"I apologise for my most grievous fault, Reverend Mother,” Weranda said, her eyes lowered. “I am yours to chastise as you will."
"Blessed Sister,” the Prioress replied, tapping the handmaiden on her right shoulder. “We must keep you whole and unblemished for now, mustn't we? Just in case…"
Lizaveta laughed, and Weranda joined in.
"Just in case, Reverend Mother,” the girl said, tears of unalloyed mirth running from her eyes. “But, whatever happens, he's dead or enslaved, believe me."
"I do, good Sister."
The Prioress dismissed the young Novice, pleased with Weranda's progress. The girl already seemed to have forgotten her birth-name: Drexelica.
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Chapter 14: Imprisonment
Grimm saw no deliverance from his current straits. He cudgelled his brain for over three hours to no effect before Murar returned.
"Uncle sleeps peacefully once more.” The old man beamed, as if the young mage should feel elation at the news. “The Dream continues, and we thank you for your noble sacrifice."
"What sacrifice?” Grimm demanded, burning with frustrated rage. “Which of my friends did you destroy for the perverted purposes of your foul, barbaric rituals?"
"Fear not, Blessed One,” the old man said, shaking his head. “All of your companions are well. However, we obtained a goodly meal for Uncle from your large, pale friend. Gruon willing, he will provide further sustenance on many future occasions. Your friend sleeps at the moment, but he will be well fed and watered to return his strength before the next feeding ceremony."
Grimm opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again without uttering a sound; foolish vituperation and puerile insults would be of little help.
"Your compound is almost ready, Blessed One; all the citizens of Brianston have been working on it. It is crude and rough at the moment, but it will be secure enough for the protection of all our beloved Realsters. We shall not rest until it is a structure of sufficient grandeur for our guests. It is based on the stone building we use to protect our precious Breeders, but, of course, plain stone would not provide one such as you with sufficient protection."
Protection? He means a shield against Questor magic,” Grimm thought. How by the Names does a dream being know about Questors? Still, it's probably better to go along with him at the moment. With any luck, Thribble will find some loophole or chink in their armour.
"I'm glad to hear it, Murar,” he said, aloud. “These chains are becoming pretty uncomfortable."
The old man's face crinkled, and his distressed expression appeared genuine. “I am sorry to hear that, Blessed One! Your confinement will not last much longer. Our smithies and foundries have been working for several hours to produce metal fitments for the structure, so that your security will be assured."
"Could you not find temporary housing for us, Murar? The imposing stone building over there would seem quite adequate for our needs.” Grimm nodded in the direction of a large structure he saw through the chamber's single window.
On several occasions in the last hour, he had seen the edifice warp and mutate as Gruon shifted in his sleep. With any luck, Murar would accede to Grimm's request, and he and his companions might be freed during another such episode.
To the Questor's regret, Murar shook his head. “You are a naughty one,” the aged Revenant said with a chuckle. “You know full well that the building is one of Uncle's dream-structures and subject to periodic change! In any case, as I told you, we are well aware that stone is a poor material with which to protect a magic-user of your abilities. We need metal bars and meshes of the purest iron to meet your needs; the slightest contamination or impurity constitutes grounds for rejection of a delivery. Our assayers are hard at work ensuring the perfection of the structure, in your honour."
"Thank you so much,” Grimm replied, with a sardonic, twisted smile. “I'm sure we all appreciate the… great honour you do us."
Murar offered a deep bow, seeming to take Grimm's sarcastic words at face value.
"You are more than welcome, Blessed One."
At that moment, Grimm heard the chamber's door creak, and he turned his head to see a slender woman standing in the doorway. She appeared to be in her early twenties, with long, blonde hair, blue eyes and a flawless complexion. In circumstances other than this, the Questor might have found her ravishing. However, this woman, honest, decent and good-humoured as she appeared, must be another of his jailers.
"Revenant Murar, the compound is ready to admit our new guests,” she said in a pleasant contralto, a broad smile brightening her face. Then her gaze lighted on the fettered mage, and her happy expression blossomed into one of pure rapture.
