Grimm Dragonblaster 5, page 29
"I do not remember this at all!"
Kargan turned to see that Loras had joined him, just in front of the door to Geral's bedchamber.
According to House lore, this room was sacrosanct, and the Magemaster hesitated.
This time, Loras provided the impetus: “Let us finish it, Brother Mage! I do not wish to see this, but I must!"
Kargan nodded, summoning up all his determination, and the two thaumaturges took the final step towards the resolution of the ancient affair.
The large room bore nothing but a large bed and a simple night-stand. In the bed lay a wizened man with a face the colour and texture of crumpled parchment, his expression blank. Dull, feverish, sunken eyes stared from the putty-white face, but they seemed sightless, his gaze roaming without purpose around the Spartan confines of the chamber.
By the bed stood the younger Loras, his own expression no more animated than the stricken Geral's.
Although he stood over the bed, he made no move towards the pathetic, bed-ridden old man. He stood like a pasty statue, bereft of volition or emotion, his arms extended but immobile. It was almost as if he were standing watch over the Prelate.
"Do you remember this, Master Loras?” Kargan demanded.
The former Questor shook his head, mute and uncomprehending.
Thorn marched into the chamber, walking straight through Kargan. He strode straight up to the young Loras, who did not react in the least to his fellow mage's presence. The future Prelate circled his brother mage like a prowling tiger. Of the two Questors, only Thorn seemed in full possession of his senses.
His face was beaded with sweat, and his hands trembled as he walked around the frozen image of his friend. He extended a hesitant, shaking index finger and pushed Loras in the chest. The heavily-built mage swayed a little, but he returned to his unseeing vigil.
The blond Questor picked up a large pillow from beside Geral's head and placed it in his brother sorcerer's hands. He muttered a phrase that Kargan could not hear and pressed between Loras’
shoulder-blades. As if he were a mannequin being posed in a shop window display, Loras leaned over and allowed his hands to be moved into position over Geral's blank, feverish face. The pillow touched the Prelate's nose but did not obstruct his fitful breathing.
This time, the Mentalist heard Thorn's muttered words: “It is merciful, Loras. Lord Geral's suffering will soon be at an end."
The image of the young Loras nodded slowly, his gaze still blank, and Thorn backed away to the door.
As he stepped into the Prelate's office, he reached out to grasp a heavy bell-rope by the desk and began to tug it in a sudden frenzy.
Kargan stood by, feeling sour pangs of frustration at his utter inability to prevent the tableau from unfolding as it had so long ago. Thorn swung open the door to the spiral turret staircase and re-entered the bedchamber as the Magemaster heard the sounds of panicked feet racing up the stairs.
"Clerestory ambulatory prejudice."
Thorn's whispered phrase seemed meaningless, but its effect on the mesmerised Questor was dramatic.
Loras’ formerly placid face contorted and his hands pressed the pillow down on the Prelate's face.
As a tall mage ran into the main chamber, Thorn leapt at his more muscular friend, trying to wrest the pillow from his hands. Young Afelnor responded with a solid backhand to his friend's face, sending him sprawling. As the tall, red-headed mage ran towards the fallen Questor, the young Thorn waved his hands.
"Save the Lord Prelate, not me! Questor Loras has gone mad!” the blond man cried, through split, bleeding lips. As Loras continued to smother the Prelate, the russet-haired mage swung his three-ringed staff at his lower back. The ensorcelled’ Loras dropped the pillow and turned to face his assailant, his expression one of pure, unalloyed rage.
"Iyastretona!” Thorn shrieked, and a black cloud formed around his fellow Questor's head. Loras coughed, took two steps towards the tall mage and slumped to the floor, fighting for breath.
By now, another mage had arrived: Kargan recognised him as the taciturn Questor Olaf, younger but as severe-looking as ever.
"What happened here?” the wide-eyed Olaf demanded.
"The Prelate!” Thorn screamed, running to Geral's bedside and putting his right ear to the stricken mage's chest.
After several moments, he nodded, uttering a sigh of relief Kargan thought to be somewhat theatrical.
