Black Tattoo, The Page 21

  And then, with a terrible bellow of joy, Gladrash struck.

  The Sloat reared up as the giant cow trampled it, its whole body an explosion of pain. Esme flung herself to comparative safety, the horrible smutch as the great hooves hit home still echoing in her ears. The Sloat's armored sides simply burst, spreading the creature's innards in a wide, wet circle, staining the sand. The Sloat's head and forequarters, comparatively unscathed, plucked at the arena floor weakly as what remained of the creature tried to pull itself toward her, staring at her wildly. It knew: it knew she'd tricked it.

  But Esme had already turned her back on it — and in another moment, it was dead.

  Strike three.

  Esme allowed herself a deep breath. Then she was taking in the situation.

  The giant cow's eyes were wild and bloodshot, and she was definitely favoring her front hoof. Ignoring the howls of her fans in the crowd, Gladrash lowered her wide black head, bellowing, as she charged again — at Inanna this time.

  Esme watched.

  The big blue swordswoman stood her ground as the giant cow thundered closer and closer. At the last possible second — when it looked to Esme like Inanna might let Gladrash trample her too — she leaped to one side, bringing the curved blade of her scimitar round and down in a crashing blow that sent the giant cow almost to her knees.

  Gladrash staggered on past Inanna and ran straight into the arena wall beyond. Her supporters — a whole section of the audience — let out a short gasping sigh and sank to their seats in horror. Gladrash the Blunt tottered back from the wall, swinging round to face her opponent, shaking her horned head as if trying to clear it.

  Then she froze and fell and lay still.

  Strike four.

  Scowling, Inanna turned, with her back now to the line of shadow at the arena's sides. That was when Esme saw Tunku the Snool. The jellyfish slid from the darkness, tentacles outstretched. Almost before Esme knew what she was doing, the pigeon sword was out of her hand. It flew across the ring—

  —passed right over Inanna's shoulder—

  —and nailed the third gladiator to the sheer black stone of the arena wall.

  For a second, the crowd fell silent. Tunku the Snool just hung there, spitted. Its tentacles quivered for a moment, then dropped.

  Strike five.

  Suddenly, the whole crowd was up out of its seats again, screaming and howling and crying with delight. No one could remember an Akachash as good as this. No one.

  Looking carefully at Esme, Inanna walked slowly over to the arena's edge, only taking her eye off the girl for a moment when she reached up to yank the pigeon sword out of the wall. As, with a soft splotch, the jellyfish demon slid to the arena floor behind her, Inanna took the weapon and hefted it, testing its balance. In her hands, the pigeon sword was like a toy. Then, with a snapping motion of her wrist that was almost too fast to follow, Inanna flung the sword back at Esme.

  Esme put up a hand, and the pigeon sword's hilt slapped into it effortlessly. Then, as the crowd fell expectantly silent again, the last two gladiators eyed each other.

  "I don't want to fight you," said Esme.

  Inanna gave her a pitying look, then — SHINNNG! — drew her other scimitar. Now both her hands held the huge, curved blades. Slowly, deliberately, she took a step toward Esme.

  "I mean, you've got a good reason to be here too, right?" Esme looked away from Inanna and called up toward the royal box. "Give us both what we want. This finishes now!"

  Of course, there was no answer.

  Some of the crowd started jeering and booing.

  "Get on with it!" someone bellowed.

  Slowly, the audience started their stamping, rhythmic crashing noise again, the sound that Esme had heard just before the start of the fight.

  Crash. Crash. CRASH-CRASH-CRASH!

  Crash. Crash. CRASH-CRASH-CRASH!

  Inanna flexed her wrists, letting her scimitars spin and twist around her. The wide, curved blades glimmered and flashed as she sped them up, letting them cross and recross in front of her, a glittering whirlwind of razor-edged steel. She took another step toward her opponent: only a few more and she would be in striking range.

  Esme didn't move.

  "What's wrong?" asked the Emperor, up in the royal box. "Why isn't she defending herself? What's she doing?"

  No one answered.

  "Gukumat, if Inanna wins," the Emperor went on, his voice rising to an anxious whine, "I will be most displeased. Do you understand?"

