Sagandran glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Perima had cottoned on immediately to his idea that he might be able to madden Bolster into throwing open the cage and charging at them. Their chances of surviving would still be lousy, but at least there would be the hope that some or even all of them might be able to escape. However, he was worried that she might be laying it on a bit too thick with her “mere slip of a girl” act. Then he relaxed. It probably wasn’t possible to lay things on too thick for Bolster.
The boss worg gave a long, growling roar of rage.
“A pity I can’t kill you too, boy.”
Sagandran started. “What do you mean?”
“Da guy called da Shadow Master wants you alive, more fool him.”
“The Shadow Master?” Sagandran’s thoughts raced.
“Yeah. Gotta long name sound like a chain being dragged against a rock.”
Arkanamon!
“He sent his emission ta give me prominences of lotsa gold for you.”
Sagandran translated wildly in his head. Emissary. Promises. One of Arkanamon’s spies must have been here. He’d tracked down the worg boss and offered him a reward if he captured Sagandran. By the stupidest of luck Sagandran had forthwith fallen right into Bolster’s pudgy hands. A rotten coincidence. Well, maybe not such a coincidence after all. Chances were that Arkanamon’s spies had made thousands of such approaches to villains all over the land, so Sagandran was bound to be caught by one of them sooner or later. But it might at least have been a more tractable, less bloodthirsty villain than Bolster. On the other hand, it could hardly have been a more dimwitted villain. In that lay their hopes.
“Do you really believe Arkanamon will keep his half of the bargain?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Do you honestly think he’ll pay you the gold for me when he could just kill you instead?”
Bolster puzzled over this. Sagandran would have sworn that you could actually hear the worg’s brain ticking over if you listened hard enough, despite the racket the other worgs were kicking up as they grew progressively drunker.
“His emission said da Shadow Master would give me riches beyond da wildest dreams of amaryllis,” said Bolster after a while.
Avarice, thought Sagandran. This was like a word game.
“And I got no reason not to believe him.” The worg’s voice was still slow and thoughtful.
“Except that he’s the spirit of pure evil,” said Sagandran conversationally.
“Yeah, dat’s him all right. I like dat bit.”
“Which means it’s a matter of principle to him to betray everybody around him, friend and foe alike. Oh, did I say ‘friend’? He doesn’t have friends. Just people he uses. Like he’s using you.”
“So?”
“So, as soon as you deliver me to him, he won’t have any further use for you. Why should he bother giving you the gold?”
Bolster rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. It was clear he was finding this unnatural thinking business a heck of a strain.
“Because if he doesn’t, I’ll … I’ll … I’ll.”
He stopped. What could a worg do, even the biggest and smelliest and most powerful worg of them all, if a tyrant capable of conquering whole worlds decided to renege on a deal? Not a lot, as Bolster was just beginning to realize for the first time.
“But dat’s not da point,” he exploded at last. “Da point is, you’s in my clutches and I’s not letting you go a second time. It don’t matter if I eat you or if I give you to da Shadow Master, youse number is up.”
Better for Sagaria if I’m eaten alive than that Arkanamon should get his hands on the Rainbow Crystal, thought Sagandran sadly. At least we’ve made some progress.
His hopes were dashed.
“But I gonna give you to da Shadow Master anyway, gold or no gold.”
“Why’s that?” said Sagandran, trying to sound as if the subject was of only casual interest to him.
“Because you ain’t seen the emission he sent to me, is why.”
Oh yes I have. Or one of his kind, anyway.
“Bolster not know da meaning of da word fear,” thundered the worg, shaking a massive fist. “But if Bolster did know its meaning, Bolster’d a been scared stone dead by dat guy. Bolster not going to cross da Shadow Master even if his emission’s dat scary. You be goin’ to join da Shadow Master just as soon’s Bolster can figger out a way of gettin’ you there.”
The worg boss turned and stamped off back down the hill. The guard, Snot, made a clumsy bow at the boss’ retreating back.
“Well!” said Perima. The single word was all that needed to be said.