“Lord Geral still lives,” he said. “Well done, Manipulant Urel!"
With a start, Kargan recognised the handsome, red-haired man as the late, lamented Senior Magemaster who had been killed when Neophyte Erek lost his mind.
Oh, the sad ravages that the years visit upon us ... Kargan thought, remembering the words of an ancient liturgical chant.
Your spell stopped Questor Loras in this evil deed,” Urel said, in an admiring tone that bordered on adulation.
"What happened here?” Olaf repeated.
"Questor Loras tried to kill Lord Prelate Geral,” Urel said in a hushed voice. “Questor Thorn raised the alarm and prevented him from ... the Names know what."
Olaf shook his head, his expression grim. “Who would believe that a sworn Guild Questor could attempt such foul treachery?"
He kicked the fallen form of Loras, who moaned and coughed. “Get up, rat. You besmirch the ring you wear."
Loras rose to his knees, fighting for breath. “What is ... what happened?” he gasped, his eyes blank.
"You are a damned, bloody traitor, who has betrayed his Prelate, his House and his Guild,” Olaf growled, his heavy brows descending over his grey eyes like rapacious birds of prey.
"I remember ... the pillow..."
Loras’ face was ashen. “By the sweet Names, what have I done?” he cried, burying his head in his hands.
"That is enough.” In the hubbub of competing voices, it took Kargan a few seconds to realise who spoke these words, and he turned to face the smith.
"What?” The Magemaster felt too numb to make a more meaningful response. The anguished pain etched on the face of his companion was mirrored on the image of the proud, younger mage, and Kargan felt hot tears prickling at the margin of his eyes.
For half a century, Loras Afelnor had languished in the slough of despair engendered by a supposed act of evil. Now, that dread, half-remembered memory had been replaced by an equal pang of agony, brought on by the knowledge that he had been betrayed by a man he had loved as a brother.
"I said, ‘that is enough',” the smith snapped, as he saw his younger self pushed, manhandled and kicked out of the room by the three other mages. “I have no need to see more."
Kargan caught sight of a half-smile on Thorn's face, and the Magemaster realised that Loras must have seen it, too.
"I know the rest, Magemaster, and I have no need to see more. Get us out of here."
"Remember the smithy at the time we left, Master Loras,” Kargan said. “It will be as if no time had passed."
In less time than it took to think, the Mentalist found himself standing in the front room of Loras’ cottage, looking down at his motionless body. He directed the smith to sink into his own physical entity, conforming to the exact contours of the motionless body. He knew perfection of alignment was not absolutely essential, but that close correspondence to the body's position maximised the chances of success.
When he was satisfied with Loras’ spirit posture, he requested the same service of the smith as he slipped back into his own, unmoving mortal form. When the former Questor declared that the correspondence between the astral and bodily postures was adequate, Kargan realised that he could not access the memory of the conclusion of Bledel's spell from Seeker, still clasped in his corporeal self's right hand.
A frisson of doubt and fear fluttered through the Mentalist, but he crushed the sensation with an iron hand of discipline. He remembered the advice he had been given by his singing tutor, so long ago: You do not need to remember the whole of the song, Neophyte; if you have learned it well, you only need to remember the first three or four words. Then, the rest will come tumbling out.
This was not as easy as remembering a song, since a mage spell was composed of apparently arbitrary runes, tones and cadences, each nuance vital for the incantation's success. However, Kargan had given many, many classes in the interpretation of spells over the course of his long life.
It starts with Chiat-Tekh-Urth with a rising tone; I know that, he thought, and that's followed by ... what?
Gath-Tren-Tekh? That's right; we're trying to create a sense of urgency, aren't we? Then there's solidity and homecoming, followed by permanence...
His mind ran through the feelings he had felt when he had first cast Bledel's powerful incantation, back in his cell in Arnor House. It was a small closing chant, but critical.
Yes, that's it, he thought. I can do this on my own, without a damned prompter!
