Grimm heard nothing but pops, squeals and whines at first. Bright spots of light danced in his closed eyes, and he wondered if he were dead and in some bizarre, formless Purgatory.
"…up, Lord Baron! Please wake up!"
From some dark recess of his brain, Grimm recognised Shakkar's deep, rumbling voice, and he sought to comply with the urgent entreaty. He tried to open his eyes, but he gave up the effort; it felt as if some sadistic torturer were thrusting sharp, red-hot needles into them.
As awareness flooded through him, he felt a myriad aches and pains clamouring and competing for his attention: his head felt as if it had been split open with an axe, his arms and legs ached abominably, his lungs burned, and even the individual hairs on his head and body seemed to hurt.
At last, he managed to open his eyes and keep them open, although the bright speckles continued to play on his retinas. He was lying at the bottom of a deep pit, with Shakkar and Quelgrum standing over him.
"I'm all right,” Grimm croaked “What… what happened here?"
"Gruon's dead,” Quelgrum said, in a hushed, reverent tone. “He just exploded. We found you in the crater. What on earth did you do, Questor?"
"I cast a small Fire spell at him,” Grimm said, his voice growing stronger by the minute.
"That was a small spell?” The warrior's disbelief was patent in his wide eyes.
"I cast it on him from the inside,” the Questor said, managing to sit up. “I saw his scales contract every time he was attacked, blocking swords, spears and spells. I hopped down his throat to see what a spell from the inside would do. I had no idea this would happen."
"I think I can guess,” Quelgrum declared. “I imagine Gruon was full of some inflammable liquid or gas that combusted on exposure to the air; to produce flame, he snorted a small amount of the stuff out from his nostrils. You set the whole lot off at once. I'm astonished to see you're unhurt."
"Not exactly,” Grimm said, rubbing his brow and face. “I was under the protection of a ward, and I have a gem that protects me against flame.
"Or, at least, that's what it's supposed to do,” he continued, looking down at the scorched rags he now wore. His bare arms were scaly and lobster-pink, as if he had been exposed to the full desert sun for too long, and he felt crisp, crumbly nodules in his beard. “Still, I guess I got off pretty lightly, under the circumstances."
With a cold shock, he realised that Gruon had been almost directly outside the entrance to the Breeder pen. The explosion might have been channelled straight into the roundhouse!
"How's everybody else?” he asked, his voice panicky and his eyes wide as he tried to scramble to his feet. “The Breeders, the others-"
"It's not pretty, Lord Baron,” the General said, putting a firm hand on the Questor's right shoulder. “I won't sugar-coat it for you or try to pretend otherwise. Three Breeders are dead; a dozen others are injured; Questor Guy's lost his eyebrows and most of his beard. Erik was lucky enough to fall into a crowd of Brianstonians who broke his fall; he has a badly sprained ankle. Numal's concussed."
"Crest and Tordun; what about them, General?"
The soldier's grip on his shoulder tightened. “Tordun may have lost his sight, Lord Baron. We don't know yet-"
"And Crest? What about Crest?” Grimm cried, his voice an octave above its normal register.
"Crest is dead, Lord Baron,” Shakkar rumbled. “He had his back to the full force of the blast. It is only because of him that the death toll is not worse."
Grimm groaned, feeling hot tears prickling at his eyes and a lump in his throat. He had never been close to the half-elf; nobody was, save Harvel. However, he had known the nimble, resourceful thief since his very first Quest. The cheerful exchange of insults between Crest and his foppish friend had brightened up some dark times; now, that morale-boosting banter would be lost.
I did this! Grimm slapped a hand over his eyes in an attempt to blot out the thought of the loss of his companion. Just because I wanted to show Guy I was the stronger mage!
He bit his trembling lower lip, shaking with the effort not to break down as he had after his first abortive expedition in the astral plane.
"Four dead here; maybe a score more outside the walls,” Quelgrum said. “With the doors wide open, Gruon could have torched all of us, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have rested until everyone in Brianston was dead. That's not much consolation right now, I know, but that's warfare."
"I didn't have to wake him up!” The words ripped through Grimm's larynx like blades. “I could have let him sleep on, and we'd have been out of here by now. Crest would still be alive."
"Do you think the Brianstonians would have been willing to take the risk of allowing Gruon to wake?” Shakkar demanded. “They might have been happy to let us leave, but, sooner or later, they would have started their sacrifices again. If not, they would have been facing a massacre. You have ended the slavery of generations of mortals. You should feel proud of that."
Grimm tried to concentrate, but he could not tear his mind from the image of the living Crest, arguing with his bosom friend, Harvel.
