Sagaria

by John Dahlgren

  “I’ve sealed it for eternity,” he announced to his startled audience. “We won’t be able to come back this way unless I can conjure up a counter-spell to blast this door out of its frame, but by the same token, nobody will be able to follow us through here. Especially not that surly brute who was so keen to reduce us to mincemeat.”

  Sir Tombin passed the torch to Perima, pushed up his visor and tried to mop his brow with the back of his hand. It was only when the metal spikes on the back of his armored glove dug into his flesh that he realized what he’d been about to do.

  Sagandran had difficulty speaking. His lungs were heaving in fear and his attempts to force the door shut by hurling himself at it. “I thought you could cast only malicious spells here in the Shadow World?” he croaked.

  “Ah, yes,” said the wizard, looking pleased with himself. “I had to deploy a minor obfuscation.”

  Webster had been staring wide-eyed, obviously stunned by what he’d just witnessed. “Could someone tell me what the old geezer’s wittering about? Ouch!”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Webster,” said Samzing. “Was that your foot?”

  “Yes.” The boy looked sour.

  “As I was trying to say,” the wizard carried on, “I had to twist the rules of the Shadow World’s magical ambience a little to do that. A magical ambience is rather like a crowd of people, if you learn to look at it the right way. Fairly intelligent people, but because they’re in a pack they don’t always act intelligently. You can deceive them, at least for a short while, before they cotton on to what you’re doing. I persuaded the local ambience that my aperture-sealing enchantment was issued with malevolent intentions. In a way, you see, I was stopping that Shadow Knight from getting out of the slave mines.”

  Sagandran felt himself beginning to grin. “And because this ambience assumed that anyone with any sense would be doing their darnedest to get out of the slave mines …”

  “Yes, laddie. It thought I must be an evil sorcerer aiming to inflict a nasty blow on my enemy.”

  Quite a few nasty blows were being inflicted on the far side of the door. The Shadow Knight was obviously not going to give up pursuing the intruders without a struggle, and was hammering against the wood with fists and feet.

  “Do you think he could hack through the wood with his sword?” asked Perima, eyeing the door warily.

  “Unlikely,” piped Memo. “That’s good Kralandran nightwood, that is, stronger than any metal known. They probably had to use diamonds to carve the ideographs into it. We should be safe enough.”

  “Let’s not put it to the test, shall we?” said Sir Tombin reasonably. “Besides, he’s soon going to realize he can’t get through, then he’s bound to go back to the mines and raise the alarm there. It may not take as long as we’d like before the news of our intrusion reaches the palace. Indeed, it might get there before we do.”

  They resumed their onward journey. Once again, Sagandran took Perima’s hand. He hoped Webster noticed.

  The passage eventually debouched into a larger area. Oh, no, thought Sagandran. I couldn’t stand it if we found another heap of coffins.

  There were no coffins, but there was much else to see in the light of both the guttering torch Samzing held and the blade of Xaraxeer, which Sir Tombin had drawn. There were broken pillars along the walls that were in much the same architectural style as those in the overly elaborate gateway to the slave mines, but these were apparently much older; the flutings were more rudimentary, the carvings less ambitious. In the center of the room was a wide stone basin in the shape of a half-shell. Sagandran was reminded of various large public fountains he was familiar with at home, and the resemblance was enhanced by the sculpted figure standing over the bowl and looking down into it. Here, the sculpture was much more sophisticated than the tumbled pillars by the walls, and much more indeed than the mine’s gateway portico. The figure was of a woman, a beautiful woman, so far as Sagandran could tell through the layers of black, greasy lichen that swaddled her more modestly than the skimpy toga-like stone garment she wore. The gaze of her blank stone eyes was benign, as was the arm she reached over the bowl, palm down as if giving a blessing to the stagnant black water within. Her other arm had broken off at some stage over the centuries and now lay beside the basin, its palm upward and pointing toward the door, as if in supplication to anyone who might enter the chamber.

