Dragonblaster cogd-5

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "Would you boys mind keeping it down a little?” Crest said. “I've still got a little bit of a headache."

  Grimm could tell from the stiff expression on the thief's face that Crest, too, was making an effort not to laugh.

  Guy, his face now suffused with red, snatched up his bundle of sticks, tossing them in front of the wagon.

  "I think you'll need to bring another small load or two, Questor,” the foppish swordsman, Harvel, called as he rubbed oil into his leather armour. “That load seems a bit short!"

  The storm broke; Quelgrum burst into a mighty, explosive guffaw, his face as red as Guy's, tears running down his ruddy cheeks. Harvel was the next to join in, followed by Crest.

  "Hold still, Crest!” Grimm cried, trying to pin the bandage in position. “I'll never get this little pin in if you keep squirming…"

  "That's Questor Guy's problem!” Harvel screamed, his face streaming with tears.

  With a manful effort, Grimm tried to rein in the tickle within his entrails, but one look at Guy's angry, red, old man's face lost him the brief battle. He exploded into a short series of staccato hiccups that soon cascaded into an unstoppable stream of laughter.

  His almost hysterical state might be out of all proportion to the juvenile humour of the sallies, but he had had little about which to laugh since the start of the Quest.

  It's therapeutic, he thought, as he clutched his sides and rolled from side to side. Better out than in, they say…

  This last thought, for some reason, evoked further laughter from him.

  At last, the hilarity died down to a few brief chuckles, as an angry Numal, wearing Guy's body, strode into the small encampment.

  "What is the matter with you fellows?” he demanded, in a guttural voice. “I've been out hunting all morning, and I find you all sitting around, giggling like schoolgirls! I just want you to know that I've had a thoroughly unproductive morning, and I'm fed up. I'm no country boy, and I know we've got stores of preserved food with us; why don't we just use them?"

  Grimm still felt the aching in his cheeks and ribs, but he welcomed the Necromancer's timely intervention.

  "We have enough food for maybe three weeks, Numal,” he said in a calmer voice. “We didn't expect to be held up by serious injuries, and we're not really sure what lies ahead of us. It's better to save what we've got until we really need it. Believe me, it's better that way."

  "I still don't know what you expect me to do,” Numal said in an aggrieved tone. “I don't know whether the plants and fungi are poisonous or edible, and I have no idea how I'm meant to use these damned snares."

  The Necromancer held out a handful of slender, jangling, metal contrivances, as if they were evidence in some city trial.

  Quelgrum snapped the hanging end from a knotted thread with his teeth and stood up. “It's all right, Numal,” he said. “I'm feeling a lot better now, and I often had to hunt for food in my fugitive youth. Hand me those snares, and I'll fetch us enough food for a meal worthy of any King."

  Grimm saw that the General's dark, purple bruises had already begun to fade into shades of brown and yellow. It seemed that the old man still retained considerable powers of regeneration, despite his advanced age.

  Taking the snares from the irascible Numal, the General headed into the woods surrounding the hill, whistling a merry tune as he walked

  The young Questor turned to the unwillingly-juxtaposed Guy, who still bore a dark frown on his face.

  "I'm sorry, Guy,” he said. “I didn't mean to laugh at you, but we just needed some release; any release."

  "That's all very well,” the older Questor replied in a discordant rumble, “You've had your little schoolboy laugh, but it doesn't help Numal or me. How long do we have to live like this, before the old man works out how to use my voice to cast his bloody spell? I'd do it myself, if I had the faintest idea what he'd done to put me in this clapped-out, old body."

  Grimm sighed. If Guy intended to moan and grumble until the party was ready to move on, this would be a most unpleasant stop-over.

  "I'll tell you what,” he said, regarding the older man's sour expression, “I'll have a word with Numal to see if I can get the hang of the spell."

  "That's all I need: a bloody adolescent wonder-boy, poking his face into my affairs."

  Despite the lined, grandfatherly face, Grimm recognised the same sarcastic, dismissive mage he had first encountered in High Lodge, and he bridled. The young Questor stepped into the cover of the concealing greenery and beckoned to the stooped figure. To his surprise, the haughty mage acceded to Grimm's imperious gesture, without meeting his eyes.

