Chapter 7

- He lies still. And he remembers.

The night was silent. Finally, the noise of camp settled down as the Cavalier's comrades fell asleep one by one.

It had been a really odd day. He'd never have guessed this morning that he'd almost drop of a cliff, or meet more people from Earth, or lose a bet with the Thief and end up on first watch!

The Harlequin was sitting close by, lobbing little pebbles at a nearby tree stump. Every few stones, she glanced in Eric's direction, her eyes dark and wide. At first he pretended not to notice and tried to concentrate on the watch. But then, after about ten minutes, she looked up suddenly and caught him staring at her.

He gave an awkward grin.

'Look, Cavalier,' she said with a shrug, 'what I said to Alison is true. That stuff is packed full of stimulants and I won't get a wink of sleep for ages. So why don't you get some sleep too.'

Eric hesitated. Usually, there was nothing he would have liked more than to skip a watch. But he shook his head.

'I'd better not. Hank would kill me, and I'm not exactly in his good books at the moment!' He gestured to the mountainside behind them.

Gail smiled.

'Yes, I gathered that.' The smile changed into a snigger. 'Personally, I think it was kind of stylish…' The Cavalier scowled at her. He'd only known her for about fifteen seconds and already she was making fun of him. 'But you're lucky. If it had been me dangling off a cliff, Alison would have ritually ripped my throat out afterwards.' The Harlequin looked directly into his eyes. 'And I'm really sorry she was nasty to you.'

Eric expertly scrutinised her expression for any signs of contempt, but there were none. His scowl mellowed. Maybe she wasn't being rude after all.

'She didn't mean it,' continued the Harlequin with a sigh. 'She just gets like that sometimes. But at other times, you'd have prance around nude to get her to say anything at all! And then she'd just tell you not to get cold!'

Eric smiled in spite of himself. You'd never have to go that far to get Hank's attention! Gail was still looking at him and he scrambled for something to say.

'Um, how's your shoulder?' he asked.

'It'll be fine,' she said casually. 'That sort of thing happens to me all the time! I always get the "fuzzy end of the lollipop."'

Eric nodded in agreement. He knew THAT feeling alright! Oh no, the others never got turned into Bogbeasts, or grabbed by Zombies, or chased by Lizardmen. Well, not nearly as often as he did, anyway.

'Boy, do I wish I'd never seen that stupid ride!'

'Don't we all,' agreed the Harlequin. 'And I used to think double French was difficult.'

'How long've you been here?' he asked.

Her face clouded.

'All long time.' She didn't seem inclined to say more, and she was still watching him.

'You found many portals?' he said.

'A few. All guarded by some monster, or dragon, or whatever.'

She hadn't looked away and Eric was acutely aware of her steady gaze. It wasn't that he found the attention awkward or embarrassing. In fact, he enjoyed being looked at that way. Over the past few years in the Realm, he'd gotten used to the way the two girls treated him: vague indifference from Sheila and ridicule from Diana. It was nice to find someone who listened to what he said.

'I wonder if we'll ever get home,' he murmured.

'Well, how many portals have you missed?'

Eric sighed.

'Too many. So many, I've lost count.'

They stared at each other in the moonlight then the Harlequin gave him an inquisitive smile.

'So, Cavalier, tell me how you knew it wasn't Venger earlier,' she said. 'It was good enough to fool the Orcs, so what tipped you off?'

Eric thought carefully about the question.

'I think it was the way you stood,' he said slowly. 'You just looked odd. The angle, the way you turned. It just wasn't him.'

Gail frowned.

'I'll need some tips. I haven't met him that often.'

Eric blinked in surprise. Since when did Horn-Head NOT chase kids with magic weapons around the Realm?

'We can't get rid of him,' he said bitterly.

The Harlequin gave a tight, twisted smile. There was an edge in her voice as she said:

'It serves you right for being the star pupils! Don't you think?'

Eric's composure vanished and he gave a sullen humph. He should have known this was going to happen. After a chilly pause, Gail nudged his arm, her face red.

'I-I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. I didn't mean it.'

Eric half-nodded, not feeling inclined to forgive her and the Harlequin looked away.

The silence continued. Gail hadn't turned back, and Eric found himself watching her instead of anything else. It was strange to be on the receiving end of the snide comments. And, judging by the blush, she was feeling like he usually felt: really, really dumb.

