The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster [Book 1: A Mage In The Making]

by Alastair J. Archibald

  He realised he was very tired and hungry, and he shuffled off to the Refectory with the rough, fledgling staff, vowing that Redeemer would never leave his side for a moment until his Acclamation, no matter when that might be. He sat alone as he ate, but he felt no loneliness. Soon, he would be leaving the Scholasticate and venturing into the wide world outside. With a start, he realised that he could remember next to nothing of the regions outside these walls, of which he had seen nothing for nine years. Was it really that long? The concept seemed to mock him, and he shivered, realising that the Scholasticate was his home and his whole world. He slept fitfully that night, the staff at his side. In his dreams, he stood, teetering, on the brink of a vertiginous cliff.

  * * * *

  For the next month, Grimm flitted like a brown bat around the Scholasticate with his dormant staff. Some days, he spent hours shaping and whittling, or even just softly taking to the dead piece of wood. He forged the staff's brass shoes on his own, annealing copper and zinc ingots with his magic and allowing them to shrink onto the gleaming wood as they cooled. To his immense pleasure, they were a perfect fit.

  At other times, he spent his time in the library, steeping himself in the grimoires and librams once denied him, but which were now his friends. On occasion, he would talk to his human friends, Madar, Argand and Dalquist, but his mind was elsewhere, reaching forward in time to his Acclamation and freedom.

  * * * *

  The staff was warm to Grimm's touch, blending seamlessly with his hand. He had poured formless energy into it night and day for three months and, it now vibrated gently at his touch, like the purring of a contented cat. He placed it on the floor and walked ten paces.

  "Staff, to hand,” he muttered in plain language, without touching his deeper power, and the staff flew to his outstretched right palm, fitting it with intimate closeness. With a deep breath, he moved away to Crohn's cell and tapped at the door, even though he knew well the lateness of the hour.

  The dishevelled Magemaster looked haggard and peeved, standing shivering in a long night-gown. “Could it not wait until the morning, Afelnor?” he groaned.

  "My staff is finished, Senior Magemaster Crohn.” Grimm could barely control the eagerness in his voice. “I am ready for my test at the Breaking Stone.” He held the brass-shod staff before him, and it glowed with blue balefire.

  Crohn's eyes bulged, suddenly wide-awake. “I agree,” he breathed. “I can feel the magic in your staff, and it seems well attuned to you."

  He wagged an admonitory finger at Grimm. “I trust you have done your work as well as I believe you can. For tomorrow, you will have to prove your staff against the Breaking Stone; only that severe test can prove the bond between you. Failure will mean more months of work before you can try again."

  Looking at the drawn Grimm, he put a friendly hand on the youth's right shoulder. “You must go to bed, Adept Grimm. Of course, you have now condemned me to a sleepless night, for I must summon a Conclave to witness the event. But I would not miss it for the world. Say nothing to anybody else, not even your closest friends. Sleep now, for you must be up with the cockcrow. Go now."

  Grimm felt too tired to argue; he had expected a greater reaction from Crohn, but all he wanted now was sleep.

  * * * *

  It seemed he had closed his eyes only minutes before, but here was Doorkeeper, arrayed in stiff, formal robes that Grimm had never before seen him wearing.

  "Ten minutes, Grimm Afelnor; ten minutes and no more!” crowed the major-domo. “You must be ready for their Lordships. Wear this robe; your own grandfather wore the same robe at his own Acclamation. Don't speak. Wash! Hurry now!"

  Doorkeeper seemed no different from the man the seven-year-old Grimm had met on his first day, apart from the fact that Grimm now overtopped him by six inches. He flitted around the cell like a frightened mouse, chattering in the brief staccato phrases that Grimm recognised so well.

  "The staff! Don't forget the staff; I can't touch it now, can I? Quickly, put your robe on. Tie your hair. Look, I'll do it. There. Tidy your beard a little, do!

  "Oh, leave it, then. Come on, quickly now."

  They hurried down the corridor leading to the gate to the Great Hall, a gate that had been locked to Grimm for the last nine years, and Doorkeeper flung it wide with a flourish. Grimm hesitated for a moment, and then stepped through, suddenly nervous and a little giddy at the wide open space of the Great Hall. A host of formally robed wizards stood ranged around the Breaking Stone, with Thorn standing apart.

