Sagaria

by John Dahlgren

  Snowmane came down for a perfect landing about fifty yards from where Sir Tombin and the others were standing, and trotted a few paces before coming to a halt. The big white wings folded themselves away easily, tucking into the horse’s sides to leave just the “scars” showing. Sagandran promised himself that he’d examine the stallion more closely sometime soon to find out how this worked. When the wings were extended, there seemed to be more wing than horse, and yet Snowmane’s body didn’t seem any bigger with the wings stowed away than when they were unfurled.

  It was then that Sagandran and Perima realized that their friends were waving not in greeting, but in frantic warning.

  “Samzing’s yelling something about Arkanamon,” said Perima, slipping easily to the ground despite being encumbered by the heavy lead crown, which she carried in one hand. Sagandran followed, wishing he could emulate Perima’s grace. He supposed girls were naturally better than boys at anything to do with horses. Or was it something one learned as a matter of course during princessly training?

  He staggered as he landed, and a sharp pain shot up his leg.

  “Drat,” he muttered, not overly concerned. “Twisted my ankle.” Biting his lower lip, he began to limp toward the Palace of Shadows. Somewhere within its walls was Grandpa Melwin.

  “Stop, Sagandran.”

  He looked back at Perima. What was it this time?

  “They’re trying to tell us …”

  She suddenly pointed to her right.

  Arkanamon!

  Astride a great black steed, the man who had dreamed of conquering worlds was charging toward them. Even from here, Sagandran could see Arkanamon’s lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl of vengeful fury. He held a huge, black-bladed sword on high.

  “Come back, Sagandran!” screamed Perima. “To Snowmane! He’s our only chance!”

  “But what about Grandpa Melwin?”

  “You can’t help him if you’re dead.”

  He started jogging back toward her as fast as his limp would let him. Then his ankle gave way. Letting out a high howl of pain, he sprawled on the black grass. The thud of the black horse’s hooves was loud in his ears as he forced himself to his knees and then precariously to his feet. He was dimly aware out of the corner of his eye that Sir Tombin and the other two were running toward him as well, but all he was really conscious of was the black steed and its terrible rider bearing down on him.

  Where was Perima? For an moment he couldn’t see her, then he realized that she had leaped back up onto Snowmane’s back. Already the silver stallion was moving.

  “No!” cried Sagandran. If Perima tried to head off Arkanamon, she would surely pay with her life. All she had to protect herself against his sword was the crown. If Arkanamon gained the crown from her, who knew what might happen next?

  But Perima wasn’t riding toward Arkanamon. Instead, she was coming straight toward Sagandran, her hair flying.

  Lurching awkwardly as his ankle threatened to betray him once again, he spread his arms, uncomprehending.

  The crystal-adorned crown lopsided on her head, she was leaning sideways out of the saddle, one arm extended.

  Oh, sheesh. She wants me to …

  Then the white stallion was upon him and Perima’s wiry brown arm was around his chest, whipping him up off the ground and belly-down across Snowmane’s back in front of her.

  The breath driven out of him, Sagandran was nearly blinded by the immediate streaming of his eyes. The seared ground moved beneath him in a blur. He reached up and gripped Snowmane’s neck, which was tilted forward as the horse moved into a full gallop.

  “Stay where you are!” snapped Perima impatiently. “You can sit up later.”

  Despite his instincts, he mustered the nerve to disobey her for once, and continued to struggle to right himself.

  She let out a string of oaths that astonished him, before capitulating. “Oh, all right then, you jerk!” Showing little sympathy for his injured ankle, she grabbed his leg and forced it around in front of her.

  Manipulating his way across the stallion’s neck, at last he was able to push himself woozily upright.

  At the same moment, Perima jumped off the horse. She rolled onto the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Sagandran shouted as the distance between them increased. He tried to steer Snowmane around, but the stallion just kept going. He could see Perima struggling to get up.

  She cupped her hands in front of her mouth. “You’ll go faster without me,” she shouted. “Ride Snowmane. Ride!”

