Dragonblaster cogd-5

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "Your pardon, Lady; my mind was distracted by my work. The arrangement is indeed ravishing."

  He picked the adjective almost at random, but it seemed to have the desired effect.

  "Thank you, Shakkar!” she said, baring her teeth and twisting her lips in an expression the demon understood to betoken pleasure in humans. “I've worked on it for some time, and I'm glad you appreciate it."

  "Lady Drexelica,” the Seneschal rumbled, seeking to forestall any other potential gaffes by changing the subject, “the men are asking if you will present the prizes at next week's tournament. They have been practicing for some time now, and, I believe, they would regard it as an honour."

  Drex's face turned a little red. “Is that true? I'm only Grimm's housekeeper, you know, Shakkar… or, at least, that's what everybody else thinks."

  The demon knew that the girl's relationship with the Questor was now an open secret amongst the people of Crar, but he decided again that diplomacy might be that best course of action.

  "I believe that they would appreciate such a beautiful female giving the awards more than if I were to do it,” he said. “I still scare some of the men."

  "Why, you're not scary at all, Shakkar!” Drexelica crowed, baring her teeth again. “I used to think so, but now I just see you as a friend and protector. Please tell the competitors I'll be happy to do it. Tell them… tell them I wouldn't miss it for the world."

  Shakkar, relieved to be spared any more difficult questions, bowed. “Thank you, Lady Drexelica; I'm sure they will be delighted to hear of your acceptance.

  "I still have a few more duties to which to attend, and so I will bid you goodnight."

  "Goodnight, Shakkar. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Until tomorrow, Lady Drexelica."

  From the newly-restored Clock Tower, the midnight chimes began to ring.

  ****

  Drex sighed as she removed the pins and plaits from her hair. Sometimes, she felt almost like a prisoner in the tower, and she could find little to amuse her during the day, except to recreate her image for her own pleasure.

  Still, there was always the tournament to consider: bright, colourful pennants and caparisons; bold, athletic men vying with each other for the right to claim a prize from her hand; the excitement of spirited competition. It should be a thrilling day, and she looked forward to the spectacle.

  ****

  Green light coruscated through the chamber, as Lizaveta began to chant the last cadence of the Great Spell. She could feel the pull of the powerful enchantment, and knew that the magic was near its end. For twenty minutes, the conclave had acted as if of one mind, a joyful state of being that no Secular could ever understand or enjoy.

  "Batons at the ready? Now!” Judan screamed, her face almost purple with the effort to contain the spell's roiling energies.

  Six willow rods crashed to the floor in unison, forming a perfect pentacle. Lizaveta continued to chant, and the sticks melded into each other, glowing with a blazing, white light.

  "Mantui Drexelica! Avanta chezura!” the Prioress screamed, completing the chant, and silence reigned. For a moment she feared that they had failed, as stillness descended upon the stone room.

  "There, Reverend Mother! See there!” an anonymous nun screamed, as a small blue light formed in the centre of the gleaming shape. It began to swirl and shimmer as it grew, and the Prioress saw a black hexagon in its centre, growing ever larger as the light became brighter.

  Lizaveta and her companions staggered at the impact of a noise too loud to hear, an assault on the eardrums that transcended sound. In an instant, the blue light was gone, and a hunched figure crouched within the pentacle, which had reverted to a simple assembly of wooden sticks.

  With her ears ringing, the Prioress crowed, “Well done, Sister Judan! Well done, all of you!” She heard her words as if through a long tunnel, and she could not be sure if any woman in the assembly had heard her, but she felt suffused with joy at the potent, complex spell's success.

  So this is Afelnor's paramour! she thought, as the summoned girl staggered to her feet. She is a comely one, to be sure.

  As hearing returned to her, Lizaveta strode towards the confused female.

  "Welcome to Rendale, girl,” she said, smiling

  "Wh… what? Who are you? Where am I?"

  The girl's eyes threatened to spring from their sockets, as confusion gave way to naked panic.

  "You are with your sisters, supplicant, where you belong,” the Prioress hissed. “You are here to learn discipline."

