A Mage in the Making

by Alastair J. Archibald

  "It hurts me so much that I have taught him to enhance his control and am now stripping that away with every arbitrary decree I make. One moment, I berate him for doing something, the next for omitting it, so that even I lose track of what my current orders are.

  "We may be making a monster or a gibbering fool of this good-natured, intelligent and talented boy, and that is our shame. We have taken away his friends and made all others his enemies. Should this all prove in vain, I could not in conscience say I felt the risk was worthwhile. Also, should he break out whilst deranged, and prove capable of harnessing his entire stock of power, the danger to us all could be considerable. I have never seen so much energy in one so young. Not even in you, Lord Prelate."

  Crohn crossed his arms in an attitude as defiant as protocol allowed. Long moments of silence passed, and even Thorn's steely, Questor's gaze lacked the power to make the Senior Magemaster look away.

  "Very well, Crohn. One more week, and then we will move on."

  "You will call a halt to the Ordeal, Guildmaster?” Crohn asked, his heart filling with hope.

  "No,” Thorn replied, a half-smile etched on his face, “but I shall appoint another as his mentor: perhaps Faffel. I cannot afford to lose a good Mage Manipulant and another Senior Magemaster."

  Crohn felt blood rushing into his face as he regarded the casual, callous expression on Thorn's face. His grip tightened on his Mage Staff, and he yearned to smash its head between the Prelate's eyes. Nonetheless, Crohn was a Guild man first and foremost; it was not for him to dictate or judge House policy.

  "Very well, Lord Prelate,” he said. “But the responsibility for whatever happens to this decent, intelligent, diligent boy will be yours. And mine, may the Names forgive me."

  Crohn wanted to scream at Thorn, to damn him to the deepest pit of oblivion, but his respect for the House held him back. The Prelate was the embodiment of the House he loved: Thorn was the House! He felt so confused in his roiling, warring emotions that he left Thorn's office without bowing.

  * * * *

  Grimm sat miserably in the recreation yard imagining the black smoke boiling off him, rolling in a turbid, heavy mass over the ground. One minute blended indistinguishably into another and he muttered short, odd phrases to himself as his head lolled and nodded on his shoulders. A dull, leaden ache filled his body, and undirected energies and emotions made him feel as if he was about to burst. A part of him wanted to be somewhere else—anywhere else—but he could not find the motivation to persuade his legs or arms to move.

  Two figures began to move towards him, and he hunched deeper into his robes, hoping they would pass him by. The larger of the two boys was Shumal Tolarin, now a burly, muscular youth, and Grimm regarded his nemesis with a weary resignation. It was a wonder that Shumal had lasted in the Scholasticate as long as he had, thought Grimm.

  The other boy was his ever-present and waspish hanger-on, Ruvin, who always took the lead from his larger friend.

  "Well, if it isn't the pauper traitor's bastard,” Shumal said with satisfaction and malice. “You see, Ruvin, he thinks he's too good to play ball with the rest of us."

  He seemed to be waiting for some response from Grimm, but none came. Grimm continued to sit with his head bowed.

  "I'm talking to you, guttersnipe!” Shumal snapped.

  Grimm dragged himself into the real world and raised his head a little to look into the larger boy's burning, hate-filled eyes.

  "Shumal, can't you just leave me alone?” he mumbled. Even moving his lips and tongue seemed difficult, and it felt as if his lungs and chest were as unyielding and heavy as granite or lead. “You don't want me to play with you, anyway."

  "Man alive, that's true enough!” Shumal cried, and Ruvin gave a high-pitched cackle in response. “The great mage himself! Go on, pauper; turn Crohn into a frog. Or even better, make yourself disappear."

  Shumal flicked Grimm on the nose with a finger, and the pain seemed out of all proportion to the assault, blooming into a tiny, hot, screaming agony.

  A figure appeared at Grimm's side: it looked like Madar. “Tolarin, why don't you just pick on somebody of your own quality? I think I saw the like floating down the sewer last night."

  Grimm forced his mouth to move. “Madar, don't, please. You'll only make things worse.” A part of him dimly recognised that he had broken another of Crohn's innumerable rules just by talking to his friend. However, one punishment seemed much like another these days.

