"Wake up, Questor Grimm!" Thribble shouted. He had been slapping the unconscious mage's cheek, but the impact of his tiny hands made no impression or mark on the flesh. Whatever this 'Thor's Scene' substance was, it seemed to be powerful stuff.
Worried that at any moment the door would open and he would be discovered, the demon scuttled onto each bed, removing the 'ivy' from each occupant's left arm, in the hope that someone would awake and help him resuscitate the rest.
The imp bounced with frustration on Xylox's bed, muttering "come on, come on!" but the Questor ignored his impassioned entreaties.
Thribble descended to the floor and scrambled onto the next bed, which held the giant albino, Tordun.
Fearing discovery at any moment, the imp sank his sharp fangs into Tordun's earlobe again and again. At last, the warrior groaned and showed signs of nascent, if vague, consciousness. Thribble screamed right in Tordun's ear.
"Swordsman, open your eyes; it is I, Thribble! Fight, human: fight!"
Long minutes passed as the imp yelled at the supine albino, before Tordun's eyes flickered, and a vague smile drifted across his face, but the swordsman then drifted back into the arms of Lethe. The demon redoubled his efforts, but time was ticking away.
Perfuco strode through the corridors, using his Mage Sight on everyone he saw, searching for the slightest sign of treachery or secrecy. He questioned a number of personnel, asking the names of their squad leaders, where they were going and why. One hot-headed corporal was impertinent enough to ask why the Colonel wished to know these things, but he soon divulged the required answers when Perfuco threatened him with the loss of his stripes. The mage felt sure his actions had aroused no suspicion, since such questioning was well within his purview.
The Mentalist relished his duties at the compound. Until the attack on High Lodge, which it was to be his honour to lead, he was in charge of security, despite having been in residence for only a month. The General had liked the idea of a man under his command who could tell a lie at sight, and Perfuco had not failed to note the yellow streaks of envy suffusing the aura of the previous long-standing Chief of Security, Colonel Schwartz, when he was supplanted by this newcomer.
Still, a man of General Quelgrum's stature could not expect to entrust his safety to a mere Secular, when a Mage of the Seventh Rank was available to fill the position! It was only natural that the swift accession of the thaumaturge to his present, lofty rank irked Schwartz more than a little, and there was therefore bad blood between the two Colonels, but Perfuco knew the erstwhile holder of his position feared him as almost as much as he hated him. This was as it should be.
The Mentalist felt no puzzlement at the mist suffusing his mind: since he had been Pacified, he had become used to such sensations, and he now accepted them as a normal part of his life where vital orders were concerned. He knew the effect the General's 'command' voice had on him was due only to his prior conditioning at Haven, but he understood the necessity for this. It was only reasonable that a sworn Guild Mage could not be trusted as a member of the commanding officer's close cadre without precautions being taken.
Perfuco strode through the complex with a grim determination to root out the traitors at the heart of Armitage's evil plot.
"H'lo, Th'bble."
The words might be slurred and dull, but the imp felt delighted to see that Questor Grimm's eyes were now fully open, even if they were pointing in different directions. By this time, Tordun, Xylox and Drex were in varying stages of drugged consciousness, but Thribble had suspected that the younger mage, having overcome a devastating addiction to narcotics, might be the first to regain his senses.
"Friend Grimm!" he squeaked. "You are in great danger! Armitage, or rather his older twin, intends to Pacify you. Do you remember what that means?"
"Passss-iff-y," muttered the mage, an inane smile on his face; he seemed only to be savouring the feel of the word without understanding its import.
Thribble felt his worry and fear beginning to overwhelm him. What would get through to the intoxicated Questor? He knew much about the young man's harsh life; brought up in a smithy by his grandparents, the boy had been sent to Arnor House, and he had been put through the vicious, gruelling Ordeal every potential Questor had to undergo. During that time, during which Grimm had all but surrendered his sanity, he had been given conflicting and peremptory commands, which he had been expected to obey without question, at any time, day or night, even when half-dead with exhaustion.
Who was Grimm's harsh, unremitting taskmaster during those dark days and months? Thribble racked his brain for the name, trying to see the man. He knew he had laid eyes on the man whilst ensconced at Arnor House after Grimm's first Quest. What was that Magemaster's name, and how did his voice sound?
