Grimm Dragonblaster 4

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "What? Are you still here? Go on, tell me how I've made a dangerous enemy; I'd really like to hear that.

  Or will it be 'You haven't heard the last of me, Grimm Afelnor!' ? Maybe 'you've just made the biggest mistake in your life!' ?

  "I don't like you, Questor Guy, and you don't like me. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?"

  Guy's eyes bulged anew, and he appeared to be preparing to launch another verbal onslaught. Instead of that, he burst into rich, fulsome guffaws until tears fell from his eyes; to Grimm, the mercurial shift of emotion indicated that perhaps his detoxification spell had not been as effective as he had thought.

  "All right, you get away with it this time; your cheek is refreshing. As far as I'm concerned, you're still just a jumped-up Neophyte, but you do have a trace of style. You win this round.

  "I'll see you around, youngster. You, too, Granddad."

  With that, he slammed the door, and Grimm could hear him chuckling as he walked away.

  As the last sounds of Guy's alcoholic amusement died away, Grimm's cheeks blew out with a deep sigh of relief; despite his assertive confrontation with the volatile Questor, Grimm was not confident of what the ultimate outcome of a magical battle with him might have been. Guy was just too unreliable and unpredictable. Xylox might be just as objectionable, but at least he was constant and reliable in his obnoxiousness.

  Numal clapped the Questor on his left shoulder. “Well done, Questor Grimm! I thought there'd be some bad trouble between you there!"

  "Thank you, Numal."

  As the Necromancer's hand settled on Grimm's shoulder-blade, and began to stroke it in a more than friendly manner, moving ever lower, the Questor spun around, feeling his face growing hot.

  "Numal,” he said, “when I told you I didn't crave an intimate association with another man, I meant it. I wondered why you kept harping on about that subject with me! Feel free to be my friend, but don't feel me in any other way, or you and I may fall out.” His tone was low and threatening, and the Necromancer snatched back his hand as if it had been scalded.

  "I'm sorry, Grimm, I just thought..."

  "I know what you just thought, my friend. You were wrong. I won't say any more about it, and I won't tell anybody else as long as you keep your hands to yourself in future. Just go to bed, Numal—your own bed—and I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight."

  "Perhaps we could just have a friendly goodnight drink?” Numal suggested.

  "No, Numal. I've just had a very pleasant dream interrupted by that lunatic hooligan, and I'd like to try to get it back. Goodnight."

  "Goodnight, Questor Grimm."

  The older man's response was a little bleak, but, remembering Numal's earlier disparagement of his amatory preferences, Grimm did not feel in a charitable mood. He turned away from the Necromancer, got back into bed and hunched his blanket around him.

  "I think that's quite enough excitement for one day; don't you?” The young mage remembered the Illumination spell he had cast and quashed it, as if a candle had been snuffed, leaving the room in darkness.

  "Kindly shut the door behind you, Numal.” With that, he was asleep again; this time, he did not dream.

  * * * *

  Grimm awoke to birdsong outside his window, and realised he had overslept. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to care about the lapse in his usual daily schedule; he was now a Questor of the Seventh Rank, with a full Guild cognomen that would be published in the Deeds of the Questors. He was at peace, and he snuggled down again. This did not last long; a soft rap deterred him from sleep. Sighing, he pulled himself from his bed and opened the door. His visitor was Senior Vice-Assistant Under-Facilitator Shael, as he had suspected.

  "What? Not dressed yet, Questor Grimm? I understood that you preferred to rise almost as early as I do!"

  "I apologise ... Brother Mage.” The Questor knew how important Shael's wordy title was to the fussy little man, but Grimm could not remember it: and faulty recall seemed to hurt the flighty man. “My sleep was disturbed by an altercation between some nocturnal creatures."

  Shael nodded. “I am sorry to hear that.” He cleared his throat. “I am instructed to inform you that Lord Dominie Horin requests your presence in his chamber for breakfast!"

  This last was delivered with deep reverence and enthusiasm, and the newly-named Dragonblaster guessed that this was an honour beyond ordinary courtesy.

  Launching himself from the bed, he asked “How long do I have? I still need to bathe and to prepare myself."

