The Questor nodded. “Do you know why each type of cadaver needs a different spell?” he asked. “Is a different principle involved for each?"
Numal began to give his usual, non-committal gesture but then stopped in mid-shrug, his face clearing. “There is, Grimm!” he said, wide-eyed, in a sudden access of enthusiasm. “I see what you're getting at here. The easiest spell involves accessing the intact nervous system, before corruption takes hold. The Fifth Rank magic requires the mage to insert intricate webs of force in place of the decayed nerves. The ultimate spell involves the mage extending a field of energy from his soul, animating the dead matter.
"If disease germs were affected, there's no telling…"
The Necromancer's voice faltered for a moment, and his face fell. “No, that's not the answer. The full spell is selective. Corruptive influences aren't included in the animation."
Despite his worry, Grimm smiled, and he patted the older mage's left shoulder in encouragement. “It wasn't a Thaumaturgic spell, Numal,” he said. “It was Geomantic. I suspect Lizaveta wasn't sufficiently careful in her application, and she energised the disease agents along with the corpses, making them more virulent. Does that make sense?"
Numal nodded slowly. “I suppose it does. Necromancy is a difficult discipline, and we're barred from any unauthorised research.
"Still, how does that help us, Questor Grimm? Even if we know what's going on, we're no closer to finding the answer to the sickness."
It was Grimm's turn to shrug. “I'm not sure,” he said, “but I think I have the ghost of an idea."
He sighed. “I wish I hadn't said that; I don't think I'm going to enjoy this at all."
As a bemused-looking Numal looked on, Grimm sank to the floor in a cross-legged stance of meditation and began to chant.
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Chapter 15: The Inner Light
Grimm was familiar now with the techniques of Astral Projection, but he had never before considered what he was about to attempt. He guessed that Lizaveta's spell had given the disease germs a form of sentience. If he was wrong, if he had failed to take into account any one of a number of relevant factors, then Drex and Tordun would be condemned to a creeping, agonising death; however, this was his only plan, and he was determined to try it.
He felt the familiar lurch and brief moment of disorientation as his spirit left his body. He looked down from the ceiling to see his body, eyes closed, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
That's the easy bit, he thought. Now, it gets… interesting.
Spirit-Grimm regarded the stricken albino, assessing the crimson-black gashes that stood in stark contrast to the warrior's otherwise livid skin.
Yes… just there!
He willed himself to shrink, as he had done when facing the disembodied, insane mage, Garropode, within the brain of the dream-dragon, Gruon. The infected area on the albino's flesh appeared to grow, looking now like a vast chasm in a desert of snow. Still he shrank, further and further…
Single hairs now stood like scaly, curving, translucent tree-trunks, rising from islands of pale pink. Then, the descending spirit saw only the wound's steep walls, exuding heavy, bulging, straw-yellow droplets. Spirit-Grimm headed for one of these, imagining he felt a brief moment of tension before he popped into the yellow globe.
This is the true battleground for Tordun's life, he thought, remembering his lessons in Basic Healing. The germ theory of disease was one artefact from the reign of Science that had survived the Guild's ruthless suppression of the ancient arts, and Grimm was familiar with it.
He knew he needed to shrink further to distinguish the tiny combatants in this life-and-death struggle, and he maintained his remorseless diminution of scale. The pale liquid became viscid and mucilaginous, but spirit-Grimm's insubstantial form felt no impediment or pressure as he continued to decrease in size. Had he possessed his mortal senses and emotions, he might have felt terrified at this dizzying descent into the invisible, but he knew only determination, empowering him, driving him on and in.
Now, the formless fluid began to clear, as enmeshed tendrils and motes came into view, and spirit-Grimm tried to make sense of the scene: a frenzied dance of particles with gelatinous, translucent, blue blobs swimming into view and fading to grey as they tangled with a greater number of green, barbed cylinders, which writhed and multiplied as he watched, lengthening and splitting into two, four, eight, sixteen… an inexorable, exponential increase.
Spirit-Grimm stopped shrinking and floated in the midst of the microscopic battlefield, surveying the conflict that was killing his friend. The blue fighters tried to envelop the invaders, but the attackers seemed to shimmer and slip from their grasp, shooting sharp, whip-like tendrils into the hapless defenders, killing them before moving on to fly upwards and outwards. A hundred, a thousand, ten thousand valiant sentries died before him in moments. The blue warriors came in a dazzling variety of shapes and forms, trying to subsume the green assailants, but they were too slow; the tiny, mindless soldiers were helpless in the face of the invaders’ ruthless, ever-changing strategies. The battle was more one-sided than any in the bloody history of humankind, and the corporeal Grimm might have felt horror at the microscopic carnage. However, his spirit body felt only wonder at the intricacies of the mortal drama unfolding before him.
There!
Life, control, self-determination; animalistic and cunning, remorseless…
Spirit-Grimm reached towards one of the rapacious, green cylinders. Despite his tiny size, he had all the Guild-honed willpower of a Mage Questor; the battle of wills was over in a moment.
You are mine, he commanded. The tiny creature struggled for the briefest of moments and ceased its depredations.
We are going on a journey, he told the mindless creature. Up!
Spirit-Grimm flew up from the battlefield, carrying his green prisoner with him at an acceleration that would have crushed any mortal being to paste in an instant. The precipitous valley now lay far below him, and spirit-Grimm began to search for a specific tendril of thought: an emotion; a concept; a direction…
Now, there was only purpose: a distant goal, towards which he flew at the speed of thought. A vertical field of vast peaks and valleys stopped him, as if a chain of mountains had been tipped on its side. He saw countless green creatures batter themselves to death on the rutted surface as they sought fresh victims. Others rebounded, flying off in new directions.
However, spirit-Grimm guessed he had one sense they lacked; he still felt the weak but insistent tug of gravitation, even if it did not discommode him. The air felt as thick as broth, buoying up his prisoner, but the nagging, ever-present force gave him a sense of position.
This must be the door to the main stairwell, he thought. Ah, here we are!
A mighty, ragged chasm appeared, devoid of the microscopic, unintelligent warriors; it seemed that they had no concept of true strategy. Like hungry wasps, they flew only towards the scent of prey: wet, bleeding, human flesh. If denied, they battered themselves against their barrier, or sought another, more accessible victim.
Spirit-Grimm felt the pull of another sense: the signature of the mortal soul he sought. He dashed through the dense, hazy medium of the air without restriction, seeking his goal. Twists, turns, precipitous dives and climbs; he followed the unmistakable spoor of his prey without hesitation, pursuing his quarry, following the steep gradient of mortal awareness. At last, a craggy, vertical plain stood before him, pulsating and swaying, and Grimm guessed this was Lizaveta's face.
How do these things know where to attack? spirit-Grimm wondered.