"Don't push me, Thribble,” the Questor said, eschewing Mage Speech in favour of a less restrictive vocabulary. “I'm trying to think of what sensation I need to impart in them."
"Those drugs you took; Trina and Virion,” the demon said. “Did you not say that Virion is a powerful stimulant? You know the effects of that herb only too well."
Grimm opened his mouth to remonstrate, but he shut it again before speaking.
Thribble's right! he realised. That's just the effect I'm looking for!
The Questor had laboured under the slavery of addiction to that herb and its companion, and it was as familiar to him as breathing. This would be a simple enough spell, and one that should not draw too much of his precious reserve of energy: he might need that to aid in the group's escape, if escape were at all possible from this fortress.
"Redeemer—come to me!” he called, and his Mage Staff appeared in his outstretched right hand. He had no idea where it had been kept, but no wall or barrier could keep a Guild thaumaturge from his staff. He closed his eyes, not in intoxication, but in meditation, as he recalled the sensations the Virion fumes had invoked within him.
Ah, now I have it!
With ease born of long practice, he gathered his inner power and let the meaningless words of his personal spell-language build within him, shaping the energy into the form in which it was required.
The nonsense words, of no use to any other mage alive, burst from him like an eructation after a heavy meal: “Akk'ka sh'yet rya shya'tan'ye!"
Grimm only hoped the spell did not prove as addictive as the herbal fumes which had provided the inspiration for the spell.
A few moments passed, during which the Questor feared the incantation had failed, but his worries faded as four pairs of eyes sprung wide open in an instant. Relief flooded through him at the evidence of his success.
He was a Guild Questor; no one and nothing could stand against him—Heaven help the General and his minions now!
* * * *
General Quelgrum entered Armitage's lab without knocking, expecting to see the two mages lashed to gurneys, undergoing mental conditioning. Instead of this, he felt a shock of unwelcome surprise to see the Professor lecturing his acolytes, who were arranged in a semicircle before him. No magic-users or other test subjects were in evidence.
At the sudden, unannounced appearance of the commanding officer, the Professor's five assistants lurched to their feet and saluted. The General ignored them and addressed Armitage directly.
"What the hell's going on here, Professor? Where are the wizards?"
Armitage smiled, his eyes soft and distant, his gaze seeming to pass straight through Quelgrum. “It's all going very well, General,” he said.
The General was confused. “Do you mean they're already Pacified, Armitage?” he demanded. “If so, why haven't you sent them to me? If not, why aren't you still working on them?"
The Professor's expression implied complete incomprehension; the man appeared as an imbecile.
"It's all going very well, General; don't worry."
His expression was beatific, and he appeared quite unconcerned at his commander's agitation.
Quelgrum stared at the man. Had he gone insane? Had he been drinking?
"Didn't I make myself clear, Professor?” he snarled. “Why have you not got the two Questors in here, at this very moment? Where are they?"
The scientist tapped his nose, in a similar gesture to that which Perfuco had employed earlier, in the corridor.
"I can't say too much, Sir. But it's all going really well. No need to worry, I assure you."
Despite the Professor's dreamy assurances, Quelgrum was worried. Something was afoot here, and he feared that magic must be at its core.
"Professor,” he said, controlling his burgeoning emotions, “where are the bloody magic-users?"
"Oh, they're all right, Sir,” Armitage replied, cheery and bright-eyed. “Everything's going really well."
Quelgrum surveyed six pairs of blank, unseeing eyes, and he swore. He spun on his heel and gave the guard outside the door the order to summon Perfuco. He would get to the bottom of this bizarre situation, and in double-quick time!
Chapter 30
Submission
"What would you recommend as a course of action, Brother Mage?” Grimm asked. “We seem at a considerable disadvantage. I doubt even a pair of Questors could thwart an army of fifteen hundred men and five mind-mages."
Xylox stood with his back to the wall; Grimm guessed the older mage felt as embarrassed as he by the brief, open-backed robe he wore.
