"I can't have you lazing the day away, youngster,” the older Questor said. “Some of us have work to do… don't you know?"
Climbing to his feet, Grimm suppressed a grin. This was Guy, sure enough!
Numal ran over to the young mage and wrapped his arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Questor Grimm! You have made us whole again!"
Grimm began to feel hot waves of embarrassment inside him, and he extracted himself from the Necromancer's arms with as much good grace as he could manage.
"It was your skill that did it, Numal,” he said. “I only read, and I botched that once. I'm just wondering why it took so much out of me."
"That was the miscast. Surely even you Questors do that from time to time!"
"It doesn't have the same effect on us, Numal. We lose the energy of the spell, but it doesn't cripple us. Maybe the miscast spell will have some effect we haven't foreseen, or it just won't work at all, but it doesn't hurt."
As he had so many times, he had recalled the words of Magemaster Crohn in Arnor Scholasticate, spoken long ago to his friend, Madar: “A badly miscast spell can kill a mage. Even a minor error in an incantation can render the casting thaumaturge helpless with pain and nausea. So no, Forutia, we will not allow you to attempt even the simplest of spells at this time. I do not want this classroom full of corpses or retching, choking Students. You will understand our caution well enough when you are older."
Now Grimm understood the reason for Crohn's prudence only too well!
"Is a miscast always that way for runic magic-users?” he asked Numal.
"Always, Questor Grimm: in fact, a deliberate, carefully-chosen miscast is a part of every Adept's training. I was bed-ridden for over a day after mine. Perhaps that's why we don't choose to throw our magic around as much as you Questors. Perfection is everything in runic spells. Without wishing to slight your skill in any way, I'm glad it wasn't me who suffered the effects of that little error. But I do know, only too well, what a miscast feels like."
Grimm regarded the Necromancer with new respect, and he began to understand just why Quests were always commanded by Questors; it was not just because other mages lacked a Questor's range of spells, nor yet because of the difference in age. From his own experience, he knew the choice of a relevant spell by a Questor was often made under extreme pressure. A decision might need to be taken in a heartbeat, whether the spell might succeed or not. To expect a ‘normal’ mage to achieve precision and perfection under such circumstances was unreasonable, and the consequences of an error might be fatal.
Tordun strolled into the encampment, the carcass of a deer slung over one broad shoulder. “Did I miss something?” he said, his face puzzled.
"Notice anything different, swordsman?” Guy said, with a smug smile.
The titanic albino's brow furrowed for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “That's your own voice, Questor Guy! It is you, isn't it?"
"That's right, Tordun. I'm back, and hungry for action,” the mage said. “Grandfather here's back in his own body, too. Grimm, here, helped a little."
Grimm was about to protest at Guy's lack of gratitude, but he was interrupted by the Generaclass="underline" “Gentlemen! May I have your attention for a moment?"
Harvel and Crest wandered over to rejoin the group, and Quelgrum continued.
"It's time to break camp and move on, I think. Our next stop on the direct route is Brianston, about fifty miles south of here, and we should reach there by nightfall. A little five-mile jaunt to the east will see us in Anjar, and Rendale's about thirty miles to the southwest of that. With any luck, we'll have our prey in sight tomorrow. We can make camp around there, while we scout out the lie of the land and make our attack plans."
"Sounds easy enough to me, General,” Crest said.
"Don't get too confident, Crest,” Grimm replied. “From what I've seen of this region so far, I wouldn't bet on it."
"Ah, come on, Baron. The killing crew's here, ready to kick arse!"
Grimm shrugged. “I just wish I had your confidence, Harvel. Let's just-"
"Right, people: let's move it!” Quelgrum interrupted, as if addressing a parade-ground. “Let's be ready to move in twenty minutes!"
The party dissolved, as the members of the group took up their previously-assigned duties.
As Grimm began to load equipment and supplies on the wagon, he looked at his companions: Harvel and Crest engaged in their customary good-natured argument as they disassembled the tents, Numal sang as he worked alongside Guy, and Tordun seemed to be sharing jokes with the General while the two warriors butchered and salted the deer.
At least we're beginning to gel as a team, he thought. I really hope that'll be enough.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 8: Suspicions
Dalquist groaned and muttered as he worked his way through the stack of Student paperwork before him. For a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank to be used in this manner, as a Junior Magemaster, broke no Guild rules, but he felt as if his talents were being squandered.
Ever since he and Senior Magemaster Crohn had confronted Prelate Thorn over his ruthless treatment of Questor Grimm, Dalquist's life had taken a decided downturn.
We were foolish to try to quote regulations to Thorn, he thought, making a savage red slash through another botched, scribbled line of runes, and he's certainly making me pay for that rashness.
He wrote at the bottom of the page, ‘4/10: Woeful lack of attention to detail. See me,’ and he picked up another sheet from the pile.
I wouldn't feel so bad if I didn't know Lord Thorn was well within the letter of the law to do as he did. He could have had me stripped of my powers, exiled or even executed for mutiny. Instead, here I am marking shoddy work from worthless pupils whose only saving grace is the money in their parents’ coffers.
Oh, for goodness’ sake!
He drew a bold line through a complex, yet completely irrelevant, illogical series of runes. It was plain to Dalquist that this lout had not paid the least attention in the classroom, basking in the knowledge that his father was a wealthy High Court advocate, and that he could not be dismissed from the Scholasticate with ease.
'0/10: You have not even attempted to understand the principles or signatures of this spell. I suggest that your vocation lies elsewhere! See me.'
He reached out for the next sheet in the dwindling pile, but stopped short as he heard a soft rap on the door.
"Come in."
The door opened to reveal the grizzled form of the Mage Doorkeeper.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Questor Dalquist, very sorry, indeed. I was just saying to… to someone the other day how I hated to be…"
Dalquist sighed. “Would you mind coming to the point, Doorkeeper? I am rather busy, as you can see."
Doorkeeper scratched his head. “What was it, now?-oh, yes, I remember!” The ancient mage smiled brightly. “You have a visitor at the tradesmen's entrance. That was the message!"
"Who is this visitor?” Dalquist did his best to maintain a polite tone. He loved Doorkeeper as if the old man were his kindly, if addled, grandfather, but it was often difficult to elicit concise information from him.
The major-domo scrabbled in his pockets for a few moments before he brought out a tattered, discoloured scrap of paper and consulted it.
"He says he's Sergeant Erik Romas, Brother Mage. He says it's very urgent."
Dalquist felt his already-frayed temper beginning to get away from him, and he made a mighty effort to maintain his equanimity.
"I don't know any such man, Doorkeeper. Is he a watchman? A soldier? A Court functionary? Is he demanding advice, vengeance, charity, or a job?"
The old man looked blank for a moment before answering. “I think he just wants to meet you for a moment, Questor Dalquist,” he said at last.
Dalquist looked at the pile of completed marking, assessing the remainder. “All right, Doorkeeper; I'll see this wandering Sergeant.