Grimm Dragonblaster 4

by Alastair J. Archibald

  At the very least, it seemed probable that Grimm would be required to stay at the House for a further period, away from his Barony and his beloved Drexelica. At worst, he might be censured, with a black mark to go on his record, which might blight his Guild career and bar further promotion.

  As the black stronghold hove into view, Grimm quashed his anxieties and fears; there was little point in worrying about what he could not change. As he approached the entry portal, he dismounted and hobbled his horse at the wooden rail by the path, and he strode to the door with a determined manner.

  He raised his ring-bearing left hand and the door swung open to reveal the familiar, bowed figure of the aged major-domo known to all in the House by the simple appellation of Doorkeeper.

  "Questor Grimm!” the old man crowed, his face crinkling into a smile. “It is wonderful to have you back where you belong, marvellous, yes, marvellous, indeed."

  Grimm knew he truly belonged with Drexelica, but he was not about to say so; even the most innocent relationship with a member of the distaff sex was frowned upon within the Guild.

  "Greetings, Doorkeeper, it's good to be back."

  A House servant appeared, and Doorkeeper instructed him to stable the mage's horse, and to take the luggage to Grimm's room. “So, Questor Grimm, did you have a good retreat at Crar? I've heard the weather can be quite bad down there, quite horrible at times, I've heard, I think."

  "I had a marvellous time, thank you, Doorkeeper."

  "I'm afraid I can't spare you much time, Questor Grimm.” Doorkeeper's wizened face bore an apologetic expression. “I have some important things to do for tonight, some very important business. Adept Numal's staff rebounded three times from the Stone this morning, and he is now a full Mage Necromancer. His Acclamation feast will be held this evening, and, as usual, I will be required to arrange it all. So much work; you'd think they'd take pity on my poor old bones..."

  Grimm's brow furrowed. The name Numal seemed somehow familiar to him, but he could not quite place it. When the major-domo finished his wordy, babbling lament, he said so.

  "You met him at least once,” replied Doorkeeper. “I introduced him to you in the Refectory on your first day here, all those years ago."

  With a sudden rush, recollection flooded into Grimm's mind. Numal was the strange, sepulchral figure who had told the seven-year-old Student of his hidden desire to be an entertainer. Numal's words, spoken so long before, flew into his brain: In my youth, I was told that my imitation of Daffo the Clown was very amusing.

  So the would-be entertainer had mastered his craft at last, exchanging song and dance for the ability to communicate with the dead and to augur the future from chicken entrails. Part of Grimm's psyche rejoiced at the pale, sad-looking man's success after years of unremitting effort, while another mourned the death of the would-be comedian and dancer. The stage's loss had been the House's gain.

  "Still, that's enough talk,” Doorkeeper said, interrupting the young mage's philosophical musings. “You'll want to get ready for your meeting with the Lord Prelate, I'm sure. Your usual room's made up in the West Wing, and Lord Thorn isn't expecting you for another hour."

  Grimm smiled. “What would I do without you, Doorkeeper? Thank you. I know the way; I also know you must have a lot to do."

  Making his excuses, the Questor strode through the Great Hall. Was it his imagination, or was the vestibule not quite as magnificent as he remembered it? The blue and gold hexagonal paving slabs that made up the hall, the same colours as his fine silk robes, seemed duller than he recalled. For the first time, Grimm noticed distinct scratches in the blue sky-dome, and the dreamy, soft tones pervading the chamber seemed tired and lifeless, having once brought visions of heaven to him. Only the black, eternal Breaking Stone, against which each hopeful Adept must test his hand-made Staff before he could be declared a full Guild Mage, looked pristine and fresh.

  The stairs winding up to the West Wing mages’ chambers bore deep, semicircular depressions, marking the passage of countless generations of House incumbents, a heritage of centuries. Grimm's room, however, was just as he remembered it; basic, perhaps, but comfortable beyond the dreams of any mere charity Student. He was pleased to see his bags were already waiting for him on his bed, which had the distinctive, clean smell of fresh linen. He noted the full ewer of water and the soap by the washbasin, and he stripped off his robe.