  The crashing got louder as the audience settled themselves back in their seats contentedly. What was coming next ought to be pretty good.

  Jack, alone in the noise of the crowd, felt sick.

  Wearily, grimly, Esme brought the pigeon sword up to a ready position. She sighed.

  "All right, then," she said.

  Inanna didn't answer, just lunged.

  And in less than two seconds—

  —two blurring, lurching seconds—

  —it was over.

  "I'm sorry," said Esme quietly.

  Inanna froze, and the audience's rhythmic thumping died away in confusion as they saw her swords drop from her hands. She looked down from her opponent to the wound that had appeared down the length of her chest — a long, diagonal slash that stretched from her left shoulder down to her right hip. Then, still disbelieving, she looked back up at the girl who had just defeated her.

  Inanna had waited a long time for her chance in the ring — her chance to ask the Emperor's favor. Now both were gone, in three moves.

  The first had been a simple step back — the girl had been more ready than Inanna had realized. The blow itself had come in the second move. Esme had timed her attack exquisitely, reading the pattern in the swirling blur of Inanna's swords and striking at the exact point when her foe was unprotected — pulling herself clear (the third move) before the whirling blades could close around her and do any damage. It was, Inanna had to admit, beautifully done — and, strangely, she was glad.

  Entertainment — that's what the crowd had wanted. They'd wanted her and Esme to get into some long and complicated battle — maybe even bantering with each other a little while they fought, trading witty insults as well as injuries: that sort of thing would have gone down well, for sure. Well, she was happy not to have given them the satisfaction.

  Inanna's great knees buckled under her, and her head went light.

  "I'm sorry," said Esme again.

  Inanna just smiled. Then she died.

  For a long second, Esme looked down at her opponent. She sniffed and, still holding the pigeon sword lightly with one hand, wiped a long brown arm across her brow. Then she glared up at the royal box.

  "There," she said. "Are you satisfied? Is that," she added, gesturing at Inanna's fallen body with the sword, "what you wanted?"

  "Marvelous," said the Emperor, relief at the outcome only adding to his delight. "Quite marvelous." He turned to Charlie. "And what was it again, in comparison, that you said you had in your world?"

  Charlie looked at him blankly.

  "Ah yes," sneered the Emperor. "Football."

  My lord...? asked Overminister Gukumat quietly.

  "Oh, yes," said the Emperor. "I think so, don’t you? Definitely."

  Congratulations, Gladiator Esme, said the Overminister's announcing voice. His Highness the Emperor Hacha'Fravashi salutes a well-fought bout and has indicated that he may, in this instance, grant you one boon. What is your favor to be?

  "Riches!" cawed a scrawny, alligatorlike creature in the audience, jumping up and down. "Riches! Riches!"

  "I told you what I want," said Esme.

  Say it again, gladiator, the voice murmured in her head. The audience wants to hear you.

  "The Scourge!" said Esme, exasperated. "Bring me the Scourge!"

  Gladiator Esme has stated her boon, Gukumat announced grandly. In view of her spectacular performance—

  Some of the slower members of the audience, who had blinked o
r otherwise failed to catch the last part of the battle (which was most of them), let out a great and disappointed boo at this.

  —and her status as undisputed champion of this Akachash, His Excellency the Emperor, in his infinite generosity, has decided to accede to her request.

  "We shall have to face her, Charlie," said the Scourge, in a voice only Charlie could hear. "I'm afraid I see no other choice. Are you ready?"

  "All right," said Charlie, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, okay. We'll do it."

  "No," said the Emperor, "you won't."

  THE CHALLENGE

  Loyal subjects, said the Overminister, once Inanna's body too had disappeared like the others, it gives me great pleasure to announce that, while the Akachash itself is over, Miss Esme Leverton has been granted permission for one more, final battle.

  Esme, standing in the center of the ring now, was concentrating on preparing herself. She retrieved the pigeon sword's scabbard and slotted it home. She reached up and felt the elastic bands that were holding her hair back: they hadn't moved. She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders; she jogged a couple of bouncing steps on the spot. She was tired. But now she was ready.

