Weapon of the Guild cogd-2

by Alastair J. Archibald

  Was it worth the risk to find out?

  Grimm gritted his teeth. No! Starmor must have lifted Granfer's name from my mind, and he must know of my personal oath. I won't listen to him.

  Projecting his thoughts towards his unseen enemy, the mage replied, You know nothing, Starmor. You have drawn the name of Loras Afelnor from some recess of my mind, and you seek to trick me into visiting you so you can use my emotions to effect your escape. Nothing you can say or do will convince me otherwise.

  Starmor's insidious voice wound its way back into his head, bearing an intolerable note of patronising humour. Ah, but you are so wrong, there, my puny stripling spell-caster. I know more than you can possibly imagine, things that I know you will want to hear. Loras was betrayed. Would you care to hear the traitor's name?

  No, Grimm spat back. The voice seemed to be growing fainter. Was Starmor losing his last dregs of power?

  Not everybody loved Loras Afelnor, Grimm. The faint whisper was almost imperceptible now. He had enemies where he thought there was undying friendship. One not known to him compelled him to strike and then left him thinking that it had all been his idea. He was betrayed and duped in equal measure. If you release me, I will give you the names of the parties involved. Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but it is a sweet and succulent dish, fit for a King… or even for a puerile excuse for a Baron.

  Grimm clenched and unclenched his fists in rage and indecision. Starmor was telling him just what he wanted to believe; that Loras had not acted of his own volition, that he had been misled, duped, coerced. He wanted that to be true with every fibre of his being, but how could he trust this sadistic, manipulative monster? Even from his distant prison, the demon was trying to play with Grimm as he had with so many flesh-and-bone puppets. Making a conscious effort of will, he swore to ignore Starmor's words.

  I will accompany you to the depths of Hell before I will set you free, demon. I hope you rot on that pillar for eternity. I hope you deafen yourself with the manic screams of your own advancing insanity, and I defy you for the last time. Get… out… of… my… head!

  Starmor was gone, and Grimm shook with emotions he had denied for so long. He looked at the pouch of drugs on the round bedside table and snatched it up like a bird of prey clawing up a hapless rodent. He gazed at the tempting herbs for long moments before he flung them to the green-carpeted floor and launched his right fist into his left palm five times before he managed to collect a semblance of composure.

  Damn you, Starmor! You are not going to spoil this day for me. I am not going to spare your snide little fiction another moment's consideration, he thought.

  Grimm looked at himself in the mirror, but his pride in his splendid new garments had left him, and he began to pace the room in an agony of indecision. He had to admit that his mind did not seem quite as sharp as it had been under the herbs' influence; the drugs had seemed to make his thought processes fly. Now he was over the worst of the addiction, it felt as if his brain were some cogwheel machine clogged with thick, heavy treacle. He glanced again at the pouch lying on the floor and dismissed its insidious temptation. He sat on the floor and adopted a pose of meditation in an attempt to clarify his muddled thoughts.

  Grimm knew Starmor must never be released, but he desperately wanted to hear what the demon lord had to say.

  What to do?

  He began to assess the different aspects of the situation. There seemed to be three basic considerations: a method of travel; a means of shielding his emotions from Starmor; and Grimm's need to conserve his still-limited strength.

  He knew the four-dimensional location of the pillar, and it would take him a mere moment to traverse the distance. He had revelled in the freedom he had felt when performing the standard runic Translocation spell, and he knew he could repeat the spell without error, having felt the way in which the runic chant had patterned his mind. Nonetheless, the spell placed a high magical energy demand on the caster, and Grimm wondered if he could devise a Questor equivalent, one that would require less power to cast.

  Yes… there it is, he thought, visualising the problem. The image of the pillar is clear in my mind. I shouldn't have any problem in locating it.

  A second problem was that, if he arrived at the imprisoning turret with his emotions intact, he might well be supplying the demonic dictator with all the energy he required to escape. The powerful herbs had masked his emotions well, but Grimm feared that he might never escape the hunger for the drugs if he dared to take another dose. Taking just a little of the smoke to maintain equanimity had been one thing; taking an amount sufficient to face Starmor was another.

