Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (11 page)

"Starmor,” he said, “you will die soon. I have no emotions to allow you the full extent of your powers. Whilst Shakkar has hate aplenty, his emotions are safely contained by the pentacle and therefore unavailable to you. Refuse to return my friends to this world and I will relinquish my hold over the spell, whilst retaining full control over you. Powerful you may be, but I fancy Shakkar will reach you long before you can reach out for the power of his hatred and use it on him or on me. Your death will be slow and unpleasant. If you do as I say, I will ensure your passing is swift and painless. These are your only choices."

Sweat glittered on Starmor's forehead. “What will you do if your companions are dead?"

"You may not attempt to bargain with me, Starmor,” Grimm replied, unsullied by worry at this prospect.

“Your life is all but at an end; your only choice is in the manner of its ending. However, I swear your death will be as torturous as Shakkar and I can devise, should you fail to ransom my colleagues."

"Very well, child-mage.” The Baron sighed, casting nervous eyes at the rapacious demon clawing at the walls of his prison. “Your alternatives are unappealing, but I cede you victory. However, I will be unable to muster sufficient strength to bring back your companions, or their cadavers, from their respective prisons without access to a modicum of emotion. Can you not restrain Shakkar in some other way and dissolve your pentacle?"

Grimm shook his head. In his normal state of mind, he might have chuckled, but his stony expression never wavered. “I am no fool. You would use the energy in an attempt to destroy Shakkar and me, or to escape. Instead, you will allow me free and unfettered access to the inner recesses of your mind so I may cast the charm. I will restrain you while I work the magic.

"At the slightest deviation from total acquiescence on your part, I will clamp you in a potent holding spell and visit exquisite torments upon you until you are all but dead. Then, when you are in no condition to attempt magic, I will allow Shakkar to vent the full measure of his wrath upon you. I imagine you will find he can be quite imaginative in the range of torments he can visit upon you. Were I not in full control of my emotions, I might be moved to mercy. In my present state, however, I am pragmatism personified. I feel no such compunction."

After many minutes, Starmor frowned and said, “Very well, Questor Grimm. Work your Divination. I will not attempt to baulk you."

The young Questor tied Starmor tightly to his throne with a length of strong cord from his pack, laid his hands on the Baron's temples and began to mutter in his strange language. Fleeting images from the wizard's mind flitted through Grimm's sensorium. Although the images would normally have filled him with all-consuming revulsion and anger, the effects of the herbs kept him intent on his task. Long moments passed before he raised his hands and invoked multiple spells of translocation. Blue phosphorescence filled the chamber as the power flowed forth from Grimm, and figures filled the room. The first to arrive was Dalquist, a tight and humourless grin of defiance on his lips as he raised his hands to cast a mighty spell against a foe no longer present.

Then came Harvel, bearing a number of deep cuts on his muscular body but standing in a proud, defiant attack posture, his deadly sword poised before him.

Finally, Crest came forth, his silver whip running with blood. The half-elf was bedraggled and he bled from many small wounds, tottering on trembling legs and barely clinging to consciousness. Grimm made to speak as the adventurers moved towards him, but darkness clouded his vision. With a sense of horror that grew as the effect of the drugs began to wane, he realised his recent prodigious expenditure of power had reduced the magical energies taken from Shakkar to a low level, and he realised he had overextended himself.

The voice of Magemaster Crohn seemed to ring in his head; “You really must learn to ration your strength, Afelnor. Do not always be so eager to expend it in a single spell, as you will be left vulnerable thereafter."

"I'm sorry, Magemaster Crohn,” Grimm muttered as he sank to the floor, dazed and confused. At the moment he fell, Grimm saw a grey-green flash of movement from where the pentacle had been mere moments before. With astonishing speed, Shakkar leapt across the room before the fettered Starmor could react, and tore off the Baron's head with a single, swift movement. He held the severed head high above him.

"I am avenged!” the demon howled. “I have waited many years for this, but it was all worth it for this brief moment of joy!” The demon bayed like a wild dog, a keening, high-pitched overpowering sound that felt like a rough thread being drawn through Grimm's ears. The demon hurled the head to the far wall, where it impacted in a wet, bloody explosion. Grimm heard rending, smashing sounds and then darkness enveloped the exhausted Questor.

