Tordun's good-natured laugh sounded again, although maybe with just a little too much enthusiasm. Grimm realised that the albino might not be quite as carefree and calm as he pretended.
"I'm all right, too, as if anybody cares," the muffled, irritated voice of Thribble piped from the depths of Grimm's robe, and the thaumaturge suppressed a smile.
"Questor Grimm; not 'didn't'; 'did not'," a familiar, gruff voice snapped; that of Xylox. The young sorcerer might have guessed the senior Questor would remain focused on such trivia, but he felt glad to know his brother mage had also survived.
He was about to issue the older thaumaturge with a half-hearted apology when a panicked thought speared into his brain like lightning: Drex! What about Drexelica?
"Where are you, Drexelica? Are you all right?" His voice echoed through the metal frame of the machine.
He felt a tug at his shoulder; the girl had not surrendered her tight hold on his robe. "My head hurts, but it looks like I'm still in one piece."
Despite the calm delivery of her words, Grimm could sense the dark spectre of hysteria lurking behind them. Twisting himself around within the cramped space, he grabbed Drex and held her to his body. He could feel her trembling within the confines of his arms, and he whispered "It is over, Drex, all over; there is nothing to worry about."
Drex buried her head in his chest and sobbed without restraint as the tension flowed from her body. It seemed natural to comfort her, and this also helped to stem Grimm's own inner turmoil, which threatened to break out at any time. He made soothing sounds and fought to keep tears from his own eyes.
"Disgusting," the misogynistic Xylox muttered.
After a short while, Drex raised her gaze to meet Grimm's. "I'm sorry about that, Questor Grimm," she said, her expression solemn. "I know you don't like girls; it won't happen again." Her tone was resigned and cold as she disengaged herself from his awkward embrace.
Grimm opened his mouth to protest, but he did not know how to explain his warring emotions; he held deep feelings for the girl, but these conflicted with his fear of losing his magic powers. How could he tell her without offending her?
The matter was taken out of his hands by a loud groan from the front of the crumpled helicopter.
"Sorry about the rough landing, people," Foster called from the front of the shattered craft. "The winds on this side of the mountains can be a little unpredictable. Why I didn't take the Griven route, I'll never know. Still, we're here, and they do say any landing you can walk away from is a good one."
Craning his neck, Grimm turned his head towards the front of the vehicle. Foster's white helmet was battered and scuffed, but the strange headgear must have saved the Haven man's life. Various battered, bent stalks and protrusions hung down from the helmet by thin tendrils, and a pattern of scratches and white stars marred the visor covering Foster's eyes. A thin trickle of dark, drying blood extended from the just-visible end of his nose, and numerous small cuts peppered his chin and lower cheeks. The large windows at the front of the front of the machine had been shattered, the apparent cause of his injuries.
"If you're all set, I guess it's time to hit the road," the pilot said. "Unless, of course, you'd rather stay here and chat."
****
They stood on a rough profusion of small stones and gravel near the foot of the Shest Mountains. The machine that had borne them was a battered hulk, its green mass crumpled and streaked with grey and silver, and it nestled between a pair of rocks, either of which would have shattered the vehicle into splinters had it fallen upon them.
The Names must be preserving us for a greater purpose, Grimm thought, shaking his head at the realisation of just how close they had come to disaster.
Beyond the foothills extended a vast expanse of golden wasteland and, far in the distance, Grimm saw a vague black dot shimmering before his eyes. Could this be the party's goal, the demesne of General Quelgrum?
"Forgive me if I'm a little confused after that eventful little flight," Foster said, apparently little the worse for wear after the loss of his craft. "But just why are we here? I must admit that I've forgotten, in all the excitement."
Xylox looked Grimm straight in the eye. "We need to persuade Foster to take us to the General," he muttered. "Much though it pains me to admit it, even I lack the sleight to deliver another spell of Compulsion after such a brief interval. Since the sun is sitting low in the sky, I suggest we rest a while and recoup our energies."
"I must agree, Questor Xylox," the young magic-user replied in a conspiratorial tone. "I am feeling considerable discomfort from a number of minor injuries, and I would relish the prospect of a little rest. I imagine I am not alone in this."
Xylox turned to the pilot. "Pilot Foster, we are all a little confused and overwrought after that calamitous descent. There seems to be a considerable amount of ground yet to cover, so I would ask if your conveyance carries any means of bedding ourselves down for the night. There is a distinct chill in the air, and I know the onset of night in such regions as this can bring frigid temperatures."
Foster shook his head, not in negation, but in an evident attempt to clear his thoughts. His eyes darted from side to side, as if he sought to make some sense of his recent extraordinary actions, but he seemed to give up the effort with a simple shrug.
"I think there may be a few tents, sleeping bags and the like in the helicopter's cargo hold," he offered. "In fact, I'm almost sure of it."
Whistling a cheerful tune, Foster returned to the machine, accompanied by the muscular albino. "Three two-man tents, with integral groundsheets and sleeping bags," he said, as if offering a great treat. "I've also found some full water-bottles; they're likely to be a little tangy from the chlorine disinfectant, but they should be safe to drink, anyway. No food, I'm afraid, but I'm sure we can all handle that."
"Speak for yourself," Crest mumbled, just loud enough for everyone to hear. "I'm famished; I haven't had anything to eat since our banquet with Armitage."
"That cannot be helped," Xylox snapped. "Sleep is what we need now, in order to strengthen us for the journey ahead."
The elf shrugged. "If you say so, Questor; I suppose I can tell my stomach to shut up for another night."
Grimm glanced at Drex, but she avoided his gaze.
The senior mage tried to take charge of the various activities, but Foster, Tordun and Crest all appeared more than familiar with the routine of setting up a night camp. The erection of the tents proceeded with some speed, without his interference. Xylox lost interest and drifted away, as the three men chatted whilst establishing the small base.
****
"Well, there we are," Foster said, his face flushed but happy. "There doesn't seem to be any kindling around, so we'll have to do without a fire."
Grimm saw, from the corner of his eye, that Xylox was approaching at some speed. It was plain that he intended to show this group of yokels what a Questor could do, but his young colleague pre-empted the situation.
"Please; Bother Mage; allow me," Grimm said, struggling to keep an air of smugness from his voice. "K'shugg't."
"That ought to do it," he added, as warming flames began to rise from the bare rocks between the three tents. "The fire should be able to keep us warm all night, without my further attention."
Xylox slowed his approach, and Grimm felt gratified to see the senior mage's expression of dissatisfaction. Nonetheless, the curmudgeonly magic-user had the final word.
"Questor Grimm, you will share a tent with me. I see grievous temptation in your path, and I would protect you from the pernicious presence of that girl. The rest of you may make your own arrangements."