  "That's fine by me; fix it yourself, esteemed Brother Mage!” the young Questor hissed, rage blazing within him. “I've just about had enough of your whining. Sort out your own problems in future, and stop moaning about it to me; I don't care anymore, and I don't think anybody else does. After what Numal did for you, you should be grateful to be alive, not griping about how unfair life has been to you!

  "Since I first met you, all you've ever done is to belittle and disparage people. It seems to me you consider yourself the acme of your own little universe, so enjoy it while you may.

  "You're a Questor, just like me, so I know you didn't always dress in silk finery; whether you like it or not, you're no different to me."

  Guy opened his mouth, but Grimm glared at him with an intensity born of a hatred for the Prioress that even the old witch's hate-filled grandson could never hope to match. The older man seemed to be pushed back by the ferocity of the Dragonblaster's passion, and he remained silent: a minor victory in itself.

  "You may feel slighted because you felt you should have had better treatment in your House's Scholasticate,” Grimm said, “but I grew up with the ever-present assumption that penury and maltreatment were my inevitable lot in life. You hate your grandmother, Lizaveta, because she condemned you to a life below your expectations; I detest her because I know she caused my grandfather's name-my name-to be reviled throughout the Guild."

  Realising his fists were tightly clenched, Grimm relaxed them. His fight was not against Guy Great Flame; it was against the witch, Lizaveta, the root cause of both mages’ problems.

  "What would you rather be?” he continued. “An anonymous pauper despised for his lack of social status but respected for his success in the Ordeal; or the Renegade's Spawn, loathed for his grandfather's treason? I have laboured under that stigma since I was seven years old, and I grew up believing that it was all true: my beloved grandfather was a damned, bloody murderer! Now, I know Lizaveta was behind all of that, and I intend to make her pay for every single insult I had to endure as a Student.

  "Compared to what I had to face as a child, Great Flame, your life must have been a bloody picnic!"

  To Grimm's surprise, the wrinkled lips just smiled. “I can see I've misjudged you, Grimm: you're no different to me, are you?” the juxtaposed mage croaked. “You aren't just some jumped-up little nobody trying to make a name for himself, are you? You hate the old witch just as much as I do; maybe more so!

  "It isn't just a Guild Quest for you, is it, youngster? You're just as hungry for revenge as I am!"

  Grimm tried to speak, but could not do so; the older Questor had touched a sensitive nerve.

  Guy/Numal slapped him on his right shoulder. “Don't worry, Grimm, I understand: you're only human after all."

  Numal/Guy walked, or rather shambled, over to the woodpile and tripped, sprawling prone in front of the wagon.

  "I want my own body back!” the imprisoned Necromancer yelled, hoisting himself back to his feet. “As I told the General, I even have trouble peeing, because these damned legs are too bloody long: I find it difficult to stand still long enough to finish."

  A brief moment of silence ensued, and Grimm shot a stern glance at the old soldier, who just shrugged.

  "What's the matter,” Numal croaked. “Did I say something wrong?"

  "But I thought…!” Harvel started, hi
s face reddening before he started to laugh again. This time, even Guy joined in the mirth.

  ****

  Lizaveta sat on her magnificent, gilded throne and pounded a long rod on the flagstones. The nervous, chattering nuns before her became silent, assuming positions of religious modesty as they knelt before their Superior.

  "Sister Judan; I declare you Mistress of this solemn ceremony,” the Prioress intoned. “We are all in your hands; I entrust to you the success of our endeavour."

  "Thank you, Reverend Mother,” the matronly nun said, rising to her feet. “May I address the Conclave?"

  "Please do so, Sister,” Lizaveta replied. “As I told you, for the purposes of this Great Spell, you may consider yourself an Authority over all present, including me."

  The Prioress could not be sure, but she imagined she detected a faint sparkle of triumph in Judan's grey, bespectacled eyes, as the nun scanned a thick sheaf of papers.

