Dragonblaster cogd-5

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "Please, Lord Baron, come with me,” Quelgrum said, wrapping his arms around the young man's shoulders.

  In an instant, Grimm felt himself drifting away from the massed crowd of Brianstonians.

  It seemed that he moved for a long time, although it might have been only for a few minutes. As if from a great distance, he heard the General's voice: “He's seen too much, too soon, Lord Seneschal… poor kid's never had any childhood… been plunged straight into it… tortured…"

  ****

  "I killed Crest! Let me kill them!” The tortured words and hysterical laughter burst from someone far away, decaying into nothing; the mage could not be sure of their source.

  He was a rabbit-warren, with small, fugitive creatures scuttling through his enormous, cavernous limbs, into his vastly-extended fingers and toes. Grimm had ceased to be: in his place was a busy community of burrowing creatures, running over and under and through him.

  I am an… it… I am eternity! I am… nothing!

  The rhythm of the universe sang in his head, a sweet symphony of nothingness; a pretty fugue for a bland, meaningless and worthless life. From leagues away came the faint, sonorous, repetitive crescendo: Murderer, Traitor's Spawn, Heretic, Pauper…

  Long, loud laughter… somebody's arms and legs hurt, but he was not certain whose…

  Someone was crying, but nobody's grief could be this powerful…

  A long scream, drifting off into a long, dark corridor…

  ****

  The world rumbled, shuddered and hurt.

  Rough hands. Hot, sweet coffee. Too much!

  "That's… that's enough.” This time, Grimm knew the spluttered words were his own. “Thank you."

  Opening his eyes, he looked up to see Numal standing over him. The Questor found himself lying on a straw mattress in one of the Breeder cells, covered by a thin, woollen blanket.

  "How long has it been, Numal?” he croaked.

  "Two days,” the Necromancer replied, his face ashen. “I was quite good at Herbalism and Healing, so I've been tending you."

  "I failed us all, again,” Grimm said. “I guess I don't have the self-control or presence to lead a group of adventurers. I don't know what came over me there…"

  The Necromancer shook his head. “It wasn't loss of self-control, Grimm, it was concussion,” he said. “It's a wonder you managed to stay conscious as long as you did after that explosion."

  The door opened, and Quelgrum walked in, a metal weapon in its accustomed place at his side. “Good to see you back with us, Lord Baron,” he said. “How do you feel?"

  Grimm shrugged. “Numb. Strange."

  With Numal's aid, he managed to sit up, the blanket sliding to the floor. He was naked, but he did not care.

  "What's been happening since I've been away, General?” he demanded, his tone rather more brusque than he had intended.

  The soldier shrugged. “I've been talking to Revenant Murar at some length, Lord Baron, and giving advice on the reconstruction of Brianston. A few of the older Breeders have been co-opted onto the Council alongside the Revenants. Most of them realise they don't really want to die just yet, after all, and I think they're beginning to persuade a lot of the others. Murar's issued an edict that the Sacrifices are at an end.

  "It's not exactly one big, happy family yet, but just give it time. After all, they've got to change their whole accustomed way of life."

  "Crest, Tordun and the others-how are they?"

  "Crest got a decent burial,” the General said. “Some of the Breeders have erected a little monument to him; they realise that, by getting in the way of the blast, he saved a lot of them. Tordun's still poorly, but he's regained at least some of his eyesight. He can already tell the difference between light and shadow, although I reckon his fighting days are over.

  "Questor Guy is working off a lot of energy by helping with the demolition work, although you'd think he was running the whole thing.

  "However, the real force behind the work is Seneschal Shakkar. There's even talk of erecting a statue to him, too, although Guy thinks there should be one of him, instead-he's a little tetchy about the affair."

  "That sounds like my dear Brother Mage,” Grimm said, smiling. “How is Harvel?"

  The General shrugged. “A little… strange; he won't be coming with us, Lord Baron. He says he's had it with a warrior's life, and he wants to be a farmer here in Brianston. He's taken Crest's death quite badly."

  Grimm sighed and nodded. “They were like brothers."

  "Harvel doesn't blame you at all, Questor Grimm. Some of the Breeders and the other citizens weren't too keen on you after you defeated Gruon, but he stood up to them. He wants to see you before we leave."

