He was in pain; he was pain...
* * * *
Guy felt himself swirling through the all-consuming agony, drifting away from his body. This must be it. I never thought it would end like this.
With a sudden shock, the Questor realised that the torment was gone, and he looked down at his own body, lying, twitching on the ground. Is this it? he wondered. Am I dead?
"Quickly now, mage,” a familiar, mortal voice said. “Grimm must be saved, and Numal, too!” It was Quelgrum.
The Questor rose to his feet—or someone's feet—and felt an unaccustomed ache in his knees as he did so. His arms felt too short, and his entire body felt ... wrong, somehow.
"What's going on?” Guy said in a harsh voice, struggling with an unfamiliar throat and tongue. “Where the hell am I? What's the matter with my damned body? I feel like an old man."
"You are; you're in Numal's body, Questor Guy,” Quelgrum said. “He's just done a very brave thing.
"Explanations must wait; you have to defeat Keller, so Questor Grimm and Numal can be saved."
Guy felt shocked, realising he now inhabited a body over thirty years older than his own, but, for the moment, he was just glad to be free of the pain.
"Don't worry, Quelgrum; I'm more than happy enough to take on Keller for my own reasons. That bastard put that damned collar on me, and he's going to suffer for that. He's a dead man! I swear I'll—"
" Move it!" Quelgrum snapped in a parade-ground voice, cutting off the mage. “The sooner you do this, the sooner you get back to your own body."
Guy called for his staff, revelling in the sting as the magical weapon smacked into his outstretched hand.
"Very well, old man. I'm not any keener at being in Grandpa's body than he is at being in mine. Demon, you come with me; you might just come in useful."
He held out his left hand in an imperious manner. Thribble rolled his eyes, but said nothing as he hopped onto the extended appendage.
Slipping the demon into his pocket, the mage felt the joints of his body grind as he moved out of the bushes and around the rotunda. The sooner he ditched this worn-out shell and returned to his own, youthful body, the better!
As he reached the Pit entrance, he saw two heavily-muscled men standing in the entrance.
"Hold, old man!” one cried, a cauliflower-eared veteran of some forty years. “Yield or die!"
"Over your dead body, cretin,” Guy-Numal said, launching a vengeance-fuelled ball of ice-cold energy against the two men. In an instant, the warriors’ faces turned paler even than Tordun's, and the mage stepped forward. With one sweep of his staff, the frozen pair shattered into tiny pieces.
"It's good to be back,” the Questor muttered, stepping inside the Pit building, ready to hurl death at any who opposed him. To his surprise, the brightly-lit arena seemed empty. The domed ceiling was no more: Afelnor's handiwork, he guessed. From all around, he heard spectral applause and cheers, and guessed that Keller was behind this.
"Demon, can you find the source of this cursed noise?” he shouted, scooping Thribble from his pocket and holding the imp to his ear.
"The sound emerges from several loci, human.” Thribble pointed toward various black, rectangular excrescences around the walls. “But the ultimate source seems to be that little hut."
Guy strained his eyes and saw a small cubicle to his right, nestled against the short wall at the rear of the dished auditorium, surveying the Pit. The hut had no apparent door.
No problem, he thought, readying himself for another spell. Let's make a real entrance!
"Be careful, mortal,” the demon said. “You must not kill Keller before he dispels his foul, Technological influence over the fighters. Grimm must be saved!"
Guy suspected that the younger Questor was already beyond all help, but he wanted his own young, healthy body back. The imp's words made sense, so Guy backed off much of the energy he had allocated to the spell.
"Good advice, demon,” he admitted. “Keller can live—at least for now."
Despite difficulty in mastering the nuances of Numal's vocal tract, the mage knew this would have no effect on his spell; a common runic spell might require perfect tone and diction, but a Questor spell was another matter. Only the pattern mattered.
"Let's give Mister Keller a little surprise, shall we?” he said, readying himself to cast.
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Chapter 34: An Echoing Tumult
"All right, boys; who's first?"
