Questor

by Alastair J. Archibald

  * * * *

  Colonel Perfuco regarded his beloved General, unease causing his stomach to gripe. Having at first asked the mage to attend the dinner meeting with the Questors and their retinue, Quelgrum had now changed his mind, saying that he preferred not to ‘show his hand’ too early. Perfuco did his best to convince his superior of just how severe a threat a pair of Questors could pose.

  The Mentalist had taken part in three House Quests, and one of these had involved an attack by a group of armed, trained renegades. On this occasion, he had seen for himself the terrifying power of a lone Guild Questor; the attacking force of some twenty experienced men had been routed in an instant, as if the mage had swatted a fly. A handful of blinded, burning, shattered men survived to flee the field, disorientated and maddened by pain, and the single mage had pursued them with ruthless efficiency, blasting each of the attackers into a spray of wet, bloody fragments.

  The Questor spared a single warrior from the carnage, a grizzled, muscular, battle-scarred veteran of some forty summers. Perfuco remembered how the burly axe-man had trembled and pleaded for his life as the willow-thin mage had stood over his scorched and bleeding foe, his eyes like shards of flint.

  "You have witnessed the penalty for attempting to assault a Guild Questor," the slender thaumaturge told the hapless man in a cold, emotionless voice. "I spare you your miserable, cowardly existence, so you may spread the word to others of your wretched kind; only death awaits those who would oppose us. Get out of my sight, you crawling slug, and remember that you only live because I chose to spare you."

  Perfuco still shivered at the memory of the remorseless, brutal execution of nineteen humans by a single Questor.

  "General Quelgrum,” the nervous Mentalist said, “I urge you to allow me to interview and assess these mages before you meet them; the risk is too great for you to face them alone. I am particularly worried that you still cannot contact Haven.” The mage had visions of the mountaintop complex razed to the ground, its broken corridors heaped high with frozen corpses.

  The warlord laughed. “Risk is, and always has been, my life, Perfuco,” he said. “I built an army out of stragglers and malcontents, and I moulded them into a disciplined, effective fighting force, any of whom will fight to the death at my least word of command. I managed this by assessing the abilities and qualities of men and women, and encouraging them to develop self-respect and pride. I fear no man; not even you, Perfuco, Pacified or not. And don't forget that you'll be there, too, as well as an armed guard."

  Perfuco sighed, running his fingers through his thin, greasy hair. How could he convince his superior of the danger posed by a pair of Questors? Perhaps a cold, logical argument would work better than an emotional appeal; the General seemed to thrive on risk and danger, regarding any warning as an enjoyable challenge.

  "Sir, I cannot understand why you have changed your mind about me being present at the meal,” he said. “It is quite beyond me that you do not wish me to be there; I can access my Mage Sight in an instant and tell you if they are under full control, before they can do any mischief. For the Names’ sakes! I see that each mage still has his Mage Staff!"

  Quelgrum drained the dregs of his glass, and smacked his lips in an appreciative gesture before he answered.

  "From what you told me when you joined us, Perfuco,” he drawled, putting down the empty glass, “I couldn't have taken those sticks from them anyway. I'm not losing my mind, old friend; I'm not sure I buy this tale about Haven's comms being knocked out by snowstorms, either. Tomorrow, I'm going to send an expedition to find out. There's a video link to the room, so you can keep an eye on them through one of the monitors."

  "General, be reasonable,” Perfuco pleaded. “Mage Sight does not work over your video cameras. I would be of no more use to you than an ordinary private soldier."

  "The main reason I don't want them to see you for the moment,” Quelgrum said, “is that they were almost certainly sent to bring you and your friends back; I doubt they'll do much without proof that you're here. You forget, Colonel, that I've already been alone with these people. They've had ample opportunity to kill me already, and they didn't do so. If they see you, they'll know you for a mage straight away; if they're not Pacified, they'll be on the defensive at once; if they are, then I've gained nothing.

