“ARE YOU SURE you want that to be your strategy?” Poole said, his sour breath wafting down my neck. I turned my head away, irritated, and focused on the hand. I shuffled through the cards once more, hesitating over two, before sliding one from the fan I was holding. I gave the figures listed at the bottom of the card a cursory glance (unnecessary since I had them all memorised) before tossing it onto the table.
Poole groaned in my ear. “You should have saved that one.”
“Piss off, Poole, and let me be,” I murmured, shoving him away with my shoulder. Poole immediately took a step backwards. His breath, soured by his constant chewing of salamander berries, was really distracting. I never chewed myself—precisely because of the bad breath—so having him breathe over my shoulder was starting to make my stomach turn.
Sitting opposite, the stone-like mass of Flick leaned forward to take a closer look at my card. He was so huge that watching him move was like watching an earthquake ripple through the Earth. Surprise rippled over his flat face but it was quickly shut down. “You sure you want to play that, old hoss?” His voice was as deep as a cavern.
I pushed my hair out of my eyes and nodded. “I am.”
“You want to play the water hydra?”
“I do,” I said, determined not to show the doubt starting to bloom in my stomach. As soon as I said the words confirming my move, the field over the table locked down. I heard it more than saw it. It made a high pitched seeeeeuuuuutttt noise, almost too high for me to hear. As soon as the table locked down, Flick grinned. My stomach started to clench.
“Oh man . . .” Poole whined. “He’s got something planned.”
“So do I,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. Poole—an incredibly ugly man with acne erupting from the greasy skin of his cheekbones and temples—smiled. It was an honest smile, one he only ever used when he felt immense relief.
“You better,” he answered, still smiling, “because I can’t go back to the husband and tell him I’ve lost both of our ships betting on your sorry hide.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I shoved my shoulder into him again, forcing him to move away. His breath was truly repellent and it was starting to piss me off. I stared over at Flick, who was staring back, a smile curling across his lips. The way he was looking at me reminded me of the way a hungry dog looked at a steak.
On the table, my card burst into flames, birthing a creature about ten inches high. I’d used this card only once before—and then only because the hand was certain—so I couldn’t help but pull my eyes from Flick’s stony face and admire the water hydra. It had nine wolfish heads, each snapping and snarling. Its legs were thick with muscle, its chest broad and strong. Water ran down its milky body in rivulets, pooling at its feet.
“What’s your move, Flick?” I asked.
Flick took a quick sip of the oily black drink he was holding, then put the glass down on the side table. He selected a card and threw it down onto the table. Even before it hit the steel, I was leaning forward, craning my neck to see his choice. It was the Hiyoribō, the legendary spirit from Japan who stops rainfall.
I fist-pumped my triumph under the table, careful to keep my expression neutral. One of the things that aggressive card players like Flick always forgot was that the hydra’s heads were separate beings. I was casting the equivalent of nine cards at once. It might not be the strongest card in terms of attack but whatever damage the hydra might take would only damage one of its heads. If it was enough to kill the head, well . . . two grew back in its place. Its defence was undeniable.
Behind him, I heard Poole whoop in victory.
The table gave another seeeeeuuuuutttt noise, locking both of our cards into the game, and Flick’s Hiyoribō manifested itself as an old Japanese lady who carried an elegant Asian parasol over her shoulder. At the sight of her, my hydra threw back all nine heads and roared, though the sound was tinny, dampened by the shield. The old lady, hunched and crooked as she was, blinked mildly at the sound.
Flick raised his glass in my direction, saluting me. Then he raised his finger and touched the shield, starting the round. The Hiyoribō took a small step towards my great beast. Then another. Then another. When she got within a few inches, she held the parasol high into the air. I expected something hugely magical to happen, like a battle from Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones, but instead a white mist started to creep from beneath the paper parasol. It edged towards the hydra slowly, like a fog coming down a steep mountainside.
