The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster [Book 1: A Mage In The Making]

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "As sad as it is for me to say it,” Crohn said, with a sigh, “let any doubts of your grandfather's guilt be gone, Adept Grimm. He fully confessed to his deeds in front of the whole House, and it was Lord Thorn himself, his beloved Brother Mage, who discovered him in the act, with a pillow pressed over the Prelate's face. Lord Thorn was truly sorrowful, almost in tears, and he admitted to astonishment at what his greatest friend had so nearly done, but even he acknowledged Loras’ guilt in the end, as did Loras himself."

  "His Ordeal ... did you take part in it?” Grimm asked, in a soft voice, wondering if some lingering vestige of the Questor's Ordeal had temporarily unhinged his grandfather's mind.

  "Yes, I did, Adept Grimm,” Crohn admitted. “I was one of those placed under a Geas to taunt him. I did not take part in his despoilment when his powers were stripped from him, but that is of no credit to me, I regret to say. I was only a Neophyte then, and only Acclaimed Mages took part in that Great Spell.

  "You even look a little like him, Afelnor; he was seventeen when he was Acclaimed as a Questor, and you have the same deep, dark eyes and those high cheekbones. It is good to think that there will be somebody to redeem the Afelnor name so it may shine again on the Guild rolls. I am sure that both you and he will feel the same."

  "Could I yet fail?” Faced with this onerous new burden, Grimm was conscious of his grandmother Drima's last words to him.

  "It is possible,” Crohn said, “but Questors rarely, if ever, fail once they have broken out."

  "Although some who are chosen fail before,” Dalquist added, his voice a little blunt. “You know what happened to young Erek and Senior Magemaster Urel. Erek; gentle, artistic Erek, became a deadly, uncontrollable weapon in an instant, blasting Urel into bloody fragments and then hanging himself in shame. On my travels, I have heard that some Neophyte Questors have broken out and have had to be killed to curtail an uncontrollable, destructive rage from which they cannot recover."

  Crohn sighed. “I am no admirer of the Ordeal,” he said, “but I accept the word of my Prelate that it is a necessary evil. The system is indeed cruel, Questor Dalquist, and the Questor's Ordeal is not lightly imposed. Those boys who fail are looked after by the Guild for as long as they live, whether they recover fully or not. It is a necessary process for the good of the House and of the Guild, however.

  "As you know, only a Questor is young and strong enough to pursue the Guild's interest throughout the world. A Reader might die before he could select the correct scroll to save himself from some immediate threat. No Reader can hope to master the range of magic that a Questor has at his command. Are you saying that you regret being Acclaimed as a Mage Questor?"

  Dalquist vehemently shook his head. “I don't regret it at all, Magemaster; it makes the suffering I endured worthwhile. However, I wish with all my heart that another, more humane method could be found to bring out a Questor's skills."

  Crohn nodded earnestly. “I know now, at first hand, the cruelty that has to be applied to turn a young boy into a lethal weapon,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “However, in the five hundred years since the Guild was founded, no other method has been found, my friends. Many Scholars have tried, but to no avail. In the resurgence of Technology two hundred years ago, the Guild even employed so-called Scientists to research the phenomenon. But these followers of Technology betrayed the Guild's trust. They sought to use the power for their own ends and sought to turn our own against us, that none might oppose them."

  Crohn's eyes gleamed with evangelical zeal. “For this,” he said, his voice trembling, “and for the destruction they wrought in the Final War, we revile them. We visit suffering on a few boys every decade so we may remain watchful for the resurgence of that vile art, and for the risk of that woe and anguish being visited on the world. Questors are the strong right arm of the Guild."

  "Does the Ordeal leave heavy scars on a Questor's mind, Magemaster Crohn?” Grimm asked, worried by the Magemaster's vehemence. “Wounds deep enough to warp a man's mind to murder? I would hate to think that I might be possessed to kill."

  "Of course, scars are left. But, believe me, you would not now be undergoing further training if the Healer had not pronounced you healthy in body, mind and spirit. Nor would your grandfather Loras have been trained after his Outbreak, had he not been assessed as fully recovered.

  "As for killing, there will be times as a Questor when you will have to destroy men, sometimes without a moment's thought."

