Chapter 7: "The Puzzle"

As her champion collapsed to the floor in a quivering, sweating, blood-spattered mess, Queen Elizabeth advanced several steps forwards from her throne. It was not very becoming for her to actually carry the 'boy,' herself, but her own reputation also depended on MacWood's identity remaining a secret. To discover that the Duellist Royal had earned his rank under false pretenses would cause a scandal, and worse still, Prince Ambros might decree that her deception rendered their agreement null and void, and his terrible giant would whisk her off to Germany. As she came closer, none other than Molly Randolph, the old cook, rushed out of the crowd with surprising speed. Without even stopping for breath, Molly had scooped the skinny knight into her arms. She turned to the Queen and they shared a look that put her mind at ease. I know, said the cook without a single flap of her lips.

"W-well done, Mrs Randolph," said Elizabeth, "please take Sir Douglas to my chambers. I will congratulate him upon his victory when he awakens." As she watched Molly shuffle out of the throne room, she turned to speak with von Dijkhuizen, but was only in time to see the end of his cape flutter out of view. She pursed her lips and sighed in relief.

"Quite the duel, was it not, Your Majesty?" asked Sir Francis Walsingham.

"Y-yes, quite," the Queen nodded. "Walsy, have you seen Mr C. at all?"

"Seen him? No," he shook his head, "though I can tell you he is probably just skulking about the corridors as always. Strange chap, that one. Can't imagine why you keep him around, really."

"Mr C. has his eccentricities, I admit," said the Queen, "but he is loyal…" Her voice trailed off. She did not want to say it aloud, but she was thinking to herself; Or at least, I hope he is.

XXX

To his Lord Highness, Prince Ambros the Immortal,

Alas, sad news. Your beloved has chosen her defender well. Sir Douglas MacWood is a man of great skill and stratagem, and snatched victory from my hands in a way I can only describe as 'inconceivable.' I am sending this letter to you via messenger, along with the return of the engagement ring you placed in my care. I have other important affairs requiring my attention, but I shall maintain correspondence until my return.

Yours sincerely,

Michel Freiherr von Dijkhuizen

Von Dijkhuizen set his quill aside and closed the letter, pinning it shut with the wax seal of his family crest, a copy of which he always carried in the form of a ring with a flip-open top. Kreszentia, his little servant, was sitting on the bed in the temporary quarters they had been granted for their stay and sewing a rip in

her master's cape. The Freiherr was wearing a bandage around his head to cover the multiple dots he had sustained from Athena's Olympian blade during the duel. In the next room over, a palace servant was running a bath for the German giant.

"I have finished, my Lord," said Kreszentia, presenting the perfect repair in the material.

"Vonderful, mein Schatz," von Dijkhuizen smiled warmly. He reached out to take it from her tiny hands when he heard a knocking at the door. "Enter." The door creaked open and in walked Robert Cecil. He bowed respectfully and closed the door behind him.

"Begging your pardon, sir," he said, "but I wanted to see if you require any aid in packing for your journey home. If so I can have another servant down here post-haste."

"I am quite capable of packink myself, zhank you," von Dijkhuizen frowned, "und besides, I am not leavink yet."

"You're…not?" Cecil blinked.

"No, my friend," the German shook his head. "I believe it vill be more beneficial to teach my young vard your language in a country vith so many native speakers. You understand his, yes?"

"Ah, of course."

"Zhen you vould be so kind as to help us find adequate lodginks?"

"I do have someone in my employ with-"

"No," von Dijkhuizen wagged one long, clawed finger at the smaller man. "I said 'you'. Vealth ist no excuse for laziness. You understand dhis, yes?"

"I…" Cecil cleared his throat. "I will see what I can do. Until then." He bowed again and quickly took his leave. Von Dijkhuizen tittered under his breath. He turned back to Kreszentia and leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

"Betveen you und me," he told her, "I am not so eager to be vizhin arm's reach of Prince Ambros vhen he receives my letter."

"Excuse me, Freiherr," said the palace servant as she walked in from next door. "Your bath is ready."

"Good girl," said von Dijkhuizen. He stood up and placed his letter in her hands, along with a large coin. "Here ist a gold piece for your troubles, und please have zhis taken to my contact at dhe docks. Zhank you." As the servant left them alone, von Dijkhuizen undressed. Kreszentia watched the armies of squirming oddities fight for supremacy on his skin with empty, mesmerised interest.

