"Goodbye, Keller."
The Questor turned to the mass of assembled fighters, and said, "He's all yours, gentlemen. Enjoy."
He felt in no mood to query the toss, and he turned to Guy-Numal, ignoring the Pit-master's pitiful pleas as his former slaves converged upon him.
"Let's see how Crest and Harvel are doing, Guy," he shouted, over the growing tumult. "After that, I'm just about in the mood to destroy this whole, stinking slave-pen."
Guy laughed. Perhaps it was just his unfamiliarity with Numal's vocal tract, but the sound seemed to drip with evil.
"I'd like that a lot." The older mage grinned. "Once I'm back in my own body, I'll be just about ready to do just that. You're a man after my own heart, Questor Grimm!"
The young mage was not sure if that was a compliment or not, but he nodded, as the maddened fighters tore into the hapless body of their former master.
"Come on, Tordun. Let's get back to our own kind."
"Brianston it is," the albino said. If he was concerned about the shift in Grimm's personality, he did not show it.
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Chapter 36: Farewell To Yoren
Grimm felt a refreshing wind of relief blow through him as Dr. Hubin told him that neither Crest nor Harvel harboured life-threatening injuries. Crest's skull had been scored by a projectile (which, Grimm learned, was properly called a 'bullet'), but he was otherwise unhurt. Harvel had been hit in the left shoulder by one bullet, and a second had passed clean through his midriff. However, by a miracle, the second bullet had missed all his vital organs and major blood vessels. Although the doctor had immobilised Harvel's left arm with a sling, the warrior's sword arm was unaffected.
The doctor left without a word, and Grimm felt almost overjoyed as the tiny demon, Thribble, ran to his feet.
"I prefer your pocket to Numal's!" the imp crowed, hopping onto the mage's extended hand.
"I'm glad to have you aboard once more, demon," Grimm said. "Quests wouldn't be the same without you."
With the underworld creature back in his pocket, Grimm felt the team was complete once more.
Numal, still in Guy's body, sat upright and conscious. He looked weak, but otherwise little the worse for wear.
"Right, Numal," the Necromancer's mouth said, behind which remained the mind of Guy Great Flame. "You've had my body long enough. Do whatever you have to do to get me back inside it."
"I can't do that," Numal-Guy said, in a similar, slurred monotone. "I don't think your body has enough strength in it to cast the spell at this time, and I haven't yet mastered your vocal organs. A miscasting could be disastrous."
"I was able to cast spells well enough from your body, Grandfather," Guy-Numal said, twisting his borrowed face into a rough facsimile of a sneer. "I think you just want to hang on to a young, virile body while you have the chance.
"Perhaps I can persuade you to change your mind."
The Questor smiled and produced a small, beige box studded with coloured excrescences.
Grimm guessed the Technological artefact had something to do with the hated collars of enslavement, and he knocked the box from the liver-spotted hand.
Guy-Numal spun around, his face a red mask of fury.
"Just who the hell do you think you are, wonder-boy? I was only joking with Granddad, here. Just butt out and mind your own bloody business; you don't own me!"
Grimm felt a hot, angry rush of blood spreading through his face; he might have disparaged Numal's powers and courage on occasion, but the Necromancer had, for once at least, acted with great bravery, and Grimm felt the fact should be acknowledged.
"Just a moment, Great Flame," he said. "We both know that Questor magic isn't the same as rune magic. Precision is everything with a runic spelclass="underline" pronunciation, cadence and tone are all vital factors. Almost any old gibberish will do for a Questor spell.
"Numal's done a very brave thing here, and it's about time you acknowledged it! Without his courageous actions, we might all have been killed. As it is, we've won: we need to get on with our Quest as a team, not bicker about who's trying to cheat whom! No, I don't own you, but I am in charge of this bloody Quest, at the behest of Lord Dominie Horin; this is not a democracy, my friend, and it's high time you realised that!"
Realising he had left Redeemer in the Pit, he summoned it, and it appeared in his upraised right hand in an instant. Looking Guy-Numal straight in the eyes, he smashed the staff's brass shoe into the brown artefact with full force, shattering it into fragments.
"Right! That's it!" Guy-Numal cried. "You've been asking for this for a while now. Let's have it out! You and me, right here, right now!"
Grimm's rage evaporated, and he felt only calm. "I don't think you're in any condition to oppose a young, virile Seventh Level Questor, are you… Granddad?"
If Guy had had the ability to kill with the power of his gaze alone, Grimm knew he would be a smoking pile of ash at that very moment. However, the older Questor's borrowed eyes were the first to look away.
"All right, youngster. You win-this time. We'll be having a few words later on, though; believe me!"
Grimm bit off an acidic rejoinder as the bruised, battered Quelgrum hobbled into the leafy refuge.
"We've got company," he said. "Looks almost like a delegation, but they are armed, and there are quite a lot of them."
"I'll go, General." The young Questor felt relieved that the General's interruption had defused a nasty situation. Turning his back on his still-irate colleague, he strode out of the bushes, holding his head high. Although the large lump on the back of his head still throbbed, he felt much better than he had.
As he strode onto the greensward between the Pit and Mansion House, he saw the General had not exaggerated; a veritable army was approaching. Twenty-five or thirty green-uniformed men, weapons at the ready, surrounded a short, white-haired man dressed in a black suit.
His voice full of bravado he did not feel, Grimm cried "That's far enough, gentlemen. You must be aware that your Technological weapons will have no effect on me. The least assault upon me will bring down a rain of destruction you cannot begin to imagine."
The short man, his eyes shifting in a nervous manner, stepped forward. "I am Elor Chudel, mage."
So this puny-looking man was the elusive owner of Mansion House! Grimm had expected a sepulchral figure with eyebrows like lightning-bolts, and he suppressed an unbecoming laugh.
"I wish to discuss mutually acceptable terms," Chudel said, in a high-pitched, almost musical voice.
"I am only willing to discuss terms of your surrender, Chudel. You have no choice in the matter."
"I am an honest businessman, Lord Mage! Perhaps I am guilty of tweaking people's emotions in order to heighten their enjoyment, but no more than that."
"You are a filthy, manipulative slaver, Chudel! You are responsible for torturing men into putting on a bloody, degrading spectacle for the gratification of artificially enhanced blood-lust. You are a foul carbuncle on the arse of the human race, and not fit to live!"
"I was weak," Chudel said, spreading his hands wide in supplication. "Yoren is a poor town. I fulfilled a perceived need and put money in the town's coffers, but I perceive now that I may have been over-zealous. I give you my word that the Pit will now be an honest spectacle. We will use no more pheromones in Mansion House and the Pit, and our fighters will be willing volunteers. If only you will spare us, I will swear to run this establishment on honest lines from now on."
Chudel's performance almost convinced Grimm; the large, pleading eyes, the tremulous hint of desperation in the proprietor's voice, and the subtle quivering of his lower lip spoke of an honest but misguided man, trying to make his way in an unforgiving world in the only way he could.