throng of women filled the air as the huge building writhed like some maddened, chained beast snapping at a pack of tormenting hounds. A young nun, her wimple pushed back to reveal a short, ragged tangle of brown hair, raced for the open door at the far end of the hall, only to disappear in a spray of scarlet mist as a huge stone block fell on her.
Several women tried to make their way to the wide, beckoning exit beyond the rain of death. Only a few succeeded; most were felled by the tumbling missiles, and others were on their knees, praying.
Let them die! They all threw their lot in with Lizaveta and her cursed Score. They don't deserve any pity.
His right arm twitched, and Redeemer turned another pair of yellow projectiles into dust as it swung in a tight arc around his head.
You haven't much longer! Get out while you have the chance. The doorway's in sight!
They only did what she told them. So did Granfer Loras. They had no more choice than he. You can't let them die!
Redeemer flashed out again, but too late, as a fist-sized rock thudded into his left shoulder, and he felt a sharp, sickening pain as a bone snapped.
He ran forward a few steps as the pain bloomed into fiery effulgence. The building seemed to howl above him, and he screamed an instinctive spell.
'A'jakareman'e ma'jastanemik!'
The cacophony did not reduce, but the rain of stone ceased to pound on the shattered marble floor.
'Get out, everyone, NOW!” he howled in a hoarse voice. “I don't know how long I'll be able to hold this spell!'
Several nuns raced through the door, which was now wreathed in a shimmering, blue light. Grimm groaned, feeling the energy pouring from him like water from a fountain.
'Do you want to die?” the mage yelled to the remaining, still-praying women. “Get OUT!'
Most of the nuns heeded his agonised imperative, scuttling out of the crumbling building, although, a handful remained. Grimm staggered towards them, trying to impel them from the ruin by sheer force of will. One of the remaining women, he saw, was Sister Mercia, her lips moving in silent devotion.
Moving towards her, he shouted straight in her ear: “Stay here, Sister, if you wish, but I'll stay with you until the end. I don't want to be crushed by these stones, and I don't know how much longer I can hold them up. Please; for my sake, get out of here.'
Mercia completed her chant and looked up at him. “You are a destroyer,” she said. “You may reap what you have sown, if that is what you wish.'
Grimm groaned, feeling the weight of masonry bearing down on his improvised ward.
'I don't want to see a blameless woman cut down in her prime,” he croaked, his vision blurring. “Please, save yourself… and me.'
Her mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. “So, this is your idea of liberation,” she said. “You have-'
'Now!” The word tore itself from his larynx like a long splinter pulled from a wound. “Do you want to die alongside a destroyer? What purpose will that serve?'
Mercia's eyes rolled, and she rose to her feet. “Sisters,” she cried, “we can serve the Names better alive than dead. Let us take our chances in the world.'
As she ran towards the open doorway, the other nuns followed, and Grimm felt a deep surge of relief, before realising that he was alone in the collapsing Priory. Forcing life into his legs, he staggered towards the inviting arch of light. Blood pounding in his spinning head, he drove himself onwards. Inches seemed to turn to miles, and he screamed his habitual, defiant mantra as he approached the welcoming light: “I am strength! I am power!'
His strength failed in an instant, and pain and confusion vanished into blackness as the open doorway collapsed onto him.
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Chapter 22: Death and Rebirth
As Quelgrum's party approached the Priory, the General beheld a scene of utter chaos. White-robed figures milled around the grounds: some wept; some wandered aimlessly in stunned silence; others, perhaps more devout, knelt on the dusty grass and prayed. The entire area lay under a pall of yellow dust, and the Priory seemed to be in the throes of self-destruction, lurching and tottering like a drunken titan.
As he and his companions hurried through the throng, the building gave a convulsive shudder, and a thick cloud of dust belched from what, moments before, had been the imposing main entrance. The ruin gave a last, almost petulant shrug and then lay still, looking like the remains of a broken tooth.
For a moment, complete, unnatural silence reigned; the weeping nuns, and even the birds in the trees, fell quiet.
Quelgrum scanned the area for a hint of Baron Grimm's blue-and-yellow robes, but all he saw was the nuns’ dusty habits.
The General felt numb, knowing that the Baron had been down in the lowest reaches of the Priory, which must now be buried under tons of rubble.
Not even a Seventh Rank Questor could have survived that, he told himself, punctuating the thought with a deep sigh.
The poor young bastard went through so much, and for what? Was it all for nothing?
At a soft tug on his sleeve, Quelgrum turned to his left to see a small, solemn nun. Despite a thick layer of grime on her face, he recognised the young healer, Sister Mercia. Quelgrum noted her earnest, pleading expression, and he saw pink rivulets in her dusty cheeks.
'There may be other Sisters entombed in the ruins,” she whispered, her voice shaking a little. “We cannot leave them there to rot. They should be rescued or decently buried. Will you help us? Please?'
'My concern is to find Questor Grimm's body,” the General said, strong emotion sharpening his voice. “If we find any trapped Sisters while we're searching for him, and if we can move any of these huge blocks, of course we'll get them out.'
'I was foolish,” Mercia muttered. “I thought it would be better to die here, but I see no glory in such a pointless death, now. Questor Grimm destroyed the Priory; I know that. But he died to save us, at the end, and I… we…'
The young nun dissolved in a fit of tearful sobbing, and her voice failed her. Quelgrum felt a brief pang of pity, but it was soon washed away by a flood of righteous anger.
The Order tortured us and tried to make us slaves, he thought, feeling a large blood-vessel pounding in his right temple. Questor Grimm saved us from that. My pity should be for him, not for them!
'He died to save us.” Mercia's words blazed into his mind, echoing, growing louder with each reverberation.
He grasped the weeping nun's shoulders in his rough hands and turned her to face him in a single, brusque movement.
'What do you mean?” he demanded. “Do you know where Grimm was when the building collapsed? Tell me!'
Mercia hung limp in his grip, still shivering and trembling, but she nodded.
'Where?” he shouted, shaking the nun. “Tell me!” He felt a hot flush of rage, and he saw a vision of himself pulling back a hand to strike the girl. On impulse, he released her and took a step back, breathing heavily.
The nun gulped and sniffed; her eyes red and wide with fear. “It… it was in the main hall,” she said. “He cast a s-spell to stop the stones f-falling. He could have left us there… I w-wanted to stay, but he made us go. He waited until we'd left, and then he…'
She waved a feeble, limp hand at the toppled remains of the Priory. “The doorway.” She stifled a sob. “He was so close…'
Quelgrum turned around. He saw Shakkar, standing with head bowed; Numal, who looked a picture of misery; and Erik, who looked almost lost.
Drex-Sister Weranda!-knelt, lost either in prayer or exhaustion. The General could not tell which.
