Sagaria

by John Dahlgren

  A scream punctured his horrified trance.

  Eyepatch glanced at the sky. “Regular as clockwork,” he commented to Sir Tombin as the Frogly Knight led the little party through the gate. “Time for the daily executions. That’s the trouble with being on guard duty out here,” he confided. “You miss all the fun.”

  Sagandran’s stomach twisted. Was he strong enough to face the reality of the slave mines?

  It was too late to turn back now, even if there had been the option of doing so. He tried to appear as spiritually destroyed as he could. I look forward to nothing, to no future at all. I’m resigned to my fate, which is to labor here until I die – unless they slaughter me first. I’m just a slave. I’m no longer a person.

  The gate thudded shut behind them.

  “I think we did that rather well, don’t you?” murmured Sir Tombin in an echoey sort of way.

  “Don’t let your defenses slip,” said Samzing equally softly, not raising his gaze from the ground. “There may be eyes upon us yet.”

  But there didn’t seem to be. Looking around furtively, Sagandran was amazed by the apparent total lack of organization within the compound. Or maybe it was all so organized, it didn’t need to be regimented. Perhaps all the slave masters and slaves knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing. He glanced once – just for long enough to confirm that the guard had been right in saying that the daily executions had begun – at the wooden scaffold against the inside of the wall along to the left. He swiftly averted his gaze, his gorge rising again. Even his nightmares had never been this bad. He suspected dismally that in the future, they might be.

  Just as there seemed to be no sense of organization to the activities of the people in here, there also seemed to be no plan to the compound’s layout. He couldn’t guess at the functions of most of the enormous bits of wooden machinery scattered around higgledy-piggledy, straining and grunting as they slowly moved in response to their infinitely replaceable power source: humans tramping on treadmills. A great angry orange glow arose from one of the machines, which was made largely of stone. Sagandran watched as under the liberally used lash of a man dressed in black leather, about a dozen slaves bearing a long and impossibly heavy scoop-shaped metal container struggled up to the lip of a huge rock bowl and tipped the container’s contents into the fiery brightness. Ore, he thought. These machines must be for refining and smelting ore. Primitive by today’s Earthworld standards, or maybe (his mind recalled photos he’d seen in books) not so primitive after all. Just using slave power rather than oil and electricity to drive it all.

  Directly ahead was the entrance to the mine, black earth heaped up behind it so that it looked like a faceless hood. It was a great gash, roughly rectangular, cut at a slant into the ground. Looking at it, Sagandran had the feeling that the hole went a long way into the ground. Two sets of wooden tracks ran into it. Or rather, as he could see from the directions the slaves were going as they hauled sturdy but dilapidated trolleys along the rails, one set of tracks went in and the other came out. The trolleys coming up the incline from the world’s interior were hugely loaded, and required a couple of dozen slaves or more to shift it. The slaves pushing the empty trolleys back down again clearly had the easier task, but the slave masters with them used their whips all the more freely and savagely to compensate, making sure the stumbling slaves kept moving as quickly as their clumsily leaden legs would let them. Most of the slaves, men and women alike, wore nothing but filthy loincloths; a few were completely naked. All were covered in old scars and fresh, bleeding wounds from the slave masters’ whippings. Everywhere there lay the corpses of those who had succumbed to the beatings, the never-ending toil and the starvation. Some of the bodies had been there longer than others. Quite a lot longer, Sagandran’s nose told him. Dead slaves were obviously regarded as trash – trash that no one could be bothered to dispose of properly.

  “I don’t think I can take too much of this,” muttered Perima thickly.

  Sagandran reached to take her hand, then thought better of it. Slaves probably didn’t have enough human instinct left to do things like hold hands comfortingly. He contented himself with a whispered, “Same here.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Sir Tombin, speaking normally. There was no one within earshot now and, besides, nobody seemed to be paying the remotest attention. Sagandran looked quickly back over his shoulder in case Eyepatch might have decided to check on them, but the gate was still firmly closed.

