"If the Rev'nants don't see you eating, they'll shoot you all with lots of little darts, and when you fall asleep, I'll ‘ave to push a tube down your throat and make you eat. I don't like doing that, sir. Please don't make me."
Grimm had assumed the holes in the walls were for ventilation, but now he saw their true purpose. He carried a charm that would return any projectile to its sender, but the Revenants weren't stupid: they might just as easily fill the building with soporific or narcotic smoke.
Artur's brown eyes pleaded with him, and the Questor's heart went out to a boy who had been brought up in a madhouse.
Poor little tyke: he's not to blame for all this, may the Names help him.
Above all, Grimm knew he must remain strong and ready for the least opportunity. And, in truth, he was hungry after so many days on dried rations and meagre offerings from sparse areas of woodland.
"I'm sorry, Artur,” he said, his voice full of compassion. “I won't make you do something you don't like. Perhaps I will try a little of your food, after all."
His warning charm remained cool and black, and Grimm found himself relishing the splendid fare. However, at the back of his mind, he remained painfully aware that a blameless woman would die the next day unless he or his companions could do something to prevent it.
But what can we do? he wondered as he shovelled the victuals down his throat and stared at the steel-reinforced stone walls. We must get out of here!
"Hail, strangers!"
As Shakkar and Erik approached the centre of the town, a burly, young man in blue robes confronted them, his hand raised in a warning gesture.
"Stand aside, friend,” Erik said, raising his machine-pistol. “Our argument's not with you, but with Revenant Murar. Bring him to us, or we'll have to get nasty."
The Sergeant flicked the safety catch to the ‘off’ position and drew back the weapon's slide with an ominous clacking sound.
"Do I make myself clear?"
The blue-clad man eyed the black weapon with a look of mingled disgust and disdain. “I don't know what that… thing is, but you can't touch a Revenant with any filthy Realster weapon,” he growled. “Try it, if you don't believe me. I'm a Revenant, too."
The muscular man stood squarely before the Sergeant, his eyes dark pools of defiance. Erik took up the first pressure, but he wondered if he could just kill an unarmed man in cold blood…
He decided he could not. In any case, he found himself more than a little unnerved by the man's mocking, contemptuous expression. Even the fearsome Shakkar seemed a little uncomfortable.
"Just fetch Murar, will you?” the demon rumbled. “Or there will be trouble between us."
"I don't think I will,” the man said, stepping forward. “You cannot touch me, stranger."
"That's far enough,” Erik warned. “I'll open fire if you take one more step."
The bulky Brianstonian continued to advance as Erik unleashed a short burst of fire over his head. His former scruples nullified by a primordial fear of contagious madness, the sergeant lowered the weapon and loosed a stream of bullets into the man's chest, the thickest part of his body.
The Revenant staggered as the bullets hit him, but he did not slow. Panicking, Erik held his finger on the trigger, to no effect. As the hammer clacked once on an empty chamber and the chattering sound stopped, the man raised a ham-like fist and launched it straight into the point of Erik's jaw, sending his helmet flying from his head. The stunned Sergeant fell like a toppled pencil, as blackness took him
Shakkar had often seen Quelgrum's men practicing with their armaments. He knew the damage these Technological weapons could do to wood and stone: more than even he, a full demon, could wreak upon such substances. To see frail, mortal flesh withstanding such an onslaught stunned him, and his mighty, taloned fists dropped to his side as the blue-robed human continued to approach, undeterred and still smiling.
The demon had always regarded humans as weak, if resourceful, creatures. No mortal, not even Grimm Afelnor, had ever bested him in physical combat. Nonetheless, this man seemed to be made of stone, and Shakkar felt the inner stirrings of naked fear, an emotion to which he was not accustomed.
He drew back his shovel-sized hand to strike, but the Revenant merely shook his head, as if in pity. A senseless, nameless terror subsumed Shakkar, and he found himself frozen in indecision. As if in a dream, the Revenant seemed to stroke the demon's chest with his balled fist, and Shakkar flew backwards to the dirt, propelled by incredible force. He scrambled to his feet, but, for the first time in his life, a mere mortal scared him. Shakkar staggered away from the smiling Revenant, his chest burning from the impact.
