As he approached the house, his next concern was to check that the street was clear. He did not need to research the matter to know that it would be unacceptable in human society to break into another’s home and that it would raise alarm if someone saw his puppet doing so.
It took a little time before he had a chance to do anything. For a while the street was clear and he forced his puppet to try the door which was, not unexpectedly, locked.
Demeron didn’t have the time to stop and deliberate, he found the first loose, heavy item he could and the puppet threw it with great force through a window. The sound of smashing glass pierced through the air and filled the entire street. The worst part of this was that it had disturbed the mind of his puppet. Demeron had to act fast to bend the man’s dream to accommodate the noise. The man’s subconscious was fighting hard to wake up but with a great deal of effort, Demeron had him under control again. It had been a very close call.
He nervously pressed his advantage and directed his puppet slowly through the window and into the house.
He was standing in a room which had to be a kitchen. Without hesitation he hurried to look for a list of communication device numbers. He had come to the conclusion that the devices were called “phones” and if the Elf had one of these “phones”, then Szekeres would be the most likely person to have her number somewhere. He searched fervently through every list that he could find but it was no use. Her name was simply not there.
For a while Demeron despaired. He had been so certain that Szekeres could have led him to the Elf and yet instead he had hit another dead end. It was infuriating. It took him a moment to calm down and start thinking clearly again. Perhaps, he thought, the Elf had foreseen the danger of these phones and didn’t want to use one at all? That would make sense but if she had indeed entered this world and Szekeres was here they must surely communicate. After all, they had aided one another in the last war, according to minotaur spies.
There had to be some kind of clue here as to where she might be. Demeron forced his puppet to start searching the rest of the house. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for but he needed something, anything. He was in a hurry. He could feel his subject’s mind starting to awaken. Demeron’s own emotions had lessened his control and the human had been kept in a dream too long.
Then suddenly Demeron saw it. Something that stopped him completely dead. He didn’t know what he felt. It wasn’t anger or excitement. He struggled to comprehend what he saw and scarcely dared to believe it. There before him was a picture, an incredibly lifelike picture of the two faces he had been hunting for. They were unquestionably Szekeres and the Elf. They were standing hand in hand and the elf was wearing the kind of clothes that human women traditionally wore when they…
Excitement was finally starting to rise in Demeron again. It all made sense. He hadn’t just discovered where Szekeres lived, Szekeres had married the elf, which surely meant that she lived here too. All he needed to do was wait until they returned from their journey. He had what he wanted at last.
The human puppet was on the brink of awakening but just before he did, Demeron had a final glimpse of the images in front of him. Then he was forced back above the human world’s dream plane, held there by the power of the orb.
Uncertainty filled his mind. The girl in the last picture he had seen strongly resembled the Elf... and yet… She had not appeared to be elven. No, the more Demeron considered the image the more convinced he was that she had been human. And there was more. She had been too young, standing between Szekeres and the elf, significantly shorter than them. It was almost as if she was their daughter.
Demeron’s mind was full of questions. Was it possible for an elf and a human to conceive a child? Had it ever happened before? What abilities would she possess if this were the case? Would she be a human or would she have elvish abilities like her mother? Demeron didn’t want more humans for his plans and it appeared that she possessed many human traits, physically at least. Furthermore, she had seemed familiar, almost as if Demeron had seen her before. But where? When? Still brooding over these questions, Demeron withdrew from the dream plane altogether and returned to consciousness in the dark, round room. He stood motionless for a long time, thinking hard. The only sound was his own breath going in and out slowly. The air was so cold that the air he expelled formed into mist, which streamed away in dense clouds from his nostrils each time he exhaled. The orb in front of him continued twisting and folding in its strange way. It was almost like watching black paint being stirred. Demeron’s efforts had suddenly brought him much further ahead than he had expected. Now though, should he look into this development further before reporting to Gorhoth or should he simply report straight away? If he did, perhaps Gorhoth would accuse him of wasting time and say that he, Demeron, should have known what was expected of him. Then again, if he said nothing, Gorhoth would not know that he had made positive progress and become furious in the belief that Demeron was still failing.
Demeron’s thoughts began to clear slowly. It was definitely best to inform Gorhoth of his advancement somehow before he proceeded with his work. He simply wished he could convey this through a messenger but that was out of the question. Gorhoth considered these activities utterly secret. Passing on the information through a human messenger would be dangerous and he knew Gorhoth would not tolerate it.
With this in mind, Demeron was decided and departed the room quickly. He made his way directly to the throne room but was surprised to find that it was deserted. Gorhoth was clearly seeing to something personally and that didn’t bode well.
Overall, he was glad that he was bringing good news. Someone else had evidently just failed a task and things were not going to end well for them. However, for Demeron this meant that Gorhoth would be preoccupied and therefore, that he did not need to rush.
He sought out the slave master Borg to try and discover where Gorhoth had gone. Borg was by no means entrusted with such information intentionally but an advantage of overseeing slaves in the Citadel was that news travelled to his ears quickly. Gossiping was not a behaviour that Borg discouraged. It had inherent dangers, allowing slaves to communicate freely with each other, but it made Borg privy to a constant stream of information, which he thirsted for in the hope that he could use it to his advantage. It did not take long to find him either. Demeron had decided to visit the larder on his way. He was exceedingly hungry after two days of constant work and no food.
