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CONTENTS

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Other Books by Author Available at Whiskey Creek Press:

Chapter 1: Preparations for Attack

Chapter 2: Healing

Chapter 3: The Summoning

Chapter 4: In The Priory

Chapter 5: Demands

Chapter 6: Investigation

Chapter 7: Integration

Chapter 8: Suspicions

Chapter 9: Obedience

Chapter 10: “A Credit To The Order"

Chapter 11: Arrivals

Chapter 12: Information

Chapter 13: ‘Just A Dream'

Chapter 14: Imprisonment

Chapter 15: Worried Minds

Chapter 16: Voyage of Discovery

Chapter 17: A Journey into Memory

Chapter 18: Erik's Doubts

Chapter 19: ‘A Dangerous Game'

Chapter 20: Goodbye to Diplomacy

Chapter 21: Shakkar's Arrival

Chapter 22: Gruon Awakes!

Chapter 23: The Golden Creation

Chapter 24: Reawakening

Chapter 25: Back On The Road

Chapter 26: Talking Treason

Chapter 27: Flight

Chapter 28: The Storm Gathers

Chapter 29: ‘Convince Me!'

Chapter 30: Loras’ Betrayal

Chapter 31: Merrydeath Road

Chapter 32: Preparations

Chapter 33: Arrival at Rendale

About the Author

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* * * *

DRAGONBLASTER: BOOK 5

OF THE CHRONICLES OF GRIM DRAGONBLASTER

by

Alastair J. Archibald

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright © 2008 by Alastair J. Archibald

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN 978-1-60313-278-7

Credits

Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston

Editor: Melanie Billings

Printed in the United States of America

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Other Books by Author Available at Whiskey Creek Press:

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A Mage in the Making: Book 1 of The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster Grimm Afelnor becomes a student in Arnor House. Shocked to learn that his grandfather was once a powerful mage. At the behest of his grandfather's betrayer, Grimm becomes a Mage Questor. He vows to fight for his Guild and for the name of his disgraced family.

Whiskey Shots Volume 4

Two short stories: A man mistreats his wife and suffers the consequences. Another finds it hard to tell the difference between fantasy and reality—but is he truly mad, or does an ancient god hold the secret?

Weapon of the Guild: Book 2 of The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster On his first Quest, Grimm is rewarded well after he helps to retrieve a magical gem. Now a wealthy Baron and a Fifth Rank Mage Questor, Grimm feels confident when he is sent to tackle a General who abducts Guild Mages. However, things do not go to plan.

Questor: Book 3 of The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster

Mage Questor Grimm Afelnor and his companions find themselves in Haven, a steel fortress in the forbidding Shest Mountains, as the unwilling guests of Armitage, the reborn avatar of a long-dead Technologist.

Truth and Deception: Book 4 of The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster After thwarting Prioress Lizaveta in her attempt to suborn the Guild Dominie, Lord Horin, Questor Grimm Afelnor is delighted to be awarded a cognomen and the status of the Seventh Rank. However, he soon learns that Horin intends to use him as his personal weapon in an attack on Lizaveta's centre of power. Aided only by a handful of warriors, the powerful but unreliable Guy Great Flame, a cowardly Necromancer and the six-inch demon, Thribble, Grimm embarks on a dangerous quest that may kill him, but which also may lead to the redemption of his sullied family name.

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Chapter 1: Preparations for Attack

Prioress Lizaveta sat at ease in her most private sanctum, deep within the bowels of Rendale Priory, scanning the grey-garbed figures assembled around her.

The room was sealed: the Prioress had placed a potent spell of warding upon it, since she did not want uninvited ears to overhear the night's proceedings. Candles lit the scene in flickering, orange light, sending shadows flitting mothlike across the flagstone floor. Twenty nuns sat, cross-legged, in a semicircle around Lizaveta's marble throne.

Lizaveta smiled at the Anointed Score, assembled in their entirety for the first time in over a generation.

She knew that, high above her, innocent Sisters bustled through their allotted tasks, blissfully unaware of her machinations and political games, and this gave her considerable pleasure. Despite the sense of fear the Prioress instilled in even the most insignificant Novice, she knew she was regarded as the well-spring of rectitude and holiness within her Order.

Hundreds of righteous, religious women waited for her least command, quite ignorant of the complete disregard in which she and the Score held the sworn vows of the lesser nuns. Fifty years before, Lizaveta had attained the high rank of Prioress’ Handmaiden, and she had wasted little time in despatching her foolish, benign predecessor and taking her place.

Before long, Lizaveta had identified the Geomantically-skilled members of her flock, and a long series of illnesses and tragic “accidents” served to allow her to fill the ranks of the blessed Score with powerful witches whose views coincided with her own. She knew that every one of these nuns was ambitious and egotistical, prepared to kill her as soon as the chance presented itself; however, Lizaveta was always on her guard. Each member of her inner coterie knew she was shadowed by at least one eager acolyte, waiting to take her place at the least open sign of treachery. These hand-picked, ambitious girls, numbering thirty-five, formed Lizaveta's second line of defence.

Each woman before her had been selected, not only for her ruthlessness, but also for the least sign of Geomantic power. Each had been trained in the use of her inner magic, but always at a lower level than that of her Prioress. Lizaveta had no intention of raising a witch capable of mounting any serious challenge to her.

"Sisters,” she intoned, leaning back in her gold-and-mahogany throne and scanning the eager eyes arrayed before her. “A great threat lies before us."

As ever, the women stood in silence, none daring to interrupt her. Each knew the depth of her wrath only too well, and was unwilling to risk angering her.

"The younger Afelnor has come into his full power, and he is coming to avenge his grandfather. I am to be his target, but I know he will be catholic in his rage; harbour no dreams that he will spare any of you.

Should he be allowed to vent his anger upon us, this Priory may well lie in ruins by the time he is finished.

At this time, he is leaving Yoren, having destroyed the Mansion House there, and he will be making his way here as I speak.

"I had hoped that the Mansion would have posed more of an obstacle for the boy, but it was not to be."

A hard-faced woman of riper years raised a hand.

"Sister Arissa, you may speak."

"Reverend Mother, he is just a boy, and he must contend with Brianston and Merrydeath Road long before he reaches us. Is he really such a threat?"

Lizaveta laughed; a dry, hacking sound. “You are right, Sister. He is only a male, and a young one at that; nonetheless, I have taken a particular fancy to this immature youth, and I would like to have him under my control. He and his party may be too wary to take the direct route and, even if they do, the trials of Brianston and Merrydeath Road may not stop them. If Afelnor survives, and I almost hope he does, I wish to be sure that we have the proper reception for him when he arrives here."

Lizaveta noted a quizzical expression on the nun's face. “Sister Arissa,” she said, “do you have something to add to the discussion?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother. This ... creature is a Guild Mage. If he survives and you keep him here, the Guild will surely take an undesirable interest in our activities. That might pose a greater threat to us than this Afelnor ever could. You controlled his grandfather, Loras, easily enough; why not ensorcel his pup in the same manner, before he ever reaches us?"

Lizaveta considered her reply for a few moments. She felt angered by Arissa's impertinence, but she did not want to admit to weakness even to an inferior. She knew she had only been able to control Loras Afelnor's actions with the aid of a mighty enchantment, and only then by turning an existing emotion: Loras’ pity for the dying Prelate of his House. His grandson seemed to be forewarned, and he was unlikely to be swayed from his righteous vengeance. She had only managed to defeat Afelnor's unsuspecting friend, Dalquist, through the timely intervention of the dead Sister Madeleine. She had met both mages, and she knew Grimm was already far more powerful than the older Questor would ever be.

She locked Arissa's grey eyes with a fierce stare. “I just wish to see Afelnor's expression when he falls to his knees, defeated, and acknowledges me as his mistress,” she growled, her gaze challenging the nun to call her a liar. “I have no need to justify my actions to you, Sister; remember that."

"Your pardon, Reverend Mother!” Arissa dropped her eyes in the modest manner expected of every nun in the Order; even a member of the Score. “My first concern was for our beloved Order."

"I understand that, dear Sister. I understood your motives only too well."

Lizaveta turned to the expectant nuns, whose eyes were all lowered. “Does anybody else seek to question me? No? Good; we will begin.

"I have called you here tonight because I wish to cast a Great Spell; not on Grimm Afelnor, but on one close to him. In a flagrant breach of Guild protocol, he has taken a lover, some bedraggled beggar from the town of Griven. I understand that she has the makings of a witch, and I feel she belongs more properly here in Rendale, with her true sisters, rather than in some distant tower."

The Prioress felt an emotional upsurge from her audience; the Sisters now understood her intent well.

Lizaveta smiled. “She may not concur with our aims, at first, of course, but she will learn the errors of her ways, long before her paramour reaches our gates. She will be here, waiting to greet him when he does. I wish to cast a Great Spell of Summoning, so that this girl may begin to learn the bounteous ... advantages of religious discipline, long before that time.

"Judan, most favoured one.” She turned to a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman. “I choose you to research the spell, to allocate our various roles, and to ascertain the most propitious time for its casting. I would ask you to tell us any preconditions of which you are aware."

"I thank you for your favour, Reverend Mother, from the bottom of my heart,” Judan breathed, maintaining her modest, lowered gaze.

But for the nun's severe habit and wimple, she might have been taken for a docile schoolmistress or archivist, but Lizaveta knew Judan as a competent and diligent researcher who would leave no stone unturned in her quest for perfection. The austere woman was also a ruthless and efficient killer when necessary, but quite devoid of ambition. This made her an ideal member of the Score; the Prioress wished she had access to more witches of this calibre.

In a sing-song contralto, Judan began to recite a series of factors which might affect the intended spell, consulting a battered, well-thumbed almanac as she did so.

She sounds like a teacher handing out assignments to a class, the Prioress thought, but she knew well the woman's accuracy and efficiency.

"In four days, the new moon will rise, and the Red Eye will be in the fourth house,” the nun intoned, “the sign of the Ram. This is a good omen for the spell, and I estimate that the optimal time for the culmination of the magic will be close to eighteen minutes to midnight. I will be able to give a more precise estimate when I have consulted my librams and auguries.

"We will need attributes of Levity; the feathers of a swallow should suffice. It is not required, but a few pounds of spider-silk, spun into a gossamer net over the hall, would help the signatures. We will need incense of sanctified wormwood, philosophical essence of cedar and hermetic lavender. At least eleven pounds of powdered lodestone are required. This must be ground finer than the most costly pomade, and allowed to rest for two days under the Sigil of Eratu, with the dark light of pitchblende shining upon it at an angle of between forty-three and forty-seven degrees during the hours of darkness. It must be contained in a parabolic bowl of philosophical gold, and the rays of the sun must be shone onto this at a constant angle of eleven degrees during the day. Only mirrors of hermeneutic asem, at least ninety-seven percent pure, may be used to achieve this, and even a trifling error of over half a degree may thwart our purpose."

Judan licked her right thumb and selected another page. “Three pounds of bees’ eyes, removed with a sanctified obsidian blade in the presence of a constant chant of Quelling, will be advantageous; they should be prepared no later than five hours before the spell is cast. A freshly-prepared Stone of Monan, prepared from condensed frog-sputum, is essential. One of seven ounces should suffice, and it must be no more than two days old when we begin the ceremony.

"For the insectoid signatures, I imagine we have adequate quantities of dried flies’ hearts, butterfly brains and mosquito blood, so I won't dwell any further on that.” Judan swept a stray brown lock under her wimple. “But I will add that we must all adhere to a strict diet of bats’ hearts and boiled sea-grass until the spell is cast. I also recommend that we all apply an enema of ginger and capsicum each night until that time, and that we take care to observe the strict Rites of Inner Purity. I imagine that will be harder for some of us than for others, but I will monitor all of you for compliance until the day.

"There will, of course, be further conditions to be followed when I have had time to compile more detailed notes, but I will tell you of those as soon as I am able."

Lizaveta scanned the lowered faces of her flock; some were serene and untroubled, while others bore expressions of consternation. She knew that most of these pampered Sisters had never taken part in a Great Spell in their lives, but she was pleased to see that they all appeared to be resigned to the ordeal to which Judan had condemned them.

Still, she thought, it would not hurt to reinforce the message.

"I trust that you have taken our beloved Sister's words to heart,” she said, her tone severe. “You may all take it that I regard Sister Judan as your Superior in all regards until this spell is complete, responsible only to me. Should she report that any of you is dilatory or lazy, the transgressor may expect to face my wrath—and I am sure you all know the consequences of exciting my anger."

"Yes, Reverend Mother. Thank you for guiding us. Your will is ours."

The Sisters’ response was a rote one, drilled into the rawest Novice from her earliest days in the Order, but Lizaveta felt the sincerity in the chorused words. Each of the Score felt determined to do her best for her Superior. Nonetheless, this spell was important to the Prioress, and she felt that a little reinforcement might not go amiss.

"I would just add one corollary to what I have said, dear Sisters: I am well aware of your normal games of precedence and favouritism. Normally, I am happy to condone a little ambition, if it is well-intended.

However, this privilege is henceforth suspended until the magic is successfully cast.

"For the purposes of this spell, you will all act as if you were the humblest of Supplicants, beseeching the Order's charity. Should I learn that any of you is seeking to do down one of her Sisters, there will be no Judicial Hearing; you will be condemned to a long, painful, lingering death, and you will be replaced by one of your guardian Novices. You will rue the days on which you and I were born. Do I make myself quite clear?"

"Quite clear, Reverend Mother!"

"Good. Under Sister Judan's wise guidance, let us proceed. From this moment, all of us will maintain Strict Observance. I do mean ‘all', since I do not exempt myself from the strictures of this most important spell."

* * * *

At first, Drexelica had resented and feared her nightly visits from Shakkar. When she had arrived at Crar, she had found the towering, fang-toothed demon terrifying. Only much later had she realised that the titanic monster's intentions were quite honourable; what she had once interpreted as ravening hunger for her flesh, she now recognised as concern for her well-being. In the absence of Grimm Afelnor, the demon had been detailed to look after her, and she had to admit she could think of no better protector than the dour Shakkar. She knew her underworld guardian would die before he would let her down.

"Just checking, Lady Baroness,” the grey, winged monster said, as he always did.

"Thank you, Shakkar. Goodnight,” she said, resisting the impulse to kiss the impassive demon on the cheek. She could not have reached it, in any case.

"Goodnight, Lady Drexelica,” the demon rumbled. “I hope you sleep well.” As silent as the passage of the moon, Shakkar slid out of the room and closed the door.

Drex knew the huge demon was never able to enjoy the mortal surcease of sleep, and she therefore found his familiar, nightly words even more comforting. She would have preferred that Grimm were present to safeguard the domicile, but she accepted that this was not always possible.

Drex understood, even if she did not appreciate, that Grimm had a vocation to fulfil. Despite the opulent conditions in which he lived, her lover was not a free man; in fact, he was more a slave than she would have been if the Questor chosen to condemn her to the Grivense authorities for her attempted theft of his purse.

Drex stood before the tall mirror in the room she had shared with Grimm during their all-too-brief liaison.

She still thought of herself as a grubby beggar, a penniless waif, but she could no longer deny that she was a beautiful woman. She did not suffer from an excess of vanity, but she admired the way her gold-flecked locks cascaded over her shoulders in a fulsome wave. Her green satin robe hinted at her feminine curves in an artful manner, without making her look like a common street-woman.

For the first time in her life, she was able to appreciate her Aunt Dalan's advice on the proper application of cosmetics and clothes: “Accentuate your features, but don't flaunt them. Subtlety, girl; hint at it, don't hand it over."

After spending so many years in dire poverty, now Drex had the means to follow her long-dead aunt's advice. Grimm had not forced a choice of clothes upon her; he still had an adolescent boy's ignorance in such matters, and she felt grateful that he acknowledged the fact.

She revelled in her sumptuous, self-chosen wardrobe, but a part of her still warned her that she might be returned to penury in the space of a heartbeat; she did not care to dwell on her elegant, reflected image for too long.

Despite her lover's absence, Drexelica took a leisurely toilette, enjoying the silky feel of the costly balms and perfumed essences on her softening skin. Already, she felt she was leaving the squalor and deprivation of the slums of Griven behind her, and she felt safe and content.

Grimm would come back to her, she felt sure, and, with a demon and an army to protect her, what could go wrong? She would wait for her man, no matter how long it might take.

What can go wrong? The thought reverberated in her head and would not go away, like an annoying moth in the night, scurrying around a candle-flame.

She finished her nightly ritual and went to her large, lonely bed. For several hours, she tossed and turned before she found sleep, but it was not the blessed relief she sought when it came to her. Something felt awry, but her dream-self could not focus upon it. Vague, disturbing images and feelings tainted her as she slept, and taunted her. As if only moments had passed, she awoke, soaked in perspiration, to the early morning rays of sun that shone through the window.

She chided herself for her foolishness, knowing she was safe and secure within the well-protected city of Crar, but she could not pin down the cause of her anxiety; perhaps it was the knowledge of the danger her young lover might be facing.

Whatever the cause of her worries, one thought was ever-present in her mind: Come back soon, Grimm!

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Chapter 2: Healing

Guy Great Flame, his spirit still ensconced in the aged Necromancer Numal's body, threw down his armful of firewood and winced, clasping his hands around his spasming lower back.

"I've had it with this damned, worn-out body!” he shouted to nobody in particular. “It creaks and grates whenever I walk, and this bloody spine is a disaster area!"

General Quelgrum sat cross-legged by the wagon, applying needle and thread to some of his clothes with surprising dexterity. “Just think how Numal feels every day, Great Flame,” he said in a mild voice. “But you heard him practicing his singing earlier; you know he's in no condition to cast a spell to return you to your own body yet. He's complaining about the effects your youthful hormones are having on him, and he says he finds it difficult to aim when he's peeing, because your—"

"All right, General,” Guy snapped, waving his hands to cut off the old soldier before he could say more.

“I understand: we've both got problems. Just don't expect me to be happy about it."

Grimm, tending to Crest's head wound, suppressed a smile. He was sure he had seen the hint of a blush on his fellow Questor's borrowed face, and he guessed the reason; Guy must be a little lacking in masculine endowment.

"Would you boys mind keeping it down a little?” Crest said. “I've still got a little bit of a headache."

Grimm could tell from the stiff expression on the thief's face that Crest, too, was making an effort not to laugh.

Guy, his face now suffused with red, snatched up his bundle of sticks, tossing them in front of the wagon.

"I think you'll need to bring another small load or two, Questor,” the foppish swordsman, Harvel, called as he rubbed oil into his leather armour. “That load seems a bit short!"

The storm broke; Quelgrum burst into a mighty, explosive guffaw, his face as red as Guy's, tears running down his ruddy cheeks. Harvel was the next to join in, followed by Crest.

"Hold still, Crest!” Grimm cried, trying to pin the bandage in position. “I'll never get this little pin in if you keep squirming..."

"That's Questor Guy's problem!” Harvel screamed, his face streaming with tears.

With a manful effort, Grimm tried to rein in the tickle within his entrails, but one look at Guy's angry, red, old man's face lost him the brief battle. He exploded into a short series of staccato hiccups that soon cascaded into an unstoppable stream of laughter.

His almost hysterical state might be out of all proportion to the juvenile humour of the sallies, but he had had little about which to laugh since the start of the Quest.

It's therapeutic, he thought, as he clutched his sides and rolled from side to side. Better out than in, they say...

This last thought, for some reason, evoked further laughter from him.

At last, the hilarity died down to a few brief chuckles, as an angry Numal, wearing Guy's body, strode into the small encampment.

"What is the matter with you fellows?” he demanded, in a guttural voice. “I've been out hunting all morning, and I find you all sitting around, giggling like schoolgirls! I just want you to know that I've had a thoroughly unproductive morning, and I'm fed up. I'm no country boy, and I know we've got stores of preserved food with us; why don't we just use them?"

Grimm still felt the aching in his cheeks and ribs, but he welcomed the Necromancer's timely intervention.

"We have enough food for maybe three weeks, Numal,” he said in a calmer voice. “We didn't expect to be held up by serious injuries, and we're not really sure what lies ahead of us. It's better to save what we've got until we really need it. Believe me, it's better that way."

"I still don't know what you expect me to do,” Numal said in an aggrieved tone. “I don't know whether the plants and fungi are poisonous or edible, and I have no idea how I'm meant to use these damned snares."

The Necromancer held out a handful of slender, jangling, metal contrivances, as if they were evidence in some city trial.

Quelgrum snapped the hanging end from a knotted thread with his teeth and stood up. “It's all right, Numal,” he said. “I'm feeling a lot better now, and I often had to hunt for food in my fugitive youth. Hand me those snares, and I'll fetch us enough food for a meal worthy of any King."

Grimm saw that the General's dark, purple bruises had already begun to fade into shades of brown and yellow. It seemed that the old man still retained considerable powers of regeneration, despite his advanced age.

Taking the snares from the irascible Numal, the General headed into the woods surrounding the hill, whistling a merry tune as he walked

The young Questor turned to the unwillingly-juxtaposed Guy, who still bore a dark frown on his face.

"I'm sorry, Guy,” he said. “I didn't mean to laugh at you, but we just needed some release; any release."

"That's all very well,” the older Questor replied in a discordant rumble, “You've had your little schoolboy laugh, but it doesn't help Numal or me. How long do we have to live like this, before the old man works out how to use my voice to cast his bloody spell? I'd do it myself, if I had the faintest idea what he'd done to put me in this clapped-out, old body."

Grimm sighed. If Guy intended to moan and grumble until the party was ready to move on, this would be a most unpleasant stop-over.

"I'll tell you what,” he said, regarding the older man's sour expression, “I'll have a word with Numal to see if I can get the hang of the spell."

"That's all I need: a bloody adolescent wonder-boy, poking his face into my affairs."

Despite the lined, grandfatherly face, Grimm recognised the same sarcastic, dismissive mage he had first encountered in High Lodge, and he bridled. The young Questor stepped into the cover of the concealing greenery and beckoned to the stooped figure. To his surprise, the haughty mage acceded to Grimm's imperious gesture, without meeting his eyes.

"That's fine by me; fix it yourself, esteemed Brother Mage!” the young Questor hissed, rage blazing within him. “I've just about had enough of your whining. Sort out your own problems in future, and stop moaning about it to me; I don't care anymore, and I don't think anybody else does. After what Numal did for you, you should be grateful to be alive, not griping about how unfair life has been to you!

"Since I first met you, all you've ever done is to belittle and disparage people. It seems to me you consider yourself the acme of your own little universe, so enjoy it while you may.

"You're a Questor, just like me, so I know you didn't always dress in silk finery; whether you like it or not, you're no different to me."

Guy opened his mouth, but Grimm glared at him with an intensity born of a hatred for the Prioress that even the old witch's hate-filled grandson could never hope to match. The older man seemed to be pushed back by the ferocity of the Dragonblaster's passion, and he remained silent: a minor victory in itself.

"You may feel slighted because you felt you should have had better treatment in your House's Scholasticate,” Grimm said, “but I grew up with the ever-present assumption that penury and maltreatment were my inevitable lot in life. You hate your grandmother, Lizaveta, because she condemned you to a life below your expectations; I detest her because I know she caused my grandfather's name—my name—to be reviled throughout the Guild."

Realising his fists were tightly clenched, Grimm relaxed them. His fight was not against Guy Great Flame; it was against the witch, Lizaveta, the root cause of both mages’ problems.

"What would you rather be?” he continued. “An anonymous pauper despised for his lack of social status but respected for his success in the Ordeal; or the Renegade's Spawn, loathed for his grandfather's treason? I have laboured under that stigma since I was seven years old, and I grew up believing that it was all true: my beloved grandfather was a damned, bloody murderer! Now, I know Lizaveta was behind all of that, and I intend to make her pay for every single insult I had to endure as a Student.

"Compared to what I had to face as a child, Great Flame, your life must have been a bloody picnic!"

To Grimm's surprise, the wrinkled lips just smiled. “I can see I've misjudged you, Grimm: you're no different to me, are you?” the juxtaposed mage croaked. “You aren't just some jumped-up little nobody trying to make a name for himself, are you? You hate the old witch just as much as I do; maybe more so!

"It isn't just a Guild Quest for you, is it, youngster? You're just as hungry for revenge as I am!"

Grimm tried to speak, but could not do so; the older Questor had touched a sensitive nerve.

Guy/Numal slapped him on his right shoulder. “Don't worry, Grimm, I understand: you're only human after all."

Numal/Guy walked, or rather shambled, over to the woodpile and tripped, sprawling prone in front of the wagon.

"I want my own body back!” the imprisoned Necromancer yelled, hoisting himself back to his feet. “As I told the General, I even have trouble peeing, because these damned legs are too bloody long: I find it difficult to stand still long enough to finish."

A brief moment of silence ensued, and Grimm shot a stern glance at the old soldier, who just shrugged.

"What's the matter,” Numal croaked. “Did I say something wrong?"

"But I thought...!” Harvel started, his face reddening before he started to laugh again. This time, even Guy joined in the mirth.

* * * *

Lizaveta sat on her magnificent, gilded throne and pounded a long rod on the flagstones. The nervous, chattering nuns before her became silent, assuming positions of religious modesty as they knelt before their Superior.

"Sister Judan; I declare you Mistress of this solemn ceremony,” the Prioress intoned. “We are all in your hands; I entrust to you the success of our endeavour."

"Thank you, Reverend Mother,” the matronly nun said, rising to her feet. “May I address the Conclave?"

"Please do so, Sister,” Lizaveta replied. “As I told you, for the purposes of this Great Spell, you may consider yourself an Authority over all present, including me."

The Prioress could not be sure, but she imagined she detected a faint sparkle of triumph in Judan's grey, bespectacled eyes, as the nun scanned a thick sheaf of papers.

"I would like to call the Score to order,” Judan said in a curt, businesslike manner.

"Is the room sealed, Sister Ulian?” she asked of a short nun in her thirties.

"It is, Sister Judan."

"Sister Ellen; do you have the bees’ eyes?"

"I regret that I was unable to obtain a sufficient quantity at such short notice,” Ellen replied, a stout, red-faced woman who looked as if she might have felt more at home in a laundry than a nunnery.

“Consulting my own notes, I took the liberty of substituting dragonflies’ eyes for one-third of the requirement, and wasps’ eyes for the remaining three-eighths. I hope this will be satisfactory."

A spark of annoyance in her eyes, Judan riffled through her papers. “The quantities are exact?"

"To within a drachm or so, Sister,” Ellen said. “I was careful to use only green dragonflies and wood wasps. I used a flint blade for removing the dragonflies’ eyes, of course, rather than one of obsidian."

Judan leafed through her notes for a few minutes more before replying. “The signatures match; however, I see that I will need to adjust the cadence of the second phase of the third chant."

Taking forth a pencil from within her robes, the nun scribbled on the relevant page, pausing at intervals to scan the ceiling, muttering as she did so. Three times, she scored through her calculations and began anew, before pronouncing herself satisfied.

"The lodestone dust is sufficiently fine, I trust, Sister Sofia?"

"Sieved twenty-eight times, as required, Sister,” Sofia said, her large, long-lashed, blue eyes at odds with her stern expression. “I followed your instructions to the letter.

"I trust you used a pure asem mirror, Sister?"

"Of course ... Sister!"

Judan's eyes blazed at the girl's affronted, impertinent voice. “Do not dare to take that tone with me!” she snapped. “When the spell is complete, you may subject yourself to three hours of Penitence of the third grade!"

Sofia's blue eyes widened and her jaw dropped: Judan had condemned her to lie prone on a layer of sharp stones, with her arms raised behind her like wings. The least movement would result in a lash from a steel-tipped martinet held by a watchful attendant.

"Can Sister Judan do that, Reverend Mother?” The words burst from the girl's lips as if torn from her, and she raised an imploring gaze to the Prioress. “I worked for many hours on my preparations!"

"Sister Judan is the Authority here, Sister Sofia,” Lizaveta hissed. “She may assign any punishment she wishes, as you should know well.

"However, you have compounded your error by disregarding Custody of the Eyes. Your sentence is hereby extended to four hours, and I shall be your attendant during the Penitence. “I trust you will apply yourself to your work here with diligence; I should not like to have to condemn you to a Penitence of the fourth grade. Apologise at once!"

A slight, weak girl like Sofia would be unlikely to survive such an ordeal, and her expression showed that she knew this only too well.

"I apologise with full humility, Reverend Mother, Sister Judan and all my beloved Sisters,” Sofia breathed, lowering her eyes and prostrating herself before the conclave.

"Apology accepted, Sister Sofia,” Lizaveta said, favouring the prone nun with a curt nod. “Should you perform well tonight, I may choose to substitute a horsewhip for the martinet, if Sister Judan is amenable to this."

"I have no objection, Reverend Mother,” Judan replied, curtseying. “May I continue? We have many other stipulations and conditions to consider, and the spell must be cast within the next two hours if it is to succeed."

"Please carry on, Sister. You may rise, Sister Sofia.

"Thank you for your indulgence, Reverend Mother."

Judan consulted her detailed, specific notes for the next ninety minutes, firing pointed questions at each Sister in turn; every woman present had a vital role to perform, if the spell was to succeed.

A few Sisters confessed to minor failures of attention or detail, and two nuns were condemned to minor punishments for their transgressions. At each negative report, Judan made adjustments to her calculations but, at last, she declared herself satisfied.

"Sisters, please go to your posts!” she cried, consulting a small compass. “Reverend Mother, may I ask you to move to your left a little? Thank you."

"Sister Vanar; the brand should be in your left hand, you idiot!” Judan screamed, departing for a moment from her tutelary mien.

"My apologies, Sister."

"Hmm. Tribunes; please move a little closer together ... more ... thank you. Sister Jana, raise your left arm a little higher ... there. Thank you—hold that pose.

"Reverend Mother; we are ready."

"Carry on, Sister Judan."

"Sister Moran; the first chant, if you please!"

The spell was under way.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 3: The Summoning

The two armed guards at the entrance to Grimm's tower in Crar had strict standing orders to challenge any person approaching the building. In the case of Shakkar, however, such niceties were waived; there was little chance of any miscreant being able to disguise himself as the titanic demon Seneschal.

"Good evening, gentlemen,” Shakkar rumbled to the watchmen. “Have you anything to report?"

"Nothing, Lord Seneschal,” the two green-uniformed men chorused, saluting with crisp precision. “All is quiet."

"Is Lady Drexelica in residence?” the demon asked. “I wish to discuss next week's Archery Tournament with her."

"I've been on guard since noon, Lord Seneschal,” the senior guard said, a grizzled, shaven-headed sergeant by the name of Erik. “Lady Drexelica hasn't left the tower since then, and the last shift had nothing to report when I relieved them. We change shift at midnight, and I'll be sure to tell our replacements you're in the building, when we change over in five minutes or so."

"Thank you, Sergeant,” Shakkar said as the guards stepped aside to allow him entry to the tower.

When he had first accepted the post of Seneschal, Shakkar had felt uncertain of his ability to deal with these scatter-brained, weak mortals, and even of how to control his own temper. Nonetheless, he had found himself beginning to admire these short-lived, frail creatures, as they sought to cram their brief existences as full as they could.

At first, he had considered that wasting public money on frivolities, such as the Archery Tournament, was ill-advised at best, but he had noted that the citizens of Crar seemed more efficient in their work when thus entertained, and he had actually begun to find pleasure in the smiles and laughter of the townspeople.

Likewise, he had found his duty to guard the young female to be irksome at the start of his role. She prattled, and she even consulted the demon over trivia such as clothes: he had believed such human matters beneath him.

Since that time, he had recognised the poor female's need for company and conversation, and he began to look forward to their brief meetings. He was a little late tonight, but he knew that Drex rarely retired to bed before one o'clock in the morning.

Reaching the entrance to the day-room, the demon tapped on the heavy door with his talons.

"Come in, Shakkar,” came a cheerful voice from within. “Don't worry; I'm decent."

The demon shook his head; he had never understood how the sight of an unclothed female form might be expected to arouse lust in him. However, after several such encounters, he had begun to realise that concealment of the body was important to these feminine creatures in all but a few, intimate circumstances, and he now respected her wishes to the letter.

On entering the day-room, he was not surprised to see Lady Drexelica examining herself in a hand-mirror; she seemed to do this often, although the demon never understood why; did she believe her face changed from day to day?

"Do you like my hair, Shakkar?” she asked, putting down the looking-glass and facing the demon, her head tilted to one side.

"What might there be to dislike, Lady Drexelica?” the Seneschal asked, puzzled.

Demons did not possess hair, and Shakkar had never comprehended why these conflicted, short-lived beings spent so much time trying to change its natural form.

"Oh, you're just like all men!” she shouted, stamping her right foot in a gesture that Shakkar had learned to associate with annoyance.

"I am not a man at all, Lady,” the demon rumbled. “Yesterday, you possessed hair, and it is still present on your head. Do you fear alopecia? If so, you have no need to worry."

"That's not it at all!” she cried, glaring at him. “This is a style used by the ancient court ladies of Luria, and I happen to think it's very attractive."

Shakkar began to wish he were somewhere else. The female had gone to the trouble of rearranging her hair just before she went to bed, when there was nobody to see it except him, and she expected him to pass judgement upon it, before she dismantled the complex arrangement of pins and knots again.

Shakkar remembered a puzzling mortal phrase: Discretion is the better part of valour, and he realised what it meant with a blinding flash of inspiration. Humans often lied to each other, even their friends, and this somehow facilitated social interaction.

"Your pardon, Lady; my mind was distracted by my work. The arrangement is indeed ravishing."

He picked the adjective almost at random, but it seemed to have the desired effect.

"Thank you, Shakkar!” she said, baring her teeth and twisting her lips in an expression the demon understood to betoken pleasure in humans. “I've worked on it for some time, and I'm glad you appreciate it."

"Lady Drexelica,” the Seneschal rumbled, seeking to forestall any other potential gaffes by changing the subject, “the men are asking if you will present the prizes at next week's tournament. They have been practicing for some time now, and, I believe, they would regard it as an honour."

Drex's face turned a little red. “Is that true? I'm only Grimm's housekeeper, you know, Shakkar ... or, at least, that's what everybody else thinks."

The demon knew that the girl's relationship with the Questor was now an open secret amongst the people of Crar, but he decided again that diplomacy might be that best course of action.

"I believe that they would appreciate such a beautiful female giving the awards more than if I were to do it,” he said. “I still scare some of the men."

"Why, you're not scary at all, Shakkar!” Drexelica crowed, baring her teeth again. “I used to think so, but now I just see you as a friend and protector. Please tell the competitors I'll be happy to do it. Tell them ... tell them I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Shakkar, relieved to be spared any more difficult questions, bowed. “Thank you, Lady Drexelica; I'm sure they will be delighted to hear of your acceptance.

"I still have a few more duties to which to attend, and so I will bid you goodnight."

"Goodnight, Shakkar. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow, Lady Drexelica."

From the newly-restored Clock Tower, the midnight chimes began to ring.

* * * *

Drex sighed as she removed the pins and plaits from her hair. Sometimes, she felt almost like a prisoner in the tower, and she could find little to amuse her during the day, except to recreate her image for her own pleasure.

Still, there was always the tournament to consider: bright, colourful pennants and caparisons; bold, athletic men vying with each other for the right to claim a prize from her hand; the excitement of spirited competition. It should be a thrilling day, and she looked forward to the spectacle.

* * * *

Green light coruscated through the chamber, as Lizaveta began to chant the last cadence of the Great Spell. She could feel the pull of the powerful enchantment, and knew that the magic was near its end. For twenty minutes, the conclave had acted as if of one mind, a joyful state of being that no Secular could ever understand or enjoy.

"Batons at the ready? Now!” Judan screamed, her face almost purple with the effort to contain the spell's roiling energies.

Six willow rods crashed to the floor in unison, forming a perfect pentacle. Lizaveta continued to chant, and the sticks melded into each other, glowing with a blazing, white light.

"Mantui Drexelica! Avanta chezura!” the Prioress screamed, completing the chant, and silence reigned.

For a moment she feared that they had failed, as stillness descended upon the stone room.

"There, Reverend Mother! See there!” an anonymous nun screamed, as a small blue light formed in the centre of the gleaming shape. It began to swirl and shimmer as it grew, and the Prioress saw a black hexagon in its centre, growing ever larger as the light became brighter.

Lizaveta and her companions staggered at the impact of a noise too loud to hear, an assault on the eardrums that transcended sound. In an instant, the blue light was gone, and a hunched figure crouched within the pentacle, which had reverted to a simple assembly of wooden sticks.

With her ears ringing, the Prioress crowed, “Well done, Sister Judan! Well done, all of you!” She heard her words as if through a long tunnel, and she could not be sure if any woman in the assembly had heard her, but she felt suffused with joy at the potent, complex spell's success.

So this is Afelnor's paramour! she thought, as the summoned girl staggered to her feet. She is a comely one, to be sure.

As hearing returned to her, Lizaveta strode towards the confused female.

"Welcome to Rendale, girl,” she said, smiling

"Wh ... what? Who are you? Where am I?"

The girl's eyes threatened to spring from their sockets, as confusion gave way to naked panic.

"You are with your sisters, supplicant, where you belong,” the Prioress hissed. “You are here to learn discipline."

"What is all this?” Drexelica screamed as her wide, terrified eyes flitted around the green-lit scene. “Let me go, you hideous old crone!"

Lizaveta smiled. “You do not talk to me in that manner, girl. You must address me as ‘Reverend Mother'."

"I'll see you in Perdition first!"

In a single, smooth movement, the Prioress drew a slender rod from behind her throne slashing it down upon Drexelica's back. “That is no way to address your superior, girl!"

"You'll have to do better than that, you old cow!” Drexelica spat, ignoring the blow, her eyes now blazing with defiance. “I've been beaten by the best, and you aren't even close! Grimm will—"

She stopped in mid-sentence.

"You were saying?” Lizaveta crooned, her normally-rough voice taking on a honeyed tone.

"Nothing,” Drexelica replied. “I was just going to say that you have no—"

"You were going to say that Grimm Afelnor was sure to come to your rescue, weren't you, my dear?"

Drexelica declined to answer the Prioress, but her silence was more eloquent than words.

"I'm hoping he does,” Lizaveta said, smiling. “That's why you're here, my young lovely: so that you can welcome him when he arrives."

"If you're expecting me to betray him, you got another fink comin', y'old hag!"

"Ah, the gentle patois of the Grivense gutter, if I'm not mistaken.” Lizaveta felt pleased that Drexelica had lapsed for a moment into her native street-language, a clear indicator that she was not as self-possessed as she pretended. “You weren't always such a fine lady, were you, my dear?"

A torrent of invective poured from the girl's lips, and Lizaveta wagged an admonitory finger.

"That is not genteel, and it is biologically impossible, I'm afraid,” she said.

"If you think that little stick's going to change me, you're barking up the wrong tree, my lady,” the girl cried. “I know pain well, and I can handle it."

"Of course,” the Prioress said. “We women are strong, are we not? We can withstand pain at a level which mere men cannot begin to comprehend. However, you have a very limited imagination if you delude yourself that physical pain is my only method of persuasion. There are many, many other levers that can be used to break the spirit, and I look forward to acquainting you with all of them. Emotions and sensations are useful, for a start."

Lizaveta drew on the bounteous power of the earth and unleashed a stream of energy into the girl's brain.

Drexelica's eyes bulged, the pupils dilating, and she sank to her knees, gasping and twitching.

"May I ask what you used, Reverend Mother?” Judan asked, who had moved to the Prioress's right side.

"Pure, unalloyed pleasure this time, Sister,” Lizaveta said from the corner of her mouth, watching as the girl began to roll on the flagstone floor, as if suffering a seizure. “Often an effective means of softening up a troublesome subject. Still, I thought she might prove more resilient than this, and I'm a little disappointed."

With a sudden jerk, Drexelica froze for a moment, and then climbed to her feet. Lizaveta noted blood at the girl's palms and her lower lip; the little slut had distracted herself with pain.

"Damn you, hag,” she gasped, her red face running with sweat as the sweet, all-consuming waves of pleasure ran through her.

"Well done, my dear!” Lizaveta felt impressed at her prisoner's inner strength as she released the spell.

Drexelica dropped to the floor again, like a marionette whose strings have been cut, drawing shuddering breaths. “You are a strong one, after all; that pleases me more than you can imagine. I like a challenge.

"Perhaps you'd like to taste that again, my sweet? I can make it last all day, if necessary. Just say the word, and you can taste that sensation again for as long as you desire."

"Never.” The girl wheezed, her eyes narrowed and defiant. “I'll beat my head against the floor, bite my tongue off and gouge out my own eyes long before I ever give in to you."

"That was Lesson One,” the Prioress intoned, well pleased with the success of this first attempt on the bastions of her captive subject's mind. “There are many, many others, I assure you: guilt, fear, despair, self-loathing—I command them all. Nonetheless, I feel invigorated by the challenge you set me earlier. As I told you before; I enjoy challenges."

The girl's eyes were hooded, suspicious, as she rose from her prone position to kneel. “What challenge?”

she demanded.

"Why, your bold statement that physical pain holds no terrors for you, of course! I fear that you may have cause to regret that statement very soon.

"I have been lenient so far with your insults and profanity; you are still a very raw Supplicant, and I have indulged your tantrums. However, such naughty behaviour cannot be overlooked. Sister Melana!"

A tall, pale, whip-thin nun hurried to face her Superior, dropping a deep curtsey without raising her eyes.

“I am at your command, Reverend Mother!"

"This new Supplicant requires correction,” the Prioress drawled. “I wish you to select three trustworthy Acolytes of the Inner Order and conduct Sister Drexelica to the lower chamber. I believe four hours of First Grade Penitence should suffice for now, just enough to orientate her in our ways."

"Reverend Mother, may I speak?” Judan whispered.

"Of course, Sister Judan. You have done well, and I am favourably impressed with your sterling efforts tonight."

"Thank you, Reverend Mother. I just wished to observe that the First Grade is usually reserved for the more delicate, sensitive girls; this Grivense street slattern seems to be of stronger stuff. May I suggest at least a Second Grade Penitence? She was most disrespectful to you."

Lizaveta nodded. “I am amenable, dear Sister. Your advice is always valuable to me.

"Sister Melana, you are to press it upon your chosen Acolytes that the girl is not to be permanently marked, disfigured or disabled during the punishment. She may also witness thirty minutes of Sister Sofia's chastisement before her own Penitence commences.

"Now, Sister, I find myself fatigued, and I wish to retire for the night. I entrust the girl to your hands. You may consider yourself on retreat tomorrow, in recognition of your selfless devotion."

"Goodnight, Reverend Mother, and thank you. Everything will be done as you require it."

"I'll die and go to Hell before I ever submit to you, bitch!” Drexelica screamed as a pair of nuns hauled her to her feet, pinioning her arms behind her back.

"I doubt it, my dear,” Lizaveta said, “but you will consider eternal damnation a blessed release before I have finished with you. Goodnight, and welcome to Rendale. I would wish you sweet dreams, but I am afraid that sleep or dreams of any kind are out of the question."

As she swept from the room to the sound of Drexelica's imprecations, the Prioress shivered with anticipation. The girl was strong, and that meant that she might be of great use to the Order when the time came.

She'll be eating out of my hand within a week, she thought, and her beloved Questor cannot reasonably be expected to be here before the month is out. I'm going to take a great deal of interest in Sister Drexelica's training: and trained she will be.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 4: In The Priory

Shakkar rarely, if ever, slept, and he knew that Lady Drexelica was not an early riser. To pass the time, he busied himself with studying the city's quarterly fiscal accounts for several hours after sunrise.

Numeracy was not his strong point, but he was diligent in his task, always trying to catch out Crar's accountant, Master Scutal, in some small detail. The demon had never done so, but he lived in hope of discovering some misplaced decimal point or other error. This hope was heightened by the fact that the aged accountant always stood at his side while Shakkar worked, and he always wore the same smug, indulgent smile, secure in his efficiency and accuracy.

The demon pored over the heavy, leather-bound ledgers until the town clock chimed nine, and he marked his place with a feather before closing the book.

"All clear, Lord Seneschal?” Scutal asked in a high-pitched, singsong voice.

"I am not yet finished, Master Scutal,” Shakkar rumbled. “I shall return later to finish the task when I have made my morning rounds."

"Anytime, Lord Seneschal; you know where to find me."

Shakkar grunted. He did not like the accountant's often flippant manner, but the man's efficiency seemed adequate.

Stepping out of Scutal's office, the demon squinted at the bright, morning sun. He took a mighty draught of cool air and admired the reborn city. He saw the weekly market in full swing, with people chatting and laughing in the streets, in stark contrast to the gruesome, forced jollity that had held sway while Baron Starmor controlled the citizens’ thoughts and actions. He might find humans irritating at times, but he greatly preferred them as free individuals, rather than as ensorcelled puppets.

He never failed to be impressed by what had once been Starmor's tower. Once, it had been a threatening, grey presence, like a rotting tooth extending into the sky, spreading decay and despair throughout the city. Now, it glowed and gleamed in the warm rays of the sun, almost seeming to radiate hope and vigour into the city.

As ever, the two young, uniformed guards at the entrance saluted as the demon Seneschal approached.

"Good morning, Lord Seneschal,” they said in cheery unison.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Is Lady Drexelica in residence?"

The question was a routine one; Drexelica never left the tower before ten o'clock.

"I believe so,” one of the guards said, a red-cheeked youngster whose uniform hung loosely over his spare, lanky limbs; Shakkar did not know his name. “Nobody's entered or left since we started our shift two hours ago."

"Excellent,” the demon rumbled, towering over the youth. “May I enter?"

"Of course, Lord Seneschal!"

The two men raised their halberds at once to allow Shakkar access.

As he ascended the spiral staircase, the Seneschal mused that the folk of Crar now seemed to regard him as just another citizen, and he was not sure he liked this. On the other hand, at least the Crarians no longer fled screaming at the very sight of him, and he no longer found them quite as repulsive as once he had.

Reaching the level of the day-room, Shakkar he rapped at the door. When he heard no response, he cleared his throat with a basso rumble and called, “Lady Drexelica; it is I, Shakkar. May I come in?"

On hearing no reply, he felt uncertain how to proceed; he knew mortals had certain physical needs he found intensely distasteful to contemplate, such as the elimination of vile humours from their bodies, and he did not wish to intrude.

Tapping the claws of his feet on the flagstone floor, he waited a few minutes before trying again. “Lady Drexelica, are you there?"

At last, the towering demon gathered up the courage to open the door, fearing that he might see the lady sprawling, unconscious, on the floor, in the grip of some mortal malady. Instead, he saw the day-room looking just as it had the night before, but empty.

Shakkar frowned. Lady Drexelica was a creature of habit, as most humans seemed to be, and at this time of the day he always found her in the day-room, sipping a cup of tea.

Of greater worry was the fact that the long chaise was still scattered with discarded gowns, shawls and gloves, as it had been on the previous evening. The demon knew Lady Drexelica as a tidy mortal, fiercely proud of her fine domicile. Lady Drexelica would never have gone to bed while the room remained in disorder; she must be ill!

The Seneschal ascended the stairs to the door of the great bed-chamber that Drexelica shared with Baron Grimm when he was in residence. This time, he knocked with greater urgency, the sound reverberating throughout the tower.

"Lady Drexelica; are you well?” The booming voice shook the very walls of the edifice.

Still the demon heard no reply, and now he flung open the door, worried for the safety of his charge.

To Shakkar's relief, he saw no pale corpse lying on the floor, and the chamber appeared immaculate.

The curtains were all drawn, despite the hour, and the bed was in perfect order. However, the Seneschal felt cold, unaccustomed tendrils of fear running along his spine, despite the lack of evidence of foul play.

Shakkar spent the next ten minutes scouring every room in the turret, but he could not locate the young female. He raced down the staircase, taking the stairs three at a time, and flung open the door, nearly hitting one of the guards.

"Is everything all right, Seneschal?"

"It is not!” the demon growled, his voice low and dangerous. Grasping the young guard by his jerkin, he pulled the mortal up, so that their faces met. “You swore that nobody had entered or left, but the Lady Drexelica has gone. How do you explain that?"

The guard gurgled, and no coherent sound emerged from his mouth. His colleague, his eyes wide, yelled,

“It's true, Lord Seneschal, I swear! We have not left this spot since midnight, except..."

Shakkar let his unwilling, half-strangled prisoner fall to the ground, gasping for breath. “Except for what?”

he demanded, turning to the other guard, almost beside himself with rage.

"Well, you know,” the terrified watchman squeaked. “It's a long shift, and we do have to ... relieve ourselves from time to time. But there was always at least one of us here all through the night, I swear!"

The demon smiled at the mortal's pasty, sweaty face; these juveniles no longer regarded the Seneschal as just another puny mortal.

"I will get to the bottom of this, human,” he growled, staring straight into the petrified youth's eyes. “Who is your section commander?"

"S-sergeant Erik, Sir!” The boy's voice was little more than a whisper.

Without a further word, Shakkar went in search of the Sergeant, vowing that he would have somebody's head for this.

* * * *

With sudden panic, Drexelica awoke to a blast of cold on her face. Opening bleary, gummed eyes, she dimly saw a black-clad figure standing over her with a dripping wooden bucket. It took her a few moments to orient herself, but her aching, burning limbs soon reminded her of where she was.

She was in Rendale Priory, a prisoner of the Sisters of Divine Serenity.

"I trust you slept well, bitch,” the Sister hissed. “I just want you to know that you've had it easy up to now. Today, it gets worse; much worse."

Shivering, Drex pulled her now-ragged gown around her in an attempt to preserve her modesty. Her bones protested at the movement, screaming in outrage at the depredations that had been visited upon them.

"Why are you doing this to me?” she croaked, her throat parched.

A whistling sound was soon followed by a sharp, hot pain that bloomed in her shoulders and spread through her abused body. This was a pain she could resist; she was used to such beatings.

"You call me ‘Sister Melana', slut,” her looming companion yelled. “Don't forget that again, or it will be the worse for you."

"Why are you doing this to me, Sister Melana?” she replied, only to feel the unwelcome attentions of the lash again.

"You forgot to say ‘Please', Supplicant; we of the Score expect politeness at all times. You were also impertinent. I won't tolerate that, ever."

I'll kill her; I swear I will. Her bitch mistress, too.

Despite her inner defiance, Drex knew she could not endure a full day of open resistance and punishment. It might be better to go along with these madwomen for the time being.

Perhaps it's best to be a good little girl for a while. I'll play their twisted little game for a while until I learn the rules, and then they won't know what's bloody hit them.

"I'm sorry, Sister,” she said, lowering her eyes. “Please tell me why you are doing this to me."

"That's better, by-blow. You're here to learn discipline; real discipline. The Reverend Mother, beloved of our Order, wants to use you in some scheme or other, and I'm not about to try to stop or question her.

She ordered me to ensure you're not permanently marked, but you'd be surprised how much pain I can inflict without marking you. Suffice it to say that I'm going to do all I can to make the lady happy; I'm not eager to make her angry, and neither should you be; and remember: I don't like you. That's all you need to know."

The nun leaned close to Drex and leered. “By the way, don't even dream about trying to play me false, or I'll pluck those pretty blue eyes right out of your head with my own fingers, slut. Right now, you're mine, and don't forget it."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Sister Melana!” Drex tried to act innocent, but the hateful whip descended again on her burning back.

"Don't even try to be clever with me, whore!” Melana's words dripped with hatred. “I'm going to be handing you over to some eager, ambitious Acolytes later on, and you'll find that they're quite keen to show the Prioress just how inventive and imaginative they can be. Right now, we need to get you washed and properly clothed; you're due to see the grand dame Lizaveta in twenty minutes."

Drex, despite her discomfort, suppressed a smile. Melana seemed dissatisfied with her assignment, and she appeared none too fond of Lizaveta, either. Perhaps this might be turned to advantage when the time was right.

"Whatever you say, Sister Melana.” She lowered her head in supplication, her voice low and tremulous.

Let them think I'm cowed and frightened; let's see the lie of the land first.

* * * *

Drexelica felt awkward and constrained in her new, starchy, white habit. The crisp wimple restricted her view to a small circle, and she began to tremble as she approached the Prioress's chamber.

She's going to flay me alive! She's going to beat me until my bones show through my skin! I'm lost! she told herself over and over, working herself into an access of terror. Drex did not want Lizaveta to see her inner defiance, and she knew the best defence would be an aura of fear; even as a lapsed novice with no more than two years’ teaching in Geomancy, she knew well enough how to hide her true aura.

As she entered the bare room, she saw Lizaveta perched on her polished throne, much as she had been on the previous night. It seemed to Drex more as if it had been a decade ago.

"Greetings, Supplicant.” The Prioress’ unpleasant, abrasive voice almost made her want to scratch herself.

"On your face, bitch,” Melana hissed, forcing the girl to the hard floor. “Lower your eyes before you respond to your superior."

Drexelica obeyed the Sister, trying to portray the image of demureness.

"Greetings, Reverend Mother,” she whispered to the floor, as if she had lost all defiance.

"Have you had any problems with our new Supplicant, Sister Melana?"

"She was an insubordinate little slut at first, Reverend Mother, but I think she is beginning to see the error of her ways. It will take much more training, but I do not believe she is as strong as she pretends."

"That is excellent!” the Prioress crowed. “Now, Supplicant Drexelica, I do not want you to think that we are unnecessarily cruel here. We want only the best for you, and for us. Do you truly believe that?"

"Y ... yes, Reverend Mother.” Drex kept her head lowered.

"However, my dear, we will tolerate no deviation from our plan. Do you now acknowledge your fealty to the Order?"

Drex realised this was a trick question. If she answered too quickly in the affirmative, Lizaveta would suspect she was lying, and this would surely bring another round of Melana's unwelcome attentions.

There seemed to be only one way out of this.

"I don't know, Reverend Mother,” she wailed, allowing tears to run from her eyes as she dared to look up at the woman. “What do you want me to say? I hurt so much that I don't know what to think! Please help me, Reverend Mother!"

From Lizaveta's expression, the girl knew she had responded correctly.

"I want you to say what you feel, Supplicant, and you appear to have done so. This is good. The acknowledgement of uncertainty is the first step to enlightenment."

Lizaveta turned to Sister Melana. “For the new Supplicant, I recommend a day of standard training in the lore and customs of the Order. No punishments beyond Level One, unless the Supplicant truly warrants it, in which case I shall demand proof of the transgression in the form of sworn testimonies. Let us show her that we are reasonable folk who wish only for her spiritual advancement."

"As you command, Reverend Mother, it shall be."

Drex noted the sour expression on Melana's face, even if the Prioress did not. The Sister would be a handful, suspicious as she was, but, as a former street vagabond in the almost feral town of Griven, the unwilling Supplicant felt more than able to allay the disaffected nun's vague suspicions. Drex had lived on her wits for most of her life.

Should I thank the wizened old shrew for her bounteous mercy? No, the cow would never believe that—at least, not yet...

Instead, Drex lowered her forehead to the floor, as if inviting a headsman's axe. The cool stone comforted her, easing the dull ache in her head.

She would prevail; these people had no concept of the resilience of a Grivense street-child! They were blind, and she would have them fooled in no time.

"Take Supplicant Drexelica to a training room,” Lizaveta intoned, “and train her in the First Principles of the Order. Remember: use no disfiguring or disabling punishments, or you will answer to me. Is that understood?"

"Quite understood, Reverend Mother!” Drex saw Melana's head touch the floor.

"You may go, dear Sister. Train this Supplicant well but fairly, and you will have my gratitude."

The harsh voice hardened to an almost metallic tone. “On the other hand, go against my wishes in act of spirit, and you will find retribution inevitable.

"Don't dare to go against me, Melana."

"Never, Reverend Mother, I swear! All will be as you desire."

"You may go, then, dear Sister. Go in peace."

"Thank you, Reverend Mother,

"Come on, Supplicant."

Drexelica climbed to her feet, taking care not to meet the Prioress’ gaze. “Thank you, Reverend Mother,” she muttered, remembering to tremble in a deferent manner.

This is going to be easy, she thought. These people are idiots!

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 5: Demands

Shakkar strode through the streets of Crar, his red eyes closed almost to slits, his mouth compressed into a tight, inverted U-shape. Several citizens greeted him as he passed, but he ignored them. General Quelgrum had set up his headquarters in a formerly deserted slaughterhouse, a large building with thick, grey stone walls.

Three guards patrolled the entrance courtyard, carrying ancient Technological weapons that gleamed as new, but such toys did not impress the thick-skinned demon in the least. Of even less import was the wooden pole that barred entry to the courtyard.

"You, there!” Shakkar boomed to one of the watchmen, who wore corporals’ stripes on his uniform. “Is Sergeant Erik here?"

The corporal, in contrast to his youthful companions, was a grizzled veteran of maybe forty years, and he strode up to the barrier with a confident air, looking the demon straight in the eye.

"He is, Lord Seneschal,” the corporal said, “but we have orders that he is not to be disturbed. If you'd like to come back—"

"Your orders are cancelled.” Shakkar hissed, looming over the man. “I will see Erik right now. Is that quite clear?” He punctuated his demands with a threatening growl, just in case the slow-witted mortal had misunderstood his purpose.

The two younger guards, their faces pale, moved to the large double doors at the entrance to the building, presenting their puny weapons in a half-hearted manner.

"Lord Seneschal, you don't have the right to cancel the order,” the older soldier said in a calm, deliberate voice, as if addressing a naughty child. “I take my orders from—"

"Damn your orders!” the infuriated demon yelled, splintering the barrier to fragments with a single blow of his scaly, taloned hand. “That for your orders! Fetch Sergeant Erik, or I will pound this building into dust!"

The younger guards pulled their weapons into their shoulders, pointing them straight at the demon.

"Hold your fire!” the corporal snapped, before turning back to Shakkar.

"I advise you not to threaten us, Lord Seneschal,” he said in a low voice. “We've got far more powerful weapons than this; powerful enough even for you, I think. Sure, you can kill me with one hand tied behind your back, but there are many of us; can you kill us all? If you want a war, we'll give you one. Do you want to start it right here? I won't try to stop you if you do—I can't stop you. Go ahead."

The infuriating human laid his weapon on the ground and bowed his head before Shakkar!

How dare you, you impudent sack of skin! I could...

Despite the anger that had compressed the demon's mind to a dense, burning ball of resolve, the Seneschal found himself beginning to admire this weak, pathetic parcel of mortal flesh.

He had killed many men in his long life, and he had even eaten a few during his long incarceration on Starmor's dismal punishment pillar. He had never enjoyed the act, but he had regarded the miserable mortals that Starmor had seen fit to send him as little more than unfortunate animals; pathetic livestock to be consumed as required.

The stripling mage, Grimm Afelnor, had shown him the nobility that resided within certain men. Since then, he had met many other humans who bore the same stamp of courage against considerable odds.

This was one such man, and Shakkar felt a stab of compassion. His argument was not with this corporal, who was just fulfilling his duties as best he could, but with the lax guards at the Tower. He could not, in conscience, kill this man.

As if he had read the Seneschal's mind, the soldier raised his head. “Now, Lord Seneschal: would you like me to ask Sergeant Erik if he'll see you on urgent business?"

"Yes,” the demon mumbled. “Please.” He added the last word almost as an afterthought; nonetheless, he felt that the courageous soldier deserved his full respect.

"If you wouldn't mind waiting here, I won't be a moment, Sir,” the corporal said, turning his back on Shakkar and striding towards the doors, with a measured gait.

