The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  “Let me the hells go!” Rocastle snarled at Domis. “I’ll be civil. I want to see what happens!”

  “We’re all reasonable adults here,” the man said, as she nodded at Domis to let him stay for now “And let me guess, if you want to be a queen, you need a court jester. Think you should acquire for him a hat with bells on.”

  That interested her. “Queen? What makes you think I want to be a queen?”

  That smile again. “You’ve got that feel about you. I can see the ambition in you. You already have so much,” he swept a hand around the room. “And yet you want more. Much more. Maybe to the point that I’d almost say you want it all.”

  “You’re a perceptive man, Mister…” She left it blank, hoping to tempt him into a revelation. He didn’t bite.

  “Not really. I’ve seen your type before. People like you.”

  She laughed. “There are no people like me.”

  “There are always people like you,” he said. “I’ll give you credit though; you’ve gone to great length to get me here. I almost wonder what I could do for you in this grand scheme you’re no doubt plotting up. Little old me. Humble me. Not a credit to my name and yet you need something from me no doubt. Life likes its little ironies, does it not? Even the highest occasionally has to wait on the lowest.”

  “Somehow, I doubt you’re the lowest,” she said. “Or that you always were. I think you used to be… someone else.”

  “Everyone like me used to be someone else,” he said scornfully. “Everyone who hit bad times has a story. Every single cautionary tale. Best consider that, Miss. It could be you one day.”

  “Maybe. But isn’t it better to reach for the sun than stay in the shade. You might get burned but at the same time, you might hold the sun in your hand. And then…”

  “You hold the sun in your hand, you WILL get burned,” he said. “No two ways about it, I’m afraid to say. Every action has a price. I’m sure you didn’t get me here to bandy philosophy though. I’m waiting to hear what you do want.”

  She nodded. “Do you remember a man named Jeremiah Blut?”

  “Should I?”

  “He paid you a great sum of credits some time ago for what I believe to be some information regarding the Kjarn. I want to know what you told him.”

  He shrugged. “You want to know; why don’t you ask him?”

  “He’s dead. That makes it rather difficult to hold a conversation.”

  The man leaned back in his seat at that, a sudden wide grin on his face as he flexed his fingers out in front of him. “Well I guess that means I suddenly have an excellent bargaining chip. Price just went up. A lot.”

  She returned the smile. “That’s good you feel that way.” Her own smile grew as she saw the confusion rise across his face. Only slight but there it was. “If you feel you have a bargaining chip, it means we can bargain.”

  “Or we could torture it out of you,” Rocastle piped up. Sometimes she wondered if she’d erred in not having him killed when it would have been both exceptionally easy and convenient. At the very least, he was skating on thin ice as for his presence remaining in the room. She’d shown him mercy in that regard once.

  “You could try,” the man said. He didn’t look too bothered by the comment. “But you want to be privy to a little secret? Won’t do you any good. I’m a dead man anyway, reality just hasn’t caught up with me. Torturing me, well how long you think my body will hold out? And then where will you be, you big bag of shit?”

  “If you’re a dead man,” Sinkins piped up as Rocastle’s face went bright purple with rage. Only the fact that Domis had moved his shoulder in front of him stopped him from lunging forward and grappling with the dishevelled man. “Then why not share the information with us, all so it doesn’t die with you.”

  He ignored him and Rocastle and looked at her square on. “You want to know what I told him. It has a price.”

  “Name it.” She didn’t even hesitate.

  “Save my life,” he said. “My name is Wim Carson and if you save my life, I’ll help you with whatever you need.”

  It likely didn’t have the effect he’d desired. She blew on her nails and stared him down for a few moments. “Okay, I hear you. How do I know you have information that can help? Give me something that shows you are genuine.”

  Wim shrugged. “You said he asked about the Kjarn. That’s true. The Kjarn is a part of us all. We all touch it, we all channel it, we’re all part of it. It cannot exist without us; we cannot exist without it. It is what enables us to capture spirits, it is what makes us more than a bunch of individuals and turns us into a collective people. And it is what makes us capable of the spectacular.”