'Hey,' he said with more of a smile. 'It's OK. Guess we're just luckier than you.'

She looked round at him and smiled back.

'Or more talented!'

It was Eric's turn to blush. The Harlequin leaned back against the rock, her head tilted slightly to one side. Even in the moonlight, he could see the gleam in her eyes.

'You don't know how famous you are around this area,' she said. 'We can hardly set foot into a town or village without being mistaken for you. You're heroes. Even the damn Trogs knew who you were!'

Eric blushed even more. His natural urge to boast was strangely muted at the moment.

'Trogs?'

'One of the less pleasant creatures we've met in this crappy place. You're the first friendly people we've met in ages. It was all going fine until Dungeonmaster came to lecture us about…'

Gail stopped abruptly, and pursed her lips. Eric was aching to know what she was going to say. She must have noticed his eager stare, as she sighed.

'Well, let's just say we had a little disagreement with Dungeonmaster,' she said. 'And Alison will kill me if she finds out I've even told you that much! It's your fault anyway,' Eric blinked innocently, 'if you hadn't been so charming and friendly then I wouldn't have said anything!'

Eric's mind had forgotten about what he wanted to know, as it was entirely focused on two words: "charming" and "friendly". When was the last time those particular words had been applied to him without sarcasm?

The Harlequin crossed her arms.

'I'm not saying anything else about it.' She looked directly at him again. 'So, what fascinating creatures have you met on your travels?'

His mind flicked randomly through the various possibilities. Not the Bogbeasts, that was too embarrassing. Not the giant worm on the visit to Zinn, that was just, inappropriate. Not the Roc they'd ridden during his stint as Dungeonmaster, that would seem like he was boasting and she was obviously sensitive about the whole "hero" thing. So that meant he couldn't tell her about meeting the Nightwalker either, and explaining about Rahmoud. Damn it, what was he going to say?

'We met a Nazi,' he said.

Gail's expression was a cross between surprise and confusion.

'I'm sorry, for a moment I thought you said "Nazi".'

'Yeah, I did. Joseph Mueller. He was a German pilot.'

The Harlequin's expression hadn't changed.

'It's not fair to start in the middle of a story,' she said, settling down into the grass. 'Tell me the whole thing.'

So he started at the beginning, and Gail listened without interrupting. Eric eventually ground to a halt, just before the part where Dungeonmaster re-appeared. The moons were dipping down behind the trees, and the Harlequin was half in shadow.

'Wow,' she said quietly. 'Venger really can come up with a cunning plan when he wants to!'

Eric grinned.

'Not always, sometimes he goes for good ol' brute force. In Darkhaven he just followed us around, blowing up doors!'

Gail smiled back, but there was a look of puzzlement on her face.

'But the Book told us that only Dungeonmaster can open Darkhaven,' she said slowly. 'So he opened it for you, but not for us?'

She was looking angry now. And as much as Eric didn't want to defend Captain Shortness, he had to set the record straight.

'Well, no, not exactly,' he started. 'I was sorta Dungeonmaster for a day. I opened it.'

He couldn't look at her. It had been going so well too! Trust him to open his big mouth! He could hear the laughter already. After all, it was such a joke that he had been Dungeonmaster; he hadn't been very good at it.

'You were Dungeonmaster?' Gail asked slowly. 'You had all Dungeonmaster's powers? That is so cool! What was it like?'

Eric paused, still half-expecting laughter. She was looking at him again; that same, dark-eyed stare. He found himself in need of a deep breath, flustered by her curiosity. He'd never been asked that before, and thinking about that day was just too strange. He struggled to find the right words.

'It was exciting. And sorta compelling. And frightening, very frightening.'

The anger on her face had gone. She was looking at him with… was that respect!?! He shivered involuntarily. It had been such a weird day. He'd been nice to Sheila, he'd almost been killed (again) and now, respect! It was almost more than he could believe!

He suddenly smiled at the Harlequin, the kind of smile he rarely had a chance to use. She had risked her life to help him up from the cliff-face, and he hadn't even said a simple thank-you. What a jerk!

'You know…' he said awkwardly, 'I never really got the…um…chance before, but thanks for saving my life. At the cliff.'

Gail grinned back.

