A strange apparition, dressed from head to foot in a leather cape with a cowl stepped from the portal. A bizarre mask in the form of a bird's face covered the man's face, and he wore heavy gauntlets. The unearthly figure seemed to float over to the side of the wagon, since the cape hid his legs and feet from view.
"Would you mind stepping down, please, Lord Grimm?"
Despite the hollow, ethereal tone caused by the strange mask, Grimm recognised the gentle voice of the man who had nursed him in the aftermath of the final defeat of Starmor in the streets of Crar. The Questor owed Querl a lot for bringing him back to the world of the living, after his prodigious expenditure of energy during that Quest.
"Of course not, Doctor Querl." Grimm's face crinkled into a smile. He complied with the physician's request, and Querl subjected the mage's mouth, ears and neck to a close examination, his searching eyes just visible through the heavy glass lenses in his mask.
"You seem unaffected by the disease," the medical man concluded. "May I now examine your companions?"
Numal submitted to his examination without a murmur, although Guy grumbled and complained throughout his own, as Grimm had expected. At last, the doctor declared himself satisfied that all three mages were in good health.
Quelgrum approached Grimm and saluted. "Welcome, Lord Baron. It's good to have you back."
"It's good to be back, General," the young mage replied. "Might I prevail on you to visit me this evening, after I've had a good wash and something to eat? I have an important matter I'd like to discuss with you."
"I'm at your command, Lord Baron."
Grimm nodded. "Perhaps you'd like to accompany us into the city, General?"
"Thank you, Lord Grimm; these old legs aren't what they used to be," the soldier said in a soft voice; Grimm suppressed a smile, guessing that the General did not want any of his juniors to hear this admission of mortality.
The magic-users clambered back onto the vehicle, and Quelgrum ordered the gates of the city opened. Grimm flicked the reins, and the wagon trundled into Crar, with the General riding on the foot-rail beside the young Baron.
This isn't the Crar I know!
The Questor's eyes took in the pristine, gleaming buildings and the spotless thoroughfares. Ramshackle ruins had been replaced by new, spotless edifices, and the marketplace, once a dingy, dismal haunt of Starmor's puppets, now sported gaily-caparisoned stalls, by which people chatted, haggled and argued in an animated fashion.
"Not quite how you remember it, eh, Baron?" Quelgrum's voice bore an unmistakeable note of pride.
"Is this all your doing, General?"
The military man, nodded, looking a little embarrassed.
"Can't keep a bunch of soldiers hanging around with nothing to do," he grunted, his ruddy face suffusing with an even deeper shade of red. "I talked to Seneschal Shakkar, and we agreed the place could do with a bit of brightening up."
Grimm smiled broadly. "Thank you so much, General. Your efforts on behalf of the city of Crar are noticed and welcomed. Well done."
The old soldier shuffled on the wagon's footplate and shrugged. "Here's your tower, Lord Baron."
The mage gasped; what had once been a forbidding, black stump, a huge, rotting tooth presiding over the decay of the city, now glowed with a rich, golden lustre. When he had last left Crar, the turret had just been covered with a coat of white paint, but it now looked transformed in its new, gilded attire. It looked like a beacon of hope, rather than a hastily-repainted bastion of doom.
Guy poked his head from under the cover of the wagon. "Your place, I suppose?"
Grimm could tell the older Questor was trying to smother admiration under a mask of indifference.
"Yes, it's my place, Questor Guy." He did not try to hide the pride in his voice. "Nice, isn't it?"
Grimm brought the wagon to a halt in front of the magnificent structure. At once, an adolescent boy ran out to greet the wagon, sweeping a shapeless cap from his head and knuckling his temple.
"I'm Ranulf, Lord Baron," the youth said, his voice breathless. "I work for the town ostler. Look after your horses, milord?"
The mage assumed a serious, forbidding expression. "I want them well fed and watered, groomed, and kept in a clean stall, is that clear?"
"Oh, yes, your Baron-ness, sir! Quite clear, your worshipfulness."
