Erebos

by Ursula Poznanski

  Seldom has anything seemed more desirable to Sarius. The five chosen ones on their platform appear invulnerable. He would change places with any of them instantly – and there’s a dark elf among them after all, not just barbarians. He could stand a chance. He could be standing up there. But certainly not as a Three. The platform is given pride of place at the edge of the Arena. The members of the Inner Circle sit down, and all at once it goes quiet. There’s whispering, impatient rustling, and quiet, furtive music that quickens Sarius’s heartbeat.

  Then a man steps forward from nowhere. He is naked except for a loincloth, his skin is as brown as old leather, his physique muscular. He holds a long staff in his hand that he strikes twice rapidly on the ground like a master of ceremonies at court. Sarius’s attention is caught by curious details: very long pointy ears that would put those of a dark elf to shame. Right on the brow, tufts of hair like grey balls of wool over said ears, and a moustache that stands out horizontally to the sides. That’s all quite disconcerting; but what throws him most are the goggle eyes, light coloured and spherical. Big white marbles that threaten to fall out of his head at any moment.

  The man looks around with these bulging eyes. It seems as though everyone is shrinking from his gaze. There’s something weird about him. Sarius studies the master of ceremonies more closely and discovers further peculiarities. The feet! Human feet with the claws of a bird of prey. But that’s still not it. The revolting spider man Sarius is trying not to look at has strange traits too, but despite the disgusting twitching legs on his head he seems to be in harmony. As if he belonged here. Big Goggle-Eyes, on the other hand, looks out of place, as if someone had accidentally abandoned him in the world of Erebos.

  When the man speaks, there’s a rushing sound like water in his voice.

  ‘The rules are known. I call upon the fighters. No-one may choose himself a partner who is less advanced than the challenger himself. I will make a start with the dwarves. Bahanior!’

  It takes a few seconds before the summoned dwarf steps into the middle. Sarius cannot spot a number branded anywhere on his clothing, so Bahanior must be at least a Three.

  ‘Choose your opponent,’ Goggle-Eyes demands.

  Now Bahanior hesitates. He turns on the spot once, twice. Stares into the horde of dark elves.

  If he chooses me, he must be a Three as well, Sarius concludes, otherwise my level would be too low for him. That wouldn’t be bad. I can cope with a dwarf who’s a Three.

  But Bahanior keeps turning, lingers on the cat people, then on the vampires. The master of ceremonies raps his staff on the sand impatiently.

  ‘Make a decision.’

  Several more seconds pass. The crowd begins to become restless, cries of ‘Weakling! Midget! Chicken!’ ring out. Sarius thanks his stars that he’s not in Bahanior’s place.

  ‘I challenge Blackspell,’ the dwarf finally decides.

  Sarius can tell from the brisk tempo at which Blackspell emerges from the ranks of the vampires and positions himself opposite Bahanior that the challenger hasn’t made a good call. The vampire is probably at least two or three levels above him and is already anticipating carving Bahanior into little pieces. Fleetingly Sarius recalls what the robber with the big hat had told him at the beginning: that Blackspell had been beaten by Drizzel at some stage and had to give up three levels. He’s sure to have made them up again in the meantime. In any event Drizzel must be gruesomely strong. There is no way Sarius is going to challenge him.

  Blackspell draws the sword that Sarius so envies him for, because it looks as though it was cast from red glass. Meanwhile Bahanior gives the impression that he would like nothing better than to flee by leaping wildly over the rows of spectators. His sword looks like a butterknife next to that of his opponent.

  ‘What will you fight for?’

  Bahanior shifts indecisively from one leg to the other.

  ‘If I win, I will receive one level and . . . twenty pieces of gold from Blackspell.’

  ‘That’s too little,’ the vampire counters. ‘Two levels and thirty pieces of gold.’

  Bahanior doesn’t answer. It’s obvious from looking at him that he is already deeply regretting his choice of opponent.

  ‘Do you agree?’ the master of ceremonies inquires.

  ‘I have only twenty-five pieces of gold,’ Bahanior confesses.

  They agree on that. Two levels, twenty-five pieces of gold. Sarius is convinced that it’s more than Bahanior can afford.

