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

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "I am heartily thankful for the opportunities I have been given, and the c-confidence placed in me by our G-guild. I look forward to a long and profitable service in the ways of our ... our Craft and our Guild. I would like to raise a toast to the Craft of Thaumaturgy."

  "The Craft!” Grimm drank once more, this time draining his goblet. His head still seemed clear, although there was a slight ringing in his ears. He thought to use the magic in his staff but decided that he was well enough. A little unsteadily, he sat down.

  Crohn took up the baton. “I have never coached a more diligent or powerful scholar than Grimm Afelnor. In nine brief years, he has passed from my lowly Student to my Brother Mage. His Acclamation is the pinnacle of my years in the Scholasticate, and I feel sure that our brother, Grimm Afelnor, will bring great credit to our Guild, and to our illustrious Prelate: I raise a toast to our Lord Prelate, Thorn Virias!"

  "Lord Prelate Thorn!” More drink. Grimm saw that his goblet was empty again, and it was swiftly refilled.

  Then Kargan stood. “My erstwhile pupil in Runes and Chanting, Grimm Afelnor, will join me in singing the old duet 'The Coronation of Meliar'; your best attention, please."

  Grimm stood, although he now felt an unaccountable lassitude in his legs. Perhaps the last few strenuous days had taken their toll on him, after all. He drained another goblet of wine and shook his head as if to dash away the spots that suddenly filled his vision. This was a mistake, since the room appeared to lag a little behind his gaze as his head moved; a brief spasm of nausea clenched Grimm's entrails, but it soon passed.

  Kargan began the baritone part of the familiar song, and Grimm joined in at the appropriate time with a confident tenor. He was aware that his voice slurred just a little on some of the more difficult syllables, but not enough to notice, he thought.

  When the duet was finished, there was an uproarious burst of enthusiastic applause, and Grimm and Kargan bowed. Grimm's head spun, and the new Questor made to sit back down. However, he managed to miss his seat entirely, and he sprawled on the floor. There was tumultuous laughter, in which Grimm joined immoderately, hoisting himself back into the seat.

  Another drink...

  Feeling giddy, but confident and carefree, he stood again, clumsily, and said, “Watch this!"

  He spread his arms and chanted: "Skeyhak'te shaha'ghe n'yet!"

  A thousand glittering bubbles appeared in the air and drifted through the room to bounce off the walls and then break, each emitting a musical note.

  He laughed, pleased by the success of his impromptu spell. With an unsteady hand, he lifted his goblet from the table and made to raise it to his lips again. However, it fell from his nerveless fingers, the table rose up towards his face, and blackness came.

  * * * *

  When pained consciousness returned to Grimm, fewer people sat at the table, and the sun was low in the sky. Discarded scraps of food littered the table, and black marks and misty outlines on the draperies and wood panelling showed that some ill-controlled magic had been at work.

  Lord Thorn had left, and Faffel, who had warned Grimm against immoderation, sat with his head back and snored raucously, a toppled goblet before him.

  Several other mages showed no more sign of life than the Magemaster, although some were still engaged in hearty drinking, with no apparent ill effects.

  "More drink, Brother Questor?” Dalquist asked, grinning, who seemed to be among the ranks of the unafflicted.

  "Don’ feel well.” Grimm forced the words out with some difficulty; he wanted to say more, but the effort was too great. Dalquist just had time to push a bowl under Grimm's chin before the new mage vomited copious amounts of red-brown liquid into it.

  "Skuguchne!" Dalquist muttered: the noisome contents of the bowl vanished. “Feel better now, Questor Grimm?"

  "Bit,” slurred Grimm, his tongue feeling like a dry lump of wood. “Do’ wanna drink wine again—ever.” Grimm had never felt worse in his life. “Please ... jus’ lemme die, Da'quisst."

  Kargan leaned across the table. “Remember your staff, Questor Grimm.” Grimm leaned forward to pick up Redeemer, and then wished he had not, as the room seemed to give an alarming lurch backwards.

  "Staff, c'm ‘ere,” he slurred, and the staff flew to his hand like a trained falcon. As soon as Grimm clutched it, the room stopped spinning and his aching head cleared. A rising hammering and ringing ran through his head, reaching an almost unbearable crescendo before it dissipated. He gave a shuddering sigh.