"I don't,” Grimm said, fighting his combative emotions. “Maybe I will in a few years, but I just feel empty right now."
The mage knew he could not face the Breeders or his other companions at this time, and that inaction might make him increasingly morbid. Part of him wanted to raze this abomination to the ground, to destroy every living Revenant and Dreamster, whilst another recognised the irrational hatred within him.
"I need to see Murar,” Grimm said, in a harsh monotone, “right now. Is he still alive?” With a grunt, he managed to rise to his feet and remain upright.
The General's brow furrowed. “Is that wise, Lord Baron?"
Grimm looked the old soldier right in the eyes. “Let me get this straight, General,” he said. “I want to kill the old bastard with every fibre of my being. But I won't. Before we leave here, I want to ensure that every Realster here is respected and treated the same as any other Brianstonian. I also want to get our wagon and supplies back. If you won't come with me, I'll go alone. When we've finished, we'll be on our way."
Shakkar and Quelgrum exchanged worried glances. “We'll go with you, Lord Grimm,” the General said. “You may be a little… unpopular right now, if the truth gets out. You did kill their ‘god', after all."
Grimm tried to smile, but he knew that his mouth had just twisted into a humourless, twisted grimace. “I don't care about, ‘popular',” he growled. “Right now, I'd be happy with ‘feared'. If that's the only reaction I can muster, I'll be satisfied.
"Redeemer!"
The obedient, indestructible staff slapped into his open palm. Not waiting for a reaction from his companions, Grimm began to stride out of the massive crater, his confidence increasing as his legs grew stronger.
As he rounded the corner, with the demon and the soldier at his back, he saw a crowd of weeping Brianstonians. One of them wore the robes of a Revenant, and he pointed at the mage. “That's Uncle's killer,” he spat, his face contorted in a grimace of rage. “He-"
"And how many of you were killed by your so-called ‘loving Uncle'?” Grimm demanded, cutting the Revenant off. “If death's all you want, I can oblige you right now, you dragon-loving vampire! Where's Murar?
"I asked where Murar is, blood-drinker! Answer me!"
The force of the mage's demand, aided by just a hint of magical Compulsion, seemed to mollify the Revenant, but he still retained a trace of defiance.
"How do I know you won't hurt him?"
"You don't,” Grimm snarled. “I can destroy Brianston and all of you in it, including Murar, if you want. Don't test my temper-you'll come off worse, I promise you."
The Revenant said nothing, but one of the Dreamsters pointed towards the shattered remnants of Gruon's temple. “He's leading a vigil,” she said, a middle-aged woman with a soot-stained face, with clear streaks marking the passage of tears. “Just go away and do whatever you want-murderer."
The crowd parted to let Grimm through, but they jostled him as he walked by, muttering imprecations at him.
Murderer, Traitor's Spawn; it's all the same, Grimm thought. Nobody likes me…
Except for Drex, he thought, as the image of his illicit love filled his mind. I'll spare this worthless bunch of dragon-worshippers for her sake.
"I won't harm Murar,” he muttered to himself, his voice dull and unemotional as he marched through the restless mass of Brianstonians in his tattered, scorched robes.
Lizaveta gazed into her crystal as the dragon lowered his golden, magnificent head towards the tiny figure of Grimm Afelnor.
A shame, she thought. He would have proved a useful consort… still, I thought that even he might have problems with Brianston. Oh, well… what?
The young Questor muttered a phrase the Prioress could not hear, and he leapt straight into the gaping maw of Gruon.
Suicide?
Her mental question was answered in a moment, as the golden creature exploded in a tumultuous shower of flame. The green globe grew hot in her hands, and she jerked them from its surface in pain, feeling her palms sting as she did so.
She fell back in her comfortable chair, wiping damp, white tendrils of hair from her face. Her long bones pained her, as pangs of rheumatism tormented them, but she was no stranger to pain; it told her she was still alive. Nonetheless, although she would never have admitted it to another, she felt the accumulated burden of many, many years. Young Afelnor had become harder and harder to scry, as his power grew and multiplied.
That was so like dear Loras at the same age, she thought, to charge into the breach so thoughtlessly.
She turned to the girl crouched by her side. “Grimm Afelnor is dead,” she said, with a deep sigh.
"That is a shame,” Weranda replied. “I had visions of him begging for mercy at my feet."
"That is life, Sister. However, you still have your vocation: something nobody can take from you."
Sister Weranda bowed, touching her forehead to the floor. “That, my Lady, is a great comfort for me,” she said. “I thank the Order for my salvation, and I look forward to serving you in the future."
Lizaveta sighed. She found it hard to clear the image of the callow, impetuous young mage from her mind. “Carry on, Novice,” she muttered. “It will soon be time for the evening Devotions.