  "I want to see them in the raw, as it were; it's a challenge to me to see how you folks tick. I've taken on street hoodlums, thugs, drunkards and berserkers, and I've turned them into loyal, disciplined soldiers with the force of my mind alone. From what you've told me, these guys are just pawns in High Lodge's game; virtual prisoners and slaves to their House Prelate, or the High Dominie. I almost hope they have slipped their conditioning somehow, so I can persuade them to join me of their own free will!"

  Perfuco noted the broad smile on Quelgrum's face; he knew the General could not be deterred when he had made his mind up about anything. The Mentalist gave his head a resigned, rueful shake.

  "Very well, General; as you wish. But I insist that you allow me to put your personal guard unit on maximum alert—will you at least let me do that?"

  Quelgrum smiled.

  "If that will make you happy, Colonel,” he said, “then feel free. However, I find it hard to believe that these guys want to strike me down in cold blood. I don't want you setting foot in the room unless I'm in obvious danger; is that clear, Perfuco?"

  "Yes, Sir: your orders are quite clear."

  The Mentalist had tried to convince his superior of the danger posed by the Questors, and he had failed. As a full, Guild-trained mage, he was not one to give up without a fight.

  If the General wanted to play games with these two mages, then so be it; however, he, Perfuco would make sure that, if anything happened to Quelgrum, then the mages and their friends would never leave the complex alive.

  * * * *

  At last, Thribble managed to catch hold of the fugitive thought that had been flitting around his mind like a frightened bird; all of his cogitation up to this point had involved trying to move outside the cart, and he had been unable to do so. However, the answer now seemed so obvious!

  With a smile on his small, grey face, he blinked out of the world. After a few moments, he reappeared in the mortal world and fell several inches to the ground. In front of him, he saw a pair of green-garbed humans pushing a cart and arguing as they receded into the distance.

  Instead of trying to move himself, Thribble had done the exact opposite; he had just hopped into his extra-dimensional alcove and waited, maintaining the same position in space relative to the mortal world. The imprisoning cart had just moved through him. He was free!

  The demon eyed the stark, anonymous corridor, with no idea of where he was in respect to his human friends, or anywhere else in the strange complex. However, at least now his mind was free from the numbing terror of immolation that had sapped his strength of purpose earlier.

  * * * *

  It seemed to Grimm that his head had only just touched the pillow when he started awake to the sound of a sharp rap on the door. In an instant, he was alert and sitting upright, as a pair of soldiers entered the room. One was short and thin, with shoulder insignia that marked him as an officer; the other was of average height, with a pair of chevrons on each sleeve. Both men bore Technological weapons.

  "Gentlemen,” the officer said. “I am Captain Van Geld, and I am to escort you to dinner with General Quelgrum; my colleague is Corporal Schmidt."

  The Corporal nodded, but Grimm saw little respect in the gesture. The man had a small, slit-like mouth and an expression which hinted at depths of cruelty and ruthlessness lying just behind his scarred face. The captain had a more cultured air, but Grimm did not need to resort to his Sight to sense the cold, steely core beneath the polite veneer.

  Grimm stood, and pulled his uniform as straight as possible, and his three companions made similar attempts to improve their appearances. The Captain nodded his approval.

  "The General
is a great man,” Van Geld said, in a voice that told of heartfelt dedication and admiration, as well as a hint of envy. “You are privileged indeed to be invited as dinner guests on your first day here."

  "Believe me, Captain,” Xylox responded, in the smooth, diplomatic tones he seemed able to assume and discard at will, “we all appreciate the honour you have bestowed upon us. The General has done a splendid job of maintaining such an impressive and well-disciplined operation in a hostile and forbidding environment like this. He must be a master administrator."

  Van Geld gave a curt nod, as if such praise were the only possible reaction when one was confronted by Quelgrum's meticulous, efficient force.

  "Indeed he is, magic-user,” he said. “We are all in his debt, and we would all deem it an honour and a privilege to give our lives for him; every one of us."

  The officer's eyes bored into Xylox's, as if daring the Questor to challenge his assertion.