  Grimm felt dusty and grimy after his long journey, and he found the cold water bracing and refreshing. His worries seemed to wash away with the dirt of the road, and he hummed a cheerful tune as he laved himself. Taking a soft, white towel from one of his travelling bags, he rubbed down his body until his skin shone pink. Still naked, he took forth a small pair of scissors and trimmed his dark brown beard and his fingernails. He then started on his hair, brushing it until it shone, and then tying it in its accustomed place at the nape of his neck. At last, Grimm donned fresh clothes. He looked with a critical eye at his reflection, in the round mirror behind the wash basin. Something was missing...

  "Redeemer, to me,” he muttered. He thrust out his right hand without looking around, and his staff flew into his grasp, obedient and faithful as ever.

  In the mirror, he did not see Grimm Afelnor, but a powerful and confident thaumaturge.

  Power and presence complete the mage.

  It had taken Grimm many years to understand what the true meaning of that familiar, oft-repeated phrase, but now he knew he possessed both. He was a Mage Questor, in the full flush of youth, and he looked dangerous.

  I'm a true Weapon of the Guild now, thought Grimm, with a smile. I'm ready.

  * * * *

  "Enter.” The word was peremptory and terse, as Grimm had expected. Steeling himself, he opened the door. As usual, Lord Thorn was sitting hunched over his monumental marble desk, behind a stack of papers. As Grimm closed the door, the Prelate looked up, and his expression seemed to brighten, much to the young Questor's surprise.

  "Ah, welcome, Questor Grimm; it is good to see you. Please, do sit down."

  Grimm sat, wary of some sort of trap. As no question had been put to him, he remained silent.

  Thorn picked up a sheaf of papers. “This is Questor Xylox's report on your last Quest. It makes interesting reading, Questor Grimm."

  Now, Grimm felt sure some sort of punishment was coming. Xylox would have his revenge at last on his despised underling.

  The Prelate smiled; an expression Grimm had never seen before on his face. Did it portend good news or a sadistic pleasure at the prospect of haranguing a helpless underling?

  "Before I acquaint you with the report's contents, Questor Grimm, I would like to hear your opinion of your fellow Questor."

  Struggling to keep his face impassive, Grimm cleared his throat in order to give himself a little time to think. His true opinion of Xylox was that the man was a pompous, overbearing, self-important prig, but to say so to Lord Thorn would be tantamount to professional suicide. However, he would not let the older Questor get off scot-free.

  Grimm knew he should avoid hesitation and obfuscation, since clarity and fluidity of speech were essential qualities in any Guild Mage.

  "Lord Thorn, I find Questor Xylox an admirable and powerful magic-user. He is resourceful and dedicated, and it is hard to conceive of a more faithful servant of either this House or our Guild.

  "However, I also find him an obdurate and humourless man. I believe Questor Xylox would be a more rounded mage were he to unbend a little, on occasion. Our relationship was, to say the least, somewhat strained, even hostile at times, due in part to what I saw as unnecessary formality in very difficult circumstances."

  Thorn nodded, his face an unreadable mask.

  "So this report implies, Questor Grimm. Questor Xylox writes that you opposed him on some occasions and even went so far as to disobey him on others. He says he regards you as ill-disciplined and wilful, and he recommends that you not be promoted to any higher rank for a period of at least five years
, until you have learned to control what he calls your wayward, insubordinate spirit. Do you have anything to say in rebuttal of this assessment, Questor Grimm?"

  So it was to be a tongue-lashing, at least, and Grimm's heart sank into his boots. The smallest of black marks on his record as a Questor might blight his future career for as long as it lasted.

  Nonetheless, he would go down fighting as best he could.

  "As far as I can tell, Lord Prelate, Questor Xylox begrudges me my youth, my staff, my ring and the very air I breathe. He made it quite clear that he despised me at our very first meeting, despite my best attempts to treat him with all the respect his rank deserves. His attitude towards me went downhill from there. Questor Xylox seemed to believe it as his personal privilege to govern any and all facets of my behaviour at any time. More than once, he swore to break me and see me condemned to menial servitude in the House scullery for the least of perceived transgressions. Whilst he tempered his opinion of my thaumaturgic abilities somewhat by the end of the Quest, I could tell he still looked down on me, for whatever reason."

