Quelgrum saw was a slight tremor in Tordun's shoulders as he released his burden.

* * * *

Erik thumped to the ground, bending his knees as he landed. It took him a few moments to orient himself in the gloom, but his eyes soon adjusted to the dim light. He whistled as he surveyed the scene; the floor was littered with large stones and rubble, making for treacherous footwork. He realised that, had he landed a mere hand's-breadth either side of his current position, he might have slipped and done himself considerable injury. The huge block that had caused so many problems rested on its slender supports at chest level, about three feet in front of him.

"At last!” a familiar, piping voice crowed, and the Sergeant looked down to see Thribble perching on Numal's staff, his legs crossed in an almost jaunty manner as his thread-like tail swung back and forth like a pendulum. “You took your time, I must say, Sergeant."

"Well, I'm here now, demon!” Erik bit off an angry retort. “Where's Baron Grimm?"

"Kneel down, and you will see him, mortal."

Erik knelt, avoiding the sharper shards as best he could. The darkness under the stone block was absolute, and he could not see a thing. Standing up, he called out, “Necromancer Numal; can you send one of your lights down here, on the side of the hole nearest you? I can't see a thing down here." After a few moments, he saw a pale gleam leaking from under the block, and he knelt back down. He squinted as the Mage Light scorched his dark-adapted eyes, but he soon grew accustomed to it. For a moment, the soldier saw only rubble, but he then made out a gleam of blue silk amongst the devastation. There, lying in the very corner of the subterranean chamber, lay the still figure of the young mage, his exposed left leg crooked at a bizarre angle, a bloody, dusty hand resting like a huge spider on the back of his head.

Erik felt his breathing becoming faster and shallower, and he forced himself to remain calm; he would have to crawl right under the stone block, which was supported only by a pair of slender rods. If Baron Grimm died before he could extricate the mage, the staff would revert to a lifeless lump of wood in an instant, and Erik might be crushed to a red smear as the heavy mass tumbled to the floor. I really wish I didn't have to do this, the soldier thought, closing his eyes and rubbing his trembling hands together as he tried to compose himself.

He drew a series of deep breaths, his pounding heart threatening to burst from his chest, and he clapped his hands twice, the sound ringing in the enclosed space like a pair of gunshots. Erik muttered, “Let's do it!” and began to crawl over the rubble towards the Baron. Forcing himself to ignore the looming threat above him, he turned the young man onto his back, taking the greatest care in case Grimm's spine was damaged. The broken leg was a secondary consideration. His heart eased as his battlefield training took hold. He checked that the Baron's mouth and nostrils were not obstructed, his hands steadying as they went through the comforting, familiar actions. The Sergeant was no medic, but every man in Quelgrum's army was trained in basic first aid. He put his ear against Grimm's chest and felt relieved to hear a steady heartbeat. It was fast, but strong, and the mage's life seemed in no immediate danger. The next necessity was to check for blood loss. Erik noted a large area of matted hair on the back of the Baron's head, but the blood seemed to have clotted. He found several other bleeding wounds, but none was life-threatening. The Sergeant reached up under the Questor's robes, feeling for localised swellings that might indicate serious internal bleeding. As his hands assessed the integrity of the large blood vessels running from Grimm's groin to his thighs, he heard a faint, sibilant sound and froze. With a sudden shock of awareness, he realised that Grimm was trying to speak, although he could not make out the words. His heart pounding anew, this time with hope, he slid forward and put his ear to the mage's lips.

"Speak to me, Lord Baron,” he said.

Grimm's answering voice seemed no louder than the sound of a breeze ruffling the leaves of a distant copse, but Erik could make out the words: “I said, ‘If you touch me there again, Sergeant, you'll have to marry me.’ I—"

The Baron's words ended in a sharp gasp, followed by an agonised groan.

"Don't worry, Lord Baron,” Erik said, louder than he had intended. “I'll get you out of here. I'll just—" For a moment, the Sergeant thought Grimm had groaned again, before he realised that the sound had come from the rubble around Redeemer, which had begun to trickle away from the ledge.

"Fight, man!” Erik shouted, as he saw Grimm's half-open eyelids flicker. “I'm getting you out of here, but you have to help me. Don't you dare die on me, or ... or I'll be court-martialled! Do you want that?" The ominous creaking ceased, but he knew he dared not wait for a response; he must act quickly. “Don't go away,” Erik said. “I'll be back in a few moments."

He began to crawl backwards, and he heard the faint rejoinder, “I'm not going anywhere, Sergeant." As he stood up, Thribble asked him, “How is Questor Grimm, Sergeant?"

"It's touch-and-go, Thribble. Talk to him, and get him to answer if you can. He has to stay awake." He cupped his hands in front of him, and the grey imp hopped into them. He lowered Thribble to the ground, and the demon scurried into Grimm's corner.

Erik removed the two improvised ropes from Numal's staff and tied them into a single length. He had no idea if the makeshift line would support a man's weight, but he dared not risk delaying the operation longer in the hope of finding a better substitute.

Crawling back under the stone block, he saw Thribble's bleak expression, but he dared not stop to enquire further. Kneeling beside the motionless mage, he fastened the rope under Grimm's armpits with a sturdy bowline.

