Several men-at-arms, approached, advancing hesitantly with swords and spears in their hands. Harvel lowered the nausea-stricken Grimm to the ground and drew his own blade, but Dalquist stayed him with a gesture, crying in a huge voice, "People of Crar! Starmor is dead, and he can never trouble you again. Our quarrel was never with you; it was only with your evil Baron. However, a mighty demon now wreaks his revenge upon the Baron's demesnes. Flee now, while you have the chance!"
The grim turret shivered and fell into a smoking heap of rubble, a towering plume of dust rising from the ground. The pile of debris trembled and burst asunder as the berserk form of Shakkar arose; a pale and fearsome sight clad entirely in pale dust. The mighty demon opened his great maw to show the fearsome daggers of his teeth, and roared in an ear-shattering howl. The people screamed and tried to flee, but the narrow streets impeded their escape as they scrabbled for egress.
Harvel waved his sword, and Dalquist raised his staff in defiance against the towering demon. In that moment, Grimm forced himself to his feet and stood between his companions and the slavering demon. Despite his swimming head and dry throat, his voice rang out clear and strong, above the tumult of the panicking crowd.
"Shakkar!" he screamed. "You have your revenge; be satisfied! These innocent people have done you no harm. They became slaves whilst you refused to succumb, but they cannot be blamed for being weak mortals. End your destruction, and go in peace."
"Questor Grimm," Shakkar shrieked, rising to his full height. "I would not destroy you, for you have been as good as your word. Nonetheless, for many long years, I flitted around my dismal pillar and swore to destroy all Starmor's works for what he had done to me. I will not be stayed in my rightful vengeance. Do not think to try to oppose me. Stand aside, now!"
"Shakkar, I warn you: wreak no more destruction upon Crar, or I swear to stand against you until death. I swear this as on my name, and on my Acclamation as a Mage Questor of the House of Arnor. I have sixteen years, and would prefer to live for many years more, but only if I can prove to be true unto myself and the principles of my Guild; principles I have sworn to uphold with my life."
Shakkar's tail thrashed, raising a pall of dust. "You cannot stand against me and prevail, human; no man can. Do not throw your life away. You and your companions are exhausted. You can barely stand. Do not waste your tenure on earth for the lives of these worthless, snivelling curs."
"Starmor beat you," Grimm replied, swaying on his feet. "He was human, too."
Shakkar's eyes narrowed. "For one time only, I allow you to mention that and live," he breathed, claws snatching at empty air. "You are not he. And I have defeated him."
"Starmor had but one skill, the command of emotions. It was I who gave you the means to defeat him. I am a Questor, and we have many magical resources. My knowledge of Diabolism is slight, but the principles are clear. I know your true name, and I have seen your inmost soul. My spells of destruction might not affect you, but I have one other card to play; a contest of wills. The oldest of links between man and demon, it requires no magic, merely access to the demon's soul and the knowledge of his true name.
"Having seen your inmost being when you graciously gifted me with your strength, I can find it again in a heartbeat. Then, there is only willpower. I am more than willing to wager that I have ample inner strength to squash your will to nothing. You will then be my slave. Not my rebellious prisoner, but my bonded vassal and my plaything forever.
"Give up your revenge, or look into my eyes and see the strength within me. For my part, I am fully prepared to take the chance. Are you? You have never seen my soul, and you lack the sleight to force your way inside. You have no chance. I do not want you as a drooling slave, but as a friend and ally. Consider your revenge against Starmor complete, and no more need be said or done."
Grimm forced himself to remain on his feet, although he would sooner have fallen to the ground and slept.
"Human, we have no need to quarrel," Shakkar growled. "You and your companions may leave unmolested."
Grimm shook his head; an unwise move in his present state, but he did not reveal the inner turmoil this movement produced. "I don't want to quarrel either, Shakkar, but I will if necessary. I will. These people are guiltless, and you have no cause to hate them. Leave them in peace."
