The Magic Lands (35 page)

With sudden fury, Jagaren
snarled. "Give me the boy!"

But Mo only chuckled at this,
coming to stand beside Jack. There were no more than twenty paces
between them, perhaps less for the long legs of Jagaren but it was
far enough.

"When you have taken me, the
boy will be yours," the badger said deliberately and for a single
moment doubt crept into the man’s blue eyes.

Within his mind the
Master commanded him.
Strike a bargain.
Spare the half-one's life. We only need the
child
.

"Send the boy to me and you can
go," he called to Mo, his self-assurance restored.

Mo laughed, a hoarse barking
sound and began to move toward the tall figure, placing himself
between the man and the boy. "Do not be afraid," the animal
taunted, showing his teeth in what passed for a broad smile.

Jagaren faltered, even though
his Master's voice boomed inside his head, demanding that he take
the boy, whatever the cost. "You are a fool," he stated finally,
taking a halting step forward.

Mo's voice was harsh and
menacing. "Teach me then."

Whilst Jack looked on,
immobilised by panic and fear, the towering figure of Jagaren bore
swiftly down upon the low, hunched form of the badger, hatred
contorting his features. "You will die!" he shrieked wildly in a
voice that shook the forest and Jack could only watch as the battle
commenced.

They travelled along a winding
tunnel, its walls formed from some kind of smooth clay. This
section was very different from the place where the shrews had
attacked, its structure appearing to be manmade. But Tom did not
dwell on this for very long. For him, the most striking thing about
this underground passageway was that in small alcoves dug into the
walls at regular intervals, large wooden chests had been placed,
each with a formidable golden handle. Already they had passed nine
or ten of them and Tom was becoming increasingly curious as to
their purpose. Only his anger and frustration with his imposed
companion had stopped him from asking the many questions that
buzzed around inside his head.

"I told you this was an
interesting place," said Elrin Jinn a little ahead of him, the
man's long easy strides taking him along the tunnel at a surprising
pace. "What do you think?"

Tom scowled as he followed
glumly behind. "I don't like it any more than I like you," he said
sourly, but Jinn seemed to find this very amusing and it was quite
some time before his laughter subsided.

"It is fortunate then," he
chuckled at length, "that I find you agreeable, or certainly by now
we would have parted company."

"That would suit me," voiced
Tom. "If you’ll just show me the way out of this place first."

"If only it were so easy,
master, to suit the action to the word. But alas, we have a long
way to go before we can leave The Underland. You must resign
yourself to that."

"What is this Underland
anyway?" Tom asked gruffly, thoroughly fed up with the man's
confusing and unhelpful statements.

"These catacombs go by that
name," Elrin Jinn told him, "you will encounter many different
lands on your journey."

Tom decided he had nothing to
lose by asking a few more questions, so with an effort he tried to
put aside the animosity he felt toward the man. "What are those
caskets for?" He said this in a vaguely interested way that belied
his true feelings of fierce curiosity.

"Ah, the Luck Chests!"
exclaimed Jinn, turning about and walking backwards, his progress
not hampered in any way. "So you have noticed them, have you? Very
observant."

"So why are they here?" asked
Tom sharply, galled by the man's attitude once more.

"No-one knows why," shrugged
Jinn, "but many treasures can be claimed by those who count luck as
their friend."

"What kind of treasures?" Tom
questioned, excited by the thought of what might be within the
wooden boxes.

"Oh, this and that. That and
this. Untold riches if that is what you desire, and other undreamt
of rewards." As the man said this they came upon another niche in
the tunnel where a chest sat invitingly waiting for someone to
claim the treasures it held.

"Just a minute," Tom called,
"why don't we take a look in one?"

Coming to a standstill, Elrin
Jinn watched the boy with interest. "Be my guest."

Tom stood over the chest and
wondered what could possibly be within. Would it be gold coins? Or
jewels? Maybe there would be priceless artefacts or ancient
manuscripts? He grasped the golden handle and pulled the lid upward
and with a creak, the casket revealed its precious contents.

