Gamers' Quest (3 page)

Tark peered through the undergrowth at the cave. All seemed peaceful and quiet. But appearances could be deceptive, especially in the Forest.

Tark had never taken on a dragon before. He'd never even seen one. He was just a common thiever and dragons were well out of his league. No one below a knight, second class, would attempt such an encounter. And yet, here he was.

‘Oi!’ Tark shouted as he approached the cave. ‘Dragon! Ya in there?’

Silence.

‘Bring outs yar gold. I is ’ere ta takes it from ya.’

A deep rumble came from the cave. Suddenly Tark wasn't so sure about what he was doing. A wisp of grey smoke escaped from the mouth of the cave. Tark quickly drew his cloak up around himself. A small burst of flame shot from the mouth of the cave, right at him. Tattered though it was, his cloak had enough power to protect him from the heat.

As Tark peered out from behind the folds of material, the dragon emerged. It was a lot smaller than he had expected. Tark had imagined a gargantuan beast with smouldering eyes, smoking nostrils and enormous bursts of fire spewing from its mouth.

But this dragon was only about twice Tark's size, and Tark was not all that tall. Its eyes were round and blue; its scales, azure and shimmering; its snout, short and somewhat squishy-looking. It was hardly what he would call fierce. ‘Cute’ seemed a more apt descriptor.

‘Wot kind of a dragon is ya?’ asked a puzzled Tark, lowering his cloak.

‘What kind of a knight are you?’ retorted the dragon, slowly shuffling along towards Tark.

‘I ain't no knight. I is a thiever.’ Tark puffed out his chest proudly.

‘Lords of Fire preserve us,’ sighed the dragon, rolling his eyes and coming to a halt three arms-lengths from Tark. ‘What has our little forest realm come to, when a common cutpurse with delusions of grandeur comes to steal from a mighty dragon?’

‘Yeah well,’ said Tark, hand taking hold of the sword's hilt under his cloak. ‘Ya don't looks too mighty from where I is standin’.’

‘You're not standing, you're cowering,’ said the dragon. ‘There is a difference.’

‘Where's yar bag o’ gold?’ demanded Tark, straightening and trying to stand taller.

‘Where do you think it is, you moron? It's in my cave.’

The dragon shook its head and swung back onto its hind legs. It suddenly looked a lot larger. It raised one front paw and flexed it. Three razor-sharp talons popped out like catclaws. The dragon grinned widely, revealing a double row of yellowed, pointy teeth.

‘I'm bored now,’ the beast growled.

Tark flung back his cloak to reveal the sheathed sword.

‘Oh lookie,’ taunted the dragon. ‘The cowering little cutpurse has a pointy stick. Didn't your mother warn you about playing with sharp objects? You could quite easily find yourself impaled on one, if you're not careful.’

‘Hangs on just a tick,’ said Tark, taking the sunglasses from his belt. He put them over his eyes and smiled. ‘Much betta.’

‘You're really rather annoying,’ said the dragon, taking a menacing step towards Tark. ‘I think I shall enjoy devouring you.’

Tark drew the sword. Dazzling light erupted from the blade. With the sunglasses protecting his eyes Tark could concentrate on holding the sword. But the sword o’ light had a mind of its own.

‘Hold on a moment,’ said the dragon, sounding concerned for the first time. ‘You're not meant to have one of them. They're –’

But the blade, with Tark in tow, had found its target, embedding itself deep in the dragon's chest. Tark looked up at the dragon's surprised eyes and then down at the sword hilt protruding from the beast's body. An intense light spilled out from beneath the scales, as the blazing heat spread through the dragon's body.

‘Oh bother!’ the dragon managed to say, its voice tinged with a sad resignation, as it was engulfed in blistering radiance.

The dragon burned away from the inside till only a few charred scales remained.

‘Woah!’ breathed Tark, still holding on to the sword.

He looked down at what remained of the dragon and gave the charred scales a good kick.

‘Now who's cowerin’, ya snot-rag.’

Tark then shifted his attention to the sword. The encounter with the dragon seemed to have depleted its power. Its previous glory had diminished to a faint glow. Tark sheathed the blade, assuming it needed time to recharge.

