"An inspired move from the unfancied underdog!" Kel er boomed, taking up the role of Master of Ceremonies. "Who'll give me odds of two thousand to one? Come on now, ladies and gentlemen, a big hand for this gallant young man!"

The sound of rapturous applause and cheers fil ed the stadium, and the young mage started. He heard mocking laughter over the spectral ovation, and he vowed anew to destroy this dreadful place.

If he could, somehow, survive...

Now, the slower, more dangerous fighters began to close, and Grimm knew he would not be able to pick the men off one by one for much longer. They seemed to grow cannier by the minute, closing their ranks and weaving from side to side, making it impossible to pick a clean target. He fel back, only delaying the inevitable. Grimm weaved through the seats, trying to confuse his pursuers, but their reactions were faster than he would have believed, and they regrouped rapidly.

He found his back pressing against meshed wire; he could retreat no further.

"Oh! The young challenger's up against the ropes!" crowed the hateful voice of Kel er, as the mindless, booming applause continued unabated. "Who'll give me three thousand to one , now?"

This is getting too dangerous, Grimm thought. I can't stay here much longer. He swung Redeemer again, staying the encircling horde for a moment only.

He heard movement behind him and swayed to his left, as a fist blurred past his head, making the air sigh as it tried to get out of the way.

Redeemer did its work once more, as Grimm acted on pure reflex.

Only one area appeared clear: the Pit arena itself, twenty feet below him. Three large warriors remained by the shattered entrance, making escape impossible. The high barrier behind him made jumping into the Pit impossible, notwithstanding the injuries he would suffer if he could do so. A spel of Dissolution would take care of the barrier, but the warriors would fol ow him.

He thought back to what he had done to the guards outside the rotunda.

The syl ables did not matter; only the intent of the spel .

" Whoo-juuuup! " the mage screamed, flying into the air only fractions of a second before a pair of fists intersected with where his head had been.

Grimm had only flown once before, within the confines of a metal machine, and his arms and legs flailed as he hung precariously above the mass of impotent warriors. He was balanced on a slender pole of magical force, stil subject to the relentless laws of physics, established centuries before.

I can't keep this up much longer, he thought, wobbling in mid-air. This is going to be tricky...

Accurate timing was essential, were he not to be impaled on the fence or dashed to the sandy floor of the Pit in a bloody pulp.

You only get one try at this, Afelnor, he told himself, mental y rehearsing the swift sequence of spel s he would need to cast.

As the baffled fighters mil ed below Grimm, the mage recal ed the three laws of motion that had survived since long before the final Fal of Man, which he had had to recite as a Student. He had never thought these ancient dicta might some day save his life!

"A body remains at rest, or in uniform motion in a straight line, unless acted upon by an external force.

"The acceleration of a body equates to the force acting upon it, divided by the body's mass."

"To every action, there is an equivalent and opposing reaction."

Grimm remained at rest relative to the ground. If he were to move, a force needed to act upon him. The stronger the force, the greater his acceleration; too strong a force might cannon him into the wal of the rotunda, knocking him senseless. Last, and not least, he needed to exert a force opposite to the direction in which he wished to travel.

Simple, isn't it, Grimm? Here goes...

The shaft of downwards force disappeared, and Grimm immediately shot a tight beam of energy to his left. He shot to his right, fal ing and careening off the wire screen on the opposite side of the Pit. As he tumbled towards the sand, he invoked another, shorter pil ar of energy, which stayed his plummeting motion. The breath rushed out of him as the spel took hold, and he was stil fifteen feet above the ground. Settling himself, he annul ed the spel , and created another below him. The spel stayed him, with another crashing impact, five feet above the sand.

With gratitude, his heart pounding as if trying to escape his breast, he dropped to the arena floor in an ungainly heap. Sprawling on his back, he grinned at the sight of the fighters clawing at the metal screen high above. He had won.

Or had he?

