“That wasn’t what I was asking. He was betraying us by leading us into the arms of the Shadow Knights. Could he not also have been misleading us about the direction we should take to find the Palace of Shadows?”
“Have you seen any other routes we could have taken?”
A moment passed before Flip replied. “No. Just those dark corridors where we met the Shadow Knights.” Sagandran could feel his friend shudder. “And I didn’t fancy either of them. Did you?”
Sagandran chuckled. “No.”
Cheireanna had insisted on staying behind with the floating body of Sir Tombin – to conduct some kind of final rites, Sagandran assumed. It must be a hard thing for her to bear that her goddess had proven so useless when called upon. He wondered if they’d ever see her again.
The companions kept walking. The farther they went, the more frequent the signs that this passageway was in habitual use. Once they passed the bloating corpse of a slave. They didn’t pause to ascertain whether the woman had been killed or had simply died while in transit between the palace and the mines. Most of the time the litter in the corridor was of a less alarming variety – discarded bits of food, occasional pools of dried vomit, abandoned boots and other articles of clothing.
Hardly any paper, thought Sagandran. Back in the Earthworld, there’d be candy wrappers, old newspapers, fast-food containers, all sorts of things. The servants of the Shadow Master mustn’t make much use of paper.
As they rounded a new corner in the passageway, the timbre of their footsteps’ echoes changed.
“We’re coming to something,” said Sagandran. He held his torch up high and peered ahead.
They began to move a little more slowly, not knowing what it was they were approaching.
Sagandran let out a great sigh of relief. “It’s the end of this passageway at last,” he reported to the others. “And none too soon.”
Facing them was a staircase made of black marble. The reflections of Sagandran’s torch flickered crazily on the polished steps.
“Look,” said Perima. “See those sconces?”
To either side of the stairway there were sconces mounted on the wall every couple of yards, but there were no torches in them.
“Why should they be empty?” she mused.
“Perhaps,” said Sagandran, “the people only put the torches in when they’re needed. Conservation of fuel, that sort of thing.”
The others gazed at him in blank incomprehension. Clearly the concept of the environmental importance of saving energy was alien to the people of Sagaria.
Samzing shrugged. “More likely they took the torches away to make it all the more difficult for us,” he suggested.
“I can’t follow that,” responded Sagandran, with just a little acid. Irrational though it was, he felt that he’d been snubbed. “We’re not going to climb those stairs any slower by the light of our own torches than we would if the ones on the walls were still there, are we?”
“Perhaps they didn’t think we’d have torches with us,” offered Perima.
“You agree with me then?”
“What?”
“Oh, not about the empty sconces. I mean, you’ve come to the same conclusion I have, that the Shadow Master’s expecting us.”
She hesitated. “Yes, I guess so.”
The others indicated that without realizing it, they’d begun to think the same.
“Webster wasn’t just sent to the slave mines on the off chance,” said Samzing. He dug into one of his numberless pockets and produced his pipe.
Sagandran noticed that it had been a long while since the wizard had done that. Perhaps the almost non-stop rush of events had distracted Samzing from smoking.
“He was despatched there to await our arrival.”
Sagandran briefly explained his deduction that Arkanamon must be aware of the prophecies and be using them as a guide to the party’s progress.
“We had better move with even greater caution than ever,” said Samzing. “Arkanamon will have the advantage at every step from now on. He knows, at least approximately, what we’ll be doing next, but we don’t have that same knowledge about him.”
“But the route we’ve been following is the one predicted in the legends that also say we’ll win,” objected Memo from the wizard’s shoulder. “Surely that gives us the ultimate advantage?”
“So why is the Shadow Master just letting us come to him. I dont get it?” said Perima.
Sagandran could hear the flatness in his own voice as he answered her. “Maybe Arkanamon knows something that we don’t.”
With that ominous thought in the back of their minds, they began to slowly climb the stairway.
