Avatar of Light

by Dmitry Bilik

  “What kind of pointless altruism is that? You don’t want to give him my boots as well?”

  “I didn’t give him anything,” she said, even though she didn’t take her eyes off the Abbas. “He’s gonna help us get our money for killing Talsian.”

  “Okay. Now tell me all about your devious plan.”

  “It’s very simple, really. We can’t take the mission now because our mutual friend Talsian,” Arts made the sign of air quotes, “is already dead. But there’re other Players who still have it hanging around in their interface.”

  “You mean they can close it for us.”

  “Exactly,” she reached for my beer, took a swig and raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Not too bad!”

  I took my mug away from her. “Go and buy your own, if it’s not so bad. You seem to have forgotten a very small detail. Whoever closes the mission will have to provide Talsian’s head as proof. Which they can’t do because his head is now busy pushing up daisies in the cave.”

  “The mission doesn’t say anything about whose head it has to be. That’s what I’ve just read in Zurbus’ interface. Just a head.”

  “Your explanation doesn’t make it any clearer, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s the name of the butterfly on the brooch?”

  “How the hell should I know? A butterfly is a butterfly. Could be a Cabbage White, for all I know.”

  “What the hell, Sergei? Didn’t you see what it had on its chest? The skull, I mean?”

  “Sure I saw it.”

  “Its name is Death’s Head. Got it now? A Death’s Head. The brooch must have been very important for Talsian. He probably never parted with it, seeing as it can be used as proof of his death.”

  “That’s provided...” I finished my beer with gusto and wanted to order another one but reconsidered. The second drink is never as good as the first one. “... provided your assumptions are correct.”

  “They are,” Arts gave me a dig with her elbow, pointing at the desk.

  Unlike in our Community, the local payout desk didn’t have its own office. Which was a bit inconsiderate, of course. I remembered a scene I’d witnessed in our local bank when the teller hollered across the room to her colleague, “Can you get me two million in cash[10]? I need to pay out this guy!” Her customer emerged from her cubicle ten minutes later, his face red with angst, with probably only one thought in his head: how to get back home in one piece.

  But now this same fact was playing into my hands as I watched this Zurbus guy surrender the brooch, impale the mission paper on the spike and collect his payment. A lot of it. He received so much dust that it took him a long time to brush it off the desk into his inventory. Not a single speck of it landed on the floor, all of it disappearing into his capacious bag. Finally, he was finished and came toward us.

  “One kilo two hundred grams,” he slammed the bag down onto the table.

  Arts tensed. “Our agreement was for one and a half kilos.”

  “It was my honor at stake here too, you know.”

  “Talsian also had something at stake here. Namely, his stupid head,” I said softly, watching the black growth on top of his head twitch like ears of wheat in the wind. “Did I make myself clear?”

  Your Persuasion skill has increased to level 13.

  Was it my imagination or had he turned pale? As far as a dark-skinned Abbas could turn pale, of course. He immediately added the missing quantity, gave us a light bow and hurried over toward the exit.

  “And I thought that Abbases couldn’t lie,” I said, watching our failed conman leave.

  Arts smiled. “They can detect lies, so they can’t lie around their own kind. In their own world, levels of corruption and criminality are very low. But the moment they find themselves in the company of other species... now that’s different.”

  “I see. They’re so smothered by their own laws that they use every opportunity to go rogue.”

  “Yeah, sort of. Slimy individuals,” she impatiently eyed the heap of dust on our table, then looked expectantly at me. According to our earlier agreement, she was to receive a third part of any proceeds, so now she was waiting for my permission.

  “Five hundred grams of it is yours, as we agreed,” I said.

  She deftly brushed her part off the table. I watched it disappear into thin air, then unhurriedly collected the kilo that was due to me. Strangely enough, such a heap of money didn’t stir anything in me now.

  Still, I wasn’t in a hurry to leave. “Arts, what the hell do you need so much money for?”

  Her face immediately turned blank. Smiling only a moment ago, now her expression was as sour as a rapper’s at a classical music venue. “It’s for a good cause.”

  “Okay. How much do you need to raise?”

  “A lot.”

  “There’s no such number. Could you be a little more precise?”

  “Twenty kilos.”

  I whistled softly, then tried to convert the amount into Russian rubles and whistled again. For the likes of me, the amount was astronomical. “Are you in trouble?”

  “No... I don’t know. In any case, it’s too late. If I don’t raise it, someone’s gonna die. I can’t let it happen.”

  “Why didn’t you come and tell us about it before, when we had all that money in front of us? I’m sure we could have clubbed together for you.”