  He shifted his position a little, since a low ache had arisen in the small of his back, and tried to compose his thoughts once more, trying to apply ruthless logic to the problem.

  Focus, Afelnor! Focus!

  He would not consider the drugs a viable way to mask his feelings from Starmor. He must find a Questor solution.

  One of the main limitations of Questor magic was that the caster was unable to apply magic to his own brain, since that was the source of the magic. Therefore, Grimm needed to find a solution that acted outside the confines of his mind. A ward of some sort, one that would mask his emotions from Starmor and yet allow him to cast magic, would seem to be the ideal form of spell. Such a ward, limited to a single physical aspect and to the boundaries of his body, would cost him little effort to maintain. He performed a meditative trick he had been taught as a Neophyte, moving his psyche outside of his body and analysing the characteristic emanations of emotional energy by using his Mage Sight. Yes, the spell was indeed possible and it required little energy expenditure.

  Grimm stood and stretched to relieve the knots that had been massing in his muscles. He was decided.

  I'll face Starmor once more and force him to tell what he knew about Granfer's betrayal. He's weak now. If I can shield my emotions from him, he won't be able to defy me. I'm sure my physical body is stronger than his.

  The cautious portion of Grimm's mind urged him to consult Dalquist first before committing himself, but another part told the young mage that the senior Questor would forbid the plan outright. He was no longer a callow Student, to be counselled and directed; he was a powerful Guild Mage in his own right, and he could make his own decisions. Nonetheless, something still nagged at him.

  He mulled over the details of his new Questor Translocation spell, and he remembered the words of Magemaster Crohn from his time in the House Scholasticate: "A successful mage guards his power at all times. Always make your choice of spell wisely, so as to conserve your strength for greater challenges that may lie ahead; this is the hallmark of a prudent spell-caster."

  The Questor had to acknowledge the wisdom of Crohn's words: he knew he had made too free of his power before, relying on its sheer abundance. He had gloried in the hot, invigorating thrill of the energy as it gushed from him, but, as a result, he had more than once rendered himself helpless after such reckless expenditure.

  The new Translocation spell would work, he felt sure, but even this enchantment would place a considerable demand on his weakened resources.

  Remember, Grimm, you'll have to perform it twice; once to send you back to the pillar, and once to return you to the mortal world… ah!

  It seemed as if a bright light illuminated the furthest recesses of his being.

  Of course!

  He had been linked with Starmor's own mind, and he could see it as clearly as the four-dimensional location of the pillar, even though the demon now lacked the strength to communicate with him. He could travel along this link as easily as a child could slide down a fairground chute!

  The familiar Questor routine now seemed as prosaic and simple as swallowing to the young magic-user. First, he set his magical ward, feeling his emotions imprisoned within the screen like a caged tiger.

  All was ready.

  He shut his eyes, felt the slight pulsing of Starmor's psyche within his sensorium, arranged his p
ower in a coherent web of force and traced the slender thread that connected the two beings. The nonsense words came easily to his throat, and he departed from the room.

  ****

  After a moment's disorientation, Grimm opened his eyes, ready to confront his demon nemesis. The Questor gaped; instead of the familiar pillar, he found himself in a stone chamber lit by torches arrayed around the walls. Neat rows of benches stood before a black, gleaming altar. Behind this, Grimm saw a large, ornate, golden throne surmounted by a horned skull, in which sat a grinning Starmor.

  "Grimm Afelnor, my dearest friend! I thought you would be unable to resist the temptation to hear more about your grandfather's downfall, and I hoped that you would choose the fortuitous route of our mental link to travel to me. I am pleased to see that my little plan has succeeded beyond my wildest hopes."

  Grimm exerted his Sight, and he saw little or no power within Starmor. The demon's confidence frightened him.

