Grimm Dragonblaster 5, page 30
Grimm smiled. “I had no idea you were superstitious, General."
Quelgrum said nothing, but he waved his hands as a shabby, blurred signpost came into view, bearing the single word ‘Anjar'. Grimm poked his head through the wagon's canvas cover.
"We're just entering Anjar,” he said, feeling a brief stab of pleasure as the hubbub in the back of the vehicle stilled in an instant. “It may be a perfectly nice place but it would be wise to get ready for trouble."
Grimm's announcement was met by a cool, dismissive gesture from Guy, a serious, worried nod from Numal and a shrug from Tordun. Sergeant Erik's expression did not change, but he began to inspect his various Technological firearms, pulling on levers and handles to the accompaniment of a series of sharp clicks and clacks. All his attention seemed focussed on the metallic devices, his face a picture of intense concentration.
Numal clutched his staff to his body. “Are we going to stop here, Questor Grimm?” he asked.
"Not unless we have to, Brother Mage,” Grimm said. “If what Keller told us is true, Rendale should be no more than thirty miles from here; we can easily reach it by mid-afternoon. I recommend we keep travelling and make camp just short of the Priory."
"That suits me,” Guy declared. “I've had just about enough of the squalid little hell-holes that pass for towns around here."
"And me,” Numal said with a fervid nod. “The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can get back to my nice, familiar, comfortable cell back at Arnor. This Quest must have aged me thirty years."
"I'll have to start calling you Great-Granddad,” the acerbic Guy muttered. If Numal had heard him, he pretended he had not.
Anjar was no squalid dung-heap like Yoren, nor yet a fantastical collection of bizarre structures like Brianston. Grimm found the sheer simplicity of Anjar a relief after his recent perils in those strange conurbations.
As the wagon rolled through the streets of the town, he saw a collection of small stalls, beside which people chatted, haggled and engaged in what the mage considered perfectly normal behaviour.
He engaged his Mage Sight and noted no emanations of magic whatsoever. The auras of the Anjarians showed no signs of ensorcelment, undue suspicion or anything other than the regular emotions he might expect from a blameless group of townspeople. To be sure, some of the stallholders showed indications of guile and deception, and some of their intended victims’ auras bore the unmistakable greenish hue of avarice, but this was only to be expected.
If there was anything remarkable about Anjar, it was the sturdiness of the buildings. There were no tumbledown thatched cottages here; every permanent structure seemed to be built from yellow stone blocks, and even the roofs bore heavy tiles instead of simple thatch.
Grimm frowned: the town was surrounded by dense woodland, which would have provided ample material for simpler, less costly dwellings. However, he dismissed this as an oddity of Anjarian architecture: the people of the town seemed far more interested in their own affairs that in the arrival of the wagon. Scarred, stained walls implied that the buildings had been standing for many years. Perhaps Anjar was plagued by hungry rats, termites or some other infestation that threatened less sturdy structures.
"What do you think, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked, easing the horses to a gentle walk. “We're running a little low on supplies, and we have to consider the trip back to civilisation. Do you think we dare stop here for some food and drink?"
Grimm considered the General's question with some care. Since Crest's death, he had vowed that he would never again act on impulse, as long as he had time to consider his options beforehand. Anjar looked safe enough, almost like his home town of Lower Frunstock, but he knew now that appearances could be very deceptive. This whole region seemed to be a hotbed of anarchy and disorder, and Grimm was now unwilling to take anything at its face value.
I could play this little game all day, he thought, as Quelgrum waited for his answer.
"Is the situation serious, General?” he asked.
Quelgrum shrugged. “We lost a lot of victuals at Yoren,” he said. “We managed to recoup some of our losses at Brianston, but it's all fattening stuff; hardly a balanced diet suited to travelling or fighting. We could really do with some pulses, fresh, lean meat and green vegetables."
Grimm said, “I recommend we stop and wait for Shakkar's report first."
Shakkar had insisted on reconnoitring the town from the air, ensuring that the party had a clear escape route from Anjar, should rapid egress prove necessary.
