Grimm almost sighed with relief; the General's apparent discovery of the group's un-Pacified state had turned out to be nothing more than badinage. He took a healthy swig from the wineglass at his right hand, before it occurred to him that there might be drugs or other adulterants in the ruby-red liquid; for a moment, his head spun, and he feared that he might have been poisoned by some subtle adulterant that Xylox's gem could not detect.
He clutched Redeemer, and the feeling passed. He realised that the exhaustion and dehydration of the desert trek must have rendered him more susceptible to alcohol than usual; the staff's magic had nullified the effects of the wine, leaving him with his accustomed equanimity.
The General smiled. "It's a pleasant vintage, isn't it, Questor Grimm?"
"Indeed, Sir," the mage said. "I must confess that it hit me a little harder than I expected."
A few moments of silence passed, as the famished adventurers and the Haven pilot consumed the hearty meals before them. When the plates were empty, the soldier clapped his hands, and an orderly arrived to clear the table.
"I would offer you dessert, if we had any," Quelgrum said, with a regretful, apologetic air. "However, we try to restrict our fare to staples and essentials; it's not fair to requisition more than we need from the hard-working folk of Griven, Smar, and the other towns in the area. There's no sense in strangling geese that lay golden eggs, eh?"
Grimm found the officer a complex and charismatic man. He engaged his Mage Sight for an instant, and saw that the General words had been sincere, at least as far as the soldier believed. Undercurrents of amusement, mild suspicion and enthusiasm ran through Quelgrum's aura. Malice, meanness and treachery seemed all but absent from the man's psyche. There was evidence of ruthless determination in his makeup, but Grimm's overall assessment was positive. What was this pleasant, easy-going military man's motive in assembling a vast, threatening army in this remote, desolate location? Why had he felt the need to enslave Guild Mages as part of his retinue, when he had so many other loyal souls at his disposal, all with deadly Technological weapons?
"General," Crest said, articulating Grimm's first concern. "I'm puzzled as to why you've assembled an army like this. Why do you need it, when you're obviously coping so well?"
The officer, who seemed to have a hard head for liquor, poured himself another glass of wine. He spent a little while turning the glass from side to side and inspecting it before he allowed the beverage to enter his mouth; only then did he answer the thief's inquiry.
"That's a good question, Master Crest, and I'll do my best to give you an honest answer," he said, cupping his right hand on his chin and shutting his eyes for a few moments.
"I grew up as a serf on a farm in Garley Province," he said at last, opening his eyes. "My life was worth less than one of the sheep I tended.
"Things came to a head one day when the foreman beat me for complaining about the food; it was worse than pig-slop, and they'd just reduced our rations yet again after a poor harvest. I was fourteen years old at the time.
"I'd been beaten almost every day of my life, but for some reason I'd had enough; I grabbed his stick from him and beat him half to death. The overseers beat me bloody, and hauled me in front of the serf-master. I expected death, but instead I was sentenced to the ore-mines for a period of ten years. It might as well have been life: the conditions were atrocious, and dead bodies were taken out every day. I was damned if I'd let them break me, but I felt my will to live slipping further away from me after each ten-hour shift."
Quelgrum shivered, as if the memories still haunted him, but he stiffened his spine as he continued.
"For three years, I only survived by learning to fight, stealing food from other, weaker men so that I might live. It's not something I'm proud of, but it was them or me."
The soldier took a deep draught of wine, but the alcohol did not seem to affect him in the least.
"Then there was a war between Lord Thurel, who ruled Garley Province, and Lord Gamel, his cousin, who held the town of Juriat to the north. Garley had a small militia; just enough to stop insurgency and rioting within the province, but Gamel had a fully-trained army at his command.
"At first, there were just a few raids, but they soon escalated in frequency and violence. Thurel started to look for volunteers from among the serfs to fight for him. I was still in good shape and, although I owed the old bastard nothing, I would have done anything to get out of those bloody mines. I volunteered, and I was taken out into the sun for the first time in thirty-six months."
