The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  Yes!

  He jumped and punched the air, unable to quite help himself. He knew the bout wasn’t over yet, still had to beat the last spirit Sharon had, but he was in a better position than five minutes ago. Curzon was relatively unhurt and Gamorra was down. Now what did she have in reserve?

  The shark lizard vanished back into Sharon’s crystal, she gave him a smile. “I’ve enjoyed this bout, little brother.”

  “It’s not over yet.”

  “Indeed, it isn’t,” she said. “It still has to be decided. Let us make this a truly memorable occasion.”

  “Hey, I’m this close to beating you,” Pete grinned, holding his thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart. “It’s already pretty memorable. Come on, Sharon. Less talky more fighty.”

  Even before he’d finished speaking, she brought out her last spirit and he grimaced. Oh great, exactly what he wanted to fight in a situation like this. A bloody ghost. Unlike some, this one took noticeable shape, a gaseous blue and green ball hovering above the grass. The face it formed was an ugly grimace, the mouth little more than a colourless void slashed into the middle of it with several ugly broken teeth sticking out at all angles. The eyes were white and beady, prominent brows protruding out of the smoke.

  He tried not to let it put him off, Pete only grinned at his sister again. “Come on then. Let’s do it.”

  He didn’t know what was coming until the video referee announced for them to begin, then the ghost shone horribly with a brilliant black sheen that set his teeth on edge before the effect spread like a saucer in all directions. It killed the grass beneath, tore up the earth and despite his frantic cajoling for Curzon to evade, there was nothing the tiger could do as the blackness raced over his body and Pete heard a strangled little yell. It passed within seconds, but something had changed, Curzon looked worried, terrified even. As he watched, small clumps of fur started to fall from his body leaving bald patches pale in the sunlight.

  How the hells did you even counter something like that? He’d not seen it before, he didn’t have the answers. Pete just hoped beyond all doubt that there was a limit. If it could fire off those sorts of attacks at impunity, he was screwed. There was no standing up to something that deadly. He sucked in a deep breath, even the air tasted a little fouler, and gave Curzon the order to zap it. It might not do any good, but it was about the only way to deal with ghosts. Curzon was looking worse by the second, more fur falling away and the hacked out a great glob of blood already blackening as it hit the grass. Steam rose from the dirt, the blood already corroding the earth with an ugly hiss.

  Shit! What was that?

  He genuinely didn’t know and that worried him that after all this time and all his experiences, his sister could still throw something at him he genuinely had no idea how to counter. Still, it didn’t affect Curzon’s ability to attack, the charge rippled through his body and erupted towards the ghost. He saw the current pass through it, the face contorting in agony as it felt the blast and fell to the ground, the smoke around it suddenly thicker, more like smog pollution than it had been before.

  Huh?

  Curzon dropped to three legs, one front leg no longer able to hold his weight. Sharon’s ghost was flickering out of existence, he let himself believe for a moment his time had come. As it vanished, Curzon lost balance completely and with one final harsh expulsion of breath, crashed to the dead grass and didn’t move.

  He looked at Sharon in bemusement, as if to say, ‘what in the hells just happened here?’

  A draw? Had he just gotten away with it? Both the announcer and the video referee announced the same conclusion, he felt a quick flash of relief amidst the shock. Pete blinked several times, couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen. He’d need to win his last bout and hope results went his way. But he was still alive for the time being.

  There was no better feeling than realising that. He still had a chance yet.

  He could have gone back into the stadium to see the last moments of the fight, instead couldn’t bring himself to. Scott sat there on the bench, unaware of anything beyond a dull thump at the base of his brain repeating how it was all over.

  It was all over.

  Chapter Twenty-Three. Fallout.

  “I never found making decisions hard. Living with the consequences though can be a bitch. I cope by trying not to dwell on them, consequences are for lesser men. After all, in a position like mine, I intend to try and affect as many people’s lives as I can. For better or worse. Always aim for better but sometimes things happen we can never foresee or control. I would say unfortunately but if I couldn’t predict it, I feel I can’t really be held responsible.”

