Grimm Dragonblaster 5, page 11
"Well met, Lord Seneschal. It takes a big man to admit—I'm sorry, Sir, I mean..."
The man's face was a wide-eyed mask of confusion.
Shakkar began to wonder if being classed as human was quite the insult he had thought.
These puny beings, so ill-equipped to face the unforgiving world without the aid of contrivances and tools, must live in constant terror of a greater force. And yet, they still throve and flourished, often masking fear and misgiving with mockery and humour. Just like Shakkar denying his weakness, this mortal was hiding his fear, prepared to die rather than submit to his baser emotions.
Questor Grimm did the same thing when I confronted him. I could have killed him in an instant, but he bowed his head before me, refusing to betray his honour. Perhaps these strange creatures are not as weak as I thought.
"I do not object to the label, Sergeant,” the demon grunted. “Inaccurate as it was, I take it in the spirit in which it was bestowed. Let us continue."
"Yes, Sir!” The human offered another formal salute. However, this was no mechanical response; Shakkar saw genuine respect, and even warmth, in his gesture.
"I will add one corollary, Sergeant.” Shakkar raised an admonitory finger. “What has passed between us will go no further—is that understood?"
"Yes, Sir!"
I imagine that we both know each other a little better now, the netherworld creature mused. But if Erik ever tells another mortal soul of this, I will—
"Why, you're just as human as the rest of us, aren't you, demon?” The Sergeant's muttered words rose anew in Shakkar's head, and the demon suppressed a wry grin. There had been more truth in this verdict than he had been willing to acknowledge.
* * * *
As the wagon rolled into the centre of Brianston, Grimm saw people beginning to line the street, cheering and clapping.
"This is more like it, eh, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum said over the clamour. “It's nice to be appreciated for a change!"
Grimm scanned the massed auras, but he could find no traces of emotion other than joy, happiness and a deep, unreserved love: the attentive audience's reaction appeared to be genuine and unforced. He remembered the ensorcelled people of Crar, puppets in the power of Starmor, carrying out stereotypical roles with enforced enthusiasm—this looked utterly different.
"Indeed, they really seem to love us, General! But it does make me wonder just why. I think we should carry on."
"Agreed, Lord Grimm; it does seem strange. Still, at least they're not attacking us."
"I can't feel any magic, either,” the Questor replied. “Whatever this is about, the happiness seems to be real. It does worry me, though."
"Perhaps we should just take it as it comes, Lord Baron.” The General gave an airy gesture of his right hand. “Maybe they just love us, after all. Should we knock it?"
The massed crowds now began to swarm all around the wagon, patting it like a favourite pet. Some people even kissed it.
Grimm heard a soft, rhythmic susurration in the throng, rising in volume and resolving into words:
“Welcome, strangers ... welcome, strangers."
Fevered fingers began to pluck at the fabric covering of the wagon, and the General turned to Grimm.
His wide smile had now gone.
"Lord Baron, I suggest we get out of here as quickly as possible; this is getting a bit extreme."
"I agree, General. I don't think these people are possessed, but they're beginning to scare me."
He flicked the reins, but the sheer mass of human bodies was too much for the horses to resist. They whinnied and strained, their eyes wide and terrified, but they made no headway against the enormous crowd.
As hands danced around him, trying to catch his uniform, the General stood up and shouted at the crowd.
"We appreciate your kind reception, good people, but I'd ask you to move aside. The horses are getting nervous, and I don't want anyone to be hurt. Move on, now! The show's over!"
A ripple of rapturous applause arose from the increasing horde, but the General's words seemed to have had no other effect.
The horses tramped and neighed, and one of them lashed out with a fore-hoof, catching a daring Brianstonian on the temple and sending him flying. This did not appear to dampen the enthusiasm of the unfortunate man's fellows in the least. The coach began to rock from side to side, and the General unshouldered his weapon and unleashed a stuttering burst of fire over the heads of the crowd.
