This, Reinmar realised, was where the wine of dreams was actually made. The substances dissolved from the pulp obviously gave it some of its texture and some of its complexity, but the eventual product was obviously highly diluted—and the most active ingredient of all was that which was kept in the phials and added drop by drop to the bottled liquor. He was sure now that it was the nectar of the uncanny flowers, patiently gathered by the monks.
Luther’s assumption that the making of the wine of dreams must be subject to the same seasonal cycle as any other vintage was quite wrong, Reinmar realised. Here there was probably no alternation of day and night, let alone an alternation of winter and summer. That was why Almeric had said that the monastery could supply wine three or four times a year—but the process by which the nectar was produced must be slow, for this store was far nearer empty than full.
Marcilla had drawn back against the unadorned wall to the left of the entrance, but when Reinmar dropped her hand she made no attempt to run, or even to move further away from him. He took off his stolen cloak and gave it to her so that she could cover her body. She hesitated, perhaps because its skirts were so liberally stained with blood, but she put it on regardless.
“I’m a friend,” Reinmar said again. “Stay close to me, and I’ll defend you with my life. Only trust me, and we’ll win through.” In the meantime, his gaze flicked back and forth along the row of vats and the huddled masses of the barrels, and he wondered what he ought to do now. Had the vats been made of wood he might have been able to overturn them, but they were stone, and he knew that even Sigurd would have laboured in vain to upset one. Even the laden barrels were too heavy to be easily overturned—but the bottles were brittle as well as light, and the phials were lighter still.
No more pursuers had followed him as yet, but Reinmar knew that he only had a minute or two to spare if he hoped to make his escape. He had to get back to the entrance before it could be sealed. With luck, though, a minute or two ought to be enough. He put the phial he had already opened into his pouch, and threw the other full one, unopened, into the rock where the stream made its way into the further depths. It vanished from sight, and he had no doubt that it was irretrievable. He followed it with two other phials which still had a few drops of fluid in them.
The crack in the rock was too narrow to accommodate a bottle, but he was not afraid of the scent of the diluted wine. All he had to do to reduce the stocks of the final product was to race back and forth along the shelves on the left-hand wall, tumbling bottles, flasks and jars from the shelves, letting them smash upon the floor as they fell—and that is what he did.
It only required fifteen seconds of running amok, picking up any stone jars that would not consent to fall and hurling them this way and that, to wreak utter havoc in the storeroom. The odour of the spilled wine quickly became strong enough to intoxicate, but it was nothing like as strong as the perfume of the pure nectar, which had threatened to immobilise him. The giddiness he felt only made him wave his arms about more furiously, until there was nothing left on any of the shelves and his feet were surrounded by shards of broken glass. The floor of the cavern was sticky and sweet, but the spilled wine was already draining towards the exit-hole into which he had cast the phials.
The thrill of destruction was delicious, and the rising odour of the wine of dreams merely served to make it more piquant still.
“What have you done?” Marcilla whispered, finding her voice at last.
“I have revenged you,” he told her, trying to keep his own voice firm and level. He kept on talking, hoping that it would help to calm his thundering heart and painting breath. “I have taught these unholy monks a much-needed lesson as to the proper price of human flesh and human souls. Now, we must go. We must find Vaedecker, and the way out.
“You killed those men,” the gypsy whispered.
“So I did,” he admitted. “But what I have seen of this vile world below the world would drive any virtuous man to murder—even one who did not love you. If ever there were men who deserved to die… Come with me now, I beg you!” So saying, he took Marcilla by the wrist again, as if to draw her out of the cave—but she was a little stronger now, and she resisted.
“Please,” he said, softly. “You do not know me now, but I love you. If you cannot trust me, we are both doomed.” He looked deep into her lovely eyes, hoping that she could measure his worth accurately, and know him for what he was. She lowered her head, and stopped trying to pull away from him. Perhaps she had remembered, at last, that she had seen him in her dreams. He drew her towards him, and hugged her tightly, hoping that the gesture would reassure her.