  Dalquist nodded gravely. “I have some ... personal experience of this, Grimm. If you kill, and you will, you must always do so with a clear conscience, or you will destroy yourself with remorse and self-doubt. This is part of the training you will receive; how to act without deliberation, how to identify the solution to a problem without thinking."

  Dalquist's mouth twisted a little. “I have no more love for murder than you do, Grimm. But, on a few occasions, I have had to kill men. Even though they would have killed me without a moment's thought, I do often think of this. Nevertheless, had I hesitated for an instant, I know in my heart that I would not be here now, leaving evildoers free to spread their filth around the land and to despoil it as they chose. Only the training I received as a Guild Questor allowed me to see the true path and to act as necessary for the good of the House and the Guild."

  Grimm shivered at the though of killing in cold blood.

  "There, I'm disturbing you,” Dalquist said, a lop-sided smile on his face. “Don't brood on this, just do what you know to be right; do as you are taught and you will prevail. Take pride that you will be a Questor and that you will make the right decisions. The Guild has placed its trust in you that you will do this, and so have I. You have a good heart, and I know enough of you to know that you would never kill for cruel or evil purposes."

  "I will try with all my heart never to betray the trust placed in me by the Guild and by you, Brother Mages,” Grimm declared with fervent intensity. He had faced mindless, murderous rage during his Outbreak, and he had sworn never again to let it take control of him. “I do want to be a true Questor, and I'll face the more difficult decisions as best I can."

  "That is all that anyone can ask of you, Adept Grimm. Come, now, your meal is getting cold. Eat up, and we will go back to work. There is a lot of work to do before you even need to think of difficult decisions. We must go back to concentrate on your control, and allow you to develop your thought-language further."

  * * * *

  After his morning session with Crohn, the Magemaster informed Grimm that a room was being prepared for him in the West Wing, the traditional haunt of Adepts and mages-in residence.

  "Afelnor, although you are still technically a ward of the Scholasticate,” he said, “it is not deemed proper for an Adept to remain in a Student's accommodation. I think you will appreciate the difference in your circumstances. Please follow me."

  Grimm had passed the West Wing corridor at least twice a day for nine years, but he had never dreamed of entering it. It seemed strange to be turning right to go into the West Wing instead of going straight on to the Refectory, left to the Library, or to his own cell.

  The walls of the corridor were tastefully panelled in dark, polished wood, and Grimm noted portraits of former Prelates of the House and prominent former mages. The entry corridor opened up into a wide, brightly lit area, tiled in alternating black and white marble in an echo of the Great Hall.

  Crohn led him to an oak-panelled door. “This is your new domicile, Afelnor.” The Magemaster opened the door and motioned the Adept inside.

  Grimm gaped at the opulence of the room in comparison to the dingy, sparse cell that had been his home for most of his life. The bed was twice the size of that to which he had been accustomed, with a thick mattress, two generously proportioned pillows and a gold-tasselled crimson bedspread. On one side of the room was a large dressing-table with a large mirror. In one corner was a hipbath, and in the other stood a large bookshelf, already well-stocked with variou
s works.

  Grimm examined the titles: Advanced Meditation; The Questor Phenomenon; Power Control and Application for Adepts were but a few of the titles. Grimm raised an eyebrow in question.

  "I remembered that you enjoy reading, Afelnor,” Crohn said, “so I took the liberty of including a few titles that might be relevant to the work you will be doing. Do not worry; there are a few more recreational titles as well. You may also bring any single book from the Library to your room, provided that you replace it before removing another."

  Luxury, thought Grimm. Something to read in my own bed at night, other than the damned Rules!

  "I do not imagine that you will have much to bring from your old cell,” the Magemaster said with a smile. “But you may wish to spend a little time looking at it and bidding it a not-so-fond farewell. If you would like to go now, I will wait for you at the end of the charity corridor. I hope you will understand that a new Adept Questor who has not yet mastered his power needs constant supervision."

  Remembering the destruction of the classroom, Grimm acknowledged the wisdom of constant, close scrutiny. “Thank you, Magemaster Crohn,” he said. “It will take a little time to become used to this, but I believe I will be able to do so."

