Influence Page 6

  “Brave girl” sneers Varin. “Clearly she is not of your blood Dryonas.”

  “The other part of the bargain Varin, get on with it,” yells the king.

  “Yes, yes. Now a brief history lesson Dryonas. There once existed a civilisation of men long ago, in a more primitive age, in the North Lands. They were farmers and miners and they prospered for many an age in the shadow of the Ice blade mountains. That was until a group of miners stumbled upon a seam of rock they had never encountered before. A rock, in-fact, that nobody anywhere had ever seen before. A crystal of indiscriminate colour. The stone may look red to one person while the man beside him would swear blind it was blue. From that day the fate of that civilisation was sealed. Something about the seam drove the men mad with thirst for the rock. They mined fast and deep, oh so deep, trying to source the mother-load. Farmers abandoned their crops when they got a glimpse of the rock and would instead take up pick and shovel. Mothers and children abandoned their villages and plunged headlong into the depths of the mountain never to be seen again. Years would pass before travellers came by these abandoned villages. Cattle lay as bones in pens, tables set for supper lay rotted and untouched and no sign of what had happened could be found anywhere. However, one traveller, while plundering for anything of wealth was busy liberating the church of its scraps of gold when he came across a journal. Bound and sealed it was, with a warning to stay clear of the mountain. The journal explained how the priest had pleaded with the people not to chase this evil stone, that it would only lead to ruin. The priest went on to describe the crystal and its power to steal the hearts of men. One day word rose from the depths of the mine that the mother-load had been discovered. A pure sphere of crystal as large as a man’s head had been found in a cave fathoms beneath the surface. The final journal entry was an apology from the priest for his weakness as he himself abandoned his church for the promise of the deep.

  Your task is simple Dryonas, you will recover this crystal for me and find me at the rain citadel south of Athynian. You will use your wealth, resources or, if you prefer, your own two hands to do this and I will exchange crystal for kin.”

  “But, how do you even know any of this is true. What if it’s naught but lies, or this crystal cannot be found or has been destroyed?” The mage reaches into the neck of his robes and produces a thong with a small gem on the end. He snaps it off and throws it to the king who stares at the tiny piece of crystal… so beautiful, he thinks.

  “That was amongst the priests abandoned belongings along with these maps and assorted writings,” The mage pulls a leather binder from his waist belt and throws this to the King also. The mage walks to the King’s stepdaughter and takes her by the wrist. The Queen screams but is silenced by Dryonas’ embrace. The mage mounts the neck of the dragon pulling his captive up in front of him. “Two moon cycles from this day Dryonas, if you have not brought what I seek to the citadel I will return her to you, in small charred pieces.” In an almighty whoosh the dragon takes to the air not encumbered in the slightest by its two riders and is lost to the eye in moments.

  A muted silence falls across the courtyard. The King is distraught. “Inside all of you… please. Go back to you duties. Gaynar, Timenus, to me please.” The king gestures to Timenus, a tall elf dressed in scarlet robes – the court mage, and to Gaynar, a female dwarf the King’s Man at Arms.’

  Vic handed a sheet of paper each to Robe and Lizzie. Lizzie, who was quite enjoying the little story, was suddenly brought out of her drowsy passive state remembering that this thing required some kind of interaction from her. She studied the piece of paper she was given. “Character sheet” headlined a long list of details apparently painting a picture of a persona she would be required to manifest - Gaynar, a level 8 dwarf warrior.

  ‘Dwarf? Right, thanks for that Vic.’

  ‘Nothing personal Liz, and trust me being a dwarf is going to come in handy,’ said Vic trying to reassure her.

  ‘Yeah? My mum used to tell me something similar. I’m still waiting.’

  Lizzie had been a little nervous when she had arrived at the house earlier. It was her first visit to the boy’s home and she wasn’t sure what to expect. It was a large, detached and unkempt place at the edge of town. Undoubtedly the house was worth a fortune but the paint work was flaking, front lawn knee height and when Mr Adams had opened the door a smell of damp hit her in the back of her throat. Lizzie had given Mr Adams a warm smile and explained she was there at the invite of his sons. He was a tall, burly man and sported a thick beard that appeared more to do with lethargy than it did with choice.