"That's your last warning, people! If you don't disperse now, I'll have to open fire on you. I have no wish to do that, but—"
Grimm felt the cart beginning to overbalance as the crowd encroached on it. The horses snorted and stamped, with bared teeth and wide eyes, but this seemed not to deter the rapturous mob in the least.
"Everybody out!” he yelled. “We've got a fight on our hands!"
He raised Redeemer and leapt into the crowd as the wagon fell onto its side with a tumultuous smash.
Lashing out with the magically-hard staff, he felled the Brianstonians in heaps, but there always seemed to be more of them happy to fill the breaches, clambering over their fallen companions in their eagerness to reach the adventurers.
From the corner, he saw the titanic albino swordsman, Tordun, brought down into a milling mass of citizens. He could see no sign of the half-elf, Crest, or the blademaster, Harvel, and assumed they were already lost. He tried to calm himself so he could cast his potent, Questor magic, but the sheer manic turbulence of the crowd prevented him from being able to marshal his senses.
Focus, Grimm! he told himself, trying to fight the cold, disabling tendrils of fear that threatened to overwhelm him. As if in a dream, he felt himself being hoisted onto the shoulders of maybe a dozen Brianstonians, before an impartial blow to his skull deprived him of awareness.
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Chapter 12: Information
"Come in."
Dalquist opened the door to Kargan's chamber to find the bespectacled Magemaster lounging in a comfortable chair, puffing on an ornate pipe. The room was decorated in a bizarre mixture of styles, ancient and modern, whose only common theme seemed to be a riot of colours. Scarlet, satin draperies clashed with pastel shades of green and yellow, and a grey carpet. Golden and blue strips of silk hung from the ceiling like a suspended forest. Dalquist knew he would never be able to relax in such a profusion of conflicting hues, but Kargan seemed almost serene.
Dalquist noted a sweet, cloying scent in the air. Perhaps the contents of the Magemaster's pipe have more to do with it than artistic taste, he mused.
"What's the matter, Questor Dalquist? You look as if you'd lost a gold sovereign and found a penny.”
The Magemaster's tone was soft and placid, quite unlike his normal, frenetic classroom bark.
How do I start here? Dalquist wondered. ‘Magemaster Kargan, either I'm under some strange spell or I've lost my mind'?
Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I'm not quite feeling my usual self, Magemaster Kargan."
Kargan put down his strange, convoluted pipe and pushed his blue-lensed spectacles back up the slope of his nose. “Why do you need to see me about that, Questor Dalquist? I'm sure Healer Firian would be more than happy to knock you up some foul mixture or other to sort you out. We're all out of sorts at times, and Firian's always happy to help."
"Magemaster Kargan: you're a Mentalist, aren't you?"
"Was a Mentalist,” Kargan corrected, his expression puzzled. “I haven't had cause to cast many spells of that type for several years now. Why do you ask?"
Dalquist steeled himself to tell the older man the difficult truth. It's now or never, I suppose.
"I don't think my problem's physical, Magemaster Kargan. I think I may be under some sort of spell. I just ... found myself acting in a very strange manner, and I don't feel right at all. It feels like I'm ensorcelled, or something."
Kargan snorted. “I'm not surprised: a young Questor like you, cooped up in the Scholasticate when you should be out hunting dragons, or whatever it is you do. Never fear: Firian will sort you out some sort of tonic. I'll bet that's all you need."
"I doubt it's that simple, Magemaster Kargan, I'm pretty sure it's some sort of spell. I doubt Healer Firian would spot that. A Mentalist of your calibre just might. I have a blank spot in my memory concerning a certain person, not a member of our Guild. I ... leapt to that person's defence without thinking about it, despite the fact that I know almost nothing about her."
"Her? I think you've answered your own question there, Questor,” Kargan replied, guffawing. “We all know what happens to mages who play around with the fair sex!"
"It's not that at all, Magemaster!” Dalquist felt almost beside himself. “I only met her once, and I wasn't remotely attracted to her. I'd hardly paid her a moment's heed, before I was ... challenged about her, a few minutes ago. Please, just tell me if you can tell if I'm under some spell."
