He, Xylox, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called ‘the Mighty', knew he could never hope to match such lambent power and presence: 'Power and presence complete the mage—'how many times had that been drummed into him as a callow Student?
Power and presence do complete the mage, Xylox realised, almost as if understanding the old cliché's import for the first time.
This youth had both, in abundance! How could he, Xylox the Mighty have been so wrong, so hidebound in his prejudices? He had been prepared to throw this powerful youth, this valuable Guild resource, on the scrapheap in order to validate his own sense of self-worth.
Xylox was unaccustomed to self-analysis; he had held his Mage Staff and his Guild Ring for more than half of his life, and he knew, or thought he knew, how to act as a leader.
Nonetheless, at this moment, he mentally surrendered his notional command of the Quest. His own staff might bear seven rings, and Questor Grimm's only five, but he remembered his Oath and his duty; the slender youth might hold the only key to the success of the Quest.
Aware that all eyes were upon him, he considered his words with care. He was still the Senior Questor but, at this moment, the other members of the team seemed bonded to Grimm Afelnor and his desperate, if heroic, plan. If he were to be of any use at all, Xylox would have to support his junior as best he could.
"Questor Grimm,” he said, in a low, hesitant voice. “Since this reckless assault is your plan, I feel it only fair that you should carry it through. For good or for ill, until the conclusion of this attempt, I cede control of our activities to you."
A long pause followed, and Xylox gathered his courage into a tight ball within him. “Questor Grimm; until this battle is at an end, I surrender myself to your authority. May the Names guide us and help us!"
Chapter 31
Fulfilment
Quelgrum felt the cold, slimy worm of worry gnawing at his heart. Armitage's behaviour when questioned had been bizarre in the extreme. The General knew the Professor had never been subjected to the mental conditioning known as Pacification, but he had acted as if he had been. The only sensible explanation seemed to be that Colonel Perfuco, the Mage Mentalist, had brought about Armitage's change in personality.
The soldier knew there was little love lost between his Chief Scientist and his new Head of Security, but this had, so far, been limited to a simmering resentment that filled the air when the two were in close proximity. Quelgrum had found this rivalry amusing, but never before had he thought that it would ever go as far as direct confrontation.
Where the Hell was that damned mage? Many soldiers reported that they had been questioned by the Colonel, but Quelgrum could see little pattern in the Mentalist's meanderings; he seemed to be scurrying through the rabbit-warren of the complex's corridors almost at random.
Had the conflict between Perfuco's Guild Oath and his chemically-reinforced change of loyalties driven the thaumaturge over the edge? Quelgrum knew nothing of magic or Technology, except how to use both to his own ends, and he began to worry that he might have sown the seeds of his own downfall by trying to shackle two such powerful, antagonistic, capricious disciplines together.
Quelgrum looked down at his crisp, ornate uniform. He might well have melded a disparate group of loners and misfits into a mighty, disciplined army, but the shade of the frightened, insecure farm slave lurked behind the polished façade of the confident, commanding military man at all times. Pride born of astonishing success had pushed the hapless, helpless serf into the background of the General's complex psyche for many years; he had begun almost to believe in his own invulnerability and infallibility. Now, however, Quelgrum found himself assaulted by uncertainty and anxiety. He had never managed fully to shake off the twin demons of peasant superstition and self-doubt, and they now seemed to return to castigate him without mercy.
The General, however, was no snivelling coward. Despite the roiling emotions threatening to overwhelm him, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and crushed his worries into a small, crumpled ball in the pit of his stomach. He smashed his meaty right fist into his left palm three times and drove himself to focus on the issue at hand. Why was he bouncing from pillar to post in an attempt to track down a possible renegade, when he had fifteen-hundred loyal men and women at his command to do it for him?
With new determination in his stride, he made his way back to his office. Although he lacked any real comprehension of Technology, he had faith in its efficacy as a tool, and he would use it to track down this seemingly unhinged officer. The crisp salutes he received on his way gladdened his heart, and he returned each in the professional manner in which it had been presented. If there were two things he really understood and trusted with all his heart, they were the human spirit and the power of discipline
These were good people, and they would give their all for him.
