The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  “Devine qualified hardily, Morgan snuck through into these qualifiers. Will the form of this young man outstrip the experience of his opponent?”

  “We shall see. Our video referee is just calibrating, the shields are charging up and we’ll be ready to get this underway. About the shields, Tess, I was travelling over here and there was an incident on one of the boats…”

  “These are all new pieces of equipment, Gary. I’m sure it’s not going to be a problem. Although I do recall a news piece several months ago stating that they were using inferior products… It’s not going to be a problem. These things have been tested, they’re premium. I examined them myself. If anything goes wrong here, it won’t be the field shields.”

  Devine glanced at the video screen high to his left, a loading icon finishing spinning before it flared into life. It was the automated calling judgement system rolled out for tournaments like this; he’d seen them before but never had he been part of a bout where one had been used. Most bouts below championship level still involved human referees. The bout was considered over when one combatant was unable to continue, the system keeping a track on the life signs of the two spirits. A picture of himself flashed across the screen towards his side, one of Morgan did the same. He gripped his summoner tight, palms sweating. Okay, he could do this. No pressure. Just like he’d done a hundred times before. Around him, the crowd were watching, thousands of eyes staring expectant at him.

  Come on… Come on…

  The screen flashed green for go and he pushed the button to release his spirit. He had one chance to get this right, he’d go strong and the being that materialised on the field was probably his best. He looked like a giant grey shapeless shadow, four spectral silver rings interlinked around the centre of mass that passed for his body.

  “Come on, Sneak,” he muttered, Morgan already releasing his own creature, an odd-looking spirit resembling a crocodile. If crocodiles stood up on two legs perhaps, its skin consisting of dull green and black scales, a golden crest atop the crown of its head. The jaws were thick, looked heavy, its head bowed and eyes beady. The claws on its front arms looked stubby but still sharp enough to cause damage to something that perhaps wasn’t a ghost, its tail dragging heavily along the ground. As it dropped down onto all fours, Devine saw it had more of the golden crests along its spine poking into the air. “We can do this.”

  “Good luck, kid,” Morgan called, a smirk on his face. “You’re gonna need it here.”

  Devine ignored the smirk. “Thanks, sir. The same to you.” He bit down on the idea of bringing up Morgan’s record to taunt him. His dad had always imparted one bit of wisdom to him. Never taunt them before the match because you’ll probably regret it afterwards. Do it after all you want but don’t give it if you’re not prepared to take it down the line. Last thing you want is your words thrown back in your face.

  There was a mechanical whistle from the video referee, a second green light flashed, giving the sign to get going. Another deep breath and Devine made his choice, Morgan’s spirit charging across the battlefield, showing deceptive speed for something he’d though looked so lumbering on its hind legs. The mouth opened, numerous fangs inside glowing with energy. Whatever his plan was, Devine wasn’t about to let Sneak get tagged.

  A quick command alteration and Sneak formed a giant fist out of the shadows that made up his body, swinging to throw an almighty punch straight into the croc, the blow smashing it several feet into the air before it came down again with all the grace of a falling electro-organ, landed in an untidy pile. Slowly it rose, face contorted with anger.

  “Nice hit,” Devine muttered, more towards Sneak but also to himself. Wait for it to come to you, don’t go on the attack and leave yourself open yet. Make it chase you.

  The croc wasn’t the only one annoyed, Morgan didn’t look impressed himself. As it righted itself, the mouth opened again, a torrent of liquid erupted from within the maw, streaking across the ground too fast for Devine to follow. Even as he urged Sneak to dodge it, he realised he hadn’t been fast enough, watched it strike the ghost square in centre mass.

