Grimm felt his eyelids growing heavy, and his head began to nod as the wagon's metronomic rattle and the soft birdsong from the trees began to unwind the tense knots in his nerves and muscles. The sun's warm, morning rays seemed to fill his body with lassitude and long-denied, blessed acceptance.
He was Grimm Dragonblaster, a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank. He was Grimm Afelnor, the son and grandson of poor blacksmiths. He was the wealthy Baron Grimm of Crar. He was a Weapon of the Guild; a destroyer. He was a passionate young man and a would-be lover, from whom the Guild's misogynistic dictates and the Geomantic wiles of an evil, disembodied woman had stripped the solace he sought. He was a lonely man who longed to restore the good name of his grandfather.
I'm all these people, he thought, abandoning the effort to keep his eyes open. Why deny it? Why fight it? My life may be one of conflict and struggle, but at least it isn't tedious or humdrum. The world provides me with more than enough conflict, without me adding to it by fighting myself.
He thought of his staunchest friend and ally, Questor Dalquist, so earnest and dedicated. Dalquist had suffered, destroyed and struggled for longer than Grimm had, but he remained good-natured and even-tempered, at ease with himself.
Dalquist has come to terms with the contradictions in his life, he told himself. He doesn't seem to agonise about every decision and every action the way I do. Being a Questor doesn't have to turn a man into an unfeeling monster, so why am I working to turn myself into one? Dalquist knows what I am, and he doesn't hate me, so why must I?
If I could onlyHis eyes jerked open as the wagon lurched backwards and to the right, and his injured hip and ribs clamoured for his attention, drawing a sharp, agonised gasp from him. The vehicle emitted a groaning scream and heeled over to the right, and he saw General Quelgrum struggle to bring the horses to a halt, soothing the whickering animals with a few soft words. He heard a series of startled cries from inside the vehicle as he rubbed his left hip and willed the pain to subside.
"No need to panic, friends,” the General declared. “Something's broken."
Grimm slid down from the side of the wagon, taking care to land on his right foot. Using Redeemer as a crutch, he hobbled around to the right side of the vehicle as the other travellers spilled out of it to inspect the damage.
"We've lost a wheel,” Sergeant Erik said, pointing to the misshapen article. Grimm saw that at least two spokes had splintered.
Mercia leaned over to inspect the shattered wheel. “Can we mend it?” she asked, her eyes wide.
"Not a chance, Sister,” Erik replied, shaking his head. “We'd need a carpenter's lathe and a forge."
Drex stood with her arms crossed over her chest, and Mercia looked upwards, as if the sky might give her help.
"How far is Anjar behind us?” Grimm asked, after a few moments of silence. “From what you said, Shakkar, they're decent people."
"I would guess Anjar lies about forty miles from us, Lord Baron,” the grey demon rumbled. “I could fly there and back within a day-"
"With the greatest respect, Lord Seneschal,” Erik said, “do you really think even you could bring back a carpenter with all his tools? Or a smith and his forge?"
"We don't need a forge,” Grimm declared, shaking his head. “It will be easy to remove the tyre now. I can heat it enough to expand it so we can replace it. When it cools, it'll shrink back onto the repaired wheel and hold it tight. If you take an unbroken spoke back to Anjar, you should be able to find a carpenter to make replacements."
Quelgrum twisted around and said, “A small problem there, Lord Baron: we have no money left. The Anjarians are generous, but they can't afford to do everything for nothing. I spent all our remaining funds on the wagon, four horses, food, drink and the physician's fees for all the injured nuns-"
"You did that, General?” Drex cried, her voice a keening yelp. “You paid for the physician's services?"
"I did, Sister,” the old soldier replied. “I found quite a lot of our money and our weapons lying on the ground around Merrydeath Road, but the zombies took a lot with them. I have no intention of trying to get it back by digging around that Names-cursed hellhole."
"I can't argue with that, General,” Erik said.
"We may have no choice,” Mercia said and sighed.
