The Questor seemed to be driven by conflicting forces beyond his control: his fear of failure; his desire for recognition; his raging, adolescent hormones; his burning need to redeem his family name. Sympathy and compassion might be difficult concepts for a demon to grasp, but Thribble had now spent nearly a year in the mortal realm, and he had begun to experience strange sensations he had never known before.
This fragile, overworld creature no longer appeared to him as a quixotic bag of flesh and disgusting humours, a means of providing Thribble's fellow demons with amusing anecdotes, but as a sentient being in his own right, almost heroic in his daily struggle with his troublesome, ever-present emotions and drives.
The demon would never have admitted it to another mortal or demon, or even to himself, but he had begun to regard this human almost as some oversized, clumsy, younger clutch-brother, who needed protection on occasion. The mortal word was 'friend'. Grimm must be saved from his lack of foresight and his mortal inadequacies.
As the Questor took his stand, his staff at the ready, the demon hoisted himself from the confines of his silken prison and slid down the expanse of yellow silk to the floor.
Scuttling through the dense forest of the fighters' legs, Thribble bounded for the blasted Pit entrance. Two more humans stood guard here, but their befuddled eyes were locked on the embattled Grimm. They did not notice the minuscule, grey shadow of the demon as he slipped between them.
The imp's sensitive eyes soon located the other mortals hiding in the bushes abutting the rotunda's walls. Although they might have been well concealed from human eyes, they stood out like white paint on a black sheet to Thribble. Only two of the men appeared to be conscious, and the older of the two seemed in no condition to fight, as blood trickled down his face from numerous cuts and contusions; both the man's eyes were swollen almost shut.
That left the cowardly mage. Under normal circumstances, Thribble would never have considered Numal as a saviour for his friend, but he felt he had little choice.
From the shelter of the dense bushes, Numal kept a careful watch for signs of approaching guards. Should any appear, he had no idea what he might do, but he intended to keep his word to Questor Grimm to wait for at least twenty minutes. He had no pocket-watch-such items were beyond the means of all but the very wealthiest- but he had a good sense of the passage of time, gained after long years in the Arnor Scholasticate, where punctuality was paramount.
The battered General Quelgrum tended to the fallen men as best he could, having detailed the squeamish Numal to act as look-out. The mage had never felt as helpless in his life.
Numal felt disgusted with his performance as a Guild Mage; he knew he had succumbed to his baser instincts on all too many occasions. His virtual imprisonment in the House for five decades had ill prepared him for the challenges ahead, and he had been thrust so quickly into the young Questor's violent, dangerous world that he had felt like spindrift in a hurricane; uncontrolled, driven from situation to situation.
Grimm seemed still to have an adolescent's sense of indestructibility, something Numal had long forgotten. The Necromancer knew he was too old for this young man's game, and he burned inside at the knowledge that he had ever mistaken the Questor's friendliness for something deeper. Numal had only the vaguest knowledge of the form of his inner desires; he had been cut off from normal human relationships since the age of seven.
On first discovering that Grimm had a forbidden paramour, the older mage was suffused with mixed anger, astonishment and disappointment. He had even dallied with the idea of exposing the Questor's peccadillo to the Guild hierarchy, but this had soon flown from his mind at his first sight of Drexelica: the first woman outside his family that he had met since his extreme youth. He recognised that she was beautiful, and he had felt his heart twisting. On one hand, he had felt jealous that Grimm was lost to him; on the other, he had been stirred by the young girl's fresh, feminine loveliness.
Did he desire men, or women? The Necromancer had no way of knowing; he sought only the love and affection denied him for so long, with no experience of affection or amatory affairs whatsoever.
Perhaps fifteen minutes had now passed since Grimm had blasted the doors of the Pit, and Numal risked extending his head from the safe concealment of the bushes. He saw nothing, but, straining his ears over the ever-weakening moans of the stricken Guy, he heard the distinct sound of rapturous applause from inside the Pit building. He found this both bizarre and disturbing, but he had no idea of what it might portend; however, he felt sure it could not be good.
Ducking back into the greenery, Numal slapped his brow, trapped in a prison of indecision. If Grimm, a Questor, was in trouble, what could a humble Necromancer hope to do?
As he wrestled with his doubts and fears, he felt something tugging gently at his robe, which caused him to start. Was this a rat, or some other vermin? The Necromancer shuddered, and he shook his right leg in an attempt to dislodge the nagging creature.
'Necromancer, stop! It is I, Thribble!'
The thready, high-pitched voice was at the limit of his hearing, but the words were just clear enough. Against the background of the grey wool of his robe, Numal made out the shape of the small demon climbing up the rough material like a mountaineer scaling a sheer rock-face, blowing out his cheeks with the effort.
Numal scooped the demon into his hand.
'What is it, demon? Is Questor Grimm in trouble?'
'He is, human,' Thribble panted. 'Pit-master Keller has marshalled all the fighters at his disposal to destroy the mage. Even your monstrous, pale companion, Tordun, is amongst his assailants. From their expressions, they are not under their own control. Questor Grimm is heavily outnumbered, and I fear he cannot destroy all of his opponents. He continues to fight, but the end cannot be long.'
Numal felt a pang of helpless distress. 'If a Seventh Level Questor can't hope to beat these men, what do you think a superannuated Necromancer can do to help him?'
'You are not completely helpless, mortal; you have your magic stick, do you not?'
Numal suppressed an inappropriate laugh. 'So does Grimm, yet you say he cannot defeat his opponents, even aided by his powerful magic. Perhaps I could manifest a lost soul or two, to try to frighten the fighters, but I doubt it would be of any use.'
'Perhaps it will not be necessary to face the pugilists,' Thribble said. 'Keller seems to be their guiding influence. Perhaps all that is needed is to defeat Keller, and this man is no fighter.'
'Nor am I, demon, and I'm scared! I'm just a bloody coward!'
Numal's heartfelt words seemed to have little effect on the demon, or on General Q.
'Everybody gets scared, mage.' The soldier's swollen mouth made it sound as if he had both cheeks full of marbles. 'Show me a man without fear and I'll show you a dead man. You have no choice about whether you have fear or not. You do have a choice when it comes to submitting to that fear or not.
'I was fifteen years old when I fought my first battle, at the behest of my hated lord and master. I was a shepherd, and I'd just spent six months' slavery in a mine for attacking an overseer with my crook, after he beat me with a cudgel for complaining about the inadequate rations.
'I'd had eight weeks' training in swordplay, and I was so scared that I nearly fouled my breeches, but I fought. Since then, I've seen countless young recruits who thought they were too frightened to fight.
'I remember one young lad of about seventeen years of age, who fought beside me when we took on a band of brigands who tried to take over our base. We were outnumbered two to one, and I overheard him telling one of his friends he was worried he'd be too scared to fight. I stood beside him as we lined up for the start of the battle, and I saw him struggling with his emotions.'
'I suppose you're going to tell me that he went on to a glorious career as a warlord, General,' Numal said.
'No: he died in my arms.' The General's expression was like stone. 'But he told me before he died that he wasn't afraid any more. He was proud that he'd been a part of our victory, and he wasn't scared of death any more.'
Numal snorted. 'Very inspirational, General. But that boy didn't have to face the enemy alone. That's what I'd have to do, and I'm not going to. That's the end of it.'
Quelgrum levered himself to his feet and glowered at the mage. 'Perhaps you're right, Numal. Perhaps you are just a bloody coward. I'll do it myself.'