  Grimm unfocused his physical eyes and engaged his Mage Sight. He saw no sign of coercion or external control in the man's aura: the captain's sentiments appeared genuine and deep-seated. A swift glance at Schwartz told the same story, although the Corporal's aura was streaked with colours betokening viciousness and spite.

  The mage had hoped that all at this facility had all been ‘Pacified', to use Administrator Armitage's innocuous terminology. This might have given the two Questors some kind of edge, since a man accustomed to having his thoughts controlled by another might be more susceptible to magical beguilement. However, it seemed that Quelgrum was charismatic enough to motivate people to work for him of their own free will; Grimm found this more than a little worrisome.

  "So, gentlemen, if you'd be so good as to accompany us, I'll take you right to the General."

  Grimm's eyes met those of Xylox; the senior mage's expression showed that he must have carried out a similar assay and reached the same depressing conclusions. The young sorcerer had managed to recoup some of his magical energies during his brief, restorative sleep, but he knew his power was still far from its potent, destructive peak.

  He might be able to stop one of the two soldiers in his tracks, and he felt confident that Xylox could do the same to the other, but the two magic-users might then be as helpless and impotent as they had been on their arrival. The only realistic option was to play for time, blessed time that would allow the two human weapons to reach their full potential.

  "We are ready, Captain,” Xylox declared.

  * * * *

  "So, Questor Grimm, what do you think of my establishment?” the General asked.

  The young mage gulped down his mouthful of food; Xylox had given him a secret signal that he detected no untoward adulterants in the meal, and the young Questor had attacked it with gusto.

  "Well, Sir,” he said, improvising, “I must say how impressed I am with your domicile. The bowed fortification I saw as we were brought here is a magnificent structure."

  Quelgrum laughed; an easy, pleasant sound. “That, my dear magic-user, is no fortification, and we didn't construct it. It's an ancient hydroelectric dam."

  Grimm blinked; the term meant nothing to him.

  "It's a dam, a structure for holding back water, you know?"

  Grimm had seen a dam in his home town of Lower Frunstock, a simple earth and rock embankment. It was as nothing compared to the curved, towering structure he had admired on his arrival at the facility.

  "A dam in the middle of the desert, General?” Tordun said, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. “This makes little sense to me."

  The soldier smiled. “This wasn't always a desert, my large friend. The dam dates back to before the Last War, and this complex is based on the original water processing plant. I discovered this place some fifteen years ago, and it has been ideal for my purposes until now."

  Warming to his theme, the General continued. “We have our own petroleum rig and refinery, and this gives us light, heat and power. Needless to say, however, we have to import food and clothes from outside. Where possible, I try to pay for goods in kind, by helping out on farms and construction projects, but, regrettably, I sometimes need to requisition goods and services. I don't like it, but I have the needs of my people to consider. We have over fifteen hundred mouths to feed here, you know."

  "Your new home is most impressive, General,” Xylox said. “It will be a pleasure to serve you."

  "I'm sure it will, Questor Xylox,” the soldier said, leaning forward on his elbows, his hands clasped beneath his chin. “Except that you have no intention of working for me or with me, do you?"

  "I do not know what you mean, General,” Xylox said, his face as impassive as ever.

  Grimm also tried to keep his expression calm, but he felt a frigid, electric impulse running through his spine. Foster looked surprised, but at least Tordun, Crest and Drexelica maintained the pretence of being Pacified.

  The General smiled. “At least, not until you have a good meal and a good night's sleep, anyway, eh, mage? Do have another glass of wine."

  Chapter 25

  Quelgrum's Plan

  Grimm almost sighed with relief; the General's apparent discovery of the group's un-Pacified state had turned out to be nothing more than badinage. He took a healthy swig from the wineglass at his right hand, before it occurred to him that there might be drugs or other adulterants in the ruby-red liquid; for a moment, his head spun, and he feared that he might have been poisoned by some subtle adulterant that Xylox's gem could not detect.

  He clutched Redeemer, and the feeling passed. He realised that the exhaustion and dehydration of the desert trek must have rendered him more susceptible to alcohol than usual; the staff's magic had nullified the effects of the wine, leaving him with his accustomed equanimity.

