Grimm Dragonblaster 4

by Alastair J. Archibald

  Crohn turned to Grimm, who had once been his protégé, the acme of his career. Few Magemasters indeed could claim with justification that they had raised a Mage Questor!

  "Questor Grimm, it appears that outdoor life agrees with you. You seem in excellent health."

  "And you, Magemaster Crohn. It is good to see you looking so well."

  "Alas, I regret to say that I suffer from rheumatism and arthritis, Brother Mage. However, I thank you for your solicitude."

  Grimm expressed his sincere regrets. He knew Crohn had been a tower of strength until the day he had faced the full fury of Grimm's explosive Outbreak. It pained him to think that the old Magemaster's infirmity might be the result of the birth of his own powers, but he knew Crohn did not regret it in the least; it had been the culmination of his career to bring a nascent Questor to maturity. There was an understanding and respect between the two thaumaturges that few could understand, born of those tumultuous minutes in which Grimm Afelnor had wandered into the dark cavern of insanity and emerged as a man and a true mage.

  Kargan and Faffel made their ways to opposite sides of the gallery, after each had helped himself to a brimming glass of wine; it seemed that both were in the mood to start their drinking at the earliest opportunity. This left Grimm standing with his erstwhile tutor.

  "Magemaster Crohn, will Lord Thorn be in attendance tonight?” Grimm asked. If so, he thought, it might prove an opportune time to ask the questions he had forgotten to put to the Prelate at their two earlier meetings.

  "I regret not,” Crohn said. “I believe the annual accounts are due for submission to High Lodge."

  Grimm's brow furrowed. “I always thought that was the responsibility of Scribe Vimat and his staff."

  On occasions, the dedicated Vimat had been called upon to lecture Grimm's Student class on the subject of Mathematics, but he was more usually to be found poring over his ledgers and check-sheets in a cramped, dingy office in the East Wing.

  "The ultimate responsibility for the correctness of the accounts is Lord Thorn's,” the older man replied.

  “He often chooses to check Scribe Vimal's figures for himself, although the Scribe has a marvellous facility with arithmetic."

  More likely, he just couldn't be bothered to turn up for a humble Necromancer's ceremonial feast.

  A Questor was a different matter: a mage who could advance the status of a House and its Prelate in the eyes of the Lord Dominie, through a series of favours and political skulduggery carried out in the name of High Lodge. More run-of-the-mill mages were useful for the everyday running of the House and for tuition of the scions of rich families, but of little consequence in the wider scheme of things. Grimm's mouth twisted into a wry grimace, and Crohn smiled; very little passed the Senior Magemaster's notice.

  "You are probably correct, Questor Grimm; perhaps the occasion is not noteworthy enough for Lord Thorn. However, if you please, we will acquiesce to the official explanation. Necromancer Numal has worked hard to gain his just rewards of the staff and the Guild Ring, and we should ensure that his special feast is one for him to remember. You are a friend of his?"

  Grimm shook his head. “Not as such, Magemaster Crohn. Until today, I met him on only one previous occasion: my first full day as a Student. However, I find him an interesting and companionable man, and he seems to enjoy my company, too. His seems to have been a lonely incumbency, and I would say he needs all the friends he can get."

  "That is a poor reason to become an especial friend,” Crohn said, his expression strange.

  "Magemaster Crohn, I can remember Rule 3.14.8 quite well,” Grimm said, smiling, thinking he understood Crohn's quizzical look.

  Rule 3.14.8 concerned ‘ unnatural and unwholesome relationships' , and several years passed before the meaning of the regulation became clear to him. He knew such relationships were forged within the Scholasticate on occasion, and, although he could not understand the attraction of two men for each other, he knew how scarce true affection was within the House. He could not bring himself to condemn such associations. Even the Magemasters seemed to tolerate these illicit liaisons at times, at least when they occurred between Students of wealthy families and were not too blatant.

  "That is not what I was trying to imply, Questor Grimm,” Crohn said, his tone neutral. “I merely meant that a stolid, middle-aged Necromancer is an unusual intimate for a young, active Questor to have. A Necromancer has little sleight that a mage of your calling could not master, except the ability to contact the souls of the dead."

