"Bless you, Sister,” Quelgrum found himself saying, feeling hot blood flood into his face. “You are… lovely."
Sister Mercia's lips twisted into an embarrassed half-smile, and she looked down at the ground, her only answer a brief, nervous laugh.
She likes me, he thought, his heart singing. For a moment, his mind conjured up a series of dreamy images of him and Mercia, walking hand in hand on a distant, golden beach…
Pull yourself together, man, he told himself. You're old enough to be her grandfather, you old fool. What could a young girl like that ever see in you? Mercia's just a kind soul; she'd act the same way towards anyone.
"I'm sorry, Sister,” he said, pushing his dreams to the back of his mind as he had done before so often in his long life. “Please forgive a silly old man's babbling. I never meant to embarrass you."
Mercia raised her head a little, but she did not look him in the eye. “This is hardly the time for such compliments, when lives must be saved, General; but I thank you in any case. They were kind words, and I appreciate them."
Quelgrum wanted to say more, but he dared not, trusting himself only to reply with a brisk, impersonal nod.
"Let us go back to the excavation, General,” Mercia said. “The work goes on apace, and my services may soon be needed… if Questor Grimm still lives."
"He does,” Quelgrum asserted. “If he died, I understand his staff would revert to a length of ordinary wood. It'd give way at once under all that weight."
The old soldier thought of taking Mercia's hand as they walked towards the rescue site, but he crushed the impulse at birth, instead trying to concentrate on the urgent work in progress. As the young nun had said, it was, indeed, proceeding at a prodigious rate; the opening's eighteen-inch diameter had been widened by a good three feet on the far side of the stone block, easily wide enough to allow an adult male to descend into the chasm.
As he approached the Sergeant, standing alongside a shaky-legged Necromancer Numal, the General asked him why the excavation continued.
"I want to ensure there's plenty of clearance for a makeshift stretcher, if we need one, Sir,” Erik replied. “Baron Grimm may be badly hurt, and we may need a lot more room."
"Very good, Sergeant. Carry on."
Quelgrum recognised that he might be what members of his army called a ‘fifth wheel’ or a ‘second wig'; someone superfluous to requirements.
Be content to delegate for once, he thought. Erik knows what he's doing, so just let him do it!
He forced himself to stand in silence as the blur of digging and hauling continued, with the half-blind albino, Tordun, seizing heavy rocks and hurling them aside under the Sergeant's cool, clear, patient direction.
"That's enough, I think, ladies and Warrior Tordun,” Erik said, with a satisfied smile and nod. “Well done, and thank you; you've carried out a difficult and hazardous task with stubborn determination. You should all be proud of yourselves; I know I am."
Diplomacy, too, Quelgrum thought, feeling his own heart swelling with pride. The man should be an officer.
The Sergeant stood at the edge of the hole and called down, “Friend Thribble, I am six feet tall. Can you estimate how far I'll have to drop if I'm held at arms’ length?"
Quelgrum did not hear the tiny demon's reply, but he saw Erik nod in response, adding, “That's a short enough drop. Warrior Tordun; would you do the honours, please?"
"Of course, Sergeant.” The albino took Erik's wrists in his meaty hands. “I will not release you until you give the word. Trust me."
"I trust you, friend Tordun.” Erik smiled. “Just don't crush my wrists to powder. I might need them again."
The pale man nodded. “I'll be careful, Sergeant."
Tordun hoisted Erik clean off the ground with little effort and began to lower him into the pit, his muscular arms extending to their full length. With surprising grace, he sank to his knees and began to lean forward until he lay prostrate at the lip of the hole. Not for the first time, the General marvelled at Tordun's awe-inspiring strength as he slowly lowered his outstretched arms into the opening. From the calm expression on the albino's face, the warrior barely seemed aware of the considerable strain on his arms and shoulders.
"That's far enough, Tordun,” Erik shouted. “Let go."
A normal man's arms would have flown upward at the sudden release of weight, but all Quelgrum saw was a slight tremor in Tordun's shoulders as he released his burden.
Erik thumped to the ground, bending his knees as he landed. It took him a few moments to orient himself in the gloom, but his eyes soon adjusted to the dim light. He whistled as he surveyed the scene; the floor was littered with large stones and rubble, making for treacherous footwork.
He realised that, had he landed a mere hand's-breadth either side of his current position, he might have slipped and done himself considerable injury. The huge block that had caused so many problems rested on its slender supports at chest level, about three feet in front of him.
