"This is Sergeant Erik, one of your loyal soldiers,” Shakkar said, as the mage and the demon rose through the ragged hole in the dome and into the sky.
Grimm saw a man, clad in the green uniform of Quelgrum's army, his face fixed in a determined grimace as he lay at the rim of the dome, his metal weapon intermittently spitting fire. The mage saw no reason to distract him.
"Fly north, until we're out of sight, and then head south-west,” he advised. “With any luck, the dream-creatures will assume that we're fleeing the coop, rather than threatening Uncle Gruon's nap."
As Shakkar flew higher, Grimm saw crowds of Brianstonians wandering aimlessly around the building, impeding the approach of a monstrous, wheeled, wooden structure built on several levels.
The mobile tower was manned by men wearing the robes Grimm had come to associate with Revenants. Several dream-people pulled the machine, falling occasionally under the impact of Erik's projectile ammunition, but they were soon replaced by others.
Wood? Grimm thought, looking at the structure. At last, there's something I can use my magic on!
Pointing at the tower, he launched a spell of Dissolution at one of the main beams of the siege engine. The support crumbled to dust and the machine lurched to a halt, leaning over to one side.
Several Revenants spilled out, tumbling to the ground, and Grimm followed up with a scorching fireball to the foot of the engine. The dry wood caught light in an instant, and avid, green flames began to consume the structure. Within a few moments, the whole machine was in flames, and Grimm smiled as, with a loud bang, several metal cylinders inside it exploded, sending a grey cloud of heavy vapour over the crowd. Within seconds, citizens began to sink to the ground, whereupon they lay still. Only the remaining Revenants appeared unaffected.
"All I need now is… Redeemer!” he said, ending the sentence with a hopeful shout as he pronounced the name of his Mage Staff.
For a handful of heartbeats, nothing happened, and the Questor feared that the rod might be locked away in another iron-clad enclosure, impeding his sorcerous imperative. However, as Shakkar flapped westwards, the young mage saw a slender, gleaming, black shape flying towards him, and he extended his right hand.
The staff smacked into his palm, and he closed his fist around the black, brass-shod baton with its seven gold rings. Now he felt a whole mage once more.
A Mage Staff might, on occasion, teleport itself into its owner's hand if the path between them was blocked, or it would fly through the air if the way was clear. Grimm guessed that the Revenants had left the staff in the street where it had fallen, perhaps after a few fruitless, painful attempts to pick it up.
"Over there, Shakkar!” he cried, pointing towards a familiar building as the demon began a long, leisurely bank to the south-west.
As he drew nearer, Grimm saw that the magnificent marble structure he had seen during his astral travels looked even more opulent in the red evening sunlight. This was no fantasy; it was as solid and impressive as it had appeared to his spirit avatar.
The demon descended, landing on the steps at the entrance to the mausoleum. The area was deserted, as Grimm had hoped. As Shakkar released him, he dashed inside the building while the demon remained outside.
The tomb's interior was no less impressive than its exterior, with bold, red flags depicting a stylised, golden dragon adorning the marble walls. Rows of pews filled the chamber. An ornate granite altar, perhaps eight feet tall, stood in front of him, with wooden steps at its rear.
Ascending the steps, Grimm saw a wide cone falling from the ceiling and feeding into the top of the altar. This, he guessed, was where the Revenants fed the sleeping Gruon his diet of human blood, pouring the precious fluid into a tube leading directly to the somnolent dragon's gut. Straining his ears, Grimm heard a slow, deep, repeating rumble that seemed to arise from below the tomb's floor; Gruon must be directly below him.
Despite the pristine tiled floor, he recalled the chaotic jumble of rocks entombing the dragon; how was he to reach the creature?
He might make a start by disintegrating the altar, but the massive block of granite might take him hours to dissolve, and he could not be certain that his distracting ploy had succeeded.
The thing must weigh ten tons, at least, he thought. I'll never be able to budge it on my own.
"Shakkar!"
The demon forced himself into the tomb, dislodging a couple of decorative pillars in the process. Despite the narrowness of the doorway, the ceiling, fortunately, was high enough for Shakkar to stand without stooping.
