When he was satisfied with Loras’ spirit posture, he requested the same service of the smith as he slipped back into his own, unmoving mortal form. When the former Questor declared that the correspondence between the astral and bodily postures was adequate, Kargan realised that he could not access the memory of the conclusion of Bledel's spell from Seeker, still clasped in his corporeal self's right hand.
A frisson of doubt and fear fluttered through the Mentalist, but he crushed the sensation with an iron hand of discipline. He remembered the advice he had been given by his singing tutor, so long ago:
You do not need to remember the whole of the song, Neophyte; if you have learned it well, you only need to remember the first three or four words. Then, the rest will come tumbling out.
This was not as easy as remembering a song, since a mage spell was composed of apparently arbitrary runes, tones and cadences, each nuance vital for the incantation's success. However, Kargan had given many, many classes in the interpretation of spells over the course of his long life.
It starts with Chiat-Tekh-Urth with a rising tone; I know that, he thought, and that's followed by… what? Gath-Tren-Tekh? That's right; we're trying to create a sense of urgency, aren't we? Then there's solidity and homecoming, followed by permanence…
His mind ran through the feelings he had felt when he had first cast Bledel's powerful incantation, back in his cell in Arnor House. It was a small closing chant, but critical.
Yes, that's it, he thought. I can do this on my own, without a damned prompter!
The chant consisted of only twenty runes; a short run of syllables as Guild spells went, but Kargan's nerves jangled as he began to cast the closing enchantment. He knew that every lilt, every slur, every hesitation was critical to the closure, but he trusted to thirty years’ experience as a Magemaster, and a true voice untainted by the passage of the years.
By the time he reached the end of the brief chant, the Magemaster felt confident enough to add a hint of Elation to the ending spell-just a hint, of course; he did not wish to destabilise the main structure.
As the last rune spilled from his lips, Kargan knew he had succeeded. He welcomed the forgotten, dull aches and pains of his aging body as they began to introduce themselves, greeting his success.
"We are out,” he croaked, feeling as if his throat were full of glass shards. His head slumped towards his chest; he was utterly spent.
Loras leapt to his feet, flexed his ham-like fists and stretched, as Kargan slumped in his rude chair, devoid of anything but an inchoate fear that his recent actions might lead to the downfall of Arnor House or the entire Guild. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to feel sorry at the prospect of the destruction of the diseased colossus.
"You said you could return my powers to me, Mentalist!” the former Questor said, his face like carved stone in its fixed intensity. “I request that you do so forthwith!"
"I couldn't fight a fly right now, Questor Loras,” Kargan confessed, his voice feeble and thin. “I'm travel-worn, tired, and I need to eat."
Loras sighed and shook his shaven head. “What has happened to the ardent fire of my beloved House's mages? Can you not understand the heat of my anger, Magemaster Kargan? I have fifty years of self-accusation to avenge, against a man I thought my steadfast friend! Thorn is the traitor, not me!"
Kargan sighed. “At this very moment, I couldn't care in the least for Guild politics, Mage Speech, protocol or lifelong vendettas, my over-muscled friend!” he cried, struggling to keep his eyes open. “I need a bath, some food and a bed in that order! If you can't manage that, I'll make do with a bloody bucket of cold water, a mouldy potato and a stretched-out rope, but I have finished with today! Is that quite understood?"
Drima flung the crude door open and entered the room. “Are you all right, Loras?"
The bronzed, shaven-headed man rose to his feet and hugged his wife.
"Magemaster Kargan has shown me everything, Drima!” he cried, his eyes moist. “I did not try to kill Prelate Geral at all! It was Thorn and his mother, not me!"
"I always knew that,” she said, patting her husband on his left shoulder. Her eyes were bright and moist. “You are an angry man at times, but you were never evil. This mage has given you back your self-respect! Rejoice in that, and put your bloody revenge behind you for the moment! Just look at the Magemaster, will you? He's almost dead in his seat!"
