Grimm saw the haunted look in Quelgrum's eyes and knew that it was no act. He yearned to speak some words of comfort, but he knew that they would be worthless.
"We fought; we killed; we died. Gamel's men were good, but there were far more of us, because Gamel didn't trust his serfs to fight. Thurel bought another plot of land with the blood of his subjects, and I thought he would be grateful to us. When the war was over, I expected to be freed.
"Instead, the reward for my faithful service was that my sentence was reduced from ten years to eight. I was to be sent back to the mines. The other volunteers were rewarded no better than I.
"My blood boiled, and I saw red. I wasn't alone in this; several other volunteers shouted insults and imprecations, and we rioted. Gamel's mistake was that the serf ‘volunteers’ now outnumbered the depleted ranks of the lord's loyal subjects, and we had all been trained in the use of weapons.
"It was butchery, pure and simple. A lot of us died, but we won the battle; Garley was ours. Lord Gamel had been happy to condemn countless serfs to agonising death for the most trifling offences, but he squealed like a pig when we took him to the scaffold; his death was a lot easier than he would have given us if we'd lost."
Grimm saw nascent tears flickering at Drex's eyelids, and the admiring look in Tordun's eyes was undeniable. Even the formidable Xylox seemed affected by the General's speech.
"I'd thought that it would all be over; no more fighting, no more serfdom. Sure, after the end of the battle, we formed a democratic commune where every adult got to vote on important issues. For a while, it was great, but then we came on hard times. Garley had survived for a hundred and fifty years on the ruthless oppression of a large serf population, but we were too small to be a viable, self-governing, self-sufficient society; most of us had no idea what to do unless ordered. That meant that we had to fight again, to take what we needed.
"We ended up as an army of nomads, putting down roots for brief periods of time, but homeless. Children were trained from birth in the use of the sword, the spear and the bow. From time to time, groups would split off and make their way in the world, but the fighting never stopped.
"I rose up the ranks over the years, until I took charge of my own marauding force and tried to find a home for it. We fared ill at first, struggling to find a home in the wasteland, but we could only ever find work as mercenaries for barons and dukes, who disavowed us as soon as they no longer needed our aid. We existed as outcasts, regrettable necessities to be forgotten when no longer required, but growing all the time in size and strength until we ended up at this ancient, desolate station in the desert. I was determined to make a home for my people, and I fought for many years to make it so. I fought so hard, not for thanks and plaudits, but for the sake of good people who relied on me for sustenance, guidance and leadership...” Quelgrum's voice petered out, and his eyes became misty and haunted.
Xylox cleared his throat, and leaned forward to address the soldier, who seemed lost in a morass of disturbing memories.
"You seem to have done very well for yourself in this establishment, General,” he said. “This seems to be a mighty fortress, and your people appear well-fed and clothed. Can you not rest now?"
The military man shook his head, and his morbid expression became fierce, almost manic. “I have a force of dedicated, devoted people under my command. I have engineers, strategists, a stock of technological weapons and a secure stronghold. It does look impressive, doesn't it?"
Xylox opened his mouth, but Quelgrum interrupted him, his wistful expression replaced by one of fierce determination. “We are dying, Questor Xylox: we are stagnating and decaying. We take all, and we make nothing. Fifteen-hundred people look to me for security and safety, and I've given until I can't give any more. The water's running dry, and our attempts at agriculture and independence are failing. It's time for us to fight one more time; once more, so that we can be recognised as human beings, with a right to our own existence.
"I'm tired, Questor Xylox; sick and tired of being used as hired muscle for some bloated nobleman, to be cast aside as soon as another worthless piece of paper is signed. Some of them have joined forces with their new allies in an attempt to destroy what they see as a serious threat.
"Fighting is all I've ever known: fighting for survival; fighting for food; fighting for the very right to live. I'm tired of it all, tired down to my bones, I tell you. After just one more successful, climactic fight, I'll be happy. All I want is a strong fortress where we can stay free from those who would use or destroy us; a chance to rest after many years of painful struggle. I don't want to have to fight, but I owe my people more than leaving them to make their way in an ungrateful world that would sooner see them dead."
Grimm noted the soldier's morose, resigned tone, and he felt the faint stirrings of misgiving in his full stomach.
What is the General planning?
"Where will this final fight be, Sir?” he asked, suspecting that he already knew the answer.
Quelgrum took another draught of his wine, although he did not seem to notice its passing.
"I have my mind on one particular fortress,” he said. “It's very defensible, and it's surrounded by lush, arable land where we could grow our own crops, so we wouldn't be dependent on the charity or fear of others. The only problem is that I doubt the current incumbents will feel like leaving."
"Where, General?” Grimm asked.
"Why, I want to take your High Lodge,” the soldier replied.
Despite Quelgrum's broad smile, he did not seem to be joking, and Grimm's mouth dropped open as a cold wave ran down his spine.
* * * *
Thribble hid in shadows, hopping from one dark area to another, clinging to the wainscoting of the military complex. Humans scuttled like worker ants from area to area, to the sound of more or less strident, peremptory orders from others. The demon found the whole operation confusing, as the soldiers moved boxes from one place to another, made pencil marks on clipboards or sat cleaning piles of black metal tubes, all seemingly synchronised to some unheard, metronomic master beat.
