Grimm waited a few moments to recover his breath, and to allow his pounding heartbeat to return to a more normal level.
'Right,” Grimm said, returning to his feet. “This time, we act together. Launch yourself at it, Shakkar. This time, we'll give it all we've got in one push-don't try to ration your strength.'
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.
