Grimm Dragonblaster 4

by Alastair J. Archibald

  The fighter appeared to suffer a small fit, twitching and grunting, as Tordun looked on in perplexity.

  "It can only be over-training!” The Pit-master sighed. “I do try to tell the fighters, but they're so keen to excel.

  "Shugar, why don't we all go to the recuperation lounge? I think you need to relax for a while. Sometimes I think you're too hard on yourself. Come on."

  As Keller led the giant man from the gymnasium, Tordun could have sworn that the fighter was trying to tell him something, but he heard only inarticulate, tremulous sounds from Shugar's distorted mouth.

  "Is Shugar all right, Keller?” Tordun felt deep concern for the man's well-being. He knew that he should offer to lend a hand, but a primordial fear of madness and seizures stayed him.

  Keller grunted as he supported the twitching warrior's bulk in one arm and flung open a door with the other. “He'll be as right as rain in a moment,” he said, through clenched teeth, almost throwing Shugar into a well-upholstered leather chair in a small room.

  "Make yourself comfortable,” he said, as if such a spectacle was a common occurrence. “We do see this on occasion, but there's really no need to worry."

  Tordun eased himself into a chair, but he could not relax at the sight of the thrashing, tormented vision before him. At last, with a gasp, Shugar slumped back in his chair.

  "There, that's better, isn't it?” Keller said, with what Tordun considered a bizarrely inappropriate smile.

  "Sorry about that, Keller,” the fighter said in a dull voice. “I guess I've just been training too hard. I'll survive.” His face, once purple and anguished, began to relax and return to a more normal colour.

  Keller's face brightened. “That's the spirit, Shugar! Now, what do you have to say to your old friend, Tordun?"

  "Hello, Tordun,” the sweaty pugilist grunted. “You're looking well."

  "You, too,” Tordun said, although he thought that Shugar looked more like a re-animated corpse than a healthy man.

  From the corner of his eye, the albino saw Keller rubbing his nose and nodding, his face placid and almost amused. Tordun took a deep breath, feeling as if his worries were floating away on the breeze.

  Everything will be all right, he felt sure. It's a strange sensation, but not an unpleasant one.

  Everything will be all right. Just being in the presence of my former opponent seems to stir his blood and heighten his awareness.

  "Good to see you again, Shugar,” Tordun continued in a boisterous, cheerful tone. “I'm glad to see you've recovered from that last beating I handed out."

  The fighter sat upright. “You were lucky, Tordun. I was just getting the better of you when I slipped in the ring."

  "I had you beaten from the start.” The albino tried to keep his voice neutral and friendly; however, for some reason, he felt his heartbeat accelerating and the blood pounding in his arteries. “Face it, man, you were just outclassed."

  "Outclassed!" Shugar leapt to his feet. “I could take you any time, you pasty, half-baked excuse for a warrior! Try me again, and you'll know just what humiliation is! Fight me tonight, if you've got the guts, and I'll give you a lesson you'll never forget!"

  Tordun found himself on his feet, although he could not remember standing. Bile boiled up within him at Shugar's insults, and prepared himself to launch a bristling tirade at the man. Something at the back of his mind recognised the dull, mechanical tone of the man's voice, but the imperative of the hormones surging within him would not be denied.

  So I'm a pasty, half-baked excuse for a warrior, am I? Tordun felt intoxicated by the torrent of blood that sang in his ears. I could beat you with one arm tied behind my back! You're dead meat!

  "Tonight, you say?” he snarled, feeling his face contorting and twisting in anger. “You're..."

  The word ‘on’ perched on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be released, and the albino realised that he had been about to make the worst mistake a fighter could make: responding to his emotions alone, unrestrained by his thought processes.

  You have a job to do, Tordun. You must maintain control of yourself. Remember: a fighter uses his emotions; they do not use him!

  Any successful fighter knew when to bring emotions into play, and when to veto their insistent demands.

  Tordun was one of the best, and he pushed hate, anger and outrage into a mental prison deep inside his brain. Since he had been able to do this since his callow youth, he felt surprise at the considerable effort it cost him.

