"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.
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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 collapsed 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.
From forty feet in the air the two men fell, accelerating as they plummeted. Their screams were cut off by a pair of sickening thuds that blended into one. Grimm had no doubt at all that they were dead.
The horrified expressions on the survivors' faces reminded Grimm of the two bu
llies, Shumal and Ruvin, when he had felt the first, uncontrolled stirrings of vengeful, destructive, Questor energy within him at Arnor House. As he watched the remaining green-clothed men fleeing in complete disorder, he realised that he was ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times more dangerous than he had been at his power's first, undisciplined awakening. By attempting to enslave him, they had not just insulted Grimm Dragonblaster, but his House, his Guild and his name.
They would pay: the Questor would not rest until this abominable establishment had been reduced to its very foundations!
Grimm turned towards Quelgrum and his burly opponent. Neither man's face was unblemished, but the mage could see the General's opponent's youth and greater bulk were beginning to tell. Quelgrum might have a lifetime of fighting experience on which to draw, but the younger man had the advantages of strength, speed and faster reflexes. Quelgrum had sat behind a desk for too long, and he was breathing hard.
Grimm tried to close with the fighters as they weaved around each other, but the younger warrior seemed cunning as well as swift. Somehow, no matter how the mage tried to find the right position, he always found Quelgrum in his way, and Grimm guessed this was no accident. He could not launch an offensive spell against his intended target without hitting the General.
What to do?
His thoughts blurred as he considered alternatives.
A ward like the one Dalquist used in Crar, when we finally beat Starmor?
That would be of no use; the men were moving too quickly for him to be able to place the spell with any accuracy. He had no idea what would happen if the ward manifested with one of its walls inside the General's body, but the outcome would surely be bad.
A spell of Telekinesis?
If the mage could be sure of selecting only one target, it would be easy; he could let the General float gently to the ground, or dash his opponent into the soil. Nonetheless, he could not be sure of this.
A Word of Command, perhaps?
No; these people seemed somehow protected from such mental magic. What would affect the warrior, and not the General?
"You do not need a spell for this, a spell for that, and one for the third Wednesday in June! You are a Questor, not a Reader!" Magemaster Crohn's words, uttered, it seemed, an age ago, flooded into the mage's mind.
It was not easy to disregard the strictly-defined categories of common, runic magic, which was drummed into each and every Student from the age of seven, but Grimm knew he had to try. Three blows from the scarred warrior landed uncontested, and Quelgrum staggered, blood streaming from his brows and lips. The General might well die if such punishment continued.
A flash of understanding rushed through the mage. He had been considering mighty, overpowering spells, but these had proved impracticable. Something simpler was the key. The mage remembered the calming effects of the pheromones inside the Mansion House, and recalled his exact state of mind when the insidious substances had taken effect.
"Igg'youah!"
This was no fulminating burst of energy, no cataclysmic fireball, but the projection of a simple feeling, projected with all Grimm's force at the two men.
In an instant, the fight was over. Quelgrum and his opponent stood still, their faces and bodies as animated as those of grazing sheep. In the place of angry, snarling expressions, he saw dreamy, inane smiles.
Holding the magic on, he stepped up to the younger fighter and smashed the brass head of Redeemer into the man's skull. The fighter staggered but did not fall. Nonetheless, he still wore an idiotic smile, although now wreathed in blood.
He must have a head like a rock! Grimm took a firmer grasp on the staff as his magical strength began to fade.
With one more blow, it was done; the man's head exploded in a shower of red and grey. Grimm released the spell with a groan; it had cost him more than he would have imagined.
He brushed aside the groggy General's thanks and rushed to Guy's side. The older Questor continued to thrash, and his face had taken on a ghastly pallor. Grimm guessed the glowing circlet was the cause, and he tried to remove it from his brother mage's neck.
He felt his arms trembling as he struggled to remove the torc. Sickening waves of agony rippled through him, dazzling him, blurring his vision, yet Grimm knew he was only receiving a fraction of the punishment Guy was suffering. At last, his hands refused to obey his orders and tore themselves away from the gaudy band, seemingly of their own accord.
His body had betrayed him.
Grimm tried to cast a spell of Inner Calm on the tortured man, and his Mage Sight saw it splash from the circlet. He felt a pang of anguished helplessness consuming him; he had never liked Guy, but he could not bear to see his brother Questor in such agony.
He heard a loud crack in the distance and saw Harvel collapse to the ground before he had regained his feet fully. Within the space of a heartbeat, he heard another bang, and Crest spun on his heels as he fell into a huddled heap.
