Weapon of the Guild cogd-2

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "Not through the ward, blademaster. The moment I drop it, we will all be dead in a heartbeat, well before I could complete the spell. A spell of Mental Control might well reach outside this wall but I am no mighty Mentalist. I couldn't hope to contact so many minds at once. What of you, Grimm? Have you any ideas? This-aagh! — this is getting desperate, my friend!"

  Grimm shivered as a thick stream of blood from an attacker's skin-shorn knuckles ran down the invisible partition between the comrades and the mindless automata that would destroy them.

  "I'm trying to think my way around the problem, Dalquist," he said, "but I can't make the mental link between a Directed spell and an Area effect. If I used all my energy, I could perhaps coerce the nearest ten people to attack the others, but that wouldn't even dent the forces arrayed against us."

  "I would aid you, good mage," Shakkar rumbled, "but I have little power of my own since you cast your spell on Starmor's punishment pillar."

  Dalquist groaned as another assault hit home, and he staggered.

  "Well, then," Crest said, "it looks like we've lost, friends. "I didn't think it would end like this, but I'll fight with you to the last." He lifted the handle of his whip. "That's small comfort, I know, but I won't allow myself to be killed without showing this rag-tag assortment of hooligans what a true warrior can do."

  "Small comfort indeed, Crest," Harvel replied. "These wretches don't even know what they are doing, and I hate to fight against these poor puppets. Still, I don't think we have any choice; I won't die with my sword sheathed."

  Grimm considered the alternatives; there seemed to be none.

  Dalquist fell to his knees. "I can't hold the spell much longer," he gasped, clutching his temples. "This is it!"

  "Hold firm for a moment, mage," a familiar voice squeaked from Grimm's pocket. "I have an idea."

  Dalquist gritted his teeth and nodded. "I'll try, demon."

  "Can you pass your power to me, Questor Grimm?" Thribble demanded. "I believe that Starrmor's spell is no more than the force of his voice, combined with earlier spells of obedience. Having heard his voice once, I feel sure I can mimic it perfectly; that is one of my best talents.

  "It is only a theory of mine; I am a poor spell-caster, and I have only a lay-demon's knowledge of magic, but it seems to me that you have little choice; your friend Dalquist can surely withstand this battering for a few minutes more at most. Have you, Questor Grimm, the ability to use your magic to amplify my voice so that all may hear? I will tell them to ignore you and attack each other. From the clamour outside, it seems Questor Dalquist's ward does not impede sound."

  Grimm gulped, burgeoning emotions beginning to crowd in on his psyche as the mindless Crarians battered and crushed themselves against Dalquist's spell-wall.

  I'll need a huge amount of power, he thought, licking dry lips. Sound intensity and magical force decrease as the square of distance. If I'm to make Thribble's order loud and clear to throughout the town, I dare not hold back on the spell, but the principle seems… sound.

  Grimm smiled at the unintentional pun.

  He knew that, if Thribble's theory was incorrect, he would be in no position to pose any kind of threat to the ravening horde of Crarians after he had unleashed his power; and yet, as the demon had said, he had little choice. On the other hand, he could not bear to see these blameless automata butcher each other. Dalquist raised his grey, sweaty, drawn face towards his friend; his eyes wide and imploring.

  "Your idea seems to be our only hope of salvation, Thribble," Grimm said, "but may I suggest an alteration? Tell the Crarians that they are all released from Starmor's spells and that they're free men and women."

  Thribble looked a little dubious. "I think my way is better," he said with a touch of sullenness.

  "Perhaps you have a little less regard for human life than I do, Thribble, being not of our kind. I have no desire to pit these witless puppets against each other. I don't demand this of you; I only request it. Please do as I ask. Once my power is unleashed, your words will be broadcast, whatever they may be. We are all in your hands. Go to it, demon."

  Grimm drew a deep breath. "Friends, block your ears," he advised "This is going to be loud!"

  The human members of the group complied with Grimm's exhortation, plugging their ears as best they could. Thribble seemed little concerned.

