did just that. The real trial begins now. Once the genie has escaped from the bottle, it cannot be replaced.'
Prioress Lizaveta had spoken those words an age before, and Drex had replied, “You haven't beaten me yet, bitch. I'll resist you with every fibre of my being, and I'll curse you with every breath. At the first chance I get, I'll kill myself. You won't have me.'
Other forgotten words began to balloon into her soul, swelling it and strengthening it, although Drex tried her best to suppress them:
'Roast in Hell, bitch.'
'At least she won't be able to use me against Grimm. I hope he rips her heart out!'
'I'll see you in Hell before I'll submit to you, bitch!'
'You'll have to do better than that, you old cow! I've been beaten by the best, and you aren't even close! Grimm will…'
Drex gasped in pain as the angry phrases battered into her bruised psyche. The voice was hers, but she could not, would not believe that she had ever spoken such words to her beloved teacher.
'Sister…” Mercia's voice was sharp, insistent.
'Shut up!” Drex cried, although the words came out as a hoarse bark that was almost smothered by the noise of the wagon's passage.
'Please, Sister, leave me in peace!'
She was not even sure if Mercia had heard this final, impassioned plea.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 37: Realisation
Grimm felt his eyelids growing heavy, and his head began to nod as the wagon's metronomic rattle and the soft birdsong from the trees began to unwind the tense knots in his nerves and muscles. The sun's warm, morning rays seemed to fill his body with lassitude and long-denied, blessed acceptance.
He was Grimm Dragonblaster, a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank. He was Grimm Afelnor, the son and grandson of poor blacksmiths. He was the wealthy Baron Grimm of Crar. He was a Weapon of the Guild; a destroyer. He was a passionate young man and a would-be lover, from whom the Guild's misogynistic dictates and the Geomantic wiles of an evil, disembodied woman had stripped the solace he sought. He was a lonely man who longed to restore the good name of his grandfather.
I'm all these people, he thought, abandoning the effort to keep his eyes open. Why deny it? Why fight it? My life may be one of conflict and struggle, but at least it isn't tedious or humdrum. The world provides me with more than enough conflict, without me adding to it by fighting myself.
He thought of his staunchest friend and ally, Questor Dalquist, so earnest and dedicated. Dalquist had suffered, destroyed and struggled for longer than Grimm had, but he remained good-natured and even-tempered, at ease with himself.
Dalquist has come to terms with the contradictions in his life, he told himself. He doesn't seem to agonise about every decision and every action the way I do. Being a Questor doesn't have to turn a man into an unfeeling monster, so why am I working to turn myself into one? Dalquist knows what I am, and he doesn't hate me, so why must I?
If I could onlyHis eyes jerked open as the wagon lurched backwards and to the right, and his injured hip and ribs clamoured for his attention, drawing a sharp, agonised gasp from him. The vehicle emitted a groaning scream and heeled over to the right, and he saw General Quelgrum struggle to bring the horses to a halt, soothing the whickering animals with a few soft words. He heard a series of startled cries from inside the vehicle as he rubbed his left hip and willed the pain to subside.
'No need to panic, friends,” the General declared. “Something's broken.'
Grimm slid down from the side of the wagon, taking care to land on his right foot. Using Redeemer as a crutch, he hobbled around to the right side of the vehicle as the other travellers spilled out of it to inspect the damage.
'We've lost a wheel,” Sergeant Erik said, pointing to the misshapen article. Grimm saw that at least two spokes had splintered.
Mercia leaned over to inspect the shattered wheel. “Can we mend it?” she asked, her eyes wide.
'Not a chance, Sister,” Erik replied, shaking his head. “We'd need a carpenter's lathe and a forge.'
Drex stood with her arms crossed over her chest, and Mercia looked upwards, as if the sky might give her help.
'How far is Anjar behind us?” Grimm asked, after a few moments of silence. “From what you said, Shakkar, they're decent people.'
'I would guess Anjar lies about forty miles from us, Lord Baron,” the grey demon rumbled. “I could fly there and back within a day-'
'With the greatest respect, Lord Seneschal,” Erik said, “do you really think even you could bring back a carpenter with all his tools? Or a smith and his forge?'
'We don't need a forge,” Grimm declared, shaking his head. “It will be easy to remove the tyre now. I can heat it enough to expand it so we can replace it. When it cools, it'll shrink back onto the repaired wheel and hold it tight. If you take an unbroken spoke back to Anjar, you should be able to find a carpenter to make replacements.'
Quelgrum twisted around and said, “A small problem there, Lord Baron: we have no money left. The Anjarians are generous, but they can't afford to do everything for nothing. I spent all our remaining funds on the wagon, four horses, food, drink and the physician's fees for all the injured nuns-'
'You did that, General?” Drex cried, her voice a keening yelp. “You paid for the physician's services?'
'I did, Sister,” the old soldier replied. “I found quite a lot of our money and our weapons lying on the ground around Merrydeath Road, but the zombies took a lot with them. I have no intention of trying to get it back by digging around that Names-cursed hellhole.'
'I can't argue with that, General,” Erik said.
'We may have no choice,” Mercia said and sighed.
'I may be able to help.'
The voice from the back of the wagon was soft, and it took a few moments for Grimm to realise who had spoken, before Necromancer Numal hopped down from the vehicle's tailgate.
'You?'
Drex's voice was cool and scathing, but Numal just shrugged.
Grimm felt equally dubious about the hapless Necromancer's abilities, but he kept them to himself.
If he's thinking about using Minor Magic to repair the spokes, he can forget about it, the Questor thought. Reintegration spells only work on inanimate minerals, and wood's a living substance. Still, I don't want to dishearten the man; it's good to see him volunteering to help. Perhaps a gentle reminder would be advisable, though, just to save him from embarrassment…
'Thank you so much, Necromancer Numal,” he said. “Unfortunately, my own powers don't work on living matter.'
'Dead matter, Questor Grimm,” the older mage said with a smile. “That is an important difference. I know dead things. There are a few hidden paths within the Minor Magic that only we Necromancers can follow.'
Grimm nodded, answering Numal's toothy beam with one of his own.
I've been too used to thinking of Specialists as inferior to Questors, he thought. They're just… different from us.
'What do you need, Brother Mage?” he asked Numal rubbed his thin, grey beard. “We need to collect all the splinters and shards we can find,” he declared. “The more of the original material we can assemble, the stronger the mend will be.'
'They already look fairly complete to me,” Erik said, holding up one of the broken, bottle-shaped spokes. “See? This one's cracked and splintered, but there doesn't seem to be any wood missing.'
'We need to make the spokes look as near to their original condition as possible, Sergeant,” Numal said. “Think of it like straightening a broken bone before splinting it.'
