The Legend of Dan

by Robert Wingfield

“You should always say what you mean.”

  “Thanks for your help,” said Tom, sarcastically.

  “Don’t mention it,” said the Magus lightly. “It all turned out okay. The pig-dog must have been seeing double, and charged the wrong image of you.” He poked the stupefied animal with his foot. “Now, how do you think the beast would get drunk on a planet which is reputed to have no beer then, eh?”

  A slow smile split Tom’s face. “There must be alcohol in there? I’m hungry though. Thanks for all the stuff out of the tree. It is safe to eat isn’t it?”

  “I’ll let you find out. Tell me if you die, won’t you?” The Magus grinned insanely as Tom collected fallen fruit. “Good man. Now you are getting it. Shall we investigate the alcohol?”

  They broke through the creepers in the doorway of the ruin, and slithered along a damp corridor, emerging again in full sunlight flooding a paved, square courtyard. A few small red snakes slithered for cover, but otherwise all was quiet. Tom munched his fruit and looked round at the building, with the beginnings of interest.

  A slender minaret marked each corner of the enclosure. Immediately in front of them rose a tall, triangular structure with a regular pattern of windows. In the middle was a solid wooden door set firmly into a squat portico. The Magus wandered cautiously up, and then called Tom over to study a pig-dog-sized hole that had been chewed in one corner of the rotten wood. They peered into the gloom. There was an encouraging musty, beery smell coming from inside.

  The Magus smiled. “Stand back. We could squeeze through the gap, but here’s a little trick I’ve been dying to practice... It should work passably on that rotten door.”

  He raised his hands slowly and then brought them down towards the building. In his mind, he concentrated on individual pieces of his target, and then suddenly released his energy on each one. The molecules of the door moved simultaneously outwards, to random parts of the planet. The effect was spectacular. The entrance disintegrated. Chunks of rotten wood tore through the air, whining over their heads like angry buzzards.

  “That was impressive. Respect, man.”

  “Follow me,” said the Magus, ignoring Tom’s attempt at a high five. “Booze this way.”

  Darkness closed in as they followed the aroma. A wide flight of stone steps led downwards, with dark corridors leading off, horizontally, at intervals. Reaching the bottom, they stood and waited for their eyes to customise. A little blue light flared, as the Magus conjured a flame on a piece of stick he had found, and then the room lit up with a warm, yellow glow as he torched a channel of oil running round the walls.

  The chamber looked as though it had been a theatre, surrounded, above the oil lighting, by tiers of seats disappearing into the darkness. In the centre were heavy stone coffins, with the remains of iron manacles rusting in thick eyelets on the lids. Around the walls, in racks, were rusting spikes, hammers, whips, tongs, nails and saws, an odd wok, and various other strangely-shaped instruments, wheels and cranks. Tom looked at the Magus. “A torture chamber with viewing galleries?” he suggested. “What sort of people...?”

  “There were rumours about the Skagans,” said the Magus as he sniffed his way across the room. “Ahahahah...” He clapped his hands in delight. “Perfect. Jackpot. Utopia. The barrel of ale at the end of the Star-bow.”

  “What have you found?”

  “Look behind this wall. A broken butt, and...” he dipped his finger in some liquid remains. “...I do believe this might be traces of a half decent ale.”

  “Broken? That’s a shame. I guess that was what the pig-dog was drinking? Are we too late?”

  “Maybe not. Look there are more, still intact.”

  “Holding breath now. Are you going to test it to make sure it is not poison? I’m prepared to risk it, if you like.”

  “They are still sealed. I feel that I should check this one... seeing as how you tested the fruit for us. You are still feeling okay aren’t you?”

  “Better for seeing this lot,” said Tom.

  The Magus grabbed a discarded jug, and turned on the tap near the base of the unbroken cask. Spiders and dust poured into the flagon, followed by a gush of liquid. He swilled the container round and tipped the fluid into the back of his throat.

  “What’s it like?”

  The Magus pulled a few strange expressions and then nodded in satisfaction. “Not bad... a bit dusty and spidery, I fear–an acquired taste. You probably won’t like it.”

