Sagaria (37 page)

“Not the Old Witch Fitzeltwig’s Wonderful Sleeping Potion Accept No Substitute. The stuff in the flask, I mean.”

“Oh, that? Yes, it does take a little getting used to, doesn’t it? That’s Worg Fire Brew, that is. I’m surprised it hasn’t eaten its way through the flask by now. It’s the most powerful liquor ever created on Sagaria. You probably don’t want to know what they distil to make it.”

“Probably not,” Sagandran agreed.

The last of the white powder vanished into the flask with a fizz.

“You sure he’s not going to notice the taste?” muttered Sagandran.

“No fears there,” whispered the wizard emphatically. “One draft of Worg Fire Brew and your tastebuds are burnt right out for the rest of your life.”

“Then why do they bother drinking it if they can’t taste it?”

“Because,” said the wizard sagely, “if you could taste it you’d never drink it.”

“Oh,” said Sagandran.

Samzing jammed the bung back into the container’s neck and handed it to Sagandran. “Time for you to go be a good citizen.”

“Excuse me, Snot,” said Sagandran, once more standing by the cage bars and wishing what he’d just said didn’t sound so ridiculous. “Excuse me, but you seem to have dropped something.”

“Wozzat?”

Sagandran wordlessly held the leather bottle out between the bars.

The guard fumbled at his belt and a look of consternation trundled across his face. “Dat’s mine!”

“Yes, and I’m giving it back to you. You dropped it.”

The guard snatched the flask out of Sagandran’s hand with a scowl and investigated it suspiciously.

“You been drinking my Fire Brew?”

“Not even a sip,” Sagandran assured him. “Can’t you see? I’m still standing up.”

“Huh!”

All five of them in the cage watched in petrified silence as the worg turned
the flask over and over in his warty hands.

“You better not have.”

“I haven’t,” said Sagandran. “My mom told me never to touch alcohol, so I wouldn’t drink any of your Fire Brew even if you asked me to.”

Sagandran’s mom had too. One night a couple of months ago, a friend of hers had come round for the evening so they could spend a few happy hours telling each other how too truly dreadful their respective menfolk were, and somehow between the cheerful gossip and the general feeling of camaraderie they’d managed to put away a bottle and a half of Mom’s best cream sherry. It had been the following morning that Mom had greenly and very, very quietly made Sagandran swear to stay clear of alcohol for as long as he should live – which she, Mom, didn’t think would be very long if he didn’t turn his blasted CD player off, right now.

“Huh,” said Snot.

If the tension between the captives had been extreme before, it wound up a further impossible notch or two as Snot worked the bung out of the flask’s neck. He put his eye to the hole, as if he expected to see something in the dark interior, then lifted the flask high in front of his face.

Sagandran had his fingers tightly crossed that the guard wouldn’t hear any last lingering trace of fizz.

“Aha!” bellowed Snot. “Worg Fire Brew. Da drink of da gods.”

He took a deep pull on the flask, the knots of his throat fighting like two cats in a pillowcase.

“Dat was good, but not as good as da next one’s gonna be.”

The second draft was even longer than the first. Sagandran couldn’t understand why at least one of the cats wasn’t comatose by now. The guard let rip a burp that must have played havoc with Sagaria’s ozone layer.

“Ting about Worg Fire Brew,” said Snot off-handedly, becoming almost friendly toward Sagandran, “ting about Worg Fire Brew, I say, is dat dere’s always more of it dere dan you tink dere is.” He recovered from a lurch as if he were deploying some courtly conversational gambit. “An’ if you’re like me, you tink dere’s always a really very lot dere to begin with, so dat means dat even da smallest flask has ’nuff in it ta … where was I?”

“Falling down with a great crash onto the ground,” said Sagandran accurately.

“Ah, dat’s right. Glad we got dat sorted out. I ever told you how much you look like my mommy?”

The worg was asleep. At the sound of the first snore, the five in the cage went into frantic motion.

“It worked! It worked! Told you we could rely on Old Witch Fitzeltwig’s
Wonderful Sleeping Potion Accept No Substitute,” cried Samzing.

“I’ll never accept a substitute again,” affirmed Perima. “But let’s leave discussing that ’til later, shall we? Once we’re out of here and a long way away. Now, Flip, it’s your turn.”

“Er, couldn’t someone else go?”