"I may be able to help."
The voice from the back of the wagon was soft, and it took a few moments for Grimm to realise who had spoken, before Necromancer Numal hopped down from the vehicle's tailgate.
"You?"
Drex's voice was cool and scathing, but Numal just shrugged.
Grimm felt equally dubious about the hapless Necromancer's abilities, but he kept them to himself.
If he's thinking about using Minor Magic to repair the spokes, he can forget about it, the Questor thought. Reintegration spells only work on inanimate minerals, and wood's a living substance. Still, I don't want to dishearten the man; it's good to see him volunteering to help. Perhaps a gentle reminder would be advisable, though, just to save him from embarrassment…
"Thank you so much, Necromancer Numal,” he said. “Unfortunately, my own powers don't work on living matter."
"Dead matter, Questor Grimm,” the older mage said with a smile. “That is an important difference. I know dead things. There are a few hidden paths within the Minor Magic that only we Necromancers can follow."
Grimm nodded, answering Numal's toothy beam with one of his own.
I've been too used to thinking of Specialists as inferior to Questors, he thought. They're just… different from us.
"What do you need, Brother Mage?” he asked Numal rubbed his thin, grey beard. “We need to collect all the splinters and shards we can find,” he declared. “The more of the original material we can assemble, the stronger the mend will be."
"They already look fairly complete to me,” Erik said, holding up one of the broken, bottle-shaped spokes. “See? This one's cracked and splintered, but there doesn't seem to be any wood missing."
"We need to make the spokes look as near to their original condition as possible, Sergeant,” Numal said. “Think of it like straightening a broken bone before splinting it."
"I can do that,” Mercia declared. “I have set many broken bones in my time as a Healer."
"Grimm said, “Before we do that, we'll need to remove the wheel. Can we prop up the front of the wagon and hammer out the retaining spike?"
"You need no prop, Lord Baron,” Shakkar said, with what might have been a disdainful sniff. “I can lift and hold this vehicle as easily as I can draw breath."
"I can hammer out the spike with a rock,” Tordun offered.
The wheel was removed in less than a minute. Shakkar's biceps scarcely seemed to twitch as he hoisted up the front of the vehicle. Tordun struck three times with a grapefruit-sized rock he found at the side of the road, swinging the wheel free with only a soft grunt to show his exertion.
In a few moments more, the metal rim was off, and the damaged spokes were pulled from the hub. On Grimm's advice, Tordun took care to pull only on the undamaged portions of the spokes, nearest to the hub. He bore off the freed booty to the waiting Mercia, who began to wrest the spokes into a semblance of their former shape with surprising strength. When she pronounced herself satisfied, Numal took the damaged members from her and began to chant.
Drex sat on a grassy bank at the side of the road, feeling numb and lonely. Not even her faithful, former protector, Shakkar, cast her so much as a glance as he regarded Numal's performance.
She saw Grimm standing next to Mercia, leaning on his staff like an old, huddled man: he, too, seemed intent only on the Necromancer's actions. Sergeant Erik and General Quelgrum chatted idly about some insignificant, tedious, military matter, but she saw the older soldier's gaze fall often on the young Healer.
Tordun sat under a large tree, protecting his pale, sensitive skin from the sun's rays. Despite his damaged eyes, he looked at peace.
What about ME? Where's my happiness? she wanted to scream, but she knew that would be unseemly behaviour for a member of the Anointed Score.
She began to notice how the Necromancer's knotted, liver-spotted hands caressed the damaged wood in a soft, rhythmic motion as he crooned and muttered to it.
Just as Grimm once held me.
The unwelcome thought popped into her unwary mind, and she could not dismiss it. She found her breathing becoming short and stuttering, no matter how she tried to retain her image of purity and aloofness. Something sensuous about the Necromancer's movements struck her, and she could not erase it from her mind.
