Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (12 page)

As he raised his hand to sweep this pathetic dross into oblivion, the little girl smiled at the demon, her face clear and untrammelled by fear or hopeless anger. She took one step forward, but the woman snatched her back, her face now twisted into an expression of utter determination Shakkar had only seen on one mortal face before.

Perhaps these poor beings
are
worth something after all!
he thought, relaxing his pose and lowering his arms.

* * * *

It seemed an age since Grimm had first confronted Shakkar but, in truth, mere minutes had passed. A vast, hacking sigh arose from the hulking demon, and his shovel-sized hands fell to his sides.

"There is no need to fight, human. There is no need for a contest of wills. My vengeance is complete. I swear on my name and my clan to visit no more destruction against the people or the city of Crar. I avow on my soul to remain your friend and ally as long as you are true to me."

"That is a generous compact, Shakkar,” Grimm said, slumping a little in his relief, “worthy of a demon's noble soul. Know now that I will never, ever, seek or threaten to enslave you, should you keep also true to your word—as I feel sure you will. To seal our trust, I now open my soul to you. Look within me, and we will have equal power over each other.” Grimm furrowed his brow, muttered in his strange, personal language and bowed before Shakkar.

"No need, Questor. You have proved yourself worthy of trust. I renounce vengeance against Crar and declare myself at the disposal of your party."

With his head spinning and his entrails in turmoil, Grimm forced himself to remain erect.

"Shakkar, this is Dalquist Rufior, Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank and leader of this Quest. The well-dressed gentleman with the rapier is Harvel Rusea, a master swordsman. Our bloodstained friend is Crest, an expert wielder of whip and dagger. And I ... I need to lie down. I feel quite unwell." He staggered, almost falling headlong, and the strong arms of Harvel swept him up again as the party made its way back to the Jolly Merchant.

* * * *

The once-thronged bar was now empty, apart from two men slumped across their tables in drunken stupor. The landlord, so merry earlier on, now appeared a refreshingly different man.

"What do you want?” he demanded in a brusque voice, strong arms folded over his chest and looking pointedly at Shakkar, who answered with a soft growl. Dalquist stepped up. He thought of mentioning how he and his friends had delivered Crar of Starmor's evil spell but decided against it. The man seemed as confused as the other townsfolk but trying hard to hide the fact with bluster.

"Five rooms for the night please, landlord. I will pay you good money if we are not disturbed."

Many thanks to Ian Bell for permission to use his RPG character, Xylox the Mighty, who was so often at odds with Grimm Dragonblaster in the Melee Room.

Thanks again to Matt and Esther and the regulars at “The Cricketers". To the good people at fanstory.com for reviewing my work, and for their sage and constructive advice. Thanks to Debi, Melanie, Marsha and Jinger at Whiskey Creek, for improving the breed in so many ways.

"Not him,” the barman snarled. “Not the demon. I won't have him smashing up my inn and eating the customers because he doesn't like the food.” Dalquist expected trouble from Shakkar, but the huge demon, bent almost double under the tavern's roof-beams, shrugged. “That is all right by me, landlord,”

he boomed. “I think your human beds would be too small for me. If you do not mind, I will rest in your barn. Fear not: I have no taste for horseflesh."

"Good,” Harvel said, pointedly. “Four of those nags are ours." Dalquist handed over five gold pieces, a tidy sum. “If you will accept this for four—” he glanced at the bilious Grimm, “—three meals, the rooms for the night, and four live goats or sheep for our large companion, you'll have no trouble from us."

The landlord seemed to soften a little at the sight of the large, heavy coins. “Very well, then."

"One more thing, landlord,” the Questor said. “Have you an apothecary, physician or Healer in this town? Crest here has some ugly wounds, and Questor Grimm seems to have developed a strange affliction."

The landlord nodded. “I'll call for Threval right away. He used to be a Guild Mage, and he lives a couple of miles outside the city. Upstairs, turn left, rooms eight through eleven. And if the boy pukes on my nice, clean floor, you'll have to clear it up.” He tossed Dalquist four numbered keys.

* * * *

Dalquist swept into Grimm's room with a solemn-looking man of perhaps ninety years, with a strong, dark-complected face and a no-nonsense attitude about him. He carried a huge trunk with surprising ease, belying his narrow frame and his apparent age.

