From forty feet in the air the two men fell, accelerating as they plummeted. Their screams were cut off by a pair of sickening thuds that blended into one. Grimm had no doubt at all that they were dead.
The horrified expressions on the survivors’ faces reminded Grimm of the two bullies, Shumal and Ruvin, when he had felt the first, uncontrolled stirrings of vengeful, destructive, Questor energy within him at Arnor House. As he watched the remaining green-clothed men fleeing in complete disorder, he realised that he was ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times more dangerous than he had been at his power's first, undisciplined awakening. By attempting to enslave him, they had not just insulted Grimm Dragonblaster, but his House, his Guild and his name.
They would pay: the Questor would not rest until this abominable establishment had been reduced to its very foundations!
Grimm turned towards Quelgrum and his burly opponent. Neither man's face was unblemished, but the mage could see the General's opponent's youth and greater bulk were beginning to tell. Quelgrum might have a lifetime of fighting experience on which to draw, but the younger man had the advantages of strength, speed and faster reflexes. Quelgrum had sat behind a desk for too long, and he was breathing hard.
Grimm tried to close with the fighters as they weaved around each other, but the younger warrior seemed cunning as well as swift. Somehow, no matter how the mage tried to find the right position, he always found Quelgrum in his way, and Grimm guessed this was no accident. He could not launch an offensive spell against his intended target without hitting the General.
What to do?
His thoughts blurred as he considered alternatives.
A ward like the one Dalquist used in Crar, when we finally beat Starmor?
That would be of no use; the men were moving too quickly for him to be able to place the spell with any accuracy. He had no idea what would happen if the ward manifested with one of its walls inside the General's body, but the outcome would surely be bad.
A spell of Telekinesis?
If the mage could be sure of selecting only one target, it would be easy; he could let the General float gently to the ground, or dash his opponent into the soil. Nonetheless, he could not be sure of this.
A Word of Command, perhaps?
No; these people seemed somehow protected from such mental magic. What would affect the warrior, and not the General?
"You do not need a spell for this, a spell for that, and one for the third Wednesday in June! You are a Questor, not a Reader!" Magemaster Crohn's words, uttered, it seemed, an age ago, flooded into the mage's mind.
It was not easy to disregard the strictly-defined categories of common, runic magic, which was drummed into each and every Student from the age of seven, but Grimm knew he had to try. Three blows from the scarred warrior landed uncontested, and Quelgrum staggered, blood streaming from his brows and lips.
The General might well die if such punishment continued.
A flash of understanding rushed through the mage. He had been considering mighty, overpowering spells, but these had proved impracticable. Something simpler was the key. The mage remembered the calming effects of the pheromones inside the Mansion House, and recalled his exact state of mind when the insidious substances had taken effect.
"Igg'youah!"
This was no fulminating burst of energy, no cataclysmic fireball, but the projection of a simple feeling, projected with all Grimm's force at the two men.
In an instant, the fight was over. Quelgrum and his opponent stood still, their faces and bodies as animated as those of grazing sheep. In the place of angry, snarling expressions, he saw dreamy, inane smiles.
Holding the magic on, he stepped up to the younger fighter and smashed the brass head of Redeemer into the man's skull. The fighter staggered but did not fall. Nonetheless, he still wore an idiotic smile, although now wreathed in blood.
He must have a head like a rock! Grimm took a firmer grasp on the staff as his magical strength began to fade.
With one more blow, it was done; the man's head exploded in a shower of red and grey. Grimm released the spell with a groan; it had cost him more than he would have imagined.
He brushed aside the groggy General's thanks and rushed to Guy's side. The older Questor continued to thrash, and his face had taken on a ghastly pallor. Grimm guessed the glowing circlet was the cause, and he tried to remove it from his brother mage's neck.
He felt his arms trembling as he struggled to remove the torc. Sickening waves of agony rippled through him, dazzling him, blurring his vision, yet Grimm knew he was only receiving a fraction of the punishment Guy was suffering. At last, his hands refused to obey his orders and tore themselves away from the gaudy band, seemingly of their own accord.
