"Or perhaps we are just further away than you thought, Foster," Grimm said, sensing an opening. It seemed quite probable that the pilot's crude desert navigation techniques had resulted in a considerable error in location, but the flier had seemed so confident in his abilities that this could be used to further convince him of his infirmity.
"It would not be surprising if you were a little confused, with the condition that you are in."
Foster gave a slow, contemplative nod. "Perhaps you're right, mage," he sighed. "Perhaps I have been pushing myself a little too hard recently. Yes, that's quite possible."
Grimm, who had always considered Mage Speech verbose and clumsy, began to appreciate that its weight and gravitas could serve to sway an argument on occasions.
The yellow cloud grew closer, until a dark shape began to emerge in its centre, shimmering and wavering. It seemed to be hovering above the surface of the desert, but Foster explained that this was just an illusion caused by the heat of the sand. It approached ever nearer over the next ten minutes, revealing itself as a bizarre creation. It had two, black-shod wheels at the front, and a line of smaller wheels towards the rear, surrounded by some sort of belt or chain. As the vehicle came to a halt, belching black smoke from its rear end, Grimm saw that the machine's battered structure bore many rough-and-ready repairs, patches and amendments.
This thing must date back to around the time of the Final Devastation, he thought, shaking his head in wonder. It was almost incredible that such a mechanical monster had survived through all these centuries, and it was a fine tribute to the machine's sturdy construction. Although the young mage recognized only too well the destruction that Technology had wrought on the world, he did not regard it with the same rabid loathing that his colleague, Xylox, did; it did hold a certain fascination, speaking of the intelligence and ingenuity of its long-dead creators.
Foster stepped forward, as a green-garbed man climbed out of the front of the battered conveyance and strode towards the Haven pilot.
He was tall and spare, and all Grimm could see of the hair under his green cap was a layer of dark fuzz, like sandy-coloured baize. The man's steps were measured and confident, and he flicked a hand to his right temple in a smooth, formal gesture.
"I'm Major Fremd: at your service. You seem in need of some help."
"I'm Pilot Foster from Haven, Major. Are we ever glad to see you!"
"I presume it's a delivery for the General; what happened, Foster?" the Major demanded. "This isn't the normal delivery route, and there doesn't seem to have been any advance notification."
Foster's brow furrowed; Grimm knew Xylox's reconstruction of the pilot's memories had been, of necessity, sketchy at best. The young mage hoped that the confusion this engendered would give further credence to the assertion that the flier had become disoriented by the desert heat.
"Um, I can't quite seem to remember, Major," Foster confessed, rubbing his sweaty, sunburnt forehead. "Administrator Armitage had a couple of magic-users to deliver to the General. I do know there was some urgency about it for some reason, so I took a helicopter out. We got caught in some vicious cross-winds, and we crashed in the mountains. This is our third day in the desert, but I must have caught a little too much sun. The memories are a little hazy."
Grimm suppressed a smile. The deception seemed to be working well.
"Major Fremd, I am Questor Xylox," the senior mage said, stepping forward. "Administrator Armitage asked us to aid the General in his struggle. We were only too happy to comply, of course."
"Questor?" The major raised an eyebrow. "What sort of designation is that? Are you one of those damned magic-users?"
Xylox drew himself to his full height. "Not just any magic-user, Major; we Questors can cast any kind of magic to which we put our minds, and Armitage thought the General might be interested in acquiring our talents. Senior Technician Terrence told us that the communication equipment was damaged in the storm, so Haven was unable to contact you.
"Needless to say, we are more than happy to put ourselves at the disposition of such a distinguished friend of the Administrator. Questor Grimm, here, and I wish only to carry out our friend Armitage's wishes."
Fremd turned back to Foster. "Fully Pacified, of course?"
"Of course, Major," the pilot replied, as if affronted. "Level Two; the Administrator didn't want to mess with these guys' brains too much, but they do seem to be loyal enough."
"They don't all look like magic-users," the soldier said, looking suspicious. "The big guy, the skinny one in black and the girclass="underline" what about them? I understood Armitage needed all the women he could get, and we're hardly short of trained fighters."
Foster's mouth opened and closed, and he bore a look of complete confusion. "I can't remember, Major. There was some good reason for sending them, but I don't recall it."
"If I might explain," Xylox said, his voice as smooth as oiled silk. "The girl is sterile, with no useful skills, and so of little use to Haven. She is also the slave and body-servant of our large friend, Tordun, who begged Armitage to send her along with him."
Drexelica's look shot daggers at the senior Questor, but she seemed to have the good sense to keep her mouth shut.
"The Administrator thought Tordun might be a useful addition to your forces. He is immensely strong, and he is accustomed to discipline; he wishes only to serve."
"I am more than happy to be of service in any capacity required of me," Tordun rumbled, "as long as I have my sweet little concubine with me. I have big appetites, as do my colleagues. We share the girl around from time to time."
Grimm put a controlling hand on Drex's tense shoulder, which trembled with suppressed fury. "Take it easy, Drexelica," he muttered. "This is just make-believe. Tordun has always behaved like a gentleman towards you, and you know it."
The girl relaxed a little, although the continuing tremors in her body made it plain that a measure of anger remained within her.
"And the little, skinny guy?" the major said. "He doesn't look like much of an asset to this man's army, or anybody else's. The kid looks like a wet streak of nothing, if you ask me. I can't see him lasting five minutes on the parade ground. The big fellow might be useful, but I don't think that little guy'll be worth a wet fart."
Crest maintained a calm expression, but Grimm's Mage Sight showed him the rage boiling within the thief.
"Do not be swayed by appearances, Major. Our friend, Crest, is a tactical genius," Xylox said, as self-assured and calm as ever; it was obvious to Grimm that he had rehearsed this speech well in advance. "He has the ability to assess the most complex tactical situations at a glance. There is not much call for that sort of ability at Haven, but Armitage thought he might make a valuable officer in the General's force."
Fremd pressed his right hand to his furrowed forehead, pushing up his sweat-stained cap and then pulling it back over his brow to its exact, original position with a determined motion.
"Very well," he said, his expression easing back to a neutral state. "We can't hang around here in the heat forever, I guess. If Armitage wants to hand you guys over to the General, I won't argue. Climb on the truck and we'll get going. General Q can sort you out."
The rear of the vehicle was covered with canvas, and the officer pulled aside a flap to let Grimm and his colleagues climb aboard. The interior of the conveyance was dirty and musty, but it looked inviting to Grimm; he felt eager to clamber into the strange, metal machine, if it represented the group's deliverance from the sapping inferno of the desert.