Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (20 page)

With Grimm absent much of the time, he would be the
de facto
ruler of Crar, even if only by proxy. That he could effectively oversee the running of Crar by the free will of humans, where Starmor had only been able to do so by subterfuge and enslavement, he found strangely stimulating. Yes, he would be Grimm's Seneschal. Even though his will would be, to some extent, subject to Grimm's, he knew in his heart that the human would never try to belittle him or to humiliate him as had Starmor, one of his own kind. He could think of no more honourable man to become his titular master, with the exception of the courteous and powerful Dalquist. At least, no single human could overrule his decisions except for Grimm, and he would be present in Crar only on rare occasions.

"It will be as you say, Grimm. You are the Baron, and I am your Seneschal, subject only to your will and that of the Council. And the majority vote of the citizens, I suppose. This will be an unusual constraint for me, but I believe that I can live with it. I am your demon, and I will accept your requirements with ... humility. I know my temper is severe at times, but I will always remember that the people of Crar are only human, and that such creatures may be broken easily—saving your presence, of course. I will exercise restraint at such times, but I trust that I may be allowed the odd growl or invective from time to time."

"I'm glad to have you on my side, Shakkar,” the young human said, smiling. “So long as you don't use these growls or oaths to attempt to coerce the Council or the voters, I have no objection, my friend...

"Please don't look at me in that way, demon! If I'm to rule this city, I want it to be by consent, not by coercion. I won't have it any other way."

Shakkar swallowed his brief eruption of ire, and nodded. He knew he would have to endure far worse provocations in the future, and he undertook within his mind to control his temper from now on. Grimm seemed to be testing him, and he found himself happy to suppress his baser instincts in the interests of harmony.

"Very well, Grimm Afelnor,” he growled. “By all means, take your proposal to the Council tonight. I will be your man ... or your demon, in any case."

* * * *

Grimm's spirit sang. His body was still a little weak, but he felt buoyed up by the fullness of his heart. He was a Baron! Surely no joy could compare to this, save his Acclamation ceremony. Surely, nothing could go wrong for him on this happy day.

Grimm looked at his reflection in a large mirror at the northern end of Starmor's former bedchamber. Now resplendent in a cowled yellow and deep blue robe with red lining, he looked the very image of magedom, except for the youthful, pale face that gazed from the cowl. Mayor Chod had not lied when he had extolled the merits of Crar's tailors. Grimm's excitement grew as he awaited the call to attend the Council meeting in which he would be declared Baron of Crar. His long, brown hair and his dark beard were neatly brushed, and he had polished the black wood and brass shoes of his staff to a mirror finish. He had obtained a supply of tobacco to smoke when he felt the pull of the drugs Trina and Virion, and a pang struck him now. As he reached into the pocket of his sateen robe, which he had laid out on the room's huge four-poster bed, he felt a strange tickle at the back of his mind. Dismissing it as an artefact of his weakened state, he filled the pipe and lit it with a gesture of his right forefinger. He drew in the smoke luxuriantly, allowing it to calm his nerves.

Then the tickle returned, irritating and undeniable. This time, he could hear the ghost of a voice, one he recognised only too well: Starmor's voice. It was weak but unmistakable. Grimm Afelnor. I wish to parlay.

Grimm had had little practice in the art of Telepathy, but he was well used to marshalling his thoughts and energies. After a little experimentation, he managed to produce a clear word-image in his mind. Starmor, you are where you belong, he thought, with a pang of satisfaction. Nothing you can ever offer will persuade me to release you. Get out of my head, you sadistic, egomaniacal monster!

The Questor could have sworn he recognised a chuckle within the thin tendrils of Starmor's thoughts. Is that any way to talk to an old friend, Grimm? the voice crooned. We are linked, we two, linked through physical contact. Your brief touch before you banished me gave me a mental connection to you; one you can never break.

