Grimm inspected Harvel's wounds: a pair of dark pink slits in the swordsman's flesh, held closed by a series of stitches.
"How do they feel now, Harvel?” the mage asked.
"Itchy, Lord Mage, but they don't hurt any more, unless I move awkwardly. What do you think?"
Grimm leant close to the wounds and sniffed, but he detected no taint of corruption.
"I think you got away with it, Harvel. The wounds are knitting well, and it looks like you've avoided infection so far. The shoulder wound looks all right, too. I think we ought to leave the stitches in for a few more days, but I think you can remove the sling now. How's your arm?"
Harvel, slipping his left arm from its restraint, exercised the limb. He whirled his arm in a few experimental circles.
"Not too much, now, Harvel,” Grimm warned him. “You don't want to risk opening the wound again. How does it feel?"
"The skin feels a little tight, and my arm's a mite on the weak side, but it doesn't seem to be permanently damaged. I've survived worse."
Grimm felt dubious at this claim: although he noted many scars on the warrior's naked torso, none seemed of a life-threatening nature.
Harvel must have noted a trace of disbelief on the mage's face, as he pulled up the right leg of his loose trousers to show a livid, jagged scar run running from mid-thigh to half-way down his shin.
"Shattered,” the warrior said, his voice tinged with apparent pride, “my thighbone and the bones in my lower leg. The physician told me I was lucky to be alive, and I had my entire leg immobilised for nearly six months.
Harvel pointed to a series of small, round scars running down either side of his shin. “See these little marks?"
Grimm nodded.
"Metal bolts held the leg together while it healed. For quite a while, it was touch and go, and it hurt like a bugger when he took them out, even though I was full of brandy at the time.
"Do you see that bigger mark there?"
Grimm noticed that one of the scars was larger and deeper than the others, a hemispherical crater just under the knee on the left-hand side.
"That's where one of the bolt-holes got infected, and I got really sick. The Doctor had to cut out all the stinking, rotting flesh, and he treated it with green, mouldy bread, would you believe? It seemed to do the trick, though, and here I am to tell the tale. Even so, the heel and sole of my right boot are over an inch thicker than the ones on the left. That costs me a fortune in cobblers’ bills when I buy a new pair."
Grimm felt impressed: this had indeed been a life-threatening injury. From what he knew of healing, such a compound fracture of the leg could be very dangerous, especially when the thighbone was involved.
"Did you receive the wound in battle, Harvel?"
The swordsman shrugged. “That's for me to know and you to find out, mage."
Crest looked up from the whetstone on his lap, on which he was honing the edges of his collection of daggers, and he laughed.
"He got it leaping out of a married woman's bedroom window when the enraged husband found them galloping the two-backed beast, mage! The trouble was that the drop was a little further than he thought."
"Thanks so much, elf,” Harvel growled. “You really know how to wreck a man's reputation."
"I think you do a pretty good job of that yourself, Harvel,” Crest replied. “One of these days, some outraged husband's going to be quicker even than you, and he'll hand you your overactive gonads marinated in a white wine sauce."
"Won't ever happen, Crest,” the swordsman said with a smug expression.
Grimm smiled and wandered off to find General Quelgrum. He found the old soldier sitting cross-legged by the rear of the wagon. His face calm and intent; he was cleaning and oiling the disassembled parts of some of his Technological weapons, which were spread out on a tarpaulin before him.
At Grimm's approach, the General looked up from his work. “Good morning, Lord Baron. How are the warriors?"
"Good morning, General. I think we're about ready to leave. Crest and Harvel seem to be up to arguing again, so there can't be too much wrong."
The soldier nodded. “Tordun's out running again. He told me yesterday that he's worried about his fitness. He wants to be on the road again, and so do I. Still, there's the problem of Questor Guy and Necromancer Numal. It'd be better for all of us if they were back in their own bodies."
"I've been thinking about that, General, and I've got a couple of ideas on the subject. Do you know where they are?"
"Questor Guy's off in the woods, checking the snares, and Necromancer Numal's collecting firewood. They should be back soon."