  "My emotions are shielded from you, and you cannot steal the least whit of power from me, Starmor," he growled. "I have not come to parlay with you, but to give you an ultimatum. Tell me what you know of my grandfather's downfall, and I will spare your miserable life. Refuse me in this, and I will make you regret it. I will disintegrate your physical form so finely it will take you tens of aeons to rebuild it."

  Starmor's shoulders shook with the force of his laughter. "Such threats are beyond the scope of your pathetic powers, child-mage. Do you not wonder why you are not where you thought you were? 'How did the evil Starmor escape from the punishment pillar?' Do such questions not burn within you, little one?"

  Grimm tried to think of a forceful, witty response, but he confined himself to a simple nod, his throat dry and mute.

  "Welcome to my chapel, Grimm, Afelnor," Starmor said, his loathsome smile intact and unwavering. "The closest of my acolytes used to come here to worship me-and they will again. I summoned others in order to renew their zeal from time to time. This is my spiritual home, witless mortal. Soon, you will be on your knees, worshipping me."

  "I will never bow to you, Starmor. Never," Grimm vowed, but his confident, defiant tone stood at odds with the desolation threatening to consume him. Clamping his will down on the despair, he confined it, dismissed it.

  The demon sat back in his throne and crossed his arms. "This is but one of my little cubby-holes, between which I can move as easily as you can walk across a room in your own world. You are, of course, free to return to your accustomed frame whenever you wish, for I cannot harm you."

  Grimm realised Starmor was playing with him, as he had done with countless others during his tenure as Baron of Crar. The sick awareness arose within the young mage that he could not return to the mortal world since he had no idea of where he was in relation to his familiar, three-dimensional, space. He was trapped!

  A spell of destruction arose from his lips and he hurled it at his hated enemy with full force, only to see it splash into harmless sparks of blue light on the dark altar.

  "Poor, feeble-minded urchin!" Starmor cried. "You cannot strike me here, for my chapel absorbs your human magic like a sponge soaks up water. Your strongest power will only serve to amuse me. Do launch another spell; I will not seek to balk you in any way."

  Grimm guessed the imposing marble altar must be Starmor's source of protection, since the demon's innate powers must be depleted to a low level. He directed his next attack towards the obsidian block, but the potent spell splashed from the altar as if it were no more than summer rain bouncing from a waxed cape.

  The Questor gaped, but he steadied himself, thinking, Redeemer can smash that stone block as easily as it could an egg…

  A cold, horrifying shock ran down Grimm's spine as he realised he had left his beloved staff behind, but he suppressed his panic. The solution was simple.

  "Redeemer: come to me!"

  Ever since he had whittled the staff from a length of dead wood and imbued it with his inner force, Redeemer had flown directly to his hand whenever called. Now, nothing happened, and Grimm repeated the demand with greater urgency, fighting the despair growing within him. He felt all but naked before his foe-incomplete, helpless.

  Starmor's face twisted into a ghastly caricature of wide-eyed surprise. He clicked his fingers and whistled, as if summoning an errant dog. "Come here, boy! Good boy!

  "Now, where could that naughty little stick have gone?"

  Stifling a groan, Grimm realised that the range of control over his staff must be limited to the normal dimensions of the mortal frame. He was truly lost.

  Snarling, he launched himself at Starmor with his hands outstretched, trying to throttle the demon with magically amplified strength, but he bounced from the ward emanating from the altar.

  "I am patient, Grimm," Starmor said, cackling in horrid amusement that reminded the mage of the bullies who had tormented him so during his Questor Ordeal. "Take your time, by all means; I know how slowly your human thought-processes move. I have all the time in the world: as a lord of the underworld, I do not need to eat, drink or sleep more than twice in one of your years.

  "Eventually, you will exhaust your powers, and your puny little shield will fall. I will then have the munificent power of your thrilling hate and anger to speed my return to your frame. The faithless people of Crar will soon have cause to regret their rejoicing at my departure… as will you, my sweet, tasty morsel of human flesh.

  "You will soon learn the error of your ways. Long before I return to the mortal world, you will know the severity of my anger, you naughty boy. I will spend considerable time with you, feeding from your hatred and your pain."

