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Chapter 26: Claustrophobia
"Bless you, Sister,” Quelgrum found himself saying, feeling hot blood flood into his face. “You are… lovely."
Sister Mercia's lips twisted into an embarrassed half-smile, and she looked down at the ground, her only answer a brief, nervous laugh.
She likes me, he thought, his heart singing. For a moment, his mind conjured up a series of dreamy images of him and Mercia, walking hand in hand on a distant, golden beach…
Pull yourself together, man, he told himself. You're old enough to be her grandfather, you old fool. What could a young girl like that ever see in you? Mercia's just a kind soul; she'd act the same way towards anyone.
"I'm sorry, Sister,” he said, pushing his dreams to the back of his mind as he had done before so often in his long life. “Please forgive a silly old man's babbling. I never meant to embarrass you."
Mercia raised her head a little, but she did not look him in the eye. “This is hardly the time for such compliments, when lives must be saved, General; but I thank you in any case. They were kind words, and I appreciate them."
Quelgrum wanted to say more, but he dared not, trusting himself only to reply with a brisk, impersonal nod.
"Let us go back to the excavation, General,” Mercia said. “The work goes on apace, and my services may soon be needed… if Questor Grimm still lives."
"He does,” Quelgrum asserted. “If he died, I understand his staff would revert to a length of ordinary wood. It'd give way at once under all that weight."
The old soldier thought of taking Mercia's hand as they walked towards the rescue site, but he crushed the impulse at birth, instead trying to concentrate on the urgent work in progress. As the young nun had said, it was, indeed, proceeding at a prodigious rate; the opening's eighteen-inch diameter had been widened by a good three feet on the far side of the stone block, easily wide enough to allow an adult male to descend into the chasm.
As he approached the Sergeant, standing alongside a shaky-legged Necromancer Numal, the General asked him why the excavation continued.
"I want to ensure there's plenty of clearance for a makeshift stretcher, if we need one, Sir,” Erik replied. “Baron Grimm may be badly hurt, and we may need a lot more room."
"Very good, Sergeant. Carry on."
Quelgrum recognised that he might be what members of his army called a ‘fifth wheel’ or a ‘second wig'; someone superfluous to requirements.
Be content to delegate for once, he thought. Erik knows what he's doing, so just let him do it!
He forced himself to stand in silence as the blur of digging and hauling continued, with the half-blind albino, Tordun, seizing heavy rocks and hurling them aside under the Sergeant's cool, clear, patient direction.
"That's enough, I think, ladies and Warrior Tordun,” Erik said, with a satisfied smile and nod. “Well done, and thank you; you've carried out a difficult and hazardous task with stubborn determination. You should all be proud of yourselves; I know I am."
Diplomacy, too, Quelgrum thought, feeling his own heart swelling with pride. The man should be an officer.
The Sergeant stood at the edge of the hole and called down, “Friend Thribble, I am six feet tall. Can you estimate how far I'll have to drop if I'm held at arms’ length?"
Quelgrum did not hear the tiny demon's reply, but he saw Erik nod in response, adding, “That's a short enough drop. Warrior Tordun; would you do the honours, please?"
"Of course, Sergeant.” The albino took Erik's wrists in his meaty hands. “I will not release you until you give the word. Trust me."
"I trust you, friend Tordun.” Erik smiled. “Just don't crush my wrists to powder. I might need them again."
The pale man nodded. “I'll be careful, Sergeant."
Tordun hoisted Erik clean off the ground with little effort and began to lower him into the pit, his muscular arms extending to their full length. With surprising grace, he sank to his knees and began to lean forward until he lay prostrate at the lip of the hole. Not for the first time, the General marvelled at Tordun's awe-inspiring strength as he slowly lowered his outstretched arms into the opening. From the calm expression on the albino's face, the warrior barely seemed aware of the considerable strain on his arms and shoulders.
"That's far enough, Tordun,” Erik shouted. “Let go."
A normal man's arms would have flown upward at the sudden release of weight, but all Quelgrum saw was a slight tremor in Tordun's shoulders as he released his burden.
****
Erik thumped to the ground, bending his knees as he landed. It took him a few moments to orient himself in the gloom, but his eyes soon adjusted to the dim light. He whistled as he surveyed the scene; the floor was littered with large stones and rubble, making for treacherous footwork.
He realised that, had he landed a mere hand's-breadth either side of his current position, he might have slipped and done himself considerable injury. The huge block that had caused so many problems rested on its slender supports at chest level, about three feet in front of him.
"At last!” a familiar, piping voice crowed, and the Sergeant looked down to see Thribble perching on Numal's staff, his legs crossed in an almost jaunty manner as his thread-like tail swung back and forth like a pendulum. “You took your time, I must say, Sergeant."
"Well, I'm here now, demon!” Erik bit off an angry retort. “Where's Baron Grimm?"
"Kneel down, and you will see him, mortal."
Erik knelt, avoiding the sharper shards as best he could. The darkness under the stone block was absolute, and he could not see a thing. Standing up, he called out, “Necromancer Numal; can you send one of your lights down here, on the side of the hole nearest you? I can't see a thing down here."
After a few moments, he saw a pale gleam leaking from under the block, and he knelt back down. He squinted as the Mage Light scorched his dark-adapted eyes, but he soon grew accustomed to it. For a moment, the soldier saw only rubble, but he then made out a gleam of blue silk amongst the devastation. There, lying in the very corner of the subterranean chamber, lay the still figure of the young mage, his exposed left leg crooked at a bizarre angle, a bloody, dusty hand resting like a huge spider on the back of his head.
Erik felt his breathing becoming faster and shallower, and he forced himself to remain calm; he would have to crawl right under the stone block, which was supported only by a pair of slender rods. If Baron Grimm died before he could extricate the mage, the staff would revert to a lifeless lump of wood in an instant, and Erik might be crushed to a red smear as the heavy mass tumbled to the floor.
I really wish I didn't have to do this, the soldier thought, closing his eyes and rubbing his trembling hands together as he tried to compose himself.
He drew a series of deep breaths, his pounding heart threatening to burst from his chest, and he clapped his hands twice, the sound ringing in the enclosed space like a pair of gunshots.
Erik muttered, “Let's do it!” and began to crawl over the rubble towards the Baron. Forcing himself to ignore the looming threat above him, he turned the young man onto his back, taking the greatest care in case Grimm's spine was damaged. The broken leg was a secondary consideration.
His heart eased as his battlefield training took hold. He checked that the Baron's mouth and nostrils were not obstructed, his hands steadying as they went through the comforting, familiar actions. The Sergeant was no medic, but every man in Quelgrum's army was trained in basic first aid.