Erik eyed the young man's damaged leg, and he knew a broken thigh-bone would mean death if it were to puncture a large blood-vessel. However, he could delay no longer.

"This will hurt, Lord Baron,” he said, not knowing if the Questor heard his words or not. “I'm sorry, but it's the only way."

Grabbing the prone mage under the armpits, he began to turn him around to haul him over the rubble, eliciting a sharp cry.

That's good, he thought, grunting with the effort. Dead men don't feel pain.

"Come on, Thribble,” he gasped. “We're getting out of here." With painful lethargy, the Sergeant lugged Baron Grimm from under the looming block, which teetered over as one of Redeemer's ends slipped downwards.

At last, he and his burden emerged into the rock-strewn clearing, but he knew the danger was not over; if Redeemer moved much more, the resultant collapse might bring tons of rubble down onto them.

"I've got him, Tordun!” Erik yelled. “Get ready to pull; I'm throwing a rope up to you ... now!" The line snaked upwards as he hurled it towards the edge of the pit. For a moment, it seemed to hang in mid-air, and he thought the albino had caught it. Then, it fluttered back to the floor in a heavy, sinuous coil, and he drew a deep breath. Trying to ignore the ominous creaking, he gathered it up and threw it again. This time, he saw a pair of hands scrabbling for the rope, the end of the tether waving tantalising inches from Tordun's outstretched fingertips before it collapsed once more. Erik heard a slithering, hissing sound, and he realised that some of the smaller debris was beginning to escape into the chamber as the block tilted further.

"Come on, Tordun!” he screamed, coiling the line for a third throw. “Catch the bloody thing! We don't have much longer.

"Three ... two ... one ... now!"

For what seemed an age, the slender, knotted rope arced into the air, uncoiling as it went, and Erik held his breath. The albino's fingers stretched out again, and the rope began to descend, tickling Tordun's left palm as it began to pick up speed. With a convulsive clench of his fist, the pale giant's hand closed over the line and held it.

"I have it!” he shouted.

"Pull, Tordun! Pull!” Erik tried to ignore the hissing, intensifying rain of detritus pattering down around him. He stepped back, almost slipping on the rubble, as Grimm began to rise towards the light. The rope creaked, but it held.

At last, the mage's feet disappeared over the ledge. After a few moments more, Erik saw Tordun's hands extending over the hole again, and the looped end of the rope dropped back down. Without waiting, the Sergeant scooped the tiny demon up and shoved him into his right jacket pocket, ignoring Thribble's indignant squeak of protest. He wriggled into the loop, so that it rested under his armpits.

"Pull, Tordun!"

He gasped as his feet jerked off the ground, taking a firm hold on the rope. At last, he saw the rim of the opening just above him, and he hauled himself over it, gasping and groaning with the effort. We made it! The words screamed in the Sergeant's brain, and he felt a warm sense of achievement. Rising onto unsteady legs, he saw the young nun, Mercia, bending over Baron Grimm's dusty figure. As he approached them, the healer looked up and proffered him a dreamy smile, her face almost radiant.

"He'll live,” she said. “He has a bad concussion. He also has a dislocated leg, a couple of broken ribs and some internal bleeding; but I can mend them, given time, even with the little magic left to me." Erik answered the nun with a bright smile, but he felt his heart surge as the ground gave a sudden heave. Tearing his eyes from the healer and stepping back, he saw the huge rock quiver and jump upward, sending a mighty burst of rubble into the chamber.

He shivered, as he realised that the rain of stones could have killed him.

"What have you kept in here, Sergeant?” Thribble demanded, pushing his head out from Erik's pocket.

“It was awful!"

Erik burst out in a long, loud guffaw, stopping only when he heard a high-pitched, hysterical note invading his laughter.

He wanted a good, strong drink, but he would wait until the operation was finished. Plenty of work still lay ahead.

After his exertions in the cramped chamber, he stretched his muscles for a few minutes before turning to address the assembled nuns.

"Ladies,” he said. “We've made a good start, but there's still a lot to do. Do you feel up to it?" He felt almost disappointed to hear the women's loud, enthusiastic cheer of assent, but he managed to raise a cheerful smile.

"Right, ladies,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I recommend we start our efforts over there."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 27: Accusations

Loras Afelnor hardly noticed the weight of the iron chains on his hands and feet as Questor Olaf led him and Magemaster Kargan down from the back of the wagon.

I almost forgot what High Lodge looked like, he thought, gazing in wonder at the fantastic, towering edifice, its gleaming, white turrets seeming almost to pierce the sky. After his long exile in the grimy hamlet of Lower Frunstock, he felt again the wide-eyed wonder he had experienced on his first visit to the Guild's spiritual home, as a mere stripling of nineteen. This is a place of justice and honour, he told himself. They will consider all the evidence before reaching a decision—

"You are not here to admire the scenery,” Olaf admonished Loras, tugging the former Questor's chain.

“Come on."

For such an old man, Olaf was no slow-coach, hustling his charges towards the huge edifice at considerable speed. Loras stumbled several times, since his ankle-fetters restricted his progress, and he could see that Kargan was no less encumbered than he.