Shakkar could not be sure, but he thought he heard the man exhale forcefully. The act meant nothing to him, but he guessed it was a human indication of relief.

Feeling foolish, the demon stood behind the smashed remains of the barrier, while the two remaining guards held their weapons in trembling hands. He knew these two young fools posed no threat to him, but he waited nonetheless.

At last, Sergeant Erik emerged, in the company of a man Shakkar recognised: Lieutenant-Colonel Shandimar, Quelgrum's second-in-command. Neither man appeared to be armed.

"Now, what's all this, Lord Seneschal?” Shandimar demanded, a tall man with silver hair. “We're having an important security conference, and we—"

"My issue concerns security, Colonel,” Shakkar growled, remembering his purpose. “Lady Drexelica has been abducted, from right under the noses of his so-called ‘guards'!” The demon indicated Erik with a single, clawed digit.

The Colonel raised an eyebrow, which, Shakkar had learned, indicated surprise in mortals. “Is this true, Sergeant?” he demanded.

"I don't know, Sir,” the hapless Erik confessed. “It's the first I've heard of it—"

"It is true,” Shakkar shouted. “She is not in the Tower, and the watchmen claim that nobody has been in or out since midnight: since your watch, Sergeant Erik!"

Shandimar turned to Shakkar, his eyes gleaming like blue diamonds. “We'll get to the bottom of this straight away, Lord Seneschal."

Turning back to Erik, the Colonel said, “I want all the Tower guards brought here at once, Sergeant. If you've got to wake them up, do so! I want to know if our sentries have been slack in their duties, and I'll have the balls of any man who has shirked his responsibilities! Is that clear, Sergeant?"

"Yes, Sir!"

The Sergeant accompanied this bark with a salute so crisp that it threatened to remove the top of his head.

As far as Shakkar knew, the Sergeant's response was the only one a soldier could make to a senior officer's direct order, but Erik appeared sincere in his fervour.

"Bring the Gate guards as well, Sergeant!” the officer yelled, as Erik strode away. “Whatever happened, Lady Drexelica's abductors must have gone through the Gate!"

"Yes, Sir!” came the swift response. Shakkar had often heard sullen overtones in these two words, spoken by other men, but there were none on this occasion.

"I want somebody's head for this, Colonel,” Shakkar growled.

"If negligence, or any lapse in discipline, is at the root of this issue, you can rest assured that the guilty man, or men, will be punished, Lord Seneschal,” Shandimar said. “We'll get to the bottom of this."

* * * *

The monotonous words of Melana's—Sister Melana's—litany dropped into Drexelica's mind like pennies thrown into a deep well. She had been determined to resist at first, earning many blows from the whips of the two ever-present Novices. She recognised the tell-tale signs of fatigue, and she had begun to respond to Sister Melana's prompts with greater alacrity, just to avoid further chastisement and blurring of her mind.

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."

Melana wondered if Lizaveta had gazed at her with a little more intensity than usual, but she put it down to being tired; it had been a long day so far, and it was not over yet.

"Get her started on emotions this afternoon, Sister. Let her access her power; flex her muscles, as it were. Keep her busy, but let her think she's still got the upper hand. A couple of hours’ Devotion tomorrow should be enough to start with. Find some reason for some more Penitence the day after; don't give her time to think. Allow her four hours of sleep tonight, no more."

Melana almost gaped. She needed to rest, and Lizaveta's pronouncement had condemned her to even less sleep; she would need to be up before the Supplicant. “Reverend Mother, may I detail the Novices to start off without me tomorrow? I'm exhausted."

"Oh, I don't think I should entrust a matter of such importance to a pair of callow Novices, Sister! No, I'm afraid you'll have to oversee the girl's training yourself. It'll be a trial for you, I know, but I trust you to recognise your duty."

The slender nun groaned inwardly, but she knew better than to demur with her Superior.

"As you command, Reverend Mother,” she said, trying to maintain a cheerful, obedient tone.

You shrivelled old goat! Melana thought. You're never up before dawn, are you? It's always people like me who have to do your dirty work for you.

"Thank you so much, Sister Melana.” Lizaveta favoured the nun with what she doubtless thought was a sweet, seraphic smile. Instead, it looked more like the rapacious grin of a predator. “I knew I could rely on you."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 6: Investigation

Lieutenant-Colonel Shandimar, Shakkar and Sergeant Erik sat at the head of a long table in the Guardhouse. The room was bare, forbidding and cold.

The fourteenth and last man marched into the room, to Erik's shouted commands:

"Left! Right! Left! Right! Halt! Ten-shut!"

"Salute!"

To his credit, faced as he was by the exposed, steak-knife fangs of Shakkar, the guard did not tremble.

He maintained a rigid pose of attention, despite his pale face. He was short but stocky, and his chest protruded like a ship's prow.

"Private Embral, reporting as ordered, Sir!” he yelled.

"Off cap ... stand at ... ease!” Erik, shouted the last word in an almost a falsetto squeak. Embral adjusted his position; his feet now apart by the width of his shoulders and his arms behind his back. Shakkar felt puzzled by the term ‘stand at ease'—the guard appeared anything but relaxed.

"You are attached to the Gate detail, I understand, Private?” Shandimar said in a bored voice.

"That's right, Sir! Third watch, midnight ‘til seven, Sir!” the man yelled at a volume phenomenal from such a short person.

The Colonel winced, and rubbed his brow. “All right, Private; stand easy."

The hapless man relaxed his stance—just a little. His eyes still stared ahead, and his attention seemed to be focused entirely on the wall behind Shandimar.

"Do you know why you are here, Private?"

"No, Sir!” The slight hesitancy in the watchman's words implied to Shakkar either falsehood or unease.

The demon had dealt with many humans in his time, and he could often tell wariness or deception when he heard it.

"Good.” Shandimar consulted his notes. After a few moments’ rumination, he looked up again.

"Relax, Private, you're not on trial here. We are just investigating an incident that may or may not have taken place, and all we want is a few truthful answers from you. You have not been singled out in any way—do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir. I think so, Sir,” the sentry gabbled. “I sort of guessed as much when I saw the other—"

"That'll do, Private!” Erik snapped, his face red. “'Yes, Sir’ is quite enough; we don't want your bloody life story! The next thing you—"

Shandimar waved his right hand. “Thank you, Sergeant. Private Embral, can you state that, to your certain knowledge, the Main Gate was not opened at any time during your watch?"

"No, Sir ... I mean, yes, Sir.” The soldier's wary gaze flicked between the Colonel and the Sergeant. “I mean, it wasn't opened at all, Sir! Me an’ Volan was there all the time, Sir, and it wasn't never opened, Sir!"

Erik opened his mouth to speak again, but Shandimar silenced the Sergeant with a sharp look.

"Now, that's not quite true, is it, Private? I'm afraid Private Volan's testimony does not agree with yours.”

The senior officer's tone was deceptively mild.

The soldier's eyes bulged, as if he knew he had been caught out in a lie. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sir!” he protested.

Shandimar consulted his voluminous notes once more. “Private Volan's statement claims that you were not present for the whole of your assigned watch, Private. It states that you vacated your post at approximately five minutes past two this morning, and were absent from your post for thirty minutes or so. What do you have to say about that, Private?"

Embral's eyes narrowed. “That bastard, Volan, said that? I'll bloody kill him! I'll nail the sod to the freakin’ floor! I'll—"

The Sergeant's brows lowered, and he screamed “Just answer the Colonel's question, Private! Were you or were you not absent when you were supposed to be on duty?"

The wretched guard shuffled on his feet. “Well, Sir, I'd ‘ad this bad meat pie, and I just ‘ad to go an’

relieve meself, see..."

Erik surged to his feet, pointing at Embral with an accusing finger. “You dare give us the lie to our faces?

We know bloody well where you were, sonny boy! Thirty-two, Candle Street! Do I need to say any more?"

The guard slumped, and his once-taut face hung in slack folds.

"I'm sorry, Sir,” he whispered, looking to Shandimar for succour that did not come. “See, me an’ Volan

... we—"

"You deserted your bloody post!” Erik screamed, bouncing on his toes. “You left the cussed gate half unguarded an’ risked some light-fingered trollop makin’ off with your bloody key! I ought to—"

"Is this true, Private?” Shandimar seemed to be in the mood for interruption today, as he fixed the wriggling man with a stern gaze. “The truth, now!"

Embral regarded the Colonel with pleading eyes. “I did go to ... that place, Sir,” he whispered. “But I didn't dare risk me key, Sir, I swear! Please believe me!"

"How so, Private?” Shandimar demanded. “How do you know your joy-girl didn't take it off you while you were ... otherwise engaged?"

"Because I got Private Ludin to stand in for me, Sir!” Embral's face was suffused with red. “He owes me a favour, so I called him up an’ gave him me key, Sir! Didn't that bastard—sorry, Sir—didn't Private Volan tell you that?"

"That'll be all, Embral.” The Colonel's eyes were like slits. “You're on report, and I'll let Sergeant Erik decide your punishment. Just count yourself bloody lucky that I don't convene a court-martial right now!

I could have your head for this. The next time I hear of anything like this, your feet won't touch the ground! Is that understood? I asked you a question, Private! Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!"

"Report to the Stockade, Private!” Erik snapped. “I'll deal with you later, you little sod! You'll rue the bloody day you were born, I promise you! On cap! Ten-shut! Salute! About turn! Double ... march!"

The Private sped from the room as if his feet were on fire.

Shakkar growled, “I do not think much of your so-called guards, Colonel. That is the third man to own up to absenting himself from his post; to admit to whoring or carousing during his duty period. How many others have managed to escape without incriminating themselves?"

"With all due respect, Lord Seneschal,” Shandimar drawled. “I don't think that's the point. Yes, these men have flouted their duty, and they will be punished for it. However, in mitigation, each of the absent sentries persuaded a fellow watchman to stand in for him. At no time was the Tower, or the Gate, left unguarded. Whatever else we know, Lady Drexelica did not leave the city by normal means, which leaves—"

"Sorcery,” the demon hissed. “Some magic-user has spirited her away."

"Why? Any ideas, Sergeant?"

"Me, Sir?” Erik scratched his forehead, as if this might stimulate his powers of thought. “Perhaps some mage has a grudge against Lord Grimm and took the lady by mistake, Sir."

Shakkar shook his head. He knew Lady Drexelica and Baron Grimm were lovers, but he ensured that the fact had been concealed from most of the populace of Crar, knowing the dim view the Guild took of its mages consorting with females.

"I will impart information to you; information that must not leave this room,” he said. “I wish you to swear on whatever you hold most dear that you will not breathe a word of it to anybody else."

"I swear in the name of the One God that I shall never repeat what you tell me,” Shandimar intoned, raising his right hand in affirmation.

"I swear on the grave of my mother that I won't say a thing, Lord Seneschal,” Erik said, his face solemn.

Shakkar cleared his throat. “Lord Grimm and the Lady Drexelica are ... very good friends,” he muttered.

Erik frowned. “Is that all? Then why did the Lord Baron..."

"The Guild does not approve of such relationships,” the Seneschal snapped. “It would be the worse for our Baron if such news were to become common knowledge."

"Then this might not be a mistake,” the Colonel said. “This rogue mage may be striking directly at Lord Grimm."

"Perhaps not a mage, Colonel,” Shakkar said. “Perhaps this is an act of Geomancy: witch magic."

Shandimar shrugged. “I have met many witches in my time, Lord Seneschal, all honest, decent women as far as I can tell. In addition to their good characters, none of them could hope to compare to a Guild Mage in terms of power. What kind of witch could or would do such a thing?"

"A very powerful and evil one, Colonel.” Shakkar felt suspicion coalescing into a solid lump of certainty inside him. “I suspect her name is Prioress Lizaveta, and Lord Grimm is on his way to her demesnes as we speak. Lady Drexelica, no doubt, has been taken as some kind of hostage; we must warn the Baron somehow."

Shandimar's expression hardened. “Do you know this witch-Prioress’ whereabouts, Lord Seneschal?"

"No, Colonel. I know only the party's first port of call: they were to seek out information as to the Prioress’ whereabouts in the town of Yoren."

"Yoren!” The Sergeant's eyes bulged. “Sorry, Sir,” he said in a hurry, with an apologetic glance at the Colonel.

"That's all right, Sergeant. You may speak freely for the rest of this meeting. And forget the ‘Sir’ for the moment."

"Yes, Sir...” Erik trailed off for a moment but then carried on. “Yoren's a very rough town, and no mistake. I can't say I know it well, but do I know the region. It's a pretty wild and lawless part of the world, but Yoren has a particular reputation for nastiness even there."

"Where might they go from there?” Shandimar asked him.

Erik scratched his head again. “Anyor, Lufeth, Brianston ... the list's endless. They could be anywhere now. You'd need a seer or a mage to find them."

"We could try to find out just where this witch's Priory is, Sergeant. Cut out the towns in between."

Shakkar shook his head. “No, Colonel. General Quelgrum sent out parties of runners to try to find out before he left with Lord Grimm, all to no avail. I suggest that the Sergeant's proposal is our best option."

"What proposal?” Erik asked.

"Your proposal to find a seer or a mage to locate the party, Sergeant,” Shakkar said. “I suggest we try to find help at Baron Grimm's Guild House, in Arnor."

The Colonel looked bemused. “I wasn't briefed on much about the Baron's Quest, Lord Seneschal, but I was given to understand that Arnor House was to learn nothing about it."

"We do not go to the front door and ask for help from the Prelate, idiot!” Shakkar, aware of his growing anger at what he perceived as the obtuseness of these humans, fought to bring his rising ire under some control.

He continued in a softer voice, “I apologise for that, gentlemen. Grimm has a friend there; a Questor Dalquist, whom I have met in person. If we were to get word to him, I am sure he would use all his powers to help his brother Questor."

"Is this Dalquist a Seer?” Shandimar asked.

"No, Colonel; but Questors can cast many kinds of spells. He is resourceful and might find a way."

"Well, I can't go,” the Colonel declared. “My sworn duty is to safeguard the people of Crar."

"Well, you do not seem to be doing a very good job of that, do you, Colonel?"

Shakkar knew he had let his stem-brain take control of him once more as the words escaped his mouth.

This time, it cost him considerable effort to slake his hot ire.

"I am ... sorry, Colonel,” he said in a gruff voice. “That was ... unkind of me."

"Think nothing of it, Lord Seneschal.” The officer's expression suggested that he was anything but mollified by the demon's outburst. “What, may I ask, do you intend?"

"I will go to Arnor House with Sergeant Erik. I will wait at a safe distance while the Sergeant, dressed as a labourer, reports to the tradesmen's entrance. As I understand it, the Mage Doorkeeper should come to greet him. I have not met the man, but Lord Grimm speaks fondly of him. I am sure that this man, Doorkeeper, can be relied upon to pass on a message to Questor Dalquist without revealing our purpose. We will wait for the mage to tell us whatever he can and then use the most expedient method to reach Questor Grimm and his party."

Shandimar nodded slowly. At last, he said, “Very well, Lord Seneschal. Sergeant Erik, consider yourself on detached duty. I'll give you a chit for the Armoury. Take whatever weapons you feel you need, as long as they don't slow you down. And get some civilian clothes from the stores."

The Sergeant saluted smartly."Yes, Sir!” The grin on his face suggested he was far from downcast.

The Colonel turned to the demon. “When were you thinking of leaving, Lord Seneschal?"

Shakkar grinned, exposing his long fangs. “To borrow a human expression, Colonel, ‘there is no time like the present'. We will leave at once."

"Don't I even have time to take breakfast?” Erik said in a slightly plaintive voice.

"Very well,” Shakkar growled. “I give you an hour to make your preparations; then, we leave."

The Sergeant stood, came to attention and saluted. “With your permission, Sir?"

"Yes, yes, Sergeant,” the officer replied. “Do get on with it."

"Yes, Sir!"

The soldier marched out of the room with a military precision that impressed even the irascible demon.

"I see I may have misjudged the man,” Shakkar said as the door slammed shut. “He seems to be a good soldier."

"You may not believe it, Lord Seneschal, but they're all good soldiers, and until recently they have lived exclusively in a military base, free from all temptation. Guarding a town and pussy-footing around civilians is not an ideal assignment for such soldiers; they're men of action, first and foremost. You can rely on Sergeant Erik. Don't worry; he'll support you all the way."

"It is not that which causes me to worry,” Shakkar said. “I just hope that this witch is not mistreating Lady Drexelica. I have come to ... to respect her."

Shandimar laughed. “It's bad policy to mistreat hostages. I'm sure she'll be all right, you'll see."

* * * *

Lizaveta regarded Sister Melana with some amusement. The nun's thin face was haggard and grey; she looked exhausted. Nonetheless, her habit seemed immaculate and faultless, even at this late hour.

How does the little tart still manage to stay upright? she wondered. I've been running her to the bone!

Still, in a few more days we'll see a new Melana, I'm sure; a contrite and obedient one. I'll show her who runs this Priory!

"Do sit down, Sister,” she crooned, motioning to a comfortable chair opposite her divan. “You look shattered."

"Thank you, Reverend Mother.” Melana collapsed into the chair with a distinct lack of Holy Modesty.

Lizaveta suppressed a smile. “I'm sorry that I have no sweetmeats or viands waiting for you; the hour is late, after all. How goes our new Supplicant?"

"She is wilful, Reverend Mother. She has power, but she seems to choose not to use it."

"Are you sure, Sister? Is she resisting you wilfully, or is she just confused?"

"I don't know, Reverend Mother,” Melana confessed, rubbing her brow with a trembling hand as she sat slumped in the chair. “She makes all the right responses, and she obeys me without question now. She keeps proper custody of the eyes, and she keeps her robes in good order. I can tell she has power, and she has a witch's aura."

"You mean, I imagine, Sister, that she has no aura."

"Yes, Reverend Mother; I apologise. She lacks an aura, but she does not attempt to draw power from the earth, as far as I can tell. I know she has only ever mended pots and healed minor wounds, but I have taught her a lot, to no avail. She must be resisting me."

The Prioress regarded the Sister with some respect. From the flickering of Melina's eyelids, she could tell the nun was fighting the urgent need for sleep with every fibre of her being. Nonetheless, she endured. It would be almost a shame to heap further privations on her...

"Very well, Sister; the Supplicant will undergo a full day of Penance of the Second Grade, and you are to oversee her. Wake her in two hours, and be sure to let her know our disapproval. Let her know why she is being punished."

Even in her semi-comatose state, Melana managed to jerk herself upright, her eyes bulging. “Reverend Mother, I must protest!” she cried, her voice harsh and rasping. “I cannot maintain focus and a clear head on one or two hours’ sleep a night!"

"Mind your manners, Sister!” Lizaveta snapped. “Remember who you are addressing!"

Melana's bloodshot eyes met those of her Prioress. “I intended no disrespect, Reverend Mother,” she croaked. “But I need sleep badly!"

Lizaveta smiled. Give with one hand, and take away with the other. It's time to play Lady Bountiful.

"Very well,” she said. “Although I am a little distressed at your lack of fortitude ... you were about to speak, Sister?"

"No, Reverend Mother.” The words came through clenched teeth.

"Good. You may have eight hours of sleep, Sister."

"Thank you, Reverend Mother!"

The Prioress regarded the stunned expression on the Sister's face with some satisfaction. “In two-hour steps, that is: two hours with the Supplicant, followed by two hours’ sleep. The Novices may tend her while you lounge in your bed."

Go on, girl; just you dare to remonstrate with me! Lizaveta watched a complex range of expressions flood across the nun's face in succession: initial rage, self-doubt, fear, and finally, acceptance of her lot.

"Thank you, Reverend Mother, for having mercy on my human frailty,” Melina said, lowering her eyes.

“May I leave?"

"Of course, Sister. Please, do take some rest. Just bear in mind that I want results from this little slut as soon as possible. Fail me, and you'll find that many hungry Novices will be only too eager to take your place in the Score; Novices you've abused over the years.

"Just think how they'll treat you, then."

The Prioress waited to see if Melana was willing to remonstrate now, but the rebellious tart seemed to have more sense than she had thought.

"Thank you, Reverend Mother,” the nun said at last, bowing and staggering out of the room like a drunkard.

Lizaveta yawned and stretched like a cat. I'll have two willing slaves out of this little exercise, she thought.

Either that, or a slave and an example to anybody else who thinks she is above the Rule.

She walked from the bare, forbidding room to her sumptuous bedchamber; a room that only her trusted, mute body-servants ever saw.

One of the speechless maids slipped from under the vast feather bed and made to undress the Prioress, while another scuttled over to a cherry-wood armoire and withdrew a silk night-dress. A third girl began to comb her white tresses, and another stood ready with water, soap and sponge.

Once prepared for her night's sleep, the Prioress slipped into the soft, yielding bed. The pale maids slotted themselves underneath it, like obedient, animated toys putting themselves back into their box.

Lizaveta slept with a smile on her face, her dreams pleasant and untroubled.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 7: Integration

Grimm inspected Harvel's wounds: a pair of dark pink slits in the swordsman's flesh, held closed by a series of stitches.

"How do they feel now, Harvel?” the mage asked.

"Itchy, Lord Mage, but they don't hurt any more, unless I move awkwardly. What do you think?"

Grimm leant close to the wounds and sniffed, but he detected no taint of corruption.

"I think you got away with it, Harvel. The wounds are knitting well, and it looks like you've avoided infection so far. The shoulder wound looks all right, too. I think we ought to leave the stitches in for a few more days, but I think you can remove the sling now. How's your arm?"

Harvel, slipping his left arm from its restraint, exercised the limb. He whirled his arm in a few experimental circles.

"Not too much, now, Harvel,” Grimm warned him. “You don't want to risk opening the wound again.

How does it feel?"

"The skin feels a little tight, and my arm's a mite on the weak side, but it doesn't seem to be permanently damaged. I've survived worse."

Grimm felt dubious at this claim: although he noted many scars on the warrior's naked torso, none seemed of a life-threatening nature.

Harvel must have noted a trace of disbelief on the mage's face, as he pulled up the right leg of his loose trousers to show a livid, jagged scar run running from mid-thigh to half-way down his shin.

"Shattered,” the warrior said, his voice tinged with apparent pride, “my thighbone and the bones in my lower leg. The physician told me I was lucky to be alive, and I had my entire leg immobilised for nearly six months.

Harvel pointed to a series of small, round scars running down either side of his shin. “See these little marks?"

Grimm nodded.

"Metal bolts held the leg together while it healed. For quite a while, it was touch and go, and it hurt like a bugger when he took them out, even though I was full of brandy at the time.

"Do you see that bigger mark there?"

Grimm noticed that one of the scars was larger and deeper than the others, a hemispherical crater just under the knee on the left-hand side.

"That's where one of the bolt-holes got infected, and I got really sick. The Doctor had to cut out all the stinking, rotting flesh, and he treated it with green, mouldy bread, would you believe? It seemed to do the trick, though, and here I am to tell the tale. Even so, the heel and sole of my right boot are over an inch thicker than the ones on the left. That costs me a fortune in cobblers’ bills when I buy a new pair."

Grimm felt impressed: this had indeed been a life-threatening injury. From what he knew of healing, such a compound fracture of the leg could be very dangerous, especially when the thighbone was involved.

"Did you receive the wound in battle, Harvel?"

The swordsman shrugged. “That's for me to know and you to find out, mage."

Crest looked up from the whetstone on his lap, on which he was honing the edges of his collection of daggers, and he laughed.

"He got it leaping out of a married woman's bedroom window when the enraged husband found them galloping the two-backed beast, mage! The trouble was that the drop was a little further than he thought."

"Thanks so much, elf,” Harvel growled. “You really know how to wreck a man's reputation."

"I think you do a pretty good job of that yourself, Harvel,” Crest replied. “One of these days, some outraged husband's going to be quicker even than you, and he'll hand you your overactive gonads marinated in a white wine sauce."

"Won't ever happen, Crest,” the swordsman said with a smug expression.

Grimm smiled and wandered off to find General Quelgrum. He found the old soldier sitting cross-legged by the rear of the wagon. His face calm and intent; he was cleaning and oiling the disassembled parts of some of his Technological weapons, which were spread out on a tarpaulin before him.

At Grimm's approach, the General looked up from his work. “Good morning, Lord Baron. How are the warriors?"

"Good morning, General. I think we're about ready to leave. Crest and Harvel seem to be up to arguing again, so there can't be too much wrong."

The soldier nodded. “Tordun's out running again. He told me yesterday that he's worried about his fitness. He wants to be on the road again, and so do I. Still, there's the problem of Questor Guy and Necromancer Numal. It'd be better for all of us if they were back in their own bodies."

"I've been thinking about that, General, and I've got a couple of ideas on the subject. Do you know where they are?"

"Questor Guy's off in the woods, checking the snares, and Necromancer Numal's collecting firewood.

They should be back soon."

Grimm sat beside the military man while Quelgrum reassembled his weapons with impressive speed.

"To look at you, General, nobody would ever think you'd once been a shepherd,” he said.

"It's like riding a bicycle, mage. Once learnt, never forgotten."

Grimm frowned. “What's a bicycle, General?"

Quelgrum laughed. “I keep forgetting how little you mages know about machines,” he said. “A bicycle is—ah! Here come our two strays."

Grimm noticed that the two juxtaposed souls seemed to avoid each other's eyes, and that they were silent as they strode into the camp. He rose to his feet.

"Gentlemen!” the Questor called. “I've been thinking about your little problem, and I'd like to try out a couple of techniques."

"The sooner the better,” Guy/Numal said. “Let's go."

Numal/Guy nodded vigorously. “I agree. What do you have in mind?"

"Numal, the problem seems to be that you aren't confident enough to cast the spell using Guy's voice-box. What if I were to cast the spell?"

Numal/Guy shrugged. “I've heard you Questors can do a lot of different types of spell, but the Juxtaposition one is complex; as a Specialist Necromancer, I was only just able to carry it off. Do you really think you can come up with some Questor analogue of the rune magic? Remember that the souls have to cross over at the same time: if one body is left soulless, it may die."

Grimm shook his head. “I wouldn't know where to start,” he confessed. “Even so, I can read runes as well as the next mage; if you were to write down the spell, I should be able to recite it."

"That wouldn't work, Grimm. You know as well as I how magic works. The incantation has to come from the caster's own mouth."

"That's not quite right, Numal. The spell has to come from the caster's brain. I have some experience of astral travel now. I believe I could implant my psyche in your borrowed head, while using my own voice to cast the spell. I would be linked to my body through my ‘silver cord', and you could use our shared voice to pattern your mind for the casting. I'd read the spell through your—or rather, Guy's—eyes.

"Guy, it's your body. I ask your permission to try this ... this ‘spell transplant'. I have no idea if it'll work or not."

Guy/Numal shrugged. “I'm willing to try anything. I've had enough of this creaking geriatric shell."

"And you, Numal?"

The Necromancer's borrowed face furrowed with evident doubt. “I suppose so, Grimm. I don't like it; the consequences could be disastrous for both of us."

Grimm spread his hands, palms upwards, before him. “I don't think you're ever going to feel confident enough to chant the spell using Guy's throat. We've got to do something."

"I know,” Numal said, “and I do agree, in principle. Still, you said you had a couple of ideas. What's the other one?"

"Those red-and-white toadstools,” Grimm said, pointing to a clump of gaudy fungi clustered around a tree, “have some interesting properties. If you both ate some, you might start spontaneously to travel on the astral plane. I could try to snap your silver cords and transfer your straying souls back into your respective bodies, before they knew what had happened."

"I think I prefer the first plan."

"I hate to admit it, but I agree with Grandpa here."

"Right,” Grimm said. “Then that's what we'll try first. Numal, please write out the spell as best you can remember it."

While the Necromancer busied himself with parchment and pencil, Grimm fought the cold, clammy demons of doubt and fear. He had no idea of whether his plan would work, but he knew that something must be done.

At last, Numal looked up. “It's all there, Grimm. Go ahead."

Grimm drew several deep breaths. He felt an urgent desire to calm himself with the drugs that had once enslaved him: Trina and Virion. Nonetheless, he had no desire to risk becoming an unwilling vassal to the insidious herbs again.

"Have you any advice, Numal?"

The Necromancer nodded. “Questor Guy, please lie down beside me, remaining as still as you can.

General Quelgrum, please hold the paper so I can see it. Questor Grimm, please ... do take care."

Grimm nodded, too full for words.

The two transposed mages lay down side-by-side, and Grimm adopted a pose of meditation, sitting by their heads. Quelgrum crouched beside Numal/Guy, holding the transcribed spell in front of the Necromancer's borrowed eyes.

"A little nearer, please, General,” Guy's voice said. “That's it: hold it just there."

Grimm began to chant in his personal spell-language: “Ushuryaia, demtoril, appshaya. Ushuryaia, demtoril..."

The drone of the repetitive incantation calmed him, and he began to relax, concentrating on nothing but the meaningless, powerful words. Grimm's eyes closed, and he felt warmth beginning to spread through him. He was drifting ... flying...

Far below him, the mage's astral projection saw the two mages and his own body.

A simple effort of will ... down ... down.

A moment of claustrophobic confusion came over him, and he fought to ignore the alien thoughts threatening to subsume him.

Just a little shift ... there!

With a shock of realisation, spirit-Grimm knew he was looking through another's eyes. Numal's thoughts washed into his psyche, and he resisted them as best he could.

Concentrate on the runes!

The spiky symbols filled his field of vision, and he seized control of the shared eyes, scanning the document. For a moment, he felt lost, as he tried to reassert simultaneous command of his own, distant body. The evanescent silver cord rippled and stretched, but spirit-Grimm managed to maintain a tenuous grasp on his own physical manifestation.

Such a strange feeling ... he thought, drifting for a moment before regaining his sense of purpose. Read, Questor! Read it!

As if from far away, yet still inside his own head, he heard fluent, crisp syllables. On several occasions, he felt the spell starting to drift as he struggled to maintain control, but he carried on. At last, he knew he had botched a joining-rune, giving it a rising cadence rather than a falling one. At once, he was swimming in a sea of nausea that threatened to consume him. Spiky bolts of pain shot through his, or somebody's, head, like bolts from a crossbow.

It hurts!

A miscast, a calm, mental voice said, as somebody's entrails roiled and bucked. We failed; we can't afford another mistake. Try again

Grimm's distant voice moaned, as the mage tried to maintain the integrity of this strange, dual personality.

We hurt!

We must focus! Focus!

Confusion, pressure and pain!

Chant, chant...!

A rush of power—someone's power—ran around him and through him in a thrilling stream. As if he were turning inside-out, the spirit felt something twist, and a different mental voice spoke.

That's it! Get out, Grimm! Get out!

He felt a push, and he was floating again. Now he was falling, accelerating towards some inevitable destiny...

It felt as if he had run into a stone wall at high speed. No longer drifting, no longer wandering. He hurt in every fibre of his being, or somebody else did. He was alone again, separate and in pain.

"Are you all right, Questor Grimm?"

Grimm, Numal, or Guy—which one was he?—groaned and fell onto his left side. Cold and twitching, the Questor felt his stomach wrench, expelling its contents onto the ground beside him.

His thoughts crystallised and cleared, and he knew again where and who he was.

I'm Grimm Afelnor!

The thought hit him with a cold shock, as he realised that he had been on the point of losing his personality, his uniqueness. From what he had read of such spells—known to mages as ‘Sharings'—he knew the longer the spell, the greater the risk of the two minds becoming melded in some strange construct, from which the individualities of the two subjects might never be disentangled. In time, his silver cord would have withered and snapped, and his own body would have died.

It was a close-run thing! Grimm thought. That bloody miscast nearly cost me and Numal our minds.

"Are you all right, Questor Grimm?"

The repeated question sounded more urgent now, and Grimm opened his eyes to see General Quelgrum standing over him.

The Questor felt unable to use his vocal chords properly for the moment, but he waved his hands in a gesture to indicate that he was aware of the question.

The General helped him to sit up, and wiped harsh, sticky matter from Grimm's lips.

"Th-thanks, Gen'ral,” he managed to mutter, his tongue thick and clumsy. “I'm all right...

"Redeemer!"

The staff flew to his hand like a trained hawk, and Grimm drew on its stored resources with the same urgent need with which he had once drawn in the enslaving smoke of Trina and Virion. The strength flooded into his body and he began to feel revitalised.

He looked around, to see the improbable vision of Numal and Guy hugging each other, each man's face wearing a broad smile.

Guy broke away from Numal's enthusiastic embrace to regard Grimm with a critical eye.

"I can't have you lazing the day away, youngster,” the older Questor said. “Some of us have work to do

... don't you know?"

Climbing to his feet, Grimm suppressed a grin. This was Guy, sure enough!

Numal ran over to the young mage and wrapped his arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Questor Grimm! You have made us whole again!"

Grimm began to feel hot waves of embarrassment inside him, and he extracted himself from the Necromancer's arms with as much good grace as he could manage.

"It was your skill that did it, Numal,” he said. “I only read, and I botched that once. I'm just wondering why it took so much out of me."

"That was the miscast. Surely even you Questors do that from time to time!"

"It doesn't have the same effect on us, Numal. We lose the energy of the spell, but it doesn't cripple us.

Maybe the miscast spell will have some effect we haven't foreseen, or it just won't work at all, but it doesn't hurt."

As he had so many times, he had recalled the words of Magemaster Crohn in Arnor Scholasticate, spoken long ago to his friend, Madar: “A badly miscast spell can kill a mage. Even a minor error in an incantation can render the casting thaumaturge helpless with pain and nausea. So no, Forutia, we will not allow you to attempt even the simplest of spells at this time. I do not want this classroom full of corpses or retching, choking Students. You will understand our caution well enough when you are older."

Now Grimm understood the reason for Crohn's prudence only too well!

"Is a miscast always that way for runic magic-users?” he asked Numal.

"Always, Questor Grimm: in fact, a deliberate, carefully-chosen miscast is a part of every Adept's training. I was bed-ridden for over a day after mine. Perhaps that's why we don't choose to throw our magic around as much as you Questors. Perfection is everything in runic spells. Without wishing to slight your skill in any way, I'm glad it wasn't me who suffered the effects of that little error. But I do know, only too well, what a miscast feels like."

Grimm regarded the Necromancer with new respect, and he began to understand just why Quests were always commanded by Questors; it was not just because other mages lacked a Questor's range of spells, nor yet because of the difference in age. From his own experience, he knew the choice of a relevant spell by a Questor was often made under extreme pressure. A decision might need to be taken in a heartbeat, whether the spell might succeed or not. To expect a ‘normal’ mage to achieve precision and perfection under such circumstances was unreasonable, and the consequences of an error might be fatal.

Tordun strolled into the encampment, the carcass of a deer slung over one broad shoulder. “Did I miss something?” he said, his face puzzled.

"Notice anything different, swordsman?” Guy said, with a smug smile.

The titanic albino's brow furrowed for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “That's your own voice, Questor Guy! It is you, isn't it?"

"That's right, Tordun. I'm back, and hungry for action,” the mage said. “Grandfather here's back in his own body, too. Grimm, here, helped a little."

Grimm was about to protest at Guy's lack of gratitude, but he was interrupted by the General:

“Gentlemen! May I have your attention for a moment?"

Harvel and Crest wandered over to rejoin the group, and Quelgrum continued.

"It's time to break camp and move on, I think. Our next stop on the direct route is Brianston, about fifty miles south of here, and we should reach there by nightfall. A little five-mile jaunt to the east will see us in Anjar, and Rendale's about thirty miles to the southwest of that. With any luck, we'll have our prey in sight tomorrow. We can make camp around there, while we scout out the lie of the land and make our attack plans."

"Sounds easy enough to me, General,” Crest said.

"Don't get too confident, Crest,” Grimm replied. “From what I've seen of this region so far, I wouldn't bet on it."

"Ah, come on, Baron. The killing crew's here, ready to kick arse!"

Grimm shrugged. “I just wish I had your confidence, Harvel. Let's just—"

"Right, people: let's move it!” Quelgrum interrupted, as if addressing a parade-ground. “Let's be ready to move in twenty minutes!"

The party dissolved, as the members of the group took up their previously-assigned duties.

As Grimm began to load equipment and supplies on the wagon, he looked at his companions: Harvel and Crest engaged in their customary good-natured argument as they disassembled the tents, Numal sang as he worked alongside Guy, and Tordun seemed to be sharing jokes with the General while the two warriors butchered and salted the deer.

At least we're beginning to gel as a team, he thought. I really hope that'll be enough.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 8: Suspicions

Dalquist groaned and muttered as he worked his way through the stack of Student paperwork before him. For a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank to be used in this manner, as a Junior Magemaster, broke no Guild rules, but he felt as if his talents were being squandered.

Ever since he and Senior Magemaster Crohn had confronted Prelate Thorn over his ruthless treatment of Questor Grimm, Dalquist's life had taken a decided downturn.

We were foolish to try to quote regulations to Thorn, he thought, making a savage red slash through another botched, scribbled line of runes, and he's certainly making me pay for that rashness.

He wrote at the bottom of the page, ‘4/10: Woeful lack of attention to detail. See me,’ and he picked up another sheet from the pile.

I wouldn't feel so bad if I didn't know Lord Thorn was well within the letter of the law to do as he did.

He could have had me stripped of my powers, exiled or even executed for mutiny. Instead, here I am marking shoddy work from worthless pupils whose only saving grace is the money in their parents’

coffers.

Oh, for goodness’ sake!

He drew a bold line through a complex, yet completely irrelevant, illogical series of runes. It was plain to Dalquist that this lout had not paid the least attention in the classroom, basking in the knowledge that his father was a wealthy High Court advocate, and that he could not be dismissed from the Scholasticate with ease.

'0/10: You have not even attempted to understand the principles or signatures of this spell. I suggest that your vocation lies elsewhere! See me.'

He reached out for the next sheet in the dwindling pile, but stopped short as he heard a soft rap on the door.

"Come in."

The door opened to reveal the grizzled form of the Mage Doorkeeper.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Questor Dalquist, very sorry, indeed. I was just saying to ... to someone the other day how I hated to be..."

Dalquist sighed. “Would you mind coming to the point, Doorkeeper? I am rather busy, as you can see."

Doorkeeper scratched his head. “What was it, now?—oh, yes, I remember!” The ancient mage smiled brightly. “You have a visitor at the tradesmen's entrance. That was the message!"

"Who is this visitor?” Dalquist did his best to maintain a polite tone. He loved Doorkeeper as if the old man were his kindly, if addled, grandfather, but it was often difficult to elicit concise information from him.

The major-domo scrabbled in his pockets for a few moments before he brought out a tattered, discoloured scrap of paper and consulted it.

"He says he's Sergeant Erik Romas, Brother Mage. He says it's very urgent."

Dalquist felt his already-frayed temper beginning to get away from him, and he made a mighty effort to maintain his equanimity.

"I don't know any such man, Doorkeeper. Is he a watchman? A soldier? A Court functionary? Is he demanding advice, vengeance, charity, or a job?"

The old man looked blank for a moment before answering. “I think he just wants to meet you for a moment, Questor Dalquist,” he said at last.

Dalquist looked at the pile of completed marking, assessing the remainder. “All right, Doorkeeper; I'll see this wandering Sergeant.

"Shakhmat!"

The staff, as much weapon as adornment, flew into his hand, and he stood. Truth to tell, his backside was beginning to develop an abominable ache after so many hours in an unyielding, wooden chair.

"Thank you, Questor Dalquist,” the major-domo said, bowing. “I knew you would understand. I'm a very busy man, of course, so if you would excuse me..."

"Of course, Doorkeeper. I know the way well enough."

* * * *

The Questor looked at the lanky, grey-haired man before him, without the slightest trace of recognition.

The supposed Sergeant wore no uniform; instead, he wore a loose, grey sarape, loose, beige trousers and an outlandish, broad-brimmed hat: his appearance was bizarre, indeed, almost ridiculous.

"I am Dalquist Rufior, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank."

"I am Sergeant Erik Romas, Lord Mage.” The grey-haired man bowed in a clumsy manner.

"What do you want, Sergeant?” Dalquist remained wary of some potential trap but confident that his abilities as a Mage Questor would prevail in the event of any ambush.

The slender man looked around him, as if suspecting the presence of eavesdroppers. “I've brought someone to meet you, Lord Mage, but it would be better if we didn't discuss matters in the doorway.

The ... er ... gentleman's name is Shakkar."

"Shakkar! Why did you not say so at once? Where is he?"

"Please, Sir ... I mean, Lord Mage,” the bizarrely-disguised Sergeant whispered, looking embarrassed,

“keep it down, would you? Lord Shakkar's in the bushes over there. He didn't think it was a good idea to present himself in person, being of a—shall we say—demonic persuasion."

Dalquist understood the need for caution: the huge demon would be conspicuous in any company. As a precaution against possible ambush, Dalquist engaged his Mage Sight, but he saw no trace of intended deception or malice in the Sergeant's aura.

"All right, Sergeant. Lead the way."

Erik led Dalquist past the fly-infested refuse bins at the rear of the House to a large, dense cluster of bushes. The mage prised away the thick foliage with the aid of his staff, Shakhmat, to see the grey form of the demon lurking within.

"It's good to see you again, Shakkar, but what's all this secrecy about?” he demanded “Is Questor Grimm all right? Is there some crisis in Crar?"

The demon levered himself up from his crouching position, unleashing a shower of leaves around him like so many snowflakes.

"I am pleased to meet you again, Questor Dalquist,” the bat-winged giant rumbled. “My reason for coming here is that I am deeply worried about the Lady Drexelica. She has disappeared, and there are indications that Prioress Lizaveta may well be behind it. We believe she intends to hold the girl as a hostage. That must mean she is aware of Lord Grimm's Quest."

Dalquist shook his head, confused. “Hold on for a moment, Shakkar; I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. Would you mind going back to the beginning? What Quest? What have Prioress Lizaveta and Grimm's housekeeper got to do with it?"

"Lady Drex is more...” began Erik, a sly smile on his face, but Shakkar's angry frown stopped the Sergeant's words in mid-sentence as cleanly as if he had been punched in the throat.

"Lady Drexelica is more than just a valued employee, Questor Dalquist. She and Questor Grimm have been through a lot together. She is a ... good friend, a friend the Baron would gravely miss."

Dalquist's eyes bulged. Grimm's not ... playing around, is he? No. it can't be! He may be a little rash at times, but surely he'd never risk his powers over a brief dalliance!

He thought back to the words of the late, lamented Senior Magemaster Urel had addressed to him fifteen years before: “Loose women are a taint, Rufior: remember that, and remember it well. It were better by far that you put all your energies into your work rather than waste it on idle, lustful, polluting thoughts. It is only natural that a boy of your years will feel such vile urges, but you must resist them at all costs. The least physical contact with the distaff sex will sap your powers. Surrendering to these foul, physical urges will destroy any chance you have of becoming a mage."

No: Grimm wouldn't be that stupid. It must be as Shakkar says; Drex is just a valued companion.

"Of course,” he said to the demon, “but what about this Quest?"

"Questor Grimm is under orders to destroy Prioress Lizaveta and her foul order,” Shakkar replied. “That is all I know."

What? Dalquist thought. What threat can one old lady pose to the Guild or the House? Why, she was kind enough to me when I saw her...

A ghastly suspicion drifted into the Questor's mind. Is he on some personal vendetta because that nun, Madeleine, made a fool of him in High Lodge? Surely not! This must be some terrible misunderstanding.

"I'm sorry, Shakkar, but this all sounds very odd to me. There's very little I can do about it, in any case."

"You could attempt to contact Lord Grimm with Telepathy,” the demon growled.

Dalquist shrugged. “I could, but only if you can tell me where he is. It would be good to sort out this muddle. However, I can tell you with reasonable certainty that he isn't on any Quest as far as I know.

Grimm hasn't even been back to the House since he went to High Lodge. Whatever he is doing is most likely his own idea. So do you have any idea of Questor Grimm's location?"

"He is somewhere in the region of Yoren,” the demon said."We thought you might be able to locate him and advise him."

"I need rather more precise directions than that, Shakkar!” Dalquist laughed. “I don't know anything about the area, I've never been there, and I can't cast such a potent spell in a wide arc."

"I do not know exactly where Lord Grimm is, Questor!” Shakkar bared his long fangs in an expression Dalquist could not read. “What I do know is that Lady Drexelica may be in danger from a foul, evil witch. Do you mean to tell me that you will not help your best friend in this regard?"

Dalquist's mind spun, as fragments of memories whirled through his head. He remembered visiting the Prioress’ apartments at High Lodge. Some sort of confrontation ... no, no, NO!

"Prioress Lizaveta is a charming, harmless old lady!” he shouted. “Yes, she's a witch; what does that have to do with anything? I'll thank you to take your pathetic little suspicions and conspiracy theories elsewhere!"

Shakkar growled, and raised a single, huge, clawed hand.

"Don't, Shakkar.” Dalquist brought Shakhmat into view. “I respect you, but you'll be taking a big risk if you try to threaten me. Don't do it."

Despite his calm demeanour, the mage struggled with strange, conflicting emotions. What the hell's going on here? he raved inside his head. Pain seized his brain in an iron grip, and he almost howled in agony.

"I won't listen to you, Shakkar! Go back to Crar."

In a more conciliatory voice, he continued, “I'm sure it's just some minor misunderstanding. Just go back home, and I'm sure Grimm and Drexelica will be waiting for you. Goodbye, Shakkar."

He turned on his heel and strode back inside the House. Something seemed wrong, but he could not say what it had been. His head thrummed and ached, and he thought that an early night might be in order.

* * * *

Shakkar felt numb; if he had one ally of whose aid he had felt sure, it was Questor Dalquist. For the first time in his life, he had requested aid from a trusted and respected mortal, and that request had been thrown back in his face.

"Some friend,” Erik observed. “He didn't even listen, Lord Seneschal. So what do we do now?"

"We fly, Sergeant.” The demon opened his bat-like wings. “I have not done this for some time, but I suspect that you will prove little encumbrance to me. I can fly faster than a horse can trot, and we will not be slowed down by hills or poor terrain.

"We go to Yoren, to see if we can obtain any information about either Lord Grimm's or Prioress Lizaveta's whereabouts. It is plain that we shall receive no help here. Take what equipment you need from the cart."

The Sergeant nodded. “I can't pretend I'm overjoyed at the prospect of dangling from your claws, hundreds of feet in the air, but we may well be able to catch up with Lord Grimm before he reaches the Priory, and warn him.

"Just don't let go of me, Lord Seneschal!"

Slashing his arms back and forth, the demon made a path for the soldier through the dense, thorny undergrowth; the thorns made little impression on his grey, leathery skin.

The cart was where they had left it, in a wide, circular clearing. The Sergeant shucked his disguise and donned his green uniform. He then began to clip various strange items to convenient straps on the tunic.

"What are you attaching to those bands, Sergeant?"

Erik smiled. “The bands are called ‘webbing', Lord Seneschal. I'm just getting some ammo, grenades, full canteens, food and so on. If we are going into combat, I want to be ready for it."

Shakkar felt a little surprised: until now, he had regarded Erik as an easy-going and rather lacklustre individual, but the prospect of violence and danger seemed to enthuse the man. Humans are strange, indeed!

"I hope we'll see a little bit of action,” the soldier said, hefting a large pack onto his shoulders. “It's what I've trained for, not policing arguing neighbours and bar-room brawls."

Shakkar eyed the growing mass of Erik's armoury with some misgivings. “I am strong, but my strength is not inexhaustible, Sergeant! How much does all that equipment weigh?"

"Eighty to a hundred pounds, I suppose, Lord Seneschal,” the Sergeant hazarded. “No more than a hundred and twenty. I weigh about twelve stone: one hundred and seventy pounds or so. Is that too much for you?"

Shakkar thought back to his miserable confinement on Starmor's punishment pillar. From time to time, the late Baron of Crar had seen fit to send him the occasional miserable miscreant for his delectation, and a few of the fatter morsels—people!, he reminded himself, with some distaste—had probably weighed close to three hundred pounds. Even in his half-starved condition, he had found it easy to hoist the struggling, screaming individuals into the air, baring his fangs and...

The demon slammed down mental shutters on these increasingly disturbing memories.

"I should be able to carry you, Sergeant, with or without your weaponry. Your ... webbing should provide good purchase for my talons. Are you ready?"

"Not quite, Lord Seneschal,” Erik replied, fiddling with the horses’ traces.

"What are you doing, Sergeant? I cannot possibly take both you and a horse!"

"I'm just letting the horses go, Lord Seneschal. It'd be a pity to let them starve. Go on, nag, get out of here!” The soldier swatted one of the horses on the rump and it skittered away, followed by its equine companion.

Shakkar felt even more confused. He knew that, for some mortals at least, horsemeat was considered a delicacy. For others, the animals were a merchantable commodity and no more. And yet this strange mortal, whose trade was death, seemed concerned for the wellbeing of these creatures.

"Those horses may be worth a lot of money, Sergeant,” he said, as the glossy, muscular horses ambled away.

"Dead ones won't, Lord Seneschal. Perhaps someone'll get some use out of them, and good luck to him, but I won't have a pair of fine horses starving to death on my conscience.

"There; I'm ready now."

Shakkar took hold of the Sergeant's webbing and gave it an experimental tug. It seemed strong enough to hold him.

Spreading his wings in the clearing, the demon began to beat them with strong, rhythmic strokes, and he lofted into the air with the Sergeant dangling below him.

As he dragged himself higher into the sky and swooped south-eastwards, he wondered again about Erik's apparent altruistic feelings towards the animals and revised his opinion about the human race: they were not just strange, but mad as well.

* * * *

Dalquist returned to his marking, but his attention began to wander.

He had met the old Prioress only once, and his memories of the meeting were fuzzy, yet favourable; however, that did not explain his savage, offhand, uncharacteristic dismissal of Shakkar's request for help. The Questor knew he had reacted just as Grimm had when ensorcelled. He put down his pen and pondered, staring at Shakhmat, with its seven gold rings: the symbol of his status as a Guild Mage.

Am I just tired and frustrated? I've been yearning for a Quest for months; is that it? Am I just getting jaded? Grimm's my friend and a brother mage. My first thoughts should have been for him, yet I just rejected Shakkar's words out of hand when he implicated Lizaveta—just like Grimm leapt to Thorn's defence when I implied the Prelate had been behind his brutal Ordeal.

Something very strange is happening here. One thing I do know is that Lizaveta is a witch—could she be working some Geomantic magic on me right now? What did happen to me in the Prioress’ room? The memories are blurred and lacking in detail: they're not like real memories.

That was it: maybe his rosy memories of the old lady were not true recollections at all! Dalquist knew he needed the services of a Mentalist if he were to recover the real details of that long-ago meeting in High Lodge.

I could go to Lord Thorn and tell him my suspicions, but ... no, I don't really trust even him. His treatment of Grimm was definitely underhanded when he put that Compulsion on the lad, and I don't want him to do the same to me.

Dalquist blinked, confused by suspicion that began to surge inside his head.

What on earth has Thorn to do with Lizaveta? Why should he place a Compulsion on me, just because some witch may have ensorcelled me?

Of course, there was no reason ... was there?

Who can I trust here? Crohn, certainly, and Doorkeeper ... who else is there?

Kargan; the name floated unbidden into Dalquist's mind. He puts on a tough act, but he seems a straight enough arrow to me ... and he's a Mentalist, too.

Kargan was an anomaly amongst the House's starchy senior mages: unlike them, he kept his face smooth, instead of allowing his beard to grow; he eschewed Mage Speech even when teaching his class; he wore blue-tinted spectacles instead of allowing a Mage Chirurgeon to correct his vision with magic. The man stopped short of acting improperly in front of the Prelate, but he was a nonconformist.

Kargan won't blab to anyone, I'm sure.

His suspicions crystallising into a hard lump, Dalquist went in search of the Magemaster. One way or the other, he would get some answers.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 9: Obedience

Grimm shielded his eyes against the glare of the setting sun as he drove the wagon towards Brianston.

After the gloomy squalor of Yoren, he felt prepared for almost anything, except for the dazzling sight that met his eyes.

This was no town full of run-down shanties and faded glories, but a vision of heaven on earth. Proud, gleaming cupolas and turrets came into view, and the colourful opulence of the market square, visible in the distance, seemed to eclipse even the rebuilt centre of Crar. Grimm could not fail to notice the well-dressed, smiling people walking the clean, paved streets. Several of the townspeople favoured the wagon with a cheery wave as it passed them; a quick scan with Mage Sight showed the citizens’ auras to be free of deception or worry.

Quelgrum, sitting beside the mage, tapped him on the left shoulder. “A bit of a change from Yoren, eh, Lord Baron? From the look, a man could do worse than spend his life here, I reckon."

Maybe it's just a little too good to be true, Grimm thought. How does a town in the middle of this wilderness maintain such magnificence? I've been guilty before of taking things at face value, and I'm not about to make that mistake again.

"I just wonder if it isn't a little too nice, General. Let's not forget our purpose. We're not here to sightsee or relax, remember?"

The General nodded. “I hear you there, Lord Baron. It's a fine sight to admire, I must say, but I agree we should stay alert. Even a squalid hellhole like Yoren had armed guards and barriers. You'd think a place as fancy as this would be riddled with them, but where are they? It looks as if a marauding army could just march in and take over in an instant."

Grimm stopped the wagon short of the town centre, and tapped his right pocket. “Thribble; are you there?"

"Where else would I be, mortal?” the imp squeaked, pushing his head into view. “This does seem a pleasant spot to stay—are you planning to rest here?"

"I don't know yet, Thribble. Just recently, I've had my mind baffled and enslaved by pheromones and my eyes bedazzled by grandeur and opulence. I refuse to be fooled like that again. If we do decide to stay here, it's for one night and no more; is that clear? If any of us, including me, starts to act at all oddly, I want you to tell me.

"I like the look of this place as much as you do, but that's just what worries me. I don't know if this is some honey trap or just what it appears to be, but I'll let nothing stand in the way of our Quest this time.

If Brianston really is what it appears to be, we may stop off here on the way back from Rendale, but, for now, we're just on our way through. If I even make the suggestion that we might stay here for more than one night, I want you to remind me of what I've said."

"That's understood, Questor Grimm. To be honest, I really want to see you complete this Quest; it will make a good tale to tell my brothers when I return home—whenever that may be."

The wagon's canvas cover rustled, and Grimm turned to see Tordun's head emerging. “May I ask why we have stopped, Questor Grimm? Is there a problem? Oh! Is that not a fine sight to behold?"

"What is it, Tordun?” Harvel's muffled voice emerged from the cart's interior. Grimm turned to the old soldier. “General, would you mind standing watch for a while? I want to brief our companions."

"Go ahead, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum replied. “It doesn't seem we have any problems at the moment."

"Budge over, Tordun,” Grimm said, crawling into the back of the wagon. “I don't want to wield the whip hand here, but it seems that I'll need to set a few ground rules."

* * * *

Drex hardly noticed the sting of the whip on her back, but the nun's hoarse, harsh voice brought her to attention. She had no idea how she might have transgressed the Order's rules, but Melana's brusque tone brooked no argument. “Am I wasting my time with you, Supplicant? What is the matter with you?"

"I'm sorry, Sister Melana,” the girl mumbled, her tone respectful, sincere and penitent. “I acknowledge my most grievous fault, and I crave correction.” The rote phrase slid with ease from between her lips, comforting her with its familiarity.

"Must I remind you of even the most simple of incantations, you worthless bitch?” croaked the Sister, her red-tinged eyes blazing. “You're a useless, pathetic ingrate!"

"Yes, Sister Melana.” Drexelica lowered her gaze in the required attitude of Holy Modesty. Nonetheless, she had not failed to notice Melana's haggard state, and she registered the fact that the nun's sorry condition was somehow her fault.

Poor Sister Melana, She only wants to train me in the ways of the Order, and I betray her with sloppiness and inattention. I deserve punishment.

Drex had the impression that she might have possessed a different opinion at the start of the session, but beyond this bare fact all else was hazy and inchoate.

"Sister Melana: this humble Novice believes that the Supplicant's response was correct,” one of the ever-present attendants called, and Drex almost gasped at the junior nun's effrontery as Melana whirled to face the daring Novice.

"You dare to oppose me, Novice?” The Sister's narrowed eyes seemed to scorch the attendant, who shrank from the baleful gaze, seeming almost to melt in its intensity. “Do we all come to you for advice, now?"

"No, Sister Melana,” the nun whispered. “I merely thought..."

"You think way too much, Sister Falun! Who is in charge here: you or me?"

"You are, Sister Melana."

"You may both consider yourselves fortunate that I don't send you to the Prioress for correction. I am displeased with both your attitudes; you both seem to believe yourselves more familiar with Holy Ritual than I, and you will correct that at once!

"I will kindly make allowances for the fact that you are still young and callow. However, I require both of you to make an act of Contrition in the Lower Chapel—two hours of Level Two Punishment. Be grateful that I am in a merciful mood."

"Thank you, Sister Melana,” the Novices chorused. “I acknowledge my most grievous fault."

Melana glared at the two miscreants in turn. “Now!” she screamed. “My patience is not inexhaustible!"

The Novices looked at each other with nervous eyes, and Falun spoke in a faltering voice. “Sister ... it was the Reverend Mother's explicit and definite order that we remain with the Supplicant at ... at all times during her training."

"That was for periods of basic training only, dolt, and you know it!” Melana snapped. “The Supplicant requires a period of more intense instruction, and I have no need for a pair of fumbling, ignorant, ungrateful Novices criticising my every action! Need I remind you that I am a member of the Anointed Score? If I hear one more word of dissent from you, I will recommend your removal from the Priory, and you know what that could mean. Go and exorcise your guilt at once, before I decide that a more severe punishment is appropriate."

The junior nuns exchanged glances once more, but they seemed to have decided that further opposition was pointless.

"At once, Sister Melana,” Sister Falun cried, touching her forehead to the flagstones, with her fellow Novice following suit. “Thank you for your forbearance."

Rising to their feet, the two Novices made their way across the flagstones of the chamber to a side door Drex knew only too well; the Lower Chapel was a place of contrition and punishment.

"As for you, Supplicant,” the Sister said, raising her steel-tipped martinet, “you will soon regret the day you were born!"

As the door closed behind the departing Novices, Drex reached behind her to fumble with the laces on her gown. She knew only too well what lay in store for her, but she could no longer bring herself to care.

She knew she was at fault, and that was all that mattered.

"Stop that!” Melana's voice was harsher than any whip, and Drex let go of the troublesome strings, waiting to hear the details of her well-deserved punishment.

"What do you want, Supplicant?” the nun demanded. This was a formal question, Drex realised, one requiring an answer. “What do you truly want?"

"I want only to serve the Order to the best of my abilities and with all my heart, Sister Melana. I must expiate my most grievous guilt, my base lusts, and my wayward spirit. I must—"

"Don't give me that nonsense, you stupid slut! What do you really want?"

"I want only to serve the Order, to the—"

"That's enough of that! We've finished with Responses. Don't you want to get out of here?"

Drexelica tried to make sense of Sister Melana's words, but she failed, tears of confusion beginning to trickle down her face. “What do you want me to say, Sister Melana? Tell me, and I'll comply! I acknowledge my most grievous fault, and I beg correction!"

The Sister muttered something Drex did not catch. “We're going for a little walk, Supplicant. We are getting out of here. We are going to escape."

Drex felt her jaw gaping, and she tried to encompass the enormity of Melana's words. She failed. “I don't understand, Sister,” she said, feeling the comforting embrace of routine deserting her. “Escape from what?"