  Thorn remained immobile, his hands clenched under his chin, his face an enigmatic and unreadable mask.

  His speech increasing in intensity and speed, Grimm continued: “Lord Thorn, I swear to you that I acted in the best interests of the Quest, the House and the Guild at all times. I do not regard omitting Mage Speech on a few occasions as either mutiny or insubordination. If saving a poor girl from slavery is an act of rebellion, then I will acknowledge myself a rebel. However, the fact of the matter is that Questor Xylox, called the Mighty, has a chip on his shoulder the size of the Royal Barge. I lack the strength to dislodge it, so if I must suffer for the fact, then so much the worse for me."

  Grimm felt his face burning with anger, and he realised he was staring straight into Thorn's blue eyes; this might be construed as an act of defiance on its own.

  "That is all I have to say on the subject, Lord Prelate,” he said in a softer voice, averting his piercing gaze.

  "Well, well, well,” the Prelate said, and Grimm could swear he heard a trace of amusement in Thorn's voice. “I see that Questor Xylox's assessment of you bore at least a kernel of truth."

  Grimm said nothing. He had to admit that Xylox was correct on at least one count: he was hot-headed, and he realised he might well have overstepped the mark in his forthright assessment of the senior mage's character.

  "However, provided the bounds of propriety are not breached, I appreciate a certain degree of outspoken candour in a Questor,” the Prelate intoned.

  Grimm made to expostulate against an unfair judgement before the actual meaning of Lord Thorn's words hit him. He looked up, his eyes wide in disbelief.

  Thorn nodded. “That's right, Questor Grimm. I find it a useful asset to have independent minds at work on a single problem. I don't want mannequins or puppets."

  Grimm felt as if he had to make a conscious effort to keep his jaw attached to his face. The severe Lord Thorn, using common vernacular—what was the House coming to?

  "Relax, young Afelnor. I'm not about to throw you to the lions. I have known Questor Xylox for many years, and I hold the deepest respect for him as a Questor. However, I'd be the first to admit that, as a human being, he leaves a little to be desired. Our friend Xylox tends to imagine he has more influence in the House and the Guild than he really does. I don't take kindly to mages who think they can issue orders to reward or punish one of my subjects as they see fit.

  "Consequently, I'm going to ignore Xylox's advice to bar you from further promotion; I think that a certain amount of initiative and imagination needs to be encouraged and fostered. I think you performed admirably on a long and difficult quest and, in recognition of that, I have recommended to Lord Dominie Horin that you be elevated to the Sixth Rank. You will be pleased to know that he has acceded to my request; congratulations, Questor Grimm."

  Grimm's head seemed to whirl. Instead of censure as a renegade and a rebel, he found himself congratulated and rewarded for a job well done. Thorn's next words did not reduce his disorientation:

  “Would you like a drink, Questor Grimm?"

  The young mage blinked, wondering if this was some test of his character.

  "I have a particularly good brandy here,” the Prelate continued, “and I find drinking more enjoyable in good company. I would be grateful if you would share a little of this liquor with me."

  The Prelate poured a generous dose of the golden liquid into a goblet, and placed it on the table in front of the stunned Grimm.

  "Thank you, Lord Prelate,” was all Grimm could say as he picked up the goblet and took a healthy swig of the enlivening beverage. The fiery liquid steadied him, and he recovered his equanimity.

  Thorn leaned back in his throne and stretched. “Now, Questor Grimm, that's enough House talk. Relax, have a drink and tell me a little about yourself and your recent Quest, in your own words. I learn so little about many of the mages in my House, and my position is often tedious. I welcome the chance to meet talented young questors like you: you remind me of how I was at your age."

