Dragonblaster cogd-5

by Alastair J. Archibald

  Shakkar nodded, wordless. Although he would never have admitted as much, he also felt glad that the soldier had not needed to carry out his threat.

  As the afternoon wore on, the Sergeant's pace was easy for the demon to match, but Shakkar felt an unaccustomed torpor seeping into his bones. He had not slept for many years, but he thought he might well do so tonight.

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  Chapter 13: ‘Just A Dream'

  I've got to stop waking up like this, Grimm thought, as his consciousness bloomed into the bright awareness of a sharp pain in his head.

  He opened his eyes and found himself hanging from chains on a rough-cast wall. The metal manacles holding his hands and feet were thick and heavy, but he was surprised to see they were lined with soft, yielding leather. The purpose of the strange, gleaming gauntlets on his hands was beyond him.

  On the wall opposite him, the young mage saw a strange red crest, resembling the face of some bizarre type of reptile or lizard. The carving was rendered in exquisite detail; so much so, that it almost seemed alive. Large amber eyes with pupils like vertical slits appeared to be watching him. For a moment, he could swear that he saw the carved eyes blink, but he dismissed the idea at once.

  That bang on the head must have affected me more than I thought…

  Grimm shook his head and felt an unaccustomed weight. He guessed he was wearing some sort of helmet, but it, too, seemed well-padded. If this was incarceration, it seemed odd that his captors should go to so much trouble to keep him comfortable.

  The room was small, and the only occupant, except for Grimm, was an old man, asleep in the embrace of a rocking-chair. The only window was barred, showing views of the impossibly beautiful city beyond. The walls were made of large stone blocks, whose joints were all but invisible in their closeness. The single door looked to be constructed of solid oak. Impregnable as his bonds would have seemed to a mere Secular, he was not unduly worried.

  Once I've summoned Redeemer, I can probably lever these chains from the wall, and it doesn't look as if the old man here will be able to put up much resistance.

  "Redeemer, come here,” he muttered.

  Nothing happened, and Grimm felt a frisson of panic. Had the knock on his head deprived him of his powers? No; that could not be: no simple blow could deprive a Guild Mage of his innate abilities. Perhaps the simple summoning required a certain level of volume.

  "Redeemer, come to me!"

  Still the staff failed to appear, and the old man opened his eyes at the Questor's shout.

  "Ah, beloved, welcome to Brianston,” the man said, his face crinkling into a friendly smile. “We are so glad you are here. I am Murar, and I am the fortunate one chosen to be your attendant."

  Grimm yanked and rattled his heavy chains, but they seemed fixed fast to the wall.

  "Please be careful, Blessed One. I would not wish you to be harmed."

  "What's going on here? How dare you abduct a Guild Questor of the Seventh Rank? Let me go, or, I warn you, I will be forced to use magic on you!"

  "You cannot, Blessed One,” the old man said with a blissful smile. “You are bound with pure iron, a metal immune to all sorcery. Please accept your destiny with the dignity befitting your noble status."

  "Aghshaa!” the mage screamed, trying to invoke a spell of Dissolution on his fetters. Nothing happened, and Grimm's heart began to pound in his chest. He attempted three more spells, to no greater effect.

  "I told you, Lord Mage, you have no magic here. You are to be a Saviour of our city, and for that we thank you."

  Grimm struggled to bring his rampant emotions under his control. “If I'm so blessed, why am I chained in this way?” he demanded. “Why don't you just let me go?"

  "Because otherwise you might try to escape,” the white-haired man said, as if it were the most reasonable explanation in the world. Humming softly to himself, Murar began to rock back and forth in his chair.

  Is this some kind of madman? Grimm wondered. He seems sane enough, but he's talking arrant nonsense. I can see he idolises me for some strange reason, but the whole situation is crazy!

  "Look, Murar,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I can see there's some sort of misunderstanding here-"

  Murar beamed as he continued to work his creaking chair. “There is no misunderstanding, Lord Mage, except on your part. We do not love you, as a person, but what you represent to us. You are life and happiness, continuance and joy. We are but the insubstantial dreams of Uncle Gruon, but your presence offers us continued existence. Thanks to you, Uncle Gruon will continue to dream. This is good.

