By noon the next day, Grimm felt almost as if he were sleepwalking. It seemed as if his mind were drifting several feet above his head. The hot sand seemed to suck at his feet, draining his strength and seeking to devour him.
The Questor saw dark shapes circling in the sky above him: carrion-eaters.
Do they sense a meal in the offing?
He had followed Foster's dictum to drink as much as he needed when he was thirsty, but he wondered if the ever-ebullient pilot had made a bad misjudgement as to their supply of the life-giving liquid.
"Foster," Xylox called. "Are you sure we have enough water? It seems to me that we have depleted our reserves by a considerable amount. I accept that you have received desert survival training, but could you have miscalculated?"
Foster's usual cheery expression was absent, replaced by an uncharacteristic frown.
"It was a long time ago," he confessed. "I thought the sand would be easier to walk through than this."
Xylox bristled, breaking his earlier vow of non-communication with the pilot. "So, what would be your invaluable advice to us, Foster? Do we have sufficient water to last the journey, or not?"
"I don't know," the pilot confessed. "It is advisable to drink enough to satisfy your thirst when you can; I'm sure of that. But we might get a little thirsty later on."
"A little thirsty!" Xylox snapped. "We are relying on you to tell us what to do in this arid region. Should we drink, or ration ourselves?"
Foster seemed to vacillate between the two alternatives, his eyes rolling from side to side. "We should drink," he said, but his tone was uncertain. "Yes: we drink. Otherwise, you stay thirsty, your level of hydration keeps slipping, and you never have enough water in your body to satisfy its needs. I'm certain you're more likely to die if you just ration yourself to a sip every now and then; pretty certain, anyway."
"Your Technological insights humble me, Foster," Xylox sneered. His voice trembled with contempt. "I am so pleased to have such an experienced and knowledgeable guide with us."
The day wore on, as the party staggered through the treacherous, burning sand. Already, despite his burnoose and his dark glasses, Grimm saw angry burns on the visible areas of Tordun's face and his unprotected hands.
Tordun dragged the small cart and carried his heavy pack without the least protest, but the junior Questor could tell the pale-skinned titan was suffering, as his head began to loll from side to side in an uncontrolled fashion.
Drex's unprotected calves were blistered and red, and Grimm drifted between painful lucidity and a dream-like state. Xylox stumbled on, uncomplaining, but it was plain that he was no longer the invincible, imperturbable machine he tried to portray. He puffed and winced almost at every other step, and he appeared ever older and more haggard as the unforgiving trail wore on.
Even Foster's face was flushed and mottled, and Grimm heard him mutter "I had no idea it could get so damned hot."
The mage began to suspect that the pilot had received his training from a book, rather than from actual experience.
Crest, with his slender, willowy form, seemed best able to cope with the vicious sun, but even he stumbled from time to time. At first, the half-elf had regaled the group with jaunty songs from distant lands, but his voice had long since fallen silent.
If only the smallest cloud would obscure this punishing sun for a minute or two! Grimm thought, things would be so much easier.
Nonetheless, his wish was not granted. The sky showed an unbroken vista of pale blue, except for the hateful, vicious orb of the sun, and Grimm stumbled from foot to clumsy foot like a drunken man.
They had been walking for nearly two days and, already, the members of the party were all but dead on their feet. Grimm endured the inferno in silence, no longer aware of why he was walking, or of his destination, but just existing in an unremitting hell.
The third day dawned. It seemed to Grimm as if he had laid his head down only moments before, and Foster's normal morning halloo was but a shadow of its former, cheery self.
"It's time we started walking," the pilot said. His lips were blistered and flecked with white, and he was unsteady on his feet, despite the cool morning air. "C'mon, people, let's move as if we mean it."
Tordun stepped up to the Haven man, towering over him. "Bugger you, Haven man," he groaned. "I quit. We aren't going to last another day. The water's almost gone, and we look like something a sewer rat would reject as food. Face facts for once; we aren't going to get through this. I refuse to drag that bloody cart another inch."
Drex had refused to move from her sleeping bag, and Grimm understood just how she felt: his unsteady legs felt no more substantial than straw. The mage no longer knew what motivated him, but something ordered him to carry on, regardless. However, another, contrary part of his brain yearned for somebody, anybody, to give him the least excuse to stop.
Xylox spoke next, through chapped and blistered lips. "Tordun is right. We have been drinking water at a prodigious rate, Foster, on your advice, and we are not even half-way through this journey. What does it profit us to struggle on for another two or three days, when it is plain that we will not survive? Of what use now is your marvellous training, and your beloved Technology? I will wager that in seven hours' time we will have exhausted the last vestiges of our drinking supply, and that we will be all but incapable of moving further.
