Alastair Archibald - Weapon of the Guild

The Questor had to acknowledge the wisdom of Crohn's words: he knew he had made too free of his power before, relying on its sheer abundance. He had gloried in the hot, invigorating thrill of the energy as it gushed from him, but, as a result, he had more than once rendered himself helpless after such reckless expenditure.

The new Translocation spell would work, he felt sure, but even this enchantment would place a considerable demand on his weakened resources.

Remember, Grimm, you'll have to perform it twice; once to send you back to the pillar, and once to return you to the mortal world… ah!

It seemed as if a bright light illuminated the furthest recesses of his being.

Of course!

He had been linked with Starmor's own mind, and he could see it as clearly as the four-dimensional location of the pillar, even though the demon now lacked the strength to communicate with him. He could travel along this link as easily as a child could slide down a fairground chute!

The familiar Questor routine now seemed as prosaic and simple as swallowing to the young magic-user. First, he set his magical ward, feeling his emotions imprisoned within the screen like a caged tiger.

All was ready.

He shut his eyes, felt the slight pulsing of Starmor's psyche within his sensorium, arranged his power in a coherent web of force and traced the slender thread that connected the two beings. The nonsense words came easily to his throat, and he departed from the room.

****

After a moment's disorientation, Grimm opened his eyes, ready to confront his demon nemesis. The Questor gaped; instead of the familiar pillar, he found himself in a stone chamber lit by torches arrayed around the walls. Neat rows of benches stood before a black, gleaming altar. Behind this, Grimm saw a large, ornate, golden throne surmounted by a horned skull, in which sat a grinning Starmor.

"Grimm Afelnor, my dearest friend! I thought you would be unable to resist the temptation to hear more about your grandfather's downfall, and I hoped that you would choose the fortuitous route of our mental link to travel to me. I am pleased to see that my little plan has succeeded beyond my wildest hopes."

Grimm exerted his Sight, and he saw little or no power within Starmor. The demon's confidence frightened him.

"My emotions are shielded from you, and you cannot steal the least whit of power from me, Starmor," he growled. "I have not come to parlay with you, but to give you an ultimatum. Tell me what you know of my grandfather's downfall, and I will spare your miserable life. Refuse me in this, and I will make you regret it. I will disintegrate your physical form so finely it will take you tens of aeons to rebuild it."

Starmor's shoulders shook with the force of his laughter. "Such threats are beyond the scope of your pathetic powers, child-mage. Do you not wonder why you are not where you thought you were? 'How did the evil Starmor escape from the punishment pillar?' Do such questions not burn within you, little one?"

Grimm tried to think of a forceful, witty response, but he confined himself to a simple nod, his throat dry and mute.

"Welcome to my chapel, Grimm, Afelnor," Starmor said, his loathsome smile intact and unwavering. "The closest of my acolytes used to come here to worship me-and they will again. I summoned others in order to renew their zeal from time to time. This is my spiritual home, witless mortal. Soon, you will be on your knees, worshipping me."

"I will never bow to you, Starmor. Never," Grimm vowed, but his confident, defiant tone stood at odds with the desolation threatening to consume him. Clamping his will down on the despair, he confined it, dismissed it.

The demon sat back in his throne and crossed his arms. "This is but one of my little cubby-holes, between which I can move as easily as you can walk across a room in your own world. You are, of course, free to return to your accustomed frame whenever you wish, for I cannot harm you."

Grimm realised Starmor was playing with him, as he had done with countless others during his tenure as Baron of Crar. The sick awareness arose within the young mage that he could not return to the mortal world since he had no idea of where he was in relation to his familiar, three-dimensional, space. He was trapped!

A spell of destruction arose from his lips and he hurled it at his hated enemy with full force, only to see it splash into harmless sparks of blue light on the dark altar.

"Poor, feeble-minded urchin!" Starmor cried. "You cannot strike me here, for my chapel absorbs your human magic like a sponge soaks up water. Your strongest power will only serve to amuse me. Do launch another spell; I will not seek to balk you in any way."

Grimm guessed the imposing marble altar must be Starmor's source of protection, since the demon's innate powers must be depleted to a low level. He directed his next attack towards the obsidian block, but the potent spell splashed from the altar as if it were no more than summer rain bouncing from a waxed cape.

The Questor gaped, but he steadied himself, thinking, Redeemer can smash that stone block as easily as it could an egg…

A cold, horrifying shock ran down Grimm's spine as he realised he had left his beloved staff behind, but he suppressed his panic. The solution was simple.

"Redeemer: come to me!"

Ever since he had whittled the staff from a length of dead wood and imbued it with his inner force, Redeemer had flown directly to his hand whenever called. Now, nothing happened, and Grimm repeated the demand with greater urgency, fighting the despair growing within him. He felt all but naked before his foe-incomplete, helpless.

Starmor's face twisted into a ghastly caricature of wide-eyed surprise. He clicked his fingers and whistled, as if summoning an errant dog. "Come here, boy! Good boy!

"Now, where could that naughty little stick have gone?"

Stifling a groan, Grimm realised that the range of control over his staff must be limited to the normal dimensions of the mortal frame. He was truly lost.

Snarling, he launched himself at Starmor with his hands outstretched, trying to throttle the demon with magically amplified strength, but he bounced from the ward emanating from the altar.

"I am patient, Grimm," Starmor said, cackling in horrid amusement that reminded the mage of the bullies who had tormented him so during his Questor Ordeal. "Take your time, by all means; I know how slowly your human thought-processes move. I have all the time in the world: as a lord of the underworld, I do not need to eat, drink or sleep more than twice in one of your years.

"Eventually, you will exhaust your powers, and your puny little shield will fall. I will then have the munificent power of your thrilling hate and anger to speed my return to your frame. The faithless people of Crar will soon have cause to regret their rejoicing at my departure… as will you, my sweet, tasty morsel of human flesh.

"You will soon learn the error of your ways. Long before I return to the mortal world, you will know the severity of my anger, you naughty boy. I will spend considerable time with you, feeding from your hatred and your pain."

Grimm railed at himself: how had he been such a fool as to fall into Starmor's clutches with such a simple lure?

The worst of it was that Dalquist, Lord Thorn, Magemaster Crohn and the rest of the Guild might assume he was a renegade or a traitor; that he had absconded and flouted his oath. He knew he had lost-his personal Quest to redeem his family name had ended in abject failure, almost before it began.

Even so, Grimm could not countenance meek surrender: Dalquist might still divine the truth and come to his aid. He vowed to himself to hold out until the last possible moment.

"Well done, Starmor," he said, accompanying his words with mocking applause. "I suppose I must admit that you have beaten me. I will warn you that I should be able to maintain this ward for a long time, so we have a fair period ahead of us in which to talk.