  “I think I’ll take the risk.”

  “You’ll have to find something to empty it into. I can’t see any other containers round here.” He poured himself a second drink. “Ah, this one is more palatable without the spiders.”

  Tom hunted round the theatre and eventually returned with a large foot-shaped container. He rinsed it out with ale, refilled, and then took a sip.

  “My god!” He coughed and choked and spat it out. “That is nothing like I’ve ever tasted.” He folded double, his arms across his stomach.

  The Magus grinned, swilling back the remains of his own drink.

  “Burns the tongue,” Tom croaked, “shakes the throat, knots the stomach, and makes me want to retch. I think I could get to like it.”

  “Exactly what is says on the barrel,” said the Magus. “It says it’s made with local materials only... and yet you still live… for the moment.”

  “I’ll have another,” said Tom. “I’m going to get completely drunk before it poisons me to death.”

  * * *

  It was after the third day of competitive drinking that something unusual happened. The daily score had reached fourteen pints all, and conversation had now drifted away from sport and real ales, and was on to cars and women. A short, squat, dangerous-looking character wandered in.

  “A Smorg!” Tom grabbed the Magus’s arm in drunken alarm and made him spill his quart.

  “See what he wants to drink,” said the Magus, and set to, calmly licking the spillage off the bar.

  The Smorg smiled, the evil canines protruding from his mouth. “I greet you, Skagan isn’t it?”

  “He’s talking to you, Two-Dan,” said the Magus, as Tom looked blankly around for a Skagan. “He can’t for a moment confuse me with one.” Tom ducked below the counter.

  The Smorg peered curiously over at him. “I come to apologise, like, for wiping out your race, can't you. Just a little error, see. We Smorgs are now into Cantonese Cuisine, but one gets so thirsty, wouldn't they.”

  “Have a beer,” said the Magus.

  “Pint of ‘John Innis’20 coming up,” said Tom from behind and underneath the bar. He filled, and passed over, another of the foot-shaped flagons. The Smorg took a huge swig and drained the container. There was a pause, and he assumed a thoughtful expression. Then he clutched his throat. His face went purple; he coughed, he choked, he spat the liquid out on the floor as his face contorted. “By ‘eck, that’s some drink, won't I,” he croaked. He smacked his lips. “Kinda grows on you though, can't it? Fill me up again.”

  Time went on. The alcohol flowed, and the tongues loosened. The Smorg told of the good vamping to be had in the old days, the Magus told of the good package tours to be had in the old days, and Tom told of the good sex to be had in the old days. The Magus then remembered the sex, and the Smorg then remembered the sex. “It was a lot better before the leader came,” he said.

  “What leader, can't you?” Tom was beginning to learn how to speak Smorg, and sounded almost interested through his alcoholic haze.

  “You musta met ‘im, Dan–big chap, crimson cape, has a habit of disappearing, shall he. He came with a mail order delivery I seem to remember. Still, it will be sorted now, I suppose, doesn't them.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I told you about the captured Skagans getting away, so then we had no meat, shouldn't we. We decided it was his fault, chopped him up and cooked him in a wok. Bit stringy but he shouldn't have filled in the forms wrong, isn’t we.
Not sure he was Smorg anyway, not probably.”

  “So the prisoners did get away,” said the Magus, looking at his companion. “There is someone with them, I think, who could be a friend of yours.”

  “You’re my only friend in the universe,” slurred Tom, putting his arm around the little man.

  “Was there an outlander with the Skagans?” The Magus addressed the rapidly wilting Smorg.

  “Right there was, a slim filly with masses of golden hair, shouldn't I like. Looked good enough to eat, wasn't they. Bit dopey, even by Skagan standards, wasn’t she.”

  “That’s Suzanne; she isn’t dead?” Tom sat upright, jerked out of his stupor. “They got away?”

  The Smorg nodded. “That's what I heard, didn’t they.”

  “Where have they gone?”

  “Back to the village, I expect, isn’t it. That’s where I was going, like, to apologise, before I smelt the alcohol, and found my way in here, wasn't he. Do you know, my friends, there has been no competitive drinking on this planet for centuries? Wha’s that?”