"Divide and conquer, Questor Grimm,” Xylox said. “They should be our watchwords. If we can ensorcel small groups of men without arousing suspicion, we may gain an armed force to aid our escape."
Grimm, who felt no more comfortable with his revealing attire than his fellow Questor, demurred.
"The mere sight of us,” he said, “dressed in this fashion, will be enough to cause the alarm to be raised. We could be cut down in an instant."
Xylox's hand flew to his neck, and his eyes widened in near-panic. “My prized magic gem; it is gone!"
The young mage suspected Xylox had borne his amulet of Missile Reversal for so long that he felt almost helpless without it. The mage's only automatic defence against the Technological projectile weapons of Quelgrum's army had been snatched away.
"There is another problem, Questor Xylox,” he said, shaking his head. “Questor spells powerful enough to bend a man's will to one's own purpose, and to maintain such control for a long period, carry a high cost in thaumaturgic energy. Each of us might be able to cast four or five such spells, and to hold them for thirty minutes or so.
"For a dedicated Specialist, such as Perfuco, such spells come at a trifling cost. We would be overwhelmed long before we could assemble a force strong enough to procure our escape."
Grimm had hit upon the major disadvantage a Questor faced when confronting another Guild Specialist: a Questor's spells were limited in scope only by his imagination, but forged by the marshalling of tremendous energies. A Specialist's rote-learned, runic spells were more limited in scope, but they were invariable and practiced endlessly until perfect.
The very patterning of a spell cost a Questor dear, whilst a Specialist's patterning was ready-made, by means of a standard chant providing the spell's structure within its carefully-crafted, well-researched, standardised syllables. Although the result of a brief one-on-one battle between a Questor and any other kind of Guild Mage was a foregone conclusion, a Seventh Rank Mentalist aided by four mage companions and fifteen hundred armed Seculars could surely defeat a pair of Questors with ease, if at considerable cost in life.
Tordun lounged on his bed, seemingly unbothered by his scanty attire; his pale body was muscular and impressive, as if sculpted from the finest alabaster, and he did not appear ashamed to display it.
"You are not alone, mage,” the swordsman growled. “I am worth ten of those skinny louts, whether I am using a weapon or bare-handed."
"Excellent,” Xylox said, his tone sour. “With the ten men we might ensorcel, we might account for ... one-and-one third of a percent of the General's troops. That leaves the vast majority of his army intact.
"What of Master Crest? He has neither a whip nor a dagger, and I would guess that hand-to-hand combat is not his forte.
"And the female urchin; what of her?"
"I have a name: Drexelica,” the girl muttered in a sullen tone, but Xylox ignored her. She slumped onto one of the beds, her eyes blazing.
It seemed to cost the senior mage considerable effort, but he turned back to face his junior. “Questor Grimm; do you have any constructive advice to offer?"
"We could replace the fluid in these bottles with water, get back on these beds and reinsert the needles,” the younger mage suggested. “We could then feign continued intoxication and convince Armitage that we are duly Pacified servants of the General. During the initial assault on High Lodge
, we raise the alarm, assuming that our deception has not been detected ... of course, we would need to keep our bedazzled friend, Perfuco, and his fellow mages, well away from us; they would surely detect such a sham in an instant."
Xylox crossed his arms across his chest. “Your suggestion lacks appeal,” he drawled. “Do you have any other suggestions?"
Grimm shrugged. “We could pool our resources and forge a spell of Translocation to send one of us back to Arnor House or to High Lodge, to give advance warning of the attack. This would, of course, leave the other members of the expedition at the tender mercies of Quelgrum, Armitage and Perfuco. I also imagine that neither of us has a very firm concept of the bearing of either High Lodge or Arnor House from this location."
"Neither of these options sounds very enticing, good mages,” the wiry Crest said. “I can see an awful lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ in both plans."
"There is a third alternative,” Grimm said in a soft voice, as new inspiration came to him. “We negotiate. Somehow, we convince the General that his cause is hopeless, and we persuade him to give it up. We Questors are dangerous, and I do not think General Quelgrum would relish a blood-bath."
