Grimm Dragonblaster 4

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "I'm in,” Quelgrum said, swiftly covering the wager.

  Soon, the mahogany top of the bar was covered in gold. Grimm, despite his efforts to keep his mind stable, felt his rationality starting to slip as his body exerted its imperative demands for life-sustaining oxygen, overriding his conscious control. He must act, without delay!

  "Guy, Numal, use your Mage Sight, to ensure there's no cheating. Winner takes all. A deep breath, now.

  Go!"

  All five of his companions inhaled in unison, and Grimm saw Guy's and Numal's eyes widen. With luck, they had seen the same bizarre anomaly he had, and the Questor gestured with his eyebrows, indicating that the mages should continue to hold their breath.

  Twenty seconds passed. Quelgrum blinked, and the young Questor thought he saw a glimmer of rationality in the General's eyes.

  After thirty-five seconds, Crest's expression became confused, and he opened his mouth. Grimm shook his head, his eyes blazing. The half-elf closed his lips again.

  Harvel was the last to react. The inane smile departed from his lips, and the swordsman's face slumped into an expression of baffled concern.

  Grimm knew he had made his point, but what to do? No man could hold his breath forever. Already, he was beginning to feel his lungs burning, threatening to rebel.

  "We're getting out of here,” Guy gasped, with the last dregs of his breath. "Now!"

  The six men rose as one and headed for the door, still resisting the urge to inhale, their faces purpling with the effort.

  "You haven't paid your bar bill, gentlemen,” the bartender called, and Grimm flapped a hand at the pile of money on the counter. He saw a flunky, moving in to intercept the group. He pretended to stumble, shouldering the man aside in the process. At last, the group gained the grounds of the Mansion House and breathed in the sweet, untainted air.

  Whatever evil influence resided within the House, it doesn't seem to extend outside the building, Grimm thought, as he pulled in lungful after lungful of the blessedly clean atmosphere. His mind remained unaffected.

  "You'll catch your death out here, gentlemen,” the servant who had followed the group outside pleaded, wringing his hands. “Please come back inside; your next two rounds will be free."

  "We wouldn't miss it for the world,” the quick-thinking Quelgrum said, favouring the footman with a beaming smile. “This is a lovely place, we just want to clear our heads after all that drinking."

  "It's not healthy out there, sirs. Please come back in!"

  "Let me just explain something.” The General stepped closer to the young footman. Without warning, the soldier stabbed two stiff fingers under the servant's breastbone. The flunky's eyes bulged, and he slumped; he would have fallen, but Quelgrum caught him in a crooked arm.

  "That's torn it,” Crest said. “What do we do now? We can't go back inside."

  "Well, at least we know there's something funny going on in there,” Harvel replied. “But I feel naked without a blade. What do we do?"

  "Oh, my! The barman's coming out,” Numal said, back to his old, nervous self.

  Whereas the footman had been a youthful, slender stripling, the barman looked like the unlikely progeny of a beer-barrel and an angry she-bear. He stood well over six feet in height, and his shoulders seemed almost as broad. The bartender might be a little corpulent, but Grimm could tell that plenty of muscle lay beneath the layers of blubber.

  "Now, what's going on here?” the barman demanded. “If you think twelve gold pieces are going to cover your bar bill, you've got another think coming! Come back inside, and we'll discuss it. I may be able to make a discount in your case..."

  The barrel-shaped man's eyes widened as he saw the unconscious doorman nestled in Quelgrum's left arm. “What's happened to Challer, here?"

  "I'll handle this, granddad,” Guy muttered to Numal, compressing his mouth into a grim, humourless slit and striding towards the steward. He babbled in his personal magic tongue, following the chant with the clear word, "Sleep!"

  The still-standing barman shouted, “You needn't try any of your foul Guild mind-magic with me! I'll call the—"

  Guy cursed under his breath. Instead of trying another spell, he whipped Nemesis around in a blurring arc, catching the portly man on the left temple. Grimm heard a sickening crack, and the bartender fell like an overbalanced pencil.

  "Lovely,” the older mage said, with a satisfied smile, turning a single syllable into three. This time, his cheerful expression seemed genuine and unforced. “I enjoyed that."

