Grimm Dragonblaster 5, page 10
"I almost lost my mind!” Drex cried. “Half the time, I didn't even know who I was! What more could you have done to me?"
"Plenty, my darling girl, but we didn't want to rush you.” Tears ran from the smiling Lizaveta's rheumy eyes and traced a complex path through the wrinkles on her face. “We always ensured you had just enough free will to think you had the better of us. The whole process was designed to make you burst from your shell, my dear, and it did just that. The real trial begins now. Once the genie has escaped from the bottle, it cannot be replaced.
"You were born a witch, but you were constrained by poverty, ignorance and rampant misogyny. We have brought out the full extent of your power."
Now, at last, Drex saw the Prioress’ plan, as horror threatened to overwhelm her. They had only dulled her mind and confused her until she lashed out with the power she had denied and withheld for so long.
Lizaveta leaned back in her divan, still chuckling. “From now on, Drexelica, you will have plenty to eat and all the sleep you need. We must have you in good condition if and when your lover arrives."
Drex felt her heart pounding, and she licked her dry lips with a tongue that felt like a piece of limp, dry leather. “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."
"I already have you, sweet child,” the Prioress said, exposing a mouthful of perfect, gleaming teeth.
“What do you think I did to you when I first entered this room? I can seize your own power and turn it on you whenever I want—now you've let it out, at last. You are very, very strong, and it would have taken a Great Spell to breach those defences at first. Now, I can use your own power and turn it to my own ends. You are mine, dear girl, and you will be for as long as you live."
Drex felt sick, and her head swam. She had thought herself so cunning, fighting back whenever her mind had cleared, but she had been an unwitting pawn in Lizaveta's game all the time. She had lost the match as soon as she unleashed her spell on Melana, an equally ignorant piece in the well-staged fixture. She had known nothing of the power hidden within her until that time; the Sister had played her unknowing part in honing and exposing that force in a form that Lizaveta could use. Now, the old witch would use her as a weapon against her beloved Grimm. She had lost everything in a moment of misguided, useless anger.
Lizaveta made a show of inspecting her nails before speaking further: “Your first task will be to show our dear, misguided Sister, Melana, the grave error of her ways. That will begin tomorrow; she will be allowed the night to consider and rue her misdeeds.
"This is Sister Judan: a trusted member of the Anointed Score,” the Prioress continued, indicating the ruddy-faced nun at her side. “She will be taking over your training from now on. There will be no more chants and responses; I think you know them well enough now. Instead, she will be enhancing and encouraging your spell-casting abilities, to bring you to the peak of your potential."
Drex felt the Geomantic power residing in the earth beneath the floor of Lizaveta's chamber, and she drew it into her like a breath of sweet morning air as rage rose within her.
Die, you shrivelled old hag! she screamed in her head, as she threw a bolt of magic at the ancient witch.
You showed me the way, so enjoy the trip to Hades, you whore!
Lizaveta's eyes sprung wide open, and the Prioress slumped back in the couch. For a brief moment, Drex felt a shock of success, revelling in the joy of the release of the strength she had pent up for so long.
Her inner fire was soon quenched, as she saw the old woman sit up, wearing a seraphic, almost atavistic smile.
"That was beautiful, my dear. Such gorgeous force; such lovely anger! But you have forgotten one thing I told you: your power does not belong to you anymore. It is mine, to use as I will.
"You have lost, dear girl. Never doubt it!"
Drex slumped, knowing at last that she was beaten. Despair washed through her like an all-conquering wave, and she tried to turn her own power back on herself.
"I am afraid I cannot let you do that, my dear,” Lizaveta said. “Not yet. So I deny you the gift for the nonce. You may not cast any more spells until I will it."
Drex dug deep into her fast-fading reserves of strength and found it slipping from her mental grasp like heavy, greasy tendrils of silk sliding through numb, unresponsive fingers. She despaired that she had been denied even the scant comfort of taking her own life.
"I see you are no stranger to physical pain, Drexelica. We women are strong, are we not? What man can ever understand the protracted agony of childbirth? Bodily pain is a useful tool, but a poor method of trying to control the darkest, inner recesses of a woman's mind. But there are many other ways to hurt a woman, are there not? However, I do not wish to harm you; you are far too useful to me. I am so glad you came here. Tomorrow, you will no longer be Drexelica, the common beggar girl, but a full Sister of the Order, willing and compliant."
"Roast in Hell, bitch,” the girl breathed, with the last vestiges of her defiance.