  Her voice soon vanished in the wind. The landscape rushed toward him much faster than it had before, and he was filled with the certainty that at any second he was going to go crashing to the ground. He’d known fear many times since leaving the Earthworld, but this wild ride seemed more terrifying than anything that had gone before.

  What made it worse was that he could hear Arkanamon close behind them on that vast black horse of his. The Shadow Master was letting out a long, continuous shrill – a sound that Sagandran could not have dreamed might come from human lips.

  Then again, the vile path of magic the Shadow Master had followed had corrupted him into something other than truly human, hadn’t it? Arkanamon could hardly be called a man any more. He had become a creature that was both more than and less than that. And a creature intent on slaying Sagandran before it met its own doom.

  “Fly, damn you – fly!” Sagandran yelled into Snowmane’s ear.

  Taking to the air was surely the only way to escape the Shadow Master’s eager blade.

  Pursued by Arkanamon on the black horse, Snowmane was galloping at full tilt, parallel to the wall of the slave mines. A few straggling, pathetic, scarecrow-like figures staggered out of the way – released prisoners, Sagandran guessed. His friends must have reached the dungeons, at least, even if Grandpa Melwin was nowhere in evidence.

  If only Snowmane would unfurl those wings of his and take to the air…

  The slave compound grew smaller behind them. Now Snowmane was getting further ahead of the black steed. White froth was trickling back from the corners of the stallion’s mouth, slicking Sagandran’s hands. The horse’s breathing was becoming loud and labored, yet still he galloped on. Then, looking ahead of him at the too-swiftly onrushing ground, Sagandran realized where he was going. He tried to give shout of protest, but nothing would come.

  The gorge!

  With Snowmane strangely reluctant to spread his wings and fly, he was surely going to plummet straight over the edge. The drop wasn’t as great as it had been from his perch halfway up the cliff, of course, but who cared whether he fell ten thousand feet or just a couple of hundred?

  The sound of Memo’s voice came back to him, clearly audible despite the thundering of Snowmane’s hooves. According to the other version, we build a pair of great wings out of light, supple withies and glide there on the hot zephyrs rising up from the gorge.

  Was that so very different from what he was doing now? To be sure, the wings he’d flown on were made of horseflesh rather than withies, but that was just a matter of detail. The version of the legend Memo had been talking about was the one in which the storied Boy Whose Time Had Come lost to the Shadow Master, and perished with all his friends – along with the three worlds – at the Shadow Master’s hands!

  Even before he reached the lip of the ravine, Sagandran could sense the immense gulf of empty space that loomed before him.

  Why in the name of all that is holy would Snowmane not spread his wings and fly?

  And now, Snowmane seemed to be deliberately slowing, letting Arkanamon catch up. The two horses flashed past a couple of peasants, who stared open-mouthed.

  It seemed to Sagandran that the mountain walls surrounding the ravine were closing in around him, grasping him like a giant fist and squeezing him, so that there was nowhere he could go but forward, taking Snowmane, himself and perhaps all of the Shadow World with him. It was as if he were at the bottom of a vast funnel being forced
back up its shaft – all he could see was the immensity of the doom that awaited him.

  The Shadow Master was right at their backs. The strange tuneless shrilling had ceased, but that was about the only thing to be thankful for; instead, Arkanamon was giving strange, rhythmic, automaton-like snarls. Sagandran glanced behind him just in time to see the blade of Arkanamon’s sword whistling through the air toward Snowmane’s rump. It seemed inevitable that the lethal-looking tip must score into the living flesh. The stallion put on a brief burst of extra speed, pulling himself clear of the swinging blade by mere inches.

  And now the rim of the ravine was upon them!

  Sagandran shut his eyes. Terror filled him. He knew that he should be praying, but he’d forgotten how to.

  “You cannot escape me, boy!” screamed Arkanamon.

  Suddenly the thrumming of Snowmane’s hooves stopped, and Sagandran knew that there was no longer any ground beneath them – just empty air.

  And a feeling of complete peace.

