As Quelgrum's party approached the Priory, the General beheld a scene of utter chaos. White-robed figures milled around the grounds: some wept; some wandered aimlessly in stunned silence; others, perhaps more devout, knelt on the dusty grass and prayed. The entire area lay under a pall of yellow dust, and the Priory seemed to be in the throes of self-destruction, lurching and tottering like a drunken titan.
As he and his companions hurried through the throng, the building gave a convulsive shudder, and a thick cloud of dust belched from what, moments before, had been the imposing main entrance. The ruin gave a last, almost petulant shrug and then lay still, looking like the remains of a broken tooth.
For a moment, complete, unnatural silence reigned; the weeping nuns, and even the birds in the trees, fell quiet.
Quelgrum scanned the area for a hint of Baron Grimm's blue-and-yellow robes, but all he saw was the nuns’ dusty habits.
The General felt numb, knowing that the Baron had been down in the lowest reaches of the Priory, which must now be buried under tons of rubble.
Not even a Seventh Rank Questor could have survived that, he told himself, punctuating the thought with a deep sigh.
The poor young bastard went through so much, and for what? Was it all for nothing?
At a soft tug on his sleeve, Quelgrum turned to his left to see a small, solemn nun. Despite a thick layer of grime on her face, he recognised the young healer, Sister Mercia. Quelgrum noted her earnest, pleading expression, and he saw pink rivulets in her dusty cheeks.
"There may be other Sisters entombed in the ruins,” she whispered, her voice shaking a little. “We cannot leave them there to rot. They should be rescued or decently buried. Will you help us? Please?"
"My concern is to find Questor Grimm's body,” the General said, strong emotion sharpening his voice. “If we find any trapped Sisters while we're searching for him, and if we can move any of these huge blocks, of course we'll get them out."
"I was foolish,” Mercia muttered. “I thought it would be better to die here, but I see no glory in such a pointless death, now. Questor Grimm destroyed the Priory; I know that. But he died to save us, at the end, and I… we…"
The young nun dissolved in a fit of tearful sobbing, and her voice failed her. Quelgrum felt a brief pang of pity, but it was soon washed away by a flood of righteous anger.
The Order tortured us and tried to make us slaves, he thought, feeling a large blood-vessel pounding in his right temple. Questor Grimm saved us from that. My pity should be for him, not for them!
"He died to save us.” Mercia's words blazed into his mind, echoing, growing louder with each reverberation.
He grasped the weeping nun's shoulders in his rough hands and turned her to face him in a single, brusque movement.
"What do you mean?” he demanded. “Do you know where Grimm was when the building collapsed? Tell me!"
Mercia hung limp in his grip, still shivering and trembling, but she nodded.
"Where?” he shouted, shaking the nun. “Tell me!” He felt a hot flush of rage, and he saw a vision of himself pulling back a hand to strike the girl. On impulse, he released her and took a step back, breathing heavily.
The nun gulped and sniffed; her eyes red and wide with fear. “It… it was in the main hall,” she said. “He cast a s-spell to stop the stones f-falling. He could have left us there… I w-wanted to stay, but he made us go. He waited until we'd left, and then he…"
She waved a feeble, limp hand at the toppled remains of the Priory. “The doorway.” She stifled a sob. “He was so close…"
Quelgrum turned around. He saw Shakkar, standing with head bowed; Numal, who looked a picture of misery; and Erik, who looked almost lost.
Drex-Sister Weranda!-knelt, lost either in prayer or exhaustion. The General could not tell which.
"Gentlemen!” he snapped, and his companions looked up. “Do you feel up to some heavy lifting?"
Shakkar grunted, and he flexed his huge biceps and quadriceps, standing tall. “I am not at my strongest, General,” he growled, “but I owe Baron Grimm my freedom and my self-respect. I will move the world to retrieve him."
"I'm not strong, but my magic may be able to locate his body and some of the others,” Numal said; his eyes were red and his voice tremulous, but his expression was stern and resolute.
"There's beams and planks in the ruins, Sir,” Erik declared, casting a practised eye over the ruins. “We can use them as levers, if the nuns will help us."
Quelgrum nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “I knew I could rely on you."
He turned back to Sister Mercia. “Will your Sisters aid us?” he asked. “We'll do what we can, until we've retrieved as many bodies as possible-even after we've located Questor Grimm's body."
"I think I saw Sister Judan amongst the crowd,” the nun said, all traces of grief departing, her voice steady and determined. “She could motivate them better than I could."
Quelgrum suppressed a curse at the knowledge that the Score's senior member had escaped.
I might have known Judan would have saved her skin.
"Very well, Sister; Sergeant Erik will organise the operation,” he said, turning back to Erik and nodding.
Erik saluted. “At once, Sir! Would you mind grabbing anything we can use as a lever, Sir?"
Quelgrum smiled. “I think I can do that, Sergeant."
Erik turned to Mercia, towering over her. “Will you come with me, Sister?"
The tall Sergeant and the nun disappeared into the milling, directionless throng, and the General beckoned to the other two men. The recovery operation was under way, and Quelgrum felt relieved that he was doing something, instead of being a mere spectator to the disaster.
Guy Great Flame whistled a merry tune as he rode. With money in his pockets and a good steed beneath him, he felt happier than he had for many years; in fact, for most of his life.