  Grimm shook his head. “I'm not sure that's a good idea, General. Perhaps it's better if-"

  "Is there room in here for another one?” a cheery, familiar voice called, and the mage turned to see Harvel squeezing into the room. Grimm felt astonished to see plain working clothes instead of the warrior's usual, colourful regalia.

  "I heard you were awake, Questor Grimm,” he said, smiling.

  "Harvel, I'm so sorry about-"

  "Enough said, Lord Mage,” the sword-master said, quickly. “The life of a warrior is a dangerous one, and both Crest and I knew the risks when we signed up."

  "But now you've had enough?"

  Harvel nodded. “I'm getting too old and too slow for this way of life, mage. Sooner or later, some young upstart will come along and hand me my head. Crest's death has made me think a lot about myself, and I've decided to take things a little easier from now on. I find this new life agrees with me."

  "It does look good on you, Harvel,” the Questor agreed, admiring the warrior's tanned, athletic appearance.

  Harvel grasped Grimm's right hand in his own. “Good luck, Questor. I do hope you find what you're looking for-I have."

  With that, he was gone.

  "When can we leave, General?” Grimm asked, thinking ahead to the Quest. He wanted, more than anything, to be able to bury the memory of this bizarre town. The soldier sat on the mattress beside him.

  "Whenever you feel fit enough, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said. “Perhaps a few days-"

  "I feel fit enough right now, General. I'd like to have a meeting with the whole team as soon as possible. We have a job to do, and we've wasted too much time as it is."

  The old soldier looked Grimm right in the eyes, and nodded slowly. “If you're sure you're all right,” he said.

  "I am. And get me some Names-cursed clothes!"

  "At once, Lord Baron!"

  ****

  The remaining members of the team, now including Shakkar and Sergeant Erik, stood before the young Questor in the roundhouse's main plaza.

  "We leave tonight,” Grimm declared, resplendent in new blue-and-yellow silk robes. “The Quest goes on."

  "My, aren't we the cool one?” Guy said, with more than a trace of the expected sneer. “Still think you can handle it without blubbing your eyes out?"

  Grimm knew he should feel angry at the older Questor's habitual disdain for him, but he did not.

  "I apologise to all of you for my earlier, juvenile outburst,” he said, his voice loud and clear. “My attitude was unbecoming of a Guild Mage, and I assure you now that it will not recur. My duty comes first, and I will not forget that. Are you all with me?"

  All signalled their enthusiastic assent except for Guy, who rolled his eyes.

  "So our little Dragonbluster is getting all tough now, is he? Isn't that nice? Perhaps we can-"

  "My cognomen is Dragonblaster, Questor Guy; a title now earned in deed. Do not forget it again!"

  He locked his eyes on Guy's, compressing his mouth into a tight slit. Long moments passed as each mage stared at the other. Grimm felt his own, dark eyes watering as he poured his inner strength into the stare.

  A bead of sweat ran down the Guy's right cheek, and the younger mage thought he saw a trace of a quiver in Guy's lips. Still, he
did not look away.

  At last, Guy averted his eyes. “All right, youngster; if it means that much to you, I won't forget it,” he muttered.

  Grimm was not about to give up now."What is my title, Great Flame? Say it!"

  "Your name is ‘Dragonblaster'.” The word was a whisper.

  Still, Guy did not meet Grimm's burning eyes, looking everywhere but at his rival's face.

  "All right: you are Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster!

  "Have we finished with these games now, Questor Grimm?"

  "We have, Questor Guy. Will you, at last, accept my leadership of this Quest?"

  The Great Flame shrugged. “I suppose so, Dragonblaster. If it makes you happy, yes, you're in charge."

  Grimm decided to let the matter slide. He had faced down the contumacious mage and asserted his dominance. That would do for now.

  "The wagon's provisioned and waiting, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said. “Awaiting your orders, Sir!"

  The others looked at him-Grimm Afelnor, the blacksmith's boy-and he felt a trace of pride leaking through his new-found composure.

  "Let's ride, General. Nothing can stop us now."