'It's OK, Eric,' she said. 'I should say the same back to you, as well.'

As they smiled at each other, Eric felt a faint glow of pleasure. She had a pretty smile. And anyone who could quip in the face of certain death couldn't be bad!

She shifted position so she was sitting beside him more comfortably.

'We've got a long night,' she said.

As if on cue, the Cavalier yawned.

-There is the click of a lock and the sound of a door creaking.

'You should give up, Eric,' she said. 'There's no way you're going to make it 'til dawn!'

Eric scowled and stifled another yawn. He could stay up all night too.

'I don't see why you're so bothered anyway,' continued Gail. 'Don't you trust me?'

'It's not that, I just…' The colour rushed to his face again. He couldn't say the truth, she would laugh this time for sure. But he couldn't think of anything else. 'I, um, just like staying up, and talking with you.'

-There are footsteps on the carpet next to him. Someone is there.

'Sir?' says a voice.

He braced himself for the howls of laughter. But instead, the Harlequin seemed completely taken by surprise. He'd never seen anyone so startled at a compliment and she…

'Good morning, Sir,' says the Butler. 'Did Sir sleep well?'

Eric sits up abruptly, staring in amazement.

He's at home!

Looking around slowly, he sees the burgundy paper on the walls, the red silk sheets on the bed. It looks like his room, he recognises some of the things; the pictures, the books. But there's something odd that he can't put his finger on. Perhaps Mom got it redecorated while he was gone.

He stretches, a faint memory of pleasant dreams at the back of his mind. He's been dreaming about something…

'Did Sir sleep well?' asks the Butler again.

The servant is holding a tray of food: eggs and smoked salmon, freshly squeezed OJ and some brown toast with the crusts cut off, along with a copy of the morning paper. He holds the tray out.

Eric licks his lips. He loved this when he was younger.

'Yeah, th-thanks, um…' Eric looks at the servant. His face is familiar, but he can't for the life of him remember his name. 'Um, thanks.'

Eric shuffles into a comfy position, and the Butler sets the tray in front of him.

'Very good, Sir,' says the servant with a slight bow. 'If that is all?'

Eric nods, still feeling bemused, and the servant drifts off. This is all very strange.

He looks at the food, suddenly hungry, and doesn't bother with the paper. He eats, though he doesn't remember food tasting so bland. Perhaps they have a new cook. But he eats it all anyway, thinking that perhaps he could get the Alfred-a-like to find him a burger later. The unsettling hunger is still inside, unaffected by breakfast.

After he's finished, he lies back, and stretches. He had been dreaming about something, something good, but the memory remains infuriatingly out of reach.

Eric frowns. He had been somewhere, he knew that, but where was it? Why did it feel so good to be home? There was something odd going on.

The unease forces him to rise and dress. He pulls on a red shirt and black pants, and tugs uncomfortably at the collar. Why did it feel so uncomfortable this morning? The material seemed to scratch his skin. After giving it one final pull, he picks up the unread paper, tucks it under his arm like his Father does, and goes downstairs.

It's quiet.

It's too quiet, even for the Montgomery household.

He knows where he's going, but for all the familiarity in feels funny: odd funny. He looks round. His Mom has been doing a lot of redecorating. The front hall carpet has gone, now there's a neat, checkerboard marble floor. The walls are painted a uniform claret colour. It's all very stark. There are no pictures or vases, not like his Mom's taste at all. He shrugs. Maybe she's discovered Modern Art again.

The Butler reappears, with a silver tray.

'Sir, there is a gentleman to see you. He is in the library.'

'Thank you, um…' What the heck is his name? Why does he look so familiar?

The Butler holds out the tray. On it is a card and Eric picks it up: "Mr D Master: Attorney."

Eric shrugs. That's not the family's lawyer. The Butler waits for him to move.

'Suppose I should see this Master guy then,' Eric murmurs.

'Very good, Sir.' The Butler turned away.

'Hey, just a minute,' says Eric. 'Where's everyone this morning, where's Mom and Dad?'

The Butler glances back, but only smiles in reply.

Eric watches him leave, vaguely concerned. Butlers aren't supposed to do that.

But he goes to the Library anyway, and peeps round the door. He stifles a gasp, so many books! They're stacked in impossible towers that reach the ceiling; they are piled onto warped bookcases. There was barely enough floor space to walk across the room. The walls are covered, from floor to ceiling. Books, books, books! Everywhere.