  He felt Sneak’s surprise, he cursed himself. It wasn’t easy to hurt ghosts like Sneak, but neither was it impossible given tactical planning, which Morgan clearly had the acumen to employ. Engineering them the ability to spit water wasn’t uncommon in aquatic creatures, was easier than say making them spit fire or acid. That blast had to have hurt. “Okay, let’s try something else, shall we? How about…”

  The croc didn’t see it coming, thick tendrils of sticky smoke and ectoplasm erupted from Sneak’s body and shot across the battlefield like a cluster of black vines, each of them lashing the scaled body of the enemy, tearing thick skin and muscle into large bloody chunks. Crimson spattered the stadium floor. The spirit let out a roar of pain, tried to escape only to find two tendrils snaked around its back legs; sending it crashing to the ground. A look of concern passed across Morgan’s face, be it for his spirit or his fading competition chances. Devine couldn’t say. In the past, the sight of so much blood would have bothered him. Now, he found it hard to worry. No permanent damage would be inflicted on something not even alive anymore. He could see Morgan’s concern replaced with anger, curse words falling from his mouth as he muttered something out the corner of his mouth…

  Out of nowhere, the croc shot another blast of water, a great column of liquid cascading from its jaws, even more potent than the first. What little scales it had left shone with the slick sweat from the effort, how it was still standing Devine didn’t know. Sneak sailed up into the air, floating high above the torrent. For moments, he just hovered there, staring at his opponent far below like an oversized shadowy vulture studying an appetising piece of prey. Devine could see the look of horrified realisation in the eyes of both caller and spirit, knowing they couldn’t hold out much longer. Maybe the croc would still fight on, but Morgan knew it was only a matter of time. Adrenaline rushing through him, giddy glee knowing he’d just about won…

  … Not won yet, you still need to deal the final blow…

  Sneak? Do it.

  Sneak fell from the sky, a silent bomb homing straight in on his enemy, a sudden ethereal shriek from him as he landed on the croc, the horrific mix of scales and blood engulfed completely. More screeches met a crescendo of roars and growls as, for a moment, the two spirits were one, locked together in a final death lock for victory. The croc couldn’t be seen beyond the black shapeless mass of smog that was Sneak but surely it hadn’t given up without a fight. It surely couldn’t do too much in there and yet it had kept on going. And Sneak didn’t look to be having it all his own way. It didn’t normally take this long to engulf something. Inside that ghost there’d be a maelstrom of pain and fear, like leaping into a pit of knives. Fighting it would be beyond agony.

  Then Sneak fell away, melting off the body of the other spirit like a giant mallow, one moment there had been just the big pile of black and then there was just the croc as Sneak hovered above in triumph. The croc lay still and Devine bit down on the urge to punch the air, a resistance he held only for seconds until the crowd exploded in cheers and the video referee made its call. He let out a deep exhalation of breath, it hadn’t gone on long and yet it felt like days, like waking up after a deep sleep, you knew what had happened, but you didn’t realise how swiftly it had passed. On the screen, his picture flashed up, the word WINNER below it.

  Punching the air in celebration felt like the least he could do as Sneak floated over to hover next to him, the flashes of a thousand different picture boxes raining down on him. If this was what winning was like at this tournament, he felt he could probably get used to it very, very quickly indeed.

  The twenty first day of Summerdawn.

  “Okay,” Scott muttered as he spun in the chair and waited for the connection to load in front of him. Slow… So slow. He let out a sigh of frustration. With a tournament being held here, you’d think the least they could do was ensure the CallerNet wa
s up to scratch. Welcome to Vazara, he thought dryly. Doing today what everywhere else did two years ago. He shouldn’t be so hard on the place, after all he did have some heritage here, admittedly coming from a father who’d done a runner a long time ago. Even thinking about it brought resentment. Not just for him but from his mother. He wondered what she’d say if she saw him now. Those were painful thoughts, he rejected them immediately.

  His bout was that afternoon, the tournament well underway, and he’d seen the highlights of some of the fights already to have taken place. None of the winners looked like they’d had to break sweat so far, he didn’t know whether he should be worried or not. Either they’d been lucky to get a battle against someone anyone would have been able to beat or those who’d already gone were genuinely that good.

  He’d had a look at the rules not long back. Two hundred enter. Half are knocked out at the first stage. The rest go into twenty-five groups of four, two going through to make fifty. After the next twenty-five matches, the statistically worse placed winner is automatically eliminated, making it twenty-four. Then they’d carry on with knockout rounds until the semis when three remained and went into another group, the top two advancing to the final.