‘Rights,’ he said. ‘Now for the bag o’ gold.’

Tark marched over to the cave, entered the darkness and promptly tripped over the first stalagmite he came across. Picking himself up, he drew the sword o’ light. The glow was faint, but it was enough for Tark to be able to navigate through the cave – until, that is, he came to a cul-de-sac. The sword's light waned.

‘Comes on,’ coaxed Tark, looking around wondering where the bag o’ gold would be. ‘Gimme more light.’

Instead of granting Tark's wish, the sword o’ light went out.

‘Damn!’

Tark returned the sword to its scabbard and looked up to find that he could still see – just. Where was the light coming from? He backtracked a little. Flickering light seemed to be coming from a rock wall to the side of the cul-de-sac.

Tark tripped over another stalagmite in his hurry to get to the source of the light. He stumbled forward into the wall. Throwing up his arms to protect himself from the impact, he instead stumbled right through it. An amazing sight greeted him when he regained his footing.

He had somehow entered an enormous stone chamber lit with burning torches held in ornate sconces. The stony ground was covered in luxurious rugs and animal skins; the walls were hung with exquisite, albeit mismatched, tapestries; a crystal chandelier with dozens of candles hung amongst the stalactites from the centre of the rock ceiling; and two massive wooden bookcases were filled to overflowing with leather-bound manuscripts. Two large floral-patterned armchairs with footrests sat in front of a roaring fire, a low table between them boasted a bone china tea set.

But Tark's eyes focused on only one thing – the bag o’ gold. It rested on a stone pedestal in the centre of the chamber. Grinning from ear to ear, he rushed forward and grabbed the bag, almost toppling over with the weight. It was only then that he considered the rest of the chamber, and what other valuables it might contain. His eyes roamed greedily, his mind ticking over with the possibilities.

‘Honey, I'm home!’

The shrill voice echoed down through the cave and into the chamber.

Tark's eyes widened. Another dragon? It had never even occurred to him that the dragon might have a mate. He had to get out of the cave without this second dragon seeing him. Without the sword o’ light, Tark didn't stand a chance against a dragon.

His eyes scanned the chamber. There didn't seem to be any other way out. Given he had entered through a fake wall, it was conceivable that there were others, but he didn't have time to go searching for them. The cul-de-sac was his only hope, if he could get to it in time.

Tark slipped through the fake wall and quietly inched his way along the rock wall, trying hard not to jangle the bag of gold coins. No sooner was he concealed in the cul-de-sac, than he heard heavy footsteps shuffling along the cave. He risked a quick peek around the corner. In the dim light he saw a large shape disappearing through the wall, sniffing noisily as it went. Tark hefted the bag o’ gold onto his shoulder and crept out of the cave.

With seemingly little effort, Zyra scaled the brick wall, back-flipped over the razor wire that topped it, and landed cat-like on the lawn – poised and ready for anything. Within seconds she sprinted to the first of the topiary gargoyles that dotted the expansive grounds. It was huge, at least three times her size, and quite grotesque. She checked it carefully for tech. These Hill people loved their tech (everything from robotic sentries to lethal vegetation), and she didn't want to be caught unawares. But the plant was clean. No embedded technology that she could see. The Fat Man simply had a weird taste in landscape design.

Zyra slowly made her way to the mansion, gargoyle by gargoyle, making sure to avoid the ground-level trip-lasers that criss-crossed the lawn. One false step and she could lose a foot.

Reaching the mansion, she found three human guards armed with machine guns (crude, noisy weapons that lacked style, thought Zyra) patrolling the exterior. Zyra smiled and reached for her pouch.

Three shuriken throwing stars whizzed through the air with barely a whisper. Three guards fell to the ground, their guns dropping to the manicured lawn beside them.

Zyra desperately wanted to retrieve her stars before proceeding, but she couldn't risk the extra time it would take out in the open. With two pieces of wire she swiftly picked the lock on the servants’ entrance and slipped inside the mansion. A heavy saucepan made short work of the cook and butler, and her beloved knives took care of the two interior guards.

