Questor

Chapter 1: Rude Awakenings

The shade of the being who had once borne the name Grimm Afelnor drifted in a strange, formless void beyond the cares and pains of the mortal world. A living human might have found the grey oblivion tedious, enervating or even frightening, but the young mage’s wandering spirit found only peace and contentment. His short life had been arduous and at times painful, but his troubled past now seemed little more than a half-forgotten dream.

His solemn oath of fealty to the Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges now seemed so irrelevant, as he drifted in this ethereal state. Even his vow to redeem his tainted family name no longer seemed to have meaning.

Images of faces flickered through his sensorium: Magemaster Crohn, who had driven him to the brink of insanity, but who had made him a Questor in the process; the bullies, Shumal and Ruvin, who had played a willing part throughout those long months of torture; Questor Xylox, who had sworn to break him as soon as he returned to Arnor House.

The wandering spirit had no mouth or lungs with which to laugh, but he felt a warm glow of amusement, nonetheless. The body of Xylox, he knew, lay next to his own cooling corpse in the mountains of Shest.

At least I died a full Questor, he thought, and I took Xylox with me; he will never be able to carry out his threat.

His grandfather, Loras, known throughout the Guild as the reviled Oathbreaker, and his grandmother, Drima, would be distraught at his death, but they would surely find comfort in the fact that Grimm had died in the service of the Guild, as a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank...

But they’ll be sad, all the same.

Despite all the hardships he had known in his brief, seventeen-year span, Grimm’s had not been an unending life of pain and deprivation, and he recognised that several—even many—people might regret his passing.

Poor old Doorkeeper might be regarded by many as a bumbling old fool, but Grimm recognised the cheerful, aged major-domo as the true heart of the House, always solicitous of his charges.

Doorkeeper will miss me...

Madar and Argand, the two boys who had remained Grimm’s staunch friends throughout his tenure in the House Scholasticate, would glean little satisfaction from knowing their dead classmate had died a full mage.

I’ve hardly spared them a thought for over a year, and it’s too late now...

The strong, friendly face of Questor Dalquist swam into view.

Dalquist helped me through my homesickness when I first came to Arnor. He was stern with me on our first Quest together, but he always was my friend, and he was so glad for me when I became Baron of Crar.

Grimm’s spirit now knew the beginnings of despair: not only would these good friends and allies feel sorrow at his passing, but other, blameless souls had also followed him into the void. Crest, the elven thief and master of whip and knife; Tordun, the giant albino; Drexelica, the Grivense gamin he had ransomed from slavery; even the acerbic, high-handed Questor Xylox.

None of them deserves to die in this lonely, forbidding place. Neither do I; I was cut short in my attempt to expunge the stain from my family name. I don’t want to die here; I want to live! I want to feel the sun on my face again. I want to drink ale, laugh, cry and sing! I want to grow old and fat, with children and grandchildren at my feet, listening to tales of glory. I want seven rings on my Mage Staff. I want so much, and I can’t have it...

Death no longer seemed such a sweet release, as Grimm felt a hot, angry pain shooting through his being.

I want to live!

* * * *

Grimm awoke to agonising pains in his hands, feet and eyes as the blood returned to his pale, frigid body. He groaned at the throbbing waves of anguish suffusing his body, and he half-regretted his earlier defiant demand for life.

Perhaps I was better off dead, after all... Now, the struggle starts again.

After what seemed like an age, the pains subsided to a more bearable level, and his mind began to clear. The mage opened his eyes and winced at the blinding light that lanced into them. Grimm forced his watering eyes to remain open, although his vision was blurred and confusing.

Come here, Redeemer, he muttered, his tongue feeling like wood, summoning his Mage Staff from wherever it might be lying.

