Despite shaving every day for forty years, Loras had allowed his beard to grow for the last few days; a beard was almost as much a sign of a Guild Mage as the staff and the ring. He had exchanged his moth-eaten, faded robes for the fine, red vestments Olaf had given him, and he had burnished and polished Blade until it gleamed.
He scratched at a shallow, itching indentation around his ring finger and gave a rueful smile.
It will all be over soon, he thought, slumping onto his thin mattress. Either I will come back exonerated, with a Guild Ring on my finger, or I will be carried back to Lower Frunstock in a wooden box. Either way, I will be free at last.
His mind turned again to his Drima, who must be worrying herself sick back at the forge.
It is far harder on Drima than on me, he chided himself. If only I could write her a letter, telling her how much I love her… I must win through, for her sake as much as for mine. Mentalist Kargan will surely provide strong evidence, as long as the Conclave believes his spell is true, and not some kind of illusion. Mentalist Crohn and Questor Dalquist will be convincing witnesses… unless the Conclave thinks I perverted their memories with some twisted Questor magic.
Thorn can be very a very convincing man when he puts his mind to it.
His mind twisted and spun in bewildering circles, his thoughts leading nowhere. Loras just wished for an end to this uncertainty and waiting. After several hours of nervous, unproductive inner torture, he felt a blessed, cool rush of relief on hearing a firm rap at the door and the crisp sound of the key being turned in the lock.
Olaf stood in the open doorway, and he uttered the words Loras had longed to hear: “It is time to leave, Brother Bile. Prelate Thorn, Questor Dalquist and Magemaster Crohn have already departed, accompanied by Questor Xylox."
Loras nodded, and rose to his feet, feeling a moment of dismay at the sight of heavy iron shackles in Olaf's hands.
"A necessary precaution, I am afraid,” the acting Prelate said, in an apologetic tone. “The other defendants, including Lord Thorn, are similarly restrained, I assure you. The manacles will be removed when we reach the Hearing Hall at High Lodge, for there will be a Cordon of Suppression erected around it. No magic will be possible inside it."
Loras whistled; the spell, he knew, was a potent and costly one, requiring the cooperation of many mages. A moment of panic seized him: Kargan's spell might be his only chance of proving his case.
"No magic, you say?” he said, feeling a cold river run down his spine. “Part of my defence requires a demonstration of magic."
Olaf shrugged. “It is a Specialist spell,” he said, rolling his eyes. “What know Questors of such thaumaturgy? I will be sure to bring your concerns to the Dominie's attention before the trial commences.
"Your hands, please, Master Loras?"
Loras sighed and extended his hands, taking a tight grip on Blade; once the metal cuffs were upon him, the staff might no longer obey his mental commands.
As a Student, he had learned from a copy of a pre-Fall book that iron was the most ‘stable', most ‘tightly bound’ of metals; that it was in the ‘lowest energy state'. Although the ancient phrases meant little to him then, and he found them no more comprehensible now, he understood that this ancient knowledge was tied up with why iron disrupted magical fields. Loras had worked so long with the metal as a smith that he appreciated its special, almost magical qualities. The nearest thing to magic he had achieved during his long exile had been the transformation of dull pig-iron into gleaming, resilient steel. He felt as much pride in this art as any Seventh Rank Mage Alchemist might find in the transformation of lead into gold.
With a loud click, the latch slipped home, first on one wrist and then the other, a solid bar holding his hands apart. In a few moments, Olaf fastened a second pair of shackles, linked to the centre of the bar by a strong chain, to his ankles.
"Are you ready, Master Loras?” asked Olaf.
Loras cast his eyes around the small, bare cell and then nodded.
"I am ready, Questor Olaf."
"Follow me,” the older mage said. “You must not attempt to communicate with the other defendant during the journey. Any attempted exchange of information may prejudice your case. At the first sign of collusion, I will not hesitate to gag both of you, and I will watch you closely. Is that understood?"
Loras nodded as he followed Olaf from the cell. He doubted he would have much to say to his fellow prisoners in any case; his heart felt too full.
On leaving his grim prison cell, he felt almost the same wonder he had on first seeing the Great Hall as a seven-year-old boy. The celestial dome, with its myriad twinkling lights, the opulent blue-and-gold honeycomb of the floor and the soft, ethereal music served to remind him of what Thorn's treachery had cost him, and he felt a brief stab of self-pity. With the ruthless self-control of a Mage Questor, he crushed the nascent emotion into nothingness as he followed Olaf to the open portal.
I would never have met Drima if I had remained a Questor, he told himself, squinting, as the setting sun shot bright rays into his eyes, and I would never have had the joy of seeing Grimm as a Mage Questor.