XXX

Christmastide soon fell upon the kingdom and a magnificent party was held at the palace. The Queen and her ladies were all dressed in beautiful, festive gowns, though the latter six's were hand-me-downs they were as captivating as the day they were fashioned.

As the only one permitted to do so, the Queen's dress was a rich purple embroidered with silver-and-gold doves.

At her right hand knelt Liza Townsend; guiding stars and snowflakes glistened against the dark blue silk of her attire.

Gwendolyn was at her left clothed in cream velvet trimmed with white lace, from her back she was graced by a silver-and-white taffeta reminiscent of wings.

It is here that we shall know the other ladies by name.

There was Lady Anne Craft who wore gold embroidered with white candles and orange flames,

Lady Jane Brondwin in red velvet on which a parade of carolers embroidered in white marched,

Lady Katherine Hawkins-Miller in various shades of green created by a holly and ivy pattern and complimented by a circlet of above mentioned plants,

and Lady Mary Broadbent in silver with a brown spinning wheel design, the wheels bound tight with the roses that the queen's family used as an emblem.

These last four were currently standing by a table just behind the throne, organising the ever-increasing pile of gifts. The Freiherr approached with a wrapped parcel beneath his tremendous arm.

"Ah, my dear sir," the Queen greeted him. Over the months he had lived in England, she could come to know him not just as a formidable duellist, but a master of craftwork capable of manufacturing the most unusual and wondrous gifts she had ever seen. "I am pleased that you are spending the holiday with us this year. Tell me, are Prince Ambros and his new wife doing well?"

"Vizh all respect, Your Majesty," replied the giant, "I am fortunately not privy to his private affairs. Here, I have brought you somezhink of my own design." The Queen accepted the gift and undid the wrapping, revealing a wooden purple box decorated with red diamonds and with six holes rimmed with gold on top. A crank stuck out of one side.

"I call it a Fairy Box," said von Dijkhuizen. "I do hope you find it amusing." The Queen hesitated, then began to turn the crank. A jovial melody played out as six little green heads popped in and out of the holes rhythmically. She laughed slightly childishly at this.

"Thank you, Freiherr," she said. "Enjoy the party." Von Dijkhuizen nodded, bowed and then walked towards the large crowd taking up most of the room. He stood head, shoulders and chest above them all, and scampering along behind him was his ever-present charge. With the gift giving over, it was time for dancing. As was traditional, the Queen would dance first, and chose for her partner a certain Robert Dudley, 1ST Earl of Leicester and Master of the Horse, known throughout the court for his simultaneous charm (believed to be the mentor in womanising to Jethro Marrack) and acid-tongued wit. The band played an upbeat and mirthful tune for them.

"I wonder if we will ever have a King for Her Majesty to dance with," sighed Lady Katherine.

"Have you not heard the rumour regarding Lord Whitehawk?" asked Lady Jane, twirling a ringlet of raven hair around one finger. "He has been writing a love poem for her."

"Oh, he'll never catch her eyes," Lady Mary waved her off before sampling fruit off a plate.

"Proper decorum if you please," Liza glowered at them. In their hierarchy, she was the alpha and would not let any of them forget it. "We are supposed to set an example."

"If only there were desirable gentlemen," Lady Anne fawned sadly, then nervously whispered to Gwendolyn, "your brother's friend Mr Pomeroy has been eyeing me all evening."

"Yes, Arthur's prone to that," the youngest lady shrugged. "Give him three minutes. The next girl to walk by showing the smallest peek of her underskirt will absorb his attention utterly." She was feeling quite bored and resisting the urge to lean back against the throne for risk of crushing her decorative wings.

"Ugh, how disgraceful," Liza frowned, watching a young woman in the crowd. "You can actually see her ankles, has she no shame?"

Across the room, Sebastian Blackwood stayed well away from any socialising. He was not one for these occasions, a born wall-flower. Arthur turned to him with a sly expression.

"I fancy my chances with that Lady Craft," he murmured.

"Is her first name 'Anne'?" asked Sebastian nonchalantly.

"I think so."

"I wouldn't bother."

"Oh, stop spoiling my fun," Arthur snorted, pushing the other boy. "Watch the master at work, maybe you'll learn something." With that he strode away towards the opposite end. Sebastian shook his head. I could learn how to hide codling trauma, he thought. The next thing he heard was an outraged feminine, "Hmph!" and watched with quiet humour as his school companion returned to his side, nursing a hand-shaped red mark on his cheek.