Was ignominious retreat to be his lot? He had sworn to destroy the Pit and the Mansion House, and he had his comrades to save; not to mention his sworn Quest to fulfil. His thoughts were stil clouded by the cloying pheromones in the air, stirring him to instinctive reaction.

Although he had tried to prepare himself for their insidious effects, the pounding of his heart and his growing rage told him he was losing the battle to retain his rationality.

"We need a little more ventilation in here!" he shouted, hurling a tight, destructive bal of force at the domed ceiling. The dome shuddered, but it remained intact. With a snarl on his lips, Grimm repeated the spel with greater force. A circular portion of the ceiling, maybe thirty feet in diameter, splintered into a myriad of flying fragments, and the evening light and sweet, untainted air flooded into the auditorium.

"A fantastic series of moves from the young contender! In the space of a few heartbeats, he's turned the fight around!" the resounding, disembodied voice of the Pit-master screamed. "But has he made a mistake?"

Grimm tried to ignore the loathsome voice and began to take stock of his surroundings; he saw a dozen openings in the Pit wal s, with no idea where they might lead. The fighters had gone from the wire barrier.

Even now, they might be making their way towards him through unseen catacombs.

Can I launch myself through this ragged hole in the ceiling?

He remembered tales of Mage Manipulant Garband, who had possessed the ability to soar like a bird, but he knew no Questor could ever hope to match a Specialist in his own field. He had achieved a clumsy simulacrum of true magical flight by bending his destructive powers, but it had been a frightening experience, motivated by sheer terror.

Pick a door, any door!

With no idea where he might be going, the mage did just that, flying into one of the dark openings. He clattered into a rack of weapons, spil ing them over the floor, and staggered back into the main area, feeling like an idiot.

"A great move from the new boy! He's totalled a whole row of spears! What a result!"

"I wil kil you, Kel er!" Grimm snarled, without conviction, hearing his weak, unconvincing voice booming over the arena.

"Don't bet on it, amateur!"

As his eyes began to adapt to the dim light, Grimm saw that some of the rectangular orifices looked a little darker than others; perhaps they were the true passageways. Which one should he take? Which corridors might already be fil ing with bloodthirsty warriors, hungry for his life?

Perhaps Thribble can help...

The minuscule demon had proved himself a resourceful investigator on many occasions. The mage patted a pocket and felt no resistance.

"Thribble!"

Grimm heard no response, and he began to flap at his robe pockets; the demon was quite absent.

Recognising the fingers of incipient terror tickling at his stem-brain, he clamped down on his rampant emotions as he had been taught at the Scholasticate. He was alone; Thribble had deserted him, and he had to deal with that.

Just move, Afelnor!

The mental imperative drove him into one of the dark openings. He ran past rows of empty bunks, into a closed, square area of metal lockers.

Hearing angry voices behind him, he launched a mighty spel of Dissolution into the wal opposite him.

The lockers exploded into hot, orange shards that scored and burnt his face, but a brick wal stood behind. There was no time to think, as the voices grew louder. Another spel ; the brickwork sundered into dust. Instead of open sky, al the magic-user saw was a dirty expanse of rock.

Grimm spun around, to see the first few fighters coming down the corridor. Unthinking, acting only on his reflexes, he sent a powerful firebal down the passageway, gratified to hear a few, brief screams before the spel died. He slumped as the energy left his body; he had al too little left to give.

"Only forty-three to go, Questor!" cal ed the hated, metal ic voice of the Pit-master, from his unseen eyrie. "I'm only sorry we didn't have an audience to appreciate this! You've done the Pit proud, young feller."

Kel er seemed to have eyes everywhere!

"Damn you, Kel er!" shouted the mage. "I'l tear your guts out through your mouth, you bastard!"

"If I had a penny for every time someone had wished that, I'd be a rich man, Guild scum! I saw your grandfather, Loras, destroy this town, and I always swore to get him back some day. Now, I have."