* * * *

Insistent, unwelcome clamour roused Grimm from a confused and chaotic dream. Nausea wound through his entrails like the tendrils of some kind of insidious polyp. With some effort, he forced open his eyes and his head spun. He found himself draped across the broad shoulders of Harvel, whilst Dalquist carried Crest in a similar manner.

Where once had stood Starmor's imposing throne now lay what seemed to be a pile of bloody rags and shattered sticks, and furious oaths and smashing sounds came from within an adjacent annexe. Grimm realised his pentacle had dissolved the moment he lost consciousness, and Shakkar had been freed to wreak vengeance on Starmor and his property. Grunting with the effort, Harvel and Dalquist began to race for the turret's spiral staircase. The whole tower shook with each of Shakkar's blows and, halfway down the staircase, Grimm lost his unequal battle against nausea, vomiting heavily down Harvel's back. The fastidious swordsman did not slow his flight for a single heartbeat. The fleeing party reached the portal, and a curt word and gesture from Dalquist flung it wide open, as the adventurers reached the sanctuary of the narrow street outside the tower.

A crowd of Crarian citizens stood by, their expressions blank and confused. Freed from the odious geas placed upon them by Starmor, they seemed also robbed of its guiding influence. The people milled around the tower in an aimless mass as the building rocked from side to side, while Shakkar wreaked destructive vengeance on the abode of his hated enemy, Starmor.

Several men-at-arms, approached, advancing hesitantly with swords and spears in their hands. Harvel lowered the nausea-stricken Grimm to the ground and drew his own blade, but Dalquist stayed him with a gesture, crying in a huge voice,
"People of Crar! Starmor is dead, and he can never trouble you
again. Our quarrel was never with you; it was only with your evil Baron. However, a mighty
demon now wreaks his revenge upon the Baron's demesnes. Flee now, while you have the
chance!"

The grim turret shivered and fell into a smoking heap of rubble, a towering plume of dust rising from the ground. The pile of debris trembled and burst asunder as the berserk form of Shakkar arose; a pale and fearsome sight clad entirely in pale dust. The mighty demon opened his great maw to show the fearsome daggers of his teeth, and roared in an ear-shattering howl. The people screamed and tried to flee, but the narrow streets impeded their escape as they scrabbled for egress.

Harvel waved his sword, and Dalquist raised his staff in defiance against the towering demon. In that moment, Grimm forced himself to his feet and stood between his companions and the slavering demon. Despite his swimming head and dry throat, his voice rang out clear and strong, above the tumult of the panicking crowd.

"Shakkar!” he screamed. “You have your revenge; be satisfied! These innocent people have done you no harm. They became slaves whilst you refused to succumb, but they cannot be blamed for being weak mortals. End your destruction, and go in peace."

"Questor Grimm,” Shakkar shrieked, rising to his full height. “I would not destroy you, for you have been as good as your word. Nonetheless, for many long years, I flitted around my dismal pillar and swore to destroy all Starmor's works for what he had done to me. I will not be stayed in my rightful vengeance. Do not think to try to oppose me. Stand aside, now!"

"Shakkar, I warn you: wreak no more destruction upon Crar, or I swear to stand against you until death. I swear this as on my name, and on my Acclamation as a Mage Questor of the House of Arnor. I have sixteen years, and would prefer to live for many years more, but only if I can prove to be true unto myself and the principles of my Guild; principles I have sworn to uphold with my life." Shakkar's tail thrashed, raising a pall of dust. “You cannot stand against me and prevail, human; no man can. Do not throw your life away. You and your companions are exhausted. You can barely stand. Do not waste your tenure on earth for the lives of these worthless, snivelling curs."

"Starmor beat you,” Grimm replied, swaying on his feet. “He was human, too." Shakkar's eyes narrowed. “For one time only, I allow you to mention that and live,” he breathed, claws snatching at empty air. “You are not he. And I have defeated him."