His body had betrayed him.
Grimm tried to cast a spell of Inner Calm on the tortured man, and his Mage Sight saw it splash from the circlet. He felt a pang of anguished helplessness consuming him; he had never liked Guy, but he could not bear to see his brother Questor in such agony.
He heard a loud crack in the distance and saw Harvel collapse to the ground before he had regained his feet fully. Within the space of a heartbeat, he heard another bang, and Crest spun on his heels as he fell into a huddled heap.
The bushes!
Grimm loosed a massive ball of fire into the direction of the explosions, and silence reigned again. A giant fulmination arose from the ground, and the Questor realised he had poured far more energy into the spell than necessary.
The operation had seemed such a simple, clinical matter, just a few minutes before. Now, it had turned into a disaster. The chattering Pit aficionados had fled, and the silence seemed almost oppressive in its gravity. Crest, Harvel, Guy and Quelgrum were incapacitated, if not dead, and Grimm felt the sick realisation that his Quest might be compromised; all for the sake of revenge. Nonetheless, he knew that he must, at least, try to save his brother mage.
The Questor turned to the quivering Numal. “Listen to me!” he said. The older man continued to stare into the air. “Necromancer Numal! "
Numal spun as if struck, and Grimm looked him straight in the eye. “Get these men to a place of shelter, and wait for me. If I do not emerge from the Pit within twenty minutes or so, just get out of here as fast as you can."
The Necromancer's lower lip trembled for a few moments before words emerged from his mouth:
“You're going to carry on with this? It's madness! Just look at us! We're finished! "
Grimm yearned to slap the ineffectual man, but he stayed his hand; nothing could have prepared Numal for this debacle. Instead, the Questor used his voice as a weapon, his diction crisp and explosive as the bullets that had felled his comrades.
"You forget yourself, Brother Mage!” he snapped. His voice cracked like a whip. “We are on a Quest—a Guild Quest, as I should not have to remind you—and . am in charge!"
Turning his full, fearsome, Questor stare on the man, Grimm continued, “I need you, Numal, to ensure that no further harm happens to these men. Should any assailant come within the range of your staff, use it, and use it well!
"Do you understand, Brother Mage?"
At last, Numal drew a deep breath and nodded. “I understand, Questor Grimm. I will not let you down. I apologise for my craven behaviour. It will not happen again, I promise you."
For the first time, Grimm saw a stern look of determination in Numal's eyes; the Necromancer had finally found his feet as a mage. The older man began to pull the fallen men into the shadow of the Pit with determined urgency.
Grimm nodded, pleased that the Necromancer had defeated his inner demons, and he walked towards the thick, oaken doors. He soaked up stored energy from Redeemer, like a drowning man drinking from a bottomless well, and scanned the dark portals.
"Nothing to worry about here,” he muttered, launching a spell of dissolution at the wooden barriers. The doors flew apart in a shower of blue sparks, and the Questor stepped inside.
The ro
ws of seats were empty, and darkness reigned.
Grimm wandered down the aisles, towards the arena, unsure of his objective. From high above, he heard a mocking voice: "This could be the worst mistake you've ever made, magic-user: it's certainly your last mistake!"
Blazing light flooded into the stadium, and Grimm saw movement below him. A horde of muscular men scurried up the walkways towards him, and the contemptuous voice sounded anew: "Can you fight them, mage-scum? Can you fight them all? I don't think so. I'm sure this will be a great fight; it's a shame there'll be no paying audience. Good luck and goodnight, magic-boy."
Grimm threw a destructive spell at the apparent source of the voice, only to hear it sounding from another direction.
"Fight for your life, Questor!"
Grimm realised with horror that the grasping, muscle-bound figures had circled around him, cutting off his exit: he was trapped! With horror, he noted the blank expressions on the warriors’ faces, noticing the bright collars on their necks. These poor men were slaves to Keller's Technological will, lacking all volition in their mindless pursuit.