As soon as it touched the hydra, an intense sizzling filled the air. The hydra’s skin started to turn white and boil away. I watched with baited breath as the hydra roared in pain, gnashing its teeth in agony. The first of its nine heads melted away like a pat of butter in a pan, sizzling and spitting.
“My old lady never fails,” Flick said, watching me and not the table. “I’ve been building her for years. She has the strength of nine hydra’s . . . even if they all had nine heads.”
Poole was moaning again, the victory he felt only moments ago already forgotten. “Just wait . . .” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth to him. “It’s not over yet.”
The hydra was still melting. The acidic mist had boiled away three of its heads and was showing no sign of stopping. I was starting to get nervous. “Just wait . . .” I mumbled again, more to myself this time.
Then it stopped.
The hydra had lost only four of its heads. And they were already growing back.
Over the table, I grinned at Flick, whose jaw was pulsing as he clenched his teeth in obvious anger. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He looked down at his glass and I wondered whether he might throw it against the wall.
On the table, the Hiyoribō bowed and took several steps backwards, her eyes lowered, waiting for the hydra’s answering attack. At first the hydra just stood on the table, pawing at the steel with its foot.
“What’re you waiting for? Stop wasting time.” Flick growled at me. “Just do it.”
I knew exactly what I was waiting for; the hydra needed all of its heads to grow back to ensure maximum damage. Did he think I was stupid, a level one player he could rush into making such a careless move? Not this time. Not with so much at stake. When the hydra was back to full strength, I raised a finger and touched the shield.
The hydra galloped forward, its nine heads snarling and snapping like rabid dogs. The Hiyoribō watched it come at her without flinching. Even as it tore into her, ripping the flesh from her muscles, she didn’t utter a sound. When it was done, the hydra swaggered around the table. It hadn’t left a single scrap of the Hiyoribō. There was nothing left for Flick to heal. He’d played that card for the last time.
“No!” Flick roared, clambering to his feet and throwing the glass he was holding against the wall, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. The viscous drink oozed down the bar brick, glinting beneath the florescent strips hanging overhead.
It looks like black blood, I thought. But even the unease I felt couldn’t break through my triumph.
“Flick . . .” I started, then stopped when he whirled to face me, his expression tight with fury. I thought he might actually reach right across the table and pop me upside the head with his huge fist. I even squinted, waiting for the agony to come. But Flick’s anger was always fleeting. Quick to fight, quick to forget, I thought, willing my heart to stop thudding.
He sat back down, already smiling that barely-there smile he had. “Double or nothing, old hoss. Double or nothing.”
“No way,” Poole hissed over my shoulder. “Tuttle will kill me. You know he will. For once, stop whilst you’re ahead.” The last was said in a lower voice, directly in my ear.
“What if I put up the fleet?” Flick asked, raising an eyebrow.
I swallowed. The need to meet the challenge was great, but Poole was right; I had to quit whilst I was ahead. I shook my head. “Nuh-uh. I couldn’t afford to run the fleet even if I won.”
“What if I pay for the fuel for the first month?”
I shook my head, more hesitantly this time. “I’d still be as poor after the first month. I can’t afford it.”
“You can afford it, old hoss, I know how well you do at the games.” His eyes locked on mine.
He was right; I’d become a very wealthy person over the last few years, winning round after round of the game. Partly because I was ballsier than any other person I knew and partly because I had a knack for playing the right card at the right moment. Most of the meatheads like Flick played aggressively, attacking on every round instead of alternating with defence when needed. It was like they wanted their cards to reflect the type of man they were; strong, aggressive, and violent.
That wasn’t an issue for me.
“Maybe so,” I said, standing up, as if to leave the table. “But I don’t need your fleet.”
“My cards then. How about winner takes all.”
A silence so palpable that I could almost feel it descended on the room. Two other challengers nearby stopped their own game to listen in, their eyebrows almost meeting their hairlines in shock. Nobody ever wagered their entire stock of cards. The better cards took years to build up, and that didn’t include the artefacts—the rarest—of the cards that could only be gifted to you by the mythical beast themselves, normally after a particularly strong game.
