With hope giving his wings new strength, the demon flew on until he too saw the conurbation. Magnificent it was, with splendid silver spires and crystal castles bordering gold streets, and even Shakkar felt impressed at the abilities of humans to create such wonders. Demon architecture, he had come to realise, was dull and unimaginative in comparison to even the most ordinary of human edifices. The buildings of this city were far from ordinary.
"Impressive, isn't it, Lord Seneschal?” Erik yelled. “I think we should make our way to the central plaza. There are a number of folk about. It looks as if they're having some sort of fiesta or party."
On the margins of the city, Shakkar banked his wings and began to descend. Ten feet above the ground, he released the sergeant, who rolled with practiced ease as he landed. In one smooth motion, he was on his feet as the demon's clawed feet contacted the earth.
"Looks deserted, Lord Seneschal.” The sergeant gestured towards the empty streets.
Shakkar nodded. “I presume they are all at the fiesta of which you spoke, Sergeant."
Despite the grandeur of their surroundings, Shakkar felt a little unnerved by the eerie stillness. This seemed like a ghost town, and he much preferred noise and bustle around him. However, the distant sounds of revelry soon reached his ears, growing louder as the man and the demon drew nearer to the town square.
"Not all,” Erik said, pointing to an approaching figure, a white-haired man dressed in flowing crimson robes. “We've got company."
Shakkar saw a broad grin on the old man's face.
"At least it looks like someone's pleased to see us, Lord Seneschal,” Erik muttered
Shakkar grunted, “Or he knows something we do not."
"Greetings, travellers!” the old man cried. “We do not have many visitors to our fair city, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to Brianston.
"My, you're a size, aren't you?” he said, eyeing up Shakkar.
"I am Shakkar, a being from the nether regions, mortal,” the demon rumbled. “I bid you greetings, likewise. This is my companion, Sergeant Erik."
"Shakkar, Sergeant Erik, I bid you most welcome. I am Revenant Murar, an elder of this city, and its traditional Guide and Protector. May I ask what brings you to Brianston?"
"We seek information concerning a party which may have passed through here recently, Revenant Murar.” Shakkar kept his tone civil. “A party of four warriors and three Guild Mages. The smallest warrior is of the elven race, and the eldest may be wearing a green uniform similar to that of Sergeant Erik. Do you know anything of them?"
Murar rubbed his white beard, his brow furrowed. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Three Guild Mages!” he said, whistling. “I'm sure I would have remembered such a notable party, Shakkar, and I make it a point to greet all our visitors. No, I'm sorry to tell you that your friends have not passed through here."
"Perhaps somebody else may have seen them passing through,” the Seneschal suggested, “while you were otherwise engaged. Perhaps we might consult a few of the other citizens?"
"Impossible, I'm afraid, Lord Shakkar.” The Revenant's expression suggested the deepest sorrow and anguish. “We are in the middle of our five-yearly ‘Festival of Life'. It is a religious celebration, which is closed to non-citizens. In any case, even when I am unable to greet a party of travellers in person, another Revenant will inform me of all movements through the city. Visitors rarely pass through here, as I told you.
"Still, you are free to roam through Brianston as you will, but please take care not to disturb the revelries in the town square. If you require rooms for the night, I can direct you to suitable lodgings on the edge of town. We maintain a skeleton staff in one of the hostelries, even in mid-Festival."
"Why do you keep on staff for visitors who never come?” Erik asked.
Murar shrugged. “It is an old tradition, kept over from the days when Brianston was a major centre of trade, Sergeant. We are a thoughtful folk, and we do not abandon our customs lightly."
"May we wait until the Festival of Life has finished?” Shakkar asked. “Perhaps someone was remiss in their duties, and he or she forgot to inform you."
The old man spread his arms, his palms uppermost. “That would be most irregular. If such slackness should come to my attention, you may be sure that the culprit would be severely punished.
"The Festival will last another month, I'm afraid,” he added, retaining his cheerful smile. “Still, as I said, you are free of our town, except for the central area. If you wish to tarry in Brianston, you are more than welcome, subject to that single caveat."
