Grimm Dragonblaster 4 Read online

  "Well met, Grimm,” the skull-faced mage replied, looking a little sheepish. “Look, I'm sure an important man like you has a lot to do, so I mustn't take up any more of your valuable time."

  Grimm smiled again. He knew just how useless Numal must feel, waiting for the cheery, drunken ordeal of his Acclamation feast after years of solitude and study. “Not at all, Numal,” he said. “I don't have anything planned today. As a matter of fact, I'd be very interested to hear just what you Necromancers do; it's not a Speciality I'm familiar with."

  Numal shrugged. “It's not a craft many people like to hear about,” he admitted, “but it isn't all bones and entrails, I assure you. For my part, I'd love to hear more about you Questors. Magemaster Crohn didn't tell my class much about you."

  "Or mine,” Grimm admitted. “Why don't we go to the Refectory and chat for a while?"

  * * * *

  Since the Refectory was out of bounds to humble Students except at specific times, Grimm knew it would be relatively quiet. Although it was open indefinitely to Adepts and certain Neophytes at advanced stages of their training, Grimm felt no surprise to find the area deserted: such boys and men tended to devote long hours to their studies. With a sigh, Numal lowered himself into one of the comfortable seats in the more opulently furnished area of the Refectory, an area which Grimm, as a former charity Student, had been denied for most of his time at the House. It still felt a privilege to be there, as he sat on the opposite side of the expensive, marble-topped table.

  "So, Numal, would you tell me a little more of your craft? I know it involves dead bodies, but little beyond that."

  Numal stretched; a sinuous, languorous movement, flexing his slender hands with a carronade of popping joints. “It's not really about dead bodies at all, Grimm, but departed souls. A soul leaving the body remains connected to it, by what we call the ‘silver cord', for some time after death. The cord stretches away from the body until the soul becomes aware of its death."

  The Necromancer's eyes turned blank for a moment, and then he laughed. “I don't have to tell you anything about that, of course. Anyone who's ever undergone astral projection, like you have, knows all about the cord."

  Grimm blinked, confused. “Why do you say that, Numal? I've never astrally projected in my life."

  "Yes, you have, Grimm,” Numal insisted. “We Necromancers have a keen eye for details of the aura unknown to most mages, and your cord shows that you have visited the astral plane on at least one occasion in the recent past. You must surely remember. I'm told it's an unforgettable experience."

  A Guild Mage's aura was supposed to be sacrosanct, and it was a breach of protocol to use Mage Sight in such a manner without the mage's consent, but Grimm barely noticed the unwonted intrusion.

  The young Questor shook his head. “I'm not lying to you, Numal. We Questors are not taught specific techniques and spells; we have to generate them as required. I have never cast a spell of astral projection."

  Numal laughed: a strangely human sound, at odds with his forbidding appearance. “Have you ever had a dream that seemed particularly intense?"

  "Yes, Numal: many times, particularly during my Ordeal,” Grimm said, shrugging.

  The Necromancer shook his head. “I mean a dream that seemed more real than reality itself. A dream in which you found yourself floating towards some kind of destiny, as if guided by some external force."

  Only one dream seemed to fit the bill: Grimm's terrifying night vision of the bloody corpse of the witch-nun, Madeleine, being eaten in a bizarre ritual in the catacombs below High Lodge. A ritual over which Lizaveta, the Prioress of the Order of the Sisters of Divine Serenity, had presided. Grimm had assumed it had been no more than a hideous nightmare. All he could do was nod; rational speech seemed beyond him as the ghastly visions returned to him in full measure.

  "That was no dream,” Numal declared. “Your soul was drawn towards that event by some bond between you and another soul or place."

  It was true: Grimm had been ensorcelled by Madeleine, and he had discovered her in her treachery.

  Nonetheless, he had still harboured feelings for her, and he had hoped that her punishment would not be too severe. He shivered, unwilling to pursue the matter further.

  He cleared his throat, although not his troubled mind. “Very well, Numal. I accept what you say: perhaps I have travelled on the astral plane."

  "You didn't like it, eh?” Numal said. “Not everybody does, if they are called."

