WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
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Copyright © 2009 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 978-1-60313-522-1
Credits:
Editor: Melanie Billings
Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston
Printed in the United States of America
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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 saving Lord Dominie Horin from the attentions of the evil and powerful witch, Prioress Lizaveta, Mage Questor Grimm Afelnor finds himself elevated to the Seventh Rank and the head of a secret Quest to eliminate the influence of her pernicious cult. The mission becomes difficult as Grimm finds his magical aides are a sarcastic dandy (who happens to be Lizaveta's resentful grandson) and a cowardly Necromancer (who would prefer to sing than cast magic). The difficulties compound themselves as Grimm finds himself in an unwitting mental struggle for supremacy with the man he trusts above all others. After being freed by a mutiny about which he knows nothing, all Grimm has to do is destroy a gladiatorial slavemaster and a ruthless businessman after battling hundreds of mindless fighting drones trained to the peak of physical perfection. And the Quest has only just begun.
Dragonblaster: Book 5 of The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster
As Mage Questor Grimm Afelnor continues his Quest to destroy the pernicious influence of the witch-nun, Lizaveta, he has no idea that the evil Prioress’ inner coterie has abducted his secret lover, Drexelica.
While Drex fights to retain her individuality in the face of relentless, savage torment, Grimm has to face troubles of his own, including the sullen opposition of the unpredictable Questor, Guy Great Flame. When the members of Grimm's party find themselves marked for sacrifice and imprisoned in a fortress immune to even Questor magic, the young mage has to consider highly unorthodox tactics in order to survive.
Meanwhile, Lizaveta is training a new recruit: a human weapon of her own with which to beguile and vanquish the young Weapon of the Guild.
Dedication
To the one thing as fun as writing that you can do in public: to Mike, Graeme, Colin, Foz, DM, Peter, Donny, Mick, Dave, Richard, Kirk, Spider, Graham, Mark, Kevin, Jo, Bob, Alastair, Guy, Geoff, Sam, Carrick, Steve, Julia, and anyone I've forgotten from a previous band ... and to the late Leo Fender for bringing true beauty to the six-string in the form of the Stratocaster. Music is just like writing: the day after you swear to give it up, you find you can't live without it.
Chapter 1: Betrayal
Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster, waited in the woods beside Merrydeath Road, deep in worry.
At the tender age of seven, soon after being sent to the forbidding Arnor House to be trained in the ways of magic, Grimm learned that his blacksmith grandfather, Loras, had once been a powerful Mage Questor, too, but he had been stripped of his powers. He was exiled from the Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges four decades before, for the attempted murder of the ailing Prelate Geral. He thought he had come to terms with his grandfather's disgrace; however, recent information he had obtained indicated that Loras had been betrayed by one close to him in the Guild. Grimm now burned with desire to exonerate his grandfather in addition to proving his own worth as a mage. Another worry was his current Quest to destroy the influence of the powerful witch, Prioress Lizaveta. After she had attempted to seduce Dominie Horin, the ruler of the Guild, by her magic, Grimm had felt overjoyed at persuading Horin to give him command of the Quest, instead of to his rival, the overbearing, sarcastic Questor Guy—Lizaveta's embittered grandson. However, the enterprise's beguiling glamour soon faded, after desperate struggles in the town of Yoren and the bizarre dream-city of Brianston. Victory over Brianston's dragon-god, Gruon, came only at great cost: the swordsman, Harvel, was dead; the half-elven thief, Crest, had quit the party in grief for his fallen friend; and the giant albino, Tordun, had been all but blinded by the dragon's fiery demise.
Before destroying Yoren's Mansion House, Grimm learned that Lizaveta's magic was behind Loras’
sudden downfall, reinforcing his determination. His grandfather was no traitor, and Grimm would do anything to prove that.
His paramount concern was for his lover, Drexelica. He had already transgressed the Guild's strict rules of celibacy by coupling with her, but he wanted far more than a casual, furtive relationship. However, to declare his love for her might see him stripped of his rank and condemned to menial service in Arnor House for an unspecified period. Added to this, he knew that Drexelica had gone missing, and he believed she was in Lizaveta's clutches; this gave him additional determination to attack as soon as possible.
Although he was a mighty Guild Questor, Grimm was still only an eighteen-year-old youth, and his worries weighed as heavy on him as it would on any adolescent.
Grimm started from his morose reverie as he heard a faint rustle from the bushes behind him. Straining his ears, he heard the unmistakable crunch of a human footstep on fallen leaves. He jumped to his feet and shouted, “Who goes there? Show yourself!" His two Technology-wielding soldiers, General Quelgrum and Sergeant Erik, ran towards him from the camp-fire, their metal weapons at the ready as a small, dishevelled, dirty figure burst from the undergrowth, straight into the Questor's arms.
"Grimm! It is you!” The shabby creature sobbed into his right shoulder and Grimm's heart leapt in his chest.
"Drex! Thank the Names! I was so worried about you!"
"I escaped,” the girl said, her voice steadying. “It was horrible! Prioress Lizaveta's witch-nuns kidnapped me from Crar. They beat me and tormented me, but I wouldn't submit."
"It's good to see you alive, Miss Drexelica,” Quelgrum said, “but I'm a little surprised that they were so lax in their attentions they let you escape—"
"Are you implying something, General?” Grimm interrupted, feeling a hot rush of blood flooding into his face.
"Of course not, Lord Baron. I just thought it a little odd." Drex disengaged herself from the mage and confronted the warrior. “I grew up in a tough town, General. I learned to defend myself at a very young age. I tried to fight them, but it got me nowhere. After a while, I pretended they'd broken me. I acted all demure and submissive, the way they wanted, ‘til I found a way out. That's all."
Quelgrum's brow furrowed, and Drex's face contorted into an expression of rage. “If you really want to know, I was trained by an utter cow called Sister Melana. She took her eyes off me for a moment while she ate. I punched her in the back of her neck. She fell to the ground, and I brained her with her plate. She stopped moving. I hope I killed the little slut. I kept to the shadows ‘til I found my way down to the coal store. There was nobody there—there almost never is—and I escaped through the delivery chute." The intensity of her scowl stunned Grimm, and he felt his heart swelling with pride at his beloved's fortitude and resourcefulness. “You see, General? There's no conspiracy here. This is Drex, for goodness’ sake!"
Guy Great Flame sauntered into view, twirling his Mage Staff in the manor of a bandmaster. “Hullo!” he said, his mouth crinkling in a half-smile. “What do we have here, a drowned rat? Be careful you don't catch anything off it!"
Grimm felt his dislike of the proud Questor fulminating into sheer, scarlet hatred. “Don't you dare talk about Drex like that!"
He realised his protesting squeak sounded more callow adolescent than Seventh Rank Mage, but he did not care.
Guy raised a sardonic eyebrow. “So, this is your vaunted housekeeper? I must say, Dragonblaster, I insist on a stricter dress code for the hired help in my house."
The younger mage took his own Mage Staff, Redeemer, in a two-handed grip and stepped forward, his face contorted in rage.
"Think you can handle it, youngster? If so, feel free; I'd love you to try." Grimm felt Guy's cool, self-assured manner fanning the fires of wrath within him to such intensity that they threatened to consume him.
I'll kill him! he raged inside his mind. Guy is just a primping peacock and no true mage! I'll squash him once and for all, like the bug he is!
As the older Questor braced himself and lowered his staff, War-maker, still smirking, Grimm began to gather the golden tendrils of thaumaturgic energy into a tight, ordered knot, ready to unleash them against his hated adversary. He knew Guy must be doing the same, but he felt more than capable of overcoming the foppish mage. In the instant he drew in his breath, ready to let forth a stream of patterned power, Drex stepped between the two would-be combatants.
"What's the matter with you?” she screamed, stamping and raising a small fist to Guy's face. “Fighting like silly schoolboys; you should be ashamed of yourselves!"
Grimm felt his anger dissipate like a puff of smoke in a strong wind, and he stepped back from Guy, realising how idiotic this confrontation was.
We have a job to do, he thought. We can't afford to have stupid arguments like this; either or both of us could have been injured, incapacitated or killed!
Drexelica withdrew, frowning.
Grimm drew a deep breath. “I apologise humbly for my outburst, Brother Mage,” he said at last, extending his right hand. “No, I don't want to fight you."
Guy looked at the proffered member as if he feared it might be diseased. “Thought better of it, eh? I'm not surprised you backed down."
Grimm felt blood rush anew into his face and fought to suppress his emotions. Don't say anything to inflame the situation further, he thought, his entrails churning and his hands trembling from the effort of his inner battle. Whatever I think of him, we—I—need Guy.
"You're right, Great Flame.” The words felt like ashes on his tongue. “I ... I acted rashly when I turned on you, and I've apologised for it. Please take my hand in the spirit of comradeship in which I offer it." Guy snorted. “The spirit of cowardice sounds nearer the mark. Perhaps, instead, I should—" Quelgrum stepped in front of the foppish mage. “Questor Guy, Lord Grimm was man enough to apologise. Are you? You seem to be going out of your way to provoke him."
"I might have known you'd side with him, Technology-lover!” Guy spat. “Take the hand of that misbegotten waif? I'd rather—"
"Oh, Questor Guy,” Drex cried, her eyes moistening. “Can't you make peace with Grimm—please?" Grimm felt entranced by his beloved's blue eyes; they seemed so large and deep that he felt as if he were about to fall into them. How could any man of flesh and blood remain unmoved by such an entreaty?
It seemed that even the sarcastic, acerbic Guy was mortal at heart. He shrugged and took Grimm's hand in his own, pumping it once before releasing it.
"I suppose I was a little hard on you, Dragonblaster,” the Great Flame muttered. “Let's just get on with the damn Quest, shall we?"
The older Questor had not even used his favourite perversion of Grimm's title: ‘Dragonbluster'. Grimm guessed that was the nearest thing to an apology he was ever likely to hear from Guy.
"Well met, Great Flame,” he said, nodding. “There's a difficult task ahead of us, and I'd far rather we were allies than enemies."
Guy, looking a little dazed, shrugged. “I agree. Let's do it."
Quelgrum nodded. “I'll call the others. We'll be ready to move by morning."
"I don't think we should wait that long, General,” Drex said, biting her lower lip. “Nobody knows I'm gone yet, but they will in a short while, when I'm missed at Evening Devotions. There's no telling what that evil bitch, Lizaveta will do then.
"I don't think I could smuggle all of you into the Priory; a small party would be better. I'll go with Grimm—he's a Questor, after all."
"What's the matter with me?” Guy's voice became a plaintive whine. “I'm the senior Questor here."
"We should stand by, at least, in case of trouble,” Quelgrum declared.
"There are witch guards all around, and they know you're coming,” Drex said. “Believe me, my way is better. A small group can cling to the shadows more easily than a large one. You and the other warriors should get some rest, so you can be ready in the morning."
She locked those lovely, blue eyes on the soldier's, and Grimm suffered a momentary pang of jealousy, which he soon quashed.
"Perhaps you're right, lass,” the General said at last. “It's a reasonable battle plan." Grimm felt a warm rush of admiration at Drex's calm, intelligent assessment of the situation. After all she's been through, he thought, I wouldn't have blamed her if she'd been a catatonic wreck, but her mind's still clear.
"Well, if that's settled,” he said, “I'm going with Drex."
"Me, too,” Guy declared. “If you remember, Dragonblaster, I have a score to settle with the old bitch, too. I can take care of myself."
"I can take care of myself, too, Great Flame,” Grimm snapped, determined not to lose any ground to the pompous thaumaturge. He would rather not have Guy around at all, but, in view of his earlier effort at conciliation, he felt he could not easily deny the older mage. “Don't you worry about me; let's go."
* * * *
"Be careful,” Drex muttered, as she and the two mages hugged the lengthening shadows. “Lizaveta's look-outs are all around. They're called the Anointed Score, and they're the most vicious sluts around. It's best to avoid them."
The walls of the Priory loomed overhead, seeming almost to disappear into the inky evening sky. Grimm suppressed a shiver as the distant, eerie bark of a fox slashed through the air.
"Not much further now,” Drex whispered, as the trio rounded the north corner of the towering edifice.
“Just keep quiet, and we should be all right."
This Anointed Score can't be that good, Grimm thought. I haven't seen a single one yet. They'd have been better off forming a line in front of the Priory, if they suspected any incursion. This is just too damned—
"Here we are."
Grimm looked down at a dark, unfathomable, rectangular opening, and he felt a frisson of disquiet. Was he expected to plunge into this murky unknown, with no idea what might lie on the other side?
"I'll go first,” Drex muttered. “Wait until I give you the all-clear." Before Grimm could protest, his lover flung herself feet-first into the dark chute. Guy stepped forward, but Grimm put an admonitory hand on the older man's chest. “You heard Drex, Guy. We'll wait here." Grimm could almost hear the upsurge of the other Questor's emotions at this affront, but he hardly cared; all he cared about was that his lover was safe.
"It's all right!"
Hearing Drex's welcome voice from inside the bowels of the Priory, Grimm felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
"There's nobody here, Grimm; come on in. The dirt won't hurt you, Guy, I promise." Even in the dim light, Grimm saw Guy's brows lowering at this slight, and he smiled.
"You aren't scared, are you, Great Flame?"
"Not on your life, Dragonblaster. There's still time for you to back out, you know."
"Not on your life, Brother Mage. I'm going first."
Grimm squatted and launched himself down the chute, clutching Redeemer to his chest. The darkness and the brief sensation of falling awoke a primordial fear in him, and he felt relieved when he came to a sudden halt. He stood and stepped away from the chute, and his eyes could just discern Drex's shadowy figure, black against deeper black.
A faint bump greeted Guy's arrival, and Grimm, his eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, ran to his lover, embracing her. Drex seemed a little awkward in her response to his enthusiastic embrace, but he guessed she was nervous to be back in the Priory so soon after her escape, so he released her.
"Where do we go from here, Drex?” he whispered. “Just point us in the right direction, and we'll take it from there."
"You don't get away from me that easily, Grimm Afelnor,” she muttered. “There's a reckoning due, and I wouldn't miss it for the world.” There was no mistaking the fervour in her lowered voice. Speaking a little louder, she said, “Follow me."
"Do you really think this is a good idea, Drex?” Grimm laid a hand on his lover's shoulder. Drexelica stiffened at his touch, but her voice was soft. “Don't worry about me, Grimm." With a determined air, she strode to the inner door and opened it just a crack, allowing yellow light to spill into the dark chamber. Putting her face to the narrow opening, she nodded.
"It's all right. Nobody's there. Let's go."
"You're in charge,” Grimm said, and then he frowned.
Drex is no shrinking violet, he thought. I guess that's one of the reasons I fell so in love with her; but she seems so different now, as if she's angry with me.
Oh, well; she has been through a lot...
