Erebos (15 page)

‘As a Two? That's not very clever. But go right ahead. It's got nothing to do with me.'

She turns back to the wood grain on the bench. Sarius finds a staircase that leads down. There's more light in the cellar than upstairs; an open fire illuminates the vaulted ceiling. The list is impossible to miss: it's affixed to the wall and guarded by a soldier. As Sarius approaches the man addresses him.

‘Have you come here to register?'

‘Yes.'

‘What is your name?'

‘Sarius.'

He peers past the soldier, trying to get a glimpse at the list. He knows some of the names recorded on it: BloodWork, Xohoo, Keskorian, Sapujapu, Tyrania. There's no Lelant, as far as he can tell, nor anyone else who was with him in the labyrinth.

‘What weapon do you wish to compete with?'

‘With a sword.'

The soldier notes something down in a book.

‘You're still a Two, I see.'

Sarius is sick of having that thrown in his face constantly.

‘Yes. So? I haven't been here that long. That's why I want to take part in the fights – so I can catch up.'

Something is stirring at the back of the vaulted cellar. A tall person with long black hair gets up from his chair and stands in the light from the open fire.

‘If you are in such a hurry to catch up, why don't you compete against me? We'll fight a duel.'

The sight of his challenger gives Sarius a weird feeling: there's something about him that's not right. Who does he remind him of? A shiver runs down his spine as the realisation finally dawns: The unknown warrior looks like Nick Dunmore in ten years' time. The same straight dark hair, the narrow eyes, the dimple in his chin – his features exactly, but more mature and with a touch of stubble. The name of the fighter is LordNick. There's no way that's a coincidence.

‘So, what's it to be? Duel or no duel?'

‘If it's permitted . . .'

It's too bad that he doesn't know LordNick's level. What if he's a Seven or an Eight? But perhaps he's only a Three, then maybe Sarius would have a chance. He thinks about how he killed the scorpion, and feels a surge of confidence.

‘Duels in the tavern are permitted,' the soldier declares; he's even leaving his list unguarded at the prospect of a fight. ‘However the weaker one must challenge the stronger. In this case it means the challenge must come from Sarius.'

Sarius is not sure if that's what he wants. Until now he's only fought against monsters, not his comrades. On the other hand, if he wants to compete in the Arena, it can't hurt to have a practice round under his belt.

‘Fine. I challenge LordNick to a duel.'

‘Terrific, Titch!' his opponent yells.

It's all very well for him, Sarius thinks. After all he can see that I'm only a Two. He draws back from LordNick, who's already lining him up in his sights.

‘What shall we fight for? I like your wolf helmet – what about that? I'll wager my shield on it; it's got thirty points of defence.'

‘There's no way I'm risking my helmet.'

Not even if you told me who you are and why you look like me. ‘Well, what then?'

Sarius quickly runs through what he owns. ‘Four pieces of gold.'

‘What? That's not even worth the trouble.' The figure that seems so unpleasantly familiar to Sarius turns back to his table.

‘I'd say it's definitely worthwhile,' the soldier puts in. ‘Every successful battle gains you experience and power – you shouldn't undervalue that.'

LordNick, who is about to sit down again, pauses. ‘Oh, all right then. Four pieces of gold.'

They take up position in front of the fireplace. Sarius can't take his eyes off LordNick's face; it's as though he has to fight against himself. Hence it's no surprise that his opponent's first blow scores a hit. Sarius lifts his shield up far too late; LordNick's sword wounds him in the side. The screeching sound starts up immediately.

There's no time to look at his belt and check; Sarius has to trust in the fact that he'll survive another hit. He throws himself on his adversary and lands a blow on his helmet, a second one on his thigh. There! A bit of black is showing on LordNick's belt.

But Sarius's triumph is short-lived. His opponent shoves his shield at Sarius's chest and lunges at him with his sword, gets him in the stomach. Sarius falls to the ground. The injury tone is hurting, hurting, hurting.

‘Stop!'

A shadow steps between them. The soldier.

