Shakkar looked at the fallen mage and grimaced in a manner of which only his kind was capable. He had bided his time in this loathsome prison for a seemingly interminable period; his only sustenance, the few mortals that Starmor had chosen to send him. For the first time since his banishment to this dismal pillar, he had seen and believed in the hope of salvation. But now Grimm was dead.
With genuine sorrow, he bent to consume the body of a human he had begun to regard as a friend. However, even a demon had to eat, and he could not stomach cold meat. Shakkar opened his fearsome jaws and prepared to eat the young Questor. At that moment, Grimm's eyelids sprung wide, revealing cool yet somehow intense purpose. The demon stepped back, astonished at the sudden change the drugs had wrought.
Grimm shook his head as if clearing a cloud of midges, and unbidden words began to pound in his head: I am Grimm Afelnor. I am strong. I shall prevail.
He scrambled to his feet as if drunk, but he managed to steady himself before the titanic figure of Shakkar with an expression of implacable, emotionless determination on his face.
"The herbs have done their work, Shakkar. I know what I must do, and although I am filled with resolve, no taint of emotion clouds my judgement. I am ready. Fear not, for I still have every intention of fulfilling our compact. Thanks to the power you have given me, I feel confident of success."
"Good luck and good hunting, human," Shakkar growled.
Grimm muttered nonsensical phrases and began to draw power into his sensorium. The rhythmic babbling rose in volume and tone as a blue glow began to shimmer about the Questor. He struggled to contain the mighty energies as he cast the spell, knowing that the consequences of a miscast spell could be disastrous. As the magical tension rose within him to an almost unbearable volcano of inner flame, he gained clear, magical Sight of his goal and pushed.
Grimm found himself standing in the treasure store of Starmor's tower. A dim, cool portion of his brain told him he must act quickly, before the wizard became aware of his presence. The door to the winding stairway was locked, but Grimm still felt Shakkar's power surging within him. It took but a moment to pocket the Eye of Myrrn and to step through the open doorway. He made his way up the worn stone steps and, although assailed on all sides by the tormented voices of Starmor's entombed victims, he felt no fear, protected as he was by the effects of the Trina leaves whose fumes he had inhaled. An imposing doorway stood before him and Grimm found it unlocked. He entered into a huge and splendid hall furnished in crimson and gold. In the centre of the room stood an ornate throne, in which was seated the familiar figure of Starmor.
"Greetings, puny child," the pale Baron sneered. "I see you have won free from the tender mercies of the witless Shakkar. You will, alas, find me a far more formidable foe than you can imagine, as you should well realise even with your worthless excuse for a brain. Attack as you will. It will avail you little, and you will soon be whiling away the remaining dregs of your miserable existence and wishing with every fibre of your being you had let Shakkar eat you."
Grimm reached forth a hand and loosed a spell of what he thought of as Nerve Fire. The spell splashed against Starmor, and the wizard just managed to fend off the coruscating green tendrils that played over his body. A small frown crossed his face as he released a counter-spell that Grimm dismissed with an easy gesture.
"Starmor, enough of this foolishness," Grimm said, without rancour or irritation clouding his mind. "I am protected against any magic you may command, for I have full control over my emotions. You will return my companions from their respective prisons, or I will destroy you. Witness the extent of my power."
Grimm muttered a well-learned runic chant and made a complex series of passes with his hands; a glittering pentacle appeared on the oaken floor. Visualising clearly the ebon pillar where he had been imprisoned, he chanted a series of syllables and pulled Shakkar through the ether to the centre of the pentacle. The demon spun on his clawed feet, taking in his new surroundings. As he noticed Starmor, he bounded forward and met the invisible and invulnerable wall of the pentacle. He looked towards Grimm.
"Questor Grimm: you are a friend indeed! Free me from this cage, so I may mete out to Starmor his just deserts!" He scrabbled with his huge claws at the invisible, adamantine wall of the pentacle.