"Come on, Grimm! Devotions can't be more than ten minutes away now. We've got to move, now!" Grimm stepped through the narrow opening into a small, well-lit vestibule with stairs at either side. Squinting in the bright illumination, he saw Drexelica standing with her arms crossed over her chest, her lips compressed into a tight line.
Why's Drex so uneasy with me? Does she blame me for taking so long to get here?
"We don't have all day, you know, Grimm! Up here."
She started up the left-hand flight of stairs, and the two mages followed her into one narrow corridor after another. Her movements were confident and decisive; Grimm felt glad she was there to lead them through the confusing labyrinth of passageways.
At last, the small party reached a doorway, and Drex stopped. She turned to Grimm, her whole body trembling, and the mage knew she must be fighting powerful, conflicting emotions. His heart went out to her.
Such bravery! Even after all Drex has undergone, her first thought is still for the task ahead of us.
"This is Prioress Lizaveta's private chamber,” Drex whispered. “We'll catch her when she returns to put on her devotional robes."
Drex opened the door to reveal an empty room decked with glorious, tasteful brocades and tapestries.
"Come in, boys,” she said. “Don't be frightened of an old lady's boudoir." Grimm and Guy did as they were bidden.
Grimm gazed in wonder at the room's splendour; not at all what he had expected of a nun's private apartments.
"I'll wait to the right of the door, Guy,” he declared. “You take the left." Drex shook her head. “Not a good idea, Grimm; Lizaveta always sends at least two of the Score ahead of her before she enters, and they always check behind the door first. Let's hide in her inner sanctum; nobody dares enter there without her express permission.” She indicated the door with a grubby hand.
“In there."
Grimm's hand was on the door handle almost before his rational brain had time to react; something about Drex's tone brooked no argument, and he felt almost helpless to resist her. Grimm's suspicious, well-trained, Questor's mind shot a hot, warning message into his consciousness: Something's wrong here. I don't like this—
This is Drex! the emotional, uncontrolled portion of his brain snapped back. I'd trust her with my life—
He spun around, startled, as he heard the door close with a bang behind him. In the doorway stood Drex, wearing a cool smile, and flanked by two grey-garbed nuns bearing staves. Behind them stood the unmistakable figure of Prioress Lizaveta, whose expression suggested a cat who had cornered a particularly tasty morsel.
Grimm felt a cold, jagged spear of horror lance through his body. His mouth moved, but he found himself incapable of speech or movement.
"Welcome to Rendale, gentlemen,” the Prioress purred. “Sister Weranda played her part well, did she not?"
Guy raised War-maker and hissed. “I don't care how many ensorcelled sluts you command, old hag. Now, you're going to get what you deserve!"
"Ah, there you are, my dear bastard grandson! You didn't really think I'd let any kin of mine grow up to be a Guild Questor without taking a few precautions, did you?
"Quondam febrifuge!"
Guy snarled and lowered his brows, but he stopped short of decisive action. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. Guy shut his eyes, baring his clenched teeth, and beads of sweat began to garland his face. After a few further moments, he groaned and sank to the floor, dropping War-maker and clutching his stomach.
"Oh, dear,” Lizaveta said, smiling. “Dear Guy's developed a nasty tummy-ache. It's his own fault; he's such a naughty boy for trying to cast horrible spells on his devoted grandmother."
"Your little game's over, Prioress,” Grimm growled, regaining his power of speech. “If we don't return to our camp by dawn, our companions will attack the Priory with all the Technological power at their disposal. It's over: your little family code-phrases won't work on me, I fancy." He began to gather his power, intending to cast a spell of paralysis over the women.
"Ah, you are so right, dear Grimm,” Lizaveta replied. “I have no direct hold on you ... yet. However, Sister Weranda, here, does, and she doesn't want you to attack me, do you, my dear?" She's trying to confuse me, Grimm thought, trying to concentrate on his spell. However, no matter how he tried, he could not seem to focus on his magic.
"You wouldn't cast a spell on me, would you, darling?” Drexelica said, and Grimm could not resist the urge to look into those innocent eyes.
"What's the matter with you, Drex?” he gasped, abandoning the struggle to control his wayward powers.
“You're a fighter—so fight her!"
"My name is Weranda, Guild scum,” Drex declared. “I really can't tell what I ever saw in you. Mother Lizaveta has shown me how you tried to enslave me. All I feel now for you is utter contempt, you damned rapist!"
She spat at him, and Grimm, feeling confused and weak, shook his head in disbelief as the spittle ran down his face.
"Oh, and don't hold out too much hope for that bunch of misfits you call friends,” she said. “They'll soon have their own problems to deal with. They'll be much too busy to worry about you." Lizaveta said, “Sisters, you may begin.” The two nuns stepped forward and acted in unison, slamming their staves into his stomach. As Grimm groaned and collapsed onto his knees, the true beating began, each blow causing pain beyond his imagining. He held on for as long as he could, trying to protect his head, his entrails and his manhood, but the blows came in quick succession, too quickly for him to react. At last, a solid blow contacted his right temple and he fell into the welcoming arms of Morpheus.
Chapter 2: Despair
Grimm awoke to the cold shock of a jet of water in his face. He gasped at the icy impact and forced his crusted eyelids open. Drexelica stood before him, holding an empty bucket. In place of her grubby street clothes, she wore a simple, white habit and a wimple.
Prioress Lizaveta stood behind her, and Grimm tried to leap to his feet, but he could not. Looking down, he saw the strong ropes binding him to a sturdy chair bolted to the stone floor. He tested his bonds and found them quite unyielding. His injuries were painful, but none seemed incapacitating.
"Now, you may imagine that a simple Questor spell will have those ropes off you in a trice,” Lizaveta said. “However, while you have been lounging there at your ease, Sister Weranda has used her link with you to impose a few little ground rules for you to follow during your stay here.
"Rule One: you can cast no magic without express permission. Rule Two: you will obey Sister Weranda in all things, at all times. Rule Three: you cannot cast mind-changing, offensive or incapacitating magic on either of us. This final condition overrides the other two."
Grimm felt an upsurge of hope; his mind seemed unimpaired. He remembered the euphoric sense of intoxication he had felt while under Madeleine's spell at High Lodge, and he felt no such disorientation now.
If Lizaveta felt that confident, he thought, she'd have ordered Drex to make me obey her, instead. Still, I'd better play along with her.
"So what happens now?” he croaked through dry, cracked lips, putting as much resigned despair as he could into his voice. “Why don't you just kill me?"
"I may do so in time, Questor Grimm, but I have a job for you first. You're going to kill Lord Horin for me.” She smiled, revealing a set of small, yellowed teeth.
She's insane, Grimm thought. I know a little of how Geomantic magic works, and I know it can't force someone to do something he hasn't at least half a mind to do. She can't make me kill Horin—she can't!
"He doesn't believe you, Reverend Mother,” Drex said. “May I give Grimm a demonstration?" Lizaveta nodded. “Of course, Sister Weranda, please continue."
Drex leaned towards Grimm with her face inches away from his. “How pathetic you look, Grimm.” She laughed, but the sound was a harsh, hollow imitation of her normal laugh.
"I want you to cast a spell of light,” she said, “just a harmless little glowing ball, nothing more. I've seen you do that a few times now."
Grimm nodded. They'll never know if I cast a Light spell or not, he thought. Still, perhaps I'll play along a little longer, to make them think they really have me cowed.
He had no need of his personal spell-language for such a basic spell; all he needed was a simple effort of will.
In a moment, the glowing, blue sphere appeared, hovering over his head like a guardian angel.
"Very good,” Drex said, clapping her hands in a parody of congratulations. “Perhaps you thought of using a different spell; a more potent one?"
Grimm's heart leapt, but he kept his expression impassive.
Is Drex reading my mind? Surely not; if she wanted to convince me of that, she'd have told me before now.
"I'd be lying if I said I hadn't,” he said aloud. “But what's the point? You seem to have every advantage over me."
"I thought you'd say that,” the girl said. “Well; perhaps we could take things a little further. Reverend Mother, may I show Master Afelnor the full extent of our control over him?" Lizaveta nodded. “Please do, Sister."
"Now, Grimm,” Drex said, “I order you to put Mother Lizaveta and me to sleep with your magic." Grimm hesitated. “You might hurt yourself when you fall, Drex,” he said. “I wouldn't want that."
"We will sit during the exercise.” Lizaveta fetched a pair of stools from the corner of the chamber. The two women sat opposite Grimm.
"Well, go ahead, Grimm,” Drex said. “Do as I told you. We can't hurt ourselves now." They really think I'm ensorcelled!
The mage considered the characteristics of impending sleep: heavy eyelids, wandering thoughts and lassitude. Now visualising the effect he wanted, he let the energies within him build and concentrate, confident that his Questor language would pattern it in the correct fashion. He had no direct control over what he shouted when casting, but it always achieved the desired effect. Just a pinch of power; I don't want to put Drex in a coma, he thought, readying himself to release his spell.
Nothing emerged from his lips, and Grimm blinked in surprise. He felt the ordered threads of thaumaturgic force awaiting his bidding, but he could not unleash them. The knot of energy expanded, swelling like a bone-dry, sponge pressed into a sheet and dropped in water. His heart began to pound. I can't turn it off! I can't—
With the discipline of a battle-hardened Mage Questor, Grimm crushed his rising panic, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. He shut his eyes and tried to force himself to relax, a seeming impossibility for a Secular, perhaps, but not for a Guild Mage. Nonetheless, the power within him began to rise to incredible, uncontrollable levels.
It's a Resonance! I'm trapped inside it, and I can't stop it!
This time, the traitorous, terrified thought went unchallenged. Grimm now knew he was fighting for his life. He felt as if his body and soul were trying to explode into a million pieces, and he shuddered with the effort to contain them. Sweat ran down Grimm's face as he struggled to contain the roiling forces within him.
"Help me!” The strangled, desperate cry seemed to come from far away, but the mage knew this hoarse, terrified voice was his.
"All right, Grimm; you can stop now."
In an instant, Grimm regained control of his magic, dispersing it into harmless motes within his mind. For several moments, he rolled in his chair, incapable of speech as he drew whooping gasps of air into his burning lungs.
Drex smiled. “Do you see, Grimm? I have total control over you and your emotions. Back in your camp, I found it so easy to manipulate your emotions. When I wanted you angry, you were angry. When I wanted you to crawl, you fawned like a naughty puppy seeking forgiveness. Your infatuation for me gives me all the control I need."
"I never knew you liked dogs so much, Drex,” Grimm croaked. “I'll buy you one when we're out of this." Drexelica leapt to her feet and lunged towards the Questor, slapping him hard on the left cheek. Grimm ignored the brief burning; he had suffered far worse physical punishment in his time.
"My name is Weranda!” she screamed. “Don't ever be flippant with me again, rapist!"
"So I'm a rapist, am I? I seem to remember our physical relationship was your idea, my darling." Drex screwed up her face in an expression of wild, unreasoning hatred, drawing back her small, clenched fist to strike again.
Yes, get angry, Drex! Grimm thought, willing her to hit him. Forget whatever Lizaveta told you and fight!
Lizaveta took Drex's right wrist in her scrawny hand. “You'll never hurt him that way, Sister. This creature is a Mage Questor! I'm sure he's been through a lot worse than being pummelled by a girl; even a witch such as you."
Drexelica dipped into a deep curtsey as soon as the Prioress released her. “Forgive me, Reverend Mother,” she said, almost touching her forehead to the floor. “I lost control of my emotions, and I beg forgiveness."
Grimm's head lolled onto his heaving chest, and he knew true desolation. Drex had not even put up a token fight against Lizaveta's influence. He burned with shame that his former lover had been able to mould his behaviour with such ease.
"I will overlook your transgression on this occasion.” Lizaveta's voice sounded like footsteps crunching through a carpet of desiccated corpses. “Just remember, Sister Weranda: women's emotions are like a free, trickling stream; those of men are like a dammed lake, waiting to be released. Women use their emotions; men are controlled by them.
"You were correct to chastise your subject for insolence, Sister, but incorrect in your choice of method. Your link with the subject is the emotion he feels for you; you maintain that link only through the iron control of your own will. Always remember that."
"I will, Reverend Mother,” Drex replied, sinking deeper into her curtsey.
"You may leave us for the time being, Sister,” Lizaveta said. “The others of the Score may require your assistance in dealing with Afelnor's friends. I understand the spell is quite potent. I will call you if I need you again."
"May I ask the form of this spell, Reverend Mother?"
"Indeed, my dear; at this moment, the ground is opening up all around them, disgorging an army of undead warriors, all thirsting for blood. The name of Merrydeath Road is no mere jest. Your friends stand no chance at all."
Grimm shivered. He, like many others, had an ingrained, instinctive horror of zombies. He knew from the Deeds of the Questors that such beings existed, and that they knew neither fear nor the slightest concept of surrender.
Perhaps Necromancer Numal will know how to deal with them. After all, he reasoned, Numal's imposed discipline involved communication with the dead. Nonetheless, Grimm had severe doubts about Numal's courage.
As Drexelica backed out of the room and closed the door, Grimm felt his entrails begin to quiver. Tied to his chair, bereft of magic except what his captors allowed him, he knew true despair. Lizaveta rose from her chair and walked slowly around the trussed magic-user. “So, the mighty Loras Afelnor's grandson is mine at last. You and I will soon know each other well, my dear; very well indeed."
"Burn in Hell, witch.” Grimm knew it was a feeble sally, but it made him feel a little better. “You can't make me do anything I don't want to do, and I have no intention of killing Horin. He's not suffering an agonising decline like Prelate Geral was, and you'll never convince me otherwise." Lizaveta clapped her hands. “Excellent! Domination is always more effective when the subject fights back. Sister Weranda didn't surrender to the Order for quite some time. She needed to be broken, as do you.
"After that, you'll come to love me as you've never loved before."
"Never!” Grimm vowed. “All I want is to see you die, hag."
Lizaveta smiled and muttered a few strange words. Grimm shuddered as if a projectile had hit him, and he gasped. His heart pounded and his tongue, already dry, felt like a lump of wood. He could not tear his eyes from the wizened old woman.
"This is infatuation, Grimm.” Lizaveta's voice did not seem as harsh and unpleasant as it once had. “The first manifestation of love."
"I feel it, Prioress,” Grimm forced the words past his parched lips and tongue, “but I still detest you. It's a false emotion. It comes from you, not from me."
"Shall we kiss him?” the Prioress crooned, leaning close to Grimm, her lips only inches away from his.
“Shall we make sweet communion together?"
"If you try, I'll bite your tongue off!"
Lizaveta laughed, and Grimm fought to retain his hatred for the Prioress. He dug his fingernails into his palms and bit his lower lip hard, denying the overwhelming sensations of desire. I am a Mage Questor! he screamed inside his head. She cannot overcome my will, however powerful she may be!