"Battle scar?" asked Sebastian.

"Battle scar," Arthur confirmed. As the first song ended, the six ladies descended from the royal dais and entered the throng. Gwendolyn walked towards her brother and was about to offer him a dance, having been watching him every now and again, but found her path blocked by Jethro, looking cleaner and more groomed than she was used to – in fact, she almost did not recognise him.

"May I have this first dance?" he asked.

"Oh…of course," Gwendolyn responded. He took her in a waltz and circled back to the middle of the room amongst the other dancing couples. After a few moments, he whispered in her ear.

"Watch out for Cecil," he told her, "he's after MacWood."

"The Queen's advisor?" she had not expected that. "You cannot be serious."

"Who do you think kicked me about like a disobedient dog?" he asked, briefly taking his hand off her waist to move some hair away from his forehead to reveal a thin, pink mark in his skin. "I've been trying to contact you ever since it happened but you've spent so much time with the Queen I haven't had the opportunity. I mean it, Gwen, that man is trouble, and…"

"Lady Blackwood," a fluty voice interrupted. Both dancers turned their attention in the direction it came from to see the Queen fast approaching. "I'm sorry to interrupt what I'm sure is a riveting exchange, but please locate Sir Douglas, would you?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Gwendolyn curtsied and left the room, leaving Jethro feeling rather indignant and a little unfulfilled. Robert Cecil, the man that caused the young stable-boy such discomfort, attempted to follow the mysterious young lady-in-waiting, but a rather flamboyantly dressed Spaniard seeking conversation put a damper on that.

XXX

Gwendolyn was curious when she saw her present. She was now clad in her disguise and the Queen was holding out a small, golden box. It bore the image of a golden eye, which was what caught her attention the most; when all hope seemed lost during the duel with von Dijkhuizen, she had seen it, accompanying that beautiful, strong voice.

"Sir Douglas," said Elizabeth, "as per my decree, consider this present as a token of my congratulations. This is the Millennium Puzzle, and if your skill at other games is on par with your duelling abilities, I am certain you will be able to complete it. Merry Christmas."

"Thank you, my Queen," Gwendolyn replied softly, accepting the glorious gift. She popped open the top just a crack to peek inside, and Oh! How marvellous it was! There was a sensation of rushing wind and warmth, as if she were being thrust into a light everlasting. In private, she and her brother were granted two weeks holiday from court, and for the first of those weeks she sat in her bedroom and struggled with the damned puzzle! Every time she managed to slot one piece into its proper place, the others would suddenly become more difficult!

"Thrice damnation!" she screamed, tossing the barely completed item against the wall. It bounced off and landed on the floor, itself undamaged though it had left a sharp dent in the brickwork. "I'm sick of this bloody thing!" She plonked her head down on her desk and put her hands over the top of it, growling to herself in frustration. There was a gentle knock at the door.

"Enter," was Gwendolyn's muffled response as her mother walked in.

"Problems, dear-heart?" Candida asked. She noticed the puzzle lying on the floor and picked it up. She walked over to her daughter and set it down beside her. "Having trouble with it? You were always so good with these."

"I know, but it's like the blasted thing doesn't want me to finish it!" Gwendolyn moaned, head still covered by her hands. "Eight days! I'm so tired of trying and failing after eight days!"

"Now, now, none of that," Candida patted her daughter's head. "Perhaps your problem is you're too focused on finishing it."

"What do you mean?"

"A puzzle is ultimately a game, and isn't the point of a game to enjoy yourself? Just remember that and I'm certain you will finish it in no time at all."

Gwendolyn looked and smiled softly. "Thank you, Mother."

"You're welcome," replied Candida. "I have some responsibilities to be getting on with, but I will see you later, my dear. Good luck." With that, she was gone. Gwendolyn stared at the puzzle for a while before slowly lifting it up to eyelevel.

"Puzzle…" she began, as if to speak to it, but her voice trailed off and she simply went back to solving it. She lost track of how long she spent like that, bent on reaching that one narrow-minded goal, but as she clicked the last component into place, the clock struck midnight and everything became a tide of power. The same feeling of total immersion she had felt when she first held the box, but now much deeper and harder, piercing the very nucleus of her soul… like it meant to split her apart.