  Crohn's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “I believe you are still hoping to discover some hidden truth behind the death of Prelate Geral, so as to exonerate your grandfather. Am I right?"

  Grimm felt warmth flooding into his face: he knew that he could not lie to this man. He was indeed dedicated to prove Loras innocent of treason, but Crohn had it wrong. How much could he trust the ancient mage, who reported directly to the Prelate?

  Crohn leaned closer to the Questor, his voice a faint murmur. “I swear on my name as a Guild Mage that anything you tell me, short of outright treason, will remain between the two of us. My sole wish is to save you embarrassment and disgrace. Lord Thorn and the Conclave will hear nothing of what you choose to say, but speak truly."

  Grimm closed his eyes and stood for a few moments, deep in thought. How he yearned to tell another Guildbrother of his doubts! He knew he could confide in his best friend, Questor Dalquist, but Dalquist was only ten years older than he, and had never known Loras Afelnor. Crohn, however, had studied alongside Loras and had known him well.

  The old Magemaster might have put him through the gruelling Questor Ordeal, but Grimm knew Crohn to be an honourable man; he would not betray anything told him in confidence.

  "You are correct in assuming that I have such a mission in mind, Senior Magemaster,” he said, choosing his words with care, “but I will tell you that my association with Necromancer Numal has nothing to do with it. I have good reason to believe that Geomancy, witch magic, lies behind my grandfather's bizarre act. However, I have no reason to believe that the soul of the dead Prelate could communicate any useful information in this regard; the man was comatose in his last days. He is no tool or puppet in any plan of mine, I assure you.

  "As a former Charity boy, I recognise Numal's loneliness and feel drawn to him for this reason, and for this reason alone."

  Crohn's eyes seemed to burn into Grimm's soul for a few moments, and then he nodded. “That is as it should be. I cannot sway you from your heart's desire, nor would I wish to. I think you are deluded in this regard, but that is a personal opinion. I know I would do anything to ransom my own family name, had it ever been so tarnished. As long as you do not suborn House personnel to the furtherance of this ...

  this private Quest of yours, I have no objection. Just be careful on whose toes you tread whilst doing so, Grimm Afelnor. If I may be of any assistance to you in your search for truth, without transgressing House protocol, of course, do not hesitate to ask."

  "I will, Magemaster Crohn,” Grimm responded, smiling broadly. “Thank you for your forbearance, your kind offer and your understanding. Will you promise me that this matter remains confidential between us?"

  Crohn nodded. “I so swear, Questor. I hope one day you will find true peace and inner harmony, one way or the other. What you have said is already forgotten. Even the direct demand of Lord Thorn would not draw it from me."

  As Grimm opened his mouth to thank the Senior Magemaster again, he was interrupted by a cry from Magemaster Kargan: “Here comes our guest of honour!"

  Appearing nervous and sheepish, Numal appeared at the top of the stairs, bedecked in costly robes of green velvet. As he walked into the gallery, Grimm saw that he was accompanied by a dour man attired in a similar manner. There was little humour in the second man's face, and his pallor and bald head made him appear as almost a twin of the new mage. Only the seven gold rings on the man's staff clearly marked him as a se
parate individual.

  Crohn clapped his hands, and the assembled magic-users came to attention.

  "Gentlemen, in recognition of forty-three years of diligent study, let us all raise a glass to our new Mage Necromancer, Numal Falwort, and his estimable and indefatigable Adept Tutor, Necromancer Sheban!"

  Magemaster Kargan, as thoughtful as ever for the important things in life, handed full glasses to Grimm and Crohn.

  The pitiful assembly chorused, “To Numal and Sheban!"

  * * * *

  The revelries lasted into the small hours. All present drank more than their fill, but Grimm found the alcohol had little effect on him. He drank, almost as if possessed, but he felt no need to call on his staff, Redeemer, to clear his head. In the morning, he would leave to root out a dark, Geomantic evil at the heart of High Lodge itself, and he could not help but hope it might lead him a little further down the road to Loras’ exoneration Numal became morose and melancholy as he tossed back glass after glass of alcohol, and at one point he cried out, “When I was young, I wanted nothing more from my life than to make people laugh, to be happy. That person is dead, dead! You killed me! "

  Crohn stepped quickly into the breach, presenting the new mage with another glass of wine.

