was a very different discipline to Thaumaturgy, and it must have different rules and precepts. Slowly, carefully, he began to turn, assessing the concentration of Geomantic power in each quadrant.
Ah; there it is, he thought, detecting the direction of increasing magical flux. West it is. This will be something new to present to the Mage Scholars if or when I get back.
He smiled. “Thank you, Lizaveta,” he muttered. “Without your gentle attentions, I'd never have made this useful discovery.'
With a determined tread, he walked towards his goal.
Grimm lost count of the twists and turns as he descended into the bowels of Rendale Priory, but there was no mistaking the acrid odour's ever-increasing intensity. He passed several nuns on the way, but none impeded his progress or challenged him. With each deeper level he met fewer women, until the corridors were deserted.
The sulphurous smell was almost overpowering, as Grimm approached a black, gnarled door, and he felt this must be the entrance to the Lower Chapel. Taking a deep breath, he twisted the iron ring and stepped inside.
The place was cold and forbidding. Although several brightly-flickering torches lit the chamber, Grimm had the overwhelming and contradictory sensation of utter darkness. Realising he no longer needed his new magical sense to guide him, he dismissed it, and the scene cleared.
'Friend Grimm!” a familiar voice squeaked to his right, and he turned to see an ornate cage of grey metal hanging from the ceiling, its bars closely-spaced. Inside it stood the tiny form of Thribble, jumping up and down in agitation, causing the cage to swing from side to side.
'I knew you would come,” the netherworld creature said. “Something about these bars prevents me from using my powers of translocation; please let me out.'
Grimm smiled. “It's good to see you, Thribble, I imagine they're made of pure iron-the metal seems to block magic. Don't worry. I'll soon have you out of there.'
The cage's delicate-looking, ornate padlock looked a likely target.
'Stand back, Thribble,” he counselled, hoisting Redeemer. With a single blow, the staff shattered the lock, and the cage door swung open.
Grimm held out his left hand, and the demon jumped into it with a joyous cry.
'You must tell me of your adventures since we were parted,” the demon shrilled. “I want to hear everything. All that ugly old woman ever did was to set me swinging here and mock me. I need more stories.'
'Later, Thribble,” Grimm said, opening his pocket for his friend to hop inside. “I have a more urgent task to perform right now.'
'Very well, human,” the minuscule demon grumbled, hopping into the pocket. “I will wait,” he added in his now-muffled falsetto.
Scanning the floor, Grimm made out a shallow, but distinct hollow in the flagstones. Just as in High Lodge, the stones were set in dry mortar, a perfect medium to absorb sacrificial blood.
'It must be here,” he muttered. “All I have to do is to get the blood out, and this damn Priory should lose its power.'
He knelt in the centre of the depression, his mind reaching deep into the earth as he gathered his power and began to chant. He soon felt the pull of the lost souls trapped in the soil beneath the Chapel. As he concentrated on them, he became aware of a thin, red mist filling the room, and he smiled.
The spirits of a bleating lamb, a new-born baby, a goat and a full-grown woman escaped the clutches of the earth, each rejoicing with its new-found freedom after… how long? He did not know, but he felt happiness at their release.
Still the red mist poured into the Chapel, getting thicker and thicker, and he sneezed. The ruddy fountain darkened the chamber, showing no sign of weakening, but Grimm did not stop.
As his eyes began to water, he raised his right hand and screamed “Ajer'ning mand'krint!'
He added more power. Another, more vicious, spell, and the hole widened and became more ragged, extending to the next level up, and the next.
The souls of birds, pigs, men, lizards and other species flew away in increasing numbers, but the dusty flow of dried blood did not diminish. Coughing, his eyes streaming, Grimm blasted an opening all the way to the roof of the Priory, shooting the ruddy powder into the late afternoon sky.
The mage heard a low groan from beneath the floor, and he felt the whole building tremble, but he now felt unable to stop himself. The whole Priory was soaked in blood, founded on it, and he was determined to free Rendale from its pernicious influence. Laughing and crying in equal measures, he continued to reach down, down into the very bedrock beneath the Chapel, with no further care for his life or his safety.
All that remained was the desire to free these imprisoned souls.
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Chapter 21: Collapse
Shakkar strode from the barn into the bright morning sunlight, took a deep breath and flexed his wide, leathery wings. To his immense satisfaction, his body seemed in fine shape, and he began to exercise, as he had often seen Baron Grimm do in the early morning.
A few Anjarians stopped what they were doing to watch him, but only for a few moments. As the demon finished his impromptu callisthenics, the townspeople and shopkeepers turned away, returning to their seemingly customary haggling.
It is a good day to fly, he thought, admiring the way the fields shimmered and shone like fine gold: something he had never appreciated before in his long life. He found unexpected pleasure also in the cheerful twitter and warble of the birds in the trees. After another deep, satisfied breath, he flapped his wings, which bore him aloft without effort.
Shakkar used the thermals and air currents with the unthinking intuition of a creature born to fly, without the least consideration or understanding of the principles of aerodynamics. Sheer instinct guided him, telling him when to twist a wing; when to shift his centre of mass; when to beat his wings just that little bit harder. He revelled in the incomparable freedom of flight, rejoicing in his restored strength.
Woe betide you, Prioress Lizaveta, and your cohorts! he thought, baring his teeth. Tremble, mortals, for Shakkar, the Mighty and Indomitable, approaches!
He had never thought of himself in these terms before, but he was beginning to appreciate the sense of confidence and power such grandiose titles often gave humans, enabling them to overcome odds disproportionate to their size and strength. He remembered the mantra he had heard Baron Grimm mutter on occasion: “I am strength! I am power!'
'I am vengeance,” the demon growled, his eyes almost closed against the wind caused by his passage through the air.
After perhaps five minutes of flight, he felt a growing, burning sensation in his chest and back, and he began to wonder if his proud words had been uttered in haste. He reduced his speed, trying to favour the aching muscles and tendons, but the pain grew worse, until it seemed as if some sadistic interrogator had thrust red-hot blades under his flesh. He struggled on until the pain became unbearable, and he then banked his wings and descended to the ground. To his chagrin, he saw the mighty Priory as a mere dot on the horizon, and he knew he still had many miles to cover. He trudged through the tall grass of the field in which he had landed, until he reached the road. He began to stride down the long thoroughfare with the resolute, mile-eating tread he had seen Quelgrum's men use on many occasions.
His leg muscles now began to ache and tremble, too, and he felt mortified by the thought that mere mortals could march for many hours without tiring. He, Shakkar, a demon of the highest caste, felt exhausted after only minutes.
He knew his recent sickness and convalescence, brief though it had been, must have sapped much of his strength and endurance. To Shakkar, his physical superiority over humans had been an axiom, a self-evident fact.
