The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  “What hells? That was a good hit.” Permear sounded outraged. “Come on chief, let me at that thing! I wipe that smirk off its face.”

  “You can’t wipe the smirk off its face,” Scott pointed out. “It’s got a permanently curved mouth.” Instead he gave the mental command and Permear charged, fists glimmering with a shining purple energy as he went for the eyes. They were big enough targets; the ghost could hardly miss. Apparently Martial had other plans, the giant cheeks swelled powerfully, the mouth opened, and the spirit exhaled. It had twin effects, one the blast threatening to topple Permear from his feet, the other sending it hovering just out of range. Permear swore as he struggled to keep his feet, had to drop to all fours to regain stability.

  “Can I push its brains out through its skull?” he inquired, his voice harsh in Scott’s ears. “Because this thing is really asking for it.”

  “I’m sure it’s not. Come on Permear, stop dicking around and start landing some blows.” Silently he added what he wanted the ghost to do and Permear nodded, begrudgingly pushing a hand inside his body. Scott heard the grunt of discomfort as the ghost tugged free a large handful of ectoplasm and brought his arm back, pitching it through the air towards the puttlebut.

  It struck the big pink spirit straight between the eyes and immediately Scott caught the scent of burning, smoke rising from the wound. They’d come up with the attack together, the lump was about as toxic as you could without inserting a face into a puddle of nuclear waste. Truth be told, he’d enjoyed working out what Permear could do.

  “Pinky!” Martial yelped, her face suddenly contorted with dismay. Any composure she might previously have had lost amidst panic. “Try to get it off!”

  Good luck with that, Scott thought as Permear snickered in agreement. Pinky’s arms weren’t long enough for it to scratch its ass never mind wipe something off its face. The stuff on its face continued to smoulder, Scott caught another whiff of flesh charring in his nostrils. He tried to ignore it, the one thing you got used to as a spirit caller was the way flesh reacted under extreme abuse. The puttlebut dropped to the ground and tried scraping its face against the grass to little effect.

  “Well that went better than I thought it would,” Permear mused, taking one bobbing step towards the downed opponent before turning it into a run-up. He sprang, landed down on the giant fat back and Scott heard a great jeer erupt from the crowd, about the same time the sound of breath being expelled from Pinky’s body exploded around the arena, an almost vulgar sound which made him smirk. The puttlebut tried to rise, turn to face Permear and Scott saw smoking footmarks across the back.

  Okay, that’s just improvising, he thought. He could have sworn Permear turned back and winked at him. But good job. Sometimes it was hard to remember that the ghost could hear his thoughts. Granted that was how he gave him most of his orders in battle, but when Permear started talking back, it was a little distracting.

  “You a little distracting,” the ghost said bitterly. “I don’t want you tipping around in my head.”

  “Can’t imagine it’s crowded in there.”

  “Oh, you bitch!”

  Anything else Permear might have said was cut off by the stricken puttlebut hitting it with a body check which almost knocked him off his feet. It was replaced by rampant swearing, Scott blinked several times, not quite sure he’d just seen what had just passed before his eyes.

  “How…”

  Pinky came around again and this time he ordered Permear to dodge, the ghost leaping into the air above the lumbering spirit. Scott peered close, still trying to work out why the attack had landed. Permear was a ghost, the blow shouldn’t have landed. Physical blows against ghosts usually had the same effect as trying to punch smoke. Or fire. It was a stupid idea and probably shouldn’t be attempted. But elemental attacks could hurt, so presumably it had been something along that line. Now Pinky was in the air as well as Permear and the ghost was on the defensive, weaving to evade a flurry of blows. Scott was galvanising him on, he didn’t want to take a chance if the ghost could be harmed.

  “Nice you care so much,” Permear grunted. “This exhausting. Can’t I just hit it until it falls down?!”

  Await an opening, you’ll get one, Scott urged silently. Just try and keep it up. It might be tiring but it’s better than being dead.

  “Who for, me or you?” The words came out in exaggerated huffs as the ghost gasped for breath, Scott now sure the spirit was being entirely unnecessary in his actions. Now you’re just being unhelpful, Perm.

  Once again Permear winked at him, wove his face away in to avoid being hit. Pinky’s fist flashed through the space where he’d been a moment earlier and Scott reacted.

