The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  She raised an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

  “Powerful, ruthless, someone worth killing for…” He paused. “Someone beautiful. Face it, you’re like the ideal superior.”

  If it was meant to flatter, she was ashamed to admit it was working. Just a little. “I’ll consider what you’ve said,” she said. “For the time being, do what you do best.”

  He bowed again, this time a lot lower and decidedly more respectful. “Thank you for hearing me out, Madam Coppinger. I look forward to our next conversation.”

  “You know that one can’t be trusted,” Domis said as they watched Silas stride away purposefully. Like he owned the place. She didn’t like that, something in his walk clashing with her desire to believe his sincerity.

  “I don’t trust anyone here,” she said. “Except you. You’ll never let me down, Domis. Will you?”

  He looked at her and his face shifted into an uncomfortable expression approximating what she guessed to be a smile. “No! Never, Mistress.”

  Resistance wasn’t quite as she’d anticipated but that was good as she hacked through the lock to her cell, shoved it open with the flat of her hand. She was in the corridor, weapon still ignited. Nobody. Left, or right? She bobbed her head, not sure where she was or how to leave but she couldn’t stay here. She went left, ran at full pace without calling on the Kjarn to augment her speed. She might need it down the line, frequent exaggerated use left the body exhausted and the mind slow to react. She’d need to be sharp. Kyra rounded a corner, caught sight of two more of the black-clad figures, these with auras in the Kjarn and she reacted before they could, cutting into one through the stomach, almost hewing him in two before she went for the second one. He put an arm up to block and leaned back from her in one desperate motion, her blade hacked through his limb, permanently ruined his looks as she drove it through his face. He was dead before he hit the ground and she didn’t spare them a look back as she moved on, no regrets about what she’d done. This was survival and they’d picked the wrong bitch to mess with here.

  She continued to move deeper through the corridors, not sure where she was going but confident if she kept going, an exit would present itself. This place was huge, she didn’t encounter more than token resistance, some of them not even threats but still needing to be eliminated. She couldn’t leave any witnesses. She just had to keep going.

  She turned another corner, hurdled a pipe and buried her blade between the shoulder blades of someone who hadn’t seen her coming, felt him fall before she felt something, the sudden sensation bringing her to a halt. It was faint, regardless it tugged at the back of her senses. She couldn’t have ignored it if she’d wanted to, following it down a slightly nicer corridor, all previous walls uniform grey and sterile, but here there was carpet. It felt spongy to run on, with a door up ahead. She had a good feeling about this as she ran towards it, slashing the lock into two pieces, she carried on, straight into the largest room she’d ever seen.

  It was huge. Although Kyra only took in her surroundings for a moment before focusing on the people inside, she couldn’t help acknowledging the depths of design that had gone into it. Three people turned, their attention on her. A middle-aged woman, a hulking man in a large hat and a dapper dark-skinned man with a neat beard and dreadlocks. She could feel them, surprise from the woman tinging above the sense of superiority, devotion from the big man…

  From the Vazaran, she sensed nothing, but she saw the window towards the back of them and knew it’d be her way out. If she had to jump, so be it. The Kjarn would slow her fall. She couldn’t stay here; she was outmatched as it was. She charged, weapon still lit in front of her, she’d kill anyone who stepped in her way. The big man stepped in her path, straight in front of the woman but it was the Vazaran who reacted, rising to his feet and hurling a fist at her.

  Too late she sensed the surge in the Kjarn and the rush of power caught her by surprise, hurling her back the way she had come, almost back through the door and out into the corridor. Pain shot through her, though not as much as the shock. Her heart caught in her mouth, Kyra looked at him more closely as she jumped to her feet, entire body aching. He didn’t appear to be carrying a weapon. Not that he needed one given he’d just hurled the fucking Kjarn at her!

  This wasn’t good! She remembered the presence she’d felt through her captivity and realised she might have found the source. He was old, a lot older than her but perhaps younger than her master. Raw power had hammered her, not a lot of finesse. She could work with that. Unfortunately, from what she’d felt, she could tell he was stronger than her.