The drugged Grimm provided half of the answer.
"I'm sorry, Mage… master C-Crohn," the young Questor mumbled, in seeming response to some waking dream. "I will work… harder…"
Crohn! That is the name!
In an instant, Thribble recalled the man's saturnine feature, and the sound of his voice. The only trouble was that he could not ever remember the Magemaster excoriating Grimm, and that was the intonation he needed…
Yes, he could! He had been hiding in the Questor's pocket one day, when the Magemaster had entered the Arnor Refectory, and had spied a Student larking in the corner with his friends.
"Turiat! Smarten yourself up! Take that inane grin of your face, or I will wipe it off for you. At your age, you should be setting an example to the other Students, not lollygagging like some street urchin!"
Filling his lungs, the demon screamed into Grimm's ear.
"Afelnor! Yes, you, boy! You are not here to sleep, you are here to work, or had you forgotten? Stand up when a Magemaster enters the room, boy! What is the matter with you, you worthless ingrate?"
It was as if the young mage had been struck by lightning. His eyes bulged, he swung off the bed, and he jerked himself to his feet. The mage still seemed in another world, but at least he was upright and semi-conscious.
"I'm sorry, Magemaster Crohn," the Questor said. His voice was still blurred, but much clearer than it had been.
"I am sorry!" the tiny demon snapped, hopping onto Grimm's shoulder to maximise the effect of his limited vocal volume. "We use Mage Speech here, or had you forgotten that?"
This was an easy lever to use; Thribble had heard Xylox berating Grimm on the same subject on many occasions.
"I apologise, Lord Mage. I will try to do better."
"You will do more than apologise, boy," the demon screamed, in what he hoped was a good imitation of the Magemaster's tone and delivery, "You will march the length of this room, from one end to the other and back again, until I am satisfied with your behaviour and comportment. March, boy!"
Grimm made jerky and uncertain progress at first, and the imp had to hold tight to the human's white, open-backed robe, his hair or his beard, to stay perched on his shoulder.
"Straighten up, boy!" Thribble screamed. "Try to look like a Guild Neophyte, even if you are a poor excuse for one. March, I said!"
He forgot his earlier angst, his enthusiasm growing as Grimm's steps became ever more sure and co-ordinated. The demon had no idea of how long he spent cajoling, commanding and castigating his friend, but the human became ever more alert with each step, as he flushed the drugs from his system.
Just a little longer, Thribble thought, and he must wake up!
It happened in the space of a heartbeat. Grimm stopped marching and shook his head, nearly dislodging the demon. Thribble hung on, breathless, as the Questor swivelled his head to and fro for a few moments.
"What is going on?" the mage muttered. "What in the world am I doing here?"
General Quelgrum strode down the corridor to a fusillade of clicked heels and crisp salutes. He responded in the proper manner, but he had begun to tire of the minutiae of office: supply provision; manpower allocation; and duty rosters. He decided to pay Professor Armitage a call, to see how the scientist's Pacification of the two Questors had progressed.
A pair of such lethal mages under Quelgrum's complete control might form a devastating vanguard for his assault on High Lodge. He knew Perfuco wouldn't like it, but, then again, the Mentalist had little choice but to obey his commands.
As he rounded the next turn, he saw the mage questioning a Quartermaster-Sergeant and a Captain, both of whom the General knew as loyal soldiers. He waited until the Colonel had finished, since it would not do to question a senior officer's motives within the hearing of juniors, and Perfuco, at last, dismissed the men with a peremptory command.
"What's up, Colonel?" the General asked, after the two soldiers had doubled away.
"You know, Sir," the mage replied, clutching his staff close to his body. "Walls have ears." He tapped the side of his nose with his index finger and winked.
Quelgrum frowned.
What is Perfuco talking about?
Before the General could react, the Colonel snapped off a smart salute, clicked his heels and strode down the corridor at considerable speed for a man of his age. In the years he had spent behind his desk, Quelgrum's middle section had softened and spread a little. His reactions were not as swift as they had been in his youth, so he made no attempt to catch up with the mage.
Nonetheless, he felt puzzled. Perfuco's gesture implied that he was engaged on some secret exercise to which the two officers were privy, but the General could not recall discussing any such arrangement with his security chief.
