Alastair Archibald - Truth and Deception

"Move it!" Quelgrum snapped in a parade-ground voice, cutting off the mage. "The sooner you do this, the sooner you get back to your own body."

Guy called for his staff, revelling in the sting as the magical weapon smacked into his outstretched hand.

"Very well, old man. I'm not any keener at being in Grandpa's body than he is at being in mine. Demon, you come with me; you might just come in useful."

He held out his left hand in an imperious manner. Thribble rolled his eyes, but said nothing as he hopped onto the extended appendage.

Slipping the demon into his pocket, the mage felt the joints of his body grind as he moved out of the bushes and around the rotunda. The sooner he ditched this worn-out shell and returned to his own, youthful body, the better!

As he reached the Pit entrance, he saw two heavily-muscled men standing in the entrance.

"Hold, old man!" one cried, a cauliflower-eared veteran of some forty years. "Yield or die!"

"Over your dead body, cretin," Guy-Numal said, launching a vengeance-fuelled ball of ice-cold energy against the two men. In an instant, the warriors' faces turned paler even than Tordun's, and the mage stepped forward. With one sweep of his staff, the frozen pair shattered into tiny pieces.

"It's good to be back," the Questor muttered, stepping inside the Pit building, ready to hurl death at any who opposed him. To his surprise, the brightly-lit arena seemed empty. The domed ceiling was no more: Afelnor's handiwork, he guessed. From all around, he heard spectral applause and cheers, and guessed that Keller was behind this.

"Demon, can you find the source of this cursed noise?" he shouted, scooping Thribble from his pocket and holding the imp to his ear.

"The sound emerges from several loci, human." Thribble pointed toward various black, rectangular excrescences around the walls. "But the ultimate source seems to be that little hut."

Guy strained his eyes and saw a small cubicle to his right, nestled against the short wall at the rear of the dished auditorium, surveying the Pit. The hut had no apparent door.

No problem, he thought, readying himself for another spell. Let's make a real entrance!

"Be careful, mortal," the demon said. "You must not kill Keller before he dispels his foul, Technological influence over the fighters. Grimm must be saved!"

Guy suspected that the younger Questor was already beyond all help, but he wanted his own young, healthy body back. The imp's words made sense, so Guy backed off much of the energy he had allocated to the spell.

"Good advice, demon," he admitted. "Keller can live-at least for now."

Despite difficulty in mastering the nuances of Numal's vocal tract, the mage knew this would have no effect on his spell; a common runic spell might require perfect tone and diction, but a Questor spell was another matter. Only the pattern mattered.

"Let's give Mister Keller a little surprise, shall we?" he said, readying himself to cast.

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"All right, boys; who's first?"

Grimm spoke with a confidence he did not feel. He stood with his back against the end wall of the short corridor, as the maddened horde of fighters approached inexorably. His only advantage lay in the fact that the narrow passageway forced the warriors to advance in a column instead of en masse.

If I hadn't wasted all my power so quickly, these fellows would be easy meat, he thought, mustering a rueful grin. What a time to learn such a vital lesson!

He held Redeemer before him, forming a horizontal barrier. To reach him, someone would have to touch the staff, and that might make things interesting.

Come on, you over-muscled morons. Come on!

At last, the front row of men approached him, and a foolhardy or ignorant soul tried to snatch the staff from Grimm's grasp. As his questing finger touched the staff, the man cannoned backwards as if he had been punched by a bad-tempered bear, spilling other men to the ground.

Seizing the moment, Grimm stepped forward and swung Redeemer back and forth, rendering the fallen men unconscious or dead. A small wall of inert bodies now lay between him and his attackers, and the young mage began to feel more confident.

Divide and conquer, he thought. I can't beat them all at once, but maybe I can take them out a few at a time.

"Bad move, gentlemen!" he shouted, as much for his own morale as for any other effect. "This round's mine, I believe."

However, he soon realised he had been over-confident; these ensorcelled men were focused on only one goal: the elimination of Grimm Afelnor. They had no thought for the preservation of their own lives. As the main mass of fighters stepped back, a single warrior stepped over the bodies, his hands weaving in a complex, baffling pattern. As Grimm feinted with Redeemer, the attacker hooked the staff from the Questor's grip. As expected, the assailant flew backwards, unconscious, but Grimm was now unarmed.

Seeing their foe deprived of his weapon, the gladiators surged forward again.

Be calm, Grimm!

With a word, the magical staff flew back to his hand, and the Questor dispatched another five attackers. He resumed his former defensive posture, realising the men would learn from this abortive attack. Nonetheless, the advantage was once more on Grimm's side, and he awaited the next stratagem with a certain detached interest.

Now, Tordun was in the vanguard of the opposing force. Sweat ran down the albino's face, which was contorted in a complex expression of mingled ferocity, pain and despair.

"Tordun, don't do this," the mage said in the calmest voice he could muster. "You're a fighter, so fight Keller, not me!"

"Cannot… help… it," the former White Titan gasped. "It's too strong. The image-boxes… blind him!"

With that, Tordun collapsed to the ground, contorting and flailing. The twitching albino's bulk impeded the advancing warriors, and Grimm scanned the walls and ceilings for any evidence of the 'image-boxes' Tordun had mentioned.

At last he saw them; grey cubes clinging to the walls of the corridor, almost blending into the dull decor, betrayed only by the gleam of their glass eyes. Four were within the reach of Redeemer, and the Questor dispatched them with a swift series of blows, moving back to his guard position just in time to fell another two assailants. The others, with the exception of the thrashing Tordun, regrouped to plan their next move. The attacking horde seemed barely weakened, and Grimm's resolution weakened. Over thirty men remained, and their determination seemed as strong as ever.

The mage saw other boxes, arrayed down the corridor, swivelling into position, orientating their crystalline gaze upon him, and Grimm groaned with frustration. Only adrenalin was keeping him on his feet, and that was fading fast. If only he had the strength to…

The strength! The Questor realised he had forgotten about the spells he had cast on Redeemer back in his tower. In addition to runic cantrips for light, heat and a dozen other minor spells, Grimm had also poured his own energy into the staff for later use.

Drawing Redeemer close to his chest, the mage called upon the much-needed strength hidden within the gleaming, black rod. As the Questor felt the vitality flooding back into every fibre of his body, the fighters made another attack, and he laughed with joy. He was whole again!

"Sk'tallek'ye!"

The nonsense syllables burst from his dry lips, and the whole wall of warriors flew backwards. Although not badly injured, they tumbled in disarray, as if caught in a mighty wind. Like an avenging angel, the mage strode forward, sweeping Redeemer along first one wall and then the other. The metal and glass boxes were no more.

Grimm, free of the constricting corridor, tried to run for the passageway from which the fighters had emerged, but he realised he was back in the field of view of more of Keller's Technological eyes. A hand caught his ankle, and he tripped.