Tordun guffawed, his laughter so loud that Grimm had to slash his hand through the air to remind the swordsman there might be guards outside the room.
In a more subdued voice, the albino said “Oh, I can just see that, Questor Grimm. We waltz up to Quelgrum and tell him that he's surrounded. I'm sure he'll just fold up and surrender immediately!"
"I haven't finished, Tordun!” Grimm snapped, his tone harsher than he intended. For once, Xylox did not reproach him for his breach of protocol in slipping out of the starchy, formal Mage Speech.
"I beg your pardon, Lord Mage,” the albino replied in an acidic tone. “Pray continue."
"We convince him that High Lodge is already prepared for such an attack,” Grimm said, clamping down on his fulminating emotions, “and that victory will only come through the payment of a very, very heavy butcher's bill. Quelgrum may be misguided, but he does not seem insane."
"Perfuco may know High Lodge as well as, or better than, either of us,” Xylox said, rolling his eyes in ridicule. “Seculars move in and out all the time, and the mages of High Lodge are soft and weak, through years of self-indulgence and easy living. Perfuco will know that."
Grimm clasped his hands behind his head and stretched. His frequent reaction to worry was to yawn, and he found himself doing so now. He was aware that such a gesture might make him appear blasé and cocksure, but he thought it might not be a bad impression to give.
"We do not have to expect the General to take our word for it,” he said. “I understand that you have mastered the sleight of Telepathy, and that you could contact Lord Thorn by such means."
"I would already have done so, were I able!” the older mage replied, growing red in the face. “At our present distance from the House, the energy requirements would be beyond even our combined resources. The idea is risible!"
"We will tell Quelgrum how we communicated with the Lodge while we were imprisoned at Haven,” was Grimm's smooth response. “Do you not remember, Brother Mage? After all, why would we have dared to approach this complex with such confidence, unless we felt sure of backup?"
Xylox snorted. “Quelgrum will not believe us. To send such a message from within that metal rabbit-warren would have been impossible. No telepathic signal could have passed in or out of there."
"We know that,” Grimm said, his tone deepening as confidence in his idea began to grow, “but I doubt the General does. He was brought up as a farm hand, and I cannot believe his understanding of Technology is much better than ours, if at all. He uses it with aplomb, but I cannot imagine he is a master of the art."
"Armitage will know,” the older Questor said. “Perfuco may understand it almost as well; he was conditioned at Haven for some time, and he may have attempted to send a Telepathic plea for help when he was first immured there."
Grimm smiled. “Armitage may well understand Technology in all its aspects,” he said, his voice like oil flowing over wet ice, “but what does he know of magic? Next to nothing, I feel sure. How would he know that our skills were blunted by those metal walls?
"As for Perfuco, he knows how we Questors make our own magic; as a Seventh Rank Mentalist, he will be familiar with his own rigid, standard, runic magic, but I will wager anything you like that he knows next to nothing of what a Questor can do in that regard.
"I have noticed how Perfuco looks at us. He is scared of us, Questor Xylox; scared witless, as he should be!"
Xylox put his hands on his hips, lowered his brows and opened his mouth, as if he was about to utter a stinging rebuke at what he regarded as a facile argument, but it seemed as if his caustic words become entangled on his tongue.
"It is our only realistic chance,” Grimm said, remorseless, forgetting his ridiculous, revealing garb as he moved to stand directly in front of the pompous, bigoted, but powerful thaumaturge. Since he stood a full six inches shorter than his junior, Xylox was forced to look up to meet Grimm's piercing gaze.
Long moments passed, and neither magic-user looked away; this was a true meeting of the minds. At last, Xylox spoke, as the girl and the two warriors looked on in fascination.
"Do you think it will be as simple as that?” His tone was incredulous, but no longer scathing.
Grimm stepped back and sat on the end of one of the beds, surrendering his psychological advantage of superior height.