  Webster was eager to hustle the companions through this area and back into the passage, which continued on the far side, but Sagandran spoke for everyone when he demanded that they pause for a few moments. There might have been an argument with Webster, but matters were taken out of their hands by Cheireanna, who gave a little gasp of delight on seeing the sculpted female figure and walked with an odd kind of brisk reverence to stand with her head bowed in front of it. They could hear a soft susurration as her lips moved in her own language.

  “What’s the dummy up to now?” said Webster impatiently.

  “She’s praying, moron,” said Memo. “She’s asking Tamash to bless her and keep her parents safe, wherever they are.”

  “Watch who you’re calling a moron, squitface, or I’ll—”

  “This must be one of the ancient hidden temples of the goddess, Tamash,” said Memo, paying the boy no attention. “It’s said that healing and other miracles took place in the hidden temples of Tamash, though no one can tell for sure. Much knowledge was lost to us when Tamshado fell during the Shadow Wars.”

  “You call them hidden temples,” said Perima.

  “That’s right.”

  “You mean, deliberately hidden?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why would they conceal their temples? Surely the object of building a temple is to get as many people as you can to come and worship the deity you’ve invented?”

  “The worshipers of the goddess, Tamash, didn’t see it that way,” said Memo. His voice sounded as if he were pursing his lips primly, but those lips were very small and Sagandran was too far away to see. “They felt that only some people were lucky enough to be called by the goddess to worship her. If the goddess wanted you, she’d lead you to her. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t. So they hid their temples where no one would ever find them, unless the goddess guided their feet. If you came across a temple you would be in direct communication with the goddess. Otherwise, there was no point in praying to her, because she wouldn’t be listening. Quite an efficient system, really.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Webster rudely. “Sounds nuts to me. Now can someone grab that skinny chick so we can get out of here? This place gives me the willies.”

  “Did it give you the willies when you were coming through the last time?” asked Samzing mildly.

  “We weren’t given enough time to see it properly.” Webster’s voice was sullen. “The guards just rushed us through as quick as they could. Guess it must have given them the creeps as well.”

  “Interesting,” remarked Samzing, his eyes narrowing.

  Perima addressed Memo. “Why do you say the system was efficient?”

  The little memorizer shrugged. “Saved the goddess a lot of wasted time listening to people’s idiotic prayers. It also saved the people a lot of money and effort, because instead of having to build hundreds of temples everywhere, they only had to build a few.”

  “But those had to be in inaccessible places,” said Perima, frowning prettily. “That must have been a nuisance.”

  Memo shrugged again. “No system’s perfect.”

  Cheireanna had finished her obeisances and rejoined them. Her normally animated face was somber.

  “I’m sure your goddess is looking after your parents and that you’ll find them soon,” Sagandran said encouragingly to her. He didn’t believe it was true (he privately reckoned the Shadow Knights had slaughtered her parents or taken them to the slave mines, where they were unlikely to have survived long), but he wanted to bring a little of the light back to that downcast face.

  Memo translated his sentiments for C
heireanna’s benefit – unnecessarily, Sagandran thought, but once more he said nothing about his suspicions.

  “Now can we get the heck out of here?” demanded Webster.

  Sagandran glared at him. “We’ll leave when we’re good and ready.”

  Webster gave a theatrical sigh and went to sit on a fallen chunk of pillar.

  Sir Tombin opened up the saddle bag and gave them each a handful of bread and cheese, and none too soon Sagandran suddenly realized that he’d been starving for quite a while. At the sight of the food, Webster struggled with his dignity for a few seconds, then sheepishly left his solitary seat to accept a ration. There was very little water left in the one remaining skin, and no one fancied the idea of replenishing their supplies from the dark pool in the basin, blessed though it might have been by Tamash. Once everyone took a small gulp from the skin, just enough to wet their throats, the water was gone. Sir Tombin made a great show of carefully rolling up the skin and putting it back in the saddle bag, a demonstration of faith that they would find some way of refilling it before too long.