****
Shakkar was a demon, with an inborn mistrust in humans, but Grimm had come to mean something to him during their short acquaintance, even if he was a mere human. For a mortal, the slender mage was certainly resourceful and true to his word. If he said he would fight, then Shakkar guessed he would. Grimm's comment about Starmor, the demon now knew, had not been intended to mock him, but to warn him. Demonic bloodlust pounded through Shakkar's veins, driving him to fight at odds against, even if losing meant giving up his free will. However, an insistent voice of sanity urged him to reconsider his position. Not only might Grimm stand a better than even chance of besting him in a contest of wills, but the demon also realised that he did not want to make an enemy of the young Questor.
Shakkar had never had a human friend before, but he knew Grimm was giving the demon a far more generous choice than any other mortal ever had. Grimm might well have been able to subjugate him, but he had stayed his hand. The demon stood his ground and howled, pressing his clawed hands against his temples, as raging hormones and the dark depths of his psyche fought to sweep away his nagging doubts.
I could throw this mortal and his exhausted companions aside with one swing of my arm, Shakkar thought. They are as nothing to me. They have not the least conception of what Starmor did to me! These weak, short-lived creatures are not worthy of my consideration. What knows a demon of compassion or tenderness? Why should I bother myself with such trifles? What matters an oath to a puling mortal?
He looked down at the tiny, exhausted figure before him.
This mortal talks of subduing me to his will. Ha! He has scarcely the strength to stand on his feet. I could sweep him aside in a heartbeat, before he could muster a single thought!
The demon looked at the small human's resolute face and felt a glimmer of admiration rising within him.
Questor Grimm owes the people of Crar nothing, he thought. Why does he fight for them, when he has my word that I will allow him to leave this dreadful place without hurt? Why do his friends allow him to annoy me so, instead of urging him to flee from my righteous anger?
Shakkar ran his eyes over the older mage, the foppish swordsman and the elvish thief. Although they had little more strength than their young friend, they had also chosen to stay with him.
Even the terrified citizens of Crar seemed resigned to their fate. After the human logjam in the narrow alley, they had ended their headlong flight, and they stood around him in a tight circle. Shakkar saw a tiny woman with her arm wrapped around a small child. The little girl appeared to have no fear, but the woman's eyes were wide and her face ashen. Beside them stood a grey-haired male, his pale, liver-spotted hands clenched into fists, his swollen, misshapen knuckles betraying the mortal affliction of arthritis.
Why do these people stand here? the demon wondered. Why do these cowardly, conflicted creatures not run from me?
To Shakkar, the answer now appeared clear: humans were all insane. Nonetheless, as he saw the combined terror and resolution in the mortals' eyes, he felt his anger rising once more.
Weak, foolish humans, the inmost, animalistic region of his brain demanded, crying for mortal blood to be spilt. They are unworthy of life.
As he raised his hand to sweep this pathetic dross into oblivion, the little girl smiled at the demon, her face clear and untrammelled by fear or hopeless anger. She took one step forward, but the woman snatched her back, her face now twisted into an expression of utter determination Shakkar had only seen on one mortal face before.
Perhaps these poor beings are worth something after all! he thought, relaxing his pose and lowering his arms.
****
It seemed an age sinc
e Grimm had first confronted Shakkar but, in truth, mere minutes had passed. A vast, hacking sigh arose from the hulking demon, and his shovel-sized hands fell to his sides.
"There is no need to fight, human. There is no need for a contest of wills. My vengeance is complete. I swear on my name and my clan to visit no more destruction against the people or the city of Crar. I avow on my soul to remain your friend and ally as long as you are true to me."
"That is a generous compact, Shakkar," Grimm said, slumping a little in his relief, "worthy of a demon's noble soul. Know now that I will never, ever, seek or threaten to enslave you, should you keep also true to your word-as I feel sure you will. To seal our trust, I now open my soul to you. Look within me, and we will have equal power over each other." Grimm furrowed his brow, muttered in his strange, personal language and bowed before Shakkar.
"No need, Questor. You have proved yourself worthy of trust. I renounce vengeance against Crar and declare myself at the disposal of your party."
With his head spinning and his entrails in turmoil, Grimm forced himself to remain erect.
