Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (13 page)

* * * *.

Grimm awoke well before that time, as the want for Virion and Trina once more began to gnaw at his vitals. A single word lighted the oil lamp beside his bed. The Questor reached for the pipe, filled it, and lit it with another burst of thought-language. Although he wanted more, he settled for three puffs of the acrid smoke; his head and stomach settled, leaving only a vague unease.

The room held a basic washbasin, a large ewer of cold water and a gritty bar of soap, which, to some travellers, might have seemed intolerable, especially since the room was frigid in the early morning air, and the water in the ewer was covered in a thin layer of ice. However, to a former charity Student, habituated to the rigours of a pauper's cell in the Arnor House Scholasticate, this was a normal beginning to the day. Grimm's Scholasticate morning ritual, familiar and comforting, took hold of him as if he were in the grip of a spell.

The first matter at hand was the condition of his clothes. He took an old brush from his pack, branded with his Student number, 17, and he brushed all traces of the trail from his garments. He inspected the robes with minute scrutiny, finding a number of small rents and tears, but a little deft needlework rendered these all but invisible and acceptable even to the critical eye of an inspecting Magemaster. Although Grimm had, on occasion, been allowed to luxuriate in hot baths once he had reached the status of Adept, he had had many years in which to learn to enjoy the invigorating sting of icy water in the morning. Cracking the ice on the ewer, he took forth the rough soap and scrubbed himself thoroughly, then rubbing his body vigorously with the large towel provided until his skin shone a glowing pink. Grimm dressed himself and began the business of attending to his hair and beard with scissors, brush and comb. Since he saw no mirror in the room, he had to assess the results by touch, but he felt satisfied with the result at last. He tied back his long queue with a strip of rawhide and sat cross-legged on the bed, breaking his fast with dry biscuits and pemmican from his pack and water from his goatskin. He brushed the crumbs from his beard and robes and smiled at the first cockcrow of the new day. Despite a slight nagging in his entrails he felt in good spirits, ready to face the world. He secured his belongings and shouldered his pack, took a deep breath and made his way down to the bar to wait for his companions. Harvel was already in the bar, which looked pleasant with the early rays of the sun highlighting the walls in cheerful, ruddy hues.

"Good morning, Harvel, he said. “Did you sleep well?"

"Like a babe, Questor. I sank enough liquor last night to founder a galleon. Most men would be comatose on the morning after ingesting such prodigious amounts of strong drink, but I am here, hale and hearty as ever, with no ill effects save a slight headache."

"I'm glad you're feeling well, Harvel. I can relieve you of the headache, if you wish." Harvel would have none of it. “It tells me I'm alive, mage. Thank you for the offer, but I think I'll keep the headache for now, if you don't mind. Besides, I don't like the idea of having somebody walk through my brain."

His tone might be a little brusque, but maybe the alcohol Harvel had consumed the night before had had more effect on him than he was willing to admit.

"Where's the landlord, Harvel?” Grimm asked, trying to make conversation.

"I'm sure I don't know, Questor. Perhaps he's bemoaning the loss of his trade, now his customers are no longer forced to stay here. Perhaps he tried to match me drink for drink last night. How would I know where he is?"

"Are you all right, swordsman? Are you sure you won't accept my spell after all? Or are you just annoyed that I threw up over you yesterday?"

Harvel sighed. “Oh, it's nothing you've done, Questor Grimm. I've frequented bars all my life, and you're not the first man to spill his lunch over me. I'm a little worried about Crest. I was brought up by hateful foster parents who were only too eager to throw me out when I reached the age of fourteen. On my fourteenth birthday, I turned up at the doorstep to find my belongings in a sack outside the door.

"I've never settled down, and I never could find the right woman. One-night stands are about my limit. But Crest is like the brother I never had. We've fought at each other's side many times now, and there's no man I'd rather have by me in a fight. If he dies, I'll have nobody." Harvel's tone was faraway, almost a whisper, and his gaze glassy, but then his brow furrowed, as if he had remembered his role. “Mind you, if you repeat as much as a word of what I've told you, Questor, I'll skin you alive, and throttle you with your own sinews, mage or no."

