On the opposite side of the rattling machine sat the two warriors. Tordun seemed to be devoting all his attention to dressing the already razor-sharp edge of his huge sword with a stone. Grimm eyed the massive blade with some trepidation, worried that it might fly from the albino's hand, but Tordun kept the sword pinned across his legs with an iron grip, despite the vehicle's violent jerking.
Beside Tordun, Crest oiled his long, black whip from a small brown bottle, working the oil into the leather with a loving hand. Neither man showed anything on his face but an expression of serene detachment, and Grimm envied his companions their composure.
It did not occur to him that they might just be better actors than he, and that their vitals might be churning just as his own were.
"What is the matter, Questor Xylox?" Grimm called to his senior. "You seem in some discomfort; I may be able to help, for I have some small skill in Healing."
Xylox shook his head, a gesture which caused him to wince.
"I will not imbibe any of your cursed herbs, Questor Grimm," he said. "I have no desire to become some drooling, mindless addict, thank you very much.
"And I do not want any witch magic tainting me, either," he added, glancing at Drex.
Grimm winced a little at the 'drooling, mindless addict' tag. He had become addicted to the potent drugs, Trina and Virion, almost at the cost of his rationality, but he knew that Xylox was only lashing out at his junior in response to his own helplessness.
"I must confess that I have over-extended myself, Brother Mage," Xylox continued, speaking directly into his younger colleague's ear with a conspiratorial air. "The spell I cast on Foster is far more than a simple Geas; I also sent with it a strong Compulsion, so that he would believe that our route was his own idea.
"This is a spell that few other mages could master," he boasted. "It requires a prodigious amount of energy and precision to overcome a man's resistance, whilst giving him the illusion that he maintains free will."
"Armitage managed the same sleight by Technological means," Grimm replied, unimpressed. "It seems that his enslaved minions, once freed from his influence, were quite unaware that their lives had been controlled by him for so long. I believe this was Deeks' downfall; he expected that all the downtrodden serfs of Haven would rise as one to destroy the Administrator once his influence was eliminated, whereas they merely went about their various duties as if nothing had happened."
"What a man may do by means of that bastard discipline is irrelevant," Xylox snapped. Plainly, he did not want his mighty achievement diminished or belittled by comparison to the ancient art; an affront to the mage's mighty ego must pain him more than any headache. "What I did was far beyond the capabilities of the vast majority of mages."
"It was a most impressive display of thaumaturgic mastery," Grimm assured him, as a blazing thought shot through his mind, robbing him of all others.
He had almost convinced himself that his grandfather, Loras, had been ensorcelled into attempting to smother the old Prelate of Arnor House, but Loras' apparent complete acceptance of his own guilt in the matter had seemed an insurmountable obstacle. Now, Grimm had learned that a person could be persuaded by magic that his enforced actions were of his own volition. If so, then it was possible that Loras had been put under such a spell.
"Questor Xylox," he pressed his colleague, "could you persuade a man to kill someone he loved and admired, while making him believe he had done so of his own free will?"
"It is a technical possibility, I suppose," the older man replied, "but it would require a store of energy far beyond even my capabilities. Resistance to such a spell increases in proportion to the unwillingness of its subject to carry out such an act. Foster was opposed to taking this route, but not violently so; I was therefore able to nudge him in the right direction. Even this spell all but drained me."
At that moment, the metallic vehicle gave another precipitous jerk, plunging towards the mountainside. Drex screamed, and stuffed her hand in her mouth. A bizarre, bleating noise blared from the panel in front of the pilot, and Tordun's sword clattered onto the deck.
"Get ready to get out and walk, folks!" Foster yelled. "It looks like we're going down! Hang on to something!"
With an awful tearing noise, the helicopter struck a rock. For a moment, Foster managed to drag the wounded bird back into the air, but it was as quickly thrust back onto the unforgiving face of the mountain. This time, one of the whirling wings on top of the conveyance struck the rock face, and pandemonium broke loose. The yellow lights inside the vehicle flickered and died, and the machine slammed itself against the rocks, again and again, like some great, maddened beast trying to dislodge an irritating tick from its back.
Grimm held on to Drex with his right arm and to a metal stanchion with his left hand. The thin metal cut into his fingers, but he did not relax his grip in the least.
The mechanical conveyance's manic dance came to a screeching halt, and the vehicle heeled over at a crazy angle. It hung motionless for a few moments, seeming to defy gravity, before tumbling over and over, a cacophony of clanging, crashing, and crunching sounds greeting each new impact. Grimm had never felt more helpless in his life; he saw nothing outside the vehicle except a grey blur. He still clung to Drex and the metal pillar, feeling his arm muscles scream with every jolt and crash.
The terrifying, nightmare ride came to an end at last as the machine came to rest with a final, decisive impact. It heeled over again, as if eager to recommence its suicidal descent, but it then settled on a more or less even keel with one last, tortured, metallic groan.
Blessed silence reigned once more.
All Grimm knew was that he was still alive. His arms felt as if they had been ripped from their sockets, and his neck was a flaming epicentre of pain. He felt as if he had been punched in the stomach by an angry giant, and a hundred other aches and twinges fought to take precedence over his attention. Nonetheless, the various discomforts, competing for his attention like over-eager schoolchildren striving to be the first to answer a teacher's question, told him he had survived the awful ordeal.
Pain meant life.
Sudden, hot tears threatened to start from Grimm's eyes; he screwed his face up and took several deep breaths before he felt sure his whirling emotions would not betray him.
Greater awareness trickled into his brain, and he realised he was lying across somebody in the centre aisle. The interior of the wrecked machine was dark, but the young mage could tell from the solid mass of muscle beneath his right hand that he must be sprawled over the mighty Tordun.
He feared the enormous warrior was dead, but he heard a groan that sounded inspired more by relief than by agony. As Grimm's eyes adjusted to the dim conditions, he saw the giant swordsman raise his head, which bore several cuts and contusions. None appeared life-threatening.
"Are you hurt, Tordun? I hope I didn't hurt you by falling on you."
The albino laughed; a deep, bass rumble that served to comfort Grimm, with its easy-going humour. "You are only a lightweight, Questor. I used to fight bare-knuckled in the ring at Gallorley: I promise you, I've been hit a lot harder than that and stayed on my feet."
"I haven't," Crest complained, who lay half-buried under the giant, "and your right armpit isn't the most aromatic bower in the land, Tordun."
The swordsman lifted his massive arm, and the slender elf struggled free. "That's better," the thief said. "I thought I'd survived all that just to suffocate in your sweat, you overstuffed excuse for a warrior."