  Gladiator Esme has come to Hell with one single purpose in mind — to wreak her vengeance on the one who is about to step into the ring.

  A delighted anticipatory murmur spread through the crowd. In the royal box, Charlie stood up; the Scourge did too—

  —then vanished, bursting suddenly into a whirling haze of powder-black vapor, which gathered around Charlie like his own personal storm cloud. The Scourge settled on him, taking hold: instantly, the curving hooks and spikes of the black tattoo began to boil and wriggle under Charlie's skin.

  Most loyal subjects, Gukumat intoned, I present to you a demon whose very name is the stuff of legend. Put your appendages together, my brethren, for the Prince of Darkness! The Sultan of Sorrows! The Dragon's Awakener, returned to us at last — KHENTIMENTU THE SCOURGE!

  Charlie stepped up to the window of the royal box and dove off.

  Liquid darkness unfurled about him like a pair of enormous black wings. As the crowd roared its approval, Charlie descended through the air with regal grace and landed in the center of the arena. The darkness billowed, gathering itself around him into a sizzling, rippling tornado of black, then evaporated.

  "Hi, Esme," he said.

  "Charlie," Esme replied.

  "You shouldn't have come."

  Esme's lip curled. "Really."

  Charlie sighed. "Look," he said, "you don't understand. Me and the Scourge — we're partners now. And we've got things to do here, important things."

  Esme shook her head. "I'm going to give you one more chance," she said, taking a deliberate step toward him. "If you've got any vestige of self-respect, any shred of guts or decency, then you'll take it."

  "What?"

  "Concentrate," said Esme. "You can force the demon out. Make it let go of you. If you want."

  Charlie didn't answer.

  "Partners," Esme echoed, exasperated. "Look around you! And what about the announcement just now? I didn't hear your name — did you? Just the Scourge's." She took another step toward him. "Charlie, if you don't help me now, then that's the way it's always going to be. You're a puppet," she added. "Nothing more. Is that really what you want?"

  "No," said Charlie, frowning.

  "Well, then..."

  Esme held out her hand.

  Watching in the crowd, Jack held his breath.

  "No," said Charlie again, his frown getting deeper.

  Esme looked at him, waiting.

  "No," the word came out of his mouth again, and the black liquid patterns boiled and slithered in the skin of his arms.

  Esme let her hand fall to her side.

  "No," said Charlie once more, quietly. He shook his head. "This is too important. And what we have, the Scourge and me — it's not how you think."

  "Then I'm sorry," said Esme, "but that makes you my enemy."

  Crash. Crash. CRASH-CRASH-CRASH!

  Crash. Crash. CRASH-CRASH-CRASH!

  The crowd stamped out their excitement. Jack stared at Charlie and Esme — stared down at the two figures until they shimmered in front of his smarting eyes against the blazing white of the arena floor. Again he was surrounded by the cocoon of noise: it pressed and pushed and battered at him as the demons around him howled out for blood.

  But the command to begin never came.

  "What is it?" he asked, turning to Jagmat, as the crowd noise died away confusedly. "What's going on?"

  Jagmat shrugged — an impressive and slightly alarming sight. "It's a private duel," he belched. "There'll be terms."

  "What?"

  "See for yourself," said Jagmat, gesturing with a wet pink flipper.

  For a second more, Charlie and Esme looked at each other.

  Then they both vanished.

  This duel, Gukumat announced, to boos and wails from the audience, will be held in private, and at a later date. And now, on with the show!

  And that, it appeared, was that.

  * * * * *

  "What's wrong, sir?" asked Jack's Chinj later as, grimly, Jack sipped at his dinner. "You seem a little preoccupied, if you don't mind my saying so."

  "He's scared!" shrieked one of Shargle's heads delightedly, seizing the opportunity to spread some misery now that it had lost the evening's battle over which end of the worm got to do the and eating and which the... other function. "What's gonna happen tomorrow, fresh meat?" it crowed. "Maybe you die nasty! Maybe you don't come back!"

  Jack ignored the worm utterly.

  "It's my friends," he admitted to the small bat creature. "I'm worried about them."

