I could see the staff, held above our heads, being snatched from hand to hand. It didn’t look like much, just a length of wood covered with engraved runic symbols. Most people used it as a club to beat other people about the head with. It quickly became covered in gore and hair, dripping blood. Someone waved it back and forth triumphantly, and drips of blood flew into everyone’s faces. Until the holder was beaten down by everyone around him.
Fists were flying everywhere. Knees came up, and feet kicked. We were all shouting and screaming at the top of our lungs, till the sound was actually painful. All of us caught up in the fighting frenzy, everyone against everyone else. Someone head-butted me in the face, but by the time I lashed out in return, my attacker was already gone, carried away by the movements of the crowd, and I punched out someone else instead. It didn’t matter. I had no friends here, only enemies. Blood dripped from my nose, but it didn’t feel like it was broken. I spat a mouthful of blood into someone’s face, and their returning fist shot past my head and punched out someone behind me. That was the Game.
More and more space was opening up, as more and more bodies crashed unconscious or dying to the floor. Just because no actual weapons could be brought in, didn’t mean you couldn’t get killed. Some people were weapons. I threw enough punches to keep everyone else at bay, while letting the Brownian movements of the crowd carry me away from the centre and all the way back to the interior wall. I felt definitely relieved as I pressed my back against the solid stone, because it meant that was one direction no attack could come from now. And then, finally, I could take time out from defending myself, and allow the effects of the Armourer’s potion to kick in. Finally, I could see the patterns in the crowd, and anticipate which attacks were coming my way, even before they happened. I ducked and dodged, and pulled other people in front of me to soak up the blows. I shoved people this way and that, so they would fight each other and not me. For the first time, I felt I was in some control of the situation.
Looking out across the heaving mob, it was quickly clear to me that the non-human fighters were targeting each other as the most dangerous players in the Game. Just as well, or we poor humans wouldn’t have stood a chance.
A vampire sank its fangs into the shoulder of a werewolf, worrying blood from the wound. A group of ghouls dragged down an alien and ate it alive. There was a sudden stink of guts on the air near me, as a group of things with too many arms turned a werebear inside out. Fangs and claws, blood and gore, and above it all, the sacred wooden staff moving jerkily back and forth, snatched from hand to hand. And I couldn’t help noticing . . . that the more dangerous players were actually cancelling each other out, by picking on each other. Until finally there were only humans left fighting for the prize. I stayed back by the wall and just let them get on with it. And they were all so taken up in their quest for the staff, and beating the hell out of anyone who got in their way, that they didn’t even notice me. They slammed into each other, hitting and kicking, gouging and tearing, until finally, eventually, there was only one man left, standing surrounded by a pile of bodies, covered in blood that mostly wasn’t his. Clutching at his gore-covered prize, and smiling. Last man standing—apart from me.
I coughed politely, to draw his attention. His head snapped round to stare at me. He glared at me with a cold, focused, murderous gaze. He really was very big, very muscular, and he’d soaked up a hell of a lot of punishment to get his hands on the staff. He kicked at a few of the bodies around him, moving them back to give him room to fight. One moaned, showing it was still alive. The big man stamped on the fallen man’s head, and the sound stopped. The big man brandished the sacred staff at me, daring me to take it from him. I barely recognised the thing, it was so crusted in blood and gore.
“Come here,” said the big man, the bloody man. “Come here, and I’ll kill you. I’ve killed so many to win this Game, one more won’t matter. Come here and let me kill you and I’ll make it quick. Make me work for it, and I will make you scream and beg and bleed before I finish you.” He smiled suddenly. “That is why I come to the Game, after all. Where else can you get to kill so many people, in the name of sport? I always have the best time here, every year!”
I reached into the pocket dimension at my hip, brought out my Colt Repeater, and shot him neatly between the eyes. His head snapped back, and he was dead before he hit the bodies piled up around him. The pocket dimension isn’t actually in the pocket of my trousers, or I’d never be able to wear another pair. It just hovers at my hip, and goes everywhere with me. Most useful thing the Armourer ever made for me. I slipped the Colt back into the pocket dimension, and it disappeared again. I clambered carefully over the fallen competitors, heading for the man I’d killed. Some of them made feeble sounds of protest, which meant some of them were still alive. I was glad about that. I didn’t want to think so many people had actually died for a stupid stick. I prised the sacred staff out of the dead man’s hand, wiped some of the mess away on his body, and then turned and headed for the nearest open doorway.
It felt wonderfully cool, out in the open air again. The crowd went wild, laughing and cheering and applauding. They did love a good surprise ending. Some of them came rushing forward, wanting to shake my hand or clap me on the shoulder. I let them do it, though I drew the line at being embraced. At least until I was dressed again. Apparently a lot of people had won a lot of souls, betting on me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Molly pushed her way through the crowd, holding my clothes, and a towel she’d acquired from somewhere. She glared at everyone else until they fell back enough to give us room. And then she towelled me down carefully, removing as much of the caked-on blood as she could. I hadn’t realised how much had ended up on me from other people. Molly bit her lip, as she saw the bruises under the blood, but said nothing. She helped me get dressed again.
A generic flunky approached me, and I looked him in the eye.
“Nothing in the rules against it,” I said.
“You are allowed whatever you carry in with you, sir,” said the flunky. “Though you did push it, a bit.”
I looked around, as Frankie came rushing up. “Tell me I won big,” I said. “Because I have had enough of these Games.”
“Of course we won big!” said Frankie, beaming all over his flushed face. “You wouldn’t believe how many souls we won!”
“We won?” I said.
“Oh, all right, you won,” said Frankie. “The point is, you now possess more than enough souls to get yourself a place in the Big Game!”
“About time,” said Molly. “Really don’t like this place.”
“Then let’s get out of here,” I said.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the flunky, politely but firmly. “You have to hand back the sacred staff.”
I looked at the soiled object I was still hanging on to. I honestly hadn’t realised I still had the thing.
“I don’t get to keep it?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what did I win? What’s the point of the Game?”
“The honour of playing, sir.”
I handed him the sacred staff. “So, I don’t get anything?”
“Of course you do, sir. You get your obol.”
He pressed the small coin into my hand.
“And this represents . . . ?” I said.
“The soul of everyone who fell, living or dead, in the Game, sir. Please follow me now, and I will lead you back to your dimensional door.”
“I will come back,” I said to him. “I will come back here, to help you.”