His hands look just like Grimm's hands did on me…
Fugitive images flickered into reality and, just as swiftly, disappeared: the large bed in the white tower at Crar; Grimm leaning over her, his face flushed and sweaty, but peaceful; idyllic mornings, spent at her beloved's side.
What followed that blissful, guilt-free congress? Whips, chains and imprecations! Endless hours of torment, of kneeling on sharp stones, of cleaning the dried blood from her white robes! The chants-the unending, droning paeans of submission, abjection and self-denial!
Drex saw Mercia lean close to Grimm and whisper something in his ear, smiling as she did so. Grimm smiled in return as he replied.
Something snapped inside her, shattering with a tumultuous crash within her mind.
"He's mine,” she whispered, feeling a powerful surge of long-suppressed passion and possessiveness.
"He's MINE, you little bitch!” she cried, as she leapt to her feet. “Get away from Grimm!"
Silence reigned; the birds in the trees and the insects in the grass stopped singing, and Drex saw every eye fixed on her. Numal continued to chant, but even he stared at her.
"He's… he's mine,” she whispered, as hot tears tickled at the margins of her eyes. Drex stayed them for as long as she could, but then gave rein to her dammed-up emotions. She began to sob, her shoulders shaking and her body heaving. She closed her eyes in an attempt to stem the sudden flood, but she could not do so. After a few moments, she felt a strong arm around her shoulder, drawing her forwards. She tried to resist, but the arm was too strong for her.
"It's all right, my love,” a soft, familiar voice said, with just a trace of tremulousness. “I'm here; I'll always be here, if you'll have me."
She buried her head in Grimm's chest, hearing his swift, shallow heartbeat echoing her own, and she clasped him tight in her arms.
"You didn't rape me, Grimm,” she whispered, not knowing if he heard her or not, but she did not care. “Never. Never!
"I'm sorry, Grimm.” Her voice grew louder, stronger. “I'm… I'm yours, and I always will be."
"It'll be all right now, Drex."
Drexelica felt his voice rumble in his chest as she crushed her head into it, not daring to relinquish her hold on him.
Drex's sobbing subsided to a gentle quiver as Grimm sat with her beside the road. He kept his arm around her, as if he could draw all the pain and anguish from her. He felt glad that the other travellers had the gentility to leave them alone. He felt quite at peace, at terms with what and who he was. He was many men, but this particular man was the one he most wanted to be. This was the Drex he loved; not one of Lizaveta's facsimiles, even though he knew the Prioress’ soul remained somewhere within her body.
"Will we be going back to Crar?” she asked, looking up at him with moist eyes.
"Eventually,” he said, “one way or another."
"And just what be you meaning by ‘one way or another', Grimm Afelnor?” she demanded, and the mage felt overjoyed at the brief resurgence of the unfussy Grivense patois she had been at such pains to eradicate from her diction.
"I want to tell everyone about it: Lord Thorn; Lord Horin; everyone. I want to scream it from the rooftops: ‘I love Drex!'” he said.
"So why can't you, Grimm?"
"I've broken Guild Law just by letting you into my life,” he said, with an unhappy shrug. “You know that. I'll still owe the House for my tuition for many more years; that's why I've tried to keep our relationship a secret. I don't want to live with that any longer, but they do have a hold over me. Perhaps they'll accept money in lieu of my continued service-I'm rich enough now-but they don't have to. And… even if I can give up my service to the Guild, I'll also have to give up working to redeem my family name. That means so much to me."
"Then don't,” she said, with stark finality, her mouth fixed in a firm, determined line. “I don't mind being your secret lover, as long as I'm your only lover. I'll be your docile housekeeper, or anything you want me to be, as long as I'm yours. As long as I don't have to hide, and as long as I can be me."
"I have a Quest to complete,” he said, “and it involves you, too. We have to return to High Lodge, with your soul cargo intact.
"We have to, Drex, otherwise we'll never be free. If we just run away, they'll hunt us down, and I'll be just another damned Oathbreaker like Granfer."