"He is far younger than I would have thought, Revenant Murar! Uncle will sleep well for years to come, with his help!” the young woman crowed. “Welcome, Blessed One, welcome!"
"Beloved guest,” a beaming Murar intoned. “Permit me to introduce Revenant Elamma. It was she who first divined Uncle's culinary tastes, and she is, therefore amongst the most respected of our citizens. In recognition of this, she holds the august position of Protector of the Breeders."
"I am Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster. I am honoured to meet such a respected citizen of Brianston."
Elamma dipped a deep, respectful curtsey. “No, Blessed Grimm, the honour's all mine,” she said. “We last saw a full Mage Questor over thirty years ago, and he served Uncle well before he had to leave us."
Before he died, you mean, thought the mage. You people seem to have a remarkable talent for self-deception and euphemism. I must say, you seem very well-preserved for one of your age. You're probably old enough to be my great-grandmother.
"Living in this fine city seems to agree with you, Revenant Elamma,” he said aloud, deeming diplomacy more advisable than outright confrontation.
The woman's face crinkled into a bashful smile. “Thank you, Blessed One. Uncle seems happy with my current form. I was first created in this image over ninety Dreams ago, and I've remained exactly the same in all of my returns. I look forward to delivering your offspring for many generations. I'll be sorry to see you leave."
Grimm fell into a deep, dark pit of despair, seeing himself as a human stud animal, greying and wrinkling as the years passed, until his pale, shrivelled corpse was tipped into the sleeping Uncle Gruon's maw.
Self-pity flowed through him in a sluggish, murky stream. Drex will grow older and die, never knowing what happened to me, he thought, wallowing in muddy lakes of helplessness. Granfer Loras will live on after his death as the foul Betrayer of the Guild, and the House will write me off as his worthless, renegade progeny. So much for all those dreams of glory and triumph!
For a moment, a dim spark of hope flowered, as the mage saw Murar take out a large, ornate key. Those heavy, iron gauntlets might impede his magic, but Grimm knew they would make excellent physical weapons against the Revenant. He would not relish the thought of braining an old man and a girl, solidified dreams though they might be, but he would not hesitate to do so if he got the chance.
Murar unfastened the fetters from the wall, and Grimm tensed himself to strike. As the last chains fell free, he slammed a gauntleted fist against the old man's temple, and it felt as if he had punched a mountain. The blow had not the slightest effect on the smiling Revenant, although it should have cracked his skull at least.
Murar frowned. “Naughty boy, Blessed One! That was foolish; you are not a part of our adored Uncle's Dream, so you cannot do anything to me, one of his Chosen Ones. It pleases him to keep me as I am. The ordinary citizens may be susceptible to violence, but not we beloved Revenants. Your magic might be able to affect me, but not your physical presence. Come on, now, and we'll soon get those nasty chains off you."
With the last of his resistance gone, the Questor allowed himself to be led out of the chamber. Holding the end of one of the chains, the Revenant, his head held high, took him out of t
he stark chamber into pandemonium.
Vast crowds of cheering people greeted Grimm's eyes, howling, hooting and pressing in upon him. He was jostled and bumped as the joyous Dream-people swarmed, each person trying to touch him. They slipped, fell and trampled on each other, heedless, reckless and eager to lay hands on this physical embodiment of their desire to survive.
On occasion, Grimm lashed out with his metal-clad hands, striking members of the encroaching horde. Some fell, but the mage's armoured fists rebounded from the skulls of others: Revenants, he guessed.
At last, Murar and Elamma ushered the mage to a solid, metal-bound door in a wall of yellow stone, which was criss-crossed with a fine tracery of metal wire. The Revenant midwife produced a key and opened the door to reveal a second at the end of a small vestibule, about six feet wide and five feet long.
With a firm, guiding hand, Elamma ushered Grimm inside, and the mage heard the portal behind him close with a decisive click. The rapturous clamour of the crowd was snuffed out, and the mage found himself alone in the tiny chamber.
