Erebos

by Ursula Poznanski

  The attack comes so suddenly that it’s all over by the time Sarius gets scared. Two men have jumped on him from behind and are holding him down on the ground. One pushes his knee into Sarius’s back, bends his arms back and ties them up. The other one holds a dagger under his chin with dried blood and hair stuck to it.

  Sarius can’t defend himself. He tries, but only manages to thrash about. He can’t stop the bigger of the two men from picking him up and throwing him over his shoulder like a sack. So this is it, then. Sarius, dark elf and knight, is caught by surprise while picking berries and kidnapped. If he’s unlucky, the man with the dagger will do him in. Then the adventure will be over. Sod it, sod it, sod it! It’s typical. He’s probably the only one who’s stupid enough to have been caught by surprise like that.

  They march through the forest and the man who’s carrying Sarius keeps adjusting his load on his shoulder. Presumably he doesn’t want to inadvertently lose him. But then he does after all. At the edge of an embankment he stops dead, throws him off and despatches him down the slope with a kick.

  Sarius goes head over heels twice before he comes to rest on level ground.

  There are three figures waiting for him down here who bear a strong resemblance to his kidnappers: torn clothing, skin covered in dirt, scars. One is missing an eye, another has a hunchback. Only their weapons look well cared for.

  ‘Where did you find this one?’ the hunchback calls.

  ‘Crawling round on the ground near the tower. Caught him easier than a little dove.’

  The hunchback takes Sarius by the collar and sits him upright against a tree trunk.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be any use as a robber? Should we keep him?’

  The one-eyed character cocks his head to one side as if he could examine Sarius better that way.

  ‘No,’ he declares. ‘This one’s not suitable. He doesn’t fit in, you can tell by his clothing. He’s one of those who are moving against Ortolan.’

  ‘Then we’ll slit his throat!’ the hunchback says enthusiastically.

  Sarius would like to say something in reply – for example, that he doesn’t know anyone called Ortolan and would gladly join a robber band any time, if it means he’s allowed to live. But he can’t. Before, with the gnome, he could speak, but now he’s mute. Things are happening around him as if he’s in a movie.

  The third man, whose face is hidden in the shadow of a big hat, hasn’t said anything yet. Now he takes a step closer.

  ‘No. We won’t kill him. This one isn’t like the others.’

  He bends down and reaches into Sarius’s pockets.

  ‘Take a look. No poisons, no ransom letters. No gold. We can let this one go.’

  ‘Just like that?’ The hunchback is disappointed. ‘Where’s the sense in that? It’s no fun!’

  The man with the broad-brimmed hat silences him with a gesture.

  ‘I hope someone like him will win in the end. The thing is though, Sarius, I’m afraid it’s mostly the little ones who lose. Like you. But I’m not going to lay a hand on any of them.’

  He chases off the hunchback, who’s trying to get at the contents of Sarius’s pockets.

  ‘I’ll give you a piece of advice instead. Do you know what would be best for you?’

  No, Sarius would like to say, if he could. But his opposite number isn’t expecting an answer anyway. He grabs Sarius by the arms and unties him.

  ‘You should leave Erebos. Go, and never come back. Pretend you’ve never been here. Forget this world. Will you do that?’

  Of course not, Sarius thinks. He tries to make out a face under the man’s hat brim, but he can’t even see eyes.

  ‘If you want to leave Erebos, then run away. Run back to the tower. Now.’

  Is this a chance to escape, or a trap? Will Erebos lock him out if he takes the opportunity to escape from his kidnappers? He stands there undecided. The robber takes that for an answer.

  ‘I thought as much,’ he sighs. ‘Then listen to me carefully. No-one here is your friend. Even if it looks that way to you. No-one will help you, because everyone wants to get into the Inner Circle and only very few make it.’

  Sarius doesn’t understand a word. What Inner Circle?

  ‘At the end only a few will be left – those who have been chosen for the battle against Ortolan. Killing the monster, finding the treasure – it’s not something everyone is cut out for.’

  It’s hard to tell whether the robber is joking or not, and Sarius can’t inquire.

