Erebos (18 page)

‘Who did you fight against last time?' he asks Xohoo.

‘Against Duke first – I beat him. Then against Drizzel. That was dumb of me. He's totally devious.'

‘Aha. So that means you can choose your opponents?'

‘Mostly, but not always. Hey . . . I think it's starting.'

Bam! Bam! Bam! Above their heads a rhythmic pounding has started up. The crowd is stomping out its impatience. A few voices can be heard, then more join them. A chorus of many voices is chanting the same word over and over: ‘Blood! – Blood! – Blood!'

‘Fighters into the Arena!' a voice bellows outside. Jubilation breaks out.

Sarius stands mute in the corner; he's happy to let the others go first. But the others are hesitating as well. No-one wants to be the first to go.

‘Move it, you heroes!' screams the giant soldier on guard. He has buffalo horns growing out either side of his helmet; his whip cracks once, twice. ‘You registered yourselves – now it's time to show what you're made of!' He pushes the first one through the archway; the others follow hesitantly.

Outside they're bellowing. ‘Blood! – Blood! – Blood!'

I'm not made to be a hero, Sarius thinks. I'm made to be a spectator. I'd much rather be sitting up there in the crowd, shouting and stamping.

The others push and pull him to the exit. They run along a passageway, a dark maw that releases them into the light and noise at the end, into a gigantic circle.

‘The dark elves!' the crowd shouts. The applause fires up. Sarius looks around him and wishes he could sink into the sand of the Arena.

Thousands upon thousands of spectators fill the tiers of the round building, which seems to reach into the sky. The crowd is made up of all shapes and sizes imaginable, including some Sarius has never seen before. In one of the lower tiers to the right of him there's a man with a spider's head. The eight legs that grow out of his skull in place of ears are wriggling with anticipation. Sarius turns away, sees a snake creature that is darting its tongue in and out mockingly. Two seats further on he discovers a woman with an eye sticking out of her forehead on a stalk. All around them is a throng of dwarves, elves, vampires, and some translucent creatures that look as though their skin is covering nothing but air. For a moment Sarius struggles for breath; the high circular rows of seating seem to him like a noose of sound and bodies that will tighten as soon as he steps into the middle of the Arena.

In order to distract himself he turns his attention to the other two groups of bold fighters who are already in the Arena: cat people and lizard people. In comparison with the dark elves there aren't many of them.

‘The dwarves!' the crowd bellows, and now a whole bunch of the muscular, short-armed characters stumble out of another exit.

Five stewards in black cloaks make sure that they stand in their allocated place.

Sarius spots Sapujapu, who's holding his halberd in front of him as though it was a talisman against the ugly faces around him. Sarius spies three dwarf women as well. They scarcely differ from their male counterparts – only the beards are missing.

The vampires are loudly announced and step into the shadiest part of the Arena. Their group is big; their numbers are almost approaching those of the dark elves. Drizzel and Blackspell are standing right out in front, as though they can hardly wait for the fighting. Sarius gets the impression that Blackspell is looking in his direction. Surely he won't want to challenge me?

At this moment it seems to Sarius that everyone here is stronger, more agile and experienced than he is. I'm going to die, he thinks. All this will go on without me and I will never find out what this great task is that awaits us, because no-one will tell me. Probably these are my last minutes in Erebos. Unless the messenger is here . . . unless he saves me again.

He looks around, searching for the gaunt figure that is so familiar to him in all its eeriness, but his gaze gets lost in the masses of spectators. And besides, now the humans are stepping into the Arena. There are only three, and of them LordNick is the only one Sarius knows. The barbarians follow after them to a deafening roar; they are cheered like no-one before them.

What do you know, thinks Sarius, the victors are coming. Why are we even bothering?

They look gigantic as they march over the sunlit stadium to reach their allocated place. Their weapons are massive; Sarius doubts he could so much as lift one of them, let alone fight with it. The axe Keskorian is carrying is about as big as Sarius himself.

The barbarians have taken up position and a drum roll starts.

Soon it will start and then I'll be dead. Soon it will start and then I'll be dead.

But the excited whisper that's rippling through the rows of spectators isn't to do with the start of the fights. Another gate opens, bigger than the others. Four Titans the size of trees, with golden skin, carry a circular golden platform in, on which five fighters are standing. Two barbarians, a dark she-elf, a human and a cat man. The spectators' cheering swallows all sound except the music, which wordlessly recounts heroic deeds, secrets, things that normal warriors cannot even imagine. The bearers come to a halt in the centre of the Arena. All that gold shines in the bright daylight like another sun.

‘Welcome the warriors of the Inner Circle,' says a voice that seems to come from all directions at once. ‘They are the best among you, the strongest, the boldest. Until they are defeated by one of you. Do not forget when you go into battle that each of you can be counted among the Inner Circle if you show yourself worthy.'

Seldom has anything seemed more desirable to Sarius. The five chosen ones on their platform appear invulnerable. He would change places with any of them instantly – and there's a dark elf among them after all, not just barbarians. He could stand a chance. He could be standing up there. But certainly not as a Three. The platform is given pride of place at the edge of the Arena. The members of the Inner Circle sit down, and all at once it goes quiet. There's whispering, impatient rustling, and quiet, furtive music that quickens Sarius's heartbeat.

Then a man steps forward from nowhere. He is naked except for a loincloth, his skin is as brown as old leather, his physique muscular. He holds a long staff in his hand that he strikes twice rapidly on the ground like a master of ceremonies at court. Sarius's attention is caught by curious details: very long pointy ears that would put those of a dark elf to shame. Right on the brow, tufts of hair like grey balls of wool over said ears, and a moustache that stands out horizontally to the sides. That's all quite disconcerting; but what throws him most are the goggle eyes, light coloured and spherical. Big white marbles that threaten to fall out of his head at any moment.

