Grimm Dragonblaster 5, page 16
"Well, that's easy enough, I'm sure, boy."
"Why don't you just tell me who you are? You seem to know my name well enough, you—"
Grimm swallowed an insult; dumped back into a semi-physical body, he felt about as powerful as a newborn babe in this bizarre, empty world.
"I am Garropode the Creator, Grimm! A long, long time ago, I was a Guild Mage, just like you. A Seventh Level Manipulant, unsatisfied with his lot. I became so confident that I believed I could create a true living creature from nothing but my own thoughts, and I succeeded where so many others had failed.
I managed to create a dream so real that the borders between reality and fantasy began to blur into a cohesive continuum. That is where I lost control. Now, my creation and I are one. While you are here, in my realm, I know all about you. Out there, I am nothing."
Dream-Grimm shrugged. “I can handle ordinary speech quite well, Garropode; there's no need to try to impress me with abstruse comments. Ignorant as I am about your craft, I'd be very grateful if you'd confine yourself to something a simple soul like me could understand! Another stream of incomprehensible babbling might sound good to you, but it doesn't enlighten me in the least."
Grimm looked into the mage's dark eyes and saw absolute nothingness.
Garropode sighed. “I am sorry, Grimm. I have been alone here for a long time, and the whole thing seems so simple to me. I do understand if it is too arcane for a mortal like you.
"I have seen everything that has happened here for the last two hundred years, and I am tired. Gruon was my greatest creation, my triumph. During the course of my interesting little experiment, I saw him blossom and grow from a vague concept into an independent physical being. I had no idea that my little intellectual diversion would end up taking over my whole life. I became so obsessed with my living dream that I poured more and more of my essence into him, spending more and more time in his mind—until I became Gruon!"
Grimm shook his head, reeling in confusion. “I understood that the people of Brianston were dreams of Gruon. Are you saying that Gruon is one of your dreams? If so, will he not vanish when you wake up?"
"I cannot wake; in a sense, I no longer exist as an independent being. Whatever Gruon once was, he is now a true, living, breathing being with his own identity and self-awareness, and most of that is me. I am trapped here, in this created body, and I cannot escape. My own body must have turned to dust long ago, and I have nowhere to go. This is my new reality."
Garropode seemed to have paid the ultimate price for his arrogance: he had surrendered his independence for the continuance of his own creation. For a brief moment, Grimm felt a pang of pity for the trapped mage, but this was soon subsumed by contempt for the proud man's conceit.
"Because of your ‘interesting little experiment', Garropode, you have given rise to a race of beings whose only hope of survival is human sacrifice,” he said, trembling with anger. “Because of your irresponsible meddling, living men and women are kept as slaves, as mere baby-producing machines, providing nutrient for your precious creation.
"I despise you and your egotistical pride. Because of you, men and women are drained of blood so that these dream-beings may continue to exist! I spit on you and your arrogance! What on earth possessed you to give Gruon an appetite for human blood, you maniac?"
The Manipulant, or, more properly, his spirit form, shrugged. “When Gruon first came to be, he was a small, mute being with no more self-awareness than a rock. Along with my thoughts, I provided him with my own blood, so that he might grow and prosper. Once consciousness came to him, I realised I had made a serious mistake; I was already too deep inside Gruon, and I no longer knew where I ended and he began. We fused, merged, blended."
"You seem sure enough of yourself, Garropode,” Grimm snarled. “I see no sign of such fusion at this time. Can't you command the dragon to wake, and to take no more blood?"
Garropode laughed, long and loud, until tears began to run from his avatar's dark eyes. “That's the joke!”
he gasped, trembling with mirth. “When Gruon wakes, any trace of Garropode the Creator will cease to exist, along with his dream-city. In his place will be Gruon the Dragon, the rampaging anthropophage, whose only desire is sustenance. Only when sated with human blood will he sleep and release me once more from my bondage."
"And if I were to kill him?"
