Harvel frowned and strode to the door. The handle refused to budge. The swordsman stepped back, tried a mighty shoulder-charge and rebounded, earning nothing but a bruised shoulder. The door was sold oak, four inches thick and cross-braced, and the four hinges were made of study wrought iron.
Crest's probed with his lock-picks and swore the door was unlocked.
"Stand aside!" Grimm cried, loosing a spell at the portal. The magic power splashed against the ward and bounced.
"Duck!" he yelled as the spell splashed back and spent itself uselessly against shelves of bottles, turning them into glittering dust. Harvel and Crest seemed unimpressed by this spectacular but dangerous tour de force.
Dalquist stepped forward. "That was a careless choice of magic, Questor Grimm! What we need is a non-reflective spell, not a third-order Fulminary!
"I call this charm Insidious Chaos," he continued, sounding as if he were lecturing a group of indolent Students. "In runic magic, it might be considered an Invasive form of the second instance."
A long burst of thought-language sent sinuous tendrils of force burrowing into the wood, but the permeating magic absorbed them in a second.
For twenty minutes, the two Questors tried a number of spells on the door, the windows, the floor and the ceiling. The magic had no effect, except to raise the temperature in the tavern until everybody began to sweat. A moment of hope arose when the floor behind the bar shattered at Dalquist's command, but the liquor cellar's stone walls proved an impassable barrier, as did the attic ceiling. Grimm sent a tendril of force up through the chimney, but it was absorbed in an instant.
Finally, both Grimm and Dalquist admitted defeat.
"Have you any ideas, Harvel?" Dalquist asked, with a tired sigh.
The swordsman shrugged. "A rapier is good for many things, Lord Mage, but heavy-duty demolition work is not among them."
Crest shook his head. "My whip can open a man's skin to the bones, but I don't think it will do much against solid oak or masonry. Perhaps the windows might respond to a little persuasion?"
Uncoiling the glistening, black length of his whip, Crest let fly with a skilful, practiced flick of the wrist. No sound arose as the weapon struck the glass, and not even the slightest fissure appeared in the window.
Their resources thwarted, the adventurers slumped into chairs and sat, unspeaking for many minutes. Grimm felt anxiousness growing within him, as a hint of claustrophobia began to rise. He took the pipe and sucked in another dose of the acrid smoke, rather sooner than he had wished to do so. As the drugs took hold once more, his head cleared and his thoughts began to sharpen.
Eyes blazing with drug-fuelled intensity, Grimm spun round to face his brother Questor. "Information, Dalquist. A demon of information is what we need! He might be able to tell us what we need to know to defeat the ward."
Dalquist frowned. "I have to bow to your greater knowledge, Brother Mage. I admit I've never been interested in Diabolism, but your idea appears unfeasible to me. It seems no magic can pass in or out of this building. How could you possibly summon a demon through this ward? From what I can remember of Elementary Diabolism, you have to travel to the demon-lands, and I have already tried Astral Projection without success."
Grimm smiled. Although the Magemasters had taught him only the very basic rules of Diabolism, as they had with Dalquist, the ancient tome called the Omnidaemoniad had been one of his favourite books in the Scholasticate library. Although no demon-master, he felt his Questor's sleight and his book-learning might bring success. In any case, he had nothing to lose.
"The demon-lands are separated from our world in dimension only, Dalquist," he said. "Just like Starmor's prison-worlds were.
"In a sense, part of the Netherworld is in here with us, but outside the three-dimensional framework of the ward. I only need to create a small rift in the four-dimensional continuum and extend a portion of my psyche into it. Although I might be able only to stretch my mind a small way into the demon dimension, I should be able to make contact and bring back at least some kind of demon. This I can do without leaving this room."
"And why should any demon want to aid us, Questor? I imagine many of their kind have little liking for us mortals," Harvel said, looking somewhat nervous. "If you were to succeed, what of the danger of bringing back some human-hating monster that might tear us to pieces-a demon like your hot-headed friend, Shakkar?"
"As I understand it, Harvel," Grimm replied, "a demon can only pass into this world if the caller wills it. Their auras are pretty similar to a human's, and I should easily be able to detect hatred or deception before I allowed a hostile demon to pass into our world. In any case, I think I could only open a very small portal; a titan like Shakkar could never pass through. A Specialist Diabolist of high rank might be able to summon an army of such demons and force them to do his bidding, but I'm no such Specialist. A small demon of Information, however, may be all we require to effect our escape."
Dalquist shrugged. Grimm sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes vacant but meditative. 'Let the magic find its own route,' was one of a Questor's watchwords.
As a Student, Grimm had often tried to envisage spatial dimensions outside the three to which he was accustomed, yet still enmeshed with them. Although he had always failed in this exercise, he now had the benefit of a Questor's mind-training to help him. A thought-word, more like a hiccup, escaped his mouth, and Grimm felt as if his mind had turned inside out.
A mad confusion assailed Grimm Afelnor's physical eyes, but his Mage Sight revealed a grand cityscape, garlanded with graceful cupolas and exotic palaces. Demons milled around a city square not unlike that of Crar. A soupy, orange mist clouded his magical vision, and he could make out few details of the distant, milling demons, none of whom seemed to notice him. Ignoring the clamorous confusion of sound assaulting his ears, the Questor concentrated his attention on the thoughts of the demon horde, trying to find a suitable subject. As he felt the faint pulsing of such a mind, he began to restrict his mental search further and further until he felt sure he had located the demon of information he sought.