He pushes the door fully open, and goes in, hardly daring to breathe in case the shelves collapse. No one else is there.

'Mr Master? Hello? Anyone here?'

There is no answer.

'Hell-ooo?'

He waits, idly looking at the books' titles. It's been a really odd day so far.

It must be a Saturday, he thinks. What do I usually do on a Saturday?

He has to think very hard, as if he's forgotten the concept of "Saturday". Finally, he clicked his fingers. Of course, he'll phone Presto. That's what he did on a Saturday, he'd phone his best friend and they would catch a movie, or go to the burger bar or the amuseme…

A shiver of fear disrupts Eric's thoughts, but he doesn't know why.

He lets out a loud humph. Well, if this Mr Master hasn't waited, then what does it matter? He's gonna phone Presto. Perhaps there's something already arranged.

As he goes out in search of a phone, there is the faint sound of feminine laughter from the landing above. The Butler meets him in the hall.

'Can I help, Sir?' says the Butler with a small bow. Eric squints at him. Damn it, there's something about the way he rolls his r's that's so familiar!

'Yeah, I need a phone.'

'Very good, Sir. To whom shall I place the call?'

Eric is startled.

'Um, I wanna talk to Presto.'

The Butler looks blank at the name.

'I'm afraid Mr Preston is unavailable today, Sir.'

Eric frowned. What's that supposed to mean?

There is the sound of footsteps on the stairs and Eric looks up. There's someone else he recognises. She's standing on the second top stair, wearing a long, crimson evening dress, low cut at the front and tight around her hips. Her short, black hair is neatly smoothed down.

Eric feels his heart skip slightly. He knows her. Yes, he really knows her. More than that, he's kissed her! He kissed her in the moonlight.

That's what I was doing before…

He is distracted from the thought as the Butler moves across as she comes down the stairs.

'Good morning, Miss Gail,' said the Butler. The young lady takes the offered hand and glides across to Eric. He stares at her. Gail?

She watches him intently and his mouth goes dry under the weight of her stare. Suddenly he is aware of her shape, her aura and the sweet smell of roses. She smiles at him, pouting her cherry-red lips.

He stares harder. That's not a nice smile.

'Gail?'

The lady dips her head in acknowledgement.

'I hope there're no hard feelings, Mr Montgomery,' she says. Her accent is different… foreign… English. Eric doesn't reply. The depressingly familiar feeling of embarrassment is starting again. 'It was just a joke.'

'J-joke?' he stammers. His insides go cold. He hates jokes, particularly at his expense.

'I couldn't possibly be yours. You always knew that.'

Mine? thinks Eric. Mine! 'You're my girlfriend!' It's more a question than a statement, but Eric knows it's true. He can't help running an appreciative look over the curves of her body. His girlfriend! Wow!

The young lady laughs. It's not a nice laugh either.

'Darling, no, of course I'm not! I wouldn't dream of being with someone like, well, like you!'

'I…I don't understand,' he says. She said she would go out with him. He knows, he remembers. He really does remember! They were together, somewhere high, alone in the moonlight. That's where I was before…

'It was only magic, Mr Montgomery.'

'Magic? A spell?' He asks, feeling sick again. She nods.

'It was just a little fun,' she says sweetly. 'It was just a little joke.'

'But…'

'Really, you didn't think that I would be interested?'

She laughs more loudly, and Eric cringes, blood rushing to his face. The sound of the laughter seemed to be cutting into him. There are sniggers and laughter from all around and it echoes round the sterile hall. Everyone is laughing at him.

'What's wrong?' she says harshly, 'Can't you take a joke?'

He can hardly believe his ears. She set him up, just to make fun of him, just to laugh at him. He can't reply.

'Oh, don't take it so hard! You've always known: no one will ever want you!'

She runs an ice-cold hand across his scarlet face and walks out towards the conservatory. Eric stares after her, the sound of laughter still echoing round the hall. Eric wants to be sick. He had no idea she was such a bitch. The Butler is watching him, with a barely hidden smirk.

'Is there anything more I can do, for Sir?'

Eric has to wait until the laughter has dies away before he can reply.

