Grimm took a series of deep breaths, fighting to quash his inner fear and anger as he knelt on the corridor's cold flagstones.
Think, Afelnor! Are you just going to surrender without a fight?
He thought back to what Magemaster Crohn had barked at him when he was still learning to control his new powers: “You do not need one spell for this, one spell for that, and another for the third Wednesday in June! You are a Questor!"
That was his strength, but it was also his weakness; he had no idea of the sickness affecting Drex, Tordun and Sister Judan, so he could not visualise any spell that might act upon it.
He looked up to see Sister Judan on her knees beside him, her hands clasped, her eyes closed and her lips moving without sound. A little further on lay the prostrate figure of Drex, moist, pink lines showing through the back of her white robe as she moaned. Tears prickled at the margins of his eyes, but he could not seem to put his mind to work on the problem at hand.
Perhaps Judan's praying to whatever goddess the nuns of the Anointed Score worship, he thought. I suppose that's as good as anything I can do…
No! I won't wait here for some malign fate to sweep me up like a twig in a hurricane!
He stood up.
"Sister Judan."
Judan did not react.
"Sister Judan!” His voice cracked like a whip; the nun opened her eyes and looked up.
"What is it, Thaumaturge?” she said, her mouth twisting at the generic term for a male magic-user, as if she had been forced to utter an obscenity. “Can you not just accept what is and leave me to put my spiritual affairs in order? The pain grows worse by the minute; I will not live much longer. I hope your own death is worse than mine, for all the misery you and your kind have visited on the world."
"Charming sentiments!” Grimm snapped. “This filthy disease may have been caused by your own Prioress playing with Necromancy, using powers she did not comprehend!"
"Mere supposition, mage,” Judan replied. “What do you want? Or do you just enjoy robbing women of their spiritual serenity in their final hours?"
"I want you to open the other cells, Sister,” the Questor said, ignoring Judan's rhetorical question. “I have no intention of giving up and dying, and I must consult my imprisoned friends."
The Sister crossed her hands over her breastbone. “I will do nothing to help you, Questor. The keys are secreted in my bosom. Take them if you dare, and prove yourself a despoiler of women. I will fight you and scratch you; then, we will see how long you remain unaffected by this rotting plague!"
Grimm stepped back three paces, eying the Sister's hands and noting her long, sharp-looking fingernails, each extending an inch or more from the end of its associated digit. A scratch on the face from any one of these could seal his fate in short order if, as he assumed, the illness struck its victims through broken flesh.
"I do not need to sully your pristine body with my hands, Sister,” he said, smiling. “I can take the keys from you with the power of my mind alone, ripping them through the material of your bodice, and I will do so if you refuse me. I promise not to look."
Judan narrowed her eyes like those of an alley-cat cornered by a brace of hungry dogs, and she cast her eyes around as if seeking an escape route.
Then the nun smiled. “You can cast no magic without permission,” she reminded him. “Your threat is hollow."
Grimm knew his Geomantic prohibition was caused by his link with Drex, and she seemed in no condition to maintain such a powerful spell.
"K'chuk!"
Just a pinch of power, just a fragment of his spell-language was all it took to kindle a cool, blue flame on the tip of his right index finger, and he smiled, holding up the ensorcelled digit.
"I think not,” he said. “I advise you to reconsider. I can think of a dozen ways to kill you before you can make peace with whatever dark deity you worship."
Staring at the small flame, Judan grasped a cord around her neck and lifted a bunch of keys from between her breasts, flinging it at him as if throwing a javelin. He resisted the impulse to catch it, stepping swiftly aside to let it clatter to the floor; there was no sense in risking an infected cut from the keys’ sharp edges.
"Thank you, Sister,” he said, bending to pick it up. “Enjoy your meditation."
Wait! his hind-brain screamed, as he hefted the key-ring. If the others are injured, they may be exposed to the disease if I open the doors!
Changing his mind, Grimm raced along the corridor and down the stairs to Lizaveta's chamber.