  “Memo,” Sir Tombin continued, “we’re in the slave mines now, just as the legends said we should be. Those scribes didn’t, perchance, offer any hints as to how we get to the Palace of Shadows, did they?”

  A few smothered squeaks confirmed that Memo didn’t know either. The prophecies had been markedly silent on that point.

  “I guess we just ought to head in the direction of the castle and hope for the best,” said Sagandran.

  Knowing which direction to head in was easy. The Palace of Shadows seemed to blot out half the sky, a colossal predator waiting to pounce on the puny prey below. But actually going in that direction was a bit more problematic. The way was blocked by the monstrous mineshaft. They were going to have to go around the shaft’s side, weaving a route among the mighty wooden machinery. Although no one had expressed any interest in the companions so far, they couldn’t rely on this being the case forever, or even for much longer. Surely some slave overseer or other was going to wonder why this strange Shadow Knight was leading a band of apparently fit and healthy prisoners through the compound rather than delivering them up to whatever administrative center there might be here.

  The companions didn’t have to speak to each other to know that no one had a better idea.

  “Come on then,” said Sir Tombin briskly, “and do your best to look as enslaved as you can. You too, Perima. Our lives may depend upon it.”

  Heads hanging listlessly, dragging their feet with a weariness that wasn’t entirely pretended – they’d been on the move, in one way or another, for longer than a full day – the rest followed in Sir Tombin’s wake.

  At last, someone started watching them.

  Sagandran didn’t know how he could tell, but all the small hairs on the back of his neck suddenly bristled. He chanced a quick look around.

  There.

  Over to the right, someone had dodged behind one of the bulky pieces of equipment when they’d seen his head turn.

  Sagandran slouched on a few more paces, then glanced over again.

  Once more, the shape darted behind the corner of the great wooden construction.

  “Sir Tombin,” Sagandran hissed. “Over there.”

  “Yes. I saw it too.”

  “Is there anything you can do? Is there anything you should do? Or do we just ignore it?”

  Sir Tombin came to a halt, and loudly snarled an order to the others that they should do likewise. One or two heads turned in their direction briefly, but their owners lost interest immediately and went back to their labors. Just another group of fellow unfortunates being bossed around by a Shadow Knight. Who cared? They’d all be dead soon anyway.

  Sagandran and the rest of the companions clustered around Sir Tombin, heads bowed as if totally disinterested in what they were supposed to be doing. One moment, the Shadow Knight wanted the slaves to keep moving. The next, he wanted them to stop. Who could figure out Shadow Knights? Who had the time? It was hard enough for slaves just figuring out how to stay alive from one moment to the next.

  “I’m worried about whoever that is,” said Sir Tombin more quietly. “Wait here, looking too cowed and terrified to think of dispersing, while I go and take a look. Pity I don’t have a whip to crack.”

  “Always knew you had a sadistic streak in you, Quackie,” said Samzing with a sniff.

  “Silence, slave!” bellowed Sir Tombin at the top of his voice.

  Sagandran started at the sudden yell. Then he let his shoulders slump again. Slaves got bawled at by Shadow Knights. It
was a law of nature.

  Head still lowered, he observed Sir Tombin out of the corner of his eye as the Frogly Knight marched swiftly toward the mysterious observer’s hiding place. If it was an overseer who’d been spying on them, he’d surely emerge as Sir Tombin approached. If it was one of the slaves, with luck he’d be too paralyzed by fear as a Shadow Knight bore down upon him to make a break for it. Who among the slaves might find them so interesting that they would risk the slavemasters’ wrath by breaking off from their allotted drudgery long enough to keep them under observation? It could only be someone they’d met in their travels, but who? Sagandran let his mind run over the list of possibles. The people who’d encountered his friends back in that tavern, the Sign of the Cross-Eyed Ferret, were either dead or severely injured. Aside from that, they’d met no one of note since entering the Shadow World. Fortune forbid that it might be any of their friends, or even foes, from Sagaria. Not Lamarod, surely; not the stout little entrepreneur of Wonderville? He was the only Sagarian whom Sagandran could think of who’d fallen into the hands of the Shadow Knights.

