Authors: John Dahlgren
Sagaria (20 page)
“All those other males she’d clapped her selfish little eyes on had (the lucky fellows) very long legs to carry them very quickly to the hills. All I had to run with—stop sniggering, Perima, and you too, Sagandran. Flip, I hope that’s a yawn you’re stifling. Where was I? Oh, yes, all I had to run with were little plump froggy legs. I made the doughtiest hop from my lilypad that ever a frog has hopped, but even so I wasn’t quick enough for that witch. She’d waded into the water and she caught me in mid-air as efficiently as my tongue might have caught the juicy little fly I’d set my heart on.
“The next thing I knew she’d kissed me! Now I, Sir Tombin Quackford, have no objections in principle to kissing. Indeed, since that time there’s been many a young damsel who’ve been moved to comment to the effect that I am somewhat of an expert in the osculatory arts.”
If Sir Tombin had been standing, he’d have swaggered. As he was sitting down, all he could manage was a rather uncomfortable-looking lurch. Perima giggled again and got another glare.
“But that,” said the knight with a long suffering sigh, “was then and this is now. I had never in my life encountered anything quite so disgusting as the witch’s kiss. I truly thought she intended to swallow me whole, condemning me to a most indecorous fate inside her tummy.”
He shuddered.
“Then she put me back on the lilypad and waited expectantly for something to happen.
“Nothing did.
“Nothing did for rather a long interval of time.”
Sagandran could tell that Sir Tombin was beginning to enjoy his role as master storyteller. His voice had deepened a notch or two, and he was using his webbed hands expressively, waving his arms as he attempted to conjure up an atmosphere.
“Well, that old witch grew crosser and crosser as she watched me sitting on my lilypad and showing no signs whatsoever of turning into anything except a rather weary frog. So she dug around in her skirts and pulled out the most monstrous magical wand – long and gnarled, with a metal tip on its end.
“‘I shall change you into a man if it’s the last thing I do,’ she hissed, and she touched the metal tip of the wand to me.
“Now you have to understand that I found the prospect of being a man – a young and handsome man, of course, over whom all the fair ladies would swoon – not altogether unappealing. But I did not relish, for one moment, the idea of being bound to such a hideously self-centered woman for the rest of my life, witch or no witch. My very soul rebelled against the notion.
“Another thing you young people may not know about frogs is that they have magical souls. It’s the truth. That’s why they can understand human speech, just for starters.
“Had I had my wits fully about me, the magic in my soul would have easily resisted the magic in the witch’s wand. However, I was in two minds about whether I wanted to be a man or not and, just to add to my confusion, I was startled by the jolt of magical energy that shot through me from the wand’s touch.
“You can see the consequence for yourself. The next thing I knew I was the size of a man, all right – the lily pad was squashed beneath me as I found myself standing there up to my knees in the pond’s water – and in all sorts of ways I
was
a man. The only trouble was that my outward form remained that of a frog.
“A man on the inside and a frog on the outside, it’s not the best of conditions to be in. Being a man on the inside meant that my soul no longer had the magic of a frog’s soul, so I couldn’t do anything to improve my lot. I would have begged the witch to finish off her spell one way or the other, by either returning me to froghood or transforming me entirely to humanhood, but she was so horrified by the magical mess she’d made, she ran off screaming. There was nothing I could do to rectify the situation, and I’ve still found no way of rectifying it. I have walked this world from one end to the other, from side to side and all around, hoping to discover a means of solving the problem of my twin nature, but no one’s been able to help me.
“Which is why you see me before you as I am – Sir Tombin Quackford, the Frogly Knight.”
He concluded his recitation with his head bowed as if in mock modesty, waiting for the inevitable thunderous applause. Finally, Sagandran and Perima got the hint and clapped politely.
“You’re too kind, too kind,” murmured Sir Tombin, milking the moment for all it was worth. “But now, my young companions, I fear the time for tale-telling is done, and we must take to our beds. We have many leagues to traverse tomorrow, and we must make an early start.”
Sagandran and Perima, though both yawning, were eager to stay up a while longer, but Sir Tombin stifled their protests and soon the four travelers, after preparing beds from gathered leaves and grass, were settling down for the night.
Sagandran lay on his back gazing at the stars of this strange new world. The patterns they made in the sky were familiar and unnervingly different at the
same time, as if someone had decided to create an imitation of the Earthworld’s night sky but had done a rather slapdash job of it. In the dying light of the fire, he could see Perima’s face not far from his own; Sir Tombin was on the far side of the pile of embers.
“Are you asleep, Perima?” he said.