The General drained his glass, and refilled it, his eyes distant and troubled.
"I was trained in the use of the sword. Twelve hours a day, rain or shine, without remission, for eight weeks. Sergeant Hurul was in charge of my group, and we were ruthlessly chastised for the least mistake. I wanted to break in the drill-sergeant's head with my bare hands, but we were always watched for the least hint of mutiny. One of the other training groups tried to go over to the other side, but they were caught, tortured and dismembered right in front of us."
Grimm saw the haunted look in Quelgrum's eyes and knew that it was no act. He yearned to speak some words of comfort, but he knew that they would be worthless.
"We fought; we killed; we died. Gamel's men were good, but there were far more of us, because Gamel didn't trust his serfs to fight. Thurel bought another plot of land with the blood of his subjects, and I thought he would be grateful to us. When the war was over, I expected to be freed.
"Instead, the reward for my faithful service was that my sentence was reduced from ten years to eight. I was to be sent back to the mines. The other volunteers were rewarded no better than I.
"My blood boiled, and I saw red. I wasn't alone in this; several other volunteers shouted insults and imprecations, and we rioted. Gamel's mistake was that the serf 'volunteers' now outnumbered the depleted ranks of the lord's loyal subjects, and we had all been trained in the use of weapons.
"It was butchery, pure and simple. A lot of us died, but we won the battle; Garley was ours. Lord Gamel had been happy to condemn countless serfs to agonising death for the most trifling offences, but he squealed like a pig when we took him to the scaffold; his death was a lot easier than he would have given us if we'd lost."
Grimm saw nascent tears flickering at Drex's eyelids, and the admiring look in Tordun's eyes was undeniable. Even the formidable Xylox seemed affected by the General's speech.
"I'd thought that it would all be over; no more fighting, no more serfdom. Sure, after the end of the battle, we formed a democratic commune where every adult got to vote on important issues. For a while, it was great, but then we came on hard times. Garley had survived for a hundred and fifty years on the ruthless oppression of a large serf population, but we were too small to be a viable, self-governing, self-sufficient society; most of us had no idea what to do unless ordered. That meant that we had to fight again, to take what we needed.
"We ended up as an army of nomads, putting down roots for brief periods of time, but homeless. Children were trained from birth in the use of the sword, the spear and the bow. From time to time, groups would split off and make their way in the world, but the fighting never stopped.
"I rose up the ranks over the years, until I took charge of my own marauding force and tried to find a home for it. We fared ill at first, struggling to find a home in the wasteland, but we could only ever find work as mercenaries for barons and dukes, who disavowed us as soon as they no longer needed our aid. We existed as outcasts, regrettable necessities to be forgotten when no longer required, but growing all the time in size and strength until we ended up at this ancient, desolate station in the desert. I was determined to make a home for my people, and I fought for many years to make it so. I fought so hard, not for thanks and plaudits, but for the sake of good people who relied on me for sustenance, guidance and leadership…" Quelgrum's voice petered out, and his eyes became misty and haunted.
Xylox cleared his throat, and leaned forward to address the soldier, who seemed lost in a morass of disturbing memories.
"You seem to have done very well for yourself in this establishment, General," he said. "This seems to be a mighty fortress, and your people appear well-fed and clothed. Can you not rest now?"
The military man shook his head, and his morbid expression became fierce, almost manic. "I have a force of dedicated, devoted people under my command. I have engineers, strategists, a stock of technological weapons and a secure stronghold. It does look impressive, doesn't it?"
Xylox opened his mouth, but Quelgrum interrupted him, his wistful expression replaced by one of fierce determination. "We are dying, Questor Xylox: we are stagnating and decaying. We take all, and we make nothing. Fifteen-hundred people look to me for security and safety, and I've given until I can't give any more. The water's running dry, and our attempts at agriculture and independence are failing. It's time for us to fight one more time; once more, so that we can be recognised as human beings, with a right to our own existence.
