Gamers' Quest

by George Ivanoff

  After a few seconds, Tark realised that he was not being roasted alive. He warily raised his head. His eyes widened with surprise.

  ‘Woulds ya get off a me,’ gurgled Zyra through a mouthful of sludge.

  Tark rolled off and sat up.

  Zyra got to her feet, wiping green slime from her beloved coat, ready to yell at Tark. But then she looked around.

  They were in a cavernous space, a juncture where a dozen tunnels met. And they were surrounded by rats, thousands of them. The rodents were glaring at them and gnashing their pointy little teeth. Some were even foaming at the mouth as they scuttled about in a frenzy.

  ‘Why is they hangin’ back like that?’ wondered Zyra.

  Tark shrugged.

  Then some of the rats started to walk forward. They didn't run or scurry or make any type of rat-like movement. They walked, on their hind legs – slowly, determinedly and with purpose. There were thirteen in total, and they were big. They stopped in front of Tark and Zyra and arranged themselves like a team of acrobats on each other's shoulders. Three along the bottom, then another three on top, then three rows of two, and the final one perched on top.

  Tark scrambled to his feet and stood beside Zyra, eye-level with the top rat.

  The rat smiled at them.

  ‘Welcome,’ it said in the mysterious squeaky voice that had been following them through the tunnels.

  ‘I tolds ya it wuz a rat,’ said Tark.

  The talking rat's eyes glowed brighter and brighter. The acrobatic rats seemed to melt into one another, until there was only one rat – a very large rat; an almost human-looking rat.

  ‘I am the rat-mage of the sewers,’ it said. ‘And I am here to tempt you away from Designers Paradise.’ And then it spat a large glob of green phlegm.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Zyra. ‘That's real temptin’.’

  The rat-mage smiled. ‘Things are not always as they appear.’ It waved a paw, and suddenly Tark and Zyra were standing in a field of poppies, the blood-red flowers wafting in a gentle breeze.

  As Zyra reached out for a flower, the scene dissolved into a no-man's-land of mud, razor wire and dead bodies. Rats gnawed on the corpses. Rats flooded out from the trenches, engulfing the landscape. And then Tark and Zyra were in the sewer again, facing the rat-mage.

  ‘The tunnels are my domain,’ said the rat-mage. ‘In the world above, I am vermin. But here below, I am master. I can give you anything your hearts desire. So long as you stay within the boundaries of my domain.’

  The rat-mage waved a paw, and silver platters laden with food, were brought before them on the backs of scurrying rats. Fruit, cakes, puddings, even ice-cream.

  Tark's eyes widened.

  ‘Wot's this all abouts,’ demanded Zyra, barely even looking at the food. ‘Who in the name of the Designers are ya?’

  ‘I am the discarded child of the Designers,’ said the rat-mage, voice harsh with hatred, eyes blazing. It spat another glob of phlegm at the very thought of the Designers. ‘A mistake. A failed experiment. Banished down here, away from those who quest for Paradise.’ It drew a long, deep breath and calmed itself. ‘But down here, I am in control, away from the prying eyes of the Designers.’ It spat again. ‘Down here you may do as you will. Without them knowing. Without repercussion. The only rules that matter down here are mine.’

  ‘But the Designers see all,’ said Tark, as if reciting a well-known passage from a much-read book.

  ‘Not down here,’ assured the rat-mage. ‘And I know what it is that you want. Your heart's most intimate desire.’

  The rat-mage waved a paw, and the sea of rats parted to reveal a bed. A luxurious, four-poster bed with sheets of silk, posts of carved mahogany and drapes of the finest embroidered fabric trimmed in gold.

  ‘Oh yes,’ intoned the rat-mage, its irritatingly squeaky voice becoming silky and smooth and seductive. ‘I know about the rules. Those unfair rules that prevent people of your station from acting on your feelings.’

  The fingertips of Tark's hand brushed Zyra's.

  ‘Oh yes. Those with higher station may do as they will. May even pay for the likes of you, if they so desire. But you may not.’

  Tark and Zyra gazed at each other. Their surroundings melted away. The rats were gone. The sludge and the tunnels were gone. Only the bed and the food remained. All else was an indistinct blur. And then there were flowers.

