Grimm craned his neck as the dragon, Gruon, unwound himself from his rocky prison of so many years. Eighty, ninety, a hundred feet into the air rose the majestic beast, his scaly, golden hide gleaming in the dusk light. As a mighty, trumpeting bellow shook the ground, the Questor thought the giant creature was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Despite the cold, sick fear coursing through him, Grimm recognised the transcendent grandeur of Garropode's creation.
The Questor had borrowed a magical gem from the Lord Dominie that was supposed to protect him against fire, but he had little desire to test the efficacy of the small charm against the golden creature's potent flame weapon. In addition to this, the deceptively slender-looking tail looked capable of being whipped around in an instant, and the fearsome blue, metallic claws at the end of each of the four scaled legs must be at least three feet in length.
Uncertain of what to do, Grimm glanced at the Revenant, Murar, at his right side. The dream man crouched on hands and knees before the magnificent form of the dragon, in a position of sincere obeisance, and the mage wondered if the Revenant's action might not be the best possible defence: the dragon's head, smoke drifting from the slit nostrils, oriented first on Grimm, then on Shakkar, but the emerald eyes, slitted like those of some giant cat, seemed to ignore the squatting figure. To test his theory, Grimm froze, and the golden beast seemed to lose interest in him, concentrating instead on Shakkar.
"Lord Baron, we must get out of here, now!” the demon urged, who was dwarfed by the towering dragon.
"He can't see us if we don't move, Shakkar,” Grimm said from the corner of his mouth. “Stand still for a few moments, and, with any luck, he'll wander off. If we try to run, I'm not sure we can outdistance Gruon or his flame."
The demon did as Grimm advised, and the mage saw Gruon waving his head back and forth for a few moments, as if confused or uncertain. Then, with a snort and a small belch of flame from his nostrils, the scaly creation began to wander off into the city, the ground trembling with each step.
Grimm said, “Give me the keys to the roundhouse, Murar. I don't know if we can beat this thing or not, but we're going to need a greater force than this if we're to have any chance against him."
The Revenant stared blankly, seeming oblivious to Grimm's words. “This is punishment for our pride. There is nothing left to do but to atone for our hubris, to be cleansed in the merciful, all-consuming fire of Uncle. It is justice…"
Grimm saw the fervid, feverish gleam in Murar's eyes, and guessed that the old man had surrendered his rationality. There could be no reasoning with him, and the mage knew his best course of action might be to humour the almost catatonic Revenant.
"You are right, Murar,” he said. “All the people of Brianston should have the right to share in Gruon's mercy, including the Breeders. Give me the keys, and I'll make sure that all are cleansed."
Murar nodded slowly. “Yes, that is right and just. All should share in Uncle's bounty."
He fumbled in a pocket and produced a stub of a key, with a threaded section at one end. Grimm shook his head, and tried to keep his voice calm and gentle.
"There are two keys, Murar,” he said, “a short one for the outer door, and a much longer key for the inner one. I'll need both keys to release the Breeders."
Murar shook his head, his eyes bright with evangelical fervour. “It's all I have, Blessed Sacrifice. This is the last section of the key to the inner door. The other sections are held by other Revenants. Elamma, the Protector, holds the outer key."
Grimm stared at the useless three-inch stub, his entrails churning with frustration.
Perhaps I could pick the locks, he mused, but he noted the key's complex angles and projections. Despite his early life in his grandfather's smithy, he had no idea of the workings of locks, and he realised that his chances of success were slim. Perhaps the only chance was for Shakkar to lift the prisoners out through the ragged hole in the rotunda's roof.
He stifled a groan as he realised how long that process might take.
I guess we don't have much choice-I'm no locksmith or thief…
Thief! All we need to do is to free Crest! I'm sure he can open the doors, if anyone can.
"Shakkar,” he said, his voice trembling with intensity, “we must get Crest out; he's a master thief! Surely he can pick the lock, if anyone can."
"Very well, Lord Baron.” The demon shook dust and detritus from his wings, “but I insist you stay here, safe from the dragon."
Grimm shook his head. “I'm responsible for this mess, Shakkar. In any case, I'm not sure anywhere's safe from Gruon. If he takes to his wings, he could level the whole place. I'm coming with you. That's… that's an order, Lord Seneschal."
It felt strange to issue such an imperative to the towering, grey being, but Shakkar nodded slowly. “Very well, Lord Baron,” he said, his voice free of the least trace of rancour. “I will take you."
The demon hoisted the young mage into the air and headed for the rotunda, and Grimm saw a trail of destruction as they approached it. Gruon stalked through the streets, knocking down real and imaginary walls and small buildings with his tail, scorching the hapless Brianstonians with his fiery breath.
The casual carnage appalled the mage, its effect undiminished by the fact that some of the citizens sang joyously as they burned. The walls of the roundhouse bore mute testament to the sheer power of the dragon, with deep scars and blackened areas on its thick walls, and Grimm feared the golden creature might bring the whole structure down on the heads of his companions and the Breeders inside.