At its top was a double door made out of the same near-black wood they’d seen earlier in the coffins of King Brygantra and the gates of the slave mines. Samzing turned the iron handle of one of the doors and peered within.
“No one around,” he whispered back over his shoulder. “This is all a little suspiciously easy, don’t you think?”
“Let’s not grumble until we have to,” countered Flip with a laugh. “I, for one, am happy that we haven’t met a heavily armored party of Arkanamon’s goons.”
Sagandran wished he could take comfort from the remark.
Coming through the doorway, they found themselves in a great hall. Dark red tapestries depicting scenes of carnage hung from the crudely blocked stone walls. A gigantic spherical lamp was suspended from the ceiling; a glowing ball of muddy yellow light was clenched in an extravagantly wrought fist of iron. At the far end of the hall was a throne made again of black wood. It was carved into the shape of a dragon’s screaming face, the tongue extended to form the seat. Two huge rubies were set into the throne’s massive uprights as eyes. The eyes seemed to follow the companions as they ventured across the floor’s bare wooden boards.
“I don’t like the look of that dragon,” said Perima quietly, staring at it.
“Don’t be frightened by its appearance,” reassured Samzing.
Sagandran quietly drew Xaraxeer.
“It’s just a throne,” the wizard continued. “I always believe, the more imposing a throne, the less regal the person who’s chosen it to sit on.”
“So, you’re saying we shouldn’t really be afraid of the Shadow Master?” said Sagandran wryly.
Samzing gave an exasperated snort. “Not exactly,” he admitted. “Wariness should still be our watchword.”
They searched the hall for doors other than the one they’d come in by, Perima efficiently beating the side of her fist on each of the tapestries in case there was something other than stone behind it.
At last, Flip gave a cry of success from behind the dragon throne.
Sagandran felt his legs become more and more reluctant to move as he slowly approached the throne. It was as if something about it had bypassed his brain and was speaking directly to his limbs, making them want to turn and run away. From the corner of his eye, he saw that his friends were similarly affected.
Samzing was the first to acknowledge the effect out loud. “The throne has been imbued with a repulsion spell. It’s trying to push us back from that end of the hall. The spell can’t do us any harm – it’s just unpleasant, that’s all. It can’t hurt us. Just push against the resistance. We’ll get there.”
“How come Flip wasn’t affected?” asked Perima.
“Who’s to say that he wasn’t?” responded Samzing.
The repulsion spell abruptly disappeared as they drew abreast of the throne, and at last they could walk freely again.
Everyone was breathing heavily except Flip, who greeted them with a wide grin.
“I’ve found the door.”
“And we’re very grateful to you,” said Samzing, solemnly half-bowing.
This new doorway, smaller than the other and single rather than double, opened onto a new staircase. Made of darkly stained iron and barely wide enough to take two people abreast, it spiraled upward into darkness.
“Anyone up there could simply pick us off,” said Sagandran, eyeing it nervously.
Perima spoke up promptly. “But we can’t stay here.”
“True.”
“Would you like me to lead the way?” said Samzing. “I sense, dear friends, that we’re moving into territory where perhaps my magical weapons might be more powerful even than the mighty Xaraxeer.”
Sagandran looked at him skeptically. In truth, Sagandran thought, the wizard didn’t have the appearance of a doughty warrior, with his tangled beard, battered hat, Struwwelpeter hair and his disreputably stained robe. But within the past few minutes he’d acquired a certain gravitas, as if confidence in his own ability to deal with whatever they might meet had been surging inside him.
“I think Samzing’s right,” Perima volunteered.
The wizard flashed her a smile. “Always said the gal had good sense. Come on, let’s not dither around here like hens wondering which of them has laid the egg.”
He headed for the first step.