  "Famous last words,” Guy muttered, as the group strode to the shattered remains of the rotunda's main doorway, but Grimm chose to ignore him.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 26: Talking Treason

  Uttering a deep sigh, Dalquist rubbed his sore eyes and leant back in his chair. He had discharged his Scholasticate duties for the day and, despite the late hour and an abominable headache, he did not feel tired. Since his discovery of Prelate Thorn's part in Questor Loras’ downfall, he had slept little, wondering how he might produce real, concrete evidence of the Prelate's treachery that would influence the Conclave and the Presidium.

  Lord Thorn's a House Prelate and a full member of the Presidium, he thought, not for the first time. Any proof I can find will have to be very, very convincing.

  Dalquist drummed his fingers on his desk, cudgelling his brain for the least iota of information that might aid him in his covert Quest. Some change in Loras’ personality immediately before his disgrace, perhaps?

  Doorkeeper knew Loras well, he mused, but getting a coherent story out of him is like trying to catch a greased rabbit while wearing lead boots…

  He had once before attempted to elicit firm memories from the old man concerning the affair, but he knew that Doorkeeper's vague rambling would never suffice as a watertight case.

  Rising to his feet, he summoned Shakhmat and made his way down the stairs to the East Wing; perhaps the well-stocked Scholasticate library would hold some clue he could use. He held out little hope; he had spent many hours scanning through numerous documents, but Loras’ name had been expunged from all of them. Dalquist knew he was acting like a man who, having searched high and low for a valuable lost item, begins to search again in locations he has already covered.

  At this late hour, the Library was deserted, but the ever-glowing globes of Mage Light ensured it was still well-lit. He found the silence eerie, almost oppressive, and he could not understand why Grimm had spent so long in this dingy refuge.

  Having carried out many abortive searches before, he knew the House copies of the Deeds of the Questors would be of little use; every mention of Loras Afelnor had been ruthlessly eliminated from the pages.

  Journals by former Prelates and members of the Conclave lay on these dusty shelves, but Dalquist had scoured them, too, with no greater success.

  Nonetheless, something continued to draw him back to the Library.

  As he stood before the high racks of books, searching for inspiration, Dalquist heard the click of the Library door and spun around, feeling as if guilt were etched on his back in large, luminous letters, although he had committed no crime as yet.

  Standing in the doorway was the unmistakable figure of Magemaster Crohn. Dalquist trusted the venerable tutor, and he had intended to try to draw the old man into his and Kargan's shared intrigue; however, there never seemed to be an opportune time or place in which to do so.

  "Good evening, Questor Dalquist,” the Magemaster said, his diction crisp and impeccable, as usual. “What, may I ask, brings you here? I did not think you were such a bibliophile."

  "I couldn't sleep, Magemaster,” the Questor replied, speaking the truth.

  "Nor I."

  Dalquist suppressed a gasp as the tutor stepped into the light; although the Senior Magemaster's clothes were as immaculate and proper as ever, his face was grey and haggard. The old man's slumped shoulders and shambling gait lay at odds with his normal, confident, proud posture.

  "What's the matter, Magemaster Crohn?” Dalquist inquired, worried for the tutor. “Are you sick? Shall I call a Healer?"

  Crohn shook his head. “I am not sick, Brother Mage; except, perhaps, of my duty and my calling; and of my weakness."

  Dalquist felt as if an icy spider were crawling along his spine; he had come to know Crohn well during the long months in which the two mages had schooled Grimm Afelnor as an Adept Questor. Never once had the Senior Magemaster wavered in his vocation; not even in the immediate aftermath of Grimm's tumultuous Outbreak, in which Crohn had suffered serious injury.

  Dalquist helped Crohn into a chair and sat opposite him. “It's not like you to talk this way, Magemaster Crohn."

  "I am putting another Neophyte through the Questor Ordeal,” the Magemaster said, in a dull voice, “for my sins."

  "So I heard, Senior Magemaster.” In fact, the Questor had only caught wind of this during his journey aboard Kargan's potent memory spell, but this casual mention seemed harmless.

  "After our meeting with Lord Thorn, I thought he had acknowledged the risks inherent in the Questor Ordeal,” Crohn said, his eyes blank. “This boy's name is Chag Jura, and he tries so hard to please me-just like Afelnor did. I would have refused the assignment at once, but, if I refuse to undertake the boy's training, the Prelate says he will reassign Neophyte Chag to Magemaster Faffel."