  In the fringe of his vision, he saw Sir Tombin arrive at the side of the hulking wooden machine, pause as if he’d gone there merely to lean against it for a moment’s relaxation, then abruptly pounce behind it.

  A few seconds later, the Frogly Knight emerged clutching a struggling figure by the back of the neck. A boy – a boy only a little bigger than Sagandran.

  As Sir Tombin dragged his captive nearer, Sagandran realised there was something familiar about him, even though all the boy was wearing was one of the horribly greasy loincloths. This was someone he’d seen before, someone he knew pretty well.

  Someone he didn’t want to know pretty well.

  “Webster!” he gasped. “Webster O’Malley!”

  CHAPTER 7

  TAMASH

  agandran had always dreamed of seeing Webster O’Malley sobbing piteously rather than wearing his customary bullying sneer, but he never thought it might be in circumstances like these. Indeed, he’d never thought it would be something he’d see at all. It had been just a cheering fantasy, made all the more attractive because of the delightful maliciousness behind it. Now, though, Sagandran felt guilty for all those times he’d mentally reveled in Webster’s downfall. The fact that Webster wasn’t too bright made his misery all the more pathetic.

  The story emerged in fits and starts between bursts of weeping and choking.

  Webster’s parents had gotten drunk the night after they’d driven out to their summer mansion by the shores of Eagle Lake. They had fallen asleep amid a litter of pizza boxes on the couch in front of their enormous flat-screen, high-definition television. Left to his own devices and with the memory freshly rankling in his mind of how Sagandran’s grandfather had so brusquely seen him off, Webster had decided to go and do a little snooping down by Grandpa Melwin’s shack. Perhaps there was a spiteful little trick he could play on the two Sackses. Or maybe he’d spy something embarrassing through a window that he could bring up when they were back at school. He’d scurried down the road to the cottage, curious as to what Sagandran was up to.

  However, when he’d reached his destination the first thing he’d seen was Sagandran charging out of the house, struggling to put his arms into the straps of a backpack. This could be even better. Where was Sagandran going?

  Webster had fallen in behind and followed Sagandran into the forest. He’d found it terrifying there, surrounded by the shrieks of the night animals and the grating of unseen branches, but if he turned back he’d be on his own, which would be even worse. So he’d stuck close behind the oblivious Sagandran. At last, he’d seen the object of his pursuit climb into a hole in the ground. Webster had dithered by the opening for a little while, as fearful of following Sagandran as he was of staying where he was. In the end, the cry of a fox as it seized some smaller animal had settled the issue. Webster had scrabbled down into the old shaft just in time to see Sagandran vanish through a glowing barrier. Without thinking, Webster had plunged after him.

  After a nightmare ride through interweaving tubes that seemed to be made of silver streaked with blood, he found himself in a world of cold and darkness.

  The Shadow World.

  Why were we taken to two different realms? Sagandran wondered. The answer came to him almost immediately. Because of our motives. I was seeking to save Grandpa Melwin. Webster had venom and spite in his heart.

  “I was still trying to make sense of what had happened to me,” Webster was saying (he’d recovered a little by now but was still, Sagandran could see, only a hairsbreadth away from another paroxysm of sobbing), “when two huge men in armor, like this one who grabbed me, came along. They accused me of having some jewel or other they wanted, and next thing I knew, I woke up slung over one of their saddles. I pretended I was still unconscious and listened to them talking. I soon learned they were planning to take me to the dungeons of a place called the Palace of Shadows, where I was going to be tortured until I told their master everything he wanted to know.”