"From here, you stupid girl! As your Superior, I order you to open that door and run out of here, as fast as you can."

"Where would I go, Sister Melana? My home is here now."

"I don't care where you go, girl. Just go! Don't worry: I'll be right behind you."

Drex put her hand on the black iron ring on the door leading to the main stairs. It felt cold and somehow odd; since she had become a Supplicant in the Priory, she had been escorted everywhere, and Melana's Novices had opened and closed all the doors.

A command from a Superior must be obeyed at once, but Drexelica felt a tight knot of anxiety in her stomach. She knew something about Sister Melana's order was ... wrong.

"Do I have to give my orders twice, Supplicant?” The Sister raised her lash. “Obey at once, or you'll be looking at five hours of third-level Contrition!"

Melana's voice had more effect than the lash would have done, and Drex yanked the door open and began to launch herself up the steep, worn stairs. She retained sufficient awareness to hitch her cumbersome robes clear of her feet, but she had little idea of where she was going.

Panting, she wrenched open another door at the top of the stairs, and she found herself in the Reverend Mother's own temple; the very room to which she had been transported from Crar. Numerous doors led from the bare, stone room, and Drex paused. Which should she take?

"The door opposite the throne, idiot! Go! Quietly, now! We don't want to wake the Reverend Mother; she may be asleep."

Drexelica padded across the stones as silently as she was able, trying to ignore the rising clamour in her mind. The chants that had echoed through her head were beginning to fade, to be replaced by doubts.

Why is Sister Melana doing this? she wondered. It can't be for my good...

Stop that! another mental voice commanded her. Everything Sister Melana does is for our own good.

Everything! We don't want to displease her...

The Order is all! another screamed. Obedience and discipline!

Other voices joined in: some haranguing, some cajoling, but each one commanding her attention.

"Do it, idiot!” Melana hissed, pausing by another, open door. “Open it!"

Drex did as she was bidden, revealing another flight of stairs, but she saw Melana slipping through the other portal.

What's she up to?

Don't you know anything? Never question a Superior!

Shut up, curse you! She's using me as a bloody decoy!

The series’ last thought dismissed her inner traitor's objections and burst into her sensorium like bolts of lightning, driving the dull darkness from her mind, illuminating every crevice of her awareness. I won't have a chance! The raddled cow wants me to be caught, just so she can get away!

Letting go of the door handle, Drex made her way over to the exit Melana had used, and made her way up more stairs into a dark corridor with a brightly lit exit. Silhouetted against the gleam, she saw the unmistakable form of the Sister, poised like a sprinter awaiting the whistle.

So that's her game! she thought, seething. Poor little Drex'll make a mad dash for freedom, alerting everyone, while Melana sneaks away in the confusion. Well, this girl isn't as stupid or as indoctrinated as the dear Sister thinks!

Shaking her head to clear the last traces of fuzziness that had built up over the course of the day, she made her way over to the crouching figure, who was staring intently into a large hallway.

"Hello, Sister,” she muttered, and Melana started as if she had been struck by an arrow.

"What in Hades are you doing here, you little whore? Don't you understand plain speech? I gave you a direct order!"

"I thought we might change the plan a little, Sister Melana. I'm not going to be some fox thrown to the hounds so you can save your own precious hide. If you're going, I'm going with you."

Melana gasped, her eyes wide and staring. “You can't still be unaffected after all that training!"

"I'm not. Something inside me still wants to come to attention whenever I think of your precious freaking Order, but I've been keeping a little bit of myself aside during our fun interludes. It's getting smaller and smaller by the day, but I'm still me. I know I can't resist forever, so I'm not willing to take the chance they'll replace you with someone more competent than you."

"I could take you straight back down to the chamber right now!” Melana's eyes blazed with naked hatred. “You'll break in the end."

"I don't doubt it, Sister. But I'll howl the house down before I let you do that. We're leaving right now—together, or not at all. You don't look as if you'll last too long yourself; Lizaveta must be pretty peeved with you for some reason. I don't think she's looking on you with any great favour, sweet lady."

Melana growled like a cornered tigress, and she thrashed her limbs like a petulant child balked in its desires, but she nodded in the end.

"All right, all right—hug the shadows, and I'll follow behind you. Keep it quiet."

Drex stifled a laugh. “Nice try, Sister Melana, but I don't buy it. At the least sign of trouble, you'd develop a limp, or something, and call down the wrath of the avenging Score on me, so you could get away.

"You can go first. I'm a beggar-girl from Griven, and I've had harder mistresses than you; I can handle lack of food and sleep a lot better than you, by the look. I also reckon I could best you if it came to a fight, and I'm willing to try. Are you?"

Melana's eyes locked on Drexelica's, but the former beggar did not look away, in flagrant breach of the rule of Holy Modesty. The nun was the first to avert her gaze, and Drex smiled, confident now that the Sister had seen sense.

"Very well, Grivense slut. You win—for now.” Melana slunk out of the dark haven like a ferret creeping from its hole, and Drex followed closely behind, hugging the walls of a large hall, the edges of which were shrouded in shadow from a parapet above.

She saw nuns bustling through the atrium with brisk efficiency, their heads low, and she began to believe that success was in sight: these Sisters seemed intent only on their own business. A large, imposing door on the far side of the hall must be their goal.

It's all too easy! Surely, Melana could have slipped out at any time—what's all the fuss about?

As the two furtive figures approached the exit, Drex looked up. The chime was soft, but unmistakeable, and it could not be coincidental that it had sounded at this time.

Melana thrust Drexelica into the full light of the hall and ran for the door, as a pair of cowled figures ran towards the tumbling Supplicant.

As she sprawled on the marble floor, Drex felt herself consumed by rage.

You traitorous bitch! she thought, as the two nuns closed upon her.

With a facility born of intensive, forced practice, Drexelica reached mental tendrils through the floor into the earth beneath the Priory, drawing its energy into her. She did not even think as she loosed a bolt of pure, will-sapping despair into the mind of Melana.

Two more nuns appeared, as the Sister, her hand on the door handle, collapsed with a moan of mingled guilt and terror. Drex held the power on for as long as she could, before a bright spark of pain behind her ear turned into a blazing globe of agony.

As if from a distance, she heard the dry, crackling voice of Prioress Lizaveta: “Very good, my dear: I see that Melana's instruction was not totally wasted. I think you'll make a splendid witch. Of course, we'll need to step up the obedience training a little..."

Red light subsumed Drexelica's consciousness, and she knew no more.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 10: “A Credit To The Order"

Drexelica awoke to find herself in an unfamiliar room. She looked in wonder at the colourful, tasteful tapestries on the walls, and the luxurious, green carpet. She was lying on one of a pair of comfortable, well-upholstered, red velvet divans, and she reflected on the stark contrast between this opulence and the squalor of the straw palliasse on which she had lain for a few brief hours each night since she had been transported to the Priory.

How long has it been? A week? A month? Longer?

She wracked her mind for clear recollection, but her memories of the time she had spent here were blurred together into a melange of pain and misery.

They're probably keeping me here to soften me up for further indoctrination But all they're doing is allowing me to clear my thoughts, to ready myself for the next round. I'll beat ‘em yet!

As if to shame her for the sin of hubris, the door opened and Prioress Lizaveta walked in, accompanied by a dumpy, matronly-looking woman. The mere sight of the Reverend Mother made Drex felt like a marionette whose strings had been seized by a manic puppeteer. To her consternation, her body, seeming to possess a will of its own, flung itself from the divan to prostrate her before Lizaveta.

"My will is yours, Reverend Mother,” the girl's traitorous mouth said. “I wish only to serve."

To her disgust, she found herself kissing the hem of the Prioress’ robe with a fervour approaching rapture, despite struggling to resist the strange impulses that had taken control of her body.

Drex heard the Prioress’ crackling voice intone, “You may rise, Supplicant."

She pushed herself to her feet and stood before the Reverend Mother, not daring to raise her eyes or to speak.

"Sit, girl.” Lizaveta eased herself into the velvet embrace of the divan nearest the door.

Wondering what was happening to her, Drex lowered herself onto the other settee, her gaze fixed on the bottle-green carpet.

"Look at me.” The voice crashed like a thunderclap, and she complied at once with the command.

The old woman's face looked like a map showing the twists and turns of a long life. Wrinkled lips surrounded by deep lines were twisted in a foul imitation of a friendly smile, but ... those eyes! They shone out like lambent beacons from the wizened face, intense and intelligent, seeming to drill through Drex's skull and into her mind. It seemed as if her soul had been laid bare, like an anatomist's dissection pinned out in a display for a group of students.

The amber eyes seemed to grow larger and larger, until Drexelica feared she would fall into them. After a while, fear gave way to blissful serenity, and she longed to lose herself in the yellow pools. She felt herself drifting, drifting...

She felt puzzled by the harsh, rhythmic sound she heard, until she realised dimly that the Prioress was laughing. Her senses returned with the impact of a snapped bowstring, and she fell backwards.

For a few moments, Drexelica struggled to master her vocal chords. When she did, all that emerged from her throat was a guttural, stammering, “What?"

"Your soul is your own again, girl,” Lizaveta said. “You may speak freely for the moment, although you should be aware that what you just experienced was the merest fraction of my powers. I can exert total control over you whenever I desire.

"Do speak; you must have many questions to ask me."

Sitting up straight, Drex asked, “Why did you do that, Reverend Mother?"

"You may dispense with the formalities of the Order for now, Supplicant. I want to talk with the Grivense street gamine, Drexelica, on her last night of existence."

Drex felt a flood of relief run through her; death would be a blessing, surcease from her ordeal.

She's given up on me! At least she won't be able to use me against Grimm. I hope he rips her heart out!

"So what will it be, Lizaveta? I don't care what you do to me. Whip me to death if you want, tear my limbs off, burn me; whatever you do, it'll be paradise compared with having to chant those bloody stupid Responses just once more.

Just get on with it."

Drexelica smiled as she saw a frisson of horror run across the dumpy matron's face, but Lizaveta's expression was as calm as ever.

"My dear; how unimaginative you are!” the smiling Prioress said. “There are far worse torments than the ones you mentioned. Sister Melana will discover many of them very soon."

Drexelica stared. “Do you mean she wasn't a part of this stupid little game? I thought..."

Lizaveta's dry, hacking laugh filled the air. “I have had my eye on the dear Sister for some time. She was altogether too opinionated and conceited, so I thought I'd see how far I'd push her before she showed her true colours. I was rather pleased by the results, and especially pleased with your performance."

"Me?” The word exploded from Drex's lips. “What did I have to do with it?"

"Why, your splendid Geomantic spell, dear Drexelica! Neither Melana nor you would have got far—we were waiting for something to happen, sooner or later. However, we were hoping that you would unshackle your power in the process, and you have done so. That you unleashed your energies at Melana herself was particularly pleasant to see. She's quite a strong witch, that one, but you brought her down as if she were a straw effigy in a gale."

Drex felt cold tendrils of horror running down her spine, as she realised she had been as much a puppet during her attempted escape as she had been under Lizaveta's power a few moments before.

Still, she thought, what does it matter, if they're going to kill me?

"I can't really bring myself to care about that, Lizaveta,” she said aloud. “You've got your rebel now, and you'll forgive me if I don't weep over what happens to her. If I'm going to die, at least I can die satisfied."

This time, Lizaveta's laughter was long and loud, and the other nun joined in with an almost musical tinkle of amusement.

"We weren't after Melana, my dear; that was just a bonus. We were after you and your power. I only said that the Grivense street gamine, Drexelica, would die. In her place will be born a powerful and useful witch; a credit to the Order. You didn't really believe Melana's routine was the best we could do to subvert you, did you? I could always tell you were fighting back, even though you said the right things at the right time."

"I almost lost my mind!” Drex cried. “Half the time, I didn't even know who I was! What more could you have done to me?"

"Plenty, my darling girl, but we didn't want to rush you.” Tears ran from the smiling Lizaveta's rheumy eyes and traced a complex path through the wrinkles on her face. “We always ensured you had just enough free will to think you had the better of us. The whole process was designed to make you burst from your shell, my dear, and it did just that. The real trial begins now. Once the genie has escaped from the bottle, it cannot be replaced.

"You were born a witch, but you were constrained by poverty, ignorance and rampant misogyny. We have brought out the full extent of your power."

Now, at last, Drex saw the Prioress’ plan, as horror threatened to overwhelm her. They had only dulled her mind and confused her until she lashed out with the power she had denied and withheld for so long.

Lizaveta leaned back in her divan, still chuckling. “From now on, Drexelica, you will have plenty to eat and all the sleep you need. We must have you in good condition if and when your lover arrives."

Drex felt her heart pounding, and she licked her dry lips with a tongue that felt like a piece of limp, dry leather. “You haven't beaten me yet, bitch. I'll resist you with every fibre of my being, and I'll curse you with every breath. At the first chance I get, I'll kill myself. You won't have me."

"I already have you, sweet child,” the Prioress said, exposing a mouthful of perfect, gleaming teeth.

“What do you think I did to you when I first entered this room? I can seize your own power and turn it on you whenever I want—now you've let it out, at last. You are very, very strong, and it would have taken a Great Spell to breach those defences at first. Now, I can use your own power and turn it to my own ends. You are mine, dear girl, and you will be for as long as you live."

Drex felt sick, and her head swam. She had thought herself so cunning, fighting back whenever her mind had cleared, but she had been an unwitting pawn in Lizaveta's game all the time. She had lost the match as soon as she unleashed her spell on Melana, an equally ignorant piece in the well-staged fixture. She had known nothing of the power hidden within her until that time; the Sister had played her unknowing part in honing and exposing that force in a form that Lizaveta could use. Now, the old witch would use her as a weapon against her beloved Grimm. She had lost everything in a moment of misguided, useless anger.

Lizaveta made a show of inspecting her nails before speaking further: “Your first task will be to show our dear, misguided Sister, Melana, the grave error of her ways. That will begin tomorrow; she will be allowed the night to consider and rue her misdeeds.

"This is Sister Judan: a trusted member of the Anointed Score,” the Prioress continued, indicating the ruddy-faced nun at her side. “She will be taking over your training from now on. There will be no more chants and responses; I think you know them well enough now. Instead, she will be enhancing and encouraging your spell-casting abilities, to bring you to the peak of your potential."

Drex felt the Geomantic power residing in the earth beneath the floor of Lizaveta's chamber, and she drew it into her like a breath of sweet morning air as rage rose within her.

Die, you shrivelled old hag! she screamed in her head, as she threw a bolt of magic at the ancient witch.

You showed me the way, so enjoy the trip to Hades, you whore!

Lizaveta's eyes sprung wide open, and the Prioress slumped back in the couch. For a brief moment, Drex felt a shock of success, revelling in the joy of the release of the strength she had pent up for so long.

Her inner fire was soon quenched, as she saw the old woman sit up, wearing a seraphic, almost atavistic smile.

"That was beautiful, my dear. Such gorgeous force; such lovely anger! But you have forgotten one thing I told you: your power does not belong to you anymore. It is mine, to use as I will.

"You have lost, dear girl. Never doubt it!"

Drex slumped, knowing at last that she was beaten. Despair washed through her like an all-conquering wave, and she tried to turn her own power back on herself.

"I am afraid I cannot let you do that, my dear,” Lizaveta said. “Not yet. So I deny you the gift for the nonce. You may not cast any more spells until I will it."

Drex dug deep into her fast-fading reserves of strength and found it slipping from her mental grasp like heavy, greasy tendrils of silk sliding through numb, unresponsive fingers. She despaired that she had been denied even the scant comfort of taking her own life.

"I see you are no stranger to physical pain, Drexelica. We women are strong, are we not? What man can ever understand the protracted agony of childbirth? Bodily pain is a useful tool, but a poor method of trying to control the darkest, inner recesses of a woman's mind. But there are many other ways to hurt a woman, are there not? However, I do not wish to harm you; you are far too useful to me. I am so glad you came here. Tomorrow, you will no longer be Drexelica, the common beggar girl, but a full Sister of the Order, willing and compliant."

"Roast in Hell, bitch,” the girl breathed, with the last vestiges of her defiance.

Lizaveta shook her head, in the manner of a regretful mother denying a wayward child's demand, and she rose to her feet. “I have made other arrangements, I'm afraid,” she said. “Come with me, Supplicant: I have something to show you."

Drex, denied sleep and food for many days, knew she was no match for the two women before her, and she stood up, all traces of defiance gone. Her legs felt weak, but she refused to allow them to tremble as Lizaveta led her out of the chamber.

The room led into the temple in which she had first appeared in Rendale, but it was now bare and featureless except for the gaudy throne. The gentle-looking nun, Judan, opened a door Drex knew well: the door to the grey, forbidding Lower Chapel.

"What do you think, Sister Drexelica? We have decorated the Chapel in honour of your accession. Note the tasteful, new appointments."

Drex looked into the depths of the room she had learned to hate so much. Apart from a ragged, red flag on the wall opposite the door, she saw little difference in the Chapel since her last, painful visit.

"It looks no different to me except for the flag,” she said, her voice contemptuous and dismissive, until a dry, hacking moan brought her to her senses. That was no fluttering flag; it was a wet, red, writhing simulacrum of a human body.

"You see, Sister? Sister Melana just insisted on being present at your conversion."

The ghastly vision burned into Drex's brain: the exposed, glistening muscles and tendons; the occasional pale gleam of bared bones; the pleading, agonised eyes, the pupils compressed to black dots at their centres ... Drex's mind refused to accept the ghastly reality of what she saw for a few moments, but her stomach recognised the true horror of the spectacle, voiding its meagre contents onto the flagstones in a sudden spasm.

She's still alive...

Long after the thin remnants of the thin gruel she had last eaten had been expelled, Drex retched in helpless agony, unable to take her eyes from the hanging figure.

"Now, that's no way to greet an old friend, is it, Sister?” Lizaveta said. “Still, I imagine you're tired now, and you need your sleep. Tomorrow, you'll have hours and hours in Melana's company, and I expect you to help to teach her well the errors of her ways. Sleep well, Sister..."

Drex tried to resist as the Prioress’ mental clamps fastened upon her, but her debilitated state precluded any last attempt at defiance.

As if in a dream, she heard herself say “I live to serve, Reverend Mother. I am yours."

Drexelica felt as if scenes from her life were rushing from her body: the drab orphan; the enslaved seamstress; the wretched beggar. All flew away from her like handkerchiefs torn away through the window of a speeding coach. The last memory she had was of the warm, cautious, almost timorous embrace of Grimm Afelnor. As the last memory flew away from her, Drexelica of Griven was dead to the world.

Blessed be the Order! Blessed be the Reverend Mother. I live only to serve...

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 11: Arrivals

Shakkar's flight muscles felt as if they were on fire, but he vowed to continue flying until he and his human passenger had reached their goal. To do otherwise would be to admit weakness, and Shakkar had no intention of doing so. The dangling mortal was not just a burden in terms of weight but also a considerable aerodynamic impediment. This forced the demon to flap his wings at all times rather than coasting on the wind, which was his favoured mode of flight. This unforeseen factor, allied to Shakkar's lack of flying practice since he had been Seneschal of Crar, took a grave toll on his stamina.

He felt himself beginning to drop lower and lower in the sky, and he gritted his teeth, beating his wings faster in an attempt to gain altitude.

"That must be Yoren!” Erik screamed.

Shakkar looked down. He saw the green-clad human hanging beneath him, a pair of joined black tubes pressed to his eyes, and he guessed that this was some kind of optical device.

"Where?” The demon's eyes were not as acute as those of some of his kin.

"Due west, Lord Seneschal. There's no other town in this vicinity on the map; it must be Yoren."

The Sergeant's tone was cheerful, almost euphoric; it seemed that he had overcome his fear of flight, and that he was actively relishing the experience.

I am glad someone is having an enjoyable time, the demon thought, fighting the increasing anguish in his back and shoulders. However, the knowledge that his destination was now in sight gave him renewed zeal and strength. Now, he could see a dull, grey blemish on the landscape to the west, for which he headed, ignoring the pain, dismissing it.

At last, the dowdy blur resolved itself into a recognisable conurbation, while Erik scanned the territory with his artificial eyes.

The Sergeant pointed towards a large hill. “I recommend we set down there, Lord Seneschal, It looks like a collection of burnt buildings; could be Lord Grimm's doing. I can see a few people milling around."

Shakkar's eyes might not have been particularly acute, but his nose was as sensitive as a bloodhound's.

"I think you are right, Sergeant. I smell combustion products; the fire must have been quite recent."

The demon wheeled in the air and almost lost his balance, as the gleefully hooting, swaying Erik threatened to destabilise him. However, after a few moments with cold, electric sensations approaching panic, Shakkar managed to adjust his attitude and fly towards the hill.

I cannot take much more of this, the demon thought, as the Sergeant continued to cavort in his grasp. We must set down; either that, or I let this foolish, impetuous mortal fall to his death.

The underworld being mused on this enticing possibility for a few moments, but he decided against it.

We have a mission to fulfil, and I have a duty to the humans of Crar; even one as irksome as this man.

"I think we should set down here, Sergeant."

"I understand, Lord Seneschal; you must be tired after all this effort,” the soldier replied, and Shakkar almost dropped him there and then.

"My decision was founded upon tactical considerations,” he said through gritted teeth.

"As you wish, Sir; this looks like a nice, flat spot,” the imperturbable, infuriating mortal replied.

Shakkar spread his wings to their full extent and angled them so that he dropped towards the ground at a reasonable pace.

Ten feet from the ground, the demon released his human cargo without warning, hoping that the Sergeant would sprawl in an undignified heap on the soil. Instead, the man landed on his feet, rolled on his side and stood up in one smooth, elegant motion, as Shakkar landed beside him.

Erik brushed dust, grass and twigs from his uniform as if nothing had happened. He appeared more concerned with his apparel and his equipment

You irritating little worm! the demon raged inside his head, but he forced himself to speak in a civil manner.

"I trust you are unhurt, Sergeant?"

"General Quelgrum insisted we practice jumping from small towers, and I never knew why. A friend told me the General got the idea from some ancient book, and I always thought it a stupid waste of time. Still, orders are orders, as they say. Still, that training came in handy there, though, didn't it?"

"If you say so, Sergeant,” the demon said. “Shall we proceed?"

"Of course, Lord Seneschal.” Erik hoisted his pack a little higher onto his shoulders, and he began to whistle as he marched up the path to the scorched buildings.

"Would you mind ceasing that infernal racket?” Shakkar asked; the piping, sibilant sequence of tones irked him. For all he knew, the man might have a glorious, perfect musical ear, but the world of melody was denied to him. Music was a peculiarly human phenomenon, and all Shakkar could discern was an arbitrary series of frequencies. This, along with the human's attitude, managed to grate on the Seneschal's nerves.

Erik stopped in his traces, and looked the demon straight in the eye.

"It's all right, Lord Seneschal: I understand. You were tired, and you needed to rest a while. That's no problem with me."

"I was not tired, Sergeant! I made a tactical decision. Is that understood?"

Erik nodded, but the demon believed he caught the ghost of a smile on the soldier's face.

Before he could speak, the Sergeant barked, “Understood, Lord Seneschal; a tactical decision. Yes, Sir!"

The human's hand flipped to his right temple in what Shakkar recognised as a respectful, military gesture.

"As long as that is understood, Sergeant,” the demon said, “we may continue."

"It's understood, Sir."

Erik unslung his black firearm and inspected the open, tube-like end of the weapon. Apparently satisfied, he flicked a small lever and pulled back on a small handle, to the accompaniment of a loud clacking sound. He then slung the item back over his shoulder, before opening and inspecting the contents of several small pouches arrayed around his waist

"What are you doing, Sergeant?"

"I'm just getting ready in case there's any trouble, Lord Seneschal. You can't be too careful; this place has a rough reputation."

Shakkar snorted. “I believe myself more than equal to any human threat we might face,” he said, showing the sabre-like claws on his right hand. “These should be more effective than any Technological toy."

"I just thought you might want to take it easy for a little while after all your effort—"

"I am not fatigued! Is that quite understood, Sergeant Erik?"

"Understood, Sir! The Seneschal is not tired, Sir!"

Shakkar's keen ears heard a sotto voce addendum to this response: “Why, you're just as human as the rest of us, aren't you, demon?"

Despite the hot blood he could feel rushing into his face, the Seneschal pretended that he had not heard.

I refuse to lower myself by engaging in idle chitchat with this earthly moron. Erik is just convinced that I must be afflicted with the same mortal weaknesses of the others of his kind and I cannot blame him for that. Faced with an evidently superior being, he is projecting his human insecurities onto me. I shall be merciful and let his impudence pass for now.

The demon and the soldier passed a small, deserted kiosk by the side of the road, as they approached the blackened skeleton of a large building.

"A checkpoint, Lord Seneschal,” Erik said. “See the firing steps and gun-slits—no good for bows. They must have had weapons like mine, but something hit them hard. Something they couldn't handle: must have been Lord Grimm and his companions."

"Thank you for your invaluable advice, Sergeant,” the demon growled, allowing a dull, sarcastic tone to creep into his voice. “I am glad you are here to make these insightful observations. Kindly restrict your opinions to the matter in hand."

"Yes, Sir! The matter in hand; I understand, Sir!"

Shakkar noted the soldier's stiff, inexpressive face, and he guessed that the impudent mortal was hiding amusement. This enraged him all the more, and he felt his tail flicking back and forth in autonomous agitation.

At last, it seemed that Erik could hold in his mirth no longer, and a brief snort escaped his nose.

Shakkar rose to his full height and bared his steak-knife fangs, his wings spread like a flamboyant cape, but he realised with a sudden shock just how unreasonable—how human—was his anger.

Erik's face paled, but he held his ground. “I'm sorry, Lord Seneschal,” he said in a serious tone. “I apologise for my unforgivable impertinence. I had no cause to mock you, and I regret my rash, disrespectful attitude. I should know better by now than to sound off at my seniors."

The man's heels clicked together, and he stiffened into a pose of attention, his right hand flicking into position at his temple. All traces of impudence had disappeared, and the soldier appeared to have resigned himself to whatever fate held in store for him.

Well done, Shakkar, the demon thought. You have browbeaten a mere mortal into submission with a show of force. What will you do now—rend him limb from limb for his effrontery or acknowledge that your actions and attitudes have been unreasonable? Which takes the greater courage?

As the mortal retained his perfect, parade-ground stance, Shakkar sighed.

"Very well, Sergeant,” he said, with some effort. “I will overlook your behaviour on this occasion. I acknowledge some small faults of my own: I was not quite truthful when I told you I was not fatigued after our long journey; and my temper has not been all that it might have been, in my eagerness to requite our mission. You have tendered me an apology, so I, as a demon, can do no less. I am sorry, Sergeant."

"That's very good of you, Lord Seneschal, but as an experienced soldier, I should have known better—my fault was the greater one, Sir."

For the first time in his life, Shakkar found himself extending his hand toward a human without showing his claws. The mortal took it, grasping the ends of the demon's fingers.

"Well met, Lord Seneschal. It takes a big man to admit—I'm sorry, Sir, I mean..."

The man's face was a wide-eyed mask of confusion.

Shakkar began to wonder if being classed as human was quite the insult he had thought.

These puny beings, so ill-equipped to face the unforgiving world without the aid of contrivances and tools, must live in constant terror of a greater force. And yet, they still throve and flourished, often masking fear and misgiving with mockery and humour. Just like Shakkar denying his weakness, this mortal was hiding his fear, prepared to die rather than submit to his baser emotions.

Questor Grimm did the same thing when I confronted him. I could have killed him in an instant, but he bowed his head before me, refusing to betray his honour. Perhaps these strange creatures are not as weak as I thought.

"I do not object to the label, Sergeant,” the demon grunted. “Inaccurate as it was, I take it in the spirit in which it was bestowed. Let us continue."

"Yes, Sir!” The human offered another formal salute. However, this was no mechanical response; Shakkar saw genuine respect, and even warmth, in his gesture.

"I will add one corollary, Sergeant.” Shakkar raised an admonitory finger. “What has passed between us will go no further—is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir!"

I imagine that we both know each other a little better now, the netherworld creature mused. But if Erik ever tells another mortal soul of this, I will—

"Why, you're just as human as the rest of us, aren't you, demon?” The Sergeant's muttered words rose anew in Shakkar's head, and the demon suppressed a wry grin. There had been more truth in this verdict than he had been willing to acknowledge.

* * * *

As the wagon rolled into the centre of Brianston, Grimm saw people beginning to line the street, cheering and clapping.

"This is more like it, eh, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum said over the clamour. “It's nice to be appreciated for a change!"

Grimm scanned the massed auras, but he could find no traces of emotion other than joy, happiness and a deep, unreserved love: the attentive audience's reaction appeared to be genuine and unforced. He remembered the ensorcelled people of Crar, puppets in the power of Starmor, carrying out stereotypical roles with enforced enthusiasm—this looked utterly different.

"Indeed, they really seem to love us, General! But it does make me wonder just why. I think we should carry on."

"Agreed, Lord Grimm; it does seem strange. Still, at least they're not attacking us."

"I can't feel any magic, either,” the Questor replied. “Whatever this is about, the happiness seems to be real. It does worry me, though."

"Perhaps we should just take it as it comes, Lord Baron.” The General gave an airy gesture of his right hand. “Maybe they just love us, after all. Should we knock it?"

The massed crowds now began to swarm all around the wagon, patting it like a favourite pet. Some people even kissed it.

Grimm heard a soft, rhythmic susurration in the throng, rising in volume and resolving into words:

“Welcome, strangers ... welcome, strangers."

Fevered fingers began to pluck at the fabric covering of the wagon, and the General turned to Grimm.

His wide smile had now gone.

"Lord Baron, I suggest we get out of here as quickly as possible; this is getting a bit extreme."

"I agree, General. I don't think these people are possessed, but they're beginning to scare me."

He flicked the reins, but the sheer mass of human bodies was too much for the horses to resist. They whinnied and strained, their eyes wide and terrified, but they made no headway against the enormous crowd.

As hands danced around him, trying to catch his uniform, the General stood up and shouted at the crowd.

"We appreciate your kind reception, good people, but I'd ask you to move aside. The horses are getting nervous, and I don't want anyone to be hurt. Move on, now! The show's over!"

A ripple of rapturous applause arose from the increasing horde, but the General's words seemed to have had no other effect.

The horses tramped and neighed, and one of them lashed out with a fore-hoof, catching a daring Brianstonian on the temple and sending him flying. This did not appear to dampen the enthusiasm of the unfortunate man's fellows in the least. The coach began to rock from side to side, and the General unshouldered his weapon and unleashed a stuttering burst of fire over the heads of the crowd.

"That's your last warning, people! If you don't disperse now, I'll have to open fire on you. I have no wish to do that, but—"

Grimm felt the cart beginning to overbalance as the crowd encroached on it. The horses snorted and stamped, with bared teeth and wide eyes, but this seemed not to deter the rapturous mob in the least.

"Everybody out!” he yelled. “We've got a fight on our hands!"

He raised Redeemer and leapt into the crowd as the wagon fell onto its side with a tumultuous smash.

Lashing out with the magically-hard staff, he felled the Brianstonians in heaps, but there always seemed to be more of them happy to fill the breaches, clambering over their fallen companions in their eagerness to reach the adventurers.

From the corner, he saw the titanic albino swordsman, Tordun, brought down into a milling mass of citizens. He could see no sign of the half-elf, Crest, or the blademaster, Harvel, and assumed they were already lost. He tried to calm himself so he could cast his potent, Questor magic, but the sheer manic turbulence of the crowd prevented him from being able to marshal his senses.

Focus, Grimm! he told himself, trying to fight the cold, disabling tendrils of fear that threatened to overwhelm him. As if in a dream, he felt himself being hoisted onto the shoulders of maybe a dozen Brianstonians, before an impartial blow to his skull deprived him of awareness.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 12: Information

"Come in."

Dalquist opened the door to Kargan's chamber to find the bespectacled Magemaster lounging in a comfortable chair, puffing on an ornate pipe. The room was decorated in a bizarre mixture of styles, ancient and modern, whose only common theme seemed to be a riot of colours. Scarlet, satin draperies clashed with pastel shades of green and yellow, and a grey carpet. Golden and blue strips of silk hung from the ceiling like a suspended forest. Dalquist knew he would never be able to relax in such a profusion of conflicting hues, but Kargan seemed almost serene.

Dalquist noted a sweet, cloying scent in the air. Perhaps the contents of the Magemaster's pipe have more to do with it than artistic taste, he mused.

"What's the matter, Questor Dalquist? You look as if you'd lost a gold sovereign and found a penny.”

The Magemaster's tone was soft and placid, quite unlike his normal, frenetic classroom bark.

How do I start here? Dalquist wondered. ‘Magemaster Kargan, either I'm under some strange spell or I've lost my mind'?

Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I'm not quite feeling my usual self, Magemaster Kargan."

Kargan put down his strange, convoluted pipe and pushed his blue-lensed spectacles back up the slope of his nose. “Why do you need to see me about that, Questor Dalquist? I'm sure Healer Firian would be more than happy to knock you up some foul mixture or other to sort you out. We're all out of sorts at times, and Firian's always happy to help."

"Magemaster Kargan: you're a Mentalist, aren't you?"

"Was a Mentalist,” Kargan corrected, his expression puzzled. “I haven't had cause to cast many spells of that type for several years now. Why do you ask?"

Dalquist steeled himself to tell the older man the difficult truth. It's now or never, I suppose.

"I don't think my problem's physical, Magemaster Kargan. I think I may be under some sort of spell. I just ... found myself acting in a very strange manner, and I don't feel right at all. It feels like I'm ensorcelled, or something."

Kargan snorted. “I'm not surprised: a young Questor like you, cooped up in the Scholasticate when you should be out hunting dragons, or whatever it is you do. Never fear: Firian will sort you out some sort of tonic. I'll bet that's all you need."

"I doubt it's that simple, Magemaster Kargan, I'm pretty sure it's some sort of spell. I doubt Healer Firian would spot that. A Mentalist of your calibre just might. I have a blank spot in my memory concerning a certain person, not a member of our Guild. I ... leapt to that person's defence without thinking about it, despite the fact that I know almost nothing about her."

"Her? I think you've answered your own question there, Questor,” Kargan replied, guffawing. “We all know what happens to mages who play around with the fair sex!"

"It's not that at all, Magemaster!” Dalquist felt almost beside himself. “I only met her once, and I wasn't remotely attracted to her. I'd hardly paid her a moment's heed, before I was ... challenged about her, a few minutes ago. Please, just tell me if you can tell if I'm under some spell."

The young mage realised his tone was desperate and pleading, hardly what was expected from a Guild Questor, but he no longer cared.

"I'm not insane, Magemaster,” he said, “but I am deeply worried. Will you help me?"

Kargan rubbed his chin and shrugged.

"The spell I have in mind is pretty potent,” he said. “It may reveal far more about you than you would wish to be known. It's ten times more revealing than the clearest Mage Sight."

"No matter, Mentalist. It's a risk I'm willing to take."

"All right, Questor. I'm not quite sure how this will pan out, or what it could prove, but I'd like you to lie down on that couch. I haven't done this for a long time, so bear with me. Just relax, please."

Dalquist reclined on the couch and tried to clear his thoughts. It was not easy, but he managed to find a plateau of moderate internal peace.

Kargan began to chant in a low voice, his arms outstretched, his eyes closed and his forehead lined.

"Ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra ... ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra...” Beads of sweat began to trickle down the Magemaster's face, but the chant remained even and crystal-clear, perfect in cadence and tone.

Kargan grimaced between runic syllables, but he maintained the incantation's perfection with admirable control.

"Ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra ... ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra..."

Dalquist felt something twist in his mind, and he gasped. In a heartbeat, the chant stopped. Kargan slumped, ashen-faced, in his chair.

"Well, Mentalist Kargan? Did you find anything?"

"Not a whit,” the Magemaster replied, breathing heavily. “Your mind's locked up as tight as a drum. If I'm to find anything in there, you've got to open up to me."

"It must be my Questor training,” Dalquist said. “I'm not trying to fight you, I swear."

"I don't think it's that, Questor Dalquist. Someone, or something, has put some sort of lock on your mind.

But you're right: you do have some kind of magic acting on you. Your aura looks fine to me, so this must be deep in the subliminal level."

Suspicion flared in the young mage's mind. Was this lock of Lord Thorn's doing?

After all, he did put a Compulsion on Grimm, he thought. Has he done the same with me?

Dalquist looked Kargan straight in the eye. “Is it some kind of Compulsion, Magemaster Kargan?"

Kargan shook his head and winced. “I'm badly out of practice,” he admitted. “This has really taken it out of me, I can tell you.” He wiped his brow with a plain white handkerchief from a pocket deep in his green satin robes.

"To answer your question, Questor Dalquist: it's no mage spell I recognise."

"Can you dig any deeper?” Dalquist asked, frowning.

"Not tonight, Questor. I need to build up my strength and consult some of my workbooks and librams.

Don't worry; I haven't given up yet. I've still got plenty more tricks up my sleeve—they don't give you seven rings as a Mentalist for nothing. We'll get to the bottom of this sooner or later, Questor Dalquist.

Tomorrow morning, I'll tell Senior Magemaster Crohn you're sick, and we'll start early; say seven o'clock."

Dalquist nodded. “I'll be here, Brother Mage, rest assured of that."

* * * *

"Well, Lord Seneschal, it doesn't look as if we're likely to find anyone lurking around here,” Erik said, kicking a blackened fragment of stone. “This place is a total shambles."

"When you were looking through your optical tube device, you said you saw several people, Sergeant,”

Shakkar replied, frowning.

"I guess they were looters trying to find stuff in the ruins, Sir. There doesn't seem to be anywhere for them to hide. Perhaps they ran off when they saw us coming."

Shakkar could not argue with this; the spindly, scorched skeleton of the large building could not have hidden anything much larger than a starving rat.

"What about over there?” The demon pointed to a strange, domed structure to the right of the ruins, at the bottom of a slight declivity. The hemispherical roof of the circular building looked like an egg with its top smashed in, but the edifice appeared otherwise intact. He realised that the soldier, almost three feet shorter than he, might not be able to see the shattered rotunda. “It is just down the hill, to the right. I will lead the way."

The grey giant and the green-uniformed Sergeant made their way down the slope, past some wilted, blackened bushes.

"Looks like it could be more magic,” Erik said, as the building hove into full view. “That dome looks as if it burst from the inside."

The soldier picked up a fallen, hand-written placard. “One Night Only: Tordun, the White Titan,” he read. “So they were here.” He laughed. “One night only: looks as if they were right about that!"

Shakkar nodded. “It seems as if the performance brought the house down."

Erik stared at the demon, his eyes wide and his brows raised. “Was that a joke, Lord Seneschal? I'm surprised!"

Shakkar shrugged. “It is a human phrase I have heard, which seemed to fit the occasion. I understand that such a phrase with two meanings is, on occasion, held by those of your species to be amusing. Did you find it humorous?"

"Well, you're going to have to work on the delivery and timing a little, Sir, but I'm still impressed. I didn't know demons had a sense of humour."

"We do not as a rule, Sergeant. However, since I have been forced to live among your kind, I have found it expedient to adopt your customs from time to time...

"Hold on, Sergeant: I hear movement inside the structure."

Slanting his metal weapon across his chest, Erik darted to the left of the wide entrance, motioning Shakkar to the right. For once, the demon decided to defer to the soldier's experience and authority.

"Attention in there!” Erik shouted. “We mean you no harm; we just want to ask a few questions..."

He was interrupted by a stuttering explosion of noise.

"I'm no linguist, but that's a language I understand.” Erik pulled a strange glass-eyed mask over his face.

He took a cylindrical, fist-sized article from his belt and grasped a ring at its top.

The demon thought he recognised the object: a weapon the humans called a ‘grenade', designed to fill a small area with tiny, sharp shards of metal. He knew such a weapon could tear soft human flesh to rags.

The demon raised a warning hand. “Hold, Sergeant: we want them alive!"

"It's all right, Lord Seneschal. Just trust me: I do know what I'm doing.” Erik's voice was distorted by his strange mask, but intelligible.

The soldier pulled the ring from the object, allowing a metal arm to spring from its side, nodded three times and tossed the green cylinder into the building. A loud explosion sounded from within the rotunda, and Shakkar shielded his eyes from a blazing flash of light.

In quick succession, the Sergeant tossed two more of the explosive items into the opening, and a thick smoke began to issue from the doorway and the hole in the dome.

In a few moments, three green-clad men staggered out, accompanied by a man in a strange suit of clothes. All were coughing, gasping and retching and their legs seemed barely able to support them. Their faces were wet with tears, and they collapsed onto the grass.

The Sergeant soon deprived the incapacitated men of their weapons and secured their hands behind their backs with thin white strips of some unknown material. He leapt into the opening, firing his weapon in short bursts, but Shakkar heard no answering fire.

In a few moments, the soldier emerged, whipped off his mask and saluted. “The area is pacified, Sir!

There doesn't seem to be anyone else in residence."

Shakkar felt impressed: the Sergeant's action had been swift and decisive. He began to realise that the human's occasional juvenile inanity might be a nervous reaction, born of inactivity.

"Well done, Sergeant!"

"It's my job, Sir. Everything else is just training and waiting. I live for this kind of action. If you don't mind, I'd like to deal with these fellows in my own way."

Shakkar shrugged. “You do seem to know what you are doing, Sergeant. Please carry on."

Erik turned to a uniformed man, and attracted his attention with a none-too-gentle boot to the ribs.

"That wasn't too friendly,” he said. “Stupid, too. All we wanted to do was to ask about some friends of ours, but you had to up the ante, didn't you? That was really amateurish, opening fire like that."

The sentry gasped and grimaced as the leather boot struck home. “We never meant you no harm, sodjer-boy; we fought you was the wizard an’ his frien's, come back to finish us off. Mister Chudel, ‘ere,

‘e's the man in charge.” He indicated the prone figure in black with a resentful nod.

"Thanks,” Erik said.

As far as Shakkar could tell, the human seemed to be enjoying himself and obtaining useful results, so he remained silent. The soldier turned to the rotund, red-faced man.

"You: Chudel!"

The round man groaned and turned his head. “What do you ... what the hell's that!” The pained expression was washed away by one of pure terror, as Chudel's gaze fell upon the towering form of Shakkar.

"This is Lord Seneschal Shakkar,” Erik said. “He's not quite as forgiving or friendly as me, so I suggest you don't do or say anything to annoy him. He doesn't like humans all that much."

Shakkar rewarded the corpulent mortal with a generous display of fangs, and all colour fled from Chudel's face.

"What do you want?” the black-clad man babbled. “I'll tell you whatever you want to hear. Just don't set your monster on me!"

Erik ground the open end of his weapon into Chudel's fleshy gut, provoking an anguished squeal. “That's

‘Lord Shakkar’ to you, worm,” he said. “Now, why don't we start with what happened here?"

"It was a party we had staying here: three mages and four warriors. The young mage did most of this.

Most of the others ran off when he burnt down the Mansion House, but I had nowhere else to go."

Chudel groaned. “I'm getting a cramp. Can't I at least sit up?"

"I don't think so,” Erik said. “I don't want you getting too comfortable just yet. Don't worry; if you're nice and co-operative and tell us just what we want to know, we'll be on our way in a few minutes. Of course, if I have to use any extra persuasion, it'll last a little longer. I'm sure you wouldn't want that."

"What more do you want?” the bound man asked. “One of the warriors was a renowned fist-fighter called Tordun. I didn't recognise the others."

"We know who they are, fat man; we don't need to know anything else about them. We just need to know where they went when they left."

"I don't know,” Chudel said, his voice wheedling and pleading. “You've got to believe me!"

Erik shot a glance at Shakkar, his eyebrows raised in question. The demon shook his head; he could see and interpret human auras, and he knew the mortal was lying.

The Sergeant nodded in reply, as if a suspicion had been confirmed.

"I thought not,” he muttered. In a louder voice, he said, “That wasn't the most convincing lie I've ever heard. Which bone do you want broken first, fat boy?

"No preference? Very well, I think we'll start with your fingers, then move to the toes, then the kneecaps

... I'll leave your balls ‘til last, I think."

Erik removed the long blade from the end of his metal weapon. “Or I could take ‘em off right now, if you prefer. Get it over with, as it were."

Chudel's eyes bulged, his face suffused with terror. “I can't tell you what I don't know, man!"

Erik sighed and took a firm, even brutal hold of the man's pudgy right hand. “I think we'll try the right index finger first. By all means, scream if you want to."

The soldier grabbed the digit and began to bend it backwards.

"Ready to talk yet, Mister Chudel?"

"I can't!” Chudel yelled, his cherry-red face streaming with sweat. “I swear I can't!"

"Sorry, Chudel. Here goes the finger..."

"Rendale Priory! They went to Rendale Priory!” the fat man screamed as Erik bent the finger almost at right angles to the plane of the back of his hand. “It's about eighty miles south of here! It's the truth, I swear!"

Erik snorted. He released the finger and took out a glittering knife with a broad blade. “Perhaps we'll start on your balls after all, big man.” He began to cut the buttons from Chudel's trousers with the large blade. “Your voice is pretty high as it is, so I reckon you'd make a sensational soprano."

"It's Rendale! I swear on my life—I swear on my mother's life..."

"He's tellin’ the truth, mate,” one of the prostrate guards said. “That old bitch Prioress is there. Thass where they went, orright? I don't have much time fer the old sod, but ‘e does pay me wages. Go about forty miles due south to Brianston, then it's south-east to Anjar, then south-west to Rendale. Not sure of the distances, though."

Erik paused for a moment, his knife poised over Chudel's privities, but he sheathed the weapon and stood.

"I reckon you're a soprano already, Chudel,” he said. “If your voice goes any higher, only the dogs'll hear you, and I don't see why they should have to suffer alone.

"Shall we leave, Lord Seneschal? There's plenty of daylight left, and it's nice flying weather."

Shakkar grimaced. His back muscles, so long unaccustomed to flight, blazed as if red-hot wires were piercing them. However, he was not about to admit as much in front of these wretched prisoners.

"Very well, Sergeant,” the demon said."Let us depart. We can walk down to the gates; I will take my bearings from there."

"Wait a minute!” one of the trussed guards yelled as the demon and the soldier walked away. “Aren't you goin’ ter let us go first?"

"I'll let you work that out for yourselves, friends,” Erik called over his left shoulder. “Consider it a challenge."

The protests of the prone men faded as Shakkar and Erik neared the gateway.

"Sergeant Erik,” Shakkar said, feeling hot and embarrassed. “I am afraid I do not feel in any condition to fly again today. We will start again tomorrow. For now, we walk."

"That's all right, Lord Seneschal. I know the drill: bums and backpacks.” The soldier adjusted his webbing and assumed a steady, mile-eating gait. “Let me know when you want to stop."

Several minutes of silence ensued as the pair marched together, but Shakkar felt the need to ask a question. He felt no especial brief for the odious Chudel, but he found the concept of torture, even the torture of a mere human, distasteful.

"Sergeant?"

"Yes, Lord Seneschal?"

"You would not truly have emasculated that man, would you?"

"Let's just say I called his bluff, Lord Shakkar. If he'd held out, I don't know if I'd have done it or not.

I'm just glad he didn't push me far enough to find out."

Shakkar nodded, wordless. Although he would never have admitted as much, he also felt glad that the soldier had not needed to carry out his threat.

As the afternoon wore on, the Sergeant's pace was easy for the demon to match, but Shakkar felt an unaccustomed torpor seeping into his bones. He had not slept for many years, but he thought he might well do so tonight.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 13: ‘Just A Dream'

I've got to stop waking up like this, Grimm thought, as his consciousness bloomed into the bright awareness of a sharp pain in his head.

He opened his eyes and found himself hanging from chains on a rough-cast wall. The metal manacles holding his hands and feet were thick and heavy, but he was surprised to see they were lined with soft, yielding leather. The purpose of the strange, gleaming gauntlets on his hands was beyond him.

On the wall opposite him, the young mage saw a strange red crest, resembling the face of some bizarre type of reptile or lizard. The carving was rendered in exquisite detail; so much so, that it almost seemed alive. Large amber eyes with pupils like vertical slits appeared to be watching him. For a moment, he could swear that he saw the carved eyes blink, but he dismissed the idea at once.

That bang on the head must have affected me more than I thought...

Grimm shook his head and felt an unaccustomed weight. He guessed he was wearing some sort of helmet, but it, too, seemed well-padded. If this was incarceration, it seemed odd that his captors should go to so much trouble to keep him comfortable.

The room was small, and the only occupant, except for Grimm, was an old man, asleep in the embrace of a rocking-chair. The only window was barred, showing views of the impossibly beautiful city beyond.

The walls were made of large stone blocks, whose joints were all but invisible in their closeness. The single door looked to be constructed of solid oak. Impregnable as his bonds would have seemed to a mere Secular, he was not unduly worried.

Once I've summoned Redeemer, I can probably lever these chains from the wall, and it doesn't look as if the old man here will be able to put up much resistance.

"Redeemer, come here,” he muttered.

Nothing happened, and Grimm felt a frisson of panic. Had the knock on his head deprived him of his powers? No; that could not be: no simple blow could deprive a Guild Mage of his innate abilities.

Perhaps the simple summoning required a certain level of volume.

"Redeemer, come to me!"

Still the staff failed to appear, and the old man opened his eyes at the Questor's shout.

"Ah, beloved, welcome to Brianston,” the man said, his face crinkling into a friendly smile. “We are so glad you are here. I am Murar, and I am the fortunate one chosen to be your attendant."

Grimm yanked and rattled his heavy chains, but they seemed fixed fast to the wall.

"Please be careful, Blessed One. I would not wish you to be harmed."

"What's going on here? How dare you abduct a Guild Questor of the Seventh Rank? Let me go, or, I warn you, I will be forced to use magic on you!"

"You cannot, Blessed One,” the old man said with a blissful smile. “You are bound with pure iron, a metal immune to all sorcery. Please accept your destiny with the dignity befitting your noble status."

"Aghshaa!” the mage screamed, trying to invoke a spell of Dissolution on his fetters. Nothing happened, and Grimm's heart began to pound in his chest. He attempted three more spells, to no greater effect.

"I told you, Lord Mage, you have no magic here. You are to be a Saviour of our city, and for that we thank you."

Grimm struggled to bring his rampant emotions under his control. “If I'm so blessed, why am I chained in this way?” he demanded. “Why don't you just let me go?"

"Because otherwise you might try to escape,” the white-haired man said, as if it were the most reasonable explanation in the world. Humming softly to himself, Murar began to rock back and forth in his chair.

Is this some kind of madman? Grimm wondered. He seems sane enough, but he's talking arrant nonsense. I can see he idolises me for some strange reason, but the whole situation is crazy!

"Look, Murar,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I can see there's some sort of misunderstanding here—"

Murar beamed as he continued to work his creaking chair. “There is no misunderstanding, Lord Mage, except on your part. We do not love you, as a person, but what you represent to us. You are life and happiness, continuance and joy. We are but the insubstantial dreams of Uncle Gruon, but your presence offers us continued existence. Thanks to you, Uncle Gruon will continue to dream. This is good.

"The city in its present form has lasted for fifty years. With your help, it will live at least another decade.

You alone will satisfy our beloved, sleeping Uncle for at least fourteen months. Your friend with the strange ears will last maybe ten months, but the large, pale warrior should satisfy Uncle for far longer."

"What is all this nonsense about uncles, sleep and dreams, Murar? You are as real as I! Let me go, and I will show you!"

Murar stopped rocking and looked the mage directly in the eye. He sighed, and addressed Grimm as if he were instructing a small child. “You can show me nothing, mage. I know all. I and my brethren exist only through the dreams of our beloved Uncle Gruon."

Grimm invoked his Mage Sight: the old man appeared to possess a human aura and appropriate mass.

What he was saying made no sense at all.

He must be mad. My only hope seems to be that I can try to talk him into some sort of sanity. Perhaps I'd better start by humouring him.

"All right,” he said. “If you're a dream, then what am I?"

Murar blinked. “Why, you're alive, Blessed One. You're real. Don't you know that?"

"Of course I do! I just—"

"Then why did you ask?” The old man returned to his humming and rocking.

Grimm shifted his position, easing the stress on his shoulders and knees.

I've got to find some way to get through to this crazy man, he thought. But where do I start?

"Look,” he said. “Of course I know I'm alive! I just don't understand what you're saying. I can see you and hear you. How can I see someone else's dream? You must admit that is a strange phenomenon."

"I didn't say it wasn't.” The old man did not seem perturbed in the least. “But it's true. Our adored Uncle lies beneath the city. While he sleeps and dreams, we live. Should he wake, we will die. It is as simple as that. You will ensure that he continues to sleep for many, many years."

The old man resumed his nodding, his eyes closed, and Grimm began to fight waves of sheer panic.

Deprived of magic and trussed up at the whim of a town of mad people, he felt more helpless than he ever had.

Let's suppose they're not insane, he thought, trying to force himself into a rational frame of mind. I believed the people of Crar were crazy, at first, but they were just under Starmor's spell. Perhaps some underworld entity makes them believe these bizarre fantasies.

"Thribble,” he muttered. “Are you there?” He felt immense relief as the grey, stubble-haired head emerged from his right pocket.

"I have heard all, human,” the demon declared.

"Could this be some demon spell?"

"None of which I am aware, Lord Grimm,” the minuscule creature squeaked.

"Is it possible that some class of demon of which you are unaware could ... dream reality, Thribble?"

"Most improbable, Lord Grimm; I am widely travelled within the demonlands, and I have never heard of such a bizarre manifestation."

So we're in a town of lunatics after all. There's got to be some way out of this. If I can—what?

The once-red reptilian carving was now a bright lime-green.

That thing was scarlet a moment ago!

Murar opened his eyes and cooed in apparent pleasure. “What a delightful little creature!” he cried.

“Welcome, monster!"

"Monster!” Thribble shrilled in an outraged tone. “I'll have you know—"

The old man, with surprising alacrity, snatched the demon by his head and inspected him.

"Your dreams do you credit with their clarity and solidity, Blessed One. Even while awake, you maintain the illusion!"

"I am not a dream, mortal. Unhand me at once!"

"It speaks, too!"

Thribble opened his mouth to its full extent and sank his tiny, needle-like teeth into Murar's thumb.

"Ouch!"

Murar dropped the demon, which scurried to the door and disappeared.

The aged watchman sucked his wounded digit and smiled. “You are an hallucinatory genius, Blessed One, and I congratulate you! It will be a pity to lose you."

"What do you mean, Murar?"

"This is how we keep Uncle Gruon asleep, by feeding him the blood of what we call Realsters, or Blessed Ones. Uncle likes human blood. When he has had enough, he sleeps, and we live.

"Blood is extracted from the Blessed One's body and siphoned into Uncle's gullet, until the Sacrifice can spare no more. I can assure you that, when you die, your body will be treated with the greatest respect, and you will be accorded the most solemn of funeral rites!"

Grimm clamped down on his warring emotions. “See here, Murar. You must be aware of the logical fallacies in your suppositions."

"Not really,” the old man said, inspecting his nails. “What are they?"

"Well ... how long have you lived, Murar? That is, how far do your memories go back?"

Murar cocked his head on one side. “Two, maybe three hundred years, I suppose."

"There you are! You said the city was created by Uncle Gruon around fifty years ago, yet you claim to remember long before your supposed creation. How can that be?"

The rocking man smiled. “I am not in my dotage, sacrifice, no matter what you may think. I said that the city was created by Uncle fifty years ago in its present form. Uncle Gruon has had many dreams over the last millennium, until we discovered the means of keeping him asleep and dreaming."

"But if, as you claim, Brianston's citizens die on Gruon's waking, how can you be aware of these earlier incarnations of the city?"

Murar snorted. “You are mortal. Have you never had the same dream on several occasions? I am the product of one of Uncle's recurrent reveries; those of my kind are called Revenants. I have been reincarnated on over seventy occasions, and I am the senior Revenant of the city,” he said, with an evangelistic gleam in his eye.

Grimm saw how the internal logic in the man's delusions could make dissuasion difficult. Nonetheless, it was important to show him the errors in his thinking. “All right,” he said, suppressing his fear. “Why has it taken you so long to come up with this plan, if you have returned so often?

"It took many returns to construct Uncle's crypt, and he demolished many of our previous attempts. On his last awakening, he brought down a large pile of our masonry on his head and rendered himself unconscious. This gave us the time to complete the present structure around him, and we came upon a party of travellers. Most of them went to feed Uncle and keep him satiated and somnolent, but two males and two females were kept as breeding stock. Their offspring, and those of other Blessed Ones have maintained the current dream for most of that time, but we have been careful not to be too greedy. Your arrival is a veritable cornucopia!"

In frustration, Grimm rattled his heavy chains, but they were as perdurable as ever.

"You cannot shake such iron fetters free from a solid stone wall, Blessed One,” Murar said, wagging his finger as if chiding a small child. “Spare yourself the futile effort. Much of the city is a product of Uncle's dreaming, but our guest chambers are real enough."

Be calm, Grimm admonished himself. There must be some way to shake this madman's delusions!

"How did you discover that blood makes Gruon sleep?” he demanded. “Surely he eats during his waking periods, when you are not around?"

"We are not idiots, Blessed One. On many occasions, we have found the desiccated corpses of animals around Uncle's sleeping form. Lady Elamma, who acts as midwife to the brood stock, is a frequent Revenant like me. It was she who first noted that Uncle slept longer—much longer—after dining on human blood. Another Revenant, Lord Korak, was born as a stonemason, and he supervised the building of the Sleep Chamber over the space of many generations. Other Revenants retained their earthly skills and memories through numerous regenerations, and each played his or her part in our plan.

Since then, scores of Realsters have passed through here, adding to the Blessed Dream Time."

Grimm cudgelled his brains for further ideas.

Lizaveta's party must have come through here! he realised. Why didn't they take her?

He asked Murar as much.

The Revenant laughed. “Dream-stuff we may be, but we smell magic as easily as you can smell the scent of a rotting pig. We could all tell that the old lady who passed through here used a different sort of magic to you, drawing power from the earth. Our iron fetters are not proof against such energies, so we let the party go. In any case, to ensnare too many sacrifices would arouse wide suspicion; most Realsters are allowed to pass through here without molestation. Your party will suffice for many more years."

Grimm stared into space, trying hard to shake the old man's insane confidence in his crazed beliefs. As he gazed through the barred window, he saw a mighty, golden turret disappear in the wink of an eye, to be replaced with an evanescent, silver, onion-shaped structure. This shimmered and warped for a few moments, until it coalesced into solid form.

The mage's jaw dropped. Worse than the prospect of a town of madmen was the possibility that the old man's crazy beliefs might be true. Worse still was the chance that this madness might be infectious.

"Ah, Uncle grows restless; the Dream begins to waver,” Murar declared, still facing away from the window. “A sacrifice will be in order very shortly. If you would not mind waiting for a few moments, I must help to arrange the first ceremony at once. Do not worry; your turn will not come for many years yet. We need to put a little more meat onto your bones, so that Uncle may enjoy his meal to the full. Fear not: we shall not waste your lives in a capricious manner. Each of you shall nourish Gruon many times before he dies."

As the old man moved to the door, Grimm all but surrendered to the insidious, cold fingers of terror.

“Wait!” he cried, “I won't thrive chained up like this! I need to eat, sleep and carry out my bodily functions if I'm to flourish!"