'No, I don't…'

'Morning, Son,' came a voice from behind him. Eric feels a sudden glow of relief. It was his Dad. So what if the old guy didn't come through often, he had his moments.

Eric turns.

His Father is standing in one of the doorways, wearing his McGregor-tartan golfing kit, with a number 3-iron over his right shoulder.

In spite of all his better judgement, Eric runs up to him and gives him a stilted hug.

'It's good to see you, Dad' he says, the emotion in his voice coming as a surprise. It wasn't normally good to see his Father. Usually, it was just the prelude to an argument.

'It's good to see you too, Son.'

Eric hasn't been called "Son" in years. He smiles as the older man flicks a glance over his shoulder, picking imaginary fluff off his red jumper.

'Say, who was that pretty littl' lady with the black hair?'

Eric pauses, feeling uncomfortable again. There's an unpleasant leer on his Dad's face. Besides, that girl is the last thing Eric wants to think about at the moment. He's had enough humiliation for one day and the colour rises in his cheeks again.

'That was just someone I met once,' he says, trying to sound off-hand.

His Dad winks at him in a conspiratorial way. Eric recoils at the gesture. His Father never winks.

'She's got a nice ass,' says his Dad appreciatively. 'Bet she's a tiger i…'

'No!' shouts Eric in panic. 'No, no, NO!' There was no way he wants to listen to THAT sort of remark, and from his own Father too! It's gross!

Montgomery Senior blinks at him.

'Sorry, Son! What's wrong?'

Eric's brain has almost short-circuited, and he scrabbles for something to break the uncomfortable silence.

'W-why are… are you not…at the office?'

His Father looks surprised, then claps Eric on the back with a loud guffaw.

'Son, that's a good one!' The older Montgomery looks up suddenly. 'And speak of the Devils, here they are. I'll see you at dinner.'

He winks again, an action that Eric finds distasteful and out of character. His Father never winks. His Father never grins like that either. But Eric doesn't get a chance to wonder for longer than a second. There is a quiet cough behind him.

Eric turns to see five smart Suits, all lawyers if he's not mistaken. They're all carrying attaché cases and thick reams of papers.

'Good morning, Sir. Shall we?'

One of the Suits waves him forward, and Eric goes, though he's not sure where or why. Instinct leads him to his Father's study.

The study is excruciatingly neat, as usual. The big desk is empty except for a single, silver pen. The Suits wait for him to sit down in his Dad's big, black executive chair.

As soon as he's seated, they start talking. They give him a round up of what's happening in the company, he knows that much, but he can't understand half of the words. He tries to make them stop, but they just talk all the faster, using longer words. His confusion grows with his panic.

Then come the questions. They demand to know his decision on this and on that, barely giving him the opportunity to think. They want "yes" and "no", not "perhaps" or "maybe". Eric starts to shake under the weight of the questions.

Finally, they start giving him papers to sign, each with its own complex instructions. He tries to keep up, but the desk that was once so neat fills with a confusing mass of paper within a few minutes.

He can barely control his panic when the Suits start to tell him what will happen if the forms and signatures aren't correct. It throws his concentration completely as they say: He'll be destitute: His house will be repossessed: He'll go to jail: His parents will be sold to medical science: His important body parts will be used to make dog food.

The paper pile grows, and terror takes over. Eric's hand is shaking so much he can't even sign his own name. Sweat is dripping off him, making the pen slippery.

Suddenly, he jumps up, backing away from the desk.

'GET OUT!' he screams at the Suits.

They stop dead still, identical looks of reproof and disappointment on their faces; it's the way that his Dad usually looks at him. But they obediently back away out of the door.

Eric is still shaking. He is standing against the wall, holding his Father's chair in front of him, unable to let go in case he falls. His damp hands leave marks on the leather.

He stays there for a long time, staring fixedly at the piles of documents needing his attention. He can't get rid of the threats they'd used: destitute and dog-food, destitute and dog-food…

There is a movement by his side. The Butler. Eric looks at the man, fear and panic still at fever pitch. Who the Hell is he? What the Hell is going on?

'A Mr Venger just telephoned, Sir.' A flicker of recognition passes over Eric's face. 'He won't be able to see you this afternoon. I'm afraid you'll have to wait here a short while longer.' Eric nods uneasily. That name. He's heard it before, recently too. 'Will Sir take luncheon now?'