  "What is all this?” Drexelica screamed as her wide, terrified eyes flitted around the green-lit scene. “Let me go, you hideous old crone!"

  Lizaveta smiled. “You do not talk to me in that manner, girl. You must address me as ‘Reverend Mother'."

  "I'll see you in Perdition first!"

  In a single, smooth movement, the Prioress drew a slender rod from behind her throne slashing it down upon Drexelica's back. “That is no way to address your superior, girl!"

  "You'll have to do better than that, you old cow!” Drexelica spat, ignoring the blow, her eyes now blazing with defiance. “I've been beaten by the best, and you aren't even close! Grimm will-"

  She stopped in mid-sentence.

  "You were saying?” Lizaveta crooned, her normally-rough voice taking on a honeyed tone.

  "Nothing,” Drexelica replied. “I was just going to say that you have no-"

  "You were going to say that Grimm Afelnor was sure to come to your rescue, weren't you, my dear?"

  Drexelica declined to answer the Prioress, but her silence was more eloquent than words.

  "I'm hoping he does,” Lizaveta said, smiling. “That's why you're here, my young lovely: so that you can welcome him when he arrives."

  "If you're expecting me to betray him, you got another fink comin', y'old hag!"

  "Ah, the gentle patois of the Grivense gutter, if I'm not mistaken.” Lizaveta felt pleased that Drexelica had lapsed for a moment into her native street-language, a clear indicator that she was not as self-possessed as she pretended. “You weren't always such a fine lady, were you, my dear?"

  A torrent of invective poured from the girl's lips, and Lizaveta wagged an admonitory finger.

  "That is not genteel, and it is biologically impossible, I'm afraid,” she said.

  "If you think that little stick's going to change me, you're barking up the wrong tree, my lady,” the girl cried. “I know pain well, and I can handle it."

  "Of course,” the Prioress said. “We women are strong, are we not? We can withstand pain at a level which mere men cannot begin to comprehend. However, you have a very limited imagination if you delude yourself that physical pain is my only method of persuasion. There are many, many other levers that can be used to break the spirit, and I look forward to acquainting you with all of them. Emotions and sensations are useful, for a start."

  Lizaveta drew on the bounteous power of the earth and unleashed a stream of energy into the girl's brain.

  Drexelica's eyes bulged, the pupils dilating, and she sank to her knees, gasping and twitching.

  "May I ask what you used, Reverend Mother?” Judan asked, who had moved to the Prioress's right side.

  "Pure, unalloyed pleasure this time, Sister,” Lizaveta said from the corner of her mouth, watching as the girl began to roll on the flagstone floor, as if suffering a seizure. “Often an effective means of softening up a troublesome subject. Still, I thought she might prove more resilient than this, and I'm a little disappointed."

  With a sudden jerk, Drexelica froze for a moment, and then climbed to her feet. Lizaveta noted blood at the girl's palms and her lower lip; the little slut had distracted herself with pain.

  "Damn you, hag,” she gasped, her red face running with sweat as the sweet, all-consuming waves of pleasure ran through her.

  "Well done, my dear!” Lizaveta felt impressed at her prisoner's inner strength as she released the spell. Drexelica dropped to the fl
oor again, like a marionette whose strings have been cut, drawing shuddering breaths. “You are a strong one, after all; that pleases me more than you can imagine. I like a challenge.

  "Perhaps you'd like to taste that again, my sweet? I can make it last all day, if necessary. Just say the word, and you can taste that sensation again for as long as you desire."

  "Never.” The girl wheezed, her eyes narrowed and defiant. “I'll beat my head against the floor, bite my tongue off and gouge out my own eyes long before I ever give in to you."

  "That was Lesson One,” the Prioress intoned, well pleased with the success of this first attempt on the bastions of her captive subject's mind. “There are many, many others, I assure you: guilt, fear, despair, self-loathing-I command them all. Nonetheless, I feel invigorated by the challenge you set me earlier. As I told you before; I enjoy challenges."

  The girl's eyes were hooded, suspicious, as she rose from her prone position to kneel. “What challenge?” she demanded.

