"You will be defeated, Afelnor,” Xylox declared. “I will take no pleasure in it, but I do not intend to lose. I am the better Questor."
"I am young and strong,” Grimm declared. “You are old and slow. I will win."
Xylox broke the deadlock, screaming the first spell. Grimm flinched and staggered back, twitching and shivering like a man possessed. He managed to gather his strength and throw off the spell, and he countered by swinging Redeemer at the older mage's head. Xylox barely parried the blow in time.
Blue sparks flew as each mage strained to force his staff past the other's guard for a few minutes, and then a cacophony of nonsensical spell-words began. Thribble hunched deeper under his protective cables, as the Questors wrought dire destruction on the room without either gaining a decisive advantage. Dazzling displays of light flew across the room, smashing furniture and equipment to pieces, blowing holes in the walls and ceiling as the battle raged.
Neither man remained unscathed. Each bore a profusion of cuts, contusions or burns on his skin, although none appeared of a disabling nature. However, Xylox had begun to pant, whilst Grimm seemed unfazed.
The younger man smiled, revealing red-stained teeth as he seemed to find a spell he liked: a mass of compressed air that pounded Xylox like a giant fist, over and over again.
At first, the older mage raised counter-spells, but the relentless hammering went on and on, and, after a few minutes’ assault, Xylox slumped to the floor.
"You are beaten, Xylox!” Grimm screamed. “I have won!"
He closed in to stand over his fallen foe, drawing his hands above his head in preparation for some climactic spell. Xylox's staff swept out and took his overconfident younger colleague's feet from under him, and then impacted on the young man's chest, causing Grimm to draw back, his eyelids and teeth clenched in a rictus of pain.
The two men lay for a few minutes, breathing hard, before each staggered to his feet.
"I am almost sorry you will have to die, Questor Grimm,” Xylox rumbled. “I still have plenty of energy to call on from my staff, while it seems that you lack this sleight."
"I don't need it, old man.” Grimm gasped, his grey complexion giving the lie to his statement, as a trickle of blood ran from his lips. “I am stronger than you in any case."
The two mages squared up for what Thribble guessed must be the last time, when an amplified yell came from the corner of the room; the distorted but recognisable voice of Armitage.
"Stop what you are doing at once!" the voice screamed, and the thaumaturges stepped back from each other. "I am your despised enemy. You remember all that I have done to you, and you hate me for it. This order cannot be countermanded, and you will under no circumstances obey any other order of mine!"
The sheer volume of the metallic shout made the perforated walls reverberate with its power, and it seemed to stun the two magic-users for a moment.
"Are you ... all right, Questor Xylox?” Grimm gasped.
"I have never felt better, Questor Grimm,” the older man wheezed. “Do you need any strength from Nemesis? Some still remains."
"I could use some,” Grimm replied, smiling as Xylox laid a restorative hand on his colleague's shoulder. “Do you need any Healing? I have some small talent in that area."
"Perhaps just a little,” Xylox said.
For a few minutes, Grimm worked with salves and magic words on his fellow mage.
"That is much better,” the senior Questor acknowledged. “What do you want to do now, Questor Grimm?"
"In my humble opinion,” Grimm replied, “We should tear this stinking slave pen to pieces, rescue our companions and get back to our Quest."
"Agreed,” Xylox said. “But we destroy Armitage first of all. Are you ready now?"
"I'm ready Xylox; let's do it. He won't know what he's unleashed. I almost feel sorry for him: almost, but not quite."
Chapter 7
Opposition and Entrapment
Grimm assessed the severity of the injuries done to him during his battle with Xylox. None appeared to be of a disfiguring or crippling nature, and he felt proud that he had stood up to the full extent of a Seventh Rank Questor's wrath and prevailed. Any mortal facing such an onslaught would have been destroyed in a heartbeat, as Armitage would soon discover.
"Grimm, I am over here!” a familiar voice squeaked, as the two mages, stepping with some care over jagged shards of glass, concrete and metal, made their way towards the battered metal door. A small, grey figure hopped from behind a screen of half-melted cables and bounded towards the Questors, heedless of the sharp detritus littering the floor.
