Erebos

by Ursula Poznanski

  The box had been heavy and the object in it quite small . . . Could it have been a gun? Yes. Yes, of course.

  ‘Why can’t you pay attention?’ the cook behind the counter scolded. ‘You can clean that up yourself! Goodness me!’

  ‘Sure,’ Nick whispered, and took the broom and pan. He felt Jamie’s gaze sticking like cold porridge to the back of his head, but he wasn’t going to turn round.

  A gun? But why? Why would the messenger get him to hide a gun at the Dollis Brook Viaduct?

  ‘You know something about it,’ Jamie declared behind his back.

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  Had someone taken a photo? Like the picture of him and Brynne in the cafe? He knelt and swept his chips into the pan, kept sweeping although there was nothing more there. He couldn’t stand up. There were black spots dancing in front of his eyes.

  ‘But I saw it, Nick. You were scared out of your wits. You know something.’

  ‘Just shut it, okay,’ Nick muttered and struggled painfully to his feet. The black dots solidified to a swirling wall. He thrust the pan into the cook’s hands and leaned heavily on the counter.

  ‘Come with me to Mr Watson. Shed some light on this whole thing; you’ll feel better afterwards. What’s going on here is shi —’ ‘Shut your face!’ Nick yelled. Emily, Eric, a gun, Aisha, Galaris . . . it was all too much. He couldn’t cope. The canteen smells were turning his stomach; any minute he’d be throwing up right here on the floor in front of everyone. If there was a photo and the school got hold of it, he’d be kicked out. As sure as the sky was blue.

  He dashed out of the canteen, shoving into people right and left, who shoved back indignantly, found an open window and stuck his head out. Fresh air, thank God.

  He had to think about it. Maybe talk to the messenger. He was sure to be grateful if Nick told him. Perhaps he would even explain to him what the business with the gun was about. But first he still had to carry out his orders. His incredibly pointless orders.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was shortly before 5 p.m. when Nick got out at Blackfriars station and made his way along New Bridge Street. The car park was on Ludgate Hill – finding it wasn’t a problem. Getting inside without being noticed might be, though. He made himself as tall as possible and jangled his bunch of keys as if he was already looking for the car key. However his fears proved unfounded. No-one stopped him when he entered the car park; he wasn’t sure if the attendant, who was reading the newspaper in his cabin, had even noticed him.

  He fished the note out of his trouser pocket. LP60 HNR was the number plate of the car he was supposed to look for.

  ‘If you don’t find it,’ the messenger had said, ‘you will go back again. Over and over again, every day between 5 and 6 p.m., until you have carried out your orders.’

  Nick was only on the second floor when he got lucky. He looked at the car, and whistled through his teeth. LP60 HNR was the number plate of a silver-grey Jaguar. It stood out from all the other cars simply by the fact that it gleamed like the crown jewels. Not a splash of mud in sight.

  Nick whipped out his camera and took a few pictures. They wouldn’t be enough, obviously, but it was a start.

  What he needed now was a place where he could lie in wait. So he could keep an eye on the car, but not be seen himself. The best he could find was the narrow gap between an old Ford and the car park wall. If he lay down on the ground and no-one took a close look, he would be as good as invisible. Nick turned off the camera flash and set the aperture to maximum to compensate. Then he made himself as comfortable as it was possible to be on the cold car park floor. 5.17 p.m. Okay, easy does it.

  When his phone suddenly pinged, loudly announcing that he’d received a text, Nick’s heart nearly stopped. He hadn’t turned off the ring tone – how dumb could you get?

  From his uncomfortable lying position, sandwiched between the car and the wall, he could barely reach his trouser pocket. When he finally managed it and saw who the text was from, his heart began to pound. Emily.

  Hi, Nick! I’d like 2 meet with u & take the opportunity 2 introduce u 2 someone. His name’s Victor & he may b able 2 help us all. Pls get back 2 me, Emily.

