Alastair Archibald - Weapon of the Guild

Grimm engaged his own Mage Sight, and he saw the citizens' magical chains standing out in stark relief.

"It's worse than slavery," the young mage muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "At least slaves are free to rebel, even if it might mean their deaths. These people are just puppets. If Starmor is behind this, I could kill him with my bare hands."

"Cheerfully," Crest growled, cracking his knuckles.

"We have little time left in which to recover the Eye," Dalquist said. "I suggest we act tonight. Perhaps the townspeople expend so much energy during the day that there will be few wandering the streets after dark."

Grimm suggested they stay in the bar until it closed. The others agreed, and Grimm offered to remove the alcohol from the blood of the warriors before they acted. "Well, maybe not all of it, eh, Questor Grimm?" Harvel grinned.

Grimm gave his head an apologetic shake. "It's all or nothing, Harvel. I'm sorry, but we must have completely clear heads tonight."

Dalquist nodded. "Drink what you want now, but you must be quite sober if we are to succeed. I'm not sanguine about the outcome as it is, let alone with drink befuddling our senses or loosening our tongues."

As he said this, he shivered, and even the hard-boiled Harvel acquiesced.

The beaming landlord kept the quartet supplied with ale, which Crest and Harvel consumed with gusto.

"At least I won't have to worry about a hangover." The swordsman laughed, draining half the contents of his glass at a gulp.

Grimm sipped his ale, casting surreptitious looks at the other patrons, but none seemed even to react to the group's presence.

Darkness fell, and the drinking continued; many of the customers matching Crest and Harvel drink for drink, yet never becoming profane or troublesome. As soon as glasses were empty, the landlord was there to offer a refill of his excellent ale.

After it seemed an age had passed, the landlord rang a small bell. The other customers finished their drinks in perfect synchrony and rose as one man, exiting the bar in an orderly progression.

On the faces of several of the drinkers, Grimm recognised expressions of purest relief as they filed out of the tavern. Dalquist frowned at the swordsman and the elf, who seemed to have forgotten they had a mission to fulfil. With evident regret, Harvel and Crest finished their drinks. The landlord, a smiling shadow, appeared at once, cleared the table with efficient speed and then was gone.

Grimm felt as relieved as the other customers seemed, now that the nightmare drinking session was at an end. Despite his earlier misgivings, he felt eager to get the business over and done with. Dalquist nodded, and all four rose to their feet.

Although Crest and Harvel swayed a little as the group exited the inn, Grimm admired their powers of alcoholic endurance; he felt astonished that they were able to stand at all. The cool night air was sweet, and Grimm filled his lungs, the gentle breeze a welcome friend after the stuffy confines of the alehouse.

The streets were deserted, and the only sounds Grimm heard were the whispering wind and the distant, mournful howl of a dog.

Grimm motioned his companions into a side alley. "It's time to sober up. Are you ready, gentlemen?" he asked as he lifted Redeemer.

"Oh, I suppose so," Crest replied with deep resignation, stifling one of his mighty belches. "But it wash… it was good while it lasted." Grimm drew a little power to himself and whispered "Tch'ka!"

The two warriors stumbled, and Crest and Harvel clutched their heads, twisting their faces in pain. Each raised his face to reveal bloodshot but undeniably sober eyes. "Remind me not to take you along next time I go out drinking," Harvel muttered with a pallid, nauseous cast to his face.

"Beats a hangover, anyway-but only just," Crest riposted, wiping a bead of perspiration from his ashen face.

"That's enough, you two." Dalquist assumed an air of imperious authority, which only served to highlight his evident nervousness. "Keep your ears wide open. Hug the shadows and watch out for city guards."

"Talking about guards, Dalquist; I imagine Starmor will have quite a retinue," Grimm said. "It's not going to be easy to get in."

Crest opened his cape to reveal a selection of razor-sharp throwing knives and a small crossbow. "Don't worry too much about guards," the elf said. "I can put one of these beauties through a man's eye at fifty paces, so he's dead even before he even knows he's been hit. You're not on your own, you know."

"Then I'd guess we're as ready as we'll ever be," Grimm said and sighed. "Let's do it."

The party moved through the deserted streets, clinging to fugitive shadows, but seeing nobody as they approached the tower. Stopping in a doorway a few yards from Starmor's domain, Grimm strained his ears for the slightest sound, but he heard nothing. He shivered at the oppressive stillness.

They moved to a black, oaken door at the base of the dark turret. "Can you pick this lock, Crest?" Dalquist asked in a low mutter.

Crest replied with a disdainful sniff and bent to the task. Drawing a bag of lock-picks from his robes, he turned his attention to a formidable-looking iron keyhole.

After three long minutes of scratching and scraping, Crest gingerly tried the door, which opened with just the faintest of squeaks.

"Good work, thief," Dalquist muttered as they stepped inside.

In front of them, Grimm saw a winding staircase of the most hideous design imaginable. The steps appeared formed of half-melted bones, whilst the walls bore images of human faces twisted in unimaginable torment. At first, the Questor thought they were carvings formed by some perverted mason's skill, but as he looked deeper, he saw the faces move and twist in the most ghastly contortions.

As he swung the door closed behind the party, the young wizard heard a quiet but unnerving keening, which he guessed might be Starmor's sick idea of pleasant music. Grimm shivered and swallowed as Crest put a determined foot on the cadaverous staircase and begin to ascend. Dalquist followed the elf, with Harvel behind him and Grimm bringing up the rear.

After a short period of soundless ascent, they came to a landing, and Grimm saw a large, ornate, golden padlock fastening a brass-studded door. Catching Dalquist's eye, he raised his eyebrows in question, and the older mage nodded, motioning the thief towards the door.

Crest took out his lock-picks and started to work on the padlock. Within mere seconds, he had it open, removing it from the hasp with no more than a slight scraping noise.

Dalquist nodded and stepped forward, turning the iron ring handle with silent stealth. The door opened with a faint whisper, revealing a dark room, lit only by fugitive, guttering flames from a log fire casting brief flickers of orange light around the chamber.

The room was lined with row upon row of books and scrolls. Stepping forward to inspect some of the spines, Grimm recognised a few by their titles, others by their authors. Many were great magical classics thought lost centuries before, and each worth a king's ransom.

On a long workbench he saw various gems, all flawless and of the highest quality: immaculate diamonds, rubies and sapphires, tourmalines and garnets. Crest reached a covetous hand toward the wealth of jewels, but Dalquist waved an admonitory finger at him.

"We have a job to do first, thief," the older Questor hissed. "You can fill your pockets once we have the Eye."

Harvel moved to the far end of the room, and Grimm heard him gasp, pointing at a large, spherical, opalescent gem in the clasp of a clawed silver hand, mounted atop a marble pedestal. The whole item was perhaps twelve inches in height and easily portable.

Summoning his Sight, Grimm saw golden threads weaving like the fronds of some metallic mimosa, a sure sign that the gem contained powerful magic. Dalquist nodded, and made to grasp the object.