  Tough. Very tough. But this was the most prestigious tournament in all the five kingdoms. They didn’t want to let just anyone win it. To win wasn’t just about being the best; it was about persistence and creativity and determination, as well as strength. It was about utilising all your talents and not giving up no matter how hopeless the odds might seem.

  It sounded clichéd but that didn’t make it any less true. Scott knew he probably wasn’t going to win it. There were so many people here with a better chance than him. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give everything to make sure he gave himself the best chance.

  He settled back in the chair, fought the urge to give the screen a smack. He wanted to do some research on his opponent, Nadia Yepes. Never heard of her, didn’t know anything about her. He hoped that the same was the case for her then they’d at least be at the same advantage. Then he’d thought about research, the theory being it’d give him a leg up on her.

  Hence his presence in one of the information centres on the island, heavily air conditioned to his relieve. The cool breeze flushing through the room was very welcome, especially since it wasn’t enough to drown out the radio. It sounded like one of the qualifying bouts had just got underway. The breeze was almost as nice as in the stadium he’d been in earlier when he’d gone to cheer Pete on, a victory he’d taken with some effort but not much difficulty. Scott rolled his eyes. If he went out at this stage, Pete’s jokes at his expense would be the least of his problems but they’d probably hurt the most.

  “For those of you that remember, Willow Silva made it past the group stage last time round, she did well. She’ll hope to do better this time, she’s got to get through this bout first though. She sends out… What we saying that is, Tim? Fanged fighting goat?”

  “Could be, Jeff. I’ve not seen one of those things for a long time. They’re found primarily in northern Serran, if I’m not mistaken that’s Silva’s local area so it makes sense.”

  He found himself trying not to pay too much attention to the radio. Back onto Yepes, she was his focus. Don’t worry about what was going on elsewhere. Yepes was the priority.

  “But her opponent is a first timer. So far, the first timers have done well, Harry Devine won the opening match a few days ago, let’s not forget Peter Jacobs won earlier, Katherine Sommer and Lysa Montgomery both won yesterday. Can Matthew Arnholt add his name to that list? We’re nearly at the end of the qualifiers; we’ve got live commentary of Scott Taylor against Nadia Yepes in two hours’ time.”

  That brought a start out of him. It was something he hadn’t quite gotten used to yet, his name being casually brought up in conversation.

  “But for the time being, Arnholt chooses his own spirit and… Hey, is that a kos fairy?”

  “Looks like an off-shoot of one. You can’t genetically modify kos fairies, so it must look like that naturally. Looks rare enough, you don’t see many white and green ones. They’re mainly dark colours, reds and yellows and browns. See how this works out for him.”

  Arnholt… Matt Arnholt… Out of curiosity, Scott opened a second page, typed in his name before going back to the page on Nadia Yepes. Vazaran national… Terrific, she’d probably have the support of the home crowd. Assuming there were many who’d shown up. Probably the best reason for having it here in the eyes of the ICCC, being on an island in the middle of nowhere, all those pesky native Vazarans couldn’t afford to get here. Travel here might be free for the competitors and their guests’ courtesy of the ICCC but not for spectators. They had to pay through the nose. He’d tried getting tickets before, they’d cost more than he made in winnings during his first and second year as a spirit caller.

  “Video referee is just warming up, the competitors are exchanging a few last-minute words with each other, Arnholt’s smiling, Silva’s impassive, we should be underway in three, two… and go. We’re off. Arnholt doesn’t waste time, his kos goes with a uniblast, good shot but it’s missed! Wasted attack! The goat leaps like high, it sails harmlessly into the shields!”

  “Unbelievable! There’s some power in those blasts but all the power in the world does you no good if you can’t hit the target! And now Silva’s on the attack, the goat lands, charges, head bowed and… Oh nice dodge from Arnholt! In close and that was just so nimble to evade an oncoming head smash. It was almost dancer-esque!”

