Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [44]
Murmur regarded the small chamber. Why had its borrowed body chosen this place to sleep? The room wasn’t where Murmur was accustomed to coming to itself. Unfamiliar fixtures and devices adorned the chamber. Murmur didn’t recognize their purpose.
The garment the body adorned itself in was also different than what it was used to. Murmur ran its flesh hands along the hem of the opposite jacket sleeve, feeling the smooth texture of a leather garment. Why was its host attired as if going out for the day? Usually Murmur’s host was wearing light nightclothes when the demon dream took control.
If Murmur wanted, it could have plucked the secret meanings of everything that lay around it from the depths of its host’s mind. But such a direct intrusion would be like using a knife to peel back its host brain one layer at time. Though Murmur would learn much in the process, afterward the mind would be a dissected, ruined mess. Host bodies tended to curl up and die after that. Murmur knew that from firsthand experience.
The price of such immediate gratification would force Murmur to find a new host and begin the process of embodiment all over again. Though hunting the dreams of mortals was a pleasure Murmur quite enjoyed, doing so would set back the date of molting even further. Plus this particular flesh was nearly ideal for Murmur’s needs.
Better to merely skim the surface for meaning. To its sleeping host, Murmur’s presence and control of the body was hidden, except as memories of a recurring nightmare. A nightmare that was growing more and more terrifying each time its host slept. Eventually the dream would become the only reality, when the molting finally gave Murmur complete control and a real anchor in the new world. Then its host mind would be consumed utterly, and Murmur’s patience would finally pay off.
“My lord?” said a voice.
Murmur swiveled its head around on its neck. It regarded a creature whose form was not dissimilar from the one Murmur wore. But the intruder was native to this world. He was one of the few who knew of Murmur’s presence. But like the others who knew, he had sworn himself to Murmur’s cause.
The servitor had been especially helpful in providing aid, resources, and information as requested. Murmur had heard the man’s name, but hadn’t made a special effort to fix it in its mind. Or even taken the trouble to ask the man to remove the hood he constantly wore. Murmur didn’t need to see the man’s features to recognize him—his vomitous breath made him unique in any crowd.
“I rise. Tell me, servitor. Where are we? Why are we not below?”
“An accident, my lord.” The figure pointed to one wall, where daylight came through shuttered doors.
Murmur threw open the shutters, then walked with its stiff-legged gait out onto the balcony.
The city of Airspur was spread out beneath it, but Murmur’s eye was immediately drawn to a tower of smoke climbing into the sky and the tumbled ruins beneath it.
“The Motherhouse,” said Murmur.
“One of the cadre got loose, my lord. With you absent, your host thought it best to bring the entire safehouse down on its head to trap it.”
“You couldn’t stop it?” Murmur suppressed the flame of wrath that urged it to try and bite off its servitor’s face.
“It wasn’t necessary.”
“I’ll decide what is or is not necessary. The Cabal—”
“Will rebuild. They have the resources.”
Murmur glared at the servitor, twitching with its effort not to yank a nightmare loose from the man’s mind and set it upon him like a tumor.
“And in the meantime,” continued the servitor, oblivious to how close he was to the end, “we go about your work below, without the necessity of keeping your activities secret from the Cabal members not yet sworn to the Elemental Eye. After all, the vault remains, beneath all the rubble.”
“… it seems this is not the unmitigated disaster I first imagined.”
The man bowed so low his hood scraped the floor. He must have