"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.