  "I would like to call the Score to order,” Judan said in a curt, businesslike manner.

  "Is the room sealed, Sister Ulian?” she asked of a short nun in her thirties.

  "It is, Sister Judan."

  "Sister Ellen; do you have the bees’ eyes?"

  "I regret that I was unable to obtain a sufficient quantity at such short notice,” Ellen replied, a stout, red-faced woman who looked as if she might have felt more at home in a laundry than a nunnery. “Consulting my own notes, I took the liberty of substituting dragonflies’ eyes for one-third of the requirement, and wasps’ eyes for the remaining three-eighths. I hope this will be satisfactory."

  A spark of annoyance in her eyes, Judan riffled through her papers. “The quantities are exact?"

  "To within a drachm or so, Sister,” Ellen said. “I was careful to use only green dragonflies and wood wasps. I used a flint blade for removing the dragonflies’ eyes, of course, rather than one of obsidian."

  Judan leafed through her notes for a few minutes more before replying. “The signatures match; however, I see that I will need to adjust the cadence of the second phase of the third chant."

  Taking forth a pencil from within her robes, the nun scribbled on the relevant page, pausing at intervals to scan the ceiling, muttering as she did so. Three times, she scored through her calculations and began anew, before pronouncing herself satisfied.

  "The lodestone dust is sufficiently fine, I trust, Sister Sofia?"

  "Sieved twenty-eight times, as required, Sister,” Sofia said, her large, long-lashed, blue eyes at odds with her stern expression. “I followed your instructions to the letter.

  "I trust you used a pure asem mirror, Sister?"

  "Of course… Sister!"

  Judan's eyes blazed at the girl's affronted, impertinent voice. “Do not dare to take that tone with me!” she snapped. “When the spell is complete, you may subject yourself to three hours of Penitence of the third grade!"

  Sofia's blue eyes widened and her jaw dropped: Judan had condemned her to lie prone on a layer of sharp stones, with her arms raised behind her like wings. The least movement would result in a lash from a steel-tipped martinet held by a watchful attendant.

  "Can Sister Judan do that, Reverend Mother?” The words burst from the girl's lips as if torn from her, and she raised an imploring gaze to the Prioress. “I worked for many hours on my preparations!"

  "Sister Judan is the Authority here, Sister Sofia,” Lizaveta hissed. “She may assign any punishment she wishes, as you should know well.

  "However, you have compounded your error by disregarding Custody of the Eyes. Your sentence is hereby extended to four hours, and I shall be your attendant during the Penitence. “I trust you will apply yourself to your work here with diligence; I should not like to have to condemn you to a Penitence of the fourth grade. Apologise at once!"

  A slight, weak girl like Sofia would be unlikely to survive such an ordeal, and her expression showed that she knew this only too well.

  "I apologise with full humility, Reverend Mother, Sister Judan and all my beloved Sisters,” Sofia breathed, lowering her eyes and prostrating herself before the conclave.

  "Apology accepted, Sister Sofia,” Lizaveta said, favouring the prone nun with a curt nod. “Should you perform well tonight, I may choose to substitute a horsewhip for the martinet, if Sister Judan is amenable to this."

  "I have no objection, Reverend Mother,” Judan replied, curtseying. “May I continue? We have many other stipulations and conditions to consider, and the spell must be cast within the next two hours if it is to succeed."

  "Please carry on, Sister. You may rise, Sister Sofia.

  "Thank you for your indulgence, Reverend Mother."

  Judan consulted her detailed, specific notes for the next ninety minutes, firing pointed questions at each Sister in turn; every woman present had a vital role to perform, if the spell was to succeed.

  A few Sisters confessed to minor failures of attention or detail, and two nuns were condemned to minor punishments for their transgressions. At each negative report, Judan made adjustments to her calculations but, at last, she declared herself satisfied.

  "Sisters, please go to your posts!” she cried, consulting a small compass. “Reverend Mother, may I ask you to move to your left a little? Thank you."

  "Sister Vanar; the brand should be in your left hand, you idiot!” Judan screamed, departing for a moment from her tutelary mien.

  "My apologies, Sister."