  “That’s an interesting weapon,” the Vazaran said, some of his teeth missing. He wasn’t as dapper and clean-cut up close as she’d first guessed, old and tired, somehow soiled by his experiences. “Haven’t seen one for a while.”

  “Allow me to give it to you,” she replied. “Straight through the heart.”

  He wagged his finger. “Hardly a fair fight now, is it?” For a moment, she hesitated, unsure what he had meant, and it nearly proved to be a fatal as she felt the Kjarn tugging at her, warning her something was coming. She barely got the weapon up in time to block, his fingers arching out and dozens of little streams of electricity twisting from them, crimson lightning fizzling out on her blade. Dispelling it wasn’t easy, but she managed it, the blade of her weapon flickering under the assault.

  That made her mind up. The longer she remained here, the more chance she’d make some fatal mistake and not live to regret it. She stared at the man, obviously skilled in the arts of the Kjarn and realised she might be out of her depths. She was tired and running on empty, a long fight would be suicide right now. Past them was the window, she could make it. Nobody would expect her to run. She wouldn’t have expected herself to run.

  She smiled at him, thrust out a hand of her own and drove him back several paces with the full force of the Kjarn. He resisted it, just barely managed to stay on his feet but then she was past him before he could react, past the brute and the woman, kjarnblade in front of her like a spear, she could see blue sky up ahead of her, the first sight of freedom!

  She hit it, the window shattered into a thousand pieces, glass blowing back against her bare skin from the onrush of incoming atmosphere and suddenly she was out into the sweet embrace of fresh air. Kyra’s legs left solid ground and she was airborne. She looked down and didn’t even have the time to realise how screwed she suddenly was. Rather than be above a city somewhere, just a hundred or so feet from the ground, she couldn’t even see the ground for the clouds.

  Shit!

  Wim Carson doubled over, suddenly exhausted from the fatigue of drawing so much so quickly while still out of shape. He’d forgotten how effective the Kjarn could be in a fight when it was used in the right way. Casting the elements had once been so easy for him, he’d been a powerful Vedo Elementalist back in the day. He’d get back there soon, time was the greatest healer of them all. The girl was crazy; she’d leaped straight out into the blue beyond.

  But was she dead? He wasn’t entirely sure. He’d tried to lock down her presence the moment she’d entered the room and he hadn’t felt her snuff out yet. Maybe he hadn’t done it right. But whether she had survived or not was a question for another time. Right now, he was more concerned that she existed at all.

  Here? Now?

  It shouldn’t have surprised him but the presence of one of them here, a possible Cavanda running around unchecked was something that worried him immensely. The Cavanda were the ancient enemy of the Vedo, everything that they were not. And if there was one, there was at least one more out there somewhere. One could not gain these skills accidentally. Not the skill needed to build a kjarnblade. Not potent telekinesis. About the best one could hope for by oneself without training was mild unwitting precognition. Maybe prophetic foresight in dreams. Even then, they were more by accident than intent, often uncontrolled and wild. Such was the limit without training. That was perhaps a relief. Being able to draw
on the Kjarn and its power without the discipline of training and control was a recipe for disaster.

  He needed a weapon. If the Cavanda had returned to the five kingdoms, he didn’t want to have to resort solely on Kjarn abilities to defend himself. Before he could make the plans, he saw her staring at him as his attention came back to the room, a bemused look on her face. The woman who’d been his saviour.

  “Want to explain what just happened?” she asked, not a hint of amusement in her voice.

  Chapter Twenty. Oh Ghost, My Ghost.

  “Two people meet for the first time. Don’t know each other. One’s a good fella, the other ain’t so good. But the not so good fella, let’s call him Jim, he asks the good fella, who we’ll call Moe for a few credits to tide him over. And Moe, being the good fella, he gives him some. Don’t trouble him none. Jim takes the credits, Moe don’t get no word of thanks and then Jim vanishes. Them’s the breaks. Few weeks later, same story. They meet, Jim needs credits, Moe gives him a few more than last time. No thanks. See ya. Them’s the breaks. Few months later, same story. Jim asks for the credits, Moe, this time he say no, and Jim pulls a knife on him. Them’s the breaks.”