There was only one thing
inside.

Tom stared at it for quite some
time before reaching down to pick it up and he continued to look at
it closely even then, somewhat bewildered. What he now held in his
hand was a catapult, not wrought from gold or silver or encrusted
with diamonds or rubies, just a plain, ordinary catapult made from
wood and elastic.

He glanced at Jinn, but his
companion's expression communicated very little. "You are lucky
indeed," the man remarked after a moment, his tone detached, "most
chests are trapped."

Jack was a helpless spectator
at a duel to the death. He watched as if in a trance as the two
figures came together, the tall Jagaren dwarfing the badger. Then,
amidst the snarling, vicious conflict, something happened that left
him convinced that he was lost within a dream.

Mo changed. Where there had
been a badger but a moment before, now all at once there stood a
man, a curved sword held firmly in his right hand. And when Jack
looked into Jagaren's eyes, he saw the fear that now lived there, a
cloud of confusion enveloping the man’s mind.

Instantly, as if a door had
been opened inside his head, Jack remembered the book he had
browsed through when they had first entered Mr. Blakestone's house.
So long ago it seemed. There had been so many questions he had
wanted to ask, forgotten until now. But then, he had forgotten so
much and his memories still remained incomplete, yet now, as he
concentrated hard upon the image of the book, slowly his mind
recalled what he had seen.

There had been a list of names.
But only two had really interested him. The Badger and The Wolf.
And both had been indexed under the same reference heading. In bold
black lettering it had read: see Shape-changers.

At the time it had puzzled him
deeply and he had intended to ask Mo about it when he saw the
badger again. But after that he could only remember obscure details
and unrelated incidents that made very little sense to him.

Now though, in the present,
Jack had been witness to the miraculous transformation of his
friend and at last he understood, although still he wondered if
anything in these lands was ever what it appeared to be? He
certainly doubted it, now more than ever.

Jagaren circled his enemy
apparently reassessing his opponent, searching for any potential
weakness in this new manifestation, but Mo matched his movements,
always keeping himself between the other man and the boy.

With a hiss of frustration,
Jagaren feinted one way, then another, trying to force an opening,
but the promise of steel kept him back, his adversary unaffected,
grey eyes intent and assured.

"Tricks won't save you,
half-one," Jagaren jeered, his voice rising.

The warrior merely smiled at
this. "Only you and your kind have need of tricks," he said in a
voice that Jack immediately recognised as Mo's, and even though it
was very disconcerting to hear it come from a stranger's lips, he
still found the familiar sound reassuring.

"Oh yes," mocked Jagaren,
drawing closer, now just a few paces from the point of the sword.
"You call your trickery magic. And you think this makes you a match
for the Master?" With this, he snarled and lunged forward, but
without any real purpose or attempt to reach his foe. He fell back
once more, face twisted with rage and loathing.

Mo nodded thoughtfully and then
smiled. "But," he answered, raising his gleaming blade, "for now at
least, I need only be a match for you."

Screaming wildly, Jagaren
sprang at the other man in earnest, his powerful legs propelling
him forward at an alarming rate, long arms outstretched, eager
hands reaching for his enemies throat.

"Fool," cried Mo as the curved
sword swung in an inexorable arc toward Jagaren’s unprotected
flesh.

"Why didn't you warn me?"
demanded Tom angrily.

Elrin Jinn tilted his head
slightly to one side and gazed solemnly at the boy. "Sometimes, you
cannot help someone even if you might want to," he replied, then,
after a pause, said "hear me, Tom, I have no wish to see you
harmed, but there are limits to what I can do to protect you. You
must not rely on me.”

"I can take care of myself,"
Tom responded quickly, although he wasn't entirely convinced of his
own tough words.

"You should not feel so
dejected," commented Jinn, eyeing the object in the boy's hand.
"Your treasure may be more valuable than you believe."