  Grimm railed at himself: how had he been such a fool as to fall into Starmor's clutches with such a simple lure?

  The worst of it was that Dalquist, Lord Thorn, Magemaster Crohn and the rest of the Guild might assume he was a renegade or a traitor; that he had absconded and flouted his oath. He knew he had lost-his personal Quest to redeem his family name had ended in abject failure, almost before it began.

  Even so, Grimm could not countenance meek surrender: Dalquist might still divine the truth and come to his aid. He vowed to himself to hold out until the last possible moment.

  "Well done, Starmor," he said, accompanying his words with mocking applause. "I suppose I must admit that you have beaten me. I will warn you that I should be able to maintain this ward for a long time, so we have a fair period ahead of us in which to talk.

  "Since you have me under your control, what can you tell of my grandfather's fall from grace? You may as well tell me now. It may have cost me my life, but it will be some comfort to know that he was acting under duress."

  Starmor laughed so hard that tears began to run down his cheeks. "This is the best part of it, Questor; as you suspected, I know nothing that I did not glean from the dusty little recesses of that which you are pleased to call a brain. I told you what you wanted to hear, and you allowed your ape curiosity to subsume your feeble mortal powers of reason."

  Grimm yearned to blast Starmor into a million motes as he had threatened before, but he knew now that he could never do so. He clenched his teeth and his fists in impotent rage, hating himself for his impetuous stupidity.

  Starmor yawned. "You really are quite dull, though, my imbecilic friend. From what I have gleaned from your simian brain, it seems plain that your grandfather's actions were quite out of character for such a man. There must have been some sort of Geas or Compulsion acting upon him. I would have thought even you would have guessed that."

  "Shut up, Starmor. I never want to hear my grandfather's name sullied by your foul lips again. I refuse to believe anything you say."

  Grimm turned his back on the demon. He knew what he must do; he must use his last reserves of powers to destroy himself before his emotional ward fell. Starmor must remain trapped at all costs, and Grimm would not allow himself to relax his vigilance.

  "And now, my dear brethren, let us pray." From some unseen corner of the chap
el rose discordant, dissonant organ music to which Starmor swung and swayed with a look of pure ecstasy on his face. Grimm gritted his teeth and sat cross-legged on the flagstone floor. His strength was beginning to fade, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before his shield failed. He swore again he would kill himself before that happened.

  Chapter 12: Discord and Destruction

  Harvel and Crest expressed the greatest appreciation at Mayor Chod's generous offer of fine new clothes, and they spent the afternoon at a large Crarian tailors' establishment, trying on various outfits. The swordsman now wore a short-sleeved bottle-green leather jerkin, black, metal-studded wristbands, loose-fitting yellow trousers and long, thin leather shoes. His gleaming rapier, carefully dressed and polished, was ready for action in a green leather scabbard on a blue silk hanger. This garish outfit might appear quite impracticable for combat, but Harvel assured Crest it was the absolute acme of fashion.

  The thief adopted a more sober outfit, befitting his more restrained dress sense, but his simple, black outfit was made of crushed velvet; the brown slippers of finest kidskin. His deadly throwing-knives lay in a slanted row across his chest on a leather baldric, ready for instant use.

  "Well, well, well; look at the twin birds of paradise!" Dalquist said, with an appreciative whistle.

  "Will you listen to the man there, Crest?" Harvel drawled, adjusting his scabbard. "He must be under the impression that those silk robes he's wearing are some sort of monastic habit. Perhaps the poor fellow is colour-blind."

  Dalquist wore scarlet silk, with a gold cowl; no shrinking violet, he!

  "Colour-blind I may be," laughed the mage, "but I am blessed with a good sense of the passage of time. Has either of you seen Questor Grimm anywhere? We ought to be thinking of leaving for the Council chambers."

  "He had his outfit made first," declared Harvel. "He took the whole lot back up to the tower. He's probably been staring at himself in the mirror for the last ten minutes, so do you want me to go and fetch him?"