A mage’s personal staff was far more than an inanimate lump of wood: no physical force could break it; it could be summoned from anywhere in the world with a thought or a word; it caused pain and injury to any who touched it without its master’s permission. No Magemaster could teach how to fashion a complete Mage Staff, but success or failure was an indicator of how well he had taught his pupil. Every Adept had to attempt to produce a staff from a lifeless lump of wood without aid, and then he had to smash it three times against his Guild House’s magically sharp and impervious Breaking Stone. The least crack or splinter condemned the Adept to further months or years of toil before he could try again.

Only when the supplicant’s staff rebounded from the Stone unharmed was the Adept accepted as a true Guild Mage and granted the coveted blue-gold ring of acceptance into the ranks of the Brethren.

Grimm felt the comforting, familiar slap of his beloved Redeemer as it appeared in the palm of his outstretched right hand, and he felt a shock of relief.

At least I’m not helpless, he thought: a Mage Staff was a potent weapon, even in the hands of a disorientated mage. He tried to take firm hold on the staff, but his nerveless fingers seemed to betray him.

Watch over me, Redeemer. The staff floated clear of his hand.

At last, his vision began to clear, and he began to make out details. He was lying on the floor of a strange, small hut made of some seamless, smooth, white material. He saw no seams or planks that might give a hint to the hut’s construction, so this could not be some kind of unfamiliar lumber. Grimm reached out a cautious hand to touch the white wall, and he could not feel the distinctive chill of metal, either. He saw a device of metal, glass and crystal standing in the centre of the structure, emitting a warm, orange radiation that heated and illuminated the hut, although he saw neither flame nor smoke.

This must be Technology, Grimm muttered, his rasping voice tinged with awe. The art of Technology was thought long-dead, but the mage could see no other explanation for these bizarre wonders.

Technology it is, a deep voice said behind the mage.

Grimm tried to spin round, but he ended up falling in an untidy heap on the unnatural, white floor as dizziness robbed him of his sense of balance. Standing over him, he saw a man unlike any other he had seen.

Round, steel-rimmed spectacles covered pale, blue eyes set in a clean-shaven face. The man’s clothes were green, with no seam or buttons Grimm could see, and he wore a strange helmet of another strange material, with odd protrusions and spikes emerging from it at various angles.

I see you have your magic baton, the man said, regarding the floating Redeemer with nervous, furtive eyes. I knew better than to try to pick it up: I’ve seen people badly hurt after trying to handle them.

Grimm growled, Who are you? What do you want with us?

My name is Jim Foster. I don’t mean any harm, I promise you. Please, put your staff down. I’m not ready to die yet

Grimm saw Redeemer’s brass-shod head hovering only inches from his rescuer’s head, and he ordered it to withdraw a few feet.

If I hadn’t chanced upon your group while flying a recon mission, Foster said, still regarding Redeemer with wary eyes, you would have all died. I put up this plastic prefab as a temporary shelter until you got over your altitude acclimatisation syndrome.

Grimm blinked at the unfamiliar words, but he gathered that the mysterious mountain malady was due to altitude alone, and nothing to do with coldness.

Grimm managed to stand, facing Foster, although his legs still felt unsteady. He saw Tordun and Xylox also showing signs of stirring, although the girl, Drexelica, still lay supine and motionless.

Master Foster, he said, his voice harsh even after he cleared his throat. I am Questor Grimm of Arnor House. How came you by all this Technology?

We of Haven don’t fear Technology the way you mages do, Foster replied. It’s all we have that allows us to make a living here in the mountains. We have equipment dating back centuries, and we have our own machine shop for fabricating spare parts as required.

Haven? Grimm frowned. What is that?

We’re a small community eking out a difficult living in the mountains, the Technologist answered, with a hint of pride in his voice. We’re almost fully self-sufficient, but sometimes we send people dressed as natives into Griven for needed foods and medicines we can’t produce for ourselves. When you’re all recovered, I hope you’ll do me the honour of visiting us at Haven. I’m sure our Administrator, Armitage, will be very interested to meet you.

It is not up to me, Grimm said, picking his words with care. I mean, I cannot speak for everybody.