  "That's better.” Grimm sighed. “I'm sorry about that, brothers."

  His mouth tasted vile, so he took a deep draught from a carafe of water at his side, without waiting to decant the contents into a glass or goblet. Realising that this was a breach of decorum, he shot a quick glance at Magemaster Faffel, but the acid-tongued tutor still seemed nestled in the comforting arms of Morpheus.

  "A good lesson, eh, Brother Mage?” said the ever-cheerful Kargan. “A good friend but an awful enemy is drink; a giver of confidence, but a thief of capability. Sometimes it's handy to be a mage, though. There are those in the wide world who would give their eye-teeth to be able to dismiss a hangover as easily as that.

  "However, I have a word of caution for you. Too much drink can do great damage as well as giving you a sore head. Curing the hangover doesn't get rid of the damage, and even a Healer might be hard pressed to repair the deeper ravages of drink. Some forget this and drink like there's no tomorrow, and they end up as demented wretches with ravaged bodies, lacking the lesson the hangover brings."

  "I have no intention of ever drinking alcohol again,” Grimm said fervently. “It's a horrible thing to lose control of oneself."

  "You may disagree when you're a bit older, Grimm,” Dalquist said. “There are times when alcohol can be a great comfort; but remember that ‘moderation in all things’ is part of a mage's credo."

  "Try some of this compote, Questor Grimm,” Kargan urged. “It will line your stomach, so you may be ready for more drink."

  "What was that about moderation, Magemaster Kargan?” Grimm asked.

  "Moderation in all things—only in moderation!” The elder mage, wearing his manic grin, helped himself to another flagon of wine and a brace of chicken legs. Recognising when he was beaten, Grimm surrendered again to the feast. This time, he kept Redeemer within easy reach.

  Chapter 26: The Smith and the Sorcerer

  The year ended with Grimm in a kind of limbo. He was a Questor, with his black, cowled robe, his unbreakable staff and his blue-gold Guild ring, but he had no Quests to his name as yet; the lack of even a single gold ring on Redeemer marked him as a tyro. His training with Crohn had worked to build up his speed of thought, his willpower and his decisiveness, but he felt quite unable to make up his mind as to what to do with his time.

  He wandered through the main entrance hall with its dome of stars, soft thought-music and the pyramidal, obsidian Breaking Stone. Looking around to check that he was alone, he dropped a piece of paper onto the stone's sloping edge. The sheet barely shivered as it split into two, sundered under its own weight.

  He then took a double-handed grip on Redeemer and swung it with all his might against the magically sharp and unyielding surface. A ringing sound and a shower of blue sparks were emitted, but Redeemer was as sound as ever. He smiled a little in mild satisfaction, and wandered listlessly back to his room in the West Wing.

  "Questor Grimm, you are just the man I was looking for! Do you have a moment?” Grimm turned at the unmistakable voice of Doorkeeper.

  "Mage Doorkeeper, what may I do for you on this fine morning?” Grimm spoke with an exuberance he did not feel.

  "I am going on a visit to some relatives in Taddleton today, Questor Grimm,” Doorkeeper said brightly. “I wondered if you might like to accompany me."

  Taddleton lay a scant quarter-mile from the village of Lower Frunstock where Grimm had been raised ... a quarter-mile from the grandparents for whom he had spared barely a thought th
ese six years past, he realised with a guilty start.

  "Of course I'd like to, Doorkeeper,” he said. “When are you thinking of leaving?"

  "Would an hour or so from now suit you?” asked the ancient mage.

  Grimm gulped. Things seemed to happen so quickly these days; he had not left the Scholasticate for nine years, and he was barely used to being allowed free access to the West Wing and the Great Hall. Now, Doorkeeper was talking about leaving the House. Grimm thought about it, and nearly fainted from an agoraphobic pang that seized his brain in sharp, icy talons. A part of him wanted to scream in refusal, to grasp onto his familiar world and never to let go. Another region of his mind had control of his mouth, however.

  "I'd love to, Doorkeeper,” he heard himself say. “I shall have to ask Magemaster Crohn for permission, of course. Do you know his whereabouts?"