  “Do you refer to the Vedo when you say this?”

  The dishevelled man smiled. “What do you think you know of the Vedo, ma’am? I’d wager whatever you think you know has a number of fallacies attached to it.”

  “I heard they were a cult…”

  “And I’m proved right,” Wim smirked. “The Vedo were not a cult. Far from it. Cults indoctrinate. They are a blight that swallow up all before them and move on without having to face the fallout of their actions. Consequence is nothing to them. They do things in the name of religion that no sensible divine would ever ask of humanity. The Vedo… They didn’t do any of that. Far from it. They did only what they needed to. Nothing more.”

  “You seem to know a lot about them,” Sinkins said suspiciously. “Where did this extent of knowledge come from?”

  “First-hand,” Wim said nonchalantly. He couldn’t quite hide the faintest trace of a smile as he did. “I used to be one.”

  That brought silence to the room and he smiled that black broken smile again. “That’s got your attention, hasn’t it? Now if you want more, I’ve named my price. It’s a steep one but I think what I know is worth it.”

  She studied him for several moments, sifting over the options in her mind. If he could shed some light on what remained in the dark to her, it might be credits well spent. The least she could do was assess his condition, see what was wrong with him. Maybe take it from there.

  “Mr Carson,” she said pleasantly. “I think we might be able to do business…” Her words tailed off as he rose to his feet and wandered over to one of her walls, his attention apparently elsewhere for the moment. Domis moved to halt him, she gave him a glance that stopped him in his tracks. Wim’s attentions were taken up by the paintings on the wall, numerous artworks from a long time ago. Each of them supposed pictures of the divines, he studied them all for several long seconds.

  “You have an interesting taste in artwork,” he said. He glanced around, took her in, squinted his eyes at her. She could see them watering from the effort. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

  “I think we might be able to do business,” she said, brushing down her irritation. Getting angry with him wouldn’t solve anything. When dealing with one who looked like they had nothing to lose, you had to tread carefully. “I’d like to have someone examine you, see exactly what is wrong with you and take it from there. If you have something incurable, you might have to accept that there is nothing we can do to save you.”

  “Well you might have to start investing in miracles if you want the cure,” he said. “Make sure they pay special attention to my brain. There’s something not right up there, I can feel it.”

  “Magical Vedo powers?” Rocastle scoffed.

  Wim ignored him, instead fixated his gaze on her. “You know something, ma’am, I think I’ve got you worked up. I might be a shadow of my former self but I still know how to connect the dots. I know how to see the connections. All this work. All this hunger for knowledge of the Kjarn… All those pictures of the divines, all by the same artist…”

  Are you going somewhere with this? She wondered silently to herself. She said nothing, waiting for him to get to the point, if he had it.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be searching for the Gilgarus Heart, would you?”

  For
the second time, his words brought silence to the room and then she rose to her feet with a face like thunder. Shock and anger flooded through her like a storm and she had to clamp her hands together to stop them shaking.

  “Who told you that?!” She demanded. He didn’t wilt before her, only grinned and settled back in his seat.

  “I put it together.” He sounded so smug it made her want to vomit. “I know things, you see. And well, I can help you. Help me, I’ll help you. Partners?” He stood up and offered her a grimy hand. “It’ll be really worth your while. If you help me, I’ll owe you my life.”

  Reluctantly, she moved around her desk and faced him. He wasn’t a tall man, their eyes met and he showed that smile one more time. His hand felt filthy beneath hers but she didn’t flinch as she gripped it and shook.

  “Well here’s to partnership,” she said casually. “And a friendly warning, if you disappoint me, I’ll kill you myself.” She smiled at him. “No pressure then.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five. Cause and Effect.

