Shana was tall but this thing stood a head taller than her. For the first time she had to look up to meet a disturbing stare.
‘And who are you?’ she eventually said, ‘Zarka again I suppose.’
‘No,’ came the languid reply, ‘I am Akraz, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Shana said, ‘And what meaningless tests do you have for me this time?’
‘Our tests are not meaningless. They are designed to see whether or not you possess the physical and mental qualities necessary to become a warrior. At present the results are inconclusive.’
‘A warrior. That implies an army, I believe.’ (Shana had no idea how she knew all this but know it she did.) ‘And in whose army would I be a warrior?’
‘Why the Lord Korok’s of course. Who else has the power to command an army?’
Korok. A flat, ugly word. It had no music, no gentleness. It was a word that would not be spoken in the Land below.
‘And who is Lord Korok?’
‘My master. Your master. He is everyone’s master.’
‘I understand,’ Shana continued, not understanding at all, ‘And now Akraz, or whatever you are, given your lust for violence I suppose we fight. With those swords you love so much perhaps?’
‘No, those tests are complete and you will never pollute my treasures with your touch again. You have shown some physical ability, surprising in one so flimsily constructed. You have also shown a certain degree of reasoning power, although the tests are, as you yourself said, elementary.
‘There is one final mental test for you. On the result of this will be decided if you are fit to be a warrior of the great lord. And therefore, of the greater lord whom he serves.’
‘But of course,’ Shana said, ‘what more could I possibly expect or want?’
Irony was clearly lost on Akraz and it turned and pointed to the boxes.
‘I have put a precious object in one of these boxes; now read the inscriptions.’
Shana obeyed, once again not knowing how it was possible for her to do so.
The first white box had on its lid the somewhat disturbing words: “This box does not contain the fatal scimitar.”
The second had the message: “Exactly one of these two statements is true.”
Shana stood over them, wracked with indecision. This was a different type of problem; she could see that. It all depended on the interpretation she gave to the inscription on the red box. Rapidly she considered the case where that statement was true and the implication of that, and then the opposite and the implication of that.
Eventually it was clear to her.
She pointed to the white box. ‘There.’
‘Open it.’
She opened it.
It was empty.
Akraz came up behind her. ‘You have failed to understand the concept of self-reference and that these statements lead to a contradiction given that the scimitar was in the red box. Therefore, you have failed the entire set of tests. You are not a warrior.’
Shana stood motionless. What had gone wrong? She had been certain of her powers of reasoning. She slumped, feeling the tone drain from her muscles, feeling her drive to fight on evaporate.
‘What now?’ she muttered thickly, already knowing the answer.
‘The Lord Korok has no use for those who are not warriors. If you are not a warrior then you must be a Degenerate.’
Shana turned around to stare up at this fiendish entity. ‘And what happens to Degenerates?’
‘Eventually they are killed. We will move immediately to that outcome.’
Akraz opened the red box and took something out. It was made of metal, long curved metal.
It gleamed obscenely in the sulphurous light.
‘The fatal scimitar,’ Akraz commented dispassionately, ‘its purpose is obvious.’
Shana backed away from the terrible thing. This was the apotheosis; the supreme moment. In the next few seconds hung her continued existence; her life; her death.
What could be done? Akraz stood motionless before her. In the next few seconds it would lift the fatal scimitar and bring it down upon her. It could not be directly attacked – it was too big for that and the scimitar would slash through her as she tried to leap upon its wielder.
But a surge of furious, magmatic anger swept through her arteries. No! She would not die today in this foul place at the hands of this foul thing!
In the depths of her mind she saw the one course of action she could take and instantly she took it.
She flung herself on the floor, rolling like a wounded animal, crying, begging, pleading: ‘No don’t do it! Please don’t kill me!’
Akraz grunted. ‘The way of the Degenerate.’ It did not move and there seemed to be a flicker of animation in its otherwise toneless voice. It lowered the scimitar so its view of the writhing supplicant was unobstructed. The wicked point of the weapon drew a fine white line on the unyielding stone of the floor. ‘This is the meaning of your disgusting lives – to prepare for this consummation.’
Shana continued to grovel and squirm on the floor. Over she rolled, occasionally looking at her executioner with her one good eye, all the time getting imperceptibly closer to her goal.
Then Akraz saw the danger. It stiffened, raised the scimitar and lunged forward.
Too late. With one lightning leap Shana stood upright, turned, picked up the nearest sword, whirled back with the weapon in her hands. Two-handed she wielded it and in a blur of savage steel, the sword followed a dreadful arc, driven by all the strength the woman owned. That arc of death reached Akraz’s neck and, unimpeded, continued its path. The creature’s head left its body and bounced once on the floor. There was no blood.
Shana crashed back against the shelf which now only held two swords. She began to tremble violently and broke out into great, gasping sobs as if rising from near-drowning.
It was over. It was over.
And then she felt something on her ankle. Looking down she saw that the headless trunk had dragged itself across the floor and a hand was touching her leg, trying to grasp it. Beyond, Akraz’s head had stopped its rolling so that the face was looking directly at her. One of the eyes blinked.
She pulled herself away from the questing fingers and instinctively she raised the terrible sword and thrust it down on the thing’s torso where the heart should have been. It passed straight through and recoiled slightly as it hit the floor.
The body shuddered and then was still. The eyes on the head closed. And then slowly, slowly both ghastly things began to change. They softened, blurred, ran together as both head and body gently subsided into separate pools of glutinous slime. The slime bubbled slightly and then, abruptly, became solid and opaque.
All was still.
Shana stepped around the now motionless pools, careful not to get too near to them.
She stood at the opposite end of the room from where she had entered, occasionally casting nervous glances over her shoulder.
Nothing. No door. She was trapped with the obscene remnants of her captor. A lingering death awaited.
And then before her astounded eyes the faint outline of a door began to appear in the solid stone. It grew more clearly delimited until it was obviously a real door. And then it opened.
She gazed at the ineffable marvel of the sky; the lovely, beautiful sky framed in the doorway. But why had the door appeared and opened? Was there some higher power that had been watching both her and Akraz?