Grimm Dragonblaster 5, page 14
Grimm prepared to issue a sharp retort, but he realised that this woman might well have spent her entire life imprisoned in Brianston, and he refrained from doing so.
Instead, he said, “How do I get these chains off, or isn't that part of the plan?"
"I have the key,” the grey-haired woman replied. “Hold still and I'll soon have the chains off you."
In a few moments, Arland removed Grimm's chains, his metal helmet and his confining gauntlets. As the weighty iron impediments fell to the paved floor, the mage stretched and grimaced, relieving the various stresses from his complaining muscles, while the lady regarded him with sympathetic eyes.
"They're taking a bit of a risk by giving you the key, aren't they?” he said.
"Not really, Master Grimm. You won't be wearing the chains any more, in any case. When you're called for Sacrifice, they put you to sleep somehow."
The Questor stared at the woman. She talks as if this is all perfectly normal!
"How long have you been here, Arland?"
"I've lived all my life here. Of course, it was quite a bit smaller when I was young. Every now and then, you wake up and you see they've added another section to it. I know it looks a little bare here, but the rooms are nice, and we have parties and celebrations sometimes. Tomorrow is my last birthday, and we'll be allowed balloons, garlands and wine. You'll come to my celebration, won't you, Master Grimm?
It is my last birthday, after all."
"Just what do you mean by ‘last birthday', Arland?” Grimm asked, hoping that the obvious answer was the incorrect one.
"Of course, Master Grimm; you're new, and you don't understand,” she said with a proud smile illuminating her face. “I have had a full and productive life. I've given birth to seventeen children for the cause, and my thirty-fifth birthday is tomorrow. We female Breeders aren't allowed any more offspring after that time, so I'll be ready to go to my reward in Uncle's bosom. He will reward me for the fulsome gift I will give him."
Grimm almost staggered with astonishment. She's thirty-five years old? She looks twice that age!
His heart filled with anger and pity for this poor, wizened woman, who should have been in the prime of her life. She's been aged far beyond her years by seventeen enforced births, and she's going to be slaughtered to sate the appetite of a sleeping monster! Yet she sounds as happy as if she were preparing to marry the man of her dreams...
"Arland, don't you even want to get out of here?” he said.
The grey-haired woman's clear, wide-open, blue eyes were at odds with her ancient appearance, and they spoke of astonishment and incomprehension.
"Of course not!” Her eyes were as wide as if Grimm had asked her if she liked to eat baked baby. “How can you say such a thing? This is to be my reward for a lifetime of service! I'll forgive you for your ignorance; you are new here, after all, but I'll thank you to put such thoughts out of your mind at once!
You ought to be happy for me!"
Shaking her head, her eyes moist and hurt, Arland began to walk away. “Wait,” Grimm cried. “Where are my friends?"
Without turning round or speaking, the Breeder indicated a pair of doors with a curt double stab of her right thumb. With that, she was gone.
The nearest portal was a flimsy, wooden structure, and it swung open at Grimm's merest touch.
"Hello, Grimm. Welcome to our new home. How do you like it?"
Guy, unkempt and haggard, stood at the entrance of a room about fifteen feet square, in which were several thin mattresses. On one of the mattresses lay an immobile, supine Tordun, covered by a brown blanket. General Quelgrum and Harvel knelt by the fallen giant, with an ashen Crest and Numal standing by.
"Is he..."
Guy snorted. “Of course not, idiot! Do you think Quelgrum'd be bothering so much over a bloody corpse?"
"He's not far off it, though,” the General said, ignoring the older Questor's sarcastic words. “They took a lot of blood out of him. A weaker man would have died after losing that much. I'm just giving him as much water as I can. I've seen men on the battlefield in this condition. He needs water, sleep and red meat. Still, at least we don't have a major wound and the risk of infection; the bastards took it from his heel, and there's only a tiny cut, clotted shut now."
Grimm envisioned an unending line of such vigils stretching years into an uncertain future.
"We can't put up with this!” he burst out.
"Outstanding, wonder-boy,” Guy drawled. “Why don't we just go and ask them to let us out? You never know, they may have a change in heart!"