Kargan regarded the bright, kaleidoscopic colours, playing on his retinas, with a measure of dispassionate interest before he tumbled forward. He smiled, not knowing why, and his vision faded before his head hit the hard stone hearth.
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Chapter 31: Merrydeath Road
General Quelgrum flicked the reins, and the wagon began to bounce down the rough track. “So, how are you this fine morning, Questor Grimm?” he asked. “Is it not a magnificent day?"
Grimm, riding beside the General, favoured the deep blue sky with a cursory glance. “Very nice,” he replied in a dull voice. “How far is it to Anjar now?"
"I'd guess about four miles, Lord Baron. Are you sure you're well?"
The Questor caught the note of concern in Quelgrum's voice.
"I'm all right,” he said. “Don't worry, General; I'm trying hard not to sulk or mope, but I still can't get Crest's death out of my head. Tordun may never see again. Don't get me wrong; Gruon had to be destroyed, but I'm wondering what I could have done to minimise the casualties. I acted without thinking-"
"Sometimes, a warrior must do just that, Lord Baron. It's good that you're analysing your tactics, but I'd advise you to do so a little at a time. Don't dwell on it, or you'll become bitter and twisted, and no good to anybody.
"Becoming withdrawn and distant from the other men won't help. Tordun doesn't blame you for what happened to him, so neither should you. Just listen to him back there; does he sound downhearted?"
Grimm listened to the animated argument taking place in the back of the wagon. His companions seemed to be disputing the relative merits of a number of racehorses; a subject about which Grimm knew next to nothing. As ever, Guy was trying to ram his own opinion down the throats of the others.
"Fallon's Mystery was the only horse to win the Merrol Cup four years in a row,” he declared in his customary, didactic manner. “That record speaks for itself!"
"Ah, Questor, but against what opposition?” Tordun demanded. “A bunch of worn-out nags better suited to pulling a cart! Groundless Fears prevailed against far better opponents in all conditions. Your chosen steed was a fine racer on firm ground and in fair weather, but he never went out if there was a cloud in the sky. My horse, on the other hand…"
Grimm turned back to Quelgrum. “I agree, General; Tordun sounds happy enough,” he said, in the same listless voice.
Quelgrum sighed. “Well, couldn't you get a little more involved in these sorts of discussions from time to time, Lord Baron?"
"I know nothing about horseracing, or about most of the subjects they discuss,” Grimm said. “If you'd forgotten, I've spent most of my life locked up in a bloody Guild House."
Can't you just leave me alone, Quelgrum? he thought. I really just don't want to talk right now.
"Questor Numal's spent longer in the House than you,” the soldier replied. “Nonetheless, at least he makes the effort to take part. All right; so you're unhappy; why take it out on everybody else?"
"I'm not,” Grimm said. “However, I accept that my detachment may be bad for morale. I'll take an effort to become more involved from now on."
Happy, General? he thought. Maybe that'll shut you up for a while.
Quelgrum shot the Questor a strange look, almost as if he had read Grimm's mind, but he turned his face back to the road ahead and said nothing. Grimm watched the birds wheeling over the open fields and almost wished he was one of them.
What worries does a bird have? he wondered, marvelling as they swirled and swooped, occasionally diving to snatch some loose morsel
from the soil. Birds don't need to worry about status, people's opinions or anything else.
Very deep, a more sarcastic section of his mind interjected. I'm sure nobody's ever thought about that before.
The sound of the horses’ hooves on the hard, compacted earth, the heated argument from the rear of the wagon, and the rattle of the wheels over the ruts and furrows of the track made a considerable clamour, but the noise inside Grimm's head grew louder and louder by the minute. After a quarter of an hour of Quelgrum's silence, the mage felt moved to speak, just in order to still his inner conflict.
Grimm sighed. “I will try to join in, General, I promise. It's lonely in here, with only me for company."
