Dragonblaster cogd-5

by Alastair J. Archibald

"Well, I can't go,” the Colonel declared. “My sworn duty is to safeguard the people of Crar."

  "Well, you do not seem to be doing a very good job of that, do you, Colonel?"

  Shakkar knew he had let his stem-brain take control of him once more as the words escaped his mouth. This time, it cost him considerable effort to slake his hot ire.

  "I am… sorry, Colonel,” he said in a gruff voice. “That was… unkind of me."

  "Think nothing of it, Lord Seneschal.” The officer's expression suggested that he was anything but mollified by the demon's outburst. “What, may I ask, do you intend?"

  "I will go to Arnor House with Sergeant Erik. I will wait at a safe distance while the Sergeant, dressed as a labourer, reports to the tradesmen's entrance. As I understand it, the Mage Doorkeeper should come to greet him. I have not met the man, but Lord Grimm speaks fondly of him. I am sure that this man, Doorkeeper, can be relied upon to pass on a message to Questor Dalquist without revealing our purpose. We will wait for the mage to tell us whatever he can and then use the most expedient method to reach Questor Grimm and his party."

  Shandimar nodded slowly. At last, he said, “Very well, Lord Seneschal. Sergeant Erik, consider yourself on detached duty. I'll give you a chit for the Armoury. Take whatever weapons you feel you need, as long as they don't slow you down. And get some civilian clothes from the stores."

  The Sergeant saluted smartly."Yes, Sir!” The grin on his face suggested he was far from downcast.

  The Colonel turned to the demon. “When were you thinking of leaving, Lord Seneschal?"

  Shakkar grinned, exposing his long fangs. “To borrow a human expression, Colonel, ‘there is no time like the present'. We will leave at once."

  "Don't I even have time to take breakfast?” Erik said in a slightly plaintive voice.

  "Very well,” Shakkar growled. “I give you an hour to make your preparations; then, we leave."

  The Sergeant stood, came to attention and saluted. “With your permission, Sir?"

  "Yes, yes, Sergeant,” the officer replied. “Do get on with it."

  "Yes, Sir!"

  The soldier marched out of the room with a military precision that impressed even the irascible demon.

  "I see I may have misjudged the man,” Shakkar said as the door slammed shut. “He seems to be a good soldier."

  "You may not believe it, Lord Seneschal, but they're all good soldiers, and until recently they have lived exclusively in a military base, free from all temptation. Guarding a town and pussy-footing around civilians is not an ideal assignment for such soldiers; they're men of action, first and foremost. You can rely on Sergeant Erik. Don't worry; he'll support you all the way."

  "It is not that which causes me to worry,” Shakkar said. “I just hope that this witch is not mistreating Lady Drexelica. I have come to… to respect her."

  Shandimar laughed. “It's bad policy to mistreat hostages. I'm sure she'll be all right, you'll see."

  ****

  Lizaveta regarded Sister Melana with some amusement. The nun's thin face was haggard and grey; she looked exhausted. Nonetheless, her habit seemed immaculate and faultless, even at this late hour.

  How does the little tart still manage to stay upright? she wondered. I've been running her to the bone! Still, in a few more days we'll see a new Melana, I'm sure; a contrite and obedient one. I'll show her who runs this Priory!

  "Do sit down, Sister,” she crooned, motioning to a comfortable chair opposite her divan. “You look shattered."

  "Thank you, Reverend Mother.” Melana collapsed into the chair with a distinct lack of Holy Modesty.

  Lizaveta suppressed a smile. “I'm sorry that I have no sweetmeats or viands waiting for you; the hour is late, after all. How goes our new Supplicant?"

  "She is wilful, Reverend Mother. She has power, but she seems to choose not to use it."

  "Are you sure, Sister? Is she resisting you wilfully, or is she just confused?"

  "I don't know, Reverend Mother,” Melana confessed, rubbing her brow with a trembling hand as she sat slumped in the chair. “She makes all the right responses, and she obeys me without question now. She keeps proper custody of the eyes, and she keeps her robes in good order. I can tell she has power, and she has a witch's aura."

  "You mean, I imagine, Sister, that she has no aura."