As the two prisoners and their warder reached the outer gate, two armoured guards moved to block the entrance with crossed halberds.

"I am Questor Olaf, Acting Prelate of Arnor House.” The Questor held out his left hand to show his Guild Ring. “I bring two prisoners for trial."

"You were expected two hours ago, Questor,” the older of the two guards complained, a man of perhaps thirty summers. “What kept you?"

"Watch your manners!” Olaf snapped. “Do not seek to question me; remember who pays your wages."

"Sorry, Lord Mage,” the sentry replied, in an almost bored voice. “Please use the East Turret entrance. It's just over—"

"I know where it is, watchman. I first came here before your grandparents first drew breath! I'm not in my dotage yet. Do you wish me to report your insolence to the Dominie?" The Questor's voice cracked like a whip, and the guard's face reddened.

"My sincerest apologies, Lord Mage,” he said, his spine stiffening as he raised the vicious weapon to the vertical, his companion following suit.

Olaf grunted, stepping between the guards and through the gate with his head held high, while Kargan and Loras stumbled behind him.

Loras was not out of breath by the time the group approached the East Turret; his time as a Mage Questor and his long tenure as a blacksmith had left him with a robust constitution. However, he noted Kargan's grey face and heaving chest, and he called out to Olaf, “Please, slow down, Lord Mage! Will you deliver a pair of corpses to the Conclave?"

"Be quiet, prisoner,” Olaf said, but he did relent a little, allowing a few moments’ pause for Kargan to catch his breath before they carried on.

As they stood before a black door with a small, square opening at head-height, the Questor pounded his staff three times on the flagstones. In an instant, Loras saw an eye appear at the opening.

"Your business?” a muffled voice demanded.

"Questor Olaf, Arnor House. Two prisoners for trial."

"You have the watchword?” The eye was replaced by an ear.

Olaf leant forward to whisper into the square opening.

After a few moments of utter silence, Loras heard a series of clacks, bangs, and squeaks behind the door, which swung open silently. Olaf led his charges through the entrance, to reveal a spiral stone staircase. The watchman behind the door was nowhere to be seen, as Olaf led his prisoners up the steep stairs, their staves clattering against the curving walls as they climbed. After passing two further doors, where unseen guardians demanded further passwords, Loras felt relieved to find himself standing in a large, dimly-lit chamber; it seemed the arduous journey was at an end, at least for the time being.

He noted basic but serviceable beds lining the room, with jugs of water and bowls of food on a large metal table in its centre. All the furniture was bolted to the stone floor, and all the vessels and utensils were chained to the table.

"Greetings, Brother Mages."

"Welcome, fellow prisoners."

Starting at two almost simultaneous voices from the darkness, Loras squinted through the gloom to see Magemaster Crohn lying on one of the beds in the far corner. A long chain led from the manacle on his right hand to a large bolt in the floor beneath the central table. The smith's eyes followed a second chain from the bolt to another bed, on which sat Questor Dalquist.

While Olaf knelt, fastening Loras’ and Kargan's fetters to the restraining stud in the floor, the two new prisoners greeted their fellow mages with polite nods.

Groaning as he straightened up, Olaf said, “This room is under observation. Any attempt to discuss matters relating to the forthcoming trial will result in you all being confined to single punishment cells. I trust this will not be necessary."

"I understand, Questor Olaf,” Loras said. “I will restrict myself to pleasantries."

"Of course, Lord Mage,” Kargan responded, settling onto one of the empty beds with a loud thump.

"Now, I must report to the Lord Dominie,” Olaf said, wincing as he rose to his full height. “For your own good, I beg you to observe the rules."

With that, he disappeared into the darkness. After a pair of loud, metallic clanks, all was quiet. After minutes of silence, Dalquist proffered, “At least the food looks good." Loras regarded the bread, cheese, fruit, and meat on the table with distaste. A distant part of him registered hunger, but he felt nothing but a strong desire for the trial to begin. Sighing, he sat down onto the bed nearest to him.

"I cannot eat at this time,” he said, mindful of the unseen, listening guardians. “I just want this damned trial to be over."

"I agree,” Crohn responded, his tone dull and lifeless.

"I couldn't eat a mouthful,” a laconic Dalquist said.

After waiting for a response from Kargan, Loras turned to see the Mentalist lying prostrate on his bed, his eyes shut. In a few moments, he heard the mage begin to snore.

Good idea, Kargan, he thought.

"I need some sleep, gentlemen.” With that, he lowered his head onto the rough pillow and closed his eyes, seeking some quietus within his inner turmoil.

* * * *

Loras realised he had fallen asleep only when he felt a rough, impersonal hand shaking his shoulder. Jerking his eyelids open, he emitted a rough, incoherent grunt as his head spun. After a few moments, his gaze focussed on a pair of grey eyes.

"It is time, prisoner,” the Questor said, his voice little more than a whisper. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs from it, Loras sat up and nodded. He shook down his scarlet robes in an attempt to clear the dust of the journey, while Olaf disappeared beneath the metal table with its untouched goodies. The smith registered the sounds of his bonds being unfastened with little more than mild interest.

