"General,” the swordsman replied, proffering a polite half-bow. Turning to the mage, he said “May I join you, Questor Grimm?"
"Please do, Tordun. I'm just relieved you came. I..."
An angry-looking head popped out from under the canvas cover of the wagon. “What's the bloody hold-up here? I...” Guy said, and Grimm smiled at the wide-eyed astonishment on the magic-user's face as he beheld the pasty man-mountain. At last, it seemed, somebody had managed to render the moody Questor speechless!
"Guy Great Flame, may I present Tordun, of whom I've told you so much? Tordun, this is Questor Guy, called the Great Flame. I'm sure you'll get on well together."
"Greetings, Lord Questor Guy,” the albino said, and Grimm could have sworn that the ground trembled at the sound.
Wordless, Guy nodded, ducking back into the wagon as Tordun climbed aboard.
"Are we ready to go now, Lord Baron?” the General asked from his lofty perch. “Is everyone aboard now?"
With a broad smile on his face as he remounted the vehicle, Grimm said, “This is the full complement, I'm pleased to say. Heaven help Lizaveta, with Tordun on our side!"
The wagon rolled on and the albino's deep bass voice joined the cheery chorus in the back, but Grimm was pleased to note that Guy's voice was somewhat more subdued than it had been.
Quelgrum turned left at a fork in the road, past a leaning signpost reading ‘YOREN—30 MILES'.
Grimm knew both Crest and Harvel regarded Yoren as a dangerous place, but he could no longer bring himself to worry about it, with Tordun on his side. Everything would be fine.
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Chapter 24: Yoren
As the wagon rolled towards Yoren, it seemed to Grimm as if all colour had been washed out of the land. The afternoon sun still shone as brightly, but the young mage was struck by the town's dilapidated appearance, which seemed to dominate the landscape, depressing and subsuming it. He saw an endless expanse of grey stone, from ancient, crumbling remains of city walls to small, boxy dwellings. Even the flagstones of the ramshackle streets and thoroughfares seemed to be made of the same dull-coloured substance. The conurbation appeared not so much to have been designed as thrown together by some giant, petulant child who had discarded his unwanted toys.
Imaginative architecture and town planning don't seem high on the list of priorities here, he thought, with a wry smile, reflecting on the cheerful appearance of the reborn city of Crar.
The Questor saw no towering battlements, portcullises, forts or other protection against possible invasion; Yoren seemed defenceless.
Not too surprising, I suppose. Who'd want to take over this benighted hole? If some insane horde of barbarian raiders stormed in here and demolished the place, it'd probably improve it no end.
And from what I've heard of the gentle people of Yoren, a band of marauding savages would probably be regarded as a minor public nuisance.
The only nod in the direction of civic defence appeared to be a small hut by the side of the road, beside a flimsy, bleached wooden barrier before which Quelgrum brought the vehicle to a stop.
Grimm noted the horses’ wild, staring eyes, their fitfully-flicking tails and their nervous whickers and whinnies.
Wonderful. This place even makes the animals uneasy.
"Hello! Anybody there?” Quelgrum cried in a commanding, parade-ground bellow, to be greeted by a wall of silence.
Grimm frowned. “We can just drive round this, General. It doesn't seem much of an obstacle to me."
"I think you may be right, Lord Baron. We don't want to hang around here all day."
As the General raised the reins, a dishevelled man walked out of the hut. He wore a strange melange of armour: faded, cracking leather, rusty scraps of chain mail and dented fragments of steel plate all figured in his bizarre clothing. Grimm noted that the wooden shaft of the guard's halberd was warped and parched, and the head was dull and pitted. This, clearly, was not a man of arms who took pride in the condition of his equipment, or of his appearance.
"Byersel? Whassit?” The guard spoke in a guttural, almost impenetrable accent.
"I'd love to put this fellow through a few weeks’ basic training,” the General muttered to Grimm. “I'd soon shape him up, I promise you.” In a louder voice, he addressed the shabbily-dressed man. “What's that? Speak up, can't you, man?"
"Just who ju fink y'are? Comin’ in here, shoutin’ th'bloody odds ‘sif you owned the bloody place!” the scruffy watchman whined. “Gotta job t'do, ain't I? Buy or sell, what's it to be?"
