Beside Tordun, Crest oiled his long, black whip from a small brown bottle, working the oil into the leather with a loving hand. Neither man showed anything on his face but an expression of serene detachment, and Grimm envied his companions their composure.
It did not occur to him that they might just be better actors than he, and that their vitals might be churning just as his own were.
"What is the matter, Questor Xylox?” Grimm called to his senior. “You seem in some discomfort; I may be able to help, for I have some small skill in Healing."
Xylox shook his head, a gesture which caused him to wince.
"I will not imbibe any of your cursed herbs, Questor Grimm,” he said. “I have no desire to become some drooling, mindless addict, thank you very much.
"And I do not want any witch magic tainting me, either,” he added, glancing at Drex.
Grimm winced a little at the ‘drooling, mindless addict’ tag. He had become addicted to the potent drugs, Trina and Virion, almost at the cost of his rationality, but he knew that Xylox was only lashing out at his junior in response to his own helplessness.
"I must confess that I have over-extended myself, Brother Mage,” Xylox continued, speaking directly into his younger colleague's ear with a conspiratorial air. “The spell I cast on Foster is far more than a simple Geas; I also sent with it a strong Compulsion, so that he would believe that our route was his own idea.
"This is a spell that few other mages could master,” he boasted. “It requires a prodigious amount of energy and precision to overcome a man's resistance, whilst giving him the illusion that he maintains free will."
"Armitage managed the same sleight by Technological means,” Grimm replied, unimpressed. “It seems that his enslaved minions, once freed from his influence, were quite unaware that their lives had been controlled by him for so long. I believe this was Deeks’ downfall; he expected that all the downtrodden serfs of Haven would rise as one to destroy the Administrator once his influence was eliminated, whereas they merely went about their various duties as if nothing had happened."
"What a man may do by means of that bastard discipline is irrelevant,” Xylox snapped. Plainly, he did not want his mighty achievement diminished or belittled by comparison to the ancient art; an affront to the mage's mighty ego must pain him more than any headache. “What I did was far beyond the capabilities of the vast majority of mages."
"It was a most impressive display of thaumaturgic mastery,” Grimm assured him, as a blazing thought shot through his mind, robbing him of all others.
He had almost convinced himself that his grandfather, Loras, had been ensorcelled into attempting to smother the old Prelate of Arnor House, but Loras’ apparent complete acceptance of his own guilt in the matter had seemed an insurmountable obstacle. Now, Grimm had learned that a person could be persuaded by magic that his enforced actions were of his own volition. If so, then it was possible that Loras had been put under such a spell.
"Questor Xylox,” he pressed his colleague, “could you persuade a man to kill someone he loved and admired, while making him believe he had done so of his own free will?"
"It is a technical possibility, I suppose,” the older man replied, “but it would require a store of energy far beyond even my capabilities. Resistance to such a spell increases in proportion to the unwillingness of its subject to carry out such an act. Foster was opposed to taking this route, but not violently so; I was therefore able to nudge him in the right direction. Even this spell all but drained me."
At that moment, the metallic vehicle gave another precipitous jerk, plunging towards the mountainside. Drex screamed, and stuffed her hand in her mouth. A bizarre, bleating noise blared from the panel in front of the pilot, and Tordun's sword clattered onto the deck.
"Get ready to get out and walk, folks!” Foster yelled. "It looks like we're going down! Hang on to something!"
With an awful tearing noise, the helicopter struck a rock. For a moment, Foster managed to drag the wounded bird back into the air, but it was as quickly thrust back onto the unforgiving face of the mountain. This time, one of the whirling wings on top of the conveyance struck the rock face, and pandemonium broke loose. The yellow lights inside the vehicle flickered and died, and the machine slammed itself against the rocks, again and again, like some great, maddened beast trying to dislodge an irritating tick from its back.
Grimm held on to Drex with his right arm and to a metal stanchion with his left hand. The thin metal cut into his fingers, but he did not relax his grip in the least.
