Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (37 page)

"Tordun,” called Grimm, who had chosen to dress in cool, lightweight, silk riding clothes. “Do you come from a cold region? If you don't mind me saying, you seem a little overdressed for this weather."

"I feel uncomfortable in these thick clothes, Questor,” the giant rumbled, “but bright sunlight is not kind to my skin or my eyes. I would rather be broiled in my own juices than done to a turn in the sunlight. Don't worry: it will not affect my efficacy as a fighter. I have had to dress in this manner, in all weathers, since I was a child, and during my extensive training."

Grimm wondered if his Questor magic could allow the albino to ride in comfort. He had never tried his hand at Weatherworking, but he considered trying to blot out the sun with a dark cloud. However, he remembered Dalquist once saying that such magic was best left to the Specialists. A Mage Questor was best suited to destructive spells, and such an attempt might swamp the party with torrential rain, turning the firm, dry trail to an impassable quagmire. Not a desirable situation, Grimm decided.

"Could you not cover your skin with a dark pigment, such as greasepaint, Tordun?” he asked.

"I've tried it,” grunted the swordsman. “My skin burns just as easily." Grimm's thoughts turned to a book that he had read many years ago, as a Student. It had talked of

‘black light', and he had found this oxymoronic phrase incomprehensible at the time. More recently, he had read of areas of the world that spawned strange and fantastic travesties of animals and plants and caused people to suffer from some strange affliction that seemed to emanate from the very ground. It was said that short exposures to this pervasive illness produced an effect akin to severe sunburn. Perhaps the sickness was allied to the ‘black light'—something unseen and insidious that could penetrate substances that visible light could not.

If I could only understand this ‘black light',
Grimm thought,
I might be able to devise some magical
palliative.

The miles passed in silence while Grimm cogitated. From the position of the sun, he guessed the group would reach Griven within three or four hours. As the party rode through a clearing in a small copse, a short, brown-clad man jumped in front of the riders, apparently unarmed and waving his hands in the air. Xylox reined in his whinnying horse and the others followed suit.

"What do you want?” the senior mage demanded.

"We would like to discuss your purpose in this region,” the small man replied.

"
We?
” Xylox queried. “You are alone. Our purpose is no business of anybody but ourselves." The short man chuckled. “There are bowmen and swordsmen hidden in the trees,” he said. “You're surrounded."

Xylox snorted. “Know that you have chosen your prey unwisely, footpad. You interrupt the passage of two Guild Mages at your peril. Step aside, and cease this foolishness."

"My patience is not inexhaustible,” he added, as the man made no effort to stand aside. “Leave while you yet may."

"Dear me! Why do you utter such unfriendly words to a man who merely wishes to talk to you?

Dismount and allow me to put a proposition to you: a proposition to everybody's advantage." Grimm scanned the trees with his Mage Sight. He saw at least a dozen men hidden in the trees on all sides, and he had little doubt that Xylox was also aware of this.

"I prefer to remain mounted, thief. I will make no compact with you,” the senior Questor declared. The infuriating, cheerful-looking little man tilted his head to one side as if appraising Xylox's deepest import. “I'd strongly recommend that you dismount, Questor. Let me assure you that I have no intention of robbing you. I just wish to give you a little friendly advice concerning your Guild colleagues. The ones you're looking for?"

With a start, Grimm felt the mind of Xylox inside his head.
Questor Grimm: dismount, but do nothing
until I give the word. Trust me. I have the situation under control.
Out loud, the older thaumaturge said, “Very well. You seem to hold all the aces at this time.” Turning to the others, he called out “Dismount, and do nothing hasty."

The small man blanched a little when the full bulk of the giant Tordun became apparent, as the pale warrior dismounted.

"Slowly, snowball!” he snapped. “I wouldn't want my men's fingers to slip on their bowstrings." Grimm felt the tension rising, as the albino bristled at the insult, moving his hand to his sword, and the mage saw Crest's hand creeping towards his dagger-filled bandolier.

"Easy, gentlemen,” Grimm muttered. “Questor Xylox has something in mind, though I've no idea what. Just be ready."

Xylox approached the small man, who held up a hand, the smile back on his face. “That's quite far enough, mage, thank you very much."