  "The two other visitors?" said the Chinj. "Esme and Charlie?"

  Jack almost choked on his mouthful. "Yes!" he said. "Do you know something? What's happened to them? Nobody here knows anything!" he added, nodding at the serried ranks of guzzling demons that surrounded him.

  "Well, of course they don't," said the Chinj primly. "They're gladiators."

  "But you do?"

  The small creature gave a secretive smile. "Finish your gruel," it ordered, "or I'm not saying a word."

  Obediently, Jack raised the bowl of still-steaming goo to his lips and took another gulp.

  "Tonight," whispered the Chinj conspiratorially. "It's happening tonight! Isn't that exciting?"

  Jack put down the bowl. The Chinj was staring at him with wide eyes.

  "I mean, can you imagine, sir?" it asked. "A real grudge duel, outside the pits! A fight to the death, in the Emperor's own chambers, no less! I'd give anything to be there, wouldn't you? It'll be thrilling!" it added, with an ecstatic little shiver of its wings.

  So, thought Jack, it was true, then. The last little hope that maybe they weren't going to fight, the last ridiculous chance he'd been clinging to, winked out inside him and died. Jack gave the Chinj a long look.

  "My friends are going to kill each other," he said slowly. "Thrilling isn't really the word I'd use to describe it."

  THE EMPEROR

  Charlie lifted his arm, and living darkness poured down over his hands. His fingers vanished under the velvety warmth, closing together and extending — and now Charlie held in his hands an exact replica of the pigeon sword. The long, curved blade glinted in the light, its tip lining up between his eyes and his opponent's.

  "All right," he said. "Let's do this."

  Charlie and Esme were standing in the Emperor's throne room, facing each other along the narrow strip of bloodred carpet that led up to the thone itself. The great domed ceiling loomed above them. All around them, the rippling jelly stuff that made up the rest of the room's floor heaved and subsided like an oily sea. Past Esme, the Emperor was lolling on his throne, grinning. For a second, Charlie looked at him.

  Esme was standing between him and the throne — literally. The only way to get to the Emperor — the only way to avenge Jack and carry out the Scourge's plan �
�� was through her. Charlie didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to kill her. But Esme had followed him here. She had got in his way. And now there was no choice.

  Esme's amber eyes remained fixed on his, her expression neutral. She held the pigeon sword by its dark wooden scabbard in her left hand, loosely, up near the hilt; her right hand was stuck nonchalantly in the pocket of her combats.

  "You haven't drawn your sword," Charlie pointed out.

  "Full marks for observation," she replied.

  Charlie sighed. "Look," he said. Already he was angry with her. "Do you want to do this or what?"

  Instead of answering, Esme gestured at him with the pigeon sword's pommel.

  "That thing in your hand," she said. "You ever used one before?"

  "Esme," said Charlie wearily, "just draw your sword."

  "You think you're a match for me?"

  "Draw your sword!" Charlie repeated.

  "Or what?" said Esme. "What do you think you're going to do?"

  "Fine," said Charlie, running the hand that wasn't holding the sword through his hair angrily. "Fine."

  He set his feet a little apart, spreading his weight.

  "Ready or not, then," he said, with a smile that showed his teeth, "here I come."

  He took his sword in both hands, leaped into the air, and flew at her.

  SHINNNG! WHUD!

  Warding Charlie's blade off easily with her still-scabbarded sword, Esme had stepped toward him. Her whole body weight, therefore, plus whatever forward momentum Charlie had put into his attack, was concentrated in the heel of her right hand as it struck the point of Charlie's chin, palm open, hard. She'd hit him that way before — in exactly the same place, in fact — one of the very first times they'd fought.

  Charlie's head snapped back. The force of the blow lifted him off his feet. He sailed a clear ten yards back through the air — and crashed, eyes wide with surprise and shock, on his back.

  "You're an idiot, Charlie," she told him.

  Still without drawing her weapon, Esme advanced on him. Her amber eyes flashed down at him fiercely.

  Charlie got to his knees, then his feet, pointing his sword toward her, frowning uncertainly as she approached.