“No, Flip, it has to be you. You’re the only one of us small enough to squeeze between the bars.”

“I’m very sleepy.”

“Flip.”

“And I’m so heavy-footed I’d be bound to wake him up.”

“
Flip!
”

“Why are you looking at me like that, Perima?”

“Because this is the way I always look when I’m about to stomp small rodents flat.”

“Oh, I see, and you’re about to?”

“Yes, I am. Unless you slip out of this cage and go fetch the guard’s key off his belt.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Flip paused for a moment, looking up at the ring of expectant faces. “I think I’d rather be stomped, if you don’t mind.”

“Flip?” said Sir Tombin. Sagandran was amazed that anyone, even Sir Tombin, could show the cool patience the Frogly Knight managed to.

“Yes, Quackie?”

Sir Tombin winced, but persevered. “I know that you’re afraid.”

“Certainly not,” Flip protested. “An Adventurer Extraordinaire is never—”

Sir Tombin held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “Well, perhaps
cautious
then, but let me tell you a secret. Everyone else here is afraid right now as well.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. Perima and Samzing and myself are all afraid of being roasted alive and eaten. Young Sagandran here is terrified of being hauled off to face Arkanamon, the Shadow Master. Even the worgs dancing down there around their campfires are afraid, afraid of their boss, Bolster, and Bolster’s scared stiff of the Shadow Master, and of the Shadow Master’s ‘emission,’ and possibly, almost more than anything, that he won’t get the gold he’s set his heart on.”

“You mean, everyone’s afraid of something, not just me?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Well, that’s interesting to know, but I’m not sure it helps. Just knowing everyone else is scared doesn’t stop me being sca—I mean cautious.”

“Yes Flip, but—Perima, put down that thick, heavy log of wood you’ve just found, put it down this instant—Flip, think of it this way. Once you’ve gone over there and stolen the guard’s key and brought it back here, you won’t have anything to be frightened or cautious of any longer. It’ll all be over with.”

“Until the next time.”

“Yes, but the next time won’t be as bad because you’ll have learned a little better how to cope with your fear. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll allow you to be as frightened as you can possibly be when this is over, okay?”

“Assuming I’m not dead by then.”

Sir Tombin nodded. “Assuming you’re not—on second thoughts, Perima, give that log of wood to me, could you?”

“I think I understand,” quavered Flip as Perima obeyed.

He turned on his tail and scuttled off through the bars toward the motionless guard. As he ran across the ground, he moved slower and slower until, just as he reached the worg’s side, he was going in a slow, exaggerated tiptoe.

The key was on a metal ring, the metal ring was attached to the guard’s knotted rope belt, and the guard’s knotted rope belt was stretched tautly across the guard’s capacious stomach. In other words, Flip had a bit of a climb ahead of him. Oh, well, better to get started than to hang around just thinking about it. He grabbed a fold of the snoring worg’s tunic and almost dropped it at once in disgust. The roughly woven material felt as slithery and slimy as the guard’s name implied. Flip gritted his teeth and began pulling himself up over the cloying cloth.

It wasn’t long before he was sitting on Snot’s belly, the key right in front of him. Because of the worg’s deep breathing, Flip felt as if he were in a small coracle in the midst of a very heavy sea. It was a matter of moments to slip the weighty iron key off its ring.

He was just turning to retreat with it when, suddenly, he found himself in the middle of a warty palisade. Still fast asleep, Snot had reached out and grabbed him. A good squeeze of that meaty grasp and Flip would be just a pulp.

Dropping the key (he could think what to do about it later) he put his hands on Snot’s greasy, flabby knuckles and tried to force himself up and out of the worg’s grip. He thought he was managing it when the grasp tightened, almost imperceptibly, but enough to ensure that Flip was firmly trapped again.

“Mommy,” said the worg in a long, low slur.

Flip could hardly believe his ears.

“Wan’ more Fire Brew, Mommy.”

Thinking quick, Flip responded. “And more Fire Brew you may have, but first, you have to let me go so that I can go and get it for you.”

“Nice Mommy. But I don’ wanna let you go.”

“Well, my darling little pile of manure, I’m afraid you’re going to have to. Otherwise I can’t fetch you your Fire Brew, can I?”

“Oh, okay, Mommy. I guess.”

