Shakkar strode from the barn into the bright morning sunlight, took a deep breath and flexed his wide, leathery wings. To his immense satisfaction, his body seemed in fine shape, and he began to exercise, as he had often seen Baron Grimm do in the early morning.
A few Anjarians stopped what they were doing to watch him, but only for a few moments. As the demon finished his impromptu callisthenics, the townspeople and shopkeepers turned away, returning to their seemingly customary haggling.
It is a good day to fly, he thought, admiring the way the fields shimmered and shone like fine gold: something he had never appreciated before in his long life. He found unexpected pleasure also in the cheerful twitter and warble of the birds in the trees. After another deep, satisfied breath, he flapped his wings, which bore him aloft without effort.
Shakkar used the thermals and air currents with the unthinking intuition of a creature born to fly, without the least consideration or understanding of the principles of aerodynamics. Sheer instinct guided him, telling him when to twist a wing; when to shift his centre of mass; when to beat his wings just that little bit harder. He revelled in the incomparable freedom of flight, rejoicing in his restored strength.
Woe betide you, Prioress Lizaveta, and your cohorts! he thought, baring his teeth. Tremble, mortals, for Shakkar, the Mighty and Indomitable, approaches!
He had never thought of himself in these terms before, but he was beginning to appreciate the sense of confidence and power such grandiose titles often gave humans, enabling them to overcome odds disproportionate to their size and strength. He remembered the mantra he had heard Baron Grimm mutter on occasion: “I am strength! I am power!"
"I am vengeance,” the demon growled, his eyes almost closed against the wind caused by his passage through the air.
After perhaps five minutes of flight, he felt a growing, burning sensation in his chest and back, and he began to wonder if his proud words had been uttered in haste. He reduced his speed, trying to favour the aching muscles and tendons, but the pain grew worse, until it seemed as if some sadistic interrogator had thrust red-hot blades under his flesh. He struggled on until the pain became unbearable, and he then banked his wings and descended to the ground. To his chagrin, he saw the mighty Priory as a mere dot on the horizon, and he knew he still had many miles to cover. He trudged through the tall grass of the field in which he had landed, until he reached the road. He began to stride down the long thoroughfare with the resolute, mile-eating tread he had seen Quelgrum's men use on many occasions.
His leg muscles now began to ache and tremble, too, and he felt mortified by the thought that mere mortals could march for many hours without tiring. He, Shakkar, a demon of the highest caste, felt exhausted after only minutes.
He knew his recent sickness and convalescence, brief though it had been, must have sapped much of his strength and endurance. To Shakkar, his physical superiority over humans had been an axiom, a self-evident fact. He had felt no great pride in this, but it had been a comfort to him since he had come to appreciate the resourcefulness and intelligence of these short-lived, feeble creatures.
Not for the first time, he cursed the memory of Baron Starmor, who had robbed him of his magical powers and left him in this cold, miserable realm. Lord Grimm had saved him from Starmor's dismal punishment pillar and given him a new purpose in life, and he resolved anew to come to the mage's aid, come what might. Even if he had to hobble into Rendale on bloody stumps, he swore he would never forget or disregard that debt. A true demon would never, never surrender his honour.
"Where is Questor Grimm?” Sister Weranda demanded, as she strode alongside General Quelgrum. She had not looked at or addressed any member of the group since they had left the Priory, and Quelgrum saw that she still maintained her ‘custody of the eyes'. “All he had to do was let a pathetic little reptile out of its cage. What's keeping him?"
"Not me,” the old soldier replied.
At last, Drex looked up, and her eyes met Quelgrum's for a moment. “What do you mean by that, General?"
Quelgrum noted her scathing tone, but it bothered him not at all; he had suffered too much for too long to be troubled by such trifling things as disdain. Most people he had met for the last three decades either idolised him or were terrified of him. There seemed to be no middle ground.
"Simply that,” he said, not lessening his pace in the least. “I'm not Baron Grimm's keeper. He is his own man, and he can take care of himself. Perhaps he's painting derogatory slogans on the Priory walls; perhaps he's picking flowers to put on Prioress Lizaveta's bier. I don't know where he is!"
"General, look!” Numal shouted from just behind the soldier. Quelgrum stopped and spun around to see a red-brown plume rising from the roof of the Priory, shooting hundreds of feet into the sky. “It's on fire!"
