Shakkar strode through the streets of Crar, his red eyes closed almost to slits, his mouth compressed into a tight, inverted U-shape. Several citizens greeted him as he passed, but he ignored them. General Quelgrum had set up his headquarters in a formerly deserted slaughterhouse, a large building with thick, grey stone walls.
Three guards patrolled the entrance courtyard, carrying ancient Technological weapons that gleamed as new, but such toys did not impress the thick-skinned demon in the least. Of even less import was the wooden pole that barred entry to the courtyard.
"You, there!” Shakkar boomed to one of the watchmen, who wore corporals’ stripes on his uniform. “Is Sergeant Erik here?"
The corporal, in contrast to his youthful companions, was a grizzled veteran of maybe forty years, and he strode up to the barrier with a confident air, looking the demon straight in the eye.
"He is, Lord Seneschal,” the corporal said, “but we have orders that he is not to be disturbed. If you'd like to come back-"
"Your orders are cancelled.” Shakkar hissed, looming over the man. “I will see Erik right now. Is that quite clear?” He punctuated his demands with a threatening growl, just in case the slow-witted mortal had misunderstood his purpose.
The two younger guards, their faces pale, moved to the large double doors at the entrance to the building, presenting their puny weapons in a half-hearted manner.
"Lord Seneschal, you don't have the right to cancel the order,” the older soldier said in a calm, deliberate voice, as if addressing a naughty child. “I take my orders from-"
"Damn your orders!” the infuriated demon yelled, splintering the barrier to fragments with a single blow of his scaly, taloned hand. “That for your orders! Fetch Sergeant Erik, or I will pound this building into dust!"
The younger guards pulled their weapons into their shoulders, pointing them straight at the demon.
"Hold your fire!” the corporal snapped, before turning back to Shakkar.
"I advise you not to threaten us, Lord Seneschal,” he said in a low voice. “We've got far more powerful weapons than this; powerful enough even for you, I think. Sure, you can kill me with one hand tied behind your back, but there are many of us; can you kill us all? If you want a war, we'll give you one. Do you want to start it right here? I won't try to stop you if you do-I can't stop you. Go ahead."
The infuriating human laid his weapon on the ground and bowed his head before Shakkar!
How dare you, you impudent sack of skin! I could…
Despite the anger that had compressed the demon's mind to a dense, burning ball of resolve, the Seneschal found himself beginning to admire this weak, pathetic parcel of mortal flesh.
He had killed many men in his long life, and he had even eaten a few during his long incarceration on Starmor's dismal punishment pillar. He had never enjoyed the act, but he had regarded the miserable mortals that Starmor had seen fit to send him as little more than unfortunate animals; pathetic livestock to be consumed as required.
The stripling mage, Grimm Afelnor, had shown him the nobility that resided within certain men. Since then, he had met many other humans who bore the same stamp of courage against considerable odds. This was one such man, and Shakkar felt a stab of compassion. His argument was not with this corporal, who was just fulfilling his duties as best he could, but with the lax guards at the Tower. He could not, in conscience, kill this man.
As if he had read the Seneschal's mind, the soldier raised his head. “Now, Lord Seneschal: would you like me to ask Sergeant Erik if he'll see you on urgent business?"
"Yes,” the demon mumbled. “Please.” He added the last word almost as an afterthought; nonetheless, he felt that the courageous soldier deserved his full respect.
"If you wouldn't mind waiting here, I won't be a moment, Sir,” the corporal said, turning his back on Shakkar and striding towards the doors, with a measured gait.
Shakkar could not be sure, but he thought he heard the man exhale forcefully. The act meant nothing to him, but he guessed it was a human indication of relief.
Feeling foolish, the demon stood behind the smashed remains of the barrier, while the two remaining guards held their weapons in trembling hands. He knew these two young fools posed no threat to him, but he waited nonetheless.
At last, Sergeant Erik emerged, in the company of a man Shakkar recognised: Lieutenant-Colonel Shandimar, Quelgrum's second-in-command. Neither man appeared to be armed.
"Now, what's all this, Lord Seneschal?” Shandimar demanded, a tall man with silver hair. “We're having an important security conference, and we-"
"My issue concerns security, Colonel,” Shakkar growled, remembering his purpose. “Lady Drexelica has been abducted, from right under the noses of his so-called ‘guards'!” The demon indicated Erik with a single, clawed digit.
The Colonel raised an eyebrow, which, Shakkar had learned, indicated surprise in mortals. “Is this true, Sergeant?” he demanded.
"I don't know, Sir,” the hapless Erik confessed. “It's the first I've heard of it-"
"It is true,” Shakkar shouted. “She is not in the Tower, and the watchmen claim that nobody has been in or out since midnight: since your watch, Sergeant Erik!"
Shandimar turned to Shakkar, his eyes gleaming like blue diamonds. “We'll get to the bottom of this straight away, Lord Seneschal."