Grimm started at the mention of Loras.

"What do you know about my grandfather?" he screamed into the void, as gleaming, muscular bodies strode into the long corridor. "What do you know about him? You're not fit to speak his name!"

As the fighters grew closer, Grimm launched another spel into the mass of muscle. He knew he had little energy to spare; the next assault would surely drain him dry. Although the voice above him was hateful to him, he found himself yearning to hear its next, theatrical announcement.

"Just what do you know about Loras Afelnor?" he screamed, as oiled, gleaming men climbed over their fal en comrades. This might be the last chance he had to discover something important, something glorious about his beloved grandfather.

"Loras won here, many years ago, but now he's lost," the amplified voice roared. "Prioress Lizaveta could tell you more than I can, mage, but you'll never live to hear her speak.

"Goodbye; last bets, please, ladies and gentlemen. Our challenger is in a blind end, facing thirty-six challengers; who'll give me ten thousand to one? Anybody? No?"

Grimm felt an icy shock running through him at the mention of his grandfather and Lizaveta in two connected sentences. This confirmed his unproven doubts and fears, but he might have no time to enjoy this long-suspected evidence of Geomantic treachery.

The mage drew his power into his mind for another blast. As he released it, he saw the pasty, tormented face of Tordun and skewed the blast to one side, wasting it on the wal s of the corridor. He searched for another, less destructive, spel , finding none; as a Mage Questor, al he real y knew was destruction.

"Sorry, Tordun," he muttered. "It's you or me, my friend."

A spangling wisp of blue sparks drifted from the mage's fingers, but no spel came; Grimm's magic was exhausted.

Despite knowing he had lost, the Questor felt calm as he hoisted Redeemer over his right shoulder, ready to strike for the last time.

"Al right, boys, who's first?" he asked, expressing a sense of bravado he did not feel.

The mindless mass of muscle surged forward, and Grimm readied himself for his last assault. At least he would be able to take some of them with him before he fel ; he felt sorry that the noble Tordun would be among the first to fal .

Chapter 33: "Grimm Must Be Saved!".

To Thribble, the dense, expensive silk of Grimm's pocket seemed as transparent as the finest glass. The demon's sight and hearing were superior to those of any human, and he could detect frequencies of light and sound to which mortals were quite insensitive. As soon as he saw the encroaching fighters, he knew the mage might be in serious trouble; had the warriors been as obliging as to arrange themselves in a neat, linear formation, he had no doubt that Grimm would have been able to destroy the men en masse.

However, the murderous-looking mortals seemed to have no concept of fair play.

At first, the grey imp had regarded the Questor as an interesting but otherwise unexceptional example of humanity. Grimm might be as frail and flawed as al the rest of mankind, but he seemed to have the knack of finding himself in difficult situations that provided the demon with the material for interesting tales with which to regale his netherworld brethren when he returned to his home dimension.

He stil revel ed in Grimm's adventures, memorising each vocal nuance and mannerism, with the fussy eye for detail of a dedicated archivist, but he had begun to see the young human in a new light.

The Questor seemed to be driven by conflicting forces beyond his control: his fear of failure; his desire for recognition; his raging, adolescent hormones; his burning need to redeem his family name. Sympathy and compassion might be difficult concepts for a demon to grasp, but Thribble had now spent nearly a year in the mortal realm, and he had begun to experience strange sensations he had never known before.

This fragile, overworld creature no longer appeared to him as a quixotic bag of flesh and disgusting humours, a means of providing Thribble's fel ow demons with amusing anecdotes, but as a sentient being in his own right, almost heroic in his daily struggle with his troublesome, ever-present emotions and drives.

The demon would never have admitted it to another mortal or demon, or even to himself, but he had begun to regard this human almost as some oversized, clumsy, younger clutch-brother, who needed protection on occasion. The mortal word was *friend'. Grimm must be saved from his lack of foresight and his mortal inadequacies.