As Quelgrum reined in the horses, Grimm saw a small shadow on the ground, growing larger by the heartbeat. He looked up to see the unmistakable, bat-winged figure of Shakkar descending, almost as if the very mention of his name had summoned him.
Shakkar fluttered to a halt, dropping the last few inches to the ground with an audible thump, and Grimm checked the townspeople's reactions. He saw several people's eyes widen in momentary fear, and he noted many pointing fingers, but it seemed that such a creature was not that unusual a sight; after a few moments, the Anjarians returned to haggling and conversation.
"Your report, please, Shakkar,” Grimm said in a formal, businesslike drawl
"There are five main roads into the town, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled. “I saw no barriers or armed guards on any of them. I saw a few uniformed men armed with swords, but they moved easily through the populace. Several of them stopped to chat with the civilians in an apparently friendly manner; the town seems peaceful enough. I saw two wagons and three horsemen leaving Anjar without confrontation or pursuit. My presence caused a little perturbation at first, but no more than I expected."
Grimm nodded. “Thank you, Shakkar."
This may be the first normal town we've come across in some time, Grimm thought.
Still, it's best to be careful. We have a Quest to fulfil, and we can't afford any more casualties, least of all through any carelessness.
"Your recommendations, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked.
Grimm's instinct was to keep going; the party could collect victuals on the return journey. Nonetheless, morale was an important factor; as yet, there were no signs of dissent among his fellows, but the Questor acknowledged that they had all been under considerable stress for some time. He thought of the vain, roistering swordsman, Harvel, who had given up his satin clothes for the rough, homespun garments of a farmer and quit after the death of his close friend, Crest.
Tordun might be putting on a brave face after his own injury, but he would now be next to useless in a serious fight. Perhaps the albino's sight would return with time, but, on the other hand, the pale giant might never recover the full use of his eyes. For such a proud, self-reliant warrior, who had also been a friend of Crest's, his uncertain future would surely bear upon Tordun's confidence like an ever-present weight, sapping his will and his confidence.
If the mighty Tordun ever snapped, it might be too costly a lesson for the small party to bear.
Guy was ... well, Guy: acerbic, cynical and unpredictable. Despite the older Questor's avowed enthusiasm, Grimm would have preferred not to have the mercurial Great Flame in the team at all.
If there was even a chance that this pleasant, peaceful-seeming town was yet another hot-bed of violence of esoteric dangers, the consequences for the Quest might be severe. There were so many variables to consider...
You wanted this responsibility, Afelnor, he told himself. Nobody forced it on you—in fact, you argued with Dominie Horin that you should be given charge of the Quest. This may be one of the easiest decisions you have to make, so make it!
"We keep moving, General,” he said. “We'll replenish our supplies on the way back. We'll travel lighter and we can reduce unwanted contact to a minimum. After what happened at Yoren and Brianston, I'd prefer not to take the risk of this place housing some weird, sacrificial death-cult with a fanatical desire for Technology, blind albinos, mages or whatever. I think the potential risks outweigh the possible advantages."
"You are in charge, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, and Grimm could swear the old soldier's faint sigh betokened relief. “We ride."
Guy poked his head through the slit in the canvas cover. “Are we staying here tonight, or what?"
Grimm turned to face the Questor. “No, Questor Guy,” he said in a cool, neutral voice. “We're going to carry on to the outskirts of Rendale and camp out there."
"Ah, come on, Grimm!” Guy moaned. “You're not scared of a place like this, are you? I, for one, could do with a decent meal before we face my darling Grandmamma, and this town looks pretty damn’ safe to me!"
"I wasn't scared of Yoren at first, nor Brianston, Guy.” Grimm fought to keep his expression calm and his voice level. “However, my overconfidence cost Crest his life, caused Harvel to quit and lost Tordun ...
well, we all know what happened to Tordun. Regardless of how Anjar looks or seems, it is a potential threat. I prefer not to take that risk.