"Shakkar, I regret I must restrain you," Grimm said, shaking his head. "My companions remain imprisoned, and Starmor is the only mortal who can bring them back to this world. Be patient for a little longer. My promise to you remains intact." Shakkar's tail thrashed in frustration but the demon ceased his struggle, his red eyes blazing with hatred and fixed intently on his mortal enemy.
Grimm turned to Starmor and casually flicked his hand, causing the wizard to flinch as if he had been struck.
"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.
As he raised his hand to sweep this pathetic dross into oblivion, the little girl smiled at the demon, her face clear and untrammelled by fear or hopeless anger. She took one step forward, but the woman snatched her back, her face now twisted into an expression of utter determination Shakkar had only seen on one mortal face before.
Perhaps these poor beings are worth something after all! he thought, relaxing his pose and lowering his arms.
It seemed an age since Grimm had first confronted Shakkar but, in truth, mere minutes had passed. A vast, hacking sigh arose from the hulking demon, and his shovel-sized hands fell to his sides.
"There is no need to fight, human. There is no need for a contest of wills. My vengeance is complete. I swear on my name and my clan to visit no more destruction against the people or the city of Crar. I avow on my soul to remain your friend and ally as long as you are true to me."
"That is a generous compact, Shakkar," Grimm said, slumping a little in his relief, "worthy of a demon's noble soul. Know now that I will never, ever, seek or threaten to enslave you, should you keep also true to your word-as I feel sure you will. To seal our trust, I now open my soul to you. Look within me, and we will have equal power over each other." Grimm furrowed his brow, muttered in his strange, personal language and bowed before Shakkar.
"No need, Questor. You have proved yourself worthy of trust. I renounce vengeance against Crar and declare myself at the disposal of your party."
With his head spinning and his entrails in turmoil, Grimm forced himself to remain erect.
"Shakkar, this is Dalquist Rufior, Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank and leader of this Quest. The well-dressed gentleman with the rapier is Harvel Rusea, a master swordsman. Our bloodstained friend is Crest, an expert wielder of whip and dagger. And I… I need to lie down. I feel quite unwell."
He staggered, almost falling headlong, and the strong arms of Harvel swept him up again as the party made its way back to the Jolly Merchant.
The once-thronged bar was now empty, apart from two men slumped across their tables in drunken stupor. The landlord, so merry earlier on, now appeared a refreshingly different man.
"What do you want?" he demanded in a brusque voice, strong arms folded over his chest and looking pointedly at Shakkar, who answered with a soft growl. Dalquist stepped up. He thought of mentioning how he and his friends had delivered Crar of Starmor's evil spell but decided against it. The man seemed as confused as the other townsfolk but trying hard to hide the fact with bluster.
"Five rooms for the night please, landlord. I will pay you good money if we are not disturbed."
"Not him," the barman snarled. "Not the demon. I won't have him smashing up my inn and eating the customers because he doesn't like the food." Dalquist expected trouble from Shakkar, but the huge demon, bent almost double under the tavern's roof-beams, shrugged. "That is all right by me, landlord," he boomed. "I think your human beds would be too small for me. If you do not mind, I will rest in your barn. Fear not: I have no taste for horseflesh."
"Good," Harvel said, pointedly. "Four of those nags are ours."
Dalquist handed over five gold pieces, a tidy sum. "If you will accept this for four-" he glanced at the bilious Grimm, "-three meals, the rooms for the night, and four live goats or sheep for our large companion, you'll have no trouble from us."
The landlord seemed to soften a little at the sight of the large, heavy coins. "Very well, then."
"One more thing, landlord," the Questor said. "Have you an apothecary, physician or Healer in this town? Crest here has some ugly wounds, and Questor Grimm seems to have developed a strange affliction."
The landlord nodded. "I'll call for Threval right away. He used to be a Guild Mage, and he lives a couple of miles outside the city. Upstairs, turn left, rooms eight through eleven. And if the boy pukes on my nice, clean floor, you'll have to clear it up." He tossed Dalquist four numbered keys.