“I used to know a magical spell for getting out of cages,” remarked Samzing wistfully. “It was ever so good, you know, but I’ve forgotten it.”
Sir Tombin looked at him in mild reproof; Sagandran doubted that the Frogly Knight was capable of anything sterner. “Thank you for telling us that, old fruit, but I’m not sure it’s frightfully helpful right now, don’t you know?”
“I just thought that you might be interested.”
Perima sighed. “If only Flip were here, we could maybe slip him through the bars of the cage.”
Sagandran glanced in her direction. “What point would there be in that?”
“I’m not sure, really. But I’m sure he’d be able to think of something. You could give him the crystal so that he could run away and hide it somewhere. Then, however badly Arkanamon tortured you, you really wouldn’t know where it was, so you’d not be able to tell him. Oh, I do hope Flip’s all right.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. For someone who was so completely blasé about the prospect of Sagandran being tortured to death, it seemed odd that she agonized so much about Flip’s fate. Sagandran was worried sick about Flip, but whatever happened to the little fellow had already happened; a much more urgent concern was what was going to happen to the people in this cage.
“What I do have,” continued Samzing in the same dreamy tone, oblivious to the rest of them, “is a sachet of Old Witch Fitzeltwig’s Wonderful Sleeping Potion Accept No Substitute.”
“What?” said Sir Tombin.
“Wonderful stuff,” Samzing assured him. “I use it to get myself to sleep on nights when I’m snoring so loudly I keep myself awake.”
Sagandran decided not to try to sort out the logic of that one. “What does it matter if you’ve got some of Old Witch Fitzeltwig’s Potion?”
“Old Witch Fitzeltwig’s Wonderful Sleeping Potion Accept No Substitute.”
“That stuff. I suppose it might be better if you three could just sleep through it all while you were being spitted and roasted alive, but—”
“I couldn’t help but notice, young man, that you scooped up the flask that our rather disagreeably named guard dropped a few minutes ago.”
“And?”
“And don’t you think you ought to give it back to him?” A cunning grin crept into the ancient wrinkles of Samzing’s face.
Sagandran got it. “After we’ve thoroughly laced it with Old Witch Fitzeltwig’s Wonderful Sleeping Potion Accept No Substitute,” he said.
“Exactly, my boy.” Samzing beamed. “We’ll have you doing long division next.”
“Psssst,” said a small voice.
“Flip!” exclaimed Sir Tombin. “Why do you have such an enormous lump on your head?”
“Not so loud,” piped Flip. Turning sideways, he was able to slip in between the bars at the back of the cage easily enough.
“Where have you been?” said Perima crossly, her worry turning instantly to anger.
“Sh.”
“Where have you been?” she whispered, if anything, louder than before.
Flip’s tale came tumbling out.
“And so,” said Samzing complacently after the Adventurer Extraordinaire had finished, “you have the other half of my plan.”
This time, Sagandran didn’t need any further explanation. He and Samzing huddled in
a corner of the cage while the old wizard carefully tipped the contents of a folded paper sachet into the neck of the leather flask.
“This stuff smells vile,” whispered Sagandran.
“Oh? I’ve always thought it had rather a pleasant scent,” said the wizard.
“Not the Old Witch Fitzeltwig’s Wonderful Sleeping Potion Accept No Substitute. The stuff in the flask, I mean.”
“Oh, that? Yes, it does take a little getting used to, doesn’t it? That’s Worg Fire Brew, that is. I’m surprised it hasn’t eaten its way through the flask by now. It’s the most powerful liquor ever created on Sagaria. You probably don’t want to know what they distil to make it.”
“Probably not,” Sagandran agreed.
The last of the white powder vanished into the flask with a fizz.
“You sure he’s not going to notice the taste?” muttered Sagandran.
“No fears there,” whispered the wizard emphatically. “One draft of Worg Fire Brew and your tastebuds are burnt right out for the rest of your life.”
“Then why do they bother drinking it if they can’t taste it?”
“Because,” said the wizard sagely, “if you could taste it you’d never drink it.”