He rose to his feet, snatching up his staff as the aged Questor emerged from his task. “I am ready, Lord Mage,” he said, fixing the older mage's eyes with a frank, intense gaze. At last, the dim corridors gave way to wider, brighter passageways, down which Olaf led him until he stood before a pair of golden doors. Outside the portal, he saw a pair of tall, black-robed mages, their seven-ringed staves held out in challenge. Hoods obscured their features, and Loras found the two men eerie in the similarity of their stances, like a pair of dark statues.

"Give the watchword, Brother Mage,” they growled, their bass voices coming so closely together that Loras could not tell who had spoken first.

Olaf stepped forward and rose on tiptoe to whisper into the nearest guard's cowl; he was almost six feet tall at full stretch, but the watchman had to lean down to hear the muttered password. The mage-sentry grunted and nodded at his companion. Both men stood away from the doors, which swung open on silent hinges. Olaf took a ring of keys from his belt and unfastened Loras’ fetters, letting them fall to the marble floor with a reverberating clatter.

As he unlocked the last manacle, the old Questor whispered into the smith's ear, “You are on your own now, Brother Bile. Good luck.” Without waiting for a response from his former friend, he turned his back and strode away.

"Enter,” the dark-clad mages chorused.

Loras nodded and stepped inside the doorway, with an air of confidence greater than he felt. As the doors clicked shut behind him, he walked through a dense bead curtain, which emitted a shimmering hiss as he did so.

The chamber in which he now found himself seemed without windows, and it was lit by two bright globes of green mage-light. The lights floated between him and whatever else might be in the room, and he saw nothing beyond them.

Bang-bang!

"Name?” a sharp, high-pitched voice barked from the darkness.

"Loras Afelnor,” he replied in a firm, loud tone. “May I know the details of the charges—"

"You will remain silent except to answer direct questions, prisoner!” the unseen inquisitor snapped.

“Answer ‘Yes’ or ‘No', unless further information is required. You will confine your answers strictly to the question asked. You are to address us as ‘Honoured Justice.’ Is that understood, prisoner?"

"Yes, Honoured Justice."

"Your name?"

"Loras Afelnor, Honoured Justice."

"What is your place of residence, prisoner?"

"The village of Lower Frunstock, Honoured Justice."

Loras heard a scratching sound, like that of a chicken's claws scrabbling for food in a barnyard.

"Did you once hold the title of Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank in Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, with the Guild cognomen ‘The Firelord'?"

"I did, Honoured Justice."

Scratch, scratch.

"Were you dismissed from the Guild in dishonour, after committing an act of the gravest, foulest treason?" Loras frowned. If he were to answer in the affirmative, this might be taken as an acknowledgement of guilt. Were he to give a negative response, it might be taken that he denied being dismissed from the Guild; an act of perjury. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and he shook his head in frustration.

"A physical motion cannot be accepted as testimony!” the hateful Voice screamed. “Answer ‘yes’ or

‘no', prisoner."

"Your question is in two parts, Honoured Justice,” Loras protested fighting rising anger. “I cannot, in conscience, answer it with a single word."

"You deny you were dismissed from the Guild?” The shrieking Voice scorched him with its intensity.

"No, Honoured Justice."

"Do you, then, deny committing an act of high treason?"

Loras felt an acrid burning in the pit of his stomach, and he began to wish he had eaten earlier. He knew he had committed treason, but he had been possessed by another will at the time. The question is unfair!

"May I answer the question in my own words, Honoured Justice?"

"You may not, prisoner! Did you attempt to murder Prelate Geral—yes or no?"

"Wait, Rithel."

It was a soft voice, but Loras’ sensitive ears heard the words clearly enough. “I declare a point of personal privilege; I wish to address the prisoner directly."

"Of course, Lord Dominie,” the Voice muttered, now deferent and soft.

"Master Afelnor,” the unseen Dominie said. “I gather your objection revolves around the question of intent. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Lord ... Honoured Justice."

"We can dispense with honorifics for the moment.” The Dominie's soft baritone sounded comforting after Rithel's hectoring scream. “In your own words, what led to your expulsion from the Guild?" Loras drew a deep breath, and he vowed to choose his words with care. “My hands pressed a pillow onto Prelate Geral's face in an attempt to kill him,” he said.

He heard a series of gasps from the unseen Conclave, but he continued. “The will behind them was not mine. I was ensorcelled by a devotee of the Geomantic art, and my will was not my own." After a further flurry of gasps, he heard a voice bearing the distinctive, harsh accent of the Challorean region: “Do you claim that you, a Seventh Rank Questor, were subdued by a mere witch?"

"Why did you not mention this at your first trial?” a second voice demanded.

"A seven-ring Questor admits to being the puppet of a mere witch?" His head spinning, Loras said, in a feeble voice, “She was very strong ... I did not know. Even after the trial, I did not know. She was no ordinary witch..."

He felt a cool rush of relief as the invisible Dominie came again to his aid.

