Erebos (6 page)

He wants to resemble his real self as little as possible. So: short blond hair that sticks up from his head in spikes, a pointy nose and narrow grey eyes. He contemplates his newly created character, who no longer bears any resemblance to Nameless. Carefully he chooses clothing: a gold-green jacket, dark trousers, bucket-top boots. A leather cap that will be better protection than nothing, although he would have preferred a helmet. Unfortunately they're not available to dark elves.

He does some more work on his facial features – enlarges the eyes and the distance between the mouth and nose. Raises the eyebrows. Makes the cheekbones more pronounced and thinks that he looks like a king's lost son.

‘Choose a vocation,' it says on the fourth tablet.

Assassin, bard, mage, hunter, scout, guard, knight, thief. Ample choice. The advantages of each and every class are explained to him. He learns that werewolves make particularly good mages, whereas vampires have a talent as assassins, and also as thieves. Dark elves too, like himself, make good thieves.

He hesitates. And jumps when the hinges of the door suddenly creak. It swings open and someone enters the tower. A deformed shadow. A gnome with a hunched back and crooked legs, a red, bulbous nose and a dark blue growth on his neck. He hobbles closer, sits astride one of the chests and licks his lips.

‘Another dark elf, well well. A popular species, so it seems.'

‘Really?'

That doesn't please the new-fledged dark elf. He doesn't want to be one of many.

‘Indeed. Have you already decided on a profession?'

He looks at the list.

‘Maybe a thief or a guard. Or possibly a knight.'

‘How about the mage? They're powerful, they've got the gift of magic.'

He mulls over this possibility briefly before he rules it out. He's not in the mood for witchcraft, he's in the mood for sword-fighting. ‘No, not a mage. A knight.'

‘Are you sure?'

Yes, he is. Knight sounds noble, almost like a prince.

‘Knight,' he affirms.

‘Choose your abilities,' the fifth tablet demands. Underneath, there is an overwhelmingly long list of characteristics. He chooses far sight, strength, stamina, and the ability to blend into the surroundings. Lighting fires. Speed. Jumping power.

He is cautious because he doesn't know how many skills he is entitled to in total. Even now every decision means that other options are lost to him. When he selects ‘slight healing power' the ‘death curse' option ceases to exist. For ‘shield of strength' ‘iron-skin' disappears.

After ten choices it's suddenly over. The writing dissolves into nothing, right at the moment when he thinks he can keep on going forever.

‘You will soon miss some of the things you have spurned,' says the gnome, and smiles.

‘Maybe.'

He wonders what this ugly fellow is doing here – he would actually prefer to be alone. The sixth tablet is waiting.

‘Choose your weapons.' A massive chest opens underneath the tablet. Swords, spears, shields, several morningstars of various sizes. A few hideous-looking barbed blades, whips armed with claws, spiked clubs.

‘Would you like some advice?' the gnome asks.

So you can put one over me?

‘No thank you.'

He wants to find the right things himself. Carefully he draws one sword after the other out of the box, and lines them up along the wall, then tests how well he can lift each of them, how quickly he can swing them. Finally his choice falls on a longsword with a narrow blade and a handle swathed in dark red that buzzes seductively when he swings it through the air.

The shields are all made of wood, and don't inspire much confidence. Besides, the bigger they are, the heavier – they'll slow him down. So he chooses the smallest shield he can find: round, with a bronze shield boss and blue serpentine patterns painted on the wood.

‘You can strap it onto your back,' the gnome advises him and swings his crooked legs energetically as if he wants to spur the chest on.

The dark elf doesn't deign to answer. He goes up to the seventh, and final tablet.

‘Choose your name.'

Nick is somewhat surprised to remember that not so long ago he intended to call himself Gargoyle. Suddenly that doesn't suit him at all any more. He looks around to see whether another chest might not open, containing scrolls with suggested names. No. He's on his own with the choice of a name.

Almost, anyway, since the gnome has his own idea of helpful advice.

‘Elfintail, Elfinsnail, Darklingdithersmall! Pointy-Ear, Weasel-Fear! Or more classical? Momos, Eris, Ker or Ponos, not forgetting Moros! Something there you like?'

