Alastair Archibald: Dark Priory

The General slung his rifle over his shoulder as the hammer clicked on the empty chamber; he heard Erik insert what must be his last magazine. Quelgrum drew his pistol, a twelve-shot weapon, and began to fire anew. The line of creatures grew no closer as more zombies fell, but Quelgrum knew it was only a matter of time; the supply of undead seemed inexhaustible.

"It's no good, General,” Tordun said, and Quelgrum saw the albino was bleeding from many deep slashes and cuts on his face. “I tried to hold them, but there are too many of them."

"What happened to Seneschal Shakkar?” Erik asked, still firing single shots.

"I don't know, Sergeant,” the pale giant said, who appeared exhausted. “They hurt him badly, and he flew off."

Quelgrum felt a sharp pang of betrayal; if there was one member of the party on whom he had felt sure he could rely, it was the demon.

"I can't find the source,” Numal whined, as if in deep anguish, interrupting the General's thoughts. “This just cannot be thaumaturgy."

"It must be Prioress Lizaveta's witches,” Quelgrum shouted. His pistol clicked, and Quelgrum knew effective resistance was impossible. He wrestled with his emotions; only one course of action was possible; something he had done only once in his long life.

"Gentlemen, that's it,” he cried, as the flanking zombies began to spill onto the wide, moonlit road. “We'll have to surrender."

He turned towards the Priory and shouted, “Do you hear me? We surrender!"

Erik gasped, but the General knew that to resist further would mean death. Silence reigned for a few moments, and Quelgrum now smelt the encroaching horde; the sickly-sweet stench of rotting flesh made him gag.

It'll soon be over, he thought, steeling himself to accept death from a hundred slashing claws. I've not had a bad life, I suppose.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Erik holding his empty rifle like a club, Tordun trying to assume a fighter's stance, and Numal holding his staff over his head, ready to strike.

Then the zombies stopped their relentless approach, a scant arm's length away from them. Quelgrum squinted down the road, and he saw a small figure, blue in the blazing moonlight, walking towards him. He felt no relief at the fact that he would not be torn apart by the zombies; just a dull, sick sense of despair. Baron Grimm had been merciful after his own victory over the General's men, after Questor Dalquist's persuasive ruse de guerre, at his desert base, but that had not lessened the pain of his capitulation.

He knew he could not expect such generosity from these foes.

The General dropped his empty pistol and raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

The approaching blue figure was a small, dumpy woman of middle years, dressed in a nun's formal, restrictive robes; not what Quelgrum had expected.

"I am Sister Judan,” the woman said, in a contralto that Quelgrum might have considered pleasant at a more auspicious time. “I am not alone. My least cry will bring the undead creatures down upon you."

With a heavy heart, Quelgrum said, “I understand, Sister Judan. We surrender; we have little choice."

"How true,” the nun said. Her voice was light and airy, but Quelgrum saw the steel in her expression; this was not a woman with whom to trifle. “You, warrior,” she snapped, turning towards Erik, “drop that metallic abomination at once!"

Erik glanced towards Quelgrum. The General gave a heavy, resigned nod, and flung his own empty rifle aside, raising his hands as he did so.

Judan nodded. “That's much better,” she said. “Come with me."

Tordun, swaying on his feet, growled, but Quelgrum quelled him with a shake of his head. “We've lost, Tordun,” he said. “It's all over."

"You may keep your staff, thaumaturge,” Judan said to Numal. “Just remember that the least attempt at bravado will mean the end for all of you."

Quelgrum and his companions followed the small woman down the road at a snail's pace, and the zombies followed them.

Just like sheepdogs leading lambs to the slaughter, thought the old soldier.

"Why haven't you just killed us all?” he asked the nun.

Judan laughed-a merry, tinkling sound, at odds with the grim situation. “Why, we have no wish to kill you, General,” she said. “We just wish to educate you. Questor Grimm will need a retinue when he returns to High Lodge. You will be proud to accompany him when we have finished with you."

Quelgrum could not guess what Prioress Lizaveta had in store for them, but he guessed it would not be pleasant. He considered ending it all by killing Judan; they would all die at the hands of the zombies, but it might be worth it. Only one thought stopped him from committing suicide and condemning his comrades to painful death:

Our only hope lies with Baron Grimm now. He's an impulsive lad at times, but resourceful. He wouldn't surrender without a fight. We've just got to hope he can win through.

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Grimm sat cross-legged on a thin layer of straw on the floor of a small cell with a flimsy, wooden door.

If this is meant to break me down, they're going about it the wrong way, he thought. This is no worse than my cell back at the House when I was a Student.

He eyed the pathetic door with some amusement; a single Questor spell would shatter the door into dust, and he would be free to work havoc on Lizaveta and her acolytes.

The concept of retribution against the Prioress began to reverberate in his mind, and he quickly quashed the idea before it could build into a full-blown, incapacitating Resonance.

Grimm drew a deep sigh.

Quelgrum, Shakkar and the others will soon realise something's wrong. Lizaveta said the Score had animated an army of corpses to attack the General and the others, but I'm pretty sure she has little comprehension of the powers of Technological weaponry. I'll bet the others are on their way here right nowGrimm started as he heard the door creak open and he saw Drex, dressed in her cool, white robes.

"We got them,” she said, her voice laden with the syrupy tone of deep satisfaction. “Nobody's coming to save you, Grimm, so put that thought out of your head, right now. Your dreams of glory are finished. How does it feel, rapist?"

Grimm narrowed his eyes, meeting Drex's gaze. Emotions swirled and eddied within him, but his predominant feeling was one of pity for the girl he still loved.

"You're as much a prisoner of Lizaveta's schemes as I am, Drex,” he said. “What did that bitch do to you to make you-"

Drex's brows lowered; the Questor howled in anguish as he felt vicious waves of self-loathing and suicidal despair beating against the core of his being. He felt tears running unabated from his eyes as the Geomantic spell wracked him.

"Don't you dare pity me!” Her voice grew tremulous and brittle.

Grimm could only groan in response.

"Yes, I suffered,” Drexelica continued, “but only so Prioress Lizaveta could undo the oppressive conditioning you placed on me. She understands me as a fellow woman. She appreciates my talents, which is more than you ever did!

"Only by suffering will you ever understand her love and dedication to her cause."

Grimm wailed and thrashed as she held the spell on him, but a thought rose up from his innermost being: I am a Mage Questor! I've suffered, too, my love. I've known torment and pain in full measure, all so I could learn to control my powers and my emotions.

I am Grimm Dragonblaster!

He stayed his thrashing limbs, accepting the induced emotions and dismissing them. Trembling with the effort, he pushed himself to his feet, looking down at Drex.

"Lizaveta is a twisted, evil hag,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level. “My grandfather spurned her, long ago, and she wants to take her revenge by possessing me in body and soul.