Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (8 page)

He scraped a clumsy bow. The gate swung open, and Grimm and his companions stepped into a seething cauldron of activity.

If Drute had been busy, Crar was a roiling mass of activity and noise. Caparisoned stalls thronged a huge town square with eager, strong-voiced stallholders shouting the advantages of their diverse wares and goods. “Gitcha fine linen ‘ere! Fifty silver a yard, best quality!” “Hot chestnuts, they're loverly!",

“Best sandalwood snuff, penny a pinch!"

"You see what gold will do to ease locks even a master thief cannot open?” shouted Crest to Grimm, his voice barely audible over the chaotic tumult of the marketplace. “If I'd offered less than I did, the gatekeeper might have been moved to search us and confiscate our weapons. As it was, he was only too eager to let us in. I'll wager twice what I offered Quard at ten to one that the guards have no idea I gave him forty golds—they probably think I gave him four or five."

"I reckon I'd have to be pretty stupid to take your bet, Crest,” Grimm replied, smiling. Hustle, bustle and buzz! Even though the four companions were on horseback, high above the milling populace, they were nudged and bumped by seemingly oblivious pedestrians at every step. Grimm noticed their glazed facial expressions and wondered if the people were ensorcelled; they shouted out for exorbitantly-priced goods, their faces eager and their voices loud. Vendors exhorted everyone to buy, buy,
buy
!

At last, the adventurers won free from the insane throng of baying townsfolk, and they took shelter in an empty back-street yard.

"Something is wrong here, Dalquist,” Grimm said with concern. “I don't think all those people wanted to buy. It's as if they're under some magic to do so."

Dalquist nodded. “I checked the crowd with my Sight. They
are
under a spell, a powerful one. I believe this is intended to create the impression of a normal market crowd. We must all tread carefully here."

"Could Starmor have been alerted to our presence by the Eye?” Grimm asked, worried. Their careful plans could fall apart if the Baron knew their intent.

"I don't think so,” Dalquist replied. “I get the feeling this is some form of madness that happens every day, perhaps for Starmor's conceit and amusement—who knows? Nonetheless, we must be on our guard."

Harvel nodded. “I don't like this situation, Lord Mage. If there's strong magic around here, we'd best move as quickly as possible."

Crest nodded and pointed towards a tall, grey tower dominating the landscape. “That's the biggest building around here, and I'll bet it's where Baron Starmor lives. Hold on..." He collared a man rushing past them to the market place. “Excuse me, sir! Whose dwelling is that imposing edifice? I could not help but be inspired by the magnificence of the structure." The man struggled for a moment against Crest's strong grip and gave up the fight. He spoke quickly, with what seemed to Grimm a bizarre mixture of desperation and forced cheerfulness.

"Why, that's Great Lord Starmor's tower, good sir,” the beaming man crowed. “I'd love to stay and chat, but I have urgent errands to run before nightfall. Please excuse me." With a wrench, the man tore himself free of Crest's hand and dashed away. Dalquist sighed. “Then that's our goal. Let's mill around a little until the sun sets, and then scout the tower."

Harvel pointed out a tidy-looking inn calling itself
The Jolly Merchant
. Giving a few coins to a boy standing outside, Dalquist bade him water, feed and rest the horses for a few hours. The boy's face lit up at the sight of the gleaming money. He knuckled his forehead and led the mounts to the stable. A few patrons sat in the bar, drinking themselves into stupor with the same fanaticism the market shoppers exhibited when pursuing their purchases. Harvel stepped up to a bar staffed by a vigorous, cheerful, rosy-cheeked barman, a ghastly parody of the stereotypical gentle host.

"The very best wishes of the afternoon to you all, gentlemen,” the red-faced man carolled. “How may I serve you? A lovely day, isn't it? What brings you here? Have you come to trade? The market is in full swing, as you can see. Let's hope the weather holds out, eh?"

The landlord gave no time for the bemused group to respond to his stream of empty questions. Indeed, he showed little sign of expecting an answer as he rushed to bring them four ruddy, foaming ales. He accepted the coins offered by a bemused-looking Harvel with a gracious, cheery smile as he scurried away to serve another customer, who seemed just as happy and loquacious as he. The cheery inn seemed as much a toy as the frantic market. It seemed that all of Crar's citizens were Starmor's playthings, and the whole city a sham intended to give the impression of a thriving, healthy metropolis when it was no more than a hollow automaton.