  In a huge voice, the Prelate cried, “Behold: an Adept approaches!"

  "An Adept approaches," echoed the hooded mages.

  Motioned to the stone, Grimm stood before the Guild Master, suppressing the trembling that threatened to control him, and he spoke as Crohn had taught him.

  "I offer this House my utmost allegiance and fealty unto death,” he said, pleased that his voice was clear and strong. “A simple Adept beseeches elevation to the degree of Mage. I beg your indulgence."

  Thorn stood aside from the stone. “Welcome, Adept,” he intoned. “By a true staff forged by will and sorcery is a Guild Mage known. A lifeless token of wood and metal forged in the supplicant's own soul, formed into an extension of his will."

  Grimm stepped up to the stone, drew his breath and raised the staff above his head.

  "It's just you and me now, Redeemer,” he muttered. “Please don't let me down."

  If it breaks, you'll have to do it all over again, hissed a renegade part of his mind, and you'll lose face in front of all these mages.

  Shut up, Grimm ordered his wayward alter ego. They're only men. And we won't fail.

  He hesitated until the tension seemed unbearable, and then brought Redeemer, the painful labour of the last few months, crashing down on the magically-sharp edge of the stone. Blue sparks flew, but no splinter or crack appeared in the staff.

  That's one; twice more, and we're there. Just remember that plenty fail on the second blow; three-quarters, as I remember...

  With all his strength, Grimm brought the staff down again, and the hall rang. Still, the black wood seemed whole and undamaged, and Grimm's heart beat like a trip-hammer.

  Well done; we're almost there. There are still no guarantees, you know. Many Adepts...

  Not waiting for his treacherous inner voice to continue, Grimm put all his rage and fury into the final blow, slamming his staff onto the ebon ridge and showering the whole hall with blue motes.

  Clangggg...

  ...and the staff remained whole: perfect, a living structure that seemed to resonate and rejoice in Grimm's hands.

  Without stopping to think, Grimm slammed the brass foot of the staff on the flagstones, an impact that sent a further blizzard of blue magic-stuff throughout the hall, and he flung his arms wide in pure, unalloyed ecstasy. With his pounding heart threatening to burst from his chest, he spoke the ritual words that Crohn had taught him, his voice trembling only a little: “With my own hands and my own mind, I fashioned this thing of lifeless wood and gave it life and a name: Redeemer. As it has been written, so let it be; to all present, I declare myself a true mage!"

  The members of the assembly banged their own staves in similar fashion and chanted, “This Adept is dead. A Guild Mage rises in his place!"

  Grimm looked at the assembled ranks of mages and saw a smiling Crohn, a cheerfully-nodding Kargan, and an enthusiastically-beaming Dalquist.

  Thorn stepped forward and intoned gravely, “Behold a true Mage and Brother of this House. Let him be known from this day forth as a master of our Craft, and a bearer of our ring. We hail Grimm Afelnor a Mage, a Questor of the First Rank, and we honour him as true kin."

  Thorn turned to Grimm, and held out a gold-tasselled cushion bearing a large and ornate ring. In a quiet voice he said, “It is your grandfather's ring, Questor Grimm: it was his wish that you take it and redeem the honour of the name of Afelnor in the eyes of this House."

  Grimm took the blue-and-g
old ring with care and slid it on to his ring finger. At first too loose, it swiftly conformed to the circumference of his finger.

  For a moment, he stared at his adorned digit, at the ring that meant all his struggles had been worthwhile. Then, he remembered his lines.

  "I swear to this House loyalty and fealty unto death,” he cried, restraining hot tears that hovered at the margins of his eyes. “I swear to uphold the tenets of our Guild and its precepts and laws. I swear to you, my beloved Brothers, love and friendship to the end of my days. I swear tolerance and understanding, and I pledge never to misuse the powers granted me by the beneficence of this House and its servants."

  "Hail, Grimm Afelnor! True Mage and Brother of this House!” the conclave chanted in rapturous chorus. Thorn rapped his staff thrice on the flagstones, and the ceremony was at an end.