  Zyra picked a flower and held it out to Tark. He smiled. His hand found hers and clasped it tightly. His heart quickened. His eyes closed. He breathed deeply as he leaned towards her. He felt exhilarated. He felt foggy. He felt as if he were about to be lost in a dream.

  The flower Zyra held out brushed against his cheek.

  Tark's eyes snapped open.

  ‘It has no smell,’ he said. ‘The flower.’

  Zyra looked confused.

  ‘The fire,’ he remembered. ‘No heat. It ain't real. It's all fake.’

  He snatched the flower from Zyra's hand and held it up for her to see. It was a brittle, dead twig. He scooped up a handful of ice-cream.

  ‘Smell it,’ he demanded, holding it up under Zyra's nose.

  Zyra took a sniff and gagged at the stench. Tark had a handful of green sludge.

  All around them, the food was revealed as rotting and decayed scraps on discarded pieces of wood. The bed turned into a cage. And then the rats were back.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the rat-mage, its voice an irritating squeak again. ‘You could have stayed here and been oh-so happy. But now you will stay and be oh-so miserable.’

  The rats parted to form a path to the cage.

  ‘In you get,’ said the rat-mage, conjuring up a ball of fire in its outstretched paw.

  Zyra drew her knives and struck a fighting pose.

  ‘I could force you in,’ said the rat-mage.

  ‘No ya can'ts,’ said Tark. Then he added to Zyra: ‘It's illusion. Just like the princelings use, to fools the thievers. None of it's real. He ain't gots no real power. His fire ain't gots no heat.’

  The rats all started squeaking and scurrying about.

  ‘My powers may be that of illusion,’ said the rat-mage. ‘But my rats are very real and they have sharp, sharp teeth, eager to tear flesh from bone.’

  The rats began to slowly advance towards them.

  ‘Give up now,’ said the rat-mage, smiling, ‘and they won't hurt you.’

  Tark drew his sword and skewered the nearest rat. The rat-mage screamed in pain and staggered back. The rats stopped advancing.

  ‘How dare you?’ screeched the rat-mage, recovering from the shock.

  The rats regained their purpose and again started to advance on Tark and Zyra. The two closest leapt at Zyra. She slashed both with her knives.

  Again the rat-mage screamed in pain, this time doubling over, and the swarm of rats lost their sense of purpose.

  ‘They is nuthin’ without him controllin’ ’em,’ shouted Zyra triumphantly.

  Then with a quick nod to each other, Tark and Zyra went on the attack, slashing, stabbing and skewering rodents.

  ‘Stop,’ screamed the rat-mage. ‘You're killing me.’

  ‘That's fine by us,’ said Tark, as he slashed three rats with one downward sweep of his sword.

  ‘Let's get out of ’ere,’ said Zyra.

  Tark nodded. He grabbed the cart and pulled it behind himself as he cut a path through the rats with the sword. Zyra followed, stabbing and slashing as many rats as she could.

  Without the rat-mage's control, the rodents scattered, disoriented, offering little resistance to Tark and Zyra as they hacked and cleaved, rat innards splattering everywhere. The tunnels echoed with the dying squeals of rats, and the green sludge was soon tainted red. The rat-mage collapsed into the sludge, flailing about helplessly.

  ‘Which way?’ asked Tark.

  Zyra indicated a tunnel that was free from rats. With a cacophony of squealing ringing in their ears, she led the way at a jog. Even though they saw no sign of t
he rat-mage or its minions, the thought that they might be in pursuit was enough to speed them on. Although Zyra did insist on a brief stop when they came across a pipe gushing relatively clean water. She washed her face and hands, and did her best to clean the muck off her travelling coat. Tark considered cleaning his boots, but since they were still ankle-deep in sludge, it seemed pointless to him.

  They made good time on the rest of their journey through the sewers, until finally they reached a dead end – a seamless wall of stone.

  Zyra put her hand onto the stone surface. Nothing happened. She nodded to Tark, who placed his hand on the stone as well, one of his fingertips gently touching hers. The stone wall immediately lit up. They pulled back their hands and watched as the wall shimmered and then dissolved to reveal a large metal door. It was twice their height and wide enough for them and their cart to enter side by side. Despite being in a sewage tunnel, it gleamed with untarnished beauty. In its surface they saw all their hopes and dreams as untouchable reflections.

  Zyra dug the keys from her coat. She handed one to Tark, and held on to the other. Then in perfect unison, they held up their keys and chanted.