The kitchens had a very grim appearance, full of hanging knives and cutting blocks permanently stained with bloody marks that had been engrained through constant application and simply could not be washed out anymore. Enormous fire ovens lined one of the walls and cast an unpleasant red aura through the room, which gave the hanging knives a very unwholesome but very fitting tint of colour. Human slaves were bustling about with bowed heads, attending to their work in silence. The kitchen was always overseen and chefs never had any private moments. This security was to ensure that the humans did not try to poison their masters. The security was far from pointless. All of the slaves would gladly have poisoned the demons of the Citadel, even if it meant they would be killed painfully for doing so.
As Demeron entered, he recognised the unmistakable, rotund figure of Borg slumped lazily in a chair with a heavy wooden palate in his hand that bore large pieces of barely browned meat. Minotaurs typically had a passion for fresh meat. It made them easy to feed but was grim to observe as they tore apart bleeding flesh with fervor. As Borg looked up and noticed that Demeron had entered he slapped his enormous gut jovially and greeted him. There was nobody better to snub noses with than Gorhoth’s right hand man.
“Demeron! Always a pleasure to have your company! Sit, sit.”
Demeron took a seat next to Borg with a pleased grunt. Borg was always most forthcoming with information when he felt that his efforts were being noticed.
“You,” he growled menacingly at a nearby slave, “bring your Master food right now or I’ll open you
up for him to enjoy while you’re still breathing.”
It was lucky for the slave that Minotaurs were so easily satisfied because these sorts of threats in the Citadel were not in the slightest bit hollow. It was not unheard of for a hungry creature to rip apart a slave without warning. Gorhoth did not condone the killing of useful slaves but so long as his followers kept to the weakest victims he was not overly bothered.
The slave took two seconds to sear a great rump of meat over a flame before setting it in front of Demeron who gave it his vigorous attention.
“So, what errands are you back from? We haven’t seen or heard from you in days but I was under the impression you never left the Citadel!”
Demeron was annoyed by this remark, not only because it was impertinent but also because Borg’s information was as accurate as ever. He knew of the room where Demeron worked even if he didn’t know its true purpose but Demeron was sure he would dearly love to find out. If he did, Demeron thought, it would be biting off even more than the glutton could chew, which said a lot. He ignored the question entirely and proceeded by asking his own.
“Where is the Lord? I need to speak with him, urgently.”
“But not so urgently that you couldn’t stop for some meat. Or did you know that I was here before you decided to visit the kitchens?”
Borg clearly felt that he had stumbled on a poor decision by Demeron, otherwise he would never have given him so much cheek. Demeron was in almost every regard, besides age, accounted great among the Minotaurs and he was, by definition, Borg’s superior.
“He was not in the throne room. That surely means he is busy elsewhere. My information is not so urgent as to justify interrupting him. I simply wish to convey my information the second after his task is complete.”
Demeron controlled his tone carefully. He still needed Borg’s help, so he kept his voice casual before becoming tactically ingratiating.
“You always know what is going on in the Citadel Borg, a highly valuable trait which I have pointed out to the Lord on occasion.”
The effect of these words was immediate and satisfying for Demeron.
“Very good of you! The next time you see him be sure to mention I pointed you in his direction. He is in the high pass above the Citadel. The Hartiani captain there failed to notice a group of human rangers who freed some of the slaves working in the mines there. It won’t end well for the captain. It was a very poor start to their service under us. They are scarcely a day into the job.”
Borg chuckled deep down in his throat. He showed no sympathy for his new comrades. On the contrary, Minotaurs and Hartiani hated each other.
“Excellent,” Demeron exclaimed, referencing both parts of the received information, he too had no love for the Hartiani guards, “I will make my way then. I’ll let you know how the captain squealed if I haven’t already missed the pleasure of overseeing it. I’ll be sure to mention your helpful directions Borg.”
Borg grunted gratefully and nodded to Demeron as he got up and left. Reaching the high pass would not take long since the Citadel was practically flanked by the high peaks on its eastern side. Demeron could be there by the afternoon if he was fast and a Minotaur could indeed be much faster than any human.
Demeron soon reached the gate to the North, the only one which led out of the Citadel. It stood between the towering walls like a black veil flitting between the stone on either side. The walls themselves were at least thirty meters high, pitch black and flawlessly smooth. Unlike the interior walls, the stone here appeared rigid. The gate itself was not made from stone or any kind of solid material. The inner lining of its arch had been intricately carved into the form of two rearing dragons spitting fire at each other face to face.
The ubiquitous dragon figures scattered through the whole Citadel always made Demeron feel somewhat uneasy. Dragons were considered legends, stories from deep in the past that no one truly believed. Demeron now had reason to suspect otherwise. After his last unexpected encounter with Gorhoth, Demeron had begun to think that Gorhoth was not simply interested in the legends, but obsessed with realising them through the use of dreamwalkers.