"Thribble!” Grimm cried. “I might have guessed you were behind our deliverance. However you managed it, I thank you from the bottom of my heart."
The humourless Xylox was less fulsome in his praise. “A street ragamuffin and a pestilential netherworld imp. Are you trying to assemble some bizarre menagerie, Questor Grimm?"
The demon squeaked, expressing extreme indignation. He opened his mouth to speak, but Grimm stayed him with a gesture of his hand and turned a stern gaze upon his senior.
"You can tell me all about your ingenuity when we have time, Thribble,” he said.
"Xylox; this ‘pestilential netherworld imp’ has a name: Thribble. I would remind you that Thribble has saved both our lives, Brother Mage, and he proved instrumental in the liberation of the city of Crar from the odious Starmor. I do think you might be a little more appreciative of his efforts on our behalf.” The mage dropped to one knee, and the demon hopped into Grimm's robe pocket with an athletic leap.
"All I know is that your good demon friend used some form of Technology to liberate us. That gives me mixed feelings about the affair,” the older Questor replied, as implacable and unbending as ever. “My mind is on more important matters, such as the defeat of Armitage, the ransoming of our companions and the resumption of our sworn Quest: the responsibility for which is mine alone. If you have quite finished your happy reunion, we have a task to do."
Grimm sighed. Xylox was as unyielding as granite, and as warm. “I haven't forgotten, Questor Xylox. Let's do it."
"We will do the deed in full solemnity and gravity, as Guild Mages should, Questor Grimm. I remind you that I want to hear only formal Mage Speech from now on. This is a serious task, and it must be approached in a serious manner."
Grimm thought the omission of a few trifling vernacular expressions and contractions from his speech would make little difference to the hapless victims of his magic. Nonetheless, he agreed that the two Questors needed to present a united front. It seemed it might be easier to destroy the Shest Mountains with a toothpick than to change the ingrained ways of the proud, pompous Xylox. The two thaumaturges might face sufficient opposition from Armitage's minions, without adding to it through pointless rivalry, bickering and vituperation.
"I concur, Brother Mage; Mage Speech it will be. I accept your authority as senior Questor, without reservation."
Xylox replied with a curt nod, accepting the fealty he doubtless saw as his right. He moved towards the door, placing a hand upon it. The twisted portal jerked and juddered, but the tracks on which it slid seemed too buckled to allow it to open. The grizzled mage raised a hand and muttered a nonsense phrase. The door burst from its tracks, impacted the opposite wall with a loud clang and clattered to the floor.
"I think Administrator Armitage may now be aware that we are no longer under his control,” Grimm said, smiling.
The older man failed to conceal the trace of a smug smile. “It is just as well,” he said. “He should know he has made the worst and last mistake of his life in inviting the wrath of Xylox the Mighty! It will allow him to reflect upon his folly before he dies."
The senior Questor made a bold step into the corridor, to be greeted by a stuttering chorus of small explosions. He staggered as if hit by a myriad of tiny fists, but he then turned to Grimm, apparently unscathed.
"This corridor is now pacified,” he intoned, wi
th evident satisfaction. “My Charm of Missile Reversal seems to work as well with these accursed Technological weapons as with crossbow bolts."
Grimm stepped into the passageway and saw a tangled heap of bodies at one end. He guessed the hapless guards had attempted to use projectile weapons against the magically protected mage. The projectiles had been reflected back against them, to devastating effect.
"Armitage, I declare myself your nemesis and your executioner!” Xylox screamed into the void. “Tremble and quail, for your end is at hand!"
* * * *
Armitage sat in a comfortable, high-backed leather chair in the Control Room, his eyes locked on the screen before him as the two mages engaged in their life-and-death struggle. He had been fascinated by the Illusionists and Mentalists he had studied earlier, but he rubbed his hands with surpassing glee at the savage display of implacable, unalloyed destruction that unfolded before his rapt eyes. General Quelgrum would take possession of a tamed, controlled harbinger of death and destruction, a flesh-and-bone weapon beyond imagining, and Armitage would have a preserved specimen to study at his leisure, and detailed data on the mind functions of such beings in full flight. He could not have been more satisfied at the outcome of his little experiments, and he made copious notes as the various magical energies impacted, coalesced and clashed.
