Drex stood with her small right fist pushed into her mouth, in evident trepidation over what might happen.
Grimm felt as if his blood had started to boil, and the early morning desert heat was not the only reason. He felt seized by a desire to trounce the pompous, overbearing prig standing before him into the ground. He raised his staff, Redeemer, into the air, watching Xylox respond in kind.
"Do you recant your ridiculous claims of supremacy?” Xylox demanded.
"I do not,” was Grimm's hot reply. “Indeed, I stand by them. I am a stronger mage than you will ever be, Questor Xylox, and I defy you."
"You are nothing but a preening popinjay,” the older man sneered. “You're all presence and no power."
Xylox is not quite so cool and collected now, Grimm thought, suppressing a smile.
"Not ‘you're'; 'you are',” he said with immense pleasure.
Xylox seemed about to bring his staff down on Grimm's head, when Foster emitted a great cry. “It's a plane! It's a bloody plane!” The pilot was bouncing up and down, as if to emphasise the seriousness of his words, and he was stabbing his right index finger towards the sky.
"What do you mean by a 'plane', Technologist?” Xylox queried, pausing in his apparent personal quest to crush his colleague's head, and Grimm stayed his own assault.
The young mage looked up to where Foster's finger was pointing. At first, he thought the thing in the sky must be just another wheeling vulture, but he saw that its wings were stiff, and he heard a clattering, moaning sound growing louder by the moment.
"An aircraft; a flying machine!” the pilot yelled. “We've got to attract their attention, somehow.” He threw down the pack from his back, muttering “Perhaps there's a flare gun in here."
As Foster rummaged through the canvas bag, his frustrated expression implied that he had not found what he sought.
"What about magic?” the young mage asked.
"You cannot have any more power left within you than I do,” Xylox snorted.
"That is not quite true,” his junior replied. “I may not have enough energy to blast a door to fragments, but I am confident I still possess enough to produce a few fireworks."
"Please do try, Questor Grimm!” Foster urged. “That plane has to have come from the General's compound."
Grimm shut his eyes and drew the few, slender tendrils of power remaining within him into a tight, golden knot. He did not require a vast release of energy, but it must be an accurate one.
The machine appeared to proceed across the sky at a lazy pace, but Grimm guessed it might be very high up; it could be moving at a rate of two hundred miles per hour, or even more.
He would have to estimate the height and speed of the vehicle to a nicety, and he knew he lacked the ability. Keeping his spell cocked, he turned to the pilot.
"Foster, how high and how fast would you say that the machine is flying?” He had forgotten his enmity with Xylox in the excitement of the prospect of their potential deliverance from this mundane hell. “You know these machines better than I."
Foster cocked his head to one side, squinting in the bright rays of morning sun.
"I'd say two hundred to two hundred fifty miles per hour, maybe twenty thousand feet, Questor."
"Close enough,” Grimm said. “Ch'teeerye sk'k'kaa!"
From his upraised right hand flew a small sphere of green light. It lofted into the sky at a tremendous pace, but it remained visible. A part of Grimm travelled with it, seeing through it, as if the ball of luminescence were some third eye, guiding it, correcting its course as if flew towards the clattering vehicle.
* * * *
"What the hell's that?” Flying Officer Strume cried, extending his arm. His pilot, Flight Lieutenant Moore, knew the red-haired young man could be a little excitable at times, but he was a good observer, and he looked to where the younger officer was pointing.
Moore saw a small, green ball outside the cockpit window. It seemed to be following them, hovering inches from the glass. He could have sworn he saw a human eye embedded within the luminescent globe, and that it was looking straight at him.
"I see it, but I don't believe it!” Moore replied, shaking his head, just as the green light disappeared from view.
"Could it've been a flare?” Strume asked, his voice crackling in the intercom.
"If it is,” the pilot said, “It's like no flare I've ever seen. Perhaps I'd better take her down for a look-see, anyway."
Selecting ten degrees of flap and throttling back, Moore brought the plane around in a lazy, descending arc until it was no more than a hundred feet or so off the deck.