  “Everything that you do has a counterbalance. To act is to create a reaction to that balance. To react is to try and restore. If we could predict the reaction, I always think we’d do things differently. But at the same time, knowing the future is something that maybe we shouldn’t be privy to. Nothing good comes out of knowing what happens next when you shouldn’t.”

  Doctor Dale Sinkins on consequences.

  The eighth day of Summerpeak.

  He didn’t believe them when they’d said the vomiting was a reaction to the medical webbing wrapped around his cuts. It had come off now, his arm was pretty much healed up but their words hadn’t rung true. For one thing, he hadn’t felt nauseous beforehand. It had just come over him when he’d stood up. He’d been ill before and it didn’t feel like that. When you were ill, you generally felt it for at least a few moments before it overcame you. And he hadn’t felt that. Far from it to be him to diagnose his own condition but he knew it had felt wrong. Really wrong. It hadn’t been like sickness; it had been like…

  … Rot in my stomach, bile and blood churning away…

  His head buzzed, he’d been given some pills for it but either they were taking their sweet time to kick in or they weren’t doing any good. His tongue felt furry, his throat felt delicate, but he didn’t want to surrender and let it get him down. It had been a long day, maybe he was just tired. A good night’s sleep and he’d probably feel better in the morning. He hoped. It felt a very long time since his victory and wandering back towards the hotel, he could already feel the call of his bed in the early evening. The sun was fading and the air was warm on clammy skin, he couldn’t stop sweating. He ran a hand over his forehead and it came back drenched. He swallowed and his tongue felt so heavy and dry. His lips felt like sandpaper and he couldn’t stop shaking.

  What… What’s happening to me? Even though he asked the question, no answer was forthcoming as he nearly tripped, nearly fell, had to steady himself on a passing person. He heard their complaints and muttered a clumsy sound of apology. Then he felt their hand on his shoulder and he doubled his fist just in case they were going to turn violent. Typical, just…

  “You’re Scott Taylor! Oh wow! I was just at your bout; can I have a picture with you?”

  He shrugged the hand off. “Maybe… Maybe later. Just need… Not feeling well. So… Sorry. Really.” He could feel the look of exasperation on their face as he shuffled off. His breath caught in his throat and he had to rest against the side of a store. His face was on fire and he felt his stomach churn again, vomit spattering down the side of the building, brown and red and black and…

  He couldn’t look as he turned, exhaled and groaned. That was when he saw her, a vision amidst the fog that his eyes had become. She was like a beacon of light in the darkness, golden and bright, so harsh he couldn’t see beyond the radiance.

  “Wha…” He managed to say clumsily. A hand on his shoulder, her radiance only grew brighter and as he felt the grip, he heard a voice, low and urgent. Why did it sound familiar…? He knew it. Wasn’t Mia. Wasn’t Jess. Wasn’t… Who was it? It wasn’t even like he could hear the words, more experience them. Like they were being thrust into him like a dozen little swords and he could no more ignore them than move.

  Breathe. Breathe. Just close your eyes and shut it all down. Let the pain go. It’ll pass. It’s only feelings. They’re all in your head. You can conquer this.

  He couldn’t. A whimper slipped out the corner of his mouth as fresh migraines assaulted him, a million jackhammers crashing away at his mind and his legs almost gave out. If he fell, he doubted he’d get up.

  Shut it all down! You can do this. Block it all out.

  Can’t!

  You can… The voice in his being went silent for a moment and then he heard it again, loud and strong. This pain is an opponent. Like the one you just faced. Your pain is Steven Silver and once more you must conquer him. You’ve done it once. You’re stronger now. Are you going to let some posh bastard finish you off?

  What are you talking about? He couldn’t fathom the meaning behind her words. They just… Pain was pain. Steven was Steven. They were two separate things…

  Only in your mind. Everything is connected. What makes up one thing makes up another. You are limited in your world view. If you don’t do this, you will die. Or worse!

  What’s worse than death? He asked silently.

  No answer.

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  You must. The voice in his mind was suddenly cold, brisk and professional. Not a hint of emotion there. If you don’t, then you live with the consequences. Possibly not for very long admittedly.