  "The city in its present form has lasted for fifty years. With your help, it will live at least another decade. You alone will satisfy our beloved, sleeping Uncle for at least fourteen months. Your friend with the strange ears will last maybe ten months, but the large, pale warrior should satisfy Uncle for far longer."

  "What is all this nonsense about uncles, sleep and dreams, Murar? You are as real as I! Let me go, and I will show you!"

  Murar stopped rocking and looked the mage directly in the eye. He sighed, and addressed Grimm as if he were instructing a small child. “You can show me nothing, mage. I know all. I and my brethren exist only through the dreams of our beloved Uncle Gruon."

  Grimm invoked his Mage Sight: the old man appeared to possess a human aura and appropriate mass. What he was saying made no sense at all.

  He must be mad. My only hope seems to be that I can try to talk him into some sort of sanity. Perhaps I'd better start by humouring him.

  "All right,” he said. “If you're a dream, then what am I?"

  Murar blinked. “Why, you're alive, Blessed One. You're real. Don't you know that?"

  "Of course I do! I just-"

  "Then why did you ask?” The old man returned to his humming and rocking.

  Grimm shifted his position, easing the stress on his shoulders and knees.

  I've got to find some way to get through to this crazy man, he thought. But where do I start?

  "Look,” he said. “Of course I know I'm alive! I just don't understand what you're saying. I can see you and hear you. How can I see someone else's dream? You must admit that is a strange phenomenon."

  "I didn't say it wasn't.” The old man did not seem perturbed in the least. “But it's true. Our adored Uncle lies beneath the city. While he sleeps and dreams, we live. Should he wake, we will die. It is as simple as that. You will ensure that he continues to sleep for many, many years."

  The old man resumed his nodding, his eyes closed, and Grimm began to fight waves of sheer panic. Deprived of magic and trussed up at the whim of a town of mad people, he felt more helpless than he ever had.

  Let's suppose they're not insane, he thought, trying to force himself into a rational frame of mind. I believed the people of Crar were crazy, at first, but they were just under Starmor's spell. Perhaps some underworld entity makes them believe these bizarre fantasies.

  "Thribble,” he muttered. “Are you there?” He felt immense relief as the grey, stubble-haired head emerged from his right pocket.

  "I have heard all, human,” the demon declared.

  "Could this be some demon spell?"

  "None of which I am aware, Lord Grimm,” the minuscule creature squeaked.

  "Is it possible that some class of demon of which you are unaware could… dream reality, Thribble?"

  "Most improbable, Lord Grimm; I am widely travelled within the demonlands, and I have never heard of such a bizarre manifestation."

  So we're in a town of lunatics after all. There's got to be some way out of this. If I can-what?

  The once-red reptilian carving was now a bright lime-green.

  That thing was scarlet a moment ago!

  Murar opened his eyes and cooed in apparent pleasure. “What a delightful little creature!” he cried. “Welcome, monster!"

  "Monster!” Thribble shrilled in an outraged tone. “I'll have you know-"

  T
he old man, with surprising alacrity, snatched the demon by his head and inspected him.

  "Your dreams do you credit with their clarity and solidity, Blessed One. Even while awake, you maintain the illusion!"

  "I am not a dream, mortal. Unhand me at once!"

  "It speaks, too!"

  Thribble opened his mouth to its full extent and sank his tiny, needle-like teeth into Murar's thumb.

  "Ouch!"

  Murar dropped the demon, which scurried to the door and disappeared.

  The aged watchman sucked his wounded digit and smiled. “You are an hallucinatory genius, Blessed One, and I congratulate you! It will be a pity to lose you."

  "What do you mean, Murar?"

  "This is how we keep Uncle Gruon asleep, by feeding him the blood of what we call Realsters, or Blessed Ones. Uncle likes human blood. When he has had enough, he sleeps, and we live.