Turning back to Erik, the Colonel said, “I want all the Tower guards brought here at once, Sergeant. If you've got to wake them up, do so! I want to know if our sentries have been slack in their duties, and I'll have the balls of any man who has shirked his responsibilities! Is that clear, Sergeant?"
"Yes, Sir!"
The Sergeant accompanied this bark with a salute so crisp that it threatened to remove the top of his head.
As far as Shakkar knew, the Sergeant's response was the only one a soldier could make to a senior officer's direct order, but Erik appeared sincere in his fervour.
"Bring the Gate guards as well, Sergeant!” the officer yelled, as Erik strode away. “Whatever happened, Lady Drexelica's abductors must have gone through the Gate!"
"Yes, Sir!” came the swift response. Shakkar had often heard sullen overtones in these two words, spoken by other men, but there were none on this occasion.
"I want somebody's head for this, Colonel,” Shakkar growled.
"If negligence, or any lapse in discipline, is at the root of this issue, you can rest assured that the guilty man, or men, will be punished, Lord Seneschal,” Shandimar said. “We'll get to the bottom of this."
The monotonous words of Melana's-Sister Melana's-litany dropped into Drexelica's mind like pennies thrown into a deep well. She had been determined to resist at first, earning many blows from the whips of the two ever-present Novices. She recognised the tell-tale signs of fatigue, and she had begun to respond to Sister Melana's prompts with greater alacrity, just to avoid further chastisement and blurring of her mind.
At first, her inner mantra had been ‘I'm just pretending to go along with them', but she had long since forgotten this prideful mantra.
Drexelica had lost count of the number of times she had been forced to shout, “Blessed be the Order", and her voice was scratchy and hoarse. She felt her head beginning to swim, and she tried to focus on the altar in front of her. She had not eaten for well over a day, and she had slept no more than two hours in that time. Hunger and exhaustion were now her constant companions, and her vision was becoming blurry and grey.
At least she no longer noticed the aches and pains in her body, brought on by many hours of kneeling on a hard stone floor in a rigid attitude of prayer. Her watchful Novice attendants seemed to lash her less frequently now, but Drexelica scarcely noticed. She no longer understood the words she chanted, yet she lived only for her cue to speak.
"So let it be.” Sister Melana's voice seemed to come from the far end of a long tunnel.
"Blessed be the Order!” Drexelica croaked, swaying from side to side. Only the dogged desire not to betray weakness sustained her, but even that was now fading.
"That's all for today, slut."
"Blessed be the Order,” Drex whispered.
As if in a dream, she felt herself lifted up. Her legs seemed unable to obey her commands; she vaguely registered the fact that they trailed behind her like useless, wasted appendages as the acolytes dragged her from the small temple.
Then she lost consciousness.
A cold shock of water hit Drex's face, and she jerked open her sore eyes.
"Well, Supplicant; how do you feel?” Sister Melana stood over her, wearing her customary sneer. “Not so cocky now, eh, slut?"
"Blessed be the Order."
Drex's head rocked as the nun slapped her, hard. She found the sharp sound more shocking than the distant, dulled pain, and it brought her to her senses.
"Oh, shut up, Supplicant! We've finished with Responses for today."
"I'm so sorry, Sister Melana. I… I need to sleep."
"Sleep? You've already been lounging there for three hours. What more do you want? You have work to do; after that, you may eat."
"What work, Sister?"
"Your robe is torn and stained with blood. You are to wash it and repair the damage brought on by your own wilful disobedience. Each botched darn will earn you one hour's Penitence for a fault in Obedience. You will note that I have kindly brought you a bucket of water, soap, and a needle and thread.
"Well?” The Sister raised her whip in a threatening manner.
"Thank you, Sister Melana!” Drex tried to lever herself from the thin mattress.
"I'm waiting, Supplicant,” the nun hissed, tapping the lash against her thigh.
Drexelica tumbled to the floor. Her fingers fumbled with the robe's fastenings; the digits felt as if they belonged to someone else. At last, the final knot fell apart, and she shucked the garment like a snake casting off its skin.
Somehow summoning the strength to rise to her raw, bloody knees, she dragged the garment towards a tub of water at Sister Melana's side.
As if seeing through a layer of grey gauze, Drex remembered the lessons of her brief apprenticeship to Mistress Gutal, a washerwoman and seamstress back in Griven. Skills learned during fourteen-hour working days under the old woman's harsh, unyielding tutelage came to the fore, giving her new strength.
Despite the pain of the blood returning to her arms and hands, she fell into the familiar routine, scrubbing each brown stain as if possessed. Once satisfied that the pristine white of the habit's coarse material had been restored, she took up the proffered darning needle.
She pricked her clumsy fingers several times while trying to thread the needle, but she took care not to spill further blood on the garment.
As she worked, she felt her thoughts clearing. She recognised that her earlier, overt attempts at resistance had been foolish, only adding to her punishment.
