desire, I'll give you suffering.'
Grimm tried to speak, but he could not. Strong emotion welled within him, threatening to overwhelm him. Drawing great, hacking breaths, he fought to control himself. He waved his hands and screwed his eyes shut; Lizaveta's rhetoric had provoked a greater result than all the pain he had suffered in the previous two days.
'You're just playing with my mind, witch,” he said, almost sobbing.
'Is that so bad?” Lizaveta asked, running her fingers over his bruised face. “Why fight it? I need you to love me so that you will help me achieve my ends, but I bear you no personal animosity.'
The Prioress’ face looked almost appealing, attractive… for just a moment. The vision of Drexelica as Lizaveta's indoctrinated, willing slave destroyed the brief image.
'I will fight you to the end of my life, bitch,” he whispered, although he knew his feeble voice lacked conviction. “I will fight you every step of the way.'
'That is your privilege, Grimm,” Lizaveta said. “Just remember that a single, heartfelt kiss will stop the pain and the suffering. Did your precious Guild ever offer you that escape?
'I will send food, and I advise you to eat every scrap. If you are as resolute as you say, tomorrow will be hard on you.'
With that, she was gone, and Grimm fought the urge to call the Prioress back.
I will fight, he thought. I'll beat her yet!
He crushed down the traitorous thought that bubbled up from within: Why?
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Chapter 12: Sickness
Seneschal Shakkar's head lolled on his scaly neck. He knew he was close to exhaustion as he approached the southern boundary of Anjar. His right wing had been badly torn in the encounter with the zombies, and he could not sustain flight for long. His legs were designed to ensnare and disembowel prey, not to carry him swiftly over long distances. He also had lost a considerable amount of blood, and he needed frequent rest periods.
He was accustomed to physical wounds healing within a few hours, but the zombies’ claw-gashes remained open, weeping with blood and cloudy fluids. His steps were slow and clumsy; the only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that Baron Grimm and his retinue were now in the power of Prioress Lizaveta, as was Mistress Drexelica.
Of my own free will, I swore an oath to Baron Grimm, he told himself. He has been a friend to me ever since he freed me from Starmor's evil influence. I cannot and will not let him down.
Or Sergeant Erik, he thought, forcing his taloned feet to keep moving. Erik has been a good companion and I would prefer him to remain alive. I also admire Tordun; he is a powerful and resourceful fighter. General Quelgrum is an efficient organiser and he motivates his men; Crar would be the poorer without him.
He did not think much of Necromancer Numal, who was no warrior, and he disliked the manner in which Questor Guy had sought to belittle Baron Grimm at every opportunity, but he had no wish to see them dead. Once, he had despised humans, and, out of necessity, he had consumed the flesh of many when he was Starmor's prisoner. Nonetheless, he now saw much to admire in these strange, short-lived creatures; they did not all cower in fear and succumb to domination when threatened, and the demon had seen evidence of nobility, self-sacrifice and honour in several of the frail beings.
I will never eat the meat of humans again, he muttered. I will eat grass, earth or stones before I ever consume manflesh again.
He could not admit, even to himself, that he had come to admire humankind, but he acknowledged some admirable qualities on occasion.
These creatures deserve the opportunity to grow and develop, he thought, his lungs burning as he trudged towards a large building. Perhaps they are worth saving, after all.
To Shakkar's surprise, the streets looked deserted; the last time he had seen Anjar, it had been a hive of industry, with scores of Anjarians buying, selling and going about their daily business.
As he drew closer to the building, a human emerged from a small side doorway.
'Hold, demon!” the man shouted, from a distance of thirty feet. “Who are you, and what do you want?'
'My name is Shakkar, Seneschal of the Barony of Crar; I beseech your help,'
The man approached the demon and whistled through his teeth as his eyes fell on Shakkar's suppurating wounds.
'I presume you've fallen foul of the Night Ones,” he said. “I'll ask our resident Healer, Porpitt, to tend to your injuries. He used to be a Guild Mage, and he has some knowledge of the demonic physique.'
The man extended his right hand to Shakkar, which the demon recognised as a sign of non-confrontation. The Seneschal followed suit, taking the human's appendage in a careful, gentle grip.
'I am Peder Mallion, Mayor of Anjar,” the man said, pumping Shakkar's heavy hand with some difficulty. “I'm happy to see that your confrontation with the Night Ones was not fatal, but you need medical care.'
'I will not argue with that, Mayor Peder,” Shakkar said, “but I must make a few other demands on your time first.'
'In good time, Lord Seneschal,” Peder replied. “I insist that Healer Porpitt attend to those gashes first; the Night Ones’ blows cause fatal infections if not treated in time.'
Shakkar's wounded left leg buckled and he sprawled to the dirt, almost taking Peder with him.
'Very well, Mayor Peder,” he said, his head spinning. “I agree. I am not in quite full fighting condition, and the undead monsters may have infected me with some strange sickness.'
His head fell back; his neck seemed unwilling to support his weight. “I feel a little strange,” he mumbled.
'I'll assemble a party of men to carry you into the Great House. This can't wait,” the Mayor said, running into the large building at considerable speed.
Shakkar had never suffered a bodily illness before in his life but, now, his heart pounded and his scaly skin grew even colder as weakness flooded through his once-mighty frame. Now, his vision blurred, and he began to mumble in his native demon tongue. The last thing Shakkar saw before blackness took him was the image of his long-dead clutch-mother.
Grimm awoke with a start as he heard the key clang in the lock of his cell door.
'Good morning, Questor Grimm,” Prioress Lizaveta said, resplendent in pearl-white robes. “Did you sleep well?'
'Where are your attendants today, Prioress?” he demanded, sitting up with some difficulty.
Lizaveta laughed; a sound like gravel being crushed under an iron boot. “They await my call, young mage. I thought it would be pleasant to have a little chat with you before your more… physical education begins; if that should become necessary.'
'You're wasting your time, Lizaveta,” Grimm growled, with a fervour he did not feel. “You may as well summon them right now. I will not betray my House or my Guild!'
'Spoken like a true slave,” the Prioress replied, clapping her hands like a happy child. “Do you enjoy pain? Are you so eager to suffer again, just so your vaunted High Dominie can live like a prince?'
'He resisted your advances, Prioress, as did my grandfather. Should I submit where they did not?'
Choler flooded into Lizaveta's cheeks.
'That bloated idiot, Horin,” she said, her words slow and deliberate, “only withstood my magic with your aid. I hoped that your grandfather, Loras, would respond to me without Geomantic persuasion, but he did not.
'Consider my position,” she continued, her eyes gleaming like chips of glass. “I am proud to be a witch; I hail my calling, as you hail yours. Why should I be considered a second-class magic-user because of my sex? Why must I seek respect from within the insipid refuge of religion? Do you think of women as mere baubles, to be displayed on some Guild ornament-shelf?'
Grimm shrugged.
