Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (41 page)

He yearned to gorge himself on the bitter, acrid, soothing smoke of Trina and Virion, but he knew he could not do so and still claim his mind as his own. This made his temper even worse.

"Oh, suit yourself then, you stupid boy!” the girl snapped, turning away from him. That's all you are, a stupid boy moping as if his favourite toy's been taken away. You look like a dying duck in a thunderstorm!"

Drexelica's irate words struck home: Grimm knew she had spoken the truth. This knowledge did little to assuage his misery.

The last few, straggling houses of Griven gave way to a wide, open plain, and the trail stretched far away towards the imposing Shest Mountains. The young mage began to indulge his maudlin introspection more and more.

If I die here, who would mourn my passing?
Grimm wondered.
Nobody, it seems...
Crest reined in and came alongside Grimm's horse. “What's the matter, Questor Grimm? It's a lovely day. You might as well enjoy it while you can. It'll be cold and cloudy in the mountains, and we'll be there soon enough."

"Don't you start, Crest!” Grimm snarled. “I'm alright."

"Fair enough, Questor,” Crest said with a shrug. “After all, I'm only the hired help, aren't I? You sure that horse is high enough for you?"

Grimm did not respond. Crest's tone was cold, but the elf's opinion of him seemed immaterial.

"You can stew in your own juice for as long as you want, as far as I'm concerned. When you do decide to rejoin the human race, be sure to let me know, won't you?"

Clicking to his horse, the half-elven whipmaster returned to his place at the left wing of the party without a backward glance.

* * * *

After five hours’ ride, the trail petered out into a rocky, scree-covered slope that led into the foothills of the mountains. Grimm urged his horse alongside Xylox's. He did not want to talk to the unpleasant mage, but he was determined to play the role of Questor to the last.

Xylox did not deign to face his younger colleague. “Yes, Questor Grimm, what is it?” His voice was neutral; perhaps it would not be good for discipline to demonstrate his low opinion of Grimm to ‘the hired help', Crest and Tordun.

"Have you given any thought as to how we will camp down tonight, Questor Xylox?” Grimm asked.

“We do not possess a tent, and there is no chance of reaching Glabra by nightfall."

"I will raise a ward around us to protect us from the elements,” the older man replied, adjusting his position as his horse skittered on the increasingly treacherous trail. “I have such a spell contained in my staff, Nemesis; once activated, it requires little energy to maintain it, and I can even do so in my sleep. Do not concern yourself, Questor Grimm. Everything is in hand."

Disconsolate, Grimm returned to the rear of the party. It seemed as if Xylox were trying to marginalise him, to remove him of all responsibility in the conduct of the Quest. Drex tried a few more conversational gambits, but Grimm felt even less inclined to talk than before, as the trail wound upwards into the mountains. As riding conditions worsened and the altitude increased, the girl fell silent, the only noises being the crunch of the horses’ hooves on the loose scree and the panting of the riders. The bright sun of mid-afternoon became blotted out by cold clouds that dampened Grimm's clothes and made him shiver. Although he was wearing sensible riding clothes, they were not intended to protect against such conditions. He could feel Drexelica shivering, nestling close against his back in an attempt to draw some heat from his body. He lent her one of his cloaks to try to minimise the heat loss from her small body, but her teeth began to chatter. Nonetheless, he did not hear a single complaint from her. The giant Tordun, at least, was well covered up, and his large body provided him with some protection against the cold, but the slender Crest writhed in evident discomfort. The elf's head lolled from one side to the other, and he often clasped his hands over his exposed ears. As for Xylox, the senior mage seemed as imperturbable as the mountains themselves, and Grimm thought that ‘cold rock’ described the Questor's heart well. He hoped the unpleasant thaumaturge was suffering as much as the rest of the group, but he doubted it. Xylox was like stone.

* * * *

At last, even though at least two hours of sunlight remained, even the redoubtable Xylox flagged. By this time, Grimm suffered waves of nausea and bouts of double vision.

"That will do for today,” the older mage gasped, his face as impassive as ever, but ashen. “Let us make camp here. Questor Grimm, be so good as to clear a space for us." Grimm slid from the saddle in a barely-controlled tumble, fighting to stay conscious. He had no idea what caused this disorientation, but he could see that he was not alone in his affliction: Drex slumped over the back of Grimm's horse, Crest was reeling and even the mighty Tordun showed traces of blood on his upper lip, and his pink eyes seemed glazed and febrile.

It took Grimm five attempts to clear snow from an area of the rock, using his normally dependable Flame spell, and felt a flush of relief when he succeeded. Lifting Drex from his horse—she seemed to weigh little more than a feather—the mage carried her to the rough circle, and Tordun did the same with Crest. Xylox, his eyes bloodshot and dull, managed to evoke his ward, which kept the biting wind from the party, and their body heat soon brought the internal temperature to a bearable level. Grimm assumed that the cold was the reason for the strange illness that seemed to have affected the adventurers, and he waited for his head to clear as his shivers ceased.

It did not, and Grimm felt shocked to see a small trickle of blood running from Drex's open mouth. Within an hour, Xylox's ward failed, and the older mage was unable to muster sufficient power to resurrect it. Grimm tried to produce a similar magical construct of his own, but he failed. At least he no longer felt the cold, only a muzzy feeling that sent waves of torpor through his limbs. All he needed to do was sleep.
Sleep
...

Grimm Afelnor had one last thought before consciousness faded:
I'm sorry, Granfer Loras; I failed. I
wanted so much to redeem the name of Afelnor, and I tried my best. It just wasn't enough.

At least I didn't end my days in disgrace...

This last thought brought Grimm a small glimmer of contentment. Now, Xylox could not carry out his threat to break him. He would, at least, die as a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank. His head felt as heavy as a lump of concrete, but he managed to turn it to see Redeemer lying in the snow, her five rings gleaming with fierce pride. After a few minutes of gazing at his beloved Mage Staff, Grimm could no longer keep his eyes open, and a deep blackness descended upon him.

* * * *

Powdery snow rippled in sinuous tendrils around the five motionless figures huddled on the mountaintop, and the light began to fade. Layer upon layer of stark, implacable peaks stretched as far as the eye could see, and the only sound to be heard was the howl of the biting winds.

Alastair Archibald began to write ‘The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster’ fifteen years ago in a series of French hotel bars while travelling abroad on business. After joining fanstory.com in 2004, the single book,
A Mage in the Making
soon bloomed into a seven-book series. In 2005, Alastair became the FanStory Author of the Year.

Book 1 in the series was published by Whiskey Creek Press in March 2007, and Book 2 was published in September 2007. The remaining five books are due to be published in the period 2008-2009, with Book 3,
Questor
scheduled for release in March 2008.

Alastair lives in southeast England. When not writing, he is a keen guitarist, singer and pool player. To learn more about Alastair's books, visit his website at:

www.ajarchibald.wcpauthor.com/