Dalquist swept into Grimm's room with a solemn-looking man of perhaps ninety years, with a strong, dark-complected face and a no-nonsense attitude about him. He carried a huge trunk with surprising ease, belying his narrow frame and his apparent age.
"I am Threval Shobat, Mage Herbalist of the Third Rank of Rhunin House," the old man said.
Grimm raised himself from his bed, but the effort seemed beyond him. Instead of speaking, he fell back down to the mattress and allowed a groan to escape his dry, white-flecked lips.
Dalquist introduced himself to the Herbalist.
"It's not magic, Herbalist Threval," he continued. "My Sight shows nothing but a severely deranged aura. I've never seen the like."
"I concur, Questor Dalquist," Threval said in a soft voice, "but, as an Herbalist, I have a little more experience in matters of the aura than do you Questors. Does your companion partake of… pharmaceutical supplements? Hallucinogens, perhaps? Stupefactants?"
Dalquist looked puzzled. "I feel certain he does not. Questor Grimm carries a few medicinal herbs, since he is more knowledgeable about their use than the rest of us. But I have never seen their marks upon him. I would surely have seen considerable changes in his aura if he had taken these substances in my presence. I have seen none."
"No matter, Questor Dalquist. A little spell of Inner Quietude combined with a touch of Mental Clarity should enable your young friend to answer me himself.
"One moment; I have a suitable scroll somewhere in here."
Threval began to hunt in his capacious trunk, which was filled with a jumble of bottles, scrolls and librams. Although Dalquist understood a few of the relevant spells, he knew he lacked the finesse and control of a true Specialist in the art of Herbalism.
"Ah, here we are." Threval drew forth a scroll, an egg and a chipped china cup patterned with lilies. He cracked the egg on the cup and drank off its contents in a single draught, causing a momentary expression of distaste to flit across Dalquist's face.
"That is for my voice," the Herbalist explained. "It keeps my throat in trim for spellcasting."
He held out the scroll towards Dalquist. "Would you mind? I need both hands for this."
Dalquist held the scroll open at the level of Threval's eyes. The Herbalist donned a pair of fussy gold-rimmed spectacles and began to cast, his voice and gestures distinct and crisp, with the confidence born of decades of successful practice. Two minutes later, Dalquist recognised the closing cadence and handed the scroll back to Threval. "That'll do it," the aged mage said with a satisfied smile. "Thirty years without a miscast."
In an instant, an astonishing transformation took place. Grimm sat bolt upright, shook his head and stretched luxuriantly. Dalquist nodded to Threval, impressed beyond words.
"Now, Questor Grimm, answer me truthfully," said the Healer. "With which drugs have you been polluting your body? No lies, now."
"Rule 3.14.1: 'No Student shall partake of hallucinogenic, stimulant or narcotic substances unless specifically prescribed by the Scholasticate Apothecary and at the dosage and frequency so specified,'" Grimm rasped. "I do not take drugs, ever." He sat on the bed with a defiant expression, daring Threval to call him a liar.
Threval shook his head. "You have done so, I feel certain. A stupefiant and a stimulant. Less obfuscation now, and don't quote the Rules at me, young man. I was a Student long before your father was born. You have taken drugs, I'll wager, within the last six hours. Perhaps someone might have slipped such substances into your drink or your food?"
Grimm's face cleared. "It must have been when I was on the pillar with Shakkar. To defeat Baron Starmor, I needed a calm head and a clear resolve. I did take some substances from my pouch."
"How were they ingested?"
"I burned them and inhaled the fumes. I used Trina leaves and Virion powder."
"In what quantities did you take them, Questor Grimm?"
Grimm indicated the amounts with his hands, and the Herbalist whistled.
"A little more than a medicinal dose, don't you think?" he said.
"I was tackling no ordinary mage," Grimm replied, frowning. "Starmor would have pounced on the slightest emotion and used it against me. I was using the herbs to deaden my emotions whilst still maintaining clarity of purpose."
