Shakkar had slept more over the last few days than in the previous decade, but, as he awoke from a pleasant, formless dream, he felt refreshed. Perhaps he might engage in this mortal practice a little more often in future!
He lay on a straw pallet in a large barn, since the Anjarians had been unable to find more comfortable accommodation for someone of his size. Dimly remembering how he had thrashed and kicked whilst delirious, he understood only too well their desire to limit the destruction he could cause. Even in his weakened state, he was capable of wreaking considerable havoc.
Nonetheless, he had no complaints about his basic lodgings. They were capacious and well-lit from several high openings that also let in plenty of fresh air. Shakkar disliked the cramped, constricting chambers which humans seemed to prefer, and the wooden structure seemed more than adequate to his needs.
He heard the barn door creak, and he turned his head to see the bald-headed, spare form of his physician, Porpitt.
"Good morning, Doctor Porpitt,” he rumbled.
"Well met, Lord Shakkar,” the doctor said with a cheerful, breezy air, despite his formal Mage Speech. “How do you feel on this fine day? You look much better than when I first saw you."
Shakkar raised himself from his straw pallet and swung his arms in a series of wide arcs, feeling the counter-play of the opposing sets of muscles beneath his tough, leathery skin. He felt some soreness and stiffness in the joints, but he expected this after the last few days’ immobility.
Grunting in satisfaction, he flexed his wings several times, feeling a little tightness in the scar tissue on his side, but no pain. For the first time since the disease seized him, his mind was clear.
"I feel in excellent health, Doctor,” he declared, moulding his sharp-fanged mouth into his nearest approximation of a human smile. “I owe you my life, and I thank you."
Porpitt shrugged. “You were very ill indeed, Lord Demon,” he said. “I feared for your life on several occasions-I have never seen the sickness advance with such fury. I wish I could take full credit for your condition, but your underworld physique and an unexpected abatement of the disease played the greater part in your recovery."
"You are too modest,” protested Shakkar, shaking his head, now free from dizziness and pain. “Your expertise was paramount."
Porpitt rubbed his lined brow with the back of his right hand. “I have treated the Night Ones’ wounds before,” he said, “but not often. One or two of the creatures have been known to walk abroad on occasion, and most Anjarians know well enough to stay indoors at these times: we have nocturnal lookouts, whose sole job is to watch for the Night Ones’ approach and to warn us by ringing the town bell, although the monsters never stray far from their earthy beds. I have saved wanderers from small scratches and bites, but you had long, deep gashes all down your right side and your back. The watchmen told me that it was as if the whole graveyard erupted the night you were attacked. The Night Ones usually wander only in small groups."
Shakkar grunted. “I do not believe the undead monsters arose of their own accord, Doctor,” he said, “I believe they were summoned."
"Summoned? I've studied these monstrosities in some depth, Lord Shakkar. Even a powerful Necromancer can only call one or two of them. It's said that the graveyard at Merrydeath Road was the scene of an ancient battle between two mighty mages, and the continued restlessness of the cadavers is due to lingering energies from the confrontation."
The demon said, “I think the undead warriors were summoned by witchcraft. It does not seem to function on the same principles as Thaumaturgy.” He frowned. “If the battle was so long ago, Doctor, then why were some of the animated corpses so uncorrupted?"
Porpitt pursed his lips, as if unsure how to reply at first. Then he nodded. “I haven't been able to save all the victims, and Merrydeath Road is the only logical place to bury the bodies. We daren't inter them here. The Night Ones may pass their walking curse on to their victims, and our religion forbids cremation.
"We bury them with full ceremony at high noon, when the Night Ones are dormant."
Shakkar nodded. “A prudent precaution,” he said, after a while. “Now, Doctor, how may I repay you for your care and your compassion? I am needed in Rendale, and I dare not delay longer. I carry no money with me, but I have access to considerable funds from the Crarian city coffers."
Porpitt shook his head. “The city fathers of Anjar pay me an adequate salary and a bonus payment for each person I treat,” he said. “I cannot accept additional payment just for doing my job-especially since I have no idea why your illness came to such a swift end, and I played little part in that.
"If you insist on doing something for me, all I ask is that you recommend me as a physician to any ailing person you may meet around here… and that you take care to steer clear of zombies in the future."
Shakkar smiled again, finding that the expression came to him more easily this time. “I will do so with pleasure, Doctor Porpitt,” he said. “I regret that I cannot stay longer in Anjar, but I ask that you thank Mayor Peder and his colleagues for the hospitality you have shown me during my stay here. I hope to show my gratitude to you in a more tangible fashion later, but I regret that my presence in Rendale is imperative."
Porpitt nodded. “I understand, Lord Seneschal,” he said. “I am happy that you're quite recovered now. You seem to be a person of some importance, and I don't want to delay your urgent mission any longer than necessary. If you run into any unexpected problems in Rendale, I advise you to apply to the Priory. The Sisters of Divine Mercy will be more than happy to help you, I'm sure. They are frequent and valued visitors here in Anjar."
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."
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