"So, gentlemen, if you'd be so good as to accompany us, I'll take you right to the General."
Grimm's eyes met those of Xylox; the senior mage's expression showed that he must have carried out a similar assay and reached the same depressing conclusions. The young sorcerer had managed to recoup some of his magical energies during his brief, restorative sleep, but he knew his power was still far from its potent, destructive peak.
He might be able to stop one of the two soldiers in his tracks, and he felt confident that Xylox could do the same to the other, but the two magic-users might then be as helpless and impotent as they had been on their arrival. The only realistic option was to play for time, blessed time that would allow the two human weapons to reach their full potential.
"We are ready, Captain," Xylox declared.
****
"So, Questor Grimm, what do you think of my establishment?" the General asked.
The young mage gulped down his mouthful of food; Xylox had given him a secret signal that he detected no untoward adulterants in the meal, and the young Questor had attacked it with gusto.
"Well, Sir," he said, improvising, "I must say how impressed I am with your domicile. The bowed fortification I saw as we were brought here is a magnificent structure."
Quelgrum laughed; an easy, pleasant sound. "That, my dear magic-user, is no fortification, and we didn't construct it. It's an ancient hydroelectric dam."
Grimm blinked; the term meant nothing to him.
"It's a dam, a structure for holding back water, you know?"
Grimm had seen a dam in his home town of Lower Frunstock, a simple earth and rock embankment. It was as nothing compared to the curved, towering structure he had admired on his arrival at the facility.
"A dam in the middle of the desert, General?" Tordun said, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. "This makes little sense to me."
The soldier smiled. "This wasn't always a desert, my large friend. The dam dates back to before the Last War, and this complex is based on the original water processing plant. I discovered this place some fifteen years ago, and it has been ideal for my purposes until now."
Warming to his theme, the General continued. "We have our own petroleum rig and refinery, and this gives us light, heat and power. Needless to say, however, we have to import food and clothes from outside. Where possible, I try to pay for goods in kind, by helping out on farms and construction projects, but, regrettably, I sometimes need to requisition goods and services. I don't like it, but I have the needs of my people to consider. We have over fifteen hundred mouths to feed here, you know."
"Your new home is most impressive, General," Xylox said. "It will be a pleasure to serve you."
"I'm sure it will, Questor Xylox," the soldier said, leaning forward on his elbows, his hands clasped beneath his chin. "Except that you have no intention of working for me or with me, do you?"
"I do not know what you mean, General," Xylox said, his face as impassive as ever.
Grimm also tried to keep his expression calm, but he felt a frigid, electric impulse running through his spine. Foster looked surprised, but at least Tordun, Crest and Drexelica maintained the pretence of being Pacified.
The General smiled. "At least, not until you have a good meal and a good night's sleep, anyway, eh, mage? Do have another glass of wine."
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Chapter 25: Quelgrum's Plan
Grimm almost sighed with relief; the General's apparent discovery of the group's un-Pacified state had turned out to be nothing more than badinage. He took a healthy swig from the wineglass at his right hand, before it occurred to him that there might be drugs or other adulterants in the ruby-red liquid; for a moment, his head spun, and he feared that he might have been poisoned by some subtle adulterant that Xylox's gem could not detect.
He clutched Redeemer, and the feeling passed. He realised that the exhaustion and dehydration of the desert trek must have rendered him more susceptible to alcohol than usual; the staff's magic had nullified the effects of the wine, leaving him with his accustomed equanimity.
The General smiled. "It's a pleasant vintage, isn't it, Questor Grimm?"
"Indeed, Sir," the mage said. "I must confess that it hit me a little harder than I expected."
A few moments of silence passed, as the famished adventurers and the Haven pilot consumed the hearty meals before them. When the plates were empty, the soldier clapped his hands, and an orderly arrived to clear the table.
"I would offer you dessert, if we had any," Quelgrum said, with a regretful, apologetic air. "However, we try to restrict our fare to staples and essentials; it's not fair to requisition more than we need from the hard-working folk of Griven, Smar, and the other towns in the area. There's no sense in strangling geese that lay golden eggs, eh?"
Grimm found the officer a complex and charismatic man. He engaged his Mage Sight for an instant, and saw that the General words had been sincere, at least as far as the soldier believed. Undercurrents of amusement, mild suspicion and enthusiasm ran through Quelgrum's aura. Malice, meanness and treachery seemed all but absent from the man's psyche. There was evidence of ruthless determination in his makeup, but Grimm's overall assessment was positive. What was this pleasant, easy-going military man's motive in assembling a vast, threatening army in this remote, desolate location? Why had he felt the need to enslave Guild Mages as part of his retinue, when he had so many other loyal souls at his disposal, all with deadly Technological weapons?
"General," Crest said, articulating Grimm's first concern. "I'm puzzled as to why you've assembled an army like this. Why do you need it, when you're obviously coping so well?"
The officer, who seemed to have a hard head for liquor, poured himself another glass of wine. He spent a little while turning the glass from side to side and inspecting it before he allowed the beverage to enter his mouth; only then did he answer the thief's inquiry.
"That's a good question, Master Crest, and I'll do my best to give you an honest answer," he said, cupping his right hand on his chin and shutting his eyes for a few moments.
"I grew up as a serf on a farm in Garley Province," he said at last, opening his eyes. "My life was worth less than one of the sheep I tended.
"Things came to a head one day when the foreman beat me for complaining about the food; it was worse than pig-slop, and they'd just reduced our rations yet again after a poor harvest. I was fourteen years old at the time.
"I'd been beaten almost every day of my life, but for some reason I'd had enough; I grabbed his stick from him and beat him half to death. The overseers beat me bloody, and hauled me in front of the serf-master. I expected death, but instead I was sentenced to the ore-mines for a period of ten years. It might as well have been life: the conditions were atrocious, and dead bodies were taken out every day. I was damned if I'd let them break me, but I felt my will to live slipping further away from me after each ten-hour shift."
Quelgrum shivered, as if the memories still haunted him, but he stiffened his spine as he continued.
"For three years, I only survived by learning to fight, stealing food from other, weaker men so that I might live. It's not something I'm proud of, but it was them or me."
The soldier took a deep draught of wine, but the alcohol did not seem to affect him in the least.
"Then there was a war between Lord Thurel, who ruled Garley Province, and Lord Gamel, his cousin, who held the town of Juriat to the north. Garley had a small militia; just enough to stop insurgency and rioting within the province, but Gamel had a fully-trained army at his command.