"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.