Weapon of the Guild [The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster, Book 2] (3 page)

Grimm frowned a little. “I do have an interest in plants and herbs, but perhaps it would be better if we were to enlist the aid of a true Healer or Herbalist."

"I'm afraid not, my friend,” Dalquist replied. “Lord Thorn has put a strict limit on the level of House involvement in this Quest. We two are the only Guild Mages he will authorise." Grimm shrugged; it was not for him to question the Prelate's orders. “In that case, I'll consult with Magemaster Chet at once,” he replied, naming the man who had trained him in Herbal Lore, and who had also healed Grimm's damaged body after his violent Outbreak. “I'm sure he can advise me of the most suitable herbs to carry. I'll then spend the afternoon in the Library, researching the usage, effects and signatures of any herbs I don't recognise."

Dalquist nodded. “That's excellent, Grimm. I know this isn't much notice, and I do wish we had more time for preparation, but Lord Thorn stressed that this Quest was vital to the House and the Guild. If we're successful, it could result in more than a little renown for us. It could well get your name in the
Deeds of the Questors
. I didn't achieve that until my fifth Quest. Even then, I only had two lines of dull reportage. This is a great opportunity for both of us. I'm counting on you to do your best to aid us in whatever capacity you can."

The Questor's eyes sparkled with almost evangelical fervour, and Grimm smiled warmly in response. The
Deeds of the Questors
was a Guild account of notable Questor achievements, a new copy of which was distributed to every Guild House whenever it was updated. To be mentioned in this august publication represented a great accolade; for a mere tyro to gain such recognition was almost unheard-of.

"Don't worry, Dalquist. I feel honoured to know you've chosen me, and I won't let you down,” he said, his head whirling at the rapid change in his fortunes.

Dalquist clapped Grimm on the shoulder with true friendship. “I know you will, Grimm.” The younger Questor did not fail to register the catch in his friend's voice. “I'll meet you in the Great Hall at cockcrow tomorrow."

Dalquist nodded, turned on his heel and left. Grimm sat on his bed and began to leaf through the sheaf of papers, his mind filled with images of glorious deeds and the coveted rings of seniority adorning his bare Mage Staff.

Grimm awoke early, well before sunrise. With time to kill, the young mage washed and groomed himself with care. He then spent some time repairing and cleaning his black mage's robe; his post-Acclamation training sessions had often been destructive in nature, and they had left their marks on his clothing. Once satisfied with his efforts, he took up his staff, Redeemer, and eyed himself in the long mirror in his wardrobe door.

Despite all his efforts, all Grimm saw was a tall, gangling, awkward youth with none of the commanding presence of a true mage, despite the confident stance he tried to assume. He had few belongings to take with him: his patched robes; his Mage Staff; the wax leather satchel containing bags of medicinal powders, seeds and leaves.

Grimm sighed and trudged down to the Great Hall. The blue and gold tiles on the floor and the star-spangled dome above the hall no longer inspired wonder in him, and the gleaming, black Breaking Stone, against which he had proved his mastery, seemed commonplace and unimpressive. He wanted nothing more than to be on the road.

* * * *

Grimm awoke early on the day of departure. Even after forcing himself to take time on his ablutions and his breakfast, he found himself waiting in the Great Hall well before cockcrow. After a seeming age of restless pacing around the silent hall, he smiled as Dalquist stepped from the shadows, carrying several large bundles. The young mage greeted him with enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Grimm,” his friend said. “I have a few graduating presents for you. You won't last five minutes on the trail, dressed like that."

The bundles disclosed an oiled leather travelling cape with a cowl and fur lining for travelling in unpleasant weather; a sharp knife with a leather sheath; a capacious waterskin; and a large, fur-lined leather bag, which, as Dalquist informed the perplexed Grimm, was for sleeping in the open. Dalquist then handed Grimm a purse containing six gold pieces and a greater quantity of silver and copper. Such wealth would have been a king's ransom back in his home town of Lower Frunstock, and Grimm's eyes almost popped from his skull.

"A man needs to pay his own way, Grimm, especially a mage,” Dalquist said with a smile. “It wouldn't bring much credit to the Guild if its adepts were shabby mendicants. Just spend it wisely." Grimm stammered enthusiastic thanks until the older mage waved a hand. “It's time to move, Grimm. Have you any experience of riding?"

