Erebos

by Ursula Poznanski

Sarius looks down at his visitor, whose crooked-nosed face is almost glowing with friendliness. Nevertheless Sarius doesn’t have a good feeling about this.

  ‘My master is not edified by your curiosity,’ the gnome begins. ‘I believe you know what I’m talking about. Naturally he understands that you want to know more about Erebos, but he doesn’t appreciate the fact that you have been making inquiries behind his back.’

  He pokes around between his teeth with a long fingernail, finds something greenish, and examines it exhaustively.

  ‘He is, on the other hand, prepared to answer your questions. And guess what – he has his own questions to put to you too!’

  Sarius watches in some disgust as his companion sticks the greenish lump back into his mouth and chews around on it.

  ‘What questions?’

  ‘Oh, easy ones. For example, does Nick Dunmore know someone by the name of Rashid Saleh?’

  Sarius is taken aback. What’s that got to do with anything? Then again, he can probably count himself lucky if all the messenger’s questions are so easy.

  ‘Yes, Nick knows him.’

  ‘Good. Does Nick know what Rashid likes doing?’

  That was easy.

  ‘He likes skateboarding, he listens to hip hop, and he’s a Stephen King fan.’

  The gnome nods his satisfaction, still chewing.

  ‘Nick is well informed. Does he perhaps also know what Rashid Saleh is afraid of?’

  No. How would he know that? Although actually there is one thing he’s noticed. Rashid is afraid of heights. One time the whole class had gone to the London Eye, the Ferris wheel right on the Thames, and Rashid went up as well, but he turned as white as a sheet. Nearly threw up afterwards.

  ‘He doesn’t like heights. He avoids lookout towers and things like that.’

  The gnome clicks his tongue. ‘That matches what we’ve already found out. Thanks, Sarius. My master will be inclined to forgive you your excessive thirst for knowledge. Now I will divulge something to you in turn.’

  He leans forward and winks at Sarius confidingly. ‘You will find the list of competitors for the Arena fights in Atropos’s Tavern. Give the old woman my regards.’

  He hops off the stool, bows with exaggerated politeness, and leaves. Sarius puts on his helmet and hangs his shield on his back. It’s only when he’s on the way to the door that something occurs to him. The white gnome didn’t answer any questions, and Sarius didn’t even ask any.

  The streets of the city are more than busy, despite the lateness of the hour. Sarius keeps to the wide thoroughfares and avoids dark side alleys that remind him of the passages in the labyrinth. Here, braziers on every corner colour the cream-rendered walls golden. Now and then Sarius meets other warriors; he knows a few of them. For example Sapujapu and LaCor. He’d like to know whether Drizzel, Blackspell and Lelant have found their way here. Presumably they have. They can’t have taken that long to find the red river. But maybe they got dispatched by another horde of giant scorpions. He likes that idea.

  It’s a pity he didn’t get the chance to ask the gnome the way to Atropos’s Tavern; he hasn’t spotted it on his walk down the main streets. He needs someone who can give him information. He soon finds out that the braziers don’t compare with the campfires in the wilderness. They only provide lighting and don’t allow conversation.

  It only dawns on him that he could go into one of the numerous shops to the right and the left of the thoroughfare when he sees a dwarf who is struggling to open a heavy wooden door. ‘Butcher’s Shop’ is written in big letters on the wooden sign nailed above it.

  A few minutes later Sarius walks into a junk shop. Its shelves are overflowing with curiosities. His gaze is caught by a vampire skull: its fangs have cotton reels skewered on them. He’s in the right place. It must be possible to mount cotton reels on scorpion stingers as well.

  A grey-bearded man shuffles out from the darkest corner of the shop.

  ‘Buying or selling?’ he asks without a word of greeting.

  ‘Selling,’ Sarius answers. He opens his inventory and places both the claws, the back plates and the stinger onto the counter. The anger boils up in him again. He could already be the owner of a wish crystal.

  ‘Ah. Critter bits,’ the dealer declares. ‘You won’t get much for them. Apart from the stinger, if it’s still got poison on it.’

  He examines the curved black spike with a magnifying glass.