"Don't worry, Harvel,” Grimm said, smiling. “If you want, I'll tell Crest you spent the night celebrating his pending demise and waiting for the chance to dance on his grave. I'm no blabbermouth; the Magemasters in my House frown on idle tittle-tattle. I've been in a hard school, and your secret's safe with me. Herbalist Threval seemed quite satisfied with Crest's condition yesterday. I'm sure he'll be all right." At that moment, Crest walked down the stairs, a little weary-looking but wearing a facial expression threatening murder to anyone who mentioned the fact.

Harvel's expression brightened in a moment.

"Crest, you lazy sod! Having back trouble, as in ‘you can't get off it'?" The swordsman ran forward to take the elf in a bear hug, and then seemed to think better of it.

"Harvel, you bibulous old fool!” Crest cried. “Is it last night's drink doing the talking, or have you started again?"

Within the space of a heartbeat, the two were again trading insults, as if nothing had happened, and Grimm felt a broad smile spreading over his mouth.

The young mage turned around, hearing footsteps behind him, and he offered a polite nod to Dalquist as the older Questor stepped into the bar.

"Crest is well again,” he cried. “Isn't that wonderful news?" Dalquist nodded, smiling and taking the elf's right hand in a firm, friendly grasp.

"It is indeed, Questor Grimm! Why, I feared you were all but dead, Crest. It is good to see you standing on your feet again. How do you feel?"

Crest shrugged. “Thank you, Questor. I feel a bit weak, but not too much worse than I might after a long night on the tiles. I'm ready for just about anything, but I think I
could
do with some breakfast before we leave."

Harvel nodded. “I hate to agree with you, Crest, but that sounds like a wonderful plan. I guess the landlord is still in his bed, but I'll wake him up, if you like."

"Do it, Harvel,” Crest advised. “I'm starving."

"I feel a little hungry, too,” Grimm admitted.

"Some food
would
be welcome,” Dalquist said. “Do you know where the man sleeps? I think he owes us at least a final meal before we leave here, after all we've done for this town." Harvel pointed towards a small door at the back of the bar. “I'm sure he lives through there,” he said.

“Don't worry; I'll have some breakfast waiting here for us in a minute." The swordsman ran toward the bar and
bounced
backward, sitting down with a heavy thump.

"What in the Names...” Harvel spat, and Crest laughed.

"I thought you could hold your liquor better than that, Harvel! Maybe you—"

"That wasn't drink, elf,” Harvel interjected, scrambling to his feet. From the warrior's wide eyes and chalk-white face, Grimm knew this was no jape. “I tell you, I hit a solid wall in the middle of an empty room!"

The thief raised his right eyebrow in apparent disbelief and opened his mouth to speak. Before a word emerged, Dalquist stepped forward and waved his hands in an almost frantic manner, and the elf stayed his tongue.

"Harvel did not lie, Crest,” the Questor said. “My Mage Sight tells me there is a magical ward around this tavern—a powerful one. It is all around us—we are trapped!"

Harvel frowned and strode to the door. The handle refused to budge. The swordsman stepped back, tried a mighty shoulder-charge and rebounded, earning nothing but a bruised shoulder. The door was sold oak, four inches thick and cross-braced, and the four hinges were made of study wrought iron. Crest's probed with his lock-picks and swore the door was unlocked.

"Stand aside!” Grimm cried, loosing a spell at the portal. The magic power splashed against the ward and bounced.

"Duck!” he yelled as the spell splashed back and spent itself uselessly against shelves of bottles, turning them into glittering dust. Harvel and Crest seemed unimpressed by this spectacular but dangerous
tour
de force
.

Dalquist stepped forward. “That was a careless choice of magic, Questor Grimm! What we need is a non-reflective spell, not a third-order Fulminary!

"I call this charm
Insidious Chaos
,” he continued, sounding as if he were lecturing a group of indolent Students. “In runic magic, it might be considered an Invasive form of the second instance." A long burst of thought-language sent sinuous tendrils of force burrowing into the wood, but the permeating magic absorbed them in a second.

* * * *

For twenty minutes, the two Questors tried a number of spells on the door, the windows, the floor and the ceiling. The magic had no effect, except to raise the temperature in the tavern until everybody began to sweat. A moment of hope arose when the floor behind the bar shattered at Dalquist's command, but the liquor cellar's stone walls proved an impassable barrier, as did the attic ceiling. Grimm sent a tendril of force up through the chimney, but it was absorbed in an instant.