“Winner takes all?” I said slowly, as if I hadn’t heard him correctly.
“Winner takes all,” he repeated. He leaned back in his stone chair as if he was completely at ease—as if he hadn’t just offered the wager of all wagers.
A wager I wanted to take.
“How many you got?” I asked, attempting to stall. I was stupid for even considering it, maybe if I gave myself a few moments I would see it for what it was and not want to snatch Flick’s hand.
“Forty-eight in total.”
I sucked in a shocked breath. That was a colossal number of cards! I had a large collection myself but at twenty-seven it was just over half of Flick’s. If I wanted, I could sell half and spend the rest of my days living off the profits.
Flick was watching me. “How many do you have, old hoss?”
I swallowed. There was no way he would take the bet for my collection. “Twenty-seven.”
Flick turned to Poole behind me. “And you?”
Poole held his hands up in a gesture of submission. “Count me out, my friend. I got my ships back, that’s enough gambling for me for one day.”
Flick’s stony face rippled into what I thought was a smile. “How many?”
“Twenty.”
Flick turned back to me. Now he was actually grinning. “Well, what do you know. Between the both of you, we have an equal wager. If you win, you walk away with an extra twenty-four cards each.”
“And if you win, you have the biggest card cache this side of the planet,” I said, my heart pounding so heavily in my chest I was sure the challengers either side of our table could hear it. I was like a junkie, desperate to take the hit of the bet. My mouth was actually watering at the thought. When I glanced at Poole, he was watching me warily, already shaking his head.
“No man,” he said. “Count me out.”
I grabbed him by the elbow and drew him over to the corner of the room, aware that every pair of eyes followed us. “Listen, Poole . . .”
“No. I know what you’re going to say but the answer is no. Tuttle would kill me.”
“You owe me,” I whispered savagely, hating how ruthless the words sounded. Yes, he owed me but I’d promised I’d never call in that debt . . . and yet here I was, desperate to take the gamble. If I won, I would be the ultimate winner. There would never be another bet like this. Almost fifty cards? It’s the stuff of legends.
“Think about it, man; there’s no way a man like Flick would ever risk his cache unless winning was certain. He has something up his sleeve. You know he does. We will lose.” We locked eyes for a long moment and I could read his agony there. Just like me, he wanted to do this, but he was too afraid. The smell of his fear was as ripe as his breath. I needed to reassure him.
“I never lose.”
“Neither does Flick. Listen, I always back you. You know I do. But your need to win . . . it’s too much this time. I can’t back you. Not against him.”
“I’ll use it,” I said, my tone so low that I could barely hear the words myself. But Poole heard. His eyes widened.
“You will?”
I nodded. “It’s made for times like this. We can’t lose. Are you in?”
His face split into a huge grin, his fear burned away with the heat of my promise. “Fuck yeah I’m in. Let’s do this.”
“OKAY. THREE ROUNDS. Winner takes all.” Flick said, announcing the rules to the crowd that had gathered around our table. There were at least two hundred people here—more than the room could legally hold. Every inch of space was taken, every seat occupied. Even the tables and bar were crammed with people, all elbowing their neighbours to get a better view. Nobody was really listening to Flick; they were too busy placing their own wagers on the outcome of the game with chancers who’d heard about the challenge. Others were shouting at the harassed-looking barman for drinks. I bet he’d never seen his hall so full of people.
Nervous, I sat at the table surveying the room and sipping a glass of burning liquid. Flick had poured me an oily fingerful of whatever he was drinking. “To calm your nerves,” he said as he slid the glass over to me. It was vile, whatever it was, but it was free and the burning in my chest soothed my nerves.
The ultimate gamble.
Flick raised a spade-like hand and the rumble in the room quieted. The excitement was so electric that the air crackled like moments before a storm. “Three rounds. Winner takes all,” Flick repeated.
“Winner takes all,” I said, my lips numb.