"I believe you could, young Afelnor,” the nun said. “You are indeed powerful, as I hoped, so I won't risk you breaking the control we have over you. Changing your mind will be a challenge, and I have never been one to shrink from a challenge. I am also very, very patient."
"So am I.” Grimm gasped. “So why not spare us both the bother? The spells you placed on me only worked because I didn't want to hurt Drex, and I don't want to kill the Dominie. You can't make me kill him, so forget the idea. Thorn will never be Dominie as long as I have breath in my body." Lizaveta cackled again, this time shaking with mirth as tears rolled down her cheeks. “My traitorous son thinks I know so little of his pathetic machinations, but I know full well he intended you to kill me so I would leave him in peace. Thorn is no longer my son, and he lives only because it amuses me to let him think he knows something I don't. I have tolerated his disobedience and treachery for long enough. I don't care what happens to him at all."
Grimm felt a cold shock tingle through his nervous system. “Then why do you still want me to kill Horin, if Thorn isn't to take his place?"
"I have another candidate for the role, Lord Mage. He is a poor specimen, but I think I will find him far easier to control than my traitorous son. Also, unlike Thorn, he has ambition. I can work on that desire with ease."
"Not Guy!” Grimm screamed, his heart pounding. “If that egotistic, petty oaf ever becomes Dominie..." He could not bring himself to think of the consequences.
"That's not something you need to worry about, Grimm Afelnor. I learnt much from dealing with Loras, I don't need to worry about your death revealing my magic this time. I shall use neither Geas nor Compulsion, my dear. By the time you commit the act, you will truly believe that what you are doing is right.
"You will stand trial and condemn yourself, with joy running through your heart as you do so. You will be condemned to death and executed as a traitor, and Guy will rise in the eyes of the Guild, even if he is not declared Dominie on the spot after discovering your treason. The evidence, of course, will be absolutely incontrovertible."
She's insane. I'm in the hands of a madwoman, and I can't escape!
"And now, my darling Questor, we need to work on making you love me; and you will love me." Thribble! Surely Thribble will find a way out of this! I'll bet he's sneaking around the Priory even now!
"If you are wondering about your charming little pet imp,” the Prioress said, “don't worry; we discovered and captured him shortly after you came here. He is a most engaging little toy, and I will take great care of him."
She can read my mind! The thought blazed through the young mage's cerebrum like a raging forest fire. He was truly helpless!
Grimm gritted his teeth and waited for the inevitable emotional assault. He had no idea what he could do to overcome this lunatic, but he intended to fight to the last iota of his resistance.
"Shall we begin?” the old woman said, as if offering some great treat. “Fight me as much as you wish—we have many avenues to explore. This, for example, is self-pity, something I'm sure you know well..."
Chapter 3: Success!
Magemaster Kargan wanted a hot bath more than anything else in the world. His robes were stiff with dried perspiration, and his grey hair hung in bedraggled tendrils.
The Great Spell cast on Loras so long ago remained intact, but Kargan was proud of the seven hard-won gold rings on his staff, Seeker: he had no intention of surrendering before he had tried every suitable spell at his command.
After an hour spent in casting one fruitless spell after another, he located the block on the former Questor's abilities, which he visualised as an iron clamp constraining Loras’ psyche. However, Kargan knew that finding the mental impediment was one thing, but removing it was another. He had used all the power he had poured into Seeker, and he had been forced to use Loras as a human battery; fortunately, the former Questor had plenty to spare after decades as an enforced Secular. The Magemaster had hoped to be able to remove the block by a series of Persuasions and Easements, cajoling, enticing and commanding the barrier as if it were a living thing, but he had failed so far. The Magemaster tried to relax for a few moments, running through the list of spells he had memorised after half a Secular lifetime in the Craft.
Sural's Freedom? No: that's just a tertiary adjunct to Barin's spell, and I've already tried that in the primary case.
Hap's Assertion? Orgel's Clarifier? No, they're Internal spells, and I doubt I could strengthen either of them to External form without months of research...
I'm going about this the wrong way, he told himself, fighting frustration and a sense of impotence. I've been gently pushing and pulling at Loras’ mind or at the block, trying to ease it off like a mother trying to remove a saucepan from a child's head. I really need to shatter the block... How can I do that without shattering Loras’ mind, too?
Kargan almost gasped as the realisation came to him; if Loras’ soul was absent from his body, he could hammer and batter the block to his heart's content.
Kor's Mind-Steal! I'd have to act fast, but—
"Do you have a solution yet, Magemaster Kargan?"
"Perhaps, Master Loras, if you're willing to take a risk."
"Just what risk would I be taking, Magemaster?"
Kargan shrugged. “Maybe even your mortal life, Loras. I've gone easy on the block so far, because I've worried above all about damaging your mind. However, I know a spell capable of extracting your innermost mind and memories into Seeker. It would be a hazardous undertaking; every minute's delay will increase the risk that your body will refuse to accept your mind back again."
"You took my soul from my body with that time-travelling spell, Magemaster Kargan, did you not? I feel no ill effects from that."
Kargan shook his head. “That was different. This spell would strip your soul bare while leaving it in your body. After a while, the mindless soul will begin to assert itself, resisting the invasion of your mind. How long we have before the resistance becomes too strong depends upon your willpower. Without a body, your mind will begin to wither and die."
The Mentalist paused for a moment to let this sink in before continuing. “Another, lesser risk is that you will resist the spell. I need your utmost co-operation. You'll need a lot of willpower to submit to it." Loras rolled his eyes. “I was a Mage Questor, and such men are renowned for their willpower. I accept the risk if you will."
"I don't know how long we have,” Kargan confessed. “It could be hours or minutes."
"Do it, Magemaster Kargan. I absolve you of any and all consequences. I feel imprisoned and powerless, and I wish to be free."
"Very well, Master Loras.” Kargan nodded and sighed. “I will try this for your sake."
"For the record,” the burly smith said, “I thank you with all my heart for your thaumaturgic skills and your attempts on my behalf. Drima has given her assent to these activities, whatever happens." Kargan sat for a moment in silence, readying his mind. At last, he nodded.
"Place your right hand on Seeker, and give me your will,” he said. Loras nodded and put his hand on the staff's brass-capped extremity.
Kargan began to chant, the runic syllables tumbling from his mouth in a cool, melodious tenor.
"Sha-ra-kak-oh-ma-do...” he began, ignoring the rivulets of sweat trickling down his face. The least tremor or hesitation could ruin the spell.
He sensed the personality within Loras’ soul; every memory, every fleeting expression, every factor that contributed to the man's being. Still chanting the complex sequence of runes, he pulled at the mind, feeling it pop into Seeker as he trilled the last three syllables.
He felt no pain or nausea: the spell was good. Now, there was no time to waste. Drawing strength from the smith's drained body; Kargan located the mental block and began to chant anew. This was no melodious incantation, but an insistent drone. The Magemaster hammered, chipped and slammed the magical clamp, pouring destructive strength into it for minute after long minute. Come on; break, you bastard! Break!
With a huge access of relief, as if he had rid himself of a troublesome, unyielding tooth after weeks of relentless pain, he felt the magical structure crumble and shatter. Loras’ soul is free at last!
Don't sit around congratulating yourself—get him out of there! Kargan's ever-present mental guard screamed. Move, Mentalist!
With a mental push, something no Secular could ever understand, Kargan impelled the imprisoned psyche back to its body: he fell back in his chair, dropping Seeker to the stone floor. His vision blurring, he saw Loras lying back with a dull, fixed smile on his face. Had the smith's soul rejected its burden? Had the Magemaster failed?
"Master Loras, speak to me!” he croaked, panic rising within him like a bubble of sulphurous gas in a hot column of lava. “Are you there?"
Loras’ mouth moved, but no coherent speech emerged. Kargan felt the cold, slimy tentacles of pure horror running through him; he had failed, failed, failed The Magemaster lowered his head into his hands and mourned the loss of a good man.
"Mmstilere..."
Kargan looked up with a sudden jerk: this was more than an idiot's random mumbling. He looked closely into the smith's eyes; they were dull, but clearing, and they fastened upon his own. Loras coughed, blinked and sat up.
"I am still here,” the smith said with care, shaking his head as if to shoo away a wasp. The Magemaster almost cried with relief. “Did your spell succeed?"
Kargan shrugged. “There's only one way to tell."
Loras levered himself into a sitting position, but his eyes were now bright and focused. “Let me try something...” he muttered. For several moments, the smith sat on the mattress, his expression tense and pensive.
As Kargan waited with bated breath, Loras cried, “Japlya-redeteris!" Nothing happened, and the smith's shoulders sagged.
"How did that feel?” Kargan asked, his voice soft and cautious.
Loras looked at the ceiling and shrugged. “I felt the power gathering, just as it always used to, and it drew my special Questor spell-language from me. I was trying to create a simple ball of light, but I failed. Whether that was because of a miscast, or because the block remains, I do not know." Kargan rubbed his chin. “If you cast a simple runic spell, instead of one of those bizarre Questor concoctions, you'd know soon enough, Loras."
Every ‘normal’ spell carried a penalty for a miscast, ranging from a mild pang to the agonised death of the caster, depending on the power used. Only Questors, with their unique form of magic, seemed immune to such punishment.
"Do you remember the Minor Magic Light spell?"
"How could I ever forget it?” Loras rolled his eyes. “Magemaster Tomas hammered that spell into me day after day"
Kargan nodded. “Tomas was my Neophyte tutor. He was a very old man then, but strict.
"Try the Light spell, Master Loras. You'll soon know if you still have magic." Loras’ lips moved in silence for a moment, and he nodded his head in a complex rhythm as he rehearsed the spell in his mind.
"Ap-chet-jak-tat-de-ran!"
The spell was simple enough, but the tricky cadence held several traps for the lazy or inattentive Student. Even before the gentle, formless glow appeared in the centre of the room, Kargan's critical ears knew the chant was perfect.
Loras’ eyes widened in disbelief, and Kargan clapped his hands in pure joy. I've done it! The thought blazed in the Mentalist's head with an intensity that far outshone the spell's feeble glow.
"Welcome back, Questor Loras!” Kargan said, feeling a broad smile spreading across his face. Loras snuffed out the spell, cried, “Puridemendyura-madat!", and gestured towards the small fireplace in the bedroom. The paper and kindling exploded from the grate, and Kargan ducked to avoid a flaming, splintered fragment of wood that flew over his head.
"We need to work a little on your control, Afelnor,” the Mentalist said in a parody of his Magemaster's tone. “But I believe you understand the basic principle."
"You did it, Magemaster Kargan! I am a Questor again!” Loras wheeled and grabbed the Mentalist in bear-like arms, crushing the breath from Kargan.
"I am Loras Firelord!"
The Magemaster saw bright motes dancing before his eyes, but the awful pressure on his ribs eased, and he drew a rasping breath. For once in his life, Kargan could not think of a thing to say. The Questor regarded his scarred, shovel-like hands as if noticing them for the first time.
"You lack two important things, Questor Loras:” Kargan said softly, “a Guild Ring and a Mage Staff. Questor Grimm bears the former, but you know what to do about the latter." Loras nodded. “Blade must be buried somewhere in the bowels of Arnor House. Even when the Conclave took my powers away, they could not destroy Blade, of course." Kargan nodded: once forged by magic, such a weapon could never be destroyed while its creator lived. Wherever hidden, a Mage Staff could not be concealed from its rightful owner: if it would fly to his hand if called, or, if the path was blocked, it would teleport to him, bypassing any intervening obstructions. Loras bit his lip and called, “Blade! Come to me!"
* * * *
Thorn yawned and wandered down to the lower levels of the House. Today, he thought, he would look in on the two renegade mages, Magemaster Crohn and Questor Dalquist.
They should be softened up by now.
He had given Questor Xylox and Magemaster Faffel orders to allow the two prisoners no rest, and they had alternated watches for three days now. Sleepless and imprisoned in their iron-walled cells—pure iron being the only element capable of suppressing magic—Dalquist and Crohn should be groggy and confused now.
Thorn would ensure they were properly washed and dressed before they appeared before the Presidium, but he wanted them subdued and befuddled when they came to trial.
They should soon be ready for preliminary interrogation, he thought, as he descended the stone staircase from his private chamber. Kargan's the senior Mentalist; I'll appoint him to carry out the first interrogation.
The Prelate stepped into the Great Hall, to see Doorkeeper shambling towards the Scholasticate.
"Good morning, Doorkeeper!” he carolled, feeling in good humour.
Doorkeeper spun around like a frightened rabbit fearing that a weasel might be behind him.
"Good morning, yes, a very good morning to you, Lord Prelate!” he twittered. “All is well, as far as I know; still, there may be some naughty Students playing pranks during the holiday! You know what boys are like, Lord Prelate; always seeking some kind of mischief—"
"Thank you, Doorkeeper. Boys will be boys, I suppose."
"My work is never done,” Doorkeeper complained. “I do my best to ensure that proper House protocol is—"
"Doorkeeper,” Thorn said firmly. “Please locate Magemaster Kargan and ask him to visit me at his earliest convenience."
The old mage looked blank for a few moments before his face cleared. “Magemaster Kargan, Lord Prelate?” he said. “Why, it quite slipped my mind! He told me that he was going away for a couple of days for some research. Some kind of—"
Thorn frowned. “Research? Kargan is no Scholar! What would he need to research?" Doorkeeper seemed to shrink, and his mouth worked like that of a grounded fish gasping for air.
"That was a rhetorical question, Doorkeeper!” Thorn snapped.
"I was asking myself, not you,” he explained with a sigh, as Doorkeeper's eyes widened further in apparent confusion. The addled major-domo nodded, although he still seemed baffled; this was not unusual. Thorn stopped himself from growing angry; he knew it would only confuse Doorkeeper further.
"Where is Magemaster Kargan?” he demanded.
"He is—where is it...? It involved Lord Prelate Algar, I'm sure."
"Lord Algar,” Thorn said softly, as if trying to pacify a fractious child.
"Or Lord Rulec,” Doorkeeper scratched his bushy, grey eyebrows. “Yes, it was definitely Lord Rulec.
"Magemaster Kargan said he wanted to go to Kuloka, to find Lord Rulec's family records. I told him it was too far for one day, but he said—"
"Thank you, Doorkeeper,” Thorn interrupted the slow-witted factotum in order to restrain his frustration.
“Do you know when Magemaster Kargan will be back?"
Doorkeeper shrugged. “He told me a day and a half,” he said, “but he's not back yet. As you know, I can always tell—"
"It can wait, Doorkeeper."
Kargan's absence bothered Thorn a little, but the man was no charity Student, required to remain on the premises at all times. Normal protocol required a Magemaster to request leave from the Senior Magemaster, but, of course, Crohn was unavailable, and Thorn had made no announcement concerning him. At least Kargan had informed Doorkeeper of his whereabouts.