The young mage raised an eyebrow.

"I practiced often on the leather horse in the Scholasticate,” he said, “and I was brought up in a smithy. I was riding horses from the time I could walk until I came here. I don't think I could ever forget how to ride."

Dalquist nodded. “Good. I have procured a pair of nags for us, serviceable horses if not thoroughbreds. Yours answers to the name of Jessie, and my mount is Bella. Unless you have any questions, I suggest we leave now. We have some distance to go."

Grimm made no comment, as the enormity of what he was about to do now weighed heavily upon him as Dalquist opened the Great Portal at the end of the hall. He felt his mouth become dry as he looked out into the wider world, and he had to force his reluctant feet to keep moving as he followed his older friend.

Outside the House, for only the second time in almost a decade, Grimm looked around and stared in wonder at a beautiful sunrise, which shot red and purple shafts across the slumbering land. At that moment, a vigorous and glorious chorus awoke from a horde of birds resting in the trees thronging the hillside.

"Come on, Grimm!"

With some effort, Grimm broke from his trance, and he hustled to catch up with Dalquist, who was waiting by the horses. Despite his brother mage's low opinion of these ‘nags', Grimm recognised them at once as good-natured and trustworthy mares capable of bearing them over the roughest terrain without complaint.

Jessie bore a warm, chestnut-brown coat, with a white flash like lightning over her eyes and socks to match, and Grimm knew the fierce love of a boy for his first horse. Despite the years since he had last ridden a live animal, Grimm levered himself onto the saddle while Dalquist was still stepping into the stirrups of his grey mare, Bella. Jessie did not so much as twitch as the young wizard settled into place. Dalquist smiled and flicked his reins to move off down the path. Grimm clicked his tongue against his hard palate as he had often seen Loras do, and he felt a surge of pleasure as Jessie started at once down the mountain trail in a fluid trot.

Grimm eagerly drank in the rich sounds, sights and smells of the region as the two mages wound down the twisting causeway. At the bottom, as the path merged into the main thoroughfare, Dalquist reined in beside Grimm.

"How do you like this morning, after ten years cooped up in the Scholasticate?” the older mage asked, wearing a broad smile.

Grimm laughed. “It's a lovely morning: a good day to be out riding, Dalquist!” he cried, pressing his knees against the mare's sides to bring her to a brisk canter.

He smiled as he saw Dalquist struggling to persuade his own mount to overtake Jessie.

* * * *

An hour later, Grimm began to regret his earlier confidence. Although he exercised with diligence each morning, he felt his legs becoming sore, his back beginning to ache and his joints groaning with every hoofbeat. His backside bloomed into an inferno of agony. After two hours, he writhed in the saddle, subsumed with torment.

He guessed Dalquist had noticed his distress, as the older mage called back, “Not much further, Grimm. Another hour or two should see us in Drute."

"I don't think I can go another minute, Dalquist,” Grimm admitted. “I feel like this horse has kicked me all over."

Dalquist reined in and dismounted, and Grimm gratefully followed his example. The young Questor stretched, grimacing in discomfort as each muscle sang out a song of discontent to his aching body. After a few deep knee-bends, Grimm sighed. “I'm ready to try again,” he said, with more confidence than he felt.

"You wouldn't last another mile, Grimm,” Dalquist replied, with a shake of his head. “Hmm ... I'm not much of a Healer, but I think I could do something to help those distended muscles. Do I have your permission?"

"Anything you could do will be more than welcome, Dalquist. I guess I'm not the experienced horseman I thought I was."

"It's lack of practice, Grimm, just lack of practice. Here we go..." Dalquist laid his hands on Grimm's shoulders and began a low, muttering chant. Grimm felt warmth beginning to spread slowly from his shoulders into the rest of his distressed body. At first pleasant, the warmth soon turned into heat that built with every second until he almost cried out. After a sharp, stabbing pain forced a gasp from him, Grimm began to feel better and, after ten minutes, he pronounced himself fit to continue the journey. This time, he marshalled his physical strength with more care, moving with the horse whenever possible and gently guiding her otherwise. On straight roads he applied a little Levitation, a spell he remembered well from Magemaster Crohn, just enough to lower the load on his lower back and his legs. By the time a few houses began to come into view, Grimm felt confident he would last the course.