"Very well,” the Questor growled, folding his arms across his chest. “Speak."

"My name is Choan” the man said. “I represent a ...
business concern
, which your ex-colleagues have recently joined. It is a private company, and your friends were offered attractive benefits to join. They are in no danger."

"I will believe that when I hear it from them in person.” Xylox's tone was icy and dangerous.

"Impossible, I'm afraid,” Choan said, still smiling. “Their new employer, who is also my employer, asked me to tell you that your friends are quite happy, and they do not wish to be disturbed. They say that they have served your Guild for long enough. The director of the company takes very good care of his employees, many of whom are powerful magic-users. In return, they would do almost anything for him. Do I make myself clear?"

"Abundantly,” Xylox replied. He began to step towards Choan.

"No further, mage,” the short man warned. “My bowmen have instructions to shoot if I am harmed." Xylox held out his hand and muttered. His staff flew from a scabbard on his horse's flank and into his hand. “I do not react well to threats,” he growled.

With a determined air, he strode once more towards Choan.

"Er, Xylox,” Grimm called, uncertain. “There are definitely bowmen..." At that moment, four cloth-yard arrows flew from the undergrowth towards the mage. Just as it seemed that he was about to be skewered, the arrows stopped, hovered for a moment and then flew back into the undergrowth. A chorus of screams arose from the bushes as Xylox grabbed the hapless Choan in a grip of iron.

Six swordsmen ran from the bushes, with their weapons drawn and murder in their eyes. Before Grimm or Crest could react, Tordun drew his sword from the scabbard on his back and charged, scattering the swordsmen converging on Xylox. With a mighty roar, he pulled his sword though a great arc, and the six bladesmen fell to the ground, their bodies all but severed at the waist. At the terrified Choan, vainly struggling to escape Xylox's strong grip, the giant waved the gory blade. “I don't like being called ‘snowball',” he growled.

"I'm sorry,” the trembling man squeaked.

"You will be a lot sorrier if you fail to give us some answers, Choan,” Xylox vowed. “Master Crest, would you be as kind as to watch the trail in case of further intruders, so we shall not be disturbed?

Thank you.

"Now, Choan, if your answers do not satisfy me, I shall give you to our large friend, Tordun, for his entertainment. I advise you to tell the truth, since you should be aware that we mages have our ways of detecting lies. Do you understand?"

Choan licked his lips and flicked his gaze towards the irate Tordun.

"Do lie,” the albino breathed. “We could have so much fun together."

"Stop struggling, Choan,” Xylox chided. “It will do you no good. Questor Grimm, if you would be kind enough as to employ your Mage Sight and tell me when our friend is lying?"

"That will be a pleasure, Questor Xylox,” Grimm said, engaging his magical sixth sense.

"Now, let us start with an easy question,” Xylox rumbled. “Who is your employer?"

"He's a warrior,” Choan squeaked. “General Sleafel Quelgrum: they call him General Q." Grimm nodded, signifying that Choan was telling the truth or, at least, that he thought he was.

"Did the mages willingly join him?” Xylox demanded, shaking his prisoner. “The truth, now!"

"N-no, the general had them pacified first."

"
Pacified?
What is that?"

"I don't know,” Choan cried. “He gave them some sort of invitation they couldn't refuse, and then he did something to their minds. He's interested in mind control; I don't know why." Xylox turned to Grimm. “Is he telling the truth?"

"I think so, Questor Xylox...” Grimm paused, and his brows wrinkled in puzzlement. “His mind's not whole!” he exclaimed. “There is some sort of control network running through his head. It's..." Choan jerked into rigidity, his eyes staring. The would-be assassin gurgled and then slumped in Xylox's arms.

"He is dead!” the Questor exclaimed, inspecting his unmoving ward.

"I imagine General Q didn't want Choan to tell us any more,” Grimm said. “I just wonder how he knew we were coming."

"Perhaps somebody in Drute sent a message ahead of us,” Xylox hazarded.

"It was not I,” Tordun declared. “Feel free to use your truth-magic on me."

