Alastair Archibald: Dragonblaster

Grimm would come back to her, she felt sure, and, with a demon and an army to protect her, what could go wrong? She would wait for her man, no matter how long it might take.

What can go wrong? The thought reverberated in her head and would not go away, like an annoying moth in the night, scurrying around a candle-flame.

She finished her nightly ritual and went to her large, lonely bed. For several hours, she tossed and turned before she found sleep, but it was not the blessed relief she sought when it came to her. Something felt awry, but her dream-self could not focus upon it. Vague, disturbing images and feelings tainted her as she slept, and taunted her. As if only moments had passed, she awoke, soaked in perspiration, to the early morning rays of sun that shone through the window.

She chided herself for her foolishness, knowing she was safe and secure within the well-protected city of Crar, but she could not pin down the cause of her anxiety; perhaps it was the knowledge of the danger her young lover might be facing.

Whatever the cause of her worries, one thought was ever-present in her mind: Come back soon, Grimm!

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Guy Great Flame, his spirit still ensconced in the aged Necromancer Numal's body, threw down his armful of firewood and winced, clasping his hands around his spasming lower back.

"I've had it with this damned, worn-out body!” he shouted to nobody in particular. “It creaks and grates whenever I walk, and this bloody spine is a disaster area!"

General Quelgrum sat cross-legged by the wagon, applying needle and thread to some of his clothes with surprising dexterity. “Just think how Numal feels every day, Great Flame,” he said in a mild voice. “But you heard him practicing his singing earlier; you know he's in no condition to cast a spell to return you to your own body yet. He's complaining about the effects your youthful hormones are having on him, and he says he finds it difficult to aim when he's peeing, because your-"

"All right, General,” Guy snapped, waving his hands to cut off the old soldier before he could say more. “I understand: we've both got problems. Just don't expect me to be happy about it."

Grimm, tending to Crest's head wound, suppressed a smile. He was sure he had seen the hint of a blush on his fellow Questor's borrowed face, and he guessed the reason; Guy must be a little lacking in masculine endowment.

"Would you boys mind keeping it down a little?” Crest said. “I've still got a little bit of a headache."

Grimm could tell from the stiff expression on the thief's face that Crest, too, was making an effort not to laugh.

Guy, his face now suffused with red, snatched up his bundle of sticks, tossing them in front of the wagon.

"I think you'll need to bring another small load or two, Questor,” the foppish swordsman, Harvel, called as he rubbed oil into his leather armour. “That load seems a bit short!"

The storm broke; Quelgrum burst into a mighty, explosive guffaw, his face as red as Guy's, tears running down his ruddy cheeks. Harvel was the next to join in, followed by Crest.

"Hold still, Crest!” Grimm cried, trying to pin the bandage in position. “I'll never get this little pin in if you keep squirming…"

"That's Questor Guy's problem!” Harvel screamed, his face streaming with tears.

With a manful effort, Grimm tried to rein in the tickle within his entrails, but one look at Guy's angry, red, old man's face lost him the brief battle. He exploded into a short series of staccato hiccups that soon cascaded into an unstoppable stream of laughter.

His almost hysterical state might be out of all proportion to the juvenile humour of the sallies, but he had had little about which to laugh since the start of the Quest.

It's therapeutic, he thought, as he clutched his sides and rolled from side to side. Better out than in, they say…

This last thought, for some reason, evoked further laughter from him.

At last, the hilarity died down to a few brief chuckles, as an angry Numal, wearing Guy's body, strode into the small encampment.

"What is the matter with you fellows?” he demanded, in a guttural voice. “I've been out hunting all morning, and I find you all sitting around, giggling like schoolgirls! I just want you to know that I've had a thoroughly unproductive morning, and I'm fed up. I'm no country boy, and I know we've got stores of preserved food with us; why don't we just use them?"

Grimm still felt the aching in his cheeks and ribs, but he welcomed the Necromancer's timely intervention.

"We have enough food for maybe three weeks, Numal,” he said in a calmer voice. “We didn't expect to be held up by serious injuries, and we're not really sure what lies ahead of us. It's better to save what we've got until we really need it. Believe me, it's better that way."

"I still don't know what you expect me to do,” Numal said in an aggrieved tone. “I don't know whether the plants and fungi are poisonous or edible, and I have no idea how I'm meant to use these damned snares."

The Necromancer held out a handful of slender, jangling, metal contrivances, as if they were evidence in some city trial.

Quelgrum snapped the hanging end from a knotted thread with his teeth and stood up. “It's all right, Numal,” he said. “I'm feeling a lot better now, and I often had to hunt for food in my fugitive youth. Hand me those snares, and I'll fetch us enough food for a meal worthy of any King."

Grimm saw that the General's dark, purple bruises had already begun to fade into shades of brown and yellow. It seemed that the old man still retained considerable powers of regeneration, despite his advanced age.

Taking the snares from the irascible Numal, the General headed into the woods surrounding the hill, whistling a merry tune as he walked

The young Questor turned to the unwillingly-juxtaposed Guy, who still bore a dark frown on his face.

"I'm sorry, Guy,” he said. “I didn't mean to laugh at you, but we just needed some release; any release."

"That's all very well,” the older Questor replied in a discordant rumble, “You've had your little schoolboy laugh, but it doesn't help Numal or me. How long do we have to live like this, before the old man works out how to use my voice to cast his bloody spell? I'd do it myself, if I had the faintest idea what he'd done to put me in this clapped-out, old body."

Grimm sighed. If Guy intended to moan and grumble until the party was ready to move on, this would be a most unpleasant stop-over.

"I'll tell you what,” he said, regarding the older man's sour expression, “I'll have a word with Numal to see if I can get the hang of the spell."

"That's all I need: a bloody adolescent wonder-boy, poking his face into my affairs."

Despite the lined, grandfatherly face, Grimm recognised the same sarcastic, dismissive mage he had first encountered in High Lodge, and he bridled. The young Questor stepped into the cover of the concealing greenery and beckoned to the stooped figure. To his surprise, the haughty mage acceded to Grimm's imperious gesture, without meeting his eyes.

"That's fine by me; fix it yourself, esteemed Brother Mage!” the young Questor hissed, rage blazing within him. “I've just about had enough of your whining. Sort out your own problems in future, and stop moaning about it to me; I don't care anymore, and I don't think anybody else does. After what Numal did for you, you should be grateful to be alive, not griping about how unfair life has been to you!

"Since I first met you, all you've ever done is to belittle and disparage people. It seems to me you consider yourself the acme of your own little universe, so enjoy it while you may.

"You're a Questor, just like me, so I know you didn't always dress in silk finery; whether you like it or not, you're no different to me."