He had no plan except to find his way back to Questor Grimm and the others, but he had not the slightest idea of where to find them. The long, convoluted trip in the cart had disorientated him more than a little, but he reasoned that the mages would, most likely, be being entertained or interrogated by the General. All he needed to do was to stay alert and keep his eyes and ears open for or any indication of Quelgrum's whereabouts.
Thribble secreted himself in the shadows of one of the numerous checkpoints within the huge complex, in the hope that somebody would have some urgent delivery or message for Quelgrum; he would then follow the messenger's scent trail until he reached his goal. Twenty or thirty minutes passed without incident, but, at last, the imp was rewarded by the sight of a man pushing a trolley up to the checkpoint.
The human wore crisp, immaculate white overalls, in sharp contrast to the shapeless green garb of the other menials.
He may be some kind of senior body-servant or the like, Thribble thought. At the very least, he must surely be some functionary on the General's personal staff.
His hopes were confirmed by the man's words to the guard.
"Coming through—coffee and liqueurs for the General's party,” he said in a sing-song voice.
"He's already taken on enough bloody liquor to sink a galleon,” the guard said, his grumbling tone tinged with undeniable admiration, which the demon presumed was for Quelgrum's capacity for alcohol.
The sentry probed the white-clad man with intimate but dispassionate hands, patting all over the functionary's body, while the servant waited with his arms outstretched and his legs slightly apart. The guard moved to the trolley, first lifting the drapes covering it to inspect the underside, and then taking a sample from each container.
"Okay, you're clean,” the sentry said, nodding. “Off you go."
As the cart rattled past Thribble, the demon took the opportu
nity to scramble under the decorative flounce and onto the bottom shelf of the trolley. Now he could ride in comfort and ease, straight to his goal!
You are a clever one, Thribble, letting these lumpen mortals do all the work for you! the stubble-headed imp thought. He settled down on the rattling shelf, helping himself to just a little of the liquor from one of the containers.
* * * *
Xylox did a creditable job of keeping emotion from his face and his voice.
"General; High Lodge is all but impregnable. I doubt that even a force of fifteen hundred armed men could take it, impressive as your army is."
"I'm sure you're right, Questor Xylox,” the officer said, in a smooth, calm voice. “It would be madness for such a group to attempt to storm such a mighty fortress, wouldn't it? However, an advance guard of five mages, skilled in the arts of beguilement and mental domination, each allowed free access to the citadel by virtue of his ring and staff, could surely open the gates for us after a few hours working their insidious mischief.
"Once inside, we would sweep through the castle almost unopposed, and, I hope, without bloodshed. We will show mercy to all who surrender, but every one of us is prepared to die, if necessary, to achieve our aim. I imagine your fancy Lord Dominie and his cohorts have not had to work a spell in anger for many years, if ever."
Grimm realised that what Quelgrum had said was quite plausible: High Lodge might possess a vast retinue of mages of all disciplines, but they were soft and pampered compared to working magic-users from the various Guild Houses. An avant-garde of Illusionists and Mentalists, unsuspected and unheralded, could wreak havoc.
However, as long as he and Xylox could maintain the pretence of being under the General's control, they might be able to quell the magical assault and alert the authorities to the attack before it happened. All depended upon the Questors buying enough time so that each could build up his power to its devastating peak Grimm was certain that the senior mage appreciated this as much as he.
Xylox's next words confirmed this: “Sir, your plan has merit. We are, of course, delighted to aid you in such a noble enterprise; with a pair of powerful Questors at your command, your ascendancy is all but confirmed. After a few days, to allow us to build up our strength, we will be ready to give our all for your noble endeavour."
The General clenched his hands under his chin. “I am glad to hear it, Questor Xylox; I had feared that you'd be out of action for a week or more."
Despite the amicable tone, Grimm detected a note of misgiving or suspicion in the man's voice.
A polite but audible rap sounded at the door.
"Ah; this must be the coffee and liqueurs,” Quelgrum said “Enter!"
At the officer's command, a white-coated flunky entered the room, pushing a decorated cart. However, as the servant entered the room, a soldier barged past him, nearly upsetting the trolley.
"General, these men are not telling the truth!” the red-faced man screamed. “All except Foster are un-Pacified; I saw it as soon as the door was opened; I could not help it. They seek to defeat you, despite their honeyed words!"
The man's arms were outstretched in warning, and Grimm saw the unmistakable blue-and-gold glint of a Guild ring; the image shot through him like a galvanic impulse. They were discovered in their deceit, beyond any denial or bluster.
"Thank you so much, Perfuco,” the General said, his voice acidic and annoyed. “Why not tell me something I don't know?” He seemed peeved, as if an enjoyable game had been denied him.
The officer sighed. “I presume you've still got your men on standby?"
The mage nodded. “As you commanded, Sir."