  Grimm pushed his growing worries to the back of his mind. “You can talk to dead people, I believe, Brother Mage?"

  "I can, but not very well, Grimm,” Numal admitted. “Higher-rank Necromancers can find the signatures of a departed soul in a rotting corpse or even from a whitened skeleton, and they can contact it through the void between this world and the astral plane. My main talent is in augury: the prediction of the near, almost-inevitable future from the study of chicken gizzards and bulls’ entrails, and I'm not even very good at that, yet."

  Grimm could not tear his thoughts from the awful scene of that night of High Lodge. An evil cult existed at the heart of the Guild's ruling body, protected by the Lord Dominie from any persecution or harm.

  Something must be done about this heinous situation!

  As the Necromancer again opened his mouth to speak, Grimm made a cutting motion with his right hand.

  “I'm sorry, Numal, but I do have a few tasks to complete before tonight. Would you be so kind as to excuse me?"

  "Of course, Grimm. You must be a busy man. Just one thing: before you go, do you have any advice for me on how to conduct myself at tonight's revelries?"

  Despite his burgeoning unease, the young Questor managed to raise a smile. “I'd advise you to cast the Minor Magic spell of Stability on yourself, followed by a charm of Clarity. Simple enough hexes, but they'll pay dividends. Better still, cast them on your Staff; use spells of the Third Class on it—they'll work just as if it were a person."

  Numal rolled his eyes. “I don't intend to drink alcohol at all, Grimm. I'm not used to it."

  Grimm laughed, despite his inner troubles. “You will drink, Numal. I made the same vow as you at my own Acclamation feast. Nonetheless, I became very, very drunk, despite my firm intention to drink as little as possible. The Magemasters advised me to use those spells, and I ignored them, to my considerable discomfort and embarrassment."

  Numal gave a serious nod, as if Grimm were a Magemaster explaining some abstruse theorem of thaumaturgy.

  "I will do as you advise, Brother Mage,” he said. “Thank you."

  * * * *

  It might be improper to knock at the Prelate's door without prior invitation, but Grimm felt unafraid to do so. He knew heinous acts were afoot within High Lodge, and he felt he must act. "Enter."

  Grimm opened the door, stepping into Lord Thorn's chamber for the second time within an hour. To his relief, he found the Prelate in the same beneficent mood as earlier in the day.

  "Questor Grimm, how may I help you?” The smile on Thorn's face was unexpected, but welcome to the troubled Questor.

  "Thank you for receiving me again at such short notice, Lord Prelate, but I have news of great treachery within High Lodge."

  Thorn sat bolt upright. “You intrigue me, Brother Mage. Do, please, tell me more."

  Grimm had no desire to blight the career of a mage before it had started, so he considered his words with care. “Prelate Thorn, I now realise that I experienced an inadvertent journey into the astral realms during my time at High Lodge. There is no doubt of the matter, none whatsoever."

  Thorn leaned back into his mahogany throne and frowned. “Believe me, Brother Mage, I would love to discuss this matter with you for several hours in a circuitous, roundabout manner; however, I have many calls on my time. Can we please cut to the chase? If there is treason within our ruling House, I wish to know the details without delay."

  Grimm rubbed his left hand over his mouth while he considered what
he would say. In retrospect, his story of blood-drinking and cannibalism might appear ridiculous to any right-minded man, but he felt the need to describe it to another person: any person.

  "Lord Thorn: at the end of my stay at High Lodge, I had what I thought was just a disturbing dream. On reflection, and after considering my time spent in the fifth linear dimension in Crar, I now realise it was no dream, but a voyage into the spirit realm. A disciple of the Order of The Sisters of Divine Mercy had played a trick on me: an attempt to persuade me to give my love to her."

  Thorn leaned forward, frowning. “This was not in your report, or in Questor Dalquist's. Why did you choose not to report it?"

  Grimm swallowed hard, spreading his hands apart.

  "I considered it a minor diversion: a young girl's whim, Lord Prelate,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Questor Dalquist was of the same mind. I thought it no more than a prank or jest."