  "Yes, Reverend Mother; I apologise. She lacks an aura, but she does not attempt to draw power from the earth, as far as I can tell. I know she has only ever mended pots and healed minor wounds, but I have taught her a lot, to no avail. She must be resisting me."

  The Prioress regarded the Sister with some respect. From the flickering of Melina's eyelids, she could tell the nun was fighting the urgent need for sleep with every fibre of her being. Nonetheless, she endured. It would be almost a shame to heap further privations on her…

  "Very well, Sister; the Supplicant will undergo a full day of Penance of the Second Grade, and you are to oversee her. Wake her in two hours, and be sure to let her know our disapproval. Let her know why she is being punished."

  Even in her semi-comatose state, Melana managed to jerk herself upright, her eyes bulging. “Reverend Mother, I must protest!” she cried, her voice harsh and rasping. “I cannot maintain focus and a clear head on one or two hours’ sleep a night!"

  "Mind your manners, Sister!” Lizaveta snapped. “Remember who you are addressing!"

  Melana's bloodshot eyes met those of her Prioress. “I intended no disrespect, Reverend Mother,” she croaked. “But I need sleep badly!"

  Lizaveta smiled. Give with one hand, and take away with the other. It's time to play Lady Bountiful.

  "Very well,” she said. “Although I am a little distressed at your lack of fortitude… you were about to speak, Sister?"

  "No, Reverend Mother.” The words came through clenched teeth.

  "Good. You may have eight hours of sleep, Sister."

  "Thank you, Reverend Mother!"

  The Prioress regarded the stunned expression on the Sister's face with some satisfaction. “In two-hour steps, that is: two hours with the Supplicant, followed by two hours’ sleep. The Novices may tend her while you lounge in your bed."

  Go on, girl; just you dare to remonstrate with me! Lizaveta watched a complex range of expressions flood across the nun's face in succession: initial rage, self-doubt, fear, and finally, acceptance of her lot.

  "Thank you, Reverend Mother, for having mercy on my human frailty,” Melina said, lowering her eyes. “May I leave?"

  "Of course, Sister. Please, do take some rest. Just bear in mind that I want results from this little slut as soon as possible. Fail me, and you'll find that many hungry Novices will be only too eager to take your place in the Score; Novices you've abused over the years.

  "Just think how they'll treat you, then."

  The Prioress waited to see if Melana was willing to remonstrate now, but the rebellious tart seemed to have more sense than she had thought.

  "Thank you, Reverend Mother,” the nun said at last, bowing and staggering out of the room like a drunkard.

  Lizaveta yawned and stretched like a cat. I'll have two willing slaves out of this little exercise, she thought. Either that, or a slave and an example to anybody else who thinks she is above the Rule.

  She walked from the bare, forbidding room to her sumptuous bedchamber; a room that only her trusted, mute body-servants ever saw.

  One of the speechless maids slipped from under the vast feather bed and made to undress the Prioress, while another scuttled over to a cherry-wood armoire and withdrew a silk night-dress. A third girl began to comb her white tresses, and another stood ready with water, soap and sponge.

  Once prepared for her night's sleep, the Prioress slipped into the soft, yielding bed. The pale maids slotted themselves underneath it, like obedient, animated toys putting themselves back into their box.

  Lizaveta slept with a smile on her face, her dreams pleasant and untroubled.

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le of Contents]

  Chapter 7: Integration

  Grimm inspected Harvel's wounds: a pair of dark pink slits in the swordsman's flesh, held closed by a series of stitches.

  "How do they feel now, Harvel?” the mage asked.

  "Itchy, Lord Mage, but they don't hurt any more, unless I move awkwardly. What do you think?"

  Grimm leant close to the wounds and sniffed, but he detected no taint of corruption.

  "I think you got away with it, Harvel. The wounds are knitting well, and it looks like you've avoided infection so far. The shoulder wound looks all right, too. I think we ought to leave the stitches in for a few more days, but I think you can remove the sling now. How's your arm?"

  Harvel, slipping his left arm from its restraint, exercised the limb. He whirled his arm in a few experimental circles.

  "Not too much, now, Harvel,” Grimm warned him. “You don't want to risk opening the wound again. How does it feel?"

