Weapon of the Guild cogd-2 Read online

"With your permission, Lord Thorn, I will leave now to acquaint Questor Grimm with the details of the Quest. I will then embark on my research."

  "God speed, Questor Dalquist, and good hunting."

  Prelate Thorn stared at the scrying-crystal before him, his hands like pink crabs crawling over its glowing green surface.

  Mother, are you there?

  The unpleasant, dry crackle of the voice of Thorn's mother, Lizaveta, flickered in his head.

  Of course I am here, Thorn. Where else would I be, idiot?

  Thorn hated his mother's interference in his life, and he hoped his news would mollify her insensate demands for a while. She was determined that her despised son should become the next Dominie of the Guild, whether he wanted to or not, and a successful Quest of such importance would go a long way towards raising his profile. That pompous old fool, Horin, would not last forever, and, if Thorn could only get close enough, he might even be able to assist him in his passage to eternal glory. If that did not satisfy Lizaveta, he did not know what would. The Prelate had no conception of why his mother took such interest in the affairs of a son whom she professed to despise. However, despite possessing the indomitable will of a Seventh Rank Questor, he felt unable to ignore or disobey her.

  Mother, I have good news, he began, using the green gem to transmit his thoughts to Lizaveta's sensorium as words. That fat upstart, Prelate Zhar, has made a mistake at last, and his currency with the Guild is at a low ebb. He manufactured-

  I know all about the Eye, you fool! I have magic at my disposal you Guild Mages cannot imagine. Who do you think advised Starmor how to acquire the gem? I knew you would be able to jump into the breach at a moment's notice. This is all of my planning. Of course, I ensured you would be given the authority for the Quest. I have some little influence over your revered Dominie, and he listens to me.

  Thorn felt deflated. He had wanted to impress Lizaveta with his resourcefulness at taking advantage of Zhar's loss. As it was, he had, once again, been manipulated by her for her own purposes.

  I am sending Dalquist Rufior and Grimm Afelnor. It will be a good asset to the House to have another full-blooded Questor at its disposal. Thorn thought it best to maintain the appearance of insouciance.

  It will indeed be a good test for the Afelnor boy. Even I respect Starmor's powers. This will be a good test; a gamble, yes, for you could well lose a pair of Questors, but the rewards for success should include consideration for your accession to the Guild Presidium.

  I could lose a pair of Questors? Thorn exploded. Surely this Starmor cannot be that potent? He has no Questor magic, I am sure. My spies would have told me.

  He is indeed no Questor, the Prioress hissed, but his magic is of a type unknown to you. I hope Afelnor is as strong as his grandfather, or I might lose the opportunity of meeting him. I told you how I might pay a call upon Grimm Afelnor when he was older. I am sure I shall be interested in him more than a little if he survives this Quest.

  Thorn was not sure if his mother was joking or not.

  Chapter 2: Welcome News

  Grimm Afelnor sat cross-legged on his bed with his eyes shut, trying to meditate. He focused on the mental image of a peaceful grove of trees, through which ran a clear, bubbling stream. Although he found meditation irksome at times, the young mage knew the ability to envisage images and abstruse concepts on demand was a cornerstone of a Questor's ability. Where most mages required pre-prepared scrolls and painfully-memorised chants to cast their narrow range of spells, a Questor was limited only by his ability to visualise what needed to be achieved.

  Questors were informally known as 'Weapons of the Guild', mages capable of wreaking terrible destruction through a simple effort of will. A Questor's magical will expressed itself not through a perfect, rigid, unchanging chant, but through his personal thought-language, a confusion of syllables unintelligible to anyone but himself. In order to be an effective weapon, a Questor must think quickly and with instant clarity. A second's delay might result in an inglorious demise at the end of a simple blade or an arrow.

  Grimm concentrated on the trees, trying to see every branch, every leaf and every blossom. As he became absorbed in the tranquil scene, he felt his worries begin to melt away. Now he could hear cheerful birdsong and the fluid muttering of the stream.

  Let's see if I can summon up some fish…

  Somewhere in the distance, Grimm heard a sharp, rapping sound, but he tried to ignore it, concentrating on the creation of a shoal of leaping, iridescent fish. Then, the sound became too loud to ignore, and the fantasy scene dissolved in confusion.