Eric is about to shout: "How can you think of food at a time like this?" but it hits him that he is hungry, terribly hungry, as if he hasn't eaten in days. There is a faint smell of roasting meat in the air, and Eric licks his lips.

The Butler takes a polite step back, then follows Eric across the hall to the dining room.

It is very dark in the dining room. The white of the tablecloth seems out of place, and there is only a dull gleam from the silver cutlery. But Eric sits, the hunger inside growing more painful. It feels like he hasn't eaten in weeks.

The Butler leaves, and Eric looks at the menu in front of him:

Poached Amoran Herring in a Red Pepper Coulis.

Steak Tartar: Zinn-style, with Grilled Tomatoes.

Freshly Picked Kadish Strawberries, and Cherry Cream.

Reading the menu makes Eric's stomach growl in anticipation.

He waits.

And waits.

He needs something to take his mind of the gnawing desire for food. He sees the newspaper is sitting in the shadows and casually looks at the name: -The Realm Advertiser-

Now that's very familiar. The Realm. He knows that name.

He stands and reaches out for the paper, glancing at the headline: "Teen rescued from ride horror." There is a picture of him just beneath it.

It only takes an instant, then memory floods back into him. He has to take a firm grip on the table to stop himself from falling. The ride! The Realm! Everything! His heart gives a huge joyful leap. He can't take his eyes from the headline, and his only thoughts are: We're home! We made it home!

But then he realises that it's only his face in the picture. Where are the others? He can hardly hold the paper still as he reads the story:

Teen rescued from ride horror.

Terror at the Inferno-Land amusement park!

Indescribable terror yesterday! Five teens painfully mangled to death while travelling on a park ride! Only a few parts of their broken bodies have been recovered so far!

A sixth teen, Eric Stephen Alexander Montgomery (17), the head of Montgomery Industries, and heir to the Montgomery fortune, survived without injury. When asked about his near miraculous escape, he said: 'It was a close thing. I just knew I had to survive. But there was nothing miraculous about it, as all I had to do was sell out my friends to Venger. It was a small price to pay for life.'

Eric realises his knees have buckled and he's on the floor. Sell out my friends to Venger? His hands are shaking.

'No,' he whispers. 'No, it's not true. It can't be!'

'Sir?' says a voice behind him: That damn Butler!

Eric holds up the paper.

'I-I d-didn't,' he stammers. 'It's not true. I didn't do that to them!'

'Whatever you say, Sir,' replies the Butler impassively. 'Whatever you say.'

Eric jumps up.

'I said I didn't do it!' he shouts at the servant. 'I didn't!'

The Butler says nothing, but raises his eyebrow in an infuriating way. Eric recognises the gesture. It's his classic look when something doesn't go his way. He looks desperately around. This was wrong! He knows it!

It isn't home!

'Where am I? What is this place? This isn't my home!'

His voice echoes around.

Everything is changing, swirling and melting. The room fades to grey then brown.

The colours stop and Eric can look round without feeling seasick. He's in a cosy little room, lit by flaming torches. It's surprisingly small, like a box-room, with wood panelling over the walls. There are some furs in the corner and a few books on an old table, as well as a small bed and a comfy leather chair. Finally, there's the faint smell of animal cages and straw, blended with popcorn.

'And that's my cue!' said a gruff voice behind him.

Eric swings round unsteadily. In front of him is a chubby, middle-aged man, with dark hair. He's dressed in an odd sort of suit: black pants and riding boots, white shirt, top hat and a long, red jacket. Again, he's familiar, almost like an uncle or a cousin. A relation of some sort, at least.

The fear inside seems to have shut off all his thought processes and Eric can't speak, he just stares at the man. The man smiles.

'Welcome to Hell, Cavalier.'

Eric's mouth opens and shuts a few times, but no sounds come out.

'Hell?' he finally manages.

'Uh-huh,' says the man, shifting through the items on the table, and picking up a clipboard. He examines it carefully.

'Your places have been reserved, ever since you arrived in the Realm. And you've finally arrived.'

Eric stares, his mind unable to understand. Reserved?

'There's a place?' Eric says slowly. 'A place in Hell? Reserved for me, and my friends?'

The man nods genially. He taps the clipboard.

