Angel City (17 page)

‘Sorry, me,' I said, stepping forward.

He gave me the once over, stocking mask and all, and I could almost hear him thinking. He shook his head resignedly and yelled: ‘Armourer!'

A straight-looking guy in Levis and a commando pullover appeared from round the corner of the tunnel in which we were lined up. He was carrying an armful of plastic weapons ranging from clubs and swords to battle-axes and the scimitar-style sword with the nick in the blade, which I know is called a seax because I play Trivial Pursuit for money.

‘Come with me.' He jerked his head and I followed him around the tunnel.

He dropped his bundle of weapons on the rock floor near the wall of the cave, which was now as smooth as marble and icy to the touch.

‘Character?'

‘Warrior Priest,' I answered proudly.

‘Then you shouldn't see the thick of the action, but you have a duty to defend yourself.' He sized me up. ‘Going to wear armour?'

‘Hadn't thought about it,' I said honestly.

‘Best you don't. The Ghouls might mistake you for a Warrior. The Vampires are best dealt with by spells and you're lucky, you have a Grand Vizier on your quest. But you'll need something for the Zombies and the Skeletons. Sword or club?'

‘I'm more of a sword person.'

He looked me over for tell-tale signs of not taking this seriously, but fortunately I had the mask on.

‘Now I have to say this, I only hope you listen.' He picked up a plastic sword and wielded it violently against the wall of the cave. I flinched. ‘There. It might be plastic, but it can still hurt. So you have to pull your strokes, always. If you hit something and it howls, that's acting. If it screams, you're getting carried away.'

‘What if it doesn't say anything?'

‘Then you're probably hitting the wall. If you are struck on the extremities, arms or legs, you can continue to fight, but body and head wounds require assistance from a spellbinder. You're a Warrior Priest, though, right?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Then you can heal yourself as well as others. Do you know the spell of healing?'

‘Not really.'

‘“I
abjure thee vile spirit and bid you gone from these mortal places, binding and rebinding flesh to whole again.” It's a bit of a mouthful, so try it.'

I did.

‘Not bad,' said the Armourer, ‘but it's “vile”
spirit, not “blithe”.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Now get back to your quest group. The Game Guide will be issuing the challenge.'

‘Can I just ask one thing?' He nodded as he bent to pick up the spare weaponry. ‘I was due to meet a mate of mine after the ... the ... afterwards. He's monstering I think. Where would he be?'

‘In place, waiting to ambush you. You'll probably run into him. We've only got four monsters on this afternoon, so they're working double quests. It's like double shifts.'

I wondered if they had a union.

‘Thanks. My mate is called Tigger. Is he on today?'

‘Chopsy little git, can't stand still?'

‘Got him in one.'

‘Yeah, he's around somewhere. He'll probably find you before you find him.'

‘I was afraid of that.'

I picked up the plastic sword he had selected for me and, resting the blade on my shoulder, rejoined my group.

The Game Guide was dressed like a monk except instead of sandals he wore Travel Fox trainers that had reflectors built into the heels. I supposed they came in useful down in Nether World. He pulled up the cowl of his robe and addressed us.

‘You are a gathering of mercenaries all returned from various wars and here' – he waved his arms – ‘in this tavern at a crossroads by chance. You are wary of each other at first but you have one thing in common. You all seek further action. I am a traveller who comes to this tavern and I have gold enough for drink and meat.'

He waved his arms again and the group arranged themselves as if around a large rectangular table, crouching or sitting on the cold rock floor. I clocked them for the first time. Mr Goodson (sorry, Grand Vizier) was way the oldest, and I had a nasty feeling I was close on being the next.

Pan, Skullsplitter, Athelstan and Simeon were obviously Warriors and raring to go. They were miming drinking beer by the stone jug better than the average Glasgow pub crowd on a Friday night. Ug was a caveman – the club and fur leotard gave that away. God knows what the rest were. Canticle was the only obvious female, but then the light was bad.

One of them offered to ‘fill my bowl', which would have led to a fight in some of the places I go, but I played along. We must have looked like a dress rehearsal for
The Student Prince
(with a director on speed) from a distance.

‘You have refreshed yourself enough!' announced the Game Guide, which I thought was a bit rich as I was still on my first pint.

‘Now you must decide. Is it to be a Quest? Or must I hire your services as bodyguards for my Adventure?'

There was some dissension in the ranks here, but it was fairly half-hearted. Dammit, they'd paid for a Quest and they were going to get one.

‘What's the difference?' I hissed at the Grand Vizier.

‘A Quest means there will be treasure hidden along the way and we can share in the profits,' said Mr Goodson out loud.

‘Then we get adventure and profit!' shouted one of the Warriors; Simeon, I think. They all looked alike after a few stone jugs of ale.

‘We are agreed?' asked one of the Warriors; Skullsplitter maybe. He brandished a home-made double-headed battleaxe and put on a ferocious expression that almost took my mind off his acne.

‘Agreed,' we all muttered, nobody wanting to argue with a skin condition like that.

‘Then the journey will be long and hard with many dangers,' said the Game Guide.

‘Many dangers,' muttered Bindweed and Bog Myrtle in unison.

‘There is a Princess held in the depths of Nether World by the spells of the Undead, who have combined forces to denude her of her powers and her treasure.'

‘Her treasure,' said two or three of them in chorus.

‘Denude her,' I said, too late and too loud. They glared at me.

‘Along the way we fight for and reclaim her three magic torcs,' the Game Guide went on. He was getting into his stride now.

‘Three torcs,' came the echo. They were lapping it up.

‘With all three, the Vampires guarding her will be powerless to resist us. With less than three, we will have to fight for her.'

‘Fight for her.' They were on their feet at this.