‘Sarius is badly injured. He must decide whether he will keep fighting or admit defeat.'

It's not much of a decision. Sarius can barely stand. The tone is like a circular saw in his head; he'd like to switch it off, but doesn't dare – then he might miss a warning. A hint, something important. ‘I give up.'

LordNick stands over him triumphantly. ‘Then pay up the four pieces of gold.'

Sarius opens his inventory, carefully avoiding any movement that could make his injuries worse. He hands over the required amount. Now he has only three coins remaining. He ought to quickly sell off the objects that he took from the grave robber. Provided that he even gets the chance. The last remnant of red on his belt is ridiculously thin.

He looks to the side, where there are a few tables and chairs in the half-shadow. LordNick has moved back there again. A figure rises from one of the other tables in a single flowing motion. Under the hood that casts a shadow over the face, Nick sees the familiar yellow eyes.

‘Lesson one,' the messenger lectures. ‘Do not challenge an opponent about whom you know absolutely nothing. Choose only those you have seen fighting.'

He kneels down by Sarius and puts a hand on his head. The circular saw tone becomes quieter.

‘Lesson two. Only fight for worthwhile things. Gold coins are laughable. Now stand up.'

He extends his bony hand to him; the fingers suddenly remind Sarius of scorpions' legs but he grasps it nonetheless.

‘There is something we must discuss. Come with me.'

The messenger leads him into the small room next door, where there is a round table in the middle with a single candle on it. They sit down.

‘Once again you are in need of healing,' the messenger says. ‘I'm sure you remember the rules that apply in this world? You have only one life, one single life. It seems to me that you are not taking especially good care of it.'

Sarius can't think of a fitting response, so he says nothing. It doesn't seem to be easy to please the messenger. He rebukes those who take things easy, and also those who go all out.

‘Don't misunderstand me – I value your courage,' the messenger says, as though he had heard Sarius's thoughts. ‘That is why I am here. To help you.'

He places a small bottle of sunshine-yellow liquid on the table. Sarius recognises the healing potion he received after the battle with the trolls.

‘I would like to give this to you. As you know, the Arena fights will take place tomorrow. They don't happen every day – whoever wants to make progress should be there.'

‘I intend to be,' Sarius answers.

‘Good.'

The messenger leans forwards as though he wants to tell Sarius something confidential and prevent anyone else from hearing it. ‘The fights begin at midday. Whoever has registered must be at the Arena at this time. So make sure that you don't miss the beginning, otherwise you will not be admitted!'

‘All right,' Sarius responds and reaches his hand out for the little bottle.

‘One moment.'

The messenger's pale yellow eyes flicker. He places his hand on Sarius's arm, and suddenly the injury tone becomes louder again.

‘I said I would like to
give
this to you, not that you should help yourself to it.'

Sarius obediently draws his hand back. It's a little while before the messenger speaks again.

‘I think it would be better if you competed in the fights as a Three, not as a Two.'

‘As a Three? Yes, that would be great.'

‘Well, then let us pretend that this is the third rite. I will give you an order, Sarius.'

Lost in thought, the messenger pauses for a moment. His long bony hands play with the healing potion.

‘I am sure that you have kept the silver disk that opened Erebos to you?'

It takes Sarius a moment to grasp what the messenger means. ‘Yes. Of course.'

‘Good. My orders are as follows: Recruit a new warrior for us, a male or a female. Copy the silver disk and give it to the person whom you consider worthy. But observe the rules!'

A reddish colour mingles with the yellow gaze of Sarius's counter part.

‘Do not divulge anything about Erebos. Nothing at all. Tell the novice that you are giving him a great gift. That is what you are doing in fact – after all, you are giving him a world. Assure yourself of his silence. Explain to him that he may not show this gift to anyone. Explain it to him in such a way that he believes it. You must also make it clear to him that he may only enter Erebos alone, and without witnesses. Just as you do. And take care that he arrives here soon. Or she.'

The messenger gently swings the little bottle with the potion.

‘Until the new fighter arrives, you will not be admitted either. And you do not want to miss the beginning of the Arena games, after all.'