"Keep your eyes peeled,” he advised Strume.
The young man pressed his face to the glass. “I can't see anything, Sir,” he said.
Long moments passed. “Just a minute; I think I've got something. Hold her steady, Sir."
The pilot found it hard to hold the vehicle steady, since it was getting into ground effect now, but Moore fought the bucking joystick and kept the machine on a more or less even keel.
"Got ‘em!” the Flying Officer crowed. “Seven bodies; looks like they're alive. Yes, they're waving."
Moore keyed the radio. “Control, this is Observer Four; seven stragglers, grid ref, one-one-eight, two-six-niner. I'm dropping a beacon.” Grasping a lever, Moore pulled it to release a radio tag.
"Observer Four, Control,” the voice in the pilot's headset crackled. “Roger that; one-one-eight, two-six-niner. Will dispatch vehicle soonest. Get back to base this time."
"Roger, Control; Observer Four, returning to base, this time."
* * * *
"Did he see us?” Crest asked Foster.
"I don't know ... oh!"
At that moment, a strange object, like a metal bottle with a very long, thin neck, thumped into the sand perhaps fifty feet away.
"It's a radio tag,” he said, with immense relief. “We're found! Let's get the tents up so we can get out of this damn sun. A vehicle should be on its way within a couple of hours. We're saved!"
Grimm and Xylox looked at each other, each with embarrassment written on his face. Both had almost lost control, their common Quest forgotten.
"I am sorry, Questor Xylox,” Grimm muttered. “I do not know what came over me."
For once, the older mage failed to respond with a sarcastic or cutting rejoinder. “We will say no more on the matter,” was all he said.
The senior mage must also have stared into the deep, red pit of anger, and it appeared that the incident had scared him more than any fearsome beast or demon.
"Oh, there is one more thing, Questor Grimm,” the older man said.
"Yes, Brother Mage?” Grimm's tone was wary.
"I will trouble you for the return of the bauble I lent you when we were in Haven."
Grimm started. He had almost forgotten the potent charm of Missile Reversal hanging around his neck. With a feeling of deep regret, he returned it to its owner, who donned it with a rare half-smile of gratitude.
"Now we have resolved that issue, I advise that we hide from the sun's rays,” Xylox said. “It looks as if our prey may be coming to us; that is most gratifying."
"How do you suggest we face General Q in our current condition?” Grimm asked.
The two mages stood together whilst Drexelica, Tordun, Crest and Foster busied themselves with the erection of the tents.
"We will deal with that problem when we come to it,” the older mage intoned. “I hope the General will wish us to be well fed and rested before he tests us. If so, may the Names help him!"
"I hope you are right, Questor Xylox.” Grimm sighed. “Otherwise, things might get rather messy for us."
The young mage had not forgotten what he had heard in Haven; that Armitage had been planning to dissect the loser of the battle between Grimm and Xylox. He just hoped that the General was rather more cautious with his prizes.
Chapter 20
Reconciliation
Now that rescue see
med at hand, every member of the party took his fill of what remained of the water. Thribble popped out from Grimm's pocket, having been overlooked, as he often was, and said that he was a little thirsty. The minuscule demon gulped down a thimbleful of water and declared himself sated.
"What of your theory of cubes of flesh, Questor Grimm?” Crest asked. “Surely the imp must have been losing water at a far greater rate than any of us. I would've expected him to be a shrivelled husk by now, even if he was hiding in your pocket, out of the direct sun."
"Cubes of flesh?” the underworld creature said, his tiny brow furrowed. “What are you talking about, human? I have been asleep for most of the past two days."
Grimm reprised his earlier speech concerning the ratio of a body's surface area to its volume, and admitted that he, too, felt puzzled by Thribble's healthy, grey complexion.