The adventurers took their beers to a secluded corner table. “This place is scary!” Crest muttered, taking a healthy swig of ale. “It's almost like the people are animated corpses, marionettes manipulated by some crazy puppeteer."

"They aren't zombies,” Dalquist replied. “They are as alive as we are, but they're labouring under a hideous, mighty and unremitting spell. I can see it plainly in their auras. We may have our Quest to fulfil and no more, but I for one will not rest until these people are free." Grimm engaged his own Mage Sight, and he saw the citizens’ magical chains standing out in stark relief.

"It's worse than slavery,” the young mage muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “At least slaves are free to rebel, even if it might mean their deaths. These people are just puppets. If Starmor is behind this, I could kill him with my bare hands."

"Cheerfully,” Crest growled, cracking his knuckles.

"We have little time left in which to recover the Eye,” Dalquist said. “I suggest we act tonight. Perhaps the townspeople expend so much energy during the day that there will be few wandering the streets after dark."

Grimm suggested they stay in the bar until it closed. The others agreed, and Grimm offered to remove the alcohol from the blood of the warriors before they acted. “Well, maybe not all of it, eh, Questor Grimm?” Harvel grinned.

Grimm gave his head an apologetic shake. “It's all or nothing, Harvel. I'm sorry, but we must have completely clear heads tonight."

Dalquist nodded. “Drink what you want now, but you must be quite sober if we are to succeed. I'm not sanguine about the outcome as it is, let alone with drink befuddling our senses or loosening our tongues." As he said this, he shivered, and even the hard-boiled Harvel acquiesced. The beaming landlord kept the quartet supplied with ale, which Crest and Harvel consumed with gusto.

"At least I won't have to worry about a hangover.” The swordsman laughed, draining half the contents of his glass at a gulp.

Grimm sipped his ale, casting surreptitious looks at the other patrons, but none seemed even to react to the group's presence.

Darkness fell, and the drinking continued; many of the customers matching Crest and Harvel drink for drink, yet never becoming profane or troublesome. As soon as glasses were empty, the landlord was there to offer a refill of his excellent ale.

After it seemed an age had passed, the landlord rang a small bell. The other customers finished their drinks in perfect synchrony and rose as one man, exiting the bar in an orderly progression. On the faces of several of the drinkers, Grimm recognised expressions of purest relief as they filed out of the tavern. Dalquist frowned at the swordsman and the elf, who seemed to have forgotten they had a mission to fulfil. With evident regret, Harvel and Crest finished their drinks. The landlord, a smiling shadow, appeared at once, cleared the table with efficient speed and then was gone. Grimm felt as relieved as the other customers seemed, now that the nightmare drinking session was at an end. Despite his earlier misgivings, he felt eager to get the business over and done with. Dalquist nodded, and all four rose to their feet.

Although Crest and Harvel swayed a little as the group exited the inn, Grimm admired their powers of alcoholic endurance; he felt astonished that they were able to stand at all. The cool night air was sweet, and Grimm filled his lungs, the gentle breeze a welcome friend after the stuffy confines of the alehouse. The streets were deserted, and the only sounds Grimm heard were the whispering wind and the distant, mournful howl of a dog.

Grimm motioned his companions into a side alley. “It's time to sober up. Are you ready, gentlemen?” he asked as he lifted Redeemer.

"Oh, I suppose so,” Crest replied with deep resignation, stifling one of his mighty belches. “But it wash

... it was good while it lasted.” Grimm drew a little power to himself and whispered “
Tch'ka!
" The two warriors stumbled, and Crest and Harvel clutched their heads, twisting their faces in pain. Each raised his face to reveal bloodshot but undeniably sober eyes. “Remind me not to take you along next time I go out drinking,” Harvel muttered with a pallid, nauseous cast to his face.

"Beats a hangover, anyway—but only just,” Crest riposted, wiping a bead of perspiration from his ashen face.

"That's enough, you two.” Dalquist assumed an air of imperious authority, which only served to highlight his evident nervousness. “Keep your ears wide open. Hug the shadows and watch out for city guards."

"Talking about guards, Dalquist; I imagine Starmor will have quite a retinue,” Grimm said. “It's not going to be easy to get in."

Crest opened his cape to reveal a selection of razor-sharp throwing knives and a small crossbow. “Don't worry too much about guards,” the elf said. “I can put one of these beauties through a man's eye at fifty paces, so he's dead even before he even knows he's been hit. You're not on your own, you know."

