Such a strange feeling… he thought, drifting for a moment before regaining his sense of purpose. Read, Questor! Read it!
As if from far away, yet still inside his own head, he heard fluent, crisp syllables. On several occasions, he felt the spell starting to drift as he struggled to maintain control, but he carried on. At last, he knew he had botched a joining-rune, giving it a rising cadence rather than a falling one. At once, he was swimming in a sea of nausea that threatened to consume him. Spiky bolts of pain shot through his, or somebody's, head, like bolts from a crossbow.
It hurts!
A miscast, a calm, mental voice said, as somebody's entrails roiled and bucked. We failed; we can't afford another mistake. Try again
Grimm's distant voice moaned, as the mage tried to maintain the integrity of this strange, dual personality.
We hurt!
We must focus! Focus!
Confusion, pressure and pain!
Chant, chant…!
A rush of power-someone's power-ran around him and through him in a thrilling stream. As if he were turning inside-out, the spirit felt something twist, and a different mental voice spoke.
That's it! Get out, Grimm! Get out!
He felt a push, and he was floating again. Now he was falling, accelerating towards some inevitable destiny…
It felt as if he had run into a stone wall at high speed. No longer drifting, no longer wandering. He hurt in every fibre of his being, or somebody else did. He was alone again, separate and in pain.
"Are you all right, Questor Grimm?"
Grimm, Numal, or Guy-which one was he?-groaned and fell onto his left side. Cold and twitching, the Questor felt his stomach wrench, expelling its contents onto the ground beside him.
His thoughts crystallised and cleared, and he knew again where and who he was.
I'm Grimm Afelnor!
The thought hit him with a cold shock, as he realised that he had been on the point of losing his personality, his uniqueness. From what he had read of such spells-known to mages as ‘Sharings'-he knew the longer the spell, the greater the risk of the two minds becoming melded in some strange construct, from which the individualities of the two subjects might never be disentangled. In time, his silver cord would have withered and snapped, and his own body would have died.
It was a close-run thing! Grimm thought. That bloody miscast nearly cost me and Numal our minds.
"Are you all right, Questor Grimm?"
The repeated question sounded more urgent now, and Grimm opened his eyes to see General Quelgrum standing over him.
The Questor felt unable to use his vocal chords properly for the moment, but he waved his hands in a gesture to indicate that he was aware of the question.
The General helped him to sit up, and wiped harsh, sticky matter from Grimm's lips.
"Th-thanks, Gen'ral,” he managed to mutter, his tongue thick and clumsy. “I'm all right…
"Redeemer!"
The staff flew to his hand like a trained hawk, and Grimm drew on its stored resources with the same urgent need with which he had once drawn in the enslaving smoke of Trina and Virion. The strength flooded into his body and he began to feel revitalised.
He looked around, to see the improbable vision of Numal and Guy hugging each other, each man's face wearing a broad smile.
Guy broke away from Numal's enthusiastic embrace to regard Grimm with a critical eye.
"I can't have you lazing the day away, youngster,” the older Questor said. “Some of us have work to do… don't you know?"
Climbing to his feet, Grimm suppressed a grin. This was Guy, sure enough!
Numal ran over to the young mage and wrapped his arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Questor Grimm! You have made us whole again!"
Grimm began to feel hot waves of embarrassment inside him, and he extracted himself from the Necromancer's arms with as much good grace as he could manage.
"It was your skill that did it, Numal,” he said. “I only read, and I botched that once. I'm just wondering why it took so much out of me."
"That was the miscast. Surely even you Questors do that from time to time!"
"It doesn't have the same effect on us, Numal. We lose the energy of the spell, but it doesn't cripple us. Maybe the miscast spell will have some effect we haven't foreseen, or it just won't work at all, but it doesn't hurt."
As he had so many times, he had recalled the words of Magemaster Crohn in Arnor Scholasticate, spoken long ago to his friend, Madar: “A badly miscast spell can kill a mage. Even a minor error in an incantation can render the casting thaumaturge helpless with pain and nausea. So no, Forutia, we will not allow you to attempt even the simplest of spells at this time. I do not want this classroom full of corpses or retching, choking Students. You will understand our caution well enough when you are older."