The young mage realised his tone was desperate and pleading, hardly what was expected from a Guild Questor, but he no longer cared.
"I'm not insane, Magemaster,” he said, “but I am deeply worried. Will you help me?"
Kargan rubbed his chin and shrugged.
"The spell I have in mind is pretty potent,” he said. “It may reveal far more about you than you would wish to be known. It's ten times more revealing than the clearest Mage Sight."
"No matter, Mentalist. It's a risk I'm willing to take."
"All right, Questor. I'm not quite sure how this will pan out, or what it could prove, but I'd like you to lie down on that couch. I haven't done this for a long time, so bear with me. Just relax, please."
Dalquist reclined on the couch and tried to clear his thoughts. It was not easy, but he managed to find a plateau of moderate internal peace.
Kargan began to chant in a low voice, his arms outstretched, his eyes closed and his forehead lined.
"Ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra ... ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra...” Beads of sweat began to trickle down the Magemaster's face, but the chant remained even and crystal-clear, perfect in cadence and tone.
Kargan grimaced between runic syllables, but he maintained the incantation's perfection with admirable control.
"Ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra ... ondjebarumanda-ma-mendra..."
Dalquist felt something twist in his mind, and he gasped. In a heartbeat, the chant stopped. Kargan slumped, ashen-faced, in his chair.
"Well, Mentalist Kargan? Did you find anything?"
"Not a whit,” the Magemaster replied, breathing heavily. “Your mind's locked up as tight as a drum. If I'm to find anything in there, you've got to open up to me."
"It must be my Questor training,” Dalquist said. “I'm not trying to fight you, I swear."
"I don't think it's that, Questor Dalquist. Someone, or something, has put some sort of lock on your mind.
But you're right: you do have some kind of magic acting on you. Your aura looks fine to me, so this must be deep in the subliminal level."
Suspicion flared in the young mage's mind. Was this lock of Lord Thorn's doing?
After all, he did put a Compulsion on Grimm, he thought. Has he done the same with me?
Dalquist looked Kargan straight in the eye. “Is it some kind of Compulsion, Magemaster Kargan?"
Kargan shook his head and winced. “I'm badly out of practice,” he admitted. “This has really taken it out of me, I can tell you.” He wiped his brow with a plain white handkerchief from a pocket deep in his green satin robes.
"To answer your question, Questor Dalquist: it's no mage spell I recognise."
"Can you dig any deeper?” Dalquist asked, frowning.
"Not tonight, Questor. I need to build up my strength and consult some of my workbooks and librams.
Don't worry; I haven't given up yet. I've still got plenty more tricks up my sleeve—they don't give you seven rings as a Mentalist for nothing. We'll get to the bottom of this sooner or later, Questor Dalquist.
Tomorrow morning, I'll tell Senior Magemaster Crohn you're sick, and we'll start early; say seven o'clock."
Dalquist nodded. “I'll be here, Brother Mage, rest assured of that."
* * * *
"Well, Lord Seneschal, it doesn't look as if we're likely to find anyone lurking around here,” Erik said, kicking a blackened fragment of stone. “This place is a total shambles." "When you were looking through your optical tube device, you said you saw several people, Sergeant,”
Shakkar replied, frowning.
"I guess they were looters trying to find stuff in the ruins, Sir. There doesn't seem to be anywhere for them to hide. Perhaps they ran off when they saw us coming."
Shakkar could not argue with this; the spindly, scorched skeleton of the large building could not have hidden anything much larger than a starving rat.
"What about over there?” The demon pointed to a strange, domed structure to the right of the ruins, at the bottom of a slight declivity. The hemispherical roof of the circular building looked like an egg with its top smashed in, but the edifice appeared otherwise intact. He realised that the soldier, almost three feet shorter than he, might not be able to see the shattered rotunda. “It is just down the hill, to the right. I will lead the way."
The grey giant and the green-uniformed Sergeant made their way down the slope, past some wilted, blackened bushes.
"Looks like it could be more magic,” Erik said, as the building hove into full view. “That dome looks as if it burst from the inside."