He tried to push the idea out of his mind and his attention returned to the gate in front of him. It swirled before him like velvet smoke. There was no greater gate than the one Gorhoth had designed, far more secure than any steel or stone barrier. How he had fashioned it, Demeron did not know. What he did know was that it was a veil of pure death, a sheet of magical essence Gorhoth alone controlled. By his will, his followers coul pass through unharmed. Anyone else who tried would have their life essence ripped out of them. Demeron was always free to pass through unscathed but doing so always made him uncomfortable. Whilst magic was controllable, it was also in many respects, alive. As a result, it was prone to behave in unexpected ways. All it would take was for Gorhoth’s control to fail for a split second, not that it ever had.
He stepped into the veil and immediately felt like his body was trying to turn itself inside out. Another step and it was over. Overall, Demeron thought, if only not to be Gorhoth’s enemy, it was good to be his Ally. He pressed on with incredible agility around the castle walls, east and then south.
At the most easterly point of the Citadel, the mountain path started. The land rose incredibly steeply and the path had to wind constantly to make the ascent possible. The earth near the walls, much like the land which encircled Gorhoth’s abode, was totally devoid of life. There wasn’t a single creature in sight, not even a blade of grass. The soil itself appeared grey and dead. However, as Demeron travelled higher this changed noticeably. The earth darkened to an increasingly rich brown and tufts of grass could be seen in places along with the odd flower or tree. Life was putting up a tremendous fight but each day Gorhoth’s original power gradually returned and crept a little further outward.
The climb took many hours through the gradually shifting landscape but Demeron never eased his pace. As the path began to flatten out, the echoes of stone work wafted within hearing. He had nearly reached the mines and subsequently, his destination. Huts and shacks were dotted along the sides of the levelled pathway, makeshift shelter for the human slaves that were forced to work here. Some of the more sturdy and spacious ones were clearly intended for Gorhoth’s followers. There were work stations further along the way where stone was being cut and shaped that had come from the depths of the mines. Mounds had been built of rock containing important metals that would be transported down the mountain to the Citadel’s furnaces for smelting and forging. The work was certainly more demanding at the mines but the human slaves here always seemed to have higher spirits than those in the Citadel itself. Here and there, some of them with stronger voices sang work songs openly, which seemed to cheer their fellow slaves. Gorhoth was no fool, he allowed this behaviour intentionally because it greatly increased the slaves’ productivity. Nevertheless, Demeron hated the atmosphere in more ways than one. As a minotaur he was used to deep, dark places below the earth, not high above it and the almost cheery attitude of the slaves annoyed him. Humans took an unhealthy pleasure from the mountain air and here in the pass they were surrounded by nature that reminded them of their far-off homes.
There was an even greater reason for their contentment today too and it was the reason Demeron needed to come all the way up here to find Gorhoth. If Borg was right, and he almost always was when it came to news or gossip, a number of slaves had recently been freed by human rangers that had dared to come searching for their taken kin. It was the Hartiani’s new job to hinder this and it seemed they had failed.
He had not travelled much further before he discovered evidence that Borg had been right. A swarm of Hartiani were grouped together in a circle around something in a clearing. Whatever it was, it was blocked from view in the middle of the ring. Demeron pushed his way through until he could see what was happening. Whilst he was much taller in body than the Hartiani, their large feathered wings made it impossible for him to see until he was right on the inn
er rim of the circle. The sight that greeted him was that of the Hartiani captain stricken to the ground in front of a small shadowy figure. Gorhoth did not need size to strike fear into peoples’ hearts.
“Captain I will ask you only one more time, so I suggest you form your answer carefully and think hard about what you know. How did the human rangers get past your watch completely unnoticed and escape with human slaves whilst your guards failed to raise a single claw?”
Gorhoth’s voice was piercing and full of malice, somewhere between a deep growl and an icy, bitter whisper. The captain’s reply in contrast was shrill and unmistakably full of terror.
“Lord they… they were never seen and I had guards posted above every possible entry to the pass. We have been constantly vigilant. The human renegades… they… they must have a wizard, a magical way to move unseen!”
“Very few humans in the entire history of Otthon were powerful enough to achieve such a feat and none of them are alive today thanks to my personal attention.”
“But it… it could have been an elf helping them. It must be! We never failed to keep watch!”
“Yet you should have known when your slaves went missing nevertheless. It is an oversight I am sure your successor will never make.”
A warm satisfaction spread through Demeron as he watched the captain burst into flames where he lay, screaming. Demeron hated Hartiani and one less in the world meant the world was so much the better for its absence. The flock of Hartiani around him remained silent but their wings furled and unfurled nervously. None of them wanted to be chosen as their captain’s successor right. Then again, there was no better way to ensure a steady stream of human subjects to feed off than to be in Gorhoth’s service. Hartiani fed off the emotions of other beings. It did not keep them alive but they lusted after it like an addictive drug and even the horror before them was not reason enough to give up their abundant source for feeding this hunger.
Bridge Between the Worlds (Dreamwalker Book 1) Page 19