Flick’s eyes darted over to mine. The corners of his mouth curled up and I knew he was about to announce something unplanned. I held my breath as he said, “And we’ll play the element of fire.”
There was a moment of absolute silence and then the room broke into an excited roar. If we played the fire element, it meant only fire or ice demons could be used. Water and air would be nullified. Normally, that would cut any deck in half, if the player was savvy enough to keep the elements equal in his deck. I wasn’t savvy; I liked playing water, which meant my playable deck had been reduced to a paltry seven cards.
Seven cards . . .
Shit.
Ironically, my blood turned to ice. My chances had been significantly reduced. I blinked, considering Flick’s announcement. Poole met my eyes, his own fear as clear as day in his expression. He knew of my preference for water. Flick looked over to me, his expression smug. He was hoping that he’d unsettled me so, to prove a point, I gave an approving nod. “If that’s how you want to play it, fire’s more than fine with me.”
I’m sure I saw his smile falter a little. Maybe I imagined it, I don’t know. But even the thought that I’d unsettled him made my confidence soar. I could do this. I didn’t need seven cards; I needed three well-played ones. I leaned forward, smiling. “Okay, your round first.”
“Oh no,” Flick answered, wagging a meaty finger at me as if I was a naughty school child. “You first, old hoss.”
“Not a chance,” I said, meaning it. I would walk away from the table before that happened. “The challenger always lays first. You know that. Besides, I went first in the last round.”
Flick leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the headrest. He looked calm, at ease . . . and yet I saw the beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip. “Very well.” He pulled his cards out of his breast pocket and started to rifle through them. He organised them between his fingers like a pro-poker player, creating an ordered deck. Then he selected one, gave me a quick glance, slid it back into the pack and then picked another card instead. He threw it down on the table.
Every part of my body wanted to lean in and scrutinise the card like an overeager newbie but if Flick was going to play it cool then so was I. I darted my eyes to the card on the table, taking in as much detail as I could in the quickest time possible. My chest unlocked slightly at what I saw.
Flick had laid down the Santelmo, the Philippine spirit that roamed the world in the form of a fireball. The strength and magic skills were high, as expected, but the defence was mediocre. It was a good card, but Flick seemed to be sticking to his aggressive strategy.
“Are you sure?” I asked, giving him the chance to backtrack, though I wanted him to stick with this card. When he said he was, the table locked in with that high pitched seeeeeuuuuutttt noise. He touched the shield and the card burst into flames. The flames climbed higher and higher until they formed a vaguely human shape. A few of the people nearby gasped at the sight.
I drew out my own deck and pulled out all the cards I could no longer play, sliding them back into my breast pocket. I was left holding my seven cards. Seeing my poor hand, Flick’s face broke into a smug grin. I ignored him. I read each of my cards over before selecting my choice; the Wondjina, the aboriginal weather demon that was element-less. I tossed it onto the table with a careless flick of my hand and whispered, “Fire.”
With no fanfare, a humanoid figure climbed out of the card. It was strangely ethereal, with two huge black eyes that dominated the head. It was half the size of the Santelmo. Flick looked at my beast and threw his head back, barking a short and sharp laugh. “That’s it?” he scoffed. “That’s going take down my Santelmo?”
I didn’t answer. I pressed my finger to the shield and activated the battle. The Wondjina walked towards the first beast with almost no presence at all. It looked as if a child was approaching an experienced fighter. I held my breath as it came to a stop before the Wondjina, the huge black eyes staring blindly through its opponent. Suddenly, it bent at the waist and charged. It struck the middle of the Santelmo, sending it flying into the shield, where it bounced off and crumpled into a fiery bundle. The room gasped, and then applauded, thinking it was over. But even I knew the Santelmo wasn’t destroyed.
Sure enough, the Santelmo got to its feet almost immediately, though it staggered a little as it did. The Wondjina stood back, the fabric of its strange painted clothing smouldering where it had touched the Santelmo. I calculated the damage in my head; it’d probably lost around ten percent of its XP but that was okay.
