Ascending the steps, Grimm saw a wide cone falling from the ceiling and feeding into the top of the altar. This, he guessed, was where the Revenants fed the sleeping Gruon his diet of human blood, pouring the precious fluid into a tube leading directly to the somnolent dragon's gut. Straining his ears, Grimm heard a slow, deep, repeating rumble that seemed to arise from below the tomb's floor; Gruon must be directly below him.
Despite the pristine tiled floor, he recalled the chaotic jumble of rocks entombing the dragon; how was he to reach the creature?
He might make a start by disintegrating the altar, but the massive block of granite might take him hours to dissolve, and he could not be certain that his distracting ploy had succeeded.
The thing must weigh ten tons, at least, he thought. I'll never be able to budge it on my own.
"Shakkar!"
The demon forced himself into the tomb, dislodging a couple of decorative pillars in the process. Despite the narrowness of the doorway, the ceiling, fortunately, was high enough for Shakkar to stand without stooping.
"I am at your command, Lord Baron,” the demon rumbled.
"Can you move that?” asked Grimm, pointing to the grey altar. “It's in our way, and it may be our only means of access to Gruon."
"I can try,” the demon said, flexing his boulder-like biceps and taking up position in front of the stone block. After several deep breaths, Shakkar leaned over, placed his ample shoulder against the face of the altar and began to push. Tendons stood out like hawsers beneath the demon's grey, leathery skin, muscle upon muscle bunching in his shoulders, legs and arms as he exerted himself.
Sweat began to drip from Shakkar's heavy, overhanging brows, and the demon bared his teeth in a ferocious grimace. Grimm added his own meagre effort to the enterprise, pressing his back against the altar and tensing his leg muscles. Still the stone block did not tumble.
"Try pushing nearer the top, Shakkar,” Grimm grunted through clenched teeth. “We only need to overbalance the altar, not push it out of the way."
The demon adjusted his stance, and the granite block rocked a little. Grimm groaned with the effort, giving every iota of his physical strength. At last, the mage felt his knotted muscles giving way, and he collapsed to the tiled floor. After a further few moments, even the mighty Shakkar gave up and slumped to the ground, resting his back against the stone.
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."