Drex, denied sleep and food for many days, knew she was no match for the two women before her, and she stood up, all traces of defiance gone. Her legs felt weak, but she refused to allow them to tremble as Lizaveta led her out of the chamber.
The room led into the temple in which she had first appeared in Rendale, but it was now bare and featureless except for the gaudy throne. The gentle-looking nun, Judan, opened a door Drex knew well: the door to the grey, forbidding Lower Chapel.
"What do you think, Sister Drexelica? We have decorated the Chapel in honour of your accession. Note the tasteful, new appointments."
Drex looked into the depths of the room she had learned to hate so much. Apart from a ragged, red flag on the wall opposite the door, she saw little difference in the Chapel since her last, painful visit.
"It looks no different to me except for the flag,” she said, her voice contemptuous and dismissive, until a dry, hacking moan brought her to her senses. That was no fluttering flag; it was a wet, red, writhing simulacrum of a human body.
"You see, Sister? Sister Melana just insisted on being present at your conversion."
The ghastly vision burned into Drex's brain: the exposed, glistening muscles and tendons; the occasional pale gleam of bared bones; the pleading, agonised eyes, the pupils compressed to black dots at their centres… Drex's mind refused to accept the ghastly reality of what she saw for a few moments, but her stomach recognised the true horror of the spectacle, voiding its meagre contents onto the flagstones in a sudden spasm.
She's still alive…
Long after the thin remnants of the thin gruel she had last eaten had been expelled, Drex retched in helpless agony, unable to take her eyes from the hanging figure.
"Now, that's no way to greet an old friend, is it, Sister?” Lizaveta said. “Still, I imagine you're tired now, and you need your sleep. Tomorrow, you'll have hours and hours in Melana's company, and I expect you to help to teach her well the errors of her ways. Sleep well, Sister…"
Drex tried to resist as the Prioress’ mental clamps fastened upon her, but her debilitated state precluded any last attempt at defiance.
As if in a dream, she heard herself say “I live to serve, Reverend Mother. I am yours."
Drexelica felt as if scenes from her life were rushing from her body: the drab orphan; the enslaved seamstress; the wretched beggar. All flew away from her like handkerchiefs torn away through the window of a speeding coach. The last memory she had was of the warm, cautious, almost timorous embrace of Grimm Afelnor. As the last memory flew away from her, Drexelica of Griven was dead to the world.
Blessed be the Order! Blessed be the Reverend Mother. I live only to serve…
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 11: Arrivals
Shakkar's flight muscles felt as if they were on fire, but he vowed to continue flying until he and his human passenger had reached their goal. To do otherwise would be to admit weakness, and Shakkar had no intention of doing so. The dangling mortal was not just a burden in terms of weight but also a considerable aerodynamic impediment. This forced the demon to flap his wings at all times rather than coasting on the wind, which was his favoured mode of flight. This unforeseen factor, allied to Shakkar's lack of flying practice since he had been Seneschal of Crar, took a grave toll on his stamina.
He felt himself beginning to drop lower and lower in the sky, and he gritted his teeth, beating his wings faster in an attempt to gain altitude.
"That must be Yoren!” Erik screamed.
Shakkar looked down. He saw the green-clad human hanging beneath him, a pair of joined black tubes pressed to his eyes, and he guessed that this was some kind of optical device.
"Where?” The demon's eyes were not as acute as those of some of his kin.
"Due west, Lord Seneschal. There's no other town in this vicinity on the map; it must be Yoren."
The Sergeant's tone was cheerful, almost euphoric; it seemed that he had overcome his fear of flight, and that he was actively relishing the experience.
I am glad someone is having an enjoyable time, the demon thought, fighting the increasing anguish in his back and shoulders. However, the knowledge that his destination was now in sight gave him renewed zeal and strength. Now, he could see a dull, grey blemish on the landscape to the west, for which he headed, ignoring the pain, dismissing it.
At last, the dowdy blur resolved itself into a recognisable conurbation, while Erik scanned the territory with his artificial eyes.
