‘Is it something you could give me too?’
Hello. Nick had to grin.
‘Well, yes. In theory.’
‘Is it square on the outside, and round and silver on the inside?’
Now Nick laughed out loud.
‘It certainly is.’
‘Then it’s better off with me. Adrian has already said no once. You’ll be wasting your time.’
So the messenger had been right again. Was it possible that all the candidates Nick had picked out disapproved of Erebos? Why, when they didn’t even know the game?
‘All right, if you say so. I’ll give it to you, then. Where do you live?’
‘Gillingham Road. But we could meet halfway!’ Henry sounded exceptionally keen.
‘All right. Let’s meet at Golders Green station; that’s near you, isn’t it?’
Half an hour later Nick’s Erebos copy had changed hands. Henry had been willing to agree to everything: total silence, secrecy and discretion. No questions, no doubts, only eager nodding. He had his own laptop and was dying to get started on it. Nick had formed the distinct impression that Henry already had a rough idea what it was about, but he hadn’t asked. He didn’t actually care. The main thing was that he had got himself a novice. Henry would have his fun and every time Nick came across a One, he would wonder whether it was his One.
CHAPTER 11
‘Have you carried out your orders?’
It’s exactly eleven o’clock by the time Sarius is standing in the back room of Atropos’s Tavern once more. The messenger is sitting at the table and scratching bits of wax off the tabletop with his bony fingers.
‘Yes, I have,’ Sarius says. ‘But I didn’t pass Erebos on to any of the three people I named yesterday; I passed it on to someone else.’
The messenger’s fingers cease scratching. Sarius thinks he can discern disapproval in the yellow eyes.
‘To whom?’
‘His name is Henry Scott, and he’s fourteen years old. Goes to my school.’
‘Tell me more about him.’
More? He doesn’t know any more. Only some trivial things.
‘He has blond hair and he’s fairly tall for his age. He plays basketball as well. He lives in Gillingham Road. He was pretty keen on Erebos; I think he already knew what it was about.’
The messenger doesn’t answer for a moment. He makes a little pile out of the wax he’s scratched off the tabletop.
‘All right. We will consider your task to be completed. Tell me, nevertheless, why you didn’t bring me one of the others? Jamie Cox? Emily Carver? Adrian McVay?’
Why is the messenger still holding him up? Sarius needs to find the Arena; who knows where it is. There’ll be another labyrinth on the way if he’s unlucky, or trolls will delay him. Anything’s possible. Besides, he’s secretly hoping for new equipment, which was what he received on his last advancement. Now, so close to the fights, it would really come in handy.
‘Jamie and Emily weren’t interested, and I didn’t speak to Adrian because I’d already been able to sort things out with Henry,’ he explains.
The messenger’s eyes glimmer like embers fanned by a gust of wind. ‘Why did Jamie Cox refuse?’
Does that matter? Sarius wants to finally get going again. He wants to see the list of all the registered fighters, wants to think about who he might have a chance against. He doesn’t want to talk about Jamie.
‘He didn’t like the whole secrecy thing, that’s why.’
‘Did he say anything else?’ the messenger insists.
Oh for goodness sake, was Nick expected to take notes on the whole conversation?
‘Yes, he said that he reckons all the sneaking around is stupid, that he thinks I’m behaving like an idiot, and that a few of our teachers think something dangerous is being circulated.’ The messenger leans forward attentively and rests his chin on his hand.
‘What teachers?’
Sarius hesitates. Why would it interest the messenger? He’s itching to put the question, but he doesn’t want to prolong the conversation unnecessarily. Besides, it doesn’t matter, because there’s no way Mr Watson is interested in Erebos – being denied entry isn’t going to bother him.
‘Actually it’s only one teacher. His name is Watson, and we have him for English.’
The messenger nods to acknowledge the information.
‘What was the reason in Emily Carver’s case?’
The memory of the conversation stung Nick.
‘She’s already said no a few times and . . . didn’t want to accept any gifts.’
‘. . . didn’t want to accept any gifts,’ the messenger repeats thoughtfully.
Is that it? Sarius would like to ask. He hopes so. It’s late, he has to hurry, and the messenger’s face is disturbing him more than usual today. He wants to get away.
‘Good. Let us hope that Henry Scott isn’t a long time coming. Let us hope that you have brought us a worthy novice.’
The messenger stands up without letting Sarius out of his sight. ‘It is your first fight against your peers, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Sarius says, eager for good tips.
‘I am keen to see how you will acquit yourself. How you will choose your opponent. Some of the best fighters will be there, including all five from the Inner Circle.’
Now it’s about time for the messenger to answer one of his questions for a change.
‘What is the Inner Circle?’
The messenger smiles. Whenever he does that, Sarius feels chilled.
‘The Inner Circle? They are the best of the best. These fighters will contest the last and greatest quest on their own. If they triumph, they will be richly rewarded.’
Sarius doesn’t need to ask how to make it into the Inner Circle; he knows already. By being more cunning than the others, stronger. Gaining victories, finding wish crystals. It’s perfectly clear to him that he is still miles away from that.
The taproom door opens, and light penetrates. Grains of dust dance in the bright yellow beam.
Sarius turns around one last time to face the messenger. ‘Don’t I get any new equipment?’
‘You would have got it for Jamie Cox,’ the messenger answers, still smiling. ‘Good luck at the tournament. I am very keen to see what happens – did I say that already?’