  A clamour of voices and a clatter of armour sounded on the entrance steps. The Smorg raised his jug to the troop of his fellows who piled into the room. “Ah, a few mates of mine, aren’t they,” he said. “You don’t mind if they join the party, would they?”

  “Not at all,” said the Magus. “Get them something to drink.”

  Tom grabbed the Smorg's arm. “Look after the bar for me, will you.”

  “No problem, won't he.”

  An excited, if unsteady, Tom dragged the Magus, still supping his beer, out of the room. “We have to find my girl,” he said.

  “But I haven’t finished my barrel.”

  “So you want to stay in there with a squad of drunken, carnivorous Smorgs, don’t they? What happens when they get hungry, isn’t it?”

  “Good point. Lead the way.”

  The Magus and Tom’s progress away from the ruin was anything but steady. They staggered for a long way up a track, here tripping over roots and falling flat, there collapsing into the undergrowth, and spending time extracting themselves from thorn bushes, but generally following the hurried directions the Smorg had provided for the route to the Skagan village.

  Suddenly, as Tom banged his head by running headlong into a tree, the evening sky lit up brightly. A series of massive jets of flame exploded through the atmosphere. The sound echoed back and forth for several minutes, and then all was again quiet. The dazzle slowly cleared from Tom’s eyes. “What the hell was that? What sort of trees are these? My head...” He stopped talking, silenced by the sound of the engines of a space craft ramping up to idling power and a rock drum-solo.

  “My ship, my ship!” The Magus danced about, and then dived into the trees. Tom followed him to a clearing, and there was the Magus’ spacecraft, glowing and humming in all the right places, as though it had never been faulty. “This is our ticket out of here,” grinned the Magus. “Now, as for your girlfriend... and the key to the padlock…”

  “You mean you can find her?”

  “Easily. Did I tell you I put a trace on her? Well I did. All I need is the right equipment from my ship.”

  “Let’s do it then.” Tom brightened up.

  The Magus fumbled for a long time with the padlock, which eventually fell in half. This was fortunate, because, unknown to him, the key had dropped out of his pocket in one of the bushes he had been rolling in. He disappeared into the ship. The music, now blasting out at full volume, was silenced. “Here is the bio-tracer unit.” The little man twisted it back to the setting he had programmed for Suzanne, and then looked puzzled. He thumped the machine and tried again.

  Tom saw the apprehension on his face. “Tell me, what’s the problem?”

  The Magus sat down heavily on the scorched grass. “She’s gone,” he said, simply.

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “I mean, her bio-patterns no longer register on the machine. I’m sorry, but I can only assume she must have been killed in that explosion.”

  Tom went pale, and leaned against the hull of the craft. “Oh...” was all he could say. The Magus left him to his thoughts and busied himself sorting the ship out, ready for departure.

  Some minutes later, a nearby rose bed creaked and groaned, as a large metal cylinder materialised. A very attractive young woman, now wearing a leather miniskirt, calf length boots, and a frilly skimpy top, emerged. She leaned on a tree and regarded Tom and his abject misery.

  The Magus stuck his head out of the cockpit, and spat on the ground. “Not you again. What do you want this time?”

  Kara ignored him and spoke to Tom. “I’m still waiting for your call,” she said. “What’s the hold-up?” She scanned the clearing. “What have you done with Suzanne?”

  “Lost, lost.” Tom moaned, and slipped down the hull to sit on the grass.

  “Never mind, you’ve still got me.” Kara put her fingers under his chin, and lifted his head, so he had to look her in the eyes. “These things happen all the time. Space is dangerous, you know.”

  Tom grunted.

  Kara continued. “Have you found Bluben yet?”

  “He’s dead,” said the Magus.

  “How do you know,” asked Kara, accusingly.

  “I made friends with a Smorg, and he told me. Apparently Bluben was blamed for all the wrong deliveries of goods. The Smorgs only went to ask for an explanation. Unfortunately he was accidentally speared to a wall before he could tell them it wasn’t his fault at all.”

  “Whose fault was it?”

