by Craig Askham
“Tregurtha, if we weren’t in the right place, I take it you would actually tell us?”
For a moment, she thought the guide would follow form and stay quiet. Just when she was becoming desperate enough to consider seeking Naz Caliskan’s approval, he spoke.
“That’s not how it works. Continue or go back; your decision.”
Idella nodded, which was pointless because he couldn’t see her clearly enough to witness it. Someone in between them moved, and she strained her eyes to see that it was Naz. He was holding up a hand to indicate he wished to speak. Perhaps sensing it was a request that was destined to be ignored, he decided to go for it anyway.
“Someone’s in trouble,” he whispered. “Whoever she is sounds naked, so I say we get in there as quick as we can. To help.” The last two words were an afterthought, and Idella could sense his oafish grin without needing to see it. She ground her teeth and prayed to whichever god this world had that might provide her with enough strength not to kick him in the testicles. Grujo piped up to offer his opinion, for what it was worth.
“Varun Behl is known for his insatiable carnal desire,” he said. “It’s matched only by his love of blood and death, so I suggest we proceed with caution. Have no doubt, we are in the right place.”
Reluctantly, Idella continued. The sounds intensified; several female gasps of pleasure that were interspersed with manly grunts and the occasional giggle. Then, a sharp moan that could have been pain. How many of them were there? What would she do if she was invited to join in? She didn’t know, but she sure as hell did know what she wouldn’t be doing, and that was joining in. She knew that Stillwater did offer those sorts of trips, but she’d signed up to hunt Varun Behl, not sleep with him. Hadn’t she? As was her wont, she started to doubt herself. No. There was no mistake. This was a bonafide mission. First sign of any shenanigans, and she was gone.
“Get a move on!” She couldn’t say for definite it was Naz, but she’d have put money on it. There was only one appropriate reply.
“Get lost.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t get lost if we head towards the sex.” Definitely Naz.
A man’s voice cut through the gasps and squeals. It was deep and cruel enough to turn Idella’s blood to ice.
“Enough. It’s time.” Three words, followed by immediate silence. No more moans, painful or otherwise. It was as if he’d flicked off their switches. Idella’s breath caught in her throat and she pressed her back against the wall, suddenly fearful that Varun Behl might appear magically behind her and drag her away like a shark playing with a seal. Three words were all it took for her to doubt herself and want to run for her life. She wasn’t online, and her real body wasn’t reclining on a dentist’s chair in her bedroom with a million nanobots coursing through her veins. She was here for real, and so was Varun Behl. She’d found him. And now she wanted to lose him again. The part of her brain that scoffed at her, that told her he was just an actor, suddenly had somewhere else it needed to be and went quiet. This was more real than she ever could have imagined, and the slender sword she was carrying wasn’t anywhere near big enough. Her fingers, though, somehow managed to wrap themselves around its hilt. They had a mind of their own.
There was movement to her left, and a gasp escaped her lips that didn’t sound all that different to the noises that had been worrying her so much just a few seconds ago. Closing her mouth before her heart leapt out of it, she forced herself to relax. It was Naz, of course, as impatient as ever.
“I’ll take the lead then, shall I?”
She was powerless to disagree. Grujo followed Naz, and Tregurtha stopped in front of her. She was immensely grateful that the poor light made it impossible for her to see the look of contempt that was undoubtedly disrupting his usually blank features.
“You with us, Idella Breck? It’s all a bit pointless without you, if I’m honest.”
Idella took a deep breath, and forced herself to nod.
“Uh-huh. Yep. With you.”
He gestured with his hand for her to continue ahead of him. She went where he pointed. As she scurried along after the pair of idiots that would probably walk straight into a trap without her, it became lighter as the number and size of the candles increased. The demon hunter spoke again, and the proximity of his voice made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“Do I have a volunteer, or shall I pick one of you?”
The resulting clamour took her by surprise. Whatever he needed a volunteer for was clearly the real reason his followers were here rather than fondling each other in the privacy of their own homes.