"I'm tired, Questor Xylox; sick and tired of being used as hired muscle for some bloated nobleman, to be cast aside as soon as another worthless piece of paper is signed. Some of them have joined forces with their new allies in an attempt to destroy what they see as a serious threat.
"Fighting is all I've ever known: fighting for survival; fighting for food; fighting for the very right to live. I'm tired of it all, tired down to my bones, I tell you. After just one more successful, climactic fight, I'll be happy. All I want is a strong fortress where we can stay free from those who would use or destroy us; a chance to rest after many years of painful struggle. I don't want to have to fight, but I owe my people more than leaving them to make their way in an ungrateful world that would sooner see them dead."
Grimm noted the soldier's morose, resigned tone, and he felt the faint stirrings of misgiving in his full stomach.
What is the General planning?
"Where will this final fight be, Sir?" he asked, suspecting that he already knew the answer.
Quelgrum took another draught of his wine, although he did not seem to notice its passing.
"I have my mind on one particular fortress," he said. "It's very defensible, and it's surrounded by lush, arable land where we could grow our own crops, so we wouldn't be dependent on the charity or fear of others. The only problem is that I doubt the current incumbents will feel like leaving."
"Where, General?" Grimm asked.
"Why, I want to take your High Lodge," the soldier replied.
Despite Quelgrum's broad smile, he did not seem to be joking, and Grimm's mouth dropped open as a cold wave ran down his spine.
Thribble hid in shadows, hopping from one dark area to another, clinging to the wainscoting of the military complex. Humans scuttled like worker ants from area to area, to the sound of more or less strident, peremptory orders from others. The demon found the whole operation confusing, as the soldiers moved boxes from one place to another, made pencil marks on clipboards or sat cleaning piles of black metal tubes, all seemingly synchronised to some unheard, metronomic master beat.
He had no plan except to find his way back to Questor Grimm and the others, but he had not the slightest idea of where to find them. The long, convoluted trip in the cart had disorientated him more than a little, but he reasoned that the mages would, most likely, be being entertained or interrogated by the General. All he needed to do was to stay alert and keep his eyes and ears open for or any indication of Quelgrum's whereabouts.
Thribble secreted himself in the shadows of one of the numerous checkpoints within the huge complex, in the hope that somebody would have some urgent delivery or message for Quelgrum; he would then follow the messenger's scent trail until he reached his goal. Twenty or thirty minutes passed without incident, but, at last, the imp was rewarded by the sight of a man pushing a trolley up to the checkpoint.
The human wore crisp, immaculate white overalls, in sharp contrast to the shapeless green garb of the other menials.
He may be some kind of senior body-servant or the like, Thribble thought. At the very least, he must surely be some functionary on the General's personal staff.
His hopes were confirmed by the man's words to the guard.
"Coming through-coffee and liqueurs for the General's party," he said in a sing-song voice.
"He's already taken on enough bloody liquor to sink a galleon," the guard said, his grumbling tone tinged with undeniable admiration, which the demon presumed was for Quelgrum's capacity for alcohol.
The sentry probed the white-clad man with intimate but dispassionate hands, patting all over the functionary's body, while the servant waited with his arms outstretched and his legs slightly apart. The guard moved to the trolley, first lifting the drapes covering it to inspect the underside, and then taking a sample from each container.
"Okay, you're clean," the sentry said, nodding. "Off you go."
As the cart rattled past Thribble, the demon took the opportunity to scramble under the decorative flounce and onto the bottom shelf of the trolley. Now he could ride in comfort and ease, straight to his goal!
You are a clever one, Thribble, letting these lumpen mortals do all the work for you! the stubble-headed imp thought. He settled down on the rattling shelf, helping himself to just a little of the liquor from one of the containers.
Xylox did a creditable job of keeping emotion from his face and his voice.
"General; High Lodge is all but impregnable. I doubt that even a force of fifteen hundred armed men could take it, impressive as your army is."