  She frowned. “I just can’t work you out sometimes. Are you really so naïve or it is just a show? Here, everybody wants to hog the covers. That’s the law of the jungle. It might not be so apparent among humans — but don’t forget that Players travel between worlds, risking their lives on a daily basis and there’re infinitely fewer of us than Commoners to begin with, so among us it’s particularly obvious. Don’t get me wrong, Sergei, I really appreciate the thought but I’m more than sure that both Litius and Traug would have told me to get lost.”

  She blabbered everything out in one go and fell silent. Her cheeks had turned crimson; there was a feverish glint in her eye. She might have been right. It was indeed a dog-eat-dog world — or should I say, Player-kill-Player?

  But there was an exception to every rule. “How much do you still have to raise?”

  She paused, thinking. “About four kilos.”

  “It’s three now. Don’t bother to argue. You can pay it back when you can.”

  “Thanks,” her face turned even redder, acquiring the shade of a lobster.

  “That’s okay. Let me just close my harpy quest, and we’ll be on our way.”

  The rest happened without any further ado. I handed in the mission paper to the Mechanoid assistant (who happened to be more human and less robotic than you’d normally expect). He took it, paid me my honestly earned two hundred grams and closed the mission.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Arts and walked down the stairs.

  I felt like shit, for some reason. You’d think the day had been a hoot, wouldn’t you? I’d helped the Oracle out, saved God knows how many people from the crazy blood mage, and even managed to get a reward for smoking him. And still I had a very bad feeling about all this. One of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse was going to come and get me, for crissakes! Not even me, actually, but my two Divine Avatars. And what did I have to offer against him?

  “Arts, think you could draw me a tank in the next couple of days?”

  She chuckled. “I could draw you a zipper to zip your greedy mouth.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  The Prague air smelled of detergent with just a hint of malt — a clean, sweetish smell. I’d have loved to spend some more time here. It would be so nice to take a stroll around the Old City, drinking beer and eating waffles. But in that case, Morbian would arrive here too. And then all hell would break loose...

  The journey home cost us thirteen grams. Each of us paid their own fare. I did a bit of mental math: the pleasure of having a good beer averaged just over $300 for a return trip. On one hand, it was a bit like taking a Concorde to the next-door ba
kery but on the other, why not if you could afford it?

  Still, at the moment it was pretty academic. I had more important things to consider than my next beer order.

  “I’ll call you about the spear,” Arts said as we parted.

  “Which spear?”

  “The one you got off that Kabirid. You gave it to me yourself, remember?”

  “Ah, that. Yeah, sure. Call me any time.”

  I checked my phone. Still nothing from Julia. I shrugged and dialed a cab. I really didn’t feel like roughing it on the bus with the rest of humanity today. If someone trod on my foot, I might accidentally burn them alive.

  I got home in no time. Then again, I might have been too deep in thought. I paid and got off.

  “Hey man, did you see a young guy around here, a real skinny one?”

  I turned toward the already-familiar goon. He really shouldn’t have crossed me today. Wrong place, bad timing.

  I waited for the cab to pull off and leave, then looked around the courtyard which was deserted, apart from a woman opening a front door. In a few bounds, I was upon my enemy. He was alone, just for a change: either his buddies were fed up with such a placid pastime, or they might have been busy pestering someone else. In any case, it suited me fine.

  His eyes opened wide. “You?!”

  “That’s right,” I replied in a strange voice which wasn’t really mine. The sound of it reminded me of someone I couldn’t quite place.

  He tried to punch me but I dodged the blow. His fist glanced off my shoulder.

  But even that was too much. This slimebag should learn his lesson!

  [ ∞ ]

  I crouched, dodging his blow, then stood up like an uncoiling spring, grabbing the hood’s throat and lifting him in the air. The old me would have never been able to do that even if he’d used both his hands — but the half-Korl that I now was felt only a pleasant tingling in his muscles.

  The goon’s tiny fingers sank into my hand. “Get off me, you sonovabitch! I’ll kill you!” His legs dangled in a most peculiar way. With every passing second, the torrent of cussing grew thinner as his breathing grew slower, bordering on wheezing.

  “I’m only gonna say this once,” I lowered my hand slightly so that our eyes were at the same level.

  My other hand felt the knife in its grip. For a brief while, my enemy’s throes became more energetic.

  “If I even see you anywhere again — whether in this neighborhood or anywhere else in town — this knife will put a nice big smile on your face, ear to ear. Do I make myself clear?”

  “P-please... let me go, please...”

  “I can’t hear you! Do I make myself clear?”

  I brought the knife to his shoddily shaven neck, just for an extra bit of encouragement, and pressed it to the skin, watching a drop of blood form under the blade.

  “Yes! Yes, you do!”

  Your Persuasion skill has increased to level 14.

