could see the General's opponent's youth and greater bulk were beginning to tell. Quelgrum might have a lifetime of fighting experience on which to draw, but the younger man had the advantages of strength, speed and faster reflexes. Quelgrum had sat behind a desk for too long, and he was breathing hard.
Grimm tried to close with the fighters as they weaved around each other, but the younger warrior seemed cunning as well as swift. Somehow, no matter how the mage tried to find the right position, he always found Quelgrum in his way, and Grimm guessed this was no accident. He could not launch an offensive spell against his intended target without hitting the General.
What to do?
His thoughts blurred as he considered alternatives.
A ward like the one Dalquist used in Crar, when we finally beat Starmor?
That would be of no use; the men were moving too quickly for him to be able to place the spell with any accuracy. He had no idea what would happen if the ward manifested with one of its walls inside the General's body, but the outcome would surely be bad.
A spell of Telekinesis?
If the mage could be sure of selecting only one target, it would be easy; he could let the General float gently to the ground, or dash his opponent into the soil. Nonetheless, he could not be sure of this.
A Word of Command, perhaps?
No; these people seemed somehow protected from such mental magic. What would affect the warrior, and not the General?
'You do not need a spell for this, a spell for that, and one for the third Wednesday in June! You are a Questor, not a Reader!' Magemaster Crohn's words, uttered, it seemed, an age ago, flooded into the mage's mind.
It was not easy to disregard the strictly-defined categories of common, runic magic, which was drummed into each and every Student from the age of seven, but Grimm knew he had to try. Three blows from the scarred warrior landed uncontested, and Quelgrum staggered, blood streaming from his brows and lips. The General might well die if such punishment continued.
A flash of understanding rushed through the mage. He had been considering mighty, overpowering spells, but these had proved impracticable. Something simpler was the key. The mage remembered the calming effects of the pheromones inside the Mansion House, and recalled his exact state of mind when the insidious substances had taken effect.
'Igg'youah!'
This was no fulminating burst of energy, no cataclysmic fireball, but the projection of a simple feeling, projected with all Grimm's force at the two men.
In an instant, the fight was over. Quelgrum and his opponent stood still, their faces and bodies as animated as those of grazing sheep. In the place of angry, snarling expressions, he saw dreamy, inane smiles.
Holding the magic on, he stepped up to the younger fighter and smashed the brass head of Redeemer into the man's skull. The fighter staggered but did not fall. Nonetheless, he still wore an idiotic smile, although now wreathed in blood.
He must have a head like a rock! Grimm took a firmer grasp on the staff as his magical strength began to fade.
With one more blow, it was done; the man's head exploded in a shower of red and grey. Grimm released the spell with a groan; it had cost him more than he would have imagined.
He brushed aside the groggy General's thanks and rushed to Guy's side. The older Questor continued to thrash, and his face had taken on a ghastly pallor. Grimm guessed the glowing circlet was the cause, and he tried to remove it from his brother mage's neck.
He felt his arms trembling as he struggled to remove the torc. Sickening waves of agony rippled through him, dazzling him, blurring his vision, yet Grimm knew he was only receiving a fraction of the punishment Guy was suffering. At last, his hands refused to obey his orders and tore themselves away from the gaudy band, seemingly of their own accord.
His body had betrayed him.
Grimm tried to cast a spell of Inner Calm on the tortured man, and his Mage Sight saw it splash from the circlet. He felt a pang of anguished helplessness consuming him; he had never liked Guy, but he could not bear to see his brother Questor in such agony.
He heard a loud crack in the distance and saw Harvel collapse to the ground before he had regained his feet fully. Within the space of a heartbeat, he heard another bang, and Crest spun on his heels as he fell into a huddled heap.
The bushes!
Grimm loosed a massive ball of fire into the direction of the explosions, and silence reigned again. A giant fulmination arose from the ground, and the Questor realised he had poured far more energy into the spell than necessary.
The operation had seemed such a simple, clinical matter, just a few minutes before. Now, it had turned into a disaster. The chattering Pit aficionados had fled, and the silence seemed almost oppressive in its gravity. Crest, Harvel, Guy and Quelgrum were incapacitated, if not dead, and Grimm felt the sick realisation that his Quest might be compromised; all for the sake of revenge. Nonetheless, he knew that he must, at least, try to save his brother mage.
The Questor turned to the quivering Numal. 'Listen to me!' he said. The older man continued to stare into the air. 'Necromancer Numal!'
Numal spun as if struck, and Grimm looked him straight in the eye. 'Get these men to a place of shelter, and wait for me. If I do not emerge from the Pit within twenty minutes or so, just get out of here as fast as you can.'
The Necromancer's lower lip trembled for a few moments before words emerged from his mouth: 'You're going to carry on with this? It's madness! Just look at us! We're finished!'
Grimm yearned to slap the ineffectual man, but he stayed his hand; nothing could have prepared Numal for this debacle. Instead, the Questor used his voice as a weapon, his diction crisp and explosive as the bullets that had felled his comrades.
'You forget yourself, Brother Mage!' he snapped. His voice cracked like a whip. 'We are on a Quest-a Guild Quest, as I should not have to remind you-and. am in charge!'
Turning his full, fearsome, Questor stare on the man, Grimm continued, 'I need you, Numal, to ensure that no further harm happens to these men. Should any assailant come within the range of your staff, use it, and use it well!
'Do you understand, Brother Mage?'
At last, Numal drew a deep breath and nodded. 'I understand, Questor Grimm. I will not let you down. I apologise for my craven behaviour. It will not happen again, I promise you.'
For the first time, Grimm saw a stern look of determination in Numal's eyes; the Necromancer had finally found his feet as a mage. The older man began to pull the fallen men into the shadow of the Pit with determined urgency.
Grimm nodded, pleased that the Necromancer had defeated his inner demons, and he walked towards the thick, oaken doors. He soaked up stored energy from Redeemer, like a drowning man drinking from a bottomless well, and scanned the dark portals.
'Nothing to worry about here,' he muttered, launching a spell of dissolution at the wooden barriers. The doors flew apart in a shower of blue sparks, and the Questor stepped inside.
The rows of seats were empty, and darkness reigned.
Grimm wandered down the aisles, towards the arena, unsure of his objective. From high above, he heard a mocking voice: 'This could be the worst mistake you've ever made, magic-user: it's certainly your last mistake!'
Blazing light flooded into the stadium, and Grimm saw movement below him. A horde of muscular men scurried up the walkways towards him, and the contemptuous voice sounded anew: 'Can you fight them, mage- scum? Can you fight them all? I don't think so. I'm sure this will be a great fight; it's a shame there'll be no paying audience. Good luck and goodnight, magic-boy.'
Grimm threw a destructive spell at the apparent source of the voice, only to hear it sounding from another