"You cannot, mortal! Your body is confined in a structure immune to even Questor magic. You cannot reach Gruon, and I doubt that even a Seventh Level Questor could last against such a mighty creature, in any case. ‘Grimm Afelnor, called the Dragonblaster'—how ironic!
"In any case, think of all the beings you would destroy along with my dragon—humans with dreams, hopes and desires little different to your own. My dual life may lack richness and variety, but it is my own, and I, at least, have accepted my lot. I suggest you accept yours with good grace—the citizens of Brianston will treat you well while you live.
"Goodbye, Grimm Afelnor. This audience is at an end."
Grimm felt his spiritual body fading away like mist under the morning sun, and he began to fly backwards with ever-increasing velocity, through the dreamscape, back out of Gruon's mind, through the walls of the stone mausoleum...
* * * *
"Say something, Questor Grimm!” The voice was urgent, concerned, and the mage realised he was back in his own body. Nothing but an incoherent gargle came from his throat at first, but the words came at last: “All ... right."
He opened his eyes and saw Numal, Quelgrum and Guy bending over him, their faces lined in concern.
"What did you learn, Grimm?” Guy demanded. “Can you get us out of here? Did you wake Gruon?
What's happening?"
Grimm began to shiver, as the cold shock of the knowledge of absolute failure roared through his being in an icy torrent. Bitter, metallic and turbid it was—the taste of blood, mingled with ashes.
"I failed, Guy!” he snapped. “Is that all right? Do you need to know any more? I failed, just as you thought I would—we don't have a chance! Now, just leave me alone, all of you!"
Conscious of the critical, concerned stares of his colleagues, Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster, broke down in a flood of hot, self-pitying, adolescent tears.
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Chapter 17: A Journey into Memory
Kargan took a series of shuddering, deep breaths, wiping a shock of matted hair from his sweaty forehead. He straightened his blue-tinted spectacles, and it seemed as if each hour of his seventy-six years bore down on him like a lead weight. As a Guild Mage, he might be considered in the prime of his life, but he felt like a decrepit, shambling geriatric.
Dalquist, forty years his junior, had not escaped unscathed, either. The Questor's face was drawn and ashen, with dark rings around his eyes.
"So, is that it, Magemaster Kargan?” The younger man's tone was dull and resigned.
Kargan shook his head. Even that tiny effort strained at his overtaxed muscles.
"Not quite, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “I have one more spell to try: Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct. However, I'm in no condition to try that at this time. We'd probably better leave it for a couple of days or so, until I've brought my strength back up to its optimum level. It's not even worth trying in my current state."
Dalquist sat up. “Bledel; you've mentioned him before, Kargan. How come I have heard of him but never read anything of his magical innovations?"
"It's a Schedule Nine spell in the Engagement class, external, caster and subject bonded,” Kargan said.
“It's not officially on the Register, if you understand me."
The Mentalist tapped the side of his nose, signifying that he did not want knowledge of this to go outside the walls of his chamber.
"Er ... Magemaster Kargan, I'm not a Seventh Level Mentalist and a Magemaster with decades of service to the House,” Dalquist said, his expression blank. “What in the name of Magedom is a Schedule Nine spell, and what is this Register you mentioned?"
Kargan blinked. Of course, he chided himself: a Questor had little need to consult ancient librams for research or inspiration.
"I'm sorry, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “I don't meet a lot of Questors, as you can imagine; you lot are about as common as elephant wings."
Kargan stood, drew his robes around himself and unconsciously adopted the lecturing stance he used in class.
"As you are no doubt aware, Questor Dalquist, most runic spells are found in librams like these,” he declared, pointing at one of his bookshelves. “Nice, safe, reliable spells which have been tried and tested over a period of generations."
"Yes, Magemaster Kargan, I know that, of course. But what of the efforts of our Scholars? There are always new spells coming out."
Kargan adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. “That is correct, Dalquist. However, for every spell released into general usage, there are fifty others that never see the light of day during the lifetime of their originators.