"At last!” a familiar, piping voice crowed, and the Sergeant looked down to see Thribble perching on Numal's staff, his legs crossed in an almost jaunty manner as his thread-like tail swung back and forth like a pendulum. “You took your time, I must say, Sergeant."
"Well, I'm here now, demon!” Erik bit off an angry retort. “Where's Baron Grimm?"
"Kneel down, and you will see him, mortal."
Erik knelt, avoiding the sharper shards as best he could. The darkness under the stone block was absolute, and he could not see a thing. Standing up, he called out, “Necromancer Numal; can you send one of your lights down here, on the side of the hole nearest you? I can't see a thing down here."
After a few moments, he saw a pale gleam leaking from under the block, and he knelt back down. He squinted as the Mage Light scorched his dark-adapted eyes, but he soon grew accustomed to it. For a moment, the soldier saw only rubble, but he then made out a gleam of blue silk amongst the devastation. There, lying in the very corner of the subterranean chamber, lay the still figure of the young mage, his exposed left leg crooked at a bizarre angle, a bloody, dusty hand resting like a huge spider on the back of his head.
Erik felt his breathing becoming faster and shallower, and he forced himself to remain calm; he would have to crawl right under the stone block, which was supported only by a pair of slender rods. If Baron Grimm died before he could extricate the mage, the staff would revert to a lifeless lump of wood in an instant, and Erik might be crushed to a red smear as the heavy mass tumbled to the floor.
I really wish I didn't have to do this, the soldier thought, closing his eyes and rubbing his trembling hands together as he tried to compose himself.
He drew a series of deep breaths, his pounding heart threatening to burst from his chest, and he clapped his hands twice, the sound ringing in the enclosed space like a pair of gunshots.
Erik muttered, “Let's do it!” and began to crawl over the rubble towards the Baron. Forcing himself to ignore the looming threat above him, he turned the young man onto his back, taking the greatest care in case Grimm's spine was damaged. The broken leg was a secondary consideration.
His heart eased as his battlefield training took hold. He checked that the Baron's mouth and nostrils were not obstructed, his hands steadying as they went through the comforting, familiar actions. The Sergeant was no medic, but every man in Quelgrum's army was trained in basic first aid.
He put his ear against Grimm's chest and felt relieved to hear a steady heartbeat. It was fast, but strong, and the mage's life seemed in no immediate danger. The next necessity was to check for blood loss. Erik noted a large area of matted hair on the back of the Baron's head, but the blood seemed to have clotted. He found several other bleeding wounds, but none was life-threatening.
The Sergeant reached up under the Questor's robes, feeling for localised swellings that might indicate serious internal bleeding. As his hands assessed the integrity of the large blood vessels running from Grimm's groin to his thighs, he heard a faint, sibilant sound and froze.
With a sudden shock of awareness, he realised that Grimm was trying to speak, although he could not make out the words. His heart pounding anew, this time with hope, he slid forward and put his ear to the mage's lips.
"Speak to me, Lord Baron,” he said.
Grimm's answering voice seemed no louder than the sound of a breeze ruffling the leaves of a distant copse, but Erik could make out the words: “I said, ‘If you touch me there again, Sergeant, you'll have to marry me.’ I-"
The Baron's words ended in a sharp gasp, followed by an agonised groan.
"Don't worry, Lord Baron,” Erik said, louder than he had intended. “I'll get you out of here. I'll just-"
For a moment, the Sergeant thought Grimm had groaned again, before he realised that the sound had come from the rubble around Redeemer, which had begun to trickle away from the ledge.
"Fight, man!” Erik shouted, as he saw Grimm's half-open eyelids flicker. “I'm getting you out of here, but you have to help me. Don't you dare die on me, or… or I'll be court-martialled! Do you want that?"
The ominous creaking ceased, but he knew he dared not wait for a response; he must act quickly. “Don't go away,” Erik said. “I'll be back in a few moments."
He began to crawl backwards, and he heard the faint rejoinder, “I'm not going anywhere, Sergeant."
As he stood up, Thribble asked him, “How is Questor Grimm, Sergeant?"
"It's touch-and-go, Thribble. Talk to him, and get him to answer if you can. He has to stay awake."
He cupped his hands in front of him, and the grey imp hopped into them. He lowered Thribble to the ground, and the demon scurried into Grimm's corner.
Erik removed the two improvised ropes from Numal's staff and tied them into a single length. He had no idea if the makeshift line would support a man's weight, but he dared not risk delaying the operation longer in the hope of finding a better substitute.