"Good," Grimm grunted. He fished a silver piece from his robe pocket and showed it to the boy, whose eyes grew wide; the Questor doubted the boy had ever seen such wealth before. "Hold out your hand."
Not taking his eyes from the shiny coin, the youth complied, and Grimm dropped the silver piece into his open hand.
"This is for you, Ranulf. If I'm happy the horses have been well-treated when I need them again, I'll give you another; I'll settle up with the ostler separately."
Ranulf managed a clumsy bow and put his knuckles to his brow once again. "I'll look after 'em as if they was me own, your Lordshipness. Thank'ee for yer gen… yer gennyer…"
"Generosity, boy," Quelgrum prompted in a soft voice, as he stepped down from the wagon.
"Yeah, that," Ranulf said, his voice tinged with gratitude. "Thank'ee, Sir. If you'd be so kind as to give me the reins, your Baronship?"
Grimm vacated his seat, and Guy and Numal descended from the back step of the vehicle.
"Are we expected to carry our own bags?" Guy grumbled.
"Don't complain; it's good exercise, Brother Mage," Grimm said in an airy voice, grunting as he hoisted his own pair of bulging, leather holdalls. "We Questors need to stay healthy, after all; the travails of the road can weigh heavily on the unfit."
Once everything had been unloaded from the wagon, Grimm noted with pleasure that the boy, Ranulf, drove away with no more than a flick of the reins and a gentle clicking of his tongue; the youth seemed a confident and considerate handler of horses, despite his callow appearance.
As the wagon moved away, he saw Drex, his love, standing by the turret's entrance, and his heart bounded. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he crushed his burgeoning passion into a tight, fervid lump inside him. A sarcastic, spiteful mage like Guy might make his life as a Guild Mage very uncomfortable, if he were to make it known that Grimm Afelnor of Arnor House had a lover.
Lord Horin might have been indulgent about the knowledge of the young Questor's amorous involvement, but Grimm was only too aware of the prevalent myth within the Guild: sharing physical passion with a woman was supposed to destroy a mage's powers.
He knew, only too well, that this myth was no more than a lie, but such a relationship was still a gross breach of Guild protocol. He saw Drex's eyes flick towards Guy and Horin, and then shift back to his, as the mage gave a slight, apologetic shake of his head.
He moved towards her, and whispered, "I'm sorry, Drex; it won't always be like this, I promise. I just have one more Quest to complete…"
"There'll always be just one more Quest, won't there, Grimm?" The girl's voice was quiet, but hot and annoyed. "It's never going to change, is it? You'll always be at the beck and call of the bloody Guild."
Grimm shut his eyes, as frustration boiled up inside him. "Look, Drex, I…"
"Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?" Guy called in a bored voice. "Come on, Afelnor, I'm not going to hang around here all day. If you've quite finished flirting with the servants, I expect a hot bath and a bloody good meal."
Grimm stiffened, and he felt hot rage flooding into his face. He wanted to pound Guy into the ground until the petty, self-important snob pleaded for mercy. He wanted…
He returned to sanity with a sharp squeeze of his forearm. "It's all right, Grimm," Drex whispered. "I think I see the real problem here. Just promise me you won't invite this silly, stuck-up little twerp here as a permanent guest, and I'll play along, for now."
Grimm took a deep breath and allowed his anger to subside. "I'm really sorry, Drex."
"Go on, get on with it," Drexelica muttered. In a louder voice, s
he said, "At your service, Lord Baron."
****
Guy gave vent to a fulsome and indecorous belch after the splendid meal Drex had provided. The girl curtseyed and disappeared like the dutiful servant she was supposed to be. In contrast to the older mage's animalistic gluttony, Grimm ate little; the sharp pangs of guilt he felt from having denied his true love dulled his appetite.
This is important! he told himself. The Guild is in peril, and I have been chosen as its saviour!
Despite these ringing sentiments, he remained disconsolate. Grimm's large, circular drawing room was empty except for the three mages, who reclined on divans upholstered in red velvet.
"What's it all about, Afelnor?" Guy drawled. "Horin only told me the bare minimum about this Quest. It seems you're flavour of the month right now, so why don't you fill Grandpa and me in on what we have to do?"