"New spells are not approved by the Scholar's House, but by High Lodge itself. There is a considerable backlog, as you may imagine. Every approved spell is included on the ‘Register of Incantations', which is made freely available to the Prelate of each House. Spells are graded from Schedule One, the lowest, to Schedule Seven, with the spell's schedule indicating the lowest rank at which the casting mage may attempt the spell."
"I've never heard of it,” Dalquist admitted.
Kargan was beginning to enjoy himself. In the complicated hierarchy of mage ascendancy, Questors, given their phenomenal versatility and rarity, were the undisputed jewels in the Guild's crown. However, here was he, a relatively humble Mentalist, enlightening a Seventh Level Questor.
"What I have to tell you is not for general distribution, Questor Dalquist. Do I have your solemn word that what I tell you will remain between the two of us? Neither of us is supposed to know this."
Dalquist clapped a hand over his heart. “I swear on my family name, my Guild Ring and my staff, Shakhmat, that I will reveal nothing to another soul,” he said, without the least hesitation, his face serious.
Kargan nodded. He could expect no more solemn oath from any Guild Mage.
"For many years,” he intoned, “I have had an interest in researching new material, despite the fact that I am no Scholar. During my studies, I learnt of another compendium of incantations: the Libram of Kern.
Its name is only whispered by members of the Presidium and, even to the most senior of magic-users, it is little more than a rumour.
"Twenty years ago, as a precocious Mentalist of the Third Rank, I was sent by Prelate Geral on an expedition under the command of Questor Parpat—"
Dalquist nodded. “Ah, yes: If I remember rightly, he was called ‘The Hammer', and he died of—"
"Please do not interrupt, Questor Dalquist!"
Kargan glared at the younger mage, who raised his hands in acquiescence.
"Thank you. As I was saying, I was sent on a Quest under Questor Parpat. It is not one you will find in the ‘Deeds of the Questors', since it involved the treachery of one Prelate Barkan and his entire House.
They had seceded from the Guild and set themselves up in opposition to us."
The Magemaster smiled at Dalquist's astonished gape. “I thought that might attract your interest; it's not common knowledge. Suffice it to say that such a situation could not be allowed to continue. We were sent to depose Barkan and replace him with someone more ... shall we say, amenable to High Lodge's way of thinking.
"The confrontation between Questor Parpat and Prelate Barkan was spectacularly destructive, as you might expect."
Kargan smiled. “With all due modesty, I will add that my own Spell of Dominance proved a critical factor in our success. However, in the wreckage of Barkan's study, I came across a copy of the Libram of Kern. It meant nothing to Questor Parpat, of course, but I'd heard of it. I secreted the book and brought it back here. It details spells regarded as too dangerous and too capricious to be used by normal mages, even by those of the Seventh Rank.
"For many years, I've jealously guarded this Libram and consulted it at every opportunity. After two decades of study, I believe I understand Bledel's spell in its entirety, and I am willing to try it. That is, if you are willing to submit to it."
Dalquist rubbed his bearded chin as if it itched. “What's involved in this forbidden spell, Magemaster Kargan?"
Kargan shrugged. “I won't pretend this is a simple matter, Questor Dalquist. Our trouble, so far, has been that we've been chipping around the edges; we've been trying to access your memories from the inside, trying to break through a barrier.
"This spell translocates the caster and the subject into ... well, the technical term is ‘former realities'. It takes them both to a specific moment in the subject's past, so that the blocking event can be viewed by both parties as external observers, outside the constraints of the subject's memory. From the spells I've already tried on you, I know both the when and the where of the matter. All we need now is the what."
Dalquist held out his hands, palms upwards. “It sounds almost tailor-made, Magemaster Kargan. What's the downside of the spell?"
"It will take an enormous amount of energy from me,” the Magemaster replied. “Also, the least miscast may mean that we become dislocated in time, drifting through the whole period of your life like wandering ghosts while our physical bodies moulder and crumble into dust. You'll understand why I don't feel up to casting it at this time. My staff is almost dead, and I'm flat beat as far as spellcasting goes."
