Erebos (19 page)

‘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 noticed 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.

The messenger turns to face the barbarians.

‘Beroxar is still bound by his vow. On no account should he forget that. Traitors die quickly. Of course he is free to win back his place in the Inner Circle at the appropriate opportunity. As any of you' – his sweeping gesture includes the entire Arena – ‘is free to fight for a place in the Inner Circle.'

The very next warrior takes this encouragement literally and challenges Wyrdana, the dark she-elf of the Inner Circle. She doesn't so much defeat him as dispose of him. Her hail of fireballs, lightning bolts and well-aimed spear throws doesn't last longer than it takes to blow your nose hard. It leaves the challenger lying in the sand; he departs the Arena a sad and sorry One.

Dark elves are no good? Yeah right. Show me someone who can beat that for a start. Sarius feels something like pride rising in him. No wonder Blood preferred to stick to one of the other muscle heads.

The next three fights are so unspectacular that Sarius's thoughts wander. He briefly takes notice when a wish crystal is at stake for the first time. Neither LaCor, the vampire, nor Maimai the cat woman possesses one, but they both really want to. Goggle-Eyes conjures one up and offers it as a reward. The cat woman cleans up and LaCor loses a level. Who to? No-one. Just because.

‘Feniel!'

He hasn't seen her so far in the mass of elves, but now she struts past him. Too bad the scorpions didn't get her, with her idiotic snub-nosed doll face. Sarius watches how she positions herself in the centre of the Arena and hopes she makes a bad choice. Maybe Drizzel, or one of the others who'll absolutely thrash the levels out of her.

‘Choose your opponent.'

A heartbeat before the answer comes, he knows what it will be. ‘I challenge Sarius.'

Straightaway the fear is back, and the image of Xohoo, dead, being dragged out of the Arena. He can't see Feniel's level, and she can't see his either, or she wouldn't be allowed to challenge him. So she's a Three. That ought to be do-able.

The crowd's impatient grumbling makes him realise that he's still standing thunderstruck among the other dark elves. Go, go, go!