Gamers' Quest (4 page)

The Fat Man watched from his window as Zyra escaped.

‘Run, run, run,’ he breathed. ‘Run as fast as you can and as far as you like. In the end, it will achieve little more than sport for me.’ He smiled to himself. ‘And I do so like a good chase … so long as I win in the end. And I always do!’

The Fat Man turned from the window. He slowly walked over to the safe and closed it, replacing his portrait over it. He then crossed the room to the drapes. At the snap of his fingers they drew back to reveal a large metal door. He reached a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out another key. He turned it over and over with his podgy fingers as if preparing to perform a card trick, then held it up, its faint glow reflected in his oh-so-dark eyes.

‘Time to put matters into play,’ he said. ‘Hail to the Designers.’

The door opened.

‘Wait!’ hissed Zyra, holding up a hand to stop Tark from entering. ‘Somethin's not right.’

They carefully peered into the gloom of their basement hideout. The place was a mess – well, more of a mess than it usually was. The mattresses had been torn apart, their belongings strewn across the floor and Zyra's closet had been tipped over. The place had been ransacked. Their eyes immediately went to the far corner. The floorboards had been pulled up, the metal shielding torn apart, and the open chest rested on the floor beside the gaping hole.

Tark rushed forward to check their stash, still clutching the bag o’ gold. Zyra followed more cautiously, knives drawn.

‘I don't gets it,’ said Tark, staring into the chest. ‘Why breaks into our stash, but not takes any of it?’

‘That's a real easy-like question to answer,’ said a shrill voice from the hole in the floor. ‘What I was looking for wasn't in there.’

As Tark and Zyra watched, a large shape started to climb up from under the floor. As the shape squeezed itself out of the hole, they could see that it was a woman – albeit a very large woman.

She was a head taller than Zyra, with shoulders broader than any warrior either Tark or Zyra had ever met. A good padding of fat added to her bulk, and copious amounts of hair, gathered up into an untidy bun on the top of her head made her appear even taller.

‘Well now,’ she said, smoothing out her voluminous green and yellow, floral-patterned dress and adjusting her cream lace-edged apron. ‘Pleased to meet you all. The name's Vera.’

Copious bangles and bracelets jangled on her chunky wrists and several strings of pearls hung around her thick neck. She batted her eyelids, her false eyelashes flapping about like demented moths against the bright blue eye-shadow. Her lips were slathered with way too much lipstick, and her ample cheeks over-rouged.

She cast her eyes around the basement. ‘I like what you've done with the place, but it could use a decorator's touch. If you all ever need a hand just you let me know. Be happy to dispense a little advice. I've had lots of experience, I have. Made a cold uninvitin’ cave into a cosy home, I did.’

‘Do I knows ya?’ asked Tark. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on this bizarre looking woman, and yet she seemed vaguely familiar.

‘We've not actually met, not official-like,’ said the woman, sniffing at the air around her. ‘But I do believe I recognise your smell.’

‘Wots ya doin’ in ’ere?’ demanded Zyra.

‘Straight down to business,’ said Vera, nodding. ‘I can respect that, I can. I'm here because I believe that you all have something that belongs to little ol’ me.’ She looked straight at Tark. ‘Hand it over and I'll be on me way, real peaceful-like, back to my own home sweet home.’

Tark clutched the bag o’ gold tighter to his chest as his eyes narrowed. ‘You wuz in the dragon's cave.’

‘That I was,’ said Vera. ‘As were you. Took the bag o’ gold but left your scent. Yes, you did. It's going to take me some time and effort to deodorise the place.’ She held up a placating hand, the bangles jangling. ‘No offence meant, it's just that your aroma lacks any real appeal for me.’

‘I wons this ’ere gold fair ’n’ square,’ said Tark.

‘I would hardly call using a stolen sword o’ light, fair ’n’ square,’ Vera tutted, putting her hands on her hips. ‘My poor Edgar didn't stand a chance. No, he didn't.’

‘It's still mine!’ said Tark, taking a step back. ‘Combat is combat, and the dragon lost.’

‘Combat may indeed be combat … but it's no never-mind in this here case.’ Vera reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a scroll of parchment. ‘This here is my Edgar's last will and testament.’ She unrolled the parchment and studied it. ‘And in it he bequeaths, and I quote: “all my worldly possessions to my beloved wife”.’ Vera stopped reading momentarily and looked up. ‘That'd be me.’ Then she continued. ‘“Furthermore I bequeath to her my body, which she may partition, sell and do with what she will”.’ She rolled up the parchment and replaced it in her pocket.