  ‘How much will I get for that?’ Sarius asks. ‘I’d be interested in a wish crystal, for example.’

  The dealer looks up.

  ‘You can’t buy wish crystals. Have to find ’em. Or get them as gifts. I’ll give you three gold pieces for the stinger, another two for the rest.’

  That doesn’t sound like much. Tyrania got forty gold coins after the battle with the water women, Sarius recalls.

  ‘That’s not enough,’ he says, acting on a sudden inspiration. ‘I want ten gold pieces, or I’ll take my stuff and leave.’

  The dealer looks from the scorpion parts to Sarius and back again. ‘Six at the most.’

  They agree on seven, and Sarius leaves the shop feeling elated at how well he’s done. That feeling wears off immediately when he sees a scorpion stinger being offered for fifty-five gold pieces in a shop two doors down. And besides, he’d been so caught up in the bargaining that he forgot to ask the way to the tavern. Another shopkeeper – a shoemaker selling boots that repel poison, boots equipped with blades, and some that even throw lightning bolts – answers his questions readily.

  Following his advice, he takes the third left turn, and finds himself facing a crooked door with its varnish cracking off. The sign above it shows open scissors, and underneath the lettering ‘The Final Cut’.

  Inside it’s almost darker than the night-time street. The small lanterns barely throw light onto the tables and the hands of those sitting at them. The faces remain hidden in the dark.

  Sarius approaches the bar; the ancient woman behind it ignores him. She’s tracing the lines in the wood with her crooked index finger, and muttering quietly to herself.

  ‘I would like to register for the Arena fights,’ Sarius says.

  The old woman looks up briefly, but doesn’t answer.

  ‘Where will I find the list where I can register my name for the Arena fights?’ he tries again. ‘You are Atropos, aren’t you?’

  At the mention of her name the old innkeeper seems to wake up.

  ‘Yes, I am. You will find the list in the cellar.’

  She examines Sarius from top to toe. ‘Do you want to compete in the fights?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As a Two? That’s not very clever. But go right ahead. It’s got nothing to do with me.’

  She turns back to the wood grain on the bench. Sarius finds a staircase that leads down. There’s more light in the cellar than upstairs; an open fire illuminates the vaulted ceiling. The list is impossible to miss: it’s affixed to the wall and guarded by a soldier. As Sarius approaches the man addresses him.

  ‘Have you come here to register?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Sarius.’

  He peers past the soldier, trying to get a glimpse at the list. He knows some of the names recorded on it: BloodWork, Xohoo, Keskorian, Sapujapu, Tyrania. There’s no Lelant, as far as he can tell, nor anyone else who was with him in the labyrinth.

  ‘What weapon do you wish to compete with?’

  ‘With a sword.’

  The soldier notes something down in a book.

  ‘You’re still a Two, I see.’

  Sarius is sick of having that thrown in his face constantly.

  ‘Yes. So? I haven’t been here that long. That’s why I want to take part in the fights – so I can catch up.’

  Something is stirring at the back of the vaulted cellar. A tall person with long black hair gets up from his chair and stands in the light from the open fire.

  ‘If you ar
e in such a hurry to catch up, why don’t you compete against me? We’ll fight a duel.’

  The sight of his challenger gives Sarius a weird feeling: there’s something about him that’s not right. Who does he remind him of? A shiver runs down his spine as the realisation finally dawns: The unknown warrior looks like Nick Dunmore in ten years’ time. The same straight dark hair, the narrow eyes, the dimple in his chin – his features exactly, but more mature and with a touch of stubble. The name of the fighter is LordNick. There’s no way that’s a coincidence.

  ‘So, what’s it to be? Duel or no duel?’

  ‘If it’s permitted . . .’

  It’s too bad that he doesn’t know LordNick’s level. What if he’s a Seven or an Eight? But perhaps he’s only a Three, then maybe Sarius would have a chance. He thinks about how he killed the scorpion, and feels a surge of confidence.

  ‘Duels in the tavern are permitted,’ the soldier declares; he’s even leaving his list unguarded at the prospect of a fight. ‘However the weaker one must challenge the stronger. In this case it means the challenge must come from Sarius.’

