On the wall opposite him, the young mage saw a strange red crest, resembling the face of some bizarre type of reptile or lizard. The carving was rendered in exquisite detail; so much so, that it almost seemed alive. Large amber eyes with pupils like vertical slits appeared to be watching him. For a moment, he could swear that he saw the carved eyes blink, but he dismissed the idea at once.
That bang on the head must have affected me more than I thought…
Grimm shook his head and felt an unaccustomed weight. He guessed he was wearing some sort of helmet, but it, too, seemed well-padded. If this was incarceration, it seemed odd that his captors should go to so much trouble to keep him comfortable.
The room was small, and the only occupant, except for Grimm, was an old man, asleep in the embrace of a rocking-chair. The only window was barred, showing views of the impossibly beautiful city beyond. The walls were made of large stone blocks, whose joints were all but invisible in their closeness. The single door looked to be constructed of solid oak. Impregnable as his bonds would have seemed to a mere Secular, he was not unduly worried.
Once I've summoned Redeemer, I can probably lever these chains from the wall, and it doesn't look as if the old man here will be able to put up much resistance.
"Redeemer, come here,” he muttered.
Nothing happened, and Grimm felt a frisson of panic. Had the knock on his head deprived him of his powers? No; that could not be: no simple blow could deprive a Guild Mage of his innate abilities. Perhaps the simple summoning required a certain level of volume.
"Redeemer, come to me!"
Still the staff failed to appear, and the old man opened his eyes at the Questor's shout.
"Ah, beloved, welcome to Brianston,” the man said, his face crinkling into a friendly smile. “We are so glad you are here. I am Murar, and I am the fortunate one chosen to be your attendant."
Grimm yanked and rattled his heavy chains, but they seemed fixed fast to the wall.
"Please be careful, Blessed One. I would not wish you to be harmed."
"What's going on here? How dare you abduct a Guild Questor of the Seventh Rank? Let me go, or, I warn you, I will be forced to use magic on you!"
"You cannot, Blessed One,” the old man said with a blissful smile. “You are bound with pure iron, a metal immune to all sorcery. Please accept your destiny with the dignity befitting your noble status."
"Aghshaa!” the mage screamed, trying to invoke a spell of Dissolution on his fetters. Nothing happened, and Grimm's heart began to pound in his chest. He attempted three more spells, to no greater effect.
"I told you, Lord Mage, you have no magic here. You are to be a Saviour of our city, and for that we thank you."
Grimm struggled to bring his rampant emotions under his control. “If I'm so blessed, why am I chained in this way?” he demanded. “Why don't you just let me go?"
"Because otherwise you might try to escape,” the white-haired man said, as if it were the most reasonable explanation in the world. Humming softly to himself, Murar began to rock back and forth in his chair.
Is this some kind of madman? Grimm wondered. He seems sane enough, but he's talking arrant nonsense. I can see he idolises me for some strange reason, but the whole situation is crazy!
"Look, Murar,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I can see there's some sort of misunderstanding here-"
Murar beamed as he continued to work his creaking chair. “There is no misunderstanding, Lord Mage, except on your part. We do not love you, as a person, but what you represent to us. You are life and happiness, continuance and joy. We are but the insubstantial dreams of Uncle Gruon, but your presence offers us continued existence. Thanks to you, Uncle Gruon will continue to dream. This is good.
"The city in its present form has lasted for fifty years. With your help, it will live at least another decade. You alone will satisfy our beloved, sleeping Uncle for at least fourteen months. Your friend with the strange ears will last maybe ten months, but the large, pale warrior should satisfy Uncle for far longer."
"What is all this nonsense about uncles, sleep and dreams, Murar? You are as real as I! Let me go, and I will show you!"
Murar stopped rocking and looked the mage directly in the eye. He sighed, and addressed Grimm as if he were instructing a small child. “You can show me nothing, mage. I know all. I and my brethren exist only through the dreams of our beloved Uncle Gruon."
Grimm invoked his Mage Sight: the old man appeared to possess a human aura and appropriate mass. What he was saying made no sense at all.
He must be mad. My only hope seems to be that I can try to talk him into some sort of sanity. Perhaps I'd better start by humouring him.
"All right,” he said. “If you're a dream, then what am I?"
Murar blinked. “Why, you're alive, Blessed One. You're real. Don't you know that?"
"Of course I do! I just-"
"Then why did you ask?” The old man returned to his humming and rocking.
Grimm shifted his position, easing the stress on his shoulders and knees.
I've got to find some way to get through to this crazy man, he thought. But where do I start?
"Look,” he said. “Of course I know I'm alive! I just don't understand what you're saying. I can see you and hear you. How can I see someone else's dream? You must admit that is a strange phenomenon."
"I didn't say it wasn't.” The old man did not seem perturbed in the least. “But it's true. Our adored Uncle lies beneath the city. While he sleeps and dreams, we live. Should he wake, we will die. It is as simple as that. You will ensure that he continues to sleep for many, many years."
The old man resumed his nodding, his eyes closed, and Grimm began to fight waves of sheer panic. Deprived of magic and trussed up at the whim of a town of mad people, he felt more helpless than he ever had.
Let's suppose they're not insane, he thought, trying to force himself into a rational frame of mind. I believed the people of Crar were crazy, at first, but they were just under Starmor's spell. Perhaps some underworld entity makes them believe these bizarre fantasies.
"Thribble,” he muttered. “Are you there?” He felt immense relief as the grey, stubble-haired head emerged from his right pocket.
"I have heard all, human,” the demon declared.
"Could this be some demon spell?"
"None of which I am aware, Lord Grimm,” the minuscule creature squeaked.
"Is it possible that some class of demon of which you are unaware could… dream reality, Thribble?"
"Most improbable, Lord Grimm; I am widely travelled within the demonlands, and I have never heard of such a bizarre manifestation."
So we're in a town of lunatics after all. There's got to be some way out of this. If I can-what?
The once-red reptilian carving was now a bright lime-green.
That thing was scarlet a moment ago!
Murar opened his eyes and cooed in apparent pleasure. “What a delightful little creature!” he cried. “Welcome, monster!"
"Monster!” Thribble shrilled in an outraged tone. “I'll have you know-"
The old man, with surprising alacrity, snatched the demon by his head and inspected him.
"Your dreams do you credit with their clarity and solidity, Blessed One. Even while awake, you maintain the illusion!"
"I am not a dream, mortal. Unhand me at once!"
"It speaks, too!"
Thribble opened his mouth to its full extent and sank his tiny, needle-like teeth into Murar's thumb.
"Ouch!"
Murar dropped the demon, which scurried to the door and disappeared.
The aged watchman sucked his wounded digit and smiled. “You are an hallucinatory genius, Blessed One, and I congratulate you! It will be a pity to lose you."
"What do you mean, Murar?"
"This is how we keep Uncle Gruon asleep, by feeding him the blood of what we call Realsters, or Blessed Ones. Uncle likes human blood. When he has had enough, he sleeps, and we live.