  "What of this dream?” the older man demanded. “What aspect of it persuades you of treachery within our midst? This is a serious charge, Questor Grimm!"

  Grimm's inner being urged him to flee; what he had to say would surely seem ludicrous to an experienced mage like Lord Thorn. Nonetheless, he knew he must release the tension within him, somehow or other.

  "I expected the girl to be criticised or chastised in some minor fashion,” he said. “In my dream, I saw her scarred, brutalised body carved up and eaten, and her blood drunk by a coven of witches, led by the Prioress of the Sisters of Divine Mercy. I believed this to be a dream, a nightmare, but I now know it to be true, after long introspection. Dark forces are afoot in High Lodge: protected by it, and given a free hand by the Lord Dominie."

  Having expected to be excoriated, the Questor felt stunned to find himself instead being congratulated.

  "Indeed, Questor Grimm; that is a most worrying matter. I worried about that particular Order for some time, and I applaud you for your courage in bringing it to my attention. Your recent promotion means that you will be travelling to High Lodge within the next week, so I advise you to keep your eyes open with regard to the Order's influence. I have suspected the Prioress of dark acts for many years, although I have no proof. I have met her before, and I know her to be a prevaricator at the very least. Since she and her Order are honoured guests of the Dominie, I advise extreme caution. Whatever your conclusions, I instruct you to do no more than to notify me as to your findings, without telling the Presidium, and without discussing it with the Prioress or her Order. If you wish, you may consider this as your next Quest."

  Grimm felt stunned by the vehemence of Thorn's reply, but gratified; it seemed the Prelate's mind was more aligned with his than he had expected. His head seemed to spin for a moment, perhaps due to the unexpectedness of being sent on a new Quest so soon after his last.

  "You are expected at the Lodge in three days,” the Prelate said. “Enjoy yourself until then, but remember to be careful with the Order, and do no more than to gather information; take no action against them. I order you to restrict yourself to that goal."

  "I will, Lord Thorn.” Grimm had faced demons, autocratic warlords and assassins, but he had always had the option of defending himself as he saw fit. This particular mission would be like an intricate game of chess: a subtle game he had never mastered. He only hoped that it was a game at which he would prove adept.

  As he turned to go, Grimm heard one more comment from Lord Thorn. “Enjoy yourself tonight at Necromancer Numal's party tonight, Questor Grimm."

  Is there anything here Lord Thorn doesn't know? Grimm wondered.

  He bowed and exited the chamber, his earlier elation replaced by disquiet and worry. He rubbed his right temple, which had begun to develop a faint but nagging ache.

  Perhaps I've been pushing myself too hard, the Questor thought. A little recreation might be just the thing.

  A new mage's Acclamation was something to celebrate, so Grimm vowed to put his worries behind him until it was time to leave.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 5: Rivalry and Revelry

  Grimm arrived for Numal's Acclamation feast in plenty of time. His own ceremony took place within an hour of his Mage Staff prevailing against the magically sharp and immutable edge of the Breaking Stone.

  In Numal's case, it would seem either that such swift preparation had not been possible, or, as was more probable, that the Acclamation of a new Questor was regarded as a more significant event than that of a humble Necromancer.

  The feast was to be held in the upper gallery of the East Wing, affording a bird's eye view of the Great Hall. Grimm saw several places laid at the great, round banqueting table, but far fewer than had been laid for his own celebration.

  Grimm heard footsteps behind him, and he turned to see the acerbic Magemaster Faffel, under whose stern instruction he had studied Courtly Graces. The Magemaster wore sky-blue silk robes, and an ostentatious gold cummerbund sought to contain a bulging waistline. A tall, black hat, topped by a peacock feather, perched precariously on Faffel's burgeoning, jet-black hair, which looked ludicrous in contrast to such a lined, ancient face.

  The young mage suppressed a groan, since Faffel's presence meant that he would feel constrained to use the formal, starchy tones of Mage Speech throughout the feast. He had had enough of this in his previous Quest, under the ascetic Xylox.

  Faffel's small, yellow eyes scanned the Questor, searching for the least imperfection in his apparel or his bearing, but, at the end of his scrutiny, the old Magemaster gave a slight, grudging nod of approval.