  "The skin feels a little tight, and my arm's a mite on the weak side, but it doesn't seem to be permanently damaged. I've survived worse."

  Grimm felt dubious at this claim: although he noted many scars on the warrior's naked torso, none seemed of a life-threatening nature.

  Harvel must have noted a trace of disbelief on the mage's face, as he pulled up the right leg of his loose trousers to show a livid, jagged scar run running from mid-thigh to half-way down his shin.

  "Shattered,” the warrior said, his voice tinged with apparent pride, “my thighbone and the bones in my lower leg. The physician told me I was lucky to be alive, and I had my entire leg immobilised for nearly six months.

  Harvel pointed to a series of small, round scars running down either side of his shin. “See these little marks?"

  Grimm nodded.

  "Metal bolts held the leg together while it healed. For quite a while, it was touch and go, and it hurt like a bugger when he took them out, even though I was full of brandy at the time.

  "Do you see that bigger mark there?"

  Grimm noticed that one of the scars was larger and deeper than the others, a hemispherical crater just under the knee on the left-hand side.

  "That's where one of the bolt-holes got infected, and I got really sick. The Doctor had to cut out all the stinking, rotting flesh, and he treated it with green, mouldy bread, would you believe? It seemed to do the trick, though, and here I am to tell the tale. Even so, the heel and sole of my right boot are over an inch thicker than the ones on the left. That costs me a fortune in cobblers’ bills when I buy a new pair."

  Grimm felt impressed: this had indeed been a life-threatening injury. From what he knew of healing, such a compound fracture of the leg could be very dangerous, especially when the thighbone was involved.

  "Did you receive the wound in battle, Harvel?"

  The swordsman shrugged. “That's for me to know and you to find out, mage."

  Crest looked up from the whetstone on his lap, on which he was honing the edges of his collection of daggers, and he laughed.

  "He got it leaping out of a married woman's bedroom window when the enraged husband found them galloping the two-backed beast, mage! The trouble was that the drop was a little further than he thought."

  "Thanks so much, elf,” Harvel growled. “You really know how to wreck a man's reputation."

  "I think you do a pretty good job of that yourself, Harvel,” Crest replied. “One of these days, some outraged husband's going to be quicker even than you, and he'll hand you your overactive gonads marinated in a white wine sauce."

  "Won't ever happen, Crest,” the swordsman said with a smug expression.

  Grimm smiled and wandered off to find General Quelgrum. He found the old soldier sitting cross-legged by the rear of the wagon. His face calm and intent; he was cleaning and oiling the disassembled parts of some of his Technological weapons, which were spread out on a tarpaulin before him.

  At Grimm's approach, the General looked up from his work. “Good morning, Lord Baron. How are the warriors?"

  "Good morning, General. I think we're about ready to leave. Crest and Harvel seem to be up to arguing again, so there can't be too much wrong."

  The soldier nodded. “Tordun's out running again. He told me yesterday that he's worried about his fitness. He wants to be on the road again, and so do I. Still, there's the problem of Questor Guy and Necromancer Numal. It'd be better for all of us if they were back in their own bodies."

  "I've been thinking about that, General, and I've got a couple of ideas on the subject. Do you know where they are?"

  "Questor Guy's off in the woods, checking the snares, and Necromancer Numal's collecting firewood. They should be back soon."

  Grimm sat beside the military man while Quelgrum reassembled his weapons with impressive speed.

  "To look at you, General, nobody would ever think you'd once been a shepherd,” he said.

  "It's like riding a bicycle, mage. Once learnt, never forgotten."

  Grimm frowned. “What's a bicycle, General?"

  Quelgrum laughed. “I keep forgetting how little you mages know about machines,” he said. “A bicycle is-ah! Here come our two strays."

  Grimm noticed that the two juxtaposed souls seemed to avoid each other's eyes, and that they were silent as they strode into the camp. He rose to his feet.

  "Gentlemen!” the Questor called. “I've been thinking about your little problem, and I'd like to try out a couple of techniques."

  "The sooner the better,” Guy/Numal said. “Let's go."

  Numal/Guy nodded vigorously. “I agree. What do you have in mind?"

  "Numal, the problem seems to be that you aren't confident enough to cast the spell using Guy's voice-box. What if I were to cast the spell?"