"Perhaps your eyebrows and hair would agree with me,” he continued, eyeing the hairless pink arcs above the Great Flame's eyes, and the uneven, semi-scorched mop that had replaced his normal, artful coiffure.
Now I understand what Mage Speech is all about, flashed a thought through his brain, bringing sudden understanding. I always thought cutting out vernacular, contractions and everything was just another petty restriction, but it helps you keep your distance—and that's what I have to do here.
"Even so,” Guy said, “I think I ought to have some say—"
"We have a problem here, Brother Mage,” Grimm said, his dark eyes hooded.
"What's that, Dragonblaster?” Guy's expression suggested he did not really care about the answer to his question. Still, Grimm felt a small shiver of relief at the fact that the older mage had evidently decided to abandon his former, sarcastic nickname for Grimm—Dragonbluster.
"The problem is that you are labouring under the delusion that I am in command of this expedition and you are the second-in-command,” the younger Questor replied."
Without giving Guy a chance to respond, he continued, “The fact of the matter, distasteful as it may appear to you, is that I am in charge, as decreed by the Lord Dominie, and you are not! Do you have a problem with that, Great Flame?” He fixed his gaze on Guy's glacier-blue eyes with the intensity only a Questor could command.
Guy was no dilettante; he matched Grimm's stare with the same cool glare of authority, and several moments passed in silence.
At last, Necromancer Numal broke the deadlock with a plaintive cry from within the wagon: “Well, are we stopping here or not, Questor Grimm?"
Not looking away from Guy's fierce gaze for a moment, Grimm said, “We will be moving on, Brother Mage."
As if on cue, Quelgrum flicked the reins and the obedient horses trotted back onto the road. Grimm's eyes began to water, and he felt a mild flush of pleasure as he saw traces of moisture around the older Questor's lower eyelids.
"You are welcome to stay here if you wish, Questor Guy,” Grimm said. “Shakkar, please begin a survey of the region around Rendale."
"At once, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled, rising back into the sky and beating his way south-west on thundering wings, the sound diminishing as he climbed into the blue expanse.
After a few more moments of staring, Guy nodded slowly. “All right, Questor Grimm, if that's the way you want to play it; I'll go along with you—for now."
Ending the staring match, he nodded, and, muttering, “Play your puerile, little games of ascendancy if you want to,” he ducked back under the wagon's canvas cover.
Grimm flicked a swift glance at Quelgrum, as the soldier guided the vehicle with sure, confident hands with the ghost of a smile on his lips.
"Do you find something amusing in that exchange, General?” he demanded.
"Not at all, Lord Baron,” the soldier replied. “As a matter of fact, I thought you handled that situation well. For what it's worth, I also agree whole-heartedly with your decision."
Grimm nodded, feeling a distinct glow of pleasure at the General's assessment, but he said nothing.
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Chapter 32: Preparations
Within quarter of an hour, the wagon was back on the open road, heading south-west. The Anjarians had paid the travellers little heed, and the vehicle's progress had not been impeded. For a little while, Grimm continued to worry about the lingering effects of recent strain on the party, but the conversation in the rear of the vehicle seemed as animated and good-tempered as ever. Putting his fears behind him, he turned his attention to the matter of the Quest, and how it might be expedited.
Do we turn up en masse, knock at the door and demand to see the Prioress? he wondered. Do we blast our way in and proceed to destroy the place?
His mind returned to Horin's order: “I wish you to confront this odious cult directly and, if necessary, to destroy it.” It had all sounded so simple and clear-cut in the comfort of the Dominie's chamber, but the young mage began to feel grave misgivings squirming in his entrails. What to do?
You can't do this alone, Grimm, he thought. Quelgrum is the most experienced warrior of all of us; I'm sure he has an opinion.
Almost as if he had read the Questor's mind, Quelgrum leaned over and said, “Have you given any thought about how we're going to carry this off, Lord Baron?” He kept his voice low.
"I ... I wanted to ask your advice on our tactics, General,” the young mage said. “Have you any recommendations to offer?"