"We must start rationing the water, Foster, regardless of what you say. I will oversee the issue of the fluid myself, and I will rule its distribution with an iron hand. Water will be rationed according to size. I will assume the role of supervisor of this expedition from now on!"
The blistered Tordun nodded. "I say that any port is acceptable in a storm. This moron irks me."
Crest chimed in: "I agree, Lord Mage; take charge, for the Names' sakes! We can't do any worse."
Foster opened his mouth in what looked like a series of convulsions, but no sound came out.
"We wait here," Xylox said, "for at least another day. This is not surrender; it is a healing period of rest from the ravages of the sun's damaging rays. We will wait here, and we will refrain from drinking more than is necessary."
Grimm did not like Xylox, but he knew the acerbic thaumaturge would be as good as his word; he would deny himself as much as anybody else. The senior Questor had issued his imprimatur, and given Grimm his excuse to quit. Only a single day after the young mage's proud self-declaration, he felt only a little disgust at finding that he now felt so willing to listen to anybody who would grant him an honourable reason for forgoing another day of the punishing trek. He excoriated himself for this weakness, even if it were only known to him, but he could not deny it.
He vowed not to submit to his weak, base drives; his deep introspection was his constant guide and his goad. Left to his own devices, he would still never have been the one to suggest stopping. However, after a brutal, honest assessment of his motives, he had to acknowledge that the giant and the slight girl were not coping well with the harsh desert conditions.
"I concur, Questor Xylox," the young mage said. "Tordun and Drexelica are in no condition to continue."
Foster's shoulders sagged for a few moments at this concerted mutiny, but he soon raised his head. His eyes were glittering and intense, but he seemed to be just on the right side of mania.
"So we just lie down here, do we?" His voice sounded like dry leaves underfoot, but it was still strong enough to carry throughout the group. "Do we just wait here, in the vain hope that someone will have some kind of magical premonition, and find us? Or do we fight? I can assure you that people have survived far longer than a day in the desert without water. I told you it'd be uncomfortable, but we're actually in very good shape."
"I beg to differ," Tordun said, in a frosty tone. If his words had been water, everybody would have felt much more comfortable. "My skin is very sensitive to the sun, and it is badly burnt wherever it has been exposed."
Foster clapped a hand to his mouth. "Oh, yes, I said I'd try to get you some cream, didn't I? Sorry, it must have slipped my mind." The pilot wore a grin of embarrassment, and he emitted a short, nervous giggle, which seemed not to amuse the sunburnt albino.
"I'm sorry I didn't rip your bloody spine out, Foster; only joking, of course."
The swordsman's expression was anything but humorous.
The pilot waited for a moment, as if assessing just how serious Tordun was, before he apologised.
"I'm sorry, Tordun," Foster said, bowing his head. "I really didn't mean to make fun of your problem with the sun. I know I run off at the mouth a bit sometimes, and I'll try to watch that as best I can."
The ruddy-faced giant looked hard and straight into Foster's pleading eyes, and he seemed to relent a little. "I must accept your apology, I suppose."
The pilot held out his hand in the universal gesture of amity, but Tordun just emitted a low growl from the depths of his throat, causing the Haven man to withdraw the proffered extremity as if he had passed it over a flame.
"Do not presume too much, bird-man," the white-haired giant grunted. "I am still trying to get used to the idea of you being human, instead of just a bite-sized snack. I am a big man, and I have an appetite to match."
Tordun grinned, but maybe just a little too widely for Foster's comfort.
"Look, everybody, I'm just as tired and hungry as you are," the smaller man said, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. "But that'll just get worse. Don't you see? If we stay here a day to recoup our strength, we'll still have to drink, and we'll be left with another three days' journey to go, with less than a day's water. It'll also mean another day without food, which will weaken us all.
"Tordun: you don't like pulling the cart, but most of the weight is in water, and that's two-thirds gone. The tents don't weigh much, and the packs have next to nothing left in them but bits of parachute silk."
"If that cart's so damn' light, why don't you pull it, Foster?" Crest demanded.
"Fellows, fellows!" the pilot cried, his arms outspread in a placating gesture. "Let's be reasonable about this; I don't like the situation any more than you do, but we must be realistic here. We aren't going to die, any of us, after another couple of days' walk. But, if we wait here for a day, some of you will want to wait a little bit longer, and then a little bit longer still. In the end, we'll just become stacks of whitened bones in the desert. We have to keep moving!"
