"Well, it's no ATV, or chopper, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, raising his voice over the clamour of the wheels and hooves, “but it should get us to High Lodge in good time.” The old soldier seemed in excellent spirits.
"I understood the part about High Lodge, General, but not the rest,” Grimm replied. “What are Aitivees and choppers? I presume they're Technological artefacts of some kind."
Quelgrum nodded. “An ATV is an All-Terrain Vehicle: a machine with rolling tracks or large wheels that can handle swamps, deserts or rocky outcrops. We used one to bring you to our base by the hydroelectric dam at Glabra."
Grimm remembered the noisy, battered, chaotic-looking conveyance well. Quelgrum's name for the vehicle seemed a little extravagant, but the mage had to admit that it had handled the desert sand well, and at some speed.
"And a ‘chopper’ is…"
"A machine like the air vehicle Pilot Foster used to take you from Haven,” the General explained, and Grimm remembered the whipping, chopping sound the machine's spinning wings had made as it traversed the sky.
"It's a good name,” he declared. “Thank you, General. At least I know a little more about Technology now."
Grimm knew well how the ancient art of Technology was despised throughout the Guild, but, even as a mere Student, he had realised that the maligned, destructive discipline held wonders as well as horrors.
When he returned to his home town of Crar, Grimm decided, he would learn as much as he could about all the Technological marvels at Quelgrum's disposal.
The wagon bounced and skittered along for about half a mile more before Quelgrum spoke again.
"Did Sister Mercia say why she wanted to accompany us?"
Grimm shrugged. “Her home is in ruins,” he said. “She has no friends or known relations, and she was scared to be left alone in the world. I said I'd speak to Physician Querl back at Crar. I'm sure he'd be grateful for her help."
"So that's what she said, is it, Lord Baron? I understand,” Quelgrum said, and Grimm saw that the old soldier's mouth bore a strange half-smile.
****
Drex sat in the back of the wagon, her eyes fixed on her feet. She felt confined by the press of bodies around her. To her left sat Sergeant Erik, the gangling fumbler, who was engaged in some inane conversation with Tordun, the oversized ogler…
Her thoughts began to snarl and tangle, and she bit her top lip. Whenever she called up the image of any of Questor Grimm's entourage, her mind lit up with a specific, unvarying phrase for each of them… except for Seneschal Shakkar.
She cast a fugitive glance at Shakkar, the one member of the group she felt she could trust. The demon sat at the very back of the vehicle, looking out of the opening in the canvas cover. He had pointed out this quirk to her: the foul rapist… as Grimm had caused her considerable confusion over the same matter. Now she could no longer hear Prioress Lizaveta's blandishments and harangues, she felt increasingly bereft of direction and confidence as the rude vehicle carried her further away from Rendale.
"Are you ill, Sister?” a solicitous voice from her left asked.
Drex ignored Sister Mercia and tried to bring order to her mental processes.
"I may be able to help,” the nun insisted, and Drex forced herself to keep her reply civil.
"It is of no importance, Sister,” she said. “I… I miss the familiar routine of the Order; that is all."
"So do I,” Mercia admitted, and Drex wished she would just leave her alone. “Do you wish to discuss it? It may help us both."
"I doubt it,” Drex replied, shaking her head. “I don't want to talk, and I don't need your healing skills. Please, be silent."
She looked across at Tordun, still deep in animated argument with Erik about the relative merits of popular pugilists. He did not spare her as much as a sly glance; he even seemed to be making an effort not to do so.
Would he do that if he was a lust-ridden voyeur?
Drex tried to will the traitorous thought away, but it remained, prickling and tickling a corner of her mind, like an irritating thistle lodged under a horse's saddle.
Am I losing my mind? she wondered. I know Grimm took advantage of me, and his companions are just as contemptible… except for Shakkar.
What's happening to me? Why did I agree to go to this hotbed of Names-cursed, male magic-users?
The answer flew into her mind with pure, almost blinding light: Justice for Prioress Lizaveta; the chance to show these ruffians and despoilers in their true colours. What is your mere convenience compared to those laudable goals?
Drex knew this was no message from the Reverend Mother, but a reminder from within her own psyche. She wished Prioress Lizaveta could still contact her, to fortify her resolve and strengthen her. Within the Priory, with its close, comforting links to Mother Earth, she had found true peace and contentment; a mission in life. Since leaving it, she had known only pain and confusion, and she had lost the power the Prioress had awoken within her.
The world is confusion, hatred and covetousness. The familiar, rote-learned phrase slotted into place, but it gave her little solace. She needed advice, not litany!
Nonetheless, she began to mutter, “Reverend Mother, show me the way. Reverend Mother, guide me. Reverend Mother, correct my faults. Reverend Mother, show me the way…"
She clenched her fists and her eyelids as she tried to find the inner peace she sought, but it did not come.
It is them, she thought, as she continued to chant under her breath. Grimm, Tordun and the others; they are trying to destroy my faith.
"The real trial starts now, eh, Sister?"
Mercia's unwelcome words burst into her head like a thunderclap, and Drex's chant faltered to a halt.
"What did you say?” she snapped, spinning round to face Mercia.
"I said, ‘the real trial starts now',” Mercia replied, her face blank. “I meant that life will be difficult and unfamiliar for us in the world. Pray, Sister, tell me what I did to offend you."
Her tone was tremulous and pleading, but Drex did not feel charitable.
"Shut up, Sister,” she said. “Why, you're chatt'rin’ like a bloody hen-house when Mister Wolf come callin'!"
She slapped a hand over her mouth, as if she could somehow deny the words that had just burst from it.
"Please, Sister, what did I do?"
Drex ignored Mercia's plea, as the phrase ‘the real trial begins here,’ reverberated and hammered through her mind, growing ever louder, drowning out the rumble of the cart and the noise of the warriors’ animated argument. Now, she put her hands over her ears, but she could not blot out the seemingly innocuous words.
Louder and louder, the phrase seemed to drive her soul inwards, compressing and crushing it into a point.
"Plenty, my darling girl, but we didn't want to rush you. 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."
Prioress Lizaveta had spoken those words an age before, and Drex had replied, “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."
Other forgotten words began to balloon into her soul, swelling it and strengthening it, although Drex tried her best to suppress them:
"Roast in Hell, bitch."
"At least she won't be able to use me against Grimm. I hope he rips her heart out!"
"I'll see you in Hell before I'll submit to you, bitch!"