It did not occur to the Prelate to inquire when the Mage Mentalist had left the House; he assumed that this had been after Thorn declared the impromptu holiday. It was perfectly reasonable that Kargan use his free time to indulge his hobbies.
"Thank you, Doorkeeper,” he said, with a faint imitation of a smile. “I will not keep you from your pressing duties any longer."
"Thank you, Lord Prelate, thank you so much. So few people understand all the work I have to do. I'm never still, never a moment's rest for me..."
Thorn waved a cool, dismissive hand and walked away from Doorkeeper, heading for the doorway to the secret dungeon level of which so few House alumni were aware. He waited by the black, pyramidal Breaking Stone, making a show of minute inspection of the ebon surface until the major-domo shuffled out of sight, still muttering about his endless travails for the House. Looking around to ensure he remained unobserved, Thorn unlocked the door to the lower level, opened it and stepped inside. The winding steps were uneven and the light was poor, so Thorn made his way down the stairs with the greatest care. The walls and floors were damp and covered with moss and lichen, the only plants capable of growing in the low, flickering light.
By the time he reached the slimy flagstones at the foot of the stairs, his eyes had adapted to the gloom. His feet squished as he moved along the mossy corridor.
The passageway opened up to reveal four rusty metal doors and Questor Xylox, perched on a tall stool. He wore a heavy, blue cape around his shoulders, presumably to ward off the dismal hallway's pervasive chill. As he caught sight of his Prelate, he bounded to his feet, almost losing his balance on the slick flagstones in the process.
"Greetings, Lord Prelate."
"Greetings, Questor Xylox. How goes the vigil?"
"Slowly, Prelate Thorn. The traitors are in separate cells, as you commanded, and I check on each of them every hour. If they appear asleep or drowsy, I rouse them. However, they remain defiant. This is hard work."
Thorn nodded. “Patience, good Questor. Their treachery is undeniable, but we must persuade the miscreants to acknowledge their wrongdoing before trying them. I trust you and Magemaster Faffel to convince them to admit their treason."
"Lord Prelate,” Xylox said. “I thank you for the trust you have placed in me." Thorn started at a sudden banging from behind one of the doors. Xylox jumped into action, battering the door with his staff.
"Be still, traitor!” he shouted, and the noise stopped.
Xylox sighed. “It is like this all day, Lord Prelate."
Thorn patted the mage on his shoulder with what he hoped was a gesture of paternal comfort.
"You serve your House and your Guild well, Questor Xylox. It will be remembered, I promise you." The Prelate stepped carefully to the end of the corridor and took a small key from his pocket. Looking round to check that Xylox remained focused on his duty, he opened the door and walked into a small room lined with shelves.
My charms, he thought, regarding the objects on the dusty shelves: a bizarre collection of curios from his past. He picked up a boxy, fanged skull the size of a large dog's, a relic of his first Quest and fondled the bleached skull with something approaching reverence.
Olaf was slow to react when the were-beast attacked the party. However, my spell dispatched the creature in an instant; I reacted as quickly as thought. I was young, strong, swift and fearless then. Thorn sighed. I feared nothing but Mother's wrath. I thought the old bitch might be pleased when I gained the first gold ring on my staff, but all she did was to remind me that Loras had two on his. Whatever I did was never enough for her.
He put down the skull and turned to face the middle shelf opposite the door. Its sole occupant was a black rod, six feet in length, with brass-bound ends. The staff's brass shoes were now dull and tarnished, and the once-gleaming black wood was now covered in dust—to touch another mage's staff without his explicit permission was to court injury, or even death—but the seven gold rings at the right-hand end still shone dimly through the grime.
I should have stood by you, Loras, and we could have defeated Mother together. I just wish it hadn't taken me so long to realise that. If only we'd—
Thorn felt his heart surge as the staff shimmered and vanished. He needed to exert the utmost control over his bladder and bowels so that he would not soil himself. There was only one possible explanation for the baton's disappearance: somehow, Loras had regained his powers!
Chapter 4: Arguments
Kargan had not eaten for a day and a half, and he devoured the substantial meal before him with gusto. It was simple enough fare: thick-cut ham, boiled cabbage and home-made mustard. Nonetheless, there was plenty of it, and the Magemaster enjoyed it as much as any splendid repast from the House Refectory. Kargan leaned back in his chair and suppressed a satisfied belch. “That was excellent, Mistress Drima,”
he said with feeling.
"Not quite up to Guild standards, I imagine, Magemaster Kargan,” Drima replied, smiling and revealing a set of flawless, pearl-like teeth.
"You do yourself an injustice, madam,” the mage declared, wiping his lips and beard with his napkin. “I often suspect that our cooks disguise indifferent ingredients by smothering them with sauces and spices. You have no such need to hide the quality of your cooking. A simple meal it was, but deeply satisfying." Drima opened her mouth to speak, but her words were interrupted by the creak of a door. Kargan turned around to see Loras standing in the doorway, no longer wearing his rough smith's clothes. Instead of patched, stained dungarees, he wore a full set of scarlet, silk robes. The full sleeves and voluminous cowl might have looked foppish on a lesser man, but not on the tall, muscular Loras. Black eyes blazed from under the cowl, as if daring any man to mock their owner. The former Questor looked almost terrifying in his intensity and his bearing. The seven-ringed Mage Staff in Loras’ right hand completed the image of a powerful and dangerous master of thaumaturgy.
Drima's eyes widened and her jaw dropped, as if she had never laid eyes on this red-clad man before in her life.
"Loras!” she exclaimed. “You look so..."
"Dangerous,” Kargan added, after a few moments.
"I am,” the smith said in a cool voice. “I am a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, and I was betrayed by a man who swore undying brotherhood to me—a man I regarded as my most loyal friend. For all these years, he allowed me to wallow in guilt and self-condemnation; a far worse punishment than the most painful death.
"Worse than what I will now do to him in the name of justice." Drima frowned. “That was a long, long time ago, Loras. Can't you just let it go?" Loras shook his head. “This evil man has authority over my ... our grandson, Drima. I pleaded with Thorn, begging him to accept Grimm. The gratitude and joy I felt when Thorn accepted him as a Student knew no bounds ... gratitude to a forsworn traitor and liar."
"You hurt, Loras, I know,” Drima said, her large eyes pleading. “I've felt your pain many times, but thought it better to say nothing, even after I knew the cause.
"I've shared your anguish, my love; a hundred, a thousand times. Don't I deserve some respite?" Loras’ stark, rigid expression softened and he leant to cup his wife's chin in his right hand. He gazed into her wide, hopeful eyes for many moments, after which he kissed her on the lips with evident passion. Kargan looked at a knot in the floor for a few moments; he would not dream of lessening the moment's impact by intruding.
At last, from the corner of his eye, Kargan saw the smith pull gently away from his wife and straighten up.
"I love you more than anything in the world, Drima,” Loras said, his voice soft. “I meant every word of my marriage oath to you, and I still do."
Drima started to speak. “In that case, Loras—"
Loras silenced her by raising his right index finger to his lips.
"Please let me finish,” the Questor said. “I consider any sworn vow an unbreakable covenant, Drima; it is how I was brought up. However, before ever I met you, I swore another oath on my eternal soul, and I have suffered these past thirty years, believing that I betrayed it. You have no idea how much pain that caused me; part of me died when I was dismissed from the Guild as a renegade, a forsworn traitor.
"I believe with all my heart that only meeting you stopped me from taking my life. For that, and for your indefatigable, uncomplaining support during the difficult years we have spent together, I thank you more than words can ever express."
Loras wiped his brow with a steady hand.
"Nonetheless,” he continued, in a calm voice, “there is a canker at the heart of the Guild, a sickness that must be eradicated before it infects all my former brethren and my beloved grandson. I must face Thorn and compel him to confess to the Lord Dominie ... or kill him."
Drima looked close to tears, her face reddening with emotion. “But why you, Loras? Can't you just tell the Dominie the truth of the matter and let him resolve the issue?"
"The Presidium,” the smith said, “is unlikely to accept the word of a convicted turncoat."
"Suppose you do have to fight Thorn,” Drima said, her hands on her hips. “You are still a strong man, but you've cast no magic for three decades. What makes you think you can beat him? Even if you do, your precious Presidium will surely have you killed. What makes you think you'll even get through the House door alive?"
"I do not know.” Loras shrugged. “I have mulled over the possibilities ever since I saw the truth of the matter with my own eyes. I want you to believe that I would let the past die if my disgrace were the only consideration.
"But Grimm is in Thorn's power, as are scores of innocent young Students and Neophytes. I cannot sit back and do nothing. I must confront Thorn, for their sakes."
Drima wheeled to face Kargan. “You got Loras into this!” she screamed, ruddy-faced and angry, with such force that the Mentalist backed away from her. “Can't you make him see sense?" Does she mean, ‘can I dissuade Questor Loras from this risky course of action?’ he wondered. I could—just a few little runic syllables might suffice—but I won't.
He sighed; he knew he could never face himself in a mirror again if he tried to tamper with the Questor's mind; Loras was a Brother Mage who had been grievously wronged. Arnor House itself was in the control of a traitor, and two dedicated men, Crohn and Dalquist, were even now in his hands. He looked down at the small, angry woman and he felt her pain; all Mistress Drima wanted was a normal, peaceful life. The life of a mage was often tumultuous, and the demands of House and Guild must place a great strain on any emotional relationship. A wife and family were hostages to fate, and it was inevitable that at some point the thaumaturge would need to make a choice between the imperatives of the heart and the needs of the Guild. Marriage was not forbidden, but a married man was finished as an active mage. Although Kargan often yearned to settle down with a good woman, he understood why he could not.
"I could, Mistress Drima,” he said, “but I won't. It's not my decision to make; this is between you and your husband."
"Damn you, mage!” Drima shouted, her cheeks wet. “Damn you and your bloody House, you unfeeling bastard! What does your sexless, loveless Guild know about feelings and relationships? Does it care?"
"That is enough, Drima,” Loras rumbled, interposing himself between his wife and Kargan. “Do not blame Magemaster Kargan for my decision; all he did was to place the facts before me."
"All he did was to create turmoil where we had peace, Loras,” Drima said in a lower voice, shaking with emotion. “Our life together was often hard, but I accepted that. For years, I shared your pain and shame, trying to support you as best I could.
"When Sammel was born, I thought it would bring stability to our lives. All that seemed to interest you was whether he had mage power."
"That is unfair, Drima, and you know it!” Loras snapped. “I loved Sammel as much as any father ever could. All I wanted was for him to have the best possible start in life. Yes, I wanted to know if the power existed within him, and I was overjoyed when the blood proved true.
"However, if you remember, we discussed sending Sammel to the House when he was seven, but you convinced me to keep him with us. I felt disappointed, but I did not demur; he was a strong lad, happy with life in the smithy. After our discussion, I thought of nothing but training him to take my place here, and I never raised the subject again. I felt so proud when Sammel gained his trade credentials, and even more so when he married Shura, and they bore us a grandson."
"And then he died,” Drima replied, her voice cold and brittle. “He and Shura died in a cart you built—" Loras seemed to slump, as if life had left him, and his face turned putty-grey. He slapped a hand to his mouth, and he turned away from his wife.
"Loras, I'm sorry!” Drima's face lost its ruby cast, and her voice softened. “That was completely unfair of me; of course the accident wasn't your fault. But can't you see how much I care about you? We've lost our son and daughter-in-law, and I couldn't face it if I lost you, too."
"What about Grimm?” Loras asked. “I felt the same sorrow and loss you did when we sent him away to Arnor; you know I did. But he was not suited to smithy life, and you could only teach him so much of less physical activities. Yes, I felt hope that the lad might grow to expunge my ... my guilt, but that was never why I sent him to Arnor."
"You deceived me, Loras.” Drima cupped her right hand under the smith's chin and turned his face towards her own. “I knew enough of your past by then: your mutterings during all those nightmares told me all I needed to know. I went along with your lies because I felt your pain. But you deceived me, nonetheless."
Loras wrenched his head away from her guiding hand, and the empathic Kargan felt his pain like a knife-thrust through his own vitals.
The smith's voice trembled as he spoke: “I know, Drima, and I feel shame for that; a shame greater than I ever felt for what ... for what I thought I had done. I have no right to ask this, but I beg you to believe that this is not for me and my pride alone. This is for all the Students, Neophytes, Adepts and Mages whose lives will be perverted and turned by Thorn's influence; but, most of all, it is for the sake of our grandson.
"I leave for Arnor House to do what I know is right, Drima; if it is with your blessing, I welcome that more than you can imagine. However, if I have to do this alone, without your support, then so be it. Perhaps I will lose; maybe I will die; but I will risk that in order to expose Thorn's treachery.
"I am leaving, Drima, and I ask you to forgive me for what I have done, and for what I must do." Drima laughed, but there was no humour in the harsh sound. “Of course I forgive you, Loras,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “I don't agree, and if I thought I had the slightest chance of changing your stubborn, mule-like mind, I'd fight to the end of the world to dissuade you. Still, I know how hard it is to persuade you when your mind's made up, so all I can do is to go along with this insane plan." Her eyes filled with tears once more as she whispered, “I love you, you pig-headed idiot." Loras faced his wife, and Kargan saw the traces of moisture on the Questor's face, too. “I love you, too, Drima; I love you as much as life itself."
"Go, then!” the old lady cried. “Just promise me that you won't be seduced by the damned House or the Guild while you're away. If I—"
Loras stopped Drima's mouth with his own, and Kargan stared at the ceiling, wishing he were somewhere else. After many moments, he lowered his gaze, as he felt a firm tap on his right shoulder.
"We are leaving, Magemaster,” Loras said, his expression calm, almost beatific. “I fancy I can take us to the House faster than a pair of horses.
"Woman; wife; beloved: believe me when I tell you that no power on Earth can persuade me to stay away as long as I have you waiting for me."
"Go, Loras,” Drima whispered. “Take care of yourself."
"Always, my love. Be sure of it.” Loras took a firm grip on his staff and turned to Kargan.
"Put your arms around my neck, Magemaster,” he said, “and trust me—both of you." Kargan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He did as Loras bade him, as the smith began a guttural, droning, Questor chant that seemed to come from the centre of his chest: “Ominaomadiya-redessamu..." As a deep-blue coruscation began to play around him, Kargan heard Drima muttering. He could not make out the words, but her expression made her meaning clear. The Magemaster suppressed a pang of envy at the love between Drima and her husband, an emotion he would never experience.
"...rumandatana-getiyu...” The walls of the smithy blurred, and the very air seemed to take on a soupy, heavy consistency.
"...simonumat'ur-gamnusim..."
Kargan felt a moment of panic as the walls, ceiling and floor disappeared, to be replaced by a black void filled with blue motes. He knew he was moving, but without any sense of direction.
"...amatumonimasadata!"
Kargan's stomach lurched as he felt sudden discontinuity and deceleration, and he found his feet again on firm ground.
