Alastair Archibald: Dark Priory

"Very good,” Drex said, clapping her hands in a parody of congratulations. “Perhaps you thought of using a different spell; a more potent one?"

Grimm's heart leapt, but he kept his expression impassive.

Is Drex reading my mind? Surely not; if she wanted to convince me of that, she'd have told me before now.

"I'd be lying if I said I hadn't,” he said aloud. “But what's the point? You seem to have every advantage over me."

"I thought you'd say that,” the girl said. “Well; perhaps we could take things a little further. Reverend Mother, may I show Master Afelnor the full extent of our control over him?"

Lizaveta nodded. “Please do, Sister."

"Now, Grimm,” Drex said, “I order you to put Mother Lizaveta and me to sleep with your magic."

Grimm hesitated. “You might hurt yourself when you fall, Drex,” he said. “I wouldn't want that."

"We will sit during the exercise.” Lizaveta fetched a pair of stools from the corner of the chamber. The two women sat opposite Grimm.

"Well, go ahead, Grimm,” Drex said. “Do as I told you. We can't hurt ourselves now."

They really think I'm ensorcelled!

The mage considered the characteristics of impending sleep: heavy eyelids, wandering thoughts and lassitude. Now visualising the effect he wanted, he let the energies within him build and concentrate, confident that his Questor language would pattern it in the correct fashion. He had no direct control over what he shouted when casting, but it always achieved the desired effect.

Just a pinch of power; I don't want to put Drex in a coma, he thought, readying himself to release his spell.

Nothing emerged from his lips, and Grimm blinked in surprise. He felt the ordered threads of thaumaturgic force awaiting his bidding, but he could not unleash them. The knot of energy expanded, swelling like a bone-dry, sponge pressed into a sheet and dropped in water. His heart began to pound.

I can't turn it off! I can'tWith the discipline of a battle-hardened Mage Questor, Grimm crushed his rising panic, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. He shut his eyes and tried to force himself to relax, a seeming impossibility for a Secular, perhaps, but not for a Guild Mage. Nonetheless, the power within him began to rise to incredible, uncontrollable levels.

It's a Resonance! I'm trapped inside it, and I can't stop it!

This time, the traitorous, terrified thought went unchallenged. Grimm now knew he was fighting for his life.

He felt as if his body and soul were trying to explode into a million pieces, and he shuddered with the effort to contain them. Sweat ran down Grimm's face as he struggled to contain the roiling forces within him.

"Help me!” The strangled, desperate cry seemed to come from far away, but the mage knew this hoarse, terrified voice was his.

"All right, Grimm; you can stop now."

In an instant, Grimm regained control of his magic, dispersing it into harmless motes within his mind. For several moments, he rolled in his chair, incapable of speech as he drew whooping gasps of air into his burning lungs.

Drex smiled. “Do you see, Grimm? I have total control over you and your emotions. Back in your camp, I found it so easy to manipulate your emotions. When I wanted you angry, you were angry. When I wanted you to crawl, you fawned like a naughty puppy seeking forgiveness. Your infatuation for me gives me all the control I need."

"I never knew you liked dogs so much, Drex,” Grimm croaked. “I'll buy you one when we're out of this."

Drexelica leapt to her feet and lunged towards the Questor, slapping him hard on the left cheek. Grimm ignored the brief burning; he had suffered far worse physical punishment in his time.

"My name is Weranda!” she screamed. “Don't ever be flippant with me again, rapist!"

"So I'm a rapist, am I? I seem to remember our physical relationship was your idea, my darling."

Drex screwed up her face in an expression of wild, unreasoning hatred, drawing back her small, clenched fist to strike again.

Yes, get angry, Drex! Grimm thought, willing her to hit him. Forget whatever Lizaveta told you and fight!

Lizaveta took Drex's right wrist in her scrawny hand. “You'll never hurt him that way, Sister. This creature is a Mage Questor! I'm sure he's been through a lot worse than being pummelled by a girl; even a witch such as you."

Drexelica dipped into a deep curtsey as soon as the Prioress released her. “Forgive me, Reverend Mother,” she said, almost touching her forehead to the floor. “I lost control of my emotions, and I beg forgiveness."

Grimm's head lolled onto his heaving chest, and he knew true desolation. Drex had not even put up a token fight against Lizaveta's influence. He burned with shame that his former lover had been able to mould his behaviour with such ease.

"I will overlook your transgression on this occasion.” Lizaveta's voice sounded like footsteps crunching through a carpet of desiccated corpses. “Just remember, Sister Weranda: women's emotions are like a free, trickling stream; those of men are like a dammed lake, waiting to be released. Women use their emotions; men are controlled by them.

"You were correct to chastise your subject for insolence, Sister, but incorrect in your choice of method. Your link with the subject is the emotion he feels for you; you maintain that link only through the iron control of your own will. Always remember that."

"I will, Reverend Mother,” Drex replied, sinking deeper into her curtsey.

"You may leave us for the time being, Sister,” Lizaveta said. “The others of the Score may require your assistance in dealing with Afelnor's friends. I understand the spell is quite potent. I will call you if I need you again."

"May I ask the form of this spell, Reverend Mother?"

"Indeed, my dear; at this moment, the ground is opening up all around them, disgorging an army of undead warriors, all thirsting for blood. The name of Merrydeath Road is no mere jest. Your friends stand no chance at all."

Grimm shivered. He, like many others, had an ingrained, instinctive horror of zombies. He knew from the Deeds of the Questors that such beings existed, and that they knew neither fear nor the slightest concept of surrender.

Perhaps Necromancer Numal will know how to deal with them. After all, he reasoned, Numal's imposed discipline involved communication with the dead. Nonetheless, Grimm had severe doubts about Numal's courage.

As Drexelica backed out of the room and closed the door, Grimm felt his entrails begin to quiver. Tied to his chair, bereft of magic except what his captors allowed him, he knew true despair.

Lizaveta rose from her chair and walked slowly around the trussed magic-user. “So, the mighty Loras Afelnor's grandson is mine at last. You and I will soon know each other well, my dear; very well indeed."

"Burn in Hell, witch.” Grimm knew it was a feeble sally, but it made him feel a little better. “You can't make me do anything I don't want to do, and I have no intention of killing Horin. He's not suffering an agonising decline like Prelate Geral was, and you'll never convince me otherwise."

Lizaveta clapped her hands. “Excellent! Domination is always more effective when the subject fights back. Sister Weranda didn't surrender to the Order for quite some time. She needed to be broken, as do you.

"After that, you'll come to love me as you've never loved before."

"Never!” Grimm vowed. “All I want is to see you die, hag."

Lizaveta smiled and muttered a few strange words. Grimm shuddered as if a projectile had hit him, and he gasped. His heart pounded and his tongue, already dry, felt like a lump of wood. He could not tear his eyes from the wizened old woman.

"This is infatuation, Grimm.” Lizaveta's voice did not seem as harsh and unpleasant as it once had. “The first manifestation of love."