Grimm sat beside the military man while Quelgrum reassembled his weapons with impressive speed.
"To look at you, General, nobody would ever think you'd once been a shepherd,” he said.
"It's like riding a bicycle, mage. Once learnt, never forgotten."
Grimm frowned. “What's a bicycle, General?"
Quelgrum laughed. “I keep forgetting how little you mages know about machines,” he said. “A bicycle is-ah! Here come our two strays."
Grimm noticed that the two juxtaposed souls seemed to avoid each other's eyes, and that they were silent as they strode into the camp. He rose to his feet.
"Gentlemen!” the Questor called. “I've been thinking about your little problem, and I'd like to try out a couple of techniques."
"The sooner the better,” Guy/Numal said. “Let's go."
Numal/Guy nodded vigorously. “I agree. What do you have in mind?"
"Numal, the problem seems to be that you aren't confident enough to cast the spell using Guy's voice-box. What if I were to cast the spell?"
Numal/Guy shrugged. “I've heard you Questors can do a lot of different types of spell, but the Juxtaposition one is complex; as a Specialist Necromancer, I was only just able to carry it off. Do you really think you can come up with some Questor analogue of the rune magic? Remember that the souls have to cross over at the same time: if one body is left soulless, it may die."
Grimm shook his head. “I wouldn't know where to start,” he confessed. “Even so, I can read runes as well as the next mage; if you were to write down the spell, I should be able to recite it."
"That wouldn't work, Grimm. You know as well as I how magic works. The incantation has to come from the caster's own mouth."
"That's not quite right, Numal. The spell has to come from the caster's brain. I have some experience of astral travel now. I believe I could implant my psyche in your borrowed head, while using my own voice to cast the spell. I would be linked to my body through my ‘silver cord', and you could use our shared voice to pattern your mind for the casting. I'd read the spell through your-or rather, Guy's-eyes.
"Guy, it's your body. I ask your permission to try this… this ‘spell transplant'. I have no idea if it'll work or not."
Guy/Numal shrugged. “I'm willing to try anything. I've had enough of this creaking geriatric shell."
"And you, Numal?"
The Necromancer's borrowed face furrowed with evident doubt. “I suppose so, Grimm. I don't like it; the consequences could be disastrous for both of us."
Grimm spread his hands, palms upwards, before him. “I don't think you're ever going to feel confident enough to chant the spell using Guy's throat. We've got to do something."
"I know,” Numal said, “and I do agree, in principle. Still, you said you had a couple of ideas. What's the other one?"
"Those red-and-white toadstools,” Grimm said, pointing to a clump of gaudy fungi clustered around a tree, “have some interesting properties. If you both ate some, you might start spontaneously to travel on the astral plane. I could try to snap your silver cords and transfer your straying souls back into your respective bodies, before they knew what had happened."
"I think I prefer the first plan."
"I hate to admit it, but I agree with Grandpa here."
"Right,” Grimm said. “Then that's what we'll try first. Numal, please write out the spell as best you can remember it."
While the Necromancer busied himself with parchment and pencil, Grimm fought the cold, clammy demons of doubt and fear. He had no idea of whether his plan would work, but he knew that something must be done.
At last, Numal looked up. “It's all there, Grimm. Go ahead."
Grimm drew several deep breaths. He felt an urgent desire to calm himself with the drugs that had once enslaved him: Trina and Virion. Nonetheless, he had no desire to risk becoming an unwilling vassal to the insidious herbs again.
"Have you any advice, Numal?"
The Necromancer nodded. “Questor Guy, please lie down beside me, remaining as still as you can. General Quelgrum, please hold the paper so I can see it. Questor Grimm, please… do take care."
Grimm nodded, too full for words.
The two transposed mages lay down side-by-side, and Grimm adopted a pose of meditation, sitting by their heads. Quelgrum crouched beside Numal/Guy, holding the transcribed spell in front of the Necromancer's borrowed eyes.
"A little nearer, please, General,” Guy's voice said. “That's it: hold it just there."