"Shut up, Guy!” Numal cried. “We've got enough to handle without your bitching!"
The older Questor rounded on the Necromancer. “Who rattled your cage, Grandfather? Do you fancy a turn around the courtyard with me? Fancy your chances?"
Harvel scrambled to his feet, his face red, and he pushed his face close to Guy's. “Necromancer Numal's right, Questor! We need to keep together, not fight each other!"
"I'll take both of you on at once, if you like,” Guy snarled, blue sparks coruscating around his fingertips.
“We aren't getting out of here alive, and it's about time you realised it!
"Stay where you are, big-ears,” he said, as a weaponless Crest stirred in the corner of the room.
"So, you're just another filthy—” began the half-elf.
"Just shut up, all of you!” Grimm's shout reverberated around the room, and silence reigned for a few moments. “Why don't we just kill each other? That'll teach them, won't it?"
"Got some master-plan, have you, youngster?” Guy snarled. “Please, don't keep us in suspense. We're all dying to hear it, I'm sure."
"Maybe I have,” Grimm replied. “If you'd just shove your ego back into your arse, where it belongs, I might be able to give us a chance of getting out of here."
Guy waved his hands in apparent acquiescence. “All right, marvel-man. So you've got this wonderful plan to wake up Uncle Gruon, snug in his sepulchre, separated from us by thick stone and iron walls. We're all agog to hear this golden idea that we poor imbeciles can't see. Maybe you can just..."
Grimm glared at the older mage, who finally stopped his ranting and shrugged.
"Thank you, Questor Guy,” he said. “No, I don't have a plan to wake Gruon up. But what if we gave him a nightmare instead? I may know how to do that, at least."
"Really, wonder-boy?"
"Really, super-mage. And we'll do it right here, and right now!"
"Can't it wait until Tordun is better?” the General asked.
Grimm shook his head. “I'm afraid not, General. A woman will die tomorrow if I don't try this. It may work, it may make things worse, but I think we're all agreed that we should try to get out of here. We've got to try something, at least."
Guy shrugged. “All right. If you've got some half-brained plan, I suppose we might as well give it a spin!"
Grimm tried not to wince at the term ‘half-brained'. If his hastily-conceived, nascent plan failed, he might well end up like that.
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Chapter 15: Worried Minds
"Please relax, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said, lighting several aromatic candles with a taper and busying himself with rearranging the furniture.
Dalquist, lying on a green, leather-bound couch in the Magemaster's chambers, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. However, he could not ease the nervous fluttering in his stomach; if someone had been tampering with his mind, he wanted to know it.
"Will this take long, Magemaster Kargan?” the Questor asked, as much to fill the silence as to gain information.
"Hmm?"
"I asked if this would take long."
"How long is a piece of string? Depends how deep the information is buried, Questor Dalquist."
"I meant your preparations, Magemaster.” Dalquist did his best to keep his tone neutral and impassive.
“I'm keen to get on with it."
"Most of these things are for my benefit; I need to be in the right frame of mind.” Kargan took a small glass phial from his pocket and broke it under his nose. He inhaled deeply, and his eyes widened.
"Don't worry: this is just a stimulant,” he explained. “I need to stay sharp. The least miscast could ruin the day for both of us.
"Right, I think that's about that. Are you relaxed?"
"About as relaxed as I'm ever likely to get, Magemaster. Can we please start?"
Kargan nodded and perched himself on a tall, wooden stool. From a shelf at his side, he took down a heavy volume and began to riffle through it.
The Mentalist rubbed his nose and nodded. “Ah, let's see what Guladin Dream-stealer can do for us. It's been a while since I cast this one, so bear with me while I just run through it in my head. It'll soon come back to me."
As Kargan began to mutter short, runic phrases, Dalquist looked around the bizarre chamber. He saw drapes and tapestries hanging in a confused riot of colours, and shelves piled high with gewgaws, knick-knacks and figurines. In contrast to this manic disorder were five bookshelves. The books appeared to be arranged in precise order of size, and grouped by author or compiler.