  The name Victor didn’t mean anything to Nick. He was happy for it to stay that way. What was that supposed to mean, anyway: he may be able to help ‘us all’? Presumably what Emily mainly wanted was to help Eric, who was up to his neck in trouble. But she wanted to meet with him. Emily. Didn’t matter why – she wanted to meet with him.

  Bang! A door closed. Steps coming closer.

  Nick held his breath and tried to press himself into the concrete floor. He was holding the camera pointed at the Jaguar so he could take a picture immediately if the owner appeared. A pair of legs in black trousers came into sight, walked past the Jaguar, came closer. An attendant who’d seen him on the video camera? Please! No! And please not the driver of the Ford Nick was using for cover.

  When the man walked past him without so much as glancing at his hiding place, Nick breathed a sigh of relief. Shortly afterwards a red Mazda drove off towards the exit. Silence descended again.

  Only five minutes had passed. Nick shifted his weight around as best he could, and put his camera down carefully. Steps were approaching once more, but they stopped long before they came level with Nick. A car door slammed and an engine started.

  After another five minutes Nick’s right leg began to go numb. He tried to ignore the pins and needles and focussed on the noises in the car park. The whirring of the ventilation. The muffled street noise from outside. A heavy metal door opening and closing again. A woman laughing, and a man joining in. The clatter of high heels on the concrete. The clunk of a car lock operated remotely, only a few yards away from Nick. The lights of the Jaguar went on.

  Nick’s heartbeat sped up. He raised the camera and pointed the viewfinder at the car. The man and the woman came closer. Came into view. The man radiated nervousness the way a furnace radiates heat.

  Click!

  The woman could have been a star in a daytime soap. Glittering earrings, fur jacket, blond hair piled up. The man was tall, with dark hair that was already greying at the temples. He was wearing a suit and tie. Maybe a doctor. Or a lawyer.

  Click!

  The man opened the car door and put a bag on the back seat.

  Click! Click!

  ‘Next time we’ll go to Refettorio,’ the woman said. ‘Vivian tells me the lamb is superb there.’

  ‘As you wish, sweetheart.’

  Click!

  The woman got into the car.

  Click!

  The man paused suddenly and looked around. Had he heard the camera? Nick tried to blend into his dark corner.

  ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The man ran his hand over his hair. ‘Nothing. I must have been mistaken. Lately, you know . . .’

  Nick didn’t hear the rest, because the man got into the car and closed the door. He shook his head and shrugged in a gesture of helplessness, and then started the engine. Half a minute later the Jaguar had left the car park.

  That was a wrap. Nick hugged the camera to him. Now to get out of here, quickly. No, first he’d check whether the photos were any good.

  Well, okay, they were a bit blurry and quite grainy, but you wouldn’t do better without flash. You could certainly make everything out. The woman, the man, the car’s number plate. Twelve passable pictures.

  Nick got out his phone in the crowded Tube train and read Emily’s text message again. ‘Victor.’ ‘Help us all.’ That didn’t sound like a date. It sounded more as though she wanted to help Eric out of a tight spot. Nick began to type an answer, decided it was stupid, deleted it, and closed his eyes.

  If it came out that he had something to do with the Galaris box, Emily would find out too. No-one would believe that he hadn’t known what he was hiding. The papers would write about a planned school massacre that had only just been averted. Or something like that. His father would
kill him.

  Nick opened his eyes again and looked at the tired faces of the people around him. They’d all see his photo in the paper.

  Emily would see his photo in the paper. He typed another text to her and then deleted it again immediately without sending it. What if this Victor was from the police?

  Nick shut his eyes. He needed to make sure that Erebos remained well-disposed to him.

  ‘I received the pictures,’ the messenger says. He’s sitting on a rock at the edge of the moor, stretching out his long legs and looking contented.

  Sarius relaxes. Uploading the pictures onto the server as specified hadn’t been entirely straightforward; the connection had crashed twice.

  ‘Have you eaten dinner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Since when has that interested the messenger?

  ‘Did you chat with your parents? Did you make a cheerful, normal impression?’