Threval slapped his head. "That, Questor Grimm, is the cause of your malaise. Your body now cries out with hunger for the herbs. I cannot help you with magic. Only willpower will save you. But then, you Questors are noted for the force of your will, are you not?"
"I feel in excellent health now, Herbalist Threval," Grimm declared. "Surely you have already cured me with your magic?"
"I have not. The spell will last for maybe five minutes more, and then the hunger and the weakness will return with a vengeance. Repeated castings would lessen in effectiveness and duration with each further ingestion of the drugs. Your hunger for them would grow ever more insistent, until you died from their effects. The spell of Inner Quietude is a palliative, not a cure for your illness."
Grimm swallowed. "I presume there is a cure? Or is willpower alone the key?"
Threval shrugged. "You are young and strong, and yet the drug hunger laid you low at its first assault. Even with the mightiest will in the world, you would be dead inside a month. Purely and simply, you require more of the herbs. Take only a tiny pinch of each at a time, just enough so you can function normally, but not as much as your body wants. Use your willpower to ration the doses and repeat the dose only when you cannot continue.
"What you must do over the next few weeks is to reduce the dosage until it is at a minimum. When you can resist the call of the herbs for a week, you have beaten the addiction to a stalemate."
"A stalemate?"
"Should you be tempted to take further doses in the future," Threval said, looking straight into Grimm's eyes, "you will soon find yourself back where you were when I came to you. You will never, ever beat the drugs, but you may hold them at bay for as long as you have the will. They will always be there, whispering to you when times are hard, but the only victory is to be able always to ignore the whispers.
"You are, in a way, fortunate to have had such a strong abreaction on your first usage; many who use these kinds of substances in small amounts have few ill effects until they are caught deep in the cycle of dependence, taking ever larger quantities just to reach equilibrium. In these circumstances, even a Questor's willpower might be insufficient to avoid the slide into a living death, followed shortly by a painful demise. Be strong and live, Questor Grimm."
The Herbalist rummaged in his voluminous bag and brought out two small bags and a clay pipe with a tiny bowl. Grimm felt his heart leap.
"Trina and Virion. At first, I advise you to take equal quantities of each, just enough to fill the bowl, and no more than six times per day. When you can function with this dosage, start to reduce the quantities and increase the intervals a little each day, until you have stopped using them. It will not be easy, but a Questor should be equal to the task. You have survived worse than this trial already."
A shudder overtook Grimm and his head began to swim once more. He took the pipe and the herbs and filled the bowl of the pipe, his hands trembling.
"K'tapt'acht."
The herbs glowed, and Grimm took a deep draught, then another. His eyes watered, and he barely stifled a cough, but then the powers of the herbs began to take hold. Two more pulls on the clay pipe, and the bowl was empty. Nonetheless, he had regained his equanimity without becoming an emotionless zombie, and he grinned at Dalquist and Threval.
"Thank you, Herbalist Threval. I feel so much better now. I will take your advice and abstain for as long as I am able. I do not wish to become a slave, least of all to these substances. Now I am familiar with the onset of the symptoms, I should be able to forestall them for longer. They will not creep up on me unawares next time."
Grimm brought forth his money pouch. He knew how little cash he owned, but he was willing to give the Herbalist whatever he could.
"I am indebted to you, Brother Mage. What may I pay you in recompense for your skill and your valuable time?"
Threval snorted. "I earn more than enough money through treating rich widows, hypochondriac merchants and their spoilt brats for minor or imaginary ills. Our Houses are allies, and I am only too happy to help out a brother mage in his time of extremity. I need no pecuniary reward for ministering to the needs of my Guild Brothers."
Grimm argued a little, insisting at least that Threval accept repayment for the herbs and the pipe. In the end, the old mage accepted three silver pieces and made his leave.
With a shock, Grimm realised he had not spared a thought for the injured Crest.