‘Do you all realise just how valuable a dragon's body is? Highly sort after are certain internal organs by alchemists and apothecaries … and collectors. You all could say I married old Edgar for his body.’ She chuckled to herself momentarily. Then her features hardened. ‘Edgar was elderly. He would have kicked it naturally in the next year or two. I even had a buyer lined up. But no, you all had to go and burn him up with your sword thingy. All you left me was a few charred scales.’ She glared at Tark. ‘Not real happy about that.’ She took a step forward. ‘And then you all go and steal his gold. My gold.’ She took another step forward. ‘Not real happy about that either. So hand over my inheritance.’

As Vera took another threatening step forward, Zyra threw one of her knives. It embedded in Vera's left shoulder.

‘Ouch!’ exclaimed Vera. ‘Why did you have to go and do that?’ She looked at the knife in her shoulder, a patch of red forming on the floral pattern around it. ‘That wasn't very nice. Now I'll have to kill you as well as take back my gold.’

Zyra launched herself at Vera, her second knife slashing for Vera's throat. But Vera swatted her aside like a fly. As Zyra thudded to the floor, Vera pulled the knife out of her shoulder, briefly studied the blood dripping from it and then threw it at Zyra. Luckily, her aim was not as developed as her strength. The knife clattered to the ground beside Zyra.

Vera turned back to Tark. Still clutching his bag o’ gold, and hoping against hope, Tark drew the sword o’ light.

‘Oh, I don't think that'll be working no more,’ said Vera, still advancing. ‘Not after dispatching a dragon. Takes a lot of energy to do that. So unless you all knows how to recharge it, and I'm guessing here that you don't, it's not going to do you all that much good.’

Tark considered using the unlighted sword o’ light simply as an ordinary sword, but then he thought better of it. Instead, he started backing away. Vera lunged. Tark sidestepped. She lunged again. He sidestepped again. She might be huge, but fast she was not.

Suddenly Zyra was on the hideous woman's back, arm wrapped around Vera's throat. But Vera merely tossed her aside again, sending her crashing into the hole in the floor where the chest had been. As Tark dodged Vera yet again, he got an idea. He sheathed the useless sword and edged his way around to the collapsed section of wall. Vera charged him yet again. He stepped aside. She went crashing into what remained of the wall. Tark ran to the other side of the basement as the support beam and brickwork collapsed around Vera. Seconds later an enormous mound of rubble came crashing down from the remains of the building above.

Dust filled the air as fragments of stone and brick and mortar scattered through the basement. Tark watched as bits of rubble continued to fall, adding to the huge pile that had crushed and buried Vera. He sighed with relief, then coughed up a lungful of dust.

‘Good thinkin’,’ said Zyra, as she pulled herself out of the hole, waving dust from in front of her face.

‘Nots a problem!’ said Tark with a smirk.

‘She aints no normal woman,’ said Zyra, retrieving her knives.

‘Normal people don't marry dragons,’ said Tark.

‘I meants ’er strength,’ said Zyra.

‘Maybe she's a ogress in disguise?’

‘Maybe,’ agreed Zyra. ‘Anyways, we's betta gets out of ’ere.’

Tark went over to the open chest, dropped the bag o’ gold into it and closed the lid. He started to lift it awkwardly.

‘Hangs on,’ said Zyra, standing next to her overturned closet. ‘Gives us a hand with this.’

Tark helped Zyra lift the closet back into its spot against the wall. Zyra reached out and yanked at the door without using her other hand to hold it in place. The door fell off its hinges, revealing a rack of clothing on old hangers and a box of assorted old weapons – everything from rusty daggers to empty pistols.

Zyra reached in behind the clothes and pulled out a shopping cart. It was the old-fashioned, vinyl-covered sort that old women usually pushed around. She shoved it at Tark.

‘Puts it in ’ere,’ she instructed.

Tark nodded and went to load their stash. As he did so, Zyra reached into the closet and pulled out her leather travelling coat. Well-worn and dark red in colour, this was her signature piece – the one bit of clothing that meant more to her than any other, the coat which she looked best in, the coat that swayed and swished as she walked, the coat with a great many pockets in which to conceal a great many weapons. She loaded up those pockets with some extra knives, a pair of tarnished brass knuckles and the last of her stars.