The worg finally loosened his grip and Flip was able to struggle free. Dropping back onto Snot’s stomach, he picked up the key, lurching a little under its weight, and scrambled down to the ground.

Back in the cage, Flip handed the key hastily to Sir Tombin as if the metal were red-hot.

“Oh, Flip,” said Perima, picking him up and holding him to her cheek. “You were wonderful.”

“That’s not what you were saying a few minutes ago,” he commented pithily.

Sir Tombin was struggling to get his wrist through the bars beside the lock so that he could turn his hand and insert the key.

“Done it,” he murmured at last as there was a soft but definitive
click
. “Now let’s try to get out of here without drawing attention to ourselves.”

He eased the cage door open.

“Got it!” yelled Samzing.

“Hush,” said Perima and Sagandran.

But the wizard continued to shout excitedly. “That spell I was telling you about. Well, not exactly the same spell, but one that’s every bit as handy if ever you find yourself locked in a cage.”

His cries were loud enough to have interrupted the singing and bellowing of the worgs. Dozens of carbuncle-swaddled faces were slowly turning in their direction.

“You blithering—” Sir Tombin began, all semblance of his customary gentility fleeing.

Samzing cackled. “Watch this, my hearties.
Arkam! Barkam! Conflagrustius! Bazambadorus! Zoing!
”

From the old wizard’s outstretched hand there sprang first one, then three, then a dozen, then countless hundreds of tiny red-orange, swiftly flickering forms. You couldn’t have called them living things and they didn’t have faces as such, but what they did have were mischievous, spiteful grins. The fiery entities never stayed in one place more than a split second (they moved far too fast for the eye to see them clearly, or really at all) but their grins had the curious property of moving just a little more slowly.

Perima stuffed a fist in her mouth to stop herself from screaming with horror as a pair of the imps rushed up the outside of her sleeve. Sagandran was
embarrassed to discover he was no more in possession of himself than she was, as he beat at a cloud of leering flames buzzing around his head like a swarm of flies.

“You complete and utter—” Sir Tombin was saying, also apparently under attack. Flip was trying to dig a hole big enough to crawl into.

“You see what I mean?” said Samzing in great delight. “Now, my eager little legions,
Candastura plangst
!”

The burning imps flooded out of the open cage door and down the hill, pouring over the nearest worgs like breaking waves.

“Now, do you see?”

Sir Tombin was breathing heavily, leaning on the sword Xaraxeer. “Yes,” he gasped. “We see. But you might have warned us, dear chap.”

Commotion and consternation reigned among the worgs, but it wouldn’t be long before some of the fractionally less unintelligent of them thought about their captives.

“Talk later,” shouted Sagandran. “Let’s get out of here.” He grabbed Perima’s hand.

Bolster’s voice rang out through the hubbub. “Da prisoners! Dey’re gettin’ away!”

A handful of worgs stopped beating at their flaming clothes and began lumbering up the hillside.

“You run,” said Sir Tombin grimly, “and I’ll hold them off. Fetch Snowmane. He can’t be far away.”

Sagandran stared at him, poised half in flight.

“Go!” bellowed Sir Tombin. “Go now. Samzing and I – we’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

Perima tugged at Sagandran. “He’s right, come on.”

“STOP THEM!” bawled Bolster. By now, there was a small pack of worgs heading their way.

Running blindly, tripping and stumbling, Sagandran and Perima cut across the face of the hill at right angles to the worgs’ charge. The dark mouth of the forest’s edge was ahead of them. It might have seemed full of the menace of the unseen at any other time, but now it beckoned to them welcomingly.

The sky lit up as Samzing unleashed a further horde of fire imps on the worgs, slowing their advance. But it didn’t stop them. With Bolster now in the lead, they were coming closer and closer to the cage, outside the door of which Sir Tombin and the wizard were standing in defiance.

There was a glint of gray in the forest gloom. A snicker.

“Snowmane!” panted Perima, trying to urge Sagandran to run even faster.

A worg reared up in front of them.

“Gotcha,” he growled.

Two bulbous hands reached for their throats. Perima dodged sideways, grabbed the hand that had been grabbing for her, and sank her teeth into it. As the worg let out a shriek of astonished pain, she swung a kick into its knee.

There was the sound of bone splintering.

Again the worg roared its agony. It dropped like a stone, howling and clutching its injured knee.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” gasped Sagandran in amazement.