The mechanical conveyance's manic dance came to a screeching halt, and the vehicle heeled over at a crazy angle. It hung motionless for a few moments, seeming to defy gravity, before tumbling over and over, a cacophony of clanging, crashing, and crunching sounds greeting each new impact. Grimm had never felt more helpless in his life; he saw nothing outside the vehicle except a grey blur. He still clung to Drex and the metal pillar, feeling his arm muscles scream with every jolt and crash.
The terrifying, nightmare ride came to an end at last as the machine came to rest with a final, decisive impact. It heeled over again, as if eager to recommence its suicidal descent, but it then settled on a more or less even keel with one last, tortured, metallic groan.
Blessed silence reigned once more.
All Grimm knew was that he was still alive. His arms felt as if they had been ripped from their sockets, and his neck was a flaming epicentre of pain. He felt as if he had been punched in the stomach by an angry giant, and a hundred other aches and twinges fought to take precedence over his attention. Nonetheless, the various discomforts, competing for his attention like over-eager schoolchildren striving to be the first to answer a teacher's question, told him he had survived the awful ordeal.
Pain meant life.
Sudden, hot tears threatened to start from Grimm's eyes; he screwed his face up and took several deep breaths before he felt sure his whirling emotions would not betray him.
Greater awareness trickled into his brain, and he realised he was lying across somebody in the centre aisle. The interior of the wrecked machine was dark, but the young mage could tell from the solid mass of muscle beneath his right hand that he must be sprawled over the mighty Tordun.
He feared the enormous warrior was dead, but he heard a groan that sounded inspired more by relief than by agony. As Grimm's eyes adjusted to the dim conditions, he saw the giant swordsman raise his head, which bore several cuts and contusions. None appeared life-threatening.
"Are you hurt, Tordun? I hope I didn't hurt you by falling on you."
The albino laughed; a deep, bass rumble that served to comfort Grimm, with its easy-going humour. “You are only a lightweight, Questor. I used to fight bare-knuckled in the ring at Gallorley: I promise you, I've been hit a lot harder than that and stayed on my feet."
"I haven't,” Crest complained, who lay half-buried under the giant, “and your right armpit isn't the most aromatic bower in the land, Tordun."
The swordsman lifted his massive arm, and the slender elf struggled free. “That's better,” the thief said. “I thought I'd survived all that just to suffocate in your sweat, you overstuffed excuse for a warrior."
Tordun's good-natured laugh sounded again, although maybe with just a little too much enthusiasm. Grimm realised that the albino might not be quite as carefree and calm as he pretended.
"I'm all right, too, as if anybody cares,” the muffled, irritated voice of Thribble piped from the depths of Grimm's robe, and the thaumaturge suppressed a smile.
"Questor Grimm; not 'didn't'; 'did not',” a familiar, gruff voice snapped; that of Xylox. The young sorcerer might have guessed the senior Questor would remain focused on such trivia, but he felt glad to know his brother mage had also survived.
He was about to issue the older thaumaturge with a half-hearted apology when a panicked thought speared into his brain like lightning: Drex! What about Drexelica?
"Where are you, Drexelica? Are you all
right?” His voice echoed through the metal frame of the machine.
He felt a tug at his shoulder; the girl had not surrendered her tight hold on his robe. “My head hurts, but it looks like I'm still in one piece."
Despite the calm delivery of her words, Grimm could sense the dark spectre of hysteria lurking behind them. Twisting himself around within the cramped space, he grabbed Drex and held her to his body. He could feel her trembling within the confines of his arms, and he whispered “It is over, Drex, all over; there is nothing to worry about."
Drex buried her head in his chest and sobbed without restraint as the tension flowed from her body. It seemed natural to comfort her, and this also helped to stem Grimm's own inner turmoil, which threatened to break out at any time. He made soothing sounds and fought to keep tears from his own eyes.
"Disgusting,” the misogynistic Xylox muttered.
After a short while, Drex raised her gaze to meet Grimm's. “I'm sorry about that, Questor Grimm,” she said, her expression solemn. “I know you don't like girls; it won't happen again.” Her tone was resigned and cold as she disengaged herself from his awkward embrace.
Grimm opened his mouth to protest, but he did not know how to explain his warring emotions; he held deep feelings for the girl, but these conflicted with his fear of losing his magic powers. How could he tell her without offending her?
