Erebos by Ursula Poznanski Page B

still.
    Sarius wants to sit up, but with every attempt the horrible tone grows louder. It’s better if he moves slowly. His belt is still about one-quarter red. Will it recover if he stays still? He lies flat on the grass. What he’s seen is enough to reassure him for now. The battle is almost over. Two trolls are already lying on the ground, defeated. A third has fled. The fourth is still upright, but the two barbarians are laying into him, and now everyone who can still walk is joining in the bloodbath. The troll stands no chance against these numbers. He sways, lashes out around him again and falls towards the ground, a dwarf axe buried deep between his shoulder blades. ‘Victory,’ breathes a disembodied voice.
    The next moment the messenger with yellow eyes appears at the forest’s edge and reins in his horse.
    â€˜You have conquered the oval,’ he says, and touches the shimmering disc with his bony fingers. ‘You shall be rewarded. BloodWork!’
    BloodWork? Sarius doesn’t understand, until the large barbarian steps forward and bows before the messenger.
    â€˜You made the most valuable contribution in the battle. Your reward is a helmet with a strength of twenty-seven. It will protect you against poison, lightning strikes and fever spells.’
    The messenger hands BloodWork a golden helmet with rams’ horns.
    The barbarian hurriedly takes his simple steel cap off his head, and pulls on the gleaming head armour, which makes him look even bigger.
    â€˜Keskorian,’ the messenger continues, and the somewhat shorter barbarian steps forward.
    â€˜You gave of your best, but you hesitate too often. Nevertheless you have earned your reward. Take BloodWork’s old helmet – it is better than yours.’
    Keskorian does what is asked of him.
    â€˜Sarius!’ the messenger calls.
    Already? That astonishes him. After all, he only got involved in the action late, and didn’t exactly cover himself in glory. It’s an incredible effort to get to his feet. Every movement makes the excruciating tone grow louder. His shoulder is bleeding again, and he sees that more of his belt is turning black.
    â€˜It was your first battle, and you showed courage instead of contenting yourself with the role of observer. I value courage. Therefore you will receive what you need the most: healing. Take this potion. It will restore your health and increase your resistance. To your health, friend.’
    Sarius sees the glowing sunshine-yellow bottle floating before him. He reaches for it, opens it and drinks.
    The traces of blood on his shoulder dissolve into nothing; his belt gleams with fresh new red. And what a relief: the buzzing high-frequency tone that started when he was injured disappears. It is replaced by the music that he heard in the tower. The melody promises everything. Everything he has ever wanted.
    â€˜Sapujapu, you held out until the end for the first time. For you I have a new axe.’
    The dwarf steps forward, takes the axe and quickly withdraws again. There’s a pause. The messenger eyes them, one after the other, as if he has to think about it.
    â€˜Golor!’ he calls up a vampire, and rewards him with twenty-five minutes of invisibility, and the second vampire – LaCor – with fifty gold coins.
    Nurax, the werewolf, receives praise and a breastplate; the cat woman, Samira, receives a twice-hardened sword. The messenger dispenses gifts, small and large, to all: a shield with rune spells to the second dwarf; a poison dagger to Vulcanos, the dark elf. Another dark elf and the wounded vampire lying in the grass next to Sarius are the only ones remaining.
    â€˜Lelant, you stayed on the sidelines. You were cowardly, and only struck three ineffectual blows with your sword. You will receive no reward. I am considering depriving you of a level.’ Lelant, the dark elf with the black hair, is standing on the edge of the clearing, half concealed