As he clanked his way towards a small, covered wagon, he knew Grimm would have wanted to be present, had the boy known of the trial. Nonetheless, he felt pride in the knowledge that his grandson was abroad in the world on some important Quest.
Encumbered as he was by his clumsy shackles and his lifeless staff, it took Loras several attempts to climb into the wagon. He sat on a rough, wooden bench to the right of the vehicle, and he smiled warmly at Mentalist Kargan, who sat opposite him. As Olaf bent to lock the chain to the vehicle's floor, Kargan returned a rueful grimace, proffering a friendly wink before the older Questor straightened up and took his own place beside Loras.
"Move on, driver,” Olaf shouted. “You know your orders. Make all speed, and do not stop unless I order it."
"I know the rules, Lord Mage,” a peevish voice replied from beyond the canvas screen as the wagon jerked forward, with such violence that Loras almost tumbled to the wagon floor. “You don’ ‘ave to bang it home all the blessed time."
"Mind your manners, driver,” Olaf snapped. “Remember to whom you are talking."
"Sorry, Sir,” the unseen man replied, with just a little too much emphasis on the inappropriate honorific. “'Ang on, can't you?"
Loras heard a whip crack, and he just managed to stop himself from cannoning back into Olaf as the vehicle surged forward.
Quelgrum wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling it running down his back and sides as he heaved and strained at the long, wooden lever. He had not engaged in such sustained physical effort since his long-ago time as a serf in Garley Province, and only then under a whip-wielding overseer's constant encouragement. He envied Shakkar and Tordun: although weakened, they seemed to cope far better than he as they worked. Quelgrum was determined that his team would be the first to move one of the bigger stone blocks away from the rubble.
Grunting, he hoisted himself off the ground, exerting all his weight on the end of the lever, aided by ten uncomplaining, silent nuns. He tried not to envy Sergeant Erik, who walked around the ruins, directing the operation.
"Easy there!” Erik called to one of the ten teams. “The fulcrum's crumbling-back off carefully and choose another one."
Quelgrum saw that his team's lever, a former roof-beam, was distinctly bowed, but it seemed in no danger of immediate breakage. Then, his feet touched the ground, and he saw the target block begin to wobble.
"Come on, ladies!” he yelled. “Move back towards me… nearer… that's it! Now, heave! It's going…!"
The stone gave a sudden lurch and tumbled away from the pile of rubble, rolling end over end and settling onto the grass in a cloud of dust. The General tumbled backwards at the sudden release of resistance, wincing as the nun in front of him fell backwards into his groin.
I know I always tell the drill-sergeants to put the Privates through the wringer, he thought, as the sharp, sickening pain shot through his lower body and stabbed into his entrails. Lizaveta obviously gave these ladies similar instructions.
"Well done!” Erik cried, running towards the sprawling group. “That's the spirit!"
Some of the nuns on Quelgrum's team raised hoarse cheers as they rose to their feet, but the old soldier could only grunt as he tottered upright. The pain in his vitals had subsided to a more tolerable, dull, throbbing ache, but he felt the weight of every one of his sixty-odd years bearing down on him.
"Where next, Sergeant?” he croaked, as Erik surveyed his group's assigned area, near what had been the main entrance to the now-shattered Priory.
"That one, perhaps?” He pointed towards another block of similar size.
The Sergeant shook his head. “I don't think so, Sir,” he said. “It looks a little precarious. If we disturb it too much, it could just fall down to a lower level, taking a lot of other stuff with it. I'd advise clearing away some of the smaller rubble, so we can see what's going on."
The ground rumbled, and Shakkar's team cheered as another block fell away from the main mass of the ruins.
"There's a body!” one of the nuns shouted, and Quelgrum's heart leapt. “She's still alive!"
The old soldier felt a moment of disappointment at the feminine pronoun, but he suppressed it: at least the clearing operation was of some use. Several nuns rushed to the site and helped to extricate the casualty.
Another, louder, cheer arose from Tordun's team as another block rolled away from the ruins.
"Excuse me, Sir,” Erik said. “I'm needed. I advise you to continue clearing this area, carefully. Make sure your footing's firm before you start carrying away the material."
He dashed away, and Quelgrum saw the nuns on his team looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. Again, he wondered why everybody always looked to him for guidance and leadership. Even as a junior member of his renegade group of serfs, people had expected him to provide the answers. Why?
Because I always do, he answered himself with a rueful, twisted smile. Not everyone can make rapid decisions in a crisis.