The soldier picked up a fallen, hand-written placard. “One Night Only: Tordun, the White Titan,” he read. “So they were here.” He laughed. “One night only: looks as if they were right about that!"
Shakkar nodded. “It seems as if the performance brought the house down."
Erik stared at the demon, his eyes wide and his brows raised. “Was that a joke, Lord Seneschal? I'm surprised!"
Shakkar shrugged. “It is a human phrase I have heard, which seemed to fit the occasion. I understand that such a phrase with two meanings is, on occasion, held by those of your species to be amusing. Did you find it humorous?"
"Well, you're going to have to work on the delivery and timing a little, Sir, but I'm still impressed. I didn't know demons had a sense of humour."
"We do not as a rule, Sergeant. However, since I have been forced to live among your kind, I have found it expedient to adopt your customs from time to time...
"Hold on, Sergeant: I hear movement inside the structure."
Slanting his metal weapon across his chest, Erik darted to the left of the wide entrance, motioning Shakkar to the right. For once, the demon decided to defer to the soldier's experience and authority.
"Attention in there!” Erik shouted. “We mean you no harm; we just want to ask a few questions..."
He was interrupted by a stuttering explosion of noise.
"I'm no linguist, but that's a language I understand.” Erik pulled a strange glass-eyed mask over his face.
He took a cylindrical, fist-sized article from his belt and grasped a ring at its top.
The demon thought he recognised the object: a weapon the humans called a ‘grenade', designed to fill a small area with tiny, sharp shards of metal. He knew such a weapon could tear soft human flesh to rags.
The demon raised a warning hand. “Hold, Sergeant: we want them alive!"
"It's all right, Lord Seneschal. Just trust me: I do know what I'm doing.” Erik's voice was distorted by his strange mask, but intelligible.
The soldier pulled the ring from the object, allowing a metal arm to spring from its side, nodded three times and tossed the green cylinder into the building. A loud explosion sounded from within the rotunda, and Shakkar shielded his eyes from a blazing flash of light.
In quick succession, the Sergeant tossed two more of the explosive items into the opening, and a thick smoke began to issue from the doorway and the hole in the dome.
In a few moments, three green-clad men staggered out, accompanied by a man in a strange suit of clothes. All were coughing, gasping and retching and their legs seemed barely able to support them. Their faces were wet with tears, and they collapsed onto the grass.
The Sergeant soon deprived the incapacitated men of their weapons and secured their hands behind their backs with thin white strips of some unknown material. He leapt into the opening, firing his weapon in short bursts, but Shakkar heard no answering fire.
In a few moments, the soldier emerged, whipped off his mask and saluted. “The area is pacified, Sir!
There doesn't seem to be anyone else in residence."
Shakkar felt impressed: the Sergeant's action had been swift and decisive. He began to realise that the human's occasional juvenile inanity might be a nervous reaction, born of inactivity.
"Well done, Sergeant!"
"It's my job, Sir. Everything else is just training and waiting. I live for this kind of action. If you don't mind, I'd like to deal with these fellows in my own way."
Shakkar shrugged. “You do seem to know what you are doing, Sergeant. Please carry on."
Erik turned to a uniformed man, and attracted his attention with a none-too-gentle boot to the ribs.
"That wasn't too friendly,” he said. “Stupid, too. All we wanted to do was to ask about some friends of ours, but you had to up the ante, didn't you? That was really amateurish, opening fire like that."
The sentry gasped and grimaced as the leather boot struck home. “We never meant you no harm, sodjer-boy; we fought you was the wizard an’ his frien's, come back to finish us off. Mister Chudel, ‘ere,
‘e's the man in charge.” He indicated the prone figure in black with a resentful nod.
"Thanks,” Erik said.
As far as Shakkar could tell, the human seemed to be enjoying himself and obtaining useful results, so he remained silent. The soldier turned to the rotund, red-faced man.
"You: Chudel!"
The round man groaned and turned his head. “What do you ... what the hell's that!” The pained expression was washed away by one of pure terror, as Chudel's gaze fell upon the towering form of Shakkar.