  Shumal was not one to let an insult go unanswered. He half turned his back on Madar and then lashed out with a leather-booted foot to catapult Grimm's friend into the wall with a loud thump. Madar was no coward, and he flew at Shumal, his fists flailing.

  Grimm staggered to his feet, trying to interpose himself between the two. He was rewarded with a solid punch on the ear from Shumal that made his head spin. A trip from Ruvin made him fall heavily to the ground, knocking the wind from him. More pain, although it hardly seemed important now.

  "Relax, peasant, I'll get round to you soon enough,” Shumal sneered, seemingly impervious to Madar's blows, “right after I've dealt with your hot-headed friend, Gaheela."

  Madar felled Ruvin with a good blow to the smaller bully's stomach. As he spun to face Shumal, he received a blow on the point of his jaw that snapped his head back with a loud clicking sound. His eyes turned skyward; he collapsed to the ground and lay still. As he lay there, unconscious, Shumal kicked him in the ribs with brutal force.

  Grimm's jaw worked but no sound came out, as rage and hatred surged within him. His eyes bulged, and he felt his face suffusing with blood.

  Shumal turned to him with another confident sneer, but this faded, and his face grew pale. Grimm laughed; a high-pitched sound with hysteria rising within it. He was invincible, and he would not be denied!

  He walked towards the two bullies with both arms outstretched, laughing again with even greater intensity as they stumbled backwards.

  I am strength. I am power. These two objects are nothing, nothing!

  As his two enemies backed away from him with nervous entreaties, he cried “Boo!"

  So much pain. So much hurt. When they die, it will all end. They will die; Shumal, Ruvin, Crohn ... all of them.

  As if from far away, Grimm heard a scream, a long, keening note which grew higher and higher in pitch and went on for an impossibly long time.

  "He's gone crazy!” Ruvin cried, as Grimm's long scream grew louder and louder. The other boys in the yard all stopped to turn and stare at Grimm; he did not care. He vaguely registered the dark figure of Crohn, hurtling across the yard at a speed belying his age, but the old man was too slow.

  He cannot deny me my righteous wrath, he thought, as he felt the power building within him and the shriek rose even higher in pitch and volume.

  When it seemed that the cry could get no louder, a huge bellow arose from the depths of Grimm's throat, a strange incantation he had never been taught by Crohn: "Ah'hachana sk'redye shareet!"

  Ruvin flew backwards through the air, propelled by an invisible hand, to fall to the ground twenty feet away with a heavy thump. He lay still, and Grimm felt a pang of deep pleasure.

  "Chak'ya mandeta shl'yev'na chut!" Another nonsense chant: this time, Shumal reeled as if punched by a giant, unseen fist. The bully staggered, but he stayed on his feet. Grimm frowned at this resistance, and he heard more strange syllables burst from his lips: “Tok yourut sh'tak'ye dar!" Shumal fell to his knees at Grimm's feet, sobbing and clutching his temples in agony, as if his head were clasped in some mighty iron clamp.

  Grimm laughed again, tears running freely from his eyes.

  This is so easy! These worms are worthless dross; nobody can oppose me!

  He looked down at the fallen bully, fascinated by the new power he had found.

  "Goodbye, Shumal,” he muttered. “Rot in Hell."

  He gathered his powers for one last spell, but he felt strong arms about him, confining him.

  An u
rgent, familiar voice sounded in his left ear: “I did this to you, Grimm! I, Crohn, the Senior Magemaster, did this! If you have hate, hate me, not these boys! I made them do it. Let it out, let it all out!"

  Grimm's head was spinning, and he felt hot tears of rage and frustration burn in his eyes.

  "Let me go!” he screamed, struggling against the imprisoning arms. “I will destroy them! It is my right!"

  His head spun as he looked around him: Shumal was lying at his feet, screaming; Ruvin lay sprawled and motionless on the far side of the yard; the other boys stared at him, pale, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. With a cold shock, he saw the same terrified expression on Madar, who was scrambling to his feet and backing away, his face a mask of sheer terror.

  Torn by conflicting emotions, he sagged in Crohn's arms.

  "What am I? I'm a freak, a sport, a mutant!” he screamed, terrified by what he had become. Then the cold, dark demons descended again. “Let me go! I am power! You must all die!"