  The rest of the meeting seemed to pass in a blur. Grimm felt as if his world had been turned upside down, and he had no idea of most of what he had said in response to Lord Thorn's prompting. He had come prepared for an argument, and to defend himself, and Thorn's unexpected reaction had quite wrong-footed him. He walked out of the Prelate's office as if he were floating on air.

  Thorn had even granted him leave to stay in Crar when he was not on House or Guild business.

  Drexelica would be pleased.

  * * * *

  As the door closed behind the Afelnor boy, Thorn smiled, and toasted himself with more brandy. “In no time, I'll have him eating out of my hand. Look out, Mother, there's a storm brewing." [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 4: Misgivings

  Grimm smiled as he strode back to his chamber. The interview had gone better than he could have hoped, and the young mage had the ultimate goal of the coveted Seventh Rank in sight at the young age of seventeen.

  As he passed the Breaking Stone, he paused and slapped a hand against his forehead. He had intended to ask Lord Thorn, the only living eye-witness to the deed, more about the circumstances of Loras’

  attempted murder of Prelate Geral, and he had forgotten. With Thorn in such good humour, it would have been an ideal opportunity, and, doubtless, tomorrow the Prelate would be back to his normal cold, acerbic self. Grimm toyed with the idea of going straight back to Thorn's chamber, but this would be a breach of protocol. With his slate wiped clean, it seemed unadvisable to sully it by annoying the Master of the House with aimless questions.

  "You appear lost, Brother Mage,” a cold, sepulchral voice said behind him. “May I help you?"

  The young mage spun around, to see a tall, spare, black-clad figure. The man carried a plain, unadorned staff, which meant that, although technically a First Rank Mage, he had not yet distinguished himself enough to gain the first gold ring. The man appeared to be of middle age, but this was unsurprising, since most mages took decades to reach mastery. Mage Questors were the only exceptions to this rule.

  "Please, don't trouble yourself, Brother,” the Questor replied. “I was lost only in thought. I am Questor Grimm Afelnor."

  "Necromancer Numal Falwort, at your service,” the pale-skinned apparition intoned, and Grimm remembered.

  "Congratulations on your Acclamation, Necromancer Numal,” Grimm said. “We met once before, when I was a new Student."

  The tall man's brows knitted, as if he were trying to make the memories flow.

  "Doorkeeper took me to the Refectory,” the Questor continued. “There was a group of noisy Students, and you were with a couple of Neophytes: one was an Alchemist, and I don't recall the other. You told me you had wanted to be a stage entertainer, a dancer or a mimic."

  Numal's face cleared. “Of course; I remember now. My companions were Adept Herbalist Funval and Adept Alchemist M
alwarth. Malwarth's first Staff shattered on the Stone, and he is working to build a second. Funval is also working hard on his own."

  The new mage's eyes flicked towards Grimm's staff with its five rings, and Grimm saw the ghost of envy flitting across his face.

  Grimm did his best not to cringe with embarrassment; the early maturation of Questors was a bane to many mages, who studied for decades to achieve mastery.

  Numal must have noted the young man's discomfort. “I'm sorry, Questor Grimm. I know little of what you Questors go through, but I've heard it's no picnic. I shouldn't envy you your youth."

  The price of Grimm's early Acclamation was a long, lingering glimpse into the abyss of insanity, into which he had so nearly fallen. It was not something he would wish upon anybody.

  "Don't worry, Brother Mage,” he said, shrugging “I'm getting used to it ... almost."

  A long pause ensued as the two mages looked at each other, until Numal broke the impasse.

  "Questor Grimm, would you care to attend my little ceremony tonight? We Necromancers are a solitary lot, and there won't be many friendly faces there."

  "I wouldn't miss it for the world,” Grimm declared, smiling.

  "Excellent,” Numal said. “I'll ask Doorkeeper to set you a place."

  "Thank you, Necromancer Numal, I'll make a point of being there."

  The black-clad man fidgeted a little, as if uncomfortable. “Please, Questor Grimm, just call me ‘Numal'. I won't feel like a true mage until I have that first ring on my staff."

  Grimm nodded. “In that case, please just call me ‘Grimm', Numal,” he said.