* * * *
"How do you feel, Questor Xylox?” Grimm asked, a cool smile on his face.
"Powerful and dangerous, Brother Mage,” Xylox replied, “and ready for the fray.” The senior Questor seemed to have forgotten his earlier embarrassment at his incongruous, revealing attire.
With ruthless efficiency, Tordun stripped the metal stands that had held the bottles of insidious drugs, converting them into effective, if makeshift, weapons. Crest smashed all the bottles, muffling the sound of their destruction with sheets and blankets. He converted the beds’ leather straps into bandoliers, into which he forced numerous glass shards for use as impromptu throwing knives.
Grimm knew that, as a fighting force, the group appeared woefully inadequate, but he also knew the team's morale was high; that had to be considered a powerful factor in its favour.
For the first time in his life, Grimm Afelnor felt in full control of his own destiny—he felt replete, fulfilled, and downright happy! Drexelica stood at his side, beaming, and the Questor wondered for a moment if she were using her earth magic upon him, forcing him to feel this way, but he realised he did not care. Granfer Loras would be so proud of him at this moment, he thought...
Granfer Loras! The reviled Oathbreaker, the Outcast, disgraced Questor, the renegade ... a man who had been betrayed, reviled and beguiled. In Grimm's current, ebullient state, the thought of his beloved relative toiling in his forge just to make ends meet only added to his determination.
I will survive, Grandfather, he vowed to himself, renewing his own, personal oath. I will live to see you exonerated and returned to your former status. I do this for you!
"Brother Mage,” Xylox said, interrupting his fellow Questor's reverie, “should we attack now or wait for an alarm to be raised?” His tone was deferent, even reverent, but it carried an unmistakable undercurrent of urgency.
Brought back to the present with an abrupt jerk, Grimm turned to his colleague. It gratified and astonished him to see the change in the former overbearing, self-important martinet's bearing.
Xylox has asked me, the despised blacksmith's boy for advice! the young mage thought. This is like a religious conversion!
He knew this feeling of invincibility could not last forever. He must act now!
A tinny but recognisable voice boomed from the corridor. "This is the General. Colonel Perfuco, Professor Armitage, report immediately to my office. I repeat: report immediately to my office!"
Although the message was crackling and distorted, the urgent tone in Quelgrum's voice rang through.
"The decision seems to have been taken out of our hands. We attack,” Grimm said, in a resonant, commanding voice that seemed as if it came from someone else.
Tordun tried the door. “It's locked, Questor, and there doesn't seem to be any way of opening it from this side."
"We do not need to worry about that, Tordun,” Xylox replied. “There must be guards outside; if we make enough noise, they will surely open it for us. I suggest that you make the commotion, while Questor Grimm and I stand on either side of the doorway. Our staves should make short work of any luckless Sec
ular who enters; that way, we retain our magical energy for more desperate engagements."
The change in Xylox's attitude was remarkable. The word ‘suggest’ had hitherto seemed all but absent from his vocabulary.
"I concur,” Grimm said, taking up position at the left of the door, with Redeemer at the ready.
Xylox muttered a single word: “Nemesis". His staff shimmered into solidity in his outstretched hand, summoned from wherever it had been stored.
"Right, Tordun,” Grimm said. “It might be better if you were to lie on the bed opposite the door, so the guards’ attention is directed towards you, with Crest and Drexelica flanking you. Try to sound confused and befuddled; we do not want the guards to be too suspicious when they enter."
"They'll notice that the stands and bottles are gone, for sure,” Crest said.
Grimm tapped Redeemer's brass head. “It will all be over by then,” he said, with a wry smile.
It was done as Grimm had suggested, and the young mage hoped there were not too many armed guards waiting in the passage; otherwise, it might get messy.