XXX

Sebastian watched Gwendolyn sitting across from him at the kitchen table. She looked deprived of sleep, with dark rings under her eyes and a paler than usual complexion. The puzzle, which had revealed itself to be a rather large pendant, hung around her neck by a cord, and she was fiddling with it like a cat at a tassel. Pushing his breakfast aside, he finally spoke up.

"Gwen, you've been wearing that puzzle for the past four days," he said, "and you know…you can't wear it when you go out in public unless you're MacWood, and…" He was interrupted by his sister baring her teeth like a wolf and emitting an angry hissing sound. Sebastian squeaked and dashed out of the kitchen.

XXX

Soon, the two weeks were over, and the Blackwood siblings made their return to court, only to uncover a rather nasty surprise. It had taken a great deal of willpower for Gwendolyn to leave the Millennium Puzzle at home, so she was already on-edge and when she received an urgent summons to the Queen's bedchamber she almost screamed. They soon arrived to find Liza and the other ladies, plus Robert Cecil and the Freiherr von Dijkhuizen and Kreszentia also in attendance. Gwendolyn entered the chamber and knelt by Elizabeth's side. The young monarch looked sickly and weak, her eyes were dull and her entire form shook with each small movement.

"Someone poisoned Her Majesty," Liza explained, "she's been bedridden for the past three days. The court doctor believes it to be deadly nightshade, thankfully not a fatal dose."

"Do you have any idea who it was?" asked Gwendolyn.

"Sadly no," Liza shook her head.

"I have my suspicions," said Cecil in a low, stern tone. "Am I the only one who has noticed a certain favourite has failed to make his presence known?"

"Are you implying that Sir Douglas is responsible, sir?" asked Sebastian.

"I am afraid dhat ist not possible," put in von Dijkhuizen. "You see, Sir Douglas has been stayink at my residence in Billingsgate. He vas…quite hung over vhen I left him dhis mornink."

"I see…" Cecil whirled around on his heels to face the giant and pointed an accusing finger at his broad chest. "How convenient that the two latest additions to the court should lodge together."

"I am an ambassador to my people, am I not?" von Dijkhuizen responded shrewdly. "It vould not do to appear…anti-social."

"Well I believe there's something sinister underlying that statement, sir," Cecil sneered. "Deals in the shadows between an arrogant canker-brained German baboon and some loutish rapscallion who appeared from nowhere."

"Ist dhat disloyalty, Mr Cecil?" growled von Dijkhuizen. "You not only insult me, but also a fine man dhat your Queen chose above all ozhers." Cecil snarled at such an audacious remark, but the argument was soon brought to a close by a loud croak of

"ENOUGH!" All present attention fell on the woman in the bed, who had now propped herself into an upward position.

"Please, that's enough," she uttered. "Mr Cecil, your suspicions regarding the good Freiherr and Sir Douglas are unjustified…" She paused to cough and take a sip from a glass of water on the bedside cabinet.

"With all due respect, ma'am," said Cecil in a bid to regain his composure, "it's become obvious to me that we must increase security around the palace. I will alert Sir Francis the spymaster and also set some operatives of my own on regular patrols. If you'll excuse me, I will take my leave now." And he was gone.

"Please forgive him," the Queen sighed as she set her empty glass aside. "Gwendolyn, I'd like you and Mr von Dijkhuizen to acquire quarters within the court…and please return Sir Douglas to my side post-haste. Whether my health be stricken or not, I cannot allow my Duellist Royal to forsake his talents."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Gwendolyn bowed and left the room with von Dijkhuizen in tow. They walked together down the corridor in silence for a while, until eventually her curiosity got the better of her; it was the lie he had told that caused her to speak up. "You know?"

"I do now," the German giant smiled. Gwendolyn's face fell. Well done, she thought, you give yourself away more than the people you worry will. Von Dijkhuizen put a massive hand on the girl's hair and ruffled it firmly.

"You have nozhink to vorry about," he assured her, "but if I vere you, I vould make sure nobody else found out." Two eyes, black and shiny like a cobra's, watched with disgruntled interest.

XXX

Walsingham was not convinced. A born bureaucrat, he would accept no appeal unless given evidence at least five times over, but Mr Cecil would not give up easily. The spymaster had been cornered in his own quarters (in the middle of supper, the dashed rudeness of it all) and was still holding the now cold soupspoon as his compatriot ranted on like some bizarre tropical bird.