"A few,” the soldier admitted. “For a start, it's always a good idea to hide your true numbers, especially if your force is small. Keep ‘em guessing. My advice would be for you and me to approach the Priory, with the others out of sight."
Grimm nodded. “I agree with you in principle, General. However, I recommend that I make the initial approach alone. I have some experience now of the kinds of tricks Geomantic magic can play with the unwary mind, and I'm unlikely to be caught napping."
"Under those circumstances, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, “I insist on a thorough reconnaissance of the area before we do anything. If at all possible, I would advise you to post Sergeant Erik and me behind any available cover, so we can lay down suppressing fire with our rifles if anything untoward happens. I fancy even a witch will find a rifle bullet troublesome if she doesn't expect it.
"I'd also advise you not to enter the Priory; persuade this Lizaveta woman to come out to you. We can't protect you if you go inside."
"What if Lizaveta won't come out?” Grimm asked. “What if she insists on me entering the Priory?"
The General rubbed his chin. “Then that's probably the time to up the ante..."
Grimm furrowed his brow; the soldier's words meant little to him.
"I mean, to make a few vague threats. Make it clear that it's not a request, and that there will be dire consequences if she won't come out. Don't be too specific, but let them know we're ready for trouble."
"And then, General?"
"Well, if the old lady still won't play ball, I'd advise you to leave,” the General said. “Assuming we've got some kind of defensible position, the Sergeant and I can lob rifle-grenades at the door, the windows and the walls from a distance. We've still got plenty of ammunition; incendiary, armour-piercing and high-explosive. We should be able to crack the place open like an egg."
"I don't want to cause any unnecessary bloodshed, if we can avoid it,” Grimm said. He had no idea of the capabilities of most of Quelgrum's arsenal, and he worried that many, or even most, of the Prioress’
charges might be unaware of her evil ways. “I don't want the deaths of a score or more innocent women on my conscience. Your explosive weapons may be a little too indiscriminate, General."
"Then we'll throw down some fire just short of the Priory, Lord Baron, just to show them a sample of what we can do. Perhaps you and Questor Guy would like to display a few of your own fireworks, just to add some emphasis. The main thing is not to let them guess exactly how many there are of us, or what kind of weaponry we have at our disposal.
"After our little demonstration, you can return to negotiation. That's when you go pot limit—sorry, Lord Baron—when you tell them that the whole place will be wiped out if the old lady doesn't appear. If that doesn't work, we'll have to reconsider our options. Whatever happens, we shouldn't commit to a firm plan until we know the lie of the land."
Grimm mulled over the soldier's suggestions for the next few miles, as the wagon jounced and bobbled over the road's numerous ruts and irregularities. Try as he might, he could not think of a better scheme than Quelgrum had proposed.
"Very well, General,” he said at last. “I'll go along with that."
* * * *
Kargan awoke to a fierce throbbing in his right temple; he touched a finger to his head and felt a lump the size of a small egg, wincing at the contact. Opening his eyes, he saw he was lying on a straw mattress in a small room. On a stool beside him sat Mistress Drima. "Are you feeling better, Magemaster Kargan?” Loras’ wife asked in a pleasant, soothing contralto. “You had quite a fall there."
I wonder if she sings, thought the Mentalist, ever the musical epicure. I hope that lovely voice isn't marred by a pair of useless ears...
"Some of my teeth seem to be loose,” he said, probing his dental armoury with a careful tongue, “but I seem to be all right, otherwise."
"Loras is full of praise for you,” Drima said, smiling, and Kargan could see a clear trace of moisture around her eyes. “He wants to talk to you as soon as you're able to see him; he says you can restore his powers."
Kargan started, sending a red-hot thread of pain through his head. Loras has had sensual relations with a woman at least once, he thought. Questor Grimm is the proof of that.
Guild lore prescribed strict celibacy for all mages; the least dalliance with a member of the distaff sex would cause the loss of all thaumaturgic ability. Kargan wondered how best to remind Loras of this basic fact. Nonetheless, after his former, vainglorious boasts, he had to try to soften the blow as best he could.