  Ronald Ritellia in his autobiography, Journeys to the Top and Beyond.

  The twenty ninth day of Summerdawn.

  “You want to explain to me exactly what happened there, Terry? Because I for one am unsure. It looked like some sort of death rattle.”

  Terrence Arnholt leaned forward in his seat on the punditry couch and smiled at Carlton Bond with an easy grin. “Well what Ms Arventino has clearly done is employ the natural abilities of her ghost to absolutely devastating effect. I’ve never seen it done quite that way before. Basically, you can see the effect of her attack in the damage it’s done to both the battlefield and her opponent. All that natural energy that holds ghosts together, she’s expelled it, absolutely everything and it’s defeated her opponent. At the same time though, it’s cost her, left her own defences reduced to the point one single attack from her opponent was powerful enough to put her on the ground. A risky strategy to be sure.”

  “All I’d say,” Prideaux Khan added, “is I don’t think either of them deserved to be on the losing side here. They both fought hard, they both gave it everything and we saw probably one of the best battles of the tournament so far. They both really wanted to beat each other. When family gets involved, it becomes personal. That’s always been my opinion. I always wanted to beat my brother. Terrence, you’ve got kids in the industry, you ever see them fight each other?”

  “Well it’s not quite the same thing,” Arnholt said. “They’re not of the same discipline, but yeah when I know what you mean. It always gets personal when there’s family involved.”

  “I suppose the thing with that last attack and the outcome, the question going to be in some people’s minds is if Sharon was holding something back. It was a risky move, just as you said,” Bond said. “You see any evidence of her throwing it to let her brother stay in the tournament?”

  Arnholt considered it. “Not really, no. Look everyone is here because they want to win. You can’t have any loyalty to anyone. You say her last attack was risky, using it to give her brother the chance of a draw is even riskier because there’s no guarantee things would work out the way they did. He might have been able to overcome her before his spirit collapsed. Sharon Arventino is a highly skilled caller, let’s not get anything wrong about that. We’ve seen her beat strong opponents before. She’s undoubtedly one of the favourites here. I haven’t seen anyone here who I’d back more after two matches apiece yet.”

  “Maybe Wallerington,” Pree offered. “I know it’s a cliché but…”

  “Yeah everyone says Wade,” Arnholt smiled. “Everyone’s favourite. Wade Wallerington, Nick Roper, Sharon Arventino. But you know what everyone always forgets about spirit calling, Carlton?”

  “What’s that?” Bond looked genuinely interested at the question.

  “The favourite doesn’t always win. It’d be a lot less interesting if they did. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t one of those three who took home the title. There’re ninety-seven other callers in competition who only need to fight out of their skin once to beat them. And winning breeds winning. The confidence from that one victory could push someone over the line for the rest of the tournament.”

  She had a feeling this was going to be a long few hours as she strode out the stadium, several members of the media already waiting for her, desiring p
hotos, quotes, anything to justify their existence.

  Sharon sighed, put on her best face and let a smile play across her lips as she walked into the middle of them. Best to face it head on. She’d never walked away from a challenge and the questions coming her way like a barrage of blaster fire certainly qualified. She sucked in a deep breath, quietened her mind to any stray thoughts and accepted the inevitable. Here we go…

  “Ms Arventino! Are you still confident of winning the tournament?”

  “Does this draw impact the way you’ll go into your final bout?”

  “Are you worried you’re no longer one of the favourites following this?”

  “What do you think of comments you threw the bout because it was against your brother?”

  Okay, she had to admit that last question stung a little. “Yes, I’m confident, no, I’ll still plan the way I’ve always planned for my final bout, no because what the hells do odds compilers know, really? And who the hells said that?!”