At least Gruon seems more interested by the Brianstonians than by us, he thought, as Shakkar came to a halt over the jagged opening in the dome and began to descend into the interior.
The scene inside the roundhouse was no less chaotic than the streets of Brianston, as hordes of Breeders, their faces contorted in rage, hammered at the invisible walls of Guy's ward.
Shakkar thumped to the floor, and the angry Realsters paused in their assault. As several of the attackers broke from the main group and turned towards him,
Grimm held up Redeemer and shouted, “Stop! Stop right there, or I'll use magic on you!"
A slender, red-headed man of maybe twenty years yelled, “You robbed us of our birthright! We have worked all our lives to gain Gruon's blessing, and you've stolen that from us!"
"If you want to die, feel free!” Grimm snapped, his patience with these suicidal idiots wearing thin. “Gruon is awake and wreaking destruction outside. If you want to meet him, then I can arrange that! Just remember that we, too, are Realsters like you, and we'd prefer not to die.
"We regard our most treasured condition as life rather than death, and we'd rather hang onto it as long as we can. If you'll agree to stop your attack, you can all meet Uncle Gruon. If not, you'll die here, and you'll never see him at all. If death is all you want, I can oblige you there, too!"
The mage allowed a trace of green fire to flare at his fingertips, his mouth compressed into an angry, frustrated slit.
Several moments passed while the Breeders muttered and argued, until a sturdy, fleshy man stepped forward, whom Grimm recognised as the ringleader of the initial assault.
"What do you propose, mage-filth?"
"You want to meet Gruon, and we just want to get out of here,” Grimm said. “Those aims aren't incompatible. Just stop your attack, and we'll let you out. Is that agreed?"
A loud roar sounded from outside, followed by mingled screams of joy and pain, and the man nodded. “Agreed. All right, let us meet Uncle.” The other Breeders signalled their assent.
Grimm turned to the pale, sweaty Guy Great Flame, and said, “You can drop the ward now, Brother Mage."
Guy's shoulders slumped as he cut off the stream of spell-energy. “Well, you took your sweet time, didn't you, wonder-boy?” he hissed. “I suppose you just-"
"Shut up for once in your life, and give your mouth a rest, Guy!” Grimm snapped, wandering over to the half-elf and showing him the key-stub.
"Think you can pick the lock this key fits, Crest?"
The slender thief cocked his head on one side for a few moments, as he examined the small piece of metal. “Complicated,” he said, “but I've never yet met a lock I couldn't master. The Revenants might have taken my whip and throwing-knives, but at least they left me my lock-picks."
Crest lifted his leather jacket's right lapel, to show a number of slender metal objects hidden behind it. “Let's go,” he said.
The demon walked over to the thief, and Grimm asked, “Can you take us both, Shakkar? I may be able to shield Crest from the dragon's fire."
The Seneschal eyed the two mortals. “Neither of you is a heavyweight, Lord Baron,” he declared. “I believe I can."
The building shook as another of the dragon's blows hit home, and shards of stone fell to the floor.
"Better make it fast,” Harvel said with a nervous smile. “It sounds like Uncle Gruon's getting eager to introduce himself to us in person."
Grimm nodded. “Let's do it, Lord Seneschal."
Breath whooshed from Grimm's lungs, as Shakkar took him and Crest in a tight grip and shot towards the dome's shattered apex. He shut his eyes as the demon hurtled through the air.
In a few moments, he felt his feet touching solid ground again, and he opened his eyes. He was outside the Breeder compound's outer door.
The building shuddered again, and Shakkar released his mortal burden.
"We may not have much time, Crest,” Grimm said, rubbing his aching ribs as the huge building trembled again.
The half-elf drew a succession of spindly implements from his jacket and knelt before the first, oversized lock, his expression calm and intent.
"It'll take me a few moments, Questor,” he said, as the mage honed his senses for the first signs of the approach of the golden destroyer.
Grimm nodded, clamping down on his emotions as the building shuddered again.
Crest nodded, probing the lock with a succession of tools. Despite the sounds of devastation around him, the thief appeared unaffected, his entire attention focused on the problem at hand.
Gruon howled, and Grimm could tell the golden dragon was getting ever closer.
Come on, Crest, he thought, drawing Redeemer close to his side. We don't have an awful lot of time, now.
The lock emitted a decisive click, and Crest grinned. “That's got it. One down, one to go!"
With a theatrical flourish, the thief flung the first door wide and scuttled inside the small inner hall. Grimm heard the growing sound of thumping and turned to face the demon.
"Hold still, Shakkar,” he muttered. “Gruon's on his way, and that room's too small for the three of us."
As the dragon hove into view, the demon growled, drawing Gruon's attention. The feral, green eyes fastened on him, and Grimm spread himself out in the narrow doorway, trusting in his borrowed charm to protect him if the dragon's fire struck him.