The matter was taken out of his hands by a loud groan from the front of the crumpled helicopter.
"Sorry about the rough landing, people,” Foster called from the front of the shattered craft. “The winds on this side of the mountains can be a little unpredictable. Why I didn't take the Griven route, I'll never know. Still, we're here, and they do say any landing you can walk away from is a good one."
Craning his neck, Grimm turned his head towards the front of the vehicle. Foster's white helmet was battered and scuffed, but the strange headgear must have saved the Haven man's life. Various battered, bent stalks and protrusions hung down from the helmet by thin tendrils, and a pattern of scratches and white stars marred the visor covering Foster's eyes. A thin trickle of dark, drying blood extended from the just-visible end of his nose, and numerous small cuts peppered his chin and lower cheeks. The large windows at the front of the front of the machine had been shattered, the apparent cause of his injuries.
"If you're all set, I guess it's time to hit the road,” the pilot said. “Unless, of course, you'd rather stay here and chat."
* * * *
They stood on a rough profusion of small stones and gravel near the foot of the Shest Mountains. The machine that had borne them was a battered hulk, its green mass crumpled and streaked with grey and silver, and it nestled between a pair of rocks, either of which would have shattered the vehicle into splinters had it fallen upon them.
The Names must be preserving us for a greater purpose, Grimm thought, shaking his head at the realisation of just how close they had come to disaster.
Beyond the foothills extended a vast expanse of golden wasteland and, far in the distance, Grimm saw a vague black dot shimmering before his eyes. Could this be the party's goal, the demesne of General Quelgrum?
"Forgive me if I'm a little confused after that eventful little flight,” Foster said, apparently little the worse for wear after the loss of his craft. “But just why are we here? I must admit that I've forgotten, in all the excitement."
Xylox looked Grimm straight in the eye. “We need to persuade Foster to take us to the General,” he muttered. “Much though it pains me to admit it, even I lack the sleight to deliver another spell of Compulsion after such a brief interval. Since the sun is sitting low in the sky, I suggest we rest a while and recoup our energies."
"I must agree, Questor Xylox,” the young magic-user replied in a conspiratorial tone. “I am feeling considerable discomfort from a number of minor injuries, and I would relish the prospect of a little rest. I imagine I am not alone in this."
Xylox turned to the pilot. “Pilot Foster, we are all a little confused and overwrought after that calamitous descent. There seems to be a considerable amount of ground yet to cover, so I would ask if your conveyance carries any means of bedding ourselves down for the night. There is a distinct chill in the air, and I know the onset of night in such regions as this can bring frigid temperatures."
Foster shook his head, not in negation, but in an evident attempt to clear his thoughts. His eyes darted from side to side, as if he sought to make some sense of his recent extraordinary actions, but he seemed to give up the effort with a simple shrug.
"I think there may be a few tents, sleeping bags and the like in the helicopter's cargo hold,” he offered. “In fact, I'm almost sure of it."
Whistling a cheerful tune, Foster returned to the machine, accompanied by the muscular albino. “Three two-man tents, with integral groundsheets and sleeping bags,” he said, as if offering a great treat. “I've also found some full water-bottles; they're likely to be a little tangy from the chlorine disinfectant, but they should be safe to drink, anyway. No food, I'm afraid, but I'm sure we can all handle that."
"Speak for yourself,” Crest mumbled, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “I'm famished; I haven't had anything to eat since our banquet with Armitage."
"That cannot be helped,” Xylox snapped. “Sleep is what we need now, in order to strengthen us for the journey ahead."
The elf shrugged. “If you say so, Questor; I suppose I can tell my stomach to shut up for another night."
Grimm glanced at Drex, but she avoided his gaze.
The senior mage tried to take charge of the various activities, but Foster, Tordun and Crest all appeared more than familiar with the routine of setting up a night camp. The erection of the tents proceeded with some speed, without his interference. Xylox lost interest and drifted away, as the three men chatted whilst establishing the small base.
* * * *
"Well, there we are,” Foster said, his face flushed but happy. “There doesn't seem to be any kindling around, so we'll have to do without a fire."
