Grimm and his companions.'
'Thank you for your invaluable advice, Sergeant,” the demon growled, allowing a dull, sarcastic tone to creep into his voice. “I am glad you are here to make these insightful observations. Kindly restrict your opinions to the matter in hand.'
'Yes, Sir! The matter in hand; I understand, Sir!'
Shakkar noted the soldier's stiff, inexpressive face, and he guessed that the impudent mortal was hiding amusement. This enraged him all the more, and he felt his tail flicking back and forth in autonomous agitation.
At last, it seemed that Erik could hold in his mirth no longer, and a brief snort escaped his nose.
Shakkar rose to his full height and bared his steak-knife fangs, his wings spread like a flamboyant cape, but he realised with a sudden shock just how unreasonable-how human-was his anger.
Erik's face paled, but he held his ground. “I'm sorry, Lord Seneschal,” he said in a serious tone. “I apologise for my unforgivable impertinence. I had no cause to mock you, and I regret my rash, disrespectful attitude. I should know better by now than to sound off at my seniors.'
The man's heels clicked together, and he stiffened into a pose of attention, his right hand flicking into position at his temple. All traces of impudence had disappeared, and the soldier appeared to have resigned himself to whatever fate held in store for him.
Well done, Shakkar, the demon thought. You have browbeaten a mere mortal into submission with a show of force. What will you do now-rend him limb from limb for his effrontery or acknowledge that your actions and attitudes have been unreasonable? Which takes the greater courage?
As the mortal retained his perfect, parade-ground stance, Shakkar sighed.
'Very well, Sergeant,” he said, with some effort. “I will overlook your behaviour on this occasion. I acknowledge some small faults of my own: I was not quite truthful when I told you I was not fatigued after our long journey; and my temper has not been all that it might have been, in my eagerness to requite our mission. You have tendered me an apology, so I, as a demon, can do no less. I am sorry, Sergeant.'
'That's very good of you, Lord Seneschal, but as an experienced soldier, I should have known better-my fault was the greater one, Sir.'
For the first time in his life, Shakkar found himself extending his hand toward a human without showing his claws. The mortal took it, grasping the ends of the demon's fingers.
'Well met, Lord Seneschal. It takes a big man to admit-I'm sorry, Sir, I mean…'
The man's face was a wide-eyed mask of confusion.
Shakkar began to wonder if being classed as human was quite the insult he had thought.
These puny beings, so ill-equipped to face the unforgiving world without the aid of contrivances and tools, must live in constant terror of a greater force. And yet, they still throve and flourished, often masking fear and misgiving with mockery and humour. Just like Shakkar denying his weakness, this mortal was hiding his fear, prepared to die rather than submit to his baser emotions.
Questor Grimm did the same thing when I confronted him. I could have killed him in an instant, but he bowed his head before me, refusing to betray his honour. Perhaps these strange creatures are not as weak as I thought.
'I do not object to the label, Sergeant,” the demon grunted. “Inaccurate as it was, I take it in the spirit in which it was bestowed. Let us continue.'
'Yes, Sir!” The human offered another formal salute. However, this was no mechanical response; Shakkar saw genuine respect, and even warmth, in his gesture.
'I will add one corollary, Sergeant.” Shakkar raised an admonitory finger. “What has passed between us will go no further-is that understood?'
'Yes, Sir!'
I imagine that we both know each other a little better now, the netherworld creature mused. But if Erik ever tells another mortal soul of this, I will-
'Why, you're just as human as the rest of us, aren't you, demon?” The Sergeant's muttered words rose anew in Shakkar's head, and the demon suppressed a wry grin. There had been more truth in this verdict than he had been willing to acknowledge.
As the wagon rolled into the centre of Brianston, Grimm saw people beginning to line the street, cheering and clapping.
'This is more like it, eh, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum said over the clamour. “It's nice to be appreciated for a change!'
Grimm scanned the massed auras, but he could find no traces of emotion other than joy, happiness and a deep, unreserved love: the attentive audience's reaction appeared to be genuine and unforced. He remembered the ensorcelled people of Crar, puppets in the power of Starmor, carrying out stereotypical roles with enforced enthusiasm-this looked utterly different.
'Indeed, they really seem to love us, General! But it does make me wonder just why. I think we should carry on.'
'Agreed, Lord Grimm; it does seem strange. Still, at least they're not attacking us.'
'I can't feel any magic, either,” the Questor replied. “Whatever this is about, the happiness seems to be real. It does worry me, though.'
'Perhaps we should just take it as it comes, Lord Baron.” The General gave an airy gesture of his right hand. “Maybe they just love us, after all. Should we knock it?'
The massed crowds now began to swarm all around the wagon, patting it like a favourite pet. Some people even kissed it.
Grimm heard a soft, rhythmic susurration in the throng, rising in volume and resolving into words: “Welcome, strangers… welcome, strangers.'
Fevered fingers began to pluck at the fabric covering of the wagon, and the General turned to Grimm. His wide smile had now gone.
'Lord Baron, I suggest we get out of here as quickly as possible; this is getting a bit extreme.'
'I agree, General. I don't think these people are possessed, but they're beginning to scare me.'
He flicked the reins, but the sheer mass of human bodies was too much for the horses to resist. They whinnied and strained, their eyes wide and terrified, but they made no headway against the enormous crowd.
As hands danced around him, trying to catch his uniform, the General stood up and shouted at the crowd.
'We appreciate your kind reception, good people, but I'd ask you to move aside. The horses are getting nervous, and I don't want anyone to be hurt. Move on, now! The show's over!'
A ripple of rapturous applause arose from the increasing horde, but the General's words seemed to have had no other effect.
The horses tramped and neighed, and one of them lashed out with a fore-hoof, catching a daring Brianstonian on the temple and sending him flying. This did not appear to dampen the enthusiasm of the unfortunate man's fellows in the least. The coach began to rock from side to side, and the General unshouldered his weapon and unleashed a stuttering burst of fire over the heads of the crowd.
'That's your last warning, people! If you don't disperse now, I'll have to open fire on you. I have no wish to do that, but-'
Grimm felt the cart beginning to overbalance as the crowd encroached on it. The horses snorted and stamped, with bared teeth and wide eyes, but this seemed not to deter the rapturous mob in the least.
'Everybody out!” he yelled. “We've got a fight on our hands!'
He raised Redeemer and leapt into the crowd as the wagon fell onto its side with a tumultuous smash. Lashing out with the magically-hard staff, he felled the Brianstonians in heaps, but there always seemed to be more of them happy to fill the breaches, clambering over their fallen companions in their eagerness to reach the adventurers.
