Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (14 page)

Grimm knew he might have nothing the demon desired, but he maintained his mental pressure.

"A mortal!” a tiny voice squeaked at the level of Grimm's ankles. The mage looked down to see a tiny creature standing before him, perhaps six inches in height. The minuscule demon seemed a mere parody of a fearsome behemoth like Shakkar, and Grimm would have laughed if his situation had not been so serious.

"I have met few indeed of your kind,” the miniature monster trilled. “I have passed through the thoughts of a few who sat day-dreaming by a fire or under a warm sun, unwittingly opening their minds to our world. I find you interesting creatures, with your little worries and preoccupations. It has long been my desire to visit your world in my true form, but your Diabolists seem always to consider me beneath their notice. They prefer to wrestle with the wills of our more fearsome and truculent races." Grimm decided not to tell the imp he would have preferred a larger demon but had not the power to do so. It would not do to offend the tiny creature.

"You
are
a demon of Information, aren't you, demon?” Grimm asked. “That is what I need."

"My name is Thribble, human,” the demon sniffed.

Grimm managed a small smile. “I am Grimm Afelnor, Thribble,” he replied. “Well met."

"Well met Grimm Afelnor,” Thribble responded. “I am indeed a demon of Information. I see all and forget nothing, and I am well read. My fellow demons use me more as a storyteller, since I remember every detail of all I see. I can reproduce the exact accent and mannerisms of all participants in every scandal and tragedy I have ever witnessed.

"The payment I demand from you is that you permit me to travel freely in your world, to gather new information for my tales. If I can learn new, interesting stories with which to regale the other demons, who grow swiftly bored with repetition, my detailed narrations may garner me greater respect. I trust you are not some boring farmhand or bookworm with no life and no tales to relate; otherwise I shall have to refuse your request."

Grimm shook his head. “Indeed not, Thribble: I and my companion, Dalquist, are Mage Questors, and our friends Harvel and Crest are adventurers with many stories to tell."
Some of which may actually be true
, he added in a hidden section of his mind. The tiny figure clapped his paws. “Good! Let us go, then! I wish to meet these interesting friends of yours."

Grimm expanded his mind into a large bubble, through which the demon easily hopped. Withdrawing his thoughts from the demonlands, Grimm found the demon standing on his left knee. In this realm, he could see Thribble better. The imp's hue was grey-green, his tail was like that of a mouse, and tiny, pointed fangs like those of a day-old kitten showed in the gaping mouth.

Grimm's companions gaped at the tiny apparition. “That's ... a
demon?
” Harvel muttered, with a somewhat disdainful expression on his face.

"I am Thribble, master storyteller, and fount of all knowledge, human!” Thribble snorted. “I am unaccustomed to such derision, even from my own kind! My knowledge of all manner of arcane subjects is unrivalled, and I request that—"

"I am sure Master Harvel meant no disrespect, friend Thribble,” Dalquist interrupted, in a tense voice.

“However, we have urgent need of your help. There is a magical ward surrounding this tavern. How may we defeat it?"

The demon looked around the room and shrugged. “You cannot."

Grimm shuddered at the note of utter certainty in the demon's voice.

"The enchantment appears to be one of Master Starmor's little nets,” the imp continued. “No mortal magic or feat of arms could defeat it. However, all is not lost; in a day or two, it will disappear, in any case."

Dalquist shook his head in evident frustration. “That is impossible. We all saw Starmor killed,” he said.

“I assume one of his acolytes has somehow raised the ward."

Thribble laughed, a tinkling sound like falling needles. “Master Starmor has deceived you all well!” he cackled. “He is a demon, like me, and an Immortal to boot. You may have discommoded him temporarily, but you cannot kill him. He must be in one of his horrid little towers right now, plotting something really nasty for you. Even the most powerful of my kind steer clear of that one. Killing him was a bad mistake; he always hates that. After reassembling his mortal form, he is usually in a fouler mood than normal."

"His tower was destroyed,” Grimm said, “by a demon called Shakkar, who also believed Starmor to be human. Might you be mistaken, Thribble?"