"I am Threval Shobat, Mage Herbalist of the Third Rank of Rhunin House,” the old man said. Grimm raised himself from his bed, but the effort seemed beyond him. Instead of speaking, he fell back down to the mattress and allowed a groan to escape his dry, white-flecked lips. Dalquist introduced himself to the Herbalist.

"It's not magic, Herbalist Threval,” he continued. “My Sight shows nothing but a severely deranged aura. I've never seen the like."

"I concur, Questor Dalquist,” Threval said in a soft voice, “but, as an Herbalist, I have a little more experience in matters of the aura than do you Questors. Does your companion partake of ... pharmaceutical supplements? Hallucinogens, perhaps? Stupefactants?" Dalquist looked puzzled. “I feel certain he does not. Questor Grimm carries a few medicinal herbs, since he is more knowledgeable about their use than the rest of us. But I have never seen their marks upon him. I would surely have seen considerable changes in his aura if he had taken these substances in my presence. I have seen none."

"No matter, Questor Dalquist. A little spell of Inner Quietude combined with a touch of Mental Clarity should enable your young friend to answer me himself.

"One moment; I have a suitable scroll somewhere in here."

Threval began to hunt in his capacious trunk, which was filled with a jumble of bottles, scrolls and librams. Although Dalquist understood a few of the relevant spells, he knew he lacked the finesse and control of a true Specialist in the art of Herbalism.

"Ah, here we are.” Threval drew forth a scroll, an egg and a chipped china cup patterned with lilies. He cracked the egg on the cup and drank off its contents in a single draught, causing a momentary expression of distaste to flit across Dalquist's face.

"That is for my voice,” the Herbalist explained. “It keeps my throat in trim for spellcasting." He held out the scroll towards Dalquist. “Would you mind? I need both hands for this." Dalquist held the scroll open at the level of Threval's eyes. The Herbalist donned a pair of fussy gold-rimmed spectacles and began to cast, his voice and gestures distinct and crisp, with the confidence born of decades of successful practice. Two minutes later, Dalquist recognised the closing cadence and handed the scroll back to Threval. “That'll do it,” the aged mage said with a satisfied smile. “Thirty years without a miscast."

In an instant, an astonishing transformation took place. Grimm sat bolt upright, shook his head and stretched luxuriantly. Dalquist nodded to Threval, impressed beyond words.

* * * *

"Now, Questor Grimm, answer me truthfully,” said the Healer. “With which drugs have you been polluting your body? No lies, now."

"Rule 3.14.1: ‘No Student shall partake of hallucinogenic, stimulant or narcotic substances unless specifically prescribed by the Scholasticate Apothecary and at the dosage and frequency so specified,'”

Grimm rasped. “I do not take drugs, ever.” He sat on the bed with a defiant expression, daring Threval to call him a liar.

Threval shook his head. “You have done so, I feel certain. A stupefiant and a stimulant. Less obfuscation now, and don't quote the Rules at me, young man. I was a Student long before your father was born. You
have
taken drugs, I'll wager, within the last six hours. Perhaps someone might have slipped such substances into your drink or your food?"

Grimm's face cleared. “It must have been when I was on the pillar with Shakkar. To defeat Baron Starmor, I needed a calm head and a clear resolve. I did take some substances from my pouch."

"How were they ingested?"

"I burned them and inhaled the fumes. I used Trina leaves and Virion powder."

"In what quantities did you take them, Questor Grimm?"

Grimm indicated the amounts with his hands, and the Herbalist whistled.

"A little more than a medicinal dose, don't you think?” he said.

"I was tackling no ordinary mage,” Grimm replied, frowning. “Starmor would have pounced on the slightest emotion and used it against me. I was using the herbs to deaden my emotions whilst still maintaining clarity of purpose."

Threval slapped his head. “That, Questor Grimm, is the cause of your malaise. Your body now cries out with hunger for the herbs. I cannot help you with magic. Only willpower will save you. But then, you Questors are noted for the force of your will, are you not?"

"I feel in excellent health now, Herbalist Threval,” Grimm declared. “Surely you have already cured me with your magic?"