  ‘I think so.’ I babbled like a brook so it wouldn’t occur to them to ask about my homework.

  ‘Good. We must be careful. There is too much talk outside Erebos. Our enemies are positioning themselves. We must be careful not to leave ourselves open to attack. I would therefore like you to attend school every day and behave inconspicuously. Give no-one any reason to find your behaviour suspicious.’

  ‘Yes, all right.’

  ‘You are now an Eight. I will increase your life energy and your fire magic. Tell me: has your wish crystal already started to take effect? Have you received what you wished for?’

  I don’t know, Sarius thinks. That didn’t have anything to do with me. I don’t believe that awful scene was my doing.

  ‘Will you give me no answer?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps. It’s possible that it has. That it’s begun to take effect.’

  The messenger nodded his satisfaction.

  ‘You see? Just wait. That will continue; the rest is in your hands, Sarius.’

  He can’t tell that I’m scared, can he? He can’t possibly see it in my face.

  He’s waiting for the messenger to finally dismiss him, but he keeps looking at him, and spreads out his bony fingers.

  ‘It would not be a bad thing if Aisha had a witness,’ he says. ‘Someone who could confirm her accusations. Can you think of anyone, Sarius?’

  He can’t be serious, Sarius thinks. I’m not going to do it. Bloody hell, why is he asking that of me?

  ‘I was with Brynne in the cafe at that time. That means I’m no good as a witness.’

  ‘I know. I asked you whether you could think of someone, not whether you would do it.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry, I can’t think of anyone either.’

  ‘Then go.’

  The messenger waves him away, and Sarius, who is glad to escape from the gaze of those yellow eyes, obeys his gesture. Neither of them has mentioned the Galaris box, but there’s no doubt the messenger already knows all about that too.

  Sarius sees the glow of the enormous campfire even from a distance. The moor is to the right; to the left a round structure reaches up into the night sky. A meadow stretches between them, on which only thorny bushes and a few stunted trees are growing.

  ‘Hi, Sarius!’ Arwen’s Child is the first to notice him. She’s sitting next to LordNick by the fire, which reflects off her new breastplate. Both of them must still be above him – he can’t see their levels. Lelant is sitting further away; he’s recovered since their fight and is a Seven again.

  ‘Have you registered for the next Arena yet? Over there!’ Arwen’s Child points over to the round building. ‘That’s about all you can do at the moment. Nothing’s happening right now. We’ve been sitting here for half an hour or so.’

  Sarius doesn’t know anything about a new Arena fight, but of course he wants to take part. What he hasn’t bargained for is big Goggle-Eyes himself accepting his registration in person. He’s standing on the sand of the night-time Arena with gnomes swarming all around him, and seems gigantic, almost twice as big as Sarius. Once again he’s thrown by the giant’s strange appearance – he doesn’t resemble any of the others here. And he’s almost naked. ‘Register here,’ he says, and points with his peculiar staff to the list hanging on the wall. ‘In seven days, two hours before midnight, the fights will begin.’

  Sarius writes his name underneath Bracco’s. Well, well, so he’s still alive too. Blackspell is on the list, BloodWork, Lelant, LordNick and Drizzel. Sarius doesn’t have time to read any more because the master of ceremonies shoos him off.

  ‘Don’t be curious, little elf. Run back to the others.’

  As he comes out of the Arena, Feniel walks towards him. She must have been playing day and night, because the last time Sarius saw her she was a badly injured Four. Now he can’t see her level. So it’s at least an Eight. All her armour is new, and she’s carrying two swords. Something tells Sarius that he would lose this time round if they were facing one another again.

  It looks as though the regulars have settled in for a chat around the gigantic fire. Sapujapu is sitting in the middle of a mob of dwarves who are comparing their axes, but he greets Sarius straight away.

  ‘No quest today?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘Still, makes a nice change.’

  They chat about the Arena fight, which Sapujapu also plans to contest, then Sarius saunters on. He sees BloodWork sitting alone on a tree stump, staring into the flames. The ring that he wears on a chain around his neck glows ruby-red in the firelight. Sarius hesitates at first, but then he addresses the barbarian.

