tenure on earth for the lives of these worthless, snivelling curs.'
'Starmor beat you,' Grimm replied, swaying on his feet. 'He was human, too.'
Shakkar's eyes narrowed. 'For one time only, I allow you to mention that and live,' he breathed, claws snatching at empty air. 'You are not he. And I have defeated him.'
'Starmor had but one skill, the command of emotions. It was I who gave you the means to defeat him. I am a Questor, and we have many magical resources. My knowledge of Diabolism is slight, but the principles are clear. I know your true name, and I have seen your inmost soul. My spells of destruction might not affect you, but I have one other card to play; a contest of wills. The oldest of links between man and demon, it requires no magic, merely access to the demon's soul and the knowledge of his true name.
'Having seen your inmost being when you graciously gifted me with your strength, I can find it again in a heartbeat. Then, there is only willpower. I am more than willing to wager that I have ample inner strength to squash your will to nothing. You will then be my slave. Not my rebellious prisoner, but my bonded vassal and my plaything forever.
'Give up your revenge, or look into my eyes and see the strength within me. For my part, I am fully prepared to take the chance. Are you? You have never seen my soul, and you lack the sleight to force your way inside. You have no chance. I do not want you as a drooling slave, but as a friend and ally. Consider your revenge against Starmor complete, and no more need be said or done.'
Grimm forced himself to remain on his feet, although he would sooner have fallen to the ground and slept.
'Human, we have no need to quarrel,' Shakkar growled. 'You and your companions may leave unmolested.'
Grimm shook his head; an unwise move in his present state, but he did not reveal the inner turmoil this movement produced. 'I don't want to quarrel either, Shakkar, but I will if necessary. I will. These people are guiltless, and you have no cause to hate them. Leave them in peace.'
Shakkar was a demon, with an inborn mistrust in humans, but Grimm had come to mean something to him during their short acquaintance, even if he was a mere human. For a mortal, the slender mage was certainly resourceful and true to his word. If he said he would fight, then Shakkar guessed he would. Grimm's comment about Starmor, the demon now knew, had not been intended to mock him, but to warn him. Demonic bloodlust pounded through Shakkar's veins, driving him to fight at odds against, even if losing meant giving up his free will. However, an insistent voice of sanity urged him to reconsider his position. Not only might Grimm stand a better than even chance of besting him in a contest of wills, but the demon also realised that he did not want to make an enemy of the young Questor.
Shakkar had never had a human friend before, but he knew Grimm was giving the demon a far more generous choice than any other mortal ever had. Grimm might well have been able to subjugate him, but he had stayed his hand. The demon stood his ground and howled, pressing his clawed hands against his temples, as raging hormones and the dark depths of his psyche fought to sweep away his nagging doubts.
I could throw this mortal and his exhausted companions aside with one swing of my arm, Shakkar thought. They are as nothing to me. They have not the least conception of what Starmor did to me! These weak, short- lived creatures are not worthy of my consideration. What knows a demon of compassion or tenderness? Why should I bother myself with such trifles? What matters an oath to a puling mortal?
He looked down at the tiny, exhausted figure before him.
This mortal talks of subduing me to his will. Ha! He has scarcely the strength to stand on his feet. I could sweep him aside in a heartbeat, before he could muster a single thought!
The demon looked at the small human's resolute face and felt a glimmer of admiration rising within him.
Questor Grimm owes the people of Crar nothing, he thought. Why does he fight for them, when he has my word that I will allow him to leave this dreadful place without hurt? Why do his friends allow him to annoy me so, instead of urging him to flee from my righteous anger?
Shakkar ran his eyes over the older mage, the foppish swordsman and the elvish thief. Although they had little more strength than their young friend, they had also chosen to stay with him.
Even the terrified citizens of Crar seemed resigned to their fate. After the human logjam in the narrow alley, they had ended their headlong flight, and they stood around him in a tight circle. Shakkar saw a tiny woman with her arm wrapped around a small child. The little girl appeared to have no fear, but the woman's eyes were wide and her face ashen. Beside them stood a grey-haired male, his pale, liver-spotted hands clenched into fists, his swollen, misshapen knuckles betraying the mortal affliction of arthritis.
Why do these people stand here? the demon wondered. Why do these cowardly, conflicted creatures not run from me?
To Shakkar, the answer now appeared clear: humans were all insane. Nonetheless, as he saw the combined terror and resolution in the mortals' eyes, he felt his anger rising once more.
Weak, foolish humans, the inmost, animalistic region of his brain demanded, crying for mortal blood to be spilt. They are unworthy of life.
As he raised his hand to sweep this pathetic dross into oblivion, the little girl smiled at the demon, her face clear and untrammelled by fear or hopeless anger. She took one step forward, but the woman snatched her back, her face now twisted into an expression of utter determination Shakkar had only seen on one mortal face before.
Perhaps these poor beings are worth something after all! he thought, relaxing his pose and lowering his arms.
It seemed an age since Grimm had first confronted Shakkar but, in truth, mere minutes had passed. A vast, hacking sigh arose from the hulking demon, and his shovel-sized hands fell to his sides.
'There is no need to fight, human. There is no need for a contest of wills. My vengeance is complete. I swear on my name and my clan to visit no more destruction against the people or the city of Crar. I avow on my soul to remain your friend and ally as long as you are true to me.'
'That is a generous compact, Shakkar,' Grimm said, slumping a little in his relief, 'worthy of a demon's noble soul. Know now that I will never, ever, seek or threaten to enslave you, should you keep also true to your word-as I feel sure you will. To seal our trust, I now open my soul to you. Look within me, and we will have equal power over each other.' Grimm furrowed his brow, muttered in his strange, personal language and bowed before Shakkar.
'No need, Questor. You have proved yourself worthy of trust. I renounce vengeance against Crar and declare myself at the disposal of your party.'
With his head spinning and his entrails in turmoil, Grimm forced himself to remain erect.
'Shakkar, this is Dalquist Rufior, Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank and leader of this Quest. The well-dressed gentleman with the rapier is Harvel Rusea, a master swordsman. Our bloodstained friend is Crest, an expert wielder of whip and dagger. And I… I need to lie down. I feel quite unwell.'
He staggered, almost falling headlong, and the strong arms of Harvel swept him up again as the party made its way back to the Jolly Merchant.
The once-thronged bar was now empty, apart from two men slumped across their tables in drunken stupor. The landlord, so merry earlier on, now appeared a refreshingly different man.
'What do you want?' he demanded in a brusque voice, strong arms folded over his chest and looking pointedly at Shakkar, who answered with a soft growl. Dalquist stepped up. He thought of mentioning how he and his friends had delivered Crar of Starmor's evil spell but decided against it. The man seemed as confused as the other townsfolk but trying hard to hide the fact with bluster.