The Magemaster closed his eyes and gulped, seized by momentary nausea. When he opened them again, he saw the stark, forbidding face of Arnor House. Even in the golden, evening light, he saw only corruption and senescence in the ancient fortress’ blurred outlines. Releasing the Questor, Kargan staggered and suppressed a sudden upsurge of hot, acrid bile within him. He swallowed, fighting his protesting body's demands.
"We are ... home, Magemaster Kargan,” Loras said, seemingly none the worse for the dizzying journey.
“I believe you hold the key."
Kargan, his head spinning, held up his left hand with its blue-gold Guild ring. He stared at it for a few moments: the band which showed his love and dedication to a corrupted House; the band which denied him a normal life.
"I am ready, Questor Loras,” he muttered, moving his left palm towards the black, oaken portal. The door swung open in a smooth, silent arc, and saw the hunched figure of Doorkeeper rushing towards the entrance.
"Welcome; welcome back, Brother Mage,” the beaming major-domo crowed. “It is good to—" Loras, resplendent and terrifying in his scarlet apparel, stepped from the shadows. “Greetings, Mage Doorkeeper. I trust you are well."
Doorkeeper's smile fell; he looked from the Questor to the Magemaster and back again, his expression like that of a confused, frightened child.
In a dull voice he said, “Greetings, Questor Loras. I am under orders to report your arrival to Lord Thorn."
Before Kargan or Loras could protest, the old man shuffled away with surprising speed, and they were left alone.
Chapter 5: Undead Or Alive
General Quelgrum had stood watch many times in his long life. He had often felt the cold, leaden sensation of fearful anticipation in the pit of his stomach; at other times, he felt only boredom. The old soldier thought he had experienced the gamut of human feeling and emotion, but something seemed different about this watch: a sick sensation of unnameable dread. The stark, skeletal trees around the camp creaked in the evening breeze, and Quelgrum heard the eerie, intermittent cries of a screech-owl in the distance.
However, these sounds did not disturb him as much as the utter, cloying silence that clung between them. At last, the owl finished its mournful ululation and the breeze died away; silence reigned, and the General shivered, as if the very stillness were seeping into his bones.
Something's coming, he thought, although he had never before believed in fortune-tellers, predestination or precognition. Something bad.
At the sudden rustle of fallen leaves behind him, his heart leapt in his chest and he wheeled, his finger taking first pressure on the trigger of his automatic rifle, which he held at chest height, ready to fire.
"Oh, it's you, Lord Seneschal,” he said, suppressing a relieved sigh.
"Who were you expecting, General? I am here to relieve you,” Shakkar rumbled, towering over the soldier.
"I don't know, Lord Seneschal,” Quelgrum confessed. “I just feel a little ... jumpy tonight. If it's all the same to you, I'll stay on watch with you; I don't think I could sleep right now. Besides, I want to be ready in case Baron Grimm comes barrelling out of the Priory with a hundred screaming witches at his heels. I don't normally feel this edgy, but something seems—oh, I don't know. I suppose you think it's just an old man's addled imagination."
"Not at all, General. I, too, am concerned for the Lord Baron, Questor Guy, and Lady Drexelica."
"It's not just that,” Quelgrum said, trying to put his inner disquiet into words. “It feels like—
"What was that?"
Quelgrum spun around at a faint knocking, creaking sound that seemed to come from ground level. He shot a swift glance at Shakkar, wondering if he had imagined the sound, but the demon's lowered brows and bared fangs showed that he had heard it, too.
"Who's there?” he demanded. “Show yourself!"
Now, the General heard a similar sound from his left flank, a little closer.
"Everybody up, now!” Quelgrum yelled. “Something's happening!" Another tapping, creaking sound, this time to the General's right. Quelgrum squeezed the trigger and loosed three bullets in the sound's general direction.
He heard another subterranean creak, and another.
"What is it, Sir?"
Quelgrum turned to see a breathless Sergeant Erik, his rifle in his hands.
"I don't know, Sergeant, but I don't like it."
Numal arrived, leading the blinded Tordun by the hand. Even in the campfire's dim illumination, his face appeared pale.
"Fan out,” Quelgrum ordered. “Whatever's coming, it seems to be all around us."
"It's probably just squirrels, General,” Tordun said. “Just throw—" At that moment, the soldier heard a rumbling, tearing sound and the ground seemed to open up. A scant thirty feet ahead of him, Quelgrum saw a humanoid figure arise from the very earth, emitting a bone-chilling groan of hatred and anguish. The General felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. Flakes of earth dripped from the unearthly creature, and hot resolve replaced cold disquiet. Quelgrum squeezed the trigger of his weapon and launched a trio of bullets into the being as it stumbled towards him. The creature staggered, but it did not slow in its advance. Erik's weapon spat fire towards the advancing, shambling entity, cutting it in half. The two halves of the creature fell in opposite directions, each hitting the ground with a dull thump. However, no spray of blood accompanied the destruction.
"A zombie,” Numal said in a tremulous voice, “one of the Undead! And yet I don't see any sign of Necromancy; what's causing this?"
Quelgrum saw three more beings arising from the ground: one bore a mantle of grey-green slime and dripped a rain of pale maggots; the other two were bleached skeletons. This time, the General and the Sergeant did not wait for the creatures to find their feet before firing. Swaying their weapons back and forth in sawing motions, they bisected the undead monsters in an instant. Another tremor rumbled, and more zombies appeared. Quelgrum squeezed his trigger again, and a scant five bullets emerged before he heard a dull click from his rifle. As the creatures advanced further, he forced down his rising emotions, ejected the spent magazine and pushed in another. He heard Erik's weapon run dry as Shakkar ran forward.
The monsters scored deep gashes in the demon's sides as he tore them apart, and the Seneschal roared, perhaps more in defiance than in pain.
"If you can give us any advice on these things, Necromancer Numal, I'm sure we'd all be grateful,”
Quelgrum shouted, as he saw the mage swing his staff in a wide arc to decapitate yet another creature.
"This is outside my training and experience, General,” Numal said and moaned. “If you can protect me and leave one of the creatures intact while I try to gain control of it, I might be able to persuade it to attack the others."
The ground shivered again. “Here they come again!” shouted Erik. “I've only got three magazines left. I'm going to try a few grenades—let's see how they like that!"
Quelgrum swung his firing rifle in a wide arc—the damned things are all around us!—and he heard the dull thump of grenades exploding amongst the hordes of undead assailants. Only those creatures immediately next to the explosions seemed affected by Erik's grenades; any human within several yards would have been torn apart by the flying metal shards, but the zombies continued to advance. Some limped, some had lost arms, but the ghastly attack did not slow.
Tordun leaped into the middle of the forward group of attackers, knocking many away with his hammer-like fists but only slowing the advance. Quelgrum heard the now-familiar groans and rumbles on all sides, and he knew panic for the first time since his extreme youth. He looked behind him to see Numal flailing with his staff like some mad reaper, and he knew the group could not last long in the midst of this awful killing ground.
The General aimed single shots at the heads of the advancing horde, trying to conserve his ammunition; occasionally, he was rewarded by the sight of an exploding skull and a falling foe, but, more often, a shambling monster just ignored the damage.
"Get to the road and regroup, people!” Quelgrum shouted. He saw Shakkar swing around, as a group of seven zombies began to rip the cart apart behind them. “Forget it, Shakkar!” he screamed, his voice a counterpoint to the frightened, brutalised horses’ whinnying, as they were torn apart by the monsters’
claws. “Let's get to the road.
"Move it!"
He laid down what he hoped was a suppressing fire, joined by the reliable Sergeant, urging the small party down to the hard-packed road; surely nobody could be buried there. At last, they reached the parched thoroughfare, and Quelgrum breathed a sigh of relief; both Shakkar and Tordun had scarlet gashes on their bodies, but their wounds did not appear serious. At least the zombies moved slowly, and the road was well-lit by the bright, full moon.
"Let's hope the wagon keeps them occupied for a while,” Quelgrum said. “Necromancer Numal; is there anything you can do?"
"I'll try to take control of some of the undead creatures, General. Maybe I can persuade them to attack each other."
"Better make it fast, Lord Mage,” Erik advised. “They're still moving." A large group of zombies now made its way through the undergrowth. They were still distant and their pace appeared leisurely, but Quelgrum saw more of the creatures emerging from the other side of the road.
"They're trying to outflank us!” the General said. “Let's pull back!"
"Look, General,” Shakkar rumbled. “Look!"
Quelgrum's eyes followed the direction of the pointing, taloned finger; shambling streams of the undead monsters had begun to stumble onto the road behind them. They were still at some distance, but the closing ring of zombies precluded any simple escape except towards the Priory. Numal shook his head and his forehead crinkled. “Somebody has to be controlling them,” he said. “The Undead have no volition or desires."
"Well, find them!” Quelgrum commanded. “Sergeant, how many grenades do you have left?"
"A couple, Sir."
"See if you can take out the group behind us, so we can retreat back down the road. At least we could put some distance between us and them while we decide what to do next." Erik raised his weapon and launched his remaining grenades to land behind the shambling group, which was now at least three deep. The explosions made a satisfying noise, tearing apart many of the undead assailants, but the whirling fragments had little effect on the others.
"We'll break through,” the General said, hearing the relentless tread of the approaching zombies on each flank. “Lord Seneschal, will you attempt an assault on the rear group while Sergeant Erik and I try to hold back the others?"
"I'll attack them head on, General,” Tordun said, his voice firm with resolve. “I can make out their outlines well enough. Perhaps friend Shakkar could fly over them and attack them from behind."
"Do it!” Quelgrum shouted, trying to contain his inner terror as he and the Sergeant fired at the flanking zombies, trying to pick their targets and aim for their heads.
Tordun launched himself at the mass of slow-moving creatures, screaming in rage as Shakkar surged into the air. Quelgrum heard the dull click of the hammer falling on the empty chamber, and he tried to remain calm as he ejected the spent magazine and slammed in his last. He concentrated on the left flank, trusting Erik to make his shots count on the right. The stuttering bullets felled scores of the creatures, but others seemed to fill the gaps as soon as their rotting comrades fell. Still no zombies appeared from the direction of the Priory, and Quelgrum felt sure that the unseen controller was trying to lure them towards it; he was determined not to rush into a trap.
The General slung his rifle over his shoulder as the hammer clicked on the empty chamber; he heard Erik insert what must be his last magazine. Quelgrum drew his pistol, a twelve-shot weapon, and began to fire anew. The line of creatures grew no closer as more zombies fell, but Quelgrum knew it was only a matter of time; the supply of undead seemed inexhaustible.
"It's no good, General,” Tordun said, and Quelgrum saw the albino was bleeding from many deep slashes and cuts on his face. “I tried to hold them, but there are too many of them."
"What happened to Seneschal Shakkar?” Erik asked, still firing single shots.
"I don't know, Sergeant,” the pale giant said, who appeared exhausted. “They hurt him badly, and he flew off."
Quelgrum felt a sharp pang of betrayal; if there was one member of the party on whom he had felt sure he could rely, it was the demon.
"I can't find the source,” Numal whined, as if in deep anguish, interrupting the General's thoughts. “This just cannot be thaumaturgy."
"It must be Prioress Lizaveta's witches,” Quelgrum shouted. His pistol clicked, and Quelgrum knew effective resistance was impossible. He wrestled with his emotions; only one course of action was possible; something he had done only once in his long life.
"Gentlemen, that's it,” he cried, as the flanking zombies began to spill onto the wide, moonlit road. “We'll have to surrender."
He turned towards the Priory and shouted, “Do you hear me? We surrender!" Erik gasped, but the General knew that to resist further would mean death. Silence reigned for a few moments, and Quelgrum now smelt the encroaching horde; the sickly-sweet stench of rotting flesh made him gag.
It'll soon be over, he thought, steeling himself to accept death from a hundred slashing claws. I've not had a bad life, I suppose.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Erik holding his empty rifle like a club, Tordun trying to assume a fighter's stance, and Numal holding his staff over his head, ready to strike. Then the zombies stopped their relentless approach, a scant arm's length away from them. Quelgrum squinted down the road, and he saw a small figure, blue in the blazing moonlight, walking towards him. He felt no relief at the fact that he would not be torn apart by the zombies; just a dull, sick sense of despair. Baron Grimm had been merciful after his own victory over the General's men, after Questor Dalquist's persuasive ruse de guerre, at his desert base, but that had not lessened the pain of his capitulation.
He knew he could not expect such generosity from these foes.
The General dropped his empty pistol and raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. The approaching blue figure was a small, dumpy woman of middle years, dressed in a nun's formal, restrictive robes; not what Quelgrum had expected.
"I am Sister Judan,” the woman said, in a contralto that Quelgrum might have considered pleasant at a more auspicious time. “I am not alone. My least cry will bring the undead creatures down upon you." With a heavy heart, Quelgrum said, “I understand, Sister Judan. We surrender; we have little choice."
"How true,” the nun said. Her voice was light and airy, but Quelgrum saw the steel in her expression; this was not a woman with whom to trifle. “You, warrior,” she snapped, turning towards Erik, “drop that metallic abomination at once!"
Erik glanced towards Quelgrum. The General gave a heavy, resigned nod, and flung his own empty rifle aside, raising his hands as he did so.
Judan nodded. “That's much better,” she said. “Come with me."
Tordun, swaying on his feet, growled, but Quelgrum quelled him with a shake of his head. “We've lost, Tordun,” he said. “It's all over."
"You may keep your staff, thaumaturge,” Judan said to Numal. “Just remember that the least attempt at bravado will mean the end for all of you."
Quelgrum and his companions followed the small woman down the road at a snail's pace, and the zombies followed them.
Just like sheepdogs leading lambs to the slaughter, thought the old soldier.
"Why haven't you just killed us all?” he asked the nun.
Judan laughed—a merry, tinkling sound, at odds with the grim situation. “Why, we have no wish to kill you, General,” she said. “We just wish to educate you. Questor Grimm will need a retinue when he returns to High Lodge. You will be proud to accompany him when we have finished with you." Quelgrum could not guess what Prioress Lizaveta had in store for them, but he guessed it would not be pleasant. He considered ending it all by killing Judan; they would all die at the hands of the zombies, but it might be worth it. Only one thought stopped him from committing suicide and condemning his comrades to painful death:
Our only hope lies with Baron Grimm now. He's an impulsive lad at times, but resourceful. He wouldn't surrender without a fight. We've just got to hope he can win through.
Chapter 6: Dominance or Submission
Grimm sat cross-legged on a thin layer of straw on the floor of a small cell with a flimsy, wooden door. If this is meant to break me down, they're going about it the wrong way, he thought. This is no worse than my cell back at the House when I was a Student.
He eyed the pathetic door with some amusement; a single Questor spell would shatter the door into dust, and he would be free to work havoc on Lizaveta and her acolytes.