Sarius swallows.

‘But it's the middle of the night now, and tomorrow is Sunday! How can I possibly do it so —' ‘That is not my responsibility. You are a cunning warrior – and wish to reach Level 3. Should it take longer, so be it; the fights will take place without you.'

Sarius is dumbstruck. How will he manage to do it so quickly? He doesn't want to miss the fights for anything. If he becomes a Three now, and does well in the Arena, he could already be a Four by tomorrow!

‘Do you already have someone in mind?' the messenger inquires.

‘Well, yes.'

‘Who is it?'

‘A friend of mine. Jamie Cox. I don't think he's here yet.'

‘Aha. Jamie Cox. Good. And if not him, then who?'

Emily, Sarius thinks. There's no-one I'd rather share a secret with than Emily.

‘There's a girl I could ask as well,' he says.

‘What is her name?'

He doesn't want to say the name. He really doesn't. ‘Is it Emily Carver?' the messenger asks, more casually than curiously.

Sarius stares at him in disbelief.

‘Because if it is, I can only wish you luck, and more success than the other three who have tried so far.'

The nerve-racking tone, the messenger's inexplicable knowledge, the sudden time pressure all make it impossible to think clearly. Sarius tries to push everything else aside, to concentrate on what is important. The completion of the task for the third rite.

Jamie, Emily . . . Who else could there be? Dan and Alex have long since been infected, Brynne as well, Colin, Rashid, Jerome . . .

His best chance is probably one of the girls. He could maybe ask Michelle, or possibly Aisha or Karen. Otherwise he'll have to aim for the lower year levels . . .

‘Adrian McVay would be another possibility,' he informs the messenger. ‘I don't think he's in yet, and I'm sure he'd like Erebos.'

The yellow-eyed man shakes his head almost imperceptibly. ‘He will not accept it either.'

There's a pause; the messenger doesn't take his eyes off Sarius. Silently he turns the little bottle in his hand; the sunshine yellow of the potion, the pus yellow of his eyes and the whitish yellow candle flame are the only bright spots in the room.

‘I would still like to try Adrian; I reckon he's curious about the game.'

‘Then try. So: Jamie Cox, Emily Carver and Adrian McVay. Good. I will expect one of them. If you should decide on someone else, let me know.'

He sets the flask down in front of Sarius, and waits until the latter has drunk it. Only then does he leave the back room. Sarius only just registers that his belt is regaining its colour and the injury tone is disappearing before the door slams shut and the darkness becomes absolute.

CHAPTER 10

A glance at the computer clock told Nick that it was 12.43 a.m., and hence far too late to ring Jamie. Jamie had his own computer – that was a good start. He didn't use it very often, but Nick would manage to convince him that he couldn't possibly miss out on Erebos.

The idea of doing Chemistry now was ridiculous, but nevertheless it crossed Nick's mind briefly. The Arena fights might last a long time – so it would be reassuring if he'd already got a head start with the writing. But it was more important, far more important, to copy the game first. Nick rummaged through desk drawers. He still had blank DVDs, he was certain. But where?

It took a little while before he found one in its original packaging under a pile of papers and books. He hoped that the weight had not ruined the silver disc.

The copying process took longer than Nick had expected. The bar on the progress window jerked forwards slowly . . . very slowly. Nick stared at it as if that would speed it up. On the other hand, what would be the point of it going faster? He had to wait till morning, had to sleep – although he couldn't imagine even closing his eyes. His mind was bursting with questions.

First of all, who'd had the idea of giving his player character Nick's appearance? Why would someone do such a thing? He still vividly recalled the situation in the ruined tower, and what he had thought about while he was creating Sarius. He hadn't wanted to make him resemble anybody, not for a second. Especially not someone he was acquainted with.

It has to be someone who knows me. Whom I know. The thought was exciting and unpleasant at the same time. Was it a friend? Colin? Was he disguised as LordNick and not Lelant after all?

The blue progress bar hadn't even crawled halfway. Nick's train of thought felt similarly sluggish.