  ‘Don’t divulge any of what I’m telling you to the others. Don’t rob yourself of your advantage – it’s small enough. See to it that you find wish crystals. They will make your life easier. Your life, do you understand?’

  ‘Don’t tell him anything about wish crystals,’ the hunchback interjects.

  ‘Why not? He will need them. You know what, Sarius? Wish crystals are one of the biggest secrets of Erebos. They serve you. They make the impossible possible. They make your dreams come true.’

  ‘If the messenger finds out all the stuff you’ve been whispering in the lad’s ear, he’ll make you shorter by a head,’ the hunchback snarls.

  ‘He’ll do that in any case, if he gets his hands on me.’

  The man with the big hat – he’s the leader, he must be the leader, Sarius thinks – turns his back on him and walks away slowly through the undergrowth. The others follow; the one-eyed character hurriedly spits in Sarius’s face before he goes. Apart from that no-one’s harmed a hair on his head. But then no-one’s let on to him what he’s supposed to do now, either.

  So he climbs back up the embankment and tries to get his bearings. The tower would have to be to the left, and he doesn’t want to go back there. He looks around him, searching for a reference point. And suddenly he hears a faint clanking sound coming from where the forest is darkest.

  Sarius follows the sound, which is becoming clearer with every step. Iron striking iron, and wood, and stone. Mixed with a dull roar and something like cries of pain. A battle. He keeps following the noise with a hot feeling inside that could be curiosity or fear, or both, until he’s faced with an obstacle. He slows his pace and stares nonplussed at a black wall that runs right across the countryside and towers high above the trees. The black shines like tar.

  Climbing over the wall is out of the question – he needs to find a way through. Or the far end of this giant obstacle. He turns to the left; the battle sounds are coming from that direction. He runs till his stamina is used up. No gateway. Enraged, he strikes at the wall with his sword. Black splinters off. Underneath two letters become visible: er.

  Convinced that a message is hidden under the shiny coating, he keeps working away at the wall with his sword, hoping he won’t break it in the process. But it works. The sword holds up, and a few minutes later Sarius has exposed a whole sentence. An ambiguous sentence: Enter the net. He laughs.

  I’m a good catch, he thinks, and opens a connection to the internet.

  At that moment a part of the wall collapses, revealing a battle scene. Two barbarians, a cat woman, a werewolf, several dwarfs, three vampires and two dark elves are doing battle with four incredibly ugly trolls. One of them already has three arrows sticking out of his throat. They must be from the cat woman – she’s the only one with a bow. Another troll swings a lump of rock, and hurls it at the werewolf, who takes a giant leap to safety. Two of the dwarves are working with their axes on the third troll’s legs, aided by the larger of the two barbarians, who is flailing the troll’s back with his cudgel.

  A bluish oval floats above them all. It sparkles like a giant polished sapphire, turning slowly on its own axis. Is it a wish crystal? But it would be too big to take with him. The others – the fighters – are completely ignoring the thing. Anyway they’re far too busy. Sarius feels for the sword at his belt. It suddenly appears so harmless and small. He should probably hurl himself into the fray, but he doesn’t dare. One of the dwarves has blood dripping down under his helmet
, running into his beard and pooling there. And yet the dwarf is fighting like a madman.

  Sarius takes a deep breath. No injury he suffers here can cause him real pain, no matter how genuine it looks. He takes a step forward, and then immediately reverses it to work out his tactics. The fourth troll is free. He has a vampire woman cornered; she’s trying to keep him and his morning star at bay with her long narrow blade. He hasn’t noticed Sarius yet.

  So, the troll it will be. Sarius quickly takes his shield off his back, raises his weapon and throws himself into the battle. He briefly feels embarrassed that he actually has to summon up the courage to do it.

  His sword bounces off the troll’s skin as it did off the wall, only this time it doesn’t make the slightest impact. The troll bellows derisively. He grabs the vampire with one hand and flings her into the air. She flails her arms, loses her sword and hits the ground with an ugly sound. The red sash she’s wearing around her waist goes dark grey – only a tiny bit of flashing red remains. The life meter, Sarius realises. It’s only now that he notices that all those fighting have something red on their outfits – mostly a chest harness or a belt like his own.