The chant consisted of only twenty runes; a short run of syllables as Guild spells went, but Kargan's nerves jangled as he began to cast the closing enchantment. He knew that every lilt, every slur, every hesitation was critical to the closure, but he trusted to thirty years’ experience as a Magemaster, and a true voice untainted by the passage of the years.
By the time he reached the end of the brief chant, the Magemaster felt confident enough to add a hint of Elation to the ending spell—just a hint, of course; he did not wish to destabilise the main structure.
As the last rune spilled from his lips, Kargan knew he had succeeded. He welcomed the forgotten, dull aches and pains of his aging body as they began to introduce themselves, greeting his success.
"We are out,” he croaked, feeling as if his throat were full of glass shards. His head slumped towards his chest; he was utterly spent.
Loras leapt to his feet, flexed his ham-like fists and stretched, as Kargan slumped in his rude chair, devoid of anything but an inchoate fear that his recent actions might lead to the downfall of Arnor House or the entire Guild. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to feel sorry at the prospect of the destruction of the diseased colossus.
"You said you could return my powers to me, Mentalist!” the former Questor said, his face like carved stone in its fixed intensity. “I request that you do so forthwith!"
"I couldn't fight a fly right now, Questor Loras,” Kargan confessed, his voice feeble and thin. “I'm travel-worn, tired, and I need to eat."
Loras sighed and shook his shaven head. “What has happened to the ardent fire of my beloved House's mages? Can you not understand the heat of my anger, Magemaster Kargan? I have fifty years of self-accusation to avenge, against a man I thought my steadfast friend! Thorn is the traitor, not me!"
Kargan sighed. “At this very moment, I couldn't care in the least for Guild politics, Mage Speech, protocol or lifelong vendettas, my over-muscled friend!” he cried, struggling to keep his eyes open. “I need a bath, some food and a bed in that order! If you can't manage that, I'll make do with a bloody bucket of cold water, a mouldy potato and a stretched-out rope, but I have finished with today! Is that quite understood?"
Drima flung the crude door open and entered the room. “Are you all right, Loras?"
The bronzed, shaven-headed man rose to his feet and hugged his wife.
"Magemaster Kargan has shown me everything, Drima!” he cried, his eyes moist. “I did not try to kill Prelate Geral at all! It was Thorn and his mother, not me!"
"I always knew that,” she said, patting her husband on his left shoulder. Her eyes were bright and moist.
“You are an angry man at times, but you were never evil. This mage has given you back your self-respect! Rejoice in that, and put your bloody revenge behind you for the moment! Just look at the Magemaster, will you? He's almost dead in his seat!"
Kargan regarded the bright, kaleidoscopic colours, playing on his retinas, with a measure of dispassionate interest before he tumbled forward. He smiled, not knowing why, and his vision faded before his head hit the hard stone hearth.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 31: Merrydeath Road
General Quelgrum flicked the reins, and the wagon began to bounce down the rough track. “So, how are you this fine morning, Questor Grimm?” he asked. “Is it not a magnificent day?"
Grimm, riding beside the General, favoured the deep blue sky with a cursory glance. “Very nice,” he replied in a dull voice. “How far is it to Anjar now?"
"I'd guess about four miles, Lord Baron. Are you sure you're well?"
The Questor caught the note of concern in Quelgrum's voice.
"I'm all right,” he said. “Don't worry, General; I'm trying hard not to sulk or mope, but I still can't get Crest's death out of my head. Tordun may never see again. Don't get me wrong; Gruon had to be destroyed, but I'm wondering what I could have done to minimise the casualties. I acted without thinking—"
"Sometimes, a warrior must do just that, Lord Baron. It's good that you're analysing your tactics, but I'd advise you to do so a little at a time. Don't dwell on it, or you'll become bitter and twisted, and no good to anybody.
"Becoming withdrawn and distant from the other men won't help. Tordun doesn't blame you for what happened to him, so neither should you. Just listen to him back there; does he sound downhearted?"