  Cautionary tale from Premesoir about human nature, entitled Them’s the Breaks. Author P. William Rashford.

  The seventeenth day of Summerpeak.

  Still the bug and the ape traded blows, neither willing to let up until one went down. A dozen small cuts had left Sarge bloodied, Scott could sense Herc was flagging. Bruises and breaks had left his body distorted under thunderous punches that would have broken less stubborn opponents. Herc had stayed up though, Saarth looking more frustrated now than she had through most of the bout and Scott felt relieved. If she lost her focus, he’d be able to drag her down closer to defeat. It was a good feeling, though he needed to keep his focus.

  Finally, Herc brought the great horn into play, rushing Sarge and jabbing several neat hooks with his horn. All intended to put the opponent on the back foot. Just as predicted, Sarge wove back to avoid being impaled, the tip of the horn only grazing his impressive six pack… Privately Scott wished he had muscles like that… leaving a fresh trace of blood staining the silver fur.

  He was to be surprised again. What he hadn’t expected was Sarge to reach out and grab the horn, Herc suddenly struggling to break free as both hands clasped around the appendage, holding him in place. Despite his struggles, it was a futile effort as Sarge went hand over hand, pulling the bug closer with each tug. Herc’s wings fluttered uselessly, the ape’s hands bleeding from caressing the razor edges of the horn, even if neither were giving up. They had too much to lose.

  The cold feeling still assaulted him, threatening to sap his focus. He didn’t let it, frantically barking out mental orders to Herc to try and get out of it any way he could. There had to be one. Arms flailed out more in hope than expectation and Sarge growled as clawed arms bit at his fur, ripping it out in chunks. Patches of pale pink skin glared in the daylight sun and Scott silently urged Herc on.

  It was too late, Sarge let go and wound up a big punch straight into the bugs face, Scott heard a terrific crack as the blow cracked the carapace, Herc tottering back on unsteady legs as if drunk. The second blow put him to the ground. Saarth suddenly looked hungry for the victory, Scott’s heart fell as Herc hit dirt with a thud. On his front and barely moving, the giant bug looked frail and weak. Sarge let out a bellow of triumph and beat his chest for several long seconds, but Scott didn’t see it, still too busy trying to reach Herc. The stagbug wasn’t defeated, he’d have felt it if he’d expired but whether Sarge realised or not was open to debate.

  Come on Herc… Come on! You can get up. He’s not expecting it. One more hit and then you can rest. Just give me one more, please! You’ve got to!

  He saw Herc twitch and his heart leaped from its pit of anguish. Sarge saw it as well, stopped beating his chest and raised both fists above his head like a hammer, Herc sprang from the dirt in one clumsy motion and drove his horn straight into the flexing pectoral muscle above him. It wasn’t an easy penetration, Scott saw the bug reach out with his arms, pull himself even further into Sarge before the fists came down on his back. That was that, he realised as the bug was almost broken in two by the force of the blow, brown matter already flooding from the break in his back. But still the gorilla was impaled, he still needed to pull Herc off before he could do anything else.

  Credit to him, he tried. He got both hands around Herc’s upper body and yanked, arms trembling with the effort. The sounds of pain rippling from the ape’s mouth were unlike anything Scott had ever heard before, anguished agony as fresh blood spurted out in a fountain, mingling with Herc’s innards to paint the ground a mud colour. The movements became less vigorous the further the horn came out; he could see the ape weakening by the second. Herc was almost gone, he could see giant fingers digging into the stagbug’s body, each movement sending reverberations through him.

  They collapsed at the same time, neither of them moving. He doubted they could. It wasn’t quite the clean victory he’d hoped it to be, but a knockout was a knockout. That gorilla had been a tough opponent, not something he’d have expected from someone like Saarth. Then again, he’d learned plenty of times appearances could be deceiving. Just because she looked like a flirty young woman didn’t mean she lacked a ruthless streak. She wasn’t a pushover to make it this far. Maybe he’d forgotten that just for a moment and he’d paid for it. It wasn’t a mistake he could afford to make again.