Murar turned back from the door. “Naturally, I understand that, Blessed One: I am no dotard. We would not be such poor hosts as to leave you fettered in this way. We are preparing a place in a comfortable compound for you. You will be well fed, and you may ask for anything you require—within reason, of course."

The old man winked. “Of course, the compound must be well-constructed, to withstand your mighty sorcery. However, over the years, we have learned well how to deal with man-magic. Excuse me: I have a job to do."

With a friendly wave, Murar left.

As the door shut, Grimm felt more alone and helpless than he had ever felt in his life. The silver onion shivered and disappeared. In its place stood a stone arch that reminded the mage of nothing more than a gravestone. Bereft of his magic and his staff, the powerful mage was just a slender youth, and the leaden despair began to weigh heavily on him as the gravity of his situation became apparent.

His only hope was that Thribble might find some solution to their predicament. However, he could not see how even the resourceful little demon might succeed this time.

"Drex!” he moaned, imagining his worried love, waiting for him back in Crar. He swore to himself that he would not surrender, for her sake. As long as the slenderest chance remained to him, he would grasp it with both hands—however long that might take. And there was the matter of Prioress Lizaveta...

The woman who made my grandfather an outcast and a pariah, he thought.

"Somehow, you raddled bitch; somehow, I'll find a way out of this. I will!” he screamed. Nonetheless, he had not the least idea of how he might fulfil this vow.

* * * *

Lizaveta removed her pale, spidery hands from her scrying-glass. No sound emerged from the green globe, but she had read the intent on young Afelnor's face well, and she had been able to discern most of the words from those twisted, snarling lips. She regretted that she had only an indirect and occasional link with Brianston, so that she could not monitor Grimm's situation on a continuous basis.

She laughed until tears ran from her eyes, accepting her handmaiden's proffered handkerchief with a nod.

"Thank you, Sister Weranda,” she said, with perfunctory gratitude.

I never imagined Loras’ grandson would be so easily taken, she thought, amazed. I'd have thought he'd have seen through Brianston in an instant. Oh, well; I suppose that's just the folly of youth! Still; he's young and strong, and I'm sure he'll find his way out.

"I hope you do, young Questor, I really do,” she said aloud. “I'd relish meeting you again. If you ever do escape, we'll be ready for you. Won't we, my dear?"

The faithful young handmaiden touched her head to the hem of Lizaveta's robe, as required by the Order's strict protocol.

"Yes, Reverend Mother; we'll be ready."

"I wonder if we should give the boy a little help, Weranda. It'd be a pity to waste all this effort."

"He's dangerous, Reverend Mother,” the girl replied. “May I speak freely?"

The Prioress waved her hand: “Of course, dear Sister."

"Begging your pardon, dear Mother, I think it better if that rat-spawn does die in that place, Brianston.

You've done so well to prepare the Priory for his attack, but this mage is powerful. Even a Wiccan as strong as you might be far better off letting the dream-people kill him, rather than facing him."

Lizaveta regarded the girl with a condescending smile. “I will forgive your presumption on this occasion, Sister, having granted you permission to speak freely. However, I will remind you for the last time that I am stronger than any man ever born, including Loras’ jejune spawn."

"I apologise for my most grievous fault, Reverend Mother,” Weranda said, her eyes lowered. “I am yours to chastise as you will."

"Blessed Sister,” the Prioress replied, tapping the handmaiden on her right shoulder. “We must keep you whole and unblemished for now, mustn't we? Just in case..."

Lizaveta laughed, and Weranda joined in.

"Just in case, Reverend Mother,” the girl said, tears of unalloyed mirth running from her eyes. “But, whatever happens, he's dead or enslaved, believe me."

"I do, good Sister."

The Prioress dismissed the young Novice, pleased with Weranda's progress. The girl already seemed to have forgotten her birth-name: Drexelica.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 14: Imprisonment

Grimm saw no deliverance from his current straits. He cudgelled his brain for over three hours to no effect before Murar returned.

"Uncle sleeps peacefully once more.” The old man beamed, as if the young mage should feel elation at the news. “The Dream continues, and we thank you for your noble sacrifice."

"What sacrifice?” Grimm demanded, burning with frustrated rage. “Which of my friends did you destroy for the perverted purposes of your foul, barbaric rituals?"

"Fear not, Blessed One,” the old man said, shaking his head. “All of your companions are well.

However, we obtained a goodly meal for Uncle from your large, pale friend. Gruon willing, he will provide further sustenance on many future occasions. Your friend sleeps at the moment, but he will be well fed and watered to return his strength before the next feeding ceremony."

Grimm opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again without uttering a sound; foolish vituperation and puerile insults would be of little help.

"Your compound is almost ready, Blessed One; all the citizens of Brianston have been working on it. It is crude and rough at the moment, but it will be secure enough for the protection of all our beloved Realsters. We shall not rest until it is a structure of sufficient grandeur for our guests. It is based on the stone building we use to protect our precious Breeders, but, of course, plain stone would not provide one such as you with sufficient protection."

Protection? He means a shield against Questor magic,” Grimm thought. How by the Names does a dream being know about Questors? Still, it's probably better to go along with him at the moment. With any luck, Thribble will find some loophole or chink in their armour.

"I'm glad to hear it, Murar,” he said, aloud. “These chains are becoming pretty uncomfortable."

The old man's face crinkled, and his distressed expression appeared genuine. “I am sorry to hear that, Blessed One! Your confinement will not last much longer. Our smithies and foundries have been working for several hours to produce metal fitments for the structure, so that your security will be assured."

"Could you not find temporary housing for us, Murar? The imposing stone building over there would seem quite adequate for our needs.” Grimm nodded in the direction of a large structure he saw through the chamber's single window.

On several occasions in the last hour, he had seen the edifice warp and mutate as Gruon shifted in his sleep. With any luck, Murar would accede to Grimm's request, and he and his companions might be freed during another such episode.

To the Questor's regret, Murar shook his head. “You are a naughty one,” the aged Revenant said with a chuckle. “You know full well that the building is one of Uncle's dream-structures and subject to periodic change! In any case, as I told you, we are well aware that stone is a poor material with which to protect a magic-user of your abilities. We need metal bars and meshes of the purest iron to meet your needs; the slightest contamination or impurity constitutes grounds for rejection of a delivery. Our assayers are hard at work ensuring the perfection of the structure, in your honour."

"Thank you so much,” Grimm replied, with a sardonic, twisted smile. “I'm sure we all appreciate the ...

great honour you do us."

Murar offered a deep bow, seeming to take Grimm's sarcastic words at face value.

"You are more than welcome, Blessed One."

At that moment, Grimm heard the chamber's door creak, and he turned his head to see a slender woman standing in the doorway. She appeared to be in her early twenties, with long, blonde hair, blue eyes and a flawless complexion. In circumstances other than this, the Questor might have found her ravishing.

However, this woman, honest, decent and good-humoured as she appeared, must be another of his jailers.

"Revenant Murar, the compound is ready to admit our new guests,” she said in a pleasant contralto, a broad smile brightening her face. Then her gaze lighted on the fettered mage, and her happy expression blossomed into one of pure rapture.

"He is far younger than I would have thought, Revenant Murar! Uncle will sleep well for years to come, with his help!” the young woman crowed. “Welcome, Blessed One, welcome!"

"Beloved guest,” a beaming Murar intoned. “Permit me to introduce Revenant Elamma. It was she who first divined Uncle's culinary tastes, and she is, therefore amongst the most respected of our citizens. In recognition of this, she holds the august position of Protector of the Breeders."

"I am Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster. I am honoured to meet such a respected citizen of Brianston."

Elamma dipped a deep, respectful curtsey. “No, Blessed Grimm, the honour's all mine,” she said. “We last saw a full Mage Questor over thirty years ago, and he served Uncle well before he had to leave us."

Before he died, you mean, thought the mage. You people seem to have a remarkable talent for self-deception and euphemism. I must say, you seem very well-preserved for one of your age. You're probably old enough to be my great-grandmother.

"Living in this fine city seems to agree with you, Revenant Elamma,” he said aloud, deeming diplomacy more advisable than outright confrontation.

The woman's face crinkled into a bashful smile. “Thank you, Blessed One. Uncle seems happy with my current form. I was first created in this image over ninety Dreams ago, and I've remained exactly the same in all of my returns. I look forward to delivering your offspring for many generations. I'll be sorry to see you leave."

Grimm fell into a deep, dark pit of despair, seeing himself as a human stud animal, greying and wrinkling as the years passed, until his pale, shrivelled corpse was tipped into the sleeping Uncle Gruon's maw.

Self-pity flowed through him in a sluggish, murky stream. Drex will grow older and die, never knowing what happened to me, he thought, wallowing in muddy lakes of helplessness. Granfer Loras will live on after his death as the foul Betrayer of the Guild, and the House will write me off as his worthless, renegade progeny. So much for all those dreams of glory and triumph!

For a moment, a dim spark of hope flowered, as the mage saw Murar take out a large, ornate key.

Those heavy, iron gauntlets might impede his magic, but Grimm knew they would make excellent physical weapons against the Revenant. He would not relish the thought of braining an old man and a girl, solidified dreams though they might be, but he would not hesitate to do so if he got the chance.

Murar unfastened the fetters from the wall, and Grimm tensed himself to strike. As the last chains fell free, he slammed a gauntleted fist against the old man's temple, and it felt as if he had punched a mountain. The blow had not the slightest effect on the smiling Revenant, although it should have cracked his skull at least.

Murar frowned. “Naughty boy, Blessed One! That was foolish; you are not a part of our adored Uncle's Dream, so you cannot do anything to me, one of his Chosen Ones. It pleases him to keep me as I am.

The ordinary citizens may be susceptible to violence, but not we beloved Revenants. Your magic might be able to affect me, but not your physical presence. Come on, now, and we'll soon get those nasty chains off you."

With the last of his resistance gone, the Questor allowed himself to be led out of the chamber. Holding the end of one of the chains, the Revenant, his head held high, took him out of the stark chamber into pandemonium.

Vast crowds of cheering people greeted Grimm's eyes, howling, hooting and pressing in upon him. He was jostled and bumped as the joyous Dream-people swarmed, each person trying to touch him. They slipped, fell and trampled on each other, heedless, reckless and eager to lay hands on this physical embodiment of their desire to survive.

On occasion, Grimm lashed out with his metal-clad hands, striking members of the encroaching horde.

Some fell, but the mage's armoured fists rebounded from the skulls of others: Revenants, he guessed.

At last, Murar and Elamma ushered the mage to a solid, metal-bound door in a wall of yellow stone, which was criss-crossed with a fine tracery of metal wire. The Revenant midwife produced a key and opened the door to reveal a second at the end of a small vestibule, about six feet wide and five feet long.

With a firm, guiding hand, Elamma ushered Grimm inside, and the mage heard the portal behind him close with a decisive click. The rapturous clamour of the crowd was snuffed out, and the mage found himself alone in the tiny chamber.

Grimm had no especial fear of enclosed spaces, but, fettered and bound as he was, it seemed as if the walls were closing in on him. His breathing became swift and shallow, his heart began to pound, and he felt a cold sweat trickling down his body.

The mage spun around as he heard a clank behind him, and he saw a small slit open in the shining door, on the left-hand side.

"Blessed One,” called the voice of Murar. “Be so good as to stand to one side."

Grimm did as he was bidden, and he saw a slender, metal rod extending into the chamber through the slit.

He felt his irrational fear giving way to puzzlement as the rod grew longer, and he realised that the narrow shaft was an immensely long key.

They aren't taking any chances with us, he thought. They've obviously thought this whole thing out in detail. I can only imagine the mage they captured before gave them a full Questor demonstration before he was subdued.

The mage wondered how Murar would be able to fit the long key into its mating lock, but he noticed that the latter was at the end of a long conical cavity, guiding the key into its appointed place. This also gave Grimm some idea of the great thickness of the door.

Clever: these people are not idiots, by any stretch of the imagination.

As the rod began to slide into the cone, he glanced at the slit and saw a large cross at its key's far end.

This would ensure that it could not be pulled through the slot from Grimm's side; another sensible security measure, he thought with a sardonic smile.

A loud, mechanical clank told him the door was unlocked, and the key withdrew.

"You may now open the door, Blessed One. Please close it behind you."

"What if I refuse?” Grimm asked, although he guessed the answer to his question.

"None of you will receive any food or water until you are safely inside, Lord Grimm. Please be co-operative, we beg you, for their sakes."

Deciding his position was hopeless, Grimm forced the door open with his shoulder, and stumbled into an enormous, open area. He pushed the door shut, and, after a few moments, he heard the lock closing.

He regarded the large courtyard with some wonder. Doors led from all sides, and, high above him, he saw a metal chair suspended from the domed ceiling. The area was well-lit, but Grimm saw no obvious means of illumination. The walls contained a profusion of small square openings, whose purpose he could not guess.

Oh, well; I suppose I'll have plenty of time to find out, he told himself. It doesn't look as if I'm going anywhere.

He saw a small figure emerging from one of the side doors and coming towards him. The woman had grey hair and a lined face, and she approached him with a hunched, hesitant gait.

"I am Arland,” the aged woman declared. “I hold the rank of Second Breeder here, and I welcome you to your new home."

"I'm Grimm Dragonblaster, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, and I have no intention of staying here any longer than I have to!"

"Everyone says that at first,” Arland replied, “but they soon come to appreciate their new life in Uncle's service."

Grimm prepared to issue a sharp retort, but he realised that this woman might well have spent her entire life imprisoned in Brianston, and he refrained from doing so.

Instead, he said, “How do I get these chains off, or isn't that part of the plan?"

"I have the key,” the grey-haired woman replied. “Hold still and I'll soon have the chains off you."

In a few moments, Arland removed Grimm's chains, his metal helmet and his confining gauntlets. As the weighty iron impediments fell to the paved floor, the mage stretched and grimaced, relieving the various stresses from his complaining muscles, while the lady regarded him with sympathetic eyes.

"They're taking a bit of a risk by giving you the key, aren't they?” he said.

"Not really, Master Grimm. You won't be wearing the chains any more, in any case. When you're called for Sacrifice, they put you to sleep somehow."

The Questor stared at the woman. She talks as if this is all perfectly normal!

"How long have you been here, Arland?"

"I've lived all my life here. Of course, it was quite a bit smaller when I was young. Every now and then, you wake up and you see they've added another section to it. I know it looks a little bare here, but the rooms are nice, and we have parties and celebrations sometimes. Tomorrow is my last birthday, and we'll be allowed balloons, garlands and wine. You'll come to my celebration, won't you, Master Grimm?

It is my last birthday, after all."

"Just what do you mean by ‘last birthday', Arland?” Grimm asked, hoping that the obvious answer was the incorrect one.

"Of course, Master Grimm; you're new, and you don't understand,” she said with a proud smile illuminating her face. “I have had a full and productive life. I've given birth to seventeen children for the cause, and my thirty-fifth birthday is tomorrow. We female Breeders aren't allowed any more offspring after that time, so I'll be ready to go to my reward in Uncle's bosom. He will reward me for the fulsome gift I will give him."

Grimm almost staggered with astonishment. She's thirty-five years old? She looks twice that age!

His heart filled with anger and pity for this poor, wizened woman, who should have been in the prime of her life. She's been aged far beyond her years by seventeen enforced births, and she's going to be slaughtered to sate the appetite of a sleeping monster! Yet she sounds as happy as if she were preparing to marry the man of her dreams...

"Arland, don't you even want to get out of here?” he said.

The grey-haired woman's clear, wide-open, blue eyes were at odds with her ancient appearance, and they spoke of astonishment and incomprehension.

"Of course not!” Her eyes were as wide as if Grimm had asked her if she liked to eat baked baby. “How can you say such a thing? This is to be my reward for a lifetime of service! I'll forgive you for your ignorance; you are new here, after all, but I'll thank you to put such thoughts out of your mind at once!

You ought to be happy for me!"

Shaking her head, her eyes moist and hurt, Arland began to walk away. “Wait,” Grimm cried. “Where are my friends?"

Without turning round or speaking, the Breeder indicated a pair of doors with a curt double stab of her right thumb. With that, she was gone.

The nearest portal was a flimsy, wooden structure, and it swung open at Grimm's merest touch.

"Hello, Grimm. Welcome to our new home. How do you like it?"

Guy, unkempt and haggard, stood at the entrance of a room about fifteen feet square, in which were several thin mattresses. On one of the mattresses lay an immobile, supine Tordun, covered by a brown blanket. General Quelgrum and Harvel knelt by the fallen giant, with an ashen Crest and Numal standing by.

"Is he..."

Guy snorted. “Of course not, idiot! Do you think Quelgrum'd be bothering so much over a bloody corpse?"

"He's not far off it, though,” the General said, ignoring the older Questor's sarcastic words. “They took a lot of blood out of him. A weaker man would have died after losing that much. I'm just giving him as much water as I can. I've seen men on the battlefield in this condition. He needs water, sleep and red meat. Still, at least we don't have a major wound and the risk of infection; the bastards took it from his heel, and there's only a tiny cut, clotted shut now."

Grimm envisioned an unending line of such vigils stretching years into an uncertain future.

"We can't put up with this!” he burst out.

"Outstanding, wonder-boy,” Guy drawled. “Why don't we just go and ask them to let us out? You never know, they may have a change in heart!"

"Shut up, Guy!” Numal cried. “We've got enough to handle without your bitching!"

The older Questor rounded on the Necromancer. “Who rattled your cage, Grandfather? Do you fancy a turn around the courtyard with me? Fancy your chances?"

Harvel scrambled to his feet, his face red, and he pushed his face close to Guy's. “Necromancer Numal's right, Questor! We need to keep together, not fight each other!"

"I'll take both of you on at once, if you like,” Guy snarled, blue sparks coruscating around his fingertips.

“We aren't getting out of here alive, and it's about time you realised it!

"Stay where you are, big-ears,” he said, as a weaponless Crest stirred in the corner of the room.

"So, you're just another filthy—” began the half-elf.

"Just shut up, all of you!” Grimm's shout reverberated around the room, and silence reigned for a few moments. “Why don't we just kill each other? That'll teach them, won't it?"

"Got some master-plan, have you, youngster?” Guy snarled. “Please, don't keep us in suspense. We're all dying to hear it, I'm sure."

"Maybe I have,” Grimm replied. “If you'd just shove your ego back into your arse, where it belongs, I might be able to give us a chance of getting out of here."

Guy waved his hands in apparent acquiescence. “All right, marvel-man. So you've got this wonderful plan to wake up Uncle Gruon, snug in his sepulchre, separated from us by thick stone and iron walls. We're all agog to hear this golden idea that we poor imbeciles can't see. Maybe you can just..."

Grimm glared at the older mage, who finally stopped his ranting and shrugged.

"Thank you, Questor Guy,” he said. “No, I don't have a plan to wake Gruon up. But what if we gave him a nightmare instead? I may know how to do that, at least."

"Really, wonder-boy?"

"Really, super-mage. And we'll do it right here, and right now!"

"Can't it wait until Tordun is better?” the General asked.

Grimm shook his head. “I'm afraid not, General. A woman will die tomorrow if I don't try this. It may work, it may make things worse, but I think we're all agreed that we should try to get out of here. We've got to try something, at least."

Guy shrugged. “All right. If you've got some half-brained plan, I suppose we might as well give it a spin!"

Grimm tried not to wince at the term ‘half-brained'. If his hastily-conceived, nascent plan failed, he might well end up like that.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 15: Worried Minds

"Please relax, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said, lighting several aromatic candles with a taper and busying himself with rearranging the furniture.

Dalquist, lying on a green, leather-bound couch in the Magemaster's chambers, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. However, he could not ease the nervous fluttering in his stomach; if someone had been tampering with his mind, he wanted to know it.

"Will this take long, Magemaster Kargan?” the Questor asked, as much to fill the silence as to gain information.

"Hmm?"

"I asked if this would take long."

"How long is a piece of string? Depends how deep the information is buried, Questor Dalquist."

"I meant your preparations, Magemaster.” Dalquist did his best to keep his tone neutral and impassive.

“I'm keen to get on with it."

"Most of these things are for my benefit; I need to be in the right frame of mind.” Kargan took a small glass phial from his pocket and broke it under his nose. He inhaled deeply, and his eyes widened.

"Don't worry: this is just a stimulant,” he explained. “I need to stay sharp. The least miscast could ruin the day for both of us.

"Right, I think that's about that. Are you relaxed?"

"About as relaxed as I'm ever likely to get, Magemaster. Can we please start?"

Kargan nodded and perched himself on a tall, wooden stool. From a shelf at his side, he took down a heavy volume and began to riffle through it.

The Mentalist rubbed his nose and nodded. “Ah, let's see what Guladin Dream-stealer can do for us. It's been a while since I cast this one, so bear with me while I just run through it in my head. It'll soon come back to me."

As Kargan began to mutter short, runic phrases, Dalquist looked around the bizarre chamber. He saw drapes and tapestries hanging in a confused riot of colours, and shelves piled high with gewgaws, knick-knacks and figurines. In contrast to this manic disorder were five bookshelves. The books appeared to be arranged in precise order of size, and grouped by author or compiler.

Not for the first time the gulf between ‘normal’ mages and Questors struck Dalquist. The former must learn each spell by rote or recite it from a scroll or spell-book without the least flaw or hesitation. Using his own, unique spell-language, a Questor could cast any spell he could envisage, as long as he had a clear conception of the incantation's mechanism and sufficient power to cast it.

Dalquist had never needed to rehearse one spell in ten active years as a Mage Questor; not all of his enchantments had succeeded, but at least he need not worry about the agonies that the least mistake in casting might cost an ordinary, runic magic-user.

"Right!” Kargan carolled, rubbing his hands together. “I'm pretty sure I have it straight now. Close your eyes and think pleasant thoughts."

Dalquist did as the Magemaster bade him, trying to imagine sunny summer fields and cheerful birdsong as Kargan began to chant or, rather, sing. It was an intricate sequence of runes, woven together into a cohesive whole by complex trills and passing-notes. It would have tied a tyro's tongue in knots, and Dalquist admired the skilful way Kargan negotiated the treacherous labyrinth of sounds. The man was a master, and his voice was a clear, strong, flawless baritone, flowing easily from one passage to another as his eyes scanned the page.

So where's the pay-off? Dalquist wondered. I don't feel the least bit different yet. I can open my eyes any time I want to. So much for the skills of a Seventh Level Mentalist! I guess a Questor's mind is too hard to crack...

In a moment, we're ... I'm ... we're...

* * * *

Kargan sang the last syllable with the deep satisfaction engendered by the knowledge that he had cast a complex and difficult spell without the least error. His mind was enmeshed with Dalquist's, yet he retained the upper hand, the dominant presence.

He put the book back on the shelf, making his movements as gentle and economical as possible, as if he might otherwise sever the gossamer tendrils linking the two mages.

"We are together, Questor Dalquist, and nothing can harm you here. You are safe, and you will remember without fear. How do you feel, my son?” he said, in a soft voice.

Dalquist's tone was distant and dreamy as he replied, “Strange ... good."

"Are you afraid?"

"Not any more. I feel calm and happy."

"Excellent. Tell me what troubles you."

Almost as a child reciting a nursery rhyme, the Questor answered him. “Shakkar told me my friend, Questor Grimm, might be in trouble, and I ignored him. When he mentioned Prioress Lizaveta, it was as if a shutter closed over my mind."

Kargan leaned closer to the Questor. “Tell me all you know about Prioress Lizaveta. Remember, Dalquist, nothing can harm you here."

A dreamy smile wafted across the ensorcelled mage's face. “Nothing can harm me here,” he parroted. “I was with Questor Grimm at High Lodge. Prioress Lizaveta was there. She controls the Order of Divine Serenity. I had just been granted the seventh ring. Grimm became very fond of one of the Prioress’ young nuns."

Kargan started.

"What?"

The single word ripped from his lips, unbidden. Such liaisons were strictly forbidden to Guild Mages, since they could lead to the loss of a sorcerer's power.

"She was called Madeleine, and she was very pretty, but I thought she had cast some kind of witch spell on Grimm. I was angry, and I went to see Prioress Lizaveta in her chamber..."

Dalquist's mouth shut with an audible snap, and Kargan began to feel some resistance from the young Questor.

"It is safe to remember, Questor Dalquist. You are safe here."

Dalquist remained immobile and speechless.

"What happened in Prioress Lizaveta's chamber?” Kargan raised his voice a little but remained calm.

“You can tell me."

"I—she told me everything was all right.” The Questor seemed to struggle to get the words out.

“Everything was all right ... it was just a harmless friendship. I am a nasty, narrow-minded, suspicious little man."

This isn't a memory, it's a bloody recitation, the Mentalist thought, and his head began to throb as the younger mage's resistance grew.

"Describe the room,” he demanded in a sterner tone. “Describe Prioress Lizaveta."

"It's a very nice room,” Dalquist said. “She's a very nice lady ... oh! My head aches.” The last words were spoken in a plaintive whine.

The ache in Kargan's own head rose to an agonising tumult. If he did not get results soon, he would have to cut the connection. He took a sip of water from a glass on the table at his right side and continued.

"You are safe here,” he repeated, his voice beginning to rasp. “You will tell me what I want to know.

You cannot resist me, and you don't want to."

"No more ... no more!"

"Tell me!"

"Get your filthy, prying, male magic out of my head!” Dalquist spat, in a harsh, crackling voice, quite unlike his usual tone. “Get OUT!

The invisible tendrils, stretched to their limit, broke, and Kargan fell back in his chair.

"So that's the game, is it?” he muttered, massaging his temples and grimacing.

Dalquist opened his eyes, his face relaxed and calm. “Did you find anything, Magemaster Kargan?"

"I certainly did, Questor Dalquist. You've got a Blocking spell on you, a strong one. All I know at the moment is that a lady called Prioress Lizaveta is likely to be behind it. Are you ready to dig further?"

"I thought that spell was supposed to do the trick.” Dalquist seemed none the worse for wear.

Kargan growled, “It should have done, but I'm not a Seventh Level Mentalist for nothing.

"Questor Dalquist, your memories have been manipulated somehow, by what I can only guess is some Geomantic spell, but I'm pretty sure they're still there. Otherwise, I wouldn't have felt such resistance from you. Do you want to give up now, or will you submit to further spells?"

Dalquist nodded, his expression grave. “Whatever it takes, Magemaster."

Kargan cleared his throat. “I feel it only right to tell you that the spells will become more and more difficult to cast as I begin to go through my magical armoury. I started with the simplest spell I knew that was likely to bring worthwhile results. As the complexity and power grows, there is a very real chance that a miscast will seriously impair both our minds. I'm confident enough on the first few incantations I'll try, and I should be able to use some suitable cadences to get out of some of the others if I start to run into problems. But I may need some very powerful, dangerous spells in the end."

"Whatever it takes, Magemaster,” Dalquist repeated, meeting Kargan's level gaze. “I must know. If you're willing to risk it, so am I. If you'd rather take a rest, I understand."

Kargan shook his head. “I've still got plenty of power on board, Questor, so don't worry there. It's the increasing complexity that may be the problem. Some of the very strongest spells have only ever been cast by their originators, illustrious mages like Kharos and Bledel. Nobody else'll touch them with a bargepole."

Dalquist whistled. The two mages Kargan had mentioned were legends in the Guild panoply of heroes.

Even he, as a mighty Questor, had heard of them, and he respected their memories with reverence.

"Perhaps it would be better if we just—"

Kargan cut him off with a swipe of his hand. “Questor Dalquist, I'm an old man, even for a common-or-garden Mentalist, but I'm still a Mage of the Seventh Rank, and I have my pride. I've studied all the greats in my field, and I believe I know the way they think. I may only have a few decades remaining to me, but I'm no jabbering retard yet. If I could say I'd mastered these spells, I'd be a happy, proud man, but I'm not stupid enough to contemplate tossing away my brain for the sake of pride.

"As I said, there's a real risk involved. We're not just talking about a bad headache here, but blank-eyed, drooling madness or worse. So I don't want you just to say ‘yes’ without thinking about it. Believe me: if you don't want to do this, I'd rather you said so."

Dalquist sat up and steepled his hands under his bearded chin. He knew now he had been ensorcelled.

But was that knowledge alone enough?

No! he thought. A part of my life's been stolen from me. I've been used as a puppet by some witch, and I don't even know what else of her influence remains within me. I'd rather go blind or mad than betray Grimm or my Guild because I was weak. I'll live as a whole man, or not at all.

"Go as deep as you dare, Magemaster Kargan,” he said. “I'm in your hands."

Kargan rubbed his hands and stretched. “I'm glad you said that, Dalquist, but I expected no less from a true Questor. We'll try a little trick of Wersam the Adamant's next. This one's not too hard, but it's a little strange. This time, I'll be you, and you'll just be an onlooker. Are you ready? Good. Lie down, shut your eyes again, and we'll start. Wellan ... Wemus ... ah, here it is."

* * * *

Quelgrum hunched back on his heels in the small room. “What do you have in mind, Lord Baron?"

Grimm rubbed his sweaty palms together, trying to project greater confidence than he felt as he spoke.

"Well, it seems to me that the only real people here are in this building, and Uncle Gruon himself. If I were to astrally project, I should be able to find him. Whoever, or whatever, he is, I believe I'll be able to get inside his mind. Under those circumstances, I might be able to shake things up in there a little. It might make things a little more interesting out there, at least, and Gruon might wake up."

"That's an awful lot of ‘mights and ‘could bes', boy,” Guy drawled, leaning against the door.

"Have you anything better, Guy?” Grimm snapped, his guts churning with nervous energy. “Perhaps you'd rather give us your own brilliant plan?"

"Oh, no, wonder-boy,” said the older mage, smiling. “If you want to risk what little brain you have on some wildcat scheme, who am I to stop you?"

Grimm clenched his teeth. It's all a bloody game for him, he thought. Still, I'm not going to show him just how scared I really am!

"Well, that's all right then, Great Flame."

Numal, who seemed to know more about Astral Projection than the other members of the party, touched the young Questor on the shoulder.

"Is that wise, Questor Grimm? You don't even know what sort of mind you'll find. The results could be disastrous!"

Grimm forced himself not to pull away from the sexually confused Necromancer's touch. “Thanks for the concern, Numal, but I don't think we have an awful lot of choice in the matter. I'll trust you to hold on tight to my astral cord and yank me back into the real world if you sense any trouble."

"I don't know if I can,” the older mage admitted with a shrug.

Grimm forced a friendly smile onto his face. “Well, just do your best. Look, Numal,” he said, “all of you!

Do you all want to end up as drained husks, fodder for some nightmare creature, or would you rather we gave him a nightmare? I know what I'd rather do."

Crest stood up from a deep crouch, his head reaching the level of Grimm's chest. “There is an ethical aspect to this, Questor: do we really have the right to risk killing all these people? They're only doing what they have to for survival, the same as we would, if we were in their straits."

Well, that's all right then, Crest! So we'll just sit here and wait for them to bleed us dry ... no, that's not helpful!

"It's us or them, Crest,” he said. “If you really have a serious moral objection, I won't do it."

"Bugger that!” Guy said. “Any port's good in a storm, I say."

"In any case,” the elf continued, shooting a hard glance at the senior Questor, “Suppose you do wake Gruon up; that doesn't get us out of this bloody mausoleum, does it?"

Grimm almost winced; he had not expected opposition from such a loyal companion: from Guy, perhaps, but not from the nimble, reliable half-elf.

"I saw a chair hanging from the ceiling in the central reservation, Crest,” he said, trying to look unworried.

“That must be where they extract the Sacrifices for their blood-lettings. I imagine there's an opening, or at least a thinly-protected area, over that. If I get back alive, I reckon I could reach it and blast a way through. If I can't, I'll bet the Great Flame, here, could."

Guy shrugged. “I suppose I could, at that."

"As for the ethical consideration, these people are not human...” Grimm did not need to access his Mage Sight to recognise Crest's surging anger, and he knew he had chosen his words poorly.

"Neither am I, mage.” The slender warrior frowned, and Grimm noted his bunched biceps. “Perhaps I'm just as expendable as..."

Grimm's entrails felt like a cold, solid lump within him. “Look, Crest, I'm sorry. I spoke hastily. I regard you as just another..."

"Freak? Mutant? Is that it?” Crest snarled. “Some bloody sport—"

"That's not fair, Crest, and you bloody well know it!” Harvel snapped at his great friend. “Catch hold of yourself! Questor Grimm has never treated you as anything other than a valued companion and an equal.

Has he? Has he?"

Crest stopped in mid-tirade and nodded, his head bowed. “I'm sorry, Questor Grimm. I had no cause to sound off like that at you. I know you didn't mean any slur when you used that word, ‘human'. It's just that I've had it flung at me so many times ... I'm sorry."

Grimm breathed a sigh of relief; Harvel had defused a nasty situation before it erupted into meaningless violence. “I didn't choose my words carefully enough, Crest, and I apologise. Tensions are running high here, and I guess we're all a little highly-strung at the moment. What I meant to say is that these people are not really alive at all, except in Gruon's dreams. If they ‘die', they could be reborn whenever he falls asleep. Once we die, I have no idea what happens to us, but I'm sure we'll never be reborn just as we are, if at all. Whatever happens to the people of Brianston, they won't die a slow, painful death like their

‘sacrifices'.

"Now, I'm pretty nervous about what I intend to do, but I'll risk it if, and only if, you all agree to it. I may make things worse than they are; I don't know. All I do know is that we have to do something, and soon.

The prospect of launching myself into an unknown mind scares the living daylights out of me, so I need to do it soon, before I lose the nerve."

Crest looked into Grimm's eyes and nodded. “Well met, Questor. I want to die in battle, or in some willing woman's bed, but not as some pathetic, subdued milk cow. I accept your rationale. I only argued because I'm nervous, too. Go ahead."

I wish you hadn't said that, Grimm thought, scanning the faces of his other conscious companions. All seemed happy for him to risk his soul, although the mage acknowledged that most of them had no idea of the danger involved in the process.

"I'm glad to hear that, Crest,” he said. “Are we agreed?"

Somebody say ‘no', a part of him pleaded, while he tried to suppress the renegade voice.

However, no more dissenting voices were raised. The only response was that of the formerly worried Numal: “It's worth a try, Grimm."

The worried mage lay down beside the sleeping Tordun and folded his arms across his chest. He closed his eyes and pulled back self-pitying tears; these would not help. After a few, deep breaths, he nodded to the hovering Numal.

"I'm ready.” The delivery was not as cool and forceful as Grimm had wished. “Let's go; please keep a close eye on me. I've never done this before."

He began to drift away, and he looked down at his slight, pathetic body as he began to rise above it.

Now, all human cares and worries had flown away from him, and he was only keen to see what happened next, free of physical and mental fetters.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 16: Voyage of Discovery

Grimm tried to clear his mind of all extraneous thoughts, as he had been taught in Magemaster Faffel's meditation classes. However, he had always found meditation to be an unpleasant and almost painful discipline. It was no easier, he found, when one intended to invade the mind of a creature of unknown origin and species, and his mind roiled and twisted, denying him the quietude he sought.

The more he tried to force himself to relax, the more uneasy he became.

How can you nag yourself into serenity? he asked himself. It's a logical impossibility! I'm going to need some sort of soporific...

Despite Grimm's loss of Redeemer, his abductors had left him his pouch of medicinal herbs, and the mage's thoughts drifted to the linen bag and its contents.

One herb in particular came to mind: Trina.

Don't go there, the Questor thought, suppressing a shiver. You know, only too well, what that stuff can do to you...!

The Barony of Crar had once been a ghastly parody of a real town, its citizens forced into grotesque stereotypes by the demon Baron, Starmor. The Questor and his companions, Dalquist, Crest and Harvel had faced the lone Starmor and attacked him with magic and more mundane weapons, but to no effect.

As a result of this abortive confrontation, Starmor banished Grimm to an extra-dimensional pillar, whose guardian was his now-fast friend and Seneschal, Shakkar. Having persuaded Shakkar not to eat him, Grimm learned from the titanic, grey-green creature that Starmor's powers were derived from strong, negative emotions, such as fear and anger. With a fair knowledge of medicinal herbs, gleaned from Arnor House's well-stocked Scholasticate Library, Grimm had selected the strong narcotic, Trina, to suppress his emotions, and a stimulant, Virion, to give him strength of purpose. He had inhaled a goodly quantity of fumes from a smouldering heap of the substances, and this had allowed the mage to face Starmor alone.

Overcoming Starmor had not been as easy as Grimm had supposed, but the herbs worked just as he had hoped, screening his emotions from the demonic Baron. However, soon after Starmor's defeat, the young mage discovered that the substances he had inhaled worked their medicinal wonders at a serious cost: he had inhaled so much of the smoke that he had become habituated to the drugs, needing greater and greater dosages just to remain on an even keel. Despite the fact that he was now free of the herbs’

insidious powers, Grimm remained wary of the risk of falling once more under their thrall.

I won't touch that awful stuff again, he told himself, shivering at the painful memories. There must be another way ... a touch of Inner Calm, perhaps?

Inner Calm was one of the Minor Magics, a simple incantation taught to all Guild Students, and Grimm knew it as well as any other mage. However, his internal agitation was so strong that he doubted his ability to reproduce the runic incantation with the accuracy required for even such a simple spell. Two years as a Questor had left him somewhat out of practice.

When he had re-united the souls of Numal and Guy, he had come up with his own Questor spell to achieve the same effect, but he could not marshal the clarity of thought needed for a Questor spell to ...

clear his mind!

Sighing, Grimm opened his eyes and sat up, shaking his head.

"Is everything all right, Grimm?” a nervous-looking Numal asked.

"I can't seem to relax, Numal. I know it'll sound silly, but would you mind casting a spell of Inner Calm on me? I don't really trust myself to cast it. It's been a long time since I last had to cast a runic spell."

Numal shrugged. “Of course, Grimm: it's a simple enough spell."

A thought flashed into the young mage's head. “Oh, just one more thing, Numal.” He cast a glance at the far side of the room, where his other companions were still gathered around the sleeping Tordun. “Just keep it as quiet as you can, would you? I don't want Guy to think I can't cast even a simple incantation such as Inner Calm. I'd never live it down."

Numal nodded, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face. “I understand, Grimm. You can rely on me.

Lie down again, and just try to go along with the spell. I can't do it if you fight me—after all, it is only a simple Minor Magic spell."

"I'll try, Numal.” Grimm sighed lowering himself back onto the thin, uncomfortable mattress and closing his eyes.

"Indetrayara-neboulikatra-shimiduto..."

Grimm barely heard the familiar, muttered runes, but he began to feel the spell take hold. Feelings of security and serenity began to wash away his doubts, fears and worries, and pleasant warmth suffused his bones. The Questor, now quite relaxed, allowed his mind to drift. He was now quite familiar with the phenomenon of astral projection, and the dislocation came with practiced ease.

He looked down at his supine body, as his soul began to wander towards the door. After a momentary blur, as he passed through the flimsy portal, he was in the stronghold's central plaza. Picking up speed, he headed for the north wall, impelled by some dull, inchoate pressure. The stone walls of the compound might as well have been made of fog, for all the impediment they posed to his drifting soul.

As he moved through the internal walls, he saw couples engaged in frantic coitus, but this spirit-Grimm was immune to feelings of embarrassment or disgust at the sights of fervid coupling. He merely was; a passive observer with no wants, desires, fears or tastes.

At last, he gained the city outside the formidable stockade, and he saw scenes of wild celebration in the streets of Brianston. Couples were dancing, singing and carousing. Some engaged in unrestrained sexual congress, as abandoned as their Breeder counterparts in the compound, but with the evident approval of the chanting, cheering horde around them.

This was a different Brianston than spirit-Grimm remembered seeing with his mortal eyes. Although dotted here and there with a few small structures and crumbling ruins, it was largely stark and bare. Only the large detention compound and maybe a dozen other buildings were in evidence.

However, one magnificent structure surpassed all the rest: a splendid edifice in grey marble, decorated with inlays of gold and lapis lazuli. Proud columns held up an angular, terracotta roof, on which hung an engraved gold plate, bearing the legend ‘UNCLE GRUON, THE SLEEPER. ONLY IN DREAMS IS

THERE REALITY. ONLY IN DEATH, LIFE.'

Now, Gruon was close; spirit-Grimm recognised a presence beneath the lavish portico, and he drifted towards it. Dream-stuff floated away from the structure in all directions, fine tendrils resembling strings of wet dough, forming dense knots here and there and laying over the dream-city in a complex, knotted web. At its centre must lie Gruon, whoever, or whatever he might be?

Despite the magnificent structure above the ground, Gruon's underground mausoleum seemed to consist of a series of huge, shattered stone blocks. Even spirit sight could not penetrate these, but all that was needed was to follow the stringy tendrils to their source.

Ten feet? Thirty feet? A hundred feet down?

Aaah!

Spirit-Grimm fell, fell fell...

With a bump, he came to rest on the streets of Brianston. Not the shattered wasteland of reality, but the magnificent illusion he had seen as a mortal. Spirit-Grimm looked down and saw he had apparent form, an avatar. This was no human form, but a damp, doughy mass that shivered and shifted. He was in the sleeping mind of Gruon.

The citizens of Brianston were as clear and vibrant as they were to his astral eyes, and they shied away from this strange, muddy figure, emitting cries of horror and disgust as they recoiled from him.

Where is Gruon's temple?

This was not as easy to determine as it might have been. Looking through Gruon's dream-eyes, spirit-Grimm saw the buildings and streets shimmering and changing at irregular intervals, and the only true physical structures in Brianston were not apparent.

However, the fleeing citizens reacted to the invisible presence of the real, solid edifices, avoiding contact with the imperceptible buildings. Spirit-Grimm oriented himself by the motion of the fleeing crowds, discerning the position of the detention compound from the clearly-outlined voids in the terrified mass as it took flight.

In this strange, fluctuating world, there was no marble-and-gold portico. In its place was an indistinct grey blur, towards which spirit-Grimm walked on unsteady legs of wet mud.

It seemed as if his invulnerability to walls and barriers did not extend to this bizarre, mental construct, and the astral Grimm felt resistance at the periphery of the grey, shimmering field.

Push, push!

With a pop that he felt rather than heard, the unreal city disappeared, and spirit-Grimm became aware of

... what?

A confused melange of sensations and emotions filled the astral body.

Emotion, pain, disquiet!

This was no human, demon, or, indeed, any sentient being.

Confinement, sorrow and anguish ... Why can't I find this mind? Where is Gruon in this mass of emotion?

It's almost as if he doesn't exist!

A shock lit up spirit-Grimm's sensorium with blazing effulgence.

There's something else ... some new presence...

Grimm's essence plunged into the grey mire, deeper, deeper, and the spirit eyes located a brilliant, gleaming thread, running away into the distance. This was the sign of a true, mortal being! The astral being clung onto the tendril as if it were his own life, sliding along it at an increasing rate...

Bump!

A small, middle-aged, dark-skinned, bald man sat cross-legged on a stone bench, a long, white pipe clenched in his teeth. Looking up, he removed the pipe from his mouth and smiled.

"Hello, Grimm Afelnor."

In shock that overwhelmed his astral serenity, spirit-Grimm looked down at his avatar, seeing the blue and yellow silk robes he habitually wore as a mortal. Now, he had arms and legs, and a true human form once more. He was sitting on a very solid-seeming stool in the middle of—nothing!

As if from a great distance, he heard a voice, “Are you all right, Questor Grimm?” This was a dream of another sort; the physical world seemed so far away now. What, now, was real, and what fantasy?

All right, Numal, he pulsed along the long, silver thread trailing behind him, using an analogue of the clumsy, leaden speech that mortals used. It's getting very strange, but I don't seem to be in any great danger yet.

"Have you got a handle on it yet?” the smiling, gnome-like man asked.

"What?” Spirit-Grimm now seemed to have a voice, instead of a series of vague, drifting thoughts. Now, confusion, a mortal feeling, had replaced spiritual tranquillity, and spirit-Grimm now seemed to have been crammed back inside his prosaic, physical form.

"It's all a dream, moron! Haven't you worked that out yet?"

Grimm slapped his hand to his occiput, his apparently-real hand finding a dense mass of hair. All the familiar, complex panoplies of adolescent anxieties flooded into him with an intensity he had never even known in his true, mortal form.

"Erm, yes, I am quite aware that Brianston isn't real, thank you."

"I'm not talking about that, idiot! I'm talking about the whole dragon thing. Good spell, isn't it?"

"Dragon? I don't know what you're talking about. I'd be very grateful if you'd just treat me as an ignorant—"

"Well, that's easy enough, I'm sure, boy."

"Why don't you just tell me who you are? You seem to know my name well enough, you—"

Grimm swallowed an insult; dumped back into a semi-physical body, he felt about as powerful as a newborn babe in this bizarre, empty world.

"I am Garropode the Creator, Grimm! A long, long time ago, I was a Guild Mage, just like you. A Seventh Level Manipulant, unsatisfied with his lot. I became so confident that I believed I could create a true living creature from nothing but my own thoughts, and I succeeded where so many others had failed.

I managed to create a dream so real that the borders between reality and fantasy began to blur into a cohesive continuum. That is where I lost control. Now, my creation and I are one. While you are here, in my realm, I know all about you. Out there, I am nothing."

Dream-Grimm shrugged. “I can handle ordinary speech quite well, Garropode; there's no need to try to impress me with abstruse comments. Ignorant as I am about your craft, I'd be very grateful if you'd confine yourself to something a simple soul like me could understand! Another stream of incomprehensible babbling might sound good to you, but it doesn't enlighten me in the least."

Grimm looked into the mage's dark eyes and saw absolute nothingness.

Garropode sighed. “I am sorry, Grimm. I have been alone here for a long time, and the whole thing seems so simple to me. I do understand if it is too arcane for a mortal like you.

"I have seen everything that has happened here for the last two hundred years, and I am tired. Gruon was my greatest creation, my triumph. During the course of my interesting little experiment, I saw him blossom and grow from a vague concept into an independent physical being. I had no idea that my little intellectual diversion would end up taking over my whole life. I became so obsessed with my living dream that I poured more and more of my essence into him, spending more and more time in his mind—until I became Gruon!"

Grimm shook his head, reeling in confusion. “I understood that the people of Brianston were dreams of Gruon. Are you saying that Gruon is one of your dreams? If so, will he not vanish when you wake up?"

"I cannot wake; in a sense, I no longer exist as an independent being. Whatever Gruon once was, he is now a true, living, breathing being with his own identity and self-awareness, and most of that is me. I am trapped here, in this created body, and I cannot escape. My own body must have turned to dust long ago, and I have nowhere to go. This is my new reality."

Garropode seemed to have paid the ultimate price for his arrogance: he had surrendered his independence for the continuance of his own creation. For a brief moment, Grimm felt a pang of pity for the trapped mage, but this was soon subsumed by contempt for the proud man's conceit.

"Because of your ‘interesting little experiment', Garropode, you have given rise to a race of beings whose only hope of survival is human sacrifice,” he said, trembling with anger. “Because of your irresponsible meddling, living men and women are kept as slaves, as mere baby-producing machines, providing nutrient for your precious creation.

"I despise you and your egotistical pride. Because of you, men and women are drained of blood so that these dream-beings may continue to exist! I spit on you and your arrogance! What on earth possessed you to give Gruon an appetite for human blood, you maniac?"

The Manipulant, or, more properly, his spirit form, shrugged. “When Gruon first came to be, he was a small, mute being with no more self-awareness than a rock. Along with my thoughts, I provided him with my own blood, so that he might grow and prosper. Once consciousness came to him, I realised I had made a serious mistake; I was already too deep inside Gruon, and I no longer knew where I ended and he began. We fused, merged, blended."

"You seem sure enough of yourself, Garropode,” Grimm snarled. “I see no sign of such fusion at this time. Can't you command the dragon to wake, and to take no more blood?"

Garropode laughed, long and loud, until tears began to run from his avatar's dark eyes. “That's the joke!”

he gasped, trembling with mirth. “When Gruon wakes, any trace of Garropode the Creator will cease to exist, along with his dream-city. In his place will be Gruon the Dragon, the rampaging anthropophage, whose only desire is sustenance. Only when sated with human blood will he sleep and release me once more from my bondage."

"And if I were to kill him?"

"You cannot, mortal! Your body is confined in a structure immune to even Questor magic. You cannot reach Gruon, and I doubt that even a Seventh Level Questor could last against such a mighty creature, in any case. ‘Grimm Afelnor, called the Dragonblaster'—how ironic!

"In any case, think of all the beings you would destroy along with my dragon—humans with dreams, hopes and desires little different to your own. My dual life may lack richness and variety, but it is my own, and I, at least, have accepted my lot. I suggest you accept yours with good grace—the citizens of Brianston will treat you well while you live.

"Goodbye, Grimm Afelnor. This audience is at an end."

Grimm felt his spiritual body fading away like mist under the morning sun, and he began to fly backwards with ever-increasing velocity, through the dreamscape, back out of Gruon's mind, through the walls of the stone mausoleum...

* * * *

"Say something, Questor Grimm!” The voice was urgent, concerned, and the mage realised he was back in his own body.

Nothing but an incoherent gargle came from his throat at first, but the words came at last: “All ... right."

He opened his eyes and saw Numal, Quelgrum and Guy bending over him, their faces lined in concern.

"What did you learn, Grimm?” Guy demanded. “Can you get us out of here? Did you wake Gruon?

What's happening?"

Grimm began to shiver, as the cold shock of the knowledge of absolute failure roared through his being in an icy torrent. Bitter, metallic and turbid it was—the taste of blood, mingled with ashes.

"I failed, Guy!” he snapped. “Is that all right? Do you need to know any more? I failed, just as you thought I would—we don't have a chance! Now, just leave me alone, all of you!"

Conscious of the critical, concerned stares of his colleagues, Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster, broke down in a flood of hot, self-pitying, adolescent tears.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 17: A Journey into Memory

Kargan took a series of shuddering, deep breaths, wiping a shock of matted hair from his sweaty forehead. He straightened his blue-tinted spectacles, and it seemed as if each hour of his seventy-six years bore down on him like a lead weight. As a Guild Mage, he might be considered in the prime of his life, but he felt like a decrepit, shambling geriatric.

Dalquist, forty years his junior, had not escaped unscathed, either. The Questor's face was drawn and ashen, with dark rings around his eyes.

"So, is that it, Magemaster Kargan?” The younger man's tone was dull and resigned.

Kargan shook his head. Even that tiny effort strained at his overtaxed muscles.

"Not quite, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “I have one more spell to try: Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct. However, I'm in no condition to try that at this time. We'd probably better leave it for a couple of days or so, until I've brought my strength back up to its optimum level. It's not even worth trying in my current state."

Dalquist sat up. “Bledel; you've mentioned him before, Kargan. How come I have heard of him but never read anything of his magical innovations?"

"It's a Schedule Nine spell in the Engagement class, external, caster and subject bonded,” Kargan said.

“It's not officially on the Register, if you understand me."

The Mentalist tapped the side of his nose, signifying that he did not want knowledge of this to go outside the walls of his chamber.

"Er ... Magemaster Kargan, I'm not a Seventh Level Mentalist and a Magemaster with decades of service to the House,” Dalquist said, his expression blank. “What in the name of Magedom is a Schedule Nine spell, and what is this Register you mentioned?"

Kargan blinked. Of course, he chided himself: a Questor had little need to consult ancient librams for research or inspiration.

"I'm sorry, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “I don't meet a lot of Questors, as you can imagine; you lot are about as common as elephant wings."

Kargan stood, drew his robes around himself and unconsciously adopted the lecturing stance he used in class.

"As you are no doubt aware, Questor Dalquist, most runic spells are found in librams like these,” he declared, pointing at one of his bookshelves. “Nice, safe, reliable spells which have been tried and tested over a period of generations."

"Yes, Magemaster Kargan, I know that, of course. But what of the efforts of our Scholars? There are always new spells coming out."

Kargan adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. “That is correct, Dalquist. However, for every spell released into general usage, there are fifty others that never see the light of day during the lifetime of their originators.

"New spells are not approved by the Scholar's House, but by High Lodge itself. There is a considerable backlog, as you may imagine. Every approved spell is included on the ‘Register of Incantations', which is made freely available to the Prelate of each House. Spells are graded from Schedule One, the lowest, to Schedule Seven, with the spell's schedule indicating the lowest rank at which the casting mage may attempt the spell."

"I've never heard of it,” Dalquist admitted.

Kargan was beginning to enjoy himself. In the complicated hierarchy of mage ascendancy, Questors, given their phenomenal versatility and rarity, were the undisputed jewels in the Guild's crown. However, here was he, a relatively humble Mentalist, enlightening a Seventh Level Questor.

"What I have to tell you is not for general distribution, Questor Dalquist. Do I have your solemn word that what I tell you will remain between the two of us? Neither of us is supposed to know this."

Dalquist clapped a hand over his heart. “I swear on my family name, my Guild Ring and my staff, Shakhmat, that I will reveal nothing to another soul,” he said, without the least hesitation, his face serious.

Kargan nodded. He could expect no more solemn oath from any Guild Mage.

"For many years,” he intoned, “I have had an interest in researching new material, despite the fact that I am no Scholar. During my studies, I learnt of another compendium of incantations: the Libram of Kern.

Its name is only whispered by members of the Presidium and, even to the most senior of magic-users, it is little more than a rumour.

"Twenty years ago, as a precocious Mentalist of the Third Rank, I was sent by Prelate Geral on an expedition under the command of Questor Parpat—"

Dalquist nodded. “Ah, yes: If I remember rightly, he was called ‘The Hammer', and he died of—"

"Please do not interrupt, Questor Dalquist!"

Kargan glared at the younger mage, who raised his hands in acquiescence.

"Thank you. As I was saying, I was sent on a Quest under Questor Parpat. It is not one you will find in the ‘Deeds of the Questors', since it involved the treachery of one Prelate Barkan and his entire House.

They had seceded from the Guild and set themselves up in opposition to us."

The Magemaster smiled at Dalquist's astonished gape. “I thought that might attract your interest; it's not common knowledge. Suffice it to say that such a situation could not be allowed to continue. We were sent to depose Barkan and replace him with someone more ... shall we say, amenable to High Lodge's way of thinking.

"The confrontation between Questor Parpat and Prelate Barkan was spectacularly destructive, as you might expect."

Kargan smiled. “With all due modesty, I will add that my own Spell of Dominance proved a critical factor in our success. However, in the wreckage of Barkan's study, I came across a copy of the Libram of Kern. It meant nothing to Questor Parpat, of course, but I'd heard of it. I secreted the book and brought it back here. It details spells regarded as too dangerous and too capricious to be used by normal mages, even by those of the Seventh Rank.

"For many years, I've jealously guarded this Libram and consulted it at every opportunity. After two decades of study, I believe I understand Bledel's spell in its entirety, and I am willing to try it. That is, if you are willing to submit to it."

Dalquist rubbed his bearded chin as if it itched. “What's involved in this forbidden spell, Magemaster Kargan?"

Kargan shrugged. “I won't pretend this is a simple matter, Questor Dalquist. Our trouble, so far, has been that we've been chipping around the edges; we've been trying to access your memories from the inside, trying to break through a barrier.

"This spell translocates the caster and the subject into ... well, the technical term is ‘former realities'. It takes them both to a specific moment in the subject's past, so that the blocking event can be viewed by both parties as external observers, outside the constraints of the subject's memory. From the spells I've already tried on you, I know both the when and the where of the matter. All we need now is the what."

Dalquist held out his hands, palms upwards. “It sounds almost tailor-made, Magemaster Kargan. What's the downside of the spell?"

"It will take an enormous amount of energy from me,” the Magemaster replied. “Also, the least miscast may mean that we become dislocated in time, drifting through the whole period of your life like wandering ghosts while our physical bodies moulder and crumble into dust. You'll understand why I don't feel up to casting it at this time. My staff is almost dead, and I'm flat beat as far as spellcasting goes."

Dalquist lifted his own staff. “Magemaster Kargan, Shakhmat, here, is fat with stored magical energy. In an instant, I could pass you as much strength as you could accumulate in a week. We Questors need a lot of power for our spells. If you're prepared to try it now, while the mood's upon you, I'm more than willing to take the chance."

Kargan sat down and rubbed his forehead. If there was one thing he had learnt in his long life, it was that Questors were, above all, profligate and powerful mages, expending inordinate amounts of energy on each of their strange spells. He felt it might be better to attempt the potentially hazardous spell while the mood was upon him.

Despite his aching bones, the Mentalist knew his physical body was not yet too tired to continue.

Thaumato-corporeal transference, he thought, finding comfort in the vast array of arcane technical knowledge his experience as a Questing mage and a Magemaster had given him. It's just the weakness of my mage sensorium leaking through to my para-mortal form.

He thought back to his younger days on the trail, with Questors expending their all in a single, tumultuous, incomprehensible yell, and he realised the gulf of magical strength that must lie between him and this young, troubled mage.

"All right, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “Give me whatever thaumaturgic energy you can spare. You'll need to keep back some strength for your own continuance. I just hope your Shakhmat has enough strength..."

Dalquist held out the staff. “Take whatever you need, Magemaster Kargan."

The Mentalist laid his hand over Shakhmat, drawing strength from it. His jaw dropped and he gasped as a massive surge of energy flooded into his body. Clenching his teeth, he withstood the mighty tide of power, accommodating and accepting the influx.

"Enough!” he gasped, as he seemed to feel his head bulging.

"Are you sure, Magemaster Kargan?” Dalquist asked. “There's plenty more here, I assure you."

Kargan drew a deep breath, marvelling at the unaccustomed access of energy washing through him. He felt almost young again, revelling at the feeling of invulnerability that coursed through his veins, nerves and muscles.

"That's more than enough, Questor Dalquist,” he crowed. “I feel twenty years younger! Well, if you're ready to take a trample through your memories, I'm willing to try it."

"I'm about as ready as I'm ever likely to be, Magemaster Kargan. Let's do the deed."

Kargan took a deep draught of water, swilling it around his mouth and gargling before swallowing it.

Despite the potential calamity that might follow from any miscast, he felt enthused.

To my knowledge, only Bledel Soulmaster has ever succeeded in this spell, he thought. After decades wasted in prating at worthless, ungrateful, unheeding Students, this is my chance to show my true mastery. Even if nobody ever knows but Questor Dalquist and me, I'll still have done something almost unique in the annals of the Guild.

Kargan cracked his knuckles and stretched, easing the knots from his muscles.

"I'll just sing a little ballad first, if you don't mind, Questor Dalquist. It helps to free up the throat."

"Go right ahead, Magemaster Kargan. Whatever you need to bring you to peak efficiency is fine with me."

Kargan smiled to himself. Let's see if I can get a Questor to blush, he thought, and took up a singing pose, his hands clasped under his sternum.

"There once was a girl as fresh as new-mown grass,” he carolled. “Red were her lips, and fine was her shapely..."

By the end of the ditty, which grew lewder with each passing verse, the Mentalist smiled at the sight of Questor Dalquist's cherry-red cheeks.

* * * *

Dalquist lay back on his couch and marvelled at Kargan's virtuoso performance. Although the complex sequence of runes was beyond his ability to follow, the Questor felt astonished at the apparent ease with which the aged mage negotiated complicated transitions and cadences that would have tied the average mage's vocal chords and tongue in knots.

How long can a single spell last? he wondered. It must have been fifteen minutes now, and his voice sounds as clear and firm as if he'd only just started.