Grimm felt panic rising within him. Could Starmor possibly access his magical power, or worse his emotions, through the dimensional barrier behind which he was confined? It seemed improbable; Starmor's mental voice was a feeble mental buzzing in the mage's head, at the limit of his perception. Even a small amount of Questor power would amplify this buzz until it was a veritable roar. Begone, Starmor. Your blandishments will not succeed, for you have nothing I want. Grimm knew that the evil demon-sorcerer must never be allowed to return to the mortal plane, and he meant every word. The insidious voice in his head seemed to drip with temptation. What would you say, Grimm Afelnor, if I told you I knew what happened to your grandfather, Loras? Would you not like to know what happened to him?

Grimm forced himself to remain calm, although he thrust his hands to his forehead as if he could drive the wheedling voice from his head.

I know what happened to him, Starmor. He tried to smother the old Prelate of Arnor House and was caught in the act. He admitted it, and he was stripped of his powers by a full Guild Conclave. There is nothing more you can tell me, and I suspect that you are just drawing images and impressions from my mind and playing upon them. Go away, I tell you!

So, our frightened little child wizard thinks he knows the truth, does he? Poor, witless, benighted infant. This was more like the true Starmor that the Questor and his companions had come to loathe with such a passion since their first encounter.

Grimm remained defiant, but he felt his ire beginning to rise like steam from a cauldron. He could not force the insistent voice from his head, and he began to wonder if it would remain with him to the end of his life.

An ever-present, immortal demon might drive him to madness, given sufficient time Perhaps Starmor was trying to goad him into magically striking him through the link. Would such a spell, sent in a spirit of hatred, carry sufficient emotion within its structure so as to give the demon the energy he needed to escape?

Was it worth the risk to find out?

Grimm gritted his teeth.
No! Starmor must have lifted Granfer's name from my mind, and he must
know of my personal oath. I won't listen to him.

Projecting his thoughts towards his unseen enemy, the mage replied, You know nothing, Starmor.
You have drawn the name of Loras Afelnor from some recess of my mind, and you seek to trick
me into visiting you so you can use my emotions to effect your escape. Nothing you can say or do
will convince me otherwise.

Starmor's insidious voice wound its way back into his head, bearing an intolerable note of
patronising humour. Ah, but you are so wrong, there, my puny stripling spell-caster. I know more
than you can possibly imagine, things that I know you will want to hear. Loras was betrayed.
Would you care to hear the traitor's name?

No, Grimm spat back. The voice seemed to be growing fainter. Was Starmor losing his last dregs of power?

Not everybody loved Loras Afelnor, Grimm. The faint whisper was almost imperceptible now. He had enemies where he thought there was undying friendship. One not known to him compelled him to strike and then left him thinking that it had all been his idea. He was betrayed and duped in equal measure. If you release me, I will give you the names of the parties involved. Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but it is a sweet and succulent dish, fit for a King ... or even for a puerile excuse for a Baron. Grimm clenched and unclenched his fists in rage and indecision. Starmor was telling him just what he wanted to believe; that Loras had not acted of his own volition, that he had been misled, duped, coerced. He wanted that to be true with every fibre of his being, but how could he trust this sadistic, manipulative monster? Even from his distant prison, the demon was trying to play with Grimm as he had with so many flesh-and-bone puppets. Making a conscious effort of will, he swore to ignore Starmor's words. I will accompany you to the depths of Hell before I will set you free, demon. I hope you rot on that pillar for eternity. I hope you deafen yourself with the manic screams of your own advancing insanity, and I defy you for the last time. Get ... out ... of ... my ... head!

Starmor was gone, and Grimm shook with emotions he had denied for so long. He looked at the pouch of drugs on the round bedside table and snatched it up like a bird of prey clawing up a hapless rodent. He gazed at the tempting herbs for long moments before he flung them to the green-carpeted floor and launched his right fist into his left palm five times before he managed to collect a semblance of composure.

Damn you, Starmor! You are not going to spoil this day for me. I am not going to spare your snide little fiction another moment's consideration, he thought.