“We must go now,” he said. She seemed to have understood that necessity, for she made no effort to hold him back. They departed from the storehouse of the wine of dreams without a backward glance at the wreckage they left behind.
Once out of the covert, Reinmar began to move rapidly but stealthily along the wall of the underworld, in the direction which, he hoped and trusted, would bring them to the spiral stair. Mercifully, although there was no path, the way was fairly clear. Marcilla followed, not needing to be hauled along. The coldly glowing wall was to their left. To their right, great ebon bells hung down from ivory stalks—enough of them to make a carillon. As they passed along the subtly curving wall, though, the black blossoms gave way to pink, and then to pale blue, and then to black and white in combination. Reinmar watched them all the while, fearful that if a single style should extend like a sinuous tongue from any one of those huge hoods to coil itself about his neck or any part of Marcilla’s person then he might have a far sterner fight on his hands than the cadaverous monks had been able to offer.
It seemed, though, that the flowers were lost in some dream of their own. If they were capable of caring about anything at all, they clearly did not care about the loss of Marcilla, even though she had been chosen for their use and called to their service. Reinmar sent a silent prayer of gratitude to Morr -whose wrath, he now felt sure, must have aided him considerably in his desperate rush to snatch his beloved from the jaws of a fate far worse than death. The success of his mad dash now seemed evidence enough that Morr was severely displeased by these heretic priests and their macabre garden of lost souls. When he had finished his prayer of thanks, however, Reinmar was quick to send another, imploring further help. He knew that he was not yet safe, and that there was ample time for further intervention in this adventure. As soon as he had made this further plea his heart leapt, for he saw another breach in the shining wall of the cavern and recognised it as the gateway through which he and Vaedecker had entered the underworld.
The monk knocked unconscious by Vaedecker still lay unmoving, and alone, at the tunnel’s entrance. This sight renewed Reinmar’s strength. Gladness surged through him as he passed beneath the last of the awesome blooms and was suddenly among the man-made confusion of barrels and bottles, ladders and tables. He regretted that he had sheathed his sword when he heard rapid movement behind him as soon as he had passed into the antechamber. But when he whirled about he saw that it was Matthias Vaedecker hurrying after him, bloodstained sword in hand.
The soldier’s expression was grim. “You should not have moved away from me without my signal,” Vaedecker said, angrily, “and after having moved, you certainly should not have hurled yourself upon them without so much as a sideways glance. Are you mad?”
“Are there any left to chase us?” Reinmar asked, ignoring the rebukes.
“I think not—no thanks to you,” Vaedecker growled.
“On the contrary,” Reinmar told him. “I did my share, and none can say otherwise.” As he spoke, the memory of the man with the cleaver stuck in his throat came back momentarily to haunt him, but he was too tired to shudder and far too wrathful to feel ashamed.
“You had better pray that they are even worse fools than you,” Vaedecker told him. “If even one has had the sense to run to the stair instead of racing to meet our blades, then we’re done for. Our
only hope is to be up and away before anyone on the surface realises what has been done down here.” He knelt down as he spoke and put his fingers to the throat of the unconscious monk, checking for a pulse. “He’ll sleep for a while yet,” he opined. “I suppose I should slit his throat, but he’ll be no threat to us if we move quickly. It appears, Master Wieland, that I underestimated you. I did not think you the kind of man to start a war so recklessly. We came here as careful spies, not a two-man army set to run amok.”
“You were the one who came as a spy,” Reinmar reminded him. “I came to save Marcilla, by any means necessary. It seems to me that the war began as soon as the monsters in the hills became real. I started nothing.”