  What in the Names' sake is it now? he wondered, opening his eyes.

  Trying to keep his tone civil, he said, "Come in," although he recognised the note of peevishness in his voice.

  The door opened, and Grimm managed a faint smile at the sight of his friend.

  "Oh, good morning, Dalquist," he said with more warmth in his voice than he felt. Grimm knew it was unfair to inflict his inner torment on his fellow Questor. "What is…"

  His voice faltered to a halt at the sight of the broad grin on the tall man's face, not daring to think what it might portend.

  "We are needed, Grimm," Dalquist said, and the young Questor did not fail to note the stress on the pronoun.

  "A Quest?" Grimm replied, his voice almost an octave higher than its normal baritone. "Is it a real Quest at last?"

  Dalquist nodded, his grin threatening to split his head in two. "It is a Quest," he said, "and an important one."

  Grimm leapt from his bed, feeling his blood surging.

  "Do sit down, Dalquist!" he breathed. "Tell me everything!"

  This time, his enthusiasm was unfeigned, and he hung on his friend's every word as the details of the Quest unfolded.

  ****

  By the time Dalquist had finished, Grimm felt as if he had been reborn. After this, he would be a tyro no longer; he would be a true Questor, entitled to bear at least one gold ring on his staff, Redeemer. The possibilities of death or ignominious failure did not enter his mind for an instant.

  "When do we leave, Dalquist?"

  "I want to be away at first light tomorrow morning, Grimm. Does that suit you?"

  Grimm laughed. "Believe me, Dalquist, I'm ready to leave right now!"

  Dalquist shook his head. "I'm afraid I have a few preparations to make first. I advise you to study the route I propose, in case anything should happen to me."

  The elder mage placed a package of hand-written notes, maps and scrolls on Grimm's bed. "It's a little sketchy," he admitted, "but we don't have much time. I seem to remember you have some knowledge of medicinal herbs; a subject I never managed to master. If this Baron Starmor is as powerful a magic-user as Lord Thorn says, we may need some Healing if it should come to a direct confrontation, although that's something I hope to avoid, if at all possible."

  Grimm frowned a little. "I do have an interest in plants and herbs, but perhaps it would be better if we were to enlist the aid of a true Healer or Herbalist."

  "I'm afraid not, my friend," Dalquist replied. "Lord Thorn has put a strict limit on the level of House involvement in this Quest. We two are the only Guild Mages he will authorise."

  Grimm shrugged; it was not for him to question the Prelate's orders. "In that case, I'll consult with Magemaster Chet at once," he replied, naming the man who had trained him in Herbal Lore, and who had also healed Grimm's damaged body after his violent Outbreak. "I'm sure he can advise me of the most suitable herbs to carry. I'll then spend the afternoon in the Library, researching the usage, effects and signatures of any herbs I don't recognise."

  Dalquist nodded. "That's excellent, Grimm. I know this isn't much notice, and I do wish we had more time for preparation, but Lord Thorn stressed that this Quest was vital to the House and the Guild. If we're successful, it could result in more than a little renown for us. It could well get your name in the Deeds of the Questors. I didn't achieve that until my fifth Quest. Even then, I only h
ad two lines of dull reportage. This is a great opportunity for both of us. I'm counting on you to do your best to aid us in whatever capacity you can."

  The Questor's eyes sparkled with almost evangelical fervour, and Grimm smiled warmly in response. The Deeds of the Questors was a Guild account of notable Questor achievements, a new copy of which was distributed to every Guild House whenever it was updated. To be mentioned in this august publication represented a great accolade; for a mere tyro to gain such recognition was almost unheard-of.

  "Don't worry, Dalquist. I feel honoured to know you've chosen me, and I won't let you down," he said, his head whirling at the rapid change in his fortunes.

  Dalquist clapped Grimm on the shoulder with true friendship. "I know you will, Grimm." The younger Questor did not fail to register the catch in his friend's voice. "I'll meet you in the Great Hall at cockcrow tomorrow."