Foster nodded. I understand. Since you seem a lot more tolerant of Technology than most mages I’ve met, would you mind persuading your fellow magic-user not to destroy my equipment? It did, after all, save your lives, and it might save other people in the future.

Grimm managed a painful smile, feeling the flesh of his lips cracking and bleeding.

I will do so gladly, Master Foster. I wonder, however, if you would mind answering a few questions for me?

As he said this, he clamped his will down over the strangely-dressed man’s, as he had done with the Grivense knife-seller in what seemed another age, but which must have been only the previous day.

Foster smiled. Certainly, Questor Grimm. How may I help you?

Grimm suppressed a gasp. His potent spell had not affected the man in the least. Engaging his Mage Sight, he saw what had thwarted his magic: the man’s mind was shot through with metallic tendrils, identical to those he had seen in the assailant who accosted the group on its way to Griven. The man was under the control of another’s will, a puppet of the dark art of Technology.

Perhaps my questions can wait until later, Master Foster. I see my companions are beginning to bestir themselves. Perhaps it would be better if you were not here when they awake.

The man nodded. I do have a few maintenance chores to do on my helicopter anyway, Questor Grimm. Take all the time you need.

Foster drew a strange mask over his face, donned a pair of gloves and exited the hut through a small door the mage had not noticed before. For a brief moment, Grimm saw snow whipped around by a vicious wind. Then the door closed behind the man, and Grimm could no longer make out where the door had been.

Xylox, still lying on the floor, turned his head towards Grimm. Who was that man? Where are we?

Questor Xylox. Grimm kept his voice low. I believe that this man, Foster, and his organisation, which he calls Haven, are in some way connected with General Quelgrum. His mind is not his own, just as we saw with the man at the outskirts of Griven. I recommend that we do nothing to arouse suspicion, but that we accept his offer to visit Haven. I think that we may be able to learn more concerning our quarry.

Xylox frowned. This is a Technological artefact, is it not? he demanded, and Grimm nodded.

We should destroy it, and this man, Foster, with it, the older mage growled. Technology is an abomination and a curse. We demean ourselves by even countenancing its existence.

Grimm laughed; a rough, hacking sound. Questor Xylox: I say this with all respect, but look at me! My skin is peeling and bleeding, and I can hardly feel my feet or my fingers. My head is still spinning, and I couldn’t use my powers to melt a snowball right now. You don’t look in any better shape than I. If we destroy Foster and his machines, we will be right back where we started, on the mountains. I don’t believe you will last any longer than the rest of us out there.

You used three vulgar contractions in that little speech, the starchy Xylox replied. I must insist on full Mage Speech at all times while we are here.

The senior mage staggered to his feet. Xylox weaved from side to side, but he did not fall. After muttering the single word, Nemesis, the Questor’s seven-ringed staff appeared in his hand. Despite his unsteady legs, Xylox still looked the very image of a true mage.

Insisting on formal speech at this time seemed ludicrous, but Grimm could not help but admire Xylox’s powerful presence.

‘Power and presence complete the mage,’ ran the old Guild saying. In his weakened state, Xylox might lack the power, but he had lost none of his presence.

The man is infuriating, thought Grimm, but I have to admit that his self-control is impressive.

My apologies, Questor Xylox, he said. I still feel somewhat weak, and my thoughts are a little disordered.

The older mage grunted. I accept your apology, Questor Grimm, he said, leaning against his staff, "and I admit to a certain lethargy within my bones. There is, perhaps, a grain of reason in what you say.

Much though I detest Technology, and as I trust you do, we have a Quest to complete. If this man, Foster, can lead us to General Quelgrum, it might be foolish to destroy him at this time.

Grimm suppressed a smile, finding enough strength in his right hand to take hold of Redeemer.

Chapter 2: Haven

The ‘helicopter’ was a huge, ungainly thing, a metallic box with a glazed, rounded nose and a pair of vast fans sitting atop it.