"Oh, you are talking about the square-cube ratio,” Thribble declared, his expression brightening. “I understand this well, and I comprehend your bafflement,"
"Just remember, man, that we are not all disgusting bags of mortal goo. We minor demons do not lose heat through vulgar perspiration but by direct radiation; the surface area to volume ratio allows us to do this. We must eat and keep active to warm ourselves in frigid temperatures, such as those in which you humans seem to thrive. In climates such as this, we bask and are somnolent; this is a pleasant temperature for me."
"But you admit to thirst, demon,” the half-elf continued, “so even you must have been losing water, somehow."
"Even I need to drink sometimes, whip-master,” Thribble said. “I last tasted water in Grimm's chamber at Arnor, before this Quest began. I would have said something before now, but the warm sun made me sleepy."
"I am glad you are happy,” Grimm said, “but I wish to seek shelter from this merciless solar onslaught."
Thribble possessed little that might be termed a neck, but he contrived, somehow, to shrug. “If you wish, Questor Grimm,” he squeaked. “Good day to you, Master Crest.” He hopped back into Grimm's pocket, his home away from home.
* * * *
Grimm sat opposite Xylox in their tent, and each mage avoided the other's eyes. Xylox spoke first, in a halting voice.
"I am prepared to put your earlier outburst down to temporary insanity induced by solar radiation,” he said. “In a spirit of reconciliation, and in the interests of amicable relations, I am prepared to say nothing of the affair in my eventual report to Lord Prelate Thorn. The inevitable reprimand for your earlier conduct should suffice as discipline."
Grimm rubbed his burgeoning, unkempt beard. He knew his earlier reaction had been exacerbated by the merciless rays of the sun, but he still felt that the pompous Xylox was long overdue for a rebuke.
"Questor Xylox,” Grimm said, “If any attempt at reconciliation was made, it was on my part, when I attempted to congratulate you for your handling of the growing tensions within the group. I still stand by that.
"However, you chose to throw that back in my face by belittling and denigrating my abilities as a Questor. I admit that my reactions were extreme, but I feel that some reaction was justified. I would remind you that I was not the first to raise his staff: you were."
"I was justified in seeking to chastise you; your vile posturing offended me,” the older mage declared, rising to his feet. “As junior Questor, you owed me humility and respect, not bluster and braggadocio."
Grimm remained seated and silent, his eyes burning, and Xylox sat back down.
"You are the senior mage here; I cannot, and will not, deny that,” the slender sorcerer said in a low, but intense, voice. “However, humility and respect run both ways. Whether you approve of it or no, I am a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank, not some fumbling, helpless Neophyte, still wet behind the ears."
The middle-aged thaumaturge opened his mouth to speak, and Grimm stemmed his words with a sharp gesture of his hand; his red-rimmed eyes seeming to burn within his haggard face like burning coals.
"I will speak, Xylox!” he cried, choosing to omit the polite prefix of ‘Questor'. “I, too, hold a Guild rank worthy of respect; respect that you have been studious, even gleeful, to deny at every opportunity. You do not mock me out of concern for our Quest, but because you enjoy mockery of what you regard as your inferiors, and because you mourn a lost youth; do not seek to deny it."
The older magic-user leapt to his feet, his impressive brows lowered over his eyes like grey thunderclouds hovering over a pair of blue lakes.
"Spying on another mage's aura is the height of impertinence!” Xylox cried. “How dare you commit such an abominable act on your superior?"
"I did not do so, Xylox,” Grimm said, now feeling calm as he rose to stand, “although I must admit to severe temptation to do so, at times. However, you have amply confirmed my strong suspicions by that accusation. Had your motives been pure, you would have known that your aura would have been proof positive of the fact. In accusing me of training my Sight on your psyche, you have only proved what I already suspected."
Xylox's mouth opened again, but no words came from the older mage.
"You may tell Lord Prelate Thorn whatever you wish about me, Xylox,” he said, “and I feel sure he will believe you. However, you are sorely deluded if you believe Lord Thorn will dismiss one of his few, precious Questors, a hard-won weapon, a bargaining tool, on the basis of a negative report from you.