As the Questor took his stand, his staff at the ready, the demon hoisted himself from the confines of his silken prison and slid down the expanse of yel ow silk to the floor.

Scuttling through the dense forest of the fighters' legs, Thribble bounded for the blasted Pit entrance.

Two more humans stood guard here, but their befuddled eyes were locked on the embattled Grimm.

They did not notice the minuscule, grey shadow of the demon as he slipped between them.

The imp's sensitive eyes soon located the other mortals hiding in the bushes abutting the rotunda's wal s.

Although they might have been wel concealed from human eyes, they stood out like white paint on a black sheet to Thribble. Only two of the men appeared to be conscious, and the older of the two seemed in no condition to fight, as blood trickled down his face from numerous cuts and contusions; both the man's eyes were swol en almost shut.

That left the cowardly mage. Under normal circumstances, Thribble would never have considered Numal as a saviour for his friend, but he felt he had little choice.

From the shelter of the dense bushes, Numal kept a careful watch for signs of approaching guards.

Should any appear, he had no idea what he might do, but he intended to keep his word to Questor Grimm to wait for at least twenty minutes. He had no pocket-watch-such items were beyond the means of al but the very wealthiest-but he had a good sense of the passage of time, gained after long years in the Arnor Scholasticate, where punctuality was paramount.

The battered General Quelgrum tended to the fal en men as best he could, having detailed the squeamish Numal to act as look-out. The mage had never felt as helpless in his life.

Numal felt disgusted with his performance as a Guild Mage; he knew he had succumbed to his baser instincts on al too many occasions. His virtual imprisonment in the House for five decades had il prepared him for the chal enges ahead, and he had been thrust so quickly into the young Questor's violent, dangerous world that he had felt like spindrift in a hurricane; uncontrol ed, driven from situation to situation.

Grimm seemed stil to have an adolescent's sense of indestructibility, something Numal had long forgotten. The Necromancer knew he was too old for this young man's game, and he burned inside at the knowledge that he had ever mistaken the Questor's friendliness for something deeper. Numal had only the vaguest knowledge of the form of his inner desires; he had been cut off from normal human relationships since the age of seven.

On first discovering that Grimm had a forbidden paramour, the older mage was suffused with mixed anger, astonishment and disappointment.

He had even dal ied with the idea of exposing the Questor's peccadil o to the Guild hierarchy, but this had soon flown from his mind at his first sight of Drexelica: the first woman outside his family that he had met since his extreme youth. He recognised that she was beautiful, and he had felt his heart twisting. On one hand, he had felt jealous that Grimm was lost to him; on the other, he had been stirred by the young girl's fresh, feminine loveliness.

Did he desire men, or women? The Necromancer had no way of knowing; he sought only the love and affection denied him for so long, with no experience of affection or amatory affairs whatsoever.

Perhaps fifteen minutes had now passed since Grimm had blasted the doors of the Pit, and Numal risked extending his head from the safe concealment of the bushes. He saw nothing, but, straining his ears over the ever-weakening moans of the stricken Guy, he heard the distinct sound of rapturous applause from inside the Pit building. He found this both bizarre and disturbing, but he had no idea of what it might portend; however, he felt sure it could not be good.

Ducking back into the greenery, Numal slapped his brow, trapped in a prison of indecision. If Grimm, a Questor, was in trouble, what could a humble Necromancer hope to do?

As he wrestled with his doubts and fears, he felt something tugging gently at his robe, which caused him to start. Was this a rat, or some other vermin? The Necromancer shuddered, and he shook his right leg in an attempt to dislodge the nagging creature.

"Necromancer, stop! It is I, Thribble!"

The thready, high-pitched voice was at the limit of his hearing, but the words were just clear enough.

Against the background of the grey wool of his robe, Numal made out the shape of the smal demon climbing up the rough material like a mountaineer scaling a sheer rock-face, blowing out his cheeks with the effort.

Numal scooped the demon into his hand.