Drex knew she could only survive with an intact mind by trying to appear broken. She knew she must try to work on Melana with subtlety, by pretending at first to sympathise with her. The Sister was ambitious and proud, and she seemed to despise Prioress Lizaveta.
Don't give the cow any reason for suspicion, she told herself, as she darned the tears in the robe. Work on her. Play to her vanity.
At last, she snapped the thread on the last darn with her teeth, having used every artifice she had learned in her childhood under the hateful Gutal. Taking care not to raise her eyes, Drex glanced at Melana's hands as she passed the mended robe to the nun: they were soft and pink, the hands of someone unaccustomed to manual work.
Go on, bitch; find something wrong with that!
Melana turned the garment over and over, searching for the least sign of carelessness or inattention, but Drex knew she had worked well.
Compared to Gutal, Melana, you're just an amateur. She'd eat you for breakfast.
The nun grunted. “The Supplicant's work appears satisfactory."
To Drexelica, it sounded as if the words had been extracted under torture, and she struggled to keep her face demure and respectful.
"Thank you, Sister Melana. I will try to be more diligent in future, I promise."
"See that you do, Supplicant. Tomorrow, you'll have a full day of Observance, and I won't hesitate to punish the least transgression. Put on your robe.
"That's better. Now, you have earned a meal. Remember my indulgence and kindness on this occasion."
"I shall, Sister Melana.” Drex made sure to keep her voice penitent and subdued as she fumbled with the gown's laces. “Blessed be the Order."
"Oh, do stop that, slut! Your voice tires me, and you'll have ample opportunity to exercise your lungs later. Wait here; I'll be seeing you soon. You have an hour; make the most of it.
"Sleep is not permitted. Just you remember that."
Melana left the room, and one of the Novices brought Drex a bowl of thin, grey gruel and a small scrap of dark, gritty-looking bread. The meagre meal looked revolting, but the girl consumed it as if it were the choicest cuisine, wiping the bowl with the bread, ensuring that she absorbed every vital calorie.
I've got to keep my strength up. I'm not going to let these bastards beat me, and I know Grimm's on his way here. All I've got to do is to go along with this charade, and come across like a good, confused little girl. I've just got to hold out as best I can. They may have my body, but I'll be damned if I let them have my mind.
"So, Sister Melana; how goes our new Supplicant?” Lizaveta mumbled, tearing flesh from a chicken-leg with her teeth. She tossed the bone over her shoulder and selected a ripe fig from the heaped table at her side.
Melana, lounging on a comfortable divan in the Prioress’ chamber, took a deep draught of wine before she answered.
"She's strong, Reverend Mother; I'll give the little slut that. Even so, she was almost off with the birds by the end of Devotions, as I'd hoped. I let her rest for a little while, and then ordered her to repair her robe; it was in quite a mess, as you might guess. I told her she had failed in Obedience."
"A nice touch, Sister,” Lizaveta said. “Still, I trust you've taken care that she's not marked?"
"There's nothing that'll show, Reverend Mother, I promise. I'll have the Novices go a little easier on her tomorrow, and then hit her hard the day after.
"By the time I left her today, she looked dazed, but I'm pretty sure she was more aware than she let on. She thinks she's playing with us."
Lizaveta laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound that grated on Melana's ears, but the junior nun joined in, nonetheless.
"How amusing!” the Prioress cackled. “Perhaps she thinks she's over the worst? We haven't even started yet! She'll learn soon enough that it's useless to try to oppose the Score… or me."
Melana wondered if Lizaveta had gazed at her with a little more intensity than usual, but she put it down to being tired; it had been a long day so far, and it was not over yet.
"Get her started on emotions this afternoon, Sister. Let her access her power; flex her muscles, as it were. Keep her busy, but let her think she's still got the upper hand. A couple of hours’ Devotion tomorrow should be enough to start with. Find some reason for some more Penitence the day after; don't give her time to think. Allow her four hours of sleep tonight, no more."
Melana almost gaped. She needed to rest, and Lizaveta's pronouncement had condemned her to even less sleep; she would need to be up before the Supplicant. “Reverend Mother, may I detail the Novices to start off without me tomorrow? I'm exhausted."
"Oh, I don't think I should entrust a matter of such importance to a pair of callow Novices, Sister! No, I'm afraid you'll have to oversee the girl's training yourself. It'll be a trial for you, I know, but I trust you to recognise your duty."
The slender nun groaned inwardly, but she knew better than to demur with her Superior.
"As you command, Reverend Mother,” she said, trying to maintain a cheerful, obedient tone.
You shrivelled old goat! Melana thought. You're never up before dawn, are you? It's always people like me who have to do your dirty work for you.
"Thank you so much, Sister Melana.” Lizaveta favoured the nun with what she doubtless thought was a sweet, seraphic smile. Instead, it looked more like the rapacious grin of a predator. “I knew I could rely on you."
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