Grimm listened to the animated argument taking place in the back of the wagon. His companions seemed to be disputing the relative merits of a number of racehorses; a subject about which Grimm knew next to nothing. As ever, Guy was trying to ram his own opinion down the throats of the others.
"Fallon's Mystery was the only horse to win the Merrol Cup four years in a row,” he declared in his customary, didactic manner. “That record speaks for itself!"
"Ah, Questor, but against what opposition?” Tordun demanded. “A bunch of worn-out nags better suited to pulling a cart! Groundless Fears prevailed against far better opponents in all conditions. Your chosen steed was a fine racer on firm ground and in fair weather, but he never went out if there was a cloud in the sky. My horse, on the other hand..."
Grimm turned back to Quelgrum. “I agree, General; Tordun sounds happy enough,” he said, in the same listless voice.
Quelgrum sighed. “Well, couldn't you get a little more involved in these sorts of discussions from time to time, Lord Baron?"
"I know nothing about horseracing, or about most of the subjects they discuss,” Grimm said. “If you'd forgotten, I've spent most of my life locked up in a bloody Guild House."
Can't you just leave me alone, Quelgrum? he thought. I really just don't want to talk right now.
"Questor Numal's spent longer in the House than you,” the soldier replied. “Nonetheless, at least he makes the effort to take part. All right; so you're unhappy; why take it out on everybody else?"
"I'm not,” Grimm said. “However, I accept that my detachment may be bad for morale. I'll take an effort to become more involved from now on."
Happy, General? he thought. Maybe that'll shut you up for a while.
Quelgrum shot the Questor a strange look, almost as if he had read Grimm's mind, but he turned his face back to the road ahead and said nothing. Grimm watched the birds wheeling over the open fields and almost wished he was one of them.
What worries does a bird have? he wondered, marvelling as they swirled and swooped, occasionally diving to snatch some loose morsel from the soil. Birds don't need to worry about status, people's opinions or anything else.
Very deep, a more sarcastic section of his mind interjected. I'm sure nobody's ever thought about that before.
The sound of the horses’ hooves on the hard, compacted earth, the heated argument from the rear of the wagon, and the rattle of the wheels over the ruts and furrows of the track made a considerable clamour, but the noise inside Grimm's head grew louder and louder by the minute. After a quarter of an hour of Quelgrum's silence, the mage felt moved to speak, just in order to still his inner conflict.
Grimm sighed. “I will try to join in, General, I promise. It's lonely in here, with only me for company."
"It's all right, son, I understand,” Quelgrum said. “So many demands on your time, so little experience—I remember it well. I led my first troop when I was about your age..."
Grimm expected to find the General's anecdote boring and irrelevant, but, instead, he found it very pertinent to his own situation. The old man described his horror after a disastrous battle, and how an ancient Sergeant had brought him to his senses after a score of his charges had been lost in the conflict.
The less cynical partition of Grimm's mind recognised the similarities between the two men, and he began to feel a kinship between himself and Quelgrum. He was beginning to become engrossed in the soldier's frank account of his feelings when he saw a faded, slumped sign by the road.
"Wait a minute, General,” he said. “This is Merrydeath Road. We need to turn down here, don't we?"
"Merrydeath Road,” the veteran said, turning the wagon into the indicated road. “Sounds like a fun place.” His voice dripped with leaden irony.
"Who's being negative now, General? There's no reason to assume Anjar isn't a wonderful place, just because of a road's morbid name.” His exuberant words might not reflect his true mood, but he was beginning to feel a little more cheerful.
I've fought a troupe of enslaved, over-muscled fighters and a hundred-and-forty-foot dragon, he thought.
I'm not really that bothered by whatever Anjar might throw at us.
In truth, he welcomed the onset of any challenge that might lie ahead: it might draw his attention away from his introspective malaise.
Quelgrum grimaced. “There's confidence and there's overconfidence,” he growled. “The first two major towns on this campaign have proven to be death-traps. I recommend we keep our wits about us in Anjar.
"Merrydeath Road...!” The old soldier shivered and held up his left hand, the little finger extended in the ancient sign of Dismissal of Evil.
