Grimm Dragonblaster 5, page 13
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 least 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."
"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.
[Back to Table of Contents]
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 the 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."