  He struggled to free himself from Crohn's grip, but to no avail.

  You can't hold me, old man, he thought. You may join these faithless worms in their fate.

  He cackled, madness playing with his mind, and he began to chant again in this strange, marvellous new language, but Crohn grunted and held on, enraging Grimm with his resistance.

  Madar stared in horror at the bizarre spectacle; his gentle, intelligent friend had been replaced by an insane, slavering, avenging demon.

  "There will be no more class today!” Crohn bellowed in a hoarse croak, “You will stay out here until called. Play on! Play hard! But stay out here!"

  Crohn began to haul Grimm towards the Scholasticate, and it did not escape Madar's notice that, even though he held Grimm's arms firmly pinioned, the Magemaster flinched as if punched; every step of the way.

  Blue light coruscated and flickered around demon-Grimm's head, and he wailed and screamed as he was dragged away.

  "What did that bastard, Crohn, do to him?” Madar wondered, as he eyed the spitting, mad-eyed creature struggling in the Magemaster's arms. He remembered what had happened to the gentle, artistic Erek, and he realised that the same wild insanity had now sunk its claws into his friend.

  * * * *

  For a seeming age, Grimm flicked between alternate states of terrified sanity and fervent, furious death-wish. He had no idea how long he fought the vicious demons that possessed him but, at last, sanity won.

  Sanity was pain and exhaustion. Grimm was no longer the earthly avatar of Nemesis, invincible and vengeful; now, he was a heap of bruised, exhausted mortality. As consciousness came to Grimm Afelnor, he realised he was in the shattered remains of his former classroom, a tightly-hunched figure crouched in the corner of a scene of devastation.

  One table was embedded feet-first in the ceiling; other tables and chairs lay, shattered to fragments, around the room. Plaster and broken glass lay on the floor, and the large oak door hung on a single hinge. Grimm noted the blackened signatures of quickly-snuffed fires in several areas of the classroom.

  He felt a warm, heavy stream running from his nose, and he raised a hand to his nostrils, wiping a thick string of drool from his mouth as he did so. His hand bore a tracery of dark-red blood as he raised it to the level of his eyes, and he wondered how he had come to this pass.

  I did this—somehow, he thought, regarding the destruction with a dispassionate eye.

  With an awkward lurch, he managed to sit up. Again, he wiped the back of his hand across his nose and mouth, and he saw Crohn sitting quietly in one of the few intact chairs, looking older than Grimm had ever seen him. Contusions and bruises covered his face, his eyes were bloodshot, and his large nose was splayed across the left side of his face.

  "It is over.” The words came from Crohn as a rasping, nasal croak.

  "I am to be dismissed?” Grimm asked, a horror of what he had done rising like cold, acrid bile within him.

  "No, Afelnor, your torment is over, not your vocation. No more loneliness, no more hatred. What has happened to you was planned, and you have my heartfelt regret at the way you were treated. I am sorry beyond what words can express."

  Was this Crohn? The man spoke more as a concerned father than a tyrannical tutor.

  "What were those words I screamed, Lord Mage?” Grimm cried, the words torn from his ravaged throat. “They were no chants I had learned from you, or any other Magemaster."

  "No other mage knows those words,” Crohn muttered, his head lolling on his chest. “That was your own, personal spell-language. A Mage Questor makes his own magic in his own manner."

  "I am to be ... a Questor?” Grimm's astonishment banished his exhaustion for a moment.

  "You already are a Questor in all but name, young Afelnor,” Crohn said, a dreamy half-smile hovering on his bloodied lips. “What happened to you is over, and I feel ashamed that I ever agreed to it. But it is over, I promise you. You have prevailed heroically and fulfilled my highest expectations. You are no longer a Neophyte, but an Adept Questor: a mage-in-waiting."

  Crohn's words began to filter through Grimm's mind, and the youth realised that the Magemaster had chosen to visit this nightmare on his pupil.

  "I nearly lost my mind!” he cried. “As I went mad, you stood by and watched!"

  "Adept Grimm, I cannot know what agonies you endured,” Crohn said, his face twisted by emotions at which Grimm could only guess, “but I felt all of your pain with you, and I ached to free you. You have freed yourself, and only in this way can a new Questor be born. The Outbreak marks your re-birth."