Lizaveta shook her head, in the manner of a regretful mother denying a wayward child's demand, and she rose to her feet. “I have made other arrangements, I'm afraid,” she said. “Come with me, Supplicant: I have something to show you."
Drex, denied sleep and food for many days, knew she was no match for the two women before her, and she stood up, all traces of defiance gone. Her legs felt weak, but she refused to allow them to tremble as Lizaveta led her out of the chamber.
The room led into the temple in which she had first appeared in Rendale, but it was now bare and featureless except for the gaudy throne. The gentle-looking nun, Judan, opened a door Drex knew well: the door to the grey, forbidding Lower Chapel.
"What do you think, Sister Drexelica? We have decorated the Chapel in honour of your accession. Note the tasteful, new appointments."
Drex looked into the depths of the room she had learned to hate so much. Apart from a ragged, red flag on the wall opposite the door, she saw little difference in the Chapel since her last, painful visit.
"It looks no different to me except for the flag,” she said, her voice contemptuous and dismissive, until a dry, hacking moan brought her to her senses. That was no fluttering flag; it was a wet, red, writhing simulacrum of a human body.
"You see, Sister? Sister Melana just insisted on being present at your conversion."
The ghastly vision burned into Drex's brain: the exposed, glistening muscles and tendons; the occasional pale gleam of bared bones; the pleading, agonised eyes, the pupils compressed to black dots at their centres ... Drex's mind refused to accept the ghastly reality of what she saw for a few moments, but her stomach recognised the true horror of the spectacle, voiding its meagre contents onto the flagstones in a sudden spasm.
She's still alive...
Long after the thin remnants of the thin gruel she had last eaten had been expelled, Drex retched in helpless agony, unable to take her eyes from the hanging figure.
"Now, that's no way to greet an old friend, is it, Sister?” Lizaveta said. “Still, I imagine you're tired now, and you need your sleep. Tomorrow, you'll have hours and hours in Melana's company, and I expect you to help to teach her well the errors of her ways. Sleep well, Sister..."
Drex tried to resist as the Prioress’ mental clamps fastened upon her, but her debilitated state precluded any last attempt at defiance.
As if in a dream, she heard herself say “I live to serve, Reverend Mother. I am yours."
Drexelica felt as if scenes from her life were rushing from her body: the drab orphan; the enslaved seamstress; the wretched beggar. All flew away from her like handkerchiefs torn away through the window of a speeding coach. The last memory she had was of the warm, cautious, almost timorous embrace of Grimm Afelnor. As the last memory flew away from her, Drexelica of Griven was dead to the world.
Blessed be the Order! Blessed be the Reverend Mother. I live only to serve...
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Chapter 11: Arrivals
Shakkar's flight muscles felt as if they were on fire, but he vowed to continue flying until he and his human passenger had reached their goal. To do otherwise would be to admit weakness, and Shakkar had no intention of doing so. The dangling mortal was not just a burden in terms of weight but also a considerable aerodynamic impediment. This forced the demon to flap his wings at all times rather than coasting on the wind, which was his favoured mode of flight. This unforeseen factor, allied to Shakkar's lack of flying practice since he had been Seneschal of Crar, took a grave toll on his stamina.
He felt himself beginning to drop lower and lower in the sky, and he gritted his teeth, beating his wings faster in an attempt to gain altitude.
"That must be Yoren!” Erik screamed.
Shakkar looked down. He saw the green-clad human hanging beneath him, a pair of joined black tubes pressed to his eyes, and he guessed that this was some kind of optical device.
"Where?” The demon's eyes were not as acute as those of some of his kin.
"Due west, Lord Seneschal. There's no other town in this vicinity on the map; it must be Yoren."
The Sergeant's tone was cheerful, almost euphoric; it seemed that he had overcome his fear of flight, and that he was actively relishing the experience.
I am glad someone is having an enjoyable time, the demon thought, fighting the increasing anguish in his back and shoulders. However, the knowledge that his destination was now in sight gave him renewed zeal and strength. Now, he could see a dull, grey blemish on the landscape to the west, for which he headed, ignoring the pain, dismissing it.
At last, the dowdy blur resolved itself into a recognisable conurbation, while Erik scanned the territory with his artificial eyes.
The Sergeant pointed towards a large hill. “I recommend we set down there, Lord Seneschal, It looks like a collection of burnt buildings; could be Lord Grimm's doing. I can see a few people milling around."
Shakkar's eyes might not have been particularly acute, but his nose was as sensitive as a bloodhound's.
"I think you are right, Sergeant. I smell combustion products; the fire must have been quite recent."