"I give you a choice, Questor Xylox. Either accept me for my true worth as a mage, or know that I, your junior, will despise you as a bigot, a braggart and a sadistic tyrant: a man who attempts to prove his mastery, not through cool logic and powerful magic, but through mockery and petty slights towards those who are ill-able to defend themselves. I respect you as a powerful Guild Mage, Xylox but, as a human being, you leave much to be desired."
His words hung in the air, seeming to wheel around and around, like the vultures drifting overhead.
"There; I've said all I have to say, and bugger your precious bloody Mage Speech, for once,” Grimm said, crossing his arms across his chest. “If you want to tear into me, and put a few more defamatory words into your diligent, impartial report to Lord Thorn, feel free to do so; you'll only reinforce my opinion of you. I just don't care anymore, Xylox: do what you want, as you always do."
The young mage stood with legs apart and arms akimbo, defiant and angry, as silence descended on the tent. He overtopped his senior by at least three inches, and he felt ill-disposed to show the least trace of humility or placation to the infuriating older mage. Long moments passed, and Xylox's expression passed through stages of anger, contemplation, and genuine worry.
Grimm knew he had shot his bolt; he had said all he intended, or wanted, to say; his anger had been expiated. His threat to Xylox might be puny, compared to what a bad report from the older mage could do to him, but he felt satisfied.
"Well, I'm in your hands, Xylox the Mighty,” he said, in a mild voice, smoothing his ragged hair with his hands as best he could. “I still stand by my Oath, and I swear again to give my utmost for the success of this Quest. Whether you accept that in the spirit in which it is given, or not; it's up to you."
* * * *
Xylox's staff, Nemesis, received its seventh and final ring before its owner reached twenty-eight years of age. He had held this coveted rank for twenty years, and he regarded it with fierce pride, although he tried to imply that such mundane concerns were beneath his lofty notice. Most of his early Quests were under the supervision of older Questors or alone, and he had to admit, even to himself, that he revelled in being the senior mage in a Guild Quest.
He had never had many, if any, true friends, and even he recognised that he had subsumed his loneliness by trying to be the most powerful, the most successful, Questor in the Guild. His considerable wealth brought him little pleasure, compared to the good opinion of his Prelate and the awe of his juniors.
He had hoped, without success, to tame this wayward, recalcitrant stripling, Questor G
rimm, through displays of puissant abilities and his stern, sorcerous mien; but he had to admit that the skinny whelp had proved a reasonable asset towards the success of the Quest, even without such inducements. In addition to this, the young upstart had shown a surprising level of skill and thaumaturgic strength, before Xylox had defeated him in their enforced battle in Armitage's laboratory—or so he persuaded himself.
Xylox the Mighty recognised that something had gone wrong between the two mages from the start; he had convinced himself that the tall youth must have been to blame, but he could not put his finger on anything that Questor Grimm had ever done to give him such a poor opinion of him.
Perhaps I have been a little too hard on this youthful tyro; the young are so soft and intolerant of criticism these days, he thought. They seem incapable of handling the least rebuke.
Nonetheless, the senior magic-user felt hot embarrassment at how Grimm's forceful opposition had managed to goad him into violence, destroying the cool, dispassionate, rational air he had cultivated for so long. This fact alone showed that the youth did possess remarkable willpower, a prime attribute for a Guild Questor. The grizzled sorcerer also had to acknowledge, at least to himself, Questor Grimm's assertion that, without the energy that Xylox had stored in Nemesis, their battle might well have become difficult for him. He could not countenance the idea that he would have been defeated by the young Questor, but he had to admit that even his most powerful spells had failed to crush the youth. Yes; Grimm Afelnor would bear watching, but he might be a useful ally and a troublesome enemy.
"Questor Grimm,” Xylox said, “this is not easy for me to say, but I acknowledge you as a mage of considerable power and resourcefulness. I admit that I must accept some of the blame for our failure to communicate, and that, on occasion, I may have allowed my zeal for the Quest to cloud my sense of fair play and justice."
Grimm's eyes widened and his hands dropped to his sides, softening his confrontational pose.
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