  Back in the passage once more, they soon came to a stretch where the walls bore blazing torches in sconces, like those in the mineshaft. Samzing swapped the dying brand they’d brought from the shaft for a fresh one, and Sagandran grabbed a torch for himself.

  “This area is obviously much better frequented than the other,” said Sir Tombin thoughtfully. “It would seem at least some of Arkanamon’s minions in the palace come down here to pay their respects to Tamash.”

  Now that the passage was better lit, the companions were able to quicken their pace. It wasn’t long before they arrived at a crossroads. The way ahead of them was illuminated by torches, but the passages branching off to either side were black as ink. A chilly breeze blew out of them, making Perima huddle closer to Sagandran’s side.

  “I suppose we should follow the course the torches lead us on,” said Sir Tombin doubtfully.

  Webster was tugging at Sagandran’s sleeve. “Hey, Sag. You seen this?”

  “Seen what?”

  “Come here and look. You’re the one with the torch.”

  The boy beckoned Sagandran toward one of the unlit passageways.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Aw, come on. It’s only just over here.”

  Reluctantly, Sagandran let go of Perima’s hand and took a couple of steps in Webster’s direction, holding his torch high to light his way. In the flickering illumination all he could see was a couple of yards of deserted, dusty floor.

  Webster was standing just inside the passage, pointing down to something near his feet.

  “See?”

  Sagandran took a further step and knelt down to look.

  Webster giggled.

  At once, Sagandran sensed something was grievously wrong. He leaped to his feet, but too late.

  The boy he should have known better than to have ever trusted was tugging on a lever in a recess in the wall. Even if Sagandran had been looking for it he probably wouldn’t have seen it, but that didn’t stop him from cursing himself for a fool. A cage door crashed down from the ceiling, separating the two boys from the rest of the companions. The echoes of the crash didn’t have time to fade before Perima let out a strangled cry of alarm.

  “Ambush!”

  Sagandran dropped his torch and jumped toward the lever. Webster’s hand was still on it and, with a grin of triumph on his hated face, he half-stepped forward to obstruct Sagandran.

  It was an easy choice for Sagandran to make. He clenched the hand that had been outstretched to grasp the lever into a fist, shifted its course slightly, and smashed it into the center of Webster’s face. There was the satisfying sensation beneath his knuckles of bone and cartilage giving way. The bully let out a howl and clutched at his nose. Blood whooshed from his nostrils. None of his intended victims had ever had the temerity to turn the attack back on him before, and Sagandran guessed that Webster’s shriek had been as much one of shock as of pain.

  Webster dropped to his knees, still yelling, and Sagandran made another grab for the lever. But the bully wasn’t done yet. He threw out his arm and caught Sagandran around the thighs, toppling him to the floor and knocking the air out of him.

  Sagandran’s head thudded against the stone and the blackness swept in.

  “Ambush!” screamed Perima again. She and Cheireanna huddled together, as if that would offer them more protection from their assailants.

  “A trap,” snarled Samzing. “I knew there was something wrong with that ghastly boy, but I didn’t think he’d be a danger to us so soon.”

  Sir Tombin didn’t have time for words. Out of the darkness of the other unlit corridor three Shadow Knights came, their swords drawn. Their eyes were on the glittering blade of Xaraxeer, as Sir Tombin swung it to and fro in a tantalizing arc.

  Perima could almost hear them thinking that if they could only divest their foe of his weapon, they’d be free to massacre the party.

  Poor fools, she thought. You’ve obviously not seen we companions in action.

  It was a vainglorious thought, but it restored a little of her sanity. She and the others weren’t dead yet. There was a chance that they might escape with their lives. If the prophecies Memo spoke of were more than the bunkum she tended to think they were, then the companions were destined to live at least until Sagandran’s showdown with the Shadow Master.

  Except that Sagandran wasn’t faring too well either. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him lying flat on his back behind the barred door, with that hideous brute Webster hulking over him. At least Sagandran had given a good account of himself. Webster’s face was a mess of blood. He was trying to grin in triumph, but the gory mask made it look more like a clown’s parody.