  Without saying a word he had turned leaving Lizzie alone on the doorstep and disappeared down the dark hallway. A full two minutes passed before Mrs Adams, a small mousy woman, wearing a long thick house coat which, by the look of her drawn sunken cheeks, hid a tiny frail frame underneath, appeared. She gave Lizzie a bored glance and told her the boys were upstairs before, herself, disappearing down the hall leaving Lizzie to find both the stairs and the boys. She found them in what was surely Vic’s room judging by the overflowing piles of magazines and shelves displaying tiny metal fantasy characters. He had set up a wallpaper pasting board in the centre of the room and Lizzie found a garden chair and a can of Coke waiting for her. Vic could barely contain his excitement on her arrival, he had no doubt expected a no show from her. Lizzie had lied, telling Vic that she only had a few hours due to a fictional essay she had to finish giving her an ”out” if she felt she needed one. While Vic had hurried around Lizzie, Robe seemed unaware she had arrived at all, he sat at the makeshift table with his nose buried in the game rule book.

  ‘Ok, I need you guys to roll for hit points,’ Vic announced handing Lizzie a small velvet bag. She undid the tassels and spilled out on to the table some extremely strange looking dice of various colours and bizarre geometrical shapes.

  ‘Hit points?’

  ‘It’s like your life-force, how much damage you can sustain,’ Robe explained.

  ‘You’ll need a D10 Liz,’ said Vic.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘A ten sided,’ said Robe handing her one of the ridiculous plastic shapes.

  ‘So I just roll the dice?’

  ‘Die.’ said Vic.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Die Lizzie,’ he repeated, his patience fraying at her inexperience.

  ‘That’s a bit harsh Vic, I’m just trying to get my head round this geek-fest,’ said Lizzie a little hurt.

  ‘No, sorry Liz. I mean Die as in one dice, singular. You just need to roll the one.’

  Lizzie humoured the boys, and followed their instructions as best she could and before long she was rolling dice to decide outcomes and, despite herself, she cared whether her dwarven alter-ego lived or died and took strange satisfaction at rolling high on twenty sided dice to be informed she had just hacked the head off of this or survived an attack from that.

  ‘Damn, I forgot the music,’ said Vic, suddenly halting proceedings.

  ‘We need music for this?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘We don’t need it, it just adds something, give me a minute’. Vic disappeared out of the room, doubling back at the last minute to take his paperwork with him casting a mistrustful glance at Lizzie and Robe.

  ‘Good, I thought I wouldn’t get a chance to fill you in Liz,’ said Robe with a serious look and lowered voice.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lizzie whispered back.

  ‘The stepdaughter, Malene. She’s in league with Varin,’ Lizzie gave him a blank look. ‘The evil dragon riding mage? Well they’re in it together. We will retrieve the crystal only to be betrayed at the last minute at the citadel. The real goal of the mage and his stepdaughter is to seize Dryonas’ throne.’

  ‘Robe, you sneaky little thing, have you been looking in your brother’s books?’ she said smiling.

  ‘No, of course not, and I resent the accusation. It’s just that he’s… predictable. Don’t get me wrong, my brother is entertaining, but he’s not terr
ibly original. I’ve played a few scenarios with him based on this theme and it’s been the same thing each time with only subtle variations on narrative. Don’t let on you know, just when it comes to the part in the citadel be on your guard.’

  ‘Um, sure I’ll be ready I guess.’ With Vic out of the room they were in new territory. Lizzie couldn’t recall ever being alone with Robe and an awkward silence soon fell over them, awkward at least for Lizzie, the uncomfortable situation seemed to be lost on Robe who again picked up his rule book, the rudeness of his actions oblivious to him.

  ‘So, your parents; they seem nice,’ said Lizzie grasping at anything to break the silence.

  ‘Do they?’ said Robe, closing his book.

  ‘Sure. What do they do?’

  ‘You mean their occupations?’ Robe raised his eyes to the ceiling in consideration, as if having never before been asked that question. ‘Mother does nothing, never has done, Grandma’s money means she’s never been required to. She has some psychological issues which makes working an unlikely venture for her. She forgets things, and is prone to long mental black spots. Father is… a playwright,’ this he framed with exaggerated finger quotations. ‘I believe he was involved in a semi-successful production in the early eighties but these days all he seems to produce, locked away in his office day after day, is empty bottles of vodka by the plastic bag full,’ he said without a hint of shame. Lizzie was stunned by his candidness and wasn’t sure what to say in response.

