With a cold shock, he realised that Gruon had been almost directly outside the entrance to the Breeder pen. The explosion might have been channelled straight into the roundhouse!
'How's everybody else?” he asked, his voice panicky and his eyes wide as he tried to scramble to his feet. “The Breeders, the others-'
'It's not pretty, Lord Baron,” the General said, putting a firm hand on the Questor's right shoulder. “I won't sugar-coat it for you or try to pretend otherwise. Three Breeders are dead; a dozen others are injured; Questor Guy's lost his eyebrows and most of his beard. Erik was lucky enough to fall into a crowd of Brianstonians who broke his fall; he has a badly sprained ankle. Numal's concussed.'
'Crest and Tordun; what about them, General?'
The soldier's grip on his shoulder tightened. “Tordun may have lost his sight, Lord Baron. We don't know yet-'
'And Crest? What about Crest?” Grimm cried, his voice an octave above its normal register.
'Crest is dead, Lord Baron,” Shakkar rumbled. “He had his back to the full force of the blast. It is only because of him that the death toll is not worse.'
Grimm groaned, feeling hot tears prickling at his eyes and a lump in his throat. He had never been close to the half-elf; nobody was, save Harvel. However, he had known the nimble, resourceful thief since his very first Quest. The cheerful exchange of insults between Crest and his foppish friend had brightened up some dark times; now, that morale-boosting banter would be lost.
I did this! Grimm slapped a hand over his eyes in an attempt to blot out the thought of the loss of his companion. Just because I wanted to show Guy I was the stronger mage!
He bit his trembling lower lip, shaking with the effort not to break down as he had after his first abortive expedition in the astral plane.
'Four dead here; maybe a score more outside the walls,” Quelgrum said. “With the doors wide open, Gruon could have torched all of us, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have rested until everyone in Brianston was dead. That's not much consolation right now, I know, but that's warfare.'
'I didn't have to wake him up!” The words ripped through Grimm's larynx like blades. “I could have let him sleep on, and we'd have been out of here by now. Crest would still be alive.'
'Do you think the Brianstonians would have been willing to take the risk of allowing Gruon to wake?” Shakkar demanded. “They might have been happy to let us leave, but, sooner or later, they would have started their sacrifices again. If not, they would have been facing a massacre. You have ended the slavery of generations of mortals. You should feel proud of that.'
Grimm tried to concentrate, but he could not tear his mind from the image of the living Crest, arguing with his bosom friend, Harvel.
'I don't,” Grimm said, fighting his combative emotions. “Maybe I will in a few years, but I just feel empty right now.'
The mage knew he could not face the Breeders or his other companions at this time, and that inaction might make him increasingly morbid. Part of him wanted to raze this abomination to the ground, to destroy every living Revenant and Dreamster, whilst another recognised the irrational hatred within him.
'I need to see Murar,” Grimm said, in a harsh monotone, “right now. Is he still alive?” With a grunt, he managed to rise to his feet and remain upright.
The General's brow furrowed. “Is that wise, Lord Baron?'
Grimm looked the old soldier right in the eyes. “Let me get this straight, General,” he said. “I want to kill the old bastard with every fibre of my being. But I won't. Before we leave here, I want to ensure that every Realster here is respected and treated the same as any other Brianstonian. I also want to get our wagon and supplies back. If you won't come with me, I'll go alone. When we've finished, we'll be on our way.'
Shakkar and Quelgrum exchanged worried glances. “We'll go with you, Lord Grimm,” the General said. “You may be a little… unpopular right now, if the truth gets out. You did kill their ‘god', after all.'
Grimm tried to smile, but he knew that his mouth had just twisted into a humourless, twisted grimace. “I don't care about, ‘popular',” he growled. “Right now, I'd be happy with ‘feared'. If that's the only reaction I can muster, I'll be satisfied.
'Redeemer!'
The obedient, indestructible staff slapped into his open palm. Not waiting for a reaction from his companions, Grimm began to stride out of the massive crater, his confidence increasing as his legs grew stronger.
As he rounded the corner, with the demon and the soldier at his back, he saw a crowd of weeping Brianstonians. One of them wore the robes of a Revenant, and he pointed at the mage. “That's Uncle's killer,” he spat, his face contorted in a grimace of rage. “He-'
'And how many of you were killed by your so-called ‘loving Uncle'?” Grimm demanded, cutting the Revenant off. “If death's all you want, I can oblige you right now, you dragon-loving vampire! Where's Murar?
'I asked where Murar is, blood-drinker! Answer me!'
The force of the mage's demand, aided by just a hint of magical Compulsion, seemed to mollify the Revenant, but he still retained a trace of defiance.
'How do I know you won't hurt him?'
'You don't,” Grimm snarled. “I can destroy Brianston and all of you in it, including Murar, if you want. Don't test my temper-you'll come off worse, I promise you.'
The Revenant said nothing, but one of the Dreamsters pointed towards the shattered remnants of Gruon's temple. “He's leading a vigil,” she said, a middle-aged woman with a soot-stained face, with clear streaks marking the passage of tears. “Just go away and do whatever you want-murderer.'
The crowd parted to let Grimm through, but they jostled him as he walked by, muttering imprecations at him.
Murderer, Traitor's Spawn; it's all the same, Grimm thought. Nobody likes me…
Except for Drex, he thought, as the image of his illicit love filled his mind. I'll spare this worthless bunch of dragon-worshippers for her sake.
'I won't harm Murar,” he muttered to himself, his voice dull and unemotional as he marched through the restless mass of Brianstonians in his tattered, scorched robes.
Lizaveta gazed into her crystal as the dragon lowered his golden, magnificent head towards the tiny figure of Grimm Afelnor.
A shame, she thought. He would have proved a useful consort… still, I thought that even he might have problems with Brianston. Oh, well… what?
The young Questor muttered a phrase the Prioress could not hear, and he leapt straight into the gaping maw of Gruon.
Suicide?
Her mental question was answered in a moment, as the golden creature exploded in a tumultuous shower of flame. The green globe grew hot in her hands, and she jerked them from its surface in pain, feeling her palms sting as she did so.
She fell back in her comfortable chair, wiping damp, white tendrils of hair from her face. Her long bones pained her, as pangs of rheumatism tormented them, but she was no stranger to pain; it told her she was still alive. Nonetheless, although she would never have admitted it to another, she felt the accumulated burden of many, many years. Young Afelnor had become harder and harder to scry, as his power grew and multiplied.
That was so like dear Loras at the same age, she thought, to charge into the breach so thoughtlessly.
She turned to the girl crouched by her side. “Grimm Afelnor is dead,” she said, with a deep sigh.
'That is a shame,” Weranda replied. “I had visions of him begging for mercy at my feet.'
'That is life, Sister. However, you still have your vocation: something nobody can take from you.'
Sister Weranda bowed, touching her forehead to the floor. “That, my Lady, is a great comfort for me,” she said. “I thank the Order for my salvation, and I look forward to serving you in the future.'
Lizaveta sighed. She found it hard to clear the image of the callow, impetuous young mage from her mind. “Carry on, Novice,” she muttered. “It will soon be time for the evening Devotions.