  Dalquist nodded, turned on his heel and left. Grimm sat on his bed and began to leaf through the sheaf of papers, his mind filled with images of glorious deeds and the coveted rings of seniority adorning his bare Mage Staff.

  Chapter 3: The Broken Bottle

  Grimm awoke early, well before sunrise. With time to kill, the young mage washed and groomed himself with care. He then spent some time repairing and cleaning his black mage's robe; his post-Acclamation training sessions had often been destructive in nature, and they had left their marks on his clothing. Once satisfied with his efforts, he took up his staff, Redeemer, and eyed himself in the long mirror in his wardrobe door.

  Despite all his efforts, all Grimm saw was a tall, gangling, awkward youth with none of the commanding presence of a true mage, despite the confident stance he tried to assume. He had few belongings to take with him: his patched robes; his Mage Staff; the wax leather satchel containing bags of medicinal powders, seeds and leaves.

  Grimm sighed and trudged down to the Great Hall. The blue and gold tiles on the floor and the star-spangled dome above the hall no longer inspired wonder in him, and the gleaming, black Breaking Stone, against which he had proved his mastery, seemed commonplace and unimpressive. He wanted nothing more than to be on the road.

  ****

  Grimm awoke early on the day of departure. Even after forcing himself to take time on his ablutions and his breakfast, he found himself waiting in the Great Hall well before cockcrow.

  After a seeming age of restless pacing around the silent hall, he smiled as Dalquist stepped from the shadows, carrying several large bundles. The young mage greeted him with enthusiasm.

  "Good morning, Grimm," his friend said. "I have a few graduating presents for you. You won't last five minutes on the trail, dressed like that."

  The bundles disclosed an oiled leather travelling cape with a cowl and fur lining for travelling in unpleasant weather; a sharp knife with a leather sheath; a capacious waterskin; and a large, fur-lined leather bag, which, as Dalquist informed the perplexed Grimm, was for sleeping in the open. Dalquist then handed Grimm a purse containing six gold pieces and a greater quantity of silver and copper.

  Such wealth would have been a king's ransom back in his home town of Lower Frunstock, and Grimm's eyes almost popped from his skull.

  "A man needs to pay his own way, Grimm, especially a mage," Dalquist said with a smile. "It wouldn't bring much credit to the Guild if its adepts were shabby mendicants. Just spend it wisely."

  Grimm stammered enthusiastic thanks until the older mage waved a hand. "It's time to move, Grimm. Have you any experience of riding?"

  The young mage raised an eyebrow.

  "I practiced often on the leather horse in the Scholasticate," he said, "and I was brought up in a smithy. I was riding horses from the time I could walk until I came here. I don't think I could ever forget how to ride."

  Dalquist nodded. "Good. I have procured a pair of nags for us, serviceable horses if not thoroughbreds. Yours answers to the name of Jessie, and my mount is Bella. Unless you have any questions, I suggest we leave now. We have some distance to go."

  Grimm made no comment, as the enormity of what he was about to do now weighed heavily upon him as Dalquist opened the Great Portal at the end of the hall. He felt his mouth become dry as he looked out into the wider world, and he had to force his reluctant feet to keep moving as he followed his older friend.

  Outside the House, for only the second time in almost a decade, Grimm looked around and stared in wonder at a beautiful sunrise, which shot red and purple shafts across the slumbering land. At that moment, a vigorous and glorious chorus awoke from a horde of birds resting in the trees thronging the hillside.

  "Come on, Grimm!"

  With some effort, Grimm broke from his trance, and he hustled to catch up with Dalquist, who was waiting by the horses. Despite his brother mage's low opinion of these 'nags', Grimm recognised them at once as good-natured and trustworthy mares capable of bearing them over the roughest terrain without complaint.

  Jessie bore a warm, chestnut-brown coat, with a white flash like lightning over her eyes and socks to match, and Grimm knew the fierce love of a boy for his first horse. Despite the years since he had last ridden a live animal, Grimm levered himself onto the saddle while Dalquist was still stepping into the stirrups of his grey mare, Bella. Jessie did not so much as twitch as the young wizard settled into place.