Quelgrum shrugged. “We must be here to buy, I suppose, watchman. We don't have anything to sell."
"Show me the colour o'yer money, then."
Grimm saw the General's jaw tighten, and put his hand on the soldier's arm. “We don't want to start trouble before we've even got here, General,” he muttered.
Cursing under his breath, Quelgrum showed his money-pouch to the untidy, ill-mannered moron.
“There's plenty here."
The drab little man smiled, displaying a mouthful of decaying, broken teeth. It was not a friendly smile.
“Gimme eight gold, else yer can't come in."
Quelgrum exploded. “Eight gold pieces, just to enter this stinking hellhole? The whole place isn't worth a copper groat!"
"You must want sumfink.” The guard's face bore a mask of naked, feral avarice. “Else you wouldn't be here. There's some fings you can only get at Yoren; fink I don't know that? You must want sumfink awful bad to come here, a man wiv your money. Gimme eight golds, and I'll let yer froo."
"I'll give you the back of my bloody hand!” the General snapped.
"'Ere, ‘old up, mate. You don't want to freaten me!” The shabby sentinel brandished his corroded weapon. “I ain't afraid o'you. That'll be nine golds now, so ‘and it over or piss off."
This is going nowhere, Grimm thought. It's time to use a little persuasion.
His Mage Sight showed the guard's mind as a grey, greasy worm squirming in a soupy sea of muck, unprotected and vulnerable. It was a simple matter to grasp hold of the slimy tentacle and push. A fragment of the Questor's personal spell-language burst from his lips: “Th'kak'ka sh'tat! "
The sentinel was stronger than he looked, and the Questor needed to use more power than he had intended, but the wretched man's slack jaw and limp posture told him he had succeeded. The guard's eyes glazed over, and he lowered his halberd.
"Here are ten gold pieces,” Grimm said, forcing his will into the watchman's psyche as he held out his empty hand. “I think you will find this in order. Be so kind as to lift this barrier, and we will be on our way.” Despite the unexpected resistance, Grimm felt no more than an irritating tickle at the margins of his sensorium.
"Yeah, that's good. Fank you, guv'nor,” the guard said in a dull monotone.
"When we have left, you will not remember us.” Grimm added a little extra thaumaturgic emphasis to push his will home.
The watchman's only response was a vague grunt, but he raised the barrier, his eyes wide and unseeing.
"I'd love to have you in my army,” Quelgrum said as the wagon rolled into Yoren.
"Yeah, I've always wanted ter be a sojer,” the man absently said, wearing a vague, beatific smile, as if he had received some unexpected bounty.
The General smiled. “I thought so. Thank you for your invaluable assistance."
With that, they were in the town of Yoren, leaving the irritating little man behind.
"If you can cast spells like that, Lord Baron, we shouldn't have any trouble here,” Quelgrum said.
The Questor shook his head. “It's not that simple, General, I'm afraid. Every attempt at Compulsion robs me of some strength, in direct proportion to the intellect and willpower of the subject, and it requires absolute concentration. The subject also needs to be off-guard and unprepared. Each attempt to dominate a man carries a risk of an undesired Resonance in the spell, and I don't want to take that risk any more oft
en than I need to."
"A resonance; what is that, Lord Grimm?"
"It's a little technical, General,” Grimm responded, “but the upshot would be that I'd be stuck inside the spell, pouring ever greater quantities of energy into it but unable to withdraw. That man was alone, and I could see from his aura that he was a weak character, so the risk was negligible. If we'd been in the middle of a large, noisy, belligerent crowd baying for our blood, I wouldn't have tried it. It's not a battlefield spell. It's more a useful tool than a war-winning weapon."
"Still, at least the streets seem fairly quiet.” The soldier waved a hand towards the vacant thoroughfares.
“I don't know what all the fuss is about."
It is quiet; too damn’ quiet for my liking, Grimm thought as he surveyed the empty, narrow street.
He noted the rows of tall buildings at either side . If we're attacked front and rear, we're trapped.
Surely Quelgrum can see that.