He felt a little disconcerted that he sensed no effects yet from the powerful incantation. All of Kargan's previous attempts had invoked a slowly-growing torpor, which had begun to seep through Dalquist's bones after only a few seconds’ casting. However, he knew that the incantation must still be intact, since Kargan had told him that a miscast would be disastrous; this gave him confidence that the spell was proceeding according to the long-dead Bledel's plan.

Still, I wish something would happen, he thought. This is beginning to get...

"All finished,” Kargan said, with more than a trace of pride in his voice, and Dalquist opened his eyes.

“Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct, as promised. It's never been done before—at least, not here."

To his astonishment, Dalquist found himself not in some mystical dimensional construct, but still in the Magemaster's chamber. The Mentalist's grin seemed at odds with the prosaic surroundings, and Dalquist sat up, confused.

"Er, Magemaster Kargan,” he said, “We just seem to be where we were. We don't seem to have moved at all."

"Of course not, Questor Dalquist; we're here because this is where we are."

Has Kargan lost his mind? Dalquist wondered. Perhaps he thought he was casting a spell but was really just exercising his throat!

"Your mind is here, and now, Brother Mage,” Kargan said, an almost manic glint in his eyes. “So that is where we are. However, when you access a memory, we will travel to the time and place at which that memory was recorded."

"How does that help?” Dalquist frowned. “We've already established that I can't remember what happened to me in Lizaveta's study at High Lodge."

Kargan sighed. “It's complicated, but I'll have to ask you to trust me. I suppose a demonstration is in order. I'd like you to lie back again and close your eyes. Concentrate on ... let's say yesterday's lunch.

"By the way, you should find this pretty interesting."

Dalquist shrugged and did as the mad old man told him. This was an easy enough memory to access, and he took himself back to the previous afternoon...

With a start, he opened his eyes, as clamour assaulted his ears.

"Say something,” Kargan said. “Good, isn't it?"

He was standing beside Kargan in the middle of the Refectory, looking at himself. Students yammered, Neophytes and Adepts studied books and servants bustled around the hall, just as usual. He jumped as a waiter materialised in front of him, seemingly having just walked through him.

Perhaps this is just some bizarre illusion, he thought. All I've got to do is just—

"It's real, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said. “We're real, too, but we're in a three-dimensional construct outside the normal, physical world. We can move around, see, hear and smell, but we can't interact. This is the Refectory, yesterday, not some fantasy or glamour designed to beguile you. While you refrain from concentrating on some other memory, we remain here."

Dalquist frowned. “How does this help? I can see myself eating a dish of chicken breasts, marinated with truffles and almonds. I already know I ate that."

"Come over here,” Kargan said, pointing to one of the Students’ huddles. “Come on, you can just walk through the tables and chairs; they're no barrier to us."

Dalquist followed the Magemaster, involuntarily flinching as he seemed to contact the diners and the furniture. However, Kargan had spoken truth; his apparently solid body passing through these obstructions as if they were not there.

"...so we'll jump on him right after the study period, yes?” one of the silk-attired Students said, his brown eyes earnest and intent. “We won't leave him with anything that shows at all, of course."

The red-headed, freckled boy opposite him snorted."You're crazy, Gura. Crohn'll know, for sure. You know what that'll mean."

Gura smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “Crohn the Moan? He's in on it, I tell you, Uras! As long as we don't maim or kill him, we can do what we like to that whining little pauper brat! And I say we show that wastrel rat, Chag-bag, who're the bosses around here."

"If you're sure it'll be all right, Gura ... all right; I'm in!"

"Me, too,” the other boys chorused, and Dalquist swayed a little, feeling nauseous.

"Pleasant little tykes, aren't they?” Kargan said. “I've had my eye on that Gura for some time."

"There's another boy being put through the Questor Ordeal, Kargan,” Dalquist said with dread certainty.

“I'd guess they're talking about Chag Jura—he's a Neophyte I took for Interpretation of Lore a couple of weeks ago. Thorn—Prelate Thorn—must have singled him out for special attention."

"I'd guess the note I received from Senior Magemaster Crohn has something to do with that,” the elder Magemaster said. “I must confess, I didn't read it. Politics makes me weary. Still, I bet you didn't know this nasty little conclave was going on yesterday, did you?"

Kargan's offhand tone showed that he had little idea of the torment that young Chag might suffer before—if—he ever became a Questor. Dalquist felt a bond with the Neophyte that few ordinary mages would ever understand; especially if the polite, pleasant youngster's treatment was anything like that accorded to Dalquist's friend, Grimm.

"I take your point, Magemaster,” Dalquist said, sighing. “We're in my memories, but out of them, so to speak. My act of remembering takes us to the correct place and time, but we're not a part of it. We're free to roam around, and see and hear whatever's going on."

"Exactly! So, if you'd just take yourself back to the moment when you knocked on Prioress Lizaveta's door, we should be able to see just what happened."

Dalquist nodded, trying to put thoughts of Chag Jura out of his head. He closed his eyes and remembered...

When he opened them again, he was standing behind another Dalquist, as the door to the Prioress’

chamber opened.

This is it! he thought. At last; now we'll get to the bottom of the matter!

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 18: Erik's Doubts

Shakkar felt himself sinking lower in the sky, as the ground cooled in the waning light of the dusk sun.

With senses that only another flying creature could appreciate, he felt his dangling, human burden sapping his lift and burdening him with drag. His back muscles screamed, and he knew he could not remain aloft for long. A strong opposing wind did not help matters, either.

"Sergeant Erik!” he yelled, his wings feeling leaden and stiff. “I must set down soon. What do your glass eyes tell you?"

"They're called ‘binoculars', Lord Seneschal. And they tell me there's a city coming up. From my maps and charts, this must be Brianston."

With hope giving his wings new strength, the demon flew on until he too saw the conurbation. Magnificent it was, with splendid silver spires and crystal castles bordering gold streets, and even Shakkar felt impressed at the abilities of humans to create such wonders. Demon architecture, he had come to realise, was dull and unimaginative in comparison to even the most ordinary of human edifices. The buildings of this city were far from ordinary.

"Impressive, isn't it, Lord Seneschal?” Erik yelled. “I think we should make our way to the central plaza.

There are a number of folk about. It looks as if they're having some sort of fiesta or party."

On the margins of the city, Shakkar banked his wings and began to descend. Ten feet above the ground, he released the sergeant, who rolled with practiced ease as he landed. In one smooth motion, he was on his feet as the demon's clawed feet contacted the earth.

"Looks deserted, Lord Seneschal.” The sergeant gestured towards the empty streets.

Shakkar nodded. “I presume they are all at the fiesta of which you spoke, Sergeant."

Despite the grandeur of their surroundings, Shakkar felt a little unnerved by the eerie stillness. This seemed like a ghost town, and he much preferred noise and bustle around him. However, the distant sounds of revelry soon reached his ears, growing louder as the man and the demon drew nearer to the town square.

"Not all,” Erik said, pointing to an approaching figure, a white-haired man dressed in flowing crimson robes. “We've got company."

Shakkar saw a broad grin on the old man's face.

"At least it looks like someone's pleased to see us, Lord Seneschal,” Erik muttered Shakkar grunted, “Or he knows something we do not."

"Greetings, travellers!” the old man cried. “We do not have many visitors to our fair city, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to Brianston.

"My, you're a size, aren't you?” he said, eyeing up Shakkar.

"I am Shakkar, a being from the nether regions, mortal,” the demon rumbled. “I bid you greetings, likewise. This is my companion, Sergeant Erik."

"Shakkar, Sergeant Erik, I bid you most welcome. I am Revenant Murar, an elder of this city, and its traditional Guide and Protector. May I ask what brings you to Brianston?"

"We seek information concerning a party which may have passed through here recently, Revenant Murar.” Shakkar kept his tone civil. “A party of four warriors and three Guild Mages. The smallest warrior is of the elven race, and the eldest may be wearing a green uniform similar to that of Sergeant Erik. Do you know anything of them?"

Murar rubbed his white beard, his brow furrowed. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Three Guild Mages!” he said, whistling. “I'm sure I would have remembered such a notable party, Shakkar, and I make it a point to greet all our visitors. No, I'm sorry to tell you that your friends have not passed through here."

"Perhaps somebody else may have seen them passing through,” the Seneschal suggested, “while you were otherwise engaged. Perhaps we might consult a few of the other citizens?"

"Impossible, I'm afraid, Lord Shakkar.” The Revenant's expression suggested the deepest sorrow and anguish. “We are in the middle of our five-yearly ‘Festival of Life'. It is a religious celebration, which is closed to non-citizens. In any case, even when I am unable to greet a party of travellers in person, another Revenant will inform me of all movements through the city. Visitors rarely pass through here, as I told you.

"Still, you are free to roam through Brianston as you will, but please take care not to disturb the revelries in the town square. If you require rooms for the night, I can direct you to suitable lodgings on the edge of town. We maintain a skeleton staff in one of the hostelries, even in mid-Festival."

"Why do you keep on staff for visitors who never come?” Erik asked.

Murar shrugged. “It is an old tradition, kept over from the days when Brianston was a major centre of trade, Sergeant. We are a thoughtful folk, and we do not abandon our customs lightly."

"May we wait until the Festival of Life has finished?” Shakkar asked. “Perhaps someone was remiss in their duties, and he or she forgot to inform you."

The old man spread his arms, his palms uppermost. “That would be most irregular. If such slackness should come to my attention, you may be sure that the culprit would be severely punished.

"The Festival will last another month, I'm afraid,” he added, retaining his cheerful smile. “Still, as I said, you are free of our town, except for the central area. If you wish to tarry in Brianston, you are more than welcome, subject to that single caveat."

The demon's tail thrashed in uncertainty; Murar appeared helpful and open, and Shakkar had no reason to doubt his words. He felt cold, unfamiliar tendrils of confusion multiplying within him: if he could not obtain news of Grimm's passage through this apparently central town, his search might prove fruitless.

"Thank you for your time, Revenant Murar,” Erik said, filling an uncomfortable silence. “You've been most helpful, and you may be sure that we will respect your customs to the full. We're both tired and hungry after a long journey, so if you'll be as kind as to direct us to this inn, we'll be on our way. I'm sure things will be a lot clearer after a peaceful night's sleep and a good meal."

"An excellent suggestion, Sergeant Erik,” the Revenant crowed. “Just follow this side road to the east for thirty minutes or so, and turn left at the fork in the road. The ‘Wanderer's Rest’ is quarter of a mile from there, on your right. You can't miss it.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a central role to play in our festivities."

Erik smiled. “Of course, Revenant Murar! Ah ... by the way, who should we contact if we have further questions?"

"I'm sure the staff at the ‘Wanderer's Rest’ will be able to aid you in any enquiries concerning our fine city,” the old man replied. “Otherwise, the town centre is ringed by other Revenants at all critical intersections. They are forbidden to admit any outsider to pass during Festival, but I am sure they'll be more than happy to provide you with any information you may require."

"Thank you for your time, Revenant Murar. Shall we leave, Lord Seneschal?"

"What? You want to eat at a time like this?” Shakkar demanded, frowning as Murar walked away.

"Well, I must admit that I am getting sick of these dried rations,” Erik muttered. “But that isn't the main reason: I just wanted to get Murar out of the way. I don't trust him."

Shakkar felt nonplussed. Murar had seemed a decent sort for a human, and the demon had noted nothing suspect in his behaviour. However, he had to acknowledge that he was a mere tyro in the assessment of mortals, whose ways were often beyond him.

He waited until Murar was out of sight before speaking: “What are your suspicions, Sergeant?"

"Nobody's that happy for so long, Lord Seneschal. And did you see the way he swallowed and blinked when you mentioned Lord Grimm's party, just before he went into his wide-eyed, puzzled act?"

Shakkar shook his head. He had noticed nothing strange about the old man's demeanour at any time.

"Why, then, did you let Murar go, if you suspected deception?"

"I don't know for sure, Lord Seneschal, but I'd be willing to bet a week's wages he knows more than he's letting on. More than that; look at Brianston's location."

The soldier unfolded his map and indicated the city with his right index finger.

"He says they don't get many visitors here: how probable is that? Roads run between here and several moderate-sized towns. I just can't believe that nobody ever travels them. Most of the roads around Brianston are little more than scrubby dirt roads, full of rocks and ruts. Would you travel around it in a wagon, when these splendid, graded streets are available?"

Shakkar frowned. “Your reasoning appears sound, human, so I reiterate: why did you not detain Murar or press him further?"

"I just want to be sure, Lord Seneschal. I don't want to beat up a helpless old man just because of suspicions. I just want to scout out Baron Grimm's probable route, in the hope of finding some clue—

The soldier appeared to spasm as his face contorted. “Ugh, there's a rat on me!” he said, shaking his uniform jacket. “I hate bloody rats!"

Shakkar looked down to see the tiny, grey shape of Thribble sprawling in the dirt.

"That is no rat,” he growled. “Can you not see? It is Baron Grimm's companion, Thribble! That proves that the Baron was here!

"Hail, brother demon!"

Thribble shook the dust of the road from his minuscule body. “Greetings, Shakkar! And for your information, human, I do not take kindly to being compared with your overworld vermin!"

Erik shrugged “I'm sorry, Master Thribble. I just thought you—"

"Never mind that,” Shakkar interrupted, scooping the tiny creature into the palm of his shovel-sized, clawed right hand. He looked down into Thribble's dot-like eyes with concern. “Where is Baron Grimm, Thribble?"

"This is a strange town, Shakkar. Most of the buildings here are bizarre fantasies given form by the dreams of some creature the citizens of Brianston call ‘Uncle Gruon'. Most of the inhabitants seem also to be his mental constructs. From what I can tell, they need to keep this Gruon asleep by engorging him with the blood of living mortals. Lord Grimm and his fellow mortals are being kept for this purpose in a large stone building in the centre of the town. This Festival is in honour of the new guests; I gather that they will satisfy Gruon's appetite for many years, and keep the people of Brianston alive."

"Thank you, Thribble,” Shakkar growled, his animal hind-brain driving him to action. “Direct us to this building and I shall tear it apart. Sergeant Erik, you may use your Technological weapons to keep the crowd at bay while I concentrate on freeing Lord Grimm and his companions."

"With pleasure, Lord Seneschal!” Erik swung his firearm's strap from his shoulder and flipped a small lever on its side. “I never liked all this diplomacy stuff, anyway. General Quelgrum always thought it was a good idea to get the locals on our side, wherever we went. Even so, I've always preferred a stand-up fight."

Thribble said, “It is not so simple, friend Erik. They are not mortals like you, and your metal death-tube may not affect all of them.

"Likewise, brother Shakkar, I have seen the edifice in which Lord Grimm is being kept: I doubt that even your gigantic strength could batter through it. The walls seem to be constructed of solid stone blocks, so closely spaced that the slenderest knife-blade could not pass between them. The door seems to be constructed of thick metal."

"Why, you're just full of good news, aren't you, little feller?” Erik said, his face contorted in some mortal expression Shakkar could not read. “Have you any other handy tips for us?"

"I am only telling you what I know, mortal. I know your ‘gun’ thing will affect at least some of these people, although not all of them. I saw General Quelgrum use a similar weapon on the crowd when we were first taken. Most people seemed to be killed by the little pellets."

"They're called ‘bullets', friend demon."

"That is of little import,” the demon snapped, and Shakkar saw Thribble's tiny brows lowering. “Would you object if I just finished my assessment?"

Erik shrugged, and it seemed that Thribble took this as permission to proceed.

"Some were affected by these bullets, as you call them, but others did not succumb to them at all. I lost consciousness in the violence of the ensuing commotion, but before I fell I noticed Revenant Murar among the ranks of the unaffected. I just thought you should be aware of that."

Shakkar pondered, but not for long; his rampant hind-brain would not be balked in its desire for vengeance. The deep, feral sense of duty was strong within him, and it grew like an unslaked thirst.

"We will take our chances on that, brother Thribble!” he shouted. “We have a duty to fulfil, and we shall fulfil it to the best of our abilities. Is that clear, Sergeant Erik?"

"Yes, Lord Seneschal! You'll hear no dissent from me in that regard!"

The Seneschal eyed the empty road ahead, still hearing the incessant sounds of human revelry. He had tried, for many months, to assume respectable, human duties within Crar, but his demonic heritage would not be denied. Vengeance was a clear and potent imperative, and the muddy visions of the clear-thinking front-brain gave way to the fiery demands of the inner mind. Even before thinking, he had begun to stride forward with a mile-eating gait.

* * * *

Grimm sighed. He knew his latest outburst had robbed him of all pretence of being a true Seventh Level Questor, and he moped on his thin mattress, deep in the bowels of self-pity. General Quelgrum sat by him; all of his other companions had deserted him, and the young mage did not blame them.

He felt pathetic, useless and worthless.

He wanted to be alone, utterly alone, but the old soldier persisted with his irksome presence. At last, something inside the Questor snapped.

"Haven't you seen enough, General?” he snapped. “Please don't tell me how you broke down in tears in just the same way after your first major defeat; I don't think I could handle it. Please, just go away."

Quelgrum sighed. “No, Lord Baron, I don't think I've ever broken down in tears for as long as I can remember. Still, I do remember trying to fling the contents of my guts down the road after my first battle.

I wasn't much younger than you then.

"Grimm Afelnor, your problem isn't your companions, or your lack of foresight, or your thwarted expectations—it's you. I never had control of an army, a regiment or even a platoon at your age: I always had someone to tell me what to do. At that age, my problem was that I didn't realise that the sergeants and corporals could tell me anything.

"Your problem is that you think you have to tell people what to do: you have to have all the answers available, no matter what. Well, I can tell you that nobody ever has all the answers. You've not helped yourself at all by that little display back there, but you need to concentrate a lot more on who, rather than what you are. You know Questor Guy's never going to get down on his knees and worship you; why do you bother to try to impress him? From what I see, that's one of your major problems. What you need to realise is that he's a lot like you."

Grimm felt his eyes bulge, and his breath surged. “I don't think he's like me at all!” he said. “He thinks he's better than everybody else—"

"—Don't you, Lord Baron?"

"No, I don't, General!"

"You act like you do, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said in a calm, quiet voice. “You take on an apparent suicide mission. You expect to perform miracles, and you burst into tears when you can't achieve them. If there's one thing I've learnt in all my years of fighting, it's this: win or lose, act as if you expect it.

"If you lose, then you tried your best against insuperable odds. By crying that way—it's quite distasteful to me, in fact—you told me and the others you didn't trust or want us to help you."

"It wasn't like that at all!” Grimm protested.

"I know that, Lord Baron.... Look, with all due respect, you're still just a kid. A kid with balls and some muscle, I can't deny, but a kid in any case. You let us all down by bursting into tears like that. Your best bet is to be open about the whole thing, rather than just trying to let it lie. Apologise, and plead your youth if you need to—but apologise for that disgusting display of self-pity as soon as you can. Otherwise, you'll lose all your friends, including me."

Grimm thought he heard more than an echo of Magemaster Crohn there, and he nodded at once. “I will, General. I just want to—"

He heard a distant creak that he recognised, the sound of a key being turned in the inner door, and he spun around as the portal swung open.

Forgetting his shame and his pathos, he leapt to his feet and cried, “We've got company! Let's move!"

He summoned his magical power and swore to sell his life dear.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 19: ‘A Dangerous Game'

Dalquist found himself in Prioress Lizaveta's former apartments in High Lodge, which looked as opulent as he remembered them. Lizaveta, clad in white, lounged at ease on her crimson, gold-tasselled divan, her hand extended to receive his former self's polite obeisance. Nothing conflicted with his memory of the scene.

"Ah, Lord Mage, welcome. How may I be of service to you? I normally receive visitors only by appointment, but I am happy to make an exception in the case of such a distinguished mage,” the Prioress said, and Dalquist shivered anew at the unpleasant, crackling quality of her voice.

Dalquist felt somewhat disgusted at the sight of himself kissing Lizaveta's ruby ring, but it again accorded with his recollection.

I can certainly see why Bledel's spell requires such a high level of skill and power, he thought. The clarity and detail of this vision is astonishing!

As the scene unfolded, Kargan asked, “Anything unusual so far, Questor Dalquist?"

The younger mage shook his head. “It's all exactly as I remember it, except..."

Lizaveta had just uttered the words, “I am sure that this is no more than a friendly liaison between two young people."

Dalquist's memory was that he had agreed with the Prioress at this point, and that he and she had shared a convivial glass of wine before he left. However, this earlier version of him seemed to have taken on a will of his own, insisting that sinister forces were at work.

"I don't remember any of this,” he admitted. “How can this be if this spell works on my powers of memory?"

"Bledel's enchantment accesses the true, unfettered memories of your subconscious,” Kargan replied.

“Trust me; what you see here is what really happened."

"My word, this is a sorry state of affairs; a witch within my own Order! I will have her expelled immediately,” the image of Lizaveta said.

"That is not all, Reverend Mother,” dream-Dalquist replied with a shake of the head. “The girl Madeleine does not appear to be casting the magic. It would appear to be coming from outside her."

At these words, Dalquist saw the Prioress’ face assume a vicious snarl, and the old woman flung a spell that made his former self stagger backward. Blue motes filled the air as dream-Dalquist countered the ensorcelment with Questor magic.

"So, now the truth is out,” he gasped, “Know that you are dealing with a Mage Questor, witch. I am also not some besotted adolescent, unaware and unprepared."

"That was rather good, Questor Dalquist.” Kargan seemed to be enjoying himself, “a nice turn of phrase, and excellent presence."

"This isn't some Scholasticate lesson, Magemaster,” Dalquist snapped, as a fierce exchange of magic turned the air into a blue, soupy fog. “This is part of my bloody life!"

"She is a strong one,” Kargan observed. Lizaveta's defiant snarl remained undiminished as spell after spell crashed into her. “You wouldn't think it to look at her. Ah, there we go! You're beginning to get the upper hand now."

Lizaveta sank to her knees, her eyes becoming glazed and unfocused, and Dalquist felt rather proud of his commanding presence. This was a conflict of which he had been unaware, and it was a revelation to see himself in action.

The Questor heard the door creak, and he turned to see a small, violet-clad figure entering the room. It was Sister Madeleine, the sweet, cheerful young nun whose innocent dalliance with Grimm had prompted the meeting.

However, this girl's expression was far from innocent as she saw the altercation. Her face a mask of hatred, her mouth compressed into a tight slit, she raised her hands as the two combatants battled on, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

Dalquist shot out a hand as Madeleine strode forward, trying to stop her. His arm swept straight through the nun, as if she were no more substantial than mist. Madeleine squeezed her eyes shut, her flawless, gritted teeth exposed in a feral grimace as dream-Dalquist toppled to the floor. The magical fight was over.

He felt stunned, drained and astonished. His memory was invalid, a fantasy.

"Say something, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said.

Dalquist shook his head in confusion. “This whole meeting seems strange to me now, Magemaster. I remember meeting Lizaveta well enough, but in a quite different sense; a purely social one. As I now realise, I only began to recall any contact with the Prioress when Shakkar mentioned her name. What seemed so sure a few hours ago now seems hazy and indistinct."

"That is the nature of recall,” the Mentalist declared. “In memory, context is everything."

After a brief exchange between Lizaveta and Madeleine, the younger nun left the room, walking right through Dalquist as she did so.

Now, dream-Dalquist lay rigid, staring up at his nemesis, his face wearing a stony, blank expression.

"When you leave here,” Lizaveta was saying, “you will not remember that you have met me, but you will remember what I have said as if the conclusion is your own."

"But I do remember—almost. Or, rather, I thought I did,” Dalquist said, his mind reeling with confusion.

"Rationalisation,” Kargan said. “You could not have justified defending Lizaveta to yourself, if you had no memory ever of meeting her. Nonetheless, this is the truth of the matter. You were ensorcelled by a powerful witch, and her spell has been controlling your thoughts and emotions, to some extent, ever since this time."

"Ah, yes, thank you, Reverend Mother,” the empty-faced figure said. “I just wanted to be certain that my friend would not get into any trouble with you. I am relieved that he will not. He and Sister Madeleine will make such a nice couple."

Dream-Dalquist rose to his feet and left the chamber, now wearing a seraphic, mindless smile.

"Wait!” Kargan cried, as Dalquist turned to follow his former self. “There may be more interesting revelations here.” The Mentalist's warning hand on his shoulder felt as solid as any mortal's, and Dalquist turned to watch the Prioress.

Lizaveta shook down her crumpled, white dress and arranged her dishevelled hair, checking her reflection in a full-length mirror. After a deep breath, she strode over to a leather-topped desk, sat down and drew a glass globe towards her.

The Prioress’ hands looked like avaricious, pink spiders as they scuttled over the surface of the crystal sphere, which began to emit a pale green glow at her touch.

After many minutes of glass-fondling, she snorted and jerked in the chair, as if suffering a brief fit.

"Worthless ingrate!” she snapped. “Were you intending to leave me waiting all night, you poor excuse for a mage?"

"It seems you are not the only mage victim of her magic,” Kargan said.

"So you say,” Lizaveta snarled, in response to some unheard reply. “I am so sorry to disturb the rest of such a busy, important man! I trust now you are ready to attend to your mother, after your slothful reverie?"

This situation grows stranger by the minute, Dalquist thought. The mage son of a witch mother!

"Yes, yes, yes—I know all that!” the nun growled. “However, the truth is that you have been drinking again, is it not?

"What? Do not dare to take that tone with me!"

It seemed strange to Dalquist to hear a conversation from one side, but he felt fascinated by the unilateral discourse.

"I am so sorry to hear that! However, it might interest you to hear that your poor mother has been engaged in mortal conflict with one Questor Dalquist ... yes, I thought that might wake you up!"

Who is she talking to? the Questor wondered. If I could only hear the other side of the conversation...

"No, he is not damaged, he has just ... changed his mind, shall we say?” Lizaveta chuckled, a sound like worms wriggling through a pile of dead leaves.

Who in Perdition is she talking to?

"So the poor, beleaguered, worshipful Lord Prelate Thorn is worried about his little chickens, is he?

Well, then, he'd better start working a little harder, had he not? You will never become Dominie by lying on your back in a drunken stupor all day!

"Perhaps not; but I will it, oaf! Take better control of your underlings, or you and I will fall out. Is that quite understood?

"Good. See that you remember that, Thorn."

The words hit Dalquist with the force of a gale. He might not like Thorn, but he had never suspected that the Prelate might be the puppet of some Geomantic megalomaniac.

He looked at Kargan; the Magemaster's face was ashen, his eyes wide.

"I had no idea!” the older mage gasped.

"Nor I,” Dalquist said. “Thorn must—"

The Prioress’ brows lowered. “Do not try, ever to play the mighty sorcerer with me, Thorn!” she said, snorting. “Loras Afelnor was twice the mage you are, and you know what I did to him! I made a mistake by not taking him as my consort, but I will not make the same mistake twice. Just remember that Grimm Afelnor might be your vassal, but he will belong to me! I trust you understand me well.

"Horin is expendable; remember that. You will be his replacement.

"Yes, I thought you might say that. However, that is the end of the matter. That is all, Thorn, dear son."

The nun snatched her hands from the globe like a conductor bringing some orchestral crescendo to a staccato close. The green glow ended, and the bauble became, once more, a plain glass sphere.

Dalquist's mind whirled. He had felt sorrow for the extra burden Grimm had borne as both a charity Student and the grandson of the Betrayer, and he had understood the young Questor's reservations in this regard. However, it now seemed that Grimm's suspicions were more than amply confirmed. Loras had been, somehow, ensorcelled by this woman, and his grandson was, even now, marching into her demesnes.

"I had no idea,” Kargan said, his face red and sweaty.

"Nor did I, Magemaster.” Dalquist fought to control his veering emotions. “But we need to get back now. The House may be at risk, Kargan. Grimm is also in danger, and, should he be compromised, perhaps even the Guild itself."

"He had a lovely voice ... such fine delivery—"

"Never mind that,” Dalquist snapped. “How do we get back to the real world?"

Kargan shook his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts.

"The book is open at the correct page on my work table,” he said. “You must focus on the memory of my chamber. At the moment of casting of the spell, our physical bodies will appear to freeze. We then take up the same positions, inside them, and I will deliver the closing incantation."

"I'm ready,” Dalquist declared, and Kargan nodded. The Questor closed his eyes and remembered...

...he looked down at his supine form, and then across at the past image of the Mentalist.

Dream-Kargan's face was an intent mask of concentration: his brow furrowed; his flesh red and sweaty.

Nonetheless, the flawless voice belied this impression of effort, flowing cleanly from one tongue-tangling phrase to the next.

"...ajamar-asturantikhurimat-TE!"

"That's it,” the ‘real’ Kargan said, as the two images became stiff and immobile. The earlier Mentalist still stared at the book on the table, and the figure of Dalquist lay frozen on the couch, his eyes shut.

* * * *

"Let's take up our positions. I'll go first, and I want you to tell me when my posture exactly coincides with my older version. There is a little leeway built into the spell, maybe two inches in any direction, but greater accuracy will maximise the chances of success."

"What about me?” Dalquist asked. “You're looking at the book, and I have my eyes shut. How can you tell me when I'm in position?"

"I was careful to place my chair in the optimum position, Questor Dalquist, so I can see you without moving my head. At the end of the spell, I was focusing on the first syllables of the closing chant, so it should be easy to resume that posture."

"How will the chair and the divan support us, Magemaster Kargan? Won't we just sink through them?"

Kargan shook his head. “The preamble to the spell provides fixed, solid reference planes for just such an eventuality. It's all horribly complicated, and I can't pretend I understand it all, but we won't fall to the floor any more than we're falling through it now. Thank the Names; this bit is supposed to be considerably easier than the initial casting. Remember, it doesn't have to be exact."

After a few adjustments, Dalquist declared himself satisfied; he could not tell where one image of Kargan ended and the other began.

His own position was more difficult to ascertain; Kargan fussed for several minutes, advising Dalquist to move an arm here, a leg there, and so on. At last, Kargan said, “Hold it just there, Questor. Close your eyes ... excellent. Here we go."

Whereas the spell had taken maybe fifteen minutes to cast, its closure lasted only a few moments. After scant score of runic syllables, Dalquist felt a strange tension pulling on his entire body, and he almost cried out in pain. After another few runes, Kargan stopped chanting.

When the Questor opened his eyes, Kargan was on his feet, stretching and beaming. The chair was empty. Dalquist sat up and knew that he, too, was back in the mortal world.

"Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct,” the Mentalist said, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “It's a shame nobody will ever know of it except you and me, but that will be enough for me."

"Never mind that, Kargan,” Dalquist said. “What do we do now? We know Thorn is a traitor to the Guild. I say we contact the other members of the Conclave at once."

Kargan sighed. “We can't, Questor Dalquist, not on spoken evidence alone. How can we prove any of it? This is only the starting point. We need solid, tangible evidence, and people we can trust."

"Crohn and Doorkeeper,” the Questor said at once. “I'd trust either of them with my life."

"You may have to! What you ... what we're proposing is mutiny. The punishment is death."

Dalquist felt his guts churning; he knew Thorn was a traitor, and that he, or, rather, his dominant mother, intended to overthrow the Lord Dominie. He also knew that Thorn had, in intent or deed, been involved in the downfall of Loras Afelnor. This situation could not be allowed to continue.

To confront the Prelate directly would be sheer folly, akin to suicide; how to proceed?

Kargan rubbed his chin. “Loras Afelnor might be a useful ally,” he mused. “He, too, seems to be a victim in all of this."

Dalquist shrugged. “I imagine if anyone could confront Thorn with any hope of success, it would be him.

But Loras Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, is dead and buried. The Conclave took his magic from him."

Kargan shook his head. “No power on Earth can rob a mage of his powers. All the Conclave's Great Spell did was to place a perdurable mental block on him, so he was unable to access them. That's Mentalist's work, so I know what I'm talking about, Questor Dalquist."

Dalquist suppressed the urge to laugh. “That spell was cast on Loras by a full Conclave. How could we two ever hope to lift it?"

Kargan shrugged. “I've served on a Conclave before; I was only there to supply energy for the spell, as are most of the attendees. Usually, the lead mage sets up the ensorcelment, while the others passively reinforce the magic. I recommend that, for now, we keep our heads low and act like good little boys.

However, I want you to fill your staff with energy, as much as it can hold. I do not have that particular sleight, but perhaps you can do the same for me and the other mages. With Crohn and Doorkeeper on board, we might just be able to swing it."

Dalquist's mind reeled with possibilities and caveats: if they could keep his mind closed to Thorn's prying; if they could convince the other mages to go along with the plan; if Loras, after decades of inactivity, could defeat Thorn and force him to confess his guilt...

He looked at Kargan. The Mentalist's expression was rapt and cheerful, as if they were planning some pleasant jaunt rather than the overthrow of their lord and master.

If ... if ... if ... he thought. Oh, well; it can't be helped, I suppose. I'd feel like worthless scum if I passed this up.

"All right, Magemaster Kargan, I'm in. I guess we're both traitors now."

Kargan nodded. “Right; I've got a ton of marking to do, as well as lesson preparation, and I'd guess you're in the same boat. I'll tackle Doorkeeper while you start to get Magemaster Crohn on board. But let's tread carefully."

"I agree. Take care, Magemaster Kargan."

The two mages exchanged a solemn handshake; now, they were conspirators in a dangerous game.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 20: Goodbye to Diplomacy

Grimm felt all but naked without Redeemer, but he felt confident in his innate abilities as a Questor. As the rotunda's inner door swung open, he drew his energies together in a tight knot, ready to wreak destruction at the first sign of a threat. He was ready for anything...

...except a small boy. The dark-haired youngster looked perhaps ten years of age, and he pushed a covered trolley almost as tall as he. His blond head was bowed, and his dull, brown robes reminded Grimm of those he had worn as a humble student.

Guy did not bother to conceal a cool, odious smirk. “So this is what all the panic's about, is it? Looks like he's about your limit, eh, Dragonbluster?"

Grimm swallowed a sharp retort at Guy's wilful play on his hard-earned title, which, he suspected, he would hear on frequent occasions from now on. He knew he had let himself down badly with his earlier display of self-pity, and it might take some time before he could regain his companions’ full respect; although Guy had not shown him much respect since their very first meeting.

"I didn't know who was coming, Questor Guy,” he said. “I thought Gruon might have become hungry again."

As the boy approached, Grimm hailed him in a gentle voice. “Who are you, son?"

Not looking up, the child replied, “My name's Atur, please, sir. It's my job to feed the city's guests.” He removed the cloth from the trolley, to display a wide range of viands, beverages and sweetmeats.

“Rev'nant Murar sends his ... sends his regards, and please if you'll tell him what you like to eat so he can give you what you want."

"We want to get out of here, boy,” Guy growled. “That's all. Murar isn't about to turn me into some mindless bloody—"

"It's not the boy's fault we're here, Great Flame,” the General snapped, as the child seemed to shrink from the Questor's hot words. Walking over to Atur, Quelgrum put a grandfatherly hand on the boy's shoulder.

"It's all right, Atur,” he said. “Nobody's going to hurt you. We were just ... surprised, that's all. We weren't expecting one of Gruon's nephews."

The boy's brown eyes opened wide. “Oh, no, sir, I'm not lucky enough to be one of them. I'm only a Realster like you.” He shrugged in an apologetic manner.

Grimm nodded. What did Murar and his fellow Revenants care if a Realster boy suffered injury or even death at the hands of their unwilling guests?

"If you'll excuse me, sir,” Atur said, “I do ‘ave me duties to perform, like."

Slipping from under the General's hand, the boy picked up a hand-bell from the cart's lower shelf and rang it lustily. As the various inner doors of the structure swung open, Grimm began to appreciate just how many Realsters were imprisoned in Brianston.

The crowd swarming into the central plaza looked to be at least fifty strong, ranging in age from about Artur's age to the mid-thirties.

Well, at least they're generous with the food, he thought, stepping to one side as the Realsters rushed to the trolley and began loading plates and bowls with what looked to be the choicest of victuals. Elder men and women, each laden with several containers, handed the bowls to the children as they were filled. The cheerful youngsters pranced away, to return a few minutes later for more.

That must be for younger children who are still inside, mused Grimm. Or older...

No! There aren't any old people here, and there never will be unless we can do something! As for the food, the Revenants just want fat, contented milk cows—blood cows—for Gruon, who doesn't even really exist!

It seemed to the mage that the eight pints of scarlet dragon-milk inside him were heating up.

Imperturbable as ever, Guy stepped up and was handed a plate by Artur.

"This braised liver looks good!” the older Questor exclaimed, heaping his plate high with meat and vegetables.

Quelgrum laughed. “Good blood food, Great Flame. Good to build you up for Uncle Gruon's delectation."

As the Breeders and their offspring melted away into their cubby-holes to eat, Crest, Harvel, Quelgrum and a shaky-legged Tordun approached the trolley for their own sustenance.

"Not eating, Lord Baron?” the General queried. “It's prime quality food."

"It could be drugged for all we know, General."

"What if it is? You won't be any better off starved. If an escape opportunity should present itself in a week or a month, how can you take advantage of it if you don't eat? In any case, you told me you borrowed a gem that tells you if food is poisoned or drugged. Questor Guy has one, too, but he's eating like it's going out of fashion."

Grimm shrugged. “I guess I just don't fancy fattening myself up for the slaughter."

Although he tried to hide it, he could not disguise the sulky tone in his voice. General Quelgrum either did not notice, or he pretended not to do so.

"Just tell yourself you're fattening yourself up for their slaughter,” the old soldier whispered. “Come on, eat."

"I'm sorry, General, but I'm just not hungry. I'm tired, and I'd rather sleep."

"You must eat, Sir,” the boy, Artur, insisted, his eyes wide. “See those holes in the walls?"

The Questor nodded.

"If the Rev'nants don't see you eating, they'll shoot you all with lots of little darts, and when you fall asleep, I'll ‘ave to push a tube down your throat and make you eat. I don't like doing that, sir. Please don't make me."

Grimm had assumed the holes in the walls were for ventilation, but now he saw their true purpose. He carried a charm that would return any projectile to its sender, but the Revenants weren't stupid: they might just as easily fill the building with soporific or narcotic smoke.

Artur's brown eyes pleaded with him, and the Questor's heart went out to a boy who had been brought up in a madhouse.

Poor little tyke: he's not to blame for all this, may the Names help him.

Above all, Grimm knew he must remain strong and ready for the least opportunity. And, in truth, he was hungry after so many days on dried rations and meagre offerings from sparse areas of woodland.

"I'm sorry, Artur,” he said, his voice full of compassion. “I won't make you do something you don't like.

Perhaps I will try a little of your food, after all."

His warning charm remained cool and black, and Grimm found himself relishing the splendid fare.

However, at the back of his mind, he remained painfully aware that a blameless woman would die the next day unless he or his companions could do something to prevent it.

But what can we do? he wondered as he shovelled the victuals down his throat and stared at the steel-reinforced stone walls. We must get out of here!

* * * *

"Hail, strangers!"

As Shakkar and Erik approached the centre of the town, a burly, young man in blue robes confronted them, his hand raised in a warning gesture.

"Stand aside, friend,” Erik said, raising his machine-pistol. “Our argument's not with you, but with Revenant Murar. Bring him to us, or we'll have to get nasty."

The Sergeant flicked the safety catch to the ‘off’ position and drew back the weapon's slide with an ominous clacking sound.

"Do I make myself clear?"

The blue-clad man eyed the black weapon with a look of mingled disgust and disdain. “I don't know what that ... thing is, but you can't touch a Revenant with any filthy Realster weapon,” he growled. “Try it, if you don't believe me. I'm a Revenant, too."

The muscular man stood squarely before the Sergeant, his eyes dark pools of defiance. Erik took up the first pressure, but he wondered if he could just kill an unarmed man in cold blood...

He decided he could not. In any case, he found himself more than a little unnerved by the man's mocking, contemptuous expression. Even the fearsome Shakkar seemed a little uncomfortable.

"Just fetch Murar, will you?” the demon rumbled. “Or there will be trouble between us."

"I don't think I will,” the man said, stepping forward. “You cannot touch me, stranger."

"That's far enough,” Erik warned. “I'll open fire if you take one more step."

The bulky Brianstonian continued to advance as Erik unleashed a short burst of fire over his head. His former scruples nullified by a primordial fear of contagious madness, the sergeant lowered the weapon and loosed a stream of bullets into the man's chest, the thickest part of his body.

The Revenant staggered as the bullets hit him, but he did not slow. Panicking, Erik held his finger on the trigger, to no effect. As the hammer clacked once on an empty chamber and the chattering sound stopped, the man raised a ham-like fist and launched it straight into the point of Erik's jaw, sending his helmet flying from his head. The stunned Sergeant fell like a toppled pencil, as blackness took him

* * * *

Shakkar had often seen Quelgrum's men practicing with their armaments. He knew the damage these Technological weapons could do to wood and stone: more than even he, a full demon, could wreak upon such substances. To see frail, mortal flesh withstanding such an onslaught stunned him, and his mighty, taloned fists dropped to his side as the blue-robed human continued to approach, undeterred and still smiling.

The demon had always regarded humans as weak, if resourceful, creatures. No mortal, not even Grimm Afelnor, had ever bested him in physical combat. Nonetheless, this man seemed to be made of stone, and Shakkar felt the inner stirrings of naked fear, an emotion to which he was not accustomed.

He drew back his shovel-sized hand to strike, but the Revenant merely shook his head, as if in pity. A senseless, nameless terror subsumed Shakkar, and he found himself frozen in indecision. As if in a dream, the Revenant seemed to stroke the demon's chest with his balled fist, and Shakkar flew backwards to the dirt, propelled by incredible force. He scrambled to his feet, but, for the first time in his life, a mere mortal scared him. Shakkar staggered away from the smiling Revenant, his chest burning from the impact.

He steadied himself, charged forward and threw a mighty blow at the human's temple.

The blue-clad figure did not even attempt to avoid the grey fist as the strike landed. He grunted and absorbed the impact, his smile undiminished, flinging the demon away with the merest prod of his right index finger.

As he sprawled, supine and helpless, Shakkar saw the tiny, grey form of Thribble lying near the fallen Erik. He scrabbled forward as the vengeful mortal stalked him, leisurely and unhurried. To his relief, both the soldier and the minuscule demon seemed to be breathing freely, and Thribble sat up, shaking his fuzzy head.

"What is the matter, Shakkar?"

The demon seemed to be made of solid rubber, unaffected by his tumble.

"I cannot take him, Thribble,” Shakkar gasped, despite the shame he felt at such an admission. “He is too strong. I cannot touch him."

As a shadow fell across him, the grey titan lashed out with a trunk-like arm, knocking his nemesis from his feet, but, otherwise, seeming not to affect him at all.

"They are afraid of magic, I believe,” Thribble hazarded.

"I do not have any magic, thanks to that forsworn bastard, Starmor,” Shakkar growled. “This mortal seems impermeable to even my physical strength."

"Murar did say that..."

As the ominous shadow fell, Shakkar lashed out again, but the human hopped nimbly away. This time, the Revenant drew a long, heavy club from behind him and approached again.

"It's time to say goodnight, Realster,” he growled.

"...but I bit him, and he cried out!” Thribble squealed. “Don't hit him, Shakkar! Use your claws, your teeth!"

As the smiling mortal raised the club to its apex, Shakkar, still lying on his back, kicked out with his feet, their black claws extended. The weapon fell to the ground, and the Revenant gazed stupidly at a thin line of slashes in his garment, red fluid staining the blue silk.

In an instant, Shakkar was on his feet, grasping the human in his sabre-like talons. The panicking man struggled, but he could not escape the clinging, black claws.

"You ... hurt me,” the Revenant whined, as if he could not believe what had happened.

Shakkar bared his sabre-like teeth."The young mage and his companions, Revenant. Take me to them, now. Otherwise, you will die slowly, while I dine on your flesh."

Shakkar dug his claws deeper into his enemy's body. “I prefer live meat, so you may not die for many hours."

The Revenant appeared to be in shock, shaking his head, his eyes blank. “A Realster can't hurt a Revenant,” he mumbled. “So it is written."

"Then it's written wrongly, pig-sweat,” Erik growled, rubbing his head and rising onto unsteady feet.

“There are ordinary Realsters, and there are extraordinary Realsters. You picked on the wrong sort, my friend."

The Sergeant picked up his helmet and seated it back on his head, taking his time fastening the chinstrap.

Then he retrieved his weapon, ejected a small, black box from it and pushed in another from a pouch on his belt.

"I don't think our friend here is a whole lot of use, Seneschal Shakkar,” he said. “Just tear his freakin’

head off, and we'll see if we can't find someone a little more helpful."

The Revenant squirmed in Shakkar's adamantine talons to no effect. “Kill me, monster,” he cried, “but don't consume me, please!"

Shakkar laughed long and loud, once more confident in his superiority. “Take us to Baron Grimm and his companions, or I shall savour your entrails while you live."

"I'll ... I'll take you,” the Revenant stammered. “Don't hurt me."

"Sergeant Erik,” the demon boomed, “I order you to shoot anyone who opposes us. I will deal with anyone who does not fall."

Shakkar pulled one hand from the hapless human's ribs, extending his obsidian claws to their full, gleaming length. “You may be sure of that."

His other hand's talons ground into the wounded Revenant's midriff. “Do we understand each other, mortal?"

"Understood, Realster!” the man groaned. “I'll take you, I promise!"

Another robed man ran towards the demon, raising a heavy, wooden baton, and Shakkar did not hesitate. With one, smooth stroke, the assailant lost his head in a fine spray of blood.

"Sergeant Erik,” he said, “I think it only right to say that we are now at war."

Erik grinned. “That's what I've trained for, Lord Seneschal. I must say, I prefer it to all this diplomatic stuff."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 21: Shakkar's Arrival

The sounds of merriment and revelry grew louder as the soldier, the demon and the wounded Revenant approached the town centre. Ready for trouble, Shakkar strained his ears for any sound of approach from behind them. The open streets gave way to narrow alleyways, increasing the possibility of sudden ambush.

Erik proceeded in a staccato sequence of movements, his black weapon at the ready, his head flicking from side to side like that of a snake scenting prey. At each street corner, the soldier pressed his back against the wall, waiting a few moments before leaping into the open in a crouch, the muzzle of his weapon weaving back and forth as Erik danced about, trying to surprise any lurking enemy.

So far, they had been lucky; no encroachments had been made upon them.

"The Brianstonians’ much-vaunted security cordon does not impress me,” Shakkar declared.

"A small perimeter is much easier to defend than a large one,” Erik said from the corner of his mouth. “I suspect the real fun lies closer to the town centre."

"You'll be feeding our beloved Uncle by the day's end,” the captive Revenant hissed, his face contorted and his teeth bared, like those of a cornered hound.

Shakkar dug his claws deeper into the impudent mortal's abdomen, drawing an agonised groan from the man.

"Put all futile thoughts of defiance and courage behind you, human,” he growled. “I fancy we may be able to find our way now, without your encumbrance. The only reason you still live is you may prove valuable as a hostage. Do not try to be brave, or I may decide that you are not worth leaving alive. Your only function is to lead us to Baron Grimm and his companions."

"And I will do so, devil, as I promised. However, I can't speak for the other members of the Council.

The first checkpoint's coming up—we'll see how you fare then."

"Any ideas, Lord Seneschal?” Erik asked. “You know my rifle's no good against these Revenant types."

Shakkar scratched his leathery jaw with his free hand, producing a sound like a steel rasp on granite.

"Perhaps an advance scout might be an advantage,” he suggested. “Brother Thribble, would you be willing to fulfil this role?"

The tiny demon, clinging to Erik's webbing, nodded. “I, too, prefer action to inaction, friend Shakkar.

Yes, I will do the deed."

"Where is nearest of these ‘check-points', worm?” The Seneschal added just a touch of emphasis with his steely talons.

"Ah!” The solid dream-entity, winced. “T-turn left ahead, and you'll see it—” Shakkar slapped his plate-sized palm over the Revenant's mouth, lest he cry out to his fellows.

Thribble scurried down Erik's body to the ground. “I will return in a few moments, when I have assessed the tactical situation,” he squeaked, with just a trace of self-important pomp. The demon scurried away like a frightened, grey mouse.

Several anxious minutes passed before he returned. “There is but a single Revenant at the station,” he shrilled, “but he is in direct sight of at least two others. There seems to be an unbroken line of communication around the entire inner area. Questor Grimm's prison is in the very centre of this. A stealthy approach appears impossible, and there must be fifty or more of these so-called Revenants. If they attacked in unison, even you, Brother Shakkar, might be at a considerable disadvantage."

Shakkar thought back to his encounter with just one of these creatures. A single Revenant had managed to bring him to his knees, and he recognised the truth in Thribble's tactful words.

"I could act as a decoy,” Erik suggested. “Maybe, if I made enough noise, I'd distract their attention, so you could sneak in."

Shakkar pondered the Sergeant's proposal; it seemed plausible, but the soldier might well pay for his boldness with his life. Despite the demon's former contempt for the human species, he found himself unwilling to countenance this.

"Your brave offer does you much credit,” he rumbled, “but I would prefer to examine alternatives before we commit ourselves to any one course of action. Brother Thribble, do you have any suggestions as to how we might proceed?"

"Perhaps I do, friend Shakkar,” Thribble piped. “This entire city appears to be no more than Gruon's dream. If we woke the sleeping entity, the Revenants and most of the buildings might cease to exist."

At these words, the captive Revenant began to struggle, thrashing in Shakkar's grasp as if possessed.

The demon, acting on the purest reflex, drew the man's head to his chest in an attempt to subdue him.

The human's strength was phenomenal, and Shakkar squeezed rather more tightly than he intended.

After a crunching, clicking sound, the man's struggles came to an abrupt end, and Shakkar realised he had broken the Revenant's neck. He could not bring himself to grieve as he let the corpse fall to the ground in an untidy heap, its head twisted at an unnatural angle.

"Well, I guess that's one less problem to worry about,” Erik said. Kneeling down, he asked Thribble,

“Do you know where this Gruon character is, demon friend?"

"When I first searched the town, Sergeant, I saw the appearance of a strange apparition, some kind of mud golem. A bizarre creature it was, and the Brianstonians began to panic as it moved through them.

However, they soon seemed to forget the mud-being; I imagine that such fantastic creations are commonplace in this peculiar place."

"What of this mud-thing, Thribble?” Shakkar growled, beginning to find his fellow demon's loquacity wearing. “What does this phantasm have to do with Sergeant Erik's question?"

Thribble gave a whistling snort. “Why, Brother Shakkar, I saw it disappear into a large, stone temple with Gruon's name on it. I know where the mausoleum lies from here."

"Then that is what we shall do,” Shakkar declared. “It is time for this dream to end."

Erik raised his hand. “Just a moment, friends; do you know what sort of creature this Gruon is?"

"Some sort of dragon, I hear,” the imp said, with a shrug.

"A dragon?” Erik said, raising his eyebrows. “Is there such a creature?"

"There is,” Shakkar said, feeling the inexorable descent onto his heart of the cold hand of uncertainty.

“Dragons come from a dimension much akin to mine. Their skin is like stone, and their breath is blue flame. My nest-brother, Akkin, had the misfortune to meet one in single combat. He was scorched to a crisp before he could land a blow on the being.

"It shames me to admit it, but I am almost the runt of my litter. Akkin was twice the demon I am. If he could not defeat a dragon, I would surely stand little chance against one. Perhaps direct assault against an angry dragon is not our best option."

Erik rose to his full height and stretched. “What else do we have? It doesn't sound like easy duty in paradise, sure, but we're running out of choices here."

Thribble screamed, “The roof! The domed roof of the prisoners’ compound! The walls seem to be thick stone, but the roof must be made of weaker, lighter material. If you could fly onto that, you might be able to batter your way through."

"That sounds like a better plan,” Erik said, “unless they have bows or guns."

"I have seen no evidence of such weapons,” the imp replied.

Shakkar nodded. “That does seem a more harmonious option,” he said. “Let us fly now."

Thribble scurried onto Erik's shoulders, and the soldier bent his back so that Shakkar might catch hold of his webbing. The titanic demon grunted, launching himself into the sky on whispering wings.

* * * *

Grimm scanned the domed roof with wondering eyes, assessing the possibilities. He thought back to his confrontation in the Pit at Yoren, and his clumsy, but successful, attempts at flight.

"Putting off the moment, eh, Questor Grimm?"

The mage started at the voice of General Quelgrum, close behind him.

"What do you mean, General?"

Quelgrum shrugged. “Let's face it, Lord Baron; you lost a lot of respect after you had your little breakdown. We're into a damage limitation exercise, now. You've got to try to convince these people that it was just a momentary blip, and that it won't happen again. You really can't put it off any longer.

Staring at the ceiling won't help you."

Grimm did not take his eyes off the dome high above him.

"That wasn't what I was thinking about, General,” he said. “I just thought that ceiling looks pretty thin—relatively thin, anyway. I can fly, after a fashion, and I reckon I might be able to break through. It might take a lot of my energy, but, once outside, I should be able to summon my staff, Redeemer, assuming they haven't put it in some iron vault."

The old soldier sighed. “And then? The Revenants can flood this place with gas; I've used it myself, on occasion, and I can promise you it works pretty fast. And what if they have put Redeemer in an iron vault?"

"They'd have to get here first, General,” Grimm said. “Up on the dome, with the aid of the strength I've stored in Redeemer—or even without it—I should be able to do something before they arrive. If I fall, Guy can take over."

"And then?"

Quelgrum sighed. “Look, Lord Baron, I'm pleased you're trying to think of ways out of this hole, but I do think we ought to be aware of the whole situation before we act. By the sound of things, Uncle Gruon can last a time before he needs another dose of blood from us. It might be better to bide our time and wait; at least we know they'll feed us well in the meantime."

"A woman is going to die tomorrow, General Quelgrum!” Grimm snapped. “Don't you care? And then there'll be another, and another, until we admit defeat and become happy little slaves, measuring out our lives in generous meals designed to enrich our blood for dear Uncle Gruon's delectation! I say we try something—anything—while we still can!"

"If you're determined,” Quelgrum said with a shrug, “then I suppose I can't stop you. But it sounds like a hare-brained plan to me. None of us, except perhaps you and Questor Guy, has any weapons."

"I've spent a lot of my life thinking, General. The essence of being a Mage Questor is to act! Are you with me or against me?"

Quelgrum raised his eyes to the slate-blue dome above him, and back to the young mage. “All right,” he said. “I advise you against it, but I won't balk you if you're determined to go ahead. I'll get the others."

"Thank you, General Quelgrum. That's all I can ask of you."

Despite his confident tone, Grimm felt far from convinced of his chances of success. His first and only attempt at flight had been a clumsy balancing act, a semi-controlled tumble to the ground, and he had been able to draw on the aid of Redeemer to sustain him. Even assuming he managed to rise smoothly to the centre of the dome, he would still need to break through the structure.

The middle of the ceiling could be opened from the outside, to allow the Sacrifices to be extracted.

Perhaps the opening mechanism was accessible from inside the rotunda. Then again, if the roof was reinforced with pure iron, like the walls, his magic might be nullified. His bare hands would never suffice to break through the structure.

As the General moved off to discuss the plan with the other warriors, Grimm continued to stare at the ceiling, considering his options.

* * * *

"So Dragonbluster, here, thinks he can get out of here and take on the whole of Brianston?” Guy said, snorting. “Let him try it, say I!"

"I never said I could fight all of them, Brother Mage!” Grimm protested. “But I do feel we should do something, while we still can!"

"Something?—such a lovely word!” The Great Flame's voice dripped with contempt. “Perhaps this marvellous something will take us all to paradise in a golden carriage! Perhaps we can all—"

Grimm raised his hands in exasperation.

Can someone shut up this big-mouthed, self-opinionated—?

At that moment, as if in answer to Grimm's prayer, he heard a thunderous thump, high above him. He looked up to see the wooden chair swaying in sympathy with the loud, rhythmic noise.

Breeders began to run from their chambers, staring in wonder at the vibrating dome, some screaming in terror. Now, a fine tracery of cracks could be seen, running through the slate-blue ceiling. Fine dust fell with each dull, pounding sound, and the chair, hanging at a crazy angle, crashed to the ground. Larger shards of material began to crumble away from the cracks, and Grimm saw the dome begin to deform and quiver with each thump.

"Get away from there!” Quelgrum cried, waving frantically at the milling Breeders. “I think it's about to—"

With a crunching, tearing, groan, the very centre of the dome fell in a tangle of wood, rope and tackle, and Grimm could see a pair of grey, black-clawed hands tearing at the rent in the structure, widening it.

It's Shakkar! the mage thought, his heart leaping in his chest. I don't know how he found us, but thank the Names he's here!

Further lumps of metal and stony material tumbled to the floor, sending the Breeders scurrying away to the walls.

The onlookers stood, open-mouthed and silent, as a huge, grey-green figure thumped to the floor of the rotunda in a welter of dust, blue shards and metal. Shakkar fell heavily, landing on top of the remains of the chair, shattering it into splinters with a tumultuous crash.

For a few moments, the demon lay still, atop the pile of debris, and Grimm feared that Shakkar had been hurt. However, the netherworld titan was no vulnerable construct of frail, human flesh and bones, and he soon staggered to his feet, shaking his head and raising a veritable dust-storm of detritus.

As the dust began to clear, Grimm ran over to the dust-clouded Seneschal and crowed, “Shakkar! It is so good to see you!"

Shakkar offered a clumsy bow from within his attendant cloud of grey-blue motes and shards. “I apologise for my—aah ... aah ... CHOW!—for my lateness, Lord Baron."

Grimm turned to the open-mouthed older Questor, trying to give the impression that this destructive spectacle had been planned from the start. “It's Seneschal Shakkar, Questor Guy. Aren't you pleased to see him?"

The Great Flame's mouth worked to no effect, and Grimm smiled.

"Don't stand like that, Brother Mage,” he chided. “Somebody might mistake you for a fish and reel you in on the end of a line."

Crest, Harvel, Quelgrum, Numal and Tordun, overcoming their astonishment, rushed to greet the towering apparition.

"Shakkar! You couldn't have come at a more..."

"...I was just saying..."

"...needed a miracle...."

"...answer to our prayers!"

"...so glad to see you!"

Only Guy Great Flame remained aloof from the joyous, impromptu reunion, seeming to have regained his customary sardonic composure.

"A hole in the roof—how splendid!” he said, rolling his eyes. “I'm sure we all needed a little extra ventilation. How does that get us out of this place?"

"I can fly you all out of here, Questor,” Shakkar declared.

Guy flipped a contemptuous thumb at the holes in the wall. “What? One or two at a time? While you're doing that, the Revenants can fill this place with noxious vapours, demon. That'll really put a crimp on the operation, won't it? Great idea."

Grimm regarded the myriad, small openings, and he realised the older Questor might have a valid point.

Would it be possible to block all the holes? Surely not; many, if not most, of them were far out of the reach of human arms, and Grimm could not trust his primitive spell of flight to keep him stable long enough to block even one.

"My colleague, Sergeant Erik, waits atop the building,” the demon said. “He carries Technological weapons, and he should be able to deter any interlopers, at least for a short while."

Guy hawked and spat. “Bloody Technology; I hate it! I'm surprised even at you, wonder-boy,” he said, turning to Grimm, his mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust.

The young Questor shrugged. “It may be our best hope, right now,” he said. “Only one of us needs to escape, and to wake Gruon. If only—"

He felt a rough hand on his shoulder and wheeled around. Facing him was a bulky, angry-looking male Breeder. The man's body might be soft and obese, but Grimm guessed there was muscle underneath the flab.

