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reeled as if punched by a giant, unseen fist. The bully staggered, but he
stayed on his feet. Grimm frowned at this resistance, and he heard more
strange syllables burst from his lips: Tok yourut sh'tak'ye dar!" Shumal fell
to his knees at Grimm's feet, sobbing and clutching his temples in agony, as
if his head were clasped in some mighty iron clamp.
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,
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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friend had been replaced by an insane, slavering, avenging demon.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
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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."
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