Erik smiled. “Of course, Revenant Murar! Ah… by the way, who should we contact if we have further questions?"
"I'm sure the staff at the ‘Wanderer's Rest’ will be able to aid you in any enquiries concerning our fine city,” the old man replied. “Otherwise, the town centre is ringed by other Revenants at all critical intersections. They are forbidden to admit any outsider to pass during Festival, but I am sure they'll be more than happy to provide you with any information you may require."
"Thank you for your time, Revenant Murar. Shall we leave, Lord Seneschal?"
"What? You want to eat at a time like this?” Shakkar demanded, frowning as Murar walked away.
"Well, I must admit that I am getting sick of these dried rations,” Erik muttered. “But that isn't the main reason: I just wanted to get Murar out of the way. I don't trust him."
Shakkar felt nonplussed. Murar had seemed a decent sort for a human, and the demon had noted nothing suspect in his behaviour. However, he had to acknowledge that he was a mere tyro in the assessment of mortals, whose ways were often beyond him.
He waited until Murar was out of sight before speaking: “What are your suspicions, Sergeant?"
"Nobody's that happy for so long, Lord Seneschal. And did you see the way he swallowed and blinked when you mentioned Lord Grimm's party, just before he went into his wide-eyed, puzzled act?"
Shakkar shook his head. He had noticed nothing strange about the old man's demeanour at any time.
"Why, then, did you let Murar go, if you suspected deception?"
"I don't know for sure, Lord Seneschal, but I'd be willing to bet a week's wages he knows more than he's letting on. More than that; look at Brianston's location."
The soldier unfolded his map and indicated the city with his right index finger.
"He says they don't get many visitors here: how probable is that? Roads run between here and several moderate-sized towns. I just can't believe that nobody ever travels them. Most of the roads around Brianston are little more than scrubby dirt roads, full of rocks and ruts. Would you travel around it in a wagon, when these splendid, graded streets are available?"
Shakkar frowned. “Your reasoning appears sound, human, so I reiterate: why did you not detain Murar or press him further?"
"I just want to be sure, Lord Seneschal. I don't want to beat up a helpless old man just because of suspicions. I just want to scout out Baron Grimm's probable route, in the hope of finding some clue-
The soldier appeared to spasm as his face contorted. “Ugh, there's a rat on me!” he said, shaking his uniform jacket. “I hate bloody rats!"
Shakkar looked down to see the tiny, grey shape of Thribble sprawling in the dirt.
"That is no rat,” he growled. “Can you not see? It is Baron Grimm's companion, Thribble! That proves that the Baron was here!
"Hail, brother demon!"
Thribble shook the dust of the road from his minuscule body. “Greetings, Shakkar! And for your information, human, I do not take kindly to being compared with your overworld vermin!"
Erik shrugged “I'm sorry, Master Thribble. I just thought you-"
"Never mind that,” Shakkar interrupted, scooping the tiny creature into the palm of his shovel-sized, clawed right hand. He looked down into Thribble's dot-like eyes with concern. “Where is Baron Grimm, Thribble?"
"This is a strange town, Shakkar. Most of the buildings here are bizarre fantasies given form by the dreams of some creature the citizens of Brianston call ‘Uncle Gruon'. Most of the inhabitants seem also to be his mental constructs. From what I can tell, they need to keep this Gruon asleep by engorging him with the blood of living mortals. Lord Grimm and his fellow mortals are being kept for this purpose in a large stone building in the centre of the town. This Festival is in honour of the new guests; I gather that they will satisfy Gruon's appetite for many years, and keep the people of Brianston alive."
"Thank you, Thribble,” Shakkar growled, his animal hind-brain driving him to action. “Direct us to this building and I shall tear it apart. Sergeant Erik, you may use your Technological weapons to keep the crowd at bay while I concentrate on freeing Lord Grimm and his companions."
"With pleasure, Lord Seneschal!” Erik swung his firearm's strap from his shoulder and flipped a small lever on its side. “I never liked all this diplomacy stuff, anyway. General Quelgrum always thought it was a good idea to get the locals on our side, wherever we went. Even so, I've always preferred a stand-up fight."
Thribble said, “It is not so simple, friend Erik. They are not mortals like you, and your metal death-tube may not affect all of them.
"Likewise, brother Shakkar, I have seen the edifice in which Lord Grimm is being kept: I doubt that even your gigantic strength could batter through it. The walls seem to be constructed of solid stone blocks, so closely spaced that the slenderest knife-blade could not pass between them. The door seems to be constructed of thick metal."
"Why, you're just full of good news, aren't you, little feller?” Erik said, his face contorted in some mortal expression Shakkar could not read. “Have you any other handy tips for us?"
"I am only telling you what I know, mortal. I know your ‘gun’ thing will affect at least some of these people, although not all of them. I saw General Quelgrum use a similar weapon on the crowd when we were first taken. Most people seemed to be killed by the little pellets."
"They're called ‘bullets', friend demon."
"That is of little import,” the demon snapped, and Shakkar saw Thribble's tiny brows lowering. “Would you object if I just finished my assessment?"
Erik shrugged, and it seemed that Thribble took this as permission to proceed.
"Some were affected by these bullets, as you call them, but others did not succumb to them at all. I lost consciousness in the violence of the ensuing commotion, but before I fell I noticed Revenant Murar among the ranks of the unaffected. I just thought you should be aware of that."
Shakkar pondered, but not for long; his rampant hind-brain would not be balked in its desire for vengeance. The deep, feral sense of duty was strong within him, and it grew like an unslaked thirst.
"We will take our chances on that, brother Thribble!” he shouted. “We have a duty to fulfil, and we shall fulfil it to the best of our abilities. Is that clear, Sergeant Erik?"
"Yes, Lord Seneschal! You'll hear no dissent from me in that regard!"
The Seneschal eyed the empty road ahead, still hearing the incessant sounds of human revelry. He had tried, for many months, to assume respectable, human duties within Crar, but his demonic heritage would not be denied. Vengeance was a clear and potent imperative, and the muddy visions of the clear-thinking front-brain gave way to the fiery demands of the inner mind. Even before thinking, he had begun to stride forward with a mile-eating gait.
Grimm sighed. He knew his latest outburst had robbed him of all pretence of being a true Seventh Level Questor, and he moped on his thin mattress, deep in the bowels of self-pity. General Quelgrum sat by him; all of his other companions had deserted him, and the young mage did not blame them.
He felt pathetic, useless and worthless.
He wanted to be alone, utterly alone, but the old soldier persisted with his irksome presence. At last, something inside the Questor snapped.
"Haven't you seen enough, General?” he snapped. “Please don't tell me how you broke down in tears in just the same way after your first major defeat; I don't think I could handle it. Please, just go away."
Quelgrum sighed. “No, Lord Baron, I don't think I've ever broken down in tears for as long as I can remember. Still, I do remember trying to fling the contents of my guts down the road after my first battle. I wasn't much younger than you then.
"Grimm Afelnor, your problem isn't your companions, or your lack of foresight, or your thwarted expectations-it's you. I never had control of an army, a regiment or even a platoon at your age: I always had someone to tell me what to do. At that age, my problem was that I didn't realise that the sergeants and corporals could tell me anything.