Grimm began to chant in his personal spell-language: “Ushuryaia, demtoril, appshaya. Ushuryaia, demtoril…"
The drone of the repetitive incantation calmed him, and he began to relax, concentrating on nothing but the meaningless, powerful words. Grimm's eyes closed, and he felt warmth beginning to spread through him. He was drifting… flying…
Far below him, the mage's astral projection saw the two mages and his own body.
A simple effort of will… down… down.
A moment of claustrophobic confusion came over him, and he fought to ignore the alien thoughts threatening to subsume him.
Just a little shift… there!
With a shock of realisation, spirit-Grimm knew he was looking through another's eyes. Numal's thoughts washed into his psyche, and he resisted them as best he could.
Concentrate on the runes!
The spiky symbols filled his field of vision, and he seized control of the shared eyes, scanning the document. For a moment, he felt lost, as he tried to reassert simultaneous command of his own, distant body. The evanescent silver cord rippled and stretched, but spirit-Grimm managed to maintain a tenuous grasp on his own physical manifestation.
Such a strange feeling… he thought, drifting for a moment before regaining his sense of purpose. Read, Questor! Read it!
As if from far away, yet still inside his own head, he heard fluent, crisp syllables. On several occasions, he felt the spell starting to drift as he struggled to maintain control, but he carried on. At last, he knew he had botched a joining-rune, giving it a rising cadence rather than a falling one. At once, he was swimming in a sea of nausea that threatened to consume him. Spiky bolts of pain shot through his, or somebody's, head, like bolts from a crossbow.
It hurts!
A miscast, a calm, mental voice said, as somebody's entrails roiled and bucked. We failed; we can't afford another mistake. Try again
Grimm's distant voice moaned, as the mage tried to maintain the integrity of this strange, dual personality.
We hurt!
We must focus! Focus!
Confusion, pressure and pain!
Chant, chant…!
A rush of power-someone's power-ran around him and through him in a thrilling stream. As if he were turning inside-out, the spirit felt something twist, and a different mental voice spoke.
That's it! Get out, Grimm! Get out!
He felt a push, and he was floating again. Now he was falling, accelerating towards some inevitable destiny…
It felt as if he had run into a stone wall at high speed. No longer drifting, no longer wandering. He hurt in every fibre of his being, or somebody else did. He was alone again, separate and in pain.
"Are you all right, Questor Grimm?"
Grimm, Numal, or Guy-which one was he?-groaned and fell onto his left side. Cold and twitching, the Questor felt his stomach wrench, expelling its contents onto the ground beside him.
His thoughts crystallised and cleared, and he knew again where and who he was.
I'm Grimm Afelnor!
The thought hit him with a cold shock, as he realised that he had been on the point of losing his personality, his uniqueness. From what he had read of such spells-known to mages as ‘Sharings'-he knew the longer the spell, the greater the risk of the two minds becoming melded in some strange construct, from which the individualities of the two subjects might never be disentangled. In time, his silver cord would have withered and snapped, and his own body would have died.
It was a close-run thing! Grimm thought. That bloody miscast nearly cost me and Numal our minds.
"Are you all right, Questor Grimm?"
The repeated question sounded more urgent now, and Grimm opened his eyes to see General Quelgrum standing over him.
The Questor felt unable to use his vocal chords properly for the moment, but he waved his hands in a gesture to indicate that he was aware of the question.
The General helped him to sit up, and wiped harsh, sticky matter from Grimm's lips.
"Th-thanks, Gen'ral,” he managed to mutter, his tongue thick and clumsy. “I'm all right…
"Redeemer!"
The staff flew to his hand like a trained hawk, and Grimm drew on its stored resources with the same urgent need with which he had once drawn in the enslaving smoke of Trina and Virion. The strength flooded into his body and he began to feel revitalised.
He looked around, to see the improbable vision of Numal and Guy hugging each other, each man's face wearing a broad smile.
Guy broke away from Numal's enthusiastic embrace to regard Grimm with a critical eye.
"I can't have you lazing the day away, youngster,” the older Questor said. “Some of us have work to do… don't you know?"