The Sergeant pointed towards a large hill. “I recommend we set down there, Lord Seneschal, It looks like a collection of burnt buildings; could be Lord Grimm's doing. I can see a few people milling around."
Shakkar's eyes might not have been particularly acute, but his nose was as sensitive as a bloodhound's.
"I think you are right, Sergeant. I smell combustion products; the fire must have been quite recent."
The demon wheeled in the air and almost lost his balance, as the gleefully hooting, swaying Erik threatened to destabilise him. However, after a few moments with cold, electric sensations approaching panic, Shakkar managed to adjust his attitude and fly towards the hill.
I cannot take much more of this, the demon thought, as the Sergeant continued to cavort in his grasp. We must set down; either that, or I let this foolish, impetuous mortal fall to his death.
The underworld being mused on this enticing possibility for a few moments, but he decided against it.
We have a mission to fulfil, and I have a duty to the humans of Crar; even one as irksome as this man.
"I think we should set down here, Sergeant."
"I understand, Lord Seneschal; you must be tired after all this effort,” the soldier replied, and Shakkar almost dropped him there and then.
"My decision was founded upon tactical considerations,” he said through gritted teeth.
"As you wish, Sir; this looks like a nice, flat spot,” the imperturbable, infuriating mortal replied.
Shakkar spread his wings to their full extent and angled them so that he dropped towards the ground at a reasonable pace.
Ten feet from the ground, the demon released his human cargo without warning, hoping that the Sergeant would sprawl in an undignified heap on the soil. Instead, the man landed on his feet, rolled on his side and stood up in one smooth, elegant motion, as Shakkar landed beside him.
Erik brushed dust, grass and twigs from his uniform as if nothing had happened. He appeared more concerned with his apparel and his equipment
You irritating little worm! the demon raged inside his head, but he forced himself to speak in a civil manner.
"I trust you are unhurt, Sergeant?"
"General Quelgrum insisted we practice jumping from small towers, and I never knew why. A friend told me the General got the idea from some ancient book, and I always thought it a stupid waste of time. Still, orders are orders, as they say. Still, that training came in handy there, though, didn't it?"
"If you say so, Sergeant,” the demon said. “Shall we proceed?"
"Of course, Lord Seneschal.” Erik hoisted his pack a little higher onto his shoulders, and he began to whistle as he marched up the path to the scorched buildings.
"Would you mind ceasing that infernal racket?” Shakkar asked; the piping, sibilant sequence of tones irked him. For all he knew, the man might have a glorious, perfect musical ear, but the world of melody was denied to him. Music was a peculiarly human phenomenon, and all Shakkar could discern was an arbitrary series of frequencies. This, along with the human's attitude, managed to grate on the Seneschal's nerves.
Erik stopped in his traces, and looked the demon straight in the eye.
"It's all right, Lord Seneschal: I understand. You were tired, and you needed to rest a while. That's no problem with me."
"I was not tired, Sergeant! I made a tactical decision. Is that understood?"
Erik nodded, but the demon believed he caught the ghost of a smile on the soldier's face.
Before he could speak, the Sergeant barked, “Understood, Lord Seneschal; a tactical decision. Yes, Sir!"
The human's hand flipped to his right temple in what Shakkar recognised as a respectful, military gesture.
"As long as that is understood, Sergeant,” the demon said, “we may continue."
"It's understood, Sir."
Erik unslung his black firearm and inspected the open, tube-like end of the weapon. Apparently satisfied, he flicked a small lever and pulled back on a small handle, to the accompaniment of a loud clacking sound. He then slung the item back over his shoulder, before opening and inspecting the contents of several small pouches arrayed around his waist
"What are you doing, Sergeant?"
"I'm just getting ready in case there's any trouble, Lord Seneschal. You can't be too careful; this place has a rough reputation."
Shakkar snorted. “I believe myself more than equal to any human threat we might face,” he said, showing the sabre-like claws on his right hand. “These should be more effective than any Technological toy."