Tordun proved to be a good actor as he began to moan and thrash on the bed. “Lemme out of ‘ere! Lemme go!” he bawled, slurring his voice.
As no response was immediately apparent—these guards seem singularly inefficient, thought Grimm—the warrior began to raise his voice, adding imprecations and obscenities at an ever-increasing volume.
At last, the door swung open, and a pair of green-clad men rushed into the room: their expressions belligerent and wary, their weapons at the ready.
"What's all this?” one cried. “What—"
Two staves crashed down in unison. No common lump of wood could ever compare to the effect of a well-wielded Mage Staff; the two men crumpled to the floor in an instant and lay there, immobile.
Tordun, Crest and Drexelica leapt from the beds, clutching their improvised spears.
"Tordun, Crest, take the guards’ weapons,” Grimm directed.
"Countenancing the use of such blasphemous Technological tools is hardly proper for a Guild Mage!” Xylox snapped, some of his old fire returning.
"It is better than trying to oppose them with crude metal poles,” Grimm riposted. “Despite the Guild's animosity towards the unchecked use of Technology, the Oath contains no clauses prohibiting its use in times of peril."
"Very well,” the older man said after a long pause. “Since our situation is far from optimal, I will permit it."
"Do you think their uniforms will fit you?” Grimm asked the fighters. “If we appear to be under armed escort, we may make better progress without attracting undue attention."
"This fellow's clothes should fit me,” Crest declared, stepping over to the prone form of the smaller guard.
Tordun looked at the larger of the two men. “He is well-built, but a little on the short side,” he said. “However, I am prepared to wear anything other than this skimpy shift."
In a trice, the two guards were stripped to their undergarments, without ceremony. Crest and Tordun seemed to have more regard for their own modesty in the presence of a young girl, as each slipped on the uniform trousers before doffing his white robe.
When they were dressed, Grimm regarded the two fighters with a critical eye. Crest's uniform was a reasonable, if spare, fit. On the other hand, Tordun's was stretched tight over his massive frame, challenging the seams and buttons of the clothes to the limit. The taut jacket arms left six inches of pale skin visible at the wrists, and the trousers were no better-fitting, sufficing only to preserve the albino's modesty in an uneasy truce between burgeoning muscle and the strength of the garment's needlework. The effect was almost ludicrous, but it would have to do.
"How does this work?” Crest said, inspecting his firearm with a dubious eye. It was similar to the one Tordun held, although far cruder in finish and form. The weapon must be a more recent attempt to duplicate the smooth, shining article in the albino's hands.
"You saw this type of weapon used at Haven,” Grimm reminded him. “The pellets emerge from the open end of the machine, and they are activated by pressing that lever."
Grimm saw other knobs and levers on the side of the firearm, and he hoped its use was as simple as he had said, but he dare not risk testing the article, for fear of attracting attention.
Tordun trussed and gagged the unconscious guards, using sheets from the beds. The speed and efficacy of his movements implied that he had done this before on several occasions.
Crest moved with caution to the open door and scanned the corridor.
"The coast's clear,” he declared.
The desperate escape attempt was on!
* * * *
"Colonel Perfuco, reporting as ordered, Sir!"
Quelgrum thought the salute a little sloppy, but, then again, the mage was only a relative newcomer to army ways.
"What's going on between you and Armitage, Perfuco?” he demanded.
"I am sure I do not know what you mean, Sir,” the Mentalist replied, swivelling his eyes from side to side and raising and lowering his eyebrows in a rapid sequence. Quelgrum guessed that this was intended as some kind of signal, but its significance escaped him.
The door opened, and Armitage entered the office, clutching a wad of paper to his chest.
"Ah, Armitage, thank you for gracing us with your presence at last,” the General said, his tone acidic.
"I'm sorry, General,” the scientist replied. “I was very busy."
Quelgrum's anger and frustration seemed to wash over and through him in a hot flood. He sighed, rubbing his aching brow with a weary gesture.