  Dalquist smiled and flicked his reins to move off down the path. Grimm clicked his tongue against his hard palate as he had often seen Loras do, and he felt a surge of pleasure as Jessie started at once down the mountain trail in a fluid trot.

  Grimm eagerly drank in the rich sounds, sights and smells of the region as the two mages wound down the twisting causeway. At the bottom, as the path merged into the main thoroughfare, Dalquist reined in beside Grimm.

  "How do you like this morning, after ten years cooped up in the Scholasticate?" the older mage asked, wearing a broad smile.

  Grimm laughed. "It's a lovely morning: a good day to be out riding, Dalquist!" he cried, pressing his knees against the mare's sides to bring her to a brisk canter.

  He smiled as he saw Dalquist struggling to persuade his own mount to overtake Jessie.

  ****

  An hour later, Grimm began to regret his earlier confidence. Although he exercised with diligence each morning, he felt his legs becoming sore, his back beginning to ache and his joints groaning with every hoofbeat. His backside bloomed into an inferno of agony. After two hours, he writhed in the saddle, subsumed with torment.

  He guessed Dalquist had noticed his distress, as the older mage called back, "Not much further, Grimm. Another hour or two should see us in Drute."

  "I don't think I can go another minute, Dalquist," Grimm admitted. "I feel like this horse has kicked me all over."

  Dalquist reined in and dismounted, and Grimm gratefully followed his example. The young Questor stretched, grimacing in discomfort as each muscle sang out a song of discontent to his aching body.

  After a few deep knee-bends, Grimm sighed. "I'm ready to try again," he said, with more confidence than he felt.

  "You wouldn't last another mile, Grimm," Dalquist replied, with a shake of his head. "Hmm… I'm not much of a Healer, but I think I could do something to help those distended muscles. Do I have your permission?"

  "Anything you could do will be more than welcome, Dalquist. I guess I'm not the experienced horseman I thought I was."

  "It's lack of practice, Grimm, just lack of practice. Here we go…"

  Dalquist laid his hands on Grimm's shoulders and began a low, muttering chant. Grimm felt warmth beginning to spread slowly from his shoulders into the rest of his distressed body. At first pleasant, the warmth soon turned into heat that built with every second until he almost cried out.

  After a sharp, stabbing pain forced a gasp from him, Grimm began to feel better and, after ten minutes, he pronounced himself fit to continue the journey. This time, he marshalled his physical strength with more care, moving with the horse whenever possible and gently guiding her o
therwise.

  On straight roads he applied a little Levitation, a spell he remembered well from Magemaster Crohn, just enough to lower the load on his lower back and his legs. By the time a few houses began to come into view, Grimm felt confident he would last the course.

  The two mages rode into the outskirts of a small town consisting of a few well-appointed shops and taverns within a mass of ramshackle cottages and tenements. Drute seemed to be run more for the benefit of wealthy visitors than for that of its inhabitants. Dalquist came to a halt and dismounted, and Grimm followed suit with some gratitude.

  "A little advice, Grimm. Drute is a strange town where the folk have little money, but much pride. Honour is paramount here, and you must be careful in what you do, and especially in what you say. Here, a man's word is more than his bond; it is his very life. Everything you say will be taken completely literally, unless the person to whom you are talking is a friend and laughs to accept it as a jest.

  "If you say you could eat a horse, the folk will serve you with a dish of whole stewed nag, and watch you eat every morsel. If you don't finish it, you will lose face. The people here aren't stupid, just constrained by some rules that seem strange to outsiders like us. You must never let an insult from a stranger go unanswered, for example, and you must never make a threat you are not ready to fulfil. If you make a threat, even in jest, and the recipient does not acknowledge it as a joke, you must carry it out to the letter-to the very letter, Grimm.

  "If a man threatens you and you tell him you could tear off his head, you may have to do just that. A foreigner is at the best of times poorly tolerated, especially so when his word is not good. I suggest you follow my lead and say as little as possible. However, if you are insulted, you will have to respond to the insult. Do not deny that you are a true mage under any circumstances, and do not efface yourself; the Guild has some respect here, but it needs to be backed up by authority. Just be careful, Grimm. This is a wild region."