Dalquist lifted his own staff. “Magemaster Kargan, Shakhmat, here, is fat with stored magical energy. In an instant, I could pass you as much strength as you could accumulate in a week. We Questors need a lot of power for our spells. If you're prepared to try it now, while the mood's upon you, I'm more than willing to take the chance."
Kargan sat down and rubbed his forehead. If there was one thing he had learnt in his long life, it was that Questors were, above all, profligate and powerful mages, expending inordinate amounts of energy on each of their strange spells. He felt it might be better to attempt the potentially hazardous spell while the mood was upon him.
Despite his aching bones, the Mentalist knew his physical body was not yet too tired to continue.
Thaumato-corporeal transference, he thought, finding comfort in the vast array of arcane technical knowledge his experience as a Questing mage and a Magemaster had given him. It's just the weakness of my mage sensorium leaking through to my para-mortal form.
He thought back to his younger days on the trail, with Questors expending their all in a single, tumultuous, incomprehensible yell, and he realised the gulf of magical strength that must lie between him and this young, troubled mage.
"All right, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “Give me whatever thaumaturgic energy you can spare. You'll need to keep back some strength for your own continuance. I just hope your Shakhmat has enough strength..."
Dalquist held out the staff. “Take whatever you need, Magemaster Kargan."
The Mentalist laid his hand over Shakhmat, drawing strength from it. His jaw dropped and he gasped as a massive surge of energy flooded into his body. Clenching his teeth, he withstood the mighty tide of power, accommodating and accepting the influx.
"Enough!” he gasped, as he seemed to feel his head bulging.
"Are you sure, Magemaster Kargan?” Dalquist asked. “There's plenty more here, I assure you."
Kargan drew a deep breath, marvelling at the unaccustomed access of energy washing through him. He felt almost young again, revelling at the feeling of invulnerability that coursed through his veins, nerves and muscles.
"That's more than enough, Questor Dalquist,” he crowed. “I feel twenty years younger! Well, if you're ready to take a trample through your memories, I'm willing to try it."
"I'm about as ready as I'm ever likely to be, Magemaster Kargan. Let's do the deed."
Kargan took a deep draught of water, swilling it around his mouth and gargling before swallowing it.
Despite the potential calamity that might follow from any miscast, he felt enthused.
To my knowledge, only Bledel Soulmaster has ever succeeded in this spell, he thought. After decades wasted in prating at worthless, ungrateful, unheeding Students, this is my chance to show my true mastery. Even if nobody ever knows but Questor Dalquist and me, I'll still have done something almost unique in the annals of the Guild.
Kargan cracked his knuckles and stretched, easing the knots from his muscles.
"I'll just sing a little ballad first, if you don't mind, Questor Dalquist. It helps to free up the throat."
"Go right ahead, Magemaster Kargan. Whatever you need to bring you to peak efficiency is fine with me."
Kargan smiled to himself. Let's see if I can get a Questor to blush, he thought, and took up a singing pose, his hands clasped under his sternum.
"There once was a girl as fresh as new-mown grass,” he carolled. “Red were her lips, and fine was her shapely..."
By the end of the ditty, which grew lewder with each passing verse, the Mentalist smiled at the sight of Questor Dalquist's cherry-red cheeks.
* * * *
Dalquist lay back on his couch and marvelled at Kargan's virtuoso performance. Although the complex sequence of runes was beyond his ability to follow, the Questor felt astonished at the apparent ease with which the aged mage negotiated complicated transitions and cadences that would have tied the average mage's vocal chords and tongue in knots. How long can a single spell last? he wondered. It must have been fifteen minutes now, and his voice sounds as clear and firm as if he'd only just started.
He felt a little disconcerted that he sensed no effects yet from the powerful incantation. All of Kargan's previous attempts had invoked a slowly-growing torpor, which had begun to seep through Dalquist's bones after only a few seconds’ casting. However, he knew that the incantation must still be intact, since Kargan had told him that a miscast would be disastrous; this gave him confidence that the spell was proceeding according to the long-dead Bledel's plan.