"I'm sure you're right, Questor Xylox," the officer said, in a smooth, calm voice. "It would be madness for such a group to attempt to storm such a mighty fortress, wouldn't it? However, an advance guard of five mages, skilled in the arts of beguilement and mental domination, each allowed free access to the citadel by virtue of his ring and staff, could surely open the gates for us after a few hours working their insidious mischief.
"Once inside, we would sweep through the castle almost unopposed, and, I hope, without bloodshed. We will show mercy to all who surrender, but every one of us is prepared to die, if necessary, to achieve our aim. I imagine your fancy Lord Dominie and his cohorts have not had to work a spell in anger for many years, if ever."
Grimm realised that what Quelgrum had said was quite plausible: High Lodge might possess a vast retinue of mages of all disciplines, but they were soft and pampered compared to working magic-users from the various Guild Houses. An avant-garde of Illusionists and Mentalists, unsuspected and unheralded, could wreak havoc.
However, as long as he and Xylox could maintain the pretence of being under the General's control, they might be able to quell the magical assault and alert the authorities to the attack before it happened. All depended upon the Questors buying enough time so that each could build up his power to its devastating peak Grimm was certain that the senior mage appreciated this as much as he.
Xylox's next words confirmed this: "Sir, your plan has merit. We are, of course, delighted to aid you in such a noble enterprise; with a pair of powerful Questors at your command, your ascendancy is all but confirmed. After a few days, to allow us to build up our strength, we will be ready to give our all for your noble endeavour."
The General clenched his hands under his chin. "I am glad to hear it, Questor Xylox; I had feared that you'd be out of action for a week or more."
Despite the amicable tone, Grimm detected a note of misgiving or suspicion in the man's voice.
A polite but audible rap sounded at the door.
"Ah; this must be the coffee and liqueurs," Quelgrum said "Enter!"
At the officer's command, a white-coated flunky entered the room, pushing a decorated cart. However, as the servant entered the room, a soldier barged past him, nearly upsetting the trolley.
"General, these men are not telling the truth!" the red-faced man screamed. "All except Foster are un-Pacified; I saw it as soon as the door was opened; I could not help it. They seek to defeat you, despite their honeyed words!"
The man's arms were outstretched in warning, and Grimm saw the unmistakable blue-and-gold glint of a Guild ring; the image shot through him like a galvanic impulse. They were discovered in their deceit, beyond any denial or bluster.
"Thank you so much, Perfuco," the General said, his voice acidic and annoyed. "Why not tell me something I don't know?" He seemed peeved, as if an enjoyable game had been denied him.
The officer sighed. "I presume you've still got your men on standby?"
The mage nodded. "As you commanded, Sir."
"Excellent," Quelgrum replied in a sarcastic voice. "Very well; bring them in here and keep your eyes on these people. If they show the least sign of impending violence or spellcasting, have them all shot. I get the impression that the younger Questor cares for the girl; she dies first."
Perfuco snapped his fingers, and a dozen armed men crowded into the chamber. They were fierce-faced and their weapons were at the ready.
The General turned to his captive audience. "I'm sorry it had to end like this; you've been good company, and I'd hoped I could persuade you to shake off your chains and join me. If Perfuco, here, hadn't upped the ante by barging into the room like that, I like to think that I might have persuaded you to aid me to carry out my mission, of your own free will. However, thanks to the loyal but over-cautious colonel, I can see that I'll have to change tactics. I'd guess you've taken Haven out of commission somehow, so I regret that I won't be able to let you leave with your minds intact.
"I'm sorry," he continued. "I'd really rather not kill you; but I will, if I have to."
Grimm believed each of the old soldier's statements
With a sigh, Quelgrum thumbed an illuminated stud. "Send in the Professor, please."
A few moments passed, as silence reigned in the small chamber until the door opened. The General smiled. "I'd like to introduce you to a good friend of mine."
A white-coated man of middle years entered the room. Grimm's jaw dropped as he registered a familiar countenance. It was a face he had never expected to see again: the face of Armitage.
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