"It's all right, son, I understand,” Quelgrum said. “So many demands on your time, so little experience-I remember it well. I led my first troop when I was about your age…"
Grimm expected to find the General's anecdote boring and irrelevant, but, instead, he found it very pertinent to his own situation. The old man described his horror after a disastrous battle, and how an ancient Sergeant had brought him to his senses after a score of his charges had been lost in the conflict. The less cynical partition of Grimm's mind recognised the similarities between the two men, and he began to feel a kinship between himself and Quelgrum. He was beginning to become engrossed in the soldier's frank account of his feelings when he saw a faded, slumped sign by the road.
"Wait a minute, General,” he said. “This is Merrydeath Road. We need to turn down here, don't we?"
"Merrydeath Road,” the veteran said, turning the wagon into the indicated road. “Sounds like a fun place.” His voice dripped with leaden irony.
"Who's being negative now, General? There's no reason to assume Anjar isn't a wonderful place, just because of a road's morbid name.” His exuberant words might not reflect his true mood, but he was beginning to feel a little more cheerful.
I've fought a troupe of enslaved, over-muscled fighters and a hundred-and-forty-foot dragon, he thought. I'm not really that bothered by whatever Anjar might throw at us.
In truth, he welcomed the onset of any challenge that might lie ahead: it might draw his attention away from his introspective malaise.
Quelgrum grimaced. “There's confidence and there's overconfidence,” he growled. “The first two major towns on this campaign have proven to be death-traps. I recommend we keep our wits about us in Anjar.
"Merrydeath Road…!” The old soldier shivered and held up his left hand, the little finger extended in the ancient sign of Dismissal of Evil.
Grimm smiled. “I had no idea you were superstitious, General."
Quelgrum said nothing, but he waved his hands as a shabby, blurred signpost came into view, bearing the single word ‘Anjar'. Grimm poked his head through the wagon's canvas cover.
"We're just entering Anjar,” he said, feeling a brief stab of pleasure as the hubbub in the back of the vehicle stilled in an instant. “It may be a perfectly nice place but it would be wise to get ready for trouble."
Grimm's announcement was met by a cool, dismissive gesture from Guy, a serious, worried nod from Numal and a shrug from Tordun. Sergeant Erik's expression did not change, but he began to inspect his various Technological firearms, pulling on levers and handles to the accompaniment of a series of sharp clicks and clacks. All his attention seemed focussed on the metallic devices, his face a picture of intense concentration.
Numal clutched his staff to his body. “Are we going to stop here, Questor Grimm?” he asked.
"Not unless we have to, Brother Mage,” Grimm said. “If what Keller told us is true, Rendale should be no more than thirty miles from here; we can easily reach it by mid-afternoon. I recommend we keep travelling and make camp just short of the Priory."
"That suits me,” Guy declared. “I've had just about enough of the squalid little hell-holes that pass for towns around here."
"And me,” Numal said with a fervid nod. “The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can get back to my nice, familiar, comfortable cell back at Arnor. This Quest must have aged me thirty years."
"I'll have to start calling you Great-Granddad,” the acerbic Guy muttered. If Numal had heard him, he pretended he had not.
Anjar was no squalid dung-heap like Yoren, nor yet a fantastical collection of bizarre structures like Brianston. Grimm found the sheer simplicity of Anjar a relief after his recent perils in those strange conurbations.
As the wagon rolled through the streets of the town, he saw a collection of small stalls, beside which people chatted, haggled and engaged in what the mage considered perfectly normal behaviour.
He engaged his Mage Sight and noted no emanations of magic whatsoever. The auras of the Anjarians showed no signs of ensorcelment, undue suspicion or anything other than the regular emotions he might expect from a blameless group of townspeople. To be sure, some of the stallholders showed indications of guile and deception, and some of their intended victims’ auras bore the unmistakable greenish hue of avarice, but this was only to be expected.
If there was anything remarkable about Anjar, it was the sturdiness of the buildings. There were no tumbledown thatched cottages here; every permanent structure seemed to be built from yellow stone blocks, and even the roofs bore heavy tiles instead of simple thatch.