"Bless you, my dear."
"Bless you, Reverend Mother.” Weranda got to her feet, and the Prioress felt a glow of pleasure at the Novice's beatific smile and modestly-lowered eyes.
As the girl glided towards the door, Lizaveta replaced her hands on the now-cool globe. Gazing into the glass sphere, she saw a scene of utter devastation.
However, at the base of a massive crater, she could just make out a tiny, blackened figure. Fighting the growing ache in her head, she looked closer, to see the unmistakable figure of the young Questor. His clothes were tattered and his face was blackened, and she saw a pair of figures racing towards him: the demon and the Technological warrior.
As she watched, the pain in her temples increased, and she saw Afelnor stirring; his face was confused and contorted, but he still lived. The hissing in her ears precluded hearing, and her vision began to blur as consciousness began to fill the young man. She felt a cold thrill as those dark eyes stared up into the void, meeting hers for a few, brief moments.
She had learnt the art of scrying many decades ago under the strict but impersonal rod of Prioress Acaresta, and she had soon proved herself her teacher's superior in this skill… and also in the use of other, more sinister magic. She allowed herself a small, tight smile at the memory of the old lady's horrified expression as Lizaveta had torn her soul from her body to become the next ruler of the Order.
Never had she felt such power pushing back at her from the sphere-except in that triumphant moment, long ago, when she knew, at last, that her Great Spell had succeeded in suppressing Loras Afelnor's formidable Questor will. She had had dreams of controlling his thoughts, desires and talents for her own ends, but her nerve had failed at the last moment, and she had chosen her idiot son, Thorn, over Loras.
For three decades, she had regretted that moment; it would have been so much better to have that potent will as her own, instead of wasting it. She had been so much younger then, and she had not then realised that her inner strength was so much greater than that of any man ever born, be he Mage or Secular. She wanted to control not only her own little empire, but also the hateful patriarchy of the Guild.
Still, those ebon eyes spoke of such sheer force; perhaps even greater than Loras'. This time, she would not make the same mistake. She felt sure that the boy, Grimm, under careful guidance, could rise to the rank of Dominie, giving her complete control over the hated Guild that had suppressed and minimised her kind.
Thorn was pathetic and worthless, with little more willpower than a jellyfish, and the Prioress already suspected that he had sent Grimm Afelnor to destroy her. Thorn's illegitimate son, Guy, had seemed more promising at first, but he was capricious and egotistical, interested only in his own wealth and appearance. Possessed of great power he might be, but Lizaveta could not see how he might ever become a useful playing piece in High Lodge's political game.
She had courted three mages in her life: Questor Loras, who had thrown her amorous pretence back in her face; Dominie Horin, who had been saved only by the actions of Grimm Afelnor; and the long-dead Questor Shemmanier, who died on a difficult Quest shortly after she had beguiled him into impregnating her with Thorn.
This irked the Prioress, who had patiently undergone the pregnancy and the birth only in the hope of using her illegitimate son as a lever to bring to bear upon the potent Questor, a rising star in the Guild firmament.
Grimm looked to be at least as powerful as his grandfather. However, she had first met the older Afelnor when he was thirty-five years of age, in full control of his powers and senses. She had flattered and cozened him for a while, and Loras had seemed more than interested, even if he had drawn back from a physical relationship. She, playing the coquette, had pushed further, and Loras had rebuffed her.
Lizaveta now knew that she had been foolish to react in such a manner to Afelnor's peremptory rejection. She knew she had never been beguiling and desirable, even in her youth, and she had been a fool to imagine she had been. However, she had not only her own, considerable power, but that of her whole Order upon which to call.
Not to mention the power of the young Afelnor's paramour, who, even now, must be lying spread-eagled on the cold chapel floor, proclaiming her everlasting devotion to her beloved Prioress.
Lizaveta stared into the green globe, transfixed, as the young Questor shot to his feet, and she looked into his stony face for a few seconds before the sphere shattered into tiny, hot shards.
The Prioress welcomed the pain of the sharp fragments on her hands and the scalp of her quickly-lowered head; she knew the young man was ready, and she relished the warm sensation of the streams of blood running down her face. The cold thrill of adolescent power flooded through Lizaveta, rejuvenating her. Now, in this self-accusing realisation of loss, Grimm was hers, whether he knew it or not.
The callow, unpredictable, juvenile Questor was dead at last; in his place stood a lethal Weapon of the Guild. This was what she had wanted all along. Lizaveta considered giving the good news to Novice Drex-Weranda-, but she reasoned that it could wait until after Devotions.
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