Alastair Archibald - A mage in the making

Grimm laughed again, tears running freely from his eyes.

This is so easy! These worms are worthless dross; nobody can oppose me!

He looked down at the fallen bully, fascinated by the new power he had found.

"Goodbye, Shumal," he muttered. "Rot in Hell."

He gathered his powers for one last spell, but he felt strong arms about him, confining him.

An urgent, familiar voice sounded in his left ear: "I did this to you, Grimm! I, Crohn, the Senior Magemaster, did this! If you have hate, hate me, not these boys! I made them do it. Let it out, let it all out!"

Grimm's head was spinning, and he felt hot tears of rage and frustration burn in his eyes.

"Let me go!" he screamed, struggling against the imprisoning arms. "I will destroy them! It is my right!"

His head spun as he looked around him: Shumal was lying at his feet, screaming; Ruvin lay sprawled and motionless on the far side of the yard; the other boys stared at him, pale, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. With a cold shock, he saw the same terrified expression on Madar, who was scrambling to his feet and backing away, his face a mask of sheer terror.

Torn by conflicting emotions, he sagged in Crohn's arms.

"What am I? I'm a freak, a sport, a mutant!" he screamed, terrified by what he had become. Then the cold, dark demons descended again. "Let me go! I am power! You must all die!"

He struggled to free himself from Crohn's grip, but to no avail.

You can't hold me, old man, he thought. You may join these faithless worms in their fate.

He cackled, madness playing with his mind, and he began to chant again in this strange, marvellous new language, but Crohn grunted and held on, enraging Grimm with his resistance.

Madar stared in horror at the bizarre spectacle; his gentle, intelligent friend had been replaced by an insane, slavering, avenging demon.

"There will be no more class today!" Crohn bellowed in a hoarse croak, "You will stay out here until called. Play on! Play hard! But stay out here!"

Crohn began to haul Grimm towards the Scholasticate, and it did not escape Madar's notice that, even though he held Grimm's arms firmly pinioned, the Magemaster flinched as if punched; every step of the way.

Blue light coruscated and flickered around demon-Grimm's head, and he wailed and screamed as he was dragged away.

"What did that bastard, Crohn, do to him?" Madar wondered, as he eyed the spitting, mad-eyed creature struggling in the Magemaster's arms. He remembered what had happened to the gentle, artistic Erek, and he realised that the same wild insanity had now sunk its claws into his friend.

For a seeming age, Grimm flicked between alternate states of terrified sanity and fervent, furious death-wish. He had no idea how long he fought the vicious demons that possessed him but, at last, sanity won.

Sanity was pain and exhaustion. Grimm was no longer the earthly avatar of Nemesis, invincible and vengeful; now, he was a heap of bruised, exhausted mortality. As consciousness came to Grimm Afelnor, he realised he was in the shattered remains of his former classroom, a tightly-hunched figure crouched in the corner of a scene of devastation.

One table was embedded feet-first in the ceiling; other tables and chairs lay, shattered to fragments, around the room. Plaster and broken glass lay on the floor, and the large oak door hung on a single hinge. Grimm noted the blackened signatures of quickly-snuffed fires in several areas of the classroom.

He felt a warm, heavy stream running from his nose, and he raised a hand to his nostrils, wiping a thick string of drool from his mouth as he did so. His hand bore a tracery of dark-red blood as he raised it to the level of his eyes, and he wondered how he had come to this pass.

I did this-somehow, he thought, regarding the destruction with a dispassionate eye.

With an awkward lurch, he managed to sit up. Again, he wiped the back of his hand across his nose and mouth, and he saw Crohn sitting quietly in one of the few intact chairs, looking older than Grimm had ever seen him. Contusions and bruises covered his face, his eyes were bloodshot, and his large nose was splayed across the left side of his face.

"It is over." The words came from Crohn as a rasping, nasal croak.

"I am to be dismissed?" Grimm asked, a horror of what he had done rising like cold, acrid bile within him.

"No, Afelnor, your torment is over, not your vocation. No more loneliness, no more hatred. What has happened to you was planned, and you have my heartfelt regret at the way you were treated. I am sorry beyond what words can express."

Was this Crohn? The man spoke more as a concerned father than a tyrannical tutor.

"What were those words I screamed, Lord Mage?" Grimm cried, the words torn from his ravaged throat. "They were no chants I had learned from you, or any other Magemaster."

"No other mage knows those words," Crohn muttered, his head lolling on his chest. "That was your own, personal spell-language. A Mage Questor makes his own magic in his own manner."

"I am to be… a Questor?" Grimm's astonishment banished his exhaustion for a moment.

"You already are a Questor in all but name, young Afelnor," Crohn said, a dreamy half-smile hovering on his bloodied lips. "What happened to you is over, and I feel ashamed that I ever agreed to it. But it is over, I promise you. You have prevailed heroically and fulfilled my highest expectations. You are no longer a Neophyte, but an Adept Questor: a mage-in-waiting."

Crohn's words began to filter through Grimm's mind, and the youth realised that the Magemaster had chosen to visit this nightmare on his pupil.

"I nearly lost my mind!" he cried. "As I went mad, you stood by and watched!"

"Adept Grimm, I cannot know what agonies you endured," Crohn said, his face twisted by emotions at which Grimm could only guess, "but I felt all of your pain with you, and I ached to free you. You have freed yourself, and only in this way can a new Questor be born. The Outbreak marks your re-birth."

Grimm tried to stand, but his legs refused to obey him; indeed, to his shame, it seemed he had no more strength than a new-born babe. Crohn walked over to the tall, slender boy and gathered him up in strong arms, as if Grimm weighed no more than a feather. The Magemaster pushed the battered door open and took Grimm from the room.

"Where are we going?" Grimm asked, lolling in the old man's arms.

"We go to the Infirmary, Adept Grimm. You have gone through much and need rest and comfort. As do I; I could not withstand another beating such as I received today.

"Rest in the knowledge that you have done well, that you are appreciated and loved, and that your suffering is over; over!" As they entered the quiet, white, spotless Infirmary, Healer Chet, who had once schooled Grimm in Herbal Lore, rushed up to take the burden from Crohn. "I will see you in a short while, Adept Grimm," the Magemaser muttered, looking every inch the nonagenarian he was. "Let the Healer tend to you first."

Grimm was exhausted, and, uncomplaining, he let Chet wash him and tend to his cuts, bruises and aches. With careful, soothing hands, the Healer dressed him in a comfortable linen night-shirt and carried him to a cool, smoothly-dressed bed in a cell separate from the main infirmary, covering him with a clean sheet and a warm blanket. The down pillow, so different from the straw to which Grimm had become used, felt soft under his head, and he was about to drift off to sleep when he was aware, once more, of Crohn's presence at his side.

"Rest now, young Afelnor," the Magemaster said; his tone of voice so far removed from that of the Crohn Grimm had come to know that he stared in astonishment. "This morning you were just a Neophyte. Tonight you are an Adept; a Mage Questor in training. The day's travails are behind you, but the struggle begins anew when you are well again. You will be expected to work; work as you never have before."