Despite his calm demeanour, the mage struggled with strange, conflicting emotions. What the hell's going on here? he raved inside his head. Pain seized his brain in an iron grip, and he almost howled in agony.
"I won't listen to you, Shakkar! Go back to Crar."
In a more conciliatory voice, he continued, “I'm sure it's just some minor misunderstanding. Just go back home, and I'm sure Grimm and Drexelica will be waiting for you. Goodbye, Shakkar."
He turned on his heel and strode back inside the House. Something seemed wrong, but he could not say what it had been. His head thrummed and ached, and he thought that an early night might be in order.
****
Shakkar felt numb; if he had one ally of whose aid he had felt sure, it was Questor Dalquist. For the first time in his life, he had requested aid from a trusted and respected mortal, and that request had been thrown back in his face.
"Some friend,” Erik observed. “He didn't even listen, Lord Seneschal. So what do we do now?"
"We fly, Sergeant.” The demon opened his bat-like wings. “I have not done this for some time, but I suspect that you will prove little encumbrance to me. I can fly faster than a horse can trot, and we will not be slowed down by hills or poor terrain.
"We go to Yoren, to see if we can obtain any information about either Lord Grimm's or Prioress Lizaveta's whereabouts. It is plain that we shall receive no help here. Take what equipment you need from the cart."
The Sergeant nodded. “I can't pretend I'm overjoyed at the prospect of dangling from your claws, hundreds of feet in the air, but we may well be able to catch up with Lord Grimm before he reaches the Priory, and warn him.
"Just don't let go of me, Lord Seneschal!"
Slashing his arms back and forth, the demon made a path for the soldier through the dense, thorny undergrowth; the thorns made little impression on his grey, leathery skin.
The cart was where they had left it, in a wide, circular clearing. The Sergeant shucked his disguise and donned his green uniform. He then began to clip various strange items to convenient straps on the tunic.
"What are you attaching to those bands, Sergeant?"
Erik smiled. “The bands are called ‘webbing', Lord Seneschal. I'm just getting some ammo, grenades, full canteens, food and so on. If we are going into combat, I want to be ready for it."
Shakkar felt a little surprised: until now, he had regarded Erik as an easy-going and rather lacklustre individual, but the prospect of violence and danger seemed to enthuse the man. Humans are strange, indeed!
"I hope we'll see a little bit of action,” the soldier said, hefting a large pack onto his shoulders. “It's what I've trained for, not policing arguing neighbours and bar-room brawls."
Shakkar eyed the growing mass of Erik's armoury with some misgivings. “I am strong, but my strength is not inexhaustible, Sergeant! How much does all that equipment weigh?"
"Eighty to a hundred pounds, I suppose, Lord Seneschal,” the Sergeant hazarded. “No more than a hundred and twenty. I weigh about twelve stone: one hundred and seventy pounds or so. Is that too much for you?"
Shakkar thought back to his miserable confinement on Starmor's punishment pillar. From time to time, the late Baron of Crar had seen fit to send him the occasional miserable miscreant for his delectation, and a few of the fatter morsels-people!, he reminded himself, with some distaste-had probably weighed close to three hundred pounds. Even in his half-starved condition, he had found it easy to hoist the struggling, screaming individuals into the air, baring his fangs and…
The demon slammed down mental shutters on these increasingly disturbing memories.
"I should be able to carry you, Sergeant, with or without your weaponry. Your… webbing should provide good purchase for my talons. Are you ready?"
"Not quite, Lord Seneschal,” Erik replied, fiddling with the horses’ traces.
"What are you doing, Sergeant? I cannot possibly take both you and a horse!"
"I'm just letting the horses go, Lord Seneschal. It'd be a pity to let them starve. Go on, nag, get out of here!” The soldier swatted one of the horses on the rump and it skittered away, followed by its equine companion.
Shakkar felt even more confused. He knew that, for some mortals at least, horsemeat was considered a delicacy. For others, the animals were a merchantable commodity and no more. And yet this strange mortal, whose trade was death, seemed concerned for the wellbeing of these creatures.
