"That suits me,” Guy declared. “I've had just about enough of the squalid little hell-holes that pass for towns around here."
"And me,” Numal said with a fervid nod. “The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can get back to my nice, familiar, comfortable cell back at Arnor. This Quest must have aged me thirty years."
"I'll have to start calling you Great-Granddad,” the acerbic Guy muttered. If Numal had heard him, he pretended he had not.
Anjar was no squalid dung-heap like Yoren, nor yet a fantastical collection of bizarre structures like Brianston. Grimm found the sheer simplicity of Anjar a relief after his recent perils in those strange conurbations.
As the wagon rolled through the streets of the town, he saw a collection of small stalls, beside which people chatted, haggled and engaged in what the mage considered perfectly normal behaviour.
He engaged his Mage Sight and noted no emanations of magic whatsoever. The auras of the Anjarians showed no signs of ensorcelment, undue suspicion or anything other than the regular emotions he might expect from a blameless group of townspeople. To be sure, some of the stallholders showed indications of guile and deception, and some of their intended victims’ auras bore the unmistakable greenish hue of avarice, but this was only to be expected.
If there was anything remarkable about Anjar, it was the sturdiness of the buildings. There were no tumbledown thatched cottages here; every permanent structure seemed to be built from yellow stone blocks, and even the roofs bore heavy tiles instead of simple thatch.
Grimm frowned: the town was surrounded by dense woodland, which would have provided ample material for simpler, less costly dwellings. However, he dismissed this as an oddity of Anjarian architecture: the people of the town seemed far more interested in their own affairs that in the arrival of the wagon. Scarred, stained walls implied that the buildings had been standing for many years. Perhaps Anjar was plagued by hungry rats, termites or some other infestation that threatened less sturdy structures.
"What do you think, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked, easing the horses to a gentle walk. “We're running a little low on supplies, and we have to consider the trip back to civilisation. Do you think we dare stop here for some food and drink?"
Grimm considered the General's question with some care. Since Crest's death, he had vowed that he would never again act on impulse, as long as he had time to consider his options beforehand. Anjar looked safe enough, almost like his home town of Lower Frunstock, but he knew now that appearances could be very deceptive. This whole region seemed to be a hotbed of anarchy and disorder, and Grimm was now unwilling to take anything at its face value.
I could play this little game all day, he thought, as Quelgrum waited for his answer.
"Is the situation serious, General?” he asked.
Quelgrum shrugged. “We lost a lot of victuals at Yoren,” he said. “We managed to recoup some of our losses at Brianston, but it's all fattening stuff; hardly a balanced diet suited to travelling or fighting. We could really do with some pulses, fresh, lean meat and green vegetables."
Grimm said, “I recommend we stop and wait for Shakkar's report first."
Shakkar had insisted on reconnoitring the town from the air, ensuring that the party had a clear escape route from Anjar, should rapid egress prove necessary.
As Quelgrum reined in the horses, Grimm saw a small shadow on the ground, growing larger by the heartbeat. He looked up to see the unmistakable, bat-winged figure of Shakkar descending, almost as if the very mention of his name had summoned him.
Shakkar fluttered to a halt, dropping the last few inches to the ground with an audible thump, and Grimm checked the townspeople's reactions. He saw several people's eyes widen in momentary fear, and he noted many pointing fingers, but it seemed that such a creature was not that unusual a sight; after a few moments, the Anjarians returned to haggling and conversation.
"Your report, please, Shakkar,” Grimm said in a formal, businesslike drawl
"There are five main roads into the town, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled. “I saw no barriers or armed guards on any of them. I saw a few uniformed men armed with swords, but they moved easily through the populace. Several of them stopped to chat with the civilians in an apparently friendly manner; the town seems peaceful enough. I saw two wagons and three horsemen leaving Anjar without confrontation or pursuit. My presence caused a little perturbation at first, but no more than I expected."
Grimm nodded. “Thank you, Shakkar."
This may be the first normal town we've come across in some time, Grimm thought.
Still, it's best to be careful. We have a Quest to fulfil, and we can't afford any more casualties, least of all through any carelessness.
"Your recommendations, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked.
Grimm's instinct was to keep going; the party could collect victuals on the return journey. Nonetheless, morale was an important factor; as yet, there were no signs of dissent among his fellows, but the Questor acknowledged that they had all been under considerable stress for some time. He thought of the vain, roistering swordsman, Harvel, who had given up his satin clothes for the rough, homespun garments of a farmer and quit after the death of his close friend, Crest.
Tordun might be putting on a brave face after his own injury, but he would now be next to useless in a serious fight. Perhaps the albino's sight would return with time, but, on the other hand, the pale giant might never recover the full use of his eyes. For such a proud, self-reliant warrior, who had also been a friend of Crest's, his uncertain future would surely bear upon Tordun's confidence like an ever-present weight, sapping his will and his confidence.
If the mighty Tordun ever snapped, it might be too costly a lesson for the small party to bear.
Guy was… well, Guy: acerbic, cynical and unpredictable. Despite the older Questor's avowed enthusiasm, Grimm would have preferred not to have the mercurial Great Flame in the team at all.
If there was even a chance that this pleasant, peaceful-seeming town was yet another hot-bed of violence of esoteric dangers, the consequences for the Quest might be severe. There were so many variables to consider…
You wanted this responsibility, Afelnor, he told himself. Nobody forced it on you-in fact, you argued with Dominie Horin that you should be given charge of the Quest. This may be one of the easiest decisions you have to make, so make it!
"We keep moving, General,” he said. “We'll replenish our supplies on the way back. We'll travel lighter and we can reduce unwanted contact to a minimum. After what happened at Yoren and Brianston, I'd prefer not to take the risk of this place housing some weird, sacrificial death-cult with a fanatical desire for Technology, blind albinos, mages or whatever. I think the potential risks outweigh the possible advantages."
"You are in charge, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, and Grimm could swear the old soldier's faint sigh betokened relief. “We ride."
Guy poked his head through the slit in the canvas cover. “Are we staying here tonight, or what?"
Grimm turned to face the Questor. “No, Questor Guy,” he said in a cool, neutral voice. “We're going to carry on to the outskirts of Rendale and camp out there."
"Ah, come on, Grimm!” Guy moaned. “You're not scared of a place like this, are you? I, for one, could do with a decent meal before we face my darling Grandmamma, and this town looks pretty damn’ safe to me!"
"I wasn't scared of Yoren at first, nor Brianston, Guy.” Grimm fought to keep his expression calm and his voice level. “However, my overconfidence cost Crest his life, caused Harvel to quit and lost Tordun… well, we all know what happened to Tordun. Regardless of how Anjar looks or seems, it is a potential threat. I prefer not to take that risk.