  "An hour or so, Lord Grimm; I will escort you when you are prepared."

  Things move so fast these days, the young mage thought. One day, a simple blacksmith's boy; the next, a Saviour of the Guild.

  "My heartiest compliments to Lord Horin, for the honour he does me,” he said. “I will be ready and waiting for your call ... Senior ... Vice-Assistant ... Under-Facilitator Shael.” The broad smile on Shael's face told Grimm that he had remembered the labyrinthine title correctly.

  As if to reward Grimm's correct recall of Shael's new, coveted rank, the small mage clapped his hands twice, a broad beam lighting up his face. “An hour it is, Questor Grimm. I will inform Lord Horin that you are happy to accept his invitation."

  The Under-Facilitator bowed and left.

  As the door shut, Grimm sat on his bed and shook his head in amazement.

  To be in Lord Thorn's good books is one thing, he thought, but even to be noticed by the Dominie is supposed to be an honour. I've never even heard of a mage being asked to take breakfast with him!

  He wished Thribble were here with him now; what new tales the tiny demon would have concocted, with which to regale his underworld kin on his return! As it was, the imp would have to rely on the fragile, imperfect memory of a mortal from which to construct his stories.

  Still, Grimm knew he could not afford to lollygag around; he wanted to look his best for his meeting with Lord Horin. He had the distinct feeling that the Dominie might have something more than a convivial meal in mind.

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  Chapter 17: Breakfast With The Dominie

  "Enter, Questor Grimm."

  The Dominie's voice, so angry and uncontrolled the night before, now had the cold, measured tone expected of the Guild's senior mage.

  "Good luck, Questor Grimm,” Shael said, opening the door with a fluid movement. All the Questor could manage in response was a curt nod; he felt an uneasy, fizzing sensation in his stomach.

  Entering the room, Grimm saw that the room had been put back into pristine order after the previous night's altercation with Lizaveta. His eyes sucked in the sumptuous appointments of the room: rich panelling around the walls, an exquisitely-carved bookcase, and tasteful and expensive tapestries among them. Four deep, red-leather armchairs, a low table with alternating red and black inlays, and a number of finely-detailed bronze busts on pedestals completed the luxurious picture. The young mage admired the effect on the statues of the early morning light as it shone through a wide bay window sweeping around the chamber's round outer wall. The metal heads seemed almost to come to life as the pink light caressed them.

  "The busts are representations of my illustrious predecessors,” Horin said, standing in the centre of the room. “I see you admire them, as do most visitors to my inner sanctum."

  "They are magnificent, Lord Dominie,” Grimm breathed. “The whole room is."

  "Please be seated, young Questor,” Horin said, making a gesture towards one of the armchairs. Grimm, as protocol demanded, waited until the senior mage settled into his own chair before he sat, the leather creaking as it folded around his body. He held his breath as the Dominie leaned back in the chair.

  "You believe yourself very fortunate in your rapid accession to the Seventh Rank, I imagine, Questor Grimm."

  It sounded more like a statement of fact than a question, but Grimm felt obliged to make some response.

  "Yes, indeed, Lord Dominie."

  "I knew your grandfat
her, you know,” Horin said, as if changing the subject. “He was a most potent Questor, and a good companion, too, on the three Quests we faced together. His downfall was a great disappointment to me."

  Where's all this leading? Grim wondered, but he said nothing, since no reply seemed to be required or expected.

  "I was a Fifth Rank Weatherworker at Tattleford House when I heard the news that Questor Loras had been dismissed from the Guild, disgraced and dishonoured. I found it hard to credit that Loras would have acted in that manner, and I still do. What are your thoughts on the matter, Questor Grimm?” The Dominie's piercing blue eyes seemed to bore into Grimm's head, into his very soul.

  The Dragonblaster's thoughts whirled.

  Is he testing me? How much can I tell him of my suspicions? Why is Lord Horin raising this subject now? I thought he was barely aware of my name, let alone my antecedents!

  Still, an answer was necessary. Be careful, Afelnor, he counselled himself. This may be some kind of trap; he may be using the Sight on me.

