Alastair Archibald: Dragonblaster

"What do you think, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked, easing the horses to a gentle walk. “We're running a little low on supplies, and we have to consider the trip back to civilisation. Do you think we dare stop here for some food and drink?"

Grimm considered the General's question with some care. Since Crest's death, he had vowed that he would never again act on impulse, as long as he had time to consider his options beforehand. Anjar looked safe enough, almost like his home town of Lower Frunstock, but he knew now that appearances could be very deceptive. This whole region seemed to be a hotbed of anarchy and disorder, and Grimm was now unwilling to take anything at its face value.

I could play this little game all day, he thought, as Quelgrum waited for his answer.

"Is the situation serious, General?” he asked.

Quelgrum shrugged. “We lost a lot of victuals at Yoren,” he said. “We managed to recoup some of our losses at Brianston, but it's all fattening stuff; hardly a balanced diet suited to travelling or fighting. We could really do with some pulses, fresh, lean meat and green vegetables."

Grimm said, “I recommend we stop and wait for Shakkar's report first."

Shakkar had insisted on reconnoitring the town from the air, ensuring that the party had a clear escape route from Anjar, should rapid egress prove necessary.

As Quelgrum reined in the horses, Grimm saw a small shadow on the ground, growing larger by the heartbeat. He looked up to see the unmistakable, bat-winged figure of Shakkar descending, almost as if the very mention of his name had summoned him.

Shakkar fluttered to a halt, dropping the last few inches to the ground with an audible thump, and Grimm checked the townspeople's reactions. He saw several people's eyes widen in momentary fear, and he noted many pointing fingers, but it seemed that such a creature was not that unusual a sight; after a few moments, the Anjarians returned to haggling and conversation.

"Your report, please, Shakkar,” Grimm said in a formal, businesslike drawl

"There are five main roads into the town, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled. “I saw no barriers or armed guards on any of them. I saw a few uniformed men armed with swords, but they moved easily through the populace. Several of them stopped to chat with the civilians in an apparently friendly manner; the town seems peaceful enough. I saw two wagons and three horsemen leaving Anjar without confrontation or pursuit. My presence caused a little perturbation at first, but no more than I expected."

Grimm nodded. “Thank you, Shakkar."

This may be the first normal town we've come across in some time, Grimm thought.

Still, it's best to be careful. We have a Quest to fulfil, and we can't afford any more casualties, least of all through any carelessness.

"Your recommendations, Lord Baron?” Quelgrum asked.

Grimm's instinct was to keep going; the party could collect victuals on the return journey. Nonetheless, morale was an important factor; as yet, there were no signs of dissent among his fellows, but the Questor acknowledged that they had all been under considerable stress for some time. He thought of the vain, roistering swordsman, Harvel, who had given up his satin clothes for the rough, homespun garments of a farmer and quit after the death of his close friend, Crest.

Tordun might be putting on a brave face after his own injury, but he would now be next to useless in a serious fight. Perhaps the albino's sight would return with time, but, on the other hand, the pale giant might never recover the full use of his eyes. For such a proud, self-reliant warrior, who had also been a friend of Crest's, his uncertain future would surely bear upon Tordun's confidence like an ever-present weight, sapping his will and his confidence.

If the mighty Tordun ever snapped, it might be too costly a lesson for the small party to bear.

Guy was… well, Guy: acerbic, cynical and unpredictable. Despite the older Questor's avowed enthusiasm, Grimm would have preferred not to have the mercurial Great Flame in the team at all.

If there was even a chance that this pleasant, peaceful-seeming town was yet another hot-bed of violence of esoteric dangers, the consequences for the Quest might be severe. There were so many variables to consider…

You wanted this responsibility, Afelnor, he told himself. Nobody forced it on you-in fact, you argued with Dominie Horin that you should be given charge of the Quest. This may be one of the easiest decisions you have to make, so make it!

"We keep moving, General,” he said. “We'll replenish our supplies on the way back. We'll travel lighter and we can reduce unwanted contact to a minimum. After what happened at Yoren and Brianston, I'd prefer not to take the risk of this place housing some weird, sacrificial death-cult with a fanatical desire for Technology, blind albinos, mages or whatever. I think the potential risks outweigh the possible advantages."

"You are in charge, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, and Grimm could swear the old soldier's faint sigh betokened relief. “We ride."

Guy poked his head through the slit in the canvas cover. “Are we staying here tonight, or what?"

Grimm turned to face the Questor. “No, Questor Guy,” he said in a cool, neutral voice. “We're going to carry on to the outskirts of Rendale and camp out there."

"Ah, come on, Grimm!” Guy moaned. “You're not scared of a place like this, are you? I, for one, could do with a decent meal before we face my darling Grandmamma, and this town looks pretty damn’ safe to me!"

"I wasn't scared of Yoren at first, nor Brianston, Guy.” Grimm fought to keep his expression calm and his voice level. “However, my overconfidence cost Crest his life, caused Harvel to quit and lost Tordun… well, we all know what happened to Tordun. Regardless of how Anjar looks or seems, it is a potential threat. I prefer not to take that risk.

"Perhaps your eyebrows and hair would agree with me,” he continued, eyeing the hairless pink arcs above the Great Flame's eyes, and the uneven, semi-scorched mop that had replaced his normal, artful coiffure.

Now I understand what Mage Speech is all about, flashed a thought through his brain, bringing sudden understanding. I always thought cutting out vernacular, contractions and everything was just another petty restriction, but it helps you keep your distance-and that's what I have to do here.

"Even so,” Guy said, “I think I ought to have some say-"

"We have a problem here, Brother Mage,” Grimm said, his dark eyes hooded.

"What's that, Dragonblaster?” Guy's expression suggested he did not really care about the answer to his question. Still, Grimm felt a small shiver of relief at the fact that the older mage had evidently decided to abandon his former, sarcastic nickname for Grimm-Dragonbluster.

"The problem is that you are labouring under the delusion that I am in command of this expedition and you are the second-in-command,” the younger Questor replied."

Without giving Guy a chance to respond, he continued, “The fact of the matter, distasteful as it may appear to you, is that I am in charge, as decreed by the Lord Dominie, and you are not! Do you have a problem with that, Great Flame?” He fixed his gaze on Guy's glacier-blue eyes with the intensity only a Questor could command.

Guy was no dilettante; he matched Grimm's stare with the same cool glare of authority, and several moments passed in silence.

At last, Necromancer Numal broke the deadlock with a plaintive cry from within the wagon: “Well, are we stopping here or not, Questor Grimm?"

Not looking away from Guy's fierce gaze for a moment, Grimm said, “We will be moving on, Brother Mage."

As if on cue, Quelgrum flicked the reins and the obedient horses trotted back onto the road. Grimm's eyes began to water, and he felt a mild flush of pleasure as he saw traces of moisture around the older Questor's lower eyelids.