"Then I'd guess we're as ready as we'll ever be,” Grimm said and sighed. “Let's do it." The party moved through the deserted streets, clinging to fugitive shadows, but seeing nobody as they approached the tower. Stopping in a doorway a few yards from Starmor's domain, Grimm strained his ears for the slightest sound, but he heard nothing. He shivered at the oppressive stillness. They moved to a black, oaken door at the base of the dark turret. “Can you pick this lock, Crest?”

Dalquist asked in a low mutter.

Crest replied with a disdainful sniff and bent to the task. Drawing a bag of lock-picks from his robes, he turned his attention to a formidable-looking iron keyhole.

After three long minutes of scratching and scraping, Crest gingerly tried the door, which opened with just the faintest of squeaks.

"Good work, thief,” Dalquist muttered as they stepped inside.

In front of them, Grimm saw a winding staircase of the most hideous design imaginable. The steps appeared formed of half-melted bones, whilst the walls bore images of human faces twisted in unimaginable torment. At first, the Questor thought they were carvings formed by some perverted mason's skill, but as he looked deeper, he saw the faces move and twist in the most ghastly contortions. As he swung the door closed behind the party, the young wizard heard a quiet but unnerving keening, which he guessed might be Starmor's sick idea of pleasant music. Grimm shivered and swallowed as Crest put a determined foot on the cadaverous staircase and begin to ascend. Dalquist followed the elf, with Harvel behind him and Grimm bringing up the rear.

After a short period of soundless ascent, they came to a landing, and Grimm saw a large, ornate, golden padlock fastening a brass-studded door. Catching Dalquist's eye, he raised his eyebrows in question, and the older mage nodded, motioning the thief towards the door.

Crest took out his lock-picks and started to work on the padlock. Within mere seconds, he had it open, removing it from the hasp with no more than a slight scraping noise.

Dalquist nodded and stepped forward, turning the iron ring handle with silent stealth. The door opened with a faint whisper, revealing a dark room, lit only by fugitive, guttering flames from a log fire casting brief flickers of orange light around the chamber.

The room was lined with row upon row of books and scrolls. Stepping forward to inspect some of the spines, Grimm recognised a few by their titles, others by their authors. Many were great magical classics thought lost centuries before, and each worth a king's ransom.

On a long workbench he saw various gems, all flawless and of the highest quality: immaculate diamonds, rubies and sapphires, tourmalines and garnets. Crest reached a covetous hand toward the wealth of jewels, but Dalquist waved an admonitory finger at him.

"We have a job to do first, thief,” the older Questor hissed. “You can fill your pockets once we have the Eye."

Harvel moved to the far end of the room, and Grimm heard him gasp, pointing at a large, spherical, opalescent gem in the clasp of a clawed silver hand, mounted atop a marble pedestal. The whole item was perhaps twelve inches in height and easily portable.

Summoning his Sight, Grimm saw golden threads weaving like the fronds of some metallic mimosa, a sure sign that the gem contained powerful magic. Dalquist nodded, and made to grasp the object.

"Yes, that is the Eye, witless one,” a sibilant voice behind the group hissed, and the adventurers whirled as one man to see a tall, hooded figure standing in the doorway, shrouded in shadow. “Do try to take it, by all means. It may amuse me to see your pathetic, futile efforts."

Grimm felt as if his heart had leapt into his mouth, but he retained enough presence of mind to gather his powers, ready to cast a destructive spell. As if in the distance, he heard the metallic clang of Harvel's rapier emerging from its scabbard, and he saw Crest uncoiling the deadly whip from his waist.

"Dear me, shall I quail?” the shadow-sheathed figure said in a mocking voice. “Shall I tremble at your armed might? Do feel free to try your feeble skills against a master sorcerer, for let it not be said that Starmor is unsporting."

Snarling, Harvel sprung at Starmor, sword in hand. Starmor raised a clenched fist and the rapier skittered with a screech from an invisible wall.

Dalquist loosed a flurry of razor-sharp ice shards against the invisible wall. Grimm joined in with destructive spells of his own, but Starmor fended off the magical attacks with seeming ease. Crest's throwing-knives fared no better against the magical shield, and his biting whip stopped inches from Starmor's head, as the elf screamed vile imprecations at the Baron.