  "Greetings, Questor Grimm; it seems that my patient instruction has, at last, borne some fruit. Your appearance and bearing appear appropriate to the occasion. I am pleased to see that the spoils of your Quests have been put to good use."

  What patient instruction was that?

  Faffel's mode of tuition had consisted of little but slaps, insults and acidic rebukes. These had been directed, in particular, at boys from less wealthy families, like Grimm. The man fawned over richer, titled Students, schooled in deportment and court protocol since they were weaned, and he had never tired of mentioning that he had been received at the King's court on several occasions.

  Grimm detested snobbery, and he now had sufficient confidence in himself to take the conceited Magemaster down a peg or two.

  "Magemaster Faffel, it is good to see you,” he lied. “However, these fine silk robes were not purchased with proceeds from my Quests, but from funds voted to me by the High Council of Crar when I was declared Baron."

  If anything could sway Faffel's self-importance, it was a noble title, and Grimm felt pleased to see that it had the desired effect. He saw an immediate change in the Magemaster's manner at the Questor's very mention of the glittering title: ‘Baron'. It seemed that Faffel was impressed by a noble cognomen, no matter how it had been bestowed.

  "Lord Grimm, I apologise without reserve. I had no idea that you had been elevated to the nobility, and I congratulate you."

  Faffel executed a perfect court bow, sweeping the ridiculous hat from his head so that the peacock feather brushed against the floor. Grimm toyed with the idea of extending his hand for the Magemaster to kiss but restrained himself, acknowledging the gesture with a brief but courteous nod. He could not act in such a contemptuous manner, even to such a shallow and conceited man, and he decided instead to be gracious. After all, the unpleasant Magemaster had managed to turn a clumsy blacksmith's boy into a competent dancer and an ambassador for the House who would not disgrace it, even in the most elevated company.

  "Thank you, Magemaster Faffel. Thank you for educating me in the ways of the court. Without your diligent guidance, I am sure I would have dishonoured my title in many ways, with lapses of protocol or inappropriate speech."

  Grimm felt revolted to see how the simple five-letter word, ‘Baron', had turned the Magemaster into a fawning fool. It might have been better not to attempt to upstage the vain, snobbish man in this way, after all.
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  As Faffel's stream of sycophantic trivia became unbearable, the Questor felt relieved to note the arrival of the earthy Magemaster Kargan, whose face lit up at the sight of his erstwhile pupil.

  Grimm knew Kargan would not bother with mindless chit-chat, and Mage Speech would go out of the window. Although Kargan wore robes of excellent quality, they seemed somehow loose and ill-suited to his spare, wiry frame, and his blue-tinted spectacles added an air of mystery.

  "Well; if it isn't my old Student, Questor Grimm! My, aren't we a fine young popinjay these days?"

  Kargan cast a disapproving glance at Faffel. “Hmm ... I can see where you got the idea from, although I'm pleased to see that you, at least, chose to keep your apparel within the bounds of reasonable taste,”

  he added, his voice dripping with contempt for the other Magemaster's ludicrous outfit.

  Grimm opened his mouth to acknowledge Kargan's greeting, but Faffel interrupted him.

  "That should be 'I see whence you obtained the idea' ,” the primping Magemaster sneered. There seemed little love lost between the two mage tutors, and they started a verbal sparring match, each trying to outdo the other.

  Grimm, now freed from Faffel's obsequious attentions, looked on with some amusement as the two men traded slights and innuendos, although they always steered clear of outright insults.

  The spat came to an abrupt halt as Grimm heard a familiar voice behind him.

  "Gentlemen, your attention, please."

  All three mages turned around, and Grimm saw the imperturbable Senior Magemaster Crohn, the head of the Scholasticate, standing at the head of the spiral staircase. He leaned on his staff, his expression intense and disapproving.

  "This is an important occasion, and it should not be belittled by paltry squabbling. I would be grateful if you would put your petty rivalries aside for the nonce. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, Senior Magemaster."

  "Your words are as clear as the most lambent crystal, Senior Magemaster."