The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  “Cheap trick?” she asked. There was amusement in her voice.

  “Maybe,” Scott replied. “We’ll see. Good luck.”

  “Oh, I don’t need luck darling,” she said as the signal to start the bout sounded. “I just need to be me.”

  She winked at him and suddenly her garj’s eyes began to glow with an eerie effervescent blue light. Parts of Sludge’s body started to ripple and shake as if a dozen invisible hands were suddenly crashing repeatedly into him. If he was bothered, he didn’t show it. Sludge made a bemused sound. Grass died as he moved across it, what was left behind rotted and wilting under his trail.

  At Scott’s command, the mud-stalker’s mouth ripped open and he let loose a huge belch in the direction of the garj. He could smell the gas from here, fought the urge to breathe. You didn’t want that in your system. Not even close. It hit the garj full on, didn’t appear to have any effect. Not for several long seconds until the beast doubled over and purged the contents of its stomach, vomiting badly. The calm smirk on Sommer’s face faded in an instant, replaced by concern as her spirit dropped to all six’s, knees, paws and blades all hitting the dirt in the same instant. The garj’s bright red plumage suddenly started to droop, drip with sweat and sickness. He’d seen spirits that were in terminal decline looking better than this one did.

  That had gone better than he’d expected as the garj slowly rose up, still looking a little queasy. Then it sprang across the field, a lot more mobile than he’d expected it to be after inhaling lungsful of toxic gases and swept its blades up into an attacking stance. Within a handful of moments, it was dancing around Sludge, the blades whipping back and forth through the soggy body, a squelching sound emerging every time the blades slipped out covered in filth.

  Scott didn’t even try to counter attack at this point, just ordered Sludge to stay in on himself and defend for his life. He had his strategy and he needed to stick with it. The poison was slowly killing the garj and all he and Sludge needed to do was outlast it. The downside of poisoning it so early in the bout was that the garj could now hit Sludge at will without the danger of being poisoned given that ship had sailed. He’d turned it into a timed bout essentially, thrown all cards off the table. Who’d fall first? Because despite being hard to damage, Sludge wasn’t even close to being invulnerable. Sooner or later those blades would catch something vital. Scott made his choice in a heartbeat, Sludge’s arms shot out in the direction that the garj had vaguely been in, didn’t come close to landing but it made the opponent retreat just a little further away.

  It was starting to look sick, any idiot could tell that. The garj’s eyes were starting to bleed even as they glowed once more and this time Sludge was yanked from the ground just for a few moments before being forcibly thrown back into it. Those, Scott reflected, might be a problem. A mud-stalker in the air was infinitely less dangerous than one on the ground. They weren’t intended to fly for that very reason. Nothing enjoyed being smacked into the ground at high speeds and with that sort of force. Righting himself, Sludge yanked a handful of mud away from his body and threw it in the garj’s direction. It managed to dance away, a lot less gracefully than it had moved moments earlier. One of its legs buckled underneath it but still it just about managed to remain upright, supporting its weight in the ground with a blade into the dirt.

  Scott hadn’t expected the attack to hit home, he just needed to keep it on the defensive a little longer, not give it chance to regroup. How long did that poison take? It was different for different species, the mud-stalker’s natural prey was birds, rodents and small amphibians and reptiles, on those it worked in seconds. On something larger, it’d take a lot longer. The garj coughed and blood dribbled down its chin, Sommer was starting to look worried and Scott took that as a good sign. It came again and this time he rolled the dice, ordering Sludge to move.

  The mud-stalker twisted away clumsily from the first blow, the garj overshooting itself and tripping, its legs no longer completely able to hold it up. One knee came down into Sludge’s body and came away bloody and raw, Scott caught the odour of something rotten and fought the urge to gag, the poison already burning through the fine fur that covered the garj’s body. Sludge swung out, caught it a blow in the side and Scott could testify from experience that those blows hurt when you didn’t expect them. It left a black handprint on the garj’s side and with a scream it went down flat on its face, Sludge immediately crawling all over it. If it were lucky, it’d suffocate quickly. If it wasn’t…

  It wouldn’t be a particularly pleasant way to die. First there were struggles, Scott could see the ripples through Sludge’s body but gradually they slowed down and down until they no longer moved.