He steadied himself, charged forward and threw a mighty blow at the human's temple.
The blue-clad figure did not even attempt to avoid the grey fist as the strike landed. He grunted and absorbed the impact, his smile undiminished, flinging the demon away with the merest prod of his right index finger.
As he sprawled, supine and helpless, Shakkar saw the tiny, grey form of Thribble lying near the fallen Erik. He scrabbled forward as the vengeful mortal stalked him, leisurely and unhurried. To his relief, both the soldier and the minuscule demon seemed to be breathing freely, and Thribble sat up, shaking his fuzzy head.
"What is the matter, Shakkar?"
The demon seemed to be made of solid rubber, unaffected by his tumble.
"I cannot take him, Thribble,” Shakkar gasped, despite the shame he felt at such an admission. “He is too strong. I cannot touch him."
As a shadow fell across him, the grey titan lashed out with a trunk-like arm, knocking his nemesis from his feet, but, otherwise, seeming not to affect him at all.
"They are afraid of magic, I believe,” Thribble hazarded.
"I do not have any magic, thanks to that forsworn bastard, Starmor,” Shakkar growled. “This mortal seems impermeable to even my physical strength."
"Murar did say that…"
As the ominous shadow fell, Shakkar lashed out again, but the human hopped nimbly away. This time, the Revenant drew a long, heavy club from behind him and approached again.
"It's time to say goodnight, Realster,” he growled.
"…but I bit him, and he cried out!” Thribble squealed. “Don't hit him, Shakkar! Use your claws, your teeth!"
As the smiling mortal raised the club to its apex, Shakkar, still lying on his back, kicked out with his feet, their black claws extended. The weapon fell to the ground, and the Revenant gazed stupidly at a thin line of slashes in his garment, red fluid staining the blue silk.
In an instant, Shakkar was on his feet, grasping the human in his sabre-like talons. The panicking man struggled, but he could not escape the clinging, black claws.
"You… hurt me,” the Revenant whined, as if he could not believe what had happened.
Shakkar bared his sabre-like teeth."The young mage and his companions, Revenant. Take me to them, now. Otherwise, you will die slowly, while I dine on your flesh."
Shakkar dug his claws deeper into his enemy's body. “I prefer live meat, so you may not die for many hours."
The Revenant appeared to be in shock, shaking his head, his eyes blank. “A Realster can't hurt a Revenant,” he mumbled. “So it is written."
"Then it's written wrongly, pig-sweat,” Erik growled, rubbing his head and rising onto unsteady feet. “There are ordinary Realsters, and there are extraordinary Realsters. You picked on the wrong sort, my friend."
The Sergeant picked up his helmet and seated it back on his head, taking his time fastening the chinstrap. Then he retrieved his weapon, ejected a small, black box from it and pushed in another from a pouch on his belt.
"I don't think our friend here is a whole lot of use, Seneschal Shakkar,” he said. “Just tear his freakin’ head off, and we'll see if we can't find someone a little more helpful."
The Revenant squirmed in Shakkar's adamantine talons to no effect. “Kill me, monster,” he cried, “but don't consume me, please!"
Shakkar laughed long and loud, once more confident in his superiority. “Take us to Baron Grimm and his companions, or I shall savour your entrails while you live."
"I'll… I'll take you,” the Revenant stammered. “Don't hurt me."
"Sergeant Erik,” the demon boomed, “I order you to shoot anyone who opposes us. I will deal with anyone who does not fall."
Shakkar pulled one hand from the hapless human's ribs, extending his obsidian claws to their full, gleaming length. “You may be sure of that."
His other hand's talons ground into the wounded Revenant's midriff. “Do we understand each other, mortal?"
"Understood, Realster!” the man groaned. “I'll take you, I promise!"
Another robed man ran towards the demon, raising a heavy, wooden baton, and Shakkar did not hesitate. With one, smooth stroke, the assailant lost his head in a fine spray of blood.
"Sergeant Erik,” he said, “I think it only right to say that we are now at war."
Erik grinned. “That's what I've trained for, Lord Seneschal. I must say, I prefer it to all this diplomatic stuff."
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