"I just thought you might want to take it easy for a little while after all your effort-"
"I am not fatigued! Is that quite understood, Sergeant Erik?"
"Understood, Sir! The Seneschal is not tired, Sir!"
Shakkar's keen ears heard a sotto voce addendum to this response: “Why, you're just as human as the rest of us, aren't you, demon?"
Despite the hot blood he could feel rushing into his face, the Seneschal pretended that he had not heard.
I refuse to lower myself by engaging in idle chitchat with this earthly moron. Erik is just convinced that I must be afflicted with the same mortal weaknesses of the others of his kind and I cannot blame him for that. Faced with an evidently superior being, he is projecting his human insecurities onto me. I shall be merciful and let his impudence pass for now.
The demon and the soldier passed a small, deserted kiosk by the side of the road, as they approached the blackened skeleton of a large building.
"A checkpoint, Lord Seneschal,” Erik said. “See the firing steps and gun-slits-no good for bows. They must have had weapons like mine, but something hit them hard. Something they couldn't handle: must have been Lord Grimm and his companions."
"Thank you for your invaluable advice, Sergeant,” the demon growled, allowing a dull, sarcastic tone to creep into his voice. “I am glad you are here to make these insightful observations. Kindly restrict your opinions to the matter in hand."
"Yes, Sir! The matter in hand; I understand, Sir!"
Shakkar noted the soldier's stiff, inexpressive face, and he guessed that the impudent mortal was hiding amusement. This enraged him all the more, and he felt his tail flicking back and forth in autonomous agitation.
At last, it seemed that Erik could hold in his mirth no longer, and a brief snort escaped his nose.
Shakkar rose to his full height and bared his steak-knife fangs, his wings spread like a flamboyant cape, but he realised with a sudden shock just how unreasonable-how human-was his anger.
Erik's face paled, but he held his ground. “I'm sorry, Lord Seneschal,” he said in a serious tone. “I apologise for my unforgivable impertinence. I had no cause to mock you, and I regret my rash, disrespectful attitude. I should know better by now than to sound off at my seniors."
The man's heels clicked together, and he stiffened into a pose of attention, his right hand flicking into position at his temple. All traces of impudence had disappeared, and the soldier appeared to have resigned himself to whatever fate held in store for him.
Well done, Shakkar, the demon thought. You have browbeaten a mere mortal into submission with a show of force. What will you do now-rend him limb from limb for his effrontery or acknowledge that your actions and attitudes have been unreasonable? Which takes the greater courage?
As the mortal retained his perfect, parade-ground stance, Shakkar sighed.
"Very well, Sergeant,” he said, with some effort. “I will overlook your behaviour on this occasion. I acknowledge some small faults of my own: I was not quite truthful when I told you I was not fatigued after our long journey; and my temper has not been all that it might have been, in my eagerness to requite our mission. You have tendered me an apology, so I, as a demon, can do no less. I am sorry, Sergeant."
"That's very good of you, Lord Seneschal, but as an experienced soldier, I should have known better-my fault was the greater one, Sir."
For the first time in his life, Shakkar found himself extending his hand toward a human without showing his claws. The mortal took it, grasping the ends of the demon's fingers.
"Well met, Lord Seneschal. It takes a big man to admit-I'm sorry, Sir, I mean…"
The man's face was a wide-eyed mask of confusion.
Shakkar began to wonder if being classed as human was quite the insult he had thought.
These puny beings, so ill-equipped to face the unforgiving world without the aid of contrivances and tools, must live in constant terror of a greater force. And yet, they still throve and flourished, often masking fear and misgiving with mockery and humour. Just like Shakkar denying his weakness, this mortal was hiding his fear, prepared to die rather than submit to his baser emotions.
Questor Grimm did the same thing when I confronted him. I could have killed him in an instant, but he bowed his head before me, refusing to betray his honour. Perhaps these strange creatures are not as weak as I thought.
"I do not object to the label, Sergeant,” the demon grunted. “Inaccurate as it was, I take it in the spirit in which it was bestowed. Let us continue."