  * * * *

  The bed on which he had lain every night for almost a decade seemed impossibly small now. Grimm's eyes took in its impeccably-folded bedroll resting in its assigned space at the head; the misted mirror with its crazed pitcher and washbasin, both spotless and neatly laid out; the rickety bookshelf, which had exceeded his expectations by remaining attached to the wall for nine years, and its single occupant. His eyes misted, and he realised that the cramped room had been his whole world for as long as he could remember. Almost everything he owned was in his pockets, and there was nothing appealing about this place, but it had been his home for most of his life.

  Now, this room would be used by some other poor, homesick, lonely Student. He vowed to look up the next room's incumbent as soon as the new Scholasticate year began. With a sigh, he shook himself down and left the cell, almost to be knocked down by what seemed to be a brown-robed meteor.

  "Disturbing the peace and meditation of other Students; a breach of Rule 1.16.4, I'll be bound,” Grimm chided. “The penalty is two missed meals and a public penance, I believe."

  The boy, a fair-headed lad of maybe nine years, paled. “I'm sorry, Lord Mage,” he whispered, chastened.

  Grimm put a hand on the Student's shoulder. “If you don't say anything about it, then maybe I won't, either. Just think next time; I could have been Senor Magemaster Crohn, and he'd have handed you your head on a platter. As it is, he's waiting at the end of the corridor, so watch out."

  The boy nodded, his eyes wide. “Thank you, Lord Mage,” he whispered.

  "My name is Grimm. I'm not a full mage yet, but I'm working on it; work hard, and you could be one, too,” Grimm advised.

  I just hope you never have to become a Questor, he thought. If I'd known what was involved, I might have begged for the scullery.

  With a decisive air, he turned on his heel and strode to the far end of the corridor. “I'm ready, Magemaster Crohn."

  "Did I just hear the sound of a transgression of Rule 1.16.4, by any chance?” Crohn, who missed nothing, asked.

  Grimm shrugged. “I merely tripped in the corridor. It was nothing. Please, may we go to the Refectory? I am very hungry."

  Chapter 25: “This Adept is Dead"

  Grimm stood and raised his arms. At sixteen years of age, he was well over six feet in height, and he bore a strong, dark beard. He was slender and yet he looked powerful. Despite his simple robes, he had begun to assume an air of majesty and grandeur. His face was intent and confident as he summoned his powers.

  "Skeykak!"

  The rock rose three feet above the table and hovered, motionless.

  "J'asshaugh!"

  The rock began to glow, its colour ranging through dull red, scarlet, orange and finally straw-yellow.

  "Shakh J'haggagh l'yet'yeh!"

  The rock flew into a million glowing fragments, only to be collected in an invisible net.

  "Ghagh'et!"

  The fragments coalesced again into a cooling rock.

  Grimm sighed, and the smoking rock dropped back to the table.

  "Aghheye!"

  From mid-air came a stream of water, which doused the rock, swathing it in steam as it cracked in half. Muttering inaudibly in his private language, Grimm picked up one fist-sized fragment in his slender hand and crushed it to powder.

  "That was excellent, Afelnor!” Crohn crowed. “Superb! I am finished with you now. The rest is up to you alone. You only need to master one more skill and you will be an Acclaimed Questor, the first in this house for nearly ten years. Wait one moment."

  Crohn left the room, returned after a few minutes with a rough tree branch, perhaps seven feet in length and as thick as Grimm's arm. “You must form this into a true Mage Staff,” he said.

  Grimm looked blank, but Crohn waved his hands. “I cannot teach you how to do this. It is your own journey of discovery."

  Grimm looked at the stout, misshapen lump of lifeless wood, feeling utterly lost. The branch looked nothing like a slender, perdurable Mage Staff, such as the one Crohn carried.

  "Adept Grimm, you already know more than most Acclaimed Mages who have ever left this Scholasticate. You have mastered Elemental, Destructive, Additive and Self-Acting powers; my education of you is at an end. Education, as you know, merely means a ‘leading out'. I have taught you nothing, but have led out what is within you, and given you the scope to direct it and control it.