  Grimm tried to stand, but his legs refused to obey him; indeed, to his shame, it seemed he had no more strength than a new-born babe. Crohn walked over to the tall, slender boy and gathered him up in strong arms, as if Grimm weighed no more than a feather. The Magemaster pushed the battered door open and took Grimm from the room.

  "Where are we going?” Grimm asked, lolling in the old man's arms.

  "We go to the Infirmary, Adept Grimm. You have gone through much and need rest and comfort. As do I; I could not withstand another beating such as I received today.

  "Rest in the knowledge that you have done well, that you are appreciated and loved, and that your suffering is over; over!” As they entered the quiet, white, spotless Infirmary, Healer Chet, who had once schooled Grimm in Herbal Lore, rushed up to take the burden from Crohn. “I will see you in a short while, Adept Grimm,” the Magemaser muttered, looking every inch the nonagenarian he was. “Let the Healer tend to you first."

  Grimm was exhausted, and, uncomplaining, he let Chet wash him and tend to his cuts, bruises and aches. With careful, soothing hands, the Healer dressed him in a comfortable linen night-shirt and carried him to a cool, smoothly-dressed bed in a cell separate from the main infirmary, covering him with a clean sheet and a warm blanket. The down pillow, so different from the straw to which Grimm had become used, felt soft under his head, and he was about to drift off to sleep when he was aware, once more, of Crohn's presence at his side.

  "Rest now, young Afelnor,” the Magemaster said; his tone of voice so far removed from that of the Crohn Grimm had come to know that he stared in astonishment. “This morning you were just a Neophyte. Tonight you are an Adept; a Mage Questor in training. The day's travails are behind you, but the struggle begins anew when you are well again. You will be expected to work; work as you never have before."

  Grimm nodded with little real comprehension.

  "You will, however, be treated with kindness, compassion and the respect due to you as a man and a true Adept,” Crohn continued. “I am convinced, now, that you will reach your true potential. No Neophyte Questor who has ever survived the Ordeal with a whole mind has failed to be Acclaimed."

  Grimm registered the Magemaster's words, but he had only one thing on his mind as fatigue clouded his mind. “Can I sleep, now, Lord Mage?” he pleaded. “Can I sleep once more without those terrible dreams?” He wanted to sleep, but he knew too well the terrors that his
dreams might hold.

  "Yes, my son, sleep well,” Crohn said, laying a gentle, soothing hand on Grimm's brow. “Please, call me Lord Mage no more. Within this House, you will now only address the Prelate by this title. I am plain Magemaster Crohn now."

  A sudden thought alarmed Grimm. “Lord ... Magemaster Crohn, what if I should wreak more destruction in my sleep?"

  "The destruction was born of rage and frustration, and the Healer has cast a spell of Quietude upon you to assuage this,” Crohn replied. “In any case, I doubt you have within you a pennyweight of power that you have not used today."

  Grimm laughed; it sounded like a dog's bark, and he knew Crohn was right.

  "It will be some time until you have recovered your full strength,” the Magemaster continued, “and I will have taught you much by that time. Sleep well."

  Grimm's head spun, as if a spell had been cast upon him, and he did as he was bidden. Crohn walked from the room like a drunkard and collapsed in the arms of the waiting Healer; he, too, could rest now.

  Chapter 24:

  Aftermath

  Grimm had been in the infirmary for two days when two visitors came to see him: Madar and Argand; the former sporting a gloriously-hued ring around his left eye and a swollen lip. Grimm's face lit up; he had not been allowed to associate freely for a long time.

  "How are you now, Grimm?” Madar asked, his voice cautious.

  "I do ache,” Grimm admitted, “and I'm tired a lot of the time; but I'm better off than you, by the looks of things, Madar! It is so good to see you both."

  Madar nodded, but his expression was still grave.

  "Believe me, Grimm,” he said, “I'm better off than that bloated oaf, Shumal, and his slimy hanger-on, Ruvin, have been since you finished with them."

  Grimm felt a moment of panic, but Madar assuaged his worries with an airy wave of his hand.

  "Don't worry,” Madar said, “they're not exactly at death's door, but they're in no condition to celebrate, I can assure you."