"I tell you, Walsingham, there's something not right about this business! Think about it, old boy!" Cecil exclaimed, tapping the side of his head with two fingers. "The Freiherr loses the duel and decides not to return to Germany, so does it not make sense that his master would want retribution?"

"By murdering the object of his desires?" Walsingham sighed. "Really, Mr Cecil, I do believe you've been spending time in the wine cellar." The other man slammed his palms down on the table, almost upsetting the soup.

"Don't try that with me!" he scowled. "I know that you're just as suspicious as me! We know next to nothing about von Dijkhuizen and even less about MacWood, for all it matters they may be enemy agents, or even worse, Papists, allied with the Scotch Queen herself!" He slipped a serpent-like arm around the older gentleman's shoulders and his tone changed from erratic to silky smooth. "Come now, Walsy, have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Not directly," Walsingham admitted.

"Then let's put our heads together on this," said Cecil, "and uncover the truth. We've much work to do."

XXX

It was business as usual for the troublesome triumvirate of Blackwood, Smyth and Pomeroy, Professional-Crumpet-chasers-at-Large. Just outside the gates of the palace, they had met three attractive and hopefully rather eligible ladies of the court. They were well-to-do and easy on the eyes, the perfect blend of wealth and beauty, and judging by their witty repartee, not too shy on brains either. As he was accustomed to do, Sebastian remained behind his friends as they talked enough for a legion of would-be romantics, and he was feeling just a little like the girls were humouring them. While Donovan boasted of his athletic prowess, Arthur regaled them with tales of his trips with his father to the lands in the Far East.

"Well, as fascinating as you are," said one of them, "we really must take our leave of you now." She winked suggestively and then walked away briskly with her two companions. As they walked in single-file down the street, Donovan nudged Arthur in the ribs and grinned, and was answered with a lecherous giggle. Sebastian attempted to shuffle away nervously, but a firm grip on his sleeve put an end to his bid to escape. The girls turned a corner. So did the boys. They would regret that because the girls were meeting with their actual suitors. They were significantly bigger and tougher-looking than the hapless gentlemen, all with strong, square chins and prominent brows that gave them a simian look. The biggest and most gorilla-esque was a mean-tempered and cruel man named Percival Trudgwick, who eyed the trio with malicious intent.

"Might I ask," he said, "why you boys are following our women?" His voice was an oily growl, like an animal trying to speak the human tongue.

"It's a very fun game," replied Donovan rudely, "afraid we can't let you play. Teams have to be evenly numbered, don't you know? Boys vs. girls."

"Don, let's just go," Sebastian muttered.

"Listen to him," said Trudgwick. "You could get home with all your limbs intact if you do."

"Donovan Smyth has never shied away from a threat," the blonde youth declared proudly.

"You've got guts, I admire that," said Trudgwick, "but to fight in front of girls would be…unacceptable. The six of us will meet here again tonight at midnight." He grabbed his girlfriend roughly around the shoulders and led her away without another word and his thugs did the same. As they disappeared, Sebastian punched Donovan hard in the shoulder.

"You clod!" he scowled. "What the hell have you gotten us in to?!"

"Look!" Donovan protested. "There's three of us and three of them, it'll be fair!"

"Fair?!" Sebastian squawked. "Didn't you see the size of them?! That one in the middle could beat us all up with just half his chin!"

"Then don't come," said Donovan. "Arthur and I will go alone."

"Don't be stupid," Sebastian snorted. "The three of us have done everything together since school. I'm not going to be the one who breaks that. I just want you to know that this is all your fault, Smyth."

"If you get scared, hide behind us, Blacky," Arthur chuckled, landing a pat on his friend's back that was so hard it actually made Sebastian stumble.

XXX

It was of great inconvenience that Sebastian's prediction would come true. The next day, Gwendolyn was making her way towards the Queen's bed-chambers when all of a sudden, in a rush of strawberry-blonde locks and white silk, Anne Craft whooshed out of another corridor.

"Lady Blackwood!" she exclaimed. "Oh, it's terrible! Come quickly!"

"Calm yourself, Anne," said Gwendolyn, grabbing the older girl by the arms to steady her. "What's happened?"