The demon's tail thrashed in uncertainty; Murar appeared helpful and open, and Shakkar had no reason to doubt his words. He felt cold, unfamiliar tendrils of confusion multiplying within him: if he could not obtain news of Grimm's passage through this apparently central town, his search might prove fruitless.
"Thank you for your time, Revenant Murar,” Erik said, filling an uncomfortable silence. “You've been most helpful, and you may be sure that we will respect your customs to the full. We're both tired and hungry after a long journey, so if you'll be as kind as to direct us to this inn, we'll be on our way. I'm sure things will be a lot clearer after a peaceful night's sleep and a good meal."
"An excellent suggestion, Sergeant Erik,” the Revenant crowed. “Just follow this side road to the east for thirty minutes or so, and turn left at the fork in the road. The ‘Wanderer's Rest’ is quarter of a mile from there, on your right. You can't miss it.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a central role to play in our festivities."
Erik smiled. “Of course, Revenant Murar! Ah… by the way, who should we contact if we have further questions?"
"I'm sure the staff at the ‘Wanderer's Rest’ will be able to aid you in any enquiries concerning our fine city,” the old man replied. “Otherwise, the town centre is ringed by other Revenants at all critical intersections. They are forbidden to admit any outsider to pass during Festival, but I am sure they'll be more than happy to provide you with any information you may require."
"Thank you for your time, Revenant Murar. Shall we leave, Lord Seneschal?"
"What? You want to eat at a time like this?” Shakkar demanded, frowning as Murar walked away.
"Well, I must admit that I am getting sick of these dried rations,” Erik muttered. “But that isn't the main reason: I just wanted to get Murar out of the way. I don't trust him."
Shakkar felt nonplussed. Murar had seemed a decent sort for a human, and the demon had noted nothing suspect in his behaviour. However, he had to acknowledge that he was a mere tyro in the assessment of mortals, whose ways were often beyond him.
He waited until Murar was out of sight before speaking: “What are your suspicions, Sergeant?"
"Nobody's that happy for so long, Lord Seneschal. And did you see the way he swallowed and blinked when you mentioned Lord Grimm's party, just before he went into his wide-eyed, puzzled act?"
Shakkar shook his head. He had noticed nothing strange about the old man's demeanour at any time.
"Why, then, did you let Murar go, if you suspected deception?"
"I don't know for sure, Lord Seneschal, but I'd be willing to bet a week's wages he knows more than he's letting on. More than that; look at Brianston's location."
The soldier unfolded his map and indicated the city with his right index finger.
"He says they don't get many visitors here: how probable is that? Roads run between here and several moderate-sized towns. I just can't believe that nobody ever travels them. Most of the roads around Brianston are little more than scrubby dirt roads, full of rocks and ruts. Would you travel around it in a wagon, when these splendid, graded streets are available?"
Shakkar frowned. “Your reasoning appears sound, human, so I reiterate: why did you not detain Murar or press him further?"
"I just want to be sure, Lord Seneschal. I don't want to beat up a helpless old man just because of suspicions. I just want to sc
out out Baron Grimm's probable route, in the hope of finding some clue-
The soldier appeared to spasm as his face contorted. “Ugh, there's a rat on me!” he said, shaking his uniform jacket. “I hate bloody rats!"
Shakkar looked down to see the tiny, grey shape of Thribble sprawling in the dirt.
"That is no rat,” he growled. “Can you not see? It is Baron Grimm's companion, Thribble! That proves that the Baron was here!
"Hail, brother demon!"
Thribble shook the dust of the road from his minuscule body. “Greetings, Shakkar! And for your information, human, I do not take kindly to being compared with your overworld vermin!"
Erik shrugged “I'm sorry, Master Thribble. I just thought you-"
"Never mind that,” Shakkar interrupted, scooping the tiny creature into the palm of his shovel-sized, clawed right hand. He looked down into Thribble's dot-like eyes with concern. “Where is Baron Grimm, Thribble?"