Vaedecker shook his head, but not unsympathetically. “The war began in Marienburg,” he said. “I’ve been on the march with von Spurzheim ever since—but if our battleground had not been decided already, you’ve probably determined it now. Had we contrived to slip away we might have brought the fight here while they did not expect us, but whichever evil god has made this place will surely take it amiss that we have slaughtered his servants. Whatever is waiting for us at the head of the stair, and however quick a getaway we make thereafter, there will be a full gathering of our enemies now—and those half-humans who attacked us before will likely be the least of the assembled army. You have no idea what you have done, Reinmar Wieland.” The sergeant was trying hard to be censorious, but the grudging approval beneath the criticism was obvious. Vaedecker might have come here as a spy, but he was a warrior first and foremost.
“No,” Reinmar replied, “I have no idea what I have done—but I could not stop at half-measures when I saw what they intended to do with Marcilla, and I did not.”
“You killed the three who went after you, then?
“Oh yes. And I did what I could to spoil their harvest. I found their storehouse, and I spilt the wines within. I doubt there is a single flask, of glass or stone, that is still intact.” He said this proudly, expecting to earn a further increase in the soldier’s esteem, but Vaedecker only knitted his brow. Clearly, he had little or no idea what the consequence might be of any interference with the monks’ own supply of the wine of dreams, and he did not ask for further details of what Reinmar had done.
“Well,” the sergeant said, “sometimes the recklessness of youth has the advantage over the skill of the tactician, even though shrewd tacticians usually live longer than hot-headed heroes. Since we are committed, I suppose we must do as much damage here as we can.”
Having said that, the soldier went into the tunnel to fetch out one of the candles set to light it, and applied the flame to the leg of one of the tables. Given the untidiness of the various objects heaped around the entrance, it was obvious that a fire would spread quickly, and would not be easily extinguished. There was no way to judge whether its spreading fumes would be able to hurt the horrid flowers, but they would certainly help to prevent any pursuit from the underworld.
“Now,” Vaedecker said as soon as the fire was well and truly alight, “we must tackle that stair. If we get trapped halfway, the blood we have so far shed will seem a trivial thing. Are you ready?”
He spoke the last words over his shoulder as he looked back to make certain that Reinmar and the girl were behind him. They were close on his heels as he moved swiftly along the tunnel—Reinmar certainly did not want to linger while the smoke was billowing in every direction.
“I’m ready,” he said, and meant it.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I don’t understand,” Marcilla whispered, although she consented to be drawn towards the stair. “Where am I, and what is happening?”
“Don’t worry, my love,” Reinmar implored. “The world we know awaits us up above, and we have every chance of making good our escape. Only trust me, and I will see you safe.” He would have felt better had he not caught sight of the expression in Matthias Vaedecker’s eyes while he spoke these words. Vaedecker immediately turned his gaze forwards again and said nothing, but if Reinmar read him right the soldier was of the clear opinion that they would do far better, even now, to leave the girl behind, no matter what her subsequent fate might be.
They arrived at the foot of the spiral staircase while the air they breathed was still unpolluted.
“You go first,” Reinmar said, as evenly as he could, “I’ll follow.”
“See that you do,” the sergeant muttered, setting his foot on the first step. Marching with all the military precision he could muster, Vaedecker began to climb—and Reinmar followed, in his own fashion.
As they climbed the staircase Marcilla began pulling against Reinmar’s clutching hand, mewling piteously, but Reinmar would not let her go and while he insisted she had not the strength to pull away from him. He felt a cold shock of fear in his heart as the possibility occurred to him that the false death induced by the drug—including a sojourn in the grave—might have disturbed her very profoundly, even to the extent of leaving her utterly and irredeemably mad. When he looked back at her, though, it seemed that her eyes, though bewildered, were lit by reason.
“Have patience,” he whispered, “I am Reinmar Wieland, your deliverer. We must climb, dear heart, as fast as we can, for we have been in some tomblike world beneath the world, and must scale this wearisome stair in order to return.”
She swayed, and might have fallen had he not held her so tightly. “This is the strangest dream of all!” she said, weakly.