  It took me some time to realize what happened next. A thin trickle ran from under the goon’s pant leg, wetting his boot and dripping to the snow which turned yellow and porous. I’d seen similar scenes in action movies, so I sort of knew that some human organs can relax in response to mortal danger, but I’d always believed it to be artistic license. But this...

  My hand slackened. The hooligan dropped to his backside. He didn’t run: whimpering like a seven-year-old, he hurried to crawl aside. Only when he’d put a good ten feet between us, did he clamber back to his feet and staggered away, stooping and wailing like some crazy version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

  I just stood there, staring at the wet trail left in his wake. The little yellow puddle next to me had already begun to freeze solid.

  I was next to tears.

  The voice. The strange voice I’d used. Now I remembered who it reminded me of. That’s exactly how Janus used to speak — the contemptuous, disdainful creature relishing in his own power.

  That was the voice of the Destroyer God!

  A spasm doubled me up, running through my body and exploding in my stomach. I puked all over the snowy driveway and my own boots. Staggering like a drunk, I backed off and headed home. Whoever saw me at that particular moment must have indeed thought I was drunk.

  “Master! I woke up and you weren’t there!” the sobered-up Bumpkin greeted me. “My mouth tastes like a cat’s litter box. But that’s not even... Master? Master, whassup?”

  He froze, then hurried to help me take my sodden boots off. “What’s all this? Master?”

  “That’s just beer and some bile,” I said, feeling shivery as if I’d just spent a few hours in the subzero cold. “The beer was excellent, by the way. No comparison to the piss I normally buy. I’m sure you’d have approved of it.”

  “But what’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Your face...”

  “I’ve got no face, my friend. I’ve lost it. I’ve lost my face.”

  I headed for the bathroom, peeling off my clothes on the way. I turned on the faucets and climbed into the tub without waiting for it to fill up. I was shaking harder with every passing moment: it felt like I’d been seized by the mother of all cramps.

  Just as I thought I was about to pass out, the spasm began to release me. It took a while, so I didn’t even notice it subside: like a bitterly crying child whose sobs eventually begin to abate until she’s so tired of crying she quietens down and stops altogether. I now lay motionless in the hot bathtub, feeling completely drained by today’s events.

  “Master, what do you prefer? A sweet pie or a meat one?”

  “It’s up to you.”

  “Got it. I’ll make both. You stay there. It won’t take long.”

  I stayed there for a while until the water started to feel cold, then climbed out. Now that I’d got it out of my system, I felt a bit better. I toweled myself down and went to my room.

  The whole apartment smelled of fresh pies. Bumpkin was quick, wasn’t he? I slumped onto the couch, switched the TV on and stared mindlessly at another poor excuse for a comedy show. It took me a good five minutes to realize that instead of watching the program, I was mechanically turning the knife in my hands.

  What the hell? I hadn’t even noticed myself taking it out of my inventory.

  As I put it back, I noticed the whistle which Traug had so shamelessly pilfered from Jumping Jack. I’d forgotten all about it. I studied it a little, then brought it to my lips and blew it.

  It must have given off some sort of ultrasound, the kind they use to keep dogs at bay. In any case, I heard virtually nothing.

  What I did hear was a popping sound as a very anxious Bumpkin materialized in front of me. He jumped up to grab me by the shoulder and forced me down onto the floor.

  “Keep quiet, Master, for Christ’s sake!”

  I was about to ask him whether he indeed believed in Christ or he just said it as a figure of speech. But just as I opened my mouth, something banged against the window pane, a bit like a hail stone. And another. And a whole torrent of hailstone noises: Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Who on earth could have given you this evil toy?” Bumpkin mouthed.

  “Whoever it was, he’s not having it back,” I replied even softer, even though there was no need to lower our voices in all that racket. “What’s that over there?”

  “Just the most useless and mischievous of all living creatures,” Bumpkin replied, investing all his anger into the phrase.

  Now my curiosity was so piqued that I couldn’t help it any longer. Carefully I raised my head and a ventured a peek out of the window.

  At first I was blinded. It looked like some crazy Santa had wound our window pane with Christmas lights and turned them all on. Then I realized that it was in fact a multitude of fluorites. How many of them were there?

  I gulped and turned back to the goblin. “Bumpkin, please don’t tell me they’re gonna stay there for good. Some old lady might look out of her window and demand my eviction telling everyone I experiment wi
th radioactive substances or something. The Community guards too, you know. If they find out about this, they won’t be very happy.”

  My recent apathy was now gone, replaced by panic. The easiest way to curb a bout of depression is apparently by giving the sufferer an urgent task to solve. The problem was, my task-solving facilities refused to cooperate.