"I am at your command, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled.
"Can you move that?” asked Grimm, pointing to the grey altar. “It's in our way, and it may be our only means of access to Gruon."
"I can try,” the demon said, flexing his boulder-like biceps and taking up position in front of the stone block. After several deep breaths, Shakkar leaned over, placed his ample shoulder against the face of the altar and began to push. Tendons stood out like hawsers beneath the demon's grey, leathery skin, muscle upon muscle bunching in his shoulders, legs and arms as he exerted himself.
Sweat began to drip from Shakkar's heavy, overhanging brows, and the demon bared his teeth in a ferocious grimace. Grimm added his own meagre effort to the enterprise, pressing his back against the altar and tensing his leg muscles. Still the stone block did not tumble.
"Try pushing nearer the top, Shakkar,” Grimm grunted through clenched teeth. “We only need to overbalance the altar, not push it out of the way."
The demon adjusted his stance, and the granite block rocked a little. Grimm groaned with the effort, giving every iota of his physical strength. At last, the mage felt his knotted muscles giving way, and he collapsed to the tiled floor. After a further few moments, even the mighty Shakkar gave up and slumped to the ground, resting his back against the stone.
Grimm waited a few moments to recover his breath, and to allow his pounding heartbeat to return to a more normal level.
"Right,” Grimm said, returning to his feet. “This time, we act together. Launch yourself at it, Shakkar. This time, we'll give it all we've got in one push-don't try to ration your strength."
Shakkar nodded and rose to his feet. “On the count of three, Lord Baron?"
Grimm braced himself. “All right. One… two… three!"
The mage and the demon collided with the granite block in the same moment, each giving his all.
It's going… it's going! Grimm thought, as the altar began to heel over.
As its centre of gravity moved past its lower periphery, the block crashed over onto its side. For a few panicky moments, Grimm teetered on the brink of a dark, rectangular opening, flapping his arms until he managed to regain his equilibrium. Peering through the opening he saw a mess of rough, yellow stone blocks with a six-inch wide hole at its centre. Faint tendrils of steam drifted through the hole, and through the interstices of the rocks.
"Gruon is down there, Shakkar,” he declared. “I think I'll try a Minor Magic spell of Inner Clarity. If that doesn't-"
"Stop! Please stop!"
The Questor spun around at the anguished shout, to see Revenant Murar standing at the doorway.
"It's over, Murar,” Grimm said. “If it comes to a choice between humans and dream-people, I choose my own kind. Sweet dreams, Revenant."
Murar wrung his hands, almost as if he were praying. “Think what you're doing, Realster. An entire city, obliterated in an instant! Thousands of people will be wiped out in the blink of an eye. You are talking about genocide!"
"And you, Revenant? You have the blood of countless blameless mortals on your hands, an entire race of slaves whose proudest thoughts are for their eventual deaths; a race of people whose only function is to provide their life-blood for the continuance of a dream. It's over, I tell you, and nothing you can say will change my mind."
"We take no pleasure in the spilling of Realster blood!” the old man cried.
Grimm snorted. “I saw the joy of your people when we came here! Joy at the prospect of more blood…"
"Joy only at the prospect of continuance, of survival! This is the only chance we have to live. Have we not that right? We try to make our Breeders and Sacrifices’ lives as happy as possible, before the end. We have no desire to take the blood of Realsters, but-"
"But you do it anyway. You want happy slaves only because they are easier to handle, Murar! I spit on your perverted philosophy!"
"Do you want me to beg, mage?” The Revenant sank to his knees. “I will, if you want me to! We will release your companions, if you want, but, please, just let us live!"
Shakkar stood, towering over Murar, his black talons extended. “Just say the word, Lord Baron, and I will be only too happy to kill him."
"Kill me, if you wish,” the old man said, bowing his head, “and go in peace. But I beg you to preserve our race! I offer myself as a Sacrifice to you."
Grimm felt confusion numbing his brain. Murar might be some bizarre dream-construct, but the Questor saw only a terrified, old man, pleading for his people. It would be so easy to snuff out these dream-people now-perhaps too easy…
They're not to blame, he thought. It's that evil, egotistical Garropode, who set up this whole, maniacal charade.