“Here we go,” Flick said, watching as the Santelmo approached my demon. Toe-to-toe, it came to a stop and started to move its limbs in a strangely elegant way. Even from outside of the shield, I could smell the flames in the air. It grew and grew until the beast flung its arms out, sending a huge ball of fire into my Wondjina. Beside me, Poole cried out in anguish.
Nothing could be seen on the table except fire. The intense heat washed over us like the aftermath of a bomb. I felt my hair tickle my cheeks. Eyes still on the table, I tossed my head back and flicked it away impatiently.
“Is it over?” Poole asked. “Did we get owned?”
“Absolutely not,” I said with a confidence I didn’t entirely feel. But I was justified; as the flames died down, the Wondjina was there. It was on its knees, its pale skin bubbling from the heat, but it was there. Flick let out a roar of impatience. I barely noticed; I was too busy calculating in my head. The attack had probably taken seventy—maybe eighty—of its hit points. With the ten it’d lost previously, it meant I should still have enough for the last attack.
Just as before, the Wondjina bowed from the waist and charged. Just like before, it sent the Santelmo flying into the shield. But this time it didn’t get up.
“Fuck sake!” Flick pounded his fist into the steel chair he was sitting in. I noticed with alarm that it bent beneath his strength.
Poole was clapping me on the back, his happiness making him over eager. “Yes. One round down.”
“Yes, one round,” Flick answered, his eyes dark and hard. “But we have two more yet. That was just a warm up.”
“Let’s go then.”
“Your draw.”
I decided to play it bold and call the fieriest of all the fiery beasts; the salamander. I’d spent years building this card up. Salamanders were notorious for being defensive cards but mine was the strongest I’d ever come across. I threw it down and watched as my salamander, my faithful old friend, prowled around the table, breathing fire into the air.
“Look at the size of that,” a man nearby breathed. “Mine own salamander ain’t half the size.”
“Size doesn’t mean everything, old hoss” Flick said. There were a few good-natured cheers, and a few calls of, “depends what you got, Flick!” Flick ignored them all and tossed his card lazily onto the table. A huge fire giant—the biggest I’d ever seen—climbed from the card, immediately making a lie of his words. The creatures sparred back and forth, getting more and more aggressive as time went on, but eventually my salamander was pummelled into a fleshy pulp. It was close but I’d lost.
“Fuck,” I yelled, leaping to my feet and stalking away from the table. I took a few calming breaths and then returned, my heart pounding in my chest. My stomach was squirming with anxiety and I wondered if I might throw up. I still thought I had this in the bag though, even if the last round hadn’t gone as planned.
“Looks like this is getting interesting, no?” Flick said, rubbing his hands together.
I shrugged. “Well, I didn’t want it to be too easy. People would say I’d robbed you.”
“Robbed?” Flick barked that laugh again. “You sound confident.”
“I am.”
He picked up his glass of liquor and took a sip, surveying me over the rim. “Confident enough to up the stakes?”
“No,” Poole immediately interjected.
I held up a hand to him, silencing him. “What’s your bet, Flick? What could you possibly want more than our cards?”
“You, of course.”
The silence in the room was absolute for a full ten seconds. Then sound crashed in around me so loud that I actually flinched from it. A wave of self-consciousness went through my body so cold that I froze. I stared at him blankly, my expression cold and stiff. It wasn’t often that I was taken by surprise. “Me? What are you talking about?”
Flick was studying my face. “Come on, old hoss, you might play men’s games but we can all see that beauty you try to hide. That fiery beauty,” he breathed.
“What . . .” Then I shut my mouth with a snap. My blood ran cold when I realised that I’d been set up. Flick had deliberately goaded this challenge, had deliberately risen the stakes, to drive me to this point. He knew that I wouldn’t turn down the challenge.
“If I win the next round,” Flick continued, oblivious to my thoughts, “then you become my wife.”
I cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at him, as if my stomach wasn’t twisting unpleasantly. “And if I win? What on Earth could you offer me that would tempt me to make such a ridiculous wager.”
“I’ll not only give you all my cards but you can have every last penny of my wealth too.” He held up his credit-stick, the device that held all his wealth. Not many people were so rich that they had to use a credit-stick. Most people, like myself, traded in food and fuel. On the rare occasion we had coppers, we didn’t have them for long. A credit-stick like that would have pounds and pounds on it. My mouth practically watered at the sight.
But I made myself act cool. “You think I’m going to believe for one second that you’ll hand everything over to me?”
His tone turned to ice. “I’ve just publicly declared that I would. And I always keep my word.”
I bowed my head, as if thinking about his offer, but I knew in my heart that I’d already made up my mind; of course I would take the wager. I always took the wager. And this was the biggest one of all; my life. This would become legend.
“Don’t be stupid . . .” Poole mumbled, his breath wafting down my neck. “Don’t even think about it.”
I lifted my head. “Deal.”
ONE LAST ROUND. One last card.
Neither of us studied our cards. At this point, we both know what our strategy would be. We’d known it from the first moment we agreed to the wager. The first two rounds were warm ups only. It was this one that counted.
The room was so tense now that no man talked. All eyes were on our table, on our faces, trying to read whether they had bet on the right horse. But the books were closed. There could be no backing out now.
For anyone.
With a quick glance at Poole, I reached into my breast pocket and withdrew my wildcard; the artefact. It was the only artefact I’d ever seen first-hand, though I knew of people who said they’d had them and sold them on for staggering profit. I’d kept hold of mine, after being gifted it from my salamander years before. It seemed fitting that I use it in the battle where I’d lost my favourite card. This precious gift could only be used once but it would let me combine two cards together. I’d have twice the strength. Twice the defence.
Twice the power.
As soon as I withdrew it, the room oooohhed. Two people actually sighed at the sight of it, as if they’d never seen anything so beautiful when in fact it was just a silver disc, the shape and size of a coin. I flipped it high into the air—two hundred pairs of eyes following it—and then caught it again.
“Name your cards,” Flick said, emotionless. I could almost taste his failure.
I threw my cards towards the table; two high level dragons. As fiery as fiery could be. The cards fused in the air, snapping together as if they were magnets. It fluttered to the table, where it exploded into the most beautiful winged creature I’d ever seen. Its scales shimmered with every colour imaginable, its long, sinewy neck stretched out and breathed flames into the air. It glanced around, sniffing at the air, its ruby eyes searching for prey like a hunter.
“A dragon?” Flick said disdainfully. “A fucking dragon?” He rolled his eyes.
I shrugged. “You wanted fire.”
“I always do, sweetheart.” His eyes locked on mine and darkened. “Okay, let’s make things interesting.” He reached into his own breast pocket . . .
And my entire body froze.
Hell, the entire room froze.
Horrified, I watched as he withdrew his own artefact, flipping it into the air just as I had done. Where his face had been emotionless before, now it fucking quivered with smugness. He met my eyes, “You didn’t think I’d risk losing, did you? With my wealth and a wife at stake?”
“Oh man . . .” Poole moaned. “Oh man . . .”
I swallowed down my rising panic. But even beneath the panic, I could feel my excitement. I would never admit it to anyone but this was it. The big one. Two artefacts. There would never be another round like this one. I swallowed. “Choose your cards.”
He spent a long time deliberating over his cards, first sliding out one, and then another, until finally he tossed his selection down, one by one. “The Hikeshibaba,” he announced as the first one fluttered onto the table.
The Japanese lady who extinguishes lamps.
“And the Metee-kolen-ol. The ice wizards.”
His fusing wasn’t nearly as dramatic as mine but it was more . . . sinister. A puddle that was as black and as viscous as Flick’s drink started to spread on the steel of the table, sending out icy fingers. Out of the liquid came an old, withered hand. The fingers were short and shriven, the nails chewed bloody. It was attached to an even older and more withered woman who climbed from the liquid as if climbing out of a pool. The wizard followed next. He was as short as a dwarf and the shift he wore was grey and threadbare. They were holding hands, their fingers fused with ice.