  Grimm's Sight showed him that the ward was wavering and faltering. Little time remained; the senior mage was ashen and could surely prevail little longer against the brutal onslaught of the Crarians. Looking downwards, he saw Thribble's nod and unleashed energy from his inmost being, trusting to the demon to see reason. Words were unnecessary, as the power was unleashed from Grimm's inner being like water from a broken dam.

  A voice, indistinguishable from that of Starmor, boomed from the demon, impossibly, agonisingly loud:

  "Crarians! You are now free from my earlier edicts. You are free to fulfil your lives as you will!"

  Grimm held the power on, feeling his strength waning at an alarming rate, but he dared not hold back. The adventurers were protected from most of the sound, since it was being driven outward from the centre of the ward, but the volume was still phenomenal. The torrent of naked power seemed to scorch the Questor's very soul, and he moaned in torment, feeling like a candle in the heart of a blacksmith's forge.

  The Crarians flinched and staggered as Grimm's energy hit them, sinking deep into their very bones, but they did not stop.

  "Your lives are your own," Starmor's voice roared. "Rejoice in the joy of freedom and your own wills. You are free!"

  The Crarians halted, confused, and Dalquist croaked "Another assault and I'm done, friends. Let's hope the spell was successful."

  The Crarians had been driven back by the sheer power of the sonic blast. They stood, stunned, for a few seconds more, until Dalquist sank to the ground, utterly spent, as the ward failed at last.

  Grimm continued to hammer Thribble's message into the attackers' ears and minds for a few seconds longer and then, with a helpless gesture, he dropped to his knees, gasping and holding his hands to his pounding temples.

  The would-be assailants regrouped as if to launch their final assault. Harvel and Crest stood firm, ready to give their all, but the Crarians stopped in their approach, their jaws slack and their brows furrowed.

  Weapons began to fall from the townspeople's nerveless hands, first with isolated, metallic tinkles and then in an ever-increasing clatter. The befuddled Crarians looked around, confused and uncomprehending. Some pressed their palms to their ears, and Grimm guessed that the battering voice had robbed them of their hearing.

  He levered himself to unsteady feet with the aid of Redeemer, shaking with the effort to remain conscious.

  "People of Crar!" he husked, feeling as if his throat were filled with sharp shards of flint. "The evil Starmor is no more. Pursue your lives as you will: seek the fulfilment of your dreams and desires. Your lives, so long subject to the will of the odious Starmor, are your own once more, and yours alone. Live!"

  Grimm gasped once more and slumped to the ground, prone and unmoving.

  ****

  Many of the Crarians stared with blank eyes, perhaps still deaf, but others showed the beginnings of comprehension and wonderment at being freed from Starmor's influence. Some hugged and kissed their neighbours while tears rolled down their cheeks. Some dared timorously to approach Dalquist, Crest and Harvel with open arms, according them the same treatment. They took care to avoid the titanic Shakkar, who growled as they approached.

  Dalquist waved them away as best he could and, concerned, he knelt to examine Grimm. The young Questor was ashen, breathing in swift, shallow pants, and he seemed close to death, and the tall mage bit his lip, feeling cold uncertainty sinking into his bones. Grimm had expended his entire store of energy in one mighty explosion of will, and Dalquist feared his young friend had overextended himself. He shook the fallen youth by the shoulders and shouted in his ear, in a vain att
empt to recall him to consciousness.

  The once-murderous throng began to disperse; some singing and some weeping openly. Only a few remained, and one man, dressed in the soiled rags of what had once been costly attire, approached Dalquist, and the mage looked up from his fallen companion.

  "Lord Mage," the old man said in a hesitant voice, "we are all in your debt, beyond what words can express. My name is Querl, and I was once the city's chief physician. Your friend seems in urgent need of medical attention, and I offer my services in humility. I have a few small sleights of magic, which help me in the pursuance of my duties. May I attend the young magic-user?"

  Dalquist, feeling the direst concern at Grimm's condition, waved Querl towards his unmoving companion. The physician knelt, took Grimm's pulse and held a small mirror under the Questor's nose. He made a few passes over Grimm's brow, muttering a few terse phrases of gibberish.

  "Well, Healer," Dalquist said, his voice tense, "how is Questor Grimm? Will he live?"