  ‘I’m sorry’, she decided on.

  ‘Why?’ said Robe with genuine unknowing.

  ‘I mean it must be hard on you guys.’ Robe shrugged in a what you gonna do gesture.

  ‘We deal with it,’ he said. ‘When she’s at a low ebb I tend to take care of financial matters, bills, school fees that sort of thing. And Vic does the house chores.’ Lizzie suddenly remembered the envelope stuffed with cash she saw in his bag. She didn’t want to say sorry again, and couldn’t think of anything else to say so they sat in silence for a few minutes until Vic returned carrying a small stereo. He plugged it in and retrieved a tape from a pile in the corner of the room. Classical music, badly recorded, dramatically filled the room. Some up tempo number by a long dead composer Lizzie had probably never heard of.

  On the way home Lizzie had to concede to herself that she had enjoyed the evening. The role-playing she could take or leave but to spend some time in the company of people her own age had been nice. The boys had seemed to love the chance to involve someone new in their game too. Vic had kept his flirting to a minimum and she had even caught Robe laughing from time to time. The only sour note had been on her way out of the house. She had passed by, what must have been, their Father’s office and heard him in there. At first she thought he was arguing with someone on the phone but then realised that it was a drunken rant with either himself or some apparition in his intoxicated head. Vic had shown her out and had, this time, looked a little embarrassed, keeping his voice low. Lizzie could only imagine what might happen if they had caught his attention. Vic had hugged her at the door; Lizzie had returned the hug, patting him on the back in what she hoped felt like a platonic gesture.

  Eight

  Vic plagued Lizzie with questions on their way into school, desperate to know whether she had enjoyed the role-playing. She admitted that she had been pleasantly surprised and that she was particularly impressed with how creative he could be. ‘How come you’re not that creative in English class? I mean you had that whole story prepared and you must also have been improvising a bit too depending on what me and Robe did at any time,’ she asked him.

  It was Thursday morning which meant Robe had no classes before lunch and left Vic with Lizzie all to himself, however whenever Lizzie was alone with him he seemed petrified, as if his brother was the source of his courage. The silly flirting gave way to awkwardness and a tendency to talk relentlessly to fill every moment blocking any chance of a lull.

  ‘That stuff is easy, you don’t have to worry about grammar or structure or even whether anyone else will like it because once you start playing you can just change it round if it isn’t working,’ Vic was on course in English to achieve the lofty heights of a B at best, according to the prelims, which is why an evening filled with Vic’s own compelling, if a little cheesy, creative writing had come as something of a surprise. ‘It was good fun last night, you know Lizzie, you’re not like other girls I know,’ he said as they turned off the road into the school grounds.

  ‘Yeah? What other girls do you know?’ Vic wanted to respond but he had nothing, Lizzie’s sour joke lingered in the air. ‘I’m sorry Vic, what I mean is thanks, I had a good time too, really. Normally magic and dragons and all that aren’t my thing but you did good Vic. What’s Robe doing with his morning off?’ she said moving the conversation on.

  ‘He was still in bed when I left, which is a bit weird normally he’s first one up, I guess we just played too late last night. You guys have philosophy this afternoon though right?’ asked Vic playfully kicking a pine cone along the long driveway into school before a wayward strike sent it off under a bush.

  ‘Yeah, last class before exams start, kinda scary. Are you all set for finals?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’ Vic shrugged, his hands thrust into his pockets. ‘I dunno, I guess there’s not that much pressure on me, I haven’t even decided if I want to go to uni next year. Everyone’s so focussed waiting to see how amazingly Rob does that I just sort of glide under the radar.’

  ‘If not uni then what?’ Lizzie was a little taken aback by this, and she wasn’t sure why they hadn’t discussed it before, although she suspected he didn’t want his brother knowing.

  ‘I’m not sure, get a job, get out the house.’ This, at least, made sense to Lizzie. As unconventional as her own life had become since her mother’s death she could not picture living in the Adams household, it made her shiver just to imagine it.

