Dragonblaster cogd-5

by Alastair J. Archibald

  Shakkar nodded and rose to his feet. “On the count of three, Lord Baron?"

  Grimm braced himself. “All right. One… two… three!"

  The mage and the demon collided with the granite block in the same moment, each giving his all.

  It's going… it's going! Grimm thought, as the altar began to heel over.

  As its centre of gravity moved past its lower periphery, the block crashed over onto its side. For a few panicky moments, Grimm teetered on the brink of a dark, rectangular opening, flapping his arms until he managed to regain his equilibrium. Peering through the opening he saw a mess of rough, yellow stone blocks with a six-inch wide hole at its centre. Faint tendrils of steam drifted through the hole, and through the interstices of the rocks.

  "Gruon is down there, Shakkar,” he declared. “I think I'll try a Minor Magic spell of Inner Clarity. If that doesn't-"

  "Stop! Please stop!"

  The Questor spun around at the anguished shout, to see Revenant Murar standing at the doorway.

  "It's over, Murar,” Grimm said. “If it comes to a choice between humans and dream-people, I choose my own kind. Sweet dreams, Revenant."

  Murar wrung his hands, almost as if he were praying. “Think what you're doing, Realster. An entire city, obliterated in an instant! Thousands of people will be wiped out in the blink of an eye. You are talking about genocide!"

  "And you, Revenant? You have the blood of countless blameless mortals on your hands, an entire race of slaves whose proudest thoughts are for their eventual deaths; a race of people whose only function is to provide their life-blood for the continuance of a dream. It's over, I tell you, and nothing you can say will change my mind."

  "We take no pleasure in the spilling of Realster blood!” the old man cried.

  Grimm snorted. “I saw the joy of your people when we came here! Joy at the prospect of more blood…"

  "Joy only at the prospect of continuance, of survival! This is the only chance we have to live. Have we not that right? We try to make our Breeders and Sacrifices’ lives as happy as possible, before the end. We have no desire to take the blood of Realsters, but-"

  "But you do it anyway. You want happy slaves only because they are easier to handle, Murar! I spit on your perverted philosophy!"

  "Do you want me to beg, mage?” The Revenant sank to his knees. “I will, if you want me to! We will release your companions, if you want, but, please, just let us live!"

  Shakkar stood, towering over Murar, his black talons extended. “Just say the word, Lord Baron, and I will be only too happy to kill him."

  "Kill me, if you wish,” the old man said, bowing his head, “and go in peace. But I beg you to preserve our race! I offer myself as a Sacrifice to you."

  Grimm felt confusion numbing his brain. Murar might be some bizarre dream-construct, but the Questor saw only a terrified, old man, pleading for his people. It would be so easy to snuff out these dream-people now-perhaps too easy…

  They're not to blame, he thought. It's that evil, egotistical Garropode, who set up this whole, maniacal charade.

  Garropode…

  Grimm sighed; this might not be easy. “Murar,” he said, “Contrary to your beliefs, Gruon is not the source of this city. The dragon is merely the dream of a Realster, a mage like me: a man whose ambitions outshone his abilities. Your venerated Uncle is a dream-construct like you, a solid fantasy. The root source of your beloved Brianston is not some fantastic beast, not a god, but a Realster, a real, flawed human being like me."

  "With respect, Lord Baron,” Shakkar rumbled, thrashing his tail, “You have no need to justify yourself to this blood-sucking vermin. I recommend again that you allow me to kill him."

  Murar maintained his submissive pose, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips moving silently.

  Grimm shook his head. “It's not that simple, Shakkar. One of my own kind, a Guild Mage, is responsible for the plight of these people. What right do we have to wipe them out like this?"

  "It is not a matter of ‘rights', Lord Baron! I, for one, would never rest while another enslaved my brothers and used them for fodder."

  "I have no intention of allowing the situation to continue, Shakkar. I just feel it would be more… more just to see if we can find a solution that will suit the Brianstonians and the humans equally."

  "And if there is no such solution, Lord Baron?"

  Grimm shrugged. “Then the original plan will stand."

  Murar looked up, with a faint trace of hope shining in his eyes. “Might there be some way in which we can survive without Uncle?"

  "Perhaps,” Grimm said, trying to turn half-formed concepts into coherent, rational thought. “It's not Gruon himself who sustains Brianston, but his dreams; or, rather, Garropode's dreams… Garropode's soul.

  "If I could capture his essence and freeze it in its current form, Brianston might prevail. I've met him in the spirit world, and I should be able to locate him within the dream-body of Gruon."

  Grimm's voice became firmer, as growing confidence began to strengthen his resolve. He almost began to feel cheerful at his own resourcefulness.

  "Perhaps the dream-stuff itself could be gathered and secured in an extra-dimensional pocket,” he mused. “Questor Dalquist hid the Eye of Myrrn in just such a place, safe from prying eyes and hands, and I believe I understand the principle. It's got to be worth a try."

  "I do not trust this dream-rat or his kind further than I could toss that altar,” Shakkar growled.

  Murar groaned and straightened up, massaging his lower back. “I came here to plead for my people,” he said, his voice no longer as placatory as it had been. “I was sincere; I recognise the threat you pose to our continuance, and that you can snuff us all out in an instant. If you have a plan to save our city, I beg you to at least try it. If not, then I've wasted my time. I don't care anymore. We have lost, and we throw ourselves on your mercy."