The bushes!
Grimm loosed a massive ball of fire into the direction of the explosions, and silence reigned again. A giant fulmination arose from the ground, and the Questor realised he had poured far more energy into the spell than necessary.
The operation had seemed such a simple, clinical matter, just a few minutes before. Now, it had turned into a disaster. The chattering Pit aficionados had fled, and the silence seemed almost oppressive in its gravity. Crest, Harvel, Guy and Quelgrum were incapacitated, if not dead, and Grimm felt the sick realisation that his Quest might be compromised; all for the sake of revenge. Nonetheless, he knew that he must, at least, try to save his brother mage.
The Questor turned to the quivering Numal. "Listen to me!" he said. The older man continued to stare into the air. "Necromancer Numal!"
Numal spun as if struck, and Grimm looked him straight in the eye. "Get these men to a place of shelter, and wait for me. If I do not emerge from the Pit within twenty minutes or so, just get out of here as fast as you can."
The Necromancer's lower lip trembled for a few moments before words emerged from his mouth: "You're going to carry on with this? It's madness! Just look at us! We're finished!"
Grimm yearned to slap the ineffectual man, but he stayed his hand; nothing could have prepared Numal for this debacle. Instead, the Questor used his voice as a weapon, his diction crisp and explosive as the bullets that had felled his comrades.
"You forget yourself, Brother Mage!" he snapped. His voice cracked like a whip. "We are on a Quest-a Guild Quest, as I should not have to remind you-and. am in charge!"
Turning his full, fearsome, Questor stare on the man, Grimm continued, "I need you, Numal, to ensure that no further harm happens to these men. Should any assailant come within the range of your staff, use it, and use it well!
"Do you understand, Brother Mage?"
At last, Numal drew a deep breath and nodded. "I understand, Questor Grimm. I will not let you down. I apologise for my craven behaviour. It will not happen again, I promise you."
For the first time, Grimm saw a stern look of determination in Numal's eyes; the Necromancer had finally found his feet as a mage. The older man began to pull the fallen men into the shadow of the Pit with determined urgency.
Grimm nodded, pleased that the Necromancer had defeated his inner demons, and he walked towards the thick, oaken doors. He soaked up stored energy from Redeemer, like a drowning man drinking from a bottomless well, and scanned the dark portals.
"Nothing to worry about here," he muttered, launching a spell of dissolution at the wooden barriers. The doors flew apart in a shower of blue sparks, and the Questor stepped inside.
The rows of seats were empty, and darkness reigned.
Grimm wandered down the aisles, towards the arena, unsure of his objective. From high above, he heard a mocking voice: "This could be the worst mistake you've ever made, magic-user: it's certainly your last mistake!"
Blazing light flooded into the stadium, and Grimm saw movement below him. A horde of m
uscular men scurried up the walkways towards him, and the contemptuous voice sounded anew: "Can you fight them, mage-scum? Can you fight them all? I don't think so. I'm sure this will be a great fight; it's a shame there'll be no paying audience. Good luck and goodnight, magic-boy."
Grimm threw a destructive spell at the apparent source of the voice, only to hear it sounding from another direction.
"Fight for your life, Questor!"
Grimm realised with horror that the grasping, muscle-bound figures had circled around him, cutting off his exit: he was trapped! With horror, he noted the blank expressions on the warriors' faces, noticing the bright collars on their necks. These poor men were slaves to Keller's Technological will, lacking all volition in their mindless pursuit.
"Can you kill any of them, Questor Grimm? Can you? Even if you can, can you kill them all? Whatever you do, I'm sure it'll be a spectacle worthy of the Pit. Goodbye, Guild filth. Remember me to your grandfather, Loras, when you meet him."
The shock of Keller's mention of Grimm's grandfather's name was only matched by the horrific realisation that one of these rapacious, bloodthirsty faces was that of Tordun. The humorous, honourable man he had known was lost, and only blind hatred remained in those pink eyes.
As the giant, muscular figures closed on the Questor from all sides, Grimm felt the frigid hand of true, gut-churning fear upon him. His sense of self-preservation took hold, and he gripped Redeemer in a strong grip, swearing to sell his life dear.
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Chapter 32-The Young Contender
The fighters' progress was impeded by the narrow aisles between the seats, but it was inexorable. Grimm took stock of the situation, his mind racing, assessing his options.
He was younger and slenderer than the blank-eyed men closing in on him, and he took care to keep in good shape. However, to stand and face them would be folly; he could use his magic to destroy several with a single spell, but a blow from even one of those huge, knotted fists would be the end of him.
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