The concept of retribution against the Prioress began to reverberate in his mind, and he quickly quashed the idea before it could build into a full-blown, incapacitating Resonance. Grimm drew a deep sigh.
Quelgrum, Shakkar and the others will soon realise something's wrong. Lizaveta said the Score had animated an army of corpses to attack the General and the others, but I'm pretty sure she has little comprehension of the powers of Technological weaponry. I'll bet the others are on their way here right now—
Grimm started as he heard the door creak open and he saw Drex, dressed in her cool, white robes.
"We got them,” she said, her voice laden with the syrupy tone of deep satisfaction. “Nobody's coming to save you, Grimm, so put that thought out of your head, right now. Your dreams of glory are finished. How does it feel, rapist?"
Grimm narrowed his eyes, meeting Drex's gaze. Emotions swirled and eddied within him, but his predominant feeling was one of pity for the girl he still loved.
"You're as much a prisoner of Lizaveta's schemes as I am, Drex,” he said. “What did that bitch do to you to make you—"
Drex's brows lowered; the Questor howled in anguish as he felt vicious waves of self-loathing and suicidal despair beating against the core of his being. He felt tears running unabated from his eyes as the Geomantic spell wracked him.
"Don't you dare pity me!” Her voice grew tremulous and brittle.
Grimm could only groan in response.
"Yes, I suffered,” Drexelica continued, “but only so Prioress Lizaveta could undo the oppressive conditioning you placed on me. She understands me as a fellow woman. She appreciates my talents, which is more than you ever did!
"Only by suffering will you ever understand her love and dedication to her cause." Grimm wailed and thrashed as she held the spell on him, but a thought rose up from his innermost being: I am a Mage Questor! I've suffered, too, my love. I've known torment and pain in full measure, all so I could learn to control my powers and my emotions.
I am Grimm Dragonblaster!
He stayed his thrashing limbs, accepting the induced emotions and dismissing them. Trembling with the effort, he pushed himself to his feet, looking down at Drex.
"Lizaveta is a twisted, evil hag,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level. “My grandfather spurned her, long ago, and she wants to take her revenge by possessing me in body and soul.
"She's the rapist, not me."
Grimm collapsed again, as Drex redoubled the spell's intensity. He felt his mind, his very soul, compress to a tiny bubble under the spurious sensations of self-hatred, but he would not surrender to them.
"I ... love you, Drex,” he gasped, his vision blurring. “That cow knows nothing but hatred and revenge. Will you feel the same about her when she compels me to make love to her?" Colours turned to grey, then to black, but Grimm would not give up the struggle. At last, the Geomantic assault ceased, and the mage saw the wet gleam in his beloved's eyes.
"Prioress Lizaveta would never do that!” she yelled, stamping her foot in a pale the petulant manner of the shabby, adolescent street urchin Grimm had first met in the town of Griven. “And my name's Weranda!" The mage felt a hot, bright upsurge of hope; he was now the manipulator of emotions, not Drex.
"You liked Shakkar,” he said, sitting up, not tearing his eyes from hers. “You know you did. You liked General Quelgrum and Tordun, too!"
"They're all just oppressors and would-be rapists!” Drex cried, tears now rolling down her red cheeks.
"Do you remember how embarrassed Tordun was when Questor Xylox put him in the tent with you?”
Grimm demanded. “Although you couldn't have resisted him for a moment, he never laid a finger on you, and you know it!
"Shakkar would walk through fire to protect you, as would Quelgrum: as would I. We gave you love, respect and protection; all Lizaveta has done is give you pain, and that's all she'll ever give you, until she's finished with you!"
"No!” Drex sobbed, almost bent double. Grimm knew he was winning the exchange by sheer force of will. “She's a good woman, a holy woman!"
Grimm snorted. “She's holy, sure enough: wholly corrupt! Fight her, Drex; you know I'm right!" The girl's mouth opened and closed, but no words emerged as she drew a series of whooping, convulsive breaths.
"Sister Weranda!” Lizaveta's husky voice snapped from the doorway. “Straighten up and control yourself!"
As if she were a flesh marionette, Drex jerked into an upright position in an instant, tugged by unseen strings. At once, her expression became as blank as the stone blocks of the small cell. She wiped the moisture from her cheeks and bowed her head.
"I apologise, Reverend Mother. The prisoner attempted to impose his filthy will on mine. I was weak, and I will do Penance in atonement for my lapse."
"He is a Seventh Rank Questor, Sister,” the Prioress purred, stepping into the cell. “Willpower is the cornerstone of his power. You erred in seeking to engage him in conversation.
"During two hours’ Penance—a Second Level Penance should suffice—I wish you to meditate on your error. From now on, you will confine your interaction with the subject to his education; is that clear?"
"Quite clear, Reverend Mother,” Drex replied. Her face was as expressionless now as the cell's stone walls.
"Go now and do your Penance,” Lizaveta said. “I will take care of our pet Questor now." Drex bobbed a faultless curtsey that would not have shamed a lady-in-waiting at a royal court, and she left the room. Grimm summoned his defiance once more, determined to fight the Prioress to the end, even if he could not use his magic on her. For the space of a few heartbeats, he had seen the woman he loved emerge from Lizaveta's imposed cage, and that gave him hope.
"So, we are alone at last, my love.” The harsh sibilants made the words sound anything but inviting. Grimm forced himself again to his feet."I am not your love, hag."
"But you will be, Grimm; you will be."
"Never!"
Lizaveta shook her head, as if disappointed by a beloved child's tantrum. “There are many emotions you have not yet sampled, Grimm Afelnor,” she said, “and I know them all. I know you are familiar with anger, love, self-loathing and despair, but what do you know of the pangs of mind-numbing, strength-sapping terror?"
Before Grimm could speak, it seemed as if an apple had been rammed into his throat, and he felt his heart pound in his chest. His tongue seemed to turn to dry wood, and his limbs trembled as a clammy sweat broke out all over his body.
It's not real! he raged inside his mind.
"Kill me, witch!” he croaked. “I am not afraid of you. You will not—" The dreadful sensations surged and multiplied again to an impossible intensity, and Grimm gasped, only remaining on his feet by a supreme effort of will.
"I think we'll try this with a touch of self-loathing this time.” The Prioress sounded as if she were a physician prescribing a course of medication. “Let's see how you like this!" Every fibre of Grimm's being clamoured for attention, a screaming chorus of anguish. I can't beat her! She's too strong...
No! I am stronger! I am a Questor! I won't surrender!
"No!” The single, hoarse word tore its way through his vocal chords.
"I expected no less from the grandson of Loras Afelnor,” Lizaveta said. “Your resistance and strength are refreshing. However, I am in my sphere of power, and I can call on as much energy as I need to defeat you. I do wish I could spar a little longer with you, Grimm, but time is pressing.
"Let us try this."
Grimm closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, expecting more pain, but his eyes flew open and his jaw slackened as the spell hit him. He gasped, and tears ran down his cheeks as he felt his bones turn to water.
Joy! Pure, unalloyed ecstasy flowed through the mage, threatening to unman him as he rolled over onto his side, drooling and groaning in sheer rapture.
Grimm could not stop this new sensation from flooding through his embattled soul, and he found himself accepting his domination, welcoming it. The lone, faint spark of defiance, his only link to what he was, who he had been, surged briefly, guttered and died.
The past was unimportant; all that mattered was now. He might be thrashing around like a pig in ordure, but he no longer cared. He let the feuding emotions run through him, accepting that he was a worthless, despicable person and enjoying the fact.
Nonetheless, compressed and embattled as it was, the tiny spark that constituted his inner being refused to be quenched. Trapped in a prison of raucous, warring emotions, it watched and waited.
* * * *
A sea change: with a sudden shock of awareness, he was himself again, and his flailing limbs ceased their rebellion. As full awareness returned to him, he realised that he was lying in a noxious, malodorous pool of his own making. He tried to stand, filled with disgust, but his legs and arms felt as heavy and dead as stone pillars.
He looked up to see Prioress Lizaveta standing over him. Several locks of greasy, white hair had escaped from her starched wimple, and her face was ashen. To his eyes, she seemed almost dead on her feet. For the very briefest of moments, he felt a surge of black despair. It's gone! Please, Reverend Mother, bring it back!
He crushed his momentary horror into a tiny mote, forcing his true personality to reassert its dominance over his being.
You'll never break me, hag!
The triumphant thought blazed into life, seeming to illuminate the darkened corners of his abused psyche. The knowledge that he had withstood her vicious emotional assault strengthened and succoured him. Only his brutal Questor training had given him the strength to resist. Grimm smiled, finding sufficient strength in his arms to drag his body out of the disgusting mire of bodily humours. Rolling over onto his front, he managed to push himself up into a crouch, although his legs were too weak to support him fully.
He laughed; a hoarse, hacking sound. “I still hate you, Lizaveta,” he croaked through chapped, dry lips.
“You've lost."
The Prioress raised her head a little, and turned to face him, her eyes glazed and lifeless.
"I see my mistake now,” she muttered. “A direct emotional assault on a Questor in his prime of youth and power was foolish. Physical pain cannot defeat you, but it will weaken you to the point where you can no longer resist me. I haven't lost, Grimm; I have learned a little more about you."
"You'll never possess me, witch,” Grimm growled. “I won't give in to you, whatever you do to me. I won't betray Drex—the memory of the true Drex I know and love—or my Guild, so just kill me and be done with it."
"You will die when I give you permission and not before,” the Prioress intoned, but Grimm managed another lop-sided smile.
"I don't doubt it, Prioress,” he said. “But that's all you can do. You may have power over my mortal body, but my soul will remain my own."
Lizaveta grunted and staggered from the cell, and Grimm was alone again. Now, the fierce joy of triumph ebbed, and he gasped as his body imposed its demands: his head now felt as if it were stuffed full of nails; his joints screamed with pain, and he feared he had torn several ligaments. He accepted the pain, welcoming it; at least he was alive and in his own mind. I'll take whatever Lizaveta throws at me, he swore to himself. For a few brief moments, he had opened up a narrow fissure leading to Drexelica's true self, and he vowed to work to widen that breach whenever he had the opportunity.
All I need is to be able to endure, and to hope that Lizaveta trusts in her conditioning of Drex enough to leave her alone with me again.
I'm in no condition to fight now. I need to gather my strength if I'm to endure what Lizaveta has in store for me.
Grimm closed his eyes and began to meditate. As a Student, he had hated the hours spent sitting cross-legged, staring into space, but he now blessed the Magemasters he had cursed as a callow youth. Even though he had never seen the worth of his long, painful meditation lessons before, he saw it now; it just might give him the chance he needed to prevail.
He knew he had at least a slim chance, and that frail hope was all he needed to sustain him. The brief glimpse he had seen of Drexelica, as opposed to the angry Sister Weranda, had given him the hope the Prioress had tried to deny him. He knew he might have only a few moments of blessed solitude, and he would make the most of them.
I'll bring you back, Drex. You once swore you'd stay with me until you saved my life as I'd saved yours; it's time to save me now, my love. Together, we'll beat her.
Blessed peace and freedom from earthly cares reigned, as Grimm lapsed into a contemplative, restorative state. He was alive, and that was all that counted; all he needed.
Chapter 7: Resistance
Kargan turned to Loras, looking him straight in the eyes.
"Questor Loras, if Thorn asks of my whereabouts, tell him I have fled the House, fearing his wrath,” he said, speaking quickly; time was of the essence.
"Why, Mentalist Kargan?"
"It's best you know as little as possible. Do you think you could hide a lie from Thorn?"
"I do not know,” Loras said. “He will surely scan my aura at the earliest opportunity—as I will his. He is likely to notice any deception on my part."
Kargan held out Seeker. “Take hold for a moment, Questor Loras,” he said, and the smith extended a gnarled hand to grasp the rod; a Mage Staff did no harm if its owner gave permission to touch it. The Magemaster closed his eyes for a moment, accessing a spell hidden within Seeker and sending it into Loras.
"There,” he said. “Any signs of deception in your aura should be masked now."
"A useful sleight,” Loras said, raising his eyebrows in appreciation. “I have never heard of such a spell outside the realms of Geomancy."
"It's one I devised,” Kargan said. “Doorkeeper will return soon; I must go."
* * * *
"Good hunting, Mentalist,” Loras muttered, as Kargan hurried off into the depths of the Hall. The Great Portal swung shut, leaving the smith outside. Loras had no intention of setting one foot inside Thorn's demesnes for the moment.
The evening breeze freshened, and the smith drew his red cloak closer around his body. Long minutes passed. Loras heard the distant, shrill bark of a fox, and a terrified avian cacophony soon followed.
Good hunting for somebody, he thought with a faint smile. I trust my own delving will be as successful. He knew he had always been a stronger Questor than Thorn, but he lacked practice in the arcane arts. Drima's warning came back to him:
"What makes you think you can beat Thorn?"
Loras had to acknowledge that her doubts might be justified. Righteous rage was a poor substitute for confident, practiced skills.
At last, the door swung open, spilling golden night into the dusk, and Loras beheld a man he had not seen for more than half a Secular lifetime. For a few moments, he did not recognise Thorn; time had not been kind to the Prelate. The flowing blond locks of youth had been replaced by a few, greasy, white tendrils plastered over a ruddy pate, and the once-wiry Questor now bore a distinct paunch and heavy jowls. Nonetheless, the amber eyes and heavy brows were unmistakable. This was, indeed, Thorn Virias.
"Greetings, Loras,” the Prelate said, his mouth crinkling into a smile. “It is good to see you." Loras bit back a vicious retort; he longed to launch a meaty fist into Thorn's flabby jaw, but he restrained himself.
"I wish I could say the same, Thorn,” Loras growled, “but I cannot. You betrayed not just me, but also our House and our Guild. I am here to demand that you resign your post and submit yourself to the High Dominie's scrutiny. I know all: how you placed the pillow in my hands and summoned Urel and Olaf; how you engineered my disgrace and the false shame under which I have laboured for the past decades. It is over, Thorn."
"I have waited for this moment, Loras,” Thorn whispered. “For as long as you have suffered, so have I. Waiting, fearing your return and your wrath. Now you are here, I feel only relief that this ordeal is over." Loras defocused his eyes, accessing his Mage Sight to scan Thorn's aura. He saw the characteristic hues of sorrow, shame, resignation and trepidation, but no deception at all.
"It was entirely my mother's doing, Loras. She used me as much as you, for her own ends. I was a puppet in her hands until she forced me to cast a Compulsion on your grandson, Grimm; he is a remarkably potent Questor, and his resistance provoked a Resonance that nearly killed me. It was only by shaking off that Resonance that I managed also to break free of my mother's influence. Since that moment, I have been dedicated to her downfall."
Can it be true? Loras wondered. Thorn's aura says so.
Lizaveta was so beautiful and beguiling ... she nearly ensnared me, and I only shook off her Geomantic blandishments with the greatest effort of will.