  "Blood is extracted from the Blessed One's body and siphoned into Uncle's gullet, until the Sacrifice can spare no more. I can assure you that, when you die, your body will be treated with the greatest respect, and you will be accorded the most solemn of funeral rites!"

  Grimm clamped down on his warring emotions. “See here, Murar. You must be aware of the logical fallacies in your suppositions."

  "Not really,” the old man said, inspecting his nails. “What are they?"

  "Well… how long have you lived, Murar? That is, how far do your memories go back?"

  Murar cocked his head on one side. “Two, maybe three hundred years, I suppose."

  "There you are! You said the city was created by Uncle Gruon around fifty years ago, yet you claim to remember long before your supposed creation. How can that be?"

  The rocking man smiled. “I am not in my dotage, sacrifice, no matter what you may think. I said that the city was created by Uncle fifty years ago in its present form. Uncle Gruon has had many dreams over the last millennium, until we discovered the means of keeping him asleep and dreaming."

  "But if, as you claim, Brianston's citizens die on Gruon's waking, how can you be aware of these earlier incarnations of the city?"

  Murar snorted. “You are mortal. Have you never had the same dream on several occasions? I am the product of one of Uncle's recurrent reveries; those of my kind are called Revenants. I have been reincarnated on over seventy occasions, and I am the senior Revenant of the city,” he said, with an evangelistic gleam in his eye.

  Grimm saw how the internal logic in the man's delusions could make dissuasion difficult. Nonetheless, it was important to show him the errors in his thinking. “All right,” he said, suppressing his fear. “Why has it taken you so long to come up with this plan, if you have returned so often?

  "It took many returns to construct Uncle's crypt, and he demolished many of our previous attempts. On his last awakening, he brought down a large pile of our masonry on his head and rendered himself unconscious. This gave us the time to complete the present structure around him, and we came upon a party of travellers. Most of them went to feed Uncle and keep him satiated and somnolent, but two males and two females were kept as breeding stock. Their offspring, and those of other Blessed Ones have maintained the current dream for most of that time, but we have been careful not to be too greedy. Your arrival is a veritable cornucopia!"

  In frustration, Grimm rattled his heavy chains, but they were as perdurable as ever.

  "You cannot shake such iron fetters free from a solid stone wall, Blessed One,” Murar said, wagging his finger as if chiding a small child. “Spare yourself the futile effort. Much of the city is a product of Uncle's dreaming, but our guest chambers are real enough."

  Be calm, Grimm admonished himself. There must be some way to shake this madman's delusions!

  "How did you discover that blood makes Gruon sleep?” he demanded. “Surely he eats during his waking periods, when you are not around?"

  "We are not idiots, Blessed One. On many occasions, we have found the desiccated corpses of animals around Uncle's sleeping form. Lady Elamma, who acts as midwife to the brood stock, is a frequent Revenant like me. It was she who first noted that Uncle slept longer-much longer-after dining on human blood. Another Revenant, Lord Korak, was born as a stonemason, and he supervised the building of the Sleep Chamber over the space of many generations. Other Revenants retained their earthly skills and memories through numerous regenerations, and each played his or her part in our plan. Since then, scores of Realsters have passed through here, adding to the Blessed Dream Time."

  Grimm cudgelled his brains for further ideas.

  Lizaveta's party must have come through here! he realised. Why didn't they take her?

  He asked Murar as much.

  The Revenant laughed. “Dream-stuff we may be, but we smell magic as easily as you can smell the scent of a rotting pig. We could all tell that the old lady who passed through here used a different sort of magic to you, drawing power from the earth. Our iron fetters are not proof against such energies, so we let the party go. In any case, to ensnare too many sacrifices would arouse wide suspicion; most Realsters are allowed to pass through here without molestation. Your party will suffice for many more years."

  Grimm stared into space, trying hard to shake the old man's insane confidence in his crazed beliefs. As he gazed through the barred window, he saw a mighty, golden turret disappear in the wink of an eye, to be replaced with an evanescent, silver, onion-shaped structure. This shimmered and warped for a few moments, until it coalesced into solid form.

