Alastair Archibald: Dark Priory

"What about Grimm?” Loras asked. “I felt the same sorrow and loss you did when we sent him away to Arnor; you know I did. But he was not suited to smithy life, and you could only teach him so much of less physical activities. Yes, I felt hope that the lad might grow to expunge my… my guilt, but that was never why I sent him to Arnor."

"You deceived me, Loras.” Drima cupped her right hand under the smith's chin and turned his face towards her own. “I knew enough of your past by then: your mutterings during all those nightmares told me all I needed to know. I went along with your lies because I felt your pain. But you deceived me, nonetheless."

Loras wrenched his head away from her guiding hand, and the empathic Kargan felt his pain like a knife-thrust through his own vitals.

The smith's voice trembled as he spoke: “I know, Drima, and I feel shame for that; a shame greater than I ever felt for what… for what I thought I had done. I have no right to ask this, but I beg you to believe that this is not for me and my pride alone. This is for all the Students, Neophytes, Adepts and Mages whose lives will be perverted and turned by Thorn's influence; but, most of all, it is for the sake of our grandson.

"I leave for Arnor House to do what I know is right, Drima; if it is with your blessing, I welcome that more than you can imagine. However, if I have to do this alone, without your support, then so be it. Perhaps I will lose; maybe I will die; but I will risk that in order to expose Thorn's treachery.

"I am leaving, Drima, and I ask you to forgive me for what I have done, and for what I must do."

Drima laughed, but there was no humour in the harsh sound. “Of course I forgive you, Loras,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “I don't agree, and if I thought I had the slightest chance of changing your stubborn, mule-like mind, I'd fight to the end of the world to dissuade you. Still, I know how hard it is to persuade you when your mind's made up, so all I can do is to go along with this insane plan."

Her eyes filled with tears once more as she whispered, “I love you, you pig-headed idiot."

Loras faced his wife, and Kargan saw the traces of moisture on the Questor's face, too. “I love you, too, Drima; I love you as much as life itself."

"Go, then!” the old lady cried. “Just promise me that you won't be seduced by the damned House or the Guild while you're away. If I-"

Loras stopped Drima's mouth with his own, and Kargan stared at the ceiling, wishing he were somewhere else. After many moments, he lowered his gaze, as he felt a firm tap on his right shoulder.

"We are leaving, Magemaster,” Loras said, his expression calm, almost beatific. “I fancy I can take us to the House faster than a pair of horses.

"Woman; wife; beloved: believe me when I tell you that no power on Earth can persuade me to stay away as long as I have you waiting for me."

"Go, Loras,” Drima whispered. “Take care of yourself."

"Always, my love. Be sure of it.” Loras took a firm grip on his staff and turned to Kargan.

"Put your arms around my neck, Magemaster,” he said, “and trust me-both of you."

Kargan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He did as Loras bade him, as the smith began a guttural, droning, Questor chant that seemed to come from the centre of his chest: “Ominaomadiya-redessamu…"

As a deep-blue coruscation began to play around him, Kargan heard Drima muttering. He could not make out the words, but her expression made her meaning clear. The Magemaster suppressed a pang of envy at the love between Drima and her husband, an emotion he would never experience.

"…rumandatana-getiyu…” The walls of the smithy blurred, and the very air seemed to take on a soupy, heavy consistency.

"…simonumat'ur-gamnusim…"

Kargan felt a moment of panic as the walls, ceiling and floor disappeared, to be replaced by a black void filled with blue motes. He knew he was moving, but without any sense of direction.

"…amatumonimasadata!"

Kargan's stomach lurched as he felt sudden discontinuity and deceleration, and he found his feet again on firm ground.

The Magemaster closed his eyes and gulped, seized by momentary nausea. When he opened them again, he saw the stark, forbidding face of Arnor House. Even in the golden, evening light, he saw only corruption and senescence in the ancient fortress’ blurred outlines. Releasing the Questor, Kargan staggered and suppressed a sudden upsurge of hot, acrid bile within him. He swallowed, fighting his protesting body's demands.

"We are… home, Magemaster Kargan,” Loras said, seemingly none the worse for the dizzying journey. “I believe you hold the key."

Kargan, his head spinning, held up his left hand with its blue-gold Guild ring. He stared at it for a few moments: the band which showed his love and dedication to a corrupted House; the band which denied him a normal life.

"I am ready, Questor Loras,” he muttered, moving his left palm towards the black, oaken portal. The door swung open in a smooth, silent arc, and saw the hunched figure of Doorkeeper rushing towards the entrance.

"Welcome; welcome back, Brother Mage,” the beaming major-domo crowed. “It is good to-"

Loras, resplendent and terrifying in his scarlet apparel, stepped from the shadows. “Greetings, Mage Doorkeeper. I trust you are well."

Doorkeeper's smile fell; he looked from the Questor to the Magemaster and back again, his expression like that of a confused, frightened child.

In a dull voice he said, “Greetings, Questor Loras. I am under orders to report your arrival to Lord Thorn."

Before Kargan or Loras could protest, the old man shuffled away with surprising speed, and they were left alone.

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General Quelgrum had stood watch many times in his long life. He had often felt the cold, leaden sensation of fearful anticipation in the pit of his stomach; at other times, he felt only boredom. The old soldier thought he had experienced the gamut of human feeling and emotion, but something seemed different about this watch: a sick sensation of unnameable dread. The stark, skeletal trees around the camp creaked in the evening breeze, and Quelgrum heard the eerie, intermittent cries of a screech-owl in the distance.

However, these sounds did not disturb him as much as the utter, cloying silence that clung between them.

At last, the owl finished its mournful ululation and the breeze died away; silence reigned, and the General shivered, as if the very stillness were seeping into his bones.

Something's coming, he thought, although he had never before believed in fortune-tellers, predestination or precognition. Something bad.

At the sudden rustle of fallen leaves behind him, his heart leapt in his chest and he wheeled, his finger taking first pressure on the trigger of his automatic rifle, which he held at chest height, ready to fire.

"Oh, it's you, Lord Seneschal,” he said, suppressing a relieved sigh.

"Who were you expecting, General? I am here to relieve you,” Shakkar rumbled, towering over the soldier.

"I don't know, Lord Seneschal,” Quelgrum confessed. “I just feel a little… jumpy tonight. If it's all the same to you, I'll stay on watch with you; I don't think I could sleep right now. Besides, I want to be ready in case Baron Grimm comes barrelling out of the Priory with a hundred screaming witches at his heels. I don't normally feel this edgy, but something seems-oh, I don't know. I suppose you think it's just an old man's addled imagination."

"Not at all, General. I, too, am concerned for the Lord Baron, Questor Guy, and Lady Drexelica."

"It's not just that,” Quelgrum said, trying to put his inner disquiet into words. “It feels like" What was that?"