  Dalquist rushed up to Grimm and shook him firmly by the hand. “Congratulations, Grimm. You are indeed a precocious little guttersnipe!"

  "Careful, Brother Mage; we Questors are dangerous,” Grimm replied in mock warning, and then he added, more seriously, as the older mage clapped him on the upper arm, “Watch out for Redeemer!"

  "Oh, a Mage Staff can't hurt anyone while you're holding it and conscious,” Dalquist replied. “That is, not unless you want it to! By the way, there's a banquet being laid on for you in the upper gallery. You and Crohn are guests of honour, of course. I'm afraid you'll have to say a few words."

  "Don't worry about me, Dalquist. Even Faffel gave me satisfactory marks in Courtly Presentation and Public Speaking; eventually. At least this time I won't have a bunch of Scholars sticking out tongues and pulling faces when the Magemaster isn't looking."

  "As I remember my Acclamation, there wasn't much Courtly Presentation about it,” Dalquist drawled. “It can get rather hectic with twenty drunken Mages trying to outdo each other in magic. Questors are meant to be the worst, as you can guess. Readers are worried that someone could memorise their chants, so they tend to hide their best magic. Questors don't have to worry about that: your spell-language is useless to anyone else. The only Questors here today are you, me, Thorn and old Olaf Demonscourge. He's a laugh when he's had a drink or two; eighty years as a Questor has taught him a lot of subtlety and a lot of magic. He may be a little hard on you, what with your being a virgin Mage of the First Rank, without even one ring on your staff."

  Kargan stepped up. “Excuse me, Questor Dalquist. Afelnor, you low toad! I suppose you won't be bothering much with singing, now that you're a high and mighty Questor? No time for Runes anymore, I'll wager."

  "I still do use runic magic from time to time, Magemaster Kargan,” Grimm protested. “Sometimes, it is much easier to use a memorised spell than think of a new one. And I still like to sing for the pleasure of it."

  "Glad to hear it ... Grimm, isn't it? Even your execrable warble is better than the tuneless twittering I have to put up with in the dross they send in these days. In the new batch they've sent me, they're all absolutely ghastly. However, you are all equally unworthy in my sight; current company moderately excepted, of course."

  "Why thank you, Brother Mage, you're too kind,” Grimm said. “I will try to prove myself reasonably deserving of your moderate acceptance of my slight worth."

  "You and I will have to do a duet at the banquet, Questor Grimm,” Kargan said, his face brightening. “'The Coronation of Meliar' would be rather fitting, I feel. You take the tenor, and I'll take the baritone."

  "Will we get away with that in company like this, Magemaster Kargan?” Grimm asked in disbelief. The general ban on singing in the Scholasticate still rang in his mind.

  "No holds barred at these things, Questor Grimm. They'll all start singing sooner or later, and most of them can't hold a note better than you can hold a breeze in a shrimping-net. We'll just have to show them how it's really done; by now, they almost expect it of me. You'll have to do a party turn of some sort, of course. Come on, it won't be so difficult when you've had a few glasses of wine."

  "But I've never taken strong drink before,” Grimm said, worried. “What if I disgrace myself?"

  "Then you won't be the first. Gobol there keels over at the merest whiff of alcohol. In any case, if you feel your head start to spin, cast some un-Runish Questor perversion of a cantrip of Stability on yourself, followed by a charm of Clarity."

  "Why not a single chant of Equilibrium, or at least as near as I can get to it?” Grimm asked.

  "That's not the easiest chant when you're sober, let alone when you've had a few,” said Kargan, snorting. “One misplaced syllable and you'll be throwing up for days. Safer my way, believe me. Actually, even better, cast the spells on your staff. Then you can just clutch it tight when you feel like you're slipping away. I spent a month casting them into my staff so that they'd always be there when I needed them. I'll tell you what; I'll do it for you. It should last you for tonight. With your permission?"

  Grimm felt horrified at this use of this mighty wizard's weapon and symbol of power to stave off drunkenness, but he acquiesced as Kargan threw back his long sleeves and began to chant. The chant took several minutes, and Grimm realized with a cold shock that he, as a Mage Questor, could probably have performed the spell in a matter of a few heartbeats. “There, that should last you a few hours,” Kargan said. “I'll see you later."

