Alastair Archibald - Truth and Deception

"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 direction.

"Fight for your life, Questor!"

Grimm realised with horror that the grasping, muscle-bound figures had circled around him, cutting off his exit: he was trapped! With horror, he noted the blank expressions on the warriors' faces, noticing the bright collars on their necks. These poor men were slaves to Keller's Technological will, lacking all volition in their mindless pursuit.

"Can you kill any of them, Questor Grimm? Can you? Even if you can, can you kill them all? Whatever you do, I'm sure it'll be a spectacle worthy of the Pit. Goodbye, Guild filth. Remember me to your grandfather, Loras, when you meet him."

The shock of Keller's mention of Grimm's grandfather's name was only matched by the horrific realisation that one of these rapacious, bloodthirsty faces was that of Tordun. The humorous, honourable man he had known was lost, and only blind hatred remained in those pink eyes.

As the giant, muscular figures closed on the Questor from all sides, Grimm felt the frigid hand of true, gut-churning fear upon him. His sense of self-preservation took hold, and he gripped Redeemer in a strong grip, swearing to sell his life dear.

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The fighters' progress was impeded by the narrow aisles between the seats, but it was inexorable. Grimm took stock of the situation, his mind racing, assessing his options.

He was younger and slenderer than the blank-eyed men closing in on him, and he took care to keep in good shape. However, to stand and face them would be folly; he could use his magic to destroy several with a single spell, but a blow from even one of those huge, knotted fists would be the end of him.

He felt sure he could outrun any of them, but where to run? The men were closing from all sides. A magical ward would hold them off, but each blow would draw energy from him; he would be trapped like a fly in amber, dying by degrees until his strength failed and he was swamped by the encroaching mass.

The first fighter, smaller and lighter than his comrades, reached the Questor, his scarred hands reaching out like pink crabs. With speed born of sheer desperation, Grimm lashed out with Redeemer, catching the man on the ear. The would-be assailant tumbled across one of the plush, red seats and lay still.

At least these fellows don't seem too imaginative, Grimm thought with a wry smile.

"Well done, Questor!" Keller's amplified voice boomed from somewhere in the vaulted ceiling. "That was Rumas, the runner-up in the flyweight category three years ago; a fast, but uninspired fighter.

"One down, forty-nine to go."

All too soon, another man approached his prey, his fists raised in a boxer's guard, protecting his head. Perhaps Grimm's assessment of his unwilling foes had been too hasty; they could learn from mistakes, after all, even under the control of this Technological power.

Grimm feinted towards the warrior's face and then shifted his grip, ramming Redeemer into the man's gut. Even the hardened, tensed muscles of the fighter's stomach could not withstand a blow from a Mage Staff, and breath exploded from the stricken man. His hands dropped, his face contorted in pain, and the mage finished him off with a tap on his right temple.

He spun around, swinging Redeemer in a wide arc, but the staff met only air.

"An inspired move from the unfancied underdog!" Keller boomed, taking up the role of Master of Ceremonies. "Who'll give me odds of two thousand to one? Come on now, ladies and gentlemen, a big hand for this gallant young man!"

The sound of rapturous applause and cheers filled the stadium, and the young mage started. He heard mocking laughter over the spectral ovation, and he vowed anew to destroy this dreadful place.

If he could, somehow, survive…

Now, the slower, more dangerous fighters began to close, and Grimm knew he would not be able to pick the men off one by one for much longer. They seemed to grow cannier by the minute, closing their ranks and weaving from side to side, making it impossible to pick a clean target. He fell back, only delaying the inevitable. Grimm weaved through the seats, trying to confuse his pursuers, but their reactions were faster than he would have believed, and they regrouped rapidly.

He found his back pressing against meshed wire; he could retreat no further.

"Oh! The young challenger's up against the ropes!" crowed the hateful voice of Keller, as the mindless, booming applause continued unabated. "Who'll give me three thousand to one, now?"

This is getting too dangerous, Grimm thought. I can't stay here much longer. He swung Redeemer again, staying the encircling horde for a moment only.

He heard movement behind him and swayed to his left, as a fist blurred past his head, making the air sigh as it tried to get out of the way. Redeemer did its work once more, as Grimm acted on pure reflex.

Only one area appeared clear: the Pit arena itself, twenty feet below him. Three large warriors remained by the shattered entrance, making escape impossible. The high barrier behind him made jumping into the Pit impossible, notwithstanding the injuries he would suffer if he could do so. A spell of Dissolution would take care of the barrier, but the warriors would follow him.

He thought back to what he had done to the guards outside the rotunda.

The syllables did not matter; only the intent of the spell.

"Whoo-juuuup!" the mage screamed, flying into the air only fractions of a second before a pair of fists intersected with where his head had been.

Grimm had only flown once before, within the confines of a metal machine, and his arms and legs flailed as he hung precariously above the mass of impotent warriors. He was balanced on a slender pole of magical force, still subject to the relentless laws of physics, established centuries before.