We must focus! Focus!
Confusion, pressure and pain!
Chant, chant…!
A rush of power-someone's power-ran around him and through him in a thrilling stream. As if he were turning inside-out, the spirit felt something twist, and a different mental voice spoke.
That's it! Get out, Grimm! Get out!
He felt a push, and he was floating again. Now he was falling, accelerating towards some inevitable destiny…
It felt as if he had run into a stone wall at high speed. No longer drifting, no longer wandering. He hurt in every fibre of his being, or somebody else did. He was alone again, separate and in pain.
'Are you all right, Questor Grimm?'
Grimm, Numal, or Guy-which one was he?-groaned and fell onto his left side. Cold and twitching, the Questor felt his stomach wrench, expelling its contents onto the ground beside him.
His thoughts crystallised and cleared, and he knew again where and who he was.
I'm Grimm Afelnor!
The thought hit him with a cold shock, as he realised that he had been on the point of losing his personality, his uniqueness. From what he had read of such spells-known to mages as ‘Sharings'-he knew the longer the spell, the greater the risk of the two minds becoming melded in some strange construct, from which the individualities of the two subjects might never be disentangled. In time, his silver cord would have withered and snapped, and his own body would have died.
It was a close-run thing! Grimm thought. That bloody miscast nearly cost me and Numal our minds.
'Are you all right, Questor Grimm?'
The repeated question sounded more urgent now, and Grimm opened his eyes to see General Quelgrum standing over him.
The Questor felt unable to use his vocal chords properly for the moment, but he waved his hands in a gesture to indicate that he was aware of the question.
The General helped him to sit up, and wiped harsh, sticky matter from Grimm's lips.
'Th-thanks, Gen'ral,” he managed to mutter, his tongue thick and clumsy. “I'm all right…
'Redeemer!'
The staff flew to his hand like a trained hawk, and Grimm drew on its stored resources with the same urgent need with which he had once drawn in the enslaving smoke of Trina and Virion. The strength flooded into his body and he began to feel revitalised.
He looked around, to see the improbable vision of Numal and Guy hugging each other, each man's face wearing a broad smile.
Guy broke away from Numal's enthusiastic embrace to regard Grimm with a critical eye.
'I can't have you lazing the day away, youngster,” the older Questor said. “Some of us have work to do… don't you know?'
Climbing to his feet, Grimm suppressed a grin. This was Guy, sure enough!
Numal ran over to the young mage and wrapped his arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Questor Grimm! You have made us whole again!'
Grimm began to feel hot waves of embarrassment inside him, and he extracted himself from the Necromancer's arms with as much good grace as he could manage.
'It was your skill that did it, Numal,” he said. “I only read, and I botched that once. I'm just wondering why it took so much out of me.'
'That was the miscast. Surely even you Questors do that from time to time!'
'It doesn't have the same effect on us, Numal. We lose the energy of the spell, but it doesn't cripple us. Maybe the miscast spell will have some effect we haven't foreseen, or it just won't work at all, but it doesn't hurt.'
As he had so many times, he had recalled the words of Magemaster Crohn in Arnor Scholasticate, spoken long ago to his friend, Madar: “A badly miscast spell can kill a mage. Even a minor error in an incantation can render the casting thaumaturge helpless with pain and nausea. So no, Forutia, we will not allow you to attempt even the simplest of spells at this time. I do not want this classroom full of corpses or retching, choking Students. You will understand our caution well enough when you are older.'
Now Grimm understood the reason for Crohn's prudence only too well!
'Is a miscast always that way for runic magic-users?” he asked Numal.
'Always, Questor Grimm: in fact, a deliberate, carefully-chosen miscast is a part of every Adept's training. I was bed-ridden for over a day after mine. Perhaps that's why we don't choose to throw our magic around as much as you Questors. Perfection is everything in runic spells. Without wishing to slight your skill in any way, I'm glad it wasn't me who suffered the effects of that little error. But I do know, only too well, what a miscast feels like.'
Grimm regarded the Necromancer with new respect, and he began to understand just why Quests were always commanded by Questors; it was not just because other mages lacked a Questor's range of spells, nor yet because of the difference in age. From his own experience, he knew the choice of a relevant spell by a Questor was often made under extreme pressure. A decision might need to be taken in a heartbeat, whether the spell might succeed or not. To expect a ‘normal’ mage to achieve precision and perfection under such circumstances was unreasonable, and the consequences of an error might be fatal.
Tordun strolled into the encampment, the carcass of a deer slung over one broad shoulder. “Did I miss something?” he said, his face puzzled.
'Notice anything different, swordsman?” Guy said, with a smug smile.
The titanic albino's brow furrowed for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “That's your own voice, Questor Guy! It is you, isn't it?'
'That's right, Tordun. I'm back, and hungry for action,” the mage said. “Grandfather here's back in his own body, too. Grimm, here, helped a little.'
Grimm was about to protest at Guy's lack of gratitude, but he was interrupted by the General: “Gentlemen! May I have your attention for a moment?'
Harvel and Crest wandered over to rejoin the group, and Quelgrum continued.
'It's time to break camp and move on, I think. Our next stop on the direct route is Brianston, about fifty miles south of here, and we should reach there by nightfall. A little five-mile jaunt to the east will see us in Anjar, and Rendale's about thirty miles to the southwest of that. With any luck, we'll have our prey in sight tomorrow. We can make camp around there, while we scout out the lie of the land and make our attack plans.'
'Sounds easy enough to me, General,” Crest said.
'Don't get too confident, Crest,” Grimm replied. “From what I've seen of this region so far, I wouldn't bet on it.'
'Ah, come on, Baron. The killing crew's here, ready to kick arse!'
Grimm shrugged. “I just wish I had your confidence, Harvel. Let's just-'
'Right, people: let's move it!” Quelgrum interrupted, as if addressing a parade-ground. “Let's be ready to move in twenty minutes!'
The party dissolved, as the members of the group took up their previously-assigned duties.
As Grimm began to load equipment and supplies on the wagon, he looked at his companions: Harvel and Crest engaged in their customary good-natured argument as they disassembled the tents, Numal sang as he worked alongside Guy, and Tordun seemed to be sharing jokes with the General while the two warriors butchered and salted the deer.
At least we're beginning to gel as a team, he thought. I really hope that'll be enough.
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Chapter 8: Suspicions
Dalquist groaned and muttered as he worked his way through the stack of Student paperwork before him. For a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank to be used in this manner, as a Junior Magemaster, broke no Guild rules, but