Where next? he wondered. I suppose I really ought to go back to bloody Eron House. Prelate Hammor, rot his bones, is probably wondering where I am.
His mouth dried in an instant, despite having taken a deep swallow from his full canteen just moments before.
You will go to High Lodge… you will go to High Lodge…
The phrase repeated itself in his head, growing louder and louder until he let go the reins, clutched his hand to his temples and gritted his teeth until he thought they would splinter. The pain bloomed and intensified until it seemed as if his head were on fire and about to explode. His limbs felt about to char and crack open, spilling marrow to the ground.
"I will!” he screamed to the sky, not knowing why. “I'll go to High Lodge, I swear!"
At once, the pain disappeared like a summer shower, and Guy gasped for a few minutes, wiping cold sweat from his brow. In a few moments, the memory of his brief fit left him, and he took another drink of water.
Thirsty work, this riding, he thought. I just hope that flatulent oaf, Horin, will be pleased to see me when I get back to High Lodge.
Loras grunted as he put himself through his habitual, rigorous sequence of morning exercises.
Not bad for an ancient man, he thought, straightening up after fifty gruelling press-ups, with only a twinge from his aged bones.
Wiping himself down with a grey towel, he looked around his room, as if it might show him something new. For a prison, it was a considerable improvement on the cell in which he had grown up as a Charity Scholar. His mattress was not too lumpy or thin, and the food was far better than he had expected. Loras also had sufficient room to perform his morning callisthenics, if little else.
However, it was still a prison. He was forbidden books, and he was forbidden to speak to anybody unless addressed. He yearned for news of the outside world; in particular, news of his grandson, Grimm, and his wife, Drima, but none came.
At first, he had comforted himself with visions of Grimm, now a full Seventh Rank Questor, a true Weapon of the Guild, bestriding the world like a Titan. After a while, this had begun to pall, and he started to worry about his wife. She was a strong woman, Lower Frunstock was no bed of thieves, and she had Smith Harvel, a man he had known and trusted for many years, to protect her. Nonetheless, he knew Drima would be worried by his extended absence, and he knew their tough decades together had been hard on her.
When… if I am reconfirmed as a Questor, I will resign the position, he swore to himself. I owe the Guild nothing. I will undergo this trial for Grimm and Drima, and to restore the family name.
As best he could, he washed himself with the contents of a pitcher of water, a bar of grey, gritty soap and a small, metal bowl. He then sat back on his bed and worked on his power, gathering it into a tight knot and then releasing it. He called Blade to his side and then instantly dismissed it, repeating this exercise over and over again. The cell's iron wall ensured that no magic escaped the small chamber. He had little sense of time, since no external light entered the cell at any time; the only illumination came from a single globe of Mage Light.
Loras started at a sharp rap on the door.
"Enter,” he said, rising to his feet as a key jangled in the lock. Loras felt surprised to see the tall, gaunt figure of Questor Olaf in the doorway, since he had not seen the acting Prelate since his imprisonment.
Olaf bore a brown-paper parcel and a tray of food. “The date of your trial has been announced, Loras,” he said, his voice gruff and cold. “It will be a week from today, and we must leave tomorrow. I have procured you a fresh set of scarlet silk robes, your favourite colour, as I remember. I can do no more for you."
The acting Prelate thrust the parcel towards Loras, who had no need of a Mentalist's skills to divine that Olaf felt more than a jailer's duty towards a condemned man. He had to restrain himself from hugging the frowning Questor as he took the package.
"Thank you, Brother Mage,” he said, fighting conflicting tugs of emotion. “You have treated me better than I could have hoped. I trust I will prove I am innocent of any treason and vindicate your trust in me."
"The Conclave will decide on your guilt or innocence, Loras. I must not make any comment or pre-judgement."
Olaf delivered his words with full, impenetrable gravitas, and Loras nodded. “I understand, Questor Olaf,” he said, nodding. “I thank you, nonetheless."
The acting Prelate grunted and placed the tray of food on the bed beside the prisoner.
"Eat well, Brother Bile,” he said, his expression twisting into what might just have been a half-smile. “Eat while the meal is still hot. You must be at your most eloquent during the trial. I will be there, and I wish to hear no accusations of brutality or mistreatment of my prisoners."
"You will hear none from me, Questor Olaf,” Loras declared, delivering a full smile. “Thank you very much, old friend."
Olaf grunted, and he dipped his shoulders just a little as he backed out of the room, locking the door behind him.
Loras fell on his breakfast like a starving man, devouring the eggs, the meat and the bread with a new-found enthusiasm, knowing that all his problems would soon be solved, one way or another.
Grimm, Drima, Crohn, Kargan, he thought as he consumed the meal. I dedicate this meal, and any others I will eat until my death, to you.
I will win this fight, he vowed. I will regain my Guild Ring and my rank, and I will acknowledge you, Grimm, my beloved grandson, as a Brother Mage, within these very halls.
Drawing Blade to him, he regarded the staff with fondness.
"Now we are together again, Blade,” he whispered, “nobody can beat us. All I want to do is to greet Grimm and Drima, with you at my side, as a full Guild Mage; and I shall."
He fell back on the bed and drifted into a blissful reverie; his fate was in the hands of others, and anxiety would serve no purpose.
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