"Ah! I know Shakkar well,” the demon squeaked. “Still, he never was the brightest of our kind, and Master Starmor's disguises were always good. I cannot blame him for being fooled. Starmor must be holding you here while he rebuilds his nasty tower. It is a major part of his strength. That is why you are being restrained here instead of being murdered."

The demon seemed to treat the affair thing as a great joke, and Grimm frowned, beginning to find Thribble's enthusiasm a little tiresome.

"How can we defeat Starmor?” he demanded “There
must
be some way to thwart him, even if we cannot kill him."

"That is improbable,” Thribble said, his brows deeply furrowed as if he were a chess-master poring over a difficult game. After a few moments, his expression brightened. “You could always send him back to our world. Although those of my kind can travel through a myriad of dimensions with ease, not even mighty Starmor could pierce the inter-dimensional rift between our frames. No demon can, unless invited by a human Diabolist, or another demon on this side of the void." Dalquist looked at Grimm, his head cocked quizzically to one side.

"Can we do that, Grimm?” he asked. “Can
you
do that? You did manage to bring Thribble here, after all."

Grimm shook his head. “It was all I could do to pull Thribble through the void from the demon dimensions,” he protested. “Pushing matter through the dimensions is harder than pulling it back into this world. Starmor must be over a thousand times heavier than our diminutive friend; I doubt the two of us acting in concert could find the power for such a feat. It might be easier to translocate him to some far distant desert land, where he could trouble nobody."

"That would be insufficient to thwart wily Starmor,” Thribble trilled. “He is immortal. All such an act might achieve would be to postpone and amplify his eventual revenge. After a long trek through barren lands, he would, without doubt, enslave many of your kind on his route back to you, and he would locate you with ease."

To Grimm's surprise, Dalquist nodded in agreement.

"I should have thought before I spoke,” he said, bowing his head. “Starmor is in our dimension, and we know our magic cannot penetrate this barrier. In any case, spells of Translocation require the casting mage to be thoroughly familiar with the target location, and you have only direct experience of places within about thirty miles’ radius of the Guildhouse. I have only experience of locations alongside the standard trade routes, as all of my Quests have been in towns or cities. Where could you hope to send Starmor in this world so that he could pose no further threat to us, or to innocents?" Grimm smiled. “I agree that we can cast no magic through this barrier,” he admitted, “but we will surely meet with Starmor again, and he fears no magic we can throw at him. I propose that we ready a spell to dispatch our evil friend to the pillar where he attempted to imprison me, and cast it as soon as he confronts us. I know it well enough to visualise it, although I could never hope to point out its physical location to you. I think even Starmor would find it hard to escape from there." Dalquist's brow furrowed. “Surely, Starmor knows his way back to Crar from his own construction, Grimm!” he said with a humourless laugh. “He would be back in this dimension within an instant!"

"Dalquist, I'm not yet some drooling, drug-crazed imbecile,” Grimm replied, looking straight into the older mage's eyes. “When I confronted Starmor with my emotions masked, he seemed to lose all his power. The prison pillar is now empty and devoid of a single soul. As far as I can tell, Starmor can do nothing without the close proximity of powerful emotions to give him strength for his magic and, even then, he can only use it against the source of the emotions. Isn't that true, Thribble? You seem to know Starmor better than we do."

"Questor Grimm, Starmor's power walks on two legs,” the tiny demon piped. “He can cast mighty magic only against those displaying emotions such as rage, fear or despair, as you have rightly said. However, this is limited to those within a distance of a hundred yards or so if he is out of sight of his tower, and then only if his victims hold no magical powers of their own. The reason you are here is, without doubt, that he has enslaved the people of this town to rebuild the tower you destroyed. His terror-structures are his major sources of power.

"When the tower is complete, he will regain his full strength once more. However, if you can get close enough to Starmor to cast the spell you have proposed, and banish him to a place of true solitude, his energies may be reduced to such a low level that he would be unable to effect an escape. Your plan is not without merit, young mortal."

Grimm breathed a deep sigh of relief that an avenue of hope yet existed. Harvel spoke. “We are well within the range that you mentioned, friend Thribble,” he said. “Why does that bastard, Starmor, not enslave us?"