“Pick me, master,” she heard one man say.
“I volunteer, Lord Behl.” A woman this time, possibly the one who had sounded in pain less than a minute ago. “My blood yearns to be spilt by your hand.”
What the…? Idella, wide-eyed, wondered what could possibly cause anybody to say those words, in that order, and sound genuinely cheerful about it.
“You.” Varun Behl made his decision, and she had a feeling he’d picked the woman whose blood yearned to be spilt. “Altar. Now.”
“Pick up the pace.” Tregurtha’s order was accompanied by a shove in the back, and she wondered what had happened to Continue or go back; your decision. Was the unflappable guide becoming anxious, or was he simply getting annoyed at her sudden lack of enthusiasm? She wasn’t proud of herself, so she could hardly blame him.
She caught up with Naz and Grujo. They’d gone as far as they could go without stepping into the next room and revealing themselves. There were no doors, just an opening the width of two of them. On the other side was the main, cavernous space that had once been used to store merchandise but now accommodated the lair of Varun Behl, demon hunter. The temperature dropped a noticeable few degrees. This was it. The moment of truth. The culmination of all her investigations and clue-following. She was about to get what she’d paid for, whatever that may be. Of the half dozen or so teams that had started the mission, hers was the first to reach this point. There was no going back. In for a penny, in for a pound. Where had she heard that? Dear, departed Grandad Geoff, no doubt. He’d been full of useless old crap like that. She clamped a hand each on Naz and Grujo’s shoulders; Grujo didn’t react, but Naz jumped. He turned to face her, confidence draining from his face along with most of his blood.
“Ladies first?”
Idella smiled, aware that it was far from genuine but somehow drawing strength from her comrade’s failing confidence. Gently but firmly, she pushed Naz and Grujo far enough apart for her to be able to squeeze through.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, and strode into the room.
Ten
Rafferty was the first to see her coming. His acolytes all faced him, so he was the only one facing her. Them. She wasn’t alone. Three more followed her into the lair, all men. He was grateful Veronica and her lapdog had been correct in their conclusion that the first gamers were arriving, and the cringe worthy noises coming from his fellow actors’ mouths hadn’t been for nothing. Sex scenes had never been his thing; they made him squeamish. He didn’t think he was a prude, but he had no desire to find out which of these finely honed specimens were wearing merkins and which ones weren’t. Give him fake blood, any day of the week. It was less messy. Unless he had to drink too much of it, obviously, at which point he generally needed a medic on standby to deal with the sugar high. He’d played Dracula several times during his career, not to mention Spike in a truly awful Buffy The Vampire Slayer remake; it was before his slide into the alcoholic abyss, but it had at least helped him prepare for it by getting him used to waking up in a pile of his own vomit. He’d been hastily told who he’d be slaughtering today, but hadn’t thought to ask if Varun Behl was a blood drinker or not. Oh well; he’d go with the flow, and make a decision nearer the time. See if the occasion seemed to call for it or not.
Somebody somewhere cleared their throat, and he realised he’d been distracted. Veronica Schubert, no doubt. Som
ewhere offstage, but close enough to watch him intently. He couldn’t wait for her feedback. As long as this uncomfortable silence was the only reason he gave her to criticise him, he’d consider the day a success.
“Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.” He used his best sinister voice to welcome the newcomers, the overly British one that had won him so many villainous roles in the past. Of course, he had no idea whether he was supposed to say they were expecting them or not. For all he knew, the gamers’ arrival was supposed to have taken them all by surprise. Oh well. This was the Rafferty Barnes Show now, and Veronica Schubert could kiss his surgically enhanced derrière.
“You have?” One of the newcomers, a good looking fellow let down by greasy looking hair, sounded surprised. Ah. That answers that, then. Apparently, we were not expecting you.