  “Necromancer Numal, you are in the company of brothers here. Be of good cheer! Gentlemen: another toast to the new mage!"

  "To the new mage!"

  Numal made no further outbursts, but Grimm thought, Poor bastard. That's what the Guild can do to a man. You can see it in Crohn, Thorn, Faffel, and even Kargan. What they did to me with insults and abuse, they did by grinding these men down with years of rules and regulations, stops, checks and bloody protocol. I'm never going to let that happen to me!

  Grimm raised his glass again. “Congratulations to you, Numal. May the Names bless and keep you."

  The new Necromancer appeared recovered after his earlier, emotional eruption, and his eyes almost focused on Grimm's.

  "To the ... to the Houshe!” he slurred, drinking.

  " The House! ” echoed Grimm and the other mages, but the Questor's mind was on other things.

  Tomorrow, he might need to face a monster. Despite the pity he felt for the lonely man, pressed into a calling he had never sought, Grimm made his excuses and left. He had a long day, or days, ahead of him.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 6: A Travelling Companion

  Grimm awoke early, with only wan, ruddy light creeping through his chamber window. After his customary, careful washing and grooming, he packed a large travelling-bag with the various accoutrements he would require for a stay of a week or so at High Lodge and sauntered down to the Refectory for breakfast. He had been given three days’ grace for the journey but, as the son of a blacksmith, he believed in striking while the iron was hot in more than one respect.

  Although he knew there would be no staff on duty at this early hour, tables set with various food items and fruit juices were always available at this time, since several dedicated mages preferred to breakfast before the hubbub of a hundred hungry Students shattered the dawn's blessed peace.

  On reaching the Refectory, Grimm felt no surprise to see several mages already taking their morning repasts. Five sat alone in silence, their attentions absorbed by scrolls or books, while four others sat in a huddled group, deep in earnest but quiet conversation.

  The young Questor, although his appetite this morning was keen, decided to take a frugal meal; an over-full stomach was not conducive to happy riding. A crusty roll, a small pickled fish and a glass of orange juice would have to suffice. As he moved to a table, he noticed a solitary figure hunched over a full plate. Although the mage's head was covered by a hood, Grimm noted his naked staff, bereft of any rings denoting status, marking him as a very recent addition to the senior ranks of the House. This silent figure could only be the new Necromancer, Numal.

  "Greetings, Brother Mage."

  Numal's head jerked up, and Grimm looked into a face of misery. The Necromancer's sallow complexion seemed even paler than usual, and the Questor could not help but notice Numal's bloodshot eyes.

  "Greetings, Grimm,” was the whispered reply. “Do you think you could talk a little more quietly?"

  Grimm suppressed a smile; Numal's malady was an easy one to cure. In a softer tone, he said, “Take hold of my Mage Staff, Numal. It has some very useful spells cast upon it. Don't worry, it can't hurt you if you touch it with my permission."

  The fledgling Necromancer reached out a trembling hand and clutched Redeemer. He shuddered as if palsied for a few moments, before falling back into his chair. Grimm was pleased to see that, although Numal's eyes were still red, they seemed more focused and clear.

  "Thank you, Grimm,” Numal said. “I needed that. How did you do it?"

  "It's just an application of the Minor Magics, Numal: a spell of Stability to steady your stomach and stop the world spinning around, and a spell of Clarity to clear your head. If you cast them on your staff, using the Third Instance, they'll stay there forever."

  "What do I use for activation energy?” the Necromancer asked.

  "They're simple enough spells,” Grimm said. “Body heat's more than adequate as a source of energy."

  The new mage eyed his neglected breakfast with renewed interest and began to attack it with vigour, while the younger man polished off his own.

  "I made a complete fool of myself last night, didn't I, Grimm?” Numal said, looking up from his breakfast.

  His face was ruddy, embarrassed.