  ‘Praise be to the Designers.’

  The door swung open.

  12: Confrontations

  Tark and Zyra stepped into a vast, disorienting whiteness. The door slammed shut behind them. There was no discernable floor, ceiling or walls, but it was solid underfoot. The metal door through which they had stepped, and pulled their cart through, was now just one of hundreds that dotted the blank landscape in a vague pattern of expanding circles. The doors were freestanding, with simple frames but no walls supporting them. They seemed pointless. They couldn't possibly lead anywhere. And yet they did. Each door was an entry point into this white limbo. Tark circled the now closed door through which they had entered.

  ‘There!’ Zyra pointed to a pedestal in the distance. It protruded from the nonexistent floor in the centre of all the doors.

  They walked between the doors, leaving a trail of green sludge behind them.

  ‘We mades it,’ Tark said, as they approached the metal plinth.

  ‘Not quite,’ said a familiar voice.

  Tark and Zyra looked up to see Princeling Galbrath step out from behind a nearby door, where he had been waiting.

  ‘I believe you have something belonging to me,’ he announced. ‘I shall have it back. And I shall have your money as well, as compensation for all my troubles.’

  ‘Who's the annoyin’ squirt?’ asked Zyra.

  ‘The princeling I tooks the sword o’ light from,’ answered Tark.

  ‘Sods off,’ called Zyra to the princeling. ‘Or I'll breaks ya face.’

  ‘Oh, I think not,’ said the princeling, smiling broadly. ‘May I introduce to you my new mage, Skurgebroth the Undefeated.’

  A purple-robed figure stepped from behind the door on the opposite side to the princeling. He had flowing locks of curly gold; a long, disproportioned face with a squat nose and copious pimples; round, wire-rimmed spectacles; a wand of entwined gold, silver and bronze, ending in a flurry of platinum filigree; and he looked all of about thirteen years old.

  ‘Lets me guess,’ said Zyra. ‘He's undefeated ’cause he's too young to have beens challenged yet?’

  ‘Lay down your arms and surrender,’ said the pimply-faced mage in a cracked voice, as he raised his wand. ‘Or I'll turn the both of you into toads.’

  ‘I didn't thinks mages used wands,’ said Zyra conversationally to Tark.

  ‘No,’ agreed Tark. ‘Wands is used by apprentices who don'ts has enough of their own powers.’

  ‘So it's kinda like trainin’ wheels, really,’ said Zyra.

  Tark nodded.

  ‘Stop it!’ whined the young mage, the end of his wand sizzling with power as he raised it above his head.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ demanded Princeling Galbrath. ‘Toad them!’

  Skurgebroth threw his hand forward, pointing the wand at Tark. Sparks shot from the end, elegantly flew through the air for several metres, and then dropped to the ground and fizzled out of existence.

  ‘Real impressive,’ Zyra said.

  ‘Crap!’ said the princeling.

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Skurgebroth, holding up his hands. ‘I've done this before. I can do it. I know I can.’

  He raised the wand again, concentration contorting his face.

  ‘Betta be safe than sorry,’ said Tark, drawing the lightless sword o’ light, and holding it over his shoulder like a club.

  Skurgebroth flicked his wand. Sparks shot from the end, this time heading for Tark with greater force. Still, by the time they reached him they were slowing. Tark swung his sword like a bat, easily hitting the ball of sparks, which streaked straight back to the mage with far greater speed than they had left him.

  Skurgebroth tried to duck, but alas he was too slow. With a yelp and a puff of purple smoke, he demonstrated the validity of his spell by turning into a toad.

  ‘Crap!’ said Princeling Galbrath.

  ‘Croak!’ said the mage as he hopped out from the pile of robes and over to the princeling, jumping up into his hands.

  ‘You have not heard the last of me,’ said Princeling Galbrath, holding up the toad and shaking it at Zyra and Tark. The toad's eyes bulged. ‘I shall return!’

  And with that, he turned tail and ran.

  ‘Star?’ asked Tark.

  ‘It'd be a waste,’ answered Zyra, as the princeling ducked out of sight behind a door.

  Tark nodded.

  ‘Well, that wuz entertainin’, but,’ said Zyra, ‘backs to the matta at hand.’ She approached the pedestal and reached out a hand.