  Looking up from his charge, Querl shrugged.

  "His soul has retreated to another place," he asserted. "His body functions only at a low level, but I am reasonably confident that, with care, it will live.

  "Nonetheless, I have no idea if his wandering soul will ever find its way back home. He needs warmth, sustenance and constant attention. He is on a long and difficult journey from which many never return. The next forty-eight hours are critical, and we must find him a warm and comfortable resting place."

  Chapter 10: Deliverance

  The soul of what had once been Grimm Afelnor floated in endless darkness, aimless and free; a small spark drifting through an indistinct haze of barely-registered sensory impressions. It had no thoughts, no sense of self and no emotions; this was a vague, formless mote of consciousness in an ocean of nothingness. For seeming aeons, it swam contented through the warm, soupy sea of oblivion, growing weaker with every moment.

  A sound! A distant humming seemed to grow louder and more distinct by the second. The noise reached an unbearable peak, assaulting its very centre, before consciousness came to spirit-Grimm. In a microsecond, it felt itself falling, falling until the spark fell to earth with a heavy thump. Spirit-Grimm had regained mortality: mortality was a sea of cares and pain.

  Grimm's head and eyes seemed filled with ice-cold shards of glass, his throat with knives. The awareness of the existence of arms and legs wormed its way into his growing consciousness; large, heavy structures with myriad tunnels inhabited by small, scurrying, biting creatures. He was a living termite's nest, a rabbit warren. A strange, bubbling, keening sound echoed in the distance, and another sound. It was his name. He was aware of the presence of another, and he wanted to be alone.

  So much easier just to be no more.

  The presence persisted, irking him, He tried to open his eyes, but the effort was too great. He became aware that the distant cry came, unbidden, from his own mouth and then ceased.

  "Grimm, come back. Grimm, come back…"

  He tried to speak but all that came from his lips was a weak, unintelligible, gurgling sound.

  "Grimm, I am Querl. Please speak if you can."

  "Que-errr-lll…" The sound was faint but comprehensible. "Querl. H-hurts. Grimm. Grimm Af'ln'r"

  "Good, Grimm! Do you know where you are?"

  "D'know. Crar. Hurts."

  "Yes, you are in Crar. I will give you something to ease the pain."

  "No, not drugs. None. None. None. No drugs!"

  "Very well, Grimm. If you are determined in this, I will administer no drugs, but you may ask me at any time if you change your mind."

  "Won' change mind. No drugs…" The lights faded again.

  Grimm did not know how long he had been switching between alternate spells of painful consciousness and blissful nothingness, but he eventually regained full awareness. The presence of a familiar mind; Dalquist was with him.

  "Water…"

  A glass was raised to his chapped lips, and Grimm winced in pain but drained the water. A glaring flash of light invaded his head as he opened his eyes, but he managed to keep them open long enough to resolve the clear image of his friend. Sitting up seemed impossible to his atrophied muscles, but he managed to speak.

  "Dalquist. Did it work?"

  Dalquist, grinning, spoke with a hint of tears at the corners of his eyes, no longer bearing the stern, formal persona of the Senior Questor.

  "Indeed it did work, Grimm. The people of Crar are free, Starmor seems to be restricted to his pillar, and we have rescued the poor wretches from his other dungeons. I've closed off all these prisons from the human world, as well as Starmor's own, well-merited cell.

  "I still have the Eye, and I'll return it to the Guild as soon as you're fully recovered and able to travel. You may be pleased to hear that you're very popular with the people of Crar as the mage who banished their former puppet-master. The former mayor of Crar wishes to speak with you at your earliest convenience."

  After a few abortive attempts, Grimm managed, with some difficulty, to raise himself to a sitting position. He found himself sitting in a sumptuous four-poster bed in a tastefully decorated room. Soft, harmonious vocal music gently wafted through the room; a relaxing, peaceful sound.

  "Where am I, Dalquist?" he asked. "How long has it been?"

  "You're in Starmor's own bedchamber, Grimm. I changed the decor to something a little more suitable for a convalescent mage. It's been two weeks since you banished him."