  ‘Fight!’ calls Goggle-Eyes.

  Bahanior immediately shrinks back three steps. Blackspell pursues him, his shield turned casually aside, as if he wants to provoke the dwarf into an attack.

  Knock, knock, knock! A sound from another world. ‘Nick?’

  Shit, not now! No, please!

  Without taking the headphones from his ears Nick leapt up from the chair and watched over his shoulder as the doorknob turned. It was his father – why couldn’t he leave him in peace?

  Nick tried to conceal the monitor with his body, realising at the same time how that must look. On a sudden inspiration he switched the monitor off and opened his Chemistry book, at random, any place. The clanking of swords echoed in his ears.

  ‘Your mother and I want to go to the movies. We can make it to the afternoon session before my night shift. Want to come? We haven’t all been out together for ages.’

  Groans of pain were coming through the headphones. That was bound to be Bahanior. A hissing sound and a blow followed. ‘I asked you something, young man! Kindly take those things out of your ears. Or do you think I’m going to buy the idea that you’re studying when you’re blasting your ears full of music?’ His father’s face was taking on a more colourful hue.

  Damn, damn, damn. Nick took the headphones off.

  ‘That’s better. So, about the movies – yes or no?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Dad. I’ve still got some more study to do; it’s harder than I thought.’

  William Dunmore shook his head in disbelief. ‘And you can’t take a break for two hours? You didn’t even ask what film we’re seeing.’

  The fight was probably over by now. Blackspell had probably won, but Nick couldn’t be certain. And what if big Goggle-Eyes called up Sarius of all people as the next challenger and he just stood there among everyone without moving? What would happen then? Nick would have liked nothing better than to shoot his father into space.

  ‘Doesn’t make any difference what the film is, Dad. I’m staying home, okay?’

  His father’s suspicious gaze ran over the desk, the computer, the book.

  ‘Guess you feel too grown up to go to the movies with your parents, hmm?’

  The next sentence would be: But we’re still allowed to pay for everything. Keep coughing up more and more, and never get anything in return. Dad occasionally got into this mood, but why today, why did it have to be today?

  Nick smiled, which cost him an enormous effort.

  ‘Believe me, I would love to go and see a film with you – I’d much rather do that than torture myself with this shitty Chemistry assignment. But the topic is bloody difficult. And I slept atrociously last night.’ Nothing but the truth.

  Perhaps it was the strong language that made Dad believe him. He always said that a liar doesn’t swear. Too bad he was mistaken.

  ‘Hmm. Well, if it’s as serious as all that . . . I must say I’m rather taken aback. Hopefully all that effort will show in your results.’

  Very unlikely, unfortunately. ‘I hope so too.’

  ‘Well then, Professor. Have fun.’

  Bahanior has disappeared out of the Arena, and there’s no trace of Blackspell either. But one of them must have won, mustn’t they? Now a dark elf is fighting a lizard woman; Sarius doesn’t know either of them. He is still standing in the same place, next to Xohoo, and would like to ask him what he’s missed. He tries, but it doesn’t work. No conversations in the Arena, it seems. It’s probably better that way. If no-one has notic
ed his absence, no-one can complain about it.

  The lizard woman fights without weapons; instead she hurls lightning bolts at her elfin adversary. Is she a magician? The dark elf manages to dodge twice, and now the lizard is retreating too; she has no strength left, needs a rest. It doesn’t take long for the elf to figure that out and attack her with his spear. But by then the lizard woman has already gathered enough magic for another bolt of lightning, which flattens her opponent.

  ‘The victor is Dragoness. She will receive one level and fifteen pieces of gold from Zajquor.’

  There’s a brief rushing sound, and suddenly Sarius sees a Two appear on Zajquor’s armour. Nothing about Dragoness changes, at least nothing Sarius can discern. The chosen ones on the platform are sure to see something. A Four that turns into a Five, for example.

  ‘Xohoo!’ big Goggle-Eyes calls.

  A shudder runs through the dark elf next to Sarius. He hesitates only a moment before he grasps his sword and his shield more tightly and starts off. The others let him past, and Xohoo positions himself in the middle of the Arena.

  Good luck, Sarius thinks.