  "Why, your bold statement that physical pain holds no terrors for you, of course! I fear that you may have cause to regret that statement very soon.

  "I have been lenient so far with your insults and profanity; you are still a very raw Supplicant, and I have indulged your tantrums. However, such naughty behaviour cannot be overlooked. Sister Melana!"

  A tall, pale, whip-thin nun hurried to face her Superior, dropping a deep curtsey without raising her eyes. “I am at your command, Reverend Mother!"

  "This new Supplicant requires correction,” the Prioress drawled. “I wish you to select three trustworthy Acolytes of the Inner Order and conduct Sister Drexelica to the lower chamber. I believe four hours of First Grade Penitence should suffice for now, just enough to orientate her in our ways."

  "Reverend Mother, may I speak?” Judan whispered.

  "Of course, Sister Judan. You have done well, and I am favourably impressed with your sterling efforts tonight."

  "Thank you, Reverend Mother. I just wished to observe that the First Grade is usually reserved for the more delicate, sensitive girls; this Grivense street slattern seems to be of stronger stuff. May I suggest at least a Second Grade Penitence? She was most disrespectful to you."

  Lizaveta nodded. “I am amenable, dear Sister. Your advice is always valuable to me.

  "Sister Melana, you are to press it upon your chosen Acolytes that the girl is not to be permanently marked, disfigured or disabled during the punishment. She may also witness thirty minutes of Sister Sofia's chastisement before her own Penitence commences.

  "Now, Sister, I find myself fatigued, and I wish to retire for the night. I entrust the girl to your hands. You may consider yourself on retreat tomorrow, in recognition of your selfless devotion."

  "Goodnight, Reverend Mother, and thank you. Everything will be done as you require it."

  "I'll die and go to Hell before I ever submit to you, bitch!” Drexelica screamed as a pair of nuns hauled her to her feet, pinioning her arms behind her back.

  "I doubt it, my dear,” Lizaveta said, “but you will consider eternal damnation a blessed release before I have finished with you. Goodnight, and welcome to Rendale. I would wish you sweet dreams, but I am afraid that sleep or dreams of any kind are out of the question."

  As she swept from the room to the sound of Drexelica's imprecations, the Prioress shivered with anticipation. The girl was strong, and that meant that she might be of great use to the Order when the time came.

  She'll be eating out of my hand within a week, she thought, and her beloved Questor cannot reasonably be expected to be here before the month is out. I'm going to take a great deal of interest in Sister Drexelica's training: and trained she will be.

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  Chapter 4: In The Priory

  Shakkar rarely, if ever, slept, and he knew that Lady Drexelica was not an early riser. To pass the time, he busied himself with studying the city's quarterly fiscal accounts for several hours after sunrise. Numeracy was not his strong point, but he was diligent in his task, always trying to catch out Crar's accountant, Master Scutal, in some small detail. The demon had never done so, but he lived in hope of discovering some misplaced decimal point or other error. This hope was heightened by the fact that the aged accountant always stood at his side while Shakkar worked, and he always wore the same smug, indulgent smile, secure in his efficiency and accuracy.

  The demon pored over the heavy, leather-bound ledgers until the town clock chimed nine, and he marked his place with a feather before closing the book.

  "All clear, Lord Seneschal?” Scutal asked in a high-pitched, singsong voice.

  "I am not yet finished, Master Scutal,” Shakkar rumbled. “I shall return later to finish the task when I have made my morning rounds."

  "Anytime, Lord Seneschal; you know where to find me."

  Shakkar grunted. He did not like the accountant's often flippant manner, but the man's efficiency seemed adequate.

  Stepping out of Scutal's office, the demon squinted at the bright, morning sun. He took a mighty draught of cool air and admired the reborn city. He saw the weekly market in full swing, with people chatting and laughing in the streets, in stark contrast to the gruesome, forced jollity that had held sway while Baron Starmor controlled the citizens’ thoughts and actions. He might find humans irritating at times, but he greatly preferred them as free individuals, rather than as ensorcelled puppets.