Glass shattered, metal buckled, and the formerly pristine Lab Six was converted into a twisted, battered hulk in the space of a few minutes while the two test-subjects hurled matter and energy at each other, with an intensity and fury that sundered the sturdiest of materials without apparent degradation of the human specimens themselves.
The older subject was slammed to the ground, and the younger mage moved to stand over him. Just as it seemed as if the outcome of the battle was inevitable, the prostrate specimen lashed out with his staff, and it was his younger rival who now sprawled on the floor.
The two mages staggered to their feet, and Armitage saw their lips moving. The microphone in the room had been disabled long before, but the expressions on the two subjects’ faces showed that fighting spirit was still strong within each of them. Further entertainment and edification seemed to lie in store, and the Haven man settled back in his chair to witness the final confrontation.
The younger subject drew back his hands, a snarl of defiance on his lips, and the other specimen prepared himself for another spell. Armitage leaned towards the monitor in expectation of another titanic onslaught, but he gaped as a booming voice—his own voice!—blasted from the Control Room's speakers with shattering volume.
"Stop what you are doing at once! I am your despised enemy. You remember all that I have done to you, and you hate me for it. This order cannot be countermanded, and you will under no circumstances obey any other order of mine!"
The two mages stopped in their tracks. Bemusement and confusion flitted across their faces, to be replaced by expressions of resolve and hatred, not directed to each other, but to some common foe.
Armitage could not fathom the source of the false voice, but he knew his plan had miscarried, and a cold, lambent frisson of fear lashed through his every nerve. "Terrence!"
Armitage shrieked the name with an urgency born of pure panic, and the senior Technician rushed to his side, his forehead furrowed and his jaw slack.
"I swear that was nothing of my doing, Administrator,” Terrence gasped. “It must have been that treacherous, whining wretch, Deeks. I've warned you about him before."
"Deeks! This is the Administrator. Come here!” Armitage yelled, but the portly Technician did not respond. Terrence rushed away, but he returned a few moments later, his expression blank.
"He's not here, Administrator."
Fighting to counter the panic rising within him, the Administrator turned to his junior. “D'you think that fake message will affect the security teams at all?"
The Technician shook his head, distracted. “They'll all have heard it, Armitage, but they're all Phase Three Pacified. The implants will sense any deviation from nominal and adjust neurotransmitter levels accordingly. It's a more robust method of control than Augmented Vocal Control."
"Good,” Armitage snapped, grabbing a microphone. “Team Seven, Team Eight, security alert, Section Brown Nine, room 115. Respond with extreme prejudice to all non-Haven personnel. Immediate."
With a sick feeling of anxiety, he turned back to the monitor. The older subject, Xylox, had just blown out the door of the Test Lab, but the guards would be there in a moment or two. He switched to the corridor circuit, and was relieved to see the arrival of armed guards; at least they were still loyal to him. He breathed a sigh of relief, and he felt a moment of embarrassment at his momentary funk. As the older subject stepped into the corridor, the guards opened fire with automatic weapons, which spat hot, leaden death at the mage.
To Armitage's astonishment and horror, the test subject seemed unharmed by the lethal hail of bullets, but all the guards staggered and collapsed in a spray of blood.
Xylox turned his face upwards and gave an angry, defiant cry that was reproduced in tinny fidelity over the speaker: "Armitage, I declare myself your nemesis and executioner! Tremble and quail, for your end is at hand!"
"We'll see about that,” Terrence grunted. He seemed far more confident than Armitage felt. “Don't worry, Administrator, I'm about to release the security doors around their section. If we can just hold them for ten minutes or so, I can hook up some Victor X-Ray to the ventilation shaft; we have ten canisters in Secure Lab Nine, enough to kill ten thousand people. Those doors are six-inch thick boride steel with internal ceramic layers; they won't get through that in a hurry."