  "Is the boy strong?"

  Crohn shrugged. “He has exceptional power, but I fear for his sanity. He is less highly-strung than Erek was, but the Prelate is pushing me even harder than he did over Questor Grimm's Ordeal. I am trying to go easy on the boy, but Lord Thorn grows impatient."

  "Surely he listens to your concerns, after what happened to Erek and Urel? We confronted him over the very same matter, only a few months ago. If this Chag boy were to lose his mind as Erek did, with such power, the results could be catastrophic."

  "The problem, Questor Dalquist, is that Lord Thorn does listen, or, at least, he appears to do so. In order to reduce the strain on me, or so he says, he has even taken over part of the boy's tutelage. Three times a week, Jura undergoes a two-hour session in the Prelate's office."

  Dalquist's eyes bulged: Thorn was not even a junior member of the Scholasticate staff, and it was unheard-of for a senior member of the House hierarchy to take such a close interest in a Neophyte's education.

  The Questor, feeling a little sick, guessed what the reason might be for such close attention: Thorn might be grooming his own, personal Questor, someone who owed his allegiance neither to the Guild nor the House, but to the Prelate alone. This ran counter to every tenet of Guild law.

  "Crohn; we've got to stop him,” Dalquist said, leaning forward to look straight into the Senior Magemaster's rheumy, bloodshot eyes.

  "Stop what, Questor Dalquist? He seems to listen to my concerns, and he has even absolved me of any responsibility, should an unfortunate accident occur."

  I can just imagine how much weight those verbal assurances will bear if anything does happen, thought Dalquist. If anything happens either to the boy or to Crohn, Thorn'll just say it was all Crohn's fault, and who could gainsay him? He got away with a similar excuse when Erek broke out and killed Senior Magemaster Urel.

  Oh, well, I guess there's not going to be a better time than this to act…

>   "Thorn is a traitor to the House and to the Guild,” Dalquist said, the words tumbling from his mouth like a shower of lead shot. “His mother placed Loras Afelnor under some sort of Geomantic Geas, forcing him to attempt the murder of the old Prelate, so that Thorn could take his place. She wanted Loras as her consort, but he rebuffed her. Now, she wants Questor Grimm, and she wants Thorn to become Dominie at all costs!"

  Crohn shook his head. “Lord Thorn is an ambitious man,” he said, “but I cannot see him agreeing to such a deed. Now, I do not know what rumours you may have heard-"

  "I saw the proof with my own eyes, Magemaster Crohn!” Dalquist cried.

  "'Horin is expendable; you will be his replacement.’ I was present when Thorn's mother said those very words!"

  There; it's said, he thought. There's no going back now.

  Crohn's eyes, now stern with disbelief, stared into his own. Dalquist felt no compulsion to look away; no Secular or ordinary mage could ever stare down a Questor.

  "You really believe it!"

  "I don't have to believe, Magemaster; I know. Kargan was with me; he had cast some potent Mentalist spell on us both. He can back me up."

  Crohn rose to his feet with some difficulty and began to wander around the Library, his staff thumping on the wooden floor in a rhythmic manner.

  He stopped pacing and spun around. “Your proof?” he demanded, as if addressing a humble Student.

  "I don't have any tangible evidence, Magemaster Crohn,” Dalquist admitted. “I saw and heard the whole thing, as did Magemaster Kargan, but it'd be our word against Thorn's. The reason I'm up here tonight is to try to find something positive in Guild records, something we can use."

  "I knew Loras Afelnor,” Crohn said, his eyes now sharp, his voice challenging. “I must admit I always found the whole affair strange, but he acknowledged his own guilt in front of the whole Conclave, or so I hear. Lord Thorn, so I understand, persuaded the other members to forgo the death sentence for his friend. Defend your position!"

  As yet, the Senior Magemaster had stopped short of branding him a liar, but Dalquist saw doubt and reason fighting for supremacy in Crohn's face. The old man had reverted to his schoolroom persona, and, Dalquist had to admit, it was an effective technique; the old man was making him think.