  Now!

  He almost yelled the word out in his head and Permear grabbed the outstretched arm and made to spin around, hurling the puttlebut into the ground face first. It would have been a painful hit against any opponent, except apparently this one, Pinky hit hard and bounced straight back up, the great bulk checking Permear head on and the ghost went sailing higher into the air.

  “Okay, this is just getting humiliating. I hope nobody’s watching this,” Scott heard the ghost grumble. He didn’t sound hurt anyway, at least that was one positive out this whole fiasco.

  “Just my pride,” Permear added, hovering near the peak of the protective shield. “Think I might just hover here for a few. Catch my breath. While you think of a new strategy because this is bogus.”

  “Diplomatic.”

  “Screw diplomacy, bagmeat, I… What the hell’s diplomacy?”

  I’ll answer that for you later, Permear, Scott thought with an inward groan. For now, just get some pain laid out on that damn thing.

  “Thought you’d never ask.” The ghost sounded almost cheery as he lunged into the fray, ducked beneath a stubby pink arm as it flailed for him and landed a trio of punches into the bulbous body. Thick sludgy stains stuck to its skin as the blows landed, slowly bubbling as the poison started to take effect. “It’s better than hitting a bag this. Reckon they make punch bags out of dead versions of these things?”

  To that, Scott had no answer. He didn’t even want to consider it.

  “You can’t keep ignoring me, you know that. I never go away. You can’t silence the Permear.”

  “You’re the stupid,” Scott muttered. “Nobody refers to themselves like that.”

  “I going to start a trend.”

  “Might be hard when I’m the only one who… Keep your bloody mind on the fight!” Out on the field, Permear had to sidestep a body check and made a point of kicking the puttlebut viciously in the back. There was a faint slurping sound as he tugged his foot free of the hefty skin.

  “Stop bloody distracting me then!” Permear almost howled, sarcastically mimicking the words Scott had thrown at him moments earlier. “You want to do this, or you want me to do it my way?”

  What’s your way? Scott wondered silently. Pulling brains out through skulls? From the other side?

  “Nah, that’s an easy trick. All you have to do is manipulate a void inside the skull and…”

  “Yeah that!” Scott almost screamed. “That! Do that.”

  Martial looked at him like he was losing his mind. Some of the front row sections of the crowd had surprised looks on their faces, he tried to ignore them. Using Permear here might have been a mistake, he was willing to admit that. There was still a lot he didn’t know about the ghost and it might cost him.

  “You know I can hear you, right?”

  Yeah, you’ve reminded me several times. Just do it! He studied the puttlebut, shook his head. Wait, wait!

  “What now?! You want me to do this or not?”

  Just, think about this. That worked before because… MOVE!

  Permear was already hurtling out the way as Pinky came charging in like an out-of-control mag-rail train. The ghost whistled as Scott silently cursed the annoying opponent.

  “Ooh you got a really dirty mouth, bagmeat.”

 
; The veek he’d unleashed Permear against had been a completely different shape, entirely unlike this thing. Given the puttlebut didn’t appear to have a head, it’d be hard to pinpoint exactly where its brain was. Given it was all body, it’d be almost impossible to guess where the vital spots were. Having Permear randomly throw voids into it would be a bit of a fool’s errand without a specific idea where to start. A waste of time and effort on their part.

  Okay, can you form up a series of voids, one after another?

  “Probably. You want me try that now?”

  “Well yeah, that’s why I asked you.” He fought the urge to kick something. Probably not a healthy urge. Aim for the arm. See if you can do some damage.

  “You know what I do when I want to kick something? I kick something.” Permear broke into a stream of manic laughter before staring at Pinky with an evil grin. The onrushing puttlebut suddenly stopped mid-rush, a bemused look on the giant features. Scott saw saucer-sized eyes move to the left arm, he saw the skin bubbling like it had been exposed to acid.