"I know,” Xylox replied. “I have already done so for both you and Master Crest." Although Grimm knew such an act to be outside the bounds of Guild protocol, he recognised Xylox's act as just another expression of contempt for those he regarded as his inferiors. Xylox rose to his full height and let Choan's stiff body topple to the ground. He spoke a few words of his own Questor thought-language, and the corpses dissolved into a fine dust that drifted away on the soft, warm breeze.

"A useful spell,” Grimm observed. He had a similar spell of his own, but he could not see how to use it on more than one object at a time.

"I call it my spell of ‘Area Dissolution',” Xylox said, puffing out his chest. “It can be useful for the speedy disposal of waste."

"What did you do to turn back those arrows, Questor Xylox?” Grimm asked. “I heard you cast no spell."

Xylox opened the neck of his robe and pulled out a red pendant on a gold chain. To the naked eye the gem might appear unimpressive, but Grimm's Mage Sight revealed the power within it, and he whistled in appreciation.

"A self-powered charm of Projectile Repulsion,” the senior mage explained. “They are not easy to find, and this one cost me a small fortune, but I feel much safer wearing it. It was this little trinket that gave me the confidence to grab Choan. It automatically returns a projectile to its source. If the bowman is a good shot, he dies."

"I must get one of those,” Grimm breathed. He had considered the hidden bowmen a major threat, but Xylox's little trinket meant that the mage need never fear such attacks.

"So what now, Lord Questor?” Tordun rumbled, having carefully cleaned his blade and sheathed it.

“How do we find this General Q? It sounds as if we may need a bigger group."

"We carry on to Griven, as we are,” Xylox declared. “Let us see what we can find out there about the General."

The group mounted up and prepared to move out.

"Just one thing, Questor Xylox,” Grimm called. “What would you have done if Choan had fully answered all of your questions?"

"I would have told Tordun to make his death quick and painless,” the older magic-user replied. “He made a bad mistake by taking on a pair of Guild Questors with such inadequate forces. Such stupidity does not deserve to live."

"He called me ‘snowball',” Tordun growled ominously. “If your friend Xylox hadn't got to him first, he would have found that an even bigger mistake."

Grimm had new respect for the formidable albino as the party continued south towards the town of Griven. He could tell the pale giant had spoken the truth, even without using his Mage Sight.

A battered, faded sign announced the outskirts of the town of Griven. Small numbers of huts and houses, seemingly scattered at random, gave way to small groups of dwellings in a regimented, grid-like formation. The rutted road widened out and became smoother the nearer they drew to the town centre. Grimm saw a dilapidated hut at the side of the road, beside which sat a man of late middle age, dressed in dry, cracked leather armour, a dented steel helm and roughly-patched trousers terminating at his knees.

On noticing the group's approach, the man drew himself up from his canvas seat and stepped into the road, a serviceable but heavily-notched halberd held at an angle across his chest. Xylox reined in the party.

"Welcome to Griven,” the guard wheezed, in a voice that spoke of decades of worship at the shrine of tobacco smoke. “I would like to ask you a few questions as to the purpose of your visit."

"Of course,” Xylox replied. “Ask your questions."

The guard cleared his throat with some difficulty and drew a grubby piece of paper and a stubby pencil from a small leather satchel at his side.

"Are you all together?"

"Yes.” The guard filled in a box on the sheet with laboured strokes of the pencil, his furrowed brow and silently moving lips indicating that literacy might not be his strong point.

"How long will you be staying?"

"We are just passing through. However, we may stay for a day or two depending on how pleasant we find the town."

The guard ran a finger slowly down the page. “That isn't on the list, I'm afraid, Lord Mage. Can I say

‘three days'?"

Xylox waved his hand in a gesture of mild impatience. “As you will, gatekeeper."

"Is the purpose of your visit business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure,” the Questor replied firmly. “Have you many more of these questions to ask? Our time is precious."

"Only ... forty ... forty-three more to go,” the guard wheezed with a cheerful grin. “Do you have any externally produced or purchased goods to declare?"

"No,” Xylox said. “But I am a swift reader and writer. If you would be good enough as to give me the form, we might be able to get this over with a little sooner."

The guard's face assumed an expression almost of panic. “Oh, no, Lord Mage, I couldn't allow that. Job demarcation, you know.” The guard collapsed into an extended paroxysm of violent coughing.