Climbing to his feet, Grimm suppressed a grin. This was Guy, sure enough!
Numal ran over to the young mage and wrapped his arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Questor Grimm! You have made us whole again!"
Grimm began to feel hot waves of embarrassment inside him, and he extracted himself from the Necromancer's arms with as much good grace as he could manage.
"It was your skill that did it, Numal,” he said. “I only read, and I botched that once. I'm just wondering why it took so much out of me."
"That was the miscast. Surely even you Questors do that from time to time!"
"It doesn't have the same effect on us, Numal. We lose the energy of the spell, but it doesn't cripple us. Maybe the miscast spell will have some effect we haven't foreseen, or it just won't work at all, but it doesn't hurt."
As he had so many times, he had recalled the words of Magemaster Crohn in Arnor Scholasticate, spoken long ago to his friend, Madar: “A badly miscast spell can kill a mage. Even a minor error in an incantation can render the casting thaumaturge helpless with pain and nausea. So no, Forutia, we will not allow you to attempt even the simplest of spells at this time. I do not want this classroom full of corpses or retching, choking Students. You will understand our caution well enough when you are older."
Now Grimm understood the reason for Crohn's prudence only too well!
"Is a miscast always that way for runic magic-users?” he asked Numal.
"Always, Questor Grimm: in fact, a deliberate, carefully-chosen miscast is a part of every Adept's training. I was bed-ridden for over a day after mine. Perhaps that's why we don't choose to throw our magic around as much as you Questors. Perfection is everything in runic spells. Without wishing to slight your skill in any way, I'm glad it wasn't me who suffered the effects of that little error. But I do know, only too well, what a miscast feels like."
Grimm regarded the Necromancer with new respect, and he began to understand just why Quests were always commanded by Questors; it was not just because other mages lacked a Questor's range of spells, nor yet because of the difference in age. From his own experience, he knew the choice of a relevant spell by a Questor was often made under extreme pressure. A decision might need to be taken in a heartbeat, whether the spell might succeed or not. To expect a ‘normal’ mage to achieve precision and perfection under such circumstances was unreasonable, and the consequences of an error might be fatal.
Tordun strolled into the encampment, the carcass of a deer slung over one broad shoulder. “Did I miss something?” he said, his face puzzled.
"Notice anything different, swordsman?” Guy said, with a smug smile.
The titanic albino's brow furrowed for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “That's your own voice, Questor Guy! It is you, isn't it?"
"That's right, Tordun. I'm back, and hungry for action,” the mage said. “Grandfather here's back in his own body, too. Grimm, here, helped a little."
Grimm was about to protest at Guy's lack of gratitude, but he was interrupted by the General: “Gentlemen! May I have your attention for a moment?"
Harvel and Crest wandered over to rejoin the group, and Quelgrum continued.
"It's time to break camp and move on, I think. Our next stop on the direct route is Brianston, about fifty miles south of here, and we should reach there by nightfall. A little five-mile jaunt to the east will see us in Anjar, and Rendale's about thirty miles to the southwest of that. With any luck, we'll have our prey in sight tomorrow. We can make camp around there, while we scout out the lie of the land and make our attack plans."
"Sounds easy enough to me, General,” Crest said.
"Don't get too confident, Crest,” Grimm replied. “From what I've seen of this region so far, I wouldn't bet on it."
"Ah, come on, Baron. The killing crew's here, ready to kick arse!"
Grimm shrugged. “I just wish I had your confidence, Harvel. Let's just-"
"Right, people: let's move it!” Quelgrum interrupted, as if addressing a parade-ground. “Let's be ready to move in twenty minutes!"
The party dissolved, as the members of the group took up their previously-assigned duties.
As Grimm began to load equipment and supplies on the wagon, he looked at his companions: Harvel and Crest engaged in their customary good-natured argument as they disassembled the tents, Numal sang as he worked alongside Guy, and Tordun seemed to be sharing jokes with the General while the two warriors butchered and salted the deer.
At least we're beginning to gel as a team, he thought. I really hope that'll be enough.
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