"Shakkar, this is Dalquist Rufior, Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank and leader of this Quest. The well-dressed gentleman with the rapier is Harvel Rusea, a master swordsman. Our bloodstained friend is Crest, an expert wielder of whip and dagger. And I… I need to lie down. I feel quite unwell."
He staggered, almost falling headlong, and the strong arms of Harvel swept him up again as the party made its way back to the Jolly Merchant.
****
The once-thronged bar was now empty, apart from two men slumped across their tables in drunken stupor. The landlord, so merry earlier on, now appeared a refreshingly different man.
"What do you want?" he demanded in a brusque voice, strong arms folded over his chest and looking pointedly at Shakkar, who answered with a soft growl. Dalquist stepped up. He thought of mentioning how he and his friends had delivered Crar of Starmor's evil spell but decided against it. The man seemed as confused as the other townsfolk but trying hard to hide the fact with bluster.
"Five rooms for the night please, landlord. I will pay you good money if we are not disturbed."
"Not him," the barman snarled. "Not the demon. I won't have him smashing up my inn and eating the customers because he doesn't like the food." Dalquist expected trouble from Shakkar, but the huge demon, bent almost double under the tavern's roof-beams, shrugged. "That is all right by me, landlord," he boomed. "I think your human beds would be too small for me. If you do not mind, I will rest in your barn. Fear not: I have no taste for horseflesh."
"Good," Harvel said, pointedly. "Four of those nags are ours."
Dalquist handed over five gold pieces, a tidy sum. "If you will accept this for four-" he glanced at the bilious Grimm, "-three meals, the rooms for the night, and four live goats or sheep for our large companion, you'll have no trouble from us."
The landlord seemed to soften a little at the sight of the large, heavy coins. "Very well, then."
"One more thing, landlord," the Questor said. "Have you an apothecary, physician or Healer in this town? Crest here has some ugly wounds, and Questor Grimm seems to have developed a strange affliction."
The landlord nodded. "I'll call for Threval right away. He used to be a Guild Mage, and he lives a couple of miles outside the city. Upstairs, turn left, rooms eight through eleven. And if the boy pukes on my nice, clean floor, you'll have to clear it up." He tossed Dalquist four numbered keys.
****
Dalquist swept into Grimm's room with a solemn-looking man of perhaps ninety years, with a strong, dark-complected face and a no-nonsense attitude about him. He carried a huge trunk with surprising ease, belying his narrow frame and his apparent age.
"I am Threval Shobat, Mage Herbalist of the Third Rank of Rhunin House," the old man said.
Grimm raised himself from his bed, but the effort seemed beyond him. Instead of speaking, he fell back down to the mattress and allowed a groan to escape his dry, white-flecked lips.
Dalquist introduced himself to the Herbalist.
"It's not magic, Herbalist Threval," he continued. "My Sight shows nothing but a severely deranged aura. I've never seen the like."
"I concur, Questor Dalquist," Threval said in a soft voice, "but, as an Herbalist, I have a little more experience in matters of the aura than do you Questors. Does your companion partake of… pharmaceutical supplements? Hallucinogens, perhaps? Stupefactants?"
Dalquist looked puzzled. "I feel certain he does not. Questor Grimm carries a few medicinal herbs, since he is more knowledgeable about their use than the rest of us. But I have never seen their marks upon him. I would surely have seen considerable changes in his aura if he had taken these substances in my presence. I have seen none."
"No matter, Questor Dalquist. A little spell of Inner Quietude combined with a touch of Mental Clarity should enable your young friend to answer me himself.
"One moment; I have a suitable scroll somewhere in here."
Threval began to hunt in his capacious trunk, which was filled with a jumble of bottles, scrolls and librams. Although Dalquist understood a few of the relevant spells, he knew he lacked the finesse and control of a true Specialist in the art of Herbalism.
"Ah, here we are." Threval drew forth a scroll, an egg and a chipped china cup patterned with lilies. He cracked the egg on the cup and drank off its contents in a single draught, causing a momentary expression of distaste to flit across Dalquist's face.