  Samzing was leaning against the passage wall, his eyes closed, his hands interlinked on his chest, mumbling something slowly and steadily.

  All in one movement, Sir Tombin slipped the saddle bag from his shoulder, spun it on its strap, and flung it straight into the face of the leading Shadow Knight. The man let out an oooof of surprise and reeled backward, obstructing the path of his two fellows.

  Sir Tombin took advantage of their momentary confusion to jab forward with Xaraxeer, taking one of the Shadow Knights in the throat with the weapon’s lethal tip. Blood sprayed from a severed artery. The man let out a bubbling scream and dropped his sword, his metal-gloved hands going to his throat as if he might somehow stanch the flow of blood from the fatal wound. Still scrabbling with his hands, he fell twitching at the feet of his comrades.

  The Shadow Knight who’d been hit in the face by the saddle bag soon recovered. He snarled in fury. Shadow Knights were accustomed to slaughtering, not to being slaughtered.

  Samzing’s eyes popped open. Perima could see that he was staring at something far distant, something not of this world.

  Cheireanna darted from her side. Ignored by the remaining Shadow Knights, the peasant girl pounced on the fallen sword of their dying comrade. She scuttled backward in a curious crouch, almost on her hands and knees, holding the seized weapon in one hand. Reaching up with the other, she grabbed at the waist of Perima’s trousers and hauled herself upright.

  “Sword,” she said by way of explanation. Her eyes were alight with a wild excitement. “Kill.”

  Perima could understand the words perfectly, but the pronunciation was so strange that they seemed to be in a foreign language.

  The two remaining Shadow Knights continued their advance on Sir Tombin. As if synchronized, two silver swords swung from opposite directions toward his head. Surely the single blade of Xaraxeer couldn’t defend the Frogly Knight from this dual attack.

  But Sir Tombin’s head was no longer there when the two blades clashed in empty air. He’d dropped to his knees at the last instant and rolled away between the Shadow Knights, leaping to his feet behind them while they were still comprehending that they’d been robbed of their kill. His armor seemed to be hardly slowing his movement
s at all. He must have trained relentlessly for this form of combat.

  “Arkanayzee!” screamed Samzing, freezing everyone where they stood.

  Malevolent magic, thought Perima with a gasp.

  A mass of unfurling spider webs fell from the ceiling. Sir Tombin and one of the Shadow Knights had the presence to fend the gentle snare off with their swords and step clear, but the other Shadow Knight was instantly enmeshed. As he struggled with the silken cords, the last two combatants had eyes only for each other. They circled warily, neither daring to strike first. Then Xaraxeer was swooping forward, its golden metal appearing like liquid with the speed of its sweep.

  But the Shadow Knight was a swordsman equal in skill. With a slight apparent clumsiness, he parried the blow. The two weapons shuddered as they met. Perima expected one or both to shatter into a million fragments of metal, but Xaraxeer was unaffected and only a small notch was chipped out of the other blade.

  There was a ghastly, rasping belch of noise. The Shadow Knight who’d been stabbed in the throat had finally died.

  Webster had abandoned the unconscious Sagandran and was fumbling with the lever beside the cage door. Cheireanna sprang across the passageway and held the point of her captured weapon perilously close to his eyes. He became a statue, petrified by terror. Twice in as many minutes, people smaller than him had struck back. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Dampness spread across the front of his loincloth.

  Cheireanna gave a cackling laugh.

  Behind Webster, Sagandran was forcing himself groggily up onto one elbow.

  “No!” he cried to Cheireanna. “Spare him!”

  His elbow gave way beneath him and he collapsed back onto the floor.

  Very clearly, Cheireanna spoke another single word. “Perhaps.”

  Webster, wisely, didn’t move a muscle.

  I might as well play my part, thought Perima, her mind oddly calm, as if in the eye of some emotional hurricane. She stepped forward to where the fallen Shadow Knight was still struggling to free himself from Samzing’s spider webs, and kicked him in the side of the head with all the force she could summon. He let out a bellow of agony.