Foster swept his hands across the top of his head, as if he were a mage, summoning a mighty spell to sway the minds of the recalcitrant mutineers.
"As for rationing the water, it doesn't work!" he went on. "Proportional shares? That doesn't work, either; small people require relatively more water than large people, even though they handle the heat better."
Tordun frowned and readied a retort, but Foster spoke first cutting him off.
"Let me give you a little science lecture, gentlemen," he snarled, all traces of humility gone. "I know you don't want to hear it, but it might just save our lives. Are you willing to listen, or would you rather just lie down and surrender to the desert?"
The Haven man's hands were on his hips, and his tone had switched from pleading to confrontational. If nothing else, he appeared sincere in his convictions.
Tordun and Crest shrugged. Grimm knew little more about science than the other members of the group, but he knew that great wisdom, as well as great folly, lay within the discipline; he nodded. Xylox, arch-enemy of the art, surprised the junior mage by signalling assent.
"Very well, Foster; we will listen without prejudice."
The pilot stepped back, as if he had been pulling a great load that had vanished in an instant; it was plain that he had been expecting greater resistance. He took a few moments to compose himself, and he shot out his right arm, pointing at Xylox.
"Questor Xylox! Who requires more water in the course of a day: Crest, or Tordun?"
"Tordun," was the mage's prompt reply. "He is larger than Crest, and so he needs more water to fill his frame."
"That may prove to be incorrect; kindly consider before you answer!" Foster snapped, putting in Grimm's mind the image of his former tutor, Magemaster Crohn, lecturing a class of obtuse Students.
"Let us assume that each man has a full load of water within his body," the pilot continued, sounding even more like the irascible Magemaster. It even seemed as if the Haven man had adopted the old mage's rigid, formal Mage Speech.
"The job of sweat is to cool the body. Perspiration takes place over the entire area of the skin, whereas water storage is within the volume of the body. Are we agreed on that?"
Foster seemed to take the group's lack of response as acquiescence. "Crest loses a greater percentage of his body water through perspiration than does the estimable Tordun."
Expressions of disbelief bloomed like desert flowers among the rebellious group, but Foster did not waver. "Imagine a cubic block of human flesh, a yard on each side," he said. "There are six square faces measuring one square yard each. The volume is one cubic yard."
"Granted," Xylox said, his eyes hooded, wary, and not admitting anything.
"The total surface area is six square yards; one square yard for each face."
Grimm began to see where the argument was heading.
"The ratio of the area of sweating skin is six square yards, so its ratio to the bulk of the water-retaining body, one cubic yard, is six to one."
Seeing no overt opposition, Foster continued, "Imagine that this block of flesh represents Crest."
Seeing puzzled looks on the faces of his audience, he rushed on, without waiting for verbal objections, "I know he doesn't look like that, and that he's bigger than that, but let's just suppose for a moment; all right? This is just pretending."
Xylox twisted his face into an elaborate yawn. "If it amuses you, Foster, I am prepared to pretend that Crest is a gelatinous cube." His tone was acerbic, but the pilot seemed to choose to take this as acceptance.
"Now, let us imagine a second such cube of the same size and dimensions, joined to the first," he said.
"Oh, yes, let's," Crest said in a bored voice, but the flyer ignored him.
"The volume is now two cubic yards. Would anybody care to tell me the surface area; that is, the sweating area, and the ratio between that area and the volume?"
"No, I wouldn't!" Tordun snapped. "I've just about had enough of your fairy tales! What good does all this stupid pretending do?"
Grimm felt as if as if a lightning bolt had seared through his brain; he remembered his Scholasticate classes in logic, and he now saw the gist of Foster's argument.
"Excuse me, Tordun, but I think that I can see what Foster is driving at," the young magic-user said. "He is not playing some silly game; I understand what he is saying, and it is true."
Foster shot a look of sheer gratitude at the mage. "Questor Grimm, would you be as good as to explain this simple concept to everybody?" Despite the desperate, pleading tone in the pilot's voice, the thaumaturge still heard the echo of the didactic Crohn's classroom voice.
"The area of the shape's surface is ten square yards," the mage said. "The volume is two cubic yards, so the ratio is now five to one."
"Exactly!" Foster said, clapping his hands.
"Outstanding," was Crest's languid, sarcastic remark. "So what does this have to do with how much water everybody drinks?"