In panic, he cried out, "Herbalist! Wait, please! Our companion Crest needs your help!"
Dalquist laid a fatherly hand on Grimm's shoulder. "It's all right, Grimm. Threval has already treated Crest, and our friend is resting and in no danger. Harvel paid the Healer a handsome sum and begged that we never tell Crest about it. Our braggart swordsman cares more about his elven friend than he will admit. They have fought often together often, and I suspect they're more like brothers than companions. Of course, brothers do argue a lot.
"Sleep now, we have a long ride back to the House in the morning. We have the Eye of Myrrn, and Starmor is defeated. When the people of Crar begin to realise their deliverance and take control of their lives again, we may have a new Baron who will be a staunch ally of our House. We have done well, and I don't think you will remain at the First Rank for long. Sleep and dream peacefully, if you can. We will move an hour after cockcrow."
Grimm awoke well before that time, as the want for Virion and Trina once more began to gnaw at his vitals. A single word lighted the oil lamp beside his bed. The Questor reached for the pipe, filled it, and lit it with another burst of thought-language. Although he wanted more, he settled for three puffs of the acrid smoke; his head and stomach settled, leaving only a vague unease.
The room held a basic washbasin, a large ewer of cold water and a gritty bar of soap, which, to some travellers, might have seemed intolerable, especially since the room was frigid in the early morning air, and the water in the ewer was covered in a thin layer of ice. However, to a former charity Student, habituated to the rigours of a pauper's cell in the Arnor House Scholasticate, this was a normal beginning to the day. Grimm's Scholasticate morning ritual, familiar and comforting, took hold of him as if he were in the grip of a spell.
The first matter at hand was the condition of his clothes. He took an old brush from his pack, branded with his Student number, 17, and he brushed all traces of the trail from his garments. He inspected the robes with minute scrutiny, finding a number of small rents and tears, but a little deft needlework rendered these all but invisible and acceptable even to the critical eye of an inspecting Magemaster.
Although Grimm had, on occasion, been allowed to luxuriate in hot baths once he had reached the status of Adept, he had had many years in which to learn to enjoy the invigorating sting of icy water in the morning. Cracking the ice on the ewer, he took forth the rough soap and scrubbed himself thoroughly, then rubbing his body vigorously with the large towel provided until his skin shone a glowing pink.
Grimm dressed himself and began the business of attending to his hair and beard with scissors, brush and comb. Since he saw no mirror in the room, he had to assess the results by touch, but he felt satisfied with the result at last. He tied back his long queue with a strip of rawhide and sat cross-legged on the bed, breaking his fast with dry biscuits and pemmican from his pack and water from his goatskin. He brushed the crumbs from his beard and robes and smiled at the first cockcrow of the new day. Despite a slight nagging in his entrails he felt in good spirits, ready to face the world. He secured his belongings and shouldered his pack, took a deep breath and made his way down to the bar to wait for his companions.
Harvel was already in the bar, which looked pleasant with the early rays of the sun highlighting the walls in cheerful, ruddy hues.
"Good morning, Harvel, he said. "Did you sleep well?"
"Like a babe, Questor. I sank enough liquor last night to founder a galleon. Most men would be comatose on the morning after ingesting such prodigious amounts of strong drink, but I am here, hale and hearty as ever, with no ill effects save a slight headache."
"I'm glad you're feeling well, Harvel. I can relieve you of the headache, if you wish."
Harvel would have none of it. "It tells me I'm alive, mage. Thank you for the offer, but I think I'll keep the headache for now, if you don't mind. Besides, I don't like the idea of having somebody walk through my brain."
His tone might be a little brusque, but maybe the alcohol Harvel had consumed the night before had had more effect on him than he was willing to admit.
"Where's the landlord, Harvel?" Grimm asked, trying to make conversation.
"I'm sure I don't know, Questor. Perhaps he's bemoaning the loss of his trade, now his customers are no longer forced to stay here. Perhaps he tried to match me drink for drink last night. How would I know where he is?"