  As Sludge slithered away to reveal the defeat opponent, Scott didn’t know which came first, the sound of the referee confirming the bout was over, the roar of the crowd or his own sudden enthusiastic celebrations as he dropped to his knees and raised both arms to the sky, elation suddenly filling him up…

  Chapter Sixty. The Burden of Parenthood.

  “Even the shallowest puddles can have hidden depths.”

  Old Canterage proverb.

  The second day of Summerfall.

  How long had he been in this room now? He didn’t know. Time had gradually been slipping by and it was starting to grate. Of course, they didn’t want him wandering this place. If he were doing the same thing, he would want to keep track of visitors, at least until he knew where they stood. He had no right to be here, not until he committed to the cause one way or another and so he’d stayed locked up. The only times he’d been allowed to leave were under the supervision of the two Taxeen guards for meals and they’d not been particularly chatty. Any attempt to make conversation with them had met stony faces and stern expressions.

  Maybe he wasn’t speaking their language. After all, she wouldn’t want guards who could be persuaded to deviate from her path. It made things difficult as he pondered his options. This had started as a mission to go undercover, he’d volunteered for it and between himself, Arnholt and Okocha, they’d put it into place. The less people that knew about it the better. It was always better that way. Protocol demanded that they keep it secret.

  Part of him wished that he could have told Wade though. He’d been in touch since Sharon had… Nick swallowed hard. He didn’t want to think along those lines right now. Too many bad memories. Still they were too painful to touch and he needed to keep a clear head. He could lock them down. He needed to. Couldn’t dwell on the past right now, not with something this important. If he faltered, then he’d fall.

  On the other hand, he was entitled to grieve a little. And it might be what his captors were expecting. Seeing someone sat there stony faced for a long time when they’d just gone through a traumatic event like that… He could try and second guess all he wanted but the likelihood was that sooner or later he’d have to face it. Ignoring it now was only going to make the pain worse. That much was undeniable. He couldn’t put it off for long. That he was doing it now was nothing short of remarkable, if he did say so himself. The pain he was trying so hard to ignore was like a blazing ragged hole in his stomach, constantly screeching out in agony and injustice. Why, Sharon? Why? Of all the beautiful radiant souls in the world, why did you have to be the one taken? What did you do to deserve that? Life’s a bitch and then you die. How true is that? His eyes felt wet, just for a second and he viciously clamped down on them, rubbing his arm across them more vigorously than was necessary.

  His hand still ached where he’d landed the punch on Ritellia, something he might have enjoyed in more satisfying circumstances. Some people probably would never forgive him for wrecking a funeral like that. It was okay, he probably wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. On the one hand, it felt like sullying Sharon’s memory because he’d had a part in making it a memorable occasion for all the wrong reasons. On the other, it felt like he’d done something necessary to ensure that somebody got punished. He might be trying to delude himself
, in fact he thought he was, but if it got someone caught then it was worth it. There would be no greater tribute to her memory.

  He’d heard it said in the past that that would be what the dead wanted, to make sure that their end was ultimately something that mattered in the context of things. Everyone liked the idea of a last stand to save others, going out in a blaze of glory, but in the end, dead was dead. They were beyond caring about such things. They were the lucky ones in a way. He knew how cheap life was really, how easily it could be snuffed out and the dead had it easy. Their troubles were over. It was the ones left alive who had to keep on going. He didn’t want to think about how many lives he had prematurely snuffed out and while you could go on about the greater good, it didn’t change that they had had families as well. Families who would feel like he did now. The irony was not lost on him.