  Sarius is not sure if that’s what he wants. Until now he’s only fought against monsters, not his comrades. On the other hand, if he wants to compete in the Arena, it can’t hurt to have a practice round under his belt.

  ‘Fine. I challenge LordNick to a duel.’

  ‘Terrific, Titch!’ his opponent yells.

  It’s all very well for him, Sarius thinks. After all he can see that I’m only a Two. He draws back from LordNick, who’s already lining him up in his sights.

  ‘What shall we fight for? I like your wolf helmet – what about that? I’ll wager my shield on it; it’s got thirty points of defence.’

  ‘There’s no way I’m risking my helmet.’

  Not even if you told me who you are and why you look like me. ‘Well, what then?’

  Sarius quickly runs through what he owns. ‘Four pieces of gold.’

  ‘What? That’s not even worth the trouble.’ The figure that seems so unpleasantly familiar to Sarius turns back to his table.

  ‘I’d say it’s definitely worthwhile,’ the soldier puts in. ‘Every successful battle gains you experience and power – you shouldn’t undervalue that.’

  LordNick, who is about to sit down again, pauses. ‘Oh, all right then. Four pieces of gold.’

  They take up position in front of the fireplace. Sarius can’t take his eyes off LordNick’s face; it’s as though he has to fight against himself. Hence it’s no surprise that his opponent’s first blow scores a hit. Sarius lifts his shield up far too late; LordNick’s sword wounds him in the side. The screeching sound starts up immediately.

  There’s no time to look at his belt and check; Sarius has to trust in the fact that he’ll survive another hit. He throws himself on his adversary and lands a blow on his helmet, a second one on his thigh. There! A bit of black is showing on LordNick’s belt.

  But Sarius’s triumph is short-lived. His opponent shoves his shield at Sarius’s chest and lunges at him with his sword, gets him in the stomach. Sarius falls to the ground. The injury tone is hurting, hurting, hurting.

  ‘Stop!’

  A shadow steps between them. The soldier.

  ‘Sarius is badly injured. He must decide whether he will keep fighting or admit defeat.’

  It’s not much of a decision. Sarius can barely stand. The tone is like a circular saw in his head; he’d like to switch it off, but doesn’t dare – then he might miss a warning. A hint, something important. ‘I give up.’

  LordNick stands over him triumphantly. ‘Then pay up the four pieces of gold.’

  Sarius opens his inventory, carefully avoiding any movement that could make his injuries worse. He hands over the required amount. Now he has only three coins remaining. He ought to quickly sell off the objects that he took from the grave robber. Provided that he even gets the chance. The last remnant of red on his belt is ridiculously thin.

  He looks to the side, where there are a few tables and chairs in the half-shadow. LordNick has moved back there again. A figure rises from one of the other tables in a single flowing motion. Under the hood that casts a shadow over the face, Nick sees the familiar yellow eyes.

  ‘Lesson one,’ the messenger lectures. ‘Do not challenge an opponent about whom you know absolutely nothing. Choose only those you have seen fighting.’

  He kneels down by Sarius and puts a hand on his head. The circular saw tone becomes quieter.

  ‘Lesson two. Only fight for worthwhile things. Gold coins are laughable. Now stand up.’

  He extends his bony hand to him; the fingers suddenly remind Sarius of scorpions’ legs but he grasps it nonetheless.

  ‘There is something we must discuss. Come with me.’

  The messenger leads him into the small room next door, where there is a round table in the middle with a single candle on it. They sit down.

  ‘Once again you are in need of healing,’ the messenger says. ‘I’m sure you remember the rules that apply in this world? You have only one life, one single life. It seems to me that you are not taking especially good care of it.’

  Sarius can’t think of a fitting response, so he says nothing. It doesn’t seem to be easy to please the messenger. He rebukes those who take things easy, and also those who go all out.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me – I value your courage,’ the messenger says, as though he had heard Sarius’s thoughts. ‘That is why I am here. To help you.’

  He places a small bottle of sunshine-yellow liquid on the table. Sarius recognises the healing potion he received after the battle with the trolls.