"This is a strange town, Shakkar. Most of the buildings here are bizarre fantasies given form by the dreams of some creature the citizens of Brianston call ‘Uncle Gruon'. Most of the inhabitants seem also to be his mental constructs. From what I can tell, they need to keep this Gruon asleep by engorging him with the blood of living mortals. Lord Grimm and his fellow mortals are being kept for this purpose in a large stone building in the centre of the town. This Festival is in honour of the new guests; I gather that they will satisfy Gruon's appetite for many years, and keep the people of Brianston alive."
"Thank you, Thribble,” Shakkar growled, his animal hind-brain driving him to action. “Direct us to this building and I shall tear it apart. Sergeant Erik, you may use your Technological weapons to keep the crowd at bay while I concentrate on freeing Lord Grimm and his companions."
"With pleasure, Lord Seneschal!” Erik swung his firearm's strap from his shoulder and flipped a small lever on its side. “I never liked all this diplomacy stuff, anyway. General Quelgrum always thought it was a good idea to get the locals on our side, wherever we went. Even so, I've always preferred a stand-up fight."
Thribble said, “It is not so simple, friend Erik. They are not mortals like you, and your metal death-tube may not affect all of them.
"Likewise, brother Shakkar, I have seen the edifice in which Lord Grimm is being kept: I doubt that even your gigantic strength could batter through it. The walls seem to be constructed of solid stone blocks, so closely spaced that the slenderest knife-blade could not pass between them. The door seems to be constructed of thick metal."
"Why, you're just full of good news, aren't you, little feller?” Erik said, his face contorted in some mortal expression Shakkar could not read. “Have you any other handy tips for us?"
"I am only telling you what I know, mortal. I know your ‘gun’ thing will affect at least some of these people, although not all of them. I saw General Quelgrum use a similar weapon on the crowd when we were first taken. Most people seemed to be killed by the little pellets."
"They're called ‘bullets', friend demon."
"That is of little import,” the demon snapped, and Shakkar saw Thribble's tiny brows lowering. “Would you object if I just finished my assessment?"
Erik shrugged, and it seemed that Thribble took this as permission to proceed.
"Some were affected by these bullets, as you call them, but others did not succumb to them at all. I lost consciousness in the violence of the ensuing commotion, but before I fell I noticed Revenant Murar among the ranks of the unaffected. I just thought you should be aware of that."
Shakkar pondered, but not for long; his rampant hind-brain would not be balked in its desire for vengeance. The deep, feral sense of duty was strong within him, and it grew like an unslaked thirst.
"We will take our chances on that, brother Thribble!” he shouted. “We have a duty to fulfil, and we shall fulfil it to the best of our abilities. Is that clear, Sergeant Erik?"
"Yes, Lord Seneschal! You'll hear no dissent from me in that regard!"
The Seneschal eyed the empty road ahead, still hearing the incessant sounds of human revelry. He had tried, for many months, to assume respectable, human duties within Crar, but his demonic heritage would not be denied. Vengeance was a clear and potent imperative, and the muddy visions of the clear-thinking front-brain gave way to the fiery demands of the inner mind. Even before thinking, he had begun to stride forward with a mile-eating gait.
****
Grimm sighed. He knew his latest outburst had robbed him of all pretence of being a true Seventh Level Questor, and he moped on his thin mattress, deep in the bowels of self-pity. General Quelgrum sat by him; all of his other companions had deserted him, and the young mage did not blame them.
He felt pathetic, useless and worthless.
He wanted to be alone, utterly alone, but the old soldier persisted with his irksome presence. At last, something inside the Questor snapped.
"Haven't you seen enough, General?” he snapped. “Please don't tell me how you broke down in tears in just the same way after your first major defeat; I don't think I could handle it. Please, just go away."
Quelgrum sighed. “No, Lord Baron, I don't think I've ever broken down in tears for as long as I can remember. Still, I do remember trying to fling the contents of my guts down the road after my first battle. I wasn't much younger than you then.