She tiptoed up the stairs and crept into the museum room. Zyra gazed around the opulent, wood-panelled room – at the portraits on the walls, at the red velvet drapes through which she caught a glimpse of metal, at the artefacts behind glass cases, each with its own specially designed security system. The challenge of stealing each and every piece in the room held a great deal of appeal for Zyra. Lots of very valuable stuff – custom-made weapons, one-of-a-kind gems, bespoke jewellery – but much too difficult to fence. And the challenge in itself was not enough of a drawcard.

Where would he keep the key? wondered Zyra, as her gaze roamed the room. And then she saw it. The portrait. Not just any portrait, but a portrait of the Fat Man himself. Everything she knew about the Fat Man, which was not much in the larger scheme of things, suggested to Zyra that he would be vain enough to choose his own likeness to conceal the key.

Zyra cautiously approached the painting and ran her gloved fingers along the gilt-edged frame. As she touched the concealed switch, the painting slid aside. She removed her gloves and put her hands on the revealed safe – the fingers of one hand gently holding the tumbler, the fingertips of the other resting a couple of centimetres above. She took a deep breath, concentrating on the
feel
of the safe, and oh-so-carefully turned the tumbler – left two, right five, left one, pause, left one again, right three. Click!

‘Damn, I is good.’ Zyra smiled as she swung the safe door open. She reached in and grabbed the key.

A heavy hand came down onto her shoulder and spun her around.

She was face to face with a large, extraordinarily fat man in a black suit, with a red cravat concealing the fleshy folds of his neck. The Fat Man from the portrait.

‘Well, well, well,’ wheezed the man with difficulty, sounding decidedly unhealthy. ‘Lucky me for listening to a snitch's tip-off.’

Zyra winced at the garlic breath, and went for her knives.

Despite his bulk, this guy was lightning quick. One doughy hand suddenly had her knife arm pinned to the wall and another tightly clasped around her throat. Zyra's free hand desperately clung to the card-like key.

‘You're so fragile,’ said the Fat Man, his triple chin waggling as he spoke, his dark eyes flashing with barely concealed excitement. ‘It would take so little effort to clench my hand into a fist and crush your pretty little throat.’

He tightened his grip, making Zyra gasp for air. A grey haze washed over her vision. Unconsciousness was seconds away.

In desperation Zyra flailed out with her legs, kicking the Fat Man in the groin. He immediately let go and doubled over in pain. Zyra gave him another kick for good measure and then, with the key in hand, she ran down the stairs and out of the house, gasping for breath as she went. As she skipped over the trip-lasers in the grounds, the Fat Man stuck his head out of the top-storey window. Unintelligible words boomed across the grounds and the topiary gargoyles rustled into life.

‘Magik!’ said Zyra, still gasping. ‘I didn't know this fat guy hads magik.’

She increased her pace, dodging around the lumbering shrubbery, and wishing she had knifed the Fat Man before running off. After a few moments of confusion in which they came to terms with their sudden animation, the gargoyles gave chase. Four of them came afoul of the trip-lasers, reduced to mulch in seconds flat. But the remaining two continued the pursuit.

Zyra reached the wall and was at the top in seconds. But the leaves and branches of a pursuing gargoyle were suddenly wrapping themselves around her ankles. Zyra hacked at them with one of her knives, and then flung herself over the wire, leaving the gargoyles to get tangled. But she landed awkwardly and stumbled.

‘Not quites so nimble this time, are we … my pretty-pretty thieving wench?’ said a familiar voice.

Zyra looked up into the beady, bloodshot eyes of the Cracker and the point of a loaded crossbow.

‘You takes from me after I've fairly and squarely appropriated. And now I takes from you after you've appropriated.’ The Cracker chuckled. ‘And I gains the trust of the Fat Man for ratting on a fellow thiever.’ He took a menacing step towards her, cracking the knuckles of his free hand, one by one. ‘Almost even! Just needs to break a few fingers first. And maybe spills a bit of acid.’

Thunk!

Tark hit the Cracker over the head with the dragon's hefty bag o’ gold.

‘Told ya ’e wuz dangerous,’ declared Tark. ‘Lucky I polished off me dragon nice an’ quick.’