As if reading the Questor's mind, the General said, “I'd sooner be on open ground, but I don't think we've too much to worry about, Baron Grimm. After all, it's a town, not a war zone."
As if to mock Quelgrum's hubris, a knot of men, maybe fifteen strong, stepped out of one of the side alleys, blocking the way. Like the watchmen at the gate, they wore a patchwork of armour, and they all carried notched but serviceable weapons: swords, axes, and pikes among them.
"You boys doing a little shopping?” Quelgrum said, his voice sounding easy and untroubled. “Or are you just sightseeing?"
A grubby, grey-haired, scarred man, whom Grimm supposed must be the leader of this group of bravoes, stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of an ancient-looking cutlass in a simple leather scabbard.
"Shoppin', it looks like. Nice wagon you got here, friend; if'n you'll gift-wrap it for us, I fink we'll take it."
"Well, friend,” the soldier said, “I really don't think you can afford it, so I think we'll just mark it down as
‘No Sale', if it's all the same to you."
"I fink you c'n do a little better than that, old feller. What say you give us the cart, and mebbe a bit extra, and we give you your lives? Sounds like a good deal to me. Whatcher got in the back?"
"Trouble, friend.” The General pulled a string that collapsed the wagon's canvas cover to reveal Crest, Harvel, Tordun, Guy and Numal. “Gentlemen, we've got company. Would you care to introduce yourselves?"
The three warriors and the two mages climbed out of the vehicle, and Grimm could swear that the raiding party's leader blanched at the sight of the mighty albino drawing himself to his full, impressive height, even though the heavy coat of grime on the man's face made it difficult to tell.
"The market's closed, boys,” Quelgrum breathed, “so why don't you just make your way home, and we'll say no more about it?"
The Questor smiled at the expressions of doubt and dismay on the faces of several of the ruffians, and at the susurration of worried voices amongst them as they gaped at each other with wide eyes. However, it seemed that the scarred, older brigand was made of sterner stuff. Silencing his chattering underlings with a wave of the hand, he smiled.
"My, ain't you got a pretty collection o'friends. So ‘ave I."
Putting two grimy fingers into his mouth, he emitted a piercing whistle, and Grimm spun around to see another group of men emerging from an alley behind them, weapons at the ready. It was as he had feared; they were trapped.
Quelgrum stepped down from the wagon, his eyes hooded, dangerous. As he approached the leader of the group, the scarred bravo drew his sword.
"That's far enough, mate; no need to be a bloody hero, is there? There's seven o'you and thirty of us.
Even wiv the big white feller, it's still not very good odds, is it? Now, why don't you just hand over what you've got, and we'll call it quits, eh?"
"Over my dead body,” the General said, through gritted teeth.
"Sounds a fair price to me, old-timer. GET ‘EM, LADS!"
As the raiders surged forward, Grimm shouted, “Redeemer, to me!” and his staff flew to his hand as he flung himself down from the vehicle.
Crest ran forward and unleashed his deadly whip, lashing it into the attacking horde. Several men fell, dropping their weapons and clutching their eyes as the snake-like weapon did its work.
The young Questor realised that although the narrow street made escape impossible, it also worked against the attackers, since they could not attack en masse. He stepped forward, brandishing Redeemer and braining three men in one stroke. Another ruffian made the mistake of trying to grab the staff, and fell twitching to the ground. A true Mage Staff was much more than a status symbol; it was also a dangerous weapon.
Quelgrum's leathery, liver-spotted right fist shot forward, catching a bold raider on the jaw and felling him. The leader of the group struggled to bring his sword into play, hampered as he was by the crush of men around him, and the General's hand, fingers locked into the form of a blade, stabbed into the expanse of flesh under the ruffian's breastbone. The man collapsed, fighting for breath and dropping his weapon. With that, the brief battle was over, as the remainder of the able-bodied attackers dispersed and fled as best they could.
Grimm looked behind him to see a number of fallen ruffians. Harvel's sword dripped with blood, and Tordun waved his own red-stained broadsword, bellowing defiance at the few retreating raiders. Guy looked cool and calm, and Numal was pale-faced but uninjured, his mage staff raised over his head.
