The demon drew the tube from the young mage's arm, revealing a shining, silver needle. The tube came free with a slight plop, releasing a little blood, and fell to the floor. Thribble knew he would not have long to act. He waited until the young Questor's eyelids began to flicker, and then he began to speak, not knowing if his human friend would hear him or not.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 29: Awareness
"Wake up, Questor Grimm!" Thribble shouted. He had been slapping the unconscious mage's cheek, but the impact of his tiny hands made no impression or mark on the flesh. Whatever this 'Thor's Scene' substance was, it seemed to be powerful stuff.
Worried that at any moment the door would open and he would be discovered, the demon scuttled onto each bed, removing the 'ivy' from each occupant's left arm, in the hope that someone would awake and help him resuscitate the rest.
The imp bounced with frustration on Xylox's bed, muttering "come on, come on!" but the Questor ignored his impassioned entreaties.
Thribble descended to the floor and scrambled onto the next bed, which held the giant albino, Tordun.
Fearing discovery at any moment, the imp sank his sharp fangs into Tordun's earlobe again and again. At last, the warrior groaned and showed signs of nascent, if vague, consciousness. Thribble screamed right in Tordun's ear.
"Swordsman, open your eyes; it is I, Thribble! Fight, human: fight!"
Long minutes passed as the imp yelled at the supine albino, before Tordun's eyes flickered, and a vague smile drifted across his face, but the swordsman then drifted back into the arms of Lethe. The demon redoubled his efforts, but time was ticking away.
****
Perfuco strode through the corridors, using his Mage Sight on everyone he saw, searching for the slightest sign of treachery or secrecy. He questioned a number of personnel, asking the names of their squad leaders, where they were going and why. One hot-headed corporal was impertinent enough to ask why the Colonel wished to know these things, but he soon divulged the required answers when Perfuco threatened him with the loss of his stripes. The mage felt sure his actions had aroused no suspicion, since such questioning was well within his purview.
The Mentalist relished his duties at the compound. Until the attack on High Lodge, which it was to be his honour to lead, he was in charge of security, despite having been in residence for only a month. The General had liked the idea of a man under his command who could tell a lie at sight, and Perfuco had not failed to note the yellow streaks of envy suffusing the aura of the previous long-standing Chief of Security, Colonel Schwartz, when he was supplanted by this newcomer.
Still, a man of General Quelgrum's stature could not expect to entrust his safety to a mere Secular, when a Mage of the Seventh Rank was available to fill the position! It was only natural that the swift accession of the thaumaturge to his present, lofty rank irked Schwartz more than a little, and there was therefore bad blood between the two Colonels, but Perfuco knew the erstwhile holder of his position feared him as almost as much as he hated him. This was as it should be.
The Mentalist felt no puzzlement at the mist suffusing his mind: since he had been Pacified, he had become used to such sensations, and he now accepted them as a normal part of his life where vital orders were concerned. He knew the effect the General's 'command' voice had on him was due only to his prior conditioning at Haven, but he understood the necessity for this. It was only reasonable that a sworn Guild Mage could not be trusted as a member of the commanding officer's close cadre without precautions being taken.
Perfuco strode through the complex with a grim determination to root out the traitors at the heart of Armitage's evil plot.
****
"H'lo, Th'bble."
The words might be slurred and dull, but the imp felt delighted to see that Questor Grimm's eyes were now fully open, even if they were pointing in different directions. By this time, Tordun, Xylox and Drex were in varying stages of drugged consciousness, but Thribble had suspected that the younger mage, having overcome a devastating addiction to narcotics, might be the first to regain his senses.
"Friend Grimm!" he squeaked. "You are in great danger! Armitage, or rather his older twin, intends to Pacify you. Do you remember what that means?"
"Passss-iff-y," muttered the mage, an inane smile on his face; he seemed only to be savouring the feel of the word without understanding its import.
Thribble felt his worry and fear beginning to overwhelm him. What would get through to the intoxicated Questor? He knew much about the young man's harsh life; brought up in a smithy by his grandparents, the boy had been sent to Arnor House, and he had been put through the vicious, gruelling Ordeal every potential Questor had to undergo. During that time, during which Grimm had all but surrendered his sanity, he had been given conflicting and peremptory commands, which he had been expected to obey without question, at any time, day or night, even when half-dead with exhaustion.
Who was Grimm's harsh, unremitting taskmaster during those dark days and months? Thribble racked his brain for the name, trying to see the man. He knew he had laid eyes on the man whilst ensconced at Arnor House after Grimm's first Quest. What was that Magemaster's name, and how did his voice sound?
The drugged Grimm provided half of the answer.
"I'm sorry, Mage… master C–Crohn," the young Questor mumbled, in seeming response to some waking dream. "I will work… harder…"
Crohn! That is the name!
In an instant, Thribble recalled the man's saturnine feature, and the sound of his voice. The only trouble was that he could not ever remember the Magemaster excoriating Grimm, and that was the intonation he needed…
Yes, he could! He had been hiding in the Questor's pocket one day, when the Magemaster had entered the Arnor Refectory, and had spied a Student larking in the corner with his friends.
"Turiat! Smarten yourself up! Take that inane grin of your face, or I will wipe it off for you. At your age, you should be setting an example to the other Students, not lollygagging like some street urchin!"
Filling his lungs, the demon screamed into Grimm's ear.
"Afelnor! Yes, you, boy! You are not here to sleep, you are here to work, or had you forgotten? Stand up when a Magemaster enters the room, boy! What is the matter with you, you worthless ingrate?"
It was as if the young mage had been struck by lightning. His eyes bulged, he swung off the bed, and he jerked himself to his feet. The mage still seemed in another world, but at least he was upright and semi-conscious.
"I'm sorry, Magemaster Crohn," the Questor said. His voice was still blurred, but much clearer than it had been.
"I am sorry!" the tiny demon snapped, hopping onto Grimm's shoulder to maximise the effect of his limited vocal volume. "We use Mage Speech here, or had you forgotten that?"
This was an easy lever to use; Thribble had heard Xylox berating Grimm on the same subject on many occasions.
"I apologise, Lord Mage. I will try to do better."
"You will do more than apologise, boy," the demon screamed, in what he hoped was a good imitation of the Magemaster's tone and delivery, "You will march the length of this room, from one end to the other and back again, until I am satisfied with your behaviour and comportment. March, boy!"
Grimm made jerky and uncertain progress at first, and the imp had to hold tight to the human's white, open-backed robe, his hair or his beard, to stay perched on his shoulder.