  That final question held all the nastiness in her voice she’d hoped it would. She hadn’t held back, that they’d had the gall to ask her that question infuriated her. The journalist didn’t flinch, he just shrugged. “Hey, sorry you don’t like it, but we got to ask. Reda Ulikku came out barely seconds after the bout and said you’d chosen that attack because it gave your brother a better than fighting chance of getting back into it. He said if you were serious about winning it, you’d have done something different.”

  “Well he’s entitled to his opinion,” she said. Some measure of control returned to her voice. “He’s wrong but he’s entitled. It’s a deadly combination.” She should have left it there, but she couldn’t help it. “And leave it to a spirit dancer to try and make a point so vigorously they choke on their own arrogance.”

  “I’m sorry, are you saying that all spirit dancers are arrogant?” A flicker of glee swept through the crowd of reporters. They knew they’d just got quote gold and she cursed herself quietly. Smart thing to do would be to let it go and don’t dig the hole deeper.

  “No, I’m not because that would be offensive. I’m saying I don’t like the insinuation I didn’t give everything to beat my brother. Because I find that incredibly offensive. I’ll fight Mr Ulikku in a few days, we’ll see what he has to say then.”

  She’d said too much, she knew she’d regret it sooner or later but for the time being, she couldn’t care. Her blood was up, she wasn’t going to let someone get away with saying that.

  Did she mind that people thought that? Absolutely. Did she care that it had done her brother a favour? In her mind, she’d not done anything differently. If that last move had been against someone else entirely, nobody would say anything. She didn’t owe Peter anything. She loved him, sure, but everything was fair in this competition. He’d fought well on his own merit and that pleased her in a way. He was getting closer to her, with experience, he could be better.

  Nobody was excellent in their early twenties. Five years down the line, he might be brilliant. Except there were more and more young spirit callers coming into the sport every year. Some of them were going to be fantastic. At Peter’s age, she’d been nowhere near getting to this tournament. Maybe it was harder back then. Or maybe there was more quality now. Winners were getting younger. After all, the current champion of the Quin-C was the youngest on record. He’d won it at the age of thirty, some five years earlier.

  She rejected those thoughts violently. Thinking of him wouldn’t do her any good. When she thought of her former mentor, things tended to go downhill and quickly. She calmed herself, forced happy thoughts to the forefront of her mind and gave a smile to the journalists. Picture boxes flashed rapidly, she knew she was going to be the forefront of the news today.

  “I would like to say though, my opponent… And that’s what he was today, an opponent. Not my little brother but the enemy, he did well. He deserved everything he got. He’s better than I was at that age. And whatever happens, I publicly wish him the best through the rest of the tournament. Unless I have to face him again in the final.” That brought a few sprays of laughter from the hacks. “Then I probably won’t be so amicable following a result like this.”

  He felt strange. Like he should be happy but instead he felt like some great hole had been carved into his chest where his heart had once been. It wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to experiencing and sat in his room, Scott felt like shit. There was no other way to describe it. She was gone, he’d wanted that at some level but now she was, he could feel the agony. He hadn’t known just how much it would hurt, and he wanted it out of him.

  Scott hadn’t moved from the bed since he’d got back, hadn’t seen Pete, didn’t want to either. He hadn’t even undressed, just lay clothed on the bed, barely even able to think straight. She was gone. Jess was gone from his life and it was unlikely she was going to come back. Gone. How… Why did he miss her so much? He couldn’t explain it. At least he hadn’t cried. He still had his dignity in that respect, whatever it was worth. Right now, it felt little more than worthless. What good was dignity when you were alone and suffering. The worst part was, somehow, he doubted she was feeling as crappy as he was. She was probably already out prowling the bars looking for some hapless sucker to rope into her bed.

  That stung even more. In a way, the anger helped. If he was angry, he didn’t have to feel sad. He tried to remember all the bad things she’d ever done to him, how she’d fly off the handle with outrage over the slightest things, how she’d snore violently if she lay on her back, how she enjoyed the taste of garlic way too much. Ah, she’d loved that stuff, one of the first things he’d noticed on their first real date.