  "I observed him making his rounds of the Student accommodation block about five minutes ago. I believe that he should still be there, Questor Grimm.” The old mage's tone was formal and deferent.

  Grimm smiled. “Doorkeeper, you're like family to me. I've known you for over half my life and I think I might have lost my mind a long time ago, without you to bring a little order and stability to my world. I haven't changed overnight just because I carry this stick. Please, Doorkeeper; just call me ‘Grimm', and drop the Mage Speech? It makes me uncomfortable."

  "I'm sorry, Qu ... Grimm,” the major-domo said, beaming. “I do have to struggle to see you as that frightened, wet thing I first met all those years ago. You have changed a lot, whether you know it or not. You look ... confident, powerful, somehow."

  "I don't feel like that, Doorkeeper,” Grimm declared. “I'm quaking inside at the thought of even stepping outside the House, and I need the old Doorkeeper I know and love to help me with my fears, just like he used to when I was a frightened Student. I know you think sometimes that you're in some way inferior to some of the other mages, but you have a vital role here. You help poor, insignificant Students cope with a strange new world so they can adjust and grow; a vital responsibility that allows the House to continue. Be that mage for me again, please. You helped me to adjust to this world so well that it scares me to think of anything else. I'm terrified."

  Doorkeeper ran a hand through his luxuriant, white hair and grinned. “Maybe I can still see a trace of that small, drenched little waif I met in the Great Hall all those years ago; even if you are a real Mage Questor."

  "I'm still me, Doorkeeper.” Grimm felt a hollow void where his stomach had once been. “There's a big world out there I haven't seen for most of my life, and I'm ... I'm scared."

  "Ah, you're not the first youngster to face that problem, you know,” Doorkeeper replied. “It's funny how most of the Students here would do anything to escape but, once they're free to come and go as they please, they just want to hang on to it. Especially the charity boys like you; at least the rest get out for a short while every year. I can't make you feel any better right now, but I will tell you that when you come back you'll be utterly changed. I'm very happy for you, and I won't feel that you're really one of my flock until I greet you properly as a returning mage."

  "I think that's what I'm looking forward to most, Doorkeeper,” said Grimm. “At least it'll mean I've really done something for the House, instead of taking from it. I wonder if you could cast a spell of Inner Calm on me. One of the limitations of Questor magic is that I can't act on my own mind, because that's where the magic comes from."

  "Oh, no, no, no, young Grimm!” Doorkeeper cried. “You've got a really good brain; you don't want to go messing around with it, goodness me, no! If there's one thing I've always missed, it's a first-class mind. If I had a brain like yours, I'd really want to take care of it. A daft old thing like me, I'd probably be no worse off for a little tinkering in the brain-box, but not you. Leave that head alone, I say!"

  "You only had to say, ‘I don't think that's a good idea,'” Grimm replied with a broad smile, holding his hands out in a placating manner; Doorkeeper's accustomed prattle had soothed his inner anxiety more than a little.

  "Oh well, you know me, jabber, jabber, jabber!” Doorkeeper's smile was as broad as ever; somehow, the major-domo found a little comfort in his eccentricity, even if he tried to deny it. “But if you do get bothered by the big open spaces, just focus on the next tree or fence in front of you and see it as a wall. Then go onto the next one and look for the next marker.

  "My brother, Ennis, used to do the same thing when he was running for long distances as a foot messenger for Earl Toomey. He'd say ‘I won't give up running until I've reached that tree.’ Then he'd focus on the tree after that and do the same again. So he didn't run fifteen miles in one go, but just lots of thirty-yard stretches. It works if you get bothered about how far away you're getting from what you know. Just remember each tree and then, when you're coming back, you'll get a real sense of getting closer by the minute. Before you know it, you'll be back home to a warm welcome."

  "Thank you, Doorkeeper.” Grimm felt as if his heart were almost bursting from gratitude and fellow-feeling. “I don't know what I'd do without you! That's good advice, and I'll follow it whenever things get too bad. If you'll excuse me, I'll see if I can find Magemaster Crohn."

  * * * *

  Crohn, whose duties seemed endless, was checking the soap and towel allocations in the paying Student block when Grimm found him making check marks on a sheet of paper.