"Are you all right, swordsman? Are you sure you won't accept my spell after all? Or are you just annoyed that I threw up over you yesterday?"
Harvel sighed. "Oh, it's nothing you've done, Questor Grimm. I've frequented bars all my life, and you're not the first man to spill his lunch over me. I'm a little worried about Crest. I was brought up by hateful foster parents who were only too eager to throw me out when I reached the age of fourteen. On my fourteenth birthday, I turned up at the doorstep to find my belongings in a sack outside the door.
"I've never settled down, and I never could find the right woman. One-night stands are about my limit. But Crest is like the brother I never had. We've fought at each other's side many times now, and there's no man I'd rather have by me in a fight. If he dies, I'll have nobody."
Harvel's tone was faraway, almost a whisper, and his gaze glassy, but then his brow furrowed, as if he had remembered his role. "Mind you, if you repeat as much as a word of what I've told you, Questor, I'll skin you alive, and throttle you with your own sinews, mage or no."
"Don't worry, Harvel," Grimm said, smiling. "If you want, I'll tell Crest you spent the night celebrating his pending demise and waiting for the chance to dance on his grave. I'm no blabbermouth; the Magemasters in my House frown on idle tittle-tattle. I've been in a hard school, and your secret's safe with me. Herbalist Threval seemed quite satisfied with Crest's condition yesterday. I'm sure he'll be all right."
At that moment, Crest walked down the stairs, a little weary-looking but wearing a facial expression threatening murder to anyone who mentioned the fact.
Harvel's expression brightened in a moment.
"Crest, you lazy sod! Having back trouble, as in 'you can't get off it'?"
The swordsman ran forward to take the elf in a bear hug, and then seemed to think better of it.
"Harvel, you bibulous old fool!" Crest cried. "Is it last night's drink doing the talking, or have you started again?"
Within the space of a heartbeat, the two were again trading insults, as if nothing had happened, and Grimm felt a broad smile spreading over his mouth.
The young mage turned around, hearing footsteps behind him, and he offered a polite nod to Dalquist as the older Questor stepped into the bar.
"Crest is well again," he cried. "Isn't that wonderful news?"
Dalquist nodded, smiling and taking the elf's right hand in a firm, friendly grasp.
"It is indeed, Questor Grimm! Why, I feared you were all but dead, Crest. It is good to see you standing on your feet again. How do you feel?"
Crest shrugged. "Thank you, Questor. I feel a bit weak, but not too much worse than I might after a long night on the tiles. I'm ready for just about anything, but I think I could do with some breakfast before we leave."
Harvel nodded. "I hate to agree with you, Crest, but that sounds like a wonderful plan. I guess the landlord is still in his bed, but I'll wake him up, if you like."
"Do it, Harvel," Crest advised. "I'm starving."
"I feel a little hungry, too," Grimm admitted.
"Some food would be welcome," Dalquist said. "Do you know where the man sleeps? I think he owes us at least a final meal before we leave here, after all we've done for this town."
Harvel pointed towards a small door at the back of the bar. "I'm sure he lives through there," he said. "Don't worry; I'll have some breakfast waiting here for us in a minute."
The swordsman ran toward the bar and bounced backward, sitting down with a heavy thump.
"What in the Names…" Harvel spat, and Crest laughed.
"I thought you could hold your liquor better than that, Harvel! Maybe you-"
"That wasn't drink, elf," Harvel interjected, scrambling to his feet. From the warrior's wide eyes and chalk-white face, Grimm knew this was no jape. "I tell you, I hit a solid wall in the middle of an empty room!"
The thief raised his right eyebrow in apparent disbelief and opened his mouth to speak. Before a word emerged, Dalquist stepped forward and waved his hands in an almost frantic manner, and the elf stayed his tongue.
"Harvel did not lie, Crest," the Questor said. "My Mage Sight tells me there is a magical ward around this tavern-a powerful one. It is all around us-we are trapped!"