He shook her again, and said: “This is no dream, my love! This is real, and all might still be lost if you will not climb. Come up, my love, come up!”
He pulled her up the steps behind him, but he knew that he could not drag her all the way. She had to climb by the effort of her own will, and by the strength of her own frail limbs.
Help me, Morr! he begged silently. God of Death you may be, but I beg you now to help my darling live, until the proper time when you must claim her-for I understand full well that I have saved her for you as well as for myself!
Whether his prayer was heard or not, he could not know, but Marcilla did begin to climb, though her unshod feet had begun to bleed and her ankles were further stained by blood that had leaked from the habit that Reinmar had given her to wear. As Reinmar forced himself to go round and round, ascending the flight, she followed meekly, holding hard to the rail as she came. Once she was in motion, and only had to repeat what she did over and over again, she began to climb faster and faster, and Reinmar climbed before her, believing that every step they took, away from the uncanny white-lit underworld toward the golden radiance of the sun, was a tiny salvation in itself.
How long it took them to reach the top of the spiral staircase Reinmar could not tell. He did not attempt to count the candles as he passed them by, nor the steps on which he trod. His body was still perilously close to the limits of its endurance, and his legs ached terribly. It was as if his entire being were flooded by a kind of fire, which would not let him build any chain of consecutive thoughts, but burned a single intention into his consciousness: the intention to put one foot in front of the other, as relentlessly as he could, in the hope and faith that he would eventually be brought to the end of his course.
That he did, and continued to do, until the three of them came at last to the head of the stair, and the loose screen that separated the world to which they were returning from the one which they had fled.
Matthias Vaedecker drew the screen aside, and looked out into the space behind the altar. Then he moved rapidly forward, so that he could look out into the temple itself. Reinmar had not realised that the soldier was so tense and tired until he heard the sigh the sergeant released when he saw that the building was empty.
“We are fortunate, Master Wieland,” the soldier said. “If any alarm had been raised in the living quarters they’d surely have set an ambush here. We still have to pass the farmhouse, but that should be easy enough. By the time the monk we left at the foot of the stair recovers, and goes into the underworld to
see what we have done, we shall be long gone. Even so, it will be best if we can escape unseen.”
They left the temple by the same door they had used before, and hurried away from it in the direction of Zygmund’s farmhouse. Vaedecker led the way in an unhurried fashion, making careful use of whatever cover he could find. Reinmar knew that it would not be easy to pass the farm buildings without being seen, but it would not be a disaster if they were; even if Zygmund had labourers with him they would think twice before attacking two men armed with bloody swords.
They stayed within the wood as long as they could, and were still hidden by bushes as they came to the edge of the farmer’s fields. From that vantage point Reinmar could see that there was a group of five men gathered on the path that led to the farmhouse. They were standing still and seemed to be engaged in an intense discussion. Two of them, who had their backs to him, were unrecognisable save for the fact that they wore monastic robes—but one of those facing the two monks, who towered above them both, was unmistakable.
“Sigurd!” Reinmar exclaimed, exultantly. “It’s Sigurd, come searching for us!”
Vaedecker put out a hand to warn Reinmar to be still, and Reinmar obeyed the injunction willingly enough—but Marcilla had recognised someone too, and Reinmar had relaxed his grip on her hand sufficiently to let her pull away and run out of the wood into the open ground ahead of them.
“Ulick!” she cried. “Ulick! I am here!”
Vaedecker cursed, but it was only habit and not alarm. Reinmar remembered what he had been told about the valley being hidden from everyone except those who had heard a call. If that was true, then he and Vaedecker had only been able to find it by following the girl. Sigurd must, therefore, have needed a guide of his own—and none but Ulick could have led him here.
For a moment or two Reinmar preserved the hope that the fifth and partly-hidden man might be Godrich, but as soon as he began to run after the girl, by which time all five faces had turned towards him, he saw that it was Zygmund.
[Warhammer] - The Wine of Dreams Page 19