“Oh,” said Sagandran.
Samzing jammed the bung back into the container’s neck and handed it to Sagandran. “Time for you to go be a good citizen.”
“Excuse me, Snot,” said Sagandran, once more standing by the cage bars and wishing what he’d just said didn’t sound so ridiculous. “Excuse me, but you seem to have dropped something.”
“Wozzat?”
Sagandran wordlessly held the leather bottle out between the bars.
The guard fumbled at his belt and a look of consternation trundled across his face. “Dat’s mine!”
“Yes, and I’m giving it back to you. You dropped it.”
The guard snatched the flask out of Sagandran’s hand with a scowl and investigated it suspiciously.
“You been drinking my Fire Brew?”
“Not even a sip,” Sagandran assured him. “Can’t you see? I’m still standing up.”
“Huh!”
All five of them in the cage watched in petrified silence as the worg turned the flask over and over in his warty hands.
“You better not have.”
“I haven’t,” said Sagandran. “My mom told me never to touch alcohol, so I wouldn’t drink any of your Fire Brew even if you asked me to.”
Sagandran’s mom had too. One night a couple of months ago, a friend of hers had come round for the evening so they could spend a few happy hours telling each other how too truly dreadful their respective menfolk were, and somehow between the cheerful gossip and the general feeling of camaraderie they’d managed to put away a bottle and a half of Mom’s best cream sherry. It had been the following morning that Mom had greenly and very, very quietly made Sagandran swear to stay clear of alcohol for as long as he should live – which she, Mom, didn’t think would be very long if he didn’t turn his blasted CD player off, right now.
“Huh,” said Snot.
If the tension between the captives had been extreme before, it wound up a further impossible notch or two as Snot worked the bung out of the flask’s neck. He put his eye to the hole, as if he expected to see something in the dark interior, then lifted the flask high in front of his face.
Sagandran had his fingers tightly crossed that the guard wouldn’t hear any last lingering trace of fizz.
“Aha!” bellowed Snot. “Worg Fire Brew. Da drink of da gods.”
He took a deep pull on the flask, the knots of his throat fighting like two cats in a pillowcase.
“Dat was good, but not as good as da next one’s gonna be.”
The second draft was even longer than the first. Sagandran couldn’t understand why at least one of the cats wasn’t comatose by now. The guard let rip a burp that must have played havoc with Sagaria’s ozone layer.
“Ting about Worg Fire Brew,” said Snot off-handedly, becoming almost friendly toward Sagandran, “ting about Worg Fire Brew, I say, is dat dere’s always more of it dere dan you tink dere is.” He recovered from a lurch as if he were deploying some courtly conversational gambit. “An’ if you’re like me, you tink dere’s always a really very lot dere to begin with, so dat means dat even da smallest flask has ’nuff in it ta … where was I?”
“Falling down with a great crash onto the ground,” said Sagandran accurately.
“Ah, dat’s right. Glad we got dat sorted out. I ever told you how much you look like my mommy?”
The worg was asleep. At the sound of the first snore, the five in the cage went into frantic motion.
“It worked! It worked! Told you we could rely on Old Witch Fitzeltwig’s Wonderful Sleeping Potion Accept No Substitute,” cried Samzing.
“I’ll never accept a substitute again,” affirmed Perima. “But let’s leave discussing that ’til later, shall we? Once we’re out of here and a long way away. Now, Flip, it’s your turn.”
“Er, couldn’t someone else go?”
“No, Flip, it has to be you. You’re the only one of us small enough to squeeze between the bars.”
“I’m very sleepy.”
“Flip.”
“And I’m so heavy-footed I’d be bound to wake him up.”
“Flip!”
“Why are you looking at me like that, Perima?”
“Because this is the way I always look when I’m about to stomp small rodents flat.”
“Oh, I see, and you’re about to?”
“Yes, I am. Unless you slip out of this cage and go fetch the guard’s key off his belt.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Flip paused for a moment, looking up at the ring of expectant faces. “I think I’d rather be stomped, if you don’t mind.”