With the cart loaded and Zyra dressed for the occasion, they headed for the exit.

‘Wot wuz that?’ asked Tark, whirling around.

‘Wot wuz wot?’ asked Zyra, nervously.

‘That sound,’ said Tark. ‘Like shifting rubble.’

They both looked towards the pile of rubble. Nothing moved. Everything was silent.

‘Ya don't suppose,’ started Tark.

‘No way!’

‘Comes on,’ said Tark, turning away, deciding it was best not to think about what he thought he might have heard. ‘We betta go.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Zyra. ‘Let's go sees the Oracle.’

Tark and Zyra looked up at the imposing building. Although still crumbling, attempts had been made to patch it up. Dried mud held old bricks in place and wooden beams supported leaning walls. The enormous windows on either side of the double doors still had a few pieces of stained glass in place. The remaining sections were covered over with cardboard, wood and even old newspapers. The yard around the building was neat and cared for, something unheard of elsewhere in the City.

Above the double doors was a wooden beam with words carved into it: ‘The Temple of Paths’.

‘’Ere goes,’ said Tark, striding up to the front of the building, shopping cart in tow. He pulled the chain by the double doors.

‘Hopes we gets an easy path,’ said Zyra.

‘Yeah, like that'll happen!’

Easy paths were not assigned to thievers like them. The Designers’ rules set out certain types of paths for certain classes of people. The best they could hope for was a path that wasn't too life-threatening.

The door creaked open to release the sound of chanting from within. Brown robes and a cowl concealed the identity of the monk who had opened the door. A small Designers Paradise logo, the letters DP in an intertwined silver and gold swirl, hung around the hooded figure's neck on a long piece of twine.

‘In the name of the Designers,’ said Zyra, ‘we seeks the wisdom of the Oracle to shows us the way to Paradise.’

The monk inclined his head and stepped back to allow them entry. Tark and Zyra stepped into the gloom. The building was all one room, with a high vaulted ceiling. The interior was in much better condition than the exterior. The walls were lined with a row of television screens on sconces, each displaying the image of flickering candles. More screens hung from the ceiling joists, these displaying nothing but static. The combined screens, along with the streams of sunshine entering through the few remaining pieces of stained glass, gave the room an eerie quality.

Just below the ceiling joists, a set of four booths protruded from each of the longer walls. They had the appearance of opera boxes, except that each of them had a Designers Paradise logo stencilled onto its rounded front. Tark wondered if distinguished people sat in them during important ceremonies, while ordinary people stood on the stone floor below.

Monks in hooded robes knelt on the flagstone floor, chanting and occasionally prostrating themselves.

A monk in red robes stood silently at a raised altar. Brocaded drapes of bronze and purple adorned the wall behind it. The monk that had shown them in indicated to Tark and Zyra that they should go forward. They walked quickly up the aisle of chanting monks, Tark still pulling the cart containing their stash.

‘Place your keys onto the altar,’ boomed the red monk's deep, gravelly voice. ‘So that the Oracle may see if you have permission.’

Zyra placed the two stolen keys onto the smooth stone surface of the altar. It lit up from within, the top glowing a pearlescent pink.

‘Place your palms onto the altar,’ continued the monk, ‘so that the Oracle may see if you are worthy.’

Zyra took a deep breath and placed her hand, palm down, onto the altar next to the first key. Tark hesitated, wondering if his thoughts about Zyra were enough to make him unworthy in the eyes of the Oracle. Thoughts were not against the Designers’ rules, he told himself, only actions. Zyra glared at him sternly. He hastily reached out his hand and placed it onto the altar, next to the second key.

The colour of the light segued to green.

‘You are worthy,’ said the monk. ‘The Oracle will speak to you.’ Then he turned his back to them and knelt.

Tark sighed with relief and snatched his hand back. Zyra also withdrew her hand. An image of their faces appeared on the stone surface of the altar.

‘Identity confirmed,’ said a soft, androgynous voice. The voice did not seem to have a point of origin, rather it echoed from all around. ‘Base level contenders. Appropriate pathway being assigned.’ There was a brief pause, during which Tark and Zyra looked at each other expectantly. ‘Pathway assigned. Entry point allocated. Door 162. Location: City area designation –’

Suddenly the Oracle stopped speaking. Different colours flashed across the surface of the altar.