Now Grimm understood the reason for Crohn's prudence only too well!
"Is a miscast always that way for runic magic-users?” he asked Numal.
"Always, Questor Grimm: in fact, a deliberate, carefully-chosen miscast is a part of every Adept's training. I was bed-ridden for over a day after mine. Perhaps that's why we don't choose to throw our magic around as much as you Questors. Perfection is everything in runic spells. Without wishing to slight your skill in any way, I'm glad it wasn't me who suffered the effects of that little error. But I do know, only too well, what a miscast feels like."
Grimm regarded the Necromancer with new respect, and he began to understand just why Quests were always commanded by Questors; it was not just because other mages lacked a Questor's range of spells, nor yet because of the difference in age. From his own experience, he knew the choice of a relevant spell by a Questor was often made under extreme pressure. A decision might need to be taken in a heartbeat, whether the spell might succeed or not. To expect a ‘normal’ mage to achieve precision and perfection under such circumstances was unreasonable, and the consequences of an error might be fatal.
Tordun strolled into the encampment, the carcass of a deer slung over one broad shoulder. “Did I miss something?” he said, his face puzzled.
"Notice anything different, swordsman?” Guy said, with a smug smile.
The titanic albino's brow furrowed for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “That's your own voice, Questor Guy! It is you, isn't it?"
"That's right, Tordun. I'm back, and hungry for action,” the mage said. “Grandfather here's back in his own body, too. Grimm, here, helped a little."
Grimm was about to protest at Guy's lack of gratitude, but he was interrupted by the General: “Gentlemen! May I have your attention for a moment?"
Harvel and Crest wandered over to rejoin the group, and Quelgrum continued.
"It's time to break camp and move on, I think. Our next stop on the direct route is Brianston, about fifty miles south of here, and we should reach there by nightfall. A little five-mile jaunt to the east will see us in Anjar, and Rendale's about thirty miles to the southwest of that. With any luck, we'll have our prey in sight tomorrow. We can make camp around there, while we scout out the lie of the land and make our attack plans."
"Sounds easy enough to me, General,” Crest said.
"Don't get too confident, Crest,” Grimm replied. “From what I've seen of this region so far, I wouldn't bet on it."
"Ah, come on, Baron. The killing crew's here, ready to kick arse!"
Grimm shrugged. “I just wish I had your confidence, Harvel. Let's just-"
"Right, people: let's move it!” Quelgrum interrupted, as if addressing a parade-ground. “Let's be ready to move in twenty minutes!"
The party dissolved, as the members of the group took up their previously-assigned duties.
As Grimm began to load equipment and supplies on the wagon, he looked at his companions: Harvel and Crest engaged in their customary good-natured argument as they disassembled the tents, Numal sang as he worked alongside Guy, and Tordun seemed to be sharing jokes with the General whi
le the two warriors butchered and salted the deer.
At least we're beginning to gel as a team, he thought. I really hope that'll be enough.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 8: Suspicions
Dalquist groaned and muttered as he worked his way through the stack of Student paperwork before him. For a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank to be used in this manner, as a Junior Magemaster, broke no Guild rules, but he felt as if his talents were being squandered.
Ever since he and Senior Magemaster Crohn had confronted Prelate Thorn over his ruthless treatment of Questor Grimm, Dalquist's life had taken a decided downturn.
We were foolish to try to quote regulations to Thorn, he thought, making a savage red slash through another botched, scribbled line of runes, and he's certainly making me pay for that rashness.
He wrote at the bottom of the page, ‘4/10: Woeful lack of attention to detail. See me,’ and he picked up another sheet from the pile.
I wouldn't feel so bad if I didn't know Lord Thorn was well within the letter of the law to do as he did. He could have had me stripped of my powers, exiled or even executed for mutiny. Instead, here I am marking shoddy work from worthless pupils whose only saving grace is the money in their parents’ coffers.