  ‘Choose your opponent.’

  Obviously Xohoo has already been thinking about his strategy, because he immediately turns towards the small group of humans. ‘I challenge LordNick.’

  What on earth for, you idiot? You’ll never beat him! On the other hand – who knows? His instinct could be wrong; he doesn’t know Xohoo’s level. So why is Sarius so tense?

  Is it possible that the person concealed behind Xohoo is someone acquainted with Nick? Who may know that Nick Dunmore hasn’t been hanging out in the world of Erebos all that long, and has now used his brilliant deductive powers to conclude that his level can’t be all that high?

  LordNick lets his gaze rest briefly on Xohoo before he steps forward. The same uneasy feeling stirs in Sarius as the previous night. The sight of the fighter unsettles him. As familiar as his reflection, except that he has no control over it.

  Who are you, hmm? Once again it’s clear to Sarius that all the fighters who’ve ever encountered him outside Erebos will be convinced when they look at LordNick that they’re dealing with Nick Dunmore. In their minds, every time this self-proclaimed Lord screws up, it will be down to him. You arsehole, he thinks. Who said you could?

  ‘What will you fight for?’

  ‘One level and twenty pieces of gold,’ Xohoo says.

  ‘Too little.’

  By now Xohoo should be smelling a rat.

  The elf seems unsure, waits for an offer from his opponent. None is forthcoming, so he makes the next suggestion himself. ‘One level and twenty-five pieces of gold?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ LordNick declares. ‘Two levels and . . . let’s say twenty-five pieces of gold. But definitely two levels.’

  ‘That’s too much for me.’

  ‘Bad luck. Shouldn’t have challenged me then. If you can surrender two levels without dying, you must accept. And you can.’ If only LordNick wasn’t such an arrogant bastard, Nick thinks. Or if I could announce at school that he’s nothing to do with me. But even that’s against the rules.

  Big Goggle-Eyes has raised his staff.

  ‘Fight!’

  In a flash LordNick has hurled himself at Xohoo, who obviously wasn’t expecting such a swift attack. The human warrior’s long sword strikes him on the hip. Blood gushes out, and immediately the spectators take up their cry of ‘Blood! – Blood! – Blood!’ again. Shut your faces and give him a chance, Sarius would like to bellow at them, but he’s condemned to silence – and anyway there’s no point. The lunge that Xohoo tries is doomed before it begins. He’s dragging one leg, and his belt is already more than half black.

  Wave goodbye to your levels, Sarius thinks in heartfelt commiseration. If I didn’t know better, I would challenge LordTosser as well, and smash his stolen face in for him.

  Xohoo is growing weaker with every step. He’s bleeding from several wounds, and only half-heartedly parrying LordNick’s attacks. In the end a shove with the shield is enough to fell Xohoo.

  ‘The victor is LordNick,’ Goggle-Eyes announces. ‘He will receive two levels and twenty-five pieces of gold.’

  The Roman Two appears on Xohoo’s armour. As if the shock has given him new strength, he struggles to his feet again and stabs LordNick in the leg with his sword. The victim of the attack, who was no longer expecting it, jumps back, leaving a wide trail of blood in the sand. After a brief moment of astonishment he takes a wide swing with his weapon and hits Xohoo in the belly with the broadside. Two blows, and there’s not a trace of red left to be seen on the dark elf’s belt. He collapses motionless on the sand of the Arena. A deafening roar from the spectators. LordNick takes a step back, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths.

  Xohoo can’t be dead. A chill is spreading over Sarius. Surely, surely there must still be one last shred of colour on Xohoo’s belt – enough for the messenger to walk up to him and take him away to heal him. It won’t be long.

  ‘You have only one chance to play Erebos,’ someone breathes in Sarius’s ear. Did he really hear that? Are his senses playing tricks on him?

  Whatever. Xohoo is no longer moving, not even when the master of ceremonies prods him with his staff, gently at first, and then vigorously. A grin spreads over his face. He looks into the crowd, and draws his left hand across his throat in a beheading gesture.