There are noticeably more people milling around in front of the inn than last night. Sarius follows a group of heavily armed barbarians who are obviously on the way to the Arena. A few minutes later two lizard people, three vampires, three dark elves and a dwarf have joined them. The dwarf is an old acquaintance: Sapujapu. He’s armed himself with a giant halberd, and a shield he can hide behind entirely. Sarius can’t see his level – so it must be higher than Three. But there’s a Two walking along with the vampires, and there’s even a One among the dark elves. Sarius smiles indulgently.
‘Hi Sarius!’ Sapujapu greets him.
‘Hello,’ Sarius returns his greeting, amazed. ‘I didn’t know that we could talk here without a fire.’
The dwarf shifts his halberd onto the other shoulder.
‘There are different rules in the cities than in the open countryside. Are you going to the Arena fights too?’
Sapujapu’s talkative mood is an unexpected stroke of luck. Sarius grasps it with both hands.
‘Yes. This is the right way, isn’t it?’
‘It is. I already went there last night and had a look around. The Arena is gigantic. It’s an amazing sight – you’ll see.’
‘Is this your first tournament?’ Sarius inquires.
‘What? No, of course not! I’ve been to the Arena at the King’s Tomb twice already. Haven’t you?’
It’s smarter to tell the truth if he wants to find out more.
‘No, this is my first time. I’m keen to see how it works.’
Xohoo runs past them, then Nurax, who bares his werewolf’s fangs. In greeting or threat, who knows. Well, well, Sarius thinks. They made it this far too.
‘How it works? Well, you can challenge others or be challenged, and then there’s a fight. It’s incredibly loud all around you, everyone is yelling and screaming, they stamp their . . .’
BloodWork stomps up with giant strides and barges into Sapujapu, who immediately loses the thread of the conversation. He and Sarius stare after the giant barbarian, who bears an enormous executioner’s sword on his back. His dark plait dangles down over it.
Now, where were they? Sarius still has to coax the most important information out of the dwarf.
‘What can you win? And how?’
‘That’s agreed on beforehand. You decide that together with your opponent: my sword for your sword, my wish crystal for one or two of your levels. That sort of thing. I’m feeling all jittery this time. My halberd isn’t great. I have to wield it in two hands, and that means I can’t use the shield.’
Sapujapu’s weapon must be seriously heavy. And the long handle looks extremely unwieldy; the sharpened blade at its tip shines like polished steel.
‘But if you hit someone, you’re bound to do some wicked damage,’ Sarius comforts him.
‘Yes. If I hit someone.’
They turn a corner, and Sarius sees the Arena at the end of a long avenue. It is circular, snow white, and broken up by high arches, like the Roman Colosseum. He feels awe at the sight . . . Or is that the music which is enveloping him? It must have started up again a little while ago. He never notices when it begins, only suddenly realises that it’s back again, staying with him like a fortifying spell. Or calling him, as it does now. It explains everything, without words. Hence it’s now completely clear to him that the Arena is his destiny, for better or worse.
A colossal copper tablet right at the entrance to the Arena lists all the registered fighters. Sarius finds himself between someone called Nodhaggr and an old acquaintance: Tyrania, his partner in the fight against the water women. While a green-skinned gnome records his presence, Sarius skims over the list, looking for other familiar names. He quickly finds Keskorian, Nurax, Sapujapu and Xohoo. Samira and LordNick are also registered – and the fighters from the labyrinth: Arwen’s Child, Blackspell, Drizzel, Feniel and Lelant. How annoying. So they’ve found their way to the White City after all, instead of ending up as scorpion food.
‘Sarius is registered, Sarius should make his way to the dark elves’ rooms to wait for the start of the fights,’ the gnome squawks.
Fortunately the inside of the Arena is peppered with signposts. The dark elves’ preparation rooms are situated right next to those of the cat people. For the first time Sarius sets eyes on the males of the species as well: heavy and sleek like tigers.
As expected the small room where the dark elves wait for the games to begin is overcrowded. Sarius finds himself some space over by the wall and listens to the conversation between a red-haired elf with particularly long ears and a Two with sandy hair. A Two! ‘What happens if I lose?’ the Two asks.
‘Then give up quickly – otherwise you might get finished off by your opponent. I’ve seen that happen.’
‘What then? Am I out then?’
‘Of course you are. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the rules?’
‘Nah. Got it.’
Sarius pushes on through the crowd. He’s spotted Xohoo at the other end of the room – of all the dark elves he knows, he’s Nick’s favourite. Along the way he keeps catching scraps of conversation. ‘. . . heard that BloodWork wants to give it a try today.’
‘Yeah well, he’s crazy. Yes okay, he’s strong, but still . . .’
The crowd is getting denser by the minute.
‘. . . any more chances; that’s why I absolutely have to win a wish crystal today.’
‘I want to go up two levels. You wouldn’t believe how heavy my instructions were at the last rite. I don’t want to go through that again.’
Sarius has almost reached his goal. Xohoo is standing alone in a corner adjusting his helmet.
‘Hi, Xohoo.’
‘Hello Sarius.’
‘Nervous?’
‘Yes. Kind of. You?’
‘Me too. This is my first tournament.’
‘Oh. Yeah, well, you’ll see. The Arena’s really something.’
Sarius looks up towards the vaulted ceiling of the room. He can hear noise coming from up there – the sounds of voices, laughter and stamping. It’s the crowd, Sarius realises, his nerves throbbing. It would have been better to have a look at the fights first instead of leaping in straightaway without having a clue. What should he do if LordNick challenges him again? Or if he has to compete against BloodWork. Then he may as well give up now.
‘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.’