  The vampire must be aware of the danger she’s in. She crawls into the bushes. Her left leg is twisted out, and she’s dragging it behind her like a dead weight.

  The troll has lost interest in her; he turns and measures Sarius with dull eyes. Stringy saliva is hanging from his jaws. Sarius shrinks back instinctively. He hasn’t forgotten ‘You have only one chance to play Erebos.’ It can’t be over so soon, no way.

  The troll is plodding towards him – Sarius circles him lightning fast. He has to hit a sensitive spot, and quickly. He aims for the tendons on the lizard-like legs, and strikes.

  The troll bellows again, but this time in pain. Dark red blood, thick as syrup, wells up out of a wound. Stunned, Sarius stares at the broad trickle and notices too late that his opponent’s morningstar is spinning above him. He sees it whistling down and instinctively dives to the side.

  The spiky ball scrapes his shoulder. An ear-splitting squeal rings out, stabbing his brain like a red-hot poker.

  He falls. The troll is looming above him, looking down at him with stone-grey eyes, raising his weapon again. Then Sarius thinks he hears the sound of thunder through the painful buzzing. The troll staggers, revealing the larger of the two barbarians, who has appeared from nowhere and is trying to smash the troll’s backbone with his cudgel.

  The blow hits home, and Sarius’s monstrous opponent rears up. Another blow, and the troll sinks to his knees. He isn’t bellowing any more, just moaning. One last blow to the back of his neck, and he lies still.

  Sarius wants to sit up, but with every attempt the horrible tone grows louder. It’s better if he moves slowly. His belt is still about one-quarter red. Will it recover if he stays still? He lies flat on the grass. What he’s seen is enough to reassure him for now. The battle is almost over. Two trolls are already lying on the ground, defeated. A third has fled. The fourth is still upright, but the two barbarians are laying into him, and now everyone who can still walk is joining in the bloodbath. The troll stands no chance against these numbers. He sways, lashes out around him again and falls towards the ground, a dwarf axe buried deep between his shoulder blades. ‘Victory,’ breathes a disembodied voice.

  The next moment the messenger with yellow eyes appears at the forest’s edge and reins in his horse.

  ‘You have conquered the oval,’ he says, and touches the shimmering disc with his bony fingers. ‘You shall be rewarded. BloodWork!’

  BloodWork? Sarius doesn’t understand, until the large barbarian steps forward and bows before the messenger.

  ‘You made the most valuable contribution in the battle. Your reward is a helmet with a strength of twenty-seven. It will protect you against poison, lightning strikes and fever spells.’

  The messenger hands BloodWork a golden helmet with rams’ horns.

  The barbarian hurriedly takes his simple steel cap off his head, and pulls on the gleaming head armour, which makes him look even bigger.

  ‘Keskorian,’ the messenger continues, and the somewhat shorter barbarian steps forward.

  ‘You gave of your best, but you hesitate too often. Nevertheless you have earned your reward. Take BloodWork’s old helmet – it is better than yours.’

  Keskorian does what is asked of him.

  ‘Sarius!’ the messenger calls.

  Already? That astonishes him. After all, he only got involved in the action late, and didn’t exactly cover himself in glory. It’s an incredible effort to get to his feet. Every movement makes the excruciating tone grow louder. His shoulder is bleeding again, and he sees that more of his belt is turning black.

  ‘It was your first battle, and you showed courage instead of contenting yourself with the role of observer. I value courage. Therefore you will receive what you need the most: healing. Take this potion. It will restore your health and increase your resistance. To your health, friend.’

  Sarius sees the glowing sunshine-yellow bottle floating before him. He reaches for it, opens it and drinks.

  The traces of blood on his shoulder dissolve into nothing; his belt gleams with fresh new red. And what a relief: the buzzing high-frequency tone that started when he was injured disappears. It is replaced by the music that he heard in the tower. The melody promises everything. Everything he has ever wanted.

  ‘Sapujapu, you held out until the end for the first time. For you I have a new axe.’

  The dwarf steps forward, takes the axe and quickly withdraws again. There’s a pause. The messenger eyes them, one after the other, as if he has to think about it.