Grimm spoke with a confidence he did not feel. He stood with his back against the end wall of the short corridor, as the maddened horde of fighters approached inexorably. His only advantage lay in the fact that the narrow passageway forced the warriors to advance in a column instead of en masse.
If I hadn't wasted all my power so quickly, these fellows would be easy meat, he thought, mustering a rueful grin. What a time to learn such a vital lesson!
He held Redeemer before him, forming a horizontal barrier. To reach him, someone would have to touch the staff, and that might make things interesting.
Come on, you over-muscled morons. Come on!
At last, the front row of men approached him, and a foolhardy or ignorant soul tried to snatch the staff from Grimm's grasp. As his questing finger touched the staff, the man cannoned backwards as if he had been punched by a bad-tempered bear, spilling other men to the ground.
Seizing the moment, Grimm stepped forward and swung Redeemer back and forth, rendering the fallen men unconscious or dead. A small wall of inert bodies now lay between him and his attackers, and the young mage began to feel more confident.
Divide and conquer, he thought. I can't beat them all at once, but maybe I can take them out a few at a time.
"Bad move, gentlemen!” he shouted, as much for his own morale as for any other effect. “This round's mine, I believe."
However, he soon realised he had been over-confident; these ensorcelled men were focused on only one goal: the elimination of Grimm Afelnor. They had no thought for the preservation of their own lives. As the main mass of fighters stepped back, a single warrior stepped over the bodies, his hands weaving in a complex, baffling pattern. As Grimm feinted with Redeemer, the attacker hooked the staff from the Questor's grip. As expected, the assailant flew backwards, unconscious, but Grimm was now unarmed.
Seeing their foe deprived of his weapon, the gladiators surged forward again.
Be calm, Grimm!
With a word, the magical staff flew back to his hand, and the Questor dispatched another five attackers.
He resumed his former defensive posture, realising the men would learn from this abortive attack.
Nonetheless, the advantage was once more on Grimm's side, and he awaited the next stratagem with a certain detached interest.
Now, Tordun was in the vanguard of the opposing force. Sweat ran down the albino's face, which was contorted in a complex expression of mingled ferocity, pain and despair.
"Tordun, don't do this,” the mage said in the calmest voice he could muster. “You're a fighter, so fight Keller, not me!"
"Cannot ... help ... it,” the former White Titan gasped. “It's too strong. The image-boxes ... blind him!"
With that, Tordun collapsed to the ground, contorting and flailing. The twitching albino's bulk impeded the advancing warriors, and Grimm scanned the walls and ceilings for any evidence of the ‘image-boxes’
Tordun had mentioned.
At last he saw them; grey cubes clinging to the walls of the corridor, almost blending into the dull décor, betrayed only by the gleam of their glass eyes. Four were within the reach of Redeemer, and the Questor dispatched them with a swift series of blows, moving back to his guard position just in time to fell another two assailants. The others, with the exception of the thrashing Tordun, regrouped to plan their next move.
The attacking horde seemed barely weakened, and Grimm's resolution weakened. Over thirty men remained, and their determination seemed as strong
as ever.
The mage saw other boxes, arrayed down the corridor, swivelling into position, orientating their crystalline gaze upon him, and Grimm groaned with frustration. Only adrenalin was keeping him on his feet, and that was fading fast. If only he had the strength to...
The strength! The Questor realised he had forgotten about the spells he had cast on Redeemer back in his tower. In addition to runic cantrips for light, heat and a dozen other minor spells, Grimm had also poured his own energy into the staff for later use.
Drawing Redeemer close to his chest, the mage called upon the much-needed strength hidden within the gleaming, black rod. As the Questor felt the vitality flooding back into every fibre of his body, the fighters made another attack, and he laughed with joy. He was whole again!
"Sk'tallek'ye!"
The nonsense syllables burst from his dry lips, and the whole wall of warriors flew backwards. Although not badly injured, they tumbled in disarray, as if caught in a mighty wind. Like an avenging angel, the mage strode forward, sweeping Redeemer along first one wall and then the other. The metal and glass boxes were no more.