The dragon saw them and backed up, hissing. Two short plumes of smoke burst from its nostrils like steam from a kettle but it didn’t breathe fire. Flick’s smile stretched further. “We can discuss surrender if you don’t want to lose your cards?”
I shook my head. “Never.”
“Then game on.”
IT WAS SLOW. So slow.
The strange, stoic couple moved towards the dragon, their hands linked, their expressions mild. The dragon continued to back away, hissing and growling like an afraid dog. Its obsidian eyes were so wide that I could see the reflection of the wizard and the old lady staring back at me.
“Dear god . . .” Poole moaned, and for once I barely noticed the warm waft of his sour breath down the back of my neck.
As if at a cock-fight, the room started to cheer, boo, shake fists, swear, and scream—hungry for the battle to start.
But still the dragon had done nothing but snort smoke.
“What’s wrong with it?” Poole asked.
My mouth was dry. I swallowed. “I . . .”
“You’ve made it too powerful, wife,” Flick taunted. “It can’t fight because the second it touches my creatures, it will die. Ice on fire will do that. And it can’t use its fiery breath because it’s so strong that it will end up burning itself up right alongside the couple,” he said, pointing to where the couple were still making their slow procession across the table.
Shit, he was right.
The dragon, the most powerful card that was ever created, was powerless.
Agonised, I watched as the dragon took one step backwards for every step the couple took towards it. It hissed, warning them, but did nothing more. Soon, they were going around and around the table, nobody winning and nobody losing. Stalemate.
“Can’t somebody make them fight?” a man to the left of me yelled. He was an ugly man with no front teeth. I wanted to punch what few teeth he did have remaining.
“They can’t do anything on the table,” another man answered.
On the table.
Adrenaline poured through my entire body, setting my nerves on fire. Had it ever been done before? Had anything ever broken through the shield? It was that dragon’s—and my—only chance. I leaned forward and brought my fist down on the centre of the shield. Immediately I got a zap of electricity, not enough to hurt me but enough to make my fingers tingle. I did it again and again. The only time anyone could touch the shield was to lock in and start the round. But my action did the trick, the dragon saw me pounding the shield and started to rip at it with its claws.
“You can’t do that,” Flick roared, jumping to his feet.
“I bloody well can,” I answered beneath my breath. Then, louder, “I’m not marrying you. Not for anything.”
The shield was starting to lose power now, and was flapping around like a sheet on a washing line. It was then that I noticed the couple sneaking up on the dragon, linked hands outstretched. “Watch out!” I screamed.
But it was too late. Their clasped fingers lightly brushed the base of the dragon’s tail. The dragon threw back its head and roared, sending a giant plume of flame into the air. The shield was so weak now that most of it got through, though it dispersed like smoke through lace. The heat was instant. Choking. Two people on the front row screamed and dropped to the floor, thrashing around in an attempt to put out the flames that burst to life on their clothes.
The dragon itself wasn’t too badly harmed. The scales that had been touched by the strange couple had turned stark white, like frost burn, but I thought the damage was no more than fifteen or twenty percent. It’s still had most of its XP remaining.
The dragon recovered swiftly from its agony. It looked around, locked eyes with the strange couple, opened its mouth and then . . .
Oh god.
The heat was intense. So intense that it took my breath away and the temperature in the room skyrocketed. Those of us nearest the table stumbled backwards, away from that burning wind. Through squinted eyes, I saw the angry fiery cloud envelop everything beneath the shield and then burst through it, shattering the forcefield as if it was glass.
I couldn’t breathe! The one gasping breath I took burned the inside of my throat and lungs, and I started to cough, clawing at the skin of my neck. Through the choking smoke I could see several silhouettes scrambling away from the table. The fire raced up their arms, up their necks, consuming everything there was to burn. The smell of crisped hair—of crisped skin—hung cloyingly in the air.