  It had been a few months after they’d met, him and Pete had gone their separate ways for a while and they’d been alone together. She’d popped a whole clove of the stuff in her mouth, crunched down on it. When he’d raised an eyebrow, she’d explained it’d been a while since she’d had it. They’d banned it from the premises at her old job. They’d been virtual prisoners, forbidden to interact with the outside world beyond the services they’d provided. It made getting hold of the stuff hard.

  She’d still had the shakes then, too much of the bad stuff they’d gotten her addicted to. He’d hated them for that, vowed she’d never have to go back to it if she was with him. Now she wasn’t with him, she could go back to it. She could go fucking rot in a strip house dancing with some oversized fucking centaur for all he cared. That was how he remembered her from the first time, worried one of the great hooves might break her foot.

  Jess… He punched the pillow angrily, the one she’d last rested her head on. If he closed his eyes tight and clutched it to his face, maybe he could still smell her. He thought he could. Maybe it was his imagination, but it was better than nothing. It smelled delightful, a stray shaft of sunlight through the dark clouds holding the recesses of his mind. Amidst it, he could see her stood radiant like a divine messenger, ascending into the sky with wings at her back, shimmering halo across her head and bare feet poking out the bottom of her clean white dress. She looked happier like this, more at ease than she had in life.

  She turned back to him and waved, a smile breaking across her face and her lips forming words he couldn’t make out. He raised an eyebrow quizzically and beckoned her to come closer. He wanted to apologise, he’d fucked things up and maybe, just maybe there’d be a way for her to accept his apology. It wouldn’t make things better, it wouldn’t bring her back, hells there wasn’t even a guarantee she wouldn’t throw it back in his face but at least he could say he’d made the effort.

  He tried to move closer, get to her, eyes burning hot with unshed tears. Scott hoped she could see them. She was getting closer, still smiling. She held out both hands to him and he took them, or at least he wanted to. She looked so happy, at least he saw the red stain spreading across her front, a dot at first at her heart and slowly spreading into a crimson rose covering her from breast to thighs. She clutched at her chest, smile replaced
by pain as she fell and slowly faded. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t sense her, couldn’t even remember she’d been there. And slowly, the pain flooding through him subsided, abated by the sight that followed. Behind her, he saw Mia, hand dripping the same scarlet as had spread out across Jess’ dress. She reached up and rubbed it over her face, one hand print covering most of her porcelain skin and smiled through bloody lips.

  “Scottttttttttttttttttt,” she hissed through blood coloured teeth. He could hear music in the background, just faint enough for him to make the words out. Yeah, this world keeps on turning... “Scotttttttttt Taylorrrrrrrrrr, sssspiritttt callerrrrrrr.” Turning, turning, yeah as it keeps turning, I’m left yearning… He involuntarily took a step back, tried to avoid the hand grasping for him. He saw fear in her eyes, the panic and the sorrow. Wherever you will go, that’s where I’ll be…

  Like Jess, Mia wore a dress, hers in black with little red and white flowers across it, her hair up in a tight black and blue bun, she looked ready to party. Free to be you and me, to a place so far is where we’ll go… Despite the blood, it was a sexy look and he felt guiltily aroused, shifting uncomfortably on the spot. “Don’tttttt you wantttttt meeeee, Scotttttttttt!” She tottered forward, blood pooling around her feet and her knees buckled. She fell forward, gore covering her bare legs and her eyes flashed urgently, tears running a track down the bloody handprint. If you don’t want me, just say no, just give me a chance to kiss you… He wanted to take her, hold her, comfort her… He wanted to kiss her.

  More movement behind her. You and me, I think I’ll really miss you, say goodbye I’ll really want to kill you… A green shadow, big and bulky rose high above the stricken Mia, knife in hand. It tipped a nod at him before showing him the full length of the knife, Scott couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. What you have and what you can’t, you don’t know ‘til it’s gone…