"I hate the old witch, now I remember what she put me through,” the girl whispered, with fierce intensity. “How she tried to turn me against you, and how she made us both suffer. I'd give almost anything not to have to go through it. However, if I have to deliver the evil cow to your High bloody Lodge just so we can stay together, I'll do it."
Grimm rubbed his forehead. “I don't know what they'll do to find out the truth, Drex,” he said. “I don't know what Lizaveta will say to them. The whole… thing between us may come out. I don't know if I can stop it."
"Then we'll face it together,” Drex said, her expression looking stern but loving. “They can't kill us… can they?"
"They won't kill you,” Grimm said, shaking his head. “Don't worry about that. I'm pretty sure they won't kill me either-I'm too valuable to them as a Questor-but they could do something to make me a little more… tractable."
Just a few minutes ago, he had felt happy with his lot, but Drex's sudden change had thrown a new, difficult problem into his life; however, this was a problem he knew he must not ignore, nor try to diminish. He did not want to.
Whatever happened, he knew there was only one answer.
"No matter what they do, Drex,” he said, feeling his blood rising in determination. “I want to face it with you, and only with you.
"I won't love anyone else, ever. I only want to be with you, whatever happens!"
"That's all I want,” she said, her lips curling into an almost beatific smile, and he felt his heart surge in response. “If you have to give me up, you have to: just remember me always in your heart. All I-"
"I think they're as good as they're ever going to be,” Numal cried, and Grimm returned to the real world.
"I'm sorry, Drex,” he said, giving her a swift but passionate kiss, which she returned in full measure. “I'm needed."
"You certainly are,” she said, as he rose to his feet with the help of Redeemer. “I know you'll do a good job of it-whatever you have to do."
Despite the nagging pains in his left leg and his ribs, Grimm walked towards the other travellers with a song in his heart.
Sprit-Lizaveta gasped as she felt the last dregs of earth-power fade with Weranda's-Drexelica's-words.
The disembodied soul thrashed and screamed to no effect. Devoid of her intimate contact with the nourishing, empowering earth, she felt her strength wilting like a candle in the fierce heat of a forge.
Guy… listen to me. LISTEN, rot you! Answer me!
She tried to contact her host, but she could not do so; all she received in return was a package of anguish, self-doubt and suppressed guilt.
Somebody… talk to me… talk to me…
Lizaveta had faced many setbacks in her long life, and she had defeated them all by guile, cunning and native power. Now, she, the pre-eminent witch of her age, was a helpless prisoner in the body of a callow girl. For the first time in her life since she had been the violated vassal of a Temperan slave-trader, whom she had later killed with her nascent Geomantic skills, she felt utterly alone and powerless.
It's all going wrong! Damn Afelnor and his bumbling grandson! Damn this worthless girl and the traitorous Score! Damn them all!
Labouring under the sick, heavy mantle of dread certainty, she realised that she had failed to complete the spell she had begun to cast on her grandson. She knew Geomancy had little in common with its mechanistic, male equivalent, but the concept of an inescapable, ever-amplifying Resonance was well-known to practitioners of both arts.
She knew she had given Guy the first part of his mission: Go to High Lodge.
The next part of the spell contained the message, Dominie Horin must be killed. Soon, I will identify the chosen assassin to you, and tell you your part in the deed. Wait for my signal. If you waver in your resolve, you will know my displeasure like this!
Guy must have received at least part of her spell, but Lizaveta did not know how much.
If he only heard a small part of it… oh, Names, this could be disastrous!
The corporeal Lizaveta would have sighed in dismay. As it was, the spirit-Prioress had to content herself with the fight to prevent her personality being submerged under her host's. Her former handmaiden, Drexelica, had forsaken her.
The stupid girl had succumbed again to Afelnor's blandishments and in so doing had deprived Lizaveta's wandering spirit of her last vestiges of power. The Prioress's spirit raged within her fleshy prison, but to no avail. Only one path seemed available to her; she needed to find another, more controllable host-and soon!
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