"I…I've just heard from one of the maids," Anne stammered. "It's your brother, he and his friends…they've been hurt badly." Gwendolyn stiffened. With not another word said between them, the two women rushed to see, and indeed, she saw Sebastian, Donovan and Arthur being carried swiftly to the court doctor under the orders of Robert Cecil, who was barking orders to the palace staff,

"Make haste! Make haste, confound you!" This was not the work of three louts, but in fact a small army. Fifteen, mayhap twenty had been awaiting the luckless threesome on the street corner, where beneath the light of the full moon they had had been struck down with enough force to blow the tusks from a brass elephant. Watching her brother pass by on a stretcher, bruised and bloodied, Gwendolyn felt a spark catch light within her. The accursed Millennium Puzzle, tucked in hiding beneath her dress, pulsated like a heart. At that moment, she knew what she had to do. Her soul split and swung apart like a great iron gate and something sang within her. Something vast and hostile.

Something hungry.

XXX

Percival Trudgwick was worried, but he could not show it to his followers. The reflection of the moon on the Thames seemed so alien tonight. He and his boys had just received word of the fate of one of their number – one of those with him when he threw his dishonest gauntlet – and it was not welcome news. He was in a bad way, apparently, screaming and clawing the air while babbling something about eyes and fire. He led them, seven in total not including himself, along the bank of the river, clutching the silver crucifix he wore about his neck. The streets were unnaturally silent, even for this time of night. Not even the barking of a dog spoilt the mute absolution.

"It's a devil," muttered the other one who had accompanied him. "A devil, Trudgwick."

"Shut up!" Trudgwick snarled. "You're jumping at shadows!"

"Nothing human could do that to Johnson," the smaller bruiser protested. "Something drove him to madness."

"Hang your devil!" Trudgwick roared, pinning the speaker against the outer wall of a building. "I won't associate myself with a jellied weasel like you. You'll take another route home, Hogan. Stay here until we're well out of eyeshot, then you may move." He gave him a shove to emphasise his point, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and led the rest of his cronies away. Hogan pleaded for his boss not to leave him alone but Trudgwick either failed to hear him or simply chose to ignore him. Hogan continued to beg and cry but soon he was all alone on the cold London street. He slid down the wall and sat on his haunches, wondering whatever he should do to save himself.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Hogan gasped and tried to pinpoint the source of the footsteps, but they seemed to emanate from everywhere. He hoped it was Trudgwick, but these steps were too light, too delicate, like a girl's. He grunted and got to his feet. Looked left. Looked right. Choked back a scream. There, standing like a demonic silhouette was a figure. He was not easy to discern, but he radiated an aura of hatred and oncoming agony. Hogan stumbled and almost tripped as he turned to run. Turned one corner. Then another. He had come down this way with the others many times before, thought he knew every bend and curve, but now there was a feeling of unfamiliarity. This was not London. Not the one he knew. All around him the walls were sealing him in, melting away, bricks and mortar shifting into smooth, gold-brown slate. The sky above was purple, the air tasted wrong. Trapped in a land of fear and darkness, Hogan finally skidded to a halt. He breathed heavily and rested one hand against the wall.

"What's happening?" he wheezed. "Why are you doing this?"

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He spun on his heels. There he was again, but now much clearer. A short man with thin legs and arms, dressed in chalky blue clothes with a dark brown cap over his hair, which sprayed out underneath in waves of made bangs that tipped in razor-like points. He wore a large gold pendant and pinned to his sleeves were gold cufflinks that resembled foreign crosses topped with narrow loops. The mouth was curled up in a sneer, and the eyes, by thunder, the eyes. They were huge, wide and whiter than ivory, ringed with black and quivering with vile anticipation.

"Good evening," said the monster in deep, raspy tones.

"You…" Hogan swallowed his pride and tried to act tough, "…you're that MacWood fellow, the Duellist Royal."

"Play a game with me!" the monster commanded with a dramatic sweep of his arm.

"I don't p-play Duel Monsters," Hogan shook his head.

"Ha!" the monster spat. "I'd never waste such a noble sport on you! No, we'll play something else!" He stretched out his free hand and opened it. As if by magic, five silver pebbles and a red ball fell out and landed with a solid 'PLUNK!' on the ground. "Long ago, people used astralagoi, the knuckle-bones of sheep, in the earliest known games. Have you ever played this?"

"Knuckle-bones," Hogan repeated. "I say, is this some kind of a sick joke?!"

"You tell me," the monster grinned. "As a courtesy…I'll let you go first…and by the way, this is a Shadow Game."