"Victor X-Ray?” Armitage queried, his brows wrinkling.
"Nerve gas, Administrator,” Terrance said. “The slightest whiff of it, and they'll be stone dead in seconds. If they hold their breath, it'll pass though their skin and eyes. They're dead; be sure of that."
"Thank you, Terrence,” Armitage said, sighing with relief. “I don't mind admitting I was beginning to get worried there, but I felt sure I could rely on you."
* * * *
The two mages strode down the corridor in perfect synchrony, their faces identical, impassive masks of stern intent. A few minor Haven functionaries came out of side doors, but Grimm and Xylox paid them little heed. Their argument was not with these minions, but with their Administrator.
"I advise you to stay in your rooms,” Grimm told the wide-eyed individuals. “Stay inside, and you will be safe. I cannot vouch for your security otherwise."
The people followed his advice with alacrity and without exception; perhaps stupid people did not last long at Haven.
"I must confess myself a little disappointed at the lack of resistance,” Xylox complained. “I was looking forward to somewhat more of a challenge. If I could only—"
At that moment, a loud, hissing clang interrupted the older mage's monologue, as four grey walls slammed down, penning the pair of thaumaturges in a large metal cell.
"Is this enough of a challenge for you, Brother Mage?” Grimm asked, with only the slightest trace of sarcasm.
"Even magic-resisting iron buckles with heat, Brother.” Xylox raised his hands, screamed a spell in his unique Questor tongue, and flung a handful of scorching magical energy at the door. Flames washed over the metal, but to no effect. The door's surface now showed concentric circles of various colours, but the integrity of the door appeared unaffected.
Grimm, the son and grandson of blacksmiths, could distinguish steel from pure iron when he saw it. Steel might be stronger, but it lacked pure iron's immunity to magic. “May I try something, Xylox? This substance is not iron, but steel; an impure form of the metal."
The older magic-user shrugged. “Go ahead, if you believe you can do better than I."
Grimm patterned his mind for his Enhanced Disintegration spell, and released it at the adamantine door. A spray of glittering dust flew up from the point of impact of the spell. When the shower of metal f
lakes settled, Grimm saw he had removed a sizable amount of metal. However, although the hole was perhaps five feet in diameter, it was only half an inch thick. Grimm rapped on the exposed area with his knuckles, and the dull tone told him he had hardly touched the metal barrier.
Still, all was not lost. The complex of Haven might be huge, but it was supremely orderly in its construction; a series of rings cut into regular sectors.
"Xylox,” Grimm said. “Using the argot of this place, we are at the end of Brown Sector, Ring Nine. Can you visualise the location of the Habitation Block relative to here?"
"With ease,” Xylox replied. “You are considering Teleportation?"
"I am, Brother Mage."
"You may try first, Questor Grimm,” the older thaumaturge intoned, as if granting a mighty favour.
Grimm nodded. In his mind, he pictured the location of the Habitation Block, relative to the mages’ current position. He shut his eyes and patterned his mind for the spell, feeling the power building within him. Opening his mouth to cast his spell, he waited for the release of tension that would indicate that the spell was ready to cast. It did not come.
"It didn't work, Xylox,” Grimm gasped. He could not believe that he could have miscast.
"Did not work,” Xylox corrected, prim, proper and haughty as ever. “It seems that you may have neglected your studies with regard to such competences. Allow me to demonstrate the correct usage of the spell."
He shut his eyes and cast his own variant of the magic, with no more success than Grimm had managed.
"I don't understand it,” Xylox said, puzzled in the extreme.
"Do not understand,” Grimm said, with a heavy edge of sarcasm which Xylox seemed to choose to ignore. “It must be this metal—the ‘Faraday Cage’ effect I mentioned earlier may be blocking our egress. Although the metal does not resist magic applied to it, it will not allow it to pass through."
Xylox sat cross-legged on the floor. “Between the two of us, we must be able to find a way out of here; I, for one, will not be stayed by Technology. All we need is a little time to think."
Questor Page 6