Grimm gaped at the sheer size of the metal monster. With its battered, parti-coloured walls, the thing looked like some enormous, angry dragonfly, ready to wreak revenge on some giant who had been so foolish as to swat at it

"What in the Names is this thing, Grimm?" Drex pulled at the mage’s sleeve. Her eyes were wide, and Grimm could not tell if this was from horror or astonishment.

I think it’s a Technological flying machine. The words sounded ludicrous, as if he were announcing the arrival of some mythical beast whose name was used to frighten recalcitrant children.

I’ve always wanted to fly, the girl said, with a wistful sigh, and Grimm now knew her expression had not been one of fear, but one of eagerness.

Xylox regarded the machine with a faint sneer on his lips, although, of course, the senior mage was too proud to show anything as unmanly as fear or uncertainty on his face.

Gentlemen and lady, your carriage awaits, Foster said, his voice muffled by the strange mask over his face. Don’t worry; it’s pressurised, heated and air-conditioned when in flight. A few moments more of exposure to the high altitude shouldn’t cause any further trouble, and that’s all the time it’ll take me to load the prefab sections and other gear into the chopper’s equipment hold. We should be taking off in four or five minutes, assuming I get clearance from Control.

Once again, the Technologist used words far beyond Grimm’s ken, but the mage took it that Foster meant the adventurers would not suffer any recurrence of what he thought of as the ‘Mountain Sickness,’ an ailment that had nearly been the end of them.

Opening a sliding door in the side of the bizarre vehicle, Foster ushered Grimm and the others inside. He directed them towards the banks of padded benches set along each inner wall of the machine and then slammed shut the door behind him.

Xylox was the last to sit down on the patched leather. He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, switching his gaze from one of the party to the next as he spoke: I want all of you to stay alert for any hint of duplicity on Foster’s part, or on the part of any other that we should meet at Haven. There may be attempts to control our minds—resist them as best you can, at all costs, but you must do your utmost not to show any hint of suspicion or distrust.

The senior mage’s lip curled as if in distaste. You, girl, are to keep your larcenous hands to yourself, and to keep your mouth shut during our visit, he said. Questor Grimm, I hold you responsible for the child’s behaviour; ensure that she does not jeopardise our mission.

Grimm felt the Grivense urchin, who had taken the seat to his right, stiffen as if intending to deliver a stinging rebuke to the senior mage for his harsh, imperious words. He put his hand on her left shoulder and squeezed it gently, yet with an unmistakeable hint of urgency. He felt a measure of relief that she seemed to take the hint, and she remained silent.

The interior walls of the vehicle were garlanded with a complex maze of cables whose purpose Grimm could not begin to fathom, but he understood the reason for the holes drilled into the structural rings and girders supporting the outer skin of the craft; they must be intended to reduce the weight of the supporting members. Weight must be a major concern with any machine designed to take to the air.

He heard thumping noises from under his feet, and he guessed that Foster was disassembling his marvellous hut and loading the component pieces into the belly of the helicopter in a piecemeal fashion. A decisive, louder clack seemed to indicate that the process was complete, and Foster climbed into the front of the vehicle.

All set, folks? Right, here we go. The Technologist connected several cables extending from his helmet into receptacles at the side of his seat. He pressed several raised cartouches on a glowing panel in front of him covered with a profusion of clocks, lights and small levers with strange markings, and Grimm heard a whining noise start within the belly of the machine.

Flipping down a curved arm at the side of his weird helmet, Foster spoke the bizarre, unintelligible argot of Technology with a confidence that told of many years of familiarity with the equipment.

Control; this is Hotel Romeo Two-Seven requesting permission to return this time. Five stragglers picked up, AAS, two thaumaturges in the group...yes, I thought you might be interested. I guess you’ll have a lot to talk about back there. Hotel Romeo Two-Seven is preparing for dust-off this time; estimated ETA, one five minutes. This is Hotel Romeo Two-Seven, listening; out.