  Tordun's heart pounded. “No, I won't fight you, Shugar. Not now, not ever. You had your chance at my title, and you lost. Get used to it.

  "I think I'll leave now,” he said, turning to face Keller. “That was a nice try, but I told you: I've retired from the ring. Goodbye, Shugar, and good luck in your future fights. I'll be there to cheer you on tonight, but no more than that. Thank you, Keller. I think I will go back to my companions now."

  Tordun imagined that he saw the ghost of a satisfied smile on Shugar's face, but he could not be sure. He took another deep breath, and began to relax again. There could be nothing sinister here. It was a common enough ploy to goad another fighter into reaction rather than action, with insults and innuendo, and he could not blame Shugar for trying.

  "Of course, Tordun.” The Pit-master rolled his eyes and nodded. “I tried my best, but I'll acknowledge defeat. I respect your decision, and I congratulate you on your mental fortitude. However, perhaps you'd do us the honour of wearing one of our torcs of honour, anyway? As I told you, they're reserved for the best fighters and, although you've chosen not to fight in the Pit, you're a well-known and respected fighter. It would mean a lot to the Pit boys and me if you'd wear our emblem at least for one night."

  Keller placed a torc in the pale warrior's hand. Tordun admired the workmanship and the clarity of the jewels. It was certainly a handsome enough gewgaw, and he felt a frisson of pride at the honour the Pit-master offered him. The weighty, open circlet looked like a pair of bull's horns, the traditional offering made to a victorious bullfighter. Tordun might dress like a monk on most occasions, but that was for the sake of utility in combat. The golden torc beguiled him, tempted him...

  The albino cast a furtive glance at Shugar and saw the scarred warrior's face contort in a fierce, wide-eyed grimace. Was it an expression of disgust, hatred, or fear?

  Tordun was an expert in the art of divining an opponent's intended actions from the subtlest of cues revealed by the fighter's pose or movements. However, he had never managed to master the reading of complex facial impressions. He guessed that Shugar felt affronted at the idea of such a generous offer being made to a Pit tyro.

  His misgivings growing, he turned back to Keller, trying to think of a rational excuse to refuse the offer.

  “Well, I suppose it'd be churlish of me to refuse,” he found himself saying. “Thank you."

  Shugar began to thrash in his seat again, as another of his strange seizures took hold of him, and Tordun regarded the warrior with anxiety.

  "Are you sure he's all right, Keller? This can't be normal."

  "It's just a touch of heat prostration brought on by overtraining,” the Pit-master said, his voice mellifluous and serene. “Don't worry about it. Go ahead; put on the circlet. It'll look splendid on you."

  Something about Keller's urgent stance, the tenseness of his body, appeared at odds with the honeyed words, and now loud alarm bells seemed to sound in Tordun's head, although he still did not know why.

  Why is Keller so keen for me to wear this?

  The thought was swift, but the albino's body started to react before he could command his hands to stop.

  In less than the space of a heartbeat, the torc was clipped around his neck.

  "It looks good on you, Tordun,” Keller declared, as Shugar slumped back into passivity in his chair.

  “You'll be a credit to the Pit."

  "As long as you understand that I'm not fighting for you,” Tordun said, fiddling with the
circlet. Despite the appearance and weight of soft gold, the torc seemed as strong as the finest steel. He now felt distinctly uneasy, and the Pit-master's now-sinister smile unnerved him.

  "It's a bit tight, Keller, and it prickles,” Tordun said. “So I think I'll leave it off until tonight, if you don't mind. How do I remove it?"

  "You can't.” Keller's voice no longer sounded as warm, friendly, and deferent as it had.

  "I'm not playing games here, Keller!” Tordun abandoned all pretence of friendliness. “Get it off me, or you'll be sorry!” The giant warrior strode towards the Pit-master, his left hand clenched and ready to strike.

  "That's far enough, Tordun,” Keller said, reaching into his pocket.

  The pale giant gasped and stopped in his tracks. He felt as if flames were consuming his spinal column and bursting through his brain, consuming his eyeballs from behind. For some reason, his arms and legs no longer obeyed his commands, and he realised, too late, what Shugar had been trying to tell him.

