"Arland, don't you even want to get out of here?” he said.
The grey-haired woman's clear, wide-open, blue eyes were at odds with her ancient appearance, and they spoke of astonishment and incomprehension.
"Of course not!” Her eyes were as wide as if Grimm had asked her if she liked to eat baked baby. “How can you say such a thing? This is to be my reward for a lifetime of service! I'll forgive you for your ignorance; you are new here, after all, but I'll thank you to put such thoughts out of your mind at once! You ought to be happy for me!"
Shaking her head, her eyes moist and hurt, Arland began to walk away. “Wait,” Grimm cried. “Where are my friends?"
Without turning round or speaking, the Breeder indicated a pair of doors with a curt double stab of her right thumb. With that, she was gone.
The nearest portal was a flimsy, wooden structure, and it swung open at Grimm's merest touch.
"Hello, Grimm. Welcome to our new home. How do you like it?"
Guy, unkempt and haggard, stood at the entrance of a room about fifteen feet square, in which were several thin mattresses. On one of the mattresses lay an immobile, supine Tordun, covered by a brown blanket. General Quelgrum and Harvel knelt by the fallen giant, with an ashen Crest and Numal standing by.
"Is he…"
Guy snorted. “Of course not, idiot! Do you think Quelgrum'd be bothering so much over a bloody corpse?"
"He's not far off it, though,” the General said, ignoring the older Questor's sarcastic words. “They took a lot of blood out of him. A weaker man would have died after losing that much. I'm just giving him as much water as I can. I've seen men on the battlefield in this condition. He needs water, sleep and red meat. Still, at least we don't have a major wound and the risk of infection; the bastards took it from his heel, and there's only a tiny cut, clotted shut now."
Grimm envisioned an unending line of such vigils stretching years into an uncertain future.
"We can't put up with this!” he burst out.
"Outstanding, wonder-boy,” Guy drawled. “Why don't we just go and ask them to let us out? You never know, they may have a change in heart!"
"Shut up, Guy!” Numal cried. “We've got enough to handle without your bitching!"
The older Questor rounded on the Necromancer. “Who rattled your cage, Grandfather? Do you fancy a turn around the courtyard with me? Fancy your chances?"
Harvel scrambled to his feet, his face red, and he pushed his face close to Guy's. “Necromancer Numal's right, Questor! We need to keep together, not fight each other!"
"I'll take both of you on at once, if you like,” Guy snarled, blue sparks coruscating around his fingertips. “We aren't getting out of here alive, and it's about time you realised it!
"Stay where you are, big-ears,” he said, as a weaponless Crest stirred in the corner of the room.
"So, you're just another filthy-” began the half-elf.
"Just shut up, all of you!” Grimm's shout reverberated around the room, and silence reigned for a few moments. “Why don't we just kill each other? That'll teach them, won't it?"
"Got some master-plan, have you, youngster?” Guy snarled. “Please, don't keep us in suspense. We're all dying to hear it, I'm sure."
"Maybe I have,” Grimm replied. “If you'd just shove your ego back into your arse, where it belongs, I might be able to give us a chance of getting out of here."
Guy waved his hands in apparent acquiescence. “All right, marvel-man. So you've got this wonderful plan to wake up Uncle Gruon, snug in his sepulchre, separated from us by thick stone and iron walls. We're all agog to hear this golden idea that we poor imbeciles can't see. Maybe you can just…"
Grimm glared at the older mage, who finally stopped his ranting and shrugged.
"Thank you, Questor Guy,” he said. “No, I don't have a plan to wake Gruon up. But what if we gave him a nightmare instead? I may know how to do that, at least."
"Really, wonder-boy?"
"Really, super-mage. And we'll do it right here, and right now!"
"Can't it wait until Tordun is better?” the General asked.
Grimm shook his head. “I'm afraid not, General. A woman will die tomorrow if I don't try this. It may work, it may make things worse, but I think we're all agreed that we should try to get out of here. We've got to try something, at least."
Guy shrugged. “All right. If you've got some half-brained plan, I suppose we might as well give it a spin!"
Grimm tried not to wince at the term ‘half-brained'. If his hastily-conceived, nascent plan failed, he might well end up like that.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 15: Worried Minds
"Please relax, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said, lighting several aromatic candles with a taper and busying himself with rearranging the furniture.
Dalquist, lying on a green, leather-bound couch in the Magemaster's chambers, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. However, he could not ease the nervous fluttering in his stomach; if someone had been tampering with his mind, he wanted to know it.
"Will this take long, Magemaster Kargan?” the Questor asked, as much to fill the silence as to gain information.
"Hmm?"
"I asked if this would take long."
"How long is a piece of string? Depends how deep the information is buried, Questor Dalquist."
"I meant your preparations, Magemaster.” Dalquist did his best to keep his tone neutral and impassive. “I'm keen to get on with it."
"Most of these things are for my benefit; I need to be in the right frame of mind.” Kargan took a small glass phial from his pocket and broke it under his nose. He inhaled deeply, and his eyes widened.
"Don't worry: this is just a stimulant,” he explained. “I need to stay sharp. The least miscast could ruin the day for both of us.
"Right, I think that's about that. Are you relaxed?"
"About as relaxed as I'm ever likely to get, Magemaster. Can we please start?"
Kargan nodded and perched himself on a tall, wooden stool. From a shelf at his side, he took down a heavy volume and began to riffle through it.
The Mentalist rubbed his nose and nodded. “Ah, let's see what Guladin Dream-stealer can do for us. It's been a while since I cast this one, so bear with me while I just run through it in my head. It'll soon come back to me."
As Kargan began to mutter short, runic phrases, Dalquist looked around the bizarre chamber. He saw drapes and tapestries hanging in a confused riot of colours, and shelves piled high with gewgaws, knick-knacks and figurines. In contrast to this manic disorder were five bookshelves. The books appeared to be arranged in precise order of size, and grouped by author or compiler.
Not for the first time the gulf between ‘normal’ mages and Questors struck Dalquist. The former must learn each spell by rote or recite it from a scroll or spell-book without the least flaw or hesitation. Using his own, unique spell-language, a Questor could cast any spell he could envisage, as long as he had a clear conception of the incantation's mechanism and sufficient power to cast it.
Dalquist had never needed to rehearse one spell in ten active years as a Mage Questor; not all of his enchantments had succeeded, but at least he need not worry about the agonies that the least mistake in casting might cost an ordinary, runic magic-user.
"Right!” Kargan carolled, rubbing his hands together. “I'm pretty sure I have it straight now. Close your eyes and think pleasant thoughts."
Dalquist did as the Magemaster bade him, trying to imagine sunny summer fields and cheerful birdsong as Kargan began to chant or, rather, sing. It was an intricate sequence of runes, woven together into a cohesive whole by complex trills and passing-notes. It would have tied a tyro's tongue in knots, and Dalquist admired the skilful way Kargan negotiated the treacherous labyrinth of sounds. The man was a master, and his voice was a clear, strong, flawless baritone, flowing easily from one passage to another as his eyes scanned the page.