bone-white, hairless head and dark, sunken eyes.
Mercia started a little, her eyes wide, but she said nothing. Numal drew back the covers to reveal the warrior's ravaged form.
The Necromancer recoiled and looked at Grimm with wide eyes. “This is the disease,” he said, his voice tremulous, “but it should never have advanced so far in such a short period. No Guild Necromancer would raise the dead without taking at least basic precautions; this looks like a Resonance in the spell.'
The stink of death seemed even worse to Grimm than it had a few minutes before, and he had to fight to retain the contents of his stomach. The red-black, oozing wounds had now blurred into each other, so that he could no longer distinguish where one ended and the next began.
He had never felt so helpless in his life, as he gazed in horror at the sight of the proud, valorous warrior twitching on the stained bed.” What can be done, Numal?” he pleaded. “There must be something!'
Numal leaned over Tordun once more; perhaps he was more accustomed than Grimm to such smells.
'Certain fungi can help,” he said. “Black Boletus, Bishops’ Agaric or Monks'-cowl.'
'I'm sure they don't grow in this region, Lord Mage,” Sister Mercia said, her eyes moist. “Are there any herbs which could provide a cure?'
Numal straightened up and faced the nun. “I don't know,” he confessed. “I'm no Herbalist, I'm afraid. Even the fungi don't cure the condition; they just strengthen the patient so his own bodily processes can fight it.'
Grimm thought back to his youthful studies of plants in the Arnor House Scholasticate Library. “What are the signatures of the fungi you mentioned, Numal?” he said. “I know herbs.'
Numal licked his lips and scratched his bald pate. “Um… the primary attributes are ‘bitter', ‘frangible’ and… ‘fumiferous', if I remember correctly,” he said. “Secondaries include ‘clarificatory', ‘spirit-strengthening’ and-what is it?-ah, yes, ‘forceful'. I don't know the tertiary attributes; I haven't gone that far yet. They're complex rune sequences, and I couldn't hope to invoke them without months of dedicated study.'
Grimm clenched his fists in frustration. All mages other than Questors relied on complex sequences of runes with which to accomplish their spells; Questors only had to visualise a spell's effects in order to be able to cast it.
His right hand strayed towards a small pouch hanging around his neck by a leather cord. He looked down at the bag of herbs, which he had carried with him ever since his deliverance from the vile addiction he had suffered after defeating the demon Baron, Starmor, on his first Quest. He had only defeated the emotion-hungry Starmor by using one herb, Trina, to dull his emotions, and another, Virion, to strengthen his sense of purpose. He had sworn never to take either of the potent herbs’ smoke again since his addiction; how could he consider the possibility of leaving another in their thrall?
He knew both herbs had medicinal applications, but he had no idea of the required dosage; perhaps Sister Mercia would know better.
I must act quickly! he thought. Tordun's dying!
'Dried Virion matches the primary and secondary attributes, Sister,” he said, resolved to do whatever it took to arrest this terrible disease in his friend and companion. “Do you know the proper dosage for such a substance, applied as smoke?'
Mercia shook her head. “The application of psychoactive substances is forbidden within the Order, Lord Mage,” she said. “Nothing is allowed which might interfere with a Sister's religious conscience. Such herbs are proscribed, although I know something of them from my former life in the World.'
'Tordun is dying,” Grimm replied, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable. “He is not of your Order, and Virion may be his only hope. Will you let him die?'
The nun sighed. “I cannot allow an honoured guest to die,” she said, shaking her head. “A quantity of dried Virion sufficient to cover a thumbnail is the normal pharmaceutical dose, I believe.'
Grimm blinked; he had used a whole handful of the substance, since he had had no idea of the effective quantity; such information was not included in the House literature.
Mercia took a small, ceramic crucible from a pocket in her robes. “Do you have fire?” she asked. “I have no flint.'
The Questor raised his right hand, but he then remembered the restrictions placed upon him; he could not cast magic without the ensorcelled Drex's permission. He turned around, but she was not in the room.
As he opened his mouth, he heard a distant, muffled cry, almost a scream: “Sister Weranda is diseased! She has the sickness!” The voice was distant, but the words acted as an imperative on the Questor.
His mouth dry and his heart pounding, Grimm turned to Numal, tearing the bag from his neck and tossing it to the Necromancer, who caught it clumsily. “You can cast Fire, can't you, Numal? Just do it! Use the dark grey herb, not the yellow one.'
Without waiting for an answer, he ran from Lizaveta's rooms, up the stairs and along the corridor, to see Sister Judan standing over the slumped figure of Drex. Grimm's heart surged, and he gasped at the sight of his lover's flushed, expressionless face.
'Where is Prioress Lizaveta?” Grimm demanded. “I need to talk to her!'
Judan raised a teary, blotched face towards him, damning him with her eyes. “We are locked in!” she said. “There is no way out of here; we are all going to die! I hope you are happy with the Names’ judgement on your filthy ways!'
The nun raised her right arm, allowing her long sleeve to slide down. The angry, red marks on her triceps showed the incipient path of the disease that had already begun to claim Tordun and Drex.
Grimm fell to his knees, giving way to his emotions, sobbing at his utter inability to affect the situation. All his mighty Questor powers could not stop the march of the virulent germs the Prioress had unwittingly released.
'Damn Lizaveta!” he screamed. “This is her fault, for playing with powers she didn't understand! Damn you! Damn your bloody Order!'
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 14: Motivation
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