"Excellent,” Quelgrum replied in a sarcastic voice. “Very well; bring them in here and keep your eyes on these people. If they show the least sign of impending violence or spellcasting, have them all shot. I get the impression that the younger Questor cares for the girl; she dies first."
Perfuco snapped his fingers, and a dozen armed men crowded into the chamber. They were fierce-faced and their weapons were at the ready.
The General turned to his captive audience. “I'm sorry it had to end like this; you've been good company, and I'd hoped I could persuade you to shake off your chains and join me. If Perfuco, here, hadn't upped the ante by barging into the room like that, I like to think that I might have persuaded you to aid me to carry out my mission, of your own free will. However, thanks to the loyal but over-cautious colonel, I can see that I'll have to change tactics. I'd guess you've taken Haven out of commission somehow, so I regret that I won't be able to let you leave with your minds intact.
"I'm sorry,” he continued. “I'd really rather not kill you; but I will, if I have to."
Grimm believed each of the old soldier's statements
With a sigh, Quelgrum thumbed an illuminated stud. “Send in the Professor, please."
A few moments passed, as silence reigned in the small chamber until the door opened. The General smiled. “I'd like to introduce you to a good friend of mine."
A white-coated man of middle years entered the room. Grimm's jaw dropped as he registered a familiar countenance. It was a face he had never expected to see again: the face of Armitage.
Chapter 26
Attack!
Grimm gaped for a moment at the white-coated apparition before him. The last time he had seen Armitage, a mere three days before, the man had been lying in a spreading pool of his own blood, thanks to one of Crest's throwing knives. This could not possibly be the same man. Looking closer, Grimm saw that this man sported a pale, long-healed scar on his right cheek, where Armitage had had none. His hair was longer than could be accounted for by three days’ growth. The man had more and deeper lines on his forehead, and he had a pronounced stoop that gave him an almost hunchbacked appearance. Grimm's rejected his first thought; that Armitage must have an identical twin. This man, although bearing an uncanny resemblance to the Administrator, was too old to be the Haven chief's twin brother.
On the other hand, he seemed also too similar to that man to be even his father.
The Haven pilot, Foster, broke the silence.
"Administrator!” he cried, bounding to his feet. “What brings you...?"
Foster's voice tailed off; the same confusion Grimm had felt must have seized him.
The white-coated figure turned to General Quelgrum, who wore an expression of cool amusement at the baffled looks on the faces of the young Questor and his companions.
"Am I right that these people have met the new Administrator, Sir?” the older Armitage asked.
Quelgrum nodded. “They've just come from Haven, so I'd guess they're feeling a little puzzled right now,” he drawled. “Why don't you enlighten them, Professor?"
"My name is Robert Armitage,” the Professor said, in an exact replica of his near-doppelganger's voice. “My kinship with the Administrator is, as you have guessed, very close: as close as possible, in fact. We are as one in our heredity."
"You are too old to be a twin of Armitage,” Tordun declared. “You must be twenty years his senior."
The older Armitage smiled. “I'll take that as a compliment,” he said. “The actual figure is more like forty years, but certain drugs can do wonders for a man."
Grimm suppressed a shiver at the word ‘drugs', remembering his own recent addiction to the herbs Trina and Virion, but he said nothing. Further revelations must be forthcoming.
"The original Administrator of the Haven Correctional Facility was George Armitage,” the Professor said. “When I say ‘original', I mean that he was the Administrator before the Final War.
"As I understand it, he was a fine, pragmatic scientist of the first order; a capable, dedicated man, who inspired all around him to give their utmost in the struggle to uncover the essential inmost workings of the human mind. Haven had a fine team of people working for him, with a number of scientific disciplines at their disposal. One of these was genetic engineering."
Grimm's brows furrowed. He
had read these last two words once before in an ancient book in the Arnor Scholasticate Library, but they had meant nothing to him.
"Is any of you familiar with the word ‘clone'?” Robert Armitage asked.
During his long, lonely hours in the Library, Grimm had cultivated an interest in the study of horticulture, which had stood him in good stead in his basic training in Herbalism.
"That is when a plant is grown from a cutting, so as to preserve the unique properties of an interesting or rare mutant,” he said, not understanding the bearing that this might have on the issue.
Armitage clapped his hands. “That's almost a textbook answer, my young friend. Do you know anything of genetics?"
Grimm nodded. “A little; genetics is the study of heredity, allowing desired traits of animals and plants to be selectively bred and enhanced, with a known, statistical chance of success."
"You are correct, as far as your definition goes,” the scientist said. “However, in the decades before the Last War, the science became almost an art. We learned the very mechanisms of genetic transference and became able to manipulate them, almost at will. Each living thing contains within each of its cells the information required to build that man; that tree; that fish; that fungus.
"During sexual reproduction, the parents’ units of genetic information, the genes, become mixed and shuffled before being passed on to the offspring, ensuring a unique genetic identity for each child, with the exception of identical twins, who are split from a single fertilised egg. The complete genetic information of an individual is called a genome."
The man's bearing was that of a teacher lecturing a group of rapt students. Indeed, he had a captive audience, since Grimm and his companions were surrounded by armed guards, with belligerent expressions which quelled any thought of rebellion.
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