  He needed to report in at some point, a task appearing to become that little bit harder with every passing hour. No way was he going to be able to slip his Taxeen escorts, no way Claudia Coppinger would even let him go if he said yes. He’d be getting shot in the head, one flash of light and that’d be it for his story. But what if he did say yes? All in the purposes of getting more information, of course.

  He genuinely got the impression she believed what she was saying and that was perhaps the scariest thing of them all. Nothing more dangerous than someone who genuinely believes in the words that come out of their mouth. Belief was good but he’d also seen first-hand it was one of the most dangerous things out there. It creates mania, desire, the urge to cause change no matter the cost.

  There was something untoward going on here, she’d kept most of the details secret from him but he’d guess it’d be nothing good for anyone involved.

  Cyris looked shifty as he walked into the room, she could tell that much about him. Privately she despised the man as she despised all those with whom she had entered the uneasy alliance but there was something in Cyris’ swagger, that arrogant sense of self satisfaction that made her teeth itch in her mouth.

  “Madam Coppinger,” he said, effecting a neat little bow that he almost managed to pull off with hitherto unseen grace. “Thank you for granting me my audience. And for the aid in regards of Mister Lassiter.”

  “How is he?” She didn’t care for his health but rather for the loose end that he constituted. If he remained alive and breathing, then there was always a chance that he could talk from this point on. She didn’t want that.

  “He lives.” That sent a stab of annoyance through her. “But for how long I hesitate to say. There was some bad damage done to him.” A little note of pride crept through his voice, the bruises remained on his knuckles, ugly and purple against the pale skin. No trace of blood remained on him. “Anyway, it might have been easier for you to ally with him. I appreciate that you chose not to.”

  “I was tempted,” she said. “He was a skilled orator.”

  “I taught him well,” Cyris said. “Perhaps better than I did my own son.” He hesitated, scratched the back of his hand. “Had I not been aware of the knife, it might have met my back and I’d have been gone.”

  “I made the deal with you,” she said. “I know what to expect from you. At this point, I don’t wish to deal with unknown quantities. Silas was undoubtedly that. If he rebelled against you, then what would stop someone else rebelling against him down the line? I think you’ll keep your people in line with this.”

  “And it doesn’t worry you that he denounced me as untrustworthy?” A little grin crept across Cyris’ mouth, cruel and twisted. “The desperate gambit of a man so in love with the idea of being a leader that he hadn’t thought through all the angles.”

  “Let’s not bullshit each other,” she said coldly. “You ARE untrustworthy, John Cyris. That’s about the only thing I can trust about you. You’ve sold a lot of your people out down the line to keep yourself safe. I’ll work with you; I might even enjoy the experience but don’t mistake that as trust. It’s not in your nature to follow. One day you’ll start to think you can do a better job than me. And you’ll make a play.”

  His grin grew, almost to the point of being ghoulish. He could give Rocastle a fight for his credits in those stakes. “If you feel that is true, then perhaps I should do so quickly. Before your scheme comes to fruition, for it may be difficult after.”

  “Or you could go against your nature,” she said. “For once in your life. Either way I don’t care. I won’t be the one to break our peace. It’s good to trust. Better not to.” It was her turn to give him a cool tight-lipped smile. “No offence, of course.”

  “None taken. We all have our demons.” Cyris made a show of deference, swinging both hands out by his sides, palms raised upwards and outstretched. If he was insulted by her words, he didn’t show it. “Mine just so happen to be grander than anyone else’s. We’re all capable of greatness, Madam Coppinger. Do we wait for that greatness to find us or do we just simply… take it? Personally, I’ve always liked that last option. Find someone who’s nearly there and usurp it for yourself.”

  “Of course, Silas doubtless felt the same way,” she said. “And look what happened to him.”

  “Those who move close to the sun risk getting burned.”

  “No, those who move close to the sun are going to get burned, it’s a matter of when not if,” she said.

  Cyris let out a nervous bray of laughter, one that was entirely betrayed by his all-too calm range of body language. “And on that note, I require to ask you for a favour.”