The climb seemed to go on forever. Samzing managed to display something of a swagger, but the others following (Perima first and then Sagandran who was constantly turning to check for an attack from the rear) were less successful in their portrayals of bravado. Only Flip, who’d decided for some inscrutable reason that it was easier to run up the curving banister than to be carried in Sagandran’s pocket, seemed to share any of the wizard’s assurance. As he scurried upward on the metal rail, the little fellow sang the song he’d tried to teach them long ago:
There is a place called Mishmash town
Where there’s neither rich nor poor.
If you happens to come by there once
You’ll sure come back for more.
You’ll find you take your worries and
Just pack them in a case,
For in Mishmash there’s no room for woes
So wear your smiling face.
Sagandran wasn’t sure that it cheered any of them up except Flip, but it was a relief from listening to nothing but their own grunts of exertion as they climbed, and the clang of their own feet on the iron treads.
Every minute or two they stopped by mutual agreement, ostensibly to listen out for the sound of others on the stairway, but also largely to catch their breath. It was during one of these pauses that Sagandran’s torch abruptly guttered and went out.
“That’s odd,” he said, staring at it in the uncertain light from Samzing’s brand above. “It was burning quite healthily just a moment ago. I thought it had plenty of life left in it yet.”
“Another sign,” came Samzing’s voice, echoing down the stairway, “that Arkanamon’s anticipating our arrival. That was no natural draft that extinguished your flame. Indeed, I expect that at any second—ah, just as I predicted.”
The second torch, the one held by the wizard, suddenly died. The companions were plunged into almost total darkness.
Sagandran, who’d sheathed Xaraxeer before commencing the ascent, drew out the weapon again, and once more it shone its gilded light upon them. However, the blade’s glow seemed a little dimmer than usual.
“Arkanamon’s magic is affecting the Lightbringer as well,” said Samzing, confirming Sagandran’s thought.
They resumed the climb. With only the dulled light from the sword to guide them, they had to move cautiously, and more than once Sagandran missed his next step and stubbed his toe painfully on its edge. He was reminded of the time there was a power outage at home, just as he got home from school, and he’d had to climb the unlit stairs to the family apartment one by one by one, feeling for each step before taking it.
“Flip,” said Samzing, “how well can you see in the dark?”
“Better, I think, than the rest of you.”
“Could you run up ahead of us, then, and see if there are any hazards lying in wait for us?”
“On my own?” squeaked Flip.
“Unless Memo would like to go with you. He’s the only other one who can use the banister rather than the stairs.”
“I’m asleep,” came a muffled but determined voice from the wizard’s pocket.
“On your own then, Flip,” continued the wizard smoothly. “Do you think you could manage that, little friend?”
“I–I suppose so.”
Sagandran gave Flip, who was alongside him, what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I’m sure you can do it.”
“So glad one of us can,” muttered the rodent. In a louder voice, he said, “Okay. Here I come. As they always say, no danger is too great for the Adventurer Extraordinaire!”
With a rattle of claws he vanished into the gloom above. Within a surprisingly short time, he was back.
“We’re close to the end!” he cried. “Just keep on going for another minute or two and you’re there.”
“You’re sure?” said Samzing.
“Think I’d lie about something like this?”
The wizard let the question pass.
Sure enough, they were soon on a landing barely large enough to hold them all. Sagandran, with Perima by his side, looked over the banister into the darkness through which they’d just ascended. He swallowed. It seemed even a longer distance down than the climb had been. The door leading off the cramped landing was made of simple, unadorned wood with a wooden handle.
“I suppose it’s through here that we have to go,” said Sagandran, doing his best to sound positive.
“No time like the present,” prompted Samzing.
Sagandran pressed on the wooden handle and the door creaked open.
There was a little more light in the plain, unfurnished room beyond, than there had been on the stairs. It was a pale, silvery glow that seemed to come from all directions at once, as if someone had brought a few handfuls of the sorry shine from the Shadow World’s disconsolate moon. Even so, the lure of the light was enough to bring the companions pressing into the room close on Sagandran’s heels.
The air was unnaturally chilly. Sagandran could see his breath pluming in front of him.