Grimm had no especial fear of enclosed spaces, but, fettered and bound as he was, it seemed as if the walls were closing in on him. His breathing became swift and shallow, his heart began to pound, and he felt a cold sweat trickling down his body.
The mage spun around as he heard a clank behind him, and he saw a small slit open in the shining door, on the left-hand side.
"Blessed One,” called the voice of Murar. “Be so good as to stand to one side."
Grimm did as he was bidden, and he saw a slender, metal rod extending into the chamber through the slit. He felt his irrational fear giving way to puzzlement as the rod grew longer, and he realised that the narrow shaft was an immensely long key.
They aren't taking any chances with us, he thought. They've obviously thought this whole thing out in detail. I can only imagine the mage they captured before gave them a full Questor demonstration before he was subdued.
The mage wondered how Murar would be able to fit the long key into its mating lock, but he noticed that the latter was at the end of a long conical cavity, guiding the key into its appointed place. This also gave Grimm some idea of the great thickness of the door.
Clever: these people are not idiots, by any stretch of the imagination.
As the rod began to slide into the cone, he glanced at the slit and saw a large cross at its key's far end. This would ensure that it could not be pulled through the slot from Grimm's side; another sensible security measure, he thought with a sardonic smile.
A loud, mechanical clank told him the door was unlocked, and the key withdrew.
"You may now open the door, Blessed One. Please close it behind you."
"What if I refuse?” Grimm asked, although he guessed the answer to his question.
"None of you will receive any food or water until you are safely inside, Lord Grimm. Please be co-operative, we beg you, for their sakes."
Deciding his position was hopeless, Grimm forced the door open with his shoulder, and stumbled into an enormous, open area. He pushed the door shut, and, after a few moments, he heard the lock closing.
He regarded the large courtyard with some wonder. Doors led from all sides, and, high above him, he saw a metal chair suspended from the domed ceiling. The area was well-lit, but Grimm saw no obvious means of illumination. The walls contained a profusion of small square openings, whose purpose he could not guess.
Oh, well; I suppose I'll have plenty of time to find out, he told himself. It doesn't look as if I'm going anywhere.
He saw a small figure emerging from one of the side doors and coming towards him. The woman had grey hair and a lined face, and she approached him with a hunched, hesitant gait.
"I am Arland,” the aged woman declared. “I hold the rank of Second Breeder here, and I welcome you to your new home."
"I'm Grimm Dragonblaster, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, and I have no intention of staying here any longer than I have to!"
"Everyone says that at first,” Arland replied, “but they soon come to appreciate their new life in Uncle's service."
Grimm prepared to issue a sharp retort, but he realised that this woman might well have spent her entire life imprisoned in Brianston, and he refrained from doing so.
Instead, he said, “How do I get these chains off, or isn't that part of the plan?"
"I have the key,” the grey-haired woman replied. “Hold still and I'll soon have the chains off you."
In a few moments, Arland removed Grimm's chains, his metal helmet and his confining gauntlets. As the weighty iron impediments fell to the paved floor, the mage stretched and grimaced, relieving the various stresses from his complaining muscles, while the lady regarded him with sympathetic eyes.
"They're taking a bit of a risk by giving you the key, aren't they?” he said.
"Not really, Master Grimm. You won't be wearing the chains any more, in any case. When you're called for Sacrifice, they put you to sleep somehow."
The Questor stared at the woman. She talks as if this is all perfectly normal!
"How long have you been here, Arland?"
"I've lived all my life here. Of course, it was quite a bit smaller when I was young. Every now and then, you wake up and you see they've added another section to it. I know it looks a little bare here, but the rooms are nice, and we have parties and celebrations sometimes. Tomorrow is my last birthday, and we'll be allowed balloons, garlands and wine. You'll come to my celebration, won't you, Master Grimm? It is my last birthday, after all."
"Just what do you mean by ‘last birthday', Arland?” Grimm asked, hoping that the obvious answer was the incorrect one.