“I am Varun Behl.” He tried to think of something clever to add, but couldn’t so left it at that, as if being Varun Behl simply explained everything. Another newcomer, a tall brute with a ridiculous scar from his head down to his eye that he hoped to God was courtesy of the makeup department, folded his arms and rolled his eyes. He was the guide, Tregurtha. Susan had mentioned him. He had to steer clear of him, which suited Rafferty just fine, as Tregurtha had to shadow the girl and make sure she didn’t kill anyone by mistake. It seemed a hell of a responsibility to Rafferty and, considering he was playing the object of the girl’s quest, he could only hope that the big man knew what he was doing.
“We’ve come for you, demon.” It was the handsome man again. Susan had told Rafferty his name, he was sure of it. Cujo? No, that was a dog from an old movie. Grujo. That was it. “You’ve possessed your last innocent victim.”
“Said the brave young man, just before the demon possessed him and made him wash his hair.”
That got a few giggles from the acolytes. He resisted the urge to give them an appreciative wink, especially as Veronica was watching his every move. She wouldn’t be happy, as he wasn’t supposed to be playing for laughs. This wasn’t a pantomime, after all. Movement from Tregurtha caught his eye; with a speed that would have shamed a professional pickpocket, the guide reached for the scabbard that hung from Idella Breck’s belt and used the hidden quick-release button to detach it, sword and all. His own, identical scabbard was already in his left hand; with a deftness that could only have been gained from many hours’ worth of practice, he swapped the two and gently placed his own, blunt sword on her belt. Rafferty hoped Tregurtha got paid plenty of money, as one mistake could destroy the myth and bring the entire show crashing down around their ears. He quickly averted his eyes, belatedly realising that staring at the exchange was probably the best way of drawing attention to it. He needn’t have worried, as the gamer seemed to be using up her entire quota of focus on simply not passing out. He allowed himself a satisfied nod. Damn, I’ve still got it.
“I am Grujo, last surviving monk of the Asger Juhl.” His tone was stiff as he drew himself up to his full height. He didn’t look like a monk. Well, his appearance didn’t gel with Rafferty’s preconceived image of a monk, anyway. Where was his bald spot?
“Hello, Grujo.” He tried to sound bored, buying time as he thought about what Susan had told him about the order of monks whose sole purpose was to hunt him down and destroy him. “Have you travelled far?”
“Far enough to have run out of shampoo, I suppose.” This led to sniggers from the acolytes. Rafferty winced, very much aware that, somewhere behind the scenes, Veronica Schubert was apoplectic. Apparently, he was a bad influence on his fellow actors. “My mission…” Grujo paused, distracted by the effect his light-heartedness was having on the acolytes, who were looking everywhere except each other in a bid to make sure their amusement didn’t lead to corpsing. He took a breath, and looked determined to get back on script. “My mission has led me from my monastery in the Ighalo mountains, to the forests of the dae-Miranwel and the underground cities of Shadzir. I serve Kiplogat, greatest of all the gods, and he has seen fit to lead me to you. I will destroy you, demon.”
Rafferty furrowed his brow, and bit back a retort about saving time by looking him up in the Yellow Pages. I’m going to have to talk to Veronica about this clunky script. In the meantime, he needed to react appropriately. Come on, Raff! Improvise! He thumped his armoured chest, and decided to speed things up by going for rage. He needed to get this first show out of the way, and hope that he was given enough time to practise a few things before the next gamers showed up. As intended, everyone jumped. Including his own acolytes. Good. Time to raise the volume a bit.
“You think you can defeat me?” Everyone jumped again as he roared his question, and he fed off their genuine surprise. Don’t make this too corny, Raff. Make him truly insulted. Don’t overdo it. “Where’s your army, you idiots? Where are your magical talismans, and your warlocks? Did you direct so much attention to your hunt, Grujo of the Asger Juhl, that you spared no thought as to what you might do when you actually found me?” He threw his hands up in the air, aware that he might not strictly be following his own advice. Bring it down a notch. He shook his head, and motioned dismissively to his acolytes. “I am offended. Bring the monk to me.” Pause. “No. I want him on that altar. Tonight, we drink holy blood.”