Crawling back under the stone block, he saw Thribble's bleak expression, but he dared not stop to enquire further. Kneeling beside the motionless mage, he fastened the rope under Grimm's armpits with a sturdy bowline.
Erik eyed the young man's damaged leg, and he knew a broken thigh-bone would mean death if it were to puncture a large blood-vessel. However, he could delay no longer.
"This will hurt, Lord Baron,” he said, not knowing if the Questor heard his words or not. “I'm sorry, but it's the only way."
Grabbing the prone mage under the armpits, he began to turn him around to haul him over the rubble, eliciting a sharp cry.
That's good, he thought, grunting with the effort. Dead men don't feel pain.
"Come on, Thribble,” he gasped. “We're getting out of here."
With painful lethargy, the Sergeant lugged Baron Grimm from under the looming block, which teetered over as one of Redeemer's ends slipped downwards.
At last, he and his burden emerged into the rock-strewn clearing, but he knew the danger was not over; if Redeemer moved much more, the resultant collapse might bring tons of rubble down onto them.
"I've got him, Tordun!” Erik yelled. “Get ready to pull; I'm throwing a rope up to you… now!"
The line snaked upwards as he hurled it towards the edge of the pit. For a moment, it seemed to hang in mid-air, and he thought the albino had caught it. Then, it fluttered back to the floor in a heavy, sinuous coil, and he drew a deep breath. Trying to ignore the ominous creaking, he gathered it up and threw it again. This time, he saw a pair of hands scrabbling for the rope, the end of the tether waving tantalising inches from Tordun's outstretched fingertips before it collapsed once more.
Erik heard a slithering, hissing sound, and he realised that some of the smaller debris was beginning to escape into the chamber as the block tilted further.
"Come on, Tordun!” he screamed, coiling the line for a third throw. “Catch the bloody thing! We don't have much longer.
"Three… two… one… now!"
For what seemed an age, the slender, knotted rope arced into the air, uncoiling as it went, and Erik held his breath. The albino's fingers stretched out again, and the rope began to descend, tickling Tordun's left palm as it began to pick up speed. With a convulsive clench of his fist, the pale giant's hand closed over the line and held it.
"I have it!” he shouted.
"Pull, Tordun! Pull!” Erik tried to ignore the hissing, intensifying rain of detritus pattering down around him. He stepped back, almost slipping on the rubble, as Grimm began to rise towards the light. The rope creaked, but it held.
At last, the mage's feet disappeared over the ledge. After a few moments more, Erik saw Tordun's hands extending over the hole again, and the looped end of the rope dropped back down.
Without waiting, the Sergeant scooped the tiny demon up and shoved him into his right jacket pocket, ignoring Thribble's indignant squeak of protest. He wriggled into the loop, so that it rested under his armpits.
"Pull, Tordun!"
He gasped as his feet jerked off the ground, taking a firm hold on the rope. At last, he saw the rim of the opening just above him, and he hauled himself over it, gasping and groaning with the effort.
We made it! The words screamed in the Sergeant's brain, and he felt a warm sense of achievement.
Rising onto unsteady legs, he saw the young nun, Mercia, bending over Baron Grimm's dusty figure. As he approached them, the healer looked up and proffered him a dreamy smile, her face almost radiant.
"He'll live,” she said. “He has a bad concussion. He also has a dislocated leg, a couple of broken ribs and some internal bleeding; but I can mend them, given time, even with the little magic left to me."
Erik answered the nun with a bright smile, but he felt his heart surge as the ground gave a sudden heave. Tearing his eyes from the healer and stepping back, he saw the huge rock quiver and jump upward, sending a mighty burst of rubble into the chamber.
He shivered, as he realised that the rain of stones could have killed him.
"What have you kept in here, Sergeant?” Thribble demanded, pushing his head out from Erik's pocket. “It was awful!"
Erik burst out in a long, loud guffaw, stopping only when he heard a high-pitched, hysterical note invading his laughter.
He wanted a good, strong drink, but he would wait until the operation was finished. Plenty of work still lay ahead.
After his exertions in the cramped chamber, he stretched his muscles for a few minutes before turning to address the assembled nuns.
"Ladies,” he said. “We've made a good start, but there's still a lot to do. Do you feel up to it?"
He felt almost disappointed to hear the women's loud, enthusiastic cheer of assent, but he managed to raise a cheerful smile.
"Right, ladies,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I recommend we start our efforts over there."
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