  She balled her hands up into fists, her manicured nails digging rents into the palms of her hands. What the hells did he want now? She didn’t know and honestly, she was worried. She’d given him a lot, ensured he kept a hold of his power base as well as most likely his life as well and now he wanted more.

  “Is that right?” she asked.

  “I want off for a day or so,” he said, gesturing around the room. “Off this ship. I’m getting restless being stuck here.”

  “It’s for your own good,” she said. And for mine, she added. I don’t want you going off and talking to the wrong people about the wrong thing. That would end oh so very badly for you, Mr Cyris.

  “It’s not like that,” Cyris quickly said. “It’s… Okay, it’s about my son. I want to go see him before we get this whole undertaking undertook. You’ve got a daughter, right?”

  He knew damn well she did have, the innocence in the question didn’t come close to fooling her, even for a moment. “That is correct.”

  “I’m going to speak candidly to you on this, Madam Coppinger. I have not been a good father; I’ll admit the ungrateful shite hasn’t been a good son but there’s been failings on both sides. I want to go make amends, see if I can reconcile with him before we start reshaping the world. There are going to be casualties, he might be among them. I might be. I might never see him again, I know he hates me, but whatever happens, I don’t want it all to end without knowing that I at least made the effort. If nothing comes of it, then it is what it is. I’ll have failed and I’ll have to live with that but I can’t say I didn’t try.”

  He sighed sadly, it all looked a touch too theatrical for her. Like he really didn’t mean it with his sorrow. The man was a master manipulator after all. Let your guard down with him and he’d sense it, he’d be in and all over you before you knew it. She’d known plenty like him and yet they always seemed to come up short when it came down to it. There was a reason she’d found herself where she was, out on the brink of greatness and men like Cyris had failed time and time again to do it their way. Cyria, she’d snorted when she’d first heard the name. The true sense of a man’s ego to name the organisation after himself. “Because,” Cyris continued, oblivious to her musings. “They are our blood. We might not like them but we love them unconditionally. It is the burden of parenthood.”

  “Admirable sentiments, John,” she said. “But…” She paused to reconsider her refusal. If she let Cyris out of her sight right now, it could be cat
astrophic. Letting Rocastle and Carson go down to the island had been different, a gamble but a calculated one. They could both be trusted, Carson with his strange notions of honour and his wild promises that some part of her doubted he could fulfil and Rocastle who despite everything about him hinting otherwise, did remain as loyal as a man like that could be. He was too much of a coward to betray her, too afraid of what she could arrange to be done to him.

  Privately she detected a hint of masochism in his demeanour. After all, that he hated women was no secret. She knew about all his dirty little adventures, those he thought were so secret. Walls had ears and he liked to brag in private. For him to let her lead him around by the nose, order him around like a dog, there was something not altogether right in him.

  Still he had come in useful in acquiring the future controllers for the Ista Neroux, the spirits that would shape the kingdoms. That Rocastle still persisted in calling them his Angels didn’t bother her. If he was thinking up pathetic little nicknames for them, then he wasn’t conspiring against her. As if he could! Not right now, not ever. Not with what she had behind her. Her clones. Her fleet. Her mini gods, bred to be faster, stronger, more durable and a thousand times deadlier than anything else in the kingdoms. Nicholas Roper would be the ideal leader for that group, the feather in her cap if he agreed to join her. He had the sort of presence to pull it off.

  Did she think he would do it? Claudia didn’t know. It was a problem for down the line, but for now she studied Cyris. He waited patiently, arms by his side and his face calm, expressionless. What if it were Meredith? She’d not seen her daughter much since this had all started. Not since she’d boarded the Eye of Claudia and they’d been up here. Not much had changed in that respect truly, given the only times she had really seen her daughter was when she wanted something. Usually that damned wedding. Having a break from hearing about that had been such a relief. She didn’t much care for most of the decisions her daughter had ever made, didn’t care for the woman she was marrying…