"I have been under her influence for the whole of my life, Loras,” Thorn said. “I was brought up under her domination and power. When I placed that pillow in your hands, I was as much a puppet as you.
"Do you not remember how I pleaded for your life at your trial?" You did indeed, Thorn. The other members of the Conclave howled for my blood, and only you spoke out for me.
"If I accept your story, Thorn,” Loras said, still wary, “will you accompany me to High Lodge to put matters straight?"
"I can do no less, I suppose,” Thorn said. “What do you wish from me?"
"My reinstatement as a Guild Questor, the clearing of my family name and your resignation from the Guild,” Loras replied, fighting to keep his voice level as Thorn responded with a slow nod. This was going better than he could have dreamed.
"I see the justice in your demands,” Thorn said, “but I have a duty to the House, and I am no longer under my mother's influence. I cannot in conscience just resign for something that was not my fault. May we discuss this in the warmth of my study? It is getting cold out here." Loras looked again at Thorn's aura. Relief, concern and indecision flickered through the astral shades, but he saw no sign of deceit.
"What of my grandson, Grimm, since you placed the Compulsion on him?” demanded Loras. “Where is he?"
"I have supported him whole-heartedly, Loras,” Thorn declared. “Once my own spell was lifted, I recognised the threat my mother posed to our Guild, and I despatched him to depose or destroy her at all costs. He has a retinue of warriors and two Guild Mages at his disposal, since I deemed that no cost was too great. The Dominie has sanctioned the Quest."
Loras’ eyes narrowed. “Does the Dominie know the full truth, Thorn?"
"I ... I was weak,” confessed Thorn. “It is not a prideful thing for a Questor of the Seventh Rank to confess that he was under another's spell.
"I intend to rectify matters, but only after Questor Grimm succeeds in his Quest, as I am sure he will." Loras scanned Thorn's aura once more, with minute scrutiny; his old friend seemed to be telling the undiluted truth. He shivered in the evening breeze and nodded.
"Very well, Thorn,” he said. “We will discuss the matter further inside the House. However, I should warn you that I have regained my powers in full measure, and I am well capable of defending myself if you resort to magic."
"You were always suspicious, Loras!” Thorn crowed, reaching forward to clap the smith on his right shoulder. “However, as your Sight will have told you, I intend no treachery."
* * * *
Kargan stood at the end of the long, dark, subterranean tunnel, taking a series of deep breaths. For many decades, he had held sway only over groups of unruly, high-spirited boys. He had played a role for most of that time as a slightly insane demagogue who lived only for his work, and he had played it well. However, now he would have to play another part to the limit of his abilities. Kargan hoped the guardian at the end of the corridor was the vain, shallow Faffel, but he saw Questor Xylox standing outside the cells. Gathering his resolve, he stepped forward and almost lost his footing on the slippery, damp flagstones. Seeker's brass-shod foot clanged on the floor as Kargan struggled to regain his balance.
"Hold!” the Questor shouted, spinning around. “Who is that?" For a moment, Kargan feared that Thorn might have declared him a renegade, but he was relieved that Xylox seemed to accept his presence, as the Magemaster stepped into the pool of light around the cell doors.
"Oh; greetings, Magemaster Kargan,” he said. “What brings you here?"
"Greetings, Questor Xylox!” Kargan crowed, playing the ebullient eccentric to the hilt. “I have returned from my furlough, and Lord Thorn has requested that I relieve you. He wishes you to inspect the schoolrooms, after I told him that I heard a strange noise in one of the classrooms. I fear there may be unauthorised intruders. A Questor will be better able to deal with interlopers than a mere Mentalist."
"I was not told of this,” Xylox grumbled. “I am not due to finish this watch for another three hours. Magemaster Faffel is to relieve me. I need to speak to Lord Thorn before I quit my post." Kargan fought rising panic, and he gripped Seeker in a white-knuckled hand. “Lord Thorn is attending to urgent House business, Questor Xylox, and he cannot be disturbed. Please inspect my aura, and you will see I tell the truth."
Kargan bargained on the fact that Mage Sight was second nature to a Guild Mage, and that a clean aura was regarded as the sign of an honest man. He fought to keep his breathing even as Xylox inspected his soul's masked signature. He felt sure his spell was good, but it had never needed to stand up to a Questor's scrutiny before.
"Magemaster Kargan, this is most irregular, not to mention improbable!” the younger mage growled, “but I have no cause to doubt your word, and you are the Senior Magemaster in residence. From which classroom did the noise come?"
"I really cannot say, Questor Xylox,” Kargan said, with an airy gesture. “When the Students make their nocturnal racket, it is hard to tell the location of any unusual noise. It might be best to check all of the classrooms, just to be sure."
Xylox grunted. “Well, it cannot be a worse assignment than waiting here for hours on end,” he said. “You are to hammer on the cell doors from time to time and demand a response. If none is given, you are to stride into the cell and rouse its inmate. It is an unpleasant duty, but Lord Thorn has decreed it."
"Fear not, Questor Xylox,” Kargan said, with a manic grin. “There will be no unauthorised sleeping on my watch, I assure you!"
Xylox grunted, handed the Magemaster a thick bunch of keys, and strode off, muttering, “Most irregular."
Kargan wiped a slick sheen of sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. As soon as he heard the end door open and close, he opened the nearest cell door after fumbling with the keys Xylox had given him.
A hot, cloying, overwhelming stink greeted him, redolent with the stomach-churning, foetid stench of ordure, and he feared for the life or sanity of the cell's occupant. His mouth filling with saliva and his entrails protesting and twisting, he forced himself to enter the noisome chamber. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a hunched figure crouched on the damp flagstones. It seemed almost impossible to believe that this huddled mass of misery was a human being, but he realised that this soggy bag of mortality was the once-proud Magemaster Crohn.
The old tutor, known as “The Mindstealer", looked as if his own mind had been stolen. Gagging in the ghastly stench, Kargan grasped Crohn under the armpits and began to haul him out of the dingy cell.
"Come on, old friend,” he gasped, trying to breathe only through his mouth. “You're free.
"Come on; help me, damn you!"
"I've done noth'n wrong,” Crohn slurred, making no effort to aid Kargan. “Sleep..." Kargan gave the Senior Magemaster a burst of energy from Seeker. “Soon, you can rest, Crohn!” he shouted into the man's ear. “Now, you must fight! I have to get you and Questor Dalquist out of here, and you have to help me!"
"Questor Dalquist,” Crohn said, his voice a little stronger and clearer. “Yes, help him." Kargan pulled the mage from the stinking room into the corridor and gave him another burst of much-needed strength.
"Rest here,” he gasped, lowering Crohn to the floor. “I'll get Questor Dalquist out, but you'll both have to help me!"
"I will do what I can,” Crohn said, looking more helpless than Kargan had ever seen him. “I am so tired..."
Even in this miserable state, he still uses Mage Speech, Kargan thought, with a frisson of admiration. Such a resolute man deserves to be saved!
He tried the same key on the next door, without success. Sweating with the fear that Xylox or Faffel might return at any minute, he tried another key; after two further abortive trials, the third key turned smoothly in the lock.
As the door swung open, Kargan gagged at the noisome smell, marvelling at Xylox's powers of intestinal fortitude.
Dalquist sat slumped against a corner of the cell, and Kargan could see the Questor's eyes were wide open, if glassy. His beard and hair were matted and unkempt, and the young mage muttered a repetitive mantra:
"Damn you all; I am innocent. I am a Guild Questor above all. Damn you all..."
"Yes, damn them all!” Kargan cried, conscious that, at any minute, someone might intrude on his treason.
“Wake up, Questor Dalquist! You are innocent, and we need to get away from here!"
"Damn you all,” Dalquist muttered, his eyelids flickering as he toppled forward. Kargan delved deep into Seeker's remaining reserves and took Dalquist's right hand, wrapping the limp fingers around the staff.
Dalquist's blood-shot eyes jerked open, and his hand clenched tight around the staff. He gasped as a ruddy flush ran into his pale, grimy face.
"Enough!” Kargan groaned, a grey mist beginning to cloud his vision. With a sudden surge of panic, he realised that Dalquist had already drained Seeker's resources and was now accessing his own vital force with rapacious speed. His heart pounding, he drew a measure of the energy back into his own body. The Questor tore his hand away from the staff as if it had turned red-hot.
"I'm sorry, Magemaster Kargan,” he said, his voice vibrant with its normal confidence. “I must be getting greedy. Thank you so much for helping me."
"Can you spare a little of that strength for Magemaster Crohn?” Kargan said as the mists cleared from his vision. “I gave him a little before I got you out of that hell-hole, but I don't think it was enough."
"Of course,” Dalquist said. He called out “Shakhmat!” and his staff appeared in his hand.
"I've missed you, old friend,” he muttered, clutching it to his chest like a boy embracing a pet dog. The Questor moved towards the slumped figure of the hapless Crohn, and said, “There's plenty of energy to spare in here, Mindstealer, and you need it badly."
Crohn nodded, and placed his hand on Shakhmat, just under the bottommost of the seven gold rings. Kargan marvelled at the sight of vitality returning to the Senior Magemaster, as if he were being inflated by an air pump.
"Thank you, Questor Dalquist,” the Magemaster intoned after a few seconds. “I fancy I can shift for myself now."
In an instant, Crohn's own staff appeared in his hand, and the senior mage completed his transformation from a semi-comatose geriatric to a Seventh Rank Mage in full command of his faculties and his powers.
"I am filthy,” Crohn declared, his steel-grey eyes shining once more as he ran his fingers through his matted hair and beard. “I need a bath."
"We have more pressing concerns,” Kargan said, all too conscious of the pressure of time. “We have a formidable cabal now. I suggest we confront Thorn at once and demand that he submit himself to the Dominie's justice. Questor Loras is with him, but I fancy he is out of practice. He may need help."
"Two Questors, a Mentalist and a Manipulator ought to be able to make the Prelate see sense,” Dalquist said, shaking down his grubby robes, “even if we don't quite look the part."
"What in Perdition are you doing, Magemaster Kargan?” came a voice from the far end of the corridor, and Kargan spun to see the figure of Xylox, his staff at the ready. “Have you forgotten Lord Thorn's orders?” The Questor's eyes seemed to blaze, and blue flames flickered at the end of his staff. Dalquist leapt to the fore: he slipped on the slick floor, and Kargan winced as he heard the sickening crack of the young Questor's head impacting the wall. Dalquist twitched a couple of times and lay still.
"So you are in this filthy conspiracy, too, Kargan.” Xylox stepped forward, his eyes narrowed to slits.
“You're finished; all of you. Or perhaps you fancy your rune magic against my Questor powers? That, I assure you, gentlemen, would prove a foolish and fatal mistake."
Chapter 8: Traitors
Crohn stepped forward, his presence commanding despite his filthy appearance. “Where lies your loyalty, Questor Xylox?” he demanded, his voice like ice. “Have you forgotten your solemn oath; an oath that should be sacred to you?
"Answer me!"
"You are a damned, bloody traitor, Crohn,” Xylox said through clenched teeth. “I have no need to justify myself to you or your co-conspirators."
"Your primary responsibility is to the Guild!” Crohn snapped. “You have forgotten an accused mage's right to a fair trial without coercion, torture or other compulsion. Lord Thorn himself chose to flout this rule because he preferred a pair of subdued, mindless puppets to healthy men able to defend themselves and expose his own treasonous activities!"
"Lord Thorn regards you as dangerous renegades,” Xylox said. “Such traitorous dogs cannot be left in full possession of their powers. Perhaps a few rules have been bent; what is that compared to the security of the House?"
Guild Law 19.8.1,” the Magemaster snapped. His blue-grey eyes shone like chips of ice. “'Any accusation of treason or other serious transgression is considered as invalid until the accused mage is arraigned before a duly assembled Conclave of his peers, such an assembly to be called by the accused mage's House Prelate at the earliest opportunity'.
"Law 19.8.2 tells us that any mage accused of a serious breach of Guild Law shall submit to confinement in ‘humane conditions until such a Conclave may be assembled. No physical, psychological or thaumaturgic influence shall be used to force any confession or admission from the accused man before this time'.
"Do you think you, Magemaster Faffel, or Prelate Thorn have complied with these inflexible, explicit rules, Questor Xylox? Or do you doubt my recollection of these laws?” Crohn's voice was low but intense.
Xylox snorted. “I owe you no allegiance, Crohn! In this House, Lord Thorn is the law. He—"
"Law 21.5!” Crohn screamed, cutting off the Questor. “'Any and all regulations apply in equal measure and in every particular to all members of every House! No deviation, waiver, amendment or change to these laws and regulations may be made without the majority decision of the Guild Presidium, as recorded in the official records of High Lodge! The body of Guild Law is a single, cohesive framework, supporting and sustaining our Brotherhood! Guilt arising from any knowing breach of these Laws is considered shared between all participants. No defence based upon assumed authority shall be deemed valid!'
"You are a damned, bloody traitor, Questor Xylox. You, Magemaster Faffel and, above all, Lord Thorn, are forsworn Oathbreakers!"
Kargan felt a cold shock run through him as Crohn projected a copious bolt of sputum at the wide-eyed, immobile Questor.
"I revile you, scum,” he said, his voice rich with contempt.
Xylox bared his teeth in a snarl and raised his staff over his head. Crohn stepped forward until his nose was mere inches away from the Questor's more impressive, beak-like appendage, and flung his staff clattering to the slick flagstones.
"Strike if you dare, Questor!” he cried. “It will not change my opinion of you. Lord Thorn may have enslaved you, but neither you nor he will do that to me."
The Questor growled and his staff-tip twitched a little, but he did not bring it down.
"You're a blind fool, Xylox,” Kargan said, finding his voice at last. “You confuse might with right. Why would a House Questor and two Magemasters dare to rebel against their Prelate?
"Have you even once stopped to consider that they might be in the right? We swore the same Oath as you and we regard it as sacrosanct. We still stand by that Oath, whereas you seem to have forgotten or ignored it.
"Where lies a mage's first allegiance?"
Xylox rolled his eyes. “I have no intention of discussing—"
"ANSWER ME!” Kargan screamed, feeling irate blood pounding in his temples. “Where lies a mage's primary allegiance?"
"A mage's primary allegiance is to the Lord High Dominie,” the Questor droned. “However, the Dominie's representative within the House—"
"Law 21.5 still applies in full measure!” Crohn snapped.
He bowed his head. “There; it is said. Do what you will with me. You may as well kill me, for if Guild Law can be flouted with impunity, then I am already dead. I will meet my end with pride, for I shall have defended my beliefs with my life, as I swore to do before you were born." The old Magemaster sank to his knees before the burly Questor, and Kargan followed suit. I really hope Questor Xylox isn't as pig-headed as he looks, the Mentalist thought, or this could be over very soon.