"What's going on here, mage? What is this abomination you have brought into our midst? And what's this blasphemous talk of waking Uncle?"

"Shakkar has come here to save us,” Grimm said. “All of us, including you."

"Save us?” the Breeder spat. “We have everything we need here, a simple, happy life in the service of Uncle. What do you offer but purposeless conflict?

"We refuse to aid you in this ... this sacrilege!"

"What about me, Grimm?” the female Breeder, Arland, cried. “It's to be my last birthday celebration tomorrow! If you wake Uncle, you'll be murdering our providers, the Revenants and Dreamsters! You must be some kind of a monster!"

Other Breeders began to murmur and close in on Grimm's group. The situation seemed ugly.

The mage spat a single word at his rotund assailant: “G-shaat!"

It was not a potent spell, but it sufficed to send the male Breeder rolling away from him. The dull susurration from the milling crowd grew louder, and the young Questor began to worry.

I hadn't counted on this, he thought. They seem to want to remain slaves to those Names-forsaken dream-people!

In the distance, he heard a series of dull crumps, and an urgent voice sounded from the hole in the dome:

“They're coming with some kind of siege engine, Lord Seneschal! I've tossed a few stun-grenades their way, but I don't think I can keep ‘em off forever—here they come again!"

"Lord Baron—we must leave, now!” Shakkar urged, as the mob of Breeders grew closer.

"Get out, Questor Grimm,” Tordun said, his eyes flicking back and forth at the massing crowd. “I'm not at my best at the moment, but I can still fight."

Even Guy now appeared worried, his face pale and sweaty. “Kill them!” he urged. “Between the two of us, we can wreak a lot of damage!"

Grimm shook his head and invoked a ward, an invisible, hemispherical wall between his group and the angry Breeders.

"These people haven't done anything wrong,” he yelled, as the irate crowd began to batter at the magical barrier. “They're misguided, yes, but that's not their fault. Promise me, on your honour as a Guild Mage, that you'll just hold them back until I return. In any case, you'd never be able to manage fifty death spells without War-maker at your side. Our only hope is to confront Gruon and dispel this bloody fantasy.

Guy turned to the demon. “Take me, Shakkar,” he said. “Questor Grimm seems to be doing well enough here. I will wake this Gruon creature."

Shakkar shook his head. “My duty is not to you, mage, but to the Lord Baron. I am taking him with me, one way or the other."

Guy shrugged. “I think you're making a big mistake, demon, going with this lightweight excuse for a Questor, but I guess you hold the cards at the moment...

"...All right, Dragonbluster, hand it over, but hurry up,"

In his days as an Adept, Grimm had practiced the transfer of spells between one Questor and another at great length with his friend, Dalquist, and the handover was smooth and uninterrupted.

Without waiting for acknowledgement from his Baron, the demon swept up his mortal burden in his arms and surged towards the ceiling.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 22: Gruon Awakes!

"This is Sergeant Erik, one of your loyal soldiers,” Shakkar said, as the mage and the demon rose through the ragged hole in the dome and into the sky.

Grimm saw a man, clad in the green uniform of Quelgrum's army, his face fixed in a determined grimace as he lay at the rim of the dome, his metal weapon intermittently spitting fire. The mage saw no reason to distract him.

"Fly north, until we're out of sight, and then head south-west,” he advised. “With any luck, the dream-creatures will assume that we're fleeing the coop, rather than threatening Uncle Gruon's nap."

As Shakkar flew higher, Grimm saw crowds of Brianstonians wandering aimlessly around the building, impeding the approach of a monstrous, wheeled, wooden structure built on several levels.

The mobile tower was manned by men wearing the robes Grimm had come to associate with Revenants.

Several dream-people pulled the machine, falling occasionally under the impact of Erik's projectile ammunition, but they were soon replaced by others.

Wood? Grimm thought, looking at the structure. At last, there's something I can use my magic on!

Pointing at the tower, he launched a spell of Dissolution at one of the main beams of the siege engine. The support crumbled to dust and the machine lurched to a halt, leaning over to one side.

Several Revenants spilled out, tumbling to the ground, and Grimm followed up with a scorching fireball to the foot of the engine. The dry wood caught light in an instant, and avid, green flames began to consume the structure. Within a few moments, the whole machine was in flames, and Grimm smiled as, with a loud bang, several metal cylinders inside it exploded, sending a grey cloud of heavy vapour over the crowd.

Within seconds, citizens began to sink to the ground, whereupon they lay still. Only the remaining Revenants appeared unaffected.

"All I need now is ... Redeemer!” he said, ending the sentence with a hopeful shout as he pronounced the name of his Mage Staff.

For a handful of heartbeats, nothing happened, and the Questor feared that the rod might be locked away in another iron-clad enclosure, impeding his sorcerous imperative. However, as Shakkar flapped westwards, the young mage saw a slender, gleaming, black shape flying towards him, and he extended his right hand.

The staff smacked into his palm, and he closed his fist around the black, brass-shod baton with its seven gold rings. Now he felt a whole mage once more.

A Mage Staff might, on occasion, teleport itself into its owner's hand if the path between them was blocked, or it would fly through the air if the way was clear. Grimm guessed that the Revenants had left the staff in the street where it had fallen, perhaps after a few fruitless, painful attempts to pick it up.

"Over there, Shakkar!” he cried, pointing towards a familiar building as the demon began a long, leisurely bank to the south-west.

As he drew nearer, Grimm saw that the magnificent marble structure he had seen during his astral travels looked even more opulent in the red evening sunlight. This was no fantasy; it was as solid and impressive as it had appeared to his spirit avatar.

The demon descended, landing on the steps at the entrance to the mausoleum. The area was deserted, as Grimm had hoped. As Shakkar released him, he dashed inside the building while the demon remained outside.

The tomb's interior was no less impressive than its exterior, with bold, red flags depicting a stylised, golden dragon adorning the marble walls. Rows of pews filled the chamber. An ornate granite altar, perhaps eight feet tall, stood in front of him, with wooden steps at its rear.

Ascending the steps, Grimm saw a wide cone falling from the ceiling and feeding into the top of the altar.

This, he guessed, was where the Revenants fed the sleeping Gruon his diet of human blood, pouring the precious fluid into a tube leading directly to the somnolent dragon's gut. Straining his ears, Grimm heard a slow, deep, repeating rumble that seemed to arise from below the tomb's floor; Gruon must be directly below him.

Despite the pristine tiled floor, he recalled the chaotic jumble of rocks entombing the dragon; how was he to reach the creature?

He might make a start by disintegrating the altar, but the massive block of granite might take him hours to dissolve, and he could not be certain that his distracting ploy had succeeded.

The thing must weigh ten tons, at least, he thought. I'll never be able to budge it on my own.

"Shakkar!"

The demon forced himself into the tomb, dislodging a couple of decorative pillars in the process. Despite the narrowness of the doorway, the ceiling, fortunately, was high enough for Shakkar to stand without stooping.

"I am at your command, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled.

"Can you move that?” asked Grimm, pointing to the grey altar. “It's in our way, and it may be our only means of access to Gruon."

"I can try,” the demon said, flexing his boulder-like biceps and taking up position in front of the stone block. After several deep breaths, Shakkar leaned over, placed his ample shoulder against the face of the altar and began to push. Tendons stood out like hawsers beneath the demon's grey, leathery skin, muscle upon muscle bunching in his shoulders, legs and arms as he exerted himself.

Sweat began to drip from Shakkar's heavy, overhanging brows, and the demon bared his teeth in a ferocious grimace. Grimm added his own meagre effort to the enterprise, pressing his back against the altar and tensing his leg muscles. Still the stone block did not tumble.

"Try pushing nearer the top, Shakkar,” Grimm grunted through clenched teeth. “We only need to overbalance the altar, not push it out of the way."

The demon adjusted his stance, and the granite block rocked a little. Grimm groaned with the effort, giving every iota of his physical strength. At last, the mage felt his knotted muscles giving way, and he collapsed to the tiled floor. After a further few moments, even the mighty Shakkar gave up and slumped to the ground, resting his back against the stone.

Grimm waited a few moments to recover his breath, and to allow his pounding heartbeat to return to a more normal level.

"Right,” Grimm said, returning to his feet. “This time, we act together. Launch yourself at it, Shakkar. This time, we'll give it all we've got in one push—don't try to ration your strength."

Shakkar nodded and rose to his feet. “On the count of three, Lord Baron?"

Grimm braced himself. “All right. One ... two ... three!"

The mage and the demon collided with the granite block in the same moment, each giving his all.

It's going ... it's going! Grimm thought, as the altar began to heel over.

As its centre of gravity moved past its lower periphery, the block crashed over onto its side. For a few panicky moments, Grimm teetered on the brink of a dark, rectangular opening, flapping his arms until he managed to regain his equilibrium. Peering through the opening he saw a mess of rough, yellow stone blocks with a six-inch wide hole at its centre. Faint tendrils of steam drifted through the hole, and through the interstices of the rocks.

"Gruon is down there, Shakkar,” he declared. “I think I'll try a Minor Magic spell of Inner Clarity. If that doesn't—"

"Stop! Please stop!"

The Questor spun around at the anguished shout, to see Revenant Murar standing at the doorway.

"It's over, Murar,” Grimm said. “If it comes to a choice between humans and dream-people, I choose my own kind. Sweet dreams, Revenant."

Murar wrung his hands, almost as if he were praying. “Think what you're doing, Realster. An entire city, obliterated in an instant! Thousands of people will be wiped out in the blink of an eye. You are talking about genocide!"

"And you, Revenant? You have the blood of countless blameless mortals on your hands, an entire race of slaves whose proudest thoughts are for their eventual deaths; a race of people whose only function is to provide their life-blood for the continuance of a dream. It's over, I tell you, and nothing you can say will change my mind."

"We take no pleasure in the spilling of Realster blood!” the old man cried.

Grimm snorted. “I saw the joy of your people when we came here! Joy at the prospect of more blood..."

"Joy only at the prospect of continuance, of survival! This is the only chance we have to live. Have we not that right? We try to make our Breeders and Sacrifices’ lives as happy as possible, before the end.

We have no desire to take the blood of Realsters, but—"

"But you do it anyway. You want happy slaves only because they are easier to handle, Murar! I spit on your perverted philosophy!"

"Do you want me to beg, mage?” The Revenant sank to his knees. “I will, if you want me to! We will release your companions, if you want, but, please, just let us live!"

Shakkar stood, towering over Murar, his black talons extended. “Just say the word, Lord Baron, and I will be only too happy to kill him."

"Kill me, if you wish,” the old man said, bowing his head, “and go in peace. But I beg you to preserve our race! I offer myself as a Sacrifice to you."

Grimm felt confusion numbing his brain. Murar might be some bizarre dream-construct, but the Questor saw only a terrified, old man, pleading for his people. It would be so easy to snuff out these dream-people now—perhaps too easy...

They're not to blame, he thought. It's that evil, egotistical Garropode, who set up this whole, maniacal charade.

Garropode...

Grimm sighed; this might not be easy. “Murar,” he said, “Contrary to your beliefs, Gruon is not the source of this city. The dragon is merely the dream of a Realster, a mage like me: a man whose ambitions outshone his abilities. Your venerated Uncle is a dream-construct like you, a solid fantasy. The root source of your beloved Brianston is not some fantastic beast, not a god, but a Realster, a real, flawed human being like me."

"With respect, Lord Baron,” Shakkar rumbled, thrashing his tail, “You have no need to justify yourself to this blood-sucking vermin. I recommend again that you allow me to kill him."

Murar maintained his submissive pose, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips moving silently.

Grimm shook his head. “It's not that simple, Shakkar. One of my own kind, a Guild Mage, is responsible for the plight of these people. What right do we have to wipe them out like this?"

"It is not a matter of ‘rights', Lord Baron! I, for one, would never rest while another enslaved my brothers and used them for fodder."

"I have no intention of allowing the situation to continue, Shakkar. I just feel it would be more ... more just to see if we can find a solution that will suit the Brianstonians and the humans equally."

"And if there is no such solution, Lord Baron?"

Grimm shrugged. “Then the original plan will stand."

Murar looked up, with a faint trace of hope shining in his eyes. “Might there be some way in which we can survive without Uncle?"

"Perhaps,” Grimm said, trying to turn half-formed concepts into coherent, rational thought. “It's not Gruon himself who sustains Brianston, but his dreams; or, rather, Garropode's dreams ... Garropode's soul.

"If I could capture his essence and freeze it in its current form, Brianston might prevail. I've met him in the spirit world, and I should be able to locate him within the dream-body of Gruon."

Grimm's voice became firmer, as growing confidence began to strengthen his resolve. He almost began to feel cheerful at his own resourcefulness.

"Perhaps the dream-stuff itself could be gathered and secured in an extra-dimensional pocket,” he mused. “Questor Dalquist hid the Eye of Myrrn in just such a place, safe from prying eyes and hands, and I believe I understand the principle. It's got to be worth a try."

"I do not trust this dream-rat or his kind further than I could toss that altar,” Shakkar growled.

Murar groaned and straightened up, massaging his lower back. “I came here to plead for my people,” he said, his voice no longer as placatory as it had been. “I was sincere; I recognise the threat you pose to our continuance, and that you can snuff us all out in an instant. If you have a plan to save our city, I beg you to at least try it. If not, then I've wasted my time. I don't care anymore. We have lost, and we throw ourselves on your mercy."

Grimm could not truly bring himself to grieve for the demise of the Brianstonians and their gory cult, but he still felt the burning desire to prove himself a true mage of the Seventh Rank. He had to acknowledge, even to himself, that he had gained the venerated seven golden rings through a few lucky breaks, and that most mages saw far more danger than he had before they reached this pinnacle of Guild status.

Most of all, he wanted to prove himself superior to Garropode, the renegade sorcerer whose experiments had created this bizarre city.

He knew his exploits might garner him little more respect from his fellow mortals, certainly as far as the acid-tongued Guy was concerned, but at least he, Grimm, would know himself worthy of his exalted rank.

"I'll do it,” he declared with a decisive clap of the hands. “Let's show we can be magnanimous in victory, Shakkar."

"Magnanimity, Lord Baron, is not a virtue we demons are known to possess in abundance. Nonetheless, I am at your command, at least for the nonce, and I will go along with your scheme."

The demon's brows lowered. “But I advise against it."

"Noted,” Grimm said, eager to get started. “I need to meditate for a few moments, Shakkar. I don't think I need to go into a full astral trance, but I'll ask you to keep watch over developments. If there's any sign of encroachments, I want you to alert me at once."

"I understand, Lord Baron. Murar, if there is the least sign of treachery, you die in an instant."

Murar shrugged, and Grimm squatted in the awkward posture prescribed for deep meditation.

He began to regularise his breathing, as he had been taught in the Scholasticate at Arnor, concentrating on the centre of his body. He crushed his human emotions into a sealed parcel at his core, and reached out for the soul of Garropode, deep below the floor of the temple, willing the trance to subsume him.

* * * *

The sleeping dragon's deep, regular heartbeat filled spirit-Grimm's sensorium, and he searched for the buried essence of the mage, blotting out all impressions of Gruon. Images, sounds, alien thoughts entered his mind and passed through it like leaves in a fast-flowing stream.

Garropode, where are you?

He followed the thick, sticky tentacles of dream-stuff, navigating the heavy currents of consciousness to their source. Nameless and formless, he drifted through Gruon's mind until he saw a grey, worm-like form at its centre. A faint glow of triumph leaked through from his buried consciousness as he entered the pallid form.

Garropode, you are mine!

Awareness wafted into his mind.

Grimm, you shall not have me!

Resistance: the Questor recognised it, flowed around it and squeezed.

I am the stronger. I will prevail! The proud, human imperative rushed to the fore, and Grimm amplified the power within him.

Mine! Mine!

With a dull pop, the young mage plunged into the source of the Brianston dream, gathering and garnering, clutching it to him. In an instant, the entity, the essence of Garropode ceased to be, and spirit-Grimm knew he had won.

Twisting through a strange angle, into a small void without form or feature, he released the bundle of dream-energy, simultaneously rushing upwards to his crude, mortal form.

* * * *

He gasped like a drowning man washed up on the shore, coughing out the sick, subsumed essence of the conquered mage within him.

"Lord Baron! Are you all right?"

Grimm found himself sprawled upon the floor of Gruon's temple, and saw the twin forms of Shakkar and Murar. He had succeeded!

"All right,” he grunted, pushing himself to his feet. Turning to the Revenant, he said, “Whatever remains of Garropode is now dedicated to the continuance of Brianston, Murar. I now demand that you free my companions and the other humans from their bondage."

Murar's eyes narrowed. “How do I know what you say is true, Realster? All I saw was that you closed your eyes for a few moments."

"You are in absolutely no position to haggle, Revenant,” the demon rumbled.

Buoyed up by his easy victory, Grimm shrugged. “I can prove it,” he said, smiling. Leaning over to the void in the floor, he uttered the syllables of the spell of Inner Clarity. After a few moments, a gout of blue flame shot from the hole, and a feral, angry roar echoed up from the chamber below.

"Uncle is awake, and I still live!” Murar gasped. “You spoke truth, Realster, and I thank you. I will—"

The floor began to shake, and motes of dust drifted down from the ceiling.

Grimm had assumed the dragon to be a relatively small creature, perhaps the size of a horse or a cow.

The powerful, thrusting impacts under the jumbled tons of rock spoke of something far, far greater and stronger, and he felt the clammy hands of uncertainty upon him.

"I fear you may have made a grave error, Lord Baron,” Shakkar said, echoing the mage's own thoughts, as a powerful blow jerked the mass of stone up by two or three inches. Another mighty impact flung sizable boulders free of the hole, and Grimm had to duck to avoid decapitation.

"I think it might be a good idea to get out of here, Murar,” he muttered as the entire structure trembled with greater and greater frequency.

"I think you're right, Realster."

The mage, the demon and the Revenant fled from the shaking mausoleum into a nervously-chattering crowd of Brianstonians.

Pillars tumbled to the ground and the pointed roof of the structure leaned over at a precipitous angle for a few moments before crashing down. A tumultuous roar arose from the ground, and a long, sinuous neck, topped by a reptilian head the size of a wagon, snaked out of the crumbling ruins. From the long snout, a plume of shimmering blue flame shot into the early evening sky, and an ear-splitting roar shook the ground.

Brianstonians screamed and fled, and Grimm stared at the vision with a mixture of horror and astonishment. Even with maybe three-quarters of his bulk beneath the ground, Gruon towered thirty or forty feet in the air, and the young mage knew he had made a bad mistake.

He felt transfixed as Gruon's earth-shattering, affronted scream shook the ground, and the dragon ripped himself free of his prison and began to clamber out of the pit.

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Chapter 23: The Golden Creation

Grimm craned his neck as the dragon, Gruon, unwound himself from his rocky prison of so many years.

Eighty, ninety, a hundred feet into the air rose the majestic beast, his scaly, golden hide gleaming in the dusk light. As a mighty, trumpeting bellow shook the ground, the Questor thought the giant creature was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Despite the cold, sick fear coursing through him, Grimm recognised the transcendent grandeur of Garropode's creation.

The Questor had borrowed a magical gem from the Lord Dominie that was supposed to protect him against fire, but he had little desire to test the efficacy of the small charm against the golden creature's potent flame weapon. In addition to this, the deceptively slender-looking tail looked capable of being whipped around in an instant, and the fearsome blue, metallic claws at the end of each of the four scaled legs must be at least three feet in length.

Uncertain of what to do, Grimm glanced at the Revenant, Murar, at his right side. The dream man crouched on hands and knees before the magnificent form of the dragon, in a position of sincere obeisance, and the mage wondered if the Revenant's action might not be the best possible defence: the dragon's head, smoke drifting from the slit nostrils, oriented first on Grimm, then on Shakkar, but the emerald eyes, slitted like those of some giant cat, seemed to ignore the squatting figure. To test his theory, Grimm froze, and the golden beast seemed to lose interest in him, concentrating instead on Shakkar.

"Lord Baron, we must get out of here, now!” the demon urged, who was dwarfed by the towering dragon.

"He can't see us if we don't move, Shakkar,” Grimm said from the corner of his mouth. “Stand still for a few moments, and, with any luck, he'll wander off. If we try to run, I'm not sure we can outdistance Gruon or his flame."

The demon did as Grimm advised, and the mage saw Gruon waving his head back and forth for a few moments, as if confused or uncertain. Then, with a snort and a small belch of flame from his nostrils, the scaly creation began to wander off into the city, the ground trembling with each step.

Grimm said, “Give me the keys to the roundhouse, Murar. I don't know if we can beat this thing or not, but we're going to need a greater force than this if we're to have any chance against him."

The Revenant stared blankly, seeming oblivious to Grimm's words. “This is punishment for our pride.

There is nothing left to do but to atone for our hubris, to be cleansed in the merciful, all-consuming fire of Uncle. It is justice..."

Grimm saw the fervid, feverish gleam in Murar's eyes, and guessed that the old man had surrendered his rationality. There could be no reasoning with him, and the mage knew his best course of action might be to humour the almost catatonic Revenant.

"You are right, Murar,” he said. “All the people of Brianston should have the right to share in Gruon's mercy, including the Breeders. Give me the keys, and I'll make sure that all are cleansed."

Murar nodded slowly. “Yes, that is right and just. All should share in Uncle's bounty."

He fumbled in a pocket and produced a stub of a key, with a threaded section at one end. Grimm shook his head, and tried to keep his voice calm and gentle.

"There are two keys, Murar,” he said, “a short one for the outer door, and a much longer key for the inner one. I'll need both keys to release the Breeders."

Murar shook his head, his eyes bright with evangelical fervour. “It's all I have, Blessed Sacrifice. This is the last section of the key to the inner door. The other sections are held by other Revenants. Elamma, the Protector, holds the outer key."

Grimm stared at the useless three-inch stub, his entrails churning with frustration.

Perhaps I could pick the locks, he mused, but he noted the key's complex angles and projections.

Despite his early life in his grandfather's smithy, he had no idea of the workings of locks, and he realised that his chances of success were slim. Perhaps the only chance was for Shakkar to lift the prisoners out through the ragged hole in the rotunda's roof.

He stifled a groan as he realised how long that process might take.

I guess we don't have much choice—I'm no locksmith or thief...

Thief! All we need to do is to free Crest! I'm sure he can open the doors, if anyone can.

"Shakkar,” he said, his voice trembling with intensity, “we must get Crest out; he's a master thief! Surely he can pick the lock, if anyone can."

"Very well, Lord Baron.” The demon shook dust and detritus from his wings, “but I insist you stay here, safe from the dragon."

Grimm shook his head. “I'm responsible for this mess, Shakkar. In any case, I'm not sure anywhere's safe from Gruon. If he takes to his wings, he could level the whole place. I'm coming with you. That's ...

that's an order, Lord Seneschal."

It felt strange to issue such an imperative to the towering, grey being, but Shakkar nodded slowly. “Very well, Lord Baron,” he said, his voice free of the least trace of rancour. “I will take you."

The demon hoisted the young mage into the air and headed for the rotunda, and Grimm saw a trail of destruction as they approached it. Gruon stalked through the streets, knocking down real and imaginary walls and small buildings with his tail, scorching the hapless Brianstonians with his fiery breath.

The casual carnage appalled the mage, its effect undiminished by the fact that some of the citizens sang joyously as they burned. The walls of the roundhouse bore mute testament to the sheer power of the dragon, with deep scars and blackened areas on its thick walls, and Grimm feared the golden creature might bring the whole structure down on the heads of his companions and the Breeders inside.

At least Gruon seems more interested by the Brianstonians than by us, he thought, as Shakkar came to a halt over the jagged opening in the dome and began to descend into the interior.

The scene inside the roundhouse was no less chaotic than the streets of Brianston, as hordes of Breeders, their faces contorted in rage, hammered at the invisible walls of Guy's ward.

Shakkar thumped to the floor, and the angry Realsters paused in their assault. As several of the attackers broke from the main group and turned towards him,

Grimm held up Redeemer and shouted, “Stop! Stop right there, or I'll use magic on you!"

A slender, red-headed man of maybe twenty years yelled, “You robbed us of our birthright! We have worked all our lives to gain Gruon's blessing, and you've stolen that from us!"

"If you want to die, feel free!” Grimm snapped, his patience with these suicidal idiots wearing thin.

“Gruon is awake and wreaking destruction outside. If you want to meet him, then I can arrange that! Just remember that we, too, are Realsters like you, and we'd prefer not to die.

"We regard our most treasured condition as life rather than death, and we'd rather hang onto it as long as we can. If you'll agree to stop your attack, you can all meet Uncle Gruon. If not, you'll die here, and you'll never see him at all. If death is all you want, I can oblige you there, too!"

The mage allowed a trace of green fire to flare at his fingertips, his mouth compressed into an angry, frustrated slit.

Several moments passed while the Breeders muttered and argued, until a sturdy, fleshy man stepped forward, whom Grimm recognised as the ringleader of the initial assault.

"What do you propose, mage-filth?"

"You want to meet Gruon, and we just want to get out of here,” Grimm said. “Those aims aren't incompatible. Just stop your attack, and we'll let you out. Is that agreed?"

A loud roar sounded from outside, followed by mingled screams of joy and pain, and the man nodded.

“Agreed. All right, let us meet Uncle.” The other Breeders signalled their assent.

Grimm turned to the pale, sweaty Guy Great Flame, and said, “You can drop the ward now, Brother Mage."

Guy's shoulders slumped as he cut off the stream of spell-energy. “Well, you took your sweet time, didn't you, wonder-boy?” he hissed. “I suppose you just—"

"Shut up for once in your life, and give your mouth a rest, Guy!” Grimm snapped, wandering over to the half-elf and showing him the key-stub.

"Think you can pick the lock this key fits, Crest?"

The slender thief cocked his head on one side for a few moments, as he examined the small piece of metal. “Complicated,” he said, “but I've never yet met a lock I couldn't master. The Revenants might have taken my whip and throwing-knives, but at least they left me my lock-picks."

Crest lifted his leather jacket's right lapel, to show a number of slender metal objects hidden behind it.

“Let's go,” he said.

The demon walked over to the thief, and Grimm asked, “Can you take us both, Shakkar? I may be able to shield Crest from the dragon's fire."

The Seneschal eyed the two mortals. “Neither of you is a heavyweight, Lord Baron,” he declared. “I believe I can."

The building shook as another of the dragon's blows hit home, and shards of stone fell to the floor.

"Better make it fast,” Harvel said with a nervous smile. “It sounds like Uncle Gruon's getting eager to introduce himself to us in person."

Grimm nodded. “Let's do it, Lord Seneschal."

Breath whooshed from Grimm's lungs, as Shakkar took him and Crest in a tight grip and shot towards the dome's shattered apex. He shut his eyes as the demon hurtled through the air.

In a few moments, he felt his feet touching solid ground again, and he opened his eyes. He was outside the Breeder compound's outer door.

The building shuddered again, and Shakkar released his mortal burden.

"We may not have much time, Crest,” Grimm said, rubbing his aching ribs as the huge building trembled again.

The half-elf drew a succession of spindly implements from his jacket and knelt before the first, oversized lock, his expression calm and intent.

"It'll take me a few moments, Questor,” he said, as the mage honed his senses for the first signs of the approach of the golden destroyer.

Grimm nodded, clamping down on his emotions as the building shuddered again.

Crest nodded, probing the lock with a succession of tools. Despite the sounds of devastation around him, the thief appeared unaffected, his entire attention focused on the problem at hand.

Gruon howled, and Grimm could tell the golden dragon was getting ever closer.

Come on, Crest, he thought, drawing Redeemer close to his side. We don't have an awful lot of time, now.

The lock emitted a decisive click, and Crest grinned. “That's got it. One down, one to go!"

With a theatrical flourish, the thief flung the first door wide and scuttled inside the small inner hall. Grimm heard the growing sound of thumping and turned to face the demon.

"Hold still, Shakkar,” he muttered. “Gruon's on his way, and that room's too small for the three of us."

As the dragon hove into view, the demon growled, drawing Gruon's attention. The feral, green eyes fastened on him, and Grimm spread himself out in the narrow doorway, trusting in his borrowed charm to protect him if the dragon's fire struck him.

Gruon lowered his red-crested head until it was almost level with Grimm's, and the mage tried not to gag at the golden creature's oily, stifling breath. The reptilian snout hovered over him, and Grimm saw the nostrils opening and closing in a regular, rhythmic sequence. The gleaming, green eyes seemed to bore into him, and he saw no trace of compassion or mercy in those emerald orbs.

He flicked a glance down at the small, magical gem at his breast. It looked puny and pathetic, incapable of protecting him against Gruon's ferocious stream of death. He held his breath, and he could tell even the fearless Shakkar was doing the same.

The dragon snorted, stomped and thrashed his tail, and a stray Brianstonian came into view, his face suffused with joy. “Take me to your bosom, beloved Uncle—"

Faster than thought, the slender head whipped around. The joyous celebrant turned to ash in an instant, consumed by a gust of shimmering, blue flame. Gruon began to wander towards the carbonised remains, and Grimm suppressed a sigh of relief as the dragon walked away.

We've made it! he thought. All we need to do is—

"Got it!” crowed Crest, from inside the vestibule, and the dragon stopped in his tracks at the joyous cry.

Gruon snorted, knocking a building to its foundations with a single blow of his muscular tail, and Grimm stumbled, revealing himself to the dragon's limited sight as the cold, green eyes focused on him.

"Crest, Shakkar!” he screamed, as the dragon began to turn. “Get inside, and get everyone away from the doorway! NOW!"

He had no idea if his order had been obeyed or not; all he saw was the cold, vengeful mask of Gruon, whose attention was now, undeniably, locked upon him.

The dragon roared, paining the mage's ears. Gruon closed his mouth, and a blue wall of flame hit Grimm like a tidal wave, washing over him and threatening to consume him. He crouched, as if it might lessen the effect of the scorching stream, but he felt the temperature rising as the heat of the dragon's ire began to overcome the small gem's protection.

As the blue flames licked at him, Grimm felt the angry stirrings of affronted testosterone within him.

Damn you, dream-lizard! he raged in his head. I'm not about to submit to this!

"Ag-hi'y'AAAAAR” he yelled, launching a spell of Dissolution at the enormous creature's head. He shut his eyes, giving the spell all power he could spare, and he heard a deafening scream from the dragon as the magic lashed its scaly body.

Jerking his eyes open, he saw Gruon backing away, but he felt a cold tremor of horror run down his spine.

The potent spell did little more than darken a few scales around the dragon's face. However, Grimm also noted the golden being's tightly-shut eyes, and the tight concentration of scales around the focus of the spell.

Without waiting to think further, he spat a spell he thought of as ‘Ice Spears’ at the creature, and he saw Gruon's scales close around the impact points of the sharp spikes, extracted from the humid air. The projectiles shattered harmlessly on the beast's metallic hide.

Nonetheless, Gruon stepped backwards again demolishing another small building behind him, and Grimm knew he had at least surprised the dragon.

His innate power exhausted, the mage drew on Redeemer's stored energy and repulsed the golden, metallic beast, sending him flying backwards in a cartwheel of wings and legs. Gruon floundered and screamed in rage as he thrashed.

From behind him, he dimly heard the voice of Quelgrum: “That's all we need, Lord Baron! Let's get out of here!"

However, the Questor shook his head, revelling at the heady sensation of the hot, angry blood pounding within him. He shook off a hand on his right shoulder, hungry for victory.

The dragon closed his mouth and spat a further gout of fire at Grimm, this time knocking the mage from his feet.

Gruon is mine! the mage thought, scrambling to his feet. He's scared of me!

The dragon lurched from the rubble and howled, launching a blue tower of fire into the evening sky.

Grimm spat another spell, and the magnificent monster's scales contracted again in response, snuffing the flame in an instant.

Those scales are strong on the outside, but can they protect Gruon from the inside? the young Questor wondered, feeling strong arms closing around him. I know now you can't launch flame with your mouth open.

With almost contemptuous ease, he shook off the constraining arms and looked at the uncertain face of the dragon. That huge maw, with its spear-like teeth, began to open, and Grimm smiled.

Open wide, he thought, and his subconscious drove him to an act his conscious mind would never have considered: launching himself bodily into the gaping mouth.

Wedging the indestructible Redeemer into Gruon's jaws, Grimm slid into the tunnel-sized throat, slipping past huge, yellow teeth into a slimy, red passage into a cavernous, acidic pool.

The Questor gagged at the heavy, metallic odours assailing his nose, and he snapped a strong ward around himself. Despite his disgusting surroundings, he smiled, protected from the corrosive slime around him by his swift, instinctive spell. Here, Gruon could not harm him.

Without bothering to create illumination, Grimm launched a bolt of flame upward through the slimy gullet.

"Say goodnight, Uncle,” he said, and his world flashed into a formless void of pain, heat, clamour and unconsciousness in the space of a single heartbeat.

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Chapter 24: Reawakening

Grimm heard nothing but pops, squeals and whines at first. Bright spots of light danced in his closed eyes, and he wondered if he were dead and in some bizarre, formless Purgatory.

"...up, Lord Baron! Please wake up!"

From some dark recess of his brain, Grimm recognised Shakkar's deep, rumbling voice, and he sought to comply with the urgent entreaty. He tried to open his eyes, but he gave up the effort; it felt as if some sadistic torturer were thrusting sharp, red-hot needles into them.

As awareness flooded through him, he felt a myriad aches and pains clamouring and competing for his attention: his head felt as if it had been split open with an axe, his arms and legs ached abominably, his lungs burned, and even the individual hairs on his head and body seemed to hurt.

At last, he managed to open his eyes and keep them open, although the bright speckles continued to play on his retinas. He was lying at the bottom of a deep pit, with Shakkar and Quelgrum standing over him.

"I'm all right,” Grimm croaked “What ... what happened here?"

"Gruon's dead,” Quelgrum said, in a hushed, reverent tone. “He just exploded. We found you in the crater. What on earth did you do, Questor?"

"I cast a small Fire spell at him,” Grimm said, his voice growing stronger by the minute.

"That was a small spell?” The warrior's disbelief was patent in his wide eyes.

"I cast it on him from the inside,” the Questor said, managing to sit up. “I saw his scales contract every time he was attacked, blocking swords, spears and spells. I hopped down his throat to see what a spell from the inside would do. I had no idea this would happen."

"I think I can guess,” Quelgrum declared. “I imagine Gruon was full of some inflammable liquid or gas that combusted on exposure to the air; to produce flame, he snorted a small amount of the stuff out from his nostrils. You set the whole lot off at once. I'm astonished to see you're unhurt."

"Not exactly,” Grimm said, rubbing his brow and face. “I was under the protection of a ward, and I have a gem that protects me against flame.

"Or, at least, that's what it's supposed to do,” he continued, looking down at the scorched rags he now wore. His bare arms were scaly and lobster-pink, as if he had been exposed to the full desert sun for too long, and he felt crisp, crumbly nodules in his beard. “Still, I guess I got off pretty lightly, under the circumstances."

With a cold shock, he realised that Gruon had been almost directly outside the entrance to the Breeder pen. The explosion might have been channelled straight into the roundhouse!

"How's everybody else?” he asked, his voice panicky and his eyes wide as he tried to scramble to his feet. “The Breeders, the others—"

"It's not pretty, Lord Baron,” the General said, putting a firm hand on the Questor's right shoulder. “I won't sugar-coat it for you or try to pretend otherwise. Three Breeders are dead; a dozen others are injured; Questor Guy's lost his eyebrows and most of his beard. Erik was lucky enough to fall into a crowd of Brianstonians who broke his fall; he has a badly sprained ankle. Numal's concussed."

"Crest and Tordun; what about them, General?"

The soldier's grip on his shoulder tightened. “Tordun may have lost his sight, Lord Baron. We don't know yet—"

"And Crest? What about Crest?” Grimm cried, his voice an octave above its normal register.

"Crest is dead, Lord Baron,” Shakkar rumbled. “He had his back to the full force of the blast. It is only because of him that the death toll is not worse."

Grimm groaned, feeling hot tears prickling at his eyes and a lump in his throat. He had never been close to the half-elf; nobody was, save Harvel. However, he had known the nimble, resourceful thief since his very first Quest. The cheerful exchange of insults between Crest and his foppish friend had brightened up some dark times; now, that morale-boosting banter would be lost.

I did this! Grimm slapped a hand over his eyes in an attempt to blot out the thought of the loss of his companion. Just because I wanted to show Guy I was the stronger mage!

He bit his trembling lower lip, shaking with the effort not to break down as he had after his first abortive expedition in the astral plane.

"Four dead here; maybe a score more outside the walls,” Quelgrum said. “With the doors wide open, Gruon could have torched all of us, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have rested until everyone in Brianston was dead. That's not much consolation right now, I know, but that's warfare."

"I didn't have to wake him up!” The words ripped through Grimm's larynx like blades. “I could have let him sleep on, and we'd have been out of here by now. Crest would still be alive."

"Do you think the Brianstonians would have been willing to take the risk of allowing Gruon to wake?”

Shakkar demanded. “They might have been happy to let us leave, but, sooner or later, they would have started their sacrifices again. If not, they would have been facing a massacre. You have ended the slavery of generations of mortals. You should feel proud of that."

Grimm tried to concentrate, but he could not tear his mind from the image of the living Crest, arguing with his bosom friend, Harvel.

"I don't,” Grimm said, fighting his combative emotions. “Maybe I will in a few years, but I just feel empty right now."

The mage knew he could not face the Breeders or his other companions at this time, and that inaction might make him increasingly morbid. Part of him wanted to raze this abomination to the ground, to destroy every living Revenant and Dreamster, whilst another recognised the irrational hatred within him.

"I need to see Murar,” Grimm said, in a harsh monotone, “right now. Is he still alive?” With a grunt, he managed to rise to his feet and remain upright.

The General's brow furrowed. “Is that wise, Lord Baron?"

Grimm looked the old soldier right in the eyes. “Let me get this straight, General,” he said. “I want to kill the old bastard with every fibre of my being. But I won't. Before we leave here, I want to ensure that every Realster here is respected and treated the same as any other Brianstonian. I also want to get our wagon and supplies back. If you won't come with me, I'll go alone. When we've finished, we'll be on our way."

Shakkar and Quelgrum exchanged worried glances. “We'll go with you, Lord Grimm,” the General said.

“You may be a little ... unpopular right now, if the truth gets out. You did kill their ‘god', after all."

Grimm tried to smile, but he knew that his mouth had just twisted into a humourless, twisted grimace. “I don't care about, ‘popular',” he growled. “Right now, I'd be happy with ‘feared'. If that's the only reaction I can muster, I'll be satisfied.

"Redeemer!"

The obedient, indestructible staff slapped into his open palm. Not waiting for a reaction from his companions, Grimm began to stride out of the massive crater, his confidence increasing as his legs grew stronger.

As he rounded the corner, with the demon and the soldier at his back, he saw a crowd of weeping Brianstonians. One of them wore the robes of a Revenant, and he pointed at the mage. “That's Uncle's killer,” he spat, his face contorted in a grimace of rage. “He—"

"And how many of you were killed by your so-called ‘loving Uncle'?” Grimm demanded, cutting the Revenant off. “If death's all you want, I can oblige you right now, you dragon-loving vampire! Where's Murar?

"I asked where Murar is, blood-drinker! Answer me!"

The force of the mage's demand, aided by just a hint of magical Compulsion, seemed to mollify the Revenant, but he still retained a trace of defiance.

"How do I know you won't hurt him?"

"You don't,” Grimm snarled. “I can destroy Brianston and all of you in it, including Murar, if you want.

Don't test my temper—you'll come off worse, I promise you."

The Revenant said nothing, but one of the Dreamsters pointed towards the shattered remnants of Gruon's temple. “He's leading a vigil,” she said, a middle-aged woman with a soot-stained face, with clear streaks marking the passage of tears. “Just go away and do whatever you want—murderer."

The crowd parted to let Grimm through, but they jostled him as he walked by, muttering imprecations at him.

Murderer, Traitor's Spawn; it's all the same, Grimm thought. Nobody likes me...

Except for Drex, he thought, as the image of his illicit love filled his mind. I'll spare this worthless bunch of dragon-worshippers for her sake.

"I won't harm Murar,” he muttered to himself, his voice dull and unemotional as he marched through the restless mass of Brianstonians in his tattered, scorched robes.

* * * *

Lizaveta gazed into her crystal as the dragon lowered his golden, magnificent head towards the tiny figure of Grimm Afelnor.

A shame, she thought. He would have proved a useful consort ... still, I thought that even he might have problems with Brianston. Oh, well ... what?

The young Questor muttered a phrase the Prioress could not hear, and he leapt straight into the gaping maw of Gruon.

Suicide?

Her mental question was answered in a moment, as the golden creature exploded in a tumultuous shower of flame. The green globe grew hot in her hands, and she jerked them from its surface in pain, feeling her palms sting as she did so.

She fell back in her comfortable chair, wiping damp, white tendrils of hair from her face. Her long bones pained her, as pangs of rheumatism tormented them, but she was no stranger to pain; it told her she was still alive. Nonetheless, although she would never have admitted it to another, she felt the accumulated burden of many, many years. Young Afelnor had become harder and harder to scry, as his power grew and multiplied.

That was so like dear Loras at the same age, she thought, to charge into the breach so thoughtlessly.

She turned to the girl crouched by her side. “Grimm Afelnor is dead,” she said, with a deep sigh.

"That is a shame,” Weranda replied. “I had visions of him begging for mercy at my feet."

"That is life, Sister. However, you still have your vocation: something nobody can take from you."

Sister Weranda bowed, touching her forehead to the floor. “That, my Lady, is a great comfort for me,”

she said. “I thank the Order for my salvation, and I look forward to serving you in the future."

Lizaveta sighed. She found it hard to clear the image of the callow, impetuous young mage from her mind.

“Carry on, Novice,” she muttered. “It will soon be time for the evening Devotions.

"Bless you, my dear."

"Bless you, Reverend Mother.” Weranda got to her feet, and the Prioress felt a glow of pleasure at the Novice's beatific smile and modestly-lowered eyes.

As the girl glided towards the door, Lizaveta replaced her hands on the now-cool globe. Gazing into the glass sphere, she saw a scene of utter devastation.

However, at the base of a massive crater, she could just make out a tiny, blackened figure. Fighting the growing ache in her head, she looked closer, to see the unmistakable figure of the young Questor. His clothes were tattered and his face was blackened, and she saw a pair of figures racing towards him: the demon and the Technological warrior.

As she watched, the pain in her temples increased, and she saw Afelnor stirring; his face was confused and contorted, but he still lived. The hissing in her ears precluded hearing, and her vision began to blur as consciousness began to fill the young man. She felt a cold thrill as those dark eyes stared up into the void, meeting hers for a few, brief moments.

She had learnt the art of scrying many decades ago under the strict but impersonal rod of Prioress Acaresta, and she had soon proved herself her teacher's superior in this skill ... and also in the use of other, more sinister magic. She allowed herself a small, tight smile at the memory of the old lady's horrified expression as Lizaveta had torn her soul from her body to become the next ruler of the Order.

Never had she felt such power pushing back at her from the sphere—except in that triumphant moment, long ago, when she knew, at last, that her Great Spell had succeeded in suppressing Loras Afelnor's formidable Questor will. She had had dreams of controlling his thoughts, desires and talents for her own ends, but her nerve had failed at the last moment, and she had chosen her idiot son, Thorn, over Loras.

For three decades, she had regretted that moment; it would have been so much better to have that potent will as her own, instead of wasting it. She had been so much younger then, and she had not then realised that her inner strength was so much greater than that of any man ever born, be he Mage or Secular. She wanted to control not only her own little empire, but also the hateful patriarchy of the Guild.

Still, those ebon eyes spoke of such sheer force; perhaps even greater than Loras'. This time, she would not make the same mistake. She felt sure that the boy, Grimm, under careful guidance, could rise to the rank of Dominie, giving her complete control over the hated Guild that had suppressed and minimised her kind.

Thorn was pathetic and worthless, with little more willpower than a jellyfish, and the Prioress already suspected that he had sent Grimm Afelnor to destroy her. Thorn's illegitimate son, Guy, had seemed more promising at first, but he was capricious and egotistical, interested only in his own wealth and appearance. Possessed of great power he might be, but Lizaveta could not see how he might ever become a useful playing piece in High Lodge's political game.

She had courted three mages in her life: Questor Loras, who had thrown her amorous pretence back in her face; Dominie Horin, who had been saved only by the actions of Grimm Afelnor; and the long-dead Questor Shemmanier, who died on a difficult Quest shortly after she had beguiled him into impregnating her with Thorn.

This irked the Prioress, who had patiently undergone the pregnancy and the birth only in the hope of using her illegitimate son as a lever to bring to bear upon the potent Questor, a rising star in the Guild firmament.

Grimm looked to be at least as powerful as his grandfather. However, she had first met the older Afelnor when he was thirty-five years of age, in full control of his powers and senses. She had flattered and cozened him for a while, and Loras had seemed more than interested, even if he had drawn back from a physical relationship. She, playing the coquette, had pushed further, and Loras had rebuffed her.

Lizaveta now knew that she had been foolish to react in such a manner to Afelnor's peremptory rejection.

She knew she had never been beguiling and desirable, even in her youth, and she had been a fool to imagine she had been. However, she had not only her own, considerable power, but that of her whole Order upon which to call.

Not to mention the power of the young Afelnor's paramour, who, even now, must be lying spread-eagled on the cold chapel floor, proclaiming her everlasting devotion to her beloved Prioress.

Lizaveta stared into the green globe, transfixed, as the young Questor shot to his feet, and she looked into his stony face for a few seconds before the sphere shattered into tiny, hot shards.

The Prioress welcomed the pain of the sharp fragments on her hands and the scalp of her quickly-lowered head; she knew the young man was ready, and she relished the warm sensation of the streams of blood running down her face. The cold thrill of adolescent power flooded through Lizaveta, rejuvenating her. Now, in this self-accusing realisation of loss, Grimm was hers, whether he knew it or not.

The callow, unpredictable, juvenile Questor was dead at last; in his place stood a lethal Weapon of the Guild. This was what she had wanted all along. Lizaveta considered giving the good news to Novice Drex—Weranda—, but she reasoned that it could wait until after Devotions.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 25: Back On The Road

The once-pristine city of Brianston now looked as if it had been hit by a tornado, after the brief battle.

Gruon had toppled several small buildings, and Grimm saw many scorched bodies and piles of ash, mute testament to the power of the dream-creature's awful flame weapon.

Even the huge, solid stone roundhouse in which the Breeders and Sacrifices had been confined bore many scars and blackened areas on its thick, metal-reinforced walls.

"It looks like it'll take a fair amount of reconstruction, Lord Baron” Quelgrum observed, walking just behind Grimm's right shoulder. “I could send a team of engineers from Crar."

Grimm could not have cared less if the whole place crumbled to the ground."We have a Quest to fulfil, General,” he said. “Or had you forgotten?"

"I do not forget my duty, my Lord."

The officer's voice was low and calm, but Grimm realised he must have stung the old soldier with this unnecessary, rhetorical barb. A little diplomacy might be advisable.

"Of course not, General,” he said, trying to inject a conciliatory note into his voice. “You are a devoted and trustworthy officer, and I beg forgiveness for any implication to the contrary. That was unfair of me."

"There's no need to apologise, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum replied. “We're all under a lot of stress right now, I guess. Let's get this over with, and we can get back on the road.

"That must be Murar's vigil, Lord Baron,” he said, as a huddled crowd of Brianstonians came into view in front of the shattered ruins of Gruon's temple, weeping, moaning and screaming.

I could have guessed that, idiot!

Grimm bit back the harsh words before they reached his lips, restricting himself to a simple nod.

As the three companions approached the devotees, several citizens looked up at them. A few hurled insults and imprecations, but they did not attempt to attack. Nonetheless, neither did they move aside, blocking the passage of Grimm and his two companions.

"Please stand aside, friends,” Quelgrum said, moving ahead of the Questor. “We mean you no harm. We just want to see Revenant Murar."

The Brianstonians made no move to comply with the soldier's request, but Shakkar's low, threatening growl had the desired effect, and several Dreamsters scuttled aside, some remaining on their hands and knees as they did so. A clear path opened up, and Grimm saw a bright scarlet flash in the centre of the crowd, easily visible amidst the grey and brown robes of the ordinary citizens.

The Questor felt his teeth grinding as he looked at the old man; a picture of devotion, he might be, but he had brought up countless human beings as mindless cattle, expected to go to their deaths with a song on their lips. He felt nothing but hatred for the Revenant, and he felt the power building in his pounding head.

"May I handle this, Lord Baron? Please?"

The General's tone was deferent, but Grimm recognised the urgency contained within it. He had to acknowledge that his skills of negotiation were not good at the best of times, and this was not one of them. As if in a dream, he nodded.

"Go ahead, General."

"Haven't you done enough?” the Revenant cried. “Please, just leave us in peace."

"We will do so, Revenant Murar,” Quelgrum said, “as soon as you have considered a few additional matters."

"What do you want?” the old man demanded, tears running down his face.

"First of all,” the soldier said in a cool, businesslike tone, “we require our wagon, our horses, our weapons and our supplies."

Murar climbed to his feet. “They're all in the storehouse, over there, Realster,” he said, pointing to a small building to the north of the Breeder pen. “The horses have been well treated and fed; we are not monsters."

Grimm, clenched his teeth, biting back a bitter rejoinder; Quelgrum's style of negotiation was less likely to lead to unnecessary bloodshed than a self-serving tirade.

"If that is all you require, we have no need to talk any further,” Murar said, but the soldier shook his head.

"We have other demands, Revenant."

"What are they, Realster? Perhaps you wish us all to commit suicide?"

Quelgrum sighed. “Murar, this war was not of our making. You seized us for the purpose of providing blood for Uncle Gruon. Would you have submitted willingly to such a fate? Under those circumstances, would you have risked your life to spare the very people who took you prisoner?"

"Perhaps not,” the Revenant admitted, “but we were desperate. Very well; what more do you want from us?"

Grimm squeezed his eyes shut and heaved a hacking sigh.

If I'm to lead this expedition, I have to take charge, he thought, marshalling his emotions.

"Excuse me, General,” he said. “I'd like to say a few words."

Quelgrum nodded. “Of course, Lord Baron."

Grimm stepped forward. “Revenant Murar,” he said. “I allowed you to live when I could have let Brianston vanish into nothingness, and you with it. I acted in your interests, while it would have been easier to let you all die.

"I only killed Gruon when he began to lay waste to Brianston, threatening to kill me and my companions."

"Agreed,” Murar said. “However, you were the one who awoke Uncle and killed him. Why could you not have just left us, allowing him to sleep on?"

The Questor shrugged. “The simple answer to that is that I was foolish and impetuous. However, I do not regret my decision: if we had gone, you would have continued your enslavement of Realsters to provide Gruon with their blood. I cannot, and will not, allow that situation to continue.

"Gruon is dead,” he said, giving the final word considerable emphasis. “Yes, I killed him, and I do not regret that. Yet you still live, and so do the others of my kind. If you wish to die, I can achieve that in the space of a single breath. I can do that; indeed, I want to do that, for all the pain and anguish you have visited upon blameless travellers over the space of decades. I despise you; I spit on your philosophy and on this maudlin grief over the death of an insane man's creation.

"You worshipped Gruon because he gave you life, but he is dead, while you still live, due to my actions, not yours. Whether you realised it or not, you worshipped death itself; death for people like me!"

Quelgrum turned to his Baron, his eyes wide. “Er ... Lord Baron, I really think..."

"I'd really like to kill them, General,” he muttered. “But I won't, if I can get what we want—some sort of fair treatment for the Breeders."

The warrior shrugged. “You're still in charge, Lord Baron,” he whispered.

Murar shrugged. “So? What else do you demand of us, mage?"

"I want freedom for the Breeders, old man; integration into the very life of the city. Right now, they feel cheated because I have robbed them of their deaths, while you cry that you no longer have anyone to whom to sacrifice them."

"Breeders?” a young, female Dreamster screamed. “Haven't you done enough to us, murderer? Do you now want us to be ruled by those mindless, pathetic Realsters?"

"Do you want to live or die?” Grimm snapped at the now-murmuring crowd. “If you want to live, I can leave things just as they are, if you agree to a few, simple changes. If all you want is to die, I can achieve that in a moment. It is a simple enough question; answer me!

"Will it be death or life?"

"We want to live as we were!"

Grimm could not tell who screamed those words, but he did not care. He knew he could wipe out these people in the blink of an eye, if the need arose.

"My apologies,” he said through gritted teeth, “I cannot bring back Gruon, and I would not do so if I could. I'm not asking about ‘maybe’ or ‘perhaps', but about what you have, right now! If you have any problem with the concept of treating the former Breeders decently, I'll just snuff this bloody city out like a candle! That's all there is.

"Die, in the sure knowledge you've stayed true to your perverted little philosophy,” he said, allowing flame to flicker around his fingertips, “or live, and try to give these poor, pathetic Breeders a fair chance in this city. You never know, you might just find they can help you, after all. All you need to do is to persuade them that they really don't have to die to make a useful contribution to Brianston."

"Is this intended as some kind of bribe?” Murar demanded.

Grimm smiled, although he knew there was little humour in the expression. “If you want to call it that, Revenant, then it is."

He paused to let the words sink in, trying to keep the rising agony in his head from showing on his face.

“We will be leaving shortly. However, we intend to come back this way when we've finished. If the Breeders are still treated as slaves, or if they're dead, then I'll just put an end to you!

"I don't want you to let them run the city, regardless of their abilities, but just to give them a chance.

Support and help them, and I'll be happy.

"Just teach them that they don't have to die in order to serve this city. Is that really too much to ask?"

"Just take your belongings, Realster,” Murar growled. “We will go along with your unreasonable conditions, but we'll not put the Breeders on any sort of pedestal."

Grimm opened his mouth, trying to laugh, but only a harsh groan emerged. He felt the firm hand of the General on his shoulder.

"I don't think you can ask for much more than that, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum whispered into his ear.

“Please, just let it rest here. You've done enough."

It would be so much easier to just kill the whole lot of them, Grimm thought, rubbing his aching brow as his mouth twisted into a painful moue. I never thought I'd have to deal with people like this...

He had stayed his tears ever since he had heard of Crest's death and Tordun's blindness, and it had seemed easy now to hold them in. Nevertheless, he found it impossible to speak, and he flapped his hands like a beached seal. His heart felt like a cold, heavy stone, and he shivered in the grip of what seemed like a shroud of ice, his eyes burning.

The mage's arms and legs seemed beyond his control, and he saw the ground wavering beneath him.

"Please, Lord Baron, come with me,” Quelgrum said, wrapping his arms around the young man's shoulders.

In an instant, Grimm felt himself drifting away from the massed crowd of Brianstonians.

It seemed that he moved for a long time, although it might have been only for a few minutes. As if from a great distance, he heard the General's voice: “He's seen too much, too soon, Lord Seneschal ... poor kid's never had any childhood ... been plunged straight into it ... tortured..."

* * * *

"I killed Crest! Let me kill them!” The tortured words and hysterical laughter burst from someone far away, decaying into nothing; the mage could not be sure of their source.

He was a rabbit-warren, with small, fugitive creatures scuttling through his enormous, cavernous limbs, into his vastly-extended fingers and toes. Grimm had ceased to be: in his place was a busy community of burrowing creatures, running over and under and through him.

I am an ... it ... I am eternity! I am ... nothing!

The rhythm of the universe sang in his head, a sweet symphony of nothingness; a pretty fugue for a bland, meaningless and worthless life. From leagues away came the faint, sonorous, repetitive crescendo: Murderer, Traitor's Spawn, Heretic, Pauper...

Long, loud laughter ... somebody's arms and legs hurt, but he was not certain whose...

Someone was crying, but nobody's grief could be this powerful...

A long scream, drifting off into a long, dark corridor...

* * * *

The world rumbled, shuddered and hurt.

Rough hands. Hot, sweet coffee. Too much!

"That's ... that's enough.” This time, Grimm knew the spluttered words were his own. “Thank you."

Opening his eyes, he looked up to see Numal standing over him. The Questor found himself lying on a straw mattress in one of the Breeder cells, covered by a thin, woollen blanket.

"How long has it been, Numal?” he croaked.

"Two days,” the Necromancer replied, his face ashen. “I was quite good at Herbalism and Healing, so I've been tending you."

"I failed us all, again,” Grimm said. “I guess I don't have the self-control or presence to lead a group of adventurers. I don't know what came over me there..."

The Necromancer shook his head. “It wasn't loss of self-control, Grimm, it was concussion,” he said.

“It's a wonder you managed to stay conscious as long as you did after that explosion."

The door opened, and Quelgrum walked in, a metal weapon in its accustomed place at his side. “Good to see you back with us, Lord Baron,” he said. “How do you feel?"

Grimm shrugged. “Numb. Strange."

With Numal's aid, he managed to sit up, the blanket sliding to the floor. He was naked, but he did not care.

"What's been happening since I've been away, General?” he demanded, his tone rather more brusque than he had intended.

The soldier shrugged. “I've been talking to Revenant Murar at some length, Lord Baron, and giving advice on the reconstruction of Brianston. A few of the older Breeders have been co-opted onto the Council alongside the Revenants. Most of them realise they don't really want to die just yet, after all, and I think they're beginning to persuade a lot of the others. Murar's issued an edict that the Sacrifices are at an end.

"It's not exactly one big, happy family yet, but just give it time. After all, they've got to change their whole accustomed way of life."

"Crest, Tordun and the others—how are they?"

"Crest got a decent burial,” the General said. “Some of the Breeders have erected a little monument to him; they realise that, by getting in the way of the blast, he saved a lot of them. Tordun's still poorly, but he's regained at least some of his eyesight. He can already tell the difference between light and shadow, although I reckon his fighting days are over.

"Questor Guy is working off a lot of energy by helping with the demolition work, although you'd think he was running the whole thing.

"However, the real force behind the work is Seneschal Shakkar. There's even talk of erecting a statue to him, too, although Guy thinks there should be one of him, instead—he's a little tetchy about the affair."

"That sounds like my dear Brother Mage,” Grimm said, smiling. “How is Harvel?"

The General shrugged. “A little ... strange; he won't be coming with us, Lord Baron. He says he's had it with a warrior's life, and he wants to be a farmer here in Brianston. He's taken Crest's death quite badly."

Grimm sighed and nodded. “They were like brothers."

"Harvel doesn't blame you at all, Questor Grimm. Some of the Breeders and the other citizens weren't too keen on you after you defeated Gruon, but he stood up to them. He wants to see you before we leave."

Grimm shook his head. “I'm not sure that's a good idea, General. Perhaps it's better if—"

"Is there room in here for another one?” a cheery, familiar voice called, and the mage turned to see Harvel squeezing into the room. Grimm felt astonished to see plain working clothes instead of the warrior's usual, colourful regalia.

"I heard you were awake, Questor Grimm,” he said, smiling.

"Harvel, I'm so sorry about—"

"Enough said, Lord Mage,” the sword-master said, quickly. “The life of a warrior is a dangerous one, and both Crest and I knew the risks when we signed up."

"But now you've had enough?"

Harvel nodded. “I'm getting too old and too slow for this way of life, mage. Sooner or later, some young upstart will come along and hand me my head. Crest's death has made me think a lot about myself, and I've decided to take things a little easier from now on. I find this new life agrees with me."