Not for the first time the gulf between ‘normal’ mages and Questors struck Dalquist. The former must learn each spell by rote or recite it from a scroll or spell-book without the least flaw or hesitation. Using his own, unique spell-language, a Questor could cast any spell he could envisage, as long as he had a clear conception of the incantation's mechanism and sufficient power to cast it.
Dalquist had never needed to rehearse one spell in ten active years as a Mage Questor; not all of his enchantments had succeeded, but at least he need not worry about the agonies that the least mistake in casting might cost an ordinary, runic magic-user.
"Right!” Kargan carolled, rubbing his hands together. “I'm pretty sure I have it straight now. Close your eyes and think pleasant thoughts."
Dalquist did as the Magemaster bade him, trying to imagine sunny summer fields and cheerful birdsong as Kargan began to chant or, rather, sing. It was an intricate sequence of runes, woven together into a cohesive whole by complex trills and passing-notes. It would have tied a tyro's tongue in knots, and Dalquist admired the skilful way Kargan negotiated the treacherous labyrinth of sounds. The man was a master, and his voice was a clear, strong, flawless baritone, flowing easily from one passage to another as his eyes scanned the page.
So where's the pay-off? Dalquist wondered. I don't feel the least bit different yet. I can open my eyes any time I want to. So much for the skills of a Seventh Level Mentalist! I guess a Questor's mind is too hard to crack...
In a moment, we're ... I'm ... we're...
* * * *
Kargan sang the last syllable with the deep satisfaction engendered by the knowledge that he had cast a complex and difficult spell without the least error. His mind was enmeshed with Dalquist's, yet he retained the upper hand, the dominant presence. He put the book back on the shelf, making his movements as gentle and economical as possible, as if he might otherwise sever the gossamer tendrils linking the two mages.
"We are together, Questor Dalquist, and nothing can harm you here. You are safe, and you will remember without fear. How do you feel, my son?” he said, in a soft voice.
Dalquist's tone was distant and dreamy as he replied, “Strange ... good."
"Are you afraid?"
"Not any more. I feel calm and happy."
"Excellent. Tell me what troubles you."
Almost as a child reciting a nursery rhyme, the Questor answered him. “Shakkar told me my friend, Questor Grimm, might be in trouble, and I ignored him. When he mentioned Prioress Lizaveta, it was as if a shutter closed over my mind."
Kargan leaned closer to the Questor. “Tell me all you know about Prioress Lizaveta. Remember, Dalquist, nothing can harm you here."
A dreamy smile wafted across the ensorcelled mage's face. “Nothing can harm me here,” he parroted. “I was with Questor Grimm at High Lodge. Prioress Lizaveta was there. She controls the Order of Divine Serenity. I had just been granted the seventh ring. Grimm became very fond of one of the Prioress’ young nuns."
Kargan started.
"What?"
The single word ripped from his lips, unbidden. Such liaisons were strictly forbidden to Guild Mages, since they could lead to the loss of a sorcerer's power.
"She was called Madeleine, and she was very pretty, but I thought she had cast some kind of witch spell on Grimm. I was angry, and I went to see Prioress Lizaveta in her chamber..."
Dalquist's mouth shut with an audible snap, and Kargan began to feel some resistance from the young Questor.
"It is safe to remember, Questor Dalquist. You are safe here."
Dalquist remained immobile and speechless.
"What happened in Prioress Lizaveta's chamber?” Kargan raised his voice a little but remained calm.
“You can tell me."
"I—she told me everything was all right.” The Questor seemed to struggle to get the words out.
“Everything was all right ... it was just a harmless friendship. I am a nasty, narrow-minded, suspicious little man."
This isn't a memory, it's a bloody recitation, the Mentalist thought, and his head began to throb as the younger mage's resistance grew.
"Describe the room,” he demanded in a sterner tone. “Describe Prioress Lizaveta."
"It's a very nice room,” Dalquist said. “She's a very nice lady ... oh! My head aches.” The last words were spoken in a plaintive whine.