Grimm, free of the constricting corridor, tried to run for the passageway from which the fighters had emerged, but he realised he was back in the field of view of more of Keller's Technological eyes. A hand caught his ankle, and he tripped.
"Great work from the outclassed Questor!" the mocking voice of Pit-master Keller boomed from high above, as Grimm sprawled on the floor. "But this series of desperation moves could just prove to be too little, too late! See now, as the victorious Pit champions—"
The hateful voice cut off, but the fighters lost none of their zeal. Grimm felt himself pulled inexorably backwards towards the throng, his slender right leg in the grip of a huge, iron fist, which was soon joined by others. He tried to marshal his thoughts, to focus his power, but panic began to subsume him. It looked as if he were being drawn into the maw of a huge, many-legged insect...
* * * *
Guy smiled as the wooden wall of the kiosk faded into dust, revelling in Keller's terrified, wide-eyed gape as the Pit-master whirled around on his small, wheeled chair. The small room contained all kinds of bizarre Technological equipment, which the mage vowed to destroy once he had achieved his ultimate aim. "You don't seem to have much of an audience tonight, Keller,” he grunted in a guttural, grinding manner that only seemed to add to the Pit-master's fear.
"You!” the slight man gasped. “But you're only—"
"I'm your worst nightmare, worm,” the young mage said in the old Necromancer's body. His gruff, slurred delivery was due to the Questor's difficulty in controlling Numal's larynx, but he rather liked the sepulchral effect of his new voice. Even the way he swayed on his unfamiliar legs seemed to heighten Keller's terror.
Perfect, Guy thought. This bastard's going to suffer.
"What ... what do you want?” Keller stuttered, his eyes wide in confusion.
Guy smiled slowly; to judge from Keller's reaction, he guessed his borrowed face must be distorted into some ghastly grimace. This was all to the good: it would enhance the experience.
"Quickly, human; be swift! Time grows short! "
Thribble's urgent squeak brought the Questor out of his reverie.
"I want you to turn off all those bloody collars,” Guy-Numal growled. If you want to quibble about it, try this! "
Guy cast a spell of which he always felt inordinately proud, and Keller fell to the floor, screaming in agony. The mage had exercised this particular magic on only a few occasions, since it required a man to be restrained and unresisting, but the Pit-master's consuming dread appeared to work just as well as physical confinement.
Guy held the spell on the slender man for only a few moments; he did not want Keller disabled or killed—yet.
As the Pit-master recovered, the Questor smelled the acrid scent of ammonia, and smiled again as he saw a dark patch spreading across the front of Keller's buff-coloured trousers.
"I'll do it; I'll do it!” the hapless, soiled man bleated. “Look!"
He drew a small, grey implement from his pocket and ran his trembling fingers across a number of coloured keys on its surface.
"It's done, I swear; they're all off! ” Keller screamed, his eyes wide and terrified. “Let me go! I had no choice in this—they made me do it!” he jabbered, drooling in panic.
"All in good time, Keller.” Guy-Numal began to appreciate the disconcerting effect his involuntary, dull monotone seemed to have on the worthless little man. “You just wait here while I check.
"K'zaat'az'er!"
He lifted the grey pad from the frozen Keller's nerveless fingers and walked out of the Pit. As he entered the bushes, he saw his own body, lying pale and still, and he turned to the battered General Quelgrum.
"How am I?” he barked.
"He's ... you're all right, I think.” The General bent to check the supine body.
"You're still breathing, and he ... you seem relaxed now, if unconscious. Whatever you've done, it seems to have worked.
"Now, where's Questor Grimm?"
Guy-Numal spread his borrowed hands. “I have no idea, old man. The Pit was all but empty when I went in. I think he's a lost cause. I just want a little more friendly discourse with our good friend, Keller. I recommend we move on then."