Oh, for goodness’ sake!
He drew a bold line through a complex, yet completely irrelevant, illogical series of runes. It was plain to Dalquist that this lout had not paid the least attention in the classroom, basking in the knowledge that his father was a wealthy High Court advocate, and that he could not be dismissed from the Scholasticate with ease.
'0/10: You have not even attempted to understand the principles or signatures of this spell. I suggest that your vocation lies elsewhere! See me.'
He reached out for the next sheet in the dwindling pile, but stopped short as he heard a soft rap on the door.
"Come in."
The door opened to reveal the grizzled form of the Mage Doorkeeper.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Questor Dalquist, very sorry, indeed. I was just saying to… to someone the other day how I hated to be…"
Dalquist sighed. “Would you mind coming to the point, Doorkeeper? I am rather busy, as you can see."
Doorkeeper scratched his head. “What was it, now?-oh, yes, I remember!” The ancient mage smiled brightly. “You have a visitor at the tradesmen's entrance. That was the message!"
"Who is this visitor?” Dalquist did his best to maintain a polite tone. He loved Doorkeeper as if the old man were his kindly, if addled, grandfather, but it was often difficult to elicit concise information from him.
The major-domo scrabbled in his pockets for a few moments before he brought out a tattered, discoloured scrap of paper and consulted it.
"He says he's Sergeant Erik Romas, Brother Mage. He says it's very urgent."
Dalquist felt his already-frayed temper beginning to get away from him, and he made a mighty effort to maintain his equanimity.
"I don't know any such man, Doorkeeper. Is he a watchman? A soldier? A Court functionary? Is he demanding advice, vengeance, charity, or a job?"
The old man looked blank for a moment before answering. “I think he just wants to meet you for a moment, Questor Dalquist,” he said at last.
Dalquist looked at the pile of completed marking, assessing the remainder. “All right, Doorkeeper; I'll see this wandering Sergeant.
"Shakhmat!"
The staff, as much weapon as adornment, flew into his hand, and he stood. Truth to tell, his backside was beginning to develop an abominable ache after so many hours in an unyielding, wooden chair.
"Thank you, Questor Dalquist,” the major-domo said, bowing. “I knew you would understand. I'm a very busy man, of course, so if you would excuse me…"
"Of course, Doorkeeper. I know the way well enough."
****
The Questor looked at the lanky, grey-haired man before him, without the slightest trace of recognition. The supposed Sergeant wore no uniform; instead, he wore a loose, grey sarape, loose, beige trousers and an outlandish, broad-brimmed hat: his appearance was bizarre, indeed, almost ridiculous.
"I am Dalquist Rufior, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank."
"I am Sergeant Erik Romas, Lord Mage.” The grey-haired man bowed in a clumsy manner.
"What do you want, Sergeant?” Dalquist remained wary of some potential trap but confident that his abilities as a Mage Questor would prevail in the event of any ambush.
The slender man looked around him, as if suspecting the presence of eavesdroppers. “I've brought someone to meet you, Lord Mage, but it would be better if we didn't discuss matters in the doorway. The… er… gentleman's name is Shakkar."
"Shakkar! Why did you not say so at once? Where is he?"
"Please, Sir… I mean, Lord Mage,” the bizarrely-disguised Sergeant whispered, looking embarrassed, “keep it down, would you? Lord Shakkar's in the bushes over there. He didn't think it was a good idea to present himself in person, being of a-shall we say-demonic persuasion."
Dalquist understood the need for caution: the huge demon would be conspicuous in any company. As a precaution against possible ambush, Dalquist engaged his Mage Sight, but he saw no trace of intended deception or malice in the Sergeant's aura.
"All right, Sergeant. Lead the way."
Erik led Dalquist past the fly-infested refuse bins at the rear of the House to a large, dense cluster of bushes. The mage prised away the thick foliage with the aid of his staff, Shakhmat, to see the grey form of the demon lurking within.
