He began to shrink further, entering the germ, becoming one with its primitive, alien, magic-stimulated intelligence.
Naked desire, akin to an all-consuming hunger, was all the minuscule life-form knew, shocking in its intensity.
We must eat, he thought, feeling the primitive creature's basic drives and desires, becoming one with it. He took the germ's bright surge of energy as affirmation.
A faint, metallic sensation, red and moist, entered his sensorium. Was it olfactory, visual or tactile? The strange feeling seemed to fall into none of these convenient categories, but it was strong, nonetheless. Flailing its long tentacles, the germ tried to take him away from the Prioress, but the Questor's spirit insisted, No, no; here, my friend; we must find a closer target.
Had spirit-Grimm possessed teeth, he would have ground them; the creature's drive and passion was phenomenal for any being, let alone such a tiny one. Nevertheless, after a period of frenzied thrashing, the germ seemed to acquiesce, allowing the mage's shade to steer it around the titanic, fleshy edifice.
We scent an opening!
It was faint but discernable; the sensation was weaker than before, but it grew undeniably stronger, as spirit-Grimm let the hungry, green being choose its own path. Still, he saw nothing, but the germ seemed to have located some blemish or contusion in the Prioress’ skin. Down they went, faster and faster through the dense air, and the spirit-mage at last saw a yellow-red crater coming into view, starkly delineated in the rugged, magnified landscape. Larger and larger it grew, until it assumed the dimensions of a vast volcano. The germ shot its spiny tentacles forward. With a distinct pop, spirit-Grimm knew he was in the Prioress’ body.
The green creature surged inwards, seeking sustenance to aid it in its reproduction, but the astral mage stayed it.
Not yet, he thought. Soon, my friend; soon we can eat.
Lizaveta; can you hear us?
A sense of shock: another mind, strong and implacable.
Afelnor! You are foolish to confront me so, in my own domainThe alien mind dripped with vengeance, hatred and horror.
We are not alone, witch, spirit-Grimm thought. We have brought one of the disease-creatures with us. You may be able to crush our mind, as you did our grandfather's, and we invite you to try. If we die, this tiny, isolated being, animated through your own, botched spell, will revert to type: attacking you, multiplying and adapting to your body's defences. You live only because we will it. You may die in agony, if you wish; you and all your flock. Otherwise, we advise you to heed us.
After a long pause, spirit-Grimm sensed Lizaveta's thought-processes blazing and swirling; trying, no doubt, to find some way out of her predicament.
Think quickly, witch, he pulsed. Our friend hungers for human flesh, and we find him ever more difficult to control as time goes on.
Feeling the creature's ravenous rage strengthening, he passed the sensation on to Lizaveta.
What do you want?
The distant mind's turmoil subsided to the heavy, turbid rippling of resignation, tinged with a little fear.
You must return your undead warriors to whence they came. Cancel your animation spell; that is what makes the disease so unstoppable. Once you have done that, we can talk further. Just remember; the least trace of treachery, and we unleash the disease. Even if our companion loses its former virility, it has us to guide it. We have seen its strategies, and we know its secrets. We can re-animate this single cell in an instant, as you did, and the result will be as if you did nothing, even if you destroy our physical or astral form.
After a few moments, spirit-Grimm saw golden motes of magic drifting upwards, and he felt the germ's uncanny fervour fade to a low, inchoate want. All traces of intelligence had left the tiny being, which no longer struggled against his restraint, and whose colour faded from vibrant green to a dull grey. The sense of ‘we', a single, combined entity, had gone.
I have done as you ordered. Do you want more?
Yes. You will send messengers to the lower levels at once, to tell Sister Mercia that the disease can now be controlled by her standard methods. You will ensure that Drexelica and warrior Tordun are healed first. Sister Judan is also affected, as may be others of my party; you are to heal them all, without exception.
Spirit-Grimm detected a swaying, tumbling motion, but he felt unaffected by it; he knew only a distant, vague satisfaction at the thought that Lizaveta seemed to be obeying his commands.
Comply with my demands and I will destroy the germ, he shot into the Prioress’ mind, but remember, Reverend Mother, if you or your minions destroy my mortal body, I will still have sufficient time to remind my tiny friend of his former mission before I die. It will take me the merest fraction of a mortal heartbeat. In my present form, death holds no fear for me.
More trembling and shaking ensued as the Prioress moved around.
I have passed on your orders, Questor. Now I have fulfilled your requirements, will you destroy the disease agent and quit my mind?
Not yet, spirit-Grimm thought. I intend to leave here with all my companions, including Drex. Not Sister Weranda, your slave, but the woman I love.
Impossible, the Prioress snapped, her answering thought cracking like a whip. Such a thing cannot be done in an instant. I will let you leave with your companions, but I doubt Sister Weranda will wish to go with you.
Spirit-Grimm cogitated for a few moments. Then you may cast a Geas on her to compel her to come, and to refrain from using her magic on me except when I ask her to; I know you can do this.
That could take hours, Lizaveta responded. Can you control that… thing for so long?
Spirit-Grimm knew he could not, as he felt the insistent tug of the silver cord binding him to his body. His physical form needed him back, and soon.
I have no desire to end up a wandering spirit, he thought, but what can I do? If I give up now, she will find some way to trick me. It's not worth the risk.
He assessed the energy-carrying capabilities of the shining cord; he had used minimal amounts of magical energy so far, but he felt he had to try. The pragmatic, driven spirit began to draw his physical mind's power into it as quickly as possible, hoping the cord would hold.
It did.
What are you doing, mage? the witch demanded.
Spirit-Grimm needed no mortal words to pattern his power.
Ensuring you keep your promise, Lizaveta. This is something I should have done long ago, but never had the chance to do.
After a blinding flash, spirit-Grimm found himself flying backwards, expanding at an ever-increasing rate.
With a bump, Grimm was again.
His first sensations were of numb legs and an aching back, but he knew it was better to be alive and hurting than to be a lost soul. He fell backwards and opened his eyes to see Numal standing over him.
"Grimm!” the Necromancer said, helping the Questor to sit up. “It's good to see you back. Sister Mercia's methods seem to be working at last!"
"How are Drex and Tordun, Numal?"
"They're still sick, but the disease seems to abate almost as quickly as it came. All the cells are open, and the Sister's making sure nobody else is infected. Isn't that good news?"
Grimm managed to stand, aided by the Necromancer. Tordun's former, gaping wounds seemed to shrink as he watched, and the grey tone of the giant albino's skin had fadeed from grey to its normal, healthy pallor.
The younger mage smiled. “Very good news, Necromancer Numal,” he said. “Now, I must see Drex."
"I'll take you,” the older mage said, with an answering grin, escorting the Questor to the door. “What did you say to Lizaveta to change her mind over locking us in?"
"I appealed to her better instincts,” Grimm said, wincing as the blood returned to his legs. “Then, I found out she didn't have any, so I changed her mind permanently."