  "Two whole weeks?" Grimm croaked. "We must get back to the House straight away! Lord Thorn must be told of events as soon as possible! I must also admit that the very thought of staying in Starmor's awful tower horrifies me, and I don't want to stay here any longer than necessary."

  "Relax, Grimm," Dalquist said, putting a friendly hand on his friend's right shoulder. "I have contacted Lord Thorn by means of Telepathy, and he is as anxious as I am that you regain your full health before we return. The Eye is in no danger; I sent it back to the same place I used before. It is in a dimensional framework beyond the reach of any secular or layperson. Not even Starmor could find it.

  "The tower is not as it was. With the Baron out of the way, the souls imprisoned in the staircase are free from torment. They are free to leave, and yet they choose to remain and rejoice at their deliverance of their own free will. Listen!"

  It was true. Grimm realised that what he had assumed to be the singing of a melodious choir was, in fact, emanating from the tower walls.

  "Don't worry, Grimm; we're in safe hands. Harvel, Crest, Shakkar, Thribble and I have been feted several times by the people of Crar. Shakkar has performed admirably in aiding the people to rebuild their former lives, and I think the people now know him as a good friend rather than a fearsome monster. He seems to take genuine pleasure in these activities.

  "Harvel and Crest have been teaching the warriors of the city how to fight on their own, after so many years as mindless automata. You wouldn't recognise Crar now. It is becoming a pleasant, fruitful community, and old trading links are being renewed with other towns and cities."

  Grimm tried to smile but his sore, cracked lips did no allow this. "This is good to know, Dalquist," he croaked "The people of Crar deserve so much more than the chains that held them for so long."

  Dalquist looked closely at Grimm. The young mage was pale and drawn, to be sure, but his eyes were clear and his gaze steady. "Do you feel in need of your herbs, Grimm?"

  Grimm mentally explored his body, reaching into every inner nook and cranny, assessing the qualities of his different pains and aches.

  "The desire is there, Dalquist," he admitted, feeling a dull, inchoate longing within his body. "I suspect that it will never truly leave me. Still, at least I can't feel the urgent, overpowering, manic need I felt before. I hope and believe that that blast of energy and my brief coma have bled much of this ugly desire from me. I'll keep the herbs with me as a reminder, but I will resist them as best as I'm able from now on. It won't be e
asy, but we have both faced worse deprivations."

  Grimm smiled at his older friend, and Dalquist responded with a knowing nod. The two Questors shared a bond that ordinary men could never know and never comprehend; their different Ordeals had brought each to the very brink of madness and self-destruction, and only iron will had seen them through those dark days and months. Grimm would surely be possessed of sufficient self-control in order to prove to be as good as his word. Willpower was the cornerstone of a Questor's personality.

  Grimm tried to get out of bed to show just how well he was, but the effort was beyond him. After several attempts, he abandoned the idea and lay back on his pillow, his face a white mask of sweat.

  "I know you'll fight this better than any Secular could ever do," Dalquist said, "but I don't think you should push yourself too hard. There's no rush; everything's under control. Take your time; we'll be staying here in Crar until I'm convinced you're well enough to travel, and not before."

  Grimm opened his mouth, ready to protest, but contented himself with a rueful smile instead, as he felt lassitude seeping through his limbs.

  "Perhaps you're right, Dalquist," he allowed. "Maybe I'm not as strong as I thought I was."

  ****

  After three days of angry determination and frustration, Grimm regained the full use of his legs, although he remained pale and weak. Each morning, he did his best to complete the punishing regimen of morning exercise he had been taught as a Neophyte, and he felt himself growing stronger by the day. Good, nourishing food aided his recovery in his recovery, and he felt his mage powers returning also.

  On Grimm's third day of completing the whole sequence of exercises, he washed himself with care and brushed his matted hair and beard until they shone. Donning his robes, and calling Redeemer to him, he caught sight of himself in a mirror and stared at a stranger.

  The young man's face was ashen-pale, and he was tall and lanky, but there ended any resemblance to the callow adolescent's face Grimm had expected to see. This was a knowing face, a serious face… this young man looked dangerous. Even the way he carried his body was different: gawkiness was replaced by loose-limbed confidence. This was not a man easily frightened…