The ache in Kargan's own head rose to an agonising tumult. If he did not get results soon, he would have to cut the connection. He took a sip of water from a glass on the table at his right side and continued.
"You are safe here,” he repeated, his voice beginning to rasp. “You will tell me what I want to know.
You cannot resist me, and you don't want to."
"No more ... no more!"
"Tell me!"
"Get your filthy, prying, male magic out of my head!” Dalquist spat, in a harsh, crackling voice, quite unlike his usual tone. “Get OUT!
The invisible tendrils, stretched to their limit, broke, and Kargan fell back in his chair.
"So that's the game, is it?” he muttered, massaging his temples and grimacing.
Dalquist opened his eyes, his face relaxed and calm. “Did you find anything, Magemaster Kargan?"
"I certainly did, Questor Dalquist. You've got a Blocking spell on you, a strong one. All I know at the moment is that a lady called Prioress Lizaveta is likely to be behind it. Are you ready to dig further?"
"I thought that spell was supposed to do the trick.” Dalquist seemed none the worse for wear.
Kargan growled, “It should have done, but I'm not a Seventh Level Mentalist for nothing.
"Questor Dalquist, your memories have been manipulated somehow, by what I can only guess is some Geomantic spell, but I'm pretty sure they're still there. Otherwise, I wouldn't have felt such resistance from you. Do you want to give up now, or will you submit to further spells?"
Dalquist nodded, his expression grave. “Whatever it takes, Magemaster."
Kargan cleared his throat. “I feel it only right to tell you that the spells will become more and more difficult to cast as I begin to go through my magical armoury. I started with the simplest spell I knew that was likely to bring worthwhile results. As the complexity and power grows, there is a very real chance that a miscast will seriously impair both our minds. I'm confident enough on the first few incantations I'll try, and I should be able to use some suitable cadences to get out of some of the others if I start to run into problems. But I may need some very powerful, dangerous spells in the end."
"Whatever it takes, Magemaster,” Dalquist repeated, meeting Kargan's level gaze. “I must know. If you're willing to risk it, so am I. If you'd rather take a rest, I understand."
Kargan shook his head. “I've still got plenty of power on board, Questor, so don't worry there. It's the increasing complexity that may be the problem. Some of the very strongest spells have only ever been cast by their originators, illustrious mages like Kharos and Bledel. Nobody else'll touch them with a bargepole."
Dalquist whistled. The two mages Kargan had mentioned were legends in the Guild panoply of heroes.
Even he, as a mighty Questor, had heard of them, and he respected their memories with reverence.
"Perhaps it would be better if we just—"
Kargan cut him off with a swipe of his hand. “Questor Dalquist, I'm an old man, even for a common-or-garden Mentalist, but I'm still a Mage of the Seventh Rank, and I have my pride. I've studied all the greats in my field, and I believe I know the way they think. I may only have a few decades remaining to me, but I'm no jabbering retard yet. If I could say I'd mastered these spells, I'd be a happy, proud man, but I'm not stupid enough to contemplate tossing away my brain for the sake of pride.
"As I said, there's a real risk involved. We're not just talking about a bad headache here, but blank-eyed, drooling madness or worse. So I don't want you just to say ‘yes’ without thinking about it. Believe me: if you don't want to do this, I'd rather you said so."
Dalquist sat up and steepled his hands under his bearded chin. He knew now he had been ensorcelled.
But was that knowledge alone enough?
No! he thought. A part of my life's been stolen from me. I've been used as a puppet by some witch, and I don't even know what else of her influence remains within me. I'd rather go blind or mad than betray Grimm or my Guild because I was weak. I'll live as a whole man, or not at all.
"Go as deep as you dare, Magemaster Kargan,” he said. “I'm in your hands."
Kargan rubbed his hands and stretched. “I'm glad you said that, Dalquist, but I expected no less from a true Questor. We'll try a little trick of Wersam the Adamant's next. This one's not too hard, but it's a little strange. This time, I'll be you, and you'll just be an onlooker. Are you ready? Good. Lie down, shut your eyes again, and we'll start. Wellan ... Wemus ... ah, here it is."
* * * *
