Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (34 page)

This was a
crypt
, a place of the dead, he realised. The mortal Grimm might have shuddered in superstitious, subliminal uneasiness, but his spiritual avatar watched unmoved. Racks and racks of ornate coffins rose thirty feet to a vaulted ceiling, arrayed neatly around the walls of a circular room, maybe fifty feet in diameter and dished in the middle, like some giant serving-bowl. In the middle of the bowl, the roaming dream-spirit saw a circular dais, on which was mounted a gilded wooden throne with a blood-red velvet cushion. To one side of this was a large basket of silver metal, filled with carefully arrayed blocks of some wood emitting a pungent, aromatic perfume. Was this some altar of consecration for departed souls?

The chanting grew more intense, and spirit-Grimm sensed that he was approaching the door of the crypt. The door opened, and a hooded, black-robed figure entered; behind it, a group of four chanting, grey-garbed entities in a square formation, a cloth-bound bundle borne on their shoulders. The figure in black sank onto the throne in the centre of the crypt; the hood slipped back and dream-Grimm recognised Lizaveta, the Prioress of the Order of the Sisters of Divine Mercy. The grey chanters released their burden carefully, reverently onto the flagstones at the Prioress's feet. They, too, doffed their hoods, to reveal young, female, glassy-eyed faces bearing identical expressions of utter adoration. The chanting ceased as if on cue, and the Sisters chanted,
"All hail, Reverend Mother,"
in perfect unison.

"Sisters of our serene Order,” Lizaveta hissed from her throne, the sibilants sounding like daggers drawn from wet silk scabbards. “We are here to commemorate the untimely demise of our dear, recently departed Sister. A tragedy, indeed, that she passed to the other side so soon; her service to the Order held much promise.

"Alas, she succumbed during a well-merited Trial of Devotion. Her spirit proved weak and, regrettably, unworthy of our deep love, and of the trust placed in her. However, even in her weakness, she may make us stronger, and become a part of us all. Sister Jelana, step forward!” Lizaveta held out her shrivelled, ringed left hand.

One of the Sisters approached the throne and curtseyed deeply, her forehead almost touching the floor. She held the pose for what seemed like an eternity, and then took the Prioress's hand. With tears glistening in her misty eyes, she kissed the old woman's profession-ring with a fervid passion.

"I am at your bidding, Reverend Mother."

"Beloved Sister, most fortunate amongst women, to you falls the honour and the privilege of consigning the memory of our dear, lost Sister to our hearts and memories, in the certain knowledge that she will not be forgotten for as long as our blessed Order remains."

The nun sank her head to the cold flagstones once more. “Blessed be our glorious Order,” she recited in a tremulous, passionate voice. “Blessed be the Earth Mother and her chosen acolytes; as below, so above."

"As below, so above,” came the affirmative chant from the other Sisters.

"So let it be,” Prioress Lizaveta intoned.

Spirit-Grimm hung in the air, unseen by the cloaked devotees. Some portion of his being seemed unable to tear itself away from this increasingly forbidding place. A mote of untouched consciousness urged him to return to the living world, but he felt incapable of doing so.

Sister Jelana rose to her feet, nodded her head reverently towards the Prioress and then faced her three fellow devotees of the Order. “Mother Earth, succour us and guide us,” she crooned in evident ecstasy, her face a mask of unalloyed joy.

"Nurture us and empower us,” the nuns chanted, wearing expressions of pure rapture. Jelana raised her hands and chanted in a guttural voice, hot tears of devotion flowing from her eyes. The blocks of fragrant wood in their shining crib smouldered and then took flame. Aromatic smoke filled the chamber, and the entranced Sisters seemed almost to swoon, releasing ecstatic cries and reeling as if possessed.

The chosen daughter of the Order removed a large, sheathed blade from her robe, slipped it free of its leathern confinement and held it above her head.

"Mother Earth, Goddess of our Order,"
the nun screamed,
"we beg you to consecrate this blade
and make it pure. Pray, guide my hand truly, so that we may make our departed Sister live again
in our hearts and our bodies!"

The cloth shroud of the bundle was flung aside, and Grimm's disembodied spirit saw what appeared to be a brown, wooden representation of a bloated, malformed human. Jelana held the wide blade to her face and then offered it to Lizaveta. The Prioress nodded solemnly, whereupon the honoured Sister of Divine Mercy turned to the brown simulacrum as howls of pleasure, mingled with agony, arose from the other devotees.

The inner voice within spirit-Grimm's sensorium rose to a shriek, but he felt completely unable to drag himself away from the bizarre spectacle.

