"Believe me, Questor, it was a pleasure," the thief replied, pulling the blade from Armitage's body. "I'll be only too happy to get out of here."
Grimm stepped to the door and put his hand on the panel to the right of it, as he had seen Armitage do on previous occasions. This time, instead of an admonitory beep, the door slid open to show a corridor free of obstructions, and he breathed a sigh of relief. There was still the matter of the group finding its way down the mountainside, but at least it seemed as if the worst of their troubles were over. As if to mock his confidence, a strident alarm began to blare, and red lights concealed in the ceiling began to flash.
Crest, who had been cleaning the blood from his knife with a rag, glanced at the terminal screen. "Questor Grimm, I think you should take a look at this."
Grimm hurried to the elf's side. The screen was flashing the words 'SYSTEM SHUTDOWN-59 MINUTES. COMMENCE EMERGENCY EVACUATION' in red on a black screen. As he watched, the number changed to '58'.
"Well, that doesn't look right," Crest said, with a wry smile.
"It is almost as if the place is dying with Armitage," the Questor observed. "Let us get back to Questor Xylox."
****
Within a few minutes, the main corridor became a hubbub of activity. People ran back and forth in a state of panic, and the security guards now seemed free of their spell of immobility. Emerson and Tattler stood in the centre of the passageway, their weapons raised as they tried to impose discipline over the lemming-like people, but their expressions looked no calmer than those of their charges.
Grimm tapped one of the guards on the shoulder. "What is going on, Emerson?"
The security man swung round, his face angry. "This is your doing, isn't it, mage? The damn place is shutting down, and if we don't get out within the hour it's going to become our tomb. Thanks a lot!"
Grimm bit off a retort; the guard seemed oblivious of the extent to which he had been under Armitage's control.
"But why is this happening?" he demanded.
"Don't ask me, Questor. It's got to be your fault somehow. Everything has gone crazy since your lot came."
He turned to face a wide-eyed woman with a white coat. "As far as I know, Tech Shenley, they've all congregated in Blue Nine. I'm sure they won't leave without you, but you don't want to hang around. They said they'd wait until there were ten minutes left, but no longer, so hurry!"
As the woman ran down the corridor, Emerson turned back to Grimm.
"Are you satisfied, magic-user?" he snarled, his face twisted in anger. "If there's any other way I can be of help, please don't hesitate to get lost!"
The stream of milling people thinned out as Grimm and Crest approached the hub. Tordun, Xylox and Drexelica were waiting outside as they approached.
"Questor Grimm, what is going on?" Xylox demanded. "What have you done?"
Grimm shrugged, opening his hands wide.
"Armitage is dead," he said. "He was about to commit some act of treachery, but I think the whole place was somehow linked to his life. The moment he died, this alarm went off. We have maybe forty minutes left in which to escape this place, before everything shuts down, or worse."
"What can we do?" Tordun asked, his face showing grave concern. "We won't last long on the mountain."
"Foster," Grimm said. "Somehow, we must contact him, if he's still here."
"I know how to do it," Thribble squeaked, from the depths of Grimm's pocket. His tiny head popped into view. "There is a green tile on the console in there. Deeks showed me where it was."
"Show me, demon," Xylox said, and Thribble leapt onto the hem of the mage's robe, scrabbling up to sit on his shoulder. "Into the Control Room, Questor," the imp piped and, for once, Xylox did not bridle at being told what to do by another.
The group bundled back into the battered room. "Where is this tile, demon?"
"That console, human," Thribble squeaked. "Just push the green cartouche and talk."
Xylox, who hated Technology with every fibre of his being, pressed the glowing stud and spoke into the strange tube. "This is Questor Xylox in the Room of Central Control, requesting help from Pilot Foster, who brought us here. If you can hear me, Foster, please contact me. I repeat: this is Questor Xylox…"
****
The overhead illumination flickered, the alarm blared and the red lights flashed; these seemed to be Haven's death throes. The number on Armitage's former console changed to fourteen as Foster ran into the Control Room, cables and hoses flapping from his green suit.
"What is it?" he demanded. "There's very little time left. I don't know what's gone wrong…"
"We know all about it," Xylox snapped, cutting off the pilot with a cutting gesture of his hand. "Can you take us out of here? We need to reach Glabra."
"Forget it, mage," Foster said, shaking his head. "The weather on that side of the mountains is awful, and I won't risk it. I've been taking people down to the Griven side; much safer…"
"Glabra will be fine," Xylox insisted, his eyes boring into the pilot's, his brows lowered.
"Glabra should be okay, I guess," Foster replied in a dull voice. He shook his head as if to clear some mental fuzziness. "Come on, there's no time to spare."
****
The corridors were bare now; all the inhabitants of Haven seemed to have departed, as Foster escorted them to the helicopter area at a dead run. Grimm felt a flush of relief; much as he despised the whole, vile institution of Haven, he did not wish its hopeless minions any harm. The frigid shock of the thin mountain air and the impact of a thousand tiny needles of ice made him stagger, dressed as he was in thin silk robes, but he made it to the squat machine. The party clambered aboard sliding the door shut. Grimm had a sudden access of disappointment at the realisation that he was leaving behind his expensive silk robes, but he would not dream of going back inside for a moment.
"Okay folks, here we go," Foster said, flipping switches. "I'm not sure if we've got enough fuel on board to reach Glabra or not, but I'll give it all we've got. Hang on, now, this could get bumpy."
At the moment the machine lurched into the air, Grimm saw the lights of Haven finally extinguished. The ancient institution was dead, and Grimm could not bring himself to feel sorrow at its passing.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 15: Crash!
"Why on earth did I decide to take this route? I must have been crazy!" Foster said, yelling to make his voice heard over the tumultuous din within the protesting vehicle.
The metal conveyance bucked and trembled in the sky, creaking and groaning like some giant, wounded animal; it seemed as if it might be dashed at any moment into the unforgiving face of the mountain, which appeared far too close for comfort. At times, it would leap into the air as if possessed; at others, it would plummet downwards in just as capricious a manner. The overall effect was terrifying, as if the machine was being shaken in the hands of some angry gargantuan seeking to tear it to shreds.
At Grimm's right side sat Drexelica, her face white and drawn, and her eyes wide with fear. She clutched the young sorcerer's ragged robe in a white-knuckled grip, and her lips moved silently, as if in prayer. Grimm longed to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he was ever-mindful of the baleful presence of Xylox on his left. He was also aware that, should he give in to his emotions, he might well lose his hard-earned magical powers; so the laws and protocols of the Guild told him.
Although he yearned to seek solace from his fear in the girl's arms, he sat ramrod-straight on the bench, driving his thoughts away from his true desires.
Grimm glanced at Xylox. The senior Questor seemed as imperturbable as ever, although he rubbed his temples from time to time, his eyes closed in an expression of extreme discomfort. He displayed, however, not the slightest sign of anxiety.