Of course, Perfuco had standing orders to keep an eye out for any sign of disloyalty or incipient mutiny, but he seemed to be interpreting those orders in a particularly zealous manner this morning.
Oh, well, he thought, I can hardly complain if the guy's decided to have a blitz on security-after all, that's what I took him on for!
Dismissing his puzzlement from his mind, the officer strode on towards Armitage's lab.
Grimm struggled with his befuddled brain, but he felt his condition improving with every moment.
Thribble had explained the situation to him, and he knew he needed his companions awake and alert as soon as possible.
What could he do? He knew a Questor could cast any spell he could visualise, but how could he envisage the magic needed to wake up a group of comatose people? This was not a normal situation.
"Do something, Questor Grimm!" the demon squeaked. "Armed interlopers may storm the room at any moment!"
"Don't push me, Thribble," the Questor said, eschewing Mage Speech in favour of a less restrictive vocabulary. "I'm trying to think of what sensation I need to impart in them."
"Those drugs you took; Trina and Virion," the demon said. "Did you not say that Virion is a powerful stimulant? You know the effects of that herb only too well."
Grimm opened his mouth to remonstrate, but he shut it again before speaking.
Thribble's right! he realised. That's just the effect I'm looking for!
The Questor had laboured under the slavery of addiction to that herb and its companion, and it was as familiar to him as breathing. This would be a simple enough spell, and one that should not draw too much of his precious reserve of energy: he might need that to aid in the group's escape, if escape were at all possible from this fortress.
"Redeemer-come to me!" he called, and his Mage Staff appeared in his outstretched right hand. He had no idea where it had been kept, but no wall or barrier could keep a Guild thaumaturge from his staff. He closed his eyes, not in intoxication, but in meditation, as he recalled the sensations the Virion fumes had invoked within him.
Ah, now I have it!
With ease born of long practice, he gathered his inner power and let the meaningless words of his personal spell-language build within him, shaping the energy into the form in which it was required.
The nonsense words, of no use to any other mage alive, burst from him like an eructation after a heavy meal: "Akk'ka sh'yet rya shya'tan'ye!"
Grimm only hoped the spell did not prove as addictive as the herbal fumes which had provided the inspiration for the spell.
A few moments passed, during which the Questor feared the incantation had failed, but his worries faded as four pairs of eyes sprung wide open in an instant. Relief flooded through him at the evidence of his success.
He was a Guild Questor; no one and nothing could stand against him-Heaven help the General and his minions now!
General Quelgrum entered Armitage's lab without knocking, expecting to see the two mages lashed to gurneys, undergoing mental conditioning. Instead of this, he felt a shock of unwelcome surprise to see the Professor lecturing his acolytes, who were arranged in a semicircle before him. No magic-users or other test subjects were in evidence.
At the sudden, unannounced appearance of the commanding officer, the Professor's five assistants lurched to their feet and saluted. The General ignored them and addressed Armitage directly.
"What the hell's going on here, Professor? Where are the wizards?"
Armitage smiled, his eyes soft and distant, his gaze seeming to pass straight through Quelgrum. "It's all going very well, General," he said.
The General was confused. "Do you mean they're already Pacified, Armitage?" he demanded. "If so, why haven't you sent them to me? If not, why aren't you still working on them?"
The Professor's expression implied complete incomprehension; the man appeared as an imbecile.
"It's all going very well, General; don't worry."
His expression was beatific, and he appeared quite unconcerned at his commander's agitation.
Quelgrum stared at the man. Had he gone insane? Had he been drinking?
"Didn't I make myself clear, Professor?" he snarled. "Why have you not got the two Questors in here, at this very moment? Where are they?"
The scientist tapped his nose, in a similar gesture to that which Perfuco had employed earlier, in the corridor.
"I can't say too much, Sir. But it's all going really well. No need to worry, I assure you."
Despite the Professor's dreamy assurances, Quelgrum was worried. Something was afoot here, and he feared that magic must be at its core.
"Professor," he said, controlling his burgeoning emotions, "where are the bloody magic-users?"
"Oh, they're all right, Sir," Armitage replied, cheery and bright-eyed. "Everything's going really well."
Quelgrum surveyed six pairs of blank, unseeing eyes, and he swore. He spun on his heel and gave the guard outside the door the order to summon Perfuco. He would get to the bottom of this bizarre situation, and in double-quick time!
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