The shining blade rose and fell. Instead of the crisp, decisive sound of metal biting into inanimate wood, he heard the wet, heavy crunch of a butcher's cleaver cutting into fresh meat. A thin, red fluid, tinged with yellow, began to flow from the brown figure as Jelana lifted aloft something resembling a human, female leg, complete with the protruding stub of a severed femur. Dream-Grimm noticed that the brown tint was only on one side of the limb; the remainder of the leg was marbled with purple and red, shading to an ivory tint at what looked like the rear of the thigh and the calf. The severed member was flung onto the pyre, sending greasy waves of smoke into the atmosphere.

One Sister sprung forward, bearing a shining crystal chalice and scooped up the gruesome, turbid fluid that ran towards Lizaveta's throne. “Reverend Mother, accept this gift from our departed Sister in remembrance of her sweet soul.” She sank to the ground before the gilded throne, the cup held above her head.

The Prioress held the chalice to her lips and opened her mouth wide. Down went the disgusting, thick liquid, and Lizaveta's eyes rolled in ecstasy. “Sister Madeleine,” she intoned, red liquid running down to her chin to drip to the flagstones, “so sweet she was—so sweet she
is
!” She cackled hysterically at her own wit.

The ensorcelled Sisters began to tear at the misshapen figure with knives, and even with bare fingers, ripping gobbets of all-too-real flesh from white bones and flinging them onto the fire...

* * * *

"Wake up, Grimm! Wake up! It's almost time to leave."

Grimm lifted his head, bleary-eyed and confused, from the pillow. He emitted a groan and dragged himself upright in the bed.

"I just had the most awful nightmare imaginable, Dalquist,” he said, his mouth dry and his tongue thick “I just want to get out of here."

Dalquist nodded sagely. “Unfamiliar surroundings can often have that effect; I spent an uneasy night myself. You have time to prepare for the journey and to eat breakfast, but be quick. I will be back to chivvy you again in half an hour."

Grimm made no reply, but he raised a hand in assent. When Dalquist departed, the young man made an uncharacteristically hurried toilet, in order to leave time to break his fast, but he found that even the tempting foods laid out in his room could not awaken his appetite. When the senior Questor returned, he found his friend almost distraught.

"What is it, Grimm? Surely you've had bad nightmares before?"

"Dalquist, it all seemed so real! I was in the catacombs below the Lodge, and I saw the Sisters of Divine Mercy dismembering the swollen corpse of Madeleine and drinking her blood. I can't shake it from my mind."

Dalquist rubbed his chin in cogitation. “You feel guilty about Madeleine, as if you could have persuaded her to give her love freely, without artifice. You hate the Order that commands her true allegiance, and you're transferring your frustration onto them."

Grimm sighed. “You must be right, Dalquist.” In truth, he found his friend's explanation facile and simplistic, but he told himself that he was simply overwrought after a horrible dream, and that he was trying to read deeper meanings into a sinister reverie.

Grimm stood with a decisive gesture. “All right, Dalquist, I'm ready to leave, and it can't be a moment too soon for me. I'm a simple, provincial Questor, and I just want to get back home, back to somewhere that I can fit in."

"Amen to that, Brother Mage.” The older mage laughed. “Oh, don't trip over that book." Grimm picked up the book that he had started to read on the previous night and snapped it shut, placing it on the shelf beside the bed. “Right, let's be on our way, Brother Mage."

Grimm Afelnor thought he had never been more bored in his whole life. In the six months since his visit to High Lodge and his lucky accession to the Fifth Rank, nothing exciting seemed to have happened. The Prelate had forbidden the Questor leave to visit his grandfather, without giving any reason, and Grimm had nowhere else to go

Lord Thorn did, at least, send him on two further Quests, but neither brought him much credit or glory. The first of the Quests involved nothing more arduous than simple escort duty; Grimm accompanied a shipment of gold on a journey from Sturat Port to Fraasia across the Sturan Sea. His companion mage on this voyage was Gulari Ferat, a Mage Weatherworker of the Third Rank. Gulari remained terse and uncommunicative throughout the journey, preferring to consult his Weatherworking librams and guides. Grimm suffered from seasickness on the first three days, and his stomach remained uneasy for some time thereafter. Grimm understood fully the causes of motion sickness, but he was unable to cast curative spells on himself; this was one of the main limitations of Questor magic. In his uneasy state, he dared not attempt runic magic, which required perfection in every syllable.

Grimm knew that a small dose of Trina could cure seasickness, but he had no intention of risking re-addiction to that potent substance.

Gulari called up a gentle breeze to drive the ship when it became becalmed, but this was the only magic cast throughout the Quest. Grimm intended to pursue a rigorous, daily regimen of magical and physical exercise, but he spent most of the time facedown in his hammock, shivering and retching, his face ashen and sweaty. The Quest proved otherwise uneventful.