‘New information being downloaded and assessed. Please wait!’

‘Huh?’ said Tark.

Zyra noticed the red monk move slightly, inclining his hooded head to one side. Was something wrong?

‘Additional elements required for contenders. Pathway reassigned. Entry point allocated. Door 323. Location: sewage tunnels.’

‘Crap!’ said Tark.

Zyra elbowed him to be quiet and respectful. If they antagonised the Oracle, they may be given an even worse pathway – although Zyra found it hard to imagine something worse than the sewers.

‘Displaying pathway now.’

A map appeared on the surface of the altar, just as a loud crashing sound shattered the calm ambiance of the Temple.

Tark and Zyra whipped around to see the Temple doors torn from their hinges, a dishevelled Vera standing in the opening, fragments of rubble and dust caught in her hair and clothing.

‘Not happy!’ she screeched, as she began to advance up the aisle.

The red monk stood and turned.

‘The Temple of Paths is home to the Designers’ Oracle,’ boomed the monk. ‘It is not a place of conflict.’

‘Quick,’ hissed Tark to Zyra. ‘Memorise the map.’

As Zyra turned back to the altar and studied the map of the sewers, Vera took another step forward and bellowed, ‘Gold. Mine. Take. Now!’

‘Why's she chasing us for one lousy bag o’ gold?’ asked Tark. ‘With ’er strength, she coulds smash ’er way into a treasury and runs off with a king's ransom.’

‘Dunno.’ Zyra shrugged without looking up from the map. ‘Sentimental value?’

As the red monk nodded, the other monks all stood. As one, they moved to block Vera's path.

‘Do not defile the Designers’ Temple,’ said the red monk, his voice booming through the temple.

Vera answered by backhanding the nearest monk. With the jangling sound of bracelets and bangles, he was flung back into one of the television screens. Sparks erupted, smoke billowed from the broken screen and the monk fell to the stone floor – dead.

The red monk nodded again. The monks all threw back their robes. Beneath they were dressed in clinging black, with swords, daggers and tasers strapped to their bodies. Additional monks brandishing crossbows appeared in the booths along the walls.

‘You have been warned,’ called the red monk.

‘Gots it,’ said Zyra, grabbing the keys from the altar. The map disappeared, and the light within the altar was gone.

Vera backhanded another monk. Pandemonium broke out as the monks attacked.

‘Don'ts suppose there's a back way?’ Tark asked the red monk hopefully.

The red monk flung back his robes. Dressed like the others, he had but one weapon. As he drew the scimitar o’ light, he inclined his head to the drapes at the back of the Temple.

‘The crypt has an entry to the sewers.’

‘Thanks,’ said Tark.

‘Praise be to the Designers,’ added Zyra.

‘Praise be to the Designers!’ boomed the monk, as he walked purposefully towards the fight.

‘Comes on,’ said Zyra, as she dashed for the drapes. Tark followed, pulling the cart and glancing over his shoulder. Vera, crossbow arrows sticking out of her fleshy arms and torso, looking like an enraged bull, was flinging monks in all directions as her dress and apron swished about her bulk. But she was outnumbered. The monks swarmed over her like ants.

Zyra pulled back the drapes to reveal steps disappearing down into darkness. Between them, she and Tark carried the shopping cart down into the crypt.

It was a long narrow cellar. Cubicles lined the stone walls on either side from floor to ceiling. In front of each opening hung a small television screen with an image of a solemn monk with a haze of static behind him. In the darkness beyond each of the screens, Tark glimpsed brown robes. In the floor at the end of the crypt was a rough hole, which looked as if it had been hand-carved in a hurry by an inexperienced stonemason with a hammer and broken chisel.

‘This musts be it,’ said Zyra.

‘Pew!’ Tark sniffed the air. ‘Smells likes a toilet, nots a crypt.’

‘Maybes it's both,’ suggested Zyra. ‘The ’ole does lead to the sewers.’

‘Oh great,’ said Tark. ‘This just gets betta and betta.’

From above, they heard an almighty crash. Without further hesitation, Zyra jumped into the hole.

There was a splash, then Zyra's voice echoed up:

‘Throws down the stash.’

Tark pushed the cart into the hole, waited for the splash and Zyra's voice calling ‘Gots it’, then, holding his nose, he followed.