  "Is he dead? ” Numal asked, his face pale.

  "Who cares, old man?” Guy's expression resembled that of a cream-sated cat.

  The concept of a Necromancer being scared at the prospect of a dead body struck Grimm as intensely amusing, and he burst into laughter.

  "Don't worry; this is just me laughing,” he said, between a pair of paroxysms. With some effort, he regained control, mastering the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm him.

  "I'm sorry about that,” he said to nobody in particular. “I'm just relieved to be out of that ... whatever it is."

  "I think I know what it is,” Quelgrum said. All heads turned to face the old soldier, who still cradled the unconscious Challer. The General lowered the slender man onto the greensward at his side.

  "Well, don't just keep us in suspense, General!” Harvel cried. “Tell us what it is, and what we can do against it!"

  "I believe you've met Administrator Armitage from Haven Station, Lord Baron?"

  Grimm nodded, suppressing a shiver at his memories of his travails within Armitage's steel fortress in the Shest Mountains.

  "Well, once Armitage told me he had experimented with the control of malcontents by what he called

  ‘pheromones'. They're perfectly natural substances, and we all have them. I don't fully understand it myself, but they influence the way we feel and act. I think they're spewing them into the air in Mansion House. We're pulling them into our bodies with every breath.

  "I think they have similar substance in the Pit, to turn us all into bloodthirsty maniacs, and to make us bet all our money. Whatever it is, the air holds the key. Thank you, Questor Grimm, for showing us the way.

  I should have realised, when my serious doubts began to fade away for no reason. Thank you for saving me from myself."

  The young mage heard a chorus of thanks from the other members of the party, and felt almost embarrassed at the sincerity of the responses.

  Even the acerbic, sardonic Questor Guy chose to speak: “I'd probably have spotted it myself before long, youngster, but thanks, anyway."

  The remark seemed to the young mage like pure Guy, and he felt much happier after hearing it. “Right, gentlemen; what do we do now?” he said, confident that his thoughts were once more his own. It was time to put this Quest back on track! “Come on, fellows! We still haven't seen Chudel, and Tordun may be in danger. What's the betting they've persuaded him to fight for them?"

  "Tordun in danger? ” Crest said. “With all due respect, Questor Grimm, I think the man can take care of himself, even if he's addled out of his mind by some sort of chemical influence. He's a big boy now.

  Better think how we can take care of ourselves in there, without weapons."

  "Crest's right,” Guy said. “Forget about Tordun for the moment. How do we avoid the effects of these damned pheromone things?"

  "What about this Chudel fellow?” Harvel demanded. “Come on, mage, you were the one who said it: we've got a mission to fulfil. What do we do?"

  Grimm rubbed his brow, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. For the first time, he realised— truly realised—the meaning of authority. For the first time in his life, he knew he could look to nobody else to make a decision for him; even Quelgrum stood silent, looking to him for guidance. This was his call, and his alone.

  The young man felt small, incapable and helpless for a few moments. He felt horrified that all these older, more experienced men sought his
guidance, but he knew he must be strong, even if he had no idea of how to proceed.

  Quelgrum told you what to do, back in Crar! he reminded himself. "Don't try to do everything; delegate what you can't do!” Guy is just waiting for you to make a fool of yourself; don't give him the satisfaction of floundering.

  He felt the first stirrings of a plan in his mind, and smiled.

  "Right, everybody, pay attention!” he said, unconsciously mimicking Quelgrum's military style. Even if the General noticed this, he did not betray the fact in his face.

  "Going back inside Mansion House will soon turn us into smiling idiots; we know that. On the other hand, the Pit will be opening soon. Tordun is probably in there, so that's where we'll go.” It sounded so simple to Grimm, almost idiotic in its simplicity; but it was a plan of sorts.

  "And just how are we supposed to control ourselves in there?” Guy's tone was as sour as it ever had been. “They've got these bloody pheromone things in the air there, as well as in the main house."

  Grimm yearned for Quelgrum to interrupt with some Technological insight or advice, but the General did not speak. The Questor cleared his throat, trying to buy a little time for thought.