"Of course, Master Grimm; you're new, and you don't understand,” she said with a proud smile illuminating her face. “I have had a full and productive life. I've given birth to seventeen children for the cause, and my thirty-fifth birthday is tomorrow. We female Breeders aren't allowed any more offspring after that time, so I'll be ready to go to my reward in Uncle's bosom. He will reward me for the fulsome gift I will give him."
Grimm almost staggered with astonishment. She's thirty-five years old? She looks twice that age!
His heart filled with anger and pity for this poor, wizened woman, who should have been in the prime of her life. She's been aged far beyond her years by seventeen enforced births, and she's going to be slaughtered to sate the appetite of a sleeping monster! Yet she sounds as happy as if she were preparing to marry the man of her dreams…
"Arland, don't you even want to get out of here?” he said.
The grey-haired woman's clear, wide-open, blue eyes were at odds with her ancient appearance, and they spoke of astonishment and incomprehension.
"Of course not!” Her eyes were as wide as if Grimm had asked her if she liked to eat baked baby. “How can you say such a thing? This is to be my reward for a lifetime of service! I'll forgive you for your ignorance; you are new here, after all, but I'll thank you to put such thoughts out of your mind at once! You ought to be happy for me!"
Shaking her head, her eyes moist and hurt, Arland began to walk away. “Wait,” Grimm cried. “Where are my friends?"
Without turning round or speaking, the Breeder indicated a pair of doors with a curt double stab of her right thumb. With that, she was gone.
The nearest portal was a flimsy, wooden structure, and it swung open at Grimm's merest touch.
"Hello, Grimm. Welcome to our new home. How do you like it?"
Guy, unkempt and haggard, stood at the entrance of a room about fifteen feet square, in which were several thin mattresses. On one of the mattresses lay an immobile, supine Tordun, covered by a brown blanket. General Quelgrum and Harvel knelt by the fallen giant, with an ashen Crest and Numal standing by.
"Is he…"
Guy snorted. “Of course not, idiot! Do you think Quelgrum'd be bothering so much over a bloody corpse?"
"He's not far off it, though,” the General said, ignoring the older Questor's
sarcastic words. “They took a lot of blood out of him. A weaker man would have died after losing that much. I'm just giving him as much water as I can. I've seen men on the battlefield in this condition. He needs water, sleep and red meat. Still, at least we don't have a major wound and the risk of infection; the bastards took it from his heel, and there's only a tiny cut, clotted shut now."
Grimm envisioned an unending line of such vigils stretching years into an uncertain future.
"We can't put up with this!” he burst out.
"Outstanding, wonder-boy,” Guy drawled. “Why don't we just go and ask them to let us out? You never know, they may have a change in heart!"
"Shut up, Guy!” Numal cried. “We've got enough to handle without your bitching!"
The older Questor rounded on the Necromancer. “Who rattled your cage, Grandfather? Do you fancy a turn around the courtyard with me? Fancy your chances?"
Harvel scrambled to his feet, his face red, and he pushed his face close to Guy's. “Necromancer Numal's right, Questor! We need to keep together, not fight each other!"
"I'll take both of you on at once, if you like,” Guy snarled, blue sparks coruscating around his fingertips. “We aren't getting out of here alive, and it's about time you realised it!
"Stay where you are, big-ears,” he said, as a weaponless Crest stirred in the corner of the room.
"So, you're just another filthy-” began the half-elf.
"Just shut up, all of you!” Grimm's shout reverberated around the room, and silence reigned for a few moments. “Why don't we just kill each other? That'll teach them, won't it?"
"Got some master-plan, have you, youngster?” Guy snarled. “Please, don't keep us in suspense. We're all dying to hear it, I'm sure."
"Maybe I have,” Grimm replied. “If you'd just shove your ego back into your arse, where it belongs, I might be able to give us a chance of getting out of here."
Guy waved his hands in apparent acquiescence. “All right, marvel-man. So you've got this wonderful plan to wake up Uncle Gruon, snug in his sepulchre, separated from us by thick stone and iron walls. We're all agog to hear this golden idea that we poor imbeciles can't see. Maybe you can just…"
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