"It does look good on you, Harvel,” the Questor agreed, admiring the warrior's tanned, athletic appearance.

Harvel grasped Grimm's right hand in his own. “Good luck, Questor. I do hope you find what you're looking for—I have."

With that, he was gone.

"When can we leave, General?” Grimm asked, thinking ahead to the Quest. He wanted, more than anything, to be able to bury the memory of this bizarre town. The soldier sat on the mattress beside him.

"Whenever you feel fit enough, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said. “Perhaps a few days—"

"I feel fit enough right now, General. I'd like to have a meeting with the whole team as soon as possible.

We have a job to do, and we've wasted too much time as it is."

The old soldier looked Grimm right in the eyes, and nodded slowly. “If you're sure you're all right,” he said.

"I am. And get me some Names-cursed clothes!"

"At once, Lord Baron!"

* * * *

The remaining members of the team, now including Shakkar and Sergeant Erik, stood before the young Questor in the roundhouse's main plaza.

"We leave tonight,” Grimm declared, resplendent in new blue-and-yellow silk robes. “The Quest goes on."

"My, aren't we the cool one?” Guy said, with more than a trace of the expected sneer. “Still think you can handle it without blubbing your eyes out?"

Grimm knew he should feel angry at the older Questor's habitual disdain for him, but he did not.

"I apologise to all of you for my earlier, juvenile outburst,” he said, his voice loud and clear. “My attitude was unbecoming of a Guild Mage, and I assure you now that it will not recur. My duty comes first, and I will not forget that. Are you all with me?"

All signalled their enthusiastic assent except for Guy, who rolled his eyes.

"So our little Dragonbluster is getting all tough now, is he? Isn't that nice? Perhaps we can—"

"My cognomen is Dragonblaster, Questor Guy; a title now earned in deed. Do not forget it again!"

He locked his eyes on Guy's, compressing his mouth into a tight slit. Long moments passed as each mage stared at the other. Grimm felt his own, dark eyes watering as he poured his inner strength into the stare.

A bead of sweat ran down the Guy's right cheek, and the younger mage thought he saw a trace of a quiver in Guy's lips. Still, he did not look away.

At last, Guy averted his eyes. “All right, youngster; if it means that much to you, I won't forget it,” he muttered.

Grimm was not about to give up now."What is my title, Great Flame? Say it!"

"Your name is ‘Dragonblaster'.” The word was a whisper.

Still, Guy did not meet Grimm's burning eyes, looking everywhere but at his rival's face.

"All right: you are Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster!

"Have we finished with these games now, Questor Grimm?"

"We have, Questor Guy. Will you, at last, accept my leadership of this Quest?"

The Great Flame shrugged. “I suppose so, Dragonblaster. If it makes you happy, yes, you're in charge."

Grimm decided to let the matter slide. He had faced down the contumacious mage and asserted his dominance. That would do for now.

"The wagon's provisioned and waiting, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said. “Awaiting your orders, Sir!"

The others looked at him—Grimm Afelnor, the blacksmith's boy—and he felt a trace of pride leaking through his new-found composure.

"Let's ride, General. Nothing can stop us now."

"Famous last words,” Guy muttered, as the group strode to the shattered remains of the rotunda's main doorway, but Grimm chose to ignore him.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 26: Talking Treason

Uttering a deep sigh, Dalquist rubbed his sore eyes and leant back in his chair. He had discharged his Scholasticate duties for the day and, despite the late hour and an abominable headache, he did not feel tired. Since his discovery of Prelate Thorn's part in Questor Loras’ downfall, he had slept little, wondering how he might produce real, concrete evidence of the Prelate's treachery that would influence the Conclave and the Presidium.

Lord Thorn's a House Prelate and a full member of the Presidium, he thought, not for the first time. Any proof I can find will have to be very, very convincing.

Dalquist drummed his fingers on his desk, cudgelling his brain for the least iota of information that might aid him in his covert Quest. Some change in Loras’ personality immediately before his disgrace, perhaps?

Doorkeeper knew Loras well, he mused, but getting a coherent story out of him is like trying to catch a greased rabbit while wearing lead boots...

He had once before attempted to elicit firm memories from the old man concerning the affair, but he knew that Doorkeeper's vague rambling would never suffice as a watertight case.

Rising to his feet, he summoned Shakhmat and made his way down the stairs to the East Wing; perhaps the well-stocked Scholasticate library would hold some clue he could use. He held out little hope; he had spent many hours scanning through numerous documents, but Loras’ name had been expunged from all of them. Dalquist knew he was acting like a man who, having searched high and low for a valuable lost item, begins to search again in locations he has already covered.

At this late hour, the Library was deserted, but the ever-glowing globes of Mage Light ensured it was still well-lit. He found the silence eerie, almost oppressive, and he could not understand why Grimm had spent so long in this dingy refuge.

Having carried out many abortive searches before, he knew the House copies of the Deeds of the Questors would be of little use; every mention of Loras Afelnor had been ruthlessly eliminated from the pages.

Journals by former Prelates and members of the Conclave lay on these dusty shelves, but Dalquist had scoured them, too, with no greater success.

Nonetheless, something continued to draw him back to the Library.

As he stood before the high racks of books, searching for inspiration, Dalquist heard the click of the Library door and spun around, feeling as if guilt were etched on his back in large, luminous letters, although he had committed no crime as yet.

Standing in the doorway was the unmistakable figure of Magemaster Crohn. Dalquist trusted the venerable tutor, and he had intended to try to draw the old man into his and Kargan's shared intrigue; however, there never seemed to be an opportune time or place in which to do so.

"Good evening, Questor Dalquist,” the Magemaster said, his diction crisp and impeccable, as usual.

“What, may I ask, brings you here? I did not think you were such a bibliophile."

"I couldn't sleep, Magemaster,” the Questor replied, speaking the truth.

"Nor I."

Dalquist suppressed a gasp as the tutor stepped into the light; although the Senior Magemaster's clothes were as immaculate and proper as ever, his face was grey and haggard. The old man's slumped shoulders and shambling gait lay at odds with his normal, confident, proud posture.

"What's the matter, Magemaster Crohn?” Dalquist inquired, worried for the tutor. “Are you sick? Shall I call a Healer?"

Crohn shook his head. “I am not sick, Brother Mage; except, perhaps, of my duty and my calling; and of my weakness."

Dalquist felt as if an icy spider were crawling along his spine; he had come to know Crohn well during the long months in which the two mages had schooled Grimm Afelnor as an Adept Questor. Never once had the Senior Magemaster wavered in his vocation; not even in the immediate aftermath of Grimm's tumultuous Outbreak, in which Crohn had suffered serious injury.

Dalquist helped Crohn into a chair and sat opposite him. “It's not like you to talk this way, Magemaster Crohn."

"I am putting another Neophyte through the Questor Ordeal,” the Magemaster said, in a dull voice, “for my sins."

"So I heard, Senior Magemaster.” In fact, the Questor had only caught wind of this during his journey aboard Kargan's potent memory spell, but this casual mention seemed harmless.

"After our meeting with Lord Thorn, I thought he had acknowledged the risks inherent in the Questor Ordeal,” Crohn said, his eyes blank. “This boy's name is Chag Jura, and he tries so hard to please me—just like Afelnor did. I would have refused the assignment at once, but, if I refuse to undertake the boy's training, the Prelate says he will reassign Neophyte Chag to Magemaster Faffel."

"Is the boy strong?"

Crohn shrugged. “He has exceptional power, but I fear for his sanity. He is less highly-strung than Erek was, but the Prelate is pushing me even harder than he did over Questor Grimm's Ordeal. I am trying to go easy on the boy, but Lord Thorn grows impatient."

"Surely he listens to your concerns, after what happened to Erek and Urel? We confronted him over the very same matter, only a few months ago. If this Chag boy were to lose his mind as Erek did, with such power, the results could be catastrophic."

"The problem, Questor Dalquist, is that Lord Thorn does listen, or, at least, he appears to do so. In order to reduce the strain on me, or so he says, he has even taken over part of the boy's tutelage. Three times a week, Jura undergoes a two-hour session in the Prelate's office."

Dalquist's eyes bulged: Thorn was not even a junior member of the Scholasticate staff, and it was unheard-of for a senior member of the House hierarchy to take such a close interest in a Neophyte's education.

The Questor, feeling a little sick, guessed what the reason might be for such close attention: Thorn might be grooming his own, personal Questor, someone who owed his allegiance neither to the Guild nor the House, but to the Prelate alone. This ran counter to every tenet of Guild law.

"Crohn; we've got to stop him,” Dalquist said, leaning forward to look straight into the Senior Magemaster's rheumy, bloodshot eyes.

"Stop what, Questor Dalquist? He seems to listen to my concerns, and he has even absolved me of any responsibility, should an unfortunate accident occur."

I can just imagine how much weight those verbal assurances will bear if anything does happen, thought Dalquist. If anything happens either to the boy or to Crohn, Thorn'll just say it was all Crohn's fault, and who could gainsay him? He got away with a similar excuse when Erek broke out and killed Senior Magemaster Urel.

Oh, well, I guess there's not going to be a better time than this to act...

"Thorn is a traitor to the House and to the Guild,” Dalquist said, the words tumbling from his mouth like a shower of lead shot. “His mother placed Loras Afelnor under some sort of Geomantic Geas, forcing him to attempt the murder of the old Prelate, so that Thorn could take his place. She wanted Loras as her consort, but he rebuffed her. Now, she wants Questor Grimm, and she wants Thorn to become Dominie at all costs!"

Crohn shook his head. “Lord Thorn is an ambitious man,” he said, “but I cannot see him agreeing to such a deed. Now, I do not know what rumours you may have heard—"

"I saw the proof with my own eyes, Magemaster Crohn!” Dalquist cried.

"'Horin is expendable; you will be his replacement.’ I was present when Thorn's mother said those very words!"

There; it's said, he thought. There's no going back now.

Crohn's eyes, now stern with disbelief, stared into his own. Dalquist felt no compulsion to look away; no Secular or ordinary mage could ever stare down a Questor.

"You really believe it!"

"I don't have to believe, Magemaster; I know. Kargan was with me; he had cast some potent Mentalist spell on us both. He can back me up."

Crohn rose to his feet with some difficulty and began to wander around the Library, his staff thumping on the wooden floor in a rhythmic manner.

He stopped pacing and spun around. “Your proof?” he demanded, as if addressing a humble Student.

"I don't have any tangible evidence, Magemaster Crohn,” Dalquist admitted. “I saw and heard the whole thing, as did Magemaster Kargan, but it'd be our word against Thorn's. The reason I'm up here tonight is to try to find something positive in Guild records, something we can use."

"I knew Loras Afelnor,” Crohn said, his eyes now sharp, his voice challenging. “I must admit I always found the whole affair strange, but he acknowledged his own guilt in front of the whole Conclave, or so I hear. Lord Thorn, so I understand, persuaded the other members to forgo the death sentence for his friend. Defend your position!"

As yet, the Senior Magemaster had stopped short of branding him a liar, but Dalquist saw doubt and reason fighting for supremacy in Crohn's face. The old man had reverted to his schoolroom persona, and, Dalquist had to admit, it was an effective technique; the old man was making him think.

"Perhaps Thorn was worried that the members of the Conclave would see the spell rising from Loras’

dead body,” he hazarded. “Perhaps he felt guilt for his treachery."

"Supposition is neither evidence nor proof, Questor Dalquist."

"I know what I saw and heard,” the younger mage said. “I was not present when the offence occurred, but what I say is true!"

"A poor argument,” the Senior Magemaster said, shaking his head. “Where, may I ask, can you adduce any proof of your assertions?"

"I've consulted the Deeds of the Questors, Prelate Geral's own journals, and the Annals of Arnor House,” Dalquist said. “Loras’ name has been erased from all of them."

"Of course: this is standard practice in the case of traitors, and no proof of foul play at all. Do you have anything better?"

Dalquist rose from his chair. “That's why I'm here, Senior Magemaster,” he said. “I don't know where to look.

"However, I can see you don't believe me. Just report me to Prelate Thorn and be done with it, if you think me a liar!"

"I did not call you a liar, Questor Dalquist.” Crohn's voice was as smooth as the finest silk. “In fact, I believe you; I must. My Mage Sight tells me that you regard your words as the truth. The only alternatives are that you are insane, or that you are deliberately deceiving me with some subtle spell. I see no sign of the first, and I believe I caught you off your guard. That should preclude the second."

"Magemaster Crohn; that is a gross breach of protocol!” the Questor protested. “You used your Sight on me?"

"You made an extraordinary claim.” Crohn's face bore just the hint of a smile. “I felt it required extraordinary proof. Surely you did not expect me to accept your story otherwise?"

Dalquist felt a little shocked at the prim, proper mage's actions, but he had to acknowledge Crohn's reasoning. The old man could hardly have gone to Thorn's office and called him to task on such shaky reasoning.

"Of course, we cannot use the same technique on Lord Thorn,” Crohn said. “We need something a little stronger than hearsay before we could ever persuade a Conclave to use Mage Sight on the Prelate."

"I know that! That's the whole..."

Dalquist's ears might have lagged behind his mouth, but they caught up now.

"Magemaster Crohn; did you just use the pronoun ‘we'?"

Crohn nodded. “I have felt for some time that the Lord Prelate's activities have gone far beyond the bounds of the needs and requirements of the Guild. I found your story shocking, but not altogether incredible.

"However, I am sure you realise that the dangers of an unproved claim against a Prelate are considerable.

Mage Sight is a powerful tool, but it is far from infallible, especially when one is dealing with mages of a senior rank. I believe you because I find your tale plausible. However, Prelate Thorn could argue that you, as a Seventh Level Questor, might be clouding or perverting your true aura."

Dalquist looked into Crohn's red-rimmed eyes and saw no trace of deception in them. However, he knew he was taking a great risk by trusting the old mage tutor too much.

"May I scan your aura, Magemaster Crohn?” he asked.

Crohn nodded. “Of course, Questor Dalquist. I appreciate your courtesy in asking me."

Dalquist unfocused his eyes in that special way, and scanned the old man's halo of colours for any sign of deception.

"Clean, I presume?"

Dalquist nodded.

"However, I advise you to keep watching, Questor Dalquist."

As the Questor held on to his Sight, he saw green tendrils of despair, red threads of anger and yellow wisps of jealousy waft through Crohn's aura. In the space of a few moments, the entire panoply of human emotion cycled through the old mage's psychic field, each one flickering for a few moments before being replaced by another. Dalquist's eyes grew large with astonishment.

"What in the...?"

"I have taught Students how to interpret auras for most of my life, Questor Dalquist. I have studied the phenomenon in great depth, and you will find that most Magemasters who teach the subject have done the same. I am capable of projecting any state of mind I wish. It is not an uncommon skill, but it is not something we teach to our Students, of course. It is a spell like any other of the Divinatory class; it can, therefore, also be used in a Projective or Resident manner. You see, therefore, that no inquisition based on Sight alone can be considered conclusive; not in a teaching House, at least."

Dalquist's mouth moved, but no sound emerged. He had been taught from an early age that the Sight was an infallible method of determining guilt or innocence, and Crohn's words had pulled this firm plank of faith from beneath him. He felt cold horror at the thought that he had exposed himself to a man whose aura he could not trust.

"Rest easy, Questor Dalquist,” the old man said. “I have no intention of betraying you. I know my scant words are a poor substitute for true Sight, but, then, I am sure you realise that I had no reason to tell you of this little wrinkle in the craft, had I intended subterfuge."

Dalquist nodded slowly. What the Magemaster said made sense.

"But how, then,” the Questor said, as a thought took hold of him, “is the truth of any matter to be found?"

"There are far more potent spells than mere Sight,” Crohn said. “However, they are all Great Spells, requiring the services of many powerful mages. We could never persuade the Presidium to cast such a Great Spell on a House Prelate without proof; solid, undeniable evidence. I am a member of the House Presidium, and you may take my word on this. Forget the Sight."

Dalquist sat back down and buried his head in his hands. He had hoped that the more mages he could get on his side, the better. However, Crohn had saved his embarrassment and, perhaps, his life.

Despairing of ever finding stronger evidence, he had hoped that persuading a Presidium member to scan Thorn's aura and put him to the question might have sufficed.

With a faint groan, the Magemaster lowered himself into the chair opposite him, using his staff as a support. He sat in silence, as the Questor wracked his brains.

Loras might as well be dead, for all the evidence we're going to find here, he thought. What can we do?

There must be something, someone...

"This is going nowhere, Magemaster Crohn,” he said. “Why don't we just sleep on it, and—"

The Questor saw Crohn start, and he spun around to see the door of the Library swing open. With horror, he saw the figure of Thorn framed in the doorway, and he slammed his mouth shut.

The Prelate strolled into the room a half-smile on his lips, and Dalquist saw two other men enter behind him: Magemaster Faffel and Xylox the Mighty.

Thorn ran a finger along one of the bookshelves and inspected it. “Dusty,” he drawled. “I must advise Doorkeeper to persuade the cleaning staff to pay greater attention to their duties."

Crohn rose to his feet. “Lord Prelate,” he said, his voice clear and cool. “What brings you here tonight?"

"What do you think, Crohn? Black, bloody treachery brings me here, and a pair of worthless rats who will soon learn the error of their ways."

Dalquist leapt to his feet, Shakhmat at the ready. “What do you mean, Lord Prelate? Are you accusing us of treason?” His heart was pounding, but he tried to keep his face open and guileless.

"Let us not play games, Questor Dalquist,” the Prelate said. “I have had my eye on you two for some time, and I have left standing orders with my servant, Wiirt, to be alerted whenever you are alone together. He saw you coming here and listened at the door. He could not hear all, but, I fancy, he heard more than enough, and he ran to tell me what he overheard. I roused these two valiant, loyal men from their slumbers to aid in your capture. You are planning to overthrow Lord Horin and, presumably, me.

You are foul traitors to the House and to the Guild."

"If anyone is a traitor here, it is not us!” Dalquist snapped. “We discussed—"

"You were discussing how to conceal your auras from the eyes of others,” Thorn said, consulting a sheet of paper. “Wiirt also tells me that you, Questor Dalquist, told Magemaster Crohn—and I quote—'Horin is expendable; you will be his replacement.’ Do you deny these words?"

"The words are quoted out of context!” Crohn protested, his face growing red. “The truth of the matter is that you are perverting—"

"Thishare foutreyan grouftit!” Thorn cried in his personal Questor language, and Crohn folded to the floor, unconscious.

Dalquist realised he would not be allowed to speak in his defence, and he readied a spell of his own against Thorn.

Too late! His own reflexes had been dulled by months of service in the Scholasticate, and he scarcely noticed the swish of a Mage Staff behind him before it impacted on the back of his skull. After a blazing flash of light inside his skull, he knew no more.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 27: Flight

Magemaster Kargan lounged on the divan in his cluttered room, trying to concentrate on the book he had been reading. However, he felt restless, flicking through the pages without taking in more than a line or two of text. He knew he should try to get some much-needed sleep, but this, too, seemed beyond him.

Perhaps a little walk would help.

The Mentalist tossed the book onto the table beside him. He sat up and stretched for a few moments before rising to his feet in a swift, decisive motion and leaving the room, summoning his staff, Seeker.

As he walked along the long, dimly-lit corridor, he saw thin strips of light under several of the doors.

Seems like I'm not the only one who can't sleep, he thought, realising he knew the identities of few of the cells’ occupants. Scholars, perhaps, scouring old spells in the hope of discovering some new wrinkle or pervulsion that will bring its discoverer fame and fortune? The odd Necromancer, pondering the mysteries of bones and entrails, maybe? An Alchemist researching some fantastic elixir?

He realised that, after many decades’ residence in Arnor House, he knew next to nothing about his neighbours’ activities at night.

This is a sick place, he told himself. I've lived in the same cell for fifty years or more, but I don't even know the name of the mage in the next room, or what his Speciality is. I don't even feel the desire to ask.

We're so obsessed with rank and secrecy that we've lost sight of our humanity; an entire commune of hermits, each defending his minuscule territory like a feral dog on a patch of dirt, barking at strangers.

He thought back to his younger days as an eager First Level Mage. He had been so keen to contribute to the House, so eager to make his mark ... that proud mage had soon been replaced by an embittered old man who had only just begun to sense the miasma of suspicion and jealousy permeating the very foundations of the ancient fortress.

More than that, he now knew that the very man who directed the House's affairs was a traitor to the Guild, and he began to feel the weight of his years pressing down on him.

As he approached the West Wing stairwell, he sighed, fighting black waves of depression that threatened to overwhelm him.

If I can do anything to alleviate the sickness in this place, I will, he vowed to himself, his hand hovering over the door handle at the end of the corridor. Thorn has to go! With any luck, Dominie Horin will appoint someone like Crohn in his place; he can be a dry old stick at times, but he's a decent enough fellow, and I'm sure he's got the House's interests at heart.

He sighed again; most Prelates were chosen from among the ranks of the Questors, of whom the senior was the crusty Olaf Demonscourge.

That's all we need; an old fool like Olaf calling the shots!

With a sad shake of the head, he opened the door and made his way down the staircase to the Main Hall. Where he would go from there, he still did not know. At the foot of the stairs, he paused.

What in Perdition's going on here? he wondered, as he heard a thump and a clatter from behind the door.

Opening it just a crack, he saw the source of the brief commotion.

Magemaster Faffel stood in the centre of the hall, clutching his lower back, his face contorted in pain. At his feet lay his Mage Staff and, to Kargan's astonishment, the unmistakable, immobile form of Magemaster Crohn.

"I did not accept the lofty position of Magemaster just to be used as a common labourer,” Faffel complained through gritted teeth. “Why could the House servants not be used for this duty? My lumbar region feels as if it may already have suffered irreversible damage."

"You heard Lord Thorn's orders, Magemaster Faffel,” another, deeper voice replied; Kargan could not see the second speaker; the pyramidal Breaking Stone blocked his view. “These two renegades are to be held incommunicado until a suitable Conclave may be assembled to try them. Remember; we are bound under a vow of silence until then. Nobody else is to know of this until Lord Thorn announces the Conclave; they may have other confederates, who must be unmasked."

"I never trusted Crohn,” Faffel said, still massaging his back. “He was no true Magemaster; he treated the Students with far too much lenience."

"I agree,” said the disembodied voice. “He trained Questor Grimm, who, in my opinion, is a disrespectful whelp unfit to bear the Guild Ring. However, I never suspected that the man was a traitor, too.

"I would be grateful if you would take up your load again; Questor Dalquist is no lightweight, either."

"You are younger than I, Questor Xylox,” Faffel grumbled, but he hoisted the slumped burden onto his shoulders in any case.

"Punisher!” At this, Faffel's staff leapt into the air as the tutor staggered under the dead weight of Crohn and headed for the lower staircase. The baton bobbed behind the irascible Magemaster like a faithful hound, and Kargan saw the burly form of Questor Xylox move into view, with the form of Dalquist slumped over his broad, meaty shoulders.

Kargan felt another cold shock spearing through his heart: somehow, Thorn had discovered the cabal, and the Mentalist knew he would be the next to be seized if either Crohn or Dalquist confessed. He had no idea what means of persuasion might be applied to the two mages, and he had no intention of waiting around to be apprehended.

My only choices seem to be either to petition Lord Dominie Horin, or to try to reason with Questor Loras, he thought, and I imagine Thorn will report me to High Lodge as a renegade as soon as my name's mentioned.

That left Loras; somehow, Kargan had to convince the blacksmith-mage to undergo Bledel's spell, if he could perform it again so soon after his last casting. Then, if he could convince Loras of the truth of the matter, he would have to try to find some way to remove the Conclave's block on Loras’ powers—if he could even conceive how to do so.

That's a lot of ‘ifs', and I don't even know where Loras lives, he thought. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure Doorkeeper does...

When he felt sure Xylox and Faffel were out of earshot, he headed straight for the major-domo's cell, one of the few mage chambers on this level.

* * * *

Glancing quickly over each shoulder to ensure he had not been followed, Kargan knocked at the door.

Come on, Doorkeeper! You're always in bed by this time!

On receiving no response, the Magemaster knocked just a little harder, to no greater effect, and he feared to make more noise. If he opened the door, so close to the lower stairwell, Doorkeeper might make some outcry that would be overheard, and he dare not take that risk.

What would wake Doorkeeper up?

As if a lightning flash had lit up some dark corner of his brain, he knew the answer: the old man's duty to greet any errant mage returning to the House. As quietly as he could, he hurried over to the Main Portal.

He raised his ringed left hand, and the door opened. Kargan stepped outside into the dark, cool night, turned around and waited for the great, oaken door to close.

Come on; come on! he thought, tapping his right foot in his impatience.

At last, the dark portal clicked back into place, and the Magemaster waved his left hand, causing to open it again. He stood in the doorway, preventing the door from closing.

After a few moments, as Kargan had hoped, the hunched, shambling figure of Doorkeeper emerged from his chamber, muttering under his breath. As he hustled towards the doorway, he looked up, his eyes meeting the Mentalist's. As Doorkeeper's mouth opened, Kargan raised both hands, his fingers spread in supplication, and shook his head, trying to convey his urgency to the old mage.

"Welcome home, Brother ... what?"

Doorkeeper's eyes were wide and uncomprehending.

"Doorkeeper, I just need a little information,” the Magemaster said. “I needed to speak to you quite urgently, and you didn't answer when I knocked at your door."

Doorkeeper suppressed a yawn. “I do not understand, Magemaster Kargan.".The old man's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his tousle-haired head to one side. “What's so urgent at this time of night? You aren't playing some silly trick on me, are you, Magemaster Kargan? It's cold with the door open."

"You remember when we last spoke of Questor Loras and Lord Thorn, Doorkeeper?"

The factotum nodded, his face almost like that of a confused, small child who had lost his mother in a crowded bazaar. “You wanted to know about Questor Loras’ reactions, and Lord Thorn's, after ... after Lord Geral ... after he..."

Doorkeeper's speech was far from succinct at the best of times, and this was not one of them.

"Never mind that, Doorkeeper.” Kargan tried to keep his voice level. “I'm doing a little research at the moment, and I need to visit the High Lodge library, just to consult some records. It would be really helpful if you could give me a little background."

"What sort of background, Magemaster Kargan?"

The Mentalist knew it was important not to involve the major-domo too much; if Thorn became paranoid, he might interrogate him, and Kargan had no idea how much Doorkeeper would reveal under questioning. He needed to pose his questions with care.

"I need to be back for lessons by tomorrow afternoon,” he said, “so I have to make an early start if I'm to get to High Lodge and back by then."

Doorkeeper nodded slowly. “What do you want to know, Magemaster Kargan?"

Kargan scratched his head. “How old was Lord Thorn when it happened?"

Doorkeeper shrugged, clutching his dark robes around his body. “I suppose he was about thirty, thirty-five ... yes, about thirty-five. That must be right, because I'd just—"

"And Lord Rulec was Dominie at the time?” Kargan did not wish to give the old man too much time to think.

"No, that's not right, I'm sure,” Doorkeeper said, furrowing his brow. “It must have been Lord Algar at that time. Lord Rulec didn't come in until ... until..."

Kargan saw his chance. “Was that not near the time that Questor Loras was exiled to ... oh, what is that place called?"

"Lower Frunstock?"

"Yes, that's the name of the place,” said the Mentalist. “When he was exiled, he became a blacksmith, didn't he?"

"Yes, that's right, a smith.” Doorkeeper flapped his right hand over a cavernous yawn. “What's this all about, Magemaster Kargan? I'm very tired. I have so much to do, you see. Nobody—"

"Nearly finished,” Kargan interrupted, worried that at any time Xylox or Faffel might return from the lower depths of the House. “I'm not all that interested in Lord Thorn or Questor Loras, but I'm just trying to find out if..."

His mind raced as he tried to find some innocent explanation for his hasty nocturnal flight.

Doorkeeper provided him with the answer. The major-domo's face cleared and he smiled. “Oh, I understand, Magemaster Kargan. Yes, I see now. Lord Rulec came from a family of smiths, too. Is that what this is about?"

"That's it, Doorkeeper,” Kargan said, flushed with relief. “I'm trying to compile a history of Lord Rulec's life, and I thought I'd contact his family. I was trying to think of who else was a smith, and who might know where his family was located."

"That's easy, very simple, Magemaster Kargan, indeed,” the old mage babbled, smiling. “I had the honour of escorting Lord Rulec to his family home many years ago. A very great honour, I can tell you..."

Doorkeeper's face clouded. “You won't get there and back in a day. It's in Kuloka, far to the west.

You'll never do that in half a day—"

"That's all right, Doorkeeper,” Kargan said, putting a friendly hand on the major-domo's left shoulder.

“I've just remembered I don't have to take any classes tomorrow, after all. I should be able to go to Kuloka, make my enquiries and return in a day and a half. That will be just enough time. Thank you so much for all your help."

"I'm sure you're very welcome, very welcome indeed,” the old man said. “Please be sure to give my best wishes to Lord Rulec's family. They will remember—"

"I will,” Kargan said. “If anybody should ask after me, just remember that I'll be in Kuloka, talking to Lord Rulec and his family. Thank you, Doorkeeper."

"My pleasure, Magemaster Kargan,” Doorkeeper replied, his eyes bleary. “May I go to bed now?"

"Of course, good Brother Mage; sleep well."

With that, Kargan stepped away from the door, allowing it to close. With any luck, Doorkeeper would remember only this fact when questioned; the information the Magemaster had actually wanted—the location of Loras’ home—would be buried in the false trail that the major-domo had inadvertently helped to lay.

If I remember rightly, Lower Frunstock's about thirty miles south-east of here, he thought, hurrying to the stables at the side of the House. On a fast horse, I should make it in a couple of hours.

Stealing through the shadows like a footpad, Kargan reached the deserted stables in a few minutes. The door was padlocked, but his trusty Mage Staff, Seeker, made short work of the lock.

The horses whinnied and nickered in their stalls, but softly. Kargan muttered the Minor Magic spell of Light, and Seeker emitted a soft, yellow glow that lit the stable and the tackle hanging on the wall. He had no idea of how to saddle a horse, but he had been taught to ride by the Senior Wrangler on his father's estate. The Wrangler was, or had been, a simple plainsman, and he had taught the youthful Kargan how to ride bareback, controlling a horse only with his knees, thighs and voice. It would be hard going, but Kargan had only thirty miles to cover, after all.

Selecting a likely steed, a slender, wide-eyed, chestnut filly, he comforted the animal with a series of clicks and coos. Taking a blanket from a pile to his left, he draped it over the horse's back. With practiced ease, he fashioned a length of rope into a simple curb bit, which the animal accepted with no more complaint than a soft whinny.

He dragged a crate over to the open stall and tried to mount the horse, managing it on his third attempt.

The horse's hooves clattered on the stable's flagstone floor, but she seemed to be a tractable beast, well used to the presence of a human on her back.

It seemed strange, after all these years, to be astride a horse without full tackle and stirrups, but the Senior Wrangler's lessons had not been wasted. Kargan flicked the crude reins and clicked, pressing his knees gently into the beast's sides, and she began to trot out of the stable, into the black night.

* * * *

The mountain pass was a trial, and the Magemaster's knees and hips sent bolts of fire through his spine by the time he had reached its foot. However, once he had reached the broad, level streets of the slumbering town of Arnor, he gave his mount her head, growing in confidence as he navigated the filly onto the open plain. With his eyes now adapted to the darkness, he hunkered down over her back and followed the trail to the south-east.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 28: The Storm Gathers

Kargan realised his belief that he might reach Lower Frunstock in the space of two hours might be an optimistic estimate. He had not forgotten how to ride without a saddle, and the filly was speedy enough on level ground, but he had failed to take into account the journey's toll on his body.

Twenty years of riding nothing more than a comfortable chair had softened his muscles and his stamina, and his body had forgotten just how much hard work was required to control a horse without saddle, stirrups or spurs. After riding hard for half an hour, he had to stop for several minutes in order to rest.

He brought the animal to a halt by a tree-stump, so that he would be able to remount; he knew now that he could never hope to leap onto the horse's back from level ground, as he had once been able to do.

He dismounted, feeling pleased that he managed to remain on his feet, but his lower body ached abominably. After removing the filly's rude curb bit and hobbling her, Kargan clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned backwards, trying to ease the pain in his knotted muscles.

Some dashing rider you turned out to be, he thought, with a rueful, pained grimace. If you have to stop every thirty minutes, it'll take a bloody year and a day to get there. I'll be in no condition to cast...

Oh, no! Kargan spat out a heartfelt stream of obscenity, as he realised he had left the libram containing Bledel's spell in his chamber. He had left behind the only tool he might have used to convince Loras of Thorn's treachery.

He had managed to memorise several Divinatory spells, but this potent spell might take a lifetime to master without a scroll or libram to help him. From the eyewitness accounts Kargan had heard, Loras believed wholeheartedly in his guilt. If he had been beguiled by a similar hex to that used on Dalquist—and there was every reason to think that he had been there might be little the Mentalist could do to remove the block.

Kargan dared not return to the House—that was asking for trouble and at the very least, awkward questions. Kargan had prepared himself for this journey for some time: he had exercised his voice and his brain at every opportunity, and he had spent days in loading Seeker with all the magical energy he might require.

However, forgetting the scroll with Bledel's spell might make all this moot.

He scratched his grey beard and pondered. The situation seemed intractable ... or did it?

There's no block on my memory, he thought, and I know Demay's Spell of Recall like the back of my hand...

Kargan's problem with Dalquist had not been to retrieve the young mage's memories so much as to bypass the formidable blockage Lizaveta had placed on them. That would not be necessary to extract the details of Bledel's spell from his own mind.

Demay's hex is a Schedule Two Disassociative spell, he thought. I ought to know; I've used it enough times on myself, to remember where I've left things.

But is it powerful enough to pull out the memory of every single rune in a fifteen-minute Schedule Nine Engagement spell?

He knew the slightest error would render the spell at best useless; at worst, it could kill him. He had only ever used the Spell of Recall to recollect simple facts, such as a Student's name, or the location of a missing pair of shoes, and he felt chary about risking his life, his very soul, perhaps, on its limited powers.

On the other hand, he could not tolerate the prospect of the traitorous Thorn becoming Dominie, even if he had to put his life on the line to prevent it. He was confident in his abilities as a Mage Mentalist; his staff bore the seven rings that attested to mastery, and he had been teaching the craft for three decades.

His casting of Bledel's spell had been flawless, and he only needed to remember the stream of runes and inflections he had used on that day and dictate them into Seeker, as if it were some magical amanuensis.

No great expenditure of energy would be required, since he would not actually be casting the enchantment.

It's a cheap enough spell, even extended over fifteen minutes, he thought. I can do it two or three times, and compare the results; if each recollection agrees with the others, I can have a high degree of certainty in the spell's accuracy. If I cast the spell on Seeker, I should be able to call it up when I need it.

He looked around him. The eastern horizon was still dark, so daybreak was still some way off.

It's worth a try.

Kargan clutched Seeker to him and began to cast the spell's first iteration.

* * * *

Thorn felt ebullient and confident. Ever since Crohn and Dalquist had confronted him in this very office, he had been on the alert for the least sign of conspiracy, and his spy, Wiirt, had at last discovered the two mages engaging in mutinous conversation. It might take a certain amount of guile on The Prelate's part, but he felt sure he could convince the Presidium of the sorcerers’ guilt.

By the time those two ever come before a Conclave, he thought, they'll believe the truth of every single accusation. Mother might think she's the only one who can control a mage's mind, but I have some skill in that area myself. It's almost a shame she may not live long enough to find out about it.

It was late, or, rather, early in the day, and Thorn resisted the urge to act at once. Taking a deep, appreciative draught of wine from his glass, he decided that the interrogation could wait for a day or two, until Crohn and Dalquist were softened up a little. He had given orders to Wiirt, Xylox and Faffel to stand guard over the two mages around the clock, and to wake them whenever they showed signs of torpor.

In view of the loss of three Scholasticate Magemasters, Thorn had decided that the next few days would be declared a holiday. By happy coincidence, Urel Demonscourge, the House's senior Questor, had just passed the age of one-hundred-and-twenty; this should provide good grounds for the brief furlough.

He doubted that any of the Students would complain.

Except for young Chag, Thorn reminded himself. The boy's anger and pain grow daily, and he's at a critical juncture. I'll take the Neophyte under my wing until the new Senior Magemaster is chosen. I will give him my personal attention. I would ask Magemaster Kargan to take over the boy's conditioning, but I think he's just a little too open and easy-going with the Students, at times. He's also the Senior Mentalist in the House, and I'll need him for the trial, when Crohn and Dalquist are good and ready to acknowledge their guilt. There's no sense in tiring him out now.

* * * *

Kargan now felt satisfied that he had now stored an accurate memory of the rune-sounds of Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct in his staff. Despite his fatigue, the aches and pains in his body had abated, and he felt ready to ride again.

I guess Loras wouldn't have appreciated my hammering at his door in the middle of the night, anyway, he thought. Perhaps he'll be a little more receptive to what I have to say now.

His horse grazed placidly where he had left her. Kargan unfettered the animal and replaced the bit in her mouth. Climbing up on the tree-stump, he gathered up his robes and clambered astride the mount.

Shaking the reins and clicking, he eased the filly into a brisk trot, deciding, at first, against a reckless, headlong gallop.

The narrow, tree-lined road was still empty for as far as the eye could see, so he worked his mount up to a canter, working with the horse, rather than against her. He confined himself to the subtlest of guiding motions, as the filly grew accustomed to him, and found the experience far more rewarding this time.

As he rode, he began to sing a song from his distant youth. The horse seemed to appreciate his voice, pricking her ears up as he sang, and Kargan could swear there was a little more spring in her stride. He continued to sing, and the willing animal's hooves ate up the miles.

* * * *

A chorus of cockerels greeted his arrival in Lower Frunstock, and the golden dawn light cast long shadows on the ground. A few chimneys already showed tendrils of smoke, and he could see a few figures moving about, despite the early hour. The ramshackle thatched cottages and shops were a far cry from the opulence in which Kargan had been raised, but he found a distinct bucolic charm in the small hamlet's easy, unhurried appearance.

"Mornin', mage!” a young milkmaid called, already tending her charges, and Kargan brought the filly to a halt.

"Good morning to you, my dear!” the Mentalist said. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to the town forge?"

The girl stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. Adjusting the cap on her head, she rose from her stool, and Kargan saw this was no willowy maiden. She was golden of hair and pink of face, but her arms were like tugboat hawsers, knotted and sturdy.

"Wuthabeethupprorrthlowrforrge?” she demanded, her friendly smile revealing twin rows of small, crooked teeth.

"I beg your pardon?” The milkmaid's heavy accent was almost impenetrable to him.

"Would tha’ be the upp'r or the low'r forge?” she repeated in a loud, slow voice, as if addressing a rather backward child.

"I don't know,” the Magemaster confessed. “I'm seeking the forge of one Loras Afelnor."

The girl's face cleared. “Oh, well, you'm be wantin’ th’ upper one, then,” she said. She followed this with an incomprehensible series of instructions, but Kargan noted her pointing finger's gyrations well enough.

Only one chimney in that direction showed smoke, and he knew that smiths started work early in the day.

"Thank you so much, my dear,” he said, taking a silver coin from his pocket and proffering it.

The milkmaid eyed the coin with suspicion. “Whass that for?” she demanded, her eyes narrowed.

Kargan frowned. “Why, for your time, of course."

"F'r me toime? Oi ain't that kind o’ girl, Oi'll ‘ave ye know!” she cried, raising a ham-like fist that Kargan knew might well flatten him.

"I only offered it to thank you for taking the time to give me directions!” he protested. “I didn't mean anything else by it, I promise you!” He realised he was sweating, despite the cool morning.

"Oi don't take nuffin’ fer advoice anyone'd know,” she said, with a dainty sniff that seemed at odds with her powerful frame. “Thank'ee, but Oi'd rather ye kept yer money."

In a whisper, the girl no doubt considered confidential, but which almost overpowered the restless mooing of her cows, she said, “'Sides, me old man'd ‘ave it off me later, anyway. Sorry Oi took offence; Oi can see ye're a gent, and ye didn't mean no ‘arm. Ye can't ‘elp th’ fancy words, Oi can see that."

"Well, thank you anyway,” Kargan said, raising the reins.

"If ye're in The Black Churn later on, ye can buy me a drink,” the girl said, her voice conciliatory. “'Ow about that?"

"That sounds very fair to me,” Kargan replied, wanting nothing more than to escape. “The Black Churn it is."

"Oi'll be waiting,” she said, with a fair imitation of a coquettish smile. “Two o'clock, don't ye be late."

Kargan nodded politely. “I wouldn't miss it for the world,” he said, vowing to give the hostelry the widest berth possible. “Until then..."

He flicked the reins and eased the horse forward, not daring to look back as he traversed the increasingly muddy street.

Lower Frunstock proved to be a tumbledown rabbit-warren of alleyways, dirt tracks and runnels.

Navigating his way to the forge proved far harder than he had expected; many a promising thoroughfare led to a dead end.

However, at last, he found himself in a wide, paved courtyard outside the forge.

A short, burly man with black, greying hair stepped from a passageway and knuckled his forehead.

"Good mornin’ to ye, Lord Mage,” the man said. “I'll be reckonin’ ye'll be after a decent saddle and tack, by the looks o’ things. Am I right?"

"Well, that would be nice,” the mage confessed. He had never learned how to saddle a horse and, although he knew how to ride bareback, it would be far more comfortable to ride in style.

"I'm Harvel Angol, full partner in this smithy,” continued the muscular man, and Kargan blinked: this bulky man shared his first name with the slender, foppish swordsman who had joined Questors Dalquist and Grimm on their first Quest together. He suppressed a smile. This man would never be a dainty fencer; the contrast was ludicrous.

"I'm really looking for Que ... for Master Loras Afelnor,” the mage said, sliding from the filly with all the decorum he could manage. A shock of pain blazed through his spine and legs as his feet took his weight, but his pride still outweighed his discomfort.

"He's workin’ on the fire,” Harvel said. “Old Loras doesn't do much o’ the really heavy work, now; thass up to me. You want shoein’ or heavy forging, I'm yer man."

Kargan felt unwilling to offend the smith. Harvel seemed a pleasant enough man, but the mage did not want to give too much away; he had no idea of what Loras might have told anyone of his tainted past.

"I would like a good, full set of tack, Master Harvel,” he said, showing his full purse, “and I'm willing to give you a good price for it. However, I'd like to see Master Loras first. I wish to bring him news of a relative of his."

"Ye're from Arnor?” said Harvel, and Kargan nodded. “That'd be Master Grimm, then. I took him there, ye know: it broke old man Loras’ heart.

"Ye wait here, Lord Mage,” he said. “I'm sure Loras'll want to see ye."

Harvel hurried away, and Kargan waited in the courtyard. His eyes scanned the rude cottage, with its slumped roof, and he thought of the last time he had seen Loras. He had not been present at the Questor's trial, but he had seen him many times before, bedecked in sumptuous, lustrous silk robes.

Does Loras still sing? Kargan recalled Loras beautiful rendition at a House festival thirty years or so before. It doesn't seem as if he has much to sing about, now...

In a few moments, Harvel returned, in the company of a heavy-set man with a shaved head. Despite his forge uniform of simple, grey dungarees and a leather apron, Loras’ burning, black eyes were unmistakable, and Kargan knew he was looking at the former Questor. Age had not yet bowed this man, and his gaze was as level and intense as the Magemaster remembered it.

The smith spoke in a pleasant and deferent tone. “I am Loras Afelnor, Lord Mage. I understand that you are from the House, and that you are here to tell me news of my grandson, Grimm. Is he well?"

The studied formality of Mage Speech was still apparent in Loras’ voice, even after all these years, and Kargan replied in the same style.

"I am Mentalist Kargan of Arnor House, Master Loras. To answer your question, Questor Grimm is now a Mage of the Fifth Rank. Even now, I believe, he may be on some new Quest. The last time I saw Questor Grimm, he was healthy and hungry to serve the Guild."

Loras nodded. “That is as it should be for a young Questor.” He turned to the younger smith and said,

“Harvel, would you mind tending the fire a while? The bellows are leaking a little, and the flame needs constant attention. You might also want to have a few words with the collier concerning his wares; I fear he may be short-changing us on his latest loads."

Harvel knuckled his brow. “I'll sort it out, Master Loras. You can rely on me.” With that, the younger smith disappeared into the forge.

Loras scanned the Mentalist at some length, until Kargan began to wonder if the former Questor was dissecting his very soul.

"What do you really want, Mentalist Kargan?” Loras asked, after several minutes. “It is plain that you are not here just to discuss my grandson's well-being."

"I am a Magemaster at the house. I trained Questor Grimm in Runes, Incantation and Spell Structure.

However, I wish to speak to you about ... about the events leading to your expulsion from the Guild."

Loras’ expression hardened. “I have long since acknowledged my guilt in that matter, Magemaster Kargan,” he said. “It is in the past, and not something about which I wish to discuss with a stranger.

"Please consult Master Harvel about any needs you have,” he continued. “Our discussion is at an end. I have a forge needing my attention."

Loras began to walk away. Kargan yelled, “You do not remember the act at all, do you, Questor Loras?

Answer me!"

Loras stopped and swung around, his brows hovering like thunderclouds over his black eyes “My memory of the act is irrelevant, and no business of yours. I know what I did, and it shames me still. I do not wish to be reminded of it, and I do not take kindly to your use of my earlier title.

"Say no more and go in peace, or carry on and make yourself an enemy, Magemaster Kargan. It is up to you. I no longer talk of my Guild past, and I fell that to do so would serve no useful purpose. Goodbye."

The old man turned and resumed his steady walk.

Kargan felt a little cowed by the vehemence of Loras’ speech, but he refused to succumb to it.

"You met Prioress Lizaveta, did you not, Questor Loras?” he demanded. “She did this to you! I have absolute, undeniable proof that I am ready to show you. Do you want to bask in guilt for the rest of your days, or do you wish to see for yourself what really happened?"

Loras stopped, although he did not turn around “I wish you to stop addressing me by that title, Magemaster Kargan! It is ancient history. Just what do you hope to achieve by this nonsense, raking over these old coals?"

"I am trying to bring justice to the Guild, Master Loras! You have been wronged, whether you know it or not, and you owe it to the Brotherhood you once served to acknowledge that. The same wrong enshrouds your grandson, Grimm! The Traitor's Spawn, himself! That is what the Students used to call him—and some had even worse epithets for him."

After several moments without motion, Loras swung around to face Kargan. His face was blank and impenetrable, but he nodded.

"I will play along with this charade for a little while,” he said. “If what you say concerns Grimm, I will go along with you for the nonce. However, I feel we should take this matter inside; Harvel knows nothing of my past."

Kargan bowed. “As you wish ... Master Loras."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 29: ‘Convince Me!'

"Welcome to my humble abode, Magemaster Kargan.” The former Questor proffered an exaggerated bow. “What do you think?"

Kargan scanned Loras’ cottage with a critical eye. At least the roof was covered with good terracotta tiles, unlike the rude thatch that adorned many of the other houses in the village. Nonetheless the slumping roof-trees and the cracked walls boded ill for the building's longevity.

Kargan chose what he hoped was a diplomatic reply. “It looks ... snug."

Loras snorted. “It is frigid in winter, and the chimney leaks smoke into the house, despite all my efforts,”

he said. “In summer, we swelter and suffer from plagues of horseflies.

"Perhaps you consider such an abode beneath the dignity of a Mage of the Seventh Rank, with your fine satin robes?"

"Not at all,” was Kargan's swift, reflexive reply. “I think—"

"It is no less than I deserve,” Loras muttered. “My only sorrow is that my wife, Drima, has to share it with me. At times, it is only her selfless devotion that allows me to bear my burden of guilt."

This last struck Kargan with some force: as a Guild Mage, he was forbidden any kind of liaison with females, and loneliness was his frequent companion.

"At least you have something I lack,” the Magemaster said, his voice harsh. “Something denied me by my vocation. I am no eunuch, and sometimes I would gladly trade my useless wealth and comfort for the love of a good woman. Know this, Master Loras: I envy you, but I would never begrudge you your only comfort. Be so kind as to allow me my own."

Loras shrugged. “My apologies, Lord Mage; sometimes I become somewhat bitter and twisted. I beg your forgiveness.” The smith's tone was anything but apologetic. “Perhaps if I had paid more attention to my own duty and less to my purse, I might not be..."

The smith took a deep breath. “That is all in the past,” he continued, as if repeating some habitual mantra.

“It is perhaps unjust of me to take out my frustrations on you. Please, Lord Mage, come inside."

Kargan had to duck as he followed Loras through the door, into what he assumed was the reception room. Four rude, straw-upholstered chairs clustered around a small, round table by an empty fireplace.

The Magemaster had never felt the cold hand of claustrophobia, but the dimly-lit interior and the low ceiling seemed oppressive. Kargan noted two tasteful, colourful paintings of country scenes on the otherwise bare walls; they, at least, served to brighten the small, drab room a little. He bent to examine the pictures, marvelling at the wealth of detail in them.

"Drima's handiwork,” Loras said. “She used to be the village schoolteacher. She taught arithmetic, art and literature, and she still likes to keep her hand in, from time to time."

Kargan appreciated art in all its forms. “These paintings are magnificent! I would love to hang such decoration in my own cell..."

He stopped himself, remembering that he might never return to his cell if his mission failed. Everything depended on his meeting with Loras.

"Who's your guest, Loras?” The light, feminine voice bore a trace of the local accent, but the diction was crisp and clear.

Kargan spun around, almost cracking his head on the low ceiling beams. In the dim light from the inner doorway, he saw a small, dumpy woman with greying brown hair. This, he guessed, was the artist.

"Ah ... Drima, this is Magemaster Kargan, from Arnor,” Loras said. “Magemaster Kargan, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Drima."

The Mentalist noted that Drima's presence seemed to have driven the cold, formal Mage Speech from the former Questor's lips.

"A Magemaster!” Drima's face dimpled into a warm smile. “We're honoured to have you here, Lord Mage. Do you have any news of our beloved Grimm?"

Kargan shuffled his feet a little. “The last time I met him, he was a Questor of the Fifth Rank, Mistress Drima,” he mumbled. “He's been away from the House for some time, but I understand he's away on a Quest at this moment. He is doing very well for himself; after his first Quest, he was elected Baron of Crar. Questor Grimm is wealthy and respected. You should be proud of him."

"I'll always be proud of him.” Drima's smile now appeared a little forced. “Grimm was always a good boy. Still; that's not why you're here, is it?"

Drima's clear, blue eyes seemed to bore into the Magemaster's very soul.

Kargan shot a nervous glance at Loras, but the smith nodded. “Don't worry, Lord Mage; my wife knows all about it,” he declared. “You may speak freely here.

"Drima, Lord Kargan is here to discuss ... that other matter. Can't imagine he has anything new to tell me, but he seems quite insistent."

"Oh, is that so?” Drima's voice became cold and her lips compressed. “Loras, would you mind seeing to the range for a few moments? It doesn't seem to be heating up properly."

Loras nodded. “Of course: I leave our honoured guest in your capable hands."

Kargan thought he saw the trace of a smile on the smith's lips as he left the room.

"Won't you sit down, Magemaster Kargan?"

The Mentalist lowered his large frame into the nearest, flimsy chair, taking care lest it break under his weight. Drima sat opposite him, her eyes blazing.

She looks almost like a Questor, Kargan thought, averting his gaze from the stern visage. It's not Loras I have to convince; it's his wife.

Kargan sat on the very edge of the chair, hardly daring to breathe as Drima's gaze scanned him.

"Don't you think he's suffered enough?” she said, at last, her voice brittle and anguished. “What good will it do to drag up the past again? Loras has paid a thousand times for what he did.

"And what did he do, you may ask? He took mercy on a dying man's agonies; what's wrong with that?"

Kargan's mother had died forty years before, and his only memories of her were of a cold and distant woman. He had been brought up by a succession of nannies and tutors, and the Scholasticate had given him a sense of belonging he had never known before. However, this woman's voice bore an air of cool authority that neither his nannies nor his mother had ever possessed; he knew he would never convince this woman by trying to browbeat her.

"Mistress Drima,” he said, opening his hands towards her. “Questor Loras did not act under his free will when he did ... that. He was under a spell; he was betrayed by Lord Thorn! All I wish to do is to bring out the truth of Loras’ innocence."

Drima shook her head and sighed. “What good would it do, Magemaster, even if your claims are true? I urge you ... I beg you to drop this. Can you not let us live in peace? It's not as if you can turn Loras back into a Questor, is it? All you can do is to disturb a worried man who has salvaged a meagre amount of happiness after a long-ago moment of weakness and compassion!"

Kargan leaned forward, seeing his chance. “It wasn't weakness!” he said, his voice low but intense. “It was a Geomantic spell, cast by Prelate Thorn's mother, a bitter witch angry that Loras had spurned her interest in him!

"She forced him to try to smother Geral; do you hear? This is not a belief, a hypothesis, a conjecture—it is fact! Do you truly wish your husband to belabour himself for the rest of his life for an act in which he had no choice?"

"Even if what you say is true,” Drima said, her eyes hooded, “Loras will still be a simple smith. All you would do is make him angry about something he can't change; what use is that?"

The Magemaster felt a little enthused by Mistress Afelnor's change in position; she was still defensive, but she appeared to be softening her attitude a little. Now, he felt, it was time to strike.

"Is it better for him to wallow in unmerited self-accusation, or to know the truth? What's wrong with plain, simple truth, Mistress Drima?

"Loras was no murderer, compassionate or otherwise! He was the tool of an evil woman, and he was betrayed by a man he regarded as his brother! Is it wrong to tell him so? I can prove to Questor Loras what was done to him, and I may be able to arrange for his powers to be returned to him!"

"If you wish your husband to remain ignorant and wracked with guilt, and if Questor Loras agrees, then I'll go,"

Kargan sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. Seeker bobbed behind him like a playful dolphin, as if enjoying the conversation.

"Since you claim to have proof, I'd be grateful if you'd show it to me,” Drima said, her tone neutral.

"I can't, Mistress Drima. The proof is in the form of a powerful spell that will show Questor Loras what happened to him as if he were there. However, I need his co-operation if the spell is to proceed."

"How will you convince Loras that this isn't some trick or illusion?"

This question gave Kargan some hope: Drima seemed to be shifting from an attitude of outright opposition to one of cool interest.

"I would start by showing him something only he knows,” the Magemaster said. “The choice of time and place is up to Loras; all I will do is to cast the initial spell. Once the enchantment is enabled, we can visit any location and period within Loras’ memory. He can terminate the spirit journey at any time he wishes."

"Are there any risks involved in this, Magemaster Kargan?"

Kargan shrugged. “It is a powerful enchantment, Mistress; what we mages call a Schedule Nine spell. I cannot pretend it has no attendant dangers, but I have successfully cast the spell before, on Grimm's friend, Questor Dalquist, a Mage of the Seventh Rank. That is how we uncovered this plot: Dalquist, at least, is convinced."

He stopped himself from telling Loras’ wife that Dalquist's life might now be in danger. There was no need to complicate matters further.

"If only I could be sure..."

Drima seemed to be wavering, and Kargan guessed that only a little further pressure might be needed to convince her. He could not be sure that Loras would go along with him, but he hoped Drima's attitude might sway the former Questor.

"Mistress Drima, why did you become a teacher?” the mage asked.

Drima blinked. “What does that have to do with it?"

"Please, Mistress, answer my question. Humour me."

Drima wrinkled her brow, but she answered.

"I wanted to make a difference,” she said with a shrug. “I love children, and I also love to see them grow up, gaining a clearer and clearer picture of the world as they gain wisdom."

"Would it not have been better to leave them ignorant and innocent? Have you not dashed their illusions, battered down their youthful beliefs and sundered their view of the world?"

Drima gaped. “I see what you're seeking to do here, Magemaster,” she hissed, “but I don't appreciate the comparison!"

"I too am a teacher, Mistress Drima. I try to turn callow, carefree boys into responsible adults. I do not see innocence as a positive virtue, but a dangerous state that can only be protected or eradicated; there is no middle ground. Innocence has no concept of right or wrong, and it can be perverted. I seek to give protection against mindless perversion by filling empty minds with moral and technical knowledge.

"What I try is to give my charges the ability to make their own decisions. Such decisions may be right or wrong, but I believe a tutor's responsibility is to destroy innocence. Is it right for Loras to languish as an innocent in pained ignorance, or is it better to open his eyes to the truth? He did not choose to assault Prelate Geral, even if he believes he did.

"That's all I have to say on the matter, Lady Drima."

The smith's wife opened her mouth and closed it again. She wrapped a stray tendril of grey hair around her right index finger and toyed with it, her hand trembling a little.

At last, she spoke: “I agree, Magemaster ... that is, I prefer knowledge to ignorance. Loras is a grown man, and he should be given the opportunity to confront his demons, instead of cowering from them. I'll do my best to convince my husband that if what you say is true, it may be in his best interests to consider it carefully."

"Thank you, Mistress Drima,” Kargan took Drima's small left hand in his own wrinkled, liver-spotted extremity. “That is all I could ask."

Drima nodded and rose to her feet, slipping her hand from the Magemaster's.

"I'm doing it for Loras, not for you,” she said. “Please wait here and I'll see what I can do."

She left the room, shutting the flimsy door behind her, and Kargan slumped back in his chair.

Well, the die's cast now, he thought. Let's see how it lands.

After a seeming age, Loras entered the room. His face was ashen, but he had the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"All right, Magemaster,” he rumbled in a quiet voice. “I am willing to be convinced: so convince me!"

Kargan felt his heart beginning to pound, and he took a succession of deep breaths.

"Please sit down, and shut your eyes, Master Loras,” he said, motioning to the chair opposite him.

“Make yourself as comfortable as possible, and try to remain still."

Loras did as the Mentalist bade him, lowering himself into the chair and closing his eyes, his head slumped on his chest.

Kargan grasped Seeker and began to access his memory of Bledel's incantation, rehearsing it in his head.

As a musician and a mage, he found it easy to read ahead, scanning the sequence of runes and cadences for cohesion and harmony, silently moving his lips as he did so. He spotted a few areas where his recalled sequence deviated from magical logic; having cast the spell once, he now understood the purpose of each section of the thaumaturgic chant, and he mentally substituted the correct rune, rhythm or cadence. At last, he felt satisfied, and he settled himself into a comfortable position for casting, ensuring that his body would not fall from the chair while he was away from it.

"Are you ready?” he asked, and Loras nodded.

Kargan accessed his power and began to cast...

* * * *

The last few runes spilled from the Mentalist's lips, and he knew he had succeeded, his heart full to bursting with a sense of triumph and elation.

"You may open your eyes, Master Loras,” he said, with just a trace of smugness.

"Nothing happened, Mentalist Kargan. We haven't gone anywhere!"

Kargan's spirit form stood up, and Loras gaped.

"We are free of our bodies, and capable of drifting through your memories to wherever and whenever you desire,” the said Mentalist, as if outlining a summer picnic. “Where and when would you like to go?"

Loras also stood, looking down at his physical body with wide eyes. “An impressive spell,” he said.

“Very well; I wish to travel to—"

"Don't tell me,” Kargan interrupted. “This is your spell. Just access the relevant memory inside the privacy of your own mind. Perhaps that will prove to you that I am not using some king of flashy subterfuge."