  "When you have made the staff with your own hands and imbued it with your essence, you will be a mage. A Mage Staff is a deeply personal item, and you must give it a name. My staff is called Mist, after a favourite pony I rode as a child. You must choose a name for your own, but you must not tell it to anybody until it has survived three full-blooded strikes on the Breaking Stone.

  "A Mage Staff is a Guild Mage's faithful and constant companion; should it ever be lost, a mage can bring it to hand by an effort of will.

  "An uninvited touch by another on a Mage Staff, even with a gloved hand, brings an avid bite; a blow will cause far more injury than any plain wooden rod.

  "It cannot break or splinter as long as the mage is alive. It can ward off certain kinds of malevolence, and it can be made to bear passive spells cast on it by the mage who owns it. Thus, for example, it can be left as a ward to alert the mage of approaching danger as he sleeps."

  "But how can I make this staff, Magemaster Crohn?” Grimm pleaded. “I cannot see in my mind how to make these powers manifest themselves in a dumb lump of wood."

  "I made my staff in seven months,” declared Crohn, displaying his own, gleaming staff with apparent pride, “forming it through the use of spells that I had memorised, and keeping it by my side at all times. I talked to it and put what I could of myself into it. I finally managed to seal the staff with a spell of Keeping. I did not imbue the staff with all its attributes, but somehow I knew what to do. It is the true bonding of the mage with his staff that makes it what it is; no man can perform the bonding for you. I have borne my staff with me for many years now, and, when I die, my essence will live on in it after me. I was told no more than you by my own, long-dead Magemaster, but I succeeded with far less power at my disposal than you have."

  He ran his hand lovingly over the silk-smooth, yet unworn wood of his black staff. “If there is one thing in this world I can truly call my own, it is this."

  Grimm nodded, eyeing the gleaming black rod and its seven gold rings with a little envy.

  "When your Mage Staff is complete,” Crohn said, “you will know. On that day, you will leave the Scholasticate and strike the staff three times across the Breaking Stone in the main hall in the presence of your peers and elders. The Breaking Stone is preternaturally hard and sharp-edged; no ordinary piece of wood could remain unbroken after such tre
atment. You should be aware that the least weakness in the bond between you and your staff will cause it to break on the Stone; you must be more focused and diligent in this last task than in any other you have ever undertaken."

  Grimm had not the least idea of what might be required of him, but he asked, “And if I am successful at the Stone?"

  Crohn shrugged. “Should you and the staff prevail, you will be Acclaimed as a Guild Mage and given the Guild Ring, which only you can remove from your finger.

  "Go now and start work on your own staff, and come to see me when you are ready. You may use any of the grimoires in the Library, and you may use any spells that you have memorised, or any that you can formulate with your spell-language; the results will be the same, whatever spells you choose. Only complete dedication to your task will bring the desired result.

  "I will await your return with eagerness. Certainly, you may see Questor Dalquist or me at any other time, but ask nothing of creating the staff, for none of us can tell you what to do. This will be your own work, and only yours. I wish you clarity in your thoughts, Grimm Afelnor. This is your room now, and no other may enter, upon my order."

  Crohn gave a hesitant half-bow and left Grimm with the piece of wood.

  Grimm ran his hands along the rough wood and gauged how it would cleave, trying to ascertain the form of the staff beneath the bark. He sat in silence for perhaps an hour; probing, feeling, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the material.

  "I dub you Redeemer,” Grimm muttered. “Together, we will work to redeem my family name."

  Then, in a single, decisive motion, he drew his penknife, one of his few personal possessions, and began to carve. He was careful to remove the minimum amount of material at each stroke and, after each, he re-assessed the wood. He began to feel the grain structure, where the knots might be, the shape of the supple, strong heartwood.

  The rumbling of his stomach awakened him to the fact that several hours had passed. He looked down at his feet and saw a pile of small shavings that would have to be cleaned up, and he felt a little surprised at his progress. However, the staff remained just a rough piece of wood, and no magic resonated within it. How was he to imbue it with all the powers it was meant to attain? The completion of Crohn's staff, Mist, had taken seven months, but Grimm had consistently outperformed Crohn's expectations before; he hoped that he would continue to do so.