"Is it not plain?" Grimm cried. "Bigger people have proportionately greater volume, which stores the water, than surface area, which sweats it off, as compared to smaller people! Crest needs less water than Tordun to drink his fill, but he loses water at a much faster rate than the larger man, so he needs to drink more often."
"So how do we choose suitable quantities of water for all?" Xylox asked, who still bore a dubious expression after this arcane manipulation of numbers.
"We cannot," Grimm replied, who was now persuaded. "Foster has been right, all along. We should all drink what our bodies demand. Tordun will require more water than Crest when he drinks, but our estimable, whip-wielding friend will need to drink more often.
"We cannot say which man will need to drink more, so it is better to drink to satisfy our thirsts. I hate to say it, but I agree with Foster in all regards. If we wait here, we waste water without progress, and we lose strength through lack of food. If we continue now, we may spend a day or two without water, but we should survive. We must continue!"
A long time passed while Xylox, Tordun and Crest considered Grimm's words. In the end, it was Tordun who spoke first.
"Ah, forget it, Foster. I'm not going on any further."
"Oh, well, let us just lie here and talk over old times, shall we?" the young mage snapped. "I assure you I was as ready as any of you to stay here, but I am now convinced that we must move on. If you wish to die, I will join you. Should you desire life, I suggest that you make the effort to continue. It is up to you."
"In any case," Foster said, "Armitage wants us to go to the General, and who are we to argue?" He spoke as if offering a rare treat.
Tordun opened his twisted mouth, as if to offer a sour rebuke, but Grimm felt as if a sharp, cold spear had run through his head, and he could see that the two warriors had received a similar mental rebuke.
"Very well, Foster," Xylox said. "If Armitage wishes it so, we must go. Questor Grimm; kindly inform the girl that we will leave with her or without her. We will adopt Foster's plan, in furtherance of our beloved Administrator's wishes."
"I understand, Brother Mage," the younger magic-user replied. "Who are we to ignore Armitage's wishes?"
For the sake of the Quest, it seemed better to simulate a fanatical adherence to the dead Administrator's commands than to show complete independence of mind. Grimm understood the reason for Xylox's volte-face, and he knew the warriors had been shown the same truth.
"Break camp!" Foster shouted, with new confidence, and the painful routine started anew.
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Chapter 19: Confrontation and Deliverance
Foster forged ahead, as he had on the previous two days, and Crest approached Xylox, who was trudging along near his fellow Questor.
"What was that little barb you sent me?" the thief demanded, stopping the mages in their tracks. His chin jutted in an aggressive manner.
"I have convinced Foster that we have been pacified by Armitage; that we are his happy, willing slaves," the senior mage declared. "It would not look right if we exhibited too much initiative and opposition. I therefore expect you and Tordun to control your tempers."
"Oh, you expect it, do you, magic-user?" Crest snarled, bridling in an instant. He raised his fist as if to strike, but Xylox, quick as thought, interposed his staff, Nemesis, between them.
Crest pulled his punch, but his knuckles brushed the ebon rod, and he yelped, jerking his hand back in sudden pain. He stuffed the offending extremity into his mouth, as if it had been burnt, regardless of the indignity of the pose.
"Do not even think of attacking a Mage Questor, elf!" Xylox snapped. "A Mage Staff is a powerful weapon; do not forget that. Your actions only reinforce my point. You and Tordun are charged with hormones of aggression. I feel the pull of my own, just as strongly as you; however, the discipline of a Guild Mage keeps them well in check.
"I am willing to dismiss your aborted attempt upon me as an act of desperation, born of discomfort, hunger and worry. However, I will tolerate no more of these displays of naked aggression. I suggest you inform your brother-in-arms of this and remind him that both of you have taken an oath to serve on this Quest for as long as it may take. Do I make myself clear, or do I have to dissolve our agreement and regard you as our enemy?"
The fulminating shock Crest had received from his brief contact with the ebon surface of Nemesis appeared to dull the thief's anger.
"I'm… sorry, Questor Xylox," he said in a quiet voice. "What I did was inexcusable. I haven't forgotten my oath, and I stand by it now. I am still your man, and I'll see if I can't persuade that oversized sack of pink meat to cool things a little, even in this heat."
"I accept your apology," was Xylox's curt response. "Now, we are falling behind. Let us move on."
Grimm felt a grudging respect for Xylox's ability to remain as cold and unbending as ever, despite his flushed, burnt and sweaty face. The young sorcerer's own, once-splendid silk robes were in tatters, stained and stiff with salt, but the senior mage's simple black habit seemed little the worse for wear.