Tordun still lay in the ridiculous, pink-upholstered bed, with Sister Mercia and Necromancer Numal in attendance, but the stench of Tordun's advancing illness seemed to have lost a little of its edge.
Numal, crouched to the right of the bed, looked up. “Virion seems to have had some effect,” he said, with a lopsided smile. “It hasn't eradicated the disease, but it seems to have at least delayed it. He's still a very sick man, but we've won some time; I don't know how much."
"How many doses do we have?” Grimm asked. He knew the little pouch had held little more than a generous pinch of the potent herbs.
"Four… maybe five,” Numal said, shrugging. “This plague doesn't appear to have affected me or Sister Mercia. Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to be all-powerful."
Grimm glanced at the young nun. Her eyes were closed as she prayed, and her face was pale, but she appeared to be in good health. He guessed that either Mercia's skin was unmarked, or Numal's ward extended far enough to include her in its protection. On the other hand, Mercia was in the room before he released Numal…
Enough of this! he thought. Drex is dying, and I don't want to expose the others to this hell-plague!
"I need your warding spell, Numal,” Grimm said. “I want to let the others out, and I don't want them to catch it."
Numal scratched his bald head. “I can write it down, if you have ink and a parchment."
"I don't. But, if you'll let me use my Sight, I may be able to work out what it does."
Numal shrugged. “Feel free, Grimm,” he said, “but I haven't had much sleep recently. I'm not sure how accurate Sight would be, and a miscast could be disastrous. It's too risky, if you ask me."
A miscast could topple the mightiest of mages other than Questors, and Numal was no magical titan. Grimm could not risk it… could he? He felt time slipping away as he struggled with indecision; a luxury he could ill afford.
Action, now! he chided himself.
"Sister Mercia,” he said in a gentle voice, turning away from the useless Numal.
The nun opened her eyes and unclasped her hands. “Yes, Questor Grimm?"
"Sister Weranda and Sister Judan are sick,” he said. “Will you please administer the herbal smoke to them at once?"
He hesitated at the thought of using his dwindling supply of Virion on Judan, but he could not bring himself to allow her to rot away in agony.
"At once, Lord Mage,” Mercia said, rising to her feet and taking the small bag from the foot of Tordun's-Lizaveta's-bed. “Will you cast the flame?"
"Use the torches,” Grimm advised. “I need to talk to Necromancer Numal for a while. Please be frugal with the leaves; we may need them for others. Breathe in the smoke yourself. We can't afford to lose you!"
"I understand, Lord Mage,” the nun said, her lips crinkling in a brave smile. “We'll beat this illness, somehow, I'm sure.” In a moment, she was gone.
The Questor's heart went out to her.
Poor girl, he thought. I'll bet she knows next to nothing about the evil that goes on here, or about this disease, but she maintains her composure. She seems to believe in me for some reason.
I wish I could.
Tordun's breathing had eased a little, and his skin had lost some of its former blue-grey tint. He appeared far from healthy, but he seemed, at least, stable.
"Numal,” he said. The Necromancer started and looked back at him, his eyes wide and expectant.
Grimm stifled a groan. I hoped Numal would take the lead here, he thought. Instead, he seems to expect me to perform some bloody miracle!
"We may have found a little respite,” he said, choosing his words with care, “a little time to think. We need it. Lizaveta has locked us in here, to prevent the infection spreading further. We're on our own."
Numal's jaw dropped, and Grimm feared the Necromancer would lose control, but the older man just nodded.
"I understand, Questor Grimm,” he said in a quiet voice. “What is your plan?"
"I don't have one,” Grimm said, through clenched teeth. “I hoped you'd be able to shed some light on the problem."
Numal stood up, his face crimson with rage or embarrassment; Grimm could not tell which.
"Why me?” he demanded, his fists clenched. “I'm only-"
"I'm fed up of hearing what you're only, Numal! You are a Guild Mage! I don't want excuses, rationales or reasons for what you can't do! I want you to tell me what you can do!
"I'm out of ideas, my friend. Tell my something about this disease: ideas, opinions, anything!"
Grimm sighed.