Quelgrum heard Drex gasp, but he ignored her. “That's not fire,” he declared, noting the straight sides of the plume before it opened up into an umbrella-like canopy. “It looks more like some sort of fountain."
"Permission to investigate, General?” Erik asked, giving another of his parade-ground salutes. “It wouldn't take me long to check it out."
"I don't think so, Sergeant. It would be foolish to split up our forces. We'll all take a-"
He started, as he heard a loud, basso roar behind him, and turned to see a distant, misshapen figure shambling down the road. His hand flew to the hilt of his sidearm before he remembered that he had no ammunition.
"It's Seneschal Shakkar, Sir!” Erik's voice was a full octave above its usual register. “I knew he wouldn't desert us!"
Quelgrum squinted at the approaching creature and realised Erik was right. This limping thing was, indeed, the once-mighty demon.
What happened to Shakkar? he wondered. He looks like a wreck!
He ran forward to meet the demon, accompanied by the now-smiling Sergeant.
"Lord Seneschal,” Erik crowed, “I thought you must have died! Are you well?"
"It is… good to see you, gentlemen,” Shakkar rumbled as they approached him. Quelgrum would have sworn that the Seneschal was gasping from lack of breath. “I… I have been ill, but I am recovering. Wh… where is B-baron Grimm?"
Quelgrum jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the Priory and its red-brown plume. “He's still in there, Lord Seneschal. We have no idea what's going on, and we're a little worried."
"General!” Numal yelled, “Look!"
Quelgrum turned to see one of the Priory's turrets canting over at a precarious angle. As he watched, the tower teetered and crashed to the ground in a billowing cloud of yellow-grey dust.
Grimm blinked and coughed, seeing the floor of the Chapel only through a rust-coloured fog, but he was fully committed to his spell and he could not have stopped if he wished to. With his Mage Sight, he saw a blurred profusion of souls escaping from their earthy confinement, and he could no longer distinguish one from another. A tangled, confused mess of sensations ran through him: joy mingled with indignation; love blended with hatred; and serenity entwined with vengeance. He no longer knew where the released spirits ended and he began. All he knew was that he must complete what he had started.
As if from a distance, he heard the structure of the Priory groan and creak, and he felt a series of dull, heavy shudders run through the flagstone floor, each sending a shower of yellow dust from the vaulted ceiling, adding its hue to the haze that filled the room.
"Lord Baron!” Thribble shrilled, his tremulous voice keening like a sequence of treble notes from a piccolo. “This place is not safe! We must leave!"
"Soon, Thribble,” Grimm replied, his voice distant and dreamy, “when I have finished."
A heavy stone block crashed to the floor a few feet from the mage with a shuddering thump, shattering into marble-sized fragments, a few of which scored hot streaks across his forehead, cheeks and chin. The mage scarcely noticed them. All that mattered was his self-appointed mission.
With a sharp, cracking sound, a fissure snaked its way down the opposite wall, spreading sinuous tributaries from ceiling to floor. Grimm heard similar noises erupt in a staccato fusillade, and the instinct of self-preservation drifted into his sensorium, clamouring for his attention.
We're almost there, he thought, trying to still the wayward, insistent demands from his stem-brain. Just a few more seconds…
He gritted his teeth, his head pounding with the effort to maintain his concentration on the task at hand. He could no longer distinguish between the flood of escaping spirits, the rumbling cacophony of protesting masonry and the acrid scent in his nostrils; his senses blurring together in a soupy melange.
Ah!
Grimm felt a sharp pain in his right temple as the last soul fled from its underground prison and the spell came to an abrupt end.
He fell backwards, as if a restraining cord had been cut. Another stone block crashed to the centre of the floor, over which he had been leaning a heartbeat before.
His disregarded, suppressed senses returned with full force. Grimm realised his life was in danger, as the fabric of the Priory began to disintegrate around him. With horror, he realised that he was at the very lowest point of the crumbling edifice, and he felt a numbing flood of claustrophobia wash through him.
"Baron Grimm; we must leave!” Thribble twittered, his voice all but indistinguishable over the overpowering carronade of sound.
"I agree, my friend,” Grimm shouted, surging to his feet. “It is getting a little precarious here."
