Alaistair Archibald - Questor

The shade of the being who had once borne the name Grimm Afelnor drifted in a strange, formless void beyond the cares and pains of the mortal world. A living human might have found the grey oblivion tedious, enervating or even frightening, but the young mage's wandering spirit found only peace and contentment. His short life had been arduous and at times painful, but his troubled past now seemed little more than a half-forgotten dream.

His solemn oath of fealty to the Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges now seemed so irrelevant, as he drifted in this ethereal state. Even his vow to redeem his tainted family name no longer seemed to have meaning.

Images of faces flickered through his sensorium: Magemaster Crohn, who had driven him to the brink of insanity, but who had made him a Questor in the process; the bullies, Shumal and Ruvin, who had played a willing part throughout those long months of torture; Questor Xylox, who had sworn to break him as soon as he returned to Arnor House.

The wandering spirit had no mouth or lungs with which to laugh, but he felt a warm glow of amusement, nonetheless. The body of Xylox, he knew, lay next to his own cooling corpse in the mountains of Shest.

At least I died a full Questor, he thought, and I took Xylox with me; he will never be able to carry out his threat.

His grandfather, Loras, known throughout the Guild as the reviled Oathbreaker, and his grandmother, Drima, would be distraught at his death, but they would surely find comfort in the fact that Grimm had died in the service of the Guild, as a Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank

But they'll be sad, all the same.

Despite all the hardships he had known in his brief, seventeen-year span, Grimm's had not been an unending life of pain and deprivation, and he recognised that several-even many-people might regret his passing.

Poor old Doorkeeper might be regarded by many as a bumbling old fool, but Grimm recognised the cheerful, aged major-domo as the true heart of the House, always solicitous of his charges.

Doorkeeper will miss me

Madar and Argand, the two boys who had remained Grimm's staunch friends throughout his tenure in the House Scholasticate, would glean little satisfaction from knowing their dead classmate had died a full mage.

I've hardly spared them a thought for over a year, and it's too late now

The strong, friendly face of Questor Dalquist swam into view.

Dalquist helped me through my homesickness when I first came to Arnor. He was stern with me on our first Quest together, but he always was my friend, and he was so glad for me when I became Baron of Crar.

Grimm's spirit now knew the beginnings of despair: not only would these good friends and allies feel sorrow at his passing, but other, blameless souls had also followed him into the void. Crest, the elven thief and master of whip and knife; Tordun, the giant albino; Drexelica, the Grivense gamin he had ransomed from slavery; even the acerbic, high-handed Questor Xylox.

None of them deserves to die in this lonely, forbidding place. Neither do I; I was cut short in my attempt to expunge the stain from my family name. I don't want to die here; I want to live! I want to feel the sun on my face again. I want to drink ale, laugh, cry and sing! I want to grow old and fat, with children and grandchildren at my feet, listening to tales of glory. I want seven rings on my Mage Staff. I want so much, and I can't have it

Death no longer seemed such a sweet release, as Grimm felt a hot, angry pain shooting through his being.

I want to live!

Grimm awoke to agonising pains in his hands, feet and eyes as the blood returned to his pale, frigid body. He groaned at the throbbing waves of anguish suffusing his body, and he half-regretted his earlier defiant demand for life.

Perhaps I was better off dead, after all Now, the struggle starts again.

After what seemed like an age, the pains subsided to a more bearable level, and his mind began to clear. The mage opened his eyes and winced at the blinding light that lanced into them. Grimm forced his watering eyes to remain open, although his vision was blurred and confusing.

"Come here, Redeemer," he muttered, his tongue feeling like wood, summoning his Mage Staff from wherever it might be lying.

A mage's personal staff was far more than an inanimate lump of wood: no physical force could break it; it could be summoned from anywhere in the world with a thought or a word; it caused pain and injury to any who touched it without its master's permission. No Magemaster could teach how to fashion a complete Mage Staff, but success or failure was an indicator of how well he had taught his pupil. Every Adept had to attempt to produce a staff from a lifeless lump of wood without aid, and then he had to smash it three times against his Guild House's magically sharp and impervious Breaking Stone. The least crack or splinter condemned the Adept to further months or years of toil before he could try again.

Only when the supplicant's staff rebounded from the Stone unharmed was the Adept accepted as a true Guild Mage and granted the coveted blue-gold ring of acceptance into the ranks of the Brethren.

Grimm felt the comforting, familiar slap of his beloved Redeemer as it appeared in the palm of his outstretched right hand, and he felt a shock of relief.

At least I'm not helpless, he thought: a Mage Staff was a potent weapon, even in the hands of a disorientated mage. He tried to take firm hold on the staff, but his nerveless fingers seemed to betray him.

"Watch over me, Redeemer." The staff floated clear of his hand.

At last, his vision began to clear, and he began to make out details. He was lying on the floor of a strange, small hut made of some seamless, smooth, white material. He saw no seams or planks that might give a hint to the hut's construction, so this could not be some kind of unfamiliar lumber. Grimm reached out a cautious hand to touch the white wall, and he could not feel the distinctive chill of metal, either. He saw a device of metal, glass and crystal standing in the centre of the structure, emitting a warm, orange radiation that heated and illuminated the hut, although he saw neither flame nor smoke.

"This must be Technology," Grimm muttered, his rasping voice tinged with awe. The art of Technology was thought long-dead, but the mage could see no other explanation for these bizarre wonders.

"Technology it is," a deep voice said behind the mage.

Grimm tried to spin round, but he ended up falling in an untidy heap on the unnatural, white floor as dizziness robbed him of his sense of balance. Standing over him, he saw a man unlike any other he had seen.

Round, steel-rimmed spectacles covered pale, blue eyes set in a clean-shaven face. The man's clothes were green, with no seam or buttons Grimm could see, and he wore a strange helmet of another strange material, with odd protrusions and spikes emerging from it at various angles.

"I see you have your magic baton," the man said, regarding the floating Redeemer with nervous, furtive eyes. "I knew better than to try to pick it up: I've seen people badly hurt after trying to handle them."

Grimm growled, "Who are you? What do you want with us?"

"My name is Jim Foster. I don't mean any harm, I promise you. Please, put your staff down. I'm not ready to die yet"

Grimm saw Redeemer's brass-shod head hovering only inches from his rescuer's head, and he ordered it to withdraw a few feet.

"If I hadn't chanced upon your group while flying a recon mission," Foster said, still regarding Redeemer with wary eyes, "you would have all died. I put up this plastic prefab as a temporary shelter until you got over your altitude acclimatisation syndrome."