The two mages rode into the outskirts of a small town consisting of a few well-appointed shops and taverns within a mass of ramshackle cottages and tenements. Drute seemed to be run more for the benefit of wealthy visitors than for that of its inhabitants. Dalquist came to a halt and dismounted, and Grimm followed suit with some gratitude.

"A little advice, Grimm. Drute is a strange town where the folk have little money, but much pride. Honour is paramount here, and you must be careful in what you do, and especially in what you say. Here, a man's word is more than his bond; it is his very life. Everything you say will be taken completely literally, unless the person to whom you are talking is a friend and laughs to accept it as a jest.

"If you say you could eat a horse, the folk will serve you with a dish of whole stewed nag, and watch you eat every morsel. If you don't finish it, you will lose face. The people here aren't stupid, just constrained by some rules that seem strange to outsiders like us. You must never let an insult from a stranger go unanswered, for example, and you must never make a threat you are not ready to fulfil. If you make a threat, even in jest, and the recipient does not acknowledge it as a joke, you must carry it out to the letter—to the very letter, Grimm.

"If a man threatens you and you tell him you could tear off his head, you may have to do just that. A foreigner is at the best of times poorly tolerated, especially so when his word is not good. I suggest you follow my lead and say as little as possible. However, if you are insulted, you will have to respond to the insult. Do not deny that you are a true mage under any circumstances, and do not efface yourself; the Guild has some respect here, but it needs to be backed up by authority. Just be careful, Grimm. This is a wild region."

"I'll try to say as little as possible, Dalquist,” Grimm said with a fervent nod. “My least assault could start a war from what you say."

He liked the sound of Drute less with every word he heard.

"No, Grimm. If you answer an insult with violence, it will be respected without repercussions, even from the victim's family. I know senseless aggression is as inimical to you as it is to me, but I know only too well that a mage such as you or I can handle any threat from a mere Secular. Whatever you do, don't start anything: it's all too easy to do that here, I can assure you." Dalquist wagged his right index finger in admonition. “We will use Mage Speech from now on when talking to the townspeople; is that clear?"

Grimm nodded. He disliked the starchy, verbose Mage Speech as much as anyone, but Magemaster Crohn had drilled him in the necessity of using it whenever addressing Seculars. A mage must at all times keep his distance from those outside the Guild, so as to maintain fear and respect. The two mages remounted and rode through a street that became ever more crowded as they moved towards the centre of the town. Grimm took care to pick his way through the growing throngs of townspeople without barging or inconveniencing them in any way. Hawkers stood at street corners, yelling to all and sundry of the miraculous efficacy of various dubious-looking charms and potions. Moneylenders screamed of rates of interest that sounded reasonable until Grimm realised these rates were compounded year on year and threatened bankruptcy to a desperate borrower. Grimm felt sure the recovery of debts in this barbarous region would be carried out in a harsher manner than would be employed in more civilised districts.

Mangy dogs ran freely through the thoroughfares, snatching morsels from the market stalls, earning kicks and curses from the enraged stallholders. Streams of noisome fluids and matter ran through open sewers, adding to the general aroma, which was none too pleasant in any case.

Dalquist motioned Grimm into a courtyard next to a disreputable-looking establishment bearing the name
The Broken Bottle
on a dull, faded sign.

A grubby boy of about ten summers ran up to Dalquist, a wide, gap-toothed grin painted on his face. Bowing and scraping with obsequy, the boy began a fluent speech he had no doubt learned by rote.

“Great lords, welcome to
The Broken Bottle
, the finest hostelry in these lands. We have the best food and drink at reasonable prices. Stabling is available at nominal rates. Thr ... five coppers apiece to look after your fine horses, lords. Only five coppers."

Dalquist looked sternly down at the fawning child. “I am Dalquist Rufior, boy, a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank, a Guild Mage of high status who is not to be trifled with. I will give you two coppers now for tending to our horses, and, if I am
very
pleased with their condition when we come to collect them, I will give you a further ten."