"Gentlemen; let me make it as plain as I can. What in HELL'S NAME is going on around here?” he screamed, at the end of his tether. “If it's some sort of game, then I'd be ever so grateful if you'd be kind enough to let me in on the damn rules!"
"I'm sorry, General; I really do not know what you mean,” Perfuco said, repeating his bizarre facial ritual with even more urgency.
"Everything's just fine,” Armitage said, smiling like some sort of imbecile.
"Oh, for heaven's sake,” Quelgrum hissed, clasping his forehead. “Just..."
He was interrupted by a beep from the intercom, which flashed red, indicating urgency. The General stabbed his thumb down on the relevant button as if he was trying to push it through the table.
"Yes?"
"Lieutenant Harman here, Sir! There's some sort of disturbance in Corridor D-6, and gunfire is being exchanged. I've got garbled reports of men down, and we have a fire alert in the corridor."
"We'll be right there, Lieutenant,” the General snapped, almost glad that there was something concrete on which he could fasten his attention. “Perfuco, Armitage, this can wait."
Quelgrum took a holstered pistol from a desk drawer. After checking that the weapon was loaded, he strapped it on.
"Sound General Quarters, Lieutenant!” he barked into the intercom. “Call out the guard!
"Come with me, gentlemen,” the old soldier said, smiling. “We seem to be at war."
War was something Quelgrum knew only too well, and he almost felt relieved.
* * * *
Grimm loosed another withering burst of green fire down the corridor, and he heard Xylox, at the rear of the group, scream another incantation in his own spell-language. Cries of agony and dismay rang out before being snuffed out in an instant.
Occasional bangs came from Crest's firearm, felling soldiers twenty feet away and more. Although Tordun's own machine did not appear to function, he hurled shattered lumps of masonry at his foes with deadly accuracy and force.
There seemed no end to the stream of soldiers pouring into the passageway, and Grimm felt his confidence beginning to ebb.
He still had some power left in reserve, but he was expending it at a prodigious rate. The group had the advantage of being able to counter assaults from either end of each corridor, but it seemed that the restrictive warren of tunnels acted against them. Only
a few men opposed then at each juncture, requiring the expenditure of more energy for each small group of attackers.
At each new branch in the route, more soldiers appeared, ready to spit Technological death at the adventurers. Grimm had a fresh spell ready on his lips at each juncture, but he knew each assault was costing him too much.
I may have bitten off a little more than I can chew here...
Another corridor, a few steps closer to Quelgrum's chamber. Another volley of fire, barely countered. The end could not be far.
As Grimm readied himself for what might prove the last assault, a familiar, deep, commanding voice surged into the void.
"Cease fire! Cease fire, you men!"
Grimm stayed his next spell, although he kept his remaining thaumaturgic energy in an ordered form, ready to unleash at a moment's notice. He had used the same, simple Fire spell so many times now that he no longer required a chant to unleash it. He saw a white flag, a handkerchief attached to a rod, waving from the next corridor junction, and the young mage knew what that universal symbol meant: a request to parlay.
"All right, General,” he said, in a hoarse, scratchy voice. “Come into the corridor, alone, where we can see you. You have my word as a Guild Mage that we will not harm you, if you do not break the compact. We will talk."
The General strode into the corridor with a confident air. “By my count, magic-user,” he said, “you have killed or incapacitated fifty or so of my men. I have many, many more at my disposal; you cannot win.
"Give it up, mage. You have done well to get this far, but you are finished, I'm afraid. Surrender, and I'll let you live; otherwise, you'll be cut down, sooner or later. For your sake, and that of my men, I'd prefer the former."
Grimm felt cold tendrils of despair writhe within the pit of his stomach, but he refused to let them overwhelm him.
"I offer a counter-proposal, General,” he said, surprised at the calmness in his voice. “Release us, free Perfuco and the other mages from your enslavement, and swear to leave the Guild demesnes untouched, and we will stop the attacking force of mages that is converging even now on this facility. It is you and your army who are defeated."
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