  He never failed to be impressed by what had once been Starmor's tower. Once, it had been a threatening, grey presence, like a rotting tooth extending into the sky, spreading decay and despair throughout the city. Now, it glowed and gleamed in the warm rays of the sun, almost seeming to radiate hope and vigour into the city.

  As ever, the two young, uniformed guards at the entrance saluted as the demon Seneschal approached.

  "Good morning, Lord Seneschal,” they said in cheery unison.

  "Good morning, gentlemen. Is Lady Drexelica in residence?"

  The question was a routine one; Drexelica never left the tower before ten o'clock.

  "I believe so,” one of the guards said, a red-cheeked youngster whose uniform hung loosely over his spare, lanky limbs; Shakkar did not know his name. “Nobody's entered or left since we started our shift two hours ago."

  "Excellent,” the demon rumbled, towering over the youth. “May I enter?"

  "Of course, Lord Seneschal!"

  The two men raised their halberds at once to allow Shakkar access.

  As he ascended the spiral staircase, the Seneschal mused that the folk of Crar now seemed to regard him as just another citizen, and he was not sure he liked this. On the other hand, at least the Crarians no longer fled screaming at the very sight of him, and he no longer found them quite as repulsive as once he had.

  Reaching the level of the day-room, Shakkar he rapped at the door. When he heard no response, he cleared his throat with a basso rumble and called, “Lady Drexelica; it is I, Shakkar. May I come in?"

  On hearing no reply, he felt uncertain how to proceed; he knew mortals had certain physical needs he found intensely distasteful to contemplate, such as the elimination of vile humours from their bodies, and he did not wish to intrude.

  Tapping the claws of his feet on the flagstone floor, he waited a few minutes before trying again. “Lady Drexelica, are you there?"

  At last, the towering demon gathered up the courage to open the door, fearing that he might see the lady sprawling, unconscious, on the floor, in the grip of some mortal malady. Instead, he saw the day-room looking just as it had the night before, but empty.

  Shakkar frowned. Lady Drexelica was a creature of habit, as most humans seemed to be, and at this time of the day he always found her in the day-room, sipping a cup of tea.

  Of greater worry was the fact that the long chaise was still scattered with discarded gowns, shawls and gloves, as it had been on the previous evening. The demon knew Lady Drexelica as a tidy mortal, fiercely proud of her fine domicile. Lady Drexelic
a would never have gone to bed while the room remained in disorder; she must be ill!

  The Seneschal ascended the stairs to the door of the great bed-chamber that Drexelica shared with Baron Grimm when he was in residence. This time, he knocked with greater urgency, the sound reverberating throughout the tower.

  "Lady Drexelica; are you well?” The booming voice shook the very walls of the edifice.

  Still the demon heard no reply, and now he flung open the door, worried for the safety of his charge.

  To Shakkar's relief, he saw no pale corpse lying on the floor, and the chamber appeared immaculate. The curtains were all drawn, despite the hour, and the bed was in perfect order. However, the Seneschal felt cold, unaccustomed tendrils of fear running along his spine, despite the lack of evidence of foul play.

  Shakkar spent the next ten minutes scouring every room in the turret, but he could not locate the young female. He raced down the staircase, taking the stairs three at a time, and flung open the door, nearly hitting one of the guards.

  "Is everything all right, Seneschal?"

  "It is not!” the demon growled, his voice low and dangerous. Grasping the young guard by his jerkin, he pulled the mortal up, so that their faces met. “You swore that nobody had entered or left, but the Lady Drexelica has gone. How do you explain that?"

  The guard gurgled, and no coherent sound emerged from his mouth. His colleague, his eyes wide, yelled, “It's true, Lord Seneschal, I swear! We have not left this spot since midnight, except…"

  Shakkar let his unwilling, half-strangled prisoner fall to the ground, gasping for breath. “Except for what?” he demanded, turning to the other guard, almost beside himself with rage.

  "Well, you know,” the terrified watchman squeaked. “It's a long shift, and we do have to… relieve ourselves from time to time. But there was always at least one of us here all through the night, I swear!"

  The demon smiled at the mortal's pasty, sweaty face; these juveniles no longer regarded the Seneschal as just another puny mortal.