  “My pretty?” Martial asked, her words puzzled. They almost mirrored the surprise on her spirits face. “Is something concerning…”

  She was cut off, almost screamed as Pinky’s arm exploded in a shredded mix of blood and flesh and bone. Only a useless stump remained, Scott turned his face to avoid taking a chunk in the eye, felt it hit his cheek and slid onto his shoulder. Calmer than he truly felt, he flicked it away and deliberately rolled his eyes. He imagined it looked exceptionally cool for the cameras, typical really there’d be something recording his reaction right now. Martial looked like she’d avoided it, uneasily slipping to the side as a big lump of fatty flesh hit her technical area.

  “Want me to just keep doing that?” Permear asked. Casually he reached to grab a piece of already baking meat and took a bite from it with a crunch. “Because…”

  “Eyes!” Scott yelled. “Now!”

  This time he made sure to cover his face, watching only through the cracks of his fingers as Pinky’s eyes started to bubble, one stubby arm and one stump struggling to get to them, seeking out any sort of reprieve from the pain. A dull moaning sound emerged from its cavernous mouth, he almost felt sorry for it. Almost. Not quite. He couldn’t afford sympathy at a time like this. The moan turned into a scream as twin brutal pops broke the suddenly stunned silence of the stadium. Scott allowed himself a momentary look, satisfied he wasn’t going to be struck with eye gunk, saw twin gaping caverns staring back at him.

  “Eye see you!” Permear chortled, dancing around just out of reach as the puttlebut flailed ineffectually at him. “Want me to lend a hand? Or an eye?!”

  “That’s terrible,” Scott muttered. “Just let it go. No more eye jokes. Put it out of its misery.”

  He could hear the ghost sigh. “Just once, I want to be allowed to express myself. Just once. None of this ‘do this Permear, do that Permear, kill this for me Permear.’ I feel like a slave sometimes… When I could be having a ball! An eyeball! Hahahaha! Come on bagmeat, tell me that wasn’t hilarious.”

  Scott ignored him as the ghost hopped into the air, floating listlessly above Pinky’s head before dropping a punch onto the puttlebut. The enemy spirit never saw it coming, flattened under the force of the blow only to contort back into shape almost instantly like it was made of elastic. Had he not dug in, Permear might have been thrown clear, instead ethereal hands dug in, tearing away at mangled flesh. It probably wouldn’t be the cleanest win he’d ever be awarded. But as the damn puttlebut finally went down, he couldn’t help but be relieved. A tricky opponent and he’d conquered her. He’d bloody done it. Quarter finals, here he came.

  “What do you mean, you did it?” Permear sounded irritable as he strode over, shaking himself off. “You did nothing but flap around like an idiot. I was the one who had all the good ideas. I should get the trophy.”

  “What trophy?” Lost in the heat of the moment above the applause of the crowd, Scott stared at the ghost in confusion.

  “You know, for winning.” He threw a hand out at the fallen puttlebut. Martial looked upset. Scott wasn’t surprised.

  “You don’t get anything for winning at this point,” he said. “Got to win four more bouts yet. This was the third round.”

  Permear’s eyes widened bulbously. “You joke with me, right?”

  “Nah, there’s a long hard path ahead. This was probably the easy bit.”

  “You call that easy?” Permear sounded outraged, like he wanted to give the puttlebut one final kick to emphasise his displeasure. Scott paid him no attention, walked past the ghost and over to Martial. Behind him, Permear continued to explode with disgust, words fading to sound as he tried to hide his enthusiasm.

  “Hey,” he said to Martial. She looked despondent, he could almost feel the sorrow radiating from her. “Well done.”

  “Suppose you expect the same from me?” she asked, her accent heavy with grief. Her eyes remained dry though, her expression steadfast. She folded her arms and fixed a beady stare on him. “I will give you one. Congratulations, good luck with the rest of the tournament? Satisfied no?”

  It lacked for sincerity, he had to admit that but there wasn’t anything that he could do, nothing in the rules that said you had to lose with grace. Sometimes when he’d been on the wrong end of a defeat, it had been all he could do to get to the locker room without kicking something.

  Still, it sure was something. Him, Scott Taylor, into the quarter final of the Quin-C. The last six… Of all the spirit callers in the five kingdoms, he could say he was in the top six… Well he could say it anyway. Part of him felt like there’d be plenty who’d dispute it.

  The twenty-third day of Summerpeak.

  Okocha had had enough and judging by the look of frustration on his face, Noorland had too. They’d both spent way too much time in these makeshift offices on this trip and right now, Okocha felt if he never saw another cabin again in his entire life, he’d be deliriously happy.