"I won't open the cell doors for the moment,” he said. “It was a stupid idea, bred out of panic; I've no idea what this miasma can do, and I don't want to expose our friends to it. I wanted you to show me your warding spell, so we can prevent them from catching the infection in the first place; you don't want to miscast, so I guess that's out of the question.
"Why don't you come up with a few ideas for a change?” he demanded, “I'm asking you to help me, Numal; I'm out of ideas!"
"You're a Seventh Rank Questor!” Numal snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. “What can a lowly Second Rank Specialist hope to contribute, if you're stumped?"
"You're a Mage Necromancer, Numal,” Grimm replied “This disease may concern those zombies that attacked you. That sounds like your bailiwick, now, doesn't it? I'm not asking you to perform a miracle. I just want you to think! The Virion fumes will work for forty-five minutes at most. I want us to come up with a plan of action before that time elapses. So let's get to it!"
Grimm did not feel ready to tell the Necromancer of his addiction to Virion after the defeat of Starmor on his first Quest; he knew that he must appear strong and indomitable, at least for the moment, if he were to motivate the jittery mage.
"You told me the disease was not contagious,” he said. “Can you tell me why this variant is so active?"
Numal shrugged. “I was evidently wrong,” he said, his lips extending into a sulky pout. “I'm sorry."
We don't have time for this! the Questor thought, clenching his fists. We're going to squabble like fractious children for hours at this rate.
"Stop acting like a damned adolescent, Numal!” he said, frowning. “I don't want blame, accusations or excuses-I'm trying to come up with some data on which we can work. In your opinion as a Mage Necromancer, why is this disease so different from the ailment you described? The effects are the same, but it progresses much faster. Why might that be so?"
Numal's face was still blank; he looked more like a village idiot than a Guild Mage.
How on Earth did a man this obtuse ever win the Guild ring? he wondered.
"Do you know how to animate a corpse, even if you can't do it yourself?"
"It depends.” Numal sighed. “There's a Third Rank spell for animating a body dead for less than two hours, a Fifth Rank spell for corpses up to a week old, and a Seventh Rank spell for rotted creatures or skeletons."
Now we we're getting somewhere! Grimm thought.
"In what condition were the creatures that attacked you, Numal?"
The older mage's eyes rolled. “Oh, they were long gone,” he said. “All of them were pretty far gone, and most were just skeletons. Only Seventh Rank magic and a huge amount of power could have animated all of them."
The Questor nodded. “Do you know why each type of cadaver needs a different spell?” he asked. “Is a different principle involved for each?"
Numal began to give his usual, non-committal gesture but then stopped in mid-shrug, his face clearing. “There is, Grimm!” he said, wide-eyed, in a sudden access of enthusiasm. “I see what you're getting at here. The easiest spell involves accessing the intact nervous system, before corruption takes hold. The Fifth Rank magic requires the mage to insert intricate webs of force in place of the decayed nerves. The ultimate spell involves the mage extending a field of energy from his soul, animating the dead matter.
"If disease germs were affected, there's no telling…"
The Necromancer's voice faltered for a moment, and his face fell. “No, that's not the answer. The full spell is selective. Corruptive influences aren't included in the animation."
Despite his worry, Grimm smiled, and he patted the older mage's left shoulder in encouragement. “It wasn't a Thaumaturgic spell, Numal,” he said. “It was Geomantic. I suspect Lizaveta wasn't sufficiently careful in her application, and she energised the disease agents along with the corpses, making them more virulent. Does that make sense?"
Numal nodded slowly. “I suppose it does. Necromancy is a difficult discipline, and we're barred from any unauthorised research.
"Still, how does that help us, Questor Grimm? Even if we know what's going on, we're no closer to finding the answer to the sickness."
It was Grimm's turn to shrug. “I'm not sure,” he said, “but I think I have the ghost of an idea."
He sighed. “I wish I hadn't said that; I don't think I'm going to enjoy this at all."
As a bemused-looking Numal looked on, Grimm sank to the floor in a cross-legged stance of meditation and began to chant.
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