  "Direct neural stimulation,” Keller said, in a conversational manner. “I'm told it can be quite painful. That's Level One. Perhaps you'd like to try Level Two?"

  Tordun struggled to control his voice. “I'll ... kill ... you,” he gasped, managing to stagger another couple of steps towards the Pit-master.

  "You would like to try Level Two?” Keller said, in a cheerful voice. “I knew you would. Here it comes."

  The albino felt as if his limbs had turned into long trailing tunnels of fire, spreading and branching like a rabbit-warren, splitting off into a myriad of tendrils of pure, unalloyed pain. Panic fear gripped him as he felt his eyes bulging, as if they would burst. His mind seemed to shatter into countless fragments of pain and fear, and he lost all control of his body. He felt a warm sensation at his groin as his bladder voided itself, but any sense of shame was consumed by the overwhelming pain.

  The agony continued, intensified, and Tordun heard a long, thready scream somewhere in the distance.

  The tiny knot of consciousness he retained knew nothing more than the primordial need to survive.

  At last, his body was free of pain, and Tordun found himself lying on the floor of the room, curled up in a tight ball. To his disgust, he smelt the acrid odour of vomit, tasted the vestiges of bile in his dry mouth.

  Several minutes passed before he could speak.

  "All right, Keller. You win. I'll fight for you tonight,” he growled, his voice scratchy and hoarse. “Just remember that I have friends here. They're not likely to stand by while you turn me into some sort of flesh-and-blood marionette."

  The Pit-master laughed. “After tonight, they'll be too busy experiencing the delights of their own collars,”

  he said. “They won't be able to help you, even if they wanted to. And we haven't even started yet, my monstrous friend. That was Level Two, and the collar goes all the way up to Level Eight. Every one's different, each with its own distinct character. And each level's worse than the one before. It'd be a pity to waste all that extra capacity. At some point, probably Level Five or Six, you'll find that it doesn't hurt any more, and you'll begin to love me."

  "In your dreams, Keller,” Tordun snarled. “I'll see you in hell first."

  "Do you know the beauty of it, Tordun?” Keller ignored the albino's defiance. “All that pain is in your mind. It doesn't strain your body at all. When you finally come to your senses, you'll willingly agree to fight just to please me, and you'll be as fit and strong as ever. The Pit's flooded with pheromones that ensure every fighter gives everything he's got.

  "The beauty of it all is that we still have hours to go before tonight's bouts. I can show you the full range of this pretty little bauble's wonders."

  Keller turned towards Shugar. “You tried to warn him, didn't you? That'll cost you dearly, I can assure you. You can join your friend, Tordun, in his exercises.

  "Right, shall we try Level Three? That's the spirit! Here we go..."

  Tordun's intended, defiant insult was subsumed by a howl of agony, as a pain beyond description deprived him of the power of speech.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 30: Clarity

  Grimm and his companions spent a cheerful day in the Mansion House bar. Grimm and Guy stood by, ready to dispense the necessary sobering magic when spirits rose too high. The bartender appeared whenever one of the drinkers put down an empty glass or tankard, filling it without prompting, so the two magic-users remained busy.

  Harvel insisted he could handle his drink well enough, but the young Questor reminded him that they were not on a pleasure outing.

  "Can't be helped, I'm afraid, Harvel. We have a mission to fulfil.” The purpose of the Quest was already growing dim in Grimm's mind, but a strong spark remained: this Quest wasn't just for Dominie Horin or even Prelate Thorn; his besmirched family name was at stake, and that thought would not surrender to the drink.

  With a sigh, the inebriated swordsman grasped Redeemer, and his voice lost its manic edge.

  Grimm tried not to drink too much, wishing to keep his head clear. Nonetheless, even with the effects of the alcohol in his bloodstream damped down by Redeemer, he still felt cheerful; there just seemed to be something about this place...

  "I wonder what's keeping Tordun,” General Quelgrum said, raising his glass to his lips and taking a robust swallow of the finest brandy. “He's been away for hours.” The soldier glanced at the handsome pendulum clock above the bar. “It's getting near Pit time, and I, for one, don't want to miss it. Especially since we're getting grandstand seats."