Finally, both Grimm and Dalquist admitted defeat.

"Have you any ideas, Harvel?” Dalquist asked, with a tired sigh. The swordsman shrugged. “A rapier is good for many things, Lord Mage, but heavy-duty demolition work is not among them."

Crest shook his head. “My whip can open a man's skin to the bones, but I don't think it will do much against solid oak or masonry. Perhaps the windows might respond to a little persuasion?" Uncoiling the glistening, black length of his whip, Crest let fly with a skilful, practiced flick of the wrist. No sound arose as the weapon struck the glass, and not even the slightest fissure appeared in the window.

Their resources thwarted, the adventurers slumped into chairs and sat, unspeaking for many minutes. Grimm felt anxiousness growing within him, as a hint of claustrophobia began to rise. He took the pipe and sucked in another dose of the acrid smoke, rather sooner than he had wished to do so. As the drugs took hold once more, his head cleared and his thoughts began to sharpen. Eyes blazing with drug-fuelled intensity, Grimm spun round to face his brother Questor. “Information, Dalquist. A demon of information is what we need! He might be able to tell us what we need to know to defeat the ward."

Dalquist frowned. “I have to bow to your greater knowledge, Brother Mage. I admit I've never been interested in Diabolism, but your idea appears unfeasible to me. It seems no magic can pass in or out of this building. How could you possibly summon a demon through this ward? From what I can remember of Elementary Diabolism, you have to travel to the demon-lands, and I have already tried Astral Projection without success."

Grimm smiled. Although the Magemasters had taught him only the very basic rules of Diabolism, as they had with Dalquist, the ancient tome called the
Omnidaemoniad
had been one of his favourite books in the Scholasticate library. Although no demon-master, he felt his Questor's sleight and his book-learning might bring success. In any case, he had nothing to lose.

"The demon-lands are separated from our world in dimension only, Dalquist,” he said. “Just like Starmor's prison-worlds were.

"In a sense, part of the Netherworld is in here with us, but outside the three-dimensional framework of the ward. I only need to create a small rift in the four-dimensional continuum and extend a portion of my psyche into it. Although I might be able only to stretch my mind a small way into the demon dimension, I should be able to make contact and bring back at least some kind of demon. This I can do without leaving this room."

"And why should any demon want to aid us, Questor? I imagine many of their kind have little liking for us mortals,” Harvel said, looking somewhat nervous. “If you were to succeed, what of the danger of bringing back some human-hating monster that might tear us to pieces—a demon like your hot-headed friend, Shakkar?"

"As I understand it, Harvel,” Grimm replied, “a demon can only pass into this world if the caller wills it. Their auras are pretty similar to a human's, and I should easily be able to detect hatred or deception before I allowed a hostile demon to pass into our world. In any case, I think I could only open a very small portal; a titan like Shakkar could never pass through. A Specialist Diabolist of high rank might be able to summon an
army
of such demons and force them to do his bidding, but I'm no such Specialist. A small demon of Information, however, may be all we require to effect our escape." Dalquist shrugged. Grimm sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes vacant but meditative.
'Let the magic
find its own route,'
was one of a Questor's watchwords.

As a Student, Grimm had often tried to envisage spatial dimensions outside the three to which he was accustomed, yet still enmeshed with them. Although he had always failed in this exercise, he now had the benefit of a Questor's mind-training to help him. A thought-word, more like a hiccup, escaped his mouth, and Grimm felt as if his mind had turned inside out.

* * * *

A mad confusion assailed Grimm Afelnor's physical eyes, but his Mage Sight revealed a grand cityscape, garlanded with graceful cupolas and exotic palaces. Demons milled around a city square not unlike that of Crar. A soupy, orange mist clouded his magical vision, and he could make out few details of the distant, milling demons, none of whom seemed to notice him. Ignoring the clamorous confusion of sound assaulting his ears, the Questor concentrated his attention on the thoughts of the demon horde, trying to find a suitable subject. As he felt the faint pulsing of such a mind, he began to restrict his mental search further and further until he felt sure he had located the demon of information he sought.
Demon,
he thought, trying to project his mind toward the specific creature he had sensed.
My
companions and I are trapped within a mage's ward. We need your help. Will you come back with
me to the human world and aid us with information? We are willing to pay you with gold, or
anything else we have that you might covet.