  But where is the messenger? He’s not sitting in the rows behind the barbarians, he’s not near the lizards . . . But what if he’s seated himself right behind the dark elves? Sarius turns his head, scouring the rows, rebounds at the sight of the spider man, and quickly turns round again. Suddenly he sees him. The familiar, gaunt figure is sitting in the third row, between a woman with snake hair and a man with three eyes. His face is concealed by the shadow of a hood, but the yellow eyes shine out like thin, flickering candles on a grave. The messenger isn’t lifting a finger for Xohoo.

  They take him away. Two guards take a leg each and drag the corpse out through the sand, out of the Arena, leaving a wide blood-splattered drag mark behind them.

  Sarius watches them, distraught. It is all so real. So damned real. The fear that he won’t leave the Arena alive returns with redoubled force, and when the master of ceremonies steps back into the centre, he almost prays not to be called up. His wish is fulfilled. As Goggle-Eyes calls out the next fighter’s name, the mass intake of breath is almost audible.

  ‘BloodWork.’

  He’s carrying an axe, a sword and a shield across his back. For one crazy moment Sarius thinks about what he would do if the barbarian chose him, but that’s not possible. He’s only a Three, and BloodWork is probably a damned Ninety-five or so.

  The barbarian and the half-naked master of ceremonies are almost the same height. BloodWork is steaming with energy; he can’t stand still. The weapons in his hands are twitching as if they were alive.

  ‘Choose your opponent.’

  BloodWork doesn’t hesitate for a moment. ‘I challenge Beroxar. I lay claim to his place in the Inner Circle.’

  The Arena holds its breath like a giant ring-shaped animal. You could hear a pin drop if it were not for all the sand. On the golden platform, one of the two barbarians rises.

  That doesn’t make sense, Sarius thinks. In his place I would have chosen the cat man or the dark she-elf.

  The adversaries are almost the same height. Beroxar is carrying a curved sword and a shield the size of a tabletop. His helmet resembles the head of a shark and reaches to his shoulders; it even protects part of his back.

  ‘What do you demand of BloodWork, if he should be defeated?’ ‘Two weeks of slavery and six of his achievement levels.’

  Six! But if BloodWork is impressed, he doesn’t show it. He quickly nods and gets himself into position. Beroxar splits the air in front of him experimentally with a stroke of his sword; it makes a buzzing sound like a swarm of bees.

  Over the next few minutes Sarius isn’t
capable of lucid thought. The fight makes him forget everything, including his own fear. At no time does either of the barbarians appear to show any weakness. They circle each other, execute short, lightning-fast attacks and defend themselves with equal skill. Beroxar’s scimitar is painting silver patterns all around his opponent; BloodWork’s axe circles around his head while he searches with his sword for Beroxar’s weaknesses. Which don’t seem to exist. The fight is like a dance where the lead changes continuously. Till BloodWork suddenly twists round and turns his back on Beroxar. The scimitar hums and shoots towards BloodWork’s shoulders, where the force of the blow drives it deep into the wood of the shield that BloodWork wears buckled on. A quick turn, and the captured sword is torn from Beroxar’s hand.

  Without a weapon he has no chance. An axe blow to his leg and a sword thrust in his side lay him out on the ground.

  ‘The victor is BloodWork.’

  The barbarian flings his arms up and turns around in a circle, accompanied by the cheering of the crowd, which has suddenly shaken off its daze. They clap and stomp, and call BloodWork’s name over and over again.

  Big Goggle-Eyes steps into the middle and silences the masses with a hand movement. He bends over the recumbent fighter and takes his neck adornment from him. An iron chain with a ruby-red ring as big as a bottle base dangling from the end. The inner edge has a tip that resembles a rose thorn or a curved V and points towards the middle of the ring. The master of ceremonies places the ornament around BloodWork’s neck and jubilation breaks out again. It doesn’t even subside when Beroxar struggles to his feet and, at the direction of the master of ceremonies, takes his place among the assembled barbarians.

  Sarius doesn’t know how the messenger got into the centre of the Arena, but he’s standing there, holding his bony hand out to BloodWork.

  ‘Welcome to the Inner Circle. We all hope that you will show yourself to be worthy of the honour.’

  BloodWork bows, and walks to the golden platform, where he seats himself in Beroxar’s place. The red circle on his chest glows like a fresh brand.