"He is a cunning being, warrior, but his resources are not infinite. Before he can take a mortal soul, he must first fight its bearer. He has done that before and lost. He will want to ensure that his power is at its absolute maximum before he faces you again."

"We will try Grimm's plan,” Dalquist said, firmly, reasserting his control over the Quest. “When Starmor comes for us, Grimm, I advise you to take a dose of your herbs sufficient to dull the emotions. You may then approach Starmor without fear and attempt to banish him to the pillar. With hope, that will be the last that we or the people of Crar will see of him.

"If you act swiftly, Grimm, we may prevail. For now, we should rest and recoup our energies, so that we are as strong as we may be when Starmor comes for us."

With that, Dalquist adopted a position of meditation and sat motionless. Grimm followed suit; he knew nothing would be gained by futile effort, and everything depended on the patient marshalling of his inner strength.

* * * *

The two warrior friends debated the merits of raiding the inn's liquor but decided against it, choosing to lounge instead in a pair of plush, comfortable seats.

The rest of the day passed with maddening languor for them, as the two Questors sat motionless for hour upon hour, locked into uncanny, mannequin-like immobility. Harvel and Crest's conversation became fitful, and then ceased.

Harvel began to hone his fine rapier with an oiled whetstone, dressing out the least flaw and bringing the blade to razor sharpness. Crest did the same with his numerous daggers and then cleaned and oiled his whip, so it would be supple when needed for combat. The two warriors had spent many evenings together in this manner, preparing for battle and each found comfort in the refuge of familiar ritual and the closeness of a trusted companion.

Each fighter, having tended to the tools of his trade, put himself through a fixed regimen of exercise, testing and stretching each major muscle group, grunting at the effort and the aching, whilst relishing the complaints from each muscle and tendon. Glowing from the effects of their exertions they shook hands and grasped forearms in wordless amity before moving back to their chairs. Then, they sat and waited.

* * * *

At six in the morning, the main door to the tavern was flung wide. The landlord of the inn stood in the opening, with a score of heavily armed citizens at his back. All were filthy, coated in grime, dust and blood, each with a dull, blank expression on his face.

The landlord spoke in a rusty, stilted, emotionless voice. “You will accompany us to Lord Starmor's tower. He is displeased at your depredations, and he summons you for punishment. The punishment will be swift and merciful if you comply. Otherwise, your torments will be slow and agonising." Grimm looked at Dalquist, who responded with the faintest of nods. The young Questor took out his ready-filled pipe and lit it, drawing in the acrid fumes as if he was consuming nectar. The men-at-arms drew closer, threatening, but they did nothing while Grimm emptied the bowl of his pipe. Grimm swayed and nearly fell, but he was now better accustomed to the effects of the herbs, and he managed to remain on his feet, feeling his human cares and worries melting away from him. Dalquist stepped forward and addressed the landlord, who seemed to have noticed nothing amiss in the junior mage's swift change in demeanour.

"We do not respond well to threats, landlord,” he blustered. “Had Starmor the power, he would have summoned us directly, or arrived here in person. Yet he cannot do so; he
dare
not.

"I offer a counter-proposal; we shall send our emissary, Questor Grimm, to parlay with your master. Starmor now knows well the folly of opposing even a single Guild Mage, let alone two. We wish to come to an arrangement suitable to all, without further bloodshed. If Starmor seeks to bully or threaten us, it will cost him dear. Now we know his methods, we shall risk no headlong assault. Instead, we shall concentrate on the destruction of his tower and the annihilation of his bonded slaves." The landlord appeared to be considering Dalquist's proposal at some length, but Grimm guessed Starmor had been using the wretched man's senses as his own, and that the demon Baron was the one preparing to speak.

"Very well, Questor,” the enslaved barkeeper croaked. “Let your emissary approach the Tower.” The group of Crarians turned as one and filed out of the inn, and the impassive Grimm followed them. A new, dark tower loomed over the city: a baleful presence, dominating the land. The soft moans of torment now had amplified into a deafening cacophony of mordant screams and moans that would have chilled Grimm's spine, were he in possession of his normal palette of emotions. It seemed Starmor had not been idle; the humanoid demon had stolen the tortured souls of many more hapless Crarian citizens in order to recharge the loathsome edifice.