Although the swordsman wore dark rings around his pink eyes, which stood out in stark relief against his translucent skin, Drexelica appeared well-rested and almost cheerful; Grimm noted that she did not cast her gaze in his direction for more than a brief moment.
"Anyway, gentlemen," Foster said. "I admitted to a moment of forgetfulness last night about why we'd chosen this route; I'd really appreciate some enlightenment. It's my fault, I know; that bloody crash must have rubbed the memory from my head. But what are we doing here? Did I mention it before I took the chopper out of Haven?"
The irritatingly fresh-faced Xylox shuffled closer to Grimm and whispered, "I would appreciate it if you would stand by me, in the improbable event that I should require additional thaumaturgic energy, Questor Grimm. I need to convince Foster of a matter contrary to his understanding and awareness; I need to create an entire false history, and this is even more difficult to achieve than a basic Compulsion."
The young thaumaturge knew the previous night's brief rest had done little to replenish his depleted reserves, and that he might be of little use to Xylox in this matter; nonetheless, he had worked hard to build even the most fragile bridge between himself and the curmudgeonly mage, and he deemed it politic to comply with his senior mage's request.
"I am at your disposal, Questor Xylox," Grimm whispered. "I will do my best to fulfil your needs."
The two Questors approached the frowning Foster.
"Do you not remember, Pilot Foster?" the senior mage asked, his voice one of deep concern.
"Not at all, mage," Foster confessed. "I know it was my decision to come this way, and I can only imagine that it's something to do with General Q, but I can't remember a damn' thing about it. I only…"
Fluent gibberish spilled from Xylox's mouth, as the senior Questor's twisted expression told of inner agonies. In counterpoint to this, Foster's visage lost all animation, as if a blackboard had been wiped clean. The spell went on and on, and Grimm could tell the frugal mage was expending his hoarded energies at a phenomenal rate as he babbled.
The mage's face turned ashen, and he grabbed his colleague's right arm, still maintaining the cadence of the spell. Grimm felt much-needed power flowing from him like water cascading from a broken dam; it felt as if his head were being emptied, as if it might crumple and implode at any moment. His vision began to turn grey and hazy, his field of view diminishing in size with each second. The amount of energy Xylox was stripping from him was not the cause of his pain, but the rate at which it was being drained.
Cold panic pulsed through his nerves, and he wanted to scream, "Enough, Xylox; enough!" but he could no longer spare the energy to speak.
Was this what Granfer felt when he was stripped of his powers? he wondered, his fear subsiding to dull resignation. He would die here, a shrivelled, wasted husk, and Xylox would have delivered final adjudication on his despised junior. Just as Grimm's field of vision narrowed to the size of a small coin, Xylox released his arm: the spell must be complete.
For several moments, Xylox gasped like a beached fish, and Grimm sank to his knees. The two warriors and the girl stood by, their expressions uncomprehending and concerned, but the Haven man's face was as blank as a fresh, clean sheet of paper, ready to be filled with new writing: Xylox's fantasy.
Grimm's vision cleared, and he felt power rushing back into him like water flooding into a squeezed sponge that had just been released. His head ached, and needle-like pains pricked him behind his eyeballs, but he knew he still retained at least some of his power. He half-expected Drex to rush to his side in concern, but the girl seemed to look anywhere but at him. He gasped and blinked, trying to regain his composure, as the senior Questor addressed the ensorcelled pilot.
"Foster, we have all been Pacified to Level Three; do you not remember?" Xylox's voice was steady and metronomic, husky yet clear.
"I remember," was the dull, emotionless reply. "I was present when Administrator Armitage ordered it."
"That is correct," Xylox said. "Armitage pacified us and then ordered you to take us to General Quelgrum for induction; we are all unwitting slaves of your Administrator, and we would do anything for him without knowing why. Haven is in good order, and Armitage is alive and well, as are all his acolytes."
The pilot, shorn of his fearsome, Technological armour, nodded with elephantine slowness.
"It was… it was Administrator Armitage's idea," he said in a hesitant monotone. "I must take you to the… the General. Armitage will be pleased."
"You will act at all times as if we possess free will," Xylox said, leaning close to the flyer. "Armitage does not wish us to be aware of our enslavement, and you do not need to ask why."
The mage's brow beaded with perspiration as he sought to drive his will into the pilot's sensorium. Despite the energies he had already expended, it seemed to take additional resources to push home each new concept and instruction.
Foster twisted and groaned, as if caught in a mixture of agony and rapture. "It was Armitage's will," he whined in a childlike treble.
Xylox groaned in a basso counterpoint; he must be reaching his limit of power. Grimm delved into his diminished reserves and sent a spurt of it, all he could afford to give, into his colleague, who tore a rasping, relieved sigh from the cool morning air.
"You must take us to the General and his men," the older sorcerer whispered, his eyes red and dull. "We know nothing except our love for Armitage, and our need to obey the General."
"Love of Armitage," the blank-eyed pilot agreed. Xylox snapped his fingers in the manner of a fairground mesmerist. Foster blinked, showing the first sign of animation since the Questor began his magically-enhanced speech, and his mouth flapped without sound.
"So there we are," the older thaumaturge said. "I am sure you remember now, Foster."
"Er, yes, Questor," Foster mumbled, shaking his head as if to clear some mental blockage.
"That's right," he added in a clearer voice, as false awareness came to him. As far as Grimm could see, Foster was back in full charge of his mind and body after his indoctrination.
"I'll bet you're looking forward to meeting General Q; he's a wonderful man, believe me," Foster said, smiling. "Still, we won't get there any quicker by standing around. Let's get these tents down, and I'll see what other provisions I can find in the chopper. We've got a fair trek before us."
With a cheery whistle, his normal good humour restored, the pilot trudged off to the wreck of the helicopter, as if the group were on some summer picnic rather than stranded and bereft at the foot of a range of mountains at the edge of a burning desert.
Grimm looked at Xylox. The older man was trembling, his face was almost as pale as the albino Tordun's, and the whites of his eyes had turned a delicate shade of red. The young Questor felt under no illusions that he was in any better shape than his colleague.
"Questor Xylox," Grimm said to his fellow mage, urgency implicit in his tone, "I am in no condition to fight an obstreperous infant, let alone take on an army. I wager you are no less drained than I."
"Nonsense," the boastful, proud Questor snapped. "I am Xylox the Mighty; I thrive on adversity, and may woe betide those who dare to oppose me!"
Grimm said nothing, but he felt his expression radiating disbelief. Xylox tried to meet his gaze, but he looked away at the last moment.
"I must admit that I might benefit from a few more hours of restorative sleep," the senior mage confessed, with a noncommittal shrug. "Perhaps even my powers may not be at their optimal level."