On the second Quest, on behalf of High Lodge, Grimm travelled alone to the city of Viere. The city fathers had defaulted on their tithes to the Guild, pleading poverty, but the presence of a full Guild Questor soon persuaded them to admit that the city's financial position was a little more secure than they had claimed.

With Lord Thorn's permission, Grimm visited his Barony of Crar, but his demon friend, Shakkar, acting as Seneschal, had proved an extraordinarily able administrator during the young Baron's absence. Grimm held an informal meeting with the Council of Crar, but the general opinion seemed to be that the Seneschal was doing a fine job; Grimm's intervention was not required, in any capacity. The young mage had hardly seen his friend, Dalquist since their visit to High Lodge; as a full Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, having fulfilled his financial obligation to Arnor House at last, Dalquist was living far away, returning only briefly to be dispatched on a Quest of his own. Grimm bided his time. He yearned to be out on the road again, amongst good friends and good companions, using his powers to the full in the defence of Guild values and principles. He was a Mage Questor, not some bodyguard or financial enforcer, but he learned that the valorous exploits mentioned in the
Deeds of the Questors
were rare exceptions, rather than the rule. He concentrated on becoming as fit as he could be, mentally and physically, ready to take on the rigours of the trail once more. His minuscule demon companion, Thribble, did not help matters by reminding Grimm on numerous occasions that he wanted to gather more material for tales with which to bedazzle his fellow netherworld creatures on his eventual return to the demon realm.

Grimm was now seventeen years old, still slender but wiry, and possessed of considerable strength and stamina, but with no release for it other than his daily exercises. He tried to contact his old Scholasticate friends, Madar Gaheela and Argand Forutia, but both were at crucial stages in their magical training; their respective Magemasters forbade external distractions.

More than once, Grimm eyed with longing the pouch containing the addictive herbs Trina and Virion, which he always carried with him. He was over the worst of his addiction now, but the
ennui
brought on by waiting for his next real Quest re-awoke the hunger within him. He felt tempted on many occasions to smoke just a small quantity of the herbs, but he managed on each occasion to leave the pouch unopened. He refused to become a puppet of the substances again, but his lengthening period of inactivity served only to increase the frequency and intensity of the yearning.

Something must happen soon, he told himself. Any day now; let me just get through today. Tomorrow, something must happen. Tomorrow, or the day after...

* * * *

Lord Prelate Thorn Virias ploughed through his endless paperwork. The financial situation of Arnor House had improved since he had been elected a permanent member of the Guild Presidium and since the House's subsequent rise in reputation, but Thorn still looked for reasons to dispatch his Questors on demanding and risky Quests, so he could enhance his own prestige and status within the Guild and place High Lodge in his debt.

Lord Prelate Thorn?
The mental message emanating from Thorn's scrying-crystal carried greater urgency than might have been expected if High Lodge were requesting triplicate copies of Arnor House's accounting records, and Thorn looked up from his papers.

Lord Dominie Horin, it is good to hear from you again,
thought Thorn, placing his hands on the crystal.
What may I do for you?

Lord Thorn, I wish to acquaint you with a worrisome state of affairs. Guild Mages seem to have
been resigning their vocations at an alarming frequency in recent months. We at High Lodge have
recently lost a prominent Mage Mentalist, Bronin Wearth, called the Mindmaster, after thirty
years of staunch service. He has always been a dedicated, trustworthy servant of the Guild, and
his resignation is most out of character for this dependable and loyal mage.
I see from the records of other Houses that at least five other such occurrences, all equally puzzling, have taken place in the last two months. The only common factor seems to be that all of these mages have resigned after visiting the newly dedicated House at the foot of the Shest Mountains, and that nothing more has been heard of them since. All of the mages who have resigned were either Mentalists or Illusionists; in other words, manipulators of the mind. I am concerned that the mages may be setting up some clandestine activity in opposition to us; there must be some reason for this silence.
Many Prelates are convinced that nothing sinister pertains to these events, but I am persuaded
otherwise. I wish to invoke a formal Quest to investigate these disappearances, and I need the
assistance of a Prelate whom I can trust implicitly to implement it; of course, given the apparent
risks involved in this undertaking, it will not be held against you should you refuse.
Thorn had no intention of refusing such an opportunity, but he made as much of the moment as he could, in order to maximise Dominie Horin's gratitude at his eventual acceptance.
Lord Dominie, I feel indeed gratified by your confidence in Arnor House. However, I am sure that
you realise only too well that our resources at this time are limited. We have three Questors
available for the service of our Guild, dedicated men who are all eager to serve, but the Quest you
have outlined does place great demands upon the House.