Alastair Archibald: Dragonblaster

At first, her inner mantra had been ‘I'm just pretending to go along with them', but she had long since forgotten this prideful mantra.

Drexelica had lost count of the number of times she had been forced to shout, “Blessed be the Order", and her voice was scratchy and hoarse. She felt her head beginning to swim, and she tried to focus on the altar in front of her. She had not eaten for well over a day, and she had slept no more than two hours in that time. Hunger and exhaustion were now her constant companions, and her vision was becoming blurry and grey.

At least she no longer noticed the aches and pains in her body, brought on by many hours of kneeling on a hard stone floor in a rigid attitude of prayer. Her watchful Novice attendants seemed to lash her less frequently now, but Drexelica scarcely noticed. She no longer understood the words she chanted, yet she lived only for her cue to speak.

"So let it be.” Sister Melana's voice seemed to come from the far end of a long tunnel.

"Blessed be the Order!” Drexelica croaked, swaying from side to side. Only the dogged desire not to betray weakness sustained her, but even that was now fading.

"That's all for today, slut."

"Blessed be the Order,” Drex whispered.

As if in a dream, she felt herself lifted up. Her legs seemed unable to obey her commands; she vaguely registered the fact that they trailed behind her like useless, wasted appendages as the acolytes dragged her from the small temple.

Then she lost consciousness.

A cold shock of water hit Drex's face, and she jerked open her sore eyes.

"Well, Supplicant; how do you feel?” Sister Melana stood over her, wearing her customary sneer. “Not so cocky now, eh, slut?"

"Blessed be the Order."

Drex's head rocked as the nun slapped her, hard. She found the sharp sound more shocking than the distant, dulled pain, and it brought her to her senses.

"Oh, shut up, Supplicant! We've finished with Responses for today."

"I'm so sorry, Sister Melana. I… I need to sleep."

"Sleep? You've already been lounging there for three hours. What more do you want? You have work to do; after that, you may eat."

"What work, Sister?"

"Your robe is torn and stained with blood. You are to wash it and repair the damage brought on by your own wilful disobedience. Each botched darn will earn you one hour's Penitence for a fault in Obedience. You will note that I have kindly brought you a bucket of water, soap, and a needle and thread.

"Well?” The Sister raised her whip in a threatening manner.

"Thank you, Sister Melana!” Drex tried to lever herself from the thin mattress.

"I'm waiting, Supplicant,” the nun hissed, tapping the lash against her thigh.

Drexelica tumbled to the floor. Her fingers fumbled with the robe's fastenings; the digits felt as if they belonged to someone else. At last, the final knot fell apart, and she shucked the garment like a snake casting off its skin.

Somehow summoning the strength to rise to her raw, bloody knees, she dragged the garment towards a tub of water at Sister Melana's side.

As if seeing through a layer of grey gauze, Drex remembered the lessons of her brief apprenticeship to Mistress Gutal, a washerwoman and seamstress back in Griven. Skills learned during fourteen-hour working days under the old woman's harsh, unyielding tutelage came to the fore, giving her new strength.

Despite the pain of the blood returning to her arms and hands, she fell into the familiar routine, scrubbing each brown stain as if possessed. Once satisfied that the pristine white of the habit's coarse material had been restored, she took up the proffered darning needle.

She pricked her clumsy fingers several times while trying to thread the needle, but she took care not to spill further blood on the garment.

As she worked, she felt her thoughts clearing. She recognised that her earlier, overt attempts at resistance had been foolish, only adding to her punishment.

Drex knew she could only survive with an intact mind by trying to appear broken. She knew she must try to work on Melana with subtlety, by pretending at first to sympathise with her. The Sister was ambitious and proud, and she seemed to despise Prioress Lizaveta.

Don't give the cow any reason for suspicion, she told herself, as she darned the tears in the robe. Work on her. Play to her vanity.

At last, she snapped the thread on the last darn with her teeth, having used every artifice she had learned in her childhood under the hateful Gutal. Taking care not to raise her eyes, Drex glanced at Melana's hands as she passed the mended robe to the nun: they were soft and pink, the hands of someone unaccustomed to manual work.

Go on, bitch; find something wrong with that!

Melana turned the garment over and over, searching for the least sign of carelessness or inattention, but Drex knew she had worked well.

Compared to Gutal, Melana, you're just an amateur. She'd eat you for breakfast.

The nun grunted. “The Supplicant's work appears satisfactory."

To Drexelica, it sounded as if the words had been extracted under torture, and she struggled to keep her face demure and respectful.

"Thank you, Sister Melana. I will try to be more diligent in future, I promise."

"See that you do, Supplicant. Tomorrow, you'll have a full day of Observance, and I won't hesitate to punish the least transgression. Put on your robe.

"That's better. Now, you have earned a meal. Remember my indulgence and kindness on this occasion."

"I shall, Sister Melana.” Drex made sure to keep her voice penitent and subdued as she fumbled with the gown's laces. “Blessed be the Order."

"Oh, do stop that, slut! Your voice tires me, and you'll have ample opportunity to exercise your lungs later. Wait here; I'll be seeing you soon. You have an hour; make the most of it.

"Sleep is not permitted. Just you remember that."

Melana left the room, and one of the Novices brought Drex a bowl of thin, grey gruel and a small scrap of dark, gritty-looking bread. The meagre meal looked revolting, but the girl consumed it as if it were the choicest cuisine, wiping the bowl with the bread, ensuring that she absorbed every vital calorie.

I've got to keep my strength up. I'm not going to let these bastards beat me, and I know Grimm's on his way here. All I've got to do is to go along with this charade, and come across like a good, confused little girl. I've just got to hold out as best I can. They may have my body, but I'll be damned if I let them have my mind.

"So, Sister Melana; how goes our new Supplicant?” Lizaveta mumbled, tearing flesh from a chicken-leg with her teeth. She tossed the bone over her shoulder and selected a ripe fig from the heaped table at her side.

Melana, lounging on a comfortable divan in the Prioress’ chamber, took a deep draught of wine before she answered.

"She's strong, Reverend Mother; I'll give the little slut that. Even so, she was almost off with the birds by the end of Devotions, as I'd hoped. I let her rest for a little while, and then ordered her to repair her robe; it was in quite a mess, as you might guess. I told her she had failed in Obedience."

"A nice touch, Sister,” Lizaveta said. “Still, I trust you've taken care that she's not marked?"

"There's nothing that'll show, Reverend Mother, I promise. I'll have the Novices go a little easier on her tomorrow, and then hit her hard the day after.

"By the time I left her today, she looked dazed, but I'm pretty sure she was more aware than she let on. She thinks she's playing with us."

Lizaveta laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound that grated on Melana's ears, but the junior nun joined in, nonetheless.

"How amusing!” the Prioress cackled. “Perhaps she thinks she's over the worst? We haven't even started yet! She'll learn soon enough that it's useless to try to oppose the Score… or me."