Rune: up

  Figuration: Butter Up

  Skill: Charisma boost/ Charm - Increased effect of verbal persuasion?

  Frequency: Now and then

  *Restrictions apply

  “WE LOVE YOU, BORA, WE DO!” The audience roared. Malcolm’s heart hammered in his chest. He climbed over bench after bench, ignoring the urge to fling himself under the nearest one. His skulking days were over.

  A few rows from the top, he sank down, tucked his knees up to his chin and finally allowed himself to read his scroll. Butter Up. It didn’t look like a combat skill, not at first glance, but he was resourceful. Maybe with a bit of wriggle room. He focused on the glowing green asterisk, then the list of notes it led to – Terms and conditions. The noise of the crowd faded into the background.

  He skimmed the scroll, trying to pick out the important bits. Okay, so his most powerful method of charm was complimentary, though others may develop with practise. His skill was only effective when he was within arm’s length of his target, and they had to be without an active counter charm. His charm was species specific – human. His heart sank. Visions of politely suggesting to a rampaging monster that it might quite like to impale itself on the end of his sword vanished. He had a skill alright, but it didn’t sound like anything that would give him the advantage in a monster fight.

  The audience broke into roof-lifting song. “DEAD LION IN THE DIRT, BORA’S STAFF STILL GLEAMING”

  Malcolm’s thoughts raced. He was destined to fight monsters. There had to be some way his Butter up skill could help. Hang on… How about if he used it to persuade someone else to give him one of their stones! It was a crazy idea, but it might work… if his target was weak-minded enough. Did he really want his special power to be charming skill stones off people too stupid to stop him? A huge roar rattled through the seat of his pants. He stowed the idea at the back of his mind.

  “THERE’S ONLY ONE MARCUS BORA!” The crowd rose to their feet, stamping and cheering. Two rows down, a flash of silver caught Malcolm’s eye. The new stone holders took up the whole row. On one end, the chief archivist lectured those who were both near enough to hear him and daft enough not to pretend they couldn’t. He looked to be enjoying himself, mouth going ten to the dozen, bright dots of red blooming on his white cheeks.

  At the other end of the bench, Wordsmith Mathers slumped in a heap. The poor man looked like he’d not slept for days. If he leaned any further forward, he was going to end up eating dirt. As Mal watched, a hand reached out and gently looped the end of Mather’s cloak around the back of the bench. The girl sat back, glancing about her with suspicious eyes. Mal grinned.

  The man of the moment strode from the wings. “BORA, BORA!”

  Marcus Bora climbed the fighters’ platform in the centre of the arena. He kicked the ladder away, raised his arm and brandished his ebony staff. It spewed tongues of golden flame. The crowd took their cue.

  “CAN’T START A FIRE. CAN’T START A FIRE WITHOUT OUR MARC. BORA IS ON FIRE. KILLIN’ THE GREYS WITH JUST A SPARK!”

  Malcolm had never watched Marcus Bora fight. He’d heard the tales of course. The man had an accuracy skill. Whatever he threw found its mark. Distance no object. Others insisted it was the staff that was enchanted. Bora had visited the finders’ market and traded in his skill stone. He dowsed the staff in demon breath before every battle. Malcolm didn’t know which story to believe – not that it mattered. He was about to witness his first monster fight without having to hide, and he was ramped for it.

  Something screeched below. Metal wailed against metal. The gate to the den swung open. The crowd hushed. On the fighters’ platform, Bora bounced from toe to toe, wiggling his fingers.

  A blur of grey fur surged from the den. The crowd erupted.

  “YOU’RE GOIN’ ‘OME IN BENSON’S BUTCHER CART!”

  Malcolm wasn’t so sure. The gambling men from earlier were right. The grey was roughly lion-shaped, but that was where the similarities ended. The thing was huge, easily as tall as the man who faced it. Muscles bulged under coarse, grey fur. The monster’s mane glistened with strands of grey gristle, ugly tentacles writhing towards the fighter. Malcolm tasted bile in the back of his throat. “KILL IT, BORA!” he yelled. A face in the audience turned his way. For a second, he could have sworn she looked disappointed.

  Malcolm shrugged the thought away. This was his very first fight as a skilled stone holder. He was here to pick up tips, hone his strategies.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Unfortunately, most of Bora’s skill appeared to involve twirling his staff in ever more flamboyant patterns then throwing it up in the air and catching it with a flourish, sometimes one-handed and, once, behind his back! The crowd were lapping it up. The monster not so much. It watched from the foot of the platform with dull, grey eyes.

  Half an hour later, and Malcolm knew how the beast felt. Though it pained him to admit, the battle was rubbish. Even after all the interminable twirly stuff was done with, Bora made no move to leave the safety of the platform and instead launched into a limbo demonstration with his staff.

  Mal sighed. The fighter appeared to have no intention of engaging the grey in combat. The monster circled the platform, wearing a trough in the sand. Eventually, it stopped pacing, stretched out its two front feet and crouched, for all the world like Benson the butcher’s ginger tom – but twenty times bigger and with added tentacles.

  On the platform, Bora sashayed under the staff with a rose between his teeth.