"Gentlemen, I know something of this woman, and I am in a position to declare that she is possessed of remarkable strength for a witch, as the prisoner testifies. The Conclave accepts the possibility that the prisoner's acts may have been forced by Geomantic influence.

"So stipulated."

The smith's head reeled anew. Has the Dominie fallen foul of Lizaveta? he wondered.

"Really, Lord Dominie,” Rithel protested. “Are we to believe..."

"I said, ‘so stipulated', Prosecutor. Are there any formal objections from the prosecution?"

"But a Questor, Lord Dominie...” the Callorean inquisitor moaned.

"Come to order!” the Dominie's voice cracked like a whip. “I possess confidential information which confirms in some detail the power of the aforementioned Geomantic agent. It is stipulated that the prisoner's defence is permissible in principle."

"Agreed, Lord Dominie. So stipulated."

Loras knew he had won at least this point.

"Brother Rithel,” the Dominie continued. “Please continue, remembering the aforementioned stipulation; and get on with it!"

Loras heard a long period of chicken-scratching after this imperious command.

"By your command, Lord Dominie,” the Voice responded, with either a resigned sigh or a venomous hiss; Loras could not tell which.

"Under the sentence of your first trial, were you forbidden to set foot on Guild land for the remainder of your life, on pain of death?"

"Yes, Honoured Justice.” This much could not be denied, but Loras quailed inside at what he knew must be coming next.

"Do you deny breaking this condition of your sentence on the eleventh day of this month, by entering Arnor House?"

Loras gulped.

"No, Honoured Justice,” he said. He could make no other response to this direct question.

"The Prosecutor moves that the prisoner has breached the terms of his sentence, regardless of other considerations,” Rithel crowed. “There can be only one punishment for this—the sentence of death; so moved."

Loras held his breath: he had, indeed, transgressed the conditions of his sentence.

"So moved,” boomed a distant voice, which he had not heard before, with the sing-song accent of the Grivense people.

"I agree.” This time, a Gallorleyan man, from his accented vowels.

"So moved,” another inquisitor echoed, and Loras bowed his head.

I am sorry, Drima, he thought. May the Names bless you, Grimm.

"I invoke a point of order,” the Dominie drawled, sounding almost bored. “We note this breach of conditions of a former sentence, but we also note that all witnesses have not been heard: final sentence cannot be passed at this stage."

This time, Loras knew Rithel's initial response was no mere frustrated sigh; the man's hatred for him was plain.

"Accepted, Lord Dominie; however, this member wishes to stipulate the prisoner's response as a clear record of admission of prior guilt."

After a long pause, the Dominie answered, “So stipulated,” and Loras fought to keep his shoulders straight.

The unseen pen scratched on its paper, sending a cold shiver up the smith's back.

"Lord Dominie,” a voice at the very edge of Loras’ awareness whispered. “Time grows late. May I remind you of our evening game of Birritch? I move that we adjourn for today." The former Questor felt cold hands of shock running sinuous fingers along his spine. This is a bloody farce! he thought, trying not to panic. My life depends on a group of men whose main worry is about a damned card game!

"Are we agreed on adjournment?” Horin asked the Conclave, and Loras heard an enthusiastic chorus of assent. “So stipulated."

"With the greatest respect, Lord Dominie, that is ‘so declared',” an anonymous inquisitor said.

"Oh, very well, Drimend. ‘So declared', if you wish. Conclave is adjourned."

"The Conclave adjourns,” Rithel declared.

Bang-bang!

Loras swung around as golden light flooded into the room from behind him. He saw the two guards walking into the room, dark and forbidding, bearing his chains like garlands.

"Remove the prisoner!"

Loras walked towards the black-clothed men, struggling to retain his composure as they fastened iron manacles and fetters around his wrists, ankles and waist.

As he was led away from the dark, green-lit room, he thought of the simple, poor existence he had led as a blacksmith in Lower Frunstock, compared to his glorious, rich incarnation as a Mage Questor. He now longer knew or cared which of these lives he preferred; he just knew he wanted to survive at any cost.

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Chapter 28: Behind the Scenes

Thorn Virias lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. As a Guild Prelate, albeit one accused of treason, he enjoyed certain privileges, one of which was a comfortable, single cell. Another was that the cell had no listening-ports, so he knew nothing he said here would be overheard. Sitting up, he took the sheet of paper from a pocket and read it for the seventh time, as if the words held some enciphered mystery waiting to succumb to his sharp intellect.

First charge: conspiracy to pervert the will of a fellow Guild Mage, before, during and after the fact. Second charge: deception of senior Guild personnel in the furtherance of said crimes. Third charge: collusion in said crimes with an agency outside the Guild, before, during and after the fact. Fourth charge: causing the death of a Guild Neophyte through reckless and callous disregard of training protocol.

The remaining charges detailed on the sheet were less serious, but the least of them carried the automatic penalty of dismissal from the Guild. The three main charges mandated death. During his brief hearing earlier that day, Thorn had refused to answer all questions put to him until all other evidence had been heard; this was his personal privilege as a member of the Presidium, and a mere formality. Another privilege granted him was the right to pass a written statement to the Conclave, for the eyes of the Senior Inquisitor only, and he had taken full advantage of that right. We'll just have to wait and see if the bait's taken, he thought, folding the charge sheet and putting it back his pocket.