  She offered a few words he couldn’t understand to her gorilla as she returned the ape to the crystal and shot Scott another smile as he took Herc back. His own thanks came, brief but poignant. He wondered what to do next. Already she had made her choice and he saw her send out a veek to decide the battle for her. At least, that was her plan. He stroked his chin. Now what would be the best thing to fight the giant cat lizard? They could be tricky bastards in a fight and if he chose wrong, it would cost him dearly. Amidst contemplating his choice, he heard the laughter and stiffened up.

  “You struggle, bagmeat.”

  He reacted to the voice by almost jumping into the air in surprise. He turned, saw the face staring up from his shadow. Three eyes, yellow and lined with malice, huge mouth and brows. Same eerie high voice. Same damn ghost.

  That explained the cold.

  “How long you been stood there,” he hissed out the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t stand here and have a conversation. Not in the middle of a bout. And not in a live one. People would think he was going crazy talking to what looked like himself. Particularly since he wasn’t sure if anyone else could see the ghost. Nobody had reacted, plus he’d face disqualification if he took too long to decide. “And how the hells can I understand you?”

  No reply. The eyes blinked several times as they studied him. “Where else I go? Everything seems fun round you. Fun and violent.”

  “Well I’m busy,” Scott hissed. “Leave me alone, we’ll do this later.” It probably looked weird, him with his head leaned over his shoulder and his mouth moving too quietly to hear the words. He hoped there were no lip readers in attendance watching what he said.

  “Later? But I bored now. Want to do something.”

  He blinked. “You’re not mine.” He almost said it out loud. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You here bagmeat.”

  Scott knew somewhere at the back of his mind, he was running out of time. He’d be getting a warning very shortly if he didn’t pick it up. On the field, Saarth’s veek with its tawny fur and acid green scales continued to pace, razor sharp claws leaving shallow gouges in the battlefield. So much menace in such a compact package.

  “What?!”

  “You here. I here.”

  “I didn’t claim you!”

  “Don’t know what that is. I know you.”

  “Don’t think you know how this whole thing works.” Only then did Scott realise just quite how ridiculous this was, almost laughed out loud. Would hav
e done if it wasn’t such an inconvenient time. Nothing about this felt natural.

  “I don’t. Just feel you. You feel I?”

  He couldn’t deny that at all no matter how much he might have wanted to. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

  “There we go. We link. I know you bagmeat Scitt.”

  “Scott,” he said almost as a reflex. “My name is Scott.”

  “Yo.”

  “What’s yours?” It sounded stupid even as he said it, the realisation dawned the ghost probably didn’t have a name. He. It was probably a male. It sounded like it was male. Then again given that spirits shouldn’t be speaking at all, he could probably sound like whatever the hells he wanted. His head hurt thinking about it. The video referee beeped a warning, the stadium announcer was coming out with a list of consequences for inaction, he could hear murmurings amongst the crowd that he hadn’t done anything yet.

  “Want a name.”

  “And I’ll give you one,” he said. “Look…” The sense of urgency wasn’t lost on him, didn’t need to get kicked out of the tournament on a technicality. “… In a few. I really need to get back to this now. I’ll deal with you later.” It sounded callous, he couldn’t help that.

  “Want to fight.”

  “I can’t fight with you now.” He drew Sangare’s crystal, prepped to slot it into his summoner. He’d have to do this now, just hope the ghost didn’t interfere. That’d be a disaster, especially if he started telling tales on him.

  “Not with you, bagmeat. With that.” He stuck his head out of Scott’s shadow and pointed a hand at the veek. “Want to fight that. It smells funky. Like bad meat.”

  That took him by surprise, cutting off the words in the small of his throat before he could let them loose. “What?! You…”

  Can’t. He was about to say can’t, yet why couldn’t he? Granted he might well regret it. It could go horribly wrong for him. Without being linked to him via a crystal, there’d be nothing to stop the ghost going walkabout and leaving him in the lurch. But he’d seen first-hand how powerful he could be, plus it’d be one hells of a trump card. If Saarth had researched him, she wouldn’t see it coming. Plus, there was undoubtedly some sort of link between them. It could work. Sometimes, it just felt like you needed to take a gamble. Shuffle the cards and let them guide you on your path. He grinned.