  This stratagem did not work; his mind seemed no clearer, and all eyes were still fixed upon him. It felt as if it were time to say something; anything...

  "Mansion House makes us happy, and the Pit makes us angry and overconfident,” he said at last. “I'm hoping we can turn those feelings to our advantage.” The young mage wished he felt more confident about his hastily-assembled half-theory as the other members of the group stared at him.

  "They're going to be looking for us,” he continued, sure of this fact, at least. “They expect us to be at the Pit tonight, so they can spring some sort of surprise on us. We'll be there, but ready for action."

  He began to realise he was enjoying this. “If they want a ‘fight', they've got one!” he cried. “We're not going to stand in line, like good little boys; we're going to barge in with full force. All right; I know there are no swords or daggers, but use your imagination. Punches, knee-thrusts into the groin, head-butts, anything! Don't worry about the really big fellows; Questor Guy and I will take care of them."

  "Thank you so much, Brother Mage,” Guy muttered. “What about these wonderful magical wards they seem to have?"

  "Don't worry, Questor Guy!” Grimm crowed, borne on a natural wave of emotion that owed nothing to pheromones. “They certainly don't seem immune to a Mage Staff, and the only spells we've tried on them so far are Compulsions: other magic may prove more effective.

  "We have three Mage Staves between us, and two of us have more lethal spells in our armouries than mere Compulsions. From what the barman said, I get the feeling they think mind-magic is our limit; they won't know what hit them! Stand by; the Pit'll be opening soon.

  "Don't worry: judgement is at hand! "

  Guy shrugged and rolled his eyes, while Crest and Numal gave feeble cheers, even if their manner was a little florid.

  "Not bad, I suppose,” Quelgrum drawled to Grimm, out of the hearing of the other men. “You could always have said ‘ Glory or Destiny awaits;’ that's always a good one."

  "I have no idea how this works, General,” Grimm, muttered, his cheeks white with suppressed anger and embarrassment, “but I'm doing the best I can."

  The old soldier smiled and spread his hands wide. “I'm only jesting, Lord Baron; I'm with you. The best form of defence is attack; that's the oldest dictum of war I know. We're unprepared; we're nervous, and we're angry, and you're still trying to be the charismatic commander. Trust me: it doesn't suit you right now, although it may work better later on. A simple ‘let's go’ works better in just about all cases."

  In a louder voice, the General said, “I'm with you, Lord Grimm. Let's go!” As Quelgrum had said, this motivated the men better than pompous rhetoric.

  As one man, they surged towards the milling crowd in front of the Pit doors. Grimm felt unsure of what the outcome might be. He realised that the team had moved outside their mandate by risking the outcome of the Quest, just to save one man who might be in no danger.

  Mr. Chudel might flee from the destruction of the Pit, and Grimm's group might never learn where Lizaveta had gone. However, the Questor did not care. He was not acting for honour, for the poor, duped souls who trooped here every night, or even for the Guild, but for Grimm Afelnor. He wanted destruction; he wanted revenge for having been turned into a smiling fool.

  And, by the Names, he would have it.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 31: “Let's Raise The Roof!"

  A large group of fight-lovers had already begun to assemble outside the Pit, but the young mage felt in no mood to wait in line; he eyed the heavy, oak doors, with a view to affecting a simpler, more expedient method of entry. He still harboured worries about the ever-present pheromones in the building's atmosphere, but he kept these doubts to himself.

  I think a little ventilation would be just the thing, Grimm thought, assessing the building's destructibility. Although the walls of the Pit were constructed of solid, unyielding stone, the mage guessed the high, domed roof was suspended by timber alone. He remembered the previous night's revelries, when the invisible Master of Ceremonies had exhorted the audience to cheer, as he introduced a pair of combatants: "Ladeez ‘n’ gennelmen, let's really raise the roof for the next two fighters!"

  If they want the roof razed, who am I to argue? An open-air spectacle will be just the thing!

  He saw a pair of figures running towards them. He recognised the more slender of the two men as Keller, but he could not identify the Pit-master's scarred, bulky companion.