"Those horses may be worth a lot of money, Sergeant,” he said, as the glossy, muscular horses ambled away.
"Dead ones won't, Lord Seneschal. Perhaps someone'll get some use out of them, and good luck to him, but I won't have a pair of fine horses starving to death on my conscience.
"There; I'm ready now."
Shakkar took hold of the Sergeant's webbing and gave it an experimental tug. It seemed strong enough to hold him.
Spreading his wings in the clearing, the demon began to beat them with strong, rhythmic strokes, and he lofted into the air with the Sergeant dangling below him.
As he dragged himself higher into the sky and swooped south-eastwards, he wondered again about Erik's apparent altruistic feelings towards the animals and revised his opinion about the human race: they were not just strange, but mad as well.
****
Dalquist returned to his marking, but his attention began to wander.
He had met the old Prioress only once, and his memories of the meeting were fuzzy, yet favourable; however, that did not explain his savage, offhand, uncharacteristic dismissal of Shakkar's request for help. The Questor knew he had reacted just as Grimm had when ensorcelled. He put down his pen and pondered, staring at Shakhmat, with its seven gold rings: the symbol of his status as a Guild Mage.
Am I just tired and frustrated? I've been yearning for a Quest for months; is that it? Am I just getting jaded? Grimm's my friend and a brother mage. My first thoughts should have been for him, yet I just rejected Shakkar's words out of hand when he implicated Lizaveta-just like Grimm leapt to Thorn's defence when I implied the Prelate had been behind his brutal Ordeal.
Something very strange is happening here. One thing I do know is that Lizaveta is a witch-could she be working some Geomantic magic on me right now? What did happen to me in the Prioress’ room? The memories are blurred and lacking in detail: they're not like real memories.
That was it: maybe his rosy memories of the old lady were not true recollections at all! Dalquist knew he needed the services of a Mentalist if he were to recover the real details of that long-ago meeting in High Lodge.
I could go to Lord Thorn and tell him my suspicions, but… no, I don't really trust even him. His treatment of Grimm was definitely underhanded when he put that Compulsion on the lad, and I don't want him to do the same to me.
Dalquist blinked, confused by suspicion that began to surge inside his head.
What on earth has Thorn to do with Lizaveta? Why should he place a Compulsion on me, just because some witch may have ensorcelled me?
Of course, there was no reason… was there?
Who can I trust here? Crohn, certainly, and Doorkeeper… who else is there?
Kargan; the name floated unbidden into Dalquist's mind. He puts on a tough act, but he seems a straight enough arrow to me… and he's a Mentalist, too.
Kargan was an anomaly amongst the House's starchy senior mages: unlike them, he kept his face smooth, instead of allowing his beard to grow; he eschewed Mage Speech even when teaching his class; he wore blue-tinted spectacles instead of allowing a Mage Chirurgeon to correct his vision with magic. The man stopped short of acting improperly in front of the Prelate, but he was a nonconformist.
Kargan won't blab to anyone, I'm sure.
His suspicions crystallising into a hard lump, Dalquist went in search of the Magemaster. One way or the other, he would get some answers.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 9: Obedience
Grimm shielded his eyes agai
nst the glare of the setting sun as he drove the wagon towards Brianston. After the gloomy squalor of Yoren, he felt prepared for almost anything, except for the dazzling sight that met his eyes.
This was no town full of run-down shanties and faded glories, but a vision of heaven on earth. Proud, gleaming cupolas and turrets came into view, and the colourful opulence of the market square, visible in the distance, seemed to eclipse even the rebuilt centre of Crar. Grimm could not fail to notice the well-dressed, smiling people walking the clean, paved streets. Several of the townspeople favoured the wagon with a cheery wave as it passed them; a quick scan with Mage Sight showed the citizens’ auras to be free of deception or worry.
Quelgrum, sitting beside the mage, tapped him on the left shoulder. “A bit of a change from Yoren, eh, Lord Baron? From the look, a man could do worse than spend his life here, I reckon."