"It's good to see you again, Shakkar, but what's all this secrecy about?” he demanded “Is Questor Grimm all right? Is there some crisis in Crar?"
The demon levered himself up from his crouching position, unleashing a shower of leaves around him like so many snowflakes.
"I am pleased to meet you again, Questor Dalquist,” the bat-winged giant rumbled. “My reason for coming here is that I am deeply worried about the Lady Drexelica. She has disappeared, and there are indications that Prioress Lizaveta may well be behind it. We believe she intends to hold the girl as a hostage. That must mean she is aware of Lord Grimm's Quest."
Dalquist shook his head, confused. “Hold on for a moment, Shakkar; I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. Would you mind going back to the beginning? What Quest? What have Prioress Lizaveta and Grimm's housekeeper got to do with it?"
"Lady Drex is more…” began Erik, a sly smile on his face, but Shakkar's angry frown stopped the Sergeant's words in mid-sentence as cleanly as if he had been punched in the throat.
"Lady Drexelica is more than just a valued employee, Questor Dalquist. She and Questor Grimm have been through a lot together. She is a… good friend, a friend the Baron would gravely miss."
Dalquist's eyes bulged. Grimm's not… playing around, is he? No. it can't be! He may be a little rash at times, but surely he'd never risk his powers over a brief dalliance!
He thought back to the words of the late, lamented Senior Magemaster Urel had addressed to him fifteen years before: “Loose women are a taint, Rufior: remember that, and remember it well. It were better by far that you put all your energies into your work rather than waste it on idle, lustful, polluting thoughts. It is only natural that a boy of your years will feel such vile urges, but you must resist them at all costs. The least physical contact with the distaff sex will sap your powers. Surrendering to these foul, physical urges will destroy any chance you have of becoming a mage."
No: Grimm wouldn't be that stupid. It must be as Shakkar says; Drex is just a valued companion.
"Of course,” he said to the demon, “but what about this Quest?"
"Questor Grimm is under orders to destroy Prioress Lizaveta and her foul order,” Shakkar replied. “That is all I know."
What? Dalquist thought. What threat can one old lady pose to the Guild or the House? Why, she was kind enough to me when I saw her…
A ghastly suspicion drifted into the Questor's min
d. Is he on some personal vendetta because that nun, Madeleine, made a fool of him in High Lodge? Surely not! This must be some terrible misunderstanding.
"I'm sorry, Shakkar, but this all sounds very odd to me. There's very little I can do about it, in any case."
"You could attempt to contact Lord Grimm with Telepathy,” the demon growled.
Dalquist shrugged. “I could, but only if you can tell me where he is. It would be good to sort out this muddle. However, I can tell you with reasonable certainty that he isn't on any Quest as far as I know. Grimm hasn't even been back to the House since he went to High Lodge. Whatever he is doing is most likely his own idea. So do you have any idea of Questor Grimm's location?"
"He is somewhere in the region of Yoren,” the demon said."We thought you might be able to locate him and advise him."
"I need rather more precise directions than that, Shakkar!” Dalquist laughed. “I don't know anything about the area, I've never been there, and I can't cast such a potent spell in a wide arc."
"I do not know exactly where Lord Grimm is, Questor!” Shakkar bared his long fangs in an expression Dalquist could not read. “What I do know is that Lady Drexelica may be in danger from a foul, evil witch. Do you mean to tell me that you will not help your best friend in this regard?"
Dalquist's mind spun, as fragments of memories whirled through his head. He remembered visiting the Prioress’ apartments at High Lodge. Some sort of confrontation… no, no, NO!
"Prioress Lizaveta is a charming, harmless old lady!” he shouted. “Yes, she's a witch; what does that have to do with anything? I'll thank you to take your pathetic little suspicions and conspiracy theories elsewhere!"
Shakkar growled, and raised a single, huge, clawed hand.
"Don't, Shakkar.” Dalquist brought Shakhmat into view. “I respect you, but you'll be taking a big risk if you try to threaten me. Don't do it."
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