“Flip?” said Sir Tombin. Sagandran was amazed that anyone, even Sir Tombin, could show the cool patience the Frogly Knight managed to.
“Yes, Quackie?”
Sir Tombin winced, but persevered. “I know that you’re afraid.”
“Certainly not,” Flip protested. “An Adventurer Extraordinaire is never—”
Sir Tombin held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “Well, perhaps cautious then, but let me tell you a secret. Everyone else here is afraid right now as well.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. Perima and Samzing and myself are all afraid of being roasted alive and eaten. Young Sagandran here is terrified of being hauled off to face Arkanamon, the Shadow Master. Even the worgs dancing down there around their campfires are afraid, afraid of their boss, Bolster, and Bolster’s scared stiff of the Shadow Master, and of the Shadow Master’s ‘emission,’ and possibly, almost more than anything, that he won’t get the gold he’s set his heart on.”
“You mean, everyone’s afraid of something, not just me?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well, that’s interesting to know, but I’m not sure it helps. Just knowing everyone else is scared doesn’t stop me being sca—I mean cautious.”
“Yes Flip, but—Perima, put down that thick, heavy log of wood you’ve just found, put it down this instant—Flip, think of it this way. Once you’ve gone over there and stolen the guard’s key and brought it back here, you won’t have anything to be frightened or cautious of any longer. It’ll all be over with.”
“Until the next time.”
“Yes, but the next time won’t be as bad because you’ll have learned a little better how to cope with your fear. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll allow you to be as frightened as you can possibly be when this is over, okay?”
“Assuming I’m not dead by then.”
Sir Tombin nodded. “Assuming you’re not—on second thoughts, Perima, give that log of wood to me, could you?”
“I think I understand,” quavered Flip as Perima obeyed.
He turned on his tail and scuttled off through the bars toward the motionless guard. As he ran a
cross the ground, he moved slower and slower until, just as he reached the worg’s side, he was going in a slow, exaggerated tiptoe.
The key was on a metal ring, the metal ring was attached to the guard’s knotted rope belt, and the guard’s knotted rope belt was stretched tautly across the guard’s capacious stomach. In other words, Flip had a bit of a climb ahead of him. Oh, well, better to get started than to hang around just thinking about it. He grabbed a fold of the snoring worg’s tunic and almost dropped it at once in disgust. The roughly woven material felt as slithery and slimy as the guard’s name implied. Flip gritted his teeth and began pulling himself up over the cloying cloth.
It wasn’t long before he was sitting on Snot’s belly, the key right in front of him. Because of the worg’s deep breathing, Flip felt as if he were in a small coracle in the midst of a very heavy sea. It was a matter of moments to slip the weighty iron key off its ring.
He was just turning to retreat with it when, suddenly, he found himself in the middle of a warty palisade. Still fast asleep, Snot had reached out and grabbed him. A good squeeze of that meaty grasp and Flip would be just a pulp.
Dropping the key (he could think what to do about it later) he put his hands on Snot’s greasy, flabby knuckles and tried to force himself up and out of the worg’s grip. He thought he was managing it when the grasp tightened, almost imperceptibly, but enough to ensure that Flip was firmly trapped again.
“Mommy,” said the worg in a long, low slur.
Flip could hardly believe his ears.
“Wan’ more Fire Brew, Mommy.”
Thinking quick, Flip responded. “And more Fire Brew you may have, but first, you have to let me go so that I can go and get it for you.”
“Nice Mommy. But I don’ wanna let you go.”
“Well, my darling little pile of manure, I’m afraid you’re going to have to. Otherwise I can’t fetch you your Fire Brew, can I?”
“Oh, okay, Mommy. I guess.”
The worg finally loosened his grip and Flip was able to struggle free. Dropping back onto Snot’s stomach, he picked up the key, lurching a little under its weight, and scrambled down to the ground.
Back in the cage, Flip handed the key hastily to Sir Tombin as if the metal were red-hot.
“Oh, Flip,” said Perima, picking him up and holding him to her cheek. “You were wonderful.”
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