Grimm managed to stand, facing Foster, although his legs still felt unsteady. He saw Tordun and Xylox also showing signs of stirring, although the girl, Drexelica, still lay supine and motionless.
"Master Foster," he said, his voice harsh even after he cleared his throat. "I am Questor Grimm of Arnor House. How came you by all this Technology?"
"We of Haven don't fear Technology the way you mages do," Foster replied. "It's all we have that allows us to make a living here in the mountains. We have equipment dating back centuries, and we have our own machine shop for fabricating spare parts as required."
"Haven?" Grimm frowned. "What is that?"
"We're a small community eking out a difficult living in the mountains," the Technologist answered, with a hint of pride in his voice. "We're almost fully self-sufficient, but sometimes we send people dressed as natives into Griven for needed foods and medicines we can't produce for ourselves. When you're all recovered, I hope you'll do me the honour of visiting us at Haven. I'm sure our Administrator, Armitage, will be very interested to meet you."
"It is not up to me," Grimm said, picking his words with care. "I mean, I cannot speak for everybody."
Foster nodded. "I understand. Since you seem a lot more tolerant of Technology than most mages I've met, would you mind persuading your fellow magic-user not to destroy my equipment? It did, after all, save your lives, and it might save other people in the future."
Grimm managed a painful smile, feeling the flesh of his lips cracking and bleeding.
"I will do so gladly, Master Foster. I wonder, however, if you would mind answering a few questions for me?"
As he said this, he clamped his will down over the strangely-dressed man's, as he had done with the Grivense knife-seller in what seemed another age, but which must have been only the previous day.
Foster smiled. "Certainly, Questor Grimm. How may I help you?"
Grimm suppressed a gasp. His potent spell had not affected the man in the least. Engaging his Mage Sight, he saw what had thwarted his magic: the man's mind was shot through with metallic tendrils, identical to those he had seen in the assailant who accosted the group on its way to Griven. The man was under the control of another's will, a puppet of the dark art of Technology.
"Perhaps my questions can wait until later, Master Foster. I see my companions are beginning to bestir themselves. Perhaps it would be better if you were not here when they awake."
The man nodded. "I do have a few maintenance chores to do on my helicopter anyway, Questor Grimm. Take all the time you need."
Foster drew a strange mask over his face, donned a pair of gloves and exited the hut through a small door the mage had not noticed before. For a brief moment, Grimm saw snow whipped around by a vicious wind. Then the door closed behind the man, and Grimm could no longer make out where the door had been.
Xylox, still lying on the floor, turned his head towards Grimm. "Who was that man? Where are we?"
"Questor Xylox." Grimm kept his voice low. "I believe that this man, Foster, and his organisation, which he calls Haven, are in some way connected with General Quelgrum. His mind is not his own, just as we saw with the man at the outskirts of Griven. I recommend that we do nothing to arouse suspicion, but that we accept his offer to visit Haven. I think that we may be able to learn more concerning our quarry."
Xylox frowned. "This is a Technological artefact, is it not?" he demanded, and Grimm nodded.
"We should destroy it, and this man, Foster, with it," the older mage growled. "Technology is an abomination and a curse. We demean ourselves by even countenancing its existence."
Grimm laughed; a rough, hacking sound. "Questor Xylox: I say this with all respect, but look at me! My skin is peeling and bleeding, and I can hardly feel my feet or my fingers. My head is still spinning, and I couldn't use my powers to melt a snowball right now. You don't look in any better shape than I. If we destroy Foster and his machines, we will be right back where we started, on the mountains. I don't believe you will last any longer than the rest of us out there."
"You used three vulgar contractions in that little speech," the starchy Xylox replied. "I must insist on full Mage Speech at all times while we are here."
The senior mage staggered to his feet. Xylox weaved from side to side, but he did not fall. After muttering the single word, "Nemesis," the Questor's seven-ringed staff appeared in his hand. Despite his unsteady legs, Xylox still looked the very image of a true mage.
Insisting on formal speech at this time seemed ludicrous, but Grimm could not help but admire Xylox's powerful presence.
'Power and presence complete the mage,' ran the old Guild saying. In his weakened state, Xylox might lack the power, but he had lost none of his presence.
The man is infuriating, thought Grimm, but I have to admit that his self-control is impressive.
"My apologies, Questor Xylox," he said. "I still feel somewhat weak, and my thoughts are a little disordered."
The older mage grunted. "I accept your apology, Questor Grimm," he said, leaning against his staff, "and I admit to a certain lethargy within my bones. There is, perhaps, a grain of reason in what you say.
"Much though I detest Technology, and as I trust you do, we have a Quest to complete. If this man, Foster, can lead us to General Quelgrum, it might be foolish to destroy him at this time."
Grimm suppressed a smile, finding enough strength in his right hand to take hold of Redeemer.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 2: Haven
The 'helicopter' was a huge, ungainly thing, a metallic box with a glazed, rounded nose and a pair of vast fans sitting atop it.
Grimm gaped at the sheer size of the metal monster. With its battered, parti-coloured walls, the thing looked like some enormous, angry dragonfly, ready to wreak revenge on some giant who had been so foolish as to swat at it
"What in the Names is this thing, Grimm?" Drex pulled at the mage's sleeve. Her eyes were wide, and Grimm could not tell if this was from horror or astonishment.
"I think it's a Technological flying machine." The words sounded ludicrous, as if he were announcing the arrival of some mythical beast whose name was used to frighten recalcitrant children.
"I've always wanted to fly," the girl said, with a wistful sigh, and Grimm now knew her expression had not been one of fear, but one of eagerness.
Xylox regarded the machine with a faint sneer on his lips, although, of course, the senior mage was too proud to show anything as unmanly as fear or uncertainty on his face.
"Gentlemen and lady, your carriage awaits," Foster said, his voice muffled by the strange mask over his face. "Don't worry; it's pressurised, heated and air-conditioned when in flight. A few moments more of exposure to the high altitude shouldn't cause any further trouble, and that's all the time it'll take me to load the prefab sections and other gear into the chopper's equipment hold. We should be taking off in four or five minutes, assuming I get clearance from Control."
Once again, the Technologist used words far beyond Grimm's ken, but the mage took it that Foster meant the adventurers would not suffer any recurrence of what he thought of as the 'Mountain Sickness,' an ailment that had nearly been the end of them.
Opening a sliding door in the side of the bizarre vehicle, Foster ushered Grimm and the others inside. He directed them towards the banks of padded benches set along each inner wall of the machine and then slammed shut the door behind him.
Xylox was the last to sit down on the patched leather. He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, switching his gaze from one of the party to the next as he spoke: "I want all of you to stay alert for any hint of duplicity on Foster's part, or on the part of any other that we should meet at Haven. There may be attempts to control our minds-resist them as best you can, at all costs, but you must do your utmost not to show any hint of suspicion or distrust."