Demon, he thought, trying to project his mind toward the specific creature he had sensed. My companions and I are trapped within a mage's ward. We need your help. Will you come back with me to the human world and aid us with information? We are willing to pay you with gold, or anything else we have that you might covet.
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.
At the point of a halberd, Grimm was ushered up the winding staircase of tortured faces until he reached Starmor's throne chamber, and the screams of the lost souls reduced into gentle moans. The decor was as yet incomplete, and the furniture was sparse, but the grand throne stood in its former place, with an unsettlingly smiling Starmor sitting on it.
Hanging from the ceiling swung an enormous simulacrum of a birdcage, with a listless Shakkar confined inside. Grimm's Sight told him that another mighty ward prevented the demon from escape.
"Well, stripling; we meet again," Starmor sneered, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. "I trust you see now the futility of opposing me. You did well to destroy my tower, but you should have fled when you had the chance. Remaining here was a bad mistake, and I intend to show you the error of your ways in full rigour.
"I understand from my minions that you wish to strike some kind of deal. The only bargain I offer is this; surrender the Eye of Myrrn to me, and I will spare your lives. In return for my forbearance, you will submit to my service for a period of five years."
"My companions and I prefer death to the prospect of becoming mindless slaves," Grimm said in a cold monotone, subtly inching his way towards Starmor. He would need to touch the demon in order to carry out his spell of Translocation. With his emotions suppressed, he felt certain he had managed to conceal his intent from his enemy.
"You need not fear on that score, mage," Starmor droned, sitting up straight in his throne. "I have need of competent souls with their wits intact. I swear to leave your minds unaltered, although I will punish the least transgression with unmitigated severity.
"Serve me in good faith, and I will treat you well. Refuse me, and I will begin my retribution with your warrior friends. They will take their places in the structure of my tower, and their agonies will far surpass any that the most fiendish torturer could inflict; agonies that will last not for hours or days, but for decades, centuries. Agonies that you could never hope to alleviate, although I can stop them in an instant. I have no use for these two creatures, but I will allow them their bodies and their free will only while you obey me. Your first transgression will result in a painful lesson visited upon the one called Harvel; a second will see his soul imprisoned within the walls of this tower. If that does not convince you, I will turn my attentions upon the elf.
"You have done your utmost and lost; accept my generosity while the mood is still upon me. And you may stop where you are! I can tell you have used some sleight to conceal your emotions from me. I wish no further surprises. I warn you: I can protect myself from you with ease, even if I cannot strike you directly. My minions will obey me, regardless of personal risk"
Grimm stopped dead in his tracks as he accessed his Mage Sight: he saw an impenetrable ward, identical to that placed over the tavern, protecting Starmor's throne. His plan had failed and, had he had his full complement of emotions, he might have felt a dismal, aching pang of despair. However, his desensitised mind flew through a series of ideas and concepts that whirled through his head like detritus swept up in a hurricane. He was no dilettante or fairground conjurer. He was a Questor, capable of casting any spell he could imagine and that he had the strength to cast. Surely he could defeat Starmor!
Grimm guessed that the mighty ward surrounding his enemy required the utmost concentration and power to maintain: Starmor must be using all his energies to keep his magical defences at such a high level, as well as imprisoning the mighty Shakkar. Nonetheless, the mage knew the ward was far beyond his capacity to breach with magic. Not the slightest waver, mote or fissure in the magical wall was apparent to his Sight; the ward was in the form of a sphere, protecting the demon from all sides. It seemed Starmor was justified in his confidence! A massed attack by Grimm and his companions would only augment the power that Starmor could devote to his protective wall, since the demon could draw upon the naked emotions of Dalquist, Crest and Harvel to amplify his native strength.
A series of scenarios devoted to persuading Starmor to drop his protective shield whirled through Grimm's head in an instant, until a promising approach brightened into crystal clarity.
Grimm could not teleport into the interior of the ward. His Questor magic could not penetrate it.
But what of the Eye's power? Dalquist told me it filled the land. Walls and physical barriers were as nothing to it. Even a full Conclave of Mages could only hope to hold it at bay, but could not extinguish it. Perhaps I could ride that unstoppable wave of energy into Starmor's personal ward! Perhaps…
Realising that enthusiasm, a human emotion, had begun to invade his fortress of impassivity, Grimm knew he must terminate the interview at once; he needed a further application of his herbs. He fought to keep his rising emotions and growing visceral unease hidden. He had no wish to draw upon the herbal smoke while Starmor watched him.
"Starmor," he said, "Although I find your offer unpalatable, I see little chance of defeating you. I accept that complying with your odious conditions may be the only choice I have; however, I wish to talk to my friends before I agree to your proposal. I trust I can show them that it is the best choice they have."
Starmor drew himself up luxuriantly on his velvet-upholstered throne. "I offer you thirty minutes to convince them, child, and no more. At the end of that time, you will be brought here to submit or to become a part of my tower's harmonious decor. As a sign of your fealty, you shall bring the Eye to me, unshielded and unmasked. I will accept no blustering or excuse: the Eye is the only token of your compliance I shall accept.
"Thirty minutes, and no more, remember. Hear the sweet songs of my vanquished foes. A mere gesture from my hands can make the music louder and sweeter, like this!"
He made a casual gesture and the low moaning became a confusion of anguished screams. "Half an hour, mage, and not a moment longer!" Starmor shrieked. "You shall be my vassal, or my amusement; it is all the same to me. My forbearance is at an end!"
With another gesture by Starmor, the tortured keening rose still higher in pitch and in volume. Grimm forced himself to bow low and back away from Starmor slowly. Once he had gained the far side of the portal, he fled back to the tavern.