Garropode…
Grimm sighed; this might not be easy. “Murar,” he said, “Contrary to your beliefs, Gruon is not the source of this city. The dragon is merely the dream of a Realster, a mage like me: a man whose ambitions outshone his abilities. Your venerated Uncle is a dream-construct like you, a solid fantasy. The root source of your beloved Brianston is not some fantastic beast, not a god, but a Realster, a real, flawed human being like me."
"With respect, Lord Baron,” Shakkar rumbled, thrashing his tail, “You have no need to justify yourself to this blood-sucking vermin. I recommend again that you allow me to kill him."
Murar maintained his submissive pose, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips moving silently.
Grimm shook his head. “It's not that simple, Shakkar. One of my own kind, a Guild Mage, is responsible for the plight of these people. What right do we have to wipe them out like this?"
"It is not a matter of ‘rights', Lord Baron! I, for one, would never rest while another enslaved my brothers and used them for fodder."
"I have no intention of allowing the situation to continue, Shakkar. I just feel it would be more… more just to see if we can find a solution that will suit the Brianstonians and the humans equally."
"And if there is no such solution, Lord Baron?"
Grimm shrugged. “Then the original plan will stand."
Murar looked up, with a faint trace of hope shining in his eyes. “Might there be some way in which we can survive without Uncle?"
"Perhaps,” Grimm said, trying to turn half-formed concepts into coherent, rational thought. “It's not Gruon himself who sustains Brianston, but his dreams; or, rather, Garropode's dreams… Garropode's soul.
"If I could capture his essence and freeze it in its current form, Brianston might prevail. I've met him in the spirit world, and I should be able to locate him within the dream-body of Gruon."
Grimm's voice became firmer, as growing confidence began to strengthen his resolve. He almost began to feel cheerful at his own resourcefulness.
"Perhaps the dream-stuff itself could be gathered and secured in an extra-dimensional pocket,” he mused. “Questor Dalquist hid the Eye of Myrrn in just such a place, safe from prying eyes and hands, and I believe I understand the principle. It's got to be worth a try."
"I do not trust this dream-rat or his kind further than I could toss that altar,” Shakkar growled.
Murar groaned and straightened up, massaging his lower back. “I came here to plead for my people,” he said, his voice no longer as placatory as it had been. “I was sincere; I recognise the threat you pose to our continuance, and that you can snuff us all out in an instant. If you have a plan to save our city, I beg you to at least try it. If not, then I've wasted my time. I don't care anymore. We have lost, and we throw ourselves on your mercy."
Grimm could not truly bring himself to grieve for the demise of the Brianstonians and their gory cult, but he still felt the burning desire to prove himself a true mage of the Seventh Rank. He had to acknowledge, even to himself, that he had gained the venerated seven golden rings through a few lucky breaks, and that most mages saw far more danger than he had before they reached this pinnacle of Guild status.
Most of all, he wanted to prove himself superior to Garropode, the renegade sorcerer whose experiments had created this bizarre city.
He knew his exploits might garner him little more respect from his fellow mortals, certainly as far as the acid-tongued Guy was concerned, but at least he, Grimm, would know himself worthy of his exalted rank.
"I'll do it,” he declared with a decisive clap of the hands. “Let's show we can be magnanimous in victory, Shakkar."
"Magnanimity, Lord Baron, is not a virtue we demons are known to possess in abundance. Nonetheless, I am at your command, at least for the nonce, and I will go along with your scheme."
The demon's brows lowered. “But I advise against it."
"Noted,” Grimm said, eager to get started. “I need to meditate for a few moments, Shakkar. I don't think I need to go into a full astral trance, but I'll ask you to keep watch over developments. If there's any sign of encroachments, I want you to alert me at once."
"I understand, Lord Baron. Murar, if there is the least sign of treachery, you die in an instant."
Murar shrugged, and Grimm squatted in the awkward posture prescribed for deep meditation.