  Grimm could not truly bring himself to grieve for the demise of the Brianstonians and their gory cult, but he still felt the burning desire to prove himself a true mage of the Seventh Rank. He had to acknowledge, even to himself, that he had gained the venerated seven golden rings through a few lucky breaks, and that most mages saw far more danger than he had before they reached this pinnacle of Guild status.

  Most of all, he wanted to prove himself superior to Garropode, the renegade sorcerer whose experiments had created this bizarre city.

  He knew his exploits might garner him little more respect from his fellow mortals, certainly as far as the acid-tongued Guy was concerned, but at least he, Grimm, would know himself worthy of his exalted rank.

  "I'll do it,” he declared with a decisive clap of the hands. “Let's show we can be magnanimous in victory, Shakkar."

  "Magnanimity, Lord Baron, is not a virtue we demons are known to possess in abundance. Nonetheless, I am at your command, at least for the nonce, and I will go along with your scheme."

  The demon's brows lowered. “But I advise against it."

  "Noted,” Grimm said, eager to get started. “I need to meditate for a few moments, Shakkar. I don't think I need to go into a full astral trance, but I'll ask you to keep watch over developments. If there's any sign of encroachments, I want you to alert me at once."

  "I understand, Lord Baron. Murar, if there is the least sign of treachery, you die in an instant."

  Murar shrugged, and Grimm squatted in the awkward posture prescribed for deep meditation.

  He began to regularise his breathing, as he had been taught in the Scholasticate at Arnor, concentrating on the centre of his body. He crushed his human emotions into a sealed parcel at his core, and reached out for the soul of Garropode, deep below the floor of the temple, willing the trance to subsume him.

  ****

  The sleeping dragon's deep, regular heartbeat filled spirit-Grimm's sensorium, and he searched for the buried essence of the mage, blotting out all impressions of Gruon. Images, sounds, alien thoughts entered his mind and passed
through it like leaves in a fast-flowing stream.

  Garropode, where are you?

  He followed the thick, sticky tentacles of dream-stuff, navigating the heavy currents of consciousness to their source. Nameless and formless, he drifted through Gruon's mind until he saw a grey, worm-like form at its centre. A faint glow of triumph leaked through from his buried consciousness as he entered the pallid form.

  Garropode, you are mine!

  Awareness wafted into his mind.

  Grimm, you shall not have me!

  Resistance: the Questor recognised it, flowed around it and squeezed.

  I am the stronger. I will prevail! The proud, human imperative rushed to the fore, and Grimm amplified the power within him.

  Mine! Mine!

  With a dull pop, the young mage plunged into the source of the Brianston dream, gathering and garnering, clutching it to him. In an instant, the entity, the essence of Garropode ceased to be, and spirit-Grimm knew he had won.

  Twisting through a strange angle, into a small void without form or feature, he released the bundle of dream-energy, simultaneously rushing upwards to his crude, mortal form.

  ****

  He gasped like a drowning man washed up on the shore, coughing out the sick, subsumed essence of the conquered mage within him.

  "Lord Baron! Are you all right?"

  Grimm found himself sprawled upon the floor of Gruon's temple, and saw the twin forms of Shakkar and Murar. He had succeeded!

  "All right,” he grunted, pushing himself to his feet. Turning to the Revenant, he said, “Whatever remains of Garropode is now dedicated to the continuance of Brianston, Murar. I now demand that you free my companions and the other humans from their bondage."

  Murar's eyes narrowed. “How do I know what you say is true, Realster? All I saw was that you closed your eyes for a few moments."

  "You are in absolutely no position to haggle, Revenant,” the demon rumbled.

  Buoyed up by his easy victory, Grimm shrugged. “I can prove it,” he said, smiling. Leaning over to the void in the floor, he uttered the syllables of the spell of Inner Clarity. After a few moments, a gout of blue flame shot from the hole, and a feral, angry roar echoed up from the chamber below.

  "Uncle is awake, and I still live!” Murar gasped. “You spoke truth, Realster, and I thank you. I will-"

  The floor began to shake, and motes of dust drifted down from the ceiling.

  Grimm had assumed the dragon to be a relatively small creature, perhaps the size of a horse or a cow. The powerful, thrusting impacts under the jumbled tons of rock spoke of something far, far greater and stronger, and he felt the clammy hands of uncertainty upon him.

  "I fear you may have made a grave error, Lord Baron,” Shakkar said, echoing the mage's own thoughts, as a powerful blow jerked the mass of stone up by two or three inches. Another mighty impact flung sizable boulders free of the hole, and Grimm had to duck to avoid decapitation.

  "I think it might be a good idea to get out of here, Murar,” he muttered as the entire structure trembled with greater and greater frequency.

  "I think you're right, Realster."

  The mage, the demon and the Revenant fled from the shaking mausoleum into a nervously-chattering crowd of Brianstonians.

  Pillars tumbled to the ground and the pointed roof of the structure leaned over at a precipitous angle for a few moments before crashing down. A tumultuous roar arose from the ground, and a long, sinuous neck, topped by a reptilian head the size of a wagon, snaked out of the crumbling ruins. From the long snout, a plume of shimmering blue flame shot into the early evening sky, and an ear-splitting roar shook the ground.

  Brianstonians screamed and fled, and Grimm stared at the vision with a mixture of horror and astonishment. Even with maybe three-quarters of his bulk beneath the ground, Gruon towered thirty or forty feet in the air, and the young mage knew he had made a bad mistake.

  He felt transfixed as Gruon's earth-shattering, affronted scream shook the ground, and the dragon ripped himself free of his prison and began to clamber out of the pit.

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  Chapter 23: The Golden Creation

  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 chanc
es 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.