The small room faded and disappeared, to be replaced by an open field. Loras’ memory counterpart now wore an unrestricted shock of black hair that flowed over his back like a dark wave, and his lower face now bore a burgeoning, black beard. This younger Questor stood with a defiant, confident expression, his staff raised over his head in a two-handed grip. Beside him stood a slender, blond-headed man that Kargan did not recognise. This man, too, bore a staff with seven gold rings, and his expression seemed no less determined.

The blond man spoke, and Kargan realised this handsome young Questor was no less than Lord Thorn!

"If we succeed, this ought to get us into the Deeds of the Questors,” the younger image of the Prelate said, and dream-Loras nodded.

Kargan turned to see an advancing line of beasts. They were like dogs, but the size of horses, and their four-inch fangs dripped with foaming saliva. The Magemaster guessed there were forty to fifty of these hell-hounds, and they raced towards their human prey with astonishing velocity.

The dream-Questors stood their ground, unleashing their first spells when the beasts were about fifty yards distant, sending a pink shower of canine gore into the air.

"The vision is accurate,” Loras declared, although he seemed otherwise uninterested. “This confrontation was not recorded in any of the Guild's annals, as far as I am aware; politics intervened. I am convinced in the efficacy of your spell."

Kargan winced as the lead beast leapt onto dream-Thorn, only to be thwarted by what appeared to be an invisible ward. The dog-thing's claws skittered over the unseen dome's surface, and dream-Loras dispatched the animal with a potent spell of green fire.

"I suggest you take us to the night of the ... incident,” the Magemaster said, unable to tear his eyes from the carnage unfolding before him. “Perhaps two hours before it happened?"

The bloody scene warped into the image of the Refectory at Arnor House, where dream-Loras sat opposite a middle-aged man. The older mage was somehow familiar, but Kargan could not place him.

"That is Questor Olaf,” Loras said, and the Mentalist nodded slowly, recognising the younger image of the now-grizzled senior Questor. “As I recall, we did have dinner together on that night."

Loras seemed to be taking the whole thing in his stride, almost enjoying the revelations of his youth as the two dream-mages discussed trivial House matters, including the results of a recent athletic tournament.

"I believe we should visit Lord Thorn's chamber,” the Magemaster said. “We may have to wait some time, but the results should be ... interesting."

"Very well, Magemaster Kargan; Thorn's room is at the end of the West Wing corridor. Let us go."

The two mages, under Kargan's direction, walked through the intervening walls, up the stairs and into a dark empty room.

"What do we do now?” Loras asked.

"We wait,” Kargan said. “I hope this will be interesting and instructive."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 30: Loras’ Betrayal

The Magemaster looked at the blacksmith, and he could have sworn that he saw traces of tears in Loras’

eyes. The former Questor must have caught the quizzical lift of Kargan's eyebrows.

"I never thought I would see the House again,” he explained. “If I am a little affected by this, it is because I was brought up here, just like you. When I was banished, it was as if most of my life had been stripped from me, along with my magic."

Kargan nodded. “I know what you mean, Questor Loras—"

"Master Loras,” the smith corrected him. “I am no mage now."

"My apologies, Master Loras; I know just what you mean. I may lose all this, too, and the prospect scares me more than I would have thought.

"I was just thinking, Master Loras,” he said. “At this very moment, I'm sitting in my cell in the Scholasticate, talking to an inanimate piece of wood in the hope it will come to life, and give meaning to my existence..."

Kargan brushed a bead of moisture from his left eye. “It didn't work."

He would have said more, had the door not opened at that moment. Both mages turned to see the dishevelled figure of Thorn entering the room. His long, blond hair and beard lay in disarray, and Kargan saw dark rings like bruises around the Questor's eyes.

The younger Thorn walked through him and sat on his bed, cradling his head in his hands; he was, of course, quite oblivious to the presence of these ghosts of the future. After a moment's pause, he extracted a bottle from under the bed, pulled the cork and took a long draught of the ruddy beverage.

Loras. gasped “What on earth is the matter with him?"

"I suspect he already knows what is to happen. He's just giving himself a dose of Gallorleyan courage before he acts."

"Thorn always did like a drink,” Loras said, “but I never saw him drink to such excess."

The prodigious amount of alcohol seemed to have had little effect on the younger Thorn. “Here's to you, old friend,” he muttered, raising the bottle to his unseen Brother Mage before downing its remaining contents at a single swallow.

He bared his teeth and drew in a sharp breath as the fiery liquid took hold, dashing the empty bottle against the stone wall and smashing it into a hundred glittering shards. His gaze was dull and fixed on the blue-gold Guild Ring on his wedding finger, twisting and turning it with his right-hand middle finger and thumb. After long moments of listless introspection, he looked up as if startled. Thorn rose to his feet and headed for the small desk near the far wall.

Both Kargan and Loras stood in rapt fascination as the scene unfolded before them.

Thorn took a small, green baize bundle from the desk drawer and brushed fragments of glass from the desk. He opened up the bundle to reveal a glowing, pulsing green orb, a twin to the one Kargan had seen in Lizaveta's chamber in High Lodge. With almost reverent care, he spread the baize out on the table and placed the globe at its centre, positioning his clawed hands on the luminescent crystal.

He stood in silence for several moments, nodding from time to time. At last, he spoke.

"Is this really necessary, Mother?” he said, his voice almost like that of a child in its plaintive, whining tone. “I mean, why Loras? He is my best friend in all the world ... I am sure we can—

"Yes, Mother, I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf. Does it have to be tonight, though?"

Again, the strange, mime-like interval while his unseen interlocutor spoke. If the Questor's pained face was any guide, Lizaveta's reply had been far from conciliatory.

"Loras is my friend. If only—

"Yes; yes, Mother, I understand,” he said, his perspiration-beaded face a mask of abject misery. “Of course—I know this is all for my benefit—yes..."

The crystal's glow subsided, and the young Questor's avatar jerked his hands from its surface as if it were scalding-hot. Looking furtively around him, almost as if he sensed the future phantoms observing him, he wrapped the globe in its green shroud and replaced it in the drawer. Dream-Thorn drew a rapid sequence of shallow, nervous breaths, clenched his fists and shook his head as if dismissing a cloud of flies. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a final, deep draught of air.

"I'm sorry, my friend,” he muttered, before striding to the door and wrenching it open.

Loras stood; his jaw agape and his eyes wide.

"Come on, Master Loras!” Kargan snapped. “We must follow him to wherever he's going."

"I know where Thorn is going,” the former Questor said in a hollow voice, “Prelate Geral's chamber."

"Are you convinced, Master Loras?” Kargan asked/

Loras sighed. “Almost, Brother Mage; but I must learn the full story. You started to show me this, so let us see the end."

"We can get there before Thorn does,” Kargan declared. “We just need to run through this back wall, through the—"

Kargan realised that Loras was already gone, and he raced through the intervening walls to the Prelate's turret, flinching as he passed through the insubstantial barriers. He ran straight through the images of a Necromancer fingering a small beast's entrails, and a House servant oiling the panelling in an ornate room Kargan had never seen, before he caught up with the smith on the stairs of the turret.

Loras stood just outside the Prelate's chamber door, his brows lowered.

"Come on,” Kargan urged him. “You've come this far, Master Loras; don't stop now!"

Loras wrung his hands and grimaced, and Kargan took the lead, racing through the oaken door as if it were no more substantial than fog.

The Prelate's office lacked all unnecessary adornment. Regimented racks of books and papers lined the walls, and the spotless room's desk and chairs were pushed against the outside wall.

"I do not remember this at all!"

Kargan turned to see that Loras had joined him, just in front of the door to Geral's bedchamber.

According to House lore, this room was sacrosanct, and the Magemaster hesitated.

This time, Loras provided the impetus: “Let us finish it, Brother Mage! I do not wish to see this, but I must!"

Kargan nodded, summoning up all his determination, and the two thaumaturges took the final step towards the resolution of the ancient affair.

The large room bore nothing but a large bed and a simple night-stand. In the bed lay a wizened man with a face the colour and texture of crumpled parchment, his expression blank. Dull, feverish, sunken eyes stared from the putty-white face, but they seemed sightless, his gaze roaming without purpose around the Spartan confines of the chamber.

By the bed stood the younger Loras, his own expression no more animated than the stricken Geral's.

Although he stood over the bed, he made no move towards the pathetic, bed-ridden old man. He stood like a pasty statue, bereft of volition or emotion, his arms extended but immobile. It was almost as if he were standing watch over the Prelate.

"Do you remember this, Master Loras?” Kargan demanded.

The former Questor shook his head, mute and uncomprehending.

Thorn marched into the chamber, walking straight through Kargan. He strode straight up to the young Loras, who did not react in the least to his fellow mage's presence. The future Prelate circled his brother mage like a prowling tiger. Of the two Questors, only Thorn seemed in full possession of his senses.

His face was beaded with sweat, and his hands trembled as he walked around the frozen image of his friend. He extended a hesitant, shaking index finger and pushed Loras in the chest. The heavily-built mage swayed a little, but he returned to his unseeing vigil.

The blond Questor picked up a large pillow from beside Geral's head and placed it in his brother sorcerer's hands. He muttered a phrase that Kargan could not hear and pressed between Loras’

shoulder-blades. As if he were a mannequin being posed in a shop window display, Loras leaned over and allowed his hands to be moved into position over Geral's blank, feverish face. The pillow touched the Prelate's nose but did not obstruct his fitful breathing.

This time, the Mentalist heard Thorn's muttered words: “It is merciful, Loras. Lord Geral's suffering will soon be at an end."

The image of the young Loras nodded slowly, his gaze still blank, and Thorn backed away to the door.

As he stepped into the Prelate's office, he reached out to grasp a heavy bell-rope by the desk and began to tug it in a sudden frenzy.

Kargan stood by, feeling sour pangs of frustration at his utter inability to prevent the tableau from unfolding as it had so long ago. Thorn swung open the door to the spiral turret staircase and re-entered the bedchamber as the Magemaster heard the sounds of panicked feet racing up the stairs.

"Clerestory ambulatory prejudice."

Thorn's whispered phrase seemed meaningless, but its effect on the mesmerised Questor was dramatic.

Loras’ formerly placid face contorted and his hands pressed the pillow down on the Prelate's face.

As a tall mage ran into the main chamber, Thorn leapt at his more muscular friend, trying to wrest the pillow from his hands. Young Afelnor responded with a solid backhand to his friend's face, sending him sprawling. As the tall, red-headed mage ran towards the fallen Questor, the young Thorn waved his hands.

"Save the Lord Prelate, not me! Questor Loras has gone mad!” the blond man cried, through split, bleeding lips. As Loras continued to smother the Prelate, the russet-haired mage swung his three-ringed staff at his lower back. The ensorcelled’ Loras dropped the pillow and turned to face his assailant, his expression one of pure, unalloyed rage.

"Iyastretona!” Thorn shrieked, and a black cloud formed around his fellow Questor's head. Loras coughed, took two steps towards the tall mage and slumped to the floor, fighting for breath.

By now, another mage had arrived: Kargan recognised him as the taciturn Questor Olaf, younger but as severe-looking as ever.

"What happened here?” the wide-eyed Olaf demanded.

"The Prelate!” Thorn screamed, running to Geral's bedside and putting his right ear to the stricken mage's chest.

After several moments, he nodded, uttering a sigh of relief Kargan thought to be somewhat theatrical.

“Lord Geral still lives,” he said. “Well done, Manipulant Urel!"

With a start, Kargan recognised the handsome, red-haired man as the late, lamented Senior Magemaster who had been killed when Neophyte Erek lost his mind.

Oh, the sad ravages that the years visit upon us ... Kargan thought, remembering the words of an ancient liturgical chant.

Your spell stopped Questor Loras in this evil deed,” Urel said, in an admiring tone that bordered on adulation.

"What happened here?” Olaf repeated.

"Questor Loras tried to kill Lord Prelate Geral,” Urel said in a hushed voice. “Questor Thorn raised the alarm and prevented him from ... the Names know what."

Olaf shook his head, his expression grim. “Who would believe that a sworn Guild Questor could attempt such foul treachery?"

He kicked the fallen form of Loras, who moaned and coughed. “Get up, rat. You besmirch the ring you wear."

Loras rose to his knees, fighting for breath. “What is ... what happened?” he gasped, his eyes blank.

"You are a damned, bloody traitor, who has betrayed his Prelate, his House and his Guild,” Olaf growled, his heavy brows descending over his grey eyes like rapacious birds of prey.

"I remember ... the pillow..."

Loras’ face was ashen. “By the sweet Names, what have I done?” he cried, burying his head in his hands.

"That is enough.” In the hubbub of competing voices, it took Kargan a few seconds to realise who spoke these words, and he turned to face the smith.

"What?” The Magemaster felt too numb to make a more meaningful response. The anguished pain etched on the face of his companion was mirrored on the image of the proud, younger mage, and Kargan felt hot tears prickling at the margin of his eyes.

For half a century, Loras Afelnor had languished in the slough of despair engendered by a supposed act of evil. Now, that dread, half-remembered memory had been replaced by an equal pang of agony, brought on by the knowledge that he had been betrayed by a man he had loved as a brother.

"I said, ‘that is enough',” the smith snapped, as he saw his younger self pushed, manhandled and kicked out of the room by the three other mages. “I have no need to see more."

Kargan caught sight of a half-smile on Thorn's face, and the Magemaster realised that Loras must have seen it, too.

"I know the rest, Magemaster, and I have no need to see more. Get us out of here."

"Remember the smithy at the time we left, Master Loras,” Kargan said. “It will be as if no time had passed."

In less time than it took to think, the Mentalist found himself standing in the front room of Loras’ cottage, looking down at his motionless body. He directed the smith to sink into his own physical entity, conforming to the exact contours of the motionless body. He knew perfection of alignment was not absolutely essential, but that close correspondence to the body's position maximised the chances of success.

When he was satisfied with Loras’ spirit posture, he requested the same service of the smith as he slipped back into his own, unmoving mortal form. When the former Questor declared that the correspondence between the astral and bodily postures was adequate, Kargan realised that he could not access the memory of the conclusion of Bledel's spell from Seeker, still clasped in his corporeal self's right hand.

A frisson of doubt and fear fluttered through the Mentalist, but he crushed the sensation with an iron hand of discipline. He remembered the advice he had been given by his singing tutor, so long ago: You do not need to remember the whole of the song, Neophyte; if you have learned it well, you only need to remember the first three or four words. Then, the rest will come tumbling out.

This was not as easy as remembering a song, since a mage spell was composed of apparently arbitrary runes, tones and cadences, each nuance vital for the incantation's success. However, Kargan had given many, many classes in the interpretation of spells over the course of his long life.

It starts with Chiat-Tekh-Urth with a rising tone; I know that, he thought, and that's followed by ... what?

Gath-Tren-Tekh? That's right; we're trying to create a sense of urgency, aren't we? Then there's solidity and homecoming, followed by permanence...

His mind ran through the feelings he had felt when he had first cast Bledel's powerful incantation, back in his cell in Arnor House. It was a small closing chant, but critical.

Yes, that's it, he thought. I can do this on my own, without a damned prompter!

The chant consisted of only twenty runes; a short run of syllables as Guild spells went, but Kargan's nerves jangled as he began to cast the closing enchantment. He knew that every lilt, every slur, every hesitation was critical to the closure, but he trusted to thirty years’ experience as a Magemaster, and a true voice untainted by the passage of the years.

By the time he reached the end of the brief chant, the Magemaster felt confident enough to add a hint of Elation to the ending spell—just a hint, of course; he did not wish to destabilise the main structure.

As the last rune spilled from his lips, Kargan knew he had succeeded. He welcomed the forgotten, dull aches and pains of his aging body as they began to introduce themselves, greeting his success.

"We are out,” he croaked, feeling as if his throat were full of glass shards. His head slumped towards his chest; he was utterly spent.

Loras leapt to his feet, flexed his ham-like fists and stretched, as Kargan slumped in his rude chair, devoid of anything but an inchoate fear that his recent actions might lead to the downfall of Arnor House or the entire Guild. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to feel sorry at the prospect of the destruction of the diseased colossus.

"You said you could return my powers to me, Mentalist!” the former Questor said, his face like carved stone in its fixed intensity. “I request that you do so forthwith!"

"I couldn't fight a fly right now, Questor Loras,” Kargan confessed, his voice feeble and thin. “I'm travel-worn, tired, and I need to eat."

Loras sighed and shook his shaven head. “What has happened to the ardent fire of my beloved House's mages? Can you not understand the heat of my anger, Magemaster Kargan? I have fifty years of self-accusation to avenge, against a man I thought my steadfast friend! Thorn is the traitor, not me!"

Kargan sighed. “At this very moment, I couldn't care in the least for Guild politics, Mage Speech, protocol or lifelong vendettas, my over-muscled friend!” he cried, struggling to keep his eyes open. “I need a bath, some food and a bed in that order! If you can't manage that, I'll make do with a bloody bucket of cold water, a mouldy potato and a stretched-out rope, but I have finished with today! Is that quite understood?"

Drima flung the crude door open and entered the room. “Are you all right, Loras?"

The bronzed, shaven-headed man rose to his feet and hugged his wife.

"Magemaster Kargan has shown me everything, Drima!” he cried, his eyes moist. “I did not try to kill Prelate Geral at all! It was Thorn and his mother, not me!"

"I always knew that,” she said, patting her husband on his left shoulder. Her eyes were bright and moist.

“You are an angry man at times, but you were never evil. This mage has given you back your self-respect! Rejoice in that, and put your bloody revenge behind you for the moment! Just look at the Magemaster, will you? He's almost dead in his seat!"

Kargan regarded the bright, kaleidoscopic colours, playing on his retinas, with a measure of dispassionate interest before he tumbled forward. He smiled, not knowing why, and his vision faded before his head hit the hard stone hearth.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 31: Merrydeath Road

General Quelgrum flicked the reins, and the wagon began to bounce down the rough track. “So, how are you this fine morning, Questor Grimm?” he asked. “Is it not a magnificent day?"

Grimm, riding beside the General, favoured the deep blue sky with a cursory glance. “Very nice,” he replied in a dull voice. “How far is it to Anjar now?"

"I'd guess about four miles, Lord Baron. Are you sure you're well?"

The Questor caught the note of concern in Quelgrum's voice.

"I'm all right,” he said. “Don't worry, General; I'm trying hard not to sulk or mope, but I still can't get Crest's death out of my head. Tordun may never see again. Don't get me wrong; Gruon had to be destroyed, but I'm wondering what I could have done to minimise the casualties. I acted without thinking—"

"Sometimes, a warrior must do just that, Lord Baron. It's good that you're analysing your tactics, but I'd advise you to do so a little at a time. Don't dwell on it, or you'll become bitter and twisted, and no good to anybody.

"Becoming withdrawn and distant from the other men won't help. Tordun doesn't blame you for what happened to him, so neither should you. Just listen to him back there; does he sound downhearted?"

Grimm listened to the animated argument taking place in the back of the wagon. His companions seemed to be disputing the relative merits of a number of racehorses; a subject about which Grimm knew next to nothing. As ever, Guy was trying to ram his own opinion down the throats of the others.

"Fallon's Mystery was the only horse to win the Merrol Cup four years in a row,” he declared in his customary, didactic manner. “That record speaks for itself!"

"Ah, Questor, but against what opposition?” Tordun demanded. “A bunch of worn-out nags better suited to pulling a cart! Groundless Fears prevailed against far better opponents in all conditions. Your chosen steed was a fine racer on firm ground and in fair weather, but he never went out if there was a cloud in the sky. My horse, on the other hand..."

Grimm turned back to Quelgrum. “I agree, General; Tordun sounds happy enough,” he said, in the same listless voice.

Quelgrum sighed. “Well, couldn't you get a little more involved in these sorts of discussions from time to time, Lord Baron?"

"I know nothing about horseracing, or about most of the subjects they discuss,” Grimm said. “If you'd forgotten, I've spent most of my life locked up in a bloody Guild House."

Can't you just leave me alone, Quelgrum? he thought. I really just don't want to talk right now.

"Questor Numal's spent longer in the House than you,” the soldier replied. “Nonetheless, at least he makes the effort to take part. All right; so you're unhappy; why take it out on everybody else?"

"I'm not,” Grimm said. “However, I accept that my detachment may be bad for morale. I'll take an effort to become more involved from now on."

Happy, General? he thought. Maybe that'll shut you up for a while.

Quelgrum shot the Questor a strange look, almost as if he had read Grimm's mind, but he turned his face back to the road ahead and said nothing. Grimm watched the birds wheeling over the open fields and almost wished he was one of them.

What worries does a bird have? he wondered, marvelling as they swirled and swooped, occasionally diving to snatch some loose morsel from the soil. Birds don't need to worry about status, people's opinions or anything else.

Very deep, a more sarcastic section of his mind interjected. I'm sure nobody's ever thought about that before.

The sound of the horses’ hooves on the hard, compacted earth, the heated argument from the rear of the wagon, and the rattle of the wheels over the ruts and furrows of the track made a considerable clamour, but the noise inside Grimm's head grew louder and louder by the minute. After a quarter of an hour of Quelgrum's silence, the mage felt moved to speak, just in order to still his inner conflict.

Grimm sighed. “I will try to join in, General, I promise. It's lonely in here, with only me for company."

"It's all right, son, I understand,” Quelgrum said. “So many demands on your time, so little experience—I remember it well. I led my first troop when I was about your age..."

Grimm expected to find the General's anecdote boring and irrelevant, but, instead, he found it very pertinent to his own situation. The old man described his horror after a disastrous battle, and how an ancient Sergeant had brought him to his senses after a score of his charges had been lost in the conflict.

The less cynical partition of Grimm's mind recognised the similarities between the two men, and he began to feel a kinship between himself and Quelgrum. He was beginning to become engrossed in the soldier's frank account of his feelings when he saw a faded, slumped sign by the road.

"Wait a minute, General,” he said. “This is Merrydeath Road. We need to turn down here, don't we?"

"Merrydeath Road,” the veteran said, turning the wagon into the indicated road. “Sounds like a fun place.” His voice dripped with leaden irony.

"Who's being negative now, General? There's no reason to assume Anjar isn't a wonderful place, just because of a road's morbid name.” His exuberant words might not reflect his true mood, but he was beginning to feel a little more cheerful.

I've fought a troupe of enslaved, over-muscled fighters and a hundred-and-forty-foot dragon, he thought.

I'm not really that bothered by whatever Anjar might throw at us.

In truth, he welcomed the onset of any challenge that might lie ahead: it might draw his attention away from his introspective malaise.

Quelgrum grimaced. “There's confidence and there's overconfidence,” he growled. “The first two major towns on this campaign have proven to be death-traps. I recommend we keep our wits about us in Anjar.

"Merrydeath Road...!” The old soldier shivered and held up his left hand, the little finger extended in the ancient sign of Dismissal of Evil.

Grimm smiled. “I had no idea you were superstitious, General."

Quelgrum said nothing, but he waved his hands as a shabby, blurred signpost came into view, bearing the single word ‘Anjar'. Grimm poked his head through the wagon's canvas cover.

"We're just entering Anjar,” he said, feeling a brief stab of pleasure as the hubbub in the back of the vehicle stilled in an instant. “It may be a perfectly nice place but it would be wise to get ready for trouble."

Grimm's announcement was met by a cool, dismissive gesture from Guy, a serious, worried nod from Numal and a shrug from Tordun. Sergeant Erik's expression did not change, but he began to inspect his various Technological firearms, pulling on levers and handles to the accompaniment of a series of sharp clicks and clacks. All his attention seemed focussed on the metallic devices, his face a picture of intense concentration.

Numal clutched his staff to his body. “Are we going to stop here, Questor Grimm?” he asked.

"Not unless we have to, Brother Mage,” Grimm said. “If what Keller told us is true, Rendale should be no more than thirty miles from here; we can easily reach it by mid-afternoon. I recommend we keep travelling and make camp just short of the Priory."

"That suits me,” Guy declared. “I've had just about enough of the squalid little hell-holes that pass for towns around here."

"And me,” Numal said with a fervid nod. “The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can get back to my nice, familiar, comfortable cell back at Arnor. This Quest must have aged me thirty years."

"I'll have to start calling you Great-Granddad,” the acerbic Guy muttered. If Numal had heard him, he pretended he had not.

Anjar was no squalid dung-heap like Yoren, nor yet a fantastical collection of bizarre structures like Brianston. Grimm found the sheer simplicity of Anjar a relief after his recent perils in those strange conurbations.

As the wagon rolled through the streets of the town, he saw a collection of small stalls, beside which people chatted, haggled and engaged in what the mage considered perfectly normal behaviour.

He engaged his Mage Sight and noted no emanations of magic whatsoever. The auras of the Anjarians showed no signs of ensorcelment, undue suspicion or anything other than the regular emotions he might expect from a blameless group of townspeople. To be sure, some of the stallholders showed indications of guile and deception, and some of their intended victims’ auras bore the unmistakable greenish hue of avarice, but this was only to be expected.

If there was anything remarkable about Anjar, it was the sturdiness of the buildings. There were no tumbledown thatched cottages here; every permanent structure seemed to be built from yellow stone blocks, and even the roofs bore heavy tiles instead of simple thatch.

Grimm frowned: the town was surrounded by dense woodland, which would have provided ample material for simpler, less costly dwellings. However, he dismissed this as an oddity of Anjarian architecture: the people of the town seemed far more interested in their own affairs that in the arrival of the wagon. Scarred, stained walls implied that the buildings had been standing for many years. Perhaps Anjar was plagued by hungry rats, termites or some other infestation that threatened less sturdy structures.

"What do you think, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked, easing the horses to a gentle walk. “We're running a little low on supplies, and we have to consider the trip back to civilisation. Do you think we dare stop here for some food and drink?"

Grimm considered the General's question with some care. Since Crest's death, he had vowed that he would never again act on impulse, as long as he had time to consider his options beforehand. Anjar looked safe enough, almost like his home town of Lower Frunstock, but he knew now that appearances could be very deceptive. This whole region seemed to be a hotbed of anarchy and disorder, and Grimm was now unwilling to take anything at its face value.

I could play this little game all day, he thought, as Quelgrum waited for his answer.

"Is the situation serious, General?” he asked.

Quelgrum shrugged. “We lost a lot of victuals at Yoren,” he said. “We managed to recoup some of our losses at Brianston, but it's all fattening stuff; hardly a balanced diet suited to travelling or fighting. We could really do with some pulses, fresh, lean meat and green vegetables."

Grimm said, “I recommend we stop and wait for Shakkar's report first."

Shakkar had insisted on reconnoitring the town from the air, ensuring that the party had a clear escape route from Anjar, should rapid egress prove necessary.

As Quelgrum reined in the horses, Grimm saw a small shadow on the ground, growing larger by the heartbeat. He looked up to see the unmistakable, bat-winged figure of Shakkar descending, almost as if the very mention of his name had summoned him.

Shakkar fluttered to a halt, dropping the last few inches to the ground with an audible thump, and Grimm checked the townspeople's reactions. He saw several people's eyes widen in momentary fear, and he noted many pointing fingers, but it seemed that such a creature was not that unusual a sight; after a few moments, the Anjarians returned to haggling and conversation.

"Your report, please, Shakkar,” Grimm said in a formal, businesslike drawl

"There are five main roads into the town, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled. “I saw no barriers or armed guards on any of them. I saw a few uniformed men armed with swords, but they moved easily through the populace. Several of them stopped to chat with the civilians in an apparently friendly manner; the town seems peaceful enough. I saw two wagons and three horsemen leaving Anjar without confrontation or pursuit. My presence caused a little perturbation at first, but no more than I expected."

Grimm nodded. “Thank you, Shakkar."

This may be the first normal town we've come across in some time, Grimm thought.

Still, it's best to be careful. We have a Quest to fulfil, and we can't afford any more casualties, least of all through any carelessness.

"Your recommendations, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked.

Grimm's instinct was to keep going; the party could collect victuals on the return journey. Nonetheless, morale was an important factor; as yet, there were no signs of dissent among his fellows, but the Questor acknowledged that they had all been under considerable stress for some time. He thought of the vain, roistering swordsman, Harvel, who had given up his satin clothes for the rough, homespun garments of a farmer and quit after the death of his close friend, Crest.

Tordun might be putting on a brave face after his own injury, but he would now be next to useless in a serious fight. Perhaps the albino's sight would return with time, but, on the other hand, the pale giant might never recover the full use of his eyes. For such a proud, self-reliant warrior, who had also been a friend of Crest's, his uncertain future would surely bear upon Tordun's confidence like an ever-present weight, sapping his will and his confidence.

If the mighty Tordun ever snapped, it might be too costly a lesson for the small party to bear.

Guy was ... well, Guy: acerbic, cynical and unpredictable. Despite the older Questor's avowed enthusiasm, Grimm would have preferred not to have the mercurial Great Flame in the team at all.

If there was even a chance that this pleasant, peaceful-seeming town was yet another hot-bed of violence of esoteric dangers, the consequences for the Quest might be severe. There were so many variables to consider...

You wanted this responsibility, Afelnor, he told himself. Nobody forced it on you—in fact, you argued with Dominie Horin that you should be given charge of the Quest. This may be one of the easiest decisions you have to make, so make it!

"We keep moving, General,” he said. “We'll replenish our supplies on the way back. We'll travel lighter and we can reduce unwanted contact to a minimum. After what happened at Yoren and Brianston, I'd prefer not to take the risk of this place housing some weird, sacrificial death-cult with a fanatical desire for Technology, blind albinos, mages or whatever. I think the potential risks outweigh the possible advantages."

"You are in charge, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, and Grimm could swear the old soldier's faint sigh betokened relief. “We ride."

Guy poked his head through the slit in the canvas cover. “Are we staying here tonight, or what?"

Grimm turned to face the Questor. “No, Questor Guy,” he said in a cool, neutral voice. “We're going to carry on to the outskirts of Rendale and camp out there."

"Ah, come on, Grimm!” Guy moaned. “You're not scared of a place like this, are you? I, for one, could do with a decent meal before we face my darling Grandmamma, and this town looks pretty damn’ safe to me!"

"I wasn't scared of Yoren at first, nor Brianston, Guy.” Grimm fought to keep his expression calm and his voice level. “However, my overconfidence cost Crest his life, caused Harvel to quit and lost Tordun ...

well, we all know what happened to Tordun. Regardless of how Anjar looks or seems, it is a potential threat. I prefer not to take that risk.

"Perhaps your eyebrows and hair would agree with me,” he continued, eyeing the hairless pink arcs above the Great Flame's eyes, and the uneven, semi-scorched mop that had replaced his normal, artful coiffure.

Now I understand what Mage Speech is all about, flashed a thought through his brain, bringing sudden understanding. I always thought cutting out vernacular, contractions and everything was just another petty restriction, but it helps you keep your distance—and that's what I have to do here.

"Even so,” Guy said, “I think I ought to have some say—"

"We have a problem here, Brother Mage,” Grimm said, his dark eyes hooded.

"What's that, Dragonblaster?” Guy's expression suggested he did not really care about the answer to his question. Still, Grimm felt a small shiver of relief at the fact that the older mage had evidently decided to abandon his former, sarcastic nickname for Grimm—Dragonbluster.

"The problem is that you are labouring under the delusion that I am in command of this expedition and you are the second-in-command,” the younger Questor replied."

Without giving Guy a chance to respond, he continued, “The fact of the matter, distasteful as it may appear to you, is that I am in charge, as decreed by the Lord Dominie, and you are not! Do you have a problem with that, Great Flame?” He fixed his gaze on Guy's glacier-blue eyes with the intensity only a Questor could command.

Guy was no dilettante; he matched Grimm's stare with the same cool glare of authority, and several moments passed in silence.

At last, Necromancer Numal broke the deadlock with a plaintive cry from within the wagon: “Well, are we stopping here or not, Questor Grimm?"

Not looking away from Guy's fierce gaze for a moment, Grimm said, “We will be moving on, Brother Mage."

As if on cue, Quelgrum flicked the reins and the obedient horses trotted back onto the road. Grimm's eyes began to water, and he felt a mild flush of pleasure as he saw traces of moisture around the older Questor's lower eyelids.

"You are welcome to stay here if you wish, Questor Guy,” Grimm said. “Shakkar, please begin a survey of the region around Rendale."

"At once, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled, rising back into the sky and beating his way south-west on thundering wings, the sound diminishing as he climbed into the blue expanse.

After a few more moments of staring, Guy nodded slowly. “All right, Questor Grimm, if that's the way you want to play it; I'll go along with you—for now."

Ending the staring match, he nodded, and, muttering, “Play your puerile, little games of ascendancy if you want to,” he ducked back under the wagon's canvas cover.

Grimm flicked a swift glance at Quelgrum, as the soldier guided the vehicle with sure, confident hands with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Do you find something amusing in that exchange, General?” he demanded.

"Not at all, Lord Baron,” the soldier replied. “As a matter of fact, I thought you handled that situation well. For what it's worth, I also agree whole-heartedly with your decision."

Grimm nodded, feeling a distinct glow of pleasure at the General's assessment, but he said nothing.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 32: Preparations

Within quarter of an hour, the wagon was back on the open road, heading south-west. The Anjarians had paid the travellers little heed, and the vehicle's progress had not been impeded. For a little while, Grimm continued to worry about the lingering effects of recent strain on the party, but the conversation in the rear of the vehicle seemed as animated and good-tempered as ever. Putting his fears behind him, he turned his attention to the matter of the Quest, and how it might be expedited.

Do we turn up en masse, knock at the door and demand to see the Prioress? he wondered. Do we blast our way in and proceed to destroy the place?

His mind returned to Horin's order: “I wish you to confront this odious cult directly and, if necessary, to destroy it.” It had all sounded so simple and clear-cut in the comfort of the Dominie's chamber, but the young mage began to feel grave misgivings squirming in his entrails. What to do?

You can't do this alone, Grimm, he thought. Quelgrum is the most experienced warrior of all of us; I'm sure he has an opinion.

Almost as if he had read the Questor's mind, Quelgrum leaned over and said, “Have you given any thought about how we're going to carry this off, Lord Baron?” He kept his voice low.

"I ... I wanted to ask your advice on our tactics, General,” the young mage said. “Have you any recommendations to offer?"

"A few,” the soldier admitted. “For a start, it's always a good idea to hide your true numbers, especially if your force is small. Keep ‘em guessing. My advice would be for you and me to approach the Priory, with the others out of sight."

Grimm nodded. “I agree with you in principle, General. However, I recommend that I make the initial approach alone. I have some experience now of the kinds of tricks Geomantic magic can play with the unwary mind, and I'm unlikely to be caught napping."

"Under those circumstances, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, “I insist on a thorough reconnaissance of the area before we do anything. If at all possible, I would advise you to post Sergeant Erik and me behind any available cover, so we can lay down suppressing fire with our rifles if anything untoward happens. I fancy even a witch will find a rifle bullet troublesome if she doesn't expect it.

"I'd also advise you not to enter the Priory; persuade this Lizaveta woman to come out to you. We can't protect you if you go inside."

"What if Lizaveta won't come out?” Grimm asked. “What if she insists on me entering the Priory?"

The General rubbed his chin. “Then that's probably the time to up the ante..."

Grimm furrowed his brow; the soldier's words meant little to him.

"I mean, to make a few vague threats. Make it clear that it's not a request, and that there will be dire consequences if she won't come out. Don't be too specific, but let them know we're ready for trouble."

"And then, General?"

"Well, if the old lady still won't play ball, I'd advise you to leave,” the General said. “Assuming we've got some kind of defensible position, the Sergeant and I can lob rifle-grenades at the door, the windows and the walls from a distance. We've still got plenty of ammunition; incendiary, armour-piercing and high-explosive. We should be able to crack the place open like an egg."

"I don't want to cause any unnecessary bloodshed, if we can avoid it,” Grimm said. He had no idea of the capabilities of most of Quelgrum's arsenal, and he worried that many, or even most, of the Prioress’

charges might be unaware of her evil ways. “I don't want the deaths of a score or more innocent women on my conscience. Your explosive weapons may be a little too indiscriminate, General."

"Then we'll throw down some fire just short of the Priory, Lord Baron, just to show them a sample of what we can do. Perhaps you and Questor Guy would like to display a few of your own fireworks, just to add some emphasis. The main thing is not to let them guess exactly how many there are of us, or what kind of weaponry we have at our disposal.

"After our little demonstration, you can return to negotiation. That's when you go pot limit—sorry, Lord Baron—when you tell them that the whole place will be wiped out if the old lady doesn't appear. If that doesn't work, we'll have to reconsider our options. Whatever happens, we shouldn't commit to a firm plan until we know the lie of the land."

Grimm mulled over the soldier's suggestions for the next few miles, as the wagon jounced and bobbled over the road's numerous ruts and irregularities. Try as he might, he could not think of a better scheme than Quelgrum had proposed.

"Very well, General,” he said at last. “I'll go along with that."

* * * *

Kargan awoke to a fierce throbbing in his right temple; he touched a finger to his head and felt a lump the size of a small egg, wincing at the contact. Opening his eyes, he saw he was lying on a straw mattress in a small room. On a stool beside him sat Mistress Drima.

"Are you feeling better, Magemaster Kargan?” Loras’ wife asked in a pleasant, soothing contralto. “You had quite a fall there."

I wonder if she sings, thought the Mentalist, ever the musical epicure. I hope that lovely voice isn't marred by a pair of useless ears...

"Some of my teeth seem to be loose,” he said, probing his dental armoury with a careful tongue, “but I seem to be all right, otherwise."

"Loras is full of praise for you,” Drima said, smiling, and Kargan could see a clear trace of moisture around her eyes. “He wants to talk to you as soon as you're able to see him; he says you can restore his powers."

Kargan started, sending a red-hot thread of pain through his head. Loras has had sensual relations with a woman at least once, he thought. Questor Grimm is the proof of that.

Guild lore prescribed strict celibacy for all mages; the least dalliance with a member of the distaff sex would cause the loss of all thaumaturgic ability. Kargan wondered how best to remind Loras of this basic fact. Nonetheless, after his former, vainglorious boasts, he had to try to soften the blow as best he could.

He knew the former Questor must be aware of this basic tenet of Thaumaturgy.

"I'm ready, Mistress Drima,” the mage declared, levering himself into a sitting position, his vision blurring for a moment, “although Questor Loras may not like my answer.” He swayed a moment, as the pain in his head surged.

Drima sighed, took a bottle and wetted a cloth with its contents. Kargan allowed her to dab the cloth on his aching temple. “Witch hazel,” she said, as the Mentalist winced a little at the contact. “It should draw the bruise out."

The former teacher looked the Mentalist straight in the eye. “Loras knows what I've known for a long time,” she said. “He didn't mean to kill Prelate Geral. That's what's kept him awake every night for as long as I've known him. He tried to hide it from me for many years, but I always knew there was some deep, dark secret he felt he had to keep from me. He didn't succeed in deceiving me; my dear husband often talks in his sleep, and he sometimes screams. When we met our grandson, Grimm, at the end of last year, he let his mask slip a little, and I told him what I know. Whatever you tell Loras now, I don't care; he knows his destructive self-recrimination is groundless. For that, I thank you. Regardless of anything else you can do for him, I thank you with all my heart. I'll fetch him for you now."

As Drima left the room, Kargan nodded, gingerly touching the lump on his head, which now throbbed rather less than it had. After a few moments, Loras entered. His expression and his posture reflected a man far more at ease than Kargan expected.

"How are you, Mentalist Kargan?” asked the former Questor, his voice solicitous.

"I'll be fine, Master Loras,” the Magemaster said, with a shrug. “Don't worry about me; I've had far worse injuries after bad miscasts. However, I'd be grateful if you would tell me how you feel about the little journey we made this morning."

Loras sat at the foot of the bed and shrugged.

"I do not know: stunned, angry, relieved ... it has all been so sudden. I discovered I had been betrayed by a man I loved as if he were my own brother, and that is a hard thing for someone to bear. On the other hand, I know that I am no renegade, no Oathbreaker."

"What do you intend to do, Master Loras?” Kargan asked.

"Once you have restored my powers, Magemaster, I intend to call challenge on Thorn before the entire Presidium. I'll see that traitorous rat stripped of his magic, as I was. I want to be able to show my staff and my Guild ring before the whole world, as a proud mage once more."

Kargan squirmed a little; the subject he now had to broach was a delicate one. “I've been thinking about that,” he said, “and I think the restoration of your sleight might be ... problematical."

"What?” cried Loras, his eyebrows raised. “You told me you could return my powers! Did you then lie to me?"

Kargan squirmed on the straw-filled mattress; the former mage's expression was one of hurt and surprise, rather than of anger. “It's just that ... you know ... you've had physical relations with a woman,” he said, kneading his hands. He felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment, as if he were a callow adolescent.

“You know what that can do to a mage,” he finished, in a low mumble, not meeting Loras’ dark eyes.

For a moment, Kargan almost feared that the muscular smith might hit him; Loras’ face reddened, and his lower lip trembled. Then the storm broke as the former Questor burst into tumultuous laughter, tears of mirth running down his swarthy cheeks. Kargan caught a desperate edge of incipient hysteria in Loras’

laughter, and he wondered if the smith had lost his reason. However, after what seemed an age, Loras’

hilarity began to subside.

"You do not ... really believe that ... that old wives’ tale, do you, Magemaster?” he gasped between hiccups of mirth. “How old are you, for goodness’ sake?"

"What does that have to do with anything?” Kargan demanded, beginning to feel hot pangs of irritation mingling with his embarrassment. “That's one of the foremost tenets of Guild lore!"

Loras brought himself under control with a shudder. “I am sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I forget sometimes the cloistered life you non-Questors lead.

"It suits the Guild well for its mages to lead a circumscribed life; it keeps all their attention focused on their jobs. High Lodge wants its alumni to hold it in the highest possible esteem, and wives and children would only get in the way."

Kargan felt as if his soul were draining away through his spine and soaking into the ground. His mouth worked for a few moments before he could speak. “Do you mean to tell me it's not true?” he croaked.

"It is true enough, if you believe it,” Loras said. “I believed it for many years, despite all my travels through the world. I was a good, obedient, celibate Questor for the House well into my twenties.

However, the scales fell from my eyes on my eighth Quest; I was sent to ... now where was that place?"

Loras’ eyes scanned the low ceiling for a few moments, as if seeking divine enlightenment.

"Galan,” he said at last. “That was the name. I was dispatched to Galan to reason with a former mage who had opened an unaffiliated school of magic without Guild approval. He was a Weatherworker named Barras, as far as I recall, a former Arnor mage who had grown dissatisfied with his lot.

"It was an easy enough Quest; the mage was terrified that I would blast him into atoms, or his precious Scholasticate. I ... persuaded him that it would be better for his health and wealth to apply for Guild status and pay his dues; he agreed almost at once. Galan House is now a respected, obedient member of the Guild hierarchy, as far as I know."

"Yes, yes,” Kargan said impatiently. “It's to the north-west of here, about fifty miles. What does Galan House have to do with ... you know?"

"Galan has ... or, rather, it used to have, a thriving brothel,” Loras said. “Of course, that had to be brushed under the carpet once it came under the Guild's influence, but Barras invited me to join him there one night. I refused to do so, of course, like a good, celibate Questor, but I saw him pay a girl and enter the brothel.

"Now, I don't know if he actually had ... intimacy with the girl. Some men, as I understand it, have, shall we say, strange desires that do not involve physical contact. However, he told me he had, and I have no reason to doubt it."

"Did you see the Weatherworker cast any magic afterwards?” Kargan asked, unwilling to believe.

Loras shook his head. “He was in poor shape, and I could tell he had neglected his studies,” he confessed. “However, the encounter piqued my interest, and I asked a few careful questions in the town.

I learned that a Mage Manipulant in the fledgling House was a frequent customer at the brothel, and that he often made displays of magic at town fairs.

"Since that time, I have met several prominent Guild mages with wives and children, although they keep their families secret. They are mostly Questors like me ... like I was. After all, Questors tend to see a little more of the world than other mages, and we meet many more people. Take it from me, Mentalist; this prohibition is false! Sexual intimacy does not remove a mage's power!"

"They lied to me!” Kargan gasped, still stunned by the smith's words.

Loras’ face twisted into a wrinkled smile. “There are many Guild lies to which you may have to get used,” he said. “This is just one of them! Whatever spells you have that could return my powers to me, I beg you to try them. I have decades of self-doubt to overcome."

Kargan nodded, ruing the normal life which the Guild had stolen from him. Every time he had met a woman for whom he had felt any compassion or desire, he had turned her away without the least thought.

"I'll try it, smith,” he muttered. “I'll try it."

He stood and said, in a louder voice, “Please lie down, Master Loras. If this works at all, I will need your complete attention."

Sighing, Loras stretched out on the sparse mattress, as he had been bidden. “May I ask what you intend to do?"

Kargan, now assuming the role of a House Magemaster, shook his head. “As you will learn, Questor, those of your kind will not always understand all the ways of our Art. What I have in mind is Waorst-gam's Spell of Extraction, followed by Mangold's Cleansing, amongst other incantations."

"I have never heard of them!” Loras said, looking dubious.

"You Questors do not know all the best spells!” Kargan said, with a little sniff. “Lie still and learn, for once in your life, what a humble Mentalist can do for you!"

I don't need a bloody libram or scroll to cast these spells! he thought. I've taught them to many a careless Adept in my time!

"I hope what you say is true, Master Loras,” he said, “If it is, you may become a full Questor in all but title very soon. Please keep any interruptions to a minimum."

As Loras lay on the straw mattress, Kargan took a deep breath and began to chant the first spell.

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Chapter 33: Arrival at Rendale

The wagon crested a rise in the road, and Grimm caught sight of a distant, gleaming structure with a spire at each corner and a steeple in the centre. He found it difficult to gauge the distance of the building, and therefore its size, but he felt sure it must be the Priory.

The Questor pushed his head through the opening in the wagon's canvas, and said, “We had better stay alert, friends; Rendale Priory is straight ahead."

"About time,” Guy grumbled. “My bladder's killing me."

"Well, I suggest you relieve it before we move on,” Grimm said. “That goes for all of us."

"Well, now you come to mention it, Questor Grimm,” Tordun said, “I do feel a little in need of relief myself..."

"Me, too,” Erik declared. “Bouncing around in this cart hasn't done my waterworks any good."

Guy shot a sharp glance at Numal. “What about you, Numal? I hear you oldsters often have problems in that regard."

Numal smiled and shook his head. “Not me, Questor Guy,” he said. “I've never had any trouble holding my water."

Guy's face reddened, and Grimm turned back to Quelgrum, trying to hide the incipient smile on his own face.

"Pull over by that stand of trees, please, General,” he said, indicating a small copse to the left of the road.

“I suggest we wait there for Shakkar to return with his report. I think we're close enough just for the moment, and we should be able to hide the wagon and horses from all eyes except those of a flying demon."

Quelgrum nodded. “As you command, Lord Baron,” he said, guiding the horses away from the road and into the wood.

Guy and Erik led Tordun into the undergrowth, while Grimm, Numal and Quelgrum gathered leafy branches to use as a camouflage screen. Although the young Questor felt nervousness twitching in the pit of his stomach, he felt more cheerful than he had for some time. Action was always preferable to inaction, and action seemed to be just around the corner, or, more accurately, just down the road.

* * * *

Lizaveta stood at her carved podium in the splendid, marble-and-gold Upper Chapel, giving the afternoon Blessing. She had carried out this ritual, almost without fail, every day for the last fifty years.

"Wisdom, enlighten us.” The Prioress did not so much plead with the eternal powers as command them.

"Enlighten and ennoble us,” the rapt, reverent Sisters arrayed before her chorused.

"Inner harmony, suffuse us."

"Nourish us and make us whole,” the assembled congregation moaned, swaying gently as the rapture took hold.

"Discipline, guide us."

"Guide us and show us the way."

"Bless the Anointed Score."

"Bless them and keep them safe."

"True One, perfect guardian, hear our prayer."

"Let Light Eternal rule!” the nuns responded, and Lizaveta breathed in their collective ecstasy as if it were the sweetest perfume. Their joy mingled with the power of the earth beneath the foundations of the Priory and made her strong. It never failed to amuse her that the majority of the faithful lacked the slightest concept of to whom, or to what, they so willingly gave their souls and their allegiance. Suppressing a shudder of almost sexual intensity, Lizaveta forced herself to show a calm, beatific face to her congregation.

"Beloved Sisters,” she crooned, her harsh, crackling voice somehow softened by the collective joy suffusing her. “Dear members of the Anointed Score. I will now hear your petitions, so your voices may be heard. The Order is just, and it cares for its flock."

Sister Judan, the senior member of the Score, stood, her hands clasped before her and her eyes lowered in the approved manner. “Blessed be the One, we have no petitions to present, Reverend Mother.” Her hushed voice carried as clearly through the Chapel as if she had shouted.

Lizaveta nodded. “Bless you all, my Sisters,” she said. In truth, she had expected no woman to raise any kind of complaint; discipline was too strict in the Priory.

"Is there anybody else who wished to address her Prioress, for any reason?” she said, just for form's sake. The Chapel remained as silent as the grave. After waiting for a few heartbeats, Lizaveta nodded.

"Duty Sisters and Petty Superiors, report to Sister Judan for your assignments,” she said. “The rest of you may go to Accusations."

After the afternoon Blessing, all nuns not otherwise occupied were required to engage in a period of Accusations, where they would prostrate themselves one by one before the chosen Confessor. They were then expected to reveal their innermost souls before their Sisters, like an anatomist pinning out the entrails of a dissected creature. After the declaration of each sin and religious fault, the Confessor would give the self-accusing Sister a suitable penalty, ranging from an hour's basic Penitence to a period of ruthless flagellation, to be carried out within twenty-four hours. The punishment assigned was at the whim of the elected Superior.

After Accusation, each Sister in turn was required to reveal any sin or fault in any other Sister of which she was aware. Any transgression previously undisclosed by the named nun was punished with double or triple the severity of a penance levied during Accusation.

"Sister Ellen will take your confessions,” Lizaveta said, assigning one of the milder of the Anointed Score as Confessor. She waited to see if any nun would be so lax as to smile, breathe a sigh of relief, or otherwise betray herself. However, all of her flock retained the so-called ‘custody of the eyes’ and an outwardly tranquil aspect, waiting to be dismissed.

After a few moments more, Lizaveta said, “Go in peace, Sisters. Blessed be the One."

"Blessed be the One,” the assembled women chorused, filing from the Chapel in an orderly fashion, the only sound the rustling of robes.

The only people now remaining in the chamber were four of the Score without current assignment, including the recently-Anointed Sister Weranda. Since her Conversion, the girl had proven to be an excellent addition to the Order, pursuing her duties with zeal, and Lizaveta had rewarded her with the prestigious post of Prioress’ Handmaiden; a confidante and body-servant. The Prioress had not failed to notice the sharp looks the more senior members of the Score gave the new Sister, but it pleased Lizaveta to remind them just who held true power within the Order.

The Prioress, still standing at her lectern, consulted a sheet of paper. “Sister Ouida, you may supervise the kitchen staff."

Ouida, a gangling woman in her thirties with a pock-marked face, curtseyed. “As you command, Reverend Mother,” she said, backing out of the Chapel with skilful decorum, her eyes lowered.

"Sister Marga, you may lead the Supplicants in Meditation."

"As you command, Reverend Mother."

"Sister—oh!"

It seemed to Lizaveta as if a gleaming, steel spike had been hammered into her head, and her knees almost buckled. As she dropped her sheet of paper and clung to the lectern for support, she felt a small rivulet of blood run from her nose and trickle down her upper lip.

"Are you all right, Reverend Mother?” the two remaining nuns asked: Sister Weranda and the dumpy, obedient Sister Jass. They ran toward her, their faces washed with identical, wide-eyed expressions of concern.

For a moment, Lizaveta felt unable to speak, but she waved the two women away with an imperious gesture. They stood before the lectern, resuming their approved postures.

The Afelnor brat is close, she realised. I do not know where he is, but he comes with my idiot popinjay of a grandson. Whatever happens, I want Afelnor alive!

Loras’ grandson had almost become an obsession: she yearned to see him fall to his knees before her with adoration in his eyes. With him under her sole control, High Lodge, indeed the entire, patriarchal, woman-hating Guild, might be within her grasp. Thorn would be at its head, answerable to nobody but her. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with Lizaveta's heart's desire.

"I am well, dear Sisters,” she said at last, drawing a shuddering breath. Turning to the anxious-looking Weranda, she said. “It is the Afelnor whelp. I sensed his presence. He is close, and he has vengeance on his mind."

Still retaining her pose of religious modesty, the Sister said, “Is it permitted to ask a question, Reverend Mother?"

Lizaveta nodded. “Both of you may speak freely; within the bounds of Order protocol, of course."

Weranda asked, “Have you any idea of how we should deal with him, Reverend Mother? He may be dangerous."

"He is a man, Sister Weranda!” Lizaveta snapped. “I have had the will of two such beings since I was weaned. The One has seen fit to gift such creatures with strong arms and legs, but it is we women who have the true powers of the mind. These Questors may have strong bodies to dominate others of their own kind, and women denied their birthright and condemned to servitude by years of male suppression, but the minds of men are weak and pliable.

"I am dangerous; remember that!” she cried. “You know what men have brought to the world: violence, conflict and disorder!"

Lizaveta realised she was losing her customary composure. “In answer to your question,” she said, softening her voice to a gentle crackle, “I wish you to meet Questor Grimm before he ever sets foot in these grounds. I know he has others with him, but they are all men. You are to use the magic I have taught you on him and his fellows, and to persuade them to enter the Priory. I fancy we can then handle them with ease. Run to them in the guise of a poor, weak, helpless girl, and they will be no stronger than warm tallow in your hands.

"Sister Jass,” she continued, turning to the shorter, stouter nun, “I wish you to instruct the Score to assemble in my room within half an hour. When you have done so, I wish you to don Secular clothes and stand watch over Merrydeath Road; if the Questor's party makes any kind of move, I wish to know without delay."

"But it's time for Accusations, Reverend Mother,” Jass replied, her voice tremulous, confused.

Lizaveta bit off a sharp retort; imprecations would not help. Most of the Score, she knew, were dark-hearted, ambitious women who sought to overthrow her at the earliest opportunity, but she relied on Judan, Jass, and the newly-broken Weranda to be her eyes and ears within the Order. Jass might lack intelligence or initiative, but she was observant, honest to a fault and a diligent, useful tool.

"I know, Sister Jass,” the Prioress said, in a voice of pure reason, “but dark forces are afoot.

Circumstances alter cases, as you have been taught."

"Yes, indeed, Reverend Mother,” Jass said, allowing a lock of red hair to escape her wimple, although the Prioress chose not to notice the minor error. “I will do as you order."

The dumpy nun curtseyed and left the chamber. Lizaveta was alone with Weranda, who had once been the object of Grimm Afelnor's affections and desires.

Can I truly trust her? she wondered, regarding the girl with doubtful eyes, doubt suffusing her mind.

Weranda appeared the very image of a dutiful nun, her hands crossed and her gaze fixed on the floor.

She was such an angry little spitfire when she came here, not so long ago, Lizaveta thought. Nonetheless, she took far more punishment than she would have needed to convince me that she was ready; indeed, she has exceeded my expectations in all regards...

"Now, my dear Sister,” she said. “Are you quite prepared to take on such a demanding role? You are aware, of course, just how important this is, and you were, after all, once enamoured of this male creature."

Weranda never moved from her modest, self-effacing position, and her voice was calm but intense. “If you so order me, Reverend Mother,” she said, “I will tear his heart from his body and offer it to you while it still beats. Grimm Afelnor is nothing but a dull, insignificant memory for me. This, now, is my home, and you are my saviour from a life of meaningless slavery at the hands of people like him."

The burning sincerity in the young nun's voice was undeniable, and Lizaveta nodded, convinced. “I do not want Afelnor killed,” she said. “I want him whole and functioning, Sister. Just get him in here. I want him to beg for my forgiveness and mercy while he still has a full, undamaged mind; is that understood?"

"It will be as you command, Reverend Mother.” Weranda's voice bore an unmistakable tone of wistful regret. “Afelnor will be left ... intact, at least in his mind. However, may I damage his body, if required?"

"If that is required in order to subdue him, Sister; no more than that,” Lizaveta replied, an edge of steel in her voice. “You will have plenty of time with him once he is within our power—I have decided that you will be his trainer."

"Thank you for your faith in me, Reverend Mother. I will not let you down.” Weranda's voice vibrated with sincerity.

I am sure you will not, the Prioress thought. You have had ample opportunity to try to attack me of late.

However, even if the sight of Afelnor stirs something within you, some deep-buried memory, there is little you can do to me. You are powerful as a witch now, but your Geomantic power cannot hold a candle to mine. I will not hesitate to destroy you if you are foolish enough to try to oppose me.

"You may forgo Devotions and your other duties for the rest of the day,” Lizaveta said. “I wish you to use your time to practice your magic and rehearse what you will say and do when you encounter your former paramour. If Sister Jass reports no encroachment this afternoon, I wish you to approach Afelnor during the night. I wish you to run to him in the guise of a poor, helpless, terrified little thing, and I want you convince him. You have my dispensation to use only vernacular speech until Afelnor and his companions are within our grasp. Remember, I would prefer Afelnor to enter alone, or in the company of my vainglorious grandson, Guy—I can handle him well enough. You are dismissed."

"As you comm ... all right, Reverend Mother,” the girl replied. “I'll persuade him to come alone, one way or another."

Weranda sank into a deep, perfect curtsey, her forehead almost touching the floor. She held the pose for several seconds before she straightened up; as she did so, Lizaveta heard a respectful tap at the door.

"Enter, Supplicant."

The door opened to reveal the small, but quite portly figure of Sister Jass.

"I ordered you to summon the Score and then keep watch on the road!” Lizaveta snapped.

"Begging your pardon, Reverend Mother,” Jass said, wringing her hands, “but Sister Morlan is keeping watch from the East Turret—"

"I am well aware of that, Sister. I presume you have received some report from her?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother,” said the Sister in a breathy squeak. “She—Sister Morlan, that is—reports that some winged monster is flying around the Priory grounds. I thought it best if you were informed."

Afelnor's hell-beast friend, no doubt, Lizaveta thought. This must be some preliminary reconnaissance.

"Let him go, Sister. We have no desire to raise any suspicions. Wait until the creature has departed before you leave the Priory. From now on, I wish to remain undisturbed unless any untoward events are noted; pass the word."

"As you command, Reverend Mother."

The two Sisters departed the Chapel, leaving Lizaveta alone with her dark thoughts.

Afelnor is a strong one, she thought. Even I do not feel to confront him alone. However, despite his power, he is no more than a boy, with a boy's desires and a boy's weakness. With his heart's desire begging for his help, he will walk straight in here as if his heels were on fire.

Lizaveta smiled. If all went well, this young, powerful fool, this Weapon of the Guild, might soon be hers: a potent Weapon of her very own, with which she could tear down the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges itself.

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About the Author

Alastair J. Archibald lives in southeast England and is employed as the quality manager of a local electronics company. Apart from writing, his interests include playing the guitar, singing, songwriting, pool, chess and, of course, reading.

The first four books in this series (A Mage in the Making, Weapon of the Guild, Questor, and Truth and Deception) have all been Whiskey Creek Press #1 Bestsellers.

You are invited to visit Al's website at:

ajarchibald.wcpauthor.com/

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