  “Let’s not forget Arnholt’s sister is a renowned spirit dancer. Looks like she taught him a trick or two.”

  That page showing all of Matt’s information had open, Scott quickly turned his attention to it. The database showed everything from brief bios to known spirits to competition records, even some video clips from notable battles. Anything to satisfy curiosity. Also… There it was. He saw what he was looking for, the list of links to notable family members if they also had a career in official competition, at the bottom of the page. There was Matt’s father, Terrence Arnholt, Scott knew all about him and, who he was really interested in, his sister, Mia. If Jess caught him doing this, it’d be a little awkward.

  It’d be very awkward. At the very least, it’d lead to arguments he’d rather not have. He hesitated, his finger lingering over the button.

  “Problem with those goats, they’re not manoeuvrable so once they set off, you need to be sure they’re going to hit something. If Arnholt can keep out of the way of… Woah!”

  “And apparently this goat has a hidden brimstone bite, it’s just spat a stream of fire towards Arnholt, that took everyone by surprise. Could this be over before it’s even begun?”

  “No. It didn’t look that hot, it’s not often a blast so small completely overwhelms at this early stage. Yeah, I’m right, look Arnholt’s kos is still standing. Well, hovering.”

  He hit enter, switching back to the Yepes page, still interested but he knew it wouldn’t be long before he abandoned it completely. His attention being dragged between three different sources wasn’t worth much. He ran his eyes over her known spirits, quickly judged there was nothing he couldn’t handle if it was thrown against him and back onto Mia’s page.

  Wow…

  The picture of her on there did her justice. It looked like a modelling profile picture, she sat on a bench with her elbows rested on her crossed legs and her chin on her wrists, a sultry smile on her face.

  “Problem with a kos is they don’t have much in the line of physical offence or defence. Keep it ranged and he’ll have a chance. Turn it into a close-up fight and Arnholt will lose badly. He can’t afford to do that.”

  “And that is what Silva’s trying to do. She’s keeping pressing the advantage, moving in with charges and butts and it’s all Arnholt can do to keep evading. But he can’t run forever. However, with being closed down like this, he doesn’t have the respite it might take to launch an attack on a
moving target. One solid hit, this could be all over.”

  Go on, Matt, Scott urged silently, leaning his chair back on two legs, staring at the ceiling. He was quite enjoying the commentary. Normally when he heard bouts on the radio, he had visions of what was happening that were wildly inaccurate.

  “Silva closes in, ooh nearly, nearly. Horns nearly grazed that little fairy and that would have been all over. This has been modified, those horns look sharper than normal and Arnholt knows it. How’s he going to get out of this one?”

  “Does he look out of his depth?”

  “A little right now, unless he does something special in the next few seconds because that spirit is starting to look tired. For a limited physical defence and offence, read also endurance as a close second into that. It’s a lot more draining to run than to chase and those goats are sturdy critters.”

  “Very. Even if he does get a few good shots in, is what he has left going to be enough to drop it? Because…”

  “Like that?! My word! Arnholt just fires another uniblast, this one from above and it has smashed Silva’s spirit into the ground. That was unexpected! Nobody saw that coming!”

  “Yeah, another dodge from Arnholt and his spirit rose into the sky, using an avenue it hadn’t explored before now, straight over Silva and a uniblast at point blank range into the back. What a hit and the crowd sense blood. Silva looks unsteady, her spirit is shaking on its hooves and has the battle turned for Arnholt?”

  Scott studied Mia’s page one final time, suddenly sad there were no videos. A few pictures had been posted though, one of her posing in a dancer’s outfit with a cat spirit, wearing a black dress that showed a lot of her legs and high heels with straps almost all the way to her knees, her hair dyed blue in that photo. He let out a little sigh of appreciation and then closed the file. She had been cute, something about her, but he had too much on his mind right now. Or at least he was trying to. He still hadn’t made his mind up about what he was going to do with Jess yet. That argument the other night had cut deep, and he’d been asking serious questions of himself.