Grimm knew his hair and beard were untidy and streaked with white salt-stains, whereas Xylox's white mane and facial hair looked little different. He did not find it difficult to feel admiration for the way in which Xylox now held the group together, despite the growing friction, and the junior mage decided to offer his fellow Questor his support.
"Questor Xylox," he said. "I know we have not always seen eye-to-eye on many occasions. I also know you often find fault with my comportment."
"Granted," the older mage replied, without so much as looking at Grimm or slowing his steady march through the sand. He seemed determined not to make things easy for his junior, and the young thaumaturge drew a deep breath through the white silk mask over his nose and mouth.
"Nonetheless, I just wanted to say how much I have admired your handling of the team in these difficult times," he said. "I swear to support you in this Quest, no matter what happens."
"How gratifying that is," was the cool response. "One never knows when an understudy may come in useful."
That did it. Grimm had offered sincere feelings of respect, and they had been thrown straight back into his face by the cold, snide Questor.
"Oh, well, let's just forget the whole bloody thing, shall we?"
"Not 'let's'; 'Let us'," Xylox corrected.
"You are impossible, Questor Xylox, do you know that?" Grimm said. "You never miss an opportunity to belittle me, to insult me in either a covert or overt manner, or to otherwise denigrate me. I might remind you that, in Armitage's test facility, I had you beaten. You only survived because you had the trick of storing extra energy in your staff, and I did not."
"Nonsense," the senior mage replied, but at least Grimm's last remark stopped him in his tracks. "I was merely deciding the best course of action to take against your mediocre tricks."
"Mediocre!" the young mage exploded. "I had you beaten, Xylox the Mighty, fair and square, and only a liar would deny it!"
"Are you daring to call me a liar?" Xylox snapped, his brows lowering.
"If the cap fits, wear it, Brother Mage," Grimm sneered.
The other members of the group halted. Even the ever-eager Foster had stopped walking. For the first time, it seemed as if two members of the party were about to come to blows, and, this time, neither Tordun nor Crest was involved. Those two worthies both wore cool smiles on their faces after Xylox's earlier, censorious words.
Drex stood with her small right fist pushed into her mouth, in evident trepidation over what might happen.
Grimm felt as if his blood had started to boil, and the early morning desert heat was not the only reason. He felt seized by a desire to trounce the pompous, overbearing prig standing before him into the ground. He raised his staff, Redeemer, into the air, watching Xylox respond in kind.
"Do you recant your ridiculous claims of supremacy?" Xylox demanded.
"I do not," was Grimm's hot reply. "Indeed, I stand by them. I am a stronger mage than you will ever be, Questor Xylox, and I defy you."
"You are nothing but a preening popinjay," the older man sneered. "You're all presence and no power."
Xylox is not quite so cool and collected now, Grimm thought, suppressing a smile.
"Not 'you're'; 'you are'," he said with immense pleasure.
Xylox seemed about to bring his staff down on Grimm's head, when Foster emitted a great cry. "It's a plane! It's a bloody plane!" The pilot was bouncing up and down, as if to emphasise the seriousness of his words, and he was stabbing his right index finger towards the sky.
"What do you mean by a 'plane', Technologist?" Xylox queried, pausing in his apparent personal quest to crush his colleague's head, and Grimm stayed his own assault.
The young mage looked up to where Foster's finger was pointing. At first, he thought the thing in the sky must be just another wheeling vulture, but he saw that its wings were stiff, and he heard a clattering, moaning sound growing louder by the moment.
"An aircraft; a flying machine!" the pilot yelled. "We've got to attract their attention, somehow." He threw down the pack from his back, muttering "Perhaps there's a flare gun in here."
As Foster rummaged through the canvas bag, his frustrated expression implied that he had not found what he sought.
"What about magic?" the young mage asked.
"You cannot have any more power left within you than I do," Xylox snorted.
"That is not quite true," his junior replied. "I may not have enough energy to blast a door to fragments, but I am confident I still possess enough to produce a few fireworks."
"Please do try, Questor Grimm!" Foster urged. "That plane has to have come from the General's compound."
Grimm shut his eyes and drew the few, slender tendrils of power remaining within him into a tight, golden knot. He did not require a vast release of energy, but it must be an accurate one.
The machine appeared to proceed across the sky at a lazy pace, but Grimm guessed it might be very high up; it could be moving at a rate of two hundred miles per hour, or even more.