Grimm heard Foster muttering an arcane litany as he pressed more cartouches, almost as if he was patterning his mind for a spell in the manner of a Guild Mage. T and P are nominal, muttered the strange man, fuel looks good, APU is online, wind shear within limits, engine start.

A loud whine sounded from above the ceiling of the craft, soon followed by a spluttering cough, a roar and a steadily accelerating chopping sound. Looking up through a small window in the metal ceiling, Grimm saw the metal blades atop the machine start to rotate, faster and faster until they became blurred and he could no longer distinguish one blade from another.

Now Grimm could see why Foster had referred to the vehicle as a ‘chopper’.

Cyclic and collective look good, throttle answers, the Haven man muttered, casting his gaze upwards.

In a louder voice, he said We’re on our way, folks. Hang on; it may get a little rough, but it’s nothing we can’t handle.

The Technologist pulled the left-hand lever upwards. Grimm felt a brief pang of anxiety, as the vehicle jerked upwards and rocked from side to side, while Foster wiggled a stick at his right side.

Sorry about that, folks. The collective’s a little jerky; must be the cold. Ah, it seems all right now.

The roar increased as the pilot twisted the lever at his left hand, and the vehicle moved smoothly upwards. Grimm looked out of a small window beside him, and he felt a shock of dismay as he saw the prostrate forms of four horses lying on the mountainside. He felt moved to cry out to Foster to save the poor animals, and he wondered how he and his companions would reach Glabra without them, but he realised that the small metal craft had insufficient space for the mounts.

In any case, the sensitive animals were probably dead by now.

The chopping sound smoothed to a steady, chattering beat, and Foster moved the right-hand stick forward. The vehicle’s nose tilted downwards, and it began to move forwards at an increasing rate.

Next stop, Haven! Foster cried in a cheery, confident tone loud enough to be heard over the roar pervading the structure. Grimm looked out of his window to see a field of fluffy clouds far below him; a strange vista indeed. The insubstantial celestial structures seemed to map out an alien landscape that subtly modified its boundaries and borders as he watched.

He stole a glance at his companions: Drex wore a broad, wondering smile on her face; Crest looked bewildered but unafraid; Xylox’s lips moved silently in what Grimm took to be curses against the whole damned art of Technology; and the imperturbable Tordun seemed to be asleep.

Grimm marvelled at the strange, complex machine and its mastery of the air, but the rattling and shaking of the craft and the loud noises thrumming through its very structure made the marvellous aerial trip a far from relaxing experience.

As far as Grimm was concerned, flight was best left to the birds, bats and insects.

After maybe ten minutes’ unsteady flight, Foster brought the machine to a halt in the air. This is Hotel Romeo Two-Seven, requesting landing clearance this time, he said, although Grimm could not see anyone who might hear his words outside the vehicle.

The Technologist nodded, as if in response to some voice Grimm could not hear. Ident is as follows, Control: Pilot Foster, two-two-niner-zero.

Grimm heard a buzzing, crackling sound from the pilot’s helmet which he took as some response from Haven, and the vehicle began to descend towards a wide ledge far below.

With a gentle bump, the helicopter was once more on firm ground. Foster pressed a few more cartouches and the roar above the craft ceased, the illumination in the clock panel dimmed and the only remaining sound was a decelerating, whipping sound. Disconnecting himself from his equipment, the man turned to face his passengers.

It’s all done, folks. Welcome to Haven.

Grimm started as the sliding door opposite opened, revealing a pair of men standing outside, dressed in padded white-and-grey suits. They seemed well-protected against the vicious, flaying wind hurling needle-like shards of ice into the warm interior of the craft. The young Questor felt a popping in his eardrums, and he saw the elven thief, Crest, clapping his hands over his sensitive ears, his face a mask of pain. The men outside the helicopter carried metal sticks at which Grimm stared.

These must be ancient Technological weapons, he thought, gazing in wonder at the bizarre tubes, although they glisten and gleam as if new.

One of the men stepped forward and spoke gruffly, his voice muffled by swathes of cloth that covered his mouth.