The chair I was on suddenly melted beneath my weight and I crashed to the floor. I lay there, dazed for a moment, unable to breathe, wondering distantly if I was going to die, when a pair of arms wrapped around my chest and hauled me upright. “Move!” And I knew from the sour stink breaking through the smoke that it was Poole. I’d never been so glad to smell his breath in my life. “Move, goddammit, before we all crisp!” he yelled.
He half carried, half dragged me away from the table and towards the door at the back of the room. The entire place was engulfed in flames. Something swooped through the fire and dove at me, roaring. I felt something leathery swipe at my ear and I knew it was my dragon; it was free and it was angry.
Overhead, the lights shattered in the intense heat, sprinkling glass down onto the chaos, but it didn’t matter; the room was lit by spears of ferocious flame jetting at the people over and over again. I heard screeching and wailing, so high pitched that it was impossible not to imagine the agony. I’m glad that I couldn’t see through the acrid smoke. I’m glad I couldn’t see the terror.
“Oh god . . .” I heard Poole almost sob.
I coughed. “W . . . what?”
“The door . . . it’s too . . .”
I felt Poole slide to the floor next to me, his feet tangling with mine. I could hear him choking and gasping but there was nothing I could do to help him. I grasped at the door, desperately trying to find the handle. As soon as my fingers touched the burning steel I hissed and snatched my hand back. The handle was so hot that I was sure I’d left half of my flesh melted to the steel.
“Oh god . . .” I was sobbing now. I sank to the floor besides my friend, knowing I was going to die. There was nothing in the world except unimaginable heat and smoke. And the smell of burning flesh. Gasping for breath, I rolled onto my side and watched as the world burned.
WHEN I NEXT opened my eyes, I saw nothing but a greasy film that had settled over my eyeballs. I had to blink once, twice, and then a third time before it cleared and I could see the destruction that I’d caused. The entire bar was nothing but a few melted steel beams sticking up from the ground. The stone walls were nothing but dust and rubble.
I was so weak. I raised my head, wincing as the boulders in my skull rolled around, to see a few others lying on the floor, some still unconscious, some awake and moaning. Of the few hundred that were in the bar, I could see maybe eleven or twelve still alive. The rest were blowing away on the warm summer breeze.
“Wh . . .” My voice came out as a hoarse whisper. I licked my lips and tried again. “What?”
“You’re alive then, are you?” Poole said from beside me, his voice as hoarse as mine. I rolled my head to look at him; he looked as bad as I felt. What little clothes he had left were burned and hanging by threads. The skin on his face had blistered and melted until I could see the white bone peeping through. One arm had completely burned off, the other hung useless at his side. He was as bald as an egg, his hair crisped away.
“I guess . . .” I swallowed the painful burn in my throat. “The dragon?”
“Gone.”
I nodded, expecting nothing less. “The old couple?”
“Gone as well. We released monsters into the world just so you could . . .” He coughed. “Just so you could win your fucking bet. Take a look around. Take a look at what you did. Was it worth it?”
FLICK WAS ONE of the first to die. Witnesses say he was still clutching the credit-stick when the dragon’s flames enveloped him. Though nobody saw anything other than a great plume of fire, I can’t help but imagine his clothes combusting and his skin melting from his bones. I can’t help but imagine him drawing in a huge breath to scream but inhaling nothing but fire. I see it in my dreams.
Later, when the dust of the burned bodies had settled and the Night of the Dragon Cards became legend, I had to ask myself whether I knew what would happen when I combined those two cards together. I’d like to say categorically not. I’d like to say that I was doing nothing but playing the game, raising the stakes. Placing the ultimate wager.
But a part of me wonders.
I defeated him in the end. I am unbeaten. The ultimate card player. I hold the title and I doubt anybody will ever take it from me now.
Who will challenge me, knowing the lengths I will go to win?