The demon wheeled in the air and almost lost his balance, as the gleefully hooting, swaying Erik threatened to destabilise him. However, after a few moments with cold, electric sensations approaching panic, Shakkar managed to adjust his attitude and fly towards the hill.
I cannot take much more of this, the demon thought, as the Sergeant continued to cavort in his grasp. We must set down; either that, or I let this foolish, impetuous mortal fall to his death.
The underworld being mused on this enticing possibility for a few moments, but he decided against it.
We have a mission to fulfil, and I have a duty to the humans of Crar; even one as irksome as this man.
"I think we should set down here, Sergeant."
"I understand, Lord Seneschal; you must be tired after all this effort,” the soldier replied, and Shakkar almost dropped him there and then.
"My decision was founded upon tactical considerations,” he said through gritted teeth.
"As you wish, Sir; this looks like a nice, flat spot,” the imperturbable, infuriating mortal replied.
Shakkar spread his wings to their full extent and angled them so that he dropped towards the ground at a reasonable pace.
Ten feet from the ground, the demon released his human cargo without warning, hoping that the Sergeant would sprawl in an undignified heap on the soil. Instead, the man landed on his feet, rolled on his side and stood up in one smooth, elegant motion, as Shakkar landed beside him.
Erik brushed dust, grass and twigs from his uniform as if nothing had happened. He appeared more concerned with his apparel and his equipment
You irritating little worm! the demon raged inside his head, but he forced himself to speak in a civil manner.
"I trust you are unhurt, Sergeant?"
"General Quelgrum insisted we practice jumping from small towers, and I never knew why. A friend told me the General got the idea from some ancient book, and I always thought it a stupid waste of time. Still, orders are orders, as they say. Still, that training came in handy there, though, didn't it?"
"If you say so, Sergeant,” the demon said. “Shall we proceed?"
"Of course, Lord Seneschal.” Erik hoisted his pack a little higher onto his shoulders, and he began to whistle as he marched up the path to the scorched buildings.
"Would you mind ceasing that infernal racket?” Shakkar asked; the piping, sibilant sequence of tones irked him. For all he knew, the man might have a glorious, perfect musical ear, but the world of melody was denied to him. Music was a peculiarly human phenomenon, and all Shakkar could discern was an arbitrary series of frequencies. This, along with the human's attitude, managed to grate on the Seneschal's nerves.
Erik stopped in his traces, and looked the demon straight in the eye.
"It's all right, Lord Seneschal: I understand. You were tired, and you needed to rest a while. That's no problem with me."
"I was not tired, Sergeant! I made a tactical decision. Is that understood?"
Erik nodded, but the demon believed he caught the ghost of a smile on the soldier's face.
Before he could speak, the Sergeant barked, “Understood, Lord Seneschal; a tactical decision. Yes, Sir!"
The human's hand flipped to his right temple in what Shakkar recognised as a respectful, military gesture.
"As long as that is understood, Sergeant,” the demon said, “we may continue."
"It's understood, Sir."
Erik unslung his black firearm and inspected the open, tube-like end of the weapon. Apparently satisfied, he flicked a small lever and pulled back on a small handle, to the accompaniment of a loud clacking sound. He then slung the item back over his shoulder, before opening and inspecting the contents of several small pouches arrayed around his waist
"What are you doing, Sergeant?"
"I'm just getting ready in case there's any trouble, Lord Seneschal. You can't be too careful; this place has a rough reputation."
Shakkar snorted. “I believe myself more than equal to any human threat we might face,” he said, showing the sabre-like claws on his right hand. “These should be more effective than any Technological toy."
"I just thought you might want to take it easy for a little while after all your effort—"
"I am not fatigued! Is that quite understood, Sergeant Erik?"
"Understood, Sir! The Seneschal is not tired, Sir!"
Shakkar's keen ears heard a sotto voce addendum to this response: “Why, you're just as human as the rest of us, aren't you, demon?"
Despite the hot blood he could feel rushing into his face, the Seneschal pretended that he had not heard.
I refuse to lower myself by engaging in idle chitchat with this earthly moron. Erik is just convinced that I must be afflicted with the same mortal weaknesses of the others of his kind and I cannot blame him for that. Faced with an evidently superior being, he is projecting his human insecurities onto me. I shall be merciful and let his impudence pass for now.
The demon and the soldier passed a small, deserted kiosk by the side of the road, as they approached the blackened skeleton of a large building.
"A checkpoint, Lord Seneschal,” Erik said. “See the firing steps and gun-slits—no good for bows. They must have had weapons like mine, but something hit them hard. Something they couldn't handle: must have been Lord 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.