She yawned, and shuffled until she was comfortable. “Not quite. Almost.”
“How much of Sir Tombin’s story did you believe?”
“Not much. A little, perhaps. And you?”
“Same here. I wonder what his true story is.”
“Let’s leave it ’til tomorrow to do our wondering, Sagandran. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Why can’t we do the wondering now?” whispered Flip. “Just tell me that, eh?”
There was no response. He realized that the others were already fast asleep.
Oh, well.
The Adventurer Extraordinaire curled into a ball and soon joined his companions in slumber.
t had been warm enough last night, but this morning it was bitingly cold. Sagandran had to blow on his hands to get them warm, and he could see Perima was fighting to stop shivering. Their breath made great white plumes in front of their faces as they tidied up the debris of their brief camp. Flip was unusually subdued. Only Sir Tombin seemed unaffected by the chill, humming cheerfully as he briskly dispersed the remains of their bedding into the forest and checked that the supplies in the wooden cavern were securely stored.
“Where are you taking us on this long trek today?” said Sagandran to Sir Tombin as they stood beside the monument, casting a last glance over the clearing. He was aware that he should have asked this question yesterday, but somehow it had never occurred to him.
“Well, young Sagandran, I have decided that I shall escort you to Spectram. It’s a long and hazardous distance from here, and without a guide there is every chance that you would get lost.” The Frogly Knight scratched his chin absently. “Besides, it’s been many years since I last saw the glorious streets of Spectram …”
His voice trailed off into fond reminiscence and Sagandran wondered if thoughts of Queen Mirabella were what was fueling Sir Tombin’s urge to assist them. He didn’t comment on this suspicion.
Sir Tombin shook himself out of his daydream. “But we must go to Mattani first, which is much closer, and return this young lady,” he said, performing a half-bow in the fugitive princess’s direction, “to her father.”
Perima looked at him aghast. “No!” she cried, stamping her foot on the grassy ground. “I’m not going back there. I’m coming with you two—three.” She gave Flip an apologetic nod.
How lovely she looks in the early morning sunlight
, thought Sagandran irrelevantly.
Especially when she’s furious
.
“Your father must be worried about you,” observed Sir Tombin blandly.
Perima snorted. “If he is it’ll be a first. He doesn’t care if I live or die.”
“I sometimes used to think that about my dad,” said Sagandran, trying to soothe things. “Then, when he had to move out of our home, I realized how much he was going to miss me, how much it was hurting him to leave me behind.”
“My father is not your father,” Perima pointed out hotly.
“Ah …” He found that there was no response to that.
Sir Tombin gazed broadly around the clearing. “Well, Princess,” he said, “I suppose you could live in this glade for the rest of your life. I don’t think the wraiths of King Brygantra and Boss Thumbhammer come here very often—”
Perima tossed her hair vexedly. “I’m not a child, to be frightened by piffle about ghosts.”
The Frogly Knight said nothing.
“Besides, I wouldn’t have to stay here. There are plenty of other places to go, you know. Nasty old glade.”
“You could always start looking again for that farmhouse you’d like to settle down in,” Sir Tombin agreed. “A word of warning though. Worg territory is in
that
direction.” He stabbed repeatedly with his webby forefinger in various directions until he’d completed a full circle.
“Ghosts, you say?”
“But none of us believe in ghosts, do we?” said Sir Tombin with a studiedly false guffaw. “We’re too old for that sort of thing.”
“I wouldn’t mind a bath,” Sagandran put in. “Would I be able to get one at your father’s court, do you think?”
“I wouldn’t mind it if you had a bath,” Perima retorted.
Flip piped up. “I’ve never seen a royal court. Couldn’t we at least visit?”
“Well,” said Perima with a sniff, “I suppose we could visit Mattani on our way to Spectram. Then you’ll see for yourself what it’s like for me at home. Then you’ll know why I want to go with you. Then you’ll—”
“I’m glad that’s settled then,” said Sir Tombin. “Now, let’s not waste any more time and put our best feet forward.”
Sagandran scooped up Flip from the ground and set the little fellow on his shoulder. Flip dug his foreclaws into the cloth of Sagandran’s anorak, securing himself in place.
Perima was reproachfully silent for the first few hours as they made their way along almost invisible trails through the forest. Sir Tombin was leading with a confidence for which Sagandran was profoundly grateful; on his own, he was sure he’d have gone in circles. Eventually, the sight of the sunlight playing
through the branches on the bushy undergrowth was too cheerful and the songs of the birds too optimistic and irrepressible for Perima’s foul mood to last. By the time the sun was high overhead, she was chattering away with Flip and Sagandran as if there’d been no argument at all, almost as if it had been her idea and no one else’s that they should go to Mattani.