"Well, that wasn't too bad, was it?” Quelgrum said to Grimm in a cheerful voice. The General grasped the gasping, retching leader of the attackers by the neck and hauled him upright, so that the two men's faces met.
"This is your lucky day, scum,” the old soldier breathed. “Tangling with us should have been the last mistake you ever made in your miserable life but, against my better judgement, I'll let you live. Perhaps I'm getting sentimental in my old age, but just be thankful for it. Just tell everyone you meet that nobody messes around with us. Take a good look,” he said, taking the man's lower jaw in his hand and twisting it around, “and just remember that we didn't even break into a sweat here. You're honoured. I don't usually waste my time brawling with amateurs—I just kill them like the vermin they are. In your case, I'll make a rare exception, so you can advise your pathetic friends to forget trying to make a quick fortune. Now, is that understood, dung-heap?"
The hapless man struggled in vain against the soldier's iron grip. “I ain't afeared o—"
His head rocked as Quelgrum swept his right hand back in a vicious arc across the assailant's face, maintaining a firm hold on his jerkin with the other.
"Answer the question, vermin. I asked you if you understood what I said."
"Understood, Cap'n,” muttered the ruffian, wiping a bloody drool from the corner of his mouth.
"That's ‘General', rat, and don't forget it.” The military man hauled the dangling wretch closer to him, until the two men's noses almost met. His eyes glittered with what Grimm took to be maniacal blood-lust held in check by an adamantine will—or, perhaps, that was just the impression the soldier sought to create.
"My name is Sleafel Quelgrum,” the General hissed, “although some know me better as ‘General Q'. You may have heard that name, but if you haven't, you'd better ask around. Your friends, if you have any real friends, which I doubt, may tell you that I eat my enemies after defeating them. However, that's not true; I'm picky about what I eat."
His upper lip curled, and his nose wrinkled in an expression of pure disgust as he tossed the raider to the flagstones.
"If you ever cross me or my companions again, I'll leave you in the gutter for your vermin brethren to eat, instead. Now make yourself scarce, ordure."
The General punctuated his last order with a boot to the unfortunate attacker's rear end as the man scrambled to his feet. With a last yelp, the thug staggered into a side alley.
All Grimm could hear was the soft moaning of a few maimed me
n. With some satisfaction, he saw the attacker who had foolishly tried to grab Redeemer sitting, quivering, by the side of the road, his eyes vacant. He felt pleased that he had managed to curb his instinct to expend his magical power in a profligate manner, and gratified that he had felled three raiders with a single, swift blow of his staff.
"That was just getting interesting,” Tordun complained, cleaning his red-stained blade on a fallen man's jerkin. “It's a shame they had no staying power."
Grimm rolled his eyes. “So much for not starting any trouble, General."
"We didn't, Lord Baron; we just finished it. There was no diplomatic way out of that, believe me.
Perhaps we'll get a little respect around here from now on."
Grimm sighed. After this little scuffle, any self-respecting ruffian in Yoren will be lusting for our blood, he thought. Still, perhaps we'll get a little co-operation when we ask for information concerning the Sisters’ whereabouts.
"Right! Let's mount up and move on!” the General cried. “There must be somewhere to stay around here, although I'd sleep with a dagger under my pillow if I were you."
We've been in Yoren ten minutes, and we've already been in a fight, Grimm thought. That doesn't bode well for the rest of our time here. Oh, well, I can't say I wasn't warned.
Let's just hope we can get some information quickly and move on. I don't want to have to stay here a moment longer than necessary.
Nonetheless, as the wagon rolled past, or over, bodies of the fallen, into the grey centre of the town, he felt a certain satisfaction in the way the team— his team—had performed when threatened. It wouldn't do to take Yoren lightly, but Grimm felt confident that, if this was the strongest resistance the group would face in the town, he and his companions would prevail.
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Chapter 25: Sightseeing
As General Quelgrum drove the wagon into the centre of Yoren, Grimm noted that even the sun had fled into hiding behind gathering clouds, making the dilapidated town seem even more depressing. There was a market square of sorts, but, instead of bright stalls with enthusiastic barkers crying the quality of their wares, the mage saw only a few shabby kiosks with long queues of dowdy folk, their eyes fixed on the ground before them as each waited his or her turn.
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