"Can you kill any of them, Questor Grimm? Can you? Even if you can, can you kill them all?
Whatever you do, I'm sure it'll be a spectacle worthy of the Pit. Goodbye, Guild filth. Remember me to your grandfather, Loras, when you meet him."
The shock of Keller's mention of Grimm's grandfather's name was only matched by the horrific realisation that one of these rapacious, bloodthirsty faces was that of Tordun. The humorous, honourable man he had known was lost, and only blind hatred remained in those pink eyes.
As the giant, muscular figures closed on the Questor from all sides, Grimm felt the frigid hand of true, gut-churning fear upon him. His sense of self-preservation took hold, and he gripped Redeemer in a strong grip, swearing to sell his life dear.
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Chapter 32—The Young Contender
The fighters’ progress was impeded by the narrow aisles between the seats, but it was inexorable. Grimm took stock of the situation, his mind racing, assessing his options.
He was younger and slenderer than the blank-eyed men closing in on him, and he took care to keep in good shape. However, to stand and face them would be folly; he could use his magic to destroy several with a single spell, but a blow from even one of those huge, knotted fists would be the end of him.
He felt sure he could outrun any of them, but where to run? The men were closing from all sides. A magical ward would hold them off, but each blow would draw energy from him; he would be trapped like a fly in amber, dying by degrees until his strength failed and he was swamped by the encroaching mass.
The first fighter, smaller and lighter than his comrades, reached the Questor, his scarred hands reaching out like pink crabs. With speed born of sheer desperation, Grimm lashed out with Redeemer, catching the man on the ear. The would-be assailant tumbled across one of the plush, red seats and lay still.
At least these fellows don't seem too imaginative, Grimm thought with a wry smile.
"Well done, Questor!" Keller's amplified voice boomed from somewhere in the vaulted ceiling. "That was Rumas, the runner-up in the flyweight category three years ago; a fast, but uninspired fighter.
"One down, forty-nine to go."
All too soon, another man approached his prey, his fists raised in a boxer's guard, protecting his head.
Perhaps Grimm's assessment of his unwilling foes had been too hasty; they could learn from mistakes, after all, even under the control of this Technological power.
Grimm feinted towards the warrior's face and then shifted his grip, ramming Redeemer into the man's gut.
Even the hardened, tensed muscles of the fighter's stomach could not withstand a blow from a Mage Staff, and breath exploded from the stricken man. His hands dropped, his face contorted in pain, and the mage finished him off with a tap on his right temple.
He spun around, swinging Redeemer in a wide arc, but the staff met only air.
"An inspired move from the unfancied underdog!" Keller boomed, taking up the role of Master of Ceremonies. "Who'll give me odds of two thousand to one? Come on now, ladies and gentlemen, a big hand for this gallant young man!"
The sound of rapturous applause and cheers filled the stadium, and the young mage started. He heard mocking laughter over the spectral ovation, and he vowed anew to destroy this dreadful place.
If he could, somehow, survive...
Now, the slower, more dangerous fighters began to close, and Grimm knew he would not be able to pick the men off one by one for much longer. They seemed to grow cannier by the minute, closing their ranks and weaving from side to side, making it impossible to pick a clean target. He fell back, only delaying the inevitable. Grimm weaved through the seats, trying to confuse his pursuers, but their reactions were faster than he would have believed, and they regrouped rapidly.
He found his back pressing against meshed wire; he could retreat no further.
"Oh! The young challenger's up against the ropes!" crowed the hateful voice of Keller, as the mindless, booming applause continued unabated. "Who'll give me three thousand to one , now?"
This is getting too dangerous, Grimm thought. I can't stay here much longer. He swung Redeemer again, staying the encircling horde for a moment only.
He heard movement behind him and swayed to his left, as a fist blurred past his head, making the air sigh as it tried to get out of the way. Redeemer did its work once more, as Grimm acted on pure reflex.