Gruon lowered his red-crested head until it was almost level with Grimm's, and the mage tried not to gag at the golden creature's oily, stifling breath. The reptilian snout hovered over him, and Grimm saw the nostrils opening and closing in a regular, rhythmic sequence. The gleaming, green eyes seemed to bore into him, and he saw no trace of compassion or mercy in those emerald orbs.
He flicked a glance down at the small, magical gem at his breast. It looked puny and pathetic, incapable of protecting him against Gruon's ferocious stream of death. He held his breath, and he could tell even the fearless Shakkar was doing the same.
The dragon snorted, stomped and thrashed his tail, and a stray Brianstonian came into view, his face suffused with joy. “Take me to your bosom, beloved Uncle-"
Faster than thought, the slender head whipped around. The joyous celebrant turned to ash in an instant, consumed by a gust of shimmering, blue flame. Gruon began to wander towards the carbonised remains, and Grimm suppressed a sigh of relief as the dragon walked away.
We've made it! he thought. All we need to do is-
"Got it!” crowed Crest, from inside the vestibule, and the dragon stopped in his tracks at the joyous cry.
Gruon snorted, knocking a building to its foundations with a single blow of his muscular tail, and Grimm stumbled, revealing himself to the dragon's limited sight as the cold, green eyes focused on him.
"Crest, Shakkar!” he screamed, as the dragon began to turn. “Get inside, and get everyone away from the doorway! NOW!"
He had no idea if his order had been obeyed or not; all he saw was the cold, vengeful mask of Gruon, whose attention was now, undeniably, locked upon him.
The dragon roared, paining the mage's ears. Gruon closed his mouth, and a blue wall of flame hit Grimm like a tidal wave, washing over him and threatening to consume him. He crouched, as if it might lessen the effect of the scorching stream, but he felt the temperature rising as the heat of the dragon's ire began to overcome the small gem's protection.
As the blue flames licked at him, Grimm felt the angry stirrings of affronted testosterone within him.
Damn you, dream-lizard! he raged in his head. I'm not about to submit to this!
"Ag-hi'y'AAAAAR” he yelled, launching a spell of Dissolution at the enormous creature's head. He shut his eyes, giving the spell all power he could spare, and he heard a deafening scream from the dragon as the magic lashed its scaly body.
Jerking his eyes open, he saw Gruon backing away, but he felt a cold tremor of horror run down his spine.
The potent spell did little more than darken a few scales around the dragon's face. However, Grimm also noted the golden being's tightly-shut eyes, and the tight concentration of scales around the focus of the spell.
Without waiting to think further, he spat a spell he thought of as ‘Ice Spears’ at the creature, and he saw Gruon's scales close around the impact points of the sharp spikes, extracted from the humid air. The projectiles shattered harmlessly on the beast's metallic hide.
Nonetheless, Gruon stepped backwards again demolishing another small building behind him, and Grimm knew he had at least surprised the dragon.
His innate power exhausted, the mage drew on Redeemer's stored energy and repulsed the golden, metallic beast, sending him flying backwards in a cartwheel of wings and legs. Gruon floundered and screamed in rage as he thrashed.
From behind him, he dimly heard the voice of Quelgrum: “That's all we need, Lord Baron! Let's get out of here!"
However, the Questor shook his head, revelling at the heady sensation of the hot, angry blood pounding within him. He shook off a hand on his right shoulder, hungry for victory.
The dragon closed his mouth and spat a further gout of fire at Grimm, this time knocking the mage from his feet.
Gruon is mine! the mage thought, scrambling to his feet. He's scared of me!
The dragon lurched from the rubble and howled, launching a blue tower of fire into the evening sky. Grimm spat another spell, and the magnificent monster's scales contracted again in response, snuffing the flame in an instant.
Those scales are strong on the outside, but can they protect Gruon from the inside? the young Questor wondered, feeling strong arms closing around him. I know now you can't launch flame with your mouth open.
With almost contemptuous ease, he shook off the constraining arms and looked at the uncertain face of the dragon. That huge maw, with its spear-like teeth, began to open, and Grimm smiled.
Open wide, he thought, and his subconscious drove him to an act his conscious mind would never have considered: launching himself bodily into the gaping mouth.
Wedging the indestructible Redeemer into Gruon's jaws, Grimm slid into the tunnel-sized throat, slipping past huge, yellow teeth into a slimy, red passage into a cavernous, acidic pool.
The Questor gagged at the heavy, metallic odours assailing his nose, and he snapped a strong ward around himself. Despite his disgusting surroundings, he smiled, protected from the corrosive slime around him by his swift, instinctive spell. Here, Gruon could not harm him.
Without bothering to create illumination, Grimm launched a bolt of flame upward through the slimy gullet.
"Say goodnight, Uncle,” he said, and his world flashed into a formless void of pain, heat, clamour and unconsciousness in the space of a single heartbeat.
[Back to Table of Contents]