Maybe it's just a little too good to be true, Grimm thought. How does a town in the middle of this wilderness maintain such magnificence? I've been guilty before of taking things at face value, and I'm not about to make that mistake again.
"I just wonder if it isn't a little too nice, General. Let's not forget our purpose. We're not here to sightsee or relax, remember?"
The General nodded. “I hear you there, Lord Baron. It's a fine sight to admire, I must say, but I agree we should stay alert. Even a squalid hellhole like Yoren had armed guards and barriers. You'd think a place as fancy as this would be riddled with them, but where are they? It looks as if a marauding army could just march in and take over in an instant."
Grimm stopped the wagon short of the town centre, and tapped his right pocket. “Thribble; are you there?"
"Where else would I be, mortal?” the imp squeaked, pushing his head into view. “This does seem a pleasant spot to stay-are you planning to rest here?"
"I don't know yet, Thribble. Just recently, I've had my mind baffled and enslaved by pheromones and my eyes bedazzled by grandeur and opulence. I refuse to be fooled like that again. If we do decide to stay here, it's for one night and no more; is that clear? If any of us, including me, starts to act at all oddly, I want you to tell me.
"I like the look of this place as much as you do, but that's just what worries me. I don't know if this is some honey trap or just what it appears to be, but I'll let nothing stand in the way of our Quest this time. If Brianston really is what it appears to be, we may stop off here on the way back from Rendale, but, for now, we're just on our way through. If I even make the suggestion that we might stay here for more than one night, I want you to remind me of what I've said."
"That's understood, Questor Grimm. To be honest, I really want to see you complete this Quest; it will make a good tale to tell my brothers when I return home-whenever that may be."
The wagon's canvas cover rustled, and Grimm turned to see Tordun's head emerging. “May I ask why we have stopped, Questor Grimm? Is there a problem? Oh! Is that not a fine sight to behold?"
"What is it, Tordun?” Harvel's muffled voice emerged from the cart's interior. Grimm turned to the old soldier. “General, would you mind standing watch for a while? I want to brief our companions."
"Go ahead, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum replied. “It doesn't seem we have any problems at the moment."
"Budge over, Tordun,” Grimm said, crawling into the back of the wagon. “I don't want to wield the whip hand here, but it seems that I'll need to set a few ground rules."
****
Drex hardly noticed the sting of the whip on her back, but the nun's hoarse, harsh voice brought her to attention. She had no idea how she might have transgressed the Order's rules, but Melana's brusque tone brooked no argument. “Am I wasting my time with you, Supplicant? What is the matter with you?"
"I'm sorry, Sister Melana,” the girl mumbled, her tone respectful, sincere and penitent. “I acknowledge my most grievous fault, and I crave correction.” The rote phrase slid with ease from between her lips, comforting her with its familiarity.
"Must I remind you of even the most simple of incantations, you worthless bitch?” croaked the Sister, her red-tinged eyes blazing. “You're a useless, pathetic ingrate!"
"Yes, Sister Melana.” Drexelica lowered her gaze in the required attitude of Holy Modesty. Nonetheless, she had not failed to notice Melana's haggard state, and she registered the fact that the nun's sorry condition was somehow her fault.
Poor Sister Melana, She only wants to train me in the ways of the Order, and I betray her with sloppiness and inattention. I deserve punishment.
Drex had the impression that she might have possessed a different opinion at the start of the session, but beyond this bare fact all else was hazy and inchoate.
"Sister Melana: this humble Novice believes that the Supplicant's response was correct,” one of the ever-present attendants called, and Drex almost gasped at the junior nun's effrontery as Melana whirled to face the daring Novice.
"You dare to oppose me, Novice?” The Sister's narrowed eyes seemed to scorch the attendant, who shrank from the baleful gaze, seeming almost to melt in its intensity. “Do we all come to you for advice, now?"
"No, Sister Melana,” the nun whispered. “I merely thought…"
"You think way too much, Sister Falun! Who is in charge here: you or me?"
"You are, Sister Melana."
