The Sergeant nodded. “I can't pretend I'm overjoyed at the prospect of dangling from your claws, hundreds of feet in the air, but we may well be able to catch up with Lord Grimm before he reaches the Priory, and warn him.
"Just don't let go of me, Lord Seneschal!"
Slashing his arms back and forth, the demon made a path for the soldier through the dense, thorny undergrowth; the thorns made little impression on his grey, leathery skin.
The cart was where they had left it, in a wide, circular clearing. The Sergeant shucked his disguise and donned his green uniform. He then began to clip various strange items to convenient straps on the tunic.
"What are you attaching to those bands, Sergeant?"
Erik smiled. “The bands are called ‘webbing', Lord Seneschal. I'm just getting some ammo, grenades, full canteens, food and so on. If we are going into combat, I want to be ready for it."
Shakkar felt a little surprised: until now, he had regarded Erik as an easy-going and rather lacklustre individual, but the prospect of violence and danger seemed to enthuse the man. Humans are strange, indeed!
"I hope we'll see a little bit of action,” the soldier said, hefting a large pack onto his shoulders. “It's what I've trained for, not policing arguing neighbours and bar-room brawls."
Shakkar eyed the growing mass of Erik's armoury with some misgivings. “I am strong, but my strength is not inexhaustible, Sergeant! How much does all that equipment weigh?"
"Eighty to a hundred pounds, I suppose, Lord Seneschal,” the Sergeant hazarded. “No more than a hundred and twenty. I weigh about twelve stone: one hundred and seventy pounds or so. Is that too much for you?"
Shakkar thought back to his miserable confinement on Starmor's punishment pillar. From time to time, the late Baron of Crar had seen fit to send him the occasional miserable miscreant for his delectation, and a few of the fatter morsels-people!, he reminded himself, with some distaste-had probably weighed close to three hundred pounds. Even in his half-starved condition, he had found it easy to hoist the struggling, screaming individuals into the air, baring his fangs and…
The demon slammed down mental shutters on these increasingly disturbing memories.
"I should be able to carry you, Sergeant, with or without your weaponry. Your… webbing should provide good purchase for my talons. Are you ready?"
"Not quite, Lord Seneschal,” Erik replied, fiddling with the horses’ traces.
"What are you doing, Sergeant? I cannot possibly take both you and a horse!"
"I'm just letting the horses go, Lord Seneschal. It'd be a pity to let them starve. Go on, nag, get out of here!” The soldier swatted one of the horses on the rump and it skittered away, followed by its equine companion.
Shakkar felt even more confused. He knew that, for some mortals at least, horsemeat was considered a delicacy. For others, the animals were a merchantable commodity and no more. And yet this strange mortal, whose trade was death, seemed concerned for the wellbeing of these creatures.
"Those horses may be worth a lot of money, Sergeant,” he said, as the glossy, muscular horses ambled away.
"Dead ones won't, Lord Seneschal. Perhaps someone'll get some use out of them, and good luck to him, but I won't have a pair of fine horses starving to death on my conscience.
"There; I'm ready now."
Shakkar took hold of the Sergeant's webbing and gave it an experimental tug. It seemed strong enough to hold him.
Spreading his wings in the clearing, the demon began to beat them with strong, rhythmic strokes, and he lofted into the air with the Sergeant dangling below him.
As he dragged himself higher into the sky and swooped south-eastwards, he wondered again about Erik's apparent altruistic feelings towards the animals and revised his opinion about the human race: they were not just strange, but mad as well.
Dalquist returned to his marking, but his attention began to wander.
He had met the old Prioress only once, and his memories of the meeting were fuzzy, yet favourable; however, that did not explain his savage, offhand, uncharacteristic dismissal of Shakkar's request for help. The Questor knew he had reacted just as Grimm had when ensorcelled. He put down his pen and pondered, staring at Shakhmat, with its seven gold rings: the symbol of his status as a Guild Mage.
Am I just tired and frustrated? I've been yearning for a Quest for months; is that it? Am I just getting jaded? Grimm's my friend and a brother mage. My first thoughts should have been for him, yet I just rejected Shakkar's words out of hand when he implicated Lizaveta-just like Grimm leapt to Thorn's defence when I implied the Prelate had been behind his brutal Ordeal.
Something very strange is happening here. One thing I do know is that Lizaveta is a witch-could she be working some Geomantic magic on me right now? What did happen to me in the Prioress’ room? The memories are blurred and lacking in detaiclass="underline" they're not like real memories.
That was it: maybe his rosy memories of the old lady were not true recollections at all! Dalquist knew he needed the services of a Mentalist if he were to recover the real details of that long-ago meeting in High Lodge.
I could go to Lord Thorn and tell him my suspicions, but… no, I don't really trust even him. His treatment of Grimm was definitely underhanded when he put that Compulsion on the lad, and I don't want him to do the same to me.
Dalquist blinked, confused by suspicion that began to surge inside his head.
What on earth has Thorn to do with Lizaveta? Why should he place a Compulsion on me, just because some witch may have ensorcelled me?
Of course, there was no reason… was there?
Who can I trust here? Crohn, certainly, and Doorkeeper… who else is there?
Kargan; the name floated unbidden into Dalquist's mind. He puts on a tough act, but he seems a straight enough arrow to me… and he's a Mentalist, too.
Kargan was an anomaly amongst the House's starchy senior mages: unlike them, he kept his face smooth, instead of allowing his beard to grow; he eschewed Mage Speech even when teaching his class; he wore blue-tinted spectacles instead of allowing a Mage Chirurgeon to correct his vision with magic. The man stopped short of acting improperly in front of the Prelate, but he was a nonconformist.
Kargan won't blab to anyone, I'm sure.
His suspicions crystallising into a hard lump, Dalquist went in search of the Magemaster. One way or the other, he would get some answers.
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Chapter 9: Obedience
Grimm shielded his eyes against the glare of the setting sun as he drove the wagon towards Brianston. After the gloomy squalor of Yoren, he felt prepared for almost anything, except for the dazzling sight that met his eyes.
This was no town full of run-down shanties and faded glories, but a vision of heaven on earth. Proud, gleaming cupolas and turrets came into view, and the colourful opulence of the market square, visible in the distance, seemed to eclipse even the rebuilt centre of Crar. Grimm could not fail to notice the well-dressed, smiling people walking the clean, paved streets. Several of the townspeople favoured the wagon with a cheery wave as it passed them; a quick scan with Mage Sight showed the citizens’ auras to be free of deception or worry.
Quelgrum, sitting beside the mage, tapped him on the left shoulder. “A bit of a change from Yoren, eh, Lord Baron? From the look, a man could do worse than spend his life here, I reckon."
Maybe it's just a little too good to be true, Grimm thought. How does a town in the middle of this wilderness maintain such magnificence? I've been guilty before of taking things at face value, and I'm not about to make that mistake again.
"I just wonder if it isn't a little too nice, General. Let's not forget our purpose. We're not here to sightsee or relax, remember?"
The General nodded. “I hear you there, Lord Baron. It's a fine sight to admire, I must say, but I agree we should stay alert. Even a squalid hellhole like Yoren had armed guards and barriers. You'd think a place as fancy as this would be riddled with them, but where are they? It looks as if a marauding army could just march in and take over in an instant."