  ‘Golor!’ he calls up a vampire, and rewards him with twenty-five minutes of invisibility, and the second vampire – LaCor – with fifty gold coins.

  Nurax, the werewolf, receives praise and a breastplate; the cat woman, Samira, receives a twice-hardened sword. The messenger dispenses gifts, small and large, to all: a shield with rune spells to the second dwarf; a poison dagger to Vulcanos, the dark elf. Another dark elf and the wounded vampire lying in the grass next to Sarius are the only ones remaining.

  ‘Lelant, you stayed on the sidelines. You were cowardly, and only struck three ineffectual blows with your sword. You will receive no reward. I am considering depriving you of a level.’ Lelant, the dark elf with the black hair, is standing on the edge of the clearing, half concealed by the trees among which he took refuge during the battle.

  Sarius feels a curious satisfaction. He wasn’t especially good, he knows that, but someone else was worse than he was.

  ‘I caution you, Lelant. Fear does not pay. In the next battle I will expect your resolution, your strength, your whole heart.’

  Last of all, the messenger turns to the vampire woman. ‘Jaquina. You are as good as dead. If I leave you here, you will die in a few moments. If that is what you want, lie down to die. If not, follow me.’ The vampire struggles to her knees. The blood flowing from her wounds is black. She crawls towards the messenger. As soon as she’s near enough, he lifts her onto the horse.

  ‘You have permission to light a fire,’ he says, pulls his mount around hard and gallops away into the darkness.

  Sapujapu is the quickest. All it takes is three pieces of wood and a red spark that shoots from his fingers, and a campfire is already blazing in the middle of the clearing. Everyone immediately gathers round it.

  ‘What do you think he wants from Jaquina?’ Nurax asks.

  ‘The usual,’ Keskorian says. ‘Who cares? When she comes back, she’ll be Level 4.’

  ‘If she comes back,’ Sapujapu replies.

  One after another they sit down. Sarius feels out of place, uncomfortable, even though it’s quite possible that he knows some of the people here, maybe all of them . . .

  ‘We’ve got a newbie. Sarius,’ Samira declares.

  ‘Yeah, another stupid dark elf,’ jeers BloodWork, who’s been silent till now. ‘They’re l
ike flies.’

  ‘At least we’re better looking than barbarians,’ Lelant puts in.

  ‘Shut your mouth, loser.’

  And Lelant does stop talking, so BloodWork turns all his attention back to Sarius.

  ‘Why a dark elf? Didn’t they tell you that we’ve already got too many of them?’

  ‘What’s it to you anyway?’

  ‘I bet you’re even a scout as well,’ the barbarian keeps griping at him. ‘Like your whole clan.’

  ‘I’m a knight. Do you mind if I call you Bloody?’

  The vampire LaCor finds that marvellously funny. ‘A knight! You’re going to bite the dust faster than you can blink. Especially if you come up with nicknames for BloodWork.’

  What’s wrong with a knight? Sarius would like to ask, but doesn’t want to show himself up any further. Maybe the gnome would have told him, if Sarius had been able to bring himself to ask his advice.

  ‘Where is the messenger taking Jaquina?’ he inquires instead.

  ‘You’ll find that out yourself later.’ Sapujapu gives him the brush-off.

  ‘Why don’t you just tell me?’

  ‘Not allowed. You’re Level 1.’

  Level 1 – of course. He’s only just started and the others must be dying to see him fall flat on his face. Or bite the dust, as LaCor put it with such relish. He takes a closer look at Sapujapu and Samira, but can’t find any indication of their levels. How does everyone know that he’s a beginner?

  Meanwhile, however, another topic is being discussed. ‘Does anyone know where Drizzel is today?’

  ‘No idea. Perhaps he’s running with another group.’

  ‘Or he’s got a solo quest.’

  ‘I think he has to do stuff outside right now.’

  Interest in Sarius has evaporated. He’s pleased about that, wonders who Drizzel is, and what it means to have stuff to do ‘outside’. Even if he doesn’t understand everything people are talking about, he is gradually relaxing in the embrace of the beguiling music, which flows languorously through him like honey. It makes him heavy and contented, as if the next victorious battle already lay behind him.