"No, Brother Mage,” he said, “I do not expect it to be simple at all. Unless we are remarkably fortunate, we will have to fight our way to the General and cause the sort of devastation that only Questors can. We will have to gamble every resource at our command on the success of the plan, and then brazen it out with a ruthless, skilled commander of armed men.
"We may all end up dead, or as Quelgrum's helpless playthings. The assault on High Lodge may yet go ahead. In the space of a few days, all we have sworn to defend may lie in ruins. Civilisation as we know it may come to an end: but we can't just ignore the danger, hoping it will go away."
Grimm let the words hang. He felt by no means confident in the success of his plan, but he had come a long way from his past incarnation as a frightened, insecure Student.
I am a Mage Questor, Grimm told himself, building his confidence. I am a true Weapon of the Guild; may woe betide those who dare to stand in my way!
He was prepared to fight, or to die in the attempt, rather than submit to the subjugation of his precious will.
Grimm decided that he had raised the tension in the room to sufficient intensity. He stood and looked each of his companions in the eye in turn as he spoke.
"I, for one, do not intend to lie down like a lamb awaiting slaughter. Will you join with me?"
Tordun was the first to speak. He took down a bottle from the metal structure by one of the beds and wrenched the various cross-members free from the main upright of the stand. The result of this destruction was a rough, but workable, spear.
"Death before dishonour, eh, sorcerer? That's a song I know well. I'm with you."
Crest picked up the scattered pieces of metal from the floor and hefted them. “I suppose I could use these as throwing knives, or something. The balance is a little off, and the points are non-existent, but I'm game; anything's better than waiting to be killed or turned into a vapid moron. Some of these glass shards could be useful, too. Count me in."
Drex shrugged, and Grimm tried to ignore her shapely, exposed legs. “I'll join you,” she said, enthusiastically beaming. “I owe you a life, after all, Questor Grimm, so I'm more than happy to watch your back.” She moved to his side, so close that he felt the heat emanating from her small body.
Grimm felt his face growing hot, remembering the revealing robe he wore. However, the burgeoning feelings gave him strength, gave him vitality, and he drew his shoulders back. A battle was coming, and he would not be found wanting!
&nbs
p; Energy bloomed within him, threatening to explode from the fleshy confines of his body, but he held it in check with control born of years of denial and self-discipline. He was acutely aware of the girl at his side, but he found her now a fount of strength rather than a source of awkwardness.
"Will you join us, Questor Xylox?” he intoned in a dispassionate voice. “If not, we will do this without you; however, I would far rather have a mage of your power and ability on our side."
As the young thaumaturge spoke, he no longer cared if the task was feasible or not; he was strength; he was power!
He almost laughed, half-drunk with the heady knowledge of his deadly potency. Fifteen hundred Seculars, and five superannuated Specialists—at that moment, they seemed as nothing to him. His long-denied emotions gave him wings, and his spirit soared.
* * * *
Xylox's eyes slid back and forth between the people in the small room. Tordun's face was rapt; his teeth bared, his eyes wide, his expression one of barely-concealed blood-lust. Crest stood, his expression unreadable, but his manner resolute. The girl, whatever her name was, stood at Questor Grimm's shoulder, her face a mask of determination.
And then there was Questor Grimm. Even in his brief, revealing attire, the young mage looked every inch the commanding, decisive Questor, his staff poised in his hand as if seeking a target. This was no cavalier, jejune stripling, Xylox realised.
Something had changed. This boy—this man—was dangerous and determined, and the intensity in his gaze would surely cause any unseasoned Secular to drop his weapon and run at the very sight of those black, fathomless eyes. He was a true Weapon of the Guild.
All his life, Xylox had sought that same effortless poise; that stare, that presence. He had chosen a life of stark asceticism, in the hope that it might make him appear more austere, more formidable, to his foes and his fellow mages. Nonetheless, he had to admit to himself that this skinny, gangling youth, dressed in a revealing, ludicrous shift, was not just impressive: he looked almost frightening in his intensity.
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