No sooner were they all inside than the door slammed behind them.
Sagandran turned to tug at the handle, but even as he did so he knew that it was pointless. The sound of the closing door had told him as clearly as words could that it would not be opening again until whoever had slammed it permitted.
“Trapped,” breathed Perima.
Her single word was answered by the extinction of all light in the room. The last glimmer of Xaraxeer’s blade died. The companions were lost in black darkness.
“Where are we?” whispered Sagandran.
“You, boy, are home at last,” said a cold, dark, inhuman voice from all around, as if the air were speaking to them. “The rest of you, you are trespassers in my realm.”
“Arkanamon!” said Samzing loudly. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
“I’ll finish it soon enough.” The unearthly voice gave a little snicker of derisive laughter. The sound was like fingernails scraping across a blackboard.
“Show yourself, coward.” There wasn’t the slightest trace of uncertainty in Perima’s voice. To all intents and purposes, she was a Princess Royal imperiously demanding the obedience of a subject.
Again, there was the horrible scraping noise.
“Coward,” she repeated.
The scraping stopped.
Sagandran squeezed her hand. Well done. You placed that barb with skill. A moment before, he’d been resigned to them all being consigned to some ghastly fate, powerless to resist the Shadow Master. Now there was at least a seed of hope germinating in him. Perima’s defiance had reminded him of what the prophecies predicted. Even if Arkanamon did indeed know something more about the prophecies than Memo did, that didn’t mean that what the Shadow Master knew was actually right. He can be a victim of wrong prophecy just as much as I.
Sagandran raised Xaraxeer, the blade invisible in front of him in the stygian darkness. It was an empty act of defiance, he knew, but it made him feel
less afraid.
“Still your efforts, brat,” said the dispiriting voice from the air and walls. “Your sword is impotent against me.”
“So you say,” said Sagandran. “But you, Arkanamon, are not just the master of shadows, you’re the master of lies as well. Why should I believe a single word you say?”
The air growled. That was the only way Sagandran could describe the sound. It was greatly reassuring. First Perima and now he himself had succeeded in getting under the Shadow Master’s skin. The despot could not be as all-powerful as he was trying to present himself. He had unknown vulnerabilities, and he was aware of them. All the companions had to do was find out what those vulnerabilities were and choose their moment to strike. But strike against what? For all Sagandran could tell, the Shadow Master could be everywhere at once, or nowhere.
It was Flip’s turn to try to goad the tyrant. “Are you scared to show yourself, Arkanamon?”
Once again, a snarling roiled the air of the room.
As it slowly dissipated, Sagandran had an inspiration. If no torch would burn here and even the gleam of the Lightbringer was quenched, there was still another possible source of light he could call on.
“Scared?” cried the Shadow Master. “You dare to suggest this? On the contrary, rattish creature, it is the fear of you and your friends that fills this chamber. I can feel it. It’s … it’s beautiful.”
Sagandran dug into the front of his T-shirt and felt for where the slender silver chain Grandpa Melwin had given him nestled against the flesh of his chest.
Got it!
Feeling as if he should be doing this with some sort of ceremony rather than with hasty, fumbling fingers, Sagandran pulled the Rainbow Crystal out into the plain air. At once, the room was flooded with brilliance. For a moment, Sagandran thought that the light came from the crystal dangling on its chain, but then he realized that the Shadow Master had responded to the production of the stone by rekindling whatever it was that had lit the room before, but now it was a thousand times brighter.
The room was also far larger than it had appeared to Sagandran during the few brief moments between entering it and the pale glow being extinguished. The floor was of the same polished black marble as the stairs into the Palace of Shadows. It seemed to stretch for acres in front of him. The roof overhead was so high that he could barely see there was a ceiling at all. At the far end of the room was a broad opening through which they could see a square of sky, which appeared miniature due to the distance. Sagandran could just detect the stone balustrade of a balcony beyond it.
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