  Reluctantly he opened his eyes. The bottom of the gloomy gorge seemed to tilt and swivel until Sagandran was no longer sure if it was ground or sky. He somehow managed to orient himself. He forced himself to turn around

  … At last, Snowmane had spread his great wings. Slowly, regularly, they beat up and down. But Sagandran hardly noticed. At the very edge of the abyss, Arkanamon was struggling desperately to pull the black steed up short – struggling but failing. Even at this distance, Sagandran could see the tormented beast’s eyes rolling frantically as it dug its hooves into the black earth, throwing up divots of soil.

  At the very last minute, the horse gave up the unequal contest and resigned itself to meeting its fate with dignity. Rather than merely slide over the cliff top, flailing in a hopeless attempt to preserve its life, it took the final pace voluntarily, trying to appear as if it were in full control.

  Arkanamon threw himself from the horse’s back, his hands outstretched toward the cliff edge, the black sword toppling away unregarded to join the horse in the plunge to extinction. For the briefest of moments it appeared that the man might manage to somehow cling on, but then a fistful of soil broke away and he was dangling by just one hand. He twisted his head around until he was looking Sagandran in the eye. For a moment it was as if the distance between them was not twenty yards, but just a handsbreadth.

  In a whisper that seemed to fill the world, Arkanamon said, “I curse you forever, Sagandran Sacks.”

  Then the cliff edge crumbled beneath his hand and he was gone, his robes spreading out around his falling figure, so that the last image Sagandran saw of the Shadow Master was that of a giant bat.

  Moments later, the world changed.

  At first, Sagandran couldn’t work out what the change was. He could see everything more clearly. Incredulous, he looked up toward the sky that seemed to have held little but darkness forever. The sun had wedged open a crack in the perpetual clouds, and its golden radiance was raining down like a waterfall to bathe the land.

  And now we know for sure. Mirabella’s voice echoed in his mind. Arkanamon is dead.

  “That’s grea …” Sagandran began.

  He never finished the sentence.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE DAWNING

  ut what I still don’t understand,” said Sagandran, “is why I lost consciousness then.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Perima pursing her lips primly, “is how I managed to jump off the horse at that great speed without breaking my neck.” Then she grinned. “Leastways, I don’t know why I bothered just to save your behind.”

  He hit out at her, but weakly. Nearly ten days later, he had yet to recover his strength completely. She caught his hand and they laughed.

  At last, Perima’s face clouded. “I think Queen Mirabella is planning to explain it all,” she said.

  Sagandran looked out the window. The bright sunlight of Spectram – of Sagaria – was pouring through to waste itself joyously on the intricately woven, richly embroidered rugs on the floor of his bedroom. He was lying on the bed with only a light blanket over him; the day was not hot, but pleasantly warm. Behind his head, Perima had propped more down pillows than were actually comfortable, but he hadn’t the heart to tell her so.

  He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. “Is she planning another of her formal ceremonies?” he said gloomily. “Welcome home and honor the conquering heroes who saved the universe sort of thing?”

  Perima’s face looked equally morose. She nodded.

  There had been at least three such grand receptions so far. Sagandran thought there might have been a couple more while he was still too weak to be dragged from his sick bed. The three he had no excuse to duck out of had been interminable. As a recognized and official invalid, he’d at least had the perfect excuse to drift off to sleep, thus sparing himself the worst of them. Otherwise, he’d passed the time by covertly eyeing up the ladies of the Spectran Court (many of whom were extremely lovely and quite oblivious to the sort of dress rules that prevailed in the Earthworld) while also making sure that Perima didn’t catch him at it.

  “I think Queen Mirabella’s planning a real big shebang for tonight,” Perima said. “Folk have gathered from all over Sagaria to pay their respects. We’re all quite famous here, you know. Well, of course, as a Princess of the Blood Royal of the Kingdom of Mattani, I’d have been quite famous anyway, but—”

  “What is it they call Mattani again?” said Sagandran, smiling.