He closed his eyes and lay back.

After a period of dreamless sleep, Thorn awoke to a gentle rap at his cell door and sat up, the iron chains on his wrists and ankles clanking.

His heart pounding, he said, “Enter."

The door opened to reveal Lord Horin, clad in golden robes. Thorn rose to his feet, his heavy fetters permitting only a clumsy bow.

"Greetings, Lord Dominie."

"Greetings, Lord Prelate.” Horin's impassive face gave Thorn no clue as to the Dominie's inner feelings, but the mere fact of the senior mage's presence proved he had at least read the note. After an awkward silence, Horin pushed the door to and said, “I gave the guard permission to go and eat. We will not be disturbed."

Thorn nodded. “Thank you, Lord Dominie. You read my note?"

"I did, Thorn. If you are trying to usurp my position, you will have made the worst mistake of your life." Thorn smiled. “Have no fear on that score, Lord Dominie. I do not seek higher rank. I am more than happy to remain as a Prelate.

"How went Master Afelnor's hearing?"

Horin sighed. “I extended a point of personal privilege to grant him the defence of outside influence, as you suggested in your note, and I have barred the Conclave from accepting rebuttal evidence without my authority. We ended the hearing on the charge of wilful trespass, adjourning after Senior Mentalist Tritt intervened. I would have been here sooner, but I have been playing cards. Had I lost too suddenly, it might have aroused suspicion."

"You did well, Lord Dominie,” Thorn said, as if he were the senior mage, bestowing praise on an inferior.

“By setting up Loras for an acquittal on the first charge, you will not need to hear Magemaster Kargan's evidence on the matter. By allowing the defence of outside influence, I can claim the same mitigation."

"What do you expect from this trial?” Horin scowled, but Thorn had not expected him to be happy at the turn of events.

Thorn rubbed his chin. “A full acquittal, of course! Loras Afelnor's prior conviction should be quashed, and the more recent capital charges of trespass, petty treason and conspiracy should be upheld for him and his co-conspirators."

"You demand perversion of the course of justice,” Horin snapped, a pair of angry, red blotches appearing on his cheeks. “What makes you think I will go along with this ... this farrago?"

"You have already begun this process, Lord Horin,” Thorn said, his voice as smooth and cold as iced silk. “You are no innocent participant in this affair."

"I have committed no crime,” Horin blustered, but the Prelate knew the Dominie was hooked.

"Not yet,” Thorn said. “Even so, you must admit you have already stretched the rules a little, Lord Dominie. I have a trusted ally within High Lodge. He has a copy of the note I sent you, and he is prepared to swear it is a true copy of the one I gave to you. You must admit that it might make interesting reading if it were ever to reach the Conclave."

This was pure bluff on the Prelate's part, but he was more than willing to gamble that it would never occur to Horin to use Mage Sight on a fellow Guildbrother; this would be a gross breach of the Guild protocol ingrained in Horin since his first day as a Student. Thorn had, of course, been subject to the same indoctrination, but, where a Questor might spend fifteen years in training, a Specialist Mage might spend most of a Secular lifetime; fifty or sixty years at least.

"You said that you are in possession of ... controversial information concerning me,” Horin said, his eyes hooded. “Before we discuss the matter any further, I wish to know more." Thorn made a lengthy show of inspecting his immaculate fingernails before he responded.

"Well, let us see,” he said, admiring his flawless, manicured cuticles. “There is the matter of your ... unwilling entanglement with my mother. You might have committed no crime there, but your carefully-cultured image of strength, celibacy and self-control might be more than a little tarnished if that ever became public knowledge."

"You cannot possibly prove—"

"Oh, I have much more interesting titbits than that, Horin.” Thorn deliberately omitted the honorific to underline his control of the situation. “I do not choose to give you full details at this time, but I trust you remember a young lady of negotiable virtue in the town of Marada, where, as I recall, you lost your purse and a rather important document after a passionate and drunken encounter.

"I have plenty of other interesting and embarrassing tales to recount, some of them quite shocking in their explicit detail."

"The Conclave would not believe you, Lord Thorn.” Horin's blazing red cheeks stood in stark contrast to his ashen face. “I could order your evidence to be expunged from the record as hearsay."

"But mud sticks, doesn't it, Horin? I can, of course, produce witnesses for many of these sordid little interludes, should it ever become necessary. If I am going down, I swear I will take you with me. Even without direct proof, I am sure the Conclave would love to hear of an interesting episode involving five thousand gold pieces that never found their way into the Giana House accounts when you were Prelate." After a long, tense period of silence, during which Thorn regarded Horin's bulging eyes and slack jaw with cool amusement, the Prelate smiled.

"There is no need for these lurid little episodes ever to come to light,” he said, in a soothing voice. “I am no threat to your position, Horin, as I have said. I am content with my current demesnes, and I would be happy to give you a witnessed affidavit attesting to the fact. All I want is for ... mutually acceptable justice to be done. Loras and the accused Magemasters have committed acts of conspiracy against a lawful authority, as well as the crime of petty treason. There can be no doubt about that. Justice is not always clear-cut."