  Numal/Guy shrugged. “I've heard you Questors can do a lot of different types of spell, but the Juxtaposition one is complex; as a Specialist Necromancer, I was only just able to carry it off. Do you really think you can come up with some Questor analogue of the rune magic? Remember that the souls have to cross over at the same time: if one body is left soulless, it may die."

  Grimm shook his head. “I wouldn't know where to start,” he confessed. “Even so, I can read runes as well as the next mage; if you were to write down the spell, I should be able to recite it."

  "That wouldn't work, Grimm. You know as well as I how magic works. The incantation has to come from the caster's own mouth."

  "That's not quite right, Numal. The spell has to come from the caster's brain. I have some experience of astral travel now. I believe I could implant my psyche in your borrowed head, while using my own voice to cast the spell. I would be linked to my body through my ‘silver cord', and you could use our shared voice to pattern your mind for the casting. I'd read the spell through your-or rather, Guy's-eyes.

  "Guy, it's your body. I ask your permission to try this… this ‘spell transplant'. I have no idea if it'll work or not."

  Guy/Numal shrugged. “I'm willing to try anything. I've had enough of this creaking geriatric shell."

  "And you, Numal?"

  The Necromancer's borrowed face furrowed with evident doubt. “I suppose so, Grimm. I don't like it; the consequences could be disastrous for both of us."

  Grimm spread his hands, palms upwards, before him. “I don't think you're ever going to feel confident enough to chant the spell using Guy's throat. We've got to do something."

  "I know,” Numal said, “and I do agree, in principle. Still, you said you had a couple of ideas. What's the other one?"

  "Those red-and-white toadstools,” Grimm said, pointing to a clump of gaudy fungi clustered around a tree, “have some interesting properties. If you both ate some, you might start spontaneously to travel on the astral plane. I could try to snap your silver cords and transfer your straying souls back into your respective bodies, before they knew what had happened."

  "I think I prefer the first plan."

  "I hate to admit it, but I agree with Grandpa here."

  "
Right,” Grimm said. “Then that's what we'll try first. Numal, please write out the spell as best you can remember it."

  While the Necromancer busied himself with parchment and pencil, Grimm fought the cold, clammy demons of doubt and fear. He had no idea of whether his plan would work, but he knew that something must be done.

  At last, Numal looked up. “It's all there, Grimm. Go ahead."

  Grimm drew several deep breaths. He felt an urgent desire to calm himself with the drugs that had once enslaved him: Trina and Virion. Nonetheless, he had no desire to risk becoming an unwilling vassal to the insidious herbs again.

  "Have you any advice, Numal?"

  The Necromancer nodded. “Questor Guy, please lie down beside me, remaining as still as you can. General Quelgrum, please hold the paper so I can see it. Questor Grimm, please… do take care."

  Grimm nodded, too full for words.

  The two transposed mages lay down side-by-side, and Grimm adopted a pose of meditation, sitting by their heads. Quelgrum crouched beside Numal/Guy, holding the transcribed spell in front of the Necromancer's borrowed eyes.

  "A little nearer, please, General,” Guy's voice said. “That's it: hold it just there."

  Grimm began to chant in his personal spell-language: “Ushuryaia, demtoril, appshaya. Ushuryaia, demtoril…"

  The drone of the repetitive incantation calmed him, and he began to relax, concentrating on nothing but the meaningless, powerful words. Grimm's eyes closed, and he felt warmth beginning to spread through him. He was drifting… flying…

  Far below him, the mage's astral projection saw the two mages and his own body.

  A simple effort of will… down… down.

  A moment of claustrophobic confusion came over him, and he fought to ignore the alien thoughts threatening to subsume him.

  Just a little shift… there!

  With a shock of realisation, spirit-Grimm knew he was looking through another's eyes. Numal's thoughts washed into his psyche, and he resisted them as best he could.

  Concentrate on the runes!

  The spiky symbols filled his field of vision, and he seized control of the shared eyes, scanning the document. For a moment, he felt lost, as he tried to reassert simultaneous command of his own, distant body. The evanescent silver cord rippled and stretched, but spirit-Grimm managed to maintain a tenuous grasp on his own physical manifestation.