The man looks around with these bulging eyes. It seems as though everyone is shrinking from his gaze. There's something weird about him. Sarius studies the master of ceremonies more closely and discovers further peculiarities. The feet! Human feet with the claws of a bird of prey. But that's still not it. The revolting spider man Sarius is trying not to look at has strange traits too, but despite the disgusting twitching legs on his head he seems to be in harmony. As if he belonged here. Big Goggle-Eyes, on the other hand, looks out of place, as if someone had accidentally abandoned him in the world of Erebos.

When the man speaks, there's a rushing sound like water in his voice.

‘The rules are known. I call upon the fighters. No-one may choose himself a partner who is less advanced than the challenger himself. I will make a start with the dwarves. Bahanior!'

It takes a few seconds before the summoned dwarf steps into the middle. Sarius cannot spot a number branded anywhere on his clothing, so Bahanior must be at least a Three.

‘Choose your opponent,' Goggle-Eyes demands.

Now Bahanior hesitates. He turns on the spot once, twice. Stares into the horde of dark elves.

If he chooses me, he must be a Three as well, Sarius concludes, otherwise my level would be too low for him. That wouldn't be bad. I can cope with a dwarf who's a Three.

But Bahanior keeps turning, lingers on the cat people, then on the vampires. The master of ceremonies raps his staff on the sand impatiently.

‘Make a decision.'

Several more seconds pass. The crowd begins to become restless, cries of ‘Weakling! Midget! Chicken!' ring out. Sarius thanks his stars that he's not in Bahanior's place.

‘I challenge Blackspell,' the dwarf finally decides.

Sarius can tell from the brisk tempo at which Blackspell emerges from the ranks of the vampires and positions himself opposite Bahanior that the challenger hasn't made a good call. The vampire is probably at least two or three levels above him and is already anticipating carving Bahanior into little pieces. Fleetingly Sarius recalls what the robber with the big hat had told him at the beginning: that Blackspell had been beaten by Drizzel at some stage and had to give up three levels. He's sure to have made them up again in the meantime. In any event Drizzel must be gruesomely strong. There is no way Sarius is going to challenge him.

Blackspell draws the sword that Sarius so envies him for, because it looks as though it was cast from red glass. Meanwhile Bahanior gives the impression that he would like nothing better than to flee by leaping wildly over the rows of spectators. His sword looks like a butterknife next to that of his opponent.

‘What will you fight for?'

Bahanior shifts indecisively from one leg to the other.

‘If I win, I will receive one level and . . . twenty pieces of gold from Blackspell.'

‘That's too little,' the vampire counters. ‘Two levels and thirty pieces of gold.'

Bahanior doesn't answer. It's obvious from looking at him that he is already deeply regretting his choice of opponent.

‘Do you agree?' the master of ceremonies inquires.

‘I have only twenty-five pieces of gold,' Bahanior confesses.

They agree on that. Two levels, twenty-five pieces of gold. Sarius is convinced that it's more than Bahanior can afford.

‘Fight!' calls Goggle-Eyes.

Bahanior immediately shrinks back three steps. Blackspell pursues him, his shield turned casually aside, as if he wants to provoke the dwarf into an attack.

Knock, knock, knock! A sound from another world. ‘Nick?'

Shit, not now! No, please!

Without taking the headphones from his ears Nick leapt up from the chair and watched over his shoulder as the doorknob turned. It was his father – why couldn't he leave him in peace?

Nick tried to conceal the monitor with his body, realising at the same time how that must look. On a sudden inspiration he switched the monitor off and opened his Chemistry book, at random, any place. The clanking of swords echoed in his ears.

‘Your mother and I want to go to the movies. We can make it to the afternoon session before my night shift. Want to come? We haven't all been out together for ages.'

Groans of pain were coming through the headphones. That was bound to be Bahanior. A hissing sound and a blow followed. ‘I asked you something, young man! Kindly take those things out of your ears. Or do you think I'm going to buy the idea that you're studying when you're blasting your ears full of music?' His father's face was taking on a more colourful hue.

Damn, damn, damn. Nick took the headphones off.

‘That's better. So, about the movies – yes or no?'

‘I don't think so, Dad. I've still got some more study to do; it's harder than I thought.'

William Dunmore shook his head in disbelief. ‘And you can't take a break for two hours? You didn't even ask what film we're seeing.'

The fight was probably over by now. Blackspell had probably won, but Nick couldn't be certain. And what if big Goggle-Eyes called up Sarius of all people as the next challenger and he just stood there among everyone without moving? What would happen then? Nick would have liked nothing better than to shoot his father into space.

‘Doesn't make any difference what the film is, Dad. I'm staying home, okay?'

His father's suspicious gaze ran over the desk, the computer, the book.

‘Guess you feel too grown up to go to the movies with your parents, hmm?'

The next sentence would be:
But we're still allowed to pay for everything. Keep coughing up more and more, and never get anything in return.
Dad occasionally got into this mood, but why today, why did it have to be today?

Nick smiled, which cost him an enormous effort.

‘Believe me, I would love to go and see a film with you – I'd much rather do that than torture myself with this shitty Chemistry assignment. But the topic is bloody difficult. And I slept atrociously last night.' Nothing but the truth.

Perhaps it was the strong language that made Dad believe him. He always said that a liar doesn't swear. Too bad he was mistaken.