Thorn noted Horin's tilted head and suspicious expression, but he knew he just needed to add a little more sweetening to the pot.

"I cannot deny my own fallibility, and I would accept a recorded motion of severe censure from the Conclave, barring me from higher rank in perpetuity,” he said, with a sigh, “as long as I am permitted to retain the rank of Prelate and my seat on the Presidium. That is all I ask for; all I want." Thorn's heart sang as Horin gave a resigned nod. “Very well. Some of the members of the Conclave, such as Tritt and Rethin, are my devoted allies and susceptible to persuasion. Others know I have hitherto chosen to overlook some of their own transgressions. Also, as you say, Guild Laws have been broken here; this cannot be denied...

"Yes, we can do this, Lord Thorn."

He said ‘we', the Prelate thought. That's a good sign. Horin won't let me down now. With any luck, he'll even begin to believe this was his idea.

"I commend myself to the Conclave's decision, Lord Dominie,” he said, trying to keep his expression grave and sorrowful as he rejoiced inside. “Justice will be done."

"You may rest assured on that, Lord Thorn. I will make sure of it."

* * * *

Horin was an ambitious, powerful mage, and he had played the risky game of Guild politics for many years. He had managed to ascend the greasy rungs of the organisation's ladder of seniority by the ruthless garnering of information and its careful, strategic dissemination. The ambition of most mages was to reach the lofty position of House Prelate, but the Guild held far greater prizes, with the accolade of High Dominie as the ultimate lure. In order to retain this glittering crown, a man could not be content to sit back and bask in glory after decades of struggle and skulduggery. On his journey to the summit, he would have trodden on many fingers: the fingers of other ambitious men who sought to find the smallest chink in his armour.

Men as hungry as he for power and prestige.

I see I made a bad mistake, he thought, taking a sip of wine from the goblet at his side as he sat in his comfortable, tastefully-appointed chamber. I appointed Thorn to the Presidium because I thought him safe and conservative; a useful buffer against some of the more hawkish members. Yes, I made a mistake there. However, if he thinks I'm in my dotage, he's got another think coming. If he thinks I'm stupid enough to bow to his demands in the hope that he'll just sit back and throw away his evidence against me, he has no idea of how Guild politics really works. He sat back in his plush chair and smiled; it was a humourless expression that Thorn would not have liked, had he seen it.

Thorn made a far bigger mistake by showing his hand before all the money was on the table, Horin thought. I may have underestimated him at first, but I've played this little game at a much higher level than he has. With Thorn out of the way, nobody will dare testify against me. If I go along with his little plan, I have a senior man who knows he can blackmail me with abandon. If I get rid of him, I have four Seventh Rank mages, good Guild men who will owe their lives to me. If I am responsible for Loras Afelnor's death, I may lose another Seventh Rank thaumaturge's loyalty; that of Loras’ grandson, Grimm. If he's still alive, that is...

I'm sorry, Thorn, but the potential gains just don't square up with the risks. You lose, old friend. Horin drained his goblet, savouring the wine's heady aroma as it flooded into his appreciative nostrils. Ballemian Sunset, ‘48; he thought, eyeing the empty bottle with some regret, not such a bad little vintage after all. I should have trusted the Head Doorkeeper's advice; I'll have to ask him to buy a few more cases.

* * * *

Loras could not sleep, however hard he tried to empty his mind. As soon as one tendril of thought drifted away from him, another slid into his sensorium to replace it.

Something is very odd here. At first, I thought Lord Horin was siding with me, the way he interrupted—what was his name?—Rithel. I thought he was a fair man, who wanted only justice. Then, he adjourned the Conclave for a game of cards, of all things. My guess is that he wanted further instructions before he went further, and I would be more than willing to bet that Thorn is involved. Loras rolled over, to the dissonant accompaniment of clanking chains, cudgelling his brain in an attempt to retrieve long-buried information that might help him. For many minutes he fought to remember the details of the trial he had undergone so many years before. At the time, he had been so confused and consumed by guilt that he had barely registered the Conclave's pronouncements. Think, man; think, damn you! he raged inside his head. What are the rules concerning Guild trials?

A vision swam into his head.

* * * *

A row of grim, scowling men faced him, and he looked at the floor, too full of self-accusation and self-hatred to look them in the eyes. Thorn stood at his side and squeezed his shoulder in a friendly, fraternal gesture as the Prosecutor began to speak.

"This Conclave is called to order. Under Rule 28.1.19 of the Rules and Regulations of the Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, I now pronounce the charges levied against Loras Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, known by the Guild cognomen ‘The Firelord'."

* * * *

That was one strike against this so-called Conclave: Rithel, acting as Prosecutor, had ignored an important rule of evidence, and he had refused to give details of the charges against Loras.

* * * *

The Prosecutor consulted the scroll before him, as Loras stood in misery, staring at the marble tiles.

"Charge One: in contravention of Law 1.6.8 of the Rules and Regulations of the Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, the prisoner is accused of high treason against the Guild, in the person of its lawful representative..."