  His entire being hurt, like he was being chewed on and he felt himself drop. Scott threw out his hands at the onrushing ground, felt the sidewalk bite into his palms and fresh pain shot up through him. His stomach churned and he knew a fresh wave of nausea was about to assault him.

  Like a punch. He had to try. She sounded like she knew what she was talking about. He giggled to himself. He didn’t even know who she was. Might be someone or nobody. Wasn’t even sure that there was someone there.

  Visualising the pain as a punch was harder than it sounded. And he’d already thought it sounded nigh on impossible. As it struck his gut, he tried to imagine it that way. He tried to picture it as someone throwing one into his stomach and laughing as he doubled over in pain. It took a few tries as fresh sensations clawed at his insides and he wanted to scream. Slowly that person turned into Steven and his cavern crusher. He could see the looks on their faces, feel their malice in their beings and he tried to get back away from him. Irrow looked mad enough to go on the hunt, ready to kill, ready for revenge over the way Palawi had defeated it…

  Palawi…

  Somewhere amidst the buzzing mix of images and feelings that his confused mind had become, he heard his summoner activating, felt a tongue on his face and somewhere amidst it all, the hound hovered to the surface. Not just out in the real world but in his mind as well. He could see Palawi in there just as much as he could see Steven and Irrow, he could smell them now. The metallic tinge on the cavern crawler, the sweat and musk from Palawi… Even Steven’s cologne was there, harsh and bitter in his nose.

  Again, Irrow came at him and he felt the first precursors of pain and instinctively he commanded Palawi to attack. The blast of electricity erupted from the dog and struck Irrow dead on. The crawler roared in pain, so did Steven and just for a moment they flickered out of existence and Scott felt fresh relief pulse through him, a boon of everything good that had ever happened to him. He felt bruised lips form into a smile, felt the laughter ripple out from him and he sat up on his knees.

  Still they returned and once more Palawi let a rip of thunder into them and he saw them both cry out in pain and vanish. The third time they returned, he didn’t even need Palawi. He stared them both down, Steven and Irrow, grinned at them and folded his arms. “Your move, boys. When you’re ready.” He f
elt simultaneously light headed and confidently elated, his head buzzing, dizzy and fired up ready for whatever they had.

  They charged and he clenched a fist, his hand hopelessly small compared to just one of Irrow’s legs never mind its whole body. If he landed the punch, he knew his hand would break… Flesh and bone against tough iron. It wasn’t a contest.

  Except…

  This wasn’t the real world. It wasn’t going to make a damn-diddily difference here. His grin grew, suddenly Irrow was there, suddenly it was just Steven and the pain intensified as he stepped towards the silver haired man, each footstep an agony trying to drag him down and down. He didn’t let it.

  He wouldn’t let it. Step by step he moved closer and closer until he stood nose and nose. It felt like his entire body was bleeding as he raised a fist and punched the figure hard on the nose, he felt his knuckles crack under the force of the blow and he saw Steven recoil, his nose shattered…

  The pain vanished and this time Steven didn’t come back. For several moments he wasn’t quite sure what had happened until he felt the cold breeze on his face, hot and cold in a weird medley. All the higher sensations he’d experienced vanished and slowly he felt the mundane returning to him. The sounds. The smells. The sensations.

  He opened his eyes. Everything looked better already. He blinked several times just to be sure. Still on the island. Alone in some alley somewhere, a stream of vomit down the side of a building. Palawi was down sniffing at it, a curious look on his doggy features…

  No sign of the woman whose voice he had recognised but been unable to place. He felt better. A lot better. Maybe the pills had kicked in at last. Or maybe it was something else, he couldn’t quite explain. He’d felt like he was about to die. Like his entire body was just about to go kaput and now he felt good. He felt better than good. Sure, his face and his arm still ached but there was nothing wrong with that. His palms were bloodied but they didn’t hurt as much as he thought they might.