"That is for my voice," the Herbalist explained. "It keeps my throat in trim for spellcasting."
He held out the scroll towards Dalquist. "Would you mind? I need both hands for this."
Dalquist held the scroll open at the level of Threval's eyes. The Herbalist donned a pair of fussy gold-rimmed spectacles and began to cast, his voice and gestures distinct and crisp, with the confidence born of decades of successful practice. Two minutes later, Dalquist recognised the closing cadence and handed the scroll back to Threval. "That'll do it," the aged mage said with a satisfied smile. "Thirty years without a miscast."
In an instant, an astonishing transformation took place. Grimm sat bolt upright, shook his head and stretched luxuriantly. Dalquist nodded to Threval, impressed beyond words.
****
"Now, Questor Grimm, answer me truthfully," said the Healer. "With which drugs have you been polluting your body? No lies, now."
"Rule 3.14.1: 'No Student shall partake of hallucinogenic, stimulant or narcotic substances unless specifically prescribed by the Scholasticate Apothecary and at the dosage and frequency so specified,'" Grimm rasped. "I do not take drugs, ever." He sat on the bed with a defiant expression, daring Threval to call him a liar.
Threval shook his head. "You have done so, I feel certain. A stupefiant and a stimulant. Less obfuscation now, and don't quote the Rules at me, young man. I was a Student long before your father was born. You have taken drugs, I'll wager, within the last six hours. Perhaps someone might have slipped such substances into your drink or your food?"
Grimm's face cleared. "It must have been when I was on the pillar with Shakkar. To defeat Baron Starmor, I needed a calm head and a clear resolve. I did take some substances from my pouch."
"How were they ingested?"
"I burned them and inhaled the fumes. I used Trina leaves and Virion powder."
"In what quantities did you take them, Questor Grimm?"
Grimm indicated the amounts with his hands, and the Herbalist whistled.
"A little more than a medicinal dose, don't you think?" he said.
"I was tackling no ordinary mage," Grimm replied, frowning. "Starmor would have pounced on the slightest emotion and used it against me. I was using the herbs to deaden my emotions whilst still maintaining clarity of purpose."
Threval slapped his head. "That, Questor Grimm, is the cause of your malaise. Your body now cries out with hunger for the herbs. I cannot help you with magic. Only willpower will save you. But then, you Quest
ors are noted for the force of your will, are you not?"
"I feel in excellent health now, Herbalist Threval," Grimm declared. "Surely you have already cured me with your magic?"
"I have not. The spell will last for maybe five minutes more, and then the hunger and the weakness will return with a vengeance. Repeated castings would lessen in effectiveness and duration with each further ingestion of the drugs. Your hunger for them would grow ever more insistent, until you died from their effects. The spell of Inner Quietude is a palliative, not a cure for your illness."
Grimm swallowed. "I presume there is a cure? Or is willpower alone the key?"
Threval shrugged. "You are young and strong, and yet the drug hunger laid you low at its first assault. Even with the mightiest will in the world, you would be dead inside a month. Purely and simply, you require more of the herbs. Take only a tiny pinch of each at a time, just enough so you can function normally, but not as much as your body wants. Use your willpower to ration the doses and repeat the dose only when you cannot continue.
"What you must do over the next few weeks is to reduce the dosage until it is at a minimum. When you can resist the call of the herbs for a week, you have beaten the addiction to a stalemate."
"A stalemate?"
"Should you be tempted to take further doses in the future," Threval said, looking straight into Grimm's eyes, "you will soon find yourself back where you were when I came to you. You will never, ever beat the drugs, but you may hold them at bay for as long as you have the will. They will always be there, whispering to you when times are hard, but the only victory is to be able always to ignore the whispers.
"You are, in a way, fortunate to have had such a strong abreaction on your first usage; many who use these kinds of substances in small amounts have few ill effects until they are caught deep in the cycle of dependence, taking ever larger quantities just to reach equilibrium. In these circumstances, even a Questor's willpower might be insufficient to avoid the slide into a living death, followed shortly by a painful demise. Be strong and live, Questor Grimm."
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