  The General smiled. “It's a pleasant vintage, isn't it, Questor Grimm?"

  "Indeed, Sir,” the mage said. “I must confess that it hit me a little harder than I expected."

  A few moments of silence passed, as the famished adventurers and the Haven pilot consumed the hearty meals before them. When the plates were empty, the soldier clapped his hands, and an orderly arrived to clear the table.

  "I would offer you dessert, if we had any,” Quelgrum said, with a regretful, apologetic air. “However, we try to restrict our fare to staples and essentials; it's not fair to requisition more than we need from the hard-working folk of Griven, Smar, and the other towns in the area. There's no sense in strangling geese that lay golden eggs, eh?"

  Grimm found the officer a complex and charismatic man. He engaged his Mage Sight for an instant, and saw that the General words had been sincere, at least as far as the soldier believed. Undercurrents of amusement, mild suspicion and enthusiasm ran through Quelgrum's aura. Malice, meanness and treachery seemed all but absent from the man's psyche. There was evidence of ruthless determination in his makeup, but Grimm's overall assessment was positive. What was this pleasant, easy-going military man's motive in assembling a vast, threatening army in this remote, desolate location? Why had he felt the need to enslave Guild Mages as part of his retinue, when he had so many other loyal souls at his disposal, all with deadly Technological weapons?

  "General,” Crest said, articulating Grimm's first concern. “I'm puzzled as to why you've assembled an army like this. Why do you need it, when you're obviously coping so well?"

  The officer, who seemed to have a hard head for liquor, poured himself another glass of wine. He spent a little while turning the glass from side to side and inspecting it before he allowed the beverage to enter his mouth; only then did he answer the thief's inquiry.

  "That's a good question, Master Crest, and I'll do my best to give you an honest answer,” he said, cupping his right hand on his chin and shutting his eyes for a few moments.

  "I grew up as a serf on a farm in Garley Province,” he said at last, opening his eyes. “My life was worth less than one of the sheep I tended.

  "Things came to a head one day when the foreman beat me for
complaining about the food; it was worse than pig-slop, and they'd just reduced our rations yet again after a poor harvest. I was fourteen years old at the time.

  "I'd been beaten almost every day of my life, but for some reason I'd had enough; I grabbed his stick from him and beat him half to death. The overseers beat me bloody, and hauled me in front of the serf-master. I expected death, but instead I was sentenced to the ore-mines for a period of ten years. It might as well have been life: the conditions were atrocious, and dead bodies were taken out every day. I was damned if I'd let them break me, but I felt my will to live slipping further away from me after each ten-hour shift."

  Quelgrum shivered, as if the memories still haunted him, but he stiffened his spine as he continued.

  "For three years, I only survived by learning to fight, stealing food from other, weaker men so that I might live. It's not something I'm proud of, but it was them or me."

  The soldier took a deep draught of wine, but the alcohol did not seem to affect him in the least.

  "Then there was a war between Lord Thurel, who ruled Garley Province, and Lord Gamel, his cousin, who held the town of Juriat to the north. Garley had a small militia; just enough to stop insurgency and rioting within the province, but Gamel had a fully-trained army at his command.

  "At first, there were just a few raids, but they soon escalated in frequency and violence. Thurel started to look for volunteers from among the serfs to fight for him. I was still in good shape and, although I owed the old bastard nothing, I would have done anything to get out of those bloody mines. I volunteered, and I was taken out into the sun for the first time in thirty-six months."

  The General drained his glass, and refilled it, his eyes distant and troubled.

  "I was trained in the use of the sword. Twelve hours a day, rain or shine, without remission, for eight weeks. Sergeant Hurul was in charge of my group, and we were ruthlessly chastised for the least mistake. I wanted to break in the drill-sergeant's head with my bare hands, but we were always watched for the least hint of mutiny. One of the other training groups tried to go over to the other side, but they were caught, tortured and dismembered right in front of us."