take possession of more than my body; don't bother to deny it. I hate you, and I will destroy you!'
Almost in a trance, he raised his right hand and spat out the nonsense phrase, “Ap'shgat'oye'madas!'
A green stream of sheer hatred exploded from his hand, hammering the stone roof over his head, showering the corridor with tiny, pale motes. A red-glowing, wagon-sized hole in the ceiling showed the hall above, with the confused faces of several frightened nuns peering through it.
'I am power!” he screamed, ignoring the rain of pulverised material. “I am your nemesis, woman; I will kill you, one way or another! Release Drex, and I will spare you my righteous wrath; deny me, and I will make you suffer more than the worst nightmare you ever tried to give me! I do not beguile my victims-I destroy them! I will tear this stinking hell-place apart, if I have to!
'I am destruction!'
With a sheer effort of will, Grimm shattered the cell in which he had been tortured, blasting the stone walls apart as if they were made of rice-paper. He felt apprehensive no longer; he was the Dragonblaster, the avenger of the family name this female demon had tried to immure since before he was born!
He clutched Redeemer, one friend who would never betray him as long as he lived, feeling its warmth and its empowering strength.
'I won't hesitate to destroy Drex's body if you've expunged her soul,” he snarled. “I can make you suffer more than you would believe.
'Choose: quit Drex's body and give her back to me, or see what a true, unfettered Questor can do to you. You told me, many times, that a woman understands more of pain than a man ever can; but what does a shrivelled, unemotional husk like you understand of insecurity, grief, blasted hopes and self-doubt? Thanks to you, witch, I understand those feelings well now.'
Grimm raised his arms over his head, letting the motes of blue mage-light play around his body like cerulean fireflies. He could not be beaten, and he knew it, revelling in and savouring his arcane strength for the first time in his life. He laughed: a hacking, humourless sound.
'I am power!'
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Chapter 18: ‘All Is In Your Hands'
Quelgrum turned to Sergeant Erik. “Sergeant, I don't believe dear Sister Kellen's little story. I want you to covertly reconnoitre the Priory and its grounds. I want to know if there's any transport here they're not telling us about. Take note of any of the Anointed Score you see: the ones who met us at the gate when we were escorted here. Are they huddled together, cooking up some nasty little surprise for us? If they are, I want to know about it.'
Erik snapped to attention, performing a parade-ground perfect salute. “Yes, Sir. What do I do if one of the nuns challenges me?'
'I don't know, Sergeant. Tell them… tell them you're looking for the jakes or something! Use your imagination. Just try to stay out of sight if you can. I'll meet you back here in an hour, if I'm able.'
'I understand, Sir, but what if the nuns take you by surprise? How will I know?'
Quelgrum shrugged. “By the clock at the end of the hall: if I'm not back here within an hour, get out of here by any means possible. Go to Anjar, and, if I don't turn up there within two days, get back to Crar any way you can. Give Colonel Shandimar the codeword ‘Blazon', and he'll get the whole army out here to raze the damn’ place to the ground.'
Erik surged to attention and saluted crisply. “Orders received and understood, Sir! Wait for one hour, go to Anjar, wait two days and report to base if no further contact with you. Codeword is ‘Blazon'.'
'Excuse me, General,” Necromancer Numal said, standing just behind Erik. “I'd like to go with the Sergeant. If there's any trouble, a Mage Staff is a pretty good weapon. We Mage Necromancers also have some affinity with shadows.'
While Quelgrum doubted Numal's reliability under fire, a lack of offensive weaponry might be a major disadvantage. Since encountering the zombies in Merrydeath Road, the Necromancer had become somewhat more outgoing and confident, and the General did not want to crush those nascent qualities. He felt encouraged that Numal had volunteered his services for an uncertain mission.
'You're not under my command, Lord Mage,” he said, “you're a free agent, as far as I'm concerned. If you want to go with Erik, I can't stop you. I just ask you to defer to the Sergeant in tactical matters.'
'Orders received and understood, General,” the mage said, touching his right brow in a creditable attempt at a salute.
As Numal turned to follow Erik, Quelgrum said, “Lord Mage?'
'Yes, General?” the Necromancer replied, stopping and turning his head.
'Thank you.'
Numal just nodded and hurried away.
Quelgrum sighed; it felt as if a lifetime of conflict, command and responsibility had lodged in his chest in one, solid, heavy mass.
Why does everybody expect me to make all the bloody decisions?
Numal wanted me to make his mind up for him, and he's not even in my army.
Is it just my rank, does something about me make people think I'll solve all their freaking problems? Have I got a tattoo on my forehead that says ‘Get your decisions here, free to all-comers'?
What have I to show for a life of service, other than scars? I should be at home, dandling grandchildren on my knees, a loving, supportive wife at my side. I'm tired of fighting and making decisions. If I ever get back to Crar, Shandimar can have the bloody army! Why do I still need to fight at my age?
Another part of his mind shot back, Because nobody will fight without somebody to take responsibility or lead the way. It's relatively easy to be a common soldier. He may have to fight and die, but somebody else thinks for him. That doesn't come easily to many people. Ordinary soldiers don't have to worry about food, drink, clothing or housing. Many soldiers prefer to follow orders without thinking; the removal of individual responsibility makes it easier for them. Committee discussions or arguments delay action, and usually lead to unsatisfactory compromises. If an army were some democratic commune, where every order was debated, there'd be chaos!
Quelgrum's inner dialogue stuttered to a halt, as the General saw the unmistakeable, wand-thin figure of Sister Kellen emerging from the archway to the stairs and approaching him.
'May I inquire where your companions are, General?” she asked.
Quelgrum shrugged. “We've been cramped up for days, madam. Sergeant Erik wanted to stretch his legs, and Necromancer Numal chose to join him. I have no idea where they went. What of my request to see Baron Grimm?'
'I regret that that Questor Grimm is very sick and in quarantine.” Sister Kellen's face was now the very picture of contrition and sorrow. “The illness struck him with frightening ferocity after he visited your sick friend, Tordun. For your own safety, I beg you to stay away from him. I will pray for him, and I urge you to do the same. He may not survive.'
'I don't believe you, Sister,” Quelgrum said, battling a born peasant's ingrained dread of capricious disease. “I saw him only about quarter of an hour ago, and he was in perfect health!'
Kellen shook her head. “The infection is swifter than any mortal disease, General. It took us all by surprise. Everyone is forbidden to see him, by the order of Sister Judan. Only our Healer, Sister Mercia is permitted to attend him, and she is locked in the room with him.
'I am so sorry.'
Quelgrum's eyes scanned the nun's face, A lifetime of dealing with men and women, of interrogations and court-martial, had given him what amounted almost to a sixth sense, enabling him to detect the most delicate scents of deceit and falsehood. This lie-sense was not infallible, but it was more than capable of detecting the outright stench of dishonesty, and this nun dissembled poorly.
Her eyes were a touch too wide, the tremble in her lower lip just a trifle overdone.
