Alastair Archibald: Weapon of the Guild

The slender thief shook his head. "He managed to get a job as bodyguard to some fat, wealthy nobleman or other. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be tempted. On the other hand, do you see that man in the corner there: the one in the red jerkin? I've heard Harvel talk of him before as a good friend and an indomitable warrior. His name's Tordun."

Xylox regarded the large warrior with a dubious expression. "I had already dismissed him as a possible candidate. Look at his white hair and beard. He is too old."

Crest laughed. "Haven't you ever seen an albino before, Questor Xylox? Look at his pink eyes."

Both Xylox and Grimm blinked in incomprehension.

"Albinos have no skin, eye or hair pigment," explained Crest. "It's a hereditary thing. Don't worry; it's not catching. If you'll hang on for a moment, I'll see if I can persuade him to come on over."

Grimm saw Crest stride over to the pale-skinned man, and an animated conversation took place. At the end of this, the albino nodded and stood, and the mage gaped as he unfolded himself like a pocket ruler.

The albino stood at least eight inches taller than Grimm's six feet, and he dwarfed the shorter Crest. Tordun's sleeves and leggings seemed stretched tight over strings of large cannonballs. His shoulders and neck were massive, and he carried a fine broadsword in a scabbard at his back. Grimm was not sure if it was his imagination or not, but it seemed almost as if the floor shook as the giant albino approached.

Tordun carefully lowered himself into a chair at the mage's table. The chair protested, but it held.

"My name is Tordun," the giant rumbled in an impressive bass. "I understand that Crest and one of you mages travelled with Harvel the Blademaster. Which of you was that mage?"

"I Quested with Harvel," Grimm replied. "He was a good man."

"He still is," the enormous warrior boomed. "You must be Questor Grimm. Harvel spoke quite well of you, although he says you ruined a perfectly good jacket when you vomited over him."

"I was very sick at the time," Grimm admitted. He saw no need to mention that his nausea had been caused by a massive dose of the drugs he still carried at his side.

"Harvel and I trained together," Tordun said. "We were like brothers once, and each of us has saved the other's life more times than I can recall. He has told me a lot about Crest, although I never met him before today, and he speaks well of you, Questor. Very well, I am your man. How does this work? I've never worked for mages before."

Xylox explained the basic Guild pay scale for hired warriors, but Tordun haggled for a flat fee. In the end, Grimm said he would make up any shortfall from the albino's proposed fee out of his own pocket. The huge swordsman shook Xylox's hand, and he was in. With the group complete, Xylox explained the details of the Quest to the warriors.

"So what you're saying, Questor Xylox," Crest said, "is that these mages are either under their own control, in which case they need to be dissuaded, or prisoners, in which case they need to be rescued?"

"Essentially true," Xylox replied. "We leave for Griven at cockcrow tomorrow. By my reckoning, we should be there by mid-afternoon, if all goes well."

If all goes well, Grimm thought. That would be nice, for a change.

The party rode in a diamond formation: Xylox at the front, Grimm at the rear, Crest to the left and Tordun to the right. The young mage saw that, despite the hot weather, the giant swordsman was swathed from head to foot in dark, heavy clothes. He had pulled the hood of his travelling-cape down almost over his eyes, and he wore heavy leather gloves. Sweat beaded Tordun's pale forehead, and he panted as he rode along on his placid pack horse, his head bowed.

"Tordun," called Grimm, who had chosen to dress in cool, lightweight, silk riding clothes. "Do you come from a cold region? If you don't mind me saying, you seem a little overdressed for this weather."

"I feel uncomfortable in these thick clothes, Questor," the giant rumbled, "but bright sunlight is not kind to my skin or my eyes. I would rather be broiled in my own juices than done to a turn in the sunlight. Don't worry: it will not affect my efficacy as a fighter. I have had to dress in this manner, in all weathers, since I was a child, and during my extensive training."

Grimm wondered if his Questor magic could allow the albino to ride in comfort. He had never tried his hand at Weatherworking, but he considered trying to blot out the sun with a dark cloud. However, he remembered Dalquist once saying that such magic was best left to the Specialists. A Mage Questor was best suited to destructive spells, and such an attempt might swamp the party with torrential rain, turning the firm, dry trail to an impassable quagmire. Not a desirable situation, Grimm decided.

"Could you not cover your skin with a dark pigment, such as greasepaint, Tordun?" he asked.

"I've tried it," grunted the swordsman. "My skin burns just as easily."

Grimm's thoughts turned to a book that he had read many years ago, as a Student. It had talked of 'black light', and he had found this oxymoronic phrase incomprehensible at the time.

More recently, he had read of areas of the world that spawned strange and fantastic travesties of animals and plants and caused people to suffer from some strange affliction that seemed to emanate from the very ground. It was said that short exposures to this pervasive illness produced an effect akin to severe sunburn. Perhaps the sickness was allied to the 'black light'-something unseen and insidious that could penetrate substances that visible light could not.

If I could only understand this 'black light', Grimm thought, I might be able to devise some magical palliative.

The miles passed in silence while Grimm cogitated. From the position of the sun, he guessed the group would reach Griven within three or four hours. As the party rode through a clearing in a small copse, a short, brown-clad man jumped in front of the riders, apparently unarmed and waving his hands in the air. Xylox reined in his whinnying horse and the others followed suit.

"What do you want?" the senior mage demanded.

"We would like to discuss your purpose in this region," the small man replied.

"We?" Xylox queried. "You are alone. Our purpose is no business of anybody but ourselves."

The short man chuckled. "There are bowmen and swordsmen hidden in the trees," he said. "You're surrounded."

Xylox snorted. "Know that you have chosen your prey unwisely, footpad. You interrupt the passage of two Guild Mages at your peril. Step aside, and cease this foolishness."

"My patience is not inexhaustible," he added, as the man made no effort to stand aside. "Leave while you yet may."

"Dear me! Why do you utter such unfriendly words to a man who merely wishes to talk to you? Dismount and allow me to put a proposition to you: a proposition to everybody's advantage."

Grimm scanned the trees with his Mage Sight. He saw at least a dozen men hidden in the trees on all sides, and he had little doubt that Xylox was also aware of this.

"I prefer to remain mounted, thief. I will make no compact with you," the senior Questor declared.

The infuriating, cheerful-looking little man tilted his head to one side as if appraising Xylox's deepest import. "I'd strongly recommend that you dismount, Questor. Let me assure you that I have no intention of robbing you. I just wish to give you a little friendly advice concerning your Guild colleagues. The ones you're looking for?"

With a start, Grimm felt the mind of Xylox inside his head. Questor Grimm: dismount, but do nothing until I give the word. Trust me. I have the situation under control.

Out loud, the older thaumaturge said, "Very well. You seem to hold all the aces at this time." Turning to the others, he called out "Dismount, and do nothing hasty."