He lay on a straw pallet in a large barn, since the Anjarians had been unable to find more comfortable accommodation for someone of his size. Dimly remembering how he had thrashed and kicked whilst delirious, he understood only too well their desire to limit the destruction he could cause. Even in his weakened state, he was capable of wreaking considerable havoc.
Nonetheless, he had no complaints about his basic lodgings. They were capacious and well-lit from several high openings that also let in plenty of fresh air. Shakkar disliked the cramped, constricting chambers which humans seemed to prefer, and the wooden structure seemed more than adequate to his needs.
He heard the barn door creak, and he turned his head to see the bald-headed, spare form of his physician, Porpitt.
'Good morning, Doctor Porpitt,” he rumbled.
'Well met, Lord Shakkar,” the doctor said with a cheerful, breezy air, despite his formal Mage Speech. “How do you feel on this fine day? You look much better than when I first saw you.'
Shakkar raised himself from his straw pallet and swung his arms in a series of wide arcs, feeling the counter-play of the opposing sets of muscles beneath his tough, leathery skin. He felt some soreness and stiffness in the joints, but he expected this after the last few days’ immobility.
Grunting in satisfaction, he flexed his wings several times, feeling a little tightness in the scar tissue on his side, but no pain. For the first time since the disease seized him, his mind was clear.
'I feel in excellent health, Doctor,” he declared, moulding his sharp-fanged mouth into his nearest approximation of a human smile. “I owe you my life, and I thank you.'
Porpitt shrugged. “You were very ill indeed, Lord Demon,” he said. “I feared for your life on several occasions-I have never seen the sickness advance with such fury. I wish I could take full credit for your condition, but your underworld physique and an unexpected abatement of the disease played the greater part in your recovery.'
'You are too modest,” protested Shakkar, shaking his head, now free from dizziness and pain. “Your expertise was paramount.'
Porpitt rubbed his lined brow with the back of his right hand. “I have treated the Night Ones’ wounds before,” he said, “but not often. One or two of the creatures have been known to walk abroad on occasion, and most Anjarians know well enough to stay indoors at these times: we have nocturnal lookouts, whose sole job is to watch for the Night Ones’ approach and to warn us by ringing the town bell, although the monsters never stray far from their earthy beds. I have saved wanderers from small scratches and bites, but you had long, deep gashes all down your right side and your back. The watchmen told me that it was as if the whole graveyard erupted the night you were attacked. The Night Ones usually wander only in small groups.'
Shakkar grunted. “I do not believe the undead monsters arose of their own accord, Doctor,” he said, “I believe they were summoned.'
'Summoned? I've studied these monstrosities in some depth, Lord Shakkar. Even a powerful Necromancer can only call one or two of them. It's said that the graveyard at Merrydeath Road was the scene of an ancient battle between two mighty mages, and the continued restlessness of the cadavers is due to lingering energies from the confrontation.'
The demon said, “I think the undead warriors were summoned by witchcraft. It does not seem to function on the same principles as Thaumaturgy.” He frowned. “If the battle was so long ago, Doctor, then why were some of the animated corpses so uncorrupted?'
Porpitt pursed his lips, as if unsure how to reply at first. Then he nodded. “I haven't been able to save all the victims, and Merrydeath Road is the only logical place to bury the bodies. We daren't inter them here. The Night Ones may pass their walking curse on to their victims, and our religion forbids cremation.
'We bury them with full ceremony at high noon, when the Night Ones are dormant.'
Shakkar nodded. “A prudent precaution,” he said, after a while. “Now, Doctor, how may I repay you for your care and your compassion? I am needed in Rendale, and I dare not delay longer. I carry no money with me, but I have access to considerable funds from the Crarian city coffers.'
Porpitt shook his head. “The city fathers of Anjar pay me an adequate salary and a bonus payment for each person I treat,” he said. “I cannot accept additional payment just for doing my job-especially since I have no idea why your illness came to such a swift end, and I played little part in that.
'If you insist on doing something for me, all I ask is that you recommend me as a physician to any ailing person you may meet around here… and that you take care to steer clear of zombies in the future.'
Shakkar smiled again, finding that the expression came to him more easily this time. “I will do so with pleasure, Doctor Porpitt,” he said. “I regret that I cannot stay longer in Anjar, but I ask that you thank Mayor Peder and his colleagues for the hospitality you have shown me during my stay here. I hope to show my gratitude to you in a more tangible fashion later, but I regret that my presence in Rendale is imperative.'
Porpitt nodded. “I understand, Lord Seneschal,” he said. “I am happy that you're quite recovered now. You seem to be a person of some importance, and I don't want to delay your urgent mission any longer than necessary. If you run into any unexpected problems in Rendale, I advise you to apply to the Priory. The Sisters of Divine Mercy will be more than happy to help you, I'm sure. They are frequent and valued visitors here in Anjar.'
Shakkar nodded. “The Priory will be my first port of call,” he rumbled, looking over his shoulder as he headed for the barn door. “Goodbye, good physician, and thank you.'
Grimm realised his mouth had dropped open, and he closed it again. Lizaveta had touched a raw nerve. He had sworn to redeem his family name; he had even named his Mage Staff ‘Redeemer'.
He first learned of the Prioress’ role in his grandfather's betrayal while fighting for his life in the Pit at Yoren, and he had vowed to destroy her.
Now, the old woman offered to prove Loras’ innocence of the charge of attempted murder in exchange for the freedom of her spirit to wander.
It did not ring true She won't be happy to roam the world as a disembodied spirit, he thought. She'll go in search of some poor, blameless witch and possess her body as she has Drex's-if she has any intention of ever doing so. For all I know, Drex is already dead.
His fists clenched and unclenched in indecision, and he touched his brow to Redeemer, trying to order his whirling thoughts.
How to tell if Drex's shade still resided in her body? He could astrally project and search for her, but that would leave his own body inert and vulnerable. He had no intention of according Lizaveta the least advantage.
'How do I know you haven't just destroyed or evicted Drex's spirit?” he demanded. “Let me talk to her. If she's there, let her come out, and stay out. If not, I'll tear this whole Hell-cursed place down around your ears. I don't want another word from you until we arrive at High Lodge.'
'Very well, Questor,” the Prioress said, after a brief pause. She shut her eyes-Drex's eyes!-and, after a few moments, opened them again.
'I trust you are satisfied, rapist! Does your victory taste sweet? I would die a thousand deaths for the Reverend Mother, and the only reason I do not kill myself now is that she needs me. Rest assured that, although you may be able to force yourself upon me, you will never have my spirit or my heart.'
Grimm's heart surged. Although these were not the words he wanted to hear, he recognised it at once as Drex's Priory-moulded diction, rather than Lizaveta's crude attempt at deception.
'I never forced myself upon you, Drex,” he said in a soft voice, “and I never will. I'm just glad you're still alive. I won't lay a hand on you without your explicit permission.'
Drex snorted, her eyes bulging in apparent fury. “Then you be waiting full long time… that is, I have not the slightest intention of surrendering to your foul, masculine demands. And you will call me Sister Weranda; I will no longer answer to any other appellation from either of you-the foul rapist or the old lecher.'
Grimm suppressed a relieved smile: the brief return of her unmistakable Grivense street patois told him that his Drex, still existed, buried under the Order's brutal conditioning.
'I can accept that, Sister Weranda,” he said. “However, will you agree to go to High Lodge without trying to use magic on me?'