"Starmor had but one skill, the command of emotions. It was I who gave you the means to defeat him. I am a Questor, and we have many magical resources. My knowledge of Diabolism is slight, but the principles are clear. I know your true name, and I have seen your inmost soul. My spells of destruction might not affect you, but I have one other card to play; a contest of wills. The oldest of links between man and demon, it requires no magic, merely access to the demon's soul and the knowledge of his true name.

"Having seen your inmost being when you graciously gifted me with your strength, I can find it again in a heartbeat. Then, there is only willpower. I am more than willing to wager that I have ample inner strength to squash your will to nothing. You will then be my slave. Not my rebellious prisoner, but my bonded vassal and my plaything forever.

"Give up your revenge, or look into my eyes and see the strength within me. For my part, I am fully prepared to take the chance. Are you? You have never seen my soul, and you lack the sleight to force your way inside. You have no chance. I do not want you as a drooling slave, but as a friend and ally. Consider your revenge against Starmor complete, and no more need be said or done." Grimm forced himself to remain on his feet, although he would sooner have fallen to the ground and slept.

"Human, we have no need to quarrel,” Shakkar growled. “You and your companions may leave unmolested."

Grimm shook his head; an unwise move in his present state, but he did not reveal the inner turmoil this movement produced. “I don't want to quarrel either, Shakkar, but I will if necessary. I
will
. These people are guiltless, and you have no cause to hate them. Leave them in peace."

* * * *

Shakkar was a demon, with an inborn mistrust in humans, but Grimm had come to mean something to him during their short acquaintance, even if he was a mere human. For a mortal, the slender mage was certainly resourceful and true to his word. If he said he would fight, then Shakkar guessed he would. Grimm's comment about Starmor, the demon now knew, had not been intended to mock him, but to warn him. Demonic bloodlust pounded through Shakkar's veins, driving him to fight at odds against, even if losing meant giving up his free will. However, an insistent voice of sanity urged him to reconsider his position. Not only might Grimm stand a better than even chance of besting him in a contest of wills, but the demon also realised that he did not want to make an enemy of the young Questor. Shakkar had never had a human friend before, but he knew Grimm was giving the demon a far more generous choice than any other mortal ever had. Grimm might well have been able to subjugate him, but he had stayed his hand. The demon stood his ground and howled, pressing his clawed hands against his temples, as raging hormones and the dark depths of his psyche fought to sweep away his nagging doubts.
I could throw this mortal and his exhausted companions aside with one swing of my arm,
Shakkar thought.
They are as nothing to me. They have not the least conception of what Starmor did to me!

These weak, short-lived creatures are not worthy of my consideration. What knows a demon of
compassion or tenderness? Why should I bother myself with such trifles? What matters an oath to
a puling mortal?

He looked down at the tiny, exhausted figure before him.

This mortal talks of subduing me to his will. Ha! He has scarcely the strength to stand on his feet.
I could sweep him aside in a heartbeat, before he could muster a single thought!

The demon looked at the small human's resolute face and felt a glimmer of admiration rising within him.
Questor Grimm owes the people of Crar nothing,
he thought.
Why does he fight for them, when he
has my word that I will allow him to leave this dreadful place without hurt? Why do his friends
allow him to annoy me so, instead of urging him to flee from my righteous anger?

Shakkar ran his eyes over the older mage, the foppish swordsman and the elvish thief. Although they had little more strength than their young friend, they had also chosen to stay with him. Even the terrified citizens of Crar seemed resigned to their fate. After the human logjam in the narrow alley, they had ended their headlong flight, and they stood around him in a tight circle. Shakkar saw a tiny woman with her arm wrapped around a small child. The little girl appeared to have no fear, but the woman's eyes were wide and her face ashen. Beside them stood a grey-haired male, his pale, liver-spotted hands clenched into fists, his swollen, misshapen knuckles betraying the mortal affliction of arthritis.

Why do these people stand here?
the demon wondered.
Why do these cowardly, conflicted
creatures not run from me?

To Shakkar, the answer now appeared clear: humans were all insane. Nonetheless, as he saw the combined terror and resolution in the mortals’ eyes, he felt his anger rising once more.
Weak, foolish humans
, the inmost, animalistic region of his brain demanded, crying for mortal blood to be spilt.
They are unworthy of life
.