The acolytes froze, no longer worried about breaking character through giggling. One of the women, he had no idea of her name, looked desperately over at a table by the wall. On it, piled somewhat haphazardly, were swords. This wasn’t going well.
“Now, Grujo!” A new voice. Idella Breck, the gamer. Quiet until now, of course she would have to be the one to capitalise on his mistake. Realising he had to buy a few seconds for the acolytes to arm themselves, Rafferty drew his own sword with a yell and placed himself between the two groups. Taking the hint, the acolytes erupted into startled movement. Now all he had to do was remember how to use the damn thing. He hefted it, surprised at how light it felt in his hand. It was long and straight, not much good for the hacking and slashing style of fighting he was more comfortable with. Still, he could do some damage with this. Or could have done, anyway, if the bade hadn’t been deliberately blunted by an over-zealous Professional Standards Officer. Well, we wouldn’t want to cut anyone with this mighty sword, would we?
Idella leapt forward, Tregurtha only half a step behind. Her face was an expression of wild abandon that made Rafferty shudder, and the guide’s blank look couldn’t have been more opposite. Is he taking this seriously enough? Thankfully she had no idea that the weapon she was drawing was as dull as his own, nothing more than a metal cudgel at best. She stabbed wildly and pointlessly at his chest, and he was more than a little relieved to note she was far from being a trained Samurai. The thrust was easy enough to sidestep and, as she stumbled past, he kicked her backside and sent her sprawling to the floor. Tregurtha towered over him, all-too-real sword in hand, and made a token effort of an attack. Intimidated by the larger man, Rafferty cowered back slightly; Tregurtha sighed, glanced at Idella to make sure she wasn’t looking, then hit Rafferty’s blade with his own purely for the sound effect, and stumbled to his knees next to the gamer. Whilst this was happening, Grujo and the other one, whose name escaped him, advanced with their own swords drawn.
By now, the acolytes had armed themselves with their own dulled weapons. Rafferty moved out of their way with some relief, pleased that the weapons looked comfortable enough in their hands that he could leave the rest of the swordplay to them. He pointed his sword at Grujo.
“Get him!”
Eleven
The floor was rough. Idella looked from her grazed palms to the sword that she’d dropped in order to break her fall. Her knees hurt, the right one in particular. It had taken the brunt of her fall, and was the reason there were tears in her eyes. That could have gone better. She reached for the sword, and saw Tregurtha next to her in a similar position. His jaw was set, and he’d kept hold of his sword. He looked annoyed, embarrassed, or both. She was surprised; Tregurtha, huge and seemingly invincible, had
fared no better attacking the demon hunter than she had. They needed a better plan. Or any kind of plan, to be honest.
She forced her reluctant body back to its feet. Tregurtha did the same. Naz and Grujo were under attack from the acolytes, who had managed to get to their weapons despite her instinctive decision to throw caution to the wind. Varun Behl had removed himself from the fray; he’d sheathed his sword and was watching the proceedings with a cold smile, terrifyingly handsome in his dragon armour. Doubt crept in. How are we going to defeat that?
One of the acolytes spotted them, and nudged a similar looking man to his right. They turned and charged without hesitation, despite knowing they’d have an easier time facing Grujo and Naz than they would facing herself and Tregurtha. Tregurtha, anyway. She lifted her sword to block a swing, and cried out involuntarily when the two blades clashed and her weapon was almost wrenched from her hands. She looked across to her guide and supposed protector, hoping he’d come to her rescue and despatch her acolyte, but he was trading metallic blows with his own opponent. She took a step back, and Tregurtha somehow managed to free up a hand to shove her hard in the back.
“Fight him, Idella!” She couldn’t tell whether he spoke to her through gritted teeth because he was concentrating hard on his battle, or because he was annoyed at her retreat. Either way, he was right. This was why she was here. To challenge herself. How could she hope for unaccompanied adventures when she couldn’t even deal with a game? Because it doesn’t feel like a game.