  "I believe my grandfather meant no harm,” he said, struggling with a tongue that seemed unwilling to move. “Nonetheless, the Guild laws are clear in their strictures and cannot be ignored."

  Horin leaned forward, his glare intensifying. “Your real thoughts, please, Brother Mage. I am not trying to trap you or play with you. I want to know what you believe. Feel free to speak your mind; as long as you keep your words within the bounds of Guild decorum, you have my word that whatever you say will go no further."

  Grimm shuffled in his seat, feeling as if an angry horde of fire ants were trying to consume him. He must answer, but how much should he reveal of his suspicion? He could tell the Dominie's true intentions at once with ease by using his Sight, but the taboo against using this on such a senior mage was inculcated in every Guild mage from the day of his joining.

  To Perdition with it! Horin seems to mean what he says. I'll just have to trust him.

  "Lord Horin, I believe that Loras Afelnor was ensorcelled.” The words burst from his mouth as if they had a life of their own. “I feel sure he was compelled to act as he did by some external influence."

  He cleared his throat, and Horin motioned him to continue, his face impassive.

  "I believe a powerful Geomantic spell caused him to act as he did, Lord Dominie. I think my grandfather was compelled to attack Prelate Geral by means of witch magic,” Grimm said, feeling as if the words were being drawn from him like rusted nails from a plank of wood.

  Well, I've said it now, he thought. There's no going back from here, for good or ill.

  "Since the revelations of last night, I have come to suspect the same thing, young Afelnor,” Horin drawled, nodding slowly as he spoke, and Grimm felt a flush of relief that his suspicions had not been dismissed outright as nonsense.

  The Dominie sighed and rubbed his right temple, grimacing as if suffering from a severe headache.

  "Are you well, Lord Dominie?” Grimm inquired. “Shall I call a Healer or Herbalist for you?"

  Horin shook his head. “I did not sleep well last night, Questor Grimm. The ease with which that hideous old harridan was able to defeat my will disturbed me. I may be no Questor, but we Weatherworkers are reckoned third only to Questors and Mentalists in the control of our emotions. It is for this reason that I wished to see you this morning. From what I heard last night, it seems as if you and Prioress Lizaveta have crossed paths before."

  The young Questor hesitated. He felt loath to divulge the details of his infatuation with Madeleine, and his futile confrontation with the Prioress two days before.

  "The full, unvarnished truth, if you please, Brother Mage. Much may depend on it."

  Grimm drew a deep breath. “On my first visit to the Lodge, I was greeted by a young nun of Lizaveta's order, a girl of my own age named Madeleine, Lord Dominie. She was complimentary to me, and she seemed interested in my company for its own sake. I was well aware of the Guild customs concerning amatory entanglements—” customs which I have since flouted, he thought, “—but I found myself unable to care. I felt bewitched, and so I was."

  Horin raised a white eyebrow, nodding for Grimm to continue.

  "In a moment of introspection, I realised that the attraction felt like intoxication, and I invoked the spells resident in my staff to free myself from the effect of the spell. It was as if scales had fallen from my eyes, and I told the girl that I had discovered her deceit. I then went to Prioress Lizaveta and told her I had been ensorcelled by one of her Sisterhood. She assured me that Madeleine would be punished, and dismissed from the Order at once. I took her at her word and considered the matter settled."

  The Dominie leaned forward, his expression intent, but not one of outright condemnation. “You did not think to report this act to anybody else, Questor Grimm?"

  "I thought it a simple matter, no more than a flirtatious young girl's prank, Lord Horin."

  "I would hesitate to use the word ‘simple’ to describe that situation, young Afelnor!” the senior mage snapped. “A young witch controlling the will of a full Mage Questor can hardly be considered ‘simple'!"

  Is this some kind of test?

  "I admit to a certain degree of confusion at the time, Lord Dominie,” Grimm confessed.

  Horin gave a curt nod and bade him to continue in a noncommittal monotone.

  Grimm felt a nervous twitch in his right leg and fought to bring it under control before he spoke again.

  "That night,” he said with an accompanying sigh, “I ... I had a very vivid dream, in which I saw Prioress Lizaveta in the crypts of High Lodge with her acolytes. They..."