  ‘I'd waits if I was you,’ said a voice from an opening door.

  A figure stepped into the whiteness, slowly cracking the knuckles of his right hand.

  ‘Nots again.’ Zyra sighed theatrically. ‘I thought we gots rid of ya.’

  ‘Don'ts ya eva learns?’ said Tark.

  ‘Oh, I learns plenty.’ The Cracker chuckled.

  Straining to see, Zyra thought she caught a glimpse of red drapes, wood-panelled elegance and glass display cabinets, before the door slammed shut behind him.

  ‘Seems ya gots more learnin’ to do, yet,’ said Tark in his best menacing voice.

  Zyra's hands moved like lightning, producing and throwing three stars in quick succession. With equal speed, the Cracker raised his right arm. The stars froze in mid-air, a centimetre from the back of his hand.

  With his other hand, the Cracker pointed to a watch-like device strapped to his wrist.

  ‘Magnetic field.’

  With a flick of his wrist, the stars were flung aside.

  ‘Toys,’ Zyra said.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Tark, stamping his feet and looking down at his boots. They still had splatters of green sludge on them. ‘I coulds just kick the crap outa ’im.’

  The Cracker's eyes fell on Tark.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said slowly, tongue darting across his lips. ‘Aren't we the pretty-pretty boy.’

  ‘Wot?’ said Tark, glancing at Zyra, who rolled her eyes upwards.

  ‘You must be Zyra's pretty-pretty boy,’ continued the Cracker, eyes examining Tark from top to toe. ‘My, my, my. A thief for hire. The thoughts of potential coinage verily doth gives me the dizzies.’

  ‘Wot?’ snapped Tark, louder now, glaring at the Cracker. ‘Wot's ya on about?’

  ‘You, my pretty-pretty,’ explained the Cracker. ‘There is peoples who'd pay handsomely for a thiever the likes of you.’ He then shifted his attention to Zyra. ‘Of course, the two of you. Together. Now that's would be some serious coinage.’ He stroked the back of his hand across his burnt cheek. ‘Says the word, and I woulds be willing to forgets past grudges.’

  The muscles in Tark's face twitched. ‘We works for no one!’

  ‘Sods off!’ snarled Zyra.

  ‘Haves it your way.’ The Cracker shrugged and reached int
o his coat. He pulled out a glove made of shiny black fabric, inlaid with silvery wires. It crackled and sparked with energy as the Cracker pulled it onto his right hand.

  ‘Nots more toys,’ grumbled Zyra. ‘Where, in the name of the Designers, does ya gets ’em all.’

  ‘Froms me employer, o’ course,’ said the Cracker. ‘And he wants you out of the way.’

  ‘Ya has an employer?’ asked Zyra.

  ‘’Course I does,’ said the Cracker flexing his gloved hand. ‘I freelance as well. But alls the big jobs is for the Fat Man.’

  Zyra's eyes narrowed. ‘Ya works for that tub o’ lard?’ she spat.

  ‘Now, now, now, my pretty-pretty,’ said the Cracker. ‘Name callings will gets you nowhere.’

  ‘I can help you,’ called a voice from the whiteness.

  Princeling Galbrath dashed out from behind a door.

  ‘Why woulds ya wanna ’elp us?’ asked Tark, surprised.

  ‘I have no intention of helping you,’ snarled the princeling. ‘I meant that I could help this fine gentleman, who is in the employ of my potential benefactor.’

  ‘Wot?’ asked Tark and Zyra together.

  The Cracker also raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘The sword o’ light,’ explained the princeling. ‘The Fat Man is my buyer. I was on my way to sell it to him when you,’ he pointed an accusing finger at Tark, ‘stole it.’

  ‘Shoulds ’ave used a star when ya hads the chance,’ said Tark to Zyra.

  ‘I believes I have the matter in hand,’ said the Cracker to the princeling, lifting his gloved hand and cracking his fingers, one by one.

  Tark drew the sword o’ light. ‘It mays have lost its shine,’ he said, threateningly. ‘But it's still a sword. And I knows how to use it.’

  The Cracker suddenly clenched his fist and thrust it forward. A bolt of white-hot energy discharged from the glove and blasted the sword from Tark's hand. Tark yelped and clutched his hand, which tingled and stung as if it had just been set upon by a swarm of bees.