Briefly he toys with the idea of taking his sword and doing away with the gnome. It can't be all that hard and he would have some peace to think about it. But the thought of shrill gnomish death cries and pools of blood on the tower floor deter him.

Classical, he thinks, is a good cue. Something classically Roman. Marius. No, Sarius.

He doesn't hesitate – the name is exactly what he was looking for. He enters it.

‘Sarius, Ssssarius, Sa-ri-us,' the name is murmured through the tower. ‘Welcome, Sarius.'

‘Sarius? How boring! The boring ones die quickly. Did you know that, Sarius?'

The gnome hops off the chest and as a parting gesture pokes his pointy green tongue out. It reaches down to his chest.

Sarius follows him out of the tower, out into the sun-drenched meadow. Only when he sees the gnome limp off into the forest and disappear does he strap the shield to his back.

CHAPTER 5

Sarius reaches the forest's edge and spots berries growing in the shade of the trees. They're glowing red like small round rubies between the furry leaves. Can he pick them? He can. To his delight he notices that he now has an inventory he can use, in which everything belonging to him is stored. In it he finds the toad meat that he captured when he was still Nameless. Apart from that the inventory is empty, so he has enough room for berries.

He straightens up when he hears a rustling. Are there snakes in the bushes? A quick look all around – no, there's nothing there. No-one. Sarius turns his attention back to the berries. Surely they must be growing here just so he can stock up on food supplies.

The attack comes so suddenly that it's all over by the time Sarius gets scared. Two men have jumped on him from behind and are holding him down on the ground. One pushes his knee into Sarius's back, bends his arms back and ties them up. The other one holds a dagger under his chin with dried blood and hair stuck to it.

Sarius can't defend himself. He tries, but only manages to thrash about. He can't stop the bigger of the two men from picking him up and throwing him over his shoulder like a sack. So this is it, then. Sarius, dark elf and knight, is caught by surprise while picking berries and kidnapped. If he's unlucky, the man with the dagger will do him in. Then the adventure will be over. Sod it, sod it, sod it! It's typical. He's probably the only one who's stupid enough to have been caught by surprise like that.

They march through the forest and the man who's carrying Sarius keeps adjusting his load on his shoulder. Presumably he doesn't want to inadvertently lose him. But then he does after all. At the edge of an embankment he stops dead, throws him off and despatches him down the slope with a kick.

Sarius goes head over heels twice before he comes to rest on level ground.

There are three figures waiting for him down here who bear a strong resemblance to his kidnappers: torn clothing, skin covered in dirt, scars. One is missing an eye, another has a hunchback. Only their weapons look well cared for.

‘Where did you find this one?' the hunchback calls.

‘Crawling round on the ground near the tower. Caught him easier than a little dove.'

The hunchback takes Sarius by the collar and sits him upright against a tree trunk.

‘Do you think he'll be any use as a robber? Should we keep him?'

The one-eyed character cocks his head to one side as if he could examine Sarius better that way.

‘No,' he declares. ‘This one's not suitable. He doesn't fit in, you can tell by his clothing. He's one of those who are moving against Ortolan.'

‘Then we'll slit his throat!' the hunchback says enthusiastically.

Sarius would like to say something in reply – for example, that he doesn't know anyone called Ortolan and would gladly join a robber band any time, if it means he's allowed to live. But he can't. Before, with the gnome, he could speak, but now he's mute. Things are happening around him as if he's in a movie.

The third man, whose face is hidden in the shadow of a big hat, hasn't said anything yet. Now he takes a step closer.

‘No. We won't kill him. This one isn't like the others.'

He bends down and reaches into Sarius's pockets.

‘Take a look. No poisons, no ransom letters. No gold. We can let this one go.'

‘Just like that?' The hunchback is disappointed. ‘Where's the sense in that? It's no fun!'

The man with the broad-brimmed hat silences him with a gesture.

‘I hope someone like him will win in the end. The thing is though, Sarius, I'm afraid it's mostly the little ones who lose. Like you. But I'm not going to lay a hand on any of them.'

He chases off the hunchback, who's trying to get at the contents of Sarius's pockets.

‘I'll give you a piece of advice instead. Do you know what would be best for you?'