"Grimm Afelnor, your problem isn't your companions, or your lack of foresight, or your thwarted expectations-it's you. I never had control of an army, a regiment or even a platoon at your age: I always had someone to tell me what to do. At that age, my problem was that I didn't realise that the sergeants and corporals could tell me anything.
"Your problem is that you think you have to tell people what to do: you have to have all the answers available, no matter what. Well, I can tell you that nobody ever has all the answers. You've not helped yourself at all by that little display back there, but you need to concentrate a lot more on who, rather than what you are. You know Questor Guy's never going to get down on his knees and worship you; why do you bother to try to impress him? From what I see, that's one of your major problems. What you need to realise is that he's a lot like you."
Grimm felt his eyes bulge, and his breath surged. “I don't think he's like me at all!” he said. “He thinks he's better than everybody else-"
"-Don't you, Lord Baron?"
"No, I don't, General!"
"You act like you do, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said in a calm, quiet voice. “You take on an apparent suicide mission. You expect to perform miracles, and you burst into tears when you can't achieve them. If there's one thing I've learnt in all my years of fighting, it's this: win or lose, act as if you expect it.
"If you lose, then you tried your best against insuperable odds. By crying that way-it's quite distasteful to me, in fact-you told me and the others you didn't trust or want us to help you."
"It wasn't like that at all!” Grimm protested.
"I know that, Lord Baron… Look, with all due respect, you're still just a kid. A kid with balls and some muscle, I can't deny, but a kid in any case. You let us all down by bursting into tears like that. Your best bet is to be open about the whole thing, rather than just trying to let it lie. Apologise, and plead your youth if you need to-but apologise for that disgusting display of self-pity as soon as you can. Otherwise, you'll lose all your friends, including me."
Grimm thought he heard more than an echo of Magemaster Crohn there, and he nodded at once. “I will, General. I just want to-"
He heard a distant creak that he recognised, the sound of a key being turned in the inner door, and he spun around as the portal swung open.
Forgetting his shame and his pathos, he leapt to his feet and cried, “We've got company! Let's move!"
He summoned his magical power and swore to sell his life dear.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 19: ‘A Dangerous Game'
Dalquist found himself in Prioress Lizaveta's former
apartments in High Lodge, which looked as opulent as he remembered them. Lizaveta, clad in white, lounged at ease on her crimson, gold-tasselled divan, her hand extended to receive his former self's polite obeisance. Nothing conflicted with his memory of the scene.
"Ah, Lord Mage, welcome. How may I be of service to you? I normally receive visitors only by appointment, but I am happy to make an exception in the case of such a distinguished mage,” the Prioress said, and Dalquist shivered anew at the unpleasant, crackling quality of her voice.
Dalquist felt somewhat disgusted at the sight of himself kissing Lizaveta's ruby ring, but it again accorded with his recollection.
I can certainly see why Bledel's spell requires such a high level of skill and power, he thought. The clarity and detail of this vision is astonishing!
As the scene unfolded, Kargan asked, “Anything unusual so far, Questor Dalquist?"
The younger mage shook his head. “It's all exactly as I remember it, except…"
Lizaveta had just uttered the words, “I am sure that this is no more than a friendly liaison between two young people."
Dalquist's memory was that he had agreed with the Prioress at this point, and that he and she had shared a convivial glass of wine before he left. However, this earlier version of him seemed to have taken on a will of his own, insisting that sinister forces were at work.
"I don't remember any of this,” he admitted. “How can this be if this spell works on my powers of memory?"
"Bledel's enchantment accesses the true, unfettered memories of your subconscious,” Kargan replied. “Trust me; what you see here is what really happened."
"My word, this is a sorry state of affairs; a witch within my own Order! I will have her expelled immediately,” the image of Lizaveta said.
"That is not all, Reverend Mother,” dream-Dalquist replied with a shake of the head. “The girl Madeleine does not appear to be casting the magic. It would appear to be coming from outside her."
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