Quelgrum rose to his full height, and Guy realised just how threatening the old man's presence could be.
". recommend we don't,” the General said, his voice blurred by his swollen mouth. “This time, I'm coming with you, and I want to know that Baron Grimm's dead before I abandon him. Is that all right with you
... old man?
"Remember, you'll need Numal to return you to your own body. Perhaps he'll prefer to stay where he is if I don't prevail upon him to do the right thing, and, right now, I might be persuaded to advise him to remain where he is. Without my advice, I doubt he'll change his mind—would you, in his circumstances?"
Guy-Numal shot a sharp look at the soldier, unsure if the old man was bluffing or not.
"All right, Quelgrum. Just don't slow me down too much; I want to have a little fun with that skinny bastard. I've got his funny little device in my hand, so I don't think he can do much more. He was scared out of his wits when I last saw him, and I froze him in place. I don't think he'll be any trouble."
" You don't think?" Quelgrum expostulated. “These people seem to shake off Questor mind-control spells like other people shake off flies! What makes you think he's under this spell?"
Guy-Numal smiled. “My body says he is."
"What about Questor Grimm? Keller may be relying on your bloody egocentrism! He may be laughing at you now, just waiting to send a bunch of Pit fighters against us!"
"All right, old man; keep your hair on. We'll check,” Numal said's mouth. “He's dead, whatever happens."
* * * *
Grimm had dropped Redeemer in his fall, and he called for the staff as the insectoid mass of writhing fighters began to pull him in. The obedient, reliable baton flew into his hand as ever, but his panic swamped any kind of cohesive response. For the first time since his Outbreak, he miscast a spell, spewing purposeless energy into the air in a blue mist. Not them; me! The inner voice was imperative, and he did not wait to consider the alternatives.
"Utch'katch!"
With this impulsive spell, born of sheer panic, he burst from his opponents’ grip and cannoned into the far wall of the Pit. Light and pain bloomed in his head, and Grimm knew he was losing his hold on consciousness. Redeemer slipped from his fingers and he could not seem to call it to hand.
Multi-coloured lights played around the inside of his cranium, and his thoughts drifted. Darkness began to descend over his eyes, and a buzzing sound filled his brain.
As if from far away, he heard the admonishing voice of Magemaster Crohn in his head: "You used far more energy than was required in that spell, Afelnor, as usual. I see we need to work upon your powers of control once more. We all know
you have power; the trick is to use the least amount necessary for the desired result to be achieved."
He staggered to his feet as if drunken, his legs devoid of control or strength, to see a wide wall of bodies surging towards him.
As his stunned, befuddled mind sought solutions, the human mass stopped in its headlong, fanatical rush.
Grimm shook his head, as if he could shake some sense into his impact-addled brain, and tried to ready himself for the next assault. It did not come.
One fighter stood over him, bafflement filling his face. Still wary, Grimm picked up Redeemer and held it before him in trembling, ineffectual hands, as he tried to control his rambling thoughts.
At last, the warrior spoke. “Who are you?"
"I am Grimm Afelnor, called the Dragonblaster. Who are you?” Grimm remained wary. Could this muscular assassin be playing with him, before the end?
"Why am I fighting you?” the huge man rumbled, his expression bemused and unsure. “I'm..."
To Grimm's surprise, and even horror, the titanic fighter burst into tears, and the mage felt wetness at the corners of his own eyes. A distant part of his mind registered that Redeemer had once more slipped from his fingers, but he felt too stunned to care.
"I don't know,” he said, giving vent to the pent emotions within him as he laughed. “I have no quarrel with you.” Nothing seemed right, and the mage had lost all sense of self-preservation. His head rang, and he had had enough; all he wanted was to lie down, and never to wake again.
As the other warriors began to stand and shake their heads, Grimm saw Tordun surge forward, and he tried to move. He could not do so.
The white warrior swept the mage up in his arms. As if in a dream, Grimm heard him say “Our true enemy, Keller, awaits us; he must not be allowed to live!"
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