"Yes, Sir!” The human offered another formal salute. However, this was no mechanical response; Shakkar saw genuine respect, and even warmth, in his gesture.
"I will add one corollary, Sergeant.” Shakkar raised an admonitory finger. “What has passed between us will go no further-is that understood?"
"Yes, Sir!"
I imagine that we both know each other a little better now, the netherworld creature mused. But if Erik ever tells another mortal soul of this, I will-
"Why, you're just as human as the rest of us, aren't you, demon?” The Sergeant's muttered words rose anew in Shakkar's head, and the demon suppressed a wry grin. There had been more truth in this verdict than he had been willing to acknowledge.
****
As the wagon rolled into the centre of Brianston, Grimm saw people beginning to line the street, cheering and clapping.
"This is more like it, eh, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum said over the clamour. “It's nice to be appreciated for a change!"
Grimm scanned the massed auras, but he could find no traces of emotion other than joy, happiness and a deep, unreserved love: the attentive audience's reaction appeared to be genuine and unforced. He remembered the ensorcelled people of Crar, puppets in the power of Starmor, carrying out stereotypical roles with enforced enthusiasm-this looked utterly different.
"Indeed, they really seem to love us, General! But it does make me wonder just why. I think we should carry on."
"Agreed, Lord Grimm; it does seem strange. Still, at least they're not attacking us."
"I can't feel any magic, either,” the Questor replied. “Whatever this is about, the happiness seems to be real. It does worry me, though."
"Perhaps we should just take it as it comes, Lord Baron.” The General gave an airy gesture of his right hand. “Maybe they just love us, after all. Should we knock it?"
The massed crowds now began to swarm all around the wagon, patting it like a favourite pet. Some people even kissed it.
Grimm heard a soft, rhythmic susurration in the throng, rising in volume and resolving into words: “Welcome, strangers… welcome, strangers."
Fevered fingers began to pluck at the fabric covering of the wagon, and the General turned to Grimm. His wide smile had now gone.
"Lord Baron, I suggest we get out of here as quickly as possible; this is getting a bit extreme."
"I agree, General. I d
on't think these people are possessed, but they're beginning to scare me."
He flicked the reins, but the sheer mass of human bodies was too much for the horses to resist. They whinnied and strained, their eyes wide and terrified, but they made no headway against the enormous crowd.
As hands danced around him, trying to catch his uniform, the General stood up and shouted at the crowd.
"We appreciate your kind reception, good people, but I'd ask you to move aside. The horses are getting nervous, and I don't want anyone to be hurt. Move on, now! The show's over!"
A ripple of rapturous applause arose from the increasing horde, but the General's words seemed to have had no other effect.
The horses tramped and neighed, and one of them lashed out with a fore-hoof, catching a daring Brianstonian on the temple and sending him flying. This did not appear to dampen the enthusiasm of the unfortunate man's fellows in the least. The coach began to rock from side to side, and the General unshouldered his weapon and unleashed a stuttering burst of fire over the heads of the crowd.
"That's your last warning, people! If you don't disperse now, I'll have to open fire on you. I have no wish to do that, but-"
Grimm felt the cart beginning to overbalance as the crowd encroached on it. The horses snorted and stamped, with bared teeth and wide eyes, but this seemed not to deter the rapturous mob in the least.
"Everybody out!” he yelled. “We've got a fight on our hands!"
He raised Redeemer and leapt into the crowd as the wagon fell onto its side with a tumultuous smash. Lashing out with the magically-hard staff, he felled the Brianstonians in heaps, but there always seemed to be more of them happy to fill the breaches, clambering over their fallen companions in their eagerness to reach the adventurers.
From the corner, he saw the titanic albino swordsman, Tordun, brought down into a milling mass of citizens. He could see no sign of the half-elf, Crest, or the blademaster, Harvel, and assumed they were already lost. He tried to calm himself so he could cast his potent, Questor magic, but the sheer manic turbulence of the crowd prevented him from being able to marshal his senses.
Dragonblaster cogd-5 Page 10