  "Ah, gentlemen, I was afraid we'd lost you,” Keller said, wheezing a little. Although the bald man seemed nonchalant, his trembling hands betokened nervousness. “I see you couldn't wait any longer. Of course, we don't normally open up for another hour or so, but I'm sure we can make an exception for our most honoured guests..."

  "Thank you very much for your kind offer, Keller,” Guy drawled, continuing to stride towards the dark grey edifice. “We would greatly prefer to affect our own entry, if you have no objection."

  Keller's broad smile now seemed a little strained, his brows knitted in incomprehension as he trotted beside the Questor. The Pit-master appeared quite ludicrous, making small, hopping movements in an attempt to keep up. Grimm relished the slender man's apparent bafflement, noting that Guy had used Mage Speech for the first time since the group had arrived at Mansion House; this meant that serious business was at hand.

  "I don't understand. What do you mean by ‘affecting your own entry', Guy?"

  "To you, worm, I am ‘Questor Guy,'” the mage snapped. “Your foul deception is discovered, so you may abandon all pretence of amicability. This is your last exposition, Keller. The show is over."

  Grimm saw the Pit-master's face turn from pink to white in a few seconds, as if sick realisation had began to sink into his brain. Guy raised his staff, ready to strike, and the younger Questor felt a shock of alarm; only the Pit-master might be able to guide the group through the intricacies of the Technological maze that might await them.

  "Wait, Guy, we need—"

  The scarred man chose that moment to leap towards Guy, before the mage could land his blow. In a moment, Keller's scarred companion, moving faster than seemed possible for such a large man, snapped a gaudy ring around the Questor's neck. In shock, Guy dropped his staff and clutched at the lustrous ring, trying in vain to remove it.

  Keller retreated, reaching a hand into his pocket, and Guy fell to the ground, thrashing and flailing in the throes of some kind of seizure.

  Grimm swung Redeemer in a wide arc at the larger assailant, but the muscle-bound man danced away, out of range of the staff.

  "Nice try, Guild filth,” he spat.

  Harvel rushed in, and the muscular man swung a blurring haymaker that landed flush on the point of the swordsman's chin. Harvel c
ollapsed as if pole-axed, and the warrior turned at once on the advancing Quelgrum, who wore a grim smile on his lips.

  "I believe this is my dance,” the older man hissed, and the two fighters began to circle each other, each waiting for an opening.

  As Keller raced towards the sanctuary of the Pit building, Grimm readied a spell to launch at the fighter.

  His concentration was interrupted by Crest's urgent call: “Questor Grimm! We've got company!"

  The elf had not lied. Grimm saw six, green-clad man rushing towards the diminished party, Technological projectile weapons at the ready, and swore. Guy and Harvel were hors-de-combat; Quelgrum was engaged with the muscular fighter; Crest was weaponless, and Numal had no offensive magic save his staff. What had seemed to be a simple manner had turned into a debacle.

  The Questor shouted, “Stand behind me! They can't hurt me!"

  He faced the sentries as Crest and Numal obeyed his curt command. One of the guards raised his weapon, fired and fell in an instant, as Grimm's borrowed Charm of Reversal did its work, sending the invisible projectile back to its origin. The young mage first saw the value of such a charm when he borrowed Xylox's periapt in the depths of Haven.

  The green-clad warriors fell back in disarray, and Grimm felt a shiver of satisfaction run through him. He drew his power into a taut, neat skein of fibres of force, and pointed at the group of soldiers.

  "Sk'k'kaatema!"

  The mage felt the energy leaping from his brain, running in a thrilling stream along the nerves of his extended arm until it erupted from the tip of his right index finger.

  Nothing happened, but Grimm did not expect any immediate reaction. He knew the spell had taken hold, literally, of two of the men.

  The Questor grunted as he clasped his right hand into a fist and thrust it skywards. With shouts and screams of dismay, the sentries flew up into the air, spilling equipment from their pockets as they tumbled upwards, with arms and legs flailing.

  Remembering a phrase he had heard from Foster, the Haven pilot, Grimm muttered, “Happy landings, gentlemen,” and he released his hold on the hapless soldiers.