Grimm frowned: the town was surrounded by dense woodland, which would have provided ample material for simpler, less costly dwellings. However, he dismissed this as an oddity of Anjarian architecture: the people of the town seemed far more interested in their own affairs that in the arrival of the wagon. Scarred, stained walls implied that the buildings had been standing for many years. Perhaps Anjar was plagued by hungry rats, termites or some other infestation that threatened less sturdy structures.
"What do you think, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked, easing the horses to a gentle walk. “We're running a little low on supplies, and we have to consider the trip back to civilisation. Do you think we dare stop here for some food and drink?"
Grimm considered the General's question with some care. Since Crest's death, he had vowed that he would never again act on impulse, as long as he had time to consider his options beforehand. Anjar looked safe enough, almost like his home town of Lower Frunstock, but he knew now that appearances could be very deceptive. This whole region seemed to be a hotbed of anarchy and disorder, and Grimm was now unwilling to take anything at its face value.
I could play this little game all day, he thought, as Quelgrum waited for his answer.
"Is the situation serious, General?” he asked.
Quelgrum shrugged. “We lost a lot of victuals at Yoren,” he said. “We managed to recoup some of our losses at Brianston, but it's all fattening stuff; hardly a balanced diet suited to travelling or fighting. We could really do with some pulses, fresh, lean meat and green vegetables."
Grimm said, “I recommend we stop and wait for Shakkar's report first."
Shakkar had insisted on reconnoitring the town from the air, ensuring that the party had a clear escape route from Anjar, should rapid egress prove necessary.
As Quelgrum reined in the horses, Grimm saw a small shadow on the ground, growing larger by the heartbeat. He looked up to see the unmistakable, bat-winged figure of Shakkar descending, almost as if the very mention of his name had summoned him.
Shakkar fluttered to a halt, dropping the last few inches to the ground with an audible thump, and Grimm checked the townspeople's reactions. He saw several people's eyes widen in momentary fear, and he noted many pointing fingers, but it seemed that such a creature was not that unusual a sight; after a few moments, the Anjarians returned to haggling and conversation.
"Your report, please, Shakkar,” Grimm said in a formal, businesslike drawl
"There are five main roads into the town, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled. “I saw no barriers or armed guards on any of them. I saw a few uniformed men armed with swords, but they moved easily through the populace. Several of them stopped to chat with the civilians in
an apparently friendly manner; the town seems peaceful enough. I saw two wagons and three horsemen leaving Anjar without confrontation or pursuit. My presence caused a little perturbation at first, but no more than I expected."
Grimm nodded. “Thank you, Shakkar."
This may be the first normal town we've come across in some time, Grimm thought.
Still, it's best to be careful. We have a Quest to fulfil, and we can't afford any more casualties, least of all through any carelessness.
"Your recommendations, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked.
Grimm's instinct was to keep going; the party could collect victuals on the return journey. Nonetheless, morale was an important factor; as yet, there were no signs of dissent among his fellows, but the Questor acknowledged that they had all been under considerable stress for some time. He thought of the vain, roistering swordsman, Harvel, who had given up his satin clothes for the rough, homespun garments of a farmer and quit after the death of his close friend, Crest.
Tordun might be putting on a brave face after his own injury, but he would now be next to useless in a serious fight. Perhaps the albino's sight would return with time, but, on the other hand, the pale giant might never recover the full use of his eyes. For such a proud, self-reliant warrior, who had also been a friend of Crest's, his uncertain future would surely bear upon Tordun's confidence like an ever-present weight, sapping his will and his confidence.
If the mighty Tordun ever snapped, it might be too costly a lesson for the small party to bear.
Guy was… well, Guy: acerbic, cynical and unpredictable. Despite the older Questor's avowed enthusiasm, Grimm would have preferred not to have the mercurial Great Flame in the team at all.
If there was even a chance that this pleasant, peaceful-seeming town was yet another hot-bed of violence of esoteric dangers, the consequences for the Quest might be severe. There were so many variables to consider…
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