Welcome to Haven, he said. Step lively, now! Administrator Armitage is waiting for you.

Grimm and his companions were hustled through a metal door, and the Questor heard a loud hiss as it closed. Instinctively, he worked his jaw to ease the pain in his ears. The discomfort passed.

They were standing shivering in a small cubicle furnished with wheels, clocks, cartouches and coloured lights like those in Foster’s cubicle within the helicopter. Their guide, or guard, pointed a metal implement at each of them in turn, studying a number of tiny, blinking lamps on its surface.

Pressing a stud on the wall, the man shouted They’re clean, and the door in front of them slid smoothly open.

The cubicle opened into a large, metal-walled space, illuminated by a warm, orange light from the ceiling. Two further guards with Technological weapons stood before the cubicle’s exit.

Behind the guards stood a tall, slender man dressed in loose, black trousers, a white shirt unlike any Grimm had ever seen, and a strip of cloth, knotted at his throat and hanging down his chest. He was tall and slender, with close-cropped brown hair and no beard.

This last shocked Grimm; a beard was the outward mark of a man of importance, and he could not understand why anybody in such a responsible position would want to remove it. The young mage might trim and shape his own whiskers, but he would no sooner shave them off than he would countenance walking around stark naked.

The strangely-dressed man eased the two guards aside. "Thank you, gentlemen; that will be all.

Welcome to Haven, friends, he continued as the guards strode off, his voice a pleasant baritone. "I am overjoyed to meet you. Although we have many souls here at Haven, it’s always a pleasure to see new faces. My name is Armitage, and I’m the Administrator of this facility, for my sins."

Armitage turned towards Xylox and spoke in a warm, friendly voice.

"Lord Mage, I’d guess you are in charge of this group? I am honoured to make the acquaintance of such a distinguished thaumaturge. We see so few mages here." Armitage extended his hand towards the Questor.

Xylox cleared his throat. I am Xylox Serenac, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank and leader of this expedition. Well met, Armitage. He took the Administrator’s hand and shook it in a gesture that seemed to transcend the gulf between mages and Technologists.

Gruffly, Xylox introduced the rest of his group. This is Questor Grimm, Fifth Rank, he said These two gentlemen are Crest and Tordun, warriors.

Turning to Drexelica with open contempt on his face, he added, This is a thief girl who latched on to us in Griven. I advise you to watch out for your valuables when she is around.

Armitage walked straight past Xylox and approached Drex, who glared at the senior mage with an expression bordering on hatred.

"And what is your name, my dear?" the Administrator asked.

The girl reddened in embarrassment.

I’m Drexelica, she said, managing a clumsy curtsey. I promise you, I only ever stole because I was hungry; I won’t do it again. Grimm, here, is looking after me now.

And how old are you, Drexelica? Armitage’s voice dripped with solicitous concern, as if the answer to the question might be of prime importance to Drex’s wellbeing.

I’m sixteen, the girl whispered, her face crimson under the Administrator’s intense gaze.

"Sixteen years old; that’s charming, Armitage said with a smile. We don’t see many young ladies here. Welcome, Drexelica."

The bare-faced man introduced himself cordially to Grimm, Crest and Tordun in turn. To Tordun, he added, Master Tordun, would I be correct in assuming that you are hypomelanic?

I am an albino, rumbled the giant swordsman, if that is what you mean.

It is, Armitage said. It might interest you to know that we have a very effective balm that can protect skin, even the palest skin like yours, from the worst effects of the sun. If you wish, I’ll have one of our scientists prepare a batch for you.

Grimm gaped: he had never seen Tordun smile since he had first met the swordsman. The smile disappeared from the albino’s face in an instant, but the mage could not deny what he had seen.

"Thank you, Armitage. I would appreciate that," Tordun said, bowing.

Armitage said, "You seem very young to be a mage, Master Grimm. What sort of magic do you do?"

The Questor activated his Mage Sight