Quelgrum smiled, not bothering to try to stand. He had never before felt the avid bite of a Mage Staff, but he had seen its effect on others unlucky enough to get in the way of one.
He had answered his own question: “What sort of wooden beam could hold up a hundred tons of rock?"
An unbreakable Mage Staff was the only answer, and he knew such a weapon died with its owner, reverting to a simple lump of wood.
"All I can get,” he said. “Baron Grimm's down there, and he's alive! I don't know how we're going to get him out, but I want every available person here to aid in the effort."
With some difficulty, the old soldier climbed to his feet, his legs feeling like useless, dead tree-trunks that might splinter at any moment.
"Sergeant Erik!” he yelled. “Seneschal Shakkar! Warrior Tordun! Please come here at once-the Baron's alive!"
"What about my Sisters?” a well-built, ferocious-looking nun demanded, her green eyes burning like were-gas over a swamp.
"They can bloody well wait!” Quelgrum snapped, fighting exhaustion and disorientation. “We get Questor Grimm out first, or the deal's off! Is that abundantly clear?"
He did not even know if the woman replied, as he saw the Sergeant, the demon, the albino and Necromancer Numal racing towards him.
We'll get you out, boy, he thought. Don't worry; help's on its way.
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Chapter 24: Preparations for Extraction
General Quelgrum regarded Sergeant Erik with apprehensive eyes, as the younger man stood gazing into the dark chasm.
"Well, Sergeant?” he said. “You're the combat engineer. Can we get him out?"
Erik straightened up and shook his head. “It'd be a tall order, even with a full squad of trained engineers and all the right tools, Sir,” he said. “Even if we could construct a crane out of this old lumber, there's no safe footing.
"There's a large stone block resting on Baron Grimm's staff, Sir. All that's stopping it toppling over is the packed rubble around it. If we open up the hole, the whole lot could collapse. The only solution I can think of at the moment is a large treadmill crane to lift it vertically, but there's nowhere to stand one. If we mount it a long way from the hole, a wooden lifting arm will never take the strain."
"If we level an area near the hole, can we make a crane?” Quelgrum hazarded.
Erik shook his head. “I'm afraid not, Sir. We'd need tools, metal bolts and braces, strong ropes or chains, and some way of shackling them to the stone. A crane's out of the question, Sir."
Quelgrum rubbed his forehead. “Can we brace the block in some way, so it won't fall if we clear away the rubble?"
"I don't think so, Sir. These beams are pretty sturdy, but they were only meant to hold up the roof, braced by cross-trees. They were acting in compression or tension and at their strongest. If we try to brace the rock with them, they'll break for sure. If we try to slide one of them under the block, it'll break. In any case, we'd never reach far enough under the block to make sure it was firmly seated in the rubble. One false move, and this whole mass would collapse."
"So that's it, then?” Quelgrum said in a tart, sarcastic voice, his mouth twisting. “We just say goodbye to Baron Grimm and walk away: is that what you want, Sergeant?"
"No, Sir,” Erik replied, his face calm. “I don't want to give up on Baron Grimm any more than you do. Nonetheless, with the materials we have on hand, we can't save him. Two of these beams broke when we were just trying to use them as class-one levers, with the load near the fulcrum. None of them would take this block's weight bearing down on its centre."
Quelgrum compressed his lips and spun on his heel, his eyes closed. He did not like Erik's analysis, but he knew he was in no position to refute it.
"May I speak?"
Quelgrum opened his eyes to see the slight, bowed form of Necromancer Numal, and he nodded, too full for words.
"My staff is as unbreakable as Questor Grimm's. It can take the weight."
Quelgrum turned his head to the right. “Well, Sergeant? Does this change the situation? We can roll the block back onto Necromancer Numal's staff, so it can be stable while we clear the rubble away."
Erik rolled his eyes upwards as if scanning the heavens, his head cocked to one side. His lips moved without sound. After a few moments, he faced the officer again.
"It's worth a try, General,” he said, “but I can't see how we'd secure the staff in position without widening the hole further. That could tip the block over. If we try to slide the staff under the block, it'll probably be at an angle, and that could cause all sorts of trouble."
Silence descended for a few moments.
"Help! Somebody, please help!"
The faint, thready sound was at the very limit of Quelgrum's hearing, and, for a moment, he thought he had imagined it. He looked into Erik's face, to see a pair of wide, wondering eyes.
"Yes, Sir,” the Sergeant whispered, in answer to the General's unasked question. “I heard it, too."
Quelgrum inched his way back up to the hole, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Necromancer Numal, can you cast another one of your globes of light here, so I can see into this Names-cursed hole?"
"Of course, General,” Numal said He uttered a swift, staccato stream of mage-words and soft, white globe of luminescence formed in the palm of his outstretched left hand, rose into the air and meandered in a lazy fashion over towards the small opening.
"Thank you, Lord Mage,” Quelgrum said, gazing into the hole.
"Ah! Now I see,” he muttered, as the small globe cast its cold, brilliant effulgence into the chasm.
Redeemer was wedged across the gap, with the enormous stone block perched atop it. The cube must be at least six feet on a side, and it rested at an angle of perhaps forty-five degrees to the vertical, a bare hand's-width of stone overhanging Redeemer on its nearest side.
At least it isn't lying on edge, he thought, raising his head a little to ease the crick in his neck. That could have caused all sorts of problems. All we have to do now is thread a six-foot staff through an eighteen-inch hole so that it finds a firm footing at each end… Still, perhaps Questor Grimm can help, if that was his voice I heard.
Bending his head to the opening again, he called into the chamber, “Baron Grimm? Are you awake?"
"Questor Grimm is unconscious,” a faint, high-pitched voice replied. “I, Thribble, raised the alarm, General. What kept you? Are you deaf?"
The General felt a fierce blaze of frustration: not only was Baron Grimm unconscious, perhaps badly injured, but the only hope of wedging Numal's staff in position rested on the narrow shoulders of a six-inch-tall creature from the underworld, whose main talents lay in elaborate story-telling and mimicry.
"Your voice doesn't carry well, friend Thribble,” he called, fighting to keep the bitter disappointment from his voice. “I came as soon as I heard you. It is good to know that you and Baron Grimm are still alive."
"How will you extricate us out from this dismal hole?” the tiny demon demanded, his piccolo-like voice tinged with unmistakeable peevishness.
"I don't know,” the soldier admitted. “All we can think of is to wedge Necromancer Numal's staff under the block over your heads, and then remove the rubble slowly, letting the block settle into a secure position. With luck, we can then hoist both of you out of there."
He heard a faint snort, like a small child's sneeze.
"So why do you not do so, General? Questor Grimm requires medical assistance."
"We need to ease the staff into position from your side. Could you bear its weight?"
"I could probably manoeuvre it into position if you lowered it on a rope, General,” Thribble declared.
"The hole's too small; we can only lower it vertically, friend demon. You'd have to rotate it into position. I doubt you have the strength to do that, even if you found a convenient perch."