He would have to estimate the height and speed of the vehicle to a nicety, and he knew he lacked the ability. Keeping his spell cocked, he turned to the pilot.
"Foster, how high and how fast would you say that the machine is flying?" He had forgotten his enmity with Xylox in the excitement of the prospect of their potential deliverance from this mundane hell. "You know these machines better than I."
Foster cocked his head to one side, squinting in the bright rays of morning sun.
"I'd say two hundred to two hundred fifty miles per hour, maybe twenty thousand feet, Questor."
"Close enough," Grimm said. "Ch'teeerye sk'k'kaa!"
From his upraised right hand flew a small sphere of green light. It lofted into the sky at a tremendous pace, but it remained visible. A part of Grimm travelled with it, seeing through it, as if the ball of luminescence were some third eye, guiding it, correcting its course as if flew towards the clattering vehicle.
"What the hell's that?" Flying Officer Strume cried, extending his arm. His pilot, Flight Lieutenant Moore, knew the red-haired young man could be a little excitable at times, but he was a good observer, and he looked to where the younger officer was pointing.
Moore saw a small, green ball outside the cockpit window. It seemed to be following them, hovering inches from the glass. He could have sworn he saw a human eye embedded within the luminescent globe, and that it was looking straight at him.
"I see it, but I don't believe it!" Moore replied, shaking his head, just as the green light disappeared from view.
"Could it've been a flare?" Strume asked, his voice crackling in the intercom.
"If it is," the pilot said, "It's like no flare I've ever seen. Perhaps I'd better take her down for a look-see, anyway."
Selecting ten degrees of flap and throttling back, Moore brought the plane around in a lazy, descending arc until it was no more than a hundred feet or so off the deck.
"Keep your eyes peeled," he advised Strume.
The young man pressed his face to the glass. "I can't see anything, Sir," he said.
Long moments passed. "Just a minute; I think I've got something. Hold her steady, Sir."
The pilot found it hard to hold the vehicle steady, since it was getting into ground effect now, but Moore fought the bucking joystick and kept the machine on a more or less even keel.
"Got 'em!" the Flying Officer crowed. "Seven bodies; looks like they're alive. Yes, they're waving."
Moore keyed the radio. "Control, this is Observer Four; seven stragglers, grid ref, one-one-eight, two-six-niner. I'm dropping a beacon." Grasping a lever, Moore pulled it to release a radio tag.
"Observer Four, Control," the voice in the pilot's headset crackled. "Roger that; one-one-eight, two-six-niner. Will dispatch vehicle soonest. Get back to base this time."
"Roger, Control; Observer Four, returning to base, this time."
"Did he see us?" Crest asked Foster.
"I don't know… oh!"
At that moment, a strange object, like a metal bottle with a very long, thin neck, thumped into the sand perhaps fifty feet away.
"It's a radio tag," he said, with immense relief. "We're found! Let's get the tents up so we can get out of this damn sun. A vehicle should be on its way within a couple of hours. We're saved!"
Grimm and Xylox looked at each other, each with embarrassment written on his face. Both had almost lost control, their common Quest forgotten.
"I am sorry, Questor Xylox," Grimm muttered. "I do not know what came over me."
For once, the older mage failed to respond with a sarcastic or cutting rejoinder. "We will say no more on the matter," was all he said.
The senior mage must also have stared into the deep, red pit of anger, and it appeared that the incident had scared him more than any fearsome beast or demon.
"Oh, there is one more thing, Questor Grimm," the older man said.
"Yes, Brother Mage?" Grimm's tone was wary.
"I will trouble you for the return of the bauble I lent you when we were in Haven."
Grimm started. He had almost forgotten the potent charm of Missile Reversal hanging around his neck. With a feeling of deep regret, he returned it to its owner, who donned it with a rare half-smile of gratitude.
"Now we have resolved that issue, I advise that we hide from the sun's rays," Xylox said. "It looks as if our prey may be coming to us; that is most gratifying."
"How do you suggest we face General Q in our current condition?" Grimm asked.
The two mages stood together whilst Drexelica, Tordun, Crest and Foster busied themselves with the erection of the tents.
"We will deal with that problem when we come to it," the older mage intoned. "I hope the General will wish us to be well fed and rested before he tests us. If so, may the Names help him!"
"I hope you are right, Questor Xylox." Grimm sighed. "Otherwise, things might get rather messy for us."
The young mage had not forgotten what he had heard in Haven; that Armitage had been planning to dissect the loser of the battle between Grimm and Xylox. He just hoped that the General was rather more cautious with his prizes.
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