Only one area appeared clear: the Pit arena itself, twenty feet below him. Three large warriors remained by the shattered entrance, making escape impossible. The high barrier behind him made jumping into the Pit impossible, notwithstanding the injuries he would suffer if he could do so. A spell of Dissolution would take care of the barrier, but the warriors would follow him.
He thought back to what he had done to the guards outside the rotunda.
The syllables did not matter; only the intent of the spell.
" Whoo-juuuup! ” the mage screamed, flying into the air only fractions of a second before a pair of fists intersected with where his head had been.
Grimm had only flown once before, within the confines of a metal machine, and his arms and legs flailed as he hung precariously above the mass of impotent warriors. He was balanced on a slender pole of magical force, still subject to the relentless laws of physics, established centuries before.
I can't keep this up much longer, he thought, wobbling in mid-air. This is going to be tricky...
Accurate timing was essential, were he not to be impaled on the fence or dashed to the sandy floor of the Pit in a bloody pulp.
You only get one try at this, Afelnor, he told himself, mentally rehearsing the swift sequence of spells he would need to cast.
As the baffled fighters milled below Grimm, the mage recalled the three laws of motion that had survived since long before the final Fall of Man, which he had had to recite as a Student. He had never thought these ancient dicta might some day save his life!
"A body remains at rest, or in uniform motion in a straight line, unless acted upon by an external force.
"The acceleration of a body equates to the force acting upon it, divided by the body's mass."
"To every action, there is an equivalent and opposing reaction."
Grimm remained at rest relative to the ground. If he were to move, a force needed to act upon him. The stronger the force, the greater his acceleration; too strong a force might cannon him into the wall of the rotunda, knocking him senseless. Last, and not least, he needed to exert a force opposite to the direction in which he wished to travel.
Simple, isn't it, Grimm? Here goes...
The shaft of downwards force disappeared, and Grimm immediately shot a tight beam of energy to his left. He shot to his right, falling and careening off the wire screen on the opposite side of the Pit. As he tumbled towards the sand, he invoked another, shorter pillar of energy, which stayed hi
s plummeting motion. The breath rushed out of him as the spell took hold, and he was still fifteen feet above the ground. Settling himself, he annulled the spell, and created another below him. The spell stayed him, with another crashing impact, five feet above the sand. With gratitude, his heart pounding as if trying to escape his breast, he dropped to the arena floor in an ungainly heap. Sprawling on his back, he grinned at the sight of the fighters clawing at the metal screen high above. He had won.
Or had he?
Was ignominious retreat to be his lot? He had sworn to destroy the Pit and the Mansion House, and he had his comrades to save; not to mention his sworn Quest to fulfil. His thoughts were still clouded by the cloying pheromones in the air, stirring him to instinctive reaction. Although he had tried to prepare himself for their insidious effects, the pounding of his heart and his growing rage told him he was losing the battle to retain his rationality.
"We need a little more ventilation in here!” he shouted, hurling a tight, destructive ball of force at the domed ceiling. The dome shuddered, but it remained intact. With a snarl on his lips, Grimm repeated the spell with greater force. A circular portion of the ceiling, maybe thirty feet in diameter, splintered into a myriad of flying fragments, and the evening light and sweet, untainted air flooded into the auditorium.
"A fantastic series of moves from the young contender! In the space of a few heartbeats, he's turned the fight around!" the resounding, disembodied voice of the Pit-master screamed. "But has he made a mistake?"
Grimm tried to ignore the loathsome voice and began to take stock of his surroundings; he saw a dozen openings in the Pit walls, with no idea where they might lead. The fighters had gone from the wire barrier.
Even now, they might be making their way towards him through unseen catacombs.
Can I launch myself through this ragged hole in the ceiling?
He remembered tales of Mage Manipulant Garband, who had possessed the ability to soar like a bird, but he knew no Questor could ever hope to match a Specialist in his own field. He had achieved a clumsy simulacrum of true magical flight by bending his destructive powers, but it had been a frightening experience, motivated by sheer terror.
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