Grimm could sense the rising of Numal's ire, along with his own growing annoyance, although the timid Necromancer did nothing more than glare. "For a start, Brother Mage, I don't want you to insult Necromancer Numal anymore. I request that you address him with the respect due to a full Guild Mage."
"You dare to tell me what I can and can't do?" the elder Questor spat. "Who in Hades do you think you are, Afelnor?"
"I'm running this expedition, Brother Mage! Or didn't Lord Horin tell you that?"
Guy guffawed. "Ah, come on, half-pint, he just said that for form's sake! Like it or not, I'm the senior Questor present, and I'm not about to play second fiddle to some jumped-up Adept who's barely got his feet wet!"
Numal started. "Questor Guy! That's too-"
"Stay out of this, old-timer," the Great Flame interrupted. "This is between me and wonder-boy, here! You just-"
Struggling in vain to control the conflicting passions roiling within him, Grimm gave free rein to his emotions in one titanic shout, its volume augmented by a judicious dose of thaumaturgic power: "ENOUGH!"
Echoes of his scream bounced from the walls for several moments, and the young mage saw it had had the desired effect.
Guy looked disorientated and confused, as if some prize-fighter had landed a solid punch on the point of his jaw. Numal's mouth hung slack; he looked almost like a caricature of the stereotypical village idiot.
"I am in command, Questor Guy. This is not a democracy. It's not about me being first, and you being second.
"I'm in charge, and you're not! That's all there is! If you don't like it, I suggest you go back to Lord Horin and argue with him. If you don't acknowledge my authority right now, I don't want you on this Quest; is that understood? This expedition may prove hard enough, even without having to contend with dissent between us!"
"You've got some front, Afelnor; I'll say that for you." Guy shook his head as if to clear some inner obstruction. "But that doesn't compare with experience, and you're a fool if you think it does. I have a dozen Quests to my name, and I'd lay you any odds you like that my magic's more potent than anything you can muster. Horin's old and confused; he never meant for you to be in charge, really; it stands to reason."
Grimm felt a cool, strange sense of calm beginning to flow within him. "I hope you enjoyed your meal, Questor Guy. I'd rather have you on my side, but it's plain that I can't trust you in the simplest of matters, such as common courtesy between us; I don't want you with me."
Despite recognising that Guy's experience might be a critical asset to the Quest, Grimm could not countenance the prospect of continual bickering on the trail. Guy was just too hot-tempered and intolerant.
"All right, Afelnor; as you say," the older Questor said quickly, opening his hands in placation, almost like a penitent supplicant in a church. "I apologise for my disrespect to you, Necromancer Numal.
"Brother Questor, I acknowledge your absolute authority for the conduct of this Quest. Am I forgiven?"
Guy's wide eyes and saintly expression suggested a misunderstood, guileless innocent, although the Dragonblaster had seen similar, abrupt volte-faces before.
Isn't this just like Guy? Grimm thought. He changes his mind at a moment's notice; how can I rely on a man like that?
Nonetheless, he had to acknowledge that the older Questor, if he was as good as his word-which was questionable-could prove a powerful factor in the Quest's potential success.
With a sigh, Grimm told himself he could not afford to be capricious or judgemental on his first Quest as senior mage. Horin's eyes, at least, were upon him, and the Dominie would expect him to be able to handle inner disputes.
"Very well, Questor Guy," he found himself saying, "If you're prepared to submit to my leadership, then I may change my mind. Now, if we've finished bickering, let's get down to business. We may have a long night ahead of us, so I'd rather get started as early as possible."
"As you say, Chief; let's get started, by all means."
If there was a trace of sarcasm in Guy's voice, Grimm chose to ignore it.
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Chapter 21: Rebellion
Grimm spent the next two weeks preparing for the Quest. He put himself through a punishing, demanding series of exercises every morning, studied maps and documents during the afternoon and worked on Redeemer throughout the night. He spent long hours muttering to the six-foot, brass-tipped rod, as he had during its preparation, pouring his strength into it in order to provide him with a store of magical energy to be used when needed.