  The mage's jaw dropped. Worse than the prospect of a town of madmen was the possibility that the old man's crazy beliefs might be true. Worse still was the chance that this madness might be infectious.

  "Ah, Uncle grows restless; the Dream begins to waver,” Murar declared, still facing away from the window. “A sacrifice will be in order very shortly. If you would not mind waiting for a few moments, I must help to arrange the first ceremony at once. Do not worry; your turn will not come for many years yet. We need to put a little more meat onto your bones, so that Uncle may enjoy his meal to the full. Fear not: we shall not waste your lives in a capricious manner. Each of you shall nourish Gruon many times before he dies."

  As the old man moved to the door, Grimm all but surrendered to the insidious, cold fingers of terror. “Wait!” he cried, “I won't thrive chained up like this! I need to eat, sleep and carry out my bodily functions if I'm to flourish!"

  Murar turned back from the door. “Naturally, I understand that, Blessed One: I am no dotard. We would not be such poor hosts as to leave you fettered in this way. We are preparing a place in a comfortable compound for you. You will be well fed, and you may ask for anything you require-within reason, of course."

  The old man winked. “Of course, the compound must be well-constructed, to withstand your mighty sorcery. However, over the years, we have learned well how to deal with man-magic. Excuse me: I have a job to do."

  With a friendly wave, Murar left.

  As the door shut, Grimm felt more alone and helpless than he had ever felt in his life. The silver onion shivered and disappeared. In its place stood a stone arch that reminded the mage of nothing more than a gravestone. Bereft of his magic and his staff, the powerful mage was just a slender youth, and the leaden despair began to weigh heavily on him as the gravity of his situation became apparent.

  His only hope was that Thribble might find some solution to their predicament. However, he could not see how even the resourceful little demon might succeed this time.

  "Drex!” he moaned, imagining his worried love, waiting for him back in Crar. He swore to himself that he would not surrender, for her sake. As long as the slenderest chance remained to him, he would grasp it with both hands-however long that might take. And there was the matter of Prioress Lizaveta…

  The woman who made my grandfather an outcast and a pariah, he thought.

  "Somehow, you raddled bitch; somehow, I'll find a way out of this. I will!” he screamed. Nonetheless, he had not the leas
t idea of how he might fulfil this vow.

  ****

  Lizaveta removed her pale, spidery hands from her scrying-glass. No sound emerged from the green globe, but she had read the intent on young Afelnor's face well, and she had been able to discern most of the words from those twisted, snarling lips. She regretted that she had only an indirect and occasional link with Brianston, so that she could not monitor Grimm's situation on a continuous basis.

  She laughed until tears ran from her eyes, accepting her handmaiden's proffered handkerchief with a nod.

  "Thank you, Sister Weranda,” she said, with perfunctory gratitude.

  I never imagined Loras’ grandson would be so easily taken, she thought, amazed. I'd have thought he'd have seen through Brianston in an instant. Oh, well; I suppose that's just the folly of youth! Still; he's young and strong, and I'm sure he'll find his way out.

  "I hope you do, young Questor, I really do,” she said aloud. “I'd relish meeting you again. If you ever do escape, we'll be ready for you. Won't we, my dear?"

  The faithful young handmaiden touched her head to the hem of Lizaveta's robe, as required by the Order's strict protocol.

  "Yes, Reverend Mother; we'll be ready."

  "I wonder if we should give the boy a little help, Weranda. It'd be a pity to waste all this effort."

  "He's dangerous, Reverend Mother,” the girl replied. “May I speak freely?"

  The Prioress waved her hand: “Of course, dear Sister."

  "Begging your pardon, dear Mother, I think it better if that rat-spawn does die in that place, Brianston. You've done so well to prepare the Priory for his attack, but this mage is powerful. Even a Wiccan as strong as you might be far better off letting the dream-people kill him, rather than facing him."

  Lizaveta regarded the girl with a condescending smile. “I will forgive your presumption on this occasion, Sister, having granted you permission to speak freely. However, I will remind you for the last time that I am stronger than any man ever born, including Loras’ jejune spawn."