He forced himself to stand up straight, and he invoked his habitual parade-ground voice. “You four ladies:” he barked, jabbing his right forefinger towards a quartet of women, “start clearing away the rocks around the opening on this side. You four can go around to the other side and do the same. Be careful not to let anything big fall into the hole, and lie flat on the rubble so you don't exert too much pressure."
He turned to the two remaining nuns, both stout ladies of middle age. “I'd like you ladies to lean over the hole and listen for any sounds of life as we remove the rubble."
The women went to their work in an enthusiastic manner; none raised the least protest at the soldier's assumption of authority. Quelgrum went in search of Necromancer Numal, who was aiding the other teams by indicating the probable positions of bodies with sticks inserted in the rubble. His face was a dull, grey mask of strain as he ran through a series of identical chants, hardly stopping to draw breath.
When the mage stopped to mop his brown, the soldier asked him, “How goes it, Necromancer Numal?"
"It's hard work, General,” Numal said, “even though I'm not doing any heavy lifting. It's a demanding enough spell if you're trying to find even a single body. There must be dozens down there. I have no idea how many of them are still alive."
"Have you located Baron Grimm's body yet?"
Numal shook his head and brushed his hair from his eyes. “All the bodies I've located so far were women."
"Does that mean he might still be alive?” the General asked.
Numal shrugged. “Necromancers don't deal with the living,” he said. “It could mean he's alive, but it could also mean that he's just buried too deep; stone attenuates the death-sign far more than soil does. I won't give up, though. I've located nine bodies so far."
"Good man, Lord Mage,” Quelgrum said, clapping Numal on the shoulder in encouragement.
He looked towards the western sky, where the baleful, ruddy sun hung a scant finger-width above the horizon.
"We'll need fires,” he muttered, more to himself than to Numal. “It'll be dark soon."
"I can do better than that, General,” the Necromancer declared. “Mage Light's a cheap spell; I should be able to spare enough energy to cast light over the whole area, and a steady, white light would be far better than a flickering fire. I should be able to keep it going all night, if need be."
Quelgrum felt a surge of pride.
I didn't think much of Numal at first, he thought. I thought he was a slack, useless coward then, but he's certainly pulling his weight now.
"We couldn't even think of doing this without you, Lord Mage,” he said, smiling in appreciation. “Seneschal Shakkar's and Tordun's strength are essential to the work, but, without knowing where to dig, we'd all just be floundering in the dark."
Numal's face brightened, and Quelgrum realised the Necromancer must have little experience of encouragement and praise.
"You're doing a fine job, Necromancer,” he declared, patting the mage's shoulder once more. “With your help, we'll get through this.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to my team."
The painstaking, arduous work continued apace, and Quelgrum now felt strong enough to aid the nuns in their task. By now, a deep, black void had been revealed, over which hung many, many tons of stone.
What's holding all this lot up? he wondered, gazing down into the pitch-black depths. A wooden beam couldn't support all this stone.
Leaning forward as far as he dared, he saw a faint gleam within the gloom. His arm reached towards it. He cried out, his head exploding with blazing light, and fell backwards, tumbling down the rubble-pile and banging his head on a rock. As his head whirled, and he tried to bring his twitching eyes into focus, he saw three nuns racing towards him, their faces pale with concern.
"Are you all right, General?” the nearest nun cried, whose name he could not remember. “What's the matter? Do you need help?"
Quelgrum smiled, not bothering to try to stand. He had never before felt the avid bite of a Mage Staff, but he had seen its effect on others unlucky enough to get in the way of one.
He had answered his own question: “What sort of wooden beam could hold up a hundred tons of rock?"
An unbreakable Mage Staff was the only answer, and he knew such a weapon died with its owner, reverting to a simple lump of wood.
"All I can get,” he said. “Baron Grimm's down there, and he's alive! I don't know how we're going to get him out, but I want every available person here to aid in the effort."
With some difficulty, the old soldier climbed to his feet, his legs feeling like useless, dead tree-trunks that might splinter at any moment.
"Sergeant Erik!” he yelled. “Seneschal Shakkar! Warrior Tordun! Please come here at once-the Baron's alive!"
"What about my Sisters?” a well-built, ferocious-looking nun demanded, her green eyes burning like were-gas over a swamp.
"They can bloody well wait!” Quelgrum snapped, fighting exhaustion and disorientation. “We get Questor Grimm out first, or the deal's off! Is that abundantly clear?"
He did not even know if the woman replied, as he saw the Sergeant, the demon, the albino and Necromancer Numal racing towards him.
We'll get you out, boy, he thought. Don't worry; help's on its way.
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