Grimm looked at himself in the mirror, but his pride in his splendid new garments had left him, and he began to pace the room in an agony of indecision. He had to admit that his mind did not seem quite as sharp as it had been under the herbs’ influence; the drugs had seemed to make his thought processes fly. Now he was over the worst of the addiction, it felt as if his brain were some cogwheel machine clogged with thick, heavy treacle. He glanced again at the pouch lying on the floor and dismissed its insidious temptation. He sat on the floor and adopted a pose of meditation in an attempt to clarify his muddled thoughts.

Grimm knew Starmor must never be released, but he desperately wanted to hear what the demon lord had to say.

What to do?

He began to assess the different aspects of the situation. There seemed to be three basic considerations: a method of travel; a means of shielding his emotions from Starmor; and Grimm's need to conserve his still-limited strength.

He knew the four-dimensional location of the pillar, and it would take him a mere moment to traverse the distance. He had revelled in the freedom he had felt when performing the standard runic Translocation spell, and he knew he could repeat the spell without error, having felt the way in which the runic chant had patterned his mind. Nonetheless, the spell placed a high magical energy demand on the caster, and Grimm wondered if he could devise a Questor equivalent, one that would require less power to cast.
Yes ... there it is,
he thought, visualising the problem.
The image of the pillar is clear in my mind. I
shouldn't have any problem in locating it.

A second problem was that, if he arrived at the imprisoning turret with his emotions intact, he might well be supplying the demonic dictator with all the energy he required to escape. The powerful herbs had masked his emotions well, but Grimm feared that he might never escape the hunger for the drugs if he dared to take another dose. Taking just a little of the smoke to maintain equanimity had been one thing; taking an amount sufficient to face Starmor was another.

He shifted his position a little, since a low ache had arisen in the small of his back, and tried to compose his thoughts once more, trying to apply ruthless logic to the problem.
Focus, Afelnor! Focus!

He would not consider the drugs a viable way to mask his feelings from Starmor. He must find a
Questor
solution.

One of the main limitations of Questor magic was that the caster was unable to apply magic to his own brain, since that was the source of the magic. Therefore, Grimm needed to find a solution that acted outside the confines of his mind. A ward of some sort, one that would mask his emotions from Starmor and yet allow him to cast magic, would seem to be the ideal form of spell. Such a ward, limited to a single physical aspect and to the boundaries of his body, would cost him little effort to maintain. He performed a meditative trick he had been taught as a Neophyte, moving his psyche outside of his body and analysing the characteristic emanations of emotional energy by using his Mage Sight. Yes, the spell was indeed possible and it required little energy expenditure.

Grimm stood and stretched to relieve the knots that had been massing in his muscles. He was decided.
I'll face Starmor once more and force him to tell what he knew about Granfer's betrayal. He's
weak now. If I can shield my emotions from him, he won't be able to defy me. I'm sure my physical
body is stronger than his.

The cautious portion of Grimm's mind urged him to consult Dalquist first before committing himself, but another part told the young mage that the senior Questor would forbid the plan outright. He was no longer a callow Student, to be counselled and directed; he was a powerful Guild Mage in his own right, and he could make his own decisions. Nonetheless, something still nagged at him. He mulled over the details of his new Questor Translocation spell, and he remembered the words of Magemaster Crohn from his time in the House Scholasticate:
"A successful mage guards his power at
all times. Always make your choice of spell wisely, so as to conserve your strength for greater
challenges that may lie ahead; this is the hallmark of a prudent spell-caster."
The Questor had to acknowledge the wisdom of Crohn's words: he knew he had made too free of his power before, relying on its sheer abundance. He had gloried in the hot, invigorating thrill of the energy as it gushed from him, but, as a result, he had more than once rendered himself helpless after such reckless expenditure.

The new Translocation spell would work, he felt sure, but even this enchantment would place a considerable demand on his weakened resources.

Remember, Grimm, you'll have to perform it twice; once to send you back to the pillar, and once
to return you to the mortal world ... ah!

It seemed as if a bright light illuminated the furthest recesses of his being.
Of course!