Questor Grimm did the same thing when I confronted him. I could have killed him in an instant, but he bowed his head before me, refusing to betray his honour. Perhaps these strange creatures are not as weak as I thought.
"I do not object to the label, Sergeant,” the demon grunted. “Inaccurate as it was, I take it in the spirit in which it was bestowed. Let us continue."
"Yes, Sir!” The human offered another formal salute. However, this was no mechanical response; Shakkar saw genuine respect, and even warmth, in his gesture.
"I will add one corollary, Sergeant.” Shakkar raised an admonitory finger. “What has passed between us will go no further-is that understood?"
"Yes, Sir!"
I imagine that we both know each other a little better now, the netherworld creature mused. But if Erik ever tells another mortal soul of this, I will-
"Why, you're just as human as the rest of us, aren't you, demon?” The Sergeant's muttered words rose anew in Shakkar's head, and the demon suppressed a wry grin. There had been more truth in this verdict than he had been willing to acknowledge.
As the wagon rolled into the centre of Brianston, Grimm saw people beginning to line the street, cheering and clapping.
"This is more like it, eh, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum said over the clamour. “It's nice to be appreciated for a change!"
Grimm scanned the massed auras, but he could find no traces of emotion other than joy, happiness and a deep, unreserved love: the attentive audience's reaction appeared to be genuine and unforced. He remembered the ensorcelled people of Crar, puppets in the power of Starmor, carrying out stereotypical roles with enforced enthusiasm-this looked utterly different.
"Indeed, they really seem to love us, General! But it does make me wonder just why. I think we should carry on."
"Agreed, Lord Grimm; it does seem strange. Still, at least they're not attacking us."
"I can't feel any magic, either,” the Questor replied. “Whatever this is about, the happiness seems to be real. It does worry me, though."
"Perhaps we should just take it as it comes, Lord Baron.” The General gave an airy gesture of his right hand. “Maybe they just love us, after all. Should we knock it?"
The massed crowds now began to swarm all around the wagon, patting it like a favourite pet. Some people even kissed it.
Grimm heard a soft, rhythmic susurration in the throng, rising in volume and resolving into words: “Welcome, strangers… welcome, strangers."
Fevered fingers began to pluck at the fabric covering of the wagon, and the General turned to Grimm. His wide smile had now gone.
"Lord Baron, I suggest we get out of here as quickly as possible; this is getting a bit extreme."
"I agree, General. I don't think these people are possessed, but they're beginning to scare me."
He flicked the reins, but the sheer mass of human bodies was too much for the horses to resist. They whinnied and strained, their eyes wide and terrified, but they made no headway against the enormous crowd.
As hands danced around him, trying to catch his uniform, the General stood up and shouted at the crowd.
"We appreciate your kind reception, good people, but I'd ask you to move aside. The horses are getting nervous, and I don't want anyone to be hurt. Move on, now! The show's over!"
A ripple of rapturous applause arose from the increasing horde, but the General's words seemed to have had no other effect.
The horses tramped and neighed, and one of them lashed out with a fore-hoof, catching a daring Brianstonian on the temple and sending him flying. This did not appear to dampen the enthusiasm of the unfortunate man's fellows in the least. The coach began to rock from side to side, and the General unshouldered his weapon and unleashed a stuttering burst of fire over the heads of the crowd.
"That's your last warning, people! If you don't disperse now, I'll have to open fire on you. I have no wish to do that, but-"
Grimm felt the cart beginning to overbalance as the crowd encroached on it. The horses snorted and stamped, with bared teeth and wide eyes, but this seemed not to deter the rapturous mob in the least.
"Everybody out!” he yelled. “We've got a fight on our hands!"
He raised Redeemer and leapt into the crowd as the wagon fell onto its side with a tumultuous smash. Lashing out with the magically-hard staff, he felled the Brianstonians in heaps, but there always seemed to be more of them happy to fill the breaches, clambering over their fallen companions in their eagerness to reach the adventurers.
From the corner, he saw the titanic albino swordsman, Tordun, brought down into a milling mass of citizens. He could see no sign of the half-elf, Crest, or the blademaster, Harvel, and assumed they were already lost. He tried to calm himself so he could cast his potent, Questor magic, but the sheer manic turbulence of the crowd prevented him from being able to marshal his senses.
Focus, Grimm! he told himself, trying to fight the cold, disabling tendrils of fear that threatened to overwhelm him. As if in a dream, he felt himself being hoisted onto the shoulders of maybe a dozen Brianstonians, before an impartial blow to his skull deprived him of awareness.
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Chapter 12: Information
"Come in."
Dalquist opened the door to Kargan's chamber to find the bespectacled Magemaster lounging in a comfortable chair, puffing on an ornate pipe. The room was decorated in a bizarre mixture of styles, ancient and modern, whose only common theme seemed to be a riot of colours. Scarlet, satin draperies clashed with pastel shades of green and yellow, and a grey carpet. Golden and blue strips of silk hung from the ceiling like a suspended forest. Dalquist knew he would never be able to relax in such a profusion of conflicting hues, but Kargan seemed almost serene.
Dalquist noted a sweet, cloying scent in the air. Perhaps the contents of the Magemaster's pipe have more to do with it than artistic taste, he mused.
"What's the matter, Questor Dalquist? You look as if you'd lost a gold sovereign and found a penny.” The Magemaster's tone was soft and placid, quite unlike his normal, frenetic classroom bark.
How do I start here? Dalquist wondered. ‘Magemaster Kargan, either I'm under some strange spell or I've lost my mind'?
Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I'm not quite feeling my usual self, Magemaster Kargan."
Kargan put down his strange, convoluted pipe and pushed his blue-lensed spectacles back up the slope of his nose. “Why do you need to see me about that, Questor Dalquist? I'm sure Healer Firian would be more than happy to knock you up some foul mixture or other to sort you out. We're all out of sorts at times, and Firian's always happy to help."
"Magemaster Kargan: you're a Mentalist, aren't you?"
"Was a Mentalist,” Kargan corrected, his expression puzzled. “I haven't had cause to cast many spells of that type for several years now. Why do you ask?"
Dalquist steeled himself to tell the older man the difficult truth. It's now or never, I suppose.
"I don't think my problem's physical, Magemaster Kargan. I think I may be under some sort of spell. I just… found myself acting in a very strange manner, and I don't feel right at all. It feels like I'm ensorcelled, or something."
Kargan snorted. “I'm not surprised: a young Questor like you, cooped up in the Scholasticate when you should be out hunting dragons, or whatever it is you do. Never fear: Firian will sort you out some sort of tonic. I'll bet that's all you need."
"I doubt it's that simple, Magemaster Kargan, I'm pretty sure it's some sort of spell. I doubt Healer Firian would spot that. A Mentalist of your calibre just might. I have a blank spot in my memory concerning a certain person, not a member of our Guild. I… leapt to that person's defence without thinking about it, despite the fact that I know almost nothing about her."