  "Good morning, Questor Grimm,” Crohn said, looking up from his work. “May I help you?"

  "Good morning, Magemaster Crohn. Mage Doorkeeper has asked me to accompany him on a journey outside the House. I know I am still, technically, your responsibility, and so I thought it only proper to seek your approval."

  "You are no longer confined to the Scholasticate, and you do not, therefore, need such approval,” the Senior Magemaster replied, his face blank. “I am sure I explained that to you."

  "You did, Magemaster Crohn, but I thought it a prudent exercise, nonetheless, since my intention is to visit my grandparents. I have received but a single letter from them during my time here. I would guess that my grandfather Loras would come under the strictures concerning ‘Association with persons inimical to the aims and precepts of the House.’ That is rule of the House, not merely of the Scholasticate.” Grimm's tone was cool and formal, but his troublesome, agoraphobic inner demon wished desperately that the Magemaster might refuse his request. At the same time, Grimm was berating himself for harbouring such a craven attitude. He did yearn to see his family; it was only the prospect of the journey that troubled him so.

  Crohn pressed his forehead hard enough to show livid finger marks, outlined in red, when he removed his hand. He took a deep breath and said, “It is your family, Afelnor. Of course you must go, and with my blessing. That rule was not formulated with this particular circumstance in mind, and it is my privilege as Senior Magemaster to override such a rule. I therefore rescind the rule with regard to your grandparents. Go, and forget the House for a little while. I regret that, as a Questor who has not yet Quested, you will have to return to the House by nightfall. Lord Prelate Thorn would be displeased if you chose never to return, for you still owe a great debt to the House for your education here. Worry not; I will ensure that Lord Thorn knows of my decision."

  Grimm gave a deep, fluent and courteous bow; Magemaster Faffel's lessons in Courtly Graces had not been a complete waste. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Senior Magemaster Crohn. I greatly appreciate your forbearance and your understanding."

  Crohn nodded. “Now, if you would be so kind as to leave me to these tedious logistics? Between the two of us, this is not my favourite activity, for I have little talent for numbers."

  Grimm almost started at the revelation that the formidable Magemaster had admitted to a weakness, but he managed to maintain a neutral expression, as Crohn returned to his check sheet.

  * * * *

  "You did what, Crohn?” the Prelate
exploded. “Loras Afelnor is a traitor to the Guild; you know that!"

  "He is also Afelnor's grandfather, Lord Prelate,” Crohn said, a hint of censure in his firm, unwavering voice. “Having dared to send the boy to this House for education, it seems improbable in the extreme that Loras would try to plant seditious thoughts in the new Questor's head. I have told Afelnor he must return here before nightfall. I trust that you realise it would be highly prejudicial to my authority, were you to rescind my permission. Under such circumstances, I would have little choice but to resign my post."

  Crohn held Thorn's gaze, unblinking; he seemed unshakably sincere in his words. Thorn felt deep misgivings, but he knew it would not sit well with High Lodge were he to accept the resignation of his Senior Magemaster: the very man who had raised the House's first Mage Questor in a decade.

  The Lord Dominie himself, the head of the entire Guild, had expressed a desire to send some of his new Students to Arnor House, with the specific hope that they might be tutored by such a man. Thorn remembered his mother's frequent admonishments that Loras knew nothing of the treachery that had been visited on him, but he knew also that Grimm was now a potent Questor: a mage who could exert powers beyond the realms of ordinary magic. Then again, if even Loras, a Questor of the Seventh Rank, had been unable to divine the truth, what chance did a callow youth have of doing so?

  "Very well, Crohn,” he said, nodding. “I accept your decision. Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention."

  Crohn nodded, doubtless satisfied that his authority had prevailed. “By your leave, Lord Prelate?” he said. “There is much to do, if we are to be ready for the new intake of Students. The numbers this year are greater than we have seen for some time."

  Thorn smiled. Crohn was correct; eight charity Students, each one a potential Questor, and thirty-five fat fees from doting parents seeking the best education for their darling, pampered progeny. Arnor House was becoming fashionable once more. Thorn thought of seeking the advice of his mother, Lizaveta, but he dismissed the idea. He was Prelate of Arnor House and a Seventh Level Questor, and he would make his own decisions.