  “The armpit of the world.” She didn’t smile back the way she normally did, but held his hand in both of hers and looked down at it as if there were something particularly interesting about his fingers. “Oh, I know. Who’s ever heard of Mattani, let alone one of its princesses? The funny thing is, I fled from Daddy’s court precisely to get away from this fame thing, and now I discover that I’m far more widely known than if I’d stayed at home and been a princess. Things haven’t gone according to plan at all.”

  “Same here,” said Sagandran, then he brightened. “But it hasn’t all been bad, has it? We met each other, which would never have happened if we hadn’t been thrown into our adventures together.”

  Perima stood. “Yes, you’ve been very lucky in that respect.”

  “And you?”

  She looked down at him with exaggerated hauteur. “Don’t flatter yourself, buddy boy.”

  “I only said it because I read it in this book of courtly etiquette Memo found for me. You don’t think I—ow!”

  They were both giggling again while Perima tucked the pillow she’d hit him with back behind his head.

  “It wouldn’t be possible to explain my unconsciousness to me before Queen Mirabella does, do you think?” Sagandran said when she was seated once more in the bedside chair. “Just so I’ll understand it properly when she tells me herself?”

  “It’s probably a good idea,” Perima admitted. “I had an infernal job deciphering it when she first told us about it. I suppose she has to make sure her every public utterance is expressed in the correct regal fashion. It sure doesn’t make for clarity.”

  “Then explain it to me,” he said. “Please.”

  Perima relaxed in her chair, putting her hands behind her head and staring at the ceiling.

  “Well, the way I figure it is this. What you didn’t realize – what none of us realized, probably not even Arkanamon himself – is that you and him were sort of bound up. Spiritually, I mean. As opposite sides of the same coin: him being evil and you being good. At least, ‘good’ in a manner of speaking. You were really just a single entity.” She held up a hand. “I don’t mean you were the same person, or anything like that. Just that, from the point of view of the soul of the three worlds, your spirits and their fates were so inextricably intertwined that essentially they’d become just one. Why do you think Arkanamon was so reluctant to kill you back in the Palace of Shadows? When Samzing sucked Arkanamon’s magical soul out of him, it became different. He could kill you then without als
o killing himself. He had only his ordinary human soul left. When that was finally extinguished as he hit the ground at the bottom of the gorge, well … it almost took you along with it.”

  Sagandran concentrated, closing his eyes for a moment. “I think I can follow that,” he said. “It seems to make sense in its own weird sort of way. I’d been thinking along similar lines myself, but you’ve cleared it all up for me. Sort of.”

  “I can assure you, Queen Mirabella’s version of it is a whole lot more complicated,” Perima said. “She gives it plenty of embellishments like” – her voice dropped into a very passable imitation of the queen’s – “karmic regurgitation and oral spectrotherapy.”

  He burst out chuckling. “I don’t believe she said either of those things.”

  “Something very like them, anyway. I told you it was all pretty hard to follow. I may have dropped off momentarily myself a time or two. Just because your snoring made me sleepy, you understand.”

  There was a knock at the door and an elaborately pompadoured servant appeared. He smiled ingratiatingly. “It is time to prepare the hero of all Sagaria for tonight’s ceremony.”

  Again, Sagandran shuffled in embarrassment. “I’m perfectly capable of preparing myself.”

  “No, you’re not,” Perima contradicted flatly. “You haven’t the first idea how to put on half the garments that protocol demands for these occasions. Trust me on this. Someone would have to come and untie you.”

  Sagandran yearned for his blue jeans, anorak and his scruffy old tennis shoes. He hadn’t seen any of them since he’d woken up.

  Perima turned to the servant. “I’ll help him get all dandified up.”

  “Certainly, ma’am,” said the servant, withdrawing. The door closed quietly behind him.

  Sagandran felt the heat rising in his face. “But—”

  She quashed his protests with a stare. “You remember the promise we made each other beside that pool in the forest?”

  “Yes,” he said, recalling the occasion only too clearly, “but that was when there was just the two of us, alone, a long, long way from home and not knowing if we’d ever get back there.”