  The classroom clamoured with a dozen different conversations, Lizzie and Vic took their places at the back row of the class.

  ‘Alright, settle down,’ announced Miss Abrahams tapping her pen on the desk. Order settled and Miss Abrahams continued, ‘If you haven’t yet handed in your final draft stories, I need them today. You’ve been warned that this is the final deadline so I don’t want any excuses.’ English was the only subject Lizzie and Vic had together. It had been her favourite subject at her previous school and had always been one of very few classes she would look forward to.

  ‘Today’s class will be a revision session,’ said Miss Abrahams and a drone of disappointment sounded. ‘I want you to pair up and practice close reading, discuss your answers but try to keep it down to a roar if you can.’ Miss Abrahams began making her way down the rows collecting bundles of paper from students. She stopped at the desk in front of Lizzie to collect Amy Schuster’s final draft. ‘You two should pair up for this exercise,’ the teacher suggested much to Vic’s disapproval. Amy turned to Lizzie and smiled. ‘You two have a lot in common, if your stories are anything to go by, both cheeky and rather brilliant,’ said Miss Abrahams leaving the girls a little embarrassed and in a slightly uncomfortable position. If Lizzie was considered quiet then Amy was, by comparison, a mute. They had exchanged the occasional greeting when entering the class, or in the corridors, but little more.

  ‘Do you mind pairing up?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘Not at all,’ answered Amy spinning her chair round to face Lizzie. She released her dark ponytail from her hairband as it was becoming loose. She gripped the band in her teeth while she reassembled her hair and bound it again. Amy looked a little like Lizzie, same height and same frame, but her hair was long, and she had a prettier face than Lizzie, high cheekbones and kind eyes.

  ‘You were cutting it fine with your story weren’t you?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Amy, ‘I handed it in a few weeks ago but I wanted to make a small change so I asked for it back. So what did you do your story on?’ Lizzie had achiev
ed high praise for her writing at her previous school, it was something she enjoyed, and something she needed. There was a catharsis to writing that Lizzie had become reliant on since her mother had passed. It made having few friends tolerable. It was with excitement and pleasure that Lizzie embraced the news that their English class required a folio of writing to be assessed externally and would form part of the students’ overall grade. Lizzie also loved the remit of one of the folio pieces to be produced. The students were required to take a fairytale of their choosing and re-write it or re-boot it with either an alternative viewpoint or with a modern take on the theme. Most of the class had groaned at the prospect but Lizzie thought it was an inspired idea.

  ‘I actually took three different fairy tales and meshed them together. The idea is that you have the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk, the troll from The Three Billy Goats Gruff and Rumplestiltskin all sitting in a holding cell awaiting trial after their respective stories had ended and you sort of get an alternative view of the stories from them. What did you do?’

  ‘I took a bit of a risk,’ said Amy lowering her voice. ‘I did a version of Snow White set in modern day where “Sue White” an infamous madam at a high class brothel in Soho has attained the nickname – “Not so White” and caters for the more unusual and extreme tastes of her clientele. She has a team of diminutive courtesans who become renowned throughout the industry and “Not so White” had found herself locked in a battle with an older scheming mistress who’s own brothel had been replaced as the place to go in town.’

  ‘Oh my God’, said Lizzie her mouth agape, and Amy looked a little disappointed at her reaction. ‘That is bloody brilliant, you have to let me read it,’ Amy’s face lit up again.

  ‘I had the idea ages ago, but I wasn’t going to do it when old Fletcher was here, there’s no way he would have let me. But when I mentioned the idea to Miss Abrahams she said go for it.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Lizzie. ‘When Fletcher read my first draft he said something like “I see what you tried to do here Lizzie, but I don’t really think it’s what the assessors are looking for. Perhaps you should talk to some of your classmates and maybe have another go at this one.”’ Lizzie used her best croaky, demented voice to imitate her old teacher. ‘Then he pushed it back to me with that creepy twisty hand of his and refused to take it’, she continued. ‘Of course I reminded him that it didn’t matter what he thought since it would be marked by other people. In the end he took it but barely said two words to me after that. But when Miss Abrahams read it she loved it, so up him.’