  Grimm's shrugged. “Don't worry about it, my friend. ‘When the wine's in, the wit's out', as they say. I fell face-down into my food at my Acclamation feast. As I look back on it now, getting so drunk was unbelievably foolish. If you miscast a runic spell, it doesn't work and your hangover just gets worse. You can't miscast Questor magic; you invent it on the spot, but you can still make mistakes. As a Questor, I could have wrecked the place if I'd cut loose with the wrong spell while drunk. I understand there are quite a few regrettable accidents at Acclamation banquets; it's an opportunity to let your hair down after years of self-denial."

  "I don't have any hair,” was Numal's sullen reply.

  Grimm shrugged. “That's just a figure of speech. I'm sure a lot of mages lose control of their mouths at these affairs, and I doubt your heartfelt little outburst last night was any exception. Remember, I fell over and spewed my guts up in front of the Lord Prelate himself, so you can count yourself lucky."

  "Looks like he couldn't be bothered to turn up for a mere Necromancer's celebration,” the new mage observed. “You can bet if I'd been a Weatherworker, a Shapeshifter or..."

  "Or a Questor.” Grimm disliked the self-pitying tone in the Necromancer's words, and his mood was not improved by his growing headache.

  "I know it must look that way, Numal,” he continued, “but Magemaster Crohn told me Lord Thorn was in mortal combat with the quarterly accounts, or else he'd have been there."

  Numal, his expression still sour, opened his mouth to speak, but Grimm pre-empted him.

  "Numal, my friend, did you join the House as a Charity Student?"

  "Of course not: my tuition fees were paid by a trust fund set up by my now long-dead parents. They were keen enough to get rid of me, I noticed. Oh, I got to go home during Scholasticate closures, of course.

  All my parents ever asked me was how I was faring with my studies: about the Magemasters, what I was learning. But I don't think they ever asked about me, my wishes or my feelings. My parents were both teachers, and I don't think they cared about anything else in the world.

  "After seven years as a Student, and twenty more as a Neophyte, they died of Badlands sickness during some damned stupid expedition. Oh, the trust fund carried on paying for my tuition, and my uncle Baran, my father's brother, began to take me in during the holidays. He was no barrel of laughs, either. He was a merchant, and I think he thought more of his damned accounts than of me. Just like Lord T
horn."

  "My heart bleeds for you, Numal,” the Questor snapped. “I don't even remember my parents; they died when I was very small. You wanted to be an entertainer, and I wanted to be a blacksmith, like the father I never knew, and my grandfather. So I guess neither of us got what he wanted."

  Numal's mouth opened again, but Grimm interrupted him again. “Please let me finish, Necromancer Numal. Thank you. All right, I passed from Student to mage in ten years, but they were ten years in which I never set a foot outside the Scholasticate walls. Unlike you, I loved the people who brought me up, but I saw my grandmother only once in those long years. I didn't get to see my grandfather until after my Acclamation. My grandfather, Loras: the Renegade; The Oathbreaker; the Traitor. I'm sure you've heard of him."

  Numal's eyes opened wide. “You are his grandson?” His voice was no more than a whisper, as if Grimm had spoken blasphemy or treason.

  "I guess you can imagine how that glittering reputation brightened the days of a charity Student,” the young mage growled. “Traitor's spawn: that's a pleasant little nickname, isn't it? I spent ten years walled up here, eating slop with the rest of the paupers while you ate the finest food the Refectory has to offer. I studied hard; I had to, just to keep myself from being condemned to an endless period of meaningless servitude."

  Numal frowned and reasserted himself. “Ten years? You think that's a long time, Questor? I studied for four whole decades, just for a pretty ring and a piece of wood I made myself!"

  Grimm felt heat flooding into his face. “Oh, that's not all, Numal, not nearly all. During the last seven months of my blissful tenure as a pauper Neophyte, I was slapped, harangued, beaten, starved and reviled on a daily basis by my tutor. He gave the other boys free reign to add to my misery, without the least interference from the Magemasters. At the end of that, I became a Questor, but it was a close call between that and losing my mind. There were many, many days and weeks in those seven months that I gave serious thought to committing suicide, and only my determination to gain this pretty little ring sustained me.