"I have not. The spell will last for maybe five minutes more, and then the hunger and the weakness will return with a vengeance. Repeated castings would lessen in effectiveness and duration with each further ingestion of the drugs. Your hunger for them would grow ever more insistent, until you died from their effects. The spell of Inner Quietude is a palliative, not a cure for your illness." Grimm swallowed. “I presume there
is
a cure? Or is willpower alone the key?" Threval shrugged. “You are young and strong, and yet the drug hunger laid you low at its first assault. Even with the mightiest will in the world, you would be dead inside a month. Purely and simply, you require more of the herbs. Take only a tiny pinch of each at a time, just enough so you can function normally, but not as much as your body wants. Use your willpower to ration the doses and repeat the dose only when you cannot continue.

"What you must do over the next few weeks is to reduce the dosage until it is at a minimum. When you can resist the call of the herbs for a week, you have beaten the addiction to a stalemate."

"A
stalemate
?"

"Should you be tempted to take further doses in the future,” Threval said, looking straight into Grimm's eyes, “you will soon find yourself back where you were when I came to you. You will never, ever
beat
the drugs, but you may hold them at bay for as long as you have the will. They will
always
be there, whispering to you when times are hard, but the only victory is to be able always to ignore the whispers.

"You are, in a way, fortunate to have had such a strong abreaction on your first usage; many who use these kinds of substances in small amounts have few ill effects until they are caught deep in the cycle of dependence, taking ever larger quantities just to reach equilibrium. In these circumstances, even a Questor's willpower might be insufficient to avoid the slide into a living death, followed shortly by a painful demise. Be strong and live, Questor Grimm."

The Herbalist rummaged in his voluminous bag and brought out two small bags and a clay pipe with a tiny bowl. Grimm felt his heart leap.

"Trina and Virion. At first, I advise you to take equal quantities of each, just enough to fill the bowl, and no more than six times per day. When you can function with this dosage, start to reduce the quantities and increase the intervals a little each day, until you have stopped using them. It will not be easy, but a Questor should be equal to the task. You have survived worse than this trial already." A shudder overtook Grimm and his head began to swim once more. He took the pipe and the herbs and filled the bowl of the pipe, his hands trembling.

"K'tapt'acht."

The herbs glowed, and Grimm took a deep draught, then another. His eyes watered, and he barely stifled a cough, but then the powers of the herbs began to take hold. Two more pulls on the clay pipe, and the bowl was empty. Nonetheless, he had regained his equanimity without becoming an emotionless zombie, and he grinned at Dalquist and Threval.

"Thank you, Herbalist Threval. I feel so much better now. I will take your advice and abstain for as long as I am able. I do not wish to become a slave, least of all to these substances. Now I am familiar with the onset of the symptoms, I should be able to forestall them for longer. They will not creep up on me unawares next time."

Grimm brought forth his money pouch. He knew how little cash he owned, but he was willing to give the Herbalist whatever he could.

"I am indebted to you, Brother Mage. What may I pay you in recompense for your skill and your valuable time?"

Threval snorted. “I earn more than enough money through treating rich widows, hypochondriac merchants and their spoilt brats for minor or imaginary ills. Our Houses are allies, and I am only too happy to help out a brother mage in his time of extremity. I need no pecuniary reward for ministering to the needs of my Guild Brothers."

Grimm argued a little, insisting at least that Threval accept repayment for the herbs and the pipe. In the end, the old mage accepted three silver pieces and made his leave.

With a shock, Grimm realised he had not spared a thought for the injured Crest. In panic, he cried out, “Herbalist! Wait, please! Our companion Crest needs your help!" Dalquist laid a fatherly hand on Grimm's shoulder. “It's all right, Grimm. Threval has already treated Crest, and our friend is resting and in no danger. Harvel paid the Healer a handsome sum and begged that we never tell Crest about it. Our braggart swordsman cares more about his elven friend than he will admit. They have fought often together often, and I suspect they're more like brothers than companions. Of course, brothers do argue a lot.

"Sleep now, we have a long ride back to the House in the morning. We have the Eye of Myrrn, and Starmor is defeated. When the people of Crar begin to realise their deliverance and take control of their lives again, we may have a new Baron who will be a staunch ally of our House. We have done well, and I don't think you will remain at the First Rank for long. Sleep and dream peacefully, if you can. We will move an hour after cockcrow."