No, Sarius would like to say, if he could. But his opposite number isn't expecting an answer anyway. He grabs Sarius by the arms and unties him.

‘You should leave Erebos. Go, and never come back. Pretend you've never been here. Forget this world. Will you do that?'

Of course not, Sarius thinks. He tries to make out a face under the man's hat brim, but he can't even see eyes.

‘If you want to leave Erebos, then run away. Run back to the tower. Now.'

Is this a chance to escape, or a trap? Will Erebos lock him out if he takes the opportunity to escape from his kidnappers? He stands there undecided. The robber takes that for an answer.

‘I thought as much,' he sighs. ‘Then listen to me carefully. No-one here is your friend. Even if it looks that way to you. No-one will help you, because everyone wants to get into the Inner Circle and only very few make it.'

Sarius doesn't understand a word. What Inner Circle?

‘At the end only a few will be left – those who have been chosen for the battle against Ortolan. Killing the monster, finding the treasure – it's not something everyone is cut out for.'

It's hard to tell whether the robber is joking or not, and Sarius can't inquire.

‘Don't divulge any of what I'm telling you to the others. Don't rob yourself of your advantage – it's small enough. See to it that you find wish crystals. They will make your life easier. Your life, do you understand?'

‘Don't tell him anything about wish crystals,' the hunchback interjects.

‘Why not? He will need them. You know what, Sarius? Wish crystals are one of the biggest secrets of Erebos. They serve you. They make the impossible possible. They make your dreams come true.'

‘If the messenger finds out all the stuff you've been whispering in the lad's ear, he'll make you shorter by a head,' the hunchback snarls.

‘He'll do that in any case, if he gets his hands on me.'

The man with the big hat – he's the leader, he must be the leader, Sarius thinks – turns his back on him and walks away slowly through the undergrowth. The others follow; the one-eyed character hurriedly spits in Sarius's face before he goes. Apart from that no-one's harmed a hair on his head. But then no-one's let on to him what he's supposed to do now, either.

So he climbs back up the embankment and tries to get his bearings. The tower would have to be to the left, and he doesn't want to go back there. He looks around him, searching for a reference point. And suddenly he hears a faint clanking sound coming from where the forest is darkest.

Sarius follows the sound, which is becoming clearer with every step. Iron striking iron, and wood, and stone. Mixed with a dull roar and something like cries of pain. A battle. He keeps following the noise with a hot feeling inside that could be curiosity or fear, or both, until he's faced with an obstacle. He slows his pace and stares nonplussed at a black wall that runs right across the countryside and towers high above the trees. The black shines like tar.

Climbing over the wall is out of the question – he needs to find a way through. Or the far end of this giant obstacle. He turns to the left; the battle sounds are coming from that direction. He runs till his stamina is used up. No gateway. Enraged, he strikes at the wall with his sword. Black splinters off. Underneath two letters become visible: er.

Convinced that a message is hidden under the shiny coating, he keeps working away at the wall with his sword, hoping he won't break it in the process. But it works. The sword holds up, and a few minutes later Sarius has exposed a whole sentence. An ambiguous sentence: Enter the net. He laughs.

I'm a good catch, he thinks, and opens a connection to the internet.

At that moment a part of the wall collapses, revealing a battle scene. Two barbarians, a cat woman, a werewolf, several dwarfs, three vampires and two dark elves are doing battle with four incredibly ugly trolls. One of them already has three arrows sticking out of his throat. They must be from the cat woman – she's the only one with a bow. Another troll swings a lump of rock, and hurls it at the werewolf, who takes a giant leap to safety. Two of the dwarves are working with their axes on the third troll's legs, aided by the larger of the two barbarians, who is flailing the troll's back with his cudgel.

A bluish oval floats above them all. It sparkles like a giant polished sapphire, turning slowly on its own axis. Is it a wish crystal? But it would be too big to take with him. The others – the fighters – are completely ignoring the thing. Anyway they're far too busy. Sarius feels for the sword at his belt. It suddenly appears so harmless and small. He should probably hurl himself into the fray, but he doesn't dare. One of the dwarves has blood dripping down under his helmet, running into his beard and pooling there. And yet the dwarf is fighting like a madman.