  His voice tailed off, and he cleared his throat. The memory disturbed him even more than it had on that night, now that he knew his supposed nightmare had been a vision of reality. He felt hot tears starting at the corners of his eyes, and he wiped them away with a savage sweep of his left hand.

  For several moments, he fought to bring his long-denied emotions under control. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, shaking his head, his breath shuddering and spasmodic. He rocked back and forth in the chair, in an attempt to come to terms with the horror he had witnessed on that night.

  Horin leaned forward in his chair and put his hand on Grimm's knee in an almost fatherly gesture, and his rough voice grew kinder: “Take your time, Questor Grimm; this may be important. We can put Mage Speech aside for a while, if it makes it easier for you. I'm not trying to condemn you or rebuke you; I just wish to know what you know."

  With a final, convulsive jerk, Grimm pushed his conflicting emotions to the back of his mind, as he had been taught. Bringing his breathing under control once more, he nodded.

  "Thank you, Lord Horin. I can continue now,” he said. “I was about to impart to you that I saw the Prioress and her acolytes butcher Madeleine's bruised, ravaged corpse and drink her blood in some vile ceremony. At the time, I considered it a ghastly nightmare, and no more than that."

  "As I told you, forget Mage Speech,” Horin commanded. “It may cloud the truth on occasion—as, in fact, it is intended to do. Tell me all you can, without elaboration. I gather you don't consider it a dream anymore."

  Grimm smoothed his hair back, although it was not obstructing his vision. Displacement activity, a dispassionate voice in his head said, although he paid it little heed.

  "Thank you, Lord Dominie. No, I don't. Necromancer Numal recently heard my story and told me I'd travelled on the astral plane, that what I saw then was a true vision."

  Horin clasped his hands across his chest and settled back in his seat. “And that's what led you to the crypts last night?"

  The young mage nodded. “It was just as I'd seen it in my vision. Questor Guy found a secret compartment in Lizaveta's throne, with scraps of cloth and bones in it. I recognised a piece of violet cloth as being from Madeleine's dress, and I realised Lizaveta's must have gained much of her power through human sacrifice. The blood soaked into the ground beneath the Lodge, linking her t
o the earth and allowing her to spread her power throughout the building. I used a form of Gathering spell to pull the blood out of the rock, and I used a spell of Dissolution on the throne and its contents..."

  At that moment, Grimm heard a knock on the door and shut his mouth. A fair-haired male servant, perhaps no older than he, entered the room with a large wheeled trolley piled high with delicacies.

  "Thank you, Uru; that looks splendid.” Horin smiled, as if the two mages had been doing no more than discussing the weather. Uru bowed, a broad smile on his thin face. “Kindly pass the word to the Senior Doorkeeper that I wish no more interruptions until further notice. That will be all."

  The servant bowed and left, making hardly a sound as he closed the door behind him.

  Horin waited a few moments and turned his gaze back to the young Questor. The older man's eyes looked like twin cannon-mouths, both aimed at him.

  "Where were we, Questor Grimm? Ah, yes, you'd just defeated Lizaveta's plans for suborning your Dominie, and perhaps the entire Guild! May I ask why you didn't choose to bring this ‘simple little prank’

  to somebody's attention at once?"

  It is a bloody test! Oh, well, here we go.

  "I went to see Prioress Lizaveta on the previous night, Dominie, to see if I could sound her out,” he confessed. “She became ... amorous with me, or so it seemed to me. I pushed her away, and she ... she told me there was no point in complaining to you because she was in your favour. I took that to mean she had you under some sort of control, and I thought it better if I took the initiative."

  Horin grunted. “I've heard that about you, Afelnor. Capricious, headstrong and insubordinate: those are just some of the words I've heard used to describe you. I could also add the words impetuous, wilful and obstinate to the list. Is that a fair assessment of your character, Questor Grimm?"

  Grimm felt as if he had been punched in the face. The old man had cajoled him, sympathised with him and led him on, only to slap him down. The young mage knew in his heart that those harsh words had been in, all probability, quoted from Xylox's report on his last Quest.