Tom glanced down at the
catapult and turned it over in his hands. He hadn't touched one
since he was eight years old, when one of his friends had smuggled
the strange device into school. A group of inquisitive boys had
congregated at the far end of the playing field in a secret company
of potential marksmen. He recalled how the feel of the catapult in
his hands had sent a rush of anticipation through him and how he
had rolled a shiny pebble around in his palm, perfect ammunition
for the weapon. Each of the group had fired a shot into the trees
that stood beyond the boundary of the school field, and Tom
remembered very well how he had looked up into those tall trees and
peered into the leaves and branches to notice a tiny robin snugly
resting there.

As he had taken aim, he had
thought how impossible it would be to hit such a small target, how
he doubted that the stone would even reach the tree at all, and
then he had let his projectile fly, the whoosh it made as it
hurtled through the air startling them all into silence. None of
the others had managed to send their stones so far or so high and
all stared in awe at Tom, the new hero of their gang.

But upon Tom's face there had
been no expression of joy or satisfaction, no pride at his
achievement. No. Mirrored there had been the horror and disbelief
that the defenceless robin must have experienced as it was struck
down by his missile of death, as its life was snuffed out.

As his friends had gathered
around him, their excited chatter only distantly heard, all Tom
could feel was a terrible burden that seemed to lay across his
chest like some heavy weight, crushing him, suffocating him, the
pressure almost unendurable. Tears had filled his young eyes and he
had made hasty excuses to escape his schoolmates, running to hide
himself away in the toilets and remaining there until the bell
rang, alone with his guilt.

Why did I do such a stupid
thing? Why?

There had rarely been a month
pass by since that day when the murder of the robin did not surface
in his mind. Sometimes he had lain awake at night, unable to find
the refuge of sleep, replaying the incident over and over again in
his head.

Was it only a coincidence that
he should have found the instrument of his crime in the chest, or
was there some cryptic purpose behind it? He felt certain that it
was yet another part of the ordeal he was determined to endure, yet
another wound in his heart.

He stuffed the catapult roughly
into his trouser pocket and as he did so, he felt the

parchment against his ribs, all
but forgotten.

Two pieces in a jigsaw. But
when the picture was complete, what would be revealed?

Jagaren would not die.

As Jack watched with horror,
but also with a grim fascination, Mo’s blade had found its target
time after time, the honed edge slicing viciously into the man's
dark skin. But still Jagaren came, despite his awful wounds and
each time he was met by steel.

"You cannot kill me," he
shrieked, his pain immense, but the sword ripped into his flesh
once more, bathing his body in blood. "I am immortal!"

With yet another merciless blow
from the curved blade, this time cutting downward, the man’s
forearm was almost severed, leaving it to dangle precariously, a
few stubborn sinews reluctant to let it fall. His screams were
terrible to hear but even now he still rushed at his enemy, the
useless arm hanging awkwardly at his side, his strength seemingly
undiminished.

"You do not fight fairly,"
Jagaren sulked in a childlike voice, spitting blood from his mouth.
"I am weaponless and yet you cut me down." Turning then toward
Jack, he addressed his words to the boy. "Is it honourable? I have
no way to defend myself." He attempted to spread out his hands in a
gesture of helplessness, but his damaged arm would not respond. A
look of dismay crossed his dark face, yet he held Jack's gaze.
"Tell him to stop this butchery. Is this justice?"

Jack was stricken with an
appalling feeling of despair and revulsion at what was taking
place. All that the man said was true, it could not be denied. Mo
was slowly murdering him, cut by deadly cut, and the other man had
no way to protect himself.

Even as the boy's mouth opened
to cry out, to demand that this outrage be stopped, he saw the
sword sweep through the air again, so fast it was almost a blur and
rush toward Jagaren's exposed neck. Jack's words of mercy crumbled,
leaving a pungent taste in his mouth, and a heartbeat later, with a
sound like that of a howling wind Jagaren was decapitated, his head
sailing through the air and striking the ground many yards from
where his body collapsed.