He began to regularise his breathing, as he had been taught in the Scholasticate at Arnor, concentrating on the centre of his body. He crushed his human emotions into a sealed parcel at his core, and reached out for the soul of Garropode, deep below the floor of the temple, willing the trance to subsume him.
The sleeping dragon's deep, regular heartbeat filled spirit-Grimm's sensorium, and he searched for the buried essence of the mage, blotting out all impressions of Gruon. Images, sounds, alien thoughts entered his mind and passed through it like leaves in a fast-flowing stream.
Garropode, where are you?
He followed the thick, sticky tentacles of dream-stuff, navigating the heavy currents of consciousness to their source. Nameless and formless, he drifted through Gruon's mind until he saw a grey, worm-like form at its centre. A faint glow of triumph leaked through from his buried consciousness as he entered the pallid form.
Garropode, you are mine!
Awareness wafted into his mind.
Grimm, you shall not have me!
Resistance: the Questor recognised it, flowed around it and squeezed.
I am the stronger. I will prevail! The proud, human imperative rushed to the fore, and Grimm amplified the power within him.
Mine! Mine!
With a dull pop, the young mage plunged into the source of the Brianston dream, gathering and garnering, clutching it to him. In an instant, the entity, the essence of Garropode ceased to be, and spirit-Grimm knew he had won.
Twisting through a strange angle, into a small void without form or feature, he released the bundle of dream-energy, simultaneously rushing upwards to his crude, mortal form.
He gasped like a drowning man washed up on the shore, coughing out the sick, subsumed essence of the conquered mage within him.
"Lord Baron! Are you all right?"
Grimm found himself sprawled upon the floor of Gruon's temple, and saw the twin forms of Shakkar and Murar. He had succeeded!
"All right,” he grunted, pushing himself to his feet. Turning to the Revenant, he said, “Whatever remains of Garropode is now dedicated to the continuance of Brianston, Murar. I now demand that you free my companions and the other humans from their bondage."
Murar's eyes narrowed. “How do I know what you say is true, Realster? All I saw was that you closed your eyes for a few moments."
"You are in absolutely no position to haggle, Revenant,” the demon rumbled.
Buoyed up by his easy victory, Grimm shrugged. “I can prove it,” he said, smiling. Leaning over to the void in the floor, he uttered the syllables of the spell of Inner Clarity. After a few moments, a gout of blue flame shot from the hole, and a feral, angry roar echoed up from the chamber below.
"Uncle is awake, and I still live!” Murar gasped. “You spoke truth, Realster, and I thank you. I will-"
The floor began to shake, and motes of dust drifted down from the ceiling.
Grimm had assumed the dragon to be a relatively small creature, perhaps the size of a horse or a cow. The powerful, thrusting impacts under the jumbled tons of rock spoke of something far, far greater and stronger, and he felt the clammy hands of uncertainty upon him.
"I fear you may have made a grave error, Lord Baron,” Shakkar said, echoing the mage's own thoughts, as a powerful blow jerked the mass of stone up by two or three inches. Another mighty impact flung sizable boulders free of the hole, and Grimm had to duck to avoid decapitation.
"I think it might be a good idea to get out of here, Murar,” he muttered as the entire structure trembled with greater and greater frequency.
"I think you're right, Realster."
The mage, the demon and the Revenant fled from the shaking mausoleum into a nervously-chattering crowd of Brianstonians.
Pillars tumbled to the ground and the pointed roof of the structure leaned over at a precipitous angle for a few moments before crashing down. A tumultuous roar arose from the ground, and a long, sinuous neck, topped by a reptilian head the size of a wagon, snaked out of the crumbling ruins. From the long snout, a plume of shimmering blue flame shot into the early evening sky, and an ear-splitting roar shook the ground.
Brianstonians screamed and fled, and Grimm stared at the vision with a mixture of horror and astonishment. Even with maybe three-quarters of his bulk beneath the ground, Gruon towered thirty or forty feet in the air, and the young mage knew he had made a bad mistake.
He felt transfixed as Gruon's earth-shattering, affronted scream shook the ground, and the dragon ripped himself free of his prison and began to clamber out of the pit.
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