Alastair Archibald - Weapon of the Guild

"Yes, that is the Eye, witless one," a sibilant voice behind the group hissed, and the adventurers whirled as one man to see a tall, hooded figure standing in the doorway, shrouded in shadow. "Do try to take it, by all means. It may amuse me to see your pathetic, futile efforts."

Grimm felt as if his heart had leapt into his mouth, but he retained enough presence of mind to gather his powers, ready to cast a destructive spell. As if in the distance, he heard the metallic clang of Harvel's rapier emerging from its scabbard, and he saw Crest uncoiling the deadly whip from his waist.

"Dear me, shall I quail?" the shadow-sheathed figure said in a mocking voice. "Shall I tremble at your armed might? Do feel free to try your feeble skills against a master sorcerer, for let it not be said that Starmor is unsporting."

Snarling, Harvel sprung at Starmor, sword in hand. Starmor raised a clenched fist and the rapier skittered with a screech from an invisible wall.

Dalquist loosed a flurry of razor-sharp ice shards against the invisible wall. Grimm joined in with destructive spells of his own, but Starmor fended off the magical attacks with seeming ease. Crest's throwing-knives fared no better against the magical shield, and his biting whip stopped inches from Starmor's head, as the elf screamed vile imprecations at the Baron.

The cowled sorcerer made no assault against the group, uttering instead an infuriating, condescending laugh that moved Grimm to fury. He battered Starmor with bolts of naked energy, joined by his companions in a concerted attack.

Crest launched his whip against the magical ward again and again in a series of loud cracks. Dalquist screamed and attacked the unseen wall with his staff, raising a shower of blue sparks. Harvel slashed at the shadowy shape with his sword, snarling in rage. The assaults continued, blending into a cacophony of anger until Grimm felt his knees trembling with exhaustion.

The panting mage shook his head in a futile attempt to summon greater energy, but he knew he was spent. Looking around himself, he saw Harvel's shirt hanging open and sweat running down the swordsman's face. A red-faced Dalquist swayed on unsteady feet, and Crest, his face contorted in anger, looked in no better shape than his human allies.

"What a pitiful group of misfits you are," Starmor said and giggled, stepping from the shadows to reveal a bone-white, cadaverous face. "You have amused me a little, so I will spare your worthless lives for a while longer, if only to give me further pleasure."

He smiled at the exhausted group. "Still, you need your beauty sleep-especially the long-eared freak and the puny child. You must not be lacking in strength for the trials ahead. When you awake, you will wish I had killed you here and now, so may your dreams be sweet."

Starmor raised a bony, clawed hand and shouted, "Sleep, my children!"

Grimm knew no more.

****

The young mage awoke, aware of a bright light shining in his face. Opening his eyes, he saw a bright globe hanging overhead, burning in a black sky. He was lying on a stone floor beside a shallow circular indentation. Jagged scraps of shattered bones and torn, russet-soaked rags lay all around him, and he gave an involuntary shudder.

He seemed to be on a raised circular dais about fifty feet in diameter, but he could see no details beyond its perimeter. Rising to his feet, he walked to the edge and looked over. With a frisson of vertiginous horror, Grimm realised he was standing on a huge stone cylinder, its sides fading into an inky black. No bottom to the pillar was visible, and he shivered again. Why had Starmor sent him to this place? To starve him to death? To imprison him?

Mastering his giddiness, he looked again over the edge of the cylinder, this time using his Mage Sight. Even to his magically-enhanced senses, the bottom of the pillar vanished into darkness, and he perceived no end to the stark, black void surrounding it. Grimm could envision a clumsy flight-spell, but there seemed little point in venturing into that endless blackness. He saw no walls, no ceiling and no floor, and he realised he must be in some dimension removed from the normal world.

He could conceive of no Questor spell to allow him to escape. This, of course, was the main limitation of a Mage Questor, although it was usually of little import; if he could not visualise the forces needed to execute his desires, then he was lost.

Grimm sat down, disconsolate, and he racked his brain, but only one possibility came to mind; one he had learned by rote in his Neophyte days. He knew he could visualise his home world well enough to return home from any location by using the standard Minor Magic spell of Relocation, but, without knowing where he was, he knew the expenditure of energy was well beyond him. The energy requirements of the spell increased in proportion to the square of the distance to his goal, and it was not intended for use over long distances; more than a hundred feet or so. Even if he succeeded, he might end up anywhere, from the bottom of the sea to the vast, airless expanse of outer space.

The chances of arriving at any inhabitable location were negligible, and the spell he had in mind would draw the last dregs of power left to him, until he had either arrived at the location he had in mind or had perished. In Grimm's estimation, the latter case was far more probable. He would need far more power than he had at his disposal: more energy even than he had unleashed in his Breakout. Perhaps.

Maybe this is just a powerful illusion, he thought. Perhaps I'm still in Starmor's loathsome turret.

Grimm muttered a few syllables and focused his mind on reality, as he had been taught to do in such situations. His heart pounded and his eyes bulged, but the vision before remained as strong. Preparing himself for a second assault on the supposed illusion, he heard a rustling, rhythmic sound like the beating of some huge bird's wings, and he looked up.

Circling high above, Grimm saw a vast, bat-winged shape, drawing ever closer in a lazy spiral. As it alighted on the stone pillar, ten feet away from him, he saw hugely muscled humanoid arms with long, vicious talons jutting from heavily-knuckled parodies of human hands. Grimm felt the cold, clammy touch of fear at the sight of the creature's burning red eyes and its cavernous, fang-filled maw. This demon must be nine feet in height, and its aura told of mighty magical power within. Grimm had read of such creatures, but the reality was far more fearsome than any written description.

"Hold, demon! I am a powerful mage!" he cried, but the demon leapt at him with talons extended and jaws agape. With dread drying his mouth, he managed to utter a fire spell. A scorching torrent of flame issued forth from his outstretched hands. White fire washed over the demon, knocking it back over the precipice, but to Grimm's dismay, the monster reappeared a few seconds later, quite unaffected by the potent spell.

The demon laughed, a horrid, grating sound, and a deep rumble issued from the thin lips. "Human: strike at me as you will. Your powers are no threat to me. No single mage has ever bested me, although many have tried: by ice, by flame and by contest of wills. You are powerful for one so small, but no mortal magic-user has ever mustered enough force to overcome me."

It's not real! Grimm told himself. This must be an illusion!

He engaged his Mage Sight and scanned the titanic creature for the signs of deception; to his horror, he saw none. This demon was no mere illusion.

"Perhaps you will acknowledge me now as real," the fanged monster growled.

The young Questor nodded. He forced himself to stand straighter, looking the demon in the eye, although he had to crane his neck in order to do so. He spoke in the formal tones of Mage Speech; if he were to die, it would be as a Guild Mage.