  They’d reached the Palace of Shadows, but as they’d entered it, the horse on which Webster was being carried had stumbled and he’d let out a yelp of fear. His success at feigning unconsciousness was at an end. The two Shadow Knights had dragged him down through a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors and stairways, and slung him into a squalid cell that stank of its previous occupants. There had been rats too, but they’d been the least of his worries. All he could think about was the torture that lay in store for him. Because they thought he was some other boy – a boy who had the precious stone their master coveted – they wouldn’t stop until he’d given them the information this other boy would have given them. Information that the, Webster, didn’t have. That meant that they wouldn’t stop until he was dead.

  “But,” Webster continued, rallying himself, “they forgot to take account of the guile and pluck of the O’Malleys!”

  Oh yeah? thought Sagandran. I’ve never seen much evidence of those.

  “After I’d been there a few hours, a serving yokel came by with a dish of some vile gruel for me. I lay in a far corner of the cell and pretended to be dead. I must have been convincing, because he unlocked the door and came in. When he bent to put the dish down on the floor so that he could drag me off to wherever they drag the prisoners who’ve died, I leapt up and hit him with all the strength I had. As he reeled, I hammered his head against the wall until I’d knocked him out. After that, all I needed to do was exchange his clothes for mine, and I was able to walk right out of there.”

  It seems, thought Sagandran, to have been all a bit easy. Mind you, the Shadow Knights don’t seem over-endowed with brains, and their jailers are probably even dumber.

  “I came out of the frying pan,” said Webster morosely, “only to be thrown into the fire. I was okay while I was still in the dungeon complex, and it was easy enough to tag along behind a bunch of guards who were headed for the surface. Even in the Palace of Shadows I was all right. I was just another serving boy going about his errands, so no one really saw I was there. It was when I tried to get back out of the palace gate that I was caught. Why would a serving lad need to leave the palace? If I’d thought about it beforehand, I might have dreamed up a convincing story, but I was too strung out to think straight. The gatesmen thought I was a slave trying to escape, which was more or less the truth, and grabbed me. The lucky thing … well, sort of lucky, was that they had no idea who I was. They didn’t realize I was the boy the Shadow Knights believed had the gem. So, instead of sending me back to the dungeons and the torture chamber, they herded me along to where a bunch of people who’d displeased the Shadow Master and were being consigned to the slave mines were.

  “And that’s it, really. I’ve been here ever since.” Webster puffed his chest. “I’ve learned how to survive here. After the first day, which was real hell,” he said, shuddering at the memory. “I discovered how to keep out of the overseers’ way. If you play your cards righ
t, you hardly get beaten or whipped at all. It’s just that there’s nothing you can do to escape. At the slightest sign you have any impulses in that direction at all, they whip you to within an inch of your life. Then, if you persist in trying to get away, well …”

  He nodded toward the gruesome spectacle being enacted on the distant scaffold. There was no need for further words.

  Webster resumed after a moment. “I can show you the ropes, if you’d like. The food’s lousy and—”

  Then a thought struck him that should have struck him before. He twisted around in Sir Tombin’s grasp and looked up at the blank visor. “How come this scumbag’s just listening to me?” he whined querulously. He tried to raise his arms to defend himself from an inevitable blow.

  “He’s one of us,” said Sagandran.

  “A Shadow Knight’s a slave?”

  “No, we’re not slaves. We’re just pretending to be, and he’s just pretending to be a Shadow Knight. He’s a friend of ours.”

  “Sir Tombin Quackford at your service,” said the Frogly Knight, releasing Webster at last.

  “Great!” enthused Webster, rubbing his hands together. “The first things you need to know are—”

  “Are the best ways of getting back to those dungeons,” interrupted Sagandran determinedly. “I came here in pursuit of my Grandpa Melwin, and it’s in the dungeons that he’ll most likely be.” He gave a terse explanation about Grandpa Melwin’s being kidnaped by the minions of Arkanamon. Some instinct told him to keep quiet about the Rainbow Crystal and its importance to the fate of the three worlds. Webster had given them a good tale and it appeared to have convinced the others all right, but Sagandran had never known the school bully to tell the truth when a lie would do.