'Yes, I have you're schedule right here. I just need a few signatures, then I'll be off, and leave you to your fun.'

'Fun?' croaks Eric.

'Well, yes,' said the man, skimming a finger down the paper. 'You're due to for a visit from the Chief of Police at six, about murdering your friends.'

Eric takes an unsteady step away from the man.

'Now, now, Cavalier, this wouldn't be Hell if it was pleasant!' He gives a friendly grin. 'And the Dungeonmaster won't be bothering you again while you're here. He won't slip past me twice! No sir-ee!'

Eric shivers. How can this be happening?

'This is Hell?' he asks. 'How can I be in Hell? Hell doesn't exist!'

The man looks up from the clipboard.

'Hell, Negative Plane, Kingdom of Nergal, whatever,' he says dismissively. 'This is a place for unfortunate souls to wait until my Lord and Master decides what to do with them. Think of it as a waiting room if you prefer. Time has no meaning here, Cavalier. Now, I just need a few signatures, then you'll be off back "home".'

'But why am I here?' demands Eric. The man smirks.

'You've no idea how often I hear that! To borrow a phrase from your Harlequin: "It serves you right for being the star pupil!"' The man gives another smile. 'Now if I can just go through the checklist with you…'

He pulls out a shiny, silver pen.

'Now then, you've been a bogbeast?' he looks up at Eric expectantly.

And against all his better judgement, Eric nods. The man ticks something on his clipboard.

'And you've met Dekkion and been to the Tower.'

Again, Eric nods. The pen makes another mark.

'You went to the City at the edge of Midnight.' Another nod. Another tick.

'You've been Dungeonmaster.' This time, the man gives a crafty smile. 'Yes, that was a good one! How we laughed!'

Eric flushes, anger overcoming his fear for a moment. But the man continues.

'You found the Balefire Box and met Him, and you were used in the Warlock's ritual blood-letting. Good.' He looks back down at his papers and Eric feels the sudden urge to make the man eat that damn clipboard!

'And you found the Grotto of Darkness, then went to meet Krin, yes?' Eric stares blankly at the man. OK, so his memories are a bit shaky, but he hadn't a clue what the old guy was on about. 'You have met the Darkling, and Krin? Haven't you?'

Slowly, Eric shakes his head. The man looks very angry.

'What do you mean "No"?'

Eric just shrugs.

'You haven't met Krin?' says the man in shock. 'You haven't met Varen, or Apsu?' Eric doesn't reply. 'But you must have been to Amulree! You must have been to Anshar and Kishar!'

The man frowns, muttering something obscene about non-linear effects and collapsing wavefunctions as he flicks through the papers on his clipboard. Eric stays still.

Who's Krin? Where's Amulree? And what the fuck is going on here!

'Ah! Ah, yes! I see! I see!' exclaims the man suddenly, pointing excitedly at the clipboard. 'I had the wrong file! This is still your first visit! How silly I am!' He gives Eric a paternal pat on the arm. 'I should have remembered, but it's so difficult to keep track of things without time to help.' He grasps Eric's hand and gives it a hearty shake. 'So, in that case you'll be going. But we'll meet again.'

'What! No! I don't understand!' asks Eric, thoroughly disconcerted by the sudden change. 'Who's Krin? Where are all these places?'

'Well, it seems you'll meet Krin quite soon,' replies the man, examining the clipboard once more. 'You'll enjoy that one. Amulree is more difficult, it's not one of my favourites. But there's Esagil just before that.' The man stops and gave Eric a suggestive smile. 'Ah, the Feast and the Sentience Ball! Yes, Esagil is very enjoyable!'

'Why are you telling me all this?' demands Eric. 'My future?'

The man shrugs.

'It doesn't matter, the chances of you remembering any details are remote, Cavalier. You can't even remember what you were doing before you came here. Why should it work the other way round?'

Eric frowns, trying to remember. Gail. I was with her, but she tricked me…I kissed her and then…a magic spell…Orcs…I…

The man suddenly looks up, as if hearing voices from the roof, and Eric's train of thought is disrupted and forgotten.

'Ah, that's you,' says the man. 'I'll be seeing you soon!'

Eric follows his gaze. He feels the softest touch against his cheek, and a soft, feminine voice says:

-'Wake-up, Eric. Please wake-up…'