  "Hmm. Tribunes; please move a little closer together… more… thank you. Sister Jana, raise your left arm a little higher… there. Thank you-hold that pose.

  "Reverend Mother; we are ready."

  "Carry on, Sister Judan."

  "Sister Moran; the first chant, if you please!"

  The spell was under way.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 3: The Summoning

  The two armed guards at the entrance to Grimm's tower in Crar had strict standing orders to challenge any person approaching the building. In the case of Shakkar, however, such niceties were waived; there was little chance of any miscreant being able to disguise himself as the titanic demon Seneschal.

  "Good evening, gentlemen,” Shakkar rumbled to the watchmen. “Have you anything to report?"

  "Nothing, Lord Seneschal,” the two green-uniformed men chorused, saluting with crisp precision. “All is quiet."

  "Is Lady Drexelica in residence?” the demon asked. “I wish to discuss next week's Archery Tournament with her."

  "I've been on guard since noon, Lord Seneschal,” the senior guard said, a grizzled, shaven-headed sergeant by the name of Erik. “Lady Drexelica hasn't left the tower since then, and the last shift had nothing to report when I relieved them. We change shift at midnight, and I'll be sure to tell our replacements you're in the building, when we change over in five minutes or so."

  "Thank you, Sergeant,” Shakkar said as the guards stepped aside to allow him entry to the tower.

  When he had first accepted the post of Seneschal, Shakkar had felt uncertain of his ability to deal with these scatter-brained, weak mortals, and even of how to control his own temper. Nonetheless, he had found himself beginning to admire these short-lived, frail creatures, as they sought to cram their brief existences as full as they could.

  At first, he had considered that wasting public money on frivolities, such as the Archery Tournament, was ill-advised at best, but he had noted that the citizens of Crar seemed more efficient in their work when thus entertained, and he had actually begun to find pleasure in the smiles and laughter of the townspeople. Likewise, he had found his duty to guard the young female to be irksome at the start of his role. She prattled, and she even consulted the demon over trivia such as clothes: he had believed such human matters beneath him.

  Since that time, he had recognised the poor female's need for company and conversation, and he began to look forward to their brief meetings. He was a little late tonight, but he knew that Drex rarely retired to bed before one o'clock in the mo
rning.

  Reaching the entrance to the day-room, the demon tapped on the heavy door with his talons.

  "Come in, Shakkar,” came a cheerful voice from within. “Don't worry; I'm decent."

  The demon shook his head; he had never understood how the sight of an unclothed female form might be expected to arouse lust in him. However, after several such encounters, he had begun to realise that concealment of the body was important to these feminine creatures in all but a few, intimate circumstances, and he now respected her wishes to the letter.

  On entering the day-room, he was not surprised to see Lady Drexelica examining herself in a hand-mirror; she seemed to do this often, although the demon never understood why; did she believe her face changed from day to day?

  "Do you like my hair, Shakkar?” she asked, putting down the looking-glass and facing the demon, her head tilted to one side.

  "What might there be to dislike, Lady Drexelica?” the Seneschal asked, puzzled.

  Demons did not possess hair, and Shakkar had never comprehended why these conflicted, short-lived beings spent so much time trying to change its natural form.

  "Oh, you're just like all men!” she shouted, stamping her right foot in a gesture that Shakkar had learned to associate with annoyance.

  "I am not a man at all, Lady,” the demon rumbled. “Yesterday, you possessed hair, and it is still present on your head. Do you fear alopecia? If so, you have no need to worry."

  "That's not it at all!” she cried, glaring at him. “This is a style used by the ancient court ladies of Luria, and I happen to think it's very attractive."

  Shakkar began to wish he were somewhere else. The female had gone to the trouble of rearranging her hair just before she went to bed, when there was nobody to see it except him, and she expected him to pass judgement upon it, before she dismantled the complex arrangement of pins and knots again.

  Shakkar remembered a puzzling mortal phrase: Discretion is the better part of valour, and he realised what it meant with a blinding flash of inspiration. Humans often lied to each other, even their friends, and this somehow facilitated social interaction.