Grimm saw, from the corner of his eye, that Xylox was approaching at some speed. It was plain that he intended to show this group of yokels what a Questor could do, but his young colleague pre-empted the situation.
"Please; Bother Mage; allow me,” Grimm said, struggling to keep an air of smugness from his voice. “K'shugg't."
"That ought to do it,” he added, as warming flames began to rise from the bare rocks between the three tents. “The fire should be able to keep us warm all night, without my further attention."
Xylox slowed his approach, and Grimm felt gratified to see the senior mage's expression of dissatisfaction. Nonetheless, the curmudgeonly magic-user had the final word.
"Questor Grimm, you will share a tent with me. I see grievous temptation in your path, and I would protect you from the pernicious presence of that girl. The rest of you may make your own arrangements."
Xylox headed for one of the small tents, and Grimm waited to see what the others would do. Crest declared that he had spent more than long enough pressed to the armpit of Tordun to wish to share a tent with him, and Foster agreed to be his tent-mate. That left Drex and a red-faced Tordun; the girl assumed the expression of a martyr.
"If I must, I must,” she declaimed in tragic tones, glancing at Grimm, who feigned a complete disinterest, while his vitals churned within him.
Grimm went to the tent of Xylox, and wormed his way inside what looked like the sloughed skin of a giant green maggot; his resting-place for the night. Xylox was already asleep, and his snoring seemed almost loud enough to drill holes in the rock beneath them. It took Grimm a long time to reach his own repose; when, at last, he did, he dreamed of Drex. The girl was pushing him away and laughing at him.
Chapter 16
Mind Games
Grimm's sleep did not last for long. His green, hooded bag was warm and comfortable enough, but three things still disturbed him: Drex taunted him in his fitful dreams; Xylox s
nored with a sound like a metal chair being dragged across a rough stone floor; and the matter of the ignominious banishment of Grimm's grandfather, Loras, the former Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Firelord, was, once more, foremost in the mage's mind.
Loras never seemed to have denied trying to murder Lord Prelate Geral; nonetheless, his behaviour after being caught in the act by his best friend, Thorn Virias, appeared curious. Doorkeeper had told Grimm that the mighty, iron-willed Loras had broken down and wept in front of the High Conclave standing in judgement over him, whilst admitting to the crime.
When asked if he had carried out the deed, Loras’ response, as recorded in the Guild records of the trial, was "I must have done it; may the Names forgive me! It all seems like a ghastly nightmare to me now. What was I thinking?"
Grimm tossed and turned within the confines of the green sack, trying to assess the few facts he knew, trying to marshal them into a coherent argument.
Two motives for the assault were discussed at the trial: either Loras was seeking to hasten his inevitable election as Lord Geral's successor, or he was carrying out an act of mercy to ease the passage of a sick, addled old man he loved and revered. Thorn proposed this second motive to the High Conclave as his argument for sparing Loras from the ultimate penalty.
This argument made little sense; the aged Prelate had been sick and in great pain for many months. From what Doorkeeper had told Grimm, Geral seemed to have drifted into a blissful reverie by the time of the assault, and he was no longer in pain. If pity had been Loras’ sole motive, surely it would have been strongest when the old man's suffering was at its height. Doorkeeper had tended the Prelate throughout his long malady, and he had told Grimm how relieved he felt when Geral drifted into the deep anaesthesia of the terminal stage of his sickness.
The idea of an ambitious Loras seeking to speed his accession to the rank of Prelates did not hold water, either. The old man plainly had little time remaining to him, and he died within two weeks of Loras’ banishment, leaving Thorn as the almost inevitable choice as his successor. In any case, Loras was a mighty and accomplished Questor, with several decades of experience as a weapon of the Guild; he must have known a hundred ways of terminating the Prelate's life without even entering his room. Grimm had killed the Haven Technician, Deeks, from afar by telekinetic compression of his heart. It had been a new spell-concept for the young Questor, but, then again, Grimm was still finding his feet as a mage; Loras had had many years to stock his lethal magical arsenal with covert and undetectable means of murder.
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