Alastair Archibald: Dragonblaster

"Fallon's Mystery was the only horse to win the Merrol Cup four years in a row,” he declared in his customary, didactic manner. “That record speaks for itself!"

"Ah, Questor, but against what opposition?” Tordun demanded. “A bunch of worn-out nags better suited to pulling a cart! Groundless Fears prevailed against far better opponents in all conditions. Your chosen steed was a fine racer on firm ground and in fair weather, but he never went out if there was a cloud in the sky. My horse, on the other hand…"

Grimm turned back to Quelgrum. “I agree, General; Tordun sounds happy enough,” he said, in the same listless voice.

Quelgrum sighed. “Well, couldn't you get a little more involved in these sorts of discussions from time to time, Lord Baron?"

"I know nothing about horseracing, or about most of the subjects they discuss,” Grimm said. “If you'd forgotten, I've spent most of my life locked up in a bloody Guild House."

Can't you just leave me alone, Quelgrum? he thought. I really just don't want to talk right now.

"Questor Numal's spent longer in the House than you,” the soldier replied. “Nonetheless, at least he makes the effort to take part. All right; so you're unhappy; why take it out on everybody else?"

"I'm not,” Grimm said. “However, I accept that my detachment may be bad for morale. I'll take an effort to become more involved from now on."

Happy, General? he thought. Maybe that'll shut you up for a while.

Quelgrum shot the Questor a strange look, almost as if he had read Grimm's mind, but he turned his face back to the road ahead and said nothing. Grimm watched the birds wheeling over the open fields and almost wished he was one of them.

What worries does a bird have? he wondered, marvelling as they swirled and swooped, occasionally diving to snatch some loose morsel from the soil. Birds don't need to worry about status, people's opinions or anything else.

Very deep, a more sarcastic section of his mind interjected. I'm sure nobody's ever thought about that before.

The sound of the horses’ hooves on the hard, compacted earth, the heated argument from the rear of the wagon, and the rattle of the wheels over the ruts and furrows of the track made a considerable clamour, but the noise inside Grimm's head grew louder and louder by the minute. After a quarter of an hour of Quelgrum's silence, the mage felt moved to speak, just in order to still his inner conflict.

Grimm sighed. “I will try to join in, General, I promise. It's lonely in here, with only me for company."

"It's all right, son, I understand,” Quelgrum said. “So many demands on your time, so little experience-I remember it well. I led my first troop when I was about your age…"

Grimm expected to find the General's anecdote boring and irrelevant, but, instead, he found it very pertinent to his own situation. The old man described his horror after a disastrous battle, and how an ancient Sergeant had brought him to his senses after a score of his charges had been lost in the conflict. The less cynical partition of Grimm's mind recognised the similarities between the two men, and he began to feel a kinship between himself and Quelgrum. He was beginning to become engrossed in the soldier's frank account of his feelings when he saw a faded, slumped sign by the road.

"Wait a minute, General,” he said. “This is Merrydeath Road. We need to turn down here, don't we?"

"Merrydeath Road,” the veteran said, turning the wagon into the indicated road. “Sounds like a fun place.” His voice dripped with leaden irony.

"Who's being negative now, General? There's no reason to assume Anjar isn't a wonderful place, just because of a road's morbid name.” His exuberant words might not reflect his true mood, but he was beginning to feel a little more cheerful.

I've fought a troupe of enslaved, over-muscled fighters and a hundred-and-forty-foot dragon, he thought. I'm not really that bothered by whatever Anjar might throw at us.

In truth, he welcomed the onset of any challenge that might lie ahead: it might draw his attention away from his introspective malaise.

Quelgrum grimaced. “There's confidence and there's overconfidence,” he growled. “The first two major towns on this campaign have proven to be death-traps. I recommend we keep our wits about us in Anjar.

"Merrydeath Road…!” The old soldier shivered and held up his left hand, the little finger extended in the ancient sign of Dismissal of Evil.

Grimm smiled. “I had no idea you were superstitious, General."

Quelgrum said nothing, but he waved his hands as a shabby, blurred signpost came into view, bearing the single word ‘Anjar'. Grimm poked his head through the wagon's canvas cover.

"We're just entering Anjar,” he said, feeling a brief stab of pleasure as the hubbub in the back of the vehicle stilled in an instant. “It may be a perfectly nice place but it would be wise to get ready for trouble."

Grimm's announcement was met by a cool, dismissive gesture from Guy, a serious, worried nod from Numal and a shrug from Tordun. Sergeant Erik's expression did not change, but he began to inspect his various Technological firearms, pulling on levers and handles to the accompaniment of a series of sharp clicks and clacks. All his attention seemed focussed on the metallic devices, his face a picture of intense concentration.

Numal clutched his staff to his body. “Are we going to stop here, Questor Grimm?” he asked.

"Not unless we have to, Brother Mage,” Grimm said. “If what Keller told us is true, Rendale should be no more than thirty miles from here; we can easily reach it by mid-afternoon. I recommend we keep travelling and make camp just short of the Priory."

"That suits me,” Guy declared. “I've had just about enough of the squalid little hell-holes that pass for towns around here."

"And me,” Numal said with a fervid nod. “The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can get back to my nice, familiar, comfortable cell back at Arnor. This Quest must have aged me thirty years."

"I'll have to start calling you Great-Granddad,” the acerbic Guy muttered. If Numal had heard him, he pretended he had not.

Anjar was no squalid dung-heap like Yoren, nor yet a fantastical collection of bizarre structures like Brianston. Grimm found the sheer simplicity of Anjar a relief after his recent perils in those strange conurbations.

As the wagon rolled through the streets of the town, he saw a collection of small stalls, beside which people chatted, haggled and engaged in what the mage considered perfectly normal behaviour.

He engaged his Mage Sight and noted no emanations of magic whatsoever. The auras of the Anjarians showed no signs of ensorcelment, undue suspicion or anything other than the regular emotions he might expect from a blameless group of townspeople. To be sure, some of the stallholders showed indications of guile and deception, and some of their intended victims’ auras bore the unmistakable greenish hue of avarice, but this was only to be expected.

If there was anything remarkable about Anjar, it was the sturdiness of the buildings. There were no tumbledown thatched cottages here; every permanent structure seemed to be built from yellow stone blocks, and even the roofs bore heavy tiles instead of simple thatch.

Grimm frowned: the town was surrounded by dense woodland, which would have provided ample material for simpler, less costly dwellings. However, he dismissed this as an oddity of Anjarian architecture: the people of the town seemed far more interested in their own affairs that in the arrival of the wagon. Scarred, stained walls implied that the buildings had been standing for many years. Perhaps Anjar was plagued by hungry rats, termites or some other infestation that threatened less sturdy structures.