He ran to the door and tugged the handle with all his strength, but the portal did not move. Without a heartbeat of consideration, he yelled a nonsense phrase, backed by a goodly dose of thaumaturgic energy, and the door crumbled into dust. Coughing and spluttering, he staggered from the Chapel, almost blind from the dense dust-cloud. The stairs were coated in dust and larger fragments of stone, and his feet skidded on the rubble as he raced upwards, threatening at any time to send him crashing back to the lower level.
Turn right, Grimm, he told himself, stumbling up another flight of stairs, fighting the cold fingers of panic that ran along his spine. Now, turn left. Left again…
Guided by intuition, dodging stony missiles erupting from the ceiling and walls, he hurtled towards the upper level of the Priory. Twice, he almost fell, but a combination of sheer luck and instinctive magic kept him on his feet. Redeemer, as if of its own volition, lashed out at hurtling missiles, shattering them before they reached him, but the Questor knew his luck could not hold for much longer.
There!
With a brief shock of joy, he saw the Great Hall before him, and the hope of escape. What had once been a splendorous structure now resembled a scene from an artist's vision of Hell. Screams and shouts from a milling throng of women filled the air as the huge building writhed like some maddened, chained beast snapping at a pack of tormenting hounds. A young nun, her wimple pushed back to reveal a short, ragged tangle of brown hair, raced for the open door at the far end of the hall, only to disappear in a spray of scarlet mist as a huge stone block fell on her.
Several women tried to make their way to the wide, beckoning exit beyond the rain of death. Only a few succeeded; most were felled by the tumbling missiles, and others were on their knees, praying.
Let them die! They all threw their lot in with Lizaveta and her cursed Score. They don't deserve any pity.
His right arm twitched, and Redeemer turned another pair of yellow projectiles into dust as it swung in a tight arc around his head.
You haven't much longer! Get out while you have the chance. The doorway's in sight!
They only did what she told them. So did Granfer Loras. They had no more choice than he. You can't let them die!
Redeemer flashed out again, but too late, as a fist-sized rock thudded into his left shoulder, and he felt a sharp, sickening pain as a bone snapped.
He ran forward a few steps as the pain bloomed into fiery effulgence. The building seemed to howl above him, and he screamed an instinctive spell.
"A'jakareman'e ma'jastanemik!"
The cacophony did not reduce, but the rain of stone ceased to pound on the shattered marble floor.
"Get out, everyone, NOW!” he howled in a hoarse voice. “I don't know how long I'll be able to hold this spell!"
Several nuns raced through the door, which was now wreathed in a shimmering, blue light. Grimm groaned, feeling the energy pouring from him like water from a fountain.
"Do you want to die?” the mage yelled to the remaining, still-praying women. “Get OUT!"
Most of the nuns heeded his agonised imperative, scuttling out of the crumbling building, although, a handful remained. Grimm staggered towards them, trying to impel them from the ruin by sheer force of will. One of the remaining women, he saw, was Sister Mercia, her lips moving in silent devotion.
Moving towards her, he shouted straight in her ear: “Stay here, Sister, if you wish, but I'll stay with you until the end. I don't want to be crushed by these stones, and I don't know how much longer I can hold them up. Please; for my sake, get out of here."
Mercia completed her chant and looked up at him. “You are a destroyer,” she said. “You may reap what you have sown, if that is what you wish."
Grimm groaned, feeling the weight of masonry bearing down on his improvised ward.
"I don't want to see a blameless woman cut down in her prime,” he croaked, his vision blurring. “Please, save yourself… and me."
Her mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. “So, this is your idea of liberation,” she said. “You have-"
"Now!” The word tore itself from his larynx like a long splinter pulled from a wound. “Do you want to die alongside a destroyer? What purpose will that serve?"
Mercia's eyes rolled, and she rose to her feet. “Sisters,” she cried, “we can serve the Names better alive than dead. Let us take our chances in the world."
As she ran towards the open doorway, the other nuns followed, and Grimm felt a deep surge of relief, before realising that he was alone in the collapsing Priory. Forcing life into his legs, he staggered towards the inviting arch of light. Blood pounding in his spinning head, he drove himself onwards. Inches seemed to turn to miles, and he screamed his habitual, defiant mantra as he approached the welcoming light: “I am strength! I am power!"
His strength failed in an instant, and pain and confusion vanished into blackness as the open doorway collapsed onto him.
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