"You may both consider yourselves fortunate that I don't send you to the Prioress for correction. I am displeased with both your attitudes; you both seem to believe yourselves more familiar with Holy Ritual than I, and you will correct that at once!
"I will kindly make allowances for the fact that you are still young and callow. However, I require both of you to make an act of Contrition in the Lower Chapel-two hours of Level Two Punishment. Be grateful that I am in a merciful mood."
"Thank you, Sister Melana,” the Novices chorused. “I acknowledge my most grievous fault."
Melana glared at the two miscreants in turn. “Now!” she screamed. “My patience is not inexhaustible!"
The Novices looked at each other with nervous eyes, and Falun spoke in a faltering voice. “Sister… it was the Reverend Mother's explicit and definite order that we remain with the Supplicant at… at all times during her training."
"That was for periods of basic training only, dolt, and you know it!” Melana snapped. “The Supplicant requires a period of more intense instruction, and I have no need for a pair of fumbling, ignorant, ungrateful Novices criticising my every action! Need I remind you that I am a member of the Anointed Score? If I hear one more word of dissent from you, I will recommend your removal from the Priory, and you know what that could mean. Go and exorcise your guilt at once, before I decide that a more severe punishment is appropriate."
The junior nuns exchanged glances once more, but they seemed to have decided that further opposition was pointless.
"At once, Sister Melana,” Sister Falun cried, touching her forehead to the flagstones, with her fellow Novice following suit. “Thank you for your forbearance."
Rising to their feet, the two Novices made their way across the flagstones of the chamber to a side door Drex knew only too well; the Lower Chapel was a place of contrition and punishment.
"As for you, Supplicant,” the Sister said, raising her steel-tipped martinet, “you will soon regret the day you were born!"
As the door closed behind the departing Novices, Drex reached behind her to fumble with the laces on her gown. She knew only too well what lay in store for her, but she could no longer bring herself to care. She knew she was at fault, and that was all that mattered.
"Stop that!” Melana's voice was harsher than any whip, and Drex let go of the troublesome strings, waiting to hear the details of her well-deserved punishment.
"What do you want, Supplicant?” the nun demanded. This was a formal question, Drex realised, one requiring an answer. “What do you truly want?"
"I want only to serve the Order to the best of my abilities and with all my heart, Sister Melana. I must expi
ate my most grievous guilt, my base lusts, and my wayward spirit. I must-"
"Don't give me that nonsense, you stupid slut! What do you really want?"
"I want only to serve the Order, to the-"
"That's enough of that! We've finished with Responses. Don't you want to get out of here?"
Drexelica tried to make sense of Sister Melana's words, but she failed, tears of confusion beginning to trickle down her face. “What do you want me to say, Sister Melana? Tell me, and I'll comply! I acknowledge my most grievous fault, and I beg correction!"
The Sister muttered something Drex did not catch. “We're going for a little walk, Supplicant. We are getting out of here. We are going to escape."
Drex felt her jaw gaping, and she tried to encompass the enormity of Melana's words. She failed. “I don't understand, Sister,” she said, feeling the comforting embrace of routine deserting her. “Escape from what?"
"From here, you stupid girl! As your Superior, I order you to open that door and run out of here, as fast as you can."
"Where would I go, Sister Melana? My home is here now."
"I don't care where you go, girl. Just go! Don't worry: I'll be right behind you."
Drex put her hand on the black iron ring on the door leading to the main stairs. It felt cold and somehow odd; since she had become a Supplicant in the Priory, she had been escorted everywhere, and Melana's Novices had opened and closed all the doors.
A command from a Superior must be obeyed at once, but Drexelica felt a tight knot of anxiety in her stomach. She knew something about Sister Melana's order was… wrong.
"Do I have to give my orders twice, Supplicant?” The Sister raised her lash. “Obey at once, or you'll be looking at five hours of third-level Contrition!"
Melana's voice had more effect than the lash would have done, and Drex yanked the door open and began to launch herself up the steep, worn stairs. She retained sufficient awareness to hitch her cumbersome robes clear of her feet, but she had little idea of where she was going.
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