  ‘Do you know what else is happening today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. Sorry. Have a nice evening.’

  BloodWork raises his head.

  ‘I’m dog-tired.’

  ‘No wonder. I think we’ve all been missing out on sleep recently.’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  Sarius could do without the self-importance right now.

  ‘So call it quits for today and crash on your barbarian skins,’ he says. But BloodWork still can’t take a joke.

  ‘Piss off, elf fart,’ he says. He heaves his gigantic body up and shuffles over to another barbarian and a cat person who are standing apart from the others. They have red circles dangling round their necks too.

  The cat guy wasn’t one of those on the tablet at the last Arena fight, Sarius is certain of that.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’

  Drizzel has turned up next to Sarius and jostles him roughly aside. ‘You’ll never be one of the Inner Circle, you wimp. But I will, I bet you. Just watch out, and wait till the next Arena.’

  He bares his long fangs.

  Sarius is about to draw his sword, just in case, but his attention is distracted.

  A gnome with light green skin has positioned himself on a rock near the fire.

  ‘The warriors of the Inner Circle are expected at the secret meeting place. There is news.’

  BloodWork, both his companions and the elf mage called Wyrdana stand up and head for the wooded area that lies to the left like a wall of shadow. There’s no fifth chosen one to be seen, but then Blackspell emerges from the darkness next to the Arena and follows the other four. The red insignia sparkles on his black cape. ‘Blackspell belongs to the Inner Circle?’ Sarius asks in astonishment.

  ‘Shit. I didn’t know that either,’ Drizzel responds. ‘But so much the better. I’ll make mincemeat of him in the Arena!’

  Sarius is secretly looking forward to seeing that. Doesn’t matter who makes mincemeat out of whom – he can’t stand either of the vampires.

  Blackspell disappears into the darkness of the forest as well, and Sarius has to keep a grip on himself to remain by the fire. He would love to know what’s being discussed in the Inner Circle.

  The green-skinned gnome, meanwhile, is still standing on his rock; he has further announcements to make.

  ‘Warriors!’ he begins. ‘The last battle is drawing near. The time has not
yet come, but now more than ever it is important to separate the wheat from the chaff.’

  He leaves a significant pause.

  ‘The camp here is none too distant from Ortolan’s fortress. We are drawing closer to him, step by step. My master thinks that Ortolan can already sense us. But he will not attack. He cannot attack us, because he has no suspicion of who we are.’

  Another significant pause.

  ‘Others are attempting to foil our mission, however. They are spying on us, defaming us, trying to harm us. If we do not close ranks, they will infiltrate us. They will destroy our world. More than ever it is imperative to stay silent. Keep calm. Guard your secrets. Treat your enemies as enemies.’

  With that, the gnome climbs down from his stone and makes his crooked-legged way back into the Arena.

  The warriors sit together over the next hours. At first they’re waiting for something to happen, but no-one gives them orders, no-one attacks them, none of Ortolan’s monsters swoops on them. So they occupy themselves peacefully. They throw dice for pieces of meat. The mood is relaxed; no-one feels like turning on his neighbour. Sarius hardly notices time passing. When he takes his leave from the others it’s two o’clock in the morning, and he’s pleasantly tired. He has never felt more secure, more at home in Erebos.

  CHAPTER 18

  From: Frank Bethune

  To: Nick Dunmore

  Subject: Training.

  Nick, you have no idea how disappointed I am in you, in all of you, and the way you’ve missed the last training sessions without even taking the trouble to inform me. Unfortunately you’re not the only one. Last time I was left standing in the gym with four people. Feel free to find someone else to take for a fool. One more unexplained absence and you’re out of the team.

  F. Bethune

  ‘What on earth happened to you?’

  ‘Have you been in hospital?’

  ‘Looks impressive.’

  Brynne and a few of her friends were surrounding the quiet boy, Greg, who was trying, with obvious difficulty, to get his books out of the locker.