  Up stepped old Olaf Demonscourge. “So, you are the new Questor. Congratulations, young Afelnor.” The old man held Grimm at arms’ length, inspecting him as if he were suspect livestock. “It is always good to have new blood, so that our line continues, even if you are a bit of a skinny devil. I will see you at the banquet later; make sure you feed yourself up, get some flesh onto those bones of yours. Oh, by the way, if you become intoxicated, have a word with me. I have a few spells that may help in that regard."

  "Thank you, Questor Olaf, I appreciate your kind offer,” Grimm said, deeming it politic not to spurn the old man's offer.

  Grimm's next visitor, hot on the heels of Olaf, was Magemaster Crohn. “Congratulations, Brother Mage. You have made the aches and pains I have had since your breakout all worthwhile, and I am sure that you will acquit yourself well. May I inquire after the Demonscourge's advice to you?"

  "Oh, he was just offering to help me if I get drunk,” Grimm replied, ruefully.

  "If you can remember your rune magic, you can do that for yourself, Questor Grimm. Just cast a spell of—"

  "I know this, Magemaster Crohn. Magemaster Kargan was telling me about it. My staff will look after me. Is this really what being a mage is all about? Getting drunk and then passing it off so that we can drink even more?"

  "Not all Acclamations are quite this frenetic, Questor Grimm. It is rare that we have cause to greet the arrival of a new Questor. The last such celebration was for your friend Dalquist, and that was nearly ten years ago. It makes a change to doff the stern, magely visage occasionally. As you can see, some of us do it with abandon.

  "All men are boys at heart, Questor Grimm. Many of those here have little longer to live, not excluding myself, so please forgive us these petty indulgences. You are allowed to have fun sometimes, you know. I told you that your Ordeal was over, and so it is. This will go some way to assuaging those lingering scars, so I expect you to express yourself freely for once. The banqueting gallery is well protected by magic, so we do not expect any major damage ... just take care that whatever you say to another does not come back to haunt you when sanity returns to you tomorrow morning. A little jesting with even the most senior mage is acceptable, but outright insults or challenges will not be forgotten. Remember; in with the wine, out with the wit."

  "Don't worry, Magemaster Crohn, I will be prudent.” In fact, Grimm did not intend to drink more than the minimum amount required to satisfy protocol.

  The hubbub of conversation from the gathered mages softened as Thorn raised a hand and called for silence.

  "Brother Mages, if I may have your attention, we shall now prepare to the gallery hall to ce
lebrate our new brother's Acclamation."

  As Grimm ascended the staircase to the upper floor, the acerbic Magemaster Faffel clutched Grimm's shoulder. “Be careful what you drink, Afelnor. You are not used to it, and it may ill affect you. Your deportment is not ideal at the best of times."

  Grimm bit back an acid comment. Since his triumph at the Breaking Stone, the only talk had seemed to be concerned with the excess consumption of alcohol! He managed a civil reply.

  * * * *

  The table was large and circular, and it easily seated the assembled group. Seating was largely egalitarian and by personal choice, except that Thorn was seated on an ornate throne. The Prelate instructed Grimm to sit on his right and Crohn, the tutor of the new Questor, on his left. Dalquist sat to the left of Grimm, and Kargan to the left of Dalquist.

  When all were seated, servants placed goblets in front of each mage. Thorn stood and banged his staff on the floor.

  "A toast to the new mage: Grimm Afelnor!"

  "Grimm Afelnor,” chorused the other mages, and all drank deeply. Grimm initially sipped at his wine with caution, but he found the taste pleasant. He drank a little more: a warmness grew within him, but he quickly assayed his senses and found them still his own.

  So much for the terrible demon lurking within drink! Grimm thought, and he drained his goblet with some pleasure. It was instantly refilled.

  Dalquist nudged Grimm. “You must make a speech, Grimm. Keep it short."

  With only a trace of nervousness, Grimm stood and addressed the conclave. “Brother Mages, I thank you all for attending my Acclamation.” His mouth was dry, so he took another healthy swig of wine.