  "Don't worry about Tordun, General. He's probably giving out pointers on proper fighting conduct,”

  Crest suggested. “He's a bit of a legend around these parts, having been heavyweight champion of Gallorley for seven years. It's only a few miles from here, just the other side of Preslor."

  "I'd have thought he'd have been yesterday's news by now,” Guy said, and a spirited discussion began.

  Grimm, however, did not take part, as a thought took hold of him.

  Preslor.... Isn't that where Madar lived as a child?

  With a guilty start, Grimm realised he had spared his old Scholasticate friends, Madar Gaheela and Argand Forutia, barely a single thought since becoming a Questor. They had fought together, played together and laughed together. Only their unflagging friendship and support had made his tenure as a Student at Arnor House bearable.

  Here am I, laughing and joking in the lap of luxury, and Madar and Argand are slaving away over turgid books in the bloody Scholasticate, he thought. I've been back to the House several times since my Acclamation, and I only tried to look them up once!

  A cold shock of realisation descended like a sheet of rain, washing the dust from his brain. For the first time since his Arrival at Mansion House, his mind was clear.

  Something Madar had said long ago seemed to reverberate in his head: "It was purgatory going back home at the end of last term, Grimm. They don't like mages around there; they don't even like Guild Students. Preslor, Gallorley, Yoren; they're all the same. I was almost glad to come back."

  Crest had confirmed Madar's words back in Grimm's tower: "So when I tell you even we Drutians steer clear of Yoren, you'd better believe that we know what we're talking about. Seventh Rank Mage or not, they'd eat you for breakfast."

  And yet Grimm, Guy and Numal had been accepted into Mansion House without a second glance.

  Something was wrong here. He had told himself he had been paranoid for suspecting some of the Yorenians of staring just a little too long at his Guild ring; now, he was not so sure. There was also the matter of the gate watchman's strange, sinister immunity to Guy's Compulsion spell, which everybody seemed to have forgotten.

  Thribble had mentioned his own concerns about Grimm's behaviour, but the mage had just brushed aside the demon's doubts. He knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that he and his friends were under no spell, either Thaumaturgic or Geomantic, and that they had not been drugged. None
theless, he had to acknowledge that his behaviour, and that of his companions, had been, to say the least, quixotic, ever since they had entered Mansion House.

  You need to lighten up, Grimm, boy, a voice said in his head. Go on; have another drink. Enjoy it this time. Don't bother with Redeemer.

  Shrugging, Grimm raised his tankard to his lips, and made ready to down it at a gulp.

  No, damn it! his forebrain screamed. Look at their auras first!

  The ruddy, foaming beverage before the Questor tempted him, but it would take only a moment to engage his Mage Sight.

  Although Guild protocol considered it the height of ill manners to scan a person's aura without first asking permission, the suspicion of pernicious sorcery would not leave him. It nagged him like a small hole in a tooth, which, to a questing tongue, felt as large as a cavern.

  He must learn the truth, at all costs!

  What his Mage Sight showed him shocked him to the core. Waves of cheerful orange flowed over the auras of his companions, swamping all other emotions. He concentrated his Sight on the melancholy, timid Numal, now as spirited a debater as the others. The invasive, orange tide seemed to ebb and flow in a complex rhythm and it took Grimm a little while to realise the source of this regularity.

  Then, it hit him, like a dazzling flash of light illuminating the inner recesses of his mind; the wave synchronised precisely with the Necromancer's breathing: strongest on each inhalation, then declining steadily until the next breath.

  Grimm tested this theory on himself; sure enough, his mutinous inner voice seemed most insistent when he inhaled. He held his breath as long as he could, and his rational mind began to regain control of his thought processes.

  "What are you playing at, Grimm?” Guy's loud, boisterous voice interrupted the Questor's intense reverie.

  “Holding your breath? Well, I'll bet I can hold my breath a lot longer than you can."

  "I bet you can't,” Grimm said, breathing through his mouth, trying to keep his air intake to a minimum. “I'll bet you two golds you can't.” He slapped two heavy coins onto the bar, which were soon matched by a pair from Guy's purse.