  “Dad, what’s he -”

  The man next to Malcolm ruffled his son’s hair. “Upping the difficulty level, see.”

  The crowd cheered. Bora bowed then coughed. He coughed again, waited a beat, then coughed again. Louder this time. He shook his head, strode to the front of the platform and leaned out. “Ahnowh” he coughed.

  A great lump of rock sailed from the side-lines and thudded into the sand only feet from the monster’s swishing tail. The grey turned and growled.

  Bora seized the moment. He swiped down with his staff. Flame licked a long, raw slice across the beast’s nose. It reared onto its back legs, frantically batting the air. Bora aimed. The staff spat fire, and the grey’s head exploded.

  “WHEN YOU’RE SAT IN ROW ZED AND THE FLESH HITS YOUR HEAD THAT’S OUR BORA!”

  The first few rows of the crowd stormed the barriers. The triumphant fighter disappeared beneath a sea of guards. Malcolm stayed sitting, buffeted by enthusiastic fans charging down, hoping to snag what was left of the furry souvenirs – hot property indeed. Marcus Bora reappeared on the shoulders of two burly guards. He raised his glowing staff in celebration. The guards set off at a jog, swerving adoring fans, and disappeared into the back rooms.

  “Bora’s signing stuff by the exit.” A face grinned down at Malcolm. It was one of the gambling men, the one with the insomniac wife. “You wanna get yourself down there,” he said. “Get him to sign your…” He paused, looking Malcolm up and down. “Get him to sign your shoe or summat. You’ll make a fortune at the finders’ market. Might even be able to buy your own ticket next time.” The man winked. Malcolm nodded his thanks. He’d pass, but the man was right, the exit was heaving. Might as well wait.

  ***

  The stands were almost empty. The row of new stone holders had long gone. Only the suspicious-eyed girl still sat. Mal stood up. He clambered over the benches and coughed to announce his presence.

  “Alright?” he said. “I, uh, I saw what you did there for old Mathers. The poor bloke’s having a hard time of it.” He swiped a sweaty hand down his pants and held it out. “I’m Malcolm.”

  “Nev,” said the girl. She didn’t move, just sat, glaring up at him.

  “Nev. Riiiight. Only I’ve been calling you the, um, suspicious-eyed girl… in my head. You know, from the Choosing. You’re not mind, but you did look kind of suspicious then… You do now, a bit.” He paused. “So… Yeah, Nev.” He put his hand away.

  Nev glared.

  “Yeah, so… Bora played a blinder out there today, hey,” he said. “You can always count on Marcus to give a grey what it deserves.”

  Nev’s head shot up so fast that strands of her dark hair whipped against his arm. “And what did the grey deserve, Malcolm?” Dark brown eyes bored into his.

  “Sorry?”

  “The grey!” she spat. “What did it deserve? Did something to you, did it? I HEARD YOU BAYING FOR ITS BLOOD!” Her voice rose alarmingly.

  Malcolm patted at the air. That escalated fast. “Greys crave magic,” he said.

  “So do you,” said Nev.

  “But…”

  She faced him, her hands curled into fists, eyes flashing dangerously. Malcolm groped for a retort. The greys crave magic. What else do they do? There must be something else! “They crave magic, and, and they’re all grey!”

  “Really? That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? The gods, Malcolm! For once in your life, think!”

  Malcolm rubbed at his temples. Think, man, think. She was pressurising him. He never did well under pressure. Hang on a minute? Why was he the one doing the thinking? She was the one with the loony ideas. She was the monster lover. He peered down, set to put her straight.

  “We don’t even kill them for food!” Nev yelled.

  Malcolm nodded. She was right. “You’re right,” he said. No human would ever put the flesh of a grey anywhere near their mouth, never mind in it. There, argument over. He licked the sweat from his lip.

  By the time he caught her up, they were outside the gates. Nev stood alone, dwarfed by the huge wall of the enclosure. She was reading a sign pinned halfway up.

  “I’ve not seen that before. What’s it mean?” he asked.

  “It’s the chief archivist’s little joke – CraP, you know.”

  Malcolm shook his head.

  “Creatures Regarded as Pests – CraP. They don’t just keep the greys in there anymore...” She tailed off and started walking. Malcolm followed.

  “MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY!” A chorus of voices echoed down the passageway. Nev flattened herself to the wall and dragged him back to join her. A convoy of guards rounded the corner. Whatever they were transporting was so tightly bound with ropes, Mal couldn’t make it out. He leaned closer.

  They’d caught a grey. Its body slumped in the net, flesh bulging around the gaps in the rope. The beast was a reptilian type, slanted nostrils, dark, bottomless pupils, flickering tongue. As the group drew level, one shining black claw lunged through the net. Nev gasped. Something flashed past her. The smiling guard recoiled his whip, and the claw clattered to the ground.

  The procession lumbered on past. Malcolm and Nev moved at the same time. She was faster, scooping up the shining claw and darting into the shadows before Mal could even react. He stared after her, his thoughts churning: the black eyes, the forked tongue, the claw! They may have been wrapped in dull, monster grey, but Malcolm had seen them before.