  “Hey, Will.”

  He tried to ignore the voice, didn’t need the distractions, just wanted to keep working until stuff made sense. Just keep turning the facts over and over in his head until something clicked. There had to be some sort of connection, all of this, Reims and Blut and the Quin-C and everything that had happened since.

  “Will.” Something hit him on the back of the head and he snapped back to attention, just about managing to suppress the urge to flail his hands about wildly.

  “Wha-what?” He shook his head violently. “Sorry, miles away there. This whole thing is starting to get to me.”

  “Yeah you look stressed,” Noorland said. “Want me to take over a bit?”

  Okocha shook his head. “Nah, I’m fine. Got to keep working. Got to keep going. Need to find a connection. If one exists…”

  “I already brought this up,” Noorland cut in. “I don’t think we should solely focus our investigation on Reims. There’s a chance they have nothing to do with this.”

  “And there’s an even bigger chance that they don’t,” Okocha shot back. “There’s an even bigger chance that they’re a snake in the grass and they’re just waiting to strike. Without warning!”

  “Will, piss off and get some sleep,” Noorland said as gently as he could manage. “You’re not doing anyone any favours working yourself into the ground like this. We’re all tired, we’re undermanned and someone’s going to have a breakdown if things stay like this. Don’t let it be you.”

  “I’m fine. Just…” He let his sentence hang to yawn. “Just…”

  “Yeah, I got that,” Noorland said. “Seriously. Clear your head, clear your mind. I’ll stay here, hold the fort. You know I got this.”

  “Not as well as me.” Okocha’s voice was stubborn, angry, the tone of voice that said, ‘aha but you aren’t me so stop trying to be.’

  “I can match you right now,” Noorland replied. “Because you’re that out of it. When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?” />
  “When was Arventino’s fight with that freaky he-she?”

  “Wow…” Noorland sounded like he was straddling the lines between impressed and disgusted. “That long?”

  “Aye… Next tournament, we should bring more people…” Okocha cut off with another yawn.

  “I agree with Agent Noorland.”

  Both looked up, saw Brendan stood staring into the room, patience etched across his craggy features.

  “Will, go get some sleep. Think we got some sleep tablets in storage. Take a couple. You’ll feel better in the morning. I’m ordering you to do it. Agent Noorland, I need you to do something for me. My biometrics are fritzing again. See if you can fix it for me.”

  “And therefore, you need me,” Okocha piped up. “If he’s fixing that, who’s going to be watching this.” He gestured at his screen. “Who’s going to…”

  “Get out!” Brendan jerked his thumb towards the door. “Don’t make me…” He was cut off as his summoner buzzed. As did Okocha’s. Then Noorland’s.

  The same screen next to Okocha was suddenly alight with activity and the three men looked at each other, a sudden collective of heavy hearts present in the room. Eyes went to display screens and all messages read the same. It was a picture of someone they knew of very well, a perky blond figure and the heart-breaking message beneath it. All three of them felt it and they suddenly found themselves worried for what would come next.

  Sharon Arventino found dead in hotel room at Quin-C.

  Chapter Four. The Day I Die.

  “Everyone dies. Some deaths are just more pointless than others. I can’t think of anything I’d want more than for my death to matter.”

  Alison Teserine, former highest of the Vedo.

  The twenty-second day of Summerpeak.

  He waited patiently while the two of them spoke, the traitorous Silas and the self-styled Mistress. Wim Carson didn’t like the moniker she’d bestowed upon herself. If he chose to address her with it, it was with great reluctance. He could have overheard them if he chose, yet he didn’t. The less he knew of this scheme, the more comfortable he felt he’d be, if only for his conscience. What he knew, he didn’t like. Besides, he had something he needed to do. He knew he’d need her leave to succeed, therefore no point in antagonising her unnecessarily. If she chose to engage in discussion with a man like Silas, then that was up to her. He could feel the duplicity radiating from him. From her, Wim just got the same feelings he usually did. Deep calm, smug authority, an unshaking sense of belief in her own justification. There was nothing more dangerous than someone who truly believed what they were saying to be the truth. Therein lay the musings of a dangerous lunatic.