Sagandran felt his heart rising to match her good spirits. She was the most delightful company he could imagine when she was bubbly and light-hearted like this. The two of them came from completely different backgrounds, not to mention worlds, yet Sagandran found that they had so much in common. She’d been raised in a royal palace in a world he’d never even heard about until a couple of days ago. He was, he supposed, a commoner in her eyes, though he’d never felt especially common. He had often wished that he was more so, in fact. They both loved music, singing, painting, reading and ideas. The fact that the music, art and ideas she knew were very different from the ones he knew didn’t matter; it was the same love. What was startling, though it didn’t startle Sagandran much at the time, was that Flip shared many of the same interests as well. Small the Adventurer Extraordinaire might be, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t fascinated by the higher things of life.
About the middle of the afternoon, they heard the sound of rushing water from somewhere ahead. As they continued walking, the sound grew until it seemed to be coming from all around. Sir Tombin, who’d been a hundred or more yards in front, paused to let them catch up.
“What you’re hearing,” he said as they drew abreast, “is the mighty torrent of the Makarai River.”
Perima’s face fell, and she gave a little gasp of dismay. “I’d not realized that we were getting so close to home,” she said.
Sagandran took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly.
“I really don’t want to go back there.” She turned her gaze to him. “In the court of Mattani you’ll just be a boy again and I’ll just be a princess.”
Sagandran couldn’t see what she was driving at. “What difference will that make? We’ll still be us, won’t we?”
“It will make a whole ocean of difference,” she said. “You’ll see when we get there. My father … has that effect on the people around him.”
Sagandran shrugged. “I hope not.”
He walked alongside the silent, simmering version of Perima for the next hour or so, and her gloom permeated him as well, so that when the sunlight created dappled patterns among the trees it was the shadows he saw, not the brightness. Flip was similarly infected by the girl’s depression, and after a few futile attempts to start a fresh conversation, he clambered down into Sagandran’s
pocket, where he curled up to sleep the sad times away.
By now the trail had broadened into a major thoroughfare. There were ruts from carriage wheels and occasional piles of horse droppings; some of them – Sagandran’s wrinkling nose told him – were relatively fresh. He was surprised that they had encountered no other travelers; perhaps it was the custom around here (a wise custom, he decided, as the sweat ran down his back) to stay out of the greatest heat of the day. How much hotter must it be out of the shade of the trees? To add to his discomfort, the noise of the river seemed to be pummelling his ears.
They rounded a bend and saw that they were approaching the fringe of the forest. It was as if they were walking toward a vast, high, brilliantly lit theatrical stage framed by tall trees leaning toward each other so that their uppermost branches blended together. He took Perima’s hand again. Her fingers tensed as if she were about to snatch it away, but then they relaxed again.
“It can’t be all that bad,” he said.
“It can.”
Soon, they were able to see a structure that, at first, Sagandran couldn’t recognize. Then he realized that it was the nearer tower of a suspension bridge, with thick ropes leading gracefully up to its height. Within a few minutes, he could see the top of the further tower. This was a bridge that would look fairly big, even at home in the Earthworld. He felt his eyebrows rise. Although what he’d seen of Sagaria so far had him believing that its technology was linked to the Earthworld’s at some point in history, it was clear that the Sagarians were more advanced than they seemed. He couldn’t imagine, for example, how they’d managed to erect these towers, each of which was comprised of two colossally thick, colossally tall tree trunks, which were pared of branches and bark, then strapped together with a network of ropes. How had the people of Mattani managed to raise such enormous weights upright? He thought of asking Perima, but one sideways glance at her scowling face convinced him that this might be unwise.
The bridge grew steadily more impressive the nearer they got to it. By the time they were out in the open, there wasn’t room left in Sagandran’s mind for questions about architecture. He hardly even noticed the swollen, rushing Makarai River, which might otherwise have filled him with awe. Like the towers, the span of the bridge was wooden (it was made of planks fitted together end-to-end and reinforced with an underlying layer set crosswise), but the carpentry was so exact that it was hard to see that it hadn’t been shaped from a single huge slab of wood.
The road out of the forest approached the bridge in a steady curve. Following Sir Tombin’s lead, they cut diagonally across through furzy grass to reach it
more directly. On the riverbank near the entrance to the bridge, there was a big wooden sign with pokerwork words burnt into it:
“That doesn’t seem very friendly,” Sagandran remarked. “Not very polite, anyway.”
“Believe me,” responded Perima sulkily, “this is just the start of it.”