  ‘I would like to give this to you. As you know, the Arena fights will take place tomorrow. They don’t happen every day – whoever wants to make progress should be there.’

  ‘I intend to be,’ Sarius answers.

  ‘Good.’

  The messenger leans forwards as though he wants to tell Sarius something confidential and prevent anyone else from hearing it. ‘The fights begin at midday. Whoever has registered must be at the Arena at this time. So make sure that you don’t miss the beginning, otherwise you will not be admitted!’

  ‘All right,’ Sarius responds and reaches his hand out for the little bottle.

  ‘One moment.’

  The messenger’s pale yellow eyes flicker. He places his hand on Sarius’s arm, and suddenly the injury tone becomes louder again.

  ‘I said I would like to give this to you, not that you should help yourself to it.’

  Sarius obediently draws his hand back. It’s a little while before the messenger speaks again.

  ‘I think it would be better if you competed in the fights as a Three, not as a Two.’

  ‘As a Three? Yes, that would be great.’

  ‘Well, then let us pretend that this is the third rite. I will give you an order, Sarius.’

  Lost in thought, the messenger pauses for a moment. His long bony hands play with the healing potion.

  ‘I am sure that you have kept the silver disk that opened Erebos to you?’

  It takes Sarius a moment to grasp what the messenger means. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Good. My orders are as follows: Recruit a new warrior for us, a male or a female. Copy the silver disk and give it to the person whom you consider worthy. But observe the rules!’

  A reddish colour mingles with the yellow gaze of Sarius’s counter part.

  ‘Do not divulge anything about Erebos. Nothing at all. Tell the novice that you are giving him a great gift. That is what you are doing in fact – after all, you are giving him a world. Assure yourself of his silence. Explain to him that he may not show this gift to anyone. Explain it to him in such a way that he believes it. You must also make it clear to him that he may only enter Erebos alone, and without witnesses. Just as you do. And take care that he arrives here soon. Or she.’

  The messenger gently swings the little bottle with the potion.

  ‘Until the
new fighter arrives, you will not be admitted either. And you do not want to miss the beginning of the Arena games, after all.’

  Sarius swallows.

  ‘But it’s the middle of the night now, and tomorrow is Sunday! How can I possibly do it so —’ ‘That is not my responsibility. You are a cunning warrior – and wish to reach Level 3. Should it take longer, so be it; the fights will take place without you.’

  Sarius is dumbstruck. How will he manage to do it so quickly? He doesn’t want to miss the fights for anything. If he becomes a Three now, and does well in the Arena, he could already be a Four by tomorrow!

  ‘Do you already have someone in mind?’ the messenger inquires.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘A friend of mine. Jamie Cox. I don’t think he’s here yet.’

  ‘Aha. Jamie Cox. Good. And if not him, then who?’

  Emily, Sarius thinks. There’s no-one I’d rather share a secret with than Emily.

  ‘There’s a girl I could ask as well,’ he says.

  ‘What is her name?’

  He doesn’t want to say the name. He really doesn’t. ‘Is it Emily Carver?’ the messenger asks, more casually than curiously.

  Sarius stares at him in disbelief.

  ‘Because if it is, I can only wish you luck, and more success than the other three who have tried so far.’

  The nerve-racking tone, the messenger’s inexplicable knowledge, the sudden time pressure all make it impossible to think clearly. Sarius tries to push everything else aside, to concentrate on what is important. The completion of the task for the third rite.

  Jamie, Emily . . . Who else could there be? Dan and Alex have long since been infected, Brynne as well, Colin, Rashid, Jerome . . .

  His best chance is probably one of the girls. He could maybe ask Michelle, or possibly Aisha or Karen. Otherwise he’ll have to aim for the lower year levels . . .

  ‘Adrian McVay would be another possibility,’ he informs the messenger. ‘I don’t think he’s in yet, and I’m sure he’d like Erebos.’

  The yellow-eyed man shakes his head almost imperceptibly. ‘He will not accept it either.’

  There’s a pause; the messenger doesn’t take his eyes off Sarius. Silently he turns the little bottle in his hand; the sunshine yellow of the potion, the pus yellow of his eyes and the whitish yellow candle flame are the only bright spots in the room.