Long moments passed, as Kargan fixed his gaze on the lichen-encrusted floor, expecting death at any moment.
"Very well, gentlemen.” Xylox's voice was a low growl. “You say Lord Thorn is a traitor, and I have to acknowledge the transgression of a few Guild Laws. What evidence do you have for your allegations?"
* * * *
"Please, Questor Loras, be seated,” Thorn said, his voice amicable as he slid himself into the leather-upholstered chair behind his desk. “Let us discuss your terms." Loras hid his gratitude as he sank into the chair, facing the Prelate; the damper weather of recent days had taken a toll on his arthritic knees and hips.
"My terms are simple,” he said, crossing his arms across his chest, Blade cradled in the crook of his right elbow. “I demand a solemn affidavit from you to the Lord Dominie, confirming my innocence, and your recommendation of my reinstatement to the Guild rolls."
Thorn nodded. “Now that I am free of my mother's influence, I am happy to do that,” he said.
"Secondly,” Loras continued, “I demand that my grandson, Grimm Afelnor, be accorded the respect due to a relative of an honoured Guildbrother. His obligation to the House for his tuition shall be set at nought, and he shall be free to choose his own path in this world."
"He already has the means to defray his financial obligation,” Thorn said, with an airy gesture. “He is independently wealthy as a result of his Quests, and yet he chooses not to do so." Loras blinked twice. On the only occasion he had met Grimm since the boy had come to Arnor House, his grandson had been dressed in the simple robes of a poor mage.
"Is this true?” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
"Feel free to use your Sight on me at any time,” the Prelate said. “You know it is true. Questor Grimm is a very valuable asset to me and to the Guild. Questors of the Seventh Rank are rare birds, as you know."
"Grimm has reached the Seventh Rank?” Loras gasped, his eyes wide. “Why, he is not yet eighteen years of age!"
"He was elevated to the Seventh Rank on the basis of my personal recommendation to Lord Horin, after two very successful and important Quests."
Loras shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
"Two Quests?” Loras’ voice was little more than a hoarse squeak. It had taken him four arduous expeditions to achieve the same accolade, and he had been reckoned a remarkable prodigy. Thorn had only gained the seventh gold ring on his staff after seven Quests.
His heart swelled with pride and admiration for his grandson, and he found himself unable to speak further. Thorn had been good to the boy, despite his grandfather's manufactured disgrace and the Prelate's complicity in it.
"I value Questor Grimm,” Thorn said, with a warm smile. “Times have been lean here at Arnor House, and we have only three Questors young enough to carry out the Guild's work. I regard his success as a credit to the Guild and to the House; paying Scholasticate intake has increased by one-half since High Lodge announced his Acclamation. Thanks to the accession of Questor Grimm and his friend, Questor Dalquist, this House has become a fashionable place to send one's offspring for education, for the first time since our heyday.
"We Questors have a certain glamour and cachet."
Loras felt moisture prickling at the margins of his eyes, and he found himself warming to his old friend. You always were a charmer, Thorn, he thought, before bringing himself up short. Thorn was susceptible to his mother's influence and must be considered unreliable.
"I thank you for your faith in my kin, Prelate Thorn,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level.
“Nonetheless, I still demand that you stand down from your post in favour of a less ... vulnerable mage." Thorn sighed. “I have erred, Loras,” he admitted, smiling. “However, I declare my vulnerability at an end. I have left Questor Grimm in no doubt that my mother's detestable influence is to be eliminated, and I have the most implicit trust in him. From now on, I wish only to do my sworn duty." Loras scanned the Prelate's aura once more, finding only the signatures of innocent sincerity. Something is wrong, he thought. What is it?
The thought rattled around in the smith-Questor's mind, like an angry wasp trapped in a bottle. Then it hit him: Thorn's smile was just a little too friendly, and a minute bead of sweat twinkled on the Prelate's cheek.
He could never fool me when we were Students, he thought. He is lying. No! This was impossible: a man's aura did not lie!
My aura lies, he thought, shock running through him like an icy torrent. It was a tentative diagnosis; the tell-tale signs of a young man's guilt might not be the same in his older self. How to be sure? Could Loras force Thorn to lie?
Loras smiled, recalling an incident in his old Scholasticate days. “I am pleased to hear that you are free from domination,” he said, his voice as smooth as the finest silk. “I am sorry that I might have thought ill of you, old friend. Old age can make a man suspicious and grudging.
"When old Magemaster Brinn—may he rest in peace—thought you cheated in that Signatures examination,” he said, laughing. “I never doubted you, but I felt very grateful when that bully, Usur Melditch, owned up to copying your paper."
Thorn's answering laugh was deep and rich. “Of course, Brinn knew at once that I was telling the truth,”
he said. “How can a Student lie to a Magemaster?"
Loras nodded, his smile unwavering.
"Geomancy, Thorn."
The Prelate's smile disappeared as quickly as summer mist in the heat of the morning sun.
"I saw Usur's notes after he was dismissed, Thorn,” Loras continued. “I said nothing, because I was glad to see him dismissed. You had the trick of hiding your true aura even then, did you not? As you do now. I imagine you learned that trick at your mother's knee: a Geomantic spell that no Guild Mage could ever detect."
Thorn's ruddy face turned pale, and he blustered as he had in his youth, covering his embarrassment with a jolly laugh. “You always made more of a simple matter than it was worth, Loras,” he said.
"So I helped to get rid of a bully. All I wanted to do was—"
"You got rid of a rival as well, old friend,” Loras said, taking a firm grip on Blade, welcoming its long-lost, warm intimacy. “I saw no guilt or deception in your aura then, either." At last, the Prelate nodded slowly.
"You are right, Loras.” he said. “I am at your mercy. May I at least explain myself?"
"Please do, Thorn."
The Prelate closed his eyes for a moment and then jerked them open after his lips had mumbled only a few syllables.
"If that was intended as a spell, I am not impressed,” Loras said, secure in his strength. “You will have to do better than that.
"You are forsworn, and I call upon you to resign."
"You were always stronger than me, Loras,” Thorn said. “Can you even comprehend how that felt to me? My bitch mother always pushed me one way; the Scholasticate, the other, I hardly knew who I was from one day to the other."
Loras snorted. “I will approach the Dominie myself,” he said. “You are—" The door to the chamber swung open with a bang, and Loras jerked his head around to see a young, pale, feverish-looking boy, his eyes wide and wild. The rough, black robes of a newly-crowned mage or Adept seemed almost to swamp his rake-thin figure, and he bore no Mage Staff or ring. The boy's eyes seemed depthless, as if they were a window into the depths of his soul, but Loras saw no trace of emotion, reason or humanity.
A thick string of drool hung from the left side of the young man's mouth, running down to his chest.
"This is Questor Chag,” Thorn said. “He is a Questor in all but name. He is my Questor, and he—" Loras leapt to his feet with all the speed and athleticism he could manage, but he heard a mad, keening cackle behind him. His nerves seemed to stretch and snap and, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he dropped to the floor.
"Questor Chag is now my personal bodyguard, Loras,” Thorn crooned. “Do you really think you can take him?"
Loras shook his head. The vacuous-looking boy's sudden, vicious burst had surprised him, but his automatic Questor defences had not been breached. Ignoring Thorn, he turned to the drooling, wild-eyed boy. He rose to his feet, ignoring his protesting joints, and faced the blank-faced youth.
"Do you like to dance, Chag?” he said. “Do you like to read? Do you like anything at all?"
"I live to serve Lord Thorn,” the boy said, and the dead coldness of his tone sent shivers through Loras’
spine. “You are an obstacle."
"I'm sorry, Loras,” the Prelate said. “Experience versus youth, fanaticism and vigour: which will win, I wonder?"
"This boy is as much a victim as I was,” Loras said, shuddering as a hate-filled bolt of power hit him.
"You are strong, Chag,” he said and gasped, trying to steady his twitching eyes. He had visions of scorched, raw, weeping spots on his lungs as he drew a series of hacking breaths, but he was a powerful, experienced mage, with over twenty Quests to his credit. “But you are just a boy, perverted by a sick and insecure man."
Without turning his head, he screamed, “Ajaman'dama-nas! Guramen'dimni-nura!" Another, wordless, soulless, hateful bolt from Chag hit him; nonetheless, Loras felt a fierce pang of pleasure as he heard Thorn tumble from his seat with an agonised yell.
"Thorn is poison, boy,” Loras said. “The dance has just begun. You will soon see that mindless loyalty leads nowhere."
This time, Loras anticipated Chag's assault, and he fended it off with practiced ease, adding a little finesse of his own. The youth stumbled to the floor, and Loras shook his voluminous sleeves back from his wrists to his elbows.
"It's time to go back to school, gentlemen,” he said. “Thorn, you have made the worst mistake of your life."
"You have no idea what Questor Chag can do! He will leave you like a wet, discarded piece of meat!"
"I will bring Questor Chag something he has never known:” Loras said, “compassion."
"I need no compassion!” Chag shrieked.
Loras tried to absorb the power into Blade without success. He shuddered as the remainder of the nameless, formless energy trickled into him, but he felt more alive than he had in decades.
"The fight is on, Thorn!” Loras cried. “When I have pacified your poor slave, I will turn on you! Your tyranny is at an end!"
"Good luck, Loras,” Thorn replied, as Loras staggered under another assault. “Just let me know when you wish to surrender."
Loras sought to find the nonsense words for another spell, but Chag's mindless hatred hit him once more, and he slumped to his knees.
What did you do to this poor boy, Thorn? he wondered, as hot, electric flames burnt through his nerves.
Chapter 9: ‘A Little Out Of Practice'
Crohn rose to his feet and made as if to brush dust and dirt from his filthy robes. To cover his embarrassment at this futile exercise, he cleared his throat, as he often did when addressing a roomful of Students. He stepped back a little from Xylox.
We have won the first battle by persuading Questor Xylox to listen to us, but direct confrontation may be inadvisable.
"Did you hear of a Neophyte named Erek Garan?” he asked.
"I heard something about it,” Xylox replied, shrugging. “As I understand it, Senior Magemaster Urel exceeded his orders and pushed the boy beyond the limits of his endurance, with tragic results."
"That is the official story,” Crohn said. “I believed it at the time. However, I now know it as a lie." Xylox leant on his staff in an almost jaunty pose, but there was no joy or merriment in his face. “What makes you believe this, Crohn?"
"I am to be addressed as Senior Magemaster Crohn, or Manipulant Crohn until my guilt is proved!" Xylox shrugged. “My apologies, Senior Magemaster Crohn,” he said with just a trace of sarcastic emphasis on the title. “Pray continue."
"I have only circumstantial evidence,” Crohn admitted. “However, it is all of a pattern with our other contentions. The individual threads come together to form whole cloth." Xylox said nothing, and Crohn marshalled his argument.
"I knew Senior Magemaster Urel for more than forty years,” he said. “I never met a more dedicated or diligent educator."
"Senior Magemaster Urel was my tutor when I was a Neophyte,” the Questor said. “He was a martinet, and he was swift to fall on the least transgression. I can believe with ease that such a man could go too far when training a Neophyte."
"Did he ever punish you, Questor Xylox?"
The Questor snorted. “I should say so!” he said with vehemence. “He would scream at me for no reason, and he often beat me for inattention, for supposed insolence, or for what he considered laziness. The man was a bully."
Crohn nodded. “How long did you remain a Neophyte before your Outbreak?” he asked.
"One year, five months and four days,” Xylox snapped. “Almost eighteen months of unending torment. I understand now the need for the unremitting pressure, for it made a Questor of me. However, I once hated the man with all my soul."
"Eighteen months!” Crohn said. “Fancy that!
"I believe Lord Thorn's Ordeal lasted two years,"
"Not so different from mine,” Xylox said. “What of it?"
"I suggest that Magemaster Urel's apparent, insensate rage was a front. Did he beat you or scream at you every day?"
"No, Magemaster Crohn,” admitted Xylox. “For several days after a beating, he might seem almost pleasant. Nonetheless, after a while, the assault would begin anew, worse than before." Kargan stepped forward. “Urel was testing you, Questor Xylox,” he said. “He was seeing how far you could go without breaking, and then backing off. He was stretching you to the limit to a calculated schedule."
"Eighteen months—” Xylox began.
"Neophyte Erek broke out after less than three months, with fatal results,” Crohn interrupted.
"The boy was a neurotic,” Xylox said, shifting his staff to his left side. “Urel should never have selected him for the Ordeal. It is further proof, if any were needed, of his recklessness."
"Erek was artistic and highly-strung, but I always found him a diligent and well-behaved Student,” Crohn said, stretching to relieve the nagging aches in his legs.
"So did I,” Kargan said. “Erek only became neurotic during his Ordeal."
"Perhaps the boy was unsuitable as Questor material,” Crohn allowed. “However, Senior Magemaster Urel did not select him for the Ordeal; Lord Thorn did. I was in the Prelate's office on one occasion, when Urel burst in to protest to Lord Thorn about the treatment he was visiting on Erek. Was that the action of an uncaring brute?
"Before the Prelate dismissed me—with some urgency, I might add—I heard him overrule the Senior Magemaster's objections and order him to intensify the boy's training.
"It was all Lord Thorn's doing: he ordered Urel to give Erek no respite. The Prelate drove the boy to madness by sheer ruthlessness."
"A miscalculation,” Xylox declared. “I wager that Lord Thorn regrets it, but it is no proof of evil intent."
"Questor Grimm's training was no different,” Crohn said. “He was beaten, excoriated and vilified daily for six months, without a break. By the end, he was almost a human vegetable."
"The boy is precocious,” Xylox said. “I will grant him that."
"Three times as precocious as you?” Crohn said, trying to prick the Questor's pride. “He is strong, but not that strong."
"You say he was beaten every day,” Xylox said, straightening up. “How do you know this?"
"Because I beat him,” Crohn said, his voice almost a whisper, “to my eternal shame. Lord Thorn pressed me and harangued me to maintain the severity of his training. I turned the Students against him, forbade him to associate with his friends and barred him from the Scholasticate Library. I thought I was doing right; that Lord Thorn had the best interests of the Guild at heart.
"I now doubt that."
"The boy became a Questor,” Xylox said, shrugging. “He did not kill you." The Questor's casual attitude infuriated Crohn. He tore open the front of his robes to reveal a mass of weeping, half-healed lesions on his chest and upper arms. “Did you do this to Urel?” the Magemaster demanded.
Xylox lost some of his former composure, his face growing pale. He shook his head. “I ... I struck him on the jaw,” he said. “As he fell to the floor, I used my emerging power to lift a heavy table, but something stopped me from dropping it on him. Instead, I smashed it into fragments with magic. I then screamed and broke all the windows in the room. Urel told me I had done well. He wrapped his arms around me and told me my Ordeal was at an end."
"Neophyte Grimm destroyed—devastated—an entire classroom,” Crohn said. “He was almost insane with rage and pain.