barred entry to the courtyard.
'You, there!” Shakkar boomed to one of the watchmen, who wore corporals’ stripes on his uniform. “Is Sergeant Erik here?'
The corporal, in contrast to his youthful companions, was a grizzled veteran of maybe forty years, and he strode up to the barrier with a confident air, looking the demon straight in the eye.
'He is, Lord Seneschal,” the corporal said, “but we have orders that he is not to be disturbed. If you'd like to come back-'
'Your orders are cancelled.” Shakkar hissed, looming over the man. “I will see Erik right now. Is that quite clear?” He punctuated his demands with a threatening growl, just in case the slow-witted mortal had misunderstood his purpose.
The two younger guards, their faces pale, moved to the large double doors at the entrance to the building, presenting their puny weapons in a half-hearted manner.
'Lord Seneschal, you don't have the right to cancel the order,” the older soldier said in a calm, deliberate voice, as if addressing a naughty child. “I take my orders from-'
'Damn your orders!” the infuriated demon yelled, splintering the barrier to fragments with a single blow of his scaly, taloned hand. “That for your orders! Fetch Sergeant Erik, or I will pound this building into dust!'
The younger guards pulled their weapons into their shoulders, pointing them straight at the demon.
'Hold your fire!” the corporal snapped, before turning back to Shakkar.
'I advise you not to threaten us, Lord Seneschal,” he said in a low voice. “We've got far more powerful weapons than this; powerful enough even for you, I think. Sure, you can kill me with one hand tied behind your back, but there are many of us; can you kill us all? If you want a war, we'll give you one. Do you want to start it right here? I won't try to stop you if you do-I can't stop you. Go ahead.'
The infuriating human laid his weapon on the ground and bowed his head before Shakkar!
How dare you, you impudent sack of skin! I could…
Despite the anger that had compressed the demon's mind to a dense, burning ball of resolve, the Seneschal found himself beginning to admire this weak, pathetic parcel of mortal flesh.
He had killed many men in his long life, and he had even eaten a few during his long incarceration on Starmor's dismal punishment pillar. He had never enjoyed the act, but he had regarded the miserable mortals that Starmor had seen fit to send him as little more than unfortunate animals; pathetic livestock to be consumed as required.
The stripling mage, Grimm Afelnor, had shown him the nobility that resided within certain men. Since then, he had met many other humans who bore the same stamp of courage against considerable odds. This was one such man, and Shakkar felt a stab of compassion. His argument was not with this corporal, who was just fulfilling his duties as best he could, but with the lax guards at the Tower. He could not, in conscience, kill this man.
As if he had read the Seneschal's mind, the soldier raised his head. “Now, Lord Seneschal: would you like me to ask Sergeant Erik if he'll see you on urgent business?'
'Yes,” the demon mumbled. “Please.” He added the last word almost as an afterthought; nonetheless, he felt that the courageous soldier deserved his full respect.
'If you wouldn't mind waiting here, I won't be a moment, Sir,” the corporal said, turning his back on Shakkar and striding towards the doors, with a measured gait.
Shakkar could not be sure, but he thought he heard the man exhale forcefully. The act meant nothing to him, but he guessed it was a human indication of relief.
Feeling foolish, the demon stood behind the smashed remains of the barrier, while the two remaining guards held their weapons in trembling hands. He knew these two young fools posed no threat to him, but he waited nonetheless.
At last, Sergeant Erik emerged, in the company of a man Shakkar recognised: Lieutenant-Colonel Shandimar, Quelgrum's second-in-command. Neither man appeared to be armed.
'Now, what's all this, Lord Seneschal?” Shandimar demanded, a tall man with silver hair. “We're having an important security conference, and we-'
'My issue concerns security, Colonel,” Shakkar growled, remembering his purpose. “Lady Drexelica has been abducted, from right under the noses of his so-called ‘guards'!” The demon indicated Erik with a single, clawed digit.
The Colonel raised an eyebrow, which, Shakkar had learned, indicated surprise in mortals. “Is this true, Sergeant?” he demanded.
'I don't know, Sir,” the hapless Erik confessed. “It's the first I've heard of it-'
'It is true,” Shakkar shouted. “She is not in the Tower, and the watchmen claim that nobody has been in or out since midnight: since your watch, Sergeant Erik!'
Shandimar turned to Shakkar, his eyes gleaming like blue diamonds. “We'll get to the bottom of this straight away, Lord Seneschal.'
Turning back to Erik, the Colonel said, “I want all the Tower guards brought here at once, Sergeant. If you've got to wake them up, do so! I want to know if our sentries have been slack in their duties, and I'll have the balls of any man who has shirked his responsibilities! Is that clear, Sergeant?'
'Yes, Sir!'
The Sergeant accompanied this bark with a salute so crisp that it threatened to remove the top of his head.
As far as Shakkar knew, the Sergeant's response was the only one a soldier could make to a senior officer's direct order, but Erik appeared sincere in his fervour.
'Bring the Gate guards as well, Sergeant!” the officer yelled, as Erik strode away. “Whatever happened, Lady Drexelica's abductors must have gone through the Gate!'
'Yes, Sir!” came the swift response. Shakkar had often heard sullen overtones in these two words, spoken by other men, but there were none on this occasion.
'I want somebody's head for this, Colonel,” Shakkar growled.
'If negligence, or any lapse in discipline, is at the root of this issue, you can rest assured that the guilty man, or men, will be punished, Lord Seneschal,” Shandimar said. “We'll get to the bottom of this.'
The monotonous words of Melana's-Sister Melana's-litany dropped into Drexelica's mind like pennies thrown into a deep well. She had been determined to resist at first, earning many blows from the whips of the two ever- present Novices. She recognised the tell-tale signs of fatigue, and she had begun to respond to Sister Melana's prompts with greater alacrity, just to avoid further chastisement and blurring of her mind.
At first, her inner mantra had been ‘I'm just pretending to go along with them', but she had long since forgotten this prideful mantra.
Drexelica had lost count of the number of times she had been forced to shout, “Blessed be the Order', and her voice was scratchy and hoarse. She felt her head beginning to swim, and she tried to focus on the altar in front of her. She had not eaten for well over a day, and she had slept no more than two hours in that time. Hunger and exhaustion were now her constant companions, and her vision was becoming blurry and grey.
At least she no longer noticed the aches and pains in her body, brought on by many hours of kneeling on a hard stone floor in a rigid attitude of prayer. Her watchful Novice attendants seemed to lash her less frequently now, but Drexelica scarcely noticed. She no longer understood the words she chanted, yet she lived only for her cue to speak.
'So let it be.” Sister Melana's voice seemed to come from the far end of a long tunnel.
'Blessed be the Order!” Drexelica croaked, swaying from side to side. Only the dogged desire not to betray weakness sustained her, but even that was now fading.
'That's all for today, slut.'
'Blessed be the Order,” Drex whispered.
As if in a dream, she felt herself lifted up. Her legs seemed unable to obey her commands; she vaguely registered the fact that they trailed behind her like useless, wasted appendages as the acolytes dragged her from the small temple.