Following Guy's advice, he cast a number of simple, useful runic spells on Redeemer, such as spells of Illumination and Warding. None was any match for his innate Questor power, but they were all useful spells and, once they were embedded in his staff, he would be able to access them without squandering his inner strength.
Guy Great Flame appeared to keep his promise, showing respect to both Numal and Grimm when the three were together, although Grimm knew the older Questor would bear closer scrutiny once the Quest was underway.
On occasion, either the demon Shakkar, Grimm's Seneschal, or Mayor Chod, the leader of the Council of Crar, would interrupt him with documents to be signed or decisions to be made, but the Questor's mind was focused only on the Quest. He allowed himself a scant four hours of sleep each night, telling himself at all times to push harder, harder!
****
Grimm threw himself into his strenuous regime of exercise, pushing his body to its limits, when a breathless messenger burst into his chamber without knocking.
"Lord Baron, there are two visitors for you!"
Grimm frowned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Didn't you think to knock before entering, man; where are your bloody manners? I'm busy; tell them to go and see the Seneschal, can't you?"
"I'm sorry, Lord Baron, They told me you'd want to see them at once."
Grimm snatched up a towel and wiped his flushed face. "If it's not the Lord Dominie, or Lord Prelate Thorn, you can tell them to wait their bloody turn!" he snapped.
"If that's your attitude, mage, you can keep your bloody Quest!"
The voice was familiar, and Grimm spun on his heels to see a slight, black-clad man, maybe five feet in height, with heavy, black brows overseeing an olive-complected face.
"Crest!" the mage cried, bounding towards the slender half-elf and grabbing him in a companionable embrace, almost barging the messenger aside in the process.
"So you do remember me," the elf said, shrugging off Grimm's attentions. "I got your message two days ago. I just hope this is going to be worth my while."
"Of course, Crest! Just name your figure; I'll meet it."
Another familiar voice sounded from outside the door. "What about me? I've got four mistresses and a life of dedicated hedonism to support."
Grimm opened the door to its full extent to reveal the foppish but deadly swordsman, Harvel, who extended his right hand. Grimm's smile widened, and he took the proffered member in a strong embrace.
"Harvel, you old blood-drinker!" the mage cried. "It's good to see you again."
"All right, mage; just go a l
ittle easier on the greetings," Harvel complained. "I might need to use that hand again!"
Grimm released the swordsman's hand, not having realised how tightly he had been gripping it. "Crest, Harvel, thank you so much for coming. Please, do come in."
He waved the messenger out of the room and shut the door.
"What's it all about, mage?" Harvel asked. "I don't imagine you've called on us just to help you escort some chinless princeling to his wedding. At least, I hope you haven't."
"It is a Quest, a proper Quest, and the risk may be great," Grimm replied. "However, before I tell you any details, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to promise to say nothing of it to anybody else. Not a word-and I do mean that. Lord Dominie Horin of High Lodge, the Guildmaster, asked me in person to undertake this Quest, and he's adamant that no hit of our purpose be allowed to leak out. I don't want any idle gossip, pillow-talk or casual chit-chat to jeopardise the expedition. Secrecy is paramount."
Harvel laughed easily, his face open and good-humoured. "If you pay me well enough, Questor, I won't even tell my Confessor about it."
Crest turned to face his warrior friend. "I never thought of you as a religious type, Harvel; a carouser and a lecher, yes, but not some bloody saint."
Harvel shrugged. "You don't know everything about me, elf. I'll have you know I'm a fully-fledged member of the Church of the One. All right, I haven't been to church since I was a child, but I'm saving everything for one big confession."
"No priest would listen to more than three hours of any honest confession you made," the half-elf retorted. "You'd be excommunicated before you'd even started."
The whip-wielding, knife-throwing thief turned to Grimm. "You have my word, mage: I won't tell a soul of what you tell me without your explicit permission. Harvel and I are ex-soldiers, and we know how to keep our mouths shut." He spat on the floor to solemnise the oath; the Questor felt a momentary frisson of disgust, but he knew the ritual sealed a firm, unshakeable covenant.
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