  “The Smorgs seem to think that it was an organisation known as OrcommNE, who were the controlling force behind ‘Janet Ward Stores Universal’. Incidentally, JWSU are no more. I sort of blew them up before I came here. This ship is all that’s left. It’s a nice one, isn’t it?”

  “Ah,” said Kara, “that fits in with what I’ve learnt. There appears to be a connection between the mail order companies, a shady organisation known as ‘The Consortium’, and some of the governments on the civilised planets I have visited while you were enjoying yourselves down here. Incidentally,” she said, “what made you leave your paradise, after all you said to me when I came to see you?”

  The Magus looked thoughtful. “JWSU,” he said. “Dodgy batch of sucrose.”

  Kara grinned. “Told you to watch out. It looks as though we’ll have to deal with the Consortium, now. Could be a bit of a problem, they have power over the civilized worlds, fleets of ships, and control of all the money in the galaxy. It’ll be our job to take them down. Coming, Two-Dan?”

  Tom looked at the Magus. “I’d rather go with you.”

  “Sorry,” said the Magus. “This is a single-seater. I could squeeze you in if I liked you enough, and you were slightly more female.”

  “Then I have no choice,” said Tom. “I suppose there are worse things,” he added, regarding Kara’s outfit, “and I’ve got nothing else to do.” He shook the Magus absently by the hand. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Sorry about the girl,” said the Magus. “Might see you again sometime, if I find a spare one for you.”

  “Maybe,” said Tom. “Keep a bio-trace on me.”

  His friend grinned again. “Already done,” he said. “I’ll perhaps give you a call, if I find a decent pub.”

  Tom nodded absently, and followed Kara into the cylinder. “I won’t hold my breath,” he said to the receding Magus.

  “You shouldn’t have to,” said Kara as she closed the hatch. “I’ve had my dump for the day.”

  Rebirth

  In which Vac gets moving.

  T

  he freed Skagans wandered through gently rising terrain as the day broke over the distant mountains. They stopped at the edge of the forest, and watched the sunrise, something not normally seen by these forest dwellers. Vac took the outlander girl by the hand. There was no response. Her hand fell back by her side when he let it go. They walked
back into the forest a little further, and then chose a grassy clearing to rest in.

  A fire was soon started with dry grass and brushwood, and a scratch meal of tree bark and leaves was cooked in a captured wok. It was surprisingly tasty to the hungry Skagans. Vac passed a handful to the girl. Her head turned slowly towards him. She took the food and chewed it mechanically, her eyes fixed on him in a manner that made him fidget. She ate for as long as he fed her. Eventually, he gave up and leaned against a tree. He slipped his hand inside her cape to feel the soft flesh of her thigh. It was cold to the touch, and made him uncomfortable. “Lie here.” He indicated the turf beside him. She lay. “Now sleep.” Her eyes closed, and for the first time since he had seen her, she looked relaxed.

  He lay down beside her and covered them both with his own cloak. The rest of the party exchanged disapproving glances, and then went about their usual sleeping rituals. The grunts and gasps went on a while, before they relaxed for a siesta.

  Five days passed in a similar pattern of shag, eat, shag, sleep, shag, march, as the Skagan band headed towards the fabled sanctuary of Sisleoze, the route described in the ancient texts Vac had been made to memorise as a youngster. Gradually, the trees thinned, and the ground became stonier. A range of mountains appeared in the distance, and the way began to slope upwards again. As time went on, the mountains loomed closer, and the vegetation surrendered completely to a landscape of boulders, split from the mountain-tops, many centuries before.

  Once again, the fugitives stopped, and looked back at a view that in their claustrophobic forest world they could never have imagined. Great tracts of green, and gaping broken chasms spread out behind them. If they were being pursued, the trackers would have to be very good to overtake them, and yet remain concealed. In front, the mountain walls rose sharply in a face of gaunt rock, to jagged peaks tearing at the sky.

  “This way.” Vac felt instinctively drawn towards a certain part of the cliff. He pushed to the front of the column, and they followed him sceptically up towards a smooth rock wall. “Behold Sisleoze,” he said majestically, “the end of our journey.”