* * * *

That was not helpful, although the fact that the Prosecutor had taken care to enumerate the charges in detail was an interesting memory. There had been something else...

"Under Law..."

What Names-cursed Law had it been? Loras knew that, if he were to try to confront this farce of a Conclave on its own terms, he would need to be able to quote the Law with precise detail.

* * * *

"Under the requirements of Law 1.6.12, we now invite the accused to offer his defence, if any, of the charges against him."

"I offer no defence at this time, Lord Prosecutor."

"Under the requirements of Law 1.6.14, I petition the Conclave for permission to offer mitigation against these charges!” Thorn cried, and Loras’ heart surged with love for his loyal friend...

* * * *

Loras sat upright, his eyes staring and unseeing; his mouth gaping and unspeaking. This Conclave is illegal! he thought, his heart pounding as the shocking awareness blazed inside his head. If need be, I will demand that Law 1.6 be read in full! I am entitled to hear the charges against me. I am entitled to present a defence. I am entitled to have another speak in my defence. They cannot deny me that!

We will see who can quote Laws and who cannot, he vowed to himself. I will demand that my trial, and that of my fellow prisoners, be conducted in full accordance with Guild Law, and I will be heard, if I have to scream my demands from the depths of the deepest dungeon.

If you want to condemn me, you will have to work at it, my friends. If you think you can browbeat a Seventh Rank Questor into submission, you are making a grave error.

With that, he sank back on his bed and drifted into dreamless sleep with a faint smile of hope stitched across his mouth.

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Chapter 29: Return to the World

Grimm ran through a golden, billowing field, hand in hand with a laughing, smiling Drexelica. His heart felt so full he half-expected it to burst from his chest at any moment, to fly away from him into the cloudless, sapphire sky.

"Stop, Grimm!” Drex gasped. “Stop!"

He came to a halt and looked down at his lover. “What's the matter, Drex?"

"Nothing,” she said. “Just this..."

Standing on tiptoe, she planted a sweet, warm kiss on his lips, and he took her into his arms, giving himself over to the moment. Paramount among his swelling emotions was a glow of deep gratitude: how good it felt to be running free in this scene of bucolic beauty, feeling the soft breeze ruffling his hair; how pleasant to be free from all worry and responsibility; how blissful to be alone in this glorious field with the woman he loved!

"Are you awake, Questor Grimm?” Her voice was soft and inviting, and he savoured its heady melody.

"I don't know,” he admitted, gazing into her large, dreamy eyes, “and I don't care. I don't want to be anywhere else or with anyone else. We are all that matters in this world right now. The Guild and the House can go to Perdition for all I care."

"Just relax,” Drex said in a breathy whisper. “You will be all right..." The meadow began to spin gently around him, and he laughed, turning with it and holding Drex at arms’

length so that her legs flew out behind her. Faster and faster he spun, until he could feel Drex's fingers begin to slip from his grasp. With growing panic numbing his bones, he realised he could not stop this mad, accelerating dance, and lost his hold on his beloved's hands. She flew away into the darkening sky, her arms and legs flailing as she disappeared into the distance, laughing as she did so. Still he rotated, feeling the corn growing and ensnaring his ankles. The sky was now a deep black, blacker than the darkest night, but the field was still lit in a glorious, golden light. The corn reached the level of his chest, winding around his torso and constricting his breathing. I can't ... BREATHE! Help me ... help me, somebody...

He saw a widening, white line descend from the ebon sky, reaching to the distant horizon, and he heard a booming voice that shook the ground.

"Your doom ... your doom ... your doom..."

The voice had a metronomic, hypnotic cadence, and Grimm felt himself drifting towards the glaring chasm, fighting for breath, his sight dimming.

"The day's travails are behind you, but the struggle begins anew!" The words of his former tutor, Magemaster Crohn, spoken as Grimm awoke after his Outbreak, burst into his head: a loud, staccato shout.

* * * *

Grimm drew a desperate, whooping breath and jerked his eyes open, clenching his fists in blind panic. Yourdoomyourdoomyourdoom.... He realised that this ominous chant was the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He saw nothing for a moment, as various pains clamoured for his attention, each fighting for supremacy. Grimm drew another deep breath, which he found a little easier this time, despite the tightness in his chest, and full awareness came to him.

He was looking into the drawn, worried face of Sister Mercia, looming over him under an improvised canopy of sticks and broad leaves.

This is the real world, he told himself, a sharp pang of realisation spearing his heart. The world where Drex hates me, where there is pain, suffering and duty.

He squeezed his eyes closed, as if he could blot out the harsh reality of the mortal world, and he felt a single hot, bitter tear run down his right cheek.

"How are you feeling, Questor Grimm?"

Grimm sighed and opened his eyes again. “I hurt, Sister,” he said in a dull monotone. “I suppose that is a good sign. It's what life is all about, isn't it?"

Mercia smiled. “I was a little worried about you, Lord Mage. You drifted away from us for a while. You have been unconscious for a day and a half."

"And now I am back.” The dull words fell from his mouth like lead pellets. He tried to sit up, but Mercia's small hand pushed him back onto the grass with gentle persuasion.