Following Guy's advice, he cast a number of simple, useful runic spells on Redeemer, such as spells of Illumination and Warding. None was any match for his innate Questor power, but they were all useful spells and, once they were embedded in his staff, he would be able to access them without squandering his inner strength.
Guy Great Flame appeared to keep his promise, showing respect to both Numal and Grimm when the three were together, although Grimm knew the older Questor would bear closer scrutiny once the Quest was underway.
On occasion, either the demon Shakkar, Grimm's Seneschal, or Mayor Chod, the leader of the Council of Crar, would interrupt him with documents to be signed or decisions to be made, but the Questor's mind was focused only on the Quest. He allowed himself a scant four hours of sleep each night, telling himself at all times to push harder, harder!
Grimm threw himself into his strenuous regime of exercise, pushing his body to its limits, when a breathless messenger burst into his chamber without knocking.
'Lord Baron, there are two visitors for you!'
Grimm frowned, wiping sweat from his brow. 'Didn't you think to knock before entering, man; where are your bloody manners? I'm busy; tell them to go and see the Seneschal, can't you?'
'I'm sorry, Lord Baron, They told me you'd want to see them at once.'
Grimm snatched up a towel and wiped his flushed face. 'If it's not the Lord Dominie, or Lord Prelate Thorn, you can tell them to wait their bloody turn!' he snapped.
'If that's your attitude, mage, you can keep your bloody Quest!'
The voice was familiar, and Grimm spun on his heels to see a slight, black-clad man, maybe five feet in height, with heavy, black brows overseeing an olive-complected face.
'Crest!' the mage cried, bounding towards the slender half-elf and grabbing him in a companionable embrace, almost barging the messenger aside in the process.
'So you do remember me,' the elf said, shrugging off Grimm's attentions. 'I got your message two days ago. I just hope this is going to be worth my while.'
'Of course, Crest! Just name your figure; I'll meet it.'
Another familiar voice sounded from outside the door. 'What about me? I've got four mistresses and a life of dedicated hedonism to support.'
Grimm opened the door to its full extent to reveal the foppish but deadly swordsman, Harvel, who extended his right hand. Grimm's smile widened, and he took the proffered member in a strong embrace.
'Harvel, you old blood-drinker!' the mage cried. 'It's good to see you again.'
'All right, mage; just go a little easier on the greetings,' Harvel complained. 'I might need to use that hand again!'
Grimm released the swordsman's hand, not having realised how tightly he had been gripping it. 'Crest, Harvel, thank you so much for coming. Please, do come in.'
He waved the messenger out of the room and shut the door.
'What's it all about, mage?' Harvel asked. 'I don't imagine you've called on us just to help you escort some chinless princeling to his wedding. At least, I hope you haven't.'
'It is a Quest, a proper Quest, and the risk may be great,' Grimm replied. 'However, before I tell you any details, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to promise to say nothing of it to anybody else. Not a word-and I do mean that. Lord Dominie Horin of High Lodge, the Guildmaster, asked me in person to undertake this Quest, and he's adamant that no hit of our purpose be allowed to leak out. I don't want any idle gossip, pillow-talk or casual chit- chat to jeopardise the expedition. Secrecy is paramount.'
Harvel laughed easily, his face open and good-humoured. 'If you pay me well enough, Questor, I won't even tell my Confessor about it.'
Crest turned to face his warrior friend. 'I never thought of you as a religious type, Harvel; a carouser and a lecher, yes, but not some bloody saint.'
Harvel shrugged. 'You don't know everything about me, elf. I'll have you know I'm a fully-fledged member of the Church of the One. All right, I haven't been to church since I was a child, but I'm saving everything for one big confession.'
'No priest would listen to more than three hours of any honest confession you made,' the half-elf retorted. 'You'd be excommunicated before you'd even started.'
The whip-wielding, knife-throwing thief turned to Grimm. 'You have my word, mage: I won't tell a soul of what you tell me without your explicit permission. Harvel and I are ex-soldiers, and we know how to keep our mouths shut.' He spat on the floor to solemnise the oath; the Questor felt a momentary frisson of disgust, but he knew the ritual sealed a firm, unshakeable covenant.
'Very well, gentlemen; if you'll give me a few moments to wash and dress, we'll go to my day-room, where we can discuss things in a more comfortable and civilised environment.'
Grimm's 'day-room' was a spacious, semicircular room, with a huge bay window giving excellent views of the bustling, colourful city fifty feet below. Either side of the door stood ten-foot-tall racks of books, reaching almost to the ceiling. The floor was tiled in alternating squares of black and white marble. Ten comfortable black leather armchairs were arrayed around a round, polished mahogany table, ten feet in diameter, which sat on a circular woven rug decorated with muted patterns in pastel shades of green, red and blue.
'I never thought I'd like this place,' Crest confessed. 'But it looks like you've done wonders with it.'
'General Quelgrum can take most of the credit,' Grimm said. 'His men did most of the work. My… housekeeper, Drexelica, suggested most of the improvements. It's certainly a great improvement on the previous occupier's taste.'
The two warriors nodded. Both had encountered the demon Starmor, the tower's former owner, who had turned Crar into a ghastly marionette parody of a bustling, prosperous city. Both had also been present at the climactic battle that led to the humanoid monster's end.
The tower had been an ebon monstrosity, suffused with the ever-present moaning of tormented souls, whose anguish provided a store of emotional energy for the demon's potent magic. The only reminder now of this was a soft, harmonious, almost intangible music that permeated the structure; the sound of spirits at peace, freed from Starmor's torments.
'Once, I'd never have believed that this could be a nice place to live,' Harvel said, his eyes roaming around, taking in the room's sparse, yet tasteful appointments. 'It's a little quiet for my tastes, but it's a pleasant and peaceful retreat now, a good place to relax after the rigours of the road. You've done pretty well for yourself, Questor Grimm.'
'Speaking about the 'rigours of the road', what about this Quest, Lord Mage?' Crest, always the more pragmatic of the two warriors, asked. 'Pleasant as your home from home is, I don't want to spend six months here while my fop of a friend performs a blow-by-blow assessment of the decor.'
'We're to hunt down a religious order,' Grimm said. 'The Order of the Sisters of Divine Mercy. We're to render them powerless, by whatever means are necessary.'
Harvel gaped. 'A bunch of nuns? What did they do, Questor, interrupt the Dominie's meditation by praying too loud, or something?'
Crest joined in, his face a mask of astonishment. 'In my life, I've fought demons, Argolian pirates, Gamenite Janissaries and packs of were-beasts in the grip of full baresark rage. I draw the line at parties of schoolchildren, old ladies and nuns!'
Grimm waved his hands. 'Has either of you ever had his mind enslaved by another?' he demanded, not waiting for an answer. 'It happened to me when I became addicted to those damned herbs, Trina and Virion, and yet I'd rather go back to that pathetic, helpless state than face this sweet, blameless Order alone.'
The mage suppressed a shiver, recollecting just how close he had come to being a mindless, adoring