‘Then follow me! The Quest begins!'

‘The Quest!' they cheered.

‘No chance of one for the road?' I asked, looking down at my imaginary ale. But I was talking to myself and had to jog to catch them up.

 

The first ambush caught us about 500 yards into the tunnel complex, not that I knew much about it. The Game Guide and one or two others had small pencil torches, which they shone at the roof so there was virtually total darkness ahead and underfoot. Suddenly there were two characters wearing what felt and smelled like old sacks in among us, waving their arms around like windmills.

Utter confusion reigned among our gallant band of mercenaries. The Grand Vizier shouted for his spell-pouch, which he had dropped. (‘Stolen by elves!' somebody yelled. ‘No, I really have dropped it,' said Mr Goodson.) Skullsplitter yelled for more room in which to swing his broadsword; at least we assumed he meant his broadsword. Canticle screamed and screamed, and Simeon staggered back into me clutching his arm and moaning something about being wounded to the quick by a venom-coated blade.

It appeared from the way he was clinging to me that he wanted me to do something about it.

‘Go on, then, heal me.'

‘Pardon?'

‘You're a Warrior Priest aren't you? Say the spell of healing.'

I did my best, but he got up and walked off in disgust, muttering that he would just have to lose life-force and, anyway, it was ‘vile spirit' I was supposed to say.

The panic subsided and the Ghouls or Zombies or whatever they had been disappeared. The Game Guide put his torch on full, aimed at a section of the wall and yelled: ‘Time Out.'

If I was expecting a cup of tea and biscuits I was way out of line. A Time Out involved standing in a line against the cave wall as the Game Guide produced his notebook. While he was doing this, I screwed up my eyes and tried to work out where the entrance to the caves lay, and I realised I hadn't a clue. We had taken so many turns that I was totally disorientated. I seemed to be the only one who minded.

‘Well, my fine band of mercenaries, that was a shambles, wasn't it? We'll now do a life-force reckoning, and you must be honest. Remember, I witnessed the swath those Skeletons cut through you. I'm working on a 50 per cent damage ratio. First off, though, any fatalities?'

Now there was a daft question, but I half expected it to get an answer.

‘Very well, I'll let that one pass,' he said. ‘Now, sound off. Skullsplitter?'

‘No hits, one Skeleton kill.'

‘Nice try,' said the Game Guide. ‘I'll give you the no hits. Athelstan?'

‘Non-venomous wound to left side body part, healed by Grand Vizier.'

‘Good. One tenth magic potency reduction to Grand Vizier. Bog Myrtle?'

And so he went on down the line until even I got the general idea.

‘BBC? Sorry, BBW. Is that right?'

‘Yes. No hits, no spells.'

‘Not too impressive for a Warrior Priest, is it?' he smirked before he went on to Bindweed. What did he want? Blood?

When he had finished his list, he put the notebook away and shone his pencil torch up under his chin.

‘Now listen. This company of Warriors has reached only the edge of the Dark One's sphere of power. From here on we will face greater dangers as our foes grow stronger. They will tempt us with false clues and send stronger opponents. We must be on our guard. Is the company ready to proceed?'

The Mild Bunch muttered that it was and then Ug, the caveman character, stepped forward and pointed at his chest then towards the dark tunnel ahead.

‘Ug, Ug, Ug,' he said.

‘Brave lowlife,' said the Game Guide, ‘the honour is yours.'

‘What's going on?' I whispered to Canticle, whom I had decided to stay behind in case she fell.

‘Ug is volunteering to scout ahead of the company,' she enthused, almost dewy-eyed with hero-worship.

‘Why doesn't he say so?' I had to ask.

‘Cavemen are only allowed one line of dialogue.'

Of course. Silly me.

Fifty yards further in, or it could have been a hundred, it was getting impossible to tell, we came across our next challenge. I was only surprised that no-one had said, ‘It's quiet; too quiet.'

Three planks of wood about six feet long were laid out on the floor. Beyond them was a semi-circular cave carved out of the main tunnel, and this was lit by two red-filtered lanterns. Chained to the far wall was a woman old enough to know better in a white shroud, her head bent on to her chest and one of the worst-fitting long black wigs I had ever seen cascading hair almost to the floor. In front of her, carrying plastic swords, were two more monsters, covered from head to toe in black sacking and moaning the way football fans do at referees.

Ug, our kamikaze caveman, strode on to the planks of wood and, yelling his one line of dialogue, offered battle to the Zombies.

They creamed him. Working together, they rained blows down on him until he staggered back into the arms of the Grand Vizier, amidst a howling of protest, obscenities and spells from our side. One of the Zombies, a big, thickset guy, made a triumphant gesture with his fist. He reminded me of one of the stewards I knew at the last Guns ‘N' Roses concert.

‘A plan! We need a plan!' went up the cry from the gallant mercenaries.

As they got into a huddle to decide tactics, I stepped forward to get a better look at the Zombies, but both were too big for Tigger.

A torch came on in my face.

‘Excuse me, old chap,' said the Game Guide drily. ‘It's BBW, isn't it? Yes, I thought so. Don't want to worry you, but you've just stepped into a mile-deep chasm at the bottom of which are the Quicksands of the Grey Worm.'

I looked down at the tunnel floor and then realised that everyone else was treating the three planks as a bridge. I hopped back on and whispered, ‘Sorry.'

‘Do try and keep up,' said the Game Guide before flicking off his torch and disappearing into the gloom again.

There followed